by Parnell Hall
Poor man.
I realized it was the first time since the murder I had thought of him in that way. As a poor man. Whether it was the sound of the slap, or the tears on her face, or the look in his eyes when I’d passed the booth, or whether I was just projecting all that, but up till now I had never once felt sorry for Lars.
And it bothered me. Not that I hadn’t felt sorry for him. But that I did now. Because it occurred to me the only reason I did now was because mentally I had taken him off my list of murder suspects. And the only reason I would have done that was if I thought I knew who did it. And in the present state of the evidence, the only one I could possibly make a case for thinking they might have done it would be Florence.
And I had not let myself believe that. Despite the evidence. Despite what I’d said to Alice. Despite everything else, I still clung to the hope that Florence, the woman with the dog, was not guilty. Was not the one who had done it.
My sudden feeling for Lars showed me just how hollow was that particular hope. How much I had been deluding myself.
I shook my head angrily. Get a grip. You’re in here, risking discovery, for a purpose. Go to it.
I went through the clothes in the closet, searching the pockets. Christine’s held nothing. Indeed, her clothes had few pockets to search.
Lars’ jacket was another story. I found a comb, a pen, a handkerchief, and a half-dozen business cards from an insurance firm in Boston. In the lower right hand corner it read LARS HEINRICK, SALES EXECUTIVE. A fancy name, to be sure.
I put one of the cards in my pocket. I don’t know why, I just found it interesting. Maybe the fact he was from Boston. Of course, they had to be from Boston for Christine and Florence’s husband to have gotten involved.
Or maybe it was the fact Lars sold insurance for a living. I wondered what that meant. Was a sales executive just someone who ran around trying to sell people insurance? Did he work on commission and, if so, just how successful was Lars?
Believe me, I hadn’t been standing there thinking all that. I, in fact, had moved on to the dresser, was pulling open drawers.
The top one held her underwear. It was sheer. I felt a number of conflicting emotions. Here I was, snooping through the lingerie of this very attractive woman, who had appealed to me for help before becoming the centerpiece in this murder I felt I now had to solve.
Second drawer, more clothes. Of the T-shirt variety. Plus the bathing suit she’d been wearing by the pool. Another disturbing mental image.
Bottom drawer, just a couple of pairs of pants.
I started to close the drawer, noticed a bulge.
Stopped.
Lifted the pants.
A case. A small leather case. The size a man might use to carry his toiletries.
Oh, boy.
I cocked my ear to the door.
Heard nothing.
Looked at the case.
It had a zipper that went three quarters of the way around.
Enough hesitation. I pulled the zipper, lifted the top.
Inside was just what I’d expected. A comb. A hairbrush. A safety razor. A toothbrush.
Perfectly normal.
Except.
Even from where I stood, I could see all those items laid out on the shelf over the bathroom sink.
So why the case?
There was a zippered compartment in the lid. I unzipped it, pulled out a nail clipper. Some Q-tips. Some Band-Aids. Some Tylenol.
And ...
A small, glass, screw-top bottle half full of white powder.
Good lord.
The poison?
Had I actually found the poison?
I was beginning to sweat. Too many things were open. The open door. The open drawer. The open case. The open compartment.
The open vial?
I felt in my pocket for a piece of paper. Found a stick of gum. Wrigley’s Doublemint. Double your pleasure, double your fun. I pulled the wrapper off, unfolded it. Set it on the floor. Unscrewed the top from the little glass bottle, tilted it over the gum wrapper, tapped some powder out.
And heard a step on the stair!
What a chill.
What a rush of adrenaline.
What a moment of sheer, unadulterated panic.
I screwed the top on the bottle, zipped the bottle in the compartment, zipped the case shut, slid the case in the drawer, flipped the pants over it, closed the drawer, bolted out of the room.
Before I could slam the door, a voice demanded, “What are you doing?”
I turned around to find Lars Heinrick. He’d stopped a few steps from the top of the stairs. He was looking up at me, a scowl on his face.
I blinked at him. Said the first thing that came to mind. Which turned out to be, “Huh?”
Lars Heinrick came up the last few steps. “Just what do you think you’re doing?”
“Walking the dog.”
He blinked at me. “Huh?”
“The woman’s in jail. They asked me to walk the dog.”
Lars Heinrick blinked again. I could practically see his mind struggling its way through the non-sequitur. “That’s my room.”
“I beg your pardon?”
Lars pointed. “That’s my room.”
I pointed too. “That’s your room?”
“Yes.”
“I was wondering where the dog was.”
“How did you get in my room?”
“I wasn’t going in your room. I was just gonna walk the dog.”
“How did you open the door?”
“Oh. I have a key.” I held it up.
“You have the key to my room?”
“No. I have the passkey. They gave me a passkey to walk the dog. So, this is the wrong room.” I pointed across the hall. “Is that room hers?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Oh. My mistake. Sorry to bother you.”
I crossed the hallway, put the key in the lock, unlocked the door.
“Here, Prince,” I called.
I was afraid Prince would be too busy eating to care, but he came bounding right up. I grabbed him by the collar, pretended to find the leash on the inside doorknob.
“Right where she said it would be,” I said, although it was actually right where I’d left it.
I snapped the leash on the collar, closed the door, smiled at Lars, said, “Come on, Prince,” and followed the dog down the stairs.
My heart was pounding. Had I really gotten away with it? Had Lars bought the story? Or had he seen me with Prince earlier, when he was coming down the stairs? And even if he hadn’t, would something else trigger his memory? Make him suddenly realize I’d already walked the dog?
Well, there was nothing I could do about it, but thanks to Lars, Prince was getting a double dip. I took him out on the front lawn, ran him around a while. Just long enough to seem reasonable, in case Lars noticed me bringing him back.
He didn’t. At least, as far as I know, he didn’t. He might have been listening just inside the door. But, in that case, I realized, it made little difference, since his suspicions would be already aroused.
At any rate, I didn’t see him. I put the dog back in the room, went downstairs, and returned the passkey to Louise.
“You walked him twice,” Louise said.
I was afraid she’d noticed. “Yeah. After I fed him, he needed to go again.”
“Maybe you should feed him first.”
I nodded. “Now I know.”
Moments later I was out the front door.
With the evidence in my pocket.
25.
PINEHURST WASN’T IMPRESSED.
“You stole this from his room?”
“I uncovered some evidence.”
“Is that what you call this?”
“You think this isn’t evidence?”
“It doesn’t matter what I think. It matters what a judge does.”
“A judge, Chief? Let’s not get sidetracked here. The point is not whether this evidence will sta
nd up in court. The point is what it means.”
“It means you’re guilty of criminal trespass.”
“Fine. Arrest me. Put me in jail. But that’s another tangent. The point is, if this is poison, you’ve got your killer.”
“I’ve already got my killer.”
“You just think you do. But what if you’re wrong?”
“Then I will need to catch another killer. Which I can only do by legal means.”
“Fine. Do it by legal means. Just do it.”
“Unfortunately, you’ve rendered that impossible. By an illegal search and seizure.”
“Wrong. Absolutely wrong. I am not a policeman. I’m a private citizen. I cannot violate Lars Heinrick’s rights. I might lay myself open to criminal prosecution or a civil suit, but that’s another matter. And that’s way off the subject. The point is, Lars Heinrick had this powder. It might be poison. Now, you want to analyze it or not?”
“Of course I want to analyze it. Otherwise I won’t know what it is.”
“Fine. Then we have no problem.”
“That will depend on what it is. If it’s poison, we have a big problem.”
“No, we don’t. If it’s poison, you know who the killer is. So you get a warrant, you search his room, end of case.”
“And if it turns out that warrant was obtained on the basis of information found during an illegal search, any evidence I find during my own search is contaminated and cannot be used in court.”
“Fine, Chief. Split hairs all you want.” I pointed to the Doublemint gum wrapper full of powder I had laid on Pinehurst’s desk. “If this is poison, never mind what it means legally, at least you’ll know who did it.”
“But I won’t.”
“What?”
“I won’t know. You give me this powder. You say it’s from his room. It could be. But I have only your word for it.”
“So you search his room and find the vial.”
“That wouldn’t change a thing. For all the same reasons. If you’re making the story up, the question then is how much of your story is true. The part that sounds true is the part about you getting a passkey. If you did, what’s to stop you from planting the poison in his room?”
“Oh, come on.”
“Come on? Why is that any different than you lying in the first place?”
“Why would I lie?”
“Are you kidding? If the woman is innocent, as you maintain, then you yourself are a suspect. Not to mention your wife. You’d have every reason to lie.”
I looked at him narrowly. “You know, Chief, it occurs to me the way you’re belittling this, maybe you got something better. You find anything in Florence’s room?”
“I was not aware that you were a party to this investigation.”
“I’m not. I’m that insufferable amateur detective that’s always messing around with the evidence. However, if you want me to go away, your best bet is to give me what you’ve got. Because I’m not inclined to fly in the face of logic. If you found something that nails down the case against Florence, I’ll feel stupid about my gum wrapper full of powder.”
“And it would be worth telling you just for that,” Pinehurst said. “Unfortunately, I can tell you nothing. Because we found nothing. Not that we expected to. And not that it weakens our case. I wouldn’t expect her to hang on to the murder weapon. If she had, I would have found it suspicious.” He pointed to the Doublemint wrapper. “Just as I find this somewhat suspicious.”
“Beware of Greeks bearing gifts, Chief?” I said. “Anyway, when you get this analyzed, you mind telling me what it is?”
“You’ll be one of the first to know. If it’s poison, you’ll probably be under arrest.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“For trying to frame Lars Heinrick. And that’s just for starters. You might be under arrest for murder.”
“What?”
“Well, why not? If you had the murder weapon in your possession.”
“Which I brought to you.”
“Yes, of course. The colossal double bluff. The killer, arrogantly overconfident, walks into the police station and hands over the murder weapon to the poor, bumbling investigator, all the time laughing in his sleeve.”
“I think that’s a misplaced modifier, Chief.”
“Huh?”
“Wasn’t it the murderer who was laughing in his sleeve?”
Pinehurst frowned. “You think I’m kidding?”
I exhaled, shook my head.
“I sure hope you’re kidding.”
26.
WE HAD DINNER with Jean and Joan. After the events of the day, I suppose that was inevitable. They were eager to pump me for information.
So were the Mclnnernys. They descended on our table before Louise could stop them, and demanded to know what was going on. I was torn between wanting to be rid of them, and not wanting to be outright rude. Fortunately, they didn’t know how much I knew. In fact, they didn’t know much at all.
“An affair, that’s the rumor,” Mrs. Mclnnerny said. “That’s the story going around.”
“Well, let’s not spread it any further,” I said. “If we could at least keep our voices down.”
“As if everyone didn’t know,” Mrs. Mclnnerny said. “That woman was having an affair right under her boyfriend’s nose.”
Ah. That affair. The one with Randy. The Mclnnernys knew nothing about Florence’s husband. In terms of the murder investigation, they were a good two steps behind.
“One shouldn’t speak ill of the dead,” Jean or Joan said. The plumper one. It occurred to me I had to ask Alice which was which again.
“Don’t be silly,” Mrs. Mclnnerny said. “It’s a murder case, and the facts are the facts. But they have to make sense. What could this possibly have to do with your friend with the dog?”
“Absolutely nothing,” I said. “It’s my opinion the police made a mistake.”
“But they must have some reason,” Johnny said. “You spoke to them, what did they say?”
“Florence isn’t talking on the advice of her attorney.”
Anyone wondering about the actual effectiveness of the concept of innocent until proven guilty and the right to remain silent should have seen the look on the Mclnnernys’ faces. From their reaction, I might as well have told them Florence had confessed.
“I can’t believe it,” Mrs. Mclnnerny said. “She seemed like such a nice woman.”
I resisted adding, “With an awful dog.”
“She is a nice woman,” Jean/Joan the thinner said. “The police made a mistake.”
It was nice to see her standing up for Florence. Particularly since she was better informed than the Mclnnernys. Jean and Joan knew about Florence’s husband’s affair.
As I sat there, trying to figure out how to get rid of the Mclnnernys, it occurred to me what a complicated dynamic there was at the table, in terms of levels of information.
The Mclnnernys were at the bottom of the food chain. They knew about Christine’s affair with Randy, and not much else.
Jean and Joan, on the other hand, knew about Christine’s affair with Florence’s husband. But they didn’t know about my discovery in Lars Heinrick’s room.
Alice knew that. I told her as soon as I got back. Actually, I told her before I left. What I’d found and was talking to Pinehurst about. Then when I got back, I told her Pinehurst’s reaction. Which was frustrating as hell. And not just his reaction. But her reaction to it. Because Alice, in her infinite contrariness, saw nothing wrong with Pinehurst’s point of view.
“But I didn’t plant the evidence,” I told her.
“Of course not,” Alice said. “You don’t have to convince me. But I can see why it wouldn’t convince him.”
See? Totally exasperating. Anyway, there I was, sitting at the table, dealing with a who-knew-what-when scenario potentially more complicated than Watergate. So it was a relief when Louise showed up to guide the Mclnnernys away.
When she did,
it seemed to me they were regarding her differently. I wondered if that was because they had identified her as the mother of the person with whom they had heard Christine had had the affair.
The minute they were gone, Jean/Joan the thinner took up the attack.
“So, what’s the story?” Jean/Joan the thinner said. “Has he traced him yet?”
The he and the him had been gone over before the Mclnnernys’ interruption. Jean/Joan was asking if Pinehurst had found out who the hiker was. Jean and Joan knew I’d gone back to the police station. They did not know I’d gone back there to deliver evidence that might be poison. They had assumed—and Alice and I had not contradicted the assumption—that I had gone there to follow up on the investigation we’d begun. To see if the police had traced down our man.
“Not yet,” I said. “He assures me it’s being done, but claims he hasn’t had the time.”
“How long could it take?” Jean/Joan the plumper.
“Longer than usual, because he doesn’t know what road it is, either.”
“What?”
“He doesn’t know the name of the road, any more than we do. There’s no signpost, so he doesn’t know.”
“What about the license plate number?”
“He doesn’t have it.”
“Why not?”
“Because there’s no way to get it without tipping the man off.”
See what I mean about complicated? What I was telling Jean and Joan now was a complete fabrication. What I assumed was Pinehurst’s assessment of the situation. In actual point of fact, Pinehurst and I hadn’t discussed the hiker from Champney Falls at all. At least not when I’d gone there to give him the poison.
It was long about then that Lucy passed by and slipped a piece of paper under Alice’s coffee cup. I couldn’t quite believe she’d done that. I snatched it out, opened it up, read:
CHICKEN DIJONNAISE
2 1/2-3 pound whole free range chicken
sprigs of fresh tarragon