Slice and Dice (17 page)

M:
Why frightening?

Simpson:
It was the way he looked. Furtive. And filthy.

M:
Did the station have a tight security system?

Simpson:
Not really. If the woman at the front desk was busy, he could have slipped in through the side door without anyone seeing him. The guys in the booth wouldn’t have noticed. During a taping, they were totally focused on their tech stuff.

M:
Can you describe the man ?

Simpson:
I’ll never forget him. He was thin and tall, probably over six feet. And he had long black hair and a long scraggly beard, matted and smelly and dirty. His jeans and army jacket were ripped and torn, badly soiled, and his sandals were falling apart. I can still remember how filthy his feet looked, how long the toenails were, like he hadn’t had a bath in years. He wasn’t just a hippie, he looked like someone who’d been living on the street most of his life.

M:
Was he old? Young?

Simpson:
Young. Twenties, I’d say, although under all that hair and dirt, it was hard to tell. But he moved like a young man. Talked like one. Anyway, the minute Connie saw him, she stopped what she was doing and rushed off the platform. The producer was furious. Everything on the set was about to melt under the hot lights, but Connie didn’t seem to care. That was very unlike her. All she said was “This is important. Give me a minute, please.” She pushed the man farther into the darkness, closer to where I was standing, and they talked quietly.

M:
Could you hear what they were saying?

Simpson:
(Hesitates) Well, first he said something like “Did you bring the bread?” I assumed he was talking about money. Connie nodded that she had and told him to lower his voice.

M:
Did you hear anything else?

Simpson:
Just some snippets of conversation. At one point the man said the words “very ill” and then “crazy talk.” But that was it. Whatever they were discussing, however, was serious. At one point, Connie started to cry.

M:
Goon.

Simpson:
Well, she never said where she was going or why. She never even said goodbye. She and the young man just rushed out. She also didn’t come back that day or try to call to explain her odd behavior. I know the producer was ready to fire her.

M:
Had she ever done anything like that before?

Simpson:
Never. She was always totally professional. Anyway, her producer tried to reach her at home that night, but nobody answered. She finally reappeared three days later, full of apologies. She explained that the man was a friend of her younger son s, and he was in some terrible legal trouble. He was also penniless. If the police found him before he got some much-needed legal advice, he could have gone to prison. Connie said she found him a lawyer and now everything was okay.

M:
Did you believe her story?

Simpson:
I wanted to, but — (Shakes her head) It didn’t square with what I’d heard.

M:
And what do you think they were talking about?

Simpson:
I figured that somebody was sick, someone Connie loved. So sick, possibly feverish, that he or she wasn’t making any sense.

M:
Did she ever mention this man again in any way?

Simpson:
Never. Thankfully, the producer bought her story. He was still angry but said he’d give her another chance. The taping was rescheduled.

M:
You have absolutely no idea who the guy was?

Simpson:
No.

M:
And you never saw him again?

Simpson:
Never.

M:
Thank you for your time, Eleanor. You’ve been a big help.

Final note:
When I sent this interview to Pluto tonight, I included a request: “Please, if you have any idea who this man is, let me know right away. Since I assume you ‘re a family member, or a close friend of the family, you may be my only way to get to the bottom of this. I believe it to be highly significant. Also, I need to find Vashti Wells. Do you have any idea if she’s still alive, and if so, where she’s living? One last point. My life was threatened today. I assume it was by someone in the Buckridge family. Do you have any knowledge of this? I’ve hired a bodyguard, but I feel a much greater sense of urgency now. You started all this in motion, Pluto. You’ve got to help me finish it before someone gets hurt!” M.

Late Tuesday morning Sophie was ushered into a small, nondescript waiting room on the second floor of City Hall, where she would finally meet with Harry Hongisto. After attending his arraignment earlier in the morning, she had agreed to write the bail bondsman a check so that Harry wouldn’t have to remain in jail until the trial. Harry was strapped. Every last bit of his savings had gone into keeping his restaurant afloat. He’d even taken out a second mortgage on his house. She didn’t know all the details, but from what everyone said, the evidence against him was damning. Still, she wanted to hear it from his own lips, especially since he claimed that he was innocent and that someone — he didn’t know who — was trying to frame him.

Before leaving the hotel, Sophie had invited Bram to come along to the arraignment, but he’d declined, saying he had to get to the radio station for a staff meeting. She wasn’t sure she believed him, which depressed her more than she could say. She sensed that he wanted to get away from her. He was still acting somewhat cool after yesterday’s fiasco, and in many ways she didn’t blame him.

Bram couldn’t understand why she hadn’t called if she knew she was going to be late. After all, common courtesy would dictate that, in order to prevent her poor husband from worrying, she’d pick up the phone and let him know she was okay and when she’d be back. She tried to frame an answer that made sense but couldn’t be entirely truthful, and somehow he seemed to know. How could she tell him she’d been sitting in front of a roaring fire with her old boyfriend, caught up in his embrace? Caught up also by feelings she thought had died more than twenty-five years ago? She couldn’t exactly paint a picture of what had gone on, why her mind had been elsewhere. She knew Bram trusted her, but she also knew he was confused. Sophie had tried her best to prove to him last night how much she loved him, but this morning she wondered if she’d done nothing more than behave like a guilty spouse.

When it came right down to it, she was angry at herself for the way she’d behaved with Nathan. She loved her husband. What had she been thinking yesterday? She wanted a life with Bram, not with Nathan Buckridge. She didn’t even know Nathan anymore. Sure, maybe she continued to be flattered that an old flame was still interested after all these years — interested in a slowly crumbling, middle-aged woman, to be exact — but she had to back away before matters got out of hand.

Then again it was much easier to be clearheaded and resolute when she wasn’t staring into Nathan’s eyes. She couldn’t deny the power he still exerted over her. After all these years, the electricity hadn’t dimmed one bit. But to Sophie’s mind, the worst part was that she’d hurt Nathan badly all those years ago and now she was about to hurt him again. She saw no use in debating whether life was fair or not. The fact was, no matter how hard it might be, she had to tell him the truth. There could be nothing between them now, not even friendship.

A few minutes later the door opened and Harry, still dressed in orange coveralls, entered. When he joined Sophie at the table, he lowered himself into die chair like a weary old man who’d accepted his defeat.

“Are you all right?” she asked tentatively.

“No.”

“No one’s hurt you, have they?”

He shook his head. “Sophie, I appreciate that you came down to the arraignment and put up the money to get me out. If there’s ever any way I can repay you, I will, because staying another day in that hellhole…” He looked away.

“You’re going home, Harry. As soon as they process you out of here.”

“I don’t belong in a place like this,” he said, slamming his fist hard into the tabletop. “I’m an innocent man. I’ve always lived an honest life. I’m not a criminal, for chrissake. You believe me, don’t you? I may have wanted to see Gildemeister squirm, but I never would have hurt him. Never!” A dark red color rose in his cheeks.

Sophie was concerned for his blood pressure. The stress couldn’t be doing his aging heart any good.

“The D.A. seems to think my case is a slam dunk. That’s what my lawyer called it. They’ve got enough evidence on me to put me away for the rest of my life.”

“But I don’t understand. Nobody saw you murder George, right?”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“Sure it does. It means die case against you is circumstantial.”

He gripped his hands together in his lap. “I just wish to God I’d never heard the name George Gildemeister. Think of it, Sophie. What’s your father going to say when he finds out what’s happened?” He nodded to his clothing.
“This
is the crime. But your father’s going to think he’s got a murderer for a buddy.”

“Harry?” She hesitated. “What exactly do the police have on you?”

He huffed. “Just about everything but a signed statement admitting my guilt.”

“Can you be more specific?”

He tapped his fingers impatiently on the tabletop. “First, they’ve got my prints on a glass at Gildemeister’s apartment.”

Sophie remembered now. When she’d entered the living room, it looked as if George had been entertaining someone. “A wineglass?”

He nodded.

“You mean you were actually in his apartment the night he was murdered?”

“Sure. I never denied it. I had to go, Sophie. I had to give that bastard a piece of my mind.”

“And did you?”

“Oh, you know George. He was all smiles. Invited me in, poured the wine before he even asked if I wanted any. He was going to be the reasonable one, take the high road. I tried to keep my temper from boiling over, tried to have a reasonable discussion with the man, but it was impossible. We ended up arguing, screaming at each other. I’m not proud of that, Sophie, but I think I had a right to let off some steam.”

“So what happened?”

“What do you mean what happened? You’re asking me if I went into the kitchen, removed a knife from his knife block set, and stabbed him in the back?”

“Did you?”

“No!” He raked a hand over his two-day stubble. “At exactly five to seven, he looked at his watch and then hustled me out of there. Our conversation was over, he said. From the way he acted, I assumed he was expecting someone.”

“Do you know who?”

“If I did, I wouldn’t be in jail. I should have stuck around, but it never occurred to me that I’d need to know who his murderer was.”

Sophie thought of the man she’d seen leaving the building that night just as she’d arrived. He’d seemed familiar somehow, but it hadn’t been Harry. She was sure of that. “What else do they have on you?”

He groaned. “The murder weapon. The police found it in my neighbor’s garbage can. The knife was wiped clean of fingerprints and wrapped in some old newspapers. They assume, incorrectly, that I put it there after I killed him. There’s a residue of blood on the blade, I guess. They’ve matched it to George’s blood type. Now they’re doing some DNA tests to prove beyond the shadow of a doubt that it was his.”

“But if you didn’t put it there, that means the murderer planted it. How would he know to do that? You could have had an airtight alibi, could have been at your restaurant with dozens of people to confirm that fact.”

“But I wasn’t. And that means he had to have seen me coming out of Gildemeister’s apartment. Maybe he also knew about the reviews Gildemeister had written and figured the police would assume I had a grudge against him, which I did. I was the perfect patsy.” Harry’s body seemed to sag under the weight of the evidence against him. “I had to close the restaurant today, Sophie. My lawyer called the assistant manager this morning and told everyone to go home. I can’t deal with any of that right now, not when I’m fighting for my life.”

“Do the police have other evidence against you?”

He ran a hand over his balding crown, then through the halo of white hair surrounding it. “Plenty. For starters, they’ve got that note I dropped off at the paper last weekend. My lawyer thinks it might be inadmissible, but I’m not holding my breath because, well, after they found the murder weapon a few feet from my back door, they had probable cause to search the house.” Dropping his head in his hands, he added, “God, I never thought anyone would read all the other letters I wrote. I mean, I was half in the bag when I wrote most of them. I know they were full of rage. Maybe they even made me seem a little crazy. But it was just fantasy, Sophie, playing with what I would do to that bastard if I could. But, I mean, I
wouldn’t.
I didn’t!”

Sophie winced at the realization that Harry’s chances of beating this charge were pretty slim. “I don’t suppose you’ve got any idea why someone would want Gildemeister dead?”