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Chapter 14. Fargo and I walked to the car







Fargo and I walked to the car. I sat a moment, feeling dizzy and shaken. I was more upset than I wanted to admit. Fratos could have broken my jaw if he had connected. What the hell had gotten into him? Okay, he’d had a few. Okay, he didn’t like me, but you don’t attack everyone you don’t care for. Or maybe you do if you’re Ben Fratos—he had the reputation of a short fuse.

It went nicely, I suppose, with his long, prying nose. He liked to be in the know about everything and anything going on in town. Who was selling his house, whose car was being repo’d, who was fighting with her husband, who was behind in his mortgage payments, who was cheating, whatever. You were likely to spot Fratos any place at any hour—watching, smirking. I’ve no idea what purpose this gathering of information served. He had few investigatory cases, I knew that much.

At home I put Billie’s package in the refrigerator for later reference. I automatically pulled out a Bud and then put it back. I was edgy. This damn murder was getting to me. Though I couldn’t put my finger on anything Mitch was doing wrong, he seemed as centered on blaming Peter and the Wolf as Captain Anders was on blaming some nameless thief. If Anders was right, there’d probably never be an arrest, much less a conviction, unless the killer was found by sheer luck. One transient in Provincetown on Halloween weekend would stand out about like a seagull at the town dump. Anyway, why would a transient killer who struck opportunistically, having seen Lewis flash big bills, carry him out to the amphitheater and pose him on stage? It almost had to be someone who knew Lewis and had reason to kill him. That left Wolf and Peter, and in my heart, I really didn’t want it to be them.

I checked my watch and was surprised to find it only a little after one. “Saddle up, Fargo, let’s go see what Mr. Wood has to say about selling legless tables.”

There are those who would say that Fargo did not understand my entire sentence. I happen to think Fargo understood every word I ever said. But I am positive he got “Saddle up” and “Let’s go.” Why else would he have beat me to the back door with a big grin and majestically sweeping tail?

Heed this warning: watch what you say in front of your dog. He knows.

Headed for Orleans, I drove past the dunes, nearly white and blindingly bright in the midday sun, with the intense autumn-blue sky opening as a deep pool behind them. On my right was the bay, lined with all the little cottages and their hopeful signs of We’re Open! and Free Heat! and Off-Season Rates. Anything for a few more profitable weekends. A great expanse of pure clean space on one side and crowded commercialism on the other—somehow, in Provincetown, it seemed fit. I loved it all.

As we drove down Route 6, we passed Mr. Ellis, abroad on some errand, no doubt, and looking rather like a benign midget behind the wheel of his cream Lincoln Navigator. He gave a brief, choppy wave and quickly returned his hand to the wheel. I had the feeling Mr. E. was not an SUV man at heart and wondered why he had one—as I wondered why so many people do.

Cream colored. I wondered if Ellis had been careening down the beach road in the small hours of Halloween night, tossing Lewis’s wallet and watch out the window, nearly sideswiping poor Harmon. While I found it difficult to picture the dapper Mr. Ellis playing Casey at the Bat with Lewis’s head, I thought sustained contact with Lewis might bring out the worst in most of us. But why, for example, would Ellis want to kill him? My whimsical side took over.

Lewis owed money to the bank, so Ellis beaned him, took his cash and laid him out on stage because he knew it was the only funeral Lewis would have. Lewis tried to steal Ellis’s pretty Lincoln, and Ellis grabbed a handy chair leg and killed him, not wishing to bother the police with a personal problem. They had a lover’s quarrel, and Lewis threatened to blackmail Ellis. Ellis killed him and—in a fit of remorse—laid him on the stage so he would be more comfortable.

Now that scenario appealed to me. Not that I had much serious thought of Ellis being involved in any way with Lewis or his demise, but the words blackmail and Lewis seemed a likely combination. Whom would Lewis blackmail? Anyone he could, was my first answer.

And that would be? Someone with at least some amount of money. Someone who was doing something naughty or illegal. Someone whose reputation or career would suffer if the knowledge became public. Someone like Ellis, actually, although I couldn’t imagine his embezzling funds or climbing into the wrong boudoir window. But of course, that would be the whole idea. You are doing something wrong—pay me or I will reveal your criminal or embarrassing secret. So many people could be vulnerable: a banker, a lawyer, a teacher, a cop, a minister... a minister. Reverend Bartles?

He did keep popping up, didn’t he? Perhaps an unseemly liking for young girls or boys? Perhaps Harmon’s favorite evil, some connection to drugs? Possibly money laundering? Probably not stealing from the collection plate; I doubted there was enough in it to steal. There was at least some link between him and Lewis, though. I wondered how far it went and how I could find out what it was. I was still puzzling over that one when I arrived at Wood’s Woods. The business was housed in a small building with a sort of attached lean-to, where I heard an electric saw buzzing. Perhaps Mr. Wood did custom work or repairs. I walked into the “showroom”—an overcrowded room with various pieces of unfinished furniture assembled and displayed in no order I could discern. In one corner I spotted what I thought was the twin of Peter and Wolf’s table, albeit with four sound legs.

The noise of the saw stopped and Mr. Wood came into the room. He was a small, skinny man in dusty khakis. He had an advanced case of male pattern baldness, with nearly colorless hair receding almost as I looked. A beaky nose held a pair of sawdust-specked glasses—sawdust! From no clues I was now gathering more clues than I knew what to do with. I must have been staring at him, for he looked at me uneasily, and when he spoke, his voice matched the rest of him, high pitched and unhappy. “Yes, can I help you? ”

Some of my best performances are off the cuff. I looked sternly at him. “Mr. Wood? ” He nodded. I flashed my private investigator’s license, casually placing my thumb over the word private, letting the word investigator show and allowing the Great Seal of Massachusetts to work its magic. “There’s been a problem, sir, with your selling tables much like that one there, with missing legs. Are you aware of that? How many complaints are unanswered? Where were the sales made to? What solutions have you offered? ”

He looked stricken. Maybe this was all a surprise to him. Maybe all his tables had four good legs. Maybe it was because most everybody has a slight fear of authority, and I was being very authoritative. Maybe Wolf and Peter had lied like troupers.

“Look, Miss... Ms... ma’am, none of it was my fault and I am making every one of them good. Every single one. My wife is out now delivering legs.” She sounded like a mad midwife. “You see, I got a chance to buy these tables at a closeout, real cheap, you know? I put that sample one together and it seemed okay, maybe a little flimsy and rough cut, but not bad for the price. So I ordered a bunch and sent out fliers advertising them. I sold thirty-four—all but that one there and one still in the carton. How did I know some only had three legs? ” His voice rose to a self-justifying whine. I scribbled some meaningless words on a notepad holding an old grocery list. He looked even more alarmed and continued his screed. “The minute I started getting complaints, I called the company and they promised to send replacement legs, but they took their sweet time... only got here yesterday. Right now, my wife is out with them, as I said. She’s up in Hyannis and Sandwich and I forget where. Tomorrow she’ll go out toward Wellfleet and Truro and all. I’m doing the best I can, ” he almost whimpered, a slight sheen now coating his extremely high forehead.

“Really? Then why didn’t you cannibalize the two you have left? You could have taken care of eight disgruntled customers right there.”

He looked at me with the pitying condescension of the expert to the ignorant. “Now, ma’am, I could hardly do that! I might have a chance to sell one—or both—of them, you see? ”

“Right, I see.” What I saw was why the store was where it was and the size it was and why it always would be. “I have other questions. Did you ever employ, or sell to or know anyone named Lewis Schley? ”

He pondered, or at least pretended to, and answered, “No. Don’t know him. He might have bought something for cash, but I wouldn’t know that.”

I doubted Lewis would have bought anything here. If he had done any work for Wood or—unlikely, I thought—had a more personal relationship, Wood wasn’t about to say. I would tell Mitch that Wood had a lot of sawdust around and he could do what he liked about it. “All right.” I made it sound as if I were doing him a big favor. “We’ll let that go for now. Do you have a list of people who complained about missing legs who live in... oh, Wellfleet, Truro and Provincetown? ” I figured that covered enough area to include anyone Lewis might have known.

“Yes, but I’m not handing out my customers’ names and addresses just because you’re some consumer protection dogooder on a spree or something. Why do you care if somebody got a damaged table as long as I’m making it good, anyway? ”

He was a fool, but unfortunately he was not a complete fool. Sometimes the only choice is the truth.

“Lewis Schley was killed in Provincetown Saturday night. It is probable that the weapon was a table leg, pine, possibly from one of your tables. If so, the murderer could hardly have used it to beat Schley to death and then simply screwed it back on his table and sat down to breakfast. He may have complained that a leg was missing and asked for a replacement. The fact that legs now seem to be missing all over the Cape is just good luck for him. He may not have known others were missing, probably didn’t. But I want to talk to anyone in those three towns who complained to you. Are you with me? ”

“Oh, yes, ma’am! The list, I’ll get you the list right now.” He started exploring his pockets. “It’s all written out with addresses. Always like to cooperate with the police, I do.” I favored him with a nod and the wintry smile I assumed a police officer might give. “Murdered, you say, maybe with one of my table legs. You don’t think my wife is in danger, do you? ”

I liked him a little better. “Not at that end of the Cape. We think the killer was local. In fact...” I had a sudden bright idea that would give me a good excuse to call on the list of presumably disgruntled customers. “In fact, if you have replacements available, I’ll be glad to deliver them for you. That way, your wife won’t have to go to the Outer Cape at all. Much safer all around.”

“Why, yes. They’re right there in the back. Thank you, I really appreciate that.”

I took the list from his limp hand, placed my car keys in it and said, “Great. Just put them in my trunk and forget all about this.” I knew he wouldn’t—he’d dine out for a year on this story. As he loaded the legs in my car, I glanced at the list. Two lived in Truro, two in Wellfleet, three in Provincetown. One of the Provincetowners was old Mr. Leander, so crippled by arthritis he could barely get around. One was the ubiquitous Rev. Bartles—I really had to meet that man. The third was—damnation! —my Aunt Mae. Yes, Aunt Mae.

As Fargo and I tooled along toward our Wellfleet deliveries, I tried to visualize Aunt Mae as the Table Leg Killer and failed. She was a vivacious lady with a pouter pigeon build who had no children and was mother to the world. When my Uncle Frank had died, she started fooling around growing herbs, more as a pastime than anything else. But she developed a deep interest and learned much about them and their place in history, as well as the kitchen. She now had a shop in what used to be her garage, where she sold dried herbs and small pots of herb plants which she raised in a little attached greenhouse. She had even published two thin books on the subject. She had quite a following and I loved her to pieces.

Of course, there had been the time when two young boys tried to swipe a bunch of her little clay pots, and she had chased them halfway down Bradford Street, belaboring them with a string mop. But I didn’t think that really counted.

I turned down a rutted dirt road to my first delivery and figured I was in luck. There was a car in the yard. As Fargo headed for the nearest tree, a young woman came around the corner of the house.

“Hi, ” I said. “I’m Alex Peres. If you’re Mrs. Reismann, I have a table leg from Wood’s Woods for you.”

“I could say, it’s about time, but it’s probably not your fault. That’s great. We’ve had it propped up on a broom handle.” She turned toward the house, calling, “Ray! The table leg is here. Thank you so much, ” she continued to me, “for bringing it. I figured we’d have to go get it, and we’re really busy. Closing the cottage for the winter.”


I picked up this opening. “Quite a job. Have you been at it long? ” Her husband had approached and I handed him the leg. “Here you go.”

“It seems long. Actually we’ve only been here since Monday. Parked the kids with my mom and figured we’d have some peace and quiet while we work. You know how it is.”

I smiled in agreement and called the dog back. If they were telling the truth—and it would be easily checked—they were out of the picture. We got in the car. They waved and I left. One down.

My second stop was a rough-hewn log cabin beside a two-duck pond. It was almost postcard perfect and I felt a small pang of envy—and an elusive memory of Dean Trinler—as I knocked on the door. It opened to reveal a large man, unshaven, with a beer belly and wearing a none-too-clean T-shirt and gray work pants. My little dream dissipated quickly as my gracious host burped and said a welcoming, “Yeah? Whaddya want? ”

“Hi. Are you Mr. Matthew Quinn? ”

“Who wants to know? ”

“Me. I’m Alex Peres. I’m delivering for Wood’s Woods. We have a table leg for you, I believe.”

“Been waiting two effing weeks! ” he snarled. “I don’t know how you people stay in business. Any asshole should know a table needs four legs. I’ve had it wobbling in there, propped up on a sawed-off broom handle.”

There was going to be a great dearth of broom handles before this was all straightened out. By now I had handed him the leg and all I wanted was to find out if he’d been here last Saturday and leave. I managed a smile. “I’m sorry for the problem, Mr. Quinn. I’m just a delivery person and—”

“Delivery person, ” he mimicked unpleasantly. “God forbid you should be a plain old deliveryman. Into women’s lib, huh? ”

“Not deeply. I’ve yet to march on Congress. I won’t keep you from your activities. Down here closing up the cabin? It’s a lovely place.”

“No, I live here, nosy. What’s it to you? ”

He pissed me off. I collared Fargo, which pisses him off, and makes him bare his teeth and look ferocious. “In fact, I was just wondering if you were in Provincetown on Halloween night, using one of your original table legs to beat up Lewis Schley.”

“You a cop? ”

“Private investigator. Well, were you? ”

He treated us to a fierce grin. “I’m a cop. From Worcester. Or, I was a cop. Retired on disability. And, no, I haven’t killed anybody. And, yes, I was in Ptown Halloween night for a few drinks and a look at the queers’ parade.”

“How did you know Schley was dead? ”

“Think I done him, huh? Actually, it was in the paper, stupid. Now get off my back.” He swung the table leg and laughed when Fargo and I backed up. “Don’t be dodgy, I can be nice. Maybe I’ll see you in the Harbor Bar some night, honey. Although”—he gave me a head-to-toe scan—“I bet you go for the girls, right? ”

“Oh, yes. And if I ever have any doubts about continuing to go for the girls, I’ll just think of you.” I turned and dragged a snarling Fargo back to the car. I burned rubber on the way back to the highway. Bastard! Quinn reminded me of the type who liked rough sex with a young man and then swore how straight he was. He looked like he could give someone a beating just out of meanness. When I turned my list of Wood’s customers over to Mitch later, I’d give Quinn a gold star. I stroked Fargo’s wide, silky head and apologized. He accepted.

We struck out in Truro. Our first stop was at the house of Dr.

W. James Lucia, as confirmed by a neat sign on the lawn. But the house was boarded up solid. There were no nearby neighbors to leave the leg with, so I tucked it behind the screen door and hoped it wouldn’t be warped into a right angle by the time the doctor found it. I mentally crossed Dr. Lucia off my list. Not that doctors couldn’t murder, just that I assumed he could think of a less athletic method.

We took a one-lane blacktop road up the hill overlooking the beach and found the house belonging to the Misses Jane and Flora Markham. It, too, was closed up, although two ill-fitting shutters gave me a view into the living room. The furniture was heavy 1940s Bauhaus, complete with those little crocheted doily things on the arms and backs. The women must be 1940s vintage themselves! Poison, maybe. Gun, possible. Table leg... nah. Propped leg on porch.

I stopped in Ptown’s east end, where Mr. Leander lived in the ground floor of a two-family house. As I expected he was home and glad for company. He showed me his table in the kitchen. At least there was no broom handle. He’d propped the corner up on an end table plus two thick books. I screwed the new leg in for him and moved the end table back to the living room. He was embarrassingly grateful. Sweet man—a pleasure to do him a small favor.

I wasn’t up to Rev. Bartles or even Aunt Mae. They would have to wait for tomorrow. PI Peres was dragging tail, and even the tireless Fargo was dozing on the car seat. We pulled gladly into Chez Alex and called it a day.

Aging improves wine. It does not help salad and it makes fried clams and French fries soggy, and running them through the micro didn’t help. The big slab of pecan pie saved the day. I sat down on the couch and propped my feet up.

I had a lot to think about. So I went to sleep.



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