Deadly Homecoming at Rosemont

by Chappell,Connie

  Better Than Dessert

  When I emerged from the ladies’ room, I found myself ten feet away from Sherrie. Her hand lay flat against the bar’s front door, ready to exit. The look she gave me was that of annoyance and a little of something else I couldn’t identify. She held her tongue though and stepped out into the night. I made my way to the booth with the cold stare of Better Bully Baines following me. These two could really benefit from K.C.’s “warm and fuzzy” speech.

  At the table, I was startled to find another chocolate martini waiting for me. “Where’d this come from?” I asked Gideon as I slid onto the seat.

  “Heidi brought it. Didn’t you leave it at the bar?”

  “It looks like a fresh one. The man I sat with is an officer, a friend of Clay’s. He introduced me to this. It’s the best after-dinner-and-instead-of-dessert cocktail I ever had. But I need to pay him back before he gets out of here. No reason he should be buying me drinks. That’s your job.”

  Gideon smiled.

  I tasted the martini. Another excellent blend.

  Gideon filled me in on his lengthy conversation with Sherrie. Apparently, her ruffled feathers settled back into place, and he was no longer the target of her misdirected rage. Her report to Gideon mirrored Georgie’s to me. Still unaccounted for was Adam’s fate, so I broached the subject.

  Gideon’s response provided additional information as well. “Adam and any decision about a fraud investigation has been put off until Monday. Foss wanted the financial records and all the application paperwork for the exhibit sealed. Naturally, that includes the computer room and the bursar’s office. My office, Adam’s, and Janice’s are now off limits.”

  With that, he lifted an eyebrow, but I was already there. Worse than the investigation into the fraud would be Janice’s high-pitched reaction to this.

  “Sherrie says Adam’s considered a flight-risk. I’m guessing he’ll probably be kicked out of Eastwood by week’s end. Since he said okay to dinner, he’ll at least hang around for that.”

  I couldn’t help it. I smiled. “Honey, I don’t think social obligations will prevent him from panicking and hightailing it to points unknown.”

  “I guess you’re right,” he said, amused at his own naiveté. “Monday, after the board meets, Dillon and I are to relay the terms to Adam. Sherrie said she promised the board—although it was probably better news for the museum and foundation—that we’d get the history lab back at ten tomorrow. With that, I figure I’ll be directed to re-crate the pieces while the fraud investigation begins next door,” he said, discouraged. The history lab and the department’s suite of offices were contiguous.

  What seemed a hopeless situation weighed on him. Pulled into the negative vein, I asked, “Does this mean Sherrie’s not going to put out feelers on your private collectors?”

  “Actually, she is, but it will require proof, which will be nearly impossible to get. Remember their treasure chests are full already, and they’ve never come close to prosecution. There’s never enough evidence,” he concluded.

  He took a mouthful of beer, returned the glass quietly to the tabletop, and raised mournful eyes to me. My heart ached for him. I watched him fiddle with his tie, then unbutton and turn up a cuff on each sleeve. Having had enough with the doom and gloom, I hauled him out of the booth to watch Clay win the tournament.

  It was a hard-fought battle. When it looked like Clay’s opponent might take the second game, requiring a third, Clay pulled it out with a skillful toss. Raucous whooping and hollering carried to the rafters, shaking the television sets in their mountings. Sarge celebrated the victory with a round on the house, and a party atmosphere ensued. Everyone congratulated Clay with the noted exception of Bully Baines, who hung back with a look of distaste on his face, like he witnessed a pack of wolves disembowel a small animal.

  Georgie found me, and I introduced him to Gideon. When Clay was ready for a breather, the four of us headed for our booth. On the way, I caught the look Georgie passed to Clay. It said the jig was up; I’d reasoned out their scheme.

  Back at the table, another chocolate martini rested on the swabbed surface, and Hooters walked away. This must be my on-the-house celebratory drink from Sarge. I suspected chocolate martinis were a drink made by the pitcher, and Sarge had no other takers but me. I gave it a taste. Yum!

  Gideon slid in next to me. Before Clay sat down, a few more people pumped his hand, and he waved to a trio of off-duty cops, making their way toward the door.

  Things began milling around in my head. So, as soon as he was seated, I said, “I’ve been saving a question for you.”

  “Is this just for Clay,” Georgie teased, “or can I listen too?”

  “Yes, you may, Puddin’, my sweet, ’cause you’re my man on the street—” I stopped abruptly. “Hey! I rhymed.”

  Georgie’s face flushed.

  Gideon’s eyes lit. “Well, I think we’ll just move this out of the way.” He pulled my martini glass to the other side of his beer.

  “No! That’s my free drink from Sarge,” I said, wasting a quick pout.

  “Still,” Gideon said.

  With my memory jogged, I said to Gideon, “We need to pay Georgie back for the drink he bought at the bar.”

  Gideon reached for his wallet.

  “I didn’t buy you that drink,” Georgie said, stone-faced.

  I frowned at Gideon. “Who did?” he asked.

  Georgie shrugged.

  “You signaled Sarge. I thought you ordered it,” I said, flummoxed.

  “Not me.” He crossed his heart.

  “Maybe Sarge was just testing it out. Something new,” Clay offered.

  That sounded plausible, so I went back to my question for him. Immediately though, I swallowed the words ready to roll off my tongue. My question would bring out my trip to Dooley’s Bar. Elmore knew I’d been there and told me so during our afternoon tête-à-tête. Taking the grapevine at PD into consideration, I could assume Georgie knew of my antics and shared them with Clay. What those two men had time to digest would be a news flash to Gideon, and delivered in much the same fashion unless I cushioned it. Just last night across the airwaves and a lane of traffic, he succumbed to the realization I wouldn’t remain on the sidelines in this murder investigation.

  “Wrenn? What’s up?” Clay’s voice broke into my thoughts.

  “I was just thinking, Gideon doesn’t have all the background on this, so I need to bring him along.” Gideon shifted in his seat beside me, and I went on. “When Clay and I found Rosemont’s body yesterday, there were matches in his shirt pocket from Dooley’s Bar out in Pleasant Stop. I decided to chase down that lead and went to see Dooley Torrance yesterday. I’ve known him for years. He comes in all the time to see K.C.” Gideon straightened. His eyes grew larger and more intense at the mention of the unsavory burg. Rushing to relieve his anguish, I said, “Dooley’s a good guy, don’t you think, Clay?”

  “He’s got a clean record. He’s generally reasonable. Yeah, he’s all right.”

  My eyes communicated my next thought to Gideon: See, I do know the good from the bad. His response was the softest tip of his head, signifying acknowledgement. After a second, I turned to face Clay. “Dooley came to City Hall yesterday because there’d been a fight at the bar Tuesday night.”

  Clay sniggered. “Wanting a little attention sent his way, huh. Still pulling that trick?”

  “Every couple of months. Yeah. Drives K.C. wild.”

  For Gideon’s benefit, Georgie added, “You see, Peasant Stock’s not in the city limits. So it’s technically not our beat.”

  Our officers had their own name for this poor excuse at the edge of town.

  Again to Clay, I said, “I showed Dooley Trey’s high school graduation picture, and he said he was one of the guys in the fight.”

  This brought Clay to attention. “Who was he fighting?”

  “Elmore brought him in. The dude’s name is Wilkey Summer…”

  Cutting Georg
ie off, Clay said, “Wilkey Summer. He works for Norb Engle. They were the two out to the house, changing my locks last month.”

  “Norb Engle,” I exclaimed. “I knew Wilkey worked for Norb. Dooley told me that, but you didn’t say it was Norb you went to see this morning.”

  Gideon spoke up, his tone smug. “I think you guys need to talk a little more often.”

  “Thanks, Doc. That was useful,” Georgie said, grabbing the conversation back. “Now as I was saying, Elmore hauled Wilkey Summer in from Dooley’s to interview him. Then he went looking for Sherrie. What he had to tell her, I don’t know, but they huddled for quite a while.”

  I shook a finger at Georgie. “That’s my question. She came to the theater this morning, asking about a woman who quit the play. Gina Frawley.”

  “Gina Frawley,” Gideon piped up, pulled into our game. “Sherrie asked me about her, but I don’t know anyone by that name.”

  “What else did she say?” I asked him.

  “Nothing. When I didn’t know the name, she dropped it.”

  Clay put up his hands to slow us down. “Who’s Gina Frawley?”

  Gideon shrugged, then I took over, piecing it together for them. I started with Dooley Torrance’s description of a redhead whose first name was Gina. She sat with Rosemont when Wilkey came into the bar and the men had their scuffle. While I got nothing from Wilkey, I remembered hearing the name Gina at the theater. Barton Reed spoke it to Craig Bittleman, saying he needed to write her character out of the play after she quit Wednesday. I credited Penny with providing Gina’s surname. In addition, she knew Miles Glickstein photographed the cast and crew, including Gina Frawley. “Tomorrow,” I said, “I’m going to see Glickstein. Maybe I can talk him out of a set of those pictures. I, for one, would like to know what she looks like.” Then in a flash of intuition, I slapped both hands on the table in front of me where my martini glass should’ve been and sat back against the seat, beaming.

  “What?” Clay asked, warily.

  “I answered my own question.”

  “Which was?”

  “Why Sherrie and not Elmore?” Inwardly, I took myself to task for lagging behind. The cops already had it. “Gina Frawley connects the two crimes. Don’t you see? We had Gina connected to Wilkey, to Rosemont, and the murder. But I’ve been asking myself all day why did Sherrie Lippincott go to the theater asking about Gina? Why Sherrie and not Elmore? Sherrie’s investigating the theft.”

  “I can see where you’re going with this, Wrenn,” said Gideon. “But, at this point, the connection seems tenuous at best. I can’t make the leap from one crime to the other. I’d love for this woman to be a clue, but I also don’t want everyone going off on a tangent that doesn’t pan out.”

  I watched Clay’s eyes liven while I voiced my theory. To Gideon’s skepticism, he said, “We’ll poke around just a little and see if we can’t get something solid, maybe talk to the woman.”

  I said, “Barton thinks Gina left town. She told him she was going home to take care of her mother. She must be sick or something.”

  “The old sick-mother-at-home routine,” Georgie said, shaking his head. “Heard it too many times.”

  “Where’s home?” Clay asked me, but I didn’t know. Then he reviewed the assignments. “Okay, Wrenn, you’re going after the photographs. And, Georgie, you’re staying close, should anything come in on Jimmy Kushmaul.”

  With Gideon filled in on Trey Rosemont’s alter ego, I said to Clay, “Barton gave me Gina’s address. I can go around to a few of her neighbors. Maybe she told one of them where she was headed.”

  He nodded, then we looked to our newest recruit for consent.

  Gideon glanced from one face to the next. “I need to see Vince Dwight tomorrow on a couple things. I’ll let you know if anything related to the theft doubles back to the murder.”

  Georgie puffed out his chest. “Then we’re good to go.”

  Getting comfortable with the idea, Gideon added, “We can all meet up at the park Sunday and see where we are.”

  Sunday was the baseball tournament. Both Clay and Georgie said they could make it.

  Clay took in the activity on the main floor. His challenger from McCoy’s Bar headed toward the door. Quickly, he was up and out of the booth to say goodbye.

  I rubbed two fingertips across my forehead, then tugged at Gideon’s sleeve. “I’m going out to the car. I may have some aspirin out there.”

  “Want me to go?” His concern brought a crease between his brows.

  “No, thanks. Fresh air might help.”

  It wasn’t any cooler outside, but it was quieter. I took a deep breath and could smell night coming to Havens.

  I set out on a slow, jagged path to Midnight in the last row. I watched my sneakers while my head thudded dully. I tried to keep my brain centered on this instinct that the two crimes were tied together through Gina Frawley. Gideon wasn’t totally convinced that a thread was there. But it was. A little something to pick at. If the connection proved viable, then helping Clay might help Gideon, or vice versa.

  All thought was wiped clean when someone slammed a car door behind me, and I cringed.

  With the PT’s door open, I sat for several minutes, resting my head back against the seat. I blamed those tasty chocolate martinis for the very tiny Chinaman toiling inside my skull, invoking the drip, drip, drip of his water torture. I forced myself to lean over to pop open the glove box and thought my head would explode.

  Finding no aspirin, I dragged myself back to the bar before Gideon came in search. Once inside, the noise and the closeted feeling hit me. I became woozy again. At the short staircase to the upper tier of booths, I lifted my persistently drumming head and saw our empty booth. I cast around for Gideon and found him standing at the bar with a knot of his teammates. I toddled a few steps that direction, then stopped to rest my forehead on my fingertips. Either the room was spinning, or I was.

  Instantly, Gideon was there with a mix of concern and amusement. “Whoa, Wrenn, hang on. Too many better-than-dessert martinis.” His hands steadied me as he backed me up a step to a chair at an empty table and lowered me into it. He knelt before me, his hand on my knee, a finger finding skin through torn denim.

  Then someone spoke my name. Painfully, I raised my head to where Lucas Baines stood behind Gideon, grinning maliciously.

  “Enjoy the rest of your evening, ma’am,” the off-duty officer said, lifting a chocolate martini in mock toast. He held it aloft long enough so my inebriated eyes had sufficient time to focus.

  There was the explanation. I scratched myself off as Sarge’s taste-tester. I was, most definitely, the fool. I couldn’t believe Baines bullied Sarge into adding any kind of drug, but an extra jigger of the tasteless vodka into the pitcher? Yeah, no problem with that.

  Neatly Packed Lie

  Gideon ground the Crossfire to a stop at the rear of the PT Cruiser a little after nine Saturday morning. Midnight sat alone in Night Sticks’ lot. Apparently, I was the only person too tipsy last night to drive. Sadly, I was wasted and home in bed by ten-thirty. This revived bitter thoughts about Lucas Baines’ sweet revenge which, in reality, I knew to be a little incentive from Frank Elmore to stick with my day job.

  Gideon and I twisted in our seats and leaned in for a warm, tender kiss. The rush of his cologne filled my head.

  “Thanks for the ride, mister,” the temptress in me said.

  “You owe me, little girl. I figure I’ve been nurse, cook, housemaid, and now chauffer. It’s time to pay the hired help.”

  Earlier this morning, Gideon gently propped me up against the bed pillows, leaving coffee and aspirin on a tray to speed my recovery. Then he headed downstairs to tidy the cottage and whip up a bowl of potato salad for this evening’s barbecue with Adam Porter.

  Beside me, he just painted a perfect scene for fantasy sex complete with costumes. The tip of his finger worked its way under the hem of my denim skirt and was making small circles on the fleshy inside of my bare
thigh. The fantasy and the motion smoldered, the heat rising to the top of my leg where urgings collected, wanting to act it out.

  “Okay,” I agreed too readily, “I owe you.”

  The look on his face said he already made plans on how to collect. I climbed out, knowing my debt would be off the books long before this time tomorrow.

  Midnight and I headed across town. Miles Glickstein was an easy mark. I told the rake-skinny photographer what I wanted, tossed around K.C.’s name, and he was only too happy to comply. I admit there might’ve been some misconception that the request actually came from the mayor himself. To reduce the wait, I agreed to accept duplicates from his color copier. Within ten minutes of walking in the door, I held pictures of the cast and crew of Three Yodeling Spinsters.

  Seated in the car at curbside, I slipped the pages from the large white envelope and sorted through them. I glanced quickly at a backstage photo of the crew, a group shot of the spinsters, and three singles of Barton Reed. The final picture revealed the elusive Gina Frawley. She was the only redheaded cast member, making her easily distinguishable from the other women. She stood second from the end, her arm hooked with one belonging to a man with a serious expression, a gaudy checkered suit, and a Sherlock-Holmes-style pipe.

  I bent my head closer, considering how I was introduced to this woman, who looked my age, in her late twenties, early thirties. It’s odd meeting someone through the eyes and impressions of others. In Gina’s case, it really came down to this: I thought she would appear, when viewed by this woman’s discriminating eye, short on class. I thought what she lacked would stand out with flashing lights.

  I based this decision on several facts. First of all, Gina’s wardrobe for the play was skimpy: a cottony white chemise and beige short-shorts. That matched Gina’s wardrobe in real life. Penny told of her husband’s passing acquaintance and brief infatuation with the woman in the mini-skirt for whom he held the theater’s door open and of the crewmen’s school-boy attempts to gain her favor. Clearly, Gina was the sort who played havoc with a man’s better instincts.