Antique Blues

by Jane K. Cleland

  “Sometimes knowing what the bad guy isn’t doing helps you find out what he is up to.”

  “Ellis told me about other dead ends, too. The forensic team didn’t find anything significant on the log used to down the wires, and there were so many footprints on the pathway through the woods that they couldn’t sort them out. They did find glass shards along the path, though.”

  “That’s something.”

  “I guess.”

  We sat quietly for a while. Wisps of misty fog descended on the meadow.

  I sank farther underwater, letting the steamy water lap up over my chin. “Maybe Cal’s murder has nothing to do with the print. Let’s say Lydia hotfooted it to Cal’s place immediately after the funeral expecting sympathy; instead, she found him in bed with Nora. Lydia lost it, grabbed something, a baseball bat, for example, and started whaling on him.”

  “Except there wasn’t a bat at the crime scene, and you said Lydia wasn’t carrying anything but a little purse.”

  “It’s possible Nora took it away.”

  “Lydia kills Nora’s lover and she helps cover up the crime? Unlikely.”

  “True,” I said. “Maybe Lydia showed up wanting love, and Cal broke up with her.”

  “Why?”

  “He decided he liked Nora better. No, that doesn’t fit. Nora was pretty into her husband when I saw them in the parking lot after the funeral.”

  “She was putting on an act—she has a guilty conscience.”

  I slapped the water. “Or … or … or … this is all conjecture, Ty. We don’t have any evidence of anything. Not a shred. Lydia didn’t use a baseball bat. If Cal played softball, he’d have had a glove. There wasn’t one.”

  “You looked?”

  “I noticed. I noticed something else, too. There was no computer. Call me crazy, but I can’t see Cal going to the public library to check his email. Ellis told me his phone is missing, too.”

  “Interesting. Was Cal Pat Durand?”

  “I guess we’ll find out if Andi Brewster’s call goes through as scheduled—after all, dead men can’t take phone calls.” I repositioned myself to allow the steam and pulsing bubbles to hit my neck. After a moment, I continued. “Ellis asked us to move the call from Max’s office to the police station so their tech people can try to trace it. He agrees that Cal might have been working with a partner.”

  “Lydia.”

  I rested my head against Ty’s shoulder. “Or Nora.”

  “Are you going to be able to handle it—my achy shaky baby?”

  “Ha! There’s nothing wrong with me that two ibuprofen and a good night’s sleep won’t cure.” I yawned. “Speaking of sleep … I think I’m done. I’m getting pruny.”

  Ty stood up, and water cascaded from his bathing suit. He reached out a hand and helped me onto the deck. He wrapped a towel around me, and I rubbed myself dry. The night noises soothed me, the birds saying their final good nights and soft rustlings from the woods. I slid my feet into my flip-flops. Ty turned off the jets, drew the cover over the tub, and led the way inside.

  As I stepped into the kitchen, a thought struck me with the clarity and force of a meteor, and I fell back against the wall. I clenched the towel closer as the implications and ramifications jostled for position in my brain.

  Ty walked toward me, his eyes on my face. “You look like you’ve just seen a ghost.”

  “Oh, Ty … I need to call Ellis right away … I just remembered … There was a stack of metal pipes in the social club. The murder weapon was right at hand. Talk about an easy way to dispose of a weapon—all you’d have to do is toss it back in the pile.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Wes called at seven twenty Wednesday morning.

  “I’ve got an info-bomb. Can you meet now? At our dune?”

  “Yes.”

  I got to the beach before Wes. Bundled in my sweater coat, I climbed the dune. I was stiff but not gimpy, and my bruises were colorful and tender to the touch but not debilitating. Nonetheless, I was glad I’d taken some more ibuprofen before I set out.

  The day was bright and windless. Golden stars flicked across the dark blue ocean surface. The temperature was just shy of fifty. It would be another perfect autumn day. To the north, a man wearing an anorak walked along the shoreline, his golden retriever darting around a jumble of seaweed. To the south, two older women walked in tandem. One was gesturing wildly. The other was laughing. I wondered what was so funny.

  A car screeched to a stop. I turned toward the street and watched Wes step out of his car and shrug into a brown leather jacket as he clambered up the dune.

  “Hey, Wes. Nice threads. You look very cosmopolitan.”

  “Thanks. Maggie got it for me.”

  “How is she feeling?”

  Wes flushed with pleasure. “We had a doctor’s appointment yesterday. Mom and baby are perfect!”

  I touched his arm. “That’s wonderful, Wes.”

  “Yeah. We’re stoked. So you sure landed yourself in the middle of this one, huh?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “It looks like Lydia’s in the hot seat, and you’re the key witness. She’s been at the police station all night.”

  “What evidence do they have?”

  “MMO, baby. MMO. Motive: Cal was two-timing Lydia with Nora. Means: It’s too early for a definitive analysis, but my police source tells me that the ME found residue from something that might be metal and wood splinters in the wound. The wood could have come from the hardwood flooring, but the metal is foreign to the room, so that means the murder weapon was made of metal or something like metal, and—hold on to your hat—there’s a pile of metal pipes at the social club.”

  Evidently, my late-night call to Ellis had already reaped a benefit.

  Wes continued. “Opportunity: You place her at the scene. What more do they need?”

  “What is Lydia saying?”

  “Nothing. She’s lawyered up.”

  I turned toward the ocean. “I can’t believe it. Lydia killed him.”

  “There’s more. Your RFI—I’ve got it.”

  “What’s an RFI?”

  “Request for information. Get with the program, Joz. You asked about Anthony’s Shoe Repair, the building, and the social club. The building is owned by a holding company called PDS, Inc. Wait for it … PDS owns all the buildings on that block. The company is based in Bermuda, a tax haven extraordinaire. The corporate officers are all employees of a Hamilton law firm. They’re not talking, natch. There’s no way to tell who really owns it. Anthony’s Shoe Repair rents that space from PDS through a local property manager. They know nothing except the name of their contact, one of the Bermuda lawyers. They say they had no clue that anyone was using the basement. Ditto PDS. Ditto Anthony, and ditto Anthony’s employee, the guy in the back, whose name is Boris. You met Anthony, the old man behind the counter. He identified you from your photo and said you were nosy.” Wes chuckled. “In any event, the social club doesn’t exist in any formal way. It’s not a registered business or charity. The utility charges come through on Anthony’s bill. He says he never thought to question it, even though his charges quadrupled after the social club opened about ten months ago. Anthony denies it, but the police think whoever ran the social club was slipping him cash to look the other way to people trooping in and out, and to cover the utilities. Anthony is old school. He doesn’t take credit cards, and with an all-cash business, no one, not even a forensic accountant, can verify revenue sources or expenses.”

  “How can Boris not know something?”

  “People only see what they want to see. You know that. You ran into exactly the same issue that time Gretchen went missing.* Employees don’t turn in their bosses because you don’t bite the hand that feeds you.”

  I didn’t want to believe it, but I knew that Wes was right. “I guess … but if nothing else, wouldn’t you be curious?”

  “Sure, but I’m a journalist. Lots of people think asking questions is
just looking for trouble, so they steer clear.” Wes extracted his notebook and tugged the pen from the wire casing. He opened to a page marked with a slim black ribbon. “Your turn—fill me in. I want the blow-by-blow. Start with leaving the church after Mo’s funeral.”

  I told Wes everything, including why I was following Nora.

  “Describe Cal’s apartment.”

  “It was messy. And sad. There was a chest of drawers, a table and two chairs, and a mattress on the floor, that’s it. The drawers were open. Clothes and books and papers were scattered everywhere.”

  “Like he was a slob?”

  “More like someone did a quick search.”

  “I can’t believe you didn’t take pictures!”

  I gave him an “oh-puhleeze” look, and he sighed, Wesian for disappointment.

  “I know you didn’t see Lydia whack Cal, but did you hear anything?” he asked.

  “Only her footsteps as she left.”

  He flipped his notebook closed and stuffed the pen back in place.

  “Catch ya later!” he said, and started down the dune.

  I stood at the top a while longer, watching the frothy waves roll to shore.

  * * *

  I got into work around eight fifteen. I needed to leave for my meeting with Max around quarter to nine, which meant I had plenty of time to check my email and read updates from my staff. The first thing I did was say hello to Hank and Angela and refresh their food and water. While I waited for the coffee to brew I booted up Gretchen’s computer, so I wouldn’t have to go upstairs.

  Cal was killed in a building owned by PDS, Inc. No one knew who was behind PDS. I brought up a search engine and typed “Trish Shannon” and “first golf win.” The first hit linked to a photo from a 1974 Los Angeles newspaper. A younger Trish stood on a golf course, her arms high over her head in a V, smiling with unadulterated joy. The caption read NEWCOMER PATRICIA D. WERNER CELEBRATING HER FIRST PROFESSIONAL WIN. Trish was a nickname for Patricia, and Trish changed her name from Werner to Shannon when she and Frank married. Trish’s legal name was Patricia D. Shannon, which meant her initials were PDS. Trish owned the building where Cal was killed.

  I had just poured myself a mug of coffee when the front door swung open and Lydia stepped in.

  She looked the worse for wear. She was still wearing the same blue suit she’d worn at the funeral, but now it was crumpled and stained along the hem. Her hair was stringy. Her eyes were red and moist, not as if she’d been crying but as if she were struggling to keep them open.

  She closed the door. “I didn’t know if you’d be in this early.”

  “I’m not always.”

  She drew her hand across her brow. I watched her, my mind racing to guess why she was here.

  “Can I get you something?” I asked. “Coffee? Tea?”

  “Coffee would be good. Black. Do you have a minute to talk?”

  I’d never heard her sound so measured and noncombative. “Sure. Have a seat.”

  She took the closest guest chair. I poured coffee into a Prescott’s mug and brought it to the table.

  Lydia cupped the mug, staring through the aromatic steam into the coffee as if she hoped to find answers. After a moment, she lifted her bleary eyes. “The police told me you were at Cal’s, that you saw me.”

  “Yes.”

  “They’re probably going to arrest me for murder. The only reason they haven’t is that they don’t have the murder weapon and your testimony proves I wasn’t carrying it when I left. Unless they think I went back to Cal’s place after dropping the weapon and his computer in my car trunk. Can you believe they’re that stupid? Who’d go back to a murder scene?”

  “Someone who forgot something.”

  She blinked at me. “Like what?”

  “I don’t know. Cal’s phone. Cash. The coveralls she wore while she killed him.”

  “You saw me—I wasn’t the least bit bloody.”

  “Thus the coveralls.”

  “Did you see me carrying coveralls?”

  “No.”

  She lifted a hand. “That’s my point.” She drank some coffee. “What exactly did you see?”

  I was sorting through whether there were any parts I should withhold when she spoke again.

  “Trying to figure out a good lie?”

  I met her steely glare and looked for signs of grief, but I found none.

  “I wish I could help you, Lydia, but I can’t. I saw two men in the big room at the bottom of the stairs and you, and that’s it.”

  “Who were the men?”

  “I don’t know. I couldn’t identify them. How did you know where Cal was staying?”

  “Why wouldn’t I know? Cal was my boyfriend. Of course we were in touch.”

  “The police must have searched your bag, which means they must have found the phone you used to communicate with him.”

  “They didn’t search anything. I wouldn’t let them, and they don’t have enough for a warrant.”

  “You wouldn’t be talking so openly about being in touch with Cal if the police didn’t know about it. How did they find out?”

  She raised her chin, in defiance or a dare, I couldn’t tell which, and glowered at me. “I told them. My mother owns the building. I stopped by now and then to check on the place. Sometimes Cal went with me, so when he needed a safe place to stay, he thought of that room. He asked if he could use it, and I said yes.”

  “Then you knew about the casino.”

  “No. I haven’t been there in a while. I was speechless when Cal told me.”

  “Who owns it?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “Why didn’t you close it down?”

  “I planned on it, as soon as Cal left.”

  “I bet the police were livid with you for lying.”

  “I don’t care. I knew Cal didn’t kill my sister, and just because the police ask questions doesn’t mean you have to answer them.”

  “How could you possibly know he didn’t kill Mo? He was there. He had a motive. He fled.”

  “He ran because you were hounding him about that print. For God’s sake, he was an expert, but oh no! You knew better. You poisoned Mo’s mind with your talk of formal appraisals and insurance riders.”

  I kept my eyes on her face. She seemed to actually believe what she was saying. Denial, thy name is Lydia.

  “You must have seen or heard something,” she insisted. “Cal was killed minutes before I arrived.”

  “I didn’t.”

  She placed her mug on the table and stood. “I shouldn’t have come. I don’t know what I expected. Mercy, perhaps.”

  “Mercy?”

  “Compassion for my grief, understanding for my need to know.” She walked to the door. “Forget it.”

  As I watched Lydia tramp across the parking lot, I wondered whether she’d fibbed. Despite saying she’d come to hear what I’d witnessed, I thought it was likely that she had a different agenda completely, that she hadn’t expected to learn anything new; rather, she’d hoped to confirm that I hadn’t seen her kill the man who’d betrayed her.

  The lack of blood on her clothing could be easily explained. She could have worn lightweight plastic coveralls, then turned them inside out, rolled them up, and stuffed them into her waistband where they’d be hidden from view by her jacket. I could understand why the police wouldn’t formally charge her with Cal’s murder until they found where she’d bought them or dumped them, or both, and the weapon she used to kill him, but I bet they were keeping close tabs on her. I peeked out the window. I wasn’t surprised to see Detective Brownley drive by in an unmarked car seconds after Lydia left the lot.

  * * *

  I pulled into the little parking lot behind Max’s office and backed into a spot by the rear entry.

  Every time I stepped into Max’s office, I was reminded that people are complex. He always wore traditional tweedy suits and bow ties, yet in furnishings his taste ran to contemporary. Today’s suit was gray
. His tie was red with black polka dots. His desk was a slab of black granite perched on stainless steel legs. Black-metal-and-stainless-steel bookcases lined one wall. The guest chairs were black leather and slouchy. The carpet was a red-and-gray block print. The art was abstract, mostly oils, all black-and-white geometric shapes or slashes of red or purple or gold.

  Max sat at his desk. I sat in one of the comfy leather chairs. I opened the box of muffins I’d picked up en route, and he dove in.

  He tapped a yellow legal pad with his fountain pen. “I’ve reviewed Matt Janson’s business plan. Rather than a partnership, I’m going to recommend that you buy Janson’s Antiques Mall outright. Offer Matt a good employment contract with a profit-sharing component. He’ll work for you, with his first assignment getting the Maine location up and running while continuing to manage the venue he started and overseeing Prescott’s. If it doesn’t work out or if he quits and cashes out, that’s that. You can shake hands and move on.”

  “I love it … but do you think he’ll go for it? I’m sure he expects a cut of everything in perpetuity, which he’d have in a partnership.”

  “Sell it as plenty of profit-earning upside with no risk. He’s the one who suggested using Prescott’s as the brand.”

  “You’re right. What’s my next step?”

  “Decide if you want to proceed. If so, we’ll get going on due diligence.”

  “I want to proceed.”

  “Terrific. I have a good feeling about this, Josie.” He finished his muffin. “If it works, you’ll go from one location to two plus one in development in a few months.”

  “Thank you, Max. You’re a treasure.”

  “You, too. You’re an ideal client.” He switched off his desk lamp and stood. “What do you say … should we hitch up our wagon and mosey on over to the police station?”