The Manx Murders

by William L. DeAndrea

  She asked Diane if there was a phone she could use in private. The girl showed her to a small office in the back of the morgue. Janet took her phone credit card out of her purse. Then she began to run up expenditures worthy of the Professor himself.

  Ron picked her up just about the time she was done.

  “How was the canary?”

  “Oh, do I look smug?” she asked disingenuously.

  “That’s how you look, all right. This have to do with your private hunch, by any chance?”

  “As a matter of fact, it does.”

  “Must have worked out.”

  “Mmm-hmm.”

  “Great feeling, isn’t it?”

  “Yes!” Then she thought about it. “I mean, no. I mean it’s great to have my hunch confirmed, but it’s not so nice to find out what I found out.”

  Ron showed her a crooked grin while he polished his glasses. “Get used to it, sweetheart. If you’re going to go around having hunches, you’ve got to concentrate on the first and forget the second.”

  “Sounds hard.”

  “Takes practice,” Ron conceded. “When do the Professor and I get to hear it?”

  “Right away,” Janet said. “You do, at least. In the car. This is nothing to blab in a newspaper office.”

  She pulled the door open, to see Diane scooting away as though she had something very important to do. Her neck was very, very red. Janet figured the kid would go far in the news business.

  Ron slammed his door, got his seat belt on, then looked at Janet. “Okay,” he said. “Buckle up, then let me have it.”

  “All right,” she said. “I had to use every connection I had, and every trick I could think of to get this, but I did. I’m almost one hundred percent sure that Henry Pembroke has AIDS.”

  Seven

  “HE DOES,” RON SAID.

  “You see, I saw the purple splotches, the main one on his wrist, but others. I figured at first that was a birthmark, like his brother’s, but I had forgotten that the mark on Clyde’s forehead—I only saw it once, remember. ...”

  Janet shuddered at the memory of the strangled Clyde, the purple mark almost lost in the purplish tinge of the face, and the overhead glare of the lamp.

  “I had forgotten that the mark on Clyde’s forehead was a forceps mark, not a natural birthmark at all. Then I realized there was no reason for Henry to have the purple marks on his skin unless there’s something wrong with him. Then, when we saw him at the cemetery, so weak and sickly, something clicked. I thought purple blotches—Kaposi’s sarcoma—AIDS.

  “Now, I figured that if Henry were being treated for this at all, it wouldn’t be here, it would be in New York, so I called a friend of mine who’s a big society doctor there, and I asked him who a prominent man who wanted secrecy would go to and he gave me a list and—”

  Janet closed her mouth and ran the tape back in her mind. She glanced at her husband. “What did you say?” she demanded.

  “Nothing. Go on, this is great work.”

  “You said, ‘He does.’ ”

  “I did?”

  “Don’t tease me, dammit.” She wanted to hit him. “How long have you known?”

  “Found out today. Just before I came here. Probably just about the same time you did.”

  “Damn, damn, damn. How did you get it? When did you suspect?”

  “Relax, kid, the prizes are all yours. I never suspected anything but that Henry was a sick man. I found out because he told me.”

  “I can’t believe it. I’m turning myself inside out to learn things, and you have people telling them to you. ...”

  “Sometimes, not often, something in this business can be easy. Don’t knock it when it happens.”

  “But I was so proud of myself.”

  “Why stop now? Nothing I found out negates what you found out. What did you tell the doctors?”

  “What difference does it make?”

  “Are you going to pout?”

  Janet said nothing.

  “Okay,” Ron said. “But I thought the baby was supposed to be the one on the inside.”

  Janet cracked up. When she stopped laughing, she said, “Oh, okay, but I am disappointed.”

  “Come on, doesn’t the Professor turn all my bombshells to fizzles? Whatever I did, I didn’t even do it through genius, just dumb detective luck. What did you do?”

  “I called the doctors on the list and said I was Henry Pembroke’s public relations adviser, and that a newspaper had been sniffing around, and they should be extra careful not to leak the results of Mr. Henry Pembroke’s AIDS test. There were six on the list; five of them said they’d never heard of Mr. Henry Pembroke, and the sixth one assured me that all their tests, Mr. Pembroke’s included, would remain perfectly confidential.”

  “Not enough for a courtroom, but not bad. Go ahead and be proud.”

  “What did he tell you?”

  “He thinks he caught it from his late wife. A tramp of historic proportions. Mr. Jackson won’t even mention her name.”

  “But she died eleven years ago,” Janet said.

  “Henry knows that.”

  “The average AIDS case runs ten years.”

  “That’s the average. Obviously, some folks hold on longer. Henry figures he’s on borrowed time. He had the test about three years ago, when he saw purple on himself. He’s only started getting sickly over the last couple of months. He’s been losing control of his emotions, too. He says he thinks that’s why he made such a big stink over the bird mystery. He’s happy to know they’re back.”

  “They’re back?”

  “Oh, yeah. That was my big discovery for the day. They’re just ... back. I took Henry out to show him. That’s where we talked, and he told me about his illness.”

  “The poor man.”

  “I agree. Maybe we can set his mind at rest, at least.”

  “I hope so.”

  “Did you talk to Chip today?”

  “Nope. Didn’t catch up to him. He took off in the Lincoln somewhere, maybe business, maybe just to get away from me. And the FBI. And the press.”

  Ron put the key in the ignition. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s go buy some groceries.”

  They found a big supermarket in a shopping center not too far from the Pembroke estate.

  Ron pushed the wagon, and got goo-goo-eyed over every baby he saw. Janet smiled.

  Because of the ethnic diversity of Harville, they were able to get most of the stuff the Professor (and Ron) liked to nosh on when they raided the refrigerator.

  In the deli department, they picked up some black olives, an oblong sausage called soprassata, and a hard ball of sharp provolone. Janet referred to this as the cholesterol special. The bakery had loaves of crusty Italian bread, judged by Ron to be superior to anything available back home in Sparta. “We’d better watch it,” he said, “or the Professor will want to move here.”

  In the vegetable aisle, Janet pointed out a big bulb of fresh fennel, which the Professor liked to eat with a simple dressing of olive oil and vinegar, salt and pepper. The old man always managed to dip and eat the licorice-tasting stalks without spilling a drop. Janet pointed out to Ron that he lacked this skill.

  “I know,” he said ruefully. “And yet it tastes so good. I think you need to have Italian blood to do it right. Maybe we could buy me a bib.”

  “Ha, ha.”

  “We might as well get used to people in bibs.”

  They pushed along the aisles, picking up less exotic foods and what stores are pleased to call “health and beauty aids.” When they came to the first frozen-food aisle, Ron said, “Hey, let’s get some ice cream.”

  “I thought,” Janet said, “the baby was supposed to be the one on the inside.”

  “Indulge me. When I’m a father, I’ll grow up, I promise. What have we got here?”

  “I see you’re looking at Chip’s Creamery Ice Cream.”

  “Yeah, it’s like my version of ‘Be True to Your School.’ Also
, everybody tells me how great it is, and I’m curious. Now let’s see ... vanilla, chocolate, double Dutch chocolate with chocolate-covered almonds, fudge brownie, fudge ripple—do you detect a trend here?—Swiss chocolate, chocolate cookie, maple walnut. At last ... boysenberry, strawberry, peach melba, orange sorbet.”

  He looked up. “No grape,” he said.

  “Whoever heard of grape ice cream?”

  “No grape sorbet, either.”

  “I don’t think I’ve ever seen that. Didn’t you say Chip makes a big deal of no artificial ingredients?”

  “Yeah. Says so right on the container.”

  “Okay,” Janet said. “Have you ever seen a grape-flavored anything—other than grape juice, of course—that wasn’t at least partially artificially flavored?”

  “Now that you mention it, no.”

  “So Chip doesn’t make grape stuff because it takes artificial flavoring.”

  Ron looked puzzled. “But then—”

  “What’s the big grape push, anyway? I thought you liked maple walnut.”

  “I do, but—”

  “If you want grape, let’s go buy some grapes. They’re better for you, anyway.”

  “Yeah,” Ron said. “I’ve just had grapes on the brain lately.”

  “Well, let’s get going. I’ve read that it’s very important for a pregnant woman to take care of her feet.”

  “You don’t even show yet.”

  “Why wait till the last minute?”

  Ron grinned, grabbed a pint of maple walnut and one of orange sorbet, and hustled after his wife to the checkout.

  The Professor was in the sitting room off his bedroom, watching She Wore a Yellow Ribbon on Cinemax. Benedetti was a hard-core Western fan, and the John Ford-John Wayne cavalry trilogy was one of his favorites. As usual, when he decided to leave his easel, he had shaved and dressed in a clean shirt and suit, including jacket and tie. He was perched on the edge of his chair, taking in the film.

  “Sorry to interrupt, Maestro.”

  “ ‘Never apologize,’ ” the old man quoted, “ ‘it’s a sign of weakness.’ ” He laughed.

  “Well, you seem pretty chipper today.”

  “I have had a fruitful day. I have learned that Mrs. Everson, the housekeeper here, is a charming woman, and considerate to a guest.”

  Ron shrugged. “She’ll be needing a new job, and her previous employer can’t exactly give her a reference.”

  “You seem to have developed an alarming streak of cynicism, amico. It doesn’t become you. Grace and dignity and beauty can be entities in themselves. Not everyone saves these things for a chance at personal gain.”

  Ron should have seen that coming. Benedetti was a connoisseur of “mature beauty,” and if he weren’t so busy studying and fighting evil, he might have campaigned vigorously for the more widespread appreciation of women over forty-five.

  “Maestro, when we were in the woods the other day, on the way to Omega House, what did we smell?”

  “Grape. Like candy. Very strong.”

  “That’s what I thought.” Ron wondered whether it was worth going into, then decided against it. He’d take a hint from Janet and make a couple of phone calls tomorrow.

  “You said a very fruitful day,” Ron said. “What else did you pluck?”

  The old man looked disapproval at Ron, but let it pass. “I believe I have solved the case,” he said.

  “Oh.”

  Janet walked in.

  “The Professor has solved the case,” Ron told her.

  “Oh,” she said.

  “I believe I have solved it. I must check my evidence. And the precise motive eludes me. But the core of it, I am convinced I have seen.”

  Ron shook his head. “Maestro, I’m usually panting along behind you somewhere, but this time, I haven’t seen a thing.”

  “You still have time. There are some matters that mystify me even now. The matter of the birds, for instance.”

  “Their being gone or their being back?”

  “Their being gone. They are back because their absence has served its purpose and is no longer necessary to the plan. As to the mechanism by which they were made to vanish, I am still completely in the dark.”

  “If you remember, Maestro, that was what we were brought down here to figure out.”

  “Time has made the question ... not irrelevant, but, let us say, secondary.” He rubbed his jaw. “Not that it still doesn’t need to be answered.”

  “But the disappearing birds are still part of the case. The kidnapping and all.”

  “The murder. Yes, I am certain of it.”

  On the screen, Ben Johnson caught up with John Wayne with the message from the Yankee War Department, and the movie was more or less over. Benedetti switched off the TV and said, “Excellent film, as always. ‘I am a Christian!’ ” He laughed. “But, my children, you must tell me about your day. Perhaps you have found the other end of a string, that we may tie up the loose ends.”

  “Janet did the major detective work today, Maestro. Followed up a hunch and it paid off.”

  “Indeed, Doctor. And what did you learn?”

  Janet told him what she’d found out.

  Benedetti raised his head, taking a deep breath and closing his eyes while he did.

  There was a tense silence for a few moments, then, “Excellent. Truly excellent. This fits my theory perfectly. It must be confirmed, of course—”

  “All taken care of, Maestro. Henry told me so, himself.”

  “I believe the case is all but solved—all except for the problem of those accursed birds. You must excuse me; I must think.”

  Back to the old drawing board, Ron thought. Or painting board, as the case may be.

  “Maestro,” Ron said, “wait a second.”

  “Yes?” Benedetti was impatient.

  “Before you go, can I have a little hint? I might as well be doing some thinking, too.”

  “No hints.”

  It was foolish, but Ron felt hurt.

  “They are not necessary. You must only remember what I have taught you.”

  “Very well, Maestro.” Ron was meek. He could tease the old man, and often did, but not at a time like this, not when Benedetti’s voice got that deadly edge to it.

  “Remember the very first thing I said I would require of you?”

  “I had to learn to speak Italian.”

  “No, after that. Relating to the actual work.”

  “To watch and listen.”

  “Precisely. And, in this case, the second is greater than the first.”

  “Thank you,” Ron said.

  Just then, the housekeeper bustled in. She was obviously agitated, but she had a smile for the old man, anyway.

  “Chief Viretsky is here. He’d like to see you all.”

  They went downstairs. The chief was more agitated than Mrs. Everson.

  “I cut across the estate on my way to the highway. Figured you might want to be in on this.”

  “In on what, Chief Viretsky?” Benedetti asked.

  “Got a buzz from Precton, two towns over. Seems that Chip Pembroke just got blown to bits.”

  Eight

  SANDY HAD FINALLY GOTTEN the bill from NEFF straightened out this morning. Well, not straightened out, exactly, but at least taken off her shoulders. Mr. Pembroke—Chip—told her he’d take care of it, and Sandy didn’t have to worry about it anymore.

  Then he asked her to join him for lunch.

  She was so shocked she gawked at him. She saw a scared look come over his face.

  “Oh. I’m out of line. ... I’m sorry, Sandy—Miss Jovanka, really. ... I promise it’ll never happen again—”

  “It’s all right, Mr. Pembroke, really.”

  “That’s good of you, Sandy. I don’t know what came over me, I just—”

  Sandy decided she’d better take charge of this before it got too difficult. “No, really. I’d love to have lunch with you. Really.”

  His smile was just
like a little boy’s.

  “You would?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Okay,” Chip said. “We’ll go somewhere really nice.” He went into his office, and came out a few minutes later.

  “I made reservations at the Continental, in Precton. Is that all right?”

  “Sure, it’s fine. But Precton’s a half-hour drive. We’ll never have time to eat and get me back here on time.”

  “Your boss gives you special permission to take a long lunch.”

  Sandy giggled. “Well, that’s okay, then.”

  They went in his car. Of course they went in his car. Her car was a dumb old little Toyota Cressida with the tailpipe held up by a coat hanger until she could afford to go to a muffler shop.

  She giggled. “I’m riding a Lincoln to the Continental.”

  “I’m sorry I picked a place so far away,” Chip said. “It’s just that in Precton, there’ll be a slightly less chance of being recognized and hounded. I ... I don’t think I could handle gossip right now, on top of everything else.”

  “Oh. Oh, of course, Mr. Pembroke. I know about the reporters. I’ve had a few camped on my doorstep, yelling questions at me. But I haven’t really said anything.” She had, of course, posed for pictures, but there couldn’t be anything wrong with that.

  “Call me Chip.”

  “Chip. No, no gossip. You’ve been through an awful lot. It must have been horrible. Everybody who works at the shop is awfully sorry about what happened. ...”

  “I know. And I appreciate it. But it does make you happy to be alive, you know? And it makes you want to think.”

  “Think?” Sandy said.

  “About what’s important. About what you might be missing. My uncle was incredibly rich. Incredibly. And all he had to make him happy was a bunch of cats with no tails.”

  “I think they’re sweet.”

  “I guess so, but that’s not the point. He was in his seventies, and he’d had most of his chances to do and be what he wanted to be.”

  “He was a very great man, my mom says.”

  “Sure, but what happened to him could happen to anybody.”

  “Not anybody,” she pointed out. “Most people couldn’t pay ten thousand dollars, let alone a million.”