Rogues Gallery

by Dan Andriacco

  “I know who you are. You’re that mystery writer from St. Benignus, the amateur detective.” He turned to me. “And you found Liv’s body in that freezer.” I wouldn’t go so far as to say he was choking back sobs, but his eyes were wet and there was a catch in his throat.

  “That is accurate so far as it goes, Mr. Wanamaker. Jefferson and I - ”

  Wanamaker opened the door all the way. “Come on in. I think I could use your help.”

  Whoa - didn’t see that coming!

  The Wanamaker residence could have been a model home - or at least, a model house. The chairs, the couches, the little tables, and even the paintings were all showroom quality, and perhaps all for show. It was hard to believe that anybody actually lived there.

  “Have a seat.” Wanamaker pointed to a pair of sturdy-looking chairs, each wide enough to support Mac, while he arranged himself on a more delicate reproduction antique love seat.

  “How can we help you?” Mac asked. When he sees an open door, he barges right through it.

  “You’ve come about Liv, my wife.” The Golden Bear apparently was not one to mince words. “You’re looking into the murder and it’s not hard to guess why.” It’s not? Wanamaker smiled bitterly. “It’s irresistible, right? Have you seen what the tabloid TV shows have done with it?”

  “Fortunately, no,” Mac said.

  “They’ve got a lot of cute names for it, like they’re having fun with it. The Body in the Freezer. The Case of the Cold-Cocked Corpse.” Wanamaker shook his head, not quite believing what life had brought him. “I talked to Chief Hummel on Sunday and then again yesterday. I’m sure he’s a good man, but I’m not sure he’s the right man - not for this case. He seems to be fixed on the idea that the owner of the house did it. The owner’s probably just some nice guy who has nothing to do with it.” You may have that half right, Sam. “I’m glad you want to find the man who killed my wife. Find him, prove it, and make sure he pays.”

  “We didn’t actually say - ” I began.

  But Mac was in no mood to split hairs.

  “Why ‘man’?” he asked.

  “What?”

  “You said ‘the man who killed my wife.’ Why do you assume that it was a man?”

  Wanamaker shrugged. “I don’t know. The way she was killed, I guess. I just said it, I didn’t really mean anything by it.”

  “Not at a conscious level, perhaps,” Mac conceded. “However, the fact that you dismiss the likelihood of Ralph Pendergast’s guilt and yet you automatically used the male pronoun for the killer suggests to me that your subconscious mind has a preferred candidate for that role.”

  Wanamaker seemed to think a bit before his face brightened. “Hey, how ’bout a beer?” It was a safe bet that he’d already had a few, judging by the rosiness of his face and the overly careful way he was speaking.

  I declined with thanks, but not Mac. “I am never one to discourage generosity.” Later, he claimed that he’d merely been trying to establish rapport with an important witness. I think it more likely he was trying to establish rapport with a cold bottle of Edmund Fitzgerald Porter.

  We followed Wanamaker into the kitchen.

  “When a woman is killed, the husband is usually the first suspect,” Mac observed. “You are fortunate indeed that in this case Oscar is going down a different road, especially since - forgive me for bringing this up - your marriage...”

  He left the sentence uncompleted. Wanamaker slapped an opened bottle of beer into his hand. “We had some problems. I guess that doesn’t go unnoticed in a town like this. But I loved Liv. She had a softer side that a lot of people never saw.” Like the other side of a nail file?

  “And you think perhaps the other man might have killed her.”

  Wanamaker gulped his beer. “Oh, jeez, are people talking about ‘the other man,’ too?”

  “Not everybody,” I said helpfully.

  Mac glared at me. “A woman who shared confidences with your wife told us. She did not know the man’s identity. However, she said Mrs. Wanamaker hinted that her paramour was a much older man.”

  Wanamaker shook his head. “I don’t know for sure who it is either. He didn’t leave his calling card, and Liv wouldn’t tell me. But if you’re asking me, I think it was that stuffy, self-important, boring Tony Lampwicke from WIJC. He interviewed Liv on his radio show not long ago. She seemed to be captivated by his phony intellectualism - you know, stuff like ‘next week we look at the exciting new generation of Bantu poets.’” Wanamaker’s imitation of Tony’s cultivated Oxford accent was spot-on and amusing.

  But my head was reeling. Could this be true? Sure it could. All of a sudden I had a flashback to Cecily saying that Sam smelled pipe tobacco smoke in the Wanamakers’ bedroom. Ralph didn’t smoke a pipe (or anything), but Tony did. Tony wasn’t exactly an old man, only in his early forties or so, but maybe that was old to Olivia.

  Why hadn’t Piper known about this from working with Tony? If anybody knows whom a man is seeing, it’s his administrative assistant.

  “How long do you think this had been going on?” I asked.

  Wanamaker shrugged. “It was only within the last few weeks that I felt that Liv was moving away from me emotionally. Then, I guess it was week before last, I smelled this tobacco smoke in our room. It was very aromatic, not like a cigar or a cigarette.”

  Two weeks ago would have been months after Piper left WIJC-FM and St. Benignus, thanks to Ralph’s budget cutting. So the mystery of how Piper didn’t know about Olivia and Tony, if there was something to know, was quickly solved: She wasn’t working for him at the time.

  “Clearly, a discussion with our old friend Tony is in order,” Mac rumbled. I wasn’t sure whether Mac was talking to me, to Wanamaker, or to himself. But his next words were directed to the grieving widower:

  “When did you last see your wife?”

  “I made her Sunday breakfast. I always do - did. Even with our problems she liked me doing that. She left right afterwards. That was probably, I don’t know, nine-thirty or so.”

  “Did she say where she was going?”

  “No. I just assumed she was showing a house. She did that a lot on Sundays. It was like what she did for church.”

  “I presume she carried a smartphone?”

  “Sure.”

  “Did the calendar on it show any appointments for Sunday?”

  “I don’t know. I didn’t look. Do want me to? Chief Hummel gave me back all her stuff.”

  “If you don’t mind.”

  Wanamaker took a long pull on his beer and then disappeared upstairs.

  Mac drank his brew more slowly. “We progress, Jefferson. I begin to see some light in the darkness.”

  It must be infrared because I can’t see it. He always says things like that, and then refuses to elaborate. This time I didn’t give him the satisfaction of asking what he meant. I looked around. It was a top-notch kitchen, with stainless-steel appliances, granite countertops, and cabinets that I was sure were solid maple. The kitchen in the house on Campion Lane was nice, too, at a less expensive level. Lynda could make good use of it. She’s a terrific Italian cook.

  “Here it is.” Wanamaker was holding out the phone as he walked into the kitchen. It was an iPhone 5G, the latest model then available, with a green and white case. Those were the colors of the Happy Homes Realty logo. I wondered if she had planned to change the case when she had her own logo. That reminded me.

  “We heard that Olivia was planning to start her own realty company,” I said. “Is that true?”

  “Oh, yeah. She had a written business plan, her broker’s license, and everything. She was just waiting for the market to get a little stronger. I’ve owned my own business for a long time, so I was helping her with the business aspect of it.”

  Meanwhile, she was pre
sumably helping herself to Tony Lampwicke. Nice lady!

  Olivia Wanamaker’s plans to jump ship at Happy Homes probably had no bearing on her murder. Or did they? At any rate, part of what Cecily had told us was now confirmed, which gave more credence to the rest.

  Wanamaker looked down at the iPhone. “She does have a notation on her calendar for ten-thirty Sunday morning, but it’s just initials: R.P.”

  X

  “Ralph’s middle initial might as well be ‘I,’ as in ‘R.I.P.,’” I said glumly as we left the house. “The case against him looks worse and worse. I guess we have to go back to him and ask him to explain himself.”

  “Why bother?” Mac said with unseemly good cheer. “Ralph assured us repeatedly that the City Council meeting was the last time he saw Olivia Wanamaker. He could hardly recant now, and if we asked him again he would likely assume an eagerness on our part to presume his guilt.”

  “Well, then we just tell him that his wife asked us - oh, no, we can’t do that. We promised. Damn.” This business was like a house of mirrors. There had to be a way out somewhere, but I couldn’t see it for the life of me. I was beginning to revisit that nagging fear that, no matter what Mac believed, Ralph had whacked Olivia with a frozen salmon - maybe in a fit of temporary insanity.

  Mac, meanwhile, seemed to be thinking more like a defense attorney than a detective.

  “Your fears about the calendar entry dooming Ralph, while not unfounded, are premature. When Oscar described to me his interview with our beloved provost, he said nothing about that notation on Mrs. Wanamaker’s calendar. Perhaps he neglected to look at the calendar while the phone was in his possession. After all, we only did so because Piper told us about the appointment.”

  I thought about that. Oscar is by no means stupid, but he’s no Sherlock Holmes. He’s not even a Columbo (except at that Halloween party). “So we have some breathing room until Piper Lawrence or Sam Wanamaker realizes it would be good citizenship and smart policy to tell Oscar what they know. What do we do now?”

  “Visit Tony Lampwicke, of course.”

  We found him at the WIJC-FM studio on the lower level of Muckerheide Center, where he holds forth on his weekly program, Crosscurrents, and reads the local news daily. Tony Lampwicke has a perfect public radio voice, which Sam Wanamaker’s mocking imitation had captured to a T. I’m sure a lot of people think Tony hails from the BBC-land because he sounds like it, but he’s actually a native of Hamilton, Ohio, about thirty miles north of Cincinnati.

  When we arrived in early afternoon, he was off the air and getting ready to go home. His work day started early and ended early. It struck me that those must be convenient hours for a wayward Romeo whose girlfriend’s husband was gone all day running a business, probably until late.

  Tony was in a little office next to the broadcast studio. The goatee over his sharp chin made him look more like a professor than most of our professors. His trademark cable knit sweater and loafers on this very comfortable day in late April completed the effect.

  He looked up in surprise when we entered. “Oh, hello, chaps. What brings you ’round? I haven’t seen either of you in ages. Have a seat. Excuse the mess. I don’t have much time for housekeeping since I lost my devoted admin.”

  I feel your pain.

  “We’ve been making some inquiries into the murder of Olivia Wanamaker,” Mac said.

  He sobered up instantly. Was that a look of real remorse on his face or was he just giving us what he thought we expected? I couldn’t make up my mind.

  “What a tragedy! I’ve been working on a retrospective of her political career, using an interview that I conducted with her a couple of months ago for Crosscurrents. She was so charismatic, so alive. It’s hard to believe she’s gone. I must say I found her quite attractive.”

  “That’s what we hear,” I said.

  He looked at us quizzically. Mac and I didn’t say anything. It’s an old journalism trick: Keep your mouth shut and wait for the interviewee to fill the silence. I’ve learned not to fall for that as the one being interviewed, because the natural tendency in that situation is to say too much. That’s why it’s a trick. It’s not one that comes easily to Sebastian McCabe - he’s not much into silence - but I’d talked him into it on the way over.

  It worked better than I could have hoped. After only about ten seconds, Tony cracked. “I see. Tongues have been wagging, have they?”

  Later, I realized that he actually wanted to talk about his conquest of a woman who might have been our next mayor. We were just giving him the permission to do it without feeling guilty.

  Mac spread his hands, innocence personified. “Let us say, rather, that Mrs. Wanamaker had a close friend in whom she confided.”

  If Tony drew the conclusion that Olivia was so head over heels for him that she couldn’t help mentioning his name to a gal pal, well, Mac hadn’t actually said that.

  Tony settled back in his chair, smiling faintly as if at a fond memory, and put a pipe in his mouth but didn’t light it. Apparently, unlike Mac, he actually obeyed the rules that banned smoking everywhere on campus.

  “I knew her by reputation, of course, but we only met when I interviewed her. I found her not only attractive, but intelligent and driven. She wanted to start her own real estate company, she wanted to be mayor. Her passion, her ambition was quite intoxicating. I was already involved with a woman I won’t name and I wasn’t looking to complicate my life, frankly.” He smiled faintly and shrugged his sweater-clad shoulders. “But I’m only human.” Doubtful.

  “You practically had no choice, right?”

  Missing my sarcasm, Tony nodded. “There you have it. What was I supposed to do when she threw herself at me? She told me her marriage was on the rocks. I’m no home wrecker. I was offering a lifeline to woman trapped in a dead relationship.”

  Right. You’re a hero, Tony. You deserve a medal. Actually, I don’t think even he was convinced by that self-serving pile of bull. Mercifully, Mac moved on.

  “Did you have any indication that she was seeing another man besides you, perhaps someone older?”

  “Certainly not.” He seemed offended at the notion that Olivia would be unfaithful to him.

  “Too bad,” I said. “Boyfriends are always good suspects.” The situation was bringing out the mean in me. But Tony didn’t even do me the favor of looking flustered.

  “As it happens,” he said, “I have an alibi for the time Olivia was killed. I handle the audio-visuals for the Sunday services at Glad Tidings. I’m there all day.” Erin’s only non-denominational megachurch, offering gourmet coffee and entertaining services, had been packing in the crowds ever since it opened about five years ago.

  Mac regarded Tony shrewdly. “What makes you think Mrs. Wanamaker was killed on Sunday? Her body was frozen. She could have been killed days before.”

  Tony looked from Mac to me and back again. “Well, I guess I just assumed. I was, uh, with her on Saturday afternoon.”

  Mac nodded. “As it happens, her husband says he last saw her on Sunday morning. Did you know she had an appointment on Sunday?”

  Tony shook his head. “A business appointment? We didn’t talk business.”

  “We don’t know that it was business. Do you have any idea who might have wanted to kill her?”

  He gave it a thought. “Olivia was a very determined woman. If she got in someone’s way, killing her might be the only way to remove her. She really was a fascinating woman. I only hope I can do her justice with the segment of Crosscurrents that I’m putting together.”

  “I have a suggestion on that,” I said.

  “Yes?”

  “Don’t bother trying to interview Ralph.”

  XI

  “How about Saylor-Mackie?” I asked Mac as we walked back across campus. “Olivia could have been seriously in her way
if she’d run for mayor.”

  What was I saying? Having one of our most eminent scholars arrested for murder was no better for St. Benignus than having our provost tapped for the honor. But Mac wasn’t having it anyway.

  “Killing someone is a risky business, only to be undertaken if the benefits outweigh the dangers. Of course, not every killer recognizes that, but Professor Saylor-Mackie would. She is not one to take risks, professionally or politically.”

  “Well, there’s always the jealous husband.”

  “That possibility should not be dismissed,” Mac allowed. “However, her husband was not the only person to whom the victim was disloyal. Her plans for starting her own company cannot have been good news to the owners of Happy Homes Realty. I should like to get their perspective on Mrs. Wanamaker.”

  Mac called and made an appointment for later in the day. After a few hours fiddling around in our respective offices, we met up with Margaret and Gordon Cole in their quarters at the back of the building on Market Street.

  I’ve heard that if two people are married long enough they start to look alike. The Coles could have been Exhibit A for that theory. Or maybe it was just a case of non-opposites attracting. Both stood about five-four or so, with short gray hair - hers was shorter than his - and big glasses. They were wearing white polo shirts brandishing the company logo of a smiling house, color green. They would have made a nice set of salt-and-pepper shakers.

  “Yeah, we knew she was gearing up to jump ship and start her own company,” Gordon said in a deep baritone that didn’t match his size. “She didn’t bother to tell us, but word gets around. I would have fired her on the spot if she weren’t our best agent. But I tried to keep an eye on her to make sure she didn’t sabotage us on her way out.”

  “I wouldn’t put it past her,” Margaret added helpfully.

  “She could have taken a lot of clients away from Happy Homes,” Mac pointed out. “You must have been quite upset that she was leaving you.”

  “Yes and no,” Margaret said.

  “She was our biggest producer,” her husband repeated, “but also our biggest management problem. None of the other agents liked her because she was a claim jumper. With her gone, the others might be more productive.”