Murder in the Hearse Degree (22 page)

“I went to Frostburg,” I told him.

Pete spoke up. “They call him Frosty.”

“Excuse my friend. I take him out for little walks on occasion, but I don’t think it really does much good.”

“Hey, no problem,” Duke said. “My dad’s the same way. But he’s cool. It’s just a thing.”

“There you go,” I said to Pete after Duke had moved down the bar. “It’s just a thing.”

Pete took up his beer. “I’m so relieved.”

“Let me throw the final piece at you,” I said. “This is the sexy part of the show.”

“I don’t like the sound of that.”

I went on and told Pete about my driving over to Mike and Libby’s house after leaving the hospital and about peeking in on Mike’s little hot-tub party.

“A shame I didn’t have your binoculars with me.”

“A shame you didn’t have the camera.”

“True. Except I couldn’t make out the woman’s face. That was my tailing job. When she took off I followed the car back to Georgetown.”

“So your friend’s husband is mixing it up with Virginia Larue.”

“Right. What’s the scrabble with that? One day Mike’s nanny is asking the Larues to adopt her baby, a week later she’s dead. And now it turns out Mike is screwing around with Larue’s wife?”

“Stinks, don’t it?”

Gusts of wind were kicking up. The rain slapped even harder against the windows. A tree branch, bent by the wind, was scraping against the top of one of the tavern’s high windows. Down at the far end of the bar, Duke was flirting with a pair of women who were drinking fruity drinks. I heard him saying, “That’s my nickname. I went to Maryland.”

“I have a theory,” I said. “About the hit-and-run. Actually, it’s only half a theory.”

“Let’s hear it,” Pete said.

“Mike Gellman and Ginny Larue.”

“What about them?”

“You don’t see it? The day before yesterday I identified this guy Tom for Crawford Larue. Tom used a different name when he and Sophie went down to D.C. When
I
went down to Larue’s place, he was expecting Tom, not me. Tom was the one he was anxious to talk with. I don’t think Larue was necessarily fishing for Tom’s name, but I ended up giving it to him anyway. I told him that Tom was an actor in a production of
The Seagull
over in Annapolis.”

“So?”

“So let’s say Crawford mentions it to his wife. ‘Hey, honey, do you remember that young man and that young woman I told you about?’ Ginny gets the name out of him, and the fact that he’s in Annapolis doing the
The Seagull
. She runs off and tells Gellman. The very next night Tom is plowed down by a car with a stolen plate—”

“You say.”

“I say. He’s plowed down and then several hours later the lovebirds are whooping it up in a hot tub.”

Pete took a moment to finish off his beer. He studied the label as if it were . . . well, as if it were more fascinating than it was.

“So Mike Gellman and Ginny Larue killed the actor,” he said.

“That’s right.”

“I see. And do we know why?”

“I’m recharging my batteries, Pete. You’ll have to give me some time.”

“And so I guess they probably also killed the nanny? Is that where this is going?”

“Yes.”

Pete thought about it a moment. His thumbnail ran a tear through the label on his bottle. He ran the tear the complete length of the label with the precision of a glass cutter, then looked over at me.

“Why does it have to be both Gellman and Larue’s wife?” Pete asked. “Why couldn’t it simply be Virginia Larue who’s doing all this?”

“Why would she kill Sophie?” I asked. “Jealousy?”

“It wouldn’t be the first time. But why would either of them want to kill this actor? From the way you put it he was just an innocent bystander. You haven’t sold me.”

“Well, I told you it was only half a theory.”

“And who got the nanny pregnant?”

“You’re expecting a lot of me, Pete.”

Munger gave me his lopsided grin. “That’s how it works. Don’t forget, I used to be a lawyer. If you dropped this kind of thing into my lap I’d hand it right back to you.”

“Okay then. It could be Mike who got her pregnant,” I said. “It works for me. Mike can be a real charmer when he wants to be. I’m willing to bet a kid like Sophie would be more than susceptible to a snake like Gellman. And then when he found out about the baby he panicked.”

Pete was shaking his head. It was obvious that he was not terribly convinced by my sketchy scenarios. Not that I could blame him. The pieces weren’t fitting terribly smoothly for me either. Every so-called answer spawned a new pair of questions. An exponential experience.

Pete called Duke over and ordered a whiskey.

“Yes, sir,” Duke said. “Will Jack Daniel’s do?”

“Jack’s fine.” Pete asked me, “You want?” I passed. Duke brought up a tumbler and a bottle of Jack Daniel’s. He poured the whiskey with an unnecessary flourish, then returned to the two women.

“So what happened with you and Lee last night?” I asked, changing the subject. “I assume she gave you a ride home.”

“She did,” Pete said.

“Did you two straighten anything out?”

He took a dip into his glass. “About what?”

“Come on, Pete. You’ve got one foot in and one foot out. Lee doesn’t want to get in the middle of things with you and Susan, but otherwise she’s all over you. You’re her kind of bear. She told me so. So don’t get coy with me, Munger. It’s a long drive from Annapolis to Lutherville. You must have talked.”

“We talked.”

“See?”

“Then she dropped me off at the house.”

“Okay.”

“Then we made out in the car like a couple of teenagers.”

The wind slapped furiously against the windows. A noisy group came bursting through the front door, drenched and laughing.

“Duke!” I called out. “Get back over here. Another whiskey. Pronto.”

Pete was rubbing his sore neck. “I don’t know, Hitch. I really don’t know. . . .”

 

 

The rain was still
falling with verve and spunk and the sort of focused intensity that not a few people on this planet could stand to learn something from. The slightly tipsy mortician stood outside the town house à la wet rat. His shoes were filled with water. Rain ran unimpeded down into his eyes; no little windshield washers to keep things clear. He rapped a snappy shave-and-a-haircut, but held off on the two bits. A few seconds later the door opened.

“Hello, ma’am. Me and Mrs. Noah were wondering if you were up for a little sea cruise.”

“Jesus, Hitch,” Libby said. “Come in.” I stepped into the vestibule. “Did you walk here?”

Fighting off the urge to shake myself dry like a dog, I attempted to squeegee myself in the entranceway. “The closest parking spot was two blocks away. I forded.”

I peeled off my soaked sweatshirt, rolling it the way you crank the lid off a sardine can.

“What happened to your arm?”

The bandage on my wrist was soaked through and pretty much at the end of its usefulness. The adhesive was barely clinging. The puffy red edges of my wound were showing through.

“Oh,” I said. “Look at that.”

Libby directed me to take off my shoes and leave them by the front door.

“Give me your socks and your sweatshirt. I’ll throw them in the dryer. You might as well give me your T-shirt as well.”

I peeled off the wet T-shirt and handed it to her. “Do you want my pants, too?”

Libby smirked. “Keep your pants on.”

I followed her downstairs to the basement, where she tossed my stuff into the dryer. She pulled a clean T-shirt from a pile of folded clothes and tossed it to me.

“This will probably fit. I use it as a nightshirt.”

I held it up. The T-shirt had Nancy and Sluggo on the front. Handsome devils, as always.

“I’ll bet you look sexy in this,” I said.

“I do. Especially when I’ve got rollers in my hair.”

“I go wild for that look.”

We went back upstairs and I waited in the kitchen while Libby went off to fetch something to replace my dead bandage. While I was waiting, Libby’s daughter stepped tentatively into the kitchen. She stopped just inside the door. Her little brother followed a second behind. Toby was wearing a pair of plastic pants as big as his head. He stood motionless on his chubby legs, wavering slightly.

“I want a hot dog,” Lily said.

“Hot dogs are nice.”

“I’m four.”

“Four.” I nodded approvingly. “How about that?”

“Toby hit me.”

“I see.”

“You’re wet,” Lily said.

“Yes. It’s raining outside.”

“I have a go-fish.”

“Goldfish?”

“I can take a bath.”

“That’s right,” I said. “And then you’d be wet, too. Just like me.”

She stood a moment, absently picking her nose. I couldn’t imagine a comb ever getting through all those dark curls. Toby was staring at me with large baleful eyes. He looked stupefied. But then I suppose I was a stupefying sight.

“Daddy is mad at me,” Lily blurted. “My go-fish is Debbie. She doesn’t have a mommy. She can swim.”

“And she’s wet,” I pointed out.

The little girl’s face crunched up. “She’s a
fish.
”

Libby came in to rescue me. She had a package of gauze as well as some adhesive tape. Lily was still making her troll face.

“Have you two been talking?”

“I want a hot dog,” Lily said again. Then she performed a ballerina move.

Libby pulled a chair up next to mine. Lily’s eyes went wide as her mother peeled the soaked bandages off my wrist. My stitches were black and ugly. Toby wobbled and dropped to the floor, his plastic pants arriving well in advance of the rest of him. Libby tore a strip of gauze with her teeth.

“So tell me what happened.”

“It’s a long story,” I said. “Just an accident.”

Libby paused. “Isn’t it either one or the other? Accidents are generally quick.”

“But getting to it,” I said. “That’s a little involved.”

Libby made quick work of putting fresh gauze on my wrist and wrapping it with adhesive tape. She leaned down close to bite the tape clear.

“That should hold you.”

Lily was fascinated with the operation. She held her arm out to her mother.

“Me.”

“Not you, honey,” Libby said. “You don’t have an injury.”

The girl persisted until her mother went ahead and bit off a length of adhesive tape and wrapped it around Lily’s wrist. From the floor, Toby made a noise.

“Nrgmm.”

He was holding out his pudgy arm.

“I detect a trend,” I said. Libby wrapped the boy’s arm in tape. “You’re next.”

“Sorry. I’m not going to play.” Libby stood up and marshaled the children into a small room just down the hall and parked them in front of a television.

“Electronic baby-sitter. A mother’s dream.”

We went into the front room and settled on the couch. The large windows were nearly black, the rain slapped invisibly against them.

Libby turned to me. “So, Sluggo, to what do I owe the pleasure of your drenched visit?”

I had determined on the drive over that I wouldn’t tell Libby what I had seen out on her deck the night before. The name Larue had drawn no reaction when I had mentioned it in the park the day before and I saw no need to toss a new log onto the fire. Even if Libby had her suspicions about Mike, it seemed she was in the dark about the specifics.

“There’s something I’m not clear about, Libby. When the police came out to your house to take the missing persons report . . . isn’t that a little unusual? I mean, why didn’t you and Mike go down to the station to file your report?”

“I guess that’s the way it’s normally done. But Mike has pull. He knows those people. He got on the phone and arranged with Captain Talbot to send someone out.”

“That’s convenient.”

“Why are you asking? What’s so strange about that?”

“Nothing, I guess. I spoke with Officer Floyd on the phone this morning. He indicated to me that you and Mike painted a fairly dire picture of Sophie. I wanted to know why it is they’ve leaned so quickly to her having killed herself, and he said that from what he had gathered it seemed Sophie was pretty unstable.”

“I never said anything of the kind. He told you that?”

“Mike was the one who identified the body. That’s right, isn’t it?”

“Yes. Mike got the call. I was up here. In Baltimore.”

“It’s possible Mike said something to the police at that point. I mean, maybe he steered them toward the idea that Sophie committed suicide. That’s possible.”

“But why would he do that?”

Even as the question left her lips, Libby’s expression darkened. From down the hallway came the sound of canned laughter from the television. Lily’s laughter sounded along with it.

I asked, “Has Mike ever cheated on you, Libby? That you know of?”

“That’s what you think, isn’t it? You think Mike slept with Sophie.”

“I don’t think you should be naïve, Libby. Mike is not dealing straight here. I think that’s obvious.” I realized that I might have no choice but to tell her what I had seen the night before. Libby had dropped her head and was lacing her fingers over and over. A long low rumble of thunder sounded from outside. I waited.

“Yes.” Libby spoke to her hands. “He did cheat on me. He had an affair.” I started to speak but she silenced me. “No. Let me just tell you. It was a little over a year into our marriage. There was a woman in the D.A.’s office. Maggie Mason. Technically she was Mike’s superior. I found out about it. Actually, a friend of mine saw them having drinks together at a bar outside town and she called me up. It wasn’t just drinks. My friend said they were all over each other. Don’t ask me how a couple of prosecutors can be so reckless, but there it was. We already had Lily at the time, I couldn’t just hop in the car and rush off to confront them. My friend’s description was very specific. I knew who it was. She called me back up when the two of them left the bar together. I looked up Maggie Mason’s number in the phone book and kept calling the number and hanging up when the phone machine answered. Finally the woman answered and I asked very calmly if I could speak to my husband. She tried to bluff, but I told her to save her breath. ‘He’s right there,’ I said. ‘I know it.’ And I named the bar where they had been earlier. Mike was home in fifteen minutes. It was not a pretty scene, Hitch. He was furious.
I
was furious. He said I could cost him his job. He tried to convince me that I was wrong, that my friend had been mistaken about what she had seen, but I wasn’t born yesterday. I could tell he was lying. Then he tried to blame her. Maggie Mason. He said they were working on a case together. She was putting the pressure on him. It was a mess, Hitch. I nearly left him. I was that close. And Mike saw that I meant it. He begged me to forgive him. He swore he’d never do anything so stupid again.”