Seven Kinds of Death (7 page)

Toni appeared, looking for coffee for herself and for Janet, who was packing. Ba Ba came in and said she would make breakfast if people would just get out of the way, and she began to talk about the stacks of pancakes and fried eggs they used to have when she was a girl… The sheriff walked in then, along with one of his deputies and a woman he introduced as a stenographer, and by now the kitchen was quite full, with several people talking at once.

Then another voice cut through it all: “Of course, I’m coming in. I’m looking for my wife.”

Constance had never been so glad to hear that voice in her life.

SEVEN

When Charlie heard
the message from Constance on the answering machine he had tried to call back; the line had been busy. When he heard on the evening news that Victoria Leeds had been murdered while attending Marion Olsen’s house party, he had tried to call repeatedly. The line had stayed busy. Finally he had called the airport instead, and at five that morning he had flown into La Guardia; at seven he had boarded the shuttle, and by nine he was at Tootles’s house, where, it seemed to him, they were having a party.

At that moment Mrs. Weber arrived carrying a large bag of pastries. She looked at everyone with astonishment, and without argument they all left the kitchen to her. Charlie held Constance’s hand and permitted himself to be led to the living room, where dominating everything was the monstrosity that Tootles had named
Seven Kinds of Death
. Charlie had hated it when it was first unveiled; he saw no reason today to change his opinion about it.

“I’d like a room where we can take statements,” the sheriff said to Max Buell. Max nodded and they walked out together. At the same time, others came downstairs and introductions were made all around. Everyone was up, in the living room, waiting for the sheriff, waiting for breakfast, just waiting. Ba Ba was talking about how many calories were in doughnuts compared to whole wheat toast. Doughnuts won. Charlie and Constance crossed the room to the far side; his gaze remained on the work.
Seven Kinds of Death
, as Constance filled him in rapidly and concisely in a very low voice. When she paused, he shook his head.

“What?” she asked.

“Craziness,” he murmured. “If Tootles found Victoria Leeds destroying her art, why go all the way over to the condo to do her in? The Tootles I used to know would have picked up the nearest blunt instrument and finished her off on the spot, yelling bloody murder all the while.”

They stopped talking when Sheriff Gruenwald and Max returned.

“Sheriff,” Johnny Buell asked then, “when will your men be done with the condo? Can the guys get in tomorrow to finish up?”

“Yes, I think so. We’ll probably clear out by evening.”

“And can I go home?” Ba Ba asked shrilly. “I want to leave here now. Today. I knew I should have stayed home. Larry said I should stay home and he was right. He’s my husband and for once he was right. He wouldn’t come, and he said I shouldn’t either.”

Sheriff Gruenwald waited patiently until she paused. “We have no intention of holding anyone here longer than absolutely necessary.”

“And Victoria? Her body? When will you release her?” Paul asked. He had trouble with the words; his voice broke and he had to swallow before he could finish the question. “Have you been in touch with her folks?”

“Yes. We’ll ship her remains to her family in Michigan just as soon as the autopsy is completed.” He went to the door. “I’m expecting the state investigators to arrive any minute now. Meanwhile we’ll begin. Ms. Cuprillo, this way please.”

“Well,” Charlie said. “Is there coffee left in that pot?” He went to the sideboard where sweet rolls and coffee had been arranged, and poured himself a cup, then one for Constance.

“I’ll stay if you want me to,” Ba Ba said to Tootles. “I didn’t mean to run out on you if you need me. You know I wouldn’t do that. Larry didn’t mean you were the reason he didn’t want to come. It was business really, but if you want me to, I’ll call him…”

Tootles didn’t even glance at her. She was looking straight ahead with a distant expression. “He thinks I did it,” she said in a low, very hoarse voice. “My God, that man thinks I did it! Did you see how he looked at me?”

Max made a comforting sound and put his hand on Tootles’s shoulder. She shrugged it off and jumped up and swung around to glare at Constance. “You told Max I should get a lawyer before I answer any more questions. You think I did it, too! Don’t you? Don’t you?” Her voice rose until she was shouting.

“No,” Constance said without hesitation. “That isn’t what I think.”

Tootles jammed her hands down in her pockets and began to stride back and forth through the room.

In a few minutes the sheriff returned and nodded to Constance. “Ms. Leidl, please. I’d like to ask you a few questions.”

Charlie stood up. For a moment he and the sheriff regarded one another without expression. The sheriff shrugged slightly, turned, and walked out; Constance and Charlie followed him. The sheriff motioned the stenographer away in the hall. She nodded and went out to the porch.

“You’re private investigators,” the sheriff said in the little breakfast room that he had turned into an office. He stood at the table; Constance sat in one of the old wrecked chairs and Charlie wandered around the room looking at the various objects. His gaze lingered on the Barbie doll. “I just got some stuff on you, Meiklejohn, and I remembered your name. Are you working on this case? Have you been hired?”

Charlie raise his eyebrow in surprise. “Nope. I just got here, remember.”

“
She’s
been here several days.”

Charlie shrugged.

“I’ve known Marion Olsen all my life,” Constance said. “We grew up together.”

Gruenwald sat down heavily and regarded her for a few moments.

Charlie picked up the windup bear and turned the key a few times. The bear danced. “You have a time of death yet on Leeds?” he asked, his back to the table and the sheriff.

“Why, if you’re not working?”

“Curious,” Charlie said.

After another moment of silence Gruenwald said, “As soon after seven as we can put her in the apartment. It’s going to be tough to pin down. The air conditioner was set nearly to freezing.”

“Ah,” Charlie said. “I see. Quarter after seven? I suppose Tootles is in pretty good shape, isn’t she? She could have sprinted over there in a few minutes, waited for the Buell crew to depart, waited for the watchman to hie himself off on the rounds, got herself up to Six, and accomplished the foul deed. Then, of course, she had to reverse every action, dash back down, out, through the woods, and so on. Doesn’t leave her much time to discover the damaged art, though, does it? And without that knowledge, it’s hard to imagine a motive for her. Of course, she could have stumbled across Leeds in the process of closing crates up again, and chased her through the woods, into the condo complex, and so on. But who unlocked doors, if that’s the case?

Leeds? Not bloody likely, is it? And why would Leeds take it on herself to be the ultimate critic? Good luck, Gruenwald. You’re going to need it.”

Gruenwald nodded. “I know. Yesterday, I would have bet you anything we could put a tramp in that room, something like that. Nothing pretty, but neat. No way. Watchman was on duty from six on; the building was locked when he got to work. John Buell locked it up at five fifteen, and unlocked it when he took in his group at a couple minutes past seven.”

Charlie shrugged. “Hard to fit a tramp in, all right. Same old story. Spot a likely suspect and the hunt ends. Bingo. She won’t be convicted, you know.”

“Maybe, maybe not. But it won’t be in my hands.” His voice changed subtly. Now he sounded as if he were talking to the chamber of commerce about a highway project that didn’t interest him very much. “The state is taking over the investigation almost immediately.”

Charlie knew about things like that, too. A small-town killing, domestic murder, break-in and death at a convenience store, all that the sheriff would be expected to handle. But this had turned into a big-town killing; big time builder involved, with his backers; New York editor as victim; some of the party guests, no doubt, wanted this all taken care of pronto. He knew about things like that very well.

Gruenwald said, “The state investigator is named Belmont; he’ll want it closed as soon as possible. And he doesn’t know Marion Olsen.”

Charlie studied him thoughtfully for a moment, then asked softly, “And you do know her?”

“Yes. But even if I didn’t, I’m not in the habit of railroading anyone. I just wanted you to know.”

“Why?” Charlie asked in honest curiosity.

Sheriff Gruenwald flushed a shade or two, and muttered, “I’ve studied some of your cases, the arson cases in particular. They’re good.”

For a second or two Charlie was speechless. Then he said kindly, “Sit down, Sheriff. Let’s talk.” He pulled a chair around to sit down also. “First, the note you found is probably a fake.” The sheriff started to say something, refrained. “She told me,” Charlie said, nodding at Constance. “She saw it. The note Leeds got when she arrived was in an envelope; she took it out, crumpled it and stuck it in her pocket. The note in the condo was smooth, not wrinkled. Right?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “So you have a fake note that you will claim puts Tootles at the scene. Maybe it does and maybe not. How did Victoria Leeds get into the condo? She couldn’t have gone in on her own, could she? I suspect most of the building is under a security system that needs special keys, computer cards, something of the sort.” The sheriff hesitated a moment, then nodded. “Yes. So someone had to be there to let the victim enter, or she had to enter with her killer. Since the watchman was around at seven fifteen, after the Buell gang took off, we have to have our pair wait behind a tree or something while the watchman closed and locked the fence gate, right? It starts to get a little weird, doesn’t it? Or else the killer and victim were both already in the building, maybe in the apartment before Buell and gang arrived, but that means someone other than Tootles. She couldn’t have got there before seven ten even in a car. At seven she went up and changed her clothes, a matter of several minutes at least, and then she took off into the woods on foot. Guests were leaving; she couldn’t have driven off without being seen, and anyway I bet her car was in the garage, hemmed in by a dozen others. We could make her run a mile and time her, I guess, to prove it one way or the other. She must have collected Leeds somewhere along the way.” He shook his head. “Weird. Where was Leeds from before five until then? Smashing and splashing paint on art?” He frowned at the Formica tabletop, and began to run his finger in a circle, around and around. “It just refuses to make much sense, doesn’t it?”

He stood up. “Well, I doubt you’ll be able to get enough on Tootles to make it stick. With what you have right now, I know I couldn’t.”

“But it’s early,” Gruenwald said. “Lots of time to dig around and see what turns up.”

They all turned toward the front of the house. Cars were throwing gravel; brakes screeched. The state investigators had arrived, Charlie decided. The sheriff went to the door with them and pulled it open. “Don’t wander away,” he said. “They’ll want to talk to you.”

Charlie nodded; he knew the game rules very well. “I suppose we can get some air,” he said. The sheriff shrugged and started to walk toward the front door. Charlie took Constance by the arm. “Let’s take a walk.” They went out the back door.

EIGHT

As soon as they were
away from the house Charlie stopped walking to take Constance into his arms and kiss her in a way he had not been willing to do in front of others. “There, now,” he said when he drew back finally. “That’s better.”

“I’ll say,” she murmured. “And it was only three days.”

He grinned and took her hand. “We don’t count by days,” he said. “Onward. Let’s mosey down to the little creek. I remember when Ed Holbein called it his private trout stream.”

“Poor Ed. Remember how happy he and Tootles were? I wonder if she’s been that happy with anyone else since?”

“How about Max?”

“He’s fine. I like him a lot, but it’s different. He adores her apparently. And from what little I’ve seen, she appears content. I never thought that was a word that could be applied to Tootles.”

He nodded. Tootles content was an oxymoron as far as he was concerned.

“You think she’s really in for it, don’t you?” Constance said a moment later. They were walking under the giant oak trees; they could hear the soft rush of water over stones.

“She’s in for it,” he said. “Trouble is they just don’t have anyone else. Could anyone else have left the party, stayed out at least half an hour, starting at seven?”

She shook her head. “Not the overnight guests. I’ve tried and tried to make any of them work, but they won’t. People were either paired up looking for her, or in plain sight telling other guests good-bye. It could be,” she added, “that it really was an outsider we know nothing about. Or someone she knew in the area and was in touch with. We just don’t know enough.”

He spread his hands. Neither of them believed an outsider had entered the house before Victoria’s arrival in order to leave a note for her on Paul’s bed. They had reached the little brook that was only six or eight feet across and inches deep. It had a pleasant singing voice, he thought in approval. Unpretentious, nice. And if trout ever had been present in those waters, it was back in prehistoric times. It was at least ten degrees cooler here by the running water in the deep shade.

He looked around for rocks or logs to sit on, and had to give that up and lean against a tree instead; grasses and weeds grew right down to the edge of the water. “You don’t think Tootles did it,” he murmured. “Why? Just because you’ve known her all your life?”

“I don’t think it’s that.” She considered it with her head cocked, accepting that bias could be a factor, accepting that if it was, she could do nothing about it. “But you said it before. If she had found anyone messing up her work, she would have thrown a fit on the spot. She isn’t devious, not that way. Action/reaction are never very far apart with her. Deviousness and a cold-bloodedness just aren’t her style.” She drew in a deep breath and went on to tell him about Tootles’s note, and the phone call.

Charlie scowled at her. “Good God, that’s all the cops need,” he said. “She says she’s in desperate trouble and someone gets killed! Think she’ll blab about it?”

“Of course not.” And it went without saying, they both knew, that neither would Constance. “But I can’t believe it had anything to do with Victoria Leeds. I’d bet a lot that they didn’t know each other before Victoria showed up here. Paul said that, and so did Tootles, and I believe it; I was watching when Paul introduced them.”

Charlie knew that if Constance was willing to put up money, it meant she was certain, not that anything was at risk. He grunted as he pushed off from the tree; there simply wasn’t anyone else, he told himself again. It was Tootles or a stranger. And he didn’t believe in strangers wandering in through locked doors to commit murder that apparently had nothing to do with robbery or rape.

“The sheriff’s pretty good,” Constance said a moment later, but without much conviction. “The old Sherlock truism comes in just about here, doesn’t it? If you rule out all that just won’t work, you’re forced to take whatever is left. I’m so afraid that’s how his mind will work, and apparently he’s very much afraid the state investigators will take Tootles with even less struggle than he’s having.”

She watched a monarch butterfly pose against an umbel of Queen Anne’s lace, and then rise without effort to catch a ray of slanting light that made it glow like a magical creature. It drifted away, and if she blinked, or if it did a vanishing act so fast she could not follow, she could not have said; the butterfly was there, then gone.

“Charlie,” she said, “you keep calling Tootles a nut, and Ba Ba, of course. But why? I mean, Ba Ba talks incessantly, but does that really make her a nut? And what is it about Tootles?”

She kept her gaze on the spot where the butterfly had vanished; it must have fallen through a hole in space, she thought distantly.

The silence that followed her question had become too long, too intense, so that no matter now how it was broken, there would be that interval when her question hung between them. Charlie squatted and picked up a handful of stones that he began to toss into the fast little stream.

“It was a long time ago,” he said at last.

“I know. We were all little more than children.”

Not Tootles, he thought; she had never been a child. The funny thing, he also thought, was that he had been invited in, but had not entered, and yet the guilt he had felt then had made it seem that he might as well have yielded. Now he could admit that the cloud of pheromones that Tootles had moved in was almost more than a fellow could resist, but in those days he had been terrified. He and Constance had only recently married, and he could not have been less interested in another woman; and that state had endured. But there were all those pheromones calling, beckoning. The spell had been there; he had been targeted more than once, and he knew that others, including Babar, probably believed he had taken that next step. Over the years he had met other women like Tootles, and men also, who exuded sex appeal the way the Greeks in the deli he had grown up near had exuded the aroma of garlic and olive oil. But sex appeal alone did not qualify anyone for nuthood, he also knew.

Slowly he said, “When we were all still living in New York, Babar and Tootles had that rattrap apartment down on Twenty-second. Remember? Just before they moved down here, the last place they had in the city, I guess.” He remembered clearly a series of ratty apartments that he associated with Tootles and Babar, all firetraps, walk-ups, infested with vermin, and all vibrating with a feeling of excitement nearly uncontainable.

That last day, he had gone to their apartment late in the afternoon, planning to meet Constance there after she finished a class she was teaching; then half a dozen or more of them were going to go eat Chinese food—cheap, abundant, good. None of them had money for restaurants; he had started his career as a fireman by then, but Constance was still in school, working on her doctorate, teaching. A long time ago, he thought again.

“Anyway, there I was, dead tired from coming off the four-day stint. Remember, four days on, four off?” She nodded. “I conked out on the floor, out like a light, and when I came awake enough to hear anything, they were having a go with that damn Ouija board they used to play around with. But this time it was different. I think Babar was in a deep trance, or something, and she scared the shit out of me. And Tootles, too, I’m sure.”

Constance turned to look at him with an expression of bewilderment. “You were afraid? They used to do that back when we were just kids. What was frightening?”

He shook his head. “I was half asleep, just waking up, and Babar was going on about a spirit she had summoned, and damned if I didn’t see something like a cloud form behind Tootles, and then settle over her, and disappear. Okay,” he said hurriedly, lifting his hand palms out, “I admit I was groggy from missing sleep. But that wasn’t even the scary part. It was what Babar was saying, and how she was saying it, and how Tootles was reacting. I think they both believed every word. And that was scary, their belief, their acceptance. Talking to the air as if it held a genie with wishes to hand out, payments to exact, you know, cutting a deal. I was wide awake by then and made noises and broke it up. They were both really sore, especially Babar. Apparently this was the most successful trance she had achieved, the best spirit she had called up, or some damn thing. Anyway, they were furious with me, and kicked me out, just like that. Both of them were like…” He shrugged then. “Nuts,” he said. “Two nut cases if I ever saw any.”

“Oh, Charlie,” she said in a soft voice. “You never even mentioned any of that. I thought… I don’t know what I thought. That Tootles had really tried to seduce you, I guess.”

“You were willing to pal around with her thinking that?”

“It didn’t matter,” Constance said. “I knew you wouldn’t, and she didn’t mean anything by it. She was never out to hurt anyone, just to give everything a try. She gave spiritualism a try, and Catholicism, and Zen, and TM. Heaven alone knows what all she’s tried over the years.”

“Especially men,” he said darkly.

Constance nodded. “I know. Especially men. And as for the fortune telling, they used the I Ching, various kinds of cards, including the Tarot, the Ouija board, maybe even entrails. I bet right now Ba Ba has a drawer full of crystals, talismans, fetishes of all sorts… She’s intrigued by the occult and always was, and yes, maybe a bit of a nut where the supernatural is concerned. I just never realized that you had seen them going at it. I wish you had mentioned it years ago.”

Even thinking about mentioning it at a time when it would have been meaningful brought back the memory of near terror he had felt that day. He had been incapable of talking about it then; he couldn’t have explained the fear he had felt, couldn’t have justified his aversion to both women after that day and for years to come. Over the next ten years they had attended a Marion Olsen opening or two, they had gone to a show or two, had come out to the farm twice, neither time staying more than a few hours, and in his mind Tootles and Babar were still the nuts he had come across nearly thirty years ago. That had not changed a bit with time.

Constance was frowning thoughtfully at the stream; she nodded, as if reaching a decision. “Tootles has left all that far behind, I’m certain,” she said. “Ba Ba is still interested in the occult. Not that it matters; it doesn’t have a thing to do with what’s going on now. Information, data. Just sorting out things.”

“Let’s walk,” he said, and for the next few minutes neither of them spoke. They had nearly reached the house when Charlie stopped and put his hand on her arm.

“Honey, you know, don’t you, that they won’t just let us walk away from this one? I think there are times when I can look into the future without a crystal ball or the Tarot cards, or any other damn gimmick. One of them will ask us to take this on, prove Tootles didn’t do it, find out who did. Bet?”

She shook her head emphatically. “You know I don’t. Ever.”

He laughed. “Okay. Want to make book on who will ask? Max?”

“Maybe,” she said cautiously. “Or maybe Paul Volte.” He looked surprised, and they continued to walk toward the back door of the house. “But, Charlie,” she added, “we can say no. You can say no. You don’t have to hang around and ask questions, or do anything else about this mess.”

That should have been an option, he knew, but it wasn’t, not really. They would manage to hang this one on Tootles if someone didn’t do something to prevent that, and no one else could be expected to have this deep belief in her innocence—as far as this murder was concerned, he had to add to himself. No, if he believed in fate, karma, any of that stuff, he would have to accept that this was the trap that had opened weeks earlier; finally it was shutting all the way.

“Check,” he said. “One thing, though. I don’t want to stay in the house even if we hang out for a day or two. Agreed?”

She nodded. He would have to throttle Ba Ba, and that could be serious. Or she might decide to throttle the woman. “We probably can get a motel room, or a hotel in the village, or something.”

He snapped his fingers in irritation then. “Damn,” he muttered. “Forgot about that car.” He glowered toward the driveway where a rental car was parked next to their Volvo. “How much would you say it’s worth not to have to drive in to National?”

“That bad, hm?”

“Tourist season,” he said. “You wouldn’t believe downtown Washington in the summer.”

She eyed him curiously. “Why were you downtown?”

“Never mind,” he said. “Just a little wrong turn, that sort of thing that can happen to anyone at all.”

“Fifty dollars? Forty? Whatever the kid you ask says he’ll charge,” she said.

He knew she was right. Some things he refused to bargain over. They both stopped again when Janet appeared with a deputy and got into a taxi. The driver put her suitcase in, and drove off. Janet had looked infinitely relieved; standing in the drive watching the taxi vanish down the road, Toni looked forlorn and miserable. She ducked her head and slouched back into the house.

Two hours later the state investigator. Lieutenant Belmont, told Constance she was free to go.

Constance found Charlie on the back porch. “Done,” she said wearily. “Statement accepted, signed, tucked away where maybe no human eye will ever spot it again.”

“Rubber hoses and all?”

“On both sides, and bright lights, the works.”

“Let’s scram. Onward to the village green. You hungry or anything?”

He drove down the gravel road, crossed the railroad tracks, and came to the state road where he turned left. He was watching the odometer closely. It was nine-tenths of a mile to the gate of the construction fence at the condominium complex. He slowed there and pulled to the side of the road, surveying the fence, the railroad tracks a few hundred feet away, parallel to the road, and beyond the tracks the stand of trees that was Tootles’s property.

“Problems,” he said then. “This is pretty exposed, wouldn’t you say?” From here he could see that there was the big gate, double doors that could admit trucks, cranes, whatever equipment the job required. Next to it was a door no more than three feet wide. Both were closed now. The gate was at the corner of the fence, a car length off the road; to one side the undergrowth was cleared away, no place to hide there. On the other side of the gate a parking lot had been bulldozed and covered with gravel. The fence on that side appeared to go back to the river bank. “No lurking space at all,” he said morosely. “You’d have to stay all the way over there in the woods.”