Holmes Sweet Holmes

by Dan Andriacco

  “Don’t try to bullshit me, Mr. Cody. Chief Hummel isn’t going to tell me anything I won’t see on TV4 Action News. And he wasn’t there during the murder - but you were. Plus, you’re the official spokesman for the college. I have a right as a member of the campus media to ask you questions and get truthful answers.”

  “Any answers you get will be truthful, Sylvester, you can be sure of that. Maybe I can help you get a story that will make you look good when you try to get a job as an intern reporter instead of a clerk at the Hammond Times next summer.”

  “Maybe that wouldn’t hurt,” he acknowledged with a rare grin. “Now, what was the purpose of this dinner with the man who purported to be Peter Gerard?”

  “Social. Gerard is speaking on campus tonight and he arrived early - or so we thought. It seemed that a nice dinner would be a classy way to welcome him to campus.”

  “And who’s idea was that?”

  I had to think a minute before I could say, “Professor McCabe.”

  Sylvester didn’t have to ask who that was. Sometimes I thought everybody on campus knew my bagpipe-playing brother-in-law. “And what was Professor McCabe’s connection with Peter Gerard?”

  I didn’t like the way he pounced on that, but there wasn’t much I could do with the question but answer it.

  “The popular culture program and the film society are sponsoring Mr. Gerard’s lecture tonight. Besides, Professor McCabe and Mr. Gerard are old friends.”

  “And yet the professor didn’t spot this Rodney Stonecipher as a phony right away?”

  “Old friends from graduate school,” I explained. “They don’t go bowling every week.” It would be amusing to see Mac try it, though.

  “You realize an incident like this is bound to raise anxieties on campus - a murderer on the loose, potentially someone from outside the St. Benignus community. What has the administration done -”

  Da da da DA, DA da da. Indiana Jones again. I pulled out my iPhone and, seeing Sebastian McCabe’s picture filling the screen, decided to answer it.

  “Cody here.”

  “McCabe here, Jefferson. I am in my office. Sitting in front of me is a visitor I am confident you will wish to meet.”

  “Not now, Mac. I’m a little busy with the murder.” I was trying to be patient, not my strong suit.

  “This is an old friend of mine from Bloomington.”

  I almost missed it. Bloomington is the home of Indiana University, where Mac went to grad school with -

  Peter Gerard.

  “I see. Well, if it’s that important to you, I’ll be over.”

  I disconnected and stood up, paying no attention to the little symbol indicating I had a message waiting for me. “Sorry, Sylvester, but I have to go. Your fifteen minutes was up five minutes ago anyway.”

  “It’s not up until you answer me, Mr. Cody. What is the administration doing to ensure that nothing like this happens again? The real Peter Gerard is still alive. Another attempt on his life could result in somebody else getting killed in the crossfire.”

  The first thing a spokesman has to do in a situation where people are hurting is to show empathy. But it can’t be phony. If you don’t mean what you say that will be about as obvious as a cheap toupee.

  “Father Pirelli and everyone in the administration are deeply upset about Mr. Stonecipher’s death,” I said, edging toward the door. “Our prayers are with him, his family, and his friends. And we recognize the concern that this tragedy has caused everyone on campus. You can be sure that Campus Security has been tightened and will be especially stringent for Mr. Gerard’s lecture this evening, with additional support from the Erin police.”

  Sylvester gave a wry look. “Sounds good, anyway.”

  I thought so, too. Now all I had to do was get in touch with Campus Security and make sure it was also true.

  Peter Gerard & Co.

  I was right about Peter Gerard: The genuine article was taller than the ersatz model, say about an inch above my six-one. He also had hazel eyes rather than brown, his jaw line was squarer than that of the man who had died, and he smiled more readily. But they both had dirty blond hair and a darker mustache-goatee combo. The resemblance was remarkable.

  The weird feeling that I’d met this man before and yet hadn’t distracted me for maybe five seconds from the other stranger in the office. She was a woman in her early twenties with chestnut hair worn in lavish waves around her pretty face. She had full red lips, ample makeup expertly applied, and a perfect nose. Gold earrings in the shape of fish dangled from a pair of delicate lobes, setting off a rich chocolate and gold dress that didn’t come from Wal-Mart.

  “This is my executive assistant, Quandra Hall,” Peter Gerard said.

  She smiled easily and took my hand for a vigorous shake. This was extraordinarily pleasant while it lasted, but the circumstances kept introductions brief and small talk to a minimum.

  “It’s hard to believe an awful thing like this really happened,” Gerard said. He didn’t write very original dialogue for himself in real life. Whereas his double of the night before had a flat Midwest accent, Gerard’s natural voice retained echoes of New Orleans - not as strong as in 221B Bourbon Street, where he exaggerated it, but noticeable. Apparently he had suppressed that regional trace altogether in his other films.

  “Then there’s no one who would be particularly joyous to see you deceased?” Mac said, fiddling with a cigar.

  “I don’t think so, Mac. But who would I suspect if this were a novel or a film? My wife? No, she loves me. My business partner? No, he doesn’t love me, but he needs me. It’s a mystery to me.”

  “I wish you wouldn’t take this so lightly, Peter,” Quandra Hall said, an appealing note of concern in her cool voice. “It’s a miracle that you’re not dead today instead of talking and breathing and smiling like that.”

  “The thought had crossed my mind,” her boss replied. “But maybe it’s really no miracle. Maybe whoever killed that poor guy knew just what he was doing - wasn’t after me at all.”

  “The victim didn’t seem to have any enemies, either, so far as the police can tell,” I said. I repressed the temptation to blurt out here what I suspected about Double Takes. “I spent the better part of the morning talking with the chief.”

  Mac raised an eyebrow. “You surprise me, Jefferson.”

  That alone meant the day wouldn’t be a total loss, no matter what happened later.

  “Nobody can be loved by everybody,” Quandra said, “not even a charming man like you, Peter. What about Carl Janzig?”

  “That was settled long ago.”

  “For you it was. Maybe not for him.”

  Mac waved his cigar. “This Janzig - the name is familiar. But I can’t quite place him.”

  “We were in a theatrical troupe together right out of college,” Gerard said. “After my film Whodunnit? became an unexpected hit, he sued me, claiming I’d stolen an idea he’d told me about years before. My lawyers wanted to settle out of court, but I wouldn’t let them. I wasn’t going to pay blackmail to a leech like that. We let a jury decide. Carl didn’t get a penny.”

  “If you don’t call that an enemy, I’d hate to see who shows up at your birthday parties,” I said.

  “Carl is greedy or unbalanced or maybe both,” Gerard said. “At least, he was back then. But it’s hard to picture him as a killer.”

  “What about all the Sherlockians who were appalled by your movie,” I suggested. “I know it sounds far-fetched, but maybe one of them went over the edge. There are more than a few Looney Tunes in every crowd.”

  Quandra looked at her boss. “You did get a lot of hate mail over that movie.”

  He shrugged. “I think you’re right, Jeff - it is far-fetched.”

  “Do you realize how extraordinary this is, Peter?” Mac bo
omed. “You’re standing here in my office” - there was too much flotsam and jetsam in the place for three visitors to sit - “discussing possible solutions to ‘your own’ murder! That is a pleasure granted to few.”

  “Almost like a movie,” Gerard said with a laugh. But it was a short laugh, strangled at birth when he realized what he’d said. “It wouldn’t make a bad film at that, would it? But if this were a film I wouldn’t just be theorizing and talking about it. I’d investigate. I’d find the murderer, wouldn’t I?”

  “Well, if you did, you’d certainly get a lot of publicity,” I said with malice aforethought.

  Peter Gerard looked at me with steel in his hazel eyes. “I’ve never been opposed to that. Good press has a lot to do with where I am today. The more I think about it, the more the idea of solving ‘my own’ murder appeals to me.”

  Oh, great. I’d really been hoping for that - another damned dime detective on the loose.

  “It is only fair to alert you,” said Mac, “that I have the same intention.” And you’re not the only one, Mac. “Welcome to the game!”

  Gerard gave a theatrical little bow, but he didn’t seem to me all that happy about sharing the spotlight. After that, nobody said anything for a while until Quandra spoke up with an abrupt change of subject.

  “I find this a rather charming town, despite the tragedy last night. I’d really like to see more of it. I was wondering, Mr. Cody, if you might be free to show me around a bit before the lecture?”

  “Jeff,” I corrected absently while I pondered the choice before me. I was being offered a chance to talk to Quandra Hall away from her boss and see if maybe she had a different take on this case than she was willing to share in front of him. On the other hand she was a young, attractive, female and I was sort of spoken for, in an unspoken way.

  What would Max Cutter do?

  “Certainly,” I said. “The Visitors Bureau would be proud of me. How about if I pick you up around six-thirty at your hotel and we’ll grab some dinner?” Dinner at a restaurant should be safe, being a public place and all. This was just business, like interviewing a source. Lynda would understand. Wouldn’t she? Lynda! OMG, she had called me and I hadn’t called her back. I’d better remedy that ASAP.

  “Marvelous,” Quandra said. “We’re at the Winfield.”

  “Don’t overdress. This is Erin.”

  Peter Gerard looked at his watch. “We’d better get back to the Winfield right now. I need to freshen up and make a few calls before the lecture. I’ll have room service. Mac, it was great seeing you again.” He held out a hand.

  Mac grabbed it and said, “It has been far too long, Peter.”

  “Before you go,” I said, interrupting the love fest, “I have a question.” To me it was the most obvious question of all, and I was shocked that Mac hadn’t already asked it. “How is it that Rodney Stonecipher was here instead of you last night? I mean, why didn’t you show up for the dinner?”

  “That’s simple enough. I was never invited. I knew nothing about a dinner last night.”

  That was simple, all right - but a bombshell. I gaped at Mac, knowing he’d made all the arrangements with Gerard himself. Or at least I had thought so.

  “This appears to be something we should take up with the inimitable Miss Guildenstern,” Mac rumbled. “Unfortunately, she went home with a headache shortly after I took up a little bagpipe practice.”

  Mac turned to his old friend. “Peter, I must urge caution this evening especially. If someone were trying to kill you last night, that person might strike again. And a man at a lecture podium would make an excellent target.”

  Rain Check

  I ate trail mix and yogurt at my desk and spent the rest of the afternoon with a telephone growing out of my ear.

  There was the matter of security arrangements, for starters.

  “So you think maybe we ought to show up at this Peter Gerard lecture because somebody might be trying to kill him, huh?” Oscar Hummel said. “Now, why the hell didn’t I think of that? I’m too damned stupid maybe?”

  “Spare me the sarcasm, Oscar. I didn’t call you to -”

  “The forces of law and order are deeply grateful to you for helping us poor, dumb cops, Jeff,” he droned one. “The dark forces of evil, on the other hand -”

  I hung up, feeling reasonably satisfied. Oscar would get over his peevishness, eventually, and I had done my duty. But I was more circumspect when I called Lieutenant Ed Decker at Campus Security.

  “Do you have enough people to handle the ghouls and thrill-seekers that are going to show up for Peter Gerard tonight?” I asked. “And whatever else might come up?” Like maybe the Grim Reaper.

  “We’re covered, Cody. Chief Hummel and I worked it out: Our people will handle traffic and crowd control while the Erin force guards Gerard.”

  “I knew you’d be on top of it, Ed. I just wanted you to know that I’m sure you don’t have to worry about busting your budget if you have to hire some extra help - not that I assumed you need it, you understand.”

  “It’s okay. I can see the lay of the land here and I appreciate the pickle you’re in. But be careful about what you say to Chief Hummel. I get the idea some of the national media hit him pretty hard with the ‘How are you going to protect Peter Gerard’ question and he’s kind of touchy about it.”

  “Thanks for the warning. See you tonight.”

  I scowled at my messy desk. Yellow slips of paper, each announcing an urgent phone message, seemed to be spread all over it. They were from Oscar’s friends in the big city media - not a single one of which I’d called back. I hadn’t been stonewalling, only preoccupied, but just try to tell that to a reporter who’s missed a deadline. And putting it off would only make it worse later. So I hunkered down to do my call-backs.

  The New York Times reporter was the worst.

  “What kind of game are you playing?” she demanded. “I’ve been calling you all day.”

  “So have five other newspapers, one cable network, one syndicated television news program, one radio station, and a website. I just got to your place in line.”

  “Nobody’s in line ahead of The New York Times!”

  “In Erin, Ohio, they are. Now, how can I help you?”

  There wasn’t really much help I could give any of the reporters - except, of course, my eyewitness account of events surrounding the party. But my job was to stay on message about how our security arrangements were going to keep Peter Gerard’s head on his shoulders (long enough, at least, for him to give his lecture and praise the St. Benignus popular culture program).

  Ten times around the track with that routine, plus explaining why most of the questions asked weren’t even on my turf, ate up more than three hours. By the time I’d fooled around for another half-hour with the latest version of our online campus resource list - which listed Sebastian McCabe as an expert in five subjects - I was ready to head home.

  Popcorn was already gone and I was just hitting the light switch when the office phone rang.

  The hell with it. I don’t mind stretching my work day beyond eight hours; I do it more often than not. But I was exhausted from the stress of the day and I had to pick up Quandra in an hour and a half, which was also college business. Okay, I was expecting it to be enjoyable business, but I still considered it to be on the clock.

  Whoever was calling was certainly persistent. It’s probably Sylvester Link again, I thought. I hate phones that ring and ring. I glared at it, but that didn’t make it stop. How many times did our phones ring before they dumped the call into voicemail? The phone number showing on the Caller ID display seemed somehow familiar, but I couldn’t place it. Finally I gave up and yanked the receiver off the hook. “Cody here.”

  “Officer Cody? This is Lem Carpenter. You know, from Double Takes?”

  So the m
an with the raspy voice had assumed I was a cop because I’d said I was calling from the Erin police. Hey, it wasn’t my duty to correct him.

  “Oh, yes. Thanks for calling back.”

  “Listen, if this is about that parking ticket -”

  “It’s a little more serious than that, I’m afraid. Could I stop by your business a little later?” Getting to dinner on time with an attractive young woman, even if it was college business, suddenly seemed less important.

  “My home is my business. I’ll be here all night.”

  He gave me the address. It was in a more rural part of the county, but still no more than fifteen minutes from where I live in Mac’s carriage house. I decided I could pedal home to shower and shave, swing by Lem Carpenter’s place for a half-hour interview, and still make it to the Winfield by six-thirty.

  I was in the showering part of the program when my land line rang. Why does it always ring when I’m in the bathroom, no matter what I’m doing in there? I wrapped a towel around me, ran into the bedroom, dripping soap and water all the way, and ripped the receiver out of its cradle.

  “Yes!”

  “Well, I knew I’d eventually track you down.”

  Oh, crap! Normally I’d be thrilled to hear that throaty voice, but not when I’d forgotten to call her back.

  “I’m sorry, ma’am,” I said, “but I don’t respond to telephone solicitations.”

  “If I were soliciting you, I wouldn’t be doing it on the phone. You’re sounding very evasive, Jeff.” You journalists are such a suspicious lot. “Why didn’t you call me back? You’re not trying to hide something from me, are you?”

  I looked down at myself. “Believe me, in my current attire, I couldn’t be hiding anything. What did you have in mind?” I waited for the risqué comment that didn’t come.

  “I don’t know. You didn’t, for instance, find another body, did you?”