Montresor tricks Fortunato with wine, promising him a most unique sherryand saying that if hes too busy, he can get one of Fortunatos competitors to come try it. Fortunato is too vain to allow someone else to try the wine. Montresor never explains what the insult was that hes so angry abouthes just on a vendetta and he explains how hes become judge and jury. In the end, he walls poor Fortunato up in a cryptand we learn he remains there, undisturbed, for fifty years. Pretty harsh.
He gets away with it? Griffin asked.
You never read the story?
Umno.
What? How did you manage to neglect Poe growing up? Youre from Boston. Okay, so Poe hated Boston, but he was actually born there.
Hey! I know some of Poes work, Griffin protested. Everyone knows The Raven. I absolutely loved Vincent Price. And Peter Lorre and
Youre talking movies, not the written word!
Griffin laughed. Yeah, well? Without Poe, we wouldnt have had the movies. A few years backI dont know how manythere was a movie with John Cusack playing Poe. In that version he died to keep his love from being murdered.
Thats not how he died! That was a movie.
Ah-ha! But you see, no one knows how he did diethats the point, isnt it?
Yes, but the movie had him engaged to a pretty young thing. In reality, he was about to be marriedas I was telling youto Sarah Elmira Royster Shelton, she with the brothers who might have been murderers, and with whom hed been in love when he went to college. Her father hadnt approved and hed destroyed all of Poes letters to her, and so young love had been thwarted. Anyway, years later, her husband was dead and Poes wife, Virginia Clemm, was dead, and Poe and the woman hed loved in his youth met up again. Poor man, he was just forty when he died. But Sarah Elmira was no sweet young innocentshe was about his age, a mother, all grown up.
Killjoy, Griffin told her, and Vickie laughed softly.
I dont mean to be. I love a John Cusack movie, too. I think I would have found a different way to explore what had really happened. I mean, he was found delirious in clothing that wasnt his! How did that happen? Hed joined the temperance society before he left Richmond, but of course, no matter how you look at it, the man was an alcoholicthough it seemed that he was a binge drinker rather than a habitual drunk. I cant help but think sometimes that he might have had a much better life if hed lived in our day and age. So much information disappeared right along with him regarding the days he was missing! His death was as much a mystery then as it is today.
Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary...
Very determined, Griffin went ahead to repeat a good section of the famous poem. What he couldnt remember, he thought he faked with a tremendous amount of panache. Vickie was grinning as he gave her his dramatic interpretation, so he was pretty sure that she knew when he was doing his ad-libbing.
Well, you know the title, you know its a poem and you know its by Edgar Allan Poe, she said, amused. Im totally impressed.
Wait and see how I wow people! he told her.
He pulled into public parking near Westminster Hall and Burying Ground. Poes grave, at your command, my love.
She looked at him and smiled. So youre going to wow the dead people with your Poe-etic license? she asked him.
Sometimes, he reminded her, dead people are far more important than the living.
Sometimes, she repeated.
The old Presbyterian church itselflong since deconsecrated and now known as Westminster Halloffered tours on certain days of the week with reservations, and special tours when prearranged. The catacombs and the inside of the structure were only available through those special times and reservations. But the burial ground surrounding the old church was open to the public, and historical markers identified many of the notable dead.
Poe was buried in the back at first, Vickie said, walking quickly ahead of Griffin.
She wasnt heading toward the back, though, but rather toward the place where Poe had been moved when admirers of his work had finally gotten together to manage the creation of a fine monument to him.
In an unmarked grave! she said. He had a cousinNeilson Poein the city of Baltimore. Neilson was finally contacted after Poe was found and brought to the hospital. But the thing is, Poe never came back to his senses. He was delirious from the time he was found to the time he died.
There were other visitors to the burial ground, some wandering around to view other notable graves, some hovering by the monument to Edgar Allan Poe.
Miss, excuse meis he really here? Or is this just the monument? You seem to know a great deal.
An attractive woman of about forty or forty-five had stopped in front of Vickie; shed apparently heard her speaking.
Vickie flushed. I dont know that much. I just always loved his work. I do know that he was exhumed and moved herewith other members of his family, Virginia Clemm, his wife, and Maria Clemm, her mother. You can see their names if you walk around the monument.
The woman thanked her.
Others were gathering. Some came with curiosityand some with absolute reverence, bowing their heads, speaking softly and then just standing there, as if by gathering at his grave they could breathe in some of his brilliance.
Griffin noticed that a boy standing near the monument suddenly jerkedas if hed been startled or touched by someone unseen.
He looked around the monument, but saw nothing but other visitors who had come to pay their respects to Baltimores famous poet.
Griffin walked around the monument himself, then stopped short.
A man stood there, with dark hair and a sad face. He seemed to be dressed oddly for the day and the time.
The man saw Griffin. He lifted his hand in a salute, staring at Griffin gravely.
Griffin had never been the Poe reader that Vickie was. Of course, hed never been any kind of a historian, eitherable to rattle off names and dates with such amazing conversational ease.
But even he recognized the figure.
For a moment, he thought that the man was an actor, out to entertain Baltimore visitors at the burial ground.
Then the man disappeared, as if hed faded into the stone itself.
And Griffin could only presume that he had just seen the real Edgar Allan Poe.
* * *
The news was out; it was everywhere.
Baltimore had lost another great writer, and how oddly, how eerily! He had died in a wine cellarat a restaurant called the Black Bird, a restaurant that entirely honored the great writer Edgar Allan Poe.
Boston claimed Poe for its ownand had just added a life-size statue of him with a raven on Boylston Street. But in life, Poe hadnt much loved the city of his birth. To be fair, he had lived and worked more in Virginia and Maryland. It seemed, however, that just as Washington slept here was a common refrain, Poe was also coveted. And it was only right. New York City had quite a claim on the man, tooin the Village, and up in the Bronx, where he had last lived, and where his mother-in-law, Maria Clemm, had been waiting for him to come retrieve her.
Right now, Baltimore had renewed their claim on the manand was musing over what facts were known about his deathand how they compared with the death of Franklin Verne.
Griffin and Vickie had come to the police station to meet up with Carl Morris, having given up the illusion that they were on any kind of a vacation or even off for the weekend.
Maybe they had been on the job from the moment the dream had first plagued her that morning, Vickie thought. And, if not then, they had become completely involved once Jackson had called, or even as soon as Monica Verne had reached out to Adam.
Monicas resolve and passion couldnt be ignored. Vickie just wished that she hadnt brought that passion to the media so quickly.
Monica Verne was offering a hundred-thousand-dollar reward to anyone who could lead her to the true cause of her husbands death.
Great, just great! Griffin muttered. Now well get calls from every demented soul in the city.
Well, maybe someone will come forward with good information, Vickie told him.
They were standing with Morris and a group of officers in the center of the work floor of the station; one of the officers had brought up the live footage on the large screen that hung from the rooms ceiling, available anytime there was some type of video footage that should be witnessed by all.
Monica must have called the local news station just minutes after Griffin and Vickie had left her home; any self-respecting journalist would have hurried to her with all possible speed.
Phones were always ringing, lighting up, at the police station. It almost appeared as if an alien ship sat above them, there was such a display of sound and light as the show aired.
Morris looked at Vickie, shaking his head sadly. We can hope, but...for the most part? This kind of thing takes up hours of work, and yields little. But yes, we can hope.
Well, Monica is convinced her husband was murdered, Vickie said.
And shes probably right, Griffin murmured.
Sorry! Carl Morris called, his voice deep, rich, loudand extending to the different officers and detectives in the room. Answer all callsdo your best to sort the wheat from the chaff.
Youre going to love this one, Detective! an officer called out, holding up one of the police stations yellow crime-tip forms. The Martians are here. They learned how to beam people places by watching Star Trek reruns for hours and hours. They killed him because they had to suck out his brain.
Morris waved a hand in the air. There wasnt much laughter. There were far more sighs.
Morris motioned to Vickie and Griffin. They followed him into his office.
There was a monitor screen at the side of his desk. Morris picked up a remote control and hit it. Maybe you can see something I missed. Ive gone over the digital video or whatever the hell it is from the front-door cameras a zillion times.
Nothing happened on the screen. Morris swore softly. Hang on, he told them. I have to go find a kid.
The kidOfficer Benedict, who appeared to be about twenty-fivehurried in after Morris stood at the door and yelled out.
Here, sir! Benedict said to Morris, glancing at Griffin and Vickie with a grimace. This, sir, turns it on. Then just hit this arrow, and it will play. The arrow is Play. But the device must be powered on.
I got it this time, I got it! Morris said. Hey, these things are new. We just got them in a week or so ago. Thanks, Benedict.
Yes, sir, Benedict said.
Stay, will you? These special agents might want the footage slowed down.
There was only one real agent there at the momentGriffin. But he didnt say anything and Vickie kept quiet as well.
We have footage from the opening at eleven oclock all the way through the night, Benedict explained. So, it would take hours to watch it all.
Go ahead, start at the beginning, Griffin told him. Ill have you speed it upbut please, Detective Morris, Officer Benedict, please let us know if you see someone coming or going that we should know about.
Of course, Morris told them.
They began to watch the footage. They saw Gary Frampton, the owner, opening the door and looking out on the day, then closing it again. His daughter, Alice, arrived. A small cluster of men and women whod been identified as kitchen staff showed up. Then later, Lacey Shaw, the Poe lover/gift shop manager, and then their waiter from the night before, whose full name was Jon Skye. More staff ambled on in. Then came the customers.
There! Stop it. Back up a bit! Morris told Benedict.
The young officer did as he was told. Morris leaned in to the screen, pointing at people as he said, There. Naturally there is a major Poe literary society here, a national Poe society and others. Among them is one actually called the Blackbird Society, and theyre dedicated to all things Poe. Franklin Verne belonged nominally to a number of societies, and among them was the Blackbird Society. That woman there, Liza Harcourt, is the president. The man at her side is Alistair Malcolm, vice president of the society, and with them is... He paused, staring at the screen.
Thats Brent Whaley, Office Benedict said. Another writer. Hes probably best known in science fiction circles, but he loves horror and Poe. Oh, and he belongs to several societies, the Poe one here, and also an H. P. Lovecraft one up somewhere in the northeast, probably Rhode Island, where Lovecraft was from and where hes buried.
They all looked curiously at Officer Benedict.
You have great information, Griffin told him.
Benedict flushed and shrugged. My parents are kind of armchair members. They pay their dues and they love to read all the different stories and articles that go out. Theyre just kind of homebodies.
They all went in together, Morris noted. Ive met Liza and Malcolm, just not Brent Whaley.
Well, they must be friends. Theyre society friends, at least, Benedict said.
Other diners came and went. Benedict sped up the recording, and people on the screen began to look like little ants.
Liza left the restaurant at about three thirty in the afternoon.
Malcolm left a few minutes later.
Brent Whaley didnt seem to leave.
Take it all the way to the next morning, Griffin asked.
They watched as the evening dinersincluding Vickie and Griffin themselvescame and went. They watched as the staff left, including their waiter, Jon Skye, gift-store maven Lacey Shaw and finally Alice Frampton with her father, Gary. Then nothing. Just a few late-night stragglers walking past, but the front door didnt open again, and the time stamp on the video rolled into the next day.
Did you see Brent Whaley leave? Griffin asked, looking at the others.
Let me run the footage back, Benedict said.
Morris pointed at the screen when a large group was leaving together. Is that Whaley there? I think its the same manthe top of his head appears to be the same. But maybe not.
You have to be right, Benedict said. Yeah, that has to be him. Hes just surrounded by that big crowdlooks like it was a rehearsal dinner for a wedding. Guess Brent got into the middle of it.
Maybeor maybe not, Griffin murmured.
Well find out. Because if he was still in the restaurant... I guess well pick up Brent Whaley. If he tells us he walked out in a crowd...well know for sure. But even with the cameras, there are things that can be missed. And there is the delivery door... Oh, well be really nice. Well ask for help from him, Morris said wearily. He shook his head. Would one writer kill another? Out of jealousy, anger or a perceived insult?