“The bird-watchers? No, of course not.”
“Of course not?”
“The mother was a semi-invalid, and the son, although he turned out to be a thief, was hardly a mayhem-and-carnage sort of person.”
“What sort of person would you say he was?”
“I would have said he was on the frail side. Definitely on the frail side. Shy.”
“Would you say he was gay?”
Wellstone looked thoughtful. “Interesting question. I’m almost always sure, one way or the other, but in this case I’m not. I got the impression that he wanted to give me the impression he was gay. But that doesn’t make much sense, does it?”
Not unless the whole persona was an act, thought Gurney. “Other than frail and shy, how else would you describe him?”
“Larcenous.”
“I mean from a physical point of view.”
Wellstone frowned. “A mustache. Tinted glasses.”
“Tinted?”
“Like sunglasses, dark enough so you couldn’t really see his eyes-I hate talking to someone when I can’t see their eyes, don’t you?-but light enough so he could wear them indoors.”
“Anything else?”
“Woolly hat-one of those Peruvian things pulled down around his face-scarf, bulky coat.”
“How did you get the impression he was frail?”
Wellstone’s frown tightened into a kind of consternation. “His voice? His manner? You know, I’m not really sure. All I remember seeing-actually seeing-was a big puffy coat and hat, sunglasses, and a mustache.” His eyes widened with sudden umbrage. “Do you think it was a disguise?”
Sunglasses and a mustache? To Gurney it sounded more like a parody of a disguise. But even that little extra twist could fit the weirdness of the pattern. Or was he over-thinking it? Either way, if it was a disguise, it was an effective one, leaving them with no useful physical description. “Can you recall anything else about him? Anything at all?”
“Obsessed with our little feathered friends. Had an enormous pair of binoculars-looked like those infrared things you see commandos in the movies creeping around with. Left his mother in the cottage and spent all his time in the woods, searching for grosbeaks-rose-breasted grosbeaks.”
“He told you that?”
“Oh, yes.”
“That’s surprising.”
“Why?”
“There aren’t any rose-breasted grosbeaks in the Catskills in the winter.”
“But he even said… That lying bastard!”
“He even said what?”
“The morning before he left, he came into the main house, and he couldn’t stop raving about the damn grosbeaks. He kept repeating over and over that he had seen four rose-breasted grosbeaks. Four rose-breasted grosbeaks, he kept saying, as though I were doubting him.”
“Maybe he wanted to be sure you’d remember,” said Gurney, half to himself.
“But you’re telling me he couldn’t have seen them, because there aren’t any to be seen. Why would he want me to remember something that didn’t happen?”
“Good question, sir. May I take a quick look at the cottage now?”
From the sitting room, Wellstone led him through an equally Victorian dining room, full of ornate oak chairs and mirrors, out a side door onto a pathway whose spotless cream-colored pavers, while not exactly the yellow brick road of Oz, did bring it to mind. The path ended at a storybook cottage covered with English ivy, bright green despite the season.
Wellstone unlocked the door, swung it open, and stood to the side. Instead of entering, Gurney looked in from the threshold. The front room was partly a living room and partly a shrine to the film-with its collection of posters, a witch hat, a magic wand, Cowardly Lion and Tin Man figurines, and a stuffed replica of Toto.
“Would you like to go in and see the display case the slippers were taken from?”
“I’d rather not,” said Gurney, stepping back onto the path. “If you’re the only person who’s been inside since your guests left, I’d like to keep it that way until we can get an evidence-processing team on site.”
“But you said you weren’t here for-Wait a minute, you said you were here for ‘a different matter’-isn’t that what you said?”
“Yes, sir, that’s correct.”
“What sort of ‘evidence processing’ are you talking about? I mean, what… Oh, no, surely you can’t think that my light-fingered bird-watcher is your Jack the Ripper?”
“Frankly, sir, I have no reason to think he is. But I have to cover every possibility, and it would be prudent for us to have the cottage examined more closely.”
“My, oh, my. I don’t know what to say. If it’s not one crime, it’s another. Well, I suppose I can’t impede police progress-outlandish as it seems. And there’s a silver lining. Even if all this has nothing to do with the horror on the hill, you may end up finding a clue to my missing slippers.”
“Always a possibility,” said Gurney with a polite smile. “You can expect an evidence team here sometime tomorrow. Meanwhile keep the door locked. Now, let me ask you once more-because this is very important-are you sure no one but yourself has been inside the cottage during the past two days, not even your partner?”
“Emerald Cottage was my creation and my exclusive responsibility. Mr. Plumstone is responsible for Honeybee Cottage, including its unfortunate decor.”
“Sorry?”
“The theme of Honeybee Cottage is a bore-you-blind illustrated history of beekeeping. Need I say more?”
“One last question, sir. Do you have the bird-watcher’s name and address in your guest register?”
“I have the name and the address he gave me. Considering the theft, I rather doubt their authenticity.”
“I’d better look at the register and make a note of them, anyway.”
“Oh, there’s no need to look at the register. I can see it now with perfect, painful clarity. Mr. and Mrs.-odd way, don’t you think, for a gentleman to describe himself and his mother?-Mr. and Mrs. Scylla. The address was a post-office box in Wycherly, Connecticut. I can even give you the box number.”
Chapter 31
Gurney was sitting in the spotless gravel parking area. He’d completed his call to BCI for an evidence team to be sent to The Laurels ASAP and was just slipping his cell phone into his pocket when it rang. It was Ellen Rackoff again. First he gave her the news about the Scylla couple and the peculiar theft to pass along to Kline. Then he asked why she’d called. She gave him a phone number.
“It’s a homicide detective from the Bronx who wants to talk to you about a case he’s working on.”
“He wants to talk to me?”
“He wants to talk to someone on the Mellery case, which he read about in the paper. He called the Peony police, who referred him to BCI, who referred him to Captain Rodriguez, who referred him to the district attorney, who referred him to you. His name is Detective Clamm. Randy Clamm.”
“Is that a joke?”
“I wouldn’t know about that.”
“How much information did he volunteer about his own case?”
“Zero. You know how cops are. Mostly he wanted to know about our case.”
Gurney called the number. It was answered on the first ring.
“Clamm.”
“Dave Gurney, returning your call. I’m with the district attor-”
“Yes, sir, I know. Appreciate the quick response.”
Although he was basing it on next to nothing, Gurney had a vivid impression of the cop on the other end-a fast-thinking, fast-talking multitasker who, with better connections, might have ended up at West Point instead of the police academy.
“I understand you’re on the Mellery homicide,” the crisp young voice raced on.
“Correct.”
“Multiple stab wounds to the victim’s throat?”
“Correct.”
“Reason for my call is a similar homicide down here, and we wanted to rule out the possibility of any connection.”