by John Chabot
At this point, her parents began to despair. Her brothers, on the other hand, were delighted, and thought that maybe sisters weren't completely hopeless after all. It was then that they began letting her into their soccer scrimmages. Her last name fit her better than her first, and Michelle became Mickie.
Mickie had gone to a local college for two years, and did very well, but found that most of the things she was learning were not things she really wanted to know. Being sensible, she had decided to leave school and get on with her life. She wasn't sorry about leaving, even though it was a while before her father would speak to her in anything but monosyllables and grunts. He wasn't an unreasonable man, but the dream of seeing her turn back into Michelle wasn't quite dead.
She had joined the police force and knew almost immediately that she had found her place. She had just enough patience to keep control when harangued by the truly obnoxious, and a sense of humor that kept her from letting the little things get out of proportion. She had graduated from the Police Academy well into the upper ten percent. That, at least, had impressed her father.
Being local was an advantage she had quickly learned to use. A large part of her work involved vandalism, malicious mischief and petty break-ins, and most of that involved kids. Having lived there all her life, she knew most of the kids or had gone to school with their older brothers or sisters. She had been blessed with enough common sense to know whom to talk to, how to put out the word, and what that word should be. A few phone calls were often enough, if not to make an arrest, at least to get the activity stopped. She had made a name for herself for getting results by using her head. Within three years she had made detective.
It was a cause for celebration for several reasons. She liked police work, and it was satisfying to have her abilities recognized with something as tangible as advancement. And, of course, the extra pay was a lifesaver. Being honest, she would have admitted to anyone who asked that it was also nice to see her parent's smiles, especially her father's, when she told them.
But there was also another reason, one she kept to herself — the uniform. Police uniforms are designed for men and, for some reason, tend to accentuate the worst when worn by a woman. They're tight or loose in all the wrong places, and make most women seem shorter, heavier and dumpier than they really are. Mickie would have welcomed a little of that effect but, of course, that's not how it worked. In uniform, she became taller and thinner than ever. Frowning at herself in a full-length mirror, she saw only a hipless skeleton in drag. And the cap! Well, she had thought, what can you say? Promotion had brought several satisfactions, but none greater than packing that uniform away for the last time.
That had been six months ago, last June, just as the tourists were beginning to pour in, filling the cottages and hotels, the streets, the beaches and, on one of the wilder occasions, the jail. It was also the time when Harry Chervenic had taken his retirement from the Baltimore force, and come south to work in Connor Beach.
Harry had been something of a mystery. He had come in from out of state, older and more experienced than anyone else in the department. He was also more reticent when it came to talking about himself. The word was that he had burned out under the pressure, but nobody really knew, and he didn't say. Another detective named Morris had once asked him directly. Morris would. Harry hadn't said anything — at all. He had simply looked at Morris with those deep gray eyes. That had quieted even Morris.
There was talk in the ranks that he would just be putting in his time, staying out of the way, doing only what he had to do to draw his pay. Mickie had found in the first week that it wasn't going to be that way. There were too many things Harry wanted to know. Mickie was learning a lot just trying to answer his questions. Harry's efforts to learn the local scene became a sort of professional game, each one looking for something the other wouldn't know. Who runs the Bayside Fish Market? How many people at the Coast Guard Station?
As Harry learned, he also began teaching her the things he thought she should know. "When you get a call where something's going down right then — a fight in a bar, robbery in progress, whatever — try to relax. You go charging into a situation like that with a gun on your hip and your brain full of blood, you're going to end up getting shot or shooting someone else, and neither one is good."
He taught her how to handle herself in the witness stand, the traps the defense attorneys can set up and how to avoid them.
"I was chewed up by a couple of those guys early on. I made up my mind it wouldn't happen again. It's a shame when a perfectly good arrest gets thrown out because you screwed up as a witness."
Mickie listened and asked questions. She had found herself with a partner who was a mine of practical information. These were the things she really wanted to learn. She thought of their relationship more as master craftsman and apprentice. Harry had seen it all and done it all, and Mickie was determined to learn it all.
Stoneman and Briggs had offices in the older section of Wilford, close to the coastal highway. The building had originally been a mill but, like so many of the old buildings, had recently been converted to posh offices and shops. The old brick and heavy timber beams of the original had been carefully preserved, adding considerably to the rent.
The receptionist was a young woman who somehow managed to look superior and friendly at the same time. When Harry gave her his name and profession, she put on her serious-efficient face and said something into the intercom he couldn't quite catch.
"Mr. Stoneman will be with you in just a moment. If you'd care to have a seat?"
"Mind if I make a call while I'm waiting?"
She looked dubious, but handed him the receiver and punched into an outside line. He got Beverly, the dispatcher.
"Chervenic. Is Mickie still there?"
"She's on the phone to Boston right now, Harry. Do you want me to tell her you're on the line?"
"No, just give her a message. Two things. One, there was no car. His driver's license was English and expired by six months. How did he get around? Then tell her I'm with Stoneman, Carlsberg's lawyer. I'll call her there as soon as I'm finished. Okay?"
As he put the phone down he saw a man, probably in his early forties, standing in one of the inner office doorways, motioning to him.
"Lieutenant Chervenic? I'm Wes Stoneman. Please, come in."
The office had a lot of walnut and leather, an old, expensive carpet and ranks of well used books. The light from large, round-top windows gave it all a faintly golden tinge. It gave an air of prosperous conservatism without being stuffy about it.
Wes Stoneman fitted the room. He had the look of someone good at what he did, without saying what that was. He was neither good looking nor bad. There was a hardness about his mouth and chin, but humor around the eyes. His suit, a well cut chocolate brown, was expensive, but not obviously so. Harry had stopped being impressed by such things a long time ago. The first lawyer he'd ever sent to prison was one of the best-dressed men he'd ever met. Still, his first impression was that if he ever needed a lawyer for something personal, he might do worse.
Stoneman sat behind his desk. He was alert, wondering what was coming, knowing it was nothing good. "Well now, Lieutenant, how can I help you? Your message said only that it concerned Matt Carlsberg."
"Yes. You were his attorney?"
He frowned. "Were?"
"He was found at his house in Connor Beach late yesterday afternoon. I'm afraid he's dead."
Harry could see the surprise and, immediately afterward, the wheels beginning to turn as implications and duties and questions began to flood in. The lawyer quickly smoothed out his face, and asked, "May I ask how he died?"
"We're not certain yet. However, there is a possibility it was suicide. What I'm trying to do now is to find any relatives. I hoped you might be able to help."
"Yes. Yes, of course." He took a pen from somewhere in his suit jacket and began writing on a pad. "There is his sister, Mrs. Campbell. And his brother, of course. Ro
bert. He runs the store, Carlsberg Furniture, here in Wilford. I'm sure you could reach him there. Would you like his home address?"
"If you don't mind."
He opened a drawer, consulted a book of addresses, and finished writing. "There you are."
Harry took the paper, glanced at it, and put it into his notebook. "Had you known him long?"
"No. I only met him twice, and that was here in the office."
"Could you tell me what that was about?"
"Nothing unusual. He asked me to help him prepare his will."
"And did you? I mean, was it completed, the will signed?"
"Oh yes. It was all quite simple."
"And the contents?"
Stoneman frowned again, then said, "I don't suppose it makes much difference. There will be a formal reading in a few days, anyway. There's nothing really unusual about it. Essentially, he leaves everything to his brother and sister. There is a note that goes with it, to his nephew and nieces, but no bequest. He wanted the note to be read with the will."
"There is a considerable amount of money?"
"The house at the beach and some cash. Yes, it's considerable."
"How did Mr. Carlsberg choose you?"
Stoneman relaxed noticeably as the questions changed direction. "I believe his sister recommended me. Our firm has represented their business for more than fifty years, and I've helped Anne . . . Mrs. Campbell with some of her personal dealings."
"This furniture store. This has been in the family for some time then."
"Yes. It was founded by Robert's grandfather just after the First World War. Robert has been managing it since the death of his father."
"And how is the business doing?"
It was said casually, a friendly, unimportant bit of conversation. They both knew it wasn't.
"We don't keep the books, Lieutenant, but we work rather closely with their accounting firm. The building was paid for decades ago, they have no long-term debt, and there's working capitol in the bank. As for Robert, I can't believe he could have any extraordinary need for money."
"We all need money now and then."
"Not Robert. It's the way he thinks. If he can't pay for it, he doesn't need it. He's very conservative. In business he's the accountant, not the entrepreneur."
"How about the sister?"
"How do you mean?" The edgy look was coming back.
"Financially. Is she comfortable?"
"Yes, I believe so. Her husband left her quite a bit in insurance, and she gets a share of the store's profits."
"You helped her to invest the insurance money? You said you'd helped her with some personal matters."
"I helped her to set up an annuity."
"I see."
There was a pause as Harry considered following that line. Instead he asked, "What did you think of him? Of Matt Carlsberg?"
"I hardly knew him."
"You're impression then. I never met him at all."
Stoneman looked at his desk, narrowing his eyes as he tried to recall. "Careful, very specific, precise. Liked to have all the details in order. In that way, he was like his brother. He didn't look like Robert, though. I believe Robert takes after his father's side of the family. Matt had the lighter coloring, more like his sister. Their mother's family, I think, was like that. Had he been sick?"
The question came as a surprise. Chervenic countered with, "Why do you ask that?"
"Well, I know he was just a year older than his sister, and several years younger than Robert. But when I saw him, he looked a good deal older than either of them. I thought he might have been sick."
"We're not sure. We're looking into that."
"I'll tell you one way he was very different from his brother. He had a sense of humor." He frowned and then said, "No, that's not the word I want. He had a sense of fun. That's it."
"And Robert hasn't?"
"I admire Robert in many ways. But he is a bit — stiff. All the time I was with Matt, I had the feeling there was a joke he was about to let me in on."
"But he didn't."
"No. If he was planning suicide, it was a rather macabre joke. By the way, his brother and sister won't know yet. I think I should tell them. It would be easier that way."
"Yes, I agree. It will be on the news soon, anyway. It's only a fluke it wasn't picked up sooner. They should hear it from you."
Being the messenger of death, so to speak, was too often a part of Harry's job, one he had never gotten used to. He was glad to have a volunteer.
"I'll have to talk to them, you know. I think the sooner the better."
The lawyer eyed him, all professional again. "I think I should be there when you do."
"Certainly. Perhaps the sister first." Before Stoneman could object, he changed tack. "I'd also like to be present at the reading of the will. I know that's a little unusual, but I promise not to interfere. I'd just like to be there."
"Well, I don't see why not. There's nothing sensational about the will itself. The fact that there's a separate note to the children is a bit odd, but you can judge that for yourself."
"When do you think it will be?"
"I don't know. In a day or so, I suppose. I'll let you know."
"Would you happen to have a sample of Matt Carlsberg's handwriting? He left a note, but we have nothing to compare it to."
"I think that all we have here is his signature on the will. There was no correspondence or anything like that. If that will do, I can give you a copy of the signature."
They walked together to the door and Stoneman reached for the handle as if to open it, then stopped. "I wonder," he said. "Does the name Terrence Eason ring any bells?"
"Terry Eason? Why?"
"Well, other than the note, it's the only odd thing about the will. The first will was signed last Tuesday. Then, on Friday Mr. Carlsberg came in and wanted to change it."
"In what way?"
"To add Mr. Eason as a beneficiary."
"Did he really! So Eason becomes an heir. How much?"
"Well, that's the odd part. He was to receive a desk, a few books, and all the Drambuie left in the house. A few bottles of liqueur and an old desk. Now I ask you, is that something to change a will for?"
Harry drove slowly down the tree-lined street, searching for the address. When he was close, he saw Wilder's Honda, and pulled in behind it. In front of it was a dark blue Cadillac that figured to be Stoneman's. Mickie got out and came back to meet him. Harry motioned her to get in.
He told her about his talk with the lawyer. At the end he asked, "What do you think?"
"Drambuie, huh? Yeah, I tried it once. I didn't think it was anything to kill for."
"Maybe he's developed an addiction. What did you get from Boston?"
"Not much at first. He gave me a lecture on the sanctity of the doctor-patient relationship, and started in about proper legal procedures. Then I told him Carlsberg was dead, that he may have committed suicide. After that, I couldn't shut him up. He wanted me to know it wasn't his fault. I think he'd half expected it."
"What did he say?"
"That Carlsberg was referred to him by a doctor in Japan. The history was that he had had cancer once before and apparently had beaten it."
She took out her notebook and flipped to the page she wanted. "He had had lung cancer which had gone into remission. No recurrence for several years. Then, in Japan he was diagnosed as having osteogenic sarcoma. That's bone cancer. The doctor in Boston wanted him to start therapy, but he said he needed a few days to get things in order. He said he'd be back the following Monday, and left. That's the last they saw of him."
"How serious was it?"
"I asked. I got a lot of hedging, but it boiled down to his chances being slim and none. I asked him if Carlsberg knew this. He just said the man was no fool and, given his experience, was pretty knowledgeable about cancer. I don't think he was surprised not to see him again."
Harry shook his head. "Having that stuff is bad enough. Going
through the chemotherapy or the radiation therapy or whatever. Finally getting it into remission, thinking you have it licked. And then it sneaks back into your bones. How much time did he have?"
"Not much. He said it was spreading pretty fast."
"Any particular symptoms?"
"Pain, off and on, pretty severe. Anorexia. Weakness."
Harry sat quietly, thinking about it. Finally he said, almost to himself, "I wonder how many knew he was sick?" Then he looked at Mickie and asked, "What about transportation? How did he get around?"
"By cab. He's used them six times since he's been here. At least, there were six trips to or from that address. I haven't talked with the drivers yet."
"Okay. Find out where he went, what he did, who he saw, as much as you can."
"You want me to do that now?"
"No, let's talk to the sister first. Annabelle Campbell. Widowed. When Stoneman was giving me their names and addresses, he wrote hers first, from memory. He's represented the brother's business for years, but he had to look up his home address. I thought that was interesting."
"He doesn't see the brother socially. But the sister?"
"We'll see. By the way, who owns the cab company?"
She dredged quickly through her memory. "Uh . . . Wendy Szell." It was her turn. "Who's their night dispatcher?"
Chervenic's face went blank as he thought. Then he said, "Travis . . . something. Walt Travis."
"Damn. Thought I had you on that one."
The house they stood before was twenty to thirty years old, a middle class house in a middle class neighborhood. The grass needed cutting, and the house could use some paint, neither one desperately. Something, he thought, like his own place.
As they walked up to the door Harry asked, "Did they have much trouble getting hold of you yesterday?" He knew that most of Wilder's days off were spent with Paul, a man she had met sometime during her two years of college.
Mickie patted the pager on her belt and asked, "Have you ever known these things not to go off at the worst possible time?"
He smiled and said, "Well, now, I guess that depends on what you're doing at the time. How did Paul take it?"
