Mansions Of The Dead (22 page)

SWEENEY WAS IN HER
office reading up on mourning jewelry from the 1860s to try to identify the jeweler who had made the brooch when Quinn called.

He was angry. “I had a call from Kitty Putnam yesterday,” he said, his voice grim and tight. “She told me something kinda interesting.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“She told me that you visited her Saturday night in Newport and you convinced her to tell me that there was something about Brad’s death the family hadn’t been totally honest about. And she said the family wants to talk to me, but that they want you to be there. Because you understand, she said.”

“Oh. Yes, well. I told her that if she didn’t call you, I was going to,” Sweeney told him. “I thought that was the right thing to do. It’s kind of a personal thing. A family thing I don’t think they wanted to reveal. Since I kind of forced them into revealing it, I thought it was fair to let them tell you in their own way.”

There was a long silence, and then he exploded. “Do you think we’re doing some kind of family therapy here? This is a murder investigation.”

“I know it is and I know you wouldn’t know about this if I hadn’t figured it out.”

There was a long silence. Finally he said, “Look, I’ll pick you up at two o’clock this afternoon by your office—come out and stand in front of the museum, and we’ll go to the Putnams and talk to them about this thing, whatever it is. Okay?”

At two, she was standing on Quincy Street waiting for Quinn. It had grown breezy, the wind picking up pieces of paper here and there on the sidewalk and whipping them around. She wondered suddenly how he had known where her office was, but when she looked up, there he was, driving a battered Toyota Celica. She got into the car wordlessly, afraid of antagonizing him. The car smelled strange, feminine, like talcum powder.

He still seemed angry; he pulled away from the curb so quickly that her head snapped back. She put on her seat belt and gripped the door handle.

They were completely silent for ten minutes or so, listening to top forty on the radio, and then he said, “Anytime you’re ready.”

“What?”

“You can start telling me what this is about anytime you’re ready.” His hands gripped the steering wheel hard.

“Oh . . . well, I was talking to someone, over the weekend, and I found out something I didn’t know about the Putnams, which was that Andrew Putnam was an alcoholic. Before the other son died. And when the kids were younger, he would come home so drunk that he’d pass out. The kind of passing out where you worry about someone choking on their vomit.”

Quinn glanced over at her.

“So anyway, I realized that it was possible that in that family, it was kind of a habit, to tie someone’s hands to the bed, so they couldn’t roll over and choke. Jack Putnam told me that his brother called him, that he was very drunk. Jack was worried and he went over to the apartment and did in fact tie Brad’s arms to the bed.”

Quinn hesitated for a moment, but then he saw that she could help him.

“We got the cell phone records a couple of days ago. Brad called four people that night. All three of his siblings and the roommate’s girlfriend.”

“Becca Dearborne,” Sweeney said.

“Yeah. Anyway, the first call was to Jack Putnam’s cell phone. That must be the one he told you about. Then there was one to Camille Putnam, and another one to Drew Putnam, also at home. Then finally he called Rebecca Dearborne.”

“And they didn’t volunteer this?”

“Nope. Well, Becca Dearborne did. When we talked to her a couple of days ago. That’s what helped us pin down the time of death. He called her at eleven. She said he was just drunk, babbling on and on about stuff, nothing of significance. But the family didn’t say a word.”

Sweeney didn’t say anything at first. Then she said, “It seems kind of stupid. I mean, wouldn’t they assume you’d get the phone records?”

“Yeah, but with the kind of influence that family . . . Anyway . . . we’re meeting them out at Drew Putnam’s house in Weston.”

He looked exhausted, his eyes lined with lack of sleep and his clothes rumpled. She wondered why.

Drew and Melissa Putnam’s house was at the end of a long driveway off the Concord Road. The neighborhood, and Weston itself, was undergoing the same transformation that so many suburban Boston towns had experienced. A few modest ranch houses on large lots remained, but most of the homes were newish, overlarge Mc-Mansions built to look like stately Colonial or Federal residences. There was a uniformity to these houses, the proliferation of bay windows and skylights, the landscaping precise and marked by young lilac bushes and perennials planted in neat circles and surrounded
by cedar wood chips. As Quinn pulled into the Putnams’ circular driveway, though, Sweeney saw a big old Colonial, flanked by a carriage house and a barn, both painted a bright white and trimmed with blue.

Melissa answered the door and showed them into a wide foyer, papered in a royal-blue-and-gold pattern; Sweeney looked over to find Quinn slack-jawed at the opulence of the house. It had been done up in a kind of French Baroque madness, gold and blue everywhere in the entryway, rich-looking rugs on the hardwood floors. She quietly checked out an ornate, gilded side table against one wall and decided it was the real thing. It was not at all to Sweeney’s taste, but it must have cost a lot of money, and it couldn’t have been more different from either of the houses that Drew had grown up in, so Sweeney guessed that the house had been Melissa’s project.

Sweeney had been assuming that Drew would take the lead in explaining the situation, and she was surprised to walk into a dark, wood-paneled library and have Jack stand up to greet her and Quinn.

“Please sit down, wherever you want,” he said. But there were only two empty chairs and Sweeney realized that the room had been carefully composed in order to maximize the family’s advantage. They were seated in armchairs grouped on one side of the room. Quinn’s and Sweeney’s chairs were—subtly so—on the side of the room near the door. Sweeney felt stage-managed.

“I’d like to apologize for all of us, Detective Quinn,” Jack said. “As you now know, we kept an important piece of information from you and I ask your forgiveness. I can only say that we never would have done it if we thought it was important. I think you’ll understand when we explain.”

As though they had rehearsed it, Jack sat down and his father stood up. “I am an alcoholic,” he said. “I’m not proud of it and I’ve been sober now for five years, but when my children were younger I was in pretty bad shape most of the time. There were nights when I would get
so drunk that I would pass out and the kids would have to put me to bed. My wife had begun the practice of tying my arms—gently, mind you—to the headboard of the bed so that there was no danger of my turning over in my sleep and choking on my vomit. It’s not a nice story and I’m embarrassed to have to tell it to you. But my children adopted this . . . um technique . . . ”

Jack stood up again. “The night that Brad died, he called me. He was very drunk and I was concerned. So I went to his apartment—he was alone—and by the time I got there, he had passed out. I could see that he’d been throwing up and so I dragged him to his bed, turned him over onto his stomach, put a wastepaper basket next to him and tied his arms loosely to the bed. If he had been sober enough or had had to go to the bathroom, he could have untied them himself. Again, I’m very, very sorry that we weren’t totally candid. As I said, it didn’t seem that it mattered very much. I mean, we expected that you would find the person who did this quite quickly and . . . ” It was a shot at Quinn and Sweeney could see that it was meant to keep him in his place.

Quinn didn’t say anything.

“What did he say to you?” Sweeney asked quietly. She hadn’t checked with Quinn to see if it was okay for her to ask questions and she didn’t look over at him in case he was glaring at her. “When he called?”

Jack gave her a small smile. “Oh, nothing in particular. He was just very, very drunk. You know, babbling on and on.” He fiddled with a paperweight on the desk and said quickly. “Anyway, if we can help you at all, please let us know. Again we’re sorry that we weren’t immediately honest about this. As you know, I’m an artist and I recently found out that I’m going to be in a show at a prominent gallery. And I was concerned about the press.” He started forward as though he were about to show them the door.

But Quinn jumped in. “How tightly did you tie his arms?”

“What? Oh . . . not that tight. Just kind of so he couldn’t pull out of
them. But as I said, if he’d sobered up, he probably could have gotten up to go to the bathroom or whatever.”

“And how was he dressed when you left him?”

“Um . . . in his underwear. I took off his clothes so he’d be more comfortable. I hope you won’t make too much of that, detective. I’m sure you’ve tended drunks before.”

Quinn said, “And the jewelry?”

“He wasn’t wearing it when I left.”

“Did you see it anywhere in the apartment?”

“No, but it could have been there. I wasn’t looking for it.”

“And what time was it when he called you?”

Sweeney had the feeling that Quinn was more interested in how Jack answered his questions than in the answers themselves.

Jack hesitated for a moment. “A little before eleven, I think.”

“So you went right to his apartment and you say that you found your brother drunk and tied his arms to the bed so that he wouldn’t turn over and choke on his vomit. Why didn’t you stay with him if you were so concerned?”

Jack looked down at the floor. “Well, of course now I wish that I had,” he said. “I don’t know if you can imagine quite how much I wish I had.” Sweeney heard his voice catch on the words and she wanted to tell Quinn to stop.

“I think that was my fault,” Andrew said, breaking in. “Because of my alcoholism, my children have all come to accept a certain amount of abnormal things as being perfectly normal. They learned to handle the results of my drinking in a particular way and when they saw it in their brother, it wouldn’t have occurred to them to do anything else.”

He was right of course. Sweeney hoped Quinn saw it.

“The phone records said that Brad made a seven-minute call to you the night of his murder. What did you talk about?” Quinn asked, looking at Drew.

Drew looked a bit flustered. “He was very drunk. Just like Jack said. I told him to go to bed and that I’d call him in the morning.”

“Why did he call you?”

“I don’t know. I’m his brother. People make phone calls when they’re drunk. It’s quite a common thing to do, I think.”

“Where were you, Mrs. Putnam?” Quinn looked at Melissa.

“I think I must have been upstairs. We’d been out to dinner and when we came home I went right up to get ready for bed. I took a sleeping pill and went to sleep right away. I don’t really know what time it was.”

Quinn nodded and looked back at Drew. “But you didn’t think it was worth going to see your brother? Was this a usual occurrence?”

“No, but he was a college student. I mean, let’s be honest, this isn’t the strangest thing for a college student to do.”

“Did you leave anything in the apartment when you were there, by accident?” Quinn asked Jack.

Jack looked back and forth between Quinn and Sweeney. “I . . . no, I don’t think so. It’s possible, but . . . what did you find?”

Quinn didn’t answer. “I have one more question.” He looked over at Camille. “What did you and Brad talk about that night?”

Camille’s eyes widened. “What do you mean? It was Jack that . . . ”

“According to phone records, your brother also called you that night. I’d like to know when he called you.”

“Oh. Yes, of course. He left me a message. He just said hi and that he hoped my speech had gone well that day and then, I don’t know, he was drunk. He babbled a bit. That was it.” Her eyes filled with tears.

“Did you save the message?”

“No.” She looked right at Quinn, daring him with her eyes. “I listened to it the next morning before I heard about . . . about what had happened, and then I erased it. I wish I had saved it. Then I would be able to listen to his voice. But I didn’t.”

Quinn looked around at them. “Did Brad call either of you that night, Mr. and Mrs. Putnam?”

“You seem to know already that he didn’t,” Andrew Putnam said.

Quinn looked back at Drew. “Why didn’t you tell us about these calls immediately?”

“Because they don’t have anything to do with how he died. It was our business.”

“Detective Quinn,” Kitty said. It was the first time she had spoken since they’d been there. “I don’t understand what this is all about. Why are you questioning us when there’s someone out there who . . . ” She caught her breath, but then continued, almost screaming. “Someone who put a bag over my son’s head! Someone who left him there to die! Why don’t you find that person and leave us alone.” Camille put an arm around her and glared at Quinn.

“I guess that’s it,” Quinn said, getting to his feet. “I don’t need to tell you that if there’s anything else you haven’t told us, you need to let us know right away. This kind of stuff is usually thought of as impeding a police investigation, you know.”