by David Martin
When they reached the cherry red ’65 Fairlane parked at the curb Eddie said, “Why don’t you rent a car, I could let you use my credit card.”
“No I want this one, it’s red.”
“You could rent one that’s red … why’s red so important anyway?”
“Red cars go faster.”
“Faster than what?”
“Than cars that aren’t red.”
“Red cars go faster than cars that aren’t red,” Eddie repeated like an astronaut reading from the Flat Earthers’ handbook. “And this is the man I’m entrusting Lucille to?”
“You one of those guys names his car?”
“What’s wrong with that?”
Camel grimaced. “You give your dick a name too?”
Eddie looked embarrassed, Camel took out the keys. He got behind the wheel, Eddie riding shotgun, but before Camel started the ignition Eddie started his lecture. “This is a nineteen-sixty-five Ford Fairlane Five Hundred two-door hardtop with a two-hundred and seventy-one horsepower high performance two-eighty-nine cubic inch vee-eight, the Ford two-eighty-nine being the prototype for all of Ford’s better engines …”
“Eddie—”
“Other engines generate more horsepower of course but for durability and reliability and all-around performance the two-eighty-nine is probably the best engine ever manufactured in this country. The sixty-five Fairlane was never as popular as the sixty-six or even the sixty-four …”
“Eddie—”
“… but I like the boxy old look and—”
“Eddie.”
“Yeah?”
“I ain’t marrying it.”
“Don’t buy gas.”
“No?”
“It takes a hundred-and-ten octane, you won’t find any of that.”
“What if I run low?”
“The tank’s full, you drive enough to run low you bring Lucille home, hear me?”
“Feel like I’m dating your daughter.” Camel started the engine, revving it gently.
“For crying out loud Teddy, never gun a cold engine, ninety-five percent of an engine’s wear takes place in the first ten seconds after starting.”
He revved it again, Eddie muttering under his breath.
“Love the way that ol’ two-ninety-two sounds,” Camel said.
“Two-eighty-nine. Dual exhaust, glasspacks. You know of course I’ve done a frame-off restoration of this car, took me—”
Camel interrupted him by dropping the transmission into first, Eddie reaching over to grab the steering wheel. “Wait. Remember that movie, Thunder Road?”
“Robert Mitchum.”
“Yeah—don’t even think about it.”
Camel nodded, floored the accelerator, popped the clutch, left a screaming strip of rubber on the street … Eddie Neffering thrown back in the passenger seat and saying more to himself than to Camel, “Why am I not surprised?”
When she opened the door Camel wished he had Eddie’s .45 with him because Elizabeth Rockwell was holding a little silver semiautomatic down by her side. Camel showed his private investigator’s license which had a hokey badge with it that sometimes fooled people.
“Took you long enough to get here,” Elizabeth said, slipping the .32 into a pocket and ushering Camel into her kitchen.
“You were expecting me?”
“I called last night, was told a detective would be sent out as soon as possible … you consider this as soon as possible?”
Camel apologized, playing along with the misunderstanding.
“Would you like some coffee?”
“Yes ma’am.”
She smiled at his good manners. Camel guessed her at mid-fifty, he liked her looks, a woman tall, straight, and strong who gave the impression she didn’t suffer fools or tolerate lapses in proper behavior … like your aunt who never got married but became a college professor instead, the aunt who corrected your grammar and told you to keep your elbows off the table.
Elizabeth wore a long yellow skirt that matched her jacket which covered a white blouse with a big floppy bow at her neck. Yellow shoes with low heels, big diamonds on many of her fingers. Dressed well for morning. She had short gray blond hair and wore dark glasses … a little heavy on the makeup, Camel figuring it was to cover the bruises he could still see high on her cheeks and he guessed she probably had a black eye too which explained the dark glasses.
As Elizabeth prepared the coffee he looked around the kitchen, everything modern and clean with a lot of frilly, doily stuff … the toaster for example had its own knitted cover. In walked a broad-shouldered young man who stopped at the doorway as if to show how he could fill it. He wore tight black jeans and an even tighter blue T-shirt, he had long blond hair and he had an angry red line around his trunklike neck.
“Murray darling,” Elizabeth said, “this is Teddy Camel, he’s with the state police.”
Murray didn’t hurry over to shake hands, he leaned against a counter as if planning to stay right there like a brooding appliance … Camel wondering if Murray was in the habit of knocking women around.
When Elizabeth put the coffee cup on its matching saucer in front of Camel she said, “Murray doesn’t do caffeine.”
“I’m not a police officer,” Camel confessed.
“Yeah then who the heck are you?” Murray from the counter demanded.
Camel looked at him, Murray radiating a hard stare right back. Camel had read once that if two people stare at each other for more than five or six seconds it means they’re going to fuck or fight … not interested in either activity with Murray, Camel looked at Elizabeth and said, “I’m a private investigator working—”
“Private?” she interrupted. “Why are the state police using private detectives?”
“They’re not.”
“Then who you working for buddy?” Murray wanted to know.
Elizabeth told him she’d handle this, then asked Camel, “Why haven’t the state police sent anyone? I was instructed not to call any other agency, to wait for a state police detective.”
“I don’t know ma’am.”
“You’d think the state police would be rather desperate for my information about Donald.”
Donald Growler?
“Milk?” Elizabeth offered.
“No ma’am.”
“Yes I thought you’d drink it black.”
“Caffeine’ll kill you,” Murray offered from the counter.
“Ma’am—”
“You can probably ease up on the ma’ams now,” she said.
“Okay. The Donald you referred to, is that Donald Growler?”
“Murray asked who you are working for, is that privileged information?”
“I don’t mind telling you. Annie Milton hired me—”
“A couple named Milton bought Cul-De-Sac.”
“Yes. Annie was worried her husband might be involved in something illegal with a man she’d never met until the night before last … a man in his early or mid-thirties, dark eyes, black hair, his most distinguishing characteristic is—”
“Huge teeth.”
Camel surprised again.
“Donald Growler,” she said.
And surprised again. “None of the descriptions I got said anything about Growler having unusual teeth”
“He obviously had them installed in prison, I can’t imagine a government-run facility would do that to a person, even a convicted killer.”
“Donald Growler is out of prison.” Camel said this aloud to make sure he had it right.
Murray guffawed, Elizabeth smiled condescendingly. “Yes, Donald Growler is most assuredly out of prison, he said he’d been released … but released or escaped he’s out and more dangerous than ever. He threatened to kill me and would have killed Murray if I hadn’t had this pistol.” She patted her pocket and said she still didn’t understand what Camel was doing here.
“Paul Milton shot himself last night.”
“Good Lord.”
“Whate
ver he was involved in with Growler, it drove him to suicide. When did Growler show up—”
“Last night around ten.”
“What’d he want?”
She hesitated, Murray from the counter advising her, “You don’t have to tell him nothing Beth.”
Elizabeth said, “Why don’t you fix yourself a nice cup of Ovaltine dear.”
“Yeah well I ain’t leaving you alone with this guy.”
“You don’t have to sweetheart, the Ovaltine’s right there in that cabinet.” She turned her attention back to Camel. “How much do you know about Cul-De-Sac and Hope Penner’s death?”
“Almost nothing.”
“I love telling secrets.”
“I love hearing them.”
“Yin and Yang.”
“Trains and tunnels.” As soon as he said it Camel wondered, where the hell did that come from?
Elizabeth was surprised too. “Mr. Camel,” she said coquettishly while Murray preparing his Ovaltine got the vague impression these two old farts were flirting with each other.
Camel was a little red in the face. “You were going to tell me Cul-De-Sac’s secrets.”
She asked how far back she should start, he said he had time.
“A quick history then. Cul-De-Sac was built in 1860 by Phillip Penner, a wealthy plantation owner from southern Virginia who sold his slaves and used the money to construct a hotel for travelers on their way to the District of Columbia. Those construction costs nearly broke him, by the time the hotel was finished Penner said he had reached the bottom of his figurative bag of gold, that’s why he named the hotel Cul-De-Sac, the literal translation is ‘bottom of the bag.’ ”
“French.”
She offered Camel another condescending smile, Elizabeth Rockwell was good at that.
“During the Civil War Cul-De-Sac was used as a military hospital, after the war Penner reopened it as a hotel and when he died Cul-De-Sac was boarded up. The building and the land that went with it, two hundred and twenty acres, stayed in the Penner family. Through the years Cul-De-Sac was used for various purposes, a mental asylum for women, then during the Second World War it was leased by the federal government and opened to recuperating soldiers. Through much of the fifties Cul-De-Sac was boarded up again but meanwhile those two hundred and twenty acres were becoming very valuable.”
The history lesson was making Camel itchy but he didn’t want to offend her by saying get to the point. “Who owned the property seven years ago when—”
“We’re almost there.” She was a habitual interrupter who didn’t like being interrupted. “In 1960, Cul-De-Sac’s centennial, the property was owned by Phillip Penner’s three living heirs … two brothers and a sister. One of the brothers, J. L. Penner, resided at Cul-De-Sac. His sister’s son, that would be Donald, also came to live at Cul-De-Sac, then seven years ago J.L.’s brother died and the brother’s daughter came to Cul-De-Sac … are you following this?”
Camel said he was. “The nephew is Donald Growler, the niece was Hope Penner.”
“You do know something about this case.”
“Not nearly enough.”
“Hope was seventeen when she was killed, she and Donald had developed a relationship more intimate than we normally like to see between first cousins even here in Virginia.”
“And that relationship is what led to the murder?”
“So it seems.” Elizabeth took off the dark glasses, Camel was right about the shiner. “With the death of his niece, J.L. became sole owner of Cul-De-Sac.”
“Growler give you that eye?”
“Yes. Should I continue then?”
“Please.”
“Only after J.L. inherited Hope’s share was he able to start selling off land. In fact there was some vague speculation at the time … there’s always vague speculation in these cases, as I’m sure you’re aware, Mr. Camel … speculation that J.L. might have been involved in Hope’s murder.”
“That he killed her?”
“That he was involved. J.L. was able to consolidate his ownership of Cul-De-Sac only through the specific set of circumstances that occurred, Donald Growler murdering Hope Penner … if Hope had died under other circumstances her share would’ve gone to Donald. Even if Donald and Hope had died together, that remaining share of Cul-De-Sac would’ve gone to charity, not to J. L. Penner. He had bought out his sister’s interest years before but J.L.’s brother hated him and set up a trust in such a way as to ensure J.L. never got that remaining one-third ownership. Of course the brother could not have foreseen what finally happened, who could’ve?”
“So Growler goes to prison, gets out, hooks up with Paul Milton who buys Cul-De-Sac … for what reason?”
She didn’t answer.
“What were Growler and Milton looking for at Cul-De-Sac?”
“I don’t know.”
The lie surprised Camel, he hadn’t been ready for it. He liked Elizabeth Rockwell, admired her style, a lady with a lot of class and brass … then she insults him by lying … it seemed so out of character, as if she had suddenly cleared her throat and spat on the floor.
“You’re lying.” Camel’s voice was quiet but came with the authority of someone who wasn’t wrong about these things.
“Hey buddy!” Murray warned from the counter. “Watch your mouth!”
“Drink your Ovaltine dear,” Elizabeth said before turning back to Camel. “Murray has a point … you’re a guest in my house, I’m providing you with information you’ve requested, I hardly think you should be calling me a liar.”
“I didn’t call you a liar, I said you were lying.”
She looked amused. “There’s a difference?”
“I sincerely hope so.” Although references to an elephant had drawn blanks with everyone else, Camel decided to try one on Elizabeth. “Were Growler and Milton looking for an elephant?”
She hesitated, didn’t want to be caught in another lie. “Are we playing games Mr. Camel?”
“I’m trying to investigate—”
“You’re fishing.”
“Sounds better when I call it investigating.”
She smiled without the condescension. “Give the devil her due, Hope Penner was a brilliant young woman.”
Camel waited to hear what this had to do with an elephant.
“Hope played the piano at concert level, she was an accomplished artist, spoke several languages, she could’ve been a chess master … J.L. fancied himself a good chess player but Hope beat him consistently, which delighted J.L. In his eyes Hope could do no wrong … like every man who ever met Hope he was totally infatuated with her.”
“Did it go beyond infatuation?”
She gave Camel a look that made him regret the question.
“I don’t think that’s a subject on which I’d care to speculate.”
He said fair enough.
“After Hope died J.L. went into both a mental and physical decline. Although he became very rich selling land he also became very reclusive and more than a little strange. By the end of his life he was barely in possession of his faculties.”
“And at this time you were his—”
“Before Hope came to live at Cul-De-Sac, J.L. and I were engaged to be married. After her death he and I were simply friends.”
“Her death unhinged him?”
“Her life unhinged him, Mr. Camel. He loved showing her off, J.L. would host a party for Hope every night for seven or eight nights in a row. He gave her cars, indulged her drug habits. When J.L. discovered what an excellent chess player Hope was, he began buying chess sets and very soon became a serious collector. He developed an obsession for the East India Chess Set, not the most famous chess set in the world but perhaps the most expensive. It had been broken up in the last century, its pieces sold and resold to buyers from all over the world. The entire set could never have been reassembled at any price but J.L. did manage to purchase almost all the black pieces and one white … the knight.”
“T
he white knight?”
“He and Hope would have fondling sessions with it.”
Camel again waited for her to explain.
“J.L. and Hope would creep hand-in-hand to the library where he kept his chess collection and they’d take out the East India white knight. Hope loved to hold it and she would say ‘Oh J.L. you’re my white knight.’ And he would promise Hope that someday the elephant would be hers. It was all rather pitiful.”
“You said he promised Hope the elephant would be hers?”
Elizabeth looked at Camel as a teacher might regard a particularly dull scholar. “The East India Chess Set’s black pieces were carved ebony, the white pieces were solid gold … and the white knight was an elephant.”
“A solid-gold elephant.”
“Encrusted with jewels.”
“Worth?”
“Three million dollars. Why Monsieur Chameau, do you have something in your eye or are you actually smiling?”
“Smiling,” Camel admitted. “Like a scoundrel.”
29
Linda Kay Gray was smiling too, it was a treat for her when Parker came home in the middle of the day. She’d heard his car, heard him go into the kitchen … that’s where she was hurrying now.
“Park?”
He was at the table with his back to her, when Linda came around to sit across from him she lost her smile … he looked terrible.
“What’s wrong?”
Parker Gray stared across that table as if he didn’t recognize his wife.
“Park?”
He shook his head.
“Something at work?”
“I …” He cleared his throat. “I’ve been suspended.”
“Good Lord what for?”
“I came down too hard on a man brought in to be questioned about a shooting.”
“What do you mean, came down too hard … you hit him?”
“No. I pushed for his arrest and—”
“They wouldn’t suspend you for—”
“And I got into a shouting match with a couple of our detectives.”
“Over what, arresting that man?”
Parker Gray held up a hand … how could he explain to his wife that their whole life together, their marriage, the success he’s had with the state police, everything has been built on a convoluted conspiracy that grinds on him every night?