“What do you believe?”
“It’s no big deal,” she said
I thought to her that it was a big deal.
“Gilad has his ways, and I have mine,” she went on. “Everybody does, you know?”
“What ways?”
“To get even.”
“It’s strange,” I said. “I’ve heard Gilad complain about the bats around the lake. He says they’re vile creatures, full of germs. Why would he look for a nest of germ carriers? Could he have been doing something else?”
“I have no idea what you mean.” She reached for the doorknob.
“You two will find a way to work it out.” I hoped to keep the conversation alive.
She smiled weakly. “Yes, what crazy things we women do for our men. I shouldn’t say, but I’d win an Emmy for the lies I’ve said to stroke Gilad’s ego.”
A sudden image of Otto Weiner on the television drew our attention. The photograph was of Otto in younger days. The caption—man found murdered in Bellevue—was an obvious lure for the viewer to stay tuned through the commercial.
I knew what I had to do next. Since the presumption of Gilad’s guilt rested on his rage over Elsa not only having an affair with Otto but also contracting herpes, I needed confirmation of the pairing.
“My condolences for your loss. I know how close, how intimate Otto and you were.” I said it sympathetically, watching her reaction for shock or sadness.
But her face broke out in what I could only call revulsion. “Otto and me? Are you out of your ever-loving mind?”
Her profound look of horror struck me as wholly genuine. I absorbed this switcheroo, wondering what to make of it. Then I remembered a lecture from my high school Health-Ed teacher. “Remember, students, always sterilize you sex toys.”
Time to stop pussyfooting around. “Elsa, did you get herpes from Humongous Hank?”
The horror on her face deepened. “What a horrible thing to say. What is wrong with you? Herpes, I don’t have any such thing!”
She slammed the door in my face.
Five minutes later, I was down to two bottles of vitamins, Booth’s and mine. I was mentally betting dollars to donuts that Elsa was lying, but I needed to get a look at FoY’s medical records to prove it. I also had a sneaky suspicion she lied to Gilad about how she contracted herpes.
But then, I wondered why she would tell him in the first place if her plan had been to lie all along. I gave that some momentous thought as I walked down the stairs toward the administration area. One possibility was she figured Gilad would find out on his own as he did clerical work for Leland. Also, there was, as she had mentioned, the very human desire to get even for his repeated infidelity.
I can hear Elsa now: “Forgive me, Gilad, please. I satisfied my jealous rage with Otto.”
It was possible she believed that of all things to shrivel (pun intended) Gilad’s fragile ego, the news that his longtime ladylove twisted the sheets with the grimiest SOB on the planet would do the trick.
Outside Leland’s office, I used the key he kept under a potted fern to open the door and slipped inside. With the window shades drawn, it was dim but not dark. I sat in his threadbare chair and fired up the computer. While I waited, I gazed over his desk. Not much was on it, aside from what looked like bills. I shuffled through them without picking them up. I learned FoY’s carbon footprint was huge: gas bill enormous, electric off the charts. Might be time for solar panels. The next statement was on amber paper with scrolled writing. With a glance at the computer to see if it was done yet, I picked it up and read:
POISON INK
TATTOOS BY QUEENIE, SPECIALIZING IN SKULLS AND SNAKES
The receipt had a close up of the Jolly Roger I had spied tattooed around Queenie’s neck during our tussle at the wing competition. Beneath that photo was a description of services rendered; a temporary skull tattoo—scrolled in gold ink, and the time—7:15—scribbled in black. So Leland’s connection to Queenie was his temporary tattoo. But I was still lost on his reason for getting one. Yet I knew the importance of not forcing an answer during an investigation, to let it surface organically from later developments, so I made myself file it away and move on.
I managed to sign into Leland’s computer after only two tries. I thought his wife’s name as a password was too easy for a genius, but I supposed a brilliant mind wants what a brilliant mind wants. Problem was, once in, I found no medical records in his folders, which meant I would have to search the paper records filed in the clinic. Since I was already online, I decided to do a search on BO Problem. He came up on page one linked to Absurd Reality, an art gallery near FoY. Interesting coincidence. I was skeptical.
My first call was to Solo, by way of Booth’s cell number. He didn’t answer. I knew he was probably trying to sort out why Tita wasn’t making her enormously popular bereavement pies for the rioting seniors.
My second call was to Absurd Reality. A woman with a southern accent answered, and I said my name and asked to speak to Brian Oliver Problem. There came some loud throat clearing. Then he came on the line.
“Dude, call me BO or dumbshit, but never Brian,” he said in a voice that was both laidback and stern.
I laughed, but it was a sad laugh. Lipschitz had called him dumbshit in high school. “Good to see we’ve both put Lipschitz’s bullying behind us,” I said. “How have you been, BO?”
“Fair to middling, you?”
“The same. So you own an art gallery now?”
“Prepare to be amazed, dude. I’m barely making my rent.”
“I’m sorry. I hope you don’t have to lay off staff.”
“There is nobody to fire. You’re talking to Absurd Reality’s sole employee.”
“Oh, I thought the woman who answered the phone—” Maybe she was a friend or girlfriend.
“Dude, she was me. Bill collectors are such nags. Lucky you, you get to talk to the BO-ster, everybody else gets I.D. Claire. Get it? I declare!”
“Hilarious.” I figured he would appreciate honesty, so I asked straight-out about the etched Darth Vader on the plaque.
Silence. “Oh God, dude, don’t tell anyone. Look, I’m sorry, please.”
“No, no, I won’t,” I assured him.
“Old habits, you know? It was already scratched up, promise.”
“Did you see who scratched it?”
“Dude, he was bizarre, totally. A tiny geezer with a long white beard and skull cap.”
Bingo. Otto Weiner. I thanked him. “I only wish there was something I could do for you.”
“Dude, you can,” he said. “Send any artists you know my way. It’s not customers I lack, but art. No way can I keep up with demand. People are cray-cray for absurd stuff.”
“Will do,” I said and started to hang up.
“Sounds wicked, I know,” he said.
“What?” I asked.
“The little dude,” he said. “He kept mumbling ‘work brings freedom’ as he ruined the plaque. Totally wicked, huh?”
“Why?”
“Dude, I’m surprised you don’t know. I mean, we were in history class together. Work brings freedom is a sketchy translation of what the Nazis hung on the gates of Auschwitz.”
“Jeez,” I said. “Otto was imprisoned there.”
“Wow,” he said. “Must be some sort of Stockholm syndrome. That’s grisly, being so brutalized that you gotta mentally align with your jailers to get through it.”
“Grisly,” I agreed.
We disconnected.
The clinic was adjacent to Leland’s office and accessible through a connecting door. It was locked, but after a quick rummage through his top desk drawer, I found the key. The clinic’s medical records were well organized with a folder for each senior, so the hunt was easy.
I spied evidence of Gilad’s stellar health, blood pressure amazing, and cholesterol low enough to rival a mild fever, yet I found no folder for Otto. Perhaps he skipped doctors altogether, maybe out of fear. Strangely enoug
h, there were no folders for Elsa or Jane either. I thought of examining all the medical records to prove by a process of elimination that Elsa and Jane were the two seniors with herpes, but that would be inconclusive. And I worried I would be caught in the clinic if I hung around too long.
I turned and did a quick search. No haphazardly strewn folders. I closed and locked the door as I returned to Leland’s office and readied to give his computer files another look-see. Then I saw it. Gilad’s favorite woolen sweater hung over a chair in the corner. The chair faced the wall at an inconspicuous desk. A bottle of hand sanitizer and a stainless steel Broad Exposure Germ-Eliminating Wand convinced me this was where Gilad did his clerical work for Leland.
I found some folders in the tray labeled FINISHED &READY TO FILE. I lifted the stack and found Otto’s on top. Hands shaking in anticipation, I opened his folder, scanned his cardiology report. Lilith Desmont had been right; he was on beta-blockers for heart issues. His endocrinology report: oral med for Type 2 diabetes. Urology summary: benign enlarged prostate. I read further and smiled.
“No herpes.” I stomped my feet in glee. “No STDs at all.”
Then I thought of a problem, scanned the date on the urology report, and found it current, dated only last month. One down, two more to go. Beneath three other folders, I found Elsa’s file. Two knee replacements, inner ear issues, and—herpes. I let fly a quiet, “Woot, woot!”
Jane’s folder was at the bottom. Finger to the tab, I hesitated, knowing without a positive diagnosis my Humongous Hank theory would be all wet. I flipped it open and gasped. Jane was the second herpes victim.
I did a little snoopy dancing. Though a sad diagnosis for both women, I couldn’t help my excitement at having figured it out. Then I heard it—oh God—someone was opening the office door. I whipped around in time to see young Farley McCray running away.
I dropped the files back into the tray, grabbed the box of vitamins, and took off after him. I found the hallway empty, so I quickly closed the door and headed down the hallway. Just as I reached the turn to the kitchen area, someone shouted, “Hurry up.” Then some frenzied goading arose. And a thunderous, “No!”
After that: gunfire.
~The first rule of holes: if you’re in one, stop digging~
I raced toward the kitchen. A clash of shouting bellowed from around the corner. Then I heard Solo yell over the din, “That’s dirty pool. You guys cheated. And someone untied my lava-lava. Now it’s drafty.”
“Stab him. Stab him,” the crowd shouted.
“Give me a break!” Solo said. “It’s not my fault Tita said no.”
The crowd shrieked and another gunshot. Boom. I rounded the corner and skidded to a stop behind a throng of seniors.
“All right, coming through,” I said, wading in.
Solo was up ahead and blindfolded. Behind him was a portrait of Leland’s great grandfather. As I found Moshe Rosenberg’s beadle black eyes scary, I only gave it a quick look, but it was long enough to see the many push pins speckling his arm and hand, and from one pin suspended Leland’s toupee. I set aside the vitamins and untied Solo’s blindfold.
“Did I win?” he asked. “Did I pin the toupee on Mr. Rosenberg’s head?”
“Not even close.” I turned to the crowd. “Shame on you. You scared the daylights out of me. And you promised I’d be the last staffer you’d make pay like this.” Long story, don’t ask. “All of you should be ashamed.”
“Lighten up,” the Colonel said. “One of us has met his maker and still no pie.”
“But I heard gunfire,” I said.
The Colonel shrugged. “Wally tripped over his hemorrhoid donut. It popped.”
I cut my eyes to the rubber donut at his feet. Pancake flat. “But there were two pops.”
Solo tapped my shoulder. “One was me. I got nervous.”
“And you almost gave me a heart attack.” I plucked the toupee off the portrait. “All right, who took Leland’s toupee?” No one confessed, so I waved it around. “Fess up, I’ll see about pie.”
This brought Wally forward.
“You better return it to his office.” Then I remembered how I had forgotten to turn off Leland’s computer, so I said I would do it. “So what kind of pie does everyone want?”
Bedlam. Everybody shouted a different flavor. Some wanted fruit, some wanted creams. Someone yelled mincemeat and the crowd gagged. Wally lobbed his flattened donut at the troublemaker.
While they continued to argue, I grabbed the box of vitamins, dropped the toupee inside, and Solo and I hurried away. As we navigated back to Leland’s office, I kept an eye out for Farley and filled Solo in on all I’d learned over the last hour. It was a boatload of information and his head was spinning when I finished.
“Why do you think Farley ran?” he asked.
I shut off Leland’s computer. “Dunno. But keep an eye out. I want to know why he was in Otto’s room.”
Tita stood on top of the prep counter when we pushed our way through the still grumbling seniors and entered the kitchen. She had a covered tray in her hands and a pissed off expression on her face.
“Lock the door,” she screamed.
Not necessary. Gripe the seniors might, but none wanted to take on Tita face-to-face.
“They want pie,” I said.
“No shit,” she said. “But I’m glad you’re here. You two can help me escape.” She pointed to the open awning-type window at her shoulder. “The stepladder is in the mudroom and it’s off limits ‘cause of the crap dripping from the floor above. Any no way am I carrying all this food out through that dinosaur mob, so out the window it goes.”
“Why not just rustle up some pies?” I moved aside a box of baked goodies to set down the vitamins on the pastry workstation. “I’ll help.”
“Sure. No worries,” she said. Then. “Are you out of your fricken mind? I’m supposed to be at the Desmonts’ in less than a half hour to prep for Leland’s party. By the way, I rented you a van to drive the seniors tonight.”
“I heard. Thanks,” I said.
“No problem. I was already at Aero.”
“Why, did the Pinto break down?” Solo wanted to know.
She shook her head. “Only the good die young. I needed a refrigerated van to transport the food for tonight. You know that Lilith Desmont has called me five times today. The crazy spigot is wide open on that chick.”
An impatient hellloooo sounded from outside and a man’s face rose up in the open window. “Remember me?”
“Crap!” Tita handed him the tray in her hands. “He’s helping me load the van.”
The man grinned. “Do you know what I make as a plumber?” he asked Tita, and she shook her head. “Probably a good thing since I’m now getting double time.”
Tita whirled around, slapping her hands in chop-chop. Before long, we had all the boxed and assembled food passed through the window. Tita followed the last box out and disappeared.
“Can you give us a ride to my house?” I called after her.
“No room,” she said. “Take the Pinto.”
“What do I tell the seniors about pie?”
Her face rose up in the window. “How can I put this? It’s pie, Rylie, not caviar. Go to the store and buy some. Use petty cash. And go easy on the gas or the Pinto will stall.” She tossed me the keys and left.
“Let’s go,” I told Solo, striding over to the pastry workstation. “We’re burning daylight.” I paused, looked around. “That’s funny. I could have sworn I put it here.”
“What?” Solo asked.
“A box of liquid vitamins—and Leland’s toupee,” I added at realizing I had forgotten to return it to his office.
“Uh-oh, I handed that box to the plumber. I guess it’s in the van now.”
I shook it off. “I’ll get them later tonight.”
We breezed into the hallway and told the seniors we would soon be serving store-bought pies. They booed us. Tough crowd.
We strode through the b
uilding, heading to the reception area to get the petty cash. Feeling happy, we discussed how to tell Lipschitz and Talon the identity of Otto Weiner’s killer.
“You should call Talon,” Solo said. “Ask him to meet you for a bite this afternoon then drop it on him over—I dunno, Chinese food, or Mexican.”
I liked the idea of telling Talon without Lipschitz, and eating something made my empty stomach growl, but I wasn’t sure I was ready to call him. “We’ll see,” I said.
“Better to fail fast than go on wondering,” he said.
I socked him in the arm. “All right, Cupid, aim that arrow elsewhere.”
As we passed the employees bulletin board, we saw the flyer for the Oleys.
“This must be where Booth got their names,” Solo said.
“Gilad, too,” I said, absorbing the gravity of someone I knew wanting me dead. Though not close, we were friends. Then there was the fact that Leland was Gilad’s nephew. Had he meant for Leland to take the rap for Otto’s death, or had it just happened that way? There were still so many unanswered questions.
“You wanna drive?” I asked Solo.
“Oh, sure,” he said.
“I’ll get the money and meet you at the Pinto.”
“Roger,” he said and strode out the side exit.
Ivy was at her desk when I approached. “How’d it go?” she asked. “Seniors still mad?”
I nodded and asked for the petty cash. “I’m buying pies from the grocery store.”
She opened a drawer, hauled out a metal box, and opened it with the combination. Only the box was empty, apart from a sticky note and an Abazaba candy bar. The note was an IOU from Leland. The candy bar was a peace offering for taking the last of the cash.
“Isn’t he something?” Ivy said. “He feels guilty for taking his own money. Nava is sure lucky, not that she realizes it. The witch,” she whispered the last two words.
I thought a moment, struck on an alternate plan. “I have a friend who might give us credit.”
Solo had the engine running when I climbed into the Pinto. He gave me a pained look. His head was wedged against the roof, his butt and arms spilled over the seat, and his knees high to heaven. “Looks like my ‘oh, sure’ to drive turned into ‘oh, shit ‘ I’m driving,” he said.
Malicious Mischief Page 17