Someone had been developing photographs in Jean Trent’s bathroom. And whoever it was didn’t want anyone else to know.
I searched the medicine cabinet above the sink, hoping to find evidence of a man’s presence, but the shelves were crammed exclusively with witch hazel, cold creams, depilatories, and other women’s products. I went through the cabinets under the sink, looking for the chemicals, basins, clothespins, enlarger, or other photo-developing paraphernalia I had expected to find. But the place was clean, so to speak.
I rejoined Frank Olney in the other room. He looked at me with a satisfied grin, slapping an X-acto knife into the leather-gloved palm of his left hand.
“What’s that?” I asked.
“Just might be the weapon Julio used to cut Jordan Shaw,” he said.
The deputies gathered in the motel’s office, gave Frank the rundown of their findings—nothing—and prepared to leave. Two men from Albany arrived and started dusting room number 4 for prints. The sheriff sent his men back to the barracks, precious knife wrapped safely in an evidence bag.
“All right, Jean,” said Frank, once we three were alone in the registration office. “Talk.”
“Go suck an egg.”
“Don’t rile me, or I’ll haul you in for complicity to murder.” Frank’s booming voice knocked Jean’s insolence to the floor, and, knowing he had no grounds for arrest, I admired his convincing bluff.
“So ask me,” she said, retreating into her parlor. “You’ve made up your mind I’m guilty, whether I am or not.”
Frank winked at me, grabbed a folding chair, and dragged it into the next room. I followed, no furniture in tow.
Jean plopped herself down on the couch and lit a cigarette. She glared at Frank and me. The sheriff swung the chair around backward, planted it in front of her, and sat down. The aluminum legs squealed under his weight, and Jean snorted back the urge to laugh. Frank’s face flushed red.
“Don’t you know what kind of trouble you’re in?” he yelled.
“I ain’t done nothing.”
“Accessory to murder, Jean.” Frank stood and started to pace the room. “We’ve got the knife, and I’ll have a warrant for Julio’s arrest tomorrow afternoon, I promise you that. And I’ll get an envelope with your name on it, too, if you don’t start cooperating.”
“Knife?” she croaked, puffing away. “What are you talking about?”
Frank lit himself a cigarette and took a deep drag. “The knife Julio cut her with,” he said. “The pervert probably wanted a souvenir.”
Jean spat two lungfuls of mentholated smoke, laughing, and jumped to her feet. “That kid wouldn’t hurt a fly!”
“Where is he, Jean?”
“Who?” she asked, just to provoke him.
“We know he was living here. Where is he?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. Julio never lived here. Why don’t you go look for him down on the East End?”
Frank’s interrogation was getting nowhere fast, so I decided to try a different tack.
“Where do you do your laundry?” I asked, silencing both Jean and the sheriff. “I mean, do you have a washing machine or do you go to the Laundromat?”
Frank looked at me as if I were mad. Jean, too, was thrown.
“I do some washing by hand,” she said, cautious, blushing, perhaps embarrassed to admit she didn’t own a washing machine. “What’s left I take to the Laundromat down at the shopping center on Route Forty.”
“Where do you dry your things?” I continued. “When you wash your clothes here, where do you hang them?”
“I tie ’em to Sputnik ,” she sneered. “They dry in no time.”
“Just answer her,” Frank warned. He wanted to find out where I was going as much as Jean.
“In the bathroom, where do you think?”
“Do you have a clothesline?”
“Of course I do. How else am I supposed to hang my clothes? What is this, Sheriff?”
“And how do you keep your clothes from falling off the line?”
“Are you some kind of moron or
I searched the medicine cabinet above the sink, hoping to find evidence of a man’s presence, but the shelves were crammed exclusively with witch hazel, cold creams, depilatories, and other women’s products. I went through the cabinets under the sink, looking for the chemicals, basins, clothespins, enlarger, or other photo-developing paraphernalia I had expected to find. But the place was clean, so to speak.
I rejoined Frank Olney in the other room. He looked at me with a satisfied grin, slapping an X-acto knife into the leather-gloved palm of his left hand.
“What’s that?” I asked.
“Just might be the weapon Julio used to cut Jordan Shaw,” he said.
The deputies gathered in the motel’s office, gave Frank the rundown of their findings—nothing—and prepared to leave. Two men from Albany arrived and started dusting room number 4 for prints. The sheriff sent his men back to the barracks, precious knife wrapped safely in an evidence bag.
“All right, Jean,” said Frank, once we three were alone in the registration office. “Talk.”
“Go suck an egg.”
“Don’t rile me, or I’ll haul you in for complicity to murder.” Frank’s booming voice knocked Jean’s insolence to the floor, and, knowing he had no grounds for arrest, I admired his convincing bluff.
“So ask me,” she said, retreating into her parlor. “You’ve made up your mind I’m guilty, whether I am or not.”
Frank winked at me, grabbed a folding chair, and dragged it into the next room. I followed, no furniture in tow.
Jean plopped herself down on the couch and lit a cigarette. She glared at Frank and me. The sheriff swung the chair around backward, planted it in front of her, and sat down. The aluminum legs squealed under his weight, and Jean snorted back the urge to laugh. Frank’s face flushed red.
“Don’t you know what kind of trouble you’re in?” he yelled.
“I ain’t done nothing.”
“Accessory to murder, Jean.” Frank stood and started to pace the room. “We’ve got the knife, and I’ll have a warrant for Julio’s arrest tomorrow afternoon, I promise you that. And I’ll get an envelope with your name on it, too, if you don’t start cooperating.”
“Knife?” she croaked, puffing away. “What are you talking about?”
Frank lit himself a cigarette and took a deep drag. “The knife Julio cut her with,” he said. “The pervert probably wanted a souvenir.”
Jean spat two lungfuls of mentholated smoke, laughing, and jumped to her feet. “That kid wouldn’t hurt a fly!”
“Where is he, Jean?”
“Who?” she asked, just to provoke him.
“We know he was living here. Where is he?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. Julio never lived here. Why don’t you go look for him down on the East End?”
Frank’s interrogation was getting nowhere fast, so I decided to try a different tack.
“Where do you do your laundry?” I asked, silencing both Jean and the sheriff. “I mean, do you have a washing machine or do you go to the Laundromat?”
Frank looked at me as if I were mad. Jean, too, was thrown.
“I do some washing by hand,” she said, cautious, blushing, perhaps embarrassed to admit she didn’t own a washing machine. “What’s left I take to the Laundromat down at the shopping center on Route Forty.”
“Where do you dry your things?” I continued. “When you wash your clothes here, where do you hang them?”
“I tie ’em to Sputnik ,” she sneered. “They dry in no time.”
“Just answer her,” Frank warned. He wanted to find out where I was going as much as Jean.
“In the bathroom, where do you think?”
“Do you have a clothesline?”
“Of course I do. How else am I supposed to hang my clothes? What is this, Sheriff?”
“And how do you keep your clothes from falling off the line?”
“Are you some kind of moron or
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