Death in Saratoga Springs (14 page)

Saturday, July 21

 

E
arly the next morning, Pamela went downstairs to the hotel foyer. Before she talked to the manager, she wanted another close look at Jason Dunn.

At the main desk a clerk told her that Mr. Dunn would come on duty at ten. “He wanders the hotel porches with his flute. He's quite good, plays anything you ask, and probably should be in an orchestra, but he's too shy.”

A slender, short man, Jason would be hard to see on the busy porches—a mile of them on the front and back sides of the hotel. As Pamela set out, she also listened for the sound of his flute. Threading her way through a maze of rocking chairs and sauntering, chattering guests, she heard all kinds of music from bits of amateur opera to a vulgar “coon song.” Musicians seemed to be everywhere, but no flutists. Eventually, she found Jason on the back porch facing the hotel garden. He was playing his flute while he stared across the park at Birgitta, walking toward the kitchen entrance, probably to pick up breakfast for Rachel.

Hidden behind a large box of green plants, Pamela studied the young man and sketched his features. He surely had Crawford blood in his veins. She would finish the sketch later. As she approached him, she cleared her throat. He didn't react, so she called out, “Jason.”

He swung around, an angry expression on his face. It quickly disappeared into an embarrassed smile. “Mrs. Thompson, you took me by surprise. What can I do for you?”

“I heard your flute. Would you play a tune for me?”

“I play only to pass the time of day—and to earn a few pennies.”

“You play very well. I'd like to hear “The Yellow Rose of Texas.”

By this time a small crowd had gathered. Jason lifted his flute, practiced a few bars of the tune, and then began the first verse. When he reached the refrain, the crowd joined in. At the end, the applause was enthusiastic. A well-dressed man stepped forward, patted Jason on the shoulder, and pressed a dollar bill into his hand.

Someone called out, “Can you play ‘Marching Through Georgia'?”

Jason frowned. His eyes momentarily darkened. “I don't know that one.” He put away his flute and returned to the rail. The crowd dispersed.

Pamela stood beside him. “That song gets on your nerves, doesn't it? Where do you come from?”

“Charleston, South Carolina, ma'am,” he replied. “For the past eight years I've worked in hotels and restaurants in New York City and Saratoga Springs.” With Pamela urging him on, he explained that he was a war orphan raised by adoptive parents, Mr. and Mrs. Dunn, who ran a Charleston hotel. At twenty-one, he moved to New York.

“Yesterday,” remarked Pamela, “I met an interesting couple from Georgia, the Crawfords. Do you know them?”

He turned to face Pamela, searched her face as if unsure of her intention, and shrugged. “They're rich people, originally from Savannah. I've served them here occasionally and received big tips. Miss Crawford is distant kin to Mrs. Dunn.”

Pamela's pulse quickened. “Are the Dunns still living?”

“He died a few years ago. She's seventy but in good health and still owns the hotel. Someone else manages it. She's coming to the Grand Union for the season and should arrive in a few days.” He smiled shyly. “Now, excuse me. I must get ready for work.”

Pamela remained at the rail for several minutes, wondering how close was the family connection between Jason and Edith Crawford? “I must arrange to meet Mrs. Dunn,” she said to herself. “She might know family secrets that could be key to the murder of Captain Crake.”

 

In the meantime, there was more Pamela needed to know about Jason. Tom Winn couldn't help her, but he recommended the clerk in the hotel manager's office. The hotel recruited its staff carefully. Jason's file included interviews and letters of recommendation from everyone who had employed him since his arrival in New York eight years earlier.

The name Crake caught her eye. Jason's first job in the city was in his pork-packing plant. From there he moved to Metzger's meat shop and then to a German restaurant on West Fourteenth Street near the meatpacking district.

Jason's connection to Metzger intrigued Pamela. How much was he involved in Metzger's bitter quarrel with Crake? The answer might lie with Erika Metzger. By this time in the midmorning she would be having tea—hopefully alone as before. Pamela changed to a simple morning dress to blend in among the servants, and went to the laundry. Erika was at the table, alone and forlorn as before, with a cup of tea in one hand and a plain biscuit in the other.

“May I join you?” asked Pamela in German.

Pleased, Erika gestured to a nearby empty chair. The Italian women paid no attention. The others threw quick glances at Pamela, then ignored her.

Erika continued in German with acid comments on the women in the room, though without looking in their direction. “They pilfer,” she said. Pamela asked for her opinion of the rest of the hotel staff. She had good words for Tom Winn: “He's honest and fair. But he's too busy and can't catch all the thieves and whores among the guests.”

Pamela brought the conversation around to the bellboy Jason Dunn. “I've noticed that he once worked for your husband. What do you know about him?”

The question seemed to interest Erika, and she gave it some thought. “He does well the work he's hired to do. Back in New York, he eventually tired of cutting meat and became a waiter for cleaner work and better pay. At this hotel, all the waiters are black men. So, Jason is a bellboy. He gets good tips.”

Pamela remarked, “But there's something strange about him. He keeps to himself, doesn't seem interested in other people.”

Erika corrected her. “Young, pretty women catch his eye. He often stares at them and makes them feel uncomfortable. Occasionally, he makes an awkward advance and is rudely rebuffed. The manager has cautioned him about these matters, so he's more careful now.”

“How does he feel toward Captain Crake?”

“He keeps his feelings bottled up inside. But in the fight with Crake at the meatpacking plants, he was as angry as my husband. Jason called Crake a thief, picking the pockets of the poor. Mind you, he said that to me, not to Crake.”

“Did he ever criticize Crake here in the hotel?”

“In private he made snide remarks about Crake's attempts to lure young attractive women into his room and bed them. That seemed to upset Jason. I can't say why. Do you think Jason killed him?”

“He seems to have a lot of pent-up anger, much of it aimed at Crake, but I don't see that he acted on it.” The rest period was ending. Erika started back to work. Pamela waved good-bye and left the laundry.

 

Later in the morning, Pamela met Prescott coming from the barroom. When he saw her, he had to explain, “It's a warm day. I've taken a long walk to the sulky track to watch the horses and needed a beer to quench my thirst.”

“Then shall we sit in the shade in Congress Park? You could buy me lemonade. I have something to tell you.”

He agreed with a smile and they set out for the park. Once settled on a bench with the drink, Pamela gave him the impressions of Jason Dunn she had just gathered. She added, “Among our potential suspects, Francesca excluded, Jason was the one closest to the scene of Crake's murder. During the concert, Jason was hovering on the edge of the audience. As a bellboy, he could easily have slipped unnoticed into Crake's room and killed him.”

“That's plausible,” said Prescott. “Through his work in Crake's meatpacking plants, Jason gained experience with boning knives. Crake's killer seems skilled in the use of that instrument. And Metzger's hatred of Crake could also have rubbed off on Jason. We still need to determine if his Southern background and his obscure connection with the Crawfords could also have motivated him to kill Crake.”

“Mrs. Dunn will arrive on Monday,” said Pamela. “We can ask her.”

Prescott shook his head. “She may refuse to cooperate. In any case, we'll add Jason to our list of suspects. Have you heard from your friend Mrs. Fisk about Crake's will?”

“Not yet, but Virgil Crawford and I agreed yesterday that it's time to reopen our investigation of Ruth Colt's disappearance. Could Harry do it? Crake no longer stands in the way.”

“I'll think about it and talk to Harry. The Crawfords rightly want closure.”

Early morning, Sunday, July 22

T
he message was lying on Pamela's floor when she returned from the dining hall. Intrigued, she collected Harry and Prescott and hurried to Helen's suite.

A servant ushered them into a spacious, tastefully decorated sitting room. Pamela had seen it before but was still amazed. A large Steinway piano stood in one corner for the celebrated pianists who played at Helen's parties. Small, landscape paintings by old masters from Helen's personal collection hung on the walls. An exquisite blue Turkish rug covered the floor. Even Prescott, a gentleman at home among rich, cultivated people, seemed impressed.

Helen noticed his reaction and remarked, “If I'm to entertain friends in this country village for three months, I must display a few of my treasures to delight them. But you aren't here on a social visit.”

When they were seated, and growing eager, she pulled a document from a folder. “This report comes from a clerk in the office of Crake's New York attorney.” She cleared her throat and began to read, mimicking a lawyer's measured words and elevated tone.

In the opening paragraph, Crake revoked an earlier will that had assigned the bulk of his estate to his wife, Rachel, then added, “I've become aware of my wife's infidelity with Robert Shaw. She shall not receive a penny from me.” Dated July 7, 1894, his new will left most of his estate to the Grand Army of the Republic for the support of needy veterans.

Helen glanced at her visitors for dramatic effect, then continued, “I also assign $10,000 to my good servant Birgitta Mattsson. Her skillful massages have relieved my pain, and her good counsel has often calmed my temper.” Helen stared at the document, shaking her head.

A collective gasp of disbelief echoed in the room. Pamela exclaimed, “What welcome news for Birgitta!”

Prescott asked, “Does Crake's wife realize that he has struck her from the will?”

“I don't think so,” Helen replied. “But I'm not quite finished. This is a draft that Crake sent to his New York lawyer. He made a few minor changes and returned a final version for Crake's signature. Crake never sent it back.”

“But did he sign it?” Prescott wondered aloud.

“Yes,” suggested Pamela, “but he probably was killed before he could return it.”

“It wasn't in his rooms,” Harry remarked. “Tom Winn and the local police would have noticed such an important document when they searched for the missing bracelet. I think Rachel learned of Crake's plan to disinherit her, arranged Crake's murder, and destroyed the new will.”

“She might not have found it,” objected Pamela. “Crake would have hidden it from her, but he might have confided in Birgitta, his Swedish maid. She's frightened and reluctant to talk. If I bring news of her good fortune, she might open up to me.”

 

At midmorning, Birgitta was sitting as usual by the fountain in Congress Park, drinking coffee, a basket at her side. Her mood appeared somber, her gaze turned inward.

Pamela carefully scanned the area for a spy. A shabbily dressed, elderly woman sat on a distant bench throwing breadcrumbs to a band of lively sparrows. She glanced furtively at Birgitta. Out of sight behind a hedge, Pamela wrote a message:

At a moment when the birds seemed to distract the spy, Pamela walked casually past Birgitta and dropped the note into her basket. The maid glanced at the note and mouthed her assent. A few minutes later, she left the park at a leisurely pace and went window-shopping on Broadway. The elderly woman followed her. Pamela hurried ahead of them to the milliner.

At least five minutes passed before Birgitta joined Pamela in a back room used for storage. Cloth and ribbons were piled high on shelves. A rack of brightly colored costumes for a summer Shakespearean production occupied one wall; a large mirror hung from another. The two women sat at a plain wooden table, and for a moment they stared at each other. Then Pamela began, “Did you recognize the old lady who is spying on you?”

“I've often seen her near me and noticed her talking with Robert Shaw. She's apparently working for him. Why is he keeping track of me?”

“I think he wants to control you, partly from fear that you have information damaging to Rachel or him, and partly from carnal desire. How does he treat you?”

Birgitta averted her gaze, then spoke hesitantly. “Shortly after the captain died, Rob—as Rachel calls him—moved into the cottage. He often stares at me with a mocking smile. When Rachel is away and we are alone, he tries to touch me. Lately, while I'm massaging Rachel, he comes into the room to watch. I sense him becoming aroused. Soon, she's excited too. That distracts me, and I lose my concentration.”

“Explain what that means,” asked Pamela. “I've not given much thought to massage therapy.”

“The kind of massage I learned in Sweden is supposed to release tensions, reduce stress, and bring body and soul into harmony, not excite lust. Yesterday, Shaw asked me to massage him. When I said no, he became angry. Rachel scolded me and claimed I was silly. ‘Go ahead and massage him. I'd love to watch.'

“ ‘Not today,' I said, ‘I'm too tired.' Afterward, he whispered to me, ‘I always get what I want, one way or another. Remember that.' ” The maid met Pamela's eye. “I take him at his word. Sooner or later, he'll attack me. What shall I do?”

Pamela was perplexed. Circumstances trapped the maid in the Crake household. “I don't see an easy solution. For the time being, avoid being alone with him. Put off the massage. I'll try to think of a way out. Until then, may I ask a few questions?”

Birgitta replied with a doubtful shrug.

“What do Rachel and Shaw say about Captain Crake when they believe you aren't listening?”

“They're obviously pleased that he's gone. Long ago, she had grown tired of him. When he slapped her that afternoon before he died, she began to hate him. Later, as I was covering the bruise on her face with powder, she stared at me and murmured, “He won't do that to me again.”

“Did that sound like a threat to you?”

“Sort of,” the maid replied. “As Rachel was leaving for dinner, she told me, ‘Don't mind what I said in there. I didn't mean it.' But there was anger in her eyes.”

“Did they ever talk about his will?”

“Often. For a while they thought he might soon die of kidney failure. He was weak and in great pain. I overheard them discuss how they would move to California and live off his money. But, he disappointed them and recovered. Then in the last days of his life he grew suspicious of Rachel and talked about changing his will.”

“How did they react?”

“They worried that he might drop her. Since his death, they don't know whether he changed the will or not. If he cut her out, they will be in deep trouble. They have used his credit extravagantly. Recently, Shaw has lost a lot at the casino, laying bets for her. Mr. Canfield has threatened to lend him no more.”

“I can tell you this much, Birgitta, that Captain Crake did change his will—I've read it. He cut Rachel out. The bulk of his estate will go to needy veterans.” She sought Birgitta's eye. “Ten thousand dollars will go to you.”

The maid's eyes widened, her hands flew to her mouth in shock.

Pamela hastened to add, “Don't raise your hopes too high yet. The new will is missing, and we don't know if he signed it. He might have hidden it in a place that Rachel and Shaw wouldn't suspect, either inside or outside the cottage. Can you imagine where that might be?”

For a moment, Birgitta breathed heavily, shaking her head in continuing disbelief. She stammered, “I just don't know. . . .”

Pamela leaned forward solicitously, patiently.

Finally, Birgitta spoke. “Early that morning of July seventh, after his spy had reported on Rob and Rachel's night out together, the captain took a document from his coat pocket and began to read it. From the set of his jaw, I realized he was angry in a frightening way: cold, controlled, and pitiless. When I said it was time to go to Congress Spring for the water, he folded the document and stuck it into his coat pocket. On our return, he said he had business on Broadway and left me. I didn't see him again until the afternoon when he burst into Rachel's room and struck her.”

Pamela was paying close attention. “Somewhere in the town he might have signed the will in the presence of a notary public and the witnesses. He could have left the will for safekeeping with the notary or in a bank. How shall we find it, lost like a needle in a haystack?”

Birgitta shook her head. “He must have had the document in his coat pocket when he returned to the cottage to change for dinner. Later, as he came out of his room, he patted his pocket, like men do when they carry something important inside. He probably still had the document with him when he went to dinner. After dinner he went directly to the concert and from the concert back to the cottage.”

“Right,” said Pamela. “Therefore, he might have hidden the document in the cottage before taking his medicine. If we've calculated correctly, the will should still be there. Prescott, Harry, and I must find it.”

Birgitta glanced at her watch. “I'm late now and should return to the cottage. Rachel has come back from the casino, eaten a late breakfast, and will be expecting me to massage her.”

“Then leave this shop by the front door. The spy may still be in the neighborhood and will follow you back to the hotel. She won't realize that you tricked her and had a secret meeting with me. In the future, we should meet here again. There's a back entrance if we need it.”

As the maid reached for the door, Pamela stopped her. “Say nothing to Rachel or Shaw about our conversation. This is a delicate moment in our investigation and a dangerous one for you. But, if all goes well, you may benefit handsomely from the captain's largesse.”

 

Pamela was waiting in the hotel's foyer at noon when Harry and Prescott returned from a walk in the country. “You look like you have news,” said Prescott. They moved into a parlor for privacy. She reported her conversation with Birgitta. “I'm concerned that Shaw might assault her.” Harry shook his head skeptically. “In the two weeks I've studied him, he hasn't been violent. He enjoys the thrill of tricking people, seducing women, and gambling. When challenged, he's likely to run away rather than fight. But he has the strong physique of an athlete or soldier. If cornered, he could be dangerous.”

Prescott remarked, “The maid is safe for now. We should focus on Crake's will.”

“I agree,” said Pamela. “From Birgitta's observations of Crake during his last day, I conclude that he hid the will in his cottage rather than somewhere in the town.”

“Then we have no time to lose,” said Prescott. “This morning, Tom Winn told me that Crake's cottage would be emptied of all his belongings and thoroughly cleaned later this afternoon. We should search now for the will and any other evidence we might have overlooked. Winn gave me the key. Let's go.”

 

While Harry lifted loose floorboards and tapped for hollow walls or false ceilings, Pamela and Prescott stood in the center of the parlor trying to figure out Crake's mind.

“His estate,” Prescott began, “is the most important legacy of his successful business career and a major source of pride. His will is the final, definitive expression of that achievement. I ask you, would he hide it under his mattress, or behind the water closet, or above the kitchen icebox?”

“No,” she replied. “He had a strong sense of what was appropriate for him and what was not. Any hint of ridicule of his low birth or lack of cultivated manners enraged him. He was also a braggart and hung the certificate of his Medal of Honor above the mantel in the parlor on the most prominent spot in the most important room.”

“So,” Prescott concluded, “the will's final version is in this room and on that spot.” He pointed to the certificate.

He removed the certificate and together they examined its frame. “The back seems rather thick,” observed Pamela.

With a pocketknife, Prescott pried the back loose from the frame and retrieved a document on legal paper. He showed it to Pamela and cried out, “Harry, stop looking. We've found it—Captain Crake's last will and testament.”

Harry joined them at a table to study it. On July 7, just hours before his death, Crake had signed the document in the presence of a notary public in the nearby United States Hotel. Two of the notary's clerks had witnessed the signature. Like the early draft of the will, this final version disinherited Rachel and left his estate to the veterans and to Birgitta. Crake's New York lawyer was the executor.

“It looks sound and should survive a challenge.” Prescott spoke with an experienced lawyer's assurance in his voice. “I'll notify Tom Winn that we've found it. He'll inform Crake's executor.”

“What will become of Rachel and Shaw?” Pamela asked.

Prescott replied, “Even though the will has yet to be probated, the hotel management will surely stop their credit and evict them. The hotel, the casino, and other creditors will have to go to the executor to recover their money.”

Harry added with a straight face, “Shaw might find a job in one of the town's low-class gambling dens, and Rachel could go back to her old profession.” He turned to Pamela. “What could the Swedish maid do?”

“I've already asked my friend Helen Fisk. One of her maids plans to retire. Birgitta will take her place.”