The Homicide Report: A Nell Matthews Mystery (InterMix)

by JoAnna Carl

  “If it would help me think, maybe I ought to take it up. But I haven’t played cards since I was a kid. I was a mean Dirty Eight player.”

  He laughed. “Dirty Eight, huh?” He pulled out the cards, shook them from their box, and shuffled. As he dealt eight to each of us, he spoke. “I’m sorry I got into the act with you and that pressman. You didn’t need my help.”

  “Forget it. Bob’s a hothead. We all know that.” I picked up the eight cards Arnie had dealt me and arranged them by suits. I didn’t have any eights. Arnie put the rest of the deck in the center of the table and turned over the top card. Queen of spades.

  I tossed the queen of clubs on.

  Arnie frowned at his hand. “But he sure does seem convinced that Martina’s accident couldn’t have happened the way it did. I don’t suppose anybody could have really wanted to get rid of Martina.” He discarded the two of clubs.

  “Everybody would like to get rid of Martina.” I pulled out my two of spades, then put it back and played the ten of clubs. “I heard the two of you trade angry words yesterday.”

  “She can really be annoying.” Arnie played the ten of hearts.

  “Dad gum! Now I’ve got to draw!” I said. I drew three cards before I got a heart. “What were you and Martina mad about?”

  “Oh, she was dragging up a nickname I’d had back in Tennessee. One I thought was buried long since.” Arnie played the eight of hearts. “Diamonds,” he said.

  “Ha! Little did you know that I’m loaded with diamonds.” I proved it by tossing the king. “Nobody gets along with Martina. She can’t read an obit without alienating the obit kid.”

  Arnie dropped the jack of diamonds on the pile. “The kid could learn a lot from Martina, obnoxious as she is.”

  “Oh, I admit she’s a good copy editor.” I played the six of diamonds.

  “More than that.” Arnie knocked ashes off his cigarette, then played the five of diamonds. “Back when I knew her in Tennessee, she was winning prizes as an investigative reporter.”

  “Wonder what happened?” I played the five of spades.

  “A spade! You little sneak!” Arnie drew. “Ha! Lucky at cards, unlucky at love.” He tossed the nine of spades he had drawn onto the stack, then took a drag on his cigarette. “What happened to Martina? That’s an interesting question.”

  “Inquiring minds want to know. Why did a star investigative reporter turn into a nitpicking copy editor?” I played the two of spades.

  “The two qualities are related, of course,” Arnie said. He played the two of diamonds.

  “I guess so. Both require digging.” I played the nine of diamonds.

  “Yeah. Martina was never a very brilliant writer. But she sure could dig out the facts.” He played the four of diamonds, then held his remaining card close to his chest.

  “You can’t hide that card from me,” I said. “I can see you’re about to go out. But I’m not through yet.” I played the four of clubs.

  “Played right into my hands,” Arnie said. He laid down the four of hearts.

  “Hell’s bells! You won.” I checked the time. “Just as well. I’ve got to get back.”

  As I stood up, Arnie spoke. “Is Mike going to investigate Martina’s accident?”

  I stared at him. His voice sounded different. Much too casual. What was he getting at?

  “Mike isn’t a detective,” I said. “He’s in an odd position at the Grantham P.D. He’s just a patrolman. The ‘chief hostage negotiator’ business doesn’t bring him any rank. Any sort of investigation would be handled by the detectives. Why?”

  Arnie was frowning at the ashtray. “It was just such an odd accident, that’s all.”

  “The Gazette—or the Gazette’s insurance company—might want to investigate.”

  Arnie shrugged and stood up.

  And the phone rang. I was closest, so I picked it up. “Break room.”

  “Nell, this is Jack. There’s somebody up here—maybe you’d better talk to him.”

  “Who is it?”

  “Some friend of Martina’s.”

  I snorted. “Martina has a friend? I’ll be right up.”

  Arnie and I tossed out our cans and cups and walked back up the two flights to the newsroom. Arnie disappeared somewhere in the vicinity of the men’s room, and I went by the city desk.

  “This guy’s a salesman,” Jack said. “He hangs around here quite a bit. I didn’t realize he had any connection with Martina. But it seems he wanted to invite her out for a hot date.”

  Chapter 5

  I looked toward the elevator, which doubles as the night entrance to the Grantham Gazette.

  The security guard was standing in the little reception area between the newsroom proper and the elevator, scowling at a large man of sixty or so. Like Jack, I remembered seeing this man before, roaming around the building with Ed Brown.

  His hair was his most distinctive feature. It was funny hair—funny ha-ha and funny peculiar. He would have been very ordinary-looking if he hadn’t had this fuzzy gray hair and if he didn’t part it low over the right ear and comb it over the top. It covered his bald head like an angora shawl.

  As I approached, I heard his voice. It was high-pitched, as if his vocal cords weren’t as large as the rest of him. “Listen,” he told the security guard. “I’m a friend of Martina Gilroy’s, and I want to know what hospital she’s in.”

  “I’m not allowed to give out personal information, sir,” the guard said. “I repeat, you’ll have to call back tomorrow.”

  The angora-haired guy frowned forlornly. I tried to look sympathetic as I leaned across the railing that separated the newsroom from the reception area.

  “I’m Nell Matthews, one of the copy editors,” I said. “We got a phone call from the hospital, and apparently Martina’s doing much better.”

  “Thank God!” The man looked at me as if I were the last rowboat off the island. “What hospital is she in?”

  I exchanged glances with the guard. I wasn’t a fool. There are good reasons for the rule about not handing out personal information about staff members. You never knew when the harmless stranger at the front desk might turn out to be an angry ex-husband with a pistol in his hip pocket. Or a furious politician who claims he’s been slandered and has a subpoena to serve.

  “Actually, nobody told me what hospital they took her to,” I said. That was true, but I knew. Our company insurance gives preference to St. Luke’s, and it’s closest to our office, so I was sure she’d gone there. “The city editor went to the hospital with her. I could take a message and make sure Martina gets it tomorrow.”

  “That would be wonderful.” He reached into the inside pocket of his gray suit and pulled out a card case. “I’m at the Downtown Holiday Inn. Martina and I have known each other for years—she was in college with my wife. I always look her up when I’m in town. I just got in this evening, and I hoped she could go for a late supper after she got off work. So I came by, and then I hear about this accident.”

  He wrote “Downtown Holiday Inn, Room 305” on the back of a card and handed it to me. “I’m Dan Smith,” he said. “I’m with Foster and Company.”

  I took the card. “Foster and Company. Printing Supplies. From Pica Poles to Presses.” His address was Denver. The firm meant nothing to me, since I have nothing to do with the mechanical side of the newspaper. All I do is requisition pencils from the newsroom supply closet.

  “I’ll see that Martina gets this,” I said.

  Dan Smith mopped his forehead. “This is a real shock,” he said. “Martina and I go way back. I find it hard to believe something like this could happen to her.”

  “It was certainly a freak accident,” I said. “How long will you be in town?”

  “Oh, several days. I make Grantham my headquarters while I call around this part of the state.”

  Dan Smith thanked me again and went down the elevator. I walked back to the city desk.

  “Mike called,” Jack said. He tossed a
scrap of paper in my direction. “He left a number.”

  I recognized the number as the one for the Grantham Central Division squad room. “He’s already gone to work,” I said. I punched in the number, and Mike answered.

  “Standing there waiting for my call, huh?” I said.

  “I wanted to be sure our appointment is still on,” he said.

  My internal organs had a conniption fit. “I’m counting on it,” I said.

  Mike paused. “Yeah,” he said, as if he were answering a question. “I’m over here at the squad room.”

  “Can’t say too much?”

  “That about sums it up. Any more excitement over there tonight?”

  “No. One guy is defensive about the rags in the hall.”

  Mike didn’t laugh. “He may have a point. I’m going to talk to Jim Hammond about it tomorrow.”

  “What in the world for?”

  “It’s pretty strange.” He paused, then he used our code. “What’s new?”

  “What’s new with you?” I answered.

  “What’s new?” means, “I love you,” in the code we use when other people are around. My heart pounded, and a few other body parts throbbed, and I hung up in a much better mood. A little more than eight hours and I’d be in bed with Mike. Yahoo!

  I calmed myself enough to read the three short stories that had appeared in the proof file. That should be the end, since ten o’clock, deadline for local copy, had passed. Then I checked the advance-copy file. Nothing pressing there. My mind strayed back to Mike and our highly satisfactory, if hard to arrange, romantic life.

  Then I wondered about Martina and her friend Dan Smith. Were they more than friends? Did Martina have a boyfriend?

  She knew all about everybody else’s life, but she was secretive about her own. I thought she was divorced. Martina didn’t strike me as the type of woman who’d be particularly attractive to men, but I supposed it was possible that she dated. It was hard to visualize.

  I recalled the story I’d heard about Mike and his reaction when his widowed mother had started going out with a longtime family friend. Mike had thought it was fine until he walked in his mother’s house early one morning and met the old family friend wandering down the hall in his under-shorts. When he realized that middle-aged people still like companionship in the bedroom as well as at the country club buffet, he’d been shocked.

  But Mike’s mom was an extremely attractive woman, even if she was old enough to have a thirty-two-year-old son. And her boyfriend, Mickey, was a macho grandpa. They were energetic and intelligent, and they acted mature. They weren’t weird, like Martina—trying to hold on to youth with hair dye and spike heels—or like Dan Smith—trying to hide his bald head with a swirl of angora.

  Come to think of it, Martina and Dan might make a good couple. I pictured Martina’s teased blond hair entangled on a pillow with Dan Smith’s fuzzy gray shawl, and I giggled.

  “If you’re just going to sit there and laugh,” Jack said, “you might as well go home.”

  I didn’t argue. I collected my shoulder bag and headed down the back stairs. I waved at the guard via the security camera’s lens, and went out the side door into the alley that separated the Gazette Building from its three stories of parking garage.

  Immediately a car’s headlights flashed on, and a voice called my name. “Nell! Miz Matthews!”

  The accent was unmistakable. “Mr. Jones? J.J.?”

  “Yes, ma’am! Can you talk a minute? I promise to be quick as a flash a’ Texas lightnin’.”

  The headlights went out, and I could see a vague shape standing beside a sporty car of some sort. The driver’s-side door was open, and the interior lights were shining on the flashy green blazer and yellow tie of J.J. Jones. I walked toward the car.

  I didn’t know J.J. Jones all that well, even though he does a lot of his work in the newsroom. The Gazette, a daily paper in a city of around 350,000, has several hundred employees, and we’re organized by departments. Advertising and newsside meet at the Christmas party, the annual picnic, and in the break room. J.J. was well known around the Gazette because he was a colorful character—a reputation he worked hard to maintain—but we’d never really exchanged more conversation than a “Good Morning.” Until he’d sought me out that evening.

  “It’s this client a’ mine. Needs to know somethin’,” he said.

  “What does your client need?” I said.

  “Jes’ a little information on police policy.”

  “I’ll tell you anything I know.”

  “Well, it’s like this. It’s a financial institution. And they suspect someone’s been dippin’ into the company funds.” J.J. scratched his head. “In fact—”

  I finished his sentence. “In fact, they’re sure of it.”

  “Sure as sunrise tomorrow. But—”

  I continued his thought again. “But they don’t want any publicity about it because they don’t want their customers to get the idea that their deposits aren’t perfectly safe.”

  J.J. chuckled. “I see you’ve run into this situation before.”

  “That attitude’s probably responsible for three-quarters of America’s white-collar crime. People know they can steal and get off without any jail time, because the company doesn’t want the word to get out.”

  “Got it first guess. I knew you weren’t raised under a tub.”

  “Your client had better talk to a lawyer. If the D.A. hears about a major theft, he can’t pretend he doesn’t know about it. Are they sure they’ve got the right person?”

  “That might be the problem.”

  “Oh, then they want a detective to investigate.”

  J.J. nodded. “Right. But if they bring in the police, would they have to file charges?”

  “Maybe not. Tell ’em to talk to Jim Hammond. He’s a senior detective. He may be able to work it out.”

  “What about the police reporters?”

  “If the company doesn’t file a complaint, there won’t be any paperwork for them to find. So they won’t write anything. But if the cops make an arrest or the D.A. files charges, then it becomes public record. We won’t be able to keep it out.”

  J.J. frowned. “If they talk to Jake Edwards—?”

  “Nope. The managing editor won’t break that particular rule. I’ve been around when people tried it. I suppose the publisher could—it’s his newspaper—but it never happened in the nearly two years I was on the violence beat.”

  My eyes had adjusted to the strange lighting of the parking garage—half glare and half dead black—and I could see that J.J. was grinning.

  “My dear, you’re a most helpful young lady,” he said. “I’d be highly honored to buy you a cup of coffee and a piece of cheesecake around the corner.”

  “No, thanks, J.J. I’m ready to head home.” I didn’t need to tell him I wasn’t going to stay there.

  “You’ve had a busy night,” he said, his voice oozing kindness. “I ‘magine you feel like you’ve been drug through a knothole.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, with Ms. Gilroy’s problems and all.”

  “That was more exciting than tiring. Mike’s the one who had to carry her out.”

  I saw J.J.’s teeth flash. “I won’t ask why you and your fella happened to be in the basement.”

  “Ruth Borah sent me down with a message for Martina. And Mike’s curious. He wondered what was down there, so he came along to see.”

  “Jes’ a tour?”

  I nodded. Near enough the truth. “But when we found Martina, I was sure glad to have someone along who knew how to do the fireman’s carry without breaking his back.”

  “Well, Ms. Gilroy was lucky as a whole fistful of four-leaf clovers. From what the pressmen were sayin’, I guess she could really have smothered to death in there. There wasn’t anybody else around, was there?”

  “Not then. Not while the pressmen were at dinner. And even when they’re working, they don’t go into that back hall.” I
moved toward the second row, where my car sat alone.

  “Will the Grantham police be investigatin’?”

  I decided not to bring up Mike’s suspicions. “Not so far as I know,” I said. I kept walking away.

  “I do thank you for your advice,” J.J. said.

  I got in my car, and he got in his. He waited politely until I’d started my engine. By the time he drove out of the parking lot, I had forgotten he existed. Because when I had reached into my purse for my car keys, I had pulled out Dan Smith’s business card.

  Martina might want to know that a friend had come by looking for her, I realized. It might buck her up. If she had family, none of them lived in Grantham. I decided to see if she was still at St. Luke’s. I drove to the hospital and went in the emergency door.

  It was packed, of course, but a question at the desk led me to a cubicle where Martina was lying on a narrow, hard examining table and Ruth was sitting in a chair. Martina looked miserable, and Ruth looked delighted to see me.

  “We’re just waiting for paperwork,” Ruth said. “Martina still feels pretty lousy, but the doctor says she can do that in her own bed. As soon as the insurance forms are filled out.”

  Martina held out a hand to me. “Nell, I’m so grateful to you and your nice boyfriend for pulling me out of that basement.”

  “I’m glad we were on the spot, Martina. It was a pure accident.”

  “I have only the vaguest memory of the whole thing. I don’t think I was very cooperative—and here you were trying to help me.”

  “Mike says that breathing in those fumes—the blanket wash—must have been a lot like sniffing gasoline. He’d handled high teenagers before.”

  “I’m afraid I talked a lot of nonsense.”

  “I don’t recall that any two words you said went with each other.”

  “I hope I wasn’t too silly.”

  “It was silly enough that I don’t remember any of it.” I reached into my purse. “Someone asked about you. . . .” Dan Smith’s card had disappeared into the depths, and I groped. “He said you’d known his wife in college.”