Setting the Stage for Murder

by Robert W. Gregg

  “Primo uomo, Carol, not prima donna.”

  “You’re changing the subject, aren’t you?”

  “No, just correcting your Italian. And if you promise to come back after talking to all of these people, I promise to go back to bed. Is it a deal?”

  “I’ll give it some thought. And I really do have to go.”

  She blew him another kiss as she backpedaled out of the door. Kevin stood there, coffee cup in hand, thinking about the fact that they had known each other for almost exactly two years, during which time their lives had been changed—and changed dramatically—by three murders on normally tranquil Crooked Lake.

  _____

  Carol had been giving a lot of thought to Paolo Rosetti since her brief conversation with Ben Robertson at his marina. Kevin had identified him as one of the members of his cast who might have been Gerlach’s killer. Rosetti had wanted to play the eponymous hero of the opera, and had, according to Kevin, been disappointed when the part went to Gerlach. In point of fact, he had been more than disappointed. He had obviously felt that there had been a grievous miscarriage of justice, that he was much better qualified to sing the lead than Gerlach. He had made no effort to hide his feelings about the matter throughout rehearsals and, after Gerlach’s death, had been quick to suggest that the opera could still be saved—and saved by none other than Paolo Rosetti, who could step into the title role and thrill an appreciative audience at Brae Loch College.

  But he was adamant that he hadn’t killed Gerlach. He’d been fishing that afternoon, or so he said. Kevin had thought that strange, inasmuch as none of the people he knew went fishing during the middle of the day. Carol had initially given the matter little more thought, figuring that Rosetti probably didn’t fish much and didn’t have any idea when they’d be biting. And then she had learned that a fishing boat had been tied up to the dock at Ben’s Marina and left there unclaimed for several hours. Of course there were literally hundreds of boats on the lake similar to the one that had annoyed Ben, and it could have belonged to the owner of any one of them. But the marina was but a short three-quarters of a mile above Brae Loch College and almost directly across the east arm of Crooked Lake from Rosetti’s cottage.

  The more she contemplated these facts, the more she began to wonder if the boat might belong to Rosetti. Suppose he had decided to go to the college but keep his presence there a secret. Driving and parking his car there would be risky. So would going by boat and leaving it at the college dock or on its beach. But why not take the boat, leave it at the marina, and walk to the college. The opera company wasn’t supposed to assemble until early evening, and he was unknown to the students and faculty whom he would pass on the campus. Whatever his mission, it was unlikely that anyone would be able to prove that he had been at Brae Loch that afternoon.

  And what might that mission have been? To kill Harley Gerlach? In view of his animus toward the man who had preempted his own claim to the role of Gianni Schicchi, that was a possibility. But how would he have known that Gerlach would be on campus? If their meeting had been the result of pure chance, there would have been no reason for his surreptitious arrival. On the other hand, perhaps Rosetti had overheard Gerlach say something that made it likely that he would be at the college that afternoon. Or perhaps the meeting had been prearranged. Carol had considered this possibility. Why would either of them have invited the other to meet on campus that day when they had rarely spoken to each other all summer and then only in words dripping with sarcasm?

  Carol decided to set aside the question of why Rosetti and Gerlach had met and concentrate first on whether they had met. That meant pursuing Rosetti’s claim to have been fishing and the possibility that it had been his boat that had been left at Ben’s Marina. Her first step would be to visit the Rosetti residence and have a conversation with the sometime fisherman.

  The cottage was small, nothing like Harley Gerlach’s hillside mansion on the bluff. It looked much like its neighbors on Merchant’s Point, some three miles south of Yates Center. These people were, for the most part, locals who provided goods and services for year-round residents and summer vacationers. Rosetti, she had learned when interviewing him the evening after Gerlach’s murder, worked out of his home, providing tech help for people whose computers were misbehaving. Self-employed, he had the flexibility to participate in the production of Gianni Schicchi and otherwise indulge his interest in music.

  Carol saw no sign of a car, which meant that her trip might prove to be a wild goose chase. But Mrs. Rosetti answered the door and explained that her husband was not at home. She volunteered no information as to his whereabouts, but quickly overcame her surprise at the presence of the county sheriff and invited Carol in for a cup of coffee.

  “I’m Christina,” she announced as she handed the sheriff her coffee mug. “I suppose you are here about that terrible thing that happened over at Brae Loch last week.”

  “I’m afraid so,” Carol said, anxious to adopt a tone which didn’t imply that Christina’s husband was under suspicion. “It was really a double tragedy—a man killed and the opera cancelled. I’m sure it has been a great disappointment to your husband.”

  “Oh, yes. He’d been looking forward to it so much. He just loves to sing. And he’s really good—he sings around the house, even while he’s working, if you can imagine that. But of course we’re so sorry about that poor man. Gerlach, isn’t it?”

  Carol was sure that Christina Rosetti knew exactly who that poor man was. Paolo would undoubtedly have held forth at great length about the opera and the man who was singing the title role, the role he believed he should have had. She wondered if Rosetti had said too much to his wife and now regretted it. She’d try to find out.

  “I came over to talk with your husband, but maybe you can help me. In cases like this we have to talk with lots of people, see if they can help us piece together what happened. I had a chance to talk with Mr. Rosetti right after Mr. Gerlach’s death, but it was just a brief chat. Everyone was so upset, you know. I thought it would be a good idea to pay a visit to the members of the cast of the opera. I’m hoping to find out what they may have seen or heard which could help us get to the bottom of this crime.”

  “I’m sure I don’t know anything about it. Anything, that is, except what Paolo has told me.”

  “That’s okay. For starters, can you tell me whether your husband was at home or at the college last Tuesday afternoon?”

  “Was that the day that terrible thing happened?”

  “Yes, that’s the day,” Carol said, trying to remember that she should call Gerlach’s murder that terrible thing.

  “I’m afraid I don’t know.”

  “You weren’t at home that day?” Carol asked, trying to be helpful.

  “I was here, out in the kitchen, all day. I was putting up some jam. It’s been a good summer for fruit.”

  “If you were here, you must know if your husband was here, too.”

  “I suppose I should, but I don’t. He doesn’t tell me where he’s going. We both sort of do our own thing, you know.”

  This is going to be frustrating, Carol thought. Two people, living under the same roof, yet unaware of each other’s presence. Or absence.

  “Do you suppose he went fishing that afternoon?”

  “Fishing?” She made it sound like an unfamiliar word, one she would have to look up in Webster’s.

  “Yes, fishing. There’s a fishing boat on the beach,” Carol said. She could see it through the front window from where she was sitting.

  “I don’t think Paolo does much fishing. He bought himself a pole awhile back, but I don’t think he’s ever gotten around to using it. Why, do you think he went fishing that day?”

  “I don’t know—it was just a thought.” Carol decided not to mention Rosetti’s alibi. Either he hadn’t told his wife about it, or for some reason of her own, she had chosen to pretend that he hadn’t.

  Carol’s efforts to get Mrs. Rosetti to talk about her husb
and were going nowhere. It was hard to believe that she knew so little about what he did and when, but she stuck to her line that they led separate lives, at least during the day. She had no idea whether they shared a bed at night.

  It was while they were bogged down in another conversational cul-de-sac that the missing husband drove up and joined them in the living room.

  The sheriff’s presence had been given away by the official car in the driveway, but Rosetti still seemed surprised to see her sitting in his living room, sharing a cup of coffee with his wife. He didn’t look as if the sight that greeted him as he walked in gave him any pleasure.

  “What’s this all about?” he asked, and then, remembering his manners, said hello and gave the sheriff a little bow.

  “I wish I could say I’d come by to tell you we’ve solved Mr. Gerlach’s murder, but that’s not true. I was just following up on our conversation of last week, going over the same ground again with members of the cast. Your wife has been kind enough to let me have a cup of coffee, and in your absence she’s been answering some of my questions.”

  Rosetti tried to pretend that what he had just heard didn’t bother him. He was unsuccessful.

  “Questions?” he said, his eyes narrowing as he spoke. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here. Christina doesn’t know anything about this.”

  “She’s done her best to fill me in,” Carol said, somewhat disingenuously.

  “What did she tell you?” he asked, and then before the sheriff had a chance to answer, he turned to his wife. “What did you tell him?”

  Carol chose to let Christina go first.

  “Well, not much. We don’t talk a lot, do we, so I couldn’t be very helpful. She asked about you going fishing, and I said I didn’t think you fished much. Was that all right?”

  Christina Rosetti actually looked frightened. The look she gave her husband said as clearly as words that she hoped he wasn’t angry with her for what she had said or not said to the sheriff.

  “You really shouldn’t have been badgering my wife,” Paolo said. “I already told you what I know, which is nothing. If you have more questions, you should save them for me, not bother Christina with them.”

  Before Carol had an opportunity to comment on her conversation with Mrs. Rosetti, her husband dismissed her.

  “Why don’t you run along, dear.” It wasn’t a suggestion so much as an order. “I know you’ve got a lot to do.”

  Christina was out of the room in a matter of seconds. She was obviously accustomed to obeying her husband.

  “Now,” he said, “maybe you can tell me why you’re here.”

  “It’s like I said. I’m still asking questions of people who were in the opera company, and Sunday seemed like a good day to come and see you. In your case, it’s the story about going fishing that I’d like to talk about.”

  “So? What’s the question?”

  Rosetti was not being belligerent, but he was moving in that direction.

  “You told me you were fishing the afternoon Mr. Gerlach was killed. I wondered if you stopped off at Ben’s Marina that day?”

  Paolo Rosetti did not dissemble well, Carol thought. He hadn’t liked the question.

  “Why would I do that?”

  “One of Ben’s people said you tied up to the dock over there on Tuesday afternoon. He thought maybe you were coming in for bait, but you left the boat for several hours and never did get any bait.”

  No one at the marina had connected the fishing boat to Paolo Rosetti, but Carol was determined to push the envelope.

  “That’s ridiculous,” Paolo said, and now he was angry. “I never stopped at any marina. Somebody’s made a mistake. A big one.”

  “Well, it happens, I suppose. So you were fishing. Catch anything?”

  “No, not a damn thing.”

  “Probably the wrong kind of bait. What did you use?”

  “Sheriff, I’m tired of this.” Rosetti’s already florid face had turned a darker hue. “I had nothing whatsoever to do with Gerlach’s death, and I don’t take kindly to you and your damn questions. I suggest you leave me and my wife alone and start looking for whoever did it.”

  “Of course, Mr. Rosetti. That’s what my officers and I are already doing. Twenty-four seven. And we intend to keep at it until we catch him.”

  Carol let herself out. She had not learned whether Paolo Rosetti had been on the Brae Loch campus on the afternoon of Harley Gerlach’s death. But she had learned that he still did not have a persuasive alibi and that he should be treated as a prime suspect. Moreover, she thought, as she drove off in the direction of Southport, I do not like the man.

  CHAPTER 26

  Carol hadn’t decided whether her next order of business was to seek out Janet Myers’ neighbors or to drive over to Ithaca to talk with Mercedes Redman. Either way she would have to drive down East Lake Road for several miles, so she turned in the direction of Southport when she left Merchant’s Point. It was not until she reached the junction where the road to Ithaca branched off to the east that she made up her mind to make the Myers stop first. Whether that decision would have made a difference in Redman’s life will probably never be known.

  As it happened, the sheriff wasn’t the only person who wanted to talk with Mercedes Redman that Sunday in August. Heather Merriman had been thinking about Kevin’s advice regarding her twin problems with Carpenter and Redman ever since their impromptu meeting on Friday. It was the violin teacher she respected most and wanted to hurt least, so she decided that a face-to-face conversation with her would be preferable to a phone call. As a result of that decision, she climbed into her car on Sunday morning and headed for Ithaca.

  Heather was still unclear in her own mind what it was that Mercedes wanted from her. If it was to encourage and facilitate her career as a singer, she would be flattered. She whould welcome her as a mentor, taking advantage of her experience and her contacts. But why should it be necessary to transfer to a new college, move to Ithaca, and share her mentor’s apartment? She’d given it a lot of thought, but concluded that she wasn’t ready for such a major change.

  Not even if Mercedes had no ulterior motive. But what if she did? Heather had tried to banish the thought that her would-be mentor desired a physical relationship with her. There had been no tangible evidence that she did, no casual touching, no expressions of affection. But there had been something, something which her French teacher would refer to as ‘je ne sais quoi.’ For some reason, the notion that Mercedes Redman was a lesbian anxious to have an affair with her would not go away. And Heather knew that she could not put herself in a position where she would have to rebuff her if and when she made her intentions clear.

  Professor Whitman had urged her to finesse the issue by finding ways to be unavailable when Redman beckoned. He would probably have counseled her not to take the trip she was now taking. But Heather had convinced herself that the courteous if difficult thing to do was to have a frank face-to-face talk with Mercedes. She expected to be having that talk in another half an hour.

  The clock above the stove said that it was almost 11:30. Unaware that she would soon have company, Mercedes Redman was sitting at her kitchen table. On the table in front of her were a half-full cup of cold coffee and a brief typed note. Mercedes had long since memorized the five words which constituted the note. She had been considering their meaning and their importance ever since the note had arrived in the mail Saturday afternoon. Normally a sound sleeper, she had spent a restless night worrying about the note, trying without much success to think of a way to find out if her hunch as to the note’s author was correct.

  She picked the note up for perhaps the tenth time since pouring her third cup of coffee of the morning. The words hadn’t changed. They still occupied a place roughly halfway down a piece of inexpensive paper, intended for use with an inkjet printer. The paper still revealed the fact that it had been refolded to better fit the envelope it had come in.

  Mercedes spoke the five words aloud, as if
by doing so she might better decode the message.

  Leave her alone! Remember Gerlach!

  The key word among the five was ‘Gerlach.’ It made it virtually certain that the note came from someone who had been involved in the Brae Loch opera project. The author of the note was obviously warning her to have nothing to do with a woman who presumably had also been a member of Kevin Whitman’s ill-fated company. Mercedes told herself that her relationships with the other women in the company had been exclusively professional—conducting the orchestra of which they were a part or coaching the singers among them. But deep down inside she knew that this was a lie. There was one woman who meant more to her than the rest, one woman with whom she had sought to cultivate a closer relationship. That woman was Heather Merriman. But how would another member of the company have known that? She doubted that she had spent more time talking with Heather than she had with Sandy Temple or other members of the orchestra’s string section. Or with Janet Myers, for that matter. But she had to acknowledge that the nature of her conversations with Heather had been different.

  Someone other than Heather was aware of that difference. The more she had thought about it, the more convinced she became that that someone was Sean Carpenter. His interest in Heather was no secret. And it was widely assumed among members of the company that his interest in her was more than platonic. He had become conspicuously protective of her as rehearsals progressed, even lashing out at Harley Gerlach on more than one occasion for his condescending treatment of Miss Merriman.

  In all probability there had come a day when he was in his protective mode and Heather had confided in him that she believed that she had another suitor. Carpenter would have coaxed a name from her, leading in a matter of days to the note which lay on her kitchen table. In spite of its brevity, it was an angry note, and the phrase ‘remember Gerlach’ constituted either an attempt to scare her or, far more seriously, a threat on her life. Was Sean Carpenter suggesting in that brief unsigned note that he had killed Gerlach and was prepared to kill again? No, she thought, that would be the height of foolishness, and Carpenter was much too smart to give himself away so carelessly. More probably he was invoking Gerlach’s death to demonstrate how seriously I should take his demand to leave Heather Merriman alone.