Dig (Morgue Mama Mysteries)

by C. R. Corwin

  “You’re right—that’s the way to do it.”

  “Of course you’ll want to get the men in the photos. Ties off. Feet up.”

  “Of course.”

  I pretended to have a sudden brilliant thought. “You know who you should get to shoot it? Chuck Weideman.”

  Louise’s eyebrows disappeared under her bangs. “Weedy?”

  “Absolutely. He’s been shooting the city’s bigwigs for a million years. He wouldn’t be the least bit intimidated by them or their wives. I bet he’d get some terrific candids. They might even start your story on Page One.”

  Louise was not exactly known for her hard-hitting journalism. I’m sure she could count the number of Page One stories she’d had on one finger. “You think he’d do it?”

  “He just might,” I said.

  We reached the newsroom. I felt like a skunk. A very happy skunk. “If you do go ahead with the story,” I said, “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t tell Gwen it was my idea. I wouldn’t want her to think I was taking advantage of our friendship.”

  Louise gave my shoulder an empathetic squeeze, like it was a fresh roll of toilet paper. “Of course, Maddy.”

  An hour later I slipped back to the photographers’ studio, the windowless bunker where the paper’s photographers pretend to work. Weedy was busy playing solitaire on his computer.

  Weedy has as much professional integrity as anyone else at The Herald-Union. He’d also sell his own grandmother into white slavery if it meant a Page One photo credit. And of course that’s why I put that bug in Louise’s ear about him.

  I sat on his desk and spun his monitor around so he’d pay attention. “Weedy,” I said, “you know I’m not the kind of woman who wallows in frivolity.”

  “Indeed, I do.”

  “Or plays bullshit games.”

  “If you say so.”

  “So if I were to give you a tip—as murky as it sounded—you’d take my word for it?”

  “Abso-fucking-lutely.”

  “Good. Because if Louise Lewendowski asks you to shoot a story for her, I would strongly recommend that you don’t try to pawn it off on somebody else.”

  Weedy winced. “And why’s that?”

  “Just happily accept the assignment and keep my name out of it. Okay?”

  He studied my face. “Okay.”

  I handed him the Post-it I had pinched between my thumb and index finger. “And should you by chance find yourself in a room with a mantel full of trophies, discreetly see if there’s one with this engraved on the front.”

  He read the Post-it aloud: “First Place, State of Ohio Collegiate Debate Tournament, Columbus, 1956-57.” He put the tiny square of sticky paper in his shirt pocket. “Not to sound like the glory grubbing bastard I am, but what exactly might I gain from this despicable act of subterfuge?”

  I allowed myself a grin. “Either nothing—or just maybe the most important photo you’ve ever taken.”

  ***

  Thursday, June 21

  When I got to work I found a big sack of kolachkys on my desk. Good gravy! I could have danced around the morgue like Ginger Rogers. I divided the kolachkys into three piles. Six for me, six for Eric—a necessary bribe so I could enjoy my six—and twelve for Weedy. I headed straight for his desk with his share.

  “Good news for Morgue Mama?” I asked, dangling the bag in front of his face.

  Weedy did have good news for me. The features editor had given Louise the go-ahead and he’d been assigned to do the photos. In fact he was going to do two of the shoots that afternoon: Mayor Flynn in his den. Rollie Stumpf in his. I dropped the bag in his waiting hands.

  The rest of the day was absolute torture. I marked up that morning’s paper. I had lunch at Ike’s. I dug out the files Doneta Deetz needed on the 1927 Apple Creek Bridge disaster—the county engineer was warning it could happen again if commissioners didn’t come through with the budget increases he’d requested—and I watched the elevator for Weedy and Louise.

  Finally they appeared, at ten minutes after four, carrying big red cartons of McDonald’s French fries, giggling like a couple of fifth graders returning from a field trip to the local mental hospital. I wanted to charge at Weedy like a bull, screaming “Well? Well?” Instead I got busy clipping meaningless squares out of the sports section with my black-handled scissors. Out of the corner of my eye I watched Weedy flirt his way through the newsroom. With Carol Voinovich. With Cheryl Presselo. Even with Margaret Newman. I watched him wash down his fries at the water fountain. I watched him turn toward the morgue. I watched him wipe his greasy fingers on his pants. Reach into his shirt pocket. He finally reached my desk. He smiled and handed me the Post-it. He headed for the men’s room. I pulled my reading glasses to the end of my nose, lifted my chin and read. Scribbled below the inscription I’d given him were these three words: No such trophy.

  I didn’t know whether to be delighted or depressed. I did know that I needed more information before going to Detective Grant. “Eric,” I said sweetly, “how about I buy your supper tonight?”

  Thirty minutes later we were sitting in my Shadow outside the office building in Brinkley where Rollie Stumpf had his insurance agency. I had a fish sandwich inside of me. Eric had a Whopper inside of him. He was still protesting.

  Right at five the three women who worked in Rollie’s office hurried out to their cars and drove off. “I’m not good at this kind of thing,” Eric whined.

  “Nobody is,” I assured him. “Now go!”

  So Eric went inside. My instructions to him couldn’t have been clearer: Under the guise of seeking information on insurance rates for his pickup, he was to scour every desk, table and shelf for that debate trophy.

  Eric was back in fifteen minutes with a thick stack of brochures. “And?”

  “No debate trophy,” he said.

  “You look everywhere?”

  “He’s got plaques and awards all over the walls. Couple hundred of them. All for selling lots of insurance.”

  “You’re sure you didn’t tell him you worked at the paper?”

  “I’m sure.”

  “Anybody else in there besides Rollie Stumpf?”

  “Nope.”

  “You didn’t give him any reason to be suspicious?”

  “I just looked like an idiot looking for cheaper truck insurance.”

  “And no debate trophy?”

  “Not unless he keeps it in the bathroom.”

  “You didn’t look there?”

  “Maddy. Get a grip.”

  Chapter 24

  Monday, June 25

  Detective Grant and I started up the pathway. The brown matted grass that covered the hill when I was there in March had been replaced with a thick growth of green sprinkled with yellow buttercups. It wasn’t any easier passing the spot where Gordon was killed than it was three months before.

  We followed the rim of the landfill to the old dump. It was only eight in the morning but Andrew J. Holloway III and his students were already busy digging.

  There had been quite a nasty debate in the weeks after Gordon’s death whether to continue his garbology project. The new chair of the archaeology department—some woman from New Jersey who was absolutely gaga over old Buddhist temples—wanted nothing to do with it. But Gordon’s students raised such a fuss that the dean persuaded her that it would be politically incorrect to drop the dig so soon after Gordon’s murder. So it was handed off to Andrew, who accepted it eagerly.

  “Well, here we are,” Grant said to me. His arms were folded menacingly over his chest. His feet were planted far apart. His chin was jutting out.

  I just had to laugh. “You look like Yul Brynner in The King and I.”

  He self-consciously put his hands in his pockets and shifted his weight onto one leg. “I hope you didn’t invite me out here for a dance lesson.”

  “Not hardly,” I said. “I want you to arrest Rollie Stumpf.”

  “For Professor Sweet’s murder, I gather?”
/>   I dug the letter from my purse and handed it to him. “For David Delarosa’s, too.”

  His huge eyebrows shot up. The corners of his mouth went down. He opened the letter in slow motion, as if it might be filled with anthrax.

  “It’s from David to Gordon,” I said as he read. “Written the Christmas break before David was killed.” I told him who I thought Miss Forty Below was. “David could have been talking about any number of girls at the college. But I don’t think Gordon would’ve been too upset about David trying to seduce any of them. And Gwen and I were the only two women in our crowd engaged at the time.”

  Grant peeked at me over the top of the letter. “Any chance you were Miss Forty Below?”

  “I wondered about that, too.” I told him about the night at Jericho’s when David tried to protect me from Shaka Bop. “But there’s that line about the tiny chip of ice. Gwen had a diamond. I didn’t. My Lawrence couldn’t afford a plastic ring from a bubble gum machine. It had to be Gwen.”

  I then told him all I’d learned about the debate team trip to Columbus. About Rollie deciding to take the overnight bus. About Gwen’s pink Buick. About my own middle-of-the-night walk down Hester Street.

  “Do you have any proof that Gwen went home with David Delarosa that night?” he asked.

  I admitted that I didn’t. That I’d left Jericho’s before midnight. “But some of the others might. Effie or Chick Glass or maybe even Shaka Bop. After his scuffle with David, I’m sure Shaka kept his eye on him the rest of the night.”

  Grant was not impressed. “It might be hard to get a conviction based on a fifty-year-old recollection of a guy picking up a girl in a bar,” he said.

  That’s when I told him about Rollie’s trophy—or more accurately the absence of his trophy.

  This he considered seriously. “And you think after bludgeoning David Delarosa, he threw it in a garbage can and it ended up here? And all these years later that’s what Professor Sweet was looking for? And Rollie Stumpf killed him before he could find it?”

  “Actually,” I said, “Gordon was looking for something else.”

  “Oh yes,” he said, “proof about Jack Kerouac’s cheeseburger.”

  “You know about that, do you?”

  “Of course I know about that.”

  “Well, then you can forget about it,” I said. “Because Gordon was actually digging for a cocoa can full of pine cones.” I told him about my visit with Penelope Yarrow. The collection of cocoa cans I’d bought from Gordon’s nephew.

  “Digging up an old dump for a can of pine cones—why the hell not?”

  I didn’t care for his attitude. “It really doesn’t matter what Gordon was looking for. It only matters what Rollie thought Gordon might find. A dented, bloody trophy that would lead right to him.”

  I started across the dump toward Andrew. Grant followed me like a nervous penguin. Which I liked. “I have to admit you’ve dug up some interesting stuff,” he said.

  “Well, thank you.”

  As quickly as he gaveth, he tooketh away. “But it’s all a tad circumstantial, isn’t it? You have no real proof that the trophy is missing. And no proof that it’s buried out there.”

  “True enough,” I admitted. “But you’ve got to admit Rollie sure had a motive. For both murders. And from what I understand, he doesn’t have an alibi for the evening Gordon was killed.”

  “Neither does anybody else—as you know.”

  I was not going to let his pessimism deter me. “But we are off to a promising start, aren’t we?”

  “There is no we, Mrs. Sprowls. There is only me. Cautiously taking one step at a time.” He promptly tripped on one of the archaeological stakes hidden in the high grass.

  He was a big man. I was a little woman. I let him get up by himself. “I should have warned you about those,” I said.

  We reached the hole where Andrew was digging. He crawled out and slapped the dirt off his knees. He hadn’t known we were coming. He was nervous. Uncertain. Andrew the boy instead of Andrew the man. Detective Grant got right to the point. “Andrew, did Professor Sweet ever tell his students to be on the lookout for an old trophy?”

  “Not that I ever knew.”

  “If anybody knew, it would be you, wouldn’t it?” Grant asked. “The two of you were very close.”

  For all Andrew knew, Detective Grant was there to arrest him. “We discussed the dig every week—as I’ve told you.”

  Grant let him stew. “To your knowledge was a trophy ever found?”

  Andrew’s head quivered no.

  I piped in. “How about cocoa cans? Find any more of them?”

  “We always find cocoa cans,” he said. “Why?”

  Grant shushed me before I could explain the cocoa can scenario to Andrew. “You’ll let me know if you do come across a trophy, won’t you?”

  Andrew assured him that he would.

  “And you’ll keep this under your hat? Won’t talk to any reporters or nosy librarians or anybody else about this?”

  Andrew assured him that he wouldn’t.

  Grant glowered at him like an angry, Old Testament God. He shook his hand and started for the parking lot.

  “That’s it?” I squeaked, hurrying after him.

  Grant stopped. He put both of his big hands on my shoulders. He bent low. Until his eyes were six inches from mine. “I think your role in this investigation has come to an end, Mrs. Sprowls. You’ve rooted around and—”

  I was furious. “Rooted around?”

  “Admittedly not the most flattering imagery,” he said. “But you do get the point, don’t you? You’ve given us an intriguing lead. We appreciate your help. Now you’re going to wait patiently while we evaluate what we’ve got.”

  “Evaluate? Heavens to Betsy! What you’ve got to do is dig!”

  “One thing I am not going to do is dig,” he said. “Do you know the field day the media would have if I mucked up a scholarly archaeological dig and found nothing?”

  “The Herald-Union especially,” I conceded.

  He wasn’t finished. “Or the money it would require? The man hours? Over a bit of adolescent braggadocio in an old letter? I’ve just tiptoed through one minefield with that Zuduski murder.”

  I gave him my best Morgue Mama: “So you’re going to let two murders go unsolved because you’re a little gun shy?”

  He was not the least bit intimidated. “And that’s the other thing. Gordon Sweet was shot. I’m supposed to be searching for a 9mm semiautomatic pistol. Not an old debate trophy.”

  We walked in silence to our cars. But I wasn’t giving in just yet. I leaned against his door and wrapped my arms around the wall of shapeless blubber where my waist used to be. “Maybe there’s a way we can dig without actually digging,” I said.

  He winced at the word we. But he listened.

  ***

  Tuesday, July 3

  I picked up the phone on the first ring. It was Dale Marabout. I swiveled toward the newsroom and wiggled my fingers at him. “Morning, Mr. M.”

  “You think you can get away?” he asked. “Detective Grant is holding a meeedia conference at eleven.” Dale always pronounced media that way. In the old days when people still read newspapers, public officials held press conferences. Now that most people get their news from the bobble heads on TV, the powerful p-word has been replaced by the milk-toasty m-word, out of some warped sense of fairness I suppose. “Word is it’s about that little murder of yours,” Dale said. “I thought maybe you’d want to tag along.”

  “I’ve got oodles to do—but I guess I can get away for a bit.”

  Of course I could get away. I’d known about Grant’s media conference for two days. I’d come in two hours early that morning to get my clipping out of the way. And I pretty much knew Dale would invite me along. Although I was prepared to go by myself if he didn’t.

  So at ten-thirty Dale and I met in the parking garage and drove down the hill to police headquarters in his old station wagon. We g
ot Styrofoam cups of coffee—Hannawa’s finest never heard of a tea bag apparently—and found a pair of empty metal chairs in the Media Room. Tish Kiddle and her crew were there from TV21. So were a couple of the Cleveland stations. All in all about a dozen reporters.

  Grant slipped in right at eleven with the department’s press officer. There was also a pair of burly uniformed officers. Dale pointed his chin at them. “In case Tish’s hairspray can turns out to be a bomb,” he whispered.

  Grant fiddled with his notes. Took a test-sip from his glass of ice water. Slowly surveyed the reporters gathered before him. Scowled at me. Then he began the most impressive display of verbal gymnastics I’d heard since Lawrence tried to explain his serial infidelities to me: “I’m Chief Homicide Detective Grant. G.R.A.N.T. I’m going to talk to you this morning about our investigation into the Friday, March 3rd murder of Professor Gordon Sweet. Admittedly it has been some time since we last updated you on our progress, and I wanted to assure you and the public, and especially the Hemphill College community, that we have not ceased in our desire to give this case the highest investigative priority.”

  He gave a couple minutes of background for the sake of the out-of-town reporters. Then he got down to the nitty-gritty: “In the weeks since the murder we have been pursuing a number of leads. And as of this morning, while we have made some progress, we unfortunately still have not identified a motive for the murder. Nor have we identified a probable suspect.”

  He gave the reporters a few seconds to get all that down, then continued: “We have in recent days, however, discovered a possible link—and I emphasize possible—between Professor Sweet’s murder and the April 1957 murder of Hemphill College junior David Anthony Delarosa.” He spelled Delarosa for us and then gave a brief account of his murder.

  Then he finished with this cryptic gem: “Specifically, we have identified an object that may or may not be helpful in satisfactorily resolving both murders. I cannot because of the ongoing nature of our investigation be more helpful in identifying the object we’ve identified. But I think I can say with some certainty that this object does not link the late professor to Mr. Delarosa’s murder as much as it links the murder of Mr. Delarosa to the late professor’s. Now if any of you have questions, I’ll try my best to be equally opaque.” Grant chuckled at his joke. The reporters only moaned.