by C. R. Corwin
He was right about that. For some reason I was good at it. “What if I say no?”
Despite his weakened condition, he still had enough sense not to answer my question directly. “To tell you the truth, Maddy, I’ve never cared much for Jeannie. That’s Tippy’s sorority sister. Jeannie Salapardi. She’s full of herself and full of ideas for making me a better husband.”
I’m sure my eyebrows went up about a foot. “Salapardi? Of the Honda-Toyota-Mitsubishi dealership Salapardis?”
Bob grinned a bit. “That’s right. She’s married to Dave ‘Drive You Crazy’ Salapardi—”
Again I finished the sentence. “The paper’s largest advertiser.”
His grin wobbled into a frown. “I’m far more afraid of my wife than losing a million dollars a year in advertising.”
“You’re an honest man, Bob.” I wasn’t being sarcastic. He was an honest man. And almost as afraid of me as he was of his wife. I knew he wouldn’t be asking for help unless he was in a real pickle. I summed things up. “So, you don’t like Jeannie Salapardi, and you want me to prove that her brother didn’t murder Violeta Bell?”
Bob’s cheeks were stuffed full of meatloaf. He nodded as he chewed. “Actually, I’d consider it a personal victory if her brother were convicted. If he’s guilty.”
That surprised me. “If he’s guilty?”
The tortured husband gave way to the truth-loving newspaperman. “When Eddie French was twelve years old he shot his best friend in the foot. With a pellet gun. Accidentally. Gangrene set in and the boy lost half his foot. The boy was the star of the junior high school basketball team. Destined to be a star in high school and college. Maybe even the pros. That’s how good the kid was, apparently. Jeannie says that Eddie was so riddled with guilt that he smashed his pellet gun with a sledgehammer. He developed a physical aversion to guns of any sort. When he was drafted into the Army, during Vietnam, he refused to even touch a rifle. He spent the rest of his basic training shuffling between the psycho ward and the guardhouse. He was eventually given a dishonorable discharge.”
I interrupted with the obvious. “But he’s a convicted criminal.”
Bob was really chewing and nodding now. “Yes, he is. Burglary. Auto theft. Fencing. Bad checks. Dealing the evil weed. But nothing that ever involved guns.”
I did not want to be intrigued. Not for all the Darjeeling tea in India. But I was intrigued. “And Violeta Bell was found shot full of holes.”
Bob didn’t get me back to the paper until three o’clock. I immediately summoned Eric Chen. He dropped into the chair next to my desk and slid down until his neck was resting on the back. “Heaven’s to Betsy,” I barked, “this is a place of business. Show a little professionalism.”
He crossed his legs and wiggled his dangling foot. He stuck out his pinky finger when he took a sip from his bottle of Mountain Dew. “That better?”
“Much better.” I told him I’d just had lunch with Bob Averill. He told me that the entire newsroom was buzzing about it. That the boys in sports were offering odds on when my last day would be.
“I hope you put your money on When Hell Freezes Over.”
He smiled at me like Buddha. “As a matter of fact I did.”
Eric is the perfect assistant. Lazy and loyal. When Bob hired him fifteen years ago, it was not only to oversee the computerization of the morgue, it was to be my eventual replacement. But my refusal to retire hasn’t bothered Eric in the least. He plays with the computers, reads his comic books, drinks his Mountain Dews, and collects a very good paycheck. I got down to the nitty gritty. “Bob’s in something of a pickle.”
“Which means you’re in a pickle, too?”
“And you,” I said. “And probably a whole lot of other people before we’re through.”
I handed him a copy of Gabriella’s story with a lot of names underlined in red. “I need whatever you can find in our files on the four women. Kay Hausenfelter, Ariel Wilburger-Gowdy, Gloria McPhee, and Violeta Bell. There should be plenty on each.”
Apparently Eric had been reading more than his comic books. “Violeta Bell? Didn’t she just get murdered?”
“Yes she did. And the police think the cab driver, Eddie French, did it.”
“But he didn’t?”
“That’s what Bob wants us to find out.” I explained the predicament that Bob found himself in with his wife and her sorority sister.
Eric rolled his Chinese-American eyes. “Women.”
I reminded him that I was a woman, too.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “I was including you.”
“Good—I also think it’s a good idea to see what we have on the sorority sister. Check Jeanette Salapardi.”
“Salapardi? Of the Honda-Toyota-Mitsu—”
“That’s the one. And when you’re done checking the morgue files, see what you can find online.”
“I’ll Google the hell out of them.”
I wagged my finger at him. “And you’ll keep your lips zipped. Bob Averill doesn’t want Tinker to know about this.”
Eric finally showed a little enthusiasm. “Oh, baby! When the lid blows on this one there’ll be smelly brown stuff dripping everywhere!”
I tried to remain sour-faced. But I’m sure at least one side of my mouth was curled into a smirk. “Yes, there will.”
As soon as Eric went back to his desk, I swung around to my computer. I checked the metro desk’s budget to see if Dale Marabout was writing a follow up on the murder. He was. Then I clicked over to the file where those stories are kept—the written basket—to see if he’d already filed it. He had.
He was reporting that police had found a single, bloody shoeprint on the landing outside French’s apartment. They were having the blood checked to see if it matched Violeta Bell’s. They’d also found French’s fingerprints “just about everywhere” in Bell’s condominium. There also was this:
Police would neither confirm nor deny reports that they’d failed to find French’s fingerprints in the basement fitness room where Bell’s body was found.
This little, one-sentence paragraph was telling on a number of counts. It meant that police investigators almost certainly had not found French’s fingerprints in the fitness room. And if not, why not? Would French have clumsily left his fingerprints in her condo after taking pains not to leave any at the murder scene? It also meant that Dale was digging into the story beyond what the police were officially giving him. He had already cultivated a source. The obvious candidate was Detective Scotty Grant. Grant was always leaking little gems like that when it served his purposes. But it could be someone else. Someone close to the investigation in some other way. Someone who knew there was something more to this story than Scraggly Cabbie Kills Rich Old Woman.
I printed out copies of Gabriella’s feature and the two police stories Dale had written so far. I put them in a fresh manila folder. I wrote NEVER DULL on the tab. Then I picked up the phone and punched Gabriella’s extension. “I apologize for being snippy this morning,” I said. “I had a lot on my mind.”
She swiveled in her chair and waved at me across the newsroom. “It’s my fault,” she said. “I shouldn’t have been such a noodge.”
I took that proverbial deep breath. “What do you say we start fresh with breakfast Saturday morning?”
5
Saturday, July 15
I had breakfast with Ike at my house then drove to Waldo’s Waffle House for breakfast with Gabriella. I ordered a multigrain blueberry waffle. Gabriella ordered the Big Waldo—scrambled eggs, bacon and sausage, hash browns, wheat toast and three buttermilk pancakes. When the waitress put all that food in front of her I was appalled. “You recently have a sumo wrestler’s stomach implanted in you?”
Gabriella started smearing butter on her pancakes. “We Nashes are blessed with a high metabolism.”
“Or tape worms,” I said.
I watched her drench the pancakes with syrup. I didn’t give a diddle how much the girl ate—and fra
nkly I didn’t have much room to talk inasmuch as I was about to put a waffle on top of the oatmeal I’d had an hour earlier—but prattling on about her gluttony did keep me from bringing up the touchy subject I’d lured her there to discuss. So I gave her another zinger. “You may not have anything to worry about now, dear,” I said. “But twenty years from now you’re going to wake up with Big Waldo clinging to your thighs.”
She wiggled her perfect little eyebrows. “And all for just $5.95.”
Yes, Gabriella Nash was a bit too emotional for my taste. Yes, like most young reporters, she was mesmerized by her brilliant future. And yes, I still had a bug up my behind about the things she’d written in the college newspaper about me. “Sprowls,” she wrote, “is the desk-bound gnome who watches over the newspaper’s morgue, where the stories real reporters write are filed away for future reference.” But sitting there that morning, exchanging smart-ass comments, eating that sinfully good food, well, good gravy, what can I say? I liked the horrible girl. “There’s a chance you may be right about Violeta Bell,” I admitted.
“Are you trying to apologize?” she asked, slowly feeding a slice of bacon into her mouth.
“Let’s not use the A-word, Gabriella. That only levels the playing field between us.”
“Okay then—what word should we use?”
I speared a blueberry and dipped it in the mountain of fresh whipped cream atop my waffle. “The R-word. I’ve been reevaluating what you said—about the possibility that your story had something to do with her murder.”
She wasn’t prepared to go there. Her tough-girl veneer began to crack like stale lipstick. “But the cops have the killer. And the motive.”
I patted her hand. “They’ve got squat.” I told her about Eddie French’s aversion to guns. I did not, of course, tell her about Bob Averill’s aversion to Eddie’s sister.
She played with her hash browns, pulling away the crunchy ones on the outside to get to the soft ones inside. “Well, it’s not my story any more, is it?”
“No, it isn’t,” I said. “But I don’t think either of us want to see that wacky cab driver railroaded for something he didn’t do.”
“You want me to help you interfere with a police investigation?”
“Only if you want to.”
Gabriella tightened her lips until they turned white. Either she was on the cusp of crying or squishing her last remaining pancake in my face. “This isn’t fair, Mrs. Sprowls. You’re trying to play on my guilt.”
“Let’s stay away from the G-word, too,” I said. “You have no reason to feel responsible for anything. And neither do I. When I saw those women piling out of that cab at the garage sale, I knew it would make a good story. And you did a good job with it. A great job.”
Gabriella, thank God, dug into that last pancake. “Now you’re trying to butter me up.”
I had no choice but to tell her more than I should. “I can’t tell you who—but someone uncomfortably close to Mr. French’s situation has asked me to sniff around a little. As a rather complicated favor. And in order to do that favor—well, I’m going to need a little favor from you.”
She shook her forkful of dripping pancake at me. “I can see why they call you Morgue Mama.”
I took the fork from her and devoured the piece of pancake like a snake swallowing a helpless tadpole. “It would be smart to stay away from those particular M-words, too, Gabriella.”
“I will.”
“You bet you will.”
I let her eat in peace—for a minute—then took another bite out of her hide. “Your story on the Queens of Never Dull was really quite good. But there was one important thing you left out.”
“I did?”
“Yes, you did.” I wagged my fork at her. “Regarding Violeta Bell’s claim that she was Romanian royalty. You failed to say whether she spoke with an accent or not.”
It was as if she’d just had the Pulitzer Prize taken away from her. “You’re right. That would have been a good touch.”
I pretended to be incensed. In reality I was just playing with her. “A good touch? We’re not discussing your prose here, Gabriella. We’re talking about truth.”
That rankled her. “The story was about four old ladies going to garage sales, Mrs. Sprowls. Not about whether one of them was the queen of Romania.”
“Weren’t you at least a little curious about her claim?”
“Well, sure. But the story—”
I let her off the hook. “All I’m saying is that you should have mentioned whether she spoke with an accent or not.”
Gabriella was finally on to me. “This isn’t about my story. This is about your investigation.”
“Of course it’s about my investigation. Whether Violeta Bell was Romanian royalty might be important.”
“Why would that be important?”
“Anything unusual about a murder victim might be important,” I said. “And claiming to be the queen of Romania is certainly unusual.”
“That it is.”
“Her quotes in your story suggest that the Communists ran her family out of Romania,” I said. “I’m not sure when the Communists took over there. But it was shortly after World War II. That’s when all those Eastern European countries fell to the Communists. Which means she would have been a teenager when she left. Which means she might have had an accent—a trace of one maybe—if she was telling the truth.”
Gabriella folded her hands and leaned over the table as if I was her hard-of-hearing great-great-grandmother. “She did not speak with an accent.”
“Did she sound like she was from Ohio?”
We left Waldo’s in my car. It was nine-thirty already and both the eastbound and westbound lanes of Apple Street were clogging with people frantically trying to get to the supermarket before everybody else did. We turned onto Hardihood Avenue and drove north through the ever-bigger houses. We were heading, of course, to the Carmichael House, to see if we could make a surprise visit to one of the three surviving Queens of Never Dull. I wasn’t exactly proud of myself for making Gabriella come along, but what was I to do? I needed her to get my foot in the door.
“You have a preference who we try first?” Gabriella asked as we wound through the landscapers’ trucks parked on both sides of the street.
I rolled up my window to block out the roar of the mowers racing back and forth across the beautifully manicured lawns like morbidly obese bumblebees. “How about that stripper, Kay Hausenfelter? She sounds like the most fun.”
“That’s some criteria for investigating a murder.”
“Nothing wrong with having a little fun,” I said. “And besides she gave you the best quotes.”
“She was talkative.”
The real reason I wanted to see Kay Hausenfelter first was because she was the only member of the Never Dulls whom Eric had finished researching for me. What he found was now stuffed in my brain, at the ready, in case Kay said something that didn’t jive with the facts.
Kay Hausenfelter was born on a farm in Oklahoma, 76 years ago, to Chester and Eleanor Pull. She was the last of seven children. The Pulls migrated to the fruit fields of California during the Dust Bowl years, to keep from starving. By the time she was seventeen, Kay was shedding her clothes in striptease establishments up and down the West Coast. She was billed as Klondike Kay, “Gorgeous Gold-Digger of the not-so-frigid North.” She’d take the stage covered head-to-toe in an Eskimo parka and knee-high mukluks. By the time she wiggled off the stage, she was down to a furry g-string and papier-mâché pasties painted to look like gold nuggets. It was in Los Angeles that young Harold Hausenfelter caught her act, during the 33rd Annual Bakers & Confectioners Convention. Harold was the shy and impressionable scion of Hannawa bread-baking baron Gottfried Hausenfelter. Harold brought Kay home to Hannawa as his wife. What Gottfried must have thought of his son’s bride is anybody’s guess—albeit an easy guess.
Gabriella and I reached the Carmichael House. It was not a particularly handsome b
uilding. A ten-story cereal box with narrow, dangling balconies nobody in their right mind would go out on. Anyone over sixty could live there, if they could afford it, but from what I’d heard it was mostly filled with women whose husbands had done very well before they died. We parked in the visitors’ spaces on the side and followed the pachysandra-lined walk to the front. Gabriella buzzed Kay Hausenfelter’s unit.
Kay must have had her finger an inch off the intercom button. There was an instant “Halloooo!”
“This is Gabriella Nash, Mrs. Hausenfelter. From The Herald-Union. I was wondering how you’re getting along. After everything that’s happened.”