She walked through the cold by a circuitous route, looking over her shoulder in case anyone was following her and feeling extremely silly. What did she and Dennis have to say that should not be overheard by the police anyhow? Unless he had something in mind she could not anticipate.
But Dennis, it turned out, chiefly wished to commiserate about their mutual plight. Fitzjohn was off the official list of suspects and so, by now, was Michael Hertbrooke. (Even if he had been sufficiently worried about his ancestor's kinks coming out in public, he was known to have been in the wrong part of town all afternoon on the Friday Ada was killed. And unless he happened to keep a hitman on retainer, he had not had time to hire someone to do the job for him.) Nor had Dennis been much cheered by the the discovery that Ada's land might have unexpected worth. Even more disappointingâhe was a poet himself, after allâhe hardly made more of “Landmine” and “Morning Birds” than Skelton and Crowder had done. He was interested in her observations of Espyville and its environs, and he still hoped the DNA analysis of the hair would clear him. But his nerves were worn, his business suffering. He was noticeably paler than usual. It didn't help, no doubt, that whatever promise his relationship with Juliet had once held had evaporated. Mercifully, though, he showed no more sign of wishing to scrutinize that loss than she did; he took it for granted, apparently, that their likely trajectory
had changed from future helpmeets in life to future defendants in a murder trial.
Grateful to be spared any explanation of her own changed feelings, Juliet did what she could to soothe and divert him. The menu was a welcome aid; in fact, Dennis's personality was such that reading it absorbed him happily for many minutes.
“So sad to have to choose,” he said, smiling up wistfully after this perusal.
Juliet wondered what prison food would do to a person like Dennis. She hoped life would spare him from having to find out. The rest of the meal passed in desultory discussion of recent movies and the latest political news. At Dennis's suggestion, they took separate cabs home. Their parting kissâquick, friendly, and inches away from each other's mouthsâsaid everything they had not.
Â
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It wasn't until that Friday that Landis resurfaced from his gang hit
and invited Juliet to come to dinner. This time, when she arrived at 229 West 107th Street, he pounded down the stairs to the vestibule, flung open the door, yelled “Hi,” and dashed back up without kissing her.
“Just started cooking,” he explained over his shoulder, as she climbed industriously in his wake. The hallway outside his apartment was full of the fragrance of sautéing garlic, mixed with something briny. “Make yourself at home.”
Juliet took off her coat and hat and joined him in the kitchen. A gigantic pot steamed gently on the range, beside it a large saucepan.
“Linguine with clam sauce,” Murray explained, relighting the flame and skillfully flipping the softening garlic with a spatula. “Okay?”
“Fabulous,” said Juliet.
She eyed the giant pot with awe. She would never have dared to wrangle fresh clams, never. Murray clattered about the kitchen, draining, reserving, chopping, offering wine, explaining what he was doing, giving her small tasks. Juliet tried not to look completely off her turf, but it wasn't easy, especially after he had to show her how to use the salad spinner.
“Sometime I'll have to cook for you,” she offered, vigorously pulling at the whipcord. Did the Learning Annex have cooking classes? She couldn't remember.
“Sounds great. What's your specialty?”
“Oh. Well, maybe it's not a specialty but ⦠broiled fish?” Juliet answered. “I can do that. With boiled potatoes, maybe? And asparagus. How does that sound?”
He paused to stare at her. “Broiled fish and boiled potatoes is your specialty? Who cooked in your house when you were growing up?”
“A housekeeper,” she said in a small voice, then with more spirit, “That's not a character flaw, you know. I was a child, my father was working, and my mother had died.”
She saw his face soften. A few moments later, he left his pots for a moment and came to put his arms around her and kiss the top of her head. She melted against him. Then the lid of the clam pot started to rattle.
“No lollygagging,” he said briskly, letting go of her. “Let's see that parsley cut up really fine.”
She waited until they had eaten to tell him she had seen Skelton. It was so nice to be with Murray, so nice not to think about murder. But as they cleared the plates away, she sighed and gave in to the necessity of bringing up the subject.
“Listen,” she began, “that night when we got back to the city, I stayed up late reading some of Ada's poetryâ”
“Yeah, I know,” he interrupted. “Jeff told me about your visit. He got the police up in Espyville to go and make some inquiries. I
talked to him this morning. I'm gonna tell you the results, but you're not gonna like 'em.”
He led her into the living room, sat down beside her on one of the small couches, and took her hand.
“Okay, let's start with the easy stuff. Steve and Claudia Lunceford. On Friday the eleventh, the day Ada Caffrey was murdered, Steve Lunceford saw twenty-two patients, the earliest one at eight in the morning, the last at six-thirty. That morning, Claudia shopped for groceries at the Price Chopper, chaired a meeting of the Optimist Club Subcommittee on Substance Abuse at noon, had lunch with Steve at the Union Hall Inn in Johnstown at one o'clock, helped her friend Denise Mink choose wallpaper for her new house at a new store, also in Johnstown, called Cozy ThingsâI told you Jeff Skelton is thoroughâand took a water aerobics class at her health club from 4:00 to 5:00 P.M. In the evening she and Steve had dinner at a covered-dish fund-raiser for a local scholarship fund. Claudia brought pork chops.”
“Okay, I get it,” Juliet said. “They're not the killers. Who's next?”
“Well, next,” Murray stroked her hand as if to calm her, “let's take our friends the Giddys. Now, Tom Giddy works on weekends. Part of Harlan's operation is emergency towing and repairs, so they're open every day. So the week Ada Caffrey was murdered, Tom did have Thursday and Friday off.
“But,” Murray paused dramatically, and Juliet could not help feeling he was enjoying her impatience, “he went rabbit hunting. Tom's dad always kept a cabin up in the state park that he used for fishing and hunting trips. Nothing fancy, but now Tom owns it and uses it, and that's where he was. As for Cindy, she stayed in Espyville, mostly at their house, baby-sitting a niece and nephew of his while their folks went to Albany. Tom's sister needed to have some minor surgery done there. So that's them.”
“And Skelton believes that?” protested Juliet. She was dismayed
to hear herself sound more whiny than forceful. “Did anybody check out whether what they said was true?”
“They're checking, don't worry. But what we hear from up there is, Tom Giddy is a respected man, a bit of a local hero, in fact. Last year, he saved a kid and a golden retriever from a house on fire. He has no violent history. His boss, Ed Harlan, trusts him like a sonâin fact, he had intended to hand the business over to him, only money's been tighter than he expected. So the police up there, they just don't see him for a murderer.”
“Yeah, but Cindyâ” Juliet said.
“Mrs. Giddy has a more checkered past, for sure. But the nephew she was watching is three years old. He doesn't even go to school; he was with her the whole time. So even if she were strong enough to tackle Ada Caffrey, kill her, and stow her body under an SUV, where did she stash the kid while she went to the city?”
Juliet received this in silence. Then she asked, “What about the idea that someone could have hired a teenager up there to make a hit?”
“I mentioned that,” he said drily. “They'll keep it in mind.”
She felt deflated but tried not to show it. “And Matt McLaurin? Free Earth?”
“Well, now, your primary suspicion of Free Earth is based on the idea that they knew Caffrey had left her property to them and were worried she'd sell it to Fairground first, am I right? But according to Bert Nilsson, Free Earth had no idea they were the legatee. The first thing they did on learning about it was ask him to recommend someone who could look into the financial implications for them, try to figure out if they could afford to pay the property taxes and keep the place up, and so on.”
“But even if they didn't know,” Juliet said, “if they just knew there was a possibility that a Wildernessland project was going to open, that Ada had been approachedâdon't you think they would have done everything they could to stop it?”
“How would killing Ada have stopped it? She was against it. And you gotta remember, they didn't know they were going to inherit. Wouldn't her presumable heir, Claudia Lunceford, be more likely to sell? Especially since she didn't live there.”
“Stillâ”
“On your logic, they'd have killed the Giddys, too. Especially the Giddys. It doesn't make sense, Jule.”
Sulkily, Juliet looked into her lap. He was right. It made no sense. “By the way,” she asked, “is Free Earth legit?”
“Oh, yeah, your secondary Free Earth theory. Well, yes, apparently they are. They do solicit contributions, of course, but it's not one of those things like the Moonies or whatever. You don't give your all and go live with Free Earth. Most of the members are ordinary folks, what we call citizens, with families and bank accounts and jobs. They're a registered nonprofit, small, but with a good track record. They just received a grant from the Rockefeller Family Fund about eight months ago.”
Juliet had been leaning against him. Now she withdrew, curling into her corner of the couch. “What about the snake?”
“Actually, that incident is still under investigation. But it appears the snake was probably left by another group, a smaller and much more radical one. They don't have a legitimate operation, nothing public like Free Earth. They're basically terrorists. And it might interest you to know that one of their apparent victims was Matthew McLaurin. Because of a disagreement they had with Free Earth over a plan to revive a defunct resort outside Speculatorâthey were against it, Free Earth was more tolerantâthey left an entire, inhabited wasps' nest in his car one day. He was in the hospital for two weeks. If his daughter had been with him, she would probably have died.”
“Oh.” She felt like an idiot. No wonder Matt was secretive about his address, his young, vulnerable daughter. People were out to get him, or had been. People willing to put a wasps' nest in his
car, who wanted to harm him for his beliefs. No wonder he looked hunted. He had been hunted.
She was ready to concede, but curiosity made her add, “They didn't happen to learn who his little girl's mother is, did they?”
“Matter of fact, they did. Gina's mom was someone McLaurin dated in high school, up near Buffalo. Couple of years later, she gets knocked up, McLaurin marries her. Not that the baby's his. She didn't know who the father was, coulda been a couple of guys. A few years into this idyllic union, the mom ODs on heroin. McLaurin takes the kid to Gloversville to get her away from the mother's mother, who's doing smack herself. Gina has some learning deficits, but she's doing better now. He works with her pretty intensively, I understand.”
“Oh, fine,” Juliet snapped. “I give up. Everyone up in Espyville is a saint. They're all noble. All they do all day is rescue dogs and small children.”
She stood and walked to the window, not because she wanted to look outside, but so that Murray would not be able to see her face. It particularly troubled her that she had been so wrong about McLaurin. She had been too ready to blame his furtive manner on a guilty conscience. Like a schoolyard bully, she had seen his weakness and picked on him. She had lacked compassion.
When she felt she could face Murray with some composure, she turned around to find he had swung his feet up onto the small sofa and closed his eyes. He was snoring lightly. Dismayed, she hesitated a moment. He looked very handsome, even with his mouth fallen slightly open. It wasn't his fault no one in Espyville appeared to be guilty. Quietly, she began to creep toward the kitchen, to clean up.
“I'm awake,” Murray said, midsnore, eyes still closed, as she passed the couch. He put up an arm as if to invite her to lie down beside him.
She considered briefly, then obliged. The couch was not big enough for the two of them unless one was on top of the other, and Murray's feet stuck out a good six inches over the far armrest. After a short struggle, they yielded to the laws of physics and went to bed.
The Second Penny Drops
Murray was at his desk two days later, filling in a DD-5 follow-up
form on the teenaged hit man, when a shadow fell across his typewriter. He looked up to find Jeff Skelton looming over him.
“So?” he asked.
“So a guy who lives year-round a couple of houses away from Tom Giddy's cabin saw smoke coming up from the chimney there late that Thursday night,” Skelton announced. “He also noticed Giddy's pickup truck in the driveway around three o'clock the next afternoon. He remembers because he wanted to get him to sign a petition some neighbors were sending to the county about repairing a local road. Tom wasn't there. The letter went out the next day without his signature.”
“Where was he?”
“Well, Murray, it's a hunting cabin. Presumably, he was hunting.”
“Is that what he says?”
“That's what he's said all along.”
“Why did he leave the truck? Do people go hunting on foot up there?”
“I believe the animals find that means of approach less obtrusive than a motor vehicle. If you're going to ask if we got any bunny
rabbits to testify to having seen him, the answer is no, not yet. But we'll work on that.”
There was a pause. Then, “What about Mrs. G?” Murray asked.
“Ah, Mrs. G.” Skelton settled his large frame on the edge of Landis's desk. “Well, that's a funny thing. Mr. G. doesn't seem to trust Mrs. G. very much. Besides saddling her with his sister's kiddiesâand that story is corroborated by the sister and brother-in-law, as well as the parents of a couple of the kids' playmatesâit turns out Mr. G. routinely keeps a hidden recorder with a date and time stamp installed on their line, to tape her phone conversations while he's out. He told the guys up there he keeps it on because they've been having some obscene calls and he wanted evidence, but there's no record of his complaining about such calls, and he also asked them not to mention the tape machine to his wife. The sergeant I talked to said if Cindy Giddy was his wife, he'd chain her to the bedpost. Whatever, she definitely received or made nine calls between 11:00 A.M. and 11:00 P.M. on the Friday in question. The phone records show it, and her voice is on the tapes. So that's what, âso.' Your girlfriend got any other theories?”
Landis ignored the reference to his girlfriend. He liked Jeff Skelton, when he didn't hate him.
“What about the land deal?” he asked. “That check out okay?”
“Oh yes, there was definitely an offer made by Fairground.” Skelton resettled his butt, squashing some papers Murray had set aside to file. “LaTonya talked to someone in the C of C up there yesterday. Espyville is very eager to have the amusement park, although they were keeping it all extremely hush-hush until it was a done deal. Start talking about a thing like that, you get other localities chiming in with offers of tax advantages and so on, it seems.
“As far as Fairground, they wanted the Caffrey-Giddy parcel, but for them, it wasn't like a must-have. They're already looking into another piece of land someplace in New Jersey. And by the way”â
seated though he was, Skelton fairly danced with triumph as he went onâ“the Honorable Matthew Maher has issued a search warrant for Dennis Daignault's apartment.”
“On the strength of what?”
“On the strength of he killed Ada Caffrey.”
“Fuck you, Skelton. You don't know that.”
“Fuck you yourself. Daignault was the last person known to have the manuscript, he has specialized knowledge of its value, he lied about the value, he lied about where he was, he lied about why he contacted Hertbrooke, we got hairs just like his off the body, he looks like the guy the doorman rememberedâ”
“Guerro? Don't forget, he's gone back and forth on that. He retractedâ”
“Yeah, until he knew it was a murder case. And wasn't that interesting? I wonder who changed his mind.”
“Listen, if you think Julietâ”
“Keep your pants on. And I mean that both ways,” he added. “As I was saying, plus which, an article in the
New York Times
says Rara Avis is a fringe operationâ”
“That was a letter to the editor, not an article, you putz.”
“âplus the manuscript is hot, and how's he going to unload it? I say he took it and I say he's got it. Crowder's at his place now with a couple of guys.”
With an effort, Landis checked his anger. “Well, I hope she finds it,” he said.
“I bet you do.”
It took Murray a moment to realize what Skelton meant to imply: that if the manuscript didn't turn up at Daignault's, he would apply for a warrant to search Juliet's place, too. Or maybe he already had one. Probably not, though, or he would have kept the whole thing from Landis until it was over. Probably he had tried to get a warrant and Judge Maher had refused.
“Juliet Bodine had nothing to do with killing Ada Caffrey,” Landis muttered at length.
Skelton shook his head. “Boy, are you whipped,” he said, heaving his considerable bulk up from the desk. “Whipped like Reddi-wip, you're whipped.”
“Thanks for the update,” Murray said bitterly to Skelton's retreating back. He was fully aware that at this point, Jeff Skelton did not tell him anything he didn't want Juliet to know. In fact, Skelton doubtless wanted Landis to relay all this information, in hopes it would ratchet up the pressure on Bodine.
In spite of which, he did phone her that night to give her the word that the Giddys' alibis had checked out.
“Mmph,” said Juliet, after he had given her the details. “I'd like to interview some of those rabbits.” Then, her voice suddenly indignant, she added, “Did you know they searched Dennis's apartment today?”
She turned her chair around so she wouldn't have to watch her soup cool. She had just sat down to dinner and wouldn't have picked up the machine if she hadn't heard Murray's voice.
“Yeah, I did.”
“His home and his business,” she said. “How can they do that?”
“It's called a warrant.”
“They didn't find anything. Did you know that?”
“So I gathered.” Crowder had come up empty. Now she wanted a warrant for Daignault's safety deposit box.
“Will they search the Giddys' place?”
“Nah. They don't have cause, Jule. The criteria for a search warrant are the same as for an arrest. You've got to have probable cause, not bare suspicion.”
Juliet was quiet for a moment. Then she said, “I wouldn't have figured Cindy for the baby-sitter type, would you? Would you leave kids with her?”
“You think that's fishy?”
“Well, maybe âfishy' is a little strong, but doesn't it seem unlikely?”
“A little. But by the same token, you have to admit Tom Giddy doesn't immediately present the profile of a killer. Let alone a mercenary killer. More like salt of the earth, wouldn't you say?”
Grudgingly, Juliet agreed. “But he did seem kind of sad under all that wholesome, hearty stuff. Kind ofâdespairing, I thought.”
“That's probably the dame. Speaking of which, how often do you talk to that Daignault guy, anyway?”
Juliet, mentally goggling at his use of the word “dame,” asked vaguely, “Why? Are you worried it'll look like we're in on the”âshe faltered as she reached the word “murder”â“in on some kind of crime together?”
“No, screw crime. I'm worried you're still seeing him. I'm jealous.”
“You are? If you're so jealous, why are we talking to each other on the phone when I have enough minestrone here to feed an army?”
“Homemade?”
“Wellâhomemade by the folks at Zabar's.”
“Mmph.”
“Murray, you want to come over here for dinner or not?”
“Be there in fifteen.”
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It was while she was reading in bed later that night, Landis snoring
evenly beside her, that Juliet finally realized why Ada Caffrey had been killed and, more or less, by whom.
Too wound up by events both civil and criminal to sleep, at a little past one in the morning, she had turned on her Itty Bitty Book-light and returned to her unedited copy of Harriette Wilson's memoirs. Luckily, neither she nor Landis had to get up early; he wasn't
due in to work till four the next day, and as soon as he said he'd come over she had called Ames to tell her to take the day off.
She had finally come to the later volumes, the part of the story where Colonel Rochfort (aka “the Moustache”) enters and Harriette falls (again, again!) in love. In Lesley Blanch's abridged rendition of the memoirs, the only one Juliet had read heretofore, Harriette never even mentioned Rochfort. He was discussed only in Blanch's essay and notes. But the last volumes of the complete memoirs dwelt copiously, tediously on Rochfort. And alas, it was soon all too clear to the reader that William Henry Rochfort was terrible newsâa rotter and a sponge.
Reading Harriette's account of their first meeting (by night, by chance, “on the Bond Street side of Orchard Street”) was like watching a Punch and Judy show. You wanted to yell, “Punch, look out! Judy's behind you with a hammer!”
For much of the first four volumes, Harriette managed to present herself as so lively and clever that Juliet more or less believed her frequent claims to various moral strengths: honesty about herself, fidelity to her beloved older sister, Fanny, a lack of avariciousness that was almost generosity. She was promiscuousâextremely soâbut with a sly good humor that reminded Juliet of a Regency Mae West.
But now she itched to reach inside the book and shake her, warn her off Rochfort. Imagine being such a sap at the age of thirty-six! The woman went on ridiculously about his physical beauty, acknowledged that he was “a libertine,” but flew to him like a moth to the flame anyhow. This despite the fact that, well past her prime in her field, she herself was hard up for cash by now, while Rochfort was “in confinement, somewhere, for debt.” (The baroque rules of Fleet Prison allowed debtors considerable freedom to roam, as Juliet already knew.)
She read on. The story of Harriette's romance with Rochfort was interwoven with endless digressions, some of them obviously
intended to frighten various prospective blackmail victims (King George IV seemed to be one) into paying up before she named them outright in a coming installment. But the main thread of the volume was Harriette prattling on about falling in love with Rochfort as if he were Antony and she Cleopatra. Numerous letters between them were reprinted:
“I am not chaste, and never affected to be so:
au reste,
I am virtuous,” Harriette wrote him, “in qualities of the heart, and, in perfect honesty.”
“It is true I am charmed with your person, your manners, and your
tout ensemble,
” Rochfort wrote back, “and I fancy you, as you term it, strongly; nor is it passion alone that inspires me; but a regard, which, if ripened into love, will, unless returned, prove productive, to me, of fresh calamity.” (Rochfort seemed to want to make up in commas what he lacked in pounds sterling.) Within weeks, Harriette was offering to help him with his debts.
“Can I make love, to your tradesmen, or your relations?” she inquired, with characteristic resourcefulness.
Rochfort wrote to her:
Oh! Harriette! life is on the wing,
And years, like rivers, glide away.
To morrow may, misfortunes, bring;
Then, dearest love, enjoy to day!
Harriette wrote back that Rochfort's eyes reminded her of the great, lost love of her youthâLord Ponsonby, Juliet presumed.
She recalled of her former self:
I was in, truth, a wild but brilliant being!
What matters it now? He left me,
And, ere I had dreamt of doubting,
From the heaven of his love bereft me.
According to Blanch, Harriette did manage somehow to pay enough of what Rochfort owed to get him out of prison. He repaid her by drinking hard, gambling, seeing other women, and demanding to be maintained in luxury. Yet her own passion was such that, in order to have money to keep him, she eventually produced the
Memoirs
. And by doing so, Juliet considered, she entirely forfeited her hitherto convincing claim to a sort of moralâ
“Oh!”
She said it out loud, so sharply did the truth strike her. Suddenly, both the submerged thoughts she couldn't get hold of at the police station shimmered, bright, unmistakable, in her head.
She glanced at Landis to see if she had roused him. He was still snoring happily. Under cover of the noise, she crept out of bed to the dresser, where she had left the stack of Ada's poems. Then she went into her office and reread “Landmine.”