Requiem for a Realtor (25 page)

His face assumed an expression of confused wonder. “We grew up together, we went to school together…” Sawyer's voice trailed off. All his blustering anger was gone. “Do you mean you're arresting me?”

“I am taking you in, yes. For questioning.”

Sawyer had been standing during this exchange. Now he walked to Shirley's desk and picked up the phone. He looked at Cy. “I'm going to call my lawyer.”

7

“Conflict of interest,” Tuttle said. “I represent Phyllis Collins.”

Tuttle was explaining why he hadn't been hired by George Sawyer. He and Peanuts had come to Cy's office where Cy was taking a break from talking to George Sawyer. Phil Keegan was with the Realtor and his lawyer, Murdstone. Presumably, Murdstone was advising Sawyer to keep his mouth shut. Tuttle had been in the press room when Cy brought George Sawyer in and for a wild moment thought he might pick up a quick client. But Sawyer brushed him off.

“I have a real lawyer.”

“Well, you're in real estate.”

Tuttle could count the times he had heard Cy Horvath laugh, and that was one of them. Cy had steered Sawyer down the hall and Tuttle followed close enough behind to have the door slammed in his face when the two men disappeared into a questioning room. Tuttle went back to the press room and woke up Peanuts.

“Get a car, Peanuts. They just pulled in George Sawyer.”

If Peanuts had ever heard of the Realtor he gave no sign of it. But he went dutifully off to sign out a squad car. On the way to the Frosinone, he hit the siren a couple of times for the fun of it. Why were they going to the Frosinone? Because Tuttle assumed Sawyer was being questioned about the death of Bob Oliver. Out of family loyalty, Peanuts parked the squad car behind the hotel, and they entered through the door left open so that the men working on the elevators could come and go. They found Primo in the dining room with a pot of tea and a plate of toast in front of him. Tuttle pulled up a chair, and Peanuts followed suit.

Tuttle said, “I don't have to tell you who Peanuts represents.” He let the thought establish itself in Primo's mind. “The Frosinone is getting all the wrong kind of publicity.”

“Bob Oliver,” Primo groaned.

“May he rest in peace.”

The sentiment surprised Primo. “Yeah. Right.”

“Lucky for you the cops have a lead.”

“Who?”

“What do you know of George Sawyer?”

“George Sawyer? Who's he?”

“The man being questioned about Bob Oliver's death in the alley behind this hotel.”

“It's a public alley.”

“You're probably next on the list, Primo.”

“What list?”

“I am surprised the police haven't been here already.”

“Been here? Of course they've been here. I told them all I know, which is nothing.”

“You told them about Oliver and Flora?”

Primo pushed back from the table and started to rise, but Peanuts put a hand on his shoulder and held him down. As if on cue, Flora appeared in the entrance of the dining room. She ran across the room to Primo.

“Don't tell them!”

“Sit down, Flora,” Tuttle said. Peanuts brought up a chair and looked as if he might put her in it. She sat.

“Did you?” she asked Primo.

“Shut up, Flora. Okay?”

She relaxed. “So you didn't. Good. I don't want to be involved.”

Tuttle tipped back his tweed hat and assumed a look of understanding. “I know how you must feel.”

“I don't even know who he was, and I don't want to know.”

“He asked you about Bob Oliver?”

The hunch floated down from above, like an inspiration from Tuttle senior, up there in the sky, strumming on a harp.

“Shut up, Flora.”

“Stop telling me to shut up.”

“I will if you shut up.”

“Tell me about it,” Tuttle said gently. “It will all come out eventually, you know.”

“There's nothing to come out.”

“Nothing that can harm you, I'm sure.”

“I thought he was with the work crew. You know, the boss or something.”

“How would you describe him?”

“I wouldn't. He wore a suit.”

“Let me give you a description.” And Tuttle drew a little word picture of George Sawyer. Flora's reaction told him his father was still at work.

“They have him downtown right now for questioning, Flora. Your placing him at the Frosinone could be important.” Tuttle turned to Primo. “Did you see George Sawyer here that day?”

“I told you I don't know George Sawyer.”

“The man I described.”

“It was that same day,” Flora said. “The day they found Bob in the alley.”

Primo said to Peanuts, “I thought you represented the family. Say something.”

“Shut up,” Peanuts said.

“Let him talk,” Tuttle said.

“I've got nothing to say.”

“He's jealous,” Flora said, with a contemptuous laugh. “A man walks in here and the first thing he thinks is…”

“Just like with Bob Oliver?”

“Yes!”

“Primo,” Tuttle said. “The way I see it, you're in big trouble. Anyone who has ever been in this hotel knows how jealous you are about Flora. Naturally the cops are going to wonder if you did something about it.”

Primo laughed. “I already told the cops, Tuttle. I don't drive. I never have. I don't know how.”

“That could help.”

“Help? I don't need any help.”

“Primo, you need legal help. I am not soliciting business. It is simply good professional advice.”

“Send me a bill.”

“Do you want representation?”

“Sure, represent me.”

“Give me a dollar.”

“A dollar? What for?”

“That way you engage me as your lawyer.”

Flora opened a purse the size of a mailbag and took out a wallet. She sailed a dollar bill across the table.

Tuttle said, “Hand it to me, Primo.”

Primo looked at the crumpled bill lying beside his plate of toast. He reached out, picked it up like the claw in a gumball machine, and handed it to Tuttle. Tuttle swept off his hat and put the dollar in the crown, among his business cards. He gave one of the cards to Primo.

“Smart move. So let me go over what we know. George Sawyer had come to the Frosinone. Flora had spotted him standing in the open door and went to see what he wanted.”

Primo growled to Flora, “Is that your idea of being retired?”

“You'll drive me back into the life, Primo. Honest to God you will.”

“I don't drive.”

Peanuts snickered. Tuttle went on. Sawyer had come to make inquiries about Bob Oliver. He had a photograph of the journalist. Of course, Flora knew who he was. And she told him, sure, Oliver liked to drink in the bar of the Frosinone.

“I thought he was someone's husband, you know. Mad.”

“Okay,” Tuttle said. “We got motive, we got opportunity, we got George Sawyer at the Frosinone an hour before Oliver got nailed.” He stood and looked at Primo.

“This should get you off the hook, Primo. But if the cops come, you call me right away. I'll be in touch. Come on, Peanuts.”

They used the siren all the way back to the courthouse.

8

Father Dowling learned of the effect of Shirley Escalante's call to the police from Phil Keegan when he stopped by the rectory. Phil had a look that mingled satisfaction with irritation.

“Of course Murdstone won't let him answer any questions.”

“You think he killed them both?”

Phil laughed. “What I think or don't think doesn't matter. The case against him is strong. He won't talk, and when he goes to trial Murdstone will plead him not guilty. If he ever speaks of it later, he will deny it. If it were just a matter of thinking, there are always two sides, even if one side is a lie. The prosecutor isn't interested in what I think or in what Cy thinks but in what a jury will have to think when he lays it all out for him. The fact that he was asking about Oliver around the Frosinone would have clinched it.”

“Would have?”

“There is physical evidence that he was in the cab of that truck. We found some fingerprints of his in Collins's car, but it wouldn't take a Murdstone to explain those away. After all, the men were partners. But he left his handkerchief in the pickup that ran down Oliver.”

“His handkerchief!”

“He must have used it to wipe down the steering wheel, the shift, the door handle. No fingerprints at all.”

“And what will Murdstone say to that?”

“Oh, there's more. There were some moccasins hidden away in the back of a drawer in his desk. They match imprints on the floor of the truck's cab.”

“Good Lord.”

Phil nodded and sipped his beer. “So it's all wrapped up.”

“You don't seem too happy.”

“Prison will be especially hard for a man like Sawyer.”

“His motives seem murky enough.”

“Oh, I don't know. In the case of Stanley Collins it was money. And revenge, of a sort.”

“But why Bob Oliver?”

“Motive matters less there, given what we've found. I suppose he feared that Oliver had found him out.”

“Do you suppose Oliver ever really intended to write a feature about the agency?”

“Who knows? Now he could write one about two merry widows. The partners are out of the picture but their wives are sitting pretty.”

“I don't think Phyllis Collins thinks of herself as a merry widow.”

Marie Murkin looked in, no merry widow she, and looked from Father Dowling to Phil. “You two look glum enough.”

“Bring me another beer to brighten me up.”

“Only if you tell me all about George Sawyer.”

Father Dowling listened to another recitation of the facts in the case. They seemed more damning when heard a second time. Marie, at least, showed satisfaction in the outcome. But she rejected the theory of the merry widows.

“Maybe Susan Sawyer. But not Mrs. Collins. The Sawyers were married in the Church. The other woman will be no sort of widow at all.”

“Now Marie, don't turn that into an argument for capital punishment.”

“Oh, I know you would let him off with a scolding. And a penance. Maybe three Hail Marys.”

*   *   *

Marie had an exaggerated opinion of his capacity for mercy, Father Dowling thought after Phil had left and the housekeeper had climbed the back stairway to her room. Alone in his study, he recalled Stanley Collins's visit, followed by that of his wife. David Jameson's ardor had cooled in the meantime, or rather been redirected toward Bridget, his nurse. Would the two of them go on working together, bestowing the smiles that nature had failed to give?

When Edna had told him of the arrangements she had made to have women from the senior center take turns spending time with Phyllis Collins, Father Dowling had dropped by to find the widow alone.

“I thought someone would be with you.”

“Please, the thought of another sympathetic old woman gives me the willies. I have never felt so commiserated over, not even at the wake and funeral. Of course, I know what brings them. David Jameson actually sent his nurse to look after me.”

“Bridget.”

“She never liked me. I'm sure she turned him against me.”

“So it's all over.”

“It never was much.” She tossed her head. The coloring of her hair had dimmed and there were silver threads among the artful gold.

“Was there only your brother?”

She nodded and gave a little sob. “Poor Bob. And he was so pleased that I had come into so much money.”

“No other relatives?”

She shook her head. “Susan Sawyer says we should go on a cruise together. Maybe we will. You would think what's happened would have driven us apart, but we're becoming great friends.”

Brochures advertising Caribbean cruises and round-the-world voyages arrived even at the St. Hilary rectory. Marie professed to be surprised by this but the brochures seemed to disappear, doubtless going up the back stairs to Marie's room. Did she moon over them, seeing herself on shipboard in the moonlight?

“Lots of people go on cruises,” Marie said, when he teased her about it.

“In your case it seems almost inevitable.”

“What do you mean?”

“You were married to a sailor, after all.”

He hadn't meant to be cruel, but the reminder of her late husband sent Marie into several days of uncharacteristic mourning. She seldom had a good word to say of the man who had married her and then abandoned her, returning as an old man to make a definitive widow of her. Well, sorrow need not be logical. Father Dowling told Marie he would say a Mass for her husband.

“Oh, do. I pray for him every day, Father.”

“Good for you.”

“He needs all the prayers he can get.”

“We all do.”

Marie seemed ready to argue the point, but he left her to her memories. In the mood she was in, it was just as well that he was dining out with Amos Cadbury. Ordinarily, Marie would have loved to prepare a meal for the lawyer, but in her current lugubrious mood she did not even complain when he said that he and Amos would be eating at the University Club.

9

Amos Cadbury liked an early dinner and he expected Father Dowling at six, but already at five-thirty the lawyer was ensconced in the club library, a Manhattan at his elbow and an open volume of Dickens ignored on his lap. Long thoughts came to him in the waning light of day. He had spent the afternoon putting the final touches on old Frederick Collins's will. How oddly awry go the plans of men. One did not have to be a lawyer to be struck by this, but in recent years Amos had spent much of his time probating the wills of departed clients and insuring that their money went where they had wished it. As often as not, this required him to occupy the spirit of a will, its letter being no longer possible of realization. Oh, he could tell tales of people who were meant to receive handsome bequests who had passed away before the person who bequeathed them. But Frederick Collins's will was particularly poignant.