On the other hand,death ds-2

by Richadr Stevenson

  "Uh-huh. And who's bringing it?"

  "Your employer," he said, not looking at me. "Mr. Crane Trefusis."

  "No. She didn't."

  "She did. Well, she did in a manner of speaking. What I mean is, it's an option on the property cancelable by the seller up to twenty-four hours after signing. After that it's binding, no matter what. Mrs. Fisher's lawyer got on the horn with Trefusis and okayed the language."

  "Twenty-four hours. Crap. That may not be enough time."

  "It's more than enough if these nuts show up for the drop."

  "Yeah, if. But they're unpredictable, aren't they, Ned? They often seem to have the audacity not to follow to the letter the plan tucked away inside your head."

  He snorted. "So, what do you suggest, bright boy? What have you come up with that's worked 89 out any better? Unless you've got a niftier idea, maybe you'd just better keep your fat yap shut for a while, huh?"

  I kept my fat yap shut for a while.

  Dot had been upstairs with Edith, and now she appeared in grass-stained old jeans, sneakers, and a sweatshirt with words across the front that read: "My grandmother visited Hawaii and all she sent me was this dumb sweatshirt."

  A cop came in and called Bowman to the radio car, and he went out puffing into the night.

  I said to Dot, "I understand why you did it, but we could have come up with the cash some other way. It's an awful risk you're taking, Dot."

  "Oh, it doesn't matter all that much. I'm just worn to a frazzle. Enough is enough. And Edith does hate the winters here so awfully much. Do you think I'm too old to take up surfing?"

  "Probably not in Laguna Beach."

  "I'll bet there's an Old Biddies' Down-the-Tubes Association out there, wouldn't you think?"

  "I would. But you haven't lost it yet, Dot. Not at all. There's time."

  "Yes. I hope so. Though, really, I'm not at all optimistic about getting Fenton back here safely.

  Are you? Not after what they did to Peter. But we have to try, don't we?"

  "Yes."

  A wicker picnic basket lay atop the kitchen table. Dot went over to it. "This basket was a present from Edith on my fiftieth birthday. It was full of cheeses from all over the world, and a card that said, 'You're the big cheese in my life.' Wasn't that a dumb, funny, lovely thing?" She perched on the edge of a chair and gazed out the window at the orchard and the moonlit pond.

  The door opened and Bowman came in, followed by Crane Trefusis, who saw me first and came toward me with a glad hand out.

  "That was a superb piece of detection, Strachey, the way you zeroed right in on that Deem boy.

  Congratulations."

  "Congratulations? That's all?"

  "The check is in the mail," Trefusis said brightly. "Oh-Mrs. Fisher, it's nice to see you again."

  "I'm sure it is," Dot said, not smiling.

  "I want to tell you how sorry I am-"

  "Yes, yes, thank you, Mr. Trefusis, but let's just get this over with."

  Trefusis looked a little hurt and peeved that his condolence speech had been cut short, though if the alternative was doing business, his nimble mind was prepared to accept that. He produced from his jacket pocket a sheaf of documents and a gold-plated pen.

  "I'll just be a moment," Dot said, accepting the papers but not the pen. At the kitchen table she shoved a pair of reading glasses onto her nose and laid out the documents to compare them to the agreement her lawyer had dictated over the telephone.

  Trefusis said to Bowman, "Lieutenant, I wish you all the luck in the world in getting hold of the maniacs responsible for this malicious crime. What are the odds that you'll make an arrest in the near future?"

  "Excellent," Bowman said.

  Trefusis ceased breathing for a second or two, but his expression didn't change. "Glad to hear it," he said with too much enthusiasm. I didn't doubt that he wanted the matter tidied up, though if it happened twenty-five hours from then, that would have been preferable.

  Dot came back with the binding option agreement signed. In essence, it stated that unless the $100,000 was returned to Millpond Plaza Associates within twenty-four hours, Dot was obligated to sell her house and acreage to Millpond for $350,000 within a week's time.

  "I need a witness to my signature, Don. Would you mind?"

  I minded, but I signed. Then Trefusis signed and Bowman signed as his witness. The ritual was repeated over a second copy of the agreement, which Dot kept.

  Handing over a canvas sack full of money, Trefusis said, "Included is a list of the bills' serial numbers as per Lieutenant Bowman's request. You know, Mrs. Fisher, I'm so sorry this had to happen under these sad circumstances, but in a sense you are actually quite fortunate that Millpond was available to-"

  "Take your papers and go, Mr. Trefusis. Please. Before I… give you a piece of my mind!" Her color was rising, and Trefusis swiftly backed off and fled out into the night, the option agreement clutched in his fist.

  I said, "Sweet guy."

  "We all have our loyalties," Bowman piped up.

  "Ned, that's the fifteenth or sixteenth most fatuous statement I've ever heard you make."

  "I was only just saying, goddamn it, that-"

  "Don't squabble," Dot snapped, opening an aspirin bottle. "Please. Not now."

  Bowman and I stood there, heads bowed contritely.

  To break the silence, I asked Bowman, "Who was on your radio just now. Anything new?"

  "Not much. Just that the coroner now thinks the Greco kid had some kind of allergy or something. The asphyxiation was caused by an internal chemical reaction. But they don't know yet what set it off."

  I said, "Dot, was Peter allergic to anything that you know of?"

  She looked perplexed. "Why, I don't think so. He never mentioned anything like that. Goodness knows, people with hay fever have a devil of a time this season of year. But Peter never seemed bothered by it. Fenton would be the person to ask."

  We all looked at each other.

  Bowman said, "Hopefully we'll have an opportunity to ask him in an hour or so."

  "Yes," Dot said. "One hopes."

  Bowman didn't pick up the lesson in English usage, but he had more pressing matters to think about. As did I.

  While Bowman and Dot stacked the hundred grand in bills in the picnic basket and Dot was fitted with a hidden microphone and radio transmitter, I went into the guest room and dug out Greco's journal.

  I flipped through it and after a minute found the entry I remembered.

  Aug. 2- New Haven hot, Yalies cool. No students, but two cafeteria workers sign pledge. Stayed with Tom Bittner, here for a year researching colonial anti-gay laws. Great seeing Tom. Cicely still with him; I slept on porch.

  I checked other pages at random and came up with two More examples of what I was looking for. The June 26 entry for Portland, Maine, included the remark "Supposed to stay with Harry Smight but had to clear out after 20 minutes. The usual."

  On July 2, in Boston, Greco wrote, "Great to see Carlos again but couldn't stay at his apt. and ended up at his sister's. At C's, bloody beasts were everywhere!"

  Back in the kitchen, Dot and Bowman had gone outside to his car. I phoned New Haven information and was given the number for a Thomas Bittner on Orange Street. I dialed the number and explained to the sleepy male voice that answered who I was and, briefly, what had happened to Peter Greco.

  "Oh, God. Oh, no."

  "Listen, Tom, you can help us find the people who did this. Peter died of asphyxiation, and the medical people think an allergy may have caused it. Was Peter, by chance, allergic to cats?"

  "Oh, Jesus, yes, he was. Deathly. I mean- Oh, God-"

  "Thanks, Tom. You've helped. Regards to Cicely."

  I rang off and dialed Newell Bankhead's apartment.

  "Don Strachey, Newell. I have a small favor to ask. Actually, it's quite a big favor, but it might help save a life. I need a list of everybody who works in pathology or an ER in area hospitals who's gay. The partial li
st you gave me isn't enough. I need 'em all. Real fast. Can you do it?"

  He laughed. "That'd only take me about six weeks. And twelve reams of paper."

  "Look, you just get on the phone and call three people, then they get on the phone and call three people, and like that. It shouldn't take more than a couple of hours. In the end, everybody gay in Albany knows everybody gay in Albany. Eventually you always end up in the bed you started out in. I mean, this is the Hudson Valley, Newell, not West Hollywood. You can do it."

  "I've been watching the Channel Twelve news. Does all this have to do with that horrible kidnapping business?" he asked. "That sweet young man who died?"

  "It does."

  "Oh. Oh, Lord. All right then. Yes. I'll do what I can. But it's after eleven, you know. A lot of people will be in bed getting their beauty sleep. People who go on duty at seven in the morning."

  "Wake them up. Tell them how important it is. And one other thing, Newell. This complicates matters slightly, but you can handle it. I want to know not only which men in pathology and the ERs are gay, but who among them own cats. Or have lovers or roommates who own cats."

  "Cats? Which ones have cats?"

  "Right. Cats."

  A silence.

  "It's crucial," I said. "Life or death."

  "Well. Hmm. I'll… do what I can." He sounded doubtful.

  "Thanks, Newell. By the way, I forgot to mention how much I enjoyed your rendition tonight of the theme from Ruby Gentry. I've always been a big Jeannie Crane fan myself."

  "Why, thank you so much. But it was Jennifer Jones in Ruby Gentry. Don't you know anything about music?"

  "Oh. I guess I was thinking of The Unfaithful."

  "That was Ann Sheridan."

  "Of course. Sorry, but during the fabulous forties my parents only took me to see Song of the South. Do you ever play 'Zippity-doo-da'?"

  "Occasionally, around three-thirty in the morning," he said dryly. "If someone requests it."

  "Well, I'm going to do that some night. So, be ready. Meanwhile, I've got work to do. And so do you."

  "I'll say."

  "I'll get back to you in a couple of hours, Newell. Thanks."

  "Nnn. Surely."

  I went outside, where Dot had just climbed into her car, the picnic basket full of money on the seat beside her. Edith was in a bathrobe standing by the open car window and leaned down to kiss Dot goodbye.

  "Now, you be careful, Dorothy, and don't try to give those people an argument. Just hand them the money, and then you come right on home."

  "Don't worry, love."

  "Well, I am going to worry, and you know I am."

  Bowman called out from his car, "Time to go, Mrs. Fisher. We'd better get rolling."

  Edith backed away clutching her robe. A patrolman stayed behind to keep watch over her. I bent down and kissed Dot good luck, then yelled to Bowman that I'd follow in my car. He yelled back that he wanted me where he could keep an eye on me and commanded me to get into the back seat of his car, which is what I'd had in mind.

  As we bounced up Moon Road toward Central, Dot half a block ahead of us, I explained to Bowman about Greco's allergy to cats and how this might have led to his dying, probably accidentally. Which would have explained a lot of things.

  "Jesus," Bowman said, choosing for the moment to miss the point. "Couldn't stand cats? What kind of a faggot was this guy?"

  Then the ride became very quiet. end user

  21

  The Westway Diner was lit up like a small city in the black night. A glass-sided outer lobby contained a cigarette machine and a pay telephone. From across the avenue we watched Dot step out of her car at eleven-fifty-nine and climb the few steps into the lobby, where she stood by the phone. From a special radio speaker mounted on Bowman's dashboard we could hear Dot's breathing and accelerated heartbeat. The picnic basket hung on her arm.

  At midnight, the telephone beside Dot rang.

  "Hello?"

  The diner pay phone had been tapped, and from the regular police radio speaker we could hear both Dot and the caller.

  "Drive down to Price Chopper." The now-familiar voice again. Where had I heard it? "Wait by the pay phone out front."

  "Which Price Chopper?" Dot quickly asked. "The one at the Twenty Mall, or the one down Western Avenue toward Albany?"

  "Down Western. We'll call in two minutes."

  Click.

  Bowman sputtered, "Jesus, Mother, and Mary! We'll never get into that line in two minutes! Can we?"

  A metallic voice from Second Division Headquarters, seven miles away, said, "We'll try, Lieutenant. We're workin' on it."

  Dot was back in her car and turning east onto Western Avenue. Traffic was light and she swung out into the four-lane thoroughfare with no difficulty.

  "You hear that, Conway?" Bowman barked into his microphone. "Boyce? Salazar? It's Price Chopper, back down Western."

  "Got it, Lieutenant."

  "We heard."

  "On the way."

  The parking lot of the all-night supermarket was practically deserted. Dot had pulled directly up to the pay phone near the brightly lighted entrance. Again she climbed out and stood by the telephone with her picnic basket. The phone rang.

  "Yes, hello?"

  Now we could hear only Dot's voice, the tap not yet completed.

  "Yes, yes, I understand."

  Bowman muttered, "Repeat it for us, lady. Repeat it."

  "Yes," Dot said. "I'll do that right away."

  Dot hung up and entered the supermarket, the basket dangling from her arm. Her voice came out of the radio speaker again.

  "He told me-I hope you can hear me, Lieutenant Bowman. The man told me to go inside the store and to… to buy a chuck steak. That's what he said. And then to go back outside and wait by the telephone."

  Bowman writhed in his seat. "A chuck steak. Shit. He couldn't have said a chuck steak. Strachey, is the old doll hard of hearing, or what?"

  "Not that I know of. I'd say no, she isn't."

  "Oh, my land!" Dot's voice again. "My word, I didn't bring a cent with me. All I have is the money in the basket! Well, that will just have to do. Let's hope they can't count."

  Bowman squirmed some more, shook his head. "I don't believe this is happening."

  "I've got the steak," Dot said after a minute. "It's a bit fatty, but fine for stew. The roasts look nice, but the man said steak, so steak it is."

  From our position across the highway we watched a dark blue Dodge identical to Bowman's pull into the Price Chopper lot, come to a stop at the edge of the woods on the western side of the lot, and douse its lights.

  A young, tired female voice said, "That's four sixty-seven."

  There was a pause, during which Dot's heartbeat quickened.

  "Don't you have anything smaller than a hundred?" the cashier asked wearily.

  "No, I'm sorry- Oh! Aren't those nice little TV sets! Just what I need for the den. I believe I'll just take one of those along. How much are they?"

  "Eighty-nine ninety-five. There'd be sales tax on that too."

  "Oh. Yes. And how much would that make it?"

  A silence. Then: "Ninety-five thirty-four for the TV. And four sixty-seven for the meat."

  "Fine," Dot said. "That's just fine."

  Click, click, ring.

  "That'll be one hundred dollars and one cent."

  The heartbeat again. I thought I detected a slight mitral valve prolapse.

  "Oh, heavenly days, I seem to have only another-"

  "Forget the penny," the young woman said.

  "Oh, thank you. Thank you so much."

  "Have a nice night."

  "Yes. You too."

  She came into view again, the picnic basket over her right arm, a grocery bag clutched in her right fist. Her left hand grasped the handle of a small portable television set.

  Dot quickly placed the TV set in the back seat of her car, then went and stood by the phone again. She said, "Do any of you have a hundred
dollars? What if they count it?"

  Bowman froze, but Dot made no move away from the phone.

  A minute went by.

  "Where the hell are they?" Bowman rasped. "What kind of crazy goddamn treasure-hunt-of-a-stunt are they pulling this time?"

  The phone rang, startling all of us.

  "Hello?"

  Then another voice on the police radio: "Phone company's got it, Lieutenant. We're patching."

  "Do it."

  "— and go home. And take all those fuckin' cops with you!

  "But there are no policemen with me. As you can see- Can you see me? I'm alone. I wouldn't let them come."

  "You just do like I said, missus!"

  "Is Fenton nearby? Are you releasing him now?"

  "Just do what I said."

  "All right. I'm doing it now." Dot hugged the receiver between her neck and shoulder so that both hands were free. She bent down, took the package of meat out of the grocery bag and seemed to unwrap it. "I'm placing the meat in the basket," she said. "And now I'm putting the basket down on the pavement by the phone."

  Bowman and I both said it at once-"A dog!" — as the form shot out of the woods on the eastern edge of the parking lot, snatched up the basket handle between its teeth, and hurtled back across the tarmac and into the deep woods.

  "Oh, my stars!" we heard Dot shout. "Get back here with that! Get back here, you damnable mutt!"

  She was exclaiming only to herself and to us. The phone line had gone dead.

  "Salazar, around the block! Boyce, you follow me! There's a street on the other side of those woods!"

  We sped down Western a third of a mile, then hooked sharply left onto a side residential street that paralleled the woods the dog had run into. The street dead-ended after a block, and the woods spread out to the left and right. We couldn't see the end of them in any direction.

  We leaped from the car and stood listening. We heard peepers.

  While Bowman and the eight or ten other patrol cars that suddenly materialized rushed pell-mell up and down the streets and back roads of Guilderland, I jogged back to the Price Chopper parking lot. Dot was seated in the driver's seat of her car, the radio on, tuned to WAMC. The midnight jazz show was on, with Art Tatum playing "Sweet Lorraine."

  I climbed into the car and we sat and listened for a few minutes. Neither of us spoke. When the song ended, we exchanged seats and I drove us back to Dot's house. Edith was waiting in the kitchen, and we all had a sandwich and a beer.