Peter looked questioningly at Wolf before he answered. “I’m sorry, I don’t recall. Wolf? Did you notice him?”
“Yes.” Wolf gulped at his cocktail. “Yes, I remember, he was there.”
“Did you steal Mr. Killingworth’s truck?”
“Mitch!” I exploded. “Have you lost it completely? The other day you insinuated prostitution. You’ve practically accused them of murder and now you’re trying grand theft auto? Nobody in the world is desperate enough to steal that old death trap. Don’t say another word, guys, either he’s crazy or it’s a very un-funny joke.”
“Shut up, Alex, or I’ll book you for obstruction.” What on earth had gotten into this nice young man? Focus was one thing—obsession was another.
“You can book me for grand treason,” I snapped. “I still advise them not to say another word without a lawyer. The mood you’re in, you’d call it a confession if they said the Lord’s Prayer.”
He looked hurt for a minute, before he put his tough face back on. It gave me hope he was still in there somewhere. “All right,” he said. “If you don’t want questions, I’ll give you answers. Some I know, some I am pretty sure of.” He yanked out his notebook and started making that noise with his tongue again. I didn’t like it any better this time.
“I know that about eleven last night, Harmon rolled into the police station, wailing that somebody had stolen his truck from in front of the Rat. Sergeant Juvenal was in charge and, like all of Ptown, he knows Harmon always leaves the keys in. So, Juvenal figured one of two things happened. Either Harmon forgot where he parked the truck, or some kids swiped it and we’d find it in some silly spot come daylight. So he did exactly what I would have done—sent him home in a squad car and told him we’d find it.”
Wolf and Peter were leaning forward, as if enrapt by an ancient storyteller. “Now, around three,” Mitch continued, “Harmon got up to . . . er, relieve himself. At that time, Juvenal received a hysterical phone call from him. The truck was now in his yard. There was a bloody tire iron in the back that wasn’t his and the truck bed was covered in blood. They got me up and I went over.”
“What did you find, a gallon of ketchup?” I chortled.
“No. I found an old tarp in the back of the truck with considerable blood, and I found a tire iron with the business end caked in blood, hair and brain matter.”
“Jesus,” I breathed. “Was there a body? Who . . . ?”
“No body at Harmon’s, but on a hunch I drove out to the amphitheater. There he was, laid out just like Schley . . . Ben Fratos.”
I sagged in relief. “My God,” I said. “Half the town would as soon see him dead. He spies on everybody. I swear he’s a voyeur, he’s got a brutal temper—he tried to break my jaw over nothing the other day. You’ll be hard put to find six pallbearers for Ben Fratos.” Wolf looked white and sick, but Peter was sitting straight and alert, not missing a word. I was beginning to change my mind about who had the real strength in that couple.
Mitch nodded. “I agree, Alex. You might like to know I recommended his private investigator’s license be revoked last year. But he’s an ex-cop and Anders wouldn’t back me with the chief. Anyway, he has been brutally murdered and I have a job to do.”
“Were there prints on the tire iron?” I asked. “Do you have any real evidence, Mitch?” I realized too late that my voice sounded condescending, not guaranteed to make Mitch more helpful.
“The evidence is a police matter, Alex, but here’s what I think happened. Last night, Wolf, I think you and Peter ran into Fratos as you walked home—I’ll even say he was waiting for you. He told you he knew something about the Schley murder that would incriminate you. He may have told you he was going to the police with it. More likely, I think he told you that for money, he wouldn’t go to the police with it. Blackmail would not surprise me. I think you lured him to your garage, telling him your safe or your cash was hidden there. I think one of you picked up the tire iron and killed him.”
It sounded too damned logical to reassure Wolf, Peter or me. We all looked at each other and then looked back to Mitch as he resumed his narrative.
“Then one of you remembered Harmon’s nearby truck and stole it and brought it to your house. You loaded Fratos in the rear, and late at night you drove him to the amphitheater, laid him out like Schley, took Harmon’s truck home and left it. Complete with the tire iron from your garage.”
I couldn’t let him sound so sure. “Mitch, this is highly circum—”
“Oh, I forgot one thing,” he interrupted. “I found this stuck in the brace of the tailgate. It was apparently used to wipe fingerprints from the murder weapon.” Mitch took out a clear plastic bag with a man’s handkerchief in it. It was stained with what looked like blood and perhaps oil and in the corner were the initials FW. “Is this your handkerchief?” Mitch asked Wolf, holding out the bag.
Wolf took it gingerly and grimaced. Before I could say anything, he answered, “Well, I guess so. It looks like it. I’ve got about a dozen of them. They were a Christmas gift from Bobby Helms last year,” he added, as if that explained everything.
“Have you any idea how it got into the truck?”
I had to intercede here. “Be quiet, Wolf. Mitch, I have no desire to impede your finding the killer. I hope you do find him—or her— Lord knows there are women in this town with plenty of reason to bash Fratos. But I do not think this interview should continue without a lawyer. I’ll stop down later. I have some information you may find useful. Right now, I think you should go.”
“You may be right.” Mitch stood and for some reason we all stood with him. “Frank Wolfman, I arrest you for the murders, and Peter Mellon, I arrest you as an accessory to the murders, of Lewis Schley and Benjamin Fratos.” He nodded to Jeanine and Pete. “Read them their rights and cuff them.”
Wolf looked like he was going to collapse, but Peter was straight as a board. “Detective, please, handcuffs are not necessary. Neither of us would humiliate ourselves by trying to run. Alex, would you kindly call John Frost, I guess he’s about the best criminal lawyer in town. And one big favor.” He reached back to the couch and stroked the gray blob huddled there. “Would you please take Pewter to the vet and have him board her? Her carrier is in the pantry. She’ll be terribly upset.” For the first time his voice broke. He turned and walked out the door, Jeanine lightly holding his arm. They left, Mitch bringing up the rear like the sergeant of a sad platoon. I said Shit! loudly and Fargo looked at me in alarm. “Not you, sweetheart, just everybody else.”
I called Frost. He was out, of course. I left a detailed message with his secretary, and she assured me he would contact Peter and Wolf as soon as he could. I found the pantry and took the cat carrier into the living room. I went back to the kitchen, stuffed our breakfast dishes into the dishwasher and hit “rinse and hold,” wondering just how long “hold” might be. I turned the thermostat to fifty, put on a hall light and figured that was about all I could do.
Back in the living room I spotted Pewter, sitting in front of the door, staring fixedly at the doorknob, waiting for it to turn at Wolf’s or Peter’s hand. My eyes smarted badly and I yelled Shit! again. I took the carrier back to the pantry and stuffed it with cat food. Struggling, I picked up Pewter under the other arm—the damned tub must weigh thirty pounds! I managed to open the door, very nearly locked Fargo inside and finally made it to the car. Panting and swearing, I dumped Pewter and the carrier in back and let Fargo in front.
We made the surprisingly lengthy drive home with Pewter yowling piteously and Fargo barking threats at the windshield. Well, damn, what the hell else could I have done?
Chapter 18
Pewter had to explore the house inch by inch, with Fargo’s nose about three inches behind her tail all the way. That chore finished, she went and sat by the back door and cried, and Fargo sat close beside her, whining in some apparent gesture of canine support. Figuring one or both might be feeling a call of nature, I went out with them.
I was right on both counts. Technically, I knew Pewter could go over the fence; I just hoped she was too fat to try.
Then, kindly animal-person that I am, I opened food, freshened water and uncapped a Sprite for me. I reached the living room and just had the can tilted as great yowls and spits and growls and shrieks issued from the kitchen. Going on the happy assumption it was all talk, I sat down and took a mighty swig. They both immediately came into the living room and lay down amiably on the rug. It’s hard to produce high drama when your audience is yawning. I know—I’ve tried it.
We had enough real drama. I felt tremendous sympathy for Wolf and Peter, even if they weren’t guilty. Lord knows their lives would never be the same, no matter what the outcome. I went over the latest events in my mind. That Ben Fratos was capable of blackmail was a given. If he knew, or thought he knew, anything damaging against Peter and the Wolf, he might well have tried it. But if Wolf and Peter were innocent of his accusations, I couldn’t believe they were too dumb not to string him along until they could reach me and get some advice on what to do.
The tire iron was generic and might have belonged to anyone who’d ever had a car or truck. But the handkerchief was not. The initials were damning, and Wolf had virtually admitted it was his. It was easy to see why they might have killed Fratos. But Lewis was less clear.
Yes, he had disappointed them, inconvenienced them, hurt their feelings. But we’ve all had those things happen to us. If we all killed over it, you could shoot skeet in downtown Boston. Still, Lewis had damaged a much-loved heirloom and humiliated Peter in the so-called fight. Two dangerous things to do—no one likes others to be careless of their valuables, and no one—gay or straight—likes to be shamed in a fight. Despite the fact that Wolf was under arrest for the actual murder, I thought Peter the more likely candidate. I could see him getting even for many real and presumed wrongs with every blow he struck.
I knew Lewis was the key. Fratos was just an afterthought, whoever did it.
And I knew I had to do something or Pewter was mine for life. Maybe I’d try Bartles again. He was hiding something; the question was whether it mattered.
I mulled this over as I had another soda and a cheese sandwich, carefully watched by Fargo and Pewter. Apparently—obviously— she was used to tidbits. I shared. I freshened up and picked up the car keys. Not wanting to leave Pewter alone, I told Fargo he couldn’t go. This resulted in a grand display of groveling and keening on his part and sympathetic mewing on Pewter’s. I slammed the door on this opera and left, not in a charitable mood.
My first stop was the police station, to give Mitch my list of “legless” customers of Wood’s Woods. He listened to my theory and agreed it had merit. He agreed to check out the people I had missed and look further into ex-cop Quinn. He also agreed to check on vee-hicles similar to Wolf’s and Peter’s. But I knew it would be perfunctory. In his mind he had the “doers” back in two cells of the jail. I asked to see them but was told they were currently “being processed.” I was getting just a bit tired of Super Cop.
As I left, Jeanine pulled me aside. She was a buxom young woman in her thirties, married, with a couple of kids, and the epitome of kindness. She was also strong as an ox and had no compulsion about tossing an ornery drunk onto his backside and headfirst against a wall. She said softly that she had spoken with Wolf and Peter and agreed to bring them any personal items they needed. I explained about the cat, and she offered to tell them Pewter was with me. She was sure it would cheer them up.
She cheered me up, and I moved on to Bartles in a somewhat better frame of mind. The day was warm and sunny, and I guess that helped. Once again, the van was not in evidence, but I went around back and, once again, found the Rev. Bartles up to his elbows in dishwater.
“Well, hello,” I said from the doorway. “Aren’t you the diligent homemaker!” He nodded and turned back to his chore.
“Here, I’ll dry.” I picked up a towel and went to work, which earned me a small, grateful smile. We worked in companionable silence for a few minutes, before I asked the obvious question. “Well, Lawrence—if I may be informal—why did she leave you?”
He kept his head down so he didn’t have to meet my eyes and turned on his plummy voice. “Bless her! She’s just worn out with all our endeavors—plus the baby. I insisted she accept an invitation from an old college chum. Do her a world of good!”
“Can it, Lawrence! Where did she really go? Home to mother? Why? Did you abuse her? Abuse the baby? Cheat on her? Did she cheat on you?”
He carefully put a plate in the rack, took the dishtowel from me and wiped his hands. “Come and sit down, Ms . . . Alex. It’s a crazy situation.” He poured coffee into two mugs I had just dried and sat down. He took a deep breath, let it out in a puff. “Emmy is at her mother’s. She really is tired. We have not broken up, and nothing is seriously wrong. Our marriage is fine.”
“I’m glad to hear it. So what isn’t fine?”
“We did have a row. Over money.” He grinned sheepishly.
I laughed. It had cost him something to say that. I guess sometimes even preachers can need someone to talk to. “At least it’s normal.”
“Yes and no,” he said. “Sunday when I went into the chapel to get ready for services, I noticed a thick envelope on the floor, pushed through the old mail slot in the door.” He stood up and left the room for a moment, returning with a cheap white envelope, stuffed about to capacity. “Here.”
It was full of money. Trying to touch both the envelope and its contents as little as possible, I eased the money and a sheet of writing paper out onto the table. “Did you count this?” I asked.
“Yes. There’s three hundred seventy dollars there.”
I gently pushed the money aside and unfolded the paper. The note was formed by letters cut from magazines and glued to the paper. The letters were in various sizes and colors, but the message was easy enough to read: THIS IS DIRTY MONEY CLEANSE IT IN THE SERVICE OF THE LORD AMEN. I looked questioningly at Bartles. He shook his head. “I have no more idea than you what it means or who sent . . . delivered it.”
“And you and Emmy fought because . . .”
“We need so many things for the Mission. That kind of money looks like a million to us! I wanted to keep it and use it. She felt that someone had had a crisis of conscience over an illegal bet, or perhaps a drug sale. Or that someone had been robbed in some way, and the robber repented but was afraid to return the money. She hoped we could somehow return it to the rightful owner. We kept reading the paper for news of a robbery or mugging. The story about Lewis said nothing of robbery.”
“I think the police were hoping if they didn’t release that fact, someone might start flashing a lot of money he shouldn’t have. Didn’t either of you think of just giving it to the police?” I refolded the note, trying to touch only the edges.
“Yes. But quite honestly, we thought it might just get shuffled around in the bureaucracy and finally get put into some general fund and disappear. We wanted either to return it to the owner or obey the letter and use it in God’s work.”
“Would it surprise you to know that Lewis Schley was believed to be carrying between three-fifty and four hundred dollars the night he was killed?”
“And you think he brought it here as some sort of atonement and then was killed? Poor Lewis. So he actually had gained something from his time here! He must have been so close—I think he really was beginning to work through his homosexual problem.”
“What problem was that?” I asked smoothly. “The problem of being a liar? A thief? Of providing sex to anyone who made it worth his while? I was not aware those problems were limited to homosexuals.”
Bartles set his mug sharply on the table. “Don’t be condescending, Alex. You know perfectly well what I meant—the basic problem of being homosexual, a sin against God.”
“Hold it, Reverend.” No way could I let that one go. “You might somehow, someday have made an honest man out of Lewis, but you coul
d never have made a heterosexual out of him . . . any more than you made him gay. Neither of those things is done. There are two statements I have never, ever heard from a homosexual. I never heard, ‘When I decided to become gay . . .’ and I never heard, ‘When he/she made me gay.’ Many times I’ve heard, ‘When I discovered I was gay . . .’ or ‘When I finally realized I was gay . . .’ but not the others.” I lit a cigarette and pulled over a saucer as ashtray. Like it or lump it, fella.
“I follow you, Alex.” His voice was conciliatory. “You think being gay is genetic, and I’ll admit to the possibility you are right. And remember, it’s the sin we hate, not the sinner.” Suddenly I had a vision. I saw Bartles in a slick, shiny suit with a bright shirt and loud tie—standing in front of a sign reading A-1 Used Cars and Redemption Center.
He continued his smarmy pitch. “We have discovered that many gays can marry, have children, lead normal lives if they really want to. Faith in God, prayer, wise counsel and community support can truly work wonders. It’s not the genes we have, it’s what we do with them!”
It was fortunate there was not a loose table leg handy. I hate to think what I might have done with it. “Really, Lawrence? Funny, everything I’ve read on that subject says it rarely works for long and often has really bad emotional side effects on all the persons involved. Oh, and a question. All those we’s in your little speech . . . were they the royal we, the editorial we or the we meaning you, too, have some naughty genes?”
He turned beet red and started to shake. For a moment I thought he was going to hit me. “I am not gay! I am perfectly happily married. I was trying to help Lewis because I sensed he was not happy in his life, and you are trying to distort it into something salacious!” He stood and turned away, staring out the window. “I think you had better leave.”
I trotted out my sweetest smile. “I apologize for the crack about your genes. It was uncalled for. But, Lawrence, you’re a bright fella. Now use your imagination. Pretend you are Gulliver. One night you are walking home, looking forward to being with your beloved wife. You step into a dark hole, and when you awake, you are in a society where the norm is for women to marry women and men to marry men.” I reached for a cigarette but didn’t light it. I didn’t want to give him time to interrupt me.
Turning the Tables: An Alex Peres Mystery Page 18