“Look, Mark.” He leaned toward me again. “I’m American, period. My parents were Italian, born there, and I certainly respect their heritage—to say nothing of their food. But they came to this country to start over. I was born here, and they raised me as an American. They named me Benjamin, after Mr. Franklin, you know. They spoke some Italian around the house, and I can understand a few phrases, but I never learned the language. I spent my early years on a farm out in the county, but when I was old enough for high school, they moved the family into town—just to make sure I grew up like any other American kid. It was all part of their dream. They wanted a doctor as a son, an American doctor.”
Pierce told him quietly, “I’m sure they were very, very proud of you.
“Sure they were.” Tenelli sat back, recalling, “I never thought twice about establishing my practice anywhere but here—just to make sure that everyone they knew would never forget that they were ‘the doctor’s parents.’ I know they appreciated that.”
“Everyone appreciated the fact that you were here,” Pierce assured him. “Virtually every baby born in Dumont since the midfifties had you to thank for their first breath—including me. Why’d you retire, Ben?”
“I’m old!” He laughed, as if the answer should be self-evident.
“Hardly,” I told him. “Age can’t be measured in years alone.”
“Thank you, both of you. But the truth is, medicine has changed a lot since I was young. Hell, when I first hung my shingle, it was the height of the baby boom. We’d won another world war, the economy was spinning like a top, and folks were poppin’ out kids left and right—it was a golden age of unbridled optimism. But I don’t need to tell you, things got ugly. Assassinations, Vietnam, recession, you name it—and along with this general demoralizing of society, lawyers got greedy and medicine became a popular target. There was a dramatic rise in malpractice suits, and obstetrics became a particularly vulnerable field. It got to the point where I was working not for myself or for my patients, but for the malpractice-insurance guys. Who needs it? By the time I reached sixty-five, I felt more than ready to hand it all over to the next generation.” He paused, then smiled. “And I’m enjoying myself immensely.”
“Well,” said Pierce, “you certainly deserve it.” He raised his glass to Dr. Tenelli. I did likewise, and we all tasted more of the wine.
The doctor told us, “The day will come when you guys will be more than ready to hang it up—trust me. Of course, it seems that you, Douglas, are already neck-deep with this murder case.” He grunted a short burst of a laugh.
I wasn’t sure whether Tenelli was referring to the murder investigation in general or to Pierce’s being implicated in it, as revealed only an hour earlier on the radio. How quickly had word traveled? Had he heard that Pierce had shared the victim’s bed on the morning of the murder? Was he aware that Pierce had officially stepped out of the investigation? Steering the conversation away from these points, I told Tenelli, “Doug can handle it. In fact, we were brainstorming a new lead just this afternoon, which is really the purpose of this visit.”
“Oh?” said the doctor. “I’ll help any way I can, naturally.”
“Thanks, Ben,” Pierce told him. “There’s only so much I can tell you, of course, but we’re dealing with some new information suggesting that Carrol Cantrell’s murder may have some connection to the upcoming obscenity trial.”
Tenelli set down his glass and moved it aside. “Good Lord, that sounds terribly…involved…and sinister.”
“We don’t know much,” said Pierce, evading the need to elaborate, “but I’m wondering if you could tell us anything of your experience with the County Plan Commission. Specifically, how did the committee reach the conclusions that were filed in last Friday’s report?”
Tenelli lifted the wine bottle, topping up Pierce’s glass, then mine, but not his own, as the bottle was now empty. “I was hoping,” he told us, “for the chance to explain that. I’m truly sorry that we find ourselves on opposite sides of the issue.”
“It’s a free country,” Pierce told him. “That’s the purpose of public debate.”
“Yes, yes, of course. What I’m trying to say, though, is that in my heart of hearts, I agree with you both, at least on the fundamentals. Like most educated, rational, freethinking Americans, I deplore the very notion of censorship. When the content of reading and viewing material becomes a matter of public policy, we’re all in trouble. When that policy is shaped to reflect moralistic or religious standards, as is often the case in this debate, the situation is all the worse, having veered very far indeed from the enlightened intent of our Founding Fathers.”
Gosh, I thought, I couldn’t have said it better myself. I asked, “Then why did your report take the direction it did?” I wondered, Was he pressured? Was the name Harley Kaiser about to pop up?
No. Tenelli explained, “The committee was charged with addressing a very narrow issue—commercial development of the highway between the city line and the interstate. In our studied opinion, it was an inescapable conclusion that a strip of porn shops on the edge of town simply presents the wrong image to new businesses that may consider relocating to an industrial park being planned for the area. Many on the committee shared my serious reservations about the free-speech implications of the obscenity ordinance, but we ultimately felt that such objections could be judiciously overridden for the sake of Dumont’s economic development—which is precisely the issue we were charged with assessing.”
Pierce said, “I noticed that the report stopped short of specifically recommending beefed-up enforcement of the ordinance.”
“Exactly. There are those who will infer what they will from the report, and that bothers me greatly. Our intent, though, was merely to address the desirability of commercial development along the highway, not the means of achieving it.”
He’d stated his position well. Fingering the rim of my wineglass, I wondered if I myself would have the intellectual flexibility to endorse the same findings if I’d sat on the County Plan Commission. Would I be able to focus on the committee’s stated purpose and draw a pragmatic conclusion, or would I be a slave to my journalistic principles, deciding that the march of commerce was secondary to the rights of a handful of smut peddlers? Tough call.
Pierce told him, “I really appreciate these insights, Ben. I was worried that there might—”
“Who’s here?” lilted a friendly voice, a woman’s voice, interrupting Pierce as the back door swung open. “Why, Sheriff, what a surprise,” she said, entering the kitchen with a single bag of groceries, setting it on a counter near the refrigerator. She wriggled out of her tweedy autumn topcoat, flung it over the back of a barstool, and approached the table.
We all rose. Tenelli kissed her. Pierce kissed her. She waited—I was next—but I didn’t even know the woman. I assumed, of course, that this was Mary Tenelli, the doctor’s wife.
She said, “Okay, Mark—your turn.”
I obliged with a peck. “My pleasure, Mary. How’d you know my name?”
She jerked her head toward the front of the house. “That car—everybody knows that car.” She winked at her husband, who laughed.
Was that a joke? What was I missing? I found it odd that both the doctor and his wife, within moments of meeting me, had mentioned my car. Was it simply too conspicuous for the streets of Dumont? Was I thought pretentious for driving it? Surely the Tenellis, with all their affluence and their worldly tastes, would not begrudge me the delights of an overengineered automobile.
Tenelli asked her, “Care for some wine, Mary? I can open another bottle.”
“Too early for me”—she flicked her hands—“I’d sleep through dinner.” She thought of something: “Did you invite the boys to stay for supper, Ben?”
“Not yet. But I was about to.” He turned to us. “How ’bout it?”
“Thanks, but no,” said Pierce. “There’s a lot going on right now.”
I seconded his thanks, telling the doctor, “Th
at’s awfully kind of you, but I’m expected at home. Perhaps some other time? I’d enjoy it, and I think you’d enjoy meeting my ‘better half,’ Neil Waite.”
“Anytime,” Tenelli told me, clapping an arm over my shoulder.
“We’d love to meet Neil,” echoed Mary. “We’ve heard so much about him.”
I’ll bet.
“Say,” said Tenelli. “You fellas like a good beer now and then, don’t you?”
“Sure,” said Pierce, “but not now, I’m afraid. We really ought to go.”
“Yes, I understand,” the doctor said while sidestepping to a door near the hall. “This’ll be for later. I want you both to take home something special.” He opened the door, switched on a light, and descended the stairs to the basement, calling up to us, “I won’t be a minute.”
Mary fluttered toward the bag of groceries she’d brought home, telling us over her shoulder, “Lord only knows what he’ll find for you down there—he keeps an overstocked kitchen.”
Her statement confused me. We were in the kitchen, weren’t we?
Pierce must have read my puzzled expression, as he explained, “It’s sort of a traditional setup among Italian-American households in this area. They have a second kitchen in the basement, used for serious cooking, for big family events. More often than not, it’s the husband’s domain.”
“That it is,” Mary assured us while arranging on the counter the contents of her shopping bag—bunches of fresh basil and cilantro, fist-size bulbs of garlic, and of course tomatoes—the most gorgeous I’d ever seen. Where had she gotten them? Was there an Italian market in town? While she fussed with all this, we could’ hear the doctor fussing in the basement. There was a clatter of bottles, then the distinct latching sound of a refrigerator door. As his footsteps creaked up the stairs, Mary told us, “It really must be something special if it came from that fridge. He won’t let me near it—claims it’s his own private stash.” She laughed off this territorial eccentricity, doubtless one of many whimsical details that had lent color to their decades of marriage.
“Here we are,” he said, huffing up to the top step, nudging the door closed behind him with his hip. In each hand he carried a six-pack of beer. The odd-size bottles and unfamiliar packaging made it clear that the brew he’d fetched was an exotic import, which I figured would be some boutique German brand—after all, he was snobbishly loyal to French vin, so I assumed his beer would be Bier.
But no. “Chinese,” he said, plunking both six-packs before us on the kitchen’s center island, “I think you’ll really enjoy this. Care to try one now?”
“I’m afraid we—” Pierce started to answer.
“Now, Ben,” Mary scolded without rancor, “the boys can’t dally here, drinking with you. They’re not retired.”
We all laughed—they were such an easy, likable couple. It was twice now that she had referred to Pierce and me as “boys,” and I was surprised to find this diminutive term curiously comforting, perhaps mothering. I didn’t know if the Tenellis had children (who would be about my age), but Mary certainly fit the maternal role, which was underscored by her name as well as by her words.
Mary had also spoken the word dally, which of course had a resonance that was neither comforting nor mothering, not after our protracted discussion of the etymology of dalliance, the word that had flagged our attention in the bogus extortion note, presumably written by Carrol Cantrell’s killer. I had to remind myself that the word was nothing more or less than standard English, available for anyone to use on a moment’s notice. Yes, the term was a tad unusual, a bit outdated, but there was surely no reason to suspect that sweet Mary Tenelli might be the Dumont strangler, a homicidal psychopath. The notion was absurd.
“Thanks a million, Ben,” Pierce was saying as I mulled my rambling thoughts. Hefting his six-pack, he told the doctor, “I’ll put this to good use later tonight.”
Lifting mine, I thanked Tenelli, adding, “I’ll share this with Neil, and we’ll toast you and Mary.” Checking my watch, I told Pierce, “We’d better run.”
“It’s such a pleasant afternoon,” said Tenelli, “I’ll walk you out to the car.”
Mary piped in, “Me too,” and the four of us headed through the house toward the front door. It was a peculiar little procession, not required by etiquette and in fact rather awkward. I couldn’t imagine why the Tenellis seemed so eager to escort us to the car—the weather wasn’t that nice, and they were both in the midst of preparing their evening meal.
Arriving at the curb, Pierce and I stowed our bottled booty on the floor of the backseat, then got into the car. Starting the engine, I lowered my window to bid farewell, expecting the doctor and his wife to retreat into the house. But they just stood there on the parkway, arm in arm, waving at us—you’d have thought we were embarking for Mars. Pulling away from the curb, I returned their wave, feeling downright foolish, and drove a few yards toward the corner. As I passed their driveway, I glanced at the garage. Then I braked.
The garage door was still open, and parked there was a big Bavarian V-8, just like mine, but green.
I looked back at the Tenellis, who were now laughing. The doctor called to me, “Told you we liked it! Ours is brand-new—picked it up yesterday.”
“Enjoy it,” I called back to them. And I drove away. Raising my window, I told Pierce with a laugh, “I guess that explains why they kept yapping about my car.”
“It does,” he agreed. “But it leaves something else unexplained.”
I finished the thought for him: “What was that car doing out at Star-Spangled Video yesterday morning?”
Pierce suggested, “Maybe the good doctor has a taste for smut.”
“Maybe. But then why would he issue a report aimed at shutting down the porn shops?”
Pierce thought for a moment. “It doesn’t add up.”
“No. It doesn’t.”
Wednesday, September 20
WORKING AT MY DESK the next morning, I glanced up from a proof of the Register’s editorial page and noticed Lucille Haring, my managing editor, walking across the newsroom with a willowy, athletic-looking man. He was younger than I, nicely dressed, and they were headed in my direction. Rising from the desk, I met them at the doorway to my outer office.
“Mark,” said Lucy, “I’d like you to meet Lieutenant Daniel Kerr of the sheriff’s department. He was kind enough to agree to meet with me this morning regarding our election endorsement.”
I shook his hand. “Nice to meet you, Lieutenant. Mark Manning.”
“Thank you, Mr. Manning. I appreciate the opportunity to talk, actually.”
His tone was not what I expected. After all, this was the detective who was trying to unseat Sheriff Pierce—his own mentor and one of my best friends. I’d presumed that Deputy Dan would come across as a cocky little guy, but neither his manner nor appearance fit that notion. I wanted to study him a bit more, so I asked Lucy, “Where did you plan to conduct your interview?”
She jerked her head—“Conference room down the hall.”
I suggested, “Why not use my outer office? It’s much more comfortable.”
“Great. You’re the boss.” Reading my intentions, she added, “If you have a few minutes, why don’t you join us?”
I checked my watch and surveyed the activity in the newsroom.
“Well,” I hemmed, “I suppose I could sit in for a while.” With a sweep of my arm, I waved them into the room.
They entered, and the three of us arranged ourselves around the low table. Lucy carried a thick folder of notes, her pen and pad, and a small, black tape recorder. She arrayed these items in front of her and cued up a cassette. Neither Kerr nor I carried anything. I didn’t even have my pen and was tempted to go get it, but resisted, as any note-taking would be inconsistent with my role as the “casual observer.” Kerr did not dress as a cop, but as a businessman, like the sheriff. The deputy’s deep blue suit looked good on him that morning, nicely setting off a thick mop of straight
, dark hair, but the outfit was basically workaday; Kerr may have aspired to the sheriff’s sense of style, but he hadn’t yet attained it. As for me, I’d been caught in my shirtsleeves, cuffs rolled up. I offered, “Coffee, Lieutenant?”
“No, thank you, sir. And please, sir, call me Dan.”
I winced—sir twice. At forty-two, I was barely comfortable with the concept of middle age, and I still stumbled on sir. From a child, fine—but from a thirty-five-year-old detective? Please. “Thanks, Dan. And do call me Mark.”
Lucy got down to business. “As you know, Deputy, the Register endorsed Sheriff Pierce for reelection in last Saturday’s edition. As for our reasoning, that was spelled out clearly enough in the column, which I’m sure you’ve read. However, circumstances have changed considerably since Saturday, and the paper now finds itself in the embarrassing position of needing to reconsider its endorsement.”
As she spoke, I watched Kerr, trying to read his reaction to her words. Granted, we’d called him to this meeting on a false pretext—I had no intention of retracting my endorsement of Pierce, and our real purpose in talking to Kerr was to explore our suspicions that he’d had a hand in planting the extortion note. Unless he was extremely clever, though, he had no reason to doubt Lucy’s words, so I assumed he’d hear her message with a measure of glee—he was getting a second crack at securing the town’s only meaningful endorsement in his bid for local election. But he didn’t appear to gloat in the least. Rather, he listened soberly, hands in his lap, picking at a nasty hangnail that glowed red.
Lucy continued, “Sheriff Pierce has now been implicated in the very murder he was attempting to solve, and as a result, he’s turned over the investigation to you. There’s an irony here, of course, that I’m sure has not escaped you, namely—”
“I know, ma’am,” he interrupted. “It strikes you as fishy that I found the note. I’m Doug’s opponent in the election, and the note has serious implications for the outcome of the election. Look, ma’am, I want to win it—that’s why I’m running—but I want to win it fair and square. I realize that the note looks like high jinks. It slurs Doug, and it makes me look like an opportunist—or worse.” He paused, gathering his thoughts.
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