Name Games (36 page)

I’d heard enough—besides, I’d arrived at Grace Lord’s miniatures store, The Nook. So I pulled to the curb and cut the engine, silencing Denny Diggins.

The normally quiet side street was busy that afternoon, as the convention of the Midwest Miniatures Society was scheduled to open there the next morning. Exhibitors had returned to put finishing touches on their booths in the converted Rexall store adjacent to The Nook, so the bustle of activity outside both stores had reached a fever pitch. Getting out of the car and crossing the street toward the hubbub, I realized I’d picked a bad time for a chat with Grace—her mind was surely far from the murder right now.

Even as I thought this, I saw her emerge from the front door of the shop, carrying some supplies, answering questions asked by others who were headed in. Though I could not hear her, her mood seemed chipper—if she felt any jitters about the impending opening of the show she was hosting, she hid them well. I noticed too that she was headed in the direction of her house, so as luck would have it, I might be able to spend a few minutes alone with her.

Quickening my pace, I approached her from behind, calling, “Need some help with that, Grace?”

She stopped, turned, and broke into her usual impish smile, surprised to see me. “It seems you’re always around to lend a hand when I need it,” she said, handing me some of her things—a box containing markers and tape, and several big sheets of bristol board. She’d been lettering posters to guide visitors around the exhibit hall, and these were leftover supplies.

“Going home?”

“Just for a while. Need to put my feet up a bit.” She began walking toward the house again. “But there’s plenty left to do before tomorrow.”

“Could you use some company?” I was already following her. “I’d like to talk to you about something.”

“Sure, Mark—always time for you.”

A few minutes later, we were settled on her back porch, sitting in yellow canvas chairs drinking coffee from white ceramic mugs. She apologized for the strong brew—it had been reheated and was in fact pretty bad—but the warmth of the cup felt good on my hands. It was another chilly day, and it seemed odd to be sitting outdoors. Why not go inside?

As if reading my mind, she answered, “Not many decent days left now—looks like we might have an early winter. It’s good to enjoy the sunny weather while we can.” She was right, of course, and I felt mildly ashamed—while I’d focused on the cold, she saw the sunshine. From that perspective, it
was
a beautiful day, and the setting was nearly idyllic. That rolling backyard, the huge old trees freshly brushed with autumn color, the quaint charm of the coach house just a few yards down the red-brick path—it didn’t look like a murder scene.

But it was, and that’s why I was there. “Grace,” I began with a touch of reticence, “I know you’ve been over this again and again—what you saw on the morning of the murder—but I thought of a new angle and wonder if you’d humor me by answering a few more questions.”

She didn’t need coaxing. “Look, Mark. Sheriff Pierce is in trouble, and we need to help him—I know that’s your main concern. If you need me, I’m happy to help. What would you like to know?”

Grateful for her cooperation, I gave her a warm smile, leaned forward, and reached to pat her hand. She grasped my fingers and gave them a solid shake, as if to assure me that everything was going to be all right. Settling back into my chair, I sipped the coffee (it tasted better now) and then said, “You’ve told us a lot about the activity in and around the coach house last weekend, but so far, these discussions have centered on Sunday morning.”

She nodded. “The day of the murder.”

“Right. But we’re working with a new theory now: Maybe Mr. Cantrell wasn’t strangled. He may have been poisoned.”

“Oh, dear,” Grace gasped, sloshing a bit of coffee over the edge of her mug, then brushing the few drops from her jeans with the back of her free hand.

“If our theory is correct, the killer didn’t visit the coach house on Sunday morning, but earlier, probably Saturday. And we haven’t yet detailed what you saw or heard that day.”

“Oh, Lord,” she said, wagging her head slowly. “I’ve been concentrating so hard on Sunday, I’m not sure I can even
remember
any details about Saturday. Things were busy all weekend with the setup and all—and Carrol had
lots
of visitors.”

“I know, Grace. Let me see if I can refresh your memory. I myself dropped by on Saturday morning and went upstairs. I hadn’t planned to, but I did. Did you happen to see me?”

She thought, but not long, before turning to ask through a quizzical expression, “You weren’t alone, though, were you? You were with Harley Kaiser and that Miriam woman.”

Big smile. “That’s absolutely right. The only reason I went up to the coach house at all is because I ran into them on the street and they told me they’d come to see Carrol. I couldn’t imagine what they wanted with him, so I tagged along.”

“What
did
they want?”

“I
still
don’t know, or at least I’m not sure.” I didn’t want to tip Grace off regarding my suspicions, as that could color her memory of the day’s events. So I simply said, “Now that you have a frame of reference for Saturday morning, I wonder if you can specifically recall any other visitors who came to the coach house later that day.”

Without hesitation, she asked, “You mean visitors other than Miriam?”

My breathing stopped for a moment. I asked, “When you say ‘other than Miriam,’ are you referring to her morning visit, along with Harley Kaiser and me?”

“No!” Grace laughed as if I were dense. “I’m talking about later that afternoon, when she came back with that cake.”

Kettle drums. Fanfares. The heavens resounded with angelic choirs. “You
saw
her? You saw her bring the
cake?
”

“Sure.” Grace shrugged. “It was in a box. I heard her clomping up the stairs with it. That’s why I happened to look out from the kitchen window. Carrol wasn’t upstairs then—he was probably over at the hall—so Miriam just left it there on the porch. So what?”

I sputtered, “Why…why didn’t you mention this before?”

“No one
asked
about Saturday. No one seemed to think it was important.”

Laughing at the gravity of this overlooked detail, I stood, pacing the porch. I wasn’t sure how much to tell Grace, assuming she wouldn’t understand the whole business of the nut allergy, the possibility of anaphylactic shock. Then it clicked—she was a trained pharmacist. Grace surely had greater background knowledge of Cantrell’s condition than I did.

I crossed to her chair and rested a hand on her shoulder, explaining, “Carrol may have died from anaphylactic shock. The symptoms would be indistinguishable from those of asphyxiation.”

Grace stared blankly into space, then raised her fingers to her mouth, stunned. “Good God,” she said softly, her tone analytical and unemotional. “The nut allergy, the bracelet, the EpiPen. Carrol and I discussed his condition thoroughly before I cooked anything for him. When the cake appeared, I cautioned him not to eat it—there was no way to be sure what was in it. But when I told him it had come from Miriam, he decided it was safe. He ate some of it, and he gave me some too. He assured me that he’d already mentioned his allergy to Miriam.”

“Indeed he did,” I recalled.

Grace looked up at me. “But why? She had no reason…”

“It’s complicated, but she had her reasons.”

“I’ll tell you something else.” The perplexity in Grace’s features vanished as her face wrinkled with disgust. “That woman bakes a damn lousy cake.”

Tearing back downtown, I used my car phone to call Doug Pierce at the sheriff’s department, but learned from the dispatcher that he’d just gone over to see me at the
Register.
I was eager to tell him what I’d just learned, but it could wait till I arrived at my office—we could brainstorm the situation with Lucille Haring and Glee Savage as well.

Turning onto Park Street, whisking past the succession of avenues that led to downtown, I glimpsed my reflection in the rearview mirror and was surprised to note that a wide grin had contorted my features. I was actually gloating. We now had an eyewitness who’d seen someone deliver to the victim a cake that could have been concocted to kill him. And that “someone” was none other than Miriam Westerman. Too bad, I mused, that Wisconsin had no death penalty. Though philosophically opposed to capital punishment, in this instance I’d be happy to set aside my reservations and volunteer for switch duty.

Arriving at First Avenue, I saw that Pierce’s tan, unmarked car was parked at the curb near the
Register
’s front door. I swung into my reserved space behind the building, dashed inside, and raced through the lobby toward the stairs.

“Yoo-hoo, Mr. Manning,” Connie warbled at me from her window.

I turned long enough to tell her, “I know, Connie—the sheriff’s waiting for me. Thanks.” And I bounded up the stairs into the newsroom.

The pace upstairs was brisk. Not only were there two big local stories (the murder investigation and next week’s obscenity trial) being followed by the staff, but it was the middle of Friday afternoon, with a slew of weekly sections being wrapped up for the thick Sunday edition. The ring of phones seemed magnified. The milling of staff looked chaotic. But to anyone accustomed to the approach of a “bulldog” deadline, the scene in the city room was merely business as usual.

Across the maze of desks, behind the glass wall of my outer office, I could see Pierce huddled around the low table with Lucy and Glee. Whatever it was he’d come for, they were already at it. Rushing to join them, I entered the room, closing the door behind me. “What’s up?”

They all turned from where they sat.

“Hi, Mark.”

“Hey, boss.”

“Grab a chair.”

Joining them at the table, I saw that Pierce had brought photos of the scarf found at the crime scene, as I had asked him to do the previous afternoon. But it wasn’t the pictures that occupied their attention at that moment. Rather, it was the half-eaten bag of Chee-Zee Corn Curleez that Pierce had torn open and planted in the middle of the table. The sheriff, my managing editor, and my features editor all had sticky orange fingertips. My mouth immediately watered.

Without commenting on the Chee-Zees, I grabbed a few and, before eating them, asked everyone, “What do you make of the pictures?”

Pierce wiped his hands on a handkerchief before picking up the two large glossy photos and displaying them squarely before me. One pictured the whole silk scarf; the other was an enlarged detail of its pattern. Pointing to the detail, he said, “This little figure is repeated all over the scarf.”

“No question,” said Glee, dabbing the corners of her lips with her fingers, “it’s Bruno’s stylized hedgehog. It matches the trademark we found on his miniature furniture.”

“Which means,” said Lucy, sitting back while crossing her legs, “that the scarf surely came from Bruno—at least originally. He probably had a number of them custom-made, not only for his own use, but as gifts. In light of his long history of business dealings with Carrol Cantrell, it’s likely that Cantrell already had one, and in fact, Grace Lord mentioned in her police statement that she’d seen a collection of silk scarves while cleaning the victim’s quarters.”

I swallowed a mouthful of Curleez. “So the scarf might have been Bruno’s, or it might have been Carrol’s—or anyone else’s, for that matter.”

“Right,” said Pierce. “Bruno is still having trouble producing evidence that he was actually in Milwaukee at the exact time of the murder—no parking stubs—but frankly, I’m inclined to believe him. I don’t think he’d be dumb enough to strangle a business rival with his own cravat and then conveniently leave such an obvious, incriminating murder weapon right there at the crime scene.”

“I don’t either,” said Lucy, scratching the bristly red hair behind an ear. “It’s
plausible,
but not probable. Besides, with this new angle that Cantrell could have died from anaphylactic shock, it’s arguable that the scarf was not the actual weapon, but was merely planted to suggest strangulation and to disguise the real cause of death.”

“Which brings us back to the possibility of a nut-tainted cake,” said Glee, “which in turn could have been baked by Miriam Westerman.”

I leaned forward. “Okay, gang. Get this. I’ve just come from Grace Lord’s house. While chatting on her back porch, sipping coffee, she dropped a real bombshell—a stunning bit of information that could help us nail Cantrell’s killer.” I paused for effect, popping a Chee-Zee into my mouth and munching loudly.

Lucy drummed her fingers on the arm of her chair. “For Christ’s sake, Mark. What’d she tell you?”

I smiled. “As you know, on Saturday morning, the day before the murder, I visited the coach house with Harley Kaiser and Miriam Westerman. Grace saw us. Later, that afternoon, she saw Miriam return—
leaving a cake on the porch.
”

Receiving the round of gasps I’d hoped to elicit, I continued, “Aware of Cantrell’s allergic condition, Grace cautioned him not to eat the cake, but he specifically assured her that it was safe because he’d already informed Miriam of his condition. Grace saw him eat it.”

Glee slid a perfectly manicured red nail between her front teeth, dislodging an orange crumb. She wondered aloud, “If Carrol was so severely allergic to nuts, and he ate the cake on Saturday afternoon, why did he die on Sunday morning? Wouldn’t he react faster than that?”

Pierce assured us, “He was healthy Saturday
night.
”

“The timing does seem strange,” I admitted, “but everything else fits. Consider: Miriam had a
motive
—her hate of Cantrell as a male homosexual who also threatened her antiporn crusade. She had the
means
to kill him—lacing a cake with nuts after learning of his allergy. And now we know she had the
opportunity
—an eyewitness saw her deliver the cake.” Rewarding myself for such a neat summation, I grabbed another fistful of Curleez.

As I ate, the others silently weighed all this, nodding their assent that we were closing in on a killer. Pierce said, “All we need now for an airtight conviction is some physical evidence that Carrol ingested nuts. If testing reveals nuts in either the cake or the stomach contents—better yet, both—this mystery is solved.”