Deadly Homecoming at Rosemont

by Chappell,Connie

  Others on protected status were the mayor and council members, Georgie informed me. He laid out the fingerprint card. From behind us, we heard, “Georgy Porgy.”

  As if we shared the same axle, our heads lifted and froze. We stared straight ahead, not turning. I knew this voice. It belonged to Sergeant Sherrie Lippincott. Could this day get any worse?

  “Christ,” Georgie swore softly, drawing the word out into two syllables. “The love of my life.”

  “Really?” I whispered, stunned.

  “Just in my dreams.” She wound her way around to the front of the counter. Georgie Crandall said, “Yes, sergeant, what can I do for you?”

  “Are you going to the gym after your shift today?”

  “Why, I thought I might, ma’am. I would be honored if I could escort you.”

  She grimaced. “Not even in your dreams, Crandall.”

  “Ah, well, now I don’t even have that,” he said with a note of regret.

  I grinned broadly at his words, then found her narrowed eyes fixed on me. She stood tall, shoulders back, uniform shirt straining for coverage at midchest, and playing to the audience behind me. I’d been cast as the afternoon’s cheap entertainment.

  “Miss Grayson, you’ve developed a very bad habit of always arriving ahead of the police. In my case, I’m speaking of the theater earlier today,” she said accusingly.

  “Some habits are hard to break,” I said coolly.

  “This is one you really should work on.”

  “I can try,” I appeased half-heartedly, “but you know that’s not altogether true.”

  Tilting her head slightly, she gave me a confused frown.

  “I don’t always get there before you.” In clear tones, I said, “With Gideon, I got there after you.”

  If looks could kill, there’d be a sergeant from the Burglary Unit up on homicide charges. Her pupils constricted and I waited for fire to shoot out of those blazing orbs. I held my melted-butter smile in place, listening to the gallery stir behind me. Her mouth opened and closed. In scarlet-faced silence, she snapped left and marched toward the elevator.

  With a low warning whistle, Georgie watched her go. “You really need protected status now.”

  “You know I live with Gideon Douglas, and he—”

  “He dumped her for you,” he said, finishing my sentence. “Believe me, we all know that. That’s why I call her the love of my life. After Douglas, I thought I’d step in and mend her broken heart.”

  “You get the cold shoulder?”

  “Cold shoulder! That woman’d have to warm up some to be frigid,” he said, laughing through the words. “She coined the nickname Georgy Porgy because of this.” And he poked his soft paunch.

  My eyes dropped to Georgie’s waist. A good fifteen pounds of excess sagged above his belt: the effects of pudding and pie. “So, do you kiss the girls and make them cry?” I asked, wanting to know if he fit the profile.

  He breathed a lovesick sigh. “I don’t know about that, but I would love to unbraid her flaxen hair.”

  I rolled my eyes. “She just blew you off!”

  “I know.” His words were wispy.

  We returned to the task at hand, so to speak. The fingerprint card lay before us. The inkpad open. Baby Wipes at the ready. I knew the drill. One at a time, he would roll each fingertip across the pad and then repeat the motion on the card’s appropriate block.

  He inked my left pinky finger. “I would be remiss if I didn’t take this opportunity to give you some advice of my own here. I know this is going to sound like a broken record, but don’t get to places before the cops. It really is bad form.”

  The inference here meant I flubbed some social protocol, like using the wrong fork. I promised to make an effort, and the conversation turned to tonight’s darting tournament. We both planned to attend. He would arrive late, after the gym.

  Finishing, he snapped a wipe through the lid and passed it over. “Good. You did great. Now I’m going to give you my card, in case you need to get in touch.” He pulled one from his pocket, then exchanged my balled-up wipe for the card. My questioning eyes rose to his. I started to ask why I needed his card, but two officers filed in behind us, so Georgie drowned me out with, “Now get out of here, ma’am, and enjoy the rest of your day.”

  He stepped back, so I could pass. I cut through the counter’s opening and headed back toward the lobby, elbow bent, holding the card aloft, and wondering what it all meant. Before I went too far, I said, “Thanks, Puddin’. See you tonight.”

  He returned my smile, and I repeated the rhyme all the way to City Hall.

  Security Details

  “The scissors are at Dan D’s,” Lucy said when she saw me. I felt my facial expression change to favorable at the mention of deep burgundy and shiny silver for the bow and streamers. “And here’s the Winding Trail report as promised. Let me know if you have any questions.”

  Grumbling, I took it and crossed to my office. Through the connecting door, I saw K.C. tilted back in his chair, telephone receiver to his ear. I placed Lucy’s slim pages on my desk corner, then added Georgie’s business card, and the slip bearing Gina Frawley’s home address, which Barton gave me earlier in the day.

  Pulling my chair up to the computer, I punched in my password. While it assigned icons to programs, I grabbed the phone. The call I put in to Gideon went straight to voicemail. I left a message, asking him to return a call around five-thirty. By then, I’d be back from Breckenridge. Disconnecting, I wondered if he was still in the garage, tinkering with the Karmann Ghia. Picturing that scene made me dwell on his worrisome situation a moment longer. By the time his day ended, he’d knock people down to get to Night Sticks’ home-brew.

  I wanted to turn around and call Clay, to let him know Elmore was out for blood. Clay’s blood. But it was just after four. He and Ruby would already be with Augusta Vanderhoff by now. I’d hold my comments until I saw him at Night Sticks.

  Turning my attention to my inbox, I was pleased to see Irv Hammer’s name among those listed and hoped this was his response to my Piedmont Alley piece. I positioned the cursor and clicked. He addressed me as GRAYSTONE.

  DON’T BUST MY CHOPS EVER AGAIN ABOUT NOT GETTING A FEATURE PIECE. THIS IS IT. DON’T SCREW IT UP. I WANT THE PHOTOS AND ANOTHER INSTALL-MENT SATURDAY. NOON. WE’RE WORKING ON A DEADLINE OVER HERE, IN CASE YOU DIDN’T KNOW. IRV HAMMER

  Ever the contortionist, I patted myself on the back while doing a little tap dance on my acrylic chair mat. The latter was usually reserved for having waited too long to visit the ladies’ room. Speaking of which, I darted that direction.

  Immediately thereafter, K.C. and I left for Breckenridge Security and our sit-down with its owner, Stephen Cross.

  The mayor’s ride, a full-sized Lincoln town car, was parked behind the building. Two steps from the back bumper, K.C. shrugged out of his suit jacket and handed it to me, then we parted ways. He angled around to the driver’s side, searching his pocket for keys, while I waited for him to pop the locks. After climbing in, I folded his coat neatly over my legs with the Breckenridge file resting on top. K.C. never drove with his coat on. I always carried it. He worked his rotund belly in behind the wheel. I waited for him to straighten his tie. He did. We were predictable, our relationship as comfortable as Sunday mornings. That all changed after he started the car.

  He backed out of the space and pulled into traffic, heading north. Breckenridge Security was located west of here, a short distance away.

  I felt the tiniest bit self-conscious. My afternoon at the police station doubled as a wake-up call. The thought of Chief Montague calling K.C. to complain about me was horrifying in the extreme. I exuded confidence in the face of contention when Elmore gave me the news, but now my clenched stomach told a different story.

  We rode quietly for a few blocks. Waiting to turn left, K.C. kept his eye on approaching traffic. “How’s your day gone?” he asked amiably enough.

  I cut my eyes to him suspiciously
. “I saw Barton for a few minutes before lunch. They seem good to go. Activity is picking up. Rehearsals are going well.”

  “Good. I think we’re going to pull that off quite successfully. I’ve just got a feeling.” He maneuvered the heavy car effortlessly, following a UPS truck through a commercial district.

  I swallowed hard. It was time to confess. “After lunch, I spent a little time down at police.”

  “Uh-huh. How’d that go?” He gave his full attention to the road ahead of us, neither did his eyes wander right nor left.

  My heart began to thump wildly in my chest. I strung meaningless words together. “Um. Well, K.C., about that—”

  “Let me stop you right there, Wrenn,” he said, putting up a hand. “I heard what’s going on. And for me, it all comes down to this: I trust my people. If Monty can’t control you, then I hired the wrong chief. As far as Clay went, well, he just had the touch with you. Each one of us knows you’re pretty much uncontrollable. But you’re smart and you’re reasonable, and you’ll make your own path and find your own way. So again, I trust. If these attributes of yours are going to throw Monty off the scent, then he’s got trouble. If you screw it up, you’ve got trouble. I’ve got to be able to count on my people to make good, rational decisions. I think that’s Monty, and I think that’s you.” Then he shook his head and angled into the Breckenridge lot. “But, lord, at times,” he said completely amused with himself, “my heart goes out to Gideon.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” I posed indignantly.

  “We’re here.” His voice quivered with laughter. He threw the gear shift into park and wrestled his way out of the car.

  On the way up to the door, I took stock in the trust K.C put in me. It was equal to the trust he put in the police chief. Right here, right now, that equality felt substantial. If I didn’t make good, rational decisions, in his words, I got trouble.

  Shortly before five, K.C. slipped the big Lincoln again into its City Hall parking space. I chugged in place, holding his jacket. As soon as he pulled it on, I darted across the street to the theater, clutching the Breckenridge file. Our meeting with Stephen Cross had concluded in record time. I ran headlong through the lobby and into the auditorium, only to stand dumbfounded at the back of house. The place seemed empty, but the stage was fully lit. I hustled through the side door into the long corridor where I heard a voice. It sounded like Barton’s.

  Encouraged, I hurried on.

  At the opening to the wings, he stood in conversation with Mr. Bubbly. The latter, his head down, appeared completely indifferent to whatever the former was saying. His hand was looped around the stiff steel handle of a homemade wagon. The flat-bed was loaded with paint cans, brushes, large folded tarps, and a mound of soft-looking white cloths, like the one partially stuffed into the back pocket of his loose-fitting, one-piece painter’s garb. Barton had a sheaf of papers and the Messenger under his arm. I caught the end of his one-sided exchange.

  “I’m going to lock the Gatling Street doors on my way out, so you’ll have to use the alley door when you leave. Just make sure it’s locked. And leave the fans running tonight so the fumes will dissipate by morning. Okay?” He clapped the painter on the shoulder, sending him off in a stagger step and setting the wagon’s thick rubbery wheels into motion. One wheel repeatedly squealed its protest. He disappeared around the curtain and onto the stage floor.

  I noticed Barton didn’t wait for a reply from the workman. From our brief chats out back, I gathered Mr. Bubbly formed a haughty opinion of Barton, and Barton obviously knew waiting for a response would prove futile. Their relationship appeared genial, workable, neither man interested in impressing the other.

  Barton spun my way. “Wrenn, my God, where’d you come from?” he said, startled.

  “Where is everybody? There’s no rehearsal?” I slowed my step. He moved to meet me.

  “We need some touch-up painting around the stage area. I cut the rehearsal off early to get that done and give the cast their last Friday night off for a while. This way, we won’t have to smell the fumes while we work.” Casting a glance over his shoulder, he said, “That guy doesn’t say much, but I can’t complain about his work.”

  I nodded, in total agreement with the first part of his observation anyway. “I’m glad I caught you then. I have good news.”

  “You found a backer!” he said instinctively.

  “Breckenridge Security. It’s perfect.” I clinched a celebratory fist. “For a long time, the mayor’s been courting an old college friend to open a branch of his security business here in Havens. About a year and a half ago, he bought some property. The building’s up, and the ribboncutting’s set for Monday.”

  We moved in the direction of the lobby.

  “K.C. and I just came from there. To show appreciation for the warm welcome he’s received in Havens, he’s offered to donate five thousand dollars to a worthy cause. To something that would garner a lot of community support. I suggested the play. K.C. concurred.”

  “Really. Five thousand,” he repeated incredulously.

  “Yeah. Here’s the deal.” Instantly, the look on his face changed to speculative, and I jumped to ease his concern. “No, it’s good. I worked it out. He wants to perk up his residential customer base with some kind of sales promotion and be supportive of the play at the same time. So a promotional campaign in the program is perfect.” I watched his eyes, gauging his reaction.

  “Five thousand dollars would more than cover the printing. That’ll pay off the photographer, too. We’d be in the black.” The producer in him said, “What do I have to do?”

  We reached the spacious lobby, the lighting dimmed to low, the carpet absorbing our footsteps.

  “Show up at the ribboncutting, accept the check, and smile while you’re getting your picture taken with the mayor, Cross, and the president of the Chamber of Commerce. Easy enough?”

  “What time Monday?” This doubled as his affirmative reply.

  We stopped at the concession counter where he lay down the papers he carried and took the pen I unclipped from my file folder. He jotted down the time on the newspaper in a clear spot under the masthead.

  “You know, security systems might have prevented these two crimes,” he said, with perfect hindsight, tapping the paper, indicating the murder and theft.

  I slipped the pen’s clip over the manila folder and followed him to the door. “Cross made the same comment.”

  Outside, he locked the door behind us. His keys jingled in his hand through the length of the crosswalk. I listed the names of business owners he’d meet on Monday, those who stepped up to support the play when the call went out. With this information, he could meet and greet appropriately.

  Stepping over the curb, I recalled a final detail. “Oh, you’ll have to stay for a tour of the facility and to schmooze a little. But there’s a buffet.” I offered this as a consolation. Food always made a difference when getting people to invest their time in an event of this kind. I went on to say the Chamber was arranging two days of free press for the play: a news release in Monday’s paper and the follow-up picture in Tuesday’s. A grin sprang to his face, and I believe I heard faint cash-register sounds coming from inside his head. Free press translates into bodies coming through the door and a balance sheet staying in the black.

  “Will you be there?” he wanted to know. “I don’t know why I’m asking. Mayor Tallmadge never goes anywhere without you.”

  “Certainly I’ll be there. There’s food.”

  He headed toward his car parked in the lot. I walked down the street to City Hall’s front entrance.

  Havens’ residents could expect an exciting summer of celebration. The city’s historical downtown was selected as the central theme. The Messenger laid it out in March, alongside my Baxter Opera House story. Now the Piedmont Alley article would whet everyone’s appetite again. It was timed for publication just before the newly renovated theater would see its first production. The third historica
l piece Irv Hammer assigned me was scheduled to see print in August.

  I cranked that scary thought back into the abyss. First things first. I still had to submit my second installment. Remembering he also wanted pictures on Saturday, I began combing through the photos on my desk in the quiet offices. Both K.C. and Lucy were gone.

  Promptly at five-thirty, Gideon called. “Adam forged my name on the insurance form. The company faxed it over. Foss wants Dillon to charge him with fraud.” Gideon spoke of Eastwood’s attorney and president.

  When he took a breath, I jumped in. “Hey, wait a minute. Where are you? Did Dillon call you back to the campus?

  “A couple of hours ago.”

  With that, I took a moment to let all that he said sink in. “And Adam admitted forging your name?”

  “In a heartbeat. I guess he fell apart under Foss’s cross-examination.”

  “He could go to jail. Why did he do all this? What was the point?”

  “I was asked to step out, so I don’t know what he offered up to Dillon and Foss for his rationale, but I want to invite him to dinner Saturday night.”

  Shocked, I sat down. “Hold up, Gideon. He tried to implicate you in a crime. Why is it necessary that we eat with the man?”

  “I talked with Vince Dwight a little today. We compared notes, and it seems Adam has been fabricating tales.”

  I pumped him for more details about his conversation with the college’s head of security, which he eagerly provided.

  “The night the artifacts were uncrated, Adam left the lab because he said Vince changed the location of the final security meeting from my office to his. I wanted to be in on that meeting, but one of us had to be with the artifacts at all times. And since it was Adam’s project, he went. Vince told me he didn’t change the location of the meeting. Adam did. When he didn’t come back right away, I asked him why it took so long. He said he had to wait on Vince to get back from another appointment.”