“What did you see?”
“I saw the white man who was in the Mercedes holding a gun, bending over Robert. That’s when Buford drove up. He jumped out of his patrol car, gave the man a card, and the man put it in Robert’s pocket. The man had blood on his hand. I stood there frozen, thinking I was dreaming. Buford saw me, and he ran up on my porch and pulled me by my arm. He took his gun out of its holster and held it to my head. He told me he would blow my brains out and kill my entire family if I said one word. I was so scared I messed on myself. Then he told me that he and the man were going to leave. And he said after five minutes, I should go outside, stand over Robert, and scream. That’s what I did, and that’s when everybody came running. Your mother was yelling and crying and pulling at her hair. It was a nightmare.”
Remembering Robert lying on the cold ground, his head blown open, I’m filled with fresh anger. “Who was the man?”
“I don’t know. I’d never seen him before.”
“What did he look like?”
“He had a knit cap on. It was red.”
“Did he have facial hair?”
“No.”
“Did he look like Buford?”
“No. He was tall and fit. He looked like he may have played sports before.”
“How old did he look?”
“Late fifties maybe.”
I stand and pace, thinking about who it could have been. Matt Simmons comes to mind, but he was dead by then. And he was in his early to mid-forties. Maybe it was another one of Robert’s teammates. Nope. Too young. Dammit.
Bertha walks to me and touches my arm. I jerk away from her. “I’m sorry, Regina. I was scared. I should have said something, but instead I moved. I ran away and never looked back.”
“It wouldn’t have mattered. Even if you did talk, Robert’s murder would have still gone unsolved. Buford and his cronies are protecting that man who shot Robert. I just have to figure out who he is.”
Bertha’s cheeks quiver like Jell-o, and she slumps down into the chair, sobbing, her thick shoulders rising and falling. “I should have said something. I had nightmares for years. Your mother’s face, twisted with pain, has haunted me for years. The police lied. No gang shot him. That white man did.”
“I know Bertha. I know. I have to go.”
“Where are you going?”
“To find the man who killed my brother.”
“Regina, please forgive me.” She grabs my hand, and I pull out of her grasp.
“I have to go.”
“Please forgive me, Regina.”
I give it some thought then say, “I forgive you.” Her wide face cracks into a smile. Then I say, “And by the way, Buford isn’t dead. I wouldn’t go back to Shady Grove if I were you.”
Her face crumples, and I run out the door, her hard on my heels. “You dirty bitch. You lied to me. None of what I said is true. I made it all up.”
Ignoring her, I bolt to my car. I don’t have to be at the hotel until 6:30 p.m. That gives me just enough time to let Cookie know she’s had a major meltdown because of her supervisor and needs me to spend the night. After that call, I’ll meet with Lorraine. Maybe she’ll have a clue as to who Mr. Mercedes is.
Chapter 31
Gretchen
Patty, packed and ready to go, waits for my seal of approval. My eyes sweep over her while she does a three-sixty. “You look perfect.”
“So do you,” she says, bouncing off my kitchen walls.
“One last thing,” I say, removing my engagement ring. I stifle thoughts about Lance and choke up a bit. I slip the jewelry on Patty’s left ring finger. “Take care of this.” Her eyes moisten.
“I’m sorry about you and Lance, but I’m sure when all this is over with, you’ll be able to work it out.”
“I hope so. I’m heading out. Wait thirty minutes, then go to the hotel. Don’t panic if you see someone following you. It’ll most likely be the goon. Regina will be there at 6:30 p.m. If the goon is there, he’ll assume she’s there to see me. Then she’s going to exit through the back of the hotel and take a Flash Ryde to the condo. I’ve given Jocelyn a heads-up. I didn’t get into detail, but she’ll be expecting you tomorrow, at the auditions for the secondary characters. I told her we’re doing an experiment for school and trading places. She got a kick out of it.” Patty’s eyes glaze over while she listens to my instructions. “Got it?”
She nods.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, Gretchen. Don’t worry and remember that you have to jiggle the key in the ignition to start my Jeep.”
“Got it,” I say. “I’m going to go out the front door to your car. My Subaru is in the garage, so you’ll leave that way. The garage door sticks and makes a lot of noise, but it’ll eventually open. Call me once you leave. Are you sure you’re okay with everything?”
“I’m great!” Her shaky voice and trembling hands belie her air of confidence.
“If you need me, call me on my cell. Let’s go.” I shove my purse and tote in the duffel bag Patty brought to my house, fling the bag over my shoulder, and walk to the front door. I peer at myself in the foyer mirror. “I look good with short, dark hair.”
“You look good in those overalls too,” she says, laughing.
We step outside and hug. Then we perform the short scene I scripted.
Patty taps my shoulder and says, “Thanks so much for coming over, Patty. I really needed to talk to someone.”
Then I say, “No need to thank me, Gretchen. I should be thanking you. I can’t believe my washing machine stopped working. I really appreciate you letting me do my laundry here. I’d better take off. I’ll talk to you later.”
She waves, and I walk to her car, parked in front of the condo, eyes searching for the goon. I open the passenger side door, toss the duffel bag onto the seat, then get behind the wheel. I jiggle the key in the ignition, and the Jeep starts right up. I take my phone out of my pocket. “Driving directions to 3517 Hidden Hills Avenue, Dancing Hills.” The navigator starts, and I drive away, looking in the rearview mirror at Patty, who’s still outside. What is she doing? My heart revs up when I glimpse my neighbor, Gertrude, emerging from her condo. Dammit. Patty, get inside. Hurry. Finally, she flips her long red hair over her shoulder and enters my condo. Thank goodness.
******
Standing in Patty’s father’s former love nest, I feast my eyes on the stylish living room décor. I expected a leopard-print sofa and matching love seat, with a shag rug and a lava lamp. I drop the duffel bag onto the hardwood floor and flop down on the burgundy leather sofa flanked by glass end tables. I lay my phone on the glass coffee table. Directly across from the living room is a small kitchen. My stomach grumbles at the thought of food. I can’t wait for Kate to arrive. She’s bringing chili, cornbread, and pie.
I kick off my tennis shoes and step out of the overalls. Then I remove my purse, tote, and oversized Patriots jersey from the duffel bag. I put on the jersey, head to the kitchen, and flip on the light. The breakfast nook will be perfect for our brainstorming. I get my tablet and case notes and set them on one side of the table. My eyes shift to the clock on the stainless-steel stove. It’s 7:00 p.m. Patty should be at the hotel by now. Thirty minutes ago she called in a panic because she thought the garage door was going to slam down on my car. Just as I’m thinking that Regina should be minutes away from the condo, my phone beeps.
I have two text messages, one from Patty—@ hotel. I’m ok. Don’t think any1 followed me, and one from Regina: I’m five min from apt.
Everything is working out as planned. I can’t wait for Regina to arrive. She says she has explosive news. I sit at the table and review the notes I typed about my encounter at the park.
Case Notes
Robert wasn’t killed by a rival gang. He was killed
by someone prominent and powerful. The motive is
TBD.
KKK members are covering for the murderer.
Buford Barnes is a part of the con
spiracy and is
using Mr. Camouflage to scare us away. He’s the
group’s muscle.
My phone rings, and I answer it. “Hey, Regina. Where are you?”
“I’m parking out front. Kate’s here too.”
“I’ll let you guys in.” I go outside and beckon to the women, who are heading my way.
They halt when they see me, and I remember that I’m wearing the short wig. Kate, carrying Tupperware, squeals and says, “I almost didn’t recognize you. You look like Audrey Hepburn in Wait Until Dark. Though that was way before your time.”
“I know who she is, and I love that movie,” I say, leading them into the condo.
“That’s right. You’re a filmmaker. Of course you would know who she is,” Kate says, stepping into the living room.
“I think she looks like Mia Farrow in Rosemary’s Baby,” Regina says, entering and locking the door.
“Hopefully, my stalker thinks I look like Patty Crowley.”
The room fills with nervous laughter. The women eyeball the place and then set their bags on the coffee table.
“Regina, I’m dying to find out what happened with Bertha Winter.”
“Can I eat first? I’m starving,” she says. “Just a few bites.” She makes a beeline for the kitchen. Standing at the breakfast nook, she looks at the notes fanned out on one side of the table.
“Of course you can eat. I’m hungry too.” I take the food from Kate and set it on the counter, then get plates out of the cupboard.
“It should still be warm,” Kate says, sitting next to Regina. “FYI, I wasn’t able to get anything on Manny. I reached out to a few people, and they all claimed they didn’t know anything.”
I plate the food, and we dig in. Between bites, we review the case. I reach for my tablet and read my case notes to the women.
Regina sets down her spoon and stands. Kate and I look up at her, anxious for her report on Bertha. She clasps her hands and takes a moment. When she called me from Lorraine’s house, I tried to get her to tell me what she’d found out, but she said she wanted to tell me in person. Her eyes get wet, and now I understand why she needed to be face to face.
“A gang didn’t kill Robert. Bertha told me that she saw Robert talking to a white man in a rented Mercedes.”
I grab my tablet and start typing.
“She said Robert knew the man and was surprised and happy to see him. Robert asked him if someone named Nanny or Nan or something like that was with him. She said she went back inside to answer her phone, and then there was a blast. She thought it was fireworks. She said it scared her, and the fireworks and the music from our party upset her. That’s when she went outside again. And when she did … she … she saw …”
Regina, fighting back tears, slumps against the wall next to the table. Kate and I approach her and lead her to the sofa in the living room. We ease her onto the cushions and sit next to her, whispering consoling words. Kate gets a tissue out of her purse and hands it to Regina, but she pushes away Kate’s hand. “I’m done crying.”
“You want a take a break?” Kate says.
“No, I need to get this out. Bertha said that when she went back outside, she saw Robert on the ground, and the man who was in the Mercedes stood over Robert, with a gun in his hand. Then Buford drove up in his patrol car. He handed the man a card, and the man put the card in Robert’s pocket. The man also had blood on his hand. Then Buford spotted Bertha and threatened her, put a gun to her head, told her if she said anything he would kill her and her family.”
The room plunges into eerie silence. Sick to my stomach, I run to the bathroom and throw up the little bit of chili I ate. The women rush in after me.
“Don’t worry—I’ll be okay.” I rinse my mouth and splash water on my face. “Did Bertha say what the man looked like?” I ask, returning to the living room.
“She said he was tall and athletic, in his late fifties. No facial hair. She said he was wearing a red knit cap.”
“And she said Robert knew him,” Kate interjects.
“Yeah.”
We pace, thinking about the mystery man.
Regina goes to the breakfast nook and gets my tablet. “Whoever he is, we know he’s powerful and prominent.”
“Your brother was a popular football player. He would’ve known a lot of powerful, prominent people,” Kate says, planting her hands on her hips.
“Who would he know who’s affiliated with the Klan?” I ask.
“That’s a good question,” Regina says.
Kate snaps her fingers and says, “Hold on. We’re doing this all wrong. We need to take it in small doses.” She takes the tablet from Regina. “How do you work this thing?”
“I’ll take notes,” I say. Kate hands me my tablet.
We return to our seats at the breakfast nook, and Kate says, “Type the following,” as she rattles off a list of things we know about the killer.
The killer was an athletic white man in his late
fifties.
If the killer was in his fifties, then today he would be
in his seventies.
The killer was wearing a red knit cap.
The killer was driving a rented, white Mercedes.
Robert knew the killer.
Robert was happy but surprised to see the killer.
The killer knows somebody named Nanny or Nan.
The killer knows Buford Barnes.
The killer is affiliated with the Klan.
“I got all that,” I say and set down my tablet.
“Now what?” Regina says.
Kate rises and leans against the stove. “Who would Robert know who’s athletic?”
“Other players,” I say.
“There was only one player on his team close to fifty, and he was in his forties.” Regina says.
“Who?” Kate says.
“Matt Simmons and he was already dead,” Regina says.
“Wait a minute. That reminds me of my earlier theory. What if the owner or coach of the New York Crushers killed Matt, made it look like a suicide, and then killed Robert so the Enforcers would lose the Super Bowl?” I say.
Kate, shaking her head, says, “That brings us to numbers 1 and 2. How well would Robert know them and why would Robert be happy to see the opposing team owner and coach?”
“She has a point,” Regina says.
“If not the owner or the coach, what about a player? Players from other teams socialize,” I say.
“I’ll Google it on my phone,” Regina says. After several seconds she says, “There were two older guys. One was black, and the other guy was white, but he was short and stocky.”
“You got any coffee in this place?” Kate says through a yawn.
“I’ll check.” I rummage through the kitchen cabinets. “Sorry. There isn’t any.” I sit, and Kate also returns to her seat.
“I may have to go out and get some. I’ve got a good parking space too. That’s not always easy with my big-ass pink Cadillac. We’re going nowhere fast with this. We’re missing something here,” she says.
“Parking space, car … car. Rented car,” I say. “If the car was rented, that means the man was from out of town.”
“That’s why Robert was surprised to see him,” Regina says. “He didn’t expect the man to be in Shady Grove.”
“Now we’re gettin’ somewhere,” Kate says. “But where could the man have been from?”
“If Robert knew him, most likely Dallas,” I say.
“Dallas, down South. The South, the good old South,” Kate says. “Don’t get me wrong, there are some beautiful people down South, but that’s also where that other element originated from.”
“And Buford and Jeffrey Barnes are from Dallas,” Regina says.
“So we agree that the man is from Dallas. Let’s just say that he is,” I say.
“What about the other person?” Kate says.
“What other person?” Regina says.
“Nan or Nanny,” K
ate says.
“Maybe whoever it was travels with a nanny. A lot of wealthy people do that. So if he was traveling with a nanny, that means his kids traveled with him. So he has kids,” Regina says.
“I’m not feeling that,” Kate says.
“Why?” I ask.
“Not many fathers could kill a person in cold blood.”
“It happens all the time,” I say. “Read the paper; watch the news.”
“I don’t know. We’re assuming Nanny or Nan is someone who takes care of kids. What if it’s someone’s name?” Kate says. “Maybe he said, ‘Manny.’”
“Why don’t I Google a string of keywords?” I say.
“Search in images,” Kate suggests.
I input Nanny, Dallas, Athlete, Dallas Enforcers, New York Crushers, Ku Klux Klan, Jeffrey Barnes, Buford Barnes, 1990, 1991. The women gather around me as we stare at my tablet, waiting for pictures to appear.
The Truth About Gretchen Page 25