"No, ve didn't," Anastasia answered. "I vas surprised to see that Joe kept his place so neat. As a boy, he vas messy, you know? Shoes here, shirt there." She smiled wistfully. "Our mother vould laugh to know that someone finally taught Joe not to drop his coat at the door.. "
Helga smiled. "She does know, sister."
"Of course," Anastasia agreed quietly.
Pat felt a wave of despair. The sisters were counting on her and Deb to help. And yet, they didn't even know what they were looking for. What kind of clues did she expect to find—a lottery ticket behind, say, the picture frame on the wall? Or perhaps account numbers in the silverware drawer? Oh, what the hell, Pat thought. If it was good enough for Agatha Christie ... She walked over and pulled the picture from the wall. No luck. Darn!
"Let's look in the bedroom," Deb suggested.
The box spring and mattress were relatively new, although the nightstand seemed to be standard Salvation Army. Clothes were hung neatly in the closet; a pair of jeans were folded on the one chair in the corner. Against the wall was a computer desk with a sturdy chair next to it. And on the desk was a Dell computer that looked only a few years old.
"Have you tried getting into his files?" Deb asked, sitting down at the desk.
"My brother Jacob looked through them," Anastasia answered, "and said there vas nothing interesting."
Pat opened a closet door. "For a clean man, his closet is really dirty, she said. "Deb, why don't you check out the computer files while I look through this closet?" she suggested. "Anastasia, you and Helga could look in the bathroom. Remember, it might be just a scrap of paper or something written on a shelf." As soon as the sisters left the room, Pat whispered, "Deb, do you trust Jacob?"
"Well, I don't really know him, just from helping them with some papers, but he seems nice enough. Why? Do you think he found something on the computer?"
"I don't know; let's just hope he didn't delete anything. Let's not say anything to the sisters, though. After all, he is their brother. Start by seeing if there is a file called 'this is where I have all the money stashed,' and go from there."
Laughing, Deb settled into the chair. Finishing up in the closet, Pat looked at what she had collected: matchbooks from the bank, the Black Cat, and the local feed store, along with a scrap of paper that looked like some kind of shorthand:
Pat stared at it, getting a feeling that she should know what it was. If these numbers across from the words ...
She was brought out of her reverie by a call from the bathroom. "Pat, do you think this is anything?" Anastasia asked. She was holding an empty pill bottle with a label that read "fentanyl."
Pat turned the bottle over in her hand. "I don't recognize this drug," she said, almost to herself. "But why leave an empty bottle in the medicine cabinet?"
A knock at the door broke her concentration once again. Helga answered the door as Pat slipped the pill bottle into her pants pocket.
Helga smiled as she saw Bill standing at the door, holding a covered hot dish.
"Hello," he said. "Isn't this cold weather something? I just thought I would pop by and see if you were here. I brought a tuna hot dish, thinking if you were busy packing up stuff you might like to take a break." He walked in and headed for the kitchen, where he put the hot dish on the counter and then pulled out plates and forks from the cupboard. Pat smiled at the idea of how Midwestern it is that everyone brings food in times of tragedy whether it's needed or not.
"I guess I got used to having a meal over here with Joe, and I kind of miss it," said.
"You have been so helpful," Helga said, blushing a little as she looked at him.
"It vas so kind of you to bring this over. But please, let me take your coat and hat, and you sit. I vill serve your food."
"Bill has been so kind," said Anastasia to Pat as they came into the kitchen.
Bill smiled at Anastasia's comment. "Not at all, not at all. Joe was a friend, and I want to help his sisters, especially when they are as lovely as you two," Bill said, with a wink at Anastasia. "But I see you haven't gotten things bagged up yet for me to take to the Goodwill. Do you think you will do that today? I have time tonight to take the bags in."
Anastasia glanced at Pat. "Ve need to go through things first. Ve've been away from him for so long, you understand. But thank you."
"Well, just let me know, and I'll be glad to help," Bill responded amiably. "If you don't mind, I'll just go in and wash up for lunch."
Later, Pat and Deb bid good-bye to the sisters, and as they were leaving the apartment, Pat grumbled, "Can you believe this?"
"Believe what?" Deb asked.
"Believe that we couldn't find anything in there. I mean, detectives on TV and in books always seem to notice that clues just pop out at them." Pat sighed dejectedly. "What I'm worried about," she continued, "is that the sisters are counting on us for help, and we'll totally flop."
"I know what you mean," Deb agreed. "I suppose it's natural, not knowing anyone here, that they would lean on us. And I like them. But as detectives, we make a better pastor and lawyer. Still, we have to be missing something. Killers always make some stupid mistake. Let's each go over the apartment on our own and write down anything at all that seemed wrong."
"Agreed," Pat said, opening the door to bright sunshine. "Then if we don't find anything ... we'll just have to start letting them down easy." Deb smiled at her friend as they walked home.
Chapter Thirteen
"I heard you two have been messing around with the investigation of Joe's death." Gary LeSeur stared accusingly at Pat and Deb, who were sitting comfortably in Deb's office.
"We are only helping his sisters," Deb insisted. "Anything we can tell them?"
Sighing heavily, LeSeur sat down next to Pat. "The fact is we have some suspects but no real evidence. Truth be told, unless it's someone from his past—and even that seems unlikely—and even if we think we know who did it, I'll probably never be able to do anything about it." He looked from one woman to the other. "Don't look so disgruntled, ladies. We'll keep trying. Our leads aren't helping. You know how it is; everyone is afraid. Unfortunately, they might be covering something that would help us solve this thing and not even realize it." Scratching his head, he leaned back in his chair.
"And of course, I have to wonder if one of them knows who the killer is. People are so stupid sometimes. They think they can't possibly be in danger if they just keep quiet. But it only takes one slip, and if the killer feels threatened ... well, he or she has killed before."
"Of course people are worried and scared," Deb said thoughtfully. "And maybe one of them does know something and is good at acting. But my guess is no one knows anything for sure, and that's why they're so skittish."
"But look at it from their points of view," LeSeur continued.
"You couldn't help wondering, could you? Going over and over the bits and pieces of possible information, and trying to remember, trying to piece together. 'Course, that's my job—rounding up all the pieces and putting them together if I can." Gary chuckled as he stood up, indicating their chat had ended. "We'll do our best. You two stay out of it, and if, in the end, we have no evidence, then that's what we'll have to accept. Who knows? Maybe we'll get lucky."
Deb narrowed her eyes as she studied LeSeur. "I know you," she said. "You don't believe it will ever be solved, do you?"
He looked at them and shaking his head, he walked out of Deb's office.
Pat and Deb stared after him, wondering if his shaking his head was supposed to indicate that he was exasperated with them ... or if it was an acknowledgement that he didn't think he'd solve the case.
"So much for his help," Pat snorted. "But you were saying you think you missed something. What was it?"
"If I knew, it wouldn't be missing," Deb retorted. "I've been going over it in my mind, again and again, and I can't place it. It's so irritating." She sighed. "I just can't believe that two bright women like us are so stumped by this."
"Let'
s try another tack," Pat suggested. "If you thought someone did it, who do you think it would be?"
"You know I'm a processor. I can't just pick one out of my head. I need all the facts. I'm a 'whole picture' kind of thinker."
"And what am I then?" Pat asked.
"You? You're a leaper," Deb said, punching her friend's arm.
"Well, if I get to pick, I'll take the young kid in sunglasses who stood in the back of the crowd at the cemetery at Joe's funeral. I didn't like the looks of him anyway."
"Be serious, Pat. Do you think it really could be him?"
Pat shrugged. "Who knows? It could be a guy from the CIA, since Joe had a history in covert operations .No, my best guess is that it's someone who Joe could have exposed or maybe someone who owed Joe lots of money. So I'll pick ... Father Luke."
"Pat!" Deb said, slightly shocked. "Why, for goodness sakes?"
"Don't look so disapproving," Pat said with a laugh. "He had borrowed money. His reputation would be ruined if it came out. And he's neat."
"Neat?" Deb repeated, puzzled.
"The apartment. Remember the crime scene was all picked up? Cups washed and put away. Neat. So who would you choose?"
Deb looked troubled. "I just can't say it aloud. It's like accusing someone. I won't play. Besides, like I was saying, there's something I just can't remember."
"Don't worry about it," Pat said reassuringly. "Maybe it will come to you."
Deb nodded. "Come on; time for coffee. Let's go to my place. I made sourdough bread."
Stooping outside the door, she picked up a seagull's feather from the snow bank. "Boy, this bird is sure off schedule if he's still here now."
Taking her friend by the arm they walked home.
That evening, Deb settled into her easy chair, her feet cozily resting on top of Strider's back. It is great having a big dog, she thought. I can't imagine life without this golden waiting for me when I get home. She'd been to Joe's apartment again and had searched his computer. Now, curled up under her blanket, she phoned Pat. Pressing the speed dial, she didn't even wait for Pat's usual cheery hello. "Pat, listen, it looks like Joe was pretty paranoid about certain people in town," she said in a rush. "No big surprise there, but he kept detailed logs of surveillance he did on a regular basis of several people. It almost seems like he was acting as if he still worked for the CIA. Most of it seems pretty crazy, but it looks so organized, like he had a motive for keeping tabs on these people."
"Nicely done," Pat said. "So what else did you find?"
"He also kept a huge file of letters he had written to the editor of the Press and to the FBI, the army, and the CIA, claiming different kinds of conspiracies going on in town. It was difficult to sort through all of it in such a short time, but one file was titled CIA, with subfiles for addresses and phone numbers and—get this— another one with the names and numbers and extension numbers of two guys. One looks like some big muckety-muck in the army. Now I ask you: would you go to such elaborate lengths to secure detailed information if you were going to call the CIA?" "Well, what do you think?" Pat asked.
"I think it all sounds like the crazy stuff that Joe always went on about. Nothing really new."
"Did you make copies of his files?"
Deb sighed. "No, it didn't occur to me to bring a disc with me for copying. Besides, it's mostly the stuff we had heard before. I did make hard copies of the CIA stuff, though. Maybe we should try calling it."
"Yeah, right," Pat snorted. "And say what? 'Hello, just checking, did you guys happen to knock off Joe? You know, the crazy guy who used to call you all the time? No? Thanks for being honest with us. Bye.'"
"Sorry, you're right. It's just that I'm frustrated and really don't know where to look next. I feel bad about not being able to find the money for the girls," Deb continued. "Maybe it really was just an accidental death, and he really didn't have any new money."
"Yeah, and why don't you try for world peace and the end to hunger while you're at it?" Pat teased. "Look, we're both tired. Let's not say anything to the sisters—I'm not quite ready to give up yet."
"Well, I would like to check a few things, like his bank statements, and we should check on that piece of paper you found," Deb said hopefully. "And I'll ask Marc about the drug. Otherwise, you're right. Let's give it at least until tomorrow."
Little did they know that by "tomorrow," the thought foremost in their minds wouldn't be trying to find Joe's money but saving his apartment building.
Chapter Fourteen
Marc and Deb awakened to the sound of sirens screaming through early morning hours. Deb thought at first that it was part of her dream, and then she heard Marc get up with a grunt of annoyance. "It's two in the morning," he grumbled. "What's going on?"
Absently, she thought it must be very cold, as the wind seemed to be blowing right through the panes of glass on their old windows. Someday we're going to replace all these windows, she promised herself as she pulled the comforter up close to her ears. Just as she started to drift off again, Marc spoke to her.
"Deb, those sirens are really close—might be one of our neighbors. Sure sounds close enough."
Deb opened one eye and saw Marc pull on jeans and a sweater. That husband of mine, she thought grumpily. Any good storm or disaster and he wants to see it up close. Just like when the northern lights come out, everyone wants to come outside to see a fire, as if it's some natural phenomenon.
"Come on, Deb, let's go see," he persisted.
Groaning, she tumbled out of bed and pulled on her heaviest sweater and jeans right over her pj's. Grabbing all her winter gear, she ran out the door to find Marc—and was immediately engulfed in smoke so thick it was hard to see anything. As it cleared slightly, she thought it looked like the post office was on fire. Emergency vehicles lined the street. She made her way down the street, pushing past all the neighbors who also had come out, until she found Marc.
When they finally got past the fire engines and police cars—some of them, she noticed, from nearby Washburn—she saw what was on fire: Joe's apartment building. The flames were already leaping high into the air, and she feared for the safety of the surrounding building—her favorite little bakery, or even, God forbid, the Black Cat. The water that had been sprayed hung in huge icicles, causing the eerie look of a gigantic birthday cake.
When Pat's phone rang at seven in the morning, she already was sitting curled up in her chair, wrapped in her favorite afghan, reading a favorite book. The Christmas lights on the tree were twinkling in front of the still dark window and her tea cup was steaming beside her. She gazed longingly at her book as she picked up the phone so it wouldn't wake Mitchell.
"Hello?'"
"Pat? I knew you would be awake," Deb's voice said excitedly. "Have you turned on the TV or for goodness sake, have you looked down the street?"
Pat stood up and made her way toward the front window. How could I have missed it? Even from blocks away, the light of the fire trucks was dazzling. "What happened?"
Deb filled her in on the night's event, and concluded, "It's something I won't forget, that's for sure. I wanted to wake you but it was nearly three in the morning."
"Was anyone hurt? Did the whole building go? Never mind; I'm getting dressed right now," Pat said excitedly into the phone. "I'll meet you at the Black Cat in fifteen minutes."
As Pat and Deb stood outside the Black Cat, coffee in their hands, watching the smoldering building that had housed Joe's apartment,, someone across town was sipping his coffee and thinking about it, too.
Everything about Peter Thomas was compact. He was short, and not an ounce of extra fat clung to his body. He sported the tan of a golfer, with hair a bit longer than most military men. But then he was no ordinary army guy. His dress whites mostly hung neatly in the closet—he spent much of his time away from regulation army, which was just fine by him. His "uniform" these days consisted of jeans and a golf shirt. Gone were the black suit, tie, and dark glasses.
Taking anoth
er taste of his coffee, he turned to his partner from the CIA, Andy Ross. "Anything from Ms. Smith?" Peter asked, as he handed Ross the latest printouts on the fire.
"Nope, nothing at all since she left Nevis," the young man answered.
Andy Ross, an eager and earnest young man, was on his first field assignment, and it wasn't what he had expected. He had imagined exotic places and dangerous criminals; instead, it was this cold Midwestern winter and two middle-aged women whose meddling might just get them killed.
"Damn," said Peter—it was the closest thing to swearing that Andy had ever heard him utter. "It's been three days. What is she doing, taking a vacation down there? Nothing from Mexico either?"
"Maybe she's enjoying the sun," Andy suggested, wishing he had been the one assigned to a warm place.
"Damn," Peter said again, stretching out his legs in front of him. Worrying about her wasn't going to make her call in any sooner. Reaching for the phone, he added, "I'd better check in with the office." He did not like having to admit to losing two operatives.
"Bit early for him to be in his office, don't you think? With the time difference and all?" Andy suggested.
"You're right," Peter responded, putting the phone back in its cradle. "I'm getting tired of just sitting here. What do you say we go and get a good cup of coffee? And maybe have a chat with the two meddlers, if they are there."
"You mean ... actually talk to them? Is that smart?"
"Smarter than sitting here on our butts, waiting for calls," the older man answered with authority. "Come on. Don't worry," he added, his eyes twinkling at his young partner. "I'm a trained professional. If I can't talk them out of this silly investigation of theirs, we can always lock them in a closet until it's over." Laughing at Andy's startled face, he picked up his coat and headed for the door.
Back in the Black Cat, the locals were busy speculating about the building across the street. Although the air was filled with the scent of smoke, it didn't keep the owner from opening or the townies from showing up.
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