Three Clients, Two Corpses, and a Codicil - First Chapter

Chapter 1

Tuesday.

I detested Tuesdays.  They were too close to Monday and too far from Friday.  What a useless day!  I glanced at the unopened box of Pop-Tarts on my desk and began to wonder if this wasn't, in fact, Monday.  Everything was still a whirling funhouse of nausea since the party and I marveled at the fact that I'd even made it to the office.  My stomach grumbled.  Had I eaten anything?  I conjured up a vague recollection of sitting in front of the television with a bowl of macaroni and cheese and wondering how those kids in Scooby Doo made a living roaming around in that damn van.  And in exactly what neck of the woods did they live where there were so many haunted amusement parks?

  Yes, I definitely remembered at least one morning since the party.  I pushed the two year old desk calendar to the side and slowly spun my chair, watching the old, bare brick walls of the office pass by as I turned.  I glanced up at the exposed air ducts and water pipes in the rafters above and shivered as a pocket of cold air hit my ankles.  I was lucky to have this office in the heart of the old, downtown warehouse district.  This building, and frankly the surrounding 10 block area, had been abandoned for years before the dot-com boom came along and companies had more money than they knew what to do with.  One such company had bought up this building, gutted it, and created an artsy, open interior for their company headquarters.  Before they went belly-up two years later the re-birth of what was now a thriving downtown district of office space, restaurants, and clubs had begun.  Somewhere after the dot-com bust but before the re-birth had taken hold, a friend managed to get me a lengthy lease with a locked in rate and I'd been slumming beside high-paying neighbors ever since.   

The chair eventually stopped and I leaned forward, wiped away condensation from the window, and peered out from my third floor loft.  Snow had been falling for nearly a day now and the city sat beneath a blanket that absorbed the usual din.  The exaggerated silence made the knock on the door that much louder.  I was in a surly mood and ready for some good banter with my secretary Shelly Perkins.  The problem was Ms. Perkins would never knock.  To her a door was simply an inconvenience to be swatted aside.  I was standing up when the door opened and a beauty with legs to make a dancer proud strolled in.  I told her right off the bat that my fees were high and that I usually slept with my clients.

She laughed and threw back her head, the sweet scent of jasmine wafting into the air around her sandy blonde hair.  "All of them?"

  It was my turn to throw my head back and laugh.  A pain shot up my neck and into my skull.  I winced, making a mental note not to do that again.

  "Camile Sputtiker," she introduced.  Her voice was soft, her brown eyes darting from my desk to the window before finally making contact with mine.

  "What can I do for you?"  I dropped back into my leather chair and rubbed my neck.

  She dabbed her small nose with a soggy handkerchief.  The light from my desk lamp glared off the wet spot that remained.  "Do you recognize the name?"

"Who doesn't?" I lied, having been so absorbed by the glare that I missed it.

  "He was found in the river this morning."

  "A bit chilly for a swim," I commented, glancing impatiently at my watch.  "Was he in one of those silly polar bear clubs?"

  She shook her head, puzzled.

  "Not into clubs, eh?  Well that's a fascinating profile of the man but what's the point?"  I leaned back and threw my feet on the desk.

  "The point!" she exclaimed, "is that he had two bullets in his chest!"

My feet dropped to the floor.  "Bullets?  Who would do such a thing?"

  "I was hoping you could tell me," she shot back.

"How the hell should I know?  I've never even met-" It was then I remembered that I was a P.I.  A dick! A gumshoe!  I shook the haze and leftover tequila from my head. It had to be Monday.

  I extracted the facts from Mrs. Camile Sputtiker.  Apparently her husband Ronald had received a phone call the previous night and had gone out.  That was the last she had seen of him. 

  "We'll worry about a contract later," she said nervously, whipping out her checkbook and slapping a check covered with kittens on my desk.  "I'll be in touch."  The pale scent of jasmine was all that was left when I looked up.

So much for not taking a case today.

***

  I slammed the car door and buried my hands deep in the pockets of my trench coat, treading across the frozen parking lot. The cold air cleared my head and I finally felt ready for the day. Four hundred dollars would get Mrs. Sputtiker a cursory glance at what I assumed was a standard homicide.  I cut between warehouses and picked my way through the garbage and wooden crates, emerging on the docks along the Chapel River.  To my left a drawbridge crossed the waterway and the channel became narrower beyond.  The opposite bank was similar to this one, warehouses lining the river like so many gumballs in a blender.  Forklifts glided back and forth as I pondered my confusing simile.

The sound of an engine shutting off caught my attention.  Fifty yards to my right the flashing lights from an ambulance sprang to life.  Apparently Mrs. Sputtiker had wasted no time in coming to me.  Halfway there I realized the lights weren't actually flashing.  In fact they weren't even on.  I rubbed my eyes and cursed the vile liquid I had consumed at the party, vowing never to drink again.  By the time I reached the scene I had succumbed to the inevitable technicality of existence.  I would have to drink again.  At least water.

  "So what's the scoop?" I asked, flashing an expired Sears card at a young sergeant.

"Can I see that again?"  By the time the question came I was moving off under the yellow tape.  He raced up behind me.  "Where did you say you were from?"

  "Precinct 13," I mumbled. "Pimento...side division."

  "Primero what?"

  I stopped and turned, using my 6 foot height to glare down at the smaller man.  "Look, I've been assigned to this damn case and the sooner I figure out what's going on the sooner we can all get back to someplace warm."  I turned to watch a swarm of cops moving along the edge of the dock, looking down into the water and shouting.

"I heard they got an I.D.  Sputtiker, right?  We know anything about him?"

  "Who are you again?"  

  I turned with a menacing glare.  "I haven't got all day, butterball!  The Commissioner is expecting a report!"

  "Uh, sorry, sir.  Umm, I haven't heard that much, sir.  It's that guy that owns that development company. Stratmere, I think.  I seen him on the news a few times."

"Strathmore," I corrected.  "Family been contacted?"

"Wife died a few years ago.  No kids so they're trying to track someone else down."  He glanced towards the police ribbon where a number of fitness nuts had stopped for a peek during their morning jog.  "You really should talk to the investigating officer."

"How'd they find the body, didn't it sink?"

"His coat was caught on one of the dock supports.  Let me get the Lieutenant."

  I mumbled a thank you and waved him off in a condescending manner.  He humbly hurried back to his position.  Something, presumably the body, lay beneath a black tarp on the dock's edge.  I creased my brow in thought.  How could Camile have known he had two gunshots in his chest if they had, as seemed apparent, just pulled the body from the water?  And better yet, how could Camile Sputtiker have visited me if she had died several years ago?

  "Excuse me."  I spun around, startled by the voice.  "Sergeant Harrison over there tells me you have to report to the Commissioner?"

  I looked into the stern, seasoned face of a middle-aged cop with a poor complexion.  This guy wasn't going to accept my Sears card that was for sure.  "D.C. unit," I said, extending my hand only long enough for him to reach for it.  "Damn beeper!"  I pulled my other hand from my pocket and glanced down at an old box of raisins.  "Not again."  I shoved both hands back into their warm homes and hurried away, cursing aloud about the Commissioner's dog-groomer.

***

  I realized as I started the car that I didn't have the Sputtiker's address.  I had parked directly in front of a phone booth but someone desperate for reading material had ripped the book from its metal holder so I pulled out my cell phone and dialed information.  The Sputtikers were unlisted so I had them connect me with Strathmore Development, the company where Ronald held the title of CEO.  Under the guise of a confused florist I got the Sputtiker's address, but it wasn't there I was headed.

 I pulled out of the parking lot and crossed the bridge.  A light snow began falling again so I switched on the wipers.  A right turn took me into a snow covered lot behind the warehouse I had seen from across the river.  Apart from an ugly, blue brick building they all looked the same from the back so I parked and made my way out to the docks and towards the only apparent activity.

  A foreman with a thick neck was busy directing forklifts as I approached.  "Last night?"  He scratched a day's worth of stubble that would have taken me a month to accumulate.  "Well let's see.  Oh yeah, I was having sex with my brother's fiancé."

  This guy was holding out on me.  I could tell.  "So you weren't here?"

  "Sure I was. Till ‘bout midnight.  The sex came later."  His eyes narrowed and he took a menacing step forward.  "But why should I tell you?"

  I decided not to mention the fact that he had just done so and whipped out my Auto Club card instead.  "Green.  SAC squad!"  I motioned with my head to the police activity still visible on the opposite shore.  "We're just looking for a few answers."

  "SAC squad?  What-"

  "Strange Activities Committee," I explained, watching a forklift sliding wildly towards the edge of the icy wharf.  I turned back to No Neck and glared at his chest.  I hadn't realized he was so tall.  "Notice anything strange last night?" 

  "What?"

  The snowflakes lining my eyelashes must have thrown him for a loop.  Either that or he was an idiot.  I repeated my question and the big man finally shrugged.  At least I think he shrugged.  It was hard to tell where his shoulders ended and his neck began.  He could have been doing the hula for all I knew.

  "Nothing I can think of.  Except for the Jag with the alarm going off."

  "Jag?" I questioned. "Are you sure it wasn't a Lynx or a Bobcat?"

  He shook his head, my subtle car humor lost in the wind.

  "It was definitely a Jag," he repeated.

  "You some sort of zoologist?"

  Apparently this sort of humor he recognized as he laughed derisively.  I got the feeling my welcome was wearing thin.

  "Look pal, I'm getting tired of your questions."

Ah, well, there you go then.  One theory confirmed.

"I left about midnight with the rest of the guys and the alarm was still going off.  That's all I know."

  I wouldn't doubt it, I said to myself, hurrying through the falling snow to my car.

***

  The Jag was nowhere to be found so I made a mental note to see what kind of car Ronald drove and then headed out.  The address I had written down for the Sputtikers took me to a Chinese restaurant.  I deduced the CEO of a multimillion-dollar company probably didn't live over such a place so I grabbed a map and realized I was pretty much at the wrong end of town.  Ten minutes later the tract homes gave way to acre lots and custom designs.  The woods here were thicker, the large homes tucked away within them.

A black mailbox announced the Sputtiker estate and I turned up a long drive that twisted through the trees and emerged onto a cobbled, circular clearing in front of a sprawling Colonial home.  The original house stood in the middle, two stories high with several turrets and a gray slate roof.  To the left and right single story additions in a similar style spread out and curved around towards the back.  The grounds were covered with snow but it was easy to imagine a lush green lawn lined with colorful flowers.

  The wind picked up as I climbed from the car and dashed to the front door with reckless abandon.  It wasn't particularly necessary, but something I just wanted to do.  I rang the bell before realizing I had no idea what I was going to say.  One of the double doors opened suddenly and the dusty smell of a burning fire seeped out.

  "Can I help you?"

  I said the first thing that came to mind.  "I'm selling manure and was wondering-"
            The oak door began closing.

  "It's about Camile Sputtiker!" I blurted.

  The door stopped and the man reappeared.   "You know something about my sister?"

  "Your sister?"  A shower of snow fell from the steeply pitched roof and swirled in the wind.  "Perhaps I could come in?"

  The man eyed me through intelligent brown eyes.  "Are you a reporter?"

  I shook my head.  "I'm a detective."

  I hung my coat in the entry and followed my host across polished hardwood floors into a handsome living room.  A warm fire blazed in a stone fireplace and a trio of couches formed a U atop a blue Oriental rug.

Byron Hanley introduced himself and leaned his beefy 6 foot 2 frame against the fireplace mantel.   "You say you know something about my sister?"        

"I assume you've heard the news?"

  Byron nodded.  "The police called a while ago."

  I explained about the mysterious visitor who hired me.

  "And she said she was my sister?"

  "She said she was Camile Sputtiker," I corrected.

  "But how can that be?"  He spun away and began pacing, running a hand through his thick, black hair.  "Camile is in England."

  "England?"  I considered the implications.  "Do you have a photo of your sister?"

  Byron stopped and looked around the room.  Finally he hurried to a small alcove and returned with a picture.  "This is Ronald and Camile.  It was taken just recently, somewhere in Germany I think."

The woman had sandy blonde hair and soft brown eyes of a shade similar to Byron's.  Her face was small and round, her skin pale but healthy beneath short blonde hair.  I guessed her age in the mid-forties.  Beside her stood the commanding figure of Ronald Sputtiker.  He was a good head taller than his wife, a broad smile and graying temples completing the picture.

"Ronald looks a bit older than your sister," I said.

Byron nodded, taking the photo.  "He's sixty-six and she's forty four."

"This isn't the woman who came to me," I explained.  "At least not looking like this.  The size and shape are the same, but the hair and eyes are different."  I bit my bottom lip.  "I suppose it could have been a disguise."

  "You say this woman introduced herself as Camile Sputtiker?"

  I nodded, watching him mull something over in his mind.  When it was obvious he wasn't going to say anything I spoke up.  "I understand the original Mrs. Sputtiker died several years ago.  I assume your sister is the second?"

  Byron sat, wringing his hands.  "This mustn't leave this room," he started.  "I'll hire you myself to assure confidentiality."

  I waved off his worries but kept the offer in mind.

  "You're right, my sister is the second Mrs. Sputtiker.  But they only just married a month ago, and apart from myself no one knows about it."

  I creased my brow and was about to ask him how his sister managed to marry without knowing about it but decided to spare him my snappy wit.  "Tell me about the previous Mrs. Sputtiker.  When did she die?"

  "It was all quite mysterious, really.  You see apparently-"

  "Just cut to the relevant stuff," I interrupted.  "I hate it when a case bogs me down with a bunch of useless information."

  Byron nodded.  "So do I.  Especially when they're just about to reveal something important and you have to wade through a load of crap!"

  "Yeah!  I hate that!"

  We paused in our new found commonality.  Eventually I learned that Emily Sputtiker had died in Egypt while spending a summer there about four years ago.  The fire cracked and on an impulse I jumped up and danced a quick tango, swaying my hips and rocking my shoulders with attitude. 

Byron was visibly impressed.  "I guess it doesn't take two to tango."

I sat back down, my cheeks blushing with embarrassment.  Score one for Byron.

  "So you say your sister is in England?"
            "Visiting an aunt whom had a bit of an accident," he explained.  "I would have gone myself but my aunt and I haven't seen eye to eye for a while now."

  "And she left when?"

  He glanced at his watch.  "A week ago yesterday." 

  It was a nice watch.  An interesting gold band with a glossy black face.

  "Is that right?"

  I looked up, startled.  Is what right?  If he hadn't been wearing that snazzy watch maybe I'd know what he was talking about.  A scenario flashed through my head where I blindly answered yes and found out that the question had been Can I have your spleen?  To be on the safe side I asked him to repeat himself.

  "I think I'd like to hire you to look into Ronald's death," he said.  "I have a nasty feeling my sister may be in danger."

  "Danger?  Is there something you're not telling me?"

  Byron began fidgeting again.  "I must repeat that everything we say here is confidential."

   "If it makes you feel better to hire me then by all means."  Who was I to turn down more money?

  He jumped up and began pacing, finally stopping in front of the fire.  "I mentioned before that my sister's marriage is secret.  That no one is to know about it?"

  I nodded.

  "You can't even tell this to the police," he reiterated.  "At least not for a while."

  "Yes, I get the picture.  But can I post it on the Internet?"

  His eyes grew large.  "Detective, I-"

  "I'm just kidding.  I don't even know what the Internet is."

  Byron took a deep breath and contemplated me.  I knew this would take him forever so I urged him to continue. 

  "Ronald and my sister were very much in love.  His previous wife, Emily, was a bit of an eccentric when it came to her business, or rather her father's business.  She inherited it when he died."

  "This would be Strathmore Development?"

  Byron nodded.  "It seems the previous Mrs. Sputtiker left some interesting codicils in her will."

  I had no idea what a codicil was but nodded knowingly.

  "My sister and Ronald were married in Egypt last month."

  "Egypt?" I perked up.  "Didn't you say Emily died there?"

  He nodded.  "As I said, no one knows about the marriage."
            "What about a witness?" I asked.  "I assume even in Egypt someone has to be there.  You can't just marry yourself."

  "Whoever it was I'm sure Ronald picked purposely.  Someone who didn't speak English perhaps.  Or someone who just didn't care." He shrugged.  "In any case, one of the codicils to the will stated that if Ronald were to remarry, a controlling interest in the company would go to Emily's nearest female relative, or the new Mrs. Sputtiker if none came forward."  He paused and caught his breath.  "And furthermore, the new Mrs. Sputtiker would become the acting president of the company for the life of the marriage."

  I sat back on the couch, a bit startled.  "That seems a rather harsh way to keep your ex from remarrying."

  Byron shrugged.  "Emily was very adamant that a woman run the company.  It was one of many little eccentricities."

  The wheels in my head started turning.  "Did Ronald know about this codfish thingee?"

  Byron smiled.  "Codicil.  And I'm not sure.  Its date indicates it was made just a few months before Emily's death, while they were travelling.  But it just recently came to the attention of the family lawyers."

  "Pretty convenient timing," I mused.  "So tell me, has this relative of Emily's been located?  And does your sister have any experience in real estate development?"

  "No and yes," he answered.  "But Camile is certainly not ready to run a company. Even as a figurehead."  He came back to the couch and sat down, clasping his hands and leaning towards me.  "Strathmore Development is a multi-billion dollar business, Detective.  The market hasn't been the best in the past year but they're on the verge of a very big deal."  He paused for effect.  "So you can see why this news of Ronald's marriage to my sister could have undesirable affects."

  I whistled, a tiny drop of spit shooting from my mouth and arcing onto the coffee table between us.  If Byron noticed he ignored it, or inwardly applauded.  Frankly I had no way of knowing.  "I can see why someone would want both Ronald and his new bride out of the way."

  Byron nodded, sitting back on the couch and sighing.  The fire crackled and the scent of burning wood drifted through the room.  "The more I think about this the more concerned I get,"  he continued.  "Honestly I didn't know Ronald that well, but I do know my sister cared deeply for him."

  "Does she know?"

  "I've been trying to get hold of her since I found out.  I have a key to the house here and thought maybe she had left a message or something."

  "And I take it you haven't had any luck?  Contacting your sister, that is."

  He shook his head, unable to keep the worry from his face.   And frankly I couldn't blame him.  This case was going from bad to worse quicker than horse on a treadmill.