What the Fly Saw

by Frankie Y. Bailey

  “Did the Fox sisters ever come to Albany?”

  “Sure they did. So did Houdini.”

  “The magician? He believed in spiritualism?”

  Angus gave her another one of his looks. “Houdini was a debunker. He gave lectures about how hoaxers like the Fox sisters fooled their clients. In fact, Houdini and Arthur Conan Doyle had a falling out over spiritualism.” Angus drained his coffee mug and added, “But Doyle went on believing Houdini’s magic was the result of Houdini’s supernatural powers.”

  “Houdini must have found that a little frustrating,” McCabe said. “What do you think about Olive Cooper cultivating a medium? Is it out of character? Cooper didn’t strike me as particularly gullible. So why would she be hanging out with a medium?”

  “Maybe she appreciates the woman’s entertainment value. Or, maybe she’s an old woman who hopes there might be something on the other side.”

  “That’s more or less what she said about it. And Luanne Woodward is entertaining. But Cooper’s minister, Reverend Wyatt, isn’t happy about Luanne. Luanne says he wasn’t welcoming when Olive brought her along to church. Wyatt told Baxter and me that he objects to the way phony spiritualists prey on vulnerable people.”

  “So he thinks the woman’s a fraud, does he?”

  McCabe hunched forward, elbows on the table. “He does. But there is a distinction, isn’t there, between being a fraud and sincerely believing in your own powers even if you haven’t any?”

  “I’d take the fraud. People who suffer from delusions about their own powers can be dangerous. Mind pouring me another cup of coffee?”

  22

  Thursday, January 23, 2020

  9:17 A.M.

  “We ought to put your dad on the payroll,” Baxter said.

  McCabe had given Baxter a run-down of her chat with the clerk in the archery store. Then she’d told him about her conversation with her father.

  “He does have useful information sometimes. But I always remind him our discussions are confidential.”

  “If you can’t trust your own father to keep his mouth shut, who can you trust?” Baxter leaned back in his chair. “So where does that leave us? We’ve got the members of the two archery clubs. But the clerk at the archery store says our church people, even though they like to play around with bows, are real nice people, only dangerous to four-legged animals.”

  “Unless we want to interview all the club members because they own bows and knew the victim, I think we should accept his assessment for now. We can work our way down the lists if nothing else turns up. Or if something turns up that would suggest we should focus on the club members.”

  “Okay, that leaves us with our major players. A minister, who has a megachurch and, according to your father’s source, plans to go big-time. He seems like a nice guy, too, but he objects to the medium his rich old lady church member brought to church and recommended to our victim. On the other hand, the psychiatrist, aka church counselor, thinks the medium is a passing fad among the church members. Rich old lady says the psychiatrist is a good guy, too, just too full of himself to know how to hang with street people.”

  “We also have our victim’s dead friend, Bob, that everyone keeps bringing up,” McCabe said.

  “But Bob died of natural causes. And it’s understandable our vic might have felt some responsibility for his death if they were playing tennis when his friend keeled over from a heart attack.”

  “That’s understandable. But maybe there’s more to the Bob thing. Maybe there’s something there that would explain Kevin Novak’s odd behavior the past few months.”

  Baxter said, “I wonder who buried Bob when he died. Would you bury your best friend if you were a funeral director?”

  “I guess that would depend on what the friend’s family wanted.” McCabe reached for her ORB. “We don’t know anything about Bob or his family yet.”

  “I don’t even remember the guy’s last name.”

  “Reeves. I thought of George Reeves when I heard it.”

  Baxter grinned. “Sorry, you lost me. Who?”

  “The actor who played Superman on that old TV show. When we were kids, my dad took my brother, Adam, and me down to the City to an event at Rockefeller Center honoring TV actors who were big in the 1950s and ’60s. Reeves was one of the people being honored.”

  “He must have been an old man by then.”

  “But he was still navigating on his own. I was too young to appreciate it at the time, but they had a really arctic surprise for both him and the audience. Marilyn Monroe gave Superman his award.”

  “Wow! I’ve seen some of her movies. Of course, she must have been pretty ancient by then, too.”

  “She had let her hair go white and she had some wrinkles, but she looked pretty good. My dad jumped to his feet and started clapping as soon as she walked out on the arm of the Marine who was escorting her. Okay, here we go. I’ve got a September 2019 obituary for a Robert Reeves. I think this is our guy.”

  McCabe sent the obituary from her ORB to the wall. Baxter walked over to read it. “Robert Reeves, age fifty-four, married … an attorney.”

  “Who practiced family law and estate planning.”

  “Estate planning,” Baxter said. “Could he have been Olive Cooper’s lawyer?”

  “I think she would have mentioned it if he had been. But we can ask. I wonder if Bob’s wife and Sarah Novak are friends.”

  Baxter sat down on the edge of his desk. “You think they might have shared some girl talk about what was going on with Kevin after Bob died?”

  “If they’re friends, they might have. We should pay Bob’s wife a visit and see if she has any thoughts about how Kevin reacted to her husband’s death.” McCabe turned back to her ORB. “Let’s see if we can find an address for her.”

  * * *

  Francesca Reeves owned an upscale women’s apparel shop in the mall near UAlbany’s uptown campus. When McCabe contacted her, Reeves responded with a tag asking the detectives to meet her there.

  A clerk smiled at them as they entered La Femme Naturelle. She was busy with a woman who was peering into a mirror as she held silver bangle earrings up to her face.

  McCabe said, “Excuse me, we’re here to see—”

  “I’m Francesca,” said a silky, slightly accented voice.

  Reeves was clad in a black sweater and calf-length skirt that might have come from her own shop and wore several silver bracelets. Her shoulder-length silver hair was swept back from her face.

  She was chic and beautifully preserved, McCabe thought, but she must be in her late sixties. According to his obituary, Bob Reeves had been closer to Kevin Novak’s age than his wife’s.

  “Please come into my office,” Reeves said.

  Her office décor was understated French country. Reeves sat down behind her desk. She said, “I can see you’re surprised. My husband was fifty-four. I’m seventy-two, almost seventy-three.”

  Baxter said, “I guess your husband preferred beautiful older women.”

  Reeves returned his smile. “Our age difference seemed less so when my husband and I first met. He said I was fascinating and ‘ageless.’”

  And did he eventually stop saying that? McCabe wondered. “How long were you married, Mrs. Reeves?”

  “Twelve years. Until he died and became the second husband I was required to bury.”

  “What happened to your first?” Baxter asked.

  “A skiing accident. Bob was his lawyer.” She glanced at McCabe. “And since you’re here to talk about Kevin Novak, I should tell you that Kevin handled both husbands’ funeral services.”

  “Did both husbands belong to the New Awakening Church?” McCabe asked.

  “Only Bob. To my annoyance. Not that I’m opposed to organized religion. But when one is as involved as Bob was, it can be time-consuming.” A graceful wave of her hand set her bracelets jangling. “Of course, you must understand that I’m particularly peeved at his church right now. Shortly before he
died, my husband sent me off on my own on a jaunt to Paris. One of his many church committees was meeting.”

  “The parking lot committee?” Baxter asked.

  “No, I think it was something about church finances.”

  “Did he say what it was they were going to discuss?” McCabe asked.

  “I don’t think it was anything unusual. But he was the chair of the committee, and he felt it would be bad form to take off for a long weekend in Paris—so decadent, you know—when his committee was meeting to discuss church business.”

  “Did you attend church with your husband?” McCabe asked.

  “On appropriate holidays,” Reeves said. “But I think Reverend Wyatt suspected me of hypocrisy. And I always felt Bob was uncomfortable about our age difference when he was in the midst of his fellow congregants. I think he was afraid they thought he had really married a wealthy widow for her money.”

  “Did you,” McCabe asked, “know Kevin and Sarah Novak well? Were the four of you close friends?”

  “Close friends, no. I liked them both. But—although they tried their best to include me—we didn’t have a great deal in common.”

  “But you and Sarah are both businesswomen,” Baxter said. “Do you carry her products?”

  “I offered, but Sarah was distressed when she saw my price markup. She wants ‘working women’ to be able to buy her soaps and lotions.” Reeves shrugged. “I, on the other hand, have no objection to helping women feel as if they are treating themselves well when they pay for quality.”

  That was one way of looking at it, McCabe thought.

  “How did your husband’s death affect your relationship with the Novaks?”

  “Not well. Kevin held himself much more responsible than he should have for Bob’s heart attack.”

  “Did you tell him that?” Baxter asked.

  “Yes. But even at the hospital, while we were waiting for my husband to come out of surgery, Kevin had a hard time looking me in the eye.”

  “And when your husband died,” McCabe said, “and Mr. Novak was handling his funeral … that must have been awkward for both of you.”

  “It was,” Reeves said. “But I had promised Bob before he went into surgery that if anything happened, I would accept Kevin’s help.”

  “Accept his help?” Baxter said. “With the funeral planning and getting your husband’s affairs in order?”

  Reeves laughed. “My husband was a lawyer. He would never have died with his affairs in disarray. He wanted my promise that I would allow Kevin to not only see me through his burial but be there to support me through my period of mourning. Unfortunately, he hadn’t taken Kevin’s feelings into account. We were both relieved when we had gotten through the funeral.”

  “So you haven’t spent a lot of time with the Novaks since your husband died?” Baxter asked.

  “No, but Sarah has checked in on me now and then. We had lunch together two weeks ago.”

  “Was that her suggestion or yours?” McCabe asked.

  “Hers. We went to a wonderful little café downtown.” Reeves paused. “But she hardly touched her food. And … this was unusual for Sarah … she not only joined me in a glass of wine, she had several. She was a bit tipsy by the time lunch was over.”

  McCabe asked, “Did you talk about your husbands?”

  “Only in passing. She said, ‘Kevin misses Bob.’ I said, ‘So do I.’ And after a moment of silence, she rushed into small talk about her children. I countered with small talk about my shop. She said she had always wanted to go to Paris and told me—a story she’d told me the first time we met—about her college roommate who everyone had thought was ultrasophisticated because she had spent a summer with an aunt in Paris. I told her about my last trip to Paris.” Reeves paused, smiling. “And then we had to make an important decision.”

  “About what?” McCabe asked.

  “About dessert. There was a new item on the menu, and we had to decide if we were brave enough to try it.”

  “What was the new item?” Baxter asked.

  “Chocolate fudge walnut brownies made with ground cricket flour.”

  McCabe said, “I’ve read about that. The cricket flour is supposed to provide protein and make desserts healthier.”

  “Did you have the healthy brownies?” Baxter asked, grinning.

  Reeves shook her head. “Wine and chocolate work well together. But we were uncertain about the crickets. I had coffee. Sarah ordered the blood orange sorbet. I’m sure, later that afternoon, she felt rather miserable as she recovered from her lunch of three glasses of wine and a sorbet.”

  “You said it was unusual for Mrs. Novak to drink,” McCabe said. “Did you have the sense she was worried or upset?”

  “Both. But if she had intended to talk to me about what was troubling her, she changed her mind. I have been wondering if I should call her. Maybe she would like to tell me now. Or, perhaps, now Kevin is dead, talking would make it worse.”

  “Do you think it might be some secret involving both Kevin and your husband?” Baxter asked.

  Reeves said, “My concern is that there is more to this than I at first thought. Bob’s death sent Kevin, his best friend, into a tailspin. And now Kevin has been murdered. Maybe there is something I should know.”

  McCabe felt a twinge of unease. “But it would be best if you left this investigation to us, Mrs. Reeves. Sometimes asking questions can be a bad idea.”

  “You can’t think Sarah killed her husband.”

  “We have no reason to think that. But Mrs. Novak does believe whatever was bothering her husband might have somehow led to his murder. So it might be better if you didn’t appear too interested.”

  Reeves tilted her head. “I see. But I assume you would not object to my contacting Sarah to express my condolences. It is only good manners, you see.”

  “Yes, and I don’t think that would be a problem.”

  “You will let me know if you find anything I should know about my husband?”

  Baxter said, “Anything in particular you think we might find?”

  “I am a realist, Detective Baxter. My husband was attentive and romantic. We had a marriage we both enjoyed. But he was a man—and a lawyer involved in handling the estates of wealthy clients. I am not the kind of woman who goes through life wearing blinders. I know men—and women—are sometimes tempted by lust or greed.” She shrugged. “That is what makes us so fascinating. Even when we try to behave as we think we should, we so often fall from grace.”

  “That’s a generous philosophy,” McCabe observed.

  “To the extent one can be generous, life becomes much more bearable,” Reeves said.

  “Yes, I suppose it does. Only two more questions. When was the last time you saw Kevin Novak? And where were you on the night he died?”

  “I wondered when you would get to that. Oddly enough, the last time I saw Kevin, it was for only a moment. He saw me and made a hasty departure.”

  Kevin Novak seemed to have a habit of removing himself from situations he found uncomfortable, McCabe thought. He’d also made “a hasty departure” when he was introduced to Luanne Woodward.

  “When and where did you see each other?” she asked.

  “About a month ago,” Reeves said. “And here I might as well make a disgraceful confession. I love video games. On our first date, I took Bob to a video arcade in the City. On the day when I ran into Kevin and his daughter, Megan, I had borrowed my neighbors’ twelve- and thirteen-year-old grandsons for a trip to the video arcade that opened on Wolf Road last summer. It has all of my favorite vintage games, and as one of my young companions said, ‘It is awesome arctic.’”

  “So Kevin and his daughter came to play videos games,” Baxter said, “but saw you and—”

  “Kevin stopped in his tracks. Then he nodded to me and said something to Megan. She looked surprised and started to protest. He hustled her out. We never spoke.”

  “Odd,” McCabe said.

  “Very,” Ree
ves agreed. “And one of the reasons I was particularly intrigued when Sarah invited me to lunch a couple of weeks later.”

  “Did you tell her what happened with Kevin at the arcade?” Baxter asked.

  Reeves shook her head. “I was about to when she plunged into her small talk about her children.”

  McCabe said, “That should have been the perfect opportunity to mention you’d seen Mr. Novak and his daughter at the arcade.”

  “Yes, you would think so. But Sarah was chattering away as if she were afraid to stop talking. It didn’t seem the best time to bring up her husband’s odd behavior.”

  “About my other question, Mrs. Reeves—where were you on the night Kevin Novak died?”

  “Definitely not struggling through the snow to get to the funeral home and kill him, Detective McCabe. I was indulging myself with a long weekend at a spa in the Catskills. And blissfully snowed in there until Monday afternoon. I didn’t hear about Kevin’s death until I got back to Albany.”

  23

  Dr. Singh’s toxicology report on Kevin Novak was waiting for them when they got back to the station house.

  Baxter said, “Nothing illegal. But he was taking a prescription antidepressant.”

  “I wonder who prescribed it,” McCabe said. “His family doctor or the church counselor.”

  “Singh doesn’t say. Maybe we should ask our friend Dr. Burdett.”

  “Not that the antidepressant is necessarily relevant. But Novak’s mental state keeps coming up. Let’s see if we can reach Dr. Burdett.”

  Burdett was sitting at his desk, shelves of books in the background. “Good morning, Detectives. I’m afraid we’ll have to keep this short, I’m expecting a patient.”

  “Just a quick question, Dr. Burdett,” McCabe said, sliding her ORB into its dock on her desk so that Baxter could see. “According to the toxicology report on Kevin Novak, he was taking an antidepressant.” McCabe read the name out to him. “We wondered if you had prescribed it, or if we should speak to his family doctor.”

  “I can answer your question. Kevin’s GP wrote the prescription after consulting with me. We both agreed Kevin could benefit from an antidepressant that would help him to cope while he was working through his emotional problems.” Burdett frowned. “Forgive me, but I don’t see why you’re concerned about the medication Kevin was taking when he was shot with a bow.”