"Deb, could you and your friend take some coffees out to the firemen?" Honore, the owner suggested.
"Sure," Deb responded eagerly. "I'd be glad to do that." She nudged Pat and whispered, "Come on. Maybe we can get some info about how the fire started."
The smoke was still streaming out of the back of the building. The roof had caved in, and as the smoke hit the cold air, it was actually forming icicles in the air. Quite pretty, in an odd sort of way, Deb thought. As she and Pat passed out the cups to grateful firemen, they viewed the damage firsthand.
"Strange how the damage focuses on the back, isn't it?" Deb mused to one of the firemen she knew. "Was it from someone's stove or electrical?"
Taking the cup and bagel Pat handed him, the fireman replied, "Electrical? Huh! Only if there were wires in the middle of the living room rug. Oh, and someone poured gas on them."
"It was lit deliberately? Surely not!" Deb shot back.
He glanced around to see where his supervisor was. "It won't be secret for long. Let's face it; I'm no expert, and we are all volunteers, you know, but I am a carpenter, and even I can tell when a rug has been set on fire. No fire in the wall, no burned electrical plugs, no stove left on. But just don't say you heard it from me. And hey, thanks again for the coffee."
"Compliments of the Black Cat," Pat replied.
"Don't get too close," the fireman warned. As he turned, he picked up equipment to put back on the truck. "It burned so hard, there's debris all over the yard."
"Come to see the show?" a voice rang out behind them.
Startled, Pat turned around to see Bill standing right behind her. How long has he been there? she wondered. "Oh, it's you," Pat said, smiling. "Are you part of the volunteers?"
"Not me. Bum leg, I'm afraid. But like everyone else, I was curious to see what had happened. I hope the sisters got everything out that they wanted. Looks like there's nothing left. Well, think I'll get back in. It's just too cold outside for me. Oh, and I just remembered," he turned back to them and said pleasantly, "I've got a new show of caricatures almost ready. I thought you two might like to see them before they go up. Come on over to my studio apartment any time. It's above the beauty shop." "Sounds good," Pat replied.
Handing out the last cup of coffee, the two women walked across the street and back to the coffeehouse.
"Thanks, girls," Sam called from behind the coffee bar, as they hurried in, shivering from the cold. "Free cup on the house," he added with a smile.
Grabbing the empty cup offered, Pat went to make her selection from the pots set out in a row on the far counter. The Parisian blend smelled heavenly. Putting in the cream first she filled the coffee to the brim. As she turned to say something to Deb, she saw that they had company at their usual table—the two guys she'd noticed at the cemetery, standing apart from the crowd. And one of them, the compact older one, was smiling and waving for them to come join them.
What in the world? Pat thought, and she hurriedly pulled off her cap and ran her fingers through her hat hair, a common winter style in the Midwest. Deb raised her eyebrows in question, and Pat nodded her head and took her cup over to greet the two men.
Suddenly, thoughts of scenes just like this from every old mystery she had ever read raced through her head. Were she and Deb in danger? No, they were surrounded by other customers. Still ... it was as if she could faintly hear an orchestra playing spooky music. Oh, knock it off, Pat chided herself, this is no mystery. And she sat down in the chair the younger man had pulled up for her.
"Sorry to take your table," the man said without introduction, "but we saw you outside handing out the coffee and just wanted to have a chat."
Pat studied the man intently. "Interesting that you not only knew this was our regular table but you seem to know who we are, too. I know I saw you at the memorial service for Joe Abramov, but I'm pretty new in town, so I don't know who you are."
The men seemed to hesitate momentarily. Then the older one said, "You might say just we're old friends of Joe's, coming to pay our last respects. Joe and I go way back." That, at least, is true, he thought. "When we were young, we served in 'Nam together. I'm Peter Thomas, by the way, and this is Andy Ross. Andy has had dealings with Joe more recently."
Pat turned to look at the young man. He was tall and fair and had the appearance of someone who was somewhere between uncomfortable and bored.
"Dealings?" Pat repeated.
"Not dealings, exactly," the man continued hastily. "I just mean they had met through me." Turning to Deb, he said, "I hear you are handling the estate for the family. Did Joe leave a will?"
Deb met his gaze but didn't smile. "Everyone in town knows Joe and that he didn't leave a will. Hardly left anything at all, as far as we have found. Now, of course, it'll be a bit harder, now that his apartment has burned. May I ask your interest in this?"
"Oh, just tying up loose ends. You know how it is. The army likes to take care of its own, and Joe ... well, in his day he was one of our finest," Peter responded proudly.
"You talk about it far in the past," Deb said, "but Joe always talked as if he had connections now, with both the army and the CIA. As a matter of fact, if it isn't too silly of me to contemplate, your young friend here looks like he could be a character right out of a spy novel labeled CIA. And there the two of you were at the funeral service, dressed in black and wearing sunglasses. Really, who is your script writer?"
The young man scowled but his partner laughed outright. "I keep telling him, he's got to change his image. But the young, you know, so idealistic," Peter chided. "Okay, you caught up with us. I thought you had tagged us at the memorial service, but at the time it didn't seem to matter." Leaning closer to them, he said softly, "Now it does. Listen, there are things that you just don't know, and frankly, two amateurs should not be involved with it. All I can tell you is this: that as crazy as Joe may have seemed most of the time, he was a genius, and recently, he had been reconnected with our two services. He wasn't in any danger—or so we thought—and the opportunity gave him cash he needed to make a life for his sisters and friends. A 'win-win' you might say. But now he's dead, and I want the two of you to promise me you will stop messing around in this. It's dangerous," he said sternly.
"Next you'll be telling us it's a matter of national security," Deb said with a nervous smile.
"Listen, lady," the young man said, looking intensely into Deb's face. "It just might be. So quit farting around with this, and just mind your own business."
"Quite a potty mouth this young partner of yours has," Pat said to Peter, straightening herself up.
Face reddening and sighing, the older man leaned back once more and took a sip of his coffee. "First job. He still thinks he's a tough guy," Peter offered apologetically. Sending a warning glance in the young man's direction, he continued. "Truth is, this may well be dangerous. We don't know yet why Joe was killed or by whom. So for your own good, please let this one go. Help the sisters all you can, but l eave the murder investigation to us," he advised. He stood and pulled on his coat, then handed a card to Deb. "Here is my cell phone number. Promise to stay out of this, and I will help you to recover some of the money Joe stashed if I can." He buttoned his coat and motioned for his partner to accompany him. "If you find out anything from the family, call me."
Pat and Deb probably would have done just as he asked— except that just before walking out the door, Andy Ross put on his sun glasses, turned, and sneered, "This is no job for two old ladies who fancy themselves detectives. Consider this your warning."
"I mean, really!" Pat said indignantly, turning to Deb and grabbing a cookie. "I can take him saying we're playing at being detectives, but old? I, for one, am not giving up until this is solved."
"Well, he did call us 'ladies,'" Deb mused, looking at the card. "But the truth is, we don't know what kind of situation they were in with Joe or if that had anything to do with Joe's death. More important, did you notice the older one referred to it as a murder inves
tigation?"
Pat's mouth dropped open. "Hey ... you're right ... Well, I'd better get over to Gabriele's cookie and candy store. I really haven't bought any presents yet for Christmas and I thought it might be good to just go and buy everyone some of their wonderfully delicious homemade chocolates? What do you think?"
"I think it's fine as long as they're all tightly wrapped so that you won't be tempted," Deb replied.
"Well, if I'm going to give in to temptation, it might as well be to the best candy in the north."
Pat smiled at her best friend. "So what's on your agenda for today?"
"I thought that was my question," Deb answered. Putting on her coat, she added, "I'm meeting the sisters at the bank in ten minutes to go over accounts. Whether or not we stay involved with solving their brother's death, I'm still their attorney. We can talk later about what to do next. In the meantime, why don't you try to find out if these two guys really are from the army and CIA?"
Choking on her coffee, Pat sputtered, "How in the world am I supposed to do that?"
Deb shrugged. "Don't ask me. I'm just a small-town attorney. You're the one who reads all the mysteries."
There was silence—an uncomfortable silence that seeped through Detective LeSeur's sparse office, making it colder than the northern Wisconsin winter outside. Leaning back in his old-fashioned chair, he waited. LeSeur was not about to make the other two men comfortable. Why should he? There was a poisoned man, no real suspects, a burned-down crime scene, and now, two "pros" who thought they were God's gift to his investigation. He waited a little longer and then said, "Come on in and sit down." He waved at the chairs. "Don't suppose you've got anything to share, seeing as how you are here to cooperate."
Andy, the younger man scowled, but Peter, the older one, smiled and asked, "Got any coffee?" When none was forthcoming, he continued, "No, nothing concrete, sir, but we're working on it. We have an operative out in the field."
"An operative, huh?" LeSeur said with a sneer. "Let's hear all about it—unless you think us country folk are just too stupid to understand."
"How about you share first?" Andy broke in.
"Give it a rest, Andy," his partner cautioned. He turned his attention to LeSeur.
"Here's the deal. Although I can't tell you everything—national security and all that—there are some things I can say. We're here because Joe was a crazy coot but a damn smart one—he did some jobs for us at one time that involved banking and codes. Vietnam was his heyday, but he did a few jobs for us involving Cuba and China. We're checking now to see if he kept his connections there and they killed him, or if he knew too much about someone in our own operation and was taken out because of that. Frankly, I don't think it happened from our end, but we're checking."
"Well, that's as clear as mud," LeSeur retorted. "You sure about that noninvolvement from your end?"
"Not as sure as we would like to be. But I have a personal interest, too. A long time ago, lifetimes ago, Joe was my friend," he admitted.
"Sally, could you bring us in some coffees?" LeSeur yelled to the outer room. Turning back to the agents, LeSeur continued, "What have you deduced?"
Peter settled into his chair and stretched his legs out in front of him. "Joe was having a late coffee at the Black Cat at 8:30 on the night he was killed. We know that based on information from the barista and from a guy named Stan. We know he usually went walking at night, and we assume this night was no exception."
"Why do you say that?"
"Because the elderly lady downstairs remembers his coming home, as usual. She doesn't know if he was alone, but the time is close because she was watching Jon Stewart on TV, and it was loud. This is interesting, though. She thought she heard Joe going back out about eleven that same night."
"Why interesting?" LeSeur asked.
"Because the county coroner, Ruth Epstein, says he was dead by eleven."
"Maybe our killer came up for a late night drink," LeSeur suggested.
Peter nodded. "Probably. But if so, the cups or glasses were washed and put away. Tidy murderer, don't you think? Cool as a cucumber, washing up with a dead guy in the room. It was supposed to look like he died of natural causes. He looked like he'd fallen asleep in his chair. The killer may have counted on his not being found for several days. That would help to mask the crime."
"Any suspects at all?" LeSeur asked.
They paused as Salvadore came in with a tray of coffees and cookies.
"How about those two busybodies?" Andy asked, while reaching for a cup from the tray.
LeSeur looked disgustedly at him. "What?" he mumbled through a cookie.
"Deb Linberg is a respected attorney who has lived in this town for a dozen years," LeSeur informed him, "and Pat Kerry is a Lutheran minister. They have no motive, and their only connection with the victim is through seeing him at the coffeehouse and helping his sisters."
"What about the money?" Peter asked.
"Now that does get interesting. We haven't been able to account for his lottery winnings so far," answered LeSeur.
"Maybe we can help out on that," Andy interjected. "It seems Joe owned some property in the West Indies, which could account for a chunk but not all of it. Of course, it doesn't account for the amount we've given him in the last twenty years."
Detective LeSeur's eyebrow lifted. "Blood money?"
"No, we just take care of our own."
Chapter Fifteen
Pat sat contentedly at her usual table at the Black Cat. She liked that she had a table that was "hers"—hers and Deb's. She took another sip of the day's roast and looked around the coffeehouse. She realized, happily, that she actually knew some of the other customers—one or two whom she might even call friend. The warm sense of belonging in her new community brought a tear to her eye. She reached into her pocket for a tissue and felt unfamiliar items—instead of a Kleenex in her pocket, she realized, she'd stashed the items they had found at Joe's. She removed them from her pocket and set everything on the table in front of her: the empty prescription bottle; matchbooks from the Black Cat, the Great Northern Bank, and the local feed store (Joe must have been a smoker, she thought ruefully); a keychain from Sarah's outlet decorating store; and the last item—the odd list.
So little to go on. Concentrate, Pat, she chided herself. You should be able to make something out of this. She picked up the scrap of paper and read it again.
What nice handwriting Joe had, she thought. She tried to remember what idea had come to mind when she first read it. Something from her childhood... "Hi, whatcha doing?"
Startled by the voice, Pat looked up to see Sarah watching her, even as she seemed hardly able to hold still.
"Hi, Sarah," Pat greeted her, hastily reaching out to put things back in her pocket. But before Pat could grab the keychain, Sarah picked it up.
"Hey," she said, smiling, "this is from my shop. I gave them away when I first opened! I haven't seen one of these for quite a while. The last one I had I gave to—." She stopped abruptly as her gaze went to the scrap of paper. Her eyes widened as she seemed to understand its meaning. "Where did you get this?" she demanded, her voice rising.
"Sit down, Sarah," Pat urged her. "What's the problem?"
Sarah gulped, seeming stricken. "I can't stay. I left the truck running outside, but just answer me, please, where did you get this?" She pointed at the paper.
Pat pretended to misunderstand her as she took the keychain out of Sarah's now-trembling hand. "It's from Joe's apartment. Is he the one to whom you gave the last?" Pat was surprised to see Sarah's eyes well with tears. Sarah doesn't seem the sentimental type, she thought.
Sarah caught the look in Pat's eyes, and she laughed, shaking her head and pulling a Kleenex from her pocket. "Oh, I know he was a crazy coot, but there was a time in my life when just everything went haywire, and Joe was kind to me."
"Want to tell me about it?" Pat asked, using her best concerned-pastor voice—not that she was faking concern. She liked Sarah and h
oped she could help.
Hesitating, Sarah said, "Oh, well. It was one of those times, you know? When you think you've hit bottom, and then the other shoe drops. I had been sick—in the hospital—and my husband had been running the store, and my son was getting into trouble at school. The day I came home from the hospital my loving husband informed me he just couldn't take it anymore and walked out. I thought, what could be worse? The next day I found out. Going into the shop—my first real decorating shop—I found the books in a mess. Bills were stacked everywhere. Orders hadn't been filled for customers, and the rent was due. I started making calls. Contractors were angry, and vendors were refusing service." She wiped the tears from her eyes and looked at Pat. "You sure you want to hear this?"
"Of course," Pat assured her. "Please go on."
Sarah sighed slowly and then continued. "So there I sat, and I just cried and cried ... and then, in walked Joe. He took one look at me and before I could say anything, he walked right back out the door! But two minutes later, he was back with a triple espresso, just the way I like it, and he handed it to me and said, 'Come on, Sarah, it can't be that bad. Tell Joey about it.' And I don't know why, except no one else had asked, so I did." She closed her eyes briefly, as if picturing the scene in her mind. Then she shrugged and smiled at Pat. "Frankly, I felt embarrassed that I had told my personal problems to the town wacko—a guy who wore the same clothes for days. But Joe placed his hand gently on mine, like a child trying to comfort a frightened bird. And he said, 'How much?' So I asked, kind of stupidly, 'How much what?' And Joe shook his head, as if to keep it clear, and said, 'To stay in business. How much do you need to stay in business?'" Sarah's smile broadened at the memory. "Well, I thought I'd just play along with him, so I counted off creditors, vendors, and of course, there were hospital bills. So I said I supposed maybe ten thousand dollars would do it, but that it might as well be ten million. So Joe said, "Ten million, I can't do," and he got up and left. He wasn't gone but a few minutes—I'd just turned back to the pile of messages from unhappy clients when he came back in the door." Sarah leaned forward now and spoke almost in a whisper. "He put an envelope in my hand. 'Here,' he said. 'You need to stay open.' And then just ... left." She pointed to the scrap of paper on the table. "See this line here—'By design'?"
Bad to the Last Drop Page 9