by Ken Brigham
Hardy was through with this woman.
“You’re something, SalomeMe. I’ll call the meat wagon to pick up the remains of your ‘dear old daddy,’ and you can deal with the matter however you choose after that. Lotsa luck.”
Okay, Seltzer thought. The old guy probably just died. He’d check with the guy’s doc and maybe ask a few more questions of a few more people. And best wait for the obligatory autopsy results before going too far out on the often-deceptive limb of speculation. But he had been around the block enough times to recognize a crime scene when he saw one, and this one, strange as it seemed to be, didn’t smell like murder.
As he made his way out of the house down the front steps and ambled toward the post-mature black LTD that, courtesy of the Nashville Metropolitan Police Department, had been his near-constant companion for several years now, he thought, “God protect us from the likes of SalomeMe.”
Chapter 3
Shane Hadley could not remember when he first met Richelieu (nee Richard) Jones, the self-styled “Mad Hatter of Music City.” Shane’s affection for the man certainly dated from a long time ago, well before the name change and the incongruous Francophilia. Jones had been making hats in his Eighth Avenue shop for longer than anyone could remember. He had even presented Shane with a Sherlock Holmes-style deerstalker when Shane first joined the police force. The hat, still unworn, lay quietly on a shelf in the spare bedroom closet in Shane and KiKi’s Printers Alley flat.
Now that he was a bit more comfortable manipulating the wheelchair without KiKi’s help, on a nice day Shane would occasionally venture from Printers Alley out Broadway to Richelieu’s shop. The two of them would chat about nothing specific, and Shane would amuse himself by inspecting the latest collection (le recueil, Richelieu affectedly called it) of hats (or chapeaux if one was so inclined).
Richelieu Jones was no longer a hat maker in the usual sense of the term. He considered himself an artist, not an artisan. He designed and created the unique chapeaux (there were upwards of thirty thousand reasons why he had both changed his given name and developed an affinity for all things French several years earlier; more about that shortly) favored by the more sartorially adventurous Nashvillians of all genders.
“Bonjour, mon ami,” Jones doffed his trademark lavender felt fedora, flashed a toothy smile, shot pinpoint asterisks of light from his deep brown eyes, and greeted his old friend as Shane wheeled himself into the shop. “And how goes the detecting business these days?”
“Cheerio, Richard,” Shane responded. “I fear there is precious little detecting for me lately.”
Shane remembered the time several years earlier when his own and R. Jones’s lives had been coincidentally transformed by two unrelated, sudden, and unanticipated events. The stray bullet that took up residence in Shane’s thoracic spinal cord still lived there and, although there was some recent improvement, the persistent paralysis of his legs kept his memory of that event very much alive. The power of a single stray bullet transformed Shane Hadley from the legendary Sherlock Shane of the Metro police into a wheelchair bound unemployed ex-detective.
On the same day of Shane’s transformation, Mr. Richard Jones, self-styled Mad Hatter of Music City, received the results of the complete analysis of his thirty thousand genes done as part of a study for which he had volunteered at the medical center. It was the genetic revelation that his ancestors were French Canadian fur traders, rather than the Stewart County sharecroppers that he had always believed them to be, that transformed him. That fact actually changed who he was. He Francofied his given name. He bought a pocket French-English dictionary that he frequently consulted. And, determined to be true to his heritage, Monsieur Jones researched the old methods for making felt from animal pelts and expanded his hat-making business to include a laboratory at the back of the shop. He made his own felt for his hats, mostly from animal skins that he imported from Canada. His newly discovered persona also awakened a latent creativity that influenced the design and construction of his line of hats, broadening their appeal. The elaborate Richelieu Jones signature inscribed on the inside hatband of each of his creations was now seen, not only in the Stetsons favored by the faux cowboys down on Lower Broad, but even in some of the elegant chapeaux that hung in the coat rooms at local country clubs. The power of a revealed genome transformed R. Jones from mad hatter to Chapelier Fou (At least that is the translation that Jones pieced together from his little French-English dictionary).
Shane thought that there was a particular bond between the two unlikely friends, which he attributed to the simultaneity of the events that changed their lives. Richelieu Jones had liked Shane long before those events and hadn’t felt much different since. He didn’t really think about things like that.
“How goes the hat business, Richard?” Shane asked, wheeling himself over to the large display case that fronted the shop space. “These specimens suggest ’tis the season for color.”
“Indeed, mon ami, color indeed,” Jones replied. “But do not overlook my glorious new styles. I’m experimenting with the complementarity of color and form. I’m quite pleased with some of these new creations.”
Shane did think that the hats on display were striking deviations from Jones’s usual collection and not an improvement. The brilliant array of rainbow colors was what caught one’s eye at first, but then there were several bizarre shapes that did not conform to any category of hat that Shane had ever encountered. His old friend was braving an entirely new world of hats. Shane supposed that was creativity, although he wondered whether it was more like insanity. He couldn’t imagine anyone he knew exchanging legal tender for one of these “creations.”
“Well,” Shane said, “they’re interesting. I’ll give you that.”
Jones sensed Shane’s lack of enthusiasm and frowned but didn’t say anything.
There was a long pause in the conversation. Shane hadn’t visited the shop in a while, and he looked around. The furniture had been rearranged and some touchup painting of the walls had been done. And Shane noticed an abstract painting hanging over one of the counters that he hadn’t seen there before. He wheeled over to get a better look and saw that it was apparently an original oil. And the telltale initials BF were scrawled in the lower right-hand corner.
“Is this a Bechman Fitzwallington painting?” Shane asked.
Shane knew of the painter, had seen his art in various displays, but had never felt attracted to it. The uses of colors and the textures were interesting, but Fitzwallington’s paintings to Shane’s eye lacked an essential integrity. And there was a lot of repetition that appeared to him more like just copying than elaboration of a theme. But the critics liked the old guy. And not just the locals. The big-time New York critics were, for a time, gaga over B.F.
“Ah, oui,” Jones replied. “I rediscovered it when I was rearranging things. Old Fitz insisted on using the painting to pay for a hat I made him many years ago. I tried my best to get the skinflint to pay me in dollars, but he claimed that the painting would, in due time, be worth considerably more than the value of the hat. I never forgave him for that, but he never returned anyway. Maybe he didn’t like the hat. I discovered the painting stored away for all these years and thought I may as well hang it in the shop as a reminder that I am not in the bartering business. I expect to get paid in real money for my work!”
“I don’t know the value of Fitzwallington’s paintings for sure, but my guess is that he was right. Due time may have passed, and the painting may be worth a lot in today’s market. You should get it appraised.”
Shane felt his cell phone vibrate and took it from a shirt pocket, glancing at the screen.
“Sorry, Richard,” he said. “I need to take this.”
He wheeled himself into a vacant corner of the shop and answered the call.
While Hardy Seltzer had stayed in regular contact with Shane Hadley after the Bonz Bagley murder case several years earlier, they had not worked on another case together in the same
way. Seltzer would ask Shane’s advice on occasion over lunch or a glass of that special Oxford sherry of which Shane was inordinately fond, relaxing in the afternoon sun on Shane and Katya’s Printers Alley deck, but Hardy was reluctant to involve Shane too deeply in his cases. Those were, after all, his responsibility. And he still felt some guilt about taking credit for solving the Bagley case even though Shane had absolutely insisted that the role of the paraplegic ex-detective in the case should be downplayed for the good of both Hardy Seltzer and the Metropolitan Police Department. Hardy still didn’t feel right about that.
However, as he sat in his office looking out the window at the midday activity in the city square below, Seltzer wondered how Shane would interpret the death of Bechman Fitzwallington. The doctor who had seen the artist sporadically confirmed that he had prescribed some high blood pressure medication, but the old guy seemed to be deteriorating from an ill-defined condition. He wouldn’t permit his doctor to perform the tests that might have pinned down the cause of his declining health. Seltzer had phoned several of the local artists who SalomeMe said frequented Fitzwallington’s North Nashville house. Not one of them had much positive to say about the old guy, and one or two were downright hostile toward him. Then there was, of course, SalomeMe herself who had as much as admitted that she would have taken some pleasure in doing in her dear old daddy once and for all.
So, there were several possible candidates for the role of killer, but nothing Hardy could put his finger on that suggested the old guy was murdered. Looked like he just up and died. Still, Detective Seltzer had an uneasy feeling about the situation, and the higher-ups were pressing him for an answer. They would strongly prefer an answer that didn’t implicate any of the city’s citizens in illegalities, especially any members of the artistic community. The city was anxious to expand its artistic reputation beyond popular (mostly country) music, and nurturing the growing nidus of visual artists was an essential part of that effort. A conclusion that Bechman Fitzwallington had been murdered would trigger a scandal of major proportions that could derail the whole plan of the Nashville Arts Commission, no doubt raining down the ire of the city’s most influential citizens on the heads of anyone arriving at such a conclusion. The last thing Detective Seltzer and his department needed was to bear the brunt of the city fathers’ anger. No siree. Detective Seltzer was not about to trigger any such scandal if he could possibly avoid it.
But he was very conscientious about doing his job well, and so he was, as always, determined to go where the facts led him. The problem with this situation was that he didn’t have many solid facts other than a dead artist who did not seem to be leading him anywhere specific. Dead people aren’t an abundant source of information, except for what they don’t say or what Doc Jensen divines from mucking about in their earthly remains. I need help, Hardy thought.
His landline phone rang three times before he answered it.
“This is Detective Seltzer.”
“Ah, yes,” the unmistakably affected Irish accent of Harold Whitsett Jensen, III, the Davidson County Coroner, intoned, “the ever effervescent Detective Seltzer. How are you, Hardy, my lad?”
Hardy usually trusted the pathologist’s work but resented the feeble attempts at humor and steadfastly resisted his repeated efforts to engage Hardy in a long, and no doubt inane, conversation. Hardy didn’t really like talking with the coroner at all except strictly for business. Hardy thought Jensen should stick to dealing with the dead and forget about trying to connect with the living. Jensen’s career choice suggested that was his preference, but he seemed to have trouble recognizing the severe limitations of his communication skills and, as a result, kept trying them out on Hardy and probably the smattering of other living humans he had reason to connect with in the course of doing his job. The effort was wasted.
“What’s up, Harry,” Hardy answered.
“And how fares the good detective these days? Haven’t heard from you in a while. Have our citizens given up their violent efforts to reduce their number? Where have you buried the bodies? My dear Detective Seltzer, I need bodies to ply my craft!”
He had a point. There had been precious few murders in the city of late, since the new chief of police had arrived. Hardy wasn’t sure that the new chief had anything to do with it, but he didn’t care who got the credit. Whatever the reason that local residents seemed less prone to mortal violence lately, that fact pleased a lot of people. Apparently, the corner didn’t share that pleasure. Maybe he was worried about job security.
“Why are you calling, Harry?” Seltzer ignored the coroner’s typical efforts at idle conversation.
“Well,” Jensen replied. “You see, I finally get a body, but it comes with baggage.”
“Baggage?”
”Yes, baggage in the person of one SalomeMe, as she calls herself, a be-inked and be-pierced young woman who claims to be the sole living relative of this body. She insists that neither she nor said body, her dead father, have any need of my services. She says you are handling the situation. Is that so? I mean, do we finally have a murder or not, detective?”
“Does that matter?” Hardy said. “Doesn’t there have to be an autopsy regardless?”
“I suppose,” the coroner replied, “that is technically true, but if there is nothing at all suspicious about the circumstances and the sole surviving relative feels strongly against the idea. You know, Detective Seltzer, I’m not comfortable with going ahead with it. If you say so, OK. Tell me to do it and I’ll gladly whet my knives although I wouldn’t look forward to dealing with the be-inked one. Just say the word, detective.”
Sure, thought Seltzer, if I knew the word I’d gladly say it. What really bothered him was the word to say was obvious…too obvious. Nothing so deceptive as the obvious truth. Hardy remembered a favorite phrase of one of his early mentors in the detecting business. He couldn’t remember which one. The phrase had stuck with him, although he wasn’t generally enamored of paradoxes. He thought about that. Hardy Seltzer liked his conclusions sculpted cleanly from the bedrock of accumulated facts. He needed help with this one.
“Stall, Doc,” Seltzer said. “I don’t know what to tell you just yet. Give me a day.”
“I shall give you a day, detective, if that is important,” the coroner replied. “But I won’t be able to fend off the be-inked one much longer than that.”
Seltzer ended the call, immediately scrolled to Shane Hadley’s mobile number, and rang it.
Seltzer briefly sketched out his dilemma to Hadley. They agreed to meet in the Printers Alley flat in an hour to discuss it.
Shane was genuinely glad to hear from Hardy, especially if it meant an opportunity to use his detecting skills. Those skills were feeling pretty rusty of late.
“Well, Richard,” Shane said, wheeling back over to where the hatter was patiently biding his time admiring the collection of his colorful creations, “it may well be that your Bechman Fitzwallington painting has just undergone a major increase in value.”
“Oui?” Richelieu queried.
“Mr. Fitzwallington has this day departed the land of the living, and there is nothing like the death of an artist to enhance the appreciation, and thus monetary value, of his work. Hang on to your painting for a bit and you may discover that it is a veritable gold mine. You may well be an incredibly lucky man!”
“What irony,” the hatter replied, “making a buck off Old Fitz. I would never have expected that.”
“I’m off,” Shane said. “Always good to see you. Ciao.”
“Au revoir, mon ami,” Jones called after Shane as the ex-detective wheeled himself out of the shop, headed up Eighth Avenue toward Church Street where he turned right toward the alley and his meeting with Hardy Seltzer. Those meetings had been too rare of late.
Richelieu Jones wondered why his old friend was in such a hurry to go. He walked over to where the painting hung and stared at it for a while. Cheap bastard, he thought. Good riddance! The self-styled Mad Hatter of Mus
ic City also thought that he would get the thing appraised. He would be perfectly happy to benefit from the postmortem inflation of the value of Old Fitz’s dismal attempt at art. Richelieu had made the old fart a nice hat whether or not it was adequately appreciated. Way past time to get paid for his work.
Chapter 4
Dr. Katya Karpov flicked a stray lock of her long blonde hair from before her eyes. She sat in her office at the medical center, poring over the paper copy of a table of data that lay on the desk in front of her. The data were from a study of the aging brain that was a major research project of several faculty members in the Department of Psychiatry that she chaired. The study planned to follow a number of subjects for twenty years with repeated measures of a lot of health-related variables, including brain function, and they were approaching the halfway mark of the plan.
Dr. Karpov was especially interested in the outliers, a handful of subjects whose brain function pattern wasn’t consistent with what was thought to be true about aging. There were some outliers in both directions—some better than predicted and some worse. She pondered that for a bit.
Her interest in the human brain dated back to her Oxford days. That’s also where she was first struck with how important exceptions were in medical research. In any study, especially any study of human beings, it was the unexpected results that were the doors to discovery.
So, Dr. Karpov was looking for a pattern. Something the outliers had in common that might be a clue to one of Nature’s secrets that, revealed, would unwrap other fundamental facts of human life like a surprise gift at Christmas time. It was a fascination with the human brain that drew Katya to neurology as a profession, and it was the exhilaration of discovery that drew her like a magnet into an academic career. And the enduring expectation of discovery bound her to those choices, a bond almost as strong as the unassailable bond that tethered her to Shane Hadley. Those years in Oxford were where she met and fell in love with the American Rhodes Scholar and where she felt for the first time the exhilaration of discovery that infused her with meaning and excitement. That was the precise point in time and space when her life was transformed.