Storymania - Teaching Mindy by Mason Cole

Teaching Mindy (3)
Mason Cole

Traynor whistled. “That’s a great deal of personal wealth.”

“And that’s not counting what he gave away to charity. I told you, he had a good heart.”

“So, who was to get this wealth?”

“Well, he only had two people he really cared about…Mindy and me. He loved Mindy so very dearly. She was the light of his life, the only thing he lived for after Lily died. And as to me, well, when two men go as many places together as we did, there’s always a certain comradeship that develops. We both graduated in the top five percent from Pennsylvania, 1948. I knew he was destined for great things.”

“What about his wife? His butler?”

“He was going to leave a part of his estate to Ross, simply as gratitude for long years of service. But he never liked the man. Too shifty for Horace’s tastes. As for Brittany, it was simply a marriage of convenience. She was to get something as well. He willed large shares of his property to both his wife and butler--he never wanted to be accused of, if you'll pardon the expression, playing a favorite.”

“Did he consult you as to his will? I mean, the division of property?”

“Oh, of course.”

“What was everyone to get?”

“Upon his death and after taxes, the assets, both liquid and solid, were to be divided up equally between the four of us—25 percent to everyone. That excepts his personal stocks, which were to be sold and the money given to a charity for the poor. Even so, each of us will get in excess of $100 million.” It was then that Noland’s voice cracked. “I wish I had never gotten it this way.”

Traynor sat quietly and let Noland remember his friend for a few minutes. Then, very gently, "Do you happen to have a copy of the will with you?"

"Yes, as a matter of fact, I do. We were to have discussed it tonight, after the party. It should be in my coat pocket." Noland reached inside his coat and reached for a few sheets of paper, stapled together. As he pulled out the will, a small vial that had been caught on the top edge of the sheets fell to the marble surface of the balcony. Traynor picked it up and looked at it. It was made of plastic, with a small amount of clear liquid inside. The label on the bottle read: CONIUM ALKALOID EXTRACT.

Their eyes met, locked. Noland was the first to speak, in a quavering voice that held no hint of guilt. "How did that find its way into my pocket?"

Traynor picked up the will, put it in his pocket. "Maybe you could tell me, Mr. Noland."

Noland looked up, frightened. "You don't honestly think that I--"

"I don't know what to believe. Everything I heard you say sounded like the truth. Now, with this bottle in my hand and your innocence in serious doubt, maybe I'll be a little more objective. Be honest with me…did you kill Cornelius Richards?"

Gerald Noland pulled himself up. He stood straight and tall, a man preparing himself for a firing squad. Then he looked his interrogator in the eye, and answered. "Mister Traynor, I don't know. I haven't a clue whether I did or not. And it frightens me."

Traynor was surprised to realize that this was the most truthful thing Noland had yet said.

"You probably thought that I was inebriated when we met tonight in the parlor."

The stupefied detective nodded.

"Well, I was not. I have never been drunk once in my life. At least, not after I turned thirty." A fleeting smile passed over Noland's lips. "It is a careful act I have put on over the last few years to hide a horrible illness. I saturate the inside of my mouth with liquor periodically, and then blow through tightly compressed lips whenever the effect is needed. The fumes are almost indistinguishable from the real thing. I pride myself on that--if I ever make a serious mistake, no one will attribute it to a disease, just a bottle." Another smile, this one somehow morose. "The life of a man must be a miserable and lonely one when he has to get his pleasure from fooling honest people."

"What disease?"

"Alzheimer's."

Traynor visibly started.

"Yes…now you see why I can't answer your question." Noland's face was full of pain, pain that his soft brown eyes were finally letting someone else see. "I don't know exactly how much the disease has progressed, but it's far enough advanced that I have to doubt my memory. And the fact is that for two hours tonight, including in that span the time that my friend was murdered, I have no memory whatsoever of what I did or where I went."

Noland looked up. "But I don't think I really could have done it, could I? You don't either, do you? How could I just murder my friend, even if I don't remember doing it? How could I have killed someone that I loved?" The lawyer put his head in his hands and began to sob.

Traynor stood where he was, letting Noland recover his self-composure. Then, after promising not to reveal Noland's secret to anyone else, he led him off the balcony back into the parlor. He thought to himself: Ross didn't do it, Brittany didn't do it, and here was a man who could have, but at the same time couldn't have. I'm fresh out of leads.

*****

"Tell me about the grounds here on the estate, Mindy."

"What do you want to know?"

Traynor and his assistant were walking through the famous gardens that had given Richards' estate its name. The quiet, peaceful cobblestone path on which they were walking was slowly meandering its way through shrubs and flowers and trees, inviting the tourists who walked its surface to admire the fragrances and sights around them in every direction.

"Is there any way anyone could get in?"

Mindy turned towards him. "Do you think it's an outside murder?"

"I don't see how else it could be. Your step-grandmother and Mr. Ross are guilty of one or two things, but I am almost sure that murder isn't among them. And while your friend Mr. Noland had the means and no alibi, he didn't have a motive to kill."

"But remember what you told me once, Kirk? Just because there's no motive apparent doesn't mean that there is no motive. You might have looked in the wrong place."

"Somehow, with him, I doubt that saying holds. I don't think he could have murdered a friend."

"Could he be a really good actor?"

Traynor paused, considering the idea. "No, I don't think so. Not him."

“You sure, Kirk?”

“You’re forgetting another thing I told you. Nothing is ever one hundred percent sure. Still, in this case, I’m about ninety-nine percent sure. I mean, I just don’t see how he could have done it. Is that gate always open?”

This last remark addressed to Mindy referred to a beautifully wrought iron gate standing near a turn in the path. It took Traynor a second to notice that his partner wasn’t responding. She was standing there, mouth agape as she looked at the gate.

“No, Kirk, it never is.”

Traynor felt something unlock inside him. This was the method of entry—through the gardens into the house. “Is there any way onto the property? Not the gardens itself, but the property?”

“No…yes. There’s a large oak tree on the outside of the brick wall around Granddad’s estate. He’s been meaning to have it cut down for a couple of months, ever since some photographer used it to sneak over and get shots of his house and gardens. If you were careful and made your way through all the ivy, you could probably get as far as this fence. But the only ways through the fence are the three gates—the fence is electrically charged at night and carefully watched during the day.”

Mentally, Traynor flipped through his interview list. Something Brittany had said now came back and hit him with full force. “Where’s the gardener?”

“Gardener? Oh, I think he left for somewhere this evening.”

“That’s right. No…this afternoon. Brittany said this afternoon.”

“Well, she runs the place. She would know more about it than I would. But, Kirk, why are you asking about the gardener of all people?”

Traynor didn’t answer at first. He walked over to the gate, careful not to touch it for fear of being shocked. “Who better, Mindy,” he said quietly, “to leave a gate open in a private garden?”

*****

“So you’re saying it was an outside job, probably assisted by the gardener?” Brittany asked. For some reason, she looked very pale.

“That’s the best I can figure. I can’t think of anything else. No one of you people did it, so I’m forced to conclude that it was probably someone from somewhere else who had some design against your husband.” Traynor grimaced. “I hate to be so vague with words, but I haven’t a clue who would have done this or why.”

“So it’s a matter for the police and you’re done. Is that what you’re telling us?” Ross sounded indignant. “You barge in here and disrupt our lives, making us distrust and suspect one another, and now you’re just leaving without a thought towards us? Thank you very much, sir.”

“I apologize if I did anything that offended you, Mr. Ross. That is, I apologize for not remembering what it was—I wish I could do it again. You all can go…you too, Mindy. I believe I’ll just swing once more through the rest of the house and look for anything I might have missed, and then I’ll leave. Ma’am…Mr. Noland.” Ignoring Ross’ outraged expression and Noland’s courteous nod, Traynor walked out of the parlor.

He entered the library of the house, stacked high with books written by a Who’s Who of academicians and authors. Traynor whistled…this was a very good collection. Idly, he picked up a volume of Dickens on the table and started to flip through it. “It was the best of times, it was the worst of times…” he read aloud from its first page. Setting down THE TALE OF TWO CITIES, he turned to go. Tonight was not the best of times.

Some random title caught his eye. He whirled and looked at the shelves of tomes. Nothing out of place or missing that he could see, although he admitted to himself that he was hardly an expert on this library. The bookshelf in front of him was filled with books written by authors of the French language. Slowly he scanned the titles. LES MISERABLES, AROUND THE WORLD IN EIGHTY DAYS, MADAME BOVARY, CANDIDE…

Wait a minute!

Traynor tore his letter in the frantic act of trying to get it out of his pocket. He quickly reread the P.S. at the bottom. Sure enough, plain as day, there was the opening line of MADAME BOVARY. “These are the times that try men’s souls.” For once, his Literature degree had paid off.

Ross had said that Richards loved to play word games. The man was also quite probably fearful that whoever was plotting against his life would notice any clues he left to his possible fate. So he had concealed his clues in the book!

Traynor tried to lift the volume off the shelf, but noted to his dismay that it was not a real volume at all. In fact, it was made of wood and attached to the shelf. He looked around the book for anything that might help him in his search. Sure enough, at the very bottom of the book spine, he found a tiny indentation and a small switch that could only be seen by one who was looking hard for it, or who knew it was there. Traynor smiled. The old man must have been a fellow romantic who had read one too many mystery novels. There was probably a trapdoor in the bookshelf, Traynor reasoned, which would open if he flipped the switch. So, quite carelessly, Traynor flipped it.

A trapdoor opened under his feet and a surprised Traynor fell down into the opening in the floor.

*****

Kirk Traynor ruefully picked himself up off the floor and closed the trap door, pushing up on the inside handle until it latched. His head brushed against the low ceiling. There was a concrete wall facing him; he turned around to see a small corridor with a room at the end. There were lights along the wall, which emitted a dim glow.

Traynor thought to himself: That’s the last damn time I’ll trust my instincts on any switch. Just because somebody’s a romantic, you bozo, does not mean they have to follow convention on where to place a secret passage.

Ignoring the intense pain in his rear end (which had supported the lion’s share of his body weight when it hit the floor right after his feet), he slowly crept down the corridor. He moved towards a room that, in contrast with the passageway, was heavily lit. Carefully, Traynor stepped inside, ready to find the clue that would crack the case.

All he saw was a television screen and a complicated control panel. The television screen was currently showing the bedroom of Cornelius Richards.

Traynor looked carefully at the control panel. It contained a variety of buttons, each meticulously labeled. One read REWIND, one FORWARD, one PAUSE. There were zoom controls and buttons labeled with the various rooms of the house. Suddenly, Traynor understood. Ross’ rumor had been right—this was the surveillance system!

Laughter overcame him, and he collapsed into the chair that sat before the control panel. After all his work, was it really this simple to prove guilt and innocence? Just rewind a tape and find the murderer? The job of sleuthing, he reminded himself as his laughter wound down, was quite different these days. So why not use the system to help him?

He clicked the button marked KITCHEN, and rewound the viewing log to 8:30. Sure enough, he had to wait less than three minutes before Ross appeared. Carefully filling his tray with champagne, he walked out the door towards the guests. Ross was only rarely out of view from the kitchen camera, even on the patio, so Traynor kept fast-forwarding.

Finally, the clock hit ten. Ross came back into the room just long enough to pour a cup of coffee. He left it on the counter for a moment and left the room. Traynor tracked him, by trial and error, to the library. Ross gazed around with watchful eyes, to make sure no one was spying on him. He must have been satisfied, for he picked a volume off the shelf, opened it, extracted a large sum of money from inside, and walked away. He went back to the kitchen, picked up the coffee, and started up the stairs. Traynor watched carefully, but Ross never slipped anything into his burden, just delivered it to Richards and left.

Suddenly it occurred to the detective: While Ross was off stealing cash, what had happened to the coffee? He quickly switched the surveillance system back to the kitchen, and rewound. His efforts were rewarded. At about 10:03, a figure dressed in loose-fitting garments and a ski mask crept into the room, slipped some liquid into the coffee from a vial he or she was carrying, and quietly walked out of the room.

Traynor swore violently. This was the murderer…and there wasn’t any other clue!

Then he remembered where the vial had been found. He quickly looked around the house to find Gerald Noland. A smile curled Traynor’s lips when he discovered why Noland had no memory of the time of the murder. He was sound asleep in one of the guest bedrooms.

At almost 11 on the system log, the figure in black opened the door. Carefully sliding the vial inside the coat pocket of the lawyer, whoever it was checked to make sure that no one was watching, glanced up at the hidden video camera, gave it a thumbs-up, and sauntered out the door. The murderer had been prepared for the system, and had found an old-fashioned means of dealing with it. Smart, thought Traynor.

He followed the movements of the figure as it walked down the hallway. It must have been startled by a noise coming from one of the doors, for it suddenly flattened itself against the wall next to the doorframe. What it heard apparently pleased it, for it put its hand to its mouth and doubled up, presumably in amusement instead of nausea. Quietly, the figure slipped further down the hallway towards the bedroom of the murder victim.

On a whim, Traynor decided to take a peek into the guest bedroom and see just what was so funny. He saw a scene that would have done any X-rated movie proud. Brittany was locked in the arms of an unknown man, and both were being very passionate. On the table, there was an airline ticket. Traynor zoomed in. The destination strip was hard to make out, but at last he accomplished the task. It read ST LOUIS INTL.

Traynor’s head reeled. The missing gardener!

Apparently, the gardener had indeed left that day, but in the evening instead of the afternoon. It explained the gate in the garden, and thus the method of entry. It also explained why Brittany had been so worried earlier. She may have been guilty of adultery, but not murder. That much was sure. The gardener was certainly the killer’s accomplice, probably witting, possibly not. However, he wasn’t the killer either, unless he could be in two places at the same time.

Two places…something tickled the back of Traynor’s mind, but he brushed it away.

He quickly hit the controls for the master bedroom. The murderer walked in and saw Richards passed out on the desk. Quietly the figure slipped over to the desk and checked the body, being scrupulously careful not to touch it. As the killer turned to go, something fell out of a pocket in its shirt and hit the desk, staying among the clutter and debris on the desktop. Before the murderer had even left the room, Traynor had zoomed in on the object. His heart stopped.

He quickly exited the video room, ran down the corridor, and pulled on the handle on the bottom of the trap door. It gave way, and Traynor leaped out, careful to shut it after him. Running past a startled Brittany and a flabbergasted Ross, he leaped up the stairs and tore into the master bedroom, looking for the murderer’s item. He found it exactly where it had fallen…no reason for the police to suspect it, after all, especially since it had probably been wiped clean of prints. He picked up the pen carved like a Christmas tree and slipped it into his coat pocket. Then he walked out of the room. He had one more alibi to check.

*****

Driving down the road toward Royal’s, the coffee-and-donut shop near his office, Traynor mentally kicked himself. How could he have missed it? Mindy had a real motive (even though money was an age-old excuse), she had no credible alibi as of yet, and the opportunity was there. If he was interpreting the video correctly, she even had the means. She had certainly learned how to hide her crime, he grudgingly admitted to himself. Get somebody to trust you and say you’re going somewhere, and they’ll probably believe you if you do it every night but one. It was not her fault that Traynor had been hired for the case. In fact, considering her conflict of interest, she had done remarkably well in adhering to his lessons…except that she had turned his lessons inside out, and was playing the detective’s reverse, the criminal.

Unlike her, he hadn’t followed his lessons very well. He had taken her at her word, accepting her alibi blindly when she told him that she was going to Royal’s. He had never thought to check, just assumed it to be true. Why, he had broken the second and third lessons he had given her just that day! Of all the times not to follow his advice! In defense of himself, he argued silently that no sleuth in his right mind would suspect their own assistant of having the audacity to commit a crime. It didn’t make him feel much better.

As he pulled up to Royal’s, a thought struck him. He hadn’t even read the will. There might be a clue to her motive in there. Of course it was all for money, but murdering for a quarter of an estate didn’t make sense. He quickly took the will out of his coat pocket and scanned it for anything useful. Near the bottom, he came upon a most interesting clause:

“If any one of my beneficiaries is under suspicion of having committed a crime against under the civil or criminal law codes at the time of my death, or is serving a sentence for a crime that they might or might not have committed, I hereby expel them from my will and decree that their property shall be evenly divided up among the other beneficiaries.”

Traynor’s head snapped up. He quickly ran through the available evidence (assuming that the police would find the surveillance system, which they probably would after a thorough search. The tape implied that Ross was guilty of theft, and almost certainly more evidence would turn up to support that claim. Brittany was shown in the position of adultery (not to mention another, entirely different position), which was a civil crime. Noland had the murder weapon on him, and the police might or might not see that section of the tape. Even if they did, Mindy would still be one of only two heirs, and would have increased her fortune twofold.

Still, Mindy was the only one who was not under suspicion of murder or some other crime. That would have singled her out. Traynor smiled a grim smile. She would have been hoist by her own petard in any event, without laying a hand on her grandfather’s fortune. The most amusing thing about this perfect crime was that it wasn’t even perfect…the criminal was well on her way to getting caught.

Traynor opened his car door, got out, and walked into Royal’s. He slowly “cased the joint.” (He had always loved that phrase.) There was what appeared to be a married couple sitting at the counter, plus an employee behind. Two women were sitting at adjoining booths. One of the women was hidden behind a newspaper; the other was reading a magazine spread out on the table.

Silence fell.

“What can I get ya, Mister Traynor?” asked the employee. He was more than a little surprised; Traynor more often visited the bar next door to Royal’s. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed the woman with the newspaper get up and start to leave.

“Nothing, thanks,” Traynor said politely. “I was just wondering if you saw my assistant tonight. She didn’t come in, and I got a little worried.”

“Well, no, Mister Traynor. I been here since about 9:30, and I ain’t seen her.”

“Thanks…Mike,” Traynor said, quickly checking the badge of identification. He turned and walked out. Mike, the couple at the bar, and the magazine-reading woman all watched him go.

*****

Traynor barged into his office, completely forgetting the third thing he had taught Mindy: Check behind corners and doors, always. His reasoning was that no self-respecting detective would dare to walk into a possible trap. He paid for his lack of self-respect.

The gun went off, its silencer dampening the noise. Traynor fell, shot through the center of the back.

Mindy Ripley stepped out from behind the door, newspaper under her arm, and knelt down on the carpet beside Traynor. She quickly and expertly went though his pockets. First, she found the copy of her grandfather’s will, which she left—quite frankly, she wasn’t interested. She knew she’d blown the crime. She did find Traynor’s wallet, which she emptied of the forty dollars in cash and Visa credit card that it housed. Finally, she came across her pen hidden in Traynor’s pocket. She retrieved it, walked over to where she had dropped her notebook earlier in the evening, and picked that up too. She carefully turned to a blank page and read out loud as she wrote.

“Always leave more than one suspect. Watch out for greed, and don’t go for too much money. Be careful in getting rid of your unwitting accomplices. Stay as close as possible to the detective so that you can cloak yourself more effectively. Always have a legitimate alibi ready. Follow the rules you have set down here, and never forget them, unless you want to get caught.” She stood, and calmly regarded the figure on the floor. “Thanks, Kirk. I don’t think I’ll be needing another lesson…you’ve taught me everything I need to know.”

With a smile on her face at being able to escape with her life, Mindy walked out the door of her former employer’s office. It had almost been the perfect crime, but a few matters of circumstance had slipped her up. Still, she had learned from her mistakes and would be better in the future. Besides, some of it was beyond her direct control. Oh well, it was finished now, and there was no use worrying about it. Even though she wouldn’t be able to be Mindy Ripley any more, there was still another chance to do it right. She would plot again.

She had no idea that Max the night maintenance man had forgotten something at work that day, and that he would be back in the building in just a few minutes to retrieve it. As a result, he would find her victim much earlier than she had planned. Even if she had known, she wouldn’t have thought it much mattered. All she cared about was that her days of being an amateur criminal were over, and that no one and nothing would be able to stop her now. Behind her retreating footsteps, Kirk Traynor lay on the rug, his life slowly slipping away while blood from his bullet wound stained at least a portion of his carpet back to its original color.

[This story is dedicated to Dan Stark, who helped me flesh out a detective idea that had been bouncing around in my head for a year over a twenty-minute break in Arab Civilization class. As always, effusive thanks goes to my editorial team—Allyson Fry for structure, Valerie Olson for content, and Jeffrey Keeling for writing mechanics and plot editing.]

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