I asked, “So you think the suspects are limited to the clinic staff?”
“No, not necessarily. Any of the staffers might have accidentally left the gas closet unlocked, affording some motivated individual the opportunity to rig the lines. Or another possibility: a knowledgeable outsider could have picked the lock at a time of his or her choosing.”
Heather tossed her hands. “Then it could’ve been just about anybody.”
“Anybody,” said Simms, “with sufficient knowledge of medical gases—and sufficient motive to kill.”
I said to him, “You mentioned that switching the gas feeds took considerable effort because the connectors are designed to prevent mix-ups. How would someone manage to circumvent that safeguard?”
“The killer constructed a pair of adapters, one of them oxygen-to-nitrous, the other vice versa. It’s not exactly rocket science, but it does require knowledge of the connectors and a few basic tools. The killer also needed enough time to install the adapters and switch the lines—it’s not the sort of thing you could do quickly, on a moment’s notice. And by the way, in case you were wondering, the killer left no fingerprints on the adapters.”
“Naturally,” said Heather.
I said, “In other words, the setup for the murder was pretty complicated, so it could not have happened that Sunday, on impulse, the day of the demo.”
Simms thought for a moment, shook his head. “That now strikes me as impossible.”
“So in other words,” I said, “the killer wasn’t Glee Savage, and the killer wasn’t Berta Snook.”
The sheriff and the medical examiner asked in unison, “Snook?”
“Yeah,” I said, “who knew?”
Simms again thought for a moment. “Safe to say—both Glee and Berta are clear.”
I was of course relieved. I also knew that Mary Questman would be thrilled, since it was her concern for Glee and Berta that had first nudged me into the investigation.
Heather was saying, “Then the most likely time for the setup would have been Saturday night. Any earlier wouldn’t have worked; the clinic had a full schedule that day, and the gases were in use.”
“So where are we?” said Simms. He took out his notebook and started drawing a grid. “As I see it, this murder puzzle is like any other, in that the answer ultimately boils down to motive. But unlike most other murders, this one still has us confused about the intended victim—Jason Ward or Mary Questman.” Simms drew an X in one of the boxes on his grid. “If the intended victim was Jason, not Mary, the killer would have needed to know, the night before the demo, that Jason was replacing Mary as the guinea pig on Sunday.” Simms drew another X. “And if the intended victim had been Mary, God forbid, the killer could not have know, the night before, that Mary was backing out.”
“Remember,” I said, “there are at least two other possibilities. For starters, what if the intended victim was neither Jason nor Mary? What if the motive was not to kill a particular individual, but simply to screw up Dr. Frumpkin’s demo and hurt his business or his reputation?”
Simms arched his brows and drew another X. “Good one, Brody.”
“Or”—I hesitated—“what if the intended victim was none of the above? What if the victim was meant to be you, Thomas? In the election.”
Simms blew a low whistle. “That’s crossed my mind, more than once. But I find it hard to believe that Alex Kastle, a sworn officer of the law, would stoop to murder for a lousy job promotion. Still, I must admit, Kastle checks all the boxes—motive, medical knowledge, plus, working for Frumpkin as a rent-a-cop, he might very well have had access and opportunity.” Then Simms drew an X in each remaining square.
He looked up from his notebook. “What are we missing? Anyone else?”
He had asked me this once before, in the conference room adjacent to his office, after we had interviewed Dr. Frumpkin and his daughter. At the time, I felt I’d forgotten something or someone. And now, I felt it again.
My head was spinning—there were just too many intertwined possibilities, including one that I didn’t want to raise. I didn’t want to remind Simms that we both had clearly heard Dahr Ahmadi tell the victim, “I know what I’m doing, Doctor.”
My head was spinning, all right—not only with the puzzle, but once again, with the memory of Dahr’s stolen whopper of a kiss.
Chapter 10
Later that morning, while working downtown at our Miles & Norris offices, I received an e-mail from the practice of Dr. Francis Frumpkin, sent as a group message to an undisclosed list of recipients. It bore the subject line: Funeral Announcement.
Dear Friends, Neighbors, and Colleagues,
We have been gratified beyond measure by your outpouring of sympathy and support following the tragic death of our loved one and colleague, Dr. Jason Ward. Many of you have inquired regarding funeral arrangements, which were left pending due to the needs of the medical examiner’s office.
We have just learned that Jason’s body will be released today, and arrangements have been secured for funeral services tomorrow morning, October 19, at St. Alban’s Episcopal Church, beginning at 10 o’clock. If you are free to attend on such short notice, you will be most welcome. Please also join us at a reception in the church hall following the service, as we shall not only mourn Jason’s passing, but celebrate his life.
With our loving thoughts,
Sarah Frumpkin Ward, wife of the deceased
Dr. Francis Frumpkin, father-in-law
Marson stepped into my office from across the hall. “I assume you got word of the funeral tomorrow?”
I nodded. “And I assume you want to go with me—reception, too?” When he nodded in return, I clicked the link and responded that we would attend.
Marson said, “You’ve seemed a little distracted, kiddo. Anything wrong?”
“Nah.” I stood and hugged him. “There’s a lot on my mind right now—that’s all.”
“Got it,” he said, whisking a hand through my hair. “Murder, funeral, election.”
“Not only that.”
“What?” he asked with a note of concern.
“I promised to cat-sit Mister Puss this afternoon.”
Mary needed to leave for Appleton around one o’clock, and she had offered to drop off Mister Puss at the office—in a cat carrier so he wouldn’t be a nuisance. But I figured, If I were a cat, I wouldn’t like spending half the day in a cage. So I told Mary I would work at home that afternoon, where Mister Puss could have the run of the place.
I was standing in the kitchen, tidying up after a simple lunch of leftover chicken casserole—it had been frozen, but it was really time to throw the remainder out, so I did—when the rusty old ringer sounded from the loft’s street door. Wiping my hands, I carried the towel to the door and greeted both Mary and Berta, who stepped inside while the Buick idled at the curb.
Mary set down the carrier. She sing-songed, “Here’s the livestock, Brody,” and she pecked my cheek.
“And here,” said Berta, sounding much less jovial, “here are His Majesty’s supplies.” She carried his spanking-clean litter box, which also contained a small can of cat food and a couple of stuffed toys. “Where do you want this?”
I laughed. “Anywhere’s fine, Berta. Just set it down.”
Checking her watch, Mary bubbled, “We really must dash off, love. Back by six.”
As they hustled out to the street, I called from the doorway, “Have a great time, ladies.” I was tempted to add, No smoking in the car—but what the hell, that was their business, not mine. Mary buckled up, Berta shifted into gear, and they lurched into traffic. I waved and watched them zip away.
Stepping inside, I closed the door.
Meow.
“What’s the matter, Mister Puss? They’ll be back.” I lifted the carrier and set it on the tufted leather bench in the sitting area. Perching on the low table, I hunched forward to look through the wire grating at the cat, who peered out past me at his new surroundings. I
opened the grate. “Wanna take a look around?”
Cautious—but plenty curious—Mister Puss stretched his head out for a quick one-eighty. Soon, he stepped out onto the bench for the full three-sixty.
“Make yourself at home,” I told him. “It’s just you and me for a while.”
He paced the bench, glancing about, eyeing the high ceiling, taking everything in. Then he hopped down to the floor, stepped over to his litter box, and sniffed it. That seemed to be in order, so he set about exploring the loft.
I remained seated on the low table, watching but not intruding as he made the rounds. He skirted the spiral metal staircase several times, drifting away from it as if he didn’t quite know what to make of it. Finally, he approached it head-on, then sat on the floor in front of the first step, twisting his neck as his gaze followed the upward turns.
Meow?
I stepped over to him and crouched to rub his shoulders. He began to purr. “Come on,” I said, lifting the cat and setting him on one of the steps, where he could face me nose-to-nose.
He stretched for a nose kiss, purring, then peered about the room, taking it in from the higher perspective. But he stayed put, as if unsure what to do next.
I sat down on the floor cross-legged at the foot of the stairs and patted my knees. “Here, Mister Puss.”
He hesitated. I’d seen him use the carpeted grand staircase in Mary’s house, but this contraption, with its curves and wedge-shaped stairs and open metalwork, presented a different sort of challenge altogether. So he took the more direct route and simply jumped to the floor, an easy leap.
I stood, scooped him up, and began climbing the stairs, telling him, “Now, pay attention.” Arriving at the top, still carrying him, I showed him around the bedroom, then took him to the edge of the mezzanine, where he could look out over the entire loft. Still, he purred. A few moments later, I carried him down the stairs.
When we arrived on the main floor, I asked, “Got it?” Putting him to the test, I reached to place him on a step about six feet high. Then I moved to the base of the stairs, saying, “Here, Mister Puss.” And he trotted down the spiral, easy as pie.
I tucked the litter box out of the way, where I couldn’t see it but the cat could easily find it. I put the can of food on the kitchen island, set out some water, and tossed the stuffed toys on the floor. Mister Puss batted them around once or twice before strolling over to the sitting area, near the faux fireplace, where he hopped onto a loveseat and curled up for a nap in the shaft of sunlight that angled in from one of the street windows.
With my guest contentedly acclimated and accounted for, I decided to clock a bit of office time, so I settled in at the computer desk we had hidden behind folding doors along a side wall of the loft, near the dining area of the main room.
Earlier that morning, we, Miles & Norris, had received by e-mail a “call for entries” to a design competition for the new wing of an important contemporary art museum in Chicago. “Now, that looks interesting,” Marson had said as I prepared to leave the office during the lunch hour. The high-stakes competition was by invitation only, so we were honored to be asked. Now, with some quiet time at home, I was determined to study the lengthy, detailed prerequisites for the design entries, as well as the mechanics of the contest itself. The deeper I delved into it, the more excited I became about pitting our Miles & Norris design brand against dozens of other firms that were recognized as the best in the business.
Incoming e-mails were a distraction that I had learned to tune out while I was creatively engaged in my work, but the soft chimes often managed to pull my eye to the alerts in the corner of the screen, where I could see who’d sent the new message. That afternoon, none had mattered. And then, ping, I saw one arrive from Dahr Ahmadi.
I slid from the museum screen to the e-mail program and clicked the message from Dahr. It was sent to both Marson and me, with the subject line: My sincere thanks.
Dear Marson and Brody,
You are perfect hosts, and I am delighted to consider you wonderful new friends. A million thanks for Saturday evening, for opening your home to me, for reaching out and bringing me into your shared life. I hope you’ll allow me to reciprocate your many kindnesses sometime soon.
Life in Dumont can be a bit suffocating at times, but meeting you has been a much needed breath of fresh air. I’m truly happy to know you.
Please forgive this informal communication in place of a more proper, handwritten note, but these are hectic days, and I did not want you to think me ungrateful.
Fondly,
Dahr
And then, ping, a brief response from Marson arrived, copied to me: Dear Dahr, the pleasure was all ours. Brody and I had a ball. Let’s do it again soon. —Marson.
Figuring I’d better stay in the loop, I, too, sent a response, copied to Marson: Dahr, let me second Marson’s reply. Enjoyed our evening together. Looking forward to the next time. —Brody.
Within seconds, ping, a follow-up from Dahr. But this one was not copied to Marson. The message was succinct and pointed: When? xoxox.
I froze. My first reaction was to write back at once, to defuse it, to inject a note of humor and sidestep the electricity. Instead, I chose to interpret his question “When?” as a mere hypothetical, the equivalent of “whenever,” rather than a request to pin me down for a time and date to get clandestine. And I would simply ignore the “xoxox” as a friendly sign-off, rather than a literal reference to hugs and—God help me—kisses.
I would let this slide. I would not respond. The e-mail thread would end right there.
Returning my attention to the museum’s call for entries, I opened a blank document next to the contest website and began typing notes.
Immersed in these thoughts, I lost track of the time and had filled nearly four pages when I was startled by something beneath the desktop, touching my shins.
Of course. It was Mister Puss, risen from his nap and seeking attention. It was nearly three o’clock.
I pushed back the chair and patted my knees. The cat hopped up to my lap and nuzzled my chest. When I rubbed behind his ears, he broke into a rumbling purr and slid his head up to my neck, burrowing his face beneath my chin. “Awww,” I said, “aren’t we affectionate?” As I stroked the length of his spine, his purring intensified, and he worked his snout toward my ear. I felt the cool spot of his nose trace over my lobe; his purr now thundered. I could hear his breathing, the gurgle in his throat, the beat of his heart, which had a curiously soothing effect on me. My hands dropped to my sides as I surrendered to it.
Starved, his purr seemed to say.
“Okay,” I said with a laugh, snapping out of it. “I got the message.”
He plopped down to the floor as I rose from the chair and crossed to the kitchen. He followed, tail erect, on full alert, as I opened a cupboard to find a small bowl, then took it to the center island, where the little can awaited my finger in the ring of its pop-top. Before zipping it open, however, I paused to glance over the ingredients. With a grimace, I asked the cat, “You eat this stuff?”
Mister Puss circled my ankles, still purring.
Then I remembered—that slab of tenderloin I’d put aside for him on Saturday night. I took the bowl over to the cutting board, next to the sink, and opened the refrigerator to retrieve the foiled packet of leftover beef. When I unfolded the foil on the square of butcher block, Mister Puss instantly picked up the scent. He purred and chattered. He circled and circled. He practically danced as I diced the meat and then gathered the bloody blob with both hands to place it in the bowl.
Mister Puss couldn’t—didn’t—wait. As I leaned over the sink, rinsing my fingers, he pounced up to the countertop and helped himself. Drying my hands, I watched with a smile as he neatly devoured my offering.
This was rapture. This was bliss. His needs were so basic, his instincts so primal—and I had managed to satisfy both with a modest, though decidedly elegant, helping of table scraps. I returned to the cutting b
oard and leaned on my elbows, watching as he finished. When he had licked the bowl and then licked his chops, he returned my gaze and pussyfooted toward me, touching my nose with a kiss of thanks. Nice.
I asked, “Did His Majesty approve?”
Purring—he didn’t seem to have stopped, even to eat—Mister Puss rubbed cheeks with me and, once again, made his way to my ear.
My eyes drifted shut as I listened to his breathing and the beat of his heart—a rudimental, ageless beat, the sound of life itself. And through the drone of his purr, other sounds began to emerge. A rustling. A rippling. And rising above it all—gibberish—the babble of an ancient marketplace.
Hair fire.
I blinked my eyes open. Removing my elbows from the countertop, I stood erect and backed off a step. With a laugh, I told Mister Puss, I told Mary Questman in Appleton, I told the universe, “Well, that didn’t quite make sense, did it?”
Mister Puss stretched toward me from the edge of the counter.
I leaned in again. Other than the cat’s purr, all was quiet.
Then the rusty racket of the door ringer shot through the loft. Mister Puss jumped to the floor and followed me. Crossing the main room, I wondered who had arrived. It couldn’t be Mary; she wasn’t due until six, and it was now a few minutes past three. It couldn’t be Marson; he would use his key or come in from the back. Was it maybe—just possibly—Dahr?
I swung the door open. “Sarah,” I said, “what a pleasant surprise. Do come in.”
Sarah Frumpkin Ward, widow of Dr. Jason Ward, stepped inside the loft, followed by little Olivia. The girl wore a variation of her princess dress, this one bright green; she looked a bit like Tinkerbell, plus tights, minus the wand and the wings. I wondered what she’d wear tomorrow—to her father’s funeral.
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