It was eight o'clock before they all finally left my office. Rusty and I stopped at a fast food place where we both indulged in cheeseburgers and fries.
At home, I came across the bunch of papers I'd stolen from Gary Detweiller's nightstand. They were wadded and disorganized, and I just didn't have the stamina right now to go through them. I put them on the desk in my home office, held down with a glass paperweight. I showered and fell into bed almost immediately. I was bone-tired but my sleep was unsettled. I had indigestion all night from the greasy burger. I blamed the food, although the stressful day probably hadn't helped a bit.
Chapter 18
After falling asleep around four a.m., I didn't rouse again until after nine. Somewhere in the back of my memory, I thought I'd had a productive day planned but now I couldn't seem to focus. I showered and dressed in jeans and sweater. I really should go in to the office; there was correspondence waiting, I remembered. But Stacy's plight seemed to loom large. I couldn't help but wonder what had happened when she went home last night, if she went home. I speculated as to whether I should call.
Rusty and I went through our morning breakfast routine then left for the office. We arrived to find Ron pouring coffee into his mug with one hand, gripping his lower back with the other.
"So, how was bowling last night?" I teased.
He shot me a look through pinched eyebrows.
"I thought you were there to surveil not to participate."
"Well, you know. It looks kinda suspicious to sit around a bowling alley all evening and never pick up a ball," he explained.
"And Joey just happened to talk you into throwing a few."
"Yeah, well. . ."
"I'm not gonna ask who won. Obviously, your back didn't."
He ignored that and took his coffee to his own office. I stopped by Sally's desk on my way upstairs. She handed me one pink slip. Sarah Johnson. Sarah Johnson. . . Oh, yes, the one who worked with Jean Detweiller. Now what would she have to tell me?
As it turned out, I had to ponder the question awhile longer. There was no answer at the number she'd given. Assuming she still worked the late shift, maybe I could catch her as she arrived at work this afternoon. This left me without much choice but to go ahead and answer the letters that had stacked up on my desk.
By two o'clock I had that nasty little chore taken care of, Sally had left for the day, and Ron was again glued to his telephone. I slipped a note in front of him, letting him know I was switching on the answering machine and leaving. I'd been wondering how Josh was doing, and since the Detweiller house and Sarah's work were so close together, I might as well make one trip of it.
The boxy little house looked all closed up, with no cars in the driveway when I pulled up to the curb. I knocked on the front door anyway. No response. No big surprise. As I stepped off the porch, I saw a lady in the next yard holding the garden hose sprayer over a flower bed. She raised her hand in a little wave.
"Hi," I said, cutting across the Detweiller drive to approach her.
"Nobody's home there," she said. She leaned a bit closer to me. "The man and his wife were both murdered."
She didn't say "died" or even "killed." This one liked to get the sensational tidbits right into the conversation. I looked closely at her for the first time. She was in her late fifties, with short gray hair mostly hidden by a wide-brimmed gardening hat of turquoise fabric with pink dots the size of quarters all over it. Her pink garden gloves were nicely color coordinated, although the green slacks and pullover she wore clashed badly with the hat.
"I was hoping to find Josh at home," I told her. "Maybe he's back in school today."
"Oh, I don't think so," she said. "That blond girl was here earlier. I think her name's Casey. They had that music blasting me practically out of my house all morning. Then, about an hour ago they left together."
This woman must do a lot of yard work. She really was up on her neighbor's movements.
"I heard that Mr. Detweiller was killed right here in the driveway," I said. "You probably heard the shot."
"Well, I'm sure I would have, but Wednesday's Buzz and my bowling night. We never get home until after ten. That night, whooee, I mean to tell you, that was some commotion. Those cop cars and ambulance and all, they didn't leave till around midnight. Well, it was ten after, I'd say."
Pegged to the minute, I'm sure.
"What about the other neighbors? Were any of them home?"
"You some kinda investigator?" She narrowed her eyes briefly, scrutinizing me. Just as quickly, she brushed it off. "Well, anyway, I don't know about them others. You know, the people in this neighborhood, they don't look out for each other the way we always used to. I mean, I could be mugged on my own front porch and nobody'd come check on me for a week. Well, just look what happened here." She gestured toward the Detweiller driveway to prove her point.
I nodded, not wanting to slow her down.
"You know what it is? Stereo. That's right. You know they have stereo sound in TV sets now? Yeah. And people play them darn things so loud, why a bomb could go off in their own living room and they'd never hear it." She swung the hose sprayer toward an evergreen at the other side of her own driveway and I had to trot around to keep facing her. "Nope," she said, "I'm not a bit surprised no one heard that man get killed."
We edged our way through her front yard, each shrub getting a minute or two under the shower.
"Now me, if I'da been home, you can bet help woulda come that much faster. I'da heard that shot." She leveled a knowing look at me. I believed her.
"Well, I guess I'll try to catch Josh later," I said, somewhere between the lilacs and the roses.
"That poor boy." She pulled her upper lip down between her teeth, sharing his pain vicariously.
"I'm sure he'll have a tough time of it," I said.
"He's already had a tough time of it. They was always chewing on him for something."
"He'll probably go live with his aunt, I hear."
"I don't know if I've ever met the aunt," she said. "Well, she can't treat him a whole lot worse than the parents. And they kept such weird hours. You know, that mother was out all night. Every night." She tsked over this, like working a night job should have been on the list of mortal sins.
We'd just about made the rounds of the whole front yard by this time, and I didn't think I could handle the back as well, so I found an opening and took it. It seemed unusually peaceful in the car.
It was a little early for Sarah Johnson's work shift, and I remembered I hadn't eaten lunch. Maybe I'd go early and visit with Archie while I forced myself to eat another piece of that homemade pie.
Blueberry was on the menu today, a flavor I can never resist. Archie served it up with his usual graciousness. His whites today had the grease stains in different places, so I could assume that he did change clothes occasionally.
"So. Anything new with your investigation?" he asked.
"Not a lot," I admitted. "Jean's death kind of threw a kink in things, didn't it?"
"'Cause you were thinkin' she done it, right?"
I took a big forkful of pie, not wanting to admit he was right.
"Hey, I mighta thought so, too," he chuckled, "if I hadn't of known Jean so well. She had a temper. Man, that woman could really let you have it. Well, I mean she never let me have the temper, but I've seen her tie into these girls here sometimes."
He glanced up the counter, making sure the other customers weren't listening.
"One night, ol' Gary come by. He was raggin' on her about something, and pow! She let him have it. No way did she take any stuff off that husband of hers."
"But you still didn't think she killed him?"
"Naw. No way. Jean had a quick temper. You pissed her off, she let fly. Whew! The language got pretty hot sometimes. But then it was done. Just that quick. Jean never held nothin' inside. Five minutes later she'd have her arm around you, makin' up. I don't think she had it in her to plan something out, wait around, and strik
e. Not Jean."
He resumed filling the salt shakers while I finished off the pie. It was a quarter to four, and I decided to wait out in the parking lot for Sarah. Whatever she had to say, she might not want to say it in front of Archie. I put some money beside my empty plate and waved at him down at the other end of the counter.
Sarah's old pickup truck zipped into the lot at one minute to four. Luckily, this time I was safely in my own vehicle, not crossing the lot.
"Hi, Sarah." I approached quickly, wanting to catch her before she went inside. "I got your message, but no one answered your phone."
She seemed breathless and rushed. "Oh, yeah," she answered vaguely.
"Look, if you don't have time now, we can talk later. Want me to call you tomorrow?"
She searched mentally to remember why she'd called. "Yeah, that would be better," she said. "Oh, wait, now I know. I just wanted to ask if the police have released Jean's car yet. I loaned her a paperback book, and she'd told me it was out in the car. Then we got busy and I forgot about it. It's no big thing but I would like to get it back sometime."
I hadn't realized that the police had impounded the car. But then, it wasn't at the house, so I guess it made sense.
"Why would they take her car?" I asked.
Sarah was fast-walking toward the back entrance of the diner. I trotted to keep pace.
She stopped and looked puzzled. "Oh, didn't I tell you? The night she was killed, she and I got off work at the same time. We walked out together. There were no other cars in the lot and no one standing around. I was in a hurry so I jumped in my truck and took off." She looked at me with eyes so full of guilt it made me want to cry. "Usually we look out for each other. Make sure both our cars start, you know, just being careful. But that night, I left. And there must have been someone waiting for her in her car."
A chill ran up from the base of my spine to my neck and down both arms.
Chapter 19
"Why didn't you tell me Jean was killed in the car?" I wasn't actually yelling, but I could feel my vocal chords stretching to reach their current level.
"Now wait just a minute," Kent Taylor responded. "You're not a police officer, not even a licensed private investigator. You just don't have the right to certain information."
"Okay. I know that." Feeling somewhat deflated, I realized I better tread lightly. "It's just that you've arrested Stacy for this and I'm trying to help her."
"I know, Charlie, but did it ever occur to you that maybe you can't help her? Maybe she's guilty? You can't fix the world, Charlie, much as you'd like to. I'm being pretty tolerant with you as it is."
He was right, of course. But it didn't make me ready to give up.
"Can you tell me whether you found any evidence in the car?"
"No, I can't." Meaning he wouldn't.
"Have you found the murder weapon?"
He shuffled a little as he admitted they hadn't.
"Then you can't definitely prove Stacy did it, can you?"
"You're on thin ice here, Charlie. Better just drop it."
I was, and I did. Besides, it was getting late and I'd about had it after the previous sleepless night. I picked up Rusty from the now-deserted office, went home, microwaved a frozen dinner, and watched the news on TV. That was even more depressing than what I was facing in real life, so I popped a video tape of Casablanca into the VCR. Two hours later I was weeping but happy. I went to bed.
I awoke the next morning with the oddest feeling that I was forgetting something vitally important. I looked at the calendar, convinced that I'd missed a tax deadline or dentist appointment but that wasn't it. I poured cereal in a bowl, added milk and couldn't get the nagging feeling out of my mind. Halfway to the office I remembered Gary's papers on my desk at home. I couldn't believe I'd let an entire day pass without checking them out. At the very next intersection, I made a left, then another, circling the block. Ten minutes later, I was on the phone telling Sally that I'd be working from home this morning.
The wad of papers waited just where I'd left them. In my haste in the Detweiller bedroom the other day, I hadn't taken time to unfold or straighten them all. I'd picked out most of the old newspapers and racing forms, leaving them behind, but these notes were in their original state. It was an assortment of notebook pages, cocktail napkins, and scribbled-on business cards. I carried the whole mess to the kitchen table and made myself a cup of tea for fortification.
Carefully, I unfolded and flattened each sheet. At first, there was no way to categorize them. I simply laid each new item out until the table top was covered. I had no idea what to look for but I tried to keep an open mind. Blackmail material, IOUs, dirty pictures—I'd take whatever I could get. Unfortunately, there was nothing quite that obvious. Most of the scraps appeared to contain bets. Little scribbled notes where someone down at Penguin's had told Gary to place a bet for him. I began stacking those in one pile.
I spread the business cards out like some kind of solitaire game. Many of them were Gary's own cards, Detweiller Enterprises, with notes written on the backs. Others belonged to an interesting variety of people. Among them, Charles Tompkins, the Tanoan resident in the cold white house who'd been shafted to the tune of twenty thousand dollars. He'd brushed me off when I'd spoken to him, but now I wondered. His name appeared several times, along with some hefty sums of cash and names of race horses. One caught my eye—Bet The Farm. An odd name for an animal. As far as I could tell, Tompkins—Charlie T. as he was referred to in the notes—had wagered fifty thousand on that one. He'd been cavalier about losing twenty thousand, but if his total losses were closer to a hundred, could even he afford that? A few other names on the list were recognizable, including some of our city's sleazier attorneys and politicians. I got the little spiral notebook from my purse and wrote down a list of names, addresses and phone numbers. I had no idea what I'd do with them, but it was handier having them listed in one place than on fifty little bits of paper. Having done that, I debated what to do next. I chewed my pencil, although it's hard on the teeth and not particularly good for the pencil, either.
The big dilemma I was having with all this was in finding Jean's connection to it. It wasn't hard to find dozens of people that might have been cheated or, cheated on, by Gary. But how did Jean's death tie in? The only thing that made sense was that somehow she'd known something about someone. Thinking back to the day I'd visited their bedroom, I couldn't see that the papers had been disturbed in weeks. I seriously doubted that Jean had gone through them, learned something, confronted that person, and gotten herself killed for it. So, if these papers weren't her information source, what was?
Sitting here chewing a pencil and agonizing over this wasn't solving anything. And it was driving me crazy. I had to do something. It was nearly noon. I picked up the phone and dialed Stacy's number. She answered on the second ring.
"Stace, hi. Just thought I'd check in with you."
"Hello, Charlie. I'm fine, thank you." Her tone was stiff enough to starch shirts.
"Stacy? Is everything all right."
"Yes. Just wonderful, thanks." I'd swear the words came out through clenched teeth.
"Is this a bad time?"
"It really is," she replied.
"Do you need help? Should I come over?"
"Not right now. I'll talk to you later." She hung up before I could think of the next thing to say.
I slammed the receiver down, pulled my jacket from the coat rack near the door, and had it halfway on before I stopped to think. She said she didn't need help. In fact, what had she really said? Granted, the conversation was stiff, the call clearly not welcome, but there could be other reasons. Maybe I'd caught them in the middle of great sex. Maybe they were having the reconciliation of a lifetime.
I took a deep breath and shed my jacket. I had to tell myself that Stacy's problems were not mine, thank goodness. She had to work out whatever was going on at home. She'd only hired me to find out who killed Gary Detweiller. So far, I was d
oing a sorry job of that. I went back into the kitchen and gathered Gary's papers into a bundle. I folded the whole wad and stuffed them back into my purse. I should probably try to find a way to put them back, although I couldn't imagine what Josh would want with them. All his parent's belongings would probably be thrown out when he moved. I wondered if he'd contacted his aunt about moving in with her. On impulse, I dialed his number. The phone rang twelve times but no answer.
I wanted to talk to Josh again, and to Stacy. And then there was Larry Burke. I'd still like to know whether he'd followed me Friday night or if it was someone he knew, or if it was purely random. Both my visits to Penguin's had ended badly. Slashed tire one time, terrorized by a dark truck the other. Seemed like more than coincidence.
In the meantime, since I couldn't reach anyone I wanted to talk to, I decided my only choice was to go to the office and get some regular work done. Maybe I'd try Stacy again later this afternoon.
As it turned out I didn't have to. I'd been at the office a couple of hours, picking through the work on my desk wishing that something in the stack looked appealing enough to do. Sally had left at one, and I found myself wanting the phone to ring, just so I wouldn't have to answer letters or worse yet, get back to my tax returns. I wandered the halls like a lost waif, making cups of tea, scrounging through the kitchen drawers for snacks but only coming up with two vanilla sandwich cookies loosely wrapped in torn cellophane. They were disgusting to look at and, after I'd finished the second one, I decided they really didn't have that much flavor.
By three o'clock I was beginning to feel ridiculous. Why was I here, pretending to work, when my mind was elsewhere? I felt itchy about the Detweiller murders. The answer had to be here close by somewhere. I told myself that the police were working on it, but that didn't make me any less anxious to be out there myself. I left Rusty to help Ron with the phones and started out to my car.
Deadly Gamble: The First Charlie Parker Mystery Page 15