Money & Murder

by David Bishop

  “Sure. New haunts. New habits. The kids?”

  “Brock’s good. Betty, well, if you’ve never had the opportunity to listen to a fifteen-year-old practicing trumpet every night, you haven’t really lived.” We laughed.

  “Hug them all for me, will you? Tell Brenda I’ll be there for Sunday breakfast. If that’s not okay, let me know.”

  “Sunday it is, let’s say nine-thirty?” I nodded. “Coffee Matthew?” he asked while approaching the pot to refill his cup.

  “No thanks.” Then I said, “Yeah, okay, I’ll take a cup, black.” Fidge smiled and brought it over to me.

  We stood sipping around stern looks over the rims of our cups. I sat first. Fidge spoke first. “Have you been by lockup to see your neighbor?”

  “I just left there. Grungy place.”

  “It’s a jail, Matthew. You’ve been there plenty of times. But then, lately you’ve mostly been hanging out in bookstores and attending black-tie dinners.”

  “Not to mention dining on cold leftovers alone at my computer.”

  A picture of Brenda, Betty, and Brock, their eleven-year-old son, in his Little League uniform, sat on a gray soft-top table under the window. For me, the Fidgerys personified the modern Ozzie and Harriet Nelson family. I had told Fidge that once and he said the Adams Family seemed the better comparison.

  “How’re your daughters?” he asked.

  “The girls are doing great. Rose, the older one is getting married soon. You’ll get an invitation. Amy is trying to decide between an average-sized guy with a Bill Gates’ brain and a muscle-bound athlete with one earring and several tattoos, who rides a Harley.”

  Fidge smiled and shook his head. “You’ve got to be shitting bricks. I know that craziness is ahead for me and Brenda. Betty is already eyeing the men folk in her world. Last Sunday I asked God why he let hormones grow up ahead of brains. How do we get these youngsters to understand the only really important thing about high school is graduating? That the rest that they think is so important won’t mean squat in the big picture of their lives?”

  “One of life’s easy questions, with no easy answer, at least I don’t have one for you.”

  “And Helen?”

  “Ah, my ex. No easy answer there either. Last year she came close to remarrying, but didn’t. The girls are her life right now, along with keeping track of my doings. If I didn’t know better, I’d swear the woman was listening to my life on the upstairs extension.”

  “Sounds like she still cares.”

  “If she did, she would have stood with me during my trial.”

  “Your attorney should have gotten her there.”

  “I told him to leave her alone, that coming or not was her decision.”

  “She was hurt. Confused. Angry. For that matter, so was I, but I also understood why you sent that guy to hell; your ex didn’t. But she ended up writing while you were inside, didn’t she?”

  “For the first couple years, she did. Then she stopped. I couldn’t figure her then. I still can’t. Hey, I feel silly sitting in your office while you stand.”

  Fidge didn’t move. After taking another drink of his coffee, he said, “You know I can’t discuss this case with you.”

  “I understand, Fidge. I just came by so we could sit and look at each other, but you aren’t even sitting. Listen, I don’t believe Clarice did it. I got nothing except instinct working here, but, like I said, unless he died of an overdose of bed banging, killing’s not her style.”

  “Oh, you got firsthand knowledge about that, Matthew?” Fidge unhooked his top button to free his moose-sized neck from his deer-sized collar.

  “You know what, Sergeant Fidgery, You’re a dirty old man.” We exchanged more grins. “I just can’t see her bumping off her old man,” I said, feeling myself slipping deeper into the brand of cop and street vernacular spoken in my modern-noir novels. “If she plugged ‘im, it woulda been in the heat of passion or anger, and she would’ve been looking him straight in the eyes. She’d have no interest in pillows to muffle the shot. She’d wanna hear it. She’d wanna smell the cordite. Even then, I can’t see her doing it.”

  Sergeant Fidgery wedged his thumbnail between his two front teeth. He must have gotten whatever he was after because his eyes crossed when he looked just before licking his nail.

  “People aren’t as predictable as the characters in your novels, Matthew. You told me once that characters have to act consistent with their personalities.”

  “Their true personalities,” I retorted, “which might be very different from the ones they show the world.”

  Fidge ignored my cleanup of his comment and continued. “That’s swell in those books of yours, but not necessarily in real life. Real folks often act outside the mainstream of their lives. They go off the deep end and kill or rob and run. Hell, you know that. You were a damn good cop long before you started writing. Bottom line: This guy Talmadge was a respected, retired businessman. Somebody’s gotta pay and the bill’s got his wife’s name on it.”

  “Fidge, shady businessmen are like politicians and madams, they get respectable only after they get dead.”

  Fidge held up his mug in a silent offer of more coffee. I shook him off and waited while my former partner refilled his cup from a pot sitting on a hot plate atop another gunmetal-gray table butted into the corner. He carried his cup to my side of his desk, slid his backside over its top edge, leaned toward me, and spoke low. “It’d be like old times to discuss this case with you, but damn it, you know I can’t, really can’t.”

  He circled back around his desk and before finally sitting down, placed his cup randomly among the brown rings commemorating the countless cups that had set with him before this one.

  “No problem, Fidge, we won’t talk about it. I’m just saying she didn’t do it. Women like her see their bodies as tools and marriage as an investment. For them, no man is worth prison. They don’t ever see themselves as jilted or betrayed. They just move on, seduce a new honey, and figure the next one’ll be a better deal.”

  My ex-partner smirked like he’d known a few, or maybe like he had fantasized knowing just one.

  “Fidge, that scene just didn’t add up. You got her using pillows and silencers for quiet. You got her using a scarf to avoid prints, and showering after the shooting. You have her planning it down to tossing a cup of coffee against the bedroom door to illustrate her shock at finding her husband dead. Then leaving the deadbolt latched till you arrive and telling you it had been locked all night. That’s half smart, half super stupid. She would’ve unlatched the dead bolt before you arrived, and said, ‘Gee, that’s odd, Sergeant Fidgery, it’s usually locked. My husband must’ve let someone in after I went to bed.’ Come on, Fidge. I admit you got a nice bundle of circumstantial, but you’ve also got contradictions galore. I doubt they’ll dance together in front of the grand jury.”

  Fidgery hooded his eyes and again gave me his case-closed shrug.

  A year or so before I shot my way out of the department, we had a case where an older husband was killed. His wife, a real looker, a graduate of Plastic Surgery U., had been a suspect, but Fidge refused to believe anyone that angelic could kill. Well, she had done it and Fidge endured being razzed until the trial ended and she was found guilty. After that he figured every good-looking female suspect was Lynette Squeaky Fromme.

  I had gone in expecting to get his views on the zigzag footprint and the open glass slider, but Fidge had decided Clarice had done it so I let it lie. Instead, I said, “You know one of the side effects of all that coffee you drink is irritability.”

  He gave me the finger again. I said, “What’s this thing with your finger? You trying to recapture your adolescence?”

  “Saves time while capturing the sentiment.”

  “Maybe you should try decaffeinated coffee or no-caffeine soda?”

  We went mum on the Talmadge case after that and relived a few wing dings from the old days.

  I walked out of Fidge’s off
ice, and got to the stairwell with my hand on the rail to start down to the ground floor when I heard my name. “Matthew.” I turned to see Fidge standing in the hall just outside his office. “Come back here!” While he waited for me, he used his thumbs to pull up on the front of his trousers.

  I went back in while his trousers went back down to their original position.

  “Your nympho neighbor needs a good attorney. We got lots more. A damn good attorney, Matthew. Now get the hell out of here. I got work to do.”

  Chapter 4

  The gossip gaggle in my condo development had long ago decided that Clarice had boffed the entire building’s population of husbands. I knew two things about that: it was at least partially true, and Clarice enjoyed the rumors. She loved tantalizing the old prunes. I didn’t know whether they were envious of the body Clarice had, that they didn’t, or the sex Clarice was getting, that they weren’t, probably both. One thing was certain. They would all do the witness dance for the D.A.

  I had lied to Fidge. It hadn’t been a big lie, only a tactical one. Clarice and I had spent more time together than I had confessed, but I hadn’t lied for the reason you’re thinking. We had no ongoing affair. Not that I didn’t want to, but Clarice was married. Yeah, I know, you can call me provincial and you’d likely be right, but I prefer principled.

  Garson Talmadge was a cold man who, from what I determined, cared deeply only about money. He had neither strong passion nor compassion for anything or anybody standing between him and his next profit. For him, people were tools.

  So you don’t get the wrong idea, let me confess I also like money, more than most people I’d guess, but far less than Garson Talmadge. Of course, I admit that money is something about which one can be more principled after they have an adequate supply.

  Clarice, on the other hand, was all about passion and compassion, well at least passion. Not that she didn’t like money, she did. That was why she married Garson. She had made her deal with him and from what I’d seen, she was holding up her end. On some level, she cared for him. She cooked for him. And she gave him all the sex he could handle. Because her desires far exceeded his, they had also agreed that she could venture into the beds of other men. Garson asked only that she not flaunt doing so. That part was hard for if Clarice was breathing, Clarice was flaunting. No doubt, their arrangement was certainly a nonstandard plank in marital vows, but in their case it could also be seen as pragmatic. Garson wanted a trophy wife, and Clarice wanted to be assured she would be taken care of after his demise. This was a marriage of convenience. Still, it appeared to be going smoothly until someone punched Garson’s ticket.

  Let me get back to my coming clean about my clandestine relationship with Clarice. First, I should admit, having visited her warm places that one time, I was eager for a return visit. People go where they are invited and return to where they were made to feel welcome, and Clarice had made me feel very welcome. I enjoyed my time with her. She was more intelligent than the building biddies thought, much more so, and she had a quick wit. She considered my standard about no married women to be based on some boyhood notion of honor. I didn’t agree. We let that be and focused on being friends, sharing time now and again after Garson went to bed. She continued trying to entice me, but I held to my principle while enjoying her enticements, all the while wishing I’d change my mind. But, principles don’t really exist if one abandons them when the going gets tough, or, in this instance, the temptations get great.

  I know what you’re thinking, this guy shot somebody he figured deserved to die, but he won’t have sex with a willing married woman who held a hall pass from her husband. What can I tell you? Life is rarely neat, and often confusing.

  * * *

  Who Murdered Garson Talmadge, as well as the second Matt Kile Mystery, The Original Alibi, are currently available in eBook and print editions, for books signed by the author visit his website, www.davidbishopbooks.com

  Special Insert

  On the following pages begins the early portion of a mystery titled, Hunter’s World, written by Fred Lichtenberg, a former law enforcement officer and fine mystery writer. This is presented with the author’s permission in order to introduce you to the mystery Hunter’s World, and the special talents of Fred Lichtenberg. First, the author’s synopsis of the mystery:

  Synopsis

  The village of Eastpoint, a close-knit Long Island community, has never been tested with a serious crime. At least, not until syndicated romance columnist John Hunter committed suicide in his home. Even then, the townspeople accept the auslander’s demise in stride. But when Police Chief Hank Reed discovers a secret room filled with lewd paintings of Hunter and local married women, he wonders whether the collection was someone’s sick imagination or part of a duplicitous life.

  It isn’t until the medical examiner’s official report declares that Hunter was murdered, followed by a leak of Hunter’s shocking exploits, that panic engulfs Eastpoint’s residents.

  Reed is torn between his allegiance to protect his beloved town and the honor of his shield. As that balance bends toward justice, the townspeople rise against him, including his wife, who Reed suspects might be Hunter’s killer. As the investigation expands, Reed finds himself alone, in the thicket of another murder and suicide. Even as the emotional walls begin to crumble, Reed forges ahead without compromise, risking his job, his wife, and the townspeople he so desperately wants to save from the outside world.

  But saving the town requires time, and Reed is quickly running out of it. Someone behind the scenes is pulling the strings for a petition to remove the police chief. If Reed doesn’t find the killers, and soon, who will?

  The Mystery: Hunter’s World begins on the next page.

  Chapter One

  Double parking is prohibited in downtown Eastpoint. Not that anyone actually could double park on the narrow three-block Main Street, but it’s on the books. It’s also against the law to steal farm animals or purposely drive into haystacks. Oh, and cow tipping. That’s a no-no. In my five years as Eastpoint’s police chief we haven’t had one violation, though I’m not certain about cow tipping, since none of our farmers or their livestock have come forward with a complaint.

  I mention this to demonstrate that Eastpoint is pretty much crime free. This might have something to do with its location and values. Eastpoint lies about seventy miles east of New York City on a small patch of rich earth that most farmers would die for. And with a population of about four hundred, not counting the livestock or weekend city folks, people tend to respect each other and their property.

  That’s why I’m surprised on this Saturday night when my dispatcher, June Winters, a woman in her sixties who gave up farming after her husband died, alerts me about an altercation at Salty’s Bar and Grill. She sounds excited. Who wouldn’t be? Like I said, we don’t have much crime in this town.

  I wildly increase my speed to about forty in a thirty-mile-an-hour zone and pull up to Salty’s in five minutes, where I find Paddy Murphy, the owner, alone and leaning against the wall of his bar smoking a cigarette, his usual equanimity showing through. He sees me, takes a hard pull on his cancer stick, flicks it in the street, and produces a wide Irish smile. That’s a misdemeanor—not the smile, the littering—but I’ll let Paddy slide tonight.

  I emerge from the car, glance around, then shrug. “Say, Paddy, I got a call, something about an altercation. What’s up?”

  He spreads his hands. “Already taken care of, Hank. A misunderstanding, is all,” he says in his usual pleasant singsong brogue. “Two college kids from the city were fighting over a local. It was nothing. A patron must have called it in.”

  I nod. “A woman?”

  “One of Broderick Hall’s daughters. The one who attends Columbia. I guess she wanted to show off the town to a couple of classmates. Only the gents had a few too many shots and started fighting over her.”

  I grin. “Typical kids. Who won?”

  Paddy winks. “She did, of course
. Don’t women always?” He shoots a look inside the bar window. “Anyway,” he says, turning back to me, “she got pissed off over their childish behavior and left.”

  “That’s it?” I ask, disappointed.

  “What can I say, Hank? I broke it up and put them in a cab.” Paddy checks his watch. “They should be on the ten-twenty-two to Manhattan as we speak. I was just taking a break. It’s pretty hectic tonight.”

  “You want to join the force?” I ask, my crooked front teeth showing through. “You won’t be subjected to that karaoke noise.” I laugh, pointing to the bar with my chin.

  Paddy shakes his head. “Not for me, Hank. Too boring. I’m happy serving drinks. And as for the karaoke, I tune it out.”

  “I hear you. Sometimes I wonder if I made the right decision to leave the county,” I say almost to myself, then shrug. “Anyway, if there’s nothing else going on, I’ll get back to my rounds.”

  “Hey, it’s your town, Hank.”

  I’m about to ask Paddy about his wife, Sheryl, when June’s voice beckons me from inside the squad car.

  “Looks like you’re a busy guy tonight,” Paddy says, removing a pack of smokes from his corduroy shirt pocket.

  I hop inside the Crown Victoria. “Just a misunderstanding,” I assure June. “You can call off your gossip posse tonight,” I say, smiling into the phone.

  “We have another situation, Hank.”

  I roll my eyes. “June, we don’t have that many bars in town. Where to now?”

  She hesitates. “It involves a friend of yours. John Hunter.”

  I let that sink in a moment, then ask cautiously, “What kind of situation?”

  “A woman just called, said she was walking by Hunter’s house and saw the lights on in his living room. Not that it’s unusual. After all, it’s dark outside.”