A Hard Day's Fright

by Casey Daniels

  “Like Ella?”

  “Like Ella.” I flattened my hands against the tabletop. “I’ll bet Lucy’s family does, too. I bet there’s not a day that goes by that they don’t think about her. And wonder. If I could help clear things up—”

  “I can’t help you. Wish I could.” I actually might have believed him if he hadn’t gotten up so fast that he knocked over his chair. Or if he wasn’t so anxious to get away from me, he hurried inside.

  He left me to pick up the chair.

  And ask myself a whole bunch of new questions.

  12

  It should come as no big surprise that I also wanted to talk to Janice Sherwin and Darren Andrews. In fact, I tried to make appointments to see both of them and found, much to my dismay, that my wit and charm—usually so helpful in situations like this—did nothing to thaw the iceberg that was Darren’s secretary. I even tried the same ol’ song and dance and told her I was writing that thesis about Patrick Monroe, but she wasn’t exactly impressed. In fact, she wasn’t impressed at all. She reminded me that Darren Andrews was an important man with commitments to his family and his community. He didn’t see just anybody (yeah, she said that in a way that made it clear I was one of those anybodies who was really a nobody). And my suggestion that I might get together with him sometime that weekend to chat? Well, let’s just say I’d never heard a sigh that was quite so monumental.

  Janice was, thankfully, another story. She owned an up-scale real estate company in one of the high-class suburbs to the east, and as everyone knows, real estate agents are all about working on the weekends.

  And if I fudged the truth just a tad and told her I was dying to see the two-million-dollar, seven-bedroom house she had listed not far from where I grew up?

  She’d find out soon enough that I was lying. With any luck, it wouldn’t be before we discussed the good old days, her relationship with Darren, and how much she remembered about that fateful night Lucy never made it home.

  As much as it pained me to do anything on a Sunday before the sun was high in the sky, I made that appointment for early in the morning. See, I figured once afternoon hit, there would be other realtors in and out of the office, and clients, too. And if there were people around, Janice might not have time to sit and reminisce. Early, I figured we’d have all the time in the world.

  Which only goes to prove how wrong I can sometimes be.

  But I’m getting ahead of myself.

  Sherwin Realty had its own building, a modern little number that featured lots of glass and walls that gleamed in the early morning light as if they’d been dipped in stainless steel. It was located on a chunk of prime real estate, a medical building on one side and, on the other, a strip of stores built to look like a Parisian street and featuring a couple of chichi women’s boutiques, a designer shoe shop, a day spa, and a wine store, and oh, how I was dying to check them out!

  First things first.

  Mine was only one of two cars in the parking lot. Since the other was a late-model two-seater Audi shined to within an inch of its life with a rag top and vanity plates that said TOP SELLER, I knew two things: (1) Janice was a go-getter who would do anything for a sale, including getting up at an ungodly hour to beat her client to the office, and (2) the real estate business isn’t nearly as down in the dumps as everyone says it is.

  I parked far enough away from the door so that if I had to drag this interview out and we actually went to look at that two-million-dollar house, Janice would be forced to do the driving. Then I got down to business.

  The front door was unlocked and I stepped into a sleek reception area with carpeting the color of the outside walls. The receptionist’s desk (empty at this time of the day) was glass, and the chairs in the waiting area were plush wingbacks in a color a couple shades darker than the carpeting. The room was under the keen eye of the woman whose portrait hung on the far wall. Janice Sherwin hadn’t changed all that much from the girl with the beehive hairdo. She was slim, elegant, and her hair, cut stylishly short, was still the same bleached blond it had been back in the day. What was it Ella had said about Janice? That she was a hard sort of pretty? She had that down pat. Janice Sherwin, with her firm chin and eyes that glinted fire, did not look like a woman who would stand to be crossed, in business or in her personal life.

  I told myself not to forget it.

  “Hello!” I called out, because I figured Janice the dynamo was probably already knee-deep in some project and would need the reminder that I was there. “I’m here to see Janice Sherwin.”

  There was no reply.

  I moved through the reception area. There was a conference room on my left, its walls covered with pictures of expensive homes. Most of them had the words sold and janice plastered over them. Beyond that and past the reception desk was a long hallway, and I headed that way. The doors on either side of me were closed, but the door to the office at the end of the hallway was open. Sunlight spilled through the windows and into the hallway, cut off now and again by a long, thin shadow that swayed to and fro.

  Kinetic sculpture, I told myself.

  Leaves of a large plant.

  Janice on the phone, waving her arms back and forth while she was trying to make a point. And close a deal.

  But like I said before, though it doesn’t happen often, there are times I can be dead wrong.

  This was one of them.

  That shadow was Janice Sherwin herself. Or at least it was her body.

  She was hanging from the ceiling fan above her desk.

  I guess she wouldn’t be showing me that two-million-dollar house after all.

  Of course I called the cops. Naturally, they hustled me into that conference room, closed the door, and left me there to think and wonder and try to see as much as I possibly could out of the long thin window beside the door. Which wasn’t a whole lot.

  When a middle-aged detective with a thin face and a sharp eye finally came in to interview me an hour or so later, he made it pretty clear he was convinced Janice had committed suicide.

  Me? I wasn’t so sure.

  First Bobby, and now Janice? Two suicides in a group of friends that also included a murder victim?

  Call me crazy, but this was starting to sound a little too coincidental.

  And I am not a big believer in coincidences.

  When the detective asked what I was doing there and I explained, I left out all the stuff about Lucy and the Beatles concert. Better he should believe I was a house hunter than to suspect I was some sort of busybody who had poked her nose into his case long before he knew he had one. Besides, I didn’t want to advance any theories—with anyone—until I had a chance to come up with some that made at least a little bit of sense.

  When I gave the cop all my contact information and finally got the OK to leave, I peeled rubber getting out of the parking lot of Sherwin Realty. Too bad it wasn’t as easy to leave the memory behind . . . the one of Janice’s body swinging gently back and forth in the current of the office AC, that pretty face of hers bloated, her tongue protruding, her skin blue and her bleached blond hair a mess.

  There was only one way to deal with keeping that picture out of my head, and since shopping wasn’t an option given the balance in my bank account and the fact that I had more pressing matters to attend to, I headed downtown. Sunday and no traffic. I got to Stella Maris in no time.

  I smiled my brightest at the receptionist at the inpatient desk.

  It was an expression that didn’t last when in answer to my inquiry, she said, “Will Margolis is no longer a patient here.”

  “But I was just here yesterday,” I said. Really, like that was going to make any difference? I took the whine out of my voice. “He said this time he was committed to making his rehab work. But he didn’t tell me he was done with it. Don’t you think he would have mentioned that?”

  “Mr. Margolis checked himself out yesterday evening.” The woman was young, heavyset, and trying to be as matter-of-fact about this as she was ab
le, but considering I kept shaking my head and giving her huh? looks, I think I was throwing her off her game.

  “He’s cured?”

  It was a reasonable question so she shouldn’t have clicked her tongue. “An alcoholic is never cured,” she said, the emphasis on that last word. “An alcoholic is always in recovery. Alcoholism is a disease, and the alcoholic—”

  “Whatever.” It wasn’t like I didn’t care, I just didn’t have time for a lecture. “Did he say where he was going?”

  It took her a moment to realize we were still talking about Will. She raised both her chins. “That information is confidential.”

  “But a friend of his just died, and he really needs to know about it. And I really need to talk to him about it.”

  “Like I said—”

  “Confidential. Yeah. But if he mentioned where he was going—”

  “Even if he did…”

  “Which means he didn’t.” This was a pretty clever deduction on my part, so I didn’t appreciate it when she rewarded me with a sneer. Still, I managed a smile. It was as stiff as Janice’s hair in that old picture. “If you can’t tell me where he went, then maybe you could tell me how to get in touch with Will.”

  “Like I said, even if I knew—”

  “You wouldn’t tell me. Right.” Just like I don’t believe in coincidences, I’m not a big fan of beating around the bush. I kept my tight smile in place as my own special way of saying thanks for nothing and headed for the door. Before I got there, I saw that there were a couple guys sitting out on the Recovery Coffee House patio. I grabbed a couple of bucks out of my purse in case anybody needed a cup of coffee and joined them.

  “You all must know Will Margolis.” There were three men seated at the table, and only one empty chair. I dropped into it like I’d been invited. “I hear he’s gone.”

  “Will’s been long gone since I met him.” An African-American man with a hospital gauze patch over his left eye chuckled. Even with only one eye, he gave me a slow and careful once-over. “You don’t look like Will’s type.”

  “Who is his type? I mean, if he was going somewhere, who would he go with? Or go to?” I looked from man to man, and when nobody said a word and nobody looked like they were going to say a word, I asked, “Anybody need a cup of coffee?”

  His face was as lived-in as a fleabag motel, but I could tell by his eyes that the man directly across from me wasn’t much older than thirty-five. He kept his eyes on the dollars I put on the table. “Need a pack of smokes more than I need coffee,” he said.

  Subtle, but I got the message.

  I wasn’t sure how much cigarettes cost. I dug out a twenty and kept my hand on it when I looked from man to man. “Was Will ready to leave here? Did he finish his rehab?”

  The man with the eye patch didn’t so much shrug as he twitched away my question. “Been making good progress. That’s just what I told Will yesterday when I saw him at lunchtime in the cafeteria. He’s been tryin’ hard and workin’ hard, and I told him that, too. Told him this time, I thought he’d make it.”

  “But you don’t think that anymore?”

  This time, he did shrug. “Can’t say. Will, he’s the only one who knows that. But he never said anything to me about leavin’, that’s for sure. Then I go up to his room last night to ask him if he wants to step out and have a smoke, and he’s gone.”

  I thought this over. “Did he leave alone?” I asked.

  The men looked at each other. I dug back into my purse and came up with a ten.

  “It’s my last one,” I said, slapping it on the table. “And payday isn’t until Friday, so don’t think you can hold out and get more. Did Will leave alone?”

  “He got a call yesterday evening.” This was from the one man who’d been silent. He was tall and as thin as a Giorgio Armani silk tie, and he tapped the table with nervous fingers, just like I’d seen Will do. “Next thing I knew, he said he was outta here. Said a friend was coming by for him.”

  “Did he say who the friend was?”

  The man shook his head.

  I tried another approach. “Did any of you see him leave?”

  Apparently, this was asking too much. All three men stared at me, speechless.

  And I knew a losing cause when I saw one.

  I got up from the table.

  And left the money there.

  I was already at the door and on my way out when the man with the eye patch stopped me.

  “We’ve been talkin’,” he said, glancing over his shoulder toward his buddies. “And…well…if it’s your last one, you’d better just keep it.” He thrust the ten into my hands.

  I actually might have argued with him if he didn’t turn around and walk away, and if my attention wasn’t caught by a flash of color across the street.

  Green. The same shade as a familiar stocking cap.

  I hurried out of the café and picked my way down the sidewalk and across the street, heading toward the alley where I’d seen the movement.

  There was nobody there.

  There was nobody around anywhere.

  In fact, the only sign of life on that deserted street was an empty bottle of Seagram’s VO on the sidewalk.

  I didn’t want to wait until Monday to talk to Darren Andrews, but it’s not like I had a whole lot of choice. Guys like Andrews aren’t exactly listed on the Internet phonebook sites, and girls like me do not hang out at places where we are likely to cross paths. Yeah, I used to. In the old days. These days, the country club set and I aren’t exactly on speaking terms.

  With all that in mind, I waited semipatiently for the workweek to roll around. When it finally did, I went through the Monday-morning-motions over at Garden View. (That week, these included doing my best to console Ella as I watched her weep into her teacup when she talked about Janice and the old days.) I took an early lunch hour, headed out, and arrived at Darren’s downtown office building full of determination, even if I didn’t have much of a plan about how I was going to get in to see him.

  I was in luck.

  Maybe.

  When I pulled into the lot next to the gleaming high-rise with the words andrews enterprises etched into the granite facade, I saw that there was something going on right outside the front doors.

  TV cameras. Reporters. Sound trucks.

  For one gut-twisting moment, I was sure Darren Andrews was dead, too, and the media was all over the event, and I kicked myself for not being pushier with his secretary. If the guy bit the big one before I ever had a chance to talk to him, I’d be at another dead end. Literally.

  And I’d had my fill.

  I grabbed my leather portfolio off the passenger seat, hopped out of my car, and took my place at the edge of the crowd. I saw that at least part of my thinking had been correct: Darren Andrews was the center of all that attention, all right. Lucky for me, it wasn’t because he was dead. In fact, he was in the middle of a news conference.

  Glaring cameras, microphones, reporters…any normal guy would break out in a sweat, or at least look a little humbled by all that attention. Darren Andrews? Not so much.

  He was still as golden as he was back in his high school days. Smooth and shiny and as well dressed as my dad used to be before he exchanged his Versace suits for prison issue. Darren smiled at the cameras, pointed to reporters, and fielded their questions, and I did my best to stay out of the way so I could get a sense of the man behind the legend just as a young woman in an ill-fitting gray jacket raised her hand and asked, “Are you saying, Mr. Andrews, that you don’t think new construction would be good for the Flats?”

  Of course, I was coming in right in the middle of things, and I had no idea what was going on. That didn’t keep me from seeing the momentary flash of annoyance in Darren’s baby blues. Momentary being the operative word here. The next second, he was as smooth as the glass doors behind him. Too bad he wasn’t as transparent. I would have loved to know what was going on behind that unruffled exterior.

  “It�
�s like this, Taylor…” He turned a thousand-watt smile on the reporter. She was young, and she blushed like all get-out. “Of course I believe that the Flats is a viable site for revitalization. In fact, I’m committed to making that happen. I see the area as being a hub for entertainment and transportation and I’m as excited as anybody else that developers are talking about condos and cluster homes and retail space. But…” He glanced at the reporters gathered all around him. “That doesn’t mean we throw the baby out with the bath water. There are plenty of solid buildings down in the Flats already. We don’t have to knock them down and start rebuilding. They’ve got artistic value, historic value. We can build on the foundation we’ve already established.”

  “Including that building on Main Street? The one you own?”

  This came from a male reporter in a rumpled denim shirt, and looking his way, Darren nodded.

  “Yes, I’m certainly talking about the Andrews Building. Like dozens of others the city has improperly acquired through eminent domain, that building is safe and sturdy. Like those dozens of others, it never should have been targeted, and the courts never should have let the city take possession of them. The mayor talks about the good of the people and the rights of citizens to live and work in a modern, thriving community, but let’s face it…” Here he looked directly at the cameras, delivering a personal message to each and every person who would be watching the evening news. “This is all about greed. It’s all about the mayor trying to make himself look good. When he’s doing it at the expense of the people he’s supposed to be working for…well, that’s just not right.”

  “Is that why you’re considering running for mayor in the fall?” a bald guy asked.

  Andrews raised a hand, distancing himself from the question. “That’s a topic for another day. What we need to do now is focus, the way this city administration is not focusing. We need to address one pressing issue at a time. That’s why I invited you here today. I want you and all the property owners in Cleveland, who are in fear of their rights being slapped out from under them, to know that I’m going to move heaven and earth to get an injunction against the city’s eminent domain decree. I’ll go all the way to the U.S. Supreme Court if I have to. And you know me, folks…” He turned a smile on the reporters, one so bright, I had no doubt that everybody who’d be watching at home would feel its warmth. “I don’t give up. And I don’t back down. I never have, and I never will.”