Name Games (39 page)

Stepping forward, I tell her, “And there’s a good chance,
Mizz
Westerman, that he’d still be alive if someone hadn’t laced his cake with nuts.”

Spinning toward me, cloak furling, she raises her fist and snaps the leather leash at my groin. “I’ll lace
your
nuts!” she cackles.

As the whip smacks its target, I scream.

And I awoke.

Normally the weekend breakfast scene in the house on Prairie Street was relaxed and unstructured, but this Saturday morning was hardly the start of a normal weekend. Neil and Thad were busy setting out the boxes and bags that would provide our “continental” breakfast. Doug Pierce had already arrived, fresh from the health club, hair still wet. Also present were my two editors, Lucille Haring and Glee Savage—I’d asked them to come over that morning so we could have a brainstorming session there in the kitchen.

The pressure was on. Toxicology results and the coroner’s final report were due by the following morning. If the tests provided no new evidence that Carrol Cantrell had died from an allergic reaction to nuts, Sheriff Pierce would in all probability be unjustly accused of the crime. He stood to lose everything—freedom, career, dignity. As a friend (and also as a journalist on the scent of a great story), I’d agreed to help him solve the mystery of Cantrell’s death. During the early days of our behind-the-scenes investigation, the puzzle had gripped me as an intellectual challenge. Now, with only a day remaining to prove Pierce’s innocence, the same challenge took on an urgency that was deeply emotional—was I up to the task?

Thad was buttering toast, piling it on a plate. When he finished, he took two or three slices for himself and spread a thick layer of peanut butter over the transparent sheen of the melted butter. Clanging his knife in the jar, he said, “We need more peanut butter.”

“Already?” I asked. Neil had bought some a week ago.

“It’s on the list,” Neil told Thad.

I mentioned, “As long as we’re taking inventory, put Chee-Zees on the list.”

The room fell dead silent. “
What?
” asked Neil, who’d never seen me eat such a thing—and clearly didn’t approve.

“Actually,” I tried to explain, “they’re not bad.”

“They’re pretty good,” agreed Glee.

Lucy shook her head, unwilling to admit her own acquired taste for them.

Pierce broke into laughter.

Thad brought the plate of toast and a glass of milk to the table, pulling up a chair, wedging himself between Pierce and me. The table was designed for four, but all six of us had now managed to crowd around it. Coffee and juice were already poured. On his way from the gym, Pierce had picked up a chocolate-slathered kringle—a large horseshoe-shaped pastry, something of a Wisconsin specialty (so much for Pierce’s workout). Glee had brought doughnuts; Lucy, a bag of beautiful cantaloupes and honeydews. All this bounty was spread before us, combined with the usual cereals and pastry from our own cupboard, creating an impressive selection for a household not prone to cook breakfast.

The table was further ladened with newspapers—there were at least four copies of that morning’s edition of the
Register
with its front-page story about jury selection for the obscenity trial, a story that carried the Charles Oakland byline. Also displayed there was Glee’s follow-up on the miniatures show, due to open that morning. The remainder of the front page was devoted to the murder.

Swallowing half a wedge of toast, Thad asked, “So the guy who got strangled—he might have been
poisoned?
” His eager tone suggested that this development was way beyond cool.

It made me uncomfortable that he seemed to dwell on the murder, though who could blame him? I’d assembled a mob in our home for breakfast, and our purpose was obvious—we hoped to snare a killer. Still, I didn’t want to discuss our hunches in unvarnished detail in front of Thad. So I shifted the topic, saying to everyone, “Speaking of poisoning, does everyone know that Thad landed a role in his school play?”

Lucy leaned to ask me under her breath, “What’s that got to do with poison?”

I laughed, acknowledging my non sequitur. “Sorry. The play is
Arsenic and Old Lace.
It’s about little old ladies who—”

“—who poison little old men,” Lucy finished my sentence with a chuckle, remembering the play. “Which role, Thad?”

“Dr. Einstein, the plastic surgeon who drinks a lot.” Then Thad hammed a line or two, demonstrating the accent Neil had taught him.

“Congratulations,” Glee and Lucy told him. “That’s marvelous.” Lucy had been in my office with Pierce on Thursday afternoon when Thad called with the news, but Pierce and I were just then rushing out to visit the coroner, so she never got the full story.

Thad told us, “We’re having a read-through of the script tonight. Mrs. Osborne says it’s very important—it’s the first time the whole cast gets to hear the whole play.” He slurped some milk.

“That’s right,” Neil told him, having nibbled a bit of kringle. “Once rehearsals start, you won’t get to hear the whole play again till weeks later. The read-through is lots of fun—you get to know the rest of the cast, and there isn’t much pressure yet.” Neil must have liked the pastry because he now sliced off a palm-size chunk of it and slid it onto his plate.

Thad quavered, “I
am
a little nervous about learning all the lines, though. I’ve never done it before.”

“Here’s a tip,” said Neil, after swallowing. “Count the pages on which you have lines to learn, then count the days you have till lines are due. Divide the pages by the days, and you’ll know exactly how much you need to learn each day—every day, without fail. Then you
know
you’ll be ready.”

“Yeah…” Thad seemed surprised by the simplicity of this surefire plan. “Thanks, Neil. I’ll get to work right after breakfast.”

“When you get further along,” Neil offered, “I’ll help you run your lines.”

The discussion continued in this vein for a while, all of us encouraging Thad and predicting that he’d be great in the role. Though our intention was to calm his nerves and to assure him there was no need to worry, our words revved him up even further. Not that he seemed frightened by the uncertain prospects of the production—on the contrary, he was chomping at the bit, barely able to remain seated. You’d have thought that that evening’s read-through was not a first rehearsal, but opening night.

After managing to down several pieces of toast, half a melon, and a quart of milk, he excused himself from the table, took his dishes to the sink, and darted from the kitchen, telling us, “I’ll be in my room working on lines.”

We couldn’t help laughing as he left. Pierce told me, “If you were worried that he needed some ‘involvement,’ I think he’s found it! He’s a great kid, Mark.”

“Thanks, Doug.” Responding to this compliment, I was surprised to realize that the emotion I felt was pride—
parental
pride. I realized too that I’d done little that seemed worthy of credit. For less than a year, I’d sheltered the kid, encouraged him, tried to understand his problems and to nurture his interests. Was that, in essence, the nature of parenting? Was it really that simple?

“Meanwhile,” said Lucy, ending my wistful thoughts, “who killed Carrol Cantrell?” Her four-word question brought abrupt focus to our purpose that morning. Stacking a few dishes aside, she pulled a folder from the briefcase propped near her chair and opened it on the table. “I’ve done a bit of research on succinylcholine, the drug that Coroner Formhals told us about yesterday.”

Glee shivered, stabbing a piece of melon with her fork, slicing it from the rind. “Such a gruesome prospect—to think that the mere prick of a needle could fell someone so robust as Carrol Cantrell without leaving a trace of evidence.”

“Any evidence would be indirect then, right?” asked Neil. The night before, I’d told him all about Dr. Formhals’s experience with succinyl during his residency at an Eastern hospital in a dangerous neighborhood.

“Right,” answered Pierce. “It’s a long shot at best, but if Carrol was injected with a lethal dose of succinyl, the drug itself would be fully metabolized and therefore undetectable. To make the case for this scenario, we’d have to establish credible circumstantial evidence. In short, we’d need to show that someone with a motive to kill Carrol had access to the drug and an opportunity to use it.”

I turned to Lucy. “What have you learned about the drug?”

She leaned over her notes. “Succinylcholine is technically classified as a depolarizing neuromuscular blocker. Its fast onset and short duration make it a drug of choice for such procedures as terminating laryngospasm, endotracheal intubation, and electroconvulsive shock therapy…”

“Meaning,” I said, “it’s essentially a surgical anesthetic.”

“Essentially, yes. Sux has been widely used in anesthesia for some fifty years. It’s very stable, with an indefinitely long shelf life under refrigeration. It has its share of adverse reactions, including hypotension and allergic reaction. Its contraindications and drug interactions include…” Lucy prattled on, teaching us more than we wanted to learn about the history and uses of succinylcholine.

In the midst of all this numbing detail, a thought managed to grab me. “Wait a minute,” I stopped Lucy. “The drug has been around forever and it’ll keep forever—if refrigerated.”

“Yes.” She sat back, taking a breather from her notes. “So?”

“This may sound nutty, but during the course of this story, which began a week ago Thursday, I’ve encountered no less than three suspicious refrigerators.”

Neil grinned. “What, pray tell, is a ‘suspicious refrigerator’?”

I also grinned, aware that my statement sounded absurd. Pushing my chair back a few inches, I explained to everyone, “On the day Cantrell arrived, Glee and I helped Grace Lord move some things from the coach house to the garage below. Among all the stuff stored there, mostly remnants of the Lord’s Rexall store, was a refrigerator, an old Kelvinator, with a padlock on its handle. Grace said she kept it locked ‘so little kids won’t play in it,’ shuddering at the thought.

“Then, a few days later, this past Tuesday, Doug took me over to Dr. Tenelli’s house and introduced us. When the doctor went to the basement to fetch us some imported beer, his wife Mary mentioned that he never let her near that downstairs refrigerator, claiming it contained ‘his own private stash.’

“Finally, yesterday morning, Glee and I visited Miriam Westerman at her goofy New Age School. In the kitchen was a glass-doored refrigerator containing, among other things, a strongbox hidden under a bunch of vegetables. Miriam told us it held her ‘secret recipes.’”

Without further comment, I crossed my arms, allowing my listeners to consider this tale of three suspicious refrigerators.

“
Mark,
” blurted Neil, suppressing a laugh, “there are
thousands
of refrigerators in Dumont, any one of which could be used to store succinylcholine.”

From the side of her mouth, Glee told me, “He’s got a point, boss.”

I was feeling a bit deflated when Pierce said, “Now hold on. Remember our formula for suspicion: motive, means, and opportunity. All three of Mark’s refrigerators relate well to this formula. Unfortunately, there isn’t one of them that fits all the criteria.”

The rest of us glanced at each other, confused—Pierce was a step ahead of us in analyzing the riddle of the three refrigerators.

Leaning forward, he elaborated, “First, consider Grace Lord’s locked Kelvinator. She was trained as a pharmacist, so we can assume she has knowledge of succinyl and its uses. The fridge is there in the garage with lots of other stuff from the Rexall store, so it could conceivably be used to store drugs. If we assume, for the sake of argument, that Grace had access to both succinyl and hypodermics, then she had the
means
to kill Carrol.”

Neil nodded. “And by the same line of reasoning, she also had the opportunity.”

“Right,” said Lucy, starting to draw the familiar grid on her notepad, “Grace had constant access to the coach house.”

“However”—Glee raised a finger—“what she did not have was a
motive.
”

We all weighed this statement for a moment, then nodded our agreement. I spoke what we were all thinking: “Grace had no reason to want Cantrell dead. She stood to gain nothing from it. To the contrary, she had every reason to want him
alive
today for the opening of her show. That’s why she invited him here—for professional esteem. If anything, his death has blackened her reputation among the miniatures crowd.”

“On top of which,” added Neil with a tone of heavy understatement, “Grace doesn’t quite fit the homicidal profile.”

Lucy wryly pointed out, “Neither did the sweet aunties in Thad’s play.”

We all shared a good laugh, needing to lighten the moment.

“Refrigerator number two,” said Pierce, refocusing our conversation. “Ben Tenelli is a retired doctor, so he certainly had knowledge of succinyl and access to it. Yes, he could have stored it with the Chinese beer in his basement. Like Grace, then, he may have had the
means
to kill Carrol. But while Grace had ample
opportunity,
I have no reason to think that the good doctor ever had access to the victim at the coach house.”

I reminded Pierce, “People came and went for three days. Cantrell had many visitors, and Grace was often busy in the exhibit hall—she didn’t see
everyone.
Tenelli could easily have slipped up there.”

“All right,” Pierce conceded, “that’s arguable. But we’re still left with the fact that Dr. Tenelli had no motive to kill Carrol. They didn’t even know each other.”

I corrected Pierce’s statement: “Tenelli had no
known
motive to kill Carrol. But I’m still not convinced that Tenelli’s hands are clean. I still suspect some sort of conspiracy between him and the DA with regard to the obscenity case, so it’s very likely that both Tenelli
and
Kaiser viewed the victim as an enemy.” Turning to Lucy, I asked, “Were you able to dig up any background on the doctor?”

“Sorry”—she shook her head, tapping her notes—“still nothing. I expect to be at the office all weekend. I’ll keep digging.”