by Norma Huss
Who would know him well enough to understand his motives? His wife? Would she talk to me? His coworkers? Barb or Vanessa?
I consulted my closest confidant. “Clyde, you decide. Whom shall I call to discuss Mr. Talbit’s pending arrest and motives?”
The answer was surprising. “Vanessa.”
She was disagreeable, and perfectly capable of killing a rival or an unfaithful lover. She wouldn’t give me the time of day, but what the hey. Nothing ventured, nothing gained. I called the office, knowing that no one wanted to hear from me.
Vanessa answered.
“I’m Jo Durbin’s sister,” I said, lying shamelessly. “She is such a problem. But she does confide in me so I feel I know you. I, more than anyone, know the troubles she causes.” I hesitated, although I knew I only had moments before she stopped listening. “I had to tell you how sorry I am for Asher’s death. How can they expect you to work? But then, I’m sure the office is in an uproar, with Mr. Talbit wanted for murder.”
“Miss, whoever you are, I’m busy and the only one involved in murder is your sister, so please stop wasting my time.”
“Good Lord, you weren’t told the police are looking for Mr. Talbit? He’s not there, is he? Have the police been there?”
Her voice was iceberg cold. “The police have an ongoing investigation, but it has nothing to do with Mr. Talbit.”
I tsk-tsked, and said, “The work place must be like the family, always the last to know. The police are definitely looking for him for questioning, and probably for arrest. Considering that all the work must fall on you, it’s unconscionable that they’re keeping the real facts from you.”
“If it’s true. Yes.” She bit the word off and let it lay there, unadorned, but at least she didn’t hang up.
“I have confidential information,” I said, throwing buzz words together, hoping some would reach her. “Perhaps you can make use of it. I think it goes to Mr. Talbit’s motive. It definitely has an office quotient. There’s the ring stolen from the museum, of course, but that isn’t all.”
Crisply, Vanessa said, “If you have any information, please take it to the police.”
“Oh, I did. But they don’t have the understanding of Mr. Talbit that you have. Co-workers are much more aware than anyone realizes, don’t you agree? I mean, you always know when he’s having a bad day, a good day, or perhaps a fight with his wife.”
“Yes,” she said unwillingly.
“And killing Asher.” I shook my head, although she couldn’t see me. “So unnecessary. The poor man. What did he do?”
“The police don’t even care,” she said. “They just came in and went through everything. They didn’t ask me anything.”
A response! I pulled out all stops. “And I know you could have told them a thing or two. Why won’t the police listen to the most important people?”
I hesitated, giving her time to realize she was that important person before I said, “I have been following this case closely, and I may have found a clue to the killings.”
“What?” she asked, still wary.
“There must be a connection between the murders and Abbott Computing Services. I don’t know who to talk to, but my sister told me of your trustworthy position. I shouldn’t talk over the telephone, but I can say that Mr. Talbit implied that Francine worked with him outside the office. It does resonate, although her death doesn’t compare to Asher’s. Could you meet me after work? May I buy you dinner? I’ll be at Maizie’s Diner. Say at six?”
“Maizie’s Diner?”
“Yes.” I had to admit a diner didn’t sound that great. Why had I suggested it? “It’s one of the undiscovered spots in Queensboro. Quite nice, really. Will you come? I’ll recognize you.”
“I don’t know you, and I’m certain I don’t want to.”
“Perhaps you remember the missing files my sister spoke of?” I asked. “Asher may have taken them.”
“Maybe I’ll come,” she said, “but it would have to be later.” She took time to think, then said, “Seven thirty,” and hung up.
Five hours to wait for my evening meal? Why had I ever suggested such a thing? And why had I suggested I’d treat?
But, in for a penny, in for a pound. I still had $1,087 in my Queensboro account savings and $202 in cash. Those old mysteries had it right. Get all the suspects together, then let it all fall out. I called the Talbit house, using the number I still had.
Mrs. Talbit answered. “Yes?”
“Is Mr. Talbit there?”
“No, and I don’t know when he’ll return.”
“Then he IS missing,” I said. “You don’t know me, but I’d like to help. Do you realize the police are looking for him in the murder of Francine Hemingway?”
“Who is this?” she demanded.
“I’m working on the case,” I said, which was true enough. “I’d like to relay some information to him. That woman who broke into your house will be at Maizie’s Diner tonight at 7:30. I understand she has information that your husband will want to hear before she goes to the police.”
“If you know where she is, tell the police so they can arrest her. I don’t want to see her. She scared me out of my skin, I tell you.”
“Oh, the police did arrest her. She’s out on bail.”
“Well, I never! Imagine, some common crook, running around loose, and actually breaking into people’s houses. Trash like that runs free and they want to arrest my husband on some trumped up charge. Jewels in a bank vault? I don’t believe it for a minute.”
Jewels, yes! They did trace the key, and I’d been right. But I had another call to make. I closed the conversation off. “Tonight, 7:30, at Maizie’s dinner.” She would have talked forever, although unwittingly, to that very woman she so loathed.
Fortunately, although Edward Hemingway’s number wasn’t in the book, it wasn’t unlisted. The operator obligingly gave it to me. I placed the call after noting my tea pot was empty.
“Mr. Hemingway,” I said, “this is Jo Durbin. I do appreciate you...”
“Who?”
I charged ahead. “I appreciate you not charging me after I entered your house. In return, I’d...”
“What the hell?”
Squelching my desire to chide him for his language, I explained. “Please allow me to thank you by treating you to dinner tonight, 7:30 at Maizie’s Diner. I’d like to tell you something that the police would like to know.”
He slammed the receiver in my ear, just as Keisha stopped at my table.
“Um, they say you’re a camper. You know, like using their table with three cups of tea and no meals and for an hour and a half.”
“Just leaving. But I’ll be back for dinner with one or more guests. Can you make a reservation? Seven thirty.”
“Great. Um, what are you doing?”
She looked pointedly at my doodles. I’d absentmindedly scribbled arrows everywhere, but they all pointed to the center.
“It’s the murder. I seem to have set up a gathering of all the usual suspects, with me as the target.”
“Isn’t that dangerous?”
She was right. I’d practically blackmailed them all, threatening to tell the police something each would like to hear. But telling them anything was not on my agenda.
“I’ll bring reinforcements.”
“Wow! That’s so cool.”
Actually, I had formulated my plan as we spoke, and reinforcements suddenly sounded quite necessary. “Yes, reserve two tables, but not next to each other.”
I left the restaurant before they tossed me out, found a nearby bench, and dialed Mel. Busy. Despite the evidence, I was sure Mr. Talbit didn’t kill Francine. How could he, when she had the key to the loot? Perhaps Mr. Hemingway did it, but why? So she stepped out on him, but he’d already left her. And why not Vanessa, in the midst of the eternal triangle?
When Mel answered my third call, he didn’t give me a chance to pose my question.
“You’ll be here tonight, right?
That Zip fellow is awake and ready to testify. They suspect he’s connected to a Miami gang. I’ll have my police radio tuned for any alerts and we can listen in. I’ve got two big lobsters for the celebration. You’ll be early enough to cook.”
All he wanted was a cook, or maybe protection from the Miami hoods. “No, I won’t.” Why celebrate some loser’s testimony? “I’ve never cooked lobster and I have a dinner engagement.” A lot of nerve he had, assuming I’d just drop everything to cook his lobsters. Like I didn’t have plans that might even include him. They wouldn’t. He was trying to pin me down, run my life.
“I’ll be there later,” I said. “After I meet all available suspects for dinner.”
Let him stew over that for a while.
Chapter 42
Mel didn’t want to help trap the killer. He wanted to run my life. Nobody told me what to do. I didn’t need him. I’d face my suspects by myself.
On second thought, standing up to a killer alone was not a good scenario. And I had reserved a second table at Maizie’s Diner. But who to ask? Indeed. First I’d learn more—from the information guy—Ears. I traipsed around for an hour before I found him hanging outside The Mart, looking for somebody to con.
There was no way to ease into the subject. I went right for it. “Ears, you saw Mrs. Hemingway talk to a man before she was killed, right?”
“Yeah, I told you that already,” he drawled. I could see the dollar signs flashing in his eyes. “You wanna know more?”
“Did you hear them?”
He hesitated, but finally said, “Nah.”
“What did he look like?”
“How bad you wanna know?”
“Maybe a dollar’s worth.” Ears shrugged and turned away. “How about a dollar now and five after you tell me.”
“Five now and ten later.”
“Hey, I’m not made of money. Two now and five later.”
“What you wanna know?” he asked.
What I really needed was a mug book. “Point out the suspect,” I’d say. Too bad I no longer had the museum brochure with Mr. Talbit’s picture. I handed Ears his two dollars. “Like I said, what’d he look like?”
“Tall guy. Real old. White beard. Couldn’t see his hair. Hat all over his face.”
His answer was glib, his eyes unfocused. I shook my head. “Too bad. Doesn’t sound like anybody in the case.”
“You mean he’s got to look like somebody before you give me the money?”
“Hey, you don’t know what he looked like, do you?”
“Well, maybe it was her husband, that Mr. Hemingway. I seen his picture in the newspaper. Yeah, it was him.”
“He’s not old. He doesn’t have a white beard.”
He shrugged. “Well, maybe he didn’t. Maybe the light was shining on his face so I couldn’t see right.”
“Sunshine? Didn’t you say it was night time?”
“You ever hear of street lights?”
“And they were arguing?”
“Sort of.”
“You didn’t see anything did you? You never saw Francine at all.”
“Did so. And I just told you lots.”
“You told me zilch. You can’t even remember what you told me in the first place.”
“Yeah? I told you the babe and some old guy was going hot and heavy, into a fight. But that’s not good enough for you. You want something else, so I give you something else, and you try to go back on the deal.”
“I don’t want something else. I want the real thing.”
“Okay, the real thing is like this. The babe, she comes along, and she’s like nothin’ matters. You know, lookin’ around at things. The guy’s standin’ there, you know, like he’s waitin’. He’s mad already. The man, he starts yellin’ and grabs her arm and jerks her around. She’s hollerin’ back. Then he gives her something and she grabs it and runs off. She runs my way, so I see her pretty good. She’s got a wad of bills in her hand. I turn around and follow her.”
“Followed the money, right? Did you ever get a good look at the guy?”
“Could of been her husband.”
“But not necessarily, right?”
“Like I said, could of been.”
“How tall was the man, compared to Mrs. Hemingway?”
“Maybe five, ten inches taller. You know.”
I knew. The man was not as interesting as a babe with a wad, but I gave Ears his five dollars. Everyone agreed that Francine was tiny, like under five-three. So, the man could have been Mr. Hemingway, who was close to six feet. Or it could have been Mr. Talbit at five, ten. Or, somebody else completely.
I turned to leave when it occurred to me. Ears wasn’t dependable, but he was better than no one. “You know, the guy who killed Mrs. Hemingway probably killed Lacy too.”
“Yeah, sure. And beat up that Zip too, I s’pose.”
He didn’t believe me. “Not Zip, you know that. But he got Lacy. You see, it was the plastic bag. That’s the way they killed the lady in her house. Same M.O.”
“Yeah? What I hear is Zip woke up in the hospital and he’s singing big time ‘bout them murders.”
“No, you didn’t hear any such thing,” I said, wondering if he really knew. Probably not. He’d say anything for a buck. “You ever read mystery stories?” I asked, returning to my plan.
Ears shrugged.
“They always get the suspects together. They start talking and pretty soon, the detective figures it out.”
“Yeah? Sounds dumb to me.”
“It always works. Anyway, I’m getting the suspects together tonight. I invited three of them. Two guys and a woman. If they come, it’s at 7:30 at Maizie’s Diner.”
“So why you telling me?”
“I need somebody to watch my back.”
“Hey, I don’t get mixed up in no murder case.”
“I’m buying dinner for you and two, three other guys,” I said, like he hadn’t interrupted. “Then you all hang around to make sure things don’t get nasty. Remember, the killer got Lacy, and he could get the rest of us if he gets us alone.”
“You’re getting crazy as Lacy, you know?”
“Come to Maizie’s Diner before 7:30. Maybe 7:15. Say you’re my early guests. You’ll get a separate table, and no check.”
“How about you give me the money and I’ll pay.”
I shook my head.
“Order anything I want?”
“You got it,” I said, knowing that Maizie’s served no liquor.
“Three, four guys?”
“Yep. And you all stay around afterward to watch my back, like I said.”
“Maybe,” he said, which could have meant maybe he’d come to dinner, or maybe he’d stay around afterward. It was the best I could hope for.
I returned to the restaurant in time to set my plan in motion. Ears and two other guys came. Orin and Robin Hood. I waited until eight, but none of my suspects came. Clyde and I ate alone. Excellent meal, but no lobster. The fellows left well before I finished. I’d bought three meals for no reason at all. I was a dud as a detective.
Keisha wasn’t my waitress, but she managed to come to my table under the guise of filling my water glass.
“The latest is, that killer was chasing somebody with an axe,” she said.
“Uh-huh.” I was not quite willing to admit my part in the scene.
“You know Officer Rivlin?” I nodded. “We have a date.”
“Fantastic!” I said, since the situation demanded an enthusiastic response.
“But my car broke down,” she added, leaving me to wonder the significance of that statement.
I didn’t wonder long, for she returned offering a coffee refill. I was about to float away, but I accepted.
“He’s picking me up at my house, but I should have had him pick me up here, but I didn’t know my car was going to break down, and I absolutely hate walking all that way, even if they did catch the killer.”
“Whoa! They caught the killer?”
> “Yeah. Didn’t you hear? Somebody was arrested. He was trying to kill some lady, but they didn’t give her name.”
“Was it a Mr. Talbit?”
“Oh, they didn’t say who it was. But the TV seemed to know everything else. They talked to that museum chick, Nell somebody.”
“What? Nell Nordstrum? What did she say?”
“She was, like, really pissed. Mad at some guy. Do you suppose...”
She kept talking, but I tuned her out. Was it Mr. Talbit? She did say he tried to kill some lady. That would be me. But was he really the killer? Was I safe?
Had to be.
“...so anyway. I just hate to walk all that way alone.”
Aha. A clue. And, Mel lived only a few blocks further. “Would you like me to walk you home? When do you get off work?”
“Nine? Is that too late?” she asked with trepidation.
"How late is the gift shop next door open?”
“Nine,” she said, beaming.
It was on my way, and I didn’t mind helping her out. I, myself, wasn’t worried about walking alone. Not usually, anyway. I certainly did it all the time. And the suspects I’d lined up hadn’t appeared. The killer had been caught. Supposedly.
I wouldn’t worry. The gift shop was small. I read greeting cards and post cards. They weren’t Queensboro specific, or even Chesapeake Bay specific. Cute animals and buxom maidens with what someone thought were clever sayings. I unfolded a few lovely scarves, examined them, then carefully refolded them. I patted stuffed animals, but there were no cats among them.
“Sorry Clyde,” I said, Perhaps, if there’d been one in his image...
“Shopping for a grandchild?” It was the clerk, a lady even older than I was. White hair, black Oxfords, flowered dress over a corseted torso.
“No, I’m shopping for my cat.”
“A cat person!” She gleamed. “My Bootsy is a white long-hair. And?”
“Clyde, alley cat.” Clyde didn’t like that at all, but tough beans. “He was a stray, but he cleaned up quite nicely. Perhaps you’d like to see him?” Visually, I swept the knickknacks cluttering every shelf. “He’s not a house cat, but I’m sure I could keep him under control.”