Pierce chuckled. He told both Lucy and me, “You’re not going to find anything, but go ahead, satisfy your curiosity. You’re wasting your time though.”
I reminded him, “We’re doing this for
you,
Doug.”
He smiled. “I know that. And believe me, I’m grateful. So then: door number three, Miriam Westerman’s refrigerator.”
Under my breath, I told the group, “Here’s a suspect we’d
all
like to nail.” I crossed my legs—the memory of my dream was still achingly vivid.
“Absolutely,” agreed Glee, stabbing another piece of melon. “That woman is capable of anything—her snap mood-shifts are downright frightening. Even if she didn’t commit the murder, she has no business working with children, running a school. One way or the other, we ought to run her out of town.” With fork and knife, she delicately butchered the fruit on her plate.
Neil said, “Clearly, the woman had a
motive
to want Cantrell dead—he was a threat to her feminist porn battle. And yes, she kept a locked box in her fridge, which could be used to store succinyl. But the rest doesn’t fit. Where would she
get
the succinyl? How would she even
know
about it? She has no medical background.”
I tossed my palms in the air, conceding that Neil’s questions were hard to answer. Summing up, I told them, “What we’re left with, then, is this: Grace Lord and Ben Tenelli both had access to the drug, but neither had an apparent motive. Miriam, on the other hand, had a motive, but no apparent access to the drug.”
The five of us fell silent—we were stumped. What’s more, I reminded myself, the succinyl theory was little more than a far-fetched hunch. Were we merely “grasping at straws,” as Harley Kaiser had said? Was I merely fishing for any feasible explanation of Cantrell’s death that would offer an alternative to the case being built against Pierce? Had friendship clouded my objectivity? Might Pierce have in fact strangled his paramour to silence him? Such a conclusion was unthinkable, but then, our other theories (succinyl poisoning or a lethal reaction to nuts) simply were not panning out. Our Saturday-morning brainstorming session had raised more questions than answers.
“All right, then,” I told my two editors, exhaling a frustrated sigh, “I know you both need to be going. Sorry to take so much of your time on a weekend.”
“No problem,” said Lucy, rising, gathering her notes. “I’d planned to spend the day on research anyway.”
“I’m on duty too,” said Glee, also rising. “The miniatures convention opens later this morning—I’ve got to be there.”
“I’d nearly forgotten about that,” I told her, wagging my head. “With everything else going on…”
Standing, Neil told Glee, “We’ll see you later at The Nook. Mark and I both want to check out the action. Our friend Roxanne will be with us.”
“God,” I said, rising with the others, “I forgot about that too.”
Neil reminded me, “She’s coming up for the weekend.” Checking his watch, he added, “She’s on the road even as we speak.”
Pierce, last to rise from the table, told Glee and Lucy, “Thanks, gals. I appreciate all your efforts.”
Hefting her big flat purse, Glee assured him, “We’re on your side, Doug. I only hope we can help.” She pinched her oily red lower lip between her teeth.
Lucy, the less effusive, more pragmatic of the two, told us, “We’d better be going. My computer terminal awaits.”
I thanked them again, and we said our good-byes. Having parked in the driveway next to the house, both women left the kitchen by the back door.
Pierce said, “Let me help you clear the table.”
Gazing down at our breakfast debris, I wondered aloud, “How’d we make such a mess? Sure, Doug, we’d appreciate a hand.” Then he, Neil, and I set about cleaning the table, rinsing dishes, bagging uneaten pastry. “Don’t clear the coffee,” I suggested. “I haven’t had a chance to look at the paper yet.”
So a few minutes later, we were seated again with our coffee and the pile of newspapers. Tapping the front page with a finger, Neil said, “This obscenity business is really heating up. Kaiser is sounding awfully aggressive: ‘Dumont County will at last score a resounding victory for family values.’ What a flake.”
I laughed at Neil’s tame epithet for Kaiser—I’d have been far less charitable.
Neil continued, “It’s a pretty good article though. Well written.”
“Yeah,” I agreed, “Charlie did a good job with it. It’s a complicated story—the history of the dispute, the legal angles—difficult to report concisely, on deadline.” I raised my coffee mug to my mouth, hiding a grin.
Neil lifted the paper and peered at the byline. “Just who
is
Charles Oakland?”
I reached to refill his coffee, asking, “Back in college, in the dorm, didn’t you ever play that name game? It was good for a laugh or two at dinner.”
He stared at me blankly, as though I’d lost it.
I turned to Pierce and filled his cup. “How about you, Doug—remember?”
He watched the coffee swirling in his cup, then his head bobbed up as he asked, “Something to do with your mom’s maiden name?”
“That’s it. You’d ask someone his middle name, then his mother’s maiden name. Put those two together, and you’d invented that person’s new pen name. Sometimes, the results were pretty funny, but most of the time, you’d end up with something sounding credibly ‘literary.’”
Pierce laughed. “I
do
remember that. If I myself should ever attempt to scribe the great American novel, I’ll write it as Lewis Swan.”
“‘Lewis Swan’”—I roared with laughter—“I
love
it. How about you, Neil?” I knew his middle name, naturally, but he’d never told me much about his mother’s family. Both parents had died before we met.
He thought a moment, grinned. “I’d be Michael Ellison.”
“That works,” I told him. “I like it.”
Pierce said, “How about you, Mark?”
I hesitated. Neil chuckled, asking, “That doesn’t quite make it, does it?”
“No.” I explained to Pierce, “Mom was a Quatrain, so I was named Mark Quatrain Manning, which I’ve always liked. As a nom de plume, though, Quatrain Quatrain just wouldn’t fly.” We all laughed.
Pierce thought of something. Scratching his head, he asked, “Wasn’t there a second part to the name game?”
“You bet—and that’s where it gets truly interesting. After everyone’s decided on their pen names, you move on to stage names.”
“Of
course,
” said Pierce, pounding the table. “Pets!”
“Right. First you ask someone the name of a childhood pet, then you ask the name of the street where he grew up. Put
those
together, and you usually end up with something that sounds like a stage name.”
“Or a stripper,” said Pierce, again on the verge of laughter. “Girls with cats were especially prone to embarrassing monikers, like Boots Astor or Fluffy Center.”
“There was a demure young lady in our crowd,” I remembered, “who had a dog. Her unfortunate new handle: Gypsy Jupiter. She never lived it down.”
Pierce told Neil, “If you get enough people around a table, you’re bound to come up with some doozies. Of course, if a person’s hometown streets were
numbered,
the game’s out the window.”
We continued to amuse ourselves by concocting more ridiculous examples (the gals all sounded like hookers, the guys like brainless beefcake), when Neil stopped short. “Hey,” he asked me, “what’s
your
stage name?”
“Well, I had a cat named Charlie—”
“Yeah!” Pierce interrupted. “Charlie the cat. You told me about him.”
“And I grew up on Oakland Avenue.”
There was a moment’s silence.
“I’ll be damned,” said Pierce. “Charles Oakland.”
Neil asked me, “You’re Charles Oakland?”
“Yup. You see, when I bought the
Register
a year ago, I knew I’d never be content to settle into the role of an administrator, writing a few editorials. Reporting is in my blood, and I saw no reason to resist the occasional lure of a strong story. Unfortunately, there’s always a certain amount of prejudice that runs against a paper’s publisher, especially in small towns. I felt that readers here might question my objectivity as a reporter, since I also own the paper. So I needed another name. Turning to the old name game, I knew that the pen-name formula wouldn’t work. Not only would Quatrain Quatrain look ridiculous in print, but also, I wanted anonymity, and the Quatrain name is too well known here because of Quatro Press. I turned, therefore, to the stage-name formula and have been writing contentedly as Charles Oakland ever since.” I paused, then grinned, offering, “More coffee?”
Pierce stood. “Not for me, thanks. I need to put in some time down at the department—watching for that toxicology report—and hoping for a lucky break.”
We stood with him. Tentatively, Neil asked, “Have you done any…contingency planning?”
Pierce frowned. “Like what?” He stepped toward the door.
Neil was reluctant to say it, so I did: “Maybe you should talk to a lawyer.”
“Roxanne will be here soon,” said Neil. “I’m sure she’d help.”
Pierce rubbed his neck. “Think so?”
“Sure,” I told him. “She likes you. And she’s one of the best.”
With his hand on the doorknob, Pierce nodded. “Could you ask her to phone me when she gets here? I’ll be at the office.”
And he left.
Later that morning, Roxanne roared into town from Chicago, intending to stay till her Monday meeting with Neil and some Quatro bigwigs—they had routine legal matters to discuss regarding the massive expansion of the printing plant. Though she’d be staying at the house for only two nights, she brought enough luggage for a week. This came as no surprise, as Neil and I were accustomed to her visits, which we always enjoyed. So we happily unloaded her car and got her settled in the upstairs guest room. The jolly mood surrounding her arrival was tempered, though, by our concern for Doug Pierce and the impending toxicology report. We explained the worsening situation to her as she unpacked.
“The bottom line,” I told her, lolling on the bed with Neil, “is that Doug may need a good defense attorney. By this time tomorrow, he may be under arrest, booked for murder.”
She turned from the closet, where she was hanging some things from a garment bag. “Good Lord,” she said, “things have certainly deteriorated since our lunch last Monday. We shared a table with Doug and Harley Kaiser—there was no hint then that Doug himself was under suspicion. When did
that
develop?”
“Right after lunch that day.” I told her about the extortion note found by Doug’s deputy, Dan Kerr, on Carrol Cantrell’s laptop. I voiced my varied suspicions of Kerr, Kaiser, Westerman, and Dr. Tenelli. I brought her up-to-date on everything—the nut theory, the succinylcholine theory, and my persistent hunch that Tenelli’s involvement in the obscenity issue ran deeper than we understood. “He’d be my prime suspect,” I concluded, “if I could just pin him with a clear motive.”
Roxanne zipped up the empty garment bag, asking, “If Tenelli’s not your prime suspect, who is?”
I exchanged an uncertain glance with Neil before answering, “Miriam Westerman. The woman’s insane; she’s capable of anything. I recognize that it’s difficult for me to deal with her impartially—she’s the one suspect I’d
enjoy
nailing. Unfortunately, all the pieces don’t fit.”
Roxanne paced the bedroom. “Last time we talked, your prime suspect was the Frenchman. What happened to
him?
”
“We’ve sort of lost interest in Bruno. Though he has no airtight proof of his whereabouts at the
exact
time of the murder, there’s ample evidence that he went to Milwaukee that weekend. We’d have a tough time proving that he slipped into and out of Dumont to do the deed on Sunday morning—and the burden of proof would rest, of course, with the prosecution.”
“Toxicology is due when—tomorrow?”
Neil got up from the bed, confirming, “The results could be issued anytime between now and tomorrow morning. It’s a waiting game, Rox.”
Standing, I added, “Kaiser was blunt—unless the tests conclude that Cantrell had ingested tree nuts, Doug will be charged with the murder.”
“Where’s Doug now?”
“At his office downtown.”
“Do you know his number?”
“Of course.”
Roxanne spoke to Pierce, reviewing his situation, concluding there was nothing to be done until toxicology results were known—in Neil’s words, it was a “waiting game.” She further assured Pierce that she’d defend him if she was needed. Trying to lighten the conversation, she added, “I don’t think it’ll come to that, but if it does, I can stay on in Dumont awhile—I brought a few extra things.”
I was now glad that she had not traveled light. My instincts told me that her two-night stay at the house would be considerably extended.
After Roxanne hung up with Pierce, Neil said, “If there’s nothing we can do for Doug right now, why don’t we head over to The Nook? The convention began this morning, and the exhibits should be open to the public by now. It might be run.”
“Good idea,” I told him. “Glee is covering the opening, but I’d like to see it for myself. Besides, I’m sure Grace would be glad to see us. This has to be a difficult day for her, with Carrol Cantrell so conspicuously absent. If nothing else, we can offer a bit of moral support.”
“Fine,” said Roxanne. “How does one dress?”
Despite our assurances that there was no particular dress code for the miniatures show, Roxanne fussed with a new outfit before leaving the house. As always, she looked spectacular, choosing a tweedy gray suit with pants, perfect for the crisp fall morning. Slinging the gold chain of a large, handsome purse over her shoulder, she announced, “I’m ready now.”
As it was only a few blocks to The Nook, we decided to walk, enjoying the weather as we strolled down Prairie Street together. Turning onto Park, it became apparent that our decision not to drive was wise—the side streets were clogged with parked cars. “Wow,” said Neil. “I had no idea the show would draw such a crowd. Grace will be thrilled.”
Several minutes later, we were waiting in line in front of The Nook, preparing to buy tickets. Over the past week, I’d learned that the world of miniatures had many enthusiasts and that these shows were always well attended. But the scene in front of The Nook that morning was downright chaotic. The publicity surrounding Carrol Cantrell’s death had undoubtedly heightened the interest in this convention. An esoteric hobby had been spiced by murder, drawing the curious as well as the committed.