Think Of a Number (2010) (27 page)

“So they weren’t the boots that made the tracks?”

“No, but we already knew that. There’s a tech at the BCI lab who found a tiny difference between the tread of one of the boots and the imprints left in the snow. At first it made no sense. But it fits this revised version of the facts—perfectly.”

Madeleine said nothing for a few moments, but he could almost feel her mind absorbing, evaluating, testing the new scenario for weak points.

“So after he tosses the bottle, what then?”

“Then he goes from the patio to the back of the barn, sets the lawn chair there, and tosses a handful of cigarette butts on the ground in front of it to make it look like he’d been sitting there before the murder. He takes off the Tyvek suit and latex gloves, puts his parka on, walks around the far side of barn—leaving those goddamn backwards footprints—heads out onto Filchers Brook Road, which the town has plowed, so no prints are left there, and walks to his car on Thornbush Lane, or down to the village, or wherever.”

“Did the Peony police see anyone when they were on their way up the road?”

“Apparently not, but he could easily have stepped into the woods, or …” He paused to consider the options.

“Or …?”

“It’s not the most likely possibility, but I’ve been told there’s a bed-and-breakfast place on the mountain that BCI was supposed to be checking. It sounds bizarre after nearly hacking his victim’s head off, but our homicidal maniac may simply have strolled back to a cozy little B&B.”

They lay silently side by side in the dark for several long minutes, Gurney’s mind racing back and forth over his reconstruction of the crime like a man who has just launched a homebuilt boat and is checking it intently for possible leaks. When he was confident there were no major holes, he asked Madeleine what she thought.

“The perfect adversary,” she said.

“What?”

“The perfect adversary.”

“Meaning?”

“You love puzzles. So does he. A marriage made in heaven.”

“Or hell?”

“Whichever. By the way, there’s something wrong with those notes.”

“Wrong with … what?”

Madeleine had a way of skipping through a chain of associations that sometimes left him a long step behind.

“The notes you showed me, from the killer to Mellery—the first two, and then the poems. I was trying to remember exactly what was in each one.”

“And?”

“And I was having a hard time, even though I have a good memory. Then I realized why. There’s nothing real in them.”

“What do you mean?”

“There are no specifics. No mention of what Mellery actually did or who was hurt. Why so vague? No names, dates, places, no concrete references to anything. Peculiar, isn’t it?”

“The numbers six fifty-eight and nineteen were pretty specific.”

“But they didn’t mean anything to Mellery, other than the fact that he’d thought of them. And that had to be a trick.”

“If it was, I haven’t been able to figure it out.”

“Ah, but you will. You’re very good at connecting the dots.” She yawned. “No one’s better at it than you.” There was no detectable irony in her voice.

He lay there in the dark next to her, relaxing ever so briefly in the comfort of her praise. Then his mind began combing restlessly
through the killer’s notes, reviewing their language in the light of her observation.

“They were specific enough to scare the shit out of Mellery,” he said.

She sighed sleepily. “Or unspecific enough.”

“Meaning what?”

“I don’t know. Maybe there was no specific event to be specific about.”

“But if Mellery didn’t do anything, why was he killed?”

She made a little sound in her throat that was the equivalent of a shrug. “I don’t know. I just know there’s something wrong with those notes. Time to go back to sleep.”

H
e awoke at dawn feeling better than he had for weeks, maybe months. It might be an exaggeration to say that his explanation of the boot mystery meant that the first domino had fallen, but that was the way it felt as he drove across the county, eastward into the rising sun, on his way to the B&B on Filchers Brook Road in Peony.

It occurred to him that interviewing “the fags” without clearing it with Kline’s office or with BCI might be stretching the rules. But what the hell—if someone wanted to slap his wrist later, he’d survive. Besides, he had a feeling that things were starting to go his way.
“There is a tide in the affairs of men …”

With less than a mile to go to the Filchers Brook intersection, his phone rang. It was Ellen Rackoff.

“District Attorney Kline got some news he wanted you to know about. He said to tell you that Sergeant Wigg from the BCI lab did an enhancement of the tape Mark Mellery made of the phone call he got from the killer. Are you familiar with the call?”

“Yes,” said Gurney, recalling the disguised voice and Mellery thinking of the number nineteen, then finding that number in the letter the killer had left in his mailbox.

“Sergeant Wigg’s report says that the sound-wave analysis shows that the background traffic noises on the tape were prerecorded.”

“Say that again?”

“According to Wigg, the tape contains two generations of sounds. The caller’s voice and the background sound of a motor, which she says was definitely an automobile engine, were first generation. That is, they were live sounds at the time of the call transmission. But the other background sounds, primarily of passing traffic, were second generation. That is, they were being played on a tape machine during the live call. Are you there, Detective?”

“Yes, yes, I was just … trying to make some sense out of that.”

“Would you like me to repeat it?”

“No, I heard you. It’s … very interesting.”

“District Attorney Kline thought you might think so. He’d like you to give him a call when you figure out what it means.”

“I’ll be sure to do that.”

He turned up Filchers Brook Road and a mile later spotted a sign on his left proclaiming the manicured property behind it to be the laurels
.
The sign was a graceful oval plaque, with the lettering in a delicate calligraphy. A little past the sign, there was an arched trellis set in a row of high mountain laurels. A narrow driveway passed through the trellis. Although the blossoms had been gone for months, as Gurney drove through the opening, some trick of the mind conjured up a flowery scent, and a further leap brought to mind King Duncan’s comment on Macbeth’s estate, where that night he would be murdered:
“This castle hath a pleasant seat …”

Beyond the trellis there was a small parking area of gravel raked as cleanly as a Zen garden. A path of the same pristine gravel led from the parking area to the front door of a spotless, cedar-shingled Cape. In place of a doorbell, there was an antique iron knocker. As Gurney reached for it, the door opened to reveal a small man with alert, assessing eyes. Everything about him looked freshly laundered, from his lime polo shirt to his pink skin to the hair a shade too blond for his middle-aged face.

“Ahh!” he said with the edgy satisfaction of a man whose pizza order, twenty minutes late, has finally arrived.

“Mr. Plumstone?”

“No, I’m not Mr. Plumstone,” said the small man. “I’m Bruce
Wellstone. The apparent harmony between the names is purely coincidental.”

“I see,” said Gurney, baffled.

“And you, I assume, are the policeman?”

“Special Investigator Gurney, district attorney’s office. Who told you I was coming?”

“The policeman on the phone. I have absolutely no memory for names. But why are we standing in the doorway? Do come in.”

Gurney followed him through a short hallway into a sitting room furnished with fussy Victoriana. Wondering who the policeman on the phone might have been put a quizzical look in his eyes.

“I’m sorry,” said Wellstone, evidently misinterpreting Gurney’s expression. “I’m not familiar with the procedure in cases like this. Would you prefer to go directly to Emerald Cottage?”

“Excuse me?”

“Emerald Cottage.”

“What emerald cottage?”

“The scene of the crime.”

“What crime?”

“Didn’t they tell you anything?”

“About what?”

“About why you’re here.”

“Mr. Wellstone, I don’t mean to be rude, but perhaps you should start at the beginning and tell me what you’re talking about.”

“This is exasperating! I told everything to the sergeant on the phone. In fact, I told him everything twice, since he didn’t seem to grasp what I was saying.”

“I see your frustration, sir, but perhaps you could tell me what you told him?”

“That my ruby slippers were stolen. Do you have any idea what they’re worth?”

“Your ruby slippers?”

“My God, they didn’t tell you a blessed thing, did they?” Wellstone began taking deep breaths as though he might be trying to ward off some kind of fit. Then he closed his eyes. When he
reopened them, he seemed reconciled to the ineptitude of the police and spoke to Gurney in the voice of an elementary-school teacher.

“My ruby slippers, which are worth a great deal of money, were stolen from Emerald Cottage. Although I have no proof, I have no doubt they were stolen by the last guest who occupied it.”

“This Emerald Cottage is part of this establishment?”

“Of course it is. The entire property is called ‘The Laurels,’ for obvious reasons. There are three buildings—the main house in which we stand, plus two cottages: Emerald Cottage and Honeybee Cottage. The decor of Emerald Cottage is based on
The Wizard of Oz
—the greatest film ever made.” A glint in his eyes seemed to dare Gurney to disagree. “The focal point of the decor was a remarkable reproduction pair of Dorothy’s magic slippers. I discovered this morning that they were missing.”

“And you reported this to …?”

“To you people, obviously, because here you are.”

“You called the Peony police department?”

“Well, I certainly didn’t call the Chicago police department.”

“We have two separate problems here, Mr. Wellstone. The Peony police will no doubt get back to you regarding the theft. That’s not why I’m here. I’m investigating a different matter, and I need to ask you some questions. A state police detective who came by the other day was told—by a Mr. Plumstone, I believe—that three nights ago you had a pair of bird-watchers as guests here—a man and his mother.”

“That’s the one!”

“What one?”

“The one who stole my ruby slippers!”

“The bird-watcher stole your slippers?”

“The bird-watcher, the burglar, the pilfering little bastard—yes, him!”

“And the reason this was not mentioned to the detective from the state police …?”

“It wasn’t mentioned because it wasn’t known. I told you I only discovered the theft this morning.”

“So you weren’t in the cottage since the man and his mother checked out?”

“‘Checked out’ is a rather too-formal way of saying it. They simply departed at some point during the day. They’d paid in advance, so there was no need, you see, for any ‘checking-out’ procedure. We strive for a certain civilized informality here, which of course makes the betrayal of our trust all the more galling.” Talking about it had brought Wellstone close to gagging on the gall.

“Was it normal to wait so long before …?”

“Before making up a room? Normal at this time of year. November is our slowest month. The next booking for Emerald Cottage is Christmas week.”

“The BCI man didn’t go through the cottage?”

“BCI man?”

“The detective who was here two days ago was from the Bureau of Criminal Investigation.”

“Ah. Well, he spoke to Mr. Plumstone, not to me.”

“Who exactly is Mr. Plumstone?”

“That’s an awfully good question. That’s a question I’ve been asking myself.” He said this with an arch bitterness, then shook his head. “I’m sorry, I mustn’t let extraneous emotional issues intrude into official police business. Paul Plumstone is my business partner. We are joint owners of The Laurels. At least we are partners as of this moment.”

“I see,” said Gurney. “Getting back to my question—did the BCI man go through the cottage?”

“Why would he? I mean, he was apparently here about that ghastly business up the mountain at the institute, wanting to know if we’d seen any suspicious characters lurking about. Paul—Mr. Plumstone—told him that we hadn’t, and the detective left.”

“He didn’t press you for any specific information on your guests?”

“The bird-watchers? No, of course not.”

“Of course not?”

“The mother was a semi-invalid, and the son, although he turned out to be a thief, was hardly a mayhem-and-carnage sort of person.”

“What sort of person would you say he was?”

“I would have said he was on the frail side. Definitely on the frail side. Shy.”

“Would you say he was gay?”

Wellstone looked thoughtful. “Interesting question. I’m almost always sure, one way or the other, but in this case I’m not. I got the impression that he wanted to give me the impression he was gay. But that doesn’t make much sense, does it?”

Not unless the whole persona was an act
, thought Gurney. “Other than frail and shy, how else would you describe him?”

“Larcenous.”

“I mean from a physical point of view.”

Wellstone frowned. “A mustache. Tinted glasses.”

“Tinted?”

“Like sunglasses, dark enough so you couldn’t really see his eyes—I hate talking to someone when I can’t see their eyes, don’t you?—but light enough so he could wear them indoors.”

“Anything else?”

“Woolly hat—one of those Peruvian things pulled down around his face—scarf, bulky coat.”

“How did you get the impression he was frail?”

Wellstone’s frown tightened into a kind of consternation. “His voice? His manner? You know, I’m not really sure. All I remember seeing—actually
seeing
—was a big puffy coat and hat, sunglasses, and a mustache.” His eyes widened with sudden umbrage. “Do you think it was a disguise?”

Sunglasses and a mustache? To Gurney it sounded more like a parody of a disguise. But even that little extra twist could fit the weirdness of the pattern. Or was he over-thinking it? Either way, if it was a disguise, it was an effective one, leaving them with no useful physical description. “Can you recall anything else about him? Anything at all?”