When Hawkins learned that Miss Deschambault had left the building about thirty minutes before Meacham arrived and had been picked up as soon as she came out, Hawkins sensed that something was terribly wrong. Sweat beads were forming above his pencil moustache and he quickly dabbed his upper lip with a pocket handkerchief. When the guard offered casually that it looked like Mr. Carver’s car has picked up Miss Deschambault, Hawkins visibly shuddered as he walked slowly back to his office.
Self-loathing and thoughts of impotence didn’t immediately occur to Hawkins as he pondered the possibilities – none of them pleasant. Carver had never shown any interest in Dede so how could they be a team? And she had been callous toward Carver all the way back to the early days in Boston. No, Dede had shown genuine affection to Hawkins which couldn’t be faked, could it? Then he thought about the money transfers sitting in the Bank of Alderney on a remote island and determined that he would contact the accountant right away. Hawkins decided to head over to Dede’s apartment and put his mind at ease on that score as well. He knew right then that they would leave Parlor City that night; there would be no interview with Detective Meacham in the morning. Among his growing concerns, Hawkins had completely forgotten the picture that Meacham had flashed in front of him.
***
As Hawkins was cleaning out his office, Meacham drove into town and once more deposited DeLong at his apartment with renewed instructions not to leave again. DeLong was passive after his confrontation with Hawkins and now seemed content to let his former partner work solo. “Just call home and tell your wife you are still alive” instructed Meacham.
Meacham drove immediately up to Miss Deschambault’s apartment on the affluent North Side and wondered how she could afford to live there on a secretary’s modest salary unless she was receiving help from a benefactor.
When he got to the apartment on the 3rd floor, the door was ajar and Meacham had the invitation he needed to enter. When he flipped on the light and did a quick search of the rooms, he could see that the place had been carefully stripped of personal items. This was no robbery scene. Miss Deschambault had packed her essentials and left.
Meacham walked back to his car and radioed headquarters, asking to be patched through to the Chief. Now what, he said to himself with a shrug when he was informed that the Chief was incommunicado? What would make Miss Deschambault take off so quickly after leaving work – and possibly with Carver? He liked the idea of Hawkins being played for a fool but where did it get him? If DePue’s death was not an accident but part of a larger crime, he needed proof beyond Oscar Peterson’s statement and the suspicious liquor purchase by Hawkins’ alluring assistant.
Meacham’s speculations were interrupted when the radio came alive. It was the Chief instructing him to say nothing – just report into headquarters immediately.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
When Meacham walked into police headquarters, Sgt. Donahue looked up from his perch and jerked his head back and frowned, signaling Billy to look ahead. He could see Mayor Adelbert Wattle through the glass partition of Chief Broderick’s office. “Don’t lose your temper, kid. It ain’t worth a tinker’s damn in the grand scheme of things”, whispered the sergeant as Billy passed by
Known as “The Duck”, the Mayor’s name and body were almost a perfect match. He was dense and built close to the ground, almost dwarfish in appearance, appearing to walk sideways as much as forward. But his signature trademark was a fringe of dark brown glossy hair that he somehow combed almost from the nape of his neck, undulating and meandering over his scalp, not quite reaching its final destination at his expansive forehead. Employing a magic glue-like elixir, he somehow kept this conglomerate in place and didn’t seem to notice the snickers that spontaneously broke out when people were inevitably drawn to the top of his head. To amuse himself, Meacham sometimes envisioned Wattle in a wind tunnel with his hairy swirl engulfing his entire body.
Three generations of Wattles has embalmed and buried residents of Parlor City but not all of their family secrets went quietly into the grave. In their grief, distraught and even bitter relatives had opened up to Thaddeus Wattle and then his son and grandson, spilling out details, sordid and otherwise, of the buried relative. Thaddeus had learned early on the value of quiet rectitude and knew how to use it for his own aggrandizement.
People in and around Parlor City had trusted and then learned to fear the Wattle clan and it was almost a foregone conclusion that one of the sons would use the accumulated family knowledge to gain political influence. And thus it was that Adelbert Wattle in his quiet, unassuming way had won his first mayoralty bid and went on the create a political fiefdom in Parlor City.
Wattle had been Mayor as long as Meacham could remember. He owned three funeral homes in Parlor City now managed by his son-in-law, his latest being the old Braun mansion which he had snapped up at a very good price. He was said to know the secrets of the deceased in every prominent local family. His funereal attire was always the same – dark brown or navy blue suit with matching solid tie and starched white shirt. People felt safe with Wattle and kept electing him. Despite his almost clownish look, Wattle was intelligent and instinctive. He was known to mentor young politicians, not just in Parlor City but throughout the state.
Meacham could see that Wattle was talking intently to the Chief when he approached the door. Almost simultaneously, they looked up with matching dour expressions and waived him in. “Detective Meacham,” Wattle began somberly, not giving the Chief the opportunity to speak first. “So good of you to come so promptly. What’s this I hear about you possibly harassing Frederick Hawkins up at the Institute when the mystery of the missing gun has apparently been solved? Surely this case can be wrapped up rather quickly now, no?” Wattle was alternately twirling and chewing on an unlit Robert Burns panatela with a spare one protruding from his chest pocket.
Meacham looked at his Chief who was sphinxlike. No help there, Meacham said to himself, so he began, “It’s a little more complicated, Mayor, if you will allow me to explain.” Wattle nodded and Meacham summarized the key issues quickly, starting with the scuff marks from DeLong’s shoes in Hawkins office, his meeting with Peterson, Miss Deschambault’s liquor purchases, DePue’s now suspicious death and finally the photograph left for him by Santimaw.
“Now Chief”, said Meacham, turning to his boss with a fierce look of indignation on his face and gaining emotional momentum from his re-capitulation, “either I am going to be allowed to pursue this case wherever it takes me or you can re-assign me right now to supervising the school crossing guards like Hawkins threatened just hours ago. But either way, I will not let this mess get buried up on Crazy Hill.”
The Chief and Wattle were now staring at each other as Meacham tried to decide which one was the bigger “pantload”, another favorite moniker among Meacham and his friends to describe anyone afraid to take action. Then, the Chief spoke. “Mayor, I’ve got to back my guy here – and I mean all the way. You asked me to go along with you early on, and I complied, when it looked like a simple gun theft inside a private facility. Det. Meacham appears to be on to something here and it could be significant. You need to tell Hawkins that it’s out of your hands now”.
Wattle appeared flummoxed as he studied his shoes, refusing to make eye contact with either of them. Meacham surprised himself with a rare display of tact by saying, “I told Hawkins we would need him here for questioning in the morning. Do you want a chance to speak to him first?” Meacham was looking directly at the Mayor but Wattle just shook his head at first then cleared his throat before saying in an almost defeated tone “Just make sure everything is handled according to Hoyle. That Institute pays a lot of taxes in this town and houses a number of our indigent drunks. Plus, Hawkins’ friendships run deep, not just with the City Council but with the business community and even Church leaders”. With that, the Mayor waddled out of police headquarters.
The Chief shrugged and gave Meacham a pat on the back and reminded him, �
�As he said, just do it by the book, Billy”. A few minutes later, Meacham sat in his car stunned and just a little bit embarrassed. The Chief had backed him in a pinch and he had been ready to think the worst of him – just like Santimaw earlier. He chuckled and then said out loud “he never called me Billy before.”
***
Hawkins showed up at Dede’s apartment only an hour after Meacham’s visit. It didn’t take him long to reach the same conclusion – his sultry vixen had packed and left in a hurry.
Hawkins plopped onto the davenport, looking at the mirror on the adjacent wall. All he could see was the top of his head with his thinning gray hair combed straight back. Dede had bolstered him often by saying how distinguished he looked but now all he felt was a horrible impotence. Then, there was the decided but gradual chill in Dede’s intimacy which he had tried to ignore but which, upon sober reflection, was all too apparent. Slowly, his hands came up from his lap as he felt the jowls that would soon dominate his face. Dropping his hands back down, he traced his stomach paunch which suddenly felt more pronounced.
It wasn’t that he loved Dede or even envisioned an idyllic life with her; Hawkins was far too cynical to have ever entertained that notion. In fact, he would have been quite content with a succession of Dedes reaching into an indeterminate future. It was the utter humiliation that Hawkins felt as he imagined – and surely it was true! – Carver and Dede mocking him at that very moment wherever they were headed. And what could he do? Report them to the police and accuse them of fleecing the Institute without his knowledge or complicity? Very soon, creditors would be demanding payment and then quizzical calls would come from Board members asking Hawkins for an explanation. Auditors would descend on Crazy Hill to discover that the entire operation had been rendered insolvent virtually overnight.
His thoughts drifted back to what now seemed like sanguine days in Boston. He had it pretty good at the Hollins Institute and the number two job there looked very attractive to him at this moment. If he had only kept his biting tongue under control. The Board had pretty much overlooked his indiscretion with a young female staffer – or so he surmised. And that incident with the travel funds which he didn’t exactly misappropriate but even he had to admit had been extravagant when attending two conferences in Europe. But he had survived those peccadillos, as he liked to characterize them, only to end up in a backwater town like Parlor City.
Hawkins felt raw, unrelenting fear for the first time in his pampered adult life and realized that he did not have the fortitude to confront it head on. Hell, I can’t even face my suffering, crippled wife, he said to himself. Earlier that day he saw himself gliding out of town with Dede at his side, impervious to consequences, secure in the thought that a large amount of cash would insulate him from the vicissitudes of life. Now, he was almost certain not only that he had been conned but that no remedy was at hand – only desperate flight. He couldn’t reach the accountant until Monday to check on his stash but the thought of what he would hear only made him more distraught. Frederick Hawkins had no humanity, no reservoir of warm feelings for others – or they for him – no attachments that could sustain him in difficult times. He felt this keenly but, like his Father, had not prepared for its consequences.
As he rose slowly from the davenport, he couldn’t bear to look in the mirror as he left Dede’s apartment to arrange a hasty departure from Parlor City.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
After leaving the Chief in the parking lot, Meacham headed back to the Institute to inform Frederick Hawkins that his presence would be required at the station in the morning.
To his chagrin, Hawkins was not there but a more compliant guard offered that the Administrator had left in a rush after demanding that he leave his post and carry a box out the back entrance and load it into the trunk of his Chrysler Crown Imperial. A quick visit to Hawkins’ office revealed a state of chaos. Meacham’s eyes zoned in on a near empty cabinet with the doors wide open. So much for Hawkins’ lame story about the stolen pistol, thought Meacham, suddenly remembering the set-up of poor Mike DeLong.
Meacham called in an APB and raced to Hawkins’ stately colonial home, hoping to find him there. He was greeted by an officious, taciturn maid who, after Meacham flashed his badge, reluctantly conceded that Hawkins had been at home briefly but then left – and yes, he was carrying a suitcase. As Meacham got back into his car, he looked upstairs and saw the solitary figure of an elderly woman silhouetted in the window.
***
Back at the station, waiting for word on Hawkins whereabouts, Meacham’s phone buzzed to inform him that he had a female visitor. Fancifully hoping that it might be Gwen Braun, Meacham adjusted his shirt and pushed back his curly brown hair as he stood up to greet his guest. His hopes were dashed when he was introduced to a middle-aged woman from Boston by the name of Mildred Crimmons.
***
Having received no satisfaction from the Boston police, Mildred decided to take time off from work and track down her icy, self-centered niece. On top of her disappointment with Stella, she had heard nothing from Ripley Maxwell and now doubted that he had ever gone to Peru. When she got past the pain and humiliation of their ephemeral, romantic relationship, which she reluctantly conceded was strictly a figment of her own imagination, she thought about the money he had supposedly invested for her. Well, she would focus on Ripley upon her return to Boston. For now, she was aching for a confrontation with her niece.
Mildred was suspicious of the information provided by Stella’s manager at the department store. Sure, it was possible that she had a friend named Danielle Deschambault in Parlor City but Mildred knew it was unlikely.
When Meacham heard Mildred’s story, he asked for a description of Stella. As Mildred began by describing her long, blonde hair, Meacham took the grainy photograph from his pocket and, pushing it forward, turned it for her to see.
“By god, that’s Stella” Mildred gasped as she seized the photograph for a closer look, “and that’s Ripley sitting next to her. Can’t tell you who that old codger is with them.” Mildred collapsed back into her seat as her arms fell to her side in total surrender.
Not wanting to reveal too much, Meacham explained to Mildred that it appeared that Stella had come to Parlor City and changed her name. He offered, in a vain attempt to assuage Mildred’s pain, that it wasn’t all that unusual a move for someone who just wanted to start life over.
Before mentioning Stella’s hasty departure from Parlor City, Meacham quizzed Mildred for more information about Ripley Maxwell. Haltingly, she described how they met by accident at the bank, that she had introduced Stella to him upon her arrival in Boston and that he handled some investments for her. Without pressing further, Meacham filled in most of the blanks in Mildred’s pitiful, one-sided relationship.
Mildred sat silently staring ahead with a look that pleaded for help but Meacham could only sigh as he fiddled with his hands. When the phone buzzed, he almost jumped at the receiver with gratitude. It was Sgt. Whipple. Hawkins’ car was found at the train station and he was spotted boarding the Chicago-bound Lackawanna Streamliner. “Nice try, you buffoon,” Meacham said under his breath, as he raced for the door leaving Mildred with her mouth agape.
***
Meacham arrived at the train station with ten-minutes to spare and boarded the train from the front with Sgt. Whipple positioned at the back, in case Hawkins made a feeble attempt to run.
Hawkins had booked a roomette, hoping for privacy, and was slunk down in his seat when a smiling Meacham appeared at the door. Hawkins took off his sunglasses and bolted upright with a look of utter despair. He even put his arms out straight as if Meacham was going to cuff him, not understanding that Meacham didn’t get gratification from humiliating others. He simply motioned for Hawkins to proceed out the back of the train.
As he was placed in the back seat of Whipple’s car, Hawkins seemed to have recovered his equipoise and, turning to Meacham with almost perfect aplomb, said, “I’ve got a long
story to tell, Detective, some of which you will find contemptible and that’s my burden to bear. But in case you haven’t figured it out, the real malevolent ones have already skipped away. Perhaps we can work something out and, in return, keep some embarrassing family history on your side from getting exposed.”
Meacham held his temper in check and didn’t take the bait. He sat down silently and motioned for Whipple to drive while chewing on this second allusion to his father.
***
When Meacham and Whipple got to the station with Hawkins in tow, there was a note from Mildred Crimmons. She was at the Parlor City Motel and would be awaiting further news on her niece. Meacham winced as he thought about how to tell her about the apparent liaison between her niece and Reginald Carver. As to this other character, Ripley Maxwell, that wasn’t Meacham’s concern.
As Whipple led Hawkins down the hall, Meacham trailed behind but suddenly barked “Hold Up” as they passed his office. Motioning for them to back up, Meacham pointed into his office with a smile on his face. Hawkins looked bemused and unconcerned until he saw the visitor – Oscar Peterson.
***
Word spreads fast in a small town like Parlor City, especially when you are well-connected. Oscar Peterson had a reliable network in the lower echelons at the Institute and heard that Carver had left abruptly, purportedly with Hawkins’ girl. With news that Hawkins had cleaned out his office, Peterson sensed that the end was near and now would be a good time for him to be as helpful as possible. Plus, Peterson’s conscience was still troubling him as he thought of the Friday morning rituals at the Institute. Right now, though, he wanted to keep his ass out of jail.
The Parlor City Boys Page 14