Fit To Curve (An Ellen and Geoffrey Fletcher Mystery Book 1)

by Bud Crawford

  Sprague wondered, even as he tried to get it all into his notes, what use the fashion study could possibly have. Not his thing, ever. "Did he tell you why he was late? Was he surprised to see you?"

  "No, he didn't say anything about it. I mean he wasn't late, because we didn't have a date. I don't think he was surprised, because he brought a huge pizza and some beer, way too much for one person, so I assumed he expected me."

  She looked less broken up, more defiant, Sprague thought. Nothing more coming tonight. Let Apple have her a while tomorrow, womano a womano. "So you ate the pizza, drank the beer?"

  "Yeah, then we had some wine and went to bed, I was still tired, and I had to get up early. I'd missed work the day before, and I didn't want to stick Alistair with Toni two days running. She's not happy in the morning."

  Sprague asked, "Were you intimate?" Vingood stiffened in his chair. Sprague thought, I don't really want that guy mad at me.

  "Did we hook up, have sex, make love? Yeah, we did. Not like the night before. It was quieter and quicker. Then we went to sleep. My alarm on my watch woke me at five. I washed up and drove back. He was still in bed. He kind of waved at me but he didn't say anything."

  "Okay," Sprague said. "I need you to tell me your boyfriend's name and address. I let it go by this afternoon. Tonight I can't."

  Marti stared at him without speaking. She looked down at her hands in her lap. "Seth is his name. Seth Harper. He rents a little house down on Hillside. It's number nine-one-seven. But there's nothing he can tell you, only what I've told him."

  "Sometimes," Sprague said, smiling, "that's what can be most useful for us."

  Marti didn't reply. Does he think, she wondered, I won't get that, he can talk over my head? Maybe he's not nice like I thought he was.

  Sprague waited for a minute. "Okay, Miss Spence, that's more than enough for tonight. Thank you for talking with me. I'm sorry, again, for the news I brought, and sorry I have to bother you with all these questions. There will probably be more tomorrow, depending on what we find at the cabin and from the autopsy. If you think of anything else that might help us, here's my card." He hand her a card, offered one to Vingood, who declined, saying he still had one from the other day.

  "And just briefly, for tonight, Mr. Vingood, can you tell me where you were yesterday morning? And, also, if anything has occurred to you about any of this, anything odd or suggestive?" Sprague turned a fresh page, pencil poised.

  "I can be very brief. I was here. First cooking breakfast, then cleaning up, then I took a nap. And, no, I wasn't real pleased Marti was involved with James, twice her age at least, and looked like kind of a scoundrel to me besides. But she's of age, and while I care very deeply about her, I'm not in charge of her, never have been. If you were to ask, would I have considered kicking him off a cliff, I'd have to say, yes. But I didn't do it, I had no chance to, but I would have thought about it. Despite the truffles."

  "I'm sorry, truffles?" Sprague looked up from his book. "Oh. Okay. It was in Apple's notes. Richter brought presents for everybody, right? For you it was a bag of mushrooms?"

  "Perigord black truffles," Alistair said. "Yeah, they're mushrooms. But he brought me almost five pounds, worth something like three-to-four thousand dollars, depending on a lot of things. You probably got most of what was in James' swag bag in your interviews yesterday, but you and your detectives were asking mostly about the coins for Harold. You don't need me telling you your job, but if there's anything off about James' death, all his transactions here, and all the business leading up to them might be worth checking out. Some of them were tokens, as he called them, but I think they were worth more than that sounds like. And some were pretty substantial, with interesting ramifications."

  "No, that's fine. I'm happy to have people tell me how to do my job. Sometimes I think I know, but I find out there's always more that I don't know. Most of the time I'll take any help I can get." Sprague finished his notes and looked up. "It's true, yesterday what Richter did here didn't seem important except for its impact on Mr. Alden. After what happened this morning, everything has to be gone over in a new light. We wouldn't have missed it for long, once we review all our notes. But I'm glad you brought it up now. It might mean nothing, if Richter's death was an accident. It might be the key that unlocks everything if it wasn't. Thank you, Mr. Vingood."

  Vingood stood. "You're welcome."

  Sprague realized they had been almost eye-to-eye when Vingood was sitting, now he had to look several inches up. "That's plenty for tonight. Thank you both. We'll take tomorrow as it comes." He nodded and turned and walked out of the kitchen.

  Ickes was sitting with Mrs. Alden and the Fletchers and that bright-eyed old lady, Staedtler. He was trying to convince Mrs. Alden of something, Sprague thought, not so far successfully. Sprague stood a minute, until first Staedtler, then the Fletcher woman, than the rest, noticed him hovering, and shifted their focus.

  "Mr. Ickes, perhaps you could join me over there, where we can chat a little more privately?" Sprague pointed to two chairs with a small table between them on the other side of the parlor.

  "Yes, certainly." Ickes stood. "But I have given a statement to your young lady, there's really nothing to add." He followed Sprague across the room, and they both sat, Ickes back into the cushioned chair, Sprague perched on the edge of his, notebook open again.

  "I don't know if you know anything about police work, Mr. Ickes, but most of our time is spent going over the same ground, again and again. Something nothing at all is gained from all this repetition, and sometimes on the eleventh pass we see some little shiny object, and we bend down and pick it up."

  "Okay, sure. I get it. The redundancy department of redundancy. What would you like to know?" He crossed his arms and his legs, the dark brown wool trousers pulling up to reveal orange and brown argyle sock above the brown and white wingtip shoe, the light brown sports coat sleeve lifting to expose a gold wrist watch and a malachite cuff link.

  Uma Thurman in the magazines, Sprague thought. Tag Heuer Chrono-something-or-other, or am I just blowing smoke? He said, "Well, let me summarize what I expect Patrolman Apple has in her notebook, and you can amplify or amend. You drove to Asheville this morning, from Charlotte, because you had heard of Harold Alden's death. As his employer, and friend of the family, you wanted to be with Mrs. Alden, to help. You never met James Richter, although he was a client of your office. Is that close?"

  "Uncannily so, detective." Ickes seemed genuinely puzzled. "Unless you interviewed people here earlier today."

  "Well, I was filling in some large blanks, imaginatively. What kind of had to be, from what was known to be. Where were you last night?"

  "At home, my house in Charlotte, I live alone, but my housekeeper fed me dinner, then went to her room, and I to mine."

  "Her name?"

  "Apollonoia. Apollonia Gonzales."

  Sprague wrote the name. "She lives in your house, with your address and phone number?"

  "That's correct. She has a cell phone, I pay for it, so that I can reach her if she's out."

  Sprague wrote down the number. "When did you leave Charlotte?"

  "I learned last night of Harold Alden's death, an email from our Asheville director, Madison Markey. I wanted to tell my Charlotte associates in person. Harold was their friend and co-worker, too. I went to my office around eight-thirty. I told everyone the news, then drove straight here, faster than I should have done, to try to catch Stephanie at breakfast. I was late, but she was still here and Alistair fed me. I had booked a room."

  "After breakfast?" Sprague asked.

  "I spoke with Stephanie, and the Fletchers, who would not leave her alone. We talked mostly about Harold's Metrocor life insurance benefit, how she wanted me to handle it. Then I went to our Asheville office, to consult with Ms. Markey. The two of us went to lunch, then returned to her office. I came here for tea. I brought Madison with me. She was a friend of Harold's, they had worked together a year ago when she wa
s an associate in Charlotte. Before her promotion last year to head things up in Asheville, she and Harold had been very close. She wanted to offer her sympathies to Stephanie, to see if there was anything she could do. Later, I drove her back to her office, did some errands downtown. I joined her again for dinner at an excellent restaurant, the Marketplace, exemplary food, beautiful wine list. I took her home after dinner, and returned here for dessert. Also, as it turned out for the opportunity to meet you and your Patrolperson Apple."

  "Was there anything?"

  "I'm sorry, any what?" Ickes asked.

  "Anything Ms. Markey could do for Mrs. Alden?"

  "It seemed that Stephanie was okay in the short run with her new friends, the Fletchers. So Madison just let her know she'd be around when they were gone, and not to hesitate to call."

  "Okay. Good. That's all for tonight Mr. Ickes. Will you be staying through tomorrow?"

  "I haven't decided. Through tonight, and breakfast tomorrow. If Stephanie needs my help I'll stay as long as she wants me to. I was going to figure it out in the morning. If I'm not needed here, I'd best get back to work. The office is already one man short."

  "Let me give you one of my cards. Could I have yours? Give me a call or an email if you think of anything that might be germane to our investigation, or if anything new comes up."

  "Here is my card." Sprague nodded, thanks. "Let me ask you a question, detective." Sprague waited. "Harold's laptop is in the room that you've sealed upstairs. There is a lot of Metrocor proprietary information on it. There probably was even before he came to Asheville. But in his efforts to help Mr. Richter he downloaded a great deal of additional data, according to Ms. Markey and her receptionist. I need to safeguard that data, both confidential company files and customer files. Is there any reason I should not take the machine with me? That would be the simplest thing."

  "Two reasons, I'd say. It's still under seal, and the presumption would be it belongs to Mrs. Alden when we lift the seal. So you'll have to wait until we're done, and then speak to her." Sprague stood up. "I don't think it's likely, but I can't yet rule out the possibility we may have forensic interest in the device. We'd scan the emails, recently acquired or modified files, calendars, notes, that sort of thing, to see if anything interesting pops up. We'd have no interest in any Metrocor files, unless related to Mr. Alden's death."

  "Without knowing exactly what Harold copied, I can't know the seriousness of our exposure, Detective Sprague; but I won't sleep soundly until I know this risk is contained. I will speak to your Captain if I have to. A passage latch and a strip of yellow tape is not a sufficient safeguard."

  "Mr. Ickes, you have convinced me. I will go upstairs now, retrieve the machine and see it safely to our evidence room. I would hate to see a non-case suddenly turned into a full-blown investigation because of an easily anticipated, easily preventable breach. That, most certainly, would distress my Captain. Here is his card."

  Sprague handed Ickes the card, turned and walked to Apple's case. He pulled out a large zip-lock and a pair of gloves, got a key from Vingood, and climbed the stairs. To his relief, the machine was still there. Ickes had begun to spook him. The USB port was where Fletcher said: on the back, left. There was no flash drive in it nor one on the desk. He pulled on the gloves and opened drawers, looked under papers, on the floor. No little drive apparent to a cursory search. He lifted the laptop by opposite corners and slipped it in the bag. He unplugged the power supply, and dropped the cords and transformer in the bag, along with the mouse. He looked over the room. Nothing caught his eye. The smell had passed and the room was far easier to be in at sixty-five degrees than at eighty-five. He resealed and returned to the parlor.

  "Apple, if you're ready?" She nodded and walked across to join him. Ickes was still in his chair spinning the Captain's card, diagonally opposite corners between his thumb and forefinger.

  As they were about to leave, Dwight Vance crossed to where they stood. "I may have solved the puzzle Harold Alden was working on." He spoke softly to Sprague, but the room was silent, chances were everybody heard. "I'm just guessing, and have no data, but it's a testable hypothesis." His face was flushed, his words slightly slurred. Brandy, Sprague decided, brandy breath.

  "Okay, Mr. Vance. Can it wait until tomorrow? We have an early day coming up, Chimney Rock at seven-thirty, and today's gone long already. You have my card?"

  "Oh, sure, it's just a thought, and it would take a while to explain, and even if it's right it probably doesn't matter to anybody left alive. We'll be here at least through lunch, maybe tea. Besides, we're not going far. And I do have your card."

  "Very good. Thank you, Mr. Vance, we'll be in touch. Goodnight everybody, thank you all for putting up with our intrusion."

  As they were walking down the walk towards the curb Sprague said, "Ride home, Apple? It's after midnight."

  "Sure, boss. It'll give us a minute."

  He opened the back door for her case, the front door for her, and set the laptop on the floor of the other backseat. "You got anything?" he asked, as he slid into the driver's seat.

  "Gut, is all. This isn't accidentals."

  "I agree. But, why?"

  "Just gut. There was a lot of tension in that room, pulling every which way, something is going on. Oh, here's a cookie. I palmed one for you."

  "Um, thanks, that's good stuff. He is one great big terrific old cook, isn't he. Well, again, I agree. Wish I could say why. I expected before we got here tonight to come to the opposite conclusion. There's nothing to justify a lot more effort, that I can actually point to. And you know, take any dozen people, crank up the tension and the stakes, and it starts to smell. You know the joke about the postcards to all the big shots, 'flee, all is discovered' and the town empties out." He stopped the car at the curb in front of her apartment. "Leave your case in the car, if you want, I'll swing by quarter-after-six, we'll get Cindy and Bob downtown."

  "I'll make a thermos, two thermi," she told him.

  "I'll bring doughnuts. Tomorrow, Apple."

  chapter twenty-ninth

  "The difference is, before I was sure. Now I'm certain," Ellen said.

  "That's carefully calibrated," Geoff said, looking up the length of the bed. Ellen sat cross-legged at the head, he sat in the desk chair at the foot. She wore a long sleeved t-shirt, scarlet, with the call letters WVOR, Roanoke's public radio affiliate.

  "No, completely tipped over the edge is what I mean," she said, "gone from very likely to proved."

  "Proved doesn't need evidence, any more?" Geoff crossed his ankles on the end of the bed and leaned back in the chair. "He could have tripped, slipped, taken one-too-many steps before his coffee kicked in."

  "And Harold was just unlucky and stressed? His flash drive just vaporized?" Ellen tilted her head left, and lifted her right eyebrow.

  "That's my evidence. But you're right. It's not 'if' now. It's 'how?' And 'who?' But I'd still like some facts. The drive could have disappeared innocently, or at least non-homicidally." Geoff took a sip from his tumbler of George Dickle. Toni had made him a convert. "Sprague is on the case."

  "But he doesn't have any facts, either," Ellen said, "as far as we know. If we're right, we could be in danger, and everybody here. Stef, too."

  "Or, not, if was something just about those two." Geoff stretched his arms up over his head, crossed his fingers behind his neck.

  "You mean if we pretend nothing happened, it didn't?"

  Ellen's eyes flashed dangerously, Geoff thought, beautifully dangerously. "Of course not," he said, "oh jumper-at-unfounded-conclusions. I'm just trying to claw guesses out of nothing. What exactly did happen, and why?"

  "Stephanie, dreaming of insurance settlements, snuck in on Harold wearing a Nixon mask. He keeled over, and she snuck out. Then this morning she drove up to James' cabin. He chased her into the woods, she ducked, he lunged and went over?" Ellen stretched her legs long.

  "Or Marti, after flashing Harold into a heart attack, decid
ed her new lover just wasn't going to be faithful and preemptively pushed him over the cliff." Geoff opened his arms and refolded them over his chest.

  "Toni didn't find Harold down, she knocked him down, because of the way he was treating other guests, then went after James because he was twice Marti's age."

  Geoff lifted his feet off the bed and sat up. "Yeah, fine, and Andy Ross always seems to be around when he doesn't need to be and isn't when you'd expect he should be. And Alistair was more bent out of shape than Toni was about Marti. And Madison is a tramp and David's a smarmy jerk. I think we can rule out the Herters, too noisy, but there's no telling what the Farley girls could accomplish. I'd hate to bet against Honoria Staedtler if she'd set her mind to something."

  "James must have had a long list of partners in all sorts of ventures, business and personal, and partners of his partners. Real high likelihood of aggrieved parties in his wake, nothing to do with Harold. And then to round out our evidence-less permutations, somebody, say, did kill Harold, maybe James did, and then maybe James just slipped, or he plummeted from remorse." Ellen reached behind herself, arched up, pulled the covers down past the pillows and slid into bed. "Maybe Sprague will turn up something, meanwhile, how 'bout we sleep on it."