CAPRIATI'S BLOOD (ALTON RHODE MYSTERIES Book 1) (5 page)

I parked the car and went in through the kitchen, which is off an illegal rear deck that two firemen built for me in their spare time. The house has been in my family since 1910 and is basically my inheritance. I thought I’d fix up the old place, sell it at a substantial profit and pay off the second mortgage my folks had taken out to put me through college. Might have, except for the year I spent in uniform and hospital pajamas, during which a crumbling real estate market made my plan moot. So now I just fix it up when I can afford to and live there. Old houses keep you busy. What isn’t broken or leaking soon will be. I got out of my wet clothes and fixed myself a martini, using olives I’d bought in a specialty shop. They were pickled in vermouth, thus saving me valuable time. I used 96-proof Bombay Sapphire gin, which also saves time.

There wasn’t much in the larder. Tomatoes, onions, asparagus and mushrooms, all of which had seen better days and looked like they were trying to mate. But that didn’t stop them from smelling delicious sizzling in the Tuscan herb-infused olive oil from the same shop where I’d found my soused olives. I whipped three eggs, added some parmesan cheese and sliced up some day-old Italian bread. After the frittata was done, I fried the bread in the same pan, cracked open a bottle of cheap Chardonnay and watched an Asian Tour golf tournament on my kitchen TV. Then I went upstairs, stood under a steaming shower for 10 minutes, took some sort of pill and fell into bed. With caffeine, alcohol, cholesterol and a prescribed chemical I couldn’t pronounce sending mixed signals to my exhausted body, I slept fitfully, dreaming of dowels and cacti – and Ellen James.  

CHAPTER 6 – POISONS

I felt like bear crap when I woke up. My head was pounding. I shook it and suddenly realized that some of the pounding was coming from downstairs. I looked at the clock. Just past 8 a.m. I stumbled downstairs and yanked the door open. Al Johnsen, still gripping the big brass door knocker, stumbled into the foyer.

“Jesus, Alton, you almost pulled my goddamn arm off!”

In his wake was a slight, bespectacled man wearing a dark suit and a religious collar. It was Norbert Kittelsen, pastor of the Lutheran church up the block. He hesitated on my stoop, looking befuddled.    

“Won’t you come in, Father,” I said.

I wasn’t sure what one called Lutheran ministers, but I thought formal was the way to go since I also didn’t know why he and Al were visiting me at the crack of dawn. I hoped it wasn’t some sort of intervention.

“Thank you, Mr. Rhode. And please call me Norbert.”

Johnsen and his wife, Barbara, lived directly across the street. They had a fondness for drinking gin and tonics on their front porch to watch the sun go down, weather permitting. Otherwise, they did it indoors. I was often invited. Al’s ancestors hail from Norway and we usually ended the night drinking Svengluten, a potent liquor he brings back from his frequent trips there. I think it’s made from fermented tundra and whale blubber. One shot is my limit. More than that and everything starts to disappear down a long tunnel. I don’t know how he gets the stuff into the country. He gave me a bottle, which I’ve kept, unopened, in case I run out of paint thinner.

“I got a letter,” Al said, waving paper in my face before heading to my kitchen. I closed the door and we followed him. A letter?

“I’m happy for you,” I said. “Emails can be so impersonal. Want some coffee?”

“That would be nice,” Rev. Kittelsen said as Al slumped into a chair at the kitchen table. I offered the minister a seat and put on the coffee.

“We’ve got to nail this scumbag,” Al said, flinging the letter on the table like it was poison. Kittelsen looked uncomfortable. “Barbara thinks it’s hysterical, but I’m humiliated. I know some of the others have asked for your help.”

I suddenly realized what he was talking about. It
was
poison.

There were 10 families living on St. Austins, five on each side of the street. The houses are Tudors or Victorians, except for a brick ranch at the north end that must have made a wrong turn. The one next door to mine was designed by Stanford White, the famous pre-World War I architect shot by a jealous rival. I’m fairly certain that the hanky- panky on the block never reached Stanford’s libidinous level, but stories of wife-swapping, illicit affairs, secret passageways between homes and hidden attic love nests fueled many a fevered adolescent dream. I searched our house high and low for passages and secret rooms, and was terribly disappointed (if somewhat relieved) not to find any. But there was apparently still something in the water on the block because four of the 10 homes had received “poison pen” letters over the past year or so.

The Johnsens and I were among the six households that had until now been spared. Everyone assumed someone on the block sent them. They contained too much inside information and were driving a wedge between neighbors. Suspicions naturally devolved on those residents who were letter-free. The letters were always short and to the point, usually accusing a husband of sexual indiscretions ranging from drunken groping to outright adultery, and in the case of one woman’s pre-pubescent daughter, pedophilia.

I gave Al and Kittelsen each a mug of coffee.

“What’s your interest in this, Father?”

Old habits are hard to break.

“Al came to me for advice,” he said.

“I thought maybe he’d heard something, you know, from one of his flock.”

Kittelsen was known to be a busybody and a gossip, who dropped in for coffee and a chat with many of the women on the block.. Unmarried and pushing 50, there were rumors about his sexual orientation.

“Of course, I wouldn’t have been able to reveal a confidence,” the minister said. “However, I assured him that I had no information at all.”

I went to a desk in a small alcove off the kitchen and pulled out a folder with the copies I’d made of the earlier letters. I was apparently above suspicion as the letter writer, having fortuitously been away during all of the alleged incidents. Fortuitousness being relative, of course, considering that my absences were mostly related to being shot at by various insurgents. In any event, some of the letter targets had asked me to lend my expertise, pro bono of course, in the pursuit of the man or woman responsible. No one wanted to involve the police. I glanced at the most recent of the letters.

“Dear Rosalie,

You might consider spending less time in the kitchen making those bourbon baked beans that are the highlight of your annual Kentucky Derby party (they
are
wonderful!) and more keeping an eye on Chet, who spent most of the race rubbing Amanda Delfonti’s substantial ass. Really, the woman looks like Secretariat. Of course, I probably should be grateful he’s dropped down in class and is finally leaving me alone. The horn dog rubbed his woody against me during the Christmas brunch at the Conroy’s.”

A Friend.”

I thought the Secretariat reference unkind, although the writer was right on the money about Mrs. Delfonti’s butt. Otherwise the letter was fairly typical. Al’s letter was lying on the table. Even from a distance I could tell that it was written by the same person.

“Listen, Al, I know you must be upset. But you must be relieved that you finally got a letter. At least you and Barbara can’t be accused of writing them.”

“Read it,” he said morosely.

I picked it up.

“Dear Barb,

Perhaps if your husband spent less time sipping cocktails on his deck and more time with his lawn mower and hedge clippers, your place wouldn’t look like Yucca Flats. It’s a disgrace to the neighborhood. Even some of the perverts on the block take better care of their property.”

“A Friend” 

I had to read it twice.

“Yucca Flats?”

“It’s where they tested the A-bomb in 1945,” Kittelsen said.

“I know. I wonder if it refers to before or after the blast.”

“I know you think that’s funny, but he’s gone too far this time,” Al said. “How can I ever hold my head up around here?”

I must have looked clueless, which considering my recent activities, wasn’t hard, because Al grabbed my arm.

“Don’t you get it? All the other guys have been accused of chasing skirts, feeling asses and, well, being guys. Whoever wrote that says I’m ignoring my fucking rhododendrons! Sorry, Norbert. Apparently I don’t even have the balls to make a pass at someone at a neighborhood party. If this gets out…”

I would have laughed, but what he said made sense. At least to another man. It was a low blow.

“When’s the next block shindig? Maybe you can pinch a few asses, to get on the board, so to speak.”

“That’s what Barbara said. You’re as screwy as she is. I need help here. And you know what’s really aggravating? I just hired a landscaper to clean up the place. He’s coming next week. Now I have to cancel him because whoever wrote that letter will think it worked. I won’t give the prick the satisfaction.”

This time I did laugh.

“It’s probably a prickess.”

Kittelsen cleared his throat in embarrassment. Al looked at me. Then he laughed.

“So, any luck finding out who it is?”

We kicked around a few likely suspects. Kittelsen threw in a couple of names. That surprised me. We were doing exactly what the letter writer hoped everyone was doing. Pretty soon no one on the block would be speaking to each other. Their kids wouldn’t be allowed to play together, and when they tricked or treated on the block that candy would be ditched, lest it really be poisoned.

“Don’t tell anyone about your letter,” I said finally. “And tell Barbara to keep her mouth shut. I’ll figure something out. I’ll even let my yard go to seed for a while so yours doesn’t look too bad.”

The good humor I felt thinking about Al’s predicament only lasted a few minutes after they left. Then my general physical malaise returned. I needed a good workout. Running was out, at least for a few more weeks. But the docs encouraged upper body work and swimming.

I packed a small gym bag. Ten minutes later I entered the campus of Wagner College. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky. The cool front had left behind the kind of brisk and breezy autumn day that invariably makes people remember their childhood. Grymes Hill, one of the highest points on the entire Eastern seaboard, was a good place to be on such a day. Manhattan glittered in the distance. I could see New Jersey’s Watchung Mountains 20 miles away. I used my key card to raise the gate at the faculty parking lot behind the gym. I wasn’t on the faculty but Dom DeRenzi, the Athletic Director, had wrangled a parking pass to go along with my free membership to the gym. The locker room was deserted. I changed into swimming trunks and threw my other stuff into a vacant locker, securing it with an old-fashioned rotating combination lock. I always thought of high school when I did that. I really wasn’t worried about being robbed but I couldn’t fit my gun in my suit without someone making an obscene remark. I didn’t expect trouble on a college campus. But then again, neither had anyone at Virginia Tech.

The gym was almost empty. Most college kids were sleeping off their hangovers, as I would have liked. I headed to “natatorium,” which was the Latin name for what normal people called a swimming pool. I was surprised to find I wasn’t alone. Five girls, wearing red, high-neck competition bathing suits, were bunched in the far end talking to an older woman who was sitting on her heels holding a clipboard. I never could figure out how women could do that and still look graceful. I’d have fallen backwards or, when trying to compensate, into the pool. Perhaps their center of gravity was more forward. I reflected on that as I walked closer to them. It soon became apparent that the woman’s center of gravity was admirable. She looked up at me and smiled.

“An early riser,” she said. “How refreshing. But don’t worry. We’ll just use the first five lanes. I know they like to keep the pool clear for members on the weekends, but we need a little work on our turns. We have a meet coming up.”

She was a handsome woman, strong featured, in a simple one-piece dark blue bathing suit, cut normally. Unlike her charges, she wasn’t wearing a swim cap and her medium-length brown hair was loosely tied in a pony tail.    

“Well, good luck,” I said.

“Thank you,” she replied, scanning my face thoughtfully. “You, too.”  

I slid into the water in the eighth lane. I’m a strong swimmer and soon got into a pleasant rhythm. I could feel my head clearing and adhesions stretching. I heard splashing and shouted instructions. The girls were also doing laps. They were probably just warming up. Discouraging, since when we were headed in the same direction, it looked like I was treading water. When they got to the end, they barrel-rolled and shot off the wall. They didn’t look like they needed any practice. I’d tried that somersault move once and damn near knocked myself out. A couple of the girls sprang effortlessly out of the pool to stretch. They were sturdy kids, with ropey arms. Their firm buttocks and legs were enhanced by their high-cut water-dynamic suits. I tried not to look at them too long. I also tried not to stare at their coach, who was walking the pool perimeter. She didn’t need a special suit to accentuate her long legs.

I did 50 laps, the last one entirely under the surface without breathing, as I’d been taught by a lunatic Navy SEAL. No rifle and pack this time but I bet the girls couldn’t do it. I hoped they, and their coach, had noticed. I also hoped they didn’t notice how long it took me to re-oxygenate before I headed to my locker. I changed into shorts and a sweatshirt with its arms cut off and walked to the weight room. It was empty. I spent a half hour stretching and warming up on the Nautilus, then hit the weight bench. I was feeling human again and wasn’t going to kill myself with the barbells. I was looking forward to the steam room, a hot shower and a good lunch.  

Dom DeRenzi walked in about halfway through my sets and without asking started to spot me on the bench. That should have made the second half easier but didn’t. DeRenzi automatically went into his coaching mode, which meant he pushed his victims to the limit, and well past. I had been doing sets of 10 reps, barely, and now he upped each set to 13. Why 13, and not a normal 12? He’d explained once that if the bar slipped and crushed my larynx, I could blame bad luck and not failure.

“Come on, Shirley, you can do it,” he said 45 minutes later on my last set as I grunted past 10. I’ve noticed that it’s always easy to say, “
you
can do it.” By the 12
th
rep I sounded like Serena Williams blasting a forehand. “One more, put something in it,” he said, both hands on top of the bar. I knew he wouldn’t let it fall on my throat, unless maybe he got a call from one of his many girlfriends. The weight felt like the Hoover Dam, but I somehow stretched it out and Dom yanked it onto the safety brackets. When I sat up, the room was spinning and I my upper torso looked like I’d been water boarded.

“Not bad, Rhode,” Dom said. “Come into my office. If you can.”