Confessions of a Red Herring

by Dana Dratch

  Lucy looked up at me suddenly, puzzled. I swear she could read my mind.

  After fiddling with the key for what seemed like forever, he swung open the ancient oak front door. Lucy trotted right in.

  Great, now I had to follow. Thanks, dog.

  Just how long would I have to stay to maintain my “good neighbor” status?

  I braced myself, stepped inside, and gasped. “Damn!”

  Ian grinned. “Not bad, eh?”

  “Did I say that out loud? I mean, wow!” I took another step, then another.

  It didn’t look like the same house. For one thing, it was flooded with light, which seemed to come from every direction. And for another, it was clean. Really, really clean. I had to hand it to Mrs. Ogre. She was a wiz with a scrub brush.

  The dead-grass carpet was gone, replaced with rich, wide-plank hardwood floors. I moved farther into the room, drawn by the light. The pea-soup walls were sparkling glass.

  “Glass?” I said, pointing like a little kid.

  “Yup. It’s a sunroom. Didn’t even know it was there until we started cleaning. I had plans to add one. Now I don’t have to. Turns out all I needed was a few dozen liters of something called ‘Windex.’”

  “This is amazing.”

  Ian was clearly pleased. “That’s where we’ll serve breakfast and a nice afternoon tea.”

  “How did you get so much light in here? I mean, it used to be so . . .”

  “Grim and grimy?” he laughed. “I know. It was awful. I’m glad you saw the ‘before.’ Makes the ‘after’ that much more of a magic trick. First, I hired a team to clean the place, top to bottom. They’re the ones who discovered the sunroom, actually. Then I worked with a general contractor on the windows. Keep a secret?”

  I nodded.

  “We added that bank up there,” he said, gesturing to a row of clerestories that sat above the regular windows. “We also installed a couple of bay windows, in keeping with the home’s original character. But the real no-no,” Ian said, dropping his voice to a conspiratorial tone, “is that we replaced the windows in the back of the house with slightly larger versions. It’s not discernible to the casual observer, but the difference it makes in the light levels is marvelous.

  “Can’t say how your historic-preservation people would take it, though,” he said, grinning. “So we have to keep it—how do you Yanks say—‘on the down-low.’”

  A B&B owner with a touch of larceny? I was really beginning to like this guy. “How did you pull it off?”

  “We confined the changes to the back and sides of the house. And we used a lot of screening to block the view from the roads and the neighbors. The building inspector’s fine with it, as long as it meets code, which it does. And since the house is eligible for, but not actually on, the historic register, that’s all we need. Not only will the increased light save us scads on electricity bills, but it also gives us the option of adding some solar features later—which I definitely want to do. After we’re up and running, of course.”

  “This is unbelievable. It’s beautiful.”

  “I knew the place had possibilities,” he said. “But it was touch and go for a while. Still have a lot to do, of course. Eventually, we’ll have eight guest rooms. But we’ll open with four. As I finish the others, we’ll add them to the roster. To meet our burgeoning demand, I trust.”

  “How long before you open?”

  “Oh, another three weeks should do it. But I’m having a little party for the neighbors, a few travel writers, and some visitors’-bureau types the Sunday after this one. I’d love it if you could drop by. Nothing formal. If the weather’s good, we’ll have it on the back lawn. Victorian garden party. Tea, sandwiches, fairy cakes, that sort of thing. Bring friends. And definitely bring the pup.”

  Lucy-the-self-aware looked up at him adoringly.

  “By the by, I’m afraid I received more of your mail this morning,” he said. “Let me just get it from my office.”

  A cream-colored drop cloth covered something large and rectangular leaning against the wall near my feet. I lifted it and took a quick peek. Two paintings. The one in front—with pastel colors and a gauzy style—looked familiar. I had something similar on my refrigerator. Only mine was a postcard.

  I peered closer at the signature. Monet.

  I gently tilted it forward and recognized the one behind it from a museum trip with my parents decades ago. Simple, colorful lines rendered a minotaur playing the flute with happy creatures and a beautiful, naked woman dancing joyfully on a beach. Picasso.

  The paintings smelled musty. The frames held a thin film of dust. If they were copies, they were old copies.

  So what exactly was going on here? Was Ian a wealthy collector? An art thief? A forger? Or were these just reproductions he picked up to decorate his new hotel?

  I glanced at Lucy, and she looked up at me.

  A door closed off in the distance. We both jumped.

  I dropped the cloth back into place and quickly stepped over to one of the windows and pretended to study the backyard. Lucy followed.

  From the hallway, I heard Ian.

  “It was actually out in the street this time,” he called. “But I managed to gather it up before the wind took it.”

  He walked in and proffered a stack of envelopes.

  “Thanks,” I said, hoping I’d cloaked the paintings completely—whatever they were. “I’ve got to have a talk with our mailman.”

  “Now, if you ladies want to make yourselves at home in the so-lar-i-um,” Ian added, giving a mock bow, “I will go and see about that tea.”

  Chapter 16

  When I got home, Nick was in the shower. Either that, or a bad Harry Connick Jr. impersonator had invaded my bathroom. Gabby was back in bed.

  But I was relieved to see that the pile of boxes had shrunk. Shrank? Hey, there were fewer of them.

  I flipped through the mail I’d gotten from Ian. Mostly bills. At this point, I figured he was getting more of my mail than I was. What was with our mailman all of a sudden?

  And what was with the mysterious artwork?

  If Ian really had something to hide, he probably wouldn’t be inviting people into his house. But our tea was a spur-of-the-moment thing, so maybe he forgot. Or he just figured no one would see the paintings and recognize them.

  More likely: After C&W, I was just paranoid.

  Between the bills, I discovered another postcard. I studied the watercolor on the front—a sidewalk café set against an Eiffel Tower backdrop—and felt a little pang. What would it be like to be there right now? Carelessly sipping café au lait, nibbling pastries, and chatting with Mom and Annie?

  I flipped it over.

  My older sister’s beautiful, flowing script, and seven words: “Not too late to change your mind.”

  I sighed. I was relieved that she and Mom had no idea what was going on in my life. At the same time, if I had accepted her (very generous) offer of a free ticket to Paris (first class, of course), I wouldn’t even be a suspect right now. They’d have had to pin Coleman’s murder on some poor sap who was actually in the country.

  I felt like crying all over again.

  I flipped through the remaining mail. One business-size envelope stood out from the stack of bills I could no longer afford to pay. I recognized the creamy paper and the precise, almost mechanical handwriting. Peter.

  That’s odd, I thought. He could have called. And, other than a quick conversation when I first got home from the station house—to say “thank you” for Holloman and share the news that Nick was in town—I hadn’t heard from him. I ripped it open.

  Alex,

  Thought you might be able to use this to tide you over. Rest and recoup.

  Peter

  Enclosed was a check for $5,000. Damn! My big brother was a man of few words. But his actions put him right up there with Superman, in my book.

  My first thought: “We’re saved! I can pay my bills. I can buy food. And, if I ever get my ha
nds on that recorder, I can stop cleaning toilets.”

  My next thought—blame it on my mother’s guilt genes—was that I should return the check. Before I was tempted to cash it.

  So I did what I always do when faced with a tough choice. I put it off.

  Say one thing for my sibs: every single one of them had come through for me.

  Almost ten years ago, when we lost Dad, the tightly bonded atom that had been our nuclear family blew apart.

  Already in New York, Peter buried himself in work and made partner in record time. Then he and Zara—whom I’d always teasingly called “my favorite sister-in-law” (because she was my only sister-in-law)—moved out to Fairfield, Connecticut.

  Annie, already famous and successful, was seldom in the same city three nights in a row. After Dad was gone, there was even less incentive to stay put. She launched her agency and collected a string of homes around the world. And a string of fiancés and ex-fiancés. While she’s hardly ever there, home base is an airy Manhattan penthouse. (My favorite: her sunny Miami Beach condo.)

  I think it hit Nick the hardest. He flunked out of college, floated for a bit, and finally bought into the emu ranch when one of the pair of high school buds who owned it wanted to bail.

  We all stayed in touch regularly via phone and Skype. And we gathered at Mom’s place or Baba’s for the requisite holidays. But even after a decade, there was still something—someone—missing.

  Dad and Mom balanced each other out. He was easygoing, affable, a great listener—and deep.

  Mom’s the perfectionist—quick, dry, and acerbic. Nothing escapes her gaze.

  Both bright, they shared a great sense of humor. And they made each other laugh. A lot.

  Their bond held us all together. But, until it shattered, I don’t think any of us realized it.

  At least, I didn’t.

  Somehow, I didn’t think anyone would be feeling Coleman’s absence that intensely ten years from now. My ex-boss had been dead for four days, and I was still learning just how much of a thoroughly rotten human being he really was.

  As for who’d murdered him, I had zilch. Part of me wanted to say “good riddance to a rotten boss.” But whoever killed him also royally screwed up my life.

  How’s that for self-centered?

  I flipped open my laptop and pulled up the “Who Killed Coleman” file. Five minutes later, I was still staring at the blinking cursor, hypnotized.

  It wasn’t writer’s block. In a noisy newsroom on deadline, I could bang out a story no matter what was going on in the background: ringing phones, screaming co-workers, the occasional fistfight.

  When the flow of words dried up, it always came back to the same thing: not enough information.

  Tonight, Margaret would be receiving condolence visits, and the funeral was tomorrow afternoon. I needed eyes and ears in both places. Even though the funeral was public, after the scene at the office Tuesday, I had my doubts about getting in. And Margaret’s house was a definite no-go. Besides, about the time Margaret would be dressing to admit her well-heeled guests, I’d be pulling on my yellow rubber gloves to go clean toilets for the evening.

  But even though I couldn’t attend, I knew someone who could.

  I grabbed the phone and got Trip’s voice mail. My message was short and sweet: “Don’t make plans for tonight. Have I got a gig for you. Call me.”

  Lime cleaner or no, I think he was getting the fuzzy end of the lollipop.

  I Googled Coleman. Glowing accolades about his business and four days’ worth of news stories about his murder, plus the obit and a funeral announcement. The news stories featured lots of quotes about the police being “tight-lipped” and stating that “sources close to the investigation” (which, depending on the ethics of the reporter, could be anyone from a police department higher-up to the sandwich delivery guy), claimed that “an arrest was imminent.”

  My read: the police didn’t know squat and weren’t talking.

  I Googled Walters and got almost nothing. The C&W website, complete with bio and photo. Ivy League college. Wharton B-school. Nothing new there.

  I hit my old newspaper’s online archive and pumped in his name. If he’d gotten married, had a kid or buried a parent, there would be a record.

  Two items from 1987. A short obit for his father, Benjamin Walters Sr., who “died following a long illness.” Survivors listed a wife, Enid, and a son, Benjamin Jr.

  It ran the same day as a longer feature story on Walters Sr., full of quotes from D.C. movers and shakers of the day. Thirty-one years later, I still recognized a lot of the names. Senators, congressmen, developers, and business tycoons. Senior definitely played in the big leagues, and it looked like he’d groomed his son to follow in those footsteps.

  Junior had done just that. But where was the personal life? No mention of a daughter-in-law or grandkids in Senior’s obit. No wedding or birth announcements for Junior in the intervening thirty-one years. No professional accolades, club memberships, or charity efforts chronicled in the society pages. It was as if, when he exited the elegant oak doors of C&W each night, Benjamin Walters Jr. ceased to exist.

  I Googled Margaret Coleman. A string of stories popped up, mostly from the lifestyle pages.

  Secretary of the Fordham Garden Club. OK, that explained how she knew Lydia Stewart. Typically, Old Money types ran those clubs. But once in a while, they’d toss a bone to the nouveau riche. Especially if they were really, really riche.

  Margaret had also done a lot of work for the local heart foundation. Apparently, you didn’t actually need a heart to raise money for them.

  I clicked on an early article, circa 1995. Margaret had hosted a costume party that raised mucho bucks for the cause. I scanned the story. “. . . a former ICU nurse, Mrs. Coleman is a longtime supporter of preventive care efforts . . .”

  Bingo. So Margaret really had been a nurse. And in the ICU, at that. Maybe those powerful hands really had beaten life back into a failing body. I wondered where she’d worked, and why she’d given it up. Traded the career for marriage and kids? Or had it been something else?

  I switched back to my “Who Killed Coleman” file and typed what I’d learned. It didn’t take long.

  The phone rang, and my stomach dropped. I quickly checked caller ID.

  Trip.

  “So what nefarious plan have you got for me tonight?”

  “More like a secret mission,” I said.

  “If it involves dumping your sister-in-law at a bus station, it’ll have to wait. I’m putting the paper to bed.”

  “Any mention of me in the pages?” I asked, mentally crossing my fingers.

  “Not so far,” Trip said.

  Thank God. “Actually, it’s a condolence call.”

  “The scary widow?” he asked.

  “She’s accepting visitors between six and eight P.M. at their home.”

  “And you want to see if my reporting skills are still sharp?”

  “Exactly. Plus if I show up, Margaret will have me arrested or shot. Probably shot.”

  “And that would make a great metro front,” Trip said. “Because I gotta tell you, right now we’ve got zippo.”

  “Metro front” is the front page of the local section. Short of the actual front page, it’s the most prized real estate in the paper. Some writers believe that their bylines alone merit at least the metro front. As an editor, it’s Trip’s job to disabuse them of that notion. He’d run wire copy or photos before he’d run crap.

  “So the page is going to be blank tomorrow?” I asked skeptically.

  “Right now I’m looking at a supersized photo of a very small tot eating a very large ice cream cone at the Cherry Blossom Festival. So cute you wanna puke. But I could swing by on my dinner break. Say a few hellos. See what I can glean.”

  “That would be great. Now all I have to do is figure out how I can get into the wake.”

  “Where is it?” he asked.

  “The Barclay. Tomorrow night.�
�

  Silence. I could hear the synapses firing. “I might be able to help,” Trip said finally. “Tom knows a manager over there. Let me make a few calls.”

  Tom, Trip’s partner, is the chef at Polaris, one of the area’s hottest restaurants. When it comes to food and drink in D.C. and surrounding environs, Tom knows everyone who’s anyone.

  “I’ve got to go,” he said quickly. “Billy Bob just walked in, and he’s got a shit-eating grin on his face. I’ll call you later. We’ll reconnoiter.”

  So why did I suspect my life was about to get a whole lot worse?

  Chapter 17

  When my alarm clock went off at 4:50, I felt like I’d slept for a week instead of just three hours.

  Lucy, who had been curled at my feet, tumbled off the bed, righted herself, and dashed around the house like a maniac. I opened the back door, and she raced behind a bush. I closed the screen, leaving the door open, so that I’d see her the minute she reappeared.

  That’s when I spotted the envelope. On the kitchen table, with my name on it. I recognized the scrawly handwriting. Nick.

  I reached in and pulled out the note. And a wad of cash. The note was pure Nick. Short and to the point. No extraneous details. Or details, period.

  Alex,

  Thanks for letting us stay with you. Here’s a little of my “emu money” to help out.

  Gabby and I are running errands. Back around 6. Let Lucy out for a quick “break” before you leave. I’ll feed her when I get back.

  Nick

  At the bottom, in big loopy writing, there was a postscript.

  P.S. And thanks again, Sis!

  Love,

  Gabby

  Sis?

  The bills were all wrinkled twenties. I did a quick count: $300.

  I was curious. What kind of “errands”? Newlyweds getting settled in? Or was this about the ever-changing mountain of mailing boxes in my living room? Or the multiple IDs in her purse?