“Don’t forget about our sit-down this afternoon with Stephen,” he reminded.
“Lucy and I just went down the list. Everything’s under control at our end. She’s taking the ribboncutting scissors over to Dandy Lyons and will pick them up on Monday morning. Your comments are drafted, and I’m waiting on the confirmed guest list from the Chamber.”
The Chamber of Commerce sent invitations out to the business community, announcing Breckenridge Security as Havens’ newest business and introducing its owner, Stephen Cross. The official ribboncutting scissors are a big pair of eighteen-inchers, spray-painted gold. Dan D. Lyons, Piedmont Alley’s florist and sole proprietor of Dandy Lyons’ Flowers, decks them out with a floral bow and streamers in whatever colors Lucy deems appropriate for the occasion. K.C. likes these perks of elected office. They result in good press, and they almost always include food. Have I said, K.C. likes to eat?
Still busy with the budget—a season that seems to last forever, in my opinion—he wanted another conversation with the county’s head honcho on such matters. I was half out of the chair to get the man on the line, when out front, Lucy squealed. This was followed by the sound of the telephone receiver tossed to the desk and chair wheels scraping across a static mat.
A half-second later, she hung on the door frame, staring in, eyes wide, drilling breathless words at us. “Penny’s on the phone. K.C. became a daddy last night.”
K.C.’s jump was so profound, his knees banged against the desk’s lap drawer. I became instantly annoyed.
Taking charge, I said to Lucy, “Tell Penny I’m on my way.” I then turned my annoyance on its deserving recipient. “K.C., where’s the deposit money? I asked you for it a week ago. Audrey will never forgive you if she loses her place.”
The cause for all these crisis-averting shenanigans was Audrey’s desire to include a puppy in her life and K.C.’s desire to keep Audrey’s every wish fulfilled. He just didn’t always do that in a timely manner. Audrey’s order was placed the minute my dog-breeder friend Penny announced her Dumpling was pregnant. Audrey wanted her choice from the litter of Labrador retrievers. Specifically, a female. A chocolate Lab, if Dumpling produced one. Cash upfront insured Audrey received first choice. The balance was due when the pups were three-weeks old. I felt confident we’d repeat this exercise again at that time.
K.C. was on his feet, wallet in hand. Hurriedly, he counted out one-hundred dollars. He seemed nervous, but not new-papa nervous. Neglectful-husband nervous was closer to the mark. I stood, tapping my foot, my palm out. Thank God, he was a stickler about carrying cash.
“Here,” he said. “Run it out right now. Go. Go. Keep me out of the doghouse.”
“I don’t know about you, but that’s a place Audrey’s new pup will never see,” I said, snatching the loot. On the way out the door, I recounted it. He gave me ten bucks too much. I would keep it as payment for the frustration factor. Why did he always do this to me?
The ride out to Penny and Max Skillingses’ place took me south of town, away from the city, and along county roads. After a right turn, then a left, I steered Midnight onto the internal lane that wound past the largest of the old barns on the Skillingses’ defunct dairy farm. This barn housed Max’s veterinary clinic. Inside, it awaited the renovations the recently secured loan would provide. Outside, it retained the character of an old wooden barn, the lumber treated for preservation’s sake. Office hours just opened. One car was parked near the door.
For her end of the business, Penny used a smaller barn. It served as delivery room and nursery and was located just shouting-distance away from the clinic. I snuggled Midnight up close to a chestnut tree and got out. The morning air remained cool, but the day’s heat was forming. I crossed the lane to a side door and entered.
Penny turned when she heard the door. She looked tired. With the door latched, kennel sounds clicked in. I heard wee mewing, high-pitched and intense. Mother’s milk would be the cure for that.
“I’m guessing you didn’t get any sleep.” For some reason, I spoke quietly.
“Dumpling started exhibiting signs around eight. Max and I set her up out here.”
I crossed the concrete floor to a small three-sided stall with solid short walls where Dumpling lay on her side, looking just as pooped as Penny, but resting now. She lay on a thick blanket atop fresh wood shavings. Dumpling and the standard for Labrador retrievers were one and the same. The three-year old chocolate Lab weighed in at sixty-five pounds. She was an intelligent dog with good temperament. That might change when a host of mouths produced needle-like teeth at feeding time. I shivered at the thought.
“How’d she do?” I cooed at the sight of the precious newborn Labrador puppies, eyes still closed, too young to find their sea legs. They lay nearly overlapping each other and nestled close to Dumpling. This arrangement replicated their existence in the womb, which provided them a degree of comfort while they adjusted to their new world. All too soon, though, they would overrun their nursery and become a rowdy bunch of nippers and chewers. To keep them corralled when the time came, a sturdy fourth wall, framed in wood and stretched with chicken wire, would be fit into slats provided by the side walls.
Behind me, I heard the clanging of a stainless steel pail and running water. That would be for momma. “Dumpling’s fine. We got six of each,” Penny said.
“Boys and girls?”
“Chocolate and black, too. A nice mix. Audrey will get her chocolate female. She has three to choose from, in fact.”
Penny set the water bowl off to the side inside the stall. While she was squatted down, she gave Dumpling loving scratches around her ears. I passed her K.C.’s money when she came to stand by me, watching the stable scene. She fished an already-completed receipt from her pocket and handed it to me.
“By the way, I saw the paper,” Penny said flatly. I heard a certain inflection in her words that said it all. K.C., Lucy, the police, and the paper could team up against Clay and me, but Penny was on our side.
“If you have time, there’s one thing you can help me with.”
“Anything,” she said.
“Yesterday, I overheard Barton mention the name Gina,” I said of the cast member who quit and was written out of the play. “What’s her last name?”
“I’m fairly certain it’s Frawley. That was quite a blow to the male members of the stage crew. All the guys made fools of themselves around her.”
“Even Barton?”
“No, not Barton, just the animals backstage. She was pretty, but not a very good actress. I saw her around noon Wednesday, and I haven’t seen her since. She must’ve been going in then to tell Barton she wanted out. Max came to get me for lunch that day. We were leaving just as she entered. He held the door, checking out her short skirt and what it barely covered.”
I smiled, deciding I could safely trust the stage crew’s assessment: Gina must be a hottie. Dooley Torrance hadn’t mentioned a short skirt in his description, but he had mentioned long curly red hair, which Penny confirmed, then added, “Why are you asking about her?”
I connected Gina up to Trey’s bar fight with Wilkey Summer, both men interested in a redheaded chick named Gina. “I’d like to catch up with this Wilkey guy again and see if his Gina’s last name is Frawley. It’d be nice to know we’re all talking about the same person.”
“Would a picture help?”
“You’ve got a picture!”
“I don’t personally. But remember, the Chamber of Commerce sent Miles Glickstein over to take some of the cast and crew last week. She posed, right along with the rest of us.”
A commercial photographer was rounded up when Barton insisted group photos be included in the program; hence, the increased cost and my assignment to find an advertiser willing to put up a couple of thou.
“Who has them?”
“Glickstein, I guess. I know he’s working on the layout for the program. Do you think he’d give you a copy?”
“He might,” I said
deviously, “if the mayor was asking. I won’t have time to see him before tomorrow morning though. Thanks, Penny.”
We stared at the pups for a moment longer, half of them in constant motion, half lazily sleeping their first morning away.
“Are you going to skip Clay’s darting tournament at Night Sticks tonight?”
“Looks that way. I wouldn’t want to stagger in front of the dart board due to lack of sleep, or nod off, only to wake up with my face in my beer.”
I grinned. “Perfectly understandable. See you Sunday at the park?”
“Baseball in the park is still a go. Let’s bring lawn chairs, okay?”
“You got it,” I said and hugged her goodbye. I was not a fan of bleacher seating either.
I pulled the PT into the lot behind City Hall, thinking about how Gina had a last name now: Frawley. I opened the door and slid out from beneath the wheel. My eyes drifted over to the Baxter. I’d walk across the street in a minute and try to dig up something to go with Gina’s last name. An address, perhaps. Then I could go a-calling. What could she tell me about the man she knew as Jimmy Kushmaul? Ruby Griswold knew the same man as Trey Rosemont. I’d pay Ruby a condolence call later this morning.
First, I checked in with Clay. When his home answering machine picked up, I left a message, asking him to call. No surprise, I duplicated the effort with his cell. Clay and his cellular phone don’t have the umbilical-cord relationship I have with mine.
Never a fan of the lady’s handbag, I slipped my phone in my pocket and went to the theater.
Pecking Order
All the activity seemed to be backstage. I climbed the auditorium stairs and buzzed around the stage curtains, nearly smacking head-on into Craig Bittleman. The stage manager barked out orders over his shoulder to a crew member somewhere out of sight. I asked him about Three Yodeling Spinsters while he collected loops of orange electrical cord that escaped his grasp at our near collision.
“Everything’s good. Pretty much on schedule. Barton seems to have kicked into high gear now that we’re heading for the home stretch. The crew’s running around crazy.” Smiling, he held up the corralled cord as proof. “The cast is focused. So, really, everything’s good.”
“That’s great. Mayor Tallmadge will be happy to hear it.”
“Over here for the mayor, are you?”
I nodded. In small part, that was true. “Where’s Barton? In his office?”
“Nah-uh.” He pointed deeper backstage. “He’s back there with an electrician. What’s it like, finding a dead body?”
This question told me he read the newspaper account thoroughly. “You should avoid it if you can.”
“No problem there. Hey, are you going to the park for the tournament this Sunday?”
“Wouldn’t miss it.”
“You and Gideon should come over afterwards. Celebrate Tidwell’s win.” He showed two wide rows of teeth, relaying his confident message that his team would beat Gideon’s. “Party at my house in front of the big-screen. The Reds play a night game.”
Feeling conscious of my time slipping away, I moved in the direction he indicated. “Hey, Gideon might want to do that. I’ll ask him.”
Bittleman called after me. “Tidwell’s is going to clean up with Night Sticks.”
Players from Tidwell’s Sporting Goods, Night Sticks, and six other teams would spend Sunday at Primrose Park, spitting and posturing. Super-jocks, one and all. When the last out was called, whose-was-bigger-than-whose would be clearly established. The winning team got the championship and bragging rights for the rest of the season. This didn’t stop diehards, like Bittleman, from bragging early and often.
I angled around a tall desk with a stool behind it. Barton Reed came my way. He held a clipboard under one arm and wiped his hands on a rag. Over half-glasses, he saw me and picked up his pace. He divested himself of the rag and clipboard, on the desk and stool, respectively.
“The front page was a surprise this morning. You were over here yesterday and didn’t mention it. I have to hand it to you. You’re the cool one. My god, you find a body in the morning, and it’s business as usual by noon.”
“Don’t be fooled. There’s been nothing usual about my life since.”
“No, I don’t expect so,” he said, first thoughtful, then amused, seemingly congenial after our spat yesterday. “I don’t know. Somehow, this morning’s paper made me feel more at home. Still, it’s pretty tame by Chicago standards. How’s the mayor handling it?”
“He gets notified as soon as a homicide’s reported. Yesterday, he received regular updates. Today, he’ll sit and let the police chief work it.” I wanted to add, “awaiting the birth,” but decided to hold that back. Dumpling’s recently delivered pups crossed my mind and brought warm feelings.
“The reports seem fairly sketchy. I bet you know the gruesome details. Do you sit in with him on police matters?”
“Sometimes, but you know, it’s all privileged information. I’m sworn to secrecy and all that,” I said, blithely clueing him in not to pry.
“Too bad,” he said with feigned disappointment.
Changing the subject, I asked, “I was wondering, do you know how I can get in touch with Gina Frawley?”
To my surprise, that seemed to rattle him. His face slackened for an instant before our attention was diverted to a rumble starting up from the depths. Four guys noisily rolled a three-story piece of scaffolding our way.
“We have a light out center-stage. Let’s get out of the way.” He caught my elbow and walked me into the hall near his office. Bittleman’s assessment seemed accurate. Everything was moving at a faster clip.
In the quieter hallway, his smile reappeared. “Gina? Don’t tell me you know Gina, too.”
I shook my head, remembering he poked fun at small towns when I turned up acquainted with both Penny Skillings and Craig Bittleman. “To tell you the truth, I’ve put in a little time on this murder investigation. Clay Addison is a friend. I know Gina quit the other day. I was hoping you had her address. I’m asking because a lead I have in the case has led to her.”
Barton frowned. “Well, I have basic information on all the actors, but I think she’s left town.”
“Really.”
“Something about her mother taking ill.” His whole body relaxed as he watched me. “How do you know about Gina quitting?” Before I could reply, his eyes sparked. “Never mind. I know, you’re sworn to secrecy.” He gestured toward the end of the hall. “Come down to my office. I’ll get her info.”
He fished keys out of his pocket as I toddled along behind, denouncing any privilege on the matter, telling him I simply overheard Bittleman and him discussing her the day before. He nodded, remembering the occasion in the auditorium after his staff meeting, then went through the motions of unlocking the door.
I passed through the doorway behind him. I actually peeked at this room once before. In fact, Barton was with me. We were touring the theater on his maiden visit to Havens. The historical architect with us took a moment to explain some razzle-dazzle a master carpenter performed when the ceiling was lowered to preserve, as the focal point of the room, the floor-to-ceiling bookcase on the back wall. Too bad the shelves were bare. Barton had no use for them.
Looking around, I thought he kept an extremely neat office. Maybe he kept the junk hidden in the closet. The roomy, windowless office still had that new-carpet smell. Barton pulled a file folder from a low, modern-day filing cabinet, then turned to lay it open on the battered oak desk. It and a worn leather chair were aged, but finely crafted, and, I expected, hand-me-down opera-house furnishings. Baxter originals. He had the usual assortment of desktop items. The box in which the scripts were delivered sat there, and he stripped the work order off the top and turned it over, presumably to write down Gina’s information on the back.
“You know what’s funny,” he said as he wrote. “I just received a call from a Sergeant Lippincott. She wants to come over and talk about Gina. What do y
ou suppose that’s all about? The murder, I guess.”
Inwardly, I groaned at the thought of Gideon’s former girlfriend and her longsuffering nature, when something hit me, like taking a snowball to the back of the head. Why Sherrie and not Elmore?
This question was obliterated by a knock on the door. A male voice called, “Mr. Reed, you in there? The cops are in the auditorium.”
Seeing no reason to present myself to Sherrie for the mudslinging that would come, I took the recycled work order he held out. “Well, I’ll scoot out of the way then.”
We said hasty goodbyes. I opened the office door, startling the stagehand, still awaiting a reply. “Thanks for the info,” I called over my shoulder, then escaped out the alley door, where I immediately absorbed the laid-back vibes of Mr. Bubbly, sitting on his bucket. “Just me,” I said. “Don’t get up.”
He offered a benign smile and flicked a cigarette ash.
“I just left Mr. Reed’s office,” I said, providing superfluous information.
His expression soured at the mention of the playwright’s name.
I showed him the slip of paper. “Do you know where Randall Avenue is? I want to say south.” I received a noncommittal shrug. “Thanks anyway,” I said.
From several steps away, I thought I heard, “Anytime.”
I folded the paper over, slid it into my pocket, and continued in the direction of Piedmont Alley. Reaching down, I broke off a buckwheat with its triangular head of seeds. It grew up through an asphalt patch, cracked and broken like the desert earth. While I laced the long sturdy stem absently around my fingers, I returned to my earlier question: Why Sherrie and not Elmore? Sherrie was working the theft, so why was she pursuing Gina? At the bar, Trey arrived with Gina. He’d been murdered. That was Elmore’s investigation. But Gina Frawley brought Sergeant Sherrie Lippincott of the Burglary Unit to the theater. I was missing something. No wonder K.C. didn’t want to know about the labor. It seemed the higher-profile crime would take precedence, and Gina would belong to the Homicide Unit. Homicide cops would never let the Burglary detail into their arena.
Deadly Homecoming at Rosemont Page 11