Mayhem in Miniature

by Margaret Grace

  I wished she’d been wearing the little-girl, puffy-sleeves style, with pink ribbons everywhere, since I planned to evoke the former teacher/student relationship we’d had. I’d mentally prepared a true-false quiz on the “Guzman died from a drunken fall” story. I wanted an essay from her on how the police could be keeping Sofia’s confinement from the press unless the fourth estate was cooperating. Was the Lincolnite withholding the facts from the reading public? If I knew Sofia was under guard at the Mary Todd, I was sure a reporter could have found out.

  Chrissy was standing by the twelve-foot Christmas tree, posing for a photo. I recognized the photographer as a man from the professional studio downtown, though I couldn’t put a name to him. The last time I saw him, years ago, Maddie was sitting on Santa’s lap wearing a red hat and squirming, as she still sometimes did.

  Conveniently, it was time for me to mingle and make my way around the room. Linda had gone off to monitor Jason, who was monitoring Maddie, who was probably monitoring her peers. Beverly and Nick were dancing, as were June (a lovely Scarlett O’Hara this evening) and Skip (the useless Pinkerton detective).

  I waited to the side and timed my arrival at the fragrant (sprayed on?) tree to coincide with the end of Chrissy’s photo shoot. The photographer, introduced as Mike, offered to take my official Mary Todd Ball photo, which would be available at the end of the evening for only ten dollars, 15 percent of which would be donated to the police and fire departments. I declined.

  Chrissy and I exchanged enthusiastic compliments on our respective outfits, and then I made my move.

  “You seem to be doing really well at the paper, Chrissy. I always knew you’d have your name in a byline. You have a great future ahead of you.” I splayed my hands, palms down. “Woodward and Bernstein, move over!”

  A big laugh from Chrissy. “Oh, thanks, Mrs. Porter. It’s a sweet job. I’m hoping to do more investigative pieces, you know.” I felt a surge of excitement. We could be partners! crossed my mind. “So far, they’re just putting me on stories like why the public library can’t stay open later on school nights, and how the fire hydrants need paint and stuff.”

  Uh-oh. Now it looked like I didn’t have much to work with, but it would have to do.

  “I’m sure they’re grooming you for bigger issues. I saw your report on the Talley proposal.” In fact the story was perfunctory, not investigative, but I was counting on the positive effects of flattery. “And also the one on that man who was found dead at Nolin Creek Pines.” Here, I tsk-tsked.

  “I didn’t do that piece”—I knew that—“but, yeah, isn’t it awful? I guess he was drunk and hit his head on something.”

  I scratched my head. Poor confused Mrs. Porter. “I’ve been wondering though. If it was just an accident, why do you think an elderly woman who lives at the Mary Todd residence was taken in for questioning?” More tsking. “And now she’s under guard in a separate wing of the home.” I raised the pitch of my voice at the end of the sentence. Just a question from a curious reader of the Lincolnite.

  Chrissy’s eyes widened. She threw her shoulders back and licked her lips. I heard a small gasp. I could tell she smelled “scoop.”

  The unintended consequences of what I’d instigated dawned on me. Chrissy had had no idea that there had been a murder and that Sofia Muniz was a suspect. I’d planned this little maneuver deliberately, but it was intended for my benefit, to call Chrissy’s bluff, to scope out whether the Lincolnite staff knew more about Carlos Guzman’s death than it printed. I certainly hadn’t meant to play Chrissy’s Deep Throat.

  I felt a wave of uneasiness. What had I done? Exposed Sofia if indeed no one outside a small circle knew about her plight?

  I doubted it was a secret; or at least I wanted to believe everyone already knew. I recalled the details of how I found out about Sofia’s semi-confinement. It had been Linda who told me, which most likely meant that the whole staff and all the residents of the Mary Todd knew. Surely that let me off the hook as the leak.

  I had an image of Skip, in his Pinkerton uniform, charging at me with a long pistol. Or, even more terrifying, Dolores coming at me with her withering gaze and the power of her office in city hall.

  Chrissy had an expectant look. I wouldn’t have been surprised if she pulled a notebook from her bosom, except that her cleavage was unavailable to her. Unlike Beverly’s gown, which I now realized was designed to enchant Honest Abe, aka Nick Marcus, Chrissy’s was buttoned to the neck, where a stiff collar circled her throat.

  “So, the police have ruled it a murder, and someone’s been charged?” Chrissy prodded.

  “No, no. Not yet. We’re still waiting for some test results.”

  We? Now I was sounding like an LPPD spokesperson. I could feel my makeup undergoing meltdown, taking on the texture of runny carpenter’s glue, as I started to perspire.

  “Can we go somewhere quiet?” Chrissy asked.

  It was hard to talk anywhere in the crowded ballroom, and we were in an especially busy corner. Dozens of children, let loose from game time, ran around the Christmas tree looking for a present with a number that matched one on a ticket they’d plucked from a large bowl. They were all younger than Maddie, and I assumed the children were being dispatched by age. I pictured my impatient little drummer boy holding a ticket and dancing around the game room, waiting to be sent to find her present.

  “Mrs. Porter?” Chrissy tapped me with a black lace fan I hadn’t noticed before. “Did you say there was a suspect? Under guard?”

  Now or never. I took a breath. “Sort of.”

  Archie Carey, the aging lead singer with the band was belting out, “And Her Golden Hair Was Hanging Down Her Back,” a lively Civil War-era tune that had everyone dancing. I was happy for the couples, but why did Skip and June have to jig by at that moment?

  Unlucky for Chrissy.

  Skip stopped midhop and dragged his lovely Scarlett O’Hara through the ring of squealing children.

  “Hi, Chrissy. You look charming,” Skip said. He introduced her to June and made a comment about the magnificent floral arrangement the newspaper staff had contributed to an elaborate centerpiece on the side table for coffee and tea. A slow buildup, then, “Doing some off-hours investigative reporting?” Skip asked. He rotated his head from Chrissy to me, and back to Chrissy.

  Chrissy was smarter than I thought. “Afraid not. I’m covering the ball. We’re planning a big photo spread this year.”

  “You don’t say.”

  “Uh-huh,” Chrissy continued, addressing Skip as if she were just so happy to explain things to him. “We’ve got two photographers here, and Mike from Springfield Photos is helping us.” She glanced my way. “Your aunt and I were discussing how newspapers and newsmagazines have so many graphics these days.” She clicked her tongue. “The number of inches of text is way down. People are getting lazy. They just want to see pictures.”

  “Is that right?” Skip asked, rocking back and forth on his heels.

  “Gotta go,” Chrissy said, looking at her decidedly non-Victorian watch. “People to see, things to write. You know.”

  Chrissy said good-bye to me with her thumb and pinky, in a “we’ll talk on the phone” gesture.

  “You take care,” Skip said.

  “And you serve and protect,” Chrissy said.

  Both were smiling. The subtext was thicker than the poached pears on the dessert table.

  I spent the rest of the evening trying to avoid Skip and Dolores. The latter, who came in late, was dressed as Queen Victoria in a long off-white veil, mantilla style. She took a place next to me at my table, where now only June and I were sitting. I’d seen her work the room, stopping at each group, as if she were running for office. I was nervous at first, but I could tell immediately by her attitude toward me that she hadn’t seen me with Chrissy Gallagher, girl reporter.

  Dolores nodded at June, then leaned into me. “You probably think I shouldn’t be here, Geraldine.”

  “Not at all. I
—”

  “Believe me, it would be worse if I didn’t come. It would be like declaring that my grandmother is guilty.”

  In the loud room it was possible—though rude, I thought— for Dolores to address me without anyone else hearing. I made an attempt to include June, but Dolores had her own agenda as usual.

  I gave in to it, also as usual. “How’s your grandmother doing?” I asked.

  A big sigh. “She’s in and out of awareness. She keeps saying she doesn’t want to go back to jail. And I swear, Geraldine, she has never been in jail.”

  June stood up to leave the table. I gave her a smile and a shrug that said it was not my fault, but of course it was. Ken would have reminded me what a wimp I was, giving away power, too concerned about being liked. With his voice as inspiration, I decided not to tell Dolores about my discovery of the Field of Dream Fences van, aka jail. It was my turn to direct the conversation.

  “I’m sure your grandmother’s just confused. About being in jail, that is,” I said. “I don’t think for a minute that my friend Sofia is a killer, Dolores, but I must say the police have some legitimate questions.”

  Dolores’s head jerked under the ill-fitting pillbox-shaped crown from which her lacy veil flowed. “Such as?”

  My, my. It was easier than I thought to take control and get her attention.

  I was fully aware that my status as a police detective’s aunt was on her mind. I had to restrict my line of vision to a spot just past Dolores’s right ear. I couldn’t look her in the eye while essentially posing as a spokesperson for the LPPD, and I couldn’t afford glancing around the ballroom lest I inadvertently catch Skip’s eye. I knew he’d be looking for an opportunity to quiz me about my conversation with a reporter.

  I reminded myself how much my nephew owed me for changing his diapers those many years ago.

  I cleared my throat and addressed Dolores. In an authoritative way, I hoped. “Well, for one thing, they’re wondering how she can afford the superb accommodations at the Mary Todd.”

  “What does that mean? They can’t think she’s a thief or anything.”

  “From what I understand, there was a bit of special treatment when she signed up.”

  I was all too conscious of how this could backfire. Dolores might call my bluff and go to the police to explain, which would blow my cover, since the LPPD had no idea what I’d learned from Linda. I thought of several other remarks she might make, including, “I don’t believe you,” and, “It’s none of your business,” after which she would walk away in a huff, ending the discussion.

  What I didn’t expect was that Queen Victoria, noted for her stubbornness and sharp temper, would cry.

  I felt a pang of guilt, then listened to Ken’s voice. Be strong. This is all for the greater good: solving the murder of Carlos Guzman and keeping Sofia Muniz out of prison. “Is there something you want to tell me, Dolores?” I asked.

  She dabbed at her face with a lace hanky and adjusted the teal-green banner that lay across her chest. It was draped diagonally, in a way that was reminiscent of a beauty pageant contestant.

  “Can we talk some other time, Geraldine? Maybe tomorrow morning?”

  I kept my countenance stern. “That would be fine, Dolores. Where do you suggest?”

  “We might as well meet at the Mary Todd. I spend almost all my time there when I don’t absolutely have to be at work. There’s a little parlor on the third floor of the care-center wing.” She sniffed and got control of her breath. “Ten o’clock?”

  “Ten would be fine.” Still stern. Then I spoiled the effect by giving Dolores a warm hug.

  Around eight thirty, Beverly found me at the silent auction table placing a too-high bid on a half-scale miniature Victorian pram, in brown wicker with a pink floral umbrella-shaped canopy. It would make a lovely present for Linda, who was constructing a Victorian nursery for a friend’s baby shower.

  “Nick offered to drive me home later,” Beverly said. Her face had a glow I hadn’t seen on it in a long time.

  Beverly and Nick had been together all evening, alternating between huddles at the table and dancing the slower numbers.

  “Is that a blush?” I asked.

  She tapped me gently with her fan and twirled away.

  Two hours and many announcements and music sets later, guests started claiming their contemporary outer garments from the coat-check room. The ballroom population dwindled and I thought it might be time to go home. I found Maddie asleep in a corner of the children’s room, clutching a large soccer ball, her prize from the Civic Club, which had donated all the presents under the tree. I hadn’t supervised her food choices since forcing her to try the asparagus and eggs on toast. I was sure she’d hit the dessert table more than once and now had a sugar low.

  I was too tired to go back to the auction table to see who had the high bid on my Victorian parlor. The last time I checked Steve Talley was alternating with one of the Russells, each adding the requisite five dollars to the other’s bid. I’d been surprised to see Steve’s name on the list, and figured he planned to use the scene as a goodwill present to his wife or a bribe to his children to be quiet. Also on the nasty side of second-guessing, I wondered if he was high on prescription drugs as Dolores claimed and didn’t know what he was doing.

  But I realized I was unduly influenced by Dolores—it could very well be that Steve Talley was a bighearted public servant and wanted to support our community charities. Politics aside, maybe he wasn’t such a bad guy after all.

  We were beyond the days when I could pick up my granddaughter and carry her to wherever I wanted. Besides Maddie, I had to tote the large box (mostly protective bubble wrap) that held my wicker pram, Maddie’s soccer ball, and a number of bags with serving items and linens I’d lent the ball committee. The long, cumbersome dress of my velvet caroler’s outfit restricted my motion and added to the difficulty, so I enlisted Skip and June to help me.

  “Anything to avoid another jig,” Skip said, glancing sideways at June.

  Maddie rode out of the building on her uncle’s back, her arms draped around his neck while he supported her legs. Fortunately for Skip, she woke up enough to walk, leaning against him, the long trek to my car. June and I trudged behind them with the rest of the bundles.

  The few people who were with us in the parking lot were quiet, partied out, as we were. An array of unkempt Abraham Lincoln beards and battered hats littered the asphalt.

  June and I were within three cars of my Ion, when I heard Skip’s firm voice. “Hold it,” he said. He sent Maddie back to us. “Everyone wait there.”

  A ripple of fear went through me. I knew by his tone and his posture that he was in cop mode. I felt Maddie’s tense body against me. The three of us stood stark still until we heard Skip’s voice again. “All clear.”

  All clear of what?

  Then I noticed what had given Skip a reason to be on guard. My tires had been slashed. Both front and back, giving the car a crippled, defeated look.

  I spun my head around, suddenly remembering the Escalade. I saw it drive by in the row next to us. The window was rolled down, and as the car passed under a streetlight, I saw the driver.

  It was Abraham Lincoln.

  Chapter 17

  June nonchalantly suggested that she drive Maddie to her house. “I have a guest room that’s hardly ever used,” she said to Maddie. “And don’t tell Grandma, but there’s a TV in the room that you can fall asleep to.”

  Maddie looked at me, worry in her eyes and on her face.

  “It’s going to be all right, sweetheart,” I said, mustering every ounce of strength I could. “It’s just some kids who should know better.”

  She turned back to June. “Will you stay in the room until I fall asleep?”

  “That’s what I had in mind,” June said, with a bright smile designed to put everyone at ease. I couldn’t help picturing her as my niece-in-law.

  Skip scooped up Maddie. “Nothing to worry about, Princess. Oops,
I mean drummer boy. You go home with June and we’ll clean up this little mess, okay?”

  I was glad he thought it was a little mess, not the huge mess I considered it.

  No ordinary auto club service for the family of a police detective. No sooner had June and Maddie and all the ball paraphernalia taken off than the LPPD tow truck rounded the corner from Civic Drive.

  I’d shrugged off Skip’s idea that I have June take me home also. “It’s my car,” I’d said. “I want to stay with it.”

  “Good,” Skip said. “’Cause we need to talk.”

  I thought as much.

  My mind went back to Abraham Lincoln driving the Escalade. It could have been any one of dozens of people. There had been a glut of Abes at the ball—not only males, like Jason Reed and Nick Marcus, but females like Rosie Norman and even Maddie for a moment. The basket of extra stovepipe hats and beards at the door was available to just about every citizen of Lincoln Point.

  The truck pulled up to my sorry Ion and two men alighted. “Sorry to take so long, Detective,” said the burlier of the men. It had been all of ten minutes. Too bad unconnected citizens couldn’t get this service. “We were clear across town.”

  “No problem,” Skip said. “We’ll be back there if you need us.” He pointed to a small landscaped section of the parking lot.

  We half sat on a stone plant tub with a narrow rim. This late at night, Lincoln Point was almost cold enough to imagine the sound of sleigh bells. When I shivered slightly Skip put his substantial Pinkerton cape over my shoulders. Gallant, or softening me for a grilling? He folded his arms across his chest. “What’s up, Aunt Gerry?”

  A grilling it was. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean what have you done to deserve this?”

  Seeing the slashed tires had unnerved me. What if this were some kind of threat or warning to me? What if Maddie had been in the car when whoever it was decided to trash it? I couldn’t dwell on that. I glanced toward my car. The men worked with great efficiency, as if this were not the first time they’d been called to a four-slashed-tire scene, a sign to me that this kind of thing happened regularly.