Setting the Stage for Murder

by Robert W. Gregg

  She paused to see if either of the Listers might recall the day and their fellow diners without further elaboration on her part. It was Mrs. Lister who spoke up.

  “I think I know who you’re talking about. Would they be men about our age? One of them with white hair, but not really old? Am I right, Bernie, weren’t they the men who spent the lunch hour quarreling?”

  Carol waited for Mr. Lister to confirm his wife’s memory. Or to question it.

  “I think so. That was the man who got really vulgar, wasn’t it?”

  It looked as if the Listers were going to be helpful. Carol offered a couple of additional hints about the appearance of the two men, and their response made it clear that they were indeed talking about Conklin and Gerlach.

  “You said that they were quarreling, even being vulgar. Would you care to elaborate?”

  “Well,” Mr. Lister began, “they weren’t having an argument at first. Just talking. We weren’t paying attention. I mean it was none of our business. But then the one with the white hair began to raise his voice. You couldn’t help but notice. The other man tried to calm him down. They’d be okay for a minute or two, and then the conversation got loud again. It got to the point that it was embarrassing. Elaine and I tried to ignore them, but it wasn’t easy.”

  “I think they were drunk,” Mrs. Lister added. “At least the man with white hair was. His partner kept getting refills at the bar of whatever it was he was drinking.

  “It was when the conversation turned vulgar that we thought we’d better be leaving. If we hadn’t already just about finished our lunch, I’d have asked the waitress to change our table.”

  “When you say vulgar, what do you mean?” Carol asked.

  “They started talking nasty. At least the white-haired man did. Not the kind of talk you usually hear in a restaurant.”

  “Can you be more specific?” Carol asked. She had no idea what the Listers’ vulgarity threshold might be. Had they been troubled by a few ‘damns,’ or had Harley Gerlach pulled out all the stops? It might be important.

  “It’s not the kind of language we use,” Mrs. Lister said. “It really burned my ears.”

  Burned her ears? Carol hadn’t heard that expression in a long time.

  “I’m sorry to keep asking,” Carol said, “but I would really appreciate it if you could tell me exactly what was said. It would help me get a picture of just how angry they were, and that could be important to an investigation I’m conducting.”

  “Well,” Mrs. Lister said, “it was like that awful remark the vice president made to a senator a few years ago. It caused quite a stir, although of course it couldn’t be printed in the newspapers.”

  Carol had no idea what the woman was talking about. It occurred to her that she might be losing touch with the wide, wide world beyond Crooked Lake.

  “I don’t remember anything about the vice president being vulgar. Why don’t you tell me what he said.”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake, Elaine, the sheriff will have heard worse.” Mr. Lister turned to Carol and spelled it out for her.

  “What the white-haired man said to the other man was ‘go fuck yourself.’ It was really quite shocking. I thought about mentioning it to Mr. Traber, but figured I ought to stay out of it.”

  “You were probably right. I’m not sure what Mr. Traber could have done about it. Anyway, I thank you for telling me, even if it was unpleasant. By the way, did you get a sense of what they were arguing about?”

  “Not really,” Mrs. Lister said. “Like we said, we try to mind our own business.”

  But Mr. Lister did have something to add.

  “I overheard the word ‘wife’ several times. I’m not sure whose wife they were talking about, but I suspect they were quarreling about one of their wives.”

  Yes, Carol thought, that makes sense. And it would have been Helen Conklin, not the former Janet Gerlach, that was the subject of the lunchtime unpleasantness.

  Carol thanked the Listers for their cooperation, told them it might prove important to a case she was working on, and wished them a pleasant evening after once again declining their offer of a gin and tonic.

  Later, after a swim and a simple supper, Carol and Kevin retreated to chairs at the end of the dock and tried to make sense of what they had learned that day. It was another of those beautiful evenings which showed Crooked Lake at its late summer best. Almost too beautiful and relaxing for serious thinking about a brutal crime and an appropriate punishment.

  It was Kevin who finally interrupted their increasingly unfocused musings about Harley Gerlach’s death.

  “We need to tackle things with a fresh mind,” he said. “I may regret saying this, but I have a hunch that we’re close to the answer to the puzzle of who killed Gerlach. Do you ever get the feeling that things that have been confusing are beginning to make sense? Of course you do. Just yesterday you told me you thought you’d have Gerlach’s killer in just a matter of days. You said you didn’t know who it would be, but something must have prompted you to say that. I don’t want to go biblical on you, but I think the days of ‘through a glass darkly’ are coming to an end. What do you say that we set tomorrow aside for some serious brainstorming. A good breakfast, maybe a wake-up dip in the lake, and then we solve the crime that ruined my opera.”

  “Why this sudden surge of optimism? Have you thought of something that hasn’t occurred to me yet?”

  “No. Like I said, it’s just a hunch. But I think we know everything we need to know. We just haven’t put it all together in the right way. Can you let Bridges handle the other stuff? Then you and I could put the little grey cells to work.”

  “The little grey cells?”

  “That’s what Hercule Poirot used to say. It won’t be a matter of finding new evidence. It’ll be a matter of thinking hard about the evidence we already have. Putting the brain to work. Make that two brains.”

  “You’re very persuasive. I hope you’re also correct. I’ll call Sam in the morning, tell him that I’ve decided to spend my day meditating. I’d rather not say I expect to have solved the Gerlach case by sundown.”

  “Oh ye of little faith,” Kevin said. “Let’s pack it in.”

  CHAPTER 52

  The Thursday morning before Labor Day dawned humid and hazy. The alarm clock was ringing persistently, and Carol groped for it ineffectually. She had deliberately placed it out of reach the night before, knowing that she might shut it off and go back to sleep. Sam Bridges would have to be notified that he was to be in charge, and for her to sleep through the morning briefing would not only be professionally irresponsible. It would also serve to feed the gossip mill regarding her relationship with Kevin Whitman.

  She threw off the sheet, got out of bed, and silenced the alarm clock. Not, however, before it had awakened Kevin.

  “Too early,” he said, trying to pretend that he would be able to sleep a while longer.

  “I think not. You’re the one who said that today’s the day we solve the opera murder. It’ll never happen if we stay in bed.”

  Carol pulled the sheet off him and hit him with her pillow. Kevin looked at his watch and groaned.

  “Why must we start before seven?”

  “Because I’ve noticed that the morning hours are your most productive. So come on, get up.”

  “Where did you get an idea like that? I’m a night person, or hadn’t you noticed?”

  “I’m talking about mental acuity, not physical prowess.”

  Carol picked up the pillow and pummeled him with it.

  By 7:30 they had showered and dressed and were jointly tackling the task of making breakfast.

  “I thought we were going to take a swim before we got down to work,” Kevin said as he buttered the toast.

  “Let’s save it, make it a reward for solving Gerlach’s murder. Assuming we solve it.”

  “You really are a pessimist, aren’t you?” Kevin said.

  “No. I’m a realist. I haven’t seen any sign
of a smoking gun, have you?”

  “No, but I don’t remember that we had a smoking gun two years ago when we solved the Britingham case. Or last summer when we figured out who killed Sandra Rackley.”

  “What you’re saying is that nabbing criminals on Crooked Lake is dependent on your intuition. My men over in Cumberland will be thrilled to hear that.”

  But Carol said it with a smile. She knew that closing the two cases which had marked the tumultuous two years of their relationship had been the result of teamwork. But she also knew that Kevin’s creative thinking had been indispensable in both cases.

  It was nearly 8:30 when they settled into chairs on the deck and began to review and rethink what they knew about the murder of Harley Gerlach. And the possible role in that murder of four members of Kevin’s small opera company: Sean Carpenter, Arthur Conklin, Janet Myers, and Paolo Rosetti.

  “Let’s start with Myers,” Kevin suggested. “I don’t think I’ve spoken with her since Harley’s death. So what do I know? Only that she wanted me to sack her former husband and that she raised hell when he took that flying leap onto the stage bed. You’re the expert on Janet. What do you think?”

  “I’m hardly an expert on her. She strikes me as a complex person. There’s no question that she disliked Harley. Disliked him heartily. She told you that almost as soon as you’d met her, and I think she meant it. She called him an egotistical bastard when I showed her his photo album. But I think the Pederson woman was right. Somewhere along the way Janet had begun to miss Harley. Maybe miss him isn’t quite the way to put it, but she had begun to reflect on the days with him and see him in a less harsh light. You could see it in the way she looked, the things she said, when I showed her the picture of her and Harley that was taken when they were still a happy couple.”

  “But you said she still sounded angry with him, even after she knew he was dead.”

  “Yes she did, and that’s why I’m willing to bet she didn’t kill him. I suspect that her feelings toward him were ambivalent, right down to the time he died. It was as if she had come to realize that there were two Harleys: the charming lover and the unapologetic womanizer. She was seeing the charming lover when I showed her the picture of the two of them. But when she saw the pictures of him with the other women, she immediately became the angry victim of his infidelity. And what does that tell us? I think it says that she was in her ‘missing Harley’ mode until the photo album reminded her about what a rat he really was. Which means that she was still feeling nostalgic about him when he died. And that means that she didn’t kill him. You don’t kill someone you may have loathed but have begun to feel differently about.”

  “Sounds logical,” Kevin acknowledged, “but what about her trying to get into his house the day he died? Her lack of an alibi for the rest of that afternoon?”

  “I think they reinforce what I’ve been saying. She didn’t go to his house in an angry, confrontational frame of mind. She wanted to talk with him, see if they might get back together. Or at least bury all the unpleasantness.”

  “And what do you suppose she was up to while she was driving around? Driving around with no one to vouch for her whereabouts?”

  “I have no idea. She was probably doing just that—driving around, her mind on how she might make a fresh start with Harley. If you haven’t committed a crime, you don’t worry about having an alibi.”

  “So,” Kevin said, his voice betraying a touch of skepticism, “you’re writing Myers off as a suspect. Right?”

  “No, it’s too soon to do that,” Carol replied. “I’m just saying that she’s an unlikely suspect.”

  “More unlikely than the others?”

  “Well, that’s what we hope to sort out today, isn’t it? How about Carpenter? If the case against him is based on what Gerlach did to ruin his chances of joining the Met chorus, you’re probably in a better position than I am to make book on him as our killer.”

  “Are you kidding?” Kevin doubted that he was in a better position to assess the odds that Carpenter had killed Gerlach. “You’re the one who caught him out in all those lies.”

  “Actually it was Miss Merriman who did that,” Carol said.

  “Anyway, I don’t think his lies need to weigh that heavily against him. Everyone knew he disliked Gerlach, so I can understand why he didn’t want to admit to being at Brae Loch the afternoon Harley was killed. And why he claimed to know nothing about Harley’s role in costing him the Met job.”

  “I know, but he still strikes me as something of a weasel.”

  “The way I look at it, what makes me think he’s innocent of Gerlach’s death is that note he sent to Mercedes.”

  Carol nearly choked on her coffee.

  “The note to Mercedes? What are you talking about?”

  “I know. The threatening note is all about something else—Carpenter’s fascination with Merriman. He was worried enough about Redman as a rival that he warned her to stay clear of Heather. But think about it. What was uppermost in Carpenter’s mind all summer?”

  “Merriman?” Carol asked.

  “Right. Here he was, a married middle-aged man, behaving like a lovesick puppy. Infatuated with a girl barely out of high school. Why did he tell Heather about the business at the Met? To impress her. And he seemed to have assumed that she reciprocated his interest. Why else would he believe that she would keep his presence at Brae Loch that afternoon a secret?”

  “But why would his interest in Merriman make him a less likely suspect in Gerlach’s murder?”

  “I could be wrong, of course, but I find it hard to imagine that a guy so wrapped up in cultivating a relationship with Merriman would also have been nursing such a powerful grudge against Gerlach. That sounds like a pretty crowded agenda to me. I’m no psychologist, but I’d bet that most people have trouble focusing on more than one big thing at a time. And Heather was Carpenter’s one big thing.”

  “But what if something happened that Tuesday, something that really angered him—something that caused him to lash out at Gerlach.”

  “It’s possible,” Kevin said. “But it’s unlikely. I just can’t picture Carpenter suddenly deciding to strangle Gerlach. I know he was at the college, but he was busy courting Merriman. In his own way, of course. Thank goodness she finally decided she’d had enough of him.”

  “And so we have two down, two to go,” Carol said.

  “I’m not writing Carpenter off, any more than you’re willing to cross Myers off the list of suspects. But there’s still Rosetti and Conklin. You’ve got this scenario where Rosetti takes his boat to a marina, walks from there to the college, and kills Gerlach, all the while pretending to be fishing. Do you want to convince me?”

  “This is where the guesswork comes in,” Carol began. “You were the one who said fishermen don’t do it during the heat of the day. And where was the bait? Pardon the pun, but his alibi sounds fishy. It would have been easy to cross the lake, tie up at Ben’s, and walk the short distance to the college. We know he was there. Heather Merriman’s identification of his voice proves it. What would have been easier than slipping out of the practice room and strangling Gerlach while he slept off all the scotch he’d drunk at lunch?”

  “Not so fast,” Kevin interrupted. “You haven’t confronted him with Merriman’s story. I doubt very much that he’d corroborate what she told you. So all you’ve got is her ear. Good as it may be, I can’t believe it would be hard for a good defense attorney to demolish her on the witness stand. And what proof could you offer that it was his boat at the marina? Or that he walked to Brae Loch? Any witnesses? Not that I’ve heard about.”

  “Like I said, we’re in guesswork territory. But it’s an informed guess. Besides, you could always take the stand and vouch for Merriman’s ability to distinguish one baritone from another.”

  Kevin wanted no part of such a high-stakes role.

  “Let’s pretend that Rosetti did just what you think he did, and that Heather is right that he was the one
she heard singing. Looked at from one angle, his behavior is highly suspicious. Why take such a roundabout way of coming to Brae Loch? And for that matter, why go to the college hours before the dress rehearsal? To kill Gerlach? But he wouldn’t have known that Gerlach would be there, so that can’t be right. How about to use the practice studio? According to Merriman, he did that. And he was practicing Schicchi’s part. Aha! We have a motive for the killing. He had always wanted that role, and with Gerlach dead, he could take over. After a bit of practice, of course.”

  “You’re making my case,” Carol said.

  “Maybe, maybe not. Think about it. If you’ve killed Gerlach, the last thing you would want to happen would be for someone to hear you singing in the practice studio, especially if you’re singing Schicchi’s music. Rosetti knows enough about such things to know that someone might recognize his voice. So, if he killed Gerlach, Heather would not have heard him singing. But she did, which means that he did not kill Gerlach.”

  Carol had been listening intently, acknowledging Kevin’s logic with the occasional nod of her head. But when he had finished, she put forward one more caveat.

  “We don’t know which came first, Harley being strangled or Rosetti singing. Wouldn’t that make a difference?”

  “It would, but it’s doubtful we’ll ever know,” Kevin said. “Not unless the killer provides you with a timeline. I wouldn’t bet on that happening.”

  “What about Rosetti’s phony alibi?”

  “He thought he might need one if anybody claimed to have had heard him singing backstage at around the time Gerlach was killed. And what he thought was a good one came quickly to mind because he had come to Brae Loch by boat. At least as far as the marina. By the way, speaking of guesses, here’s one. The Rosettis only have one car, and Mrs. Rosetti was using it that afternoon. Hence Paolo’s use of the boat. It would be easy to check.”

  “I’ll do that,” Carol said, now aware that Kevin was once again proving his value as an unofficial deputy sheriff.

  “If I’m right, we can stop worrying about Rosetti breaking into Gerlach’s home. It was probably just what he said it was: simple curiosity about how the other half lives. Or lived.”