Bitch Slap

by Michael Craft

  “Hmm?” said Neil, emerging from his own thoughts.

  “After leaving the restaurant last night, I was a little keyed up, so I decided to go down to the department and check my desk. Turns out, Tyler Pennell had left me a message saying he needed to talk to me. When I called him back, he said he wanted to see me and offered to come to the station. Then, when he arrived, he announced he was prepared to make a statement and get something off his chest.”

  “He confessed?” asked Neil. Wishful thinking—both Neil and I already knew the forensic accountant had played no role in Gillian’s death.

  “Tyler was feeling guilty, all right, but not about the murder. He just needed to do some soul-baring. According to his statement, Tyler had indeed discovered all the details of Gillian’s plot to enrich Ashton Mills—and herself—at the expense of Quatro Press and its workers.”

  I recalled, “That wasn’t his story when we talked to him at Quatro headquarters yesterday afternoon. He claimed to know no particulars of Gillian’s plan.”

  “And that’s what he was feeling guilty about. He told me he’d gotten scared and had lied to us Thursday.”

  Neil asked, “What was he scared of?”

  “The appearance of deeper guilt. Here’s his version of what happened: Tyler’s due diligence had revealed the full extent of Gillian’s intended shenanigans, so he went to her new home on Wednesday morning to confront her with his discovery. That was around ten-thirty, after all the workers left. He found her in the living room, and they talked. Then they argued, and it got pretty heated. Tyler threatened to kill the deal. Gillian must’ve known he had the goods on her—she offered to buy him off. The sum was interesting enough that Tyler said he’d have to think about it, then left. He insists that Gillian was alive and well when he walked out of the house, sometime before eleven.”

  Neil asked, “And there was no one else around?”

  “Tyler wishes there had been a witness to corroborate his story, but he was agitated and left in a hurry, seeing no one. When the news broke that Gillian had been killed around eleven that morning, Tyler knew this would cast suspicion on his visit, so he simply clammed up about it. Even stickier, to his way of thinking, was his consideration of the bribe, which could ruin his career as an impartial auditor of corporate finances. Unfortunately for Tyler, the bribe is crucial to his story—it provides the explanation of why he left when he did. When he learned yesterday about the letter and its contents, he feared, logically enough, that this aspect of the case would eventually lead back to him, so he decided his best course of action was to correct his earlier lie and tell me everything.”

  Eyeing Neil, I told Doug, “Wise move.”

  Doug nodded. “It was. Tyler’s story doesn’t conclusively clear him of being at the house when Gillian was killed, but it’s a plausible, consistent scenario, and it’s a reasonable explanation for his suspicious behavior yesterday. Most important, he volunteered his statement last night, so I’m inclined to believe him. He’s still a potential suspect, but my instincts now lead me away from him. Someone else must have arrived at the house after he left—or while he was there, overhearing details of Gillian’s scheme. With any luck, we’ll track’m down.” Sitting back, Doug concluded, “I’m working on it.”

  This, I hoped, would give Neil the nudge he needed to tell Doug what had happened. Instead, he got up from the table, went to the sink, and rinsed his cup.

  Doug pushed back his chair and stood. “I’d better get going. Busy day ahead. Will I see you guys at the memorial?”

  I stood. “Sure, Doug. Esmond invited us. We’ll be there.”

  Turning from the sink, Neil added, “It’s the least we can do. Not only was Gillian a wonderful client, but I thought of her as a friend.”

  Doug said, “From everything I’ve heard about the woman, she was lucky to have even one good friend in the world. It’ll be interesting to see who shows up.” He moved to the back door.

  “See you there, Doug. And thanks for the kringle.”

  “Anytime, guys.” Saluting us with a thumbs-up, he opened the door and left.

  Taking Doug’s and my coffee mugs from the table, I stepped behind Neil and, reaching around him, poured the cold coffee into the sink. Setting down the cups, I wrapped my arms around Neil’s waist. Softly, I said into his ear, “If you give Doug a few minutes, you can probably reach him in his office.”

  “Why would I do that?”

  “He was willing to give Tyler the benefit of the doubt because he volunteered his story. Connect the dots, Neil.”

  He turned to me. “Tyler’s situation was nothing like mine. He decided to talk because he hadn’t been in the house when Gillian was killed; he was trying to prove his innocence. Exactly what do you think I have to gain from opening up to Doug? I was there, Mark, arguing with Gillian when she fell and died. If some hotshot prosecutor put the right spin on this, he could decide that I had not only witnessed Gillian’s death, but caused it. Is that what you want?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Then why in hell should I say a word about this to Doug?”

  I couldn’t think of a convincing answer.

  But I knew I was right.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Gillian Reece’s private memorial service was scheduled for eleven o’clock at, of all places, the Dumont Institute for Eastern Studies. The day before, when Esmond Reece had phoned me at my office to invite Neil and me to attend, I had asked, dismayed, “Couldn’t you find a … a church or something?”—this from a man who had even less interest in churches than in Eastern studies.

  Esmond had replied, “I realize, Mark, that the institute may not seem the most appropriate setting for Gillian’s memorial, considering her recent hostility toward the project. But it’s often been noted that funerals are more for the benefit of the living than the dead, and the grounds of the institute are where I’m most comfortable. Besides, Gillian won’t even be there. The coroner hasn’t released her body yet. When he does, I’ll have it cremated.”

  Neat and simple.

  Sometime after ten-thirty, I swung past Neil’s office, picked him up, and drove out beyond the west side of town. We didn’t say much, each of us lost in thought.

  Heavily on my mind was Doug’s intention to investigate typewriter sales in Green Bay and Appleton. I recalled that Glee Savage had gone to Appleton after visiting Gillian on Wednesday, intending to interview a woman about a hospital fund-raiser, but they had never connected. Glee, of course, had delivered the first bitch slap—an opening salvo that would escalate into a nasty little war—on Tuesday afternoon. Might these circumstances be sufficient, I wondered, to deflect suspicion from Neil, who was not generally known to have fought with Gillian on Wednesday or to have traveled to Green Bay that same afternoon?

  The road blurred, and I slowed the car as I was overcome with disgrace. How could I possibly be scheming to pin responsibility for Gillian’s death on my perky, loyal features editor? Besides, the other facts of the case didn’t fit. Doug would have a tough time proving that Glee had bought a typewriter in Appleton—because it simply never happened.

  Shaking these thoughts from my head, I saw the institute’s twiggy sign come into view. There were quite a few vehicles parked on the roadway, indicating that the gravel parking court within the compound was already filled.

  “Wow,” said Neil, “I didn’t realize there’d be such a crowd.”

  “Me neither.” Braking the car and pulling over to the shoulder, I added, “When Esmond phoned yesterday, he was still working on the guest list. I assume there’ll be a lot of the higher-ups from Ashton Mills. Beyond that, who knows?”

  We got out of the car, stretched our legs, and began walking along the row of parked cars toward the driveway. Neil noted, “It’s strange that Esmond would invite Todd and Glee.” Our houseguest’s Mercedes and my editor’s eye-popping fuchsia hatchback were among the vehicles at the side of the road. Neil continued, “They’ve both had recent b
lowups with Gillian. That’s pretty perverse, almost as if Esmond is taking pleasure in inviting his wife’s ‘enemies’ to her own memorial.”

  Entering the grounds of the institute, we walked the pine-lined drive toward the clearing near the main building. The crisp fall day felt even chillier in the shadows of the dense, pungent trees. Arriving in the parking court, we found that it was indeed already filled with cars—smells of petroleum mixed with the scent of pine, a combination I found surprisingly pleasant.

  Despite the plenitude of cars, we saw no people, so we assumed everyone was indoors somewhere. Then Neil spotted a carelessly scrawled sign, posted near the door of the main building. He read aloud, “Memorial in drumming circle.” An arrow pointed to the path I had walked during my visit on Tuesday afternoon.

  Neil asked, “What’s a drumming circle?”

  Slinging an arm across his shoulders, leading him around the building, I answered, “A circle in which one drums.”

  “Oh.” He knew there was no point in pressing me for details.

  We followed the narrow path of matted pine needles, ducking occasionally beneath errant, low-hanging limbs. Nearing the circular clearing, we could hear the muffled sound of many voices engaged in quiet conversation.

  Entering the circle from the dim pathway, I was momentarily blinded. Though the sun had begun its autumnal decline, it was high enough in the midday sky to enter the surrounding chimney of trees in a brilliant oblique shaft. The trees it touched were radiantly green; the others, in contrast, looked inky black.

  The fire pit at the center of the circle contained the remnants of more charred logs than on Tuesday. Had Esmond and Tamra spent their nights here—watching the moon, planning their future, celebrating the demise of a woman who had obligingly stepped out of their lives? Esmond and Tamra stood across from the pit, at the far side of the circle, dressed as I had always seen them, she in white, he in a dark shade of gray. Since neither Gillian’s body nor ashes would be present, I expected a photo of the deceased, perhaps on an easel, but there was nothing to represent the woman we gathered to remember.

  The mourners (the usual term, though it seemed not entirely apt) were loosely assembled around the pit in a crescent. The crowd was deepest where we entered from the path, thinnest at the tips of the crescent, leaving plenty of room for Esmond and Tamra, who stood without speaking, wearing benign smiles.

  Working our way into the crowd, I noticed Tyler Pennell and Perry Schield, two of the “enemies” Neil had referred to. They stood together in their matching business suits, looking uncomfortable among the many Ashton Mills executives and board members who were present. A day earlier, Perry and Quatro Press had been scheduled to join ranks with these people, but now, as the result of Tyler’s discovery, there was nothing but bitterness between the two corporations. Perry dabbed at his mouth with a wadded white handkerchief, looking flushed and feverish in the cool, woodsy air.

  “This is fine,” I told Neil, preferring to stand at the outer edge of the circle, near the trees, about halfway in. If Esmond and Tamra’s position in the circle were deemed twelve o’clock, the path would be at six and we at nine.

  Because of my seat on the Ashton board, I knew almost everyone present, while Neil knew very few of them. We spotted Glee Savage near one of the crescent’s tips (eleven o‘clock). She discreetly waved her steno pad, indicating she intended to bring back a story. Directly across the fire pit from us (three o’clock) stood Todd Draper, who also acknowledged us with a wave. He tapped his watch and bobbed his head from side to side, indicating he wished they’d get on with it—he wanted to get back to the Reece house and the curtain-installation project.

  I mimicked Todd’s head-bobbing, indicating that I sympathized—I would rather have been just about anywhere but there. Checking my watch, I realized that our impatience was warranted. It was a few minutes past eleven.

  As if on cue (maybe their Eastern studies had honed their psychic skills), Esmond and Tamra stepped in unison toward the pit of charred rubble. Sensing that the service had begun, the crowd instinctively hushed.

  “I want to thank you all for coming,” said Esmond. His voice was clear, strong, and confident, not that of a man in mourning, but that of a man who had been liberated. “While the recent passing of my wife, Gillian, was both unexpected and untimely, we can take comfort in the knowledge that all events—inscrutable as they may seem—are part of a plan.” He then repeated a statement he’d made on the afternoon when he’d learned of the fall that had killed his wife: “Her death has restored a certain harmony to the absolute.”

  No one present could mistake the tone of Esmond’s words—he was happy to chalk off Gillian’s sudden death as a twist of fate, a mere quirk of cosmic energies. He ignored the developments of the previous day, the anonymous letter that seemingly proved his wife’s death was no accident. While I found a measure of relief in this omission (the writer of the letter stood at my side), I was nonetheless disquieted by Esmond’s singular lack of interest in the details of how his wife had died. For all he cared, she could have been struck by a lightning bolt or a falling safe—she was simply gone, which suited him fine, and that was all that mattered.

  As Esmond spoke, my attention drifted and my eye wandered. Glancing toward the path (six o’clock), I saw Doug Pierce enter the drumming circle and pause to get his bearings. Giving him a high sign, I caught his attention, and he began making his way toward us, around the back of the crowd.

  Joining Neil and me, he shook hands with us and asked, under his breath, “Did I miss much?”

  “Not a thing,” I answered. “It’s the damnedest ‘funeral’ I’ve ever seen.”

  Neil added, “Esmond hasn’t even mentioned the suspicious nature of Gillian’s death. If only for the sake of appearances, he ought to fake some remorse.

  Doug arched his brows. “Do you think Esmond has something to hide?”

  Neil instantly backed off. “No, I have no reason to think that.”

  “Well, someone has something to hide. Gatherings like this always make you wonder: Is the killer here among us?”

  Near the fire pit, Esmond was saying, “ … which is why it’s so comforting to have friends at a time like this. In recent years, I have had no greater friend than Tamra Thaine, founder and director of the Dumont Institute for Eastern Studies. In the coming weeks and months, you’ll be hearing far more about this wonderful new addition to the social—and spiritual—fabric of our community. Today, you’ll have the opportunity to meet Tamra for yourselves and to hear her inspiring words. It’s my pleasure to introduce Tamra Thaine, who will preside over the remainder of this memorial.”

  Esmond stepped back, and the woman in white leotards and tunic stepped forward, as if trading places in front of a microphone that wasn’t there.

  “Good morning,” she said in a flat tone that was neither inviting nor off-putting, warm nor cool. “Esmond has asked me to contribute a few thoughts to this gathering. While I did not know Gillian Reece all that well, I can say without hesitation that her greatest fortune in life was her relationship with Esmond Reece.” Tamra turned to flash him a timid but loving smile, then continued, “It is through the good heart and generous spirit of people like Esmond that we come to know the divine consciousness of this world. In fact, Esmond has recently committed to underwrite fully the development of this institute as a gift to all of Dumont …” Tamra had plenty more to say, but she did not again mention Gillian, even once.

  As she yammered on, the crowd began to get restless, like kids squirming in church. Neil nudged Doug, saying quietly, “Todd’s here. Did you see him?”

  Doug asked too loudly, “Where?” Then he hushed himself. “No, I didn’t see Todd. Where is he?”

  Neil directed Doug’s gaze across the fire pit to the three o’clock position, where Todd craned his neck to peer back at us, giving Doug a subtle but eager wave.

  Doug’s face brightened as he mouthed silent, unintelligible greetings to Todd acro
ss the gap that separated them. They began an exchange of looks, shrugs, and smiles that simulated conversation but communicated only that they were glad to have established a sense of connection, however remote or tenuous.

  “It’s rare in life,” Tamra was saying, “that we encounter a person who so perfectly embodies both the intuitive and intellectual polarities of our existence. Esmond Reece, however, is truly at one with the universe, possessing an essential nature and an internal heat that harmonize with the dynamic aspect of consciousness …”

  Yeah, maybe, I thought, but he won’t eat meat.

  Someone’s cell phone went off.

  Tamra continued with her tribute, undaunted but annoyed, as the insistent chirp sent a wave of distraction through the crowd. Purses snapped; men dug in their pockets; various mourners turned away from the sunlight, attempting to read the displays on their phones. I double-checked my own phone, confirming that I had switched it off, when I realized the ringing came from Doug’s belt. So engrossed had he become in his mimed colloquy with Todd, he hadn’t even heard the offending warble.

  I jabbed him with my elbow. “Your phone.”

  “Oh, jeez. Sorry.” He unclipped the phone from his belt, checked the display, and said, “Excuse me. I need to take this.” Answering the phone, he made his way behind the crowd and left the drumming circle, following the path to the parking area.

  Tamra droned on, “ … through the extraordinary generosity of Esmond Reece. This ashram will become a place of retreat for seekers wishing to escape the fatigue of worldliness. By engaging in spiritual practices …”

  I nudged Neil. “Heard enough?”

  “I’ll say.”

  Jerking my head toward the pathway, I said, “Let’s get out of here.” We skirted the crowd as Doug had done, then left the circle.

  Tramping along the shady path, Neil said, “What’d you think of Tamra’s ‘tribute’ to Gillian?”

  “It was good of her to mention the woman’s name—once.”

  “You’d think she and Esmond would be smarter than that. I mean, neither of them cared for Gillian, and I suppose their reasons for resenting her were justified, but today, they all but trashed her. Don’t they realize their tacky performance is bound to cast them in a suspicious light?”