Vultures at Twilight

by Charles Atkins

  ‘You said that he wanted to work. That he needed to try and get his mind on other things. When Bradley died I think staying busy was the only thing that kept me from losing my sanity.’ I’d looked at her. ‘And that was a lot of your doing.’ I was remembering how, after Bradley’s death, Ada would come over or call multiple times a day. Like a childhood friend: can Lil come out to play?

  ‘It’s not good to be too alone,’ she’d said. ‘Maybe we should invite him to lunch.’

  ‘What are you up to?’

  ‘Nothing,’ she’d said with a chuckle. ‘But you have to admit the mystery is delicious.’

  ‘No, it’s ghoulish. Doesn’t it bother you that we saw Mildred, and a couple days later she was dead? I wonder who’s taking care of her dog.’

  ‘Her daughter,’ Ada had responded without hesitation.

  ‘How do you know that?’ I’d asked, wondering what other pearls she might have accumulated, and not certain how I felt about this side of my wonderful friend.

  ‘While you were handing in the jewelry this morning, I made some phone calls. Isn’t it something how the papers give such little information?’

  The line clicked and the music stopped. ‘Sorry about that, Lil,’ Hank said. ‘My phone hasn’t let up.’

  I felt guilty taking his time, but then again, Bradley and I had always supported Hank and the Grenville Police Department; if I wanted a little information, I didn’t think he’d begrudge me. ‘I don’t want to keep you long, but the paper said that Philip Conroy had been missing since Friday. Ada and I were wondering . . . Remember the McElroy auction?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said, already knowing where I was headed. ‘The finger was Conroy’s. But that can’t be shared, Lil.’

  ‘Of course, but it’s not that hard to put together. The question is why? Were there other fingers missing?’

  ‘Lillian Campbell, I had no idea you had such morbid interests.’

  ‘I didn’t either,’ I admitted, confused by the flirtatious lilt in his voice. ‘So was it just one finger?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why just one?’ I asked.

  ‘Sixty-four thousand dollar question. I suspect you have a theory.’

  ‘Of course. Which isn’t to say it’s right. But a lot of us had gone though the auction preview. At least half of us opened that drawer.’

  ‘Did you?’

  ‘No, I don’t care for Empire furniture. Pretty, but impractical. The veneer is forever chipping.’

  As a true Grenvillian, Hank knew exactly what I was talking about. ‘You’re more of the Chippendale set.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘Do you still have Bradley’s Philadelphia bookcase?’

  As he spoke, I glanced across my dining room table at the gleaming mahogany bookcase with its flame finials and sunburst drawer fronts. ‘Yes, and I’ll be hanging on to that until they cart me off in a box.’

  ‘Can’t blame you. If it was mine, I’d want to be buried in it. Anyway, you were saying about the auction . . .’

  ‘You probably know this, but the preview went right up until fifteen minutes before the auction. Someone had to be there to put the finger in the drawer.’

  ‘Which narrows it down to about four hundred suspects,’ he commented. ‘If indeed it was planted at the auction.’

  ‘Had to have been. Didn’t it?’ I asked.

  ‘Probably. Still, it’s too soon to throw out possibilities.’

  ‘And not to question your judgment, but why in God’s name is Kevin Simpson involved in the case?’

  ‘Lil,’ he said, laughing, ‘you must think I’m a complete idiot. He’s peripheral; we both are. Whenever there’s a homicide the state police step in. It’s for the best, as long as they don’t step on too many toes. They sent a Detective Perez who strikes me as capable. Ever since the finger was found she’s been over everything. Now, with two murders, they’ve added a second team of detectives. As for Kevin, he knows everyone and people like him, don’t have trouble talking to him. All said and done, they’ll be able to take care of things.’

  ‘Are they?’ I asked, hoping for a bit more detail.

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘Close to an arrest?’

  ‘Possibly.’

  I was wading into dangerous waters, but I wanted to know. ‘Tolliver Jacobs?’

  ‘Lil, I can’t say.’

  ‘For what my opinion is worth, Hank, I don’t think he did it.’

  ‘What makes you say that?’

  ‘I’ve known him his entire life. Not a violent bone in his body. Someone doesn’t just wake up a killer.’

  ‘No, they don’t, but basically all you’re going on is intuition.’

  ‘Pretty much.’

  He laughed. ‘Well, if you can nail it down any further, give me a call.’

  ‘Of course,’ I said, feeling my private interview coming to a close. I tried to think if there was anything more that Ada might have wanted to know.

  ‘Lil,’ Hank said, ‘it’s been good talking. I’ve missed seeing you . . . and Bradley, of course.’

  ‘Likewise,’ I said, not wanting to overstay my welcome, and getting a funny feeling like he was about to ask me out. But then it hit me. ‘It was a warning,’ I blurted.

  ‘What was?’ he asked.

  ‘The finger. It had to be a warning, and it had to be planted by someone who knew McElroy.’

  There was a pause. ‘OK, I’ll bite.’

  ‘You don’t go to the auction, do you?’

  ‘Nah, I’m more the car-show type.’ Referencing one of Grenville’s other pastimes, vintage and antique car shows, from the June bonanza to Thursday night gatherings of enthusiasts in the high school parking lot.

  ‘Right. I’ve been going to McElroy’s since his father ran it. Anyway, Carl has a thing about getting every single door and drawer open when he shows a piece of furniture. Someone was counting on the finger being found . . . by him.’

  ‘But they couldn’t have predicted on it flying out into the audience.’

  ‘True. In which case, the only person who was supposed to see it was Carl. You see what I’m saying?’

  ‘Someone was trying to scare McElroy . . . Interesting, Lil. I’ll have the kids check on it.’

  ‘Hank, if something comes from it, you’ll let me know?’

  ‘I can’t make a promise like that.’

  ‘How about I have you over for lunch?’ I suggested, wondering what I was getting myself into.

  ‘Let me think about it.’

  ‘How about tomorrow?’

  ‘Lil!’ I heard the laughter in his voice. ‘I’ll get back to you.’

  ‘Thanks, Hank.’

  ‘You take care, Lil.’

  ‘You too.’ And he hung up, just as my cell buzzed from my purse. I wasn’t even going to pick it up, knowing there’d be no answer, and unknown name/unknown number in the readout. They’d been coming more frequently, at least one a day, sometimes two or three. I tried to tell myself it was a telemarketer, which made no sense because the few times I did pick up no one spoke, just a pause and the sense that someone was on the line before it clicked dead. I thought about calling back Hank and asking him if there was anything I could do to track down my mystery caller. But I figured with two murders on his hands, my hang-up caller wouldn’t rate. It’s probably nothing, but I couldn’t shake the creepy feeling that someone was checking on me, and for the life of me, I could not imagine why.

  TWELVE

  Carl McElroy sweated as he fidgeted with the ledger. Despite knowing Hank Morgan for years, having two law officers crowded in his small, unfinished office at the back of the auction house, had his adrenalin pumping. What did they know? What did they suspect? ‘It was pretty shocking,’ he said, trying to stay composed. ‘You say it was Conroy’s finger?’

  The female detective eyed him closely. ‘Yes, had you considered that yourself ?’

  ‘No,’ he lied, watching his own fingers slowly shred the edges of
the ledger. He pushed it away, and thought longingly of the bottle of Canadian Club in his bottom right drawer.

  They said nothing; the silence stretched.

  ‘How could I have known?’ he blurted.

  ‘That’s what we’re here to find out,’ Detective Perez stated. ‘You seem nervous, Mr McElroy. You always sweat like that?’

  ‘Well –’ pools of warm liquid under his arms soaking the fabric of his plaid shirt – ‘two people I know have been murdered.’

  ‘Yes.’ The boxy detective leaned on the desk, and stared down; she said nothing until he finally looked up and met her gaze. ‘Two people you knew; two people in . . . your business . . . Two customers . . .’ Her voice trailed.

  ‘So? What does that mean?’ he asked.

  ‘An observation,’ she stated coldly.

  Hank Morgan smiled, his gaze on the no-nonsense detective maneuver. ‘She has a point, Carl. If I were an antique dealer in Grenville, I might be getting nervous.’

  ‘No kidding.’ He was relieved to hear a friendly voice, and wondered how much longer they’d be there. God, I need a drink.

  ‘So that’s why you’re so nervous,’ Detective Perez commented, deftly picking up Hank’s opening. ‘Look at you, your hands are shaking.’

  ‘Yes, that’s right,’ the auctioneer agreed, glad for the pat explanation.

  ‘It wouldn’t be something more immediate?’ Her dark eyes bore into his blood-shot blue. ‘Some say the finger was a warning.’

  Carl’s breath caught.

  ‘In fact,’ she pressed, ‘some say it was a warning for you.’

  The pale auctioneer sputtered, his cheeks turned red. ‘A warning for what?’

  ‘Good question. Any ideas, Carl?’

  ‘No! Why are you doing this to me?’

  ‘Carl.’ Hank stepped in, cooling things down. ‘Just trying to look after your interests. Can you think of anyone who might have it in for you? After all, yours can be a tricky business. There was that unpleasantness a few years back with Katherine Williams . . .’ He let the statement trail.

  ‘They never proved anything,’ Carl said.

  ‘But if someone held a grudge,’ Hank continued. ‘How does the saying go, “Revenge is a meal best eaten cold”?’

  ‘What unpleasantness?’ Detective Perez asked, having already reviewed the charges that had been filed, and then dropped, against Carl some five years earlier.

  ‘It was nothing,’ Carl said, unable to meet her gaze. He stared at the grain of his oak desk. ‘Consignors always think they should have gotten more than their stuff is really worth.’

  ‘And sometimes mistakes happen,’ Detective Perez prompted.

  ‘I’m not saying anything, but on a Friday night we run through over three hundred lots. There are bound to be mistakes.’

  ‘I bet,’ the detective said. ‘And the particular unpleasantness we’re talking about involved about two dozen “mistakes”, or so the consignor alleged.’

  Carl looked crushed.

  ‘How did the charges get dropped, Carl?’ she asked.

  ‘I . . .’ He couldn’t find the words, and he gripped his left hand over his right to keep them from shaking.

  ‘Let me help,’ Hank said. ‘I encouraged Carl to settle. By and large it seemed to take care of all the involved parties.’

  Detective Mattie Perez looked at the local police chief and smiled. ‘Neither side wanted publicity?’

  ‘Basically,’ Hank admitted.

  ‘So, Carl, who was the aggrieved party?’

  ‘That can’t have anything to do with this,’ he spluttered, struggling to keep his temper in check.

  ‘Why is that, Mr McElroy?’ Detective Perez asked. ‘Could that be because the plaintiff is no longer living?’

  ‘Yes,’ he admitted.

  ‘In fact,’ Perez continued, ‘Katherine Williams never lived to receive her settlement.’

  ‘No, it went to her estate . . . to her son.’

  ‘Sad, isn’t it,’ the detective said. ‘An old woman consigns her prized possessions to an auctioneer, someone she knows . . . trusts. And then that auctioneer repeatedly records inaccurate sales figures for her possessions. And curiously enough, the discrepancies always came out in your favor, Carl.’

  ‘It got settled. It never went beyond the civil suit,’ he persisted.

  ‘Yes, and more’s the pity. So what we need to know is,’ she continued, ‘how many Katherine Williamses are out there? A dozen? A hundred? More? You have quite the dossier at the licensing board.’

  Wisely, Carl kept his mouth shut.

  ‘You have to wonder,’ Mattie Perez continued, pacing slowly in front of Carl. ‘Is someone dishing out just desserts to the local dealers? And, Carl, I suspect there are one or two little details you’ve left out. If I were you –’ she stopped and leaned over his desk – ‘I’d cough up everything now.’

  ‘I want my lawyer,’ he said.

  ‘Whatever for, Carl?’ Hank asked. ‘No one’s charging you with anything.’

  ‘She’s badgering me. I don’t have to take this,’ he said, whining like a schoolboy, his thoughts fixed on the waiting bottle, needing it desperately.

  ‘We’re trying to look after you, Carl. While Detective Perez may come across a little hard; we don’t want to see you turn up dead.’

  McElroy blanched. He gripped his hands tighter; he couldn’t make the shaking stop. His entire body felt like it was vibrating, a darkness closed in on his thoughts, making it hard to think; just keep your mouth shut. They’ve got to leave some time.

  Mattie and Hank watched and waited. The silence was complete.

  Finally, Carl spoke. ‘I have nothing to say; I’d like you to leave.’

  Hank wasn’t surprised. They’d pushed too hard.

  Disappointment flashed across Detective Perez’s face.

  ‘Have it your way, Carl,’ Hank said. ‘Think about it, though. Whatever you’re sitting on is going to come out. Better sooner than later. And, Carl –’ his words dropped slowly – ‘whatever you do . . . lock the door, set the alarms, be careful.’

  Carl peered through a dirt-streaked window as Hank and the woman detective got into the Grenville police cruiser. His hands shook and his knees felt like if he tried to stand they’d give out. Half moons of sweat soaked his shirt from armpit to waist. Sure, he thought, reaching down for the liter and a half bottle of CC, there were a couple things, but what good would it do to talk about them? Just get him in trouble. It wasn’t worth it. Mildred was robbed and that’s a shame. And Conroy, well who knew what sick stuff he was up to? Probably a lover’s spat. Nothing to do with me. But what if they were right? He’d thought it himself; Conroy’s finger was a warning. But from who? Faces of angry consignors flashed in front of him. Dozens over the years, most of them backing down, a few he’d had to buy off. He took three long, grateful swigs; the liquor burned the back of his throat and spread warm into his belly. He looked at the bottle, two-thirds gone; it had been new yesterday; you’re gonna have to cut down, just not now. He listened into the darkness, and spooked, he got up and switched on the security system.

  Slowly, he reined in his racing thoughts. And as darkness fell over a red-streaked October sky, he settled down to sipping whiskey straight and the familiar task of reviewing the catalog for tomorrow night’s auction, never once considering it would be his last.

  THIRTEEN

  I watched as Ada lit the Sabbath candles. She waved her hands in front of her face, and in a rich beautiful alto sang, ‘Baruch atah Adonai . . .’ The flames cast a golden glow on her skin and her eyes sparkled. She looked absolutely lovely in a dark gray silk blouse, black slacks and iridescent peacock pearls around her throat.

  Aaron hummed the melody as his grandmother blessed the candles, and we both chimed in with the ‘Amen’.

  It was Friday night, a time that Ada and I had shared ever since Bradley died. It was a week after his death, she’d invited me over, and after that it had be
come a part of the rhythm of my life. Aaron’s presence changed things, as did my growing unease about the two murders. She bustled around her condo as smells heretofore unknown emanated from her kitchen.

  The oven timer clanged. ‘My kugel!’ exclaimed Ada, sprinting to rescue the steaming concoction from the oven. I trailed after her, noting her dismay as she removed the slightly charred contents of a Pyrex casserole dish.

  ‘Oh well.’ She chuckled, moving toward the sink. ‘I’ll cut off the burned bits.’

  Her stovetop was cluttered with saucepans, skillets, opened spices, mixing cups and measuring spoons. The comforting smell of chicken soup wafted through her condo; I peeked under the stockpot lid and got a strong whiff of that most primal brew.

  ‘I made k’naidlach,’ she beamed.

  ‘Those are the dumplings?’ I asked as I watched several pale objects bob in the soup.

  ‘You bet,’ she said. ‘My mother makes the best k’naidlach; “light as air” my father used to say, although legend has it that the very best were made by my grandmother.’

  ‘What was her name?’ Aaron asked, having followed us into the cramped kitchen.

  ‘Rachel,’ said Ada.

  ‘And Great-great-grandpa?’

  Her smile evaporated. ‘Morris.’

  ‘They came from Russia, right?’

  ‘Poland,’ she corrected. ‘A little town outside of Krakow.’

  ‘Did you know your grandparents?’ Aaron asked.

  ‘No,’ she said, while stirring the soup. ‘They were both dead when I was born. Here, are your hands clean?’

  He held them out for inspection.

  ‘Wash them in the sink,’ she bossed. ‘Then cut up some tomatoes for the salad. So your mother never told you about your great-great-grandparents?’

  ‘No, I don’t think she knows a lot about them.’

  ‘I wouldn’t bet on that. Our family is filled with stories; she’s heard them, but some she might not want to repeat.’

  ‘Good dirt?’ he asked as he quartered tomatoes.

  ‘You might say that,’ she agreed. ‘Your Great-great-grandpa Morris was something of a bastard. And sadly, you’re getting to look like him.’