Authors: Ellen Pall
Slightly Abridged (10 page)
“But, Dennis, didn't it strike you that his family wouldn't want this manuscript published?”
“A little snippet about a great-great-great-whatever-grandfather having been a cross-dresser two centuries ago?” He shook his head, smiling a confused smile. “Who would care? And anyway, who said anything about it being published?”
He paused briefly, looking from one to the other of his guests. Both were looking back at him as if urging him to think, think. “Although I didâ” he resumed, then stopped.
“You did what?” Juliet prodded.
Dennis's cheeks had gone pinker again. “I may have mentioned to Hertbrooke that I'd thought of contacting a friend at the
Times
. Sometimes if you can get a little ink about an itemâthe Louisa May Alcott manuscript found in a trunkful of dress patterns in an attic, the Melville diary used for half a century to prop up an uneven table legâyou know the kind of thing, well, sometimes you can jack the price up quite a bit. So I mentioned I might call this culture reporter I know at the
Times
. But I only said it because it occurred to me that, as a journalist, Hertbrooke might know her. I didn't mean to threaten him!”
Times
. Sometimes if you can get a little ink about an itemâthe Louisa May Alcott manuscript found in a trunkful of dress patterns in an attic, the Melville diary used for half a century to prop up an uneven table legâyou know the kind of thing, well, sometimes you can jack the price up quite a bit. So I mentioned I might call this culture reporter I know at the
Times
. But I only said it because it occurred to me that, as a journalist, Hertbrooke might know her. I didn't mean to threaten him!”
There was another silence. Then Juliet said quietly, “Speaking of naive.”
“Did you tell the police about this?” Suzy asked, as yet another uncomfortable silence grew.
“Of course. I told them everything, everyone I talked to about the manuscript. I told them what I had for breakfast this morning, for chrissake. Whatever they asked me, I told them.” He dropped his head into his hands and ran his fingers through his pale hair, then looked up and shrugged. “Anyway, it doesn't matter now what Michael Hertbrooke thought. The manuscript's gone.”
“So it is. But I wouldn't say it doesn't matter what Hertbrooke thought,” Juliet said. “Mrs. Caffrey is dead.”
“Yes. Butâsorry, how does that relate to Michael Hertbrooke exactly?” Dennis looked at her blankly.
“Well, you called him, Dennis. And then somebody killed her,” Juliet explained. “Cause, effect. Couldn't it be?”
Murray Makes Dinner
Juliet spent the following day at a ruined abbey some miles from
Spafford House, in company with Selena and Catherine Walkingshaw.
Spafford House, in company with Selena and Catherine Walkingshaw.
As his author expected he might, Sir James Clendinning had indeed turned up here, having come to view a model farm in the vicinity. Sir James was a great enthusiast of the new system of large farms; he had already visited with both John Ellman and Charles Colling to learn their systems of breeding sheep and cattle, and was now determined to profit by the experience of Lord Spafford's neighbor, the Hon. Francis Browne, a celebrated breeder of bulls. Sir James had spent a morning in the company of Sir Francis who, having known the Misses Walkingshaw from girls, happened to mention to his visitor that they were even now in the neighborhood.
Having learned this much, Sir James promptly went to Spafford House to pay his respects. Rather depressingly, though, on learning of their intention to have a pique-nique on the grounds of the erstwhile abbey, the virtuous Sir James chose to question whether such a meal might not be disrespectful to the holy brotherhood who had lived and worshiped there three hundred years before. Nevertheless, in the end, he had agreed to accompany the sisters, giving Selena another shot at jolting him out of his maddening catatonia.
At four-thirty, with a considerable sense of satisfaction, Juliet
handed Ames seven handwritten pages and went back into her office to phone Murray. This whole business of whether she ought to call a lawyer had her perplexed. If she called one, whoever she called would no doubt say that she should. If she didn't, she left herself without legal advice.
handed Ames seven handwritten pages and went back into her office to phone Murray. This whole business of whether she ought to call a lawyer had her perplexed. If she called one, whoever she called would no doubt say that she should. If she didn't, she left herself without legal advice.
To her surprise, she again reached Landis at his desk at the station house on the first try. His tone was businesslike. But the content was quite otherwise.
“This is not a good time for me to talk,” he said, as soon as she started hemming and hawing about asking his advice. “Could you come over to my place late tonight, say around eleven-thirty? I don't get off till eleven.”
Murray Landis had never before invited Juliet to his apartment. Indeed, it had taken many weeks for her to get him to show her the work in his studio. After the death at the Jansch had been resolved, when he had called to ask for her help with the think-tank killing, Juliet had briefly foreseen an ongoing crime-solving alliance of some sort between them. In fact, she had thought of trying to get a PI's license. As a writer, Juliet had a habit of gettingânot
blocked,
she did not like to use that harsh, alarming termâbut of taking, one might say, the scenic route to getting a manuscript finished. Midway through a book (or earlier than midway, truth to tell) she often ⦠refreshed her mind by enrolling in courses on various disciplines, Introduction to American Sign Language, for example, or Modern Pottery. These seemed to replenish her imagination, and certainly had the welcome effect of getting her temporarily out of a frustrating manuscript's clutches. Alas, however, she had learned that in New York State, becoming a private investigator was not merely a question of course work. Before taking the licensing exam, it was necessary to spend three years as a police detective, a federal agent, a state investigator, or an apprentice in the office of a licensed PI. Juliet's scenic routes were roundabout, but not as roundabout as that.
blocked,
she did not like to use that harsh, alarming termâbut of taking, one might say, the scenic route to getting a manuscript finished. Midway through a book (or earlier than midway, truth to tell) she often ⦠refreshed her mind by enrolling in courses on various disciplines, Introduction to American Sign Language, for example, or Modern Pottery. These seemed to replenish her imagination, and certainly had the welcome effect of getting her temporarily out of a frustrating manuscript's clutches. Alas, however, she had learned that in New York State, becoming a private investigator was not merely a question of course work. Before taking the licensing exam, it was necessary to spend three years as a police detective, a federal agent, a state investigator, or an apprentice in the office of a licensed PI. Juliet's scenic routes were roundabout, but not as roundabout as that.
Still, she had gone to the Learning Annex and taken a short class on elementary detection. And she had looked into enrolling in the next available class of the Citizen's Police Academy, a miniversion of real police academy training intended to help civilians understand the law-enforcement officer's point of view. But then Murray had disappeared, and her thoughts had turned to batik. Now, although the proud owner of a unique and colorful set of handprinted dinner napkins, she wistfully recalled that missed opportunity to learn the secrets of New York's Finest.
Aloud, she said she would gladly be at his apartment at eleven-thirty if he would tell her where it was. This information, too, was something Murray had somehow never volunteered.
And so it happened that at 11:45 that night (she didn't want to appear too eager), Juliet pushed a button in the dim, cramped cubicle between two glass doors that led into a six-story walk-up at 229 West 107th Street, then stood and waited. A minute later she heard feet pounding down the concrete-and-metal stairs. A flash of boot and black denim appeared through the smudged glass door, followed by a shin, another, denimed thighs, crotch, red sweater, black turtleneck, Murray's sharp chin, his bony, olive-skinned face, smiling, his curling salt-and-pepper hairâMurray, whole, his arm extended to the handle to let her in. Drawing her into the warmth, the hard light, he bent and kissed her cold cheek.
“Sorry about this stupid door. You're supposed to be able to release the lock with the buzzer upstairs, but of course it hasn't worked in years,” he said. “Come up. You want dinner?”
Juliet tried not to breathe audibly as she followed her host up the steep stairs. Detective Landis was lean, hard, all muscle and bone. Juliet Bodine, softly rounded, had an on-again-off-again relationship with the treadmill in her dressing room; any other exercise she got was pretty much accidental.
The door to 4R rested on its latch. Murray ushered her into a small entrance hall (at the moment deeply infused with the fragrance
of teriyaki sauce); took her hat, gloves, scarf, coat; then gestured her into his living room. It was a good-sized room, with two large windows looking into a courtyard and over a few low roofs to 108th Street. The furniture was simple and spareâtwo small oatmeal-colored sofas facing one another across an uncluttered coffee table. But her general impression of the place was of sensory overload. Almost every inch of wall was covered with drawings and paintings, the small ones hung above and below one another three or four in a row, as in a Victorian picture gallery, the topmost just a few inches from the ceiling. Most were the work of so-called emerging artists, artists represented by small, struggling galleries in fringe neighborhoods, artists with perhaps one New York solo show or a few out of town on their résumés.
of teriyaki sauce); took her hat, gloves, scarf, coat; then gestured her into his living room. It was a good-sized room, with two large windows looking into a courtyard and over a few low roofs to 108th Street. The furniture was simple and spareâtwo small oatmeal-colored sofas facing one another across an uncluttered coffee table. But her general impression of the place was of sensory overload. Almost every inch of wall was covered with drawings and paintings, the small ones hung above and below one another three or four in a row, as in a Victorian picture gallery, the topmost just a few inches from the ceiling. Most were the work of so-called emerging artists, artists represented by small, struggling galleries in fringe neighborhoods, artists with perhaps one New York solo show or a few out of town on their résumés.
Drawn in, Juliet slowly began to circle the room. She saw only one of Murray's sculptures, a twisted marble archway perhaps eighteen inches high, the stone deliberately pitted along one side and pierced on the other by a smooth, tunnel-like hole. Shades of Henry Moore. It must have been quite old, she thought, since it was nothing like the work he had shown her in his studio last fall. That was all aboutâand largely fashioned ofâlight and shadow. Substance and illusion, Murray had said of these materials; good and evil, Juliet had thought. Still, his treatment of the traditional medium was interesting. She inspected it closely, dared to stroke it gently with an index finger, then wandered slowly from picture to picture, examining them with thoughtful pleasure. There was a small Ricci Albenda word picture, a bird by Cindy Kane; there was a biggish, early Christian Schumann, a Kenny Schachter computer-manipulated photo, a charged Jill Nathanson grid. Juliet could feel Murray standing behind her, watching her. He was, she felt, content for her to look.
Finally she turned, smiling, and said, “Very nice. You have some wonderful pieces.”
He shrugged. “Friends, mostly.” He roused himself. “I'm just making some stir-fry, do you want some?”
Juliet trailed him around the side of the L-shaped living room to a small kitchen adjoining the dining area. Like his living room, Murray's kitchen was sparsely furnished and immaculately kept. A set of thick, blue mugs hung below the white wooden cabinets, a couple of copper-bottomed pots were suspended over the stove, a white dish rack sat beside the sink, a white microwave oven was tucked into a corner. On the range sat a large wok filled with sauteed broccoli, carrots, onions, and cabbage, and a small, covered pot that her nose told her contained jasmine rice. Other than these objects, nothing showed. There was not a fork out of place, not a broccoli leaf on the small, bright Formica counter. Juliet wondered if Murray had tidied especially for her or if he always lived like this. She suspected the latter.
“Thanks, I've eaten.”
“Want a drink?” he offered. “Wine? Scotch? Vodka?”
Juliet accepted a small scotch and water. With, apparently, none of the self-consciousness she would have felt in his position, Murray finished cooking, fixed himself a heaping plate of rice and vegetables, and sat her down at a small oak table in the dining area.
“So tell me what's on your mind,” he said, dousing his food with soy sauce.
Somewhat hesitantly, Juliet described her interview with Detectives Skelton and Crowder, then her discussion last night with Dennis and Suzy.
“Do you know Detective Skelton?” she asked rather plaintively. “Why did they give
him
the case?”
him
the case?”
To her surprise, Landis's face suddenly darkened. He poked his laden chopsticks into his mouth, chewed and swallowed deliberately. “Skelton just happened to catch it,” he finally answered. “You know, there's a rotation for murders. I get one, you get one, he gets one. I get one, you get one, he gets one.”
“But you already knew so much about Ada. You investigated herâ”
“Yeah, I pointed that out to my lieutenant,” Murray interrupted. “Lieutenant Weber thought a fresh pair of eyes would be an advantage.”
In point of fact, Landis had bitterly argued that Caffrey's murder should be reassigned to him. Aware of his friendship with Juliet Bodine, however, Weber had declined.
Forcing the anger out of his voice, Landis asked, “So who do you think killed her?”
“You know about Michael Hertbrooke, right?”
Murray did. He had talked to him during the missing person investigation.
“Well, that's who I'd guess,” Juliet said. “Not that I've ever met him.”
“You don't think it was Fitzjohn?”
“I did at first. But Fitzjohn had nothing to gain. Why would he?”
“Why, schmy.” Murray shrugged. “He was there, he was the last person to see her, and if there's a type, he's it. Arrogant, selfish, quick to anger; he's my personal favorite so far.”
Fitzjohn worked out daily at a gym in the basement of his building. A guy like that could have pulled Caffrey into the courtyard behind Daignault's building, wrung her neck, and popped her into a garbage bag in no time flat. The bag was standard for New York apartment buildings from Inwood to Red Hook: fifty-five gallons, thirty-eight by sixty inches, flat-bottomed, extra heavy duty. It came from an industrial supplier in New Jersey. You could find a dozen of them in cans on Murray's block this very second.
“Of course, there's also your friend Dennis,” Murray said.
“Why would Dennis do it?”
“Again, why? So what, why?” Murray answered. “Why is not the first question I worry about. But since you ask, how about to keep the manuscript?”
“But he couldn't sell it.”
“Not openly.” Murray nabbed another fat pinch of rice and vegetables in his chopsticks. “And maybe he didn't want to sell it. Jule, how well do you know him?”
There was something about the way he asked this question that made Juliet look sharply up from her scotch. Landis had stopped eating and was looking at her with hard, bright, fixed intensity.
Juliet thought about the answer. How well did anyone know anyone? “Pretty well. I know he's not crazy. Not homicidal.”
“You think you know.”
“He's a friend of mine. He writes poetry. He's a rare book dealer, a bibliophile, for crying out loud.”
Landis recommenced eating. “Thomas James Wise was a bibliophile,” he said. “He had friends. In fact, he was one of the most widely respected bookmen of his dayâpresident of the Bibliographical Society. He was also a superb forger. Mark Hofmann was a rare book dealer, an expert on Joseph Smith. He forged a series of documentsâreal beautiesârelating to the Mormons and sold them to the church. Come to think of it, he was a poet, too: He forged a new Emily Dickinson poem. Too bad he killed a couple of people. I'm pretty sure he was somebody's friend, though. Maybe he even scratched out some verse of his own. My point being, anyone can be a killer given the right circumstances, Jule.”
Juliet felt her lips tighten. “If anyone can be a killer, why are you talking to me?” she asked.
Murray looked momentarily puzzled, then burst into laughter so violent he had to set down his chopsticks. “You think I couldn't tell if you'd committed a murder last week, Jule? You'd be on the floor, you'd be so nuts. You'd be trembling just to be in the same room with me.”
He laughed again, raucously, shook his head, actually used his napkin to wipe a tear from the corner of his eye, so hilarious, apparently, was the idea that Juliet Bodine could elude his keen detective skills.
Juliet waited him out. Then, “Don't underestimate me,” she said, thoroughly annoyed.
Murray calmed down enough to take up his chopsticks again. “I didn't say you could never kill anyone,” he pointed out. “I just said you haven't lately. Or are you telling me you have?”
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