by John Gaspard
“I’m not sure I know what you mean.”
She put her hand on her hip and looked past me, up at the low ceiling. “I mean, what if someone calls with a better offer?”
I shrugged. “That’s too bad,” I said. “I already committed to the first show.”
“What if they doubled the money?”
I shook my head.
“What if they tripled the offer? Or more.”
I shook my head again. “It still wouldn’t matter. I’m committed.”
She looked at me for a long moment. “That you are, Mr. Marks. That you are.”
Another long piercing stare from her. For a second I thought she was beginning to move toward me and I took a half step back, but it must have been a trick of the light. Instead, she pirouetted and popped the door, sliding smoothly into the low car and scooping her fur coat in along with her.
“Thanks for keeping me safe,” she said and for a second it looked like she was just about to smile. Apparently she thought better of it, because before I could respond she snapped the door shut and started the car, backing it out swiftly. She gunned the engine and the sleek and undoubtedly expensive car disappeared down the aisle, taking the sharp turn at high speed with no indication of brake lights.
I could still hear the car long after I could no longer see it. I stood for several moments in the cold ramp and then moved to the exterior wall. I stood in front of one of the openings and looked out, enjoying the icy air on my face.
Up to my left I could see the top of the Cavanaugh Bank tower. Recognizing this landmark gave me a sudden idea and I looked to my right, trying to get my bearings. I walked along the wall, peeking out through the open-air gaps, until I had reached the far end of the ramp. I looked straight ahead and was not very surprised to see the ramp was attached, via skyway, to Chip Cavanaugh’s condo building. In fact, if I hadn’t found street parking, I would have likely parked in this very ramp when I visited him.
I tipped my head back and looked up, trying to determine which of the lights up there might be his, knowing the best I would be able to achieve was a rough estimation. I turned from my attempt and looked back at where Sherry Lisbon’s car had been parked and then slowly pivoted and looked back at Chip Cavanaugh’s building.
It’s a small world, she had said. And I had agreed, wondering for a long moment just how small it might actually be.
Harry’s apartment was dark when I arrived home, so I just continued up the steps to my apartment. I wasn’t hungry, so of course I ate. And I was tired, so of course I flipped on the computer and surfed for a while.
I made my way to Randall Glendower’s website, GeekintheKnow, and clicked through the Marketplace section to see what sorts of things his geeks were buying and selling at this time of night.
On a whim, I opened a message window in the WANT TO BUY section and typed a short message, using the terminology and acronyms which were common on the site: ISO classic lost Lon Chaney silent masterpiece. Willing to pay $$$. Discretion assured.
I looked at my message for a long moment and then clicked the SEND button. I waited a few minutes, somehow thinking I might get an instant response. When none was forthcoming, I climbed into bed and flipped on the TV, trying to fall asleep to the lulling sounds of the shills on Sherry Lisbon’s BuyMax channel.
I was near unconsciousness when a resonant ping from my computer brought me back to the land of the living. Curiosity pulled me out of bed and I stumbled over to the computer, jamming my big toe in the process. Swearing silently, I clicked open the message window, surprised to see I had received a response from my request.
The message, from someone named ClassicSeller58 was short and to the point: May have what you want, if London is what you need. Price negotiable. Will be in touch soon.
I looked at the message and the name of the sender, searching for a clue to his or her identity, but nothing popped into my head. I waited to see if more information was coming, but after ten minutes I gave up and shut off the computer, to prevent subsequent pings interrupting my sleep. I made it back to bed safely, without further injury to my big toe.
Sleep finally came, amid dreams which mixed images of Megan in the Zig Zag box with Sherry Lisbon coming toward me in the parking ramp. In one iteration, her fur coat seemed to come to life, purring toward me like a giant, predatory cat.
This second fitful night’s sleep came to a sudden and abrupt conclusion with the sound of my cell phone. The ringtone—The Rolling Stones’ rendition of “It’s All Over Now”—alerted me that it was from my ex-wife. I considered letting it go to voicemail but at the last second grabbed the phone from the nightstand.
“Good morning,” I said with forced cheer. “How are you this fine morning?”
Not one for pleasantries, Deirdre got right to the point.
“Are you still in bed?”
“Maybe.”
“You should probably get up, get dressed and come over here. One of the four suspects your friend Mr. Lime so kindly gave us was just found murdered.”
Chapter 17
The warm, early morning light on Clifford Thomas’ mansion on Summit Avenue did nothing to dispel the constant gloomy pall which seemed to hang over the house. The addition of several squad cars, unmarked police cars and the Crime Scene van didn’t do much to lighten the mood either. Techs had created a path of sorts that civilians like me could use to get to the house without negatively impacting the crime scene, so I gingerly made my way along the narrow strip, cordoned off with yellow crime scene tape, finally arriving at the front door.
Deirdre was standing on the steps, either waiting for me or wishing she could grab a smoke or both. She’d given up the habit years before, but I knew when things got tense, her craving would kick in and she’d tried to assuage it with nicotine gum. Given the force with which she was chewing, she appeared to have taken on a full pack.
“They just took the body away,” she said, turning and heading back into the house. “The crime scene itself is still fresh,” she continued as I followed her, “but we can look around without tainting the chain of evidence.”
The front hallway was as I remembered it from my previous visit, but instead of a smiling Clifford Thomas greeting me, the foyer was swarming with cops and techs and others whose functions weren’t immediately apparent.
“What happened?” I asked, recognizing my understatement for what it was.
“Best as we can tell, Mr. Thomas had a visitor or visitors at some point last evening. There is no sign of forced entry, so we’re assuming he knew the person or persons and let them in of his own volition.”
I remembered my comment to him about his odd willingness to greet fans at the door and the offhanded way in which he had laughed it off.
“And then?”
“And then, at some point, while in the library,” she said, gesturing to the large room where I’d met with the writer, “Mr. Thomas was attacked and stabbed. With a letter opener.”
“Mr. Thomas in the library with the letter opener,” I mumbled.
“What?”
“Nothing.” I noticed the secret bookcase doorway was in its open position and I could see uniformed techs working within the room.
“That door was open?” I asked, gesturing to the bookcase.
“What door?” Deirdre said, giving me a look. “The front door?”
“No, that bookcase. It’s a door. It slides open and closed, revealing the room behind it.”
Deirdre moved toward the bookcase and gave it the once-over, peering behind it and then looking up at the recessed tracks in the ceiling. She gave a small grunt and then made a quick scribble in her notebook. “Don’t know. It was open when we got here.”
“Who found him?”
“Housekeeper. She comes in three times a week, prepares some meals for him to eat later and then does some light cleani
ng. She’s been with him for years.”
“Did she recognize the letter opener?”
Deirdre nodded. “She said it was his. It was always on the top of his desk.”
“So you’re thinking the visit was planned but the murder was an afterthought?”
“That’s one theory.”
“Anything else missing?”
“Yep. And that’s where it gets a little weirder.”
She walked past the bookcase and into Clifford Thomas’ inner sanctum. The desk and the typewriter atop it had been dusted for fingerprints and a photographer was just finishing taking pictures of the desk and the objects on it, which consisted of a pencil, two pieces of mail and the typewriter. A key space on the desk was empty.
“They took the manuscript,” I said quietly.
Deirdre turned sharply, stopping in her tracks so quickly I nearly collided with her.
“Yes. How did you know that?”
“Because when I was here, he made a show of taking a piece of paper out of the typewriter and adding it to the stack next to it. He said he always types his books and then someone else inputs them into a computer for editing.”
“The housekeeper said the same thing. The current book is always next to the typewriter.”
I shrugged. “When I was here a couple days ago, he said he was almost done with it. Maybe—”
She shook her head. “We called his typist. He’d told her to come over today to pick it up.”
I gestured toward the desk and Deirdre nodded. I walked around the hulking oak bureau, looking at it from all angles, hoping this would spur some insight. None were coming.
“The typist said when he finished a manuscript, he always went through the same ritual. He’d add the title page, wrap it up in a ribbon and then go out for a drink. The Summit Club down the street said he came in last night around five thirty, had what he called a celebratory cocktail and went home. That was the last anyone saw of him until the housekeeper found him this morning.”
“And that door was open?” I asked, gesturing to the sliding bookcase.
“She said she walked right in.”
I looked at the desk again and noticed the small knob Clifford Thomas had pulled on when I visited. I gestured to Deirdre. Since she was the one wearing gloves and I wasn’t, she slowly pulled the knob.
As before, the wooden surface slid out, but unlike the last time, I was now at an angle where I could really see the surface of the board. A piece of lined white paper, about four by seven inches, was taped to the board in a charmingly haphazard manner.
A list of handwritten titles filled the sheet, some written in pencil, some in pens with different ink, but all were in the same, unhurried hand. I recognized two recent Clifford Thomas titles—Polar Vortex and his latest bestseller, The Endless Killing Frost—but the rest of the titles were unknown to me. However the list was in keeping with the tone of all of his novels: Blizzard Watch, Winter Storm Warning, A Snowball’s Chance, The Milfoil Invasion, Frost Point and the title I had inadvertently supplied to him, Snow Blind.
“What’s this?” Deirdre asked, moving into my personal space to survey the list. I stepped aside.
“He added a title to this list when I was here,” I explained. “It’s his list of potential titles. I guess the title was always the last thing he added to the manuscript.”
“The missing manuscript has one of these titles?”
“I would think so, unless it was already in his head and he never added it to the list. Two of the titles have already been used, so apparently he derived no pleasure from crossing each one off when he used it.”
“Apparently,” she said, but I could tell she didn’t seem interested in where this conversation was heading. She signaled to one of the techs, who scurried over as if pulled in on a fishing line. “Make a note of these titles,” Deirdre said, gesturing to the list. “And make sure the photographer gets a shot of it as well.”
“I’m not sure that will be of much help,” I said giving the list one final look.
“You never know,” she said as she headed across the room.
I followed her, then stood in the archway to the secret room for a long moment.
I could hear Deirdre retracing her steps and coming up behind me.
“What?” she asked, clearly a little annoyed I was still standing there.
“I don’t know,” I said, giving the room and the sliding bookcase one last look. “I can’t help but think—if there was going to be any mystery about how he died—Clifford Thomas would have preferred it be a locked room mystery.”
“Don’t worry,” she said moving toward the front door, with me right behind her. “There’s still plenty of mystery to go around. Fred is bringing in the other three suspects for some questioning about their whereabouts last night and their relationship with the late Clifford Thomas. Tag along and you can listen in.”
I gave the secret room one last look and wondered, not for the first time, what sort of solution Clifford Thomas might have devised for this ever-evolving mystery, had he not just become its most recent victim.
It was fascinating to see how each of the three remaining suspects in the death of Tyler James reacted to the police request for them to come in for an informal interview about this most recent murder.
Both Chip Cavanaugh and Sherry Lisbon brought their lawyers, but the similarity between those two suspects ended right there.
Chip Cavanaugh seemed to delight in speaking at length after his lawyer had stated his client would not be answering a particular question. He came in grinning and presented variations on this smile—from wide to sardonic—throughout the course of the interview. Even watching through the one-way mirror—and with their backs to me—I could sense the annoyance of Homicide Detective Fred Hutton and Assistant District Attorney Deirdre Sutton-Hutton at his persistent snarky attitude.
“He’s a real cutie pie, isn’t he?” The voice came from behind me and I turned to see Homicide Detective Miles Wright, leaning in the doorway and watching the proceedings through the glass. “Fred and I did the initial interview with him. He was a shifty pain in the ass then, too.”
I could imagine Chip Cavanaugh would have had great fun playing with these too-serious detectives. “Did you talk to him in his home or at work?”
“In his office,” Wright said as he grabbed a chair and plopped into it. “What, is he a jerk at work and a nice guy at home?”
“He seems to be pretty insufferable regardless of the location,” I said, wondering if either detective would’ve raised an eyebrow at the art collector’s art-free living room, with its white on white walls.
“I hear that.” We both sat back in silence as the questioning continued.
“You’re saying you have no alibi last night, from roughly nine p.m. until eight a.m. this morning?” Homicide Detective Fred Hutton recited this question slowly, perhaps to forestall having to listen to a lengthy answer from Chip.
“Yes, Officer. I was alone in my apartment. All night. Alone but not lonely, if you take my meaning.” Another big grin, as if we had somehow missed a very clever joke within his statement. “And so unless some person or persons unknown were aiming a high-powered telescope into my apartment from another skyscraper in downtown St. Paul, I’m afraid I will be unable to provide an alibi for my whereabouts last night during the hours in question.”
Deirdre jumped in, I think in part to keep her husband from reaching across the table and throttling Cavanaugh. “Did you know Clifford Thomas?”
Chip’s attorney, a heavyset man in a sharp but bulging three-piece suit, seemed to have given up and was sitting back patiently, collecting what I’m conjecturing was a hefty hourly fee. He pulled out his phone and glanced at it.
“We had met on several occasions, yes,” Chip said.
“Do you remember the last time you saw h
im?”
“Oh, that would have been last night at around ten p.m., when I stood over his dead, lifeless body.”
I couldn’t see their faces, but the two interviewers’ body language told me both had snapped to sudden attention.
“What?” Deirdre’s voice almost cracked when she spoke.
“Oh, wait, my mistake,” Chip said. “It was at the Christmas dinner at the Summit Club last month.” His eyes darted to the others in the room and then he burst out laughing. “Now you’re paying attention,” he said, and burst into another round of giggling.
Deirdre breathed a deep and annoyed sigh and then continued. “Mr. Cavanaugh, I would request for the third and final time that you approach this interview with the seriousness it deserves.”
“My client apologizes and is here to help in any way he can,” Chip’s attorney offered, taking his eyes off his phone long enough to rejoin the conversation. Chip nodded solemnly and the attorney set the phone aside.
“In our past interview, you said you had no interest in purchasing the copy of London After Midnight which Tyler James had offered for sale.”
“Yes, thanks for remembering.”
“Did you put in a bid? And did Mr. Thomas outbid you?”
Chip put up a hand in mock exhaustion. “One question at a time please, one at a time.”
“Please answer the questions.”
Chip sat back in his chair, a slight smile returning to his face. “No and no.”
“Do you know for a fact that Mr. Thomas bid on the movie?”
“He said he did and I can’t see why he would lie about it.”
“Why are you just telling us this now?”
Chip shrugged, looking genuinely puzzled. “Because you asked.”
“And why did you not share this information with the Homicide detectives when they first questioned you?”
“Because they didn’t ask me. They asked me if I bid on it. And I said no. Because I didn’t. It didn’t interest me then and it interests me less now.”