Audition for Murder, a City of Brunswik Mystery

By Leon Shure

Marital bonds are tested as Detective Berringer and his wife, Becky, a reporter, compete to find the violent killer who murdered a public official. Who's the better detective? Who can resist some of these suspects?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Leon Shure
• Release date: Apr 26, 2014
• ISBN: 9781310527241

Leon Shure

I am currently writing five mystery series: (1) the Tommy Spevak and Kate Wehring mysteries, about an impaired veteran and an investigative reporter; (2), the Vanek mysteries, about a crusty and devious Chicago Police Detective; (3) the Dr. Adam Karl mysteries, about a medical doctor fighting against his fate; (4) the Cal Hodges mysteries, about a law firm investigator who is haunted by his past, and (5) the City of Brunswik mysteries, which are tales of political skullduggery. My characters vary in age and ethnic backgrounds and each series has its own continuing cast of characters. They run the gamut from good to murderous. My main characters are not extraordinary geniuses and, sometimes, are even bad detectives. They are just people caught up in mysteries they can't avoid. Whatever happens to my main character, he or she must really use all their resources, while trying to keep their objectivity, not to mention their sanity. Each has an unusual and unique way of looking at life. They all have a sense of humor and irony. Sometimes romance is possible, but that is not my main concern. Probably my most unique character is Dr. Adam Karl, a neurologist who struggles against perceptual problems and a difficult family history. His mysteries have received the best reviews, earning five stars. Also, I write in another genre, humor. My tweet collections "#Conversationstoppers: Puns, Non Sequiturs and Impossible Scenarios" have been the most popular of my books. I don't really see my books of puns as being separate from my other work. All my books have a significant amount of word play, and my book titles sometimes are puns, as in the book, "Deep Lucy" which is "deep blue sea." I am a life-long resident of the Chicago area, and have lived both in the city and in the North and Northwest suburbs. A bachelors and masters graduate of Northwestern University's Medill School of Journalism, I worked for the Lerner Newspapers (a chain of weeklies in the city); the Day Newspapers, a suburban daily newspaper chain owned by Field Enterprises, now the Chicago Sun-Times;, and Paddock Publications, a chain of daily newspapers in the Northwest suburbs. I received the Jacob Sher Award for Outstanding Investigative Reporting. Shure also served as an attorney for a Federal Agency and has held elective office in local governments. He is married and has two children.

Book preview

Chapter One

Your fatal flaw is honesty.

The actor turned full face, his back to the audience, to see with them the reaction by the other actor, downstage, to the assertion of death-inducing factualism.

Better to die knowing the truth, said the actor portraying a too honest character.

The other actor turned to face the audience, so as to include those assembled.

Better to not die at all.

Monday mornings were a challenge and a blessing at the Talcott Street Field House headquarters of the Brunswik-Wilhemina Consolidated Park District.

Being Monday, special care was taken by Mrs. Spadafora to water all the parched plants in each of the seven offices. The tall, thin woman was the hardy, forthright, competent, age-defying executive assistant to the Superintendent. The fifth such Superintendent she had served.

She prided herself on being efficient and careful. Would this be the one of those days when she was able to carry out her watering duty without spilling even one droplet? Fervently to be desired.

The Park District Board had debated hiring a service, a man with a pump over his shoulder, to come twice a week to drench and trim all the office flora. Unnecessary, said Mrs. Spadafora. She wouldn't allow another penny to be spent on plant maintenance, when she was already on site and still strong enough to carry a watering can. I can provide all the nurturing that's needed, she'd told the board. On her recommendation, the Board rejected the motion. This was after she'd retired and received a plaque, then triumphantly returned to service because she really was, all agreed, indispensable.

Routine wasn't as soothing as usual and she didn't know why. Filling her watering can at a sink in the janitor's closet, Mrs. Spadafora had a sudden sense that something was wrong. Her sixth sense jangled, insistent like a ringing telephone.

What was it?

Mrs. Spadafora had great respect for instinct, intuition and premonition, if used with common sense.

Her own daughter had made a serious mistake relying only on a premonition, rather than supplementing it with common sense.

Mrs. Spadafora thought of the time her newly married daughter woke in her newlywed apartment, feeling distinctly that something was wrong. Something didn't fit, needed to be changed. Was it the curtains? No, they were perfect and let the light through to the extent necessary for refined living. Was it the kitchen floor, perhaps needing a different style of tile? No, that style was current and in the precise color recommended by all the best magazines. Something required a change, but what? A new knickknack, perhaps, or a new piece of furniture for a spot whispering to be filled?

No, none of these, her daughter decided: Husband was the problem.

Out he went, making way for husband number two, whoever he would be. No grandchildren for Mrs. Spadafora until her daughter found that lucky man.

Much to attend to, Mrs. Spadafora berated herself for thinking too much about the past. Summer park district programs were in full bloom this fine morning. People would soon be frantically going about making demands for her immediate attention.

She'd already received several reports of absences from young mothers, upset that their darlings were too ill with sniffles to attend day camp.

Too bad. The children would most unfortunately miss out on all the fun and games under the watchful eyes of very responsible camp counselors. Children needed such supervised activities, Mrs. Spadafora firmly believed. Some structure is crucial so the little angels don't run wild when not in school.

Day camp was all important, the linchpin for the rest. Camp tuition paid for many non-traditional activities, above and beyond the maintenance of the parks, pools and lakefront beaches. Activities that the Board liked to point to as being provided at no extra cost to the taxpayer. Such as the theater group's summer play. These plays weren't quite at the level of off-Broadway, but at least no taxes were wasted.

Taxes were a pittance to pay for the outstanding Park District, Mrs. Spadafora decided. The BWCPD was a cultural and recreational gem of the North Shore, the wealthy and diverse suburbs north of Chicago, which exist, of course, at the southern tip of Lake Michigan.

The district included Brunswik and the more upscale and much more fashionable northern Village of Wilhemina, known for its huge homes, some designed by Frank Lloyd Wright, and for its glorious gardens.

The summer day camp was the highlight of Mrs. Spadafora's year. How she loved it!

She was most proud of the description of the camp in the summer catalog. She'd written it herself, first paraphrasing from the descriptions of her predecessor, an equally competent woman who'd passed on to her reward. Rest in peace. Then Mrs. Spadafora had added her own turn of pleasant phrase.

Once perfected, she used the same blurb each year in the Winter-Spring booklet. Her description of the camp, she believed, excited parents, reminded them of their own childhood summers, and made them feel that the recreational and even the spiritual needs of their post-kindergarten kinder would be fulfilled.

Would a grandchild of hers ever participate in day camp, fostering the child's social skills and emotional growth? Exceedingly to be desired.

She watered the plants, office by office, always in the same order, starting with the Supervisor's office. Mrs. Spadafora thought that her job, although difficult, was a blessing. She was being useful and helpful. An important cog interfacing with the gears and springs, to make the whole beautiful clock tick-tock as smoothly as possible.

She just hoped she could meet all the challenges the day would bring.

Her phone rang. She ran back to her desk, allowing, in her haste, a few drops of water to the fall to the floor.

Horrors! What if someone were to slip? She'd certainly need a paper towel to clean up that tiny puddle as soon the telephone conversation ended.

Probably some mother was calling about running noses or whatever else was spreading from child to child, Mrs. Spadafora thought.

Young mothers, how splendid they are! Pillars of strength. Heroically caring for their children and contributing to the betterment of all. Sacrificing to protect their own children, making war against whatever microbes cause the common cold. At least she could provide commiseration to them, at no extra cost to the taxpayer. Just part of her service to the commonweal.

After the woman on the other end of the phone conversation identified herself as Becky Berringer, she said I'm afraid neither of the girls will be coming to camp today. Such colds, the poor things. Miserable. It must have been the rainstorm last week. Their father didn't have the sense to come out of the rain.

I completely understand, dear, Mrs. Spadafora said. Should she launch into her own personal list of grudges against her now divorced husband? She decided to save that conversation for another day, until she knew Mrs. Berringer better.

Encouraged, Becky continued. If only Berry--he's my husband-- I think I've mentioned his name to you--was more thoughtful, more dependable, had a job with regular hours. Becky wasn't complaining, exactly. Just explaining, so Mrs. Spadafora would have a better understanding of her quandary. How nice that Mrs. Spadafora was a comforting voice and was sympathetic.

He isn't helpful? It's alright dear, you can be honest with me. Let it out, I'm listening.

It just doesn't even cross his mind that he should step up and help. You know husbands. Indeed Mrs. Spadafora did know husbands, but that was a conversation for another day as well, when she knew Mrs. Berringer better. Berry's always away from his desk. Going anywhere in Brunswik where he's required.

Becky was certain she'd told Mrs. Spadafora, in past conversations, that her husband was one of the youngest detectives on the force. No need to get into that now. Most people didn't want to think about crime or criminals, especially on a beautiful summer day. To shock her with tales of violence and greed and the inexplicable urge to damage what is beautiful.

She'd, for sure, already told Mrs. Spadafora all she needed to know in past conversations about herself and the girls: That they'd moved several years before when Berry, was offered a better job in Brunswik. She'd also mentioned, she was sure, her own job as a reporter for the local paper.

It's almost like I'm raising the girls all by myself, Becky said. You must know what it's like. Didn't you say you had a daughter?

Yes, but she's all grown up. Mrs. Spadafora felt a pang of regret she couldn't use this conversational opportunity to say her daughter was married or a grandchild was on the way.

And, wouldn't you know it? Today's the day I'm assigned to cover the village hall groundbreaking in Wilhelmina for the Town Crier. All the local bigwigs will be there, posing in white construction hats and lifting shovels.

Oh, I'm so sorry. Mrs. Spadafora had never met Mrs. Berringer face to face, but had a vague picture in her mind of the two girls in question--cute, shy little things. Sadly, they'd miss the trip on the bus rented for the day to carry the combined boy and girl pre-teen group to the Children's Museum at Navy Pier. What will you do without a baby-sitter?

My mother will save the day. She's visiting from downstate, thank goodness and will babysit. Now that she'd mentioned it, Mrs. Berringer did have a slight southern twang, not so surprising because, southern Illinois was practically Kentucky and Tennessee.

No more time to chat, Mrs. Spadafora thought, increasingly apprehensive about the spill. You just take care of those two beautiful young women, and we'll see them tomorrow, hopefully. I'll tell their counselor to take special care not to tire them too much during their convalescence.

You are wonderful. Becky really did appreciate the personal touch. She felt her girls were in good hands when at camp. If only she could protect them forever and all good things would come to them. I won't take any more of your time. I really must come in sometime, not just drop off the girls and get to meet you.

You must.

Goodbyes.

Unable to see the puddle from a sitting position, Mrs. Spadafora stood and examined the floor. No, the puddle was hiding. Perhaps she'd see it on her way back?

Mrs. Spadafora grabbed her watering can and raced to the next office in line, hoping to complete her chore before she received any more calls. She switched hands, wanting to use her right to pinch off any desiccated growth, to make way for another brilliant flower. She made an experimental O with her thumb and forefinger to test her pinching technique.

Had she surprised Mr. Winston as he leaned back to put his feet on his desk? No, maybe he'd just fallen a bit awkwardly back into his chair after talking to someone while standing. She hadn't even known he had come in early.

Maybe Mr. Winston was posing for some attention? He was both the Supervisor of Special Events and Director at Lake Merriton and had a rather dramatic way about him, He was in charge of the Fourth of July fireworks display and, more recently, assumed the duties of theater group director, when Mr. Atchinson retired. Although not a professional actor himself, Winston's father had been an actor of some renown, according to Mr. Winston, although Mrs. Spadafora had never heard of him.

No, his apparent backwards-landing posture probably had more to do with the knife sticking upward in his chest.

* * * * *

Chapter Two

Berringer eyed the corpse. How many such victims had he seen during his brief career? Too many already.

If the crimes he'd seen were representative of the collective temperament of the North Shore, the geography along the lake was filled with miscreants, criminals, and people who couldn't resist the urge to murder their relatives and friends. Of course, there must also be many others who weren't up to some mischief, but he'd had little contact with them.

The crime scene was properly isolated by the uniformed officer who'd responded after 9-1-1 call. The assistant coroner's van was on its way. Berringer made no attempt to search the body for identification, because, for one thing, this man was not some anonymous body found on a beach. He was a Park District employee, not a vagrant or a victim of a drug overdose. Maybe this was an opportunity to deal with a better class of people for a while?

Why do you think, recently promoted to detective Marcus Smith asked, that the murderer didn't pull out the knife and take it with him?

He heard Mrs. Spadafora hang up the phone and had to run away. Wasn't worried about fingerprints. Must have been wearing gloves. Premeditation.

We'll probably find that the only fingerprints are from the Mayor, Detective Smith suggested.

Improbable that. The Mayor of Brunswik was a woman of short stature. The angle of the downward thrust, was wrong, Berringer pointed out. Unless she stood on a step stool.

I don't see any step stool, Smith said. Maybe the Mayor took it with her. They both paused to examine their mental images of the little Mayor running out with a step stool. Or just maybe, Smith continued, she was standing on the desk when she plunged in the knife. In that case, she should have taken the desk with her.

Ignoring that. Most familiar with knives, thrust upward, Berringer said, so whoever this is, was either an amateur or wanted us to think he or she was an amateur.

He moved in closer to observe of the victim's clothes, stopping just short of actually touching his nose to the dead man's shirt. Smell him now before he begins to fester, Berringer thought. Aftershave. A lot of cologne for a man. Knew he'd sweat all day.

The victim wore what Berringer called a golf shirt, not a T-shirt. The pullover, with three buttons going down several inches from the neck, the bottom two buttoned, had an animal symbol of the maker embossed on the chest. Expensive. Must have liked to impress people on the links.

Berringer didn't worry about impressing people. He was what he was. He had regular features, an amalgamation of the salient features of all of his ethnic backgrounds. Berringer's people emigrated from Ireland, France, and other parts of Northern and Central Europe. He had close cropped hair. He'd been a military brat, had served, and always had an air of being at attention and about to salute. A little formal. A little stiff.

Detective Smith was shorter than Berringer, but not short because Berringer was very tall.

Smith was a light skinned, brown haired, African American and very likely his family had lived in Brunswik for ten generations longer than Berringer. Smith had a map of Brunswik permanently etched in his brain and could tell little anecdotes about each school, street corner, neighborhood and subdivision. Sometimes he would point to a house and provide the story of how someone died there, violently.

Smith had a handsome and amiable face. One of the most amiable faces Berringer had ever seen, open and expressive. Probably that air of friendliness was disarming when it came time to arrest perpetrators. Officer, if I must to be arrested for driving drunk and speeding while smoking an illicit drug, I'm glad it was you.

Smith's relatives were all policemen. One was the Chief of Police of another North Shore suburb. Smith had a huge extended family, going back to a self-taught minister who'd emigrated only so far as Brunswik before the Civil War, instead of continuing on the Underground Railroad to Canada. That was as much Berringer had heard so far about Smith's ancestors, but he was sure Smith would tell him all his family stories if they partnered long enough. They'd worked together for about two months, since Smith's promotion.

This was Smith's first high profile murder as a detective, and he was even more hypervigilant in his observations than Berringer. He followed Berringer's example and gave the corpse another close examination.

The dead man wouldn't, approximately speaking, see his 35th or 36th birthday. A shame really. Not what the man expected when he looked at himself to shave that morning. Didn't know that this would be his last shave. No more nicks for you, mister. No more sniffles. No more birthday dinners.

Anything unusual about the knife? Berringer asked.

Smith moved to look from another angle. Nothing that can't be purchased at any store that carries camping supplies. Good for separating the flesh from the skin of a deer, I suppose. I've never gone hunting. A deer did come up once along a power line at the edge of town. Poor deer. Couldn't understand who'd put up civilization. He didn't like it. The animal control netted him and drove him back to the forest preserve.

Berringer got out his notepad and scribbled some notes. Too bad we don't require people to get a license when they buy a knife.

And it could have been bought years ago, Smith said. Doesn't matter. We'll still need to search every camping and sporting goods store in the area. Which reminds me. My son needs an aluminum bat. Little League.

My girls could use one of those slip and slide things, Berringer said. Attach it to the hose, and then they run and skid. Becky says they are safe. I have no intention of joining them to find out.

Know what you mean, Smith said. Parenthood can be hazardous to your health. What now?

Where's Mrs. Spadafora? Let's leave the uniform to protect the room and ask her more questions.

She seemed very upset when we passed her coming in. Maybe she's settled down and can be more coherent. Smith said, as they walked. Most days don't start with murder for most people, he observed, wisely.

Right. Better to start with drunken fight in a bar and then build up to an actual homicide.

True, Smith agreed.

Mrs. Spadafora had managed to control her anxiety and shock by creating order from chaos. She was at her desk, putting pens in neat horizontal rows on top of the large desktop calendar. Which was filled with notes on each day's activities and what she hoped to accomplish before the next day or next week. Only a few squares were empty.

I wonder if you feel up to answering a few questions? Smith asked.

She seemed startled by their sudden appearance. Her mind came back to the present. Yes. Alright. I'm sorry, I've forgotten your names already. I'm still recovering from seeing someone I knew like that.

Pointing to himself, Detective Smith and this is Detective Berringer.

Mrs. Spadafora's jaw dropped. Not that nice Mrs. Berringer's husband?

His name was Berringer and some people undoubtedly thought of his wife as being nice. I am married and my daughters attend day camp here, he said, putting two and two together outloud, for Smith's benefit, to explain why Mrs. Spadafora would know his wife and children.

I'm surprised because I was talking on the phone with Mrs. Berringer--the one who works for the local paper, am I right?--just before I got up and discovered poor Mr. Winston. She called because her, your daughters, have colds and can't come in today.

More than he'd known. Berringer was a little miffed that he had to get news of his family from a stranger. He'd left so early in the morning that the sun hadn't yet risen. Becky had been blissfully asleep and, when he looked in on them, the girls were dreaming of ponies and puppy dogs. They were both eight years old, twins.

Back to work. That Mrs. Spadafora was talking to his wife proved that some accessory to the crime hadn't been distracting her while Mr. Winston was slain.

Mrs. Spadafora wasn't done socializing. What a nice lady. I haven't met your wife face to face but you can tell from the girls that she must be a wonderful mother.

Yes. Wonderful wasn't exactly the word he would have used. More like, not so bad. We need to ask a few questions, Berringer said. Who else was in the field house with you?

None of the other directors were in their offices, I don't think. They usually come in about 8:30, and this was more like 7:30. I mean, nothing stopped them if they wanted to be here early. I open the doors at 7. I hadn't seen Mr. Winston walk in. She paused as a new thought hit her. I suppose he could have been here all night. She looked to the detectives for some confirmation.

Smith said, I don't think so, but we won't know for sure until the time of death is established.

She nodded. To go on, some camp counselors had been in and out, checking on their schedules and plans for the day. The big event of the day is that the girls' tweener group is going to Navy Pier by bus. The buses hadn't arrived yet, because the driver would have checked in with me. I hope this. . . .death doesn't mean the trip downtown is canceled?

"That's up to your