“If you don’t conform you are ostracized, punished socially, maybe legally and—in a few cases—killed. Finally, under terrible pressure you conform and marry a man. A nice guy, maybe a friend in another world. But to you it is abnormal. You dread his most casual touch for fear it may become amorous. You lie tight as a drum in bed, waiting for his breathing to change. But he’s young and healthy, and he often wants you. The feel of him, his sweat, his body fluids . . . they disgust you. The smell of him, the taste of him makes you retch.” I paused. “Do you think prayer and wise counsel would help you, Lawrence?”
He looked at me with pained eyes, pain from his imagined situation or a real one, I could not tell. “I do not know. That will take some thought. Not now.”
“And we should get back to the immediate problem,” I agreed. “Where did all that money come from? I don’t think Lewis brought it here. I think his killer did.”
“Why are you so sure?” He poured us more coffee and sat again.
“The word cleanse for one thing. Not Lewis’s style, too literate, too biblical. And Lewis was drunk and high on mischief that night. He might have hit you up for dinner and made a big thing out of handing you ten dollars because he felt generous. But I don’t think ‘dirty money’ was on his mind. Also,” I quibbled, “I personally don’t think he ever made it near here. I think he was killed early and taken to Race Point much later.”
“I guess I’d better get this to the police.” He tapped the fat envelope, rather sadly I thought.
“Sounds good to me. Sorry, it could have been your ticket to a dishwasher.”
“Emmy says it keeps me humble. I’ll have to call her. God, I miss her.” He actually sounded human.
“By the way.” I stood, prepared to leave. “While we’re on this truth kick, was Emmy really here with you Saturday night?”
He sighed. “Yes and no. I wasn’t entirely honest. In the early evening she and a girlfriend drove up to Hyannis to some mall to buy some baby things at a sale. They had pizza afterwards and Emmy got home something after ten-thirty.” I nodded. Emmy’s absence put Bartles alone during Mitch’s favorite time frame of the murder.
Of course, it put her alone, too. Or had she walked in on something, grabbed a table leg and beat the hell out of the sinful little queer while her husband explained none of it was his fault?
I felt I had labored in the Lord’s vineyards—or kitchen—long enough. Leaving Lawrence to explain to the police why he had sat on stolen money for a week, and—perhaps—why he lied about being alone Saturday night, I retired to “my other office” for sustenance. The subject of people hating themselves—or others—for whom they loved just made me sad.
It looked like half the town was in the Rat, all gathered around the front table with our star performer of the afternoon— Harmon. He had several free beers lined up in front of him and was telling his tale for the umpteenth time, each account more richly embellished than the last. I sat down at the empty bar and waited for Joe to find a minute for me. He finally came over. “Sorry, Alex, it’s a little busy.”
“You’re getting rich. Give me a bourbon, Joe. It’s already been a long day.”
“I imagine so, Alex. They’re your friends, I know. Do you think they’re guilty?”
“No. But the police are pretty sure they are, or they wouldn’t have arrested them. It’s like I decided you belted Billie last night. Can you prove you never touched her?”
“Nope. I get your point. Well, I hear they got John Frost. He’s good. Say, have you found my wicked witch yet? Cassie says you think she really put a spell on you.”
“Cassie’s mouth is sometimes in overdrive,” I answered sourly. And wouldn’t you know—I picked up my drink and slopped it. I sipped at the bourbon, but the noise and laughter in the Rat bothered me. I knew whom the laughter was about. Anyway, there was a call I should make. So I ordered two plain burgers for the kiddies, a fancier one for myself, along with some fries, and went home.
The house was intact. I—or at least the hamburger treat—was greeted joyously, and the kiddy dinner hour went without incident. I felt that bonds were being forged here, and it probably was just as well. Pewter might prove to be a permanent guest.
I called John Frost’s office and managed to connect with him. He thanked me for recommending him, and I knew that in the future some of his P.I. needs would come my way, which was a happy thought, though the circumstances were dismal.
I told him about the table legs, assuming Mitch might not have. I was right. The little fink hadn’t said a word to Frost about them. John was particularly interested in Quinn.
“Maybe there isn’t an obvious connection between Lewis and Quinn in Ptown, but maybe there was one earlier in Worcester,” John mused. “I know one of the prosecutors down there. I’ll make a call.”
And I told him about Bartles, who presumably would have been to the police with the letter and money by now. “You would have to decide, John, but that letter and money seem to put Peter and Wolf in a position at least to get bail. Right?”
“Oh, definitely. I can’t get to a judge for a hearing before Monday, but I’ll have them out of the Ptown Hilton as soon as I can.” He laughed. “Of course, Mitch will probably try to say they did the letter themselves as a ruse to throw suspicion elsewhere.”
“John, take my word for this. They might possibly have done the letter, but the thought of their giving nearly four hundred dollars to a born-again preacher man—even to stay out of jail—is ludicrous. They would sauté it and serve it with tartar sauce first!”
He laughed again and then said, “By the way, Alex, are you working for them?”
“It’s a gray area. They sort of asked me to help them out and I sort of agreed. Nothing was signed or really discussed regarding fees. It doesn’t matter. I haven’t done all that much, and I hate to take my little tray of homemade cookies to the jail and then say, ‘Oh, yes, here’s my bill.’ ”I propped the phone on my shoulder and went through the contortions of lighting a cigarette.
“Oh, I’d say you’ve done quite a lot, and I’d appreciate it if you’d keep at it. What do you make of the two of them, anyway?”
I shrugged at the phone. “I’ve known them for years but never well until the last week or so. Could they have done it? Yes. Did they? I don’t think so. Don’t be confused by Wolf’s willowy effete act. I think he’s quite pragmatic. And Peter is far from the southern belle with the vapors he wants you to think he is. He is a survivor and he’s smart. And to me, they don’t add up to two hysterical old queens who got all flustered and beat a guy to death, even over a valuable watch. I don’t mean they weren’t angry and humiliated by Lewis. I just hope they are too sensible to have murdered over it.”
John was silent for a moment, then replied, “Okay, I can accept that. Not them, then. But somebody who had a better reason. Unfortunately, his—or her—reason may make sense only to him or her. You and I might have a hard time uncovering it—or recognizing it when we do.”
“Yes. And to make it more difficult, I think you’ll find he or she is otherwise quite moral, the old pillar-of-the-community routine.”
“Why?” I heard a lighter click, followed by John’s exhale.
“The money. He didn’t know what to do with it. He didn’t want to take it for himself. But like most of us, he couldn’t bear to destroy it. So he gave it to a church.”
“Interesting. And why that church? Not one of the more traditional ones. Although perhaps there are none needier than Bartles. But I seem to hear in your voice that you like Bartles for this. Right?”
I moved a few things aimlessly on the desk, trying to align my thoughts. “He’s a definite maybe. What if he is gay, and all this ‘help’ is just cover? Say he and Lewis were lovers and had a fight. Maybe Lewis wanted money. Or he wanted Lewis as a lover and Lewis laughed or threatened to tell his wife. Or say Bartles is straight, Lewis made a grossed-out pass and Bartles freaked. Put it this way, I think Lewis’s murder was
very personal, mixed with a lot of anger. I don’t think it was triggered by a broken watch and some unmade beds.”
“Interesting,” he said again. “Look, Alex, keep track of what your bill would be, and stay on this. We’ll get these guys off yet. And when we do, the Town of Provincetown will happily pay your bill and mine and a few other things to avoid a suit for false arrest. Do anything you need to. I think you’re closer than you know you are. It just hasn’t clicked yet. Stay in touch.” He hung up.
I was glad he hung up before I had to reply to his instructions to do whatever I needed. Frankly, I hadn’t the faintest idea what I should do. Well, yes, I needed to eat.
So I heated up my burger and fries, popped a beer and clicked on the TV. Unfortunately, it was the pyramids again.
Chapter 19
Sunday was delightfully, wonderfully, gloriously normal. With an absolute minimum of guilt, Fargo and I left Pewter in the middle of my bed, looking like a furious Sitting Bull, and headed for the bayside beach. We walked along on the wet sand as the tide finished its ebb and were joined, as usual, by Toby the Terrible. He raced from his hiding spot under the deck of the Old Dockside Inn and attacked Fargo with gusto.
Toby needed all the gusto he could get to leap for Fargo’s ears and tail. He rarely connected but got in an occasional nip, which would result in Fargo’s bowling him over and literally rubbing his nose in the sand. This morning they contented themselves with chasing outgoing wavelets. Fargo would playfully prance out of the way of incoming waves while Toby ran in desperate arcs to keep from being inundated. Eventually he trotted home, swinging his little round bottom like a fin de siecle Parisian tart, headed—no doubt—for a well-deserved nap.
Fargo and I continued to the store, where we picked up the New York Times, some melt-in-your-mouth French crullers and Fargo’s weekly rawhide, augmented today by kitty treats. On our return Pewter decided sweetness might be the best way to get some of the pastry and curled back and forth between my legs until I was ready to boot her through the goalposts. Finally, I got settled with food, my special Sunday Blue Mountain coffee and the crossword puzzle and was brilliant in the solving of it.
I did a couple of chores and then rewarded myself by settling on the sofa with cigarettes, a beer and the Titans-Steelers game. The Titans were somehow keeping the Steelers out of sync, and the score was a surprising and gratifying 21–3, Titans. I wondered briefly if Sonny and Paula might be in the stadium, and then decided Nashville was nowhere near Gatlinburg.
I hoped Sonny was having a good vacation. He rarely got much consecutive time off and I hoped he was having fun. I wasn’t too sure, though. He’d sounded a little tense on the phone. And Mom said she’d gotten a postcard with the picture of some mountain called Clingman’s Dome and the cryptic message: You and Aunt Mae would love it here, Sonny. He didn’t sound especially thrilled. I yawned and felt my hand slide off the couch onto fur—I wasn’t sure whose.
That’s the last I remember until the phone rang. I picked it up and a man’s pleasant voice said, “Hi. Alex? This is Larry Bartles.” Gee whiz, we were getting chummy! “Something’s come up. I’ve handled it, but I just thought you ought to know. Another letter and some money arrived. I’ve given it to Detective Mitchell.”
I sat up, now wide awake. “How much? What did it say? How was it delivered?”
“It was there when I went into the chapel this morning, slipped through the slot like the other one. Looks like the same type of paper and says ‘make this clean thru God.’ It’s made of pasted letters like the last one. And there was fifty-seven dollars in it.”
“An odd amount of money.” I deliberated. “But maybe not, Ben Fratos’s wallet and watch were taken, of course, to raise—at least theoretically—the question of robbery. And that amount would probably be about what the average person carries. You know, enough to cover most immediate needs, but not enough to ruin you if you lost it.”
“Yes, that sounds right. Maybe his wife could tell you more.”
“He was divorced, lived alone. Speaking of wives, what about yours?”
“Right here,” he answered. I could hear a smile in his voice.
“Great! I’ll say no more. Were the cops pleased with your good citizenship?”
“Not so you’d notice. The detective turned to a lady officer and said, ‘Damn! They couldn’t have done this one.’ Whatever that means.”
I laughed. “It means the two men they have under arrest just took a giant step toward freedom! Huzzah! They were the wrong ones anyway. Well, I won’t keep you from your reunion. Stay in touch, ah, Larry.”
We hung up. Larry Bartles grew on you, and I could see why my Aunt Mae liked him. I still didn’t like his brand of religion, but maybe—just maybe—I had opened a tiny window in his mind yesterday. He seemed intelligent and there was always hope. Of course there was always the possibility he was a charming killer, too.
Which made me unhappy at the train of thought still chugging through my mind. Suppose Bartles was the world’s most accomplished liar and all this religion was just a hoax. Say the kitchen table components had been spread out in the backyard for assembly. Suppose something triggered a fight between Bartles and Lewis. Bartles picked up a leg and hit Lewis. Maybe Lewis managed to get up and try to run, and Bartles downed him in the sawdust of the garden. Then he either lost it and kept beating him, or beat him on purpose to make it look like a crime of passion. I wished Mitch could have forensics examine Bartles’s van and that sawdust mulching his garden.
Now, suppose Fratos saw something. He decides to approach Bartles. If there is no money to be had for blackmail, he can still have Bartles under his thumb, which would be almost as rewarding to slime like him. Fratos has a few at the Rat to work up his courage. When he walks out, he sees Harmon’s old truck with the keys in it and decides he can double his fun. He’ll drive over and park it at the mission, where Harmon would never look for it in a million years, and have a nice threatening scene with Bartles. Only Bartles panics and kills him.
The only thing I couldn’t account for was Wolf’s handkerchief. Maybe Harmon had done some work for Wolf, needed a handkerchief and just picked it up, or Wolf gave it to him. Or maybe he simply found it somewhere. It could have been in the back of his truck forever with other junk and just used on the tire iron because it came to hand.
Bartles had all the time in the world to make up those letters, while his wife was gone, and then fake their delivery. Well, it was a reasonable theory. And with the case against Peter and the Wolf getting weaker, maybe Mitch would finally look into it. I almost hated to call him. Mitch and I really seemed to be at cross-purposes these days, and I hated finding us in an adversarial position. I’d considered us friends and wished we could get back on good terms.
I knew at least some of his problems. Sonny and the Chief were both away. Anders hadn’t had an original thought since first grade. Mitch probably felt as if he were a lone sergeant who had suddenly been left in charge of D-Day. This was the first murder case under his responsibility. I remembered Sonny with his first homicide. He had a theory he was determined was correct, and he would have sworn the moon was blue cheese if it had reinforced that theory. Of course, he just happened to be right.
I’m sure Mitch felt I had been no help and was working against him. And now John Frost had been added to the equation. Well, perhaps if I was very tactful we could bring this mess to an accurate conclusion that would preserve Mitch’s self-esteem. I would try. I called and asked him over for a drink, and he accepted, although I sensed reluctance in his voice.
When he arrived I mixed us a highball. I lifted mine, saying, “To friends.”
He smiled and clicked his glass against mine. “Absolutely, Alex. To friends.”
We kicked the case around, from first report to last, but made little progress. Neither of us could explain Harmon’s ongoing peripheral involvement, nor could we believe he was seriously implicated. Peter and Wolf could not have sent the second let
ter to Bartles, since they were in jail.
“Of course, they could have gotten someone else to send it for them,” Mitch said.
“Not unless they had considerable help from someone in your department,” I retorted. “Nobody else would know what it looked like.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” he said with a smile, “there’s always Bartles . . . or you.”
“Oh, go check the garbage for cut-up magazines—and while you’re there, get your head stuck in the can!”
“Well, whoever it was, they meant it to be long-lasting. Forensics tried to get the letters loose, to see what magazine—or what kind of magazine—they came from. No go. The paper will have to grow old and rot around it before those letters fall off.”
“Strange,” I agreed. “Maybe it was all they had handy.”
“Maybe. It’s some kind of real strong stuff, I’m told. Something you might find at Wood’s Woods, although I doubt Wood is involved.” He looked at me impishly over the rim of his glass. “And you’ll be happy to know, we found nothing like it at Peter and the Wolf’s.”
“You went back?”
“Yeah, I figured the warrant was still good. Look, Alex, I’m just trying to wrap this up, one way or another.”
“Mitch, if you could just bear with me for a moment. If it is not Peter and/or the Wolf, and if it is not a vagrant robber . . . who is it?”
“Could be the Governor, for all I know. I have no idea. Do you?”
“Not really. What about Bartles?” I recounted my scenario. “And he has no alibi for last Saturday night or for Fratos. He told me his wife was shopping with a girlfriend down at the mall Saturday night. Then they had a fight over the money in the envelope on Sunday, and she trotted home to Mum’s.”
Turning the Tables: An Alex Peres Mystery Page 19