by Jill Winters
“It's true...she's under the tree,” a voice whispered. Everyone looked at Chester, who finished, “We buried her there, but I swear it was all...an accident.”
“Chester, shut up!” Edith yelled now, her voice straining beyond its usual huskiness. “I don't know what he's saying!” Suddenly she dropped his arm, and turned.
“Ma'am, wait—come back—” Spackel said, stepping forward, as Edith Winchell darted up the stairs. Chester faced Donovan and Spackel, and explained:
“I never meant any harm...from what I could tell, the girl had wandered on to the property and fell into our root cellar. The trap door had been left open, because we were...unloading. The little girl must have hit her head, I don't know.” He buried his face in his veiny hands and began to sob. “I knew we should call the police, but Edith convinced me not to. And all that we would lose. With a little girl dead on my property, the family would sue and...worse...the police would see all that I had in storage down there...” Stolen items, Donovan extrapolated. Maybe even smuggled items? Everyone knew that Chester lived on Cape Cod only half the year; the other half he lived abroad, mostly in London. “God help me...” the old man continued, digging the heel of his hands to his eyes. “Edith convinced me that the scandal would destroy my lifestyle, our lifestyle.”
“Chester, for the last time, shut up!”
Edith was at the top of the stairs again. So consumed in his reverie, though—his confession long overdue—Chester didn't even turn. “She might've been alive though,” he went on. “At the last moment, we thought we saw her arm move, but I'll never know for sure..”
“Chester—no!” Edith Winchell gripped the banister then with one hand, and the fiercest, most hateful look on her face Donovan had ever seen.
“Oh, God, what have I done?” he sobbed.
Just as Chester fell to his knees, a shot split the air like a firecracker. Stunned, Donovan and Spackel jumped back—as Chester's chest catapulted forward with a gasp. Dramatically, he arched, and then collapsed to the floor.
Edith was still at the top of the stairs, now holding a gun.
Donovan whipped out his own revolver, intending to subdue her, when abruptly, she brought her pistol to her head. “No!” Donovan shouted, running futilely toward the stairs, as Spackel shut his eyes. It all happened in a blink. The shot cracked through the air and sent Edith Winchell flying over the railing. Her body dove onto the hard lacquered floor of the foyer.
“See if she’s dead!” Donovan said as he dropped down to feel Northgate's neck for a pulse. He knew Edith couldn't possibly survive the gunshot and the fall, but he still had to check.
“Um...Donovan?” Spackel began, as he neared Edith Winchell's broken body. “About that...” From here, Donovan could see that Edith's skirt had flown up over her waist.
“What? You're not telling me she's actually alive?”
“No...she's not alive,” Spackel said, bending down to pick something up off the floor. It was a black wig with a white stripe, that had been detached in the fall. “However, from the looks of it here—I'd say that she...was a he.”
Chapter Fifty-three
“Edward Alvin White. Alias: Eddie White.”
Irene pruned up her face. “That's an alias?”
Spackel gave a deprecating grin. “You want to hear this or not?”
“Fine, go ahead,” Irene said, handing him a napkin as sheets of glaze fell off his donut and onto his shirt.
Donovan looked up from his paperwork. “Now Spack, you wouldn't be telling Irene private police business, would you?”
“Oh, please,” Irene scolded with a wave. Donovan winked at her. “The whole town knows bits and pieces by now.”
That much was true. In the week that had passed since the Chester Northgate and Edith Winchell murder-suicide, the small town had been buzzing about nothing else.
“Now where was I?” Spackel said.
Irene reminded him, “You were saying how the police found a bunch of stolen things in Chester Northgate's house, including the paintings that Nina Corday's niece had reported stolen from that break-in last week, and how Chester and Edith had mistaken one of those paintings for some kind of indictment of a crime they'd committed over ten years ago. Like—somehow Nina Corday had figured out where the girl's body was or something like that?”
“I have to assume that's what they thought,” Spackel admitted with a shrug. More glaze fell off his donut and Irene grumbled a motherly sigh and shoved more napkins his way.
“You know how a guilty conscience can skew your perspective,” Donovan threw in.
“No, actually I don't know,” Irene said. “My conscience is clear, thank you.”
“You're lucky,” Donovan remarked with a snort.
“But I don't understand the part about Edith being a man. I just can't make heads or tails out of that. How could she be a man? I've known her for twenty years or more. Well, not known her, but seen her around town.” With profound disturbance, Irene shook her head and held her palms up. “I'm sorry if it's 'politically incorrect' but that's just wrong. A man should be a man.”
“Well, maybe it depends on the man. Maybe it wasn't so easy being Eddie White once he had a record.” Spackel reached for the printout of Eddie White's mug shot from 1980. Stunned, Irene's mouth dropped open. “Arrested three times, larceny.”
Shaking her head, Irene took the printout, studied it. “Same face,” she said.
Donovan had noticed that, too. Eddie, with the high, almost rounded cheekbones and the narrow eyes... seeing him young and not-in-drag was like the piece in place that made it all connect. He had one of those androgynous faces. That, in addition to his height and more masculine build—well, it almost made you wonder how you hadn't seen it sooner.
“Probably hard to get a job as Eddie White,” Spackel continued. “Much less a job running the house of a millionaire. But, who knows, maybe as 'Edith Winchell'...”
“But Chester had to know, right?” Irene asked, looking from Spackel to Donovan. “Surely he had to...I mean, rumors and all...for years, people have suspected that Chester and Edith were sleeping together.” Donovan cringed slightly; he hated when Irene talked about sexual topics.
“Hey, maybe they were,” Spackel offered affably and took another donut from the box. He bit into it enthusiastically, like a kid without a care.
“You mean that...Chester was...” Irene seemed to be searching for her next politically incorrect moment. It didn't matter, though. The truth was, with both Chester and Edith dead, probably no one would ever really know the exact nature of their relationship. It was a big question mark. But maybe that was for that better.
Spackel added, “And who knows if Edith—or, Eddie—was afraid that an investigation into Marlee Wurther's death might drag up his past, his real identity, whatever, into the open. You have to admit, before all this came out, Edith Winchell had it real good for a 'housekeeper.'”
“Okay. Now one final question.” Purposefully, Irene crossed her thick arms over her bosom. “Was there any connection to the theft of those paintings and the stiff that turned up in Nina Corday's basement? And don't give me that State Police routine—I know the boys' network talks to each other.”
Always one to enjoy a rapt audience, Spackel paused—then eyed Donovan. Lifting his brows, he said, “Well? Can I tell her?”
Rolling his eyes, Donovan barked a laugh. “What the hell, you've already blabbed everything else.”
“Okay,” Spackel said, turning back to Irene. “This is what we heard. But you might want to sit down for this one…”
***
Leo Kelling was just about to bite into a glistening thermo nuclear buffalo wing—the sauce of which had already stained his fingertips bright orange—when his cell phone rang. He had no intention of answering until he saw who it was. With saucy fingers, he snapped the phone to his ear. “Yeah.”
“Leo, my main man—you ain't called lately. How you doing for supplies?”
Disg
usted, Leo snorted into the phone. “Yeah, supplies. You hooked me up with some baaad pharmaceuticals.”
“What do you mean?” his sometimes-dealer said.
“Those so-called relaxants you hooked me up with a couple months ago? Remember those?”
“Shit—yeah—I remember. What do you mean bad pharmaceuticals? That was good shit.”
“It killed my brother! And his girlfriend, too.” Annoyed, Leo bit into a wing and chomped at the bone.
“Stop playing.”
“I'm not. You said they were like roofies. Good to knock people out with, you said. You didn't say they were deadly! That's fucking murder—”
The line went dead.
Put out, Leo rolled his eyes and tossed his cell phone to the end of the bed. On the move again now, he was just trying to kick back in his motel room and eat his dinner in peace.
Suddenly there was banging at his door.
He froze. What the fu...?
Who could be at his door? The maid? Maybe she'd forgotten to leave him fresh towels? Ha, right. For the maid to actually give a shit, the place would have to be something other than a flea-bag dump.
BANG, BANG, BANG!
Shit! Suddenly terrified, Leo jumped off the bed, sending the bucket of wings toppling over onto the cheap bedspread. Was it one of his bookie's guys? When his last bet went south, Leo had skipped out of Massachusetts as fast as he could. Even though it meant abandoning his efforts to scam his way past that girl, Nicole, and into her aunt's house.
But how could his bookie have tracked him to Miami this fast?
“Open the door!” a man shouted.
Anxiously, Leo looked around. Could he climb out the window? He was only on the second floor. Goddamn it, he was too old to jump out of windows.
“Open up—police!” With that, Leo went for the window anyway. Just as he was clawing with the rim to pull the goddamn thing up, he heard the door to his room bust open. “Freeze!”
The door hit the wall hard, ricocheted back, and three men in black vests barged in, big guns drawn. Holy shit—were these—Federal marshals? “What the FUCK!” Leo exclaimed, livid. Boiling with the rage of a trapped animal.
“Hands up!” one of the men shouted. Leo had no choice but to obey; he was in his boxer shorts and undershirt, for chrissake. Did they give a guy any fucking dignity anymore?
“Is there a problem, officer?” he asked.
One bit out a brusque laugh and grabbed him. Spun him around and cuffed him, while another grabbed him by the elbow. “Yeah, I'd say fratricide would be a 'problem.' Not to mention fraud and embezzlement.”
Fratricide? “Since when do cops know the fifty cent words?” Leo asked sarcastically. “Can I at least put some pants on, Jeeesus! What the hell is this?”
“Leo Kelling, you are under arrest for the murder of Abel Kelling. See this? It's a warrant; we're taking you back to Massachusetts.”
Leo swallowed hard, his fifty-eight-year-old heart thumping like a stallion in his chest. His mouth was dry. If they weren't even letting him put pants on, he'd guess a shot of scotch was also out of the question. Holy shit, holy Jesus, holy crap, his mind raced frantically. He'd been in trouble for bunko before, but how had they linked him with Abel's death?
Okay, they hadn't mentioned anything about the woman—Nina—so maybe they hadn't put that part together. Sure as hell Leo wasn't about to bring it up. But still, if they knew about Abel, he was fucked!
Damn it all to hell, nothing ever worked out for him! It wasn't fair. All of this had started when he'd gone to his brother—his big shot brother, who hadn't seen him in five years or more—and asked for a loan. A simple fucking loan!
As the marshals did the Miranda routine, Leo thought bitterly about all that had led to this moment. He had come to Boston, to Abel's co-op, to ask him for some money. In deeper than he'd ever been, Leo needed help. He'd been so sure about that last race... Well, it wasn't like he would have gone to Abel unless he was desperate. But does his brother help him out? Nooo. Instead, Abel gives him some crap about how he's out of money, too—how his business tanked and he'd even sold off his house on the Cape. Tells Leo that he's staying with his girlfriend in Chatham and he's having trouble making ends meet, too. Right—fucking Chatham! What, did he think Leo was born yesterday? They had high-priced dog-shit in Chatham, for chrissake.
Leo wasn't gonna let Abel off that easy. So he'd gone down there and surprised Abel and his girlfriend, Nina, at her house one night. Made it seem like a friendly visit. But all the while he was looking for an opportunity to drug their wine and rob them. No biggie—it wasn't like they couldn't afford it. Leo had even cleaned out his car and put the backseats down, figuring he'd carry as much loot out as he could, in addition to cash. He figured that once his brother came to—well, Abel wasn't gonna press charges. They were blood, after all.
It was a no-fail plan. Except, it didn't work out so good. Typical; nothing ever went his way. First, Abel acts like he doesn't even want him there. Then when Leo finally convinces him to let him come in and spend some time with them, Abel keeps dropping hints about how bad he's doing financially—as if he's anticipating that Leo's gonna hit him up for money again. Joke's on him, Leo was thinking, because soon Abel and Nina would be passed out and Leo would have the run of the place. Throughout dinner, Leo was charming and debonair and shit, and then Nina suggested Abel go get another bottle of wine from downstairs in the cellar. As Abel was getting up to go, he looked at Leo and said, “Why don't you come, too?” It was like he didn't trust Leo with Nina—like he thought he'd be all crass and ask her for money.
That's where everything went down the crapper. While they were in the cellar, suddenly Abel started freaking out, shaking, grabbing his neck like he couldn't breath. Leo panicked and was frozen in place, not knowing what to do or what was happening. Then, just like that, Abel fell over, knocking into a column with a crash, and Nina must have heard because all of a sudden she's screaming, “What's wrong? What did you do to him? I have to call an ambulance!” As she turned and ran back upstairs, Leo panicked. He had to get out of there.
But first he had to convince Nina that he hadn't done anything. Otherwise she'd take his running as an admission that he was the one to hurt Abel, and she'd sic the cops on Leo first chance she got. So Leo ran after her. Told her to stop. Told her, “Wait up, stop running, you bitch!” And still she wouldn't stop!
He couldn't believe she was just ignoring his attempt to have a rational conversation with her like that! To get away from him, she ran up the stairs to the second floor and suddenly, she seemed to lose ground like Abel had. Within seconds, her balance slipped and she fell—and she came toppling down the stairs, crashing to the floor.
Frantic, Leo ran back to the cellar to wake up Abel, to revive him and explain—but the goddamn guy was dead!
So Leo had bolted. He'd run from the house, never looked back. Never came back, until he'd had no other choice. Hell, he'd tried to live as Abel, but soon found out that Abel hadn't been lying. The shmuck really was out of money. A check Leo wrote to himself on Abel's account that bounced had been his first clue. To make it worse, “Abel” barely inherited diddly squat from Nina. What else was I supposed to do? Leo lamented now, as he was thrown, cuffed, into the police van.
“It's not fair!” Leo shouted, but his anger fell on apathetic ears. His brother's death was an accident. It wasn't like he'd known how he'd react to the drugs—that wasn't his fault. How could Leo have predicted that? And sure he'd impersonated Abel after he was already dead, but—look, the guy was dead. What was the harm? It's not fair, Leo thought bitterly.
“Thanks a lot, Abel,” he grumbled to the air, “thanks a fucking lot.”
Chapter Fifty-four
On his way out, Michael found a box on the front step of his townhouse. Tentatively, he reached to pick it up, spotting the “Fragile–handle with care” sticker across the top. The return address was: Rosenberg / Maple Street / Brooklyn, NY.
&nb
sp; Curiously, he brought it back inside and used his key to cut it open. Inside the box, he found stacks of photos. There were certificates in frames, drawings in crayon, and a stuffed rabbit with a jingle bell. There was also a note on personalized stationery.
Dear Michael: I know the last time we spoke it was not the right time, but I hope now will be better. It was with great fear that I realized how precious time is, and how the next patch of time I waste may be my last. Not too long ago, I dreamed that I died. It's scary how real a nightmare can seem—but sometimes a dream can change your life.
Forgive the maudlin beginning, but I've never been much of a writer. I am, however, much better “in person” so please, if you feel you have any desire to talk, call me anytime. Meanwhile, I thought you would enjoy some of these mementos, pieces of your mom's life before you knew her. I can imagine how hollow this sounds to you, but I love you very much. I hope to hear from you.
Love, your grandmother, Danya
P.S. Did I mention that I'm 81 and have diabetes? No pressure!
At that last bit, Michael burst out a laugh. So his grandmother was a wiseass? Then, feeling literally dumbstruck, he set down the card and rested his hand on the edge of the box. Jesus, his grandmother after, what, six years? The last time he'd seen her was right after his mom, Eliana, had died, when Michael had been very young and very angry.
Thoughtfully, he sighed. Somehow he wasn't all that angry anymore.
***
That same afternoon, Nicole was sitting across from Cedric Davy in his quaint Beacon Hill law office. Her sister, Alyssa, was in the chair beside her. The room was cast with a muted autumn glow. Cedric's desk shone richly with polish, and bright gold leaves fluttered against the window.
Cedric sat, holding Nina's gallery contract in his hands. A deja vu feeling floated about; had it only been September that Nicole had last been here? It seemed like so much had happened since the reading of the will. But here she was again, face to face with her aunt's lawyer and Halloween was only a day away.