Husbands And Lap Dogs Breathe Their Last

by David Steven Rappoport

  “What do they call it, a reliquary? That’s the word. You know, like the remains of saints in churches, only this one was pagan. It was a piece of that Craddock woman’s leg bone. It was removed after her death and set into a pendant. Creepy, huh? It was supposed to heal people or something. Total nonsense, if you ask me, but you know how it goes when you’re married. Discretion is the better part of keeping your mouth shut, or whatever that saying is.”

  “Do you know where Therese got the brooch?”

  “At an auction, I think.”

  “When?”

  “I don’t remember. Sometime in the last five or six years.”

  “Do you know if she sold the brooch at auction herself and then purchased it back?”

  “No way. She loved that thing. Anyway, why would somebody do that?”

  “The brooch was sold twice at auction during the last few years. I’m eliminating possibilities. I don’t suppose you know who the previous owner was?”

  “No idea.”

  The next afternoon Cummings visited the home of Surendra Hickok in Forest Park. Sequentially, Forest Park is the second suburb heading west from Chicago from Oak Park. Unlike Oak Park, Forest Park is what would have been called middle class in the decades of the twentieth century, when the middle class was still thriving. Its downtown, Madison Street, was still filled with unpretentious shops and taverns, and perpendicular side streets were lined with simple but inviting wood frame homes.

  One of these homes was Therese’s. It was square and sturdy with decorative wooden shingles and large picture windows. The house was set far back from the street, and the expansive front yard had been turned into a large garden with vegetable, perennial and annual beds.

  As Cummings arrived he noticed a middle-aged man in overalls and a weathered straw hat pulling weeds.

  “What a lovely garden!” Cummings said, approaching the exterior fence.

  “Thank you. It was my sister’s,” the man responded.

  “Therese?”

  “You knew her?”

  “I met her. Like Therese, I moved here from Maine.”

  “Did you?” the man said, extending his hand. “Samson Hickok.”

  “Cummings Flynn Wanamaker,” he replied, shaking it.

  “Where in Maine are you from?”

  “Horeb.”

  “Really? We’re from Samaria.”

  “I know Samaria well.”

  “You do know what happened to Therese?”

  “Yes. I’m so sorry for your loss.”

  Samson sadly nodded his head. “I’m just cleaning up the place. We’re going to sell the house. How do you know Therese?”

  “I didn’t know her well. I understand she wrote a book about Wilhelm Reich.”

  “I didn’t read her books. Too oddball for me.”

  “Did Therese know someone named Chess Biederman by any chance?”

  “Why do you ask?” Samson responded, apparently surprised by the question.

  “He owned a small factory in Horeb. His body was found recently.”

  “I’m familiar with the name,” Samson replied tentatively.

  “I understand your sister Cosima died, too, about ten years ago, if I’m not mistaken. Do you mind if I ask what she died of?”

  “Who are you again?” Samson asked.

  “Cummings Flynn Wanamaker. I’ve been asked to investigate Therese’s death.”

  “Why are you investigating?”

  “Just informally. For the Mathers Society. That’s the organization that ...”

  “I know what it is,” Samson said with an increasing tone of distrust. “Why did they hire someone to investigate?”

  “They want to know what happened.”

  “I think the police are working on that. Are you working with the police?”

  “No. As I said, I was asked to investigate informally by members of the Mathers Society. As you might imagine, they are quite upset about what happened.”

  “I’m sure they are. So am I. If you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a lot to do,” Samson said and turned back to the garden.

  Back in his car Cummings considered what he’d learned through his interviews, although he realized there wasn’t much — or at least not much that was conclusive. This and plotting his next steps were enough to keep Cummings intellectually engaged as he drove home.

  Chapter Eleven

  As the result of an impromptu visit to a yarn store several years earlier, Odin and Luther had developed a passion for the woolly arts. Luther was drawn to making colorful sweaters, while Odin was fond of making scientific and mathematical artifacts in yarn, such as Mobius strips and human brains. These enthusiasms now led them to embark on a yarn crawl.

  A yarn crawl is similar to a pub crawl. Fiber shops in a given locale offer various incentives to encourage knitters to drop by and spend money. There were twenty-seven knitting shops within a one hundred-mile radius of Chicago participating in this year’s crawl, and Odin and Luther were determined to visit them all. Rockland and Cummings, noble and patient spouses that they were, had agreed to come along for the ride.

  Odin and Cummings’s financial circumstances had not improved. There had been a discussion before setting out that Odin was just to look at yarn but not actually to buy any. In spite of this there were already several bags of new projects in the trunk of the car, and they had only just left store nine, Purls and Curls, so named because there was yarn in the front and a beauty salon in the back.

  “Odin, please,” Cummings implored, “we can’t be spending money now.”

  “Do not berate him, Cummings,” Luther said. “At least he does not spend your household money on gin and floozies.”

  “I am not at all sure,” Rockland said, “that the term floozy may be applied in a gender-neutral way.”

  “Is there not a comparable phrase for wayward boys?” Luther drawled.

  “No,” Rockland said definitively, “this is one of the many linguistic instances in which girls are sluts, and men are virile.”

  “I have never understood that,” Luther continued. “We don’t have these double standards when we talk about other species. For instance, I have never heard the female Agkistrodon piscivorus referred to as a slut, even though there is no one I am aware of with warm feelings for Agkistrodon piscivorus.”

  “Mankind reserves its harshest judgments for amorous women, not poisonous snakes,” Rockland said.

  Luther nodded.

  “In any case,” Cummings said, looking at Odin, “don’t buy any more yarn.”

  The conversation lapsed for a few minutes as they drove on toward shop number ten, Sheep Ahoy. Rockland finally broke the silence.

  “How is your investigation going?” he asked Cummings.

  “I’m informally interviewing the members of the group that were present when the victim died.”

  “Does informally mean you’re proceeding out of personal interest, or that someone is paying you?”

  “It means I don’t have a detective’s license.”

  “Why don’t you get one?”

  “I’m ineligible. The only way you can become a licensed private detective in Illinois is if you’ve previously been in law enforcement, which I haven’t.”

  “That’s a shame,” Rockland responded. “All of those people reaching out to you.”

  “What do you mean?” Cummings asked.

  “Didn’t you say you received a number of phone calls requesting help after the story about you in the newspaper?”

  “Yes, but I haven’t even listened to the messages.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I’m not a licensed detective, and there’s nothing I can do to help them,” Cummings said.

  “You may be able to work with some of them discreetly. In any case you might as well find out what they want,” Rockland continued. “Who knows? There might be an interesting case.”

  Some hours later, after taking many bags of wool, which Odin assured Cummings would
be paid for out of retirement funds if absolutely necessary, into the house, Cummings reviewed his unplayed phone messages. There were more than he’d remembered, about fifteen in all.

  Cummings decided to return all the calls. As Rockland implied, there was always the possibility someone might be willing to hire him informally.

  “Hello. This is Cummings Flynn Wanamaker.”

  “I own a bar. It’s got a urinal. In the men’s room. It keeps breaking. I keep getting it fixed, and it keeps breaking. I think it’s my former business partner. He had a sex change. Could you do a stakeout?”

  “I know this is a little unusual, but I think my cat is an incarnation of Thomas Jefferson.”

  “Mrs. Cafferty? This is Cummings Flynn Wanamaker.”

  “Speak up! I’m hard of hearing.”

  “This is the detective in the newspaper. You called me about your husband’s death. I understand you think he may have been murdered.”

  “He was a driving instructor. He worked for the Motor Vehicle Department for thirty-seven years.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “He flunked lots of nasty boys on the road test.”

  “Do you think one of them may have killed him?”

  “I just said so.”

  “I see. Tell me about the circumstances of his death.”

  “What do you mean? He died.”

  “Was there evidence he was murdered? Lacerations or bullet wounds, for example?”

  “That’s what I’m calling you for.”

  “I’ve committed seventeen murders, but the police think I made it up. Do you help people with communication problems?”

  “This is Cummings Flynn Wanamaker. You contacted me about a missing head?”

  “That’s right! My father got it at the 1964 Republican Convention. Dad was instrumental in getting his state delegation to switch their votes from Nelson Rockefeller to Barry Goldwater. Senator Goldwater gave it to him as a thank you present.”

  “And what sort of head was it?”

  “A shrunken head. Goldwater said it was Hubert Humphrey, but I think it was actually a World War II relic from South Pacific cannibals. It’s definitely a real human head. I know because I had it appraised on one of those television antique shows.”

  “You say it’s missing?”

  “Yes. There was a break-in at my home. Nothing else was taken. I called the police and told them that my ex-husband was responsible, but they aren’t doing anything.”

  “Why do think your ex-husband took it?”

  “He didn’t do it himself. He’s in prison. But he put someone else up to it. He knows how much I love that thing!”

  “So he took it to upset you?”

  “Yes. He was embezzling money from his employer, and I testified against him. That’s why he’s in prison. I went down there to confront him. He wouldn’t see me, but I think he’ll see you.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Because he’ll figure that if I’ve sent a detective, I’m serious about building a case against him; and if I can build a case, he’ll get more prison time. So he’ll see you just to deny everything. You tell him that if I get my head back, I won’t press charges. He’s not a fool. He’ll make sure I get it back, and that’s all I want!”

  “There’s no guarantee things will go the way you want.”

  “It’s worth a try, isn’t it? Please, Mister Wanamaker. It’s just a day’s work. I’ll pay you a thousand dollars in cash. Won’t you please help me?”

  The case was silly, though at least plausible compared to the others, and the thousand dollars seemed persuasive.

  “I’m not a licensed private detective. I only work informally with clients, you understand.”

  “I understand. Just go see him.”

  As Cummings anticipated, the visit did not go as hoped — with a surprise. The embezzler refused to see him. As he was leaving the visitors’ waiting area, contemplating if he’d have to return the thousand dollars, he saw someone he didn’t expect: Otto Verissimo. Otto was sitting on a bench, perusing a magazine.

  “I suppose it’s obvious that I’m surprised to see you here,” Cumming said.

  “Why is it more surprising that I’m here than you are?” Otto said calmly. There was nothing in his tone or manner to suggest that this chance meeting disturbed him or he was pleased about it either.

  “My interests are such that a visit to a prison is not entirely unexpected,” Cummings replied, “whereas the same cannot be said of you. Or is this research? Perhaps you’re locating your next book in a penitentiary.”

  “I’m visiting someone.”

  “May I ask whom?”

  “There’s no reason you shouldn’t know. Edgar Diderot. He was convicted of burglarizing my former neighbors. Falsely convicted.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Because I saw the burglars leave my neighbor’s apartment, and he wasn’t one of them.”

  “Did you tell the police that?”

  “Of course I did! But my former partner, Louis, who wasn’t even there when the crime occurred, said he had seen the burglars too, and he was absolutely sure Edgar was with them. The jury believed Louis rather than me.”

  “I don’t understand. Why would Louis lie?”

  “He was a scoundrel. We were breaking up. He’d stolen a lot of money from me and had taken up with someone else. Perhaps he thought he could use it as leverage.”

  “So you visit Edgar?”

  “I do what I can to help. I visit when I can. I assist with his legal bills. That’s the whole truth. Please let it go now,” Otto said, suddenly overwrought. “Being in this gruesome place is difficult enough.”

  A guard called Otto’s name, and he rose to go into the visiting area.

  Later Cummings searched the Internet to see what, if anything, he could learn about Edgar Diderot. He found nothing. Apparently the case was just another common crime in a large city, of insufficient interest to attract newspaper or television coverage. Perhaps the Diderot matter was entirely unrelated to the Mathers case, but it did seem remarkably odd to run into Otto in a prison.

  Cummings wasn’t sure what to expect when he arrived at Clarkson’s for the Fine Jewelry and Couture Auction. He didn’t go to auctions. He was surprised to discover, for example, that although the sale seemed to focus primarily on jewelry and clothes, it also contained ceramics, rugs, furniture and other objects. Perhaps, Cummings theorized, this rounded out what would otherwise have been insufficient inventory.

  It was also unclear how much, if any, relevance this auction might have to the Mathers case. Whatever their interest in Britten, with the exception of Anunciación and Tom, the Mathers members did not appear to have the means to indulge in financial frivolities. As he passed the weathered lions and walked in the door of the auction house, he considered that there was a strong probability this visit might be a bust.

  The crowd assembled at Clarkson’s was large and boisterous, a demographic smorgasbord of Chicago humans. The group was so large and diverse that Cummings wondered if going to auctions was some kind of honored Chicago pastime, like watching baseball or bribing politicians.

  While perusing the crowd, Cummings wandered among the racks of clothes and display cases, feigning an inspection of the finery. Within five minutes he saw two people he recognized from the Mathers Society.

  “This is a surprise!” Cummings said, approaching Tom Daniels and Winky Carmello, who were standing together, chatting.

  “No more than seeing you here,” Tom responded pleasantly. “I’m just hanging out with Winky,” he volunteered.

  “Is your cold better?” Cummings asked, although it didn’t appear that Tom was any healthier.

  “Yes. Thank you for asking,” Tom said.

  “I’m here to buy the Britten lingam for Crandall,” Winky offered, “if the bidding doesn’t go too high. I hope you’re not bidding, too.”

  “No, no. My partner likes old tweed coats. I though
t I might surprise him,” Cummings lied, trying to remember what a lingam was.

  “I saw some old Burberrys over there,” Winky said, pointing to a picked-over rack of vintage men’s clothes.

  “I’ll take a look. Good luck,” Cummings said, going toward the coats. He pretended to peruse them as he continued to scan the room. In one corner he noticed Rutley Paik. Rutley turned and saw Cummings. Clearly, he wasn’t pleased to see him. Cummings waved, then approached him.

  “Rutley, I wouldn’t have thought auctions were your thing.”

  “You’re right about that,” Rutley explained with a forced smile, “but our conversation about auctions the other day got me to thinking it might be fun to go to one. I had the day off, so here I am.”

  “Are you planning to bid on anything?” Cummings said casually as he considered possible reasons why Rutley might actually be there.

  “I haven’t decided yet.”

  “Good luck to you!”

  Cummings felt a hand on his shoulder. It was Mary Collins. Her hair that day was a subdued shade of violet, an exact match for her 1950s sweater set.

  “Hello there! I didn’t know you guys were coming to this. I just saw Tom and Winky.”

  “Really?” Cummings feigned surprise. “Have you seen anyone else here from Mathers?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Are you here for the Emma Hardinge Britten items?” Cummings asked.

  “I don’t know even know who that is. I’m here to bid on some Polynesian tattoo needles.”

  “What do you plan to do with them?”

  “Who knows? Wear them in my hair or through my nose or something. Who was that woman you mentioned? Emma something?”

  “I understand she was a prominent nineteenth-century occultist,” Cummings explained. Just then he noticed Mandrake Kinnaird peering into a display case a few feet away.

  “I’ve never heard of her,” Mary replied, “but there were so many famous occultists back then, you can hardly keep track of them. Have fun! I’m going to grab some champagne.”