Shipton smiled up at her. "Peekaboo, I spy you."
Edith at first looked shocked, but almost at once, her face melted to a resigned look-a condemned maiden mounting the guillotine steps, Joan of Arc as the match ignited her pyre. "Hello, Jerome," she said in a tone of utter acquiescence.
"You look wonderful, darling. Nothing like a restful stay in the sticks and a good night's sleep to freshen you up, eh?" He turned to the others. "Well, I'm off to learn how to shinny up icicles. I'll see you up there, Ryland. Or, is it down there?" Then he added, continuing to coldly stare at the young man. "They say ice climbing is a dangerous sport, so remember you all, be careful out there, you hear?"
He turned and was gone. When Dean looked up to where Edith Shipton had stood, she had retreated up the stairs.
Dean picked up the telephone and called Sheriff Weller. It was an infuriating conversation, resulting in a big, fat zero. While Weller knew nothing of Dean's legal right to evict Shipton, he didn't seem to feel it was his concern and politely refused to come over and expel him.
"I don't want the bastard to sue me too. Besides, what's he done to get tossed out? He's got a point. The room's been paid for. Until he does something to warrant police action, I'd say he has every right to stay. Look, at least give it a chance. Let's not buy any more trouble than we have to. Just being a jerk isn't against the law."
Dean continued insisting but to no avail. Weller's only concession was to say he'd talk to Shipton in hopes of getting him to leave voluntarily, if he could find the time. Both men were well aware this was tantamount to a brush-off. And then, to Dean's surprise, Weller added, "Did you ever give a thought that maybe it's the wife who's the real culprit here? I mean, we're buying her book like a best seller, chapter and verse. It's her word the guy is the heavy. Maybe we should listen to him for a change. So, he's a jerk-but that doesn't mean everything he says is a lie. She's the one bed-hopping and acting like a looney."
Before Dean could comment, the conversation ended as a commotion upstairs called for his attention.
Cynthia had preceded him and stood outside Gladys Trumbull's door. The woman was sobbing inconsolably.
"He called me a fat old cow!" she wailed. "I hate the bastard. I hate him! If I had a gun I'd kill the son of a bitch!" The Deans entered her quarters, closing the door behind them. After some cooing on Cynthia's part, the crying subsided to sniffs and quiet sobs. "I'll get him," Gladys mumbled. "He just used me. He doesn't care for my stories a bit. It was all lies and deceit."