During a lull in this session (Pierce had checked his watch and was scribbling some extended details), Roxanne leaned from her sofa to the one where I sat, telling me, “This is getting way too Agatha Christie. I’m surprised we weren’t herded into the drawing room.”
Though the circumstances were anything but humorous, I had always appreciated how well she had honed her sarcastic wit. “We don’t have a drawing room,” I reminded her. “This’ll have to suffice.”
She rolled her eyes and lolled against the back cushion, feigning boredom with the whole rigmarole. In truth, though, she was almost certainly rehearsing a much embellished version of the day’s events to recite at the office next week. It was the Christmas I’ll never forget…
Neither would I, of course. Because I barely knew Suzanne, I could not yet appreciate the full impact of her murder, but ours was a very small family, and we were cousins. What’s more, the timing of the tragedy was ominous, falling on Christmas, of all days, during the first weekend in my new home. If that weren’t upsetting enough (having a relative bludgeoned under my own roof), there was also the matter of Parker Trent’s disquieting vow to “say or do whatever it takes” to help me—what was that all about? Yes, there was plenty on my mind that afternoon—issues ranging from merely vexing to downright grim—so Roxanne’s sarcasm provided a welcome, if brief, note of comic relief.
When Sheriff Pierce finished writing, he asked me, “When you found the victim, then, she was still alive?”
Before I could answer, Thad stood, pointing a finger at me, telling Pierce, “He didn’t ‘find’ the victim, he killed her. That fag killed my mother—me and Parker caught him!” I didn’t know whether Thad’s schooling was Catholic or not, but one thing was certain—he’d never had a run-in with a nun.
Parker muttered some calming words in Thad’s direction, and, to my surprise, the kid sat down and shut up. I heard Pierce telling Thad that I had no motive to kill his mother, that everyone needed to cooperate in order to bring the killer to justice. But I wasn’t really listening to this exchange. I was far more fascinated by whatever made Thad tick.
I now understood clearly that his atrocious behavior toward Neil and me earlier that day had been triggered by garden-variety adolescent homophobia. I didn’t like it, not at all, but at least I could understand what motivated his hostility, and I appreciated the insight. Also, it was apparent that Thad presumed Parker to be straight. If Thad learned otherwise, would his hostility then be vented toward Parker as well?
These thoughts were interrupted by the Avon-chime of the front doorbell. Hazel rose uncertainly. “Shall I see who it is, Mr. Manning?”
News had spread fast that Suzanne Quatrain had been murdered, and the caravan of police vehicles in front of the house heightened the sense of public drama. Reporters I could deal with, having pestered my share of the grief-stricken at moments of misfortune, but the bland statements of “no comment” and “pending investigation” had already been issued, and the local press had sense enough not to hound its new publisher. Anyone ringing that bell must have explained his way past an armed deputy, so chances were good that he belonged here. I looked to Pierce, who nodded to Hazel that she should answer the door.
We all listened as Hazel left the room. The door clacked open. Several lines of subdued dialogue were exchanged, enough for me to decipher that our visitor was Elliot Coop, the Quatrains’ old family attorney who had helped me sell the house, then buy it back. Hazel escorted him into the room. He carried a slim briefcase.
After a cursory round of condolences and introductions (he was visibly impressed to find in our midst Roxanne Exner, senior partner at one of Chicago’s most prestigious law firms), he told Sheriff Pierce, “I wonder if I might meet privately with you and Mr. Manning for a few minutes.” He patted his briefcase. “It’s a matter of some importance.”
Pierce asked me, “In your den?”
“Fine.” I led them toward the front hall, then paused. “Actually, Elliot, I’d like to have Miss Exner present.” It appeared we were about to delve into paperwork, and I had absolute trust in Roxanne’s opinion of legal matters. “Neil, too—I can have no secrets from him. And Parker—he’ll be my right-hand man at the Register.” I assumed that all three of them would later pressure me for details of what had transpired, so I could save some bother by letting them hear it from the source.
With a bow of his head, Elliot told me, “As you wish, Mr. Manning.”
I led them through the hall, opened the door to my office, and the six of us piled inside. The fire I’d built there had dwindled to embers, but the room was still hot. I raised a window a few inches, and icy air gushed over the sill. So I reduced the opening by half.
Elliot had already situated himself in one of the chairs at Uncle Edwin’s partners desk, disgorging his briefcase onto the blotter. I asked Roxanne to sit in the opposite chair, but she demurred, insisting that she was present only as a casual observer. I sat down.
With Elliot and me facing each other over the desk, the others gathered around us, trying to glimpse the papers that the old lawyer had brought to discuss. He began, “By the terms of Suzanne Quatrain’s will…”
“Already?” I asked. “God, Elliot, she hasn’t been dead two hours.”
He raised a finger in mild admonishment. “Mr. Manning,” he reminded me, “your cousin Suzanne was a wealthy and powerful woman, captain of the area’s largest industry. News of her death traveled instantly here, as her passing has enormous implications for the town’s economy. Naturally, the key executives who survive her at Quatro Press have urged me to disclose the stipulations of her will—not motivated, I might add, by greed, but by the genuine need for direction at this time of unexpected loss.”
“Of course.” I had known Suzanne only as family, a distant cousin. It was easy to forget that she also played a central role in the life of this community. As soon-to-be publisher of Dumont’s daily newspaper, my success here would be tied, at least in part, to the town’s general prosperity. Suddenly concerned by this new angle, I asked the lawyer, “What were the stipulations of her will? Had she taken steps to ensure that the business wouldn’t founder?”
Elliot slouched in his chair, chuckling. “Oh my, yes, Mr. Manning.” He took off his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Quatro Press will survive and prosper. Suzanne was an extraordinary manager and saw to it that all key positions were filled with able, dedicated people. She often told me, ‘A chief executive’s highest responsibility is to phase oneself out.’ So she built her team in such a way that the company could run itself without her. And now it will do just that.”
“What about her family—Thad and Joey?”
Elliot leaned forward and thumbed through the document. “Joey Quatrain, her brother, is, of course, disabled, and he’ll be comfortable for the rest of his life. Suzanne, like her father Edwin before her, made sure that Joey could never wrest control of the company—he’s barely capable of managing his own life, let alone a giant printing business, but he’s well paid for his menial office duties, and he’s now beneficiary of trusts ensuring that he will always have a home and income.”
I asked, “What does Joey do at Quatro?”
Elliot had to think for a moment. “I believe they have him pushing papers in the human resources department.”
From the side of her mouth, Roxanne asked, “Why doesn’t that surprise me?”
I gave her a visual jab, an appeal for her to behave herself, before asking Elliot, “And Thad?”
With a smile, he flipped his palms in the air and explained, “Master Quatrain has inherited the vast majority of Quatro stock, to be held in trust until his twenty-fifth birthday.” Elliot tapped Suzanne’s testament. “As the boy’s duly appointed guardian, Mr. Manning, you have also been named executor of the entire estate.”
Kettle drums. Although sitting, I felt my knees buckle. Certainly, I was well aware of the issue of Thad’s guardianship, having discussed it mere hours
ago with Doug Pierce. Suzanne’s murder, however, had so completely overshadowed the events of the day, I’d been temporarily blinded to one dizzying detail: With Suzanne’s last heartbeat, I became foster father to a bigoted little hellion.
“Oh, Mark,” cooed Roxanne. “How sweet! This is so sudden.”
Neil looked at me with unbelieving eyes. Parker Trent covered his mouth to stifle a laugh. Doug Pierce took notes.
I tried not to make eye contact with anyone, save Elliot. “But I, uh…” Grasping my chair, I tried to think of something to say.
“It is also my duty to inform you, Mr. Manning—”
Now what?
“—that Suzanne has left you a very… hefty cash inheritance, far more than is actually necessary to assure Thad’s proper upbringing. Hazel Healy, the family’s longtime housekeeper, has also inherited a substantial little nest egg.”
At that moment, I wasn’t thinking about Hazel. I wasn’t thinking about the circle of curious onlookers. I was thinking about “hefty.” I asked, “Elliot? When you refer to my inheritance as ‘hefty,’ what exactly do you mean?”
He stated the figure. My jaw dropped. My brain danced with neurons performing mental math. The millions were probably a pittance by Quatrain standards, a mere tip, a gratuity for an obliging relative, but in my book, they amounted to a fortune. I would easily be able to pay off the investors who were helping me acquire the Register. I’d have to invent ways to spend the rest. I might even get serious about philanthropy. Suzanne—how could I ever thank her? And Thad—the dear, sweet child.
Hold on. What was I thinking? I had zero interest in playing daddy to that monster, and it was inconceivable that he would be willing to live under the same roof with me. This could never work. Baldly (there was no other way), I asked Elliot, “Is my inheritance contingent upon fulfilling my duties as guardian?”
“Well, I,” he sputtered, “I’m not sure.” He replaced his glasses and started leafing through the will. “Why ever do you ask?”
“The boy hates me,” I answered flatly, “and to be honest, I don’t like him, either. Surely, other arrangements could be made—couldn’t they?”
Elliot fumbled with his paperwork. “This will take a bit of study, Mr. Manning. Can I assume the boy will have somewhere to sleep tonight?”
I noticed that it was now nearly dark outside. I looked at the faces around me, unsure of how to respond, unprepared to be making these decisions. I asked Neil, “Is it all right—I mean, at least for tonight?”
“He has to sleep somewhere,” Neil told me, but I could tell from his tone that he didn’t like the idea any more than I did.
There was plenty of spare room upstairs, so at least the boy could have some space to himself. With any luck, we simply wouldn’t need to deal with him until a saner plan could be devised.
Elliot folded his documents and returned them to his briefcase, snapping it shut. He rose, extending his hand; I rose, shaking it. He said, “I’ll get back to you with an opinion as soon as possible, Mr. Manning. Meanwhile, do accept my heartfelt sympathies on the passing of your cousin.” I thanked him, escorting him to the hall, where he retrieved his hat, coat, and gloves from Hazel, then left.
Returning to the den, I was greeted by the mute stares of Roxanne, Neil, Parker, and Sheriff Pierce. Rubbing the nape of my neck, I could think of no comment more original than, “What a day.”
Roxanne caught my eye. “It’s certainly had its ups and downs.”
Parker said, “You’re a wealthy man, Mark.”
Neil added, “You’re also a father. Suddenly, we’re parents. Something tells me that Thad’s not going to be happy with this—and neither will we.”
Roxanne reminded us, “The inheritance may be tied to the brat. To get the loot, you may have to raise him, and if Suzanne’s will isn’t explicit on the point, it’ll all end up in probate court. If I were you, I’d play daddy long enough to pack that kid off to a good Swiss boarding school.”
“That’s a thought,” Neil granted.
With a humorless chuckle, I told them, “It seems I have a dilemma.”
Sheriff Pierce had taken no part in this conversation, watching us from a corner of the room. Now he stepped forward to tell me, “You have more than that, Mark.”
We all turned to face him. “What do you mean, Doug?”
“Now you have a motive.”
Gulp. Again I asked, “What do you mean?” But I knew where he was headed.
“The kid has accused you of murdering his mother. He and another witness—Mr. Trent here—caught you kneeling over her body with blood on your hands. Your explanation that you had simply ‘found’ the victim was perfectly plausible, so long as you had no motive to kill her. Now, however, we’ve all just learned that you have profited enormously from Suzanne Quatrain’s death.”
Roxanne stepped right up to him. “My God, Sheriff,” she said in his face, “Mark had no idea that he was named a beneficiary in Suzanne’s will—you yourself saw his stunned reaction to the news. What’s more, he’s had no desire to be saddled as Thad’s guardian, which he knew would happen only in the event of Suzanne’s untimely death. Most important, though: Mark Manning is probably the most highly principled man I’ve ever met.”
Pierce answered not Roxanne, but me. Stepping past her, he grasped my upper arm. “I know that. I don’t believe for a minute that you’re guilty of this crime. However, Harley Kaiser might.”
In unison, we asked, “Who?”
“He’s district attorney of Dumont County. Pressure will be intense to solve this case fast and win a conviction. I’ll feel it, too, of course, but Kaiser is up for election this spring, and he’s shrewd enough to understand that any perception of laxity in solving the Quatrain murder will very likely cost him his job.”
Suddenly in sync with Pierce, Roxanne told him, “I’ve dealt with enough DAs to understand that they fall into two categories. This Harley Kaiser, is he a just and competent prosecutor—or a hot dog?”
Pierce grinned. “The latter, I’m afraid. But you didn’t hear it from me.”
Roxanne nodded confidentially.
Pierce continued. “It goes without saying that the Quatrain murder is, to date, the biggest case of Kaiser’s career—mine as well. The difference is, he’ll be pressuring me for an arrest based on expediency and public relations rather than the solid police work that this case demands. I’ve decided to head up the investigation myself, and you needn’t worry, Miss Exner—I’m not hotdogging—I rose through the ranks of the department as a detective, and a good one.”
“Do forgive me, Sheriff,” she told him with absolute charm, “if I gave any impression of skepticism.”
I told Pierce, “Thank you, Doug, for attending to this. I have every confidence in your ability to see that justice is served.”
He laughed. “Truth is, I’m clueless. You have a reputation, Mark, as a reporter who knows how to dig. You’ll rarely hear this from a cop, but I encourage you to bring your own investigative talents to the fore—if only in your own defense. Extenuating circumstances aside, you’re a strong suspect. You were found with the body, and you’ve profited from the victim’s death. Help me prove otherwise.”
Parker Trent stepped into the conversation. “Not so fast. You’re forgetting, Sheriff, that there were two major beneficiaries to Suzanne’s will, Mark and Thad.”
“True,” Pierce conceded, “but there’s nothing unusual in an only child’s inheritance. And while the kid has a weird streak, I know of nothing in this case that would cast suspicion on him.”
“Neither do I,” I quickly volunteered, sensing where Parker was leading me, but preferring not to go there.
Neil and Roxanne nodded that they, too, knew of nothing that would incriminate Thad, but Parker beaded me with a stare. “Mark?”
I didn’t answer. There was an awkward pause.
Watching this exchange, Pierce frowned. “Mark”—his tone was soothing—“what aren’t you telling
me?”
I hesitated, but Parker was right. This needed to be said. I told Pierce, “As you know, when I found Suzanne, she was on the verge of death, but still conscious. What I didn’t tell you is that she spoke to me.”
Pierce, Neil, and Roxanne looked from me to each other with surprise. Pierce flipped his notebook open and began to write. He asked me, “What did she say?”
“She mustered the will to say one word before dying. That word was ‘Thad.’”
Neil gasped audibly. Roxanne merely raised her hand to her mouth. Pierce looked up from his note taking.
I added, “My impression is that Suzanne was expressing a mother’s dying wish for her son’s future welfare, spoken to the man who had consented to be the boy’s guardian. At the same time, I’m well aware that others might conclude that she was naming her killer, and that’s why I’ve been reluctant to divulge this.”
Pierce nodded. “This could be important, Mark. We need to consider it. And it takes some of the heat off you.”
“I know.” But I wasn’t happy with this turn.
“It would be even better for you,” Pierce told me, “if there’d been a witness to this exchange. But you were alone with Suzanne at that time, correct?”
“Correct.”
“No,” Parker butted in, “I was nearing the top of the stairs when it happened. I heard her voice clearly. She said, ‘Thad.’”
I found this improbable, as Suzanne barely had sufficient strength to speak the word into my ear. Was Parker making good on his promise to “say anything” to help me? In any event, this was Parker’s claim, not mine, and I saw no point in contradicting him. Maybe he did hear Suzanne—it would certainly help my case.
While I pondered this, Neil and Roxanne voiced their relief and Sheriff Pierce updated his notes. Then Parker caught my eye. He winked at me.
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