by Krista Davis
I strolled over to the bookstore and ducked into the alley behind it where the deliveries were made. I had to build up a little courage to knock on the door. I sucked in a deep breath and hit the door with my knuckles.
Sounds of shuffling and footsteps came from inside the store. The door swung open. The friendly cop who had suggested I return smiled at me. He picked up four small boxes and a large envelope. “Need help carrying them home?”
“No, I’m fine. I am so grateful to you. Thank you.”
He shrugged. “Zielony can be a jerk. Let me know if you need anything else.”
“Thanks.” I walked away and went straight back to the carriage house, where I made arrangements to deliver the books to the buyers. I phoned Bob, who agreed to deliver half of them and then accompany me on a little visit to Delbert’s roommates.
At six in the evening, it was still light outside with a couple more hours of daylight left when Bob and I set off to meet the roommates. I wasn’t particularly fearful, but if they were anything like Delbert, I thought it best to bring a friend along. Not that Bob would be much help in a crisis, but I felt better anyway.
They lived across the Potomac in Arlington, Virginia. I drove and Bob checked house numbers. The tiny redbrick Cape Cod had seen better days. The yard was void of plants other than grass, but had been freshly mowed. Near the sidewalk, a sign declared FORECLOSURE SALE and stated a date the following week.
We walked up to the house, and I rang the bell.
A friendly-looking fellow opened the door. He wore jeans and a Washington Redskins T-shirt. His hair was tidy and cut short. He stood only five inches or so taller than me.
I introduced myself and Bob. “I’m so sorry to disturb you, but I believe you were roommates with Delbert Woodley?”
He groaned. “I’m not talking to the press.”
“We’re not reporters.”
He tilted his head. “You’re with the police?”
“No. We’re looking into the circumstances of Delbert’s death,” I said carefully. That was true.
He looked from me to Bob and back again. “I don’t understand. Insurance investigators?”
Bob blurted, “We work at the bookstore where Delbert was . . . found.”
The guy seemed to sag with relief. “Come on in.”
“Are you Scott or Lance?” I asked as we entered.
“Lance Devereoux.” He showed us to the living room.
“This is Scott.” Addressing his roommate, he added, “They work at the bookstore where Delbert was killed.”
His roommate stood up and shook our hands. Only slightly taller than Bob, he wore his hair in the modern style that Bob disliked. It was short on the sides and stood up on top probably thanks to some gel. He wore the scruffy one-day beard growth, too. “I know that bookstore. I’ve shopped there a couple of times. Cool place.”
Bob nodded. “I think I’ve seen you there.”
It was a tiny house furnished in modern man cave style. A billiard table occupied what would normally be the dining room. The living room featured a fireplace that was dwarfed by a giant TV set. I didn’t see any packing boxes, but if that sign out front was correct, Lance and Scott would probably be moving soon.
A comfy U-shaped modular sofa barely fit in the living room. There was plenty of room for the four of us to perch on it. An empty blue cupcake box from my favorite cupcake bakery perched on the sofa with us.
I pointed at it. “Great cupcakes! Sugar Dreams are my favorite.”
“Ours, too,” said Lance. “We were in line to get one of the last boxes before they move.”
“Where are they going?”
“I’m not really sure. They’re staying in Georgetown, but I used to pass by regularly for work, so we got a little spoiled.”
“Did you know Delbert long?” I asked.
“I knew of him in college but we weren’t close,” said Lance. “I hadn’t seen him in years. When I posted for a roommate on the college online site, Delbert responded.”
How did investigators do this? There must be a trick to asking questions so people would relax and talk. “When did he move out?”
Lance glanced at Scott, then rested his elbows on his knees and bowed his head as though he was in pain. “Last week. My friends keep trying to tell me this would have happened to him sooner or later, but I can’t help feeling like he might be alive if I hadn’t given him the boot.”
Scott winced. “You can’t blame yourself. Where he lived had nothing to do with his death. It’s not like he was homeless and wandering around.” To us he said, “His parents live an hour from here. He could have stayed with them.” He looked at his roommate again. “You’re not responsible for his death.”
“I’ve had some lousy roommates,” said Bob. “What did he do?”
Lance looked up at him as though they had made a connection.
Chapter 12
“I have a great job selling pharmaceuticals,” said Lance. “I was on my way up. I worked my tail off on that job, and Delbert knew it. He swiped my company credit card number and went wild ordering stuff online. One of the company auditors caught on fast and called me in, thinking I had done it.”
“How did you find out it was Delbert?” I asked.
He leaned back. “They showed me a list of the charges. That idiot didn’t think it through. They suspended me from work pending an investigation, so I was home when some of the packages were delivered. I saw the logo for a fancy store that I can’t afford, and became suspicious. Delbert comes from money, so I didn’t want to jump to conclusions. When he went out, Scott and I ransacked his room. We found pricey shoes and Bluetooth speakers that corresponded to some of the purchases made on the card. When he came home, we confronted him. He denied it and said I couldn’t prove anything.” Lance shook his head. “He left me no choice. It was him or us, and our names are on the lease, so he had to go. Who steals a roommate’s credit card? Even worse, one issued by his employer?”
“How are things with your job? Did you tell them what Delbert did?” Bob looked so comfortable I thought he was ready to move in and take Delbert’s room.
I, meanwhile, kept an eye on the bottom of Lance and Scott’s shoes. The print I had seen in the dust was so distinctive. They probably had other shoes, as well, but when they sat with their legs positioned so I could see the soles, I couldn’t help getting a good look at the treads. They didn’t match.
“Of course I told them! I don’t think they believed that anyone would do something like that. What an idiot. He didn’t just jeopardize my job but my career! There’s a big meeting coming up next week that will decide my future. If they can me, I probably won’t be able to get another job in pharmaceuticals. I don’t know what I’ll do.”
“But you knew him in college. Didn’t you hear stories about him back then?” I asked.
“We were a couple of years apart and hung with different people. All I knew was that he was loaded and would be able to afford the rent. I figured he was an okay guy. You don’t expect something like this, you know? Now I feel incredibly guilty. I hated Delbert. Probably always will. I was shocked when I heard he was dead, but Scott and I realized that it was just a matter of time before he crossed the wrong person. I . . . just never thought it would be so soon.”
“Did he pull any stunts like that on you, Scott?” I asked.
Scott shook his head. “I work for my dad. I’ve got the best job security ever. I know my dad would believe me over anybody else if something like this happened.”
“Do you know anyone else who would have wanted to kill Delbert?” I asked.
Bob elbowed me, and I realized I had phrased my question poorly since it sounded like I thought they were suspects.
“That’s what the cops wanted to know,” said Scott. “For a long time I assumed he was a trust baby who didn’t have to work. It was weird. Either he had a lot of money and spent it lavishly, or he was too broke to pay the rent.”
Lance’s jaw tigh
tened. “It makes me mad. I was easy pickings for him. I never imagined I had to hide my stuff from a roommate.”
“You didn’t hear from other irritated people?” I asked.
Lance reflected for a moment. “When I think back, I’m wondering about little things. Now I’m seeing them in a different light. There were some restaurants that he refused to go to. It wasn’t as though he didn’t like a particular kind of food, but he flat-out refused to grab a bite at some places. He brought home a 2,500-dollar tuxedo once for a black tie wedding we all attended. I was so impressed. It was really nice. Initially, I thought he bought it. Then he returned it, and I assumed it had been rented. But now I wonder if he returned it to the store after wearing it. I’m sure the store owner wouldn’t murder him for something like that, but I can’t help wondering if there were a lot of people who despised him.”
“Man, what a bummer.” Bob winced. “And now you have to move, too?”
Bob was so smooth. He sounded like he was their buddy. I had to learn from him!
“You mean the foreclosure? Scott’s dad is going to work something out. I’m not too worried about it. He has a lot of clout in real estate.”
I stood up. “Thanks for talking with us.”
Lance shrugged. “It’s not like I have anything else to do right now. And, much as I hated Delbert, I didn’t want him dead. I’m glad someone is asking questions and looking for his killer.”
“You don’t think Professor Maxwell murdered him?” I asked.
“Delbert talked a lot about inheriting the Maxwell mansion and the bookstore. He always said he would throw lavish parties and marry Sonja. If one of them was going to kill the other one, I would have expected it to be the other way around. Is it wrong of me to be glad that Professor Maxwell, a man I have never met, is the one that survived?”
I wasn’t paying attention. I had picked up on something else. “Who is Sonja?”
“The most gorgeous bartender in Washington. You’ll find her at Club Neon.”
We thanked him profusely and stepped outside. We had made it as far as the sidewalk when Bob said, “Guess who Scott is?”
“Scott Southworth.”
“That’s not what I mean. He’s the customer Helen has a crush on.”
“Are you sure?”
“Pretty sure.”
On the drive back to Georgetown, Bob said, “I’ve never been to Club Neon. Should we pay them a visit?”
We agreed to meet at Club Neon at nine o’clock.
When I dropped him off, he said, “Florrie, dress like an artist.”
“What?”
“I think it’s kind of a cool place. You know, people with purple hair and outrageous clothes.”
Oh swell. I’d be right in my element.
When I returned to the carriage house, I called Veronica, certain she had been to Club Neon. I was right.
“Don’t freak out,” she told me. “Wear torn jeans with high heels and a bright top. Add lots of silver bracelets and you’ll be set. Let your artistic side speak through your clothes.”
I preferred to let my artistic side speak through my coloring books. An hour later, I waited outside the Georgetown club wearing old jeans that weren’t actually torn, dressy sandals with bling on them, and a peasant-style blouse. Probably not exactly what Veronica had in mind.
Bob arrived looking surprisingly chic. I had to laugh about his sunglasses at night.
“You won’t be able to see a thing.”
“We have to look cool.”
We ventured inside. Raucous music blasted. The walls must have been painted black because they seemed to vanish, the only clue to their whereabouts were the huge neon signs that glowed in the low light. The place was packed with people.
Bob removed his sunglasses immediately. I shouted into his ear, “Do you see the bar?”
A guy wearing a beat-up fedora-style straw hat watched us, giving me the willies.
Bob led the way to the bar. I was on the lookout for a drop-dead gorgeous woman. I spotted Sonja in a heartbeat.
Tall and willowy, she laughed along with customers as she made her way down the long bar. Under the neon lights, it appeared that her hair was raven. She wore it pulled up in a messy chignon. A plush plume attached to the right side of her head glowed fuchsia under the lights. As she neared, it was obvious that she could beat any Miss Universe. Dimples appeared when she smiled, which was often.
Bob leaned over and spoke in my ear, “Follow my lead, okay?”
He’d done so well with Lance that I was more than willing to try whatever he had in mind.
We ordered a glass of wine for Bob and a sparkling water for me.
Speaking louder than normal to be overheard, Bob said, “I can’t imagine who would have done that to Delbert. The poor guy. What a way to go.”
“And what could Delbert have been doing in a closed bookstore in the middle of the night?” I asked.
Sonja’s dimples disappeared. She studied us. “Do you speak of Delbert Woodley?”
“Yes,” said Bob. “Did you know him?”
In an accent very much like Zsazsa’s, she said, “He was one of our regular customers. I was very sad to learn of his death. He was much too young to die.”
“And such an awful death,” I shouted over the music.
She nodded somberly. “But they have arrested his killer, no?”
Bob spoke up. “We think they have the wrong guy.”
Fear flashed in her eyes.
“Do you know of anyone who was angry with him?” I asked, paying her a super hefty tip.
Sonja glanced around nervously. She grabbed a napkin, wrote on it, and shoved it to me.
Heinrich’s Bakery. Two p.m. tomorrow.
She moseyed away from us, as though she didn’t want to be seen with us. Bob and I exchanged a look. Maybe we had happened upon someone with valuable information.
We didn’t linger long. Over our drinks, we people watched. I felt twice my age. I just didn’t see the attraction of squeezing into a place too noisy to talk. No one danced, no one ate as far as I could tell. I didn’t see the beauty of it. I would have to ask Veronica.
Truth be told, when we left, I was very relieved to be outside in the cool night air. I guessed I just wasn’t the nightclub type. I took deep breaths, enjoying the peace and quiet.
Bob and I walked up Wisconsin Avenue. He offered to see me home, but I wasn’t afraid to walk the few blocks to the mansion by myself.
The streets were still busy in Georgetown, but calmed considerably as I strolled into the residential neighborhood. The reporters’ cars had vanished, and peace had returned to the street.
I turned into the driveway and walked past the mansion. Only steps away from my door, I heard a whimper.
Chapter 13
I paused to listen. Crickets chirped in the night. I didn’t hear any more whimpers. I slid my key into the lock and heard a moan.
Where was it coming from? Lights over the three-car garage illuminated the driveway. Opposite the garage was a high fence, hidden by tall bushes.
“Hello?” I called timidly.
“Gah.”
Okay, someone was out here. But where? “Hello? Keep talking. Where are you?”
“Gah.”
Well, that didn’t help at all. I peered at the dark bases of the bushes but didn’t see anyone. Maybe I would see better if more lights were turned on. I walked to the back door of the mansion and had raised my hand to knock when I realized the door hung slightly ajar.
I pushed it open. The lights were off inside. Something wasn’t right. I pulled out my phone and was pushing the numbers 9-1-1 when the lights of a car entering the driveway brightened the area considerably. The blue light on top flashed. I put my phone away.
Sergeant Jonquille stepped out. “Hi, Florrie. Having a problem?”
I explained what I had heard.
“Stay here,” he said. “I’ll have a look around.”
He walked inside. In two
seconds, I followed him.
He proceeded cautiously, flicking on lights as he went.
I stopped in the kitchen and looked around. Everything appeared to be in order. But where was Mr. DuBois?
I flicked on more lights and accidentally hit the switch for floodlights to the pool area. I had never been out there before. It was located on the back side of the garage.
And there, on the concrete pool surround, lay a body.
“Sergeant Jonquille! Over here!”
The door leading to the pool area hung wide open. I dashed outside and kneeled by the limp form of Mr. DuBois.
“Are you okay?” I asked, which was stupid because I could see that he wasn’t.
He lay on his side, wincing. There wasn’t much I could do except place a hand on his shoulder and try to say something soothing. “We’re here now. Everything will be fine.”
Jonquille radioed for an ambulance.
I patted Mr. DuBois’s shoulder, which he probably resented, but what else could I do? I didn’t see any blood, so maybe that was a good sign.
“Do you know him?” asked Jonquille.
“Maxwell’s butler.”
Jonquille bent over him. “Are you in pain?”
DuBois moaned.
“What happened?”
DuBois could hardly speak. “Chased . . .”
“Someone chased you out here?” I suggested.
“Gah.”
The ambulance arrived quickly. One of the emergency medical technicians pulled me aside to get basic information. I didn’t know his age or whether he had any allergies. I didn’t even know his first name. I wasn’t any help at all.
Meanwhile, a backup policeman arrived and searched the mansion with Jonquille.
I waited outside, keeping an eye on Mr. DuBois. It appeared he had broken his wrist and possibly a leg. At least he hadn’t been stabbed by a spear.
It wasn’t until the ambulance whisked him away that I entered the house. I found Sergeant Jonquille and the other officer upstairs in Maxwell’s bedroom.
What appeared to be a Warhol of Maxwell dominated the bedroom. The pop art version of a younger Maxwell in four different colors hung on a wall the color of heavy cream with a dose of nutmeg. I had never seen a leather bed before. Blocks of rich tan leather covered the headboard of the platform bed and more matching leather lined the edge of the platform. The bed was made perfectly. In contrast, clothes had been thrown out of the drawers of an antique dresser. On the opposite side of the room, stunning windows overlooked the street. Leather wingback chairs and a small table nestled in front of built-in bookshelves that stretched to the ceiling next to a fireplace. The perfect corner to curl up and read.