Setting the Stage for Murder

by Robert W. Gregg

  “It probably doesn’t matter,” Carol said, thinking to herself that it might matter a lot. “Anyway, you and Ms. Redman didn’t really have much of a discussion about the cryptic message, did you?”

  “Not really.”

  “You’ve known Ms. Redman for—what did you say?—four years. You must have gotten to know her pretty well. Can you think of any reason why somebody would be warning her? Threatening her? Any idea, however crazy it may seem, who she was supposed to leave alone?”

  “I wish I could help you, but I can’t.”

  Or won’t, Carol thought.

  “Let me toss out a name or two. Then you tell me if you ever heard Ms. Redman mention either of them. Okay? One is Sean Carpenter. Does it ring a bell?”

  “Carpenter,” Kane repeated the name. “I don’t think so. Does he have something to do with this Gerlach person?”

  Carol ignored the question.

  “The other name is Heather Merriman. How about that one?”

  It isn’t always easy to read a face, even if you are an experienced law enforcement officer. But Carol would have sworn that this wasn’t the first time Marcia Kane had heard of Heather Merriman.

  “No again. Are these people Mercedes knew? People in that opera over on Crooked Lake?”

  Once more Carol ignored the question, this time changing the subject.

  “I’ve tried not to stare at your face, Ms. Kane, but it looks like you’ve been in an accident.”

  And indeed it did. There were ugly red scratches on both cheeks and her nose had been cut, marring what was otherwise an attractive face.

  “I know. Like I told Chief Owens, I had an accident coming home on my bicycle yesterday. A dog ran into the street right in front of me, and I couldn’t stop. Pitched right onto the road. There was a lot of gravel and it messed up my face. I probably would have treated it better, but when I got home, there was Mercedes, lying dead on the floor. My face didn’t seem very important right then.”

  “No, I’m sure not. I hope it clears up soon. Look, I’ve taken a big chunk out of your lunch hour. I better let you go. It looks like Ms. Redman had a fatal heart attack or something like that. A terrible thing for one so young. I feel badly about raising all these questions about the opera business, but like I said, I’m investigating a murder over on Crooked Lake, and when Chief Owens mentioned the note about Gerlach, I knew I’d have to talk with you. I want to thank you for your cooperation. And tell you how sorry I am about Ms. Redman.”

  “That’s very kind of you,” Ms. Kane said as she showed them out.

  _____

  Back in Owens’ office, Carol and the police chief chatted for another twenty minutes.

  “It was all pretty much what I expected,” he said. “She didn’t add anything to what she told me yesterday. Except maybe that she was uncomfortable talking about what she and Redman talked about. Did you get the feeling that they didn’t have much in common? I mean other than a physical attraction. You saw the bedroom. They say that opposites attract, and I think that Kane and Redman prove the point.”

  “When do you expect the autopsy report?”

  “Never can be sure. This one doesn’t look that complicated. I’m no MD, but I’d bet on a heart attack. Maybe that threatening note had something to do with it. Or maybe it was just one of those things that happen, who knows when or why.”

  “You’re probably right,” Carol said. “But there’s something I’d like you to talk to the medical examiner about. Something I’d like him to look at.”

  “It’s her. Sharon Levine. What is it?”

  “Did you notice that the only scratches are on her face? If you had a sudden fall from a bike, a fall hard enough to mess up your face like that, wouldn’t you expect to have hurt your hands, too? I’d think one’s instinct would be to use the hands to help break the fall. But her hands didn’t look like she’d had a close encounter with any roadside gravel. And her bike, which stood in the hallway just outside the apartment door, it didn’t have a scratch on it. I could be wrong. Probably am. But I wouldn’t be surprised if Marcia Kane didn’t fall off her bike. I think she may have had an altercation with Mercedes Redman. It got physical, and Redman scratched Kane’s face—dug her nails into her face, leaving those nasty marks.”

  “That’s interesting. No, I didn’t notice that her hands showed no signs of trauma. But why would she and Redman be having a fight?”

  “Jealousy, Doug, jealousy,” Carol said. “Just between us, at least for the time being, I know that Redman had developed an interest in another woman. The one I mentioned to Kane—Heather Merriman, one of the cast of the Crooked Lake opera. If Kane found out about it, it would be possible that she confronted Redman and—well, one thing led to another.”

  “That would mean that Kane wrote the threatening note.”

  “Perhaps. But not necessarily. It was obvious that she knew almost nothing about the opera Redman was involved in. I doubt that she’d heard about Gerlach until after the note arrived. No, I think someone else wrote the note. But that’s another story.”

  “Are you telling me that you think Kane killed Redman?” Owens asked, now aware that what he had thought of as a sad but uncomplicated death might in fact be homicide.

  “No way of knowing. You’re probably right that it was a heart attack, or a fatal seizure of some other kind. Let’s hope the autopsy helps clarify matters. But why don’t you ask the medical examiner to look for bits of skin under Redman’s fingernails. I hope she doesn’t find any, but I wouldn’t be surprised if she does.”

  CHAPTER 36

  It had turned into another beautiful late summer day. There was nothing he had to do, so Kevin took a leisurely swim after breakfast and was toweling himself off on the dock when he heard the phone ringing. He had timed it on several occasions and knew that the phone would ring seven times before he could make it back to the cottage. Knowing this, he had deliberately arranged for his voice mail to kick in after the eighth ring. But many callers came to the conclusion that he wasn’t home and hung up before that. This morning’s caller was more patient.

  “Hello, this is Kevin,” he said somewhat breathlessly.

  “Oh, Professor Whitman, I’m glad I caught you. This is Sandy Temple. Remember? I played viola in your orchestra.”

  The call came as a surprise. He could picture Temple, of course. The orchestra had been too small for its members to remain anonymous over the course of the summer. But he doubted that he had spoken with the woman more than three or four times since she had auditioned for him back in May. He remembered that she played the viola, not only in his small orchestra but in a Finger Lakes string quartet along with Arthur Conklin. Why would she be calling him now, more than a week after Gerlach’s death and the disbanding of the opera company?

  “Yes, of course. How are you, Ms. Temple?”

  “I’m okay, but I’m calling because I need to see you.”

  Kevin could not imagine what she needed to see him about.

  “Well, of course. Is there something I can do for you?”

  “Not exactly,” she said. Needless to say, those words made Sandy Temple’s call even more puzzling.

  “Would you like to come over to my place?” Kevin couldn’t remember where Temple lived, but he assumed that it was within relatively short driving distance of the cottage.

  “I’m sorry, but I can’t do that. I have several students coming in today, and there wouldn’t be time to get over to the lake and back between lessons. I was wondering if you could possibly meet me at my house. I know it’s an imposition, but I really need to talk to you.”

  So, like the late Mercedes Redman and presumably a great many others, Temple earned a living by teaching her instrument to young aspiring musicians. Or perhaps she supplemented her income from another job by taking students. Musicians, like teachers, were notoriously poorly paid, he thought. Unless, of course, their name is Joshua Bell or James Galway. Or Placido Domingo.

  “I suppose s
o,” Kevin said, somewhat reluctantly. He didn’t relish the idea of making the trip, but he was curious as to what Ms. Temple needed to see him about. “Where is it that you live?”

  “It isn’t all that far. I’m over near Latham. You just go up through West Branch and follow county road 27 until you get to the junction of 27 and 9. Turn right and it’s about fourteen miles to Latham. When you see the sign telling you you’re entering our town, watch for Foxridge Road on your left. We’re the fifth house from the corner. It’s a white colonial with black shutters.”

  Sandy Temple recited these directions as if she had never doubted that he would agree to her request. She either thought of him as someone who would go out of his way to help others or as someone whose curiosity would dictate a positive response.

  “When did you have in mind?”

  “How about three o’clock? I’ll just have finished with Betty Rice.”

  _____

  And so it was that Kevin set out for the tiny village of Latham at 2:30, still wondering what Temple wanted to tell him. Or wanted him to do. The trip was as easy as she had said it would be, and it was almost exactly three when he punched her doorbell.

  Betty Rice, a red-haired, freckle-faced girl who looked to be about ten walked past him as he entered the house. Temple, he realized as she invited him to have a seat and asked if he’d like coffee or tea, was somewhat younger than he had remembered. Probably in her middle thirties, certainly no older than forty. She was wearing a sweatshirt which would have been much too warm for a summer day except for the fact that the air conditioner had been turned way up. Kevin doubted that the temperature in the room was above 65, if that.

  They sipped tea and for a brief moment engaged in small talk, including words of regret about the cancellation of the opera. It was Temple who steered the conversation to the reason they were sitting in her living room.

  “I have another student coming soon, so I think I’d better tell you what’s on my mind. It’s about Arthur Conklin. Arthur’s a good friend. We belong to a quartet, as I suppose you know. But I’ve been worrying about the investigation of Mr. Gerlach’s murder, and I’m sure that the sheriff is going to be thinking of Arthur as a suspect. The affair between Gerlach and Arthur’s late wife is no secret, and I’m sure the sheriff is aware of it. Arthur made no bones about how he felt toward Mr. Gerlach. You remember that first meeting we had, the one where Arthur made that unfortunate remark calling Mr. Gerlach a nigger in the woodpile.”

  “That isn’t quite what Mr. Conklin said, Ms. Temple. He never mentioned Gerlach.”

  “I know. But that’s who he was referring to, and it didn’t take long for everyone to understand that. Anyhow, Arthur isn’t that kind of person. He’s really very kind. And he doesn’t use words like that. I think he was just in shock that Mr. Gerlach was going to be in the opera. But I’m worried that the police are going to be looking for reasons why someone would have killed Mr. Gerlach, and the first person they’ll think of is Arthur. But it couldn’t have been Arthur.”

  “Why do you say it couldn’t have been Arthur? Was he with you when it happened?”

  “No, nothing like that. I mean Arthur couldn’t have killed Mr. Gerlach because he’s not that kind of person. He couldn’t kill anyone.”

  “I’m sure we all believe that our friends couldn’t be killers. That’s a natural feeling, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, but I know Arthur. Let me explain. When he learned that his wife had been having an affair, he was devastated. He blamed himself. He said he’d been too busy, too selfish. That he hadn’t held up his end of the marriage. He didn’t blame Mr. Gerlach or his wife, he blamed himself. In fact, at first he didn’t even know whom Helen had been having an affair with. And then when Helen had her accident, he was devastated all over again. He kept insisting it was his fault.”

  “Are you saying Mr. Conklin told you he was responsible for his wife’s fall? For her death?”

  “No, no,” Temple said, sounding horrified that he would have thought such a thing. “He had nothing to do with her accident. But she fell because she had been drinking heavily, and Arthur knew that that was because of how he had handled her infidelity.”

  “I don’t understand,” Kevin said. “I thought you said the affair with Gerlach had devastated him. Now you say that she took to drink after he found out. That’s counterintuitive, isn’t it? I’d have thought he’d express his regrets for neglecting her, that he’d start courting her again. Why would she turn to the bottle?”

  “You don’t know Arthur. He’s—well, he just has trouble knowing how to go about something like that. He’s not a naturally warm, cuddly person. Too cerebral, if you know what I mean. He wouldn’t really know how to show Helen how he felt. He’d try to talk about it, to reason with her, with himself. And she must have been a troubled woman—angry with herself for what she’d done, puzzled about Arthur’s reaction, worried about what would happen next. She’d always liked a drink. But she started drinking more, and it became a way out of her problem, or so she probably thought. But it got out of hand, and then, tragically, she took that awful fall one day when she was drunk. We know she survived for awhile, was even conscious from time to time. One of those times she seems to have confessed to Arthur that the man she’d had the affair with was Mr. Gerlach. But she didn’t make it. And now, after Arthur had begun to put his life back together, he becomes a prime suspect in Gerlach’s death.”

  “Haven’t I heard that the police once considered Mr. Conklin a suspect in his wife’s death?”

  “Oh, that’s nothing,” Temple said. “I think they typically consider the possibility of domestic violence in cases like that. They probably have to because there seems to be so much of it these days. But nothing came of it. There was no history of that sort of thing between Arthur and Helen, like we all told the police. And of course there was no evidence of foul play. I mean, how could there have been? It was just a tragic accident.”

  “I’m still confused about what Mr. Conklin said about Gerlach—that nigger in the woodpile remark. You say he’s not like that. Okay, I’ll buy that. But why, months, a year after he learns of Gerlach’s affair with his wife, after you say he’s put his life back together, why does he suddenly, out of the blue, say something that implies that he still blames Gerlach for this tragedy in his life? He sure didn’t sound like somebody who’s forgiving, who’s forgotten.”

  Sandy Temple looked upset, and it was obvious why. Kevin had been playing devil’s advocate, but she was interpreting his questions as a rejection of her portrait of Arthur Conklin as a decent human being for whom killing would be unimaginable.

  “I considered going to the sheriff,” she said. “But I thought you would understand what I’ve been telling you better than she would. I’d hoped you would sympathize with this poor man who’s had such a rough time. That you’d want to help. I thought you would talk to the sheriff, convince her that Arthur is a victim, not a killer.”

  “Please, Ms. Temple. Rest assured that I do not doubt that you are sincerely concerned about Arthur Conklin and that you are convinced that he had nothing to do with Harley Gerlach’s death. I shall share this information with the sheriff—all of it, and I won’t edit it. I’ll tell her exactly what you’ve told me. But I don’t have the responsibility for investigating Mr. Gerlach’s death. The sheriff will do what she believes she must do to bring his killer to justice. I hope that it turns out not to be Mr. Conklin. In fact, I would prefer that it not be any of the many people who worked so hard with me to produce Puccini’s opera.”

  Whether this little speech would help Sandy Temple to sleep better that night, Kevin did not know. But he doubted it.

  CHAPTER 37

  Much as he wanted to jump in the lake and cool off when he got home, Kevin decided to wait until Carol arrived. Instead, he would put in the call to the Metropolitan Opera’s archivist and learn what he could about whether Sean Carpenter’s audition had taken place during Harley Gerlach’s tenure
as an audition panelist. He took a beer from the frig, pulled out a chair at the kitchen table, and punched in Ms. DeAngelo’s number on his cell phone.

  The resulting conversation was brief and disappointing. The Met kept no record of unsuccessful aspirants for a place in the Met chorus. Ms. DeAngelo could not remember a tenor named Carpenter; in fact, she was never informed about the names of those who auditioned. Only successful candidates had their names entered in her files, and then not until they formally joined the company. She once again suggested that he might want to call one of the chorus members whose names she had given him. But she warned him that none of them had served as audition panelists. They might be useful only because they were chorus veterans who could be privy to backstage gossip.

  Kevin took her up on her suggestion this time and tried two members of the chorus. Surprisingly, they were available. They were also polite. They both remembered Gerlach unfavorably. But neither of them recalled any scuttlebutt about a tenor named Carpenter. Too long ago, they said.

  He resigned himself to the fact that if Gerlach and Carpenter had ever crossed paths at the Met, he would learn of it only if Carpenter himself admitted it or had told someone else about it. He very much doubted that Carpenter would now volunteer such information in view of the fact that it would give him a motive for killing Gerlach. However, he might well have shared this bit of personal history, back before Gerlach’s death. The obvious candidate was, of course, Heather Merriman. He would have been anxious to impress her, and one way to do that would have been to tell her he could have been a member of the Met chorus except for the shameful bias of Harley Gerlach.

  The more he thought about it, however, the more Kevin doubted that Carpenter had ever met Gerlach before this summer. What were the odds, after all, that he had auditioned nearly a decade before on a day when Gerlach happened to be among those evaluating his performance? Carol would have to ask Merriman what Carpenter had told her about his unsuccessful quest for a place at the Met. There was nothing more he could do about the matter now.