THE MAN WHO DROWNED IN CHAMPAGNE
by Edward D. Hoch
Some nights after dinner, when Leopold and Molly had a chance to relax and reminisce, she'd ask him about the cases he'd had before they met and married. "Something unusual," she'd urge, "that you pever told me about before." . Leopold was retired now as captain of the city's Violent Crimes squad, but this night as they finished their wine he happened to remember a case he hadn't thought about in years. He held the glass of Chardonnay up to the light and said, "Wefl, there was the man who drowned in champagne . . ."

It was a Sunday morning in May when some early morning fisher-men found his body on tile river bank, about twenty feet from the water, wearing only his underwear and a pair of black socks. Though the body and clothing were dry, Lieutenant Fletcher immediately suspected death by drowning. 'There are no wounds or abrasions on the body," he told Leopold, "and the man seems too young to have suffered a heart attack."
Leopold looked up from his pile of Monday morning reports. "How young?"
Fletcher gave a shrug. "I'd guess mid to late twenties. We don't have any identification yet. No missing person reports fit the description."
"What does the medical examiner say?"
"He's doing the autopsy now. We should have a report shortly."
It seemed like a routine death to Leopold, either accident or suicide, probably of no interest to the Violent Crimes squad. That was before Fletcher took the call from Quinn, the medical examiner. Then he yelled into Leopold's office, 'Tick up line two, Captain. You'd better hear this!"
Leopold cut in on their conversation. "Dr. Quinn? What's the trouble?"
Quinn was an older man with a gruff voice. "That drowning victim from yesterday morning."
"So it was a drowning."
"Both lungs had fluid in them. There's no doubt that's what killed him."
"River water?"
"Well, no. I'm not certain till I finish analyzing it, but I think it might be champagne."
No one on the squad had ever heard of a person drowning in champagne. Sergeant Connie Trent thought it might be some sort of gangland thing, but nobody could say for sure. "You mean they fill a bucket with champagne and hold the guy in it upside down?' Fletcher asked with a snicker. Somehow it didn't seem too likely.
The autopsy report described a young man in his mid twenties, five feet ten inches tall, weighing 180 pounds. Death had occurred around midnight Saturday, give or take a few hours either way. Apparently he had been in good health at the time of death, though there was a bruise on his face. Despite the absence of most of his clothing, there, was no indication of a sex crime. His blood alcohol level was .07, which meant he'd had a few drinks but was not legally drunk. There was a small amount of undigested food in his stomach. His hair was neatly cut and his fingernails had been recently manicured. He wore no jewelry. Whoever he was, he probably had a home and family. And yet a description in the following day's newspaper brought only one inquiry, from a woman whose forty-year-old husband had been missing for more than a year.
"We have no suspects," Leopold complained to Fletcher and Connie. "Until we can identify him, we're up against a stone wall. Have you sent his fingerprints in to Washington?"
Connie Trent nodded. "But if he has no criminal record and never worked for the government or served in the armed forces, our chances are slim."
"Dr. Quinn has analyzed the stomach contents, but it doesn't tell us much," Fletcher said. "It was just a small amount of cake."
"Cake?" Leopold repeated. He gave it a moment's thought and said, "I want a list of all the weddings that were performed on Saturday, especially ones that had a formal reception Saturday night. Champagne and cake on a Saturday mean a wedding to me."
"The newspaper should have notices of most of them," Connie said. "I'll call around to the party houses too."
By Tuesday afternoon Leopold was staring at a list of fifty-five weddings from the previous Saturday. "That's a lot to check out," Fletcher grumbled.
"We can eliminate about half of them right away. The wedding cake is usually the last thing people eat at a reception. If it was still in his stomach at midnight, or even as early as nine p.m., that means an evening reception rather than an afternoon one."
"Makes sense," Connie agreed.
"If it was wedding cake," Fletcher reminded them.
Leopold reconsidered, but only for a moment "The champagne makes it a pretty good bet. Connie, while you're checking out those evening receptions see if any of them had one of those champagne fountains where people can stick their glasses, under the spouts to fill them. We're looking for a large one."
"Big enough for a head," Fletcher added.

Leopold was occupied for the rest of the afternoon with a shooting during an attempted bank robbery. By the time it was wrapped up he was ready to call it a day. Connie Trent was on the phone when he returned to the squad room, and she immediately motioned him over to her desk. She finished the conversation and triumphantly passed him her notepad. "Only two of Saturday's evening wedding receptions used large champagne fountains, big enough for someone's face to go in them."
"Just two?" He studied the names on the pad. Gentely-Braxton and Conners-Smyth.\
"I think we can get it down to one. Rosie Smyth insisted on cheesecake for her wedding cake. I checked with Quinn. It wasn't cheesecake in the stomach."
"So that leaves Gentely-Braxton. Where was the reception held?"
"At Wyndom's Party House. That's about a mile from where the body was found."
He cheeked the following morning's schedule and found it clear. "If nothing comes up overnight I'll go out there with you in the morning."
The banquet manager was in his office when they arrived shortly before ten. His name was Mark Griswald, a stocky middle-aged man who looked like he'd seen it all. He listened a bit before saying, "I don't think I can help you. We had four wedding receptions on Saturday and I couldn't even tell you the family names now."
"This one was Gentely-Braxton, Saturday evening. A young man's body was found near the river and we believe he might have been a guest at the wedding."
When Connie spoke, Griswald remembered her voice. "You're the one who phoned about the champagne fountain."
"That's right."
Leopold produced a photo of the dead man. "Does he look famil-iar?"
He studied it for a moment, "You know, I might have seen him Saturday night but I can't be sure. Each reception had around two hundred people and I was in and out quickly, just checking with the brides' fathers to make sure everything was going smoothly. They're the ones paying the bills."
Leopold frowned at the names. "That would be Mr. —"
"Sidney Braxton. He owns a small winery near here. Believe me, the wine flowed freely at that reception. The champagne too, though that wasn't from his vineyard."
"I'd like to take a look at this champagne fountain, if that's possible."
Griswald nodded. "It's still in the room. We haven't used it since Saturday night."
He led Leopold and Connie through a plastic accordion door into a large banquet room. Some twenty bare tables, plus a head table, were still in place. In the center of the room, on a separate round table, stood a large silver centerpiece resembling a blossoming flower with several tiers. This is it," the banquet manager explained. "It plugs into a socket in the floor. A small electric pump raises the champagne up through the center and it gushes out title top, running down through these various spouts on the side. The guests hold their glasses under the spouts to fill them. Several inches of champagne collect in the bottom and get recircu-latedtothetop."
"Do many parties use it?"
"Not really. You can go through champagne awfully fast with one of them, but being in the wine business, the bride's father insisted on it. I think they even sell smaller versions at his winery shop."
"How late did the reception last?"
"Eleven o'clock. That's standard for us. Our people need an hour to clean up and we like to lock up by midnight."
Leopold could see that the fountain was deep enough. He'd had cases where victims had been drowned in a few inches of water, if the killer held their face under for several minutes. "Were you still here after the guests departed?"
Griswald shook his head. "I stayed till around ten and then went home. Both receptions were winding down by then."
"Who was in charge of your cleaning crew Saturday night?'
"Well, the waitresses clear and strip the tables. That would be Rose Williams."
'Is she here now? Could we see her?"
"Sure." He walked over to a wall phone and pressed a button. "Rose, could you come into the north party room for a minute?"
Rose Williams was a slim black woman in her thirties who eyed them suspiciously until Griswald explained the reason for their visit. "Did you notice anything unusual Saturday night as the guests were leaving?' Leopold asked.
Rose shook her head. "Just what you'd expect. A purse got left behind but the woman came back to claim it. There was somebody's camera, too. I turned it in."
"What about this champagne fountain?"
"Yeah," she said, remembering. "It got tipped over. I thought it might be damaged but it seems okay. I ran some water through it.""The champagne had spilled out?"
Rose nodded. "Usually we shut it off earlier, but the bride's father wanted it running right to the end. He's in the wine business."
"Who were the last ones to leave?"
"Oh, I couldn't tell you that. We were all in the kitchen by that time. I went in maybe quarter to eleven and the bride and groom were still there, dancing with a couple of the guests. The disc jockey was starting to pack up his stuff so I know it was about over. We came back in at eleven and the place was empty. That's a treat, not having to chase people out."
The champagne fountain was tipped over then?"
"Yes."
"But you didn't hear any commotion?'
"The soundproofing in the rooms is pretty good, you know, so the music from one reception doesn't interfere with the other."
Leopold showed Rose the photograph. "Do you remember him?"
"He looks familiar," she answered, frowning at the picture. "But maybe he just looks like all the other white boys that age."
Leopold turned back to the manager. "I should talk to Mr. and Mrs. Braxton. Do you have their address?"
He smiled sadly. They're divorced. We get a lot of that these days. I beheve she was catching a plane back to California on Sunday. I think he lives at the winery. That's the only address I have."

Braxton Vineyard was a small winery on a country road about five males north of the city. With his muscular arms and weathered skin, Sidney Braxton looked like a man who had worked outdoors all his life. He sat now in an office that seemed awash with wine bottles and colorful display material. On a shelf behind the desk was an obviously recent addition—a framed color photograph of his daughter in her wedding gown.
Braxton listened patiently to Leopold's account of the crime, then said, 1 don't understand how you're Unking this to Sue Ellen's wedding. Just because there's cake in his stomach and champagne in his lungs doesn't mean anything."
"A great deal of police work starts with a theory, Mr. Braxton," Leopold explained politely. Connie Trent was at his side but let him do the talking. "Have you spoken with the newlyweds since they left on their honeymoon?"
Braxton nodded. "Sue Ellen phoned me yesterday from their hotel in Washington. She said she and Rich are both very happy. They'll spend a few more days there and then go on a week's cruise of the Caribbean. It was my wedding gift to them."
"I understand they were dancing at the reception until the very end."
"I guess so. An old beau of my daughter's showed up from St. Louis and had a bit too much to drink. He kept wanting to dance with her;"
"What's his name?'
"Wayne Flynn. She danced with him a few times. It was no big problem, except that he didn't want to leave. Kept stuffing himself with drinks and left-over hors d'oeuvres. And the man was dressed far too casually for a wedding reception."
"Where did the newlyweds spend the night?"
They had reservations at a hotel near New York's La Guardia Airport. They drove directly there after changing their clothes and caught a Sunday morning flight to Washington. I didn't see them after the reception but I know they got off all right. I picked up Rich's tuxedo and Sue Ellen's wedding gown Sunday morning at the party house and their luggage was gone."
"You must have a great many pictures of the happy event," Leopold said, motioning toward the bridal portrait.
"This was a studio shot taken two weeks ago for the newspaper. We had the entire wedding videotaped and that should be edited in a day or two."
"I might want to see that. In the meantime, would you mind looking at this picture of the murder victim? Do you remember him from the wedding, especially among those guests who stayed late?'
Braxton held the photograph in his hand for several seconds, staring at it stone-faced. Then he handed it back. "Nope, I don't recognize it. That's certainly not Wayne Flynn, if you were thinking it might be."
"All right," Leopold sighed. "Thanks for your time, Mr. Braxton."
As they walked back to the car, Connie Trent asked, "What do you think, Captain?"
"He knows more than he's telling. Let's see if we can get an address for Wayne Flynn in St. Louis. I want to find out if he ever made it back home."

By late afternoon Connie had found Wayne Flynn's phone number and tajked to his roommate. He had not returned home or phoned since the wedding. "He was thinking of stopping in New York for a few days," Connie told Leopold, "so the roommate wasn't too worried. He did think he'd be hearing from him, though."
"Send a copy of the photo out there for identification purposes," Leopold said. He knew they were close to wrapping it up.
"Should we run it in tomorrow's paper?"
"No, I don't think we'll need that. Call around to the major Washington hotels and find out where Mr. and Mrs. Rich Gentely are registered."
Connie smiled. "I already did that while I was waiting for Flynn's roommate to get home from work. They have the bridal suite at the Van Buren."
"Call the airline and book us on a late flight tonight. Then call the Washington police and tell them well need their assistance."
"You want me along too?'
He nodded. "I'll need you to talk to her, if she's willing to talk."
They were at the Hotel Van Buren with a Washington detective by dawn the following morning. The detective fang the buzzer by the door and then knocked several times. Presently the door opened a few inches, still chained, arid a sleepy young woman peered out at them. Leopold recognized her from the wedding portrait in her father's office. "Mrs. Sue Ellen Gentely?" He showed his identification. "I'm Captain Leopold of the--" "I know," she said. "My father called: We've been waiting for you."

"And that was how it ended," Leopold said. "Very quietly. Not the stuff of those police TV shows at all."
"You mean they actually fought to the death at the end of that wedding reception?" Molly asked. "Over the girl Gentely had just married?"
"That's exactly what I mean. Of course her father recognized the photo at once, but he wanted to warn his daughter and give her a chance to escape. He realized it would have taken both of them to dispose of the body. It was headed for the river, of course, but the lights from a passing car frightened them and they left him on the shore with the champagne still in his lungs."
They must have known he'd be identified before long."
"They were only living for the present moment. A lot of young people do."
"Wayne Flynn still loved her, and that's why Gentely killed him."
Leopold shook his head. "No, Molly, you don't understand. The clothes were removed from the body because they were rented and had to be returned. The shoes were taken because they would have been too formal and new. Leaving the black socks Was bad enough. Flynn's tod-casual attire would hardly have included black socks. Just as Flynn, drinking and nibbling hors d'oeuvres, would have had more alcohol in his bloodstream and more than cake in his stomach. I've known grooms too nervous to eat their food, but they always have to eat a piece of wedding cake. Likewise, a groom is more likely than a guest to have a recent manicure. And the groom is one man who can disappear for days after a wedding without his absence being noted. Everyone assumed he was oh his honeymoon, not down at the morgue."
"Are you telling me—?'
"Wayne Flynn won the fight at the end of the Wedding reception and drowned the groom in that champagne fountain. Sue Ellen slipped the Wedding ring from his finger and helped get rid of the body. Then she took Wayne with her on her honeymoon."