Death Is a Cabaret Read online

  “I don’t think so. You usually point a flashlight toward the ground. I thought it was a lantern of some sort, and the stirring of the limbs blocked it now and then. It kept winking.”

  Brookner looked down at the scene. “You’ve got better eyesight than I do if you saw something from way up here. You through with them down there?”

  Jeff nodded.

  Brookner took the radio. “That’s it, Dwight. Send them back up.”

  “May I have your attention, please?” The static voice came over the loudspeaker. “Would Mr. Jeffrey Talbot please call the front desk? There is a phone call for Jeffrey Talbot.”

  Jeff made his way to the lower level of the bar and identified himself. The bartender punched some numbers, then handed him the phone.

  It was Sheila. “Jeff, thank God. Didn’t they tell you earlier that it was urgent?”

  “No. Are you okay?”

  “Greer’s back from the theater.”

  “Damn it, Sheila, bodies are falling around here like horseflies and you called to tell me that?”

  “You know better, Jeff Talbot.”

  Jeff sighed heavily. “Sorry. It’s just that—”

  “Never mind. I’d forgotten that Greer picked up some German during those summers with his grandparents.”

  “And?”

  “And, I told him about the document you found. You’re never going to believe what a ‘Schreibtisch’ is.”

  “Who, Sheila. Who a Schreibtisch is.”

  “No, what. Some people think it’s a couch, but it’s not.

  “It’s a desk.”

  “So?”

  “One of those vertical desks with the drawers down one side. Jeff, a davenport.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Cal Brookner let out a low whistle. “You don’t say? So this Eric von Schreibtisch and Edward Davenport were the same person.”

  Brookner and Talbot were seated once again in the interrogation room. Jeff hadn’t wanted to give the detective this latest news with everyone else around.

  “Could be,” Jeff said. “Could also be a coincidence.”

  “Yeah, it could be, but I’ve been in law enforcement for over twenty years, and I haven’t seen a coincidence yet.” Brookner pondered a moment. “We’ll run it down, sure, but in the meantime, I’m gonna proceed under the assumption that Davenport and Schreibtisch are one and the same.”

  “If it’s true,” Jeff said, “it’ll make things a hell of a lot easier. In any event, it looks like there was a connection between Hamilton and Davenport, probably related to something here—either the festival or some deal they’d made for an antique. It might have had nothing to do with the festival, specifically, but this was a good place to meet. No one would be suspicious, since it’s the line of work they were both in.”

  The detective toyed with an unlit cigarette. “Hamilton must have found out about some secret life Davenport, or whoever the hell he was, was leading. Probably used the document you found as leverage. Sounds like blackmail to me, cut and dried.”

  Brookner stared down at a notepad on the desk as if it were a game card with Free in the center. He moved his right index finger around the notepad, touching first this square, then that. Jeff practically heard the caller’s voice echoing out B-11, N-28, G-41.

  Jeff had been there himself many times, concentrating, listening, waiting while a game of Blackout pulled your nerves tight as catgut. Every square had to be covered.

  “Bingo!” Brookner slapped the table.

  Jeff grinned.

  Brookner didn’t seem to notice. “Davenport resisted, Hamilton put on the pressure, and Davenport killed him. Later, he couldn’t take the guilt, so he clocked himself.” He stared expectantly at Jeff.

  “Could be. But why? If that’s true, don’t you want to know why Hamilton was blackmailing him?”

  “Not if no other crimes are committed. Since Davenport killed himself, I doubt that whatever scheme the two had cooked up ever took place.”

  “I’ll admit you’ve got some valid arguments. But if Davenport killed himself, why isn’t there a note? And what about the woman I saw? If what you say is true, then she could easily have something to do with it.”

  “Who knows? Could’ve been Hamilton’s sister out for revenge. What’s her name? Bliss? Bass—?”

  “Blessing. Trudy Blessing.” Jeff thought about his conversation with Trudy. “No, I don’t buy it. She doesn’t have the stomach for it. Besides, I saw her when she heard her brother was dead. She was genuinely shook up.”

  “Talbot, listen. Before, I had two bodies and a string of ifs, ands, and buts held together with threads of cotton candy. Now I’ve got two bodies and a motive and a document to cement the connection between them. Oh, and don’t forget the murder weapon. Forensics is still working that angle. I’ll be surprised if they find any tissue or blood samples left on it, but who knows? My point is, why else would a lug wrench be in that fountain? With the body, I might add. And don’t tell me it’s another friggin’ coincidence. I’ve got a guy with a reputation for a temper and another guy who, if you think about it, probably didn’t have the stomach for murder, either.

  “But boil it down: Davenport felt trapped. He reacted, killed Hamilton. Most likely, it wasn’t premeditated. Just one of those times when things got out of hand. He saw the lug wrench on the ground and.. . well, you know how the old story goes.

  “Next day, Davenport tries to go about things in a normal manner. Breakfast with friends, his lecture. He really liked the spotlight, didn’t he? Well, we put him in the spotlight that morning—hit him pretty hard when we interrogated him. With good reason, so it seems. He must’ve panicked. Didn’t think a one-horse town—get it? One-horse town?—could play with the big boys.” Brookner stopped, took a deep breath, then let it out in a rush. “Well. Game over.”

  Jeff’s lips tightened. “Would you at least try to track down why Davenport—Schreibtisch, rather—left Germany? It’s out of the Bureau’s jurisdiction, and I don’t have a fishing buddy with the CIA.”

  “Any other requests, Talbot?” Brookner’s voice had an edge to it. “You’re on a roll.”

  “Yes. I’d like to know where the lug wrench came from. Have you checked with the grounds crew? Yesterday I heard a kid getting chewed out for leaving hedge clippers lying on the ground. It may be as simple as someone losing his temper while changing a tire on one of those commercial mowers and throwing the lug wrench in the fountain.”

  “You’ve got a point. I’ll put Littlefield on that.”

  “And another thing I want to know is who the mystery woman was. What if she was Hamilton’s partner?”

  “What if she was? Nothing came of it, apparently. At least, not in my book.” Brookner stood. “Like I told you before, I need this one stamped Case Closed. Mackinac Island pulls more tourist dollars than anything else up here, casinos included. If we can wrap this up with a big red bow on top and give it to the media, then we might nip everyone’s fear in the bud.”

  Brookner left before Jeff had a chance to respond.

  He didn’t feel like being sociable, so he headed up to the fourth floor and went to his room.

  The investigative part of his brain was overheated. With effort, he turned it off and directed his thoughts to the approaching auction.

  As a teenager he’d once become too anxious and spent a lot more on a book press than it was worth because shills had been planted in the crowd to drive up the bids. Jeff’s grandfather, who had taken him to the auction, had allowed this to happen, later explaining to the boy that it was a lesson he would not soon forget.

  Jeff hadn’t forgotten. He knew that in the heat of bidding, an auctioneer enjoyed ultimate control. This wasn’t a problem unless the auctioneer was unscrupulous for one reason or another.

  It doesn’t matter that it stinks and that everyone in the room knows it.

  The gavel comes down.

  Sold!

  The next item comes up for bid.


  And that’s what everyone is thinking about—everyone, that is, except the guy who just got screwed over. And who’s paying attention to him?

  The thing is done. It’s like a fight that’s been fixed. If the ref and the handlers and the announcers are moving things along in a commanding, professional manner, and the fighter himself claims it was fair and square, then there’s not a hell of a lot anyone can do.

  What if Edward Davenport had been on the take? He could just as easily have dropped the gavel early, in order to ensure that a certain person was high bidder on a certain item, as he could’ve held out longer than he should’ve for more bidding. Jeff had witnessed both practices, and they weren’t easy to contest due to an auction’s quick pace and an auctioneer’s even quicker chatter.

  The phone rang. Jeff was getting sick of the thing. Hell, he didn’t get this many calls in a week’s time at home. “Jeffrey?” It was Blanche.

  “You’ve got your ESP in full swing,” Jeff said. “I was about to call you.”

  “Jeffrey, have you talked to Trudy? I’ve been trying to reach her, but her hotel doesn’t have phones in the rooms. Can you imagine that? A hotel room without a phone in this day and age.”

  “Maybe I should get a room over there. It’d be one way to get a night’s sleep.”

  “Is that cynicism I hear in your voice?”

  “Probably. I left a desk job so I wouldn’t have to screw a phone to my ear forty hours a week.”

  “Is that all that’s bothering you?”

  “That, and a hundred other things.” He told her about the document he’d found in Hamilton’s room and the possibility that it would reveal Davenport’s true identity. Then he told her about Brookner’s reaction, including his announcement that the investigation was over. “It’s too easy,” Jeff concluded. “It may be true, but, if you want my opinion, there are still too many questions left unanswered.”

  “Sounds like it. Do you have any theories?”

  “Still working on it. I did have an interesting visit with Trudy earlier. Did you know she was Hamilton’s sister?” No response.

  “Blanche?”

  “That’s why I’ve been trying to reach her. I’ve been worried sick. I desperately wanted to ask you earlier whether anyone had told Trudy about Frank’s death, but I couldn’t break her confidence in me. You understand, don’t you? I would do the same for you.”

  “I know. And you have several times.” Jeff knew that Blanche had never spoken to anyone about Sheila.

  Jeff explained to Blanche what had happened earlier with Trudy. He told her about learning that Jennifer Hurst had once been engaged to Frank Hamilton. He concluded with a question. “Why don’t they have the same last name?”

  “That I can tell you. They’re actually half brother and sister. Same mother, not the same father. She always liked to think she had one pure and true connection to somebody. Frank was the only candidate.”

  “I’m beginning to wonder if anyone is who he says he is.”

  “No one ever is.”

  “That’s a hard one to swallow. It would be like saying you could’ve done it.”

  “Don’t underestimate me, Jeffrey. If my life were in danger, or if some kind of rage was driving me, I could to things that would make your blood run cold.”

  Jeff was quiet. He couldn’t tell whether Blanche was being serious or merely trying to make a point. Damned telephone. “Remind me to try and stay on your good side,” he said with a laugh.

  Her dark mood didn’t budge. “Remember, Jeffrey. Anyone can commit murder. Anyone.”

  He knew she was right, and he told her so. With nothing else left to cover, they said their good nights and he cradled the receiver.

  He’d been going nonstop for damn near twenty hours. Worse, he was supposed to return home in twelve, although he wasn’t sure how that would pan out if he got closer to solving the case. Or, cases. What were his chances of solving the mystery of the woman in the hat? Even if he worked as steadily as a clock’s second hand—without any of the sleep his body was aching for—his chances were slim at best. He wished he could stay awake, wished he could operate on no sleep. It bothered him that he would spend half of his remaining time here dead to the world. But he was exhausted. And besides, he figured everyone else was already in dreamland. There wasn’t much else to do on the quiet island. Since he couldn’t tap into the dreams of those on his suspect list, he may as well join them, if only for a few hours.

  The knock on the door didn’t come as an urgent pounding, but it wasn’t tentative, either. Sharp, to the point, decisive. Jeff bolted upright in bed, instantly awake. His sleep had contained no dreams—none he was aware of, anyway, in spite of the medical field’s claims that everyone dreamt, always—so the rap at his door didn’t come to him with the startling crack of a bolt of lightning. It didn’t come as gunshots, either. It wasn’t a car backfiring (do they even do that nowadays?) or a bowling ball making a strike, or even a bowling ball bouncing down a flight of stairs, for that matter. There was no swimming up from the deep, no disorientation where you stumble out of bed without a clue as to what city you’re in. The only thing he could blame on waking him was that damn knocking at the door.

  He got there in less time than it would have taken to say “just a minute” and looked through the peephole. A woman stood on the other side staring back at him.

  So close was she to the fisheye that it distorted her features, giving her a nose like Cyrano, eyes set wide apart and slanted as if they wrapped around her head, and little ears the size of thimbles.

  He opened the door.

  “Mr. Talbot. I must talk to you.”

  Jeff, who was accustomed to noting details in order to deliver the outside world back to his housebound wife, keenly observed the person who stood before him.

  With the convex distortion removed, the woman’s straight nose was still slightly large, but with contouring she had created an illusion that it was in proper proportion to the rest of her face. It hadn’t been altered by cosmetic surgery. Had there been repairs, he had no doubt he would have seen them in the same way he would detect signs of repairs on a chair leg or the leaf of a table.

  The woman’s complexion shone like porcelain; she obviously tended it with an eye to the future, a knowledge of the value of proper maintenance. She was probably looking at thirty-five, and the way she held herself suggested she would meet it head on. She was the type who had her bag of tricks ready and adjusted its contents when the elements or climate or stress or birthdays threatened to mar the finish that was her.

  Her hair was done in rich, appealing shades of auburn, an expert blend of hennas not to be found simply in nature—or in the contents of a solitary bottle. Jeff suspected she was covering an onset of premature silver that might easily have been inherited.

  She wore an unstructured box jacket in something soft and inviting—that sensuous chenille that Sheila had taken to wearing—in navy over a taupe ribbed jersey pullover. She was of slender build and when the jacket fell away from her body, he noticed that her form barely caused a spread of the ribbing at the bust line. Her navy Dockers were flat-fronted, continuing the long, slender line. All that blue only added to the startling effect of her eyes. They were like electric sapphires.

  Jeff smiled, extended his hand. “We haven’t met.”

  She took his hand, held it. “I’m Ingrid Schreibtisch. Edward Davenport’s daughter.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Jeff blinked. Brookner’s hunch had been right. There was no coincidence. “Actually,” she said, “it’s Ingrid Schreiber. I changed it when I went into business for myself,” she explained as she settled into one of two wing chairs near the French doors that led to the balcony. Her German accent lent gravity to her speech.

  “What business is that?” He had pulled a robe on over his pajamas after inviting her in and was putting coffee on to brew. Answers had come to his doorstep in a five-foot-nine package and he wanted to make sure he
stayed alert.

  “Ingrid’s. It’s a chain of beauty salons I began in Europe ten years ago. Three will be opening here in the States in time for the holidays.”

  Beauty salons. Jeff thought how appropriate this was, as if she’d inherited her father’s antique sense and applied it to people. Objects and humans both required proper care in order to last.

  “You are part of the antique world, aren’t you, Mr. Talbot?”

  “I’m a picker. As much for myself as for clients, if I’m not careful.” He placed two steaming mugs on the small table beside her, then seated himself in the other chair. “Did your father tell you much about the business?”

  “Yes.” Her gaze rested on his bruise, but she made no comment. She sipped from the mug, testing the liquid’s heat, then took a healthy drink.

  She looked fresh and alert, even though it was three hours before sunrise. Jeff wondered if her inner clock was set by some time zone across the Atlantic, or if she was simply a morning person. His own inner clock was always set to Pacific Java Time.

  “A picker.” She said it as if she was scrolling through some mental dictionary for a definition. “You’ll want the provenance then. The story of how this all started, of what led to. . . to his death.” She looked up. “This is very difficult, Mr. Talbot. I’ve never told anyone what I’m about to tell you.”

  “Then why are you telling me?”

  “I overheard you earlier, in the bar upstairs. You were talking to that detective.”

  “Brookner.”

  “I don’t know his name. But I do know he’s wrong.”

  “Wrong? What about?”

  “About who killed Frank Hamilton.”

  Jeff fought the urge to bolt from his seat shouting, I knew it! He leaned forward. “You’re saying Edward Davenport didn’t kill Hamilton.”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you have proof?”

  She paused. “It’s hard to say. Probably not anything that will withstand scrutiny, but I’m not sure about your American laws.”