There is nothing more deceptive than an obvious fact.
—Arthur Conan Doyle, “The Boscombe Valley Mystery”
I KNOW WHAT it looks like, doll, but this guy didn’t off himself.
How can you be sure, Jack?
I’d check for a suicide note first.
“Seymour, do you see a note anywhere?”
Seymour, staring at the corpse on the couch, grunted a nonsensical reply.
“Do you see a note?” I repeated.
He shook off his shock and joined me in searching the immediate vicinity.
“Nothing,” I concluded a few moments later. “And I don’t even see a computer or a phone—unless his phone is tucked into his robe or something.”
Seymour made a face. “Should I check, do you think?”
Doll, this stinks like a bad Broadway production, Jack insisted. I could smell this setup a mile away.
It seems wrong to me, too, Jack. And the lack of a phone or a computer—well, how did Mr. Kritzer post anything to social media without one or the other?
What’s that tell you?
I didn’t even have to think about an answer. A missing phone or computer is the strongest evidence of foul play.
Bingo, Jack cracked. You win the booby prize.
“So, Pen, should I frisk the dead man?” Seymour asked.
And there’s your boob.
Get off Seymour’s case, Jack.
Then get him off our case before he does something stupid.
“No, Seymour,” I said aloud. “I don’t think we should touch the body. Let’s call the police.”
Seymour made the call, telling the emergency dispatcher that he was the mailman and found his addressee dead. He was told to wait outside the apartment, and not to touch anything.
Phooey on that, sweetlips! Shake this joint down before the bulls get here and muck it all up.
I figured the dispatcher had given Seymour instructions, not me, so I didn’t follow either of her rules.
First I unplugged the TV from the wall. It was the only way to silence the blaring noise, as I was fairly certain the volume had been turned up to mask the sound of the gunshot. If this was murder instead of suicide, I didn’t want to smear any fingerprints that might be left on the dial.
Next I went to the tiny bedroom, where I found a phone charger cord but no phone—more proof it had been stolen. On the dresser I saw the dead man’s wallet, a flyer from the Reverend Waterman’s First Presbyterian Church, a paperback of Amanda Pilgrim’s last novel (which he might very well have bought at my store), and a set of keys to this apartment and presumably a car.
I was about to slide open a few drawers when Seymour called a warning from the hall. “The QPD has arrived.”
I slipped through the apartment door just as a pair of heavy boots hit the bottom step. It was only then that I remembered Eddie Franzetti was in Providence with his wife, and that this call would probably be answered by one of Eddie’s officers—or worse, Eddie’s boss.
My heart sank when a bearlike shadow appeared on the steps—and not the cuddly teddy kind. Chief Ciders was the very definition of curmudgeon, and he loathed Seymour Tarnish. Their animosity had begun over a youthful indiscretion (involving illegal fireworks), and the passing years hadn’t improved their relationship, which is why the man’s perpetual frown morphed into a bitter scowl when he spied Seymour. The chief of the Quindicott Police Department wasn’t too happy to see me, either.
“You two?” He shook his massive head. “I think I would have been happier if Bonnie and Clyde called this in.”
“Come on, Chief, you know that isn’t possible,” a goading Seymour replied. “Weren’t you a member of the posse that ambushed that pair of desperados?”
Ciders crested the stairs and placed his hands on his ample hips.
“Just what is going on here?”
I opened my mouth to speak, but Seymour beat me to it.
“I came here to see Mr. Louis Kritzer. His TV was blaring, and he didn’t answer his bell, so I came upstairs and found him deader than disco.”
“Where is this dead man?”
Seymour jerked his thumb over his shoulder. Ciders brushed past us and into the room. Seymour and I both followed. Chief Ciders made a beeline to the couch and stared at the dead man long and hard.
“Is this the way you found him?”
We both nodded.
“Any note?”
“No,” I answered. “But he might have left some kind of message on his phone, only I don’t see it anywhere.”
“We’ll find it,” Ciders replied. He got down on one knee and studied the head wound—Ciders had a strong stomach; I’ll give him that. After a moment, he studied the gun.
“Obviously a suicide,” he concluded, rising. “From the way the blood has congealed I’d say this happened last night.”
“Are you sure it was suicide?” I asked.
Ciders nodded. “That wound is the right size for the caliber of the slugs in his gun, and it appears the fatal shot was self-inflicted.”
“Surely the state police crime scene unit will determine what happened.”
“We won’t be needing them,” Ciders replied. “I’m going to call Dr. Rubino to pronounce the victim dead and conduct an autopsy, then I’m going to send the corpse to Scully Funeral Home, where they have a facility to hold his remains until the next of kin is notified.”
“But surely a suspicious death has to be handled by the proper authorities,” I countered.
“A suspicious death, yes,” the chief said, nodding. “But this is a cut-and-dried suicide—”
“But, Chief Ciders—”
He cut me off, to focus on Seymour. “The only suspicious thing here is why you came to see Mr. Krinkle—”
“Kritzer,” Seymour corrected. “I came to see him on official business. It involved undeliverable mail.”
Ciders’ grunt indicated dissatisfaction with Seymour’s reply. His beady eyes focused on me next. “And why were you here, Mrs. McClure?”
“Well, my car was impounded in Millstone, so Seymour was giving me a ride.”
Those unblinking eyes narrowed suspiciously. “I think you’re both taking me for a ride.”
“I’m just trying to tell you that things might not be what they seem,” I insisted. “This could be a setup to cover a murder.”
Ciders scowled. “How so?”
“Well, Seymour told you the television was on really loud. Who turned up the volume and why?”
“Probably Mr. Kriskringle did it himself,” Ciders answered.
“Why?”
“In order to mask the sound of the gunshot.”
I shot the chief a doubtful look.
“Is that handgun the property of the deceased?” Seymour asked. “Does Louis Kritzer have a permit for that weapon?”
“I’ll determine all that in due course,” Ciders replied. “Now, if you two would clear out, I’d like to get this ball rolling.”
Ciders gave us his broad back and called Dr. Rubino. As their conversation began Seymour turned to leave. I turned him around again.
“You heard Ciders,” I whispered. “He’s not going to investigate.”
Seymour frowned. “Yeah, and you’re right—who did turn the sound up? Not Kritzer. Why would he care who heard him pull the trigger?”
“The real killer’s fingerprints might be on that volume knob,” I murmured.
In a second Seymour dropped to his knees and pulled a handkerchief out of his shirt pocket. Without touching the volume dial with his hands, Seymour used his Swiss Army knife to pry it loose. In less than ten seconds the knob was off the television and in Seymour’s pocket.
“What are you doing down there on the floor?” Ciders roared. “I thought I ordered you both to leave.”
“Sorry, Chief,” Seymour said, suddenly squinting while feeling around the worn carpet with both hands. “I seem to have lost my contact lens. They’re very expensive, you know, and—ah, here it is.”
Seymour picked up an imaginary contact lens.
“Listen up, both of you. You’re done here. I’ll see you in my office first thing in the morning to file a statement. Now, get out!”
For once I agreed with Ciders. We couldn’t leave fast enough, and I knew just where to go with that TV dial.