My Town
4. Strangers
The coffee machine bubbled quietly in the corner, its gentle hum a constant companion to the hours spent in the office. The smell of the hot beverage permeated the air, made sweeter by the aroma of the vanilla air freshener Norma had hung beneath the counter; it helped to disguise the pervasive smell of dampness that she just hadn't been able to get rid of. The realtor hadn't mentioned the damp, when he'd recommended the place to her. Then again, he hadn't mentioned the proposed bypass, either, which just showed how trustworthy your average estate agent was.
When she heard the office door open, Norma glanced up, and found herself looking at a short young woman with fiery red hair and slate-grey eyes. Those eyes casually took in everything in the room, sliding over the 'no vacancies' sign in the window before settling on Norma.
"Good morning," Norma said, straightening up and offering her best professional smile. She'd been practising in the mirror, and she was certain she had it down pat.
"Hello," the woman replied, in a cultured, sing-song voice. "I was directed here by a very surly officer. I was told you might have a spare room for me."
"Of course, come on in," Norma said, fixing the smile in place. Compared to Abernathy, and those trimmers Dylan had brought home, the woman looked downright normal. It was a welcome change. "Sheriff Romero came by earlier and asked me to set a room aside for you. You're in luck; it's the last one."
"How fortuitous."
"You're from England?" Norma asked, practising her small talk skills.
"That's right."
"Do you know Mr. Decody?"
The woman gave her a blank stare. "Who?"
"Mr. Decody. He's a taxidermist. Lives in the town. He's from England, too."
"Ah." The woman shrugged off a heavy-looking backpack topped with a rolled-up tent and sleeping bag before stepping towards the counter. "It seems to be a popular misconception over here that all English people know each other. How many people would you say live in White Pine Bay?"
"Oh, I don't know… a couple of thousand?" she guessed. In truth, she had no idea. Perhaps she ought to find out. Perhaps she should have asked the realtor before buying the bloody money-trap of a motel.
"And do you know them all?" the woman asked.
"No, not really."
"There are over sixty million people living in the UK, and God knows how many ex-pats around the world. I'd probably have a better chance of winning the lottery than of walking into a small American town where by pure happenstance lives a person I know from England."
"A simple 'no' would have done," Norma said. She knew that it came out sounding curt, but she couldn't help it.
"I'm sorry," the woman sighed, giving her a tight smile. "But every place I go, it's always, 'Oh, you're British, you must know so-and-so, or suchabody.' Last place I visited, I had someone ask me if I knew the Queen. And when I sarcastically replied that yes, we often took afternoon tea together, I was taken seriously. And just in case you were planning on reiterating any of the other inane questions I've been asked recently; no, I'm not a member of the royal family; I don't drive or even own an Aston Martin; and I've never been on a James Bond set."
"So… ah… what brings you to America?" Norma asked, revising her previous 'normal' assessment of the clearly crazy person standing in her office.
"Research. I'm a historian."
"Really? And what sorts of things are you researching?"
"The history of small towns, and cultural and economic influences on their growth."
"That sounds… interesting," Norma said, desperately groping for a word that didn't sound too much like a lie.
"To be honest, the topic puts most people to sleep, but I enjoy it, and I like to think that my research is important. My name's Grace, by the way. Grace Westall."
"What a lovely name. I'm Norma Bates." Norma accepted the woman's hand, shaking it with a firm grip. "You can call me Norma."
"So, about that room..?" Grace prompted.
"Of course." Norma opened up her reservation book and picked up her pen. "How long will you be staying in White Pine Bay?"
"That probably depends on your rates. I've got enough on my card for at least a couple of nights, but I'm waiting for additional grant money to come through, to help fund the final stage of my research. Which reminds me, I really need a computer with internet access, so I can check my bank account. Is there a library or an internet café nearby?"
"Yes, in the town. That's a forty minute walk away, but if you don't mind waiting a couple of hours, my son should be back from running some errands. I can get him to give you a ride into town."
"Oh, I don't want to put anybody out," Grace said.
"It's no problem at all. Dylan hardly needs an excuse to get away from the motel for ten minutes."
"Do you and your son run the motel together?"
"Sons," Norma corrected. "I have two. Norman's still in school, and Dylan… well, he's around, and he helps out when he can. He likes to do his own thing, though. Most mornings, I wake up and wonder whether I'll find him still here." As different as night and day, her boys were, and though Norman would always be her favourite, her precious younger son, she had to admit that were it not for Dylan, she'd probably be dead.
"It must be nice, to be able to work so closely with your family."
"Hmm? Oh, yes," she replied. "It's wonderful." She reached out to the keysafe and picked out the key to room seven. "If you'd like to follow me, I'll show you to your room, and you can get settled in."
She led the younger woman out of the office and down past the row of doors.
"Have you lived in White Pine Bay long, Norma?"
"No, me and my sons only arrived here a few weeks ago."
"What made you want to move here?"
"After my husband died, I wanted a fresh start. This place was on the market and seemed ideal."
"And how are you finding life here so far?"
"Oh, you know, it's got its ups and downs," Norma said, though her smile was beginning to feel a lot more forced. Grace's questions reminded her of one of Romero's interrogations. Direct questions about her motives were not something she was fond of. "Here we go, room seven."
She slid the key into the door and turned the handle, stepping aside to give the English woman space to walk forward.
"Charming," Grace said.
"Why don't I give you chance to unpack your things and settle into the room, and whenever you're ready you can come along to the office and we'll finalise your booking," Norma suggested.
"That's a very polite way of telling me you'd like payment up-front." Before Norma could even open her mouth to defend herself, Grace ploughed on. "Please feel free to be blunt; I won't be offended. And of course, I'd be more than happy to pay an advance."
"Good." Norma inched towards the door. "I'm glad you understand. Just let me know if there's anything else you need, and I'd be more than happy to help."
"That's very kind of you. Thank you, Norma," Grace smiled. "I'll have a shower and get changed into something a little less worn, and then nip across to the office."
Stepping backwards, Norma closed the door behind her and then let out a deep sigh. Perhaps she should have mentioned something about the rowdy room occupants next door, or apologised for the lingering scent of weed, but there was only so much pleasant servitude she could manage in one day, and between Dylan's tiresome trimmers and Romero's mystery guest, she was quickly approaching her quota.
o - o - o - o - o
"What do you know about Beverley Watson?"
Romero asked the question, then nursed the silence which followed. Behind Principal Hutchins, a metre-long aquarium hummed and bubbled gently, the half-dozen angelfish swimming serenely within completely oblivious to the strong tones of sadness and worry which saturated the room. The principal's concern was both palpable and understandable. Nobody in White Pine Bay liked to draw attention to themselves; standing out from the crowd was not a healthy survival trait.
Hutchins removed his glasses, cleaned them once with a small clean cloth, and put them back on his head. Romero felt a moment of pity for the Principal. Hutchins wasn't a bad man. He ran the high school with a firm but fair hand, was liked by both teachers and students, and commanded a respected voice on the town's informal council. But somebody was dead, and now Romero had to find answers. That meant he had to be the sheriff. He had to ask questions. He had to put a man he liked in a potentially uncomfortable position.
"You have to understand, that I don't like to pry too much into my teachers' personal affairs," Hutchins said. "There has to be a boundary between management and staff. I'm sure you understand."
Romero said nothing. He understood only too well, but he couldn't afford sympathy. Failing to elicit the expected response, Hutchins broke the silence.
"Miss Watson was a lovely woman. A gentle soul. She would never hurt anyone. If she had a flaw, it was that she cared too much. She used to worry herself half to death about the kids in her class. You remember the scandal last year, when Molly Meechan got pregnant? Beverley barely slept for weeks, worrying over that poor girl. The one thing I do know is that she didn't deserve this fate. Whoever killed her is a true monster. I hope you find him, and that he swings for his crime."
"What about her personal life?" Romero prompted. "Did she ever speak of friends? Perhaps a boyfriend?"
Hesitation was written all over the principal's face, but he knew better than to try to lie.
"She never spoke of such things to me. But from time to time, I did hear… rumours."
"Rumours?"
"Things said quietly amongst the other teachers. The rumours were that Beverley used to… step out… from time to time, with men. Dalliances here and there. Weekends away. That sort of thing."
"Are we talking about married men?" he asked, recalling his interview with Miss Waton's sister.
Hutchins nodded. "But like I said, it was just rumour. I'm not sure how much truth there was to it, and she certainly never spoke about men to me. The truth is, as much as she was liked by everybody, I often saw her looking… well, quite pensive, sometimes even upset, as if she'd just lost her best friend. She was something of a loner… in many ways, a stranger."
A stranger. That just about summed up everybody in White Pine Bay. A community of people united by the secrets they shared, but strangers to each other out of necessity. No matter what mask they wore when you saw them on the streets and in the supermarkets, there were always different faces ready to be revealed when the masks came off.
"Can you think of anybody at all who might want to try to hurt Miss Watson?"
"No. Like I said, she was a bit of a loner, but she was well liked."
"What about parents?" he suggested. It was possible that the men she was 'stepping out' with may have had children at the school—a perfect and legitimate excuse for meeting up.
"I can't recall any problems with parents." Hutchins snorted. "Other than Mrs. Bates, of course. But I hardly think that's what you mean."
Romero leant forward slightly in his chair, focusing his gaze on the principal's blue eyes. "What about Mrs. Bates?"
"Well, she wasn't exactly thrilled when Beverley suggested that she send her son for counselling."
"For what reason did she want the boy to be counselled?"
"Norman isn't exactly integrating with the rest of the students as well as he could be," Hutchins admitted. "Beverley took a protective interest in the boy. I think she saw something of herself in him, when she was that age. And since it's not long since Norman's father passed away, and the family are new here, and with everything that's happened recently…"
Hutchins didn't finish that sentence. He knew better than to mention Zack Shelby's name in Romero's presence.
"…Beverley just thought that, in the absence of close friends to support him through his problems, Norman might benefit talking to a counsellor."
"And Mrs. Bates didn't like that suggestion?"
"Not at first. But she came around eventually, and arranged a session for Norman. But like I said, I don't think that's what you meant when you asked about parents."
Romero let out a slow, deep breath as he let the information sink in. His gut told him that Miss Watson's murder had been committed by a man, not a woman. A man who probably knew her intimately, given that she hadn't put up a struggle before being murdered in her underwear. It was probably just coincidence that Norma Bates' name was coming up, yet again, around a murder victim. But Romero didn't trust coincidences.
"In a couple of days," he said at last, "when things have settled down a bit, I'm going to want to talk to the rest of the staff here. And some of the students in Miss Watson's classes, too."
"Do you really think that's necessary?" Hutchins asked. But it was a half-hearted question. He already knew the answer.
"I'll be in touch," Romero said, standing. "In the meantime, if you think of anything…"
"You'll be the first to know," Hutchins agreed. "Believe me, Sheriff, I want you to find whoever did this and make him pay."
Romero nodded, and left. What he didn't say was that everybody paid the price for their mistakes, eventually. Karma kept score in the game of life, and there were times when it seemed White Pine Bay was a karmic hotspot. Miss Watson's killer would get what he deserved, regardless of whether Alex Romero had to help karma settle the debt which was owed.