The Art of Murder (A Hank Reed Mystery, Book 1)

by Lichtenberg, Fred;

  At least that’s my interpretation from Hunter’s seedy journal. He was graphic about his likes and dislikes. And John Hunter had plenty of dislikes.

  I’m sitting at my usual corner table inside Salty’s, tucked away from the seventies music and barroom chatter. From my vantage point, I can take in a view of the spectacular Hidden Island, a residential enclave where only a few affluent locals can afford to reside. The majority of the homes belong to wealthy Manhattanites, who prefer Eastpoint’s serenity to the more glitzy Hamptons.

  There is a mystique about the island. I often tease myself with the “what if” question, when I think of those secluded mansions surrounded by old oak trees, which have grown so high they appear to kiss the clouds, and of the private beach, where sea gulls and other wildlife frolic without fear of extinction. Sometimes I try to imagine what it would be like to live there. Only I wasn’t thinking about that today.

  My waitress approaches with my usual: tuna on rye toast, with a sour pickle and coleslaw, then she follows up by refueling my cup with strong Colombian coffee. I peer up from my reading and smile. “Thanks, Sheryl.”

  Sheryl Murphy is Paddy’s wife. At twenty-nine, she has the type of angelic face men easily fall in love with. With short blond hair, deep blue eyes, and a breezy smile, Sheryl almost always radiates beauty without needing to wear makeup.

  Not today, though. Right now, Sheryl has a weary, almost resigned expression on her face, which seems streaked with pain. Her eyes are red, lacking the sparkle I am accustomed to seeing, and her voice is strained as she asks, “How’s it going, Hank?”

  I catch her staring at Hunter’s journal, and I quickly close it. “Guess you heard about John Hunter?” I say, searching her eyes.

  She nods absently. “Sad.”

  Unlike Susan, Sheryl doesn’t ask questions about Hunter, and my sense is this has nothing to do with lack of interest, so I provide her with as much information as is professionally appropriate, including the ME’s theory. I watch her face pale, and after a few moments I add, “Eastpoint has never had a murder before on my watch.”

  She steadies herself on the table, then forces a smile. “You’ve only been our police chief about five years, Hank.”

  “True, but I don’t remember a murder ever occurring in Eastpoint. And I was born here.”

  “Murder,” she breathes.

  I survey the room, realizing the “M” word isn’t on the street yet. I don’t need a panic on my hands.

  Sheryl sighs. “The town’s got faith in you, Hank. You’ll get him.” Then, like a ghost, she disappears to another table.

  I gaze at the empty chair facing me where Hunter used to sit. We met about two years ago, soon after he arrived in Eastpoint. I recognized him immediately from the black and white column photo. Not that I’m into those prurient indulgences. I’m not a prude, mind you. Apparently, neither is my wife.

  Hunter recognized me from my picture in the Eastpoint Times. As police chief, I’m a bit of a celebrity myself. Only I don’t paint as well as he did. We hit it off immediately and began meeting on a regular basis. He generally wore a disarming smile, which I believe helped mask a deep emotional pain. I discovered this one night after Hunter, consuming one too many beers, became philosophical. He filled me in on why he began writing his column. He said he wanted to climb inside peoples’ heads and transform mundane lovemaking into an art. For Hunter, though, it wasn’t entirely altruistic; it was more a cleansing. Living through his readers’ foibles excited him.

  It was soon after his fortieth birthday that Hunter turned his back on a lucrative psychotherapy practice, which he attributed to classic burnout. After regrouping, he started writing an advice column, but the sterile city environment stifled his writing, so he sold the contents of his Upper West Side apartment and moved east.

  After replaying some of Hunter’s history in my head, I go back to his journal, reading with as much enthusiasm as I have for my sandwich, then I wash down my food with coffee without missing a word. His writing is tame at first, describing Eastpoint as a sleepy town, a golden nugget far away from the saturated metropolis. I like that. He was also very flattering about the townsfolk. I like that, too.

  About a year ago, I notice as I continue to read, Hunter’s writings had begun to reveal a man growing increasingly restless with himself and jaded with his advice column. He needed a diversion, and he seems to have found it in some of Eastpoint’s women. That’s when his entries turned dark, perverse. But I find myself getting caught up in his moment, sick though compelling. Hunter really knew how to write pornography.

  I ease up, catching my breath between entries. After reading a few more pages, I close the book and set it aside. Porn can exhaust a person.

  As my eyes drift toward Hidden Island, I realize I hadn’t known John Hunter at all.

  “More coffee, Hank?”

  I glance up at Sheryl. A little color has returned to her face. “Sure.”

  Watching her pour, I ask, “How well did you know John Hunter?”

  I detect a slight jerk in her hand. She stops, shoots a look toward the bar, then back to me. “Hunter? He was a regular. Seen him with you occasionally.”

  “Ever have a conversation with him?” I press.

  “Only to take a meal order. Am I a suspect, Hank?” Sheryl tries to make light of her words, but my question clearly rattles her.

  “Hell, we all are,” I say. “Until I catch the guy. The person.”

  She takes a moment. “I didn’t really know him that well, Hank, I swear.”

  I lightly touch her hand. “Easy, Sheryl. I’m just trying to find out as much as I can about the guy.”

  She recovers, realizes she overreacted. “Oh, why didn’t you say so?”

  I thought I had. I pat her hand and smile. “Just trying to solve the first murder in Eastpoint.”

  She nods, closes her eyes as though going into a trance, then says, “Sorry, Hank. I can’t help you unless you want to know what he ordered.”

  I remove a pen from my shirt pocket. “That’s a good start.”

  “You’re kidding!”

  “No, really,” I tell her, pressing down on the head of the cap.

  She sets down the coffeepot and mulls over my question. “Cheeseburger, rare, and fries. He never ordered desert.”

  “What did he drink?” I ask, jotting a few notes on a paper napkin.

  Sheryl doesn’t bother to think about the question. “Jack Daniel’s on the rocks—” She stops, catches herself. “No, he ordered Sam Adams, like you. I really have to get back to work, Hank.”

  I finish writing down her responses, crossing out Jack Daniel’s on the rocks, then peer up and smile. “You did great, Sheryl. Appreciate it.”

  When Sheryl leaves, I ponder my notes, then take my pen and underline the crossed out Jack Daniel’s. Sheryl knew Hunter’s drinking preference, all right. Her first quick response wouldn’t have meant anything to me if we hadn’t found an open bottle of Jack Daniel’s at the crime scene. I rub my chin a few times. Maybe Sheryl knew more about John Hunter than just cheeseburgers and beer.

  I’m about to shovel a spoonful of peach cobbler in my mouth when my cell phone vibrates on the table. I scowl, polish off the contents of the spoon, then reach for the phone.

  It’s Kate, my secretary. “I’m not interrupting your lunch, am I, boss?”

  “I’m finishing my dessert,” I say, choking on a piece of peach.

  “I thought you were on a diet, Hank,” she admonishes. “Let’s see, you’re at Salty’s and in the middle of a peach cobbler.”

  No one can hide in this town. Almost. I clear my throat. “Good call.”

  “Sorry to bother you, but there’s been a development over at Hunter’s house.”

  I lift an eyebrow. “What kind of development?”

  “Nothing to be alarmed about, but Charlie was doing his rounds and found a woman inside the house. She claims to be Hunter’s sister.”

  I shoot a glanc
e out the window. “I didn’t know he had one.”

  “Evidently, he did.”

  I nod. “Okay, tell Charlie I’m on my way.”

  “Before you finish the cobbler, Hank.”

  I smile into the phone. “Right.”

  “Oh, I almost forgot. Gloria Wollinsky called. She said the revised report on Hunter is on its way. What’s that all about?”

  “I’ll discuss it with you later.”

  I hang up, study my dessert for a few moments, then slap down a ten for lunch. I say goodbye to Sheryl, who offers me a thin smile, and head for the door.

  The afternoon is unusually warm for this time of year, so I lower the driver’s side window and take in some fresh Long Island air. I pass the local farm stand and wave to Greta Lewis, who is too busy selling pumpkins to notice me. The Lewis farm is overrun with parents and schoolchildren searching for the perfect jack o’lantern. Judging by the number of customers, I’d say Greta is having a healthy season.

  I turn down Hunter’s street and wonder about the sister. Why hadn’t he mentioned her? Then again, he never told me he was doing my wife either.

  I find Charlie Slater, my only African-American deputy, chatting with a woman in Hunter’s kitchen over coffee like they were old friends. Charlie, whose lean body hasn’t changed much since he played running back at UM eight years ago, is a gentle soul and very religious. He also has the gift of gab, so I suspect Charlie has been doing most of the talking. He introduces me to a twenty-something woman who goes by the name of Carol Hunter. She is petite with short red hair, appropriately dressed for the occasion in a fashionable black suit and white blouse. Ms. Hunter is quite attractive, although when she extends her hand and smiles, she wears a wistful, almost resigned expression.

  The presence of these two in Hunter’s house suddenly makes me uneasy. I should have updated the staff on the ME’s murder theory. This crime scene shouldn’t be used for a coffee klatch.

  I extend my condolences to Hunter’s sister and explain in a cordial way that she should have checked in with us before crossing the yellow tape outside her brother’s house.

  “I apologize, Sheriff, but the door was open and—”

  “Open?”

  Carol points to the back door.

  It dawns on me that I was the culprit, forgetting to lock up after chasing the painting snatcher. “Oh.”

  “I was going to stop by the stationhouse before seeing John,” she says. Her eyes search the floor. “I’m really not looking forward to that.”

  “No, of course not,” I sympathize.

  “I found out about it in the paper. Can you imagine?”

  Hunter’s photograph had been plastered all over the newspapers. Bold headlines like “Popular Advice Columnist Takes Own Life” sell papers. With Hunter gone, the papers lost one of their meal tickets. His advice column was about to be buried with him.

  “Sheriff?”

  I blink. “Sorry. I was thinking about your brother.”

  Carol smiles warmly, then begins to discuss Hunter at length, as though they’d been inseparable. Charlie and I encourage her with our smiles.

  She then shifts course, her expression turning sullen. “The truth is we had a falling out. I haven’t seen my brother in a few years.” Carol Hunter takes a tissue from her purse and wipes away the tears from her past. When she recovers, she says, “I was hoping John left behind a memento. You know, a gesture of the good times we had together.”

  There are about a dozen paintings in the attic, but I don’t believe she had that in mind.

  “I’m in therapy,” she admits, kneading her hands. “My past.”

  I nod sagely. “It’s always about the past.” I should be puffing on a pipe. Who am I, Sigmund Freud?

  “I’m a change-of-life baby,” she continues. “When I was about five, John took off for college. He didn’t come home very often, and I guess I felt rejected.”

  I offer a sympathetic nod this time. “Too bad he couldn’t have helped you, being a shrink and all.”

  She shakes her head. “It was too close an issue for John to be objective.”

  Charlie interrupts, “Carol—I mean Ms. Hunter, would like to look around. I told her it was probably okay but we needed your approval first, Hank.”

  I turn to Charlie then Ms. Hunter. “There’s been a change in the way we believe your brother died.” I pause. “We think he was murdered. I’m sorry.”

  Her body stiffens. “Murdered!” She searches my face, as does Charlie.

  “Hank, I don’t understand. When did things change?”

  I exaggerate a bit. “The ME just called. I was going to set up a meeting with everyone.”

  “What happened?” Charlie presses.

  “He was poisoned.”

  “Oh my God!” This comes from Hunter’s sister.

  “’Fraid so. Unless he gave himself a lethal cocktail,” I add as a hopeful afterthought.

  “No way,” Carol protests. “John would never have killed himself.”

  Images of my wife and Sheryl Murphy flash in front of me. “We’ll do everything we can to catch the person responsible.”

  She rubs her eyes lightly, gazes out the window.

  I glance over at Charlie, who still has a puzzled look on his face. “Ms. Hunter, I’m not supposed to release anything in the house because it’s a crime scene. But if you find something that could help you in therapy, point it out. I’ll see what I can do to have it released to you.”

  She turns, brushes my hand. “Thanks, Sheriff. Please call me Carol.”

  I let a few awkward moments pass before asking, “You guys ever try to patch up your differences?”

  She sighs. “John tried a few times. I’m afraid it was me. I was older by then and more obstinate.”

  “Too bad.”

  She laughs softly. “I guess I was angry with the company he kept.” Her eyes turn cold. “They probably poisoned him!”

  I blink hard. “Who?”

  She points with her chin toward the window. “Those women he hung out with. Losers, whores and motorcycle chicks. Can you imagine a psychologist dating women like that? He would tell me about his sex life like I was one of his drinking buddies.”

  I glance over at Charlie, who appears mesmerized by Ms. Hunter’s story.

  “It was sick!” She pauses, settles down a bit. “I’m sorry, I’m rambling. It’s just that the wounds are still pretty deep.”

  “I understand,” I assure her.

  She shakes her head in sadness. “John should have settled down a long time ago. Only something inside wouldn’t let him. He used to tell me that no one woman could ever satisfy him. He reminded me of those ancient mythical Greek characters—.”

  “Satyrs,” I blurt out.

  She gives me a look. “That’s it,” she nods. “Then you know what I mean. John probably hadn’t changed.”

  Losers and whores. What a way to describe my wife. “Ms. Hunter, I knew your brother fairly well, and as far as I know, John wasn’t into that sort of thing.”

  Her eyes brighten. “Really? Maybe he did change.”

  “He did,” I say offering a comforting look. Till the day he died.

  Six

  My overwhelming obsession to confront Susan has finally peaked. The time has arrived. I pull into the driveway and gaze out at our modest white Cape Cod house with its blue slate shutters and rhododendrons lining the front. It’s been our home since we got married. I love this house, and until a few years ago, Susan and I had been relatively happy here. Like most couples, we have had differences but Susan’s sudden distance and moodiness in recent months created a barrier between us. I never know what to expect from her. And while antidepressants had become a way of life for my wife, a temporary reprieve from her pain, hell might be waiting just around the corner.

  I step out of the car and enter the house through the kitchen door, expecting to find Susan preparing dinner, though probably only for one today. Instead, the house is alive wit
h deep guttural sounds coming from the upstairs bathroom. I take the stairs two steps at a time and place my ear against the door like a stranger. I tap softly. “Hey, you okay in there?”

  Susan doesn’t answer so I knock harder.

  “Susan?”

  “Nice of you to come home,” she says in a gruff voice.

  I pull my ear away from the door but remain silent.

  “Where the hell have you been?” she demands.

  I place my hand on the doorknob then stop. “Looking for Hunter’s killer. Can I come in?”

  Susan opens the door barely enough for me to glimpse her struggling to the commode. She drops the seat cover, sits, then stares at the floor, pasty-faced, her mouth stained with whatever she had for breakfast or lunch. “Murder? I thought you said he killed himself.”

  I slowly open the door wider and search her eyes. “That was before I found out he was poisoned,” I say. “You got any strychnine in the house?”

  Susan narrows a look on me. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

  I shrug. “You tell me.”

  She presses her stomach. “Is that what this is about? Hunter?”

  I don’t answer.

  Susan jabs a finger in the air. “What’s going on inside that head of yours, Hank?”

  My eyes are burning, my heart pounding. “Did you sleep with him?” I finally demand, my body slackening.

  Susan scowls. “You’re sick, Hank. You know that? What the hell’s gotten into you?”

  I sneer. “I have proof, Susan. Visual proof.”

  Susan flashes a cynical grin. “This ought to be good. Show me.”

  I can’t, of course, since Susan is probably hiding the painting somewhere out of my reach. I have to backpedal, and tell her I can’t at the moment.

  “Why not?” She attempts to get up, thinks twice.

  “’Cause it’s evidence,” I say, explaining that she is not privy to my investigation findings even if she is the police chief’s wife.

  Susan shakes her head. “That’s bullshit, Hank. If you’re accusing me of infidelity, you better show me some proof. And as for your dead friend, the poor guy can’t even defend himself.”