Holmes Sweet Holmes

by Dan Andriacco

  I raised my voice at that. “Then why the hell are you sitting there doing card tricks instead of detecting something?” Somebody had to set a rocket up Mac’s rear, and I seemed to be drafted for the job.

  “Misdirection,” he mused. “It is the principle of almost all magic tricks. I have a feeling we are being misdirected in this case, Jefferson. The more bizarre circumstances of the murder have caused you to overlook a prosaic but vital question, and I will wager that Oscar and Peter have missed it as well.”

  He leaned forward. “Who called Peter Gerard on the telephone that night? Was it someone who really wanted to talk to Peter or someone who knew that it would be Rodney Stonecipher answering the phone under his name?”

  “The crazy thing is, neither one seems likely on the face of it,” I pointed out. “Not many people knew that Gerard was supposedly going to be there - just those of us who were there and anybody we may have mentioned it to. And Rodney Stonecipher didn’t seem to have any friends he would have told, from what little Oscar was able to find out about the guy.”

  “That is what so intrigues me. It is unlikely that anyone would have called Peter at that location last night - and yet, someone did. And Rodney Stonecipher died while he was on the telephone. Whichever man was the intended victim, the phone caller could have been luring him into that room to be killed.”

  “Or the caller could be innocent,” I pointed out, “which would fit in better with the unpremeditated look of the crime.”

  Mac nodded. “Of course. Our task is to determine which.”

  “So . . . have you done anything about that besides think great thoughts?” I only meant it as a dig, but he surprised me.

  “I have not been idle, old boy.” He began searching frantically in the paperwork jungle of his desk. “It is here somewhere. Ah, yes.”

  He handed me a copy of that morning’s Observer & News Ledger, turned to the classified ad section. Circled in red was this ad:

  DID YOU CALL 555-2761 WEDNESDAY EVENING? YOU COULD HAVE VALUABLE INFORMATION! PLEASE CALL PROFESSOR MCCABE AT 555-9411 BY DAY OR 555-0126 EVENINGS.

  “The first draft said ‘important,’ but I changed it to ‘valuable,’” Mac said. “That seems to imply an exchange of currency without committing us to it. As the Master said, ‘The press, Watson, is a most valuable institution - ’”

  “‘ - if only you know how to use it.’ Yeah, I know: ‘The Adventure of the Six Napoleons.’” I’d been through that in the last case. “I realize that an ad in the newspaper is one of the classic methods of Sherlock Holmes - and Nero Wolfe, too, for that matter. But, and don’t tell Lynda I said this, not everybody reads The Erin Observer & News Ledger.”

  “That is why I put the same ad in The Spectator, as well as in the online editions of both newspapers. I also tweeted, blogged, and Facebooked it, which you would know if you hadn’t exercised the ‘Hide’ function for my Facebook posts, miscalculating that I would never know.”

  No human being can read everything you write, Mac. “But you don’t expect whoever made that call to get in contact with us if he or she is somehow in league with the murderer, do you?”

  “Indeed I do not. A lack of response to the advertisement will be a good indication that the caller was not innocent, for an innocent person would come forward. Even in that eventuality, the ad might have a positive effect. The mere knowledge that we are pursuing this line of inquiry could cause the murderer to make an unwise move out of panic - an attempt on my life, for example.”

  “Sebastian McCabe on the case,” I said bitterly. “Why didn’t you just put my name in the ad and throw in where your kids go to school for good measure? Or do you want to be the only one killed?”

  “You forget that we will be forewarned, unlike the unfortunate Mr. Stonecipher. The cliché assures us that is tantamount to being forearmed.”

  “I thought you hated clichés. What if he or she - the caller - doesn’t see the ad in any of those multiple platforms?”

  “It always worked for Sherlock Holmes. Besides, have you ever attempted to sell something with a classified advertisement or on craigslist? The difficult part is answering all the calls. As to the ‘he or she,’ we ought to ask Karl Hoffer about the gender since he answered the phone first. Perhaps he could even tell us something about the voice that -”

  The intercom buzzed. “Yes, Heidi?”

  “There’s a young lady here to see you. She doesn’t have an appointment, Professor, but she insists -”

  The door flew open.

  “Why Did Rodney Die?”

  In barged a chunky African-American woman, about thirty, dressed in a rust-colored pullover sweater and faded jeans, carrying a denim purse. She had short hair, a round face the color of coffee, and a determined expression.

  “I’m here to see Professor McCabe,” she announced in a strong, clear voice.

  Mac stood. “I am Sebastian McCabe. This is Thomas Jefferson Cody. And you are who?”

  “Chickory Williams, but that doesn’t matter. I’m here about Rodney Stonecipher.”

  Mac looked at me in triumph, then back to our visitor. “You saw my advertisement?”

  “What? Was it something about Rodney?” She shook her head without waiting for an answer. “I didn’t see any ad about Rodney. I’m here because I thought maybe you could tell me something about how he died and why. I mean, since you were there when it happened and you hired him to play Peter Gerard.”

  So she knew.

  The news that someone besides me and Lem Carpenter could connect Mac with Rodney’s charade at the Faculty Club - a situation that I had been fearing since I found out - gave me a cold feeling in the center of my gut.

  “Have a seat, Ms. Williams,” Mac said, lowering himself into his chair again. He lit a cigar. “How did you come to know my name?”

  “From Rodney,” she said simply, leaning forward a little in the chair. “He told me about this job he was hired for, some kind of a prank, and he happened to mention your name as the one who was paying for it. He thought that was kind of cool because he’d read your mystery books. I remembered that after it happened, the murder, when I saw your name in the newspaper as being there that night.”

  “Strange that he would have told you that,” I said. “We understood that he was practically a recluse, a man without friends.”

  She trained her wide brown eyes on me like a searchlight. “No. I was his friend. We worked together.”

  “Then perhaps you can tell us about him,” Mac said.

  “I was hoping you could tell me some things, such as why he died and whether Peter Gerard should have died instead.”

  “That, of course, is the crux of the entire matter,” Mac said, “and the only one who really knows the answer to your question is the murderer. The police are without opinion at this point. Mr. Cody and I are inclined to think the murderer knew he or she was killing Rodney Stonecipher.”

  Chickory Williams rolled her eyes to the back of her head, an exaggerated display of impatience that reminded me of Lynda. “You’re talking without saying anything. Look, Rodney went out on a job for you and he died. I think maybe there’s a connection between those two facts.”

  “There may well be some kind of a connection,” Mac acknowledged. “However, so far as I know, I am not it. I indirectly hired Mr. Stonecipher, through the company called Double Takes, to impersonate Peter Gerard for reasons I would rather not make public. I knew his real identity, yet I did not know him in any meaningful sense. I only met him the day he died. I had no possible reason for wish him harm. On the contrary, I now have good reasons for attempting to unmask his killer.”

  “That’s a job for the police.”

  “Then why are you here?”

  She looked down. “I guess I feel guilty because I encouraged him to do this Double Takes thing. Rodn
ey told me some guy who looked like Willie Nelson was trying to talk him into this crazy job where he would pretend to be Peter Gerard. Rodney didn’t want to do it, but I said he should give it a shot. Off-beat as the whole thing sounded, I thought it might do Rodney some good, sort of like therapy, to get out of himself and his problems for a while.”

  “Just what were his problems?” I asked.

  “It was all mental, or grew out of that. I don’t know the details, but something happened to him when he was working on his master’s degree in psychology at UC. He took some drug during a party at a dorm and just freaked out. He had heavy-duty anxiety attacks for years, was even hospitalized for it a couple of times. His marriage broke up and he quit graduate school. He told me once he even had his thesis written, but he just fell apart and never submitted it. When I tried to talk him into going back to school, he said he just couldn’t face it, like maybe he’d done something he wasn’t proud of - not the drugs or the breakdown, something else.”

  “You said you worked together,” Mac said. “Was that at the group home?”

  “Not at the home, but in connection with it. I’m a rehabilitation counselor for Sussex County Social Services. I set the goals and plans for rehab clients. Rodney’s job was to help the clients in his group home carry out the plans - he was a certified mental health technician.”

  “But you said he had mental problems of his own,” I blurted out.

  “Don’t we all?” she said dryly. “A lot of people get into the mental health field as a result of their own crisis, Mr. Cody. Rodney was still struggling, but he was well enough to help other people.”

  “Your relationship with Mr. Stonecipher was obviously more than just professional,” Mac said. “He shared confidences with you, at least to a degree. Would you say you were close friends?”

  “We saw each other a lot and we talked a lot. Rodney needed somebody to talk to, and sometimes I did, too. But if you’re thinking what I think you’re thinking, don’t think it.”

  Mac was apologetic. “I had no intention of getting so personal. I merely wondered if you were familiar enough with Rodney’s circle of acquaintances to tell me whether he knew anyone else who was at the dinner the night he died.”

  Chickory Williams shook her head. “I read in the paper the names of those who were there and only one of them meant anything to me.”

  “Ah-ha,” Mac pounced. “And which name was that?”

  “Sebastian McCabe.”

  With no more reaction than a muted grunt, Mac rose, opened the window, and threw out the remainder of his cigar. When he turned to face Chickory Williams again, his face was solemn.

  “Ms. Williams, I do you the compliment of speaking frankly about the precarious position in which I find myself. The knowledge that brought you here - my connection with Mr. Stonecipher - is information the police do not have. I request that you not tell them.”

  She was understandably wary. “Why shouldn’t I? I’m a good citizen.”

  “Because when they learn that I, in essence, hired your friend, they will begin to suspect that I also killed him. Their suspicion in that regard will only be enhanced by the fact that I kept silent about my involvement. That suspicion will throw the police off the track of the real murderer, conceivably to the point of my own incarceration. And if I wind up in jail that will disable my own attempts to investigate Mr. Stonecipher’s death.”

  “I guess that’s just about what a clever killer would say. If the police come to suspect you, maybe it’s because there’s a good reason.”

  Mac slowly crossed the few feet to Chickory Williams and looked her in the eyes. “Do you really believe that?”

  She sighed and stood up, purse clutched in her hand. “No, I guess not. I can’t think of any reason why you’d want to kill Rodney, Professor McCabe - or why anyone would. So, okay, I’ll play it your way. I won’t go to the police, at least for now. But you’ve got to help me. You’ve got to answer the question that brought me here: Why did Rodney die?”

  Hardball with Ralph

  I was just walking into my office when my cell phone rang. Well, it didn’t actually ring. It played Boléro. Lynda’s smiling face showed on the screen. This was her second call of the day, and I was still basking in the afterglow of beating Mac to the punch with the information she had given me about last night’s pseudo-shooter.

  “Is this going to be business or pleasure?” I asked.

  “For which one of us?” I was still groping for a witty and suggestive response to that when she went on: “It’s always a pleasure talking to you, Jeff, but this is the journalist calling. I’m wondering about a certain ad placed in my newspaper by one Sebastian McCabe. What the heck is he up to now?”

  “Why don’t you ask him?”

  “Because he doesn’t love me like you do.”

  Nobody does, my darling. “Hey, that’s not fair. We’ve already established this is a business call.”

  “Come on, Jeff. I told you what I found out about that Geoffrey Kenlake guy. I’d appreciate a little quid pro quo.”

  I thought a moment. Who did I least want mad at me - Lynda or Mac? No-brainer! Still, it didn’t seem right to spill Mac’s beans. “I’ll go this far,” I said finally. “I’ll invite us both to dinner with Mac and Kate tonight and you can try your luck at prying it out of him. How does that sound?”

  “You’re the greatest. What are we eating?”

  Probably crow if Mac turned stubborn on me. “The way my sister cooks, pray for carry-out. Oh, no - I’ve got company. I’ll pick you up at seven. Bye.”

  Sylvester Link, somehow looking taller and skinnier than ever this morning, was standing over my desk like the Grim Reaper in a Bruegel painting.

  “I don’t want to bother you -”

  “Then don’t. Take a hike and let me do my job.”

  “Talking to me is your job. The sign on the door says public relations. As a member of the student press, I represent the public and I want you to relate to me. Can we chat off the record for a while?”

  I was wary. Off the record wasn’t Sylvester’s usual style. “About what?”

  “Professor McCabe. I hear rumblings he’s in deep trouble.”

  I managed a laugh that wouldn’t have fooled my Grandma Cody, and she’s a fan of WWE Wrestling. “Sit down and relax, Sylvester, and tell me where you got a wild idea like that.”

  He sat down, but he didn’t relax. “Don’t try to blow smoke up my ass, Mr. Cody. Here’s what I’ve got: A, my student sources tell me that the professor’s popular culture program is up for review this year and Provost Pendergast is out to torpedo it. B, the popular culture program and the film society bring Peter Gerard to campus. It looks like he’s killed the night before he’s scheduled to talk, only it turns out to be somebody who looks like him. Who’s on the scene? Professor McCabe. C, the real Gerard turns up to give his speech, but he gets interrupted near the end by some kind of Sherlock Holmes fanatic with a cap pistol. The school is embarrassed and the police chief would be, too, if he were smart enough. Who introduces Gerard on stage? Professor -”

  “Oscar isn’t dumb,” I interrupted. “He’s just a little unpolished. Anyway, I get the picture you’re trying to paint here. Look, everybody knows about B and C, and if A were true it would add up to a pretty bleak alphabet for Mac. What do you want out of me, Sylvester - D, E, and F?”

  Sylvester leaned forward, more hound on the scent than Grim Reaper now. “I want details, incidents. If Dr. Pendergast wants to close down a program run by one of the most popular professors on campus, that’s story enough. But I have a feeling that when he fights he doesn’t leave his gloves on. And if he hits below the belt, I want to pin him to the wall for it.”

  I always did like that kid.

  While he talked, I thought. Suppose a story about Ralph’s plans for the
demise of the popular culture program did show up in The Spectator? Ralph wouldn’t like it a bit and he would blame me. But he already blamed me anyway. I couldn’t be in much more trouble with him than I was right now. So a story in the school paper wouldn’t hurt and it might help. Mac’s supporters would raise a fuss. That might not stop Ralph, but it would at least force him to do his knife work in the open instead of in committee rooms.

  But wait: What about Lynda? Wouldn’t she be pissed if The Spectator had the story first? On the other hand, she was a professional. She’d understand that Sylvester had already developed a good part of the story with his own sources without my help and that it wouldn’t be ethical for me to spoil his scoop. Sure she would! Or maybe Lynda wouldn’t even be interested in the story. Sure she wouldn’t! Hmm. If I gave her a heads-up as soon as Sylvester’s story was in print, The Observer & News-Ledger could match the story so quickly most readers wouldn’t know who had the scoop. That should keep me out of the dog house. By the time I’d figured all that out, I was exhausted. “It’s complicated” just didn’t begin to tell the story of my life.

  “Sylvester, I’m not going to tell you anything Dr. Pendergast may have told me about this matter or anything I may have told him,” I said. “That way, I can assure him in good conscience that I kept my mouth shut about this. But I’ll do better than tell you things. I’ll let you be an ear witness to a little discussion I’m going to have with him. That should give you plenty of good copy. But quiet, though; I don’t want him to know anybody’s in the office with me.”

  I activated the speaker phone and dialed Ralph’s office. His administrative assistant, who is almost as nice as he is prickly, put me right through to him.

  “Yes, Cody, what is it?”

  Damned good question, that! Now that I had him, how would I steer the conversation to get him to say what I wanted Sylvester to overhear?