Mayhem in Miniature

by Margaret Grace

We moved to Sunday’s sheet. Jane Mooney was on the list, as was a visitor for Lizzie. I wondered if she and Emma shared visitors the way they shared everything else. Gail Musgrave had signed in at eleven.

  “She usually comes after church,” Linda said. “I see her car in the parking lot often. I can pick it out because she has a vanity plate.”

  Uh-oh. A crafter and someone whose political views I shared tailing me? “What does her plate say?” I asked, pulling my sweater around me. I really needed to pay more attention to license plates. As it was, I hardly knew what kinds of cars my friends drove.

  “It’s GRAVE 241. Can you believe there are two hundred and forty other California drivers who want GRAVE on their license plates?”

  Not even close to S-something-CH. But how sure was I of those letters? I’d never gotten a good, clean look.

  “You know, I still don’t know exactly what you’re looking for, Gerry,” Linda said, accusing. I felt she deserved to know at least as much as I did. That is, not much.

  “I’m looking for suspicious visitors,” I said, in a mock dramatic tone. Linda rolled her eyes. “I’m just trying to see who was here on Sunday morning, who might have given Mr. Mooney whatever he’s allergic to, other than Nadine Hawkes. Do we know what it was exactly, by the way?”

  “Nuh-uh. Once he got better, it didn’t matter.”

  “What?”

  “It would be very, very expensive to run the kind of test you’d need to determine what was in his system that shouldn’t be. And he’s fine, so . . . case closed.”

  I was learning more than I cared to about health-care philosophy.

  Linda picked up the Sunday sign-in sheet again, now on a plastic-covered table in front of us. “There’s one more name that should be here. I guess he didn’t sign in, but I distinctly remember that Steve Talley was here.”

  “Don’t tell me he has an uncle in residence?” I was sure Dolores would have ferreted out that piece of information.

  “No relative here that I know of. He comes around now and then to do the licensing audits although he has a staff to do that. I remember on Sunday, I was in the pharmacy and he came in with his new brochures for the Nolin Creek Pines restoration plan. I think he left some in every single department.” Linda looked at her watch. “It’s past my break time. I don’t think there’s anything else here, Gerry.”

  I gave the sheets one more quick shuffle.

  “You’re right. It was a long shot.”

  “I have to go back to work, and lucky you, you get to go to a movie,” Linda said.

  I couldn’t tell if she was serious or not.

  To my chagrin, the longest line at the theater was the one for our show. It was family time at the multiplex two towns over. I reminded myself that this was what grandmothers were supposed to do—take their grandchildren to a kid-friendly holiday matinee, not shuffle them from one television set or babysitter to another while they poked around doing what should be left to the police.

  I’d hoped for a nap during the movie, but the sound volume was very high and the audience laughter quite loud. Maddie fell easily into kid mode, laughing when the other kids did and kicking her feet in front of her at the “exciting” times, such as when a snake came out of the grass and scared one of Santa’s elves.

  The popcorn, however, was excellent, so I focused on the crunchy, salty pleasure with only a few scattered thoughts on the problem of Mr. Mooney’s mysterious anti-nurse.

  June came by to take Maddie for another tennis lesson before dinner. “It’s very slow at work these days,” she explained. “Every day we go out to a long holiday lunch with the different groups we belong to, and then head home afterward.”

  I silently gave thanks for June, her flexible tech-editing job, her gym, and its indoor tennis courts.

  During those few quiet movie moments, I’d come to the decision that I had to see Nadine Hawkes. She was the only one who could answer a whole list of questions.

  As soon as Maddie and June were out the door, I called Skip and got quickly to the point.

  “I need to talk to Nadine Hawkes,” I said.

  “I’m sorry. Who is this again?”

  I chose to ignore his disrespectful attitude. “Remember when you told me that murder was such an awful thing, so important in a person’s life, unless he’s a hit man”—I chuckled, with no reaction from Skip—“that the killer is going to tell someone about it? And the cop’s job is to find that person whom the killer told?”

  “I love when you throw my words back at me. But let’s put the emphasis on cop’s job.”

  “I know. That’s what you’re trained for, but what can it hurt to have someone else make an effort?”

  “Someone such as you?”

  “Is there some legal reason I can’t see her?”

  “In other words, can you go behind me or over my head and get in anyway?”

  “I guess that’s what I’m asking, yes.”

  A long pause. Making me squirm. I pictured him—his feet up on his desk, leafing through a magazine while I waited. He came back on the line. “Okay, ten minutes, with a cop present.”

  I could hardly believe it. “Thanks.”

  “If Hawkes agrees.”

  “Okay. I’ll hold while you find out.”

  “Aunt Gerry! Do you enjoy hassling me like this?”

  “I’m on a tight schedule. June has Maddie at the gym, but they’re coming back for dinner.”

  “June’s something else, isn’t she?”

  “She is. And she adores you.”

  “June or Maddie?”

  “Both. Please, Skip. I just need you to—”

  “Okay, okay. You had me at adores.”

  “What?”

  “Never mind. You’re hopeless when it comes to popular culture. Come to the police station in twenty minutes.”

  I hung up the phone, picked it up again immediately, and ordered a large pizza with extra cheese and no “funny stuff” (Maddie’s term for olives, mushrooms, or other items from the list of toppings) for dinner. I hoped this would make it up to Maddie for not taking her on a trip to jail.

  Skip led me down a narrow staircase to the area that served as Lincoln Point’s jail in the basement of the police department building. I’d never been here, and it was as bad as I imagined. Indescribable odors emanated from the exposed brick walls. I held my breath nearly all the way along a dark, damp corridor.

  We finally arrived at a windowless room with a table and two chairs. No Christmas decorations here. A sign read, VISITING ROOM, NO SMOKING. Curious, since the entire police department building was a no-smoking facility. From the condition of the sign, as well as the outdated message, I suspected it had been here for ages.

  “Is that disgusting hallway the only way to the visitors’ room?” I asked.

  “We use the journey as a deterrent,” Skip said.

  “It works. You should schedule school field trips here on a regular basis.”

  Skip gestured for me to take one of the chairs, but I hesitated. “You can sit,” he said. “This room’s cleaner than it looks.”

  Whatever that meant. “Are you going to stay here with me while I talk to Nadine?”

  He nodded. I breathed a sigh of relief. The place was creepier than the bins of dismembered doll parts in crafts stores.

  It was certainly one of the strangest settings I’d ever been in for an interview. Skip stood in the corner, arms across his chest, like a bodyguard. It occurred to me that his presence and his stance were deliberate, to give me a sense of security in the frightening venue. I was very grateful.

  Nadine sat across from me, frowning (who wouldn’t), in a boxy, gray dress that, ironically, was more flattering to her chunky figure than the outfits I’d seen her in. She wore no makeup, but her short hair looked the same as it always did.

  I started with a pathetic “How are you?”

  She licked her lips, most likely missing their special blend of moistening gloss.

 
“Look, Mrs. Porter, the only reason I agreed to see you is that you’re nosy. In fact, you’re so nosy that maybe you have information for me.” She jerked her head in Skip’s direction, off to the side. “And maybe you can talk some sense into him.”

  From down the hall I heard assorted thumping and smashing sounds, but it might have been my imagination, stirred by the dark, clammy venue.

  Where to start? With myself I decided.

  “Have you been following me around town, by any chance?”

  I noted Skip’s reaction—he rolled his eyes, shook his head, and stuck his hands in his pockets. I realized I’d never admitted to him that I felt someone was following me.

  “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “I don’t suppose you slashed my tires the night of the ball?” I could guess what Skip might be thinking—what a lame interviewer!

  Nadine’s response to the tire question resembled Skip’s, limited only by the fact that her hands were cuffed in front of her. “Why don’t you just ask me straight out if I murdered anyone?”

  She leaned across the table, her handcuffs notwithstanding. When they clanked on the table, I jumped back. “Did you? Murder anyone?”

  “No, I did not. Yes, I cheated the foundation. They’re rich and they try to rationalize their wealth by trickling some money down to the poor folk. What kind of system is this when we have to depend on the generosity of the rich for the most basic things? I wasn’t ripping off anyone except people who have too much money.”

  I found it interesting that both Nadine and Dolores had managed to justify their crimes to themselves and ultimately to the police. They almost made you want to call them heroes, to say, “Thanks, Dolores, for taking money from the monster Carlos Guzman. Thanks, Nadine, for taking money from the affluent people who make up the Senior to Senior Foundation.”

  Skip went back to his muscleman stance. I was feeling cramped and captive in the dingy room, despite the fact that I could leave anytime I wanted. I started to sympathize with Nadine, who would spend this night and maybe many more down the hall.

  But blackmail and fraud were one thing; murder was something else. I tried to play hardball. “I know you couldn’t have kidnapped and framed Sofia Muniz by yourself. Was Gus Boudette your accomplice?”

  “I have no idea who that guy is except a number on the payroll sheet. Why would I protect him if we really did this awful thing together?” My question, exactly. “Besides, if I wanted to kill someone I wouldn’t travel to that crappy old neighborhood and hit them over the head with a brick.” Not a brick. Rebar. I almost corrected her, but there was no point. Nadine’s eyes started to tear, her arrogance dissipating. “Mrs. Porter, can you find a way to make the police listen to me?”

  I looked at Skip. He could tell I’d fallen for Nadine’s story.

  “Are you ready to go?” he asked.

  I was.

  Chapter 27

  Skip walked with me, up the stairs, toward the building’s exit. I had to give him credit for not pulling “I told you so” out of his hat. I’d gotten nothing from Nadine Hawkes except the uneasy feeling that she was innocent of murder, facing charges for a much harsher crime than she’d committed.

  I ran through Nadine’s words in my head. She’d suggested that Carlos had been hit with a brick. I remembered that ace-reporter Chrissy Gallagher had used the phrase “hit by a rock or a two-by-four.” But someone else I’d talked to recently had named the correct weapon: a piece of rebar.

  Who was that? It wouldn’t come to me.

  “Did you release the information that the murder weapon at Nolin Creek Pines was a section of rusty rebar?” I asked Skip.

  “No, we held that back. Why do you want to know?”

  I realized that this was a futile effort on my part, that even if I did figure out who’d said “rusty rebar” even though the police had held it back, it was hardly proof of murder. Rebar, rocks, bricks, and two-by-fours were standard debris in the parking lots of the Nolin Creek Pines neighborhood, and anyone might inadvertently mention the correct one to describe the murder weapon.

  Still, I wished I could remember.

  “Aunt Gerry? Why are you asking about the rebar?”

  “No reason.”

  Skip grunted. “No reason. Right.” He stopped at the door to the building, gave me a perfunctory kiss on my cheek, then turned and walked back toward his office.

  It wasn’t often that Skip and I parted with such unpleasantness. I couldn’t blame him for his frustration with me. I was unhappy with myself, withholding information from him from the beginning. He shouldn’t have had to learn in front of his prisoner that I suspected someone of following me.

  Moreover, why hadn’t I congratulated my nephew on solving the crime instead of essentially accusing him of arresting the wrong person? I’d have to correct that at the next possible opportunity.

  As soon as I hit the cold, fresh air, I took a long, deep breath, and vowed never to get so much as a traffic ticket, lest I have to spend another five minutes in the basement of the police department.

  I needed to rid my senses of the sights, sounds, and smells of Lincoln Point’s dank lockup. I came up with a mental picture of Maddie and June at home making ornaments, perhaps some upbeat tune like “Frosty the Snowman” playing through the house, and the aroma of a large extra-cheese pizza wafting across the rooms from my oven to greet me.

  To fix the new scene even more firmly in my mind, I dug my phone out of my purse and dialed home as I walked to my car. I’d parked all the way around the civic center circle, on the library end of the complex. At the time I arrived, the areas on the police station side were full. Now, at nearly seven o’clock, the lots were empty and I wended my way along the shadowy curved road.

  Walking and dialing. Another cell phone skill under my belt.

  June answered on the second ring. Maddie must have been indisposed, or she’d never have allowed anyone to beat her to a beckoning phone.

  “How was your time in jail?” June asked.

  I gave her a very brief report on my excursion to the dark side.

  “Imagine Skip’s working there every day,” she said. “Maybe not in the jail, but in awful conditions, dealing with the worst side of people. It would completely depress me.”

  When Skip first entered the police academy, I used to think about that a lot, worrying constantly about his psyche as well as his safety. Now I took it all for granted, picturing him always in his clean (if not neat), safe cubicle. I’d even been adding to his tough job. Never again.

  “Thanks for reminding me what he does for us every day,” I said to June.

  “Guess who’s back from the powder room and wants to talk to you?”

  Maddie took the phone, out of breath. “Where are you, Grandma? And tell me the truth.”

  By now I was facing the grim reality of Lincoln Point life after dark as a few apparently homeless people pushed their carts and carried their bundles across the lawn that surrounded the complex of buildings.

  They seemed harmless enough, but I was glad Maddie wasn’t with me.

  “I had an errand downtown, sweetheart,” I said. “And that’s the truth. I hope you saved me some pizza. I’m starving.”

  “We’re keeping it warm,” she said. “And June brought over her special tea for you to try. She’s teaching me how to brew it.”

  “I can hardly wait.”

  I passed two old men in ragged clothing. They appeared to be heading for a spot under one of the many sets of stairs that led to the library balcony. I seldom wandered in this part of town at night, except for events like the Mary Todd gala. Where were these people then? And why was our town not able to support them?

  Not for the first time, I resolved to become more active in city politics.

  I had a fleeting thought of Dolores and wondered if she’d ever be allowed to resume her political career. I could think of more than one case where a government official had left office in disgrace, only to return and b
e reelected a few years later.

  “Uncle Nick is coming to Christmas dinner,” Maddie said, and for a minute I thought she’d said St. Nick.

  When the true identity of Uncle Nick Marcus dawned on me, I knew that Beverly was beyond serious, heading for the critical holidays-with-the-family stage.

  “Uncle Nick. Well, he’s certainly welcome.”

  “We’re making an ornament for him. It’s a foam cop.”

  “That’s wonderful,” I said.

  I hung up with a promise to Maddie that I would head straight home. No more errands.

  I came to the last stretch. It was hard to see my Ion, a bulging shadow among many others. I wished I’d parked under a light. But Skip is probably still in his office, just two buildings behind me, I reminded myself. Never mind that each building was about a city block wide.

  To my right was Springfield Boulevard. Here and there were twinkling lights offering a bit of cheer from a store window, but most of the shops were closed and dark. No problem. In a few minutes, I’d be driving along the boulevard, heading north to home and warm pizza.

  Crash.

  I stopped short after a thunderous sound sliced the cool, still air. About thirty feet ahead of me, an enormous object had fallen to the ground. It was a calm evening, with nothing more than a slight breeze, so, like a good Californian, my first thought was—it’s an earthquake! But nothing else was moving or swinging. No other outward signs of disturbance. Maybe an earthquake in another hemisphere? Nothing to worry about here.

  I kept walking toward my car and saw that the object was a large tree branch, or perhaps an uprooted shrub, like the western redbud, blocking Civic Drive. To get to my car, I’d have to leave the path and circle around onto the grass, where it was much darker than on the road. I’d have to circumvent the tree branch, or whatever it was—I could see that it was much too large for me to climb over—and then come back to the road a few yards from my car. How the branch got there was a mystery to be solved later.

  I slowed my pace, and fingered my cell phone, now in the pocket of my sweater. Should I call for help? How silly was that idea? What would I say? Rescue me from a tree branch?