Dig (23 page)

“It wasn’t my media conference,” I reminded him.

My reticence made him furious. “Jesus, Maddy! Just who are you working for anyway?”

“Truth, Justice and the American Way?”

He punched the steering wheel instead of my nose. “Never heard of them.”

That was Dale’s cute way of admitting I was right to keep my lip buttoned. And I couldn’t give him any of the inside poop I had, could I? “I know you’ve got a story to write,” I said as we pulled into the parking deck. “But Detective Grant wouldn’t confirm anything I told you anyway. I’d only be getting myself into hot water without helping you one damn bit.”

Dale pulled into his slot on level three. He swiveled toward me. “Make you a deal,” he said. “I’ll let you read my story before I zap it to the desk. And if there’s any little thing you can amplify a bit.”

I pressed my shush finger across his eager smile. “I’ll make you a deal. You write your little story and after it runs, I’ll personally see it gets filed away in the right morgue file. How’s that?”

And that’s how it ended. We took the elevator to the newsroom without saying a word. Dale went to his desk. I went to mine.

***

There was no guarantee the plan I’d cooked up with Detective Grant would work. But at least it was finally in the works: That night TV21 would dutifully report that the Hannawa police had identified a mysterious object that might link the two murders. The story Dale was writing for tomorrow’s
Herald-Union
would certainly get a big, black, above-the-fold headline. Charlie Chimera would be pissing and moaning about the police department’s ineptitude all afternoon on the radio.

The police meanwhile would go to work on Rollie Stumpf. They’d put him under surveillance. They’d visit him at the office. They’d hint that they had more than they did. What Rollie would do was anybody’s guess. Maybe he’d confess. That was our hope. Or maybe he’d panic and do something foolish that gave him away.

I did know what I’d be doing. For the first time in four months I’d be doing absolutely nothing.

***

Wednesday, July 11

The week that followed was simply torture. Detective Grant didn’t call me once. Andrew hadn’t returned my calls. Dale was paying me back and enjoying it. Every time I asked him how things were going with the murder investigations he’d shrug and say something smart like, “Maybe there’ll be something about it in tomorrow’s paper.”

So I was out of the loop and you can just imagine how I felt about that. Then on Wednesday morning Gwen called me at the paper. “I just felt like giving you a buzz,” she said.

“Well, I’m glad you did,” I said.

She rattled my eardrum with a huge, over-rehearsed sigh. “I just hope you’re having a better summer than I am,” she said.

“Things not going well?”

She told me about the wrong shade of blue on the Tuscan tiles she ordered for her guest bathroom. About the trouble she was having with her maid service. About her ongoing search for a pet therapist who understands the delicate temperament of dachshunds. “Then there’s that business with the police,” she said.

“About Gordon, you mean?”

“Yes—and that silly stuff about David Delarosa. They’ve talked to us three times in a week. Me once and Rollie twice.”

I commiserated. “They’ve talked to me about it, too.”

Her second sigh was better. “I don’t know what they think we can tell them. Rollie wasn’t even here that night.”

This was not the time for me to tell Gwen everything I knew about Rollie’s early return to Hannawa, or David’s letter to Gordon. This was the time for me to play dumb and listen closely. “That’s right,” I agreed. “He and Lawrence were in Columbus at the debate tournament.”

“And you and I were with Gordon and Chick at Jericho’s.” She hesitated. “That was the same night David and Sidney got into it over you, wasn’t it?”

I told her it was.

Now she confided in me. “You know how worried I’ve been, Maddy. That maybe Chick had something to do with Gordon’s death. Because of the way they fought at the Kerouac Thing.”

“We’ve all had that worry,” I said.

“But now that the police think there’s a link to David’s death, well, who knows, maybe it was Sidney after all.”

“What about Effie’s alibi for him?” I asked.

“Maybe Effie had no choice,” Gwen said.

***

Sunday, July 15

The concept of Sunday morning, unfortunately, means nothing to James. He whimpered me awake at seven, as he did every day, demanding that his breakfast be served immediately. I filled his bowl with nuggets and sprinkled the top with stinky liver treats so he’d eat it. Then it was my turn. I put a mug of water in the microwave for my tea. I poured a bowl of cereal. I retrieved my Sunday paper from the driveway while the pieces of petrified bananas and strawberries softened up in the skimmed milk.

We’d finally run Louise’s feature story. On Page One, too. There was a big photo of Mayor Flynn lounging in a big leather chair, surrounded by his collection of Democratic donkeys. Below the photo was this headline:

I read Louise’s predictable cutsie-wootsie lead
—Even the Energizer Bunny has to recharge its batteries once in a while
—and then turned to the jump page to see if they’d run a photo of Rollie Stumpf. Boy did they. It was a huge, three-column shot of him standing in front of his mantel full of trophies. He was flashing a forced jack-o-lantern smile. I could just see Gwen on the day of the shoot standing behind Weedy screeching, “Smile bigger, Rollie! Smile bigger!”

“I bet he’s not smiling this morning,” I whispered to myself.

I scanned the story for the part about Rollie’s den. He got several paragraphs, right after Worldstar Hydraulics CEO Vernon P. Welty. There was this self-effacing quote by Rollie:

And this rather sad quote from Gwen, which I’m sure she spent a week of rehearsal getting just right:

After breakfast I took James for his walk. It was one of those July days you dream all winter about but hate when they finally arrive. It was only nine o’clock but the temperature was already pushing eighty. When we got back to my bungalow, James went straight to his rug for a nap. I took a shower and put on the worst tee shirt and jeans I could find.

I had big plans for this particular Sunday. My backyard is a disaster. It has been since Lawrence and I bought it over forty years ago. The lawn has more dandelions than grass blades and the flowerbeds are solid clay. For years I’ve been dreaming of turning it into one of those beautiful English gardens you drool over in the magazines. In my mind I can picture the cobblestone walkways and serpentine beds of perennials. I can picture a comfy teakwood bench beneath a vine-covered trellis. I see roses. I see zinnias, and marigolds, and bright yellow mums. I can hear my imaginary garden, too. A trickling fountain. Tinkling wind chimes. The buzzing wings of hummingbirds. I figured today was as good as any to start.

The first thing I did was get my kloppers from the garage and go to work on the dead limbs hanging from my pin oak. When that was finished, I scrubbed out the crud in my bird bath. When that was finished, I de-thistled my day lilies. When that was finished I made myself another mug of tea and curled up on my new glider. Gardening is always easier between your ears than on your hands and knees.

While I was busy deciding where my future herb garden should go, the phone rang. And rang and rang. “Damn it,” I growled at the unknown caller, “can’t you see I’m not here?”

The ringing continued. I gave in and trotted inside. It was Detective Grant.

“I figured I’d better tell you before you saw it on the news,” he began. “Rollie Stumpf overdosed on drugs this morning.”

“Good gravy! Is he dead?”

“Not yet.”

“Please don’t tell me it was intentional.”

“He left a note.”

“Good gravy! Where was he? And where was Gwen?”

“Gwen was in the kitchen. Rollie was in his den.”

“Good gravy! Don’t tell me that.”

Chapter 25

Wednesday, July 25

Ike was wearing a beautiful gray suit. I was wearing my navy blue funeral suit, the one I wished fit better. “You up for all this?” he asked as he helped me down my front steps.

“I’m okay,” I said. I had my arms around a crock pot full of baked beans.

Ike put the beans in his trunk. We headed for Greenlawn, the leafy, upscale suburb north of the city. The morning rush hour was long over. There was only a dribble of traffic on Cleveland Avenue now.

Why was Ike coming with me? In March, I’d asked Eric to go with me to Gordon’s funeral. And he was a pain in the ass the whole time. This time I wanted a little maturity at my side.

We pulled into the Umplebee & Meyer Funeral Home. It was, as you might expect, Hannawa’s most prestigious. Its white brick façade was trimmed with oodles of columns and fancy cornices. It looked like the bottom layer of a wedding cake.

Ike parked his modest Chevrolet next to a big boaty Lincoln. We headed for the entrance, elbow to elbow like an old married couple. A pasty man in a baggy black suit held the door for us, his right eye studying Ike’s brown skin, his left eye studying my white skin. We followed the organ music to the chapel. There had to be a hundred chairs set up and ninety of them had to be empty.

The minister was already leaning on the pulpit next to Rollie’s urn, ready to start as soon as somebody nudged the organist. Ike and I hurried to the front and sat behind Chick and Effie. Effie looked over her shoulder and smiled. Chick looked over his shoulder and frowned.

It was terrible seeing all those empty chairs. But I was hardly surprised. Rollie had committed suicide. He’d left a note taking responsibility for two murders—a note
The Herald-Union
saw fit to print on the front page. Still, how could you not feel bad for Gwen? She’d spent a lifetime befriending Hannawa’s rich and powerful. She’d worked at it with the tenacity of a stamp collector. And now the whole kit and caboodle had abandoned her. The only people brave enough to show up were a few relatives and a handful of old beatniks.

To tell you the truth, I’d debated about coming myself. It was, after all, my harebrained scheme that pushed Rollie over the edge. “Quit wallowing in guilt,” Dale Marabout hissed at me one afternoon when I was feeling especially sorry for myself. He had a ballpoint clenched in his teeth. He was typing like a madman to meet his deadline. “Rollie Stumpf meted out his own punishment. He saved taxpayers a bundle.”

I’ll never know for sure, of course, but Rollie certainly must have known that he was a suspect well before Louise’s feature on his
dandy
den ran that Sunday. How could he not have known? That press conference by Scotty Grant? Those repeated visits by detectives? Every day he must have worried a little more.

Gwen’s first statement to the police did give me a pretty good picture of what happened that Sunday morning: Rollie got up at nine. He crawled into a sweat suit. Let the dogs out for their morning pee. Got the paper from the driveway. He poured a cup of coffee in the kitchen. Buttered two slices of wheat toast. He joined Gwen at that same tiny bistro table by the bay window where she’d served me the poached salmon and pea pods. He pulled the paper from its plastic bag and saw Louise’s story on Page One. He turned to the jump page and saw Weedy’s photo of him by the mantel, with all of his college debate trophies. All of them but one.

Rollie knew I’d been investigating Gordon’s death. And when he saw that photo he knew for sure I’d made the link between the two murders. He knew I was not only behind that story on his den, but also the story that followed Detective Grant’s press conference. And he knew one other thing. He knew he’d ruined Gwen’s life. The woman to whom he owed everything.

So while Gwen called her important friends to make sure they’d seen the paper, Rollie finished his breakfast. Then he slipped upstairs. He got the bottle of antidepressants Gwen kept in her nightstand. According to the police report, there was a three-month supply in the bottle. He went back down to the kitchen. Gwen was still chatting away. He got a bottle of lemon-flavored Perrier from the refrigerator. He headed for his den. He closed the door. He sat at his enormous oak desk. He pulled out the box of expensive Italian stationery Gwen had given him one year for Christmas. His name was printed in gold across the top:
ROLLAND H. STUMPF
. He wrote a note. He positioned it in the exact center of his leather desk pad. He started putting pills in his mouth. Sipping the expensive water.

The headline above Dale’s story in the Monday paper said this:

Gwen told police she did not find Rollie until a quarter after ten. By then he was already on the floor behind his desk, gasping, convulsing. Gwen said she shook him and screamed at him and then called 911. By the time Detective Grant called me that afternoon with the news, Rollie was in Hannawa General Hospital, in a coma, on life support.

Dale worked the story hard for Tuesday. I still wasn’t talking to him but apparently Detective Grant was. Said the headline:

Detective Grant was smart enough not to go on the record. But Dale’s story did contain plenty of quotes from a “veteran detective close to the investigation.” Among them was this telling gem:

Now who in Hannawa but Detective Scotty Grant gives quotes like that?

Anyway, there was no story on Wednesday or Thursday. But Friday’s headline gave me a pretty good idea where things were headed:

It was during this lingering that Gwen gave detectives her second statement, the one detailing how David Delarosa died.

Gwen had indeed gone home with David that night in 1957. “When Jericho’s closed David asked me to drive him home,” she told them. “And when we pulled up to his apartment building he asked me to come inside for coffee. And I said yes.”

Gwen was a worldly girl. Certainly she understood that coffee had nothing to do with David’s invitation. Given his letter to Gordon that Christmas, it’s very likely he’d been working his “ample animal charm” on her all winter. And by the time Easter vacation rolled around—and Rollie conveniently out of sight and mind in Columbus—Gwen was ready to surrender her own ample charms. “I had sexual intercourse with David Delarosa,” she told detectives.

“Was it consensual?” they asked.

“I suppose it was,” she answered.

Rollie showed up at David’s door at three in the morning. Assuming that the bus from Columbus reached Hemphill College at two, that meant Rollie stood outside David’s apartment building for a good long time, waiting for Gwen to appear, slowly coming to a boil.

We’ll never know for sure, but Rollie must have been aware of David’s interest in Gwen. And he must have sensed that Gwen was interested in him. There’s one thing we can assume with some confidence: When Rollie saw Gwen’s pink Buick in front of that apartment building on Hester Street, he knew who lived there. He knew behind which door he’d find his fiancée.

David went to the door in his socks and underwear. He stopped Rollie from coming in. Rollie was crying like a baby. “Come out, Gwen!” he begged her repeatedly.

“She ain’t going nowhere,” David said. He pushed Rollie into the hallway. Pushed him toward the stairway. David was laughing at him. Taunting him. “Looks like I got her first,” he said. “Ain’t that a god-diddly-damned shame.”

Gwen told detectives that she ran after them. That she reached them just as Rollie dropped his suitcase and swung his trophy with both arms. The thick metal stalk of the trophy struck David square on the nose. He staggered backward and fell over the stairwell railing.

Rollie was in a rage now. He ran down the stairs and pounded away at David’s prostrate body. Until David’s face was raw. Until David’s blood was everywhere.

Gwen ran down the stairway after Rollie. She tried to pull him off David. But Rollie kept bashing away. “I was afraid someone in the building heard the fight,” Gwen told detectives. “But no one came. I went back to David’s room and put on my clothes. I brought a pair of David’s pants for Rollie. And a shirt.”

“The same ones he was wearing that night?” the detectives asked her.

“Yes,” said Gwen. “Rollie’s clothes were covered with blood. He changed right there in the lobby. I went back to David’s room again and found his wrestling bag. I put the trophy and Rollie’s clothes in it. We drove around for hours. Until it started getting light. I finally stuffed the bag in a garbage bin. Behind that A&P that used to be across from the Crystal Theater. On Tuckman.”

“You weren’t afraid somebody would find the wrestling bag in the garbage?” the detectives asked her.

“We spent the next fifty years worrying about that,” she said.

Dale’s next story appeared on the following Wednesday:

There was a very interesting sidebar accompanying that story, by the way. A very sad sidebar. It quoted an old girlfriend of Gordon’s, a woman from Toledo named Penelope Yarrow Oakar, who speculated that Gordon was not digging for Rollie’s debate trophy at all, but a cocoa can full of pine cones. “I hate to think he died for such a silly thing,” she told Dale Marabout when he called her.

Over the weekend doctors sat down with Gwen and Detective Grant. They said Rollie was brain dead. Gwen agreed to take him off life support. An hour later Rollie Stumpf died. Dale got a copy of his suicide note. It said this:

Gwen knew Rollie killed David. She was right there. Naked as a jaybird. But did Gwen know Rollie killed Gordon? At least have a suspicion? “When they found Gordon’s body out there I didn’t dare think about it,” she said in her statement.

“But in your heart-of-hearts you knew it was a possibility?” detectives asked her.

“I didn’t even know he had a gun,” she said.

***

The minister was still speaking—saying the things ministers always say at funerals—when a soft, fuzzy
voodee-voo-voo
oozed into the chapel. It was like the cool, haunting hoot of a mourning dove. It rolled forward through the rows of empty chairs. It took everyone by the ears and turned their heads. It was Shaka Bop, filling the doorway, in his dashiki and porkpie hat, his big shoulders bent over his silver saxophone. His song was recognizable at first—“My Old Kentucky Home”—but as he played, the old song’s simple melody splintered in a thousand directions, in the crazy bebop way Rollie Stumpf always loved. It was so beat. And so beautiful.

***

Ike held the door for me. I carried the baked beans. There were only six cars in Gwen’s long, swooping driveway. If the funeral was any gauge, there wouldn’t be any more. We crossed the grand foyer to the living room, our heels banging on those horrible black and white chessboard tiles. Gwen was crumpled in a white wingback chair. She’d replaced the black wool suit she’d worn to the funeral with a summery silk pantsuit, the pink of raspberries not quite ripe. The handful of friends and family who’d bravely attended the funeral now sat motionless on a pair of opposing white sofas, like a collection of department store mannequins. Queen Strudelschmidt and Prince Elmo were asleep under the glass coffee table. Rollie’s urn rested on the mantel above a marble fireplace filled with glowing candles.

I held up the crock pot. “Who needs beans?”

Shaka Bop’s hands came together in a single, loud clap. “Oh, Dolly!” he said. “Could I ever dig a big bowl of those sweet morsels!”

Gwen padded toward me across the white carpet. She kissed my cheek. “Leave it to Maddy to think of everything,” she said.

Effie, Chick and Shaka started to applaud. The handful of others in the room applauded, too, without knowing why. Gwen led us to the dining room. The table and antique sideboards were covered with multi-tiered trays of sugared fruits, fancy finger sandwiches and desserts far too pretty too eat. Enough food for an army. An army of fair-weather friends that wasn’t coming. I found an empty corner on the table for my crock pot. Effie and Chick headed into the kitchen to find bowls and spoons. Shaka went to the wine cart and started popping corks.