Richard Stevenson - Death Vows

“Why haven’t you told them?”

“Because,” Radziwill said grimly, “I don’t want to have anything to do with any of them ever again. To say they hate gay people is putting it maaaahldly. I have a new, good life now, and the hell with all of those sad, wretched people.”

“Who’s your grandfather, Bud? Anybody I’d know?”

He just laughed and took another toke.

I said, “And is Barry’s story similar?”

Radziwill nodded. “Similar but not the same. His story is a whole lot more complicated. Maybe he’ll tell you about it when this is all over. Or maybe he won’t. It’s a real horror, and Barry just wants to forget it if he can. Ya know, you and Ramona Furst really have to get Barry out of this totally dumb murder charge thing. It’s just so… so stupid. ”

“I’m trying,” I said. “I’d work faster and better if everybody was honest with me, the way you’ve started to be. What about Bill Moore? Is his story like yours and Barry’s – fleeing an impossible family situation?”

Radziwill looked puzzled. “No, why? I mean, I don’t think so.”

“I’m told that Bill is a depressive man with a problematical past.”

“Yeah, Bill gets depressed,” Radziwill said. “But I’m not sure why. It might be something to do with when he worked for the government. I think maybe he was doing some kind of secret government work, and maybe he had to do some stuff he’s ashamed of. Barry never told me about it. He just said don’t ask. But I don’t think it was family stuff like me and Barry. Bill’s a good guy, though, and he and Barry are a good pair. It’s great that they’re getting married. Where I come from, I never thought I’d see the day.”

“Where did you come from, Bud?”

“Out west. I guess you can tell.”

“ Texas?”

He laughed and shrugged off the question.

“And where did you get the fake IDs? You and Barry?”

He chortled again. “Ain’t sayin’.”

“Okay then, Bud. Or whatever your name is.”

“It actually is Bud. Anyways, that’s what I’ve always been called. I have a real first name, too.”

“And is Barry’s name really Barry?”

“Noop.”

“What is it?”

“Ask him. But don’t hold your breath waiting for a straight answer.”

“Okay, Bud’s-your-real-name. How about this? If Barry didn’t kill Jim Sturdivant, who might have? Any ideas?”

Another toke. Radziwill was relaxing now, and I was afraid he would unhelpfully drift away. He said, “Tons of people couldn’t stand Jim. But actually kill the guy? Jeezum!”

“Sturdivant traded favorable loan terms for sex. Did he work any other scams you’re aware of?”

“Not that I know of. I wouldn’t know. I never liked the toads, and they never liked me. They’re both a couple of phonies. Were, in Jim’s case.”

“What was phony about them that put you off?”

I though Radziwill would talk about the way the toads put on airs and patronized people, but that wasn’t it. “Being an imposter myself, I know one when I see one. Those two are fakes from the word go. Especially Jim. He wasn’t who he started out to be, I don’t think.”

“How could you tell?”

“They tried too hard. They were both always playing a part. And I heard once that Sturdivant isn’t Jim’s real name. Or he had it legally changed.”

“From what?”

“Dunno. Older people from Pittsfield might know. That’s where Jim was from.”

I said, “His obituary will be in tomorrow’s paper. That’ll have the accurate basic details of his life, we can safely assume.”

Radziwill said, “I wouldn’t bet on it.”

I met two of the hot-tub borrowers separately after a burger at the Union Bar and Grill on Main Street, and neither was helpful. Mark Berkowicz said the conditions of his car loan from Sturdivant were somewhat embarrassing, but that was all. He was not angry and said he didn’t know of anyone else among the borrowers – he supplied an additional name – who might be upset enough with Sturdivant to become violent. Ernest Graves, a comely, sloe-eyed man in his thirties, wasn’t even embarrassed by the loan conditions. He likened his multiple hot tub visits to getting a free set of champagne glasses from a bank.

I reached the three other borrowers by phone, and two – Jerry Treece and George Santiago – agreed to meet me the next day. The other, Lewis Bushmeyer, refused to see me and demanded to know who had given me his name. I said Bill Moore, and Bushmeyer hung up on me. He seemed not to want to be associated with the fiancé of a murder suspect, and in similar circumstances neither would I.

I was home in Albany by eleven, fell into bed with Timmy, laughed at Jon Stewart and Steven Colbert, slept uneasily, and dreamed of Batman.

Friday morning, I deposited Bill Moore’s check first thing at my bank’s neighborhood ATM. I was back in Great Barrington at 7:30 and scanned the Berkshire Eagle at a Main Street coffee shop. The Sturdivant murder took up much of the front page, and accompanying the story was a photo of Sturdivant in the company of musicians and officials at Berkshire Opera, one of several arts organizations Sturdivant donated money to. The article told me no more about the crime itself than what I had learned from Trooper Toomey. It said Barry Fields, assistant manager of the Triplex Cinema, had assaulted Sturdivant in Guido’s on Wednesday, was now in custody, and was expected to be charged with the fatal shooting that came several hours after the attack in the market. Police said they were uncertain of motive. There was no photo of Fields.

The Eagle ’s other front-page story – no Darfur, no Iraq – was WILD RIDE FOR MISSY, about a hamster that had survived a journey down the Taliaferro family’s malfunctioning garbage disposal. There was an immense photo of the grinning Taliaferros patting a mangled Missy, plus a sidebar story called LUCKY BREAK OR DIVINE INTERVENTION? DO HAMSTERS HAVE SOULS? WHAT DO YOU THINK? I recalled Preston Morley’s comment that the now-chain-owned Eagle had seen better days.

The homicide story provided little personal information about Sturdivant – Steven Gaudios was referred to as Sturdivant’s “roommate” – so I located the obituary page in the B section, where Sturdivant got plenty of ink. His corporate career was outlined at length, as was his history as a supporter of conventional good causes. Personal information was sparser. Born in 1939 in Pittsfield, Sturdivant was the son of Anne Marie and the late Melvin Sturdivant. The only survivors listed besides his mother were a sister, Rose Dailey, of Worcestor, and a brother, Michael Sturdivant, of

Providence, Rhode Island. Steven Gaudios did not make the cut as a survivor.

There would be no funeral-home calling hours, the paper said, and a private Liturgy of Christian Burial would take place at Our Lady of Mount Carmel Church in Pittsfield on Monday at ten, followed by burial in St. Joseph ’s Cemetery. Whoever had supplied the obit data to the Eagle – probably a family member via the funeral home – had been careful to offer up only the public persona Jim Sturdivant had cultivated and approved of for himself. His public image in death was largely one-dimensional, as it had been in life.

I got directions at the coffee shop – MapQuest would have routed me through New Hampshire – and drove over to Southern Berkshire District Court. The building was an old schoolhouse behind a cemetery. The courtroom was what once had been an elementary school classroom, making it feel like a place for dealing not so much with the felonious as the naughty.

The room’s more serious purpose was evident, though, in the manner of the clerks, guards and other attendants, who comported themselves with the gravity appropriate to a murder case. Even the gang at the press table looked less nonchalant than usual. The small courtroom quickly filled up, and I was lucky to find a seat next to Bud Radziwill and his boyfriend, Josh.