by Pill, Maggie
When I phoned WOZ Industries, the receptionist made a lunch date with Stan sound unlikely. “Mr. Wozniak’s leaving town tomorrow, Mrs. Stilson. He’s really busy today.”
“Please tell him I called to take him up on his invitation.” I flipped through a magazine for a few minutes, checking out the scratch and sniff fragrance samples. It wouldn’t take long.
Stanley Wozniak had been after me since a few months after my husband died. Now by “after me” I don’t mean for marriage. Stanley thinks in terms of conquests, and I was a woman he hadn’t had a shot at yet. He got more interested every time I said no.
He was smooth, I had to grant him that. He never pushed, he simply let a woman know he found her desirable with a glance, a word, or a gesture. Still, I’d never met anyone else who could make helping me into my coat seem like a sexual act.
Stanley didn’t interest me, mostly because I sensed a hardness beneath his courtly exterior. I’d heard stories of good employees fired for no reason except that things always had to go Stanley’s way. People who worked at WOZ seldom quit, because jobs at the company were like gold, but many admitted there was a hovering fear that Stan would at some point turn his anger on them. If that happened, whatever they’d accomplished for the company meant nothing.
Another mark against Stanley was his attitude toward women, which was just a decade or so this side of medieval. Wife #1, mother of Carson and Carina, was a former model who’d died in a car accident somewhere near Chicago. Alcohol might have been a factor.
Wife #2 had spent one year in Michigan before returning to Las Vegas and life upon the wicked stage. I remembered Wife #3 only vaguely: big eyes, big boobs, and a big mouth. There’d been no fourth Mrs. Wozniak. For over a decade now, Stanley had contented himself with women who knew better than to expect alimony, palimony, or matrimony.
I had no intention of becoming a notch on Stanley’s belt. Dating is a choice I make from time to time, but I haven’t yet met a man who could replace my husband, who I miss every single minute of every day. Despite lots of friends, two grown children, and my sisters, I don’t feel close to anyone, and that’s a lonely place to be.
In light of that, though I wasn’t interested in Stanley long-term, I looked forward to our evening out. He was attractive and sophisticated, at least according to Allport’s standards. I wanted to help my sisters, and dinner with the head of WOZ Industries couldn’t hurt my reputation. Though Stanley didn’t know it, one dinner would be enough.
I let the phone ring six times, so he didn’t think I was waiting for his call. “Hello.”
“Margaretta. Stan Wozniak.”
“How nice of you to call back so quickly. I know how busy you are.”
“Not too busy to take the prettiest woman in Allport to dinner.”
With a feminine purr, I launched into my story. “Mike Morland is entertaining at the hotel tonight, and I remembered you said you liked his singing.”
“I think I suggested we see his show, but you were busy.”
I hummed non-committally. “Anyway, he’s there tonight, and I thought if you weren’t otherwise occupied, we could go.”
“I can pick you up around six. Are you at the same address?”
I had a momentary attack of conscience, knowing Stan would spend lavishly on me and go home disappointed. But that’s the game, isn’t it?
Chapter Nineteen
Barb
“A kid?” Brown’s face pinched with astonishment. “I have a little girl?”
We’d checked into a motel in Paradise that was nicely anonymous and, except for the philodendrons in the lobby, could have been located in Florida or Oregon or New Mexico. There was a breakfast room, and we’d taken a table in a corner, out of sight of the front desk. After getting each of us a paper cup of water, Faye had gently made the announcement.
“Her name is Brooke.” She pushed his cup closer, and Brown took a drink without seeming to notice. “Carina was alive when help arrived. They were able to save the baby.”
“But I heard the call. Stan said they were both dead.”
“You were at the dispatch office?”
“Yeah.” He couldn’t get his mind to move onward. “I have a daughter.”
“Your sister hired us to find you. Your parents are dead.”
He bowed his head, taking that in. After a while Faye said, “She’s a beautiful child.”
With visible effort he put his parents’ deaths aside for the moment. “You’ve seen her?”
“When I got there, Meredith was making lasagna for supper. I guess it’s her favorite.”
Neil smiled. “Mine too.” He shifted in his chair. “Haven’t had it in a while.”
I came back to the point. “After the hue and cry died down, your sister found a pamphlet for Buck Lake. She thought you might have headed there when you needed a place to, um, relocate. She didn’t do anything at the time, being unwilling to risk betraying your whereabouts.”
“Meredith.” He almost smiled. “How is she?”
I met Faye’s gaze and got permission to edit my response. “She’s a teacher now. And she’s done a great job with Brooke.”
“Not surprising.” His eyes went soft. “Sometimes out there in the woods I missed her most of all. Carina and I had some rough times, and it was hard to get past them in my mind. Our parents were older, you know, great people, but Meri and I were—we had a lot of fun.” He rose. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to walk around for a while. This is a lot to take in.”
He might run and leave us looking like the amateurs we still were. On the other hand, he had a lot to deal with. I checked my watch. “Shall we meet here in the morning, around 7:00?”
Faye chimed in with just the right touch of honesty and humor. “Over breakfast we expect to hear your version of what makes somebody mad enough to kill you.”
Brown didn’t reply, but his expression said he had suspicions, probably the same as Faye’s and mine. Stan Wozniak was the only man I could think of who hated Brown that much.
Chapter Twenty
Faye
As soon as Neil was out of sight, Barb started doubting him. She began pacing. “He could disappear, just like before.” The room was so small I crawled onto my bed to get out of her way.
“He didn’t have to come with us at all,” I reminded her. “He could have taken off into the woods back at the lodge. It’s unlikely either of us could have caught him.”
“Yes, but now that he’s alone, he might rethink his options.”
“He’ll be there in the morning.”
“If he is, we have to get him back to Allport and turn him over to the police.”
“You still think he did it?”
Barb gave me one of her patient looks. “He seems like a nice guy, Faye, but remember the DNA and blood evidence? He was there, and things turned violent.”
“There has to be some justification. I mean, the place was all torn apart. Maybe Neil and Carson got into a fight and Carina somehow got in the way.”
Barb stopped pacing and turned to me. “Somebody came up behind her and bashed in her skull with a ball bat. Don’t delude yourself, Faye. Neither Carina nor Carson died by accident.”
Chapter Twenty-one
Retta
Stanley arrived in a jazzy little sports car that was so low-slung it felt like I was sitting on the ground. Though I prefer a car one can get into and out of with ease and style, I made “I’m impressed” noises, knowing men like cars for different reasons than women do.
Dinner was fine. Stanley talked mostly about his only real interest, himself. I learned the basics of limestone quarrying, software pirating, and employee shortcomings in the first half hour. As we ate, we sipped drinks, wine for me, Crown Royal for him. He easily outdid me in quantity with no apparent effec
t. His hand remained steady, his words clear. When I thought he was warmed up enough, I brought the conversation around to our personal tragedies.
“You certainly stay busy,” I said, adding with what I hoped was charming honesty, “I do, too, so I don’t think about the past too much.”
He chose to focus on my tragedy. “Tough break, losing your husband so young.”
“It was. Of course, having the children helped. You didn’t have that comfort.”
His face clouded. “No.” Finishing his drink in one swallow, he set the glass down hard enough to catch the waitress’ attention. Nodding understanding, she headed to the bar.
“At least you have your granddaughter,” I went on. “How old is she now?”
“I’ve never seen the child.”
“Oh.” I tried to look embarrassed. “I suppose seeing her would bring awful memories.”
His face seemed cut from stone. “I want nothing to do with the child of a murderer.”
“But she’s your granddaughter.”
His lips barely moved as he said, “And her father killed my children. With my own eyes I saw him running away.” The muscles of his face stood out as if he held himself together with effort. “I will not have anything to do with that man’s offspring.”
The waitress appeared with another Crown Royal and the dessert cart. I took a long time with my choice, giving Stan time to regain control and become the man he wanted me to see.
The show started then, and we turned to enjoy the music. Looking at Stanley from time to time, I thought of his innocent grandchild. Even if Brown was guilty, how could he reject her?
When the first set ended, Stanley asked politely if I wanted to stay for another. When I said we should go, he called for the check. Somewhat ostentatiously he added a large tip for the waitress, who urged him more than once to “Come on back.”
Recovering his good humor as we left, he put an arm around my waist and pulled me close as he asked, “Interested in a nightcap, Retta?”
I knew if I said yes, the next question would be, “My place or yours?”
“If you don’t mind, Stanley, I should get home. My son’s supposed to call from Fiji.”
The Fiji part was true, but the call was fictional, a gentle negative on the possibility of sharing the rest of the night. He took it well. At his age he’d learned to wait for what he wanted.
When Stanley dropped me off at home I went right back out, because something he’d said bothered me. One day while Barbara was out of the office, I’d convinced Faye to let me read the notes Sgt. Sparks had sent on the Brown murder case. He’d made a drawing of the apartment building where Carina lived, and I recalled that the entry doors faced north. The parking lot was on the west, so Stanley had parked there and walked around to the doors. I wanted to know exactly how far away he was when he supposedly saw his son-in-law leave the building.
Windswept Apartments consisted of three fifties-era buildings, two-story, red-brick rectangles with flat walls and a row of identically battered storm doors at each entry. Parking in the lot, I walked around to the front, almost bumping into a couple clinging to each other like a flood was imminent. They eyed me with hostility as I hurried on, feeling like an interloper.
When I checked the angle of sight from several different vantage points, I concluded that Stanley might have seen someone leaving the building, but it would have been at some distance. And if that person was heading away and hadn’t turned back, he’d have seen only the back of a man in a hoodie. His willingness to believe it was Brown might have colored his judgment.
Another point came to mind. If the guy running away was Brown, why had he left on foot? He’d been driving a truck, according to reports. That left me with a possible plus for Brown—Stanley’s inability to actually see his face, and a possible minus. A man planning to murder his wife might have left his vehicle some distance away to prevent it being reported later. That might signal premeditation, which wasn’t a good thing for Mr. Brown
“Are you looking for someone?” The voice at my elbow made me jump.
“Huh?” I turned to find a man leaning out of a city police car. I’d been so wrapped up in my thoughts I hadn’t heard his approach.
“I asked if you were looking for someone.” In the street light, we examined each other. What I saw was pleasing, but he gave no indication of his thought. I had to say something.
“I know everyone in the department but the new chief, so I guess that makes you him.”
“Yes, ma’am.” His tone was patient, but he wanted an answer to his question, which really was, “Why the heck are you wandering around here at this time of night?”
I put out a hand. “I’m Margaretta Stilson, Chief Neuencamp. I’m trying to determine if what someone said about a certain situation is possible.”
He shook hands then asked, “This person has a truth problem?”
“No, but my husband used to say people’s memories get funny when the police arrive.”
He nodded. “It’s up to the investigator to apply a healthy dash of doubt.”
“Exactly. Someone told me tonight he saw a man running away from this building after a crime was committed. There’s no reason to doubt him, but I wanted to see for myself how it would have looked.” I explained my reasons, leaving out names in order to protect my sisters’ client’s confidentiality. I also implied I worked for the Smart Detective Agency, possibly to convince the new chief that I wasn’t some lunatic. In the back of my mind I was aware it was partly to keep the interest of those direct brown eyes.
The chief relaxed somewhat, apparently concluding I was okay. He shifted the car into park, and the engine stopped growling and went to a purr. There were questions he wanted to ask. What newly-arrived peace officer wouldn’t want to get a sense of the possibilities, good and bad, of a local detective agency? He’d probably heard of it in a wink-wink, nudge-nudge way, from Tom Stevens. I pictured Tom settling his belt around that eight-month pregnancy he calls a stomach and saying, “Yeah, some gals in town got a yen to be private eyes. Got the paperwork and all, but I don’t suppose they’ll give us any competition.”
“Are you the head of the agency?” the chief asked.
“I just help out when I can. My husband was a police officer, so I know how things go.”
“Maybe I’ll stop in one of these days.”
I wanted to ask him not to tell Barbara he’d met me, and I should have begged him not to tell her I’d said I was helping out. There was no way to do that without looking like a complete fool, however, and the last thing I wanted was to appear a fool to the best-looking newcomer Allport had seen in years. I had to hope if he did stop by to meet Barbara and Faye, he didn’t get chatty about women he met out and about at midnight.
Chapter Twenty-two
Barb
To my great relief, Brown was waiting when we came downstairs the next morning. The motel offered continental breakfast, and from the yeasty smell and the little pile of trash in front of him, I guessed he’d had toast and jelly. Now he was drinking coffee, and the little pile of sugar packets nearby indicated it was not his first cup.
“Can’t remember the last time I had this many choices,” he told us, glancing at the array. He seemed more at ease this morning, as if he’d worked through the revelations of yesterday, good and bad. He’d shaved away the uneven beard, and without it and his fake infirmities, he was an attractive man with a definite likeness to Meredith around the eyes and mouth.
Brown sat patiently while we made our own breakfast choices, oatmeal for me. Faye smeared a bagel with cream cheese, took two spoonfuls of egg casserole, and wedged a doughnut onto the plate as well. When we were seated, he said, “You want to hear my side of the story.”
“We do,” I said, sprinkling a sugar over my cereal. “When we agreed to find you,
we gave your sister no guarantee you won’t go to prison.”
“I was pretty sure that’s where I was headed,” he said. “But I swear: if I’d done anything wrong, I’d have stayed and taken my deads.”
The phrase from childhood struck me, and I remembered the shots fired at us the day before. By tracking him down, we’d put Brown in danger. Someone wanted him dead, and I was determined to prevent that. “You promised us a story.”
He looked around the tiny dining area before meeting my gaze directly. “I didn’t kill my wife. Or her worthless punk brother, for that matter.”
“But when you heard they were dead, you ran.”
“I knew it was going to look like I did it.”
I turned my best lawyer look on him. “Your blood was on his clothes. Your skin was under Carina’s fingernails.”
My accusing tone didn’t seem to disturb him. “Carina pulled me off Carson. She probably scratched me in the process.” He turned to Faye, who I guessed he thought was more sympathetic. “Do you blame me for running?”
“With a man like Wozniak pushing things, maybe not,” she answered. “What do you know about what happened after you left?”
“Nothing.” He gulped the last of his coffee and stared into the empty cup. “I, um, made arrangements to be notified if it was safe to come home, but I never heard a word.”
“From Susie Mason?” Faye asked, and he looked up in surprise. “You and Susie were an item before Carina came along, right?”
He made a negative gesture. “We dated in high school, before I met Carina, but Susie married my friend John. There was nothing between us.” His earnest expression was hard to doubt. He was telling the truth as he saw it.
“But she helped you out when you needed her.”
Brown swept some breadcrumbs into his hand and emptied them into his napkin. “In order to say how she got involved, I have to tell the story from the start.”