WHAT LEADS A MAN TO MURDER

by Joslyn Chase

  ~~~~

  Paul scheduled a flurry of appointments with a realtor, while I adopted a strategy of pointing out the deficiencies in every house. I knew that eventually he’d find the perfect fit and my evasion tactics would fail, but I’d draw it out as long as I could.

  In the meantime, we continued living in Paul’s condo, a cut above your typical “bachelor pad.” And he, unlike the typical bachelor, keeps it immaculate. The entry comprises a space filled with sunlight, the vaulted ceilings continuing into the living room, which seems vast, an effect achieved with spare, contemporary furniture and a preponderance of reflective chrome and mirrored surfaces. Dead center is an arrangement of love seats the color of new-fallen snow, positioned at perpendicular angles around a glass coffee table. On its pristine surface, placed equidistant with ruler precision, are three landscape photography books, slick covers featuring spectacular peaks and rock formations. On the facing wall, like an echo, three framed prints line up, each a match to its corresponding book—Pike’s Peak, Silverwood, and Garden of the Gods.

  This theme persists throughout the house and therein rests my challenge. How does one snoop, rifle, and thoroughly investigate the premises of a martinet without getting caught? When any item replaced half an inch off true is immediately perceived, will suspicion ensue? The circumstances required the utmost care and accuracy.

  I searched drawers and files for paper clues. I tapped walls for hollow points, checked under the sinks for false plumbing, removed air vents, light fixtures, and wall hangings. I took down curtain rods and looked through them like telescopes. I knew Paul had a fortune in gold and jewels and I knew the price he paid for it.

  But it had cost me so much more and I intended to find it.

  ~~~~

  The heels of my Jimmy Choo knock-offs tapped an ostinato on the carnelian tiles of the terrace at Gino’s. Already, the stones held a degree of heat that radiated upward, spreading a blanket of subtle warmth at knee level. I chose a seat where I could be partially shaded, leaving the sunny side chair for Paul. I thanked the hostess and began perusing the menu. The air was perfumed with onions and garlic, lightly sautéed in olive oil with a lovely sauvignon blanc, if the menu was anything to go by. A fragrant basket of hot breadsticks arrived, escorted by a small earthenware bowl of shaved parmesan swimming in olive oil. I broke and dipped, popping the morsel into my mouth. Sea salt, oregano, and garlic played against my tongue while I moaned an accompaniment. I could make a meal out of these. I pushed the basket to the far side of the table, out of easy reach. Closing my eyes, I turned face to the sun and prepared for Paul’s arrival.

  He came from behind and dropped a kiss on the top of my head. Scooting his chair closer to mine, he sat, grasping my hand. “Happy six-week anniversary, sweetheart.”

  I felt my face go rigid and forced myself to relax. “Is it? I’m sorry, I didn’t realize.”

  “No worries. Really I just wanted an excuse to give you this.”

  He placed a blue velvet jeweler’s box on the table and I flashed on a childhood memory. My dog, a spotted cocker spaniel I’d named Chocolate Chip, had once gifted me with a dead mouse in much the same manner. I’d found it both endearing and gruesome and a rush of similar emotions engulfed me now. I opened the box and lifted the sparkling tennis bracelet from the plush interior. Paul clasped it to my wrist, shackle-like, and we admired the diamonds glinting in the sun.

  “Thank you, Paul. It’s beautiful. I have something for you, too.”

  I choked a little on that. My mouth had gone dry. I held up a finger while I took a gulp of water and a calming breath. My eyes watered and I turned them with what I hoped was a rapturous smile to Paul’s inquiring face.

  “I’m pregnant,” I said.

  ~~~~

  The next morning, after Paul left for work, I made another trip to the rice bin.

  “Girl, you’ll be french-fried and fricasseed.”

  “Interesting way to phrase it.”

  “Uh-huh, I’m keepin’ it clean. I swore off swearing when I got knocked up. And honey, my baby’s bona fide.”

  Rona was a month shy of her first wedding anniversary and had recently found out she was pregnant. For real. She resumed maligning my common sense and intelligence as only a best friend can. “You just set a ticking time bomb. You know that, right? How long do you think you can keep up the charade?”

  “Another three or four months, anyway. But, Rona, bringing a baby into the picture gives me leverage.”

  “I get that. And if he thinks he’s planted his seed, maybe he’ll give his spade a rest.”

  “You’re starting to grasp the wily genius of my plan. I’m still working to dig up the proof, but I’m next to certain Paul killed my brother. A few crumbs of reasonable doubt are all the man has going for him. As soon as I can remove them, he’s going down and I’ll make sure he appreciates what suffering feels like.”

  “Well, girl, you ought to know.”

  ~~~~

  Thursday morning I found another crumb.

  It was a warm day and the drone of the neighbor’s lawnmower nearly put me to sleep as I combed through a sheaf of paperwork. I almost missed it and then had to read it twice to make sure I understood. Paul had put a substantial down-payment on a house in Silverwood Estates.

  I remembered the house. It was a lovely red-brick colonial with three bedrooms, state of the art kitchen, and a spacious backyard. It was in a desirable neighborhood with top-notch schools, swimming pool, golf course, and nearby music academy. Ideal as it was, there was really nothing to set it apart from other homes we’d seen. Yet Paul had walked through it with a proprietorial air and an odd, suppressed glee, and something about it prickled at the back of my mental bulletin board.

  The day crawled by. I was so anxious to get to it that I could hardly swallow dinner. But I managed to wait until Paul was fed and had a few drinks in him. We went up to undress for bed and I showed him the document I’d found.

  “I can’t believe you did this without discussing it with me.”

  His face darkened and the muscles of his jaw bunched hard beneath his five o’clock shadow.

  “You’re digging through my papers?”

  “Paul, that’s my point. I shouldn’t have to dig through your papers to find something that pertains to us both.”

  I tensed, hoping I wouldn’t have to endure another round of blows as the price for peeling back this layer. I watched him unclench his jaw and turn his lips up in a smile.

  “I wanted to surprise you, honey. It’s that red-brick beauty. I know you didn’t like the fireplace and living room carpet, but we can redecorate.”

  “You’re not getting what I’m saying. Can’t you see this is a decision we should make together?”

  I looked at my husband and felt despair. I wanted a house and children. I wanted to bake cookies and put up jam, go to soccer games and plant kisses on scraped knees. I wanted to climb into bed after a long day and curl up in the warmth, feel the heat, of the man I love. I looked at my husband and saw the man who murdered my brother. We’re engaged in battle, he and I.

  “We’re expecting a baby, Paul. What if something happened to you and suddenly I’m in charge? I need to know what’s available, how to access it, what debts we owe. Be reasonable. You’re keeping me in the dark and I need to understand what’s going on.”

  Paul stalked to the window and stood, staring out. As we’d talked, the night had started its creeping descent and the edges of his dark form blended into the twilit shadow like a wraith. He was a stranger, standing there, and I felt a lick of fear burn through me. I stepped closer and held out my hand, fingertips just skimming the molecules near his shoulder. “Please, Paul.”

  He walked to the bed and sank down against the pillows. I sat beside him, kicked off my shoes, and reached for the bedside lamp. He grabbed my hand. “Don’t.”

  We sat in darkened silence for so long that I began to think I’d have to try a new tactic. Downstairs, the hall c
lock chimed nine times. Paul let out a colossal sigh and started talking.

  “When I was in college, I shared an apartment with two other guys. Bill and Gary. Bill was a Phys-Ed major who never went to class. A beach bum, always out with a surfboard or dive gear. The guy spent all his time underwater. Gary and I were both pre-med and shared some classes, lab time, and stuff. We were pretty close.”

  “One day, I came home after class and Gary met me at the door and said he had to show me something. He was real excited, talked in this crazy whisper. He told me that when Bill was in his room earlier, he’d heard a strange clinking noise and then the sound of moving furniture. He wondered about it, and after Bill left, he snooped around, trying to figure out what could have made the noise. He’d started with idle curiosity, but as he looked, he became intrigued. He pushed aside Bill’s desk and turned back the carpet. A cleverly crafted trap door covered a hidden cupboard. And inside the cupboard was a metal box, locked up tight. Beside the box, were two cloth bags and a sheaf of maps, charting underwater territory. Gary opened one of the bags and showed me what had made the clinking sound.”

  Paul sat against the headboard, facing the window, and though it was dark in the room, the streetlight cast enough glow for me to see his lips clamp together. He leaned back and crossed his arms, lapsing into silence.

  I waited, but it seemed clear he would need a further prompt. “Coins?” I guessed.

  “Yes, coins. Old coins—very valuable—and some jewelry. Rings and necklaces.” He spoke in a tired, mocking way and a feather of dread danced along the back of my neck. “We no longer wondered why Bill spent so much time in the water or how he came up with the rent money.”

  Paul’s right foot began twitching, rapidly and mechanically. The bed vibrated like he’d dropped a quarter in the slot. “We closed up the treasure trove and tried to pretend we didn’t know anything about it. But it was there, in our minds. And it ate at us. Two weeks later, I came home to find Bill in bed, bludgeoned to death. The cupboard under the carpet was empty, and Gary was gone.”

  “What are you saying? That Gary murdered Bill and escaped with the loot?”

  “There’s really no other way to look at it. The police figured the same. They put out a net for Gary, but he’d vanished.”

  “What about you? Didn’t the police consider you a suspect?”

  “Sure. But I’d been in the lab during the whole time in question and the procedures there are pretty secure. You sign in with a slide card, do your thing, and sign out by the same method. In the meantime, you’re in there with no way out. And with Gary disappearing like that…well, follow the logic.”

  I was following. His reasoning was sound, but his story fell short of where I needed it to go.

  “Okay, Paul, but that still doesn’t explain where you’re getting the money.”

  More silence. This time I let it stretch and grow until it filled the chinks and crevices of the room. Here was the nut I’d been trying to crack, and I was so close. Would he yield, or lash out? I teetered for an eternity, and when his voice sliced through the dark, I nearly whimpered with relief.

  “About three years passed. I’d finished med school and was working as an intern. One day, Gary showed up on my doorstep.”

  An electric zing went through me and I sprang up and began pacing the hardwood floor in my bare feet. Paul would berate me later for marring the polished surface with my footprints, but I didn’t care. I felt nearly as breathless and stunned as when Paul had punched me in the gut. He’d just done it again, without the fist.

  I stopped and turned toward the bed.

  “What did he want?”

  “He wanted…a friend. He had money but, hey, perhaps The Beatles put it best when they sang Money Can’t Buy Me Love. He wanted to talk with someone who knew him. He came in and we opened a bottle of scotch.”

  “Why didn’t you call the cops?”

  “Because Gary and I were close. I wasn’t going to just roll over on him.”

  I walked to the nightstand on my side of the bed and lifted the phone. Paul lurched across the bed and grabbed my arm in a rough grip. “What are you doing?”

  “Calling the police, Paul.”

  “No, you can’t do that!” His voice was a growl and I prayed he wouldn’t snap, prayed that I’d pulled the right string. I put the phone down and flipped on the bedside lamp. Paul winced and settled back into position on the bed. I looked steadily into his face while he looked steadily away, a veiled mix of shame and triumph washing over his features.

  “I suggested to Gary that I could be depended upon to keep my mouth shut if I was properly compensated.”

  “I see. So, you’re blackmailing Gary, he’s been supplementing your income, and that’s why I can’t call the cops.”

  Again, I saw him tense, deciding how to play this. He went with levity.

  “That’s it—neatly in a nutshell. So, now you know. Your old man’s a felon, but the flipside is, we’ve got cash flow.”

  He’d turned the charm on hard and his dimples were showing. My throat hurt as I swallowed past a vast dryness.

  “Paul,” I squeezed my eyes shut and saw a negative of the scene imprinted against my eyelids, Paul’s faced rendered in stark tones. “I can’t do this. I can’t be a part of this.”

  “You see, that’s why I didn’t tell you.”

  I opened my eyes and the dimples were gone.

  “Now you’ve spoiled it and you’ve no one to blame but yourself.” Paul rolled off the bed in one quick motion, backing me into a corner. Tight. “You’ll tell no one. Are we clear on that?”

  “I want to see him.”

  “See who?”

  “Gary. I want to talk to him myself.”

  “No way, baby. The golden goose is an invisible man. I don’t even see him anymore.”

  ~~~~

  Paul had smashed me once against the wall to send home his point, switched off the light, and gone to bed without another word. I climbed the stairs to the attic and spent another night there, pondering Paul’s story. At 2:30, I eased off the creaky couch and turned on a flashlight. I crept to the storage room and pulled out a file box. Removing the hanging folders, I slid a fingernail along the bottom and pulled up the fitted piece of cardboard that served to conceal my cache of newspaper clippings.

  The top article comprised five column inches under the headline, “Killer Flees With A Fortune In Gold.” It went pretty much like Paul had told it, but I had never bought into the official version. I believed Paul was the one who’d murdered Bill and made off with the haul. He must have killed Gary too, cleared out his things, and made the body disappear so that blame would attach. I knew my brother, and Gary would never kill anyone.

  A familiar stab sent spears of pain from my breastbone scar out to my extremities, a twisting knife made of grief, and guilt. I missed Gary, and I ached for what might have been, all the good he’d planned and worked for, all the connections of his life that now lay dormant. He hadn’t been the one to snoop in Bill’s room; I felt sure that had been Paul. But Gary must have known about the treasure somehow. I pushed away the thought and returned my attention to the clippings.

  A couple of follow-up squibs came next, but in the absence of police progress, the news stories petered out. At the bottom of the slim stack was a piece from fifteen years back. It had taken me nearly three months of research to uncover it on library microfiche. The headline read, “Two Die In Arson Fire, Teen Missing.” A Nebraska couple had died when their house burned to the ground. Investigators found evidence to suggest they’d been restrained. Their sixteen-year-old son was missing. The story suggested the police were working off a theory of burglary, homicide, and possible kidnapping. The missing boy’s name was Spencer Pauley. The town was Silverwood, Nebraska.

  ~~~~

  I finally drifted into a restless sleep. The clean, white light of morning burned through the uncurtained window, bathing my face in warmth, and I awoke with a clear image in my min
d. Though I had slept, my subconscious had not. Ever vigilant, it had connected a few more dots, filled in a few more blanks. Paul was on shift at the hospital, and I was alone, with a delicious sense of illumination. I hurried to the living room and stood in front of the three hanging landscapes. The one in the center portrayed a group of jagged-topped column-like stones, resembling a grove of petrified trees. The contrasting white print near the bottom of the frame identified the site as Silverwood, Colorado.

  I’d found nothing in the house because Paul had deposited the illicit loot somewhere in Silverwood. I sat on the white couch and thumbed through the table-top book, a detailed description of the Silverwood monument and surrounding areas. I remembered Paul’s fiendish delight at the house in Silverwood Estates.

  Assume Paul was responsible for the murder of his parents and the robbery of their valuables. Assume, also, that Paul murdered Bill, stole his stash, and killed Gary to provide a cover. Then, it’s fair to assume, in the face of Paul’s behavior, that his crimes fuel his pride and tickle his funny bone. A sting of ice touched my spine. Beneath the guise of a rational individual, I caught a glimpse of a madman.

  I heard the chirp of tires in the driveway. The front door flew open and sunlight flooded in around the darkened silhouette of my husband. Time froze in that instant and I felt a desperate yearning to hold it there, at bay, preserving me in amber light, but it slipped from my grasp and he was on me.

  “I had a nice chat with Dr. Chadwick today.” His voice was high, eerily sing-song, and I realized he was mimicking me. “I asked him how the prenatal visits were going and he told me I was mistaken. It was embarrassing, Adalet. Why don’t we get on the same page? Why don’t you just tell me you’re not pregnant? Why don’t you just tell me you’re a lying sack of—” The next word was ugly and landed, with force, against the arm I’d put up to shield my face. It was followed by a torrent of clipped and nasty curses, punctuated by jabs and kicks.