by Lisa Bork
I turned the security system off and took a tour of the shop. Nothing seemed amiss, although it occurred to me that I should call Mr. Oliver and ask him to get the DeLorean out of my garage once Cory had a chance to look it over and document its condition. I thought about charging Mr. Oliver storage fees until he did, but aggravating the man probably wouldn’t be the best approach to resolving our differences in my favor. No, this situation would take some finesse. I would drive Mr. Oliver’s letter detailing his demands over to Greg Doran later today and let him work his magic.
At ten-thirty I dialed Mr. Hughes’ office. His secretary greeted me as though she’d been expecting my call and put me through to him without a wait.
“Mr. Hughes, I purchased the 1957 Mercedes-Benz 300SL roadster at auction yesterday and am pleased to be able to offer it to you for seven hundred and sixty-two thousand dollars.” I threw in a cushion for negotiation but secretly hoped he would take it at any price.
“You only paid seven hundred and fifty-nine for it, Miss Asdale. If I’d wanted to pay seven hundred and sixty-two for it, I would have continued bidding yesterday.”
At least my gasp was silent, as were my screams. I scrambled for a response. “I didn’t realize you were bidding, Mr. Hughes. I’m surprised you let a woman get the best of you.”
He chuckled. “Miss Asdale, you are now the proud owner of a roadster you can’t afford. It looks to me as though you’re putting yourself out of business. If you’d be at all interested in selling your garage, my oldest daughter wants to open a flower shop. Your location would be ideal for her.”
I slammed the receiver into the cradle without even saying goodbye. The man was trying to ruin me, no doubt about it. But had he hired someone to kill Tim and get the ball rolling?
When my cell phone vibrated in my pocket, I jumped six inches off my chair. I checked the incoming number and answered.
“Cory, how does the Jaguar look?”
“Amazingly enough, it is truly pristine. The seller will take four thousand. He’s got some Christmas gifts to buy, too. Want me to close the deal?”
“Yes. I’ll call Dudley and ask him to pick it up asap.”
“Done. I’ll see you around four.”
I walked my fingers through my Rolodex to find our car transporter’s number, then dialed. Dudley answered on the ninth ring. He sounded half awake.
“The phone rang nine times, Dudley. What took you so long to answer? Are you in the rig?”
“I am. I must have dozed off, because I only heard it ring three times before I answered. I think you saved my life.”
And I was going to ask this man to transport valuable property for me. Well, I couldn’t afford anyone else right now. “I have a Jaguar in Albany I need picked up and delivered here before Christmas. Can you do it?”
I heard Dudley hack and spit and pictured a stream of tobacco juice hitting the pavement, or worse, the windshield of the car next to him on the road. Dudley had a one-tin-a-day chewing tobacco habit that had turned his gums white with pre-cancerous tissue. Yet he chewed on. “Let’s see. I’m in Ohio now, then I’m headed to St. Louis, then D.C., then Boston. Yeah, I could pick it up on the twentieth on the way to Boston and have it to Wachobe by the twenty-third. How’s that?”
“I think as long as it’s under the tree Christmas morning, my customer will be happy.”
“Okay, I’ll put it on the schedule.” Dudley had all the latest technology including a laptop he kept humming twenty-four hours a day so he could get weather updates and talk to his family. “Remind me to swing by and give you the paperwork from the Ferrari when I get into town.”
“What paperwork?” I paid Dudley in cash. He couldn’t have another unpaid invoice for me.
“The two envelopes from the wheel. I tapped the hubcap when I was loading her, and it popped off. The envelopes fell out. I threw them in my glove box and forgot to give them to you when I dropped her off.”
“Two envelopes?” Could they be the missing gambling records?
“Yeah. They’re yours, aren’t they?”
I’d known Dudley for three years now. He was an honest man. I decided to tell him the truth. “Sort of. They belong to the previous owner. He sent a thug to look for them. I think the envelopes contain lists of gambling debts, debtors really, illegal gambling debtors.”
“Shooey. I thought it was a funny place to store paperwork.”
“Dudley, can you do me a favor when you stop for the night and fax them to the sheriff’s department? Fax a copy to me, too, please.” I wanted to get a look at the names on that list. I reeled off Ray’s fax number as well as my own. “You can drop the originals off when you get here.” As an afterthought, I added, “Don’t mention them to anybody, though. They’ve caused enough trouble already.” I rubbed my rib cage reflexively.
“I can fax them to you the next time I pull over. I told you I’m state of the art, baby, state of the art.”
“When will that be?”
“Oh, I’m goin’ to have to take a leak soon enough. I had three cups of coffee this morning.”
And still he was asleep at the wheel. Go figure. “Okay, I’ll sit tight. Thanks.”
My next call was to Ray, who was pleased to learn the gambling lists had been located. He said he would fax them on to the Vegas and Arizona police departments. I didn’t bother to tell him I was getting my own copy. Instead, I asked him for an update on Theodore Tibble.
“I’m going to have to cut him loose within twenty-four hours. I just left the golf club. The Greens had over three hundred guests that night in the main ballroom and the smaller ballroom had a company Christmas party with over a hundred. The parking attendants said they didn’t collect Tibble’s car for him until two in the morning but they can’t guarantee it didn’t go in and out after he handed them the keys around eight-thirty. They only remember him because he was way underdressed for the club.”
“Lucky for you he’s a slob. Any progress with Tim’s murder?”
“No. The problem is the body was moved and no one saw a thing. I figure Tim was placed in your showroom between three a.m. and five a.m. There’s never any traffic on Main Street at that time of the morning. It’s too early for bakery and newspaper deliveries although we talked to everyone with a route in the area or an early morning shift. Tim sat somewhere for at least four hours before he was moved to the Ferrari, but there’s not enough forensic evidence to tell us where.
“I also got the guest list for these parties at the club. Most of the town was at one or the other party, including Mr. Hughes. The staff at the club remembers parking his Rolls right in the front row where it didn’t move until three a.m., so he’s off the suspect list.”
In the back of my mind, I hadn’t really believed Mr. Hughes would whack Tim just for the building lot any more than I would, but weirder stories than that appear in the newspaper every day now. I decided to ask Ray about Rowe’s whereabouts. “Was Brennan Rowe at the party, too?”
“No. He was home alone, just like you.” Ray made it sound like we’d both actually been out killing Tim. I decided to change the subject.
“What about the money missing from the town treasury?”
“I talked to Henry Hart. He said Tim proposed hiring the auditors to figure out a discrepancy. Hart’s pretty confident Tim didn’t take any money, based on that.”
I knew Tim was honest.
“So what more do you know about Tim’s death?”
“Tim’s car was found in the middle of the woods near the freeway access. The interior was so clean it must have been detailed.”
Another car that looked detailed. As far as I knew, Cory did the only detailing work in town. The next closest company offering the service was the car wash in the city. I don’t think the killer took Tim’s car there, but who knows? I did know Cory was not a killer.
“What do you make of that, Ray?”
“You tell me, Jolene.”
“I don’t understand, Ray. Are you accusi
ng me of something?” Or Cory? But I didn’t want to give Ray any ideas.
“I’m just waiting for someone to step up and tell the truth.”
When I failed to reply, he disconnected, leaving me with the distinct impression that I, at least, was still on his suspect list.
The fax had started to hum and emit its burning smell. Now I watched as the first page of the list printed out. I picked it up eagerly and studied it. Tim’s name was not on it.
The lists were spreadsheets with names, addresses, phone numbers, amounts owed, how long the debts had been outstanding and a miscellaneous column that held the names of wives, children, pets, etc. I didn’t realize organized crime was so … organized. I knew enough to be afraid when I saw family members listed. A threatened family member is a powerful motivator.
Page two printed out, then three and four and on up to twelve. I didn’t recognize any of the names. I got the phone book out and spent two hours comparing the names on the list to the names in the local directory. None of them matched. If Tim’s death was tied to gambling, this list didn’t prove it.
I folded the list and stuffed it inside my purse, then picked up the envelope containing Mr. Oliver’s demands. The clock tower at the local savings bank struck noon as I drove through town to Greg Doran’s office, admiring his neighborhood, which was dominated by the whitewashed wooden houses with the grand old porches of yesteryear. Taking a walk through Wachobe was like stepping back in time a hundred years when people spent their free time sitting outside chatting with their friends. Many of the townspeople still enjoy talking with the passersby in the summertime. This time of year, only the shoveled walkways and Christmas decorations hinted the homes were inhabited.
Greg Doran’s office was on West Lake Road in his elegant 1899 Queen Anne Victorian home, painted an interesting shade of lavender with darker purple, gold, and brown accents, and surrounded by a browning boxwood hedge. Inside, the hardwood floors shined with loving care and the home smelled of lemon oil. His secretary greeted me and ushered me into his office where he rose from behind his antique desk to greet me.
“So you’ve gotten yourself into another mess, eh?” Greg gestured to the armchair in front of his desk.
“I hope not.” I sat and hit the highlights of the situation with the DeLorean.
Greg leaned back in his executive chair. “Any chance you’d like to have your sister arrested for theft? Might help our case.”
“I’ll keep that option in reserve.”
“All right. I’ll call Oliver. I’ve had dealings with him in the past. He’s not an entirely unreasonable fellow, just mostly so.”
“That’s very comforting.”
“I’m sure he’ll settle for less than ten thousand. How much can we offer him? Five?”
I felt tears welling in my eyes. I didn’t have five. I shook my head. “Can’t you make this go away?”
“Only through insurance if we have your sister arrested.”
I sighed. “Offer him five with my sincerest apologies. Cory will check the car over to make sure no damage was done to it while it was not in our possession.”
“Fair enough.”
“I’d like to get it out of my garage. I was going to call him and ask him to pick it up.”
“All contact with him needs to go through me from now on, until the issue is settled. We don’t want to escalate this into a lawsuit. Let me know when Cory is finished looking it over, and I’ll notify Oliver to pick the car up.”
Why did everything have to be so complicated? “Okay.”
“I’ll be in touch.”
I stepped back outside into a light snowfall. I caught a few flakes on my tongue for fun and wished Erica and I had been able to sled the other night. Maybe I would spring her from the psych center to sled with me when all this was over.
I stopped to buy myself lunch at Simply Divine Burgers. They served Black Angus beef, the best burgers in town. They were also the priciest, but this would be my main meal of the day. I sat at a long picnic bench in the restaurant that served family style and watched the other diners enjoy their food and each other’s company. It made me feel very much alone. I choked down the burger as quickly as I could to get out of there.
When I pulled out of my metered parking spot, I heard honking behind me. A maroon minivan had attempted to pull out as well, and the black Mercedes he’d cut off had objected and refused to give way. Talk about a clash of the classes.
Cory strolled into my office around three o’clock and dropped into the side chair, just as I was working up enough nerve to call Brennan Rowe and offer him the roadster at his original authorized price. I’d toyed with the idea of selling Dad’s house all afternoon to make up the difference and start my new year off with cash in hand for a change. Then it occurred to me I should ask Erica before selling our childhood home. I couldn’t predict how she would react to the idea, so giving Rowe a discount won out.
After unbuttoning his navy peacoat, Cory brought me up to date. “Matt Travis is transferring the money to a bank in Albany tomorrow and nine hundred to your account as well: five to pay Dudley and four for us.”
“Perfect. Thank you for taking care of it.”
“My pleasure. The seller bought me lunch.”
“That’s nice of him. Listen, I wanted to ask you about detailing. It seems Brennan Rowe’s Mini Cooper may have been used in a robbery and returned to his home in a cleaner state than it left. And Ray says Tim Lapham’s car looked detailed when it was found as well. Who else besides you does that kind of work around here?”
When Cory answered, he pronounced each word slowly and carefully. “No one. Am I a suspect now?”
I balanced honesty with a desire not to alarm him. “Brennan Rowe said Ray was going to ask you about it. Did he?”
“Not yet.”
“I guess that means Ray knows you’re not involved.”
“I hope so.” Cory stared at me.
“I know you’re not involved.”
“Okay. It’s just that I had opportunity. I know the garage code.”
“But you didn’t have a motive to kill Tim, right?”
“Right.”
Glad we’d cleared that up.
Cory folded his hands and looked down at them. “You know how you asked me if I was keeping any more secrets about the men in your life?”
“Yes?” I tried to keep the tinge of irritation out of my voice. I knew I wouldn’t like where he was headed.
“I thought of something while I was driving to Albany this morning. Something that struck me as weird at the time but then I dismissed it.”
“Okay, go on.”
“Remember the day Tim Lapham came in the shop and asked you out?”
“Yes.” It had been early spring. I had just sold a Porsche 911 to the bakery owner down the street.
Cory leaned back in the chair and met my gaze. “Well, you were on the phone when he first arrived and we started talking in the showroom. I thought he was feeling me out for a date until you came in the room.”
“What?”
“Truthfully, I thought he’d come in to ask me out.”
“No.” I thought back. I’d come out to the showroom to say hello to Tim. He said he’d heard about a new restaurant in town he wanted to try out. Then he said, “I’m hoping you’ll want to join me.”
And then he’d looked at Cory. I’d assumed Tim was embarrassed to ask me for a date in front of Cory, so I’d immediately said, “I’d love to join you.” Tim then said he’d pick me up at seven.
But had he missed a beat before he responded to me? Had he meant to invite Cory all along and I misread the cues?
Now it was my turn to be embarrassed.
On Wednesday, I arose determined to sort out the truth about Tim Lapham. If he was, in fact, a closet homosexual, then he could have been blackmailed into voting against Mr. Hughes or blackmailed into embezzling from the town—although I couldn’t imagine why Tim would initiate an investigation of t
he missing funds if he had been involved in embezzlement.
I knew only one place more to look for the answers, but it would have to wait until after seven o’clock that evening. In the interim, I planned to visit Erica and Brennan Rowe, the mystery man I’d only spoken to on the phone when I offered to sell him the car of his dreams at a personal loss. I wanted him to know who he had hurt. But first, I wanted to ask Erica about selling our family home. If she didn’t mind, I’d feel like I was in a better bargaining position with Brennan Rowe. The price for the roadster would be seven hundred and fifty thousand and not a penny less.
On the drive to the psych center, I got stuck in a line of stop-and-go traffic due to flooding from what must have been a burst water pipe. I could see a geyser shooting at least twenty feet into the air from my position at the end of the line of cars. While I waited my turn to accelerate past the mess, I relived my embarrassment over and over again. It wasn’t so much that I minded Cory knowing what a goof I’d made, but I wondered if the rest of the town knew about Tim while I didn’t. Had they all been laughing at me for dating a homosexual? Becky didn’t seem to know. She assumed Tim actually liked me. I was sure he did like me. He just didn’t like girls. Not that there was anything wrong with that.
I got a sick feeling. What if Ray knew? He knew everything. Had he been laughing behind my back too? Maybe it was a case of it takes one to know one, so only Cory knew. But somehow I had a feeling everyone else would know before this was all over.
I gave myself a mental smack. Tim was dead. Compared to that, my embarrassment was not even worth mentioning, but I would have to take another strike for not being a good judge of men.
The signalman motioned to me. I stepped on the gas.
I arrived at the psych center, which seemed remarkably calm today. At least, I didn’t see anyone swinging from the light fixtures. When I arrived on her floor, Erica and Sam were in the midst of a fierce Ping-Pong battle with a handful of onlookers cheering them on. I marched to the nurse’s desk and looked questioningly at Tommye, who stood counting pills into little paper cups.