Читать книгу The Fruitcake Murders - Ace Collins - Страница 9

Chapter 3

3

Wednesday, December 18, 1946

10:22 p.m.

Getting up from the chair, Lane walked quickly to the end table and picked up the receiver. He felt Tiffany’s sharp eyes on his every move.

“Walker here.” As he spoke, he noted his guest retrace her steps and once more take a seat on the couch she’d just occupied. Why hadn’t she left just two minutes earlier? Why did she seem to live to complicate his life? Why had he ever noticed her in the first place? Life would have been so much simpler without Tiffany Clayton.

“Happy holidays, Lane, this is Morelli.”

“And how’s our county’s best medical examiner?” the homicide detective asked as he continued to study his uninvited guest.

“Impatient. It’s a week before Christmas and I haven’t even begun to shop for my five kids and let’s not even talk about my wife. Her list runs longer than most pieces of congressional legislation. She wants a new Hudson among other things, as if I could find one. Just be glad you’re a bachelor.”

After taking a deep breath and offering a prayer of thankfulness for being single, Lane smiled at the woman, glad she couldn’t hear both ends of the conversation. “I’m certainly happy my shopping list is short,” the cop quipped, “and I’m not planning on changing that anytime soon.” He grinned at his guest. “In fact, I can’t think of anyone I need to buy a present for. The only people on my list have been very bad this year and don’t deserve a gift.” As he watched Tiffany frown and turn her head away, he smiled and added, “Now it’s late, so enough about holiday plans. Let’s just cut to the chase. Is there anything you can give me about the knife that killed Elrod or do I hand this thing over to my team and let them start questioning the usual suspects?”

“You must have a date,” Morelli quickly observed, “Well, if you do, you can cancel it. First of all, Elrod wasn’t killed by that knife in his back.”

“What?”

“Yeah, whoever stabbed him did so at least a half an hour after he died.”

“Why would anyone plunge a knife into a dead man’s back?”

“That,” Morelli quipped, “is your problem. I just figure out how someone died, not who did it or why.”

“Then tell me,” Lane demanded, “what did kill him?”

“He was drugged,” came the reply, “and he was likely out cold when someone tapped him with a blow to the back of his head causing enough cranial bleeding to not just short-circuit his brain, but feed a vampire for a week.”

“But the coroner and his team,” Walker argued.

“Ah yes, well, with the knife sticking out of his back I’m not surprised old Doc Miller missed a few things during his quick exam. Until I cut into Elrod, I would have assumed he died in what appeared to be the obvious way, too.”

Looking back to the reporter, Walker noted she was leafing through the Life Magazine he’d read earlier in the evening, so thankfully she appeared completely unaware of what he’d just heard. At least it was a bit of good news to grasp onto. Moving to where his back was to Tiffany, he quietly asked, “What should I look for?”

“If you’re asking about a weapon, nothing conventional. The damage to his head was done by something with a curved edge. It was likely red as I found a few flecks of paint in Elrod’s hair. Beyond that I have no idea. Never seen anything like this before. It might help if I knew where he was when he cashed it in.”

Picking up the phone and walking closer to the French doors, Walker quietly elaborated. “He was at his desk when the maid found him. He had the phone in his hand.”

“Then that rules out an accident,” the ME explained. “I thought he might have taken some drugs to help him sleep, then, as he was getting into bed, passed out and fallen against something, but not now.”

“Why not?” Walker whispered, “He could have gotten up after the fall, realized he was hurt and was trying to make a call for help when he passed out.”

“No,” the doctor explained, “a blow of this type would have caused him to immediately lose consciousness. So, he couldn’t have fallen, gotten up, and found his way back into his desk chair. If he was in the chair, he either had to have been struck while seated or been placed in the chair after he was struck. Either way it spells murder to me, and the knife played no part in his death.”

“Got it,” a confused Walker quietly replied as he rubbed his brow. This case had just become the criminal equivalent of buying a toy that required “some assembly.” What had once seemed so simple was proving to be very complex. “Could you call the boys and tell them to get back down here? We’ll now have to go over this house from top to bottom.”

“No problem, Lane. I’ve got two more rush jobs, so I’m going to be here the rest of the night. Let me know what you discover, and I’ll see if it matches the damage I found.”

“Thanks,” the homicide detective replied. “I will.”

Turning, he walked across the room to the end table. After returning the phone to its place, his eyes involuntarily went to the large oak door leading to the Elrods’ study. As they did, the reporter looked up from the magazine and smiled.

“So, the knife was not the murder weapon. And don’t try to deny it, my ears are much better than you could ever imagine. I heard everything Mitch Morelli said. Elrod was drugged and then knocked over the head by an unknown object.”

“Then you know as much as I do,” Lane complained. “So why don’t you run back to your newspaper and beat everyone else to the story. You might even earn a Christmas bonus for this scoop. You could use the extra cash to take a week off and explore the job markets in New York or Cleveland or anywhere but Chicago.”

“Very funny,” she laughed. “You always crack me up with your wit. I’m not leaving this house until I have a look at the murder room and don’t even try to keep me out.”

The city normally gave the press access to crime scenes and, if the story broke, five dailies would likely soon be here and each of their reporters would be shooting questions at him, so there was no reason to keep Tiffany from seeing the study. Besides, as she was working on the story about the bogus Santas and had written about the Delono operation, she might actually have a lead on who was behind this murder. Maybe this time the beautiful little pest could actually help him. That would be a first.

“Come on,” he grudgingly announced, walking slowly toward the door, “but don’t touch anything.”

“My hands will stay in my pockets,” she assured him as she rose from the couch.

Moving across the room, Lane pulled a handkerchief from his pants and twisted the brass knob. He used that same handkerchief to flip the wall switch connected to the overhead light. He then stood in the doorway, with the woman just to his right, and studied the room.

Across the back wall was a built-in floor-to-ceiling bookshelf filled with everything from law books to novels. To the right was a double door leading to a patio overlooking the estate’s polo-ground-size side yard. On the opposite wall, were two large red leather chairs separated by a huge wooden globe. Elrod’s desk was in front of the bookshelf. It was ten feet wide and five feet deep and constructed of tiger oak. On it was a phone, a green-shaded brass lamp, a calendar, a legal pad, two recent issues of Time magazine, one declaring James F. Byrnes “Man of the Year,” an address book, a well-worn Bible, and a half-empty cup of coffee.

“Well, the knockout drug was likely in the coffee,” Tiffany noted, as the cop continued to survey the study. “Now, what do you think was used as the murder weapon?”

“Not sure,” Lane admitted, his gaze moving from the desk back to the bookshelf. “But I do know this, what I need to find is not hiding in plain sight.”

As the cop slowly moved further into the room, the reporter asked, “How about giving me a hint as to what’s on your mind? Oh, wait, your mind is always a blank.”

Ignoring the woman, he again used the handkerchief, this time to pick up the phone and study both the base and receiver. They both had round edges but were clean. Besides, Bakelite might be a hard material, but if it was used as a weapon there should have been a crack. There wasn’t. After setting the phone back on the desk, he examined the metal wastebasket. It looked much too perfect. If it had been used to strike the DA the sides would have been dented. Obviously, the books with their square edges were not employed in this crime either. Perhaps the murderer took the murder weapon with him.

Taking a seat in the chair where Elrod’s life had slipped away, Lane again used the handkerchief to carefully open each of the desk’s nine drawers. Once more, he struck out. None of the many objects he found could have made a rounded wound.

Tiffany, now seated in a chair just to the right of the large wooden globe, said nothing until the cop closed the final desk drawer. “I might be able to help. I’ve got a nose for this kind of thing.”

Ignoring her, he leaned back and examined the paintings and awards hanging on the wall. Nothing was out of place and nothing was missing. Besides, once again, there were no round edges.

“Listen, Flatfoot,” the reporter whined, “I know he was murdered with something round and red. I heard that part of the phone conversation. There’s nothing like that in this room, so the murderer must have taken it with him.”

She was likely right, but the last thing he wanted to admit to Tiffany was that he was drawing a blank. Getting up from behind the desk, he strolled back into the living room and took a quick inventory. Nothing jumped out that could have been used in the crime. In fact, there was nothing red or round in the room. Strolling back into the study he moved toward the patio. Flipping a switch beside the door, he unlocked and pushed the entry open, then stepped out into the cold night air. There were impressions in the snow. He expected them to lead out to the yard, but they didn’t. Instead, they turned to the right and disappeared along the side of the enormous gray-stone mansion. Lane pulled a small flashlight from his suit pocket and shined its beam where the porch light faded.

“Still cold,” Tiffany observed as she stepped out and joined him. “Do you have something or you just trying to put some distance between us? Which, don’t get me wrong, I don’t mind.”

“I may have something,” Lane explained. “Look at the footsteps in the snow. They show that a man walked quickly to the area around that bush and for some reason he stopped there. Note how he shuffled back and forth. Look at those prints over there.” He pointed to where this flashlight was shining. “A few of those impressions indicate he was on his toes for a while. Then you’ll note by the length of his strides, he must have sprinted around the house, across the back drive, and probably to the street. With the erratic nature of the prints and the fact they hang close to the house, I’ll bet this wasn’t Elrod. Besides, a man of his age wouldn’t have raced. I mean, look at those long strides; our mystery man was running.”

“Couldn’t it have been one of your cops?” she suggested. “I mean, didn’t you and your men explore this area?”

“No,” he admitted, “the door was latched from the inside. The only way it could be locked from the outside is with a key. So, we figured the killer must have left through the front door.”

“Or just taken Elrod’s keys,” she added.

“His key ring was in his pocket,” Lane smugly replied.

“They could have taken the one they needed,” she said, rubbing her arms in an effort to stay warm. “I mean, that’s what a smart person would do. Did you check to see if all the keys were there? Or did you bother finding out if anyone else had a key to those doors?”

He disregarded the woman’s observation and instead moved toward the place where the man had seemingly shuffled on his feet. “You’ll note,” he continued, “the evening snow has partially filled the impressions. Therefore, we won’t be able to gauge the kind of shoe the man was wearing, but we can probably get an idea of the size. Just looking at it compared to mine, I’d say he is somewhere between an eight and nine.” As he continued to stare at the spot where a majority of the impressions were, he rubbed his chin and asked, “Why did he stop here? Even if this were the moment when the maid came into the room, she wouldn’t have been able to spot him no matter where he was on the patio. So her appearance shouldn’t have caused him to pause.”

“And why was he on his tiptoes?” Tiffany asked.

“Why indeed?”

“And,” the woman added, “maybe this is the guy who knifed Elrod rather than the one who actually killed him.”

“That’s bound to be a crime, too,” Lane grumbled. Looking up from where the suspect had paused, he studied the house. There were no windows to peek in, nothing to grab or reach, so why would anyone have gotten up on his tiptoes? “Tiff, it just makes no sense. There’s nothing he could have seen by making himself a few inches taller.”

“You’re thinking just like a man,” the woman grumbled while moving over to join him. “There are two reasons to be on your tiptoes. The first is to reach something high or see a bit further, but the other is when you hunker down. He might have been in a crouching position.” She demonstrated by stooping over. As she balanced on the balls of her feet, her heels came off the ground.

Lane nodded, then mimicked the woman’s stance and position. Not only was she right about his heels coming off the ground, but he found he now had a completely different view of the world. He could even see under the bushes. Yet, shining his flashlight in that direction revealed nothing unusual underneath the evergreens.

“Look at that, Copper.”

His eyes darted to where the woman’s hand was pointing. Just behind the nearest bush was a basement window. The snow on the frame had been disturbed. Moving to the spot, Lane leaned forward until his arm was fully extended and he pushed on the window’s wooden frame. It moved easily. Dropping to his knees in the cold snow, he shoved the glass open. Shining his light into the basement he saw a hundred different items that had, at one time or another, been relegated to storage. Among these castoffs were furniture, three old steamer trunks, stacks of books, an ancient pedal car, a high-wheeled baby buggy and two bicycles, but there was something else resting on an old mattress just below the window that really caught his eye.

Springing to his feet, he rushed back across the patio, through the office and to the telephone. After taking the receiver from the cradle, he dialed a number he knew well. On the third ring, Morelli picked up.

“Morgue.”

“Doc, this is Walker, I think I’ve got something.”

“You found our murder weapon?”

“Maybe,” he replied, “could the damage you discovered on Elrod’s skull have been made by a fruitcake?”

“What?”

“You know one of those round, foot-wide, four-inch tall tins that are filled with the stuff nobody eats.”

“I hadn’t expected that,” Morelli answered, his voice indicating mild shock.

“There’s a fruitcake can in the basement,” Lane explained. “I saw it from a window. Now I haven’t gone down there and picked it up yet, but I’ve got a hunch somebody recently ditched it through an unlocked outside window. It’s not nearly as dusty as everything else that is stored down there. In fact, it shines like it just came off a store shelf.”

The line went silent for a few seconds before the ME came back on. “Yeah. When the cake is in the tins those things are pretty heavy and, if Elrod had passed out due to the drugs in his system and wasn’t offering any resistance, that container could be swung with a lot of force, too. Did the can you saw have green and red stripes on the side and a Christmas tree painted on the front?”

“Not sure about the tree,” Walker replied, “but I remember it had stripes like you described. Those were real obvious.”

“Then I believe I know that fruitcake,” Morelli offered. “If it’s the one I think it is, it’s part of a joke between Ethan Elrod and Ben Jacobs.”

“The federal judge?”

“Yep. They’ve been trading that old cake back and forth each Christmas for more than a dozen years. Everyone who knows them has seen that old can. I’ve seen it a half dozen times myself. And that sucker is made of really thick tin, so it could well have created the damage I observed.”

“So,” Lane chimed in, “murder by fruitcake.”

“And not just any fruitcake,” Morelli wryly noted, “but one that was first purchased by Ben Jacobs long before he was a federal judge. At least, I assumed he bought it. So we’re talking about an antique fruitcake.”

“I’ll get the cake tin,” Walker assured the examiner, “and when the boys get here to reexamine the scene, I’ll bring it to you to look over.”

“Thanks, I’ll be waiting. Good work, Lane.”

The investigator had all but forgotten he wasn’t alone until he placed the receiver back in the cradle.

“So, Lane,” Tiffany announced, “you’ve established two things.”

“What’s that?” he asked as their eyes met, and he was again forced to realize how intoxicatingly beautiful she really was.

“The first is, you’ve finally discovered a purpose for a fruitcake. The second is this was not a murder to cover a robbery because no one would steal a fruitcake. Now all you have to do is find the fruitcake that used the fruitcake to murder the crusading district attorney. That really makes this case nuts!”

Lane was contemplating a verbal comeback to her lame pun when the phone rang. Thus, as he was drawing blanks in trying to come up with a witty and biting reply, he was literally saved by the bell.