At least, unlike Ned, Sheldon didn’t view me as evil incarnate. Elated by my acceptance, he didn’t seem to notice how fast I slipped around him, skittered off the elevator and raced for the locker room.
As I zoomed past the steam room, I saw Doorknobs reclining with her nubs pointed skyward. I’d read about some group that erected triangular tents to capture atmospheric energy waves for their bodies. Maybe Doorknobs had a unique way of making contact with energy waves.
Since I hadn’t perspired much in the weight room—probably a lot less than Ned—I only freshened up, helping myself to dollops of the club’s creams and sprays. Maybe I could catch Meredith before she left to find out what the police had asked her. I could learn whether Sam was involved in the investigation. Even though I was getting hungry, I decided not to eat at Tofu Temptations Grill. Their food was contaminated. I’d talk to Meredith and then eat at home.
I couldn’t find her, but Detective Garrett found me. When I apologized for my absence in the weight room, he squinted. “I just missed you. I heard you left in a hurry.”
Blinking at the floor, I told him I’d suffered a physical emergency that required me to leave. He didn’t pursue the subject. He led me to a small room on level two that the club had provided for questioning. “How long have you known Holly Holmgreen?”
I described what happened in the pool, how Sarah and I pulled Holly out and what she’d said in the lunchroom before she left the club for the last time.
“We learned she lived alone. Do you know anything about her associates? Who she dates?”
I had no idea. Garrett’s question indicated the police knew nothing about the baby she had placed for adoption. Or maybe they did know and were tracking down the father, but chose not to reveal the information.
Our interrogation room was so cramped, I could read Garrett’s notepad. Under Holly’s name, he’d written her address, so I memorized it. I shut my eyes and asked for forgiveness. But what better way to learn who killed Holly than to search her place?
When Garrett finished with me, I drove home with my stomach grumbling and my arms aching. How could I get into Holly’s apartment on Brees Boulevard? If she lived in the units I pictured, they were in a nice neighborhood off North New Braunfels. Residents were quiet and probably didn’t meddle, at least in public. Since Garrett said Holly lived alone, I wouldn’t have to worry about a husband or roommate. The police probably hadn’t roped off her apartment with crime scene tape. Calling attention to the unseemly event would upset the neighbors. SAPD had undoubtedly checked her living quarters, but maybe I could find some detail they missed.
I stopped at the Harry Wurzbach/Burr Road traffic light and stretched my arms. I definitely couldn’t tell Sam what I planned to do. He’d be furious if I usurped his and Garrett’s authority and ignored SAPD. If I did find something, my discovery could blight the department’s reputation.
Part of Sam’s suffering, I suspected, was from his inability to prevent Katy and Lee’s deaths. His feelings of responsibility weren’t rational, but his training included averting catastrophes. I knew he’d do everything possible to keep me from tracking down Holly’s killer. To get into her apartment, I’d have to be sneaky and fast. Fortunately, my legs felt operational.
In mystery novels, sleuths picked locks with a credit card, but I didn’t know how to do that. A dexterous person, I’d read, could pick a deadbolt lock by using a hairpin with the rubber tip pulled off. Being mechanically inept, I figured I’d still be probing when the cops came to haul me away.
After parking Albatross in my garage, I went into the kitchen to microwave a weenie and eat a banana. I needed sustenance to attend class and to gear up for breaking and entering. Maybe I could get Holly’s apartment manager to let me in. I could go just before 5:00 p.m., when the manager was about to close for the day, and conjure up something credible to tell him.
My stomach felt unsettled, but better than usual. I’d endured some pretty traumatic events. Whose stomach wouldn’t rebel? Body pain also contributed to nausea. I dressed in a beige sweater and slacks with no jewelry, swiped on pale lipstick and grabbed a crushable hat to cover my hair. To sneak into Holly’s apartment, I needed to be monochromatic and unmemorable.
Class didn’t start for an hour. To get my mind off planning an illegal entry, I decided to visit Grace. Just as I stepped outside my bungalow, a gold tone Lincoln Continental glided up to Grace’s curb. A man emerged. Grace’s suitor? He wore a tweed overcoat, brown gloves and a brown felt fedora. Neatly trimmed gray sideburns inched below the hat. He looked down, so I couldn’t see much of his face.
I walked toward Grace’s house. “Hi. Are you visiting Grace, too?” Curiosity was a powerful motivator.
He smiled up at me with keen eyes, amused. “Yes, we’re going to a movie. You are?”
“Grace’s next door neighbor, Aggie Mundeen.” From behind Grace’s door, Boffo barked and growled. The mutt must have heard my voice.
“Boffo!” Grace ordered. “It’s Elmore. Quiet down.”
I considered retreating so Boffo wouldn’t eat my foot before he attacked Elmore’s expensive shoes. I wheeled toward my bungalow. “Bye, Elmore. Tell Grace I’ll catch her later. Enjoy the movie.”
Slipping inside my door, I cracked it open enough to peek through. Grace wore a long black skirt and sweater, red spike heels and makeup. She’d tied a red ribbon in her hair. Elmore hugged her while Boffo barked. Even from my house, I could see that when Elmore released her, she resembled a purring cat.
When she leaned over to grasp Boffo’s collar, Elmore bent down to pet him. I slapped my hand over my mouth. Elmore was about to lose a finger. Boffo licked Elmore’s hand and flipped on his back so the man could rub his stomach. The scrappy mutt mushed into docility. Amazing. This suitor thing might develop into something.
I had to get back to business and plan my strategy.
Thirteen
It was time to drive to University of the Holy Trinity. Since I’d missed Dr. Carmody’s Monday and Tuesday classes, and he’d hung up on me, I didn’t expect a warm reception. Clad in neutral garb with no makeup except lip gloss, my strategy was to slip into class unnoticed and melt into a chair near the door.
As I tiptoed in, a dozen students, flopping around desks in various postures of disinterest, glanced up. Professor Carmody honed in on me, peering through Coke-bottle lenses. His buzzard head perched on his stuffed bear body. He sniffed, as though a bad odor had assaulted his knifelike nose.
“You are?”
“Aggie. Aggie Mundeen.”
He snapped his eyes to the list on his desk, as though he hoped my name wasn’t on it, and ran a fat finger down the paper. “Mundeen. Mundeen...Agatha.” His voice dropped. “You missed class Monday and Tuesday.”
“Yes, sir.”
He frowned at me through smudged optics. “You called me at home to request my notes.”
“Yes, sir.”
He stretched a scrawny neck from his barrel chest and glowered through bifocals. “Is this the care and concern you usually give to academics?”
“No, sir. I suffered an unavoidable event. A family emergency.” I hated kowtowing to the old stuffed bird. The situation brought back memories of acquiescing to inflated egos during night school in Chicago. But the safest approach was to limit my responses. I didn’t want him to kick me out of class before I learned how to avoid aging.
“Take a seat.” He indicated a chair on the first row where my angle of vision was on a level with his paunch. If I looked up, I’d see beady eyes straining through scratched glass and nose hairs.
“Let’s get started.” He wrinkled his beak. “Today we consider the effects of under-nutrition on health and longevity. UCLA scientists fed mice thirty to sixty percent fewer calories than normal in food containing necessary nutrients. The mice lived far beyond their normal life spans. Refer to graphs on page thirty.”
Did anybody care whether the mice were happy or miserable during their prolonged
lives? My stomach growled. The weenie and banana I’d consumed were proving insufficient. When I blinked, a jar of crunchy peanut butter materialized on the wall behind Buzzard’s head. I struggled to focus on page thirty.
Buzzard driveled on. “Since under-nutrition increased the life spans of other organisms, researchers investigated how caloric restriction affected aging in primates, our closest animal relatives.”
I had doubts our unique bodies had descended, fully formed, from animals, but it was interesting to muse over which creatures could have passed a few genes to Carmody, considering his round body and buzzard noggin. My immediate concern was lasting through the afternoon without additional nourishment. When I focused on the wall, the peanut butter vision blurred. Carmody prattled on.
“Tufts University scientists discovered that caloric restriction in mice prevented or slowed the development of every disease and all types of tumors. They wondered whether caloric restriction would similarly affect humans.”
Now he was getting somewhere. I blocked out the peanut butter mirage. Carmody obviously never strove to reduce calories, but I might actually give the plan a whirl. I needed to live a long, disease-free life. I had a murder to solve.
He cited other studies supporting the value of under-nutrition. Despite his ponderous delivery, the topic was interesting. At least he hadn’t dropped me from class or, worse, excommunicated me from grad school. Relieved, I let my mind wander to breaking and entering.
As soon as class ended at 4:00 p.m., I drove down Hildebrand to my house to grab a Coke and find a bigger banana. I had plenty of time to get to Holly’s apartment on Brees Boulevard by 5:00.
Once my stomach was full, I pulled a khaki baseball cap down over my hair and maneuvered Albatross down New Braunfels, past the McNay Art Museum, toward Brees. When I applied the brake, my thigh cramped. When I veered right on Holly’s street, both arms ached. Getting in shape meant living with pain.
I drove up the hill and turned into the block-long complex of pink brick apartments, found the manager’s office and rang the bell. My monochromatic clothes were perfect for an illegal entry. As I waited on the stoop, window blinds to my left parted and then snapped shut.
Seconds later, a sour-faced woman cracked the door. Yellowish mousy hair, teased and sprayed in a 1950s style, poufed around her face. This must be beauty shop day. Her blue shirtwaist dress hung straight to her knobby knees. A toe poked through one of her furry house shoes.
“I’m sorry to bother you, but my mom sent me to my sister’s apartment. Holly died unexpectedly, and Mom is devastated. She’s sixty-two and bedridden. She asked me to bring her Holly’s photos before they get tossed out. Isn’t apartment 305 just around the corner? It’ll only take a few minutes. I’ll lock up.”
She squinted cataract-blurred eyes. “The police already mucked around here. What happened to your sister?”
Dropping my gaze, I pictured Holly’s body and sniffed. “She died in a terrible traffic accident. So unexpected.” I rolled up misty eyes. “You have the key to her apartment, don’t you?”
Her eyes narrowed to milky slits. “What was her last name, your sister?”
“Holmgreen. Holly Holmgreen.”
“What’s your name?”
“Norma. Norma Abernathy. My husband’s name is Able.”
“You don’t look a thing like Holly. Aren’t you too old to be her sister?”
I noticed the vulnerable toe sticking out of her shoe. “Mom conceived Holly during menopause. She was a big surprise. That’s why Mom was so crazy about her. If I start now, you can rest and I’ll be through before you get hungry for supper.”
“Well, the police got what they wanted. Holly paid ahead for a month. Follow me.” She grabbed keys, shuffled to 305 and let me in. She formed a yellow smile under her bulbous nose. “Do you need an apartment?”
“I have one, thanks.” I smiled sweetly and closed the door, careful not to snag her toe.
Holly had decorated her habitat with pink French mini-prints on the overstuffed loveseat and chairs. White gauzy curtains hung at the windows. Boffo could destroy her fluffy rug in seconds.
Her kitchen and bath were tidy and ordinary, so I traipsed to the bedroom. A baby-blue quilted spread, with bows stitched onto buttons, topped the puffy king bed. On the nightstand lay two bodice-ripper romance novels, a couple of hair and fashion magazines and one on vegetarian cooking.
I peeked into her closet. Ruffles trimmed most of her dresses and blouses. For her tiny feet, she had at least twenty pairs of shoes with spike heels. Her flat shoes had straps across the instep. Most girls in their early twenties dressed to appear older, not younger.
The police had undoubtedly removed photographs, but a few framed pictures remained. One photo lay face down on her dresser, so I picked it up. Mickey Shannon smiled at Holly with his arm encircling her waist. His fingers spread up toward her breast. She didn’t look like she objected.
I opened her top dresser drawer and poked around. The police had either overlooked a packet of pictures or considered them unimportant. I flipped through three or four photos of Holly with Ned Barclay. The sweet, handsome man apparently adored her. It looked reciprocal.
A group photo showed club members and staff at a party. Holly sat near Sheldon Snodgrass. Both were laughing. I spotted Manager Harry Thorne in the picture, looking morose.
There were more photos of Holly with Ned, Mickey and Sheldon. Did one of them father her child? Did one of them kill her?
I padded back to her closet. Captivated by the doll-like quality of a black flat with embroidery across the top, I picked up the shoe to see whether the design was glued or stitched on. A wrinkled scrap of paper was wedged in the toe. I dug out the paper and peeled it open, expecting to find a store receipt. Instead, I found a typed message: “Sorry to be possessive. I know you hate restrictions. It’s just that I care.”
Someone had torn the paper across the bottom, eliminating the signature. Why didn’t Holly rip up the note instead of tearing off the signature and crumpling the paper in her shoe? Maybe she was glad that he cared, whoever he was, even though she didn’t like restraints. Who had tried to constrain her? Mickey? Ned? Sheldon?
The typestyle on the note was common. I’d seen the same lettering on documents at the bank. Fingerprints would be on the paper, but I’d have to consult the police to learn whether they could find a match. Not an option. Sam would find out I’d been snooping.
I folded the paper into smaller and smaller squares and stuffed the wad down the front of my bra. I snatched up four framed photos and heard the front door click. When I whirled around, Sam stood at the threshold.
He stared at me, glanced at the photos, raised his eyebrows and studied my face.
“Why’d you come here, Agatha?” When he was in a jovial mood, he called me Aggie.
“I...I...was concerned about Holly.”
“We’re all concerned. That’s why SAPD has a homicide team. That’s why I’m here. I wanted to see whether anything was disturbed after Garrett and I examined the place.”
Gad. Sam and Detective Garrett were working as a team: one from Homicide, one from Traffic.
His eyes focused on me like lasers. “Why are you here?”
I sensed his anger covered more than my breaking and entering. Did he think my interference suggested he was incapable of finding Holly’s killer?
Maybe my intrusion made him think I blamed him somehow for his wife and daughter’s deaths years before. Perhaps he thought I didn’t trust him to discover the truth now because questions about their accident had never been fully answered. I’d heard talk at Chicago PD about whether some criminal who hated Sam could have planted worn brake hoses in Katy’s car. Investigators never proved the cause of the crash.
Sam’s hostility blanketed me like a shroud. I hated having him angry with me. I didn’t want him to think I was hiding facts about Holly’s murder, so I decided to come clean.
“In the lunchroom on the day she
died, Holly told me she’d delivered a baby. After months of anguish, she gave her newborn up for adoption. She was depressed and took Valium before she got in the pool the day she...the day before the car hit her.”
I wanted him to appreciate the difficulty of Holly’s decision. He didn’t need to know I’d withheld the information that she almost drowned. Having gone that far, I blurted the additional reason for her distress.
“Holly gave up the baby without knowing where the infant went or who would raise the child.” My voice broke. I couldn’t help it. I sniffled. “I guess I wanted to come here so that, somehow, Holly will know somebody cared.”
He flushed. “So you think Holly worried about where her child went? She could have chosen open adoption with her, the child and the adoptive parents knowing each other.” His teeth were clenched. His voice grew louder. “Or semi-open adoption, where she sent the child gifts on special occasions, without the adoptive parents or her child ever knowing who or where Holly was.” His face took on a purple hue.
“At that point, what did it matter? Once Holly got pregnant and decided she didn’t want her baby, there weren’t any great options.” His fury made him irrational. If he ever learned the truth about me, he’d wish I’d been run over with Holly.
He filled his lungs, blew air through his nose and spoke through a locked jaw.
“Now. What did you discover to help us find Holly’s killer?” He was struggling to return to an even keel, but his eyes didn’t belong to my trusted friend from Chicago.
“Here are some photographs.” I lifted them, my hands shaking. “Maybe one of these men fathered her child.”
He took deep breaths as he studied the photos. “We saw these photographs and others. We’re questioning those men. Maybe one of them killed her. That’s why you shouldn’t be here, Agatha. If one of them is the killer, he might decide to track you down.” He let his message sink in.
Fit To Be Dead (An Aggie Mundeen Mystery Book 1) Page 9