Oscar didn’t ask me who was on the other end of the call, and I didn’t see any reason to bring up that fiasco - my brilliant idea that bombed. I must have been talking to Hoffer right about the time Gerard was having his brains blown out, or maybe a few minutes later.
“Look, Oscar,” I said, “it’s not like there’s any great mystery about who did this. I mean, Mac and I both saw what appeared to be a mailman leaving the scene of the crime. Obviously, he was the killer. He must have had the gun, presumably equipped with a sound suppressor, hidden in his mail pouch.”
Oscar removed his UD Flyers cap and scratched his head. “This is a bit too whodunit-like for my simple taste. If this mailman was a phony, where did he get the uniform?”
“An excellent question, and by no means unanswerable,” Mac said. “I suggest your officers make the rounds of all the costume shops within a radius of several towns to see if anyone has rented such a uniform. Remember, however, that we paid scant attention at first to this letter carrier who was some yards away from us. That is the genius of the disguise. G.K. Chesterton wrote a classic mystery story based on the notion that a postman is essentially an invisible man.”
“Is there a point in there somewhere?” Oscar said.
“We did not look closely, and we may have seen what we expected to see. A shirt and pants of the appropriate color probably would have been good enough to fool us, doltish amateurs that we are.”
But I could tell by the quirky look he gave me that Mac was thinking of another possibility that already had occurred to me, one that we couldn’t offer Oscar: that the uniform was the real thing.
Lem Carpenter worked for the Postal Service.
If you can’t think of a reason Carpenter would want to kill Peter Gerard, join the club. I couldn’t either. But when a fact like that slaps you in the face, you don’t just turn the other cheek.
“Are you two finished with this exercise in mental gymnastics yet?” I asked. “I’d like to seek some creature comforts and get the taste of death out of my mouth, if it’s all the same to you.”
“Oh, we’re finished here,” Oscar growled. “Now we’re going downtown so you can make an official statement and sign it.”
He made us follow him to the police station. It was two hours after that, well past eight o’clock, before we were breathing the slightly cool evening air.
“That was a most tedious process,” Mac commented. “I have never enjoyed police procedurals.”
I didn’t even wait until after we had left the historic City Hall to whip out my phone and start making calls.
I called Quandra Hall again.
I called Lem Carpenter.
I called Lynda again.
No answers.
Answers
The news of Peter Gerard’s murder was on National Public Radio at seven the next morning.
My dad called at seven-oh-five.
“Son, I keep hearing about murders there in Erin. What in the name of heaven is going on?”
“I’ll feel a whole letter better when I know, Dad.”
“You and Mac were pretty deep into that other killing a few days ago, weren’t you? It seems to me I remember reading that.” This was almost certainly an understatement. My father, Samuel Cody, had become a highly successful real estate broker by paying attention to details. If I knew Dad, he could probably tell me things about the Stonecipher murder that I’d forgotten myself. “Am I going to be reading about you two again, son?”
“That wouldn’t surprise me a bit.”
“You’re not in any real trouble, are you?”
“I’m okay, Dad. I haven’t done anything wrong.”
“Well, I’m glad to hear that, but I didn’t ask whether you’d done anything wrong. I asked if you’re in any real trouble.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Because if you are in trouble, I want you to come to me, no matter how bad it is.”
If you knew the full story of what happened last spring, you’d lose what hair you have left. “I will. I promise. But don’t worry Mom with it. How is she?”
“Oh, you know. This isn’t one of her good days. She’ll call you tomorrow for your birthday.” Seven years in a wheelchair hadn’t crippled Cornelia Randolph Cody’s spirit. In fact, she was now writing some of the best poetry of her career.
We talked a few more minutes and I said I was looking forward to coming home for Thanksgiving. There wasn’t a lot else to say, partly because we were up on the news in each other’s lives through Facebook.
I’m pretty sure that immediately after hanging up Dad called Kate to ask her what was really going on. But I didn’t bring that up when I saw Kate a few minutes later on our way to Mass. I’ve seldom missed Sunday Mass in twelve years and I’m not even Catholic. One of these days I’ll have to do something about that. Usually, like today, I go to the nine-thirty service at Our Lady of Knock Church with the McCabe clan. I’ve also occasionally accompanied Lynda to Mass at St. Edmund the Confessor on a Saturday night.
Another ritual at the house on Half Moon Street is Sunday brunch prepared by Mac, closely following the church service. I was in my apartment, getting ready for that by slipping into more comfortable shoes, when I was interrupted by the sound of Boléro coming out of my smart phone.
“There’s a murder kind of splattered all over the front page of my newspaper this morning,” Lynda said without preamble. Her throaty voice was tense.
“Good morning to you, too.” And where the hell were you last night when I called? “I’m glad you got my message about the murder.” The second time I got no answer on Lynda’s cell phone I’d decided I’d better leave one.
“I didn’t, not until late. When I did find it, I checked our website right away and found that Ben was all over it, bless him. One of his sources tipped him and he got the story from Oscar. The AP picked it up from us and the whole world knew about it before you woke up this morning.”
“All’s well that ends well, then. But I really thought you’d get my voicemail. That was the second time I called last night.”
“Well, you knew I was at the Orange Zebra concert with Polly. I couldn’t very well leave my cell phone on during the show. That’s kind of frowned on.”
I should get used to egg on my face by now; I wear it so often. How could I have forgotten Lynda telling me a week or so ago about going with her gal pal the nun to see Orange Zebra? I know that’s a tribute band, but I can never remember which group they’re supposed to be. Pink Floyd, maybe? Here I’d been angsting about where Lynda was and what she was up to, and she’d told me in advance. Suddenly I understood Lynda and our whole complicated situation a lot better. Hey, it’s okay now, Lyn. I’m not sure I’d want to be romantically involved with a screw-up like me, either!
While I was mentally kicking myself in the rear, Lynda talked on:
“But I still appreciate the call. Oscar wouldn’t tell Ben who found the body, but I think I have a pretty good idea. I suppose you might have found out about the murder some other way, but my bet is that playing detective just like Gerard - following up on the same clues - took you to the same place it took him. You were in the right place at the right time for your second body in four days.”
Close, but no cigar. “That’s a very interesting theory, Lynda.”
“Are you trying to be maddening, Jeff Cody?”
“No, it just comes naturally. Are we on or off the record?”
“I’m through with off the record. In fact, I want to print what pathetic little bit Mac gave me at dinner on Friday. I’m doing a follow-up story about Gerard’s visit to our offices and the speculation that he was trying to solve the first murder himself. Mac’s parallel playing along those lines fits into story perfectly.”
“I’m afraid you’ll have to talk to him about that,
” I said. “He’s the one you have the deal with.”
That was no easy sell. Lynda’s frustration was palpable, and she was pushing even harder than usual. Finally I got it. She was worried about her job.
“You’re really uptight about your meeting with Megan Whitlock tomorrow, aren’t you?”
“Wouldn’t you be?”
“Not if I were as sharp as you are, but, yeah, sure I would.”
So we talked about that for a while and, although she declined my generous offer to come over immediately and give her a tension-reducing backrub, she seemed calmer by the time we signed off.
I quickly finished my change of shoes and joined the McCabes at the breakfast table, but they weren’t all there. Mac was on the phone and I didn’t need to guess twice who was on the other end. I picked up his copy of The Erin Observer & News-Ledger. Ben Silverstein’s story was bannered across the top of the paper in the biggest type that would fit: PETER GERARD SLAIN IN ERIN. Oddly, I found myself thinking of Rodney Stonecipher. I had the feeling nobody else would think of him now that the far more glamorous murder of a movie actor-writer-director had taken center stage - nobody but Chickory Williams, anyway.
“Oooh, cool, another murder!” my nephew, Brian, said, looking at the headline before my sister could snatch it away. Although he’s only seven, he learned to read early at home.
“Awesome,” Amanda concurred.
Rebecca, already the sophisticate at twelve, tutted in disgust. “This is just so gross.”
“I agree,” Kate said firmly, handing Brian his serving of grits.
“Quite so,” said Mac, returning from the telephone. “I am sure we could all find more fit topics of discussion at the table. Incidentally, whose turn is it to rake the leaves this afternoon?”
On that point strong convictions collided and the potential of murder in the breakfast room overshadowed the reality of murder in the apartment building. None of the arguing kids stopped to realize that almost all of the leaves were still on the trees on this day in early fall.
I stuck my nose back in the newspaper and found myself reading an Associated Press story about the pope’s trip to his native Germany. In the eastern city of Erfurt a man had fired an air gun at a security guard about an hour before a papal Mass. My first thought was that air guns can be deadly, as I knew from experience. My second was that Erin had no monopoly on wackos in the vicinity of prominent people. That was followed quickly by the realization that Mac had said he would try to find out more about Geoffrey Kenlake, the guy who’d caused the ruckus at Bauer Auditorium on Thursday night. That seemed more important now that Gerard had been murdered, so I asked Mac about it when we took our cappuccinos - decaf for me - into his study after brunch.
“My friends in Lexington tell me that he’s a bit eccentric,” Mac reported. An eccentric Sherlockian? Woah - I didn’t see that one coming! “He’s a something of a loaner, given to strong opinions, and quite a firearms enthusiast.”
“Maybe we shouldn’t have dismissed him as a suspect so quickly,” I said. “Suppose he made a false attack on Gerard in a public way for the very reason that later nobody would believe the killer would have done that.”
“That is ingenious, Jefferson! It is even plausible. And if it is not true, you may read something along those lines in a future Damon Devlin novel.”
Not sure whether that was a compliment or not, I said, “Well, I hope Oscar at least checks out where he was last night. What did you tell Lynda?” We had not discussed it in front of the children.
“I gave her the permission she requested to quote from our Friday night interview.”
I raised my eyebrows. “Already?”
“On Friday night we were in competition with Peter and I was concerned about what he might learn about me from his inquiries. For that reason and for others, it seemed prudent then not to call attention to ourselves. Circumstances have since changed. Peter is no longer a competitor or a threat.” I’m pretty sure he would agree with that. “Therefore, the risk-reward calculation has shifted. In the intervening two days we have still received no answer to my advertisement and the chances that we will do so diminish daily. Perhaps Lynda’s story will come to the attention of the person we are seeking.”
“We can hope. Lynda figured out that we found the body, or at least were on the murder scene.”
“And I confirmed it. I told her about our following Peter at Ms. Hall’s request, leaving out his stop at Double Takes. If she is going to write about our activities, she might as well have the whole story - or, rather, most of it.” He shrugged. “In for a penny, in for a pound.”
“This won’t thrill Ralph, you know. The college may not be involved this time, but you and I are.”
“Exactly!” Mac said with a note of triumph, as if I had somehow made his case. “We are involved. That is a matter of record. We cannot avoid it. Eventually the 911 recording will become public. The reason we were involved does us no discredit. We were concerned about Peter and acted on behalf of one who wished him well. Incidentally, have you reached Ms. Hall yet?”
“No. I called her room at the hotel once before Mass and once as soon as we got back, but she didn’t answer.”
“Intriguing. She has the potential motive of a woman scorned, she has no alibi -”
“And she could have been the person under the letter carrier’s beard,” I said. “I thought of all that.”
“Indeed. False beards play a major role in The Hound of the Baskervilles and ‘The Adventure of the Solitary Cyclist,’ you know.”
“Whatever.”
I pulled out my phone and called the by-now-familiar Winfield number. Quandra answered on the third ring.
“At last,” I said. “I’ve been trying to reach you. Where have you been?”
“This place was driving me buggy so I went out.”
“Out where?”
“Some bar. I met a guy. Listen, Jeff, I’ve been knocking on Peter’s door and I don’t get any answer. I’m afraid something’s wrong.”
You could say that. “Haven’t you seen a newspaper or the television?”
I could imagine her shaking her head, sending her soft hair bouncing. Her voice held a tone of something very like panic. “I just got back to the hotel a few minutes ago. Why, what’s wrong? It’s Peter. He’s hurt, isn’t he?”
“Quandra,” I said, speaking slowly, “stay calm and stay there. Mac and I will be right over.” I hung up before she had a chance to argue or question.
“We’d better get over there on the double,” I said. “She’s going to crack if she has to go through this alone.”
“I will drive while you call Lem Carpenter,” Mac said. On the way to the car he told me why. By the time I punched in Carpenter’s number I was prepared to ask the questions to which Mac wanted answers.
“Mr. Carpenter? This is Cody again.”
“Detective Cody!” The high-pitched voice was frantic. “I just heard. About Peter Gerard being murdered, I mean. I can’t believe it happened. And I must have been with the man less than an hour before he was killed!”
“Try to calm down, Mr. Carpenter. You said you were with him. We had some indication he might have visited you last night. Why?”
“He came asking questions, like he wanted to solve Rodney’s murder himself. Do you suppose that’s what got the poor bastard killed?”
“Maybe. It’s really too early to know. What kind of questions did he ask?”
“The same ones you did, mostly. He was real interested in who hired Rodney.”
I bet. I gripped the phone harder. “And what did you tell him?”
“I told him that was police business and the police asked me not to talk about it.”
“How much money did he give you when you said that?”
Lem Carpenter pause
d a moment, then decided to tell the truth. “Fifty bucks.”
So in the end, Peter Gerard knew.
I let out my breath, realizing for the first time that I’d been holding it in. There’s a sort of relief in knowing that your worst fear has come true. If Gerard had lived, his knowledge would have been embarrassing to Mac. But with him dead, it was far worse. Gerard had learned information that appeared damaging to Mac shortly before someone had murdered him. There’s a name for that: circumstantial evidence. What a mess.
Or maybe I’d just read - and written - too many detective stories. At minimum, though, it was still a mess - negative stories in the media and more trouble with Ralph.
“But I won’t tell anyone else, Detective,” Carpenter went on. “I promise.”
I was about ready to tell him what I knew his promises to be worth, but I restrained myself. I thanked him and hung up.
“Well, that wasn’t good news,” I said, turning the phone on vibrate so I wouldn’t be bothered by those pesky reporters. “It sure would be nice if Carpenter killed Gerard. He works nights at the Post Office, so he’s not a letter carrier, but I bet he still wears a uniform. Maybe Gerard threatened to sue his business for appropriating his image without his permission. Stonecipher’s death could have been completely unrelated.”
It was a brilliant idea, if I do say so myself, and I liked it as soon as it spilled out of my mouth like Athena from the forehead of Zeus. But Mac shot it down with a shake of his own head.
“Regrettably, that will not work. Remember, we never saw the letter carrier go into the murder building, so he must have been there before we arrived. We were not crawling when we followed Peter there from Carpenter’s house. For Carpenter to have left after we did and still beat us to that apartment building he would have had to have been driving at breakneck speed.”
Speaking of which, at the rate we were barreling through town we reached the Winfield and Quandra’s room about five minutes faster than law-abiding citizens should have. When I knocked she tore open the door immediately, as if she had been waiting. Her eyes were red-rimmed, her hair wild and her Vera Wang dress looked like it had had a lot more sleep than she had. You always wonder if models and movie stars ever look like that, and I guess sometimes they do.
Holmes Sweet Holmes Page 17
