Murder by Candlelight

by John Stockmyer

  "Fine."

  "How many?"

  "How about five."

  "How many to be served at your party?"

  "Three."

  "If you'll listen to somebody more experienced in the ways of the world, let me make a suggestion."

  "Sure."

  "I'd say six at a minimum. You got five to service three and somebody's got to make do with only one girl. Bound to foster resentment. Sure, they'll be trading off. But still, two on one is better. Even better with a spare pair to liven up the action."

  "OK. If it's not too expensive."

  "For you, after what you did for me, no problem. I'll be gettin' off cheap, to tell the truth."

  "The kind of party I have in mind ...."

  "Go on."

  "... is what's called S and M."

  "Ah .... Not to my taste -- though being tied up with the right girl can be downright interesting. But not for me. Being tied up makes me nervous. Maybe, because of the kind of business I'm in."

  "Trouble is that the ... guys ... like to pretend they don't enjoy that kind of thing."

  "Scream a lot, do they? Threaten to call the cops? Don't you pay that no never mind, Z. I got a quiff name of Francis Kim. Knows karate. All that kind of Jap shit. A man don't stand a chance against her. Twist a guy in knots and tie him up as pretty as you please. Anyway, that's what the girls have gags for. Cuff a man to the bed, pop in the gag, then work him over till he pops -- if you know what I mean."

  "Don't know just when and where, yet. Sorry."

  "No problem. I got spare girls I can use any time. That's my business, after all. Just give me half a day and I'll have them there in a party mood. Whips and chains, I throw in for free."

  "Great."

  "After this," John said, more seriously, "you and me are even-Steven once again. Like old friends oughtta be."

  "Sure."

  "That is good to hear. John Dosso does not like to be in anyone's debt. Anyone."

  "Right."

  "Call the same way."

  "Right."

  And that was that for the time being.

  Also for the following day.

  Two days passing, today's sun ironing yesterday's rain to steam, Z was at his desk again, reading a sci-fi novel while cursing the building's balky cooling system, his bad leg propped on his scarred desk.

  A boring book; though any book helped to eat up time.

  Just as a squad of Zebron Y-wing fighters were making a suicidal attack on planet Bema's interceptor satellites, the phone rang. Four o'clock, said Z's watch.

  "Z."

  "Detective Assistant Calder reporting." Plainly, the Bateman psychologist was enjoying himself. Which was OK, if he'd picked up the information Z wanted.

  "What have you got?"

  "What you asked for."

  "Go on."

  "The party in question," Calder said, trying for mystery, "lives at 1256 White in Liberty. Single-story house. No wife or children. Lives alone."

  "Good, Z said," the number and street fixed in his mind. "The phone number?" Calder had that, too.

  "He's a worker. I'll give him that. Stays late every night. Works on Labor Day, even. But packs it in at seven P.M. sharp. Goes out for a couple of drinks and something to eat. Then heads right home. Arrives at eight-forty-five and stays put for the night."

  "How do you know this?"

  "I've been following him."

  "He see you doing it?"

  "No." Said with some doubt. "Well ... maybe," Calder admitted, the professor sounding like a naughty child caught in a little kid's lie. "Not when I've been shadowing him from my car. But he looked at me funny when I asked him about his birthday."

  "You asked him about his ...?"

  "There was no other way. I can't go to records and demand to see a dean's résumé, after all. Anyway, I thought I was being subtle about it. I ran into him in the hall of the Administration building. I was there, of course, to try to get some information about him. Normally, I stay away from that place as much as possible. Anyway, I ran into him. Sort of struck up a conversation. The weather, the progress of the school. You know. What people talk about when they have nothing to say to each other. Then, I said my birthday was coming up. And that I enjoyed reading the strip in the FYI section of the Star, giving famous people's birthdays on that day's date. I said I'd heard a rumor that someone was planning a birthday party for one of the deans. Asked Ashlock when his birthday was, making it seem like I thought the party could be for him." Calder caught a breath. "I've got to report that he didn't tell me. Instead, gave me that 'It's none of your business' look. Ashlock probably thinks I'm trying to suck up to him to get him to vote for my professorship." Z could imaging the psychologist shaking his head in disgust. "But I haven't given up. There's got to be another way. For instance, if I could get a peek at his driver's license, it's on there."

  "You did well," Z said, meaning it.

  "Really? I ... pass? That's what my students are always asking me. If they passed."

  "You pass. Got an A."

  "Great! Because this is really fun. As a psychologist, I know that most people -- and I'm no exception -- enjoy snooping on their neighbors -- but feel too guilty to do as much of it as they'd like. It's a joy when you've got a reason to spy."

  "Good."

  "If that's all you want from me at the moment ...?" Z not answering, the chubby prof continued, "then I'll let you go."

  "Goodbye."

  Calder had done well. Going further, that bungled business about a birthday party was inspired, the mention of a possible party tying Calder to the plan! If Z could fit the last few pieces of the puzzle together, Z might actually pull off this stunt -- a "caper" that Calder-the-Romantic would probably call body-snatching!

  No time to waste, Z dialed again.

  "American Insurance. Serving you, our only thought." Just the latest -- most insincere -- slogan of Susan's disreputable insurance company. Nauseating!

  "Susan Halliwell."

  "One moment."

  Elevator music. Just once, Z would like to slip into the American building and substitute the funeral march for the canned music they always played. Or maybe put on a Halloween record. The kind featuring groans and screams -- echoing the sounds made by American's customers when discovering that American had no intention of paying on their claims.

  "Susan Halliwell, speaking." The rich, sexy voice of the longest-legged erotic dream he had ever .... but Z had to get down to business.

  "Z."

  "Hi, Z." Normally, Susan didn't like to have her phone tied up with private conversations. This afternoon, though, she didn't seemed to be stressed out by Z's call.

  "Your boss gone for the day?"

  "How did you ....?" Susan's hesitation was her attempt to figure out how Z could possibly know about her boss's itinerary.

  "Yeah. Listen, Susan, you said you liked D.J. Jewell. The talk show guy?"

  "I don't listen to that garbage very often," Susan said: the ritual protest of someone found out to have a taste for trash, "but the girl close to me does. Yeah. I guess he's OK."

  "Remember the interview he did with me?"

  "Of course!" Susan had thought Z had done right when he dumped on Captain Scherer in that disastrous interview. Susan, like most people, became crazed from time to time. "I have a chance to pay him back." Z was counting on Susan's misunderstanding what he meant by pay Jewell back.

  "As a thank-you for having you on his show?"

  "Ah ...."

  "How?"

  "A tip."

  "Oh."

  "But there's a hang-up. I don't want to do it personally. Don't feel right about it."

  "You're too modest. He should know it's you doing him a favor."

  "All the same, I thought you might help me."

  "Me help?"

  "Sure. I give the tip to you. You phone it in to Jewell."

  "I couldn't do that."

  "You wouldn't have to give your name. Anyway, you'r
e always complaining I shut you out. Here's your chance to be included."

  "Well ...."

  "You tip Jewell about a drug party. Say he can be there to witness the bust and break the story."

  "I ... guess. What would I have to do?"

  "Phone the station. Say anything, but make them bring Jewell to the phone. Personally. Then tell him what I'm going to tell you. It'll have more impact if you suggest you're a policewoman. Say that a policeman has supplied the drugs. That if Jewell checks this out, you'll have other info for him."

  "Too modest," Susan said with a sigh. "OK. I'll do it. When is this to happen?"

  After Z had given Susan a time and address, Z had to hope the rest of the plan would fall in place. That was the worst thing about the scheme. It was complicated. Z much preferred problems that could be solved simply: with the tap of a blackjack. Not that he wouldn't get a chance to ....

  As it was, the sooner he made a few more calls, the more likely he'd be able to tie up the loose ends.

  Putting up his leg again, rubbing his knee with one hand, he reached for the phone.

  "Bud's."

  Z had thought he'd get Bud's counterman, but was pleased to be talking directly to Bud. The fewer people Z contacted, the better.

  "Bud. Z."

  "Hi, there." Somehow, Bud's cheerfulness sounded forced.

  "Something wrong?"

  "Wrong!?" Bud was alarmed, his voice squeaking even higher.

  "You don't sound ... right."

  "Oh ... that. The truth is I'm a little pissed. My barman -- you remember him, Olin ...?"

  "Brainbridge," Z finished.

  "Right. You do remember him. Anyway, he quit."

  "Why?"

  "Said he found a better job. I believe him 'cause this is a crappy place, when you come to think about it."

  What did Z say to that?

  "Sorry if I caught you at a bad time."

  "That's all right. Anything for you, Z. You know that."

  "I thought you might do me a favor."

  "Favor?" Though Bud had been eager to promise Z anything, Bud wasn't too happy to deliver. Just the way people were.

  "Nothing much. I need you to tip off the police."

  "What!?" Bud didn't much like cops, either. Not that anyone did.

  "I'd like you to call the Gladstone fuzz. Ask to talk to the captain. Name of Scherer. Direct. You won't spill to anyone else."

  "So?"

  "You'll get him eventually, no matter what they say to you. Tell them anything. Matter of life and death. When you get him, whisper you got a hot tip for him, you being a public-spirited barkeep. Something you overheard about a drug delivery in Liberty -- out of Scherer's jurisdiction, but he won't care."

  "I don't like to get connected to drugs."

  "Say it's something someone said at the bar. Two men who were never in your place before. Tell Scherer a time and a place the drugs are to be delivered."

  "What time and place?"

  "Will you do this for me?"

  "I got to give my name?"

  "No. On second thought, you don't have to say you own the place. Don't have to say what bar, even. Though Scherer is going to want you to identify yourself."

  "But I don't have to." Bud had never been that bright.

  "Right. Just hang up after the message is delivered."

  "OK."

  "I'm going to give you a time and location now. Give Scherer the tip tomorrow afternoon."

  "Sure."

  "I appreciate it."

  "Anything for you after what you did for me," Bud said, sounding more sincere than he had at any time in the conversation.

  The information told to Bud, it was -- "Goodbye." "Goodbye."

  Leaving two more details to wrap up before the day was done.

  First, a drive into that late steam bath of an afternoon to buy a camera at the photography store on the square in Liberty. Poor excuse for a camera. Used. Flash, of course.

  Z would have Jamie Stewart pick the camera up tomorrow. Tell her what he wanted her to do with it.

  The other thing Z had to do was get home so he could wrap a package. Take it to the post office before closing time.

  At the post office, finally at the counter, Z's single question was: "When will this be delivered?" The clerk weighed the small, brown paper wrapped package, the electronic scales flashing the weight and postage.

  "Tomorrow."

  "You sure?"

  "Since it's local, 99%."

  "Any way to make it 100?"

  "I guess you could pay the price for an overnight mailer. But I wouldn't. That's more for out-of-town mail."

  "I'll do that."

  "What?"

  "Buy the mailer."

  "You sure?" the man asked, wrinkling his forehead.

  "Some things are worth the price," Z said.

  And the trap was set!

  * * * * *

  Chapter 21

  Twelve fifty-six White Street, Liberty.

  After another hot day, it was a cloudy night. Coffin dark. Just the hint of early September cool about the air.

  Again, Z parked his car a block over, at the shadowy back of the 7-Eleven lot. Using his penlight, he selected the tools he thought he'd need from his detective satchel: picks, sap, his own surveillance camera.

  Getting out of the Cavalier so quietly even the door catch failed to click, he reached in the backseat to lift out the two bulging grocery sacks he'd packed that afternoon at Safeway, using his knee to ease shut the door.

  Carrying a sack in each arm, camera strap around his neck, he made his way over the back curb of the brightly lighted convenience store, across the velvety, tree-planted privacy strip, to enter the dark throat of the narrow, loose-gravel alley that led to Ashlock's home one street over. Just enough moonlight to see by.

  The air smelled of bug chewed leaves, limestone dust, and little else.

  Earlier that morning, Z had made the fifteen-minute trip to Ashlock's part of Liberty, Z first dressing in a white shirt and black string tie, Z going to Liberty as Pastor Goodfellow, complete with plastic-laminated identity card to "prove" he was the genuine religious article. (Johnny Dosso's I.D.s were first-class fakes.)

  Posing as the obnoxious Goodfellow, exaggerating his natural limp to shame people into talking to him, Z had gone up one side of Ashlock's street and down the next, pounding on every door in order to outrage everyone who answered by noisily claiming they were bound for hell unless they attended his fictional Church of the Living Word.

  No takers, of course.

  Which wasn't the point, Z's only purpose to make his presence known in the neighborhood. All to be able to stand outside an absent Dean Ashlock's door for however long it took to examine the lock -- without the neighbors getting curious.

  Cheap lock, as it turned out, one the "truth in packaging" people should insist be labeled, "Standard-pickable."

  Besides "casing" the lock, Z had learned that the dean's L-shaped ranch was a recent, and jarring addition to an aged, tree-lined street of nineteenth century, two-and-three-story "fixer-uppers." The Ashlock house a rambling dogleg of a structure, painted white with dark green shutters, perfectly clipped Virginia bluegrass surrounding it -- a lawn-look achieved by professionals hired to administer lethal injections to native grasses.

  A cement driveway came in from White Street, ending in a two-car garage; the house also accessed from the alley; a massive oak tree sheltering the front of the house on the near side.

  His morning trip to Liberty a success, Jamie Stewart had come over in the afternoon (her body, sausage-stuffed into a too small red shirt and painted on jeans,) Z showing Jamie how to focus and click the shutter of the camera he'd bought for her, the flash the automatic kind that went off in low light. Telling her she didn't have to buy film, that the camera was ready to go (just point and shoot,) Z bum-rushed the girl and camera out of the house before she could even think of getting "frolicsome." (A by-product of this Ashlock business was Z'
s plan to put a choke-chain around the neck of bitchy Jamie Stewart -- bitchy, but cute, in a perpetually-in-heat way.)

  Nighttime vanquishing another day, Z now approached the Ashlock house from the back, leaving the alley to weave past a strategically planted shadow fall of weeping willows, then around trimmed shrubbery, and wood-slatted benches. With the night as treacherously black as any coal shaft, Z's charmed passage was the result of his morning's look at the Ashlock "estate."

  Slipping to the front, putting the sacks down on the stoop, adjusting the camera slung over his shoulder, Z was relieved to find the package he'd sent right where it should be, in the metal mailbox. Thinking about it, he decided to leave the parcel where it was. In a business where details counted, it wouldn't hurt to let Ashlock add his fingerprints to the package while taking it inside.

  Lock picks at the ready, storm door open, Z turned his attention to the main door; had the house unlocked as quickly as if he'd had a key. Picking up the grocery sacks, he stepped inside, shutting the door behind him.

  Calder assuring Z that workaholic Ashlock wouldn't return to his home until later that night, Z had time to give the blacked out house the once-over, Z shifting one of the bags to the crook of his arm to reach into his pocket for his penlight, flicking on the tiny beam to use for slicing his way from room to room.

  Large living room, the room's furniture transformed to squatty shadows by the little light. Tables, sofas, overstuffed chairs, hassock, coffee table, drop-leaf table by one wall, bookshelves, floor and table lamps. Impressive, in an expensive, highly polished, barely lived-in way.

  Skipping the den, he went down the hall leading to the bedrooms: four of them, one unfurnished, sleeping rooms featuring overlarge windows, each frosted with what Z's Mom would have called "glass" curtains, behind the gauzy draperies, yellow blinds, pulled down.

  Backtracking to leave the sacks in the hall -- both bags stuffed with party goodies: chips, dip, liquor -- getting out his pocket knife, unfolding the blade, Z returned to each bedroom to make an unobtrusive stab-twist in each of the room's window shades, doing anything while strapped to a camera, more difficult.

  Rescuing the bags, Z found the kitchen, putting the sacks on the kitchen counter.

  What Ashlock would make of the mysterious materialization of groceries (should he go into the shiny kitchen,) Z didn't know. And didn't care. If the timing was right, it shouldn't matter.