The Cin Fin-Lathen Mysteries 1-3 (35 page)

“You guys have a profiler?”  I knew my eyes were big.

“Let’s say south Florida has one.”

“Cool, anyway, this is what was supposed to happen.  Cheryl
was supposed to be poisoned at the concert.  Judging from what I saw, she
leaves the stage in the throes of agony.  People rush to help her.  Someone
screams as they find Carl and chaos ensues.  During the confusion, the evidence
we found would have been spirited away.  Maybe the water would have been
planted in Carl’s things and Cheryl the curare hypo.  It could have looked like
they offed each other.  But it was spoiled.”

“By?”

“Me.”

“Hence the tribute outside,” Tony gestured with his head.  “The
profiler thinks that you may be the next target.”

“Why?”

“You’re the spoiler.  You’re the one who knows the band.  The
profiler thinks that it is quite possible that you may have been made out to
look like the murderer.  You looked like one to me.  But I now know about your
infirmity.  The killer doesn’t.  Now who knows you well enough but doesn’t know
about your handicap?”

“Let’s put it this way.  The only one in that band that
knows the extent of my problem is Bernice.  She’s my mother confessor.”

“So we are back to the original twenty-nine.”

“Tony, I would think that with oleander being used, any of
the twenty-nine could be possible.  But curare wouldn’t be easy to get.”

“We’re doing background checks on all of them.  It may take
some time.”

“Bernice would know,” I began.

“Who’s Bernice, and what would she know?”

“Bernice is the older clarinet player I sit in front of, and
she would know everything about those gentlemen.  Her mind is sharp as a tack,
and she knows more about these people then what is written about them.  But I
don’t want to make her a target.  She lives alone.”

“You live alone.”

“Hey, not all the time,” I argued.  “My son is coming home
this weekend, maybe.”

“Who’s going to take care of you till then?”

“I guess that’s my cue,” came from an all too familiar voice
behind me.

I turned around.  “Harry?” I said weakly.

“Lucy!  I’m home!” Harry shouted with his very best Desi
Arnaz impression.

“No... You go home.”  I walked over and turned him around.

“Too late, Alex called me this morning and told me to get my
ass over here and take care of his mommy.”  He sidestepped around me.

I reached both hands across the bar in front of Tony.  “Arrest
me.  Arrest me now!”

Tony just laughed in my face.  “Harry, pour me another cup
of coffee, will you?”

“Sure thing, but I don’t see any doughnuts.  I can go out
front and ask the boys?”

“Don’t trouble yourself, coffee will be fine.”

“You don’t know what terror you have unleashed upon this
household.”  I pleaded with Tony.  “Make him go away.”

“Come on, Mom, let’s relax a bit.  Wicked use of the flowers
out front.  Don’t you think you may have overdone it a bit?”  Harry guided me
to my room.  “Take a long hot bath.  I have everything under control.”

I turned around just in time to see Harry shut the door with
a wicked grin on his face.  I caught the door with my hand.  “Oh, Harry dear, I
have the BMW keys.”

“Damn.  I wonder what a cop car is like inside?  Oh,
Detective Tony.”  Harry left and I locked the door.  Yes, a hot bath did sound
good, then a heated phone call to my son.  While I was running the bath, I
tried to remember if Harry had been around that time when our house caught
fire.

The kitchen was full of police of all shapes and
jurisdictions when I returned.  Harry was busy making them all omelets.  The
coffee pot was on its third brewing.  One of the village officers jumped up and
gave me his stool.  I had no sooner sat down before Harry had a hot omelet
before me. 

“Thank you.  I see you have everything under control.”

Harry just winked at me and went back to his cooking.  The
talk around the kitchen was a mixed bag.  No one was talking present business. 
Kids, beefs about superiors, rumors and general goodwill topics made the omelet
go down nicely.  I noticed the ever-increasing pile of plates in the sink that
would keep me busy for quite a while.  I knew it was my job because the Lathen
house rules have always been that the cook doesn’t do dishes.  I had a feeling
that Harry remembered the rule quite well.  I also wondered why Harry was
wasting his charm on the cops.

A junior deputy came in and informed his sergeant that the
Solid Waste Authority had picked up the oleander.

“Go ahead and wash down the sidewalks and then you can take
the tape away.”  The sergeant wiped his mouth and got up.  “I guess it’s time
for the paperwork.  Mrs. Fin-Lathen, I’m Sergeant Dave Buslowski.  Sergeant
Dave is easier.  Tony is around here somewhere I hear although I haven’t cast
eyes on him yet.  Would it be okay if we could gather in the living room?  Let
us see if we can sort this mess out.”

“I appreciate all of your help, gentlemen, and may you never
clock my BMW past the speed limit,” I said to the remaining diners in the
kitchen.  “Sergeant, it’s Ms. not Missus.  After you.”

My living room was filled with large leather furniture. 
Pots, pictures and bric-a-brac from all over the world - courtesy of my
ex-husband, daughter and friends - took up almost every square inch of the
room.  It gave the place a gentleman’s drawing room effect.  I chose one of the
oversized chairs and sunk into it.  I liked this chair.  It made me feel
little.  And standing at five foot nine in my stocking feet, it isn’t often I
feel small.

Sergeant Dave made himself comfortable on the couch.  He
opened up a folder and scanned the papers inside before addressing me.  “I
understand from this information, shared with us by the Coconut Grove police,
the particulars concerning the ongoing murder investigation of your two
colleagues up at Coconut Palm.  Harry, your son...”

“Wait, Harry is not my son.  He’s a friend of the family,” I
corrected.

“Oh, okay, I had him down as your son.”  He drew a line
through some information in his folder.

“I have two children.  Noelle, my daughter, is in England,
and Alex, my son, is up at Florida State.  Alex asked Harry to look after me
until he gets through his midterms,” I explained.

He adjusted his notes and continued, “It says here, that you
didn’t hear or see anything last night.”

“That’s true.  I was up till a little past midnight in the
den at the front of the house, and then I went to bed.  The house alarm was
set, and I wasn’t aware of anything adverse until I went out for my paper.  By
the way, did anyone find it?”

“That I don’t know.  What I do know is that sometime after
dark, someone took a hedge trimmer to oleander bushes in twenty-five different
locations.  The homeowners didn’t hear anything, so we assume that he or she
used a manual clipper.  To accomplish all that trimming, the suspect had to be
quite fit and...”

“Incensed?” I filled in.

“According to the tire prints we were able to pick up, the suspect
used a four by four.  We have two on file as being stolen last night.  I don’t
know how far we’ve come on those reports yet.  I asked the Village to send
patrols by for the next couple of evenings.  We have alerted your alarm company
that we want to be called along with the Village should a break-in occur.”

Tony came into the living room via the den where he had been
making himself at home with my desk and phone.  “Dave, good to see you!  How’s
the family?”

“Everything’s fine.  You know my daughter got married last
October.”

“Oh that’s right.  Congratulations!” Tony said as he offered
his hand.  “Was it a big wedding?

“Big enough to put me back on the job full time.”

“Tell me about it.  Retirement has been pushed off for me as
well.” Tony sighed. “So I see you have met Ms. Fin-Lathen.”  He plopped down on
the chair next to me.

“Yes, I have and Harry.” Dave smiled at us.

“Good, so update me on what you have and I will do
likewise.”

Sergeant Dave filled him in on what we had been discussing,
and Tony gave him a sketch of where his investigations were.

“I heard the Feds loaned you a profiler,” Dave mentioned.

“Actually, the guy just finished his vacation at the
Breakers, and the wife wants to stay down here longer.  Advising us is getting
him at least a week more of golf.”

“Who does he think you’re dealing with?” 

“At the moment he has two scenarios that share a couple of
common characteristics.  The killer is organized, and he has access to and
knowledge of biological poisons.   If he falls under the serial killer, he may
be new to the band.”

“New?  How new?” I asked.

Both men looked at me as if puzzled by my involvement.

Tony blew air out of his nose before answering. “Last three
years.  Long enough to plan.  He may have killed before now.  Or he may have
just lost it.  Been pushed to the point of murder, in that case.  ”

“In that case, we still have twenty-nine suspects,” I said
quietly not sure that they had wanted to hear from me.

“Can I brainstorm a bit with the two of you?”  Sergeant Dave
asked including me. “I’m not a profiler, but I have been at this a while.  Before
I started working with the Sheriff’s Department I was in CID, the Criminal
Intelligence Division of the military.  I retired early and the wife wanted her
space, so I started with the Sheriff’s Office.  I don’t get much of a chance to
exercise my old CID muscles too much, do you mind?”

“Please,” Tony said for the both of us.

“This guy is getting messy.  He let his temper get the
better of him.  Those hedges weren’t just trimmed of their flowers.  They were
hacked, mutilated.  He left evidence behind.  The tableau he originally had in
mind had been changed although he still has succeeded in killing two of your
band members.  I think the woman’s death was a bonus. I think he was surprised
by it.  He thinks he is invincible now.  He’s cocky enough to steal a truck and
hack down half of Florida to send you a message, Ms. Fin-Lathen.”

“And the message is?” I prepared myself.

“I am your superior, and here is my murder weapon.  See how
easy it is to kill?  You can’t stop me.”

“Sergeant, all that is true, but he’s killed two people who
have made being in that band almost intolerable for me.  I hated both of them. 
I know hate is a strong word, but those two people grind, er, ground you down. 
I have even expressed my concerns over the damage they do, or did do, to the
band to them personally.  And they didn’t care.  They just continued. 
Sergeant, I think the message is: 
I know you, and I am your friend.
”

Tony got up, walked behind my chair and loomed over me.  “Who
knows about your dislike for the victims?”

“I’m not very good at hiding my emotions.  I put together a
petition to audition all the band members so that the sections could be
evaluated and reseated.  I had about forty signatures, and I brought it up at a
board meeting.  They were just getting ready to vote when Carl showed up late
and started talking about adding a “grandfather clause.”  No matter what they
voted I would not be able to unseat him.  He told me I was a ‘jealous, dried up
musician that chose a piss poor instrument to play.’  I didn’t dignify his
attack by responding to him.  I just asked for a vote on whether we needed a
“grandfather clause.”  They voted. Carl won.  We all had to go through these
auditions that were a waste of time because Carl cowed the board!”  I rubbed my
head.

“Now, Cheryl.  I just never stood still long enough to
listen to her.  If a group of us were talking before or after a concert and
Cheryl joined us, I would stay until she started babbling about some unrelated
crap about herself and I would walk away.  I thought I handled myself well,
except my friend and confidant Bernice let slip to a new member during practice
that
we
don’t like Cheryl.  Unfortunately, Bernice talks rather loudly.”

“Did anyone ever console you, empathize with you, over these
bad feelings?”

“Just Bernice.  But, Detective Curtis, I’m not the only one
in the band that had problems with those two.  I’m just a member like everyone
else.  I pull my weight.  I’m nothing special.  I just wanted a better band.  I
wanted to play in bigger venues.  I realize that we aren’t professionals, but,
with a few exceptions, we are very good.  We can make beautiful music.”  I
sighed.  “Well if we go along with your direction, I would be suspect number
one, except, I didn’t kill them.”

“No, but they were dropped at your feet,” Tony commented.

“Like a cat shows his love by leaving dead mice,” Sergeant
Dave interjected.  “Do you have any admirers?”

“In the band?”  I hesitated and thought for a moment. “No.”

“You didn’t say no right away,” Tony observed.

“I had to think about it. I’m pretty friendly.  Okay, I
flirt, but I don’t seem to have any serious admirers.  Let’s say no one has
declared himself.”

“What about Miles or the conductor - what’s his name?”

“Doctor Sanders,” I supplied.  “Miles and I are more like
nemeses to each other.  I think he’s barely adequate at his job, and he thinks
I am a pain in the ass.  And Doctor Sanders I wouldn’t dream of flirting with
or teasing.  He’s the conductor, and I may be irreverent to most people but the
conductor is the boss.  I give him the respect that is due him.”

“Tony, who is this Miles again?” Dave questioned.

“Stage manager.  He’s a paid employee of the band and the
theater.”

“Ms. Fin-Lathen, tell me what contact would Miles have had
with the victims.”

“Miles sets up the stage with the help of a couple of the
band members before the performance.  He provides technical support,
microphones, lighting, and things like that.  Miles’ reputation depends on
things running smoothly.  Carl arriving late caused a multitude of extra
immediate tasks for him.  Now that I think of it, he was the one to suggest to
Doctor Sanders that we lock the stage entrance door fifteen minutes before show
time.  His only problem with Cheryl was that she used more space than she
should with her gadgets.  Also, she sat out there and warmed up long after the
rest of us had formed in the coffee room.  I can’t remember a time when he
hasn’t had to ask her to leave the stage so the audience could be let in.  I
think they had a fight Sunday night.”

“So there wasn’t any love lost between Carl and Miles or
Cheryl and Miles?” asked the Sergeant.

“No.  But remember, he doesn’t like me either.”

“Granted.”  Dave scanned his notes briefly.  “Okay, the conductor,
Doctor Sanders.  How would Carl and Cheryl have affected him?”

“Carl arrives late, and his tone is horrible.  He can play
well at times, but he can’t seem to stay in tune.  What that does in a
performance is... Well, how do I put this?  A discord?  No, he can make a
passage sound like an air raid signal gone bad.  Yes, that would cover that. 
Oh and he won’t look up.”

“Look up?”

“A musician should look up to see what tempo the conductor
is beating out.  I use my peripheral vision while I’m playing.  The conductor
does more than beat the time.  He gives cues, lets us know if we are too loud,
too soft.” I giggled.  “Sorry, but we are never too soft, always loud,
anyway...  There are many different things going on during a piece of music,
and Doctor Sanders knows what’s there and strives to bring that out in the
band.  He can get very frustrated.  The clarinets and the saxes are supposed to
be playing the same thing, and Carl could be as much as two measures off at
times.”

“What’s a measure?”

“Sorry, um, let me see.  Damn, never had theory.  Okay, the
simplest explanation is, it’s a space.  A space in which notes fill, and
according to the time of the piece, it would determine how fast or slow the
notes are played.  I’m not explaining this very well.”

Sergeant Dave waved his hand.  “Doesn’t matter.  Why would
Carl being off be a problem?”

“Traffic jam.  Noise instead of music.  The band may be
playing the concert, but Doctor Sanders gets the accolades or the criticisms. 
If we sound bad, people think, ‘That conductor must not be very good.’”

“Cheryl?” Tony prompted from his perch.

“Cheryl wasn’t a bad musician.  She just thought she was
better than she was.  She argued with Doctor Sanders all the time.  He said the
oboes were too loud, and she’d pipe up, ‘I’m not loud.’
 Or he would say
you’re not playing it right, and he sung out the passage.”  I hoped they
wouldn’t ask what a passage was.  I was starting to look dumb here.  “She’d
throw up her hands and say out loud to the band, ‘What does he know anyway?’
 
She had even gone far enough to ask, ‘What kind of university would give
him a music degree?’”