As I mulled over whether this incident signaled potential trouble in my future working relationship with Parker, the morgue librarian emerged from the stacks to tell me, “You have a call, Mr. Manning. The switchboard sent it to my desk.”
I thanked the woman, excused myself from Parker, and returned to the front of the reference room to answer the phone. “Good afternoon. Mark Manning.”
“Hello, Mark! It’s Roxanne. Hard at work up there?”
“Yes, actually.” I laughed. “Did Neil talk to you about this weekend?”
“He called this morning, right after you called him; then I had to reach Carl. Another winter holiday in the north woods sounds fabulous, Mark—we’d love to come. But there’s one small hitch. Carl has an important meeting here in the city, so we won’t be able to drive up with Neil tomorrow for New Year’s Eve. But we could leave first thing Saturday, New Year’s Day, if that’s okay with you.”
“Sure,” I told her, delighted to hear it. “You won’t miss much on Friday—we’re planning a small party at the house. As for the rest of the weekend, I promise it will be quiet and uneventful—at least compared to Christmas.”
“Neil tells me that Suzanne’s funeral will be held on Monday. Carl and I are planning to attend. Then we’ll drive back to Chicago. Unless”—she hesitated—“unless I’m still needed up there. If that’s the case, Carl can ride back with Neil, and I’ll stay on with the car.”
“That sounds perfect. Thank you, Roxanne.” As I was speaking, Parker appeared from the rear of the morgue with his jacket—he was overdue for lunch. Hearing me mention Roxanne’s name, he looked at me as if to ask, Are they coming? I gave him a thumbs-up, and he returned the gesture.
“Oh,” said Roxanne, thinking of something, “how’s the weather up there?”
“No more snow. The roads should be dry.” But I knew she wasn’t concerned about the drive—she was planning her wardrobe. I added, “Clear skies mean cold temperatures, and, come January, it’s time for the deep freeze. So be prepared.”
“Gotcha.” She sounded preoccupied. I’d swear she was ticking items off a checklist that included multiple furs, muffs, and boots. “We should arrive Saturday at noon or so. See you then, Mark.” We said good-bye and hung up.
I turned to Parker. “They can’t make it till Saturday, but Roxanne is willing to stay on if I need her. Thanks for suggesting that I invite them, Parker.”
“My pleasure.” He zipped his jacket and was about to say something else when Glee Savage interrupted, poking her head through the door from the hall.
She told me, “Mr. Logan wants you in his office, Mark. It sounded important.”
“Parker”—I wagged a finger—“whatever it is, I want you in on it.”
Glee whimpered like an abandoned puppy. I said, “You, too, Glee. Come on.”
I led Parker out of the reference room, and Glee joined the parade, the three of us striding through the corridor to the publisher’s office. His secretary waved us in, and we joined Logan at his desk. “What’s up, Barret?” I noticed that the newsroom staff had seen us pile into the glass-walled office, and some of them started drifting near, discretion outweighed by curiosity.
“We just got word over the city newswire,” said Logan, “that the coroner has filed his report.” He handed me the text.
I skimmed it for pertinent details, then told the others, “The murder weapon has not yet been identified, but the coroner has concluded that the blunt instrument that killed Suzanne was something like a baseball bat. His report says, ‘There were microscopic traces of both varnish and white-ash hardwood in the victim’s fatal wound. However, a pattern of indentations in the wound was found inconsistent with the smooth design of a baseball bat.’”
As I finished reading, my brows reflexively wrinkled. There was something, I knew… but the thought wouldn’t click.
Friday was a busy day at the house. Neil had gotten an early start on his drive from Chicago, arriving well before noon. I hadn’t expected him yet, so I was surprised to see him pull into the driveway as I sat at the desk in my den, studying still more documents related to the Register buyout. I rushed through the hall to the back door without a coat and met him on the porch as he carried things to the house from the car.
“What time did you leave?” I asked, planting a big kiss on his mouth.
“Crack of dawn,” he told me, holding me in an awkward embrace that included several shopping bags. “You’d better get inside—Christ, it’s cold!”
It was cold, not much above zero, and it would worsen through the afternoon. As I’d told Roxanne on the phone the day before, New Year’s always seemed to signal the onset of the season’s coldest weather. It was true in Chicago—and even more so up here.
Neil had brought up some party supplies for an elegant dinner we’d planned for that night. In the kitchen with Hazel, I helped him unload the shopping bags, which included several ounces of the caviar I’d hoped to share with him in the city. I handed the little jars to Hazel, who eyed the stuff warily—it reminded me of her reaction to the margarine I’d smuggled up to Aunt Peggy when I was a boy.
“Who’s coming tonight?” asked Neil.
“It’s still sort of in flux,” I explained. (I noticed Hazel roll her eyes as she banged around in a cupboard, extracting a broiler pan.) I counted, “Parker, Thad, you, and I are four. Joey will be coming. And when Parker left this morning for another day’s research at the Register, I suggested that he ask Glee to join us. That would be six. Seventh at the table—and I insist this time—is to be Hazel.”
“Mr. Manning”—she turned to face me from where she worked at the counter—“I really don’t feel…”
“Tut-tut,” I told her. “I won’t have you eating alone in the kitchen tonight. We’ve all been through a lot lately, and you deserve to enjoy our friendship, as well as a spectacular meal.”
She turned back to her work, offering no further protests.
“A possible eighth,” I told Neil, “would be the sheriff, Douglas Pierce. He’s not married, and I get the impression he doesn’t have a ‘significant other,’ so he may not have plans tonight. What do you think?”
“Sure,” said Neil, sampling a finger-swipe of crème fraîche from the tub he was placing in the refrigerator, “why not?”
So I telephoned Pierce and, not finding him at his office, left a message for him to call me. Early that afternoon he phoned back, and I said, “I was wondering, Doug, if you have plans for this evening.”
The question seemed to throw him—he must have thought I was calling to ask about the coroner’s report. “No,” he answered with a reluctant tone, “just thought I’d aid the effort to keep Dumont’s streets safe. New Year’s can get dicey.”
“We’re having a late dinner here at the house,” I continued, “and Neil and I were wondering if you’d care to join us. There’ll be six or eight of us—you’ve met everyone—and I’ll do my best to keep shop talk to a minimum. How ’bout it?”
He hesitated. “Thanks, Mark, that sounds great, but I think it might be better if I decline—better for both of us.”
It was an odd response that I was simply not prepared for. “Why?”
“Well,” he squirmed. “The investigation. It might look bad for us to be socializing while… while you’re still under suspicion. Once this thing is behind us, though, I’d be honored. Anytime.”
“Oh, sure, Doug,” I told him, as if to say it was no big deal, but my voice carried the unmistakable ring of disappointment. I couldn’t help wondering: Did he think of me first as a murder suspect and second as a friend? Or was he uncomfortable with the idea of socializing with openly gay people? After all, law enforcement is traditionally among the more homophobic of professions, despite his own tolerant views. Might his own tolerance have sprung from something deeper that he was still trying to hide?
“I’m sorry,” he said after a pause, as if he’d been reading my thoughts, as if there were coworkers standing
around him and he could offer no truthful explanation for refusing the invitation. We both understood that, for now, nothing more would be said of this. Then he added, “I’m afraid I have some disturbing news for you.”
“Let’s hear it, Doug.” I was in no mood for circumlocution.
“Miriam Westerman has made good on her threat of Wednesday morning. She has persuaded Harley Kaiser to file an injunction that would forcibly remand Thad into her custody.”
“So she actually got the district attorney to play along with her.” Talking on the phone at the desk in my den, I glanced up and in my mind’s eye saw her twirling her cloak in the doorway to the hall, cackling—the old witch. “You were right, Doug. If Miriam killed Suzanne, we’re going to have a rough time convincing the DA of it.”
“One small consolation,” Pierce added. “Because of the holiday, the injunction won’t be acted upon until after the long weekend, Tuesday at the earliest. By the way, has the situation calmed down during the past week? I mean, has Thad shown any signs of adapting to living there at the house?”
“Ironically, he has.” I allowed myself a feeble laugh, but there was no humor in it. “Just last night, I let him borrow my car for an outing with some friends of his. He was away for only a couple of hours with it, brought it back in one piece, and delivered the keys into my hand with profuse thanks. He’s been bragging on the phone all day—I think he had a great time.”
“I’m sure,” said Pierce. “The way to a boy’s heart is through a set of keys, and those keys would soften even the hardest heart. I’ve said it before, Mark: that’s a magnificent automobile.”
I offered, half in jest, “Would you like to drive it sometime?”
“Really? You’d let me? I’d love to—maybe next week?”
I had to laugh. For whatever reason, Pierce was reluctant to socialize with me in my home, but he wouldn’t think twice about being seen behind the wheel of my car. After making a tentative date for a drive the following week, Pierce promised to keep me posted on the custody matter; then we exchanged New Year’s wishes, and I hung up the phone.
The issue of the guardianship had implications beyond the question of where Thad would be living for the next few years. There was still the legal technicality of whether my inheritance from Suzanne was contingent upon my fulfilling the role of Thad’s foster father. And now a new wrinkle. What if I were willing to become Thad’s new dad, but the courts sided with Miriam and gave her custody? These questions gnawed at me throughout the afternoon, until I finally decided that a call to Elliot Coop was in order. But it was after four-thirty, and I suspected I would not find him in his office.
I gave it a try, but my hunch proved correct. Elliot’s secretary said that she herself was just on her way out the door and that I had missed the lawyer by only a few minutes. Coincidentally, though, he had mentioned that he planned to stop and see me—there were some files he needed to deliver. I had almost forgotten about the dossiers from Suzanne’s private investigators, so now I was doubly anxious to see Elliot. I thanked his secretary and wished her a happy New Year.
I had barely hung up the phone when I noticed Elliot pull up to the curb under a streetlight in front of the house. He got out of the car, opened the trunk, and removed with difficulty a hefty bundle of manila folders packed to overflowing in a cardboard box. Though spry for his age—well into his seventies—he had to struggle with his load, and I was suddenly concerned that an unseen patch of ice on my sidewalk could spell real trouble for both of us.
Bounding to the front door, I switched on the porch light and met him coming up the walk. “Let me help you with that, Elliot.”
“Don’t be crazy, Mr. Manning,” he scolded. “You’ll catch your death out here.”
He had a point. The temperature was now well below zero. Our spent breath mingled in a shared cloud of frozen vapor that trailed us to the house.
“I didn’t realize there was so much of it,” I told him as we carried the box inside. I nudged the door closed behind us and continued directly to the den, where we set the box on my desk with a weighty thud.
“Whew!” He removed his gloves and rubbed his hands, recovering from both the exertion and the cold. He wore no hat, but rather a fulsome pair of fur earmuffs—beaver, I think. The muffs, combined with his distinctive skittering manner, gave him something of a gnomish air that evening.
I asked, “Can I offer you a libation, Elliot? Something to warm you up and toast the New Year?”
“Thank you, Mr. Manning,” he tittered, “but no. I’ll be doing quite enough of that later. And the night, as they say, is young.”
I laughed. “May I at least take your coat? If you have a few minutes, I’m wondering what you’ve determined about Suzanne’s will—regarding my inheritance and Thad’s guardianship.”
He made no move to unbutton his topcoat. “The terms of her will, as I mentioned before, are ambiguous on this matter, and I’ve sought another opinion that I am not yet able to report to you. I presume you’ve heard by now that Miriam Westerman is taking legal action with regard to the boy.”
I noticed that he was speaking a tad louder than was his habit, and I wondered if it was because his ears were still muffed. I confirmed, “Yes, Sheriff Pierce phoned me about Thad earlier.”
“The upshot is this.” He twisted his gloves, thinking. “The custody issue appears destined to be settled by the courts. I’m still hoping, however, that the issue of your inheritance can be settled as a matter of simple disbursement of the will, as specified by its own terms, without need for court involvement.”
I hardly needed to tell him, “That’s exactly what I’m hoping.”
“The whole matter requires more study, I’m afraid. But you can rest assured that I am according it my full attention. And with that, Mr. Manning, I really must dash—I need to put myself together for the bar association’s annual fête at the country club.”
“Have a wonderful time, Elliot,” I told him, draping my arm across his shoulder as I walked him to the door. “I need to get busy myself. We’re throwing a little dinner party here at the house tonight.”
“How splendid,” said the old lawyer. “Have a happy New Year, Mr. Manning, and do extend my greetings to your guests.”
We shook hands, and I opened the door for him, watching as he scampered into the darkness toward the pool of light surrounding his car.
Returning to the den, I was of course curious about the contents of the files he had delivered. I knew, though, that if I delved into them, I would be hooked for the night—and I had a party to host. So, resolving not to open a single folder, I simply fingered through them, glancing at some of the covers. They were labeled with names, men’s names. Inside, presumably, were reports on their whereabouts and activities, which would be consistent with Parker’s theory that Suzanne was having ambush survivors investigated. Excited by this prospect, I was tempted to crack open just one of the folders to confirm whether it was a dossier on a Vietnam veteran. But no, there would be plenty of time to study these over the weekend, and at the moment, I was running short of time for the evening’s preparations.
Lifting the box of files from the partners desk that had been my uncle’s, I carried it to a deep cabinet, a sort of credenza, that stood along an adjacent wall under a bookcase. That particular cabinet had a lock, and though it would prove easy picking for anyone skilled with a hairpin, it at least sent the message that anything within was private. If Suzanne had seen fit to leave these documents with a lawyer for safekeeping, I figured that I should now handle them with a similar measure of caution, at least until I determined what was in them.
Opening the cabinet door, I slid the box in and was relieved to find that it just fit, but not without some rearranging of other items I had placed there, including an imposing heap of contracts and other paperwork relating to the purchase of the house and the Register. Least conspicuous of these other items, however, was a plain white envelope that contained a letter. The envel
ope was addressed, simply, “Mr. Mark Manning, Jr., Chicago.”
I placed the envelope on its edge between the box of dossiers and the wall of the cabinet. Then I locked the cabinet door.
Compared to the confusion and tumult of Christmas, our celebration of New Year’s Eve was smooth and flawless—at least through the end of the meal.
Parker returned home from his day’s research at the Register shortly after five, just missing Elliot Coop’s visit. He told me, “Glee said she’d be delighted to join us. I think she canceled other plans—she wasn’t about to turn down an invitation from the boss.”
“Which boss?” I asked him, grinning. “Me or you?”
He explained, “You, of course,” surprised that I would ask.
I wagged a finger. “Don’t be so sure. I happen to know that Miss Savage has set her sights on you.” He looked at me with disbelief. I assured him, “It’s true. Walking to lunch with her on Tuesday, she expressed her interest in you (in no uncertain terms, by the way) and went on to ask if I would object to an office romance. What’s more, she’d gotten the distinct impression that you were flirting with her.” My serious tone gave way to laughter.
“I hope you set her straight, if you’ll pardon the expression.”
“Of course I did—or at least I tried—but she seemed undaunted by your yen for men. It’s a wrinkle that only heightens your allure.”
Parker paused in thought. “Ah, yes. The challenge of converting a gay man. Thanks for the tip, Mark. I’ll be on my toes.”
I then asked Parker to help me ready the fireplaces on the first floor of the house—dining room, living room, and den. They would add a festive touch, to say nothing of warmth, to our celebration of a dangerously cold night. Our plan was to gather at eight, when Joey Quatrain and Glee were due to arrive, sharing an evening of conviviality (and cocktails) until our late dinner, scheduled for ten, ending with the traditional champagne toast at midnight.
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