by David Stukas
“OK, now I have a question that will test your theory.”
“Let me hear it, Monette.”
“If you’re going to kill some customs officer in your house, why put his body in a freezer in the basement? Wouldn’t you want to get the body out of there? I mean, someone was bound to find it someday and start putting two and two together and eventually end up with four.”
“I don’t have an answer for that one, Monette. I guess I’ll never be admitted to the Hardy Boys Detective School.”
“Oh, I’ll bet you wished you were running around with the Hardy Boys when you were young. Let me guess, you were in love with Joe Hardy.”
“No, Frank.”
“Let me make one more guess. You dreamed of going snooping with him and getting into all sorts of predicaments.”
My face tried not to show my real thoughts, but Monette read them. She looked at me with a wry smile. “You wanted to be caught by a criminal and get tied up with Frank. I always thought you were kinkier than you let on.”
This time, no response from me.
Finally, I spoke up. “I just hope those surveillance cameras in the house weren’t operating while Siegfreid and I were here. I don’t want to be seen wearing a horse saddle.” (There, dear readers—I told you!) “Could we change the subject?”
“Sure. Change it.”
“So how close is my theory to what happened? Do I get a gold star?”
“I can’t say whether you’ll get a gold star, but you will get what’s coming to you.”
I considered Monette’s statement for a moment and then chose my words very carefully before I spoke. “That’s exactly what I’m afraid of.”
As much as I want to say it was a dark and stormy night—which it looked like it was going to be—there was a more appropriate way to describe it. There is an old Lithuanian saying that it was like a handful of diamonds in a shovel full of shit. Translated: you have to dig through a lot of crap to get to the real gems. Overall, a good saying, however unpleasant the imagery.
This was one of those nights.
Monette had called for everyone to be present at eight P.M. When I joined her in the music room, she was moving about, whistling cheerfully, drawing the curtains and lighting candles.
“Monette, is any of this necessary?” I asked.
“Oh yes. Quite. I’ve read every mystery ever written, and I’ve always wanted to do this. So if you want to know who the murderer is, you’re going to have to play the game my way,” she said. “Now, could you hand me that Ouija board, Robert?”
“Did you want me to go out and rent some wolves so they can sit outside the palace and bay at the moon?”
“I said it before and I’ll say it again, I’m going to have some fun with this. I solved this goddamned murder—with the help of Inspector Taucher—and I’m going to expose the killer my own way.”
“So you’re not going to tell me who did it?” I begged for the umpteenth time.
“Now, Robert, don’t you want to have a little fun?” she asked. “You’re always saying your life is dull.”
“Yes, but sitting next to a murderer is not my idea of a wacky and woolly evening.”
“Don’t worry, Robert. I’ll have several policemen standing guard.”
“That’s not going to stop the murderer from putting a poison tablet in my drink.”
“You know, I didn’t think of that! But I do want you to wear a bulletproof vest tonight, just in case a hand slips out from behind the curtain and throws a Chinese jade sacrificial knife into your back.”
“Don’t joke. I’m worried. And I would feel so much more comfortable if I knew who killed Siegfreid.”
“Robert, who do you take me for? This is Monette. Monette O’Reilley. I told you I wasn’t going to tell you until it’s time. For once in your life, relax! I told you to let it flow with the count, and you went off and had a great time! See?”
“Yeah, and I ended up in the midst—no, make that a prime suspect in the murder of a highly visible gay persona.”
“Robert, stop being so pessimistic! You still had the time of your life . . . and the sex of your life. Look at the bright side.”
“Monette, when you say that I can’t help but think of the end of Monty Python’s Life of Brian, where the characters are all crucified and they’re singing that song, Always Look on the Bright Side of Life.”
“Well, I for one intend to crucify someone tonight.”
There was a knock at the door, and Michael entered with his mother.
“Is this where the party is?” Michael asked.
“I would like to have a cocktail, Robin,” Julia asked me.
Like mother, like son. Cocktails are the lubricants that relieve the friction in the Stark family relationships. Michael, who has lived in denial longer than he has in New York City, has maintained his family is very close. To which I respond, yes, but only because it puts them within striking distance. What Michael doesn’t realize is that the only things that hold his entire hateful family together are alcohol and a substantial inheritance.
“Julie,” Monette said, deliberately mispronouncing Julia’s name in an apparent tit-for-tat reprisal, “the cocktails are over there on the sideboard. Feel free to make yourself one,” she said, knowing full well Julia would prefer someone from a lower tax bracket do it for her.
There was the sound of a doorbell downstairs and restrained conversation as people climbed the stairs and entered the room, with Herr Taucher leading the pack.
“Is this everyone, Heinz?” Monette asked of Herr Taucher, giving us our first exposure to the inspector’s first name.
“This is everyone. Except one. He will be joining us later.”
Monette clapped her hands, cracked her knuckles with a nauseating series of popping tendons, and motioned for everyone to sit down at the large table. I couldn’t get my mind off the fact that one of the occupants of this table was a treacherous murderer. I looked around the table and recognized the majority of the people there—all men.
“OK,” Monette began, “my name is Monette and I will be your host for tonight’s murder—well, hopefully there won’t be a murder. And to make sure, as you will look around, you will see Herr Taucher is armed, and there are several polizei downstairs. I am told you all speak fairly good English, but if there is something you don’t understand, please ask me. Now, let’s begin. All of you were brought here tonight because you were all friends of the late Count Siegfreid von Schmidt. I will introduce you all around the table. To my right is Michael Stark, present at Ludwig’s party; his mother, Julia; Robert Willsop, the last man to see the count alive; Uli Steben, the count’s art dealer; Ludwig Buxtehude, at whose party the count was murdered; Heino Schulte, Siegfreid’s business manager; Karl Dressen, the count’s personal valet; and Helmut Heiting, Siegfreid’s personal cook. Thank you for coming. This won’t take long.”
Monette looked up toward the ceiling, composing her thoughts for a moment, then spoke.
“The murder of Siegfreid von Schmidt began long ago and took a lot of work to make it happen. And it all began in New York City. A young and very naive man living there meets the count. That boy’s name is Robert, the man you see here before you. They fall in love, and are soon seen everywhere ...”
All eyes in the room were suddenly on me. The accusing looks from the faces in the room made me feel like I had killed the count. The voices of guilt in my head told me I had and I didn’t even know it! I was just about to confess to the whole thing when Monette continued.
“The count asks Robert to move with him to Germany, and he does. The count is so in love with Robert that the count made out a will giving everything to him—or so Mr. Willsop says. The count and Robert attend Ludwig’s masquerade ball and, presto, Siegfreid is found dead and the last person to see Siegfreid alive is Mr. Willsop. So I ask myself, this is all too easy! It looks like this young American has killed the count in order to inherit all of Siegfreid’s money. The problem is, t
he count also kept a will at his lawyer’s office here in Berlin. So a handwriting expert looked at the will Robert said was signed by the count.”
Michael raised his hand, asking for permission. Monette had no choice but to honor Michael’s effort to contribute something to this case.
“It wasn’t signed by the count!” Michael said in triumph, thinking only he had come to a conclusion even Pamela Anderson could see coming.
“Thank you, Michael. You’re a regular Agatha Christie.”
I kid you not, this is what Michael responded: “Agatha Kirsty who?”
“Never mind, Michael. Yes, the handwriting expert tells me the will is a fake. The count’s signature is not the handwriting of the count at all! It is close, but not close enough. So something tells me that this young and naive American killed the count in order to get his money. Sometimes these murderers are not as complicated as they may seem. Yes, Robert Willsop, you killed the count in order to become a rich man!” Monette said, raising her voice so dramatically, I was almost tempted to applaud. I wondered what surprise she was going to spring next. But she said nothing. The silence was deafening and the weight of almost a dozen pairs of eyes weighed on my underdeveloped shoulders like a pair of ninety-pound barbells.
“Well, Monette, you certainly had us all fooled. Now I’m sure you’re going to tell everyone here that I didn’t do it, heh, heh, heh,” I said, a lump in my throat the size of a bowling ball.
“I can’t change the truth, Robert. Herr Taucher, I think you have your man. Take him away.”
I sat there stunned for what seemed like an eternity. I didn’t know if I should make a break for it or not, but decided it would not look good. But then again, I started thinking about what life in prison would be like and came to the conclusion it would not be pretty, either. I would make a break for it and jump through the window and fall two stories, landing on my feet like a cat. I would scale the fence like a spider and run to safety right under the noses of the stunned polizei.
Then I would go to an Internet café and secure a fake passport, have plastic surgery done on my face to make me look like George Clooney, and go undercover for the rest of my life. Of course, I would also have to have surgery done on my fingerprints so that Interpol, who would have an all-points bulletin out on me, would always be two steps behind me. All their high-tech gadgetry would be no match for my stunningly agile and cunning supermind.
I would work in a used-record store by day, and at night and on my days off, I would search for the one-armed killer who framed me for Siegfreid’s murder. I was just about to think how I would use parts from an old radio and hair dryer to fashion into a eavesdropping device ... when a policeman clicked handcuffs on my wrists and led me out of the room.
I wanted to go kicking and screaming, but thought that this would be too undignified, so I simply walked with my head down. Wasn’t someone supposed to throw a jacket over my head to protect my identity from the prying press?
This couldn’t be happening! Monette, my closest friend, had betrayed me. I was used to Michael betraying me frequently, but this was all a part of his character that Michael said made him so complex and a challenge to understand and love.
As I walked in sheer terror and full of unnecessary guilt, I began to wonder if it would be difficult to play a practical joke on Monette from prison in order to get revenge. Revenge, as they say, is a dish best served cold, but I think my version would involve scarring acid.
I was in too much shock to think clearly, so when the police led me to a room next door to the music room and not downstairs and into a waiting squad car, I didn’t quite comprehend what was happening. Were they going to question me there? Were they going to put me in an orange jumpsuit, my new prison wardrobe? Were they going to beat me in order to extract a confession? And most importantly, why did I seem to enjoy the prospect of being tied to a chair and receiving a working over by several brutal German policemen? I definitely have to stop spending so much time around Michael.
I entered the room and was escorted to a sofa and asked to sit down. In front of the sofa was a television. One of the policemen closed the door behind him and locked it. I was prepared for the worst. The other one came over and unlocked my handcuffs, turned the television on, and I was instantly presented with a bird’s-eye view of the room I was just in, complete with sound of all the occupants.
I didn’t get it and shrugged my shoulders at the policeman nearest me. The man didn’t speak English, but reached into is pocket and handed me a note—which I read.
Dearest Robert,
GOTCHA! I warned you not to think you could top me when it comes to practical jokes. But what I’ve done to you has a very serious side. I wanted you out of the room in case there’s trouble, plus I was afraid you would guess the identity of the murderer before it was the proper time to do so and blurt it out. Another reason is that I’m planning a little revenge on your part. And finally, I know how you handle crises. So just sit back and enjoy the festivities for the next few minutes, all with the compliments of the surveillance system I finally found in a basement storage room.
Monette
Not since Ellen DeGeneres came out of the closet on prime-time television was I more glued to a set.
At first, no one said much of anything. I assumed they were too stunned. Julia, however, broke the silence.
“I thought he was the type to do it. He’s got those shifty eyes, and he always has a look on his face like he hates you.”
“Mother, I think he only does that with you,” Michael reported. It was the most brilliant insight he’d had in his life.
“Well, when he came to stay at our house one night, I felt he was going to steal some of the family silver, so I had all the good stuff locked up. But despite all my precautions, there still were a few pieces missing.”
“All your precautions, Mrs. Stark?” Monette asked. “You just said you locked the silver up.”
“I also had his baggage searched, just to make sure. After all, besides being a murderer, he’s a thief also.”
“And did you find anything, Julia?” Monette asked for clarification—and to allow Julia to hang herself some more.
“No, we couldn’t find anything. But I swear, there are things missing,” Mrs. Stark insisted.
“Could we continue?” Monette asked the crowd.
“Continue? I thought we were done!” Julia, Michael, and Ludwig said, almost in unison.
“No, no, we are not done. Actually, I think I have made a mistake. It was not Robert who killed the count. I think our answer lies in what happened at the party. Ludwig?” she asked, turning to our caftanned queen.
“Yes?” Ludwig responded, not without a little guilt showing on his red face.
“Your little party cost you a lot of money, yes?”
“All my parties take the money! I do not throw inexpensive parties!” Ludwig responded with a haughty air to set matters straight.
“That is exactly my point, Ludwig. The way you live costs a lot of money. Money which, I’m afraid, is almost gone.”
All eyes shifted and became riveted on Ludwig.
“My money is not almost gone!” he said in defense.
“Well, if you have plenty of money, why were you borrowing from the count?”
“Me? Borrow money from Siegfreid? No! I said I have much money of my own! Why would you think I borrow the money from Siegfreid?”
“Because Robert overheard the count talking to you on the phone, saying you’d spent enough already. He also said he wouldn’t give you any more money because you’ve made some bad mistakes and would have to live with them. Would you care to tell us what that was all about?”
Ludwig looked down at his lap as the table fell completely silent. Ludwig a murderer? I’d never expect a raving queen to be a murderer. I expect them to be murdered, yes. I can understand that. It seemed like an eternity before Ludwig began to confess.
“The other day, when you ask me to tell truth, I almos
t tell truth. Siegfreid and I do have a money arrangement. I ... I . . .”—he spat out the words—“I . . . own part of a sex club in Bessenich, near Cologne. Siegfreid owned other half. We both put money to start this club, but it cost so much. We have to pay local government to open, to keep neighbors quiet, so many people to pay! It is a small town, very quiet, but a town with big costs. Another company own the club and Siegfreid and I own this company. No one can find out this way.”
“A sex club? First, why? And second, why not open one in Berlin, much closer to where you and Siegfreid live?” Monette asked.
“The count and I want the club to give us the men and the sex. If we own club, the men who come are very nice to us. Why not Berlin? It is closer to Amsterdam, Paris, and London, and the people who come like to be quiet about them coming to this club, so small town is good. It is a secret—a secret that costs much money. This is what you hear when Siegfreid call to me on phone. I need the count to put more money to run club. I put up much. Now it is his turn to give more.”
From the looks on Monette and Inspector Taucher’s face, they didn’t totally believe Ludwig’s confession. Michael was more accepting.
“Where is this club located again?” he asked with a look on his face that said I wish I had a pen just now.
Julia, feeling her son had more than just a passing interest in Ludwig’s sex club, shot daggers at Michael with her eyes.
Michael backtracked faster than a Texas savings and loan president. “Well, that sex club sounds disgusting! I’ll just make a note never to go to a town like . . .”
“Bessenich,” Monette said, giving Michael the information he was clearly seeking.
“Yes, Bessenich. Ugh!” Michael added, fooling absolutely no one.
Even from where I sat, I could see Monette was losing control of the audience, so she grabbed the reins and zeroed in on Ludwig once again. The bloodhound was on the trail.
“I guess for now, Ludwig, we will have to accept the story of your sex club. This is something we will look into. But there is something far more troubling about your connection to the count’s death.”