Death Vows Page 5

  “Did you ever hear of Jim and Steven coercing men into their hot tub? In exchange for financial favors?”

  Another pause. “Not for money, just for… oh. Oh crap.”

  “Oh crap what?”

  “Oh crap.”

  “Yeah?”

  “I know somebody who borrowed money from Jim once. A young actor who returns here every summer. I’d better not mention his name. You would recognize it.”

  “And?”

  “Oh crap.”

  “Were there unconventional conditions attached to the loan agreement? Is that the oh-crap part that you just figured out?”

  Morley said, “I assumed the upsetting conditions were financial when the borrower alluded to them. But he said something that afternoon about being exhausted from collecting his loan, and it struck me as odd at the time. Oh… yeeesh!”

  “You bet.”

  “So… was Barry Fields another of the toads’ banking customers? Do you think that’s what the fight was about in Guido’s yesterday?”

  “I can’t say any more about it just yet, Preston. But I appreciate your pretty much confirming someone else’s story of similar bad behavior by those two. It’s no surprise to me that someone would wallop one of them with a wheel of cheese. It’s amazing they have avoided even worse, and it’s good that the law is restraining Barry Fields from further contact.”

  “You know, Donald, I seem to recall David saying something about Jim having something shady in his past, but I can’t remember what it was. Jim is originally from Pittsfield, and I think David’s family might have had some distant connection to the Sturdivants. I’ll ask him.”

  “Thanks, I’d be curious. Though I’m well out of Sturdivant’s life now. I got out before he got hit with the groceries, so at this point it’s mainly just gossip to me.”

  Mainly gossip but, I understood, not entirely gossip. It was I, after all, who had stuck my nose into Barry Fields’ business, probably triggering his violent tantrum over the toads’ meddling, which had included me as their perhaps too willing instrument.

  I forgave Morley for mentioning me to Sturdivant. His intentions were good – sending business my way – and he had guessed rightly that I had suffered far worse clients over the course of my checkered career.

  I went back to my phone and Internet digging. I spent half an hour gathering information on the deadbeat Hummer-dealer husband of an Albany nail-parlor operator who had hired a lawyer friend of mine to extract additional support for the couple’s four children from the bad-citizen/bad-dad.

  Then, around ten-fifteen, my cell phone rang, and it was Preston Morley again.

  “Donald! Donald! Have you heard?”

  “Heard what? I guess not.”

  “Someone in the office heard it on the radio. Jim Sturdivant was killed last night. Murdered!”

  I asked myself two things. One, was I going to see the Berkshires again without having to wait for the next Tanglewood season? I guessed I would. The second question was, had I somehow done this?

  Chapter Six

  “I’m Bill Moore. I need your help. You know who I am.”

  “Yes, I do know who you are.”

  The phone had rung not ten minutes after I had hung up with Preston Morley. In those ten minutes, I had found the Berkshire Eagle’s Web site, where a brief story had already been posted on the murder of James Sturdivant of Sheffield, a village south of Great Barrington. Sturdivant had been shot dead in his home at around nine o’clock the night before. His partner, Steven Gaudios, was not home at the time, but Sturdivant’s wire-haired terrier had apparently tried to protect his master, and he also was gunned down. Police had a suspect in the shooting, the Eagle reported, and he was being sought for questioning.

  Moore said, “The police think Barry shot Sturdivant. They think this because of the fight at Guido’s yesterday. Are you aware of that incident?”

  I said I was.

  “But Barry did not shoot Sturdivant.”

  “Okay.”

  “Do you know why I’m calling you? Bud Radziwill suggested you were a decent human being who knew what you were doing. I double-checked. The reports I received were ambiguous about the knowwhat-you’re doing part, and not everyone in Albany thinks of you as decent. But overall you come well recommended. So I’d like to hire you.”

  “To do what, Bill?”

  “To clear Barry.”

  “Uh huh.”

  “Will you do it?”

  “Won’t the facts clear him? Doesn’t he have an alibi?”

  A pause. “Not exactly. Tuesdays and Wednesdays are Barry’s nights off at the theater, where he would normally be working at the time the shooting is believed to have happened, around nine. Instead, he was alone at our house. I was working late on a job in Springfield. But Barry was home when I arrived just after eleven.”

  “Watching a movie on TMC?”

  This reference to the circumstances surrounding Tom Weed’s sad demise was probably unfair, and Moore swallowed hard. “Of course. That’s what Barry does at night. He has ADD, and he’s not much of a reader. And he loves old movies. He was watching television when I got home, and he had not left the house all evening.”

  “Did you ask him what movie he’d watched on TMC? Have the police asked him?”

  Moore breathed hard. “Well, here’s the thing. The thing is, Barry has disappeared. The police are looking for him.”

  “Where did he go?”

  “I just said he disappeared.”

  “Yeah, I heard you, Bill. But you are the man Barry is planning to marry later this month. I’ll bet you a dollar to a donut that he told his fiancé – that would be you – where he could be reached.”

  “Well, he didn’t. And it’s driving me crazy. I’m worried sick.”

  What a crock. “If that’s your story.”

  “So will you help clear Barry?”

  “Sure.”

  “You will?”

  “Yes.”

  “Based on what I’ve heard about you, I thought you would. You might even say you owe it to Barry. In a very real sense, you precipitated – you and the toads, that is – you all precipitated the events that led to Barry being considered a suspect. I think you must know you bear at least partial responsibility for this entire goddamn mess.”

  “I can see where somebody might look at it that way. I guess I should be grateful Barry didn’t shoot me.”

  “Barry didn’t shoot anybody.”

  “He does have a temper, though. I’ve seen it.”

  “Yes, well, he comes by it honestly.”

  I was going to ask Moore what he meant by that, but he said the police were at his door and he had to go. We quickly made a plan to meet in Great Barrington at two, and then I phoned Timmy.

  “I’m headed back to the Berkshires. Jim Sturdivant, one of the toads I told you about, has been shot dead. Barry Fields, one of the suspicious characters I was checking out for Sturdivant, is the chief suspect. He assaulted Sturdivant earlier in the day and threatened to get rid of him. Fields made similar threats in my presence Tuesday night. Now I’ve been hired by Fields’ boyfriend to clear him of the murder.”

  “Oh, that’s awful. Good luck, Donald. But how do you know Fields didn’t do it?”

  “I don’t know that. But if I find out he did do it, I’ll turn his ass over to the police and sue his boyfriend for my large fee in the event he should refuse to pay it.”

  “Well, that certainly sounds like truth, justice and the American way.”

  “I appreciate that I’m a little tetchy about all this. I’m not sure how much of it I set in motion by letting myself be used so shabbily by the toads.”

  “I wondered if you might be feeling that way. But as soon as you got the picture of what the toads were probably really doing, you backed off. You’re clean, Don. Anyway, that must be why the boyfriend hired you. He sees you as potentially more friend than foe.”

  “Yes, or he sees me as an annoying troublem
aker who might be turned into a useful troublemaker. I’m not sure what any of these people are up to. There remains the mystery of Fields’ and Bud Radziwill’s origins. Who were – or who are – these guys anyway? Plus, Fields has now disappeared.”

  “He ran away? That looks bad, no?”

  “I’m sure the police have an opinion. The boyfriend, Bill Moore, claims not to know where Fields is. It’s going to be hard to clear the guy unless I can find him. So I may be spending a lot of time in Great Barrington over the next days. Or elsewhere.”

  “Just don’t you get shot, okay? Or arrested. I don’t know about the cops over there, but I’ve heard the Berkshire County DA is a hard case, inflexible and mean. Don’t get caught in his gun sights if you can avoid it. Metaphorically speaking, is what I think I mean.”

  “Timothy, I always think of the Berkshires as so benign. All those pretty fields and hills, and Verdi and James Taylor, and Mark Morris swooping around waving his love handles. I’ve always loved the place. I hope I don’t come back from Massachusetts disillusioned.”

  “Yeah, or with your ass in a sling.”

  “Or my head on a platter.”

  “Or your nose out of joint.”

  “Or my testicles undescended.”

  “I’d help you find them.”

  “You always do.”

  Being on the phone with Timmy Callahan always cheered me up. But the good cheer didn’t last, as was to be expected.

  Chapter Seven

  I arrived in Great Barrington an hour before my meeting with Bill Moore, so I drove on down to Sheffield to get a look at the crime scene. With the help of MapQuest – I ignored its routing through Bolivia – I found the Sturdivant-Gaudios house, a grand, white, maple-shaded Victorian, with neat lawns and tall stands of late-summer cosmos and phlox, and yellow crime-scene tape running from tree to tree around much of the property. Except for the police presence and the three TV news trucks parked out front, the place was so sweetly, anachronistically placid, I half expected Edith Wharton and Henry James to come strolling down the sidewalk together, James discoursing on the rosebushes at the house next door, Mrs. Wharton leading her two tiny Pekingese and smoking a doobie.

  I parked across the street and got out just as a gaggle of reporters and camera crews emerged from behind the house and spread out quickly toward their cars and news vans. Crossing the street, I ducked under the police tape and walked up the driveway where the reporters had been. I could see the pool fenced off beyond the three-car garage and, I thought, the infamous hot tub. There were two Beemers, one convertible and one sedan, in the open garage, the American well-to-do doing their bit to help Bavaria.

  I was about to turn back to the front of the house when the back door opened and Steven Gaudios came out followed by a uniformed state trooper. Gaudios recognized me and strode over looking gaunt and agitated.

  “Well, Donald, you’re a little late, aren’t you, to be of any help to us whatsoever? A fat lot of good you did for us, protecting us from that lunatic! We told you he was dangerous, and you didn’t believe us, and now look what has happened!”

  I said, “Steven, I’m very sorry about Jim.”

  “Sorry? What is sorry? Sorry would be if you had protected Jim, the way you were supposed to, against that insane Barry Fields!”

  “I wasn’t hired to protect anybody, Steven. I was hired to check into Fields’ background.”

  “Who are you?” the cop said, suddenly interested in me as more than an intruder.

  I introduced myself, and he told me he was Trooper Joe Toomey, the detective assigned to the case. I gave him a quick rundown on my brief employment by Sturdivant and Gaudios. I said I had parted ways with the couple the day before on account of a disagreement over whether or not it was fair for them to be investigating Barry Fields. I thought, Let’s just get this out in the open now, in the event Gaudios had neglected to mention it. For the moment, I did not bring up the toads’ eccentric lending practices, though all of their clients might now be considered potential suspects in Sturdivant’s murder.

  “We should talk,” the cop said and gave me his card. “What are you doing over here now?” He was fiftyish and clear-eyed, pint-sized and lean, and had a half-moon-shaped scar on one clean-shaven cheek.

  I said, “I’ve been hired by Bill Moore, Barry Fields’ fiancé, to help clear Fields. Moore feels certain Fields did not shoot anybody last night.” I watched Toomey to see if he’d flinch when I used the term fiancé – he did not – and I watched Gaudios, knowing he would be outraged that I was now helping the man he thought had killed his… spouse? No, for family reasons, Sturdivant had said, he and Gaudios had not married when so many long-term Massachusetts gay couples had.

  On cue, and understandably, Gaudios began sputtering and intermittently weeping. “How can you do this! How can you do this! Barry even shot What-Not. You’re a traitor, Donald. How can you do this to us! It’s all just… unreal! I keep thinking it’s all a nightmare and I’ll wake up and it will all go away and Jim will be back in my life, where he belongs.”

  Gaudios went on for another minute, flushed and hysterical, while the cop and I stood helplessly. When Gaudios wound down, I said, “Steven, I know you believe Barry shot Jim, but there’s no real evidence of that, is there?” I hoped Detective Toomey might jump in here and add something – anything – to the little I knew, but he just watched me and said nothing.

  Gaudios said, “Of course it was Barry. Barry attacked Jim in Guido’s yesterday and threatened to kill him, and he was arrested. He was arrested, and the judge let him go! I hold that damn rotten judge responsible, too!”

  “What was the argument in Guido’s about?” I asked. “They were arguing and Barry hit Jim, but what set all that off?”

  Gaudios started to speak, then waited. He was collecting his thoughts. He said, “It was about you, among other things.”

  “Oh?”

  “Thanks to your ineptitude, Barry found out that Jim had asked you to investigate Barry. He was upset about that and blamed Jim.” There was no mention of Fields’ anger over the Bill Moore loan, which it appeared Gaudios had neglected to mention to the police.

  The cop had been taking all this in with interest. He looked my way and said, “Mr. Gaudios tells me that Barry Fields has an unknown past. That you checked him out and learned that he has no verifiable existence earlier than six years ago. We’re doing our own checking, but is that what you came up with, Mr. Strachey?”

  “It is.”

  “And now Fields seems to have vanished into the Neverland he came out of.”

  “He’s gone, I’m told, yes. But he could have run off because he’s your prime suspect following yesterday’s altercation in the grocery store, and he has no alibi for last night. He’s innocent, but he panicked and fled. This happens.”

  “It does,” Toomey said, “but guilty people run away too. That happens even more often. I suppose you’ll be trying to locate Fields, like me. If you find him, it is your obligation to bring him in or to notify me or other investigating officers as to his whereabouts. Are you clear about that?”

  “I know the law,” I said. “My intention here is to do what’s right.”

  “We’ll appreciate any help you can give us,” Toomey said. “Just don’t fuck with me.”

  “You bet.”

  “Or the DA. Are you familiar with the Berkshire County district attorney, Thorne Cornwallis?”

  “No, I’m not.”

  “People call him Thorny for a reason. So I look forward to any assistance you can render, and your cooperation with the district attorney’s office is something I know we can all count on.”

  What was this, Chitlin Switch, Georgia? This was not the Berkshires I knew. Where were all the pretty James Taylor tunes?

  I said, “If Fields is innocent, I’ll convince you of that, detective. If he’s guilty, he’s all yours. And Thorny’s.”

  Gaudios said, “Thorne Cornwallis is an excellent crime-fighter.
Jim and I have supported him for years. I am completely confident that he’ll put Barry Fields away in Walpole for the rest of his life, and I’m only sorry that Massachusetts no longer executes cold-blooded killers like Barry.”

  “Steven,” I said, “I want to see justice done here as much as anybody. So, please tell me. What happened last night?” I thought Toomey might cut this off, but he was smart enough to see the advantage of having Gaudios go through his story one more time.

  “Oh, it was so awful, Donald! So, so awful!”

  “You were out for the evening?”

  “I played bridge with Nell Craigy and two of her regulars. Trill Gallagher was ill, and they needed a fourth, and I volunteered. We had a few martinis – ” Gaudios noted Toomey’s presence and corrected himself ” – we had a few martinis but no more than two, and so I didn’t get out of there until ten forty-five. When I arrived home around eleven, I expected to find Jim in bed watching TV, but…” Gaudios began to choke up again. We waited for a long moment while he struggled and then regained control. He went on, “But I knew something was wrong when What-Not didn’t race to the back door when I came in and jump into my arms. The house was so… so still. And then I walked through the dining room and into the foyer, and… and… I saw them.” He shook his head and cried. Both Toomey and I lowered our gaze, though not so low that we weren’t keeping a peripheral eye on Gaudios as he recalled the grisly scene and reacted.

  While Gaudios wept, Toomey picked up the narrative. “Jim Sturdivant had been shot three times, twice in the chest, once in the back of the head,” the cop said. So the shooter clearly wanted Sturdivant dead. “The dog apparently came to Mr. Sturdivant’s defense, and he was shot twice and killed. Sturdivant was facing his assailant when he was shot in the chest, and he fell backwards near the front door of the house. Apparently he had let the killer into the house, suggesting that the shooter was someone he knew.”

  This got Gaudios back in action. “Barry! It just had to have been Barry!”