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- 02/22/2017
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Stories posted in this category are works of fiction. Names, places, characters, events, and incidents are created by the authors' imaginations or are used fictitiously. Any resemblances to actual persons (living or dead), organizations, companies, events, or locales are entirely coincidental.
Note: While authors are asked to place warnings on their stories for some moderated content, everyone has different thresholds, and it is your responsibility as a reader to avoid stories or stop reading if something bothers you.
Note: While authors are asked to place warnings on their stories for some moderated content, everyone has different thresholds, and it is your responsibility as a reader to avoid stories or stop reading if something bothers you.
The Dame - 14. Chapter 14
“How did a dead man end up living at your house?”
If Michael Rutherford had any reaction at all to that shot he kept it to himself. He was a large man with unusually large eyes and equally large hands. He bore an air of great confidence and a certain amount of sternness to him. I worried I’d made a mistake asking him to come see me at my office.
“Mr. Guisti - that was his real name, I’ve been told - was staying with us at the request of a friend. He was a quiet guest and kept to himself. I was unaware of his presence at the benefit.”
His gaze was direct and unwavering, giving nothing away.
“This friend wouldn’t happen to have been Senator Metcalf, would it? I understood Damian and the Senator were quite ... close.”
Yesterday I’d remembered the paper I’d taken from the carriage house. With a soft leaded pencil I was able to lift the name of a city hotel and room number. It only took a phone call to learned the room had been reserved for the weekend before the benefit; the reservation listed for a Mr. Adams Morgan.
“You know that’s the name of an area north of Dupont Circle. Swanky. New money. Bet I know who lives there.” Dorothy’s instincts were spot on. Of course, it only took a few bucks to get the hotel’s front clerk to spill a description of 'Mr. Morgan', which would have matched the Senator’s twin ... if he had one.
The corners of Mr. Rutherford's mouth twitched downward in a vague grimace before he regained control of his composure. In a carefully measured tone he replied, “I believe the Senator was acquainted with Mr. Guisti but I wouldn’t describe it as close.”
“It would be difficult for the Senator to explain how good a friend Damian really was. Do the police know? I’m sure I might have Detective Cavanaugh’s card somewhere around here.”
His eyes squinted, trying to figure how much I knew and how far I’d go with it. He was setting up his next move, getting a feel for what it is he thought I wanted while I waited for his reply.
“Look, I don’t know what you’re getting at but you knew Mr. Guisti better than I and if he had a habit of becoming friendly - too friendly - with men of a ...susceptible nature, such as the Senator, it should not surprise you in the least he’s dead. And if the Senator might have in any way been a factor in that incident, I’m sure he has his reasons for keeping it to himself. He has a water-tight alibi for that night. We’d left before the man was even stabbed.”
His arrogance was astonishing and I might even respect it if we weren’t talking about a man’s life. How did he know Damian was stabbed? Had the police told him? What was it Uncle Jimmy said? ‘Every lie is told with a grain of truth...’ Was he admitting the Senator killed Damian?
“So you’re saying Damian deserved to die?”
“I’m saying men like that often see violent reprisal for their behavior. You should watch who you defend.”
“You don’t believe in justice?”
“Justice is what’s best for the living; the dead are beyond need for it.”
Later I was recounting this meeting to Dorothy in her home where she was attempting to fashion a pot roast out of sheer determination and thin air. My offer to take her to dinner had been denied with a firm claim to know what she was doing. If the smells coming out of the kitchen was in any way likely to be reflective of our meal, I was sure a call to the local fire department might be in order. Or to the hospital.
She swore bitterly in a manner befitting a pirate ship as I watched her march into the lounge and plunk down on the sofa beside me, her frustration along for the ride. Sometimes my ma would get that same look on her face often when one of us kids exasperated her beyond the limits of motherly patience. Dorothy looked cute in the plaid apron she’d tied on at the start of this fit of domesticity. I reached for her hand and place my glass of whiskey in it.
“Babe, you need this more than me.”
Her green eyes blinked up at me with some amusement, “Dinner’s going to be a disappointment.” Her wry smile lifted my spirits more than the whiskey.
“Do you think Mr. Rutherford was admitting the Senator killed Damian? That would be political suicide for both of them. And if Senator Metcalf was with Damian, what drove him to kill?”
“Let’s say Damian and the Senator were involved. The Senator goes to the benefit to make a social splash. He’s in the spotlight, milking his recent election win. Then Damian shows up. He’s making noise, using his connection to the Senator to meet people. It was risky but Damian was nothing if not that. Who’s going to be most upset by this?”
“Well, the Senator, Mr. Rutherford, ... the Senator’s wife?”
“All of them conveniently disappeared before dessert was served and that doesn’t smell right. Anyone of them might go so far as murder to shut him up. But why there, in a public place?”
“It seems to have happened suddenly, not planned. Maybe the killer had help?”
“I gotta wonder who put your earring in his hand; that was no accident. The murderer or someone else? Did that someone also take the knife that killed him?”
Dorothy threw up her hands, “All we have are questions.”
I hesitate but couldn’t stop my next statement.
“We do have one more suspect...”
She knit her brows together before acknowledging the truth.
“Danny.”
It had been more than a week since we’d argued but nothing had been resolved. All Dorothy told me was that Danny adamantly denied involvement and didn’t want us snooping around.
“If it looks bad for him, you want me to drop this?”
This was a concession at best, I could not stop the police if that’s how it played out.
“I don’t believe Danny did it so we have to finish this one way or another.”
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Stories posted in this category are works of fiction. Names, places, characters, events, and incidents are created by the authors' imaginations or are used fictitiously. Any resemblances to actual persons (living or dead), organizations, companies, events, or locales are entirely coincidental.
Note: While authors are asked to place warnings on their stories for some moderated content, everyone has different thresholds, and it is your responsibility as a reader to avoid stories or stop reading if something bothers you.
Note: While authors are asked to place warnings on their stories for some moderated content, everyone has different thresholds, and it is your responsibility as a reader to avoid stories or stop reading if something bothers you.
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