Clifford Irving's Legal Novels - 03 - THE SPRING -- a Legal Thriller (11 page)

“Your nitro? The Ismo?”

“Ismo is long-term. I’m talking about nitro pills to use sublingually if I should have a coronary spasm—a heart event, as the cardiologists dearly love to say. They’re a vasodilator—they open up the coronary arteries.
Boom.
Like dynamite.”

“What brand nitroglycerin is it?” Queenie asked.

“Nitrostat. I’m told it lasts twice as long as any of the others.”

Bibsy had begun to look pale. Dennis interrupted. “Are you all right? You’re not feeling bad now, are you?”

“I don’t enjoy talking about an infirmity,” his mother-in-law said. “It makes it that much more real. In variant angina the artery goes into radical closure without any warning, so no blood gets through to the heart muscle. You can go like
that.
“ She snapped her fingers, surprisingly loud.

Queenie asked, with apparent sympathy, “Do you have to carry all those pills around with you when you leave the house?”

“You bet your boots I do,” Bibsy replied. “In one of those little gray plastic cylinders that Kodak thirty-five-millimeter film comes in. That’s not chic, but I promise you it’s marvelously practical. I used to have a silver pillbox that I carried them in, but I lost it a few years ago.” She turned to her husband. “You remember when that happened, honey?”

“Sure,” Scott said. “You went off to Glenwood one day to shop. When you came back, you didn’t have it. You were so upset.”

“I bought that silver case in Paris,” Bibsy explained. “A long time ago, when we were on a kind of second honeymoon.”

“On the rue de Rennes,” Scott said, “in a shop that sold bric-a-brac. We were staying in Saint-Germain-des-Prés at the Hotel d’Angleterre, where Hemingway first stayed when he lived in Paris.”

Queenie O’Hare was studying her. To Dennis’s ears the detailed husband-and-wife dialogue about shopping in Glenwood and second-honeymooning in Paris sounded hollow.

Queenie mused. “You believe you lost the silver pillbox a few years ago, is that correct?”

Bibsy nodded: correct.

“Can you be more specific about the time, Mrs. Henderson?”

“Two and a half years?” Bibsy shrugged. “Maybe three?”

“What month?”

“Summer, I believe. That’s the best I can do. Does it matter?”

“And where in Glenwood Springs do you think you might have lost it?”

Dennis interrupted. “What’s the significance of this, Deputy?”

Queenie said, “Sir, a silver pillbox was found in a grave near the graves of John Doe and Jane Doe.”

Dennis thought about that. “Did you say, ‘In a grave
near
the graves’?”

“That’s correct.”

“So there was a third grave? A third body?”

“The corpse of a dog, sir, was found in a separate grave.”

Dennis sighed as if this were too weighty for mortal man to fathom. “Deputy, please, what’s it all about? What if the silver pillbox found in a dog’s grave once belonged to Mrs. Henderson? You heard her say she lost it several years ago. What do you want further from my client?”

“Truthful answers, that’s all.”

That annoyed Dennis. He gave Queenie a cool look and said, “Do you have any reason to believe that these two people you refer to as John Doe and Jane Doe were homicide victims?”

“Yes sir, we do.”

Dennis looked at Bibsy, and then at Scott, and then at Sophie. He learned nothing from their expressions. He wondered why Bibsy hadn’t gone down to the Sheriff’s Office in Aspen and why she hadn’t called back within the promised hour, and why she felt she needed a lawyer in this matter. A stab of unease worked its way between his ribs.

“How did these two victims die?” he asked.

“I don’t think I can answer you at this point,” Queenie replied. “But if you don’t mind, I have a few more questions for Mrs. Henderson.”

“I do mind,” Dennis replied firmly. “There’s got to be a little give- and-take here, don’t you think? You’ve found a couple of unidentified alleged homicide victims buried in a grave far from here. You’ve got a silver pillbox found in a different grave altogether—a dog’s grave, you say. It may or may not have been Mrs. Henderson’s property a long time ago. As I’m sure common sense will tell you, there’s more than one silver pillbox in this world. Will you be kind enough to tell me when these two victims were supposed to have been murdered?”

“Four or five months ago,” Queenie said.

“Long after Mrs. Henderson lost her silver pillbox, correct?”

“We’re just conducting an investigation,” Queenie said. “We’re not accusing anybody of anything. No one’s in custody. Mrs. Henderson is in her own home—free to stay or go.” She glanced at Doug Larsen to make sure he was still taking notes.

An alarm bell clanged in Dennis’s head. The friendly deputy had twice stated that no one was in custody and now she had made it a point that Bibsy’s movements were in no way restricted. If you were in custody—and by legal definition that could happen even in your home if you were not permitted to leave it—you had to be Mirandized and explained the nature of your constitutional rights. You had to be told that anything you said might be used against you. In theory, you had to be accused of a crime and placed under arrest. From a thousand TV shows and movies, everyone in the U.S.A. and probably even in Bangladesh was familiar with the reading of the accused’s rights, usually at gunpoint with the accused spread-eagled against a car. But few citizens understood that until those rights were read, if you were not in custody you were wholly accountable for what you said to law-enforcement personnel.

Dennis wondered why he had let things go even this far. Because this is my wife’s mother, he realized, and I know beyond doubt that she hasn’t done anything illegal. Well, amend that. Nothing
wrong.

“I don’t think I’m going to let Mrs. Henderson answer any more questions,” he said. “She has a heart condition, which I confess I didn’t know about until today. We’ve had enough stress for one session. Is there anything else we can do for you, Deputy O’Hare?”

Queenie thought that over for about seven or eight seconds: a long time in a room full of silent, waiting people. Then she nodded positively.

“I’d like to ask a question or two of Mr. Henderson. Do you represent him too, Mr. Conway?”

Dennis waited. It was not his question to answer.

Scott said, “Go ahead and ask, Deputy. I’m a lawyer, even if I’m a little out of practice—literally. I understand my rights. If it’s a proper question, I’ll be glad to answer it and do my best to enlighten you.” Queenie said, “Do you own a Remington thirty-thirty rifle?”

“No, I do not,” Scott said.

“Did
you own one within the past year?”

“I did not.”

“And have you or your wife lost or misplaced a down sleeping bag, blue in color? Or had it stolen from you?”

“No, ma’am. Neither lost nor stolen.”

“Did you know Henry Lovell Sr. and his wife, Susan Lovell?”

“Henry and Susie were dear and old friends of ours.”

“Do you remember when it was that the Lovells passed away?”

“Last summer,” Scott said.

Quite a bit more than just “a question or two,” Dennis realized, but he held his tongue. His father-in-law could handle himself, although maybe he didn’t think this pleasant, cherubic young woman deputy was dangerous. Dennis disagreed.

“The Lovells passed away here in Springhill?” Queenie asked.

“At home, under a doctor’s care.”

“Was there a funeral?”

“Two funerals. They didn’t die at the same time.”

“You attended the funerals, Mr. Henderson?”

“Of course.”

Queenie turned to Sophie. “Mrs. Conway, you’re the mayor of Springhill, so I’ll ask you, if you don’t mind—who issues death certificates here in town?”

“Dr. Pendergast,” Sophie said.

“Do you think we’ll find him at his office today?”

“You’ll find Dr. Pendergast at
her
office,” Sophie said, “unless Grace is out of town for some very important reason, like downhill skiing at Highlands or cross-country skiing at Owl Creek, which is her favorite trail. She’s in a blue Victorian on Main Street, three houses down from the post office, right across the street from the general store. You’ll see a shingle.”

The Hendersons’ telephone rang. Scott picked up the cordless extension, listened, and said, “It’s for you, Deputy O’Hare.”

Queenie listened for a minute, gave a few yes and no answers, then turned to Dennis. “The sheriff’s on the line, Mr. Conway, and he’d like a word with you.”

Dennis picked up and said curtly, “Josh.”

Josh drawled, “I understand you’re in this thing now as an attorney, not just an interested bystander. So I can talk to you. Sorry about before. Sometimes I play by the rules.”

“That’s all right. Nothing is predictable.”

“Want to come down and have a powwow?”

“The sooner the better,” Dennis said.

“I’ve got to round up a few of the other players. I’ll call you early tomorrow morning and let you know when. Don’t plan on bringing the client.”

Chapter 10
The Painter

THE SHERIFF’S CALL came at seven o’clock in the morning while Dennis was in bed making love with his wife. He was invited to attend a meeting at 9 A.M.—a powwow, Josh Gamble had called it, without the client present. What that meant, Dennis wasn’t quite sure. But he understood it was not a meeting to be missed.

“Thanks, pal. I’ll be there.”

He hung up, returning his attention in a timely manner to Sophie. The morning was his favorite time with her, when her body was warm from sleep, her slender hands cool. He would pad off to the bathroom first to brush his teeth. If he had time he could hold her in his arms for an hour, just touching her, being touched, dozing off now and then into short bursts of intense sleep, listening to her murmurs of pleasure.

She said to him softly, “This is so precious.” Her words thrilled him: that she felt that way, that it was enough to be in his arms. When he made love to her she quivered, twisted, groaned with passion. She shut her eyes. Sometimes, tears fell.

Now, as he rose to the surface of another reality, he heard the refrigerator door slam in the kitchen downstairs. The children were up and about.

“Do you think they listen to us sometimes?” he asked.

“It can’t hurt them to hear the sounds of love.”

“It
is
love, isn’t it?” he said. “It’s not just lust and chemical reaction.”

“Well, it may be that too,” Sophie said.

He laughed, bent to kiss her, then swung off and vaulted out of bed. “I have to go. The sheriff is going to give me the lowdown about this crazy business with your mother.”

“Dennis …”

He was already on his way to the bathroom, but something in her voice stopped him. “Yes?”

“Is anything unpleasant going to happen to my mother?”

“Not if I can help it.” He realized his answer was unsatisfactory. “No, nothing. Law enforcement can sometimes be overzealous. They make mistakes. Don’t worry.” Still he asked, “Do you know anything about this that you haven’t told me, Sophie?”

“I know she didn’t do anything wrong,” Sophie said.

“But is there anything I should know that I don’t know?”

“No.”

“Good. I’ll call you at school after I’ve seen the sheriff.”

Dennis drove in his red Jeep Cherokee down toward Carbondale for Aspen. On the outskirts of Springhill he passed Harry Parrot’s house, an old gray Victorian set off the road in a thick grove of evergreens. It was the last habitable dwelling before the twisting descent to the Crystal River. A curl of dark gray smoke, like that of a cigarette smoldering in an ashtray, rose from the chimney into the cold morning air. Harry Parrot was at home. Harry was at work.

“Go for it, Harry,” Dennis said softly.

One sunny January afternoon, almost a year previously, Dennis had been passing by that gray Victorian. He had seen the painter outside in the yard, smoking a cigar and shoveling snow to clear a path for his pickup truck. Dennis pulled over, parked his car, and introduced himself.

White bearded, of indeterminate age but dry as a wood chip and nimble as a monkey, Harry Parrot liked his vodka straight out of the two-quart Smirnoff bottle he kept in the freezer. In the mornings when he started work he was sober. By late afternoon there was no guarantee. The day of their first meeting, after some persuasion, Harry took Dennis down into the huge concrete cellar of his studio behind the old Victorian and showed him his work. It took the better part of two hours to look at it properly. There were dozens of unframed canvases too deep in the piles to be extricated and seen. Some were immense: six-foot or ten-foot squares. There were marble sculptures under yards of dirty canvas. The work was passionate, intricate, as if Brueghel and Cézanne—this was the conjoined image that occurred to Dennis—had been reborn in one skin.

“Harry, these are extraordinary.”

“Think so? My boy, you’ve got exceptionally good taste.”

“How long have you been painting?”

“I didn’t start till I was damn near forty. Worked in the quarry until then. Didn’t know any better.”

“How old are you?”

Harry hesitated.

“All right,” Dennis said, “don’t tell me. Everyone around here seems to be elusive about their age. But I want to say something. I don’t pretend to be an expert, but I think the quality of these canvases and pieces of sculpture is first class. Who did you study with?”

“Picasso. Matisse. Claude Monet. Henry Moore. Only the best. I taught myself out of books. No art school horse shit for me.”

“You’re from here, right? Like everyone else?”

“Wrong.” Parrot smiled. “A goddam immigrant, just like you. The only other one around at the moment. I came from a dirt-poor mining family. Thirty-three-year-old hobo on the lam for putting some cop in the hospital back in the West Virginia coalfields. I walked up here to Springhill one day, asked for a job up at the quarry. They said hell no, you filthy bum, git. But I knew they was shorthanded. It was summertime—I camped down by the lake, took a bath, started eating berries and trapping rabbits and chipping away at those bits of stray marble you find all over the place, making sculpture. Got talking to people. They liked me—couldn’t help it, could they? Liked my sculpture too. Then I got talking to this pretty widow gal, Rosemary. Husband drowned in the big flood, and she had two kids. They never could get rid of me after that—that there Cupid is a blind gunner, and it just takes one shot. Married her, just like you did Sophie. Lost her nine years ago.”