Blood Will Have Blood

by Linda Barnes

  Spraggue stared at the piece of paper. Three sections. The first section, personal information, was completely filled out. The third, burial information, likewise. The second part, the part dealing with cause of death, was far less crowded. Out of nineteen possible bits of information, only three were listed.

  He sighed. How many deaths had there been in Cook County on December 4, 1968? A sixty-seven-year-old man dies of a heart attack. Fill out the forms and bury the remains. So what?

  What had there been to gossip about? Caroline, forty years younger than poor deceased hubby, probably hadn’t mourned sufficiently. Spraggue read the burial information. Item 24A Burial, Cremation, Removal (Specify). The single word “cremation” underneath. That put an effective end to speculation. Once the corpse was reduced to ash.…

  Spraggue flipped the page. The second sheet was filled with Hurley’s hastily scrawled commentary.

  Mike,

  Illuminating, huh? Once I got the sheet, I called the M.E. Naturally the guy who filled out this one in ’68 is dead. But the guy I got was the old guy’s assistant, and he remembered the doc telling him the story. You’ll see why. It seems they found the old boy naked in his bed, after one of his kids had called the police. The kid had tried calling Daddy like she did every night at ten o’clock. This time, no answer.

  Ambrose was D.O.A., had a history of heart trouble. No problems; they fill out the sheet. No problems, that is, until the kid and the widow get together. Big scene right at the M.E.’s office. Kid says: Where were you? Widow says: I went to the movies after tucking in hubby at eight-thirty. Kid says (and this is exactly what he told me): So how come there’s semen on the sheets? You know Daddy wasn’t supposed to—Ruckus ensues with daughter yelling that Caroline fucked her father to death. The new M.E. says that that’s the way he wants to go! Me, too.

  -H.

  Underneath Hurley listed the name of the M.E. he’d spoken to, the name and address of Geoffrey Ambrose’s daughter, and a column of long-distance phone charges. Spraggue stuffed the material back in its envelope.

  The cab was stuck in traffic near Boylston Street. Get out and walk or take the extra time to check the second envelope? The guests would be late, Spraggue told himself. No one would show until nine-thirty at the earliest.

  He slit the envelope marked DARIEN ACCIDENT, 1974, and emptied the contents on his lap. Several photostats and a page of Hurley’s scrawl.

  The scrawl was clipped on top: “Mike, I’ll let you sort this mess out yourself!—H.” That was all.

  The copies were bad, lined, light in places, dark in others, as if the originals had been folded, crumpled, and desultorily smoothed before entry into the machine. Four pages in all: an accident report, a charge sheet, a death certificate, and a statement retracting charges. Spraggue’s eyes followed the erratic pinpoint of his flashlight as the cab alternately raced and jerked to sudden halts. Nothing new, nothing new … except names. A cast of characters.

  The name “Dennis” leaped out of the circle of light. Spraggue stopped reading, went back. Dennis Boland listed as a witness to the accident. Spraggue checked the time and place of the accident: early morning, 3 A.M.; a heavily trafficked intersection. With fat Spider conveniently lurking on the corner? He turned the page.

  Another death certificate, from the State of New York this time, but remarkably similar. Alison Arnold, female, 22, resident of the City of New York. Died of massive injuries caused by automobile accident.

  Massive injuries. And what were those? Code words to spare sensitive eyes? No punctured lungs, no twisted limbs and bloody flesh. Just “massive injuries,” the end.

  So much for Alison Arnold. Spraggue shoved the page aside angrily. Why not an unusual last name, a small-town birthplace? Ambrose’s daughter would be easy to check on, name and address thoughtfully included in Hurley’s report. But where would he find the relatives of Alison Arnold, seven years dead?

  Why try to find those people at all? Why raise up those buried ghosts? If the joker’s motive were revenge.… But if revenge, why the messages from Macbeth? Hamlet was the revenge play. Or The Spanish Tragedy. Why Macbeth?

  Spraggue’s finger stabbed at the next page, a complaint against Arthur L. Darien: drunken driving. And the charge: vehicular homicide, not the more common manslaughter. Someone had been out for Darien’s blood. The signature on the complaint form was cramped, but the name was neatly typed beneath: Albert W. Arnold—and an address! The Arnolds wouldn’t be so hard to locate, after all.

  Spraggue thumbed the pages. There was no investigative report. None—just a single, signed document in which Albert Arnold agreed to dismiss all charges against Arthur Darien.

  “Okay if I drop you here?” The cabbie’s voice broke into his reverie. “I could turn down Huntington, but if you’re in a hurry—”

  Quarter to nine. Spraggue slid all the papers back into the envelope, paid up, and hurried across the street.

  Chapter Twenty

  The theater, Spraggue thought, was decked out like a high school gym before a prom. Darien had loosed florists in the double-tiered lobby. A late-summer riot of blooms brightened the somber foyer. Red-coated waiters scurried silently, clutching heavy silver trays. Chandeliers gleamed off crystal stemware. Spraggue straightened his tie.

  Only a few of the unfashionably early were present, along with Spraggue’s lieutenants. Aunt Mary carried a purse big enough to house Hurley’s collected notes. A photographer fussed with his equipment. From the lower lobby came the hum of tuning instruments.

  Gradually, the actors made their entrances, selected their vantage points.

  Caroline Ambrose, in shimmering aqua, seemingly recovered from the adventures of the afternoon, held court on the curved staircase leading up to the first balcony. There, she draped herself advantageously against a carved pillar, a rococo gilded cherub ogling her low-cut bodice, a spray of orchids in her hair. A procession of dinner-jacketed, gray-templed men, all clearly labeled FINANCIAL BACKER, attended her.

  Langford had bowed to Spraggue as he entered, flashing that dazzling smile. Plum-colored velvet, all right, but no cummerbund; a waistcoat, embroidered in blues, purples, and magenta, with just a touch of gold thread. “Getting closer to our ghost, I hope,” Langford had muttered. In response to Spraggue’s nod, he’d beamed. “Good. I was afraid you might be too late.” Then, without breaking stride, he’d continued over to the far smoking lounge where he now posed between the fireplace and the lily pool. He entertained the backers’ wives, smiling brilliantly at the elderly females, raising a relieved eyebrow when Emma, in incredibly tight strapless red, offered to refresh his champagne glass. Among Langford’s coterie, Spraggue picked out the variegated hair of his aunt. She’d insisted that Langford be one of “her” charges.

  Now she turned, caught his eye, and started through the crowd. They met under the central chandelier.

  “Lovely party!” she said loudly, then under her breath, “Stand close. I have to whisper! Smile!”

  “Is that so,” said Spraggue in a teasing voice, moving nearer and grinning for the benefit of the other guests.

  “First,” his aunt said, “Georgina. She arrived in a different cab than the one you sent her off in. Pierce spoke to both drivers. Details in here.” She pressed a small envelope into his hand. “Briefly, she seems to have wandered around the Prudential Center for half an hour.”

  Half an hour. Ten minutes’ walk to the theater, ten minutes back. She could have done it, but just barely.

  “The cabbie who picked her up at the Pru,” Spraggue said, “did he say anything about her?”

  “Like?”

  “Like she seemed upset or—”

  “Nothing.” Aunt Mary shook her head vigorously.

  “Did she have any blood on her clothes when she got to you?”

  “Certainly not! Michael, she’s a lovely child. I’m sure she had nothing to do with—”

  “Just keep an eye on her, Aunt Mary.”

  “
I will,” Aunt Mary said firmly. She twined her arm through his and they walked slowly toward the foyer, keeping careful smiles on their lips, nodding to passersby. “Now pay attention, Michael,” she said when everyone was out of earshot. “This part is intriguing. I had lunch with Jamie Blakeley.”

  Spraggue’s eyes glittered. “That was intriguing?”

  “Not in itself. But he did give me the names of his fellow backers. I’ve been chatting around all day and I collared the holdouts this evening. And it just doesn’t add up.”

  “What doesn’t?”

  “The money, Michael! All the folks I’ve spoken to are only token investors, a few thousand here and there. The totals don’t add up to half enough to mount this kind of a show. If what you’ve told me is true—scenery from New York, designer costumes, salaries—well, my dear, all I can say is there must be another angel determined to stay in the dark. None of the backers know who he is.”

  “That is intriguing,” Spraggue murmured.

  “Thought you might find it so. Back to my post now, dear. It really is a lovely party.”

  “Have you tried the Macbeth bit with Langford?”

  “Haven’t had a chance to get a word in edgewise, Michael. Those women are so bold!”

  “Keep trying.”

  “I shall.”

  Spraggue watched as she wound her way back through the crowd. A hidden backer.… He scanned the room.

  Greg Hudson seemed to have brought along a boyfriend, a dark, bearded fellow Spraggue had never seen before. The man shifted uncomfortably in his dinner jacket. Had he been picked up for the occasion and hurriedly stuffed into rented clothes? To annoy Emma? To make her feel sorry for Greg? Hudson was drinking too much. Waiters, trays heavily laden with champagne glasses, rarely got by him untouched.

  Gus Grayling was resplendent, brushed and polished to a burnished shine, exuding a faint air of stage nobility. He flirted with the older women, but kept an arm possessively around Georgina’s waist. Spraggue raised an eyebrow. Langford’s plan seemed to have worked. At intervals, Grayling checked the crowd around the leading man and smiled whenever it thinned out. Once he waved over at Langford, taking great care that John should see Georgina.

  The tiny blonde looked frozen, brittle. Her worried eyes never relaxed. She knew about Caroline’s dog; she’d denied the deed emphatically, offered to take a polygraph test. Spraggue wondered how a lie detector would handle actors. Surely those who lied as a profession could effectively fool a machine.

  Laughter and music bubbled up from the downstairs lounge. The largest of the front-of-house areas, it was a natural ballroom. The dais, where refreshments were sold during intermission, was now a miniature stage for a tightly packed combo.

  Spraggue fastened a polite smile on his face and escaped from Mrs. Perlmutter, patroness of the arts. He wished the damned shindig would end. Too many people. Too many he knew, too many who knew him. His smile felt stretched to the breaking point.

  Moving through the crowd in the downstairs lounge, he barely nodded to an observant, red-coated Pierce on the landing.

  The crush was greater here, the mist of cigar and cigarette smoke more foully potent.

  Deirdre Marten stood alone in a corner, tapping her foot to the rhythm. Spraggue doubted she’d dance much. In stark black, she looked too pure, too untouchable. No matter how attracted by her beauty, a man would hesitate to approach the ice princess. Was she still waiting for her chance to take over Emma’s role? Did she still believe another “incident” would happen?

  Who would Deirdre play in Macbeth? One of the witches, if the director saw the trio as deadly and cold. Or a young Lady Macbeth in that stiff black gown. But none of the companies Deirdre Marten or Dinah Martowski worked with had done Macbeth. She was one of the few Aunt Mary had been able to check on thoroughly. No unexplained gaps in her acting career.

  Aunt Mary.… She kept careful watch upstairs. Pierce lurked on the steps. And Karen—Spraggue saw her even as he had the thought. She was dancing with Eddie Lafferty.

  Her deep blue dress suited her. Spraggue found its voluminous folds more intriguing than Emma’s half-bared bosom.

  Karen and Eddie danced well, but there was distance between them. Eddie, Spraggue decided, held back. Fear of older women? Natural reserve? Spraggue waited until the tune was finished, tapped Karen lightly on the shoulder, and led her back out to the floor. If he said nothing, she couldn’t refuse.

  “Look like you’re having a good time,” he whispered.

  “Why?” Rebellion flared in her eyes.

  “Did you talk to Eddie about Macbeth?”

  “I’ve got work to do, Spraggue!”

  “Michael. Did you ask him?”

  “Yes,” she whispered furiously. “He loves the play, but he’s never been in it. And he didn’t curl up and act sinister when I mentioned it!”

  “Relax,” Spraggue said gently. “Smile.”

  “I’m uncomfortable. They all know I shouldn’t be here!”

  “You look like you wear long gowns and go dancing every night of the week. The cast will just assume that Eddie brought you.”

  “He didn’t.”

  Spraggue tightened his arm around her. “Good.”

  “I’m serious. I’m the only techie here.”

  “Dennis Boland’s coming down the stairs.”

  “Him! He’s Darien’s shadow.”

  “Odd sort of shadow,” Spraggue answered speculatively.

  “He is odd.” Karen looked up at Spraggue quizzically. “He’s a good house manager, efficient as hell. But can you picture him as Darien’s best friend? Darien’s such a snob, really. Look at him, beaming at all the Beacon Hill people, fawning on the press. He could be upstairs now, sharing center stage with John Langford, and instead he’s down here with fat little Dennis. Lunches with fat little Dennis. Dines with fat little Dennis. I can’t see my Arthur Darien being kind. Don’t you wonder what keeps them together?”

  “Very much. Darien seems in a good mood tonight.” He whispered so that she’d have to draw even closer. Her dark, sleek hair came up just past his chin. It smelled like lilies-of-the-valley.

  “Why not? Some of the reviewers here tonight are the same ones who drove him out of the business five years ago.”

  “They could still pan us tomorrow.”

  She smiled, shook her head. “This play has an aura of success about it.” Her smile faded nervously. “If nothing else happens.”

  The music stopped. They applauded and stood off to one side, watching Arthur Darien.

  “He hasn’t had a drink all evening,” Karen said suddenly. “I’ve been watching him.”

  “Did you expect him to get roaring drunk?”

  “It was just something someone said.”

  “Eddie?”

  “Maybe.”

  Spraggue changed the subject. “Darien’s done Macbeth, hasn’t he?”

  Karen took a step away. “I don’t know.… Why don’t you ask him?” Her dark eyes were very far away.

  “I think I will.”

  But he didn’t get the chance. He felt a hand on his shoulder, light but firm. “Dance with me,” said Emma Healey. Her smile was taut. Annoyed that he hadn’t asked her? Irritated that he hadn’t taken notice of her slinking staircase descent?

  The music started. Emma pressed her body tightly against Spraggue’s and swayed. She didn’t lead; she didn’t follow. She molded herself to him, danced as if they were one.

  She looked up. “I hardly know you,” she said. “That’s too bad. I try very hard to get acquainted with all my leading men—”

  “You seem to know John Langford pretty well,” said Spraggue.

  It wasn’t the response she wanted. “Oh, John.” She waved him away. “John is upstairs playing matinee idol. It bores me. And John’s not my only leading man in this show. You and I have love scenes. I like to know a lot about a man before I romance him onstage.”

  “Such as?”

  “Wheth
er he’s a good dancer,” she said after a pause. “You are.”

  “Is that important?”

  “It can be.”

  “There’s not much more to know about me.”

  “Michael.” She lowered her eyes. She made his name sound like an endearment she had invented just for him. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

  “What you hear may be exaggerated.”

  “I’d like to find out,” she said playfully.

  Would you now, thought Spraggue. Or would you rather find out what I know about the joker?

  “You joined us so late,” she went on, her lips a half-pout. “You and I have never had a chance … to talk.” Another couple brushed by them. Emma pressed closer. “I hate crowds,” she said with a sigh. “And parties like this give me a pain. Just sucking up to the press. And the backers are mostly dirty old men. Why don’t we leave, you and me?”

  “And go where?”

  “Wherever you want. Your place. Mine.”

  Spraggue shook his head regretfully, ran his hand down her spine. The red dress had no zipper. How did she get into it? Or, better yet, out of it? “Sorry. I can’t leave.”

  “Can’t?” Her eyebrows arched.