Lasciva closed the office door. “It’s centuries old. Paul tells me it’s worth more than the whole house. I don’t know about all that. I just like it when one of these pansy prohibition politicians comes to visit and I lock him in a room with a goddamn suit of armor. Then he knows I mean business.”
Lasciva cachinnated until he wheezed. He was taller than Rowan by a foot and a half and his limbs made him look taller still. His stomach had ballooned a bit since his younger years, but it did not appear as fat. The detective had the impression that some as yet undetected cancer was brewing in there.
Rowan bent down and peered through the glass. “I would say 1400s, German.” He frowned. “The weapon is wrong. This type of ax is for a mounted knight.”
“So what?”
“The suit obviously belonged to a count. He would have had something stylish but ineffective.”
“Maybe. Sure. When collecting antiques, one must sometimes mix and match.”
“Also, the handle of the ax appears to be reconstructed. It looks like modern wood to my eyes.”
Lasciva spread his arms wide. “I’m a bootlegger. I make my living passing things off as the original. Besides, I need a functioning ax.” He wheezed another laugh.
“Of course.” Rowan clasped his hands together. “Now, I did not come here to ogle your possessions, Mr. Lasciva. May I see the note you received?”
Robert’s eyes lit up. “Yes, the reason you’re here.” He sat down at his desk and bade Rowan join him.
As Lasciva rifled through the top drawer, Rowan scanned the room. It seemed hermetically sealed. There were no windows to speak of and when the door was shut, all sounds of the storm ceased. The wood in the fireplace burned behind a crimson sofa. Rowan’s gaze came to the flame’s curlicue reflection on the oak floor. His eyes glazed over and the muscles of his face went slack.
If the ghosts could only talk.
A thwack of an envelope on his forearm broke the image’s soothing hypnosis. He fumbled with the edges for a moment and then opened it. Inside was a half sheet of paper. He unfolded it and placed it on the desk. The detective read it once to himself and then aloud.
“Robert Lasciva. For debts owed and sins untold, you shall not live to be fifty-five years old. An old friend at the party shall end your life with a stroke so bold. Chip chop, chip chop.” Rowan swallowed. “It is handwritten in cursive. Odd.”
“Is there etiquette for these kinds of things?”
“Usually notes from criminals are typed or made with cut-up newspaper text so the handwriting cannot be recognized. Do you recognize the handwriting?”
“Nope.”
“Has anyone else seen this?”
“Just Jack.”
Rowan rolled a cigarette and reminded himself to keep a calm exterior. “Your nephew and his wife…”
“What about them?”
“Why are they British?”
“I thought you were a detective. They were born in England.”
Rowan noted the lack of crow’s feet when Lasciva offered his distorted smile. “You know what I mean.”
Lasciva lit a cigar and puffed on it several times, creating a cloud of smoke that stuck to his head. “My sister, Ethel, went to England when she was a teenager. During her visit she got knocked up by a dashing young lad and decided to stay there. Charles was the kid. I got a letter from her every so often. She even sent me a picture of him.” He flicked a photograph across the desk.
It was a young boy holding a cricket bat. Rowan flipped it over and read the writing on the back. Charles nine. Something pricked at his subconscious as if trying to iron out a wrinkle of relevant memory. It was his introduction to Charles earlier in the evening. Something that happened did not quite gel with this photo, but he could not say what it was and the feeling soon receded back under the rock from whence it came. “May I keep this?”
“It’s yours, Manory.” Lasciva leaned forward like a vulture without wings. “I wanted to tell you how sorry I was to hear about your mother. Damn shame. Damn shame about the Tommy Brent kerfuffle too. You win some and you lose some, right?”
Rowan did not look away.
Lasciva noticed. “I read about it in the paper. Immediately I asked myself where I heard the name ‘Manory’ before. Then it hit me. Your mother and I crossed paths briefly in Chicago, very briefly.”
Rowan deemed it bait and decided not to bite. “When did you first meet Charles and his wife? In the flesh, I mean.”
Lasciva leaned back and stuck the cigar in his mouth. “Wednesday.”
“Wednesday?”
“Is there an echo? Wednesday. The kid wrote me in April. He told me Ethel died twelve years back. Now he was married and he was coming to America for a honeymoon with his wife. Charles wanted to meet his uncle.”
Rowan’s voice rose slightly. “Ruth Martice?”
“Paul recommended her. My old secretary quit in January. I do a lot of correspondence with business owners and certain high rollers. Somebody was needed for the job so…” From across the table he saw the detective’s mouth was agape. “Did I fart?”
“I am sorry, Mr. Lasciva, but I am finding this more and more difficult to believe.”
“What exactly are you having trouble with?”
“You receive a death threat. What do you do? You take in a long-lost relative and his wife, neither of whom you have ever met before. On top of that, you have a recently hired employee who has access to your home. She is your secretary?”
Lasciva shrugged his shoulders extravagantly. “Ruth is the last person I’m worried about. Look, Manory, I’m glad you’re here. A man like me can never be too careful. However, the more I think about this situation, the more I’m inclined to believe it’s all about money. I bet I get another note tomorrow demanding ten grand.”
Rowan shook his head. “Where is your aunt right now?”
“I told you. Bernie’s asleep.”
“Did you only meet her recently?”
“I’ve known Bernie since I was wearing diapers. She’s eighty and out of her mind for Christ’s sake. There’s no way she could do something like this. She doesn’t even know what year it is. We have to keep reminding her. It’s like a goddamn nursing home around here.”
“Do you suspect your business associates?”
“I don’t suspect. You suspect. That’s how this works.”
“Is there any other way to the manor besides the road? Could someone climb their way here?”
“I’d be impressed if someone tried to climb up this ridge just to kill me. I’d hire a guy like that.”
“Are there any waterways?”
Lasciva took a pencil and paper from his desk and drew an outline of the ridge. “About sixty feet behind the garden, there’s a clearing. An embankment runs parallel to the garden and then veers to the back. When it rains, the water collects on the mountain, and then runs through like a little creek. Of course it’s a bit more than a creek now. No one could navigate it, though. No one would go up the mountain in this weather. There’s too much danger of landslides.”
Rowan looked at the note again. “Chip chop, chip chop. It is awfully familiar. I think it is from a nursery rhyme, no?”
Lasciva casually blew a ring of smoke. “I wouldn’t know. I’ve never had a child.”
Rowan bit. “Why did you leave Chicago?”
“I think you already know the answer to that question.”
“I would like to hear it from you.”
“I was accused of killing Dorothy Roberts. She was a girl I barely even knew. I met her at a club. She wanted to have a good time and I showed her one. She was,” Lasciva twirled his finger next to his temple, “cuckoo. I’ve always been attracted to crackers. It’s my great flaw. She jumped from a seven-story window. The police tried to pin it on me and it didn’t work out so well for them. They got angry and then they got even.”
“Why would she do such a thing to herself?”
“To see if she could fly?
I don’t know.” Lasciva stood up. “I didn’t hire you to solve a case from twenty years ago. What the hell does it have to do with this note?”
“Chip chop, chip chop! That is what Irene Roberts told the police after they found her raped and left for dead!”
Lasciva was speechless. There was no smile, fake or otherwise, on his face now. The skin hung completely loose as if detached from any muscle. Rowan was a bit shocked at seeing his reaction; it was human.
For a brief moment the two men stared at each other as if they had just met.
The cuckoo clock chimed a harsh combination of shrill metallic bangs and sharp bell chirps, breaking the silence in the office.
Lasciva licked his lips. “Well, that was exciting.” He stubbed his cigar in the ashtray.
A knock came at the door. Lasciva mumbled to himself as he went to open it. It was Ruth Martice. At first, the secretary was beaming under her black Louise Brooks, but after a few words with Lasciva in the doorway, she took on his dour countenance.
Their brief exchange was too quiet for Rowan to hear, so he attempted to read Ruth’s lips. Unfortunately, lip reading was a skill Rowan had been unable to master. He suspected this was due to his test subject. Walter mouthed words from across the office just fine, but the words themselves often turned out to be nonsensical gibberish that no one else could or would say in real life. Looking now, at Ruth’s lips, Rowan made out only a single sentence. She definitely said the words, ‘It was Jack.’
Lasciva turned back to the office. “We’re being kicked out, Manory. Ruth has some work to do in the office and she can’t have us running around like headless chickens.”
Ruth sat in Lasciva’s chair, her pale skin highlighting the freckles on her face. “I’m such a killjoy, I know. Please forgive me.”
“Think nothing of it. I was hoping Robert would show me around the house anyway.” When he reached the doorway, Rowan turned and nodded toward Ruth. She shoved three sticks of gum into her mouth and winked at him.
chapter 8
murder
The hallway featured six oil paintings. Five were originals, but the one mounted next to the office door was a reproduction of Judith Beheading Holofernes. A Pavlovian shudder traveled through Rowan’s body. He had first seen this painting in his parent’s coffee table book. As a child, he had often dared himself to look at it.
I would creep into the living room; it was important that no one saw me, for I could not explain this ritual. The Caravaggio was on page eighty-six. I opened to page eighty-five. My eyes closed and, in the comfort of the dark, I turned the page. I hovered above it for a while, trembling with anticipation. Finally, I would force myself to look. Judith’s determined revulsion captivated me, but also made me fearful. This was my first glimpse into the savage capabilities of the human mind.
“Coming, Manory?” Lasciva stood at the front end of the massive oblong hallway.
“Yes.” Rowan shuffled his feet over the wooden floor, glancing at the other five paintings along the way. “You have exquisite taste in art.”
“No, Paul has exquisite taste in art. Paul knows all. He tells me what’s good, and I pay for it. It’s like a marriage.” Lasciva extended his right arm to the library. “Shall we?”
The ground floor consisted of six rooms. The billiard room, bathroom, and office were on the left side, while the library, kitchen, and dining room were on the right. Between the office and the dining room, the spiral staircase led to the upstairs bedrooms.
The burning lavender pastilles in the library replaced the stench of silt and wet earth that had settled in Rowan’s nostrils. Shelves of books covered the entirety of the side wall. His eyes grew as wide as saucers.
“There must be a thousand.” He reached forward without touching them. “Have you read them all?”
“Funny.”
“It was not meant to be a joke. If I lived here, I would never accomplish anything. I would simply spend all my time immersed.”
“It’s just for show, Manory. I don’t give a good goddamn about books.” He caressed a section of red and yellow spines on the left-hand side. “I do like these, though. I always have time for a good murder mystery. You read them once and then they’re no good anymore. I like that.”
Rowan bent down to read the names. “Milne, Philpotts, Wallace, Van Dine, Leroux. They are not exactly giants of literature.”
Lasciva appeared offended. “You’re not a fan? This stuff should be right up your alley.”
“That is why I am not a fan, Mr. Lasciva. None of these stories has a whiff of truth to them. The characters only act to present an impossible mystery for the reader. Real people kill for real reasons.”
Lasciva wagged his finger at Rowan. “I think you just can’t figure them out and that upsets you.”
“I assure you, if any of these characters entered the real world they would behave much differently.” Rowan stood up. “And I would catch them without much difficulty.”
“Looks like I hired the right man. Come on, I’ll show you the dining room.”
Rowan took one last look before leaving.
There are three front windows, but none on the side. Also, the dimensions seem smaller than they should be. Why is that?”
Lasciva stuck his head back in the doorway. “Do you need help with anything?”
“No, I was just admiring your…” he looked to the corner of the room, “…phonograph. It is the old, hand-crank variety.”
“It’s junk, Manory. Let’s go.”
The dining room appeared cavernous compared to the library. A large, two-leaf table sat in the middle of the room and a towering cabinet loomed against the wall opposite the door.
The cabinet’s front shelves are only a third of its depth. Once again, the dimensions confuse me.
He ran his palm along the thick side panel of the cabinet.
Lasciva said, “Ahh, you don’t want to mess with that. It’s an antique. You might break it. You’ll have to pay me your salary and then some.”
“And what if you are murdered? Who will pay my salary in that case?”
“I trust you won’t let that happen.”
“I solve murders, I do not prevent them.”
“So I’ve heard.” He pointed to two double doors on the side wall. “These lead to the kitchen. I didn’t want an entrance from the hall, so this is the only way in.”
Lasciva led him around the staircase, past the office doorway, and back toward the front of the manor, stopping only to show him the bathroom.
The last door was to the billiard room. Walter and Daniels were playing on the Medalist table. The room had six French windows, three facing the front of the house and three along the side wall. Rowan noted that the first front window had provided the light for the bickering silhouettes on the porch. Tellum sat next to the glass chess set, staring at the floor.
“Have you lost any money yet?” asked Rowan.
“Four,” said Walter.
Daniels knocked in the nine-ball and straightened himself. “Five.”
“I’ve only lost five dollars,” said Walter. “I have him right where I want him.”
Lasciva said, “Paul, be nice to the guests.”
Daniels asked, “Have you shown Mr. Manory the paintings, yet?”
“No, I thought I’d leave that up to you. You’re right, though. It’s time.”
Daniels put the cue on the table. “Shall we?”
Lasciva led Daniels and the detectives down the hallway to the Caravaggio next to Lasciva’s office. “Rowan seemed enamored with our Jewish friend.”
Daniels said, “Everyone loves Judith. She’s—” His attention was drawn to the top of the stairs. “Bernice,” he lisped.
The old woman slowly came down the steps. Her black arm-length gloves and matching evening gown made her head appear to float. It was a wrinkled head with a shock of white, frizzy hair. She looked at Robert through fat glasses. “We need to talk.”
Rowan’s heart skipped a
beat.
My God. It is a slightly younger Alice Schmidt. The accent, the hair, the glasses, an old German woman, the Caravaggio, chip chop, chip chop. It is all too much. What does it all mean?
Lasciva hurried up the steps and tried to take her arm. “Easy does it, Bernie.” As they descended, he motioned to the group. “These are my friends, Rowan and Walter. They just arrived this evening. You haven’t met them yet.”
“I don’t like your friends, none of them.”
“Of course you don’t.”
When they reached the bottom of the steps, Rowan and Walter bowed slightly. Bernice brushed them off with a wave of her small black hand and went straight into Robert’s office. Lasciva followed her and the three men by the painting tried not to laugh.
“Like aunt, like nephew in this case,” said Daniels.
“Maybe this will be the one for you, Williams. The woman you can finally settle down with,” whispered Rowan.
“I do have a way with the crotchety and wrinkled,” said Walter, waggling his brows.
The voices in the office became louder and the trio could not help but overhear.
“Madame Lasciva, I assure you there is no cause for concern,” said Ruth.
“What do you know? You are not part of this family,” said Bernice.
“You are right, but there isn’t any danger of—”
“Ruth, don’t worry. I can handle this,” said Lasciva.
Bernice’s shrill voice exploded. Every word snapped with indignation. “Handle what? Who is this woman?”
“Ruth is my secretary. I’ve already introduced you to her twice. You’re pretending not to remember her just to give me trouble.”
“Is she another one of your sluts?”
Goodnight Irene Page 7