Gourdfellas

by Maggie Bruce

  Karen trailed behind as I followed Linda to the second step below the landing. Anita had her hands on the rail, and Linda stood in front of her, ready to snarl if I came any closer. I looked up at the two women, gauging what my next move should be. They needed to be gentled. They needed to be convinced.

  “You remember what you said last week? About Marjorie telling you that she found something that would blow the town wide open. Well, I think she was murdered to keep that from happening. And I think I know what it was. If you can produce this thing and turn it over to the police, you’ll be a hero. An honest to goodness hero, Anita. The people in this town will not only respect you for what you did, they’ll honor you. I don’t know, an Anita Mellon park, or the Anita Mellon school. I’m not kidding, it’s that big.”

  Even Linda was paying attention now. “So, what is this magical thing and what do we do with it if we find it?”

  Anita stepped around her friend and loomed above me. She could reach out and, with not much of a tap, send me tumbling down the stairs, knocking Karen over like a bowling pin as I went. My heart pounded as I watched her eyes. Then she grinned.

  “You trust me?” she asked. Her sly smile changed into a mask of resolve. “Well, you’re going to have to. You’re going to have to tell me the whole story. And then you’re going to have to go away while I figure out what I’m going to do.”

  “Can we sit down somewhere? I’m getting a stiff neck looking up this way.” I started down the stairs after Karen without waiting for an answer, and was pleased to hear footsteps behind me. When I reached the bottom landing, I turned and waited for Anita to take the lead.

  She walked into the sunny kitchen and pointed to the ladderback chairs cushioned with red and gold pillows. Linda took up the rear. Without waiting for a visible signal, she hung back, leaning against the counter watchful and silent.

  “I think your mother uncovered a second set of books that Joseph Trent kept.” I watched Anita’s face.

  Her mouth pursed into a skeptical moue and she shrugged. “So? Every retail business I ever heard of keeps two sets of books. One for the IRS and the other to show the real profit and loss. Joseph Trent wouldn’t think that was a good reason to kill someone.”

  “I agree. But Trent had something more to hide than cash income from chewing gum and razor blades. He was telling people he was giving them very expensive drugs—I mean, eighty, ninety dollars a pill—but really they were just baking soda. So I’m thinking his official books showed those drugs as expenses. But his personal books would show his real income. Without ever having paid for the drugs.”

  It took a while for the full impact of what I was saying to sink in. Anita got there before Linda did.

  “So people could have gotten really sick? Maybe even died? And all the time he was putting the money in his pocket? What kind of monster could . . .” Color drained from her face and a huge tear rolled out of each eye. She swallowed hard, shook her head. “Connie. That bastard did that to Connie, didn’t he?”

  I took her hand in mine. “Connie’s the one who figured it out in the first place. I checked out the drugs he gave her and they were completely fake. And now we need the proof. It must be in some kind of ledger or a notebook or a computer disk or something. Some place where Joseph Trent kept his own records.”

  “Probably not computer disks. My mother wouldn’t go near those things. I think I know where it might be.” She jumped up and practically ran to the back door.

  If anyone was watching, the scene would have had a comical aspect to it—Anita in her high heels and peach bathrobe in the lead, followed by me in my jeans and white blouse and Karen with her blue hair sticking up in spiky tufts. A confused and angry Linda brought up the rear once again. We flew out the door and headed for the garden gate, where Anita stopped short.

  “Another hour and these things would be history.” She knelt beside the metal barrel, a fifty-five gallon drum that had been turned into an incinerator, and poked through the stack of papers and books awaiting the match. Wordlessly, she handed a blue notebook to Karen, then a black-and-white composition book to me, and a green leather journal to Linda. I paged through mine. Scribblings about a garden and a catalog of bird sightings. No columns of numbers, no references to drugs. I was about to toss it back onto the burn pile when Karen’s gasp stopped me cold.

  I’d never seen her speechless, but all she could do was point.

  The page was filled with dates, names, and numbers. Not names of people, though. Each drug was printed neatly, with its price beside it.

  Those three drugs, repeated over several months. Over eleven thousand dollars a month.

  “For this, Connie Lovett and probably Aunt Bernie and Rod Phillips were allowed to sicken and die,” I said. “It takes a particular kind of twisted mind to come up with a scheme like this.”

  “Unbelievable.” Anita’s voice was only a whisper. “But how did my mother know what this meant?”

  I’d been wondering that myself. “She must have found something else when—”

  Karen, who had continued to flip pages, shouted. “Here. It’s right here. He recorded everything. Cost of Drugs, $11.18. Total Profit, $122,006.82. Wow, even I can see that would make up for lost revenues from competition from the chains.”

  A cloud passed in front of the sun just then, as though in deference to the people whose lives Joseph Trent had traded for a little profit. None of us spoke. We walked single file back to the kitchen, where Anita sat down and stared at her hands. Linda handed Karen a plastic bag, and Karen slipped the ledger inside.

  “I need to take this to Michele Castro,” I said finally.

  Anita nodded. “I’m glad my mother found it. I’m really glad it didn’t get burned up. I hope Trent gets life in prison. Because then I’d come and visit him every week and tell him stories. About what my mother would be doing, and Connie and Rod and Bernice, if they were still alive. I’d make sure he understands exactly what he did, how many people he hurt when he murdered them.”

  “Connie’s still alive,” I said softly. “Maybe her doctor can save her, maybe not. But I’m not counting her among the dead just yet.”

  Without another word, Anita turned and disappeared through the doorway. I imagined her plodding steps as she climbed to the second floor. Then I picked up the notebook, and Karen and I walked to my car through the warm sunshine.

  Chapter 27

  We landed at the center of town exactly seventeen minutes later.

  Karen adjusted her T-shirt and slammed the car door shut. “So what’s this lawyer like? The guy from Law and Order? Or maybe he’s more like the guy from To Kill a Mockingbird.”

  “One of a kind,” I said. How would I describe Berge Hartounian Hovanian? Who could I compare him to? Nobody I’d ever met. He really was an original. “You’ll see. He was almost as angry as I was when I told him. I guess he’s known Joseph Trent forever. It’s going to be even more of a betrayal for all the long time residents of town.”

  We climbed the stairs to the second floor office, knocked on B.H.’s door, and let ourselves in. When David saw Karen, the secretary’s eyes widened with alarm, then relaxed as he realized she was with me. He smoothed his blond pompadour and rose, pressing his hand against his braided leather belt.

  “He’s expecting you. Go on in. You can have a seat here, Miss . . .”

  “No, call me Karen. Karen Gerber.” She stuck out her hand, and I knew they’d be chatting about clothes and movies for as long as my interview with Hovanian lasted.

  I pushed open the door, closed it behind me, and waited. B. H. Hovanian sat with his back to me. His hands were clasped behind his head and he appeared to be looking out the window at the street scene below. I came up to his desk, my leather heels tapping on the wood floor, and waited. Outside, vehicles drifted across the intersection as the light changed, two women got out of their cars and headed for the wine shop, and an orange sherbet-colored dog trotted along the side of the road at a comfortable
pace.

  “Sleepy,” he said. “Isn’t that what they say about towns like Walden Corners?” He swiveled around to face me, his dark eyes sad and the corners of his mouth turned down. Without his glasses, he squinted, and the crease above his nose deepened. “Well, this ought to wake everyone up. Who’s your friend with the interesting hair? Where is she?”

  “She’s in the reception area.” As he reached for his glasses I told him about Karen. “She put me in touch with Mr. Kim. The pharmacist in Brooklyn. Karen and I have known each for—”

  “Don’t tell me,” he said. “What you consider a long time is probably just a blink for an old guy like me. I’m going to send David and Karen out on some errands, treat them to dinner, make them feel useful and appreciated. And keep them out from underfoot. We don’t know how this thing is going to unfold. He can bring her to your house later.”

  Impatient to get on with business, I didn’t want to prolong things by arguing. Karen would let everyone know if the plan didn’t suit her. His instructions delivered to David, B.H. turned to me and said, “That’s done. Now we can concentrate. I’ve spoken to Sheriff Murphy and Michele Castro. They’re taking this seriously, but if you’re wrong . . . if your Mr. Kim made a mistake . . .”

  “I’m not wrong and my Mr. Kim doesn’t make mistakes. Let’s skip all this stuff and get right to the part where you tell me what they’re doing to catch Joseph Trent and make sure he never hurts anyone else ever again in his miserable life.”

  Hovanian nodded. “Right. Castro wants you to call him and pretend you’re in Brooklyn and that you just found out about his little switcheroo. You’re furious, how could you, blah blah blah. She’s already got a camera set up in the back of his store, where he keeps his records and his computer. She thinks he’ll make a move, something that will show he’s covering up or deleting files or whatever. As we speak a deputy is out at the house, flashing his search warrant and talking to Mrs. Trent about hunting rifles.”

  “At least one rifle won’t be there. Michele Castro already has custody of it.” The plan wasn’t right—not complete. Something about it nagged at me.

  The lawyer’s eyes bore into mine and he shifted his weight forward. “You’re uneasy about something.”

  It was a declaration, not a question. Some part of me was pleased that he’d read me so well, but I shoved that away.

  “I want to see his face. I want to make him look into my eyes when I tell him I know that he’s been cheating Connie and the others of their lives. Actually, what I really want is for Connie to stand in front of him and in her own way tell him she knows what he’s done.”

  “You really want to put Connie through that now? It’s going to be hard enough on her when she has to testify in court.”

  He was right. It was my need, not Connie’s, to have Trent feel the pain that his actions had caused.

  “No, Connie doesn’t need to be part of this. I know Trent will have plenty of time to suffer in jail, but I want him to really, really understand.” My chest was constricted from suppressing the scream of rage that had been building for hours. I had a hard time catching my breath.

  “There’s time for that,” he said, his voice barely audible. “As satisfying as that might seem, it would be a hollow victory if your actions interfered with the police getting enough proof to put the man away. What you don’t want is to be responsible for Joseph Trent walking.”

  I pushed out of the chair and paced the length of the worn oriental rug. Of course I didn’t want to screw things up. But Joseph Trent needed to know, in the deepest place in his soul, what he’d done. My stride grew longer and the room suddenly felt too small for all the things I was feeling. When I reached one wall and pivoted, I nearly ran into B. H. Hovanian.

  He put his arms around me and held me close to him. I squirmed, and then felt my body sag as his strong arms encircled me. Tears of anger rolled down my cheeks and my breathing slowed gradually. When I finally exhaled and then took in a shuddering gulp of air, he loosened his grip and stepped back.

  “Call Trent,” he said softly. “I’ll ask Castro to phone my cell when they’ve got him cuffed. We’ll go over to the store before they take him away. You’re right. He needs to know.”

  I threw my arms around his neck and hugged him, glad that he understood so thoroughly. “Thank you. For being human.”

  “That’s a first—I’ll have to parse that compliment later. You make that call.” He handed me a tissue. “Be indignant and don’t forget to say that you’re in Brooklyn. And make sure you tell him that you haven’t told anyone else, that you want to hear his explanation before you call the police.”

  “Which is probably what Marjorie did, poor thing. Gave him the benefit of the doubt and ended up dead.” I needed to do it before I dissolved in the muddle of emotions that raged through me. I dug my cell phone from my purse and dialed the pharmacy number.

  With each ring, my calm, still center grew. By the time Joseph Trent answered, the resolve I needed to do this job right had filled all my empty spaces.

  “Mr. Trent, this is Lili Marino. I need to talk to you. It’s critical. I’m just leaving Brooklyn now. I should be back in about two hours. I really need to talk to you.”

  His breath rattled across the line. “What’s this about?”

  “It’s, uh . . .” Let him know you’re angry, I reminded myself, or at least upset. “It’s about Connie Lovett. There’s a problem with her meds. Before I go to the police I want to hear what you have to say.”

  “The police? Can’t you tell me what this is about?” His voice was higher now, quavery.

  Good. He was afraid. Now I needed to convince him that I was vulnerable, so that his murderous, cheating brain would start spinning out a plan to deal with me, the way he’d dealt with Marjorie.

  “I already told you. It’s about Connie and her prescription. Now, will you talk to me or should I go right to Sheriff Murphy? I’m really upset. I’m not going to wait forever. What are you going to do? Are you going to talk me, Mr. Trent?” The edge of impatience in my voice might have been too much, but I doubted he was listening for nuances at this point.

  Joseph Trent sighed. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. But you sound very upset. I’ll see you, but only to put your mind at rest about whatever it is that you’re worried about. The store is closing in an hour, so why don’t you come to my house straight from the city? Is that all right?”

  So that you can destroy any evidence you might have overlooked, and then when I get there you’ll tell me that you want to take a walk—and find a way to kill me?

  “Sure, that’s fine. I’ll see you in—” I stopped myself before I blew the whole thing. I was supposed to be in Brooklyn. “—in two hours, maybe more, depending on traffic.”

  He clicked off without saying good-bye.

  B.H. nodded. “Now we sit. He thinks he has two hours. Castro’s watching him. I don’t think we’ll have a long wait. He’s scared. He’ll try to cover his tracks.”

  From the OffiCe window, I could see people coming and going from Trent’s. Only, nobody had left the store since a young woman and her toddler had gone skipping down the steps, and nobody had entered, nobody in uniform, nobody carrying a drawn gun, nobody with a reason to arrest Joseph Trent. Yet.

  “It’s twenty minutes already. What do you think he’s doing?” I slapped my hand on the windowsill with a thud. Hovanian shot an annoyed glance in my direction. I was about to apologize when a blur of motion below caught my attention. “Wait. There she is!”

  Michele Castro’s ponytail swung like a pendulum as she raced across the street and up the steps of the pharmacy. Three other officers followed behind her. Two cruisers, lights spinning but sirens off, pulled up into the alley behind the store.

  “Okay,” B.H. said, “I knew it couldn’t be much longer. Are you sure you want to do this? You don’t have to, you know. You can just go home and get on with living the rest of your life. Let the system do its job. Star
t thinking about other things.”

  That was probably the wise course of action, but I was angrier than I was wise. I’d put the situation behind me after I let Trent know how I felt. All the mediation talk about forgiveness seemed like nothing more than Girl Scout ideas. Maybe I could forgive eventually. But not until I’d confronted my demons. Including Joseph Trent.

  I pushed my chair back and headed for the door. He was right behind me, then right beside me. The pace quickened as I followed Hovanian’s long stride. Down the stairs, out onto the street. He stopped traffic as though he were parting the Red Sea. We arrived at the entrance to the pharmacy at the same time. A uniformed officer greeted us by blocking our way.

  “Officer Castro said we could go inside,” I told him. “Lili Marino and B. H. Hovanian.”

  He nodded, pressed a button on his walkie talkie, said our names. The phone crackled, and I heard Michele Castro’s voice, telling him that it was all right for us to go inside.

  I almost backed away and ran down the porch stairs to the street. But when I looked through the glass and saw the back of Joseph Trent’s head, my anger returned, and with it my courage. The officer pushed open the door and stood aside to allow us to enter.

  The pharmacy was a beehive of activity, deputies swarming over the cash register, carrying computer equipment out to the van that was parked in the alley behind the stores, dusting for fingerprints. Michele Castro nodded at us, and we walked to the prescription counter.

  “Mr. Trent won’t talk until he’s got a lawyer. He called your office, Mr. Hovanian, but you weren’t there. He already knows I’ll be taping anything he might say.”

  The store lights seemed to brighten and then dim. I never even considered that Joseph Trent might hire B.H. to defend him. But that was foolish. Given his reputation, his would be the first name that would pop into a local resident’s mind. I blinked back my disbelief and pressed my lips together.