Murder by Candlelight (7 page)

Another sweaty handshake, and Bud
Izard launched himself to his feet, the big man thumping off toward
the bar, going behind it to enter the back room again.

Never wanting the beer Olin
Brainbridge had forgotten to bring him, Z got up and pushed his way
out the door into the dazzling sun.

* * * * *

The next day -- no rush to get to his
two-holer of an office in the Ludlow building on Chouteau -- Z got
up at 9:00.

Dressed in his usual slacks and shirt,
he shuffled into his living room to turn on the twin air
conditioners he'd installed to either side of the front (side)
door.

Cold air blasting, Z was shocked to
realize his living room was even smaller that Kunkle's.

On the other hand, you didn't expect
apartments to be as big as houses.

Reaching the circular metal firebox Z
had situated in the archway between the living room and the
kitchenette, Z paused to admire his work. Hidden compartment
underneath. Black metal pipe rising to penetrate the ceiling and
the tar paper roof outside.

Bending down to the "fuel box," Z
layered in paper and split oak. Reaching down again to get the jar
of kerosene, he splashed some coal oil in the round fireplace,
touching off the flammable mixture with his lighter.

Z was an old hand at making fires; had
been doing that -- one way or the other -- since he was a boy.
Loved to see flames dancing up! Loved the smell of burning
oak.

The air conditioners and
fire neutralizing each other, Z opened the door between the
chugging coolers to step out into the heat, taking the path to the
front where he picked up his
Star
, the paper one of three thrown
each day to the building's renters.

Returning to the apartment, he put the
paper on the table and went into the kitchenette to fix himself his
usual breakfast: a peanut butter and jelly sandwich with a Diet
Coke chaser.

Bringing the paper plate of food to
the shaky table, sitting, Z picked up the newspaper, stripping off
the plastic wrapper.

First taking a bite of
sandwich, he unfolded the
Star
and scanned the headlines, wondering how
he'd
solve the world's
problems outlined there. Decided he'd do as well as the
politicians. Which didn't say much.

A swig of Coke and another bite took
him to the back page, where he was more likely to encounter
Gladstone news.

Saw a piece about river boat gambling
in Riverside.

Ah!
That
was what Bud Izard meant about
his tavern being too far from the river to qualify for a gambling
license -- making the point about it being unfair to let river
boats have gambling, but not places on shore, a restriction that
didn't make a lot of sense to Z, either.

Z turned the page.

Bizarre Murder North of
the River

Killings were so common anymore, it
hardly made an impact to read about them. Always the same. Kids,
killing kids over drugs, over tennis shoes. It hadn't been that way
when Z was young. What was common then, was fights, two guys
getting into it over a girl, or punch outs after drunks got
liquored up on Friday nights. And, of course, there was the
once-a-year brawl under the stands after the big game.

Now, it was normal for teenage
quarrels to end in death.

Why?

Guns.

In Z's day, nobody got killed cause
all you got hit with was somebody's fist.

It was guns that did the killing.
Without them, kids would go back to the fun of beating on each
other -- like kids should.

Fortunately, murders
north-of-the-river were more rare, the Northland a backward place
where "Everything
wasn't
up-to-date in Kansas City."

Straightening out the paper, leaning
forward, then backward to find the right distance for him to see
the paper's increasingly small print, Z began to read:

Police report that on the night of
August 6th, a murder was committed North of the River. Operating on
a tip, Gladstone police were dispatched to the scene, a house on
Jarbo, officers finding the dead man in his living room. While
details are not yet available, it was learned that the murdered man
had been smothered .....

On Jarbo ..................

Z was sweating.

Smothered?

How?

Z did a quick run-through of the
events of night-before-last, careful to review the precautions he'd
made to keep things from getting out of hand.

Smothered?

Impossible!

Sure, Z had taped the poor
man's mouth, thereby closing off one way to breathe. And the
melting wax from the candles were
supposed
to cover Howard Kunkle's
head. But how that little bit of wax could have closed Kunkle's
nose ....?

Anyway, Kunkle could have snorted out
any wax threatening to seal up his breathing.

Couldn't he?

Unless the little man had a problem to
begin with.

Like asthma.

Was it possible Howard Kunkle suffered
from asthma attacks. That he used an inhaler. That tied up as he
was ....?

Z didn't see how. Z had searched the
house, after all. If Kunkle had asthma, there would have been some
evidence of it -- an inhaler right there by his bedside, for
instance.

Shutting his eyes, Z pictured the
narrow bedroom again. .....

No medication of any sort.

The same could be said of the
bathroom. Z had left the potty room PDQ, but had seen all there was
to see.

Returning Z to the question of how too
little wax had choked a healthy man to death. ......

His mind slipping sidewards to avoid
the obvious, Z tried to comfort himself with the fact that Howard
Kunkle had brought this trouble on himself by taking a shot at Bud
Izard, Howard Kunkle's death in the same category as what the cops
called a "righteous shoot," -- cop talk for someone who had it
coming.

Still ....

Z's hands twitching, Z locked his
fingers together.

Could the police -- more
likely, the
Star's
reporter -- have been mistaken about how Kunkle died? Might
it even be that Kunkle had a heart condition?

No heart medicine in the
place.

Or that the
mental
pressure had
caused the poor guy to have a stroke?........

Z had to find out more; Ted Newbold
possibly of some help.

Getting up from the table, almost
knocking over his straight chair he was so distracted, Z circled
the fireplace to reach the two-seater, green sofa. Turning, he
sagged down near the black rotary; managed, after a couple of wrong
numbers, to dial the Gladstone police station.

Funny how the dancing flames in the
black metal fireplace now seemed so ... cold.

"Gladstone Public Safety," said a
bored female voice.

"Detective Newbold."

"Who is speaking, please?"

"A friend."

Z had to be careful when
calling Teddy. Ted's captain, Philip Scherer, didn't like Z; didn't
like his men having anything to do with Z.
Hated
Z, would be more like it, ever
since Z had messed up the Betterton bust, Mrs. Betterton to be the
political horse Scherer was to ride to officeholder
glory.

A click broke the hostile silence on
the line.

Then a ring.

"Detective Newbold,
speaking."

Z could picture Teddy leaning back in
his new, but cheap, swivel chair, one of his carefully polished
shoes on his particle board desk.

Teddy had once said that the best
advice his Mother had given him -- one he'd patterned his life on
-- was to keep his shoes shined. ... Said a lot about Ted's Mother.
... Said a lot about Ted.

"Z."

"One moment, sir."

Always the same, Ted now scrambling to
shut his office door in case Captain Scherer went past and caught
Ted talking to Z.

"Yeah, Z, what you want?" Ted, back at
his desk; being his old, unpleasant self. "And anyway, where'd you
go at the reunion? One minute you're there, ugly as shit on a
shingle, and the next you're gone."

"Bud Izard ..."

"Yeah. Yeah. I remember. Wanted to see
you about some five-buck job. I don't know how you could have been
so big in high school and turned out like you did. Not that you're
not scraping by. But ... well, you know what I mean."

"Yeah."

"Anyway, you missed a
great party. Not in the park, but later on. At the dinner that
night. Pretty classy. Even my wife thought it was classy. All
catered. At the Carlton hotel out by the airport. Thick-sliced
roast, you could cut with a knife." Ted meant
fork
. "Strawberry pie.

"Course, it was dress-up. Got to wear
my new blue suit. Got it at a half-price sale at the Factory
Warehouse. Would have cost me a hundred easy, if I'd had to pay
full price for it.

"Jason Yount was Master of Ceremonies
for the formal part after dinner. Told some good ones about this
one and that, you know, sort of rememberin' the old days and all
the shit we pulled. How Eddy Rogers -- always was an electrical
geek -- found the wiring to the school's fire alarm running through
the ventilator in the boy's john. Shorted out the wires. Hell, it
took 'em half a day to trace it down and get the friggin' siren
turned off, all of us freezing our asses off standing outside,
wondering when the fire department was going to come. What a
laugh!" Teddy was chuckling to himself.

"Ted?"

"Yeah?"

"Got a question."

"Oh. OK. But you missed a good time,
believe me. ... So, what you got? Get it out quick while I'm in
such a good mood. You know, the captain don't -- doesn't -- like me
to have anything to do with you. Particularly in my official
capacity."

"Yeah. ... Last night's
killing."

"I know about that, sure. Though it
wasn't my squeal." Ted was generally kept off cases the department
didn't want screwed up.

"Murder?"

"With the dead guy all tied up like a
Christmas tree stuffed into one of them plastic net bags? Didn't
take a genius to figure he'd been stiffed."

"Paper said suffocated."

"Right. Those dumb M.E.'s
don't get it right half the time, but even
they
couldn't screw up this
one."

"Could have been a heart
attack?"

"Of course the coroner is going to
have to say, but the way they tell it at the station -- this is
Bayliss's baby -- some sick bastard poured hot wax all over the
dearly departed's head. Shut off his breathing."

"How?"

"Had tape over his mouth. Wax sealed
off his nose. ... Listen, Z, I got work to do."

"Identify the perp?"

"Not a clue in a carload. Leastways,
that's what the techs say. No prints. No nothing. The door had been
rigged. Looks like a pro done it. That's the whole
deal."

"Money?"

"Nope. Nor drugs, neither. ... Anyway,
what's your interest in this?"

"Just ... interested."

"You got a client who done
it?"

"No."

"Don't shit me, Z. You
don't call, less it's important to you. Not that you got an
important job. But this
means
something to you. ..... OK. ..... I won't ask
what. ... And Z?"

"Yeah?"

"You're doin' good not to have hinted
for me to break the rules, like beggin' that I give out the name of
the victim. Which I figured you'd do, soon as I heard what you
wanted."

"Don't want to meddle."

"Since when? You must have had a
powerful change of heart since the last time you
called."

"Yeah."

"That it, then?"

"Yeah. Thanks."

"Sure. And remember, I done you this
little favor. So you owe me."

"Right."

"You get a tip for me, let me
know."

"Right."

Z heard the click of Teddy hanging
up.

Though not realizing it, Ted had
answered all the important questions, first and foremost, that the
medical examiner and the technicians hadn't found anything that
pointed to Z. If, in a day or two, the cops continued to turn up
zilch, the odds said they'd never find a thing. That's why the
first twenty-four hours in a homicide were so critical -- cops
always saying that. Either something breaks right away in murder
cases, or it never does. ... Unless an eyewitness comes forward:
little chance of that.