Setting the Stage for Murder

by Robert W. Gregg

  But now that he had serendipitously—and quite literally—bumped into one of them, Kevin was determined not to let her get away. He’d think of a way to talk to her, the questions he’d want to ask her. But first he had to find out who she was and where she lived. So he followed her out into the supermarket’s parking lot, keeping his distance, until she reached her car, filled the trunk with her groceries, and got ready to leave. He then walked toward the car, positioning himself so he could see the license number when she backed out of her parking space.

  As soon as she drove off, Kevin took a crumpled receipt from the nearby dry cleaners out of his pocket and wrote down the number of the license plate on the back of it. He was still unsure what he would say to the woman, but he knew that he would soon be talking with her.

  _____

  With the help of the sheriff’s department and the motor vehicle administration, the task of turning the number on the car’s license plate into a name and an address proved to be easy, and it was just ahead of noon that Kevin pulled off the road at a house on the outskirts of Yates Center. The house faced the lake and was surrounded by a white picket fence, a well-manicured lawn, and a variety of attractive rosebushes. The car with the familiar license plate was sitting on a recently resurfaced driveway, which made it likely that the woman with the lopsided smile was at home.

  Kevin was still uncertain as to exactly how to approach the woman, but he felt better about doing it here than at the supermarket. Now if only the husband was not at home. He was sure that there was a husband, for she had been wearing a wedding band during their brief encounter on aisle 5. But in all likelihood the husband was at work. He’d soon find out.

  She answered the door on the first ring of the bell, and recognized her caller immediately. She flashed him the lopsided smile.

  “Well, hello. My friend from the supermarket. What brings you here? Did I drop something?”

  It had not yet dawned on her that the man at her door would be unlikely to have known where she lived.

  “Not that I know of. No, I just thought I’d take advantage of this beautiful day to stop by and say a proper hello. I don’t usually meet people by banging into their shopping carts at the supermarket. Mind if I come in for a minute?”

  The lopsided smile disappeared. She didn’t look unfriendly, just puzzled.

  “Well, no, of course not. Come on in.”

  “I’ll only be here a few minutes,” Kevin said, politely declining the offer of iced tea. He had avoided the use of the woman’s name, Lauren Helman, knowing that his knowledge of who she was would alarm her. But there was no way he could long delay explaining his presence in her home. He got to the point as soon as he had taken a seat in the Helman living room.

  “You have probably heard about what happened over at Brae Loch College last week—the murder of one of the members of the cast of the opera they were going to perform. The man who was killed was named Gerlach. Harley Gerlach. He lived down at the end of the bluff, had lived there more than two years. I hear that you knew Mr. Gerlach.”

  There was no trace of a smile on Lauren Helman’s face now.

  “You’re mistaken. I don’t know anyone with that name.”

  “Then perhaps you can explain this.”

  Kevin had made a quick trip to the sheriff’s office in Cumberland after his chance meeting with Helman in the supermarket, and Carol had entrusted him with the ‘harem album.’ He opened it to the page containing the picture of Lauren and Harley and set it down on the coffee table in front of her.

  Mrs. Helman must have known such a picture existed inasmuch as she had obviously posed for it. And willingly. But she could not imagine why it was in this stranger’s possession. Or why he was sitting in her living room, asking her about a relationship which she had ended nearly two years ago and which she very much regretted.

  “Why don’t you tell me what this is all about,” she said, her voice cold. “I don’t even know your name.”

  “I’m sorry,” Kevin said. “I’m not trying to be mysterious. The name is Whitman, Kevin Whitman. I was in charge of the production of that opera at Brae Loch, the one in which Mr. Gerlach was singing. I’m sure you can appreciate that I have something of an interest in his death. It led to the cancellation of my opera. I am finding that to understand why he was killed I need to know something about the life he lived. What I’m learning is that he had a way with women. That’s probably not the best way to put it, but I’m sure you know what I mean.”

  “Okay, so I can’t deny I knew him. I remember when he took that picture. He had a way of setting up the camera and then coming back and getting into the picture himself. But it was a long time ago. I learned the hard way that he wasn’t a very nice man. He didn’t end the relationship. I did.”

  “I guess you know you weren’t the only woman in his life. He sort of collected them. Like a hobby almost. Do you mind telling me how he did it? I mean, how did you happen to start seeing him?”

  “It seemed innocent enough,” she said in a wry voice. “They have these occasional chamber music concerts around the lake, and I went to one. It took place at one of the wineries as I remember it. He was there, and we got to talking at intermission. He was interesting. Smart. He knew a lot about music—really about a lot of things. And he acted as if he was interested in me. I mean he didn’t just talk. He listened. Most men don’t do that. Anyway, one thing led to another and then we were meeting at his house. My husband never knew. He still doesn’t, and I hope he never does. It was a dumb thing I did. Dave—that’s my husband—isn’t flashy like Gerlach, but he’s really a rock. You know, the kind of person you don’t really appreciate until something like this happens.”

  The other question that Kevin would have liked to ask of Lauren Helman was where she was the previous Tuesday afternoon. But it was Carol who’d have to ask that question. He couldn’t imagine that something had rekindled Helman’s anger with Gerlach and that she’d killed him. He certainly hoped that her husband would never find out about the relationship she’d had with Gerlach. In any event, it wasn’t his place to treat her as a suspect in the murder at Brae Loch.

  True to his word, Kevin did not stay long. Nor had he learned much. Mrs. Helman’s account of how Gerlach had insinuated himself into her life was very similar to Mercedes Redman’s. So Gerlach’s modus operandi had now been fairly well established. But Kevin was more interested not just in what had happened on the afternoon of the dress rehearsal, but also in what Gerlach had been doing in the months and years before that, including his time with the Metropolitan Opera chorus. Much as he hated to lose any of the remaining days of summer at the lake with Carol, he decided he should take a short trip to the city and speak with the Met’s archivist. He might even go tomorrow.

  CHAPTER 29

  The short flight to the city had been uneventful. Rather than take along a novel or the Berlioz book he had borrowed from Gerlach’s library, Kevin had pulled out a pad to jot down the questions he wanted to be sure to ask of the Met’s archivist. She had been very pleasant on the phone and had assured him that she would be available when he arrived. She even remembered Gerlach, but nothing in her remarks or tone of voice suggested how she or the Met had felt about him.

  Instead of making notes for his conversation with the archivist, however, Kevin spent most of the short flight thinking about Carol and reflecting on their discussion of the previous evening. She had been less convinced than he was that the trip to the city would be worthwhile, and she was definitely disappointed that he would be gone for a day and possibly two. But she wished him well and extracted a promise that he would return to the lake for a long weekend as soon as he had launched his fall semester courses.

  The apartment felt cold and impersonal after the cottage, and he realized that he wasn’t looking forward to living in it for yet another academic year. He was glad that on this trip at least he’d only be sleeping at the apartment. He’d take his meals out. The cab took him uptown to the M
et’s offices, and before noon he was sitting across the desk from a white-haired woman whose name was Jenny DeAngelo. She was the one who had agreed to help him gather information on Harley Gerlach’s years in the chorus.

  “It’s been a few years now since Harley left us,” she said. “Haven’t seen him since. How’s he doing?”

  “Not well,” Kevin replied. He had not thought it necessary to mention Gerlach’s death when he’d made the appointment. Better to share bad news when he saw her. “In fact, he’s dead.”

  “When did this happen?” she asked, her voice still in neutral.

  “A week ago today. I’m afraid he didn’t die of natural causes. Somebody killed him.”

  This news finally produced a reaction in Ms. DeAngelo.

  “Good gracious, that’s awful.” She leaned back in her chair and gazed out of the window at the skyline. “What did he do to deserve an end like that?”

  It was an interesting way to put it. Jenny DeAngelo had obviously not thought highly of Harley Gerlach.

  Kevin filled her in on the Brae Loch opera project and reported that the local authorities still had no clue as to the identity of the person who had strangled Harley. Even as he used the expression ‘local authorities,’ he thought of it as a wholly inappropriate way to describe Carol.

  “I’m not here in any official capacity,” Kevin said. “I’m a friend of the local sheriff up there, and she knows I’m here. We don’t expect that anything in Mr. Gerlach’s past will help explain what happened to him. For me he was just a talented singer. But we think it’s important to learn what we can about him.”

  “Well, I suppose I’m the person you want to talk to. Me and maybe a couple of the old-timers in our chorus. Where do you want me to start, Mr. Whitman?”

  “I know how long he was with you, give or take a year. But I have no idea why he left the Met. Or how he was thought of by the company and by his peers.”

  “He didn’t leave of his own accord, that I know. I’m a record keeper, you understand, not a keeper of company secrets. But it was a big enough deal that it would be hard not to know what happened.”

  “Why a big deal?”

  “Because he was good. The Met doesn’t can people on a whim, especially the mainstays. He wasn’t only a very good chorister. He could act as well as sing. He was good enough to be asked to take an occasional comprimario role. Oh, I’d better explain—a comprimario is—”

  “That’s okay. I know. I teach opera at Madison College when I’m not vacationing in the Finger Lakes.”

  Ms. DeAngelo looked at Kevin with a newfound respect.

  “I see. Well, then, let me cut to the chase.” Which she proceeded to do.

  “There were three problems, as I understand it. Not that big at first, but eventually they became intolerable. At least that’s what my friends in the chorus tell me. He started coming to rehearsals drunk, or nearly drunk. And late. You just can’t run an opera company if the people you rely on don’t take their responsibilities seriously. I’m sure you know stories about some of the big names, always cancelling at the last minute, making impossible demands. They may be a big drawing card, but they drive management crazy. That’s why the company had to dismiss one of its superstars, Kathleen Battle. I’m sure you remember that.”

  Kevin nodded, telling her that he did.

  “Well, Mr. Gerlach was like that. At first it was just the occasional bad day. But it became a habit.”

  “I’m not surprised to hear this,” Kevin said. “He did the same thing to us this summer. It sounds as if getting fired down here didn’t shake him up, persuade him to change his ways.”

  “I didn’t know him personally,” Ms. DeAngelo said, “but people who did were convinced that he was a borderline alcoholic when he left the Met. Anyway, that was just one of his problems. Every year the Met holds auditions for new choristers. Got to bring in infusions of new blood, you know. People move, retire, get sick. There’s always turnover.

  “Anyway, the panel that conducts these auditions always includes one or two members of the chorus. It’s a plum job. The chorus master wouldn’t tap you for the panel unless he thinks you’re really special. Gerlach served on the panel for several years back in the ‘90s. Rumor has it that it worked out fine for awhile, but than something happened to his judgment. It seems he became kind of erratic, voting against candidates the rest of the panel thought were just fine. I don’t suppose it’s easy to get complete agreement all the time. Too subjective. But Gerlach was apparently odd man out a lot, and really stubborn about it. Stubborn and nasty, too. He was finally dropped from the panel.”

  “Was there any talk that his votes had anything to do with personal bias?”

  “I wouldn’t know,” she answered. “Archives is a kind of insular place, hardly where the action is.”

  Kevin thought that Ms. DeAngelo had been privy to quite a bit of gossip for someone who worked in an insular component of the Metropolitan Opera.

  “Then there’s the clincher,” she continued. “I think Mr. Gerlach might have survived the drinking and his votes on the auditions if it hadn’t been for the violence.”

  “Violence?” Kevin had not been surprised by the news of Gerlach’s drinking or the intimation that he could be cruel and dismissive of fellow singers. But violent?

  “Yes, violence. He was involved in fisticuffs with other men in the chorus on at least two occasions, and he was the instigator. I heard about it from a friend in the chorus. She said he attacked another chorister after rehearsal once, and then went after him another time during a rehearsal while the director was trying to talk them through some stage business. Of course this happened quite a few years ago, but I remember it because it was so unusual. You hear a lot about temperamental divas, but not about choristers.”

  “Did your friend ever say what these altercations were about?”

  “Women, I think. Word had it that Mr. Gerlach was a skirt chaser, and that the women tended to be other men’s wives. I guess he got too close to the wives of some of his colleagues in the chorus, they took offense, and he got physical. Whatever the cause, the company just couldn’t have one of its members brawling onstage.”

  “Can you give me some dates? When Gerlach was hired, when he was fired—even when he participated in the auditions.”

  “Sure,” she said. “Just give me a few minutes.”

  Jenny DeAngelo had provided Kevin with information about Harley Gerlach’s behavior without ever consulting any files. But she didn’t have dates in her memory bank, which necessitated some research. It took all of three minutes.

  Gerlach had joined the Met chorus in 1989 and had left the company in 2002. His membership on the panel evaluating auditions had lasted from 1997 until 2001. Kevin quickly did the math. Gerlach had been a valued member of the company in good standing for roughly a decade, but then things began to go bad, and they had gone bad in a hurry.

  Ms. DeAngelo gave him the names of three members of the chorus who had been contemporaries of Gerlach and might be able to elaborate on what she had told him. She expressed her willingness to be of further help if he needed it, and bade him good-bye.

  Kevin debated calling the members of the chorus whose names she had given him, only to decide that he had learned enough. It was much as he had expected, consistent with the Harley Gerlach he had come to know over the summer. He couldn’t see how any of it could help track down the Brae Loch strangler, but at least he had done what he could to fill in some of the blanks in his picture of the man who was to have introduced Gianni Schicchi to prospective opera fans on Crooked Lake.

  CHAPTER 30

  “So, what do you know now that you didn’t know twenty-four hours ago?”

  Carol had been doubtful that Kevin’s trip to the city would bring them closer to an answer to the question of who had killed Harley Gerlach.

  “Not much,” he answered truthfully. “But I do know why his career at the Met was cut short. It’s an interesting case, a cau
tionary tale of what not to do if you want to make your way in the world. Talk about great examples of talent wasted.”

  Having decided not to pursue members of the Met chorus who could document what the archivist had told him, Kevin had returned to the lake late the same afternoon and was now enjoying a glass of one of the better local Rieslings with Carol. The evening promised to be much better than the one he had been contemplating in his city apartment.

  “I wish there was something you could do to help me up here,” Carol said. “And I’m not talking about breaking and entering.”

  “I didn’t break into Gerlach’s house, Carol. Like I told you, someone had done it for me, taking that pane of glass out of the back door.”

  “So you said. Anyhow, there’s a dozen or more things I’ve got to do, things I don’t want to hand off to Sam or my other officers, things you can’t very well do. I’ve got to talk with Redman about Gerlach. And Carpenter—why did he lie to me about being at Brae Loch Tuesday afternoon? Not to mention Merriman. She never said he was with her. Another lie. Why? I’ve got to see Myers’ husband, see if he can corroborate her story. Where the hell is he, anyway? Never seems to be home. Then you tell me that Conklin was suspected in his wife’s death. That means I need to talk with the police chief over in Geneva. And Conklin’s nurseries. He said he was there on Tuesday, but I haven’t had a chance to check it out. I’ve got a feeling I’m spinning my wheels.”

  “You sound beleaguered. I like the optimistic Carol much better.”

  “I’ll be optimistic when we get a good lead. Or when somebody has a crisis of conscience and confesses to strangling Gerlach.”