Turning the Tables: An Alex Peres Mystery

by Jessica Thomas

  “Exactly right. And if he had rubbed up against me again, I might have done it. Or I might have walloped him with a bat? Could have been more fun than shooting him.”

  “Not your style, Alex, and—as you say—the money. Either you wouldn’t have taken it, or you’d have been out buying drinks all over town.”

  “Smartass. Seriously, Mitch, do you see something almost ritualistic in this? I mean, wherever he was killed, he was sort of . . . posed out there.” I had a sudden vision of a formalistic gay killer or killer-group. If that were the case, the murders would not stop with one. Wasn’t that reassuring!

  “You mean like he was an actor in a play or something?” Mitch might look like everybody’s baby brother, but the pale blue eyes gave him away. Usually warm and merry, they could turn hard and cold swiftly, and they missed nothing.

  “Kind of. Maybe if he wanted to be a star, here he was, center stage in a big amphitheater.” I found myself immediately wishing I hadn’t said that. If Lewis was going to the Coast to have his beauty appreciated by the movie industry, I hoped Wolf or Peter hadn’t decided to give him his theatrical debut right here in town.

  Mitch’s change of subject told me exactly where his mind had gone. “Do you know if Wolf and Peter have any financial troubles?”

  “I think the opposite. They’ve got a condo in South Beach in Miami. Before they knew Lewis was dead, just before you and Santos came, they mentioned maybe canceling a couple of filled weekends and closing the inn early since they had no help in the house. The downstairs and kitchen are in good repair. I assume the rooms and baths are fine or they wouldn’t be busy. That Explorer is almost new. I think they are okay. Certainly they wouldn’t kill for four hundred dollars.”

  He continued trolling. “I saw a blanket in the back of the Explorer.”

  “You’d see one in the back of my car. And Mom’s. And in our dear friend Mary Sloan’s SUV . . . which, by the way, is light tan. Maybe it was our Mary out carousing in the wee hours. Maybe Lewis leaned against her fender with greasy fingers. That would be sufficient cause for homicide.” He managed a weak grin and I noted, with guilt, his pale, tired face.

  “Mitch, you’re exhausted. I’m sorry I teased you. By the way, I just called Sonny. They haven’t checked in yet, but I left a voice mail asking him to call you. I’m sure he’ll get back to you tonight. Go home. Go to bed.”

  “Great. Thanks, Alex.” He yawned. “I’m going, I’m going.”

  Just looking at Mitch had tired me out. Cooking dinner was not on my agenda, nor was going out, so I fell back on that fine old American tradition and phoned for a meatball pizza and small salad. Fargo and I watched an old Cary Grant movie for lack of a better. Fargo forgot his depression and chomped happily on the crusts, plus tidbits of meatball. I checked my briefcase, took a shower and went early to bed. Tomorrow would be long.

  It began early. I tried to cram all the last-minute items into my suitcase while Fargo went out on first patrol. But there was no fooling him—he was back in seconds. I drove to Mom’s with his head resting on my knee, eyes gazing up at me in great sadness. I felt an overwhelming guilt coupled with a strong desire to wring his neck. Mom’s toast and coffee helped, and I left. Fargo’s depression had abated sufficiently for him to be chomping down oatmeal as I closed the door. Driving to the airport, I wondered which of Offshore Air’s uncooperative pilots I’d be flying with and decided it didn’t matter. No seats needed moving, there wasn’t a cloud in the sky and I presumed the one who said he’d been drinking would have sobered up by now. Whoever it was, he set us down at Logan/Boston without incident. I picked up my rental and was on my way into the city.

  Since I was north of the tunnel, I figured I’d go over to Wellington and see how squeaky-clean Nancy Whitfield Baker had fared at prestigious Rolles University. I cooled my heels for a half hour looking at murals of the campus. Dean Pennycamp, a short, bespectacled man, at last appeared, holding my business card as if it were covered with some unidentified sticky substance. There was no invitation to his office, nor even to sit in the lobby. We stood, while I explained why I was there and showed him Ellis’s letter of authorization and my license. He looked at both as if I had printed them in the cellar. I asked him if by chance he remembered Ms Baker.

  “No.”

  Did he think I might locate one of her professors who did?

  “No.”

  He handed me a copy of her transcript and turned to leave. I asked, “How do you feel about her capability to handle the job in question?”

  He looked at me with pitying superiority. “She graduated Rolles. She can certainly handle any job Provincetown has to offer.”

  “Thanks ever so!” I enthused. “Mr. Ellis will be thrilled to know that, and if Ms. Baker gets the job, based on your exuberant recommendation, I’ll tell her to write you a thank-you note.”

  In the car I looked over the transcript and found almost all A-minuses with a sprinkling of A’s and one B. Comments included words like bright, smart, hard-working, fast on the uptake and thorough. One instructor added that he found her “somewhat brittle.” Another went so far as to write that she was “not a people person.” All told, though, it was impressive.

  My experience at BostonU, Nancy’s undergraduate college, was a one-eighty from Rolles. Dean Sheldon was large, gregarious and helpful. Looking over Nancy’s transcript before he handed it to me, he commented on the high grades and complimentary remarks.

  I asked if there were any notes on Nancy’s social life.

  “Fortunately, no,” he laughed. “Those are only included if she felt compelled to go skinny-dipping in the fountain or run her car over the president’s bicycle. And that I would remember without a computer.”

  I began to enter the gist, if not the words, of his reply in my notebook. In mid-scribble the pen went dry. The dean waited patiently while I dug in my briefcase for another. Thank you, witch!

  In conclusion, I questioned if he felt she could handle the job at the bank. He thought a moment and indicated the transcript. “From what I see there, and what you’ve told me about her, I’d say a definite yes. My only hesitation is that—although I don’t remember her—she seems like a fast-track big city, corporate type. I’d like a little more feedback on why she wants to move to Provincetown.”

  I concurred with that need, wondered how to get it, and after some brief chitchat, I left feeling better about those who grazed the groves of Academe.

  It was way past my usual lunch hour, and Mom’s toast seemed far, far away. The Quincy Market was fairly near and I treated myself to a lobster salad, regretfully bypassing cold, bitter ale for a Diet Coke.

  That left me within walking distance of Nancy’s next-to-last employer, and it felt good to stretch my legs. My scraped shin was on the mend, sore but not painful. Panalog had surely done the trick. I thought briefly about writing them of their product’s wider application, but I recalled a notation on the tube that it was licensed for veterinary use only. I had probably broken some law just using it. That would figure. By now I had reached Nancy’s old office building. After a couple of calls by the receptionist, it was decided I should speak with a Carlton McCallie, who would be with me shortly. I found myself in no rush. I was fascinated by a ceiling-high aquarium, lit only by natural sunlight from an upper area. Various fish swam here and there. Crabs, starfish and a few cousins of my lunch prowled about the sandy, rock-strewn bottom.

  A pleasant male voice beside me said, “Every bit of marine life you see in there lives—or at least, once upon a time lived—in Boston harbor.”

  “It’s fabulous! It’s got it all over goldfish swimming in and out of little pink plastic castles.” I turned to see a ruddy-faced, sandy-haired man in his late thirties, about my height.

  “I agree. I suggested including a boot, a beer can and an old license plate for added realism. I was told not to be frivolous. Never be frivolous in a brokerage house. I’m Carl McCallie. Come on back.”

  We settle
d into his luxurious office and he leaned back, tenting his fingers. “Now, P.I. Peres, what can I do for you? Are you chasing a con man preying on old ladies? Is my secretary blackmailing a playful vice-president?”

  “Nothing half so much fun, but please keep my card handy in case anything like that turns up.” I told him why I was there and ended with a question. “So why did Ms. Baker leave your employ?”

  “Because of me.”

  “I see,” I said coolly, although I imagine my eyes looked like Orphan Annie’s.

  He gestured around the room. “When the guy who had this before me decided to retire, Nancy thought she should get it—and with some reason. Instead, they brought me in from the outside. Angry doesn’t cover it. She was plain pissed. She left shortly after I got here.”

  “Glass ceiling?” It seemed the most plausible reason.

  “No,” he answered, “that really doesn’t seem to apply here. And she is extremely capable. She has a knack for spotting trends, and she’s an excellent analyst. If there is money to be made out there, she will find it.”

  “So why have you got the double windows instead of Nancy?”

  “Because the minute people invest their money, they become afraid it’s going to disappear.” He made a vague gesture toward a window, as if money were flying off his desk and across town. “From time to time, they need their hands held. Maybe the market takes a hit. Maybe there’s a divorce, a death, a loss of job. Investors need to feel their advisor is genuinely concerned for their wellbeing, and the less money they have, the deeper their fear. I understand that. I truly feel the responsibility of stewardship, and I’m not averse to trotting out a little tea and sympathy.” McCallie had a nice smile.

  “Now,” he went on, “Nancy is as dedicated to making money for her clients as I am, but she looks upon it differently. She figures if you hire a mechanic to fix your car, you go away and let him do it. You don’t lie on one of those little skateboards and roll around in the grease with him, asking what he’s doing.”

  I shook my head. “Wrong. Anytime you hire anybody to do anything, you are entitled to questions. I don’t care if it’s a doctor or a dog walker.”

  “I agree, and that’s why I’m here. Not Nancy.”

  “Okay. Now why Provincetown, after a big city like Boston? It’s hardly the financial capital of the world, and it’s not exactly husband-hunting land. If she’s gay, fine. If not, it worries me a little.”

  “She isn’t gay.” He grinned, and I wondered if he meant he was . . . or I was. Whatever. “There’s a fiancé in the background somewhere. Old family, old money—both of them. I don’t know either of them well, but I’ve been told it’s more a merger than a love affair. In which case they’ll probably live unhappily ever after in a stone and clapboard colonial with two-point-five children, one-point-six golden retrievers, a car and an SUV they don’t need or know how to drive.”

  He shrugged ruefully. “But before Nancy settles in this Utopia, I think she wants to make it as big as she can on her own. You can’t blame her. You know, then she can casually say, ‘Well, when I was vice-president at Fishermen’s Bank . . .’ Are you with me?”

  “All the way.” I laughed. “I imagine you’ve got it quite right. If she gets the job, I’ll bring you my little mutual fund to guard. I’m a tea drinker, and a little sympathy never hurts.”

  “Anytime we can help, just holler for Carl. I’m serious.”

  I thanked him and left, feeling that I’d done a pretty good day’s work. Now, if I could just remember how to get out of town. I joined two million other people with the same idea, fought my way onto the Mass Turnpike and headed west at about the same speed as the Conestoga wagons that had gone before me. My final target for today was Oak Hill, Connecticut, birthplace of the famous Cynthia Hart.

  A few miles down the road my curiosity got the better of me, and I took the Weston turnoff. Consulting my map, I located Chez Baker and noted that the Bakers Senior lived in a split-level colonial of stone and wood. An SUV stood in the driveway. I felt I understood, and maybe even liked Nancy Baker a little better.

  Finally I turned onto I-395 and lost most of the traffic as I dropped down into Connecticut to pick up the road to Storrs. I stopped for gas, so I wouldn’t have to in the morning, and asked the attendant if Oak Hill was anywhere near. I was in it, he informed me, and, yes, there was a pretty good motel down the road. I explored the little town and found the bookstore Cynthia Hart’s parents owned. It was in what looked to have once been a small cottage. Lights shone warm and welcoming through the windows. I thought of going in but decided it was doubtful I’d learn anything important, and I’d probably just make somebody suspicious of my visit.

  I drove staunchly on in search of my motel, discovering that one man’s “pretty good” is another woman’s “pretty mediocre.”

  But I was tired enough to sleep well, and the next morning— ready to hear about Cynthia—presented myself at the office of the Dean of Women, University of Connecticut. The secretary buzzed her and explained my visit. Hanging up, she said, “Please have a seat. Dean Trinler will be with you shortly.” And about ten minutes later I was told to “go on in.”

  There are deans and there are deans. The one I encountered this particular Tuesday morning at U/Conn had her back to me, watching papers come out of a printer. She wore a silk dress of deep blue that changed to green and back to blue again as she moved, like the ocean on a half-cloudy day. She turned toward me and I put her in her forties, with dark hair just wing-tipped with white, a killer figure and bottomless blue eyes I immediately got lost in.

  “Good morning.” She smiled. “I’m Mimi Trinler. Just printing out Cynthia’s transcript. Won’t be a minute. Sit . . . sit.” She turned back to the printer.

  Suddenly I saw a quiet cottage by a rippling stream. The sapphire sky was echoed in a thick quilt stretched upon soft grass, with groups of white and yellow daisies growing haphazardly nearby. Her dress lay in a shimmering heap beside my rumpled slacks and sweater. Her body was tan and I raised myself on an elbow to stroke her now-loose hair and gently kiss the wide lips. My hand moved unbidden to touch her breasts—full and womanly and welcoming. I kissed each one softly and then with more vigor and felt a tremor stir her body. She pulled me toward her eagerly, her leg moving between mine, pushing upward.

  “Now here we are, Ms. Peres, the full transcript. Ah . . . Ms. Peres?”

  “Uhh . . . what?” Where was I? What had happened to my babbling brook? The quilt? “Ah. Yes. Here we are. Here! The transcript, oh, yes.”

  She gave me a wide and rather knowing smile, and for one horrified moment I wondered if I had spoken my fantasy aloud.

  I managed to collect myself and state my business—as opposed to my daydreams, which had left me perspiring and probably bright red. Dean Trinler next astonished me by remembering Cynthia Hart. When I asked why, she laughed.

  “Cynthia was trouble from day one with unauthorized pets in her room. Various animals rescued from some trauma or other. Dogs, cats . . . and I recall a possum and a baby Canada goose. She always found homes for them in the end. In fact, she talked me into taking a dog I still have. Knocked the hell out of me as any kind of authority figure.”

  “So she’s an animal person. How is she with people?” I asked. Cynthia usually got along well with her peers and faculty, the dean advised, although she did not “suffer fools lightly.” We finally got around to grades, and I learned that Cynthia was a bright, if not brilliant student, and had only one disciplinary problem aside from animals.

  A group of students, including Cynthia, had tied themselves to a big old oak tree in an effort to prevent its being cut down by university authorities.

  “The reason it was coming down was that it was old and sick and rotten,” Dean Trinler explained. “I was more worried about a limb falling off and braining one of them than anything else. I’m not sure they ever believed us. Are you a tree hugger?”

  “Not to the point of tying my
self to one. I thought maybe I should try a person first, and I can’t seem to do that too well either.” Now why had I said that? This woman did strange things to me. I tried to cover my confusion by adding some notes to my book, but now another pen did nothing but scratch the paper.

  “Maybe you need a longer rope.” She gave me that smile again, and I felt that in five minutes she knew me better than my closest friend. I almost asked her to have lunch, but nine-fifteen seemed a little early.

  I thanked her and managed to get out with my dignity sorely wounded and the transcript tucked messily under my arm. It wasn’t till I got to the car that I noticed the hem in one pants leg was drooping.

  There’s no easy way to get from Storrs to Norwalk, but I finally did it. The operative word being finally. I kept hitting the search button on the radio and in due course came up with a jazz station which improved my humor. Herman, Baker, Coltrane—oh, yes. I wondered why I was so musically out of sync with my peers. I decided to blame my mother. She played a fairly accomplished piano, jazz and classical, so I was brought up with that kind of music. She also loved every Broadway musical ever produced. A few years back Sonny had recorded her LPs onto CDs and made copies for me. I now boasted what was probably the best collection of show tunes east of New York. I even had—from my grandmother—the original King and I cast album with Yul Brynner and Gertrude Lawrence. No wonder Iced T didn’t do it for me!

  The scenic but slow Merritt Parkway eventually spat me out a few blocks from where George Hampton Mills had held his nextto-last job. I finally got through to the office manager and was not amazed to find Dean Pennycamp’s spiritual twin.

  Once again standing in a lobby, I learned that Mills had worked for them for two years and moved to a smaller company, where he “felt he would be more comfortable.” George seemed to be getting littler and littler; I wondered when he would disappear entirely. No reason was given for our George’s change in comfort level. My questions regarding his abilities, customer relations and performance were all answered by non-answers, as was my attempt to inquire if he was happily married. I inquired if the manager had any idea why Mills wanted to move to Provincetown and he shrugged, saying, “doubtless a personal decision.”