Play Dead

Chaplin and her family moved a couple of months ago to a town house complex just off Route 4 in Englewood. It’s a very desirable location because of its proximity to the George Washington Bridge and, therefore, to New York City.

She seems quite proud of the place, and when Kevin makes the mistake of admiring it, she takes that as an invitation to give us what she calls the “grand tour.” It is three stories high, and by the time we get to the top floor, I am too out of breath to give much more than admiring grunts. If I ever moved in here, the first thing I would do is interview elevator salesmen.

We finally settle in the kitchen, and Chaplin offers us coffee and cheesecake. Cheesecake is not something I understand. I consider the place for cheese to be on top of a pizza, and I reject any notion that a pizza topping can also be a cake. For instance, I would be similarly opposed to pepperoni cake.

I’ve planned to let Kevin take the lead in the questioning, but when she starts telling us in excruciating detail how much the value of the house has gone up in just the two months they’ve lived here, I feel compelled to intervene. “As I’m sure Kevin told you, we’d like to talk to you about your testimony at the Richard Evans trial.”

She nods. “I read about what’s happening; is it really Reggie? He was such a sweet dog.”

“Yes, it’s definitely him. That has been established.”

“So there may be a new trial?”

“We certainly hope so,” I say. “You spoke about Ms. Harriman confiding in you that she and Richard were having problems…”

“Yes.”

“And that she was fearful of him, of his temper.”

“Yes.”

“Were you and she close?” Kevin asks.

“No, not at all. But she came over for coffee one day, and it just started pouring out. Like she had been holding it in and had to finally tell someone.”

“Did it surprise you?”

She nods vigorously. “Very much; my husband, Frank, and I had liked Richard. He was always such a nice neighbor. But when the murder happened, I felt like I had to tell what I knew.”

“How long before the murder was your conversation?”

“About two weeks,” she says.

“And she never mentioned anything after that?”

“No, I don’t think we even talked again. She was never really that friendly; most of the time she just seemed to keep to herself. I don’t think she was a very happy person.”

“Why do you say that?” Kevin asks.

“Well, for instance, we both grew up near Minneapolis, but she wouldn’t talk much about it. She seemed well read and quite capable of talking about many subjects, as long as the subject wasn’t herself.”

“Any idea why that was?”

“Well, Richard mentioned one day that she had a difficult childhood. And then there were the problems with Richard. People from abusive households often enter into abusive relationships when they become adults. Don’t they?”

I’m not really up for psychobabble now; I’m in my pretuxedo bad mood. “I’ll have to get back to you on that,” I say. “I TiVo’d Dr. Phil.”

Kevin and I leave, and I drop him off at the office before heading home. He’s worried about my meeting with Petrone but agrees to my request to call Marcus and tell him not to interfere.

I had left a message for Laurie that I was going to a black-tie gathering, and told her she was more than welcome to come along. My investigative instincts help me anticipate her answer before she says anything; she is wearing sweatpants and has put my tuxedo out on the bed.

I don’t know much about fashion history, and as an example, I don’t know who invented the tuxedo. But whoever the father of the tuxedo might have been, he should have been neutered as a child. The tuxedo is as dumb an item as exists on the planet.

Actually, maybe the invention was a joint effort; maybe it was idiocy by committee. One dope created the bow tie, another the suspenders, another the iridescent shoes, and still another the ridiculous cummerbund.

As bad as each item is, when they are put together, especially on my body, they reach a perfect symmetry of awfulness. If you put me in Giants Stadium with sixty thousand men wearing tuxedos, I would still feel as though everybody were staring at me. I don’t just feel stupid when I wear a tuxedo. I am by definition stupid, or I wouldn’t be wearing one.

I go outside at 6:55 to wait for Vince to arrive, and he is characteristically late. That leaves me standing, penguin style, in front of the house, waving to smiling neighbors dressed in normal clothing.

Vince finally arrives, and I get in the car. He is dressed in khaki pants and a sports jacket with a shirt open at the neck.

“Well, don’t you look snappy!” he says.

I’m about to take my cummerbund off and strangle him with it. “You told me to wear a tuxedo.”

He laughs. “I was kidding. It’s a casino night. Where do you think we’re going, Monte Carlo?”

“So nobody else is going to be dressed like this?” I ask.

Another laugh. “You got that right.”