Husbands And Lap Dogs Breathe Their Last (7 page)

Dr. Estes Worthington, who had served as the county medical examiner for decades, had been a close personal friend, offering his extensive knowledge of forensics to assist Deuteronomy in peppering his books with grisly details. Deuteronomy fondly recalled that each year in the spring, the time when death seemed to slow between the end of winter and the arrival of the first tourists, they would have tea almost every afternoon in Estes’s office. Deuteronomy was certain that if he wasn’t dead himself, Estes would have dissected Chess Biederman chop-chop and conclusively determined what had happened to him.

It was unfortunate that Deuteronomy did not know Estes’s replacement—or perhaps by now, Estes’s replacement’s replacement. But Deuteronomy did know that whoever he was (or given how topsy-turvy the world had become, possibly
she
was), he wouldn’t be there at this hour. Further, unless things had changed, the security at the morgue was lax. Surely Deuteronomy could sneak in for a quick peek at Chess’s body, through either the main entrance in the basement or one of the back windows.

Deuteronomy parked about a block away from the municipal building and scurried toward the lower door. The street was dark and empty, as streetlights seem to be considered frivolous in Maine, and he was sure he no one had seen him.

Arriving at the door, he was surprised that the bronze nameplate proclaiming “Morgue” was no longer present. A vinyl sign reading “Deliveries” had replaced it.

He tried the door. It was locked. He looked in a few windows but could see very little in the darkened rooms. He tried each of the windows, but these were locked as well. Discouraged, he turned around to head back to his car. Suddenly, he found a uniformed security guard standing in front of him.

“What are you doing?” the guard asked.

“I was ... I was just ...” Deuteronomy stammered, startled. “Where is the morgue?”

“There’s no morgue here anymore,” the guard answered suspiciously. “They moved it to Augusta years ago. Now what you are you doing here?”

Unable to create a convincing explanation, the police were summoned. Deuteronomy Smelt spent the rest of the night in a jail cell.

The next morning, Cummings went online.

He read up on Wilhelm Reich, the Austrian psychoanalyst considered to be one of the most radical figures in the history of psychiatry. Born in 1897, his ideas on the relationship of the personality and the body influenced many radical therapists who came after him, but his ideas on sexuality made him a figure of increasing controversy. He invented the term
orgone
in the late 1930s to express a universal energy he claimed to have discovered, though in truth it was similar to the
kundalini
proposed in India many centuries earlier. Shortly before World War II, he began building orgone accumulators to provide patients with vehicles for harnessing the presumed health benefits of the orgone.

Eventually his radical ideas landed him in serious trouble. He was imprisoned for fraud in the 1950s. He died of heart failure in 1957 in the United States Penitentiary in Lewisburg, Pennsylvania.

The fact that both Therese and Chess had a connection to Reich, i.e., Therese’s biography and Chess’s orgone boxes, was intriguing, but it could be just a coincidence. If it was more than that, Cummings needed to discover what the connection was.

Moving on, he searched for background information that might help him understand the Mathers Society. To be specific, he looked at informational and social media sites to see what he could learn about pagan activities in and around Chicago. He discovered that Chicago Pagan Pride would occur a week hence and made a note to attend it.

Next there was the question of Ida Craddock’s leg bone. Why would someone be interested in it? The complexity of human religious experience and the passion with which humans engage in it is never to be underestimated, but Cummings had never heard of pagan reliquaries. Were they as common as relics of the saints? Were they sought after, say, in some kind of black market?

There was no online narrative description of the Craddock Brooch. While there was a brisk international marketplace for all manner of amulets, stones, candles, books, medallions, wands and T-shirts—as one vendor put it, “New Age essentials”—there was very little to be found on the Internet about pagan reliquaries. Yes, an eagle’s talon said to have belonged to Cornelius Agrippa, the medieval occultist, hung on a golden chain around the neck of a Tennessee wine merchant. Yes, British magus Aleister Crowley’s left testicle was said to be in a display case at the Temple of Thelema in Glendale, California. But compared to the relics of Jesus and his devotees, including the locks of hair, bones, dried organs, fingernail parings, pieces of the true cross and all the rest, the pagans seemed to have left remarkably few
memento mori.

Cummings had more success in one area: the Craddock Brooch’s sale history. By searching an auction database Cummings determined that it had been sold twice during the previous few years, both times by Clarkson’s auction house, located on the fringes of downtown Chicago. The prices were not excessively hefty. Bidder CB175 purchased the brooch on March 27, 2006, for $1,150, and bidder CB234 purchased it on June 6, 2009, for $1,250.

That the auction house was physically in Chicago might be no more than a coincidence. Most auctions are now conducted online, and buyers could be anywhere. Still, who the buyers were might be of interest.

Cummings considered ways to get Clarkson’s to divulge the confidential names and addresses of the purchasers. He set the timer on his wristwatch and brainstormed possibilities on a legal pad. When the buzzer sounded, he still had no idea which manipulation, if any, might prove most effective, but he had decided to visit Clarkson’s nonetheless. Perhaps something would occur to him spontaneously.

Clarkson’s turned out to be a dilapidated brick warehouse in a neighborhood lately full of loft conversions and upscale chain stores. It had been refurbished to make it look like a suitable repository for the world’s artistic treasures, but paint and exuberance can accomplish only so much. The building sought to be a courtesan but remained a five-dollar hooker.

Cummings entered the red wrought aluminum front gates flanked by reproduction Chinese lions and opened a very ordinary glass door. He proceeded to an even more ordinary reception area, staffed by a young man with elegantly cut green hair.

Cummings hadn’t come up with a gambit that was better than weak, but human incompetence being what it is, sometimes weak is enough. He embarked with the first manipulation that came to mind.

“I wonder if you could help me,” Cummings began. “I’m a private detective working to help a client establish the provenance of an item recently stolen from his collection. We’re trying to build a case to maximize the payment from the insurer. The item was sold here twice during the last few years ...”

“I’m so sorry, sir,” the youth interrupted. “Requests for records must be submitted by certified mail and include photocopies of two forms of identification. Also, we’ll need a notarized statement from your client, authorizing us to release the documents to you.”

“I see,” Cummings said. So much for human weakness.

As he considered his next move, Cummings’s eyes drifted across the surface of the reception desk. There he saw a flyer announcing upcoming auctions. These had names like July Premiere Auction and Summer Fine Arts Auction.

“Do you sell many occult items?” Cummings asked.

The young man seemed confused. “Do you mean primitive art?”

“No, I mean ...” and then Cummings realized he didn’t really know, broadly speaking, what items might qualify as occult. “I mean, for example, the Craddock Brooch. It belonged to Ida Craddock, a woman who talked to angels and wrote sex manuals or something. You sold it twice in the last five years.”

“Jewelry,” the young man responded.

“Possibly jewelry but with a supernatural twist.”

“Perhaps you are referring to next week’s Fine Jewelry and Couture Auction. It includes several items that belonged to Emma Hardinge Britten, a famous nineteenth century spiritualist. I believe there is a ball gown, a pocket watch, a cameo, a cloisonné scrying dish and a lingam.”

“Yes!” Cummings responded. “When exactly is that auction?”

The young man provided the information, and Cummings entered it into his smartphone. It would be interesting to see who turned up to bid on these items, and perhaps he could somehow also determine who was bidding remotely.

On the drive back he took a route that passed the Red and White, or what was left of it. The building was marked off with yellow tape, informing passersby in bold black letters that the venue was now a crime scene. There were no actual policemen guarding the site.

Cummings parked a block away. He opened his glove compartment and took out a flashlight and latex gloves from the many just-in-case items he always kept there.

He approached the building cautiously, looking around to ensure he wasn’t attracting attention. He bent under some police tape and entered through what had been the front window.

The red brick structure remained intact, but the interior was littered with charred detritus: melted fixtures, burnt wood, shattered windows, blackened wiring and piping, and what remained of tables, chairs, banquettes, window treatments, cutlery, glassware and china.

He moved carefully and slowly across the rubble toward the center of the room in a spiral pattern, in keeping with the common crime scene search method. There seemed to be little of interest to him in the room, but eventually he noticed something.

Picking it up, he determined it was a white business size envelope, slightly damp and partially burnt, addressed to Otto Verissimo. Inside, singed but mostly intact, was a handwritten note. Cummings read it. Intrigued by the content, he put it into his pocket. Then he went home and phoned Otto.

Most visitors to Maine see only its relaxed July face: lighthouses and sea breezes, scrubbed villages and roughhewn gentility. In the main, the state is not July but December: spectacular but remote wilderness, dented double-wide mobile homes, xenophobic villages with irresolvable class divisions, long winters knocking back Allen’s Coffee Brandy in shabby ice fishing shacks and tribal reservations where the average life expectancy is less than fifty.

Still, Maine, like many beautiful and complicated places, evokes a strong love of place that cannot be easily explained. Some are born in the state and stay because it’s comfortable or because it’s uncomfortable but it’s home or because they can’t afford to leave; some move to Maine by choice, discover it’s not their summer fantasy and learn to accept it for what it is. As for the rest, they drink or they go.

Arriving at the Portland Jetport for Chess’s funeral, Cummings picked up a rental car and headed north toward Horeb.

While he was driving the forty or so miles between the airport and the village, his cell phone rang.

“Hi, Dad. What’s up?”

“I am perplexed,Son. I am working a crossword. The word I need is nine letters. The clue is in the form of a question, ‘Vatican rhythm?’“

“Conundrum,” Cummings replied without hesitation.

“You always know the answers, Son,” George responded. His tone was factual rather than flattering.

“How are you, Dad?” Cummings asked, then added, “And how is Orchid?” referring to his stepmother.

“I am cryptic. She is beauteous. Where are you?”

“I’m in Maine, actually. I just flew in. I’m attending a funeral. I was going to call you to say hello.”

“Who died?”

“Nobody you know.”

George and Orchid lived in Maine. Orchid had always lived there. After a life in New York City, George had moved to Maine from his Florida retirement after meeting Orchid.

“That is confounding,” George responded. “We are in Baltimore at a Scrabble tournament. Did you know the world’s first dental school was founded in Baltimore in 1840?”

“No, I didn’t, Dad.” Cummings was relieved that he wouldn’t have to see them. His feelings toward his father were driven by duty rather than affection. As to his stepmother, the truth was that he didn’t like her much. “Have fun. Say hello to Orchid. I’ll see you on another trip.”

“When you come, Orchid will bake a chicken, and we’ll do crossword puzzles.”

“What did you mean when you said you were cryptic?” Cummings asked.

“‘Mysterious or obscure.’“

“I know what the word means. I mean, how does it apply to you?”

“I have sixteen new puzzle books. Sometimes the clues are difficult.”

“I see,” he said, although he really didn’t. “Okay, Dad. I’ll talk to you soon.”

They disconnected.

Cummings’s father was, and his mother had been, decidedly unusual. Many years earlier, at that stage of early adulthood in which some objectivity about one’s family sets in, Cummings had realized they both might have some form of undiagnosed autism. This was some intellectual comfort to him but didn’t retroactively alter the limitations of his childhood. He had concluded early that his was not the usual child-parent relationship.

“I got beat up,” Cummings remembered sobbing to George when he came home one afternoon at the age of seven. He tried to climb into George’s lap for comfort, but George pushed him away.

“Son,” George said, “can you think of a seven-letter word that starts with
N
? It means horsey.”

Cummings looked at George.

“I got beat up,” Cummings repeated. George looked back, confused. Looking at George’s baffled expression, Cummings suddenly understood: There would be no comfort in this childhood. “Neighed,” he responded.

“Very good, Son! Very good!”

Cummings nodded and then walked to the bathroom to tend to his bruises himself.

Matilda, Cummings’s mother, was much older than her husband. She was already in her forties when Cummings, her only child, was born. Her torso was as square and dense as a fire hydrant, and she was barely taller than one. Her arms and legs were stubby but strong. She was unimaginative and inarticulate, and she had no interest in good works, housekeeping, nutrition, fashion or child rearing, nor any interest in pretending she did.