Murder by Candlelight

by John Stockmyer

  No calls.

  No business, new or otherwise.

  Z hadn't heard from Harry Grimes for some time. But didn't feel like putting in a call to Harry before Z had his own life in order. Better to tie up loose ends, his Mom used to say, before breaking out new yarn.

  It wasn't until later that night at home, Z's nerves now so taut he was beyond sleep, that he had the opportunity to put Calder's suggestion about list-making into practice.

  After splashing kerosene in the fireplace to help ignite a couple of unusually green logs, Z got a piece of notebook paper out of the kitchen drawer where he kept the writing supplies. Also fingered out an advertising-quality ball-point pen.

  Sitting down at the old kitchen-dining room table, inhaling the perfume of smoking wood and listening to the pop and spit of damp oak to settle himself, Z clicked down the point of his pen to write the single word "Picnic" at the top center of the page; remembering that this was to be a list, wrote the number 1 to the left of the word.

  It was at the reunion picnic that Bud Izard had asked for Z's help. Kunkle was threatening Bud, Bud said, because Kunkle thought Bud had stolen Kunkle's girl -- a high-priced hooker.

  1. Picnic

  2. Bud asks for help

  3. Kunkle thinks Bud stole Kunkle's girl.

  4. The girl was a racehorse

  Reduced to black and white, even the early events of this "caper" made no sense. Everything had seemed OK with Bud's account of the problem -- until Z had gotten a look at Kunkle's disaster of a house, the shabby home banishing even the idea that Kunkle could afford a high-dollar call girl. To say nothing of Kunkle thinking he had dibs on such a woman, enough of a claim to warn Bud Izard away from her.

  There was just no way that story would hold up.

  But ... what sort of lie was it? A lie Kunkle told to Bud? Or one Bud told to Z?

  For the moment in the dark about how this early falsehood about Kunkle and the girl had changed the situation, Z jotted down "phony story" after the third entry.

  Back to the list.

  Z had gone to Kunkle's crappy place the next night, zapped Kunkle, tied him up, and searched the house. Had found the secret drawer in the old desk. Cards. A notebook.

  Closing his eyes, Z tried to remember what was in the notebook.

  Names.

  Phone numbers.

  Most of the listings and numbers were of stores. Pizza places.

  Though there were two private names in the book, the only entry Z could recall was Bud Izard. And Bud's phone number.

  Z added number 5 to the list, writing: sapped Kunkle. Wrote 6: Searched drawer. After number 7, he put: Found cards and notebook. No. 8: Bud's name and number in the book.

  These new tabulations made some kind of sense -- and yet, they didn't.

  Kunkle was harassing Bud. But was that a good reason for Bud's name to be in Kunkle's book? Bud's name, plus Bud's phone number. Reflecting, Z remembered that Bud said Kunkle had come to the tavern to give Bud the black queen of spades -- the "death" card. The "non-barking dog" in this situation was that Bud had not said a word about Kunkle making threatening phone calls.

  So ... what was Bud's name and number doing in Kunkle's little black book?

  To be thought about later.

  Nine: Queen of spades missing from an old card deck in the drawer.

  The missing queen tied Kunkle to Bud's story about Kunkle threatening Bud. The "death" queen came from Kunkle's card pack, the rest of the pack in Kunkle's secret drawer.

  So far, the list read:

  1. Picnic.

  2. Bud asks for help.

  3. Kunkle thinks Bud stole Kunkle's girl. Phony story.

  4. The girl was a racehorse.

  5. Zap Kunkle.

  6. Searched drawer.

  7. Found cards and notebook.

  8. Bud's name and number in the book.

  9. Queen of spades missing from an old card deck in the drawer.

  Z had another thought. Bud said Kunkle had taken a shot at Bud. But Z had found no gun in Kunkle's home. Or in Kunkle's car. A surprise. Making number 10: No gun.

  Next, came the candle-above-his-head routine for Kunkle. Only five candles. No. 11: Five candles.

  Number 12 was: Telling Bud he was safe. That Kunkle wouldn't bother Bud anymore. Number 13 was: Z learning that the candle wax had suffocated Kunkle. After which, the nightmares began.

  Z had a thought that stumped him. Should he add to the list events that happened at the same time, even though unrelated to the Kunkle affair? With dreams, anything was possible, he supposed. Anyway, 13 was an unlucky number ......

  So for good measure, Z listed under 14: The murder of his high school classmate. What was his name? Z tried to think. Attempted to recall the name by picturing the man, getting only a fuzzy picture of a boy in high school. Lee ... something or other. ... Lee ... Dotson. It was the death of Dotson that had given Scherer the opportunity to hassle Z, Scherer pretending there was a connection between Z and the death of Z's old schoolmate. Ridiculous, of course. Just Scherer being a bully. Paying Z back for Z dumping on Scherer in the radio interview. Still, being pulled in by Scherer may have had something to do with the dreams continuing.

  Lee Dotson.

  Though Z didn't know why, the name meant something; not as a school chum; but in some other context. Was it that Z had seen the Dotson name in print? ... In the newspaper?

  Z didn't think so. Anyway, now that he was turning Dotson's name over in his mind, Z didn't think he had seen the name in print so much as in ... writing. Cursive writing. But ... where?

  Z had a head for numbers. He never had to hear a phone number twice to remember it forever. If there was some reason he wanted to recall it, that is. He was good with faces, too. Not as good as with numbers, but good enough. As for names ....

  Like lightning rips the darkest night, Z knew! He certainly had seen Lee Dotson's name. Seen it recently. And in cursive. Lee Dotson was one of the entries in Howard Kunkle's little book! Along with the names of stores. Take-out food restaurants. Besides business names and numbers, there were two other entries: Bud Izard and Lee Dotson.

  What this meant, if anything, was that the first order of business was to correct the list, Z writing, "Also Lee Dotson" after "Bud's name and number in the book." Behind number 8.

  Though Z took some time to ponder this new remembrance, he couldn't come up with anything, except the coincidence of the murdered man making Kunkle's list.

  List of ... what? Numbers the little man called frequently? That was the usual reason for jotting down a list of names and phone numbers. And, yet, Bud Izard had made no mention of Kunkle calling him to complain about Bud's alleged connection with Kunkle's call girl.

  Using the list as a guide, Z started over on a fresh piece of paper.

  1. Picnic.

  2. Bud asks for help.

  3. Kunkle thinks Bud stole Kunkle's girl. Phony story.

  4. The girl was a racehorse.

  5. Zap Kunkle.

  6. Search secret drawer in desk.

  7. Found cards, notebook.

  8. Bud's name and number in notebook. Also Lee Dotson.

  9. Queen of spades missing from old card pack.

  10. No gun.

  11. Five candles.

  12. Telling Bud he's safe.

  13. Learning the wax had killed Kunkle.

  14. Dotson Murdered.

  Reviewing the inventory, there was a lot wrong with it. Bud's story about Kunkle, for one thing. The fact that Lee Dotson's name was in Kunkle's book, for another. (Z was suspicious of coincidences. Everyone in his profession was.) Also the fact that Kunkle had no gun. And last, but certainly not least, that the wax from five candles had suffocated Kunkle.

  Five candles.

  Too little wax.

  Anyway, the openings in Kunkle's nose (everyone's nose) faced down. No way for the wax to get up into the nose to close off the little man's breathing. Particularly since Kunkle was breathing in a
nd out. Breathing out would blow away the liquid wax before it could congeal. And yet, Z believed the police report that Kunkle had been suffocated. Though Z didn't like cops -- no one did -- they'd be on the money about Kunkle's death. Nor would they make an error about his nose being stopped up with wax.

  And yet it made no sense. None of it! ..............

  Z was tired. ... Exhausted.

  Pushing away the list, putting down the pen, he rubbed his sand-filled eyes.

  Enough.

  Too much for the shape he was in. ..................

  Tomorrow, he'd take it up again.

  Tomorrow.

  If only he could get a sound night's sleep!

  * * * * *

  Chapter 23

  Next morning, Z started again on yet another piece of paper.

  1. Picnic.

  2. Bud asks for help -- no money to pay.

  3. Kunkle thinks Bud stole Kunkle's girl.

  4. The girl was a racehorse. No way she was Kunkle's girl.

  5. Zap Kunkle.

  6. Stack of money Z left in secret desk drawer. Later missing -- cops?

  7. Notebook -- later missing -- Cops?

  8. Bud's name and number.

  9. Lee Dotson's name and number.

  10. Carrara Marble not in book.

  11. Cards.

  12. Queen of spades missing from pack.

  13. Sunglasses, glue, glim, alcohol = card cheat.

  14. Muscle mags, rubber + no gym equipment, Kunkle a weak guy = homo.

  15. No drugs.

  16. No gun.

  17. No medicine in house, except aspirin.

  18. Five candles.

  19. Leaves house unlocked.

  20. Tips cops so they will come and free Kunkle.

  21. To Bud's tavern. Tells Bud that Kunkle is no problem. Bud nervous, sweaty. Later Z thinks, because Bud had already heard about Kunkle's death.

  22. Bud offers money. Eager to get rid of Z.

  24. Z says, no fee.

  25. Bud says thanks. Tavern his whole life.

  26. Both to say nothing about affair.

  27. Newspaper says Kunkle dead. Wax.

  28. Z thinks, no way.

  29. Nightmares start.

  30. Dotson killed.

  And that was what had to be the final list.

  Proving that all Z had needed was a good night's sleep for his mind to function once more.

  A good night's sleep, itself, something of a puzzle. Z still didn't know the ins and outs of Kunkle's untimely death, and yet, got so much good sleep he hadn't awakened until noon.

  Could it be that sleep without nightmares meant he was just about to find the answers, that Z's hidden mind had already discovered the truth?

  Tired as he'd been, last night's work had pointed out the impossibility that Kunkle could have had an interest in Carrara Marble, the woman a several hundred dollar hooker. Also, that there was no reason Bud's phone number should have been in Kunkle's little black book. Surely, Bud would have mentioned it if, in addition to giving Bud a bad time in person, Kunkle has been harassing Bud with threatening phone calls. Not to mention Bud's claim that Kunkle had taken a shot at Bud -- with Z finding no gun in Kunkle's digs.

  Now that Z had added to the tally, were other revelations hidden in the checklist?

  Z scanned the outline again.

  Calder had said to include details -- and that's what, with a lot of hard work, Z had done.

  There were other particulars, of course. Z could have listed each item of trash he'd found in Kunkle's junker of a car, for instance. ....

  And maybe he should.

  Not wanting to start over -- Z had already done that several times as it was, each time slipping the pages he'd had to revise in the fireplace to be burned -- Z began by adding data, first to No. 14, after "homo," putting: rusty carjack, screwdriver, old milk cartons, empty food bags, wadded-up newspaper.

  What else?

  After No. 13, he made a carrot mark and penned in "super" above glue.

  After "alcohol," Z squeezed in cellophane wrappers.

  Z looked at the list again. Added, "Bud invites Z to play cards." Also, "Bud in bad shape: can't read." Also, "Doesn't watch TV." Also, "Olin Brainbridge works for Bud. Olin has cold. Olin has quit."

  Staring at the revised list, Z began to feel a familiar sensation at the back of his neck, a prickling he sometimes had when about to discover a truth. ......

  And there it was!

  Why Z hadn't seen it before, he didn't know, knowing only that Calder was a genius for having suggested an itemization! If Z hadn't seen it in black and white, he might never have wised up.

  Furthermore, the answer encompassed the two most important guidelines old cops preached to rookies.

  Motive.

  And opportunity.

  Speaking of motive, detective novels generally said there were the only three motives for murder.

  Love.

  Money.

  And hate-revenge. (Not to exclude an occasional killing done by the world's increasing number of fanatics, political and religious crazies included.)

  Z looked at his watch. Blinked. Held his wrist as far away from his eyes as his arm would stretch. Squinted to see the watch's spidery hands, hands that were becoming more slender by the year.

  Midnight.

  Midnight? Could it be midnight?

  Z put the watch to his ear. Heard its unsteady tick.

  Z stretched, a stretch that made his muscles creak -- Z's back certainly tired enough for it to be midnight.

  He'd started working on the revised list, when? Sometime that afternoon, after he'd gone out for what ritzy people called brunch. (Since he'd slept till noon, more like "lupper" by the time he'd shaved and showered.) Meaning, it could have been four o'clock before he'd sat down to write.

  So, it might be midnight. ......

  No problem.

  He needed to get out of the house for awhile anyway, a short, clarifying car ride certain to do him good.

  Pulling on a light jacket from the living room's half-closet, Z stepped outside the apartment door to find the night both dark and middle-of-September cool, Z almost going back inside for a heavier coat. An idea he rejected since it was only a short walk down the back path to the dilapidated garage. After that, he'd be in the car, the Cavalier's heater still working.

  Dark.

  So dark, Z tripped on one of the uneven concrete slabs of the walk, catching himself, but twisting his knee. (Though he'd had trouble with that knee since football, it had been better of late. Z could only hope that the sharp stab of every other step didn't mean another long stretch of painful recovery.)

  Inside the car, out of the garage, down the street, he turned left on 72nd, Z continuing to be chilly enough to think of little else but when the whiny little engine would heat up, the car actually doing that by the time he'd hit the red light at Oak, Z beginning to feel warm enough to relax the cold-tight muscles of his back.

  With the green, he turned left on Oak, Z drifting through the sparse, late night traffic of that north-south arterial, finally leaving the lights of North Kansas City behind him, the four-lane increasingly deserted as he neared the ASB bridge. The only cars -- trucks, mostly -- this far south were those headed over the replacement "Heart of America" bridge into Kansas City proper.

  Except for a few saloons, KCMO was shut down for the night.

  Just to this side of the approach to the ASB, Z eased his car off the right lane, coasting down to park at that location's industrial-strength curb.

  Getting out, Z was careful to lock the car in this rust belt neighborhood, caught between industrial North Kansas City at its back and the muddy Missouri at its feet.

  Thick clouds masking moon and stars, the night was as black as an insurance salesman's conscience; cold as the blood in an actuary's heart.

  No other cars were parked along the street.

  If Bud had any trade this evening, it had to be the stagger-in
kind.

  Limping over the high curb, crossing the uneven walk, Z opened the familiar green door.

  Ducking inside the saloon's wet warmth, the door creaked shut behind him.

  Z's eyes already accustomed to the outside gloom, he glanced around. In the gaudy glare of the silent jukebox, in the electric hum of neon beer signs, seeing ... no one.

  Correction. Seeing a dimly lighted Bud, hunched behind the bar, his elbows propping up his fat body.

  Black string tie. White, western shirt.

  "Slow night," Z said when he was in muttering distance, Bud straining in the joint's half-light to see who'd come in.

  "Z! What you doin' here this time of night?" All of his chins now smiling, Bud straightened up. Reached across the bar to shake Z's hand.

  Z "stooled" himself. Looked into Bud's pig-stupid eyes. Said, "I know."

  "Know what?" Bud still had that sickly grin on his puffy white face.

  "You killed Howard Kunkle."

  "Wait a minute," Bud said, his child's voice now a squeak, Bud putting his arms out in front of him, palms up, as if to ward off evil. "Who told you that? That ain't true, and ...."

  "First," Z cut in, in too good a mood for late night bullshit, "because I couldn't have done it."

  "You're not makin' any sense, boy. What you talkin' about?"

  "Not with five candles. I knew that all along. Just couldn't get myself to believe it. And that leaves ... you. Besides me, you're the only one who knew I was going to see Kunkle. Knew the time. Knew the place. Thinking my talk with Kunkle wouldn't work, you followed me. Discovering the door was open, went in after I left. Finding Kunkle tied and his mouth taped, you killed him."