Seven Kinds of Death (13 page)

“Someone must have,” she said defensively. “Not me. I never set foot in here when he was alive, and I certainly didn’t after he was gone. Never. But someone from his office came to get some files or something off the computer and he said everything was gone, erased, blanked out. I forget what he said. Gone. All gone.”

Charlie let a sigh escape. He looked at Constance, who was watching Diane Musselman with a thoughtful expression. He knew Constance had not reached across the room to touch him between the shoulder blades, or made any other overt motion to get his attention, but she had got his attention. He lifted his eyebrow so slightly that probably no one but Constance would have recognized it as a signal. She had paused at the doorway; now she came the rest of the way into the room, looking around it with great interest.

“This is such a lovely house,” she murmured. “So beautifully decorated and maintained.”

Diane Musselman drew herself up straighter and nodded. “Thank you,” she said.

“Of course, you couldn’t be held responsible for rooms you didn’t occupy or use in any way. Like this room, so obviously a man’s room, isn’t it? But for a reader not to have books on tables, on the arm of the chair, that seems strange. I suppose you had to tidy up before other people came around to collect his files.”

Diane nodded. “It was a mess,” she admitted.

“How about his bedroom? Did he keep books and papers and things in there, too?”

“Yes, he did. It’s still a mess. I just can’t seem to bring myself to pick it up. One of these days, of course, I will. The housekeeper is after me to let her do it, but someone has to pick up the important things first. You know?”

“I understand entirely,” Constance said. “I think if we’re through in here, we might have a look at his other private room, and then we’ll leave you in peace. It’s been terribly good of you to let us impose like this.”

Diane led them through a wide hall with nice pictures of irises and roses on both walls, on to another wing of the house. She walked at Constance’s side explaining that it wasn’t that they hadn’t slept together, but she was so tired so much of the time, what with three children to see to, and the house and all, and he had kept such late hours many nights, and had been such a restless sleeper, thrashing about, keeping her awake. … Now and then Constance murmured something soothing.

They reached the second private room that David Mussel-man had used, and this time when Charlie and Bill Gruenwald exchanged quick looks, they both appeared satisfied with this development. There was no computer in here, but many notebooks, magazines, books on a nightstand by a narrow bed, others on two tables flanking a couch that had a worn blanket draped over the back. The bed was unmade; a stack of books was on one side of it.

“I brought some of this stuff in from the other study,” Diane said apologetically. “But then I didn’t know what to do with it. We don’t usually keep books and stuff on the floor.”

“You look so tired,” Constance said to her at the doorway. “Show me the way to the kitchen and I’ll make you a cup of tea, or coffee. Tell me about the children.”

She drew Diane out with her, and the two men went to work.

“How did you know?” Bill Gruenwald asked later in the car heading out toward Tootles’s house.

“I guessed,” Constance said. Charlie snorted. “Well, there weren’t any books in sight in the first room she showed us to, remember? Then his study revealed a reader, a man with many interests. The books were art, poetry, biographies, fiction, books on collectibles, coins, stamps, even carpets, but all put away. I doubt that she ever put a book away in the right place in her life; he must have done it, and that left the question of where were the books he was actively interested in at the time of his death. I thought there must be another room.”

Charlie chuckled and slouched down in the seat. Bill Gruenwald turned to look at her directly; he had been watching her in the rear view mirror. He made a saluting gesture and turned his attention back to driving.

“Are you going to tell me what you found?” she asked then.

Bill Gruenwald had asked for a large bag or two, and had brought out two filled with magazines, notebooks, books, maps, drawings. … He said he didn’t know yet what all was in them; it would take hours to sort it out. They had found a heavily annotated copy of Paul Volte’s magazine articles, the series on art and architecture. And they had found the hardcover book, not as heavily annotated, but marked up. Someone had to go through everything, he repeated.

No diary, no outline for the proposal he had sent to the magazine, but in all those notebooks maybe there was something to do with it.

There was a how-to book about submitting a proposal, Charlie said lazily. “Poor guy had it right there in black and white, call up and ask the name of the editor if you have to, but he sent it addressed to The Editor anyway. Chickened out about calling. He had underlined that bit of advice.”

They had driven out to the countryside by now, away from the heavy city traffic. “What I have on Musselman,” Bill Gruenwald said, relaxing even more at the wheel, “is damn little. We were looking at an accident, remember, no reason to start digging too hard into his past or anything. So, here it is. He was the junior partner of a pretty prestigious firm of architects, made a good living with it, and was good at it, apparently. The condo complex was his, with a lot of help from a flock of juniors who did the plumbing, wiring, floors, the detail work. He was the overall honcho above them. Okay. Buell used that firm a lot for primary design work, but not to see the projects through to completion. Apparently, it can go both ways. So it was a surprise when Musselman came around to check on the roof or some damn thing. We had a lot of hard rain all spring, and he said he was concerned about leaks, and he was around a lot. Ditmar said it was peculiar, but acceptable. Others dittoed that. Strange, but not so strange that anyone gave it more than a passing thought. He died on a Thursday after working hours. The roof was awash that day, and lots of mud had been tracked up. If he was worried about leaks, it made sense for him to go have a look. See what I mean? We were looking at an accident. So he went up there, and he got too close to a slippery edge and fell. Nothing indicated anything but that. No one else was with him, no one knew he was going out to look around that day. A watchman, not Pierce, found his body when he made his rounds right after six. Musselman died between five, when the last workman left, and six twenty, when he was found.”

Charlie did not stir from his slouched position, and in the back seat Constance gazed out the window at the passing scenery, very pretty here, nice grass, good trees, lush looking farms now and then. No one spoke until Gruenwald said irritably, “All right! We blew it! I can see that now, but at the time? No way. You saw the wife; we got the same story from people he worked with. He didn’t have an enemy in the world. No one had a reason to want to harm him. He was in debt, but who isn’t? And it wasn’t serious. No drinking or gambling problems. Nothing, period.”

“Take it easy,” Charlie said. “You blew it, but what the hell? It looked good at the time and that’s all you can do.” He pulled himself up a little bit straighter. “So he dies on

Thursday, and on Friday someone rents the box in his name and calls the magazine to change the return address on the manuscript. You might be able to find out at his office when someone went out there to collect the computer files.” Diane had looked helpless when asked for a date. “We’ve got a busy killer scurrying around tidying up here, straightening up there. Someone who understands his computer enough to clean it out. I sure don’t.”

“It’s a Mac,” Constance said from the back seat. “They have powerful drawing capabilities, very good for all sorts of graphic work, I guess. I think most people in art or architecture would understand them, if they use computers at all.”

“Well, it’s a whole new ball game,” Charlie said. “If Musselman found out something funny about the condos and wrote it up in a proposal for publication, it brings in a whole new bunch of suspects starting with Max, Johnny, Ditmar, on down to every foreman, every supplier, God knows who else, backers, bankers. Jesus! And this person might not have attended the damn party at all, just met Victoria Leeds at the condo, talked in any of the rooms, and then after Johnny and group departed, took her up to the sixth floor and killed her. He could have chosen any time to leave when Pierce was busy somewhere else.”

“I can just see a mad plumber leaving a letter on her bed, and then taking time out to mess up Marion Olsen’s art before going over to kill Victoria Leeds,” Bill Gruenwald said with harsh bitterness.

In the back seat Constance stared stonily out the side window at the sparse woods they were passing through.

FOURTEEN

“About Musselman’s death,”
Charlie said as they approached the condo area, “did you investigate it yourself?”

“Yeah. I’ll show you.”

“Stop at the gate,” Constance said, “and I’ll walk on down to Tootles’s house. I want to see her, see how she’s doing. You can fill me in later, Charlie.”

They had left the Volvo in Tootles’s driveway and had to go there eventually to pick it up. Constance had already called the motel they had stayed in before and reserved the same two rooms, and she obviously did not want to peer at a spot on the ground where a man had fallen to his death. Gruenwald stopped, as she had requested, and she left them and started to walk on the shoulder of the road.

“That was a nice piece of work she came up with,” the sheriff said, shifting gears, pulling on in through the gate.

“Hm,” Charlie said, unhappy that Constance had chosen to go alone, unable to say why it bothered him. It was the middle of the day; Tootles, Babar, the students were the only ones likely to be at the house, not at all like New York. Still, the uneasiness settled over him.

“The rain put them behind this spring,” Gruenwald was saying as he drove to the front of the A building—Apple-gate, Charlie remembered. Max Buell’s big, six-year-old Continental was parked there. “A lot of guys weren’t working, nothing going on outside, you see, but the painters, plasterers, interior finish people were all busy. Anyway, no one claims to have seen Musselman that afternoon. Could be. He could have driven in, like I just did, parked, and walked in. Elevator up to six, stairs up to the roof.” He opened his car door and got out, stood with his hands thrust deep into his pockets outside the building. A sidewalk had been laid, irregular paving stones of a pleasing slate-gray color, bordered on both sides by low-growing plants, nice lawn areas. They walked to the end of the building. “Sidewalk wasn’t here then,” Gruenwald said. “Junk concrete, bricks, I don’t know, just junk littered the ground right here. And this is the place they found him. We’ve got pictures if you want to see.”

Charlie looked from the neatly finished walk up the side of the building; this was on the same side as the deluxe apartments, up there was Six A where Victoria Leeds had died, too. “You’d think someone would have seen him, someone going home or something.”

Gruenwald shook his head. “That’s what I thought, but they walked me through it. The guys working inside all used the other elevators, the common ones, not the dedicated ones at this end. They stashed their gear in the basement, washed brushes in the basement, stuff like that, and then left by way of the basement doors, the ones closest to where they were. Guys in the other buildings were even less likely to have seen him. Someone driving by at the right moment could have seen him from the road but no one came forward. No one had any reason to be right here until the watchman made his first round, fifteen after six, twenty after, whatever.”

“And he didn’t let out a peep on the way down?” Charlie asked sourly. “I guess they all wore headsets, listened to music or something?”

Gruenwald flushed and his lips tightened a bit. “Something like that,” he said in a cold tone. “Charlie, ease up. It was raining hard. Windows were closed, tarps over any openings, music was on, guys talking and mostly working in inside rooms. No one heard anything.”

“It stinks,” Charlie said in a colder voice. “Okay, okay. At the time it looked like an accident. But it stinks today. Let’s go talk to Max Buell. Not a word yet about Musselman, you agree?”

Gruenwald shrugged, not appeased.

Since they did not have the key to the dedicated elevator, they had to use the common one at the other end, and then walk the length of the sixth-floor hall to the apartment. The door there was standing open. They entered without ringing or knocking.

Max and Johnny were both in the living room of Six A, standing at a table with an open sample book of paint. All the tarps had been cleared away now; the room looked ready for occupancy.

“I heard what you said, and I still say no,” Max was saying, as Charlie and Bill Gruenwald walked into the room. “We stick with the original colors throughout unless tenants or buyers say otherwise.”

His voice was low, but there was a sharp edge there; it was very clear who was boss. Johnny looked across the room at Charlie and the sheriff, shrugged, and closed the book.

Gruenwald said, “Mr. Buell, could we talk to you for a moment?” He looked at Max, who nodded and sat down at the table.

“Sure,” he said. “Johnny, we’ll talk about it again later.”

“Right,” his son said and left, carrying the large book with him. He looked sullen, and his posture was rigid with repressed anger. He did not glance at Charlie or Gruenwald as he walked out stiffly.

Charlie waited until Johnny had closed the foyer/elevator door behind him, and then sat down opposite Max Buell. “Did you tell Spence to arrange the touring show for Tootles? Are you footing that bill?” he asked bluntly. Max leaned back, his face impassive. A good poker player, Charlie thought; he said, “We can find out, you know. All those gallery owners don’t owe you a damn thing, do they?”

“What difference does it make?” Max asked finally, giving nothing yet.

“Damned if I know. She doesn’t know, does she?”

Finally Max shook his head. “She doesn’t know. There’s no reason to tell her.”

“I agree,” Charlie said, in a more kindly voice. “Absolutely, I agree. Why did you do it?”

Max looked from him to Gruenwald, back to Charlie. “She deserves some recognition,” he said. “She’s overdue recognition, and it wasn’t going to happen unless someone made it happen. She’s worked all her life for nothing. Not much money, just a little trust fund, no fame, no glory, nothing. She deserves more.” He studied Charlie a moment, then asked, “Who told you? Spence?”

“Nope. He would have had his tongue pulled out before he’d talk. You should know that. A combination of things that didn’t quite mesh. Spence could have done this anywhere along the line, but he didn’t. Not enough money? Maybe. But the fact is that he didn’t arrange it until now. All galleries, not state museums, or college museums. Private. Business deals right down the line. And who’s the businessman among us, with money to spare for private art shows?” He shook his head. “It didn’t take a giant intellect to come up with you.”

“She deserves it,” Max said again. “She’s a brilliant artist who never quite made it. It’s not just charity. Some of the pieces might even sell.”

Charlie nodded, as if in agreement again. “How is this complex, all this construction, financed?”

Max looked startled at the abrupt change of subject, then he shrugged. “I put up some, up front, then I went for financing, four different banks involved. They pay in installments, so much with foundation digging, so much with outer walls, and so on.”

“That’s why it was important to have the showing last weekend? Another installment due?”

“Yes. On completion of a major part, one entire building, for example, a big installment is due. It’s like a credit line, enough to keep us paying the bills until we start selling and bringing in money. The showing would have included some prospective buyers, as well as the financiers.”

“What now? Another tour planned?”

“No. No,” he said quickly. “My God, someone died here! Anyway it will be low-key. Nothing showy, not after a tragedy. Nothing to attract media attention,” he added dryly. “Our backers are strong about not attracting attention. We’ll have them in individually now, two, three at a time at the most. One of their people will just send a representative, an inspector. It will be discreet.” He looked at Charlie shrewdly then and added, “I’m not hurting for money, you know. This arrangement is typical, but I could have done the project without it. And I don’t lick boots, or various parts of the anatomy to keep the money flowing.”

Charlie laughed. “Gotcha,” he said after a moment. “Does your son share your feelings?

“Ask him,” Max said.

“I want to see Birmingham,” Charlie said when they left Max and the A Building. From all over the site the sounds of hammers, saws, music, voices filled the air; next door the Birmingham building was relatively quiet, all the major construction finished. Painters and plasterers, finishers were at work in it. Charlie led the way down the sloping drive into the basement where two men were painting lines on the floor with a machine. Parking spaces, just like in A. A worker was spraying stenciled numbers on panels for the dedicated elevators: 1, 2… the number would go on one side of the door that opened in the middle. The other side already had the letter, B. Exactly like the other building, except here it was B, and there it was A.

Charlie stood watching for a few seconds, then turned and nearly bumped into Bill Gruenwald, who was waiting patiently.

“Well?” the sheriff said then.

“Nothing. Just nothing. Let’s go.”

By the time Constance reached Tootles’s house she was in an icy rage. She bypassed the house when she saw the two young men and Toni with Tootles and Ba Ba in the side yard. She walked to the small group. One of the boys was painting a grotesque three-foot-high construction full of oddly shaped holes that seemed randomly positioned. The birdhouse, she realized. It had been undercoated and was being painted emerald green.

“We have to talk,” she said grimly, taking Tootles by the arm. She didn’t know how long Charlie would be, and she wanted this over with before he arrived. There was no time now for niceties.

Tootles looked wary, and pulled against her hand. Constance tightened her grasp. The others looked alarmed and Ba Ba reached for Tootles. “Now,” Constance said. “Come on. Down by the creek will do.”

She wanted to be away from the others before they started objecting, and not someplace where Ba Ba was likely to follow them. She knew Ba Ba would not venture down the path toward the creek; it was not steep, not difficult, but it was clearly a walk, and Ba Ba avoided walking; a water chute would have been fine for her. Constance began to walk briskly, towing Tootles along.

“All right,” she said, when they had put several hundred feet between them and the group at the birdhouse. “I read Paul’s biographies, several of them. You gave it to him, didn’t you? After Gray Axton died, Paul came to console you. He stayed here a few weeks, and you let him believe that—that gift was transferable, like a bottle opener. Didn’t you? He thinks he has your curse, doesn’t he?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t let’s play games,” Constance said. “I know what he thinks. I know what you think. Now Toni’s trying to talk Paul into giving it to her. And he’s just about as unhappy and desperate as you were when you passed it on to him, isn’t he? Did you pass it on in some kind of ceremony? Did Ba Ba participate?”

Tootles shook her head, her mouth set, her eyes unfocused as if scanning a very distant horizon.

Constance took her by both shoulders and forced Tootles to look at her. “There was a ceremony, wasn’t there?” Tootles brought her gaze back and nodded slightly. “I won’t let it happen again. Tootles! Not to Toni. It stops here.”

Tootles drew in her breath sharply. Her voice was harsh when she spoke again. “You can’t stop something like this. Don’t even try. You don’t know what you’re getting into.”

“I can’t, but you and Ba Ba can. And you will. My God, you will! I don’t intend to stand by and watch another life be deranged by this… this superstition.”

“I can’t do anything to stop it. Even if I wanted to, I don’t know how. I can’t make Ba Ba do anything. Forget it, Constance.”

“You can make Ba Ba do whatever you want; you always could, and you will, or I’ll tell Max who messed up your artwork and why,” Constance said.

Tootles’s face blanched and she suddenly looked very old and haggard. “I don’t know what you mean,” she whispered.

“You know exactly what I mean. I haven’t told anyone yet, but I know. You didn’t dare go on tour with that work! And you couldn’t just come out and refuse, not after Spence made all the arrangements. What would Max have thought? What would anyone have thought? But you knew perfectly well that most of the work would be scorned.” Constance took a quick breath, surprised to find herself so winded. Fury did it to her, she knew. “You messed up this murder investigation; maybe you’ve made it impossible to find out who killed Victoria Leeds by mixing your personal problems in with her death. Okay, that’s done; I won’t tell unless you force me to. But, my God, it’s going to stop now! Arrange it with Ba Ba. A séance, whatever you want to call it. Invite Paul, and Toni. Don’t forget Toni. And me. I want to be there. You make the arrangements yourself and let me know when.” She said grimly then, “And at this… this séance, Ba Ba is to dismiss the muse, the spirit, whatever she calls it. Do you understand? She is to send it packing. Tell her that!”

Through this Tootles did not move; she was gazing straight ahead with an agonized expression. Color had come back to her face, but she looked ill and almost wild. “How did you guess?”

“Your note to me, the phone call, your desperation. But by the time I got here, the problem, the cause of your desperation, had vanished. You had solved your problem. Destroy the pieces, no show. Simple. The few you left intact are the ones that are good, aren’t they? The others—”

“They’re junk!” Tootles said harshly. “I did them after Gray died. Junk, that’s all they are!” She studied Constance through narrowed eyes. “You really haven’t told anyone?”

“No.”

Finally Tootles nodded and without another word started back up the path to the house.

Constance breathed deeply a time or two, willing her anger to subside, before she followed. Blackmail, she thought suddenly, her fury instantly renewed; she had been driven to perpetrate blackmail!

Charlie was silent on the short drive from the condos to Tootles’s road. Something, he kept thinking. Something he was missing and shouldn’t be. He was surprised to see Tootles in the shade of a maple tree, leaning against the trunk, looking for all the world as if she was waiting for him. As soon as she saw that he was in the car, she straightened and waved vigorously.