Murder & Sullivan Read online

  Red blotches around the eyes betrayed the son, who turned a stony face to the detectives. He was shorter than his father, and well muscled. Fred was sure that the lump in his pocket was a clenched fist. The little girl was curled up in her mother’s lap, teardrops still shining on her closed lashes.

  The buxom woman near the window was the nurse. She played Dame Hannah in the operetta and looked the part. She, too, was perspiring, and appeared to have been crying. She hadn’t managed to remove all of her makeup.

  “I’m Lieutenant Lundquist, and this is Sergeant Ketcham,” Fred told them. No one offered a hand or a chair.

  “This is our son, Scott, and our daughter Amy.” Ellen Putnam bent over the little one. “I think Laura’s finally asleep.”

  “We’ll try not to disturb her,” Fred said. He wished he didn’t have to work around the children. The boy paced and looked ready to attack somebody or something. But there was no avoiding this. At least he hadn’t had to notify them.

  “You were in the audience?” he asked Scott, knowing the answer to that one.

  The boy nodded, and stopped pacing.

  “So was I,” Fred said. “And I have to admit that I didn’t notice your father until he fell.” Scott winced. “I was hoping you were watching him sooner.” Scott opened his eyes wide at that, but didn’t answer. Fred continued, “Some people have told us that he looked asleep. Did you notice?”

  “Yeah.” It came out as a croak. Scott cleared his throat and avoided Fred’s eyes. “His head was kind of hanging down on his chest. He told us the other night about dozing off in that picture frame. I thought he’d done it again.”

  “Uh-huh. And when was that?”

  “When?”

  “When was his head on his chest?”

  “It just was.”

  “When the other ghosts walked?”

  “Yeah. And before that.”

  “How much before?” A break, at last?

  “I don’t know. I guess I wasn’t watching him at first. There was stuff going on, you know?”

  “I know.”

  “And then I looked at the pictures, and I knew it was Dad’s big scene and he was about to miss his cue again.” His face crumpled. “I was mad at him. Do you hear? I was mad at him!” The fist came out of his pocket and banged the wall once, hard.

  Laura stirred and murmured something. Her mother stroked her hair. Scott jerked his fist back and held it with his other hand. Fred hoped he could reach the boy before he fell apart.

  “It’s a terrible thing not to be able to say you didn’t mean it.”

  “But I did mean it! Don’t you see? If he was going to—” he glanced at his mother “—to louse up in public like that, I didn’t want to be his son. Not tonight. Not in front of my friends.” He stared at the floor.

  “Son,” Fred risked the word, “we’ve all had those feelings. Right now we need to find who took away your chance to talk to your dad about them.” He waited. “You can help.”

  Scott looked up. “How?”

  “First, by thinking as hard as you can about what else was happening on the stage when you first saw your dad look as if he was sleeping.”

  Scott stood still.

  “I don’t know. But right before, my sister left the stage. That’s when I finally remembered to look for him.”

  “Thank you.” Fred turned to the girl. “Amy, is it?” She nodded. “What did you notice when you were onstage?”

  She gulped and took her mother’s hand.

  “We were supposed to watch the conductor.”

  “Of course.”

  “Mostly I did. I mean, I knew Daddy was right there watching me, and I wanted to do a good job.”

  “Uh-huh.” This one didn’t need a push.

  “But Mr. Biggy has a long song before we start singing.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “So I kind of peeked.” He kept his face still. “Daddy was way down at the other end, but I could see him, and it was just like Scott said. I felt awful. I thought he wasn’t bothering.” Big tears ran down her cheeks. “Do you think he was already …?”

  “We’re not sure yet. But it looks like it.” He offered them the only comfort he could. “We haven’t heard from the coroner yet, but it looks as if he died very fast, without suffering.”

  “Thank God!” said Ellen Putnam.

  “And you, Ms….?”

  “MacDonald,” the nurse said.

  “Can you add anything that might help us?”

  “No. I was still downstairs. My big scene came later.”

  Fred’s eyes met Ketcham’s and asked for a breather. He wished for cooler air.

  “There’s a question we have to ask you all,” Ketcham said, and paused to let them want to hear it. “Can you think of anyone who might have wanted to harm Mr. Putnam? Or possibly wanted him out of the way?”

  Amy gasped, but Ellen answered.

  “I’ve been thinking about that—I couldn’t help it. You know my husband was a circuit court judge.” Both men nodded, as if murdered judges were routine. “I’ve worried for a long time that someone he angered in court would come after him.”

  “Had someone threatened him?” Ketcham asked.

  “I don’t know. He always pooh-poohed me when I talked like that. He never told me about his cases.”

  “So you wouldn’t know if anyone involved in the operetta ever appeared in his court?”

  Now it was her turn to gasp.

  “No.” She looked suddenly frightened.

  “That’s a matter of public record,” Fred said. “We can find out.”

  “Oh.” She relaxed a little.

  “Mrs. Putnam, there are some questions you might prefer to answer in private,” Ketcham said. Scott bristled, but he needn’t have worried.

  “I have no secrets from my children.” Composed again, she put the emphasis on “children.” Taking his cue from her, Ketcham dismissed the nurse with thanks for her help.

  “Who will gain from your husband’s death?” he asked when they were alone with the family.

  “We left everything to each other.”

  “Did he have insurance?”

  “Yes, of course. And we bought a lot of new term insurance when Laura was born.” She shook her head sadly and stroked Laura’s hair again. “David was afraid he wouldn’t live to see her grow up, but he was thinking of a heart attack. They run in his family.”

  “You’re the beneficiary?”

  “Yes.”

  Ketcham looked at Fred.

  “How would you describe your marriage?” Fred asked, and for the first time, her eyes filled with tears.

  “It’s the best thing that ever happened to me,” she said. “Nobody’s perfect, but I couldn’t ask for a better husband.”

  “There was never another woman?”

  She smiled, and the sun shone in the dingy little room.

  “There were lots of other women. Women threw themselves at David. But it didn’t get them anywhere.”

  “In the cast …” He let it trail off.

  “In the cast there was Esther Ooley,” she said. “Esther hardly counts, though. She throws herself at everyone. But Liz MacDonald—” She frowned. “Of all people, I don’t know why you sent Liz up here with us.” Fred groaned inwardly. “Liz was David’s first kiss in high school—he told me so years ago. I don’t think she ever got over it. She’s been hanging around him lately as if I didn’t exist.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “Dr. Cutts suggested that his nurse might be helpful. I didn’t know anything about her. And until you told me just now, I didn’t realize that she was the woman I had heard about. I understand that Mr. Putnam and another man had some words about her.” That wasn’t what Joan had said, but he wanted to hear her response.

  “Not exactly. Liz and Chris Eads were fighting about David. That’s nothing new. I remember once last year we were out square dancing. So was Liz. Chris came in drunk, saw David swinging Liz, and yelled at her and—
oh.” Warm as she was, she turned pale. Her eyes got big.

  “And?”

  “He threatened David—threatened to kill him.”

  “Did you and your husband take him seriously?”

  “No. As I said, he’d been drinking. And it’s not as if they were still married.” As if that would stop a jealous man, Fred thought.

  “Anybody else come to mind?”

  “No.” Her voice shook. “It doesn’t matter now, does it? He’s gone.” Amy hugged her, and even Scott awkwardly put his hand on her shoulder. Her eyes glistened.

  She was right. Fred felt useless.

  “Is there any way we can help you? An officer to take you home?”

  “Thank you,” she said. “My son will drive tonight. And I do understand what you have to do, Lieutenant. We’ll answer any questions you have. Anytime.”

  “Did you believe her?” Ketcham asked Fred on their way back downstairs.

  “Yeah. Joan Spencer witnessed Chris Eads and Liz MacDonald fighting over Putnam.”

  “Great,” Ketcham said. “Eads was next to Putnam. All we have for when Putnam was last heard alive is his word, and now that’s not worth a plugged nickel.”

  “The kids put the time of death sooner than any other witness,” Fred said.

  “That points to Eads.”

  “Maybe. But they didn’t see anything wrong before the chorus entered. That mob had to pass behind all the ghosts—they went onstage from the far side. Good cover for a quick stabbing.”

  “If it happened then, it couldn’t be Eads,” Ketcham said. “You might not notice the position of the head on a painting, but if one of them disappeared—if he left his frame to kill Putnam—someone in the audience would have spotted it, and we’d hear about it for sure.”

  “Maybe Putnam was dead before Eads climbed into his frame.” Fred said. “And maybe Eads wasn’t the only person here with a grudge against him. Check it out.”

  13

  In this college

  Useful knowledge

  Everywhere one finds,

  And already,

  Growing steady,

  We’ve enlarged our minds.

  —HILARION, CYRIL, FLORIAN, Princess Ida

  Joan caught a ride home with John Hocking and found Andrew asleep. Wishing for his company, she resisted the brief temptation to drag him out of bed and tell him the whole story. In bed, she tossed and turned briefly, but a healthy body and the fatigue she’d built up all week took over. She was asleep long before her clock radio turned off the Charlie Parker retrospective on the college station’s Friday night jazz program.

  In the morning, it was Andrew who resisted the temptation to wake her. “I thought you’d never get up,” he said when she yawned into the kitchen around ten in her robe and slippers. “David Putnam’s all over the front page. I brewed a pot of coffee.”

  “Thanks.” She dropped a couple of slices of whole-wheat bread into the toaster, poured herself a cup of coffee, and looked at the paper. It was true. The murder had happened near enough to the paper’s deadline that the sketchy story gave only the bare facts, but the obituary must have been ready and waiting for whenever and however Judge Putnam died. She scanned it, inhaling the smell of the coffee while she waited for the toast.

  David had spent most of his thirty-eight years in Alcorn County. A graduate of Oliver High School, Oliver College, and the Indiana University School of Law, he had practiced law in Oliver and served as school-board president and county commissioner before becoming a circuit court judge. At the time of his death he was on the Oliver Hospital board of directors and a trustee of both the First Baptist Church and Oliver College. Included among his many honors was his selection as Alcorn County Father of the Year in 1989—that was before Laura, Joan thought. He was survived by his wife, Ellen (Day) Putnam, his son, Scott David Putnam, and his daughters, Amy Louise and Laura Ellen Putnam, all of Oliver. There would be no visitation. The funeral would be three o’clock Monday afternoon at the church. Memorial contributions to the church or to Oliver College were suggested.

  The accompanying photograph was a formal portrait of David in his black robe, looking pleasantly serious in front of a wall of books. A separate, black-bordered box announced that the Alcorn County courthouse would close Monday at two in memoriam.

  She skipped the quotations from Mayor Deckard and other prominent Oliver politicians and laid the paper on the table in time to catch the toast before it hit the floor. Their toaster had a mind of its own.

  “Pass the butter, Andrew.” He did, and pushed the jam jar across the table. She buttered the toast while it was still hot. The jam could wait.

  “Tell me all about it, Mom.” He propped his chin on his hands and his elbows on the table, across from her.

  “The paper got it right. In the middle of the second act, David dropped dead onstage, with a dagger in his back.”

  “And they don’t know who did it? Why not? Who was near him?”

  “It’s not that simple. He had to stand still in a picture frame for a long time before that. He looked asleep, and he’d fallen asleep in rehearsal a couple of nights before, so we all thought he’d done it again until he fell. It was like this.” Between bites, she drew the picture frames on the kitchen table with her finger and explained how David had been vulnerable to anyone behind him, but that such a person would have been invisible to the audience. Andrew leaned forward, watching closely.

  “Where did the dagger come from?”

  “I don’t know, but they used a couple in a scene near the end.”

  “Sounds like an inside job.” He picked up the program she had tossed aside when she finally arrived home Friday night. “I was looking at this while you were sleeping. I know some of these guys.”

  “Mmmm?” She couldn’t help being interested.

  “Pete Wylie, one of the ghosts, teaches choir at the high school. The choir always sounds good. The girls will do anything for him because he’s good-looking, but married, see, so he’s no threat to them. The guys like his sense of humor. It says here he rehearsed the chorus for Ruddigore.”

  “They were pretty good. I wondered who’d been working with them.”

  “It figures. And you know Steve Dolan, the guy who played Robin.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “He lives around the corner in that old green house on Chestnut. He’s a year ahead of me in school. I met him last year, but I see more of him now that I’m in college and we have more in common—we’re both broke and we both live at home. He’s supposed to come over here today, as a matter of fact.”

  “Maybe I’ll recognize him when I see him.”

  “You’ve got a couple of professors, too. I had Biggy this year for English lit. He made it tolerable. He’s tough, but fair. And a campus character. Lives alone with this big Irish setter—you see him out walking that dog at all hours. The girls flirt with him, but they kind of wonder if he’s gay, ’cause he’s still single.”

  “Is he?”

  “How would I know?” Andrew shrugged. “Then there’s Ucello.”

  “Who?” She yawned.

  “Tony Ucello, like the instrument. Another ghost. Teaches psych. Steve and I are human subjects in his research.”

  “I didn’t know you were interested in psychology.”

  “I’m not—he pays six bucks an hour. Steve told me about it.”

  “Good for Steve.” She yawned again, and poured another cup of caffeine. “When did you say he was coming over?”

  “Pretty soon, unless he’s as slow today as you are. What do you know about the rest of the cast?”

  “Not much. Well, Dr. Cutts and his nurse are in it. She seemed to have a thing for David.”

  “Putnam? He’s married. Was, I mean.”

  “I know, and his wife was right there in the cast. So was the ex-husband of the nurse, and he wasn’t happy about it.”

  “The plot thickens.” Andrew snitched a piece of her toast and slathered jam on
it.

  “I told Fred about them.” She frowned. “I kind of wish I hadn’t.”

  “Why not?” He chewed around the words.

  “I don’t know. I guess I can’t see that man stabbing David in the back. He’d be more likely to sock him in the face, or shoot him, if it came to that.”

  “You don’t think he’d use a knife?” He licked his fingers.

  “Maybe. But not in the back. If he went after David, I think he’d want him to know it, and to know who did it.”

  “And why?”

  “Exactly. But I told Fred anyway.”

  “Good for you.” He stood up. “I’d better get busy.”

  She washed her plate and cup, glad to find Andrew’s supper and breakfast dishes in the drainer, instead of waiting for her in the sink. A faint hammering told her that Zach Yoder had arrived to work on the porch. He was running late this morning, but then so was she. She was surprised to hear him at all. Zach had said up front that he saved Saturdays for his family.

  Maybe he figures he’s so close to being done he might as well finish, she thought hopefully. Being able to use the front door again would be a relief. All her morning routines felt wrong since the tornado, and she had set off for work more than once without an umbrella or some other essential item she’d laid automatically on the little table by the front door. Feeling cheerful, she went upstairs to dress.

  But it wasn’t Zach. Looking out her bedroom window, she saw a man working over at Henry Putnam’s house. That explained why the hammering had been so faint. David had boarded up the broken windows right after the tornado. Maybe he’d finally hired someone to do the repairs so that Henry could come home after all. She went over to see.

  To her surprise, she recognized Virgil Shoals.

  Why am I surprised? He’s David’s builder.

  “Good morning,” she said. “I’m glad to see you’re doing something to this poor house.”

  “It looks worse than it is.”