He shrugged. “There weren’t that many people who even had access to the computer. If we assume that the clock was
not
tampered with, the note was probably planted by the killer, right there in the coach house at the time of the murder—it could have been anyone—anyone, that is, with a motive. On the other hand, if we assume that the clock
was
tampered with, the note was probably planted after the computer was in police custody.”
Lucy asked, “Who had access to it besides you?” She started marking off the rectangles of a new grid on her notepad.
Ticking off possibilities on his fingers, Kerr answered, “Doug had access, as did a handful of department clerks and technicians, and of course the DA’s office.”
The pen in Lucy’s hand froze. “The DA? Did you ever see Harley Kaiser in direct contact with the computer?”
“Yes,” Kerr answered, hesitating, “I think so. Well, maybe. There was a lot going on down at the department later that afternoon and into the evening. Harley was around the bull room when I started my search of the victim’s files, but I didn’t pay much attention to him—I was focused on the files.”
While Lucy embellished one of her grid squares with curlicues, I asked Kerr, “Was Kaiser ever alone with the computer?”
“Hard to say. I left my desk from time to time, and he may have been hanging around. He
was
there when I went home Sunday night—he’d asked to use the phone on my desk, and he was still talking when I left.”
I sat down next to Lucy and looked Kerr in the eye. “Could you tell who was on the other end of the phone?”
“Sure,” he said without a moment’s thought, “it was Ben Tenelli. Harley addressed him as ‘Doctor’ and asked about Mary. So?”
“
Dan,
” I said, amazed that he saw no significance to this detail, “aren’t you aware that Kaiser and Tenelli are buddies on the porn-shop issue? Kaiser is preparing to bring a must-win obscenity case to trial, and Tenelli has just issued a report from the County Plan Commission that strongly supports Kaiser’s case.”
Kerr repeated, “So? I support the obscenity ordinance myself—it’s one of the few real issues in this election. Plenty of folks are just plain sick of having that trashy element at the edge of town.”
“Fine,” I said, growing frustrated, “but for the moment, that’s not the issue. Consider this: only yesterday afternoon, a probate investigation revealed that Carrol Cantrell owned the controlling interest in a porn-video production company.”
“Yes”—Kerr nodded slowly—“I saw that report.”
“Also yesterday, Lucy’s own research on behalf of the
Register
revealed that Cantrell was in thick with the ACLU, having successfully testified as an expert witness at various smut trials. We also know that Cantrell’s true purpose in coming to Dumont was to thwart Kaiser’s big case. We suspect that Kaiser may have been aware of Cantrell’s background. The stakes are extremely high for Kaiser—the last thing he needed was Cantrell encamped here.”
“You’re not suggesting—?” Kerr couldn’t bring himself to voice the thought.
“I’m suggesting that there may be a conspiracy of interested parties, attempting to influence the outcome of that trial. I’m suggesting that your political stand on this single issue—obscenity—makes you an attractive candidate to those with an agenda. Dan, have you considered that you may have become a pawn in something rather sinister?”
Kerr weighed my words, then stood. From his blank expression, I could read neither humiliation nor outrage—either emotion was justified by the circumstances. He paced the length of the room, then turned to me. “Mark”—his voice was calm, inflection flat—“I simply can’t believe that there’s anything of that sort going on. I understand that Harley has an awful lot riding on this trial, but he wouldn’t
kill
to assure its outcome. And as for Doc Tenelli, well, my God, the man is beyond reproach.”
“Then what was he doing out at Star-Spangled Video on Monday morning?”
“
What?
” asked Lucy and Kerr in unison.
“Doug and I were out near the edge of town Monday, checking another lead, when we saw Tenelli’s new car at Star-Spangled. Apparently he’d just picked it up—maybe he thought no one would recognize it. We didn’t know it was
his
till late yesterday, when Doug and I saw it at his house.”
Kerr shook his head. “You must be mistaken. Tenelli wouldn’t—”
“Dan, I’m
positive.
I recognized the tape marks from the window sticker—it was the same car.”
Lucy’s grid now had a few new squares on it. “I think I’ll run some routine record checks, Mark. Taxes and such. There must be some connection we’re not aware of.”
“Good idea,” I told her.
Kerr insisted, “You’re looking for boogeymen under the bed, but there’s nothing there.” He paused before adding, “Something is troubling me, though.”
I stood and stepped a few paces toward him, waiting to hear it.
From where she sat, Lucy asked, “What is it, Deputy?”
He collected his thoughts, as if checking facts against his memory, before telling us, “When I found the extortion note on the laptop on Monday, it was of course a breakthrough clue, and a highly sensitive one at that—the political implications for both Doug and me were obvious. But instead of congratulating myself on a job well done, a mission accomplished, I was embarrassed by the fact that I hadn’t found it during my initial search on Sunday. The file containing the note was in a directory that I was sure I’d already gone over—how could I have missed it?”
I suggested, “Maybe you were overtired on Sunday.”
“I was. Still, the whole thing struck me as…funny.”
Lucy said, “It strikes me as ‘funny’ too.”
Glancing back at her, I saw that one of the squares on her grid had been blackened by doodles.
Thad was in a hurry that night, but he wanted to share the events of his school day with us. So Neil and I hustled to get dinner on the table by six-thirty, forgoing the ritual of our cocktail hour, intent on enjoying some quiet time together after Thad left the house.
“What time are callbacks?” Neil asked Thad while heaping a second mound of butter-streaked mashed potatoes on his plate.
“Seven-thirty.” He looked over his shoulder at the wall clock.
“Eat,” Neil commanded through a grin. “There’s plenty of time.”
I grinned too. During the weeks Neil had spent in Dumont working on the Quatro project, he’d proven himself a natural at parenting. Though I’d known all along that he possessed many sterling qualities (after all, I “married” the guy), this particular talent came as a surprise to me. Neil was one of the most urbane men I’d ever met; he skillfully wore his intellect and his sophisticated tastes without pretense. I’d seen him adapt his life to mine before, but I would never have guessed that he could so seamlessly slide into the role of “Thad’s other dad”—or whatever term best fit this unexpected relationship. In truth, he’d adapted to our offbeat family better than I had, without fretting over the names for our new roles. While I studiously analyzed every niggling situation, attempting to weigh consequences and predict outcomes, Neil simply “went with it.”
That Wednesday evening, he’d arrived home from work, learned that Thad had been called back for final auditions for the school play, and was determined to get a square meal on the table in time to let the three of us share some “quality time” before Thad would rush back to school. It wasn’t elegant—we were seated in the kitchen—but it was a real dinner, nothing from a bag fetched at a drive-through. Neil had broiled chicken, creating a mysterious but wonderful sauce with whatever was at hand. I took charge of the salad. Thad mashed potatoes. A green vegetable managed to appear. And now we were eating dinner together like three adults—an amazing accomplishment, considering that one of us was only sixteen.
“I couldn’t believe it,” Thad was saying, “when I saw my name on the callback list. I think I’ve actually got a
chance.
”
“There are only so many roles,” Neil reminded him. “But even if you don’t end up being cast, it’s an honor to be called back.”
Clearly, Neil was trying to soften the possible blow of disappointment, but Thad didn’t hear it—he was hyped. Swallowing a gulp of milk, he said, “And now I’ve been called back
twice.
”
I was confused. Since I’d never been in a play, this process was foreign to me, and with the murder on my mind since the weekend, I hadn’t paid adequate attention to Thad’s quest to be cast in
Arsenic and Old Lace.
Wiping my lips with my napkin, I asked him, “You’ve already auditioned twice?”
“Yeah. General tryouts were after school on Monday. I was nervous, but I must have done okay—Mrs. Osborne called me back with a bunch of others yesterday after school. She said that final callbacks would be tonight, and I made the list. There aren’t that many of us.”
“That’s great,” I told him, cuffing his shoulder. “You made the final cut.”
“I’m glad I took the time to read the script first. It really helped.” He turned to Neil. “Thanks for telling me to do that. Nobody else even bothered—I could tell.” Thad ate more of his chicken. “This is good. What’s in it?”
Neil laughed. “Beats me. I was sort of rushed.”
“Gosh,” I said wistfully, “this recipe will never be duplicated. Enjoy it while you can. It
is
good, kiddo.”
Brushing off our compliments, Neil feigned demure modesty, telling us, “I’m not accustomed to such flattery.” He said it with a Southern accent, like some fragile Tennessee Williams heroine.
Thad found this hilarious, repeating the line, embellishing the accent. My God, I thought, maybe he
does
have a knack for theater.
Neil asked him, “Does Mrs. Osborne have a particular role in mind for you? By this stage, you can usually tell.”
“She had me reading lots of parts at first, but last night, she kept asking me to read the part of Dr. Einstein—he’s pretty cool.”
“Dr. Einstein?” I asked, not remembering that character, at least not by name.
Neil said, “He’s Jonathan’s sidekick, the plastic surgeon who made the evil brother look like Boris Karloff.”
“Of course,” I remembered, “the Peter Lorre role in the movie. You’d have a lot of fun with that one, Thad.”
Neil asked him, “Have you been reading it with the accent?”
Thad’s face went blank. “What accent?”
Neil had to think about it. With a laugh, he admitted, “I’m not exactly sure
what
the accent was—I don’t remember if the script spells out where Einstein is from. But Peter Lorre played it sort of German, sort of Eastern European, sort of weaselly. Like: ‘But, Chonnie, vee got a hot shtiff in the mumble seat.’”
Neil’s mimicking was more than passable—it was surprisingly good—and both Thad and I broke into laughter and applause.
Thad said, “Let me try it.” And he did. After several tries, with Neil coaching him, Thad had it nailed, and he began practicing the accent on new sentences. He really had an ear for it.
Neil cautioned him, “Your director may not care for the accent, and she’s the boss. So when Mrs. Osborne asks you to read the role for the first time tonight, tell her you’d like to try something new with it, then do the accent
once.
If she likes it, keep it up, but if she’s cool toward it, drop it and read the role straight.”
“Right,” said Thad, nodding that he understood the plan. There was such energy in his eyes, though, I got the distinct feeling we’d be hearing a lot of that accent for weeks to come.
Within a few minutes, we’d finished the chicken. As there hadn’t been time to fuss with dessert (which Thad wouldn’t have had time to eat anyway), our meal was over. Thad offered, “I’ve got to run, but I can help clear this stuff first.”
I was stunned—when did
he
get so agreeable?
Neil told him, “That’s okay; we’ll take care of it. But go brush your teeth first. And use mouthwash. Respect your instrument.”
Oh, brother. I laughed as Thad bounded out of the kitchen and up the stairs. Eyeing Neil, I asked skeptically, “‘Respect your
instrument’?
”
“Theater talk.”
Enough said.
Half an hour later, Thad had left for his audition. The night had turned brisk, cold actually, and Neil managed to convince Thad to wear a coat and scarf—out of respect for his instrument, I guess. This all transpired while Neil and I cleaned up the kitchen, carping about the need to replace long-gone Hazel. Though our complaints were lighthearted, they reflected a fact that was increasingly apparent: we did need help.
“Once this murder investigation is comfortably behind us,” I told Neil while wiping down the countertop, “we need to have a serious talk, the three of us. We need a housekeeper, probably live-in. Money’s not the issue.”
“No,” Neil agreed, wrapping a few leftovers, stowing them in the refrigerator, “the
issue
is having our home invaded by a stranger, an employee. Those of us not ‘to the manner born’ find such a setup pretty weird.”
“I hear you.” Dampening the towel, I wiped out the sink. “But from all accounts, adjusting to domestic help is a hurdle worth jumping. They say it’s an easily acquired taste—like champagne or limousines.”
Neil nodded while punching the button, starting the dishwasher. “We’ll talk about it.”
Something else along these lines needed discussion as well—that vacant corner storefront on First Avenue. I was tempted to remind Neil of it, and in fact I opened my mouth to do so. But the words stuck in my throat. Not only was I unsure of how to broach the possibility of moving Neil’s architectural practice to Dumont, but I was afraid that if I did, I would not get the response I hoped for. If I pushed too hard, too early, he might reject the idea out of hand. This would have to wait.
Finding much safer ground, I asked, “Ready for a drink? We missed cocktails.”
“Sure.” He breathed a relaxed sigh. “That sounds great.”
With a flash of inspiration, I suggested, “Why don’t we have them in the den? The night’s turned cold—I can light a fire, the first of the season.”
Neil stepped to me and slung, his arms around my waist. “That sounds rather cozy, Mr. Manning. I daresay romantic.”