“Why Did Rodney Die?”

 

In barged a chunky African-American woman, about thirty, dressed in a rust-colored pullover sweater and faded jeans, carrying a denim purse. She had short hair, a round face the color of coffee, and a determined expression.

“I’m here to see Professor McCabe,” she announced in a strong, clear voice.

Mac stood. “I am Sebastian McCabe. This is Thomas Jefferson Cody. And you are who?”

“Chickory Williams, but that doesn’t matter. I’m here about Rodney Stonecipher.”

Mac looked at me in triumph, then back to our visitor. “You saw my advertisement?”

“What? Was it something about Rodney?” She shook her head without waiting for an answer. “I didn’t see any ad about Rodney. I’m here because I thought maybe you could tell me something about how he died and why. I mean, since you were there when it happened and you hired him to play Peter Gerard.”

So she knew.

The news that someone besides me and Lem Carpenter could connect Mac with Rodney’s charade at the Faculty Club - a situation that I had been fearing since I found out - gave me a cold feeling in the center of my gut.

“Have a seat, Ms. Williams,” Mac said, lowering himself into his chair again. He lit a cigar. “How did you come to know my name?”

“From Rodney,” she said simply, leaning forward a little in the chair. “He told me about this job he was hired for, some kind of a prank, and he happened to mention your name as the one who was paying for it. He thought that was kind of cool because he’d read your mystery books. I remembered that after it happened, the murder, when I saw your name in the newspaper as being there that night.”

“Strange that he would have told you that,” I said. “We understood that he was practically a recluse, a man without friends.”

She trained her wide brown eyes on me like a searchlight. “No. I was his friend. We worked together.”

“Then perhaps you can tell us about him,” Mac said.

“I was hoping you could tell me some things, such as why he died and whether Peter Gerard should have died instead.”

“That, of course, is the crux of the entire matter,” Mac said, “and the only one who really knows the answer to your question is the murderer. The police are without opinion at this point. Mr. Cody and I are inclined to think the murderer knew he or she was killing Rodney Stonecipher.”

Chickory Williams rolled her eyes to the back of her head, an exaggerated display of impatience that reminded me of Lynda. “You’re talking without saying anything. Look, Rodney went out on a job for you and he died. I think maybe there’s a connection between those two facts.”

“There may well be some kind of a connection,” Mac acknowledged. “However, so far as I know, I am not it. I indirectly hired Mr. Stonecipher, through the company called Double Takes, to impersonate Peter Gerard for reasons I would rather not make public. I knew his real identity, yet I did not know him in any meaningful sense. I only met him the day he died. I had no possible reason for wish him harm. On the contrary, I now have good reasons for attempting to unmask his killer.”

“That’s a job for the police.”

“Then why are you here?”

She looked down. “I guess I feel guilty because I encouraged him to do this Double Takes thing. Rodney told me some guy who looked like Willie Nelson was trying to talk him into this crazy job where he would pretend to be Peter Gerard. Rodney didn’t want to do it, but I said he should give it a shot. Off-beat as the whole thing sounded, I thought it might do Rodney some good, sort of like therapy, to get out of himself and his problems for a while.”

“Just what were his problems?” I asked.

“It was all mental, or grew out of that. I don’t know the details, but something happened to him when he was working on his master’s degree in psychology at UC. He took some drug during a party at a dorm and just freaked out. He had heavy-duty anxiety attacks for years, was even hospitalized for it a couple of times. His marriage broke up and he quit graduate school. He told me once he even had his thesis written, but he just fell apart and never submitted it. When I tried to talk him into going back to school, he said he just couldn’t face it, like maybe he’d done something he wasn’t proud of - not the drugs or the breakdown, something else.”

“You said you worked together,” Mac said. “Was that at the group home?”

“Not at the home, but in connection with it. I’m a rehabilitation counselor for Sussex County Social Services. I set the goals and plans for rehab clients. Rodney’s job was to help the clients in his group home carry out the plans - he was a certified mental health technician.”

“But you said he had mental problems of his own,” I blurted out.

“Don’t we all?” she said dryly. “A lot of people get into the mental health field as a result of their own crisis, Mr. Cody. Rodney was still struggling, but he was well enough to help other people.”

“Your relationship with Mr. Stonecipher was obviously more than just professional,” Mac said. “He shared confidences with you, at least to a degree. Would you say you were close friends?”

“We saw each other a lot and we talked a lot. Rodney needed somebody to talk to, and sometimes I did, too. But if you’re thinking what I think you’re thinking, don’t think it.”

Mac was apologetic. “I had no intention of getting so personal. I merely wondered if you were familiar enough with Rodney’s circle of acquaintances to tell me whether he knew anyone else who was at the dinner the night he died.”

Chickory Williams shook her head. “I read in the paper the names of those who were there and only one of them meant anything to me.”

“Ah-ha,” Mac pounced. “And which name was that?”

“Sebastian McCabe.”

With no more reaction than a muted grunt, Mac rose, opened the window, and threw out the remainder of his cigar. When he turned to face Chickory Williams again, his face was solemn.

“Ms. Williams, I do you the compliment of speaking frankly about the precarious position in which I find myself. The knowledge that brought you here - my connection with Mr. Stonecipher - is information the police do not have. I request that you not tell them.”

She was understandably wary. “Why shouldn’t I? I’m a good citizen.”

“Because when they learn that I, in essence, hired your friend, they will begin to suspect that I also killed him. Their suspicion in that regard will only be enhanced by the fact that I kept silent about my involvement. That suspicion will throw the police off the track of the real murderer, conceivably to the point of my own incarceration. And if I wind up in jail that will disable my own attempts to investigate Mr. Stonecipher’s death.”

“I guess that’s just about what a clever killer would say. If the police come to suspect you, maybe it’s because there’s a good reason.”

Mac slowly crossed the few feet to Chickory Williams and looked her in the eyes. “Do you really believe that?”

She sighed and stood up, purse clutched in her hand. “No, I guess not. I can’t think of any reason why you’d want to kill Rodney, Professor McCabe - or why anyone would. So, okay, I’ll play it your way. I won’t go to the police, at least for now. But you’ve got to help me. You’ve got to answer the question that brought me here: Why did Rodney die?”