"Charming," said Oh. In spite of his protests to his wife that he abhorred objects, too many things cluttering up their house, he had to admit that the tableaus set up by Mrs. Wheel were quite seductive. On this wooden table, with the black cast-iron base, she had set out three brass and Bakelite trays. Chase, she called them. A round ice bucket with penguins circling its middle sat between the trays. Cocktail forks with tiny Bakelite dice attached to the handles poked out of a red-and-butterscotch Bakelite deck of cards base. The olives and onions and lemon peel all seemed more delectable in their surroundings. A drawer in the bar was open, overflowing with an appealing stack of mismatched, embroidered cocktail napkins. Detective Oh noticed with a start that the bar was really an old sewing machine table. Mrs. Wheel had removed the sewing machine that would have unfolded from the top and saved the life of this outmoded piece of equipment.
"If all the olives were left in the dish, and if you saw my glass with my fingerprints on it over there on the table with the drink gone, but the olives on a toothpick thrown out next to it, you'd probably figure I didn't eat olives, right?" Jane didn't wait for an answer. "So if you found me dead with my hand stuck in an olive jar, trying to get the last one out, wouldn't you find that strange?"
Neither Charley nor Oh said anything. Nick had come in to say good night around the time of the tomato as metaphor and had been puzzled enough to stay quietly in the corner and listen. Now he forgot that he was being silent so no one would notice him and send him to bed. "No, Dad likes olives," Nick said.
The three adults turned to look at him.
"We'd just figure you were getting the last olive for Dad. Or Detective Oh," Nick said. He came over and leaned in toward his mother, brushing her slightly. It was this year's version of a hug. "Night."
"Do you suppose the police checked to see if there was any food in the refrigerator? Anything he might be preparing to cut or fix?" Charley asked.
"Munson mentioned that the refrigerator was filled with packages of leftover take-out food, all old and spoiled. You had to see this place," Jane said, shuddering a little. "He hadn't throw away newspapers or junk mail. He hadn't taken out the garbage in weeks."
"Langley Collyer syndrome," said Oh. When Jane and Charley shook their heads, he continued. "Two brothers in New York, Homer and Langley Collyer were found dead in their apartment surrounded by their accumulated possessions, newspapers, garbage. Langley took care of Homer, who was blind, but he got tripped up by one of his own booby traps and they both starved to death. Took days to haul out enough stuff to get to the bodies."
Charley looked around their living room. Forties flower pots, planters, and vases; stacks of vintage luggage; small, wooden children's chairs piled high with elementary school readers from the '40s and '50s, old calendars, boxes of punchbowl sets, and trays full of pressed-glass tumblers; hobnail glass bottles; wooden sewing boxes; tins of Bakelite buttons tucked into the niches in the bookcases, waiting to be sorted. And more, always more coming in every Friday when the weekend sales began, Thursday if there was an early start rummage sale.
"Uh-oh," he said.
"I still take the garbage out," Jane said.
Charley picked up a crudely carved beakless duck with a hole in its head. Perched on its base, it was surrounded by pickets, but no fence.
"Some would beg to differ," he said.
"That's not garbage," Jane said, snatching it from him. She picked up a pair of scissors from the coffee table where Nick had been cutting out a science article from the newspaper for homework and placed the scissors through the hole in the duck's head. The blades formed the beak. Charley realized then that the tiny dowels sticking up on the base were meant to hold spools of thread. It was actually a charming, cleverly carved sewing caddy. Folk art, a collector might say.
Detective Oh softly cleared his throat. "About your hand in the olive jar?"
Jane smiled. She, too, was thinking about how brilliant her son was.
"Yes," she said, "I would be getting an olive for someone else."
If Gus Duncan was really going to slice something other than his own finger, which Jane still doubted, he would most certainly be doing it for someone else. Someone else had walked through that landmine of foul trash, sat in his kitchen making small talk, and waited for him to die. Made him die. Why? Was it just because they wanted another finger?
12
The Kankakee police were unconvinced. At the urging, gentle and completely unofficial, of Bruce Oh, they agreed to go over the Duncan kitchen one more time for evidence of visitors, but both Jane and Oh knew it would be cursory and without much investigative curiosity.
"So all police detectives aren't curious? I would think that would be part of the job description," said Jane.
"You would think," said Oh. He spoke with care, choosing his words so carefully Jane thought they might have been rehearsed. "Some police are too knowing. Periods at the ends of all their sentences instead of question marks. It gives people confidence; makes them feel that the matter is under control. So perhaps they don't try to help as much, don't make themselves remember," said Oh. "Someone who is trying to solve a crime must begin by knowing nothing, asking everything. Only then will others try to find the answers that only they can provide."
"That sounds wise," said Jane, adjusting the phone under her chin as she merged onto the expressway. She might have to break down and get one of those headsets that she and Tim made fun of if she was going to have these conversations on the road. Then again, she could just stop having these conversations on the road. She didn't even believe that cell phones saved time or made things easier and safer, just contributed to the national high-anxiety level, like E-mail and faxes. Yet here she was, on her way to Kankakee, having a heart-to-heart with Detective Oh.
"Wise might be excessive, Mrs. Wheel. My wife says that when I make pronouncements like that I sound like a fortune cookie. She doesn't like me to fall into any language that sounds stereotypical. Even though I keep assuring her that no one would stereotype a man with one Japanese parent by accusing him of sounding like a Chinese fortune cookie."
"She's protective," Jane said, thinking of how she tried to help Charley break habits like leaving his glasses on top of his head, then searching for them. She didn't want his students to write him off as the absentminded professor.
"But isn't she the one who maintains the stereotype in the first place? If she is the one who hears the cookie talk, as she calls it?" asked Oh.
"Oh," said Jane, now wondering if she cared about Charley's image or was just impatient with the habits of her husband. Was she the one who was writing Charley off?
* * *
Jane dropped off several boxes at the Gerber house, where Tim was supervising painters. He helped her unload her carefully taped cartons labeled KITCHEN in red marker and tried to coax their contents out of her.
"This smells like copper," Tim said, sniffing the air. "Very seventies. You're putting up a rack and hanging scads of copper pans, all perfectly patinated. You think it'll go with the thirties and forties theme you've tricked me into believing in. You'll sneak the little sauciers and sauté pans in so the hordes of people walking through will be seduced and suddenly become copper zombies. They will storm kitchenware departments, their arms outstretched, their hands clutching Visa cards, chanting, 'must have copper, must have copper.'"
"Why, Tim, why would I create this run on copper?" Jane asked, laughing as she piled the boxes neatly into a corner, covering them with an old piece of oilcloth.
"Easy. You and the mysterious Miriam, who I'm not even sure I believe exists, bought a boatload of copper from some old hippie-turned-capitalist estate and now you've got to create a market for it."
"Pretty clever of me to have befriended you in kindergarten, knowing that someday you'd be in charge of this ridiculous fund-raiser, and I could worm my way into decorating the kitchen to create a copper market," Jane said. "I am an evil genius."
"Okay, so maybe it's Fies
taware. No, you wouldn't let that stuff out of your sight if you could find any for the chump change you're willing to pay," Tim said, tapping his finger against his lips. "Let's see, you were willing to go with the creamy walls and leave wood floors, so… I know… Lu-Ray! Ever since you ended up with all those boxes from that Wisconsin rummage sale, you've been trying to convince me to embrace it."
"This little guessing game is tons of fun, but might we get back to Gus Duncan's murder?"
"When were we discussing that? Murder? Are we back to 'The Secret in the Old Shanty,' Nancy Drew?"
"Munson's going over the kitchen, and I'm talking to him this afternoon. Bruce Oh convinced him to meet with me. I'm not sure what he said, but whatever it was, it worked."
Tim started to complain about Jane's obsession, but she picked up the phone and dialed, shushing him. "I'll be over there late this afternoon, Mom. I've got some great advertising signs to hang on the south wall."
"We got enough stuff on the wall now," Nellie said, loud enough for Tim to hear across the room. "Another coat of paint would collapse it."
"Just to look over, Mom. I won't be hurt if you don't like them."
"What? Yeah, yeah. Your dad says don't bring any more of them punchboards."
Tim had a fresh pot of coffee brewing in the kitchen. The painters had finished the downstairs, and Jane admired their work, agreeing with Tim that they had done a spectacular job in record time. Tim wanted the place ready for the preview on Sunday, and it looked like they really might make it.
"My dad still doesn't want the punchboards," Jane said, accepting a cup.
"I'll take them," Tim said.
"Really?" asked Jane. "You of the sneering-countenance-over-anything-I-find-first."
"You wound me. I only make fun of the junk. Punchboards are cool. The graphics are neat, the whole idea of them, you know, luck, hidden prizes, all that. I thought they might be cool hung in the basement here. I'm doing the rec room with a bar down there, and they'd be neat hanging under the old beer signs and stuff."
"Have you spent a lot already? On those signs and that neon waterfall thingie?"
"Let's just say I'm getting close to my limit."
"How can you afford my punchboards then?" Jane asked.
"Come on, you didn't pay anything for those," Tim said.
"Who says? You have no idea what I paid. Besides, they're cool. You know, neat graphics, hidden treasure, all that." Jane sipped her coffee.
Tim narrowed his eyes. She was learning. He had showed his hand too early. He had let her know that he wanted them. He had actually mentioned the place they would hang, which meant he already, in his mind, owned them. If he didn't get them now, he'd see enormous gaps in the wall, the blank spaces where they should be.
"What I have helped to create, I can destroy," Tim said, in his best Dr. Frankenstein voice.
"Relax, buddy, I'll deal," Jane said, grinning.
"Not the Chase tea set," Tim said firmly.
Jane did want the Chase tea set. He always knew what she wanted with her transparent longings and deep sighs, but she didn't want it right now. That's not what she had in mind. She shook her head.
"Not the autograph coverlet," Tim said.
Jane wanted that, too. One of the names stitched into the wool was "Nellie," and Jane thought she ought to have it to pretend that Nellie had contributed to this cozy blanket. She thought it would fit very nicely into the puzzle of her missing childhood, even if it was invented memory. "Creative nostalgia," Jane liked to call it. Jane consoled herself that a reconstructed history was better than none.
"Nope."
"Okay, let's flip over all the cards. What is it? My baby grand piano?"
"Don't be silly," Jane said. "How hard is it to find a piano? No. What I want is your willing suspension of disbelief. You have to just trust me and help me get to the bottom of this. Gus Duncan was murdered. If you come along with me to meet Munson, I'll get more information."
"Munson hates me."
"I know. It'll distract him, and he'll give more away."
"How many punchboards?"
"Two. I want to keep Jackpot Charley for Charley's office."
"Okay, it's a deal," Tim said quickly.
"One more thing…"
"I knew it."
"If you're convinced by the end of the day that Duncan was murdered, I get to pick something from your house…"
"No. Absolutely not."
"That has a book value of under twenty-five dollars," Jane finished.
Tim thought for a moment, doing as rapid a mental inventory as possible, and decided Jane's taste for the sentimental and peculiar would not rob him of any irreplaceable treasure.
"Deal."
* * *
Munson said she could have ten minutes if she agreed to meet him at Duncan's place. She knew it was because he didn't want her at the police station, did not want to give this meeting any kind of official stamp, but she was delighted with the opportunity to get inside Duncan's house again.
Tim walked around to the back door and called Jane up the wooden steps to the porch.
"You can see right in. Not much of a window-treatment guy, was he? Where did you find him?" Tim asked.
"Crumpled in front of the sink. Clutching the knife in his right hand. And the finger on his left hand was kind of like…"
"I know, I know. You've told me a hundred times. Are you sure he was right-handed?" asked Tim.
"Positive. He signed his name hundreds of times in front of my dad. Ashtrays and side tables by the chairs in the living room were all on the right side. Had a watch on his left hand," Jane said. Still peering into the kitchen, forcing herself to see the whole picture again.
"What kind of watch?" asked Tim, not expecting an answer.
"An old Bulova. Clunky, but kind of cool. I'll bet it was fifty years old."
Tim had to admit that Jane did have an eye for detail. Having a dead body to concentrate on put her off her game in terms of kitchen merchandise though.
"Janie, you didn't tell me about the table," said Tim.
Jane hadn't seen the table before. It had been covered with junk mail and newspapers and smeared glasses and plates. It still was for the most part, but both she and Tim saw now that it was a gorgeous red formica table flecked with gold. It looked like it was in fine shape, perhaps protected by its layer of grime and debris. It would clean up beautifully. And there were four matching chairs, the seat cushions that were visible, plump and unripped. They were still oohing and aahing about the fifties kitchen set when they heard a gravelly voice behind them.
"This is all about a dead guy's stuff, isn't it?"
"Detective Munson, what a pleasure!" Tim held out his hand, and when Munson reluctantly put his out, Tim grasped it with both of his. For a minute, Jane was afraid he was going to go too far and kiss it, he made such a scene.
"I've been trying to tell Janie that she's crazy with her worries that there's a murderer loose in Kankakee. And even if there was, we wouldn't have to worry with you on the case."
Was Jane crazy or did Tim bat his eyelashes at the dumbfounded detective? She knew Tim hated homophobes and tried to bait them whenever he could, but this was the most outrageous performance she had ever seen him give.
"Yeah, that's…" Munson took his hand back, looking like he wanted to wash it immediately, but settled for a not so subtle swipe on his pants leg. "Let's go in the house."
Jane wanted to jump with joy. He was bringing them in. Then she realized what that meant. It was not a crime scene. They had found nothing.
The house smelled foul, almost as bad as it had when Duncan's body was still there. Munson opened the window over the sink and shook his head, looking at the dishes on the table. "We found nothing to convince us that Duncan died of anything other than natural causes, Mrs. Wheel." Munson added an insincere, "Sorry."
"No evidence of visitors? Nobody else was here in the kitchen?" Jane asked.
Tim was not being a help
or a distraction, Jane noticed. He had taken out a tape measure and was eyeing the kitchen table.
"Oh no, there were visitors. There were lots of finger prints on the dishes, the glasses. He hadn't washed anything or cleaned anything in months. Anyone who ever stepped into this house left something behind. Meter readers, delivery people. I talked to the Chinese take-out place, and they said Gus always left his doors open and when they delivered to him, they were supposed to deliver to him, right to his chair. Sometimes he'd ask them to bring him a beer from the refrigerator or a soft drink. Some of the high school kids who delivered wouldn't come here. Said he creeped them out. They didn't care how much he tipped."
"So you've run prints of…?"
"I talked to Lou Wong. He had personally delivered food the night before Duncan died. I brought him into the kitchen this morning, and it was just as he remembered it. He described it to a tee in the car on the way over here, and nothing was different from the way he said it was."
"But what about the knife? If he had Chinese takeout the night before, what was he slicing at the sink?" Jane knew questions were futile. Munson was done with this.
"Egg rolls. There were two old cartons of them in the refrigerator cut up in little pieces. There was a carton on the kitchen counter. Uncut," Munson said. "Lou Wong said he always cut food up real tiny. Had trouble swallowing. Duncan told Lou that he thought he had cancer, but he wasn't going to let the doctors make a penny off him."
Dead Guy's Stuff Page 11
