AHMM, July-August 2009

by Dell Magazine Authors

"What? I told you, note taking is my one discernable skill."

  "Of course, but the way you bury your face in it."

  "So, no notebook?"

  "I'm not saying that, boyo. You just might want to pop your head up from it occasionally. Don't let it separate you from the humanity of those you're interviewing. As the expression goes, you want to see what ‘makes them tick.’”

  "Duly noted."

  "Aha! Clever."

  "And may I make a suggestion? I noticed you didn't ask many questions back there."

  "I didn't think it was my place to. My instructions were to assist. I don't wish to be treading on your toes."

  "My toes can take it. Anyway, I'd be happy if you were to ask these people whatever you think needs asking."

  "As you wish, Lee. From here on out, my queries will gallop free."

  * * * *

  We checked into the Greenley Inn and went upstairs to find our rooms. There, blocking the hallway, stood a behemoth in a crumpled trench coat, with no love for us in his eyes.

  "Which of you is Plunkett?"

  "He is,” Mr. O'Nelligan was quick to say.

  "I'm Handleman.” He had a good half foot on me and used every inch of it to intimidate. “I'm heading up the Browley investigation. Or at least I was. Seems like you're the new golden boy who's here to crack the case."

  "I'm not golden,” I said stupidly.

  Beneath the low brim of his hat, Handleman's eyes turned to bullets. “Don't screw with me. You ask around. Anyone'll tell you, Don't screw with Handleman. I was born a little crazy, and I like it that way. Here, take this..."

  His hand darted into his coat pocket, and I fairly leapt back, bracing for the sight of a gun muzzle.

  "Jumpy little bastard. What's your problem?” The hand slid out and pushed an envelope in my face. “My chief told me I had to give you this. Goddamn typical. The Browley woman squawks to the mayor, so he leans on the department to pass our info to some punk private dick."

  "You're sharing your files with us?"

  "Fat chance,” Handleman said. “I only coughed up what I had to, but you should be kissing my size fourteens for even giving you this much. If you've got half a brain, you'll realize this was a robbery gone ugly, nothing more. Browley stumbles on the thief or thieves, they get spooked, crack open his skull and vamoose with the shield. Plain as vanilla."

  "Shield? What shield?"

  "Beautiful! Golden boy hasn't done his homework. The gem-studded shield that Browley kept in his ‘roost,’ that outbuilding of his. When his wife gets there, Browley's sprawled at the door and the shield is missing—a heist, plain as goddamn vanilla. The wife thinks the theft was just a cover-up for something else, but she's nutty as they come. The thieves will foul up eventually, leave a trail, and I'll collar them. That's how it works. Get it, nimrod?"

  Mr. O'Nelligan stepped forward. “There's no need for animosity here, sir. Can we not consider ourselves colleagues in this venture?"

  "Who the hell are you? His goddamned leprechaun?” Handleman shoved past us and pounded down the stairs.

  Mr. O'Nelligan shook his head. “A sour man, that one. A pitifully sour man."

  * * * *

  Over supper in the inn's near-empty dining room, we perused Handle-man's notes. As promised, they were minimal, mostly confirming the timeline that Nina had already given us—including the significant quarter-hour between twelve oh five and twelve twenty when the victim was unaccounted for. During that interval, all the other persons of the house were gathered together in the kitchen, the exception being the two young serving girls, who had left just before eleven thirty and were immediately picked up by a carload of relatives.

  The only gap in timing concerned Pobenski, the boxer. He had come to the kitchen like the others, but about five minutes later. That is, five minutes after Browley had been seen at the window. Was that enough time to hurry down to the Roost, dispatch Browley, steal the shield, and make it back to the kitchen? The police thought it unlikely, and it was hard to argue otherwise.

  We were just finishing up some homey cherry pie when a man in a brown leather jacket strode into the room and made a beeline for our table. “Which of you is Lee Plunkett?"

  Not again. This time I offered myself directly. “I'm Plunkett."

  "All right.” He dragged a chair over and dropped into it. “I'm Sands."

  "Captain Webster Sands?"

  "My reputation precedes me.” He pulled out a cigar and fired it up. His lean, lined face marked him as a man of roughly forty, but his blond curls suggested the word boyish.

  "Mrs. Browley told us you were due tomorrow."

  He spoke briskly, “Yes, well, I finished some business I had and flew myself up early. I like making a landing at sunset. It's peaceable. Just caught a cab here from the airfield."

  "Have you contacted Mrs. Browley yet?” Mr. O'Nelligan asked.

  "Who's this?” Sands wanted to know. Thankfully, this time there was no mention of leprechauns.

  I introduced my companion and repeated his question.

  "I'll call Nina tomorrow,” Sands said. “I grabbed a room here, and I just want to settle in. I'm bushed."

  "You're not staying at the Browley residence?” I asked.

  Captain Sands blew out a stream of smoke. “Hell, no. Nina doesn't want anyone who was at that party lurking in her house at night."

  "Why not?"

  "Hasn't she told you? She thinks one of us beat Clarence to death."

  "What would make her believe—"

  Sands shoved back his chair and shot to his feet. “That's it for tonight. I told you I'm bushed. Just stopped over to let you know I'm around."

  "We'll need to speak soon,” I said.

  "Listen, I'll tell you straight up, I'm only here as a courtesy to Nina. I answered all the cops’ questions last month and didn't much like it. Those goons were pretty damned arrogant. We can talk tomorrow, but on my terms. Take Route 2 west out of town for about seven miles. Little yellow building on your left.” He turned and marched off, calling over his shoulder, “Be there one p.m."

  "Abrupt fellow,” Mr. O'Nelligan observed.

  "And one used to getting his way, I suspect."

  "Our dramatis personae are proving to be quite piquant, wouldn't you say?"

  I took a last bite of cherry pie. “If I knew what that meant, I'd probably say yes."

  * * * *

  5.

  That next morning, we drove onto the Browley grounds at ten o'clock, ascending, as we had the day before, the long, winding driveway to the house. We were greeted at the door by Mrs. Leroy, though greet might be too strong a word.

  "Is Mrs. Browley up?” I asked.

  "Up and out,” the cook said brusquely. “She took Miss Simmons off to town an hour ago for breakfast. Why she did that, I couldn't say. My breakfasts are always hearty."

  "That goes without saying, madam.” Mr. O'Nelligan trotted out his best Irish lilt. “You have the air of a woman who runs a formidable kitchen."

  The effect of this compliment was immediate. Mrs. Leroy's face softened into something akin to handsomeness, and a thin, but welcoming smile touched her lips. “Well, do come in and sit."

  Mr. O'Nelligan proffered his own charming smile. “Actually, good lady, may we, by chance, see your work domain?"

  "Why, of course."

  We were led through the dining room with its long oak banquet table—no doubt the gloried one—into a large kitchen, immaculate and well-organized.

  I sized up the space. “So, this is where Mrs. Browley and her guests were when her husband appeared at the window?"

  "It is, indeed,” the cook said.

  "And you were here, as well?"

  "Yes. I was finishing my cleanup when Mrs. Browley burst in with the others. She was coming to raid the icebox, as she sometimes does.” Ob-viously, the woman did not approve of such frolics in her realm. “Then almost immediately Mr. Browley was spotted at the window by Mr. Durker, the actor. He wa
s the only one close enough."

  Mr. O'Nelligan moved to the one window that looked out onto the front lawn. “This one, yes? But tell me, Mrs. Leroy, it seems that at night it would have been hard to truly see anything outside."

  "There's an outdoor light that was on then. Also, the moon was just a couple days shy of full. It was actually quite illuminated out there. And Mr. Durker's face was only inches from the glass."

  "I see,” Mr. O'Nelligan said. “Had Mr. Durker imbibed much at that point in time?"

  "As it turns out, Mr. Durker is a teetotaler. Quite rare, I imagine, for those Hollywood people. So, he wasn't impaired, if that's what you're wondering."

  "Very good. Now, I believe Mr. Browley tapped his sword on the pane. Did you hear him?"

  "No. It was terribly noisy in here. Mrs. Browley and her guests were rather—” The cook made a diplomatic choice. “—rambunctious."

  "I see,” said Mr. O'Nelligan. “And where was everyone situated at that moment?"

  "Well, I myself was bustling about dispensing food, and the others were all clustered around the table there."

  Given the room's layout, it seemed unlikely that someone at the kitchen table would have had a view of anything out the window.

  "And Tom Durker?"

  "As I've said, Mr. O'Nelligan, he was over near the window, right where you're standing now. He told us he saw Mr. Browley just outside, but Mr. Browley had already darted off."

  "Though no one else can verify that."

  "No, but Mr. Durker seems like an honest man. I can't say I care much for his motion pictures—too much gunplay and fistfighting—but the man appears trustworthy."

  "And what do you base that on?” Mr. O'Nelligan asked.

  The cook gave a little shrug. “Just the cut of the man, I suppose."

  "Ah, I understand you, madam,” said Mr. O'Nelligan, gazing out the window. “Sometimes one just knows the worth of a being. Back in County Kerry, I had a neighbor who could judge a cow's milk capacity just by pinching its ear. Downright infallible he was, don't ask me how."

  A phone rang in another room. Mrs. Leroy excused herself and left to answer it.

  I turned to my cohort. “I have to agree with the police. It had to be an outsider. Everyone from the house is accounted for during the time of the attack, right here making merry. By the way, good job working your Irish wiles with the cook lady. Not a bad-looking woman, really, in a severe sort of way. I believe you noticed."

  The old widower blushed so vividly that I regretted my ribbing. “Enough with your nonsense. Now, back to the facts. Yes, it does seem to be a closed equation. But since your client feels differently, I think we owe it to her to proceed in our inquiries."

  The cook returned. “Mrs. Browley phoned to say she's running a little late. Feel free to explore the grounds if you wish."

  "We were hoping to see the Roost,” I said.

  "When you step outside, it's a little walk over the hill. You'll have to wait for Mrs. Browley, though, if you want to get inside. There's only one set of keys and she has them. It used to be that Mr. Browley kept them on his person at all times, but now..."

  According to Handleman's notes, those keys were found in Browley's pocket after his death, the assumption being that the thieves never possessed them and had, instead, somehow picked the locks.

  "Have you been in the Roost much yourself, Mrs. Leroy?” Mr. O'Nelligan asked.

  "Heavens, no. It was Mr. Browley's special place. He had it built when he bought the place three years ago. I don't think that even Mrs. Browley has been inside more than a few times."

  "What do you suppose he did there?” I asked.

  "He slept there at night,” the cook said. “Not when guests were staying over, during his glory tables, but all the other evenings."

  That grabbed my attention. “How do you know this?"

  "Because I'm always here. I have my own little room just off the kitchen. I'd see him go out and return in the morning."

  "So he didn't sleep with his wife most nights. Is that how it was back in New York, as well? I mean, were there matrimonial concerns?"

  Her voice tightened. “I'm sure I wouldn't know. I don't bother with what others do in their privacy."

  Mr. O'Nelligan caught me by the arm, like a stage manager giving the hook to a failing vaudevillian. “We'll go explore now,” he said. “Thank you, Mrs. Leroy, you've been kind beyond belief. When Mrs. Browley returns, have her bring us down the keys, will you?” He bustled me out of the house.

  "What's our hurry?” I asked.

  "I'm saving you from a thrashing! Didn't you see the fire in the woman's eyes? After all, you're probing the bedchamber of those who pay her wages.” Mr. O'Nelligan was clearly displeased with me.

  "But I'm obtaining useful information. And, did you notice, I never once brought out my notebook."

  "Yes, admirable restraint on that front. But listen, lad, when you go brandishing about terms like ‘matrimonial concerns’ you're likely to rile up proper folks. That wasn't a showgirl you were talking to back there."

  I had to laugh. “You're coming off a bit prudish, Mr. O'Nelligan."

  "Propriety and prudishness are two different beasts, I assure you. Now, in regard to the Browleys sleeping separately, it may not signify much. I knew an old farmer named Finnerty who slept in his barn while his wife kept to the house. He swore it wasn't out of animosity, but kindness, for he snored like a freight train. They were married sixty-odd years and still held hands when strolling."

  A several-minute walk brought us in sight of the Roost. It proved to be an unusual building, round and made of stone, with several barred windows, one facing in the direction of the main house. As we came up to the small citadel, a tall figure in a long dark coat and fedora appeared from behind it. For a fleeting, illogical moment, I imagined it to be Clarence Browley himself, returned to the scene of his death.

  "Sorry, didn't mean to jump out at you.” He was a young man with a good face, if you discounted the somewhat flattened nose. “The train station's not far from here, and I decided to walk. I'm David Pobenski."

  "Polecat.” The word leapt to my lips.

  His smile had a touch of sadness to it. “Sure. At least, I used to be Polecat.” He held up his left hand to display three of the fingers curled in upon themselves. “Not much call for a one-fisted boxer. A few months back, I severed a couple tendons on a table saw. Pretty stupid of me. I was making a gift for my nephew, and ended up trading the Olympics for a wooden toy truck."

  I told him who we were and that we'd like to ask him a few things.

  "That's why I came up,” he said. “But I have to be honest with you, I think Nina's just grasping at straws. I mean, I know this thing has thrown her for a loop, but the police called it a robbery, and that's seems to fit the bill."

  "A second look never hurts,” I said. “Can you tell us your view of that night?"

  "Sure. I got to the house by about seven. I was the last to arrive. Paige and the Browleys had come up the night before, and Tom Durker and Captain Sands had made it in about an hour before me."

  "Together?"

  "Yeah. Sands had picked Durker up at New York International and flown him the rest of the way in his own plane. We all hung out for a while, had cocktails, and sat down to dinner around nine thirty."

  "You three were all members of Clarence Browley's glory table, were you not?” Mr. O'Nelligan asked.

  Pobenski grinned. “You make it sound like an official club, with rules and uniforms. It was more like Clarence surrounding himself with sports guys and adventurers and such."

  "No other purpose?"

  "He just enjoyed having people like that around, to hear their stories and live a little through them, I guess."

  "You were a frequent guest at these gatherings?” I asked.

  "I guess I was in the rotation. Captain Sands too. I think for Tom Durker, that was his first time. Anyway, it was a long dinner, and afterwards we sort of scattered thro
ugh the house. I ended up in the living room, playing cards with Nina and Paige."

  I snuck out my notebook for an inoffensive jot or two. “How long did you play for?"

  "Maybe forty-five minutes. At one point, Clarence stopped in looking for his dog, and he seemed upset. The dog wasn't there, so Clarence hurried off down the hallway. We heard the front door slam."

  "And this was at eleven forty, yes?"

  "Sounds right. After Clarence left, we played some more. Then, just when the midnight clock chimed, Nina tossed all the cards in the air and said we should go on a food raid. She rounded up everybody and headed to the kitchen."

  "But you didn't join them immediately?"

  "I'd stopped to pick up all the cards off the floor. I'm told I got there about five minutes after they did."

  "So you weren't in the kitchen when Browley was seen at the window?"

  "No, but people were talking about it. Tom Durker said Clarence was acting strange, that he hopped away when Tom saw him. A little after I got to the kitchen, Nina went out to find Clarence. Then we heard her scream for help, and all three of us guys ran outside. Paige too. When we got to the Roost, Clarence was bloodied up, already dead, and Nina was holding him in her arms. Right there.” Pobenski pointed to the earth just before the door. “It wasn't a nice thing to see."

  "So here he expired,” Mr. O'Nelligan said as we gazed down at the spot. “There is always something somber about a place where the soul has fled the body."

  He closed his eyes and I noticed his lips slightly moving. It took me a moment to realize that he was reciting a prayer.

  * * * *

  6.

  "Hello!” a voice called from up the hill. We turned to see Paige Simmons approaching us.

  "Nina sent me down with the keys. She can't bear to come near this building anymore.” Paige passed me a ring of keys, then extended her hand to Pobenski, who accepted it with a shy smile. “Good to see you again, David."

  After a bit of figuring, I managed to undo the three door locks. If robbers had indeed picked their way in, they must have done it skillfully, for none of the locks seemed damaged.

  I pulled open the heavy oak door and we stepped inside. The room was sparsely furnished: a single bed, nightstand, table and chair. All basic, all oak. A burgundy rug covered the floor. The curved walls, also paneled in oak, contained two paintings, one of a medieval battlefield, the other of a man with a knife fighting a tiger. A kind of bolted metal bracket, slightly bent, was positioned just above the bed.