“Without ‘closure,’ to use the current term.”
“Barely even with an opening. Someone got the idea of trying to find out more, got no place, got mad, and dreamed up the idea of hiring a professional investigator. Some other person remembered me from some case that made the news about ninety-three — obviously a driveling old-timer — and together those two collected a hundred dollars each from twenty-one people or families, ponied up two hundred apiece, and talked Father Daly into approaching CIS thinking that I was ageless and twenty-five hundred dollars was an irresistible enticement.”
“You’re ageless to me,” I said, not really in jest.
“Like a petrified rock.”
“And the enticement is the case itself — don’t deny it. I’m going along, even if I have to pay my own way.”
“Along?”
“To Manitoba, of course.”
“Just making sure. Expensing the trip’ll eat up half the twenty-five hundred, maybe more. When I explained this fact to Father Daly, he said that in that case he’d have to do something religious: take up a collection.”
The amenities at the Royal Lodge in Arborg, Manitoba, were more bourgeois than regal, but after five hundred miles of two-lane driving we were satisfied to find clean sheets, quiet, and a functioning bathroom. This town was considerably larger than Grand Fork, and we had an acceptable dinner in a restaurant recommended by the lodge’s desk clerk before an early bed.
The next morning, I relished a secret pleasure in watching my husband, the master interrogator, go back into action. He was still large and imposing, and his glasses and birthmarked cheek were as much an obstacle to overcome as they ever were. Only his hair, having turned iron gray, seemed to differentiate him from his younger self as he approached the lone woman at the registration counter and asked — in his patented offhand manner — if we might speak to the manager of the lodge.
“I am the manager,” she replied in a slight middle-European accent. “Is something not satisfactory?”
“No, no. No complaints. The truth is, I’m looking into the suicide of a man named Tom Kostner for some interested friends of his back in Chicago.” He held out one of his old business cards and went on speaking as she inspected it. “The police in Grand Fork directed us here as the place he stayed the night before he died, and I was wondering if you could stand answering a few questions about it.”
She was a stockily built, middle-aged woman with a naturally severe facial expression, and rather than answering directly she cast a dubious glance at me and said, “And this lady is your wife, Mr. Carr?”
I nodded and he replied, “Right. Most days I can’t believe it either.”
She examined the card again before saying, “Yes. I will answer, but we must talk here, as I am alone at the moment. What do you wish to know?”
“Well, to start, do you remember Tom Kostner at all?”
“I do. First came a general notification asking for information about him, and I called the number. Then the police came, also asking questions. I could tell them almost nothing. He stayed here two nights and paid in advance for two more.”
“Is this the man?” R. J. held out a photo. “I just like to be sure.”
“Yes,” she nodded.
“Good. Did you talk to him at all?”
She shook her head. “I answered a question about the ice machine. A striking man, though.”
“How do you mean?” asked the detective’s wife, butting in.
“Ah. A large head, a handsome face. Not so tall. Sad eyes.”
R. J. waited for a moment, then dropped the surprise question — surprise to me, at any rate. “Did he leave much behind in his room?”
“Oh, yes, everything. The policeman who came — him I had to tell.”
“Uh-huh. And when you say everything...?” R. J. coaxed.
“Oh — there were two cases, clothing, an iPad, an iPhone, an electric toothbrush plugged in, books. I have an inventory, if you would like to see.”
“Eventually. There wasn’t any suicide note, though, was there?”
“No. Twenty dollars left for the maid.”
R. J. gave me a quick glance. “And what did the policeman do?”
“He looked... you see, we had moved all to a storage closet by that time, four days later. It was the busy season, and the room was committed. The policeman came. He asked questions. He made a great show of looking at everything and wanted to take it all away.
“I said, no, he must have written authority, because I was responsible, that was the first thing, and because the man’s daughter had called that morning to say she would soon come to claim her father’s possessions. The police, I think, were unsure what to do, and I heard nothing. When this daughter came I allowed her to take everything without telling them. What did they need to see again of the poor man’s leavings?”
R. J. nodded in agreement, although he was thinking otherwise, I felt sure, because of the iPad and iPhone.
“I’d guess the daughter was pretty broken up. She didn’t say anything did she? About her father’s motives?”
“Motives? Ah, for hanging himself. No.”
Without her realizing it, I think, the woman’s expression suddenly became wary and hesitant.
“Well,” R. J. said. “Thanks for helping. And if you could show me that list, or... making a copy actually might be faster, if you don’t mind, since that’s what I’ll have to do.”
“I do not mind. Call out if someone comes.” She retreated through an archway into an adjacent office, and after a moment we could hear her speaking in low tones. When she returned it was with no list but a question. “These friends of the man Kostner. What is their concern?”
“They just want to understand why, I think. He was a devout Catholic, for one thing, and most of them are too. I’m a Protestant, but I’m fairly sure suicide’s not just a bad end for a Catholic, but something—”
“A mortal sin,” the woman said grimly. “An eternity in hell. I am no longer Catholic.” She gestured toward the office. “I have forgotten the inventory.”
Again we waited, and again we heard her speaking in low tones out of our view. The sound of a drawer opening and closing and a machine beeping and humming followed, and upon her return she carried several sheets of paper in her hand.
“I have decided to give you all that I gave the police. Also, I have talked to one of the maids on her phone. Doreen. She will see you in your room. Now I have work.” The woman’s expressive face begged for a cessation of the interview, and R. J. obliged by saying, “In that case, thanks. You’ve been a great help.”
I led the way back, and there waiting in the hall stood a smock-clad woman of thirty, tallish and dark haired, with a pretty but prematurely worn face. R. J. took charge by saying, “Doreen, right? The manager said you might have some information. Why don’t we go in and sit?”
“Okay, but... okay.” She, too, seemed hesitant, even apprehensive, and once in the room with the door closed, she said, “Wait. You have to promise: no police.”
“Sure,” R. J. answered. “No police. Now relax. Take the chair. We’ll take the beds.”
She lowered herself onto the front edge of the cushioned seat and looked at me. “Helen said you were okay and I should tell. Only her and I know this, and I don’t think it makes any difference, not to him killing himself, but... okay.” She inhaled deeply. “Over the summer I picked up extra money waitressing dinners down at Babcock’s.”