Plus, there was someone else. I was fairly certain that—for whatever perverse reason—Jason’s killer was there among us. Perhaps the guilty one simply had to be there; if it was someone close to the deceased, by blood or by association, their absence would be deemed strange or even suspicious. But the guilty one may have had little or no connection to the victim, other than the crime itself, and may have been there that day for the sport of it, for the thrill of witnessing communal grief. And if so, what did that imply about the many nameless others in the crowd? Was each a potential killer?
The organ moaned. The choir wailed.
The Reverend Charles Sterling, rector of the parish, shepherd of his flock, hobbled to the pulpit, a fanciful structure of wrought iron that had been tortured into the likeness of a bird of prey, with its spread wings supporting the lectern and a red leather Bible of operatic proportions.
“My dear friends in Christ,” said Father Sterling, “St. Alban’s weeps today as we lay to rest our dear brother Jason. And yet, as Christians, we rejoice in knowing that Jason now lies resplendent in the arms of our Lord …” Patchy sobs arose from the congregation as the priest pattered through his eulogy, plugging Jason’s name into the blanks that peppered his dog-eared script.
My eyes drifted to the ceiling, where the crusty beams and stained plaster revealed a history of water damage older than the priest. Candles and the smoke of ages had grimed the elaborate niches and arches of the main altar. When I shifted my weight where I sat, the pew creaked, as if the dark mahogany was ready to split and snap beneath the weight of countless coats of yellowed, sticky varnish. I sensed that the floor itself might soon collapse, plunging all of us—hundreds of lost souls—not into the labyrinths of hell, but into a dank cellar of disrepair.
“… in jubilation with the angels and all the blessed saints …”
My eyes drifted through the crowd. I saw someone in a khaki police uniform, and although I couldn’t be certain from behind, I thought it might be our man of the moment, upstart Deputy Alex Kastle, emerging leader of a groundswell, a zombie movement in this little town, my adopted hometown—which I found absolutely frightening. Kastle was just warped enough, just self-absorbed enough, to find political opportunity in a murder and to take advantage of the victim’s funeral, which he would attempt to reframe as a campaign event. Worse yet, if Sheriff Simms was correct in his calculus that Kastle checked all the boxes on his suspect list, the town could be poised to elect a killer, an actual murderer, as the county’s top lawman.
“… cleansed by the blood of the lamb, redeemed by the blood of our Savior …”
My eyes drifted to the front pew, where Dr. Frumpkin sat with his daughter, Sarah. Between them sat the troubled little Olivia. Both Frumpkin and Sarah leaned to the girl, holding her in a tangle of arms and shoulders as they listened to the words of the priest. Was Frumpkin taking comfort from the crowd, from the outpouring of sympathy, from the poetry of psalms and the silver-tongued oratory? Or was he, in fact, not grieving at all? Sarah had often spoken of the man’s “acute sense of theater.” Was this an act? Had he seized on a chance opportunity to rid his life of the conflict, the perceived rivalry, between his son-in-law and his lover? Had he made the ultimate choice between Jason and Dahr?
And what of Dahr himself? After fulfilling his duties as pallbearer, he had joined Frumpkin, Sarah, and Olivia in the front pew, sitting right next to Frumpkin—just like family, as if he and Frumpkin were already a committed couple, which Frumpkin had wanted all along, but which Dahr had coyly resisted. Had he been playing a deadly game?
I didn’t want to admit it—and had avoided discussing it with Sheriff Simms—but Dahr checked most, if not all, of the boxes. Whether it was true or not, there had been a growing perception that he was the rival of the man now being eulogized, which gave Dahr a plausible motive for what had happened. And yet, I had gone out of my way to steer clear of that conclusion, or even consider it. Why? I had the worst possible reason for shielding Dahr: I found him attractive. I had enjoyed his masterful kiss. I felt a growing lust for something forbidden.
And I felt remorsefully ashamed of myself. Seated at my side was the man who had changed my life, who had given me his ring, who had held my hand that morning as we envisioned the walls of our future home, taking stock of our shared life, offering silent recommitment. Now, in the church, I slipped my hand over to his leg. He glanced at me with a soft smile and covered my hand with his.
“He can wrap it up anytime,” said Glee, whispering too loudly, prompting a few snickers. But the priest didn’t hear it. Clueless, he yammered on.
Again I had to wonder, And what about Glee?
Stop it, I told myself. Stop relitigating the issues of her motive, means, and opportunity. Stop anguishing over her rocky past with your mother, years before you were born. Stop feeling guilty for giving Glee a pass. Just stop it—Simms has cleared her of all suspicion.
And that’s when I noticed Walter Zakarian. Seated across the aisle from Glee, a few rows ahead, the Karastan King poked the floor with the tip of his swank walking stick, as if restless with the sermon, trying to prod the priest along. Twice, while reviewing the case with Simms, the sheriff had asked me, “What are we missing? Anyone else?” And both times, I’d thought we had overlooked someone or something that I couldn’t remember. And now, there he sat, big as life, wearing one of his custom-tailored topcoats—black for this occasion, probably cashmere.
During Dr. Frumpkin’s pitch session at Mary’s house two days before the murder, Zakarian and I had gabbed briefly before the presentation. When I asked if he was thinking of investing in FlabberGas, he replied, “I just don’t like him—Francis Frumpkin. We’ve had issues.” He gave no further explanation, but warned me, “So be careful with him.”
Were Zakarian’s “issues” with Dr. Frumpkin significant enough to earn the rug merchant a square on the sheriff’s suspect grid?
“My brothers and sisters,” said Father Sterling, “the family has asked me to remind everyone that Jason’s burial will be private, later this afternoon. But you are invited to gather in the church hall for refreshment and fellowship at the conclusion of this morning’s service.”
The conclusion of the service was a long time coming. Though the sermon was over, we sat through a good deal more of the music and the incense and the ceremony that were meant to clear the way for Jason Ward’s send-off to paradise.
When at last we were sprung, some simply fled, but most of us dutifully, somberly left the church and crossed the grounds to the parish hall, which appeared to have once been a gymnasium. After we were inside, the mood lightened.
“Gotta love that old-time religion,” said Glee, hoisting her first glass of champagne. “When it comes to putting on a show, Episcopalians do it right.”
“Now, now,” said Marson, “many people take comfort in ritual. I’m sure the family appreciated it.”
A tall, handsome man stepped into our conversation. “We do our best.”
It clicked. I told him, “You’re the choir director.” He’d ditched the cassock and surplice.
“Guilty,” he said, extending his hand. “David Lovell.”
We all introduced ourselves. I said, “You sounded great today.”
“Thanks, very generous of you. We work with what we’ve got. It’s a small parish.”
Glee gave me a grin that seemed to ask, Is he hot or what?
He was indeed hot, and his manner left little doubt that he was gay. Things were perking up in sleepy little Dumont. In the space of eleven days, I’d broadened my circle of acquaintances with two of the town’s previously hidden assets, each distinctly different from the other. While Dahr Ahmadi was dark, exotic, and left-brained, David Lovell was blond, corn-fed, and arty to the max.
Sheriff Simms barreled toward us—broad smile—along with his wife, Gloria, and Tommy, who’d also ditched his choir duds, looking cute as ever in a natty little suit and a bow tie. Simms greeted David, “Congrat
s, choirmaster! They’ve never sounded better.”
David almost blushed. “Thank you, Thomas. We love what we do.”
Gloria chimed in. “Tommy certainly does, thanks to you, David. He even looks forward to practice.”
David patted Tommy’s shoulder. “He’s got a strong voice—perfect pitch and timing—he’ll be a real singer someday.”
Tommy beamed.
Father Sterling was wending his way through the crowd—tippling his champagne, gabbing here and there, shaking hands—but mostly tippling.
Sarah Frumpkin Ward stepped over to us with little Olivia. Sarah wore basic black and looked no better than she had since Jason died—the pain in her eyes said it all—but she’d found some sustenance in her champagne flute, which was nearly empty. Olivia, to my surprise, had forgone her storybook costumes and was dressed appropriately in a gray flannel pinafore with a frilly white blouse and black patent Mary Janes. Her hair was nicely done in an asymmetrical swoop, set off with a black barrette. She looked like a little lady.
As they approached, we opened our circle to welcome them with hugs and condolences. Someone raised a glass: “To Jason’s memory.” We toasted in respectful silence, and Sarah finished off her champagne. “Well,” she said, “that makes it official—I’m a widow.” Clearly, she didn’t like the word.
Gloria Simms took Sarah’s hand and peered into her eyes. “Awww, I know it’s rough, honey. It’ll take time, but it’ll get better—trust me.”
“Thank you, Gloria. Everyone’s been so sweet. I’m still having a rough time … adjusting. I mean, the emotions, sure. But all the day-to-day stuff—everything’s different. And hard.”
“How can I help? Really.”
Sarah hesitated. “Afternoons are worst, after school. We’re trying to get the office back on a regular schedule. We’re closed today, of course, but tomorrow? It’s back to the salt mine.”
“Look,” said Gloria, “let me pick up Olivia at school tomorrow—I’m there every day for Tommy anyway. She can come over for an afternoon ‘play date,’ and you can swing by later, whenever you’re ready.”
Sarah heaved a deep sigh of gratitude. “That would be perfect, Gloria.”
Tommy, the model child, had watched this exchange with wary skepticism. As Olivia’s classmate, he’d doubtless witnessed a good deal of her hellish behavior.
I said to Sarah, “There now. Things are looking up, right? A little?”
She managed a weak smile. “A little.” Then a thought crossed her face. “Olivia owes you an apology, Brody. You and Mister Puss.”
The others standing there—the Simmses, David, and Glee, as well as Marson—exchanged curious glances, as they had no idea what Sarah was talking about. She patted the little girl toward me.
“Mr. Norris?” said Olivia. “I’m sorry I was bad yesterday. I would never hurt the kitty—he’s nice. I’ve been so confused lately.”
I crouched to hug her. “Thank you, Olivia. I accept your apology—and I’ll pass it along to Mister Puss. You’ll feel better soon. Don’t worry.”
She smiled at me. She looked as if she believed me, as if she’d awoken from the nightmare of the past two weeks. She looked like a normal little girl.
“Come on, sweetie,” said Sarah, still in the depths of her nightmare. “Let’s find Grampa.”
As they were taking their leave, Sheriff Simms said, “Sarah? This is starting to move fast now. Brody’s been a huge help. We’re getting to the bottom of everything—and believe me, you’ll be the first to know.”
I wish I had your confidence, I thought.
Looking miserable, Sarah thanked Simms. Then she took Olivia’s hand and led her into the crowd.
Marson excused himself, wanting to graze the buffet. Gloria Simms and Tommy went with him, as the boy was getting hungry. David Lovell drifted away to mingle with some of the choir parents. Glee said she needed to round up quotes for her story, but she made a beeline toward Berta, and a moment later, they were yukking it up.
Which left me alone with Sheriff Simms. We watched Dr. Frumpkin with Dahr Ahmadi across the room, huddling in conversation. Now and then Dahr looked in our direction, and then I thought he winked at me. But the second time he did it, no, I decided it was just a tic.
The man I’d spotted in church wearing a khaki uniform was indeed Alex Kastle. Simms and I watched him making the rounds, doing a bit of retail politicking, shaking hands, patting backs. I even saw someone pass him some folded cash.
“Thomas,” I said, “during the service, I thought of something important.”
Simms asked, “About Kastle?”
“Sorry, no. Remember how you’ve asked me if we’ve been overlooking any possibilities? And I couldn’t think of any? Well—how about Walter Zakarian?” I gestured toward him hobnobbing with Mary Questman at the fringes of the crowd. He carried his walking stick in one hand, a champagne flute in the other.
Intrigued, Simms asked, “What about him?”
I recounted what Walter had told me—that he didn’t like Frumpkin, that they’d “had issues,” that I should “be careful” with Frumpkin.
Simms shrugged. “Interesting, I guess. But is that a motive to kill? And even if it were, how would Zakarian pull it off? As far as we know, he has zero knowledge of medical gases—or how to rig the connections.”
“Oh.” I paused, feeling stupid. “I’m sorry, Thomas. My head is just spinning with all this.”
Simms chuckled. “Don’t sell yourself short, Brody. You keep having ideas, and you keep asking questions. Without those, we’d get nowhere. A few blind alleys? We chalk them off. And then we get down to the final problem-solving.”
“Oh, Thomas?” trilled Mary, trundling up behind him.
He turned with a smile. “Morning, Miss Mary.”
She leaned into him with a hand on his arm, speaking low: “Do you have any idea what that awful deputy of yours is up to?”
“I think so, Mary.”
“And here, of all places. No shame, no decency whatever.”
“He’s a piece of work, all right,” said Simms. I’d have phrased it differently, but not in front of Mary. Simms added, “Elections aren’t as clean as they used to be.”
Mary said, “We just can’t let him get away with this, Thomas. I want to write you another check, and I know you’ll need it quickly. Can you stop by tomorrow?”
He hesitated. “Sure, Miss Mary. Thank you. Noon hour okay?”
“Perfect.” She tweaked his cheek, tweaked my cheek, and left.
Simms checked his watch. “Speaking of noon, I’d better get down to headquarters. Talk soon.”
I watched as he went over to tell his wife he was leaving. He kissed Gloria, stooped to kiss his son’s forehead, and then made his way through the crowded room, walking out through the glass doors to the parking lot.
Just inside the doors, he’d passed by a man I recognized but couldn’t quite place. Seeing him, I thought of Mister Puss for some reason. Odd. Then, aha: that was the veterinarian, Jim Phelps. I’d met him two Fridays ago at Mary’s house, at the pitch session. And I realized that it was he I’d been overlooking, not Walter Zakarian.
Jim Phelps had referred to FlabberGas as “nonsense” and “nuts.” He’d referred to Dr. Frumpkin as a “huckster.” Regarding the investment proposal, he’d told me, “It’s a fraud. Frankly, it should be stopped.”
Plus: Dr. Jim Phelps surely had a working knowledge of medical gases.
Chapter 12
Wednesday morning, I left the office shortly after eleven, drove to the outskirts of town, and found the county road that led to the office of veterinarian James Phelps. I had phoned the prior afternoon after the funeral, asking to make an appointment. The receptionist asked for information on my “furbaby,” and I explained that the animal in question was not mine, but the cat owned by a friend, Mary Questman.
“I see …,” said the young lady on the phone, sounding thoroughly flummoxed. “Will Mrs. Questman be coming
in with you?”
“I doubt it. Do you have any openings tomorrow? It’s rather important.”
“If it’s urgent, I can squeeze you in at eleven-thirty. That’s the last appointment of the morning.”
“That’ll be just fine,” I said.
So there I was, driving along the rustic road without another vehicle in sight, wondering how I would explain my solo arrival—without Mary or a cat or any other semblance of a furbaby.
It had been a cold night, with frost, but no hard freeze yet, and the day had dawned clear and crisp. By late morning, the frost had dried off, and the bucolic landscape of fields and fence posts whisked past me under a crystalline autumn sky. It was still cold; the car’s heater lent its soft background whoosh to a bit of Vivaldi that rippled from the radio.
Up ahead, a folksy wooden sign with bent-twig lettering announced that I’d arrived at the practice of James Phelps, DVM, so I slowed the car and entered the gravel parking lot. Only one other car was parked there—the appointment before mine, no doubt—and a narrow gravel drive led around to the back of the building, where I assumed the staff had parked. A split-rail fence separated the front lot from a small wild-looking lawn, with a path down the middle leading to the quaint offices, which were clad in shake shingles, weathered long ago to a silvery gray.
A bell on a spring heralded my arrival as I stepped inside carrying a small zippered portfolio, in case I needed to take notes. The receptionist glanced at her computer, asking, “Mr. Norris?” She was not dressed like a nurse, but wore corduroys and a bulky sweater. “Dr. Jim will be just a minute. Have a seat.”
I picked a chair near the window, next to a pile of magazines, and studied my surroundings, including an aquarium, which was soothing, and a parrot in a cage, which was annoying, and a lethargic snake in a terrarium, which creeped me out.
The receptionist peeped over the countertop at me. “No cat?”
“Actually, I just need to talk to Dr. Phelps.”
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