Murder & Sullivan Read online

  “Not that long. He died fast.”

  Just what I told the family, Fred thought. “How fast?”

  “There was a vertical tear in his heart muscle that must have bled fast. I doubt that he lived a minute.”

  “How could a skinny pointed thing tear it?”

  “If the killer pulled down hard on it, maybe while pulling it out.”

  “Does that mean we’re looking for a short guy?”

  “Could be. Or maybe someone backing down those steps.”

  Right. In other words, anyone, Fred thought gloomily.

  “Anything else?”

  “Nothing interesting. I’ll send you the written report.”

  “Thanks.” For shooting down the one piece of hard evidence we had.

  “My pleasure.”

  15

  The hour of gladness

  Is dead and gone;

  In silent sadness

  I live alone!

  —KATISHA, The Mikado

  By noon, Andrew and Steve had left for the library, and the pounding next door had stopped. Joan had puttered through the morning, not wanting to wear out her bow arm with housecleaning or working in the yard, which was still recovering from the effects of the tornado. She started a grocery list, wrote checks for the electric and telephone bills, and sorted the accumulated junk mail into trash and recyclables. Her concentration was worthless for anything that took any great thought. Her mind kept turning to David Putnam and his family.

  The obituary had said no visitation, and she was glad not to call at Snarr’s Funeral Home. But her heart went out to Ellen, widowed as young and as suddenly as she herself had been, and to the Putnam children. Laura was going to grow up scarcely able to remember her father.

  It must be even worse, she thought suddenly, to have him struck down violently like that. Amazing. I didn’t think I’d ever come to the place where I’d think that anything could be worse than losing Ken. Ellen will probably be swamped—the Putnams must have hordes of friends. Unless they all stay away for fear of saying the wrong thing. I ought to go over there. But I scarcely know them.

  As the voices in her head argued, her single-minded hands began opening kitchen cupboards. She didn’t want useful food this time; she wanted comfort food, especially for the children.

  An hour later, she pulled a batch of Ken’s mother’s richest brownies out of the oven. Leaving a few on a plate for Andrew and, if she was lucky, for herself, she packed the rest into a box Ellen wouldn’t have to return. Before she left the house, she checked her appearance. Hair brushed and in place, clean jeans, sneakers, a pale yellow shirt. Nothing that would disgrace her on a Saturday.

  This isn’t a formal call. And I’m not the widow. Nobody’s going to pay any attention to me.

  Dr. Cutts had said to walk, and it was only half as far as she usually walked to work. Even so, she was hot and sore by the time she arrived at the house on the hill. The yard was bare of debris—and everything else—trees, shrubs, flowers. If there had been shade before the storm, it was going to take a long time to grow back. The roof looked whole again, but only the foundation remained of the new addition. She couldn’t remember how it had looked on the day of the tornado.

  Zach was working on it, she thought. That means there must have been at least the beginnings of a frame before the storm hit. With David dead, will Ellen bother to rebuild the new addition now?

  There were no cars outside, but windows and the front door were open; someone must be home. When she rang the bell, the older girl came to the screen door with Henry’s dog at her side. Amy, that was her name. Her red-rimmed eyes looked blankly at Joan.

  “Yes?”

  This is awkward. I thought they’d at least know who I am. “I’m Joan Spencer. I came to say how very sorry I am about your father. Is your mother at home?”

  “Does she know you?” Amy was on the leery side of polite. Was this visit a mistake?

  “A little. She brought me flowers after I was in the tornado with Laura.”

  “Oh!” Amy’s whole face lit up. She unhooked the screen door and opened it wide, holding the dog’s collar. “Come in! I’m sorry, I didn’t recognize you.” A compliment, all things considered. She led Joan into a living room filled with primary colors, comfortable-looking furniture, and abundant evidence that the whole family used it. “Have a seat. I’ll go get Mom.” The dog followed her out of the room.

  The sofa hosted a gathering of teddy bears. Joan chose a soft red chair instead, from which she had to move a couple of well-worn picture books. Robert McCloskey and Ezra Jack Keats—Laura was getting a good start.

  “Here, fellows, improve your minds.” Joan gave the books to the teddy bears and sat down in the chair. The smell of warm chocolate wafted up from the box on her knees, and she couldn’t help inhaling. I should have given it to Amy, she thought.

  But when Ellen entered the room, she was glad she hadn’t. Laura clung to her as if she was afraid her mother would disappear if she let loose. Joan stood up.

  “Joan, how good of you to come,” Ellen said. She, too, was wearing jeans, and looking very much as she had on the day of the tornado, except for her eyes. She was holding it together, though.

  “I just wanted to tell you how very sorry I am, and to bring a little something to the children.” Joan held out the box to Laura, who hid behind her mother’s legs. Ellen bent down and put an arm around her.

  “It’s all right, Laurie. This is the lady who took care of you in the tornado, remember?”

  Laura peeked around her mother at the box.

  “What’s that?” Almost inaudible.

  “Brownies.” Joan didn’t push it.

  “Take them to Amy, Laura. She’ll share with you.” It worked. Laura let go of her mother, took the box with both hands, and ran out of the room calling, “Aymeeee!”

  “She’s scarcely let me out of her sight. Please, sit down.” Sweeping the books and bears out of the way, Ellen took a seat on the sofa.

  Joan nodded and sank back into the red chair. “My children were older when their father died, but Andrew was like that.”

  “People say, ‘At least you have the children.’ I love them to pieces. But in a way I feel more alone when they’re around.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “I can’t very well let go in front of Laura.”

  “Have you tried it?”

  “Pardon me?” Ellen’s eyebrows rose.

  This is risky, Joan thought. I don’t know her that well.

  “When my husband died, I thought I had to be strong for my children. But when I finally broke down, it was a great relief to them. Turns out they’d been confused. They were so sad, and they thought I wasn’t until I just bellowed. They thought I didn’t love him.”

  “Oh, no.” Ellen’s eyes filled with tears. They were silent together for a few moments.

  “I didn’t mean to tell you what to do. You’re probably getting too much advice.”

  Ellen sat up straight at that.

  “I’ll say. Sell the house, don’t sell the house, get a job, stay at home for the children. You name it, someone’s said it. Don’t they know I can hardly think, much less plan? And when I can think, all I think of is David, and how in the world I’m going to live without him.”

  “I was afraid the media people would be giving you a hard time.”

  “We had the Indianapolis television stations here—all of them. I finally went out and let them take my picture so they’d go away. But not the children’s.” She looked suddenly fierce. “They can’t have my children.”

  “Good for you.”

  “And the police. They have to ask questions, I know, but right now I don’t even care who did it. I’m just numb.”

  “Uh-huh.” It was time for Joan to leave. “I know people just say it to be saying something, but if there’s anything I can do to help, I mean the offer. Answer your phone, fend off busy-bodies like me, notify distant people, you name it.”

  �
��I’ll be all right. Amy’s doing a great job answering the door and the phone. She needs something useful to do. The church women are doing everything we can farm out, and they’re bringing in meals and putting up relatives coming for the funeral Monday.”

  “Of course.”

  “What I really need is someone for all the things David used to do, like deal with the construction men.”

  “Let me send Zach back to you.”

  “We’re not ready for Zach, and I don’t know if we ever will be. David had some hang-up about rebuilding the new addition. I don’t know what it was, and I don’t know how to find out. Maybe he was right. Besides, I don’t see how we can afford it, even with the insurance. I’m still not sure how much I’ll have to live on. I hope I can afford to stay home with Laura, but I don’t even know that for sure. David was a wonderful husband and father, but there are so many things he didn’t tell me. Now I’m supposed to figure them all out by myself.” She blinked back angry tears and punched a teddy bear in the midsection. “Why couldn’t he have told me the things I need to know?”

  Joan shook her head. She knew better than to point out that David was a young man who hadn’t expected to be murdered. Ellen needed to yell at him, as Joan had needed to yell at Ken for dying and leaving her to fend for herself.

  “I saw Virgil this morning,” she said. “Next door, at Henry’s house. Did you arrange that?”

  “No, David did. Virgil was the contractor on Uncle Henry’s house, so he knows where all the bodies are buried. I mean …” Her voice trailed off.

  “I know what you mean.” It wasn’t funny.

  “I haven’t even talked to him yet. I just don’t think I can cope with Uncle Henry’s house right now.” She sounded exhausted. She has every right to be, Joan thought.

  “From what he said this morning, they shouldn’t be too bad.” Joan stood up. “I’d better go, Ellen. I didn’t mean to stay so long.”

  “Thank you for coming.” Ellen saw her to the door. “I’m sorry I dumped on you. I’ll be all right.”

  16

  I hate a duel with swords. It’s not the blade I mind—it’s the blood.

  —ERNEST, The Grand Duke

  The phone was ringing when she opened her back door. “Joan?”

  “Fred! How are you?”

  “Hungry. Have you had lunch?” Her stomach growled as if it could hear him.

  “Not yet.”

  “I’ll pick you up.”

  He took her to Wilma’s Cafe. Wilma didn’t believe in over-air-conditioning, but it was cool enough. A ceiling fan stirred the air above hanging baskets of green plants. Even though the restaurant was nearly empty, they sat in a back booth. Fred liked to have his back to the wall. Joan had teased him about it at first—now she took it for granted. While they waited for her BLT and his ham on rye, he poured out his frustrations to her.

  “It’s not enough he’s a judge. Not enough we all saw him drop dead but nobody saw who did it. Now it turns out we don’t even have the weapon.”

  “What happened to it?”

  “Oh, we’ve still got the dagger. But Dr. Henshaw says it didn’t kill him. Something longer and skinnier got there first. We haven’t found it yet—the killer may have carried it off.”

  “Oh, Fred.”

  “Yup.” He traced circles on the paper place mat. “We were so damn sure we had the weapon that it didn’t occur to us to search anyone for it.”

  “And two people tried to kill him?”

  “Come again?”

  “I thought that’s what you meant. He was standing there in that frame for a long time. Someone coming up behind him wouldn’t have known he was already dead, any more than the rest of us did.”

  He nodded. “Could be the killer faded into the background and then someone else who wanted him dead came along and stabbed him with the dagger.” He went back to his circles.

  “Only I’ve been wondering something all along.” She leaned forward.

  Fred looked up.

  “What’s that?”

  “Why choose the little dagger? Why not the long one?”

  “Yeah.” He abandoned the circles. “Henshaw said the little one didn’t reach his heart. There wasn’t any blood around it at all—that’s how he knew to look for another wound. The long one was just as convenient, you know—the two daggers were kept together in the same prop box for the fight scene.”

  “It’s as if the second attacker—if there was one—just grabbed whatever was closest, without caring whether it would reach his heart.” Joan had a thought. “Maybe he knew he was already dead. Maybe there was only one attacker.”

  “Then why stab him again?”

  “You didn’t search anyone, did you?”

  He shook his head.

  “We didn’t even start looking around for another weapon until Henshaw called today.”

  All those wasted hours, Joan thought. The most important hours after a murder—she knew that much. She didn’t rub it in. He felt too bad already.

  “Is the stage still sealed off?”

  “Yeah. We have to decide soon whether to let tonight’s show go on. Once it does, any remaining evidence will be compromised.”

  “You haven’t given up.” She thought he looked haggard. The investigation was wearing him down.

  “Shifted priorities is all. Searching through old records by hand just got pushed to a back burner.”

  “Looking for criminals in the cast?”

  “No, we’d know about the criminal cases. We’ve been checking whether anyone who was backstage last night ever appeared in Putnam’s court. We’ve already heard gossip about one domestic case that suggests a motive—a couple of motives, in fact.”

  “Chris and Liz?” For the life of her, she couldn’t think of more than one motive they suggested. If Ellen had been murdered, now that might be a different story.

  “That’s right, you knew about those two. There may be other cases, but it’s slow going, slogging through those records. Mrs. Kelly volunteered—that helps.”

  “I could look.” It was out of her mouth before she had time to think about it. Well, why not? Someone had robbed Ellen Putnam and her children of a husband and father. Maybe she should help. Fred was slow to answer.

  “I don’t suppose there’s anything against it,” he said finally. “Those records are open to the public. And God knows, we could use you. Any conflict of interest?” He looked her straight in the eye, without a twinkle. Was he serious?

  “With what?”

  “Do you know anyone in the cast or backstage? Got a grudge against anyone yourself? Or is there anyone you’d be reluctant to tell us about if you found his name—or hers?”

  “I don’t think so. I wouldn’t be too thrilled if the murderer turned out to be my doctor, or the man who’s been working on my house, but I’d want to know.”

  “All right, then. I’ll take you over.”

  Wilma brought their sandwiches, and they ate in silence for a few moments. Joan hadn’t realized how hungry she was. Then she remembered what she’d wanted to tell Fred. “Andrew and Steve Dolan were showing me something odd this morning.”

  “Dolan. The one who plays Robin?”

  “Uh-huh. But it’s not about Steve. It’s about Professor Ucello, one of the ghosts.” She told him about the experiment for which Andrew and Steve were subjects and about the graph that seemed to be hiding inconvenient results. “If they’re right, Ucello’s doing something unethical at the very least. Andrew seemed to think he could get in real trouble.” She knew her father, an anthropologist, would have been as shocked as Andrew.

  “You see a connection to the murder?”

  “I don’t know. David was a trustee of the college, but that’s pretty slim. There are chairmen and deans and such between a professor and the trustees. I didn’t have anything specific in mind. I just thought that a man who would cheat on his own research might not stop at that.”

  Fred nodded, pulled out a little
notebook, and scribbled something before picking up his sandwich again.

  “Steve has the article,” she said.

  He nodded and chewed. So did she. Then she shifted gears without bothering to warn him.

  “No matter who it was, how did he expect to get away with it?” She was thinking out loud now. “Even if David managed to fall asleep and stay on his feet, that didn’t mean he wouldn’t fall down right away this time. The killer couldn’t count on having time to mislead you about the weapon. He must have had a hiding place in mind.”

  “If it was premeditated.”

  “Oh.”

  “Or he got lucky and found something on the spot.”

  “David’s tools!” Of course. Why didn’t I think of it sooner?

  “Tools?”

  “David did carpentry for fun. He said he was going to take his tools over and work on the supports. He was embarrassed by falling asleep in rehearsal. He wanted to make his supports less comfortable, to keep it from happening again. Wouldn’t his carpenter’s tools have something long and skinny and sharp enough?”

  “Probably. Question is, where are they?” He gulped the last bite of his sandwich and washed it down with coffee. “Come on, let’s find out.”

  Joan had been willing to search the records, but she was delighted that Fred wasn’t banishing her to them just yet. He tossed a couple of bills on the table.

  “Thanks, Fred,” she said. He waved it away.

  “I’d better check in at the station. You have time?”

  “Sure.” That was another thing she appreciated about this man. He never took her for granted, or treated her as if her time were less important than his own.

  They walked the block from Wilma’s. Joan avoided looking at the bank’s time-and-temperature sign to find out how hot she was supposed to be. Good thing it didn’t register humidity, too. Inside, the station house felt almost chilly.

  “I’ll just be a minute,” Fred said, and Joan waited on the old wooden bench near the dispatcher’s window. Someone had removed the ashtrays since the last time she’d waited here. It was hard to imagine the whole police station smoke-free. When Fred came trotting back down the short flight of stairs at the other end of the long hall, she forgot about asking him. His face looked grim.