by Maggie Pill
The incident made me decide to take Styx to town with me. The threat to me hadn’t seemed real before, but now it did. If the men who’d hurt Rory returned, I didn’t want my dog in their way. Loading food, his favorite bowl, and Styx into my SUV, I followed Tom to town. When I turned off Main Street, he beeped the horn twice and drove on. At the office, Faye suggested Styx could spend the day with Dale in his workshop.
“We’ll bring him in the house tonight, but right now it’ll be easier if he stays outside. Buddy’s a little territorial.” Her tone was apologetic. “He’s decided I’m okay, but so far, nothing else that moves can come near him. He already hates the vacuum cleaner and the mail lady, and Dale hasn’t had any luck making friends, either.”
“He’ll like Styx,” I told her. “They’ll be friends before you know it.”
Faye was unconvinced. “Maybe in time.” She thought about it. “We could take them somewhere neutral, like the park, and introduce them there.”
That was just plain silly. Styx is the friendliest dog in the world. Buddy would feel safe here on his home turf, and Styx would be polite, being a visitor. I decided not to push it, though. I’m not nearly as bossy as Barbara Ann says I am.
“How’s your dog’s leg?” I asked.
“Buddy’s break is healing nicely,” she said, emphasizing the name a little, which I guessed meant we were stuck with it. Glancing toward the kitchen she added, “He hasn’t let it stop him from exploring.” She ran her tongue over her teeth. “I hope when Barb gets back he’ll accept that she belongs here.”
My instincts had been right. Strays are unpredictable, and Faye had saddled herself with a nasty one. It wouldn’t bother me to put up with the dog for a day or two, and Styx would be fine in Dale’s workshop. But what if this new dog took a dislike to Barbara Ann? What would happen to their partnership then? For the good of everyone, I decided that when I got back from the bank I’d start some firm but gentle re-training on Buddy.
Faye hadn’t heard anything new about Rory’s condition, but hospitals are notoriously cautious about head injuries. I told her what we’d wrung out of Winston at the cabin, ending with Barbara’s idea that I should see what I could find out at Stacy’s bank. I thought Faye might object, since she is a partner in the agency and I’m not, but she’d never pull it off and she knew it. The woman has no talent for deception.
Instead she said, “Now that I know Stacy changed her name, I’ll take another shot at finding her.” She turned to her computer, but a thought struck her. “The state police! If Rory never made it home, they don’t know what’s going on.” She picked up the phone. “We’d better call them.”
I checked the time: 11:40. “Wait.” I put a hand on Faye’s shoulder. “Right now we have no proof of anything. Once I talk to the bank people and you do some on-line research, we might be able to hand them the whole case on a platter.”
Faye seemed doubtful. “But we’re supposed to turn Win over to them.”
“And we will,” I assured her. “But right now we know he’s safe.” Picturing myself explaining the details of the case to Barbara Ann and that snooty trooper who refused my request for information, I finished, “One hour, two at the most, and we could have all the answers.”
“Barb won’t like it,” Faye said, and I tried to hide my irritation. It was always about what Barbara would think!
“I’ll call them, but I want to get to the bank before the manager goes to lunch.” When she still looked uncertain, I said, “They know me at the state police post, remember?” I took up my coat. “See if you can find the real Stacy Darrow. When I get back we’ll be in a much stronger position to prove Winston is innocent.” I set my purse strap on my shoulder and pulled my gloves out of a side pocket. “It will be so much nicer for him if he isn’t considered a wife-murderer.”
Faye had one more objection. “Should you go to the bank alone? What if someone’s watching us?”
“I’ll be careful.” I checked my hair in the small mirror of my compact then clicked it closed.
“All right, but we have to call as soon as you get back, whether we’ve got more to tell them or not. Barb shouldn’t be stuck out there any longer than she has to be.”
Grinning, I gave her a little slap on the arm. “You never told me what a wimp Barbara Ann is. She went on for an hour about having to use an outhouse.” Loyal to a fault, Faye didn’t answer, but she couldn’t hide a tiny smile. “How will you get the bank people to share information about a customer?”
With my best innocent expression I replied, “You’d be amazed what girls will tell other girls when they think they’re just chatting.”
Businessman’s Bank & Trust is a local entity known for friendly tellers and silly rules. Loans depend on the whims of a board of old men (I think they added a token woman when the millennium changed). Acting on principles only they understand, BB&T might refuse a home loan to a respectable young couple while a guy with a string of past bankruptcies can borrow and default at will for decades. Rumor has it their decisions reflect the condition of their collective digestive systems.
The bank is a 1950’s style stone building with a flat roof, wide doors, and a metallic smell. When I entered, two tellers looked up brightly. The third was on the phone. I stopped to glance around, since I’d been there only a few times. There were two offices opposite the tellers’ windows. On the door of one it said Mrs. Diana Sellers in block letters. The other said Mr. Pularski in slightly larger letters. Easy choice. “I’d like to see Mr. Pularski, please.”
It didn’t matter if he was the top dog (which I guessed he was) or second banana. Men are so easy to manipulate.
I had to wait a few minutes, which was fine, since I needed time to get my story straight. Ignoring the muted sounds of busy-ness around me, I prepared myself for my little charade. Barbara had sent me, and she was deputized, which meant it was almost like I’d been deputized, too. I represented the Smart Detective Agency (which will have a new name as soon as I get a chance to talk to my sisters about it). I guessed a guy working at a small-town bank had never met a real P.I. before.
“Ma’am?” The teller tilted her head toward the door, where a man in his forties ushered an elderly couple out. When they were gone, I approached with my hand out. “Mr. Pularski? I’m Barbara Evans of the Smart Detective Agency. Could I have five minutes of your time?”
Though I don’t work in the business world, I know how things go. You treat people a certain way, confident but not overbearing. You limit what you ask them for. Five minutes is something even a busy person can spare. You use the person’s name. You look him in the eye. And if he’s male and you’re a reasonably attractive woman, you add a smile that says you find him interesting.
I was seated in a padded chair and urged to call Mr. Pularski Ralph. He was very much a gentleman, as many men who spend most of their workday with women are.
“So you’re a shamus, eh, Mrs. Evans?” Barbara hates the “Isn’t she cute” attitude some men adopt when faced with a female detective. Irritation flickered in my mind, too, but I’ve learned to use such things to get what I want.
“Please, call me Barbara,” I urged. “We’re on the Darrow case. I’m sure you’ve heard of it.”
“Guy killed his wife, right?”
I leaned in conspiratorially. “That’s what the general public thinks.”
“Really?” I had his attention now, and not just because of the low-cut, silky blouse I’d chosen. Since I was pretending to be Barbara, I’d considered dressing down but decided instead to use my femininity to her advantage. I hoped word of her vanilla wardrobe and Puritan plainness hadn’t gotten around to local bankers and tellers.
“The police can’t talk about it yet because it’s a complicated situation, but Chief Neuencamp wanted me to contact you with some questions.”
He wasn’t stupid. “Why didn’t the chief come?”
“You didn’t hear? He was attacked, almost certainly by the real killer.”
>
“That’s terrible!” Now I really had his interest.
“He’ll be all right, but the investigation needs to continue. I’ll brief him later.” I gestured toward the phone on his desk. “Call his office if you like. They’ll tell you I’m legally deputized.”
Shoving some folders out of his way, Pularski took up his phone, pausing to glance at me as if I might try to stop him. When I only smiled in my most charming manner, he made the call. “Can you tell me if Barbara Evans is working with the chief on the murder over in Lawton?” ... “I see. Thank you.”
When he hung up, Pularski checked me out again. “Even if you are working with the chief, I can’t share customer records without authorization.”
I waved a hand. “I’d never ask you to, Ralph. Your bank has a stellar reputation, and I understand you work hard to maintain it. What I’d like is to speak to the tellers about their impressions of Mrs. Darrow. If you’ll ask them to cooperate, it would be a great help.”
Resting his chin on his knuckles, he tried briefly to think of an objection to that. “Okay,” he finally said. “I’ll stick around, though, so they don’t pass on anything they shouldn’t.”
“Not a problem.” I gave him a look. “I really appreciate this, Ralph.” As we left the office, his hand was at my back, and accidentally, I’m sure, it slid down a little, feeling the curve of my rear. That’s when a girl is thankful for Zumba.
The first teller I chose to speak to was Marian, a forty-something woman with a pleasant face and arms that needed toning. Once Ralph explained the reason for my questions, he stood back and watched, like a father listening to the conversation between his daughter and her first young man.
I started by thanking Marian for her time, saying I knew she was very busy. I asked her a little about herself: how long she’d worked at the bank, what days she worked, what times of day were the busiest. Once we got past that I asked, “Did you know Stacy Darrow on sight?”
“Yes. She came in every month, so we all knew her.”
“Was she friendly?”
“No.” She corrected herself. “I mean, she wasn’t unfriendly, she was just…distant, you know? She brought in her—” She glanced at Pularski. “She did what she came to do and left.”
“What did Mrs. Darrow look like?”
“Excuse me?” The victim’s picture had been splashed all over the local news for days now. When I waited expectantly, Marian laid a hand on her chest. “Well, she was pretty, long black hair, dark eyes, tall. She didn’t try to attract attention, but you couldn’t help but notice her.”
“What did she wear?”
“Um, dark clothes, mostly. Leggings with tank tops under baby-doll dresses, big sweaters with UGG boots, stuff like that.”
“Did she ever wear sunglasses or hats?” Pularski moved behind me, and I sensed his growing boredom.
“No. I don’t recall her ever doing that.”
“Thank you. I appreciate your time.” With a smile for her and a glance at Pularski, I moved to the next teller, a “winter” who wore colors all wrong for her complexion. When I began the same way, asking the same questions, I heard him sigh. I proceeded slowly, asking about the teller and her work before turning to Stacy’s looks. When I got to the question about her clothes, the phone on Pularski’s desk buzzed and blinked. He looked toward it, hesitated, and turned back to me.
“Did she wear jewelry?” I asked. “I heard she liked long, dangly earrings.”
Pularski cleared his throat. “Ms. Evans, I have a call.”
Touching his arm I said, “I’m almost done here. Again, I appreciate your help, Ralph.”
His answering grin was weak, and he walked away. At first eager to help with a murder case, he’d ended up irritated by my petty questions.
It was exactly what I’d hoped for.
The third teller, Teresa, was my best chance for information, based on what I’d observed. She was chewing gum, and I was surprised Pularski hadn’t banned chomping away like a camel during work hours. She’d been on the phone when I came in, and she was still talking. Though she tried to pretend it was a business call, the look fake-serious on her face told me otherwise. As I approached, she glanced up and changed her tone. “Thank you for contacting BB&T, and please don’t hesitate to call if you need help again.”
She turned to me with an innocent look. The gum disappeared into some secret place in her mouth, but I could still smell the spearmint. Her eyes glittered with interest. This woman loved gossip. Just the kind of person I needed.
After I’d introduced myself, I started with the same questions. The other two women listened at first but soon returned to their work. I wandered a few steps away, ostensibly to look at a poster but actually moving Teresa out of range of her co-workers’ hearing.
My source was primed. Her boss had okayed my questions. Her co-workers had already answered them. This time, I would learn more than what kind of boots Stacy Darrow wore.
“I’ve got the basics figured out,” I told her, “like what Mrs. Darrow’s big purse was for.”
The gum cracked once before she remembered and returned it to its hiding place. “I used to wonder what would happen to her if some of the low-lifes around here knew how much cash she carried around in that thing.”
I waggled my head gravely. “Not very wise.”
She nodded enthusiastically. “That comes with a cash business, though.” I wanted to ask, but I didn’t have to. Teresa went right on. “Can you imagine? Car washes all over northern Michigan? She must have spent half her time on the road.” Leaning toward me she said, “I told her once she should bring her deposits in more often so it wasn’t thousands of dollars at a time, but she kind of blew me off.” She shrugged. “Her decision, even if it was dumb.”
Realizing she’d criticized a customer, and a dead one at that, Teresa backtracked a little. “I guess she knew what she wanted. It just seemed funny to me. Not real businesslike.”
Outside, I called Faye and told her what I’d learned.
“No way,” Faye scoffed. “She wasn’t operating a business unless it was Internet-based, and they didn’t find evidence of that on her computer.”
“Winston says she never went anywhere, so there was no business. She lied to them.”
“To explain why she brought in cash every month and deposited it in her account.”
“Owning a string of car washes would make used cash in small bills look legitimate.”
“And she deposited it a little at a time, to avoid suspicion.”
“That’s my guess.”
“So she brought cash, probably stolen, from New Mexico. How’d she get it here without Winston knowing?”
I tapped my phone with a fingernail. “She could have put it in boxes, like it was furniture or something.”
“Books!” Faye almost shouted.
“Books?”
“Readers are the ultimate hoarders.”
“Oh my gosh. Stacy packed cash in with her books!”
I shivered as a draft of cold air surged through an alley and hit my face like a slap. “Text Barbara and have her ask Winston exactly what Stacy brought along when they moved here.”
“Okay.” Faye hesitated, and I heard her fidget in her chair. “We’re assuming the money belongs to Basca, right? Where do you think he got it?”
“Drugs would be my guess.”
“We need to get the state police here ASAP.”
“I’m on my way. You find out who Stacy really was.”
As I turned my body to block the wind, I noticed a man across the street, a stranger who was big enough to start on the Lion’s offensive line. When our eyes met, he turned toward a store window and pretended to look inside. A few seconds later he walked away in the opposite direction.
I was almost certain he’d been watching me. Did he know I’d gone into the bank to check Stacy’s finances? If he was one of Basca’s men, he probably knew more about where her money came from than I did.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Barb
After Retta left, Darrow grew agitated. Staring out the window, he scratched at the frosty pane again, muttering phrases like, “No way out” and “Sitting ducks.”
Having little talent for babying spineless whiners, I ignored him, busying myself with feeding the fire, checking the generator, inventorying the food we had left, and pacing. Though the order varied, that was pretty much it.
Around noon, his eyes got the wild look I’d seen when we rescued him at the diner. “We’re dead meat, I tell you!”
“They can’t find us out here, Mr. Darrow.”
“What if they do? Retta and your cop took the snowmobiles. Are we gonna run across the snow like rabbits?”
“They’ll be back for us when this is sorted out.”
“How do you know that? They might both be dead!”
His scenario was irritating, being both hysterical and possible. We were isolated, unaware of what was going on. It was beyond nerve-wracking. Still, I had to prevent him from losing it completely. “They’re fine. They’re going to get us back home.”
His mind jumped to another track. “When the cops come, you’ll tell them I didn’t kill Stacy, right?”
I nodded. “I believe you, so does Chief Neuencamp.”
“The sheriff doesn’t.” His mind jumped again. “Do you think he knows who’s helping George and the others?”
“Since we haven’t heard from them yet, I’d guess not.”
He smacked the windowsill with a fist. “Call your cop friend. Find out what’s going on!”
Though I didn’t like his tone, and though he seemed to think I could make the cell phone work by magic, I sympathized with Darrow’s frustration. Retta had been gone for four hours, Rory for twelve. Why wasn’t somebody telling us something?
They were. When I picked up my phone, an icon indicated I had a text. I’d missed the signal due to Darrow’s ranting.
I navigated to the message from Faye. Did Stcy rcve shpmts from nmx aftr move?