by W B Garalt
“That’s two leads called in to me that I didn’t get. By luck, I picked up the second one!” She fumed, to herself.
Maggie pulled into the Stanley Realty parking lot and stormed in through the office door dripping from a sudden downpour which came down like a small waterfall just as she got out of her car.
“Just freaking great” Maggie said loudly as Carrie, the sales trainee looked blankly up from painting her fingernails at her desk.
“Is it raining?” Carrie asked without thinking to hard.
“No, I just poured water all over myself, what the hell do you think!? Or do you think?” shouted Maggie. Carrie just lowered her head and continued her fingernail work.
At the sound of the loud voice, Francine came rushing out of her office with obvious concern. Maggie composed herself and turned to Carrie’s desk.
“I’m sorry, Carrie, I’m not having a good day. You understand, don’t you? Don’t you have those days every once in a while?” asked Maggie, feeling a bit guilty.
Carrie looked up from her fingernail painting, blinked her large false eye lashes twice and after a moment of thought, replied; “I don’t know, I guess so, but I don’t think about the weather that much.”
Maggie was speechless. She looked at Francine and then back at Carrie. Francine seemed a bit embarrassed for Carrie.
“Good lord,” Maggie thought, “this one is somewhere out in space. What is she high on, sniffing the nail polish?”
At that, Maggie asked Francine for a few minutes in private. Francine nodded as she waved Maggie into her office and closed the door behind them.
Maggie then went at Francine with an earnest, passionate tone about the leads she missed. As she went on with her complaint Maggie remembered that when she left the office on the day before, Francine was having a private meeting with her two salespersons.
“Oh, Maggie, I’m, sorry. I took the message as I was starting to talk to the other girls yesterday morning. When we finished you had left. I forgot to call you. I have it right here.” Francine said as she handed Maggie the note. “I’ll make it up to you.” she continued.
“Okay, but there was a call last week that I didn’t get either.” said Maggie, not ready to let Francine off the hook. “Were you on phone duty last Wednesday morning? She asked. Francine looked down at her large desk calendar where she noted day-to-day assignments.
“Oh, that was Carrie; I had to step out and asked her to take messages.” Francine explained.
“Great, that one is gone. I found out about it an hour ago.” Maggie said with authority.
The discussion was over. As she left Francine’s office Maggie knew that Francine didn’t have to, nor would she, indicate what action she would take with Carrie so she didn’t bother to ask.
Maggie went to her mail box to check for any other messages and, shifting her blouse from the dampness and shaking out her hair, she went to her desk to plan the next day’s work.
Realizing that the usual perfume cloud surrounding Carrie was missing, Maggie thought; Thank God we don’t need the gas mask today. Maybe a certain someone ran out of ‘Au de La Dead Skunk’ musk. It would be one bright spot on this shitty day.” Within fifteen minutes she had finished planning her agenda for the next day.
“Have a good one” she flipped at Carrie on the way past her desk.
“Good night Francine”, she put forward as a peace offering, “Catch you tomorrow.” Without waiting for a response she left the office, got into her car and left for her apartment.
Carrie was watching as Maggie went out to her car. “She really got on my case today. I wonder what has her so jacked up.” she queried to herself.
In actuality, Carrie admired Maggie for her self-assuredness and for her seemingly secure, successful lifestyle.
Chapter 20
While Maggie was trudging through her not-so-great day, Max had spent the day commuting to northern Connecticut and back. He was working as part of a team along with a property appraiser local to that area, and a local antiques expert. They were collaborating on valuing a sizeable former-tobacco plantation which was slated for auction. It was a sixteen-room, 1880s Gothic style house, with a horse stable and two tobacco-drying barns, resting on thirty-two acres of land.
The entire estate was under contract for auction with Jenson and Associates. Max was evaluating the house, house lot and buildings. The local property appraiser was valuing the former tobacco field acreage and the antique expert was listing and estimating the value of some old farming equipment and the interior furnishings of the house.
The furnishings and the old farm equipment would be sold immediately. The house and outbuildings on two acres, to be separated as a zone-compliant house lot, would be auctioned separately from the remaining farmland. The land and building components had to have separate minimum bids established prior to the auction date in ten days’ time.
At 6:15 PM on this rainy Tuesday evening Max was driving on Rt. I-91 back to East Wayford when his cell phone bleeped.
“Hey Max, you poor, hard driving, hardworking dude” Maggie said in an obviously fun loving mood, “I’m cooking up some chicken cacciatore for two. How about coming directly to my place on your way back?”
Max was more than a little hungry. He had skipped lunch hoping that he could wrap up his assignment. The effort was wasted, however, since he had no choice but to return Wednesday, after all.
“It sounds good to me, you fox, you. That’s the best offer I’ve had today. Chill the glasses and I’ll pick up the joy-juice at Fred’s Vodka Mart.” Max said with a frivolous tone, “If you want to time it perfectly, I should be pulling into your driveway at 7:05.” he added.
“Okay smart ass”, Maggie responded, “I’m just in a zany mood, but you sound like you’re half-way to being blitzed already.”
“Not a drop today Mag,” he replied in a serious tone, “In fact, I totally skipped lunch. I’ll call you when I’m twenty minutes out if it’ll help.” offered Max.
“You are a charmer, you devil. Do that, I’ll see you then.” finished Maggie.
Max pulled up at Maggie’s apartment at 7:10. She spotted him driving up and met him at the front door.
“You’re late, what happened?” Maggie called out. Max, striding up the walkway responded.
“Sorry, I squeezed in an unscheduled stop along the way” he said through the rain as he pulled a small bouquet of mixed wild flowers from under his raincoat.
As Maggie stepped aside to allow his entry she said with feigned coyness, “Oh Max,” you shouldn’t have.”
“Don’t get too emotional,” he kidded, “It was a promotional thing Fred’s Vodka was doing. They’re using left over flowers from the holiday parade.” he confessed.
“I still love the flowers, thanks.” she said generously, going easy on him. “Pour the martinis,” she continued, “I’m setting the table.”
“I hope you didn’t forget the candles” Max said semi-seriously. Maggie just gave him a look of faked annoyance.
During the meal Max told Maggie about his rather difficult out-of- town assignment and expressed his disappointment at having to go back the next day. The reason was because there was a potential zoning defect with the house lot which would require a correction. Otherwise it could affect the overall value. He wasn’t able to get an answer because both the tax assessor and the zoning officer were part time. They didn’t work on Tuesdays.
“But enough about me,” he said jokingly, “what about you? Did any more of your lady friends ask for me today?” Maggie shot a faked scowl at Max.
“No, and don’t let what I told you yesterday go to your big head. As far as how my day went, on a scale of one to ten, my day started out around minus three and then went lower than whale shit!” she said flatly. “It went so bad it made me giddy, that’s why I called you, so that I could end it on an upswing.”
She went on to tell Max about the days’ events. Max was shaking his head and listening with concern. He wa
sn’t sure just how down she really had become. It wasn’t like her to let people affect her attitude.
“Honest-to-God, Max, you should have seen Francine when I went off on her. She was as pale as a ghost, I mean white! It even showed through that patriotic make up that she uses.” Max’s left eyebrow went up.
“Patriotic make up?” he asked.
“Yeah, you know,” she quipped, “Red, White and Blue. The big-red cheeks, the shockingly-white teeth and the neon-blue eyelids.” Max was just taking a sip of his second martini and he choked, trying to stifle a laugh as he visualized the scene Maggie had just painted, and, with his face red and his cheeks puffed out he couldn’t hold it any longer. He sprayed the mouthful all over his sleeve. Most of his drink was spilled. He pushed back from the table with a napkin against his mouth, laughing so hard that his eyes were welling up with tears.
At the sight of Max, Maggie couldn’t hold it in any longer either. They both let it out until they were breathless.
They enjoyed finishing the meal and, after cleaning up the dinner table, they were relaxed in the living room.
Maggie lit the gas fireplace to mitigate the cool, late-spring dampness and they sat watching it cast a flickering, cozy glow through the room. The CD player was turned down low, murmuring soothing mood music.
“You got me good with that one.” Max said finishing the replenished martini as he referenced cracking up at the table,
“Did you think I was going off the deep end?” asked Maggie.
“I’ve been so wrapped up in my stuff, I didn’t know what to think”, he answered, “I was wondering if I had missed some signals from you, I guess,” he said seriously.
“Well, I do have a good grip on you, don’t I.” she said softly with a smile.
They sat there reflecting for a while slouched shoulder-to-shoulder on her plush, Corinthian leather sofa.
The wind driven rain could be heard against the window panes. For both of them the day was ending much better than it had begun.
Chapter 21
By Thursday State Police Homicide Inspector Don Chace had viewed the third victim’s personal effects, finally released by the widow’s attorney, and had spoken with most of the real estate brokers and salespersons who attended the open house in Sheffield.
Through his headquarters he had requested any information in state police records on the personnel list of Jenson & Associates Auction House, Stanley Realty Inc., the open house attendees and Gormley Properties, the listing brokerage from Sheffield. He had requested that the list in the inquiry also be submitted to the district F.B.I. office.
The increasing public frustration in the southern Connecticut area regarding the unsolved homicides had resulted in daily mention in the television and newspaper media. The frustration was not limited to the general public. The law enforcement officials involved were experiencing the same, or more vexation.
Traditionally, crimes impacting society the way these had done would not drag on, especially for this extended length of time, without at least some clue as to the cause or motive. The general public had become accustomed, thanks to movies and television, to expert science-based detective work which exposed the guilty party within the span of the typical movie or TV program.
There had been, of course, the serial killings of “Jack the Ripper” from England and “Son of Sam” from New York and the “Boston Strangler” which took extended time to solve, but here in sleepy south-central Connecticut, the circumstances of the recent crimes didn’t seem to fit the mold. In those famous cases, the crimes took place in big cities where strange things occur constantly and apathy becomes a way of life. All of the victims were young females in the infamous London and Boston serial killings. In New York City the pattern was more random.
Hanging on Inspector Chace’s office wall was a visual diagram which he was compiling to connect any similarities between the three killings. Some things stood out plainly such as, all victims were middle aged males, all killings occurred late at night, all occurred in, or near, vacant or unoccupied buildings, all killings were committed within a ten mile radius, and all three deaths were caused by trauma and suffocation from a blow, or blows, to the throat area of the victim.
The motive was unknown. There were a few dissimilarities, such as, two of the victims were locally known but one was from western Connecticut. Two of the killings occurred in buildings in East Wayford, both vacant, both to be auctioned, both inspected by Ms. Marshall & Mr. Hargrove, both listed for sale with Stanley Realty, both scheduled to be auctioned by Jenson & Assoc. The third killing was at a private home in nearby Sheffield while the owners were away.
The home was recently listed for sale with Gormley Properties in Sheffield. A brokers’ open house had been held on the afternoon of the date of the killing. The victim had been found outside of the building near a side entry.
Stanley Realty was the only common thread in all three killings. Two of the crime scenes were in properties listed for sale by Stanley Realty; and representatives of Stanley Realty had attended the open house where the third killing occurred. A list of the personnel at Stanley Realty included Francine Stanley, owner operator, Ms. Marshall, financial specialist, Ms. Green, salesperson, Ms Moran, salesperson, and Ms. Slavonic, sales trainee.
On this morning, Chace was sitting at his desk deep in thought, staring at the diagram. He had spoken with, or questioned the people listed. He had sifted through Lt. Salvadore’s notes.
It was fairly obvious that Salvadore suspected Ms. Marshall and, due to her relationship with Mr. Hargrove he was suspect as well. His notes on the questioning of these two had mention of hesitancy, evasion, and apparent irritation when being questioned.
In Chace’s mind, however, he had essentially ruled out both of them as suspects based on what Chief Devaro had told him and also on the fact that they had come forward, out of concern over professional ethics and their personal relationship, after the news of the killings broke. He had heard that they were out of town at the time of the Sheffield killing anyway. So, to date, the thread was wrapped around Francine Stanley, Ms. Green, Ms. Moran and Ms. Slavonic.
None of them seemed physically capable of the killing method in evidence, however. If they were implicated, someone much more physically capable had to be involved.
A rap on his open door shook Chace back to the present.
“Good morning Don, how goes it?” asked Chief Devaro. Chace pointed to his diagram.
“I’ve got the maze laid out but there isn’t anything concrete to go with, I’m afraid”, he said without enthusiasm, “Someone outside this has to be involved. The other thing is motive,” he continued, “We have no idea what the motive could be. It might revolve around real estate transactions. Could it be because of auctions or foreclosures? Separate lenders were involved. It’s possible that a disgruntled owner who lost his property could have snapped.”
While Chace was finishing his outline the chief was looking at the diagram. After a minute he spoke, “The heat is on with this damned situation”, he said to the inspector, “I hope something turns up soon.” Inspector Chace explained how he had sent a list of names to headquarters for an FBI check.
“It’s a shot in the dark, Lou, but maybe we’ll hit something”, he said, “In the meantime I’ll start chasing down the former property owners. Jenson’s handles a lot of the auctions, maybe they can remember a ticked-off owner.” he added. Chace’s cell phone rang and the chief waved as he walked away.
The call was from his friend and former co-worker from Greenville. He had been curious about the fact that Carl Jenson often frequented his area. He asked around and one of his informants found out that Jenson was a partner in a local building-custodian business.
He and a partner had bought the business three, or four years back, from a New York City woman who was running a prostitution ring there. She had been prosecuted, put on probation and fined in New York. She left, moved to Grandford, Connecticut and started a house-cleani
ng/maid business. Her clientele address list was mostly made up of upscale Greenville property owners, many of whom worked in and commuted to the Wall Street financial district.
“Someone, possibly a competitor, apparently had something on her and pressured her out of Grandford under the threat of exposing her New York prostitution history. Jenson and his unknown silent partner bought out her business ‘real cheap”, according to Chace’s cohort.
“I guess that would explain his being around that area then”, Chace said, “Do you have the name of the woman they bought out?” The answer was negative. The informant’s contact was a former employee of the owner and wouldn’t name names.
“Thanks man”, Chace said,” I owe you another one.”
Now we’re getting somewhere, Chace thought as he stared at his diagram on the wall. I’ve got another connection on killing number 3; Jenson’s Grandford-Greenville business and a victim from Greenville. Maybe it’s time to pay another visit to Mr. Jenson.
Chace’s analytical police inspectors mind was running overtime now. Within minutes the inspector was in his black, unmarked police cruiser, on the way to the Jenson & Associates office.
As he pulled into the parking area he noticed that the parking space near the rear entry was empty. He parked elsewhere, however, since a sign on the building directly above the space read: “Reserved-C. Jenson” This is not good, he’s not here, thought Chace.
As Don Chace was being told by the receptionist that Mr. Jenson was out of town for the day, Max was just leaving.
“Good morning. I’m Max Hargrove. Can I help you with anything?” he said, extending his hand.
Max knew who the inspector was and had seen him but had not been formally introduced. Chace returned the greeting and they shook hands.
At a glance the resemblance between these two unrelated men was uncanny. They were both around six feet tall, with a medium frame and weight. They were in the same age group and had the same graying, dark blonde, close cropped hair. They were both clean shaven and both had a slightly ruddy complexion.