AHMM, May 2008

by Dell Magazine Authors

  "I've already told your mother.” Howard's face creased with shame and agony. “But I'll tell it all again—though I'm not proud of anything I've got to say."

  It was a sad, terrible, ordinary story. Some twenty years ago, Howard had been a successful Philadelphia CEO with a comfortable marriage and an eight-year-old daughter named Amy. Then came the affair with a woman half his age—a midlife crisis, he called it, with a wince that said he knew that didn't excuse it—and he'd left wife and daughter behind. Bitter and proud, his ex-wife refused alimony and moved to a distant state, taking Amy with her. She'd done all she could to discourage visits; Howard admitted he hadn't tried hard to keep them up. Years later, when he learned of his ex-wife's suicide, he'd tried to find his daughter, but afraid of angering a new wife jealous of other claims on his affection or his money, he again hadn't tried hard. Amy had been lost in the foster care system, just another rebellious teenager prone to running away, doing her best to alienate anyone who tried to help her, driven by hatred for the father she blamed for her mother's death. It wasn't until his second wife left him that Howard hired private detectives to track his daughter down. By then, the trail had frosted over.

  "They found bits of information,” he said, “none of it good. Drugs, jail, worse things. But they couldn't find Amy. I gave up. By then, I'd retired and moved here—I love the water, and Philadelphia held painful memories. Three months ago, Stan Carson called and said he could put me in touch with Amy. I didn't know anything about him, so I didn't want him to come to my apartment. I thought a public place would be safer."

  "So you met at Chez Cubbe every Thursday,” Miss Woodhouse said.

  "Yes. He told me Amy was in trouble, hiding out, but he wouldn't tell me where. She'd angered a man—a criminal who deals in drugs and in, well, other things."

  "Eddie Three Ears,” I said. That was the man Carson had accused me of working for, the pimp and drug dealer Barry Glass had spoken of.

  "That's right,” Howard said. “Stan said Amy had worked for this man. But she'd hated and feared him and finally found the courage to try to break away. He wanted her back—he said she'd stolen from him. Perhaps she had. Probably, he wanted her back so he could kill her, make an example of her. So Amy was hiding, and Stan was helping her stay hidden. At least, that's what he said. I don't know if it was true."

  "Didn't Carson show you proof?” Miss Woodhouse asked.

  Howard lifted his hands. “He showed me a picture. Maybe it's Amy. The last time I saw her, she was a little girl—happy, chubby, beautiful. The woman in the picture—she's skeletal, with this haunted look in her eyes.” He paused. “But they're my wife's eyes. He's given me notes too—angry, full of pain, still blaming me, not wanting to see me. But she needs money. So I've given him some, several times. Just small amounts—I don't know if it's really my daughter, you see. And I don't have much to spare."

  "But you were a CEO,” I said. “You eat out, you pay with hundred dollar bills."

  He smiled ruefully. “My second wife ran through most of my money while we were married, took the rest as a divorce settlement. At least she didn't get my car; I fought hard for that. I eat at Chez Cubbe to be around people. If I take my roll home for breakfast the next day and save my sandwich for lunch, I can manage on twenty dollars a day. The hundred dollar bills—that's the vanity of an old man who used to be rich. Every week, I take my change to the bank, add what's necessary from my Social Security check, and get a fresh stack of hundred dollar bills. It keeps me from looking pathetic."

  The professor looked up from the manicotti she was threading. “And, I imagine, it gets you better service at Chez Cubbe."

  "What?” he said, startled. “Oh. But the people there are so kind anyway that—"

  "People who rise to the level of CEO,” the professor observed, “generally do not do so by relying on the kindness of strangers. Have you shared what you've told us with the people at Chez Cubbe? Does anyone there know about the loss of your fortune?"

  "No,” he said. “And I'm trusting you not to tell them. They respect me—they obviously think I'm eccentric, but they think I'm a success. They tell me about their little hopes and dreams, they ask for advice. It's one of the few comforts I have left."

  "And you've never told any of them,” the professor persisted, “about your affair, and your estranged daughter, and the reason for Carson's visits?"

  He hesitated. “My infidelity was the worst mistake of my life,” he said at last. “It's nothing I would brag about, and nothing I would ever be a party to again."

  Miss Woodhouse toyed with a pencil, tapping its eraser against her palm. “Will you give this information to the police?” she asked.

  "If I did,” he said, “they'd look for Amy—if it is Amy. They might find her, and that might endanger her life. I'm hoping you can find her first. I can't pay much, but—"

  "Payment is not an issue,” Miss Woodhouse said. “I'm committed to investigating this case. If I fail to resolve it quickly, however, I'll insist on involving the police."

  Reluctantly, Howard agreed. After he left, the professor insisted I take a nap. By then, my car had appeared in the driveway—Miss Woodhouse must've had someone drive it over from the waffle house—so I drove home, eager for some time to myself.

  I didn't get it. Climbing the stairs to my apartment, I was absorbed in the task of shuffling through the bills that had stuffed my mailbox, deciding which had to be paid right away, which could safely be put on hold. I opened the door, stepped inside, and saw Stanley Carson standing in the middle of my living room, pointing a gun at me.

  "Don't make a noise,” he said, “or I'll shoot."

  A gunshot would also make noise, but it probably wouldn't be tactful to point that out. I nodded. At the moment, it was the maximum response I could muster.

  Seeming reassured, he lowered the gun to a less menacing angle. “It wasn't me,” he said. “I didn't kill that guy—that David Cubbe—and I didn't knock you out."

  "Your fingerprints were on the statue,” I said. “On the iron lion cub chef."

  "On the—was that what killed him? One of those centerpieces from the restaurant? His head didn't look bashed in."

  It sounded innocent. It could have been a quick-witted response, but he didn't seem like a quick-witted guy. “It's not what killed him, but it's what knocked me out."

  "Then somebody used it to frame me,” he said. “Do I look dumb enough to leave behind something with my prints on it?"

  Actually, he did. But I probably wasn't the only one who had noticed him fiddling with the statue; somebody could've swiped it and planted it at the scene to incriminate him. “When you came out of the waffle house,” I asked, “did you see anything?"

  "I heard something,” he said. “I was coming out the back door when I heard this yelp in the parking lot. And I heard Cubbe yell something like, ‘What did you do? Are you nuts?’ Then there was a moan, and a thud. I waited a few minutes, too scared to move, then went out into the lot. There you were—you and him, next to the dumpster."

  "So you called the cops,” I said. “But you ran. Why? That made you look guilty."

  "I know,” he said. “But I've had bad experiences with cops. Whenever I've tried to talk to them, they've never believed me, not once."

  "Were you telling the truth those other times?” I asked.

  "Well, no,” he admitted. “But even so. They coulda been more trusting."

  I let that pass. “Well, I believe you. My boss will too—she's thought all along that someone's framing you. Any ideas about who?"

  "Someone from the restaurant, maybe,” he said. “Nobody there likes me—I could tell. Especially that waitress, Brenda. I don't think she liked seeing me get friendly with Howard. I think she's got her eye on him—she's always real flirty with him."

  "But he's old enough to be her grandfather,” I said. Still, years ago, Howard had left his wife for a younger woman. Maybe he had a chronic weakness. Another thought hit me. “How
did you get in here? How did you know where I live?"

  "Credit card got me in. That's a real crummy lock. And I got your address from a friend who works at the hospital they took you to last night. Don't ask me her name—I'm no snitch.” He stepped forward. “I said what I had to say. You're the detective—you figure out the rest. Guess I'd better tie you up now, so you can't call the cops."

  With some effort, I convinced him that would be too melodramatic. I couldn't get him to turn himself in, though. So we compromised: He'd leave, and I'd count to three hundred before calling anyone. We shook on it, he left, and I counted.

  "An interesting encounter,” Miss Woodhouse said when I called her. “You still need rest, though. Come here at six. We'll have dinner and decide what to do next."

  Rest didn't come easily—too many theories crowded my mind. I dozed jaggedly, snapped awake before the alarm clock buzzed, knocked on the Woodhouses’ door at six sharp, and spilled out my suspicions while the professor ladled out chili.

  "I think it's Brenda,” I said. “I think she killed Little Dave."

  "Indeed?” Miss Woodhouse said, passing the onion muffins. “And I have some new evidence that might support that theory. But tell us your thoughts first."

  "Well, you'd figure a murderer would try to arrange some kind of alibi,” I said. “Chuck and Terry didn't bother. Brenda stayed at a bar until two a.m.—judging from Chuck's reaction, that isn't something she'd usually do on a Thursday. And she seemed eager to tell us about her alibi this morning. But the alibi doesn't cover the actual time of the murder—unless the police found a witness who can put her at the bar before eleven."

  "Not yet,” Miss Woodhouse said. “They're still looking."

  "So she could have done it,” I said, “and run to the bar and then gone home."

  "She would have had to work in a stop at Chez Cubbe,” the professor pointed out, spooning sautéed olives onto my plate, “to put the Minute Marinator in the dishwasher."

  "That'd be easy,” I said. “She said her apartment's near the city dock—that's close to the restaurant. She could wait till she'd talked to the police, then go back to Chez Cubbe and get rid of the marinator. The police weren't thinking of her as a suspect, so they probably didn't search her, right? And she must have a key to the restaurant—she came by this morning without calling first to make sure Chuck was there to let her in."

  "Chuck has a key too,” Miss Woodhouse observed. “So does Terry, obviously. And they both live within minutes of the restaurant, which is in a rather isolated spot. Any of the three might have judged a quick trip to Chez Cubbe a reasonable risk. But continue with the case against Brenda. What motive did she have?"

  "Ambition,” I answered. “She wants to be a celebrity, but she hasn't gotten a break. Maybe she's been looking for shortcuts, for someone who could rent a theater for a one-woman show, manufacture her designs, whatever. Little Dave might've looked like a good prospect: He owned a restaurant, he probably had cash—"

  "He didn't,” Miss Woodhouse cut in. “I checked. He was in debt. The restaurant was his only asset, and it lost money every month."

  "Oh.” That stumped me, but only for a moment. “Maybe Brenda didn't know that. Or maybe she'd found out recently, and that made her decide Howard looked like a better prospect—a supposedly wealthy old man with a fondness for younger women."

  "And you think Brenda knew about this fondness?” the professor said.

  "Maybe Howard told her his story,” I said, “to get her sympathy. When you asked him, he was quick to say he hadn't told anyone at Chez Cubbe about losing his money. But when you asked if he'd told them about other things, he hedged—he just said he'd never brag about his infidelity or do anything like it again. With Brenda, infidelity wouldn't be an issue—Howard's single now, and so is she."

  Miss Woodhouse smiled quietly. “Good observations,” she said. “Sound logic."

  I flushed—she doesn't hand out many compliments. “Then Stanley Carson comes along,” I said. “That's got to make Brenda nervous. If Carson can get Howard together with his daughter, Howard might give his money to Amy, not Brenda. So Brenda's first scheme is to hire you and have Carson roughed up. When you say no, she decides to get rid of both Carson and Little Dave. If she's going after Howard, dumping Little Dave could be awkward: He might get mad enough to tell Howard she's been stringing them both along. So Brenda gets Little Dave to help her in some plan to scare Carson off. I don't know how she'd talk Little Dave into that—"

  "Perhaps by promising to split Howard's fortune with him,” the professor suggested. “Little Dave needed cash more desperately than Brenda did. Perhaps Brenda persuaded him she'd use Howard just long enough to secure his money, then give Little Dave all he needed to save his restaurant—and renovate it."

  "That's right,” I said. “Little Dave was broke, but he was planning this big renovation. He must've been hoping to get cash from somewhere—probably, from Howard. No wonder he agreed to go along with Brenda's plan."

  "If you're right,” Miss Woodhouse said, “the plan was to put a gun into your allegedly unsteady hands and scare you into killing Carson. But Brenda double-crossed Little Dave, killing him instead. That would explain what Carson overheard. It's plausible. But we have no real proof. The police did, at my request, check Brenda's phone records. Last night, she received a 10:26 call from Little Dave's cell phone."

  "That fits,” I said. “It practically proves those two were conspiring."

  "Practically—but not quite.” Miss Woodhouse stood up. “Mother, I must ask you to excuse us. I think Harriet and I had better have a talk with Brenda."

  * * * *

  When we got to Brenda's apartment building, we saw a row of four rusting metal mailboxes lying on the foyer floor. Miss Woodhouse gazed at the battered security door.

  "Someone might have ripped the mailboxes from the wall and thrown them against the door,” she said. “But the door didn't give way.” She pressed the buzzer for Brenda's apartment several times, then stood back, aimed a precise, powerful kick at the security door, forced it open, and took out her gun. “Keep behind me,” she said.

  She had to kick open the door to Brenda's first-floor apartment too. As instructed, I kept behind her, but even so I saw the devastation immediately—drawers dumped out onto the floor, sofa cushions slashed open, clothes ripped from closets. Then Miss Woodhouse took a step forward, and I saw the worst of it—Brenda, still in her black raincoat, crumpled facedown on the floor. A few feet away from her lay a small gun. I cried out and rushed to kneel by her side, to feel uselessly for a pulse.

  Already, Miss Woodhouse had checked every corner of the tiny apartment. Sure we were safe, she called 911 and walked over to the broken kitchen window.

  "We're supposed to think,” she said, “that a burglar broke the window, climbed in, and searched for valuables. When Brenda came home unexpectedly, the burglar panicked and shot her. But what burglar slashes sofa cushions? Don't touch anything, Harriet, but look around. The thing the killer was looking for might still be here."

  Unlikely as that seemed, I did as told. Brenda's purse sat on the kitchen table, its contents spilled out. I crouched down to look at a thin sheet of yellow paper emblazoned with a bank logo and called Miss Woodhouse over.

  "Look,” I said. “A receipt for a safe deposit box, dated today."

  "Interesting.” Miss Woodhouse reached into her own purse and took out a list of names and phone numbers. “Call them all, quickly—Terry, Chuck, Howard. Let's see who has an alibi this time. Don't tell them about Brenda."

  Seconds before the police arrived, I finished the last of the calls. “Terry's at home,” I reported. “I couldn't reach Howard. No answer at Chuck's apartment, but I got him on his cell—he's in his car, he says, on his way to Terry's house."

  "Then we'll go there too,” she said, “as soon as we finish with the police."

  We finished more quickly than I would have thought possible. When Detective Barry Glass arrived, j
ust minutes after the first uniformed officers, Miss Woodhouse took him aside, speaking to him urgently. He nodded and we were free to leave.

  She drove the short distance to Terry's house, so absorbed in thought that I hesitated to speak. “Do you still think Brenda murdered Little Dave?” I ventured at last.

  "I never said I did think that,” she said sharply. “You thought that. But no, I don't think she did. I think they were both murdered by the same person."

  "But why?” I said. “Who'd want to kill Brenda?"

  "Figure it out,” she said, her eyes hard on the road. “Think about the way Brenda acted when she first came to the restaurant this morning, about how her manner changed after she came back from the office. Think about the questions she asked you. And think about this: If Little Dave and Brenda weren't plotting a murder together, why did he call her at 10:26? Why did she then go to a bar and stay ridiculously late?"

  I had maybe two minutes to try to sort it all through before we arrived at Terry's. A red Escort I recognized as Chuck's was parked out front, and a classic Mustang was pulling into the driveway. We got to the front door moments behind Howard.

  "Good to see you,” he said, not looking like he meant it. “I'm here to—well, pay my respects. I'm not a personal friend, of course, but in view of the tragedy, I—"

  Terry cut his fumbling short by opening the door. “Howard! What a nice surprise! How considerate of you!” she said, then saw us and grimaced. “Again?"

  "We have news,” Miss Woodhouse said. “May we?"

  Standing aside with an air of aggrieved resignation, Terry let us enter the beige-on-beige living room. Chuck sat on the sofa, slumped and brooding; Howard hesitated a moment before sitting next to him. We remained standing.

  "I have bad news,” Miss Woodhouse said, managing to keep her eyes on all of them. “I apologize for announcing it so abruptly. Brenda has been murdered."

  Terry gasped and put her hand to her mouth; Chuck just stared numbly; Howard looked instantly ready to cry. “Little Brenda?” he said. “Oh no. No."