by Jane Tesh
We ate in silence for a while. Then I said, “I’m going to work on the picture a little more.”
“The music won’t bother you, will it?”
“No.”
I thought he was going to practice “Music Man” tunes, but after a while, some operatic singing filtered up the stairs. I didn’t recognize this one, but nearly all opera sounds the same to me. I became so involved in getting the children’s expressions correct, I didn’t hear anything for another hour.
When I came downstairs, Jerry was lounging on the sofa, listening to a tape. I made him move his feet so I could sit down. “What’s this one?”
“‘Faust,’” he said.
“That’s the one about the devil, right?”
“Mephistopheles.”
“And Faust makes a bargain and they sing about it for three hours.”
“Oh, it takes much longer than that.”
The tenor voice throbbed with emotion. “What’s he singing about?”
“‘Let me gaze on your face, lost in wonder, as the pale moon above shines through the dark of night.’”
I had an instant memory of his face in the moonlight. “That’s pretty romantic.”
“It gets better. ‘Do you know what happiness means? To love, to know the flame that will bind two souls together, and brings ecstatic joy to our hearts, never ending.’ Or something like that.”
Now a soprano’s voice joined the tenor. The music soared around us, the two voices declaring undying love, joy, and ecstasy.
“Jerry, you started to tell me something last night.”
A chorus of car horns blared over the singing.
Jerry hopped up. “Movie time!”
I sighed and then followed him out to the porch. Despite Lance Henderson’s hopes, the night was clear. A huge full moon made its way up past the trees. Down the driveway, I saw a row of headlights.
“Jerry, did you invite the whole town to the filming?”
He paused on the steps. “Looks like it, doesn’t it?”
“That’s Twenty’s car and Ted’s. Oh, hell, that’s Cathy and Mitch.”
Gaskins’ van arrived first, followed by Henderson’s car. As the crew set up, Twenty and the other protesters formed a line. Ted stood a little away from them. Cathy and Mitch huddled nearby, taking notes. I saw Rick get out of his Buick. Nell and her dad arrived in the chief’s police car. Pretty soon, the front yard was filled with spectators.
Gaskins looked unconcerned. When he had his cameras and lights ready, he called for Davis and Henderson. Then he called for me.
“Davis tells me you’re interested in standing in for Vivian.”
“That’s Davis’s idea, not mine,” I said.
“It would help considerably if you’d just be in a few exterior shots. We’ll shoot in shadow and substitute another actress later.”
Jerry was delighted. “Go for it, Mac.”
Gaskins called for quiet. “All right, let’s get started. Davis, you and Madeline come around the side of the house.”
Davis grabbed my hand and pulled me with him. We ran around the side of the house about thirty times before Gaskins was satisfied.
“All right, I want one more here in front of the house. Stephanie, where’s my drink?”
Stephanie handed him his cup. He took a noisy slurp and said, “Lance, come out the front door, look around, and go back in.”
Henderson did this until Gaskins had the shot he wanted.
“Now I want everyone out here around the tree looking back at the house.” Gaskins took another annoying slurp of soda. “Just stare at it like it’s the worst thing you’ve ever—”
I’m sure he meant to say, “seen,” but he never finished his sentence. He shook his head as if to clear it and fell over.
Davis said, “What the hell?”
Stephanie screamed, “Josh!” and knelt down. She looked up, her face ghastly white in the moonlight. “Get a doctor!”
A woman I didn’t know hurried up from the crowd to examine Gaskins. I heard Chief Brenner call for assistance on his radio. Then he pushed through the crowd. “Everyone stand back.” He and the woman had a brief conversation. Using his pen, he carefully lifted Gaskins’ paper cup from the grass. “Who fixed this drink for Mister Gaskins?”
Stephanie got to her feet. She held her arms tight around her. “I did. I always do.”
“Where do you keep the cola?”
“In the van.”
“Who has access to the van?”
“Everyone in the crew.” She looked around and pointed a shaking finger at Rick. “That man was hanging around in the back.”
Rick took several steps back. “I was just looking around.”
Chief Brenner’s gaze took in the crowd. “Any one of these people could have gone to the van while we were watching the action.” He raised his voice. “No one is to leave until I talk to you. Nell, make sure of that. Jerry, I’ll be using your living room.”
I watched the faces of the people. The movie crew was stunned. Stephanie continued to cry. Cathy and Mitch clutched each other. Ted looked shocked. The other protestors looked grim, their gaudy S.T.O.M.P. signs down by their sides. Henderson and Davis sat on the porch steps, heads down. The only expression I couldn’t read was Twenty’s. She stood apart from the protestors, arms folded, gazing across the moonlit fields. She stayed that way, even when the police cars and ambulance rolled into the yard, even when the EMS team told us what had happened to Gaskins.
Poisoned.
The word went through the crowd like an evil whisper. Gaskins was put into the ambulance, and the woman, Doctor Chapman, Nell told me, got inside with him. The ambulance raced off into the night, followed by a police car. Everyone else was instructed to come into the Eberlin house living room one by one to be questioned.
I was the last person in. I sat down on the living room sofa while Chief Brenner stood by the coffee table. He turned another page of his notepad.
“Was it Mister Gaskins’ habit to have a large soda during filming?”
“Yes, Stephanie always brought him one.”
“And he always used a straw?”
“Yes. Do you suspect Stephanie?”
He rubbed his short blond hair and consulted his list. “I have plenty of suspects: Ms. Harold, Lance Henderson, Davis, the protest group, the entire movie crew, Cathy Sloop, Mitch Hutton, yourself, Jerry, Ted, and Twenty. And let’s not forget Mister Rialto.”
“Cathy and Mitch are harmless. They’re just here to watch the filming.”
“I’ll determine how harmless they are.”
“You don’t really suspect Ted, do you?” I didn’t even want to mention Twenty.
He put his pad away. “We’ve had this talk about you getting involved with police business.”
“It worked last time, didn’t it?”
His eyes narrowed. “Last time, you got lucky. Very lucky. You need to leave this to me.” His phone beeped. He answered. “Yes?” He listened a few moments and then put the phone back on his belt. “Now you definitely need to leave this to me, Madeline. Gaskins is dead.”
The other officers had finished with the crime scene. Chief Brenner told the crew to pack up but not to leave town. Another officer drove the van. Everyone else got into cars and left. I wanted to speak to Twenty, but she had already left. Rick, however, was still there. I noticed his face was pale and he was shaking.
“Come inside,” Jerry told him.
“Man, I can’t believe this,” Rick said. “The guy took a sip and just keeled over. Who do you suppose poisoned that drink?”
“That’s what the police will find out.”
We went into the kitchen. Jerry offered Rick some of the leftover pizza. Rick sat down and waved him away.
“I couldn’t eat after that. That Brenner’s tough, you know? I thought he really wanted to pin this on me.”
“Why would he think that?” I asked. “Did you even know Gaskins?”
Rick shifted his
gaze to Jerry and back to me. “Sort of.”
“You want to tell me what’s going on?”
Jerry said, “I think you’d better tell her. She’s solved one murder in town.”
The threat of being a murder suspect must have been too strong. Rick grimaced. “Gaskins owes me money.”
Things fell into place. “So you came to Celosia to see him.”
“No crime in that.”
“You knew Voltage Films would be here.”
He shrugged. “A lucky break.”
I was tired of his attitude. “If you want me to help you, you’d better tell me everything.”
He thought it over and must have decided I was his one good chance. “The thing is, I’ve been looking for Gaskins for months. He owes me from a pyramid scheme we had going in Pineville.”
“Jerry, did you know about this?”
Rick answered, “Hell, yeah. I mean, he knew I was looking for Gaskins. But he wasn’t part of the pyramid deal, if that’s what you’re worried about. Gaskins and I set it up. Then Gaskins takes the money. I knew he’d lived in some small town near Parkland for a while. Then I heard J had moved here and figured he could help me. Then this movie company arrives, and Gaskins happens to be the director. I figured my luck was running pretty good—until now, that is.”
“Have you talked to Gaskins since you’ve been in town?” I asked.
“You bet I talked to him. I wanted my money.”
“Did anyone hear you demanding your money from him?”
Rick looked troubled. “Yeah, I guess quite a few people heard me. That Davis guy and the old actor and the assistant.”
“You didn’t threaten him, or anything like that?”
He gulped. “I may have. I didn’t threaten to kill him, though.”
“What did he say?”
“He said I’d get it back out of the movie profits, but I couldn’t see how a dinky horror film could make any serious dough. That’s one reason I wanted to drum up more interest.”
“Do you know Kirby Willet?”
“No.”
I wanted Rick to stay on track. “You’ve got bigger problems, Rick. What were you doing in Gaskins’ van?”
“Looking for the money, of course.” He glared at us. “The both of you quit looking at me as if I’m some kind of criminal. That daffy woman in the Day-Glo clothes is the one who did it. She’s been hollering about Gaskins ever since he came to town.”
I was very much afraid he was right, but I wasn’t going to agree.
A pleading look came into his shifty little eyes. “Mac, I didn’t do it. If you can prove that, I’ll be your friend for life.”
“If I can prove it,” I said, “you’ll leave town, taking all your Mantis Man crap with you, and you’ll never come back.”
He stuck out his hand. “Deal.”
I gave his hand one shake and told him to get out. As soon as he was gone, Jerry said, “Thanks, Mac. He’s a con man, but he’s not a murderer.”
“I hope not,” I said. “And thanks so much for telling me about his connection with Gaskins.”
Jerry looked uncomfortable. “I didn’t think it was important.”
“You swear to me you knew nothing of this pyramid scheme?”
“Rick told me Gaskins owed him some money, that’s all. I figured the two of them would settle things, and Rick would leave.”
“Well, Gaskins is permanently settled, and if you’re so sure your pal Rick isn’t a murderer, then who did it?”
“Lance Henderson’s been unhappy with Gaskins. So has Flynn Davis.”
“So has Twenty.”
“It can’t be her,” Jerry said. “I can’t believe it. Maybe a member of the crew has a grudge.”
“I still think Willet has some connection to Gaskins. All that money in the box. Maybe some of that was from the pyramid scheme. Unfortunately, I can’t ask Gaskins what was going on.”
“Maybe Willet killed him.”
“What, with one of his inventions? Long-distance poison? Poison dart from a blowgun somewhere in the woods? Now more than ever I need to find Kirby Willet.”
“Didn’t you say he might be in Riverdale?”
“That’s a possibility.”
“Well, let’s go.”
“I appreciate your enthusiasm, but we can wait until morning.”
We were too unsettled by Gaskins’ death to tuck in, so we stayed up late planning our road trip. I finally slept a few hours. By the time I was up and dressed, Jerry had breakfast ready. By eight o’clock, we were on our way. We arrived in Riverdale around ten.
Riverdale’s a tiny mountain community specializing in artsy shops and galleries. No cars are allowed on Main Street, so shoppers can browse and then have coffee or tea at one of the many little outdoor cafés. Along with the paintings and sculptures on display, we saw pottery, jewelry, wind chimes, mobiles, and other things I didn’t recognize.
We stopped at the largest café in the center of town. I asked the owner if he knew Kirby Willet or Monroe McKittrick.
“Never heard of Willet,” he said. “McKittrick, however, has a studio on Fourth Street, just two blocks down.”
Two blocks down, we found a large dark house surrounded by a dull wooden fence. The lawn was filled with long weeds, and patches of grass pushed between the cracks in the walkway.
“This looks more like a haunted house than a studio,” Jerry said.
The doorbell didn’t work, so I knocked. We heard the sound of shuffling feet and an odd tapping sound. The door opened, and there stood an elderly stoop-shouldered man with a cane. His dim eyes peered up at us.
“Yes? Who is it? What do you want?”
“Monroe McKittrick?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“I’m Madeline Maclin, and this is Jerry Fairweather.” I started to tell him the reason for our visit, but at the mention of Jerry’s name, he flinched.
“Fairweather. That was years ago. I had nothing to do with it.”
“Sir, we’re not accusing you of anything. We just have a few questions.”
He steadied himself with his cane. “Questions! The police bombarded me with questions. They called me to say the Fairweathers were dead. Said it was a fire and they wanted to know where Frye was.”
“Frye? Your assistant?”
“The police tried to blame me for what happened! Ruined my reputation in Parkland. I had to leave.” He fumbled for the door. “Now I have to ask you to leave.”
I already had my foot in the door, but I didn’t need to force my way in. Inside the dark hallway, I caught a glimpse of paintings. “We were considering buying one of your paintings.”
He stopped. “What’s that you say?”
Jerry took up my lead. “The painting you did of me and my brothers is wonderful. I was hoping to have another for my new house.”
McKittrick paused, clearly torn between our unwanted presence and the possibility of a sale. “I may have something.” He stepped aside to let us enter. “But just in the hallway, mind you.”
The house smelled musty. At the end of the hall, I could see a small room with a chair and a lamp where McKittrick no doubt spent his days. Leaning on his cane, he gestured with a shaky hand to the paintings on the wall.
“Here are some nice landscapes. There should be one of Natural Bridge. Some fall scenes of the Blue Ridge near the end here, if I recall.”
Jerry stopped in front of a landscape of woods. “I like this one. How much?”
“One hundred fifty.”
“All right.”
For once, Jerry’s money was going to pay for something useful. As he counted out the money into the old man’s hand, McKittrick squinted at him. “Yes, I remember you. You were the one who could never sit still. Or were you the baby? There were two of you who looked very much alike.”
“I’m the one in the middle,” Jerry said. “I’d really appreciate it if you could tell us more about your assistant.”
“That happened a
long time ago. What difference does it make now?”
“Because I need to know exactly what happened.”
I felt sorry for this frail old man. “And wouldn’t it be worth something to you to finally be cleared of any suspicion?”
He nodded. “Yes. It still bothers me to this day, those little boys losing their parents like that.” He put an unsteady hand on Jerry’s arm. “It must have been rough for you, son.”
“Can you help us, Mister McKittrick?”
“He was a student from the college. Jackson Frye.”
“Why did you have an assistant?” I asked. “Was he learning your technique?”
“Even then, my eyesight wasn’t the best. I relied on others to help me with the fine details. Frye was just one of the eager young artists I knew back then. I thought I was doing him a favor, but I didn’t get much work out of him. Mainly, he wanted to hang around and flirt with the Fairweather girl. Hannah, was it?”
“Harriet,” Jerry said. His voice was subdued.
“Harriet. Yes, that’s it. I was to do her portrait next. Of course, that never happened.”
“So it’s possible Frye was at the house to see Harriet?”
“I don’t know why he’d be there at midnight, but I imagine so.”
“Do you know where Frye is now?”
“No. He ran off. I never saw him again. I suppose the police suspected him, too.”
I was beginning to suspect him, myself. Jerry took the painting down. We thanked McKittrick and went out and stood for a moment at the car. Jerry looked abstracted.
“Jerry?”
“I remember something, Mac. I remember Harriet laughing and giggling over some boy. We thought it was sickening, of course, and made fun of her. But I’ll bet it was this guy.”
“It could’ve been, but Harriet probably had lots of boyfriends to giggle over.”
“No, that’s just it. That’s why I remember. He was the only one. Harriet was dancing around the house. We’d never seen her like that.”
“The only boyfriend she ever had? That’s a little far-fetched, isn’t it? After all, she was a very wealthy young lady, and Frye was an artist’s assistant, so he may not have been so wealthy. Jerry, there may be something to this. Maybe Frye was flirting with Harriet because she was rich. Maybe he hoped to gain something from the relationship.”
