The Art of Death (18 page)
Authors: Margarite St. John
Death in Absentia
Monday, June 17, 2013
Standing in his boss’s office, Lieutenant Dave Powers mentally kicked himself. He hated when Captain Schmoll thought of something he didn’t. The man was infuriating. Most of the time he carped and nagged and reminded the lieutenant of the obvious, as if Dave were still a rookie. If Dave recommended one thing, Captain Schmoll recommended another. If Dave thought he knew who the murderer was, Captain Schmoll was sure it was someone else. When Dave solved a case, Captain Schmoll took the credit.
But this time Captain Schmoll was, as he said himself, on his toes. Suppressing a smile, Dave pictured the rotund, dainty-footed captain on his toes -- something like a cement mixer on a unicycle. Who knew what might spew out of the cement mixer’s enormous maw?
“You have something for me?” Dave asked.
“Sit down, lieutenant, sit down. I had a thought about the Swartz case. A week ago I saw the lovely Madeleine Harrod in the parking lot, so I looked at your notes and started thinking.” He pointed to his brain, which sat behind a small face draped in enormous swaths of flesh, as if his original countenance had been hastily pasted on a bigger one, giving him the nickname “Moonpie.” Sheila said he probably had a thyroid problem. “Do you know about all her marriages?”
“We’re talking about Madeleine Harrod?”
“Who else?” Captain Moonpie snapped.
“I know there have been three. Dan Belden, Steve Wright, and Ned Harrod.”
“What happened to her first husband?”
“He disappeared.”
“Before or after the divorce?”
“After.”
“Did you know Ms. Harrod just got a judgment from the court that her missing ex-husband is deemed to be dead in absentia?”
Dave shook his head. “Where did you hear that?”
“It’s in today’s paper. And guess what else?”
Why don’t you just tell me, you overstuffed bag of beans?
“She gains something from it,” Dave hazarded. “Because why else would she bother going to court?”
Captain Moonpie looked deflated but was not to be denied his pleasure. “So why did she do it? What does she gain?”
“Money, I suppose. An inheritance of some kind.”
“Only a life insurance policy worth a million dollars!” Captain Moonpie announced triumphantly. “She was looked at when he disappeared because his family was sure Ms. Harrod had done something to him. But because we didn’t know she’d gain anything as his ex-wife, we didn’t take it any further.”
“Why didn’t you look at his life insurance policy then?”
“Because we didn’t think he was dead
then
. Too soon to think that. He was just missing, that’s all. Anyway, you’re muddling around the countryside looking for a guy dressed like a ship captain who was following Ms. Harrod. You assume he’s sinister. But suppose he’s actually a friend of Ms. Harrod and does her dirty work.”
Dave glanced out the window to gather his thoughts. “The dirty work of killing Kimberly Swartz, you mean?”
Captain Moonpie’s double face reddened like an oversized stoplight. “The dirty work of killing Dan Belden too.”
“Who said he was killed?”
“How else did he die?” Captain Moonpie asked sarcastically.
“Disease, accident, natural death. Hell, he might even have killed himself. Maybe he’s wandering around some hellhole in California with amnesia. Or maybe he’s living under an alias in Mexico or something. Maybe he just doesn’t want to be found. No body was ever discovered -- .”
“No. That’s why he had to be declared dead by a court,” Captain Moonpie interjected, as if explaining the value of fertilizer to a clueless gardener. “But the body is obviously somewhere.”
“That’s what the court concluded, I suppose, because none was found, but why are you so sure the man is dead instead of hiding out somewhere?”
“The poor bastard would never want his ex-wife to collect that insurance money. You ever see the divorce documents? Well, I did. They accused each other of all kinds of horrible things. She said he was impotent. He said she was unfaithful. Belden also claimed she embezzled money out of his company account. Oh, no. If he was alive, he’d come forward before she got his money or he’d change the beneficiary just to spite her.”
“That sounds logical. Sort of.”
“Damn right it’s logical. And I want you to find the body.”
“Why?”
“I think old man Appledorn hired this Captain Ahab to kill Dan Belden to make sure his daughter collected that million dollars.”
Dave stared at his boss. “No disrespect, sir, but that’s quite a leap. What’s old man Appledorn have to do with anything?”
“I always hated the son of a bitch, that’s what.”
Dave swallowed his question about why but his boss apparently saw it on his face.
“Years ago I bought a used car from him. He once shot a pony that kicked his little girl. Did it in cold blood, execution style, right in front of the girl. Let’s just leave it at that.”
“Lying about a lousy car or shooting a pony is a lot different than hiring somebody to kill a human being.”
“Not in my book.”
“What if Captain Ahab is a figment of Ms. Harrod’s imagination?”
Captain Schmoll bounced in his chair. “What makes you think that?”
“I can’t find anybody else who ever saw him.”
“So what? The dead girl wrote to her friend about meeting him! Ms. Harrod described him to you! And are you forgetting that that old lady out by the cemetery actually saw him?”
Dave looked away. He wasn’t about to mention the theory Walter developed after talking to Babette Fouré and seeing the photograph of Madeleine in front of the painting Nicole, Girl at the Dunes. “We don’t know for sure that the person the old lady saw is the same man Madeleine Harrod claims is following her.”
Captain Moonpie jerked in disgust. “Go with the simple explanation, Detective. Assume they’re the same man. Find Captain Ahab. He’ll lead us to Dan Belden’s body.”
“So where do I start? You must have a theory about that.”
“You ever been out to the Appledorn farm?”
“No.”
“Take a look around. I was out there once right after Belden’s family reported him missing. Lots of places to hide a body.”
“A hunch about the whereabouts of Dan Belden, even one as informed as yours, Captain, isn’t probable cause, so I’ll never get a search warrant for the farm.”
Moonpie replied with perfect seriousness, having missed the sarcasm. “Maybe old man Appledorn will give you permission to look around. Maybe he’ll even spill the beans if you talk to him.”
“I hear he’s got dementia or something, so it’s possible the only thing he
can
spill is beans on the way to his mouth.”
Captain Moonpie missed the humor completely. “Dementia? Good! Then maybe he’ll tell you something without even knowing what he’s saying.”
“Maybe.”
“Well, you’re so smart, Detective, think of something else.”
“Just so I’m clear, remind me of something you said,” Dave said, getting to his feet and walking to the doorway.
“What? I don’t like repeating myself.”
“What’s Dan Belden have to do with the Swartz case?”
“Clean out your ears, Detective,” Captain Moonpie said smugly. “I said . . . I
said
Captain Ahab is the man you’re looking for. He’s not Madeleine Harrod’s enemy at all. That’s a red herring. He’s the Appledorns' hired hit man. Find Dan Belden’s body. Find Captain Ahab. You’ll solve two murders. Maybe I’ll even give you a medal myself if you do. . . . Leave my door open.”
Pretending he didn’t hear, Dave slammed it so hard he was afraid he’d bent the doorframe.
Much Too Easy
Wednesday, June 19, 2013
When Dave Powers arrived at the Appledorn farmstead, Steve Wright was already there, standing under a shade tree. He was leaning over blueprints spread out on a makeshift plywood work table supported on sawhorses.
“Madeleine’s really gone, you’re sure?” Dave asked.
Steve glanced at the house. “Dougie said she’s in Indianapolis for a few days, attending to her toy business.”
“What about the old man?”
“Afraid you missed him.”
“What?”
“Nettie, the lady who takes care of him, is in the house, cleaning the kitchen. She said Madeleine must have dropped him off at a day-care facility again. She does that sometimes before she leaves on business.”
“I thought the woman who comes in -- Nettie, you said? -- took care of him.”
“I don’t know what to tell you.”
“What’s the name of the day-care place? Where is it?”
“She was vague.”
“She doesn’t know where the old man is?”
“She says she does but she can’t remember the name.”
Dave turned and frowned at the house. “Shit. Now what?”
“It’ll come to you.”
“Do you think this Nettie would let me look around without telling the old man or his crazy daughter?”
“Give it a try, Dave.”
Dave found the door to the house unlocked. Hearing noises at the back of the house, he walked down the corridor to the kitchen, where he discovered Nettie with her head in the oven. “Ma’am! What are you doing?”
In her surprise, Nettie hit her head as she shot backward out of the oven to see who was talking. She got to her feet. She was a stout woman, gray hair
en brosse
in the military style, no makeup, long jaw, wide shoulders. She gave him a wary look out of round colorless eyes. Her forearms were muscled; one was tattooed with a bulldog’s face and the motto “Semper Fi.” She reminded Dave of the bomb loaders on the aircraft carrier his father served on: sturdy, muscled, humorless. “Cleaning the oven. Who are you?” Her voice would carry to the top row of an amphitheater.
Dave checked an impulse to salute. “A friend of the family,” he said, the lie coming easily. “Are you Nettie?”
“That’s me.”
“I want to see Chester. Is he upstairs?”
“He’s not here.”
“You know where I can find him?”
“At a clinic for the day. Doctor’s appointment.”
“I thought he was at a day-care facility.”
“If you knew that, then why ask me?”
Dave sighed. “Can you give me a name, an address, anything? His doctor’s name?”
“No.”
“You don’t waste words, do you?”
“No.”
Dave shoved his hand in his pocket. “I have a little something for him -- a gift from my dad, the two men used to know each other -- so maybe I can leave it here.”
Nettie reached out a hand. “Leave it with me. I’ll make sure he gets it.”
“No offense, but I’d like either to give it to him myself or leave it in his bedroom. My dad would kill me otherwise.”
“His room’s unlocked today. First door on the right when you get upstairs. Don’t disturb nothing is all I ask.”
Dave studied her eyes to see if this was a joke. Much too easy, being saved from revealing that he had nothing for Chester. If he couldn’t talk to the old man, then he’d nose around. Why waste the opportunity?
The first he thing he noticed about Chester’s bedroom was the smell. Like the rest of the old house, it was musty. But there were also notes of camphor and pipe tobacco. The source of the tobacco odor was obvious. Pipe paraphernalia, together with a TV remote, rested on a piecrust table near a cracked leather recliner; the ashtray was clean. A walker stood at an angle on the other side, together with a pair of carelessly discarded carpet slippers underneath.
The wallpaper was old-fashioned and darkly patterned. The curtains were dark too, in a print that did nothing for the wallpaper. The atmosphere, Dave thought, was depressing.
The imprint of the old man’s body was obvious on the old-fashioned white bedspread which was otherwise neatly made up. One of the bedside tables held an array of pill bottles and a half-filled water carafe. He picked up one of the pill bottles and read Coumadin. The next: Clopidogrel. The third: Angiotensin-converting enzyme. He didn’t bother with the rest. What medical condition did these prescriptions treat? He made a note of the names so he could ask a doctor he knew.
And then he took a second look at the pill bottles. All three were prescribed by Dr. Anthony Beltrami. Was it normal for a psychiatrist to prescribe these medicines? Another question for his doctor friend.
The open jar of Vick’s Vapo-Rub on the bedside table accounted for the odor of camphor.
He moved out to the alcove, noting that it was more cheerful, though it overlooked the family cemetery. A bottle of nail polish and some cotton pads rested on a little table near a long cushioned window seat. Madeleine must do her nails here while keeping Chester company as he sat in a small armchair angled in a corner. Several fashion magazines and a paperback were scattered on the floor. He checked the dates of the magazines. The May 2013 issue of
Vogue
. The June 2013 issue of
Bazaar
. The paperback, whose cover pictured a particularly malevolent version of the Sphinx, appeared to be a murder mystery set in Egypt. Page 113 was turned down. Madeleine was an attentive daughter.
How about the closet? It was small and old-fashioned, smelling of cedar, stale sweat, and dust. Reluctantly, he pushed the clothes this way and that -- mostly bagged-out cardigans in old-man colors and pull-on sweat pants, plus a greasy bathrobe, two flannel shirts, and one pair of overalls.
And then, there it was. He’d been panning for gold but hadn’t really expected to find anything.
He pulled out three wooden hangers.
One was draped with a double-breasted navy blazer with big brass buttons. The shoulders were wide and saggy, the coat voluminous. The label had been removed. Could Chester really fill out a jacket this big? He’d ask Nettie.
Next was a pair of white duck trousers with wide legs. Again, no label. There were grass stains around the cuffs. Nothing in the pockets. A long brown belt hung from the hook.
And finally, a white Hanes mockneck shirt with long sleeves, also large. Strangely, shoulder pads were sewn in. He gingerly brought it to his nose. He couldn’t place the odor, but it wasn’t unpleasant.
After replacing the ship captain’s garments at the back of the closet and spacing the clothes to look undisturbed, he got down on the floor to feel around for shoes. All he found was a pair of old workbooks, another pair of carpet slippers, and a blue-and-white striped pillow with no cover.
He stood up, lost in thought. Moonpie thought Chester had hired Captain Ahab as a hit man. But what if Chester was Captain Ahab? Could that be? Was he physically capable? Why wouldn’t Madeleine have recognized her father in Indianapolis? How would he have gotten there?
And then a depressing thought entered Dave’s mind: Having entered the house under false pretenses without a warrant, what could he do with the discovery? Who could he tell about his theory?
“You get lost up here?” a masculine voice barked from the hallway.
Startled, Dave nudged the closet door shut with his foot before turning to smile reassuringly at Nettie. “No. Just looking around so I can give my dad some details about how old Chester is living. How
is
he doing?”
“Okay, I guess.”
“Where was he on the morning of Monday, May 20?”
“How the hell would I remember that? I don’t keep a diary. He doesn’t either.”
“I take it he’s put on some weight.”
“You never seen him?”
“Years ago. He was a wiry little guy then. Dad said he was strong, though. Does he ever drive himself anywhere?”
She shrugged. “He’s a shell of his former self, but don’t let anyone fool you. That man doesn’t need anybody’s help to get around.”
“Dougie told a friend of mine you lift him here, lift him there.”
“What does Dougie know?”
“What’s all that medicine for?” Dave asked, pointing at the bedside table.
“None of your business.”
“You don’t know? You must know because you take care of him.”
Nettie shook her head. “You’re awfully nosy.”
“I just want to tell Dad how his old friend is doing.”
“I’m not paid to talk.” She cast her eyes around the room. “What did you leave for him? So I can be sure to point it out.”
Dave thought fast. “I decided I’ll wait till I see him. It won’t mean much without a little explanation. It’s personal between him and my dad.”
“Who should I say came to visit, mister?”
“I hear Chester’s got dementia, so my name might not mean anything. Just tell him the son of an old friend.”