Corpus Christmas

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Sunday, December 20

Conscience, duty and sheer willpower kept Sigrid from burying her groggy head back under the pillow when her alarm clock went off ninety minutes early the next morning. Getting up at any hour was always a chore, but she had promised Roman that if he’d leave the mess, she would help him clean up before she went to work; so she dragged herself out of bed and into the shower.

After so much wassail the night before, Roman had professed himself uninterested in doing anything other than putting away the leftovers and trundling off to his bed in what had once been the maid’s quarters beyond the kitchen.

Ten minutes in the shower restored the outer woman and Sigrid headed toward the kitchen to see what hot black coffee could do for the inner. As she passed through the living room, she gathered up a handful of dirty glasses and plates and carried them out to the sink.

Roman had cleared himself space on the green-and-white tiled counter and was seated there with newspapers and coffee. His miniature countertop television was tuned to the morning news.

“There’s your friend,” he said, pouring her a cup of coffee by way of greeting.

She paused to watch Søren Thorvaldsen arrive in handcuffs at the federal courthouse. A moment later, cameras panned over the Sea Dancer tied up in custody as belligerent vacationers streamed down her gangways. While the camera lingered lovingly on the stacks of paper money uncovered in the engine rooms, Sigrid opened the refrigerator for juice, encountered the glassy eyes of the Saran-Wrapped eel, and closed the door again, all desire for juice abruptly gone.

When the program moved on to another story, Roman clicked it off and rose with a sigh. “How art the mighty fallen,” he said portentously. “I’ll begin on the dishes if you’ll bring in the rest.”

“Deal,” she said and carried a large tray out to the living room for the demitasse cups and saucers that had accompanied Roman’s bûche de Noël. Christmas trees with their lights extinguished always looked vaguely forlorn to Sigrid. There was something sad about shimmering tinsel when it reflected only cold winter daylight.

Two trips with the tray cleared out most of the disorder and five minutes with the vacuum took care of cracker crumbs, stray tinsel, and a crushed glass ball. Afterwards, she poured herself a second cup of coffee and began to dry the pots and pans while Roman continued to wash by hand the things he couldn’t fit into the dishwasher.

An unquenchable optimist, he announced that his sale of that short mystery story had finally convinced him that he was ready to begin writing the full-length murder mystery he’d been planning since the first day they met back in April.

“In fact,” he said, scouring vigorously with steel wool, “I finished the first chapter yesterday morning. Now if I were to average three pages a day, I could be finished by Easter.”

“Three months?” Sigrid asked dubiously. “I thought a book took at least a year.”

“That’s for serious writers,” he told her.

“And you’re not?”

“My dear, I’m forty-three years old. I have a certain flair for the English language, a certain facility, but depth? I fear not.”

He rinsed a copper saucepot and handed it to her. “Writers with something profound to say write poetry, writers with something serious to say write novels, but writers with nothing to say write genre fiction. I shall become a mystery writer.”

He handed her another wet pot. “Don’t look so sad. I shall try to be a very good mystery writer.”

Sigrid smiled. “Tell me about your plot.”

“Actually, I don’t have one yet,” he confessed. “That’s the one drawback. I don’t want to write suspense or thrillers or, God forbid, one of those dreary down-these-mean-streets-a-man-must-go sort of social tracts. No, I want to write classic whodunits, elegantly contrived puzzles, and for that you need a cast of several characters who all have equally good motives to kill the same person. But that’s almost impossible anymore. I’ve been doing some research and there are no good motives left.”

“No good motives for murder?” Sigrid snorted. “Roman, I’m a homicide detective. Believe me, people kill for a thousand different reasons.”

“And most of your cases, dear child, are open-and-shut, no? Domestic violence. The husband enraged at his wife’s nagging; the wife who simply refuses to be battered any more; addicts killing for drug money. I’ve been so disappointed to see how really ordinary most of your work has been. Oh, I won’t say you haven’t occasionally had interesting puzzles, but usually, it’s for money or power, is it not?”

He finished with the pots and pans and began to wipe down the stove and surrounding countertops.

“Well, yes,” Sigrid admitted. “But-”

“And most of the time, as soon as you find one person with a solid motive, that’s the killer, isn’t it?”

“So what’s your definition of a good motive?” she asked, nettled.

“One that would work for more than two or three people,” he said promptly. “Like your babies in the attic in last night’s Post. Even though that was a dreadful picture of you, the story itself would make a smashing murder mystery. Just think: everyone connected with those babies had a reason to kill them-both sisters, the brother, even the husband. If I were using them in a book, I should probably add in a grandmother and a crazy nurse or priest.”

Roman paused with the wet dishcloth in his hands. “Illegitimacy used to be such a wonderful reason for murder! Along with miscegenation and incest. Nowadays, if it’s not drugs or mere lust, it’s for something as pointless and bizarre as a parking place or a pair of designer sunglasses.

“People used to kill for noble reasons-for revenge or honor or to usurp a throne. Today, everyone lets it ‘all hang out.’ ” His lip curled around the phrase disdainfully. “You can’t build a believable mystery around simple scandal for its own sake anymore. Can you imagine trying to write A Scandal in Bohemia today? Instead of hiring Sherlock Holmes to retrieve that picture of himself with Irene Adler, the king would probably be trying to peddle the negatives to The National Enquirer.”

Sigrid laughed. “And would probably be turned down because both parties in the picture were fully clothed.”

As she dressed for work, Sigrid thought about the remaining suspects in Roger Shambley’s death in light of Roman’s insistence that most contemporary homicides were committed for gain. She had to admit that Shambley’s shadowy threats carried little weight in today’s tolerant atmosphere. And yet…

She brushed her hair, put on lipstick and eyeshadow, and even rooted out a red-and-gold silk scarf to add color to her charcoal gray suit, but all the time, her mind kept switching back and forth between Matt Eberstadt’s reservations about Rick Evans and Pascal Grant, and her own unanswered question of why Shambley had been killed on the basement steps.

She put on the shoulder holster she’d begun using when her wounded arm made a purse impractical back in October; and her subconscious threw up something that she’d overlooked till then: what had Rick Evans done in those few minutes between the time he left Pascal Grant’s room and the time young Grant met him over Roger Shambley’s body?

The more she thought of it, the surer she became. She glanced at her clock. Still a little early but Albee was usually an early bird, thought Sigrid, and began punching in numbers on her phone.

Elaine Albee answered on the second ring. She sounded a little dubious when Sigrid outlined her theory, but she procured the address Sigrid wanted.

“You’re the boss,” said Albee, and promised to meet her there as soon as she could get the search warrant.

When Sigrid arrived at the apartment building in the West Eighties, she discovered that Jim Lowry had come along, too.

“I’m the recorder on this case, aren’t I?” he grinned.

The building was one of those solid old brick co-ops with a daytime doorman and a well-tended elevator that rose smoothly to the eighteenth floor.

It was only a few minutes before ten when they rang the bell, but soon there was a flicker of movement behind the peephole, then the door was opened by Jacob Munson, still in his robe and slippers and holding the art section of the New York Times.

“Lieutenant Harald?” he said, surprised to find them on his threshold.

“May we come in?” she asked. “This is Detective Lowry, whom you met on Friday, and Detective Albee. Wed like to talk to your grandson.”

“Richard? Ja, sure.” He led them down a dim hall lined with framed black-and-white drawings into a large sitting room bright with a half-dozen modern paintings on the walls and numerous small sculptures and art objects atop cabinets, tables, and window sills. The bookcases were filled to overflowing with art books of all eras and a Mozart sonata cascaded in a ripple of crisp harmonics through the room.

It was a room of culture, a room that had filled up slowly and judiciously over the long years with objects and pictures that represented careful winnowing, a room that had probably been familiar to the adult Nauman while she was still a child in grade school. Imagining Nauman here made Sigrid sad for what she now must do.

“Please sit,” said Munson, gesturing to comfortably shabby couches and chairs. “My grandson is asleep, but-”

“No, I’m awake, Grandfather,” said Rick Evans from the doorway. “What’s up?”

He wore jeans and an LSU sweatshirt and he looked very young and vulnerable with his bare feet and sleep-tousled hair.

“We’d like to talk to you again, Mr. Evans,” Sigrid said. “About the statement you signed Thursday.”

Rick glanced at Munson. “The lawyer said I wasn’t supposed to talk to you without her.”

“You may call her if you wish, but this is only to clarify things you already told us.”

“Should I, Grandfather?” he asked.

Jacob Munson fingered his thin gray beard. “No tricks?” he asked.

“No tricks,” Sigrid promised. “If at any time he wants to stop, then he can say so. We’ll take him downtown and you can invite your lawyer to be present.”

Rick’s eyes were apprehensive as he sat down upon a near-by leather hassock.

Munson folded his paper, placed it neatly on the morning pile beside his chair, and prepared to listen.

Sigrid turned to the young man. “You’ve told us that on Wednesday night at approximately ten-fifteen, you were visiting Pascal Grant in his room in the basement of the Erich Breul House when you heard a strange noise. Is this correct?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said in his soft Southern voice.

“You said that you went outside to investigate, carrying a softball bat; that you heard a noise which you identified as footsteps in the passage to the service door; that someone unknown to you left by that door; and that when you returned to the main kitchen, you saw Pascal Grant bending over Shambley’s body. Correct?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he repeated.

“Who did you think had gone down that passageway, Mr. Evans?”

“I told you. I don’t know,” he said. His brown eyes met her steady gaze and then darted away.

“How long would you say that you were out of Pascal Grant’s sight?”

“I-I’m not sure. Two minutes, maybe three.”

She sat silently, then held out her hand to Albee, who gave her the legal document.

“This is a search warrant, Mr. Munson. It gives us the authority to search your apartment. If you’ve no objection, we’ll begin with your grandson’s room.”

“No!” cried Rick, springing to his feet.

Munson looked up at his daughter’s son and his face was terrible in its aged, pitiless intensity. “Why not, Richard?”

The youth made a hopeless gesture and sank back down on the hassock.

Sigrid nodded to Albee and Lowry.

“That your room through there?” asked Lowry.

“Yes, sir.” His shoulders slumped in defeat.

As the other two detectives disappeared down the hall, Munson asked Sigrid if she would like coffee or tea.

“Nothing, thank you.”

“I assume you’ve heard about Thorvaldsen?”

She nodded.

“Shocking,” he said and sat back in his leather chair with a weary air.

The Mozart sonata came to an end and was replaced by Handel. Otherwise the room was silent.

She did not expect Lowry and Albee to be gone for more than a few minutes and she was right. After all, how many places were there to hide something as long as a gold-headed walking stick?

“Mein Gott!” Munson exclaimed, when Lowry returned, carrying the cane carefully by the handkerchief-wrapped tip. “Richard, was ist das?”

Rick Evans swallowed hard, then stood up manfully and said, “I guess I’d better put my shoes on. And maybe you could call Miss Difranco, sir, and tell her I’ve been arrested for killing Dr. Shambley?”

“Oh, don’t be an ass,” Sigrid told him. She turned to Munson. “You’d let him do it, wouldn’t you? Your own grandson.”

Munson glared back at her, his small frame rigid with anger. “I disown him!” he said. “He is a disgrace to my blood.”

Rick was bewildered. “Grandfather-”

“No! I have no grandson who is ein Schwuler. ”

Rick flushed and drew back as if he’d been struck. “I’m not!”

“What did you see when you stepped out of Pascal Grant’s room Wednesday night?” Sigrid asked softly.

“Not see,” Rick quavered, trying to hold back the tears. “I smelled something. Peppermint. All the way down the passageway, the smell of peppermint. And then when I got home, I saw the cane in the umbrella stand and there was blood on the knob.”

Grief-stricken, he looked at her and shook his head. “I couldn’t believe my eyes. It was just there in the umbrella stand for anyone to walk in and see, and he was in bed sleeping like a baby.”

“Schwul,” growled Munson.

“That’s what set you off, wasn’t it?” Sigrid asked him. “What did he do? Taunt you that your grandson was a homosexual and that he would prove it to you?”

Jacob Munson gave a short laugh and glared at her defiantly. “Now I’ll call Miss Difranco and tell her you’ve arrested me, ja?”

“Yes,” Sigrid said, and wondered how she was going to tell Nauman.

No. 14 Sussex Square

Dearest Friend,

We are so sorry you do not feel you can join us for Götterdämmerung tomorrow night, but Henry and I do understand. To think of hearing Wagner without Sophie beside me in our box to translate certain of the passages is almost insupportable. How much more unbearable for you!

You are very kind to give me her Ring scores. I cannot think of any keepsake of hers I should rather have had, and I shall always treasure the memory of the happy hours we spent pouring over them in her music room, our two voices blending together in the songs of the Rhine maidens.

With affectionate gratitude,

Jean

Letter to Erich Breul Sr., undated, from Mrs. Henry Bigelow (From the Erich Breul House collection)