by Parnell Hall
I pointed to the Agatha Christie on the night table. “Well,” I said, “we would appear to have all the elements of your basic, cozy crime novel.”
“So?”
I shrugged. “Isn’t it obvious?”
I scratched Max behind the ears, smiled at Alice.
“The cat will solve the crime.”
18.
“WHAT’S THAT?”
“What?”
“That.”
“Nothing.”
“Alice. What’s that paper in your hand?”
“Oh, that,” Alice said. She brought it up from under the table rather reluctantly. “It’s really not important.”
“Uh-huh,” I said.
I held out my hand. Alice passed the paper over. I unfolded it, read:
SUMMER GARDEN SOUP
1 spring onion
2 cloves finely chopped garlic
2 tablespoons unsalted butter
2 Yukon Gold potatoes
10 spears asparagus
2 cups chopped spinach
2 cups chicken broth
1 cup water
Reggiano Parmesan
Salt and pepper to taste
rinds of Parmesan (optional)
Snap off the tough ends of the asparagus and discard. Cut spears diagonally into 2 or 3 pieces. Sauté onion and garlic in 2 tablespoons of butter until translucent. Add 2 cups of chicken broth, 1 cup of water, and Parmesan rinds, if you wish.
Peel and slice the potatoes, add to the soup mixture, and simmer for 20 minutes. Then add the chopped fresh asparagus, simmer for 5 minutes. Be careful not to overcook. Add 2 cups of chopped spinach. Simmer 2 minutes. Remove Parmesan rinds. Salt and pepper to taste. Puree.
If served hot, drizzle with extra-virgin olive oil and grated Reggiano Parmesan.
If served cold, garnish with plain yogurt and fresh chopped chives.
I looked up from the paper. “I don’t believe this.”
“Stanley.”
“There’s a murder investigation going on, and you’re still buying bootleg recipes?”
“So what? One thing has nothing to do with the other.”
“It’s the principle of the thing.”
“Now we’re talking principles?”
“How about priorities?”
“What priorities? Life doesn’t stop because there’s a murder investigation.”
“I just don’t see how you could even think of a recipe.”
“Did you taste that soup?”
“No.”
“Case closed.”
Alice and I were talking in low tones. As was everyone else in the dining room. In addition, eye avoidance was at a max. Granted, neither Florence, Jean, Joan, nor the Mclnnernys were there—in short, all the people we knew and might have acknowledged—still, of the people in the dining room, no one was looking at anyone else. That is, anyone at any other table. Those at the tables were, as I say, conversing in low tones.
Which was to be expected. It was eerie sitting in the dining room. Knowing a young woman had died there just the night before.
Ordering food was downright spooky.
When Lucy arrived to announce the special was blueberry pancakes, I had to stifle the urge to say, “With or without poison?” Alice and I ordered them, however, on Lucy’s high recommendation.
She had just left with our orders when Louise swooped down. For a moment I thought she was going to bust us for the recipe. Naturally, that was the last thing on her mind.
Louise actually sat down at our table, leaned over, grabbed me by the arm, and said, “You have to help me.”
It was so abrupt I could only blink. “I beg your pardon?”
“I hear you’re a detective. My son is in trouble. Serious trouble. He needs your help.”
“I’m not a lawyer.”
“He doesn’t need a lawyer. He needs a detective. Someone to get the facts.”
“Why?”
“Why? That policeman thinks he had something to do with it.”
“Why would he think that?”
Louise blinked. “I don’t know. But he obviously does.”
“What does your son say?”
“I don’t know. He won’t tell me.”
“Uh-huh,” I said. “So, you have no idea why he might be a suspect?”
“Well ...”
“Well what?”
“What if he knew the girl?”
“What makes you think he did?”
Louise grimaced. “Please. One hears things. One wonders if they’re true.”
“And what does one hear?”
“You’re not making this easy for me.”
“I’m sorry. But I need to know what you want. If your son isn’t talking to you, and you’re asking me to help you based on what other people are saying, then I need to know who those other people are.”
Louise hesitated a moment, then said, “Actually, Florence hinted there might be a connection.”
“Uh-huh. And did she hint what that might be?”
“You should know.”
“Oh?”
“She said you saw something.”
“Did she say what?”
“Yes.”
“Then you don’t need to ask, do you?”
“Are you saying it’s true?”
“Is that what you want—when you say you need my help—just to confirm whether the story is true?”
“Is it?”
“Ask him yourself. You expect me to rat a guy out to his mother?”
“It’s for his own good.”
“It always is. If it’s a family affair, I’m keeping out.”
Louise took a breath. Sighed. “Fine. Keep out,” she said. “Don’t tell me anything. Leave me in the dark. All of that’s fine, if you’ll just do one thing.”
“What’s that?”
“Talk to him. Talk to my boy. He won’t talk to me, maybe he’ll talk to you. He has to talk to someone.”
“What about the cop?”
“What about him?”
“What did he tell the cop?”
“I don’t know. Don’t you understand? That’s the whole point. He won’t tell me.”
“Then he’s not going to tell me, either.”
“He might.”
“Why?”
“You’re not his mother.”
“True.”
“Then there’s the other thing.”
“What’s that?”
“What you saw. If what I hear is true, you’re the one who saw it. So he’d have a hard time denying it to you.”
The Mclnnernys arrived just then, boisterous, brash, and overbearing, just as if there hadn’t been a crime. They descended on our table with their usual lack of tact.
“There you are,” Johnny said. “Are you doing Mount Washington today? We are. It’s crystal clear. You won’t get a day like this two or three times a season. You’ll see a hundred miles. You’ll see five different states. You’ll see Canada.”
“Canada?”
“It’s the day to go. You want to reserve a space?”
“Reserve?”
“In the van. We’re going at ten o’clock. Want us to sign you up?”
“I don’t think so,” I said. “I can’t guarantee we’ll make it. Can we, Alice?”
“I’m not sure what we’re doing,” Alice said. “Maybe we’ll see you up there.”
“That would be nice,” Mrs. Mclnnerny said. It occurred to me her name was Carla or Clara, though I couldn’t recall which.
At any rate, that completed the conversation and left the Mclnnernys with nothing more to say to us. They stood there, smiling awkwardly to fill the silence, until Louise finally realized they were waiting on her, and got up to show them to their seats.
Florence came in while Louise was still seating the Mclnnernys. She hesitated a moment, seemed ready to select another table, but Alice waved her over. She came, I thought, rather reluctantly. I wondered if she felt guilty for havin
g finked on me to Louise.
“Good morning,” I said. “If you can say that under these circumstances.”
“Yeah,” Florence said. “What a night.”
“How’s Prince doing?” Alice asked.
“I just walked him. He seems none the worse for wear. Of course, he has no idea what’s going on.”
“I bet he knows something’s going on,” Alice said. “Animals pick up a lot.”
“Sure,” I said. “From your manner. He can tell from your manner you’re acting different.”
“I’m not acting different.”
“I’m not saying you’re acting different. But this had to affect you. It’s affected all of us. And the dog can sense that. See what I mean?”
Florence rubbed her head. “What a nightmare.”
“Yes,” I said. “But it doesn’t concern us. We’re just observers, watching it all go by.”
As if on cue, Lars came in. He stopped in the doorway and stood there, a blank look on his face.
It was hard not to feel sorry for him in that moment. He was practically a parody of a man in despair. He was unshaven, and his hair was uncombed. His shirt was buttoned wrong. His shoelace was untied.
He looked oblivious to his surroundings. There was no chance of him finding a seat. Indeed, it was obviously a miracle he’d managed to find the dining room at all.
Louise, who had finished with the Mclnnernys, went over and took him by the arm. As she guided him into the dining room, I saw her hesitate as she approached the booth, then guide him to a table on the opposite side of the room.
It was not until he was seated that I was aware of what had happened.
It was quiet. There was a dead silence in the room. All talk had stopped. Even the Mclnnernys held their tongues. Everyone had stopped talking, and all eyes were on Lars. If he was aware of it, it must have been living hell.
Louise was aware of it. She turned away from his table, looked around. Seemed embarrassed by the shared spotlight. She hurried back to us.
Louise must have been really upset, because she didn’t ever acknowledge Florence, just bent down, grabbed my arm, and said, “Please. He’s in his room out back. He won’t come out. He won’t talk to me. You have to help me, and—Oh!”
I looked around to see Chief Pinehurst bearing down on us. That did not bode well. Since he had chosen our table over Lars’ he was undoubtedly about to order Louise to produce Randy.
He didn’t.
He stopped at our table, drew himself up formally, and announced, “Alice Hastings?”
19.
RANDY WAS LYING curled up in bed, the covers pulled up under his chin. His blanket was old and worn, a security blanket, perhaps, from when he was a boy.
“Hi,” I said. “May I come in?”
Randy’s room was in back of the kitchen with its own outside entrance. It was a small room, and gave the impression of having once been a shed. Indeed, the door had a latch rather than a knob. I had knocked, got no answer, and stuck my head in.
I got no answer again. Not even an acknowledgement of my presence.
I was in no mood for such behavior. I stepped in, closed the door behind me. “All right, look,” I said. “You can talk to me or not. That’s entirely up to you. But you would do well to listen.
“The police suspect you of a crime. I don’t know what you’ve told them, and I don’t really care. I doubt if they care, either. They’ve got their information anyway, so they don’t need much from you.
“You were having an affair with the victim. You served her the drink that killed her. The cops know that. Doubtless they’ve asked you about it.
“If you’ve admitted the affair, it’s bad. It makes you suspect number one.
“If you’ve denied it, it’s worse. Why? Because the cops know about it anyway, and they know that you’re lying.
“They know because they have a witness. I’m the witness. I saw you kissing her down by the pond. Now you can deny that if you like, but in the cops’ eyes that establishes only one thing—it means you’re a liar. And when a chief suspect lies in a murder investigation, it is not good. Not when it’s a transparent lie that wouldn’t fool anyone. That is not the way to go. That is not the prescribed method for beating a murder rap.”
Randy rolled over, faced the wall. “Get out,” he said.
Aha. The clever detective had elicited a response. It occurred to me I’d nearly broken him. Could a confession be far behind?
“Your mother’s worried about you, Randy, because you won’t talk to her. I can understand that. It must be hard discussing your affairs with your mother. But that’s no reason to clam up on everyone. Particularly the police.”
Randy lay still, said nothing.
“Okay, if you don’t want to talk, you don’t want to talk. But I have to report back to your mother. So what am I gonna tell her? I guess I’m gonna tell her that there’s nothing I can do. Because you’re not talking, period.
“Well, that’s fine. If that’s the way you wanna play it, that’s the way to go. But if you’re gonna do it, do it right. Get a lawyer. Act on his advice. Let him be the one telling you not to talk. That takes the onus off of you. The cops can’t regard your silence as an admission of guilt. So talk to a lawyer now. You’re gonna need one anyway, to make statements for you at the time of your arrest. So get a good attorney, and let him take charge.”
Again Randy said nothing.
“You ever have her here? In this room—in this bed, I mean? The cops are gonna go over it, and when they do, they’re gonna use a fine-tooth comb. A single hair, that’s all it will take. You wouldn’t believe the things they can do nowadays with DNA.
“On the other hand, I’m sure they’ll be watching to see if you try to wash the sheets. So dashing out to the laundry would probably not be the swiftest move.”
Randy offered no reaction whatsoever, continued to ignore me.
“On second thought, you probably didn’t bring her here. Not a particularly romantic setting. No, I would imagine you had more of a taste for the great outdoors. So examining the sheets would be a waste of time. The police would do better looking for grass stains on your clothes.”
“Shut up.”
“See,” I said, shaking my head, “you’re no good at this. The things that aren’t true don’t bother you, but the things that are touch a nerve. You might as well have a sign on your forehead that flashes correct every time I get something right.”
Randy rolled over, glared at me. “Why don’t you get out of here. Go on. Get out.”
“I’ll tell you why, Randy. That cop came back to talk to my wife. He’s talking to her right now. And you know what they’re talking about? Me. They’re talking about me. And do you know why? Because I’m the one who told them about you. So he’s checking on my story. He wants to find out if it’s true. And guess what’s gonna happen if it is? Go on. Take a guess.”
Whether Randy would have risen to the bait I was not to know, for at that moment the door swung open, and his father, Louise’s husband, the cook, whose name for the life of me I couldn’t remember, stuck his head in and said, “Randy. Come on. Get up. I need help. The dishes are stacking up. There’s coffee to be served. Your mother can’t do everything. You’ve gotta help. I don’t have time to argue. The pancakes are on. Just get up.”
And with that he was gone again.
“You see how it is?” I said. “If you just lie here feeling sorry for yourself, your problems aren’t going to go away. In fact, they’re just gonna increase, because everybody’s gonna wanna know why you’re doing it. You may not be guilty, but you sure look guilty. And it’s not gonna take much more to convince that cop. Yes, he’s slow, but he’s putting it together piece by piece. And what you’re doing only helps him. Why don’t you give yourself a break?”
The door swung open again.
I turned to look, but there was no one there. And the door had not opened very wide.
Before I had time to think
, there was a flash of orange, and Max sprang up on the bed. He climbed on Randy’s chest, treaded down a spot, curled up, and began purring.
Randy let him, which said something for the boy. Most men as hassled as he was would have brushed the cat aside. Randy let him lay, actually reached up, stroked his fur.
It was a bizarre scene, the prime murder suspect lying there, refusing to talk, petting a cat.
I admit to being somewhat disconcerted, losing my train of thought. What had I just been talking about?
I realized whatever it was, it was the same old song. Randy was doing himself no favor by refusing to talk. So now I had to snap him out of it.
“Come on, Randy,” I said. “You are this close to going to jail. When my wife gets done talking, you are going to be under arrest. And I hate that. I don’t want your arrest on her head, or on mine. But there’s no help for it if you refuse to explain. So why don’t you tell me what you know? You’re gonna have to tell your story to the cops. A little rehearsal might help. Whaddya say?”
Once again, I was not to know, for at that moment the door swung open, and Chief Pinehurst walked in.
I felt bad. I’d done everything I could to warn Randy, but it hadn’t worked. I’d failed him, failed his mother. With him not talking, this was the inevitable result.
“All right, let’s go,” Pinehurst said.
Randy said nothing, just lay there petting the cat. He looked as if he were about to cry.
“Come on, Randy,” I said. “It’s better not to resist.”
“I’m glad to hear you say that,” Pinehurst said. “But I don’t want him.” He put his hand on my shoulder. “All right, Mr. Hastings. Let’s go.”
20.
“I DON’T UNDERSTAND.”
“Of course you don’t. It’s not your case. You don’t have to understand.”
“No. I don’t understand why you want to question me.”
“You don’t?”
“No, I don’t. I already told you everything I know.”
