“I think we can rule out a secret entrance under any of the marble stones, don’t you?”
Ruby’s eyes lifted to mine. “Too heavy.”
Each stone was a hefty four-foot by four-foot. “And too open an area to hide that kind of activity.”
“Right,” she agreed.
I scooted my finger over to Jonah Rosemont’s library, Clay’s and my first stop when we searched the house for the killer. I thought back. Bookcases and windows lined the walls. A fireplace was featured in each room. Again, any segment of the bookcases would be too weighty to move.
My fingertip slipped down the hall and through the double doors into the morning room. The built-in furnishings were sparse here. No bookcases, but many more windows. I felt my eyebrows rise. These were casement windows.
“Ruby, is it possible the casements were wide enough for someone to shinny through?” I pictured Clay’s wide shoulders while he held a casement door up and stepped in. “There’d have to be a false floor. Or no floor. A narrow stairway.”
Ruby shook her head. “Miss Caroline had every bit of storage space in that room full. There was no closet, so everything went in the casements.”
I nodded and shot my finger across to the bathroom under the stairs. It was small. I didn’t get a good look yesterday. “Any possibilities here?”
“Can’t imagine one.”
I gave her an endearing look. What a good sport. She and Clay had the same or a similar conversation when he sketched out the schematic, and yet she let me dither over every nuance without interruption or show of impatience.
Next, my finger circled the staircase and entered the drawing room. Trey lay almost blocking this doorway. All I could remember was Clay’s junk inside, a worktable on sawhorses, windows on two sides of the room. In its day, this room would have been heavily laden with furniture, some against the walls, a rug covering the floor.
My frustration continued in the dining room as well. Windows along one wall, the massive table, chairs all around. I scattered a sideboard, china hutch, and serving tables around the walls. The full room had no leftover access to accommodate a secret panel.
My finger didn’t dwell long back in the kitchen. The door to the basement was locked, the mudroom too tiny, the main kitchen solid with appliances and counters, then it was speedily up the back stairs, just to have my finger glide straight down the front staircase. Ruby and Clay chose not to provide a second floor diagram.
I pulled my finger back to the edge of the table. Discouraged, I leaned my head into my palm, my elbow pinned to the oak surface, and looked at Ruby.
She produced an apologetic smile. “I’m sorry I can’t be any real help. I just know the boys played in those passages all the time.” She stopped to take a drag, then rested the cigarette on the lip of an ashtray. “Trey’s father knew all about them. But with Miss Caroline in such poor health and needing care, I didn’t pay much attention.”
I straightened. “Boys?” Another revelation.
“Trey and David. David Williams. They were inseparable ever since they started school. That’s why I dug out all this,” she said, pointing to another two boxes wedged between the table and a corner hutch, “to help Mr. Clay. He wanted to do an internet search.”
The woman born in the first half of the last century sounded uncertain of the term, so I spoke up quickly. “An internet search wouldn’t have been helpful with a name as common as that.”
“Yeah, that’s what he said. David’s the only one left who’d know where the passages are, but he’s left Havens. After David’s father passed, his mother remarried and moved to the north side of town. Somewhere in one of these boxes, I’m hoping to have her wedding announcement. I cut out everything like that, but I’m not too orderly. Mr. Clay says if I can find her married name, he can find her address.”
“Then you’re hoping David’s mother can put you in touch with him?”
She bobbed her head. “And he’ll tell us where the passageways are and how to get in. I’ll get Mr. Clay on the horn as soon as I find the clipping.”
“Sounds like a plan.”
Little Carlson came over to lean into his great-grandmother. Patting her leg, he looked up at her. “Ga’ma, let’s go outside.”
I took that as my cue and left them to their outdoor fun.
Police Hospitality
After two fruitless hours of cold-calling businesses, trying to drum up advertising for Barton Reed’s program, I pulled into the downtown lot with Clay Addison on my tail. We slid into nearby slots. I climbed out quickly, walked across to his truck, and said through the rolled-down window, “Where’d you come from?”
He pushed the pickup’s door open with the beat-up loafer on his left foot, then stepped down to the asphalt. “I picked you up at Primrose and Taurus.”
The police station was coincidentally at that location. “Were you in signing your statement?”
Nodding, he said, “I got the call this morning, but I didn’t rush over. I thought I best wait until my temper cooled.” His shoulders shook with laughter. “My neighbor will probably never speak to me again. She came out for her paper just after I unfolded mine. I saw that article, kiddo, and I lost it right there on the front lawn.”
“What’d you say?”
He shied away. “Let’s just say it was quite colorful, and she heard every word.”
I thought off-color might be a better description. “Hey, I tried to call you several times this morning. Why don’t you keep your cell phone with you?”
He shrugged off my scolding. “You must’ve called while I was over with the locksmith. He denied any involvement other than changing the locks last month and leaving me the only keys. He’ll probably never speak to me again either.”
“Ruby says you’ve got secret passages.” I slugged his arm playfully. “What do you think about that?”
“They’d certainly get Trey and his murderer in and out without needing keys.”
“But if you knew about them yesterday, why go to the locksmith today?”
He gave me a wry grin. “What can I say? I’m still a cop. We check out everything.”
Cops and historians are wearisome about loose ends. Like scruffy terriers, we hang on tenaciously. With good reason, Clay bit deeply into this one.
“Did you pick up anything down at the station?”
“It wasn’t the time to ask. Monty was out, and Elmore was in,” he said, referring to chief and lieutenant, respectively. “I didn’t want to put anyone on the spot, so I did what I had to and took off.”
When his cell phone bayed from the front seat, he answered. His face took on an animated expression. “Great work, Ruby. Four’s good.” Flipping the old phone closed, he turned bright eyes my way. “Did Ruby tell you about Trey’s friend David?”
My eyes popped open. “Did she find his mother’s name?”
“And her address. Augusta Vanderhoff, over on Pine Street. We’re going at four, after Little Carlson’s mother picks him up. You’re welcome to come.”
“Can’t. After I walk down to sign my statement, K.C. has the rest of my day booked.”
When he asked about Night Sticks, I told him I’d be there to cheer him on.
The police station was a modern, three-story affair, constructed of concrete, glass, and steel. It seemed indestructible, a fortress with a visual on the entire town. Its neighbor to the south was the jail. Beyond that stood the courthouse. So you can see how the game was played.
I pushed through the double doors to the station’s lobby and immediately noticed the chill of air conditioning set too low. Three runners of dark gray carpeting stretched across the floor to bulletproof windows on the two far walls. One can never be too careful when playing the game. I marched up to the Officer-In-Charge window, centered prominently between Records and Intakes. It was occupied by a sergeant.
He saw me coming, nodded his acquaintance, and lifted the phone receiver. He turned away, which left me unable to hear the convers
ation. After making another short call, his voice floated through the four-inch hole cut into the thick glass. It said, “Officer Crandall will be out in a minute.”
I thanked the sergeant and waited there, turning to take in a lobby designed to be vandalism-free. Walls were constructed of sturdy stainless steel. The fixtures were sparse: a large metal trashcan with a plastic liner folded over the top, a row of long bench seating bolted to the floor, and, of course, Otto.
Otto held his usual spot at the center of the heavily shellacked bench. He sat with his back to me. He spent a lot of time here. On other occasions, he faced front. I knew stubbly, white whiskers and droopy dark eyes made up his face. Today, he was dressed in a brown-plaid flannel shirt buttoned to the neck and an unraveling knit cap. Both wise choices, I thought, given the icy temperature. Otto was always quite animated, in a running commentary with his imaginary friend, Dickhead. Always seated to his right, Dickhead was the silent type. I had to pick up the conversation in the middle, but got the gist. The guys mixed cement. Dickhead skimped on the sand. This left the mixture too soupy.
I leaned back, my elbows resting on the continuous ledge running beneath the three windows.
The sergeant spoke through the cutout. “He sat there like a lump for two days last week.”
“How come?”
“He and Dickhead weren’t speaking.”
I smiled to myself while Otto threw his arms up in frustration.
“No more water, Dickhead! It’ll never set as it is. What you got in there for brains anyhow?” A pause played out while an annoyed Otto listened to Dickhead’s silent response. “Well, this was your idea,” he argued, assessing blame. “Was too…WAS TOO!”
My enjoyment of the one-sided slapstick brought Hellfire Harry to mind. Turning my head toward the sergeant, I asked, “Do you know what happened to the street-corner preacher?”
“Are we missing one?”
“Yeah, the one from the Whitney Building. The mayor thought Chief Montague might’ve escorted him out of town a few days ago.”
“Not to my knowledge, ma’am.” The door beside the Intakes window opened. “About time, Crandall,” the sergeant criticized, loud enough to be heard by the uniformed officer who appeared. “Traffic cops get slower and slower.”
The traffic cop accepted the other officer’s sarcastic delivery with a good-natured grin. “What I lack in speed, I make up for with charm. That’s more than you can say, my dreary little friend.”
I stepped through to the operations side of things, and my escort let the door close on the sergeant’s comeback.
“Georgie Crandall, ma’am,” he said, introducing himself. “Sorry for the wait.”
“Not at all,” I said, shaking his hand.
Georgie was just a few inches taller than I. In his early thirties, he had a smooth round face, rosy cheeks, and short brown hair. There seemed to be a permanent happy-go-lucky look in his crisp green eyes, and I liked him immediately.
He ushered me over to a long counter coming off the back wall of the Intakes cubicle.
A tall officer with a pointed chin called over. “Hey. Georgy Porgy. Here are the files you requested.”
The nursery rhyme immediately sounded off. Georgy Porgy, pudding and pie, kissed the girls and made them cry. Great! Now that little ditty will play in my head for the rest of the day.
“Appreciate the assist, Luden,” Georgie tossed back. He excused himself, then cut through a split in the counter to search the files Luden stacked on a desk. “Poor follow-up, Luden. Miss Grayson’s file’s not here.”
Beyond the counter, four desks were arranged classroom-style with swivel chairs behind each and paperwork piled on top. Georgie disappeared through a doorway into the Records Room across the way. A half dozen officers milled around in the busy crossroads. The lobby’s tiled flooring flowed down the corridor past me and the doors to six or seven offices, all opening off to the right. At the corridor’s end, a propped-open door led to the bullpen. I imagined this to be a totally disorganized room set up for twenty or so officers with small work surfaces, telephones, and computers. Reports were written there, skuzzy jokes told there, and the camaraderie of the force present well after the officers went out on the street.
Just this side of the bullpen, an elevator provided passage to the upper two floors. Distantly, I heard the bong, announcing its arrival. A second later, Lieutenant Frank Elmore stepped out. I stiffened apprehensively. He turned my way. For my benefit, he placed a sneer on his face and left it there while he covered the distance between us. He gave the gallery a sidelong glance. Banter over there dropped off, every eye pinned on the two of us. His performance shifted into full swing.
Reaching for my elbow and brimming with hospitality, he said, “You shouldn’t’ve been left standing here. We can do better than this.”
His grip on my arm was startlingly firm. He hauled me around the counter and angled me into the first of three interview rooms along the back wall. I wrenched my arm free when he threw the door resoundingly against the frame. The carpeted room was a dinky eight-foot-by-ten with a window stationed next to the door. A small table scratched the wall, and three chairs sat around it. An empty foam coffee cup and a cheap retractable pen lay on its veneer surface.
Rubbing my tender elbow, I winced. “Ow! What’d you do that for? I would’ve walked over here if you asked me.”
“Oh yeah? If I asked you,” he scoffed, moving closer. “Well, I’m asking you to butt out of this murder investigation. And don’t think I don’t know you were at Dooley’s last night.”
“I respectfully decline to butt out as long as Clay’s considered a suspect. And I can go to Dooley’s anytime I want.” Jeez, I thought, that sounded mature.
A smile appeared on his lips. “I talked with Chief Montague. The mayor’s going to sit you down.”
Now it was my turn to smile, knowing the reverse to be true. “I’m not going to count on anything of the sort,” I said, calling his bluff. Relaxing, I paced the few steps this tiny room allowed. The mayor specifically ordered Montague not to involve him. God, I thought, K.C. was smart to stay out of the middle until the baby had been slapped and diapered. I stopped pacing at the window and noticed the crowd. It now held Detective Lucas “Better Bully” Baines, arms folded, feet apart, enjoying the moment.
“Well, here’s something you can count on: Clayton Addison will stay a suspect, and I’ll see him convicted.”
I whirled to look him full in the face. “It’ll never happen. You’ve cooked up this little vendetta against Clay. I know you two have a past. He told me the story.”
“I’m sure he told you his version. He nearly ruined my career with his holier-than-thou principles. No one can live up to them. Now, you get this straight. I’m doing my job my way. You do yours. Just follow the mayor around and be our little princess on TV.”
Again, with the little princess bit. Before I could express my loathing, the door opened. I turned to see Georgie standing there, file folder in hand. He heard the last of it. Warily, he glanced from me to Elmore. Elmore breezed past. Georgie quickly sidestepped out of his way.
Elmore stopped at the door, jabbing a finger my direction. “You need to mind your own business.” Then he turned it on Georgie. “You need to learn to knock.” And he left.
“You okay?” Georgie asked thoughtfully.
I nodded. In truth, I was a little shaken, and angry, and afraid for Clay.
“I’m sorry that happened. He’s a lieutenant. There wasn’t much I could do. Here,” he said, indicating the table. “Sit down. Can I get you something to drink while you read your statement?”
Thanking him, I ordered a diet Pepsi, then took the chair facing the door. He laid the file containing my official statement open on the table, instructing me to read, but not sign until he returned. He took the dirty coffee cup, but left the pen, then hung a right out of the door.
I pulled the file closer. For the most part, I stared at the paper, seeing the
words, not absorbing the content, distracted by my encounter with Elmore. I replayed it in my mind, like an old film clip. The elevator doors open. The lieutenant steps out. I could read Elmore’s mission on his face. I straightened as a light went on in my head. Elmore was not surprised to see me. He expected to see me. He knew I was here and timed his arrival to coincide with mine. Then I remembered the two phone calls the sergeant out front made: one to Georgie and one to Elmore. My arrival had been anticipated, and the events following it planned. Had Luden’s foul-up with my folder been orchestrated too?
Coming out of nowhere with my diet Pepsi strode Georgie. Was he in on this? My first instinct said no. He took the seat opposite mine and slid the ice-cold can across the table. I thanked him and popped the top. I watched him through a haze of dark lashes while I felt the liquid’s acidic burn race down my throat. He pushed the pen my way, taking his own out of his shirt pocket. I thought back to Elmore’s reaction to Georgie at the door. Then Georgie’s apology to me. It had been authentic, and I decided they were not cohorts.
The statement seemed fine. I signed, and he countersigned. I took a few more swigs of soda. He rearranged my file, pulling a preprinted fingerprint card to the top.
“You’re going to fingerprint me?”
“We need elimination prints,” he explained. “It’s a timesaver when we’re trying to rule out prints that belong at the scene from those that don’t. This is easier done at the counter. It’s the right height.”
I stood next to him while he bent, slid open a door beneath the countertop, and pulled out an inkpad and Powder-Fresh Baby Wipes from the top shelf.
“Is that your dog?” he asked pleasantly.
“Huh? Tarbutton? No. How do you know about Tarbutton?”
“You’re protected status, ma’am,” he reported matter-of-factly. “Chief Addison started it. It’s a nice drive out to your place. I don’t mind it.”
A beat passed while that sunk in. Clay placed me on the protected-status list. As a matter of routine, officers drove to the cottage to check on my safety. I never knew this.
Deadly Homecoming at Rosemont Page 14