Murder on the Cliff

by Stefanie Matteson

  “Keiko, several people have suggested to me that Okichi-mago committed suicide because she felt that she had betrayed her patron through her love affair with Shawn Hendrickson. Do you think that’s true?”

  Keiko shook her head emphatically, the glittering pendants of her hair ornaments tinkling as she moved her head.

  “Why not?”

  “Tanaka-san didn’t care. To him, it was strictly a business arrangement. He liked Okichi-san, but he will find another geisha. In what way did she betray him? For six years, she has been fulfilling her end of their agreement.”

  Perhaps Spalding had been naive in interpreting Okichi-mago’s death in terms of cultural stereotypes, Charlotte reflected. Okichi-mago had been a guardian of tradition, but she had also been a modern career woman.

  “But then, why did she cry when she sang ‘Raven at Dawn’?”

  “I don’t know,” said Keiko. “Maybe she was sad. Everyone is sad sometimes. Okichi-san could be happy one minute, and sad the next. Why not? Life can change from one minute to the next. I’m sad right now”—she blinked her tears away—“but I’m not going to jump off a cliff.”

  “Okichi did.”

  Keiko looked almost angry. “Yes, but Okichi committed suicide because Townsend Harris deserted her, not because she deserted him. Also, she was a wreck of a woman when she died. An alcoholic, a beggar, and a cripple. She was paralyzed from syphilis, you know.”

  “I didn’t know that.”

  “Okichi-san was the first person to take advantage of the Okichi legend. But she didn’t like to be compared with her. Okichi-san thought she was pathetic.” She paused to take a swig of Scotch, and then shook her head. “She would never have chosen to die in the same way.”

  “Then she didn’t have a melancholy temperament?”

  “Not at all,” said Keiko. “She was very happy. She was in love with Shawn. They were going to be married.”

  Charlotte thought again of the Japanese novelist who had committed suicide, the only example she had to go on. But judging from everything she had read, he was a little crazy. By contrast, Okichi-mago was a model of stability: disciplined, dedicated, successful, and, as Keiko pointed out, in love.

  “Besides,” Keiko continued, “if she were going to commit suicide, she never would have done it by jumping. She would have taken pills. Jumping would have been too undignified for her. She couldn’t even have been sure of succeeding. What if she’d just broken her legs?”

  Keiko was right. Jumping wasn’t the way Okichi-mago would have chosen to die. She was too neat: the perfect English, the perfect hair, the perfect makeup—Charlotte remembered the touch of gilding outlining her underlip. She would have wanted to die as immaculately as she had lived.

  “Then if she didn’t commit suicide, she must have been murdered.”

  “Yes,” said Keiko quietly.

  “Do you have any idea who might have wanted to murder her?”

  Keiko shook her head.

  Fujiko and Sumire were returning from the direction of the bar. Fujiko was carrying another Scotch for Keiko. After offering her condolences—with Keiko serving as translator—Charlotte excused herself and wandered back to the bar. She felt as if she could use a drink herself.

  After the dessert course, the orchestra started playing livelier music, and the older couples turned over the dance floor to the young. Manhattan in hand, Charlotte headed back out to the loggia at the rear of the house. In the distance, the sea was a deep blue green against a night sky tinged with pink. The lights of Middletown twinkled across the water. The view reminded her of another famous Newport story. A Newport hostess was giving a White Ball, a Bal Blanc. Everything was to be white: the china, the tablecloths, the flowers, the doves in white birdcages on the tables. The guests were asked to wear white gowns, white suits, and white powdered wigs. But despite the hostess’s elaborate plans, the view at night over the ocean hadn’t a glimmer of white. To remedy the affront to her color theme wrought by the orbiting of the heavenly spheres, the hostess decided to engage a fleet of twelve full-sized ships with white hulls and sails and order them to anchor offshore. But it proved impossible to anchor a dozen fully rigged ships in the Atlantic, so instead she had a dozen all white, full-sized ships anchored at the foot of the lawn, where they made a tableau of white against the deep blue sky. Looking out into the starry night, Charlotte could easily imagine how lovely they must have looked, floating down the Cliff Walk. Leaving the loggia behind, she wandered out to the lawn and down toward the cliff’s edge. Behind her, the lights of Edgecliff blazed against a background of dark trees. Resting her elbows on the balustrade at the foot of the lawn, she gazed out to sea. From this position, she could just see the spot where she had found Okichi-mago’s body. It had only been that morning, but it already seemed like ages ago. The waves lapping at the rocks created ribbons of white on the shoreline. She thought again of the position of the body. She was sure of it—Okichi-mago had been murdered.

  Turning back toward the mansion, she saw Lew and Toni heading toward her, arm in arm. A few minutes later, they joined her at the balustrade.

  “Checking out the scene of the death?” asked Lew.

  “Yes, as a matter of fact.”

  “I know all about your reputation as an amateur detective,” he said with a smile. “I read Murder at the Morosco.”

  Nine years ago, Charlotte had solved the case of the murder of her co-star in the Broadway play The Trouble With Murder. She had shot him on-stage with a bullet that had been planted in a stage prop. The memory of seeing real blood oozing from the wound still gave her the shivers. Her role in solving the case had been publicized in a best-selling book called Murder at the Morosco (the play had been showing at the lovely old Morosco Theatre, which was torn down the next year despite the protests of the historical preservationists). Since then, she’d successfully helped solve several other murders.

  “He’s a crime buff,” Toni explained, her lovely brown eyes gleaming. “He reads all the books about real-life crime.”

  “I work very closely with the police department, both as city solicitor and in our business: Toni and I run a security business, Viking Security. If you ever want to give a party in Newport, just let us know. We’ll make sure that no one steals the guests’ jewels or makes off with the silver.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” said Charlotte.

  “I heard that it was you who discovered Okichi-mago’s body this morning,” Lew continued. “We get a body at the foot of the cliff from time to time—accidental deaths. Kids partying on the cliff who drink too much and fall off. Or people walking along at night who mistake the edge for the path.”

  “They ought to fence it off in some places,” Toni added. “The edge has caved away in spots, and it’s not very well lit.”

  “I can see that,” said Charlotte, looking out. “Maybe you can use your influence with the city government to get a fence put up.”

  Toni smiled, and looked up at her husband.

  “Tell me,” said Lew, “what do you think about Okichi-mago’s death?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Do you think it was a suicide?”

  “No,” she replied bluntly. She explained about the sake cup and about her conversation with Keiko.

  “I’ve got news for you. The police don’t think it was a suicide either. The state medical examiner says the body was found too far out from the base of the cliff for it to have been a suicide. He thinks she was pushed.”

  Now that he mentioned it, Charlotte remembered that the body had been at least ten feet away from the base of the cliff.

  “He’s ordered a reconstruction of the fall. Apparently it’s the only way to tell whether a fall was a suicide or a murder. He’ll be using a dummy that’s the same height and weight as Okichi-mago.”

  “That sounds very interesting,” said Charlotte with a coquettish smile.

  “I saw those eyes light up,” Lew teased. “They’re going to stage t
he reconstruction tomorrow morning. I’m going to be there. I can take a hint: would you like to come along?”

  “I certainly would,” Charlotte replied.

  “Good. I’ll pick you up at nine.”

  “Do the police have any leads yet?” Charlotte asked as she rode down Bellevue Avenue with Lew the next morning.

  “They don’t, but I do,” Lew replied.

  “You do!”

  “Do you know about the feud between Marianne Montgomery and Paul Harris?”

  Charlotte nodded.

  “According to their great-aunt’s will, the house and property pass to Connie’s descendants, namely Marianne, and Paul’s descendants. The only trouble is that Paul doesn’t have any descendants.”

  “And the idea that Marianne’s daughter will eventually inherit Shimoda is enough to drive him crazy,” said Charlotte. She was reminded of his disgusted expression when Dede had entered the temple in her spike heels.

  “Exactly,” said Lew. “He’s been talking for years about adopting Nadine’s sons as his heirs. In my opinion, that’s the only reason she’s stuck it out with him. But he’s never done anything about it.”

  They turned onto Narragansett Avenue and drove past the long buff pink walls of Bois Doré, the mansion where the coal magnate had hung gold fruits from the pollarded lindens lining the approach to the house.

  Lew continued: “According to my confidential source, Paul had finally decided to do something about it, but it wasn’t Nadine’s sons that he was planning to make his heirs, it was Okichi-mago.”

  “Whew!” Charlotte exclaimed. “This is a new wrinkle. Who’s your confidential source? Toni?”

  Lew looked over at her in surprise. “How did you know?”

  “Just a hunch, I saw her chatting with Nadine at the ball. They looked as if they were friends.”

  “They are. Her younger son and our son are on the same tennis team. Nadine told Toni that she’d seen a revised copy of Paul’s will naming Okichi-mago as his heir, and some other papers designating her as his adopted daughter. She was very unhappy about it.”

  “I can imagine,” said Charlotte.

  “Promise me you won’t tell anyone who told you this. I don’t want to get into trouble with my wife, or get her into trouble with Nadine. I’m married to one of those hot-blooded Latin types.”

  Charlotte gave him her solemn word.

  “I can’t tell the police about it for obvious reasons, but I can tell you. You’re close to the family. Maybe you can find out something the police can’t—like who murdered Okichi-mago.”

  “Won’t the police mind my interfering?”

  “I’ll make it their business not to mind. If anyone gives you any trouble, just tell them that you’re acting on my authority. I’ll introduce you to the chief this morning. He’s an okay guy.”

  “Do you think it was Nadine who killed her?”

  “Maybe,” Lew replied. “She has a strong motive, but so do a lot of other people. Think about it.”

  Charlotte did. “Marianne,” she said after a minute. “If Marianne killed Okichi-mago, then the house and property would go to Dede.”

  “Right. Marianne is crazy, as I’m sure you’ve realized by now. She is capable of dreaming up the wackiest schemes imaginable, and—more than that—of putting Lester up to carrying them out.”

  “Connie told me about how Lester nudged Paul’s car from behind with his own. They were arguing over something. Paul accused him of attempted murder, and then reduced the charge to vehicular assault.”

  “Where did this happen?” asked Lew.

  “In the driveway at Shimoda.”

  “In the driveway!” Lew shook his head. “Sounds like Lester. Paul too, for that matter. Probably neither one was going faster than six miles per hour. Newport has got to be one of the world’s craziest towns.”

  “So far, we’ve got Nadine, Marianne, and Lester.”

  “What about on the jealousy front?” asked Lew. “I hear Okichi-mago’s. Japanese patron wasn’t too happy about her taking up with the wrestler.”

  “Tanaka,” she said. “He didn’t strike me as being too upset about it, but maybe that’s just his Oriental inscrutability. I suppose he could have killed her in revenge. Then there’s Hayashi.”

  “Who’s Hayashi?” asked Lew as he pulled the car into the driveway.

  “Tanaka’s assistant, I think he was in love with Okichi-mago too. He might have killed her for the same reason.” She explained about him hissing “Tojin Okichi” into Okichi-mago’s ear at the geisha party.

  “That makes five,” said Lew.

  “Even Shawn, I suppose. Although it’s farfetched, she could have rejected him too. Maybe the idea of inheriting Paul’s millions opened up some prospect for her that made the idea of marriage to Shawn less enticing.”

  “Six,” said Lew, as he turned off the ignition. “See what I mean? The murder suspects really multiply once you start thinking about it.”

  8

  The circular driveway was crowded with police cars: there were several gray state police cars as well as the local black-and-white Newport police cars. In a state as small as Rhode Island, it didn’t take long to get to the scene of the crime. The capital, Providence, was only forty-five minutes away, as was just about any other spot in the state. The knoll on which the temple stood had been sealed off with barriers joined by yellow plastic tape printed with the words POLICE LINE. DO NOT CROSS. On the gallery, half a dozen policemen stood around drinking coffee from white Styrofoam cups. It was a beautiful morning, cool and crisp. The low gray clouds that had been hanging over the ocean had been blown away by a stiff offshore breeze, carrying the oppressive heat and humidity with them. Sixty feet below, the waves splashed gently-against the shingle beach. Lew introduced Charlotte to the police chief, a tall red-faced Irishman named Kilkenny, and to the burly local detective who would be handling the case, Detective-Captain Sullivan. But the star of the morning’s proceedings was the state medical examiner, a tanned, dapper man named Ken Miller, with a gray crew cut and a red bow tie. He stood under the wind-contorted pine at the south corner of the gallery with two state policemen and a young reporter. By Miller’s gestures, it was obvious he was talking about Okichi-mago’s fall. As Charlotte and Lew approached, the state policemen left, heading back toward the stairs to the gallery.

  “They’re going down the base of the cliff to see where you found the body yesterday morning, Miss Graham,” said the medical examiner.

  “I guess I don’t need to introduce Miss Graham,” Lew said. “Miss Graham, this is Doc Miller, the state medical examiner.”

  “Indeed not,” said Miller, pumping Charlotte’s hand. “I’ve known Miss Graham since I was a teenager. At least I feel as if I’ve known her that long,” he added. “And been in love with her that long, too.”

  “Thank you,” said Charlotte.

  “I don’t think there are many of Miss Graham’s fans who haven’t been in love with her,” said Lew. “I invited her to witness this morning’s procedures,” he explained. “As you may know, she’s had some experience with police work.”

  “Oh yes. I read Murder at the Morosco,” said Miller. “Lots of interesting work there on cartridges. I also heard about that herbal poisoning case you helped solve up in Maine.”

  “You New England medical examiners must talk to one another.”

  “We do, we do,” he said genially. “Actually, I think a lot more people die of poisoning than we know about. Hard to catch poisoners. If you want to do away with somebody, that’s the way to do it.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind at city hall,” said Lew with a smile.

  “This young man is from the Newport Daily News,” said Miller, introducing the reporter. “I’m afraid our beautiful geisha’s death is going to be the lead story in tomorrow’s newspaper.”

  The reporter greeted Charlotte and Lew. “I was just about to ask Dr. Miller why he thinks Okichi-mago’s death wasn’t a suicide.”
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  “You mean autokabalesis,” said Miller. “There, I’ve done it.” He snapped his fingers. “I’ve always wanted to use that word in an interview. Thought I’d eventually have occasion to use it in connection with the Newport Bridge. We’ve had people try from time to time, but we’ve usually managed to talk them out of it.”

  “Autokabalesis?”

  “The act of jumping from a high place for the purpose of killing oneself. Nope, don’t think she was a jumper.” He shook his head. “Several reasons. One: suicides usually jump facing out, which means that they land on their fronts. Miss Graham found Okichi-mago lying on her back, which means that she either pushed herself over the railing, or was pushed. If she pushed herself, it would have been a very awkward way to commit suicide.”

  It was the same conclusion Charlotte had come to.

  “Two: she was too far out. If she had pushed herself over the railing, she would have landed directly below. Miss Graham found her eleven feet out from the base of the cliff. Here’s a little known fact about the murder-versus-suicide issue with regard to falls: you can only propel yourself as far out in the air as you can on the ground. Suicides don’t always realize this. They think they can soar out into the void like Peter Pan.”

  “You mean, she couldn’t have pushed herself with enough force to land so far out,” the reporter said.

  “Exactly,” Miller replied. “I’ll show you.” He looked Charlotte up and down. “I’d guess you’re a couple of inches taller than our geisha, Miss Graham,” he said. “Five feet eight or so. Am I right?”

  Charlotte nodded.

  “Let’s see how far you can jump. Line your toes up with one of the cracks in the floorboards here,” he directed. Bending over, he marked the spot with a pencil. Then he stood back and signaled for her to jump.

  Charlotte did.

  Producing a tape measure from the pocket of his crisply pressed khakis, he measured the distance.

  “Four feet, one inch. Very good, Miss Graham—you must have been a broad-jump champ in high school. Our geisha was eleven feet out. Quite a difference. The two situations aren’t strictly comparable: Miss Graham jumped and our geisha would have pushed herself, but it nevertheless illustrates my point. A lot of murderers don’t realize this. Actually, this little-known fact helped crack the famous Bowery bums case.”