Killing Cassidy

by Jeanne M. Dams

  “Exactly. But since the state doesn’t do that—”

  “But you didn’t know that. You thought it entirely possible.”

  “Yes, but—oh. If I didn’t know, Kevin’s debtors might not know, either.”

  “Exactly.”

  We looked at each other. “You’ve said all along that those loans were important.”

  “I said they might be. You were the one who worked out why.”

  I opened the notebook that lay on the table. “Four suspects. Each of them had money from Kevin in one way or another. I’m not sure our blinding insight has helped much. The motive might hold, but it applies to them all.”

  Alan looked over my shoulder.

  “We’re not sure Ms. Carmichael received any money from Kevin,” he reminded me.

  “That’s true. I think she did, but I don’t know. Oh, and anyway, Alan, she probably knows about Medicaid. What the state does, and what it doesn’t do. Not all the details, maybe—that’d take a specialist—but I’ll bet she knows the general outline. So if that’s the motive, I think we can eliminate her. I’m glad, too. She’s certainly reserved, but I rather like her. The other three, though …”

  We studied the list. Mary Alice Harrison, Hannah Schneider, Bob Bussey.

  “I’m still betting on him,” I said finally. “And that reminds me.” I looked up another number in the phone book and, after another bout with an automated phone system, had a satisfactory little talk with a representative of the Internal Revenue Service. He was most interested in my description of Parson Bob’s lifestyle in contrast to that of his congregation.

  “Not only tax trouble,” I told Alan gleefully when I hung up the phone. “If he’s really done what we think he has with the church’s money, maybe state and/or federal prosecutions for theft, as well.”

  Alan shook his head, but he was smiling. “You’re a terror, my dear. I’m extremely glad you’re on my side.”

  I grinned. “So even if we can’t prove he murdered Kevin and Jerry, we’ve got him on tax evasion. Sort of reminds me of A1 Capone.”

  “And it couldn’t, as you Americans like to say, happen to a nicer guy.”

  I giggled. Alan’s attempt at a wise-guy American accent was pretty awful.

  Alan laughed, too, but then it was his turn to sigh. “So far as the murders are concerned, I must confess my policeman’s soul longs for even one tiny piece of concrete evidence. Dorothy, I’d like to go back to Kevin’s house.”

  “So would I, but we can’t do it now. We’ve got to get ready for the opera.”

  I wasn’t sure why we were going, to tell the truth, now that Dr. Boland was out of the running as a suspect, but it still seemed somehow important. At any rate, I hoped to confront Boland and give him a piece of my mind. So we showered and dressed, Alan keeping up an undertone of disgruntled muttering the whole time, and headed out.

  We covered the drive to Bloomington in record time and got to the MAC just in time to find a parking place and make the curtain comfortably. I left Alan wandering around the lobby, found my seat, and settled down to enjoy myself.

  The Rake’s Progress is not one of the most beloved of operas, especially for those who don’t much care for twentieth-century music. I count myself in that number, but Stravinsky was an incredibly talented musician, and I enjoy some of his ballet music immensely.

  I didn’t have time to read the program before the lights went down; I was too busy craning my neck, trying to spot Dr. Boland in the crowd. And then the overture began and the lights dimmed and I was caught up in the great fantasy that is opera.

  You wouldn’t think the story of someone’s decline and fall at the hands of the devil would be funny, but this one was, at least in spots. The devil (masquerading under the name of Nick Shadow) stole the show with his sarcastic humor. I even enjoyed quite a lot of the music; the soprano arias were lovely.

  It got a little long, though, and by the end of the first act I was ready to join Alan in the lobby.

  I found him leaning indolently on a pillar. He grinned as I approached, reminding me just a little of Nick Shadow.

  “It appears that you are in need of a little liquid refreshment.”

  “I always said you were observant. Unfortunately, it’ll have to be a soft drink. The state of Indiana takes a dim view of alcohol at its universities.”

  “I’ve already noted the offerings at the bar. With some dismay, I might add. It had best be something with caffeine in it, I think. Cola or coffee?”

  “Cola, please. They haven’t discovered good coffee yet.”

  He somehow managed to negotiate the crush around the refreshment stand and obtain a drink for me. I sipped at at. “Well, it’s weak and it’s too sweet and it’s not very fizzy, but it’s cold.”

  “And a stimulant. You look as though you could do with one.”

  I laughed and sipped a little more. “I’m just a little stiff from sitting. The opera’s pretty good, actually. But I haven’t seen Dr. Boland, so the evening’s turned out to be something of a waste of time.”

  “Oh, well, if that’s your trouble, turn around.”

  He pointed over my shoulder. There, standing alone near one of the doors to the auditorium, stood Boland.

  25

  ALAN gave me a little prod. “You wanted to talk to him. There he is.”

  Boland was reading his program. No one stood near him. There was something about his detachment that suggested not just solitude, but hostile isolation.

  “Yes, but—Alan, I’m not sure about this! Do I really want to make a scene, here at a gala and all, with everybody in their best clothes?” The remark sounded silly, but Alan knew what I meant. Party clothes, party manners. “Maybe we should just go back to Hillsburg.” I looked around and realized we couldn’t make very rapid progress through the crowd that thronged the lobby.

  And it was too late. The doctor had seen us. He folded his program with slow deliberation, put it in his pocket, and moved toward us.

  I clutched Alan’s arm. I must have looked trapped, for he gave my hand a reassuring pat. “Think of it this way: He can’t possibly be as bad as Parson Bob,” he whispered as Dr. Boland approached.

  If I had thought that Stravinsky, the kind of music the man apparently liked, would have put him in a good mood, I was mistaken. He looked bleakly at both of us, not saying a word, and then shrugged.

  “So you found me, Mrs. Martin. Very clever. I’ve been hearing on all sides about your detective abilities. Or maybe it was your policeman husband who tracked me down. Did you intend to denounce me in front of everybody, or what?”

  “We came for the opera,” lied Alan blandly. “Since our paths have crossed, however, we may as well tell you that you have upset Dr. Foley considerably.”

  Boland shrugged again. “He’ll get over it.”

  “How can you be so—so casual about it!” I’d forgotten my little fit of panic about confronting him, and my temper was up. “A wonderful man like that, and he’s been a friend to you, and you throw him away like—like—”

  “‘An old shoe’ is the usual expression, isn’t it? Though it’s not exactly appropriate here. The man was not my lover.”

  He bent a little closer to me; I pulled back.

  “Mrs. Martin, I’ve been hounded from two cities. I came to your godforsaken little burg hoping to live down my past, and now you’ve driven me even from there.”

  “I have! What do you mean, I—”

  “You and your snooping. People were already beginning to ask questions, to look up my record, to wonder, on account of the death of that precious old professor of yours. I had nothing to do with his death, of course. The old idiot probably inhaled particles of something ugly in that workshop of his, and no treatment known to medical science would have saved him. But you come around asking more questions, stirring up trouble, implying the old fart was murdered. Oh, yes, I had to get out of there before I was thrown out.

  “I may not be the world’s best doct
or, but I was plenty good enough for the kind of work I was doing in Hillsburg. They’ll have a hard time finding a replacement for me. And what kind of a life do you think I have ahead of me now? What does a doctor do when he can’t practice anywhere? Did you ever think of that?”

  The lobby lights dimmed and brightened, dimmed and brightened. The crowd moved toward the auditorium, jostling us where we stood, an island of stillness in the midst of churning motion. I looked up to make sure Alan was still right beside me, and when I looked back, Boland was gone.

  I took a deep breath. “Alan, let’s go.”

  I wished I could let Alan drive back to Hillsburg. I wanted to think. But the steep, twisting roads were a challenge even for me, and the turns we had to make weren’t easy to spot at night. He let me concentrate on the road until we hit the short stretch of interstate, and then he reached out a hand and patted my knee.

  “Not feeling guilty, are you?”

  I stretched and tried to relax my shoulders. “No. Boland tried his best to pass the guilt on to me, but no. What’s happened to him is his own fault. I’m sorry for him, though, in a way. He’ll probably end up selling shoes.”

  “Considering the money doctors make on this side of the pond, he may never have to work again.”

  “And that’s a pretty terrible fate for a man his age, too,” I reminded him. “Years and years of nothing to do but think about his wasted life.”

  We were silent for the rest of the drive.

  It had been a long and trying day, and we fell into bed with little conversation. Sometime in the middle of the night I half woke and moved closer to Alan, snuggling gratefully up to his comforting warmth.

  Friday morning brought another perfect day. “October’s bright blue weather,” someone had called it.

  “Oh, Alan, I wish we could spend the day playing.” I stood on our little balcony, looking out over gold-and-bronze trees and taking deep breaths of the crisp air. “This is my very favorite time of year.”

  “Do you, my dear?”

  His tone was gentle. He came up behind me and put his hands on my shoulders. “There’s nothing stopping us, you know. We could spend the day at Clifty Falls, or in Madison doing the Tour of Homes. We could cross the river into Kentucky, or do anything you like.”

  I turned and kissed him. “You know perfectly well I couldn’t enjoy it. Not yet.”

  “I know.” He nodded matter-of-factly. “But you needed to remind yourself.”

  So after a quick breakfast we took ourselves back to Kevin’s house.

  “‘Once more into the breach,’ “Alan commented as we got out of the car.

  “‘God for Harry! England and St. George,’” I responded wryly. “And we need all the help we can get, I must say.”

  Somewhere between night and morning a tiny idea had lodged itself in my brain, and I went straight to the workshop to check it out.

  I came back in a minute or two to Alan, who was inspecting the woodstove. “Look, Alan. Wouldn’t you say that this mask would filter out most things?”

  “That’s rather the idea, isn’t it?” he said absently, squatting to examine the floor.

  “Yes, but I thought—well, one of the things Boland said last night was that Kevin might have inhaled something in the workshop. And I think I read somewhere that solder could be dangerous if you inhaled the fumes, but I guess Kevin knew that. That’s what the masks were for, I suppose.”

  “A pity he didn’t wear one all the time,” said Alan. His voice sounded very odd.

  “What? What do you mean?”

  Alan pulled a clean handkerchief out of his pocket, moistened a corner of it with his tongue, and scrubbed it over the floor behind the woodstove. Then he stood up.

  “Smell that. Cautiously.”

  I sniffed and made a face. “Yuck! That’s not just varnish!”

  “No. It is, unless I’m very much mistaken, paint stripper.”

  “Paint—you mean Kevin was trying to refinish his floor, and accidentally inhaled the fumes? But he’d have known better than that. If he was cautious enough to wear a mask in the workshop, he’d never have—”

  “No, that’s not what I meant at all.” His voice was exceedingly grim. “Don’t forget that the back of the stove is blistered as well.”

  “But—oh, Alan, no! What a perfectly awful …”

  I could see it all. I could see the door opening very early on a chilly August morning, someone coming in. I could see a hand painting the jellylike stripper all over the back of the cold woodstove, dripping a little of the noxious stuff on the floor. I could see the door closing again, very quietly. I could see Kevin, perhaps with a slight cold so that his nose wasn’t working very well, perhaps merely with the dimmed senses of the very old, building a fire to take off the morning chill. I could see him, a cup of steaming coffee in his hand, sitting down near the stove in his favorite chair, relaxing as the warmth soothed his old bones, basking in the comfort, and inhaling poison with every breath. Coughing a little, perhaps, blaming it on the unusually cold weather …

  And very suddenly, I could see the face of the person with that murderous hand.

  I took a shaky breath. Alan took me in his arms.

  “We know now, don’t we?” I whispered.

  “We have an idea, at least.”

  I swallowed and looked up at him. “And I think, now, that we’ll spend part of the day in Madison after all.”

  We argued about it on the way. “We should leave it to the police” was Alan’s opinion.

  “And what would we tell them?”

  “Our hypothesis.”

  “But that’s all it is.”

  “Means, motive, opportunity.” He intoned the litany of police investigation.

  “They could all apply to anybody. We haven’t narrowed it down, except in our own minds.”

  Alan lifted an exasperated hand and then dropped it. “Dorothy, I’m in a delicate position. I’m a guest in this country, and a senior police officer, even if a retired one, at home. I can’t afford not to cooperate with the authorities.”

  “But, Alan, it’s the authorities who haven’t cooperated with us. Darryl doesn’t believe a word of what we’ve told him, and he won’t do anything about it if we tell him what we think now. As I see it, it’s up to us—to me, if you like—to force the issue. Otherwise Kevin’s killer is going to keep on getting away with it, and I—I couldn’t stand it if that happened!”

  My husband sighed. I pulled over to the side of the road, stopped, and gave him my full attention. “Look, I see your point,” I said earnestly. “I’ll leave you at the hotel if you want and go ahead on my own. I don’t want you to get into trouble.”

  He sighed again, but the twinkle was back in his eye. “No, my dear. If you are determined to confront someone we think may have killed twice, you’re not going to do it alone. Whither thou goest, et cetera.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Sure. I wish you’d change your mind, but as I’ve never known you to do so when you’ve well and truly caught the scent of your prey, I’m prepared to join you in the hunt.”

  “Then tally-ho!” I said with a lightness I didn’t feel, and swung the car back onto the road.

  “Did you, by any chance, have a specific plan in mind? Or do you simply intend to fling an accusation into the midst of the house tour, right there in front of the good ladies of Tri Kappa? What is Tri Kappa, by the way?”

  “It’s a philanthropic sorority in Indiana. Something like the Women’s Institute in England, if I understand that properly—ladies in pearls doing good works. And no, I don’t have any plan. Heavens, you’re right. We’ve got to think this thing out.”

  We proceeded to do so, and by the time we were on the treacherous road heading down into Madison, we had a plan of sorts. “There’s going to be an awful lot of playing by ear in this one,” I said dubiously.

  “And when, in your criminous career, was there not?”

  Well, he had a point th
ere.

  In Madison the Tour of Homes was in full swing. We found the Lanier mansion with no difficulty, but parking was another matter. In the end we had to park several blocks away and walk to the mansion.

  There was a long line of people waiting to enter, which gave me plenty of time to get cold feet. Metaphorically, not literally. The October sun increased in strength by the minute, and we were positively hot by the time we reached the table where tickets were being sold.

  One glance told me our quarry wasn’t there. Two harried-looking women were selling the tickets. We bought two, donned the blue surgical bootees that were required footgear, and proceeded to tour the lovely old home at breathtaking speed. No one, guide or tourist, was very pleased with us as we whisked in and out of the many rooms.

  It’s a very impressive house, Greek Revival with its own exuberant Victorian touches. But I’d seen it before, of course, many times, and Alan is on visiting terms with several noble English families in their country houses, much larger and older than this one. Still, I admit it was rude of us to glance into a room, push our way back out of the crowds, and join the next group in the next room.

  “You’re supposed to stay with your group, you know,” said one docent reprovingly.

  “Yes, sorry,” Alan replied with a placating smile. “Actually, we’re looking for—”

  “A friend,” I put in hastily. “We were supposed to meet at the front door, but we seemed to have missed connections. I’m sure we’ll catch up sooner or later. Oh!”

  I had caught a glimpse, out a window, of a back that looked familiar. “Alan!” I pulled him away; we made for the back stairs.

  The crowds were thick. The weather was gorgeous; the tickets were expensive. The tourists were intent on seeing their fill. Without actually shoving people aside, we could make but slow progress. We finally escaped from the house and stood in the back garden, peering about us.

  “Gone.” I took a deep breath. “Onward!”

  We headed for the next house at the nearest approach to a trot that we could manage, given the crowds, the irregular side-walks, and our aging limbs.

  “Dorothy, why are we in such a hurry?”