Stained Glass (22 page)

Read Stained Glass Online

Authors: Ralph McInerny

Tags: #Mystery

BOOK: Stained Glass
7.73Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
The pressroom had become intolerable to Tetzel. Rebecca's stupid series about her European trip was the talk of the town. Well, of the pressroom. Rebecca couldn't shut up about it.
“What's next?” Tetzel asked, getting out of his chair with the help of leverage gained by a hand on his desk.
“Have you ever heard of the
Mannequin pis
in Brussels?” Rebecca was describing the little statue in the Grande Place as Tetzel headed for the door. “I look forward to reading about it.”
“I'll e-mail the draft to you so you won't have to wait.”
Geez. How the hell could he eclipse his rival? When he had asked for an assignment, Menteur had told him to show a little initiative. “Look at Rebecca.”
It was because he couldn't stand looking at her, or listening to her, that Tetzel was fleeing for the elevator, destination unknown. The Jury Room? What good was sitting in a bar when you weren't avoiding work? Outside, Tetzel wandered up the street, crossed,
realized he was on the way to Tuttle's office, and thought, well, why not?
By the time he got there and had climbed the four flights of stairs, Tetzel felt ready to collapse, which he did when he stumbled into the office. Hazel looked at him with concern. “You all right?”
He was too bushed to reply. Hazel rose and went into Tuttle's office; in a minute she was back with a bottle. She poured a generous belt for Tetzel and laced her own coffee. “He thinks I don't know where he hides it.”
“Tuttle doesn't drink liquor.”
“Then there's more for us.” A toothy smile, a glint in her eye. Tetzel lifted his glass. Hazel lifted her cup. “To the ladies.” Hazel, having sipped, laughed. “Do you know, I really believed you when you said you were going to write about secretaries.”
“I meant it,” Tetzel said, suddenly meaning it. Was this the idea he sought? He could encroach on Rebecca's supposed lock on women's news. “Where's Perry Mason?”
“Aren't you going to interview me?” Hazel asked coyly.
Geez. “Let me get my breath.”
“Did you ever consider getting in shape?”
Hazel's shape, he realized, was formidable. She was definitely a lot of woman. The thought made Tetzel uneasy. “Did he tell you all about our visit to Kenosha?”
“It got him a client. If he can find him.”
A client? Never show ignorance. “I thought it might.”
“Not what you would call prepossessing.”
Tetzel liked the thought that he was a walking Roget's
Thesaurus.
“You weren't impressed?”
“What is an art historian anyway?”
Carl Borloff! “Whatever he says he is.”
“Well, he is one dumb bunny, I can tell you that. I suppose writing a check that large seemed like Monopoly money.”
“How large?”
“One hundred thousand dollars.” She pronounced each syllable separately. The reportorial mind began to function. Borloff had been given a bundle by the Devere Foundation. Hazel, when encouraged, said that the big check had gone to Argyle House. Which then went bust. She drew back her shoulders as she said this. Tetzel looked away, feeling like a voyeur. In celebration of their camaraderie, he accepted another dollop, if three ounces counts as a dollop. Was Hazel trying to weaken his defenses? Sentences were forming in Tetzel's head.
Local foundation bilked of large amount by missing art historian.
“Why do you say missing?”
“Our mutual friend can't find him.”
Did that count as being missing?
“Meanwhile, you can interview me.” She rolled her chair closer to Tetzel.
He rose. “As soon as I complete the story I'm on.”
Her face showed disappointment. “What is it?”
“Do you know the
Mannequin pis?”
“I didn't know they could.”
She laughed a nasty laugh. It was pretty clear Hazel shouldn't drink on the job. Still, it must get lonely working for Tuttle. A couple more drinks and Hazel might start looking pretty good. Bah. Even Rebecca Farmer looked good through an alcoholic fog.
Tetzel had opened the door. “You should make them fix that elevator, Hazel.”
“I think of the stairs as exercise. Still, I'm glad the ladies' and mannequins' are on this floor.” Again the nasty laugh.
 
 
The stairs were less exercise going down, thank God. On the street, Tetzel considered going back to the courthouse for his car. As he stood there, a police cruiser rolled to the curb. Tuttle hopped out, looked in to thank Peanuts, and turned to Tetzel. The cruiser took off with a squeal of taxpayers' tires.
“Coming up?”
“I just came down.”
“Hazel there?”
“We had a nice talk. How about the Jury Room?”
Ten minutes later, they were in a booth. The walk had brought back Tetzel's shortness of breath. Maybe he would get in shape, join a health club, cut down on booze, get more sleep, eat sensibly. He sipped his drink as these salutary thoughts slid by his mind.
“Did you find Borloff?”
“Don't worry about Borloff.”
“Of course I won't. If I had a wad like that I'd head for Vegas.”
“How much did Hazel tell you?”
“I'd rather get it from the horse's whatever.”
The more he listened, the surer Tetzel became that a great story had just dropped in his lap. The mention of the private investigator added to Tetzel's speculation about what the Deveres' reaction to Borloff's absconding must be.
“The Deveres hired him?”
“Who else would?”
Tuttle described again the effect of hearing that voice behind them when he and Tuttle were looking into Borloff's workroom.
“He's lucky Peanuts didn't shoot him.”
“Peanuts would be lucky to hit him. What was his name?”
Tuttle stared at him, sorting through possible lies.
“You didn't ask.”
Tuttle looked offended. “He gave me a card. It was one of Margaret Ward's.”
“You'd starve as a reporter, Tuttle.”
“Just what Rebecca said about you.”
 
 
Twenty minutes later, Tetzel was at his computer in the pressroom, slurping coffee, trying to get his mind clear. His exposé of Carl Borloff would write itself. Absconded. Debouched. He pushed away Roget. Why not simply stole?
When Amos Cadbury asked Margaret what had prompted her to engage the services of a private investigator, she expressed surprise. “Amos, Susan has been warning us about this man for months. What she had to say at the board meeting merely summarized long-held views. Some weeks ago, I decided to find out whether what she said was true.”
“May I ask who your private investigator is?”
“He's not a professional investigator, Amos.”
“An amateur?”
“I met him on a recent cruise I took on a freighter.” She hesitated. There seemed no reason to say that he was a grandson of Angelo Menotti. “I have confidence in him. If my confidence is misplaced, what has been lost?”
“What's his name?”
“He will use the name Charles Ruskin.”
Amos was silent, doubtless expecting her to say more.
“I needn't tell you, Amos, that I very much sympathize with Menotti's objection to such exploitation of his work. Particularly by such a man as Borloff.”
“That seems to have become a majority opinion on the board.”
“Amos, Charles Ruskin, as we shall call him, is the grandson of Angelo Menotti.”
“His grandson!” Amos seemed stunned by this information.
“Given the way Angelo Menotti haunts our family, I suppose that it is not too surprising that I should meet one.”
“And given the number of his offspring.”
“How many grandchildren does Menotti have?”
“I don't think he himself is sure. He kept a fairly accurate account of his children, however. Legitimate and illegitimate, as he hastened to add. As for grandchildren and now great-grandchildren, he just throws up his hands—and puffs out his chest.”
“He is a lovely boy.”
“If this man isn't a professional investigator, what is his profession?”
“He was in the merchant marine.”
After speaking with Margaret, Amos sat for a long time in silent meditation. As he made his decision, he considered it from various angles. He would be second-guessing Margaret, but then James had urged him to engage a private investigator. That advice still stood, despite Margaret's revelation. He decided that he could proceed in good faith. He had a call put through to Maxwell, a trustworthy man who had often done investigative work for the firm. Maxwell was in Amos's office within hours.
Amos provided Maxwell with a succinct account of the misgivings of the board about Carl Borloff. “These misgivings were strengthened by the fact that Borloff seems to have disappeared.”
“So the first task is to find him.”
“That appears to be the case. There is something else you should know.”
Maxwell waited, expressionless.
“Margaret Ward decided, on her own, to enlist the help of someone she calls a private investigator. He is not a professional. He calls himself Charles Ruskin.”
“I never heard of him.”
“I am not surprised. You might make Ruskin a secondary target of your investigation.”
Maxwell nodded.
“Margaret tells me that Ruskin is a grandson of Angelo Menotti. One of many. I suppose he shares his grandfather's, and Margaret's, belief that the Devere Foundation does not have any right to finance such a project as Borloff proposed. From a strictly legal standpoint, they are wrong. The stained glass windows are the property of the parish churches in which they are found.”
“Not the property of the Deveres?”
“Oh my, no.”
“If there is such opposition to Borloff on the board, how in the world has he managed to receive so much Devere money?”
“That, I am afraid, is a rather long story.”
He made it short, feeling almost disloyal to Jane in even saying so little as he did. How could he convey the interest of Jane Devere in the artistic reputation of Angelo Menotti? It was almost an obsession. If it weren't for Jane, it was doubtful Borloff would have been supported by the Deveres even in putting out
Sacred Art
. There was little doubt in Amos's mind that Susan had avoided board meetings lest she be forced into open opposition to her grandmother.
Did Maxwell find any of this relevant to his task? He absorbed the information given him, even asked a few questions, but when he
stood and summarized his commission he was terse. “Find Carl Borloff and find out just what Charles Ruskin may be up to.”
That was that.
The decision left Amos uneasy. James had overstated the case, but Amos
had
colluded with Jane in her efforts to fund Borloff's project. The fact that he had wrapped her generosity in legal provisos ensuring that the art historian would not have carte blanche with a considerable amount of money had been his defense against James's accusation. Should he have, could he have, opposed Jane and persuaded her that she was embarking on a risky venture? James apparently thought so. Amos rather doubted it. His course had been that of the cautious facilitator of Jane's wishes.
 
 
Later that same day, having dined at the country club, Amos betook himself to the St. Hilary's rectory. His mood, he reflected, was that of a sinner going to see his confessor.
Following Tuttle's advice, Carl Borloff stuffed toilet articles and some clothes into a sports bag, grabbed his briefcase, and took the stairs down to the basement garage to get his car. How easy it was to imagine Charles in pursuit, Charles who had deceived him into writing a check for one hundred thousand dollars! Zeros seemed to trail away from that innocent 1 as he emerged from the garage and got into
the traffic. Where was he going? Into seclusion. For how long? Block after block he drove, and as he did the sense of urgency drained from him. Was Tuttle any more trustworthy than Charles? Why didn't he go to Amos Cadbury? Cadbury and Jane Devere had underwritten his great project, although Carl had felt the lawyer's skepticism as the terms of the agreement were drawn up. At the time, he had dismissed it as a lawyer's caution. What would be Cadbury's reaction when he heard of Argyle House and that damnable check for a good portion of the money granted the project? He couldn't go to Amos Cadbury. If only he had more confidence in Tuttle.
When he got onto the Northwestern Tollway, he headed toward Rockford, why he didn't know. He settled into the right-hand lane and let other cars zoom past him, their drivers having a destination. If not Amos Cadbury, why not Jane Devere? He could tell her everything, bring her the bad news himself, throw himself on her mercy. No, he couldn't. He had been robbed, and yet he felt like a thief.
Approaching an off-ramp, he saw signs indicating motels. He turned off, paid his toll, and went on to a stop sign. Most of the motels here were reached by a road arching over the tollway. To his right was a Red Roof Inn. Carl went to the right.
He pulled into a parking place and looked indecisively at the motel. There was a porch running along the upper story, and there were men with beards and ponytails and tattooed arms with their backs against the railing. Loud voices, crude voices. The proletariat. Members of the underclass. He couldn't stay here. Then the very negative features of the motel commended themselves. Who would imagine Carl Borloff staying in such a place? He got out of the car and went into the office.
The middle-aged woman behind the counter had a crew cut and a T-shirt with the message TRY ME rippling over her apparently braless
breasts. A cigarette in her ashtray sent up a plume of smoke. Carl asked if she had a room. She had a room. How much? She squinted at him and pointed at a chart behind her.
“I'll pay cash.”
She watched him count it out, then scooped it up, bouncing her breasts. “I'll need a credit card, too.”
“I'm paying cash.”
“For incidentals. There's a bar in your room.”
The point of paying cash was anonymity. He might just as well have used his credit card to pay for the room. Try Me took his card, made an impression of it, then slapped it and a key on the counter. “Checkout time is noon.”
He got his sports bag from the car, leaving the briefcase for now, and climbed the stairs to the second floor. He had to run the gamut of the beer-drinking crowd in order to get to his room. They fell silent as he approached, did not move to make his passage easier, and began to snicker as he went by.
“Nice suit,” someone said.
Carl pretended he hadn't heard. He did not look back when he got to his door and needed several tries to get the key into the lock. Inside with the door locked and bolted he felt in prison rather than seclusion. Everything in the room offended his aesthetic sensibilities, the bedspread, the furniture, the lamps, and, dear God, the pictures. He went to one and studied it. There was nothing technically wrong with it despite the garish colors. Flowers in a vase, but what still life subject is not a cliché? Whoever had painted this dreadful thing had learned the basic skills, had doubtless one day dreamt of … Of what? Were all artists ambitious? Imagine someone who had aspired to nothing higher than this. He turned and threw his sports bag on the bed. Then he threw himself beside it and, embracing it, fell asleep.
He wakened to a darkened room, immediately shut his eyes against the dark, and remembered where he was. A party seemed to be raging outside his room. He sat up and spent minutes trying to turn on the bedside lamp, hunting around the bulb for the switch. The switch was in the base of the lamp. A very low wattage bulb that created shadows in the room. He twisted his watch into view. He had been asleep three hours. He could fall asleep again, but he was hungry. He swung his feet off the bed, listening to the hoots and shouts outside. In order to get something to eat, he would have to run the gamut of those yokels. He couldn't do it.
The small refrigerator held little bottles of wine, liquor, soft drinks, junk food, chips, peanuts, candy bars. His stomach rumbled. He snatched a bottle of wine and a bag of chips.
With a struggle he freed a plastic cup from its plastic container. Wine gurgled into the cup. He tore open a bag of chips and began to thrust them into his mouth to quiet his stomach. Washing them down with wine, he remembered Angelo Menotti serving him a glass of bourbon. He thought of the artist's house, secluded, safe. Who would look for him there? If those barbarians ever got off the porch, he would get out of this place and head for Peoria.
Cheered by the thought, he sat on the bed and took up the television controls. The set leapt into life. News. An earnest couple trading inane remarks, shuffling papers as they read from the teleprompters. Then, incredibly, his own face appeared on the screen. He turned up the sound and learned that Carl Borloff, art historian, was being sought by the police. The worst was yet to be. There was no mention of the money. He was being sought for the murder of Roberta Newman. Who? They were babbling about Argyle House and the murder of J. J. Rudolph. Horrified, Carl turned off the set, then immediately turned it on again. The babbling couple had given way to a weatherman. Once more he switched off the set.
He had to get out of here.
Out of there he got, passing unnoticed through the celebrating underclass. Did he dare drop by his place and get his computer? He decided to chance it.

Other books

Seven by Anthony Bruno
Cornered by Amy Valenti
Heliopolis by James Scudamore
JORDAN Nicole by The Courtship Wars 2 To Bed a Beauty
The Historian by Elizabeth Kostova
Hadrian's Wall by Felicia Jensen