Shadow Tag

by Marjorie Swift Doering

  “Mrs. Gaynor, my name is Detective Schiller. Detective Waverly and I need a word with you.”

  Her long, blonde hair lay across a pillow. Her shapely, tanned legs were bent gracefully to the side below a white skirt of modest length, although there was nothing modest about the way it draped three quarters of the way up her fabulous thighs. She glared at them with startling blue eyes. “What do you want?”

  “We want to offer our condolences,” Waverly said. “And we need to ask you a few questions, if you don’t mind, Mrs. Gaynor.”

  “And if I do?” She dropped the cloth over her eyes. “Never mind, get on with it. The sooner this is over, the better.”

  “According to our information,” Waverly told her, “your husband planned to be out of town with you and your son this weekend. Why the change in plans?”

  “Since when did Mitchell’s itinerary become a matter of police record?”

  “It’s not,” Ray said. “One of his associates mentioned it to us last week. Why didn’t he go with you and your son?”

  “Mitchell didn’t say. It made no difference to me; what difference does it make to you?” With all but her mouth and chin covered, Ray watched her full, sensuous lips form each syllable.

  “Mrs. Gaynor,” Waverly said, “until we arrived a few minutes ago, Detective Schiller and I had no idea anything had happened to your husband.”

  She exposed a single magnificent eye. “Then why did you come to Wayzata?”

  “We hoped he could answer some questions about Paul Davis’s death.”

  “Oh, God.” She dropped the cloth back in place. “With Mitchell gone I thought I’d heard the last about that.”

  “He discussed it with you?” Ray asked.

  She took a deep breath, releasing it in one exasperated puff. “It was like listening to a broken record. ‘It wasn’t suicide.’ If he said it once, he said it a dozen times.”

  “He was certain?”

  “He was positive.”

  “Why?”

  “Mitchell didn’t get into it with me, and, frankly, that was fine. I didn’t see any point in encouraging his paranoia.”

  “Care to explain what you mean by that?”

  She rolled onto her side, propping herself up on an elbow. “Mitchell was a born worrier, Detective Schiller. And, for the record, he said no one else on ACC’s board shared his opinion. With Mitchell it was always one thing or another; it drove me nuts.”

  “Were you aware that it was your husband who discovered Davis’s body?” Waverly asked, straightening his tie.

  “Yes. So?”

  “A suicide note was allegedly left on the conference table next to Davis’s body,” Ray told her. “Outside of the person who claims to have left the note there, no one has reported seeing it.”

  She sat up, tucking her calves beneath her. “Are you implying Mitchell may have taken it?”

  “If it actually exists, it stands to reason it would’ve been him.”

  “Wouldn’t that be considered tampering with evidence or something?”

  Ray nodded.

  Between her eyebrows, a faint crease appeared on her otherwise unlined face. “But why would he have done something as stupid as that?”

  “We hoped he could tell us.”

  “Well, well, well. Mitchell…a wanton criminal,” she said, laughing, “That would explain the state of his nerves lately, but you’re a little late if you were planning to clap him in irons.”

  Angela Gaynor didn’t have the decency to even feign a sense of loss for her husband; it made the hairs on Ray’s neck bristle. “Our concern is how the note ties into our investigation. Have you seen it, Mrs. Gaynor? It would’ve contained a brief message and Paul Davis’s signature on a partial sheet of paper.”

  She shook her head. “No. Sorry.”

  “Did your husband ever mention a note…even in passing?” Waverly asked.

  “If he did, I don’t remember.” She slid off the bed in one fluid, catlike motion and stepped to the bedroom door. “Mitchell spent more than the usual amount of time in his home office lately. Anything he considered important would probably be there.” She held the door open for them. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’d like to get some sleep.”

  They thanked the homeowner on the way out and crossed the street to the Gaynor residence just as other official vehicles began arriving. Waverly had the rookie get his partner for them again. As he came to the door, Ray stepped aside to make way for a crime scene tech. “Has anything new come up?”

  “There’s nothing more I can tell you right now,” the cop told them. “The little stuff that’s out of order in the living room can be explained away, though. If the guy was choking, he probably panicked—thrashed around maybe. That’s all I’ve got at this point. Sorry.”

  Leaving the scene didn’t sit well with Ray, but he and Waverly were nonessential personnel—in the way, out of place—period.

  “Don’t worry, they’ll give us a call when they’re done,” Waverly said, driving off the property.

  Ray buckled up. “Pockets turned out. Possible bruising. It sounds like someone wanted to find something awfully damn bad.”

  “Whatever the something is, it’s safe to say it’s smaller than a breadbox,” Waverly said. “The note maybe?”

  “Yeah, but what value would the note have to anyone but us?”

  “Hell, I still don’t understand why Gaynor would’ve taken it…if it actually exists. That still hasn’t been proven, don’t forget.”

  “I suppose Johnson could be lying through his teeth,” Ray said, “but I don’t think so.”

  Waverly drove past the manicured yards and lush gardens bordering Lake Minnetonka and headed toward I-394 East. “You know,” he said after a lengthy silence, “there’s nothing to say Gaynor and Paul Davis’s deaths are even related.”

  “You think it’s only a coincidence?” Ray asked.

  Waverly gunned the car around a corner. “All I know for sure is that we’re in the deep end of the shit tank.”

  “Agreed,” Ray said. “And it could get deeper.”

  31

  While waiting for news from Wayzata, Ray tried to focus on another case, but he couldn’t set thoughts of Mitchell Gaynor’s fate aside.

  Near the end of the day, Waverly dropped his bulk into the chair opposite Ray. “Just got a phone call, buddy. No suicide note, bogus or otherwise, was found at Gaynor’s place.”

  “Just great,” Ray muttered. “Did Wayzata give you anything else?”

  “Not a lot. The medical examiner did a quick look before the body was taken away and agreed the blockage in Gaynor’s throat looked like some sort of food. That’s as much as he could tell on-site. After the autopsy we’ll get the specifics. That’s the good news, if you want to call it that.”

  “So what’s the bad news?” Ray asked.

  “The cop at Gaynor’s place was right; there was a bruise around one of Gaynor’s wrists—more on both arms. Fresh bruises.”

  “Food lodged in the throat. Bruises on the body. What the hell is going on?”

  “Damned if I know, but I’m calling it quits for today; I’ve had it.” Waverly stretched complete with noisy sound effects. “We can get a fresh start in the morning.”

  Ray didn’t object; every hour seemed to have gone by in slow motion. Once back in his apartment, he dropped like a rock on his sofa. Fifteen minutes later his thoughts shifted from one detail of the case to another: the missing note; Jillian Wirth’s relationship with her stepfather; Gaynor’s suspicious death. Ridiculous things like Waverly’s Old Spice aftershave came to mind. Thoughts of Gail and their daughters created an ache so deep it was nearly physical. Like the ball in a roulette wheel, his attention bounced from place to place and stopped at random on Angela Gaynor.

  What could Mitchell Gaynor have seen in her? Other than the obvious, of course. A trophy wife turned major nightmare. The poor sap. She’d said her husband had been convinced Paul Davis had been murdered.
Why?

  He turned the possibilities over in his mind. The fake suicide note—if it existed—was an inspired idea, but being Michael Johnson’s handiwork, Ray reasoned it might have been poorly executed. One look might have been enough to convince Gaynor Davis’s suicide was as phony as the note itself. But then why hadn’t he come forward? Angela Gaynor’s remarks suggested an answer: born worrier, case of nerves, clap him in irons. Well, yeah, not all that hard to figure out, he supposed, but why would he have taken the note in the first place? It made no more sense to him now than before.

  If it turned out that a lodged piece of food had killed him, it would put a serious kink in the theory that Gaynor’s death and the note were connected. Still, the bruises and the turned-out pockets in his robe said something was rotten in Denmark…and Wayzata.

  Remembering Patrick’s open invitation to stop by for a beer, Ray got off the couch. Deciding the sight of a smiling face might do him some good, he knocked on his neighbor’s door, waited ten seconds and knocked again. “Hey,” he shouted, “are you home? I’m here to collect on that beer.”

  The door cracked open. “Can I help you?” A dark-haired, fiftyish woman stood looking him over cautiously from the other side.

  “Uh…I’m a friend of Patrick’s—his neighbor from across the hall.”

  “Oh, you must be Ray, the detective.” She shook his hand. “Lynnette Foltz. I’m Sandy’s aunt.”

  “Nice to meet you, Ms. Foltz.”

  “Make it Lynn. Come in,” she said, hurrying away. “You’ll have to excuse me, “I’m getting a few things together.”

  He closed the door behind him as she disappeared briefly and returned with a toothbrush and tube of toothpaste.

  A glimpse of her reddened eyes made his stomach tighten. “Is Patrick here?” he asked.

  She hunched over, tucking the items into a jam-packed overnight bag. “He’s at the hospital.”

  “What happened to him?” Visions of Patrick lying beaten to within an inch of his life by the homophobes who’d left the job unfinished the last time tattooed themselves on his brain.

  “What?” She stopped what she was doing and looked up apologetically. “Oh, I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking.” She dabbed at her nose with a tissue. “It’s not Patrick who’s hurt; it’s my niece. He’s with her at the hospital.”

  The sudden shift almost created mental whiplash. “What happened?”

  She began reorganizing the bag’s contents. “Some imbecile on a cell phone ran a stoplight. He hit Sandy and another pedestrian in a crosswalk. The other woman is critical.”

  “And Sandy?”

  She wiped her eyes. “She’s going to make it, but they may not be able to save her leg.” The woman shook her head, busying herself with her task. “Lord, how that girl loves to run. Pike Island—that’s one of her favorite running spots—nice gravel path, lots of shade and cool breezes off the water in the summer.” She zipped the bag shut as though she held it responsible for the accident. “Well…no matter. Sandy’s alive; that’s what’s important.” The woman gathered up her purse from the kitchen counter and grabbed the overnight bag. “I came by to pick up some of her things so Patrick could stay with her. I’ve got to go.”

  Ray stepped aside, opening the door for her. “I’m awfully sorry about what happened to your niece. How about Patrick—how’s he doing?”

  She stepped into the hallway, shifting the bag from one hand to the other. “He’s putting on a brave face for her. I think he’s committed to their relationship come hell or high water. Thank God for that. Right now she needs him more than ever.” She turned on her heel. “I’ve got to get back to the hospital. Lock up for me, will you?”

  “Sure.” Images of Krista lying helpless in Widmer’s critical care unit came flooding back. He’d had more than his fill of hospitals, but as Lynnette Foltz reached the elevator, he stuck his head out the door and shouted, “Which hospital?”

  “Methodist. The one on Excelsior.”

  As he turned the door lock and reached for the light switch, something caught Ray’s eye. On a shelf in the near corner, his ivy, its leaves still yellow and drooping, sat in a row of thriving plants. Sighing, he walked over and removed it from its healthy neighbors. “C’mon,” he said, “you’re coming home.”

  Back inside his own apartment, he carried the plant around, mumbling, “Location, location, location.” He finally set the ivy in the middle of the kitchen table. “Stay put,” he said, grabbing his keys. “I’ll be back in a while.”

  32

  The Egg McMuffin and orange juice Ray had for breakfast hours earlier weren’t sitting well, and the office coffee only added to the problem. As Waverly approached, the scent of his Old Spice aftershave made Ray’s stomach lurch.

  “Are you coming down with something?” Waverly asked. “You look like hell.”

  “Had a bad night.”

  “Is that all? Good. I thought maybe it was your session with Morasco this morning. How’s the ‘shrink rap’ working for you?” He grinned at his own joke.

  “He hasn’t fit me for a straitjacket yet.” About to ask Waverly to stand downwind, Ray chose instead to turn his desk fan in his direction.

  Waverly held his shirt collar open, taking advantage of the welcome breeze. “Feels good. Thanks. So,” he said, “a sucky night, eh? Got a hangover?”

  “No, I’m just twenty or so hours short on my sleep quota for the week. I spent the night in a hospital waiting room with my neighbor. I figured he could use a little moral support.”

  “What’s up with your neighbor?”

  “You heard about the accident on 4th and Hennepin?”

  “Yeah, I did,” Waverly said. “Tell me he wasn’t the jackass who hit those women in the crosswalk.”

  “No, that wasn’t him, but Patrick’s fiancée is one of the women who got hurt.”

  “Sorry to hear it. That’s really crappy.” Waverly’s face contorted. “Patrick,” he mumbled. “Are you talking Patrick as in ‘Patti’—‘across the hall Patti’?”

  “That’s him.”

  “The female impersonator’s got a fiancée?”

  Ray grinned. “Surprised me, too. It turns out he’s straight. The Lacey’s gig is only something he does to supplement his day job.”

  “Must need the money awfully damn bad,” Waverly said. “Is the girlfriend gonna be okay?”

  “Yeah. The question is whether she’ll leave the hospital with one leg or two. It’s too early to tell.” With eyelids at half-mast and a hand over his stomach, Ray said, “Zero sleep and my breakfast is sitting in my stomach like a rock. Great way to start the day.”

  Waverly whipped a bottle of antacids out of his pocket. “Want a couple?”

  Ray grabbed the bottle and popped two fruit-flavored tablets in his mouth with a “Thanks.”

  “Hate to say it, but you’d need those now if you didn’t need them before. I just got word from the M.E. and the forensics lab. The calls came back-to-back. Which results do you want first, buddy—the bad news or the worse news?

  “Oh, hell, you choose.”

  “Okay, then. Gaynor’s autopsy results. It’s official—death by suffocation.”

  Ray gave him a long look. “Why doesn’t that qualify as good news?”

  “Because the asphyxia had nothing to do with the food blocking his airway. The chunk of sandwich they found in his throat was still intact; it hadn’t been chewed. And they found scratches at the back of his throat. Apparently, someone tried to make his death look like an accident by shoving the food there after he died.”

  “Couldn’t Gaynor have made those scratches himself by trying to dislodge the blockage?”

  “They didn’t find any tissue under his nails. But here’s the real kicker, buddy. It turns out Gaynor would never have eaten that sandwich in the first place. It was ham on rye.”

  “What—he wasn’t a fan of ham?”

  “The ham isn’t the problem. Angela Gaynor told the M.E. her husband had
a nasty allergy to rye flour—gastric irritation, nausea, vomiting, abdominal pain, diarrhea, the whole works. Seems she saw what was left of the sandwich on a kitchen counter, but didn’t think to mention that or his allergy earlier.”

  “If he didn’t choke to death, he must’ve been smothered. The bruises on his arms and wrist—the button torn off his pajama top…” Ray said, “it all makes sense if Gaynor was fighting for his life.”

  “Right,” Waverly said. “The M.E. found some damage to the inside of Gaynor’s lips, too. He says it’s consistent with having something pressed down hard over his face. Now we just have to find out who did it and why, and it’s out of our jurisdiction. It’s up to the Wayzata cops now.” Waverly held out the bottle of antacids toward Ray. “Want a second helping before ya hear the ballistics test results?”

  “That would depend on whether that’s the ‘bad’ or the ‘worse’ news.”

  Waverly smiled and tucked the bottle back in his pocket. “Your hunch was right. The gun used to kill Paul Davis was Ed Costales’s 9mm Glock. One guess whose fingerprints were found on it.”

  Ray didn’t need more than one. “Jillian Wirth.”

  “Bingo.”

  As they rode the elevator to ACC’s eighteenth floor, Ray felt satisfaction but no joy over what he and Waverly were about to do. Together they strode into Ed Costales’s outer office where Jillian Wirth was concentrating on her job, moving efficiently from one task to another.

  “Ms. Wirth,” Ray said, announcing himself. He watched her look up, startled. “We have a warrant for your arrest for the murder of Paul Davis.”

  Her turquoise eyes widened. “You’re joking, right?”

  “I’m dead serious.” Grasping her arm, he helped Wirth out of the chair and read her rights as Waverly snapped the handcuffs on her wrists.

  “Please, you can’t do this.” Her voice was brittle with desperation. “You’re making a huge mistake.”

  Costales stepped out of his office. “What’s going on out here?” He looked at Jillian, her hands cuffed behind her back, anxiety etched on her face. “What the hell are you two doing?”