Husbands And Lap Dogs Breathe Their Last (15 page)

Mandrake’s experience was similar; he bid only on a lot of three Toby jugs but quickly dropped out.

Mary was successful in her quest to acquire the Polynesian tattoo needles — hardly a startling outcome, as she was the only person who bid.

Tom and Rutley didn’t bid on anything.

After the auction ended Cummings did his best to discreetly follow the five Mathers members as they left the building, but he was only partially successful. He saw Winky and Tom walk out of the building together. They seemed to be walking toward the parking lot. He observed Mandrake leave the auction with the book Tom had given him.

He glimpsed Mary going around to the side of the building to its loading dock, presumably to pay for and retrieve the needles she had purchased. As she did so, she passed Rutley. She stopped and reached for him, then leaned over to kiss him.

“Not here,” Rutley said, pushing her away and walking in the direction of his car.

While this was unexpected, Cummings wasn’t sure what its exact significance might be. Hoping that the auction staff might have dispersed to help customers with their purchases, Cummings went back into the main reception area to snoop.

On the reception desk he discovered a list. It contained client numbers, a check box indicating buyer or seller, and lot numbers. Sales prices had been written in by hand.

He checked his list against this one.

He looked for the two bidder numbers, CB234 and CB175, that he had previously identified as sellers of the Craddock Brooch.

CB234, likely Therese, based on his conversation with Rutley, did not participate in the day’s auction. No surprise there, as she was dead. But CB175 sold an item that had brought eleven thousand five hundred dollars. Cummings could not recall what it was.

He verified the purchase prices of the Britten lots, most of which came from seller CB788.

Unfortunately, the auction house list did not include any identifying information about sellers. He quickly searched the desk, hoping to find a printout of such a list, but was not successful. The approaching footsteps of a returning staff member forced him to step away hurriedly.

When he arrived home, Cummings discovered a post card from Deuteronomy Smelt in the mail. The front included two lobsters wearing bibs and holding forks in their claws. The caption read “Greetings from Maine.”

Cummings flipped the card over and read, “I’ve uncovered new information that I cannot discuss by telephone. When are you coming back to Maine?”

Cummings dialed Deuteronomy’s number.

“The Smelt residence,” Elektra chirped in her practiced telephone answering manner.

“Hi. This is Cummings Flynn Wanamaker. May I speak to Deuteronomy, please?”

“Hold the wire,” she said, putting the receiver down. A few moments later Cummings heard what sounded like pounding followed by muffled conversation.

“Mister Deuty say you comes visit.”

“Please ask him if he knows a Cosima or Therese Hickok.”

“Hold the wire,” she said again. When she returned, the answer was “Mister Deuty not wish to speak of this on phone.” Then she disconnected.

Next Cummings phoned Ernestine.

“Do you know a Cosima or Therese Hickok?”

She thought for a moment and said, “I believe I know the family slightly. They are from Samaria, aren’t they?”

“Yes. That’s them. Two sisters. Therese was killed in Chicago recently. Cosima died some time ago.”

“Isn’t that wicked awful! Do you think this has something to do with what happened to Chess?”

“I don’t know. There’s no actual evidence to link them. Still, it seems odd they’re from adjacent villages. And then there’s the Wilhelm Reich connection. What are the chances of that?”

“That may be, but remember what they say: If you see horse droppings, don’t be looking for zebras.”

Horses or zebras or both? Cummings didn’t know, but the moment seemed right to pause and consider what might be trotting by and whether or not it had stripes.

What did he actually know about the crime? Therese Hickok had combusted while giving a lecture, almost certainly not spontaneously. Chess Biederman’s remains had been found in a shrink-wrapped boat. Therese lived in Chicago but was from Maine. She worked in public relations and had written several books, including one on Wilhelm Reich. Chess lived in Maine, one village away from Therese’s birth place, and manufactured orgone boxes, invented by Wilhelm Reich. Chess wanted to write a book on the Cold War.

And what of the other players in these dramas?

In Therese’s case it was a large cast. Otto Verissimo, whose role was unclear, was very odd. To use a favorite word of one of Cummings’s former employers, Otto was ineffable. The others — Anunciación, Crandall, Winky, Mary, Glen, Rutley, Tom, and Mandrake — were equally eccentric, though perhaps less obviously withholding information.

All these individuals were present at the meeting at which Therese died and thus had opportunity.

Any of them might have had the means to kill her. Beeswax is highly flammable. So are some tattoo inks. But, of course, any of them might have acquired other flammable compounds.

That left motive. Crandall had been angry with Therese. Mary and Glen were, too. Rutley didn’t appear to be upset with Therese, but he had divorced her. Were any of these conflicts significant enough to inspire a gruesome murder?

Finally there were seemingly more minor details. Therese had been buyer CB234. Who was buyer CB175, and was that information relevant?

The circumstances of Chess’s murder, beyond the fact that he was dead and not from natural causes, were totally unclear. Chess was popular in Horeb, and no one had any apparent reason to kill him. Not only were there no suspects, there was no obvious reason why there should even be any.

Cummings set his watch timer for thirty minutes and intensely scribbled notes of the various steps he might take to move his investigations forward. The buzzer sounded, and he moved into action.

He phoned Otto. Reaching Mandrake, he requested an appointment with Otto for the following afternoon, a conversation he was reasonably certain had been fully understood by both parties.

He researched Mary, Glen, Crandall, Winky, Rutley, Mandrake and Tom on the Internet. Nothing emerged that contributed substantively to his existing knowledge or contradicted what he knew.

He left his house and walked the half block to Luther’s and Rockland’s place.

Cummings and Odin had inadvertently introduced Luther and Rockland when they’d invited them to dinner. It was summer. Both arrived punctually, dressed immaculately in linen shirts and slacks. Rockland’s arm was in a sling, made of matching linen, due to a recent injury.

That both his guests shared a common interest, prissiness, raised Cummings’s hopes for a successful evening. Yet at first the conversation was strained. Luther seemed shy, and Rockland seemed uncharacteristically reserved. Cummings made several thrusts at conversation, but none seemed to penetrate. Then, sometime between the cold carrot soup and the Caesar salad, Cummings mentioned that Luther taught music.

“The organ,” Luther added.

“I’m interested in music, particularly Appalachian music,” Rockland said, suddenly more animated. “I have a theory: the design of the hammered dulcimer evolved to mimic certain characteristics of indigenous reptiles.”

“Isn’t that interesting? Do you know the East Tennessee Dulcimer and Autoharp Festival?” Luther asked Rockland.

“I go every year,” Rockland said, now truly engaged. “That’s where I got this bite,” he continued, indicating his bandaged arm.

“I grew up right there, near Friendship,” Luther said.

“Where is that?” Cummings asked.

“Oh, let’s just say it is somewhere between Arkansas and the Theory of Evolution,” Luther replied.

“Then you’ve been to the festival?” Rockland asked Luther.

“Well, of course,” Luther informed him. “I am fond of all kinds of music. Now what is this about reptiles?”

“Are you interested in reptiles?”

“Oh, yes. Death by snakebite is a sort of pastime in my family. For instance, a particularly insistent eastern coral snake killed my grandfather. He was bitten sixteen times.”

“Was he?”

“That is the story, although my grandmother and grandfather were known to have their disagreements, and my grandmother could be a very unforgiving woman. So who is to say, in this case, just how accidental
accidental
was?”

“I am currently researching
Heterodon platirhinos,
commonly known as the ...”

“As the eastern hognose snake,” Luther said, finishing his sentence. “It eats toads, I believe, though it is not a particular danger to humans.”

“That is correct,” Rockland said, smiling broadly.

“That puts me in mind of my great-aunt Martha,” Luther continued. “She poisoned the toads in her garden after her husband was tragically killed in a fire at the Amphibian House at the Saint Louis Zoo.”

“Was she psychotic?”

“No, she was just Southern. Now what is your interest in this particular creature?”

And so it went. From this point on Odin and Cummings ceased to be in the room, at least for Rockland and Luther. By dessert, Rockland and Luther had somehow drifted down the street to Rockland’s house, leaving Odin and Cummings alone with their pie and coffee.

Rockland’s and Luther’s house was, like Odin’s and Cumming’s home, a World War I era Arts and Crafts bungalow. Cummings climbed the few stairs and banged authoritatively on the heavy brass knocker. Rockland, wearing a silk dressing gown that might have come from a 1930s movie, opened the door.

“I trust nothing dire has occurred.”

“Why do you say that?” Cummings asked.

“I say that because it is rare these days that anyone drops in, particularly without calling first. In fact, when someone has something to say, they typically say it on the telephone or text it.”

“May I come in?”

“Of course you may come in,” Rockland said, moving aside like the Red Sea to create a way forward.

Cummings entered the house. Though he wasn’t much on aesthetics, it was difficult for Cummings not to reflect on how different Rockland’s house looked now that Luther lived in it. Rockland’s restrained taste, all chintz and liquor cabinets, had been dispatched in favor of Luther’s darker sensibilities. The living room now looked like the set of a Tennessee Williams play, assuming he’d written one set in a mausoleum. The room was effectively lightless and airless. Although the walls were a pale, ethereal off-white, the windows were covered in heavy, brown velvet drapes. The furniture was somberly upholstered in dark brown and grey prints. Wherever one’s eyes rested, one found crucifixes and thuribles and vases of calla lilies and statues of saints and masses of candles.

The air was heavy with lingering incense. Cummings coughed as he sat down. “It’s a bit smoky in here,” he said.

Rockland rose, pulled back a set of velvet drapes and opened a window.

“Better?”

“Yes, thank you. I’m here for two reasons. One is that I want to ask you a favor.”

“Does it involve chemical analysis?” Rockland asked with a certain restrained glee.

“I’m afraid it’s more boots-on-the-ground than that. I want to learn more about the various members of the Mathers Society. I wondered if you’d be willing to follow one of them for a few days. His name is Rutley Paik.”

“I don’t see why not, but why this particular man?”

“He lied to me about his presence at an auction; but more than that, I have an instinct about him.”

“An instinct?”

“That’s all I can say at this point. I’ll email you his address and my notes about him. He’s the ex-husband of the deceased. He may be romantically involved with another Mathers member, who is married to someone else.”

“And what of the other members?”

“At least five may be worthy of our attention. My suggestion is that you keep an eye on Rutley, and I’ll do what I can with the others. Depending on what I observe and you observe, we can discuss a change of strategy.”

“That seems reasonable.”

“While I’m here, may I borrow a copy of
Love’s Tender Chainmail?
”

“Is that one of Mister Verisimilitude’s scribblings? The various volumes are over there.”

He pointed to an ornately carved Jacobean-style bookcase. There Cummings found the collected works of Otto Verissimo neatly shelved in alphabetical order.

“Would you like some tea? I was just going to brew a pot,” Rockland said, rising and walking toward the kitchen.

“Thanks,” Cummings replied as he opened
Love’s Tender Chainmail
and skimmed the first few pages.

It seemed that the novel was set in the twelfth century in a European city near a great forest. It was snowing heavily. The Black Death had moved on, but now lepers were dropping fingers and noses like pine cones. Brian, son of Cuconnacht of the Adoration of the Blessed Virgin, out of sorts from starvation, was begging by the city gates after losing his position as squire to a noble Lord, Eoghan, son of Aengus Who Rejoices in Divine Providence. Eoghan and Mochan, another knight, had been in love with Brian. When Brian gave himself to Mochan, Mochan betrayed Brian over an as yet unexplained sacramental mystery involving Hildegard of Bingen, Thomas Becket and a donkey with stigmata. Further, it seemed that Mochan had disappeared — no one knew why or where - and Eoghan, who also wasn’t feeling well, was rumored to be coming down with the Great Pox.

Rockland returned with a pot of tea and a plate of cookies.

“I’ll return the book soon,” Cummings said.

“Take all the time you need,” Rockland replied.

Early the next morning, after his usual struggle to select what tea to have with what breakfast, Cummings set out to see what, if anything, could be learned by following the various Mathers members.

He passed by Anunciación’s apartment building on Lake Shore Drive. There was no activity in front of the building. Counting the floors, he determined where Anunciación’s windows were and peered up to them. However, they were too high for this to be much use.