Eight Perfect Murders(38)

I remember being so touched by the fact that she’d written this list for me that in the space of about two weeks I read everything on it, even rereading the books I was familiar with. And reading Malice Aforethought back then I remember feeling buoyed by its grim outlook on humanity. It’s satire, essentially, ripping the idea of romance to shreds. Reading the book at the Hampton Inn in Rockland, it felt more like a horror story this time. Bickleigh, obsessed by a life he cannot have, kills his wife in a brutal fashion, and it destroys his life. He is infected forever by the act of killing.

Just before noon Gwen texted to tell me that she’d be ready to leave Maine no later than four. I texted back that she should take all the time she needed. I had decided to walk into town. It was a sunny day, the temperatures a little higher than they’d recently been, and I’d memorized the way into town the night before.

I checked out of the hotel, asked the front desk if they could stow my backpack for the day, then walked to Rockland’s town center. I visited a small used bookstore, where I bought a copy of The Hawk in the Rain by Ted Hughes. I took the book with me to the same restaurant where Gwen and I had dinner the night before and sat at the bar. I got a beer and a bowl of clam chowder that came with soft white rolls. I read the poetry and tried to empty my mind of the preoccupations of the past few days. Not only was I worried that Gwen was going to eventually zero in on my role in Eric Atwell’s and Norman Chaney’s deaths, but this investigation had churned up memories of Claire, and of the year after her death, that I thought I’d put away for good. After I finished the chowder, I ordered another beer. The lone television soundlessly showed an old episode of Cheers, one of the early ones with Coach and Diane.

My phone buzzed in my pocket and I assumed it was Gwen, calling to say she was ready to leave. But it turned out to be Marty Kingship.

“Hey,” I said.

“Gotta minute?”

“Sure,” I said, and thought about stepping outside of the restaurant, but I was the only one at the bar, and the bartender was unpacking boxes of wine far from where I was seated.

“I looked into your guy Chaney for you. He was a piece of work, let me tell you.”

“What does that mean?”

“I mean, if you’re looking for who wanted him dead, you’d be better off making a list of who didn’t want him dead. He most likely killed his wife.”

“What do you mean ‘most likely’?”

“There was a house fire, one that he managed to escape, while she didn’t. Chaney’s brother-in-law, the brother of the wife, filed a complaint saying he was sure that Chaney had set it, trapping his wife in the bedroom. He told the investigating officers at the time that Margaret, his sister, Chaney’s wife, was planning on leaving Norman, and that Norman knew it. He’d been a serial adulterer and she had proof, so she was going to get at least half of the money if not more.”

“Were they rich?”

“They had some money, for sure. He owned two service stations, but he’d also been investigated for money laundering. It went nowhere, though.”

“Who was he money laundering for?”

“Oh, some local drug outfit. He must have stepped out of line at some point because one of his service stations got held up, and an employee got shot. Only no one thought it was a regular holdup. It was probably revenge. This was only about six months before his wife died. Like I said, there was a whole slew of people wanting to get rid of Norman Chaney. He was a bad apple.”

“What happened to him after the house burned down?”

“He sold off his service stations and bought a house up in some minuscule town in New Hampshire. Up near the ski resorts. But someone found him there and killed him. Maybe the brother-in-law.”

“Why do you say that?”

“I’m not saying it, but the cop I talked to is. He was beaten to death in his own house, and there’d been a struggle. Chances are this had nothing to do with drugs. If he’d been targeted by a dealer, then someone would have just gone up there and shot him. It was an amateur, which means it was probably the brother-in-law.”

“But he was never arrested?”

“I guess he had an alibi.”

“What was his name?”

“Nicholas Pruitt. He’s an English professor at New Essex University. I know, right . . . Doesn’t exactly sound like a murderer.”

“Depends on the type of book you like to read.”

Marty laughed. “Exactly. Definitely a murderer in an Inspector Morse book. In real life, not so much.”

“Thanks for doing this, Marty,” I said.

“You kidding me? This was the most fun I’ve had since that shower I took yesterday. And this is just the start. I’ll keep looking for you.”

“Will you? That would be great,” I said.

Marty coughed, then said, “I don’t mean to pry, but you’re not in any kind of trouble, or anything?”

“No, it’s just like I said. The FBI questioned me about this guy who I’d never heard about, told me he had a collection of used mystery novels, a lot with a bunch of bookmarks from Old Devils.”

“You believed them about that?”

I lowered my voice and tried to sound calm. “I don’t know, Marty. Not really. Before she died, Claire was back into drugs . . . you know all about that. Maybe she knew Norman Chaney and they think that I might have gone after him because he provided drugs to her, or something. That’s what I’m guessing. I should never have asked you to—”