by John Verdon
“Sergeant Wigg’s report says that the sound-wave analysis shows that the background traffic noises on the tape were prerecorded.”
“Say that again?”
“According to Wigg, the tape contains two generations of sounds. The caller’s voice and the background sound of a motor, which she says was definitely an automobile engine, were first generation. That is, they were live sounds at the time of the call transmission. But the other background sounds, primarily of passing traffic, were second generation. That is, they were being played on a tape machine during the live call. Are you there, Detective?”
“Yes, yes, I was just … trying to make some sense out of that.”
“Would you like me to repeat it?”
“No, I heard you. It’s … very interesting.”
“District Attorney Kline thought you might think so. He’d like you to give him a call when you figure out what it means.”
“I’ll be sure to do that.”
He turned up Filchers Brook Road and a mile later spotted a sign on his left proclaiming the manicured property behind it to be the laurels. The sign was a graceful oval plaque, with the lettering in a delicate calligraphy. A little past the sign, there was an arched trellis set in a row of high mountain laurels. A narrow driveway passed through the trellis. Although the blossoms had been gone for months, as Gurney drove through the opening, some trick of the mind conjured up a flowery scent, and a further leap brought to mind King Duncan’s comment on Macbeth’s estate, where that night he would be murdered: “This castle hath a pleasant seat …”
Beyond the trellis there was a small parking area of gravel raked as cleanly as a Zen garden. A path of the same pristine gravel led from the parking area to the front door of a spotless, cedar-shingled Cape. In place of a doorbell, there was an antique iron knocker. As Gurney reached for it, the door opened to reveal a small man with alert, assessing eyes. Everything about him looked freshly laundered, from his lime polo shirt to his pink skin to the hair a shade too blond for his middle-aged face.
“Ahh!” he said with the edgy satisfaction of a man whose pizza order, twenty minutes late, has finally arrived.
“Mr. Plumstone?”
“No, I’m not Mr. Plumstone,” said the small man. “I’m Bruce Wellstone. The apparent harmony between the names is purely coincidental.”
“I see,” said Gurney, baffled.
“And you, I assume, are the policeman?”
“Special Investigator Gurney, district attorney’s office. Who told you I was coming?”
“The policeman on the phone. I have absolutely no memory for names. But why are we standing in the doorway? Do come in.”
Gurney followed him through a short hallway into a sitting room furnished with fussy Victoriana. Wondering who the policeman on the phone might have been put a quizzical look in his eyes.
“I’m sorry,” said Wellstone, evidently misinterpreting Gurney’s expression. “I’m not familiar with the procedure in cases like this. Would you prefer to go directly to Emerald Cottage?”
“Excuse me?”
“Emerald Cottage.”
“What emerald cottage?”
“The scene of the crime.”
“What crime?”
“Didn’t they tell you anything?”
“About what?”
“About why you’re here.”
“Mr. Wellstone, I don’t mean to be rude, but perhaps you should start at the beginning and tell me what you’re talking about.”
“This is exasperating! I told everything to the sergeant on the phone. In fact, I told him everything twice, since he didn’t seem to grasp what I was saying.”
“I see your frustration, sir, but perhaps you could tell me what you told him?”
“That my ruby slippers were stolen. Do you have any idea what they’re worth?”
“Your ruby slippers?”
“My God, they didn’t tell you a blessed thing, did they?” Wellstone began taking deep breaths as though he might be trying to ward off some kind of fit. Then he closed his eyes. When he reopened them, he seemed reconciled to the ineptitude of the police and spoke to Gurney in the voice of an elementary-school teacher.
“My ruby slippers, which are worth a great deal of money, were stolen from Emerald Cottage. Although I have no proof, I have no doubt they were stolen by the last guest who occupied it.”
“This Emerald Cottage is part of this establishment?”
“Of course it is. The entire property is called ‘The Laurels,’ for obvious reasons. There are three buildings—the main house in which we stand, plus two cottages: Emerald Cottage and Honeybee Cottage. The decor of Emerald Cottage is based on The Wizard of Oz—the greatest film ever made.” A glint in his eyes seemed to dare Gurney to disagree. “The focal point of the decor was a remarkable reproduction pair of Dorothy’s magic slippers. I discovered this morning that they were missing.”
“And you reported this to …?”
“To you people, obviously, because here you are.”
“You called the Peony police department?”
“Well, I certainly didn’t call the Chicago police department.”
“We have two separate problems here, Mr. Wellstone. The Peony police will no doubt get back to you regarding the theft. That’s not why I’m here. I’m investigating a different matter, and I need to ask you some questions. A state police detective who came by the other day was told—by a Mr. Plumstone, I believe—that three nights ago you had a pair of bird-watchers as guests here—a man and his mother.”
“That’s the one!”
“What one?”
“The one who stole my ruby slippers!”
“The bird-watcher stole your slippers?”
“The bird-watcher, the burglar, the pilfering little bastard—yes, him!”
“And the reason this was not mentioned to the detective from the state police …?”
“It wasn’t mentioned because it wasn’t known. I told you I only discovered the theft this morning.”
“So you weren’t in the cottage since the man and his mother checked out?”
“‘Checked out’ is a rather too-formal way of saying it. They simply departed at some point during the day. They’d paid in advance, so there was no need, you see, for any ‘checking-out’ procedure. We strive for a certain civilized informality here, which of course makes the betrayal of our trust all the more galling.” Talking about it had brought Wellstone close to gagging on the gall.
“Was it normal to wait so long before …?”
“Before making up a room? Normal at this time of year. November is our slowest month. The next booking for Emerald Cottage is Christmas week.”
“The BCI man didn’t go through the cottage?”
“BCI man?”
“The detective who was here two days ago was from the Bureau of Criminal Investigation.”
“Ah. Well, he spoke to Mr. Plumstone, not to me.”
“Who exactly is Mr. Plumstone?”
“That’s an awfully good question. That’s a question I’ve been asking myself.” He said this with an arch bitterness, then shook his head. “I’m sorry, I mustn’t let extraneous emotional issues intrude into official police business. Paul Plumstone is my business partner. We are joint owners of The Laurels. At least we are partners as of this moment.”
“I see,” said Gurney. “Getting back to my question—did the BCI man go through the cottage?”
“Why would he? I mean, he was apparently here about that ghastly business up the mountain at the institute, wanting to know if we’d seen any suspicious characters lurking about. Paul—Mr. Plumstone—told him that we hadn’t, and the detective left.”
“He didn’t press you for any specific information on your guests?”
“The bird-watchers? No, of course not.”
“Of course not?”
“The mother was a semi-invalid, and the son, although he turned out to be a thief, was hardly a mayhem-and-carnag
e sort of person.”
“What sort of person would you say he was?”
“I would have said he was on the frail side. Definitely on the frail side. Shy.”
“Would you say he was gay?”
Wellstone looked thoughtful. “Interesting question. I’m almost always sure, one way or the other, but in this case I’m not. I got the impression that he wanted to give me the impression he was gay. But that doesn’t make much sense, does it?”
Not unless the whole persona was an act, thought Gurney. “Other than frail and shy, how else would you describe him?”
“Larcenous.”
“I mean from a physical point of view.”
Wellstone frowned. “A mustache. Tinted glasses.”
“Tinted?”
“Like sunglasses, dark enough so you couldn’t really see his eyes—I hate talking to someone when I can’t see their eyes, don’t you?—but light enough so he could wear them indoors.”
“Anything else?”
“Woolly hat—one of those Peruvian things pulled down around his face—scarf, bulky coat.”
“How did you get the impression he was frail?”
Wellstone’s frown tightened into a kind of consternation. “His voice? His manner? You know, I’m not really sure. All I remember seeing—actually seeing—was a big puffy coat and hat, sunglasses, and a mustache.” His eyes widened with sudden umbrage. “Do you think it was a disguise?”
Sunglasses and a mustache? To Gurney it sounded more like a parody of a disguise. But even that little extra twist could fit the weirdness of the pattern. Or was he over-thinking it? Either way, if it was a disguise, it was an effective one, leaving them with no useful physical description. “Can you recall anything else about him? Anything at all?”
“Obsessed with our little feathered friends. Had an enormous pair of binoculars—looked like those infrared things you see commandos in the movies creeping around with. Left his mother in the cottage and spent all his time in the woods, searching for grosbeaks—rose-breasted grosbeaks.”
“He told you that?”
“Oh, yes.”
“That’s surprising.”
“Why?”
“There aren’t any rose-breasted grosbeaks in the Catskills in the winter.”
“But he even said … That lying bastard!”
“He even said what?”
“The morning before he left, he came into the main house, and he couldn’t stop raving about the damn grosbeaks. He kept repeating over and over that he had seen four rose-breasted grosbeaks. Four rose-breasted grosbeaks, he kept saying, as though I were doubting him.”
“Maybe he wanted to be sure you’d remember,” said Gurney, half to himself.
“But you’re telling me he couldn’t have seen them, because there aren’t any to be seen. Why would he want me to remember something that didn’t happen?”
“Good question, sir. May I take a quick look at the cottage now?”
From the sitting room, Wellstone led him through an equally Victorian dining room, full of ornate oak chairs and mirrors, out a side door onto a pathway whose spotless cream-colored pavers, while not exactly the yellow brick road of Oz, did bring it to mind. The path ended at a storybook cottage covered with English ivy, bright green despite the season.
Wellstone unlocked the door, swung it open, and stood to the side. Instead of entering, Gurney looked in from the threshold. The front room was partly a living room and partly a shrine to the film—with its collection of posters, a witch hat, a magic wand, Cowardly Lion and Tin Man figurines, and a stuffed replica of Toto.
“Would you like to go in and see the display case the slippers were taken from?”
“I’d rather not,” said Gurney, stepping back onto the path. “If you’re the only person who’s been inside since your guests left, I’d like to keep it that way until we can get an evidence-processing team on site.”
“But you said you weren’t here for—Wait a minute, you said you were here for ‘a different matter’—isn’t that what you said?”
“Yes, sir, that’s correct.”
“What sort of ‘evidence processing’ are you talking about? I mean, what … Oh, no, surely you can’t think that my light-fingered bird-watcher is your Jack the Ripper?”
“Frankly, sir, I have no reason to think he is. But I have to cover every possibility, and it would be prudent for us to have the cottage examined more closely.”
“My, oh, my. I don’t know what to say. If it’s not one crime, it’s another. Well, I suppose I can’t impede police progress—outlandish as it seems. And there’s a silver lining. Even if all this has nothing to do with the horror on the hill, you may end up finding a clue to my missing slippers.”
“Always a possibility,” said Gurney with a polite smile. “You can expect an evidence team here sometime tomorrow. Meanwhile keep the door locked. Now, let me ask you once more—because this is very important—are you sure no one but yourself has been inside the cottage during the past two days, not even your partner?”
“Emerald Cottage was my creation and my exclusive responsibility. Mr. Plumstone is responsible for Honeybee Cottage, including its unfortunate decor.”
“Sorry?”
“The theme of Honeybee Cottage is a bore-you-blind illustrated history of beekeeping. Need I say more?”
“One last question, sir. Do you have the bird-watcher’s name and address in your guest register?”
“I have the name and the address he gave me. Considering the theft, I rather doubt their authenticity.”
“I’d better look at the register and make a note of them, anyway.”
“Oh, there’s no need to look at the register. I can see it now with perfect, painful clarity. Mr. and Mrs.—odd way, don’t you think, for a gentleman to describe himself and his mother?—Mr. and Mrs. Scylla. The address was a post-office box in Wycherly, Connecticut. I can even give you the box number.”
Chapter 31
A routine call from the Bronx
Gurney was sitting in the spotless gravel parking area. He’d completed his call to BCI for an evidence team to be sent to The Laurels ASAP and was just slipping his cell phone into his pocket when it rang. It was Ellen Rackoff again. First he gave her the news about the Scylla couple and the peculiar theft to pass along to Kline. Then he asked why she’d called. She gave him a phone number.
“It’s a homicide detective from the Bronx who wants to talk to you about a case he’s working on.”
“He wants to talk to me?”
“He wants to talk to someone on the Mellery case, which he read about in the paper. He called the Peony police, who referred him to BCI, who referred him to Captain Rodriguez, who referred him to the district attorney, who referred him to you. His name is Detective Clamm. Randy Clamm.”
“Is that a joke?”
“I wouldn’t know about that.”
“How much information did he volunteer about his own case?”
“Zero. You know how cops are. Mostly he wanted to know about our case.”
Gurney called the number. It was answered on the first ring.
“Clamm.”
“Dave Gurney, returning your call. I’m with the district attor—”
“Yes, sir, I know. Appreciate the quick response.”
Although he was basing it on next to nothing, Gurney had a vivid impression of the cop on the other end—a fast-thinking, fast-talking multitasker who, with better connections, might have ended up at West Point instead of the police academy.
“I understand you’re on the Mellery homicide,” the crisp young voice raced on.
“Correct.”
“Multiple stab wounds to the victim’s throat?”
“Correct.”
“Reason for my call is a similar homicide down here, and we wanted to rule out the possibility of any connection.”
“By similar, you mean—”
“Multiples to the throat.”
“My recollection
of Bronx stabbing statistics is that there are over a thousand reported incidents a year. Have you looked for connections closer to home?”
“We’re looking. But so far your case is the only one with over a dozen wounds, all to the same part of the body.”
“What can I do for you?”
“Depends on what you’re willing to do. I was thinking it might help both of us if you were able to come down here for a day, look at the crime scene, sit in on an interview with the widow, ask questions, see if anything rings a bell.”
It was the definition of a long shot—more far-fetched than many a tenuous lead he’d wasted his time chasing down in his years at the NYPD. But it was a constitutional impossibility for Dave Gurney to ignore a possibility, however flimsy it might be.
He agreed to meet Detective Clamm in the Bronx the following morning.
Part Three
Back to the
Beginning
Chapter 32
The cleansing to come
The young man leaned back into the deliciously soft pillows propped against the headboard and smiled placidly at the screen of his laptop.
“Where’s my little Dickie Duck?” asked the old woman next to him in the bed.
“He’s in his happy beddy-bye, planning how the monsters die.”
“Are you writing a poem?”
“Yes, Mother.”
“Read it out loud.”
“It isn’t finished.”
“Read it out loud,” she said again, as though she’d forgotten she’d said it before.
“It’s not very good. It needs something more.” He adjusted the angle of the screen.
“You have such a beautiful voice,” she said as if by rote, absently touching the blond ringlets of her wig.
He closed his eyes for a moment. Then, as though he were about to play a flute, he licked his lips lightly. When he began to speak, it was in a lilting half-whisper.
“These are some of my favorite things:
the magic change a bullet brings,