“I told you. I don’t know,” he said. His brown eyes met her steady gaze and then darted away.
“How long would you say that you were out of Pascal Grant’s sight?”
“I-I’m not sure. Two minutes, maybe three.”
She sat silently, then held out her hand to Albee, who gave her the legal document.
“This is a search warrant, Mr. Munson. It gives us the authority to search your apartment. If you’ve no objection, we’ll begin with your grandson’s room.”
“No!” cried Rick, springing to his feet.
Munson looked up at his daughter’s son and his face was terrible in its aged, pitiless intensity. “Why not, Richard?”
The youth made a hopeless gesture and sank back down on the hassock.
Sigrid nodded to Albee and Lowry.
“That your room through there?” asked Lowry.
“Yes, sir.” His shoulders slumped in defeat.
As the other two detectives disappeared down the hall, Munson asked Sigrid if she would like coffee or tea.
“Nothing, thank you.”
“I assume you’ve heard about Thorvaldsen?”
She nodded.
“Shocking,” he said and sat back in his leather chair with a weary air.
The Mozart sonata came to an end and was replaced by Handel. Otherwise the room was silent.
She did not expect Lowry and Albee to be gone for more than a few minutes and she was right. After all, how many places were there to hide something as long as a gold-headed walking stick?
“Mein Gott!” Munson exclaimed, when Lowry returned, carrying the cane carefully by the handkerchief-wrapped tip. “Richard, was ist das?”
Rick Evans swallowed hard, then stood up manfully and said, “I guess I’d better put my shoes on. And maybe you could call Miss Difranco, sir, and tell her I’ve been arrested for killing Dr. Shambley?”
“Oh, don’t be an ass,” Sigrid told him. She turned to Munson. “You’d let him do it, wouldn’t you? Your own grandson.”
Munson glared back at her, his small frame rigid with anger. “I disown him!” he said. “He is a disgrace to my blood.”
Rick was bewildered. “Grandfather-”
“No! I have no grandson who is ein Schwuler. ”
Rick flushed and drew back as if he’d been struck. “I’m not!”
“What did you see when you stepped out of Pascal Grant’s room Wednesday night?” Sigrid asked softly.
“Not see,” Rick quavered, trying to hold back the tears. “I smelled something. Peppermint. All the way down the passageway, the smell of peppermint. And then when I got home, I saw the cane in the umbrella stand and there was blood on the knob.”
Grief-stricken, he looked at her and shook his head. “I couldn’t believe my eyes. It was just there in the umbrella stand for anyone to walk in and see, and he was in bed sleeping like a baby.”
“Schwul,” growled Munson.
“That’s what set you off, wasn’t it?” Sigrid asked him. “What did he do? Taunt you that your grandson was a homosexual and that he would prove it to you?”
Jacob Munson gave a short laugh and glared at her defiantly. “Now I’ll call Miss Difranco and tell her you’ve arrested me, ja?”
“Yes,” Sigrid said, and wondered how she was going to tell Nauman.
No. 14 Sussex Square
Dearest Friend,
We are so sorry you do not feel you can join us for Götterdämmerung tomorrow night, but Henry and I do understand. To think of hearing Wagner without Sophie beside me in our box to translate certain of the passages is almost insupportable. How much more unbearable for you!
You are very kind to give me her Ring scores. I cannot think of any keepsake of hers I should rather have had, and I shall always treasure the memory of the happy hours we spent pouring over them in her music room, our two voices blending together in the songs of the Rhine maidens.
With affectionate gratitude,
Jean
Letter to Erich Breul Sr., undated, from Mrs. Henry Bigelow (From the Erich Breul House collection)
Epilogue
Tuesday, December 22
“… anybody ask you who I am, who I am, who I am…”
The jazz version of an old Southern folk carol floated through the basement room and Pascal Grant sang along as he folded his few clothes into neat bundles and fit them into the canvas bag Mrs. Beardsley had given him for Christmas.
She seemed sorry that he was leaving the Breul House, but had surprised him by saying, “I think you’ll make an excellent gardener, Pascal.”
“If anybody ask you who I am,” he warbled, “Tell ’em I’m a child of God.”
He put his tapes in the side pocket because he planned to carry the player in his free hand; his little television was wrapped in a shirt and tucked into the middle compartment.
On the radio, a tenor sax picked up the melody line. “The little cradle rocks tonight in glo-or-ry, the Christ Child born in glory.”
He and Rick weren’t leaving till tomorrow, but he wanted to be ready. So much had happened that sometimes his head got dizzy thinking about it-Rick’s grandfather in jail for hitting Dr. Shambley and killing him even though he didn’t mean to, then Rick’s mom and aunt flying in to look after Rick and Mr. Munson, and Rick’s mom saying maybe he and Rick ought to go on down to Louisiana because Mr. Munson was going to pay to get out of jail and since he was mad at Rick somebody had to feed her two dogs and the cat.
Two dogs and a cat! thought Pascal, dazed with happiness. He’d never even thought about having a pet before.
“Mary rocks the cradle, peace on earth…”
When everything that was his was crammed inside his new suitcase and old knapsack, Pascal looked all around him and suddenly remembered that Mrs. Beardsley had said, “Now, Pascal, you must leave your room exactly as you found it.”
Well, he knew what that meant.
Very carefully, he took down the posters that Dr. Peake had said he could have and rolled each one tightly, secured them with rubber bands and carried them out to the storage bin in one of the storerooms. He hated to give them back, but there was no room in his cases.
Finally, he took everything out of the trunk with men’s clothes and laid on the bottom the paper picture with the funny monkey head. On top of that, he laid the two brightly-colored cloth pictures, then put everything back in the trunk and closed the latch.
Mrs. Beardsley was standing on the stairs as Pascal Grant returned from the storage rooms and her heart melted at the sight of his beautiful face. She was rather sad that he was leaving the Breul House, but the city was becoming so crazy and he was so vulnerable. Surely Louisiana would be better for him.
As joyous music surged through the open door in final chorus, she smiled fondly. “All packed?”
“Yes, Mrs. Beardsley. And I did everything you said, too-put my room back just like I found it.”
“That’s nice, dear.”
“If anybody ask you who I am, tell him I’m a child of God.”
Margaret Maron
Born and raised in central North Carolina, Margaret Maron lived in Italy before returning to the USA where she and her husband now live. In addition to a collection of short stories she's also the author of 16 mystery novels. Her works have been translated into seven languages her Bootlegger's Daughter, a Washington Post Bestseller won Edgar Anthony, Agatha, and Macavity awards. She is a past president of Sisters in Crime and of the American Crime writers' league, and a director on the national board for Mystery Writers of America.
