Name Games (13 page)

“
And,
” Neil contributed, leaning into the conversation, “Bruno also had the silk scarf, the likely weapon. You’d both seen him wearing a patterned gold cravat that looked exactly like the wrinkled one found snagged on the banister of the coach-house stairs yesterday morning, moments before the body was discovered.”

“
But,
” said Pierce, also leaning forward (our three faces were now mere inches apart), “classic criterion number three doesn’t seem to wash. Where and when was Bruno’s
opportunity
to commit the murder if he was out of town all weekend?”

“So it all hinges on that ‘if,’” I summarized. “Was Bruno in fact in Milwaukee as he claimed?”

“That’s what we need to find out.” Pierce leaned back in his chair to explain, “If there are any holes in his alibi, this’ll be the easiest homicide of my career. If his story’s tight, though, we’re back to square one.”

I asked, “When do you plan to see him?”

Pierce glanced at his watch. “I’m due now. We agreed to meet at The Nook early—he has some business appointments there as well.” Pierce took a last drink of coffee, then set aside the mug. His face wrinkled with a new thought. “I won’t be treating this as an official interrogation, so if you’d care to come along, Mark, I’d be grateful for your reactions—so long as the meeting stays off-the-record.”

Big smile. “I thought you’d never ask.” I stood, raring to go.

Neil and Pierce rose also. Neil mused, “It’s a question of opportunity. If it turns out that Bruno wasn’t here to strangle Carrol, who else had access to the victim?”

“I’ve been over that again and again,” said Pierce, rubbing his neck, perplexed. “Lots of people had access to the coach house—there’s little or no security—and Cantrell had a steady stream of visitors since the morning he arrived.”

I offered, “I myself have been there several times; I accompanied Harley Kaiser and Miriam Westerman in one instance, Glee Savage another time. Grace Lord had total access, of course. And those are just the people I
know
to have been there.” I might have added Pierce’s name to the list, but refrained, hoping he might volunteer it. But he did not. So I continued, “The question we need to answer is: Who was there on Sunday morning?”

“Grace Lord,” Neil suggested with a snicker, clearing the table. Carrying coffee and cups to the counter, he turned to elaborate, “She was there
every
morning—the place belongs to her. If it’s a question of opportunity, Grace is your gal.”

Though Neil’s hypothesis was not meant to be taken seriously, Pierce felt compelled to weigh it objectively, looking beyond the gut response that Grace was far too kindly a soul to be involved in such heinous devilry. “She may have had ample opportunity,” he reminded Neil, “but she had no motive. After all, her prestige with the Midwest Miniatures Society hinged on her ability to deliver Cantrell to their convention
alive.
Understandably, she’s been really shaken by this—her big coup has turned into an unmitigated disaster.”

“What’s more,” I reminded both of them, “whoever killed Carrol needed sufficient physical stature to subdue and strangle him. Grace’s five-foot frame is no match for Carrol’s, at six-four.”

“Fine,” Neil conceded with a laugh, “no need to give Grace the rubber-hose treatment. Just keeping you guys on your toes.”

Pierce turned to me. “We’d
better
be on our toes—with Bruno. He’s a foreign national, which not only complicates our usual procedures, but also presents us with a bit of a language barrier. Still, he’s our only promising suspect.”

I moved toward the door. “Let’s get going then.” I pulled my own raincoat from the back hall—a classic tan Burberry, not nearly so trendy as Pierce’s olive-colored duster, which I handed to him. I told Neil, “Leave that stuff in the sink; I’ll take care of it later. You’ve got a busy morning at Quatro.”

“I can’t leave yet.” He paused before explaining, “It’s not just the dishes. It’s wash day, remember? And I can’t put it off—you stripped the bed already.”

“Sorry,” I told him, suddenly sheepish.

“No problem.” His amiable tone made it clear that he wasn’t complaining. “But I
need
to do laundry.”

What we
needed
was a housekeeper.

Since Pierce and I would be going to our respective offices downtown after meeting Bruno Hérisson, we drove both of our cars to The Nook. Following Pierce as he turned off Park Street, I noticed that the activity down the block in front of the miniatures store had a quieter, more somber pace than the hubbub I’d witnessed over the weekend—fewer vans, less milling of people. Had the news of Carrol Cantrell’s murder sent the mini masses into mourning? Or perhaps the rush was destined to subside on Monday, when weekend dilettanti would trudge back to their day jobs. Or maybe it was just the rain—we had all gotten off to a slow start on that cold, damp morning.

Parking at the curb, Pierce and I got out of our cars, clapping their doors closed in unison. We stepped onto the sidewalk, glancing about for Bruno’s rented compact. “He seems to be running late,” said Pierce, a wrinkle of concern creasing his brow.

“Let’s get indoors.” As I led the way to The Nook’s entrance, our leather soles softly slogged the wet concrete, leaving a trail of spots that glowed silver for a moment, then vanished beneath a fresh layer of gray drizzle. Opening the door for Pierce, I let him pass in front of me.

Inside, fluorescent lights burned coldly, magnifying rather than dispelling the Monday gloom. I felt like a kid arriving at school after a perfect fall weekend that had brought a change of weather for the worse. The place even smelled like a long-ago school in autumn—damp clothes, dry old wood, fresh paint—a whiff of Ditto fluid would have made the illusion complete. The sounds, however, were not those of a school—adult voices engaged in subdued chatter, the thud and slide of cartons and furniture, a crackling radio tuned to some nostalgia station, played low.

Pierce had not been inside the store before. He stood there with me in the front hall, peering into the showroom, not sure what to make of this odd little world. Unbuttoning his long coat, he looked about for somewhere to hang it—a good idea. I removed my Burberry as well, checking first to confirm that my pen and notebook were in my jacket, then we draped our raincoats together on the back of a wooden chair that had been shoved into a corner, out of the way.

As we entered the showroom, some of the people there glanced at us, but no one recognized us—they were out-of-towners. I spotted the clipboard woman whom I’d seen the day before, so I asked, “Has Mr. Hérisson arrived yet?” My pronunciation of his name had improved some.

“Haven’t seen him.” Her terse style had not improved. “Ask Grace.”

Reluctant to engage her in more of this sparkling repartee, I nodded my thanks and led Pierce to the back of the room, where I now knew a doorway would connect to the defunct Rexall store, converted that week into a makeshift exhibit hall.

Entering the hall, I noted that the convention setup was at a standstill, having progressed little since the previous morning. News of Carrol Cantrell’s murder had completely bollixed Sunday’s work crew, and the few who remained on hand today were still preoccupied by the tragedy, gossiping in clumps, aghast at the brutal demise of the king of miniatures.

I saw Grace Lord where I had found her yesterday, at the far end of the hall, in the competition area among the roomboxes. Directing Pierce’s glance toward her, I led him through the main aisle and approached Grace quietly, not wishing to interrupt a discussion she was having with several exhibitors.

“I just don’t know,” she told the others with a sigh. “If we drape the entrance in black, it’d be a fitting tribute, to be sure, but at the same time, it might keep the public away—what a downer.” She wasn’t being disrespectful, just pragmatic, and I admired her attempt to remain objective in such an emotional situation.

Then she noticed Pierce and me. “Oh. Good morning, Mark. Morning, Sheriff.” The others backed out of the conversation as Grace continued, “I had a hunch I’d be seeing you fellas today. And wouldn’t you know it—me looking like hell again.” She laughed halfheartedly.

It seemed she was always apologizing for her appearance, which was never warranted—till now. That morning, in fact, she looked pretty bad. “Under the circumstances,” I fudged, “you’re looking very well today.”

She rolled her eyes—she knew better. “We’re doing the best we can. I met with the rest of the organizers late into the night and again this morning. We decided to push ahead—‘the show must go on.’ But it’s hard to muster any energy now, let alone enthusiasm. Carrol was our top attraction, the biggest name in miniatures, and now he’s gone. He
died
here. Murdered. Oh, Lord…,” she trailed off, lost in thought.

Pierce offered words of sympathy and assurance, explaining that the murder was his department’s top priority, that he hoped to resolve it quickly, hoped to dispel any clouds of uncertainty that might hang over the convention’s opening, now only five days away. “In fact,” he concluded, “we may wrap this up as soon as this morning. Bruno Hérisson agreed to meet me here, but he’s late.”

Grace had heard Pierce without really listening—his speech was predictable—until his reference to Bruno and the unspoken implication that the Frenchman was thought guilty. Her eyes widened with astonishment and a tinge of fear. “No,” she told Pierce, touching his arm with her fingertips, “you can’t possibly think that Bruno killed Carrol. That would be just
too
terrible. He’s the
second
biggest name in miniatures. If he as well as Carrol met his downfall here in Dumont, I’d never be able to forgive myself—and no one else would either.”

Her fretting over these names and their ranks reminded me of the name games that had played through my mind since the previous Thursday, when I’d met Carrol. The irony of Grace’s statement, when she called Bruno “the second biggest name in miniatures,” was that she had not yet assimilated the new pecking order of her little world. With Carrol’s death, Bruno had moved up a notch.

Pierce explained to Grace, “I haven’t drawn any conclusions about Bruno, not yet. That’s why I need to talk to him. But you must admit, he had the most to gain from Carrol’s death, also the biggest ax to grind—at least as far as we know.”

I added, “And remember the silk scarf we found on the banister, Grace? It may very well have been used to strangle Carrol, snagged from the killer’s pocket as he fled the scene. The point is, we’ve all seen Bruno wearing just such a scarf.”

“But I
told
you,” Grace insisted, “that scarf was probably Carrol’s. When I cleaned his room, I saw that he had many silk scarves.”

“She’s right,” conceded Pierce, whose investigators had already inventoried the contents of the coach house.

“There now,” said Grace, satisfied that an important point had been made. “I’m sure if you just
talk
to Bruno, he’ll explain everything to your satisfaction.”

“We’re eager to hear him out.” Pierce tapped his watch. “But where is he?”

Right on cue, amid a flurry of activity from the doorway to The Nook, Bruno entered the hall, surrounded by exhibitors who followed him from the showroom. To characterize his entrance as triumphal would sell it short. He had newly assumed the mantle of the reigning sovereign of miniatures, and his subjects fawned about him to troth their allegiance—one woman skittered forward to introduce herself, and she actually made a clumsy attempt at a curtsy. Bruno sopped up the attention and flattery of his minions, strolling forward among them at a regal pace. His refined manner and delicate movements seemed impossible from a man of such burly bearing and sheer heft. With one arm he clutched a dog-eared notebook; in the other hand he carried a gnawed pencil, punctuating the air as he spoke. The way he handled these pedestrian articles, you’d have thought they were an orb and scepter. Yes, King Bruno had arrived.

Spotting us at the far end of the hall, he shrugged a gesture of apology for his tardiness, unable (or unwilling) to extricate himself from the little throng of admirers. “
Oh la la,
” he singsonged to them, “I am late, my friends. Truly, I must take my leave,” at last shooing the crowd aside and crossing the room to meet us.

“Morning, Majesty,” I told him wryly, extending my hand.

“Yes, Mark? Good morning?” he said, pretending to be confused by my greeting. He shook my hand, then Pierce’s, telling him, “Do forgive my late arrival. I hope you did not begin to suspect that I had”—he paused, searching for the phrase—“skipped town.” He chortled.

Grace cast both Pierce and me a visual jab, shaming us for the suspicion that Bruno had so colloquially nailed.

Getting into his cop mode, Pierce replied flatly, “We’ve got a murder on our hands, Bruno. It’s our job to be suspicious.” His serious tone effectively quelled any instincts to keep our conversation lighthearted.

Grace seemed irked by this, as if Bruno—a foreign visitor, her guest—were being treated rudely. She told Pierce, “I can tell that you gentlemen would prefer to be alone. Would you like to use the old office?”

“Thank you, Grace. That might be best.”

Wordlessly, Grace led us to a back corner of the exhibit space, where a door opened into the bygone drugstore’s office. A small, windowless room, it was clean but barren, containing only a card table and a few folding chairs, probably used as a lunchroom by the exhibitors. The lighting was too bright, the walls too white. Had the furniture been heavier, the setting could have passed for a police interrogation room in some forties-vintage gangster B movie. This imagery did not escape Bruno (had he seen a lot of old American films?), for his features dropped and he hesitated in the doorway before gingerly proceeding in, approaching one of the chairs as if on tiptoe. Grace excused herself, closing the door behind her with a hearty thud (I don’t think she meant to slam it—perhaps the jamb had warped), which made both Bruno and me jump. But Pierce was cool, suggesting, “Let’s all sit down.”

Without carpet or drapes or upholstery to soften the room’s harsh acoustics, our metal chairs squeaked and scraped grimly as we settled around the table. It was a challenge for Bruno to perch his corpulence on the banged-up chair’s perforated seat. He squirmed to cross his legs, attempting an air of nonchalance, but the darting of his eyes revealed apprehension as well as physical discomfort.