4 - Stranger Room: Ike Schwartz Mystery 4

by Frederick Ramsay

  “You are up to form, I see. Good news on the merger front?”

  “Great news on the merger front. It’s fixed.”

  “How, fixed?”

  Ruth leaned back in her chair and began swinging it from side to side. “I took your advice and called in a business honcho to work on the details of the deal.”

  “Who did you call?”

  “The big Kahuna himself, M. Armand Dillon.”

  “Ah. In that case, I would guess you got a good deal, or failing that, a fantastic severance package.”

  “Better than that.”

  “Wow, how better?”

  “He said he did some ‘due diligence’—”

  “Which meant he made some phone calls.”

  “Exactly, and discovered that Carter Union College has its endowments locked up in unbreakable trusts. They can’t flip them into the kind of dollars they need to stop the money hemorrhage from their bank accounts. With no room to expand, a fixed student body and, except for the business school, no other area of excellence in place or in the offing, they are the beggars, not us.”

  “So he bought the school and gave it to you for a wedding present.”

  “Wrong on both counts. Sorry…about the wedding part, anyway. No, he negotiated the deal so that Callend stays intact. I stay on as its president, and all those delicious endowments and the business school move here. We will add the Carter Union College of Business, complete with an MBA tract, to our liberal arts college and, thereby, become a university. Callend University. Tah Dah! And it all happened on my watch. So, what do you think?”

  Ike had lifted himself from the wing chair and had begun pacing while she spoke. He was unsure where this would lead and uncertain whether he wanted to hear it all, either.

  “I think it is a huge coup for you, for Picketsville, for education in general, and maybe the world. I’m not too sure about that last one, though. You have managed to slither Callend into coeducation without an upheaval to your school or its character, as well as gain some much needed dollars, and hang on to your job all at the same time. Nicely done.”

  Ike had his back to her when he finished.

  “Ike…are you okay? Am I hearing real stuff or are you being ironic. Hey, look at me when I’m talking.” Ike turned toward her.

  “Me? Ironic? My, my, how you do go on.”

  “Okay, enough already. The deal will be done in a month or so, after the semester ends in May. I have my work cut out for me for the rest of the summer and the major part of next year. We have to reassign dormitories, integrate their male students, and figure out what to do with the redundant faculty. I will be up to my rear end in this business. You do remember that part of me?”

  “How could I ever forget? Still no tattoo, I assume.”

  “None. If it would make you happy I can arrange one.”

  “Not necessary. I’ll bring a magic marker next time. More fun, less expense.”

  “Yeah, yeah, dream on. Look, I thought the whole thing through, not just the Callend thing—the you and me thing—and, Lord knows I probably won’t get a better offer—but right now, I just don’t see how—”

  “It’s not our time, is it?”

  “Can we just stay the same for a while?” Ike had stopped his pacing in front of the mantelpiece. He stared at the clock. “I’m sorry you went to all that trouble to buy a clock, too. I guess I do need more time, and maybe, that will remind me that it’s ticking away, but for now…” Ike had opened the clock case and pulled the winder from it. “…you’re not looking at me again.”

  “Right, sorry. It’s something about the clock…”

  “The clock? I love my new clock but I’m afraid you spent a lot of money…”

  “No, no, that’s not what I mean.” He continued to inspect the clock’s face. “You know, Ruth, we’ve only known each other for less than a year. You have a huge challenge facing you and I will only be a distraction in any case. We’ll plateau. Is that about what you had in mind?”

  “Plateau. Yes, that’s a good way to put it. But…”

  “But what?”

  “It’s about your car and parking…and, well…”

  “We need to use my A-frame more often. Stick to weekends, normalize this business—stop acting like a pair of hormone driven teenagers. I’ve got the unmarked car, but I don’t see that helping too much, so I’m going to spring for a used, nondescript Chevy…silver or gray, I think.”

  “It’s a start. We’ll think of something. Ike…?”

  Ike had stopped listening again. He pulled the winder from the clock face and turned it over in his hands, fitted it back onto one of the winding stems and turned it, at first slowly then, more rapidly. He withdrew the winder and absently dropped it into his pocket.

  “Buying this clock was not a waste, Ruth. It was a stroke of…what?…”

  “Midnight?”

  “Serendipity.” He turned and smiled. “Would you be terribly angry if I said I am okay with maintaining the status quo? The truth is, I like pushing your buttons and a shift in our…relationship from courtship to, well…doesn’t that sound just too…quotidian?”

  “Will you please stop with the word builder? I mean…maybe you’re right at that, too ordinary, everyday?”

  “Not quite, but close, I guess. Anyway, we are not kids and we are not designed to go through life as Nick and Nora. You know what I disliked most about that series, the movies, I mean?”

  “What series. What movies? Is this more of your classic movie channel trivia?”

  “I’ll explain later, but it was the appearance of the kid. Cute kid in a uniform—it just never worked.”

  “You’ve lost me. You’re not upset?”

  “Not really.” He squinted at the clock once more. “As for the clock…by God, now I know how he did it, that slick old sonovabitch!”

  “You’ve lost me. What slick old sonovabitch are you talking about?”

  Ike gathered his jacket he’d tossed over the back of the chair and headed to the door. “I’ll call you. Dinner tonight…your choice of restaurant…no wait, tomorrow night. I’ll explain everything then. But right now I have to visit a judge, pick up a search warrant, and then see about arresting Jonathan Lydell for murder.”

  Chapter 44

  Ike gathered his deputies for a quick briefing. He’d asked three of the night shift to hang around and watch the office while he, Charlie Picket, Sam, Billy, and Karl went to confront Lydell. He glanced at his watch. It had taken longer to pry the search warrant loose from the judge than he’d expected. It was nearly ten in the morning. He’d spent the night going over the materials Sam had put together, the key from the tree stump, and two coroner’s reports. Charlie Picket came into the office and waited, shifting his weight from one foot to another.

  “Problem, Charlie?”

  “It’s my mother.”

  “Something wrong with your mother? Not sick, I hope.”

  “No sir. But she tol’ me to tell you she had something important for you. She said that on the same day deputy Sutherlin and Miss Falco come near to getting shot, and I forgot. She is pretty short with me this morning and I promised to tell you.”

  “What did she want me to know?”

  “You know my momma. Could be anything or nothing.” Charlie handed Ike his cell phone. “She’s on the line.”

  Ike chuckled and took the phone. “Hey there, Miz Picket, how you doing?” He listened and slowly his grin faded. “Be more specific…third floor…turn right. It’s the first bedroom and I should check the bedding…yes ma’am, I think it might be very important. Thank you.” He hung up and shook his head at Charlie. “Didn’t you learn anything growing up, Charlie? You should always listen to your mother.” He stepped into the outer office and called his group together. They had a busy morning ahead of them.

  ***

  A large black Mercedes blocked most of the space in front of Bellmore when Ike and the others arrived.

  “Who’s that?”
Sam asked. “Undertaker?”

  “I don’t think Siegfried Unger owns anything that fancy. Possible though.”

  “Ike, shouldn’t Lydell have a lawyer?”

  “Last I heard, his grandson was staying with him. He’s lawyer enough to keep him out of trouble. Besides, that is his worry, not ours.”

  When all of the deputies had parked, Ike signaled them over. “Billy, you and Charlie start in the basement, Karl and Sam, the third floor and attic. You are looking for papers, documents, diaries, things like that, and something that looks like this only bigger.” He held up Ruth’s clock winder. “You begin on my signal. Now, let’s have a chat with Mr. Jonathan Lydell.”

  A fat man, with a bad comb-over and a shiny suit, answered the knock at the door. Ike could see into the room. Lydell and a third man, the precise opposite of the one at the door, were standing within. Laurel and Hardy, he thought.

  “Yes?” Hardy said.

  “I am Ike Schwartz of the Picketsville Sheriff’s Department. I have two warrants to serve on Jonathan Lydell. May I come in?”

  “What sort of warrants?” Laurel said from inside.

  “Okay, I have had enough. Please step aside and tell me who you are and what business you have with Lydell.”

  The fat man did not budge. “I am Harvey Hergenroder and this,” he jerked his thumb over his shoulder, “is my partner, Silas Mumpford. Perhaps you have heard or Hergenroder, Hergenroder, and Mumpford, LLC?”

  Ike had. “You are his lawyers. What happened to the grandson, Winslow?”

  “He is not here. He engaged us yesterday and we are here to interview Mr. Lydell although I am not sure about what. He can’t seem to elucidate any recent wrongdoing.”

  Ike handed two blue-covered folders to Hergenroder. “Warrants—one to search premises and property, a second for the arrest of Mr. Jonathan Lydell.” He turned and called to Billy and Charlie who remained on the street. “Okay, you can start now.” Karl and Sam followed him into the room. “Upstairs. You know what we’re after. Top of the stairs on the third floor, turn right, first bedroom, turn the bedding inside out.”

  Lydell leaped to his feet. “This is outrageous. Tell them to stop.”

  Hergenroder held up his hand, read the warrants, and peered over his reading glasses at Lydell. “These are all in order, I’m afraid, Jonathan. They may search at will.”

  “I’ll call the Governor. He’ll have something to say about this.”

  “Sit down, Lydell,” Ike snapped. “I’ve had all the hot air I can take from you. Mr. Hergenroder, please inform your client I will require his full cooperation. I will Mirandize him and then you can advise him how best to respond. We can, if he decides to be uncooperative, take him to our jail and continue there, but in view of his age and the seriousness of the charges, I believe here would be best.”

  Hergenroder nodded his agreement and Mumpford placed a hand on Lydell’s arm to lead him to a chair. Lydell jerked free from Mumpford and positioned himself at his desk. Ike read him his rights. Lydell sniffed.

  “You said murder, Sheriff. Can you be more specific?” Hergenroder was all business.

  “Two counts of at least murder two. I think at the end of the day, it may end as two counts of murder one.”

  “Mr. Lydell,” Mumpford said, “do you understand the charges?”

  “You think I’m an idiot? Of course, I understand. This man has a mess on his hands and he wants to accuse me of crimes he can’t possibly prove I did and…”

  Mumpford and Hergenroder exchanged glances. Almost in unison, they cautioned him to say no more.

  “Sheriff, you want to spell out what you think our client did?”

  Ike settled on the same settee he’d occupied before and opened his folder, now much fatter than previously. “Certainly. The first charge is that he killed his daughter.”

  “Hergenroder,” Lydell exploded, “this is what I was telling you about. My daughter fell down the stairs. It was an accident but this man—”

  “It wasn’t an accident. Your client insists, in the face of evidence to the contrary, that his daughter was drunk and fell. The coroner’s report says she was not even marginally incapacitated.”

  “The coroner’s a fool. Nobody will believe that quack. I said it before and—”

  “The coroner has served in his official capacity for years. He is certified by the usual boards and commissions. He will be believed. Secondly, your client stated on numerous occasions that he was at the foot of the stairs when a witness places him at the top, with his daughter, at the time of the fall.”

  “The witness is the village idiot. His brother works for this man. It’s all nonsense, a conspiracy.”

  Ike ignored him. “Here is what we think happened. Lydell, you were arguing about something, missing documents, I think, and maybe she taunted you, I don’t know. She turned her back to you and in a fit of anger, you gave her a shove. The bruises on her back are most certainly those made by a hand forcibly pushing at her.”

  Hergenroder broke in. “Assuming you are correct in this allegation, and we are not accepting that, you understand, could it not be reasonably argued that his prior statements were clouded by the enormity of the tragedy?”

  “Of course.”

  “And could it not also be argued that this alleged incident was done in the heat of the moment and certainly not an instance of murder?”

  “It could. There is one more problem, however. Mr. Lydell, do you recognize this picture?” Ike handed him a photo of his daughter at the foot of the stairs. He glanced at it and turned away. His lower lip began to quiver.

  “Yes, of course, I do.”

  “There is a pillow under her head. How did that get there?”

  “I placed it there. I don’t know. She looked so…uncomfortable.”

  “You called nine-one-one and fetched a pillow from the other room, and then knelt beside her and cushioned her head with a pillow?”

  “That’s what I said.”

  “Here’s the problem. The coroner’s report does mention a fractured neck but—”

  “Precisely. She fell and broke her neck.”

  “No. That’s not quite all of it. She fell, broke her neck but did not die. She was alive when you came down stairs. What did she do, plead with you, promise not to tell what she’d discovered about you? You went to this room, picked up the pillow and a bottle of bourbon. You held the pillow to her face until she suffocated. The coroner’s report lists petechial hemorrhages on her neck, face, and perhaps in her eyes. You get those when you suffocate, not from a fractured neck. Then to make your drunkenness story work, you poured the whiskey in her mouth. It spilled on her clothes as well. Finally, after all that, you called for help and put the pillow under her head.”

  “You can’t prove any of this.” Lydell slouched back in his desk chair.

  “Once again, Mr. Lydell, I caution you to say nothing.” Hergenroder looked worried.

  “You don’t think a jury is going to buy this story from the only Jewish sheriff in the Commonwealth, do you? I’m Jonathan Lydell. My ancestors were carving a civilization from the wilderness when his were still in Poland sewing shirts for the Tsar.”

  Hergenroder frowned at Lydell. “Petechiae can be produced a number of ways as you must know, Sheriff.”

  “Really?”

  “Goodness yes, Rocky Mountain spotted fever, for example.”

  “I hardly think—”

  “Chronic substance abuse, alcoholism, a subdural hemorrhage. Mrs. Winslow suffered a great deal of trauma in her tumble—a broken neck, who knows what else. Does your report have liver scans, a neurological assessment, brain studies, anything?”

  Ike knew it didn’t. Everyone accepted it was an accident at the time. The focus was on the locked room business and that had pushed common sense aside. The coroner had been asked to expedite the autopsy—by him, ironically—and he’d skipped over some of the finer points. Hergenroder was good. Hanging this on Lydell was going to be
a challenge. He doubted the County DA would even try.

  “Reasonable doubt, Sheriff…ipse dixit… and what were my client and his daughter arguing about that was so important that it could have resulted in this alleged scenario?”

  A smiling Sam entered the room with a stack of papers.

  “Unless I miss my guess, we’ll know in a minute.”

  Chapter 45

  “Documents, Mr. Hergenroder. Documents that we believe Mrs. Winslow discovered, read, and after discerning their meaning, became the substance of the argument that led to her death.”

  “Give me those.” Lydell rose from his chair. He stepped forward into the room and reached for the papers. “They belong to me. You have no right to them.”

  Ike took the papers from Sam. Mumpford had to forcibly restrain his client. He eased him over to the sofa and sat him down. Ike collected his folder, the papers, and took Lydell’s place behind the desk where he could spread them out.

  “They were obtained with a duly executed search warrant. We can take them. As it happens, Mr. Lydell, these are not your property. Several are clearly marked as the property of the Passaic, New Jersey Historical Society. They were removed from that facility by Mr. Anton Grotz, whom you murdered and locked in your stranger room.”

  “That’s nonsense. I never met the man…I…”

  “Then you will need to explain how these papers came into your possession.”

  Lydell slumped back in the sofa’s cushions. He looked at one of them, pulled it aside, and held it up as if reading a book, and dropped it on the floor.

  “Martha Marie,” he mumbled.

  “This is far too complicated for me,” Hergenroder said. “Can you shorten this interview a bit? And then you will need to formally charge my client or leave the premises.”

  “I will try, Counselor, but I repeat. If we cannot deal with this here, we will go to the lock-up and do it there. You have the arrest warrant. The charges listed in it, stand. Is there a problem?”

  “No, no, go on.”

  “Very well. Sam, tell these gentlemen what we discovered, in our attempt to understand why Anton Grotz was in Bolton in the first place.”