Just You Wait

by Jane Tesh

  “Even though they looked alike. Even the hotel receptionist thought they were related.” I started the car. “Once I find him, maybe Ed can give me more insight into the wonder that is George.”

  ***

  I gave Folly a call and asked if we could stop by her house. She met us at the door, anxiously twisting her rings.

  “Any news about George?”

  “Not yet,” I said. “Would you happen to know a friend of his named Edwin Bailey?”

  “I don’t believe so. Come on into the parlor and sit down.”

  Camden and I sat down in the peach-colored parlor. Folly hovered.

  “Do you want some tea? Cookies?”

  “No, thanks. I want to know if women always play Bingo at BeautiQueen parties.”

  “Oh, yes, it’s my latest fun thing, a special BeautiQueen Bingo. You can win all sorts of wonderful prizes, like Floral Fantasy Bath Spray or Rejuvenating Facial Splash.”

  “Camden would like to see a Bingo card.”

  She hunted around in her desk until she found a stack of cards. She handed him one. “Here you go. I tried using a peach color, but you can’t see the numbers as well, so I had to settle for a peach decoration.”

  The Bingo card was a standard black and white card on the front. The back had a design of peaches and flowers. Camden held the card for a few minutes.

  “This is it.”

  Folly looked puzzled. “This is what, dear?”

  “The numbers I’ve been seeing for you.” He handed her the card. “Bingo numbers, not numbers for your formula.”

  “Oh, my goodness.” She clutched the card to her chest. “Are you sure?”

  “I hope you haven’t used those numbers for anything important.”

  “So that’s why none of them worked.”

  “I’m sorry, Folly.”

  “It’s not your fault! I’ve been thinking about this new game for the parties, and what with George’s death and everything, I must be all mixed up. Have you found out anything else, David?”

  Well, let’s see. George was a braggart and a lousy actor who struck out repeatedly with the ladies.

  “I’m still gathering information.”

  “I need to write you another check.”

  She went into another room to search for her checkbook. Camden put the Bingo card on the coffee table. “There’s still another pattern.”

  “I’ll ask if she plays checkers.”

  “It doesn’t have anything to do with BeautiQueen, but it definitely has to do with George.”

  “You can’t tell if George is still alive?”

  “No.”

  This could mean several things. Either his brain was too scrambled with his new talent, or he was involved with this case in ways that weren’t clear. Since he never saw his own future, we wouldn’t know until something happened—usually something drastic.

  Folly came back with another peach-colored check. We stayed a few minutes more, listening politely as she told us all of George’s sterling qualities and then headed for home.

  ***

  In my office, I accessed my Internet search program and found sixty-four Edwin Baileys in North Carolina, most of them too young or too old to have been in college the same time as George. For the next hour and a half, I called the ones who were the right age, but none of them had been to UNC-P with George McMillan. Next, I found the college alumni website, but graduates were listed only by name and class. You had to have a special alumni password to access any more information, and the alumni office line was busy.

  I needed a break and food. I came back to the island. Camden was sitting on the green corduroy sofa. He had a two liter bottle of Coke and a large package of Cheetos.

  “‘Outer Limits’ marathon on channel forty-two,” he said.

  The episode playing was one of our favorites, the one where six blocks of a small town had been transported to another planet, and the people were getting ready to thwart the aliens’ plans and sacrifice themselves by turning into rocks when Ellin came in. She surprised both of us by taking a seat on the sofa beside Camden and not making a snide remark regarding our viewing choice.

  “Well, hello.” Camden put his arm around her, and she further surprised us by snuggling in.

  “And me without a camera,” I said.

  She gave me a mild glare. “Mother and my sisters are driving me crazy. I want to sit quietly for a moment.”

  “Sit as long as you like,” Camden said.

  The next “Outer Limits” episode was about those creepy ants with human faces. Camden said he’d pass on that one. I had the remote, so I clicked away, trying to find something else to watch. On the country music station, a sad-looking cowboy warbled about his woman leaving him in the dust. On MTV, angry teenagers pelted each other with mud.

  “Geez, life is hard.”

  The shopping channel featured porcelain baskets. I moved on. The History Channel, in a daring move, was featuring Great Battles of World War II. On the Fishing Channel, two grinning overweight guys in a tiny rowboat hauled in a striped bass. The fishermen were celebrating as if they’d caught the Loch Ness Monster.

  Camden glanced down at Ellin. “She’s asleep.” He eased her from his shoulder to his lap.

  Ellin always looks so perfect and serene when she’s asleep. I turned the volume down. “I’ll check the yard and see if there’s a pod lying around.”

  “She tries to do too much. I wish she’d relax.”

  “She looks pretty relaxed right now.” The emerald and diamond engagement ring sparkled on her finger. “Does she know about the ring?”

  “That it belonged to Fred’s wife? Yes. She was really touched.”

  “Did it meet with Jean’s approval?”

  “Ellie likes it. That’s all I care about. But yes, Jean thinks it’s tasteful.”

  “And damn expensive. You know she likes that.” I flipped through more channels. Unless there’s a game on, Sunday afternoon is not the best time to watch TV.

  I hoped Kary might come in, but Camden said she and Angie had gone shopping. There was no telling when they’d be home. We watched ESPN until the ant episode was over, and then I turned back to the marathon. Halfway through the next episode, Ellin woke up from her nap. She yawned and ran her hand through her blond curls.

  “Cam, you’re still going to marry me, right?”

  “You know I will.”

  “I’m telling you right now I’m not going to have three children.”

  “Well, not all at once.”

  Ellin’s nap must have done her a lot of good because she laughed. “Come on.” She pulled him off the sofa. “I’m hungry. Let’s go to Pokey’s.”

  She actually wanted pizza? Good lord, was this the same woman? Camden gave me a wave as they went out, and I gave him a thumbs-up sign. Enjoy it while you can, pal.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  “With a little bit of luck…”

  I finally got through to someone in the alumni office to ask about Edwin Bailey. I used George McMillan’s name and the year he graduated, and fortunately, the young woman hadn’t heard about George’s suicide.

  “Sir, I don’t have a recent address for Mr. Bailey, but I can give you his last known address.”

  “That would be fine, thank you.”

  “Okay. Got a pencil? It’s 222 West Tidal Avenue.”

  “That’s 222 West Tidal Avenue. Go ahead.”

  “Clearwater, Florida.”

  What? “Clearwater, did you say?”

  “Yes, sir. There isn’t a phone number, sorry.”

  “That’s all right,” I said. “That’s more than enough infor-

  mation.”

  I closed my cell phone and sat staring at my office wall. Edwin Bailey lived in Clearwater. What if George McMillan knew this, me
t his old college buddy, and then—it sounded insane, but what if he killed Ed to fake his own suicide? He and Ed looked enough alike that it was possible to fool Cousin Lucy, who said she and George rarely saw each other. Lucy claims what she thinks is George’s body, and George is free to what? Roam like the Mixer he is, creating miracle face creams?

  I had to go back to Clearwater and find out if Edwin Bailey was still alive.

  ***

  The only flight I could get left that night and involved driving two hours to Charlotte. The trip from Charlotte to Tampa was a little less than two hours, so I got to Clearwater around eleven. I checked into a motel and got up early Tuesday morning to hunt for Ed’s house. West Tidal Avenue was a hot dusty little street. The houses were all cream-colored with palm trees in the yards. I parked my rental car in front of 222. The tiny lawn needed mowing, and newspapers lay scattered in the drive behind a white Camry. I went up to the front door and knocked. After standing for ten minutes, I tried to peer into the windows, but the blinds were closed.

  “No use looking for him,” a voice behind me said.

  I turned. A stubby little woman stood in the driveway with her arms folded. She had on shorts and a halter top in a flaming shade of pink.

  “Been by here every morning,” she said. “He’s done a bunk.”

  It took me a moment to process her slang. “He’s run off?”

  “Owes me rent money.”

  “You’re talking about Edwin Bailey?” She nodded. “How long has he been gone?”

  She looked me up and down. “What’s it to you?”

  “He owes me money, too.”

  This satisfied her. “Haven’t seen him for almost a week now.”

  “When did you last speak to him?”

  “Like I said, about a week ago.”

  “Did he say where he was going, what he was going to do?”

  “No. He was rolling his garbage can out to the curb and said hello.”

  “Has he had any visitors lately? Anyone come by the house?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  I pointed to the Camry. “Is this his car?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Have you called the police? He might be hurt or dead in the house.”

  “He ain’t in there. I got a key. I looked.”

  “Let me have a look,” I said. “He’s got something that belongs to me.”

  She shook her head. “I don’t know you. You could be a burglar.”

  “Is there anything valuable to steal?”

  She thought it over. “Guess not. Come on.”

  She pulled a key on a chain from the depths of the halter top and unlocked the door. The house was furnished in light wood furniture and paintings of the beach. There was a stack of mail on the floor under the mail slot and some moldy food in the refrigerator.

  “See?” the woman said, as if she’d proved her point. “Gone to ground, he has.”

  A prophetic statement if ever I’d heard one.

  She let me look around for a while. The only thing I found useful was a phone number scribbled on the back of an envelope. I had called this number before. It was the number for the Green Palms Hotel.

  “Get what you were looking for?” the woman asked.

  “Yes, thanks.”

  Back outside, she grumbled her way across the street to her house and slammed the door. I was standing in the shade of the palm tree wondering what to do next when another neighbor came over. This young woman was also wearing pink, but unlike Ed Bailey’s landlady, this woman filled out her shorts and top in a very appealing way. Her long dark hair was tied back in a ponytail. Her blue eyes were anxious.

  “Excuse me,” she said. “Are you another of Ed’s college friends?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Do you know where he is?”

  “No, I’m sorry, I don’t.”

  She put her hands on her hips. “I can’t believe he went off and didn’t tell anybody where he was going. I could wring his neck.”

  “How long has he been gone?”

  “About a week.”

  “Have you called the police?”

  “I don’t know what to do,” she said. “It’s not unusual for him to go off on fishing trips, but ever since I read about his friend’s suicide, I’ve been awfully worried about him.”

  “A suicide?”

  “George McMillan. You probably know him from school.”

  “Yes, I do,” I said. “What happened?”

  “I only know what I read in the paper. George McMillan shot himself.” She held out her hand. “I’m Monica, by the way.”

  I shook her hand. “David Randall.”

  “Nice to meet you, David. Ed and I have been dating for almost a year now. Ed’s a wonderful man.”

  And, unlike George, a man who has no problem getting beautiful women.

  “About a week ago, Ed got a call from a fellow named George McMillan. Ed was so excited. He told me he and George had gone to college together in North Carolina, and they hadn’t seen each other in years. Ed was supposed to meet George at George’s hotel. The only thing I can guess is he found poor George dead in the hotel room, and he was so upset, he’s run off somewhere. Or maybe he thought the police would think he killed George.”

  “But Ed would call you if he called anyone, right?”

  “I’d like to think so.”

  “And he’s not off on a fishing trip?”

  “All his fishing equipment is still here. I’m afraid something’s happened to him.”

  Me, too, I wanted to say. “Monica, I remember Ed and George were known for their big moustaches. Does Ed still have his moustache?”

  She managed to smile. “I keep asking him to shave it off, but he’s so proud of it. He said George had one, too, which is why he liked to keep his. It was some sort of fraternity thing.” Monica brushed tears from her cheek. “Were you in the same fraternity?”

  “Yes, I was hoping to see Ed, but I’m going to have to go back to North Carolina.”

  “He’ll be so sorry he missed you.”

  I was beginning to believe Ed had made the ultimate sacrifice for a fraternity brother. “I’m sorry I missed him, too.”

  ***

  I told Monica I would file a missing persons report on Ed. This also gave me a good excuse to talk to the local police and see if there was anything new on George McMillan.

  A trim young policewoman who had handled George’s case agreed to speak with me. We sat down in her office, and she opened a file on her computer. I gave her Ed Bailey’s name and description and all the information I had learned from Monica. I told her that Ed’s landlady had let me in the house.

  “Missing for a week, you said?”

  “From the stack of mail in his house, yes.”

  “And his landlady was the last one to see him?”

  “She said he owed her money, so she’d been over every day looking for him.”

  The policewoman clicked a few keys. “George McMillan’s death was ruled a suicide.”

  “I know he didn’t have any teeth left to check. Did anyone check his fingerprints?”

  “According to this report, the victim’s fingers were badly scarred and fingerprint ID was inconclusive. But a relative, a Mrs. Lucy Warner, positively identified the body. There was no evidence of foul play, and the personnel at the hotel did not hear anything other than the gunshot.”

  “So it’s possible the man found dead in the hotel was Edwin Bailey.”

  “What motive would someone have for killing Mr. Bailey?”

  “I think it’s possible George McMillan wanted to fake his own death, and Bailey looked enough like him to make that work.”

  “For what reason?”

  She had me there. “Somehow it ties in with a case I’m w
orking in North Carolina.”

  “Well, you can keep us posted, Mr. Randall, but unless you have more evidence, this case is closed.”

  ***

  I thanked the policewoman for her time and got some lunch. Then I went to the Green Palms Hotel. The same perky little redhead was at the desk and glad to see me. She and her bosom stood at attention.

  “Oh, hello! I remember you.”

  “I remember you, too,” I said. “I need to ask you a few more questions about George McMillan.”

  “You can ask me anything.”

  “You said that he met another man here, a man that looked like him. You mentioned you thought they might be brothers. Both of them would’ve had thick moustaches.”

  “Yes, they did. I don’t really like that on a man. I like your look. I like it a lot.”

  I tried to keep the conversation on track. “You said George was glad to see him and they shook hands.”

  “Yeah, come to think of it, it was a funky handshake, like a secret society or something.”

  Or a fraternity.

  The redhead leaned forward on the desk. “Now why did you really come back?”

  “I’m tying up loose ends today. Do you remember which room George rented?”

  “He always stayed in 130. He liked the ground floor so he could get his dog in and out easily.”

  “Anybody in there now?”

  She checked her computer. “No. You want to see it?”

  “If it’s not too much trouble.”

  She gave me a look that said nothing would be too much trouble for me.

  Of course, after a week, there was no trace of George, but I wanted to cover everything. The room was painted a shade of peach that Folly would’ve admired. The king sized bed had a tropical print bedspread that matched the curtains. Pictures of parrots and huge flowers hung over the bed and mirror.

  The woman sat down on the bed and patted the place beside her. “The bed’s really comfy. Come try it out.”

  “I’ll take your word for it.”

  “Oh, relax, why don’t you? I know you didn’t come back just to ask questions about George.”

  Fortunately, a maid passed by with her rolling cart and gave the woman a look that made the redhead hop up. “I’d better get back to the desk.”