Statue of Limitations

by Kate Collins

  “The condominium project must have been a rude awakening for Don.”

  “Right again.”

  “Considering Fatsis’s temper, I could see him going off the deep end about losing his shop. But I don’t see how it would be possible for either Marie or Fatsis, or anyone outside the family for that matter, to be able to drug Talbot and time it so he fell asleep in the bathtub.”

  Dad slapped the desk. “That’s where I was going with my story. Talbot always ended the dinners by announcing it was time for his bath. Remember this, Thenie, he was a spoiled old coot and used to his routine. What’s more, he lived in a separate wing from his son and daughter-in-law and even had a private elevator from his bedroom suite on the second floor to his office on the first. We were all given a tour of the place the very first time we met, so anyone in attendance could’ve arranged to meet him privately for an after-dinner drink and slip a drug into it, knowing he’d soon be on his way upstairs for his bath.”

  “So, basically anyone who attended those dinner meetings had the means and opportunity,” I said, thinking out loud. “You said there were a handful who kept attending. Who were they?”

  “Two other shop owners, one of whom has passed away since, the other who sold the shop when her husband was transferred across the country.”

  “So that narrows down the suspect list. But why would either Marie or Don want to kill Harry, too?”

  Dad put on his glasses. “Maybe their deaths aren’t connected.”

  That didn’t help my feelings about Case at all.

  “Morning, everyone,” Delphi called, strolling into the office. “Hey, Thenie, I’ve been racking my brain ever since I saw you earlier. I know I’ve met that handsome Dimitri before.” She set her purse on the table in the office. “I just can’t remember where.”

  Knowing Delphi, she wasn’t going to let this go. I folded the newspaper article and tucked it in my purse. “Do you have everything in place for the statue unveiling tomorrow? Have you contacted the press? Confirmed with the caterer? Checked how many responses we’ve had to our invitations?”

  “Yes, no, and yes, but wait, something’s coming through.” She pressed her fingertips against her temples. “I’m getting a message that Dimitri and I met recently.”

  Oh, dear God, I had to get her off that track. Pressing my fingertips to my temples I said, “I’m getting a message that it’s time to open the shop.”

  Dad winked at me and said, “Grab some coffee, Delph, and let’s get busy.”

  On and off all morning Delphi pondered aloud where she’d met Case, each time stretching my nerves just a little bit more. Finally, when we stopped for a break during a mid-morning lull, I told her point blank to drop the subject.

  “What’s your problem?” she asked, swinging one leg in annoyance. She was sitting in the chair in front of the desk, eating a handful of peanuts. “So what if I think Dimitri’s good-looking? So what if we’ve met before? Jeez, Thenie. Lighten up.”

  I rubbed my forehead. “Sorry. You know how hectic Thursdays are.”

  Some more so than others. And I still needed to set up a meeting with the coroner, plus come up with a plausible reason to slip away to shop for Case.

  Then an idea hit me.

  “Speaking of hectic days,” I said, stooping to retrieve my purse from behind the desk, “I just remembered I’m supposed to meet one of my old college friends for lunch. She called yesterday evening wanting to get together today.”

  “Which friend?” Delphi asked, watching me skeptically.

  I raced through a mental list of my friends and blurted, “Cathy Williams.”

  Delphi gave me a quizzical glance. “I thought Cathy moved to Florida after college.”

  Damn! I’d forgotten that she knew Cathy, too. “Yes, she did indeed move to Florida.” I tucked my notebook in my purse. “But she’s back.”

  Delphi scratched her nose. “That’s odd. She told me it would be a cold day in hell when she’d return to this part of the country. She hated winters here.”

  “I didn’t mean back permanently. She’s just in town for a few days to visit her parents.”

  Delphi reached down for a peanut that had fallen on the floor. “I can’t believe you agreed to meet Cathy with all we have to do. Seriously, Thenie, what were you thinking?”

  “Must you question me about everything?” I snapped.

  She threw the peanut at me.

  I pointed to my sister. “Now you check back with the caterer—“I slung my purse over my shoulder—“and I’ll see you after lunch.”

  I walked out the door, remembered something, did an about-face, and snatched my iPad from my desk. Then, before Delphi could ask me another question, I hurried out through the garden entrance to the lane with all intentions of heading toward the men’s clothing store—only to come to an abrupt stop.

  I couldn’t go there. The only legitimate reason I had for shopping at a men’s store would be to buy a gift for Kevin, whose birthday was in three weeks. Neither Dad’s nor Pappoús’s birthdays were coming up, so if I did buy something, someone in my family would surely hear about it and ask questions. Nothing went unnoticed in my family.

  But I could slip into the resale shop, Wear For Art Thou, because there was a constant turnover of young clerks, mostly college kids home for the summer, and the shop was always jammed with tourists looking for bargains. Best of all, the owner, Marie Odem, was on a cruise with her friends.

  I headed for her store on Oak Street, which backed up to Don Fatsis’s art gallery on Greene. On my way there I phoned Kirkland’s medical office, hoping to speak to him in person. I guessed he wouldn’t be too busy. He didn’t have a large medical practice because he would only take patients with full insurance coverage—no Medicare or Medicaid patients at all, which eliminated a lot of people in Sequoia. I was transferred to his nurse, who asked my reason for calling. I told her I had to speak to him about his wife’s new landscaping plans and was put on hold.

  In a few moments I heard, “Dr. Kirkland here.”

  “Dr. Kirkland, this is Athena Spencer from Spencer’s Garden Center. My father did the landscape at your new house.”

  “Yes, Miss Spencer, I remember,” he said in a friendly voice. “What’s your question?”

  “I’d like to ask you for a favor. Would you meet with a friend of mine tomorrow to answer some questions about your duties as coroner?”

  His voice suddenly lost its friendly tone. “What does this have to do with my wife’s landscaping plans?”

  “Nothing. Your nurse must have misunderstood.”

  “Why does your friend need to know about my duties?”

  “That didn’t come out right. The interview isn’t specifically about your duties.”

  “Then what specifically is it about?”

  Damn. Now he was wary. Think, Athena! Give him something believable. “Specifically, it pertains to murder cases. You see—”

  Before I had a chance to finish, he said, “Let me do you a favor by suggesting that your friend can find everything she needs on the Internet.”

  “Actually, she is a he, and he’s already researched the subject as far as he can take it. But I thought that talking to a professional—”

  “If he’s another prying reporter sniffing around for information on the Pepper murder, I’ll have him forcibly removed from my office.”

  Interesting that the subject of Harry’s murder came up. “If you’d just hear me out—”

  “I’ve heard all I need to hear, Miss Spencer, and that’s the last I’ll say on the subject. Good day.”

  Arrogant jerk. He might think that was the last he’d say, but he didn’t know who he was up against. Having grown up with three clever and sometimes devious sisters had taught me a few things.

  “I apologize for taking up your time, Dr. Kirkland. And by the way, please let your wife know that my dad is available starting Monday for that weeklong garden-scape project that he drew up for her. In fact, h
e had an idea for a koi pond that she’s going to love.”

  And every word of that was the truth. My dad was available starting on a Monday—if Mrs. Kirkland ever actually decided to do that renovation. And he could have a koi pond installed. All I had to do was reel the coroner in now, because there was no way he’d want his wife to spend that kind of money. Kirkland was so tight he squeaked.

  After a pregnant pause I added, “Or perhaps you could meet with my friend and me tomorrow, say around noon?”

  “That’s not going to happen,” he said abruptly. “I’ll deliver your message to my wife and let her get back to you.”

  Obviously, I needed to do a little more persuading. “You know what, Dr. Kirkland? Since you’re such a busy man, I’ll do you a favor by contacting your wife myself. So have a good day. I’m hanging up now.”

  “Wait.” There was a pause and then a heavy sigh. “Maybe there’s a way I can help your friend.”

  And just like that his voice changed from arrogance to some semblance of humility. “What kind of specific information is your friend seeking?”

  “He’s—um—writing his first mystery novel and struggling with the death scene. Who better to advise him than an expert in the field?”

  He sighed. “I suppose I can make room on my calendar.”

  “Perfect. A noon meeting works best for us.”

  “Fine. Tomorrow at noon at the coroner’s office.”

  I ended the call and gave the air a high five. Quick thinking! Although a mystery writer wasn’t the cleverest of ideas, it did the trick. That was one thing checked off my to-do list. Now on to the next item: clothing for Case, er, Dimitrius.

  When I stepped inside the resale shop there was only one salesclerk on the floor. The young woman was ringing up a huge pile of merchandise for a group of tourists, paying no attention to who came in the door. With her occupied, I combed through the men’s tops and within ten minutes found three almost new, short-sleeved, button-down shirts that looked just right for interviews. I also found two short-sleeved T-shirts for casual wear, and even a polo shirt with the original price tag on it. Then I moved on to the pants.

  “Athena,” I heard, and looked around to see Marie Odem coming toward me. In a panic, I quickly tucked the clothing behind my back and pasted on a smile, my thoughts going a mile a minute. What could my reason be for buying all these men’s clothes?

  Clearly, I wasn’t cut out for espionage. “Marie! I thought you were on a cruise.”

  “I got back yesterday.” She was wearing her usual slim, belted black dress, a look that set off her silver hair. “I hear you had a good turnout for the GMA meeting,” she said, trying to peer around at the bundle in my arms.

  “I did. It was a good meeting. I’m sorry you missed it.”

  After an awkward moment of silence, she finally said, “Whatever are you hiding?”

  “Oh, these?” I had no choice but to show her the shirts. “They’re just, um, early birthday gifts for”—the only person I knew who would fit into them—“Kevin. But if you see him, please don’t say a word. I want them to be a surprise.”

  With a haughty lift of one eyebrow she said, “I’m sure they will be a surprise. I would’ve thought you were gathering clothes for the homeless. The shelter is having a drive right now, as you no doubt know.”

  That would have definitely been a better answer. Now I was going to have to hold back that brand-new polo shirt for Kevin, because there was no way Marie could keep a secret.

  “Actually, Marie, most of the clothes are for the drive. So I’ll take all of these”—I thrust the pile in her hands—“and look around for a few more items.”

  Ten minutes later I left the shop with a big bag and what I was positive was an ulcer forming in my stomach. I threw the bag in the back of my white Toyota SUV and headed to a discount store a mile away. There I was able to purchase groceries and men’s briefs and socks without being spotted by anyone I knew.

  I drove back to town, parked in the public lot near the harbor, put up my hood, loaded my arms with bags—minus the shirt for Kevin—and strolled casually down to the water.

  Most of the boats were out in the lake, so I encountered only a few tourists ambling along the dock, taking photos. I hopped from the pier onto Pappoús’s boat, glanced around to be sure no one was watching, then unlocked the cabin door and hurried down the stairs.

  “It’s just me,” I called.

  No answer.

  I set the bags down and was about to head toward the bedroom to see whether Case was still sleeping when a shadow fell across the floor in front of me. I spun around to see him descending the stairs wearing only Pappoús’s denim pants, which he’d rolled to mid-calf length. I couldn’t help but notice his bare chest—muscular and covered with a fine sheen of sweat—and his lean waist, the old pants riding low on his hips.

  “Hey,” he said, wiping his forehead with a towel.

  I suddenly felt light-headed and realized I hadn’t drawn a breath in several seconds. I turned away and began to unpack the groceries. “Hey, yourself. Where were you?”

  “Lying on the front of the boat soaking up the sun.” He walked over and peered into the grocery bag. “What’d you buy?”

  He was so close I could feel the heat coming off his body. “Standard staples. Eggs, sliced ham, cheese, bread, oranges, bottled water, and a few other necessities.”

  “Like my phone?”

  “Damn! I’m sorry. I was in such a hurry that I forgot it again, but I’ll pick one up after work this evening.”

  He opened the bag of clothing and pulled out a shirt. The first thing he noticed was the resale tag. “You bought used clothes?”

  “I had no choice. If these don’t fit, I’ll donate them and try again.”

  As he picked up the bag and headed for the bedroom, I opened the refrigerator and began to put the groceries inside. “By the way, we have an appointment to see the coroner tomorrow at noon. I’ll have to meet you at City Hall, so I’ll give you instructions on how to get there before I leave.”

  “What’s my cover story?” he called.

  “You’re a mystery writer from Tarpon Springs who’s struggling with the death scene in your first book.”

  “And to think I was a simple businessman before. Now I’m a Greek fisherman who writes”—he paused—“or am I a Greek writer who fishes?”

  I smiled as I took my iPad out of my purse. “Why don’t we say you’re a novice mystery writer who’s renting my pappoús’s boat while you’re working on your novel? Then you don’t have to use the fisherman excuse.”

  “I’ve always wanted to write a book” was his wry answer.

  My stomach gave a warning growl. I checked my watch and realized it was time for lunch. “Do you want a sandwich? I need to eat before I go back to the garden center, and we still have to compile our questions for the coroner.”

  “Sure.” Case came out of the bedroom dressed in the tan T-shirt and a pair of slim-fitting, faded blue jeans. He held out his arms. “What do you think?”

  That I needed to remind myself I had a boyfriend. “Everything fits,” I said cheerfully. I glanced at his bare feet and added, “I’ll pick up a pair of shoes for you tomorrow, too.”

  I pulled out the cheese, ham, and bread and set them on the table. “Do you want water or hot tea with your sandwich?”

  He sat down at the table and let his long legs sprawl out to one side. “What I really want is a cold beer—and a cell phone.”

  I tossed him a bottle of water. “You’ll have to make do with water until tomorrow. I’ll try to get the phone later today.”

  As soon as I had the sandwiches made, I took out my notebook and a pen and sat down opposite him so we could plan our strategy.

  “Keep in mind that I told him you’re having trouble writing the death scene in your novel, so we’ll need to make it look like that’s your primary focus. And we can’t make your questions too specific, like by mentioning either Harry Pepper’s
or Talbot’s death. If we want to extract anything useful, we can’t raise his suspicions about you.”

  “Believe me, I have no wish to have handcuffs snapped on my wrists, but what does that leave us? Remember, I’m not really a novel writer.”

  “But I am, I mean was, a reporter for a Chicago newspaper, and I do know how to come up with questions.”

  “Okay, then, let’s go,” he said, and took a big bite of his sandwich.

  For the next twenty minutes, we bounced questions back and forth. Then I noticed the time and jumped up. “I’ve got to get back. They’re going to wonder where I am.”

  “I’ll clean up here,” he said, as I packed up my notebook and pen.

  “Thanks.” I watched for a moment as he began to clear the table, trying to imagine Kevin doing the same. Somehow, I couldn’t picture it.

  I shook that thought out of my head, took my iPad out of my purse, and set it on the counter. “This is for your Tarpon Springs research. I’ll see you at the coroner’s office at noon.”

  “When do we pay Sonny Talbot a visit?”

  “That’ll have to wait until next week, but I’ll have a chance to question Sonny at his press conference tomorrow.”

  Case’s eyes lit up. “He’s having a press conference?”

  “Yes, he’s going to talk about his downtown condominium project, which the Greek Merchants’ Association is fighting. He promised to address Harry Pepper’s death then, too.”

  “Perfect. Where is he planning to build his condominium?”

  “Step out onto the back of the boat and look right across the street. He’s going to raze the entire block of Greene Street known as Little Greece. And that includes The Parthenon, the diner that my grandfather and Harry Pepper started.”

  “What time is the conference?”

  “Five p.m., and don’t even think about attending. With all the media that’ll be there, it’s too risky.”

  “Isn’t that the purpose of my disguise?”