by Judith Mehl
The detective had scanned pages of scientific formulas and facts that apparently proved what had happened. He reviewed the notes from their sometimes chemist, the bulk of which he couldn’t follow at all.
Peterbolt rambled on to Burrows about his innocence and shop employees’ perfidy. Thank heavens I’m an educated man and not that bumbling dolt people might assume I am. This guy hadn’t used any one syllable words in the last ten minutes.
Of course, the chemist’s language was even worse.
“Oleic acid, a major component of olive oil, and linoleic acid, both have molecular weights of 282 and 280 g/mol. Palmitic acid, a major component of a variety of oils, has a molecular weight of 254 g/mol. Linoleic oil would be 0.035 moles of molecules. Palm oil would be 0.040 moles of molecules. Both of these would need one mole of sodium hydroxide per molecule.”
Sheesh, the only moles he knew about were tunneling in his garden. Maybe he wasn’t so educated.
But while the professor nattered on about his inability to win his case because of his lawyer’s rigidity, the detective turned to the chemist’s report again and read the final comment.
“This means that linoleic oil would need eight per-cent less sodium hydroxide. If the guy used primarily linoleic oil and calculated the amount of sodium hydroxide needed based on coconut oil his soap would have 8% too much sodium hydroxide.
Agatha, the sweetheart, provided some layman’s language at the end which was all he needed. It was here that Agatha wrote in capital letters. “We found it far too caustic for average skin.”
It didn’t help that this guy called his soap “Skin Blaster.” Sure it was mostly for men. Who wants a package of soap that reminds one of sandpaper? Even a man likes a smooth touch.
Burrows straightened in his chair and interrupted the filibuster.
“So, basically, you got the formula wrong and made the stuff so strong it could burn skin.”
Peterbolt harrumphed, but returned a quick rebuttal. “Well, those women were just out to get me. They stole my formula and flummoxed my attorney into saying I had no grounds for my claim.”
Attorney Anthony Best had bristled in silence over the lawyer rigidity remark. Burrows could see him almost biting his tongue. He watched the lawyer’s steel mind fracture from the misinformation and blow. Best used a calm voice and slow speech, but at least the detective knew when the end was near. The professor remained clueless.
“Since this stymied professor put the shop owners, Margaret Kinney and Agatha Hartman, into massive expenses to test his product to save their own business, I felt he owed them, once the correct information was compiled. In the process of determining this they played with the combination of solid and liquid oils to formulate their own soap recipe.”
Best glared at the professor. The man blustered, then became silent.
Best continued, “A short while after, they started selling their own version of soap, minus the deleterious chemicals. Their version had only similarities to his and is now selling with great success in the herb shop, made by hand on the herb farm from their own herbs.”
The lawyer didn’t stop there. Burrows who sat for hours with him over the chess table, hadn’t ever heard him talk this much, well, maybe in court.
“You should have heard those women talk about his soap and the differences in theirs. They may look like little old ladies, but they spoke like scientists. They revved up about that liny oil, or whatever you call it, and contaminants and the purity of their oil in comparison. The one woman from the farm, the cute, young one, Carmelita, I think her name was—she sure was riled how that could have thrown the professor’s formula off, maybe even cranking the sodium hydroxide up 18 per cent over what it should have been.”
The man actually chuckled out loud, something Burrows rarely saw.
“Try asking that woman, Ms. Hartman, about poppies and lemongrass. Being a lawyer and all I didn’t want to hear too much about poppy oil in their soap. I wouldn’t mind hearing it second hand though.”
Hoping to prompt both men back on course, the detective said, “How does this prove the professor had nothing to do with Mrs. Kinney’s death, or that of her employee, Ms. Rosalin Bromfield?”
Peterbolt spoke before his attorney could stop him.
“That’s ridiculous! Why would I kill two women? I didn’t even know the one called Rosalin. What does she have to do with my soap?”
“Professor, stop.” Attorney Best spoke with full lawyer-like aplomb. Quiet, yet lethal.
Best said. “This isn’t all about your soap. It’s about hatred, or revenge, motives which you have.”
“But I didn’t kill anyone,” Peterbolt protested.
“Maybe not. We discussed earlier your recent traveling schedule. Tell the detective where you were the days we reviewed.”
“Right. Right. I remember now.” Burrows saw that the professor looked a little less arrogant now, but the man continued. “I was out of town on all the days Attorney Best gave to me. Here is my itinerary and my contacts. I even included copies of my airline tickets and the limo that delivered me to the airport. Same guy both times.”
The professor rustled through his briefcase and drew out a slew of crinkled papers. He dug down deeper and almost flung the last slips across the desk. “The driver was disgusting. He listened to the radio the whole time and when I asked him to turn it down he barely altered it. And the water was barely cool. Probably kept it in the trunk. He was disrespectful and I told him so.”
The professor settled back in the chair, as if that explained everything. Burrows figured it probably did. The driver would surely remember this guy, verifying his alibi. Peterbolt’s bad behavior would make him unforgettable.
Chapter 28
A page without any margins at the sides, and lines bleeding off the page, can be seen as someone showing a disregard toward one’s fellow man.
“Eastwood, where in hell have you been?”
Shaking his dirty hair out of his eyes, Eastwood mumbled under his breath. “Where in hell you think I’ve been?”
Chandler heard him and almost threw his newly opened beer bottle at the guy. He flung the cap instead. It didn’t have the same impact, but swinging his arm through the air like he was tossing a bomb gave him a little relief.
“Answer the question, you numbskull. You’ve been gone two days.”
Eastwood rubbed his forehead where the bottle cap scratched him. “You told me to find Briggs. So I was lookin’ for Briggs.”
Chandler stood up, swiveled around, and got in his face. “And?” He stood there, chugging the beer, waiting. “Where is he?”
“I couldn’t find him. Anywhere. I even looked for him in the old neighborhood.”
This time, with the bottle empty, he didn’t hesitate to wield it like a hammer at the guy’s head.
The man may have been scummy, and drunk from his two-day spree, but he moved quick. The bottle skimmed his head as he ducked and spun sideways.
“What’d I do now, boss? I just looked for the guy like you said.”
“You broke the rules. We never go back to an old site. What if someone saw you?”
“You said it finally wouldn’t matter any more.”
“You idiot! That’s this site. We were going to stay here and build something permanent for once. Our new identities are secure. We have part of the land. This was going to be our big break.”
He paced around the living room of the falling down farmhouse. Anger stomped each footfall with extra impact. He was surprised the floor didn’t fall through. “Now the landowners don’t want to leave. Briggs sets a fire then disappears. Even our investment guys seem to be backing out.”
He jerked back to face the men. Akins had settled quietly in the farthest chair as soon as they arrived. Chandler stared him in the eye, then turned to Eastwood. “Did you see signs of the fire? Hear anything about it?”
“You told us not to go back there.”
Akins relaxed as he tipped his chair back
further. “I overheard some people talking at the diner. They’d seen fire and smoke. They raced to the site to find the fire engine already gone when they got there. They didn’t know much. And I sure couldn’t ask.”
“Good move.” For once, Chandler looked less tense.
“So we’ll regroup. Akins, you approached that old man Jones to sell way in the beginning. You better stay away from him now. We’ll put you to work on him later, once we know if we’ve scared him off or not.”
He pulled the file on the resort from the only organized corner of the farmhouse. He reviewed the plans for the development. It was going to be called Mountain Paradise Resort, to be the largest inland resort in the Northeast. Others in the area had glitz, or gambling, or water parks. It would be the only actual resort under Maura World Development. His resort, if they could get the needed land and the financing, would echo the environment. His planner, Alessandro Morreti, researched the setup long before they arrived. That man was convinced that the development would be most successful if they played up the natural beauty of the area.
He riffled through the papers, looking for the info he needed. Of course, when his mother lived here long ago she didn’t speak of the beauty, but of her own poverty, hanging it like an amulet around her neck. He’d tired of the anger and the recriminations as an early teen and left to make his fortune—which he did by hook or by crook.
So he’d forget his mom’s opinion and go with the planner. He’d paid the guy big bucks for his expertise. And Morreti wanted to name the resort to echo the beautiful vistas that opened to view at intervals from the mountaintops.
“It says right here that you can see the assets of the Delaware Water Gap from our site.” He stabbed at the spot on the page in glee. Of course, he’d never bothered to look, himself. Seems like these days, they would only look like assets from a distance, anyway.
He copied down Morreti’s number and passed the paper to Eastwood. The name and number scrawled across the page with no margins.
“Call this guy and tell him he’s moving up here by Friday. We’ll rig access to a computer line somehow, or get him a room in the nearest hotel.”
He tucked the folder back where it belonged. It was the only thing in the place that had a special spot. Worked for him. He didn’t even like to hang around the place much. And he didn’t trust computers. Morreti swore by them. Great. He needed the plans to look as professional as possible. He knew about computer spying, and he didn’t want to trust everything to the damn things.
Eastwood rose as he grabbed the paper. Before he could leave, Chandler continued his instructions. “You make plans to pick him up. No excuses. And sober up and stay out of trouble.”
The man flew out of there before the boss could add on more work.
Chandler turned to Akins. “We have to find that Hartman woman. I’m tired of waiting around for that nephew to take care of things. It would have been best if he could get rid of her on his own and sold us the place.”
Akins plopped the two front legs of his chair back down to the floor and bent forward. “Doesn’t seem to be working out that way.”
“Right, which is why we have to find her and convince her she’d be happier if she sold out to us—at our price, of course. We have to start getting permits or the investors will run sour. Her property is the last holdout and the money men are getting anxious. If we have her property on the list they’ll know we’re legit.”
Chandler rose and looked around the room, the sneer of disgust obvious. “What a dump. We’ve got to get out of here soon. We’ll raze it when we develop, anyway.”
Akins jumped to attention, remaining silent.
“Well, what have you been doing to find her since you lost that clerk the other night.”
“I still say it takes more than a ditsy store clerk to lose me. I sure wish I knew what was going on.”
He jingled his keys, the only sign of his nervousness. Chandler noticed. Good. I want him on guard. These guys are getting too slack for my liking. “All right, Akins. What do you suggest next?”
He could tell the question rattled the man, as he struggled for an answer.
“We don’t know that woman can lead us to the Hartman lady. I’ve been driving past Hartman’s house on and off. So far I haven’t seen much. Tooled down the road towards the herb farm, too, with no sign of the woman. It’s like she disappeared into thin air. I guess our best chance is to stake out the herb shop and see who comes and goes regularly.”
“Okay. We’ll go together for now. Maybe I’ll go inside and ask around again. Look like I’m a supplier or something.”
Chapter 29
Pride exhibits itself in a variety of ways, such as closed loops in starting strokes or ties in middle zone letters.
“I wouldn’t ask that son of a **!!*! if the sun was shining!” Fanny screeched.
Kat didn’t back off. She answered. “I only thought, since Fulton seemed to like you so much, he might be willing to leak what happened with Burrows’ interview of Professor Peterbolt.”
“Huh. Like me? That rat?”
Kat felt lost and she didn’t even know she was in the woods. She’d just stopped by Fanny’s house to visit. Well, and maybe snoop a little.
“Could you repeat that. Who’s a rat?”
“Why, that Detective Hill.”
“You mean the one you called Fulton, yesterday? With that dreamy look on your face. That one?”
“Yeah. The rat. That turncoat.” She wailed even louder. “And I even let him stir my soup.”
“The ultimate betrayal, I’m sure.”
Kat was definitely winging it now.
“You bet.” Fanny shouted, than lowered her voice to a whisper.
Kat swung her head back and forth as if following an invisible ball across the net. Her eyes looked heavenward once in a while looking for inspiration.
“Could you be more clear?”
“He thinks I’m a suspect.”
Fanny’s hot air of indignation inflated in a second. She flashed to weeping.
“I thought he hung around so much because he kinda’ liked me,” she managed to say between sobs. “Oh, I know he was there on business. He even took me to lunch and came to my house. My cat liked him,” she wailed. “I didn’t think he came around because he suspected me.”
“Of course he suspects you. Everyone involved in the shop and farm would be a suspect.”
“You mean, you think I’m guilty, too?”
“Not me. I know you wouldn’t hurt a flea. He’s a cop. He has to suspect you. They’re born with distrustful genes. Don’t you notice that squint before they first open their eyes?”
Fanny looked at her suspiciously.
Kat continued, “You know, that wary look, as if to say, “Whose idea is this? It’s probably been killing him to keep his personal feelings out of the job. I bet he wants this case resolved more than anyone else.”
Fanny brightened, then said, laughing. “Well, maybe not as much as Agatha.”
They both sobered.
Fanny dried her tears on her shirt hem. “That poor woman. What can I do to help?”
Once Fanny got into it, the tears dried completely. Kat didn’t know whether to marvel at her complete turn-around or ask for help on a list of things to pursue.
“I’d sure like to know who inherits the shop and the farm.”
Kat wrote the question down with some others. The police probably knew some of these answers already. The inheritance should have been their first stop. Probably was. They’d put it on the list anyway. There could be an obvious motive there. Agatha hasn’t said much but maybe we could pry a little.”
Fanny said, “If it’s not Agatha, why doesn’t that person claim the house and farm?”
“That could be a hold up by the police till the murders are solved.”
“Is the ownership of both places, shop and farm, identical?”
“Good question, Fanny. Also, if it was Chandler who followed you, why
? Was he hoping to find Agatha? Is Agatha in danger?”
Now that she was more composed, Fanny offered her guest some tea. They both chose the soothing pick-me-up of jasmine flower, lily, and green tea.
After a few sips, Fanny was ready to address the points she knew about. “I’ve looked at every line of those books for the last three years. I got temporary eye strain over it. I couldn’t find one item unaccounted for. Not one penny out of place.”
Kat held the strawberry decorated mug between her palms. “I know you passed the books on to the cops. Haven’t heard a peep about money from them. They may have dismissed that angle, too.”
The warmth of the tea soothed her, even on this great spring day. It seemed that most days now were spent indoors, trying to discern a crack in the ordinary lives of some very simple people. She sighed and took a deep breath to shake off the encroaching despair. Her hostess was no longer crying. She bubbled with energy trying to help out her friends. Even as a cop Fulton must see that. He couldn’t believe this wonderful woman was suspect of anything other than kind deeds. Men!
She suggested they move on. “Have you had any more insights into why you were followed the other night?”
“Now that I’ve had nightmares over.”
The young woman jumped up and spun around as if looking for the elusive answer. She stopped and picked up her tea. She appeared to take comfort in the sturdy and colorful elements of her home, from the fanciful tea cozy to the hand painted tins of flour and sugar. Never wandering far from the table she would nod at Kat, hold up a finger, and walk around some more.
Finally, she sat at the kitchen table again, stretched out her jeans clad legs and crossed her ankles. “Point by point. If the unknown ‘they’ wanted me for some reason they would have found it difficult because the class started at the exact time the shop closed. Lots of people around. Even Detective Hill. After they all went home, I closed up by myself. He or they could have accosted me while coming out the back door. Or getting into my car.”