The Dead Bell

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER

TWO

At fifty-one, I consider myself a good specimen of the male of the species. I work hard to keep in shape, and quietly judge my colleagues, whose academy photos could not with any certainty be used to identify them. As they grouse and fret over the obstacle course during the qualification physicals, I try, without much success, to hide my schadenfreude when the results are posted and a handful of officers are offered the choice of either getting fit or facing early retirement. The office became more serious when a senior inspector collapsed on the rope wall and later died.

I’ve never held any pretense of having classic good looks. I inherited my pleasant, if not chiseled, face from my father. I am thankful the hair on my head is full and cut close. One time, I was asked during a party game to describe the actor I most resembled. I chose Jeff Daniels, not Brad Pitt—classic American, but not American classic. As I approach my mid-fifties, the skin at the corners of my eyes has become finely etched, and creases mark the edges of my mouth. My eyes are deep set and give me what I’ve been told is a brooding look. The distinctive white scar above my right eye dashes any remote chance of magazine good looks. The width of a bead of caulking, and the length of a cutworm, the scar is the product of an accident in my teens and serves to toughen a face which I think might otherwise tend to the boyish. I have also been told I can look menacing, and that my blank stare can be like reading Sanskrit. Trina once said I had the face of a killer but the heart of a poet, to which, laughing, I’d replied, “That is a damn sight better than the reverse.”

That, of course, was before the train went off the rails, before I decided to take my stand with Trina. In the right circumstances, I can be domineering. I don’t think of myself as a bully, but with Trina, I have to admit it often comes down to a simple conflict of wills. If one or the other of us could gracefully withdraw, if only for a little while, I am sure we’d have less conflict. But, almost in the same instant I have this thought, the small voice in my head asks whether, when the accounts are settled, if it is really worth going through the daily adjustments and compromises. I wonder if being alone isn’t a better solution.

Staring at my cell, I entertain the idea of calling Trina back and, weighing the required ownership of my conduct against the discomfort of solitude, I drop my phone in my pocket.

One of the uniformed officers standing at the back of the garden tells me the place is called Walsingham. I push the intercom. While I’m standing there, the cop, obviously impressed, tells me the place got its name from the doors which came from England, weigh a thousand pounds apiece, and are sixteen-feet high and four-and-a-half- inches thick.

Moments later, the famous doors open, admitting me to the front hall, which is dominated by a crystal chandelier suspended from a soaring three-story skylight. The air is heavy with furniture polish and the cool citrus fragrance of wealth. I savor the quiet and order—the greatest gift granted to the wealthy—the illusion of freedom from loud anarchy, sudden noise, and the ugly.

I have always harbored a streak of anarchy, fueled no doubt by my blue-collar upbringing and a vestige of college philosophy. I also believe the foundations supporting the cloisters of privilege contain faults that lie beneath. When the revolution inevitably comes for those who firmly hold the belief life is beautiful and scheduled, reality will be visited with the startling speed and ferocity of an African savannah feeding frenzy. The delicate web of complex golf- course courtesies and arcane yacht club mannerisms will flap uselessly in the raging winds of change.

I follow one of the uniforms who’s been assigned the house until we finally reach a room at the back that overlooks the gardens. A blonde woman stands alone, facing away, towards the windows.

The officer next to me clears her throat. “Ms. Edwards, this is Detective Tom Edison. He’s here to see you.”

The woman turns to face me. I can immediately detect the same aquiline features as those of her mother. Thin lips are set under a strong nose. She gives me a look, her steely blue eyes with their dark irises and shiny clear surfaces, unblinking. Her skin is polished and smooth. She wears a light grey tailored jacket over a silk blouse, and light grey wool slacks, which are, I think, maybe a size too small. She stands there, arms crossed, and remains in the middle of the room. “Linda Edwards,” she says, turning to me but making no move to shake my hand. “My father’s getting dressed and will be down shortly.”

She stands there, arms folded, asserting distance and an implied intent to invoke status. Rather than attribute her demeanor to shyness, insecurity, or simply a reaction to her recently dead mother, I assume she is acting to establish standing.

“Over here, if you will.” Linda gestures to a large couch. I walk further into the room but remain standing. Coming to a stop, she turns to me and tells me she’s lived at the house with her parents and her daughter since her divorce. The previous night, she claims, she’d been at a gallery opening in Chicago and then had eaten dinner in Lake Forest with Nora Summers, one of her best friends. It was late, she says, and they’d had too much to drink. She’d dropped Nora at her house and when she’d returned, looked in on her daughter, Emma, then went straight to bed. The first she’d learned of her mother’s death was when her father came and woke her and told her to get the police.

“When were you up this morning?” I ask.

“At about seven-thirty.”

“Can you tell me why the surveillance system has been erased?”

Linda shakes her head. “I don’t think it was erased. The system has had problems for months.”

“Didn’t anybody think to get it fixed?”

Linda’s face darkens. “We didn’t think something like this was going to happen.”

“Well, we’re going to want to get a look at the recorder.”

“Help yourself.”

“Where is it?”

Linda’s cheeks color and her eyes narrow. Taking a deep breath, she says, “Look, I have a ten-year-old who has soccer this morning.”

“Your daughter—Emma, is it? She’s here?”

Linda hesitates, seeming a little surprised, then she nods. “Yes, upstairs in her room.”

“Does your ex live here in Lake Forest?”

Linda shakes her head. “In Chicago, but I don’t see what that has to do with my mother.”

“Name?” I ask, enjoying the fact she clearly dislikes sharing.

“Lenten Edwards.”

I looked at her, puzzled. She manages another thin smile, which almost looks pretty on her.

“His family’s related to Jonathan Edwards. ‘Sinners in the hands of an angry God’, Yale, Aaron Burr and all that . . .” she looks towards the door. “He’s also a lawyer.” As if this final statement is itself the best evidence of the fact he’s a scoundrel.

“Anyone besides you and your parents and Emma living here?”

“The housekeeper, Frances Reynolds. But she’s been in England with her family for the last several weeks. Jesus Morales maintains the grounds and has access to the house. His wife, Alma, does menial work and helps Frances with the cooking when she needs it. She’s been sick lately.”

She pauses and rises to her feet. “If you’ll just excuse me one min—”

At the far end of the room, the door opens, revealing a slim man in his early seventies. I am struck immediately by the man’s lined, narrow face and clipped gray hair. Unflinching blue eyes, lined with dark heavy pouches, stare back at me. A small dusting of silver stubble shades the man’s cheeks.

Clearly relieved, Linda takes her father by the arm. “Daddy, this is Detective Tom Edison.”

Charles Wesley extends a hand. “Linda, it’s cold in here. Will you adjust the heat?”

I take Wesley’s hand. The man’s grip feels cool and strong. Charles bows slightly, in a continental fashion, gesturing for me to sit down. I move towards the couch and sit.

“Mr. Wesley, I’d—”

“Daddy, Mr. Edison—”

I shoot a glance at Linda. “I was just starting with Ms. Edwards when you came in, so we haven’t gotten far.”

Wesley shrugs, then takes a seat on a long brocade couch. He turns his attention to a small table next to the couch where a small crystal bird lays on its side. He carefully rights it. Next, he selects a piece of porcelain, holding it to the light.

After several seconds, the old man closes his eyes, as if seeing the events unfold in his own private movie. “I don’t share my wife’s taste for the garden,” he says. “I believe in cutting to the chase, Detective Edison, if you’ll forgive the cliché. I’m fairly sure you’ll hear some unflattering things about Faith, but I’d ask you to bear in mind, like most people, she was complex. Faith was raised on a farm in Iowa and was a brilliant student. She got a scholarship to Yale in classics, which is where I met her.” He pauses for a couple of seconds to place the porcelain on the table to his left. “She had a quick mind and was financially very capable. Faith was also a fierce championship tournament bridge player.”

“She sounds like a formidable woman.”

Charles smiles. “Formidable, yes. A good word, like a fortress. We had our differences. I often thought Faith too direct. She wasn’t gifted with subtlety and she had a strong sense of loyalty, which was easily betrayed. I might have said in certain instances she lacked compassion. For those she cared for, however, she would move heaven and earth.”

“Do you have any idea who might have done this, Mr. Wesley?”

“None whatsoever.”

I shift, looking over at Linda. “There’s something troubling in all of this. Your wife was killed in a—” I struggle, trying to be delicate “—particularly brutal way. We’ve got a couple of theories we’re gonna look at.”

“How dreadful,” Charles says.

I don’t want to tell them as part of standard police protocol we will need to rule out contract murder, and that, eventually, we will have a r**e kit done as part of the workup. “Do you have any idea why anyone would want Mrs. Wesley dead?”

“De mortuis nil nisi bonum,” Linda mutters, looking at her father.

“Well, goddamn it,” Charles says, turning to his daughter, visibly angry.

Linda doesn’t apologize.

“Did she have enemies?”

Charles closes his eyes. “Enemies,” he says, weighing the word slowly. “Faith didn’t really care what others thought of her, but I can’t believe anyone would want to murder her.”

“Do you have any guns?”

“Several, but since Emma’s been here, we’ve locked them up. They seem a bit pointless now,” he says, shaking his head.

“Can you tell me about the surveillance system?”

Charles’ eyes shift. “I don’t pay attention to that stupid thing. I have no idea . . .” he mumbles, trailing off.

For several seconds the only sound is the quiet whir of the ventilation system coming to life. I wait for Charles to finish whatever thought he had until it becomes obvious he’s done talking. The old man rises and walks to a grand piano at the far end of the room. Gently opening the lid, he sits and begins to play a tune, quietly at first, then a little louder. A slow, melodic theme. Four single slow notes, followed by an ascending triad, with a minor interval at the end.

Without hesitation, I say, “Schubert.”

Wesley looks over, surprised. “Just so. Do you play?” He continues the melody.

“Not really. I took a couple of music-history classes at Northwestern,” I admit reluctantly. Wesley stops playing. He suddenly looks very old.

“Der Tod und das Mädchen,” he says, as if offering the answer to a classroom.

I reply, “Death and the Maiden.”

Charles smiles briefly. “Very good.” He nods at me. “The song is a dialogue between the maiden and Death as he comes to claim her.”

Charles plays the next phrase. “She tells him, ‘I’m too young . . . don’t touch me.’”

The tempo increases. “Death replies, ‘I’m a friend and you will sleep softly in my arms . . .’” The music stops. Charles closes the lid and gazes towards the window. I wonder if the bizarre vignette Charles just enacted is a way of expressing his grief or some kind of test to measure my intelligence.

“I found Faith when I walked outside at about seven- fifteen. It was about five minutes after seven, and she’d not yet returned to the kitchen from the garden. She would start coffee, or if Frances was here, she’d have coffee ready and read the paper. It was late, so I put on my robe and went downstairs. Seeing no one in the dining room or kitchen, I went out.”

Charles returns to the couch, tapping the porcelain, and examining its structure. Even from where I sit, I can see fine blue designs on its translucent surface. Linda, who’s been standing at the other end of the room, moves next to her father, sits, and takes his arm. I’m jaded enough to wonder if this is a genuine display of affection or a small piece of theater for my benefit.

“Were any of the staff here?”

Linda jumps in. “Jesus doesn’t come in until eight- thirty. When Alma comes on Saturdays, she comes with him.”

I ignore her. “When you went out, what did you do?”

Charles shifts in his seat, staring into a place surely gone in time but alive in his memory. “I walked out along the path. It was wet because the sprinkler system was on. When I got to the rose garden, I found her, face down.” He begins to shake, making no sound, then clutches Linda’s hand and holds it tight. I can see the sudden display genuinely catches her off guard.

After a few seconds, I clear my throat. “The coroner’s office will verify cause of death. Crime scene technicians will be around the house for most of today. It can be disturbing, so if there is somewhere you can go, I suggest you do. They will ask you for some of Mrs. Wesley’s things to get DNA and rule out prints. Fairly standard stuff.”

“Can I go now?” Linda asks, releasing her father’s hand and getting up from the couch. She looks peeved. I walk over to her and hand her my card.

“You can text me to let me know when I can talk to Emma,” I say. “My cellphone number is on the back.”

She nods, moving to the door, leaving her father alone with me as she skirts a uniform entering the room to report the scene has been processed.

Once the uniform is gone, Wesley makes his way to a tall mahogany sideboard and pulls a stopper out of a crystal decanter. The stopper releases with a solid clink. “Will you take a drink?” the old man asks, pouring three fingers into a heavy-looking crystal glass.

I shake my head. Charles sits down again. He takes a long, single pull from the glass. He looks into the bottom and swirls the contents, then finishes it off. We sit there for a few seconds as Charles apparently gathers his thoughts.

Taking the silence as an opportunity, I ask if Mrs. Wesley had any close friends she kept in touch with. Mustering something close to a smile, Charles answers, “The Hookers.”

I look at him, bewildered.

“Her crochet friends,” Charles rises again to refill his empty glass at the decanter, this time making sure the glass is a stout four fingers.

“I’ll need the contact information for those people and information about her bank accounts and finances—”

“Just a second there,” Wesley sputters. With effort, he puts the glass on the side table, his eyes narrowing and a slight flush darkening the wattle of his throat. “The bank accounts and finances—is that really necessary? I mean, for God’s sake, who’s being investigated here?”

I realize I’ve kicked up a hornet’s nest and move quickly to explain. “In a homicide of this kind, Mr. Wesley, we need to know if there’s anything unusual about the family finances. Is there an accountant or financial advisor I can speak to, to avoid disturbing you?”

Wesley moves unsteadily to a carved side desk and extracts a small notecard. “Fred Atwater,” he says, handing me the paper. The veneer of civility is cracking.

“Are either Mr. or Mrs. Morales here? I’d like to speak with them.”

“Let me see,” Charles says, walking to the door, leaving me to look around.

I make my way over to the glass case containing antique samurai war armor and, according to the engraved placard, a katana-samurai sword made by Masamune. The placard identifies the sword as the legendary Honjō Masamune, the ceremonial sword of the Tokugawa period, passed down from one shōgun to another for two-hundred-and-fifty years.

I hear the door click. “A family heirloom,” Charles says, joining me in front of the case. “During the US occupation of Japan, the Honjō Masamune was found by US GIs and taken to a police station in Mejiro. In January 1946, for reasons which still aren’t clear, the Mejiro police gave the sword to a man identified in the police records as Sgt. Coldy Bimore.”

Charles walks over to the sideboard and pours himself another three fingers. “It turns out there was no Sgt. Coldy Bimore. My father acquired the sword at considerable cost and under complicated circumstances.” He shuffles to the couch again and sits, careful not to spill the drink. I can’t really fault him for taking a few drinks on a day like this. “It’s too valuable to give away and too dirty to sell,” he says, taking a drink.

“What about the Moraleses?” I ask, leaving open the question of the sword’s provenance.

Charles shakes his head and takes another pull from the glass. “Apparently they’ve not arrived yet.”

“Can I have an address?”

“You may,” Charles says, leaving me to guess whether he’d intended the subtle grammar correction as a rebuff. He reaches out to hand me another small notecard, already made out. “The number for Jesus and Alma. A couple of the hookers are on there, too.”

Wesley extends his hand, a sign it is time to leave. I take it, more out of politeness than a concession it is time to terminate the interview. Wesley gazes at me, smiling sadly. “I know you’ll do what you have to Tom—may I call you Tom?”

I nod tentatively, wondering whether I’ve unwittingly ceded some privilege of rank. Wesley quickly says, “Good. You may call me Charles,” although he offers the courtesy in a way that invites neither closeness nor friendship.

He sighs deeply and wavers slightly, clearly feeling the effect of the ten fingers of whiskey. “Please excuse my lack of decorum as an old man who’s had too much to drink. I’d appreciate it if you could use some . . .” he pauses, apparently searching for the right word, “discretion,” he finally mumbles, then grips my arm.

“We’ll be as careful as we can,” I assure him.

“Thank you.” Charles pats me on the shoulder. “We’ve been through a lot.”

As I walk down the driveway to where my car is parked out on Moffet, I see the emergency vehicles are gone and, mercifully, Lou’s Firebird is gone as well. I again catch a glimpse of the lake through the trees. The sun, full in the sky, shimmers on the lake’s surface. I can hear the woodcocks, warblers, mergansers, and chorus frogs, and feel the day brimming with life.

At the end of the drive, as I wait for the gates to open, I survey the house behind me, marveling at its tall walls and vaulted windows, secured with the tight and orderly webbing of privilege and convention. I’d been raised in chaos and disorder, and knew that order, perhaps an illusion, maybe even a myth, brings the promise of comfort—a promise of the honey-warm porch light across a dark field to guide one home.

The gate opens, and once I get the Beast started, I head down the road to Waukegan.