Bitch Slap (19 page)

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Authors: Michael Craft

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I added my good-byes; then Doug and I left. Closing the library door behind us, I heard Perry clear his throat. Tyler said something, but I couldn't make it out.
Doug and I walked the hallway in silence, then wished Janet a terse farewell before stepping into the elevator.
When the doors slid shut, I said, “It's funny, isn't it? Tyler had expressed reservations about vaguely described ‘issues' pertaining to the merger, and he managed to raise Perry's concerns as well. But just now, he played dumb when questioned about the extent of his knowledge of Gillian's plan. Why would he claim not to have seen the red flags that were the very object of his due diligence?”
“Good question.” Doug furrowed his brow in thought. “One thing's for sure—Tyler Pennell deserves some additional scrutiny.”
With a
ding
, the elevator stopped at the ground floor.
“Right,” I said. “Something doesn't add up.”
B
ack in the car, driving downtown, Doug reminded me that we had dinner plans that evening.
“Do you mind if we include a fourth?” I asked. “We have a houseguest, the curtain guy from Chicago.”
“No problem. The more the merrier.” After a moment's thought, Doug asked, “A curtain guy, huh? Is he sort of … you know?” Doug dangled a limp wrist, a gesture unnatural to him, wondering if our guest was the nellie sort.
“In fact”—I laughed—“he's not.”
“Just curious.”
Back at the office, I got to work on my editorial for the next morning's paper, but I had trouble pulling it together because of repeated interruptions questioning the makeup of page one. Clearly, receipt of the anonymous letter was big news in Dumont, and since it had been sent directly to the paper, the
Register
could claim a proprietary interest in the matter—we found ourselves sitting on an enviable exclusive. At the same time, however, the letter was in police hands as evidence in a probable homicide case. In the public interest, we felt obligated to play down our treatment of the story, revealing nothing of the specific motive implied by the letter. After several phone conversations with Doug, we reached a consensus regarding the extent of our coverage.
Everyone was satisfied, but I still hadn't finished my editorial for the opinion page.
Realizing I would need to stay late at the office, I phoned Neil and, getting his voice mail, told him that Todd was welcome to join us for dinner and that I would meet them at the restaurant at seven.
I needed every minute. After five, I was able to wrap up my own column handily, but the ongoing modification of the news story itself required repeated tweaking of the front page. When I finally signed off on both the story and the layout, I had a scant two minutes remaining to get to the restaurant. Compulsively prompt (exacting, meticulous me), I dashed through the lobby and decided to drive the few blocks down First Avenue, relieved beyond measure to find a parking space within a few yards of the door. Spotting Neil's car already parked at the curb, I trotted up the sidewalk, ducked under the awning, burst into the restaurant, and checked my watch—seven on the dot.
Flushed with self-satisfaction, I hailed the owner, “Evening, Nancy.”
“Good evening, Mr. Manning. My, you seem winded.” She eyed me askance, not quite approving. “Mr. Waite and his friend are here, but Sheriff Pierce phoned to say he was running a few minutes late.”
“No problem. I'm flexible,” I lied as Nancy led me to our table.
Neil and Todd rose to greet me, each of them clapping me in a hug, kissing my cheek. I told them, “Hope you weren't waiting long.”
“Just got here,” said one of them. “Have a drink,” said the other.
I nodded to Nancy, who bobbed her head and went off to pour my usual aperitif, a chilled glass of Lillet.
As we settled at the table, I noted how different the Grill looked at night, especially with autumn well upon us and the sky outside the windows now completely black. Indoors, the lights had been dimmed some, and votive candles flickered at each table, where white linen had replaced the lunchtime butcher paper. Not far from our table, a few logs burned lazily in the fireplace, which lent a note of warmth and approaching winter. Outside on First Avenue, cars zipped by, only their headlights visible. If you squinted, you might have thought you were seated in a faddish bistro on some side street in Chicago (well, maybe Wilmette).
Neil asked, “And how was your day?”
“Eventful.” Unfurling my napkin and placing it in my lap, I added, “I'll fill you in later.” If we were to discuss details of the Gillian Reece case, now a murder case, I wanted Doug present to set the limits. Turning to Todd, I asked, “How are things going at the house?”
“Moving along nicely—now that you-know-who is out of the picture. We ought to wrap it up sometime this weekend.”
“Pleased with the results?”
Neil answered for Todd, “They're
gorgeous
—some of the finest window treatments I've ever seen—not only in Dumont, not only in Wisconsin, but anywhere. They're truly world-class.”
“Thanks, Neil.” Todd, seated between us, reached for Neil's hand and gave it a friendly squeeze. No doubt about it, they would make a nice-looking couple. Not only did they have similar hair, features, and builds, but that night they had even dressed similarly, in corduroy blazers with leather buttons, perfect for the nippy night. Try as I might, I couldn't squelch the fantasy of bedding both of them.
They rose together, all smiles, leaving me at a momentary loss—were they taking off, ditching me?
“Doug!” said Neil. “Join the party.”
Feeling foolish for having missed Doug's entrance, engrossed in thoughts of the corduroy twins, I rose from my chair and joined in the round of hellos.
“Long time, no see,” Doug told me, patting my back.
Neil made the formal introduction: “Doug, I'd like you to meet our friend Todd Draper from Chicago.”
“Pleased to meet you, Todd.” Doug extended his hand.
Neil continued, “Todd, this is Doug Pierce, sheriff of all the land.”
Todd shook Doug's hand, growling, “Oooh, a lawman. Are you packing heat?”
“Not tonight.” Doug flapped open the side of his sport coat. He wasn't wearing the shoulder holster I sometimes glimpsed by day, but both his phone and his badge were clipped to his belt. He added, “Why do you ask? Expecting trouble?” His tone was beyond congenial; he
sounded downright playful. Was it just my imagination, or was some chemistry happening?
“Let's get you a drink, Doug,” said Neil, signaling Berta, who was approaching just then with my Lillet. She wore the same stiff white uniform and white hose she wore by day, looking like a plump nurse of yore, replete with a starched white headband bobby-pinned to the front of her hair like a tiara.
Doug asked for Scotch as we settled at the table. Doug sat facing Todd; I faced Neil.
Todd told Doug, “I understand this is your party. Sorry to intrude.”
“It's no intrusion at all. Mark and Neil are probably my best friends, so I'm happy to meet
any
friend of theirs.”
Neil asked him, “How was your day?”
“Eventful.” Doug gave me a knowing glance.
Neil noted, “That's the very word Mark used. What's up?”
I told Doug, “I thought I'd better wait till you got here. I haven't said a thing.”
It was now Todd and Neil's turn to exchange a glance. “Good grief,” said Todd. “What'd we miss?”
With a quizzical look, Doug said to me, “I appreciate your sense of discretion, but why so hush-hush? I mean, here, among
us
?”
I hesitated. “There's no delicate way to put this, but Todd was among those who had an ax to grind with Gillian.”
Todd suddenly looked ashen. Neil looked confused. Doug chuckled. “Okay,” he said to me, “I get it. You never bought into the theory that Gillian died accidentally, and prior to this afternoon, you suspected
everyone
who'd recently had a run-in with her.”
“Almost everyone,” I allowed. I had never seriously considered that Glee Savage might have killed her college foe, but the others were too numerous to sort out—or dismiss.
“Perk up, Todd,” said Doug. “The investigation took a surprising turn this afternoon. We now have every reason to believe that Gillian was indeed murdered. And we have
no
reason to believe it had anything to do with draperies.”
“Uh,” I corrected him, “they're called curtains.”
Doug flashed me a puzzled look.
“Murder?” said Neil, cutting to the meat of Doug's story.
Just then, Berta arrived with Doug's Scotch and a set of menus. She prattled through a list of the evening's specials, but none of us listened, wishing either to drink or to continue our discussion. First things first. When Berta had waddled away, I lifted my glass to the others, saying, “To the pleasure of your company.”
“The pleasure of
our
company,” Todd seconded.
Doug and Neil added toasts of their own; then we drank.
Quickly setting down his glass, Neil repeated, “Murder, Doug? You were saying … ?” Todd, also eager to hear details, leaned forward on his elbows.
Doug took another swallow, swirling his drink before telling them, “An anonymous letter arrived at the
Register
today. It contained some disturbing allegations regarding Mrs. Reece's background motives for entering into the merger, and it suggested she was killed to prevent the deal from being finalized.” He leaned forward to assure Todd, “It made no mention of curtains.”
“God, I
hope
not.” Todd flumped back in his chair with a comic sigh of relief.
With a tone of concern, Neil asked, “What did the letter say about Gillian's background motives?”
Turning, Doug deferred the question to me, so I explained what I understood of Gillian's plans to destroy Quatro Press. “Had she succeeded, Dumont's economy would end up in a tailspin. Many jobs would've disappeared, and lots of investors could've lost lots of money.”
Todd asked, “Doesn't that mean there are lots of potential suspects?”
I nodded. “In a sense, I'm glad I myself didn't know about Gillian's plot, or I'd have to be considered a logical suspect. My ownership of the Register is heavily leveraged with Quatro stock, so I could have lost everything.”
“Mark,” said Neil, “don't even think such things—let alone say them.”
“Fortunately, I have an airtight alibi. I was in a crowded newsroom at the time of Gillian's death.”
Neil continued, “I meant, don't say such things about ‘losing everything.' Good God, talk about instant devastation. I'm truly stunned by the scope of Gillian's plan.”
“Not I,” said Todd, shaking his head. “
Nothing
would surprise me about that woman. If you ask me, she got what she deserved.”
Neil admitted, “I'm inclined to agree with you.”
“Now, hold on,” I said. “We're talking about murder, which is
never
justified.” Sensing that my righteous words were falling on deaf ears, I decided to take a more pragmatic approach. “Besides, we don't know for a fact that Gillian was plotting all that. The letter's allegations are just that—unproven accusations.”
“Actually,” said Doug, raising a finger, “we know a bit more than we did earlier. We've checked both the letter and its envelope for fingerprints. As expected, the envelope contains a mess of prints—it tells us nothing.”
“But the letter itself?” asked Neil.
“The letter bears the fingerprints of only one person, Lucille Haring, who opened the envelope at the Register and was first to read the letter.”
Todd looked confused. “So … ?”
“The fingerprints don't tell us
who
wrote the letter,” Doug explained, “but the absence of prints on the letter does tell us that the writer took considerable caution to conceal his or her identity. It's one thing to sign a letter ‘Anonymous,' as any two-bit prankster would do, but to take pains to handle the letter with gloves, that shows real intent—and unless I'm way off base, it also shows guilt. So I think we can take the letter at face value. The writer knew what Gillian was up to, and the writer killed her to thwart her plan.”
We sat in silence for a moment. “Hmm,” said Todd. “That's fairly sobering.” Then he downed a strong slug of his drink.
Berta reappeared, asking if we were ready to order. As none of us had looked at our menus, we asked for more time and ordered another round of drinks.
Trying to puzzle through what Doug had told us, Todd asked, “Can
you learn anything by analyzing the letter's handwriting, or was it written on a computer?”
Doug shook his head. “It was neither handwritten nor word processed. The letter was written on a typewriter.”
“A
typewriter
?” said Todd. “Nobody uses a typewriter anymore.”
With mock defensiveness, Neil informed him, “
I
do.”
I laughed. “This was a far cry from your slick Selectric, Neil. The print was so bad, it must have been pecked out on a clunkety manual from Ye Olde Typewriter Museum. The ribbon was so worn, you could barely read the text.”
Neil cocked his head. “I wonder if they still make cloth ribbons.”
“Beats me,” said Doug, “but we've already identified the machine.”
“You
have
?” I asked. Todd and Neil looked equally surprised.

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