A Midsummer Night's Scream

father’s.
    Antiques. Very valuable, and designated by the names they were called when they were made.“
    “Sounds like this Elizabeth needs to take a few lessons in etiquette,“ Mel said.
    “She’s Junior League. She’s expected to be polite. I guess nobody told her that when she signed up.“
    Mel shifted the subject, not much caring about Elizabeth’s manners. “I have a little news for you. Officer Jones took Miss Turner to see her brother, and the visit really perked him up. She did the firm ‘big sister’ act, telling him to pull himself together. And it started to work.“
    “He’s fully conscious, then?“
    “No, but he opened his eyes for a brief moment and clearly said ‘rabbit’ so that it was understandable to everyone in the room. Not that it’s revealed anything useful. His sister didn’t know what he meant by it either. If anyone can bring him out of it, it’s his sister. She’s a much firmer, more determined woman than I imagined. Does ‘rabbit’ suggest anything to you?“
    “I’ve never met or even seen the man. How would I know? My only guess, off the top of my head, is that he caught a glimpse of his attacker and only remembered that he had big yellowish teeth.“
    Mel laughed. “That’s a big stretch of your imagination, Janey.“
    “Well, you asked and it could be true. Are you certain that these two crimes were done by the same person?“
    “Not certain. But my gut instinct tells me they probably were. I just wanted to check in with you. Now I have to wade through the rest of my eighteen pounds of paperwork.“

    “Did you really weigh it?“ Jane asked with a laugh.
    “I just estimated.“

Nineteen

    Mel worked late Tuesday evening. He was determined to get through all the piles of paperwork he’d sorted. When it was done, he went to Mc-Donald’s for a burger and fries. Since the food wasn’t interesting, merely filling, he let his mind wander over what he knew. He was as certain as he could be that the death of Denny Roth and the attack on Sven Turner were related.
    Sven had called his boss that night and said he’d do the theater early in the morning because he heard people talking inside. Maybe he had recognized the voices. Maybe he knew who both were. Was the other one “rabbit“?
    Maybe Sven had even heard the sound of something crashing. The blow that killed Denny Roth.
    But there was no point in waiting for Sven to come fully to his senses. He might never remember, nor be able to speak clearly enough to be understood except for that one word he’d gathered all his strength to say repeatedly.
    Mel needed desperately to know more about Denny and still couldn’t reach his parents. The local officer was getting as tired of checking their house as Mel was of perpetually trying to reach them by phone. Often the victim of a crime was the key to who perpetrated it. But Denny, so far, was a cipher. Maybe something would turn up soon that would be helpful. Some old bitter enemy who had tracked Denny down in Chicago, perhaps.
    His only suspect was Professor Imry. And Mel couldn’t convince himself that Imry was guilty. He was sly, ambitious, and tactless. Not a likeable person. But that didn’t mean he was a killer who could go haywire over someone correcting his grammar.
    Mel wouldn’t have minded suspecting John Bunting, even though there was no reason to. He was a drunk and a lech. He’d also based his lifelong career on the skills of his wife. Without her, he’d have been nothing.
    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