by Andrew Hunt
* * *
With my hands buried in my pockets, I strolled around the doctor’s library, sizing up the place. Bookcases covered the walls from floor to ceiling and required sliding ladders to reach the top. Medical volumes lined the west wall, classic literature to the east, history north, and books about art, music, and theater on the south. Framed photographs covered a gap between the southern bookcases: Pfalzgraf and Utah senator Reed Smoot; Pfalzgraf and ’28 Democratic presidential contender Al Smith; Pfalzgraf and Charlie Chaplin; Pfalzgraf and Charles Lindbergh; the doctor and Helen standing in the White House with President Herbert Hoover and First Lady Lou Hoover.
Anna Pfalzgraf, the doctor’s daughter by his first marriage, entered the room, sat on a love seat, and gestured to a floral-print couch on the other side of a marble and glass table. “Please, sit,” she said quietly. We sat across from her, and the radiance of her face, accentuated by her brunette bobbed hair, momentarily took me aback. She could easily make it as a fashion model or moving picture star. Her tight-fitting black dress was part lace, part silk, and maybe some chiffon, and it covered her up to the base of her swanlike neck. She had the whitest, most perfect set of teeth I’d ever seen in a woman’s mouth. I could tell she had been crying because her eyes were red and she had on no mascara, and in all of those framed photos on the wall, she had on plenty of mascara.
“We’re trying to reconstruct Helen Kent Pfalzgraf’s final hours,” I said. “We’d like to know more about your contact with her…” I cleared my throat, squirmed a little, and considered my words carefully. “Toward the end of her life.”
“The last time I talked to her was Thursday,” said Anna. “Thursday night. She said she wouldn’t be home for dinner on Friday.”
“Did she say where she was going?” I asked.
Anna shook her head, then buried her face in her hands, and her body convulsed in sobs. “She was my best pal. Who else am I going to play Chinese checkers with?”
I eyed Roscoe, looking for a reaction. He shrugged. We gave her a minute.
“I keep thinking I’m going to see her again,” she said, lifting her moist face out of her hands. “I keep thinking this is all a bad dream. I miss her so…”
“How did they get along?” asked Roscoe. “Your father and Helen?”
“Fine,” she said, but she didn’t sound convinced. “As far as I could see.”
Roscoe said, “It’s important you level with us.”
“They loved each other. I think.”
Roscoe pressed. “You think?”
“They always seemed happy. Most of the time.”
“Which was it?” asked Roscoe. “Always? Or most of the time?”
“Almost always,” she said.
“Something tells me you’re holding back on us,” said Roscoe. “If there’s anything you’re keeping from us, we’re going to find out what it is. You might as well tell us.”
She balled her fist, put it in front of her mouth, and cleared her throat. “The three of us—me and Daddy and Kitty … I’ve always called Helen Kitty—”
“Why?” asked Roscoe.
“It’s a nickname. I started calling her Kitty right after she and Daddy met.”
“How did they meet?” I asked.
“He met her at a Christmas party at Parley’s—Parley Tanner. Daddy’s lawyer. I’ve known the Tanners ever since I was a little girl. The Tanners had a Christmas party. This would’ve been the Christmas of ’24—so a little over five years ago. The Tanners live right around the corner. They’re like family to us. They are family to us.”
“So the doctor met Helen at the party and the two of them got married a short time later?” asked Roscoe.
“Six months later.”
“What did you think of her?” I asked.
“Kitty and I were always close. We were more like sisters than stepmother and stepdaughter. We were each other’s confidants. We traveled all over Europe together.”
Roscoe said, “Where in Europe? What part?”
“Everywhere—England, France, Denmark, Germany, Spain, Italy, Greece. We journeyed by rail from country to country. Kitty and I loved the Old World.”
“How many times did the two of you go to Europe together?” I asked.
“We went every summer, but we’ll never go together again,” said Anna. She shed more tears. We gave her another minute as she dabbed her eyes with her handkerchief.
Roscoe said, “What did she do when the two of you were over there?”
“She loved to shop…”
“And?”
Anna wiped her eyes with a handkerchief and blinked quizzically at Roscoe.
She said, “Kitty visited art museums…”
“And?”
“Roscoe,” I said. He eyed me, and I shook my head, code for Ease off her.
“What exactly do you wish me to say, Deputy Lund?” she asked, her voice tightening.
“Start with the truth. The two of you sailed off to Europe each summer. When you got there, she liked to shop and visit art museums. Now, my question to you is, What else did she like to do over there?”
“I’ve been telling you the things she liked to do. I wish you wouldn’t keep pressing me. I don’t know what it is you want to hear.”
“The truth,” said Roscoe.
I followed a different line. “Did your father go on these trips?”
“Mostly, it was just Helen and me who went,” said Anna. She blinked at the ceiling, as if remembering. “Father joined us at the end of one, but this was our time—Helen’s and my time—together. I’ve been on lots of trips with Father, of course, to Germany, to see his relatives, but those are different.”
“You say the two of you were like sisters?” Roscoe asked.
“Yes…”
“So I imagine she talked to you a lot about her personal life?”
“Yes.”
“Was there another man?”
“Pardon?” she asked.
I didn’t like the line of questioning, so I leaned in close to him. I could smell the mix of cigarette smoke and aftershave absorbed into his uniform. “Roscoe…”
He leaned toward me with an angry gaze. “Let me question her my way.”
“Yes,” she said—a response that surprised both of us. “There was.”
We waited, but she didn’t add anything. Roscoe said, “Who?”
“She met him in Paris. He was a Persian prince.”
Roscoe’s face stretched with a mix of surprise and skepticism. “You don’t say. A bona fide Persian prince?”
She nodded and wiped her nose. “Prince Farzad. He had a longer name. Farzad … uh…” She strained to remember. “I can’t remember. I’m sure it’s all in the letters.”
Roscoe said, “He wasn’t some charlatan trying to pass himself off—”
“No, he was a real prince.”
“You mentioned letters?” I asked.
“Please don’t tell Daddy. She didn’t want him to know.”
Roscoe said, “Know what?”
“About the love letters that Farzad sent her.”
“Did you see these letters?” asked Roscoe.
“No.” She wasn’t much of a liar, and she knew it. She recanted fast. “Well, yes, I did, but Helen swore me up and down to secrecy.”
“Do you know where we can find them?” I asked.
“No.” Her lower lip quivered; her eyes moistened. Roscoe flashed me a Here come the waterworks again look. She managed not to sob, but it wasn’t easy. “I’m not sure where she kept them. She showed them to me once, last summer. They smelled of perfume.”
Roscoe said, “How many?”
“I’m not sure. Nine, maybe ten. Possibly more. They were in those red, white, and blue airmail envelopes, tied together by a ribbon. They were addressed to a post office box. I guess that’s how Kitty got them past Daddy.”
I said, “Did Helen let you read the letters?”
“No. She read snippets to me.”
<
br /> Roscoe said, “Did you meet this Persian bird?”
“Once. In Paris. The three of us went out to dinner, to a little restaurant on the Seine. He was charming. He spoke perfect English, with the Oxford diction.”
“How’d they meet?” asked Roscoe.
“I don’t know. I wasn’t there when it happened. Kitty never told me.” She stopped talking and looked at me with pained eyes, then at Roscoe. “I’m tired.”
He and I spoke in overlapping sentences. Me: “We’ve taken up enough of your time.” Roscoe: “Just a few more questions…”
I stood up and nudged Roscoe. “Let’s go.”
“But I’m not finished—”
“Let’s go!”
Roscoe grunted as he stood and trailed me to the front door. Outside, Floyd led us to the gate, and we dodged reporters all the way to the county auto.
We motored west on South Temple, toward downtown. The Walker Building came into view, the tallest building between Chicago and San Francisco at sixteen stories high, with a huge neon sign on top flashing the building’s name. A few blocks away from the jail, I broke the silence.
“She lost her stepmother.”
“Christ, Art, those were softballs you were tossing her.” Roscoe rolled the window down a crack and lit a cigarette. “Next time I can’t get to sleep, I know where to go.”
Neither of us said another word as I steered into the county jail lot. What could either of us have said at that moment? I didn’t like him, and I sensed, probably correctly, the feeling was mutual. It wasn’t just because our methods were different, nor was it his refusal to compromise. No, a more fundamental rift existed. Roscoe’s rage troubled me. We had been partners for a few months, and here I was, wondering how on earth I was going to make it through this investigation one more day working with such a hard-bitten man.
Five
“Are you sure you want to see this?” asked Tom Livsey.
“Yep. I’m sure. Let’s have a look.”
He pulled the chrome lever until it clicked, opened the white door, and wheeled out a stretcher with a corpse under a sheet. Roscoe stood behind me, and I could sense him looking over my shoulder. Tom tugged the sheet off the head, and the odor almost overwhelmed me. He noticed the color in my face draining away and gestured to a sink behind me.
“If you have to upchuck…”
I shook my head.
He smiled. “I figured it wouldn’t hurt to point it out.”
Roscoe tapped my shoulder, and I faced him. He dangled a white handkerchief in front of me, which I accepted with a nod of gratitude and then held over my nose and mouth. I surveyed the damage. She hardly looked human anymore. They had cleaned all of the mud and blood and debris off of her and brushed back what greasy hair remained. Her one remaining eye was closed, and her body was so badly discolored that you’d never guess she had been pale-skinned in her lifetime. I forced myself to look at her body, but I couldn’t for very long.
At my side now, Roscoe smirked at me. “She’s seen better days. You don’t look so good, either. What say we go outside, get some fresh air?”
“No. I’ve got to see her.”
With my eyes fixed on the row of light globes on the ceiling, I steeled myself to resume examining her. I tilted my head down and tried to take in the rest. One of her breasts had been torn clean off, and bones were showing in spots. She was missing some fingers, and her left foot was almost entirely severed.
I felt my partly digested breakfast surging up my throat like molten lava, and that’s when I turned to the sink and vomited in one violent heave as I grabbed porcelain and closed my eyes. It took a few seconds for me to catch my breath, and I felt Roscoe’s big hand patting me on the shoulder. A bitter taste coated my tongue.
“Sorry, fellas,” I said, my eyes closed, everything dark. “I guess I wasn’t ready.”
“Don’t apologize,” said Tom. “It’s a normal reaction. It took me time to get used to this job. I suppose I’m still not all the way there yet.”
I blinked to adjust my eyes and smiled at Roscoe, who leaned against the wall with folded arms, watching my every move. Everything was so white in that room: the octagon-shaped floor tiles, the freshly painted walls, the door with painted words on pebbled glass that read COUNTY MORGUE—DR. L. NASH, COUNTY CORONER on the other side, even the frame on the transom above the door. What wasn’t white was stainless steel—cold to the touch.
Tom read from his clipboard. “Helen Pfalzgraf suffered a severe blow to the head before being hit by her automobile, so she was either unconscious or dead when the car ran over her. We found the piece of ore used to bash her skull, in the trunk of her Cadillac, of all places.” He paused to turn the page and skimmed the next document. “Her stomach was empty, but she had liquor in her system. Her blood alcohol level was approaching point thirteen, so she must’ve had a fair bit to drink that night.”
I said, “Were you here when Dr. Pfalzgraf identified her body?”
“As a matter of fact, I was,” he said. “Funny thing: He didn’t appear to be very shaken up. He walked in with Dr. Nash, I pulled down the sheet, and he looked at her for about ten seconds, nodded, and left. Sheriff Cannon questioned him out in the hall. And that was it.”
“Do you remember what the sheriff asked?” Roscoe wanted to know.
Tom shook his head. “I didn’t get most of it, although I did hear Cannon ask Pfalzgraf when was the last time he saw her alive.”
Tom pulled the sheet up over the body and pushed the drawer closed until something metallic clicked.
“And?” Roscoe prompted.
“I heard the doctor say he saw his wife last on Friday afternoon. He wanted to spend the evening with her, but she had other plans.”
“Did the doctor say anything else?” I asked.
It took a second, but Tom remembered. “When he identified the body, he said there were some items missing: her wedding ring and an antique oval locket with a picture of her mother in it. There were no signs of these articles at the murder scene. The sheriff ruled out robbery, only because Pfalzgraf had four thousand six hundred dollars’ worth of jewelry on her or scattered near her at the murder site, and she was carrying hundreds of dollars in cash in her purse, which the police found in the backseat of her car up in Ogden.”
“Thanks, Tom,” I said.
Tom’s face lit up from remembering something. “Oh yeah. One other thing. She was pregnant.”
I tried to conceal my shock, but I have a feeling Livsey picked up on it. If the news left Roscoe dumbfounded, he hid it better than me. I said, “How far along?”
“About three months. Give or take a week.” He walked over to a desk, pulled out a swivel chair on wheels, and sat down. “Every bone in her body was broken. I’ve estimated she was run over by the car at least seven, maybe eight, times.”
I took a deep breath and let out a shaky exhale, still trying to come to grips with Helen being pregnant at the time of her death.
Tom looked up from his report. “You gonna be OK, Art?”
“Yeah. Thanks, Tom.”
Roscoe put on his Stetson and pulled it low. “I’m starving,” he said. “S’get the fuck outta here.”
* * *
The Vienna Café at 144 South Maine was a narrow eatery with booths and a checkerboard linoleum floor. The long counter had chrome swivel barstools bolted to the floor, each with a corresponding condiment rack nearby. The sign out front proclaiming the Vienna to be UTAH’S FINEST EATING ESTABLISHMENT was sheer hyperbole, although they did serve the best seafood downtown. You couldn’t go wrong with the fish and chips, but I hardly touched mine due to a loss of appetite after seeing Helen Pfalzgraf’s remains. Meantime, Roscoe devoured his chicken fried steak like a man who’d just emerged from the mountains after days of not eating, unfazed by what he’d witnessed a half hour earlier.
The lunch crowd filled the place. A hunched man on a barstool caught my attention. The homely son of a gun—chinless, buckteeth,
John Gilbert mustache—was dipping his toast in egg yolk and kept peeking at us. His worsted suit was too big for him, and the material on the elbows was frayed. He noticed me, too, and he sipped coffee and eased backward off his barstool. He rubbed his hand on his jacket as he approached us, then extended it and flashed one of the homeliest smiles in modern history.
“Seymour Considine,” he said. I shook his hand, which was either moist or greasy (I couldn’t tell which). When Roscoe didn’t shake Considine’s hand, he lowered it out of sight. He said to Roscoe, “Remember me? Fort Collins? The Chester Hicks case. I covered it for Real Mystery Stories magazine. You wouldn’t talk to me.”
Roscoe’s mouth was full, and he wiped the corners with his linen napkin before speaking. “Sure. I remember you. Now get lost, chump, before I up and give you the heave-ho myself. There’s a foul odor, and it’s ruining my lunch.”
Considine ignored him, eyeing me instead. “Maybe you read my coverage of the Ruth Snyder–Judd Gray trial. I was nominated for the Golden Magnifying Glass for those stories. I didn’t win, but I was one of five finalists.”
“We don’t like to associate with lawbreakers,” said Roscoe.
“What do you mean?” asked Considine.
“I know you got your ass thrown in jail for jumping the wall at the Pfalzgraf place,” said Roscoe. “Now leave us the hell alone.”
Considine said to me, “I dig up all kinds of information the law can’t find. You know, real dirt. I could be of use to you, and I know you could be of use to me. I was thinking of an exchange of information, a little quid pro quo. What do you say, Deputy”—he squinted to read my nameplate—“Oveson.”
“Maybe you don’t hear so well, Considine,” said Roscoe. “I said get lost.”
His face sagging in defeat, Considine returned to the counter, leaving Roscoe and me to eat in silence.
“I gotta take a leak,” said Roscoe at the end of his meal. He got up and walked back through a door at the rear of the restaurant.
This is my opportunity, I thought. I walked over to where Considine was sitting and leaned against the counter near him. He glanced at me and raised his eyebrows in acknowledgment.