A Taste of Death

by Suzanne Rossi

“I have no clue, but it had to have been at Terry’s request—and like Nancy said, the only place Terry would bury the hatchet was in Fran’s head. I don’t think she’s going to come clean with me or anybody else.”

  “She might.” His tone sounded cryptic.

  “How so?”

  “After you left the station I went to the hotel and had a chat with the hostess in the dining room. I showed her the stills from the surveillance tape. She IDed both Fran Harrison and Terry Whiting. I also had a chat with the waitress who served them. She said Ms. Whiting ordered coffee only. She also said she heard enough to know the conversation wasn’t pleasant. They argued in low tones until Ms. Whiting stood and told Ms. Harrison to—and I quote, ‘Go fuck yourself and knock it off!’ Ms. Harrison laughed as Ms. Whiting left, and then ordered a light breakfast.”

  “Wow! I take it you’re going to interview Terry.”

  “I called her about fifteen minutes ago and asked that she come in to give a statement at four o’clock. She sounded scared.”

  “I would be, too. Uh, I lied to her about how I knew she and Fran had breakfast.”

  “I’ll use the surveillance video as my reasoning and what the hostess and waitress said. You’re covered.”

  Anne breathed a sigh of relief. “Dinner here tonight?”

  “Can’t tonight, sweetheart. I’ve got more than just Ms. Harrison’s case on my desk. I’ll be in touch tomorrow.”

  “Okay. Oh! Did you hear back from the missing waiter yet? What’s his name?”

  “Jeffery Wainwright and no he hasn’t called me back. His place is locked and his car is still gone. He may have taken off.”

  “Where does he live? Is there any surveillance?”

  “He lives at the Escondito Apartments off San Sebastian Drive. It’s a marginal part of town. I asked for tape, but most of the surveillance cameras don’t work. However, I do have his license plate and make and model of his car, so I figure to find him soon. Hon, I gotta go, my other line is ringing. Talk to you tomorrow.”

  Anne hung up and sat back to think. Jeff Wainwright hadn’t been seen at work since Friday. Well, not officially at work. He may have been there long enough to serve Jane and Fran. And didn’t Gil say something about him being seen by a neighbor Sunday night? Or was it Saturday?

  Certainly looks like he ran. But why would a waiter want to kill Fran? And the ghost definitely appeared to tamper with the plate, and then set it aside. Why would he conspire with the ghost? It made no sense.

  Anne knew she was missing something, but her mind was on clue overload. Before she could take a moment to get it together, her phone rang. It was Nancy.

  “Hey, Nance, what’s up?”

  “I finally got a hold of the other women seated at Fran’s table.”

  “Anything of interest?”

  “I’m not sure. Let me start with Carolanne Rogers. She was definitely irritated with both Fran and Susan. So much so that she nearly called them out on it. The only thing that stopped her was no desire to start another argument. Same goes for Cheryl Johnson. She almost left the table like Ellie. They didn’t notice anything unusual with servers or people coming and going. Not much there.”

  “What about the other two?” Anne asked.

  “This is a little puzzling. Olivia said she was talking to Jane when the waiter slipped between them to serve. She seems to think Fran was not at the table but can’t be sure.”

  “That coincides with what Jane said about Fran coming back and eating her salad before beginning on the entrée.”

  Nancy sighed over the phone and continued. “At any rate, Olivia also remembers talking to Jane when the ghost walked past the table. She doesn’t think Fran was there then either.”

  “Hmmm. I wonder if she has any idea of the time. Fran left the table several times,” Anne speculated.

  “But this is what’s odd. Olivia says the ghost paused by Fran’s chair as if she’d dropped something, stooped down, and moved on. That was the last Olivia recalls seeing her. Lynda McIlroy was at the table, too. She confirms the part about the ghost. She was talking to Cheryl and saw the ghost bend down, and then keep going.”

  “Fran last left the table when I hauled her, Susan, and Barb out into the hall. I’ll bet that’s when the ghost paused by Fran’s chair. Fran was the last one to return.”

  “Very possible. The food has already been doctored and set aside. The ghost leaves and the waiter arrives before Fran returns. Oh, and I found out Fran’s critique group consists of Carla Jeffers, Elaine Graham, and Beth Whisnant. Do we call them, too?” Nancy asked.

  “Later. Let’s try this on for size. The ghost returns from doctoring the food, maybe sees Fran’s purse on the floor next to her chair, pretends to drop something, grabs the purse and leaves, which tells me she knew about the injection pen. No one notices.”

  “And hangs it in a restroom stall to be found much later,” Nancy pointed out.

  “Time frame might need some work, but I’ll bet that’s what happened. I talked to Gil a while ago.” She told Nancy about the waiter still being unavailable. “I was wondering if we could help in any way. I mean, he might not have wanted to talk to the cops, but be more receptive to us. I know where he lives.”

  “You thinking what I’m thinking?”

  “Road trip. He might be there, but not answering the door. If nothing else, we can always knock on neighbors’ doors pretending to look for him, and then ask questions.”

  “When do you want to go?”

  “Now? It’s not quite four. It can’t hurt to try.”

  “All right, I’ll come pick you up in fifteen minutes.”

  Anne hung up and wrote a note to Ken and Lisa saying she was with Nancy and would be home soon.

  “So where are we heading?” Nancy asked as they left Anne’s.

  “The Escondito Apartments on San Sebastian Drive. I don’t know the apartment number, but we can look at the mailboxes.”

  Ten minutes later, they pulled into the parking lot. The complex consisted of three buildings none of which were in good shape. Peeling paint and broken gutters told the tale. A small communal balcony ran the length of the buildings making it look like a cheap motel. It wasn’t quite a slum, but was well on its way.

  Nancy parked near the first building. A row of mailboxes stood out front like dilapidated sentinels. No Jeffery Wainwright was listed. They moved on to the second building and found his name. His apartment number was two-fifteen. They climbed the concrete steps avoiding touching the rusting handrails. The apartments on either side of Wainwright’s had “For Rent” signs stuck in the window. They’d seen several of those on the first building.

  Anne paused in front of the door, looked at Nancy, and then knocked. No one answered. She repeated her actions two more times with the same results.

  “Jeffrey, Jeffrey Wainwright are you in there?” she called out.

  A woman came out of an apartment farther down the balcony.

  “You looking for Jeff?”

  “Yes, have you seen him?” Anne asked.

  “Not recently. Saw him on Saturday night. Car was gone on Sunday morning.”

  “Uh, thanks, maybe I’ll just leave a note.”

  “Are you really going to leave a note?” Nancy said as the woman walked away and down the stairs.

  “No way, but it’s obvious he’s taken off.”

  Nancy wiggled the loose doorknob. “Doesn’t look too secure. Maybe if we worked it enough, it would open.”

  “Gil would kill us.”

  “Yeah, but we could always say it was unlocked or not latched properly. I wonder what the legalities are with private citizens doing something like this.”

  “Probably the same as a burglar. It’s called breaking and entering. I seem to recall we got into a lot of trouble doing the same thing at Dorie’s.”

  “I suppose you’re right.” She frowned and felt the door. “That’s funny, the door is cold.”

  Nancy manipulated the doorknob aga
in and leaned against the cracked wood. The lock sprang and opened a few inches. Cold air rushed out.

  “On my God, what is that smell?” Anne clasped a hand over her nose.

  “Something dead,” Nancy replied choking. “I think we may have found Jeffrey Wainwright.”

  Chapter Eight

  Nancy called 9-1-1 while Anne ran down the steps to barf into the nearby bushes. It didn’t take long for six police cars, two fire rescue trucks, and an ambulance, all with lights flashing, to crowd the parking lot. Curious neighbors stood in groups talking amongst themselves. Crime scene tape cordoned off the area around Wainwright’s apartment. Anne and Nancy gave their names and addresses along with a preliminary statement to one of the policemen first on the scene, and now stood off to the side at the bottom of the stairs.

  “This is four, isn’t it?” Nancy asked.

  Anne still fought her rebellious stomach. The flashing lights from the vehicles didn’t help the situation any. “What?”

  “Bodies. This is the fourth body you’ve found in a little over a year. Five if you count Fran.”

  “I don’t keep stats like that,” Anne said with a groan. “And I didn’t find Fran. She kind of found all of us.”

  Her attention was diverted from talk of bodies when Gil drove up. He exited his car and walked over to them. The look on his face told her they were in trouble.

  “What the hell are you doing here?” he demanded.

  Anne sighed. “Well, we thought…”

  He cut her off. “Never mind. Save it for the police station. I assume you’ve already spoken with an officer.”

  Anne nodded. “Just the basics.”

  “I’ll need statements from both of you. Stay here until I get back.”

  He walked away with a strong, angry stride.

  “I don’t think he’s too happy with us,” Nancy said.

  “Offhand, I’d say he’s downright furious,” she replied.

  Gil spent the next twenty minutes upstairs behind the tape with the rest of the law enforcement people before rejoining them. He stared at the women for several long seconds.

  Unnerved by his scrutiny, Anne shifted from foot to foot before breaking the silence. She spoke in a hurried voice.

  “I Googled the Escondito Apartments. We came because we thought we could help by asking him questions. Just because he didn’t answer his door, doesn’t mean he wasn’t here. The neighbor told us she hadn’t seen him or his car in several days. We kind of jiggled the doorknob. I guess it wasn’t latched properly, so it opened. Then we smelled him.” She paused to take a breath. “It is Jeffrey Wainwright, isn’t it?”

  “It is. His driver’s license was in his wallet.” He continued to glower at them.

  “Don’t give me that stare,” Anne said. “We found him for you.”

  “Anne, this isn’t the time to get confrontational,” Nancy whispered in her ear.

  He glared at her. “Don’t push it, honey.”

  Nancy cleared her throat. “How was he killed?”

  Gil’s eyes shifted to Nancy. “Don’t know yet. Found a bag of what looks to be coke in the kitchen along with a powdery residue on the counter. Could be an overdose.”

  “How long has he been dead?” Anne asked.

  “Long enough to stink. I’d say at least three days, but it’s hard to be accurate without an autopsy,” he replied. “The air conditioning was turned down as far as it would go. That would help retard decomposition. Now, I want both of you at the station immediately. Give your statements, and then go home. I’m going to be here for a while.”

  “I doubt I’ll be having an early night. Drop by if you can or give me a call…please,” Anne begged.

  His expression softened. He leaned down to kiss her lips lightly. “All right. Now, get going.”

  Neither of the women hesitated, but turned and walked quickly to Nancy’s car parked several yards away. They both sat for a moment staring at the scene in front of them. Dusk was falling and the shadows gave the place an eerie look.

  Anne heaved a sigh. “Okay, according to the neighbor, she last saw Wainwright on Saturday night. Maybe someone came by with a bag of cocaine.”

  “But why turn down the air conditioning?”

  “The visitor could have been his supplier. Maybe Wainwright owed money and the guy killed him. Or maybe, it was a friend with a new score and came by to share. They snort up. Wainwright ODs, and the other man wants to be long gone, so he turns down the thermostat and boogies.”

  “In that case, where’s Wainwright’s car?”

  “Maybe the visitor took it.”

  Nancy shook her head. “Why?”

  “Perhaps he intended to make a night of it and someone dropped him off,” Anne suggested. “Or he came with Wainwright.”

  “And when his friend checked out permanently, he takes the keys and leaves.”

  “Sounds reasonable to me.”

  Someone rapped on the window causing Anne to jump. It was a scowling Gil. She lowered the window. “Don’t do that! You scared me.”

  “Why are you still here?” he demanded.

  “We were talking.” She told him about her and Nancy’s theory.

  “Do your talking down at the station. Now go!”

  “The least he could have done was say thanks,” Nancy mumbled as he turned and stalked away.

  ****

  It was after nine o’clock when Anne stumbled through her front door, exhausted. The police had taken their own sweet time taking down hers and Nancy’s statements. As they were leaving the station, the neighbor they’d spoken with entered. She eyed them with a suspicious stare, then moved on to an interrogation room.

  Lisa greeted her. “Good grief, what took so long? Ken and I were beginning to worry.” She stood on the balcony overlooking the two story foyer.

  During the drive to the station, she’d called saying she and Nancy had some writing business to discuss. Anne didn’t like lying to her kids, but neither did she want to burden them with the truth. Dead bodies didn’t make for good dinner conversation.

  “Oh, you know writers; once we get started it’s hard to stop.”

  Ken came down the stairs. “Mom, are you all right? You don’t look so hot.”

  “I’m fine. Just tired. It’s been a long day. So I think I’ll grab a quick bite to eat, and then go to bed. What did you have for dinner? Is your homework finished?”

  “Yeah,” Ken replied. “We both got done a while ago.”

  “And we had some leftovers,” Lisa added. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

  She waved a hand. “I’m good. But right now, I’m hungry.”

  Ken looked up at his sister who shrugged before moving off down the hallway toward her room. Ken climbed the stairs to follow.

  Anne wasn’t in the least bit hungry. Finding a ripe, three or four-day-old body tends to destroy one’s appetite. Still, she had to eat something. Dumping her purse on the counter, she headed for the fridge. A simple toasted cheese sandwich and tomato soup sounded as good as anything.

  After eating, she made her way upstairs to her bedroom, closed the door, and immediately called Rose with the news.

  “Oh my God! Do you think that whoever arranged Fran’s death killed the waiter, too?”

  “I never thought of that angle. Yet it seems that Wainwright must have been in contact with the fake waiter at some point in time.”

  Holy cow, what if the cocaine was the payoff for not showing up at work? She needed to run this by Gil.

  Rose was still talking. “And I had a panicked call earlier from Jane Whittaker. It seems members are asking for a refund from the meeting of death. She claims the bank account will be severely drained if she does that.”

  “How can that be? According to the last treasurer’s report we had over twelve thousand dollars on hand. We should be able to cover the hotel and refunds.”

  “Unless Jane is using some creative bookkeeping,” Rose said.

  “Damn, just one
more thing for my to-do list tomorrow.”

  She hung up and immediately called Jane.

  “Jane, can you come to my house tomorrow around ten o’clock?”

  “Can’t. I’m busy most of the day.”

  “How about later in the afternoon? Say around four?”

  “Four? I guess so. Why?”

  “I need to take a look at the books.”

  Jane drew in an audible breath. “Why?”

  “Because I’m the president and need to see what our financial situation is, especially since we’ll be refunding the cost of the luncheon.”

  “You talked to Rose, didn’t you?”

  The time for diplomacy was over. “Yes.”

  “All right, I’ll be there at four or a little after.”

  Anne didn’t bother to say goodbye. She was too angry. If Jane has screwed up our finances, I swear I’ll demand she resign.

  Gil had not called. She contemplated calling him, and then put the phone down. Even though he’d kissed her goodbye in the parking lot, he’d been more than displeased with her and Nancy’s actions. Best to let him cool down.

  She tried writing on her work in progress, but finally gave up. It was after eleven when she slipped into bed. What she wouldn’t give for a normal day.

  ****

  Gil called shortly after nine the next morning.

  “Hi, Gil, how’s everything?”

  “Could be better. Look I’m sorry I was so angry yesterday, but dammit, Anne, you shouldn’t have been anywhere near Wainwright’s apartment. Suppose he had been inside—alive? What would you have done then?”

  She sighed. “Questioned him, I guess.”

  “That’s not your job! I don’t mind you talking to your writer friends about things, but under no circumstances do I want you going to a suspect’s house and playing detective. I don’t care what you see on TV, it just isn’t procedure.”

  “I’m sorry, Gil. Really, I am. It won’t happen again.”

  “It better not.”

  Anne bit her lip. She deserved the dressing down.

  “Did you find out anything about the poor man?”

  “Turns out Mr. Wainwright is no stranger to the San Sebastian Police Department. A couple of DUIs, petty theft, possession of marijuana for personal use, and one bust for possession of cocaine three years ago. And one of the neighbors saw a man coming around the corner of the building around nine-thirty. Wainwright met him, they climbed the stairs, and entered Wainwright’s apartment. “