by Mary Maxwell
“I’ll return the favor,” I said. “If I learn anything new, that is.”
He asked if I was planning on executing a citizen’s arrest.
“No, but I’m on my way to see if I can find Heidi,” I told him. “I’ve got a hunch about something and I want to start with her.”
“Care to share?” he asked.
“Let me talk to Heidi first,” I answered. “I’ve got a gut feeling that either she, her sister or Lois Jordan knows something about what happened to Delmar Singer.”
“And maybe Toby Wurlitzer, too?”
“Time will tell,” I said. “I’ll talk to you soon, detective.”
CHAPTER 43
It was my lucky day. As I came around the corner, a dark green SUV with a kayak strapped to the roof pulled out of a spot just down the block from the York Street Club. I quickly parked, collected my purse and jumped out of the car. I hurried down the sidewalk toward the old red brick mansion, thinking about questions that I wanted to ask the Zimmer twins and Lois Jordan.
A thin gray haze from the clump of smokers standing together on the porch threatened to obscure the front entrance. Midway up the stairs, I gulped in a fresh breath and hurried through the nicotine fog.
“Did you pay your dues?” a rich baritone called from the office just inside the front door.
I swiveled in the direction of the question. The owner of the deep voice was a bony middle-aged woman dressed in a black cardigan, white blouse and baggy jeans.
“Pardon me?” I said.
The woman scowled. “Your dues,” she said. “I saw you come in here the other day, but I was on the phone and couldn’t stop you.” The glower on her face deepened; I imagined it was the look most prison wardens use when chastising new inmates. “York Street Club members pay twenty dollars a year,” the woman added, holding out one lanky hand. “We use the money to keep the place open and looking good.”
Before I could explain that I wasn’t a member and planned to be on my way in a flash, the phone on her desk rang. She glanced over her shoulder, dragged her beady eyes back in my direction and then tapped a skeletal finger on her empty palm.
“Twenty bucks,” she said. “On your way out.”
I waited until she’d disappeared into the office before heading for the second floor. I didn’t know if the Zimmer twins or Lois Jordan would be in the building or not, but it was worth a try. I knew that Detective Caldwell and his colleagues from the Denver PD were conducting a thorough investigation into Delmar Singer’s death, but I wanted to see if I could prove my theory first.
“…and then we’ll call all of the people on the other list,” a familiar voice was saying as I reached the top of the stairs. “We need to drum up support for this initiative, okay? Everyone’s counting on you, Brenda.”
When I looked toward the meeting room, I saw Heidi talking to a gray-haired woman in a red jumpsuit and black clogs. They were both staring at a piece of paper that contrasted sharply with Heidi’s pitch-black acrylic nails.
“Miss Zimmer?” I said.
They both looked up. The elderly woman smiled. Heidi grimaced; a disdainful sneer that conveyed anything but warm hospitality.
“You’re back?” she snapped.
“I’m sorry to interrupt,” I said pleasantly. “Is your sister here?”
Heidi thrust the sheet of paper at the older woman. “Can you go ahead and get started on this, Brenda? I need to take care of something with…” She peered at me warily. “What was your name again?”
“Kate Reed.” I turned up the dazzle on my smile. “We met the other day when I was looking for Tim and Delilah.”
Brenda clutched the paper to her chest and scampered off toward the stairwell. When she reached the flight leading up to the third floor, she gave me a final glance before slowly ascending the steps.
“Uh-huh,” Heidi said. “I remember. And nothing’s changed—this is a place for people seeking recovery, not idle questions from strangers.”
I let her simmer down for a moment, guessing that she might be easier to deal with if she had a chance to catch her breath.
“I like your nails,” I said finally.
Her gaze held on my face before wandering to her hands. “They’re not real, but thank you.” She looked up again, lifting one eyebrow. “And I know that’s kind of cheating. But since I was a little girl, I’ve always chewed my nails. So I buy these in whatever length suits my mood, glue them on and…” She inched closer and lowered her voice. “Why are you asking about my fingernails? And why are you here again if you’re not in the program?”
I waited while a thin wiry guy dressed in a multicolored sweater and skinny jeans came up the stairs from the foyer. Then I told Heidi I was back at the York Street Club to talk to her sister.
“Hannah?” One hand drifted to her throat, idly clutching the strand of glossy black beads looped around her neck.
“Yes, I need to ask her a couple of questions.”
“She’s not here,” Heidi said. “She’s got an exam coming up.”
“Is she at home?”
“No, she’s at Roostercat studying with…” Her eyes tapered and she glowered at me with contempt. “Why do you keep bothering us?”
I lifted my chin slightly. “Are you aware that acetonitrile-based products, like the solvent that’s used to take off fake fingernails, is metabolized by the body as cyanide?”
She stared at me. “I don’t know what you just said, but I’ve got a meeting to get ready for.”
I asked if she remembered Tim England. Her teeth clenched and she muttered a few choice words.
“Would you please leave me alone?” she hissed, turning her back and walking toward the meeting room. “This place is sacrosanct. We come here to heal, not to be bullied by the police.”
“I told you the other day that I’m not with the police.” I followed her through the open doorway. “I’m just helping my friend figure out who was trying to kill her brother.”
After she reached the folding table stacked with coffee cups, Heidi spun in a circle. “What did you say?” she demanded. “Are you accusing me of…” She paused to smile at a pair of men entering the room. “I would never do something like that,” she seethed after they were out of earshot. “I liked Tim. I was totally into him. It’s his loss that he didn’t want to go out with me.”
“And you told your sister and Lois that he rejected you, right?”
She stared at her feet, two tiny black loafers with the toes angled inward. “I didn’t know he already had someone,” she said in a quiet voice. “I just thought he and Delilah were, like, friends or whatever.”
She started toward the center of the room, but I reached out and took her elbow. “Can we just go back out in the hall for a second?” I nodded my head toward the door. “I promise it won’t take but a minute.”
Her gaze shifted to the corridor. After a long sigh, she crossed the room and went back into the hall. I followed, thanked her for taking the time and then asked if she owned a patchwork coat.
“Yeah,” she said. “But I haven’t seen it for a couple of weeks. I loaned it to my sister. And then her roommate left it in somebody’s apartment.”
I nodded. “That somebody’s name is Delilah Benson.”
Heidi’s mouth fell open. “She has my coat?”
“Not any more. But I saw it in her place, along with your black floppy hat.”
She smiled. “Oh, yeah. Hannah took that, too. There’s been a lot going on, so I kind of forgot.”
“Well, your coat and hat were in Delilah’s place the other day,” I said. “Until someone wore them into Delmar Singer’s hospital room and suffocated him with a pillow.”
A distorted cry escaped her lips and her eyes widened. “You mean me?” she whispered. “I would never do anything…”
I waited to see if she would finish the thought, but her mouth slowly closed and her eyes went blank.
“I didn’t say that you were involved, Miss Zimm
er. I just asked about your coat and—”
“Do the police think I did it?” she asked. “Are they coming next or something?”
I reached out and lightly touched her arm. The contact made her wince before she stepped back.
“Maybe I should call my dad,” she muttered. “He’s an attorney.”
“It might not be a bad idea,” I suggested. “Just to be on the safe side.”
She slumped against the wall, her face knotted with concern. I waited a moment before thanking her again for talking to me.
“What did you just say?”
“Thank you,” I repeated. “For taking a sec to talk.” I started toward the staircase, but thought of one more thing. “And Heidi?” She looked at me with vacant eyes. “I think a call to your father would be a smart move—for you and your sister.”
After leaving her alone in the corridor, I made my way back down the staircase, through the front door and out to the sidewalk. I retrieved my phone, found the log of incoming calls and selected the last entry on the list. After waiting for a moment or two, I heard the series of clicks and then the familiar voice.
“This is Detective Adam Caldwell,” the recording began. “I can’t take your call at the…”
I didn’t listen to the rest of the message. But when I heard the beep, I left a short update and said I was on my way to Roostercat. “And, by the way, detective,” I added. “If my hunch is correct, I believe that I’m entitled to whatever is behind Door Number Four.”
CHAPTER 44
I spotted Hannah Zimmer the moment I walked into Roostercat, the popular coffee shop on Lincoln Street in Capitol Hill. She was hunched over a table near the back, talking on the phone and doodling on a yellow legal pad with a bright green Sharpie. A stack of textbooks waited on the tabletop and a dark blue backpack was on the floor near her feet. I stopped at the counter and ordered my usual—a lavender latte with an extra shot of espresso. While a grim-faced middle aged guy with buzzed red hair made my drink, I kept Hannah in view with a sideways glance. Luckily, she didn’t look up until I reached the table a moment later.
“Excuse me,” I said. “Hannah?”
She glared at me. “I just talked to my sister.” Her voice was the angry rasp of a copperhead curled in the shadows. “She said you’d probably show up here.”
I glanced around. “Seems like a cozy spot to study.”
Her fingers were idly tapping the table, a rhythmic drumming that provided an undercurrent of disquiet to the moment.
“Mind if I sit down?” I asked.
Her left eyebrow arched. “Yeah, I do.”
“I can stand,” I said. “This will only take a minute.” She started to say something, but I interrupted. “And let me do one thing first,” I added. “I know you’re busy, so I don’t want to keep you too long.”
I put my latte on the table, pulled out my phone and launched the recording app that Calvin Roth had installed for me in Chicago. I’d never used it while I worked for Rodney, but our fearless tech guru promised it would come in handy one day. As usual, he was right. I hoped Hannah would assume that I was switching off the ringer. When the app loaded a second later, I tapped the record button and casually held the phone at my side with the microphone aimed in her direction.
“What’s your deal anyway?” she snapped. “Are you, like, an AA groupie or something?”
I smiled, moving closer to ensure that I would get everything she was about to tell me.
“I noticed your sister’s acrylic nails the other day,” I said. “Does she wear them often?”
Hannah’s eyes narrowed. “Look, you freak.” She paused, probably to heighten her imagined ferocity. “I don’t know what game you’re playing, but I would appreciate it—”
“Didn’t you study chemistry in high school?” I asked.
“—if you would just…” The question slowed her fury. “…leave me alone.” Her lower lip shuddered slightly until she pressed one finger against it to quell the trembling. “I’ve got a lot to cover and you’re not—”
“Are you aware that acetonitrile-based products, like the solvent that’s used to remove fake nails, is metabolized by the body as cyanide?”
Hannah’s gaze shifted slightly to my left. Her eyes held on something behind me until a mischievous grin appeared and she crossed her arms. I couldn’t tell what she was looking at, but I wasn’t going to fall for the diversion.
“Well?” I said, keeping my voice calm and steady. “Did you know that the solvent your sister uses to—”
“Yeah, she knows,” a brusque voice said over my shoulder. “But I’m the one who had to explain it to her.” I turned to find Lois Jordan glaring at me angrily. “And now you can explain something to me.”
“What’s that?” I turned slightly so I could see them both at the same time.
“Were you born an idiot?” Lois hissed. “Or did you learn it somewhere along the line?”
She was dressed in a calf-length red skirt, white long-sleeved blouse and the lightning bolt Chuck Taylors. In one hand, she held a bag of Rowntree’s Jelly Tots, the candy found at the scene of Toby Wurlitzer’s murder. In the other, partially concealed in the pocket of her coat, was a snub-nosed revolver. She was holding it in such a way that I was the only person in the coffee shop who realized that she was carrying more than a Dora the Explorer backpack.
“I’m not sure how to answer that,” I said, holding the phone closer to my side.
“Why don’t you and me go outside and take a walk?” Lois said. “I think we’ve all had just about enough of your meddling and snooping.”
CHAPTER 45
After leaving the coffee shop, Lois ordered me down the sidewalk and around the corner. I spotted her brown Taurus parked in the middle of the block. It was dented from stem to stern, with a spidery crack in the windshield and a faded blue plastic flower attached to the antenna with gray duct tape.
“Okay,” she said, opening the passenger door. “Slide over and get behind the wheel.”
I followed her instructions, waiting quietly until she joined me in the car and closed the door. The interior smelled like patchouli and fried food, an unappealing aroma that made me feel slightly queasy within seconds.
“Nice ride,” I said. “Suitably bohemian for someone like—”
“Shut up!” she screeched. “I’ve got to figure this out. I won’t be able to think if you’re talking.”
I folded my arms and waited. She had her hand on the gun, but it was still in her pocket. The backpack was on the floor between her feet.
“What are you trying to figure out?” I asked.
Her head snapped to the left. “Don’t talk!”
“But I want to help you, Lois.”
The fury burned in her eyes. “I don’t need your help, okay? I just need time to think.”
I nodded and shifted on the seat. The phone was still recording; no matter the outcome of our encounter, everything would be documented. Maybe I could give it to the police once things were resolved. Or maybe they’d find it after she squeezed the trigger and left me to soak in my own juices.
“Do you mind if I open the window?” I asked eventually.
She clenched her teeth. “Whatever.”
I smiled at the multipurpose word; it was applied in so many different ways that I wasn’t sure if Lois was giving her permission or challenging my desire for fresh air. I decided to throw fate to the wind.
“I’ll need the keys to start the engine,” I said.
She shook her head. “Not a chance.”
I nodded and waited, feeling like I was going to pass out from the foul odor in the car. Finally, when the sensation of impending wooziness became strong enough, I asked again.
“Okay, fine!” she hissed. “But don’t try anything stupid.”
She had the keys in her hand. When she held them out, I carefully put my phone in my lap, took the key ring and started the car. After lowering both front windows a couple of inches, I reve
rsed the process and put the keys on the seat between us. Lois snatched them up like a ravenous hawk swooping in for its dinner.
“Thank you,” I said, folding my fingers around the phone again. “That’s much better.”
Lois groaned. “Please shut up!”
I nodded, turned my head and stared through the windshield. The pedestrians on the sidewalk had no idea what was happening inside the battered Taurus. The discrepancy between their casual laughter and my thorny predicament started to make the muscles in my neck and shoulders tighten. I knew that she had a weapon. And I knew she was acting irrationally. But I felt like my life wouldn’t be in jeopardy if I could somehow get her to talk.
As she muttered to herself, I eased my head gently in her direction so that I had a peripheral view of her face. It took about ten minutes, but when the tension in her jaw relaxed a bit, I asked if we could talk.
“Nothing you say will make a difference,” she said in an icy tone. “I’ve got to figure out what to do, so please keep quiet.”
“Just one thing?” I asked.
She heaved a sigh. “What is it?”
“Have you done anything that can’t be reversed, Lois?”
Her eyelashes fluttered in confusion. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“Well, what I mean is…” I turned my head a bit more, glimpsing a slight twitch in her face. “If this is the worst thing you’ve done—kidnapping me at gunpoint—and nothing else happens, then maybe the—”
“I didn’t kidnap you,” she seethed. “And I’m not taking you anywhere.”
I wasn’t going to argue the point. And I could tell that a direct approach wasn’t the smartest way to get her talking. So I settled on Plan B.
“How’re you feeling?” I asked.
She glanced over. “You mean right now?”
I nodded.
“I’m feeling…” She inhaled slowly and the hand on the gun moved deeper into her pocket. “This isn’t how things were supposed to go,” she said. “None of this should’ve happened.”