Jeff had not given a great deal of thought to the woman after she left, not, that is, until a second visitor arrived. That visitor had driven up that very morning, just before noon. This time it was a man, and it was a Cumberland County Sheriff’s Department car that he stepped out of. Unlike the previous day’s visitor, the officer went directly to the back door. He obviously had a key, because the door opened and he disappeared into the house.
Jeff’s interest in his neighbor had been partly simply curiosity, that of someone whose handicap had turned him into something of a voyeur. But it also had something to do with the fact that most of Gerlach’s visitors were women. His notebook included two that he had come to think of as regulars, plus a third who had been a regular about a year ago before she suddenly dropped out of sight. There had been two others, including one who was somewhat younger than the rest, but he had seen each of them only once. And then there had been the visitor the previous afternoon.
He had assumed, almost from the first, that these women were having affairs with Harley Gerlach, and he had marveled at the man’s ability to juggle so many. Now, he thought, as he stared through his telescope at the open back porch door, perhaps Gerlach’s juggling act had finally caught up with him. There might, of course, be other reasons why an officer of the law was paying him a visit. An officer who had a key to the house and had let himself in. But Jeff had a fertile imagination, and he had spent so much time spying on his neighbor and the women who came and went with such frequency, that he had created an imagined life for Gerlach that could not be dislodged by more mundane explanations for the presence of an officer of the law.
What, Jeff wondered, was the officer doing? Why had he not knocked? He hadn’t behaved as officers of the law typically did on the TV shows Jeff watched. He had just marched straight into the house, letting himself in with a key which he must have gotten from the owner. So he had known that Gerlach was not at home. Perhaps there was some problem and Gerlach had needed help. Perhaps he had been in a car accident. But if that was the case, what was it that Gerlach or the police needed that was at the house?
Jeff Farris might have spent the rest of that day and perhaps several others speculating on this mystery unfolding some hundred yards down the hill from where he sat in his wheelchair. But he was destined to have his questions—or at least some of them—answered much sooner. When the officer emerged from the house, his eye caught a flash of bright light somewhere above him on the hillside. The flash of light was due to the fact that the telescope was so positioned that it reflected the sun’s rays. The officer, whose name was Jack Grieves and who was a member of Sheriff Carol Kelleher’s modest law enforcement staff, guessed what it was that had temporarily blinded him, and determined to pay a visit to the owner of the house further up the hill.
_____
“Hello.” Officer Grieves announced himself when the door opened. “I’m from the sheriff’s department, and I wonder if I might ask you a few questions.”
Farris acted surprised to see an officer of the law on his doorstep, even though he had watched the man climb the hill with the obvious intention of talking to him.
“Questions? Why, of course, but is something wrong?”
“Not where you’re concerned, Mr.—I’m sorry, but I don’t know your name.”
“Farris. Francis Farris. Come on in.”
Jeff spun his chair around and led Grieves into the living room, which was sparsely furnished and didn’t look as if it was much used.
“I couldn’t help but notice,” Grieves began, “that you seem to have a telescope on that upstairs balcony of yours. Am I right, there is a telescope up there?”
As he said it, it occurred to him that Farris would have a problem making the trip up and down stairs. Perhaps he was not the person who used the telescope, which prompted a second question.
“You don’t live here alone, do you?”
“Well now, that’s two questions, isn’t it? Answers are yes and sometimes. I do have a telescope on the balcony. Great for bird watching. It’s a great hobby, especially when you spend your time in a chair like I do. And I’m alone most of the time. I own this place jointly with my brother, but he lives down in St. Thomas most of the time, probably spends three months a year up here, something like that.”
Farris smiled.
“I bet you thought I couldn’t get myself up to the balcony, didn’t you? Take a look back here,” he said, wheeling his chair around a corner and beckoning Grieves to follow him. He pointed with obvious pride at an elevator in an adjacent room.
“This used to be a dining room, but I take my meals in the kitchen. I call this my launching pad. It whisks me up to my telescope any time I feel the urge to look around for orioles or whatever birds are in season.”
Farris was clearly pleased with himself and with his hobby.
“Looks like a neat arrangement,” Grieves said. “I was wondering if you ever do more than look for birds through that telescope of yours.”
“Let me guess,” Farris said. “You’re interested in whether I might take a look at Mr. Gerlach’s house from time to time. Is that it?”
“Yes, it is. You may not have heard, but your neighbor is dead. We’re pretty sure he was murdered. Just yesterday, over at Brae Loch College. So I’m naturally interested in whether you might have seen anything recently that could help us in our investigation.”
The news that Harley Gerlach had been killed came as a real shock to Jeff Farris. And it created a small moral dilemma for him. Should he, as a matter of civic duty, share information about Gerlach’s habits with the officer? Or should he stay mum rather than divulge his not very admirable voyeuristic habit? He made a spur of the moment decision to try to have it both ways.
“No, it’s like I said, Officer. I’m a bird watcher. That’s why I keep the feeders full, all year round, and those little bottles of sugar water that attract the hummingbirds. But some things you can’t help noticing. Like yesterday. Some woman came to see Mr. Gerlach. I just happened to get a glimpse of her when I was setting up my telescope. Other than that, I’m afraid I can’t help you.”
Grieves was obviously much more interested in the woman than the hummingbirds, and said so.
“Tell me about the woman. Do you remember when you saw her? What she looked like? What kind of car she was driving? How long she stayed?”
Of course Jeff knew the answers to all of these questions, but he chose to be vague.
“I wasn’t really paying attention,” he lied while trying to sound as if he regretted not being able to be of more help. “It was sometime after my lunch. I don’t think she stuck around very long, but I didn’t see her leave.”
“The car? Did you recognize the make?”
“Sorry. It’s quite a distance down to Mr. Gerlach’s place, you know. It was a dark car, maybe blue or even black.”
“So you didn’t get a good look at the woman?”
“I really wish I could help, but the answer is no. I think she was wearing slacks, not a dress. Do you think this matters? Like maybe she had something to do with Mr. Gerlach’s death?”
Frustrated in his quest for useful information, Grieves eventually suggested that they go up to the balcony so that he could take a look at the telescope. He let Farris show him how to adjust it, and after training it on a couple of the feeders he turned it so that it brought Harley Gerlach’s house into view. It appeared to be only a very few yards away, everything clearly defined in the bright afternoon sun.
If only Mr. Farris had been paying attention to what was going on at the Gerlach house, he would have been able to provide precise answers to all of his questions. Officer Grieves was not happy about the report he would be making to the sheriff. Not only had he found nothing in Gerlach’s house which told him anything about the victim’s plans for the day he was murdered, but he also had been unable to obtain a good description of a woman who had paid a visit to Gerlach’s house that day.
CHAPTER 14
Mrs. Melton welcomed him with what seemed like more enthusiasm than she had displayed on recent visits. Probably glad finally to have the opera people off the campus and out of her hair, he thought. She had managed to appear constantly harassed since they first met, and the added burden of dealing with the demands of Kevin and his company might well have rankled.
“Good morning,” he said cheerily. “I have an appointment with Mr. Armitage, as I’m sure you know.”
“Yes you do, and I cleared his calendar so he’d be ready for you. I’ll let him know you’re here.”
She vanished into the inner sanctum, where she stayed longer than Kevin thought necessary to announce his arrival.
When she returned, she was wearing a broad smile. She waved him on in for his meeting with Armitage.
“Ah, good morning,” the provost said, rising from his chair and extending his hand. “But then I suppose it’s not really appropriate to call it a good morning, is it? Everything was going so well—at least I assume it was. And then this terrible business. How are you holding up?”
“I’m okay,” Kevin replied. “Happy? No. But we’ll pick up the pieces and go on.”
“Go on? Are you thinking of going ahead with the production? I thought it wouldn’t be possible. Not when you lost your leading man.”
“That’s not what I meant. You’re right; it won’t be possible to do the opera now. I knew that the minute we found Mr. Gerlach. If we were a professional opera company, we’d have a cover, someone ready to step in at a moment’s notice. Not on Crooked Lake. No, it’d be way too complicated, not to mention the problem of rescheduling dates for the performances, dealing with ticket problems, things like that. It would be a nightmare, for me and for you. I’m afraid there won’t be any Gianni Schicchi up here this summer.”
The provost looked relieved that Professor Whitman’s misadventure had come to an end.
“I’m sure you’re terribly disappointed. So am I. It would have been a big event for us.”
“I thought so, too, but I guess it just wasn’t to be. I hope you don’t lose any students because of this. Somebody said that some of your parents are worried. I can empathize. After 9/11, we had some anxious moments at Madison College—parents afraid that their sons and daughters could be vulnerable to terrorism down there. But we came through it okay. I’ll bet you do, too. I can’t imagine any crime wave on Crooked Lake, much less at Brae Loch.”
“I hope you’re right. There’ve been phone calls, questions. My response is to tell them it isn’t about the college; it’s about somebody we leased our auditorium to. Sorry to shift the blame to you, but we needed a scapegoat. Besides, it’s true.”
Armitage chuckled when he referred to Kevin as his scapegoat, then abruptly stopped when he saw that Kevin didn’t find it particularly funny.
“Look, Professor Whitman, I really am sorry about what happened. No point in us spending our time exchanging regrets. Let’s talk about money.”
This was the reason Kevin had made the trip to the college, and this was the subject he dreaded. They had both assumed that the costs of the opera production would be largely borne by the college, and that those costs would be recouped by the sale of tickets to the two performances. Now there would be no performances, which left Kevin hoping that the college would simply assume responsibility for the costs and doubting very much that it would do so.
“Yes, there is the matter of money,” he said. “I think we’ve been pretty frugal. It’s been a bare-bones production. It’s mostly about our use of your auditorium, and I was hoping that we might get a pass on that. What it leaves is mostly the printing of programs and tickets.”
“We appreciate your frugality, but we run on a shoestring here at Brae Loch. I had my people come up with some figures, and it looks like we’re talking about $2,800. Something like that. I had them shave the total a bit. We know the cancellation isn’t your fault. I know this is awkward.”
The provost paused, waiting for Kevin to say something. Kevin knew that the dollar figure he’d been given was ridiculously modest, that Armitage could have rented the auditorium for ten weeks for a much larger fee. But Kevin also knew all too well the state of his own finances. He could write the college the check, of course. But he wasn’t happy with the way his great idea about bringing culture to Crooked Lake and creating an opportunity for a visiting appointment at Brae Loch College had worked out. No opera, no visiting appointment. And at a cost of $2,800.
“What you suggest is reasonable,” he told the provost. Reasonable, he thought, but not what I wanted to hear. Oh well, at least the provost had temporarily abandoned his fascination with crime and had not once seemed morbidly curious about Harley Gerlach’s death and the search for his killer.
CHAPTER 15
When Kevin walked into the cottage after his discouraging meeting with the provost at Brae Loch, the phone was ringing. He hoped it was Carol, whom he had not heard from since the day after Gerlach’s death. It wasn’t.
“Professor Whitman? It’s Mercedes Redman.”
“Hi. Calling to commiserate over the demise of Gianni Schicchi?”
“No, and then maybe yes. Do you have any time in your schedule to talk with me? Or perhaps I should say to let me talk to you? Even this afternoon?”
Kevin’s ‘second in command’ over the course of rehearsals for the opera that never made it to opening night was the last person he might have expected to call. She had been, in his opinion, all business, and not someone likely to be broken up either by Gerlach’s murder or the eleventh-hour collapse of Crooked Lake’s abbreviated opera season. But Kevin had not really known her well, and he may have been mistaken.
They agreed on four o’clock, which would give her plenty of time to make the drive from Ithaca. It also gave Kevin time to straighten up the cottage and prepare a pitcher of iced tea. He gave a minute of thought to what music he might have playing on the Bose when she arrived, but decided against it. After all, he wasn’t seeking to impress the woman.
Mercedes drove up in a very old car that Kevin was unable to recognize. A Studebaker? He wondered if she had trouble getting it serviced. As she climbed out of the driver’s seat, she favored him with what could at best be described as a tentative smile. It looked as if whatever she wanted to talk about might be unpleasant.
“Thanks for seeing me. I know you must be busy, what with having to pick up the pieces after Harley’s death. Any news on that front?”
“Not yet,” Kevin said. He had been involved in two of the sheriff’s investigations of other than natural deaths, and he was well aware that it would almost certainly take some time before this case could be closed. If it could be closed. For some reason he could not explain, he had begun to have doubts about solving this one.
Mercedes Redman had not been inside the cottage since her tryout back in the spring. Nor had they been particularly close over the course of the summer, this in spite of the fact that she had been his de facto partner in whipping the little opera company into shape. As they walked through the cottage, Kevin found himself observing her, trying to figure out just who she really was. Other than a very good violinist.
She accepted his offer of tea, and they took seats on the deck where they had a good view of the late afternoon sunlight on the bluff.
Kevin felt no need to press her for an explanation of her unexpected visit to his cottage. She would tell him why she had come in her own good time. They chatted for a few minutes, touching on the view, how sorry she was that they wouldn’t be staging the opera, her pleasure in the progress one of her better students was making, and her regret that she probably wouldn’t be seeing more of Heather Merriman, of whom she had become quite fond.
“But it’
s Harley I want to tell you about,” she said finally. “You know that I found him difficult. Actually, I thought he was a pain in the ass. Critical of everyone, always trying to upstage his colleagues. And unreliable, what with his drinking. But I thought you ought to know that I’d gotten to know a different Harley over the last few weeks. I didn’t say anything about this when the deputy sheriff questioned me the other night over at Brae Loch. In fact I lied to him about how well I knew Harley. And I’ve been worrying about it, because I’m sure it will come out one of these days and then I’ll be in trouble. So I thought it would be a good idea to talk with you and see what you think I should do.”
Kevin had no idea where this was going, but he assured her that he would listen with an open mind. He hoped that he was not about to be put in some kind of compromising position by Mercedes Redman.
“I think I should begin at the beginning,” she began. “About three weeks ago, Harley stopped to have a few words with me after rehearsal one night. He didn’t sound drunk, and for a change he was pleasant. He said something about what a good job he thought I was doing. I’d been given lemons, he told me, and had been smart enough to make lemonade. I wasn’t sure the cliché was really a compliment, but I decided to go along. Well, we chatted for a minute or two and then he asked if I would join him for a cup of coffee. To say I was surprised would be a very big understatement. Anyway, I declined—politely, I think—and figured that was the end of it.”
“But it wasn’t the end of it, is that what you’re telling me?” Kevin asked.
“Right. In fact he made the same offer after the next rehearsal. This time I didn’t have an urgent need to get home, and I didn’t want to appear needlessly rude. So I agreed. We stopped off at a place in Southport that was still open. We talked about a lot of things, and to my surprise he turned out to be a good listener. The conversation never got personal, if you know what I mean. But he asked about my life as a teacher of violin, where I’d gotten my music education, how I liked living here in the Finger Lakes, that kind of thing. He didn’t tell me much about himself other than saying how important opera was to him. Opera and painting. Did you know he was a painter?”
Setting the Stage for Murder Page 9