To the Manor Dead (17 page)

I parked in front
of the Rhinebeck police station, next to a big fat Cadillac. I walked inside and up to the counter. No sign of life. Then I heard muffled grunting/moaning sounds from down the hall. I peeked my head around—Charlie Dunn’s office door was closed and that’s where the grunting/moaning was coming from.

Whatever.

I sat in one of the two plastic chairs and picked up a tattered copy of
Field and Stream
. There was a story about how all the gas and oil leases that had been granted under Bush were fucking up the hunting out west—land that used to belong to the people now belonged to a few people. It was nice to see all those hunters finally waking up to who their real enemies were.

The grunting/moaning swelled into a cacophony of agonized ecstasy—I’m not sure if I agree with Freud that every orgasm is a little death, but some of them sure sound like it.

After a minute or so I heard the door open and close, and then the world’s oldest cheerleader sashayed around the counter. She was around forty, had major blonde hair, big tits, lots of makeup, and was wearing a skimpy cheerleading outfit and carrying a pom-pom.

“Hi,” she said nonchalantly.

“Go team.”

“You got that right,” she said with a smile. Then she pulled a compact out of her purse, checked her makeup, reapplied her lipstick, took out one of those tiny packets of breath strips, placed one in her mouth, and walked out. Her card probably read: Have Tongue, Will Travel.

I walked up to the counter and said a loud, “Hello?”

After a minute, Charlie Dunn opened the door and headed toward me, still adjusting himself. A little smile played at the corners of his mouth. “What can I do for you?”

“What
have
you done for Vince Hammer is more like it,” I said.

“I don’t have time to play games.”

“Recent events contradict that statement,” I said, nodding toward his office. That little smile again. It was starting to work my nerves. “I just have one quick question.”

“Shoot.”

“Is it legal for a chief of police to accept a six-figure retainer from a real estate developer? We won’t even mention the monthly fee and recent bonus.”

My smile-eraser did its job.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said, sweat breaking out on his upper lip.

“Yes, you do.”

“I got work to do.”

“I hope you got it in cash, because if there’s any kind of paper trail, well, some folks frown on cops on the take. You don’t look so good, Charlie. Was it something you ate?”

“I don’t have to stand here and listen to this.”

“Would you rather sit down and listen to it? Because you
will
listen. I want to know everything you know about Daphne Livingston’s murder.”

“I don’t know anything.”

“Bullshit.”

He looked me square in the eye—I looked right back. He exhaled with a loud sigh.

“I have no goddamn idea who killed her, okay? And that’s the truth.”

“But you did compromise the crime scene, violate procedure by allowing her body to be cremated, and impede any possible investigation.”

He made a resigned face, and scratched the back of his neck. “What do you want to know?”

“Did you have any advance warning of any kind?”

“No.”

“No word from Vince Hammer or anyone else that something might be about to go down at Westward Farm?”

“I knew the situation there was … unsettled.”

“How did you know that?”

“This is a small town, people talk. Everyone knew Daphne had come back home, and that she was in bad shape. Probably mixed up with drugs.”

“Did you pass that information on to Vince Hammer?”

From his little flinch I knew I’d hit pay dirt.

“Look, Vince Hammer has been making himself known in these parts for years now,” he said. “He donates to every charity from Westchester to Albany. He gets around, gets to know people who might be useful. We had an officer who was hit by a drunk driver two years ago, poor guy was paralyzed. Hammer contributed a lot of money to his medical fund. He knows how to make friends. One day he asked me out to lunch. Kept bringing up Westward Farm. Wanted to know everything about the Livingstons. I mean
everything
.”

“So the two of you established channels of communication.”

“You might say that.”

“I just did. And what exactly did you know about Daphne’s drug use?”

“Look, we have a lot less of a drug problem over here than they do across the river. I heard that she got her drugs from a woman over there, that they were delivered by boat, by that Pillow woman.”

“And you never took any action?”

He exhaled again and just stood there, waiting me out.

“I guess I’d call that malignant neglect,” I said. “Did you hear anything about Daphne having a lover?”

He snorted a laugh. “Now that’s a pretty picture.”

“You’re one to talk.”

“I think I’m done talking.”

He turned and walked back to his office.

I called Detective Chevrona
Williams and told her I wanted to see her. She asked me to come down to the State Police barracks on Route 209 south of Kingston. I drove across the river and headed down 209. The building was squat and unimpressive. I was directed to the detective’s small cluttered office. She looked tired and sad. But she still looked good.

“Cup of undrinkable coffee?” she said as I took my seat.

“With that recommendation, I’ll pass.”

“What have you got?”

I filled her in on what I’d learned from Ethel, Maggie, and Charlie.

“Very interesting,” she said. “We have to find that man Maggie saw. Unless she was hallucinating, I think that information means we can pretty much rule out Godfrey, in spite of the cigarette butt.”

“I think you’re right.”

I took out the hypodermic and handed it to her.

“I’ll send this to the lab and ask for an expedited analysis.”

“Doesn’t this all add up to some serious resources being put into this case?” I asked.

“Unfortunately, no. I’ve talked to my superiors, and they won’t budge. This is one of those cases they just want to go away. Allowing Daphne’s body to be cremated was a real mistake, and they’re embarrassed by that. Then there’s all Vince Hammer’s pressure to let this sleeping dog lie. I’d have to say the fix is in.”

“I think I will take that cup of coffee,” I said.

Chevrona stood up. “In for a dime, in for a donut?”

“Why not.”

While she went to get my coffee, I let it sink in: If Daphne’s murder was going to be solved, it was going to be solved by me. My fascination with murder—with
the
ability
to murder, with the dark festering heart—was growing obsessive. I’d never worked with hardcore criminals in my practice, but I had seen ambition, greed, and rage so extreme that they overpowered conscience and reason and led people into dangerous behaviors. I ran everything I’d seen and heard over in my mind, hoping for some pattern to emerge, for one single piece of evidence to leap out. This was definitely a well-planned, well-executed crime. I searched for the one person possessed enough to take the cosmic leap from wishing Daphne were dead to actually killing her. I was now positive that Esmerelda had given me a clue that dawn back at the Lighthouse. What was it she had said … “Pale horse, pale rider, dark horse, dead rider … if you don’t pay the piper, the piper won’t play … but the piper will sing.”

Chevrona came back with my coffee and a pink-frosted donut. What a flirt.

“I know where your mind is going right now, Janet. But remember: to convict someone of murder you need a lot more than circumstantial evidence. Especially when you’ve got powerful forces aligned against you.”

“I made one other interesting discovery.”

I took out the stack of photographs and handed them to her. She flipped through them, betraying no emotion. “Interesting. Daphne had it going on. But whether this connects to her death is another story.” She leaned forward on her desk. “Be careful, be very careful.”

We sat there in silence for a moment.

“You look a little tried,” I said.

“I am tired.”

“Work?” I asked.

Detective Williams looked at me for a moment, trying to decide whether to open up or not. I put on my best sympathetic-therapist face.

“Yeah, work.” She hesitated, looked down. I’d seen that look so many times in my practice. She wanted to talk, needed to talk. But it’s tough. I knew it was best to let it ride. It rode … until finally: “And home. Things suck at home …”

She stopped herself, fought to hold down the words.

“I’m a former therapist,” I said.

“No shit.”

I nodded. We sat there in silence again.

“How about I buy you a drink?” I said.

“That’s the best offer I’ve had in awhile.”

We drove up to
the Rondout, a hip Kingston neighborhood hard by the Rondout Creek where it flows into the Hudson. This was one end of the old Delaware and Hudson Canal, which opened in 1826 and linked the two rivers. For a brief period in the late nineteenth century this corner of Kingston was one of the most prosperous places in the state. It’s filled with cool old architecture, bars, restaurants, galleries, a marina. I liked it down there, it had character and there were enough people around to make it feel urban. Chevrona and I went into a little French bistro, sat at a small table by the bar. She ordered a beer, I ordered a glass of red wine.

“It’s nice around here,” she said.

“Where do you live?”

“Way the hell out in the country, Margaretsville.”

“You like it?”

“I did.”

She downed her beer and signaled to the bartender for another. She wasn’t quite ready to spill.

“I’m still working on the Pillow case,” she said, changing the subject.

“Who do you think killed her?”

“My bet is still that it was a rival drug dealer, maybe from up in Albany. This is a decent-sized market and with her gone, it’s wide open. And the way she was murdered, it was overkill, designed to send a message: this is my turf now.”

“Do you have any evidence?”

“Well, we’ve asked around on the street in Newburgh and Albany, and everyone seems to know she’s dead. But no one’s talking about who might be responsible. But we’re going to wait for things to die down and then see who moves in on her territory.”

“What about that guy I saw pick her up in his boat that morning?”

“Morris Emmett, out of Albany, guy has his finger in a thousand pies, all of them rancid. But we can’t touch him, he’s way too smart.” She finished her second beer, signaled for a third. Then she turned to me, suddenly looking completely miserable, and said in a quiet voice, “My partner decided she’s not gay anymore.”

My first thought: that partner is an idiot.

We just sat for a while. Gotta sit sometimes. “How long have you two been together?” I asked finally.

“Six years.”

“And out of the blue she told you she’s not gay anymore?”

“She started sleeping with some guy.” Her face got hard. Then her eyes filled with tears. “Shit,” she muttered under her breath, fighting them down. Her beer came and she drank half of it in one swallow. “You should know something about me: I do
not
cry.”

“I didn’t see a thing.”

“Yeah, he owns a garage up in Delhi, and Lucy took her car in for a tune-up. She got a tune-up alright. That motherfucker. And I thought she was it, ever-and-ever time.”

“No such thing.”

“No such fucking thing. The worst part is going back there every night. Place feels like a meat locker.”

“How long has she been seeing this guy?”

“About a month.”

“Do you think it’s serious or just a fling?”

“I honestly don’t know. I’m sleeping in the den and we don’t talk much.” Chevrona pushed her chair back from the table, put her hands on her knees, took several deep breaths. “What do you think I should do?”

I got a charge that she trusted me enough to ask me that question. “I think you should be talking with Lucy. You have six years together and whatever happens, you owe each other consideration.”

“Talking about this shit doesn’t come easy to me.”

“There aren’t a lot of people it
does
come easy to. But if you two start talking, at least you’ll be able to figure out where you stand. Then you’ll be able to think about your next move.”

She polished off her beer. “Thanks,” she said.

I shrugged.

“This is going to sound weird,” she said, “but I’m glad I’ve got Pillow’s murder to work on. Murder is murder, but love is …” She searched for the words—but then let out a soul-deep sigh.

I’d never heard it put better.