1 Murder for Bid

by Susan Furlong-Bolliger

  I hunkered down, and started tending to my on-line listings, which today, just happened to be children’s clothing. Was it any wonder that my mind kept wandering to Amanda’s pregnancy? Every time I came across a piece of infant clothing I was reminded of the fact that she was pregnant. The baby changed everything. Did Richard know Amanda was pregnant? If so, he was more of a monster than I first thought. The idea that he could kill his wife and his own baby just to be with some crimson-lipped woman practically turned my stomach. Unless … maybe the baby wasn’t his. Could it be that both Amanda and Richard were being unfaithful to their marriage? I hadn’t considered that possibility.

  After some consideration, I decided that it wouldn’t hurt to make a quick phone call. I picked up the phone and dialed my new friend, the hairdresser, Reginald.

  “Good morning, Reginald’s.” A cheery voice answered. It was Barbie. I could imagine her on the other end cradling the phone on her perfect shoulder while touching up the polish on her synthetic nails. For some reason the image irritated me.

  I decided to take a hard tone. “Put Reginald on the line, this is an emergency,” I barked into the phone.

  Barbie wasn’t buying it. “What type of emergency?”

  “A beauty emergency, that’s what. I need to talk to him now.”

  “Who is this please?”

  Uh … think … think. “Sheila Scholstein.” Certainly, Sheila wouldn’t mind if I dropped her name again.

  “Just a minute please.” The Scholstein name must have held some clout with Barbie. Reginald was on the line immediately.

  “Mrs. Scholstein,” he cooed into the phone.

  “This isn’t Mrs. Scholstein. It’s Patricia Owens (I really did have to come up with some new aliases). If you hang up, I’ll tell Sheila how rude you were to me. She’s a close personal friend. Very close, practically family,” I added for good measure.

  “What do you want?” Reginald sounded a wee bit testy. I got right down to business.

  “You told me the other day that Amanda Schmidt had confided in you about an affair.”

  “Yes, so?”

  “Who’s affair was she talking about? Her husband’s or her own? Or were they both having an affair?”

  “Why her affair, of course. I don’t know anything about the husband having an affair.”

  “Of course.” I did have it all wrong. I had assumed that Richard was the only one having an affair, when Amanda was cheating too. I could see how it all happened: After enduring her husband’s indiscretions, the latest with a crimson-lipped beauty, Amanda, feeling betrayed and unloved, sought comfort in the arms of…

  “Who was the man?” I pushed.

  “That I don’t know.”

  I wondered if he would tell me even if he did know. “That’s fine. Thank you.” I hung up, my mind whirling with new possibilities. All of which I quickly put aside, reminding myself that I was supposed to be backing down on the case and investing more time into my business.

  Cozying up to my computer, I went back to work on my listings. Clearing a spot on the floor, I set up several shots of clothing groupings, arranging the clothing in the most appealing manner possible. One thing I had learned early on in the business was that poor photos damaged sales. For large lots, I had accumulated several fabric remnants of varying colors that I used as backdrops and I arranged the clothing so that none of the outfits clashed with each other. If I was shooting single items, I often photographed the item hanging. In the case of adult clothing, I used my mannequin, an awesome find that I’d picked up dumpster diving behind a downtown boutique. At the moment, I was having fun with toddler clothes and was using a black drop cloth to show off their vibrant colors.

  After making some good progress, I took a snack break and flipped on the television. That was a huge mistake because Amanda’s story was all over the local news. Which got me thinking about what Sean had said regarding Judge Reiner being suspect of accepting bribes over the Bensenville project?

  I returned to my computer and searched the Bensenville Industrial Park project. There was no shortage of information. The project, first proposed several years ago, met with immediate opposition. Those who were against the expansion touted the negative environmental impact due to industrial waste dumping and air pollution. Others felt that in the name of progress, the project was necessary. Each side had deliberated the debate in court for several years. Until Judge Reiner’s most recent ruling, it seemed the Planning Commission and the courts stood on the side of the environmentalists; now, the pendulum had swung drastically to the other side. Plus, the expansion called for the destruction of hundreds of low income homes and the relocation of those homeowners.

  I wasn’t quite sure where I stood on the issue. I know that progress is necessary, but like many others, I’m concerned about our environment. However, I did think it weird that the court had changed its stance so abruptly. Was there something to those allegations against Judge Reiner? If so, did it tie into Amanda’s death?

  I sighed, so much for focusing on my work. I glanced at the clock, 10:30. Not too late for a trip up north. With classes finishing this week, most Northwestern students would be moving back home for the summer. That meant dumpsters would be full with dorm room castoffs. Sure, it was a long way to drive for scavenging, but Sean did mention that Jessica Hansen, the missing girl, was a student at Northwestern. With any luck, I’d be able to plump up my inventory and find out some information about her. It wasn’t like I was putting myself in any real danger just by looking for the girl.

  By mid-afternoon, I had quite the collection of items. My trunk was just about full, but I couldn’t resist a spin down Greek Avenue. Experience had told me that Greek sisters were ruthless when they cleaned out the house and their junk was always another man’s treasure.

  The alley behind Greek Row was a checkerboard of large blue dumpsters interspersed with the regular thirty-gallon garbage cans. I picked my dumpster and headed down the alley with visions of salvageable merchandise dancing in my head.

  I found several worthy items. Mostly text and reference books; probably cast-offs of graduating students who figured they wouldn’t need them anymore. Also, a ton of trashy romance novels-most with covers featuring a Fabio look-alike clutching a well-endowed woman in a peasant dress. I looked them over: The Betrothed, Reluctant Widow, Heat in the Night … whew … I was getting hot just from the titles. I gathered up all the ones I could find that were in sellable condition. I’d try and sell them on my on-line auction in lots of five. However, my best find, by far, was a set of four small ceramic bowls that were pale green with brown polka dots. The ‘cutesy’ type that the home design stores usually carried. They were crammed down in the bottom of a shopping bag with old term papers and a few used magazines. It must have been enough cushioning to keep them intact, because they were in great shape. I’d save them for the next flea market.

  I was just making room in the back of the Volvo for my finds when I heard a voice from behind, “You! What are you doing here?”

  I turned to see no other than Madeline Reiner, the judge’s wife, looming behind me. She didn’t look pleased to see me again. “I checked on you,” she said. “The Tribune had never heard of a Patricia Owens.” She gawked at my car with the cock-eyed bumper held up with a bungee and the trunk loaded down with junk. “You’re obviously not a reporter,” she stated with disgust. “What are you doing here at the Kappa Alpha Theta house?”

  I looked up and realized that I was indeed parked in back of the KAT House, or Kitty KAT House as we non-Greeks used to call it, which was a lot better than the not-so-polite-name Pussy House, which was how most male co-eds referred to it.

  “I’m here to help my niece move,” I said, thinking fast. There was no way I was going to explain to this woman what my real occupation was.

  “Does she live in the house?” Madeline asked her eyes boring into me.

  “Well, no. She lives down that way.” I pointed down the alley at nothing
in particular.

  She glanced down the alley and then back at me with a frown. “Are you following me?”

  Great, not only was she some sort perverted dominatrix, she was a paranoid dominatrix.

  “No, why would I do that?” I asked innocently.

  “I saw you at Amanda’s funeral. You were wearing some cheap disguise. Then you showed up at my house pretending to be a reporter. Who are you really?”

  I resented the slam against my disguise but held out my hand anyway. “My real name is Phillipena O’Brien.”

  She didn’t take it. Instead, she gave me a nasty once over. “What’s your game, lady?”

  “My game?” I asked. “I should be asking you the same thing?”

  “What do you mean?” she responded with indignation.

  Maybe it was her attitude of superiority, or maybe it was just that I was hot and tired from climbing through dumpsters, but, whatever the reason, I was thoroughly annoyed with this woman. I decided to cut to the chase, “I mean what do you know about Amanda’s Schmidt’s death?” I said, trying to knock her down a notch or two. “You do know it’s illegal to withhold evidence in a murder investigation,” I added.

  I stepped back and watched in amazement as her face distorted, morphing her into a bulging-eyed bull dog. I gulped down my fear and continued ahead bravely, “I mean is it really just coincidental that Richard Schmidt’s firm had launched an investigation of your husband around the same time Amanda was killed? That, coupled with the disappearance of Jessica Hanson, your husband’s law clerk, adds up to a whole lot of suspicion.” I tried to keep my voice steady as I continued with one last dig. “So, Mrs. Reiner, let me ask you again, what’s your game?” I shot her a facetious smile.

  “You little witch!”

  Uh, oh. I had an awful feeling that I was about to see Madeline’s dominating side.

  “Who do you think you are? Stop spreading lies about my husband!” She had moved into my personal space—her foul coffee-breath mouth was so close to my face that I could see the bridge work on her back molars. I slammed my back hatch closed and tried to inch away from her, tripping over myself several times before making it around to my car door.

  She pursued me, yelling obscenities that even I hadn’t thought about since junior high. I had one foot in the driver’s door when she yanked me back by my ponytail. I batted my hands behind me trying to connect to her face. Instead, I rammed my elbow into the side mirror. I howled out in pain, but she kept pulling. Before I knew it, my butt was on the pavement and I was looking up at a three-inch heel coming at my face. Thank goodness that one of the few channels that I receive on my jerry-rigged cable set-up ran re-runs of Walker Texas Ranger, because instinctively I knew how to react. I grabbed her foot, twisted, and shoved it forward. Just like in the show, she ended up face down, practically kissing the pavement.

  Seeing my opportunity, I made a run for it. Within two seconds, I was in my car and pulling out at breakneck speed, my scraping bumper sending sparks up behind me.

  I glanced in my rearview mirror just in time to see Madeline hurl something at the back of my car. I winced as the object connected with a loud thud against my side panel.

  It hadn’t been a good week for my beloved Volvo.

  *

  Despite my newly acquired car dent, my encounter with Madeline had been a rush. If I were a cop, I would never tire of bringing down the bad guys. I smiled to myself, rolled down my window, leaned back, and cranked up the radio. I took the whole encounter with Madeline as an omen. It wasn’t just coincidence that I happened to run into her today; it was Divine intervention. This whole thing was bigger than logical human reasoning. I was meant to be here at this particular time.

  Deciding that my reason for coming to Northwestern was justified, and with fate on my side, I didn’t feel guilty at all about what I planned to do next. First though, I put some distance between ‘Madeline the Mad Woman’ and myself before finding a fast food place and pulling into the drive-thru. After refueling with a number two supersized, I headed back to the heart of Northwestern’s campus.

  Surprisingly enough, it wasn’t hard to find an open meter. I plugged in a few quarters and headed up the steps to the student union. I went directly to the information desk and asked for a campus directory and the local phone directory. There were over thirty Hansons listed between the two. None were Jessica’s, but there were three J. Hansons. I copied down the numbers and found a quiet spot to make the calls.

  A couple of minutes later, I had someone on the line. “Is this Jessica Hanson’s residence?”

  “Who’s this?” a tiny female voice responded.

  I took a chance. “This is her friend, Pam … Pam Olson.” I read somewhere that you should always use the same initials as your real name when fabricating an alias. I’m not sure why, but so far it had worked for me. Although I would need to brainstorm some new names soon, I was quickly running out of P.O.’s.

  “She’s never mentioned you.”

  “This is important. I have something of hers,” I blurted out, sensing that the tiny voice was about to disconnect.

  “What?”

  Good question, what? “An envelope,” I finally said.

  “An envelope?”

  “Yeah, and it’s sealed. I don’t know what’s in it. Maybe money, who knows?” I said, appealing to her greed. Every college student I knew needed more cash. “Jessica gave it to me before she disappeared and told me that if anything ever happens to her that I was supposed to give this to her family. Only, I don’t know where her family is, do you?”

  “I’m her sister.”

  Bingo. “Perfect. I’ll bring it to you. Where are you?”

  I waited through a long pause. “I don’t know about this. The police said that I wasn’t to talk to anyone about Jessie.”

  Oh, now she was deciding to wise up. Never mind that she had already told a virtual stranger more than she should have. “We don’t need to talk. I just want to hand this over and be on my way. I have lots to do. I’m busy trying to find a new job. That jerk of a judge fired me.”

  “Judge Reiner? Jessie hated him too.” Another long pause. “All right, but I’ll come to you. Where are you, now?”

  “I’m on campus.”

  “I’m not far. There’s a café on the corner of Maple and Church.”

  “I’ll find it.”

  “Good. Meet me there in ten minutes.”

  She disconnected before I had the chance to ask her what she looked like. Darn.

  I needed an envelope and fast. I ran back to the desk, begged for a manila envelope and then headed out the door. I was sucking wind like an out-of-condition running back, but I made it to the café in record time. Helping myself to a pile of napkins, I crammed them into the envelope hoping that it would buy me enough time to get some information.

  For the next few minutes, I plotted my strategy and watched for someone that looked like Jessica Hanson’s sister, whatever that may look like. I figured that she must be a looker if she was having an affair with the judge.

  I was eyeing a willowy brunette when I felt a tap on my shoulder.

  “Pam?”

  I wheeled around and almost replied ‘no,’ but then I remembered who I was pretending to be. “Yes. I’m Pam. Pam Olson,” I gushed, overdoing it a bit. “Have a seat.” I motioned to an adjoining chair. Then I thought better of my suggestion. I wasn’t sure the chair would hold the hulking figure looming over me. She had to be at least three hundred pounds.

  “Why should I sit down? I thought you just wanted to give me the envelope and then get on with looking for a new job?” she said.

  I looked up into what would be a pretty face if it wasn’t accompanied by so many chins and a fresh round of pimples. She looked strangely familiar. “I would love to just get rid of this thing, except how do I know you’re really Jessica’s sister?”

  She eyed me curiously, but moved to the chair. I sucked in my breath, waiting to see it was going t
o hold her girth. “How do I know you’re really her friend?” she asked.

  Touché.

  I leaned back. We sat in silence, eyeing each other suspiciously. I was searching my brain. She looked so familiar. Where had I met this girl before?

  I contemplated several great lies before deciding to finally come clean and try the truth. “Listen Jessica’s sister, if that’s who you really are, I need to be square with you. I didn’t really work with your sister. I just said that so that you would meet with me.”

  Her mouth worked into a thin line as she leaned forward, her bulky forearms taking up half the table. “What do you mean you didn’t work with my sister? Then what’s this?” She grabbed the overstuffed bundle in my hand and tore it open. “What? What is this?” She held up a wad of napkins.

  “Just a ruse,” I explained.

  “A what?”

  This poor girl got the fuzzy end of the stick, I thought. She got neither the brains nor the beauty in the family. “Listen, uh … what’s your name?”

  “Janie.”

  “Janie.” Oh boy, a ‘J’ family. I bet there was a Jennifer or a Justin somewhere in the mix.

  I decided to play on Janie’s sense of compassion. “A friend of mine was murdered. It’s been all over the news. Maybe you heard about it? Amanda Schmidt?” I put on a sad face and stared off into the distance, misty eyed. “Amanda was such a dear, dear person. She didn’t deserve to die the way she did,” I added for good measure.

  “So?”

  So much for compassion. “Well, I think my friend’s murder might be tied to the recent allegations against Judge Reiner.”

  “You know about that stuff?” Janie asked.

  “I know that it has something to do with the industrial park expansion up in Bensenville. That’s about it,” I admitted. “What do you know about it?”

  Janie’s eyes kept darting toward the café counter. At first I thought she was worried that someone could overhear our conversation; then, after I noticed her practically salivating, I realized that she was just hungry. “Can I buy you a cup of coffee and a roll?” I offered.