The Case of the Roasted Onion

by Bishop, Claudia

  “Did you write this week’s column yet?”

  “Actually,” I admitted, “no genuine letters of inquiry have come in as yet this week. I’m afraid I must fall back upon the Socratic method. That is, I will pose and answer the question myself.”

  Madeline made a face. Madeline’s face is highly expressive, and although she is a beautiful woman, at the moment she resembled the north end of a baboon. “Austin. I can’t think of one pet owner in New York State who wants to know about bovine back fat.”

  “Bovine back fat should be of interest to anyone who . . .”

  “As a matter of fact, I can’t think of anyone in the entire United States who does. Or the Canadians. Or the French. Or the . . .”

  Before she could get to the outer reaches of the Mongolian empire, I abandoned the dishes, retrieved my anorak, and left, accompanied by my dog. Madeline’s shout trailed after me:

  “Don’t forget to talk to Lieutenant Provost!”

  Outside my back door, spring unfolded. The temperature was benign, the sky was blue, and in their paddock, Pony and Andrew lifted their heads and whinnied a welcome as Lincoln and I stepped briskly onto the gravel drive. Either Joe or Ally had groomed both horses to trim perfection. It was with a sense of satisfaction that I set off on the mile-long walk into Summersville. I would compose both question and answer for this week’s column as I walked.

  Madeline did have a point about bovine back fat. Most pet owners are interested in the more practical applications of veterinary science. By the time I reached the portals of the Summersville Sentinel, I had a very satisfactory Q and A ready to dictate regarding the regular use of antihelmetics in dogs.

  The Sentinel occupies a cut-stone building on the west side of Main Street in the center of the village. Even in the pale spring sunlight, the old stone glowed with a mellow geniality. The presses occupy the ground floor. The second floor holds the editorial offices. Lincoln and I jogged up the stairs to the second-floor landing just in time to meet Rita on her way out.

  “You!” she said.

  Rita is a small, trim widow in her mid-forties, with short brown hair, a great many freckles, and sharp gray eyes. Her late husband was, I believe, a journalist of some note, whose ethics remain a byword in the industry. Rita is as committed to truth, justice, and balanced reporting as he was. She is also peppery in personality. Generally, however, she is not excitable. But her excitement today was almost palpable.

  “Austin, I don’t have time to talk to you right now. Didn’t Maddy tell you not to come down? Can’t you just do the rewrite at home and e-mail me? I’m on a hot story! First murder in Tompkins County since that trouble last year up at the Inn at Hemlock Falls. I have to get to the press conference in half an hour.”

  “Rewrite?” I said, getting to the essential part of this stream of words. “There is absolutely nothing wrong with that column!”

  “Sheesh!” Rita rolled her eyes, bit her lip with impatience, and glanced at her watch. “Okay. I’ve got ten minutes, tops.” She wheeled around and pulled me through the door to the offices. The Sentinel offices occupy most of the second floor and are designed on what I believe is called the “open plan.” This means that the only obstacle between the staff and the public is a chest-high counter that divides the desks from the entryway. Rita pushed through the swinging gate. I followed. She went straight to her desk and pushed papers around in a frenzy. “Here!” She thrust a sheaf of papers at me.

  “It’s the blueline.” I said. (The Sentinel’s presses are antiquated, a consequence, Rita says, of the slender profit margin inherent in the publishing business.)

  “Yep. And darn it, Austin. I was so busy this week I told Justine to edit it and I didn’t see it until right this minute. And then of course we got the letter.”

  “What letter?” I demanded.

  “You’ll see tomorrow’s paper!” She jogged up and down in agitation. “But it’s hot, Austin.”

  I let this pass. My column always looks more impressive in typeface. I read it with a modest glow of pride:

  ASK DR. MCKENZIE!

  (The exclamation point is not mine. I prefer understatement, but apparently the advertising department felt it needed “punch.”)

  Dear Dr. McKenzie:

  I found the dearest little possum in my backyard just before Christmas. I made a comfy nest for him in our garage. He went into hibernation just after we found him. I have tried waking him up now that the weather is getting warmer, but I guess he is still hibernating. What should I do now?

  Yours truly, M. W.

  Dear M. W.:

  Possums do not hibernate. Your pet is dead.

  Yours truly, Austin McKenzie, DVM, PhD

  “M. W.’s diction could use some work,” I admitted. “But I thought we had a policy not to interfere too much with reader letters. They are, after all, the voices of the people.”

  “Your response could use some work!” Rita said. She appeared to be in some dudgeon. “I mean—‘your pet is dead’!? Couldn’t you, like—I don’t know—soften it up? It’s like that old joke about the singing telegram. You know—da-da-da-da-dat! ‘Your sister Rose is dead!’”

  Rose? Soften it up? “This,” I said with authority, “calls for Madeline. She will know precisely what to say.”

  “Good. Sit down at my desk and call her. Matter of fact, go home and ask her.”

  I pointed out it was nearly three o’clock and a Tuesday, to boot, and that three on Tuesdays had been the Sentinel’s deadline for twenty years.

  “We’re holding the presses until I get the whole story on the Grazley murder.”

  “This is most unusual, Rita.”

  “Yeah, well, I’ve got an unusual angle to this thing.” She looked at her watch again, ignoring the imperative grasp of my hand on her sleeve. “The cops are holding a press conference at the courthouse, like, right now.” She pivoted and resumed her march out the door. A press conference? About the shooting incidents, I presumed. An idea sprang fully formed into my brain. Lincoln and I followed Rita down the steps. I arrested her progress midway. “Is this press conference open to the public?”

  “Nope. Press only.” She hurtled forward, but swiveled her head and narrowed those sharp gray eyes at me. “Say. You know him? Grazley?”

  I cleared my throat noncommittally as all three of us clattered down the steps. Rita stopped at the bottom, ran her hands through her hair, and then faced me. “Of course you know him,” she answered herself. “All you guys know each other.”

  I said nothing, committing the sin of omission. If one were a Jesuit. Which I was not. I was also thinking rapidly, as is my wont. What if I spoke up at the press conference? A short, but succinct summary of the facts, delivered in my best classroom manner. Provost could hardly decry my efforts as “amateur” in teeth of a crowd I held in the palm of my hand!

  “Austin?” Rita nudged me. Her elbow was sharp. “Look, Austin. You think you might be able to give me some background on this guy?”

  “Possibly,” I responded. It wasn’t probable, since my one face-to-face encounter with Benny Grazley had been over the body of a dead horse fifteen years ago. But it was possible, depending on the nature of her question. I could certainly let her stand in line for an interview with me. Although I would have to consider the benefit attached with an exclusive to the larger papers. The Times, perhaps, if they were represented. “Grazley had called me in for consultation on occasion.”

  Well, once.

  “All right. I’ll risk it. I’ll get you a press pass. You and the dog stay right here.”

  She raced up the stairs again and reappeared, moments later, with a plastic card in her hand. “Here.” She thrust a press pass at me. “You can come with me, Austin, but you keep your mouth shut, okay? What I want you to do is, if there’s a question you think I should ask, you whisper it to me, okay? They find out you’re a ringer, they can ban me from these like that.” She snapped her fingers. “The last thing I want is to lose my press
privileges on a big story like this.” She skidded to a halt in front of her automobile. “What the hell are we going to do with that dog?”

  “Lincoln is fully capable of finding his way home,” I said, not without pride. “If you’ll wait a moment, I’ll just write a brief message to Madeline. Lincoln has carried messages to her before. If he arrives home without me, she’ll worry.”

  “We can call her on my cell, Austin. As a matter of fact, why don’t you carry a cell? Never mind, never mind, I don’t want to hear another lecture on the general obnoxiousness of modern life.”

  “Very well,” I said, with some dignity. “Be that way.”

  “Jeez-louise, Austin.” She scowled. “Did I tell you how much I like you, you old goat? Stubborn old anachronism that you are.”

  “Rubbish.” I held my palm up to summon my dog’s attention. “Lincoln?”

  He looked up at me, ears tuliped forward, eyes alert.

  “Home. Madeline.”

  There was a brief—very brief—flash of disappointment in those brown eyes.

  “Sorry, boy. But you must go home.” I stressed the noun “home” very lightly. Lincoln’s vocabulary is large, for a dog, but the words of apology meant nothing to him. He would forgive me the loss of upcoming journey in his own way. He heard the word “home” and obeyed. He pivoted and trotted back the way we had come, purpose in every magnificent line.

  “Where is the press conference being held?” I asked as I folded myself into Rita’s Geo.

  “Ithaca courthouse. In fifteen minutes.”

  We made it in ten. Ithaca is only ten miles from Summersville and Rita’s size-six shoe belies a heavy foot. She is an accomplished multitasker, too, and by the time we reached the courthouse, Madeline had been alerted to the fact of my absence for the remainder of the day, and she critiqued my oral transcription of my proposed column for the upcoming week.

  “Worms are good,” she said positively. “You can never get enough good advice about worms. But I swear to god, Austin, you try and run a picture of . . . what was it again?”

  “Ascarids,” I said. “Small, round parasites found in the stools of untreated dogs. They are visible to the naked eye, although by the time . . .”

  “Excuse me. I know you find interrupting rude as all get out, Austin, but no pictures.” She whipped the little Geo into a space that would have better accommodated a go-cart and turned off the ignition.

  “You are quite an accomplished driver,” I said with admiration.

  “You’ll find out I’m an accomplished pincher if you say one word aloud in here. Got it?”

  I nodded and followed her up the courthouse steps.

  I had passed by the Tompkins County Courthouse for many years without ever going inside. It was an imposing structure, made of cut stone as are so many of the older buildings in upstate New York. Inside, the ceilings were imposingly high. The floors were terrazzo, which always seems somewhat dirty, no matter how good the janitorial service, and the walls and stair railings of dark, battered mahogany.

  The press conference was held in a small courtroom off to the left. We joined the pack of media people shoving and pushing their way in the confined space. With a few judicious applications of her right heel, Rita managed to drag me to the front of the room.

  Before us stood a podium and lectern. An array of microphones splayed across the lectern’s top.

  “There appear to be no policemen present,” I observed.

  “Shh,” Rita hissed. “And ten to one it’s a policewoman, Austin. Just be quiet, okay?”

  “I am using the term ‘man’ in its generic sense,” I said, somewhat stiffly. “As a writer, you must be aware . . . ouch!” Rita’s right heel dug into my shin.

  A phalanx of policemen arrived all at once and distributed themselves around the lectern, rather like a herd of sea lions beaching themselves on a favored shore. Rita pulled out her notepad and scribbled furiously. “They’ve got all the brass here, plus some extras,” she muttered to me. “That’s the chief of police here in Ithaca, and that’s Simon Provost, the head of detectives for the Ithaca police force.”

  “I know him.”

  Rita let this admission pass. She pointed the end of her pencil at a tall, muscular man who had taken up a stand well to the rear. “And my gosh, that’s Myles McHale. He’s the biggest of the biggies. I heard he was off somewhere on terrorist duty. I wonder what he’s doing here?” She snapped her head around and stared at me. “Wait a second. Provost. You know him, too?”

  “I spoke with him earlier today,” I said casually. “It was at the start of the investigation. And last night of course. You are aware that someone took a shot at me last evening?”

  “No kidding,” Rita breathed. “You catch me up on that later, okay? Maybe I ought to interview you.”

  Provost was short, stocky, with a heavy chin and a balding pate. His demeanor was far less cheerful than it had been the night before. He looked, in fact, careworn. I leaned down and whispered, “Would you care for a few pictures of me as well, Rita? To accompany the interview?”

  “Shh. The chief’s going to speak.”

  The chief of the Ithaca Police Department stepped forward and leaned into a microphone. He was familiar to anyone who had lived and worked in the area as long as I—a good man, the scuttlebutt had it, and an honest one. His manner was direct, uncompromising, and succinct:

  Veterinarian Benjamin Grazley of the Canandaigua Equine Clinic was sixty-two years old. He had been traveling north on Route 96 and stopped at a gas station in the town of Covert. He was shot to death at approximately 7:15 A.M.

  He left a widow and two children.

  Rita shot up her hand and waved it frantically. The chief nodded, and she worked her way through the crowd to the podium. She grabbed the microphone, leaned forward, and said, “Ladies and gentlemen. Not thirty minutes ago, a message was delivered to the Sentinel offices. We don’t know where it came from. We don’t know who the author is. But I will read it to you now.”

  She withdrew a plastic-covered sheet of paper from her sweater pocket and held it up. “It says: ANYWHERE! ANYTIME! ANYBODY!”

  A cacophony of shouts erupted from the mass of reporters, but Rita herself shouted the word that the entire room had feared to hear.

  Sniper.

  Eight

  A sniper in Tompkins County?

  It was hard to believe.

  I returned home without speaking to Provost or anyone else about the evidence Madeline and I had pulled together. Any thought Rita had of doing an interview with me was squashed flat by the Summersville police department. Two patrolmen hauled Rita and her note off to talk to the investigators. I had to call Madeline to come and retrieve me from the courthouse.

  The village was a hotbed of rumor and speculation, of course, and every radio and television channel was crammed full of spurious “specials” and “you are there” reports about the Summersville Sniper. Ersatz experts in psychology and sociology scuttled into the limelight and pontificated. The verb “pontificate” is a useful piece of language. I do not use it lightly. The only person who should pontificate is a pontiff. As far as the note was concerned? I was convinced it was a malicious prank.

  I sat in front of the television and the Syracuse six o’clock news while Madeline squashed lamb patties into flat rounds. She was making dinner for Allegra and Joe before we left for dinner with the McClellans.

  “There is one thing, Austin.” She plopped the last lamb burger into the broiler pan and shoved it into the oven. “Austin? Are you listening to me?”

  I scowled at the television. Some gasbag from CNN stood in front of the Grazley’s front door, microphone clutched in one hand and fake compassion plastered all over her face. She’d just asked Mrs. Grazley how she felt. Mrs. Grazley shut the door in her face. She should have shoved the microphone up the reporter’s nose.

  “Austin!”

  “You saw that, I take it?” I clicked the mute button and tugged at my
mustache. “Bereaved by violence, and that reporter asks the poor woman how she feels? They should jail that flack. We need an amendment to the Constitution. I shall write to Senator Schumer.”

  “Good for you,” Madeline said vigorously.

  “Better yet, we should lobby for an addition to the Bill of Rights. This nation is in sore need of a Right to Civility. Come look at this, my dear. There is Simon Provost, at the courthouse steps.”

  Madeline thumped the cutting board with a package of frozen peas. This was to get my attention. I turned the television off altogether and walked into the kitchen proper. Lincoln got up with a sigh and followed me.

  “Austin, have you thought about who is going to take poor Dr. Grazley’s place on the Veterinary Commission?”

  I sat at the table. Suddenly, I felt quite old. “Grazley will be quite a loss to the profession, you know. He has quite a reputation as a researcher. I used several of his papers on immunoassay testing in the senior seminars on equine infectious diseases. He will be difficult to replace.” The cat Odie jumped to my shoulder and dug her claws affectionately into my shoulder.

  “But what about Earlsdown?”

  “My goodness. You’re right. A second untimely death means the commission is short a veterinarian.”

  Madeline slapped the frozen peas into the microwave. “So, who we going to get on such short notice? Earlsdown’s a rated show, right? We’re going to need that fourth guy. And—you’re not going to believe this—Marina’s already called me back to make sure we’re coming tonight.” She shook her head. “She didn’t say a word about what happened this morning, Austin. Not your visit. Not Grazley’s murder. Not the so-called sniper. Not anything.” She slammed a loaf of French bread onto the cutting board. “There’s a lot of denial operating there.”

  There seemed to be a lot of denial operating here, too. Neither one of us wanted to discuss the shootings, or what we had surmised about them.

  The microwave dinged and the broiler timer went off. Madeline smiled at me. “Dinner’ll be ready as soon as I get the potatoes out of the oven. While you’re thinking about poor Benny Grazley’s replacement, go find the kids. It’s time for them to eat.”