Jill Churchill - A Midsummer Night's Scream

A man of his age who ignored his only daughter and his grandchildren was slime. It would be a joy to put him away for good. And probably a relief to his wife. Ms. Bunting had been chained to him her whole adult life, having to support him by her own talent and hard work, he suspected.

He sat up straighter. Why not give his interviews with Bunting's old friends a quick review?

The men he'd spoken to about Bunting's alibi really had very little to say about him. They were clearly more in touch with each other and only saw him infrequently, on the rare occasions when he visited Chicago. None of them had much in common with him except the schools they'd gone to so many decades ago. Perhaps they merely put up with him when he wanted to get together with them.

He riffled through his paperwork on the telephone interviews he'd had with each of them. He was right. They talked about each other. Nobody had much to say about Bunting himself, except that they'd played golf with him one day, with a lunch afterward, and had a dinner with him as well.

It was Mel's own fault that he hadn't asked the right questions. The old boys were interesting and he'd let them off too easily. Because they were so old? No. None of them, however feeble in body, had seemed to have lost their wits and ambitions.

He'd interview them again, focusing on what they really thought about the actor. It might be useless. Or it might not be. Bunting wasn't a good man. Maybe he was a worse man than Mel knew. Or maybe not.

Of all the old friends of Bunting's he'd inter‑

viewed before, the canniest was the attorney who was still going into the office, meddling. He'd succinctly answered the questions Mel asked and hadn't volunteered a single extra word.

Mel would make an appointment in the morning to see him in the office he still maintained.

The lawyer, Irving Walsh, welcomed him to his office Wednesday morning and asked a secretary to bring along coffee. "Do you mind if I smoke a cigar while we talk? I'll open a window if you wish."

"I like the smell of a good cigar, but have never smoked one. Please go ahead," Mel replied. He really hated the smell of cigars but wanted Walsh to be relaxed and content to talk.

When the secretary had left the coffee, a brand as expensive as the cigar, Mr. Walsh said, "We've spoken before, but on the phone. What more do you want to know?"

"There was a question I asked everyone else and neglected to ask you. After the dinner with your old friends and John Bunting, did you all leave the establishment together?"

Walsh picked up a silver-plated pen knife to cut the end off his cigar. When it was lighted and he had politely opened a window and turned on a small fan blowing toward the window, he said, "As a matter of fact, we didn't. John Bunting left early. He said his wife was waiting up for himand made a feeble joke about what a tight rein she kept on him."

"Did you happen to notice the time he left?"

"About an hour or forty-five minutes before the rest of us called it a night. Maybe about ten or a little earlier. I'd told my driver to pick me up at eleven."

"Are you certain of this?"

"Why wouldn't I be?"

"Because I asked the rest of the group you were with, and every one of them said you'd all left together and chatted on the sidewalk as your drivers arrived."

"They all had far more to drink than I did," Walsh said, fiddling with the growing ash on his cigar. I haven't had a single glass of anything alcoholic for years. Maybe they really thought he was still with us."

"Perhaps," Mel said. "Do you like John Bunting?"

"Why do you ask?"

"It's my job to ask nosy questions."

Walsh smiled. "So was it my job at one time. I'm still in the habit. No, I don't like him. The rest of us had the benefit of a good education and, I admit, family ties that helped us out. John has ridden on his wife's coattails, so to speak, for his entire adult life. If it weren't for her charm, talent, and hard work, he'd be out of work and broke. Or even dead by now. And unlike the rest of us, he

never talks about his daughter or grandchildren. He seems to have no interest in them."

"That's my impression as well, and the opinion of a friend of mine who knows them slightly," Mel admitted. "Do the rest of your old friends feel the same way about him?"

"Most of them. Except for Ed Kolwalski. He and Bunting were always in touch. Even in college, they stuck together. I suspected, but won't go on the record, that Ed was supplying Bunting with drugs from his dad's pharmacy. It might have just been vitamins, but they were so furtive about it that it made me wonder if it was something stronger."

"Do you think Kowalski still does this?"

Walsh nodded. "I'll deny I said this if this comes to court, but Ed passed a bottle of something to Bunting the night we got together. They were sitting next to each other, but I was on the other side of Ed and saw it changing hands."

"Thank you," Mel said. "And I'll try to use this, if I need to, without using your name."

"That will be tricky."

"It will. But I might not be required to use the information. Or you might like to testify if we need you to."

Walsh simply raised his eyebrows and took another puff of his cigar.

* * *When Mel returned to his office to make more detailed notes of his discussion with Irving Walsh, he had a message to call Hilda Turner at his convenience. He did so when he'd completed his notes.

"This is, I admit, rather silly, Detective Van-Dyne," she said. "I've thought and thought about Sven saying 'rabbit' and I think I might know why."

"Could you explain?"

Miss Turner sighed. "It's probably not going to help the least bit. Are you a father?"

"Not yet. Probably not ever," Mel said with a smile in his voice.

"Me too, not a mother," she replied, laughing. "Well, here is what I've remembered and it most likely means nothing. In the old days, mothers who had babies as winter approached used to make or buy these little pillowcase sort of bags. They were to keep the baby warm in a cold winter wind. There were a couple of buttons on each side and a sort of hood to put lightly over the baby's head to keep him or her warm."

"I think I grasp the concept. But where does a rabbit come into it?"

"Sven was a really little baby. Hardly more than five pounds, and he came home from the hospital with a cold. So my mother made him a rabbit-skin sack, lined with wool. He never had

another cold and grew fast. Pretty soon he was too big to fit in it, and it was summer. But he wouldn't part with it. Wouldn't go to sleep without it in his crib. When he was almost six and had rubbed off all the fur by then, he gave it up. So it's simply a comforting memory. He must have been dreaming about one of his favorite things in childhood."

"He certainly didn't sound comfortable when he said it," Mel replied.

"That's because he was trying so hard to say it right. Don't you think that's why?"

"It's possible, I suppose. Well, this probably isn't relevant to the case, but it is interesting. I don't think I've ever seen or heard of such a thing. But thank you for letting me know."

Mel hung up the phone, still smiling, and tidied up the rest of his files. Half an hour later, he felt he had everything sorted properly and dialed Jane.

When she answered, he said, "I've learned one thing about Sven and his saying 'rabbit' so forcefully"

Jane said, "It must be important. You sound so cheerful."

"No, I'm cheerful because it's completely irrelevant but kind of a funny story" He parroted what Miss Turner had explained.

"Oh, I know what those are. My grandmother used to make one for every single baby due to beborn close to winter. But not with rabbit fur, that I remember. She made them of soft flannel in several layers, the best color on the outside. Pretty soon, women from neighboring towns started asking her to make them for their own upcoming babies. She eventually made good money on them, and finally found a catalog that sold a pretty plaid flannel in shades of light blue, light green, light pink, and light yellow."