A thorough search for Doris Leiber, the lone female finalist from the contest, brought zero results in every current phone book used in the Hampton Roads area, from Williamsburg to Virginia Beach to the Outer Banks of North Carolina. Dialing 411 on the library’s pay phone produced no listings as well, leaving Jason to try other numbers belonging to other local Leibers in hopes of finding a family connection.
He struck pay dirt with M. Leiber of Portsmouth, who turned out to be Martha, Doris’s cousin on her father’s side. Doris, a graphic artist from Encino, California, was visiting at the time of the contest and both ladies, being rabid fans of Trivial Matters, decided to take in the popular public gathering, though it meant Martha had to brave the narrow downtown Portsmouth tunnel at night when her vision was bad. This Jason learned the moment after he introduced himself over the phone.
“Yeah, I remember you, you looked so nice,” squealed the talkative Martha Leiber. The sound of some nasal talk show hostess screaming through Martha’s television could be heard in the background. “That other guy, though, ugh! I’m sorry the guy’s dead, you know? But when he was alive he didn’t look like much of a prize, showboating like he did.”
“Uh-huh,” Jason nodded, then glanced upward see Gooch idly sifting through a Jeffrey Archer novel he had just checked out. “So, is Doris still around? Do you know if she’s received any threats in the wake of all this?”
Martha snorted. “Nada. Nothing. Doris left for California the next day. Left me her gift certificates ’cause there’s no Jillian’s where she is. Though I don’t think I’ll be using them myself, ’cause it means I have to take the tunnel at night, and I just don’t like doing that, you know? I always feel like the tunnel walls are closing in around me.”
Jason’s ear rang, and with the weight of Martha Leiber’s tinny, rapid voice he wondered if the poor woman ever got out much, trivia contests notwithstanding. “Really?” He clutched the receiver even closer to his ear. It felt like a sweating slug that had attached itself to his face. “Well, that’s interesting to know. Hey, listen, thanks for your help—”
Martha, however, continued to chatter. “I told Doris she ought to try to get on that show for real, but she’s so camera shy she would never go for it. I would love to get in to see a taping. Last time I went over there to see Doris was more than twenty-five years ago, and we saw Barney Miller—you’re probably too young to remember that one. Boy, that was no small feat, either, getting those passes, ’cause that was a popular show then.”
“It sounds like a fascinating story, Mrs. Leiber,” Jason began politely, eager to ring off before the woman launched into a soliloquy about what a nice man Hal Linden was and how he took everyone out to lunch at the Brown Derby or wherever it was celebrities of the 1970s wanted to be seen. “I really have to go now. I gotta lot of final exams to study for.”
“Uh-huh, uh-huh,” he continued to mouth over the phone with a pained expression as Gooch slammed shut the thick paperback and scooted closer to the phone, tracing a slashing gesture across his throat with his forefinger. Hang up now.
“Okay, thanks again,” Jason shouted quickly into the receiver before slamming it back in its cradle. He exhaled loudly and shook the buzzing feedback of Martha Leiber’s voice from his mind.
Gooch clapped his friend’s shoulder. “So, Sherlock, what have we found?”
Jason rubbed his ears. “In the short time I’ve come to know Martha Leiber, I might have a theory as to why her cousin hasn’t invited her to California in twenty-five years.”
“What?”
“Never mind.”
* * * *
Finding the last finalist, a cantor and music teacher from a nearby synagogue named Adam Wasserman, was a simpler task. Adam also remembered Jason from the party and agreed to meet with him and Gooch.
“I can’t spare much time, maybe about thirty minutes,” he told Jason over the scratchy pay phone line. “I volunteer for our synagogue Cub Scout troop, and there’s a meeting tonight.”
Jason said thirty minutes would be plenty of time to get the information he needed, and agreed to meet Adam immediately at the 21st Street Coffee House, which was not far from the library.
Adam Wasserman had not yet arrived when Jason and Gooch did, so they settled in the back on the sofa, where Gooch immediately snatched a month-old copy of GQ to browse. A waitress had just set down two peanut butter mocha milkshakes on the table before them when Jason noticed the tall, dark-haired gentleman push through the glass door entrance. At first sight Jason did not recognize him as the same man whose arm clutched his shoulder while posing for the newspaper photo only four days ago. Jason detected a day’s growth of beard on the man now shaking his hand with a firm, dry grip.
“Jason Greevey,” Adam greeted him, “how are you?”
“Given the circumstances, I’m okay.” Jason introduced Gooch, who politely set down the magazine before shaking hands. “Enjoyed your brief fame?” he asked Adam jokingly.
Adam grinned a set of perfectly straight teeth. “Yeah, the kids in my troop got a kick out of seeing my picture in the paper, and I got a few stares at the grocery store, but that’s about it.” The waitress interrupted and Adam declined to order, citing his limited time, but was presented anyway with a glass of ice water. “I’ve donated my gift certificates to a charity my synagogue supports.”
Jason mumbled some niceties and braced himself for the numbing ice cream headache brought on by an overzealous slurp of his shake. “Well, I won’t keep you any longer than is necessary, so let’s get down to it.”
“You want to know if I’ve received any death threats or if I’ve been attacked,” Adam stated, “in light of those two other deaths. I read about the one in Hampton.” He shook his head sadly.
Jason nodded. Adam looked unscathed, but what was the harm in asking? “Have you?”
Adam paused for a sip of water and nodded. “Nobody has approached me physically, but then I keep such an erratic schedule I’ll bet if anyone were stalking me, he would have given up by now. I had business in Williamsburg yesterday and I go to bed early. Sorry to say I haven’t seen anyone unusual.”
Jason’s heart sank, then beat harder again when Adam said, “On Saturday morning, though...”
Another pause for water. “The phone rings,” he continued. “I figure it was a telemarketer or somebody like that, and since I was in a hurry, I let the machine get it. I’m not out the door when I hear a voice shouting ‘You’re next, bucko!’ before hanging up.”
“Did you recognize the voice? Can you describe it better?”
“I don’t think I can,” Adam shrugged. “Whiny, possibly male, very angry. I didn’t try to replay the message because I thought I might erase it accidentally. I figured it was one of my Scouts playing a prank, so I intended to save the tape for a parent conference. That kind of joke isn’t funny, you know.”
Jason’s heart bounced wildly in his chest, threatening to leap upward into his throat. “Do you still have it?” If he could only listen to the tape, he would know for certain if it was the same person who called him. He could never forget that voice—like nails shot into his eardrums. He heard the voice during the day now, everywhere he went, and every time he closed his eyes. You’re next, punk!
Jason clutched his hand into a fist. There it was again, interrupting his train of thought, sounding louder and closer. Would it only be a matter of time before its owner would whisper it directly in his ear?
Adam wiped his palm with the damp cocktail napkin underneath his water glass. “Sorry, the police came to see me this morning and I gave it to them. Never occurred to me to make a copy,” he said as Jason’s face fell. “I mean, I didn’t think my life could possibly be in danger. I still don’t.”
Abruptly Jason relayed his own crank call experience. “Do you still feel that way?” he asked.
Adam nodded. “I figure if there is a madman eager to kill me, why I can’t imagine...I find it odd that somebody gets an urge to ki
ll someone because he or she went to a restaurant to—”
“Some people are just plain nuts.” This came from Gooch, and both Jason and Adam turned to look at him as if he had just arrived. “Who needs a reason to off someone when you’re insane? So maybe once a few years back some guy lost a game of Trivial Pursuit and got razzed about it one time too many. Guy gets mad, guy lets it fester, guy goes to Jillian’s to redeem himself and loses. Guy goes nuts and gets revenge by killing the people who beat him.”
Adam and Jason continued to stare, dumbfounded. “Hey,” Gooch added defensively, “it could happen. It could be happening!” He leaned forward in his seat, closer to Adam, who was now shredding the napkin into tiny, twisted reeds. “You can’t really sit acting all calm and say you’re not worried. A guy doesn’t need a reason to kill you anymore, people kill people who cut them off in traffic!”
Adam dropped the napkin remains on the coffee table next to his water glass. “What if my life is in danger? I’m not going to cower under my bed until the police nab the guy. Too many people depend on me for many things, and I’m not going to stop living and let myself be dictated by somebody else. If I do that, the killer has already won.”
Jason smiled. He liked Adam Wasserman and admired his courage. If only it would rub off on him, he thought.
Gooch, he noticed, was not so easily won over. “Duh, get a gun,” he scoffed. “Get him before he gets you.”
“I don’t believe in violence as a means to an end,” Adam replied firmly. “Oh, I’ll defend myself if need be, but if I die, I die. I’ve resolved myself to God, so I’m ready to go.” He glanced at his watch. “Speaking of going...”
“Oh, yeah,” Jason said as Adam stood. Shaking his hand again, he thanked the man for his time. “Would you mind if I called you, you know, if anything new happens or if I think of another question?”
“Not at all,” Adam said genially, and nodded to Gooch, who returned the gesture. “Just leave a message on my machine. I got a new tape.”
Goodbyes exchanged, the cantor spun around and wove through the tables in the front room toward the exit. Jason flopped back onto the couch and rolled his head over to face his friend.
“So, what do you think?” Gooch plunged his straw up and down in his milkshake.
“I think Bart and Gordon were killed by the same person, and that the phone calls are related. There’s a serial killer on the loose, and the police know it,” Jason said soberly. “If something isn’t done, somebody else is going to die. Man,” he clutched his stomach, “I think I’m gonna be sick.” Somebody wanted to kill him! To think his biggest worry until last week was passing finals and graduating.
“Drink your milkshake, then. Coat your stomach.”
“Ugh, no way.” Jason pushed away his glass. “All I taste is bile. What’s wrong?”
“What’s wrong?” Gooch asked incredulously. “Oh, nothing. Just that we’ve spent the last few minutes talking to a dead man walking, and my own best friend might have a target on his own head, too.” Gooch looked close to tears; Jason had never seen his friend like this before. Even when playing baseball and bearing the brunt of a shin-scarring injury, Gooch never so much as winced in pain.
“You scared, bud?”
Jason nodded.
“Maybe you should, you know, lay low until the guy’s caught?” Gooch suggested. “The school makes provisions for the sick and the preggers. This could be a special circumstance, too.”
“Dad’s suggested that, but the more I think about it, Adam Wasserman’s right,” Jason said. He reached into his pocket for his wallet as the waitress delivered the check and cleared the table of discarded straw wrappers and napkin shreds and faded back into the kitchen. “I’m not going to run away. I won’t let my guard down, either, but I’m not going to let this guy worry me into a heart attack.”
“People can survive heart attacks,” Gooch noted. “The survival rate of a bullet to the heart is much, much lower.”
They sat quietly for a while. Gooch polished off the rest of his shake while eyeing Jason’s with a fair degree of interest. Without even being asked, Jason nudged his glass closer to Gooch, feeling somewhat amused. For all the talk of fear and death, it was interesting to see that Gooch’s appetite remained unaffected.
“Well,” Jason slapped his share of the bill in ones on the table. “I told my dad we were going to study. You feel like studying?”
“I never feel like studying,” Gooch retorted, “and I sure as hell don’t now. When do you have to be back?”
“Around six, before dinner. You?”
“Same. I guess we could hike up the street to the flower shop. I kinda need to get something for Jenny for the prom.”
“You kinda need to?” chided Jason. “Dude, shouldn’t you have done that earlier? Don’t corsages need to be ordered well in advance?”
Gooch rose and stretched his lean frame. “I guess we’ll find out, won’t we? Speaking of waiting ‘til the last minute...” he arched an eyebrow. “You planning to show up in your underwear? You ain’t exactly a Red Hot Chili Pepper, you know, the look might not work for you.”
Better underwear than a body bag, Jason wanted to say, but thought better of it. Instead he collected Gooch’s money with his own and tucked it under one of the glasses. “Let’s motor.”
Inspecting an array of feathery, fragrant prom corsages, Jason felt a slight pang of regret for not considering the prom, even going stag. Mitch or Gooch could not begin to understand his feelings, and his reluctance to date, he thought. Dad was another matter. Who knew how he would react? Then again, giving the murders, maybe his father would take it better.
Now, as he watched over Gooch’s shoulder as his friend explained that he wanted a flower to match just about any color since he could not remember what his date was wearing, Jason considered the possibility of going after all. Surely somebody on the prom committee would take his money at this late date, especially since the party did not include dinner. So what if the special brandy snifters embossed with the school’s prom theme logo were already ordered? He did not want one, anyway. Just another thing to dust, and not having one would not bother him.
What did bother him, however, was the tune that suddenly started playing in his head. Donna Summer wailed to a disco orchestra, straight from one of Willie Pratt’s favorite records. Last dance, it’s my last chance, for life...
Chapter Eleven
Jason arrived home expecting an onslaught of canine affection, with jittery paws scraping his jeans and a wet nose sniffing for evidence of a snack brought home. What he saw in lieu of that surprised him.
Ringo was in the kitchen, but resting at the feet of a broad shouldered gentlemen with a buzz cut and steel gray eyes. The man’s demeanor had visibly softened since Jason saw him last, and as Jason spied the detective slipping a morsel of potato chip down toward his ankles Ringo nabbed it and slurped the salt from the man’s fingers.
Detective Simons scratched the dog behind the ears and threw Jason a smile which looked more like a facial twitch. He sat at the breakfast table facing the kitchen door, a manila envelope in a plastic bag and a half-empty glass of soda near his other hand.
“Nice pup you have here,” he told Jason pleasantly. No hello, no you’re under arrest, not even a hint of explanation of how he got into the house. Jason shut the kitchen door behind him and slapped his thighs, his signal to Ringo. The dog broke free from the detective’s attentions and waddled guiltily over to his owner.
“He’s hardly a puppy,” Jason said. “I got him newborn about five years ago, after my mother died.” Why he was even telling the detective this, he had no idea. Maybe by talking now it would save the trouble of being grilled under a hot light in a bare interrogation room by the guy and his zombie partner, Jason thought.
Detective Simons sipped from the glass; Jason noticed it was one of his father’s treasured Mason jar beer mugs. He had half a mind to offer the guy cheese and crackers and the remote control,
seeing as how he was making himself at home.
“My kids have been bugging me for a dog for years,” Simons griped. “It’s become a mantra to them. Thing is, where we live the landlord won’t allow pets. Maybe I’ll reconsider when we get a house. A beagle’s a good dog for kids, you think?”
“He was good for me.” Jason did not look at the detective, but concentrated instead on Ringo’s wagging tail. “Where’s my dad?”
Simons leaned back and glanced into the living room. “The phone rang just before you got here. He took it in there.”
“I see, and where’s your pal Sipowicz?” Simons chuckled. “He’s not here, and I’m not expecting him either, so you can just relax.” He gestured to the vacant chair. “Please. I’m not going to lunge over the table and handcuff you.”
Jason retrieved a soda from the refrigerator. “I’ve been sitting all day, thanks. So, what brings you here?”
Mystery Bundle (Saints Preserve Us, Pray For Us Sinners, Murder Most Trivial) Page 55