On the drive back; with Elise sitting close to him now, their bodies touching at shoulder and hip and thigh; it was difficult to keep his thoughts on where they were going and why.
The events of the previous evening and the puzzling aftermath of today seemed like only vague memories of a distant and unpleasant past. He tried to anticipate the coming interview with Closter, but his concentration was overcome by his intense awareness of Elise’s nearness. They drove mostly in silence, murmuring occasionally of the pleasure and love that they had found in each other, of the problems and promise of the days ahead, and of the life they would have together, certain that nothing could keep them apart. It began to rain and he turned on the wipers, as the car’s headlights followed the black, gleaming road through the vast, dark cavern of the night-like their own thoughts searching the unforeseeable future.
As they reached the outskirts of Plainville, he had trouble locating the road that Closter lived on. Finally, after running into a couple of dead ends, he found it and they drove slowly along checking the names on the mail boxes along the side. The boxes began to get farther apart and he had almost decided to turn back again when she saw it ahead at the end of a driveway cut between high, thick hawthorn hedges. He turned in and on the other side, the driveway widened to form the apron for a two car garage, and branched to the left in a semicircle across the front of the house to another opening in the hedges. There were two sheriff’s cars, one behind the other, parked in the semi-circular drive in front of the house.
He remembered his parting advice to Bentley and assumed that the sheriff had apparently decided to follow it. But, why did he wait so late? It was almost eleven o’clock. He thought he should find out what was going on inside before bringing Elise in. He pulled up and stopped behind the second sheriff’s car.
“Perhaps it would be better if you waited here, Elise, until I find out what this is all about.”
She looked puzzled, and a little fearful. “All right, Mark-but don’t forget me.”
He leaned toward her kissing her lightly but firmly. “Not a chance.”
Getting out of the car, he walked around the front and up the short flight of brick steps to the covered entrance. As he searched for a bell or knocker, the door was opened and a light went on over his head. He immediately recognized the figures of the two deputies from the night before-Flynn and Bucheck-framed in the opening. Behind them, in the hall, he could see a short, stout woman who looked as if she had been crying and was fighting back another onslaught of tears.
He and the two deputies confronted each other in silence, equally puzzled and surprised at the others’ presence.
“What’s happened?” he asked.
Neither acknowledged his question, but Bucheck snarled, “What are you doing here?”
He felt his anger begin to rise at the sound of the antagonistic tone. “I have an appointmentto see Mr. Closter.”
Bucheck snickered. “The appointment’s been cancelled.”
He turned from Bucheck’s sneer to the passive features of Flynn. “What’s he talking about?”
The pale, almost colorless eyes blinked once before he answered. “Mr. Closter’s dead. He killed himself.”
He heard the woman moan and begin to sob, but he was too stunned to turn his eyes away from Flynn’s bland, expressionless gaze.
“What!”
“You heard him, Tuesday,” Bucheck said, the sneer even more pronounced. “Closter won’t be keeping any more appointments with anybody.”
He ignored him, keeping his eyes on Flynn. “When did it.. .did he do it?”
Flynn glanced at Bucheck before answering, “Mrs. Closter found him hanging in the basement when she got home from church a few hours ago. ‘Doc’ Johnson says he was dead about an hour. Says he probably did it between eight and eight thirty.” He could just as well have been discussing the price of rhubarb.
“Has the body been removed?”
“Yes, sir. ‘Doc’ took it with him in the ambulance.”
“What’d you want to see him about anyhow?” Bucheck demanded.
He turned to look at him with unconcealed distaste. “I didn’t. He wanted to see me.”
“What about?”
“I don’t know. He left a message at my office that he wanted to see me at his home tonight.”
“How come you didn’t tell the sheriff that when you saw him earlier?”
He studied the ugly, twisted features of the deputy for a few moments before responding, “Perhaps I told him too much as it is.”
“What d’ya mean by that?”
He did not know himself what he had meant by the remark, but would not give the surly deputy the satisfaction of admitting it. “You figure it out,” he told him, pushing between them.
He walked to where the woman now sat on a high-backed, armless chair in the inner hallway. Her sobbing had subsided again, and she looked at him anxiously as he approached, as if she hoped he was going to tell her it was all a mistake. He was sorry that he could not. Bending down beside her, he spoke quietly so as not to be overheard by the two deputies who he could feel staring at his back.
“Mrs. Closter, my name is Tuesday. Mr. Closter left a message at my office earlier today asking me to come to see him here, tonight. Did he say anything to you about it before.. .before you went out?”
Her grief-glazed eyes seemed to have trouble focusing on him, but finally she nodded. “Yes. He.. .he did say someone was coming to see him, but he didn’t tell me who it was.”
“Mrs. Closter, I realize this is.. .that you are naturally very upset by what has happened.” He paused to be sure she understood him. She nodded again, and he continued. “I hate to impose on you at a time like this, but I believe your husband had something very important he wanted to tell me about...an accident he witnessed last night. He did tell you about the accident, didn’t he, Mrs. Closter?”
Her watery eyes blinked and twin tears rolled down each side of her short, blunt nose. “Yes. He did. But I.”
“ I would deeply appreciate it if you could give me a few minutes to go over it with you. He may have said something that would help.. .that would be a big help to me.”
He waited while she dabbed at her eyes, as if to be able to see him better before deciding. “Well.. .all right, Mr. Tuesday. But, I don’t think I can be much help to you.”
From behind him, Bucheck growled, “You don’t have to talk to him if you don’t want to lady. He’s only an insurance peddler.”
She frowned and her eyes wavered from him to the two deputies doubtfully. She seemed to regret her decision, but before she could change her mind, he stood up saying, “I brought a young lady with me who also witnessed the accident. She’s outside in my car. I’ll go get her and be right back, Mrs. Closter.”
He turned and pushed back between Flynn and Bucheck, still standing in the open doorway, and heard Bucheck mutter, “Now, what the hell.”, as he went by. He went down the steps and ran back along the drive to his car. He opened the door and she got out quickly, instantly aware that something was wrong.
“Mark! What is it, darling? What’s happened?”
“Elise, Closter’s dead.”
“Oh, my God!”
“The two deputies that were at the accident last night are here now. They say he hung himself.”
She put her hand to her mouth as if to smother a scream. “Oh, Mark! How terrible!”
“I’ve persuaded Mrs. Closter to talk to us.” He put his arm around her, guiding her over the uneven surface of the driveway toward the entrance. “She’s naturally pretty upset, but she just might be able to tell us something that would help clear things up.”
As they stepped into the light of the doorway and Bucheck recognized Elise, his face twisted into a mockery of a smile.
“Well, well. Now ain’t this nice. Just like old home week.” His eyes flickered over Elise, pausing where his arm lay across her shoulders, and fixing themselves on the front of her dress. “I guess there must be some mighty nice fringe benefits in the insurance racket, eh Tuesday?”
He took a step toward him and Bucheck shrank back, pulling his head down between his thin shoulders, his hand moving to grip the pearl handle of the revolver on his hip.
“Bucheck, you’re about the most miserable little rat I’ve ever come across,” he told him. “If you didn’t have that tin badge, I’d happily wipe my feet on your ugly face.”
He heard a faint sound behind him and Elise gasped. Before he could turn his head, the back of his neck was suddenly, and painfully squeezed in a vise-like grip. From the shoulders down his body felt strangely numb and he had the feeling of being suspended in mid-air. He could not even raise his arms to try to break the grip of Flynn’s powerful fingers. The room seemed filled with a myriad of colored lights spiraling around him as he heard the emotionless voice of the young deputy close to his ear.
“You shouldn’t talk like that to Deputy Bucheck, Mr. Tuesday. He’s on official duty.”
The grip was released as quickly as it had been applied. He tried to turn to face Flynn, but his legs were rubbery and he staggered against the wall. Elise moved to his side to support him, and he saw the mingled concern and fear in her face as his vision began to clear, and she saw the anger and humiliation in his.
“No, Mark. No.” she whispered, putting herself between him and the deputy.
He heard Bucheck snicker again. “Yeah, Tuesday. I’m just doing my duty. Just like you’re doing yours. Only, yours is nicer.”
Flynn apparently decided that he did not want to have to pull any more of Bucheck’s chestnuts out of the fire. “Come on, Stan. We’re finished here. Let’s go,” he said.
Bucheck whirled and glared fiercely at Flynn’s chest but, like the night before, after a few tense moments he only shrugged with surly indifference.
“Sure. Why not? Tuesday can take care of the ladies. I’ll bet he’s real good at it.”
Without bothering to look at any of them, he walked out the door. Flynn watched him leave and then turned back to look at him and Elise.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Tuesday. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
He met the vacant gaze of the strange young deputy and almost believed that he meant what he said-which only made it seem more terrifying when he realized how quickly and easily he had been hurt by him, and rendered virtually helpless.
“It’s okay. Forget it,” he told him, not wanting to prolong his departure any longer.
Flynn nodded slightly, looked at each of them, said “Good night” and followed Bucheck into the night, pulling the door shut behind him.
Elise turned to him quickly. “Mark, darling. Are you all right?”
He nodded and managed to smile. “Yes, Elise. I think so.”
Mrs. Closter came forward, her grief momentarily overshadowed by the ugly scene she had just witnessed.
“Oh my! That was an awful thing for him to do. He seemed like such a nice, polite young man.” She looked at him worriedly. “Would you like a cup of tea, Mr. Tuesday?”
She offered it as if it were a panacea for all their collective problems and, at the moment, it seemed like it might be.
“That sounds like an excellent idea, Mrs. Closter. Thank you.”
“Well, why don’t we go out to the kitchen and I’ll brew some,” she suggested as she turned to walk towards the back of the house, and he and Else followed.
She pushed open a door at the end of the hallway and entered into a spacious old-fashioned kitchen. An enormous fire-place with a built-in oven covered almost half of the brick wall on their left. In the center of the room, was a large, maple work table and cooking range with various utensils hanging from hooks under the edge. Copper-bottomed pots and pans, and blue and white Delft dishes adorned the walls. An enormous refrigerator-freezer and a long work counter; broken in the middle by a large stainless steel, double sink beneath a wide, frilly-curtained window; occupied the right hand wall. Copper-handled cabinetsstretched the length of the wall beneath the counter and on either side of the window. At the far end of the room, a pair of high-backed colonial style benches with a wide matching wooden table in between, stood at right angles before a large, bowed, mullioned window. It was a warm, pleasant, comfortable room. One in which the Closters had obviously taken a lot of pride, and spent a lot of time.
“What a beautiful kitchen!” Elise exclaimed.
Mrs. Closter smiled, fighting to maintain her composure. “Thank you. William, my.. .husband, did most of it himself. He’s.. .he was very clever with his hands.”
He realized the two of them had not been introduced as yet. “Mrs. Closter, this is Elise Young. Miss Young lives in Glen Park and also teaches school there. She was the other witness to the accident last night that Mr. Closter told you about.”
Mrs. Closter turned to Elise, still trying to hold onto the smile. “How do you do, Miss Young. My.. .William told me how close you came to being.. .injured. I’m glad to see you weren’t.”
“Thanks to your husband, Mrs. Closter,” Elise told her. “He risked injuring himself in order to warn me to get out of the way.”
It was probably an exaggeration of Closter’s motives, but it was welcomed by his widow. “Oh! William didn’t tell me that. But, that is.. .was so like him. He was a very modest man.” The past tense was becoming easier for her to accept. “It’s very kind of you to tell me about it.”
“I wish I could tell him, Mrs. Closter,” Elise murmured, grasping the older woman’s hands.
Mrs. Closter gulped visibly, but managed to hold back her tears. “I.I’m sure he knows, my dear.” She motioned toward the booth. “Please. You and Mr. Tuesday make yourselves comfortable. It will only take a few minutes to make the tea.”
Elise turned to look at him. “Mark, darling, you sit down, and I’ll help Mrs. Closter.”
He crossed the room and slid into the right-hand bench, resting his head against the high-cushioned back. He could still feel the grip of Flynn’s fingers on his neck, and the muscles felt bruised and stiff. He massaged them with his hand as he watched the two women busying themselves with the homey chore of tea-making. It was such a pleasant domestic scene that it was difficult to remember the reasons for his being there and the shock of Closter’s death. But, the twinges in his neck kept reminding him.
He heard Elise commenting with admiration at the spaciousness and conveniences of the kitchen, and on the china and silverware that Mrs. Closter put out, and she brought to the table-bending over him quickly, while being sure they were not being observed, to kiss him lightly and sweetly.
He remembered how Ben had said that Closter had treated his wife more like a sister and, oddly, she even looked the part. They had apparently been about the same height and weight and; except that she was naturally fuller in the chest; built along the same pear-shaped lines. Although her hair was totally and attractively gray, her face-other than for the redness about the eyes and nose from crying-was youthful and unlined. He thought that she had probably been very pretty, if rather plump, as a young girl-the kind that was an excellent cook, and loved to eat, but could never fully enjoy either until after being safely married.
After a few minutes, Elise brought a heaping dish of small cakes and cookies to the table and sat down next to him. Mrs. Closter sat across from them, poured the tea and covered the pot with a quilted tea cozy in the shape of a hen. She had used real tea leaves, and the result was strong and delicious. The cakes and cookies were homemade, dry and crumbly to the touch, but sweet and moist on the tongue. For awhile as they all enjoyed the snack, they chatted quietly like old friends, and she described the extensive remodeling that her husband had done on the old house. She was obviously, and justly, proud of his ability, and of the home that had resulted from it. Although she remained dry-eyed throughout the conversation, it was evident that, regardless of how Closter had felt about her, she had cared deeply for him, and his death had been the greatest shock of her life.
He realized it was getting late and that Mrs. Closter was getting close to exhaustion. But, he hesitated to interrupt the pleasure of her reminiscences. He silently debated whether he should even bring up the subject of the accident again. Since Closter had not bothered to tell her of how he had acted to save Elise’s life, it was unlikely that he would have told her of his part in putting it in jeopardy in the first place. Besides, his death now loomed larger in all of their minds; and the small, nagging suspicion that had prompted his earlier remark to Bucheck, was becoming more insistent in its demands for serious consideration.
He sipped the hot liquid, suddenly feeling very weary himself, until there was a momentary lull in the dialogue between the two women.
“Mrs. Closter. I’m sorry to have to remind you of it, but do you think you could tell me about what happened tonight?”
Her eyes filled to overflowing, but no tears came. Elise reached across the table to put her hand over the older woman’s, receiving a small, grateful smile in return. Mrs. Closter swallowed rapidly, blotted the corners of her eyes with her napkin and sighed deeply.
“Well, William.. .Mr. Closter, got home about the usual time,” she began hesitantly.
“What time was that, Mrs. Closter?”
“A few minutes after six o’clock. He was always very punctual-except for last night, because of the accident. That was the first time he had ever been late, without calling to tell me that he would be. I was terribly worried about him.” Her eyes filled again as she appeared to realize how futile and pointless her worry now seemed.
“Did he seem unusually nervous or upset when he got home tonight?”
There was a brief hesitation, as if she was already having trouble remembering what he looked like. “No. He seemed about the same as always. But, he.. .he was a quiet man and he never.. .he didn’t usually tell me when anything was bothering him. But, I could tell. We’ve been.we were married a long time. It would have been thirty years this December.” She blinked rapidly, trying to force the same, sad smile as before, but with less success.
“And you think there was something bothering him tonight, don’t you, Mrs. Closter.”
She nodded. “Yes. When he was worried about something, he would always go right to the basement and work in his shop until I called him for dinner, just like tonight.”
“Did he give you any explanation during dinner or afterwards, before you went out, about what was bothering him.”
“No. He.. .he didn’t like me to ask.” She seemed slightly embarrassed to admit her subservience to his moods. “He didn’t like to talk about it until he had worked it out in his mind and had decided what to do about it.”
“But he did tell you that he was expecting someone to come to see him tonight?”
“Yes, Mr. Tuesday. But he didn’t tell me who he was expecting.” She paused, looking at him strangely. “Perhaps if you had been on time.”. She stopped leaving the thought suspended between them.
He was momentarily puzzled before realizing the implications of the unfinished sentence. “But, I was on time, Mrs. Closter. Your husband’s message only asked that I come to see him anytime after ten. Did he say the person he was expecting was due to arrive earlier?”
She looked surprised. “Yes. He didn’t say exactly what time he was expecting him, but he did say that in case he was still here when I got home, that I.I shouldn’t disturb them.”
“You said ‘he’, so presumably Mr. Closter was only expecting one man to call on him while you were out,” he mused mostly to himself, “but you have no idea who ‘he’ could be?”
She shook her head, “No. He didn’t even say anything about the appointment with you.”
There was a tinge of doubt in her voice as if she now wondered if he had been telling her the truth about his appointment with her dead husband. He told her briefly about his interest in the accident, the visit to her husband’s office-omitting the details of their conversation-and the subsequent message asking him to come to see him. She seemed reassured and he guessed that Closter had probably wanted to see what arrangements he could make with his earlier visitor before telling her that he expected still another caller later on. If things had gone the way he had wanted them, he probably would have given him a quick brush-off. But, obviously, they had not, and he wondered why he had not at least waited long enough to see what he could work out with him, before doing what he had done-if he had done it.
“What time did you go out, Mrs. Closter?” he asked her.
“Seven forty-five. It’s a fifteen-minute drive to church and the service starts at eight o’clock. I go to Devotions every Tuesday and Friday.”
The vague memories of his Catholic upbringing reminded him that ‘Devotions’ were a prayer service usually, and sparsely, attended almost exclusively by the older women of the parish.
“And what time did you get home?”
“Nine-fifteen.”
“Was the door locked when you got here?”
“Yes, But it locks automatically unless it is set by pushing the button in. But we.it is always kept on automatic.”
“The back door too?”
“Yes.” She seemed perplexed by the questions. “Why do you ask?”
“I was only wondering how the earlier visitor left after seeing Mr. Closter.” It was an unsatisfactory answer and did not erase the question in her eyes. But, he was not prepared to put his real suspicions into clearer language just yet. It was also possible that there was no foundation for his suspicions, to begin with. “Have you found any indication that Mr. Closter actually had a visitor while you were out?”
“I.I don’t understand.” Her perplexity deepened. “What sort of thing do you.” “Well, like two glasses or cups that might indicate they had something to drink together; or anything else, like a cigar butt, to show that someone else had been here.”
She looked from him to Elise and back again. “I don’t know. I haven’t looked.” Glancing quickly around the kitchen she added, “There was nothing out here. I would have noticed it when I made the tea. Would you like to look through the rest of the house?”
“Perhaps it would be a good idea, if you don’t mind, Mrs. Closter?”
They got up from the table and, leaving the kitchen, walked the length of the hall to the front of the house. She hesitated at the foot of the stairs leading to the upper floor and looked at him questioningly.
“I don’t think he would have taken anybody upstairs, do you, Mr. Tuesday?”
“No. Probably not, Mrs. Closter. But, where would he be likely to take his visitor?”
Cupping her right elbow in her left hand, she looked through the wide doorways on either side of the hall; the one on the left leading to a large, comfortably furnished living room with another wide, brick fireplace on the far wall, and that on the right opening into a small, formal dining room.
“I really don’t know. He’s never had any other—”. She stopped, her bewilderment giving way to remembrance. “No. I’m wrong. Once before he did have someone come to see him, and didn’t want to be disturbed. I didn’t know who it was that time, either, but he let him in and out through the basement door.”
“How long ago was that, Mrs. Closter?”
“Oh, dear. Let me think.” She put a dimpled hand over her mouth. “It must have been almost five years ago, I was supposed to go to Devotions, just like tonight, but I had caught cold during the day and went to bed early.”
“And he never told you who it was?”
“No.” She hesitated before asking the question that was in both their minds. “Do you think it could have been the same man who came to see him tonight?”
“It’s possible.” Almost anything was. “And that was the only other time he had a visitor without telling you who he was?”
She nodded. “Yes. He wasn’t usually so secretive.”
He felt sorry that he knew how wrong she was. “Would it be all right if I took a look around in the basement?”
“Of course. I’ll show you where it is,” she replied, starting to walk back to the rear of the hall, stopping at a small alcove to the left of the door to the kitchen, under the stairs. She opened the door and switched on a light illuminating the top of the landing and a flight of wooden steps leading downward.
“There’s another switch on your left, attached to the doorjamb, at the bottom of the stairs,” she told him, “and his.. .William’s workshop is to the right and has its own light switch just inside the door to the left. I would rather not go down if it’s not necessary.”
“There’s no need, Mrs. Closter. I’ll find my way.” He turned to Elise. “Perhaps you had better stay up here. I won’t be long.”
She nodded in agreement. “All right, dear.”
The two of them reentered the kitchen as he walked down the steps and found the lightswitch at the bottom. He could see the darkened doorway opening into the workshop in the right-hand corner of the large, remarkably neat and uncluttered basement. Crossing to it, he reached around the jamb on the left and turned on the light. It was a very complete ‘do-it-yourself’ layout, with a long work-bench on the left and a large assortment of tools hung on pegboards on the right. Although he had no interest or aptitude for this type of domestic activity, he was able to identify a radial saw, a small drill press and a wood-turning machine. A series of shelves over the work-bench contained dozens of various sized plastic boxes neatly labeled with the name of the contents and overhead, stacked on top of the crossbeams, were varying lengths of lumber and pipe. Dangling from a crossbeam about midway in the shop was the severed end of a heavy, rubber-sheathed extension cord. An old paint-flecked, scarred wooden chair lay on its side between the saw and the press, discarded like the life of the man who had used it last.
He looked on the bench, the floor and pawed through a small accumulation of debris in a trash can in the corner, but could not find the other end of the cord. It must still have been around Closter’s neck when they took him away. He could make out the partial imprints of a number of different sizes and styles of shoes in the thin layer of sawdust that covered the floor but, if there had been any distinguishing characteristic to identify his visitor, it had been obliterated in the comings and goings of the two deputies, the coroner and the ambulance attendants. There was no other indication that anyone had been there with Closter before they arrived. A metal ashtray on the bench contained about a dozen crushed butts of the brand of cigarettes that he had noticed Closter smoking in his office, but that was all.
It did appear though; and rather strangely; that he had been occupied with his avocation right up to the moment that he had decided to end his life. An unfinished table leg lay on top of the bench next to a small box containing wood-carving tools and a piece of fine sandpaper wrapped around a block of wood. The rest of the incompleted table, with three legs in place, was on a low shelf under the bench. He could see that, indeed, Closter had been clever with his hands, and the whole scene gave him the eerie feeling that the pieces of the table and the tools were waiting for their master to return to finish the job. Looking around the room again, he saw that these were apparently the only items that were not in their assigned place. It seemed unusual that, as neat and methodical as Closter apparently had been-and even as distraught as he must have been at the moment-that he would stop in the middle of what he was doing and not put the things away before proceeding to carry out his decision.
He walked to the other end of the shop to check the door leading to the outside of the house. It was set to lock automatically, but a sliding bolt above the lock was in an open position. It did not seem significant since he thought they had probably taken the body out that way, and Mrs. Closter had not been down there after finding him. He slid the bolt closed and looked around once more, wondering how far he had pushed Closter toward the brink of his life; and who, or what had pushed him the rest of the way. He saw the dangling remainder of the extension cord and decided he could at least save Mrs. Closter the horror of being confronted with this grim reminder of what her husband had done. He set the chair upright and climbed up on it to reach the knot under the crossbeam. As he lifted his arms to untie it, he envisioned the short, corpulent figure of Closter in the same position-and realized, with a shock, that he could not have reached the beam to tie the cord around it-the chair would not have given him enough height.
The nagging suspicion that had been growing in his mind ever since he and Elise had arrived, became a certainly. Closter had not killed himself! He had been murdered!