Drop Dead

by Mark Richard Zubro

  “He’d just gotten back from a vacation in Greece. He seemed happy and content. As far as I know, he had no problems. Certainly no enemies that I am aware of.”

  “Precisely when did you see him last?” Turner asked.

  “He excused himself from the table as the caterers were clearing the plates just before dessert was served. He never ate chocolate or sweets. He claimed it helped keep him in shape.”

  “That sounds criminal to me,” Fenwick said.

  “I beg your pardon,” Munsen said.

  “Excused himself?” Turner asked.

  “He was always terribly polite, a very well brought up young man.

  “And you didn’t see him after that?” Turner asked.

  “No.”

  “Did you go out on that balcony any time today?”

  “No. I had no reason to.”

  “Did you notice anyone acting oddly before the police arrived?”

  “No. I was too concerned about the brunch going well to notice. We’ve all been too upset since.”

  “Where were you while Cullom was out of the room?”

  “I was in someone’s presence the entire time. Are you sure he was murdered? That’s quite high up for a casual observer to notice or to be certain of what he or she saw.”

  “For now, we have to go with what the witness told us,” Fenwick said.

  “Do you know where he was before he showed up here this morning?” Turner asked.

  “He had a photo shoot at the Blue Diamond Athletic Club. He was to be modeling our new line of running shorts while doing a promotion for them.”

  “Did you see anyone go out on the balcony or follow Furyk out?”

  “If I had, do you think I would have kept silent about it?”

  “We don’t know,” Fenwick said. “Would you?”

  “I’m not a killer.”

  “Nobody ever is,” Fenwick stated.

  They got no further information out of him.

  FIVE

  After Munsen left Fenwick said, “I don’t like him.”

  “Name a witness you have liked in the past year.”

  “The woman from the opera who looked like a moose but who served us chocolate chip cookies.”

  “She wasn’t a witness. She was the killer.”

  “I’ll think of one. Give me time.”

  “I’m not sure eternity has that much time. Let’s get on with this.”

  The next person called into the room was Dinah McBride. She wore a white fisherman’s sweater and black jeans. She had a narrow face and high cheekbones that needed no makeup to emphasize. She had been the woman standing next to Munsen when they entered the penthouse. She placed her laptop computer on the floor next to a chair, then sat down. McBride folded her hands, placed her knees together at a slight angle to the left, crossed her ankles, and sat at the edge of the chair.

  After introductions Fenwick asked, “Why were you at the brunch?”

  “I’m the head of GUINEVERE’s fashion design network.”

  “At what time did you see Cullom Furyk?”

  “I didn’t. He arrived before I did. Then I was out at the reception desk in the foyer by the elevators throughout the meal.”

  “Why was that?” Fenwick asked.

  “I have a million things still to do for the fashion lines we’re presenting. The last-minute details must be seen to. While Mr. Munsen sponsored the event today, I was the actual organizer and official greeter. Once the guests were past the foyer, my job was done. I can’t stand these meetings where everyone is a hypocrite and professes eternal friendship. The owners don’t like each other and it is not a secret that they are business rivals. But I don’t concern myself with intercompany rivalries; I had phone calls to make and paperwork to do. I had them bring me a plate of food out there.”

  “After the guests arrived, no one else showed up?”

  “Once all the guests were present, the foyer remained quiet. I got a great deal of work done until your police officers arrived.”

  Fenwick said, “You don’t sound as if you like these people very much.”

  “I work for Mr. Munsen. I am very loyal, and I work very hard. My work has nothing to do with likes and dislikes.”

  “How well did you know Cullom Furyk?”

  “I had very little to do with the models. I worked with the designers and production staff. From all I’ve heard and as far as I know, he was a perfectly nice man.”

  “You saw or heard nothing suspicious?”

  “No. I stayed in the foyer.”

  “Alone?”

  “Yes.”

  “The whole time?”

  “Yes.”

  Unable to give any further information, she left.

  “Kind of odd to be out front alone,” Turner said.

  “Based on who we’ve met so far in this crowd, that’s where I would have been,” Fenwick replied. “She is my favorite kind of suspect.”

  “How so?”

  “No one to give her an alibi.”

  The next person to be questioned was Daniel Egremont. He had shoulder-length brown hair, narrow shoulders, a protruding nose, and hardly any chin. His black horn-rim glasses emphasized the dark circles under his eyes. He was cadaverously thin and over six feet six inches tall. He wore a pink-green short-sleeved cotton polo shirt under a summer blue-white gingham-cotton-seersucker shirt, plain-front chinos, and black work boots. Turner guessed he was in his late twenties.

  Egremont carried a slender briefcase in with him. He sat in the outsized throne and said, “I’m the accountant for GUINEVERE, Incorporated.”

  “You been on the job long?” Fenwick asked.

  “Five years.”

  “How’s the company doing?” Fenwick asked.

  “We went public last year with a stock offering. By our accounting, we are the second wealthiest fashion house in the United States.”

  “Who else’s accounting would there be?” Fenwick asked.

  “Wild rumors abound in the trade papers. I know we are richer than all but one other company.”

  “How do you know the financial status of other companies?” Turner asked.

  “Former employees gossip. The strength of a stock offering. The size and scope of their shows and latest lines. Many things. Everyone knows Mr. Munsen started from scratch ten years ago. Even with all his private wealth, he has had to work extremely hard to make a success of this business. Starting a new fashion house is not simple. Without his private wealth, the company probably would have gone bankrupt in the first few years. Today GUINEVERE, Incorporated is immensely successful.”

  “What happened to the accountant before you?” Turner asked.

  “He quit and joined one of the Parisian fashion houses. The companies can be intense rivals. It is a cutthroat world. The fights and feuds can be epic. Animosities can last for years.”

  “Was Furyk involved in any fights and feuds?”

  “Not that I ever heard.”

  “You heard us say Cullom was murdered?” Turner asked.

  “I could never believe he committed suicide, but murder is just terrible. No one would do such a thing.”

  “What kind of a guy was he?” Turner asked.

  “Happy. Incredibly, deliciously happy.”

  “Why was he happy?” Fenwick asked.

  “Most models aren’t the brightest, but Cullom was at least smart enough to do what his agent told him to. He was great at a photo shoot, very cooperative. No attitude problem. He was happy because … well, because … let me show you.” He opened the briefcase and searched for a moment. “Here. This is for a proposed ad campaign.” He handed them a picture.

  Turner looked at the picture of the man of whom they had seen only the smashed remnant. The photo was of Furyk with his shirt off. The light and shadow showed off his well-sculpted muscles to perfection. The top button of his carefully torn jeans was open, revealing a snippet of white brief. From his broad shoulders his torso sloped in a perfect V to a ta
ut stomach and narrow waist. The puppy-dog eyes hinted at sensitivity and vulnerability, but a day’s growth of blue beard, a swatch of unruly hair on his head, well-defined muscles, and a hint of black down on his chest said that here was a total stud. Turner thought the effect was altogether pleasing and desirable. If he were inclined to put up pictures of studly men, this might be one he would choose.

  Fenwick looked up from the picture. “So?” he demanded.

  “Have you ever seen that series of posters he did for the Save the Orphans campaign?”

  The cops shook their heads. Egremont pulled out another photo, this one of Cullom Furyk sitting on a bench in a park with a kid about five years old snuggled in his arms, asleep.

  Turner recognized it instantly. “These were on the buses a year or so ago.”

  “As a poster, this one sold five million copies around the world. He was as sexy as ever in the photo, but there was a tenderness that broke your heart. You wished he was your father. His death is a great tragedy.” Egremont began to cry softly. Several minutes later, after he composed himself, Egremont said, “He was an extremely attractive man and a sweetheart. He could get whatever he wanted when he wanted it.”

  “I’m not sure what you mean,” Turner said.

  “I’m going to be very honest with you. I think that is important for me and for everyone. I think this whole thing was really a horrible accident. First, you must understand, the beautiful people of this world have it easier. It was a lesson I learned early in life. I was a clumsy, awkward, nerd teenager. I am now a clumsy, awkward, nerd adult. I wanted to be in the fashion industry. The only way I could get close to a runway was with my brains.

  “Cullom could have anything he wanted. Anything. He was a gentle soul. Always willing to listen, which made him even more popular. He isn’t smiling in either of those pictures, but when he smiled the effect was even more dazzling. He melted the hearts of men and women. He also had a bit of a wild streak.” He pointed at the studio picture. “You can see a hint of it in his eyes. You’d fall in love with him, and you’d want to protect him, and yet you knew you could never have him permanently.”

  “How long were you in love with him?” Turner asked.

  “I lusted after him since the day I first saw him in an ad. One of the reasons I applied for a job with this company was because he was the spokesperson.”

  “Did he reciprocate your interest?”

  Egremont smiled. “For one glorious night four years ago.”

  “And then he rejected you?” Turner asked.

  Egremont shook his head. “It didn’t happen like that. I’m honest enough to realize that for him I was probably a mercy fuck, but it was enough for me. I knew what it was for what it was when it happened. I didn’t care.”

  “Did he?”

  “Cullom Furyk was a man apart. Very special. I will forever treasure the night we spent together, but I hold no resentment that it was only one night.”

  “Tell us about his wild streak.”

  “I know you said you think he was murdered, but I think it could have been something else. Earlier, before brunch, after he’d met with Mr. Munsen, Cullom and I were out on the balcony.”

  Turner and Fenwick barely concealed their keen interest.

  “He was walking along the top of the wall as if it were some kind of tightrope. I’m afraid of heights so I didn’t get near the edge. I urged him to come down. The more I urged him to get down, the more daring he became. When he got to one of the openings, he would jump over it. He would deliberately lean far out and then turn back to me and smile. His behavior made me very nervous. Maybe he was just doing it again after brunch and slipped. His fall could have been an unfortunate accident.”

  “Where were you after brunch?” Turner asked.

  “I remained with Mr. Munsen to go over the final figures for the cooperation agreement.”

  “Money was involved?” Fenwick asked.

  “Oh, yes.”

  “But the companies weren’t merging,” Fenwick said.

  “Oh, no. We were cooperating on dates, shows, some advertising. I have a law degree as well and was advising on some legal points.”

  Turner said, “Your boss told us no money was changing hands.”

  “Technically he’s right. We pooled a few hundred thousand for some ads. But money was not changing hands.”

  “Sounds like an awfully fine point to me,” Fenwick said.

  “It’s not so fine a point when big egos are involved.”

  “Munsen has a big ego?” Fenwick asked.

  “Everybody in this industry has a big ego. They thrive on minuscule distinctions alternating with huge, showy displays. It’s a fast-paced, sometimes brutal world.”

  “Did you go out on the balcony after brunch?”

  “No.”

  “Did you see anyone with Cullom or following him?”

  “No.”

  They got no further useful information from Egremont. After he left Fenwick said, “Let’s try somebody from the other company. These people were in love with him. I want nasty gossip.”

  “McBride wasn’t in love,” Turner said.

  “Cool, professional, and distant, but those aren’t actionable offenses.”

  Turner knew Fenwick spoke accurately. You were seldom likely to get vital information from friends and relatives of the deceased. Usually you had to go to someone who had a grudge or at least was at some distance from the victim. Looking at the guest list, Turner saw the names of Gerald Veleshki and Roger Heyling. Turner pointed them out to Fenwick. “Aren’t those the names of the rival company Munsen talked about?”

  “Just the last names,” Fenwick said.

  “Let’s try them next,” Turner said.

  SIX

  Moments later the door opened and two men walked in. Both were slightly over six feet tall. Gerald Veleshki, the one with brush-cut hair, wore a long-sleeve indigo denim shirt with patch pockets and cotton-polyester indigo denim jeans with retro-style patch pockets. Roger Heyling, the one with the hair parted on the left, wore a bias plaid cotton-denim pea coat and cotton-polyester jacquard boot-cut jeans. Each wore black motorcycle boots. They were both handsome, clean shaven, and looked to be in their middle thirties.

  Veleshki sat, while Heyling took several moments to pull over another chair from the wall. They both looked as if they’d just been forcefed extra helpings of the vegetables they hated most.

  After introductions Veleshki said, “Let’s get this over with. We’re shocked at Cullom’s death. Neither of us had anything to do with it.”

  Turner said, “You own the rival company to GUINEVERE, Incorporated.”

  “Yes. To be honest, and you’d find this out, if you haven’t already, we don’t like Franklin Munsen. He is one of the most hated men in the fashion industry.”

  “Why is that?” Turner asked.

  “Besides being little more than a rag merchant, he’s ruthless, unprincipled, and cruel. Vicious. Brutal. He keeps hired spies and saboteurs on his payroll. His employees hate him.”

  “None of them have said that,” Fenwick said.

  “Let me suggest a possible thought pattern,” Veleshki said. “Say I’m an employee of GUINEVERE. Here are two strangers, police detectives. I could be implicated in a murder. I know the first thing I’m going to do is confide in them how much I hate the owner of the company. Does that sound likely to you?”

  “Did Cullom Furyk hate him?” Turner asked.

  “I have no idea.”

  “Did you hate him?”

  “More than some. Less than others.”

  “But you were working with him,” Fenwick said.

  “We don’t like his company or his business methods. We are working with him because it makes business sense. It was our idea.”

  Fenwick interjected, “He said it was his.”

  “Typical,” Veleshki said. “Endless debates with that man on any subject are useless. We recognized a business decision that had to be m
ade. Munsen started with a lot more money than we did. We’ve had to scrape to survive, but people liked our products more. This year, for the first time, we passed him in sales. The only thing that kept him in business was Cullom Furyk—he was the company’s most valuable asset.”

  Fenwick said, “Their accountant just told us theirs was the second most profitable fashion house in the country.”

  Heyling snorted. Veleshki said, “That’s nonsense. The companies in New York are far ahead of both of us. We’re upstarts in Chicago. It will take us both years to catch up to the top echelon.”

  “Maybe your information is inaccurate,” Turner said.

  Heyling and Veleshki exchanged glances. “That is highly improbable,” Veleshki said.

  “Who is your source?”

  “You can get thousands of little hints just keeping careful watch. For example, sometimes disgruntled employees leak sales figures.”

  “Spies?” Fenwick asked.

  “We are hardly sophisticated or rich enough for that,” Veleshki said.

  “But you wish you were?” Fenwick asked.

  “We know which subsidiaries he deals with. Information gathering can be based on something as simple as knowing how much fabric he orders. You don’t always have to know someone specific, although that helps too.”

  “Did you know Cullom Furyk?” Turner asked.

  “This next part is painful, but some vicious gossip would distort it in the telling. Roger and I have been lovers for many years.”

  “That’s painful?” Fenwick asked.

  Veleshki glared at him. “If I may be allowed to fully explain?”

  The detectives waited.

  “It’s better that it come from us. I had an affair with Cullom five years ago. It was a stupid, stupid thing to do. Roger forgave me, thank God.” Heyling reached for his lover’s hand and held it.

  “How’d you happen to have an affair with him?” Turner asked.

  “We met at a fund-raiser. Our liaison lasted all of a few weeks.”

  “Who broke it off?”

  “I stopped calling him. He never called me in the first place. When I stopped calling, that was the end.”

  “Mr. Heyling,” Turner asked, “did you harbor animosity toward Mr. Furyk for having an affair with your lover?”