Die Buying

by Laura Disilverio

  Gesturing me to a red-padded, straight-backed chair, Helland settled into the swivel chair behind his desk and leaned back, arms crossed over his chest. “Tell me what you think you’ve got here.”

  I pointed to the photo of Henrik Dawson in the middle of his desk. “I’m damn sure we have the guy who stole the reptiles from the Herpetology Hut. And he might be Porter’s killer.”

  “How do you figure?” He raised a skeptical brow.

  “I did a little online research and there’s more than one environmental group pissed off at Porter’s development activities. I know it’s a long shot, but isn’t it possible this Dawson guy thought he could stop Porter’s building projects by killing him?”

  “Possible, but not likely,” Helland said dampingly. When I started to protest, he held up a hand. “Still, it’s worth talking to him. We’ll pick him up.”

  I smiled internally, but kept it off my face. “Ask about Agatha when you find him.”

  “Agatha?”

  “The stolen python. What else have you got? Any leads on Wedzel’s murder? Or Robbie’s death?”

  Helland thumped a hand on a file folder. “The ME has ruled Robbie Porter’s death an accidental overdose. Only his fingerprints on the syringe and the rubber tubing. No defensive wounds or signs of a struggle. Enough heroin in his system to take out a rhinoceros.”

  I pondered that. Could Robbie have committed suicide? It seemed strange that he’d choose the mall garage as his location and set up a meeting with me, but maybe he was being considerate in an odd way by ensuring his mom or a friend didn’t find his body? “And Weasel? I mean Billy Wedzel? Anything on his death?”

  “It wasn’t suicide,” Helland said, as if it hadn’t been blatantly obvious at the scene that Weasel hadn’t shot himself in the back of the head. “We’re checking into some of his associates. Did you know that he ran a very profitable eBay business?”

  “Weasel? Really?” I couldn’t picture Weasel haunting garage sales and thrift shops for castoffs to resell online. Then the penny dropped—the virtual auction house was a popular place to fence stolen merchandise. “Do you think he was auctioning off stolen stuff?” That might explain where the missing Macy’s merchandise ended up. I wondered idly how Weasel had gotten a key, but then realized it wouldn’t have been that hard if he was friendly with a former employee.

  Helland shrugged. “We’re checking into some of his customers.”

  “So you think he was killed by a—what? Fellow thief? Dissatisfied customer?” It didn’t ring true for me. The timing—so close on the heels of Porter’s death—was too coincidental.

  “I don’t think anything yet,” he said. “I don’t theorize in advance of the evidence.”

  Sure he didn’t. Was he trying to convince me he was a robot? “At least tell me you’ve been able to eliminate some of the suspects in Jackson Porter’s death.”

  “We’ve been able to eliminate some of the suspects.” His gaze mocked me.

  The man was exasperating beyond belief. “Specifically . . . ?”

  Helland stood, towering over me, even from behind the desk. A lock of blond hair fell over his forehead. “Thank you for coming in with your information, Officer Ferris. The Vernonville Police Department is always grateful when citizens take an—appropriate—interest in reducing crime in our community.” From the way his mouth tightened at the corners, I knew he was fighting a smile.

  I rose and smiled sweetly even though I wanted to belt the man. “Always happy to help out, Detective Helland. It’s clear you need all the help you can get.”

  I started toward home but just before turning into my neighborhood, gave the Miata some gas and sped toward Wilderness Avenue, a misnamed street that comprised a large part of Vernonville’s business district. It had a cluster of banks and office buildings, including a two-story structure with “Jackson Porter Development” in large red letters across an incongruous log-cabin façade. I’d passed the building hundreds of times but never been in. Now, I wanted to see where Jackson Porter had worked and meet some of his employees. I’d been proceeding under the assumption that there was something personal about his murder, because of the humiliating way his body was left, and I hadn’t thought much about his professional connections. But really, other than family members, who’s most likely to want to kill you? The people who put up with your donkeylike laugh for forty hours a week, the coworkers you irritate with your choice of radio channels, or the subordinates whose ideas you steal.

  I opened the car door and hesitated. I had no business being here. I wasn’t a “real” cop, as Captain Woskowicz and Detective Helland frequently pointed out. I wasn’t related to Porter. Still, finding the man’s body naked in a display window had affected me. So had Weasel’s and Robbie’s deaths, even though I hadn’t liked the one and hadn’t known the other. It galled me to think that a murderer was having the last laugh, getting away with . . . well, murder. I got out of the car and strode across the parking lot, trying to think up a plausible reason for being here. I decided I’d tell whoever asked that I wanted to know if there was some place I could make a donation in Porter’s name, in lieu of flowers. Weak, but possible. I’d actually make a donation, too.

  The inside of Jackson Porter Development could just as well have been a dentist’s office or an accounting firm. Nondescript furniture and wall hangings in a small waiting area anchored halls leading off to the right and left. A vaguely familiar scent, sharp and unpleasant, permeated the room. A receptionist’s desk sat directly across from the doors, but no one sat at it as I entered. A sappy orchestration of “Muskrat Love”—one of the stupidest songs ever recorded—filtered through hidden speakers. Other than that, the office was quiet. Too quiet. Maybe the firm had gone out of business when Porter died? But no, the front door was unlocked.

  “Hello?” I called.

  “Oh!”

  The sound came from behind the desk, but still I saw no one. I started across the tan carpet toward the receptionist’s desk just as a head popped up. It was a woman with frizzy, carrot-colored hair, a wide mouth, and brows penciled on in thin arcs that gave her a permanent look of surprise. “Just a minute,” she said, her voice as reedy as a piccolo. “I’m—that is—I wasn’t expecting anyone.”

  The head disappeared for a moment, and then she stood, placing a bottle of daffodil yellow nail polish on the desk. That’s what the smell was—acetone.

  “I was doing my toenails,” the woman said. She put one bare foot, with tissue woven between the toes, on the desk so I could admire the yellow-painted nails.

  “Nice,” I said, completely at a loss.

  “It’s my spring color,” she confided, tightening the top on the polish bottle. “I know it’s technically still winter, but I’m ready for sunshine and tulips. Aren’t you?” She smiled, displaying a mouthful of braces despite the fact that she had to be close to thirty.

  “Uh, yes.”

  She held out a slim hand. “I’m Kitty Heisterkemp. Can I help you?”

  I shook her hand. “Emma-Joy Ferris. I’m here about Jackson Porter—”

  Kitty’s eyes widened in her thin face. “Didn’t you hear? He died.” She said it with such astonishment I’d’ve thought Porter’s death was the first in the history of humankind if I didn’t know better.

  “Yes, I—”

  “That’s why there’s no one here,” she said with an expansive gesture. “The boss gave everyone the week off. She said we need to regroup, give the lawyers and accountants time to do their thing. Whatever that is.” She wrinkled her nose. “But not me. I’m here to answer the phones and keep up with the mail. It’s pretty lonely.” She pointed to a romance novel splayed on the desk, a bodice ripper if the cover was anything to go by.

  “Have you worked here long?” I asked, trying to feel my way toward a question or two about Porter.

  “Almost nine years,” she said proudly. “Since I graduated from Vernonville High.” She waggled the fourth finger of her right hand to
show off a class ring set with a red stone. “It’s been great. I’ve gotten raises almost every year. I’ve learned so much you wouldn’t believe it. And I like everybody here. We’re just really close, you know? Like a family. Except . . .” She trailed off, then resumed with a bright smile. “And Jackson is—was—a super boss. He didn’t get all uptight if you came in a few minutes late, you know? And he was always friendly. Not in an inappropriate way,” she hastened to add, “except . . .” She shook her head, swishing her carroty hair around her ears. “I’ve never had a better boss.”

  She’d probably never had another boss, period, if she started working here right after high school.

  “Who’s the boss now that Porter’s dead?” I asked, deciding to go with the flow of Kitty’s artless prattle.

  “Catherine,” she said. She pulled at her lower lip. “Well, she’s not really the boss boss, not the owner, but she’s the office manager and she’s the one who gave us the week off. I guess the owner would be Elena, right? Jackson’s wife.” She nodded as if pleased to have figured that out.

  “Catherine?”

  “Catherine Lang. She started working here after her husband died—about three years ago. Wasn’t that just awful what happened to him?”

  “What happened to him?” I was still taking in the news that Catherine Lang worked for Jackson Porter. I don’t know why I was surprised—there was no reason it should have come up in my conversations with either Elena or Catherine—but I was. Maybe because Catherine Lang hadn’t struck me as the worker-bee type.

  “You know. It was in all the papers because he was rich or famous or something, although I never heard of him. It’s not like he was ever People’s sexiest man, you know.” She giggled, sounding more like a teenager than a woman almost my age. “That’s my favorite magazine—People.”

  Shocker.

  The phone rang and Kitty reached for it. “Jackson Porter Development,” she said, sounding surprisingly mature and professional.

  “I’ll come back next week when the office is open,” I mouthed at her, slipping away as she reached for a message pad.

  I climbed back into the Miata, not sure if I was glad or sorry that the office was essentially closed. On the one hand, I hadn’t gotten to meet any of Jackson’s coworkers and get their take on him. On the other, Kitty was a fount of information and she probably wouldn’t have chatted so freely on an ordinary day. On balance, I thought things had worked out to my advantage.

  Back at my house, having fed Fubar, changed out of my uniform, and snacked on carrots and hummus, I plunked myself down in front of the computer to do some research. I’d found Henrik Dawson via Google—maybe I could dig up more about the other suspects. It wasn’t like having law enforcement databases at my fingertips, but there’s a surprising amount online about almost everybody, most of which the Average Joe doesn’t even realize is out there for any old snoop to locate.

  I studied the list of suspects I’d drawn up and left on the kitchen table, adding Henrik Dawson’s name. I decided to eliminate Gatchel on the grounds that I thought Weasel’s murder was connected to Porter’s death and Gatchel was six feet under when someone shot Weasel. I also eliminated Robbie since he no longer posed a threat to anyone. Since I had talked to her this afternoon, I started with Monica Goudge, typing in her name and “Vernonville” as key words. A healthy list of hits popped up. Over the course of the next forty-five minutes, I learned that she was part of the altar guild at St. Mary’s Church (her name was in the parish’s online bulletins), that she quilted (from an announcement about an exhibit by local quilters two years back), and that she’d been involved in a nasty car wreck almost five years earlier (from the Vernonville Times). I found her address and phone number easily and MapQuested the house, discovering it was only two miles from me in a middle-class suburb where the houses went for more than Monica could afford on Diamanté wages. She must have another source of income—inheritance, alimony, big settlement from the car crash, whatever. I leaned back in my chair, thinking. Nothing came to me.

  Typing in Velma’s name, I skimmed through a bazillion dance recital programs that listed her. Several dance studios featured group photos of dancers that included Velma in a variety of sequined or floaty costumes, wearing tap shoes or ballet slippers and a self-conscious smile. In the earliest photos, she was maybe ten or twelve. In the more recent ones, she looked sleek and sophisticated, Broadway bound. A three-year-old engagement announcement popped up, and I saw that she’d been planning to marry a Bryce Underfield. Wondering if the marriage had ever taken place, I read the announcement and learned that the bride-to-be was the daughter of Victor and Monica Maldonado. Keying in Victor’s name, I got a photo of a good-looking Filipino man with skin the color of teak and short black hair. The article said he’d been convicted of practicing medicine without actually being a doctor—yowza!—and was having his resident alien status revoked and being deported to his native Philippines. The article quoted friends and coworkers who said they had no idea his medical degree from a Manila university was forged and offered testimonials from patients who swore he’d cured them of various illnesses. I could see why Monica had resumed her maiden name after—I presumed—a divorce.

  I got up to fetch a beer and leaned down to pat Fubar as he pushed in through his cat door. He smelled of cold air. Fubar skittered away from my hand, his truncated tail twitching, and I let him go. Clearly, he was in his “I’m a fierce predator who doesn’t like mollycoddling” mode. Leaning back against the kitchen counter to take the first swallow of my Raging Bitch Belgian Pale Ale, I pondered what I’d learned. Not much. The info about Velma’s dad was interesting, but I didn’t see any connection between the Maldonados and Jackson Porter beyond his relationship with Velma. Unless . . . maybe Victor Maldonado had unsuccessfully treated someone in Porter’s family and a relative was out for revenge? Even if that were true, I didn’t see how it would result in someone wanting to kill Porter. Maldonado, maybe, but not Porter.

  I returned to the table with my beer, ready for another round of “Digging Up Dirt on the Web.” Working on the theory that one’s nearest and dearest are most likely to want to kill one, I searched for Elena Porter. I knew she had an alibi that satisfied the police, but I wanted to learn more about the woman. Elena was all over the Web, mostly at society parties and fund-raisers with Jackson Porter. I studied a photo of Elena and Jackson with Catherine Lang and a tall, older man identified as her husband, Wilfred Lang, as they raised their glasses in a toast at a diabetes fund-raiser. The sight brought to mind Kitty’s comments about Lang’s death, and I decided to search for articles about it. If it had been in “all the papers” as Kitty had said, it shouldn’t be hard to find.

  I had just typed “Wilfred Lang+Vernonville” into the search bar when the doorbell rang. Startled, I strode to the door and opened it, Fubar on my heels. A sixty-ish man with gray hair stood there wearing a dark suit and peaked cap; a stretch limo idled in the street. I stared at him, uncomprehending.

  “Miss Ferris?” he asked in a soft voice. “Are you ready?” He studied my jeans and sweatshirt doubtfully.

  “Ready?” Enlightenment dawned. Dinner. My parents. Ack! How had I forgotten? “Almost,” I lied.

  “I’ll wait in the car, ma’am.”

  I g ot home from dinner with my parents well after midnight, stuffed with lobster thermidor, wild rice and shiitake mushrooms, and an elegant passion fruit tart. My dad had filled me in on the details of his latest projects, and Mom and I had enjoyed a good talk about various family members, what she might like to do while living in Alexandria, and my love life. That latter topic had yielded enough material for about eight seconds of conversation where Mom asked, “Is there anyone new in your life?” and I shook my head no. Mom sighed the “I want to be a grandmother before I die” sigh and patted my arm gently, thanking me for the crystal earrings I’d bought her at Diamanté before changing the topic to Clint and his latest travels. I fell into bed, exhausted, and didn’t
notice that my laptop was still on.

  Tuesday morning, as I was eating my oatmeal with blueberries, regretting the third glass of the extraordinary Stag’s Leap cabernet my dad had decanted—thank goodness for Lyle, the chauffeur—Fubar leaped onto the table and jarred the computer to life. Wilfred Lang smiled at me over a headline that announced “Vernonville Financier Missing.” Letting my oatmeal get cold, I scrolled down to read the article from the Washington Post. The gist of it seemed to be that Wilfred Lang, who did something important on Wall Street but lived in Vernonville, had not returned from a hike when expected. His Mercedes was found at a trailhead in Shenandoah National Park and searchers were concentrating their efforts in that area.

  I clicked on a link to a follow-up article and learned that Wilfred Lang’s body had been discovered by a young couple hiking in the Shenandoah Mountains for their honeymoon. He was several miles off the trail, in a back-country area not frequented by campers. Autopsy results showed he died of severe hypoglycemia. No backpack was found near his body, and the pathologist posited that he’d taken his usual insulin dose and then been unable to eat because his food supply had been lost or stolen. “We’ve got a lot of black bears in this area,” the sheriff said, giving one possible explanation for how Lang lost his provisions.

  The article went on to say that Lang’s wife, Catherine, said her husband was adept at managing his diabetes but that she’d tried to get him to give up his solitary hikes when the disease was diagnosed. She and a friend had spent the weekend at a spa in Pennsylvania, and she hadn’t missed him until he failed to return or call on Monday. The victim’s daughter from an earlier marriage, Aileen Lang-Quincy, called for an in-depth investigation, asserting that her father was the victim of foul play.

  Clicking to the next page, I found a lengthy obit of Wilfred Lang. Halfway through a list of his financial accomplishments and awards, I pushed the computer aside and took another bite of congealing oatmeal. “What do you think about that, Fubar?” I asked the cat, who was staring at my cereal bowl in a way that let me know he wouldn’t be averse to finishing off any leftover milk. I put it on the floor for him and stroked his head as he lapped. “I’ll bet you a year’s supply of kitty kibble that the friend who was spa-ing with Catherine Lang when her husband disappeared was Elena Porter.”