Death at the Member Guest

by James Y. Bartlett

  “No,” I said, “I’m here. Who’s this?”

  “Angela Murphy,” she said. She paused for a second, listening. “Where the hell are you, Jamaica?”

  “It’s a luau,” I told her. “You’re interrupting my worship at the altar of roast suckling pig.”

  “Yuck,” she said. “Have you ever considered going vegan?”

  “Considered,” I said, picking at some escapee rice grains that had fallen onto the tablecloth and popping them back in my mouth, “And rejected the idea.”

  “Do you know what animal protein does to your intestines?” she asked.

  “No,” I said, “And I really don’t want to know. But is it OK if I go get more pig now?”

  I could hear her shudder over the phone.

  “Listen,” she said, “I’m down at the Lowell Public Works department.”

  “Angie,” I said, “It’s Saturday night. The Lowell PWD can’t possibly be open.”

  “Not normally, no,” she agreed. “But I got my pal Ginny here to come open up the office for me. She’s the assistant to the director. I’ve pulled the records on the Shuttlecock sewer job. Guess what?”

  “It was a stinking mess?”

  “I’m sure it was,” she said, not laughing. “But it was financed by Merrimack Bank & Trust.”

  “Isn’t that…”

  “The bank owned by the late Vitus Papageorge,” she finished for me. “The club had to get a bonded underwriter since it was a project that tied into a city-owned sewer line, and the financing had to be guaranteed. I guess that’s so in case they got halfway through and the construction company took a powder, the money would be there to finish the job and keep the country club’s poop from falling in the river. At least, that’s what Ginny told me.”

  “What else does Ginny say?” I wondered.

  “Well,” Angie said, “It all looks pretty cut-and-dried. The job was done pretty much by the book. All the required permits are here. City inspection reports. They had to tear out the old brick culverts and install cast concrete conduits, plus build a new pumping station to move the crap under the creek and tie in with the main line that follows the river downstream underneath Highway 113 there. Big job. Two-point-six million.”

  I had a corn fritter speared and ready to disappear. I stopped, momentarily sparing its life.

  “What a minute,” I said. “What was that figure?”

  Angie ruffled some papers. “Yeah, here it is,” she said. “Financial bond posted by Merrimack B&T was $2.6 million. That included the 10 percent contingency funding.”

  My fritter hung in the air while I thought about that. “So the bank forwards the money to the city, and the city pays the construction company when the job is completed according to code, right?” I asked. “And the bank collects from the country club.”

  “You got it,” Angie said. “It all looks pretty cut and dried. Ginny remembers the project. Said she didn’t see any funny business.”

  “What was the construction company on the job?” I asked, finally popping the golden fritter into my mouth, holding the phone away so Angie wouldn’t hear my enthusiastic mastication.

  “Hold on…” She riffled through some papers. “Here it is. Adams Construction in Dracut.” I could hear a female voice in the background. Angela said “Really?” to her friend Ginny and then spoke to me again. “Guess what, Hacker?” she piped, excited. “Ginny says Adams Construction is part-owned by Rene Lemere. And guess who he is?”

  “The local mobster,” I said, chewing softly. “That’s not the half of it,” I continued over Angie’s disappointed silence. “The club manager here is supposedly a close friend, if not affiliate, of the very same Mr. Lemere.”

  “Do tell,” Angie said, whistling softly.

  “And I remember some of the members here at the club told me that the cost of the sewer job was $4 million, not $2.6. Each member here at Shuttlecock had to pony up several thousand bucks each to cover the bill.”

  I could hear her pen scratching as Angela scribbled some notes.

  “Well,” she said. “I guess we have established a motive for someone to knock off Vitus Papageorge. One of the members must have discovered that Vitus siphoned off a cool million and a half for himself and decided to do something about it.”

  “Well, that’s one possible interpretation,” I agreed, chasing some cole slaw around my plate with my fork. “But it also means that any of the 500 or so members here is a suspect. And frankly, I’m not convinced that was the reason why Vitus was killed.”

  “How come?” Angela wanted to know.

  “Well, if I was a member and I learned that there had been some financial shenanigans with the bookkeeping at the club, even if it made me really mad, I don’t think I’d go looking for someone to kill. You know?”

  “Yeah,” Angela said. “You have a point.”

  “But what if I were a local mob boss and somehow or other a good chunk of that $1.4 million skim was supposed to come to me, and for whatever reason, it didn’t?”

  “You might send a leg breaker out to have a little chat with Mr. Papageorge,” Angie finished.

  “Exactly,” I said. “And knowing what a world-class prick Vitus could be, it’s not hard to imagine a scenario where a little leg-breaking job could turn into something more drastic. If he could piss me off just playing golf, imagine what he would do to some bent-nose guy named Guido.”

  “Well,” Angela said, “Even though you are abusing the stereotype of Italian-Americans, I think I get your drift.”

  “Te amo,” I muttered sweetly.

  “Bite me,” she muttered back. “Listen, I have to take Ginny here out for dinner. It’s too late to file anything for tomorrow’s paper anyway, so let’s sleep on this and plan our next move. Call me tomorrow?”

  “We’re supposed to resume our golf tournament,” I told her, “But I’ll be in touch at some point. If I dig up any other clues, I’ll let you know.”

  “Ain’t you the crimestopper,” she said, unnecessarily snide, I thought, and, chuckling softly to herself, she rang off.

  I polished off the rest of my pig and went back to the buffet line for more. On the way back to the table, I caught Jack’s eye and motioned that I wanted to speak to him. After a minute or two, he broke away from the bar, amid huge gales of laughter, and plunked down in the seat beside me.

  “How’s the grub?” he asked, reaching over and spearing a succulent chunk of roasted pig from my plate. I would have stabbed his hand with my fork except for all the years of training put in by my sainted mother.

  “Outstanding,” I said. “What I’ve just learned is even better.” In between bites, I filled Jack in on the information from Angie. I could tell he was interested because he didn’t attempt any further sneak attacks on my dinner.

  “So that’s what that little son-of-a-bitch was up to,” he said. “Nice little scam. Gets his underworld contacts to submit a nice fat overbid on the cost of the new sewer project, the job is paid for by all the rich folks here at the club and he pockets a couple million.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “And chances are he was supposed to spread the wealth around more than he did. Can’t you just see Vitus arguing with some goomba that he deserved more of the take? No wonder he got strung up.”

  “It fits,” Jackie nodded. “Or maybe they were afraid that the cover was going to get blown and decided to eliminate the witnesses.”

  I pushed some fried plantain around my plate.

  “I wonder what role the club manager had in all this?” I mused aloud.

  “Herb?” Jackie said, perking up. “Why don’t we go ask him?”

  “Right now?” I said.

  “No time like the present,” my insane partner chortled. “C’mon, Hack.”

  He grabbed his tumbler of bourbon, jumped up and headed out of the ballroom. I pushed my plate away, looked longingly at the key lime pie on the dessert table nearby, sighed and followed.


  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Down the hallway past the main dining room, a small staircase led to the second floor of the Shuttlecock Club. Jack had told me that in the past, the club maintained a half dozen guest rooms for the use of out-of-town members or those in town who had perhaps over-celebrated and needed a bed in which to sleep it off. With all kinds of new state laws dealing with overnight accommodations, the club had pretty much abandoned this perk of membership in the 1960s. Now, the only rooms used on the second floor were for the offices of the club’s manager and his assistant.

  It was cold upstairs, and the air was dank and dusty. A long corridor extended off to the right, disappearing into the darkness. Harsh light spilled from a room at the top of the stairs, creating a square of brightness that illuminated the hallway’s threadbare carpeting.

  Jack and I walked through the empty outer office and into the manager’s den beyond. Herbert Incavaglia was sitting at his crowded desk, peering through wire-rimmed bifocals at a ledger book open before him. He looked to be in his late 50s, with greying hair clinging hopefully to the sides and back of his head, having long since abandoned his shining pate. He was dressed in a dark suit, white dress shirt and conservative tie. His office was small and tidy. One wall was covered by a bank of file cabinets, another by a large cork bulletin board. His dark-stained desktop was mostly empty, except for the In/Out box on one corner and the ledger book on his blotter. An ell-extension at one end held his computer terminal and telephone. The room smelled faintly of burned coffee. Incavaglia stood up when we walked in, closing the ledger.

  “Mr. Connolly,” he said, holding out his hand for Jackie to shake. “So good to see you again. Can I be of some assistance?”

  Jack threw himself down in one of the two chairs that sat in front of Incavalgia’s desk and put his drink down on the man’s desktop. “This is my guest, Hacker,” he said nodding at me. “We want to talk about Vitus Papageorge’s murder this morning.”

  Herb Incavaglia grasped my hand. His was large and warm and hard at the edges. He looked at me for a moment, his eyes dark and narrow. I felt as though I was being sized up.

  “Ah, Mister Hacker,” he said. “You are a writer for one of the Boston newspapers, correct?” He raised his eyebrows and I nodded. “I had heard you were going to honor the Shuttlecock Club with your presence this weekend. How unfortunate that these tragic events have spoiled what had been one of our most popular events. I do hope that you will be able to return next year and enjoy our Invitational tournament again.”

  While he was making his address, he opened a side drawer of his desk, took out a cardboard coaster and placed it neatly under Jack’s glass. I sat down in the other guest chair, and Herb sat down behind his desk. He leaned back in his chair, laced his fingers together and rested them on his lap.

  “How can I be of assistance?” he asked again. “And may I ask if this interview is to be considered on the record?”

  “Why would you ask that?” I wondered.

  Incavaglia smiled at me as if I were a child. “Please, Mr. Hacker,” he said icily, “Don’t be silly. Mr. Connolly here is the publisher and owner of the local newspaper and you are a journalist with a large metropolitan daily. It would be foolhardy of me not to inquire as to the ground rules for our conversation. If this is an official visit, then the club’s only comment is that we are deeply shocked and saddened by the events of this morning at the Shuttlecock Club, we are cooperating fully with the police authorities, which are investigating Mr. Papageorge’s death, and we will have no further comment at this time. How else can I be of assistance?”

  Jack and I looked at each other. Herb had slammed a roadblock down in front of us before we got going. Jack picked up his tumbler of bourbon and threw me a wink over the rim.

  “How long have you been here at Shuttlecock?” I asked Herb.

  “I’m in my fifth year of service to the members,” he answered.

  “Bit of a change from your last job, isn’t it?”

  “Not at all,” he said easily. “I was the comptroller for a chain of restaurants on the North Shore and I managed a gentleman’s club in Boston for several years.”

  “Who’s the easier boss to work for,” I asked, “Vitus Papageorge or Carmine Spoleto? Or do you have to answer to Rene Lemere?”

  Herbert Incavaglia stared at me silently. I smiled back at him. Jack smiled at him. The silence hung in the air.

  “I - I don’t believe I know either of the gentlemen whom you mentioned,” he said.

  “Can we see the records on the sewer construction project?” Jack said. “We have information that there may have been some cost overruns on that job.”

  Incavaglia stared across his desk at us for another long moment. I felt sized up again, and it made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up a little.

  “Actually, that project was completed on time and on budget,” Herbert said. “But all records and reports must be released by the chairman of the Building and Grounds Committee, Mr. Cameron Campbell. You will have to see him. I’m afraid I don’t have the data in this office.”

  “And if I go see Jocko Campbell,” Jack said, “He’ll tell me that all the paperwork has been put into storage and it’ll take him six months or a year for him to remember to dig it out. In the meantime, you all will hope I forget about it while you move the money you skimmed down to the Cayman Islands or Antigua.”

  Incavaglia rocketed forward in his chair. “I am not certain,” he said, “But I believe I heard some statements that could easily be construed as libelous should they ever see print, Mr. Connolly.”

  I heard a sudden exhalation behind me — it sounded like a muttered “men!” — and turning, I saw Leta Papageorge walk into the office. She was dressed in jeans and a long, wooly green sweater that draped down to her thighs, her glistening blond hair pulled back in a tight ponytail, and she held in front of her a small, silver gun that glistened nastily in the harsh overhead light. She had it pointing right at Herbert Incavaglia.

  “Sorry to interrupt your little sword fight, fellas,” Leta said, her cheeks flushed. “But I got just one question for ole Herb here, and I don’t have time for all the bullshit.” She took another step closer to the desk and held the gun steady at Herb’s head.

  “Who whacked him, Herb?” she asked softly. “And why?”

  Herbert Incavaglia turned white, and shrunk back in his chair as far as the laws of physics allowed. “Mrs. Papageorge,” he said in a suddenly high-pitched, strained voice. “I assure you …”

  “Can it, Herb,” she snapped. “Who? And why?”

  He held his arms out wide, supplicating.

  “I—I don’t know,” he said. “Really, I don’t. But it wasn’t one of ours.”

  “That’s crap, Herb,” Leta began. But in arguing with him, the arm holding the gun dropped a bit, no longer aimed between the man’s narrow little eyes.

  I made my move and made it fast. I jumped out of my chair, gave Leta a hockey-style hip check to knock her off balance, and at the same instant, I grabbed her wrist and pushed it and the gun upwards toward the ceiling. With a sharp twist, I managed to yank the gun away, as Leta gave a tiny yelp, equal parts pain and surprise. She recovered her balance and sprang at me. I held her off with one arm and held the gun away with the other.

  “Damn you!” she cried, trying to grab and hit at the same time, until she finally realized the futility and began to weep, grabbing my lapels and burying her face in my chest. I held the gun at arm’s length. Jack had stayed in his chair, but gave me a nod of appreciation and reached over to take another sip – a longer and deeper draught – from his cocktail.

  Herb Incavaglia’s face went from pale to deep red in an instant. He started to stand up, but I swung my arm around and pointed the gun at him again.

  “I don’t think you’ve answered the lady’s question yet, Herb,” I said. “Who whacked Vitus and why?”

  He was flabbergasted.
“Wh-why, you can’t do that,” he stuttered. “This woman threatened my life. You witnessed it! I can have her arrested for assault and you for aiding and abetting!”

  “Go ahead,” I said, holding the gun steady. “Call the cops. We’ll start by telling them that you said the killer, quote ‘wasn’t one of ours,’ end quote. Which will lead them to ask what you meant, which will rip the cover off your little can o’ worms here. So be my guest…pick up the phone and call. I think the number is 9-1-1.”

  Herb didn’t move. His eyes peered at me, this time with undisguised hatred.

  “This is highly unethical,” he said.

  “Hey, Herb. Here’s a little news flash for you: Journalists aren’t ethical. So answer the lady’s question or I might give her the gun back.”

  Leta Papageorge had stopped crying all over my sport coat and was staring at Herb. He, in turn looked beseechingly at Jack, seeking some help from the only club member in the room. Jackie smiled and shrugged.

  “Better start talking, Herb,” he said. “My friend here is notorious for being unconventional. I can’t predict what he’s gonna do.”

  “I can’t tell you anything,” Incavaglia finally said. “My, ummm, business associates are as perplexed as you are. Mr. Papageorge’s business relationships were in good order. We are also interested in finding out who perpetrated this crime. Everything I just said was off the record and I will deny any or all of it if it sees print.”

  Leta Papageorge snorted softly. While she had stopped crying, she continued to hold my coat’s lapels tightly. My non-gun-holding hand had come up and wrapped itself protectively around her waist, and her body warmth floated upwards, mingling with her subtle perfume, a not unpleasant experience.

  “Always covering your ass, huh Herb?” she said. She pulled away from me. “C’mon fellas. Let’s get outta here.”

  “Wait a minute,” Incavaglia protested. “You mean you’re going to let this woman barge in here, threaten my life and just…leave?”

  Jack and I looked at each other.

  “Yes,” we said in unison. Leta and Jack walked out, and I, still holding the little silver pistol, followed, backing out of the office.