She was a thin, stately woman who appeared to be 50 years of age to Meacham. You could say she exuded the kind of dignity and refinement which comes with careful breeding from childhood. Her complexion was sallow and her grey hair was pulled back severely in a tight bun. You didn’t need medical training to conclude that she was a very sick woman.
“Detective, I suspect you have formed a decidedly negative opinion of my husband and there may well be very substantial grounds for such a judgment. Since our arrival in Parlor City, I have been incapacitated almost the entire time so can’t pretend to have any knowledge of his management of the Institute – or mismanagement, if you will. He has hinted at some difficulties, that much I know.
“All of my life I have been shielded from unpleasantness and Frederick took it upon himself to continue my long family tradition with respect to its female members. If you knew the Lovett clan of Boston, which is doubtful, you would instantly comprehend my meaning. Our family owns the Framers & Patriots Department Store in Boston. We are the fourth generation to run it – now under the supervision of my brother, Jeremiah Lovett. In the patrician Lovett style, the men rule the world and the women remain discreetly in the background.
“In any event, you no doubt have noticed my obvious fragility. I was never robustly healthy but now my days are numbered due to a debilitating and irreversible illness. I tell you these things, which go against my deeply ingrained sense of privacy, because I used my deteriorating health to implore Frederick, as a last gesture of affection, to clear his conscience with me but, ultimately, before God. After church this morning, he agreed to do so. If he also needs to clear his conscience with you as well, so be it.
“Not that it will make any difference now but when Frederick and I were newly married, I saw him as an idealist bent on doing great things for mankind. It was quite refreshing for a girl emerging from the Lovett cocoon. For a number of years, it seemed to work but ……………
“And now, I am suddenly feeling a little tired so will leave you to meet with Frederick alone. Thank you for indulging me, Detective.”
As Mrs. Hawkins rose, Meacham got up from his chair and stood facing her. She held out a long withered hand and Meacham shook it gently. As if on cue, the maid appeared to guide Mrs. Hawkins upstairs and said “Mr. Hawkins is waiting for you in his basement office.” As they walked slowly toward the stairs, it dawned on Meacham, looking at the white shoes and stockings that this woman was not a maid but a nurse.
***
Meacham found the door to the basement and descended the stairs slowly, wondering what kind of “confession” he might get from Hawkins. He marveled at the soliloquy by Mrs. Hawkins and struggled to understand if and how she could be oblivious to the apparent double life that her husband had been leading, no doubt for years.
At the bottom of the stairs, there was a door to the right with light glowing around the frame. As he approached it, he noticed an envelope taped near the doorknob. The envelope was sealed and had “Detective Meacham” printed carefully on the front.
Meacham knocked on the door and got no response. He then slowly opened it as he called out Hawkins’ name. He heard the dolorous sound of classical music which brought the image of his Father instantly to mind, recalling how it had brought tears to his father’s eyes that baffled the young boy. Some day you will understand, the Father had said.
Over the sound of the music, Meacham stood in the doorway and called out again, more loudly, “Hawkins, it’s me, Meacham”. He pushed the door wide open and there was Frederick Hawkins, in a final cowardly act, hanging from a pipe in the far corner of the room, his eyes bulging and tongue protruding, with a foul smell emanating from the corpse and a puddle forming on the floor beneath him.
Meacham stepped back against the door and involuntarily squeezed the envelope in his hand. It was his first suicide and he was starting to feel sick about his job.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Mrs. Hawkins was sedated by her doctor while the coroner prepared to remove her husband’s body from the basement.
Meacham and Whipple were watching the proceedings when the Mayor walked into the basement room with the Chief right behind him. Sweating and clearly agitated but with his hair pasted firmly in place, Wattle looked at Meacham almost beseechingly. “Just awful. Tragic. My god, what compelled him to do such a thing?” he asked, looking around the room furtively, waiting for someone to provide an answer.
Meacham ignored him and turned to the Chief. “I’ve got a box to go through that we found on the train along with his luggage and now I have this letter left for me this morning by our deceased friend. What I need to do now is go back to the station and dig through all this information. I’ll have at least a preliminary report for you by tonight, Chief, if that’s acceptable.”
When he heard the word “letter”, the Mayor looked flustered and tried to interject but the Chief beat him to the punch. “Put a sock in it, Wattle. Billy, call me the moment you find something important. The Mayor and I will leave you to do your job. Oh, and use my office if you need some privacy.” With that, the Chief firmly guided the Mayor out of the room.
Whipple’s jaw dropped as he turned to Meacham for an explanation of what just happened. Meacham just grinned and said, “Hey, you heard the Chief. He just wants us to do our job. Let’s get at it!”
***
Back at the station, Whipple started to categorize all the documents in Hawkins’ box while Meacham, ensconced in the Chief’s office, settled into his plush swivel chair and began reading the following letter:
My Dear Detective Meacham:
My wife is dying upstairs and by the time you read this letter, I will already be dead downstairs – unless my belt fails me. If you know me at all, then surely you will understand that I would never allow myself to languish in jail, even for a few years.
I am not sure if ignominy or revenge motivated me more in this final act but once you get past your disgust of me, you will certainly relish – and presumably put to good use – the information you are about to learn. So, with these preambles out of the way, let’s delve into the delicious details.
I met Ripley Maxwell (aka Reginald Carver) at a black-tie gala in Boston last August – almost a year ago. He was sitting at my table with a stunning blonde who he introduced as Danielle Deschambault, his assistant. We all got tight and it seemed to me, as the evening progressed, that Miss D was coming on to me. It also appeared that Maxwell didn’t mind as he was certainly inattentive to her. My impression, which certainly appears to be erroneous now, was that he didn’t even like girls, if you get my meaning. However, when we parted, I never expected to see them again.
A few days later, after 20 years of dedicated service, I was passed over for the directorship at the prestigious Hollins Institute in Boston. Politics played a role and to this day I firmly believe that my wife’s family sabotaged my candidacy. Well, as to their motives, that is another story.
Shortly thereafter, I was offered the job of running the Parlor City Institute in your backwater town. My immediate reaction was humiliation mixed with disdain but I did not immediately reject the offer despite the fact that it was clearly beneath my talents and experience. My position at Hollins was clearly untenable but to me going to Parlor City was akin to a British criminal in the 19th century being exiled to penal servitude in Australia. Oh well, maybe that analogy doesn’t work for you.
It probably won’t surprise you that I castigated the Board at Hollins for what I considered their perfidy but they still graciously allowed me to stay on until I found another position. Needless to say, my employment options in Boston evaporated and it struck me at the time that the power brokers at Hollins might actually be orchestrating my exile to Parlor City.
Within a week of receiving the Parlor City offer, I was dining out alone (my wife rarely had the energy to join me) when Maxwell and Miss D walked into the restaurant. Of course, I understand now it was probably no coincidence but I quickly asked them
to join me and little did I know at the time but my fate was sealed on that very night.
Well, in uncharacteristic fashion, I opened up to them and, as they say, laid bare my soul. My bitter disappointment and desire for revenge against the world must have been palpable. I even threw the burden of my invalid wife into the conversation. All through the evening, Miss D seemed to inch closer to me, first patting my arm occasionally (oh yes, I remember it all very well), then my hand, applying soft pressure and gazing at me in a dreamy, suggestive way. It was quite intoxicating and, again, Maxwell seemed either not to notice or was disinterested in our little flirtation. Quite frankly, I didn’t really care at that point. Miss D had captivated me and I was virtually under her spell.
During the evening, Maxwell asked me a lot of questions about the Parlor City job, what level of authority I would have, how soon I had to accept or reject the offer. Well, it was mid-August and the Institute’s Board wanted my answer before Labor Day. While Maxwell and I talked, Miss D chided him for being so inquisitive and kept sending suggestive, sympathetic glances my way. By god, as I reflect back, what a team they were!
Well, when we staggered out of the restaurant several hours later, Miss D slid her arm under my own as we stood on the sidewalk waiting for a taxi. It was then that Maxwell asked me if I would be interested in a daring and risky adventure that would require that I accept the Parlor City position. I was not too drunk to be dumbstruck but before I could utter a word, Maxwell came up close to me and said “Frederick, once or twice in your life you have the chance to do something dramatic but one must have the courage to seize the moment. Do you?”
As if on cue, Miss D pressed even closer to me and I actually felt weak-kneed for the first time in memory. I looked at both of them and then burst out with “Carpe Diem’! We agreed to meet the next day when we would all be sober.
We rendezvoused at Boston Commons the next afternoon and walked along a path until we found an empty bench. Maxwell had come alone and I was reluctant to ask about Miss D. Presciently, Maxwell started by saying that she was infatuated with me, liked my refined and distinguished air, in fact had a thing for older gentlemen. Maxwell went on to say that she wasn’t his type and that, in fact, he was rather fond of her Aunt. Needless to say, I bought it all and now the hook was in, so to speak.
Having set the table nicely, Maxwell laid out a plan that was as audacious as it was simple. I would accept the position at Parlor City and shortly thereafter, following proper hiring procedures, would bring on Reginald Carver as Finance Director. When I asked naively who Carver was, he just smiled and pointed to himself.
Once in his new position, Carver would set up a number of dummy corporations to provide fictitious cleaning, maintenance, supply and related services to the Institute. These shell companies would be the conduits for stripping assets from the Institute over several months until the only thing left was what he characterized as the “carcass”. When Maxwell used this word, I should have realized I was going in league with not just your average swindler but a vicious, almost feral one. He went on to explain that phony invoices from the dummy vendors would be authorized by him and me. He would then periodically move the purloined funds to two equal offshore accounts – one for each of us. Maxwell estimated that $500,000 could be siphoned off (he was pretty close!) before anyone got overly suspicious. In my mind, he had clearly done this before.
Maxwell went on to caution me that an absolute condition of my acceptance of the Parlor City position had to include the authority to hire/fire all key managers. Otherwise, our partnership would always be subject to prying eyes. He then saved the best for last by intimating that Miss D would likely agree to relocate to Parlor City and work for me in some undefined capacity. “So, what do you think, partner?” Maxwell said as he held out his hand. When I hesitated, he smoothly pulled back and suggested I take a few days to decide.
Believe it or not, I did struggle for a while but the omnipresent vision of Miss D was a potent elixir and it helped me overcome what few moral scruples might be an impediment. When we met a few days later, Miss D was with Maxwell and, as Caesar said when crossing the Rubicon, “iacta alea est”. Maxwell assured me that we could drain the Institute’s assets in less than a year and then we could disappear our separate ways with new identities that he could arrange. Miss D said nothing – she just smiled.
I took over the Institute last October and shortly thereafter, the resume of the highly-credentialed Reginald Carver of Cleveland, Ohio arrived at my office. By early November, I had Carver in place and a week later Miss D arrived in Parlor City and applied for a job at the Institute. Before long, I set her up in an apartment.
As the weeks and months passed, Carver assured me that everything was proceeding according to plan – until he burst into my office a few weeks ago complaining about a patient – Randall DePue. Apparently, DePue recognized him from their college days in Boston. It was the first time I had seen him agitated.
Well, he told me that if we didn’t deal with DePue that our little venture could collapse and we could conceivable end up in jail. He said he would handle the situation but needed some help, someone loyal but without a conscience. I immediately called in Burt Grimsley, a Supervisor who loves to ride herd on our most recalcitrant patients. When Grimsley arrived, Carver suggested that I leave them alone and you can, of course, fill in the rest of the story of DePue’s pitiful end.
The next day, Carver suggested that we might need a diversion in the event that something “untoward” (his word) happened to DePue. This time, it was my brainstorm to seduce Mike DeLong with booze left in my office and set him up for the gun theft. We thought this would distract you long enough to complete our plunder – basically right under your nose. Again, I left the details to Carver but felt certain that he used Grimsley again. DeLong was dumped in a park downtown with my gun in his possession.
When Santimaw died a few days later coupled with your persistent digging, Carver and I agreed that we had to accelerate our plan and depart early. I was just boxing up the incriminating files on the dummy vendors when you showed up with DeLong. I must admit that a little panic set in.
Then, Carver and Miss D disappeared at the same time and it all became clear to me in one crushing, lucid vision that I had been duped. After checking her apartment to confirm my worst fears, I decided to flee on the train but really had no plan. Also, I was sure that Carver – I guess he’s Maxwell again by now or has already assumed some new identity – never had any intention of sharing the proceeds of our con. My portion is supposed to be deposited in the Bank of Alderney – there’s a tiny island off the English coast by the same name. Well, I didn’t hang around – ha, that’s a laugher – to confirm that the account no doubt doesn’t even exist.
And now I must conclude with our beloved Mayor and the allusions to your Father. First, we funneled cash to the Mayor on a monthly basis since my arrival in Parlor City. He made it clear that this was the way business was done down here and it would allow me to operate with virtual impunity. You will find a folder in the box tracking the amounts paid to the Mayor and the dates of each transaction.
The Mayor assured me on several occasions that the police chief served at his pleasure and would leave me alone. He also gave me a copy of a letter he cooked up with ex-Governor Traber suggesting that your Father may have been complicit in payments of hush money to at least two of his mistresses. While there was no proof, your Father had lost favor with the Governor during his losing re-election bid when he refused to provide security for his secret liaisons. The word was that Capt. Meacham could no longer stomach Traber’s duplicitous lifestyle. Well, the Governor lost, your Father returned to Parlor City and the two of them sought a measure of revenge. Over dinner one night, the Mayor let slip that he was the conduit for the cash payoffs to the ladies
Because Carver is so secretive and manipulative, I wonder how much Miss D actually knows but perhaps she is cut from the same cloth. Even now I don’t want to b
elieve it. In any event, she was part of the con from the start, there can be no doubt about that. Don’t be surprised to hear that he has dumped her somewhere along his escape route. If he decides she is no longer useful or even a hindrance, he will get rid of her. I hope you catch them both. Cheerio!
***
“Jeanie Mac”, said Meacham aloud as he sat back in the Chief’s chair and slowly let out his breath. He felt like he needed a dictionary if he was going to get the full meaning from Hawkins’ letter. Maybe Hawkins was toying with him one last time or just showing off but, then again, maybe it all came out on the page just the way it happened. He had to admit that Hawkins nailed Miss D, as he called her. It made him think of Big Red who was clearly a rank amateur in comparison to the younger sultry blonde. It was strange how this letter made him understand that he needed to make a clean break with Big Red before it was too late.
And now he understood Mildred Crimmons allusion to Ripley Maxwell. Of course, it all made sense. How could he be so blind? All those times looking at the grainy photograph and Reginald Carver had been staring back at him the whole time.
He would have Whipple read the letter – even the part dealing with his Father. He knew it was time to release that burden and he immediately felt some relief.
Of course, he wanted to get his hands on Carver and Miss D – or whoever they really are calling themselves at this very moment. But his immediate objective was to put Burt Grimsley on a stick and watch him squirm.
***
It was after 9:00 Sunday night when Meacham and Whipple finished their review of the contents of the box along with Hawkins’ farewell letter.
Meacham called the Chief who asked them both to drive right over. Wow, thought Meacham, another first – an invitation to the Chief’s house. When they arrived, his wife pointed to the den where the Chief was waiting. A tray with lemonade and cookies had been placed on the coffee table.
The Parlor City Boys Page 16
