“I’ve been to his home,” I interjected. “And yes, Joe has met him, too. If we’re speaking of the same McClellan. He’s on the committee at Earlsdown this year. His daughter will be eventing this year.”
“We’re speaking of the same McClellan, all right. And that daughter of his? Crazy as an outhouse rat. Kid’s got a rap sheet a mile long for petty theft.”
“Is that so?” I said.
“Obnoxious kid. Lost her pet dog a couple days ago, came into the paper and wanted to take out a full-page ad. Couldn’t pay for it, so no go. Nobody felt sorry for her, either, which tells you something.”
“It does indeed,” I said. I mulled over this verification that Stephanie had searched for her pet. I then brought matters back to the point. “You may know that I am head of the Veterinary Commission at Earlsdown this year.”
Nigel shrugged.
“So we’ll be working closely together, Brewster and I.”
“So? What’s all this got to do with the sniper killing?” He frowned. “There’s some horse angle here? That what you’re telling me?”
“Did you know that Ben Grazley had been out on a barn call at McClellan’s home prior to the shooting?”
“What are you talking about?” Nigel didn’t go so far as to affect a fedora, the way reporters in old Ben Hecht screen-plays did, but he did wear a ratty tweed sport coat with leather patches on the elbows. He dug in his breast pocket and withdrew not a well-worn steno pad, but an electronic dingus.
“Nice BlackBerry,” Joe said.
“Yeah. Can’t beat it for notes.” He tapped at the keys with a stylus. “Huh. All that’s part of the police report is that Grazley was coming back from a call on Route Fifteen.” He looked up at me. “Route Fifteen is where McClellan lives, isn’t it? In that huge new mansion he built. So you think something happened out there? Maybe he pissed McClellan off? Maybe McClellan shot him?” He poised his stylus over the keyboard.
“Whoa,” Joe said. “You’re going a little fast there, pal.”
“There’s been no indication at all that McClellan was the author of the sniper letter,” I said. “Or has there?”
“Police figure the letter’s a prank,” Nigel admitted. “Or that’s the official story line, anyhow.”
I smoothed my mustache. “I thought so.”
“Yeah? How come you thought so? It’s got a lot of people going, that letter has.” Nigel’s beady little eyes were alight with reportorial passion. “Hey, you guys want to stay off the record, I got no problem with that. I’ll quote you as reliable sources. Use that term all the time.”
“I think,” I added, “that we would need to know a lot more about McClellan himself before we could be any kind of source at all.”
“What is this, a trade-off of some kind? You scratch my back, I’ll scratch yours?”
To be truthful, I had not anticipated the full ramifications of a foray into the detecting business. It was clear my inclination to have all aboveboard might prove impediments to a successful investigation.
“Don’t like the idea of a quid pro quo?” Nigel slouched against the booth and grinned unpleasantly. “You look like you’re sucking lemons, doc. Hey. You lie down with dogs . . .” He shrugged and put his BlackBerry away. “Suit yourself. Let’s back track a bit. Why you so interested in McClellan, anyhow?”
“Dr. McKenzie already mentioned he’s going to be doing some business with him,” Joe said. “They’re working together on the Earlsdown event.”
Joe was getting quicker on the uptake. Perhaps I’d worried unnecessarily about the quality of our teamwork. I picked up the baton and ran with it. “And I needn’t tell you, Nigel, about my concerns for the show’s success.”
I needn’t, indeed. For all of me, they could cancel the damn thing. It’d been the site of one equine death already.
“Huh. Well. R-i-i-ght,” Nigel said, with an irritating drawl. “So, this vet Grazley goes out to McClellan’s for what did you call it? A barn call. What’d he do at the barn call? Moo?” Nigel’s laugh is particularly annoying. He drew his nose up like a Duroc sow in heat and snickered, “Heh-heh-heh.”
“He was to examine one of the horses stabled there,” I said repressively.
“And then what? Was there an argument?”
“You’ll have to ask McClellan about that. The evidence indicates he never got to the farm.”
Nigel took out the BlackBerry, made a few notes with the stylus, and packed it away again. “Okay. Thanks. I guess.”
I took a deep breath. “What I wish to know is who McClellan is.”
“Who he is?”
“Where did he come from? What does he do? What is the context of the man?”
“Heck. That’s easy enough. He’s a venture capitalist.”
“A what?” Joe asked.
“You know, he goes around raising money for new businesses. He’s from New York City, originally. All of those guys are.” He sighed and looked wistful, perhaps thinking of the offices of the New York Times and the newly gentrified Times Square. “Anyhow, he either takes a cut of the business itself, through equity participation, or a commission on the money he raises. Seems to be doing pretty well, if you look at the cash he’s spread around here.”
“Does he specialize?” I inquired.
“You mean, like high tech, low tech, no tech? I don’t know for sure. But I can find out. I do know that he’s one of the movers behind that estate development plan.”
“What plan is that?”
Nigel shook his head. “Tsk. Tsk. Tsk. You know, doc, I think the only part of the Sentinel you read is your own column. Rita’d be pissed about that. The Gorges Group has been making headlines for the past couple of months. All the liberals at Cornell are as steamed as hell about it.”
“McClellan’s a force behind that?” I stroked my mustache, a habit when I’m amazed.
“What is it, some kind of housing thing?” Joe asked.
“Some kind,” Nigel snorted. “McClellan’s got that three hundred acres of prime meadowland. Wants to turn it into a combination housing development/office park sort of thing. He’s got the state guys here to do permits, the whole shebang. Word is he’s got the mayor in for a piece of the action . . .” Nigel’s eyes grew dreamy. “Now, there’s a story for you. If I could tie McClellan into Grazley’s murder all hell would break loose about that development for sure.”
None of this had anything to do with dead horses or disgraced veterinarians. I was not unable to see a red herring when it was staring me in the face. And Colleen had deposited the bill for lunch in front of me in her usually impetuous fashion. “That’s all very well and good, but it doesn’t appear to be germane to the horse business.”
“What about Mrs. McClellan,” Joe said. “Do we know anything about her background?”
“Marina? She’s a software developer, or was.”
“Really?” I said.
“Yeah. To look at her now, you’d think she couldn’t develop a cold. But yeah, she’s no dummy. You wouldn’t believe it, the way she comes across now. Not to mention the fact she’s got the roundest heels in Tompkins County.” His gaze drifted beyond my shoulder to the dining room proper. His eyes widened.
I was startled. “Round heels? You mean she’s what my grandfather would call a loose woman?” This was extremely hard to believe. I began to doubt the veracity of all Nigel’s statements.
“Having an affair with some young vet, they say. D’Andrea? Was that his name?”
Hm. If it were true, more power to the poor woman. But Nigel paid no further attention to me. He sat up. A slight red flush suffused his cheeks. I turned around. Nigel’s gaze was riveted on Allegra. She was looking particularly fetching. Her complexion was rosily flushed with the chill of the outside air. Little tendrils of chocolate-colored curls floated about her forehead. Her eyes were brilliant and she was smiling happily.
She was accompanied by my beloved. Madeline was looking lovely, too, if one overlooked the expression of extreme
disapprobation on her face.
I was keenly aware of the remains of the Monrovian Embassy Special on the plate in front of me. My thoughts moved as lightning. This was a booth for four, wasn’t it? And there were only three at table. Rising to greet the arrivals, I shoved plate, cutlery, and beer stein to the unoccupied place to my right. I could make careless reference to Rita’s arrival and precipitate departure, perhaps. Rita was notoriously fond of the hamburger special.
“Austin.” Madeline’s mellow contralto momentarily silenced the din. “You haven’t been eating greasy junk again, have you?
My lunch companions snickered. Madeline sighed, then crossed the room, a sloop in full sail, Allegra trailing her like a bright little dinghy. “Well, Nigel,” Madeline said sunnily, “we haven’t seen you for a while. How’ve you been?”
Nigel, staring at Allegra as if she were a Monrovian Embassy special, made a vague noise of welcome.
Madeline considered him for a long moment, then said, “Shove over, Joe, so we can sit down.”
“Sit here!” Nigel shouted. “I mean, you can sit right across from me, Mrs. McKenzie. Joe, if you slide over a bit, she, I mean, you can sit next to me.” He waved his paw in Allegra’s face. “Nigel Fish,” he said. “Journalist.”
“Allegra Fulbright,” she said. Then, with a mischievous glance at me, she added, “Eventer.”
“I knew you would knock Lila’s eye out,” I said with no little satisfaction. “You and Hugo are well suited.”
“Hugo who?” Nigel demanded.
“Ally’s going to be competing at Earlsdown next week,” Madeline said. She, too, was beaming. She gave me a kiss on the cheek. “I wish you’d seen the two of them working out, Joe. She got that big rock of a gelding moving right along.”
“Hugo’s a horse, then,” Nigel said, with a degree of intelligence I hadn’t credited him with, heretofore.
“Hugo’s a horse,” Allegra agreed. “A really nice horse.”
“And Ally’s going to take a ribbon or two on him, if I’m any judge,” Madeline said happily.
“No ribbons. It’s way too late for that. I might finish, if my legs don’t fall off first.” Allegra bent and rubbed her calves. “The horse is in great shape. I’m not so sure about me.”
“We’ll have to feed you up,” Madeline said. “I don’t know about you, sweetie, but I’m about starving to death.” Madeline waved at Colleen, pointed to the plate by my side and called, “We’ll have two of what Austin had.” She relaxed against my side. “So, did you two have a successful morning at the Longworths’? We didn’t have a chance to talk about that earlier.” She kept her eyes on Nigel for a moment, then turned and looked at me. One eyebrow quirked up in an unspoken question. There are many advantages to a long and happy marriage, chief of which is the ability of two compatible partners to read each other’s mind.
“Nigel was just leaving,” I said.
“Oh, I can stick around a while,” Nigel said eagerly. “Are you new in town, Allegra? I don’t think I’ve seen you at the Embassy before.”
“I’m a senior at Cornell.”
“And far too young for you, Nigel,” I said briskly. “And I said I would buy you lunch. I wasn’t anticipating the pleasure of your company for the rest of the afternoon. Nor do I want it.”
Madeline intervened with some celerity, “What Dr. McKenzie means, Nigel, is that he has several more calls to make this afternoon, and we’ll all be leaving shortly. But it was very nice to see you again.”
I don’t know how Madeline accomplishes these things. Nigel left the table with reasonable grace, for a journalist, and we were left alone.
“So, did you learn anything from Nigel?” Allegra asked eagerly.
Joe drained his beer and set the schooner on the table with a thump. “McClellan’s on thin ice financially and Stephanie’s got a rap sheet a mile long.”
“Interesting,” Allegra said, her brows raised.
“What did he mean, rap sheet?” Madeline asked with a frown. “Anything serious?”
“Shoplifting, a small amount of drugs, petty stuff,” Joe said.
“We think Stephanie’s pretty much out of the picture as a suspect,” Allegra said, and then explained why.
“It’s McClellan’s financial worries that are of great interest here,” I said. “With a modicum of luck, Coughlin will be able to shed a little more light onto the situation.” I glanced at my watch. “I should be getting along to the interview I’ve set up with him soon.”
Madeline nodded, “And, I’m going to get groceries if we’re to count on any supper, and I want to drop Ally off for her afternoon class. But I didn’t want the whole day to go by without discussing what we’ve discovered so far.” Colleen set two platters of the Monrovian Embassy Special down on the table. Instead of beer, she’d brought hot tea. I instantly deduced that Madeline frequented a place she had forbidden me. I seem to be a natural at this detective business.
“Don’t chew your mustache, Austin.”
“McClellan is in the middle of this up to his crooked neck,” I said. “We suspect Sullivan of insurance fraud. Sullivan wants to buy into McClellan’s Coggins business—what was it? FieldChek, whose other shareholders are mainly dead. That is, Grazley and Schumacher. Beecher is owned by a syndicate, whose partners are the late Benny Grazley, the highly suspect Sullivan, and the nearly bankrupt McClellan. Things could hardly be more suspicious.”
“It looks like it,” Joe said. “Interesting.”
“You were dubious that McClellan could to be linked to the crimes this morning,” I observed.
“Not dubious, exactly. But the links seemed pretty weak to me, doc. Not now. There’s something off, that’s for sure.”
“I have no doubt of it. You search for the cause of a disease process system by system. If a horse exhibits symptoms of colic, you begin by an examination of the gastrointestinal system. If nothing is unearthed, you move on to the endocrine. What you do not ignore, as a diagnostician, is the fact that something is wrong. And if something is wrong, there is a proximate cause. One may search for the cause of crime in the same systematic manner.”
There was a lengthy pause at the table. I tapped my fingers impatiently. “The crimes against Faraway, Grazley, and Coughlin are all connected to McClellan in one way or another. One of the man’s ‘systems’ if you will, is what he does for a living.”
“Well, what is McClellan’s business?” Madeline asked.
“He appears to be a real estate developer, primarily. With a hand in some small business start-ups.”
“A real estate developer?” Allegra echoed.
“Not on his own behalf. He raises money to develop developments.” I took a moment to examine this locution. I didn’t like it.
Allegra looked perplexed. “What in the world does that have to do with horses?”
I said nothing. Madeline gave me a nudge. “Austin?”
“I don’t know,” I admitted. “We aren’t in possession of sufficient data. We need to know more about this Sullivan, for one. We need to know his exact relationship to McClellan. And it’d be well to discover the extent of McClellan’s debts and to whom he owes money. We are quite a way from establishing a motive for these murders.” I sighed. I knew that the path to bringing the murderer to justice might be a twisty one, but this was getting to be positively tortuous. The amount of data that needed to be gathered was mountainous.
“You said Sullivan’s a lawyer with offices in New York, Madeline?” Joe asked.
Madeline nodded. “A divorce lawyer, according to Lila.”
“I could hop on down there and make like a client,” Joe suggested.
“You and your string of ex-wives?” Allegra asked politely.
“Funny.”
“Or we could break into McClellan’s offices,” Allegra said, with a blithe disregard for the man’s civil rights.
“We have a specific objective,” I pointed out. “Which requires a much more focused approach.”
“I’ve got it,” Madeline said, “Why don’t we just ask him? It’s my experience that men like McClellan love to talk about their business.”
I may have mentioned that my wife is frequently three steps ahead of me. I love her dearly for it. “Excellent,” I said. “And why stop there? I will call on McClellan after I’ve finished with Coughlin. I shall demand to know all about Phillip Sullivan, the syndication of Beecher, and his relationship with Grazley and Schumacher.”
Joe coughed. Allegra twiddled with her hair. Madeline put her arms around me and said, “I think you should reconsider, dear!”
“You think my approach, in general, is too direct?”
“I think your approach could get you killed, if McClellan is the murderer,” Madeline said.
“This is how I see it, Dr. McKenzie,” Allegra said. “You’re the brains of the operation. Madeline’s the interrogator. I’m in charge of covert operations—I’m the one going undercover at Earlsdown, right?”
Joe cleared his throat.
“And of course,” Allegra said with an airy wave of her hand, “We need muscle, occasionally.”
Joe smiled calmly. “You know,” he said casually, “You might take a few minutes to examine your retro-sexist, gender-biased attitudes. They’re bound to get you in a lot of trouble in the veterinary business.”
“Is that so? Who says I’m gender-biased? I know a lot of dumb, muscle-bound women, too.”
“You know what? I was wrong. I admit it. It doesn’t seem to be an attitude at all. More like a character trait.” The two of them leaned over the table, almost nose to nose.
Madeline sighed. It was so deep, so heartfelt, that Joe and Allegra broke off their squabble. Allegra and Joe looked at her in concern. I, of course, knew better. A heartfelt sigh was one of Madeline’s favorite tactics. It works to advantage in all kinds of unusual places.
“Are you all right, Mrs. McKenzie?” Allegra asked anxiously.
“I’m fine!” she said, briskly. “Just breathing. So, we’ve agreed that I’ll be the one to pry information out of Brewster, preferably without his realizing I’m prying at all. We should come up with some excuse to meet up with Brewster. A natural one. Not fakey.”
The Case of the Roasted Onion Page 17