“How am I going to get them to give me one of their patches, then, if you don’t speak French?”
Bruno thought for a moment. “You could try Peaches. You know her? P.C. Cromwell. I’ve heard her speak French and I can tell you, her accent is almost perfect.”
“That lady who works for the Pest?” said Chris. “She speaks French?” He served Bruno his cheesesteak, adding, “She doesn’t come in here too often, but I know her. She’s a piece a work.”
Chapter 54
The discovery of the underground passage at the Lenape King generated much excitement, as it seemed to promise a speedy conclusion. In fact, it was a brick wall. Everything pointed to Alison. But they needed to find her and, in spite of Bruno’s regular monitoring, there were no solid leads to indicate where she was hiding.
Chief Black dispatched Michelle and Nancy to the Penn campus. Most of the faculty showed appropriate concern and were quite helpful. Each explained in turn that Alison had written to say she could not attend classes due to health reasons. But she was keeping up with the reading, downloading the lecture notes, and mailing in her homework.
The one exception was Professor Littlejohn in the Sociology Department. He actually had a lawyer sitting in on the interview with him. Instead of answering questions, he made a speech. Obviously, he was trying to evade the issue. Why? Did he know something? Or was he just another pompous blowhard? Nancy and Michelle ducked out at the first opportunity.
Then they caught a break. One of the professors, an odd, old duffer named John Barker, admitted that he remembered receiving the envelopes, but hadn’t opened them. “They must be here somewhere,” he muttered as he riffled through a stack of papers piled on a credenza. “I teach a course in physics for non-majors,” Professor Barker explained. “We used to call it Physics for Poets but the students didn’t like the look of it on their transcripts. Said they wanted something more robust. So now we call it Postmodern Physics: The Flow of Energy in the Cosmos and on Earth. In fact, it’s the same course I’ve been teaching for 30 years. Physics is physics.”
He moved to another pile and continued rummaging. “I assign the papers, but I can’t bear to read them. They’re utterly idiotic.” His face brightened as he moved aside a stack of journals, “Ah, I think I’ve found them.” Michelle moved closer. She pulled out her latex gloves and evidence bags.
“Yes, here they are. Alison’s are the ones in manila envelopes. She’s quite attractive. I was sorry when she stopped coming to class …”
“Excuse me, professor,” said Michelle, gently moving him aside. She carefully extricated the tan envelopes while Nancy held open the bags to receive them. “You have been extremely helpful,” said Michelle, “and we are grateful.”
She turned to go, but Professor Barker detained her. He was blushing. “I’m a bit embarrassed about not reading the papers and I wanted to explain …”
“It’s not necessary, Professor,” said Nancy gently. “You’re doing your job the best way you know how. If the kids do some of the reading, learn a little about physics, you’re way ahead of the game.”
“Yes, but …”
“Professor, I understand.” She fixed him with her steady green-eyed gaze.
Professor Barker struggled to maintain some of his dignity, but Nancy pressed the advantage: “Professor Barker? There’s one more thing …”
“Yes. What is it?”
“You wouldn’t mind if we took your fingerprints, would you?”
The Professor rolled his eyes toward the unfeeling cosmos. Why was he putting up with this, he asked himself, when he could be casting dry flies to rising rainbows? It really was time to retire.
Chapter 55
Icky’s funeral was a notable affair—sort of like Woodstock, without the mud. Of course, everyone was dressed in black. Black T-shirts. Black leather. And a sprinkling of traditional black suits and dresses, worn by the minister, the Murphys, and their friends.
The day was exceptionally hot. The mourners were sweating profusely, which, somehow, substituted for tears. It was a graveside ceremony; people brought blankets to sit on, hampers stuffed with good things to eat and drink, and other goodies such as Icky himself might have enjoyed.
Jay Miller, Icky’s friend since kindergarten, got things rolling with a Hendrix-inspired version of “Taps” played on solo electric guitar.
Then a young woman gave a soulful rendition of “Amazing Grace,” a cappella.
This was followed by “Amazing Grace” on the bagpipes. The inexperienced piper had trouble managing his breath, so the music came out in a herky-jerky, barely recognizable fashion, and some of the mourners started hooting.
Next, a bluegrass combo started in on an interminable version of “Will the Circle Be Unbroken?” on fiddle, banjo, and washboard. By now the crowd had moved beyond restive; they were downright hostile.
This was the moment when Icky’s father decided to take control of things. “Why don’t you all go home, you freeloading degenerates?”
Icky’s friends had learned to ignore Dr. Murphy long ago and they responded with obscenities and threats. Someone threw a half-eaten cheeseburger at him. As Dr. Murphy retreated, the band segued into a bluegrass version of “Danny Boy.” The mob roared its approval and tried to sing along.
Standing in the back, Chief Black whispered to Bruno, “If this gets any worse, somebody’s going to have to call the cops.”
Bruno was sulking. There was no sign of Alison. He hadn’t wanted to drive in from Tabernacle, but the Chief had convinced him she might show up.
“Could that be her over there?” the Chief indicated the direction with a nod of his head. “The woman in the gypsy costume?”
Bruno squinted. The sweat was getting in his eyes and this was about the half-dozenth time the Chief had thought he’d spotted her. “That’s no gypsy,” Bruno explained. “It’s Alison’s mother, impersonating Janis Joplin.”
Now it was Joe Kennedy’s turn to give a personal remembrance of his friend. He couched his remarks in terms of a drug deal, praising Icky’s character because he “paid his dues” and “gave good weight.”
Dr. Murphy razzed him repeatedly as an “insipid lout,” a “characterless reprobate,” and a “drug-crazed Neanderthal,” until finally Mrs. Murphy managed to pull him off to the side, where the two argued with some intensity.
Some of Icky’s high school teachers said they regretted the fact that he had dropped out because he never fulfilled his potential. This produced a round of snickers from the recent graduates.
Finally, Mr. Joyce, the Unitarian Minister, got up to deliver his eulogy. He announced that he’d taken his inspiration from the plaque on the side of the building where Newton (Icky) had spent his last conscious moments. It seems that back in 1777, one Jonas Cattell had performed a heroic feat, not far from the spot of the tragic fire. Young Jonas had escaped the captivity of His Majesty’s minions and run a distance of 10 miles to alert the commander at Fort Mercer that the Hessians were coming; the attack would come by land, not by the river, and he must turn his guns around. By this effort, Jonas Cattell enabled a revolutionary American army of only 300 to defeat a force of 1,600 mercenaries.
Why did he mention this? Icky could not have run 10 blocks, Mr. Joyce conceded, let alone 10 miles …
—“Yeah, but he could do 10 lines faster than anyone,” a voice interrupted, much to the mourners’ delight.
Mr. Joyce gracefully acknowledged the witticism before continuing, “… and certainly, he was no soldier. Yet like Jonas Cattell, Icky was 18 years old. And he was also fighting long odds.”
“I know his middle name was Ichabod,” Mr. Joyce continued, his voice resonating as he neared his conclusion. “But I like to think of him as Icarus. He was the fair-haired boy who flew too close to the sun. He singed his wings and fell to his death: senseless, tragic, and premature. But what a glorious figure he cut while soaring so high!”
Somehow these words silenced the hecklers. They kne
w it was utter nonsense, but at the same time, it was the right thing to say about Icky. It was exactly what they would have wanted said about themselves, if they had come to ruin due to their own stupidity.
As the crowd dispersed, Bruno and the Chief walked off together, scanning the crowd for Alison in disguise. No luck. She’d skipped the funeral.
The Chief quickly brought Bruno up to date. The manila envelopes Alison was using to send in her homework had all been postmarked “Gardenfield.” The only identifiable prints were those of Alison and Professor Barker. Chief Black had the force pulling extra shifts so they could stake out the post office and keep an eye on as many mail boxes as possible. He also had Harry researching the possibility of putting different types of ultraviolet powder in some mailboxes to try to narrow down where the envelopes were being mailed from.
Chapter 56
For the next week, Bruno stayed out in Tabernacle, tending to Maggie, going for long walks, watching the vultures circle, and trying to repair some of the damage to his trailer. He also checked in on Alison once or twice a day. She was invariably inside, in the same room where he saw her before, doing homework or indulging in sex fantasies. She seemed to Bruno omnivorous and insatiable. At first she seemed content to recall her greatest hits with Icky. Then she branched out to other men, famous actors, rock stars, and even a horse. Unbelievable. Eventually Bruno realized he was eavesdropping on her dreams.
Unfortunately there were never any details that could indicate where she was staying.
Finally, Chief Black interrupted this peaceful interlude. He called to say it was time to interview Rebecca Wales again.
Alison’s mother retained her sunny optimism. They were sitting out on the screened porch, sipping lemonade as a series of cats came in and out at will. “Alison will be fine,” Mrs. Wales insisted. “I assume she’s laying low until you discover the real killer. Isn’t that what anybody would do? I know it’s what I would do. And of course I wouldn’t tell my mother where I was. Alison would have to know that you’d come here to ask me and she wouldn’t want to put me in an awkward position where I’d have to lie.”
“That’s very considerate of her, Mrs. Wales,” the Chief said politely. “But we’d really be in a better position to help protect her if we knew her whereabouts and could ask her some questions.”
Mrs. Wales gave them a big moony smile and stroked the nearest cat.
“Who were her friends in Gardenfield?” the Chief persisted. “Where could she be staying?”
“I really don’t know.” Mrs. Wales sighed. “I suppose if it’s something devious it might involve some friend of Icky’s.” She thought about the funeral and shivered. “Of course, I’m not nearly as judgmental as Dr. Murphy.”
“Of course not.” The Chief decided to try another tack. “You know the key to this case may be what we’ve been calling the Quaker connection. You’re a Quaker, aren’t you? Why do you think Alison would bring a body to the meeting house?”
“I really don’t think that was Alison. That sounds much more like something Icky would do. You know they both attended Gardenfield Friends in elementary school. I think they met in third grade. Teacher Mildred’s class. She lives in a retirement home, now. Over by the mall. Which reminds me. Have you heard the news about Master Quentin?”
No, they hadn’t.
“He had another relapse of his old illness. It’s something he picked up at the time of the Vietnam War. He and Dr. Fischer used to have such big disagreements back then. They wanted to read Dr. Fischer out of meeting …”
“Read him out of meeting? What does that mean?”
Mrs. Wales frowned. “It’s a Quakerism. It just means ‘kick him out.’ Give him the old boot. We Quakers aren’t always that gentle, you know.”
“Why would they kick someone out of meeting?”
“There are all sorts of reasons. Usually it’s for not participating, either by showing up to meeting or making a financial contribution. But with Manny Fischer it was different, because he was doing that research and, you understand, Quakers believe something like biotech is tampering with the order of things—it’s not peaceful, if you see what I mean. When word got around that Fischer’s work involved messing around with the genetic code … a lot of people got upset.”
“So that’s when they—what do you call it—read him out of meeting?”
“There was a lot of discussion. But they never did read him out.”
“No? What happened?”
Mrs. Wales sighed. She seemed to have run out of energy. “I don’t know. Maybe he wrote a big check or something. I don’t think Master Quentin was too happy about it.”
“When did all of this happen?”
“Whenever Fischer launched his company here. I can’t remember what year that was.”
“So it couldn’t have been anything Alison was involved in?”
“Of course not, are you crazy? I was signing her up for pre-school, for goodness’ sake. I remember talking to Master Quentin about the school and wondering whether the rumors about him and Fischer were true. How could Alison be mixed up in anything when she was four years old?” Mrs. Wales broke down. She was sobbing violently. “You’re trying to blame my Alison for everything. But she didn’t kill anybody. She couldn’t. She’s a gentle, loving girl.”
Chapter 57
First thing Bruno did when he got home was to check in on Alison. She was banging Prince Harry.
Next, he picked up the phone to call Dr. Fischer. Chief Black wanted to find out more about the connection between Fischer and Quentin and, because he was busy with some kind of training, he asked Bruno to take the lead on the Fischer angle.
Bruno said he’d be happy to do it. However, he was terribly let down when a different receptionist answered the phone. “Dr. Fischer will be extremely hawd to reach during the run-up to owr annual meeting,” she cawed. But her accent could not compare to Rhonda’s delicious nasalizations. “Try cawlin’ back after May 26. Or would you like to speak with Dr. Jurevicius?”
“This is a personal call for Dr. Fischer. Tell him Bruno X, Psychic Detective, wants to speak with him.”
He didn’t expect to hear back, but at noon the next day Bruno received a call. It was Dr. Fischer, inviting him for a drink at his home around five that evening.
Why not the office, Bruno wondered? Was this a set up? Dr. Fischer lived in Garden Acres, the most exclusive—and most remote—neighborhood in Gardenfield. Was he luring the detective out to this lonely area in order to dispatch him?
Bruno drove over early to avoid any chance of getting stuck in rush-hour traffic. As always, Garden Acres felt a bit like a theme park or a museum. Every house sat back from the street on a comfortable five-acre lot and there were never any people visible. Each house had a different architectural style. As you drove down the lane, it was like an encounter with a different culture—the Tudor mansion, the Russian dacha, the Swiss chalet, and the mid-century modernist glass-and-concrete bunker.
Dr. Fischer lived in the Spanish eclectic hacienda with stucco walls and red tile roof. Bruno drove up the circular drive and parked under the ornate portico that protected the main entrance. Fischer came to the door, dressed in jeans and a worn oxford cloth shirt. He seemed agitated. His rumpled gray hair was out of place. Bruno looked around. Instead of the arrases, suits of armor, and blunderbusses he’d expected, the home was simply decorated with an interesting collection of contemporary landscape paintings.
Fischer was drinking a gin and tonic and he offered to make one for Bruno.
The psychic tried to decline. “Thanks, but I’m really here on business.”
“I invited you for a drink and conversation. I thought I made that clear on the phone.” Fischer mixed a drink and handed it to Bruno. “I genuinely want to help your investigation in any way I can. But I see it as a personal matter. So I prefer to discuss it at home instead of the office. And I’d appreciate your discretion, as much as possible.” He lifted his glass and pro
posed a toast: “L’chaim.”
Bruno winced. Fischer sure was laying it on thick. “L’chaim,” he echoed, touching glasses.
Fischer led him into his study. It was a comfortable room, lined with bookshelves holding, primarily, medical texts and journals. Bruno looked around and chose to sit on the leather recliner. It looked like it might keep him from falling on his face—in case the cocktail was spiked.
“I’ll come straight to the point,” said Bruno, leaning forward to propel his question with greater impact. “Do you know Alison Wales?”
“Who?”
“She’s a college student. Comes from a local Quaker family. In fact I was just speaking with her mother yesterday. Rebecca Wales.”
“Never heard of them. The name sounds familiar but I don’t know them personally.”
“We think Alison may be mixed up somehow in the nameless girl’s death. It’s possible she transported the body to the meeting house.”
“That’s terrible.”
“Yes it is. Personally, I don’t see Alison as a murderer. But why the meeting house?”
“Why are you asking me? I told you I don’t know her.”
“You are a prominent member of the meeting …”
“Hardly.” Dr. Fischer rose from his chair and paced back and forth behind his desk. “I think I’m catching on to your line of reasoning. This Rebecca Wales must have told you some of the old gossip that people used to say about me.”
“She told me that they wanted to read you out of meeting.”
“Right.” Dr. Fischer grimaced. “When they found out what NewGarden does, they started labeling me as another Dok-tor Frankenshteen …” He said it with a German accent, holding his arms stretched out in front of him à la Boris Karloff. “And they brought out, point for point, all of the standard misconceptions about biotechnology. I think there must be a manual out there that all of them read.”
Bruno took a sip of his drink. Fischer seemed in the mood to talk. Bruno wanted to encourage him. “Dr. Jurevicius explained all the counter-arguments when we met in your office. He was very convincing …”
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