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Authors: Michael Craft

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“What if someone slapped her? Hard.”
“That might account for it, yes, but the rosiness could have any number of causes. I'll need some time to determine that.”
“Speaking of time,” said Doug, “what about time of death?”
“Less than two hours ago, perhaps around eleven. Her body temperature has dropped only two or three degrees, and the livor mortis—the purple cast caused by stagnation of blood in the dependent or downward parts of the body—is still in its early stages, blanching to the touch. No signs of rigor mortis.” Summarizing, he repeated, “Less than two hours.”
Doug looked over his notes. “I'll need to check with the various contractors who were here this morning—exactly when did they leave, and why?” Turning to Formhals, he asked, “You'll let me know when you have a complete report?”
“Certainly, Douglas.” With a bob of his head, the doctor took his leave, returning to the team of techs who still busied themselves around Gillian's body.
“Doug,” I said tentatively, “can I talk to you about something?”
Surprised by my tone, he said, “Sure, Mark. What is it?”
I motioned that we should leave the room. Lucy stayed, taking notes as Dr. Formhals spoke with his crew.
Out in the foyer, I asked Doug, “Do you think it's an accident?”
“Vernon does. Till he comes up with something conclusive, I'll have to proceed on that assumption. Why?”
I exhaled noisily. “Let's just say that Gillian Reece was not generally well liked.”
Doug studied me for a moment. “I thought you were one of her biggest fans—with the merger and all.”
“I was. But a lot of weird stuff has been brewing in the last few days, all of it stemming from Gillian. I was here earlier this morning, Doug, and I'm telling you, it was nonstop confrontations. She actually hauled off and
slapped
a few people. I've seen her on the receiving end, as well.”
Doug was taking notes again. “Which explains her pink cheek.”
“No, I'm afraid it doesn't. The last person I saw slap her was her husband, Esmond, who's left-handed, so he slapped her right cheek. But the body's pink cheek is on Gillian's
left
side, meaning, if it's a welt from a slap, it came from someone's right hand.”
“Which doesn't help us much—the vast majority of the general population is right-handed.”
“Exactly. What's more, we don't know if the welt on the body is from a slap, and even if it is from a slap, we don't know if it had anything to do with Gillian's presumed fall from the ladder.”
With a soft laugh, Doug noted, “Which puts us back at square one.”
“I know, sorry. But I thought you should at least be aware of this background.”
He put a hand on my shoulder. “Thanks, Mark. I appreciate it. For now, I'm working on the theory that this death was an accident, but just for the record, tell me about the confrontations you saw this morning.”
Doug clicked his ballpoint and proceeded to take detailed notes as I described the earlier series of run-ins: Arguing about curtain fringe, Gillian had slapped Todd Draper. Then Gillian had verbally sparred
with Perry Schield regarding accountant Tyler Pennell and the merger. Finally, when Esmond Reece and his yogi, Tamra Thaine, arrived and challenged Gillian on money matters, Gillian slapped Tamra; then Esmond slapped Gillian.
“Whew!” said Doug, struggling to write fast enough. “Some morning.”
“I admit, it threw me. I thought I had known Gillian Reece. Now that she's gone, I'm not sure
what
to think of her.”
“Sorry, can't help you with that.” Doug again put a hand on my shoulder. “But, hey. Thanks for the insights.” Referring to his notes, he added, “No telling yet, but this could be important.”
I was happy to help.
I was also grateful that Doug had specifically asked me to describe the confrontations I had seen “this morning.” On a technicality, I felt justified in omitting from my report the incident of the previous afternoon—when Glee Savage had bitch-slapped Gillian.
And where, I still wondered, had Glee been all day?
I
lunched alone that day. Lucy needed to run errands before returning to the office, so I dropped her downtown after returning from the Reece house. Neil had told me at breakfast that he needed to drive to Green Bay to meet with a subcontractor on an upcoming project, so I still hadn't heard whether he had caught up with Todd Draper. For all I knew, our houseguest had skipped town.
Sitting alone at “my” table at First Avenue Grill, I ate quietly without noticing my food, still shaken by the grim discovery of Gillian's broken body on the limestone floor of a brand-new home in which she had never slept.
“No, thank you, Berta, nothing else,” I told the plump waitress in white when she offered dessert.
Returning to the
Register
and learning that the whereabouts of Glee Savage were still unknown, I went straight to my inner office and closed the door, which was not my habit—staffers noticed, glancing through my glass wall from their desks in the newsroom. I needed to think. More precisely, I needed to talk, and the woman whose counsel I sought was in Chicago.
Hoping I'd catch Roxanne at her desk (it was well past one, nearly two), I sat at my own desk, reached for the phone, and began to dial.
Then I paused. This was to be a free-form conversation—stream of consciousness—the sort of brainstorming that might be enhanced by my ability to pace about, thinking aloud. The springy cord of my desk phone would act as a tether, a needless restriction, so I hung up the receiver and, astonished by my own decision, reached for the cell phone that still nested in my pocket.
Standing, I slipped on my reading glasses, opened the phone, and punched the tiny buttons that led to a direct line at the law firm of Kendall Yoshihara Exner.
“Roxanne Exner,” she answered on the second ring.
“Got a minute?” I asked. “It's Mark.”
“Well … ,” she said, taunting, “it's a
horribly
busy afternoon, but for you, babe, anytime. What's up? Wait—don't tell me.” With a laugh, she guessed, “Death stalks Dumont.”
“Unfortunately,” I informed her, “you're right on the money.”
“Oh, dear,” she said, sobered. But she couldn't resist adding, “That sleepy little cow town of yours must have the highest murder rate in the Midwest.”
“Don't jump the gun.” I began pacing my office. “It may not be murder, but at this point, it's an unexplained death.”
“I hate to sound glib, but—anyone I know?”
With a gulp, I told her, “Gillian Reece.”
“Uh-oh.” Roxanne hadn't met Gillian, but she was well aware of the woman, having studied an early proposal for the merger, advising me on its feasibility.
“It appears her death was an accident.” And I detailed for Roxanne the events of that morning, including the series of confrontations, the coroner's initial findings, and the sheriff's assumption that there had been no foul play. “Except,” I continued, “I have a nagging suspicion that there may be more to this, and unfortunately, Glee Savage has a role in it.”
“
Glee?
” said Roxanne. “You've
got
to be kidding.”
“I only wish.” Then I recounted for her the story of the bad blood between my features editor and the paper-mill CEO, their mutual
shock upon meeting again yesterday, and finally, the bitch slap. “Most troubling of all, the last person I saw enter the Reece house this morning was Glee, and she hasn't been seen since.”
“It sounds as if
lots
of people had a bone to pick with this woman.”
“True, but
they
don't work for me.” Tired of pacing, I perched on the edge of my desk.
“Hmmm … I see your point.”
“So if the coroner should conclude that Gillian's death was not accidental—”
“Hold on,” Roxanne interrupted. “I just thought of something. What effect is Gillian's death likely to have on the impending merger?”
I stood again. “Good God.”
“Unless I'm mistaken …”
“It's
off,
Roxanne. I just realized—the whole deal is now off. I don't know if you saw the final agreement, but its terms were explicit. Gillian was to sign on behalf of Ashton Mills, Perry Schield on behalf of Quatro Press. Neither one could back out individually, so the deal could go forward without Gillian's signature, but I'm virtually certain that Perry will view her demise as just the out he's been looking for. With neither signature, there's no merger.”
“Perry was looking for an out?”
“He was getting cold feet, based on some issues raised by due diligence. He was also getting an unvarnished picture of Gillian's personality, so he couldn't have relished the prospect of working with her. Sure, he was looking for an out.”
My inflections must have been transparently upbeat, since Roxanne then noted, “You don't sound too disappointed yourself, Mr. Manning.” Though smirks aren't audible, I'd have sworn I heard one.
I admitted, “Though I regret Gillian's untimely passing, yes, I'm relieved the merger won't happen tomorrow. I was beginning to have serious doubts about it.”
“Hmmm,” said Roxanne, grinding her mental gears (I heard that as well). “If Gillian's death was not an accident—”
“And if her death killed the deal,” I continued Roxanne's thought, “this opens a variety of possibilities regarding motive.”
With a skeptical laugh, she asked, “Are you saying you suspect kindly old Perry Schield of offing the dragon lady?”
“Of course not. We don't even know if Gillian died of foul play. But if she did, these business issues seem to point away from the ancient ill will that stemmed from Gillian's stealing Glee's boyfriend.”
“In other words, if there's a killer on the loose in Dumont—
again
—you'd prefer for that person not to be on your payroll.”
“Well,” I noted, perhaps too pragmatically, “it would be dreadful PR for the paper.” Softening this view, I added, “It wouldn't do Glee any good, either.”
“Yeah, nothing can spoil your day quicker than a murder rap. It's a real bitch.”
“Exactly. Roxanne, it's reassuring to know that, after all these years, you and I are still on the same wavelength.”
“We have the same taste in men,” she noted. “Speaking of which, how's Neil?”
“He's great. Busy as can be.”
Someone rapped on my glass wall. Turning, I saw Glee standing outside my office. She waved.
Roxanne said, “Give him a kiss for me, okay?”
“Sure thing, Rox. Thanks for listening. I need to ring off now.”
“
Ciao,
love.” And she hung up.
Setting the phone on my desk, I opened the door and stepped to my outer office, where Glee awaited me.
“Hi, boss,” she said. “Sorry to interrupt, but when I came in through the lobby, Connie said you'd been looking for me.”
“Uh, yes, I was.” I tried to sound neither agitated nor accusing as I asked through a smile, “Where have you been, Glee?”
She shrugged. “Appleton.”
When she mentioned the town, I recalled her telling me something about it, but the details didn't click.
Reading the confusion in my face, she explained, “I was following
up on an earlier story about that big charity do that will benefit several area hospitals. I drove over there today to interview the organizer of the gala, but it was a wild-goose chase—the woman, a Mrs. Dresen, wasn't home. Must've had our wires crossed.”
As Glee recounted this, I remembered both the earlier story and Glee's follow-up plans, so the explanation of her absence was perfectly plausible. Getting ahead of myself, however, I was now concerned that if Glee eventually needed an alibi for the time of Gillian's death, she wouldn't have one because Mrs. Dresen hadn't been home. Obliquely, I asked, “Did you speak to anyone else in Appleton?”
“Don't think so. Why?”
“No particular reason. Do you happen to recall when you left Dumont for Appleton?”
“Right after I left the Reeces' house—sometime before ten.”
“Good.” The coroner had said Gillian died no earlier than eleven.
“Good?” Glee's features wrinkled. “Mark, what are you driving at?”
“Let's sit down, Glee.” We stepped to the chairs surrounding the low conference table. Glee took a seat, setting her zebra-print purse on the floor. Sitting next to her, I asked, “How did your meeting go with Gillian?”
“Not well.” She expelled a long breath, almost whistling, before she continued, “I'm sure you recall that I arrived at the house just as you were leaving, around nine o‘clock. Gillian was in the living room, barking something at a decorating crew; I think they were there to hang curtains. When she saw me, she said, sweet as pie, ‘Ah! Glee! Can you wait a moment, please? I have something to attend to.' She then proceeded to lecture
all
of the work crews, who were finishing various tasks. She informed everyone that their work was to be completed within one hour, and she wanted them out. The curtain crew left right away, and she badgered the others until they, too, had all gone. She kept me waiting all this time, and she yammered straight through, barely pausing to breathe. It was a nonstop harangue.”
“Sounds like fun,” I said grimly. “So when the two of you finally talked, you were alone.”
“Right. The house was suddenly empty, and to tell the truth, as beautiful as it is, it was also sort of creepy—but that was the company, not the architecture. Gillian listened quietly as I apologized for my behavior yesterday. It was a good grovel, Mark—I took full blame and made no reference to the background issue, Hugh Ryburn. I paused, giving her an opportunity to accept my apology, but she simply nodded, saying, ‘You may continue … ' It was a challenge to remain civil, but I did. Getting down to business, I told her how much the Register was looking forward to running the photo feature on her new home, and I asked when we might send over a photographer.”
“What'd she say?”
“Plenty. She informed me brusquely that she was withdrawing her permission for the feature. I assumed she was having second thoughts because of privacy issues, so I tried to assure her that we wouldn't shoot anything she considered off-limits, and I even offered to let her review the photos before we printed them. But she was unconvinced. In fact, she laughed at me, saying that she'd never intended to go through with the feature. The only reason she gave her initial okay was to cause me the professional embarrassment of promising the feature in my column this morning.”
“She
told
you that?”
“In so many words, yes. Needless to say, our meeting was over, and the atmosphere was tense.”
“You didn't, uh … slap her again, did you?” As Glee was right-handed, her parting blow might have accounted for the welt on the left cheek of Gillian's body.
Glee shook her knotted hand. “Believe me, Mark, I was tempted to do more than slap her. But no, I managed to control myself, and I simply left—
without
saying good-bye.” Glee gave a sharp nod, as if her parting breach of etiquette was tantamount to fisticuffs.
“I can hardly believe it,” I said with a sympathetic shake of my head. “It's unthinkable that Gillian would set you up that way. It's so … premeditated and mean.” I paused, recalling the many incidents that had reshaped my view of the woman over the last two days. “On second thought, maybe I
can
believe it. I'm sorry, Glee.”
“It's not
your
fault, Mark. The story was my idea, and even after I realized who Gillian was, I wanted to proceed with the feature. It was my mistake thinking that I could work with the woman, that I could trust her. So I'll just have to eat crow with our readers.”
“Actually, Glee, that won't be necessary. We wouldn't run the story anyway, not after what's happened.”
“What's … happened?” she asked with a quizzical squint.
I reached to the arm of Glee's chair and touched her hand. “Gillian is dead. We found her this afternoon—Lucy and I went over to the house, wondering if you were still there.”
Glee's brows arched. “Really?” Her tone carried no shock, no disbelief, but the lilt of pleasant surprise. She asked outright, “Who killed her—do they know yet?”
“Why do you assume she was murdered?”
“Because she looked plenty healthy this morning; she wasn't on her deathbed. Besides, we're talking about
Gillian
. She was a shrew, Mark. What goes around comes around.” Glee tossed her hands, pleased as punch.

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