Turning the Tables: An Alex Peres Mystery

by Jessica Thomas

  The unthinkable thought floated up unasked—could Mather be the killer?

  He had the possible weapon and the opportunity. But was he a killer? He disliked gays but had never used his official position to mistreat them. Fratos had been a fellow officer, but Mather didn’t like him, and didn’t support his try for more money. Mather seemed a man of high morals and the guts to live up to them.

  But what if he’d had sex with Lewis and Lewis threatened to go public? And what if Fratos knew it and tried some form of blackmail?

  I couldn’t believe Jared would let two innocent men be convicted. By serving as advisor to Mitch, he would be kept abreast of the workings of the case and could promote his skinhead theory. Anders would support that—it was close enough to his own solution, and the investigation would simply wither into “unsolved.”

  Assuming they were innocent, neither Peter and Wolf nor—to a lesser degree—Rev. Bartles would consider it a happy ending. They would never be free of suspicion, even though they were never tried. But it would probably be about the best Mather could arrange. It would be like it had been in the old eighteenth-century Scottish courts: a verdict of innocent, guilty or “not proven.”

  I knew I could never, ever convince Mitch of my new theory. I needed to get a good look at that table leg in Aunt Mae’s kitchen, and I needed to do it without her knowledge. She would be terrified and horrified if I simply walked in, explained my thoughts and crawled under the table with a flashlight. I’d have to think of a way.

  I drained the beer and stared out the window for a while. Then I went into the office and dug around until I found the card with the phone number of the Mekong Mariott or wherever Sonny was staying these days, and sat down to make the call. “Fargo, the time has come to call the Mounties. I am not easy about all this. I think it’s time we update Sonny.”

  Hearing Sonny’s name, Fargo looked hopefully at the door. “Not yet, angel dog, but probably soon.”

  After various recorded messages, menus and instructions I reached their room and Paula picked up. “Helloo-o-o.”

  “Hi, Paula, it’s Alex. I hope I didn’t catch you at a bad time.”

  There was a momentary pause, just long enough to tell me she had to stop and think who I was. Gee, I loved this girl. Then she began to gush.

  “Not a bad time at all! I’ve just been to the spa and had a massage. Don’t you just love them! So-o-o relaxing; stress just melts away. I may take a swim before dinner, just to stay loose. Although I need my hair done. And I’ve got to have my nails done, but they’ll take me anytime. And I want to check this little boutique that the masseuse recommended. But I’ll fit it in somehow!” She sighed with the enormity of it all, and I spoke quickly before she pressed the “play” button again.

  “Is Sonny by chance around?”

  “Oh, dear, no. He’s out with Dave, golfing or riding . . . canoeing. Shall I have him call you?”

  Dave? Who the hell was Dave? “Yes, would you, please?” “Absolutely. And you have a good afternoon, now, honey.” She giggled. “I’m just getting too Southron!”

  I said “Um” and we both hung up.

  Sonny didn’t call until after six and sounded as if he might have had a drink or two. My opening words were, “Who’s Dave? I thought you were down there with Paula.”

  “Just a guy I met. We’ve been having some fun together.”

  “Working my side of the street?” I laughed. “Paula’s apparently about to make you turn gay. She’d have me in a nunnery in a snap. But at least the hotel seems to meet with her approval . . . sounds like the Boston Sheraton to me.”

  “It is. That’s the whole idea—you travel a thousand miles and you stay in a hotel just like the one two blocks from your office.” I heard ice cubes rattle.

  “I hope, for the sake of your evening together, she’s not hearing this. Anyway, things are perking right along here in the old village. We’ve had another murder.”

  “Another one! No kidding?”

  “Sonny,” I answered sharply. “Ben Fratos was killed. I didn’t like him either, but you sound like a kid who’s just been given a three-pound Milky Way.”

  “Sorry. It’s just that a second murder gives me a perfect . . . Well, never mind. Fill me in a little here.”

  I did so, and at the end of it Sonny definitely thought it time to come home. Much as it pained him, duty called.

  “I’ll get there as soon as I can. That may not be easy. Knoxville is not the airline capital of the world. But I’ll get there.”

  I’m not sure who was happier—Sonny saying the words, or me hearing them. Then he had to go and spoil it all.

  “Oh, and Alex, you’ve done a great job for your clients. You have also helped the police with their inquiries. Now get the hell out of it. It could be turning dangerous now. You hear me? Leave it alone.”

  Chapter 21

  April may be the cruelest month, but November is high in unpredictability. Wednesday morning felt like a warm spring day, thereby giving me immediate spring fever. There was nothing I had to do. I had to admit I was tired of chasing table legs. And I had been warned off the case by none other than Detective Lieutenant Edward J. Peres. That was my cachet for a do-nothing day. Yay!

  I started with a leisurely shower, followed by a pot of my treasured Blue Mountain coffee and cigarette number one. Resolutely, I did not think of dead villains or living suspects. I thought of my now-cozy relationship with the bank and the possibility of adding a “master suite” to the house—how cosmopolitan it sounded. Oh, I was somewhat fatigued and spent the evening relaxing in the master suite. Maybe I’d include one of those showers that came at you from every angle and possibly a delightful female who did the same. My main decision come spring would be whether to have the contractor go up or out. Up would be cheaper to build and to heat. Both my mother and my aunt voted for, “Up if you’re going to sell it soon, out if you plan to grow old in it. When you get to be our age, whatever you want will be upstairs if you’re down, and downstairs if you’re up. Avoid stairs.” My contractor agreed.

  He had done a back-of-the-envelope sketch that showed not only how easy it would be, but how I would lose little of my yard and gain both a breezeway to the garage and a sheltered patio that would be very usable on a day like this. I sighed my indecision and Fargo took that to mean I needed his advice. He went to the back door and stared at me with deep meaning. Obviously out was his choice, so I filled a covered mug with coffee and we made our way to Herring Cove.

  The day was such that tourists had reemerged in our midst. They never entirely went away anymore. Fargo immediately found a playmate, a large golden retriever who raced him pace for pace along the shallows. Then, at some unheard signal, they made a turn into the sea and began to swim, breasting the waves easily, burnished heads smoothly parting the water at amazing speed. I’d begun to wonder if their next planned stop was the Azores when they turned again as one, again for no visible reason, and streaked for shore.

  After a great shaking off of water and rolling in dry sand and shaking some more—earning black looks from nearby strollers— they seemed ready for rest. Fargo and I started for the car and a drink of water and coffee. I asked the goldie’s owner if he’d like a drink for his dog—I didn’t offer to share the coffee—but he said thanks, he had a stash in his own car. Manners minded, Fargo and I went our way.

  As I approached the turnoff to Aunt Mae’s house, I had to stop to allow a huge moving van to swing wide and make the turn into her street. The lettering on the van said: Hart Brothers Moving and Storage, Providence, R.I. Being a trained detective, I swiftly deduced this would be the van carrying Cindy’s household effects to my aunt’s cottage.

  Cleverly, I decided to follow it, inferring that if the van was here, Cindy would not be far ahead or behind it. I stopped again and held my breath as the van negotiated its way into Aunt Mae’s narrow driveway. And sure enough, there stood Cindy and Aunt Mae, signaling it toward the cottage.

&nbs
p; I parked out of the way and strolled toward them. The van looked even bigger up close. “Boy, when you say you’re going to get a moving van, you really mean it,” I commented. “That looks like you could furnish the White House out of it.”

  “Don’t be fooled.” Cindy smiled. “My stuff is taking up about a tenth of the space. The rest belongs to some people moving to Freeport, Maine. This is just a little side trip and a brief stop.”

  “Ah.” I nodded. Cindy was holding a rather skinny half-grown cat in her arms, black with three white socks and a chin that looked as if she’d dipped it in the milk. Her face looked sweet and very feminine. “Who’s your friend?” I asked.

  “Wells.”

  “Wells?” I stared at the cat and then at the dog. “Fargo?”

  “Very good! Her Wells, him Fargo.”

  I must have looked as stupid as I felt, for Cindy couldn’t keep a straight face.

  “You should see your expression,” she chortled. “It’s priceless! Actually, I doubt if the poor thing even has a name, and she just now became mine, I guess. The people who lived here deserted her. Your aunt has been feeding her and looking for a home. She can’t have her inside the house—she’s allergic, as you doubtless know. So—o, it seems she’s mine. I haven’t given a thought about a name—I just wanted to tease you.”

  “Wells sounds fine to me. She’s a pretty little thing.”

  “Yes. Does Fargo like cats?” He was sitting at Cindy’s feet, looking up at the cat with a phony ingratiating grin. He wouldn’t hurt her, but he’d love to put her up a tree. It took a Sumo wrestler like Pewter to bring him into line.

  “Oh, he’s harmless,” I temporized. Cindy gently put the kitten on the ground. Fargo put his derriere up and his front paws out in front, the universal play signal, and pounced toward the cat. She bristled, hissed, bopped his nose and then jumped back into Cindy’s arms. Fargo sat, stunned, with hurt feelings. Clouted again?

  I saw him stiffen, about to jump into my arms, which would have resulted in my landing ignominiously on my back. Quickly, I grabbed his collar. “I’ll take him up to the house and put some cream on his nose,” I said. “Tell Aunt Mae where I’ve gone. Be right back.”

  At that point, Aunt Mae joined us. “I’m glad you came by, dear. Would you run up to the house and turn the soup to simmer. I forgot. And give it a stir. I’ll just stay here and make sure these young men don’t drive across the herb beds on their way out.”

  God help ’em, I thought, if they nick a dill sprig. She’d be less upset if they took the porch off the house.

  “By the way,” she continued, “I’m making the soup for dinner tonight. I’ve asked Cindy, she certainly won’t be prepared to make her dinner. Your mother’s coming, and Sonny will try. You must come, too, if you can.”

  “Sure, love to. You said Sonny? He’s back?”

  “Yes. Jeanne said he got in early this morning, looking exhausted. But he’s gone to work anyway.”

  So, he did make it home. I was glad he was back. I left Aunt Mae and Cindy directing men carrying things into the cottage and walked toward the house. I heard a car toot its horn and looked up. It was Jared Mather in his SUV, driving toward his home, lumber sticking out the back. I assumed the horn was a greeting to Aunt Mae and didn’t bother to raise my hand.

  Walking across the back porch, I noticed the spare table leg still propped against the wall. Apparently Aunt Mae had been in no hurry to return it to Wood’s Woods. In the house, I rummaged through Aunt Mae’s medicine chest and found some Neosporin and rubbed a bit gently onto Fargo’s battered nose.

  Back in the kitchen I turned the heat down under the soup. A large spoon was propped nearby, and I removed the lid from the pot and gave the soup a stir. She was making Portuguese soup—my personal favorite—thick with pieces of sausage, fresh kale, navy beans, tomatoes and onions. I knew she’d serve it with hot homemade bread. She had one of those machines where you dump all the ingredients in one end, and about eight hours later a loaf of bread comes out the other. I’ve never understood how it works, but I understand hot fresh bread and sweet butter all too well. Sonny’s orders aside, here was my chance to get a look at the table leg without upsetting my aunt. I put the spoon down and crawled under the table. Even in the poor light I could see the top of the leg was slightly battered and had a sizeable splinter or two missing. There was a widespread discoloration on the top and partway down one side of the leg. It could have been oil or stain . . . or blood, but it was definitely more than just “a flaw in the wood.” Obviously, whatever it was, there had been some effort to wipe it off. I was glad Sonny was around. For my money, this leg was now a police matter. I sat there, under the table for a moment, wondering how on earth to explain this to Aunt Mae without absolutely horrifying her.

  Footsteps clattered across the porch and I peeked out. But instead of Aunt Mae’s sensible low heels, I saw highly shined military oxfords topped by sharply creased khakis.

  “Mae, are you home?” Mather called pleasantly. He stepped inside the screen door and called again. “Mae, it’s Jared.” I was not pleased to see he was holding a fresh-wood-smelling table leg in his hand.

  I had the childlike impulse to shrink small against the wall and hope he wouldn’t see me. Unfortunately, I wasn’t sufficiently childlike in size to have that work. Mather bent over with an amused look. “Well, Alexandra! Are we playing hide and seek? I’m seeking your aunt.”

  “Aunt Mae’s not here, Chief. No hide and seek today.” I managed a small laugh and held up my hand. “I dropped my ring and it rolled under the table. I’ll tell Aunt Mae you stopped by.”

  “Fine.” He waggled the leg. “Mae’s been using a faulty leg on her table. I made her a good one. I’ll just put it on for her while I’m here.” Obviously he was going to brazen this out.

  Certainly I couldn’t let him leave with the stained leg. It would be gone forever. “Well, gee, Chief, I wouldn’t feel quite right changing her things around when she’s not here, you know?”

  “Alexandra, I am simply replacing a bad leg with a good one, not redecorating the house. Now stand aside, please.” He gave a small smile. If it was meant to be reassuring, it failed.

  I crawled out from under the table and stood up. I didn’t feel quite so helpless on my feet. I took a deep breath. “Sorry, Chief. The answer is no.” I was not happy to see him scowl and begin to swing the leg in little circles.

  His voice was sharp. “You think you have things all figured out, don’t you? You think you know something about these murders, don’t you? Well, you don’t. You’re dead wrong. You’ve let your imagination run away with you. You always were flighty. Let this end here and now and we’ll both just forget it. Stand aside.”

  “No, Chief. I can’t do that. The leg is evidence. You cannot take it away.” There, it was said. Fargo nuzzled my hand nervously—he probably heard fear in my voice. I hoped Mather didn’t.

  He answered gently. “Now just what makes you think it’s evidence? What dastardly thing do you think you have detected? What are you confused about? What could be so bad?”

  I made my first mistake. “It’s nothing so bad at all, Chief. I’ve known it for years. And I never thought badly of you. I’ve felt sorry for you, that you made yourself carry such a burden. But I’m not the least confused. I do know.”

  He seemed stunned. “You know what?” Then the penny dropped. “That day . . . Mae’s broken window . . . you came to my house. That must be it.” The circles became faster, his voice higher. “You peered through my bedroom window, you prying bitch. Listened outside my house! You wanted something on me. So you could tell your family, poison me with Sonny. Ruin me in the town! Who have you told, bitch?” He swung the leg wider. Fargo and I back-pedaled, stopped by the chair behind us.

  “No, Chief, I never told a soul! And I didn’t look in your window. I wouldn’t do that. I just accidentally heard you and . . .”

  He was white as a snowball, and his whole body began to shake.
“Never told a soul. Hah! You think your ill-gotten knowledge gives you power over me, well it doesn’t. Power! I am the one with power! I am the one who keeps down Satan’s serpent!”

  He swung the leg dangerously close. “You have no idea what it is like. My father caught me with another boy when I was young. We weren’t actually doing anything, but my father knew where it was leading. He beat me nearly unconscious so I would know the depth of my sin.”

  His eyes widened so the whites showed large, and his voice dropped almost to a whisper. “Then the preacher came and I was on my knees throughout the night. Praying for forgiveness. My mother sobbing and praying for my soul. My father and the preacher reminding me of the hell that would await me. But I beat Satan’s serpent! I beat it down and I keep it down every day of my life! Sometimes it tries to rise, rise! But I beat it back. I am pure. I have the power! I have the pain.” He touched his chest. “But I have the power.”

  He took a shuddering deep breath and spoke calmly. “Look, Alexandra, it was quite simple. You saw—outside the Rat. I’d heard Lewis say he was going to Bartles’s place. I offered him a ride if he’d help me load some benches I’d made for Bartles’s church into my SUV. And it was about to rain, no reason for him to get wet. Simple.”

  I wondered if I could edge around him to the door, but he sidestepped with me. “But he had to make it dirty! He laughed and said, ‘I’ve never done it on a church bench, might be fun. Sure, Pops, I’ll help you.’ Help me! Help me! We got to my shop and he came up behind me, rubbing against me. His hands went around the front and I . . . you know . . . got hard.”

  I swallowed a bolus of pity and disgust and tried to calm things down. “Listen, Chief, if there was some accident with Lewis—or provocation—and if Fratos was blackmailing you, you know Sonny, and the prosecutor, would both help you all they could.”

  His laugh was awful to hear. “So you could take the stand and tell the world I’m queer? You want still more power over me? Never. You will never have it. I have power, you are a sniveling lesbi-an sinner! No, Alexandra, I got enough help from Lewis. I shoved him away, harder than I meant, but I was angry—at him, myself, God. I pushed. He fell against the lathe. A terrible, terrible head injury. I should have called the police. It was an accident! A simple, tragic accident. But you know what I did? I picked up that leg.” He gestured toward the table. “And I beat him until you couldn’t tell what had caused the wound. And he was very, very dead. So lovely—and so dead. Satan’s serpent was dead.” His eyes teared up.