Mitch covered a yawn. If I hadn’t known his lost sleep was mainly due to pursuing Peter and the Wolf, I would have felt sorry for him. “I know,” he said. “She didn’t get home till this morning late. Bartles told me about the shopping and the fight. He was aware it put him alone at the time of both murders, but it didn’t seem to bother him. His fingerprints are on letter number one and its envelope, along with smaller prints, probably his wife’s. We’re going to check that.”
I got up and made him a refill as he continued. “The money has prints galore. His, the ones we think are the wife’s, Wolf’s, Peter’s and enough unidentified ones to start a whole new file. And don’t tell me—I know Peter and Wolf usually paid Lewis in cash.”
“Well, at least that pretty well confirms it was Lewis’s money. And I don’t see Lewis dropping it off at the church on his way to Race Point to get himself killed. It’s got to be from the murderer, Mitch. You know, Bartles could have done the letters and faked the delivery. That would give him a logical way to explain to his wife how he got the money.”
Mitch looked stubborn, as if he didn’t want to admit ministers had been known to kill. But I went on. “Look, he knew Lewis, and I still think it’s a bit strange Lewis visited Bartles. There could have been something between them . . . sex, drugs. Bartles had what could be the weapon. And there’s the sawdust. And his van. Come on, Mitch, it’s more than you have against Peter and the Wolf.”
“Maybe.” He sounded part amused, part aggravated. “Well, I still say it’s weak, but I’ll see about a warrant to look at the sawdust and the van. Happy now?”
I grinned. “Yeh. And if it isn’t Bartles, what about a hate crime? Lewis was openly gay, openly for rent and a wise-ass to boot.”
He fought off another yawn. “Thought about that. But for one thing, a hate crime is usually committed by more than one person. Usually, one of the group gets drunk and has to brag, or somebody knows something and talks. And, more often than not, they take some sort of credit. Maybe a piece of paper pinned to the body. ‘Queers Beware. The Committee for a Pure Town.’ You know what I mean, the usual high-blown crap.”
“Yes. You’re right. No rumors? No tips?”
“Nada. Nil. Nothing, Alex. Nary a word. There’s still Quinn. Thus far he’s known at the Harbor Bar, but not where any of the gay guys hang out. On the other hand, his ex-sergeant tells me he was on report twice for roughing up suspects—both gay. They weren’t sorry to get rid of him. We haven’t written him off.”
“Damn!” I was out of ideas. “Have you talked to Sonny, other than that once? Did he give you his number?”
“No. He didn’t and I don’t think it’s necessary. I don’t want to start W-W-Three, Alex, but nobody fits as well as Wolf and Peter.”
“What about letter number two and the fifty-seven bucks?”
“A misguided friend.”
Was he still thinking of me? It seemed so. Before I got good and mad, I shrugged and said, “Well, I suppose so. What about prints? I bet they belong to Ben Fratos.”
“Bartles’s are on the envelope. Not the letter. He says he remembered not to open it until he put on a pair of his wife’s gloves, if you can imagine! Lots of unknown prints on the money—not Peter, or Wolf, or Bartles. I imagine you’ll be right about Fratos.”
“Fratos!” I slapped my forehead. “I forgot to tell you. The other evening he came into the Wharf Rat, started to sit with Chief Mather, but Mather gave him a dirty look and he moved on. Later, he cornered Mather up by the street. Fratos was talking and Mather looked disgusted . . . angry. Maybe Fratos was bragging about some dirt he’d uncovered somewhere. He’d love to know something foul about a man like Bartles. Maybe you should ask Mather. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner. I’ve been sort of . . .”
“Preoccupied lately?” Laughing, Mitch finished for me. “With the Curse of the Ptown Witch?”
“Shit. Is that going around now?”
Mitch drained his drink and smiled. “Oh, lots of people know. Joe has kept us all up to date. But I don’t have to ask Mather. He mentioned it himself. It seems Fratos has been trying to get an increase in his pension but Chief Franks kiboshed it. Fratos was trying to exert some pressure through Anders and the selectmen and anybody else who might lean on Franks. He begged Mather to put his oar in the water. Mather was disgusted, said there was nothing wrong with his leg in the first place.”
I looked at him quizzically. “You going steady with Mather these days?”
He had the grace to blush. “Ah . . . well . . . he’s been kind of nice to me. He said he knew with Sonny and Chief Franks away, I might feel a little uneasy and he’d be glad to help any way he could—even if I just wanted someone to talk to. He’s really a stand-up guy, Alex, though I can understand why you don’t care for him.”
“He’s okay in his own way.” I set my glass down. “Has he been helpful?”
“Some. You’ll be glad to know he’s not at all sure about Peter and the Wolf. He thinks maybe Lewis came on to some skinhead-type tourist who got mad and killed him, maybe having seen he had a lot of money on him. Then the killer posed him at the amphitheater just for kicks.”
“What does he think was the weapon?”
“He didn’t have anything specific. He thought there might have been more than one—and maybe more than one person. Like maybe somebody hit him with a block of wood or a hockey stick, and the other wounds came from the handle of a jack, or even somebody wearing a large ring and hitting him with his fist.”
Mitch stood. “Well, we haven’t come up with anything really new. I will check into Bartles, and we haven’t crossed off Quinn or the skinhead theory. I am really sorry, Alex, but I still think it’s going to end up Peter and the Wolf.”
I wanted to stamp my foot and scream, “Is not, not, not!” But that would not convince Mitch of anything but my lunacy. We said a muted but cordial farewell.
I let Fargo and Pewter out and stood in the doorway as they went on final patrol. Something was nibbling around the edge of my thoughts but wouldn’t take hold. Maybe tomorrow.
Chapter 20
I had let the animals out for their Monday morning patrol—I was getting entirely too used to saying animals in the plural—while I showered and donned my usual sweatshirt, jeans, crew socks and sneakers. I let them in, gave them dry food and fresh water. Then I sat down with my first cup of coffee and cigarette. If there is any better combination than those two things I haven’t found it yet. And I don’t need a lecture. This was number one and today I was counting. I would not exceed five, in all probability.
I finished the news portion of the paper and turned to the week-ahead horoscope for my morning’s intellectual touch. I looked at Leo and learned I would benefit from the generosity of friends but might have an unpleasant experience dining out. I looked at Sagittarius and was told that Fargo should be careful playing games and not to be judgmental in making new friends. “Okay, Fargo, we hope for a check, eat at home, stay away from Frisbees and be nice to Pewter.”
At that, Pewter began to run frantically between the back door and the front, yowling shrilly. Fargo looked at me in confusion: what was this? I didn’t know either. For an absurd second I wondered if Pewter was upset because I hadn’t read her horoscope. A car door slammed, and Fargo joined the racket, lustily, if late.
I looked out the door and did not recognize the car but shortly recognized its occupants. Wolf and Peter came in, laden with two bottles of Moët champagne, Russian caviar, a dozen long-stem yellow roses and a dozen red, plus an enormous rawhide and a catnip toy. The reunion was unanimously joyous. Eventually I got the flowers into vases, while Peter made toast points and boiled a couple of eggs for the caviar and Wolf wrestled the shrink-wrap off the presents for the kiddies.
Finally, we got ourselves settled at the dining table. The champagne was cold and beautifully dry, the caviar the best I had ever tasted. Did drinking in the morning count if you had caviar with it? It didn’t seem as if it sh
ould. Peter and the Wolf were exultant at being out of jail and reunited with Pewter, who pretended she didn’t care.
“John Frost must have gotten the judge out of bed at six a.m.,” Peter told me. “We were in court at nine sharp and out in twenty minutes. But would you believe Mitch got the D.A. to make John promise to collect our passports and turn them over to the court. Does he think we have a Swiss bank account and a pied a terre on the Riviera?”
I thought it mere petulance on Mitch’s part, but I just smiled. “Well, at least you’re back in your own home, and things look better all around.”
“Don’t count on that,” Wolf said. “Guess who was waiting when we got home?”
“Not Mitch!” I couldn’t believe it. Hadn’t our conversation last night gotten through to him at all?
“Give the lady a silver dollar. I guess you noticed we’re driving a rental.” I shook my head; I hadn’t thought about it. “Well, we are. Mitch took our Explorer last week and now our old Nissan. He said Ben Fratos’s killer had got blood on the clutch of Harmon’s truck, and he—Mitch—wanted to make sure there was none transferred from the truck to our car. He won’t find any. I just hope he doesn’t put some there.”
“He won’t do that.” I put more caviar on my plate and reached for the little bowl of chopped eggs, trying to look casual, not greedy.
“I’m not sure of anything anymore, Alex. He really wants us for this.”
“It’s not really that he wants you two so much as he wants somebody. And he can’t come up with anyone else who really makes sense. Except Bartles, and Mitch has a mental block there. I’m sure you didn’t do it,” I added hastily. “But I can’t prove it yet. And Mitch is getting pressure from Anders, who’s getting it from the selectmen, who’re getting it all over town.”
“What about Righteous Brother Bartles?” Peter asked.
“It’s a gray area.” I wasn’t about to go into details. “And Lewis never mentioned anything going on with Bartles to any of his buddies. The cops asked around.”
“Well, somebody did it and I’m getting damn sick of it looking like us.” Peter tossed off his remaining champagne and reached for the bottle in the ice bucket. He didn’t seem to care if he looked greedy.
“Yeah, I’m sure,” I sighed. “I don’t suppose any of your guests had reason to want Lewis dead.” I made it a question.
They looked at each other and shook their heads. “I can’t think so.” Peter shrugged. “There were a couple of incidents. It must be three weeks ago now. Walter Harris was a guest and came to us saying he was missing a ring. He was sure it was taken off the bureau. We were asking what it looked like and when he’d last seen it, when Lewis came downstairs with the ring. Said he found it behind a bureau leg while cleaning. I just assumed Walter had missed it when he first looked. Now I think maybe Lewis conveniently found it when he heard us talking. But I doubt Walter killed him.”
“No. You said a couple of things . . . ?”
“Oh, back the end of September, a guest thought he was missing fifty dollars. We were very upset. Wolf offered to make it good. Then the guest got all flustered and said he wasn’t really sure, he’d been drunk the night before and may have given it to Lewis as a tip.” Wolf stretched. “Excuse me . . . my back. I don’t recommend the beds in that hotel.”
“Are you saying Lewis figured he deserved a tip and helped himself?” I asked.
“Possibly. Or the guest was drunk and gave it to him, or spent it somewhere or lost it. Again, I doubt it would have ended in murder. Anyway, he hasn’t stayed at the inn since, if he’s been in town.”
“Maybe he came back to town, stayed somewhere else, got in a dust-up with Lewis and killed him,” I suggested.
“Where would he have gotten a table leg, assuming that was the weapon?” Peter inquired.
“Oh, just about anywhere.” I gestured around me grandly. “They seem to be popping up all over town. Even my Aunt Mae now has a spare.”
Wolf laughed and topped off my glass. “Have a little champagne, Alex. The caviar is getting to you.”
Peter and I giggled and we gave up any hope of serious talk. Eventually, they left with many thanks to Fargo and me for our hospitality toward Pewter. Wolf took Pewter in his arms and they walked toward the door. Fargo gave Pewter a farewell sniff, and she bopped him on the nose with her claws out. Fargo sat down looking dismayed, and I led him away by the collar before he could jump into my arms. It was Panalog time—and good stuff it was. My leg was healing nicely.
First aid complete, I realized I was getting a whopping headache. Champagne and caviar for breakfast might be terribly sophisticated, but obviously I wasn’t meant for it. Cool fresh air seemed a good idea but I didn’t think driving was, so we walked down the bay side. Of course, here came Toby, abbreviated legs churning through the sand, bright beady eyes alert with mischief. He had picked the wrong day. Having lost his playmate and been given a bloody nose by her as a final humiliation, Fargo was in no mood for small-dog antics. Poor Toby spent their entire meaningful moments with his head pushed into the sand and Fargo’s broad, heavy paw in the middle of his back. Finally Toby managed to free himself and stomp—if dachshunds can be said to stomp—off the field, whiskers puckered into a moue of disgust.
As my head cleared, I realized that while caviar made a delicious and unusual breakfast, it did not make a filling one. One of Joe’s pastrami sandwiches and some fries took care of the emptiness. Iced tea helped the sudden thirst. As Joe cleared my plates he asked, “Any news on the murder . . . murders?”
“Not really. Peter and the Wolf are out on bail, which is overdue, as far as I’m concerned.”
“Yeah, most people I talk to can’t picture those two great ladies killing anybody. You don’t figure this for a hate crime, do you, Alex?” His forehead creased in a frown.
I took a good-sized gulp of tea. “It’s hard to believe in Provincetown. Of course, anything is possible. But if that was true, why kill Ben Fratos? He wasn’t gay. Though he was sure easy to hate. Have you heard something?”
“Oh, nothing about a hate crime. The majority say Ben saw something and tried to blackmail the killer, who then killed him, too. A few folks vote for Ben having killed the Schley fellow for his money, and one of Schley’s pals killed him in revenge. But that’s pretty far out. Of course, Harmon is still saying it’s something about drugs and cigarette boats and a Hollywood connection. But his story is now so confused, he can’t even remember how it goes.”
“God, poor Ben was sure popular, wasn’t he? Thief, blackmailer, murderer. Makes you scared to get killed around here for fear of what people will say!” I laughed.
“Yeah. Say, how’s the wicked witch? Did you find her yet? I hear you’ve been patrolling the streets.”
“She was last seen circling over your house, coming in to land.”
“What the hell, I’m already married. What’s one more?” Joe ended the conversation and went to wait on another customer. I felt better after eating and figured Fargo might, too. I took him out some sliced chicken and water, and then we walked home via the street. I didn’t think either of us was up to Toby.
The phone was ringing as I walked in the door. I almost let the machine pick up. I was working toward a nap and didn’t need irritation. But I picked it up and was glad I did. It was the bank’s decorator, calling from Boston.
She would be over on Friday, she said, for a 10 a.m. appointment with a Mr. Jared Mather to look at some carvings. Could she come to my house around 11:30, or would that be too close to lunch? I said it was fine and suggested I take her to lunch afterwards. I thought that was what she was angling for, and sure enough, she became considerably more gracious. But I didn’t care. I wanted that photo of Fargo and the gull and/or the one of him with the squirrel used at the bank. Maybe buying lunch would make that happen.
Nap forgotten, I went into my office/studio and started looking at photos. I grouped them, shifted them, discarded some, but somehow my heart wasn�
�t in it. As I looked at photos of Fargo laughing, a cat smiling, a starling glowering, I thought of Jared Mather and didn’t know why—perhaps wondering how a man so blatantly miserable could carve birds in such obviously joyful flight.
I moved to the kitchen and a beer, sat down at the table and just let my thoughts drift. They moved, like a compass needle returning north, to Jared Mather. I saw him in his uniform, straight and military. I saw him relaxed and pleasant with Sonny and my mother. I saw him in jeans and T-shirt on his back porch that fateful Saturday I’d walked up his driveway. Always when I thought of Jared, it was in connection with his years as a policeman. I rarely thought of him in connection with his woodworking and carving skills.
I set the beer down carefully, back in its same little circle of wetness on the coaster. But Mather was a man who worked with wood. And wood meant splinters, chips, sawdust.
I remembered Mather talking to both Lewis and Fratos before each was killed. Maybe a few hours before their respective deaths, possibly only a few minutes.
It seemed strange that Mather would have been talking to either of them at all. Mather was obvious in his disapproval of Lewis. That had been easy to see all along, and his “Well done, soldier,” speech to me had underscored it. Yet just a few minutes after that speech, I had seen them talking together at the head of the alley. Certainly, their voices had not been raised in any confrontation, nor were they whispering, they were just . . . normal.
And Fratos. I could visualize Fratos walking into the Rat and heading for the stool next to Mather. Mather gave him a ferocious glare, and he veered off. Then I saw them on the street. Tension. How did I know? Heads forward, voices low, urgent, not wanting to be heard. Fratos was leaning toward Mather, pressing a point. Mather looked tight, nodded, said a word or two.
Turning the Tables: An Alex Peres Mystery Page 20