Chapter 12
Walking into the house, I was still grinning until I saw Sonny and Cindy at the table with solemn faces and Cindy actually drinking a highball along with Sonny. I wasn’t sure from this distance, but I thought her eyes looked red, and there was a rumpled tissue in her hand.
In something under ten seconds, I ran down a list of what could be wrong with someone I loved. Not Cindy or Sonny, they were right here and each looked okay. Mom was fine five minutes ago. Fargo was leaning against my leg, and Cindy was casually holding Wells. Aunt Mae? Cassie? Oh my God, a crash on takeoff? Then more logically, Zoe? Probably Zoe.
Cindy put Wells on the floor and got up to hug me. Sonny spoke first.
“Got a lousy one, Sis. I didn’t want you somehow to hear it at the Wharf Rat or somebody on the phone or maybe the TV news.” He only called me Sis when he was very upset or excited.
“Zoe’s dead?” I asked reluctantly.
“Not that we know of. Still silence on that front.”
“Then Aunt Mae . . . Cassie?”
“It’s Charlotte Cohane, Alex. It looks as if she committed suicide.” His voice was flat, as if he were reading off an address.
“Oh, Sonny.” I suddenly felt weary and irritable. And I had had enough drama in the past month to last me a lifetime.
“Somebody has got to be mistaken or playing nasty tricks. Charlie Cohane wouldn’t commit suicide. If the world were coming to an end at midnight, she’d still be dancing.”
“I’m sorry, Alex, but it’s no mistake. It happened at the Tellman Art Gallery where she works—worked, and the people who found her obviously recognized her. Also, Charlie had ID in her wallet. Anyway, Jeanine was the uniform that answered the first call and she knows her personally.”
“How did she presumably do that?” I still couldn’t admit it was true. I was grasping for anything that made it an untruth.
Sonny obviously didn’t want to answer me. Finally he said, “All the indications are she shot herself . . . in the head. I’m sorry, Alex.”
“Ellen. Does Ellen Hall know?” She and Charlotte had been together for years. They had a stable, easygoing rapport. They had no financial problems. Ellen was one of the town’s more successful real estate agents. I imagined Charlie did well at Tellman’s. She had been with them for years as office manager and sometime salesperson, and she loved her job. Suicide made no sense. I could only think of one thing that might make her pull a trigger.
“Sonny, was she terminally ill or something like that?”
“I have no idea. We aren’t nearly that far along. Captain Anders and Jeanine are at Ellen’s now with the news. Believe it or not, Anders is actually good at that sort of thing, and Jeanine could comfort a bear with a sore paw.”
Sonny handed me a dark highball. I didn’t complain. “I’m glad Anders is good at something. Five will get you ten that by nightfall he says she was murdered by a transient thief.”
“Alex,” Cindy chided gently. “That’s terrible. You’re just upset. Why would he say that?”
“Because,” Sonny laughed shortly, “he says that every crime committed in Ptown is done by a transient thief, or transient killer, or transient rapist, or transient whatever. I’m sure he plans to run for selectman next year when he retires, and he doesn’t want to accuse any local resident of criminal activity. If you’re in jail, then you can’t vote.”
“You’re awful, both of you.”
“I guess we are,” I said. “And I guess I’d better finish this and get over to Ellen’s.” I lifted my drink. “She shouldn’t be alone. Has anyone called Charlie’s mother?” They each looked blank, and I said I’d wait until I saw Ellen, then call on Mrs. Cohane if she hadn’t already been notified.
I was glad I had put on good clothes to meet my mother. I wouldn’t waste time changing. A brief encounter with a toothbrush and a comb would suffice.
“I’ll go with you. I like Ellen. Maybe there is something I can do for her,” Cindy offered, and I nodded my agreement and thanks.
“Uh,” Sonny shifted uneasily in his chair. “Cindy, maybe you could run along over to Ellen’s and let Alex come a little later. There are a couple of things I need to ask her . . . just background stuff that would only bore you.”
Cindy looked at him keenly. “Of course. I’ll just freshen up a bit.” She went toward the bedroom.
Sonny dropped the subject of the Cohane death to ask, “Did Mom get home okay? Did she have a good time? Her cards all sounded like she was enjoying every minute of the big city.”
“Happy as a lark, complete with a new hairdo and a wardrobe you won’t find at Marshall’s. Not to mention an opal ring in white gold surrounded by seed pearls. It’s too bad this disaster de jour will put a damper on her happy return. She knew Charlie as a kid, and she’s a close friend of Mrs. Cohane.”
“Are Mom and Noel getting married?”
“No. They’re enjoying the honeymoon too much.”
“Good for them.” Sonny laughed, as Cindy came back into the room, looking rather put out.
“Thanks for this, Cindy. I owe you one,” Sonny called as she started out the door without a good-bye.
“You’re welcome, I’m sure. I just hope my afternoon turns out to be as pleasant as yours seems to be.” The back door closed firmly.
“Thanks a bunch, Big Bro. Cindy pissed off is about all I need to finish my day.”
“Sorry about that.” He leaned back on two legs of the chair—a habit of his that makes me absolutely livid.
I got up and walked around to him and pushed the front of the chair down. “If you only need two legs, then you can bloody well stand up. Now what is so secret you have to chase Cindy out of her own house? You find one of her brothers standing beside Charlie holding a smoking pistol because Tellman’s started using a different shipping company?”
“Not quite. Now come on. We’ve got a situation we don’t want spread around. Alex, I need some help.”
“You sure pick a diplomatic way to get it,” I snapped.
“What we don’t want all over town yet is that money is missing from the safe in the same room where Charlie worked . . . where she was found collapsed over her desk. A fair amount of money is missing. Twenty to twenty-eight thousand dollars. They won’t be sure till they check the books.”
“Why don’t they check them now?” I sat back down and sipped my drink.
“Ah, it’s a little confused. You see, Jan and Betsy Tellman are in Philadelphia, meeting with some woman whose art they want to peddle. They’ll be back in the morning.”
He reached for my cigarettes and lit one. “And, ah, actually it was Emily Bartles who found the body.”
“Emily Bartles? What the hell was she doing in a top-shelf art gallery? Shopping for refrigerator magnets?”
“She works there part-time. Does a little office work, fills in as a salesperson, especially if one or both Tellmans have to be away. So did Charlie . . . work when needed as a salesperson, I mean? Bartles said she was a great help with people who were undecided and better than any of them—sometimes even the Tellmans—at moving the really expensive stuff.”
I grabbed the cigarette pack back and shook one out. It may have been my sixth for the day. Naughty. “I wouldn’t be surprised if Ms. Bartles was good at moving expensive stuff . . . out the back door and onto a truck. So Charlie was their best salesperson. Now there’s a good reason for offing yourself. By the way, do you know whose pistol it is?”
“Yes, it’s Charlie’s. Properly registered with us. Nacho remembers her getting it three or so years ago. That’s when the gallery started handling more expensive art, so they began to have considerable cash there, and of course, there were trips to the bank.”
Nacho “ran” the headquarters of the Provincetown Police Department. She had a memory that made tacks look dull. She could coax anything from any computer. She never forgot a face, and she was always munching on some snack or other. Hence, the nickname. And she was so nice
and helpful, it was impossible to hate her, even though she had beautiful teeth and wore a size eight dress despite all the fattening snacks.
Sonny pulled a small notebook and pen from his pocket. I guess he was serious that I might know something helpful about this. Certainly I had struck out on the kidnapping.
“Alex, have you any reason to think Charlie was having an affair with Dana Portman?”
“I doubt it. Dana is—or shortly will be—eighteen. Charlie is early thirties. That’s not an impossible stretch, but improbable. Anyway, I doubt Charlie was cheating with anyone. To my knowledge, she and Ellen were rock solid. Why would you pair up Charlie and Dana anyway? Do they even know each other?”
“According to Emily, they knew each other ‘quite well.’ Bartles said fairly often Dana would come around and go into the office, and Charlie would close the door. There’s a couch in there. And Charlie left a note that didn’t exactly sound as if she and Ellen were even tissue paper solid.”
He reached in his pocket and pulled out a folded paper. He slid it across the table to me as he added, “This is a copy of what was on her computer.”
I unfolded it and read:
My darling Ellen—
By the time you read this, it will all be over, both my troubles and
the agony and shame I have brought onto us.
Deeply as I cared for you, I let young, sexy appeal, desire and
wealth run me astray.
I have stolen from friends so I could keep up with my free-wheeling lover, and they are bound to find out soon.
I cannot live with such dishonor and disgrace. I must end it so that you can start life anew. Try to forgive me. I do this for love.
Charlotte
I looked at Sonny, uncertain whether to laugh or cry. “Are you teasing me? That note sounds like something out of a Victorian novel, except for the parts that sound barely literate. The whole note is crazy. It sounds like a combination romantic novel and a note left by the trash collector. If—and that’s a big if—any of this nonsense is true and Charlie felt she must kill herself over it, the note would have been more like ‘Ellen, I’ve really fucked up all the way around. I can’t face you or myself. I’m sorry. Love you, Charlie.’ First and foremost, she would never sign it Charlotte. She used that only on legal stuff.” I shook my head, perhaps to clear it, perhaps to deny all I was hearing.
Then I asked, “But if she were cheating, why did you pick Dana? And how would Bartles know they were acquainted if she was only there part-time?”
Sonny giggled. He giggled when he was embarrassed. “Oh, they knew each other, all right. Dana was there pretty often, I guess.”
I got up and freshened my drink. I didn’t offer one to Sonny. He didn’t need it. “I suppose, Sonny, your next revelation will be that Merrilou tended the flower beds at the gallery and Harry Maddock mowed the lawn.
“Could be.” He poured some of my drink into his glass. “The way things are going, I wouldn’t be surprised if they were all in on the kidnapping and killed Charlie because she stole the ransom.”
I had a sane thought and tapped my finger on the paper. “Was there a printout with a signature? Or was everything just typed?”
Sonny looked chastened. “Just typed. Actually, it wasn’t even printed out at all, it was left on the screen. I didn’t like that either. And there’s something else I don’t like. Arlene Glover, our forensics guru, found something when she checked the keyboard for fingerprints.”
“What’s that?” I reached for my glass, decided that my getting drunk wouldn’t bring Charlie back, and put some coffee on to brew. “Arlene’s pretty sharp. She was on the ball with that bunch of lunatic thespians last summer. You want a drink or coffee?” He opted for coffee, so I got out a couple of mugs. “What did she find?”
“Most of the keys were just blurred smudges, like whoever used the computer last—to write this note, we presume—may have worn gloves. But most of the letters that were not used in the note—like q, k, j, x, z, plus the majority of numerals and control keys had partial or complete fingerprints on them. We’re betting they turn out to be Charlie’s.”
I poured our coffee. “So Charlie didn’t type the note. Someone else wrote this poetic beauty. I knew it. They didn’t leave prints on the keyboard, and they couldn’t print it out and sign it because they couldn’t duplicate her signature.”
“Always a red flag.” Sonny sipped his coffee. “Good stuff. Thanks.”
I took a sip of my own. I knew I needed to know more details, but God, how it hurt to ask.
“Sonny, how was it done physically . . . you know, how was she found and all?”
Sonny sighed. “That part seems kosher for doing it herself. She was in her office, armchair pushed back from the desk with both her arms thrown out to the side and then falling limp and dangling. The pistol was dropped in about the right spot. The wound looked about right. But I did question the angle a bit. I asked the medical examiner to look closely at it.”
“What do you mean?” I lit the next uncounted cigarette and didn’t even scowl when Sonny helped himself.
He didn’t answer me directly. “Look, suppose you were going to shoot yourself in the head, how would you do it?”
I made a pistol out of my fist, with pointed forefinger and cocked thumb, lifted the forefinger to that little indentation in front of your ear, dipped my thumb and said, “Bang.”
Sonny was staring at me strangely. “You used your right hand just now. Why? You are left-handed.”
I shook my head. “Not really. I’m a mixed dominant . . . like Charlie. We both eat and write with our left hands, and I sometimes use a paintbrush or scraper with my left hand. But I play golf, throw a ball, use a screwdriver and shoot with my right hand. So did she. We played golf together, occasionally went to the firing range and a couple of times we shot skeet. Right-handed all the way. Both of us. I’ve always been like that. Ask Mom.”
“Shit.” Sonny set his mug down hard. “Charlie used her left hand to kill herself, or somebody used it for her. And there’s something else I asked several people to do. It ain’t scientific, but it’s indicative.”
“What’s that?”
“You and four or five others ‘shot’ yourselves the same way. Forefinger aimed toward your temple. Charlie was shot in the forehead, which of course is possible, but not very easy. And she used her forefinger to pull the trigger, which is quite awkward. Using the thumb to pull the trigger is less of a strain on the wrist and digit. Especially, I would think, if she’s using the wrong hand for some reason. I want to see some statistics on this.”
“I don’t think you have to, Sonny. I think you know. Charlie was murdered.”
Chapter 13
The sun looked as if someone had turned its rheostat up to extra bright that day. The sky was a delicate, depthless, early autumn blue. The puffy little clouds sprinted and dipped sassily along, moved by some high-altitude breeze that reached down from time to time to give the trees a gentle stir. It seemed as if some callous, cruel hand had added another crime against Charlotte Cohane, burying her on a day when she would have so loved to be alive.
Thus far, the only good thing I had managed to glean from the day was that Episcopal funerals are brief and dignified. I love the Prayer Book, basically unchanged since Cranmer’s sixteenth century writing of it. It seems hard to think of it as a product of Henry the Eighth’s raucous reign, but its beauty and hope and promise have an assurance I personally would find difficult to write today. I’m glad he got it done before television and rap.
We went the whole nine yards: to the church, to the cemetery, finally to Ellen’s house. I was exhausted and could only imagine what Aunt Mae must be feeling. She was white as a sheet and very shaky. After a stay just long enough to be polite, I simply told her and Mom they were leaving. I would drive them home in Mom’s car. Cindy would follow in hers to take me home. They didn’t argue.
Once home, I headed directly for the shower, and sh
ortly discovered I had company. Strangely, given the strenuous day we had put in—and why—we began to play. We splashed, we gently pulled hair, we snapped washcloths, we ducked each other, we aimed the water stream at various parts of various anatomies. And of course, we made love. Awkward. Slippy-slidey. Laughing. Bury us tomorrow. Today we are lovers. We are blessed. And by God, we are alive.
Funeral, sadness and fatigue notwithstanding, I think I was more relaxed that evening than I had been in weeks. I know I was more hungry. Mom had made fried chicken and potato salad to take to Ellen’s. Aunt Mae had made a peach and almond pie. It was old-fashioned, but it was the way things were still done in Provincetown, and I thought it very kind. Fortunately, they had made extra for us. Fortunately, they had made large extras, for Sonny arrived, looking strained and tired and handsome in his dark gray suit with white shirt and regimental tie. He had been at the church, but went back to work after that.
Not liking coincidence anymore than I did, Sonny apparently felt we were getting too many of the same people involved, albeit peripherally, in one too many crimes.
Sonny had drawn a blank with John Frost and Trish regarding Reed and Merrilou’s prenuptial agreement. They both said they were sorry, but claimed client privilege.
Sonny was certain Emily Bartles would probably know the details and would be at Ellen’s after the funeral. She would almost have to attend, their having worked together at Tellman’s Gallery. So Sonny called on the Rev. Lawrence Bartles, hoping to find him alone. The questions were: had his wife confided in Larry about the agreements and would he talk about them if she did?
Losers, Weepers Page 10