Name Games

by Michael Craft

  “Can I assume then,” she asked Westerman while adjusting her glasses to read her notes, “that you also serve as the school’s dietitian?”

  “Indeed,” Westerman puffed. “I pride myself as a holistic chef and have developed every aspect of the chill-dren’s menu.”

  Poor kids, I thought, imagining the dreary grub forced on them.

  “Really?” With mock astonishment, Glee removed her glasses. “I had no idea, Miriam—you’re something of a jack-of-all-trades.”

  Westerman beamed. “Actually, more of a Jill,” she corrected Glee with a wink.

  If this was a joke, it was a lame one, so Glee let it pass without comment. Instead she asked, as if she’d just thought of it, “May we see your kitchen? I’d love to see where all this wholesome culinary magic is conjured.”

  “Of course,” Westerman gushed. “I’m flattered that you’d ask.” And she led us through the doorway.

  I half expected to find a fat black cauldron bubbling on a crumbling brick hearth, but the kitchen was new and unremarkable, of utilitarian design, doubtless up to code. There was a big commercial cooktop and ovens, a long stainless-steel sink, and a double-doored refrigerator with windows, its contents lit. Aluminum pots hung from ceiling hooks. Rows of shelving hung from wall brackets. These shelves contained books and dishes, as well as bags of pantry staples like flour and cornmeal. Also displayed there were large clear-glass jars containing…well, weird brown stuff, the type of stuff collected in the woods, like twigs and herbs and dried berries and buds. One of the jars contained leafy things that looked for all the world like bat wings.

  Then I noticed that Glee’s eyes had settled on another row of jars on the room’s opposite wall. Their contents were not the least bit mysterious or unconventional. These jars contained a wide assortment of readily recognizable nuts: walnuts, chestnuts, acorns, pecans, Brazil nuts, hazelnuts, peanuts, cashews, and a smaller jar of precious pine nuts.

  Glee asked, “Do you bake?”

  “It’s a bit of a challenge,” lamented Westerman, “without refined sugar, as nothing really turns out white, but I do my best, and the chill-dren always seem to enjoy my treats.”

  She blabbered on, bestowing baking tips on Glee, who dutifully recorded them in her notes. I was mulling the comment about recipes not turning out white, when I recalled that the cake I’d seen at the crime scene had looked homemade because it seemed so inelegant and unappetizing—and its bland appearance stemmed from its being so brown. No icing, no color, no sheen. If not for its shape, the cake could have passed for a loaf of pumpernickel. Its coarse texture could easily have disguised all manner of nuts, which were stockpiled in potentially lethal quantities right here in Westerman’s kitchen.

  Glee and she had moved to the refrigerator and were peering through its glass doors. I sidled up behind them and nosed over their shoulders. Westerman was crowing about the organic lettuce stored there: “Our greens are fertilized with our own manure.” I made a mental note to steer clear of her salads. “And it would be criminal to pasteurize our milk.” I hoped, for the sake of the kids, that the fridge was cranked to the max.

  Glee tapped her pen on the window. “What’s that, Miriam?”

  “Hmm?”

  “Back there in the corner—it looks like a strongbox.”

  Sure enough, at the bottom of the refrigerator, nestled beneath a clump of grotesque vegetables (rutabaga or something—nothing I’d eat) was a drab green strongbox, which appeared to be locked.

  Westerman responded coyly, “Secret recipes.”

  Glee fished, “Like what?”

  “If I told you, they wouldn’t be secret.”

  That afternoon, I decided to pay Grace Lord a visit. Though she’d been questioned at length about what and whom she’d seen in the environs of the coach house on Sunday, the morning of the murder, I would now try to jog her memory regarding Saturday. Perhaps she could recall something of the arrival of the cake.

  Driving from the Register, I heard the hourly beep of my dashboard clock and recalled that it was time for Denny Diggins. Since his Tuesday show with Miriam Westerman, I’d made a habit of listening daily, wondering if Doug Pierce or I would again be publicly trashed. So I switched on the radio, tapping the button for the local station in time to hear the end of the Chevrolet jingle.

  We’re back, friends. You’re listening to Denny Diggins’ Dumont Digest. And I…am Denny Diggins. As we told you before that important commercial break, our guest this Friday afternoon is none other than Harley Kaiser, Dumont County’s distinguished district attorney. Welcome to the program, Harley. So good of you to take time out of your busy schedule.

  Thanks, Denny. Glad to be here.

  Now, Harley. We all know that the Carrol Cantrell murder investigation has reached something of a critical stage. We’re also aware that you’re limited in your ability to speak of these matters, in light of your esteemed position. I wonder, though, if you could share your feelings about the investigation.

  I’m, uh, not quite sure what you mean, Denny.

  I’m referring to the—shall we say?—more “sensational” aspects of this story. And there are indeed many: the murder itself, the now acknowledged sexual liaison between the victim and Sheriff Pierce, the sheriff’s possible implication in the murder, the reassignment of the investigation to Deputy Kerr. The list goes on and on. Have these many—shall we say?—“wrinkles” been an obstacle to your pursuit of justice?

  Of course. An investigation of this nature is never easy, but I must say, this particular go-round has proven particularly vexing. Are you aware that there’s new evidence to suggest that the victim may not have died of strangulation after all?

  Ooooo! Really? Why no, I’m not aware of that development. But then, where would I learn of it, Harley, if not from you? The Register has certainly been mum on all this.

  The press has its own agenda, Denny.

  By “the press,” I assume you refer only to the Register, Harley. Dumont Digest has no agenda beyond the education of an informed citizenry, which—

  Yeah, Denny, whatever.

  So tell us: What are these new developments regarding the cause of death?

  It would be premature of me to speak publicly on that issue, but information should be available very soon. In fact, when I leave the studio today, I’m going directly to meet with Vernon Formhals.

  Ooooo, the coroner—how delicious! Then what?

  Then things should start to move fairly fast. Sheriff Pierce may well have cause to worry. That’s all I can say right now.

  You’re such a tease, Harley. Well then, since we still have plenty of airtime to fill, would you care to talk a bit about…obscenity?

  Denny, I thought you’d never ask.

  As our listeners know, this is a nasty issue that just won’t seem to go away. In spite of the county board’s finest efforts to stamp out trash at our doorstep, mounting a worthy crusade that reflects the good, decent values of a smut-weary populace, next week’s obscenity trial has been maligned…

  I’d heard enough—besides, I’d arrived at Grace Lord’s miniatures store, The Nook. So I pulled to the curb and cut the engine, silencing Denny Diggins.

  The normally quiet side street was busy that afternoon, as the convention of the Midwest Miniatures Society was scheduled to open there the next morning. Exhibitors had returned to put finishing touches on their booths in the converted Rexall store adjacent to The Nook, so the bustle of activity outside both stores had reached a fever pitch. Getting out of the car and crossing the street toward the hubbub, I realized I’d picked a bad time for a chat with Grace—her mind was surely far from the murder right now.

  Even as I thought this, I saw her emerge from the front door of the shop, carrying some supplies, answering questions asked by others who were headed in. Though I could not hear her, her mood seemed chipper—if she felt any jitters about the impending opening of the show she was hosting, she hid them well. I noticed too
that she was headed in the direction of her house, so as luck would have it, I might be able to spend a few minutes alone with her.

  Quickening my pace, I approached her from behind, calling, “Need some help with that, Grace?”

  She stopped, turned, and broke into her usual impish smile, surprised to see me. “It seems you’re always around to lend a hand when I need it,” she said, handing me some of her things—a box containing markers and tape, and several big sheets of bristol board. She’d been lettering posters to guide visitors around the exhibit hall, and these were leftover supplies.

  “Going home?”

  “Just for a while. Need to put my feet up a bit.” She began walking toward the house again. “But there’s plenty left to do before tomorrow.”

  “Could you use some company?” I was already following her. “I’d like to talk to you about something.”

  “Sure, Mark—always time for you.”

  A few minutes later, we were settled on her back porch, sitting in yellow canvas chairs drinking coffee from white ceramic mugs. She apologized for the strong brew—it had been reheated and was in fact pretty bad—but the warmth of the cup felt good on my hands. It was another chilly day, and it seemed odd to be sitting outdoors. Why not go inside?

  As if reading my mind, she answered, “Not many decent days left now—looks like we might have an early winter. It’s good to enjoy the sunny weather while we can.” She was right, of course, and I felt mildly ashamed—while I’d focused on the cold, she saw the sunshine. From that perspective, it was a beautiful day, and the setting was nearly idyllic. That rolling backyard, the huge old trees freshly brushed with autumn color, the quaint charm of the coach house just a few yards down the red-brick path—it didn’t look like a murder scene.

  But it was, and that’s why I was there. “Grace,” I began with a touch of reticence, “I know you’ve been over this again and again—what you saw on the morning of the murder—but I thought of a new angle and wonder if you’d humor me by answering a few more questions.”

  She didn’t need coaxing. “Look, Mark. Sheriff Pierce is in trouble, and we need to help him—I know that’s your main concern. If you need me, I’m happy to help. What would you like to know?”

  Grateful for her cooperation, I gave her a warm smile, leaned forward, and reached to pat her hand. She grasped my fingers and gave them a solid shake, as if to assure me that everything was going to be all right. Settling back into my chair, I sipped the coffee (it tasted better now) and then said, “You’ve told us a lot about the activity in and around the coach house last weekend, but so far, these discussions have centered on Sunday morning.”

  She nodded. “The day of the murder.”

  “Right. But we’re working with a new theory now: Maybe Mr. Cantrell wasn’t strangled. He may have been poisoned.”

  “Oh, dear,” Grace gasped, sloshing a bit of coffee over the edge of her mug, then brushing the few drops from her jeans with the back of her free hand.

  “If our theory is correct, the killer didn’t visit the coach house on Sunday morning, but earlier, probably Saturday. And we haven’t yet detailed what you saw or heard that day.”

  “Oh, Lord,” she said, wagging her head slowly. “I’ve been concentrating so hard on Sunday, I’m not sure I can even remember any details about Saturday. Things were busy all weekend with the setup and all—and Carrol had lots of visitors.”

  “I know, Grace. Let me see if I can refresh your memory. I myself dropped by on Saturday morning and went upstairs. I hadn’t planned to, but I did. Did you happen to see me?”

  She thought, but not long, before turning to ask through a quizzical expression, “You weren’t alone, though, were you? You were with Harley Kaiser and that Miriam woman.”

  Big smile. “That’s absolutely right. The only reason I went up to the coach house at all is because I ran into them on the street and they told me they’d come to see Carrol. I couldn’t imagine what they wanted with him, so I tagged along.”

  “What did they want?”

  “I still don’t know, or at least I’m not sure.” I didn’t want to tip Grace off regarding my suspicions, as that could color her memory of the day’s events. So I simply said, “Now that you have a frame of reference for Saturday morning, I wonder if you can specifically recall any other visitors who came to the coach house later that day.”

  Without hesitation, she asked, “You mean visitors other than Miriam?”

  My breathing stopped for a moment. I asked, “When you say ‘other than Miriam,’ are you referring to her morning visit, along with Harley Kaiser and me?”

  “No!” Grace laughed as if I were dense. “I’m talking about later that afternoon, when she came back with that cake.”

  Kettle drums. Fanfares. The heavens resounded with angelic choirs. “You saw her? You saw her bring the cake?”

  “Sure.” Grace shrugged. “It was in a box. I heard her clomping up the stairs with it. That’s why I happened to look out from the kitchen window. Carrol wasn’t upstairs then—he was probably over at the hall—so Miriam just left it there on the porch. So what?”

  I sputtered, “Why…why didn’t you mention this before?”

  “No one asked about Saturday. No one seemed to think it was important.”

  Laughing at the gravity of this overlooked detail, I stood, pacing the porch. I wasn’t sure how much to tell Grace, assuming she wouldn’t understand the whole business of the nut allergy, the possibility of anaphylactic shock. Then it clicked—she was a trained pharmacist. Grace surely had greater background knowledge of Cantrell’s condition than I did.

  I crossed to her chair and rested a hand on her shoulder, explaining, “Carrol may have died from anaphylactic shock. The symptoms would be indistinguishable from those of asphyxiation.”

  Grace stared blankly into space, then raised her fingers to her mouth, stunned. “Good God,” she said softly, her tone analytical and unemotional. “The nut allergy, the bracelet, the EpiPen. Carrol and I discussed his condition thoroughly before I cooked anything for him. When the cake appeared, I cautioned him not to eat it—there was no way to be sure what was in it. But when I told him it had come from Miriam, he decided it was safe. He ate some of it, and he gave me some too. He assured me that he’d already mentioned his allergy to Miriam.”

  “Indeed he did,” I recalled.

  Grace looked up at me. “But why? She had no reason…”

  “It’s complicated, but she had her reasons.”

  “I’ll tell you something else.” The perplexity in Grace’s features vanished as her face wrinkled with disgust. “That woman bakes a damn lousy cake.”

  Tearing back downtown, I used my car phone to call Doug Pierce at the sheriff’s department, but learned from the dispatcher that he’d just gone over to see me at the Register. I was eager to tell him what I’d just learned, but it could wait till I arrived at my office—we could brainstorm the situation with Lucille Haring and Glee Savage as well.

  Turning onto Park Street, whisking past the succession of avenues that led to downtown, I glimpsed my reflection in the rearview mirror and was surprised to note that a wide grin had contorted my features. I was actually gloating. We now had an eyewitness who’d seen someone deliver to the victim a cake that could have been concocted to kill him. And that “someone” was none other than Miriam Westerman. Too bad, I mused, that Wisconsin had no death penalty. Though philosophically opposed to capital punishment, in this instance I’d be happy to set aside my reservations and volunteer for switch duty.

  Arriving at First Avenue, I saw that Pierce’s tan, unmarked car was parked at the curb near the Register’s front door. I swung into my reserved space behind the building, dashed inside, and raced through the lobby toward the stairs.

  “Yoo-hoo, Mr. Manning,” Connie warbled at me from her window.

  I turned long enough to tell her, “I know, Connie—the sheriff’s waiting for me. Thanks.” And I bounded up the stairs into the n
ewsroom.

  The pace upstairs was brisk. Not only were there two big local stories (the murder investigation and next week’s obscenity trial) being followed by the staff, but it was the middle of Friday afternoon, with a slew of weekly sections being wrapped up for the thick Sunday edition. The ring of phones seemed magnified. The milling of staff looked chaotic. But to anyone accustomed to the approach of a “bulldog” deadline, the scene in the city room was merely business as usual.

  Across the maze of desks, behind the glass wall of my outer office, I could see Pierce huddled around the low table with Lucy and Glee. Whatever it was he’d come for, they were already at it. Rushing to join them, I entered the room, closing the door behind me. “What’s up?”

  They all turned from where they sat.

  “Hi, Mark.”

  “Hey, boss.”

  “Grab a chair.”

  Joining them at the table, I saw that Pierce had brought photos of the scarf found at the crime scene, as I had asked him to do the previous afternoon. But it wasn’t the pictures that occupied their attention at that moment. Rather, it was the half-eaten bag of Chee-Zee Corn Curleez that Pierce had torn open and planted in the middle of the table. The sheriff, my managing editor, and my features editor all had sticky orange fingertips. My mouth immediately watered.