Gone were the days when I could saunter up to the Plexiglas, engage the dispatcher in conversation with the intent of gaining inside information, discover her weakness, then exploit it by way of an autographed photo of a movie or pop star (which, frankly, I had signed in proxy), a part in my next play (walk-on), or a big box of Godiva chocolates (the contents replaced by those of a Whitman sampler).
‘Vivian Borne to see Chief Cassato,’ I told the woman, whose name plate identified her as Ashley*.
(Note to the reader from Brandy: Don’t forget, an asterisk indicates you need not remember this person!)
Without taking her eyes off the screen, the middle-aged woman replied, ‘Go on through – he’s expecting you.’
Her announcement nearly rocked me back on my heels, and that is more than just an expression to a woman with hammer toes. Usually, Tony keeps me waiting, allowing me time to get out my cuticle scissors and give the leaves of the banana tree (no bananas so far!) a little much-needed pruning.
But, seasoned thespian that I am, I did not divulge my surprise, replying only with a crisp, ‘Thank you.’
Ashley buzzed me through a steel door into the inner sanctum and I proceeded down a boring beige-tiled corridor with tan painted walls, the tedium of which was broken by group photos of policemen of bygone days whose eyes seemed to follow me with suspicion, much like those of the living in the local law and order game.
I passed two ‘interview’ rooms, two detective offices, and one bathroom, whose symbol over recent years I’d seen evolve from a man, to a man and a woman, to a man and a woman plus a half-man/half-woman. Progress isn’t always pretty.
Tony’s office was on the left at the end of the hall, across from the lunchroom – a position no doubt allowing him to keep tabs on anyone lingering past their allotted time. Suspicion came with his job, apparently.
Upon entering, I found the chief – typically outfitted in a light blue shirt and navy tie (and I assumed pants) – on his multi-line phone in listening mode. He gestured toward the chair opposite him at his desk.
He didn’t frown as he did so. How I had rated such a warm welcome, I could only wonder.
Tony Cassato’s office, which I’d been in many times before, was as utilitarian as they come, providing few clues as to the man himself: no mementoes, no award plaques, no photos (not even of Brandy). In fact, Tony had retained the same decor as the man he’d replaced, from the carpet to furniture, including duck prints on a wall arranged as if to fly out the window, perhaps in pursuit of a fleeing banana tree plant.
(Initially at least, Tony had a good reason to keep such a low profile – for those not-in-the-know, the answers are waiting in Antiques Knock-off.)
The chief grunted and hung up.
‘I was told you were expecting me,’ I said.
He leaned back, folding his arms. ‘Why? Weren’t you planning on showing up anyway?’
‘I was indeed. And I am flattered that you deemed to take me into your confidence last night.’
A deeper grunt suggested I shouldn’t be. ‘Let’s get on with it, Vivian – I have a busy day ahead.’
As did I. As did I …
‘The preliminary autopsy?’ I asked.
‘Drowning.’
‘Any visible injuries?’
‘To the head. Consistent with hitting the steering wheel.’
‘Could the damage to the driver’s side of the jeep have been caused by an oncoming car crossing the center line?’
‘No. The scraping was back to front.’
‘Then, it’s your opinion that someone came up behind Skylar, and – while passing – propelled him through the guard rail.’
He chose his words carefully. ‘A viable theory.’
‘Anything found?’ I asked, then qualified the question. ‘Cell phone, perhaps?’
A nod. ‘Damaged.’
I ventured, ‘Some information might be salvageable. Call records could be obtained.’
‘Which all takes time. And I’m not sure we have it.’
He rolled back on his chair, stood, crossed to the bulletproof window (one change he’d had installed himself – again, Antiques Knock-off), and looked through the partially closed blinds.
‘You think there will be more killings?’ I asked.
He half-turned, his expression unreadable. ‘Do you?’
I nodded. ‘Something is coming unraveled like a sweater caught on a nail. Something or someone.’
He sighed, then came over slowly but steadily. ‘I can’t quite believe I’m saying this, but … I could use your help.’
How I’d longed to hear those words! And how surprised I was that he hadn’t choked on them! Had I been more confident about solving these murders, I’d have taken the time to gloat.
‘Unfortunately,’ I admitted, ‘I’m as baffled as you. Absolutely stymied. But I have a few avenues to pursue, and will keep you in the loop.’
When I felt it necessary.
His eyes widened a bit. ‘You’ll keep me in the loop.’
‘Absolutely,’ I said, ignoring what might have been a hint of sarcasm in his tone.
I stood and was making for the door when Tony said sharply to my back, ‘Vivian!’
I turned.
His expression had moved from impassive to grave. ‘Be careful, for once. Whoever’s responsible is desperate – two murders within twelve hours. You’ve dealt with bad people before, but this feels … different.’ He drew in a breath. Exhaled, then added, ‘I’d appreciate it if you’d keep Brandy out of it.’
‘I’ll do my best,’ I said, ‘but you know that girl has a mind of her own.’
He smiled just a little. ‘Don’t know where she gets it from,’ he said.
Outside the station, I was pondering my next move, when my cell phone trilled – the caller I.D. announced Tilda.
‘Hello, dear,’ I said, assuming she wanted to discuss yesterday’s disastrous New Age death session, and working not to sound impatient.
‘You simply must come right away, Vivian.’
Not pleased that my precious time would be wasted on mere commiseration, I asked, ‘Might we talk later?’
‘It’s about Tiffany – something you should see.’
That piqued my interest!
Into my shell-like ear she was saying, ‘Can you make it before ten? I have my Pranayama Breathing class then.’
I didn’t know what that was and, of course, had no intention of asking. I just said, ‘Be there in a flash.’
Or at least as flashingly fast as my scooter would scoot. (Bless you, MasterClass!)
Tilda lived across from Greenwood Cemetery in a white two-story clapboard house, which demonstrated what was once considered dilapidated but might now be seen as shabby chic.
The guru was waiting for me on the porch, dressed in her usual flowing hippie fashion, the Age of Aquarius gone gypsy.
‘Come with me,’ she said, as soon as I’d ascended the slightly slanting wooden steps.
I followed her inside, where we stood in a large room serving multi-purposes: a shop selling candles and crystals, a waiting area for students, and living space for herself and her many cats. The latter were, typically, roaming about. Each had shown up at her front door over the years – doing so (coincidentally?) shortly after a graveside service had occurred across the way.
Tilda, however, believed the felines to be reincarnations of the recently departed, taking the creatures in and calling each by the name of the freshly interred.
I knew of only one cat, Rufus Dowling*, who wouldn’t stay under Tilda’s protective roof, and was eventually run over while crossing the street to get back to the cemetery. Now, I happened to know that the human carnation of Mr Dowling had hated cats, and I think he may have committed Furry Kiri to get himself a different body. But I don’t think it worked because, according to Tilda, a new cat appeared within the hour. (Ironically, Mr Dowling himself, the person I mean, had also been killed crossing the street.)
&nbs
p; Her expression clearly troubled, the guru asked, ‘Vivian, do you remember those wills we made out at the session yesterday?’
‘Certainly. A nice touch I thought.’
‘Thank you. But as I was about to throw them away, I happened to look at Tiffany’s. Well, not “happened to look” – she had actually died, so—’
‘Dear, cut to the chase. Remember your imminent Pranayama Breathing class.’ Whatever that was.
She nodded, withdrew a folded paper from a pocket of her voluminous skirt, and handed it to me (the paper, not her skirt).
The note read: The funds in the money market in my name at the First National Bank are not to go to my husband, Jared Wallace, but the beneficiary designated on that account.
Signed, Tiffany Wallace.
‘I thought you might find that of interest,’ Tilda said, ‘since, knowing you, you’ll be conducting an investigation.’
‘I’m in the process now,’ I confirmed. ‘Might I keep this, dear?’
‘Certainly, if it’s any help.’ She shrugged. ‘Of course, it’s not legal.’
‘Of course it isn’t.’
But I was less sure of that than I sounded, though knew of someone who could confirm or deny my suspicion of what this document might portend.
Wayne Ekhardt had been my lawyer since Brandy was in diapers. Now a near centenarian, Wayne still retained a few clients, myself included, and kept only limited office hours a few mornings a week. Occasionally, he would still appear in court to defend a client, not often enough these days for judges to learn never to ask him to approach the bench, and initiate an interminably long trip to and from.
As a young man fresh out of law school, Wayne had made a name for himself in the Midwest by obtaining a Not Guilty verdict for a woman who had ‘accidently’ killed her philandering, abusive husband by shooting him in the back several times. (Like-minded Serenity husbands took note of the outcome, and curbed their hedonistic ways, for a time, anyway.)
Wayne had his office in the Laurel Building, an eight-floor Art Deco edifice he had once owned, running a thriving law practice on all but the main floor, which had been a department store, and the top floor, which he rented out to various professionals.
But after five decades, the attorney sold the building to an engineering firm, under the stipulation that he could retain the uppermost floor, rent-free, for life – a sweetheart deal that, considering how long the codger has hung on, has soured with his hosts with each passing year.
I entered the remodeled but still retro glass-and-chrome lobby, took an elevator up, then stepped off into a world that had not changed since the 1940s. While the engineering firm had promptly gutted all the other floors, keeping up with modern times, Wayne hadn’t changed a thing in his domain, retaining the old scuffed black-and-white speckled ceramic-tiled flooring, scarred-wood office doors with ancient pebbled glass, Art Moderne sconce wall lighting, and even an old porcelain drinking fountain. Any letters put through the ornate brass mail slot on the wall next to the elevator would most certainly not be delivered.
Wayne’s office was at the end of the hallway, facing the river, and as I walked along, passing vacant offices, I could almost hear the sounds of a lost era coming from behind locked doors: the grinding of a dentist’s dull drill, the yelp of a child receiving a doctor’s shot, the hard-sell pitch of an insurance man to a client, the clacking of a receptionist’s Royal typewriter.
I’d always wanted to get behind those locked doors, to see what treasures had been left behind; for now it would have to remain on my bucket list.
At Wayne’s office, I rapped on the pebbled-glass door, receiving no answer – perhaps this time I should have called ahead. I tried the knob, which squeaked like a mouse in the throes of torture, then stepped inside.
The legendary defender was seated behind his grand old desk, his nearly bald, liver-spotted head tilted back, his eyes closed, mouth open, like a bird waiting for a worm from its mama. He appeared even more fragile than usual in a suit that had become too large. More than once I’d been greeted by such a sight, which always gave me a start, as my first impression was invariably that my old friend and fellow justice warrior had finally passed into the care of a celestial magistrate.
And this time I would have bet an artificial hip that Wayne had received a final verdict.
I moved gingerly toward him, and – having neither a feather nor mirror to place under his nose, nor easy access to the gnarled hands beneath his desk to check for a pulse – I gave his shoulder a little poke to see if he’d fall over.
But to my great surprise his rheumy eyes fluttered open, and he struggled to focus on his guest.
Ah! I still had representation!
Wayne tried to speak. Coughed. Coughed some more. Then he managed to croak, ‘Vivian, what a pleasure to see you!’
‘And you,’ I said, meaning it.
At one time, a considerable number of years ago, after our respective spouses had passed away, I could have snagged this brilliant man, who always seemed interested in me as more than just a client. But a successful defense attorney’s wife can too often find herself feeling incompetent, irrelevant, and immaterial.
‘Please, Vivian, sit, sit,’ Wayne said, gesturing with a bony hand to the client chair opposite.
I did so.
Then, pulling his shrunken self up into his suit, in a hopeless effort to fill it, he asked, ‘What brings you around on this fine spring day? Something interesting, I hope. I could use a little excitement.’
‘Excitement,’ I said in jest, ‘is the last thing a man your age needs.’
He laughed, which led to another coughing jag. When it abated, he managed, ‘Not me, Vivian! I’m still firing on all cylinders.’
If running out of gas. And how many cylinders did a Model T have, anyway?
‘What’s on your mind, young lady?’
I risked initiating another coughing fit. ‘You do realize that’s a dangerous question?’
He smiled this time, his teeth still his, and original issue. ‘Do I have to tell you that we retain attorney/client confidentiality?’
From my purse I produced Tiffany’s handwritten will, then pushed it across the massive desk.
Wayne picked the paper up and, while studying it, remarked, ‘This is the woman who had a heart attack in the casket.’
Even at nearly one hundred, Wayne kept up on local events.
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Only, it’s suspected to be murder.’
He looked at me with a new sparkle coming to the old eyes. ‘Is that so? Interesting. Interesting.’
I began to explain, perhaps in too much detail, because toward the wrap-up, Wayne leaned back in his chair, sank into his suit, and closed his eyes.
I’d lost the old boy!
Or so I’d thought, until – after I’d finished – the eyes popped wide. I jumped a little. It was a bit like Boris Karloff suddenly opening his eyes in The Mummy.
He said, in a cool, clear voice worthy of a courtroom, ‘And you want to know if this written note is legal?’
‘Yes.’
‘It is.’
I sat forward, countering, ‘But Tiffany’s signature wasn’t witnessed.’
‘Wasn’t it?’ he asked with an impish smile. ‘Weren’t there others present who saw her write the will, and could sign affidavits to that effect?’
By golly, he was right!
‘You could argue that in court?’ I asked.
‘With confidence. If it comes to that, just let me know, and I’ll rush to your side.’
Trying not to picture that, I said, ‘Thank you, Wayne.’
‘Any time, young lady.’ He handed me back the paper.
‘And,’ I said, rising, ‘send me a bill for your services.’
‘When I get around to it,’ he said.
Which the dear man has rarely ever done.
My next stop was the First National Bank, one of downtown Serenity’s few modern buildings, a red-brick-and-glass th
ree-story structure that sprawled along the riverfront.
In the spacious lobby, I approached the reception area and informed the young woman that Vivian Borne would like to see Gladys Gooch, who had recently become my new personal banker.
The receptionist swiveled away from me, spoke briefly on a phone, then said Ms Gooch would be with me in a few minutes, and would I please take a seat in the waiting area.
I went over to a sectioned-off space that contained padded office chairs, side tables with magazines, and a coffee station. Above a wall fireplace (not lighted this time of year) was a small flat-screen tuned to a business channel with captions fighting a crawl that displayed stock prices of a not-so-robust Wall Street.
I had barely settled into a chair when Gladys appeared, a plump, pleasantly plain woman in her mid-thirties, with mousy brown hair I’d never been able to get her to do anything about, wearing a conservative navy blazer with skirt and sensible pumps.
I’d met Gladys last fall when she was employed as a manager of a small branch office in a nearby town. At the time, I was sheriff, working on perhaps my most difficult case (Antiques Ravin’), and the woman provided me valuable information in exchange for a promised part in a play – a lead role, no less. Since then, Gladys had relocated to Serenity and become active in our community theater.
(Sidebar: good-hearted Gladys proved to be a simply dreadful actress – quite the hopeless amateur who had never trod the boards, even in school. Out of desperation, to save my reputation as a director, I’d taken Gladys to see Tilda, whose under-hypnosis suggestions made the amateur’s opening night performance a sensual thing to behold! Unfortunately, the suggestions began to wear off after a few days – sometimes during the play itself – so I had to keep Tilda backstage, like a sports team’s doctor, ready to apply mesmeric first aid.)
Gladys, her big brown eyes shining like Sushi’s when I dangled a doggie treat, said, ‘Oh, I hope this is about the new play!’
I rose and met her eyes. ‘It is indeed. I have just the role for you.’
She clasped her hands together – goody-goody! If only her talent matched her ambition.
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