Death Is a Cabaret

by Deborah Morgan

  “Let’s back up. Tell me what happened, and we’ll go from there, okay?”

  “As I said, there is a provenance. It’s the only way you’ll understand why things escalated to my father’s taking his own life.”

  “I’m not convinced he took his own life.”

  “He took his own life. I’m sure of it. But not for the reasons that detective believes. My father’s tragedy began more than twenty years ago.”

  She took several deep breaths. Jeff kept quiet. Someone was about to let a great deal of light into a room that had been dark for a lifetime.

  “My parents’ personalities were directly opposed. My mother was a strong-willed woman, and she ruled everyone around her: my father, the household staff, me.

  “I was an only child. When I should have been with other girls my age—playing with dolls or sharing diaries or whatever it is young girls do—I was at home. My mother explained that my duty was to her, so I was always trying to please her, always afraid that I would do something that would set her off. Like many children put under that kind of pressure, I believed I was the root of her anger, her disappointment. If only I could be a better daughter, I thought, things would improve.

  “My parents had a disastrous marriage. I always wondered why Father didn’t just leave. I believed he had a choice where I didn’t.

  “Something happened when I was twelve. Mother accused him of an unforgivable sin.

  “Finally, he’d had enough. He told her he was leaving, and that he was taking me with him. That way she would have complete freedom to do whatever it was she thought she was missing.

  “She went into a rage, told him he could leave but that she’d never give up her rights to me. At the time, it was as if she was saying for the first time that she loved me. She wanted me. Looking back, I realize she was merely using me in an effort to control my father.”

  “Things got worse until finally she told me that she had devised a way to drive him out of Germany.”

  A shuffling noise came from the doorway. Both of them jumped. Jeff went to the door. On the floor was the morning’s New York Times and the hotel’s daily schedule. That put the time around four A.M. He explained the practice to Ingrid. He wanted her to relax and feel comfortable continuing her story.

  She asked for more coffee. He poured for them both, then took his seat. “She decided to force your father to leave Germany,” he prompted.

  “Yes. She accused my father of. . . things. Even after years of therapy, it is difficult to talk about. And I can’t repeat all the shameful words she used when she confronted him. I believe the American word is molest?”

  Jeff nodded solemnly.

  “She accused him of molesting me.”

  “She accused. Not you.”

  “Not me.” Ingrid’s voice carried conviction. Then her gaze fell to the floor. “Not at first. Later, she forced me to say it. When I did, she told him if he would leave us alone—leave Germany altogether—that legal charges would not be brought up against him.

  “I learned much later that she’d made him sign some sort of document, an admission of guilt. It also stated that, because of his confession, she would not bring legal charges as long as he never attempted to contact me.”

  She sat with her arms wrapped around herself, legs crossed, as if drawing in to herself.

  Jeff remained quiet, gave her space. He thought she might cry, but she didn’t.

  At length, she went on. “I can’t explain why I lied for her. My therapist calls it. . . I don’t know, something about the mother and child relationship and how I had always been taught to obey her. I felt I had no choice. Besides, she told me that it was only to make my father do as he was supposed to do, that it would have no long-term effects.” She laughed bitterly. “It’s amazing, isn’t it? What a domineering parent can convince you of? No long-term effects. Sounds like a medical phrase. I suppose it is, because my therapist has spent the last several years assuring me that he can help me get past the long-term effects.

  “I lived under my mother’s control until she died ten years ago. It was only after her death that I learned the particulars of her scheme. That’s when I started searching for my father. I hired private detectives, checked universities on my own to try to learn where he had found a position. Of course, I thought he was still somewhere in Europe. It never entered my mind that he might have gone into another field, taken on a new identity, started a new life in another country. As you have guessed by now, I was quite the sheltered, naïve girl.

  “Things changed finally with an odd stroke of fate.” She repositioned herself in the chair, as if signaling a new direction. “I was at La Guardia about a year ago, waiting for a flight to Paris, when I saw his photo on the cover of New York Monthly. There was no doubt it was my father.” She smiled. “It was like looking in a mirror. The article inside reported that he was as much a fixture of the city as Liberty herself. What a fitting thing to say, don’t you think? He came here for liberty, for freedom. And he found it, too. For a while, anyway. Then he received a phone call from the man you found in the fountain.

  “Father told me about it. Hamilton had gotten proof of his true identity. Years ago, a woman on my mother’s serving staff stole the paper Father had signed. She then used it to blackmail my mother. My mother paid for years, in order to avoid scandal. Ironic, no? Her own weapon of blackmail was used against her. Eventually, the paper ended up in someone else’s hands who sold it to Frank Hamilton.

  “After we heard that Hamilton was dead, I tried to convince Father that the nightmare was over. I was sure no one else knew why he’d left the university and, finally, Europe.

  “We spent much time together after I located him. In ways, we made up for the lost years.” She shrugged. “Even though we weren’t close, like a father and daughter should be, we had found a peaceful place. I wasn’t prepared to lose him so quickly. He lived in fear of the accusations, even after I told him that my mother was dead.

  “He told me that in time he had begun to relax. He really believed he had created such a different life, a different identity, that he couldn’t be traced to Ilke Schreibtisch in a place and time as far removed as Germany.

  “I tried to convince him that we didn’t need to hide. He had done nothing wrong. But he couldn’t get past the fact that he had allowed her to pressure him into signing that contemptible confession.

  “He had so completely become this alter ego that he believed Eric Von Schreibtisch was buried forever. I thought so, too, when I could not locate him.

  “He was a noble man, Mr. Talbot. He suffered greatly at the hands of my mother. I begged her on her deathbed to tell me where he was, to tell me why she had used me to ruin his life. She refused to answer, dying instead with a firm grip on her bitterness. That is when I tried to find him, using most of my inheritance. After paying the last of a long line of investigators, I used what was left to open my first shop. In an odd way, you see, my inheritance helped me find him after all.

  “That brings us to Mackinac Island. I decided to surprise him by visiting him here. He’s subject to mood swings, but I’ve never seen him as distraught as he was when I arrived. He finally admitted that he was being blackmailed by someone attending the festival.”

  Jeff realized he’d been leaning forward. He sat back. “Are you aware he was on medication?”

  “Yes. He had been fighting high blood pressure.”

  “Ingrid, the medical examiner found only one prescription in your father’s things. It was for manic depression.”

  Ingrid was silent for a moment. “So, in addition to blackmail, first by my mother and then by someone here, he wasn’t mentally stable.”

  “Probably not. He was drinking, too. With what you’ve told me, it sounds like he felt he had nowhere else to turn.”

  “Mr. Talbot, I was with my father the night Frank Hamilton was killed. I realize you have only my word to go on, but I assure you my father was not a murderer.”

  Jeff wa
nted to believe her. Just as he wanted to believe that none of the other suspects were murderers. “If you had absolved him in the accusations from when you were a young girl, why would he kill himself?”

  “I’ve been trying to figure that out. He was very distraught Saturday after the police interrogated him. He got a call right after returning to the room, but I’m not sure who it was from. All he said was that Hamilton had told someone else about the documents. He panicked, speculated that any number of people might know about his past.

  “I told him it didn’t matter, that I could tell them what my mother had done. He wouldn’t hear of it. He said that the media would get hold of it, sensationalize it, ruin my life and my business. My shops here in the States would be doomed before they even opened. I tried to convince him that I didn’t care, but he wouldn’t listen.”

  “What about a note? Do you have one?”

  “No. But I think there was one. He always traveled with his personal stationery. Saturday morning he remarked that he only had three sheets left. After the police left, I checked his things. There were only two sheets on the desk.”

  “How did you get into his room?”

  “My father gave me a key. Yellow tape is easy to walk under, even when you’re as tall as I am.” She shrugged one shoulder. “At any rate, I don’t think the police would have taken a sheet of the stationery or used it to make notes on. But I haven’t contacted them. I didn’t know what to do.”

  “Detective Brookner is convinced your father killed Hamilton. You’re the only witness who can deny that.”

  “There’s another witness who knows he didn’t do it.”

  “Another witness?”

  “Of course,” she said. “The murderer.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  “You realize you’re going to have to talk to the police.”

  She nodded. “I also realize I’ll be a suspect. I probably have as sound a reason as anyone to want Hamilton dead. That is why you must get the police to continue their investigation, Mr. Talbot. My father is innocent. . . innocent of everything he’s been accused of. More innocent than his own daughter. I have done some horrible things—things that altered lives forever. But take a life? That is something I did not do. I need help convincing your detective of that.”

  Jeff studied the woman across from him. He couldn’t say why, but he was convinced. “We have to get Brookner to keep looking for some evidence.”

  He called the island’s police department and was surprised to learn that Brookner was there. When the detective came on the line, Jeff asked if he’d made it over to the mainland the night before.

  “Nah. Too much paperwork here, so I crashed in the holding cell.”

  “Don’t get too comfortable. Before you stamp Case Closed on your box, I’ve got someone else for you to talk to.”

  “Talbot, don’t you ever give up? By now the wires have picked up our story, and every Sunday paper worth reading is telling tourists that Mackinac Island is the safest place to visit this side of Disneyland.”

  Jeff paused for effect. He also wanted to make sure he had Brookner’s attention. “I’ve got Edward Davenport’s daughter in my room.”

  The silence that filled the phone wires was long enough to make Jeff wonder if the connection had been broken. Finally, Brookner said, “Is her last name Schreibtisch?”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “You see, Talbot? No coincidences.”

  Jeff let him have that one.

  Brookner asked, “Can you keep her there?”

  “Not a problem. She wants to talk to you.”

  “What does she want to do, confess?”

  “To the murder? No.”

  “Been practicing cryptic, Talbot?”

  “Even if I told you, you’d have to hear it again from her. I have to catch a plane out of Pellston sometime today.”

  “Well, God knows I don’t want you to miss it. Sometimes you make my ass twitch.”

  “French Kiss.”

  “What?”

  “Sorry. I thought you were quoting a line from a movie.”

  Brookner dropped it. “Give me five minutes. I’ll have Mel drive me up in the Explorer.”

  “Good. I’d hate for a day to go by without my seeing a motorized vehicle up here.”

  “Smart ass.” The phone clicked and blew Jeff a raspberry, as if to remind him he was still on Brookner’s turf.

  Jeff told Ingrid that the detective was on his way. He then grabbed trousers and a blue oxford shirt from the closet and went into the bathroom to change.

  He glanced in the mirror. His face looked like hell. He needed to shave, and the scratch on his cheek was now bright red, surrounded by a bruise that resembled a wine stain.

  After escorting Ingrid to the interrogation room and introducing her to Brookner and Littlefield, Jeff made his way to the dining room.

  The maitre d’ escorted him down the center aisle and seated him at a table for two near the bandstand. Jeff could only assume that they’d walked him back that far because they had more time to do so. In another fifteen minutes, the place would likely be buzzing with guests having breakfast and making arrangements to ferry back to the mainland.

  Along with coffee, he ordered eggs Benedict and orange juice. He would need all the jolts they could offer: caffeine, protein, vitamin C. His nerves were on edge, knowing that he would have to leave the island in five hours—short hours if you were trying to squeeze in the last of a vacation; even shorter if you had a long list of murder suspects also preparing to leave. He didn’t have a single thread to grab onto.

  He was so lost in his thoughts, going over every bit of information he had, that he hadn’t noticed others in the massive room.

  When a waiter brought around more coffee, Jeff surfaced and looked around. Here and there were people he’d seen over the course of the Antiques Festival, ones that left about as much of an impression as milquetoast would have on the hotel’s elaborate menu. His gaze rested on the back of an old man seated near the entrance. As his mind worked its way around to his initial reason for being here, Jeff tried to determine if it was Pettigrew, the old man who had shown him the cabaret set.

  A moment of panic gripped him. He checked his watch. Although it was early, he felt as if he were in some sort of time warp. The cabaret set was to be auctioned at ten. He’d felt that he somehow had missed the one thing he desired most from this trip: to acquire the royal tea set that had left Blanche’s possession nearly sixty years ago.

  A member of the hotel staff approached the old man and handed him a cordless phone. He listened, nodded twice. Then he slouched, combed the long white nails of a trembling hand through his white hair. It was him. It was Curtis Pettigrew.

  The staff member gingerly took the phone, then placed a palm against the old man’s back and said something. The old man nodded, rose from his chair and left the room.

  Jeff wondered what that was about. It was obvious that he’d received some disturbing news. Was something up with the cabaret set? Did he need someone to be with him? Compelled to make sure the old man was all right, Jeff started toward the door.

  He caught sight of Pettigrew going out of the building. He started to follow, but then held back, unsure of what he might say, of whether he would be intruding. He couldn’t just go up to him and say, “You seemed disturbed after your phone call in the dining room,” or, “Do you need help with anything?”

  After debating the issue for a moment, he asked himself Why not? Why can’t I show concern? Earlier, after the old man had invited him in to see the cabaret set, Jeff had been aggravated with himself for being off his game. He’d checked back later, but the room was locked up. He’d knocked, but no one answered. Why hadn’t he thought to ask the basic questions a picker asks: How did you come about owning it? Why are you selling now? How long ago did you acquire it? Did you purchase it from a shop? An individual? Who? I must be losing my edge, he had thought.

  Now, fate was giving him a s
econd chance, and he was not about to let it get away.

  He went out the Parlor doors and down the stairs. Pettigrew was nowhere in sight. He couldn’t have moved that fast. Jeff darted back up the stairs and checked the porch. The old man wasn’t there.

  He started back down the stairs, more slowly this time.

  “Do you need some assistance, sir?” A young man in red tails and top hat was standing behind a podium at ground level.

  “An elderly gentleman just came out this way, but I’ve lost him.”

  “Yes, I helped him down the stairs.” The young man nodded toward the almost-hidden staircase that led to the Tea Garden. “He started toward the Labyrinth.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  I hurried across the lane. At the bottom of the stairs, he consulted his booklet. There it was, a labyrinth to the west of the gardens. He hadn’t noticed it before.

  The dense, green lawn glistened, still wet from last night’s rain. Jeff made his way toward a thick stand of trees to the west, following a dark trail where the water had been sluiced away from the grasses’ blades. The pursuit reminded him of his grandfather. Mercer Talbot seemed ancient when Jeff was a boy. Crooked from arthritis and relying heavily on a wheeled, metal walker, he moved at a snail’s pace when Jeff was required to walk alongside him. But if Jeff wanted to join in? It was like running a damn foot race to catch up with the old man.

  Trying to reach Curtis Pettigrew was no different. The man was nowhere in sight. Jeff entered the Labyrinth and turned right into the disk-shaped maze.

  He circled, listening to Lake Huron’s waves slap the beach. The occasional seagull cry rose above the muted thunder of the waves, the only sounds present, filling the senses completely, as if nothing else existed for a thousand miles. He thought of the Pacific Coast. Home. He’d be damn glad to get back there. Never had a trip felt as drawn out as this one. When he got together with buddies for weekend fishing trips—long, quiet days on the dock or in the boat and loud nights of coffee and fish frying outdoors and, later, whiskey and poker—the hours slid away. The last forty-eight hours here had been an endless chain of stress-filled moments, all somehow linked to the cabaret set.