by Andrew Hunt
“But C. W. Alexander killed himself in his cabin in—”
“C’mon, Art. You don’t really believe that. The only reason Cannon closed the case was so he could get all the glory from his deputy solving it. You and I know Alexander didn’t kill himself. Now there’s some cockamamie theory going around that Considine was murdered because of an exposé he was writing on Al Capone’s criminal enterprises in Chicago. What a load of malarkey. If that isn’t bad enough, some of my fellow police detectives are dismissing Roscoe Lund getting shot as the work of a thrill-killer who just gunned down a cop in Omaha. I don’t buy any of these explanations. I’m certain these are all linked, and you know what else I’m sure of?”
“No. What?”
He stepped closer to me. Beads of sweat ran down his face. “You know I’m right, and you can help me prove it.”
“That’s what you think, huh?”
He nodded. “Are you going to look me in the eye and tell me I’m wrong?”
I couldn’t stand him being so close to me, so I thrust the basketball into his chest, which pushed him back a step, and he grasped it with both hands and grinned again.
“Yep,” I said. “You’re wrong.”
“Why are you doing this, Art? I don’t get it.”
“Doing what?”
“Going it alone. I know Roscoe was working with you before he was shot. That’s why I gave you the key to his apartment. You’re a smart bird, Art. I’m just trying to figure out what’s going through your head. Is it that you think you can see the big picture from all the angles more clearly than anybody else and only you know what’s best? Do you think I’d botch this case? Are you afraid that once it’s out of your hands, you won’t be in control of what happens? Help me understand why you’re holding out on me.”
The polished maple floor under my feet served as my focal point. I didn’t feel like staring at Buddy’s face any longer. “I’m not sure what you’re talking about.”
“Or maybe you think if you crack this one, you won’t be in your father’s shadow anymore.”
Now he had my attention. I glared at him so intensely he moved away from me. His words touched a raw spot deep inside of me, and I couldn’t hold back. “Stop it!”
“Stop what?”
“You never knew him!” I shouted.
“That’s it, isn’t it? Will Oveson is why you won’t—”
I forcefully ripped the ball out of his hands, which jolted him, and I threw it hard against the floor so that it bounced over to the corner of the room. “You don’t know the first thing about him! So can it!”
“You’re right. I know nothing about the man.” Buddy stepped closer to me and jabbed his index finger into my chest. “But I know you, and I know you think you’ve got to prove something to the rest of the world. You’ve fooled yourself into believing you can do it all alone. Catch the culprit single-handedly, the way they do in the detective magazines. Show the world you’re every bit as tough as your father.”
I shoved him in the chest with both hands and he stumbled backward. “I said cut it out, Buddy!”
“You know, Art, you’d be a lot better off if you’d quit believing all the stories about your father being a bigger-than-life hero.” He moved closer to me. “He wasn’t Hercules, and you don’t have to fill his shoes in order to be a good lawman—”
That’s when it happened. It occurred so fast, all in a split second. I felt as though I stepped out of my body, stood off to the side, and watched me throw my clenched fist into Buddy’s jaw, which sent him toppling to the floor, covering his mouth with his hand. The pain in my knuckles from bone meeting bone was instant, and it pulled me back into my own body. I didn’t mean to punch him. Inside a church, no less. Our church.
“I’m so sorry, Buddy. I don’t know what came over me…”
I offered my hand, but he refused. He rose to his feet on his own.
“No need to apologize, Art,” he said. A droplet of blood plunged from his lip and hit his shoe. “I probably had it coming, and you probably had it in you for a long time. But that doesn’t mean I’m letting you off the hook. I’ll give you until the end of the day tomorrow to drop by my office and tell me what you know. If I don’t see you, then Wit and I will pay a visit to your house and arrest you in front of your wife and children.”
“On what grounds?” I asked.
His grin returned, despite the cracked lip. “You know me. I never tip my hand.”
“Thanks for the warning.”
He scooped up the ball and tossed it to me. When I caught it, I was a ways away from the basket, about halfway down the court.
“One for the road,” he said. “Only you’ve got to get a little closer to the basket. You’ll never make it from here.”
I threw the ball into the air with all my might. I didn’t expect it to plunge into the basket, but that’s what happened.
* * *
No sleep again for me. The clock by my bedside said half past four in the morning and I went back to watching the ceiling. Clara was sound asleep, with her back turned to me. I reached over and lightly stroked her golden locks and thought about how much I loved her, and how I couldn’t bear to lose her. I wanted to wake her up and tell her how much she meant to me, and thank her for putting up with me. I know I’m not easy to live with, I’d tell her, but I love you with all my heart. No man ever loved a woman more.
I didn’t tell her these things. Instead, I let her sleep.
I crept into the living room, to Clara’s desk with her Underwood typewriter in the center. I turned on a desk lamp, took a piece of bond paper off of a stack and rolled it into the carriage. I hit a key and then stopped. Why was I typing the message? What I wanted to write needed to be handwritten.
I found a piece of stationery and a pen and began writing.
Wednesday, March 26, 1930
My Dearest Darling Clara,
It was a little over eight years ago that you married me and made me the happiest man in the world. You blessed me with the joys of a family. Just as importantly, you blessed me with your love. All of those years ago, when we danced under the stars at Lagoon and promised each other our undying love, I never knew that I could be as happy as I am now.
We’ve stuck together, through good times and bad. But now I find myself in the middle of a situation I must confront alone. I may not make it out alive. Should anything happen to me, please go to Owen Vanderhoff at the Isis Theater and tell him you’re there to pick up a box. Make sure you give the box to someone who will tell the world about its contents. I suggest a big newspaper. Believe me, what’s inside that box is a big story.
Also know that no matter what happens to me, I’ll always love you and Sarah Jane and Hyrum. A man couldn’t ask for a better family. You’ve made me happier than I ever thought possible. Thank you.
Love,
Art
A tear ran down my cheek as I set the pen down, and the drop hit one of the words on the paper and pulled the ink into a black streak. I folded the paper three ways and placed it inside a matching stationery envelope, then licked the flap and closed it. I hid the letter in a leather-bound album containing our wedding photos, right next to the 8 × 10 black-and-white glossy of us kissing. I closed the album and returned it to the bookcase.
For the next two hours, I typed a letter explaining everything I knew to Clara. When I finished, I set it on top of the film canisters and closed the box. In the next room, I lifted the earpiece off the telephone and clicked the cradle a few times. An operator said, “Number, please?”
“Can you ring the residence of Owen Vanderhoff, please?”
Half an hour later, wearing my Stetson, I pulled up in front of the Isis Theater, with that box in the backseat. My coat concealed my .38, pressed against my ribs in a shoulder holster. It felt like somebody had placed a weight on my chest. The rearview mirror revealed a pair of headlamps slowing behind me, my cue to get out of my car and remove the box of films and phonograph discs from
the backseat. I was careful to keep the envelope marked P. TANNER on the front seat, like a passenger traveling by my side to an uncertain destination. Owen emerged from his auto looking groggy, and what hair he had left flew in different directions like a bursting firework. He yawned and watched me lifting the big box, lugging it to where he stood by the ticket booth.
“What was it that couldn’t wait till I opened her?” asked Owen.
“You mentioned your movie collection you keep below the theater,” I said. “Would you mind if I store this box there?”
Owen raised an eyebrow. “Something tells me you weren’t being entirely on the level with me when you said those are your home movies.”
I laughed. “What gave me away?”
“All the secrecy, and the thirty-five-millimeter stock. I can spot the difference from a mile away. You gonna tell me what’s in that box?”
“I’d prefer not to.”
“OK,” he said, not registering an iota of disappointment. “Follow me.”
I tailed him through the Isis lobby and down a set of rickety stairs to a dark and cool cellar. He pressed a button near the door, and a tightly strung cord of dim bulbs on the ceiling lit long rows of high wooden shelves. He led me past what must’ve been thousands of reels of motion picture film, turned right at the end of the line, and took me to a far corner. He pointed to a space on the bottom shelf. I lowered my box onto the shelf and shoved it back as far as it would go.
I stood straight and smiled at Owen. He said, “Remember that yard work you were gonna help me with, Art?”
“I’m good for it. Call me sometime.”
He glanced at my Stetson and made a long face. “You back at the sheriff’s office again?”
“Not anymore. I’m on my own now.”
He pointed his thumb at the box. “Don’t you worry, Art. She’ll be safe here.” His eyes widened and he looked me up and down. “You aren’t in any danger, are you, Art?”
For a long second, I considered giving Owen a brief account of everything I’d been through. I’m glad my hesitation won out. I knew Owen was precisely the kind of big-hearted man who’d worry himself sick about me, so much so he might even pay a visit to Buddy Hawkins, a mutual friend and churchgoer, in an effort to help me. I couldn’t have that. If there was ever a time to lie for the greater good, it was now. I gave him a pat on the shoulder to put his mind at ease.
“No,” I said. “I’ll be fine.”
Twenty-six
The high walls surrounding the Pfalzgraf mansion came into view. Gone were the press hounds camped out front, back in the days when Helen’s murder was generating front-page headlines. Hard to believe that was only a matter of days ago. It seemed as though years had passed since then. The wrought-iron gate was open, and I swerved my Plymouth into the driveway, behind the doctor’s limousine. Sunlight reflected on the car’s chrome. It wouldn’t be around long. In the skies over the western side of the valley, storm clouds swirled, moving in our direction. I shut off the car. My hand still throbbed from when I punched Buddy. More painful was the guilt that burned inside of me.
A new security guard, younger and huskier than Floyd but wearing an identical cap and tie and suit, was loading luggage into the back of Pfalzgraf’s car. As I stepped out onto the running board, I straightened my Stetson and tipped the brim to him. In my left hand, I clutched the envelope labeled P. TANNER. The guard lowered a suitcase next to the rear wheel and came toward me, furrowing his brow at my car.
“You gotta move that thing. Now. The doctor and his daughter have to catch a train—”
I cut him off—not my usual style. “They’re not going anywhere.”
He got close and shoved me in the chest. I unzipped my coat, took out my .38, cocked back the hammer with my thumb, and held it level with his head.
“Take it easy,” he said with raised palms. “This is my job, you understand.”
The mansion doors opened, and Pfalzgraf stepped out of the shadows, bowler on, relying even more on his cane than the last time I saw him. Anna escorted him, arm in arm, and I’m not sure who had the angrier expression as they headed toward me. I gently uncocked the .38’s hammer, holstered the weapon, and swiped my Stetson off the car seat. Torrents of fear raged inside me. It would be hard to find someone more nonconfrontational than I am. Funny how seeing Dr. Pfalzgraf and his daughter approaching me with such anger in their eyes made me steel myself for a fight.
“What is the meaning of this, Deputy Oveson?” asked Pfalzgraf. “My daughter and I are leaving on a trip to Germany, and we have to go now, to catch a train!”
I shook my head. “The only place you two are going is back inside. Get moving.”
Pfalzgraf grimaced. “Maybe I should place a call to your boss, Sheriff Cannon.”
“Cannon isn’t my boss any longer. He fired me.” I poked my thumb into my chest. “I’m my boss now, and your little campaign donation to Cannon isn’t going to stop me anymore. I’ve got a big box of your movies—more than eighty of them—just waiting to be delivered to my brother Frank, who happens to be an agent with the Federal Bureau of Investigation. I’m sure the films will be of great interest to him, especially the part about women crossing state lines for illegal surgeries.”
Anna Pfalzgraf’s expression went from anger to shock. She turned to her father. “Films? What films?”
“I suggest we go inside,” I said, waving my Stetson at the mansion. “Talk where we can have more privacy.”
I followed Pfalzgraf and Anna inside the darkened mansion, down a long and poorly lit corridor. All of the curtains in the house had been drawn, apparently in anticipation of the Pfalzgrafs’ trip. We entered a room too dark for me to make out anything. The doctor switched on three electrical lamps, which furnished enough light for us to see each other’s faces. We stood inside a reception parlor with expensive-looking art hanging on the walls, tapestries on tables, a grand piano, and furniture that looked like it belonged to ill-fated aristocrats at the time of the French Revolution. We sat—I on a floral armchair, the Pfalzgrafs on a similarly upholstered couch, with a coffee table separating us—and I wasted no time in confronting them.
I had to act tough, even if I didn’t feel tough, even if I knew it was just an act.
I plucked off my Stetson, hung it on the armrest, and placed the long envelope on the coffee table.
“Tell me, Mr. Oveson,” said Pfalzgraf. “What is it you wish to ask me now that you didn’t get a chance to ask me last time you were here, with Officer Lund?”
“I was hoping to ask Anna a few questions.” My gaze shifted to his daughter, whose immaculately styled brunette hair almost gave off a light of its own.
“Me?” she said, placing her hand to her chest. “Why? You already questioned me, right after—”
“I don’t think you were completely honest with me that first time around.”
“What do you want to know?”
“Where were you the night Helen was murdered?”
“I told you, the last time I talked to her was Thurs—”
“I didn’t ask you when the last time you talked to her was. I asked where you were the night she was killed.”
“With two of my friends,” she said.
“What are their names?” I asked.
She shook her head angrily. “Why do you need to know—”
I shot up to my feet, my hat fell on the carpet, and I raised my voice as loud as it would go. “Because I’ve got enough evidence with those films to send your father to the penitentiary for the rest of his life. Because you’re hiding something from me, and I want to know what it is, and I want to know now!”
She wept bitterly. The doctor put his arm around her shoulders and rocked her gently. I didn’t know I had it in me. I reached down, picked up my hat, and returned to the chair.
“Give me the names of your two friends,” I said. “I want to call them now and verify that you were with them.”
“I wasn’t with two friends
,” she said hesitantly, wiping the tears from her eyes with a handkerchief her father gave her. “I was here. Alone.”
“Anna, you don’t have to tell him anything,” said Dr. Pfalzgraf.
“I have nothing to hide, Father.” She looked at me, sniffed, and bit her lower lip. “I lied to the police about where I was Friday night because I was afraid they’d think I murdered Helen. You must believe me when I said I had nothing to do with her death. I was at home, alone, on Friday night. Father had gone off with Parley to the wrestling matches. I heard Helen come in the front door. I can’t remember what time it was. Nine? Nine thirty? I didn’t check the clock.
“I could smell liquor on her. She was stumbling around badly. I worried because she was carrying a baby. She had her purse with her, and there was a rock inside it. I thought that was strange. She showed me the rock and said it was gold ore. She said C. W. Alexander offered to sign a deed over to her for a mine that was full of gold if she’d stay in Utah and marry him. He vowed to leave his wife for her, according to Helen. I tried to convince Helen to go to bed. I told her to sleep it off, that we’d talk in the morning. She pleaded with me to come with her to Los Angeles. I told her again to sleep it off, we’d talk about it in the morning. She said she wanted another drink. I asked her if that was such a good idea. She said, ‘Not you, too. Don’t you start telling me how to live my life.’ I couldn’t take it anymore. I went to bed. I cried myself to sleep.”
I said, “Where was Floyd Samuelson this whole time?”
She shrugged and mumbled, “I dunno,” wiping tears with her handkerchief.
“You’re not telling me everything,” I said.
“Why do you say that?”
I leaned over the big brown envelope, opened the flap, and dumped the contents on the table. The canister of film landed spinning, like a coin, then settled. The letters spilled on top of it. Her eyes widened when she saw them, and I instantly knew she recognized them.
