“Oh. I figured you'd decide.”
No way out of this trap, I thought. “How about Liam Maguire's?”
“No, we were just there.”
“L'Escalier?”
“Are you kidding? We're not dressed for them. Even by Cape standards.”
“Do you have any ideas?” I tried.
“No. But I don't want to go anywhere fancy. And I don't want to spend all afternoon eating.” Pause. “Come to think of it,” she continued, “I'm not that hungry.”
“Hot Chocolate Sparrow?”
“Perfect! I knew you'd pick the right place to go.”
Our dance having concluded, I switched on the ignition, Paula turned on the air conditioner, and we drove off.
#
We drove north and east, homing pigeons heading...not exactly home, but to another of our favorite places on the Cape. Hot Chocolate Sparrow is a hangout in the best sense of the word, attracting families, teens, dates, the elderly. Something for everyone. Their secret isn't profound. Tasty ice cream, savory coffee, and luscious chocolates are all common denominators. Their hot chocolates and orange juice creamsicle shakes are justly renowned, and the atmosphere is friendly.
It's positioned in a peculiar but effective manner--back to a main street, front to a parking lot which it shares with a pharmacy and a bank nearby, and mom-and-pop retail stores in the distance. We parked in the lot and traversed a gauntlet of teenagers smoking, ice creaming, and performing mating rituals.
The three wooden steps creaked as we climbed them, and the wood-framed screen door slammed shut behind us after we entered. As usual, there was a line of people waiting to order. But I knew from past experience that they'd move quickly. I smiled when I saw that the table to my right just inside the door still had free newspapers on it, for customers to read while eating. The rack on the wall, however, which I knew was for customers to give and take free paperback books, was empty.
“I'm feeling lightheaded,” Paula said. “I'll go sit. You order.”
“But-”
“You know what I want.”
Which was true. She turned left and sat at an empty table for two along the far wall, under an open window. I got on line, and looked up to scan the menu selections printed on ceiling hangings. Muffins and desserts enticed me from behind glass.
Paula's choice was easy. She always picks the orange juice creamsicle shake, which she claims is the best she's ever had. My tastes are more eclectic. Today, with all the chaos in my life, I wasn't sure what I wanted. But the line moved and I had to order. I asked for a scrambled egg bagel sandwich. Coffee? No, I don't like to have caffeine when I'm on the road. I'd sneak a sip of Paula's drink to quench my thirst.
I paid the cashier, gave my name and stood back, waiting to be served. The glass-cased chocolate display on the right featured truffles of multiple shapes and fillings. It was all tempting, but Paula and I prefer the unadulterated (chocolate) stuff. The cashier called my name, somehow mangling “David.” Holding the shake in my right hand, and the sandwich on a plate in my left, I made my way back through the crowd to find Paula.
I stopped and froze ten feet from our table. A muscular young man in a yellow polo, cream slacks, and polished brown loafers sat across from Paula, leaning forward. His short, dirty blond hair was fixed with oil, combed up more than back. Paula and I had agreed in the past that this artificial style was annoying and unattractive. But apparently not today. She was smiling broadly, showing no sign of pain from her broken rib.
I approached them, and placed the food and drink on the table. Paula looked up. The young man kept his focus on her.
Paula spoke. “You’re back-”
“Excuse me,” I said to the man, interrupting Paula. “You're sitting in my seat.”
He turned slowly, and gave me a bared-teeth smile. Although he was seated and I was standing, I felt as though he were looking down at me. “Oh, really?” he asked.
Damn, I thought. My tone of voice had set off a cock fight. I noticed that even his neck had visible muscles. But there was no turning back, and I wasn't in a conciliatory mood. “Yes, really.”
“Come on, Shaun,” Paula told him. “You promised.”
He relaxed and smiled. “No problem,” he said. “Just kidding.”
Paula turned back to me. “I told Shaun the seat was taken-”
“But I’m such a charmer,” he interjected.
“Well,” Paula said. “It may be true that he has a way with words. Guess what he does for a living.”
“I don't know,” I said.
“He's a book agent.”
My eyes opened. I was actually intrigued. “That's interesting,” I said to Shaun. “I admire writers. I've tried writing myself-”
“How interesting for you.” Shaun's smile vanished. “Nice to meet you,” he told Paula. He then stood up and left in a rush, apparently forgetting to bid me au revoir.
I sank into my seat. “Shaun must have suddenly remembered a previous engagement.” I looked at Paula, and spoke without thinking. “I want to make sure that you believe me that Andrea’s kiss took me by surprise. Against my will. It wasn’t my fault.”
Paula’s expression sobered, but she didn’t speak.
“She was drunk,” I added. “So in a way it wasn’t even her fault.”
“Hah.”
I shouldn’t have defended Andrea. But why wasn’t Paula accepting my explanation? “What about you and Rafy?” I blurted out.
“What? That's completely different.”
CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO
I couldn't believe what was happening. This was not the conversation I'd intended.
“I'm sorry,” I said to Paula. “I understand about you and Rafy. You're networking, and investigating an attempted murder.” Now it was her turn to forgive me for Andrea.
She took a deep breath and pushed her drink toward me. “Want some?”
“Thanks.” I took a long sip, and returned the tall paper cup to her. “It's almost like there's a guiding hand behind this, and I don't mean anything divine, trying to drive us apart. Rafy for you, Andrea for me. Like divide and conquer.”
“Let’s not talk about this anymore,” she said. “Whatever I may have said, the truth is that I do trust you. The thing is, trust is scarier than suspicion. Trust is placing your head in a guillotine.”
She looked out the window. “I'm in pain, and I'm suddenly very tired.” She turned back to me. “And there's so much to do. Help me. What should I do next?”
“How well you know me,” I said. “Giving me planning and organizing tasks.”
“Who, me?” she smiled.
“So let's think,” I said. “We have the murder investigation, my mother's illness--oy, I haven't called her yet today. I have the wind turbine thing, and you have conference stuff, including networking.”
Paula nodded and drank, and I sneaked a bite of my egg sandwich. Our appetites were returning.
“Let's start with the Singer case,” I said. “We’ll update each other about what we've done and learned on our own.”
“Sounds good. You first.”
That was fine with me. I told her all I could remember about the Board of Selectmen meeting, and about my encounter with Thomas Haydock. Paula gave me her full attention, sipping periodically, leaving the last inch in the cup for me.
As I returned to my sandwich she spoke. “You really have to tell your parents about the hopelessness of the wind turbine campaign. They can explain it to their fellow Green Panthers.”
“I know. I feel so bad for them. But in the real world it always seems to be more about money and greasy politics than right and wrong.”
Paula’s smile was wry this time. “That's so deep,” she said. “Worthy of a fortune cookie.”
“Hey!” I said. We both laughed.
“Seriously, though,” Paula said. “Your parents’ idealism sometimes borders on pretend world status.”
“Sometimes? Borders?” We laughed again.
“And maybe they’re on the right track.”
Neither of us spoke for a minute. “So you had a medical triumph with Haydock,” Paula said, fortunately changing the subject. “And he turns out to be more complex than we would have liked to admit.”
“Not so cartoon-y.”
“Reminds me,” she mused, “of one of the things we both love about our jobs-“
“Getting to know our patients,” I said. “Sorry for interrupting.”
“That’s OK,” she smiled. “Our patients’ infinite variety cloaks a core of infinite commonality.”
“Wow,” I whispered. Her smile widened, and my heart thrilled.
“So,” Paula said. “Have you taken Haydock off your suspect list?”
I shook my head. “No,” I said. “But I thought we'd go over suspects in an organized way, after we updated each other. Can you tell me what you learned without me?”
I finished my sandwich and Paula’s drink as she spoke. “My report is short. Nothing. I've already told you about this morning in the gym. And before last night's party I was just in my room, preparing my talk.”
“So you've spent time with our suspects. If I know you, what you've learned about them, their characters and motivations, something useful will eventually come out of it.”
“Thanks,” she said. “Now you’re making me feel better.”
I felt myself flush. “Anytime,” I murmured.
“I’m ready for the suspect rundown,” she said, rescuing me.
“Good, good” I said, reorienting myself. “We were talking about Haydock. He’s tricky. He seems fully capable of murder, physically and temperamentally. But he doesn't fit our insider theory, and he wasn't at the gym this morning. He wasn't, was he?”
“No. But our insider and intentional accident theories could be wrong.”
“Yes, you're right. So he's still a suspect. And if we reach a point where we conclude that one person couldn't possibly have done it all, we have to consider a team. Two people can do what one can't.”
“Green Panthers?” Paula asked.
“Possible, but very unlikely. In the interest of practicality, because we can only juggle so many suspects at one time, let's put them aside.”
“Done. Stephanie?”
“Absolutely,” I said. “She’s had opportunities, and she seems to be involved everywhere we look.”
“As we discussed, she also has plausible motives. Personal ones, like wanting to be rid of her husband once he retires. And she could also have done it for Mitchell's sake, to ensure that he inherited the Institute.”
“I've found it hard to pin her down as a person-”
“Right,” Paula said. “She's not the airhead trophy wife she first seemed to be.”
“Although being smarter makes her more of a suspect.”
“Not that smart.” I smiled. “I also think that her love-”
“Loves,” I said.
“Probably so,” Paula conceded. “Her loves seem sincere to me.”
“I agree with that. But keep in mind that people with bulimia are sometimes very good at hiding things about themselves.”
“But that was in her past. It makes her no more likely to lie now.”
“I agree with that even more. I hate the ‘gotcha’ logic, that catching someone in a lie makes them a liar about everything. Any more than the next person. Anyway...”
“Remember,” Paula said. “We have only Stephanie's word about the missing Mestinon. That episode casts suspicion on everyone else, but we'd look at the situation quite differently if it were all her invention. She might have been trying to frame someone. How about Andrea?”
I tilted my head side to side twice. “I don't think so. I think the murderer is smarter than she is, no offense intended. The same goes for Stephanie, I guess. But again, Andrea's been in all the right places, so she remains a suspect.”
“Although her motives, the ones we’ve thought of, are weak.”
“Right,” I said. “A lover’s spat with Jonathan Singer, or something to do with her handling of the conference.”
CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE
“How about Tracey as a suspect?” Paula asked me.
“Now she is smart enough, and she's been in all the right places. But she's the heroine who rescued him from the water.”
“Come on,” Paula said. “That's an obvious one. If she's the one who threw Singer into the water, she could have figured that an old man in the water that long would certainly be dead. Rescuing him would be an empty gesture, calculated to throw us off.”
I shuddered. “I just had an awful thought. Once we all spotted Singer in the water, she could have jumped in to make sure he was actually dead. And if not, to finish him off.”
“That is horrible. Right in front of us.”
“But I still don't think she gains with him dead. Look at the current situation. She didn't take over the Institute. Mitchell did.”
“Unless Mitchell lied about that.”
“But if Tracey knows that Mitchell lied,” I said, “why hasn't she spoken up?”
“Especially if she's the murderer, and that was her motive.”
“I guess that accusing Mitchell might turn the spotlight on her-”
“But if she doesn’t speak up eventually,” Paula said, “the murder has no purpose.”
“Right. And another question is why murder Singer now. The limited life span thing. Although that's a question that applies to any of our suspects.”
“I guess I just don't want to believe that Tracey's the one,” Paula said. “She's one of Singer's chief disciples. She should have inner resources other than murder to cope with any anger she might have.”
“I’m sorry to say this, but is that logical thinking or wishful thinking?”
“Good point,” she conceded.
“How about Rafy?”
“Fine,” I said. “He's been in all the right places on the Cape, too. But I don't know if he was close enough to Jonathan Singer to have been able to pre-arrange that appointment on the deck.”
“From my discussions with him, I'd say definitely yes. They've communicated often with each other the past year. About the conference, and about the study they're doing together.”
“And his motive-”
“Absolutely,” she said. “He has a lot to gain by getting Jonathan Singer out of the way. He's now, or about to be, the lead investigator on a career-making study.”
“And, I'm sorry to say, my impression is that he's quite capable of doing whatever it takes to benefit himself.”
Paula looked at her watch. “Sadly, I agree,” she said. “I know it's not the same as murder, but when I talked to him I never had the feeling that I was talking to a married man. Which shows a certain flexibility in his ethical system. A facility for rationalizing his behavior.”
“On the other hand, we've heard rumors about him but we don't really know his personal life. Maybe his wife is the real villain in their relationship, and he's the injured party.” I couldn't believe that I'd just defended him.
Paula smiled. “Very good. I give you credit for being fair, even to Rafy. Stupid, but fair.”
Sounded like my epitaph. “How about Judith?” I asked.
“Yes. She's a suspect. She fits our opportunity profile.”
“Except that she wasn't at the gym.”
“True. But that's the weakest and least important link in your chain.”
“My chain?” I asked. Paula just smiled. “That may be,” I continued. “She’s also weak on motive.”
“Motives that we know of.”
“More work for us,” I said.
Paula sighed. “So much speculation. What's not speculation is that it's almost two o'clock. Don't you think we should get going?”
“Wait a minute. Haven't you forgotten someone?”
&
nbsp; “Who do you mean?”
“Mitchell?”
She laughed. “Brilliant. I forgot the person the police have actually charged with the crime. I'm either out of it, or it's a Freudian slip because I don't believe he did it. Or both.”
“The main reason I don't think he did it is that I like him. Otherwise, he's a perfect suspect. He has plenty of potential motives, personal and career-related. We actually know that he was on the deck with his father. And he's the proverbial ‘last one to see him alive’.”
“Everything you said is true. But I just don't believe he did it.”
“Like you don't believe that Tracey did it?” I asked.
“Even more. I can't, I won't believe that Mitchell did it.”
“I understand,” I said. “He wasn't at the gym this morning, either. So let's recap. We have several strong suspects, and several weaker suspects. We have to keep working on finding tangible evidence to hang on someone. There's the Mestinon disappearance, although that trail is getting cold. And there's the appointment on the deck, if a paper trail for that still exists. If it ever did.”
“OK. What's next?”
“Next is the police station. We should talk to Mitchell. And we should catch Hansen, to pool our information.”
“OK.” She stood up.
“And then I'll take you back to the hotel to rest.”
“And work on my talk.”
“Are you sure-” I stopped when I saw her eyes narrow.
“Come on. It was just postponed until tomorrow. Which is what I asked for.”
“I understand,” I said. “And I'll contact my parents. Try to spend what's left of the afternoon with them. We can meet up again for dinner after that.”
I stood up, took her empty cup and my empty paper plate, and threw it into the trash can next to the door. As we settled into our seats in the car, Paula spoke. “By the way. I liked the way you stood up to Shaun.”
CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR
We arrived at the police station at 2 PM.
“I haven't decided if it would be better strategy to interview Albert Hansen or Mitchell Singer first,” I told Paula. She shrugged. “How about this?” I asked. “Mitchell's a captive audience.” (Paula groaned). “So let's consider Hansen's schedule our limiting factor. We'll ask for him first. If he's available now we'll start with him. If not, Mitchell's the man. With Hansen later.”
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