Bitch Slap

by Michael Craft

  “I think we could use some dessert,” said Neil, pushing back his chair. When someone groaned in protest, he added, “Tonight’s a special occasion. Besides, it’s ready to serve.”

  “Sure,” said Todd, standing. “Let me help.” Then he and Neil cleared our dinner plates, carrying them to the kitchen.

  A few quiet moments passed. Then Doug leaned toward me over the table, asking quietly, “Are you okay, Mark? You haven’t said much tonight.”

  “Doug,” I said, hunching forward on my elbows, “I’m a nervous wreck. I realize you’re trying to have a pleasant evening, and I’m glad you and Todd are making such headway, but I don’t know how you can be so cool about the investigation. When I asked you about it in the den, you said, ‘Why dwell on disappointing topics?’”

  Doug said flatly, “The time didn’t seem right.”

  Getting flustered, I stammered, “Well, why not? I mean, when? And what did you mean—‘disappointing topics’?”

  He sat back. “I meant just what I said—what I learned was disappointing.”

  Todd and Neil were whisking into the room with dessert and coffee. Neil asked, “What was disappointing, Doug? Not the meal, I hope.” He plopped a plate in front of me; I have no idea what was on it.

  “No, the meal was great.” Doug explained, “We were talking about my trip to Green Bay this afternoon. I met with the shopkeeper who sold that old Royal typewriter on Wednesday. The results of the interview were disappointing.” Eyeing Neil, he emphasized, “Very disappointing.”

  Speechless, Neil slid into his chair.

  I felt my heart pounding in my neck.

  Todd set the coffeepot on the table and took his seat next to Doug, asking, “Disappointing? How so?”

  Doug drummed his fingers on the table. “The man who runs this used-office-equipment store is a nice old guy named Angus Maas, and—”

  “Angus?” asked Todd.

  Doug nodded. “That’s his name. It looked as if the business hadn’t seen much action lately, and he wanted to be helpful—I think he just appreciated the attention. He had no trouble recalling the transaction, probably the only sale he made all week. The buyer helped him figure out the sales tax …”

  Oh, God. It was all lining up, all the circumstantial evidence that would point directly to the man seated at my side. Neil sat listening with a blank expression as Doug related the events of that afternoon, drawing nearer to the moment when Neil would be named the author of the anonymous letter. Mentally, I tried nudging Neil to the admission that could help him salvage a shred of credibility. But I’ve never had much faith in telepathy, so I wasn’t very good at it. Neil sat stone-faced as the story unraveled. My only remaining option, I now realized, was to take matters into my own hands. Tasting bile in my throat, I waited for a pause in the story, then began, “Doug—”

  “But he never got the guy’s name,” Doug continued. “The customer paid cash, and the description Angus gave me was vague at best, so the bottom line is, I’ve got nothing to go on. The entire afternoon was just a wild-goose chase—and that’s what I call disappointing results.” He crossed his arms over his chest, shaking his head.

  Neil and I dared to glimpse at each other. I’m sure my numb, bug-eyed relief was even more transparent than his was. Fortunately, Doug wasn’t watching.

  Todd asked him, “Isn’t there some other way to trace the typewriter?”

  “Nah, I don’t think so. And you know, driving back today, it occurred to me that I’d taken the wrong tack altogether. I mean, whoever bought the typewriter was honest enough to help the old guy compute his own sales tax, and that doesn’t sound like a homicidal sociopath. Even if it was the killer, I doubt if he still has the typewriter. So even if I found him, I’d have no hard evidence to link him to the letter. Tomorrow morning, the death of Gillian Reece will be ruled accidental.”

  Todd circled a finger around Doug’s ear. “Tomorrow morning’s a long way off. Got any plans tonight?”

  Doug paused to consider Todd’s suggestion, but not long, before replying, “I thought you’d never ask. My place?”

  I was tempted to offer, Just use the guest room. You’re already here. And Todd’s all settled.

  But I bit my tongue, vowing never again to indulge in fantasies of tinkering with the sleeping arrangements upstairs on Prairie Street. Go with my blessing, Doug. Take Todd. And have a ball.

  Todd pushed back his chair and stood, telling Doug, “Your place—it’s a deal. Give me two minutes to throw a few things together.” He kissed the top of Doug’s head, flashed Neil and me a cagey grin, then tore across the front hall and shot up the stairs.

  Neil sat back and laughed with sheer delight.

  “What’s so funny?” asked Doug. “My dating skills may be a little rusty—hell, they’re nonexistent—but I made a prize catch tonight.”

  “You sure did. You both did.” Neil’s old sparkle was back. The grim pall of the last two days had lifted. “I wasn’t laughing at you, Doug. It’s the irony of your trip to Green Bay—Gillian’s death was just an accident after all.”

  I tried to telegraph, Don’t press your luck.

  “If not, I’ll never be able to prove it.” Doug reached for the coffeepot. “Coffee, guys?”

  “Why not?” I said. “I’m already keyed up. I have an inkling I won’t get much sleep tonight”

  “Funny,” said Doug, rising and moving around the table, “I’ve got that same inkling myself.” He rested a hand on my shoulder while pouring my coffee.

  Neil mused, “So the kindly old shopkeeper wasn’t much help …”

  Doug stepped to Neil and poured coffee for him. “No, Angus Maas was pretty hazy in his recollections—said something about sandy blond hair—a few other details, not much else.”

  Neil’s eyes slid in my direction.

  Doug put the coffeepot on the table. Then he fingered the amethyst stud that glinted from Neil’s earlobe. “You know?” he said. “If I were you, I’d put that in a drawer somewhere. Purple’s not your color at all.”

  Neil’s eyes froze on the badge clipped to Doug’s belt.

  “Well, I’m gonna see if Todd needs a hand. He’s taking way too long up there.” Doug grinned, turned, and strolled from the dining room.

  He crossed the hall, then started up the stairs.

  When Neil could breathe again, he fumbled to remove the stud.

  Though a bit shaky myself, I offered, “Let me do that.”

  Standing, I stepped behind Neil’s chair, rested his head against my hip, and unfastened the stud, which I plucked from his ear. Slipping the amethyst into my pocket, I knelt beside him, brought my lips to his ear, and kissed the tiny pink wound.

  Epilogue

  Was it mere friendship that compelled Doug Pierce to look the other way, exactly as Roxanne had predicted? Somehow, I find it hard to believe that just because we’re pals of the sheriff, Neil was entitled to one free “Get Out of Jail” card. Or was it the love bug that prompted Doug, freshly bitten, to ignore the unsavory entanglements of police work so he could focus on recreational entanglements with Todd Draper? I find it equally hard to believe that Doug’s commitment to duty was that shallow.

  A more likely answer is that I had simply been blind to an aspect of Doug Pierce that was more flexible, more human, than I was willing to acknowledge. Had I been projecting my own inflexibility upon a man I admired, assuming he was like me in every respect? Someday—maybe, I’m not sure when—I’ll have to ask him about that.

  One thing’s for sure. I’m grateful that Doug did what he did. And I’m ashamed that both he and Roxanne were able to grasp “the big picture” with such expediency, while I myself struggled to find a foothold in a miasma of doubts, a whirlpool of technicalities, and a quicksand of conflicting ethics. I’m all the more ashamed that this pothering brought me to the brink of a betrayal cloaked in rectitude.

  With the distance of time, I’m now able to look back at what happened and to understand that the
main issue was always clear to me—Neil did not murder Gillian Reece. While he was involved in the circumstances that led to her death, his conscience was clean, and I should have accepted the logic of his determination that he had not been responsible for the tragedy.

  Ultimately, that responsibility traced back to Gillian herself. She had plotted against many people, deceiving business associates as well as the entire town, and she did not hesitate to resort to physical abuse when her scheming and her verbal bullying failed. As Neil wrote in his letter, she deserved not only her fall from power, but her fall to death—simply because it was she who had instigated each vicious volley in a chain of events that led to inevitable reactions and a fatal conclusion.

  If Neil was able to grasp so succinctly the significance of what had happened, why couldn’t I as well? Why did my conscientiousness stray into obstinacy? Because, as Gillian herself had informed me in no uncertain terms, I was a tight-ass. What’s more, she had taken no small pleasure in informing me of my reputation as a prissy snob. Though it stung to hear such blunt assessments, I now understand that I had needed to hear them. So it’s ironic that I owe Gillian a debt of gratitude for confronting me with observations that my friends wouldn’t voice, but apparently felt.

  Have I changed? I hope so. I’m trying. Not only have I learned a valuable lesson regarding my own rigid views, but I’ve also felt a measure of liberation in adopting this previously foreign mind-set. If I feel like biting my nails, I bite them. If a friend finds some latitude in the speed limit, I keep my mouth shut. I’ve even learned to stand naked in my own bathroom. These concessions, while admittedly shallow, are an encouraging sign of deeper roots. How successfully I nurture them, only time will tell.

  Time has already brought developments on other fronts.

  Our friend Doug Pierce did indeed find love with Todd Draper. The small-town sheriff and the big-city curtain designer discovered, after spending their first night together, that they were not only physically compatible, but true soul mates, the real deal. Working so far apart, they came to find their long weekend drives increasingly taxing, so they’ve now bought a little place in Lake Geneva, near the Illinois state line, which allows them less time on the road and more time together. Todd is even talking about opening a workroom in Milwaukee, which would further close the gap.

  When I saw that Doug and Todd were truly in love, my lingering designs on Doug at last ceased, and I happily abandoned the fleeting erotic interest I’d had in Todd. With those distractions aside, I have confirmed my contentment to be alone with Neil. We look forward to growing old together.

  As for Thad Quatrain, our inherited son, he looks forward to a promising career in theater while continuing his study in California with the noted director Claire Gray. (Contrary to the instincts of some—and the wishful thinking of others—I’m quite sure Thad is not latently gay.)

  As for Roxanne Exner, also known as Mrs. Carl Creighton, she and her husband have permanently retreated from the political arena and are solidly focused on their roles as two of the most influential attorneys in Chicago. We don’t see them as often as we once did, but friendships like that are not threatened by time or distance. Roxanne and I know we can always count on each other, lean on each other, depend on each other. We’re only a phone call away.

  As for cell phones, I use mine all the time now and never think twice about it.

  As for Esmond Reece, the man who helped make cell phones possible, he and Tamra Thaine discovered that the good people of Dumont had little interest in Eastern studies—in fact, none—so the two of them rolled up their sticky-mats and moved to Sedona, where the harmonic convergence is said to be lovely this season.

  As for Perry Schield, the Quatro Press executive retired shortly after the fateful merger with Ashton Mills was averted. Perry’s decision to leave the company surprised no one. His younger clone, Tyler Pennell, surprised everyone, however, when he abandoned forensic accounting and moved away with Perry to a secluded cabin in the wooded northern region of the state. Neil and I received a single Christmas card signed by both of them, but we haven’t heard a peep from either of them since.

  As for Glee Savage, now in her later fifties, she shows no sign of slowing down, and her eventual retirement from the Register has never been discussed. She still carries big purses, still wears big hats, and still drives the fuchsia hatchback. She has not again slapped another woman, at least not publicly, at least not to my knowledge. At an editorial meeting one afternoon, Glee noted my relaxed attitudes with a cautious measure of approval, wondering aloud, “What’s next, Mark? Don’t tell me you’ll now allow us to occasionally split an infinitive.” I was forced to remind her that there are certain lines one simply does not cross.

  As for Lucille Haring, she is still my second-in-command at the paper, and I’m glad, as always, to have her. She still wears her hair too short, and while it’s still carrot red, it’s beginning to show some gray at the temples. Though she may still pine for Roxanne, she rarely speaks of her, for she has begun keeping company with Nancy Sanderson, the widow restaurateur, who is some twenty years Lucy’s senior. Tongues, most assuredly, are wagging.

  As for mysterious death—enough. My days at the Register have seen far too much of it, certainly for a town of this size. It’s inevitable, I suppose, that deadly mischief will again visit Dumont. Sooner or later, it’s bound to happen. But when it does, I’ll resist the temptation to pull rank with my staff and pluck those prime assignments. From now on, I’ll leave to other writers the task of untangling riddles of devilry and untimely demise.

  Sorry. I’ve had my fill. At least for a while.

  One last detail. As for that amethyst ear stud, Neil and I took Doug’s advice and put it in a drawer. Specifically, we keep it in a little box, a jewel box we stow in a dresser in our bedroom—like hidden treasure. Neil has never, ever worn it again in public. But now and then, in the privacy of our bed, he wears it for me.

  When he does, its purple fire never fails to work its magic.

  Sparks always fly.

  Author’s Note

  Readers accustomed to mysteries written to a certain structural formula may feel they have a loose footing in Bitch Slap, as its overall plot arc takes some unexpected and significant turns. My intent has been not to ignore well-known traditions, but rather to broaden the genre in a way that may allow a richer, less predictable story.

  Many thanks are due, too many to mention, but I would be remiss in not acknowledging James Dahlman, Michael Neu, and Leon Pascucci for their generous assistance with various plot details. As always, I am indebted to my agent, Mitchell Waters, who has placed ten of my eleven novels, and my editor, Keith Kahla, who has shepherded seven of those to print at St. Martin’s Press. Most important, I send heartfelt thanks to you, my readers. Not only have you ensured that the Mark Manning series stands as one of the stalwarts of its genre, but you have truly nourished me with your kind words and sustained enthusiasm.

  Finally, my apologies to advocates of the various Eastern studies and disciplines that collectively take a bit of unwarranted ribbing in this story. Namaste.

  NOVELS BY MICHAEL CRAFT

  Rehearsing

  The Mark Manning Series

  Flight Dreams

  Eye Contact

  Body Language

  Name Games

  Boy Toy

  Hot Spot

  Bitch Slap

  The Claire Gray Series

  Desert Autumn

  Desert Winter

  Desert Spring

  Stage Play

  Photo Flash

  www.michaelcraft.com

  BITCH SLAP. Copyright © 2004 by Michael Craft. All rights reserved. . No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.

  www.minotaurbooks.com


  eISBN 9781466828704

  First eBook Edition : August 2012

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Craft, Michael, 1950–

  Bitch slap / Michael Craft

  p. cm.—(The Mark Manning series)

  ISBN 0-312-30530-3 (hc)

  ISBN 0-312-34270-5 (pbk)

  EAN 978-0-312-34270-8

  1. Manning, Mark (Fictitious character)—Fiction. 2. Consolidation and merger of corporations—Fiction. 3. Family-owned business enterprises—Fiction. 4. Newspaper publishing—Fiction. 5. Wisconsin—Fiction. 6. Gay men—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3553.R215B57 2004

  813’.54—dc22

  2004049424

  First St. Martin’s Minotaur Paperback Edition: July 2005

  P1