Younger than I but older than Neil, Roxanne had set her sights, romantically, on both of us. As for Neil, she was simply barking up the wrong tree. As for me, though, before committing myself to a new way of life with Neil, I did in fact indulge in a brief fling with her. The experiment was destined to disappoint both of us, and she seethed with resentment at the irony of having played matchmaker to the two men she wanted most. But in time, Roxanne’s affection for both of us won out, and we came to think of her as our best friend—a relationship we managed to maintain in spite of my move to Dumont.
Having learned a hard lesson, Roxanne kicked the habit of falling for gay men and was now in a serious relationship with Carl Creighton, twelve years her senior, a deputy attorney general for the state of Illinois. Neither Neil nor I had seen much of Carl lately, but we still saw Roxanne with surprising regularity, considering the distance. Due to my board work at Quatro Press and Neil’s involvement with the plant expansion, there were ample excuses to call in big-gun Chicago legal talent to handle the thicket of issues routinely faced by Quatro or by any thriving industry. And the person we called, of course, was Roxanne.
“Is she coming up this week?” I asked Neil.
He turned to me. “Today,” he informed me, as though I should have known.
“Really?” I couldn’t recall any board matters pending that required her attention, so I assumed that Neil had summoned her for matters pertaining to construction—environmental impact or some other hoo-ha. I asked, “What about dinner? Is she spending the night?” Details, details…
“It’s just a day trip this time,” he told me, rinsing his hands, closing some cupboards. “But if she arrives in town early enough, she’ll see you for lunch—remember?”
The plan had a familiar ring to it. “Can’t you join us?”
He crossed to where I sat, standing behind me, hands on my shoulders. “Not today, I’m afraid. Too much going on at the plant—meetings all morning.”
I reached up to take hold of his fingers. “Things are bound to be busy at the Register too—the murder, the obscenity trial.” I sighed.
Neil pulled back, planting hands on hips. “I thought you relished this stuff.”
I couldn’t help laughing, embarrassed to admit, “I do. But now and then—”
A knock at the back door interrupted us. Through the window, we could see that it was Doug Pierce. I expected him to holler, Any coffee left? I expected him simply to walk in. But he stood quietly outdoors in the drizzle, like any stranger waiting to be admitted.
“Come on in, Doug,” we called to him. “It’s not locked.”
Pierce opened the door and stepped inside. “Nasty weather,” he said, thumping the door closed. He wore one of those Australian-looking rubberized raincoats with big flaps and heaps of hardware. He shrugged out of it and hung it in the hall—on the hook that had been vacated by Thad’s sweatshirt.
“Have some coffee, Doug,” Neil told him, grabbing an extra mug from the counter and pouring from the pot on the table.
“Thanks.” Pierce crossed the room and sat next to me. His mood and bearing were altogether different from the chipper afterglow that had marked his recent visits, when he’d arrived unshaven in day-old clothes. By contrast, this morning he was freshly dressed and groomed—he’d obviously spent the night in his own bed. There was no bounce to his step, no lighthearted banter—he’d slept alone.
I told him, “Looks like we’ve all got a tough week ahead.” In truth, I was looking forward to a brisk Monday of meaty news at the paper, but he seemed in need of commiseration.
“Christ, what a mess,” he muttered between slurps of coffee. “Dumont’s celebrity visitor has been dead for twenty-four hours, and there isn’t an arrest warrant in sight.” He did not need to mention that his reelection might now very well rest on a speedy resolution of the crime. Nor did he mention that he’d been sleeping with the victim—a minor but tawdry detail that, if true and if made public, would be a political windfall for his opponent.
Neil joined us, sitting at the table. “You’ll have an arrest as soon as Bruno returns to town, won’t you? I mean, isn’t it obvious?”
Good question. I waited with Neil for Pierce’s answer.
He told us, “Bruno arrived back in Dumont late last night from Milwaukee, which was the plan he’d announced to several people. On the surface, he appears to have a clean alibi—he was out of town at the time of the murder. What’s more, he’s a French national, so even though I still consider him our prime suspect, we need to treat the situation with kid gloves. There’s no point in setting off an international incident unless we have the case against him absolutely nailed.”
I asked, “Have you talked to him yet?”
“Briefly, when he got in last night after midnight. We’d been waiting for him, and I helped carry his bags from the car to his motel room. I immediately informed him of the murder, but it came as no surprise—it was all over the news yesterday, and he claimed to have heard the story in Milwaukee. He was clearly tired, and so was I. I figured that since he returned to Dumont on his own, he wasn’t likely to bolt, so we agreed to meet again this morning. For whatever it’s worth, he didn’t act suspicious—just his usual weird self.”
Attempting to lay out the case against Bruno, I thought aloud, “There are three classic criteria that point to a suspect: motive, means, and opportunity. First, we know that Bruno was amply motivated to want Carrol dead. Their professional rivalry was legendary, and Bruno said in my presence at the Register on Friday that he considered Carrol a ‘parasite,’ that he intended to ‘topple’ him. Though he claimed to be speaking figuratively, the fact remains that both Bruno and Carrol are big men, and it would take someone of Bruno’s heft to physically subdue Carrol, which brings us to classic criterion number two: means. Carrol was apparently strangled, and Bruno would have the strength to do it.”
“And,” Neil contributed, leaning into the conversation, “Bruno also had the silk scarf, the likely weapon. You’d both seen him wearing a patterned gold cravat that looked exactly like the wrinkled one found snagged on the banister of the coach-house stairs yesterday morning, moments before the body was discovered.”
“But,” said Pierce, also leaning forward (our three faces were now mere inches apart), “classic criterion number three doesn’t seem to wash. Where and when was Bruno’s opportunity to commit the murder if he was out of town all weekend?”
“So it all hinges on that ‘if,’” I summarized. “Was Bruno in fact in Milwaukee as he claimed?”
“That’s what we need to find out.” Pierce leaned back in his chair to explain, “If there are any holes in his alibi, this’ll be the easiest homicide of my career. If his story’s tight, though, we’re back to square one.”
I asked, “When do you plan to see him?”
Pierce glanced at his watch. “I’m due now. We agreed to meet at The Nook early—he has some business appointments there as well.” Pierce took a last drink of coffee, then set aside the mug. His face wrinkled with a new thought. “I won’t be treating this as an official interrogation, so if you’d care to come along, Mark, I’d be grateful for your reactions—so long as the meeting stays off-the-record.”
Big smile. “I thought you’d never ask.” I stood, raring to go.
Neil and Pierce rose also. Neil mused, “It’s a question of opportunity. If it turns out that Bruno wasn’t here to strangle Carrol, who else had access to the victim?”
“I’ve been over that again and again,” said Pierce, rubbing his neck, perplexed. “Lots of people had access to the coach house—there’s little or no security—and Cantrell had a steady stream of visitors since the morning he arrived.”
I offered, “I myself have been there several times; I accompanied Harley Kaiser and Miriam Westerman in one instance, Glee Savage another time. Grace Lord had total access, of course. And those are just the people I know to have been there.” I might have added Pierce’s name to the list, but re
frained, hoping he might volunteer it. But he did not. So I continued, “The question we need to answer is: Who was there on Sunday morning?”
“Grace Lord,” Neil suggested with a snicker, clearing the table. Carrying coffee and cups to the counter, he turned to elaborate, “She was there every morning—the place belongs to her. If it’s a question of opportunity, Grace is your gal.”
Though Neil’s hypothesis was not meant to be taken seriously, Pierce felt compelled to weigh it objectively, looking beyond the gut response that Grace was far too kindly a soul to be involved in such heinous devilry. “She may have had ample opportunity,” he reminded Neil, “but she had no motive. After all, her prestige with the Midwest Miniatures Society hinged on her ability to deliver Cantrell to their convention alive. Understandably, she’s been really shaken by this—her big coup has turned into an unmitigated disaster.”
“What’s more,” I reminded both of them, “whoever killed Carrol needed sufficient physical stature to subdue and strangle him. Grace’s five-foot frame is no match for Carrol’s, at six-four.”
“Fine,” Neil conceded with a laugh, “no need to give Grace the rubber-hose treatment. Just keeping you guys on your toes.”
Pierce turned to me. “We’d better be on our toes—with Bruno. He’s a foreign national, which not only complicates our usual procedures, but also presents us with a bit of a language barrier. Still, he’s our only promising suspect.”
I moved toward the door. “Let’s get going then.” I pulled my own raincoat from the back hall—a classic tan Burberry, not nearly so trendy as Pierce’s olive-colored duster, which I handed to him. I told Neil, “Leave that stuff in the sink; I’ll take care of it later. You’ve got a busy morning at Quatro.”
“I can’t leave yet.” He paused before explaining, “It’s not just the dishes. It’s wash day, remember? And I can’t put it off—you stripped the bed already.”
“Sorry,” I told him, suddenly sheepish.
“No problem.” His amiable tone made it clear that he wasn’t complaining. “But I need to do laundry.”
What we needed was a housekeeper.
Since Pierce and I would be going to our respective offices downtown after meeting Bruno Hérisson, we drove both of our cars to The Nook. Following Pierce as he turned off Park Street, I noticed that the activity down the block in front of the miniatures store had a quieter, more somber pace than the hubbub I’d witnessed over the weekend—fewer vans, less milling of people. Had the news of Carrol Cantrell’s murder sent the mini masses into mourning? Or perhaps the rush was destined to subside on Monday, when weekend dilettanti would trudge back to their day jobs. Or maybe it was just the rain—we had all gotten off to a slow start on that cold, damp morning.
Parking at the curb, Pierce and I got out of our cars, clapping their doors closed in unison. We stepped onto the sidewalk, glancing about for Bruno’s rented compact. “He seems to be running late,” said Pierce, a wrinkle of concern creasing his brow.
“Let’s get indoors.” As I led the way to The Nook’s entrance, our leather soles softly slogged the wet concrete, leaving a trail of spots that glowed silver for a moment, then vanished beneath a fresh layer of gray drizzle. Opening the door for Pierce, I let him pass in front of me.
Inside, fluorescent lights burned coldly, magnifying rather than dispelling the Monday gloom. I felt like a kid arriving at school after a perfect fall weekend that had brought a change of weather for the worse. The place even smelled like a long-ago school in autumn—damp clothes, dry old wood, fresh paint—a whiff of Ditto fluid would have made the illusion complete. The sounds, however, were not those of a school—adult voices engaged in subdued chatter, the thud and slide of cartons and furniture, a crackling radio tuned to some nostalgia station, played low.
Pierce had not been inside the store before. He stood there with me in the front hall, peering into the showroom, not sure what to make of this odd little world. Unbuttoning his long coat, he looked about for somewhere to hang it—a good idea. I removed my Burberry as well, checking first to confirm that my pen and notebook were in my jacket, then we draped our raincoats together on the back of a wooden chair that had been shoved into a corner, out of the way.
As we entered the showroom, some of the people there glanced at us, but no one recognized us—they were out-of-towners. I spotted the clipboard woman whom I’d seen the day before, so I asked, “Has Mr. Hérisson arrived yet?” My pronunciation of his name had improved some.
“Haven’t seen him.” Her terse style had not improved. “Ask Grace.”
Reluctant to engage her in more of this sparkling repartee, I nodded my thanks and led Pierce to the back of the room, where I now knew a doorway would connect to the defunct Rexall store, converted that week into a makeshift exhibit hall.
Entering the hall, I noted that the convention setup was at a standstill, having progressed little since the previous morning. News of Carrol Cantrell’s murder had completely bollixed Sunday’s work crew, and the few who remained on hand today were still preoccupied by the tragedy, gossiping in clumps, aghast at the brutal demise of the king of miniatures.
I saw Grace Lord where I had found her yesterday, at the far end of the hall, in the competition area among the roomboxes. Directing Pierce’s glance toward her, I led him through the main aisle and approached Grace quietly, not wishing to interrupt a discussion she was having with several exhibitors.
“I just don’t know,” she told the others with a sigh. “If we drape the entrance in black, it’d be a fitting tribute, to be sure, but at the same time, it might keep the public away—what a downer.” She wasn’t being disrespectful, just pragmatic, and I admired her attempt to remain objective in such an emotional situation.
Then she noticed Pierce and me. “Oh. Good morning, Mark. Morning, Sheriff.” The others backed out of the conversation as Grace continued, “I had a hunch I’d be seeing you fellas today. And wouldn’t you know it—me looking like hell again.” She laughed halfheartedly.
It seemed she was always apologizing for her appearance, which was never warranted—till now. That morning, in fact, she looked pretty bad. “Under the circumstances,” I fudged, “you’re looking very well today.”
She rolled her eyes—she knew better. “We’re doing the best we can. I met with the rest of the organizers late into the night and again this morning. We decided to push ahead—‘the show must go on.’ But it’s hard to muster any energy now, let alone enthusiasm. Carrol was our top attraction, the biggest name in miniatures, and now he’s gone. He died here. Murdered. Oh, Lord…,” she trailed off, lost in thought.
Pierce offered words of sympathy and assurance, explaining that the murder was his department’s top priority, that he hoped to resolve it quickly, hoped to dispel any clouds of uncertainty that might hang over the convention’s opening, now only five days away. “In fact,” he concluded, “we may wrap this up as soon as this morning. Bruno Hérisson agreed to meet me here, but he’s late.”
Grace had heard Pierce without really listening—his speech was predictable—until his reference to Bruno and the unspoken implication that the Frenchman was thought guilty. Her eyes widened with astonishment and a tinge of fear. “No,” she told Pierce, touching his arm with her fingertips, “you can’t possibly think that Bruno killed Carrol. That would be just too terrible. He’s the second biggest name in miniatures. If he as well as Carrol met his downfall here in Dumont, I’d never be able to forgive myself—and no one else would either.”
Her fretting over these names and their ranks reminded me of the name games that had played through my mind since the previous Thursday, when I’d met Carrol. The irony of Grace’s statement, when she called Bruno “the second biggest name in miniatures,” was that she had not yet assimilated the new pecking order of her little world. With Carrol’s death, Bruno had moved up a notch.
Pierce explained to Grace, “I haven’t drawn any conclusions about Bruno, not yet. That’s why I need to
talk to him. But you must admit, he had the most to gain from Carrol’s death, also the biggest ax to grind—at least as far as we know.”
I added, “And remember the silk scarf we found on the banister, Grace? It may very well have been used to strangle Carrol, snagged from the killer’s pocket as he fled the scene. The point is, we’ve all seen Bruno wearing just such a scarf.”
“But I told you,” Grace insisted, “that scarf was probably Carrol’s. When I cleaned his room, I saw that he had many silk scarves.”
“She’s right,” conceded Pierce, whose investigators had already inventoried the contents of the coach house.
“There now,” said Grace, satisfied that an important point had been made. “I’m sure if you just talk to Bruno, he’ll explain everything to your satisfaction.”
“We’re eager to hear him out.” Pierce tapped his watch. “But where is he?”
Right on cue, amid a flurry of activity from the doorway to The Nook, Bruno entered the hall, surrounded by exhibitors who followed him from the showroom. To characterize his entrance as triumphal would sell it short. He had newly assumed the mantle of the reigning sovereign of miniatures, and his subjects fawned about him to troth their allegiance—one woman skittered forward to introduce herself, and she actually made a clumsy attempt at a curtsy. Bruno sopped up the attention and flattery of his minions, strolling forward among them at a regal pace. His refined manner and delicate movements seemed impossible from a man of such burly bearing and sheer heft. With one arm he clutched a dog-eared notebook; in the other hand he carried a gnawed pencil, punctuating the air as he spoke. The way he handled these pedestrian articles, you’d have thought they were an orb and scepter. Yes, King Bruno had arrived.
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