never talks about his daughter or grandchildren. He seems to have no interest in them."
"That's my impression as well, and the opinion of a friend of mine who knows them slightly," Mel admitted. "Do the rest of your old friends feel the same way about him?"
"Most of them. Except for Ed Kolwalski. He and Bunting were always in touch. Even in college, they stuck together. I suspected, but won't go on the record, that Ed was supplying Bunting with drugs from his dad's pharmacy. It might have just been vitamins, but they were so furtive about it that it made me wonder if it was something stronger."
"Do you think Kowalski still does this?"
Walsh nodded. "I'll deny I said this if this comes to court, but Ed passed a bottle of something to Bunting the night we got together. They were sitting next to each other, but I was on the other side of Ed and saw it changing hands."
"Thank you," Mel said. "And I'll try to use this, if I need to, without using your name."
"That will be tricky."
"It will. But I might not be required to use the information. Or you might like to testify if we need you to."
Walsh simply raised his eyebrows and took another puff of his cigar.
* * *When Mel returned to his office to make more detailed notes of his discussion with Irving Walsh, he had a message to call Hilda Turner at his convenience. He did so when he'd completed his notes.
"This is, I admit, rather silly, Detective Van-Dyne," she said. "I've thought and thought about Sven saying 'rabbit' and I think I might know why."
"Could you explain?"
Miss Turner sighed. "It's probably not going to help the least bit. Are you a father?"
"Not yet. Probably not ever," Mel said with a smile in his voice.
"Me too, not a mother," she replied, laughing. "Well, here is what I've remembered and it most likely means nothing. In the old days, mothers who had babies as winter approached used to make or buy these little pillowcase sort of bags. They were to keep the baby warm in a cold winter wind. There were a couple of buttons on each side and a sort of hood to put lightly over the baby's head to keep him or her warm."
"I think I grasp the concept. But where does a rabbit come into it?"
"Sven was a really little baby. Hardly more than five pounds, and he came home from the hospital with a cold. So my mother made him a rabbit-skin sack, lined with wool. He never had
another cold and grew fast. Pretty soon he was too big to fit in it, and it was summer. But he wouldn't part with it. Wouldn't go to sleep without it in his crib. When he was almost six and had rubbed off all the fur by then, he gave it up. So it's simply a comforting memory. He must have been dreaming about one of his favorite things in childhood."
"He certainly didn't sound comfortable when he said it," Mel replied.
"That's because he was trying so hard to say it right. Don't you think that's why?"
"It's possible, I suppose. Well, this probably isn't relevant to the case, but it is interesting. I don't think I've ever seen or heard of such a thing. But thank you for letting me know."
Mel hung up the phone, still smiling, and tidied up the rest of his files. Half an hour later, he felt he had everything sorted properly and dialed Jane.
When she answered, he said, "I've learned one thing about Sven and his saying 'rabbit' so forcefully"
Jane said, "It must be important. You sound so cheerful."
"No, I'm cheerful because it's completely irrelevant but kind of a funny story" He parroted what Miss Turner had explained.
"Oh, I know what those are. My grandmother used to make one for every single baby due to beborn close to winter. But not with rabbit fur, that I remember. She made them of soft flannel in several layers, the best color on the outside. Pretty soon, women from neighboring towns started asking her to make them for their own upcoming babies. She eventually made good money on them, and finally found a catalog that sold a pretty plaid flannel in shades of light blue, light green, light pink, and light yellow."
Jane thought for a second and said, "I think I still have one of them stashed away somewhere that she hadn't quite finished when she died. I'll try to find it to show you."
"Is this the grandmother who grew the bing cherries?"
"It is. She called the flannel bags baby buntings." She was silent for a moment and repeated, "Buntings."
"Bunting," Mel said. He was no longer cheerful.
Jane said, "Don't get carried away, Mel. It's sheer coincidence."
"Maybe not. The theater had lots of those brochures showing pictures and bios of the actors all over the place. They'd probably been printed well ahead of time. It's possible Sven couldn't quite remember the name and substituted something close to it. Something hauled up in his subconscious from his childhood."
"I know you probably dislike John Bunting as
much as most of the cast does, but that doesn't matter."
"Whether I like him or not isn't the point. I have to consider this as a possibility, though."
Twenty
Mel turned up at the rehearsal that evening. It was a technical walk-through, he was told. He didn't ask what that meant. It was quite obvious. It mostly involved final lighting decisions. The actors walked through, saying their lines. Not with much feeling, apparently, and certain lights shifted with the action as they moved around the set.
One scene seemed to be causing trouble. "That dress is an unattractive color," the lighting expert from the college called down to the stage. "I've tried all my filters and nothing helps. Tazz, do you have a different dress we could use for this scene? Blue or green would be better than the violent red."
Everything came to a halt while the lighting expert, Tazz, Imry, and Joani consulted.
Mel slipped around the back, searching for John Bunting. He found him outside the stage door, smoking a cigarette.
"You a smoker?" Bunting asked, fishing in his jacket pocket.
"I used to be," Mel replied. "Go ahead with yours. I hear you lost a valuable golf club."
Bunting must have inhaled too fast and had a fit of coughing. "How did you hear that?" he finally managed to ask.
"I'm friends with Mrs. Jeffry, and your wife mentioned it at the needlepoint meeting."
"Friends, huh? She's a tasty-looking woman. Doesn't her husband mind?"
Mel wanted to punch him, but said mildly, "She's a widow. Her husband died in a car accident many years ago. What kind of golf club was this?"
"Why do you ask? Are you a golfer?"
"Yes, but not a good one," Mel said with a disarming smile.
"It was my best driver. Inherited the whole set from my father. Nice heft. Just the right length. He bought the set in Scotland in 1912."
"Would you like me to ask around to see if I can find out what became of it?" Mel offered, as if speaking offhandly.
"Why would you care?"
Mel shrugged. "I'm a detective. I have lots of connections. How do you think you lost it?"
Bunting was still a bit suspicious of this interest, but said, "All my boarding school pals and I played at our favorite course early in our visit.
Then we went to lunch. We left all our golf bags in the storage area. Apparently somebody ran into them and they all fell over. I assumed, when I first missed it, that whoever did it put mine back in the wrong bag. I've called all the men I was with to see if my driver was accidentally put into their bags, but they all checked, and it wasn't."