Holmes Sweet Holmes

by Dan Andriacco

  She threw her arms around me and started caterwauling like the wail of the damned.

  “Peter, Peter,” she sobbed. “I saw it on CNN right after I talked to you.” CNN - well, I guess that made Oscar happy. “I knew something like this was going to happen. I told you!” The grief turned to rage and she struck at me with her fists, pounding my chest as hard as she could. “I told you! I told you! Why didn’t you stop it? I told you to stop it!”

  Mac pulled her off of me. “We did all that anyone could,” he said, speaking gently. “We followed Peter and watched the house that he went to. The killer was there first and escaped in the guise of a letter carrier.”

  “I don’t give a shit about your excuses. Peter is dead, dead, dead.” The last plaintive words were nearly smothered in choked sobs as she buried her head in her hands. I led her over to one of the beds and sat her down.

  “I share your grief,” Mac said. “I have known Peter, sometimes well, for fifteen years. Even when we were not in close touch, I considered us friends. There is little we can do now except avenge his death by learning the identity of his murderer. Jefferson here called you several times to tell you what happened. You were gone each time, even though when we left you, you seemed to be so upset with worry that you could barely function. Would you care to explain that?”

  She stared at him, as if finding it hard to believe that he meant what he seemed to mean. Then she decided that he did mean it. “You bastard,” she said. “You fat bastard. How dare you -”

  “Answer his question, Quandra,” I snapped. Call me cold, but I’d had enough.

  She gave me a look that let me know I shouldn’t expect a Christmas card from her. Then she wiped her eyes, breathed deeply, and plunged into the story.

  “Being alone in this room, walking back and forth from bed to chair, not knowing what was happening with you and Peter, was driving me crazy. I just had to get out. I didn’t know where to go or what to do. I just left. I wound up in a sports bar around the corner.” That would be Bobbie McGee’s. “I had a few drinks by myself. Then a guy came over, sat down, started to talk to me. He was no kid - a successful businessman type, not bad looking. I had a few more drinks. After that it gets kind of fuzzy. We wound up at another hotel. That’s where I woke up this morning.”

  “What hotel?” Mac asked. Erin proper has a couple of real hotels, and there are some chain motels on the outskirts.

  “I didn’t pay attention. I couldn’t even describe it very well or tell you how to get there. I just wanted to get the hell out of the place when I woke up this morning. I wasn’t very proud of myself. The guy seemed happy enough to bring me right here. We didn’t stop for breakfast and small talk.”

  “What was his name?” Mac asked. “Where was he from?”

  “We didn’t get around to details.” Why am I not surprised?

  “You don’t have much of an alibi,” I observed.

  “You think I care about that? You think I care what happens to me now that Peter is dead?”

  “If you are as grief-stricken as you appear, I am quite sure that you do not,” Mac said. “Not today. Someday, however, you will. Then the matter of an alibi may be of some importance to you. At that point you will be pleased to realize that Jefferson has been overly pessimistic in that regard. You are an attractive woman. People notice you. The chances are reasonably good that someone saw you in the bar at the relevant hour and will recall.

  “As to the other places you visited, including the hotel where you woke up this morning, this is a small community. Even allowing the possibility that you may have gone beyond the city limits and into a neighboring town, showing your picture around in enough places should turn up witnesses in your behalf - assuming your account is accurate, of course. That is exactly the sort of activity in which the police forces of the world, even Erin, excel.”

  Quandra put her hands to her temples and talked through her teeth. “I don’t want to talk to the police.”

  “But they’ll want to talk to you,” I said. “You can’t avoid it.”

  “She can, however, delay it,” Mac said, “and it is in our interests that she does so. That will give Oscar something to think about. While he is thinking about Quandra, he will not be thinking about us.”

  “Let’s not forget Geoffrey Kenlake,” I said. “We need to tell Oscar he’s worth a second look. That’ll keep him busy.”

  “Hey, guys, I’m still here,” Quandra said. Apparently she was feeling ignored. “Just what do you two have to hide?” She looked from one to the other of us. Mac answered her:

  “There are certain circumstances regarding the murder of Rodney Stonecipher that could cause us great embarrassment or worse. These circumstances could take our friend Chief Hummel down a false investigative path, siphoning off energies that could be better employed in pursuit of the murderer.

  “You, Ms. Hall, are in a somewhat similar position. Your absence from the scene last night at a time of great danger for your friend and employer is hard to explain. However, it is explainable. Although your alibi is tenuous, it has the virtue of not sounding contrived - who would make up a story so weak? Above all, if Oscar were to cast you in the role of a woman scorned who turned to murder, he would have a devil of a time explaining why you killed Mr. Stonecipher. No one would believe that you could be taken in by the impersonation. And how would you even know that Peter was supposed to be in Erin?”

  “Maybe the first murder was just to confuse things,” I said. Quandra and Mac both stared daggers at me. “Hey, I’m just trying to apply Oscar logic.”

  Mac nodded as if in concession. “I think you have something there. That is just such a fantasy as Oscar might spin - despite his accusation that my books are far-fetched. Of course, he would then be looking for some way that Quandra knew about the dinner at the Faculty Club.”

  “All right, stop it - stop it!” Quandra cried. She shook her head. “I’m in no condition to understand all this crap you’re laying on me. All I know is, I don’t feel like talking to the cops.”

  “Then leave here,” Mac said. “Go someplace they won’t look for you. Go to see a film.”

  She stood up, looping the strap of a purse around her right shoulder. “A film!” she repeated with a hoarse, bitter laugh. “Like that’s just what I need to take my mind off Peter!”

  The telephone rang.

  Quandra picked up the receiver. “Hello? Yes, this is - Oh, Fitz, I don’t know what’s going on, really. I just know that he’s dead. What good will that do? All right, then, if you’ve made up your mind. When? Why don’t you meet me here at the hotel? Okay, I’ll see you then.”

  She hung up and turned to me.

  “That was Fitzwater. He’s coming to Erin tomorrow to ‘make sure the local police conduct a proper, professional investigation.’ That means he plans to shout and make demands and generally tell everybody how to do things. He thinks that’s how you get results.”

  “And what I think,” said Mac, “is that we need to speak to him before he speaks to Oscar. As suspects go, he isn’t the least likely.”

  Showdown

  Rain is no respecter of birthdays. Monday morning dawned with heavy showers and thunder - mood music for the turmoil in my life right then.

  But my mood brightened and I stopped feeling sorry for myself when my first birthday greeting of the day arrived before I was even out of my pajamas. It was a text message from Lynda: Happy Birthday! Hope to see you tonight. Love always, L.

  Okay, so it wasn’t exactly Please have your way with me soon and often, man of my dreams. But that would have taken a lot more letters. I was just appreciative that she invested the extra letter to write “love” instead of the odious “luv.”

  So I wrote back: Thanks. Not “Tnx.” Good luck with Megan. This was the day of Lynda’s big meeting with the Dragon Lady. I hoped th
e encounter didn’t cause her to have unpleasant associations with my birthday forever after.

  I didn’t know what she had in mind for later - this was her taekwondo night with Triple M - but I like surprises. If I’d known what kind of birthday present she would be giving me by the end of the day, I never would have been able to concentrate on the various tasks at hand.

  Blissfully ignorant of that, I got dressed with CNN on in the background. I started paying attention when they went into a story about the murder of actor-writer-director Peter Gerard. Soon a shot of Oscar Hummel in full dress uniform, police cap included, filled the screen. He didn’t say anything I didn’t know, but he did a creditable job of it. I made a mental note to congratulate him on his national TV debut. After the newsy stuff we were treated to a five-minute retrospective of Gerard’s career, with several clips from 221B Bourbon Street. That segued right into a rehash of the mayhem at the auditorium on Thursday, with the short-term detention of Geoffrey Kenlake. The package closed with the telejournalist reporting that Oscar refused to say whether Kenlake was a person of interest.

  The second-day story treatment in The Erin Observer & News-Ledger focused on the famous mystery writer Sebastian McCabe, his attempt to solve the murder of Rodney Stonecipher, and his role in finding the body. My name was mentioned only in passing, which was fine by me. Lynda included lots of juicy McCabe quotes, some from the previously off-the-record interview on Friday night, and some that he must have uttered in their phone conversation. Along the way there was some background on his long friendship with Gerard, spiced with quotes about his multiple talents.

  “Though I have every confidence in the competence of Chief Hummel and his troops, my own investigative efforts are continuing as well,” Mac promised at the end of the story. Oscar would be thrilled.

  Just as I was finishing the story - and my breakfast of granola and yogurt - my mother called to wish me a happy thirty-seventh birthday. She seemed to be having a good day, and we chatted for a while.

  With all of that I felt like the day was half over by the time I got to my office. I was there about an hour when the latest issue of The Spectator arrived on my desk. Being somewhat mentally occupied with two homicides, I hadn’t given any thought lately to Sylvester Link’s story about Ralph’s efforts to eliminate the popular culture program - and Mac’s position with it. But there it was. I was glad that I’d forewarned Lynda, although I wasn’t sure how big a deal this would be to The Observer in light of the bigger fish that Lynda’s paper was now frying. She hadn’t picked up Sylvester’s story for Monday’s editions, although I had told her to check The Spectator’s website on Sunday. Maybe she’d forgotten, as I had.

  In terms of campus politics, though, Sylvester had served up a pretty juicy stew under a headline reading SKIDS GREASED FOR POPULAR PROFESSOR. Here’s a chunk of it:

  The six-year-old popular culture program, which last week received praise and a $25,000 contribution from famed moviemaker Peter Gerard, may be doomed.

  That could mean the end of the line for one of St. Benignus’s most popular pro-fessors, Dr. Sebastian McCabe, who heads the program.

  Dr. Ralph Pendergast, provost and vice president for academic affairs, has opposed the popular culture program since he came to campus last year, sources say. Now the program is the subject of increased attention after the murder on campus last Wednesday of a man impersonating Peter Gerard, one day before Gerard’s speech at Bauer Hall. Gerard’s talk was co-sponsored by the popular culture program and the St. Benignus Film Society.

  “I am afraid those of us who question the appropriateness of a so-called popular culture curriculum on a college campus found much to strengthen their position, not weaken it,” Pendergast said of the murder last week in a telephone conversation with college public relations director T. Jefferson Cody, sources say.

  Pendergast called a $25,000 contribution to the program by Gerard “insignificant,” adding, “Besides, there’s murder involved now. There isn’t any amount of money that can wash that away.”

  The story, which obviously went to press before the second murder, went on to explain that the program was due for its regular evaluation, and that Pendergast would use that opportunity to try to have it scrapped.

  There was an unexpected bonus on page six: A strongly worded editorial supporting Mac and popular culture. “If the academic vice president thinks education should be nothing more than reading, writing, and ’rithmatic, perhaps he should look for a job in a one-room school house,” it said. Zing!

  The editorial called on Father Pirelli to exercise his authority to overrule the faculty review committee if it came out in favor of abolishing the program, as Pendergast would be urging. It didn’t actually say that students should go on strike to support Mac, if necessary, but it wasn’t hard to read that between the lines.

  I made sure long ago that my office is one of the first on campus to get each edition of The Spectator.

  Thinking that Mac may not have seen it yet, and wanting him to, I walked my copy over to his office. Heidi was sitting at her desk, forbidding, like that dog that guards the gates of Hades.

  “Is he in?” I asked her.

  “Yes, Mr. Cody. Shall I announce you?”

  Well, well. She was developing a sense of humor. Ignoring her, I went into Mac’s office without knocking.

  The great man slouched at his desk in a posture of deep thought while smoking a cigar and reading a digest-size comic book called Dylan Dog through his roundish reading glasses. The cover of the book featured a ghoulish-looking figure in a white mask and cloak, removing a glove to show a bloody hand and arm. A thick stack of yellow message slips sat in one cluttered corner of Mac’s desk.

  “A comic book?” I said. “We’re investigating two murders on which only Pinocchio would dare claim we’ve made any progress and you’re reading a damned comic book?”

  “I prefer to think of it as a graphic novel of the horror genre,” my brother-in-law said in an offended tone. And you call ME a spinmeister, Mac! “Moreover, it is a graphic novel written in Italian, the sonorous language of Dante, grand opera, and Sophia Loren.” Not to mention Don Corleone. “I was just taking a break from not returning all those phone calls from media far and wide.” He nodded toward the message slips.

  Disgusted, I threw my copy of The Spectator on top of his comic book. He grabbed it and read rapidly, the only way he knows how to read.

  “Well, what do you think?” I prodded as he came to the end of the story.

  “I am rather irritated by the syntax in the second sentence of the -”

  “Never mind the writing style, damn it. Do you think it will force the old man into action?”

  “I should be greatly surprised -”

  The phone rang. Mac picked it up.

  “Yes? Oh, good morning, Joseph.” He raised an eyebrow and punched a button, putting the call on speakerphone. It was, of course, Father Pirelli.

  “Is Jeff Cody there with you?”

  “I’m here, Father.”

  “That figures. Well, I wanted to talk to both of you, anyway. I assume you’ve seen this business in The Spectator today?” We both admitted it. “Of course. You probably planted the story. Don’t bother to deny it; it doesn’t matter. The fat’s in the fire now and I have to deal with it. Obviously, I can’t allow this sort of bureaucratic gamesmanship to continue - especially not under the campus-wide scrutiny this article will bring. I would fight Ralph for that reason alone, just on general principles. But there’s a specific principle here as well: I do not intend to abandon at this late date my belief in a broad-based curriculum. The popular culture program will not die if I have anything to say about it. And I intend to have plenty to say about it.”

  “Just what are you planning, Joseph?” Mac asked, a hint of a smile on his face.

  “Be at my office in two hour
s and you’ll find out.”

  He hung up.

  “As I was saying,” Mac said to me, “I should be greatly surprised if Sylvester’s article does not prod the president into strong action.”

  I didn’t know what to expect when we walked into Father Joe’s modest office on the floor above mine in Carey Hall that afternoon. Apparently Ralph Pendergast, seated in front of the white-haired Transfigurationist priest at the mahogany desk, was equally in the dark. When we entered he stood up and started babbling.

  “Father Pirelli, I’m afraid I must insist on knowing the meaning of this. I certainly can’t conceive of anything I have to discuss with these gentlemen after that disgraceful story in The Spectator.”

  “I can,” Father Joe said. “So sit down, all of you.”

  With his stern demeanor and his ramrod straight posture, he was still the loving father figure - if you remember how your father reacted the night you borrowed the car without permission and brought it home with a whole new shape.

  When we had all sat down, he stood up. He leaned over his desk, his fingertips resting on the top, and bored into each of us with those remarkable blue eyes.

  “I won’t waste my time telling you how unseemly I find academic infighting - especially when it is handled so unsubtly that it winds up as story fodder for the campus press. My view of things doesn’t seem to count for much in some quarters at the moment anyway.”

  “I assure you, Father Pirelli,” Ralph interjected, “that I, for one, have nothing but the utmost respect for you and your years of dedication to this college.”

  “Can it, Ralph,” the old man snapped. “I’m not interested in the kind of respect that runs no deeper than platitudinous praise. Save it for dead soldiers and out-of-office politicians. I’m still working and I’m still kicking, as you are about to find out.”