Husbands And Lap Dogs Breathe Their Last

by David Steven Rappoport

  After a few minutes, during which Cummings scanned FM radio channels, thinking he might be settling in for a long wait, Crandall emerged from the building with a thorny black walking stick. He reached down and picked something up with it. As he lifted it, Cummings saw that it was a dead pigeon. It seemed to be covered in some kind of white substance, as well as blood.

  Crandall concentrated intently on it for a few moments as if inflicting a curse. Then he put the bird somewhere on the side of the house; Cummings couldn’t see where. This done, Crandall went back into the building.

  Cummings continued to fiddle with the radio. Soon Crandall re-emerged with Mary. They seemed to be chatting pleasantly as they walked together down the street. Cummings saw them go into an L-station two blocks away.

  More time passed. Winky emerged. He was also headed toward the L.

  Seconds later Glen, wearing a suit and tie and carrying a briefcase, descended the front steps. He, too, walked toward transportation.

  Cummings waited a quarter of an hour. None of his persons of interest returned. Cummings started the car.

  He circled the area until he found a diner. He went in and had a donut and tea. The donut was stale, but the stop served its purpose. It passed some time.

  Eyeing the flow-through bag in his mug with contempt, he finished the last of the amber liquid, then turned his attention to some notes he’d made the previous evening. Then he went back to the car and headed for his destination.

  This was Beehold, which was located in a low-rise office building in the South Loop on a block with new galleries, cafes and condo buildings.

  The office and its decor were crisp but low-budget: clean lines and high-tech laminates. A painted plaster bee hive, which Cummings estimated was four feet high, stood by the reception desk. A young woman sat behind it. She looked up and studied him as he entered.

  “Are you here to fix the photocopier?” she asked.

  “No,” Cummings said, “I’m an acquaintance of Crandall Hobbs. Is he here?”

  “He hasn’t arrived yet.”

  “Are you expecting him?”

  “Yes.”

  “May I wait in his office?”

  “No, but you may wait there.” She pointed to a nearby arrangement of chairs, orchestrated around a low circular table painted with buzzing bees. Cummings sat and perused Beehold’s annual report. As is typically the case in such documents, the report was stuffed with pictures of smiling faces. Cummings found this a surprise, as he always did. Given that nonprofits typically seek to resolve horrible and intractable problems, why is everyone always smiling?

  Crandall arrived, and Cummings rose to greet him.

  “Crandall, Cummings Flynn Wanamaker. We met recently when I ...”

  “I know who you are,” Crandall said with a quizzical, if pleasant, tone. He seemed surprised to see him.

  “I wonder if I might speak with you for a moment?” Cummings asked. “Perhaps in your office?”

  “Certainly,” Crandall replied, ushering Cummings down a hallway.

  Crandall unlocked his office door, and they went in.

  Cummings perused the office, looking for any information that might be illuminating. The room was very different from Crandall’s apartment. There was no evidence of his pagan life, just a desk with a computer, several chairs and a bookcase full of management texts. Neatly stacked papers covered other surfaces. The only visual adornments were a poster from the Chicago Art Institute of an eighteenth-century English landscape painting of beekeepers and a framed picture of Winky.

  “Are you scanning my office for something in particular?” Crandall asked, aware that Cummings was eyeballing his domain.

  “I was just admiring your office.”

  “I like to keep it purely functional. So what can I do for you?” Crandall asked.

  “I’d like to buy some honey.”

  “You stopped by to buy honey?”

  “I was in the neighborhood,” Cummings lied.

  Crandall nodded. “All right. We have some at the front desk.”

  His next stop was in Bucktown, one of several Chicago neighborhoods in which affluent and stylish young worker bees like to swarm and buy their first overpriced hives. It was also the home of Guns and Leather Tattoos.

  Guns and Leather Tattoos was black and bright: black walls, black floors, black ceilings and fluorescent lights. The walls were covered with illustrations of tattoos of every size, color way and theme. There was a reception area in the front with a number of beat-up chairs. Beyond it there was a large room where the work was actually conducted. A capacious industrial cabinet stood on one side of it. Its doors were open, allowing Cummings to see that it contained tubes and jars and bottles of various murky substances, as well as equipment. Cummings assumed there were tattoo inks and the assemblages required to do the actual tattooing.

  Mary was working when Cummings arrived, adorning a mass of flesh spread on a table before her. Cummings moved through the reception area to its farthest point and saw that Mary was putting a life-size monarch butterfly on the ample left butt cheek of a young lady.

  A facially tattooed, skeletally thin man with grayish skin appeared and stood in front of Cummings, preventing him from going into the work room.

  “May I help you?”

  “Yes. Do you offer gift certificates? I was going to buy my husband a tweed coat for his birthday, but that didn’t work out. So I thought I might get him a tattoo.”

  “We sure do. What amount were you thinking of?”

  They discussed the costs of various tattoos and what scale of gift certificate might be suitable relative to what Odin might wish to have permanently inked. Meanwhile, Mary, a model of professional concentration, never looked up.

  Cummings went back to his car. He considered visiting Glen and Winky at work but quickly eliminated that option. His effort that morning had been fruitless, and a glance at a corporate cubicle or the city streets, respectively, seemed unlikely to change that.

  Only one possibility remained. Cummings drove to Lincoln Park, where he managed to find a parking space within sight of Tom’s bungalow. He took a pair of binoculars out of his glove compartment and waited. Then he waited some more.

  Late in the morning Cummings observed Mandrake climb Tom’s steps and knock on the door. He carried a copy of Love’s Tender Chainmail.

  In the afternoon, at the agreed-upon time, Cummings rang Otto’s doorbell. He was admitted by Mandrake. Cummings passed under the heads of Sebastian’s staring African acquaintances and was led by Mandrake to the Parlor of the Orchids. Mandrake seated him and left to get refreshments.

  “Good afternoon,” Otto said, entering the room with Barbara Cartland trotting behind him, just ahead of Mandrake’s return with the tea trolley. Mandrake began to serve tea.

  “Did you enjoy the auction, Mandrake?” Cummings asked.

  “Auction?” Otto asked.

  “Yes,” Cummings continued, “Mandrake and I ran into each other at Clarkson’s auction house.”

  “Really? You didn’t mention that, Mandrake,” Otto responded.

  “Aye, aye. Ah went wi’ Tom. Tobys wur fur tout.”

  “Yes,” Cummings said, realizing his capacity to understand Mandrake seemed to be increasing still further. “I thought it odd that a few Toby mugs were included in a jewelry and couture auction, but I suppose the more honey you slather, the more flies you attract. I was surprised by your apparent lack of enthusiasm, Mandrake.”

  “Whit dae ye mean?”

  “You dropped out of the bidding very quickly, I thought.”

  “Aye, it’s a said fecht. Them Tobys be a’place in me hame. Genug iz genug.”

  “Is that the only reason you went to the auction?”

  Suddenly Mandrake exploded. “Dinna think ye ken when ye dinna ken, ye schmuck!” Incensed, he marched out of the room.

  Otto glanced at Cummings woefully.

  “I must apologize,” he said. “Sometimes Mandrake gets ove
rly sensitive about his Tobys. They’re the closest thing he has to human relationships. If you’ll excuse me for a moment.” Otto left the room, presumably to soothe Mandrake.

  Cummings, seizing the opportunity, moved quickly to the bookcases containing Otto’s literary output and scanned the shelves until he located the various hardcover, paperback and foreign editions of Love’s Tender Chainmail. He pulled from the shelf the edition that seemed to most closely match the one he’d seen Mandrake carrying. This was the English (U.K.) hardcover, which had a different cover than the American version. He opened it. The pages were glued together, and the interior was hollowed out.

  He heard footsteps and hurriedly reshelved the book, but Otto was in the room as he completed the task.

  “I was just admiring your work,” Cummings explained. “Now that I’ve met you, I’ve become interested in your books. I’m reading them. I think this is my favorite so far.”

  “Which one is that?” Otto asked, pleased that he had acquired a new fan.

  “Love’s Tender Chainmail.”

  “Oh, yes. One of my most poignant, I think. I’ll be pleased to give you an autographed copy before you leave. I must apologize for Mandrake again. He’s having a time out in the kitchen. Do have some rugelach. Now what was it you wanted to see me about?”

  Cummings had found more than he was hoping for, but as a way of explaining his presence, he updated Otto in a very limited manner on the status of his investigations.

  Cummings was sitting in his car, holding his autographed copy of Love’s Tender Chainmail and considering whether the day’s surveillance was at a logical ending point, when his cell phone rang.

  “Cummings, this is Rockland.”

  “Rockland, where are you?”

  “Lincoln Park. I’ve been following Rutley Paik. He is currently parked on the 900 block of West Dickens Avenue. He’s been there for an hour. Can you think what he might be doing?”

  “Is he near this address?” Cummings said, consulting his notes and giving a street number to Rockland.

  “Yes, right near it.”

  “That’s where Tom Daniels lives.”

  “Who is Tom Daniels?”

  “Another Mathers member.”

  “Fascinating! Now assuming our Mister Paik is watching our Mister Daniels the way we’re watching him, what does that suggest?”

  “I’m not sure. Perhaps Rutley knows something about Tom that we don’t.”

  “At the very least,” Rockland concurred. “Do you think our Mister Paik has a professional reason to be watching our Mister Daniels?”

  “I don’t know what that would be. Rutley is a fireman. Can you sit tight for a while and see what happens?”

  “I certainly can,” Rockland replied. “I’ll telephone if there are any developments.”

  Twenty minutes later, as Cummings sat in traffic on his way home, Rockland phoned again.

  “A young woman appeared on foot and got into the car with Rutley. They’re heading northwest. I don’t know where they’re going, but I’m pursuing.”

  “What does the woman look like?”

  “Tall and thin, a little Dutch boy hair cut dyed red.”

  “That sounds like Mary Collins. She’s also a Mathers member and is married to another member named Glen.”

  “Is she? I’ll phone you when they arrive at their destination.”

  Their destination, as Cummings found out in a subsequent phone call from Rockland, turned out to be a cheap motel in the city’s northwest corridor. Rockland watched them park, check in and go to a room.

  “This confirms that they’re having an affair,” Cummings said to Rockland. “I saw them kissing at the auction.”

  “That seems clear,” Rockland agreed.

  “It’s odd that they chose to meet on Tom’s block,” Cummings remarked. “Perhaps it’s just a coincidence, although neither of them lives nor works near Tom’s house, so why meet there?”

  “There must be a reason,” Rockland theorized.

  “Yes. But what is it?”

  Chapter Thirteen

  The next afternoon, Cummings received a call from Ernestine.

  “I just heard from a little birdie the results of Chess’s autopsy.”

  “What little bird?”

  “Someone who knows someone in the Sagadahoc County Sheriff’s office. I did not understand the scientific details, but I do think I understand the thrust of the thing.”

  “And what is that?”

  “It’s complicated, you understand. The body was there for months. They don’t think it froze until some days after it was put in the boat, so Chess decayed quite a bit at the beginning. The placement of the boat on my land seems to have resulted in much heat from the sun on the front cabin. Although Chess did freeze sooner or later, he also partially thawed a few times. Then there were the animals gnawing at him. So all and all, it seems there wasn’t a whole lot of Chess in the state when he was found that it was in when he was lost. They found some of this chemical, and they found some of that chemical, but not enough to be absolutely sure about anything. But there was a fracture on the back of his skull, so he must have been hit wicked good.”

  “Is that what killed him?”

  “I don’t think that’s clear. Incidentally, I saw Elektra at the store. She asked me to ask you, when will you be visiting Maine again? It seems Deuty is wicked eager to see you.”

  “Thanks, Ernestine.”

  The following morning Cummings returned to Rutley Paik’s modest bungalow but did not find him home. He left a note, asking him to call Cummings. Cummings was sure he would. Those who are hiding something, as Rutley surely was, are always eager to demonstrate they aren’t.

  The call came within three hours.

  “You left a note at my house?” Rutley asked.

  “Indeed I did,” Cummings replied. “Thanks for getting in touch. I have just a few more questions, if you don’t mind.”

  “Why would I mind?” Rutley said.

  “I’m confused about the Craddock Brooch. You said Therese bought it at an auction.”

  “Actually, it was a gift from me. She bought it, but I paid for it.”

  “You bought it? Why did you lie about that?”

  “I didn’t. I answered the question you asked.”

  “Why were you at the Clarkson’s auction?”

  “I told you. I was curious.”

  “I think you were there because you’ve been keeping an eye on Tom Daniels.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Because my colleague saw you parked in front of his house.”

  “I was meeting someone. It was a convenient location.”

  “Neither you nor Mary lives or works in Tom’s neighborhood.”

  “You know about Mary?”

  “Yes. Now would you tell me why you’ve been investigating Tom?”

  “Why have you been following me?”

  “Why have you been following Tom?”

  “I don’t have to tell you anything.”

  “No, you don’t. However, you do understand that I’m trying to find out what happened to Therese?”

  “Yes, but I don’t know why.”

  “I conduct investigations for the joy of it. I like to figure things out. What about you?”

  “I’m a fireman,” he said, softening. “That means, among other things, that I know what can happen in an official investigation in this city. I don’t trust the experts not to screw things up.”

  “So your interest is making sure that Therese’s murder is solved, just the same as mine.”

  “I guess so.”

  “Then let’s share information. Honestly, Rutley, my investigation isn’t going as easily as I’d hoped,” Cummings said.

  “I’d say you’re doing all right. You figured out about me and Mary,” Rutley said with a hint of respect.

  “That’s true, but that’s hardly substantial progress. In truth, I’m working on two murders right now, Therese’s
and another in Maine.”

  “Therese was from Maine.”

  “Indeed she was, and this other murder occurred one village over from hers.”

  “Where? Do you mean in Horeb?”

  “Exactly. So you’ve been there?”

  “Yes. With Therese.”

  “I don’t suppose you recall meeting a man named Chess Biederman?”

  “Damn, you don’t miss a thing, do you? Therese used to see him once in a while when we were in Maine. I never went along. Like I said, I’m not the jealous type, and I thought it would be a little weird to accompany your wife to visit her ex-husband.”

  “Therese and Chess were married?”

  “I thought you’d sleuthed that out.”

  “No. I scanned public records, but it didn’t turn up.”

  “That’s just the kind of thing that happens in official investigations. Errors occur. Things get overlooked. You see why I’m trying to figure this out myself? Chess and Therese were married only a few months. They were high school sweethearts, and Therese got pregnant. They got married, and then she had a miscarriage. They didn’t really want to be married so young, so they got it annulled. They stayed friends. Not close friends, but friends. Therese might hear from him once or twice a year. If we were in Maine, she might meet him for coffee.”

  “Chess is the other murder victim.”

  “You’re kidding! How can that be? Therese was killed by someone in the Mathers Society.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “It’s the only reasonable explanation, isn’t it?”

  “I don’t know,” Cummings replied. “Coincidences occur, even improbable ones. Now tell me why you suspect Tom Daniels of murdering Therese.”

  “The truth? He creeps me out.”

  “So you’ve been following him on a hunch?”

  “Let’s say I’ve been keeping an eye on him.”

  “What about the other Mathers members?”