The Will to Kill Page 8

  I pitched what was left of my Lucky into the stream. “You’re asking me to believe he fell onto that chunk of ice? That nobody put him there to die of loss of blood and exposure?”

  “It’s possible.”

  “Let’s say you’re right, Jim. And that Rube Goldberg of a death went down just that way. If it’s hit-and-run, it’s homicide. Call in the B.C.I.”

  He shook his head. “Stunned and staggering, Elder could have lost his equilibrium, passed out, rolled down into the cold water. All on his own. He might’ve been hit by a car, yes, but there were no signs of it on the body.”

  “Hell, man, there was only half a body!”

  Sheridan looked at me with mild frustration, but not quite irritation. “So what’s your scenario?”

  I pointed down the road, away from the bridge, the direction we’d come. “Suppose somebody roared up behind him, flashing their lights. He recognizes the car as someone he knows and pulls over. The driver comes up, and Elder rolls the window down, and this familiar party smashes the old boy’s head into the steering wheel. Then he hauls the butler’s unconscious body out of the car and drags it down to the stream and, possibly with an accomplice, tosses him onto an ice floe. Then somebody drives the Country Squire into the snowbank.”

  “That’s a little elaborate, isn’t it?”

  “Not any more than your staggering accident victim who somehow flips himself onto that chunk of ice like Little Eva fleeing Simon Legree. You said Pat told you I could smell murder. Don’t you? It stinks! A secluded road, little traveled that time of night. Imagine two men, one grabbing Elder by the arms, the other by the legs, just tossing his dazed ass into the ice-choked river and onto that floe. A murder without quite killing the guy. Letting the cold and river and blood loss do it for them. Isn’t that possible?”

  Sheridan didn’t say anything for a long time. Then he said, “Maybe.”

  “As in, maybe you should call in the B.C.I.?”

  “Maybe as in maybe.”

  I put a friendly hand on his shoulder and stared into the lenses at my own crazed reflection.

  “Fine,” I said. “But if I catch up with whoever did this nasty thing before you decide you’re interested? I’ll make sure to show them less mercy than they gave to Jamison Elder.”

  He nodded somberly. “And I’ll make sure to pretend you didn’t say that.”

  * * *

  The diner—off Route 17 on the way to the Monticello raceway, a year-round harness racing track—was one of those aluminum boxcars they built before the war, back when the Space Age was Buck Rogers not Sputnik. It was late afternoon, not yet suppertime, and I was here to meet Clarence Hines of the law firm Hines & Carroll.

  Jukebox rock ’n’ roll was going, not so loud as to be obnoxious. The joint’s interior was black-trimmed chrome and turquoise vinyl, the counter stools mostly vacant this time of day, the blowsy blonde waitress behind it looking bored.

  Most of the booths were empty, too, but at the far end a fiftyish-looking character leaned out, gestured with a coffee cup in hand, and cheerfully called out, “Mr. Hammer! Back here.”

  I went down and slid in opposite him in a high-backed booth, tossing my hat on the table. He had what must have been a sturdy frame before time and pie—he was halfway through a piece of coconut crème—caught up with him. His charcoal worsted would have been too good for the place if it hadn’t looked slept in. The black-and-white silk tie seemed fresh enough.

  “Thanks for meeting me here, Mr. Hammer.”

  No handshake.

  “Thanks for seeing me, Mr. Hines.”

  His salt-and-pepper hair had the look of a ten-dollar haircut that could use a nickel comb dragged through it, and his mustache was a gray fringe over a smile that was too wide by half. His mildly bloodshot gray eyes had the sort of droopy lids that whispered drink or exhaustion or both.

  “I had a house closing in this part of the world,” he said, in a courtroom baritone toned down for indoors, “so I thought this might make a convenient meeting place. Would you like a piece of pie? It’s excellent. Homemade.”

  Not unless whoever baked it slept somewhere behind the food slot it wasn’t.

  “Ah, Debbie!” he said, looking up at the bored blonde waitress who had selflessly made the trek over here from behind the counter. “Give this gentleman whatever he wants.”

  “Coffee,” I said. “Milk not cream, sugar.”

  “You callin’ me ‘sugar,’ big boy, or do you want it in your coffee?”

  “Sugar, sugar.”

  She nodded and trudged off, like a native bearer on a safari.

  I said to the attorney, “I have a hunch you didn’t want to meet in your office for some reason other than a house closing.”

  He had a bite of pie, washed it down with coffee, and said, “You’ve caught me. It’s my partner—Leo. The Carroll in Hines & Carroll? He’s rather a stickler for legalities.”

  “I guess that could be a drawback in a lawyer.”

  He laughed at that, a little too much. “Leo would have wanted something in writing from all the Dunbars, with the exception of Charles of course, before talking with you. But getting a call from Dorena, asking for me to be frank with you, was good enough for me. Wonderful girl, Dorena.”

  “Yeah, I like her. I already know Dorena and her stepbrothers don’t get their dough till they turn forty.”

  He nodded. His face looked soft, like wax getting ready to melt. “Dex is thirty-six, and Wake thirty-five. So they are, you might say, within spitting distance of their fortunes. As for Dorena, she’s twenty-eight, so she has some way to go.”

  “What about Chickie?”

  “Charles? Well, he’s twenty and, because of his, uh, unusual status, shall we say, he has the longest wait of all… and even then, Dorena will control his funds.”

  “I take it you’re the executor of the estate, Mr. Hines.”

  My coffee came. I thanked Debbie, calling her “Sugar” again, and she tried to work up a flirtatious smile that only came off sullen. But the coffee was good.

  Hines said, “I am indeed the executor, but Dorena is Charles’ legal guardian. Chickie, as the family calls him, is a… special case. Still… there are areas where he has made strides.”

  “I saw him do the New York Times crossword today easier than I do the Jumble.”

  Hines laughed lightly. Finished with his pie, he slid the plate aside. “Chickie has areas where he is normal or even shines—vocabulary is one. He reads fairly voraciously, although his literary tastes run to the Hardy Boys and Tom Swift.”

  “Where else does he shine?”

  He thought about that, then said, “Reading is about the extent of it. Abstract concepts elude him, I’m afraid, and he has difficulty communicating. I do think Mr. Elder did amazing things with the boy—he home-schooled Chickie, you know.”

  I sipped coffee. “Chester Dunbar seems to have really kept Chickie under wraps. Wouldn’t it’ve been better to get the boy professional help?”

  The soft face conjured a rumpled smile. “Who are we to judge, Mr. Hammer, how a father chooses to raise a son? I knew Chet well enough to tell you, frankly, that he loved Chickie very much… but that he was tortured by the tragedy of so… so stunted an offspring.”

  “I’m no psychologist, but what little I’ve seen of the boy suggests autism. And that might be better dealt with in ways other than just locking him away in a carriage house.”

  Debbie came and refilled the lawyer’s coffee and left. Hines sipped it, not commenting on what I’d just said, but those droopy gray eyes were shifting with thought.

  “Is there something you’re not telling me, Mr. Hines?”

  “…I am not sure I should be getting into this. Even with Miss Dunbar’s blessing, some of the details of the will would seem better left to the executor and the family members.”

  “Not when the family members have hired an investigator to look into two possible murders.”

  “The author
ities consider both deaths accidental.”

  “But my clients don’t. And they’re your clients, too, Hines. Spill it.”

  He huffed a laugh. “Ah, the tough patois of the street tough. You live up to your reputation as something of a brute, Mr. Hammer.”

  “Oh, I haven’t even started yet.”

  He studied me, wondering if I was the type who would shake the truth out of a person. What do you think?

  Then, rather stiffly, he said, “To my knowledge, no medical professionals have ever examined Charles.”

  “That’s nuts.”

  Another shrug. “Perhaps. But that was how Chester Dunbar chose to deal with his son’s disabilities. It’s quite possible Dorena, as Chickie’s legal guardian, may do otherwise.”

  “She hasn’t in the three years since her father died.”

  “That’s true. But one day she will.” He seemed to catch himself. Had he said too much? “Are you sure you won’t have a slice of pie? I’m considering having another, self-indulgent though that might be.”

  “I don’t want pie, Mr. Hines. I want answers. What do you mean, ‘one day she will?’”

  He fought with himself, then finally said, “At age forty, Charles will be examined by medical professionals.”

  I leaned forward. “This is one of the terms of the will? That was Chester Dunbar’s wish?”

  “Yes.”

  “Hell, it’s a little late to bring the medics in, isn’t it? Age forty?”

  He flipped a hand. “Again, your judgment and mine of Chester Dunbar’s decisions matters not a whit. His wishes live on, in the terms of his last will and testament. And I, as executor of the estate, must honor those wishes. Just as you must do your clients’ bidding.”

  “What’s the purpose of a mandatory examination of a forty-year-old ‘boy?’”

  Again, the attorney seemed ill at ease. He might have been on the witness stand while I, a dogged prosecutor, bore down on him.

  “Mr. Hammer, if Charles passes muster, shall we say, under such an examination, he will get his share of the estate. The final trust-fund money will be turned over to him.”

  “And if he doesn’t?”

  “Dorena Dunbar will control those funds.”

  I frowned. “With what restrictions?”

  “None. Her father trusted his daughter implicitly.”

  I didn’t know what to make of that.

  “Every five years,” he added, “Charles will be tested again. Until the day he dies.”

  I said, “What kind of money are we talking here, counselor? I know Chester Dunbar was rich, from that wartime invention of his…”

  “Oh, that was not his only success, Mr. Hammer. Until it burned down some, oh, dozen years or so ago, he had a workshop in Monticello, and from there came some wonderful, and profitable, inventions. For instance, working on a prototype for a heart rhythm recording device, he somewhat accidentally developed the first pacemaker. Trying to invent a wallpaper cleaner, he stumbled onto a non-toxic modeling clay… which is that colorful stuff now familiar to every schoolchild and parent.”

  “Okay, he had a knack, particularly for stumbling onto things. So what kind of money do these trust funds hold?”

  A deep breath in and out. “Both stepsons and Dorena… and Charles, if he’s deemed fit at forty to handle his own finances and, well, his own life… will receive in excess of one million dollars.”

  I let out a low whistle. “A cool million each?”

  “A very cool million each, Mr. Hammer… more, now that the money Jamison Elder would have received will be plowed back into the estate.”

  No wonder there was murder in the air.

  “Okay,” I said, “but there are a few things that don’t add up to me. Why reward Jamison Elder so generously? How does a butler rate like that?”

  “Oh, he’s not alone. William Walters will receive $250,000 upon his retirement at age sixty-five.”

  “Why the hell?”

  “Chester Dunbar came to realize that these two individuals were, well, good with Charles. They could handle him, and were patient with him, and in their own way even loved the boy.”

  “He’s a man now, counselor.”

  “I beg to differ, Mr. Hammer. Charles remains a child. And as for making Elder and Walters beneficiaries—even if it took some time for that to take effect—Chester Dunbar wanted to ensure that his son would be well taken care of after his death. Between Dorena Dunbar, Jamison Elder, and William Walters, that would be the case.”

  The diner was starting to fill up now. The music of plates and silverware clattering lent some extra percussion to the rock ’n’ roll.

  I asked, “Is it a condition of the will that Dex, Wake, and Dorena live at that mansion until their respective trust funds kick in?”

  He seemed slightly surprised by that question. I had a feeling he didn’t think I was capable of coming up with that one.

  “Actually, Mr. Hammer… yes.”

  “Why would Dunbar insist on such a thing?”

  He thought for a moment or perhaps was just gathering his words. “I believe it was part of making sure Charles had the support he needed. So that the boy… now a man, as you say… would not be cut off from his family. Not that any of the ‘children’ object to the arrangement—enough money was set aside to run the household for twenty years. Living at the Dunbar place is financially expedient for all concerned.”

  I nodded, getting that. “How limited are the funds Dorena, Dex, and Wake will be receiving till trust fund time?”

  The droops on the eyes went up like window shades. “I’m not sure that telling you that, Mr. Hammer, is what Dorena had in mind when she asked me to talk with you.”

  I rolled out my nasty grin. “I heard her call you, Mr. Hines. I was standing right there. She told you to tell me whatever I wanted to know. And I want to know.”

  He sighed. His eyes drooped again in surrender. “Well, it’s what each trust fund generates—about fifty thousand yearly for each of them. A handsome stipend, but for children who grew up wealthy, a bit of a challenge to live within those means.”

  I could use that kind of stipend myself.

  Debbie brought more coffee for me, a fresh cup already with milk and sugar. She was growing on me.

  “Now I do have to ask you something, counselor,” I said, “that might go beyond what you feel comfortable sharing.”

  “At this stage, I can’t imagine what that might be.”

  “Well, let’s start with this. Wake Dunbar is my client, separately and in addition to what his sister has hired me to do. In both cases, I work through a Manhattan attorney with the proper paperwork. That grants me client confidentiality.”

  “An intelligent arrangement, sir.”

  “You don’t have to sound surprised about it.” I sipped the coffee. Perfect. “I assume, beyond being executor of the estate, that you do all the legal work for the Dunbars.”

  “That’s correct.”

  “Can you confirm that if Wake and Madeline split up, she gets no share of the trust-fund money.”

  “I can.”

  My eyes narrowed in on him. “What if Wake should die before he reaches forty?”

  “She gets it all.”

  “Full service, no waiting?”

  He shrugged, gesturing with an open hand. “None. That was the prenup, which did, in fact, make its way into the will. Chester Dunbar knew all about it and approved heartily. Frankly, I don’t think he ever cared for the woman.”

  “And why is that?”

  “Well… I shouldn’t share this because he told me in confidence.”

  “Why stop now, counselor?”

  His mouth twitched under the fringe of mustache. “She was always… ‘putting the make’ on Chester, as I heard him say. By which I mean… inappropriate sexual advances.”

  “I know what ‘putting the make on’ means,” I said. “What’s her background, anyway?”

  “She was a showgirl at a high-end ni
ghtclub. The Copa, I believe. That’s where Wake saw her, and met her. Chester never approved.” The attorney smirked humorlessly. “I suppose one can’t blame the woman for trying to win her father-in-law’s approval.”

  “Sure,” I said, jamming on my hat. “But by screwing him?”

  Hines was having a second piece of pie as I left. I noticed him pouring something from a flask into his coffee—not milk, I’d wager. Behind the counter, Debbie winked at me on my way out and I winked back. But in her case it might have been a twitch.

  For a while I just sat outside the sleek diner in the Galaxie going over the legal niceties and not-so-niceties I’d just been made privy to. All I came up with was that everybody at the Dunbar place had a reason to want everybody else dead.

  CHAPTER SIX

  The neon glowed in the night, all in red: HONEST ABE’S LOG CABIN, with a tilted stovepipe hat shorting in and out. Nestled in a copse of pines a few miles outside of Monticello, the club itself lived up to its name, a log cabin, one-story with wings jutting at either side, the half-full gravel parking lot between. That’s where I parked Dorena Dunbar’s red Thunderbird—she’d let me drive—and came around and got the door for her, doing the gentleman bit.

  When I’d got back to the Dunbar place late afternoon, I found that no one except Chickie and Dorena would be home for supper. Dixie the cook hadn’t started anything yet, so I invited Dorena to accompany me for the evening. Chickie apparently was used to dining alone, in which event he got hot dogs, a favorite. Everybody won.

  Here in the parking lot, under the full moon, Dorena was a lovely creature glowing in ivory. She wore a light-blue leather-belted sheath that showed off her slender shapely figure to a tee, topped off with a matching beret. I’d put on a fresh suit, if you’re interested. The night was pleasantly cool, the thaw holding on.