Blood Will Have Blood (15 page)

“Where've you been?” Darien began angrily.

“Even snoops get a lunch break.”

“Have you made any progress? Are you getting any closer? That business with Caroline, if it should leak to the press—”

“That's the least of our problems,” Spraggue said. He skipped over his meeting with Georgina, outlined the death of the dog. “I think it's time to call in the police.”

“No. Absolutely not. Tonight's the gala. Tomorrow, dress and preview. Tuesday, the official opening. We have to make it until then!”

“Cancel the damn party, Darien. It's too dangerous.”

“No. I've got people in from New York, backers, press—”

“Then we'll have to make some special arrangements.”

“What do you mean? What kind of arrangements? Everything's taken care of.”

“What caterers are you using?” Spraggue asked. “Rachel's?”

“They were recommended,” Darien replied, bewildered.

“Good. I'll call her and set things up. One of the waiters will be my man. If he's here, and my aunt, and Karen Snow—”

“The crew's got work to do tonight, Spraggue.”

“The assistant stage manager will have to handle it or there'll be no damn gala. I'll need at least three observers other than myself—”

“I'll help out.”

“No offense, Arthur. I need people I
know
have nothing to do with the joker,
know
on the evidence of my own eyes.”

“Have it your way, Spraggue.” Darien's eyes were ice.

“Cops would be better.”

“No. What do you suggest I do now?”

“Cancel rehearsal and get Caroline out of this mess.”

Darien smacked his forehead. “God! Caroline! Someone'll have to make a fuss over her or she'll walk out!”

“I doubt John Langford is up for it. It's your role,” said Spraggue.

“Did you leave her downstairs?” The little man practically flew toward the door. “She's probably thrown a fit!”

Spraggue followed him down the first flight of stairs, veered off at the double doors to the stage. He pulled open the right-hand door just as Karen Snow shoved it from within.

“Thanks.” She had a grim look in her eyes, a bucket in her hand.

“I have to talk to you.”

“Well, you'll have to follow me then. Goddamned mess! Have you seen Caroline's dressing room? She won't go in there. Says I've got to find her another room! And Eddie, the poor baby!”

Spraggue put a hand on Karen's shoulder, turned her gently around. “Just give me a minute.”

“I haven't got one, Spraggue!” She shook off his hand.

“You're coming to Darien's gala tonight.”

“You're kidding,” she said sharply. “I've got a hundred things to do tonight. One of the fog machines is jammed—”

“The ASM's going to have to take care of it. Darien's orders. I need someone to help me keep an eye on suspects.”

“Can't you get Darien to cancel the damn thing?”

“I tried.”

“Of all the stupid moves! When I first laid eyes on the schedule, I called him on it. Who throws a party at a time like this?
Tonight
should be dress rehearsal, tomorrow preview! What kind of maniac wants the press at a dress rehearsal? But that's the way old Phelps used to do it, and that's the way Darien's going to do it!”

“Will you come? I'll bring you flowers and pick you up at eight-thirty.”

She stiffened just the way she had when he'd suggested an after-rehearsal ice-cream cone. “I'm allergic to flowers,” she said, “I've got nothing to wear, and I'll walk.”

“Sorry. I always seem to say the wrong thing to you.”

She stared down at the floor, shook her head. “No. I'm sorry. This isn't a very good time for me.”

“But I did say the wrong thing.”

She smiled briefly. “At least you haven't asked me why I decided to become a stage manager. Most guys try that one within the first ten seconds.”

“Why did you—”

“Spraggue!”

He smoothed back a wayward strand of her dark hair. “Find me a box and I'll take care of the dog.”

“Would you? I'm worried about Eddie. I think he should go home.”

Damn. Still Eddie. Always Eddie.

“Darien's canceling the afternoon rehearsal. Send the kid on his way,” Spraggue said.

“Thank God.” The stage manager breathed a sigh of relief. “With everybody out of here, we'll have a chance to get ready for tonight!”

They walked slowly down the corridor toward a storage room. Karen found a large flat box, heavy cardboard. “Do you want gloves?” she asked hesitantly, a shudder showing her distaste for his task.

“My hands wash easier,” Spraggue said.

Caroline's dressing room was as he'd left it, light off and door closed. He lifted the dog's carcass carefully into the box. The orchids stayed in position, stuck in the partially congealed blood. He closed the cover. It reminded him of the bat, the beheaded bat in the birthday-wrapped box. But on a much larger scale.

He thought of Georgina as he washed his hands in Caroline's sink. Where had she been? If she'd gone straight to Mary's, he'd have an alibi for one more.

Caroline's delicately scented soap was having no effect on his stained hands. He sprinkled on harsh scouring powder and scrubbed. “‘What, will these hands ne'er be clean?'” he murmured absently.

Macbeth
. He jerked his dripping hands from the sink. “Who would have thought a dog had so much blood in him?” To paraphrase. He hunted around the room, even searching the dog's now cold and repugnant corpse. No note. No message. What in hell was the joker trying to say?

And to whom?

Chapter Nineteen

Late. Dammit, he was late. After eight o'clock and Darien's bash scheduled to begin at nine. Spraggue knotted his tie and checked his reflection in the mirror. Not that any of Darien's carefully chosen society guests would deign to arrive on time. Where in hell was that cab?

He dialed Hurley's phone number, slammed the receiver down after ten rings. He stood immobile, hand on the phone, his shirt a glistening white contrast to his elegant black trousers.

He ran swiftly through a mental checklist. The caterers: that was taken care of. Rachel had been near hysterics at the thought of Pierce decked out in her waiter's livery. But Pierce had been amenable. He'd be a credit to Rachel's steadily growing reputation for great pastry and prompt service. Aunt Mary had been bubbly, eager to get off the phone and dress for the party, but worried about Georgina's reluctance to attend. Mary, at least, would keep her head and follow instructions. Or exceed them.

Karen. She'd sounded odd on the phone, rebellious and remote. Had she been waiting for a call from someone else? Would she arrive at the party escorted by Eddie? Hell, she'd do her job. She might not be romantically inclined in his direction, but she was reliable.

A raucous horn shattered the peace on the street below. Spraggue shrugged into his dinner jacket, straightened an unruly lock of dark hair. He'd do. No John Langford, of course. He smiled as he raced down the stairs. A plum-colored jacket with a spangled cummerbund, that's what Langford would probably turn up in.

The cabbie was in the vestibule, searching for the right doorbell. He wore a doeskin cap pushed down over deep-set eyes and carried a thick Manila envelope under his arm. Spraggue grabbed him by the elbow and propelled him out the door, relieving him of the envelope and outlining the next step of the journey as the cab got underway.

The driver understood the word hurry. Spraggue averted his eyes as they shot through Harvard Square. He fumbled in his pocket and withdrew the tiny flashlight he kept on his keyring with the picklocks. The Manila envelope was carefully sealed. He broke the wax.

Twenty pages of thin onionskin paper, typed, single-spaced; Hurley had done a thorough check. Spraggue skimmed through the pages as the cab sped down Mass Ave, over the Harvard Bridge into Boston. Slipped in with the loose pages, he found two long mailing envelopes, labeled:
AMBROSE DECEASE
, 1968, and
DARIEN ACCIDENT
, 1974. He opened the first, spread the folded pages out on his lap, scanned them with the flashlight.

The Ambrose envelope contained only two sheets of paper, clipped together and folded. The top sheet was a photostat copy:
State of Illinois Medical Examiner's Certificate of Death. Registration District Number
and
State File Number
followed. An unevenly spaced, labeled grid informed that Ambrose, Geoffrey C., had been a white American of sixty-seven years when he'd died in the county of Cook, city of Chicago, on December 4, 1968. Married.
Name of Surviving Spouse (maiden name if wife):
Caroline Comeau. Was it maiden name? Or stage name? He skipped over
Address. Social Security Number, U.S. War Veteran (Yes, No)
, down to the middle of the page. Number 18:
Death Was Caused By:
followed by the admonition to enter only one cause per line for (A), (B), and (C). (A) was labeled
Immediate Cause
. In a half-legible scrawl it said: “Arteriosclerotic Cardiovascular Disease.” The next column, labeled
Approximate Interval Between Onset and Death
, was blank. So was item 18B:
Due To Or As a Consequence Of
. So was 18C:
Other Significant Conditions
. At least there was no doubt about item 19A.
Autopsy (Yes, No)
had a large clear “No” printed under it. Item 20A was also adamant:
Accident, Suicide, Homicide, or Undetermined (Specify)
had been answered with the one word, “Natural.”

Spraggue stared at the piece of paper. Three sections. The first section, personal information, was completely filled out. The third, burial information, likewise. The second part, the part dealing with cause of death, was far less crowded. Out of nineteen possible bits of information, only three were listed.

He sighed. How many deaths had there been in Cook County on December 4, 1968? A sixty-seven-year-old man dies of a heart attack. Fill out the forms and bury the remains. So what?

What had there been to gossip about? Caroline, forty years younger than poor deceased hubby, probably hadn't mourned sufficiently. Spraggue read the burial information. Item 24A
Burial, Cremation, Removal (Specify)
. The single word “cremation” underneath. That put an effective end to speculation. Once the corpse was reduced to ash.…

Spraggue flipped the page. The second sheet was filled with Hurley's hastily scrawled commentary.

Mike,

Illuminating, huh? Once I got the sheet, I called the M.E. Naturally the guy who filled out this one in '68 is dead. But the guy I got was the old guy's assistant, and he remembered the doc telling him the story. You'll see why. It seems they found the old boy naked in his bed, after one of his kids had called the police. The kid had tried calling Daddy like she did every night at ten o'clock. This time, no answer.

Ambrose was D.O.A., had a history of heart trouble. No problems; they fill out the sheet. No problems, that is, until the kid and the widow get together. Big scene right at the M.E.'s office. Kid says: Where were you? Widow says: I went to the movies after tucking in hubby at eight-thirty. Kid says (and this is exactly what he told me): So how come there's semen on the sheets? You know Daddy wasn't supposed to—Ruckus ensues with daughter yelling that Caroline fucked her father to death. The new M.E. says that that's the way he wants to go! Me, too.

-H.

Underneath Hurley listed the name of the M.E. he'd spoken to, the name and address of Geoffrey Ambrose's daughter, and a column of long-distance phone charges. Spraggue stuffed the material back in its envelope.

The cab was stuck in traffic near Boylston Street. Get out and walk or take the extra time to check the second envelope? The guests would be late, Spraggue told himself. No one would show until nine-thirty at the earliest.

He slit the envelope marked
DARIEN ACCIDENT, 1974
, and emptied the contents on his lap. Several photostats and a page of Hurley's scrawl.

The scrawl was clipped on top: “Mike, I'll let you sort this mess out yourself!—H.” That was all.

The copies were bad, lined, light in places, dark in others, as if the originals had been folded, crumpled, and desultorily smoothed before entry into the machine. Four pages in all: an accident report, a charge sheet, a death certificate, and a statement retracting charges. Spraggue's eyes followed the erratic pinpoint of his flashlight as the cab alternately raced and jerked to sudden halts. Nothing new, nothing new … except names. A cast of characters.

The name “Dennis” leaped out of the circle of light. Spraggue stopped reading, went back. Dennis Boland listed as a witness to the accident. Spraggue checked the time and place of the accident: early morning, 3
A.M
.; a heavily trafficked intersection. With fat Spider conveniently lurking on the corner? He turned the page.

Another death certificate, from the State of New York this time, but remarkably similar. Alison Arnold, female, 22, resident of the City of New York. Died of massive injuries caused by automobile accident.

Massive injuries. And what were those? Code words to spare sensitive eyes? No punctured lungs, no twisted limbs and bloody flesh. Just “massive injuries,” the end.

So much for Alison Arnold. Spraggue shoved the page aside angrily. Why not an unusual last name, a small-town birthplace? Ambrose's daughter would be easy to check on, name and address thoughtfully included in Hurley's report. But where would he find the relatives of Alison Arnold, seven years dead?

Why try to find those people at all? Why raise up those buried ghosts? If the joker's motive were revenge.… But if revenge, why the messages from
Macbeth? Hamlet
was the revenge play. Or
The Spanish Tragedy
. Why
Macbeth
?