7 Madness in Miniature

by Margaret Grace

  She waved her hand in a “no big deal” way. “I’m always barging in for something.”

  With permission from a nineteen-year-old, I strode confidently toward the future employee’s lounge. A few feet away, I smoothed my dress and hair, as if I were about to make an important entrance. I still hadn’t figured a way to isolate Leo of the Missing Alibi, but first things first. I approached the door, ready to tap on the window. Without warning, like an alarm or a siren, the main door to the parking lot flew open behind me and three men pushed in. I was left with my arm in midair as the men, one in a light summer suit, the others in LPPD uniforms, closed the gap between us. Were cops privy to a universal key code for such barriers as alarmed doors?

  I thought they’d come for me. My delinquency in providing a statement weighed on me, the worry increasing when the man in the suit addressed me.

  “Geraldine,” said Fred Bates. An interesting choice of name for me. What did it mean that Detective Bates had abandoned the “Mrs. Porter” of our parent-teacher conference days when his son, Aaron, was my student? I searched the faces of the two younger men behind him, the ones equipped with radios, handcuffs, and guns, for signs of recognition, but I didn’t know them. “Imagine seeing you here,” Bates added.

  I backed away from the meeting room door. I mumbled something about working on the dollhouse display and alluded to a phone call I was about to make to his office just before he walked in. The SuperKrafts managers responded to the new racket by exiting their meeting room, Leo in the lead.

  “What’s up?” Leo asked. I could have sworn his look lingered on me, as if I were the one who’d called in the cavalry.

  Jeanine came up behind me. “OMG, I propped the door open for my Dumpster runs,” she whispered. “Did I forget to close it?”

  “Catherine Duncan?” Fred asked, in lieu of answering Leo directly.

  Megan’s face took on a relieved look, as did mine, as Catherine stepped forward, her eyes questioning, her body seeming to quiver as if the earth had shaken under her feet. “I’m her…she,” she said, in case I was still grading her grammar. “What…what can I do for you?” she added.

  Then it seemed as if someone had turned on a television set and a crime drama was being piped in. We were at the point in the show where the cop says, “(Name here), I’m placing you under arrest for the murder of (name here). You have the right to remain…”

  Surely it couldn’t be happening in front of me, in real life. In the next minute, the two uniformed officers were leading Catherine out the back door. Following the script in my mind, I had the urge to shout, “Don’t say anything until you speak to your lawyer.”

  When I came out of my confusion, I heard Catherine’s real voice calling out, “This is a mistake,” or something close to that, as she was hurried away by the officers.

  Fred Bates stood in front of me. “I’d like you to come to the station, Geraldine,” he said. His voice had an authoritative ring.

  I pointed to the front of the store. “I’m in the middle of—” I interrupted myself, feeling Bates’s eyes on me. “I’ll just grab my purse.”

  * * *

  I considered walking the short distance from SuperKrafts to the LPPD building, but once I hit the ninety-plus-degree air outside, I chose to drive. It also occurred to me that, if seen strolling south along Springfield Boulevard, I might be construed as having too casual an attitude toward the personally delivered call to appear. I started my car, counting myself lucky that I wasn’t sitting in the back of a squad car.

  The parking lot behind the LPPD building was nearly empty as I pulled into a spot close to the basement door about three minutes after leaving the crafts store. I smiled as I thought of what my old friends in the Bronx would say about my driving the short, easily walkable distance. I heard them in my mind: “That’s so California.”

  A kind female officer at the desk led me back to the interview rooms and offered me a bottle of water, which I gladly accepted. It wasn’t clear whether I should be happy or worried that Skip was nowhere to be seen inside the building.

  To my surprise, I was assigned to the interview room that had housed Bebe for so many hours. A faint odor of nervous perspiration lingered. I wished I knew who deserved the nice interview rooms more than I did? Had I used up all my chits for preferential treatment as the aunt of a homicide detective? There was no end to my list of questions. Where was Bebe now? There was no doubt that Catherine was under arrest. I’d heard the words myself. But why? What evidence did they have against her? And where was my nephew? I wondered if he knew what was going on. I assumed he had the good sense not to leave Maddie alone at Willie’s, but I wanted him here.

  No one had told me I couldn’t use my cell phone, but in fact, there was no service in the windowless interior room. If I had to guess, I’d say the signal was deliberately blocked.

  I took a long gulp of water, then tried deep breathing, not my best talent. When I was in an agitated state, there wasn’t much besides a resolution to the cause that could bring me down. Especially when noises, like those from the busy hallway, intruded. I could have sworn I heard someone say, “I’m innocent!” But it might have been my active imagination in highly volatile surroundings.

  It seemed forever but was probably only fifteen minutes before the door to the stifling room opened.

  “Glad you made it down,” Skip said. He was in shirtsleeves and a loosened tie. Not my official interviewer, I gathered.

  “Where’s Maddie?” I asked, putting first things first.

  “Not to worry. She’s entertaining the troops in the reception area. Seeing old friends, making new ones.”

  At least someone was having a good day. “Can you tell me what’s going on?” I asked. “You’ve arrested Catherine?” In case I really had been imagining the scene, I framed it as a question.

  “Yeah, we staged all this just to get you down here and finally give us your statement.”

  I crossed my arms. “Not funny.”

  “No, it isn’t.”

  “What’s happened to Bebe?” I asked, starting down a different road.

  “Her story didn’t check out.”

  “Her story?”

  Skip gave me a look that might have been interpreted as annoyed. “She confessed to killing Palmer. Apparently not for the first time. When were you going to let us in on your little talk with her yesterday?”

  I shrugged and made a note not to trust Bebe to keep promises that involved the police. “You just said yourself, her story didn’t check out.”

  “That doesn’t mean you shouldn’t have told us.”

  “I figured you were listening in.”

  “Not if she hadn’t been charged.”

  “I checked. I had no legal obligation.”

  I couldn’t believe I’d fallen for the trap. Skip had only guessed that Bebe had confessed to me. I’d obligingly confirmed that he was right. I was sure I made his day.

  “I’m guessing that means you asked Henry to ask his daughter and son-in-law, the criminal lawyers.”

  I shook my head. “They’re not criminal lawyers. They’re both in mergers and acquisitions.”

  Skip smiled and pointed his finger at my face. “Exactly,” he said, triumphant. Worse, he was still standing, forcing me to look up to him.

  “You win,” I said, tired of his games. I was conscious that Fred Bates would replace my nephew at any moment and I still had questions, aunt to nephew. “Why was Catherine arrested?”

  Skip sat on the table “We got an anonymous tip, pointing to evidence.”

  “You’re arresting her on the basis of an anonymous tip?”

  “Did you hear the word evidence?”

  “Yes, but you didn’t say what evidence.”

  “It’s nothing you have to worry about.”

  I waved in the direction of the shabby walls of the room. “And why am I in this room? It’s the prime suspect’s room.” I let out a long sigh. “I’ve never seen anything like thi
s. First Bebe is arrested—”

  “Taken for questioning. Never charged,” Skip corrected.

  “Then, Bebe is let go and Catherine takes her place. Am I next? You’re all acting like Keystone Kops.”

  “Who?”

  Young people these days. No sense of history, I thought. “The Keystone Kops,” I repeated, slowly. “Have Maddie do a search on Google. You’ll find them there, right alongside Charlie Chaplin. They’re comic police figures who bumble around trying to keep order and capture criminals.” I left out how they’d become the catchphrase for any incompetent group. “Your maternal grandfather loved their movies.” I drew in my breath, ratcheting back to my mention of Maddie. “Did you get a chance to talk to her about—”

  A slight tap on the door interrupted me. The tap was simultaneous with the door’s swinging open, before anyone could call out permission to enter.

  “I’ll take it from here,” Fred Bates said.

  “Whew,” Skip said, pretending to wipe his brow.

  It was good that at least one of us was relieved.

  Chapter 12

  I’d thought about asking Fred if I could have a few more minutes with my nephew. I had questions hanging, answerless—what was the evidence against Catherine, and how did the Skip-and-Maddie meeting go, especially vis-à-vis any boys on the horizon? A third question, “Who really murdered Craig Palmer?” also needed attention. And a fourth, addressed to me, was why had I done so little to aid an investigation that kept leading to my friends being detained? If I ever decided on a second career as a private eye, as Skip had facetiously suggested more than once, I’d fail the experience test.

  In the end I chose to greet Fred with a silent, submissive smile.

  He began with an apology, perhaps disingenuous, perhaps not. “Sorry about the shabby digs. It’s busy, busy today.” Fred, also in shirtsleeves, hiked up the waistband of his pants. He still had an ample shock of white hair but had added a few pounds since his son Aaron’s high school days.

  “No problem,” said I, the obliging one.

  “Is Geraldine okay?” he asked. At first I thought he was inquiring after my health, in the third person—like the irritating practice of some medical professionals I’d seen lately. But I soon understood that we were back at the how-shall-I-address-you stage. Many parents of my students had difficulty coming up with a proper salutation once I was no longer their children’s teacher. Fred and I were about to come to terms.

  “ ‘Geraldine’ is fine,” I said.

  “Good. Then let’s go with Geraldine and Fred. You understand why we can’t have Skip formally interview you?”

  “Of course.”

  He took a seat opposite me, the seat I’d occupied while I talked to Bebe. I didn’t like this new arrangement, with the battered table between me and the door. And I really didn’t like the small recorder he set out. He pressed the On button casually, as if he were simply adjusting his tie. “Let’s start with how well you knew Craig Palmer,” he said, after stating the formalities of names, date, and time.

  “Hardly at all,” I said. “He came to Lincoln Point for the first time on Friday night, as I understand it, and I met him briefly on Saturday afternoon.”

  “What was your impression?”

  “By briefly, I mean about five minutes, when he came into Sadie’s—”

  “The ice cream shop?”

  “Yes.” I realized how odd that sounded and explained the sequence of events on Saturday when Craig and Megan interrupted the peacekeeping sweet-tooth meeting among Catherine, me, and Bebe and Maisie, who’d already left.

  “What was your impression of him?” he asked again.

  I understood what Fred wanted, but hesitated to use words like “arrogant,” “demanding,” and “downright unpleasant” about a recent murder victim.

  “My impression was that he was in charge.”

  “Had you heard about him before he arrived? Was there, you know”—intentionally or not, Fred leaned in closer to me and lowered his voice—”was there any four-one-one you want to share?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Sorry, I reverted to jargon. Four-one-one is shorthand for ‘information.’ I really want to know if there was any gossip about the victim that preceded him.”

  In other words, we were getting chummy. “Gossip about Craig?” I asked, stalling.

  “Yeah. You’ve been working with his employees, like Catherine Duncan and Leo Murray, for a while now. Correct?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “So have you heard any gossip from Catherine or Leo?”

  To squeal or not to squeal. My silence after Bebe’s confession to me had got me into trouble, but only a small amount, with Skip. All in the family. In retrospect, I’d kept Bebe’s secret better than she had. Was it worth it? And wasn’t it a little off-base for Fred, a police detective, to ask for rumors? I’d told Skip everything I knew about the New York–Lincoln Point decision that was a sticky situation between Catherine and Jeff, and even the one-time romance between Catherine and Craig. Had Skip told Fred? The LPPD assigned partners on a rotating basis, so it wasn’t as if they’d been buds for years, going for beers after work. But if Skip had already told Fred what I said and I now told Fred I didn’t know any rumors, would Fred…this was beginning to sound like a word problem in algebra, the bane of my existence during my own high school days in the Bronx: If Bobby has twice as many apples as you had yesterday, what’s the capital of Peru? I could bring on a headache just thinking of the daily assignments.

  I decided it was my turn to ask a question. “Did Skip share what I told him informally?”

  Fred smiled, as if he were onto me, a civilian trying to hedge her bets, let alone discern the inner workings of the LPPD. “Why don’t you just share it all with me now?” he said.

  I knew Fred was only doing his job, but I felt he could have been more forthcoming instead of putting me on the spot with respect to what I’d told Skip. If Skip hadn’t shared with Fred, Fred might hold it against him in some way. And if Skip had shared, Fred might be ready to compare our two stories, planning to come back at one of us with a discrepancy. All of which could have been avoided, if Skip had only told me whether he’d told Fred. I tried to follow the lines of communication and again got lost in the algebra of it.

  Finally, I told all. One more time, I went through the issues of Leo’s promotion, Megan’s status, and the ever-present romantic tangle, including Video Jeff’s part. It all weighed on me and I saw that my distaste for the exercise came through to Fred.

  “I know you don’t like telling tales, Geraldine, but you understand even more than the ordinary citizen does how important it is that we know as much as possible while we’re trying to figure out who murdered a man in our hometown.”

  “But you’ve already arrested Catherine,” I pointed out. “Are you looking for more evidence?”

  Fred clicked his tongue. Not happy. “Anything else?” he asked. “Any confidences you’re still reluctant to share?” He held up his hand. “I guess that’s an oxymoron, right?”

  “Close enough,” I said, back to being an English teacher. “And no, there’s nothing else.” In my mind, I added, “…that I care to share.” I had a ridiculous moment of satisfaction at not telling either Skip or Fred about Catherine’s threatening notes. More than ridiculous once I realized that the police would soon find them as they were bound to search Catherine’s room, car, and personal belongings.

  “Then I guess we’re done,” Fred said. He handed me his card with the usual admonition to call him if I remembered anything else. I took the card, but doubted I’d be using it.

  Fred stood, pushed his chair under the table, picked up the small recorder, and opened the door to exit. Before leaving, he turned and addressed me again.

  “Say, I assume you remember the earthquake on Saturday evening?”

  As Skip himself would have admitted, the ploy was “way too Colombo.”

  I was ready for him. “At six
thirty-two, I ducked under my dining room table with my eleven-year-old granddaughter, Madison Porter, and my friend, Henry Baker, of number four-seven-six-one Sangamon River Road.”

  Fred gave me a salute. “Okay, then,” he said.

  After he left the room, I lingered a couple of minutes, going over the interview. I wondered if I should put my own alibi on Maddie’s chart.

  * * *

  Officially dismissed by Detective Fred, I was at loose ends. The morning was shot and though I’d had a wonderful time plying my craft with dollhouses, I was no closer to talking to Leo or to closing in on Craig Palmer’s killer. I was close to giving up on both, acknowledging the wisdom of the LPPD, accepting the idea that Catherine Duncan was a murderer. I still wondered what possible evidence had led to her arrest. Skip was not answering his cell phone and the same LPPD officer at Reception who let me know that Skip and Maddie had left the building also told me that Ms. Duncan was not available for a visit. I was on my own.

  I doubted Skip and Maddie would have gone back to Willie’s, but I needed food, and this time decided that the short walk up Springfield Boulevard would do me good. I pulled a floppy white hat out of a tote in my trunk and headed off under the searing noontime sun.

  I made it all the way to a seat in Willie’s without interruption. No friends, current or former students stopped me for a chat, no suspected criminal or relative of a suspected criminal asked for my help. My uninterrupted walk might have been due to the brim of my hat, which hid my face; my businesslike (antisocial?) posture in the shop might have been what kept greeters at bay. I sat hunched over, a toasted sesame bagel in one hand, a pen in the other. For the most part, I wrote nothing intelligible to anyone else, but doodled on my notepad, an activity that often accompanied heavy thinking for me.

  Suppose Catherine was innocent. What was I missing? (Represented by a series of circles in an array with some holes filled in, some open.) How could I get back on track? (I drew thin, straight lines running parallel, diverging, then coming back to parallel, but thicker.) Was it time for me to bow out, let the investigation take its course, and resume my normal life? (A collage grew on my notepad: wedding favors; guidebooks for returning students of English; a miniature police station and a tiny ice cream parlor in progress on my crafts table.) I thought back to the threatening notes Catherine had showed me. Could they have been sent by the killer, who was now trying to frame Catherine since she didn’t oblige him by leaving town? (A row of envelopes, each in its own elaborate frame, ran across the page.)