Vultures at Twilight Page 6

  ‘I’m sure she is.’ And with that the customer pulled out a delicately engraved, Lady Beretta 21A and shot Mildred Potts at close range between the eyes.

  As Mildred crumpled to the floor, still clutching a terrified Taffy, the customer snapped on disposable cream-colored latex gloves, grabbed Mildred’s keys that dangled from the case where she’d retrieved the cameo, and systematically went through the shop liberating the jewels.

  SEVEN

  Tolliver waited numb and stiff on a scarred oak chair as the police conferred behind the soundproof glass of the interrogation room. Born and raised in Grenville, he’d only been inside the red-brick nineteen-twenties police station as part of a third-grade field trip. He felt unreal and disconnected, and in his chest a hollowness as if some vital part of him had just been ripped out.

  Yesterday, at the Medical Examiner’s office in Farmington, he had been shown a body and told that it was Philip’s. He needed to be told, because the bloated and mangled remains in the refrigerated drawer bore little trace of the man who had shared his life for nearly two decades. Hours later, he still smelled the stench that had flooded over him as they’d unzipped the shiny black bag. He could still see his face, or what remained of it after three days in the Nillewaug river, the flesh ripped away in places, one eye puckered and closed, the other a hollow socket from where some animal – fish, raccoon, crow? – had dined.

  Nothing made sense, but connections had emerged. It was now clear that the human finger found at McElroy’s auction had been Philip’s. They’d taken a print from the severed digit; it matched.

  One day later and Tolliver still had to fight back waves of nausea. Who did this? Had Philip suffered? The coroner had assured him that the finger had been severed after he was dead. But why? And why plant it in an auction where any one of a hundred dealers could have discovered it? Nothing made sense.

  ‘Tolliver?’ Officer Kevin Simpson opened the door. ‘You can come in.’

  The small town irony was that Tolliver and the heavyset and balding Kevin had grown up together, classmates at different ends of the academic spectrum. Where Tolliver was second in the class, Kevin, with his even nature and dogged determination, had struggled to graduate.

  Already in the small, windowless interview room was Detective Mattie Perez with the state’s Major Crime Squad. Kevin made the introductions, and Tolliver felt the intensity of the detective’s dark brown eyes as they shook hands. She was a squarely built early-forties woman with tightly curled black hair shot through with silver. She wore no makeup and her boxy navy suit and button-down oxford gave her a masculine feel. As soon as Tolliver sat, her questions began.

  ‘Mr Jacobs, while you are not officially a suspect, you may have an attorney present.’

  ‘I understand,’ said Tolliver, noting the digital recorder on the table. ‘I also understand that if I choose not to answer specific questions, that’s within my rights.’

  ‘Of course,’ she replied, keeping eye contact. ‘If you could start by telling me the nature of your relationship with Mr Conroy?’

  ‘He was my husband.’ The word was still new, after years of being partners and significant others.

  ‘I see. Now when did you last see your husband?’

  He didn’t hesitate. ‘Last Friday.’

  ‘You’re certain of that?’

  ‘He didn’t come home, or at least I don’t think he did.’

  ‘Wouldn’t you know?’

  ‘Generally, yes. But there was an auction that night and he had been out looking at an estate and hadn’t come home. So rather than wait and miss the preview, I went to the auction myself.’

  ‘The one where the finger was found?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And if that finger belonged to your husband,’ she continued, ‘then I think it’s safe to say he did not make it home, but in fact, was already dead.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Tolliver dully. ‘That must be right.’ He felt the room swim as memories of Philip – his first and only love – flooded his brain.

  Kevin Simpson’s pale blue eyes looked at his old classmate. ‘You all right, man?’

  ‘A little dizzy.’

  ‘I’ll get you some water,’ Kevin said and left him alone with Detective Perez.

  She eyed him coldly and silently jotted down questions.

  As soon as Kevin returned with a cup of water, she proceeded.

  ‘The Friday of the auction . . . You’re sure you saw him that day?’

  ‘We had breakfast together.’

  ‘That would make it October the first?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Forgive me for sounding confused, but today’s the sixth. Didn’t you wonder what had become of your husband, who had gone to look at an estate?’

  ‘Of course.’ He looked down at his hands.

  ‘Well?’ she prodded. ‘Where did you think he was?’

  ‘I wasn’t sure.’ Tears welled; he didn’t want to cry in front of this woman. He hated that stereotype of the weepy gay man. ‘We were having problems. I thought . . .’

  ‘You thought what?’ she prompted.

  ‘I thought he might have gone away.’

  ‘Was that something he did?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then why would this be different?’

  ‘We were having problems,’ he repeated. ‘At least Philip was.’

  ‘You said that before,’ she commented tersely. ‘Please be less vague.’

  ‘He said he might go to the Cape. He wanted some time alone.’ He looked up and met the dark-eyed gaze of the intense detective. And it hit him; he was a suspect. He looked at Kevin, who seemed sympathetic, but ineffectual in the face of this woman who had already tried and convicted him.

  Finally, he spoke. ‘I think I would like my attorney.’

  Detective Perez nodded, and with what could have been a spark of compassion in her voice. ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘that would be best.’

  EIGHT

  Ada fumed as she reread the bottom-line figure on Mildred Potts’ handwritten offer that had arrived in the morning mail. ‘Twenty-five thousand dollars! She should be shot!’ Sitting at her kitchen table she reviewed the evaluation, wondering if a zero had been omitted.

  It wouldn’t have been so bad if either Mr Jacobs or Mr Caputo had gotten back to her. Neither had returned her calls, after assuring her that they’d get her at least a verbal quote within twenty-four hours. It was now Thursday and the twenty-four had turned into forty-eight. Caputo, she’d been told by his answering machine, was on the road and wasn’t expected back till the middle of next week. And he can’t leave a cell phone number? And Tolliver, who had seemed so pleasant . . . not a word. His secretary, probably sick of her calls, but promising ‘he’ll get back to you just as soon as he can.’

  She wanted out of this mess, and the nasty calls from Evie’s heirs. Each one more eager than the next to have the estate liquidated. She was sick of them, the subtle threats, and the not-so-subtle attempts to flatter and ingratiate. It nauseated her. Is this what it’s all about? Relatives fighting over the remains? Is this it?

  At least that Potts woman had gotten back to her. It would almost serve them right if she accepted the offer. She wouldn’t, of course, but the thought gave her a needed chuckle. The worst part was now she had to get quotes from another dealer or two.

  She thought of Delia Preston from Nillewaug, who had provided her with a list of antique dealers. ‘I keep lists of everything and everyone,’ she’d remarked. Bet she gets a kickback, Ada mused as she fished through her bag for Preston’s card.

  A knock came at the door. Followed by the bell.

  ‘Coming,’ she said, hoping it was Lil, but still checking the peephole. She’d lived in New York too many years to dispense with that basic caution. She was shocked to see her grandson, her attention riveted to an angry black-and-blue over his right eye. ‘Aaron,’ she said, opening the door. She hugged him tight, noting his black knapsack on the ground, how t
hin he felt, and the fact that it was too cold to not be wearing a jacket. ‘What happened?’

  He shrugged and winced. ‘I ran into a wall.’

  She grabbed on to his shoulders. He was a good head taller; she stared into his dark hazel eyes. ‘Tell me the truth, Aaron Matthew. Who did this?’

  ‘Grandma.’ He stepped back. ‘What do you think happened?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ she said, formulating a number of hypotheses, most of which involved her son-in-law, Jack Gurston. ‘But come in. And why aren’t you wearing a jacket?’

  ‘You talked to Mom?’ he asked, ignoring her question.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What did she tell you?’

  ‘That you and your dad weren’t seeing eye to eye on some things.’ As always careful to not let her true feelings slip about her son-in-law. If he hurt you I’ll kill him.

  ‘That’s a laugh,’ he said, then changed the subject. ‘Got anything to eat?’

  Ada smiled. Yes, let’s pretend everything’s normal, but I will find the truth. ‘Come with me.’ He followed as she went into her galley kitchen and foraged through the cupboards, looking for suitable sustenance for a sixteen, almost seventeen, year old. As she inventoried her on-hand food, she was struck by how erratic her dietary habits had become. Aside from large-curd cottage cheese, a head of iceberg lettuce, Danish butter cookies, cartons of blueberry and pomegranate juice – high in anti oxidants – and a half loaf of twelve-grain bread – which reminded her of eating birdseed – her pantry was bare.

  ‘Wait a minute.’ She opened the freezer. ‘I have ice cream and . . .’ She knew it still had to be there. ‘Hershey’s syrup.’

  Aaron laughed. ‘I’m not five.’ But he didn’t resist as she spooned out generous bowls of Ben and Jerry’s and squirted bursts of chocolate syrup over the top.

  ‘So what happened?’ Ada asked, taking inventory of her tall, sandy haired grandson in his skinny jeans, sneakers and baggy tee. With his hazel eyes and even features, she had a moment’s hesitation and surge of pride; he’s turning into a really handsome man.

  ‘I told you,’ he insisted.

  ‘You told me something. Are you hurt anywhere else? And how did you manage to run into a wall?’

  ‘Jeez! You don’t let up,’ he said, avoiding her gaze and wolfing down ice cream. ‘Dad and I were fighting, and I wasn’t looking where I was going; I ran into the glass shelves in the living room. It’s no big deal.’

  ‘Hmm.’ Observing how his story had just shifted from the wall to shelves, and that yes, somehow Jack was behind this; you bastard! ‘Have things quieted down, or is that why you’re here?’

  ‘I had to get out of there, and Mom said you told her I could stay here.’ He glanced up expectantly.

  Ada swallowed back any criticism, any you could have called first or does your mother know you’re here? Looking at his handsome, albeit marred face, something melted; it’s not just that she loved him unconditionally, but that in his eyes, the angle of his jaw, even the way he flicked his too long bangs off his forehead she caught traces of her own brothers at that age, and from certain angles her grandfather, Morris, a man who by all accounts was too handsome for his own good. ‘Of course you can stay, but we’ll need groceries.’ Then she caught herself. ‘Wait a minute; what about school?’

  ‘I’ve got my car. I can drive.’

  ‘Right,’ she said, ‘you’re not five.’ There were so many things she wanted to ask. Are you really gay? How could you possibly know when you’re so young? Did your father do that to you? What aren’t you telling me? Never one to hold her tongue, Ada was filled with trepidation. She pictured Lil, with her even features and soft brown eyes and how the feelings she had for her friend had progressed beyond . . . friendship. It had taken her decades to even entertain such a notion, how could he possibly know at sixteen?

  ‘What?’ he asked.

  ‘It’s nothing,’ she replied, figuring if he were going to tell half truths about his father and whatever else was going on she’d do the same. And so they passed a companionable afternoon, playing Scrabble, finishing the ice cream and then taking a trip in Aaron’s not quite vintage, and not quite restored blue Mercedes diesel sedan to Costco, Ada’s favorite store.

  NINE

  Tolliver felt numb and not quite real as he pushed the unanswered stack of phone messages from one side of his desk to the other. A tsunami was overtaking his life; if he didn’t put his business into order, everything he and Philip had built would be swept away. He imagined that the police would charge him with Philip’s murder. After all, people are usually killed by those closest to them.

  His attorney, Richard Thompson, III – Dick to his friends – had assured Tolliver there was nothing to worry about. ‘There’s no hard evidence,’ he’d said. ‘Nothing to connect you to the scene of the murder. I mean, hell, they’re not even certain where he got killed.’

  Tolliver fanned the messages over his leather blotter. He picked one at random; it was Ada Strauss calling to get his quote.

  How long ago that seemed, but it had only been two days; Tuesday, almost a lifetime. He remembered the two women and the translucent Hassam painting with its idealized images of beautiful Victorian ladies in pastel dresses at a seaside picnic. It was worth a fortune, and not the kind of thing he’d normally let slip through his fingers. ‘Just pull it together,’ he told himself as he picked up the phone and dialed.

  ‘Hello,’ a woman’s voice answered.

  ‘Mrs Strauss?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘This is Tolliver Jacobs; I came by earlier this week to look over an estate.’

  ‘Of course, Mr Jacobs. Not to be rude, but you’d said you’d get back to me yesterday. I’d begun to think you weren’t interested.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ His voice echoed in his head. ‘Things have been a little crazy.’

  ‘I hope everything’s OK,’ Ada remarked.

  ‘It’s good of you to ask. To be honest –’ and he wasn’t sure why he continued – ‘things couldn’t be worse. You see, my partner was found murdered.’

  ‘In Grenville?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How horrible for you.’

  ‘It is. It’s the most awful thing I could have imagined.’ He held the phone to his ear and said nothing, having forgotten why exactly he had called. ‘Oh right,’ he said, looking at the pink message in his hand. ‘About the estate . . .’

  ‘Are you sure you want to do this now?’ Ada asked. ‘I hadn’t realized. Obviously this can wait, or . . .’

  ‘I don’t know what I’m supposed to do,’ he said, staring at the message slip. ‘They can’t release the body, and his parents couldn’t get a flight till Saturday. I’m sorry, I’m rambling. I think work may be what pulls me through this. It’s the only thing that feels half normal right now.’

  ‘You could be right,’ she agreed as she reeled from what he’d just told her.

  ‘Good, let me look at my notes.’ Finding comfort in the routine, he glanced through his three pages of jotted impressions. ‘You’ll have to forgive me, but usually I write these things up. I just haven’t gotten around to it. OK, now without the painting, which I would strongly recommend consigning to a New York auction, I could go one hundred thousand for the entire contents.’

  Ada paused. ‘I know this is the wrong time,’ she said, ‘but I’m curious as to how people arrive at their figures.’

  ‘Everyone does it differently. Basically, I add it all up and divide by four,’ he said being more blunt than he’d ever been.

  ‘So twenty-five cents on the dollar?’

  ‘Yes. If it were all antiques I might go as high as thirty or even thirty-five cents, but where there’s a lot of household goods, it takes more man hours to realize less money.’

  ‘That makes sense,’ she agreed. ‘I was in retail for years. Let me ask you this: is your quote firm, or do you have anywhere to move?’

  In spite of himself, Tolliver smiled. ‘Ho
w much movement?’

  ‘Well,’ Ada continued, ‘I was thinking more like one fifty, without the painting.’

  ‘I’ll go halfway,’ he countered. ‘One and a quarter, but that’s it, especially with the economy being what it is.’

  ‘That’s close to what I was thinking, so yes,’ Ada agreed.

  After they hung up, Tolliver removed all three of her messages. It made the pile less bulky and he felt a small sense of accomplishment. As he flipped through the others, there was one among the dozen that caused his gut to churn. ‘We had been having problems,’ he had told the intense detective, unable to tell her more.

  He reread the message:

  To: Mr Jacobs

  From: D. Preston

  Re: What we discussed.

  He hated everything the message implied; all it meant, all of the changes that had crept into the business, a rot that he’d allowed to happen. He knew that he would have to get back to her; he was in too deep, both he and Philip; is that why this happened? Unable to think of any reason why someone would hurt his beautiful Philip.

  Was it this? Over the last few years, the playing field of local dealers had changed. Strange affiliations and tacit agreements had sprung up creating questionable alliances as everyone jockeyed for shrinking inventory.

  Yes, he thought – picturing Detective Perez – we were having problems. And motivated more by fear, than by anything else, he called Delia Preston.

  TEN

  I waited in Ada’s front hall as she and Aaron got ready. Pretending to fix my face in the mirror – hair twisted up into its habitual bun, a bit of lipstick – I glanced into the living room, hunting for traces of Ada’s face in her grandson’s. His black and blue made that difficult, and I had the good sense not to ask questions. I also knew that Ada would fill me in on the details later.

  It felt good to see her focused on something other than Evie’s estate or her mother’s proposed move to Nillewaug. She fussed over Aaron, trying to get him to put on a garish knit cap and scarf she’d made.