Wedding Chimes, Assorted Crimes

by Christine Arness

  “Bitch!” Flo’s porcelain smooth mask cracked. “Give me that tape!”

  They continued the ridiculous tug-of-war until Keely stumbled free. This had to be a bizarre nightmare. Her opponent’s wild-eyed anger was out of proportion to Keely’s refusal.

  Flo lunged again, gouging Keely’s arm with her nails. Convinced she was dealing with a maniac, Keely cried out, but the shadowy walls swallowed up the sound. They grappled until Keely managed to kick her opponent in the kneecap.

  The columnist gasped and recoiled, bent double with pain. “Ladies! I’m shocked!”

  Keely whipped around to see Jackson grinning broadly. “Sorry to interrupt, but I was sent to tell you the cops are here and they want everyone assembled in the dining room.”

  Flo recovered first. Straightening, she smoothed her hair into place. “You haven’t heard the last of this, Photo Bitch.”

  Keely’s skin stung and prickled as if she’d thrust her unprotected arm into a nettle bed. “You’re nuts!”

  Flo checked her earrings and straightened her neckline. “Continue to be uncooperative and you’ll find out just how crazy I can be.” With that melodramatic warning, she walked away, her gait—but not her dignity—marred by a slight limp.

  In passing, Flo gave Jackson a look which wiped the smirk from his face.

  Returning to the dining room, Keely found the police in possession of the battleground. Scarlet clad prisoners had been herded into one corner while the others checked themselves for wounds and exchanged combat tales.

  Now that the troupe was no longer in motion, Keely saw that the brave red uniforms were threadbare veterans of many marches. The eye of one bandsman had swelled shut and another held a blood-soaked handkerchief to his nose. A piccolo and a trombone lay abandoned on the floor.

  Keely looked for Max. He walked in minutes later and was immediately surrounded by his staff. Skirting overturned chairs, Keely hurried towards him.

  Max greeted her with a wry smile. “Brass bands, clowns—I’m waiting for the rest of the parade.”

  “We’ve got to talk.”

  With a perplexed smile, he studied Keely’s disordered hair. “What in the name of Julia Child happened to you?”

  Still flushed with the heat of battle, she demanded, “What were you and Flo talking about? Why did she want the tape?”

  “Flo? Tape?” Concern replaced bewilderment. “Are you all right? You didn’t get run over by that tuba player, did you?”

  She avoided his outstretched hand. “I’m not in the mood for games, Max. I’ve been manhandled enough for one day.”

  His lips tightened. “I’m sorry, but I haven’t the foggiest notion what you’re talking about.”

  “Don’t deny it, Max, I saw you!”

  His thick, dark brows drew together. “Keely—”

  “Are you a member of the catering staff?”

  She turned to find a uniformed policemen at her elbow. “No, but—”

  “Please take your place with the other guests. You, sir, back with your staff.”

  Keely protested, but she was escorted to where guests clustered around the Postwaites like bees around a queen. Some appeared to be in shock, others angry.

  A bright-eyed Winona pushed her way to Keely’s side. The dumpy woman’s hair stuck up like straw stubble. “Did you ever see such a barn burnin’ brawl in all your born days?”

  Winona’s dress, face, and hands were plastered with mocha buttercream, but she sounded exhilarated. “What a rumpus!”

  Rose Postwaite was surrounded by a protective entourage. A guest who had apparently made a side trip to the bar offered his disheveled hostess a drink, but she shook her head. Recognizing the look in Rose’s eyes, Keely recalled Flo’s heartless description and looked around for the columnist.

  Flo stood nearby, her implacable gaze fixed on Keely.

  “That gal’s been staring at you and she looks meaner than a sow shorted of her dinner slop.” Winona prodded Keely in the ribs with a sticky finger. “I told you to watch out for her.”

  “She’d better watch out for me,” Keely retorted with false confidence. She suddenly remembered the tape still concealed in the vase.

  “I’ll prosecute you for malicious trespass! You’ve ruined my daughter’s wedding and you’ll pay, mister, I promise!” Clarence appeared on the verge of apoplexy as he harangued the band leader, a chubby faced man whose uniform buttons strained over an ample belly.

  “It was supposed to be a joke!” Cradling a white plumed hat, the man mopped his forehead. “We were paid to play a couple numbers and blow, but things got out of hand. Hey, folks started swinging—we had to defend ourselves.”

  “Out of hand?” A brawny policeman surveyed the upset serving cart, frosting-smeared band uniforms, and Winona, who ruffled up like a banty rooster. “That’s an understatement. Who paid you to crash the party?”

  One of the men near Keely clapped his hand to his chest. “Hey, my wallet’s gone!”

  A patter of pocket slapping was followed by a second outraged cry. “Mine’s gone, too!”

  Pandemonium erupted again.

  “Calm down, folks. Everyone, SETTLE DOWN!” Hands on hips, the policeman turned to resume his interrogation of the band leader, but another interruption occurred.

  Ives, his black tie awry, hurried into the room. “It’s a disaster, Mr. Postwaite!” the butler cried. “All the wedding gifts are gone! We’ve been robbed!”

  Rose gasped, her hands flying to her throat.

  The policeman grimaced. “It’s a repeat of the Westhaven mess,” he muttered to his companion. “Tell dispatch to call Gifford and Dawson. They’re catching the flak on this one.”

  All traces of amusement vanished from his face when he swung his bulk back. “Who paid you to create a diversion?”

  “He didn’t say nothing about a diversion!” The fat man’s face paled to match the plume on his hat. “It sounded crazy, but gigs are scarce! Dude said he was best man—the bride and groom loved this kind of horseplay. We got half the cash up front and we were gonna get the rest after he saw what kind of job we did.”

  “Saw what kind of job—” The policemen exchanged significant glances.

  Keely, along with the rest of the guests, looked at the best man, a willowy blond in wire-rimmed glasses.

  The groom’s features were heavy with menace. “Scott, how could—”

  “I didn’t!” Scott raised his hands in a defensive posture. “Only a lunatic would play such a prank!”

  “Not him!” The band leader shook his head. “Guy who hired me was a dark haired, husky fellow.”

  Keely held her breath as the man’s darting gaze paused on the staff of Feast of Italy.

  A stubby forefinger jabbed. “There, that’s the funny man! The one in the fancy white shirt.”

  The finger pointed at Max.

  “He’s crazy!” Max looked convincingly outraged. “I’ve never seen this band of Loony Tunes in my life—”

  “Cousin Rose!” Winona wagged a frosted finger at her hostess. “Where’s your anniversary necklace?”

  “My necklace?” Rose patted her bare throat.

  “Lowlife scum!” Clarence’s thick neck flushed purple as he glared at Max. “I’ll ruin you!”

  “What a shame he turned out to be light fingered,” Winona mourned and licked the sweetness from her fingers. “Prison time will knock the bashfulness right out of that boy.”

  This couldn’t be happening. Keely felt as if her head were about to split. Clutching her temples, she looked straight into the narrowed eyes of Flo Netherton.

  The columnist’s lips shaped the words, “Keep quiet or I’ll ruin you.”

  There seemed to be a lot of that going around.

  Chapter 6

  In the commandeered command post of Clarence Postwaite’s study, Gayla Gifford studied the pair of needlepoint chairs drawn up before the desk and brooded. One of those chairs probably cost more than her mortgage payments for six mo
nths.

  Promotion to detective bore a hefty price tag. Gayla’s assignment to a new offshoot of the division, special crimes, involved taking cases where the media crucified the police for being inept or venal, crimes guaranteed to stain one’s soul.

  Not to mention the weird ones. They were calling these thieves the “Sterling Ring” down at the station.

  Brian “Robocop” Dawson regarded his partner with concern. “Everything all right at home? You seem preoccupied.”

  “Tonight was family night, Brian. Hank and me and the kids baked chocolate chip cookies after supper.”

  Nothing short of six points on the Richter scale ever rocked Brian. He stopped to inspect a lighted globe of the earth. “Be grateful for small favors. Hank’ll get stuck with the mess.”

  Gayla scowled. “I’d trade this mess for that one in a heartbeat.”

  Since the Westhaven robbery involved crimes against both person and property, Gayla figured the larceny ’tects would get stuck with it. But on Wednesday, Kowalski had seen fit to toss the grenade to her, unconcerned if it exploded in her lap. Gayla had fielded calls from the mayor in his combined roles of indignant public official, outraged son, and irate father.

  Clues from the first scene had been scarcer than a detective’s day off, with the victim insisting the operator of a prestigious catering service had slugged her with a candlestick.

  “Gayla, be nimble, Gayla, be quick. Solve this case or end up licked,” she muttered.

  Brian twirled the globe until land masses and seas blurred together. “I recommend you cut back on reading nursery rhymes to your kids.”

  “They favor Winnie the Pooh.” Gayla regretted the lost opportunity to scrub chocolate smears off precious faces. “I feel like the bear with very little brain.”

  Thumping her forehead, she mumbled in her best Pooh imitation, “Think, think, think.”

  “Does self-abuse work for the bear?”

  “Honey’s the only thing that stimulates his thought processes.” Gayla paged through her notebook. “How’s the rest of the team doing?”

  “They’ve finished going over the first floor. Didn’t come up with squat. The perps had time to whisk half the furniture out of this palace before Jeffers secured the scene.”

  “Anyone get a content description on the wallets?”

  “Unnecessary—we found ’em.” Brian hooked a meaty thumb through his belt. His shoulders strained the seams of an off-the-rack suit, his very presence a silent deterrent to those inclined to violence. “Under a table in the dining room. Light Fingers must have ditched them when he or she heard the siren.”

  “That only leaves the rocks unaccounted for.” Gayla nibbled the nail of her index finger. “We don’t know exactly when the necklace disappeared. We’ve got conflicting testimony whether Mrs. Postwaite was wearing it prior to the band’s arrival. That’s why the third videotape’s so important. I hope the O’Brien woman had the camera running—”

  “Don’t chew your nails.” Brian nodded at her hand. “You’re always crabbing about hang nails.”

  “Schedule me for a manicure. I’m free all day tomorrow.”

  When he flashed that mischievous smile, Brian reminded Gayla of her three year old. “Only if you promise to do something about that messy hair at the same time. You look like a poodle due for a trim.”

  Gayla shrugged. “Hank loves me just the way I am. Stop criticizing my personal style and I’ll quit ragging on your pathetic taste in shirts. Back to business. I haven’t heard screams, so I assume there were no strenuous objections to being searched.”

  “I think a few were actually turned on by the experience.” Brian kept a straight face. “The usual ominous mutters about calling attorneys, but so far everyone’s cooperating. We found plenty of jewelry, but no concealed diamond necklace.”

  “You know you’re having a bad day when lawyers top you in the ol’ popularity poll.” Gayla gave the bulky furniture a disdainful glance. The study, clearly a rich man’s domain, was big enough to stage a one-ring circus. “We’ll interview people here, starting with the leader of Alexander’s Ragtime Band.”

  Deadpan, Brian checked his notebook. “I have here ‘Benjamin’s Brass Marching Band.’”

  Gayla chuckled. Working with Brian was like watching a caterpillar in the pupa stage. All activity was concealed beneath an opaque surface. They were gelling into a team, with Gayla handling interviews and Brian contributing intimidation and occasional inspiration.

  The monied atmosphere was beginning to oppress Gayla, who felt the advance guard of a tension headache creeping up her neck. “Let’s keep our caterer friend separated from everyone else. He’s got a lot of explaining to do.”

  Waiting for the first arrival, Gayla closed her eyes, picturing the looted gift salon. The security system had been switched off for the reception; the thieves had taken advantage of the situation to remove an entire window, frame and all. Presumably, the gifts had been packed into boxes and handed out to a van parked behind the house. The perps had probably enjoyed a good undisturbed hour during the circus in the dining room.

  “We’re talking inside help, Robo, no question. The tracks showed the van drove directly to the right room.”

  “A guest might have scoped out the scene and communicated information by cell phone.”

  Gayla nodded thoughtfully. The crime scene techs were currently wielding their magic powder, but if the pattern of the first one held true, the thieves had worn gloves. She wasn’t holding out hope for even a partial.

  Gayla realized she was chewing her nail again and wished she dared smoke. No ashtrays were visible; she didn’t think Clarence Postwaite would be pleased if she and Brian took any liberties. He was already hostile, angry with the invasion of his home and blaming the police for failing to protect his family.

  This case could be a career buster. Gayla’s boss, Leon Kowalski, was closing in on retirement and loved nothing more than tweaking the tails of society lions. When giving Gayla the assignment, he’d informed her that he wanted results, not hand holding and ruffled feather smoothing. Few people in Lake Hope would lose any sleep over society brides being deprived of silver and china, but the rich and powerful took this personally.

  Her reflections triggered a new notion. “Maybe we’re dealing with a character who thinks he’s a modern day Robin Hood.”

  Brian shook his head. “Just a plain hood. The man of Sherwood Forest would never have clobbered the mayor’s momma. If it was Summers, I hope I get the chance to show that jerk how a crack on the noggin feels.”

  “Control yourself, Robo. A man with a concussion can’t answer questions.”

  Gayla went over the known facts again. Folks had scattered to the four winds after the original upheaval quieted down, but according to the servants, only three actually left the dining room during the height of the melee: Flo Netherton, Keely O’Brien, and Max Summers.

  “Why did they leave the room, Brian? Weak bladders? To check on the robbery? I’ve got a hunch one of them is the key.”

  Brian was learning to keep pace with Gayla, whose agile thoughts often leaped ahead of his own plodding logic. “Summers says he knew the band’s arrival meant trouble. He dashes to his catering van and calls 911. The newspaper woman claims she went in search of a powder room prior to the parade. Ms. O’Brien’s pretty vague about her movements. Whalen took her prelim and he thinks she’s holding back.”

  Brian paused to give Gayla a beatific smile. “If you want my personal opinion, the photographer’s pretty, period.”

  “Stop drooling. Keely O’Brien could be the inside contact for this ‘Sterling Ring.’ I want every inch of that catering van checked—including an impression of its tires to see if they match the ones outside the window.”

  Discounting Ms. Netherton left Max and Keely and their penchant for wanderlust at a critical time. Gayla hadn’t placed much credence in Mrs. Westhaven’s powers of observation. A knock on the head had left her understandably con
fused; her description of the man who struck her had been given little credence.

  Tonight’s events changed matters. Along with the speed and skillful execution, other common denominators in the thefts were Max Summers and Keely O’Brien.

  “Bri, someone’s got a nasty sense of humor.”

  He chuckled. “I watched the line dancing section of the Westhaven video. My favorite is when State’s Attorney Nervous Nelson gets his boots tangled up and takes a nose dive doing the Sierra Rose—”

  “O’Brien’s the most likely candidate for selling information,” Gayla murmured. “She’s in on the planning process and has access to details that a caterer wouldn’t know.”

  “Unless he asked the right questions.” Brian scratched a massive elbow. “The service providers all know each other. Summers is one smooth operator and Benjamin insists he’s the joker who hired his band.”

  A grandfather clock in a mahogany case chimed the hour as Gayla assumed her game face. “Time to shake a few trees and see what falls out.”

  She knew the interviews wouldn’t be pleasant, with witnesses convinced that social position exempted them from impertinent questions by civil servants. Especially black female civil servants. Flo Netherton’s paper maintained a critical attitude toward the police; Gayla didn’t expect paeans of praise for her skills to appear in print either.

  She flipped to a fresh page in her notebook. The hallmarks of these crimes were greed and contempt for the victims. If Summers and O’Brien were guilty of anything other than bad luck, God have mercy on them. Gayla certainly wouldn’t.

  Chapter 7

  Along with the Postwaites, the butler, Flo Netherton, and several others, Keely was ushered into a drawing room and instructed not to discuss the robbery with anyone.

  Not that anyone seemed inclined to chatter. Like anxious family members awaiting a surgeon’s verdict, the room’s occupants were engrossed in their private thoughts and fears.

  A cluster of waiters, however, defied orders to gather in the corner, voices hushed to disgruntled whispers. Keely heard the word “overtime” and concluded that tonight would cost Feast of Italy in more ways than one. She recognized Doug’s sulky scowl and wondered why he’d been detained. Where were they keeping Max? And why had he denied his meeting with Flo?