Marsha broke the silence. “What else did you find out, Daria? My cousin’s flying in from Oregon tomorrow with her husband and three kids. They can’t afford to make a return trip if we have to postpone the wedding.”
So now I was responsible for her cousin’s plane tickets? “Not much. There was a poker game, and Chris owed money to Colonel Windstrom.” I watched her closely to check her reaction to this news. Not good.
She dropped her head in her hands. “He told me he was done with cards,” she whispered with a sniffle. “I trusted him.”
Torey looked at me in apprehension. Then she leaned over to put a hand on Marsha’s shoulder. “Everybody played poker at that camp. It was sort of a rite of initiation. It didn’t mean anything.” She turned to me. “Your buddy Jim played for hours every night. He was a big bettor and a big loser, is what I heard.” She didn’t mention that it was Chris who was running the poker game, at least according to Jim. I thought it best to hold my tongue as well.
Torey sat back in her chair, twisted her hands together, and came to her decision. “Listen, Marsha, there’s something else I should tell you.”
I folded and unfolded my napkin, wishing to be anywhere else than here. I didn’t fancy being a mute witness while Torey confessed her affair with Chris to Marsha, but what could I do? Poor Marsha; she’d need a shoulder to cry on. I wasn’t sure if mine would be strong enough.
“I heard something, when I was guarding Colonel Windstrom’s tent.” Torey leaned forward and lowered her voice. “He was alone in his tent, so he was talking on his cell phone, if you can believe it. I heard him say, ‘I saw you in the isolation tent, with the diamonds and jewels. What are you going to do about that?’ That was all.” She leaned back and looked at the two of us, both stunned into utter silence. “That sound like Chris?”
Marsha and I shook our heads in tandem, still speechless.
Marsha was the first to break the silence. “So then who was he talking to?”
Torey played with her fork and spoon. “I couldn’t tell,” she finally answered. She kept her eyes fixed on the spoon, as if she could find the answers in its burnished surface. “He never said any name. It could have been anyone.”
“Did you tell the cops?” I asked.
She shrugged. “They asked me a lot of questions. They never asked about diamonds and jewels.”
“You have to tell the cops,” I persisted. Maybe I didn’t have much faith in them, but at the very least they needed all the information they could get. Marsha nodded.
Torey fiddled with her fork. “Okay, I’ll call them.”
“Call them now, Torey, please,” Marsha begged. “Maybe they’ll let Chris come home.”
Torey sighed and fished out her phone. She looked at the time and jumped up from the table. “Yikes, I’m late for class. I’ll call after.” She tossed a few crumpled bills on the table and rushed out, leaving Marsha and me gaping in her wake.
Movement outside the window caught my attention. A man in jeans and a flannel shirt lounged on the sidewalk outside, watching the lunchtime crowd stream past him. It was Pete. I started to knock on the window, but something about his furtive stance stopped me. I sat still, watching him. He was definitely acting weird. He shoved his hands into his pockets and scanned the mall anxiously, as if he were looking for someone; whether friend or foe I couldn’t tell. I narrowed my eyes and studied him. I couldn’t tell if he was scared or just waiting for someone.
A few minutes later, a short man with hair so black it must have been dyed and an ugly scar on his upper lip approached from across the mall. Pete tensed visibly, and I wondered if I should join him. But the man didn’t touch him. They spoke for a brief moment and then he handed Pete a brown paper bag. The man turned on his heel and left. Pete watched him go. He closed his eyes for a long moment, then hurried down the sidewalk in the opposite direction.
I sipped my lukewarm tea while I waited for Marsha to come back from the restroom. What was Pete up to now? Could that have been Kinney himself? More likely some associate of Kinney’s, looking for money. I caught my breath. Maybe I’d witnessed a drug deal. What was in that paper bag? Suddenly I didn’t care about diamonds and jewels. I needed to find out if Pete was still mixed up in drugs.
I hustled Marsha out of the cafe, nearly bumping into McCarthy on the sidewalk outside.
“Why, Daria! Having lunch, I see.” He grinned, with a pointed glance at Marsha.
“Oh, yes, this is . . . this is my cousin Polly. She’s just arrived from New York.”
Marsha stared at me like I’d just sprouted wings. McCarthy laughed and held out his hand. “I’m Sean McCarthy, from the Laurel Springs Daily Chronicle.” He nodded at a thin man next to him, wearing a suit and tie. “This is Martin Sterling, a reporter. We’d like to ask you a few questions about the murder at the Civil War reenactment. I understand your fiancé was involved?”
Marsha glared at me like I was Judas or something—which I suppose I was.
“I told you, leave Marsha alone,” I snapped. “How did you know where we were, anyway?”
He gave me an infuriating grin. “I was stalking you, my dear Daria. I could have tried to find out the location of Chris Porter’s fiancée by other means, but I knew you would lead me to her at lunchtime. More fun that way.” He smiled sweetly at Marsha. “Mind if we ask you a few questions?”
“I only have a few minutes. I need to meet Mama at two thirty to go over the place settings for the wedding reception.” She glared at McCarthy. “Chris is innocent. He never killed anyone, period.”
McCarthy took a breath to respond, but Sterling forestalled him. “I met Chris at the camp on Monday,” he said. “He showed me how his musket worked. Super-nice guy.” He smiled encouragingly at Marsha.
She returned his smile. “What can I tell you?”
A small, thin man with close-cut dark hair and a soft-spoken manner, Sterling was the polar opposite of McCarthy. He went through a litany of “who, what, where, when, and why” questions that put Marsha right at ease. Amazingly, McCarthy didn’t bully her or mock her in any way. He listened respectfully while Sterling questioned her and passed her a tissue when she teared up. They didn’t uncover anything I didn’t already know. McCarthy seemed intrigued about the diamonds and jewels and questioned Marsha repeatedly about who might have harbored them in the isolation tent.
Finally it was over, and Sterling took off for the newspaper. Marsha had to run to meet her mother. I checked the time; the next bus wouldn’t come for another forty-five minutes. When McCarthy asked if he could give me a ride, I accepted with as much grace as I could muster.
After we got in his car, McCarthy asked, “Am I taking you straight home, Daria? Or shall we go someplace else?” His eyes lit up. “A stroll through the Arboretum, perhaps? I hear the roses are in full bloom now.”
Even though I wanted to see what was going on with Pete, this seemed like a good opportunity to find out more about McCarthy. “Okay, sure.”
“Really?” He gunned the engine and headed off before I could change my mind.
McCarthy drove with his windows rolled down—the next best thing to a convertible, I supposed. I pictured him cruising the strip with one elbow out the window and the other snuggled around an adoring young blonde. I didn’t intend to play that part.
“Did Marsha fill in all the blanks for you? Learn anything new?” I asked.
His fingers drummed on the steering wheel. “Diamonds and jewels make a new twist. We’ll have to interview that Torey Brand next. Everything else sounds familiar. I’m looking at the same story from all different angles, but the narrative doesn’t seem to change much.” He cast me a sidelong glance. “In every version, Colonel Windstrom is dead and Chris Porter is holding the murder weapon. I can’t seem to make it come out any other way.”
“That’s not the narrative; those are facts. What about the character motivations, the backstory? Have you learned anything else about Colonel Windstrom
that would explain why someone would want to kill him?”
McCarthy shrugged. “He was a single guy, fifty-eight years old, with no offspring or family members looking to cash in on the will. His real name was Steven Gregory. He worked as a school bus driver, and kept to himself off the job. Pretty much a loner.”
He barreled around a corner without slowing down. “That’s all I’ve found out so far. I’ve been a bit distracted by another line of inquiry.” He turned to look me in the face, despite the fact that he was driving forty-miles-an-hour down narrow city streets.
I sucked in my breath. “Eyes on the road!”
He chuckled but complied. With his eyes dutifully fixed on the road, he said, “I’ve been looking into the backstories of two guys named Karl Foreman and Ivan Levkin, recently of Hollywood, California. Friends of Kinney, who only seems to have one name.” He risked a quick glance at my face, then concentrated on the road again.
I hung on his every word.
“Foreman and Levkin’s stories are full of stints in jail for one crime or another, with nothing to implicate Kinney, although it seems clear that they are working for him. Kinney’s history is more elusive. He owns a chain of jewelry stores in tourist destinations like Alaska and Hawaii that get a lot of cruise ship traffic. He doesn’t have a criminal record per se, but he does seem to be nearby when a lot of illegal activity is taking place.” He stopped at a red light, taking the opportunity to study my face. “I’m just wondering how the paths of these two thugs and their mysterious associate have crossed those of this delightful Dembrowski family that I’m just coming to know.”
I couldn’t meet his gaze. “Good question,” was the best I could manage. I wondered what research he’d done into my past, or Pete’s.
He peeled out from the red light. “Good questions are my specialty!” He zoomed down the straightaway, slowing only to turn into the entrance to the arboretum.
Tourists came from as far as Florida to see our magnificent roses in full bloom at the Seabury Arboretum. Covering over a hundred acres of hillside on the outskirts of town, the park featured a bike path running through a comprehensive collection of native tree species, a Victorian greenhouse gleaming with white metal and glass, and a series of gazebos interspersed among the flowerbeds. Best of all were the roses. The brochure listed countless varieties, from antique roses to wildly colored hybrids. Their sweet scent surrounded us.
McCarthy led me down the wood-chip path through the antique roses. “I want to get some photos. The light is perfect, and the blossoms will be past their prime in a few days.” He surveyed the bushes until he found the one rose he wanted. Then he knelt, heedless of the chattering tourists, and focused his lens. He spent a good fifteen minutes on that one flower, zooming his lens in and out, shifting on his knees to get a different angle, waiting patiently for a breeze to die down.
I watched his face, intent with concentration, alive with joy and wonder. I pulled out my phone and snapped a picture of him with his lens millimeters from the pink petals. Then I wandered down the path to breathe in the perfume of the other roses on display.
Brushing dirt off his knees, McCarthy finally rejoined me. He held out his camera. “Want to see?”
Of course they were beautiful, with sunlight kissing the delicate rose petals. Each one of his pictures was different: the angle, the framing with the leaves, or bees hovering around the center. Hard to believe that someone could take so many images of just one flower.
“One down, fifteen thousand and thirty-seven to go,” I said.
He laughed. “Your turn.” He led me to a bed of hybrid tea roses. “Which one do you like?”
I chose a stunning white rose with delicate pink shading on the edges of the petals. The sign identified it as a moonstone rose.
“Good choice.” McCarthy looped his camera strap around my neck, his hand brushing against my hair. “This way, if you drop the camera, it won’t hit the ground.” He showed me how to use the manual focus by lining up the indicators on the lens so the image would be sharp. I was surprised by my intense awareness of his fingers over mine. “Look through the viewfinder, not at the screen, so you don’t see anything except the image you’re capturing. Come in close to the blossom, then bring it into focus. That’s when the magic happens.”
“The magic?” I looked into his pale blue eyes, so close to mine.
He indicated the camera. “You’ll see.”
I bent close to the rose, until it filled the entire frame. Then I held the camera as still as I could while I twisted the lens to bring the blurry image into focus. It took several tries, but at last it worked. Suddenly that perfect rose, all delicate pink and white, emerged with breathtaking clarity. It was the only thing I could see in the world.
I held my breath and clicked the shutter button. I sat back on my heels and looked up at McCarthy. “Wow.”
He nodded, a smile lighting up his face. “The actual photographs are never quite as thrilling as the magic of seeing the image clearly for the very first time.” He held out his hand to help me up. “How’d you do?”
I lifted the strap over my head and handed the camera back to him. He fiddled with the buttons and pulled up my picture of the moonstone rose. I could still see the beauty of the pristine petals, but he was right—the magic was in that first breathtaking moment of clarity, not in the finished product. So different from sewing, where the completed garment, not the process, was what counted.
“Very nice.” He flashed me a smile. “I’ll print it out for you when I get home.”
I picked up my purse. “I should probably be getting home.”
He slung his camera over his shoulder. “And leave the other fifteen thousand roses unphotographed?”
We walked slowly back to his car, stopping occasionally to breathe in the intoxicating scent or admire a particular rosebush. He snapped a few more casual photos, though not investing the time to explore all the possible angles.
The peaceful aura of the arboretum dissipated once we got out of the parking lot. As we drove far too fast down the street, I leaned back in my seat and regarded McCarthy. “So tell me, why was Colonel Windstrom so upset with you at the Tremington museum?”
He shot me a quick glance. “I’m a nosy photographer. Upsetting people is part of my calling.”
I laughed. “Okay, but what in particular did you do to upset Colonel Windstrom?”
“Obviously I’m not the only one who’s nosy.” He grinned. “Sterling and I did a spread on the reenactors on their first day at the encampment. It featured Windstrom bellowing at the troops and sentencing an errant soldier to the isolation tent. He didn’t like the suggestion that he was abusing his position of power, or the look of his beet red face.” He braked sharply as a squirrel raced across the road. Gradually accelerating again, he went on. “He stormed into the managing editor’s office and demanded a full retraction, as well as removing the story and photos from the online edition.” He chuckled. “We had a few choice words—I’m sure you can imagine.”
“I think I might have heard a few of them at the museum.” I watched him closely. “Could Colonel Windstrom have gotten you fired?”
He shrugged. “Always a possibility, I suppose. Carter, the managing editor, and I don’t always see eye-to-eye. He’s super-vigilant about the pristine reputation of his newspaper. He usually puts up with me, unless he gets a complaint.”
I mulled over this story as McCarthy pulled up to the curb in front of my house. The newspaper wouldn’t be receiving any more complaints from Colonel Windstrom about photographer Sean McCarthy. Was that coincidental, or by design?
McCarthy cut the engine and turned to me with a smile that crinkled up his eyes. “Thanks for saying yes.”
I returned his smile. “It was fun. Thanks for showing me the magic.”
He drove away with a cheery wave. I walked slowly up the porch steps, pondering this new side of McCarthy that I’d glimpsed. Aileen was righ
t—I would have to watch out for that one.
The answering machine light was blinking as I walked into the kitchen. I pressed the button and reached into the fridge for a soda. An unfamiliar voice filled the room. “Dembrowski? Pick up at seven o’clock sharp. Don’t be a no-show.”
I held the soda unopened in my hands. “Pick up at seven?” Was this another drug deal? I couldn’t stand it anymore. I slammed the can down on the counter and headed for the stairs. I had to know just what Pete was up to.
* * *
I hesitated in the doorway, gazing at the disarray in Pete’s room. I was about to violate one of the most imperative rules of my childhood: “Stay out of my room.” When Pete and I would fight, I knew I could run to my room for safety. Pete would stop on the threshold and shout, but he wouldn’t set foot into my room. It was as if an invisible force field protected my space. It worked the same way for him—I only entered his room when invited. He used to stash my birthday presents under his bed, with the bag in plain sight. He knew I’d never go in to peek, even if he wasn’t home.
I took a deep breath and committed sacrilege. I pushed past the force field and walked into Pete’s room.
Where would he hide it? I wasn’t even sure what I was looking for—a plastic baggie, needles, a pill bottle? I searched the dresser drawers first . . . only underwear and socks. I noticed with a pang that every single sock had a hole or worn spot in it. So much for living the high life in Hollywood.
There couldn’t be anything under the bed—the mattress lay directly on the floor. Still, I ran my hand under the mattress, for thoroughness, if nothing else. Then I remembered the box Pete was protecting the day he moved in.
I looked around, but Pete had finished unpacking, and only one box remained. I folded back the lid and rooted through the contents. There were piles of papers, lists of what looked like names and addresses—could they be drug contacts? Everyone lived in Los Angeles. I didn’t see Kinney’s name on the few sheets I scanned.
I made a mental note to return to these pages if needed and shoved them back into the box.
Uniformly Dead Page 13