To the Manor Dead (21 page)

“I want the truth,
the whole story,” I said to Marcus. He wasn’t in much of a position to argue, what with him being down on the ground with his hands tied behind his back. We were in a small swampy clearing near Mad John’s moorings.

“The whole story!” Mad John cackled, jumping up and down.

“Fuck you,” Marcus said.

“I’m cold and wet and pissed,” I said, kneeling down and looking him in the eye.

He spit in my face.

“Now that was uncalled for,” I said. “You’re just lucky I’m a pacifist. Mad John, you have a bucket handy?”

Mad John gave a leap of assent and then disappeared into the reeds.

“I’m figuring Vince and Marcella have set you up nice and clean to be their fall guy. Hey, you want to end up in prison while they party, that’s your business.”

Mad John reappeared with a big plastic bucket.

“Fill it with river water, and make sure you get some muck in there,” I said.

Mad John dunked the bucket into the Hudson and carried it over.

“Tip it on big boy here,” I said.

Mad John tipped the bucket over Marcus’s head, coating him with mud and slime. He winced and sputtered and writhed.

“I think one more bucket will do it. See if you can find any snakes.” I knew from my practice that a lot of men had a primal terror of snakes—it was a whole phallic thing.

Mad John crouched down on the bank and scooped up a bucket that was more muck than water, sifting through it with his hands. “I got one! I got one!” he said, proudly holding up a long wriggling snake.

Marcus’s eyes went wide with fear. “Keep that fucking snake away from me!”

“Then talk.”

He didn’t.

“Why don’t you introduce them?” I said.

Mad John held the snake close to Marcus’s face—it writhed in the air and brushed his cheek.

“
Okay, I’ll talk!!
Just get that thing away from me!!”

Mad John pulled back. Marcus took a deep breath, exhaled, and his face slackened in resignation.

“First rule of my job: don’t touch the boss’s booty. I’m such a fuckup,” he said bitterly. “Bitch started parading that body around in front of me.”

“So you started screwing Marcella,” I said. “Then what?”

“She’s talking to me about her big plans, to become a celebrity and all that. Says she’ll always take care of me. So she sends me out to make nice with Esmerelda. Man, was she a freak.”

“Then Marcella booted the poison at Benedictine Hospital, and Esmerelda put it in Daphne’s heroin,” I said.

“Marcella paid her fifty grand. Well, she paid her half and then when Daphne was dead she didn’t want to pay the second half.”

“And so the piper sang …” I said.

“Yeah, whatever, will you untie me please,” Marcus pleaded.

“Not so fast,” I said. “So you waited in the woods until Daphne shot up the bad heroin, then you ran into the summerhouse and strung up her body.”

Marcus nodded miserably.

“What about Vince Hammer?” I asked.

“Far as I know, that slick bastard is clean. This was all Marcella. The conniving bitch. But listen, I didn’t
kill
that old hag. She was already dead.”

“I think you’re what’s known as an accessory to the murder.”

There was a pause and Marcus suddenly looked like a very sad little boy.

“I’m royally fucked, aren’t I?”

“Yeah, I think you are.”

“I just found a new friend,” Mad John said, as the snake slithered around his neck.

I was sitting in
Detective Chevrona Williams’s office at the State Police barracks, wrapped in a blanket. Chevrona walked in, handed me a cup of undrinkable coffee, and said, “Not smart.”

I tried to look contrite.

“But effective,” she said. “Marcus Randall just signed a full confession. Marcella Sedgwick is also in custody. She’s not talking, has hired a big-shot lawyer, and will be out on bail in about half an hour.“

“What about Vince Hammer?”

“It looks like he’s clean, completely clean,” Chevrona said. “This was Marcella’s baby, her ticket to Hammer, the estate, and who knows what from there.”

“The statehouse, the White House, the history books, I think she’s one of those women whose ambition is beyond measure. She’s pretty fascinating—Lady MacBeth in a yogatard,” I said. “Thanks to Josie, I found out that Marcella grew up in a shack in rural Tennessee—her real name is Amber Lundy. She’s brilliant, all her degrees are real, she could have made a name for herself without resorting to murder, but whatever it is that’s driving her got the best of her.”

“What would you guess that is?”

“I’d have to get her on the couch to know with any certainty, but I’d say the key here may be a profound narcissism. Kids who grow up in desperate situations learn at an early age to find their solace and strength in themselves, they retreat from the pain around them and create their own self-centered world. It’s a survival mechanism, and a healthy one up to a point—Marcella went way past that point. Add to that a deep shame at her background, and rage and envy and craving of privilege. Then there’s her beauty and sex appeal—this is a woman who has been turning men’s heads her entire life. This sexual power and confidence is very real and very heady. It took her a lot further than her degrees. But it also may have led to her grandiosity and hubris, which in turn led to her fatal mistake.”

“Not paying Esmerelda the second half of her killing fee?”

“Yes.”

“She wanted to be the Queen of the World. Now she’s going to be the Queen of Cellblock Sixteen. But I still want a few answers from you. What the hell were you and that lunatic up to out on the river?”

“I was determined to find out who killed Daphne. You might say it turned into an obsession.”

“You, of all people, should know that obsessions can be very unhealthy. And breaking and entering is illegal.”

“We never actually broke and entered. How is Mad John doing?”

“He’s on his second dozen donuts, and he keeps asking how
you’re
doing. He seems really concerned.”

“Tell him I’m okay.”

“You can tell him yourself, we’re going to release you both as soon as we finish taking your statements.” Chevrona eyeballed me in her Clint Eastwood way. “Why do I have the feeling that you’re holding out on me?”

“Maybe because I’m wet and hungry and in shock.”

“You figured out who killed Daphne. Any luck with Esmerelda?”

“I haven’t been trying to figure out who killed Esmerelda.”

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

I took a sip of coffee. “Could I get a donut?”

Chevrona got up. “Frosted?”

“Pink, please,” I said, crossing my legs.

While she went to get the donut, I tried to figure out what to do. Mad John had brutally murdered a human being. Not good. But Esmerelda was a heartless drug dealer who had helped ruin the lives of hundreds of kids. She’d let heroin she knew was tainted hit the streets. And she had been a paid accomplice in Daphne’s murder.

What good would turning in Mad John accomplish? He would probably get off by reason of insanity, or do his time in a mental hospital. Except for a fit of passion and a chainsaw, he was an upstanding little guy. He loved the river and was fighting to protect it. He may well have saved my life out there. Sure he was insane, but who’s perfect? He was a lot saner than, say, Glenn Beck. And I cared about him.

Chevrona came in and handed me a pink-frosted donut. She sat back down and eyed me.

“So … what
have
you found out about Esmerelda’s murder?”

“You’re the one who told me to keep my nose out of all this.”

“Your evasions are only increasing my suspicion that you’re holding out on me.”

I took a bite of donut and composed my response. “I can say in all honesty that I have no theories on who killed Esmerelda.”

Just facts.

Chevrona gave me a skeptical look.

“Now can you please tell me how
you’re
doing?” I asked.

“Could I have the
turkey shepherd’s pie, please,” I said to Pearl.

“Make that two,” Zack added quickly.

Pearl looked at us like we’d just asked for a whole roasted human—but then shock was her perpetual expression. Maybe she was just more in touch with her feelings than the rest of us—I mean, does anyone ever really get over the shock of being born? Pearl eventually raised her pencil to her pad and began to write.

“I really wanted the salmon but I knew it would be another twenty minutes,” Zack said.

Since Abba was visible in the kitchen we could have just called out our order and saved a lot of time and aggravation, but Abba refused to fire Pearl, praising her “energy.” That was Abba—you can take the girl out of Tibet, but you can’t take Tibet out of the girl.

When Pearl had shambled off, Zack poured us both glasses of wine. I’d been out at his cabin all afternoon jumping his bones, and we were both in that beyond-mellow place. He leaned across the table and kissed me. “I’m so proud of you, babycakes.” He raised his glass and we toasted. “But next time, mind your own business.”

“Don’t worry about that, I am
never
getting involved in anyone else’s
mishigas
again,” I said, taking a sip of my wine. “Never.”

George walked into Chow, looking despondent.

“Hey, Georgie-boy, wanna join us for dinner?” Zack asked.

“Eat? How could I possibly eat, my life is over.” Then he started quivering and his eyes filled with tears. “Dwayne left me.”

“It’s my treat,” Zack said.

George shuffled over and sat down with a sigh. “I’d kill myself but I’m already dead,” he said, taking a roll and slathering it with butter.

“What happened?”

“The world hates beauty and happiness. It wants to crush them into a bitter powder of loneliness and regret,” George said as a tear rolled down his cheek, and he picked up my wineglass and took a deep swallow. “His wife found out,
that’s
what happened.” Then his face dissolved into a mass of tears as he finished my wine and poured himself another glass.

Zack put a hand on his shoulder. “Oh, come on, buddy. You’ll be okay; we still love you.”

George shuddered “Don’t touch me, please. I never want to be touched again. It only leads to heartbreak and agony.”

“I don’t want to fuck you, dude, I just want to cheer you up,” Zack said.

“Cheer me up? Cheer me up?” George said, reaching for another roll. “If you want to cheer me up, kill me and put me out of my misery.”

“George, have you seen that guy who just moved in over the Laundromat?” I said.

“Janet, you really are a walking faux pas, the MVP in the World Series of Insensitivity. You have less depth than a plastic wading pool and less empathy than a concrete block. The love of my life has just dumped me and you want me to start thinking about
another
man. There will
never ever ever
be another man in my life.” This triggered a fresh flood of tears, followed by a full glass of wine, followed by a disinterested shrug, and then, “I didn’t know anyone had moved in over the Laundromat.”

“The gang’s all here,” Abba said, bringing a plate of tuna tartare over to the table.

“
I’m
not here,” George said. “I’m dead.”

“So is River Landing,” Abba said, sitting down and helping herself to Zack’s wine. “Apparently Vince Hammer is so shook up that he’s withdrawing his proposal. He may come back in a few years when all the publicity has died down, but the project is permanently tainted and the opposition is only growing.”

“I will give Janet a petit soupçon of credit,” George said. “Speaking of soupçon, Abba, could I have the roasted pepper soup, the endive salad, the free-range braised chicken with all the sides, and a double slice of chocolate cake with ice cream and whipped cream. Oh, and Zack, could you run down the street and get us another bottle of wine, please?”

Zack rolled his eyes but got up and headed down to the liquor store.

The three of us sat there for a short bit.

“Well, Janet, you really made your mark up here,” Abba said.

“Yeah, you have, kiddo,” added George.

“No big deal,” I said. “You know how it is—one thing leads to another.”