Ghosts of Usonia
“Usonia” (United States of North America, with an inserted i to make the word euphonious), a term attributed to Samuel Butler [Author’s note: author of the 1872 utopian novel Erewhon] and supposed to distinguish those in the United States from other Americans on the north and south continents of the western hemisphere, was an ideal to Wright; affordable, beautiful housing for a democratic America.
The Frank Lloyd Wright Companion, by William Allin Storrer, 1993, University of Chicago Press
July 10, Wednesday, 9:00 am
Fat drops pounded down. They smacked leaves in the woods with a peculiar popping sound. They beat a staccato on the roof of the big red house. Sliding down the v-shaped roof, tumbling into the copper gutters and downspouts, they began to pond on the landscape below. After a time, rivulets branched out of the puddles. They headed away from the brick walls, past the gridded concrete paving, feeling the way, winding through the sere brush beyond the tended garden. Above were the shock and the bang of a serious storm. Below a torrent emerged, sheeting over the land that until now had been sun scorched for weeks. Runoff swelled. Mother Earth embraced the life giving liquid. Odorless, tasteless, the liquid oxide of hydrogen gathered together in streamlets.
Relentlessly following gravity, burgeoning tendrils sought the lowlands. A short way south from the house, they found the precipice. Cataracts cascaded thirty feet down to the ravine. Heading to the final destination, the big lake, the stream roiled around rocks and tree trunks. Suddenly awake and wet, the ravine roared.
An obstacle appeared. Organic but lifeless, the lump of flesh was well into rigor mortis. Muscles stiffened. Skin blistered. With blood circulation and respiration stopped forever, the body was rupturing internally. Bloat and decay soon would follow.
At first, the stream nudged this object as if curious. Why was such an out-of-place thing here? But the moment of indecision passed. Gathering in force, foaming waters lifted the mass up. The current carried it slowly east, a solemn if unseen procession.
Just then, a curling shadow passed over the cortege of waters. Only the huddling birds heard its high-pitched moan, or was it a cackle, that wound through the trembling trees. It ended in a sigh, perhaps a brief sense of deja vue, only for a moment, then gone. Dawn finally broke, struggling through the gloom.
A few minutes later, the thing that had been human wedged itself against a towering rock at the edge of the beach. A boulder really, this massive stone barrier was a natural stele, as if a totem erected by unknown ancients. Beyond it, the storm-tossed lake awaited. Long before the pioneers, even native peoples, this sentinel had stood strong in the same spot, resisting wind and rain, snow and ice for eons, forcing the ravine flow around it. No, the lake would not have this lifeless form. Instead, the rock grasped the object tight against granite skin. To it, a little dead flesh was no matter.
******
10:00 am
God bowled a 300 game. Trees limbs strained and shattered. Thunder and lighting reigned. It was a war zone as the cold front barreled through town towards the lake. Sump pumps activated all over the Village of Ravine Heights on the North Shore of Chicagoland. Lights flickered. Home e-generators would be next.
“Yes, yes, I tink River folks are in for it this time,” remarked Detective Mandela Moobuti. He looked out the window at the rain sheeting down. A wind-blown branch struck the pane. “Man, man!’ he exclaimed as he flinched. He leaned back in his desk chair and rubbed his dark, bald head.
“No glass damage I see,” replied his partner Detective Clodagh O’Malley. She put down the report she had been reading. “Yep. They’ll be sand bagging today. Wouldn’t want to be near the Fox or Des Plaines.”
“If that wind keeps up…we best be ready to duck!” he quipped.
“Copy that,” she said. They were a visual contrast, the tall, slim Nigeria-born man and the short but ‘big-boned’ daughter of Irish immigrants. Dark, bald versus fair, redhead. The pair constituted the entire Investigation ‘Division’ at the Ravine Heights Public Safety Department. The RHPSD combined police and fire in the Village Hall complex, two stately Georgian buildings in the two-block downtown. Around the Hall, the pair was nicknamed ‘Clomo’.
“Not much action today. You can catch up on your paperwork!” he said.
“Thanks, Pardner. Lucky me!” she shot back.
He went to their break room and poured a cup of Joe. He grabbed another big piece of the cherry-cheese kringle too.
“Hmmm. That pastry is good, good.” he muttered. O’Malley’s aunt up in Racine kept them well supplied, god love her. “Slow this week. Where are all the bad ones?”
“Don’t know,” she replied. “Forgive me for saying so but … we sure could use a nice, juicy felony!”
“Yes, yes Ma’am,” he agreed. “Like the bird watcher murder last year. That was different, huh?!”
“Birder.”
“What?”
“Birder. They prefer to be called ‘birders’. Not bird watchers. Remember the trial?” O’Malley was a stickler for details and decorum. Moobuti, more of a big picture person.
“Okay, okay.” Moobuti leaned back in his desk chair. He watched the rain as he sipped his coffee. It was going to be a long shift. The day reminded him of the monsoons at home. Except, there was no dry season here.
The telephone beeped. She picked it up. “Ravine Heights Public Safety, Investigation Division, Detective O’Malley here.” She listened for a full minute. “Yes, Sir; right away Sir; we’re on it.”
She hung up and turned to Moobuti. “The Chief himself called. Missing person report – a VIP one. Oh, and would you believe 911 is down. The call came in to the regular public number.”
“Precious Lord…again? Third time this summer. What’s up?”
“It seems… Gloria Schneider is missing.”
“You mean THE Gloria Schneider?”
“You got it. ‘Mrs. Ravine Heights’…’Big Bucks’ herself.”
“Sure she not on a bender? You know her fondness for um, ‘beverages’ at the golf club.”
“Nope. Patrol went there. Already checked her other usual watering holes too. Nada. This time the pattern doesn’t fit.”
“Who called?”
“The house keeper…. early this morning.” O’Malley glanced at her notes. “One Greta Tomek. Seems she woke up, Mrs. Schneider not in the house. Got worried; called us.”
“Well. Let’s move. Witnesses and house first. Then the usual - canvas the neighbors and backtrack.” Moobuti stood up and opened the closet. He handed O’Malley her rain gear. They donned their neon yellow slickers, the ones emblazoned with RHPSD on the backs.
“Have you ever been to the Schneider House?” she asked.
“No. Why?”
“Just that it’s one of the most famous Frank Lloyd Wright designed domiciles on the North Shore. A late one in Wright’s long career…. and one of the biggest.”
“But the Willets…”
“The Ward Willits House is Prairie Style,” O’Malley stated patiently. “THIS is Usonian.” Historic architecture was a hobby of O’Malley. As her confused partner looked on, she added, “I’ll explain later. Let’s go.”
“After you,” he said with a polite sweep of hands. He grabbed the last kringle slice on the way out. He was a voracious eater.
How does that man stay so thin? Life sucks! O’Malley thought. In all other respects Moobuti was a great partner. Friendly, good at his job. So as usual she kept such musings to herself.
“Oh, one more thing,” she added. “About eight years ago there was a homicide there.”
******
The downpour reached its peak. Moobuti drove the RHPSD SUV cautiously. He dodged puddles all along Green Bay Road as they headed north to 170 Golden Hind Road, aka the Schneider House.
Moobuti squinted through the drenched windshield. The wipers were barely keeping up. “Tell me about the Usona style later. You said there was a homicide?” he asked.
“That’s Usonian, not Usona. U-SO-NI-AN. Now about the murder years ago. Before our time at the Village. An older cop told me the story.”
“Explain please.”
“Well, strangely enough, it was another rainy day. About this time of year too. Anyway, a call came in and our boys went out to the same house.”
“Another missing person?”
“No. There was nothing missing about the corpse they found. A female with her head bashed in.”
“Where?”
“In the living room. Next to the fireplace. A very messy scene. Lots o’ blood everywhere I heard. All over the limestone fireplace, the hardwood paneling, the custom furniture.”
“My, my! Who was the victim?”
“Are you ready for this? The vic was Cynthia Schneider, Gloria Schneider’s DAUGHTER! Late 20’s at the time. Yeah, quite the it-girl back then.
“It-girl? What is an ‘It-girl’?”
“It’s slang. You know, pretty and rich, a real North Shore type. A local up and comer, a junior league celeb.
“Slim?” he asked with a twinkle in his eyes. “You forgot about that.” Unmarried, the towering Moobuti liked girls tall and almost painfully thin.
O’Malley thought that remark odd. Didn’t African men like their women big, front and back? O’Malley was married to a stout but muscular man, of Scots-Irish descent.
O’Malley flashed daggers at her partner. “Yes, slim, willowy, lithe, toned, whatever! Say … I thought men from Africa traditionally liked their women - how shall I put this – ‘full-figured’?”
Moobuti grinned. “Maybe back in the old country, but not here. No, not here. No famine here. In this country, being heavy is not bragging. As my sainted mother used to say, ‘different place, different taste’!”
O’Malley snorted. “Alllllright. Let’s get to the bottom. Who did it?”
“Now for the most unsettling thing. NO PERP. The murderer was never identified. Quite an uproar back then. Heads rolled. The only murder in Ravine Heights in decades and it remains unsolved to this day.”
“No forensic evidence, none?”
“Well, no prints except hers, no weapon. No one else was home at the time. As you’ll see the house is secluded. The heavy rain would have washed away stuff outside, footprints, dripped blood, and the like. She had a boyfriend but apparently he had a firm alibi that night. In fact it turns out he was on a date with someone else. Nice, huh! Wonder if Cynthia knew.
“Parents, brothers or sisters, anyone else of interest?”
“Nothing shook out. One brother but he was cleared. The father died in a car accident a few years before. The daughter and mother lived in the house alone. The mother was out that night with friends.”
They drove the rest of the way in silence.
Twenty minutes later as the rain tapered off, O’Malley pointed out the turn off Golden Hind Road. Moobuti swung into a narrow driveway. Flanked by ivy-covered, dark brick walls with contrasting stone trim, the entry was easy to miss. The red porcelain square peaking through the foliage was the only clue to what lay beyond.
A bevy of blue uniforms flagged them down. The detectives parked next to three other patrol cars on a broad concrete motor court. Is anyone back at the station? Moobuti thought. He noticed the Chief’s ride, a badass black Escalade SUV with all the bells and whistles. Even though it was still a missing person case, yellow crime scene tape was up.
The long, two-story, angular house loomed up through the gloom. A continuous folded roof sheltered an inline layout of glass, common red brick, and salmon-colored concrete block. The prow-like roof stabbed out at one end. Below it an all glass wall blazed with light. Secondary roofs and chimneys shot out at angles. As shown in the pronounced grid of concrete paving joints, the house was designed on a square unit. It looked like about 60 inches on a side to O’Malley (152.4 centimeters for Moobuti). Wright used all sizes and shapes of planning modules – diamonds, triangles, parallelograms, and hexagons - but this square unit was probably the most common.
It was a handsome site, about three acres, dotted with mature oaks and maples. The house commanded the northern bluff of a steep, natural ravine. A rain-fed stream was coursing through the bottom. Standing by the top of the rugged defile, you could hear the water raging past. A quarter mile or so east the torrent emptied into Lake Michigan.
The Chief’s driver/assistant rushed up. “Hey Clomo, the boss wants to see you.” He was a nervous, weasel-faced little man, a classic toady. They followed him up to the house.
“Hi Chief. We got here pronto,” O’Malley said respectfully as she and Moobuti reached a tall, older man, in full dress uniform, lots of gold braid. It was Lester Taggart, Ravine Heights Chief of Public Safety. His driver shielded him with a big black umbrella.
A few years ago, Chief Taggart had bailed out of a big city PD in another state, opting for the low-key pace of Ravine Heights in his waning years. He was taciturn. He seemed, a little flustered at the moment. These things did not happen on his watch.
“O’Malley. Moobuti.” He nodded to each. “Site is secure. Interview the housekeeper. Search the house, the grounds. Usual stuff. Be thorough. Then we’ll see. Keep me informed.”
“Roger that,” O’Malley said as Moobuti nodded. The pair headed into the house briskly. The Chief and his driver returned to their car and drove away. With the top guy gone, detectives on the scene, and no press yet, there was no need for a big show. The blue suiters all pulled out.
Greta Tomek, the live-in housekeeper, was a small, fidgety woman. She wore sensible shoes, a bland housedress and an old sweater. She stared warily at the detectives while they introduced themselves. She was like a tiny bird, wounded on the ground, eying a feral cat creeping closer.
O’Malley tried to put her at ease. “Ma’am, if you are up to it, we have a few questions for you. Is it Ms. or Mrs. Tomek?”
“I am widow,” She replied.
“We are so sorry for your loss, Mrs. Tomek, Now please…”
“No bother. Long time ago,” the housekeeper interjected. “Good riddance to rubbish.” She had a heavy accent. Czech maybe?
“Okay, thank you Ma’am. Now please tell us what you know of Mrs. Schneider’s whereabouts the last day or so.” They proceeded to question and clarify each and every fact Tomek could recall for the past 24 hours. They also documented next of kin. Tomek confirmed Mrs. Schneider had one surviving offspring, a son named Luther. He had been estranged from her for many years. Mrs. Schneider’s ex-husband had died in a car accident long ago. Other than the son, there were no close relatives.
According to Tomek’s story, Mrs. Schneider had attended social events around town yesterday. She had been drinking heavily. Apparently that was not unusual. She went through several cocktails and a full bottle of wine every day. Typically, she only returned home after dusk.
“She come back. I serve her dinner here. Clean up. Go to bed early.” It was clear her employer had been out all day and was only home in the evening.
Moobuti stepped forward. “Thank you, Mrs. Tomek. We appreciate your cooperation. Here is our business card. Please call me or Detective O’Malley if you recall anything else. We will be doing a thorough search now. We will search the house and the grounds. Then we will expand our investigation to the neighborhood.”
“Go look. Nothing to hide.” Tomek sat in one of Wright’s custom armchairs, the type with folded, angular plywood arms and legs. Originals were very rare. Historians had dubbed it the ‘origami chair’. It was his usual domination of style over ergonomics. Even Wright admitted his furniture designs were not exactly meant for comfort. Tomek sat glumly, twisting a handkerchief over and over.
O’Malley handed her a glass of water. “Mrs. Tomek, kindly try to relax if you can. Please stay here while we look around. We will be back as soon as possible.”
Moobuti and O’Malley climbed a handsome stairway to the second floor. Polished steel rods, two at each side, suspended broad, stone treads individually. The hung treads and lack of riser panels gave the stairway a dramatic, floating effect. O’Malley pointed out the backlit stain glass ceiling above. It had a glistening, abstract pattern, in fall colors like the house. Apparently it was one of the house’s most well known features and unusual for such a late Wright design.
They checked every space, even closets and cabinets. There had been a case years ago where someone died of natural causes in a closet and was not discovered for quite some time. So they inspected everywhere. As they walked down the hallway connecting the bedrooms, O’Malley noticed something.
“Hey, Moobuti, Check out the clerestory windows.”
“Clerestory? If you please, define ‘clerestory’.”
“Yeah, sure. I mean the high windows along this hallway. The ones on the outside wall. Wright loved to play with those.”
“Yes, yes. I see them now.”
“K. Study the decorative pattern in those windows. See the angular wood cutouts.”
“A sort of screen, is it not?”
“Yeah, a screen. K. Now then. See the one on the end?” She pointed. “It’s different from the rest. Looks new, right? Crude actually, like a hasty repair.” O’Malley eyed that window carefully. After a long moment she concluded, “Something’s not right here.”
“Excuse me. Is that a pun?”
“It could be.”
They went down stairs and searched the rest of the house, including a small crawl space and the detached garage. They walked around the grounds, hopping over puddles from property line to property line. The pair took extra time along the top of the ravine to see if the owner may have fallen down into it. By now, the sun was out. However, no body was there. Nothing else seemed unusual.
They returned to the spectacular, cathedral-like living room. The space was bright with direct, natural light. Mrs. Tomek had not budged from her armchair. They said goodbye and started to canvas the neighborhood. After about four hours they had contacted adjoining properties up and down Golden Hind Road and adjacent streets. Everyone knew about Mrs. Schneider and her notorious ways. Nothing suspicious turned up. Well, nothing except…one neighbor did mention the alleged ghost of the murdered daughter who supposedly haunted the house.
“I imagine there’s a supernatural explanation to all this – hobgoblins and such.” O’Malley quipped as the pair entered their ride.
“Please do not mock the spirits,” Moobuti said stiffly. Like most Nigerians from the southeast of that country, he was a Christian. O’Malley, basically a fallen away Catholic, said nothing else.
The detectives stopped for a late lunch, a ritual Moobuti seldom forgot. Then they returned to the office. They found a number for Luther Schneider and called him, leaving a message to contact them immediately. The phone rang. Moobuti picked it up. It was not Luther. Moobuti listened for a moment, hung up and turned to his partner. “That was Dispatch. We must go right back out. My Lord, a body has been discovered!”
“Where?”
“Lilywood beach. It is where the same ravine that passes the Schneider property empties into the lake. A gentleman walking his dog made the find.”
“You mean…”
“Yes, yes. I would estimate 400 meters…ah, I mean about a quarter mile…you know, from the Schneider House.” They hustled out the door.
Now in the bright afternoon, they arrived to an even bigger scene. The Blue Suiters, The Chief and his driver. Caution tape. This time, gawking bystanders crowding the police lines. Lots of press were arriving, restlessly moving, angling for the best shot, like predators hungry for a meal. Satellite trucks started to clog Golden Hind Road and the small parking lot at Lilywood beach. This was serious news.
The ancient County coroner showed up. The detectives had never met the man in person before. Until today there had been no occasion to do so. A forensics team worked the site. The body was removed from its rocky resting place and driven away. The two detectives checked the scene as well, but most of the hard investigative information would come from others in a few days.
Not missing a beat, The Chief had the assembled throng gathered together and made a short, seemingly impromptu yet impassioned speech. Since there was nothing yet to report except the original missing person case, he took a long time to say very little.
“The investigation into this heinous crime begins immediately… no stone unturned … call this number if you have any relevant facts ... blah, blah, blah.” He projected a stern yet confident mien, an I’m in command so don’t worry, justice will be donemessage for the masses. He had very white teeth, which he displayed to good effect. In the background some distance behind Chief Taggart, O’Malley struggled to hide a smirk while Moobuti diplomatically stood stone-faced.
Later on Taggart took the detectives aside and repeated just about the same terse instructions he had said a few hours before. Then back in his SUV and on to the next publicity opportunity, probably a personal briefing to the mayor. After all, this event would put Ravine Heights on the mental map of millions…for good or ill.
Back at the station, O’Malley and Moobuti mapped out their strategy for this case. The coroner’s exam would take a few days, especially the toxicology panel. There was a little time to build a background. Just a little though. The heat would be on from higher up and the press both.
After a long discussion, Moobuti had a hunch.
“Someting about this doesn’t, what you say, ‘pass the smell test’. How about we work both sides of the road we are on.”
“Meaning?”
“You are the expert on Mr. Wright, are you not? Therefore, you work the current case. I want to pull the murder book … find out about the cold case of the daughter. Tink there’s a connection?”
“Don’t know. I’m not a Wright expert per se; just have an interest in design, a hobby of sorts. But your plan is sound. Let’s do it. Best not tell the Chef we are looking into a cold case for now.”
Her partner left for the records department. Meanwhile, like Moobuti, something was nagging at the back of O’Malley’s mind. She pulled up photos on her computer they had taken at the Schneider house earlier in the day. She studied them for some time. Everything looked fine, nothing out of order…
She went online and googled the Schneider House. A full-color, multipage article in an international shelter magazine popped up from a year ago. It chronicled the house’s history, which was complicated. Wright’s original clients for the house, Mr. and Mrs. Voss, had financial difficulties; construction of the 1955 design was stalled for years. It crawled along until the late 60’s. The actual cost of building the design was considerably more than Wright’s original estimate. No surprise there, as many other clients of his would attest. Ultimately, the Vosses passed away. The house became vacant and was on the market for years in the 80’s. Usonian and other mid-century modern homes were not popular back then. Someone finally bought it and apparently botched a remodel job. The second owners left in the 90’s. Once again the house was for sale but languished. Around the turn of the century the Schneiders bought the property. This time they proceeded carefully with restoration. A man named Professor Adam Josephson, according to the article a well-known art historian at Northwestern University, guided their efforts. As the color pictures showed, the results were beautiful.
Suddenly she felt out of her depth. She needed help, from someone with advanced knowledge to shed light on this unfolding mystery. O’Malley thought to herself. No, I’m not a design expert, not by a long shot. But now I have an idea who is.
*****
In the basement of Village Hall, Detective Moobuti carefully paged through the Cynthia Schneider murder book. There were the usual findings, photos, and autopsy report. According to the report she was bludgeoned to death with a blunt object of some sort. Moobuti found this part of his job highly distasteful. Even though a Christian, he did not like to be reminded of the limitations of this mortal life, especially when violence was the ending. Cynthia Schneider had been very pretty, a real stunner in fact. There were newspaper and magazine clippings of her involvement with charities, civic organizations, a whole host of do-good groups. What a waste!
The County coroner was the same wizened lifer they met a few hours ago. Moobuti noticed the lack of a toxicology report. Hmmm, he mused. An odd thing to misplace.
Crosschecking personnel records, Moobuti found the Ravine Heights detective who handled the case retired shortly after the investigation closed. Moobuti always was skeptical of the work of short-timers. In his experience, they tended to do sloppy research and rushed investigation. Plus this was under a different Chief, who also retired at the end of that year. Curious. Still, the book was thick. Since no legit suspects were ever flushed out into the open, it had grown considerably as RHPSD was forced to plow the same ground over and over.
The obvious suspects at the time had been vetted and cleared. Luther Schneider was the prime one. He apparently had a serious falling out with his mother shortly before the daughter was killed. Yet, he had a sound alibi. He had moved to Michigan where he had attended college and had been seen socially in his Michigan community hundreds of miles away around the approximate time of the murder. Similarly, the housekeeper, one Glenda Smythe, who preceded Mrs. Tomek, was away visiting relatives, who vouched for her. Cynthia Schneider’s supposedly steady boyfriend was on a date with someone else. Again, there was evidence of him safely being away from the murder scene. No other suspects with any possible motive had surfaced. So … nothing but dead ends.
Finally, Moobuti called the coroner’s office to check on progress. Due to the high profile of the case, the Gloria Schneider autopsy procedure had been pushed to the head of the line. It would take place soon. He arranged to be notified so he could there.
7:00 pm
“Detective O’Malley I presume? Said the trim, middle-aged man. “Please come in. Have a seat. Can I get you anything? Water, coffee, tea?” Lean and fit, he had ‘Kennedy hair’ and wore a neat spread-collar dress shirt and perfectly knotted tie. He could have been a GQcover. The smiling man rose gracefully from behind a tasteful wooden desk and shook hands with the detective. He noticed his nails were discretely manicured. Behind him a picture window afforded a stunning view of the Northwestern University lagoon and the early evening sparkling waters beyond. The sun stayed up late this time of year.
“Thank you for seeing me after hours Professor Josephson,” stated O’Malley with a professional smile. “No refreshments but again, thanks. Given your many responsibilities, I am grateful (And a little surprised, she thought) that you were able to clear time so quickly after I called you a few hours ago.”
“I am happy to assist you in any way I can. Plus we were not far from each other today.” His smile vanished. “It is truly unfortunate that we meet due to such a terrible event.” His voice was beautifully modulated. Clearly he did a lot of speaking in public.
“I am sorry, but what do you mean, Professor?”
“Well…. the tragic demise of Mrs. Schneider.”
“You already know about that? It only happened this morning. Not much on the news yet.”
“True perhaps, but you see, I have a different news source. Mrs. Tomek called me.”
“Oh.” O’Malley wrote in her notebook. “About when was that?”
“It was just after YOU called me in fact. So my mystification about your visit was instantly dispelled.”
Good vocab,she thought. “All right, I see. How do you know Mrs. Tomek?” She knew the answer but wanted to see what he would say.
“Let me explain, I have a long history with the Schneider family. As you may know, I am an art historian. I am well known for a special focus on mid-twentieth century architecture and design. I have advised the Schneiders from when they purchased the Voss House designed by FL Wright. Now it is commonly known as the Schneider House. They wanted my guidance. Help with undoing earlier, poorly planned and poorly executed remodels. They wanted to return the building to its former glory. That we subsequently did together. Mr. and Mrs. Schneider were very pleased with the transformation. Now as to Mrs. Tomek. She saw me many times with Mrs. Schneider. She called me in a panic. I assume she did not know whom else to contact. Anyway, I tried to calm her. Ah…you know there was an article about the house in Domus…” He started to pull a magazine from a wall rack.
“Actually, I have read that article online,” O’Malley said. She noticed his eyebrows inch up a bit at that statement. “Modern architecture is an interest of mine.”
“Good. Very good. So you know what a treasure the Voss-Schneider house is.” He laid the magazine down open to the article.
“Furnishings too,” O’Malley interjected, pointing at the living room photo in the article.
“Um, well, yes…wonderful furnishings as well. All original, if not too comfortable!”
“Like the Origami Chairs?”
“You really have done your homework!” He replied in a tone half congratulatory and half surprised.
“Like I said, a hobby of mine.” O’Malley shifted gears. “If I may, let’s get to the matter at hand. Professor Josephson, do you know of anyone who would wish Mrs. Schneider harm?”
He paused for a moment, then said, “No, not really. She was a socialite. She knew quite a few people. She was quite the strong personality. Therefore, some in the community may not have liked her. But I have no personal knowledge of anyone with true ill will towards her, no one wanting to harm her, not even rumors.”
O’Malley pressed on. “Very well. Now… do you know about the murder of the daughter, Cynthia Schneider, eight years ago?”
“Yes, naturally. I knew them all well before that tragedy. Again, I know little about it and certainly not of anyone who could have done such a horrific deed.”
“Did the detectives on the case contact you?”
“Um … yes. I recall they did. I, ah, remember they asked me to come in. So I did. I gave them a formal statement, um, in person at the Village Hall I mean. That was it.”
“No follow up from them?”
“No. At least none involving me. The rest I know only from the media.” He sighed. “I am afraid that family is star-crossed. First, Mr. Schneider in an auto collision. Then the daughter. Finally Mrs. Schneider today. Utterly tragic!”
O’Malley asked more questions but nothing unusual emerged. In addition to his academic career, Josephson consulted with several owners of famous modernist buildings. He had quite the reputation as a trusted advisor on historic design and construction. After about an hour, she decided the well was tapped out for now. “Professor Josephson, you have been very accommodating. Thank you for meeting with me. Here is my card. If you think of anything else germane (Hah, she thought.) to this case please call me right away.”
“Most certainly. Whoever did this…I hope you catch him.”
“Ah…I should point out, Professor, that Mrs. Schneider’s cause of death is undetermined at this time. It could have been homicide. It could equally have been suicide.”
“I understand. Of course. Regardless, I wish you the best with this case, however it turns out. Please keep me informed on your progress.”
“Thanks, Professor. Oh, one more thing. Beside yourself, who else would you say are similar experts in your art history field, especially the Mid-Century concentration.”
“Oh … interesting question. Um … you mean the competition?” He grinned. “Let’s see … there’s, ah, Jimmy, … yeah, James Blake at UC Berkeley, Then, um, Sandra Halverson at Yale. Maybe a few other ‘lesser lights’, but those two are the ones I’d say. O’Malley wrote the names down.
“I appreciate your time. Goodbye, Professor.”
O’Malley exited the admin building; a tiny thought began to form. It crystalized as she reached her car. As Reagan said so many years ago, ‘Trust but verify’.
Immediately after the detective left, Josephson closed his office door. He picked up the phone. He had an important call to make. “It’s me. Jock, did you hear? Ah huh … well, something’s come up.”
July 11, Thursday, 9:00 am
Back at the office the next day O’Malley found contacts for the two art historians cited by Josephson. First she called UC Berkeley. No luck. Professor Blake was on a yearlong sabbatical. She was told he was currently hiking through the Andes, far from any cell phone reception. Undeterred, she called Yale. After three calls, being on hold, disconnected, and passed around numerous times, she struck pay dirt.
“Professor Halverson?”
“Yes, I am Sandra Halverson. May I help you?”
Professor Halverson, thanks for taking my call. My name is Detective Clodagh O’Malley of the Ravine Heights, Illinois, Public Safety Department. I am investigating a suspicious death in my Village that happened yesterday and…”
“How did you even find me? And please call me Sandra.”
“Okay, Sandra. Thank you. To answer your question, I was given your name as an expert in midcentury modern architecture. Is that true?”
“So I’m told. Although some of my colleagues may disagree!”
Oh?
“I mean certain misogynist males in my department who think women should not be leading academics. I imagine you have figured out I speak my mind!”
“I can understand that. A woman in a small town police force can run up against similar attitudes. Anyway, I am calling because the death is connected with a famous modern house. Perhaps you know it. The Schneider House in Ravine Heights, IL. Designed by Frank Lloyd Wright in the 50’s, but finished in the 60’s. I am calling to see what you might know about that house and particularly its details of ownership.
“Ah yes, The Voss House. These days, it’s called the Voss Schneider House to be correct. Big for a Usonian style design. Very well preserved interiors and furnishings I’m told. Spectacular site too. Actually I heard something about it on the news today.”
“That’s the one. You probably heard about Mrs. Schneider, the current owner. She was found deceased not far from the house.”
“Detective O’Malley, if you really want the scoop on the house, there are two people you should contact. The first is Adam Josephson at Northwestern. The second…”
“Professor Adam Josephson of Northwestern University referred me to you. Is the second James Blake?
Ah. Well, yes, Josephson was one. Blake, I consider second tier. No, the second person I’d suggest is someone that I seriously doubt Josephson would have mentioned. Waldo Hess at IIT in Chicago. Waldo’s the real deal. Josephson has great PR but Hess does the work.
“What?” said a startled O’Malley. “I mean … why would Professor Josephson not mention Hess?”
“Simple. Josephson absolutely loathes Hess. Clodagh, let me summarize. Two alpha art historians in a single town are one too many!”
After a few more minutes, O’Malley thanked Halverson and hung up. What a feisty lady! I bet she knows her stuff though.
She immediately called IIT and after the inevitable delays connected to their art history section. According to a grad student manning the phones, Hess was teaching a class but would be back in his office momentarily. Wheels were turning furiously in O’Malley’s head. Hess, somehow, was the key. Ten minutes later she called again, this time Hess’s direct line. He answered.
“Professor Hess, I’m Detective Clodagh O’Malley of the Ravine Heights, Illinois, Public Safety Department. I am investigating a suspicious death in my Village. I was referred to you by Professor Sandra Halverson at Yale.”
“I was waiting for a call like this, “ said Hess without preamble. “Kind of a roundabout way to reach me though. That Sandra’s a pistol! I like her. Anyhow, it’s about Mrs. Schneider, right? And the Voss-Schneider place. Word travels fast in this burg. I suppose you talked with Josephson already.”
My God, does everybody know everything already?! Her hand tightened on the phone as she said, “I did, but …. he did not mention you.”
“True to form. Hardly surprising. That man is so busy promoting himself he would not have time to acknowledge a mere working stiff like me. Look, I have students waiting to see me. Unlike some folks wooing rich dowagers in famous mansions, I still teach full time. So I will get to the crux of this matter. Are you aware there is a clone of the Voss-Schneider house under construction?”
“A…a clone?”
Yep, believe it nor not … an exact replica, funded by an eccentric billionaire … in China. On a site that’s outside Shanghai on a river. It’s nearing completion. This I’m told by my students from that area.
“MY GOD… the possibilities.”
“Indeed. One more thing, I am sure you know Josephson advised the Schneiders on that house from the get-go. What you may have missed is that our dear Prof. Josephson is the Executive Director of the prestigious Mid-Century Modern Society. That group has a lot of influence in historic preservation circles. I suspect the MCMS has some kind of connection to the Chinese project. To be honest, I don’t have any hard evidence but the scent seems right. The game’s afoot, Ms. Watson! You should contact Loomis next.”
“Loomis? Who is that.”
“Loomis Traders, owned by Mr. John Loomis, based in Oak Park, IL. They’re the premier online auction house for authentic 20thcentury architectural furnishings. From Art & Crafts and Prairie Style, to late Wright and International Style. if you want the real thing and you’ve got molto moola, you go to them. When you reach out to him, tell that old rascal ‘Jock’ Loomis I said hi. Look, gotta go. Nice to meet you!” He hung up.
“Wow,” O’Malley said out loud into the dead mouthpiece. “Wait till Mandela hears this!”
July 12, Friday, 9:00 am
O’Malley turned the frenetic events of the last 48 hours over and over in her mind. Moobuti was at the Coroner’s office while she held down the fort. Without really knowing why, she pulled up the Domusmagazine article again.
O’Malley decided to compare her new on-site photos to the article’s illustrations. The article and its pictures were no more than 1 ? years old. Everything was roughly the same - finishes, furnishings - everything. Then it hit her. The magazine photo of the living room showed the origami armchairs that she had seen in person. BUT, in the article she counted eight chairs; her photos plainly showed only seven. Seven seemed an odd number. For a space like the Schneider living room, you would think an even number made more sense, for a logical layout. She was sure she had seen no similar armchairs in any other room. So…what happened to the eighth chair? Was it on loan to a museum? Being fixed? Stored somewhere?
She dug deeper. There were older references to the Schneider house too. One dated from when the Schneiders first took possession, some 15 years ago. This article, on the National Trust for Historic Preservation website, was a congratulatory puff piece, wishing the new owners well in their quest to return the dwelling to former glory. It had photos too, but was less comprehensive. Only a partial view of the living room was posted, showing the whole fireplace but only part of the room. The finishes obviously were in need of love. Still, the view looked remarkably like the applicable portion of the Domus photo. The most poignant aspect of this piece was the picture of the whole family posed informally in the kitchen. Luther and Cynthia were cute kids. The two parents were holding hands, beaming. No reader could imagine the suffering to come.
Then O’Malley googled Loomis Traders. Their website was expertly done, flashy even. Clearly, they dealt in the rarest of American architectural artifacts, from a 1895 Louis Sullivan terracotta frieze to a 1946 prototype plywood chair by Charles and Ray Eames. Featured items were priceless, irreplaceable. John (Jock) Loomis himself was an interesting character, as explained at various other websites. A super salesman and consummate dealmaker. In industries from real estate to fine art, he had a ‘colorful’ past.
Professor Halverson had mentioned something yesterday that O’Malley did not think much of then but remembered now. Towards the end of their call, Sandra quipped, “Tell your clients to hold onto their original Wright stuff; otherwise it might end up in Asia!”
With that thought echoing in her mind, O’Malley dialed Loomis.
“Hello, Loomis Traders. May I help you?”
“Good morning, I am Detective Clodagh O’Malley of the Ravine Heights, Illinois, Public Safety Department. May I talk with Mr. John Loomis please?”
“What is this regarding?”
“I am doing research on rare architectural artifacts. This is in connection with a crime investigation the RHPSD is conducting.” O’Malley decided not to mention Josephson or Hess. “I understand Loomis Traders is very highly regarded in this area.”
“Very well. One moment please.” It was a long moment.
“John Loomis, here. What’s the deal, Detective?”
“Mr. Loomis, thank you so much for taking my inquiry. I appreciate your time. As I said to your colleague, I am Detective Clodagh O’Malley of the Ravine Heights, Illinois, Public Safety Department. We are investigating a crime in our area. Are you familiar with the Frank Lloyd Wright designed dwelling called the Voss-Schneider House in Ravine Heights?”
After a pause, “Yes … I ah, yes. Why do you ask?”
“It is a crime scene currently. And …. “
“Yeah, the Schneider death. It’s all over the news.”
“That is correct. My partner and I are the lead detectives (and the only ones) on this case. My point in reaching out to you is this. (Let’s see how ‘ Jock’ reacts.) Have you ever been involved with selling any rare furnishings from that domicile?”
“Now THAT is an interesting question. I have to say yes … and no.”
“Could you explain please?”
“Sure thing. In truth, I have had inquires about the house and its furnishings from time to time as I do for numerous historic properties. From various parties. Recently, I talked with an associate of Mrs. Schneider about several items in the house. This was after a source overseas asked me to do so. I am at liberty to reveal neither the source nor the associate. See, I am their contractual agent and have signed a confidentiality agreement. To date however, I have completed no actual transaction, nothing for that particular house or its contents.”
He continued, now with honeyed familiarity. “Say Darlin’, you have a lovely voice. It’s sultry, ya know. I’ve a thought. Why don’t you stop by the shop, say late in the day tomorrow. I’ll clear my schedule. We can talk in person. Private-like. And Clodagh, you call me Jock.”
“MISTER Loomis, are there particular items this ‘overseas source” is interested in?”
The verbal honey flow stopped. “Ms. O’Malley. Perhaps you are not familiar with complex commercial transactions involving international export. I have been in this line for thirty years. As I said clearly before, I am under a confidentiality agreement so …”
“Mr. Loomis, please remember, crime trumps contract,” she said stiffly. “I think we are done here for now. Again, thank you for your time. “ She quickly mentioned her contact info and hung up. Pig,she thought.
*****
The coroner’s exam room smelled of disinfectant and death. Moobuti stood by patiently as the old coroner performed the autopsy. Due to the case’s notoriety, the headman was doing this procedure himself. Two young assistants scurried about in response to barked commands.
After a long, review of the body, the coroner turned to his visitor. “That’s about it. Detective Moobuti,, follow me here. Besides the usual contusions, scrapes, etc., note the large cranial damage.” The coroner’s gloved hands turned the head to one side. “You see a substantial indentation of the left forehead, indicative of a massive blunt trauma. I see no wounds from conventional weapons, no puncture marks from needles, no ligature signs. This woman was not injected, shot, or stabbed, not strangled or bound. Simply put, she jumped - or possibly was thrown - into the ravine. The deceased then fell to her death on the rocks below. Tiny river stones clotted with blood and embedded in the head wound, plus other technical telltales, further indicates she was not dead before the fall. Also, note she was fully clothed at the time of death. No evidence of violent tearing of her clothes presents itself. Furthermore, there appear to be no defensive wounds on her hands, arms, face, or elsewhere. Thus, no major struggle before the fall. If she really was pushed over the brink by someone else, the killer was unusually adroit in his or her movements.” The coroner droned on but the key fact had emerged. This was most likely NOT a homicide.
“Thanks for the detailed explanation, Doctor. What is the status of the toxicology report?”
“As you know, the full panel takes about a week. So a couple more days at least. Regardless of the case priority, it takes a while to perform certain experiments for more exotic drugs, toxins, etc.”
“Yes, yes, I tink I understand, Doctor. May I turn to another case before we end this session?”
“Okay. Which one? Not the birder thing again I hope!”
“No, no, that is closed. I have reopened a cold case in connection with this Gloria Schneider one.”
“You mean … Cynthia? Her daughter, Cynthia Schneider?”
“You remember. Now … I have reviewed the murder book. I found the autopsy report, which I believe you performed at the time. Is that correct?”
“Right. Such a terrible case! You … um, have an issue with the autopsy?”
“No, no, not with the autopsy itself.” My only question is, “Where is the toxicology report?”
“The Tox? It’s not in the book?”
“No, I have looked very thoroughly. It is not.”
Moobuti’s phone rang. “Detective Moobuti here. Oh, hello Chief. Ah huh, ah huh … I know … yes, yes, okay … yes, Sir, we are finishing up now. Still need the tox report in … okay, in … okay … okay in a few days. Yes, I’ll monitor it very closely. Yes, Sir … yes … th … thanks.” The caller, a man of few and hurried words, hung up.
“Sorry for that interruption. The Chief of Public Safety checked in.”
“Fine. Well about that report … hell, if I know! But it was done. I saw it!” The coroner, supercilious in his tone before, seemed a little nervous. “Can you ask the detective from the case? Oh, he’s retired right? Probably in some shithole in Florida. Alright, lemme call the lab for the backup record. Oh, wait, wait.” The coroner paused in perplexed thought. “Damn it! We used a different lab service years ago. There were only paper records in tbose days. ”Um … I’ll have to get back to you.”
“Of course, Doctor. Make your best effort. But please, let me know sooner than later.” Moobuti left.
He arrived back in the office just as O’Malley hung up on a call.
“Hi, Mandela. How’d it go?”
“Strictly by the autopsy, it’s appearing more and more a suicide. No assault evidence. No defensive wounds. The blow to the head is very large, not something a small blunt instrument like a club or tool would cause. The leading theory? Mrs. Schneider jumped headfirst. She hit the rocky bottom some thirty feet below. From the approximate time of death, this was well before the storm filled up the ravine the next day. Oh, the Chief rang me during the procedure. I received the usual ‘hurry up’ command.”
“Yeah, the Chief … So, she just ups and kills herself late one night? What’s the motivation?” O’Malley was perplexed.
“Please note we do not have the toxrep yet. Maybe she was heavily intoxicated and simply slipped.”
“Yeah, maybe.” The two stared at each other for a moment. “Lots happened on my side today. Let me fill you in.” O’Malley described the progression of her architectural inquires, from Josephson to Halverson, to Hess, to Loomis. She mentioned the difference in number of chairs from one time to another, which she discovered by comparing older and newer photos. When she revealed the ‘clone house’, Moobuti’s eyebrows really shot up. It was like discovering an unknown twin sibling. Unsettling. “And finally, that call I was on as you returned?” She continued. “It was Luther Schneider. He’s traveling in from Michigan tomorrow. You know, to help with the funeral arrangements and such. He’ll meet us here at 4:00 pm tomorrow. I know it’s Saturday, but …”
“No problem., too important. So we’ll finally get to interview the one and only close family member left.”
“Not entirely. I got another call today. It seems there’s a will. And a long time family lawyer / CPA to go with it. Apparently, a Mr. Solomon A. Weiss from Skokie prepared the will for Mrs. Schneider. Weiss informed me he is also appointed the executor for the estate. He said he could see us in a day or so. He needs time to get all his documents together. He’ll confirm tomorrow. He says he’s been advising the Schneider family on financial and legal stuff for over twenty years. Ya know, he was agitated when we talked. I got the feeling his mood was not just about Mrs. S’s demise.”
“Yes, yes, he probably needs time to compose himself, organize the files. So … good, good. Things are becoming clearer. Okay, we need to wait, yes, wait on this case a little, at least until both the Schneider and Weiss interviews. Anyway, you and I need time for other things. Now, the shooting last night on Forest Lane. We have that young man from Waukegan, a stolen auto, and … ” For the first time in three days, the pair put their heads together on another case.
July 13, Saturday, 4:45 pm
“Where is he?” Moobuti asked.
“He’ll be here. I am sure dealing with his mother’s arrangements is not easy.’” replied O’Malley. The intercom buzzed. “Yes? Fine. Bring him back. Thanks, Sarg.”
The desk officer ushered in a young man and left him. The visitor was in his early 30’s, tall, trim, medium build, blond hair, blue eyes. All in all, almost model handsome. He was distraught.
“Officers, I ah, I am Luther Schneider.”
Mr. Schneider, thank you very much for coming to see us during this difficult time. Please accept our condolences. I am Detective O’Malley and this is my partner Detective Moobuti. Would you have a seat? Can I get you anything … coffee, bottled water?” O’Malley talked to him gently, trying to put him at ease.
“Nothing for me, ah, thanks. Why am I here?”
“Let me explain. My partner and I are investigating the circumstances of your mother’s passing. So far we have no evidence of foul play. Our preliminary results indicate she fell into the ravine next to her house late at night and suffered a mortal blow to her head. Her demise was most likely instantaneous.” O’Malley made sure to add the last part. “We still would like to follow up with you though. Can you tell us if your mother had dealings with anyone who would wish her ill?”
“My mother. My mother was … strong. Quite the socialite. A very proud person. Full of herself. Image was everything to her. She and Dad were a real, North Shore power couple in their prime. The perfect family, the famous house, the American Dream on steroids. But she never was the same. I mean after my father died. Then ….”
“And then?”
“She and I. We had … a falling out. I moved out for good just before my sister … was … was…”
“Was murdered?” O’Malley said quietly.
“Yeah. … Ah, boy. This … is hard …” Luther bent over gasping, staring at the floor.
“Try to relax, Mr. Schneider. Take some deep breaths. There … better. Detective Moobuti and I understand. We both want to help … really.” O’Malley touched Luther’s shoulder reassuringly. “So, sorry, but I have to ask again. Is there anyone who could have wanted to harm your mother?”
“I don’t know of anyone.”
Detective Moobuti spoke up. “Mr. Schneider, this is so painful for you, I know, I see. Yet, I must ask about something else. It’s important. Let us talk for a moment about your sister, Cynthia. Did SHE have any enemies?”
Luther sat up straight. Suddenly there was a light in his eyes. He looked as if gazing at a spectacular, distant vista. “My sister was so beautiful. So full of life. A joy to be around. Her smile, a radiant smile framed in shining dark hair, her bluer than blue eyes, her soft pale skin, her touch, the tender touch.” Moobuti and O’Malley stole a glance at each other. “How … how could anyone want to hurt her!” He started crying.
“If you can bear it a little longer, let me ask about another thing,” said O’Malley. “Tell us about Professor Adam Josephson. About his relationship to your family.”
“The Prof? Sure. He was around a lot as I grew up. Um … very smart, highly educated, good looking. My parents … especially my mother after she was alone, adored him. Mom did not make a move on the house without the Prof’s blessing. They trusted him. He was like a favorite relative, a wise uncle so to speak. A smooth guy.”
The detectives spent another half hour quizzing the young man, then escorted him to the Village Hall lobby.
“If you recall anything else about either your mother’s or your sister’s passing, please contact us without fail. We are here for you.”
Moobuti and O’Malley returned to their desks. Moobuti began. “You did a very sensitive cross ex. I wish I had your skill there.”
“Thanks Pal. Impressions? Are you thinking what I’m thinking.”
“You mean how the son described the daughter. Pardon me for saying so, but … he sounded more like a boyfriend than a sibling.”
“Truthfully, my thought too,” agreed O’Malley.
“And Josephson, certainly ‘in’ with that family,” Moobuti continued. “ ‘A smooth guy’, Luther said.”
“Right. Maybe a little too smooth.”
July 15, Monday, 2:00 pm
“Officers, welcome. Please come into my office,” stated a nattily dressed, friendly Solomon A, Weiss, CPA, Attorney-at-Law, standing in the reception area to his little suite. Abundant white hair neatly combed, classic three-piece suit and tie, shined shoes – old school. “It’s Detective O’Malley and Moobuti I believe.” He shook hands as he herded them to a small conference table next to his desk. “Darla,” he said turning back to the reception area for a moment. “Kindly hold my calls. Absolutely no interruptions. Thanks.”
“That’s us, Sir.” Said O’Malley as she and her partner sat down. “We appreciate your calling this morning and setting up this meeting.”
“We have serious matters to discuss, Officers. Please call me Solby the way.”
“Very well, Sol. I am Clodagh and he is Mandela. Before we begin, let me convey our sincere condolences on the passing of your long time client, Gloria Schneider.”
“Thank you for your kindness, Clodagh, Mandela. Yes, a terrible, terrible loss. I knew Gloria and her husband for over thirty years. Good, ‘pillar-of-the-community’ type people. Glo certainly had more than her share of loss and suffering. A female Job.” Sol paused, lost in memory; then he roused himself. “The living must live. Let me explain why I brought you here. You see there’s a will.” He handed out a copy to each detective. “This is it.”
Sol continued. “Let me give you the highlights. It’s a fairly standard last will and testament. Mrs. Schneider left money for her sole surviving offspring, Luther. Not as much as you would think. They had barely spoken for several years. But the bulk of her estate is tied up in the residential property where she resided. That property and a modest investment portfolio are both in a living trust. She willed it to the Midcentury Modern Society. As stated, it is her express wish that they preserve it in perpetuity for posterity, possibly housing a museum or another worthy cause.
“And that Society is run by Professor Adam Josephson,” chimed in Moobuti.
“You know him, do you? Yes, he and Glo were very close. Although, there seemed to be some friction recently. Their relationship cooled somewhat. Mind you, that is my speculation only.”
“Alright, we’re explore that in a moment. How long will it take to settle the estate?”
Well, the living trust expedites this process tremendously. As you know, these trust vehicles are very popular with high net-worth individuals. They simplify probate and the estate settlement process while keeping the state at arms length. So just a few months probably. However, there is one complication, which is really why I called you today. I received an unexpected envelope last Friday. I thought about it all weekend and decided to wait to open it in your presence.”
The atmosphere in the room turned chilly. “Please proceed.”
Sol produced a standard courier envelope addressed to him. He showed the detectives that the return address was the Schneider House. He opened it. Inside was a smaller sealed envelope with a notarized cover letter clipped to it.
Sol quickly read the cover letter silently. He summarized it out loud. “The contents of this inner, sealed envelope were signed off by Gloria Schneider and duly notarized as requested by her. (I even know this notary.) Apparently I may only open the inner envelope in the presence of at least two witnesses. Well, it’s a good thing you two are here! Sign here please, each of you.”
After the detectives signed the cover letter, Sol opened the sealed envelope and unfolded two single sheets of letter-size paper. He began to read the top sheet for the detectives to hear.
I, Gloria Ellsworth Schneider, being of sound mind and under no duress of any kind, do hereby affirm and add this day of July 10, 2017, this codicil to my last will and testament, replacing and revoking all previous codicils and/or applicable text of my will. Other than the distribution to my son Luther E. Schneider, which shall remain in force, as previously stipulated, I hereby leave the rest of my estate to The National Trust for Historic Preservation, aka National Trust. It is my intention that this beneficiary shall maintain my home and grounds at 170 Golden Hind Road in Ravine Heights, Illinois, in perpetuity as a museum or similar worthy non-profit occupancy for the education, information, and benefit of the general public. Should the National Trust cease to exist or for any reason be unable to live up to its obligation imposed by this will and codicil, my executor, Mr. Solomon A. Weiss, or his designated successor, shall redirect my assets bequeathed to the National Trust to other worthy uses at Mr. Weiss’s or his designated successor’s sole discretion.
Her spidery wet signature and date appeared below along with the wet signed notarization.
“My goodness, that certainly changes things,” Sol said. “Let me read the second letter now. He read ahead a little to himself before beginning. “Oh my God!” His hands trembled as he commenced the second reading.
I, Gloria Ellsworth Schneider, residing at 170 Golden Hind Road, Ravine Heights, Illinois, being of sound mind and under no duress of any kind, do hereby affirm and attest to the following facts. I killed my only daughter, Cynthia A. Schneider, on the evening of July 10, 2009 in the living room of my home in Ravine Heights. I did this in a fit of rage upon finding her in my bed at my home having sexual relations with a man. I have regretted this act ever since. Despite advice to the contrary, I can no longer keep silent. I intend to atone for this terrible deed with my own life this night.
Unlike the first document, which was machine printed, this one was hand written in very legible blue ink cursive. Her wet signature appeared below again. This sheet was without notarization.
All three people sat there, stunned. Finally Moobuti said, “ I tink this explains things.”
“Yep, we can tell the Chief, we’ve solved both cases,” O’Malley said. “Still, there’s one person left to be called to account. Mr. Weiss… Solomon, I think you need some time to absorb these developments. Thank you for your professionalism … well, more so for your courage. Let’s get in touch first thing tomorrow. We will need copies of those two letters.”
With copies in hand, a little later the detectives quietly left a mortified Solomon Weis, who was still staring at the two sheets.
Back at the office, they were unusually silent. Something slid into place for Moobuti. He pointed out to O’Malley one last detail in the differing articles about the Schneider house. He noted that in the partial living room picture in the oldest article there was a black object, some kind of tabletop abstract sculpture he supposed, on the end table nearest the fireplace. In the subsequent article and their own photos, that object was missing. It looked heavy and blunt. The murder weapon?
July 17, Wednesday, 4:15 pm
“Clodagh, we finally received both toxreps on the Schneiders, old and new,” stated Moobuti. I already informed the Chief too.
“Spill!” said O’Malley, half shouting.
“Well, despite the mystery, the one for Cynthia turned out to be nothing special. Her system was completely clean. I guess the former Detective on the case misplaced it after all. Just sloppy record keeping.”
“And. …”
“Gloria’s report is a different matter. She had plenty of alcohol in her system plus two different anti-anxiety drugs. Same as the pills we found in her medicine cabinet at the house. So they were prescribed for her. However, she ingested considerably more of these drugs than the usual dosage.”
“Liquid and pharmaceutical courage,” she concluded.
“Seems that way.”
Now, as for loose ends, what do we do about ‘the man in bed’, the one with Cynthia Schneider?” Moobuti asked.
“Nothing,’ O’Malley replied. “I am sure the lover in question has suffered enough over the years, even more so now. Ruining his reputation would solve nothing. I also don’t think he knew who the killer was. Remember he was already gone from the house and did not communicate with his mother much afterwards.”
“Do you tink anyone else knows? Especially you know who.”
“First, I doubt the son told anyone about his ‘taboo tryst’,” said O’Malley. No, it’s his terrible dark secret. He’ll carry it for the rest of his life. Second, yes, I think the slick prof figured it out somehow. We’ll never know exactly, unless he tells us. But it would have been a great lever to bend Mrs. S. to his wishes.”
“Anyway, Josephson has plenty to answer for. Concealing a homicide. Fraud. Illegal trafficking in rare antiquities. Perjury. The FBI raid on Loomis Traders in Oak Park tomorrow will reveal much more I suspect.”
July 18, Thursday, 4:15 pm
The intercom buzzed. “Here we go!”
“Good morning Detectives,” said a smiling Professor Josephson as he entered the interview room. As usual he was immaculately dressed, this time in expensive casual clothes. He projected confidence, sophistication. He shook hands firmly and sat down. He was in a relaxed yet alert posture.
“Good morning Sir,” said O’Malley. “We thank you for coming in.”
“I assume you heard that Gloria Schneider’s death has been officially ruled a suicide,” said Moobuti.
“Yes. I saw the Chief’s press conference on local TV yesterday. Your boss is quite the orator.” The Prof assumed a serious expression now. “Thus, I know about her ‘letter from the grave’ so to speak. Cynthia’s murder at her own mother’s hands! Unbelievable! Utterly horrific.”
“Yes, so terrible. As a close associate of the family I am sure you are very disturbed,” said O’Malley.
“Naturally.” A small tell appeared on his face. He’s disturbed alright, but for different reasons, she thought. A big black cloud of doubt was settling around Josephson.
O’Malley played her ace. “Perhaps you don’t know about the FBI investigation of Loomis Traders.”
“The what?!” Now the veneer dropped. The Prof was looking more like a cornered predator.
“Yep, you don’t know about the FBI raid this morning at Loomis Traders in Oak Park that revealed your exact relationship to the Schneider scam. And for that matter, to other schemes too, all up and down the state. You intended to steal the furnishings from the Schneider House and pocket a very substantial finder’s fee. It’s all documented. The FBI, as it turns out, has been watching Loomis for some time. Of course, having the Voss-Schneider property under your thumb after the estate settlement would have been sweet, the perfect blind. But when Gloria Schneider decided to finally atone for her crime, she came to her senses about you. So your Midcentury Modern Society is no longer the big beneficiary in the will. You see, there was a second letter, Mrs. Schneider’s notarized codicil to her will, not reported on the news. We held it back. The house is going to the National Trust now, not to your phony group. And as for your accomplice ‘Jock’ Loomis. He almost got away. They grabbed him at O’Hare Airport yesterday as he was about to flee the country under a fake passport.”
“You are impugning a famous professor, nationally known, renown at Northwestern. I’m published! I have influential friends that …”
“I am sure you do,” interrupted O’Malley. “Only, they won’t help you this time when it all comes out.”
Moobuti added, “Networking is your real specialty, is it not, Professor Josephson? I mean especially with rich, old folks. A skilled operator like you can easily manipulate their vanity, can’t you?”
“I have not stolen anything from the Schneiders. You cannot prove otherwise.”
“Actually, we can. Your rival Professor Hess at IIT was the key. He told us about the clone house for the billionaire in China. And this week we obtained some interesting pictures.” She held up two printouts of digital photos. “A foreign student of Hess sent photos of the chair in the replica house. Hess says the student had talked her way onto the construction site, into the almost finished house, by telling the delighted owner how much she admired his replication efforts. Kids today. They are amazing! Any way, there’s the new living room with the old chair. There’s just the one for now. I imagine they are expecting seven more in the near future. There’s the close up with the serial number. You will recall these chairs are numbered. “
“But, but …” Now he had a pleading look. “I can tell you all about Jock. HE was the master mind.”
“No ifs, ands, or buts now, Professor. The target is you and we hit the bull’s eye. The FBI will deal with Jock. You are ours,” concluded O’Malley. She turned to Moobuti. “Be my guest.”
“Professor Adam Josephson,” stated Moobuti, “We are hereby arresting you for a series of charges, so many I had to print them out. You have the right to remain silent. You have …”
July 19, Friday, 5:00 pm
“My suspicions started when I saw the irregular piece of fretwork on the clerestory window. I bet the Prof sent the original piece as a sample to China,” said O’Malley.
“That makes sense,” said Moobuti.
“And that Mid-Century Modern Society … they won’t be preying on rich old folks in landmark houses anymore. The multiple agencies investigating them will make sure of that. Anyway, It’ll be interesting to see how the National Trust reuses the property.”
Just then the weasel-faced assistant to the Chief poked his head in. “Hey Clomo, here’s a heads up. The Boss wants a progress report on the Forest Lane thing ASAP. Best get going.” He ducked out again.
“Nothing changes. No rest for the wicked,” sighed O’Malley. “Speaking of which, I wonder about the so-called spirit in the Schneider House. Do you believe in ghosts, Mo?”
“Do I believe in ghosts?” Moobuti replied thoughtfully. “Precious Lord! Clo, as a Christian I believe in an after life. So I suppose you could say that. But you are not entirely correct about nothing changing.”
“Because?”
“Because now, at the Schneider House, there are TWO ghosts. Is there any more kringle?”
11:00 pm
Greta Tomek tossed and turned. She could not wait to leave this accursed place. Her sister would move her out tomorrow, thank God. She had stayed on in the Voss-Schneider House to help with the arrangements for Mrs. Schneider and to assist Mr. Weiss. No sleeping pills tonight though. She wanted to be sharp in the morning. As she stared at the mahogany wood ceiling, she thought she heard something. Just at the edge of hearing, there seemed to be moaning from afar, actually two moans intertwining sonically. The sounds became louder, closer. Then, she spied shifting shadows in the corridor through the crack beneath her closed bedroom door. Wide-eyed, she huddled in the bed, shivering. She was trapped! Finally, gathering her courage, she sprang to the door and wrenched it open. The horror! She dashed downstairs and out the main door into the night, screaming.
THE END