Chapter 18. Pewter had to explore the house inch by inch, with Fargo’s nose about three inches behind her tail all the way

Pewter had to explore the house inch by inch, with Fargo’s nose about three inches behind her tail all the way. That chore finished, she went and sat by the back door and cried, and Fargo sat close beside her, whining in some apparent gesture of canine support. Figuring one or both might be feeling a call of nature, I went out with them. I was right on both counts. Technically, I knew Pewter could go over the fence; I just hoped she was too fat to try.

Then, kindly animal-person that I am, I opened food, freshened water and uncapped a Sprite for me. I reached the living room and just had the can tilted as great yowls and spits and growls and shrieks issued from the kitchen. Going on the happy assumption it was all talk, I sat down and took a mighty swig. They both immediately came into the living room and lay down amiably on the rug. It’s hard to produce high drama when your audience is yawning. I know—I’ve tried it.

We had enough real drama. I felt tremendous sympathy for Wolf and Peter, even if they weren’t guilty. Lord knows their lives would never be the same, no matter what the outcome. I went over the latest events in my mind. That Ben Fratos was capable of blackmail was a given. If he knew, or thought he knew, anything damaging against Peter and the Wolf, he might well have tried it. But if Wolf and Peter were innocent of his accusations, I couldn’t believe they were too dumb not to string him along until they could reach me and get some advice on what to do.

The tire iron was generic and might have belonged to anyone who’d ever had a car or truck. But the handkerchief was not. The initials were damning, and Wolf had virtually admitted it was his. It was easy to see why they might have killed Fratos. But Lewis was less clear.

Yes, he had disappointed them, inconvenienced them, hurt their feelings. But we’ve all had those things happen to us. If we all killed over it, you could shoot skeet in downtown Boston. Still, Lewis had damaged a much-loved heirloom and humiliated Peter in the so-called fight. Two dangerous things to do—no one likes others to be careless of their valuables, and no one—gay or straight—likes to be shamed in a fight. Despite the fact that Wolf was under arrest for the actual murder, I thought Peter the more likely candidate. I could see him getting even for many real and presumed wrongs with every blow he struck.

I knew Lewis was the key. Fratos was just an afterthought, whoever did it.

And I knew I had to do something or Pewter was mine for life. Maybe I’d try Bartles again. He was hiding something; the question was whether it mattered.

I mulled this over as I had another soda and a cheese sandwich, carefully watched by Fargo and Pewter. Apparently—obviously— she was used to tidbits. I shared. I freshened up and picked up the car keys. Not wanting to leave Pewter alone, I told Fargo he couldn’t go. This resulted in a grand display of groveling and keening on his part and sympathetic mewing on Pewter’s. I slammed the door on this opera and left, not in a charitable mood.

My first stop was the police station, to give Mitch my list of “legless” customers of Wood’s Woods. He listened to my theory and agreed it had merit. He agreed to check out the people I had missed and look further into ex-cop Quinn. He also agreed to check on vee -hicles similar to Wolf’s and Peter’s. But I knew it would be perfunctory. In his mind he had the “doers” back in two cells of the jail. I asked to see them but was told they were currently “being processed.” I was getting just a bit tired of Super Cop.

As I left, Jeanine pulled me aside. She was a buxom young woman in her thirties, married, with a couple of kids, and the epitome of kindness. She was also strong as an ox and had no compulsion about tossing an ornery drunk onto his backside and headfirst against a wall. She said softly that she had spoken with Wolf and Peter and agreed to bring them any personal items they needed. I explained about the cat, and she offered to tell them Pewter was with me. She was sure it would cheer them up.

She cheered me up, and I moved on to Bartles in a somewhat better frame of mind. The day was warm and sunny, and I guess that helped. Once again, the van was not in evidence, but I went around back and, once again, found the Rev. Bartles up to his elbows in dishwater.

“Well, hello, ” I said from the doorway. “Aren’t you the diligent homemaker! ” He nodded and turned back to his chore.

“Here, I’ll dry.” I picked up a towel and went to work, which earned me a small, grateful smile. We worked in companionable silence for a few minutes, before I asked the obvious question. “Well, Lawrence—if I may be informal—why did she leave you? ”

He kept his head down so he didn’t have to meet my eyes and turned on his plummy voice. “Bless her! She’s just worn out with all our endeavors—plus the baby. I insisted she accept an invitation from an old college chum. Do her a world of good! ”

“Can it, Lawrence! Where did she really go? Home to mother? Why? Did you abuse her? Abuse the baby? Cheat on her? Did she cheat on you? ”

He carefully put a plate in the rack, took the dishtowel from me and wiped his hands. “Come and sit down, Ms... Alex. It’s a crazy situation.” He poured coffee into two mugs I had just dried and sat down. He took a deep breath, let it out in a puff. “Emmy is at her mother’s. She really is tired. We have not broken up, and nothing is seriously wrong. Our marriage is fine.”

“I’m glad to hear it. So what isn’t fine? ”

“We did have a row. Over money.” He grinned sheepishly.

I laughed. It had cost him something to say that. I guess sometimes even preachers can need someone to talk to. “At least it’s normal.”

“Yes and no, ” he said. “Sunday when I went into the chapel to get ready for services, I noticed a thick envelope on the floor, pushed through the old mail slot in the door.” He stood up and left the room for a moment, returning with a cheap white envelope, stuffed about to capacity. “Here.”

It was full of money. Trying to touch both the envelope and its contents as little as possible, I eased the money and a sheet of writing paper out onto the table. “Did you count this? ” I asked.

“Yes. There’s three hundred seventy dollars there.”

I gently pushed the money aside and unfolded the paper. The note was formed by letters cut from magazines and glued to the paper. The letters were in various sizes and colors, but the message was easy enough to read: THIS IS DIRTY MONEY CLEANSE IT IN THE SERVICE OF THE LORD AMEN. I looked questioningly at Bartles. He shook his head. “I have no more idea than you what it means or who sent... delivered it.”

“And you and Emmy fought because...”

“We need so many things for the Mission. That kind of money looks like a million to us! I wanted to keep it and use it. She felt that someone had had a crisis of conscience over an illegal bet, or perhaps a drug sale. Or that someone had been robbed in some way, and the robber repented but was afraid to return the money. She hoped we could somehow return it to the rightful owner. We kept reading the paper for news of a robbery or mugging. The story about Lewis said nothing of robbery.”

“I think the police were hoping if they didn’t release that fact, someone might start flashing a lot of money he shouldn’t have. Didn’t either of you think of just giving it to the police? ” I refolded the note, trying to touch only the edges.

“Yes. But quite honestly, we thought it might just get shuffled around in the bureaucracy and finally get put into some general fund and disappear. We wanted either to return it to the owner or obey the letter and use it in God’s work.”

“Would it surprise you to know that Lewis Schley was believed to be carrying between three-fifty and four hundred dollars the night he was killed? ”

“And you think he brought it here as some sort of atonement and then was killed? Poor Lewis. So he actually had gained something from his time here! He must have been so close—I think he really was beginning to work through his homosexual problem.”

“What problem was that? ” I asked smoothly. “The problem of being a liar? A thief? Of providing sex to anyone who made it worth his while? I was not aware those problems were limited to homosexuals.”

Bartles set his mug sharply on the table. “Don’t be condescending, Alex. You know perfectly well what I meant—the basic problem of being homosexual, a sin against God.”

“Hold it, Reverend.” No way could I let that one go. “You might somehow, someday have made an honest man out of Lewis, but you could never have made a heterosexual out of him... any more than you made him gay. Neither of those things is done. There are two statements I have never, ever heard from a homosexual. I never heard, ‘When I decided to become gay...’ and I never heard, ‘When he/she made me gay.’ Many times I’ve heard, ‘When I discovered I was gay...’ or ‘When I finally realized I was gay...’ but not the others.” I lit a cigarette and pulled over a saucer as ashtray. Like it or lump it, fella.

“I follow you, Alex.” His voice was conciliatory. “You think being gay is genetic, and I’ll admit to the possibility you are right. And remember, it’s the sin we hate, not the sinner.” Suddenly I had a vision. I saw Bartles in a slick, shiny suit with a bright shirt and loud tie—standing in front of a sign reading A-1 Used Cars and Redemption Center.

He continued his smarmy pitch. “We have discovered that many gays can marry, have children, lead normal lives if they really want to. Faith in God, prayer, wise counsel and community support can truly work wonders. It’s not the genes we have, it’s what we do with them! ”

It was fortunate there was not a loose table leg handy. I hate to think what I might have done with it. “Really, Lawrence? Funny, everything I’ve read on that subject says it rarely works for long and often has really bad emotional side effects on all the persons involved. Oh, and a question. All those we’s in your little speech... were they the royal we, the editorial we or the we meaning you, too, have some naughty genes? ”

He turned beet red and started to shake. For a moment I thought he was going to hit me. “I am not gay! I am perfectly happily married. I was trying to help Lewis because I sensed he was not happy in his life, and you are trying to distort it into something salacious! ” He stood and turned away, staring out the window. “I think you had better leave.”

I trotted out my sweetest smile. “I apologize for the crack about your genes. It was uncalled for. But, Lawrence, you’re a bright fella. Now use your imagination. Pretend you are Gulliver. One night you are walking home, looking forward to being with your beloved wife. You step into a dark hole, and when you awake, you are in a society where the norm is for women to marry women and men to marry men.” I reached for a cigarette but didn’t light it. I didn’t want to give him time to interrupt me.

“If you don’t conform you are ostracized, punished socially, maybe legally and—in a few cases—killed. Finally, under terrible pressure you conform and marry a man. A nice guy, maybe a friend in another world. But to you it is abnormal. You dread his most casual touch for fear it may become amorous. You lie tight as a drum in bed, waiting for his breathing to change. But he’s young and healthy, and he often wants you. The feel of him, his sweat, his body fluids... they disgust you. The smell of him, the taste of him makes you retch.” I paused. “Do you think prayer and wise counsel would help you, Lawrence? ”

He looked at me with pained eyes, pain from his imagined situation or a real one, I could not tell. “I do not know. That will take some thought. Not now.”

“And we should get back to the immediate problem, ” I agreed. “Where did all that money come from? I don’t think Lewis brought it here. I think his killer did.”

“Why are you so sure? ” He poured us more coffee and sat again.

“The word cleanse for one thing. Not Lewis’s style, too literate, too biblical. And Lewis was drunk and high on mischief that night. He might have hit you up for dinner and made a big thing out of handing you ten dollars because he felt generous. But I don’t think ‘dirty money’ was on his mind. Also, ” I quibbled, “I personally don’t think he ever made it near here. I think he was killed early and taken to Race Point much later.”

“I guess I’d better get this to the police.” He tapped the fat envelope, rather sadly I thought.

“Sounds good to me. Sorry, it could have been your ticket to a dishwasher.”

“Emmy says it keeps me humble. I’ll have to call her. God, I miss her.” He actually sounded human.

“By the way.” I stood, prepared to leave. “While we’re on this truth kick, was Emmy really here with you Saturday night? ”

He sighed. “Yes and no. I wasn’t entirely honest. In the early evening she and a girlfriend drove up to Hyannis to some mall to buy some baby things at a sale. They had pizza afterwards and Emmy got home something after ten-thirty.” I nodded. Emmy’s absence put Bartles alone during Mitch’s favorite time frame of the murder.

Of course, it put her alone, too. Or had she walked in on something, grabbed a table leg and beat the hell out of the sinful little queer while her husband explained none of it was his fault?

I felt I had labored in the Lord’s vineyards—or kitchen—long enough. Leaving Lawrence to explain to the police why he had sat on stolen money for a week, and—perhaps—why he lied about being alone Saturday night, I retired to “my other office” for sustenance. The subject of people hating themselves—or others—for whom they loved just made me sad.

It looked like half the town was in the Rat, all gathered around the front table with our star performer of the afternoon— Harmon. He had several free beers lined up in front of him and was telling his tale for the umpteenth time, each account more richly embellished than the last. I sat down at the empty bar and waited for Joe to find a minute for me. He finally came over. “Sorry, Alex, it’s a little busy.”

“You’re getting rich. Give me a bourbon, Joe. It’s already been a long day.”

“I imagine so, Alex. They’re your friends, I know. Do you think they’re guilty? ”

“No. But the police are pretty sure they are, or they wouldn’t have arrested them. It’s like I decided you belted Billie last night. Can you prove you never touched her? ”

“Nope. I get your point. Well, I hear they got John Frost. He’s good. Say, have you found my wicked witch yet? Cassie says you think she really put a spell on you.”

“Cassie’s mouth is sometimes in overdrive, ” I answered sourly. And wouldn’t you know—I picked up my drink and slopped it. I sipped at the bourbon, but the noise and laughter in the Rat bothered me. I knew whom the laughter was about. Anyway, there was a call I should make. So I ordered two plain burgers for the kiddies, a fancier one for myself, along with some fries, and went home.

The house was intact. I—or at least the hamburger treat—was greeted joyously, and the kiddy dinner hour went without incident. I felt that bonds were being forged here, and it probably was just as well. Pewter might prove to be a permanent guest.

I called John Frost’s office and managed to connect with him. He thanked me for recommending him, and I knew that in the future some of his P.I. needs would come my way, which was a happy thought, though the circumstances were dismal.

I told him about the table legs, assuming Mitch might not have. I was right. The little fink hadn’t said a word to Frost about them. John was particularly interested in Quinn.

“Maybe there isn’t an obvious connection between Lewis and Quinn in Ptown, but maybe there was one earlier in Worcester, ” John mused. “I know one of the prosecutors down there. I’ll make a call.”

And I told him about Bartles, who presumably would have been to the police with the letter and money by now. “You would have to decide, John, but that letter and money seem to put Peter and Wolf in a position at least to get bail. Right? ”

“Oh, definitely. I can’t get to a judge for a hearing before Monday, but I’ll have them out of the Ptown Hilton as soon as I can.” He laughed. “Of course, Mitch will probably try to say they did the letter themselves as a ruse to throw suspicion elsewhere.”

“John, take my word for this. They might possibly have done the letter, but the thought of their giving nearly four hundred dollars to a born-again preacher man—even to stay out of jail—is ludicrous. They would sauté it and serve it with tartar sauce first! ”

He laughed again and then said, “By the way, Alex, are you working for them? ”

“It’s a gray area. They sort of asked me to help them out and I sort of agreed. Nothing was signed or really discussed regarding fees. It doesn’t matter. I haven’t done all that much, and I hate to take my little tray of homemade cookies to the jail and then say, ‘Oh, yes, here’s my bill.’ ”I propped the phone on my shoulder and went through the contortions of lighting a cigarette.

“Oh, I’d say you’ve done quite a lot, and I’d appreciate it if you’d keep at it. What do you make of the two of them, anyway? ”

I shrugged at the phone. “I’ve known them for years but never well until the last week or so. Could they have done it? Yes. Did they? I don’t think so. Don’t be confused by Wolf’s willowy effete act. I think he’s quite pragmatic. And Peter is far from the southern belle with the vapors he wants you to think he is. He is a survivor and he’s smart. And to me, they don’t add up to two hysterical old queens who got all flustered and beat a guy to death, even over a valuable watch. I don’t mean they weren’t angry and humiliated by Lewis. I just hope they are too sensible to have murdered over it.”

John was silent for a moment, then replied, “Okay, I can accept that. Not them, then. But somebody who had a better reason. Unfortunately, his—or her—reason may make sense only to him or her. You and I might have a hard time uncovering it—or recognizing it when we do.”

“Yes. And to make it more difficult, I think you’ll find he or she is otherwise quite moral, the old pillar-of-the-community routine.”

“Why? ” I heard a lighter click, followed by John’s exhale.

“The money. He didn’t know what to do with it. He didn’t want to take it for himself. But like most of us, he couldn’t bear to destroy it. So he gave it to a church.”

“Interesting. And why that church? Not one of the more traditional ones. Although perhaps there are none needier than Bartles. But I seem to hear in your voice that you like Bartles for this. Right? ”

I moved a few things aimlessly on the desk, trying to align my thoughts. “He’s a definite maybe. What if he is gay, and all this ‘help’ is just cover? Say he and Lewis were lovers and had a fight. Maybe Lewis wanted money. Or he wanted Lewis as a lover and Lewis laughed or threatened to tell his wife. Or say Bartles is straight, Lewis made a grossed-out pass and Bartles freaked. Put it this way, I think Lewis’s murder was very personal, mixed with a lot of anger. I don’t think it was triggered by a broken watch and some unmade beds.”

“Interesting, ” he said again. “Look, Alex, keep track of what your bill would be, and stay on this. We’ll get these guys off yet. And when we do, the Town of Provincetown will happily pay your bill and mine and a few other things to avoid a suit for false arrest. Do anything you need to. I think you’re closer than you know you are. It just hasn’t clicked yet. Stay in touch.” He hung up.

I was glad he hung up before I had to reply to his instructions to do whatever I needed. Frankly, I hadn’t the faintest idea what I should do. Well, yes, I needed to eat.

So I heated up my burger and fries, popped a beer and clicked on the TV. Unfortunately, it was the pyramids again.