4 - Stranger Room: Ike Schwartz Mystery 4 (13 page)

Chapter 24

The fax machine hummed to life and began spitting out sheets of paper. The cover sheet indicated thirty pages would be forthcoming. Sam glanced at the first, a letter written in elegant copperplate, to a Mr. F. Brian, from an acquaintance in Frederick, Maryland. The Walzak file, apparently. Sam skimmed the pages as they collected in the tray. Ancient folds and creases, and the fading occasioned by the passage of over a century and a half, made them difficult to read. She wished she could have seen the originals. It appeared the late Mr. Franklin Brian of Trenton, New Jersey had some very interesting things to say about some of Virginia’s more illustrious citizens, now long departed. Bolton, Virginia appeared in several later documents.

She collected the stack and retreated to her office where she spread them out on a countertop with the list of books Grotz had borrowed from the Passaic Public Library. She sorted them by date, and then cross referenced them to the books on the list. An hour passed. As she read, a frown creased her forehead. Later, it was replaced by a puzzled look, and that, finally, by one of comprehension. She scooped up documents, the book list, and headed for the college library.

***

Jonathan Lydell refused to speak to anyone other than the sheriff himself. Rita, who’d come on duty at four, wigwagged for Ike to pick up.

“Sheriff, I want to report a theft.” Lydell sounded distracted, worried.

“Mr. Lydell, you do not have to call me personally. The dispatcher will send a deputy to speak to you and take your statement.”

“Thank you, I’m sure that is the routine, however, you must understand this is a matter of some urgency and I do not wish to place myself in the hands of anyone less than the top man, so to speak.”

Ike guessed, Lydell had probably already called the State Police, and had been rebuffed by them. Now he had to deal with the locals, a breed with which he had little or no patience.

“Okay, tell me what was stolen and I will put someone on it immediately.”

“A weapon, a family heirloom, you might say, a very old firearm, to be exact. It has some sentimental value. It was given to my late brother by his opposite number in the British Army—Cairo, Field Marshall Montgomery, Rommel, El Alamein, military intelligence, and all that.”

“I see. By any chance, would the weapon in question be a Webley, .455 caliber?”

“Excuse me, but how did you know?”

“It, or one very much like it, turned up as part of our investigation. What can you tell me about the weapon?”

“Well, I just spoke of its origin. What else would you like to know?”

“When did you miss it?”

“Why, today, of course.”

“Today?”

“Yes, most certainly, today. I was searching for some documents that I had…misplaced and, well, in the excitement of Martha Marie’s accident and…” his voice broke.

“Yes, I see. You were searching for some papers. Could the pistol have been stolen earlier?”

Lydell sighed and collected himself. “I suppose it could have. Are you suggesting it might be the weapon that killed that man?”

“It is possible, certainly. How are you holding up?”

“Holding up? What on earth…oh, you mean because of poor Martha Marie. Very well, under the circumstances, I think. She drank, you know. Spirits were her undoing, I’m afraid.”

“We will need to hold the pistol for a while, Mr. Lydell, at least until the ballistics tests are run and we can establish or eliminate it as a murder weapon.”

“Yes, of course.”

“I’ll have to ask you to come in and identify it.”

“Yes.”

“Did you find your papers?”

“Papers? You mean the missing documents? Ah…Yes, I did, thank you.” The line stayed silent. Ike started to hang up when Lydell spoke again. His voice seemed far away. “About Martha Marie, my daughter…”

“I had a word with the coroner. The post is complete and you can make whatever arrangements necessary.”

“Was there anything…did he mention…?”

“I’ll have the report tomorrow. If there is anything you need to know, I will call you.”

“Yes, thank you.” Lydell hung up. Ike drummed his fingertips beating out the rhythm to
The Teddy Bear’s Picnic.

***

Karl studied Daryll Jenkins. The clock on the wall, a survivor of another, simpler era, ticked away, marking time. Jenkins fidgeted, squirmed, and wiped his hands on his greasy jeans. Karl waited. He knew that only hardened criminals, the really tough guys, could sit and endure long periods of silence. Amateurs, like this one, would soon cave in and start talking. Jenkins first tried a stare down and lost. His gaze darted away from Karl’s unremitting one and settled on the window. Outside, a lone, unkempt lilac seemed ready to burst into bloom a week before all the others in town, the beneficiary of high doses of carbon monoxide and heat from the parking lot next to it. The temperature in the room climbed.

“Hey, how about we open a window. It’s hot in here,” Jenkins said.

“I think it’s just fine, Daryll. Beautiful spring day. Time to sit and chat about this and that. You want to tell me about your cousin and what the two of you have been up to? Or, should I call my friends in the Drug Enforcement Agency and see if they can’t find a whole lot of things to drop in your lap?”

“Hey, you can’t do that. You got nothing on me.”

Rita walked over to Karl and whispered something in his ear and left.

“You know, Daryll, you might just be right about that. What were you up to in that back room of yours?”

“What back room?”

“At your garage, Daryll. That back room.”

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

“Well, whatever it was, it’s gone now. Someone torched your garage just after we left. Who do you suppose would do a thing like that?”

“What? What do you mean, torched?”

“Up in smoke—took most of the rest of the building, too. Witnesses said it looked like a bomb went off back there. We’ll know more when the arson investigators are done, but first they have to finish putting out the fire. Too bad you can’t be there to help.”

“I gotta get out of here. You have to let me go.”

“Not today, man. We have enough charges on you to put you away for a while. If you have a lawyer, you might want to call him, or her. In the meantime you will be in the local lock-up.”

“Yeah? I’ll be out by dinner time.”

“How will that work? Cousin George going to put up your bail? Unless the moon is made of green cheese, he’s the dude who did your garage. All those chemicals and solvents. Did you know that just starting a car around all that stuff could set the whole building into orbit?”

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

“Right. And then there’s old George, who, when he hears you’ve been talking to us, might just want to have a private little chat with you, too. You think?”

“I ain’t said nothing to you.”

“You will eventually, and anyway, George won’t know that, will he?”

“I’ll tell him otherwise.”

“Let’s hope he believes you. He’s got a mean temper, they say, and isn’t one to delve very deep into things, so you’d better talk fast.”

Daryll’s face paled and he began to bite what was left of his fingernails. “Look, I can’t say nothing, you got that? You need to protect me. I have rights, you know. I got the whatchamacallit, fifth amendment thing, right?”

“Oh yeah.”

“You have to do something.”

“Hey, if you call your lawyer, he will move for an arraignment. The judge will set bail and out you go. I can’t help you there.”

“If I don’t, you know, like, call right away?”

“Well, we can hold you for a while on suspicion, stuff like that. Of course the longer you stay with us, the more likely it’ll seem we flipped you. So either way, you’re on your way to becoming toast. Your call.”

“I want to think about this.”

“I’ll find you a cell with a window.”

Chapter 25

The scent of burning hardwoods and pine slowly filled the room, as the heat from the marble faced fireplace took the edge off an early evening chill.

“A fire is a cheerful addition on a day like today,” Ike said. What a lame thing to say, he thought, and smiled at Ruth who stood near the hearth frowning as if unsure whether she should pace, stand still, or sit. He could not read the expression on her face. That made him uneasy. Always in the past, whether she was angry, worried, happy, or sad, he could measure her mood, see through her. Tonight Ruth was opaque.

“Are you feeling all right?”

“What? I’m sorry, Ike, my mind must have drifted away for a moment.”

“A bit more than a moment.”

“Yes? Well…what would you do if you were me?”

Ike had been promised a light dinner in exchange for some conversation and advice. Apparently the advice part came first and what form that would take had been left vague. His stomach reminded him he had skipped lunch.

“If I were you,” he began, smiling…

“Before you start, Schwartz. I’m not in the mood for word games, salacious suggestions, or redneck humor. This is serious.”

“I surrender. I don’t know from what, but I recognize a woman on the war path when I see one. However, I still need to know the context at least. What would I do if I were you—about what, exactly?”

“The merger business. Isn’t that what we were talking about?”

“Actually, you were muttering to yourself while I was consuming some of your excellent single malt. How much do they pay you so that you can afford expensive scotch like this?”

“Not enough. It was a gift from Armand Dillon, if you must know. So help me out here, Sheriff. What do I do?”

M. Armand Dillon had, at one time, served on the board of trustees of Callend College, and remained its largest donor. He, though retired from a life spent accumulating additional assets to his enormous net worth, still retained his skills as a ruthless capitalist and entrepreneur. His, that is, the Dillon Art collection had been stolen from the Art Storage facility located on the campus the previous summer and subsequently recovered by Ike. Not without some confusion, a few shots fired, and a grateful Dillon who generously blessed the school with cash. The robbery, and its sequelae, also served as the fulcrum that leveraged Ike and Ruth together in the first place.

“Dillon always had good taste, I’ll say that for him.”

“Bushels of money will do that for you. I need to figure out where we go with this merger business. CU…”

“Who?”

“I told you, Carter Union, the college that’s breathing down our backs.”

“So it’s official now. They are seeking a merger.”

“Where have you been? Of course.”

“Been? Ruth, I think the term is ‘out of the loop.’ Just because you have had extensive conversations with me in your head, doesn’t mean I’ve heard any of them, you know? That is what you’ve been doing, isn’t it?”

“What? No. Have I? When did we talk last?”

“At the A-frame, you were in a funk and otherwise, we were studying tattoos mostly, or, in your case, the lack of them. Remember?”

“Really? That long ago? I guess I have become so used to talking things over with you that, yeah, the conversations in my head are…Oh, well. Here’s the thing, CU—you’re with me now? Okay, they’ve put up some numbers that have me scared. The board is listening to them like they’re first year students at orientation.”

“And the scary part is what?”

“My board is not blessed with business types. Oh, some of them are okay, I guess, but for the most part, they are members because they fit the Board Rule Profile.”

“Sorry, you’ve lost me again. What is the board rule profile?”

“Board members should be givers, getters, or get out of the way.”

“Ah. So, your board is in over its collective head when dealing with the shrewd city slickers from Carter Union.”

“Precisely. The negotiators from CU come from their business school and they’re throwing their weight around. We could be completely absorbed by them and that worries me.”

“And maybe lose your job?”

“That too, but believe me that possibility, as hard as it would be to accept, is not what has me upset. Callend is a fine liberal arts college that has served its constituency well. I’d hate to see it flushed away by a bunch of MBAs.”

“It’s all about the Benjamins, isn’t it?”

“The whats?”

“Money. Benjamin Franklin’s picture is on the one hundred dollar bill.”

“Oh, cute. This is more like one hundred thousand dollar bills.”

“That would be Woodrow Wilson.”

“How do you know all this stuff?”

“The magic of the internet. I am starving. How about we eat whatever it is you promised me and I will cogitate on your problem at the same time.”

“Cogitate? Don’t you start in on me.”

“Perfectly good word. It was today’s entry on my word builder calendar. ‘Cogitate, to ponder or meditate on, usually intently…’ etcetera, etcetera.”

“Since when did you need a word builder calendar?”

“Ever since you introduced me to your loquacious faculty friends.”

“Loquacious? Then you need to get me a Jeff Foxworthy dictionary so I can communicate in redneck with yours.”

“Very wise. Now what about that food?”

“You promise to help me after?”

“Help you with that and more.”

“Don’t get ahead of yourself there, lover.”

***

Sam leafed through the last of the books she’d pulled from the shelf. A stack of Jonathan Lydell’s books were on one side and several local history books on the other. Somewhere between them lay the answer to what Anton Grotz was doing in the Shenandoah Valley. The librarian tiptoed over and slipped another document reproduction in front of her. Sam read again the report of the locked room mystery in the pages of the
Staunton Spectator
. She riffled through her notes and frowned. She didn’t notice Karl slip up behind her.

“Okay, Library Lady, time to pack it in for the day. The folks here want to close up.”

“Help me out, Karl,” she said, ignoring his suggestion. “All of the documents Grotz studied, and all the books he’d checked out of the library were about a particular time during the Civil War, and seem to have something to do with the Lydell family.”

“Maybe he came down to interview Lydell for a book he planned to write or something.”

“Maybe. But his wife indicated he thought he had found something she called big. That sounds more like a scandal or something controversial. Maybe something to do with the war?”

“Lord, Sam, that war was over a long time ago. Who cares about what happened then?”

“You need to live in these parts a little longer, Karl. The people down here are not done with it. They celebrated Robert E. Lee’s two hundredth birthday a while back. You do know who he is.”

“Southern general or something.”

“Oh my, you do have a lot to learn.”

“Not much call for that knowledge where I come from, and I mean both geographically and culturally.”

“Not a big deal in northern Minnesota, either. But down here? It’s like talking about God.”

“And you think I should bone up on southern culture and history, famous people?”

“And local heroes, if you plan to spend any time here, yes.”

“That’s the thing, though. I don’t plan to do that. Not on my radar screen.” Karl saw the cloud cross Sam’s face. “Hey, we’ll be okay, you’ll see.”

“Yeah, sure. Anyway, Grotz has this thing about the war, and the Lydells, and the murder in the room back then. There has to be a connection.”

“The only connection we can work on is, he was writing about the time and place and wanted to talk to a descendant of the original. That would explain why he was happy to change places with the other guy and move over to Lydell’s room.”

“I think it’s more than that.”

“Look, Sam, they want to close. Grab your stuff and we’ll talk over dinner.”

“Whose turn to cook?”

“Mine, we’re eating out.”