“I’m laying the phone down.” Max spoke next, passing instruction to Penny, then she said, “The Yorkie’s in Two.”
Corky, the Yorkie. I groaned inwardly. If that was my name, I’d pitch ten kinds of a fit, too. Five seconds later, another broke out, then it closed down to a tolerable level. Max was gone, inside the exam room, just Penny and Lennie remained.
I listened while payment and niceties were exchanged. I learned the cat’s name was Smokey. This conjured up a sleek-looking feline, gray and elusive with striking yellow eyes. I overheard Penny refreshing his memory on our meeting in the theater’s lobby two days ago.
When he came on, I said, “Hi, Lennie. Thanks for talking with me. It won’t take a minute, then you and Smokey can be on your way.”
“No problem.” This held the air of a repetitive phrase used in his Cummings persona.
“I have Mr. Reed’s copy of the work order. I’m looking at the note in the Special Instructions box. ‘Scripts Xeroxed. Hold For Delivery.’” I waited, hoping he would jump in.
Which he did.
“Yeah, I wrote that. Later. To myself. You know, after I finished the job. The scripts weren’t to go out with the Wednesday afternoon deliveries. I held it for delivery with the Thursday stuff, like he wanted.”
“Not until Thursday?”
“Yeah. He said he didn’t want it delivered until Thursday noon. He repeated that several times.”
So I did, too. “Thursday noon.”
“Yes, ma’am. I got it there sometime between eleven and twelve.”
Knowing he had, I nodded to myself at the validity of his explanation. I figured the “Hold For Delivery” note was meant as an instruction to segregate the box from those for which customers would return to claim themselves, not to hold the delivery from one day to the next.
“Everything’s all right with the job because I’m pretty sure I got it right.” I heard worry in his voice. “I copied it to blue pages. That’s what he wanted.”
“I see that.”
Lennie expounded. “Blue pages. That’s theater lingo. Mr. Reed told me. When scripts are changed, it’s customary to use a different color each time, so they can be distinguished from earlier versions. It makes it easy to see if everyone’s working from the right copy. He’s been doing that all along.”
“That’s interesting. Thank you, Lennie. You’ve been a big help. I’ll let you go. May I speak with Penny now?”
Through the open line, I heard Penny thank him. Goodbyes were said, then her voice came on. “He’s gone. Why would Barton lie? What does it mean?”
“I’ve been asking myself those same questions.”
“What a fluke to run into him again. He’s such a nice kid.”
“Uh-huh,” I mumbled, half listening. Why would Barton Reed lie? Nothing came to me.
Midnight and I cruised down Gatling on our way to City Hall. I swung over to the Burger King on Hattersfield where I could have it my way. My first diet Pepsi of the morning rode in the cup carrier: icy cold, drive-thru quick, and alcohol-free. Better Bully Baines remained high on my list.
Traffic downtown was sparse, typical for a Saturday. I tooled through the intersection at Kinsman. My eyes were drawn to the Baxter and memories of Barton Reed. When he first came to town, he seemed genuine, likeable. After he became a bit high-strung over the play, K.C. put me in the lineup as a buffer. That seemed to work. Yesterday, when I mentioned Gina, he became rattled. Now I find out, he lied.
That gave me pause to think about Gina’s lie concerning her whereabouts on Wednesday night. Barton’s whereabouts on Wednesday night were questionable too. It almost made sense that their two lies brought them together. But while Gina skipped town, Barton was still here. Still close. And rattled.
A voice at the back of my mind told me to beware of Barton Reed.
“No shit,” said I, mocking Wilkey Summer’s good-for-all-occasions expression.
For the next hour, I sat at my desk and worked the depot clock through history, drawing motivation today from the mental image of Irv Hammer, chomping on his stub-of-a-cigar, grumbling incoherently, black eyes fixed on a clock somewhere inside the brick walls of the newspaper building, waiting for me to screw up.
Of course, when I stopped to check my email, his message waited. No surprise: He called me Graystone. His learning curve is off the charts. The message read:
DO YOU UNDERSTAND THE CONCEPT OF A DEADLINE? LET ME EXPLAIN IT TO YOU. IT’S SIMPLE. IF YOU CROSS THAT LINE, YOU’RE DEAD. IRV HAMMER
His emails always came across as hollering out loud. Denied the opportunity to fire back my first segment with a list of complaints, he ragged me instead about the deadline. I grinned with satisfaction. I had Hammer all figured out.
My toiling ended at 11:40. I reached a good stopping place and saved the file. Pleased with my efforts, I pushed back from the desk. The sound of chair rollers gliding over the plastic floor mat replaced the regular click, click, click from my keyboard, the only sound I heard since flipping on the computer. I stood, stretched weary muscles, and started gathering the pictures into a pile. At that point, I began arguing in my head with Hammer. I didn’t want to give up the photographs. My photographs. I understood he needed them, but they were my lifeblood, the place from where my creative juices flowed.
In the spirit of compromise, I went to warm up the copier-scanner duo in the supply room. With a few keystrokes of wizardry from my laptop, the copier-turned-scanner sent images to my hard drive. I toddled back to my office with the original black-and-whites, storing them in a desk drawer for safekeeping. I shot the second installment over to Hammer via email with time to spare on the noon deadline. The digitalized images I proposed he use to supplement my piece went as attachments.
Slowly, I descended the front steps of City Hall, my face heavenward, happy to be outside. A light wind blew large scalloped clouds across the sky, occasionally veiling the sun. I felt the need for some real exercise, perhaps a long walk through the woods with Gideon. Even pushing the lawn mower would seem like a treat. Resignedly, I knew my softening muscles must simply find satisfaction in the slow door-to-door canvass K.C. ordered of the Winding Trail neighborhood, bless his warm-and-fuzzy heart anyway.
This evening, Gideon and I would entertain Adam Porter. Janice Jankowski did the honors last night with a more charitable heart, I’m sure, than Adam would find at the dinner table tonight.
As my heart lacked charity, so did my stomach lack food. I swore off breakfast this morning while the remnants of chocolate martinis churned through my system. Before I tackled Winding Trail, I would stop somewhere for lunch.
I reached the parking lot and pulled Midnight’s door open. Behind me, a police cruiser slowed to a stop at her bumper. The window slipped down. Georgie Crandall smiled out at me, his elbow moving to rest on the ledge.
“Hi, Puddin’.” I grinned, walking his way. “Anything new?”
“The crime-scene tape came down at the college. Your guy’s back in his lab,” he said over the clipped chatter of the car radio.
“Good. Anything come in on Jimmy Kushmaul yet?”
“Not a whisper.”
Snapping my fingers in the air, I said, “I just found out Jimmy, A. K. A. Trey, was in town by Sunday.”
“Old news, Grayson. Elmore found Rosemont’s motel. He’s already hauled Clay down to discuss that and let him go. Point being: it would’ve given Clay several more days of opportunity to set his eyes on our victim, grow a dislike for him, then plan his murder.”
“But Clay’s already denied seeing him before the morning we found his body.”
“Apparently, the lieutenant can’t fathom the idea that Rosemont would return to town and not visit the old place.”
Clay shared a similar thought when we discovered the matches, feigning disappointment that Trey chose Dooley’s Bar over a visit to the old homestead. His rationale made perfect sense. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I agree with Elmore. Why didn’t Tre
y go out to the place? I suppose he could have gone at a time Clay wasn’t there.”
“Too much for a traffic cop to think about,” Georgie said, opting out of the conversation.
And too much on an empty stomach, I thought. “Hey, you want to grab some lunch?”
“Thanks for asking, but I’m on patrol,” he said, wiggling his eyebrows, then his comical expression turned far-off and suspicious. “What is this?”
I looked over my shoulder to the smattering of cars on the lot’s far side where it ducked behind the Whitney Building.
“I think you were just about to pick up a tail,” he said.
“Someone was going to follow me?”
“Someone was going to harass you from undercover.”
“Who?”
“Your friend and mine, Detective Lucas Baines.”
I could see Georgie’s mental gears meshing as he spoke the bully’s name, formulating a plan.
“Give me time to get in position before you take off.”
I had a split-second to appreciate the mischievous glint in his eye before he stomped the gas pedal to the floor, kicking a herd of horses into action. Tires squealed. Lights strobed, and the cruiser arced into a half-circle skid, swerving to a neck-wrenching stop in front of a downsized black SUV. Before I turned Midnight’s engine over, both men were out of their vehicles and nose-to-nose on the hot asphalt.
While Georgie detained Baines, I slithered away unnoticed.
Zebediah Rosemont
I motored down Kinsman a few blocks to the Dairy Barn, left Midnight in designated parking, and ordered through the walk-up window. I carried my Coney dog, chocolate shake, and Lucy’s Winding Trail report to a shady picnic area out back.
I found my concentration patchy at best as I ate and read. Thoughts of Gideon continually crept in. Finally, I put in a call. He took it from his meeting with Vince Dwight, Eastwood’s police chief. The conversation was quick. It didn’t take long to give the disappointing news. The Egyptian collection would go back. I lay my phone down and pushed aside the tail end of the dog.
My chin rested in my palm, my elbow pinned to the wooden table slat. The unsolved theft resulted in swift repercussions. I stared down at the typed report, seeing words strung together into sentences, but not comprehending their meaning. I felt a finality about the moment that churned away at time, dragging it to a stop. In an effort to battle the mood and express my disdain for decisions too hastily made, I sucked down the last of my chocolate shake until the straw made rude noises inside the Styrofoam cup.
Feeling somewhat better, I grabbed up my cell phone again. In addition to the theft, I had a murder to solve. I wanted to know whether Clay’s meeting with Augusta Vanderhoff yesterday produced access to the secret passageways. Getting Clay off the suspect list lay in finding another way into that house. I forgot to ask him last night, so I punched in his number on the off-chance he and his phone traveled as one today. They weren’t. Listing again toward hopelessness, I left a short message.
With the Winding Trail report tucked under my arm, I cleared away my mess into a nearby trashcan, then crossed the lot to the PT. I climbed in behind the wheel, tossed the report in the other seat, and sat there, reluctant to take that first step toward K.C.’s assignment. After a long moment, I slid the key into the ignition, but my hand just hung there. Dread, depression, something kept me from turning it over.
On a whim, I picked up my phone and made a third call.
“Land sakes alive, Miss Wrenn, you know I’m not doing anything important. Come on over.”
With a burst of newfound energy, I immediately routed myself toward Ruby Griswald’s wisteria-blue house. As Havens is laid out, her house lies in the opposite direction of Winding Trail.
The house seemed oddly quiet when Ruby let me inside, and I knew why. The little boy wasn’t here to ignore my presence. It’s disheartening to be snubbed by a four-year old. “No Little Carlson today?”
“His daddy and he have a full day on Saturdays. Cartoons in the mornings, then off to swimming and piano lessons.”
“Really. Piano?”
“He just started. His daddy plays. So, naturally, Little Carlson took up an interest. They’ll bring him to me tomorrow.” A smile brightened her face at the thought. Once again, I was amazed at the abounding energy packed into this tiny octogenarian. The shirt she wore today was embroidered with a three-inch-high palm tree and the words, “Fun and Sun in Key West.” She carried a Salem between two fingers.
“Still looking through your boxes, I see.”
She’d been visible to me through the screen door, planted on the middle couch cushion, working from left to right, emptying a shallow cardboard box of its contents and sorting its many treasures into piles. Now that I was inside, I saw that she grouped together yellowed newspaper clippings, programs from church services and school plays, family snapshots, and vacation postcards.
“Mercy, Miss Wrenn, once I got started, I couldn’t stop. There are oodles of memories here,” she said, taking in the room. None of the six or seven boxes scattered about appeared to have moved since yesterday, so it was difficult to discern her method. “Well, no need to sit and talk in this mess. Come into the kitchen.”
I dropped into the same chair I occupied the day before.
To perform her hostess duties, Ruby left the smoldering cigarette in the tabletop ashtray. She poured the last of yesterday’s lemonade into glasses, then sat the empty pitcher in the sink. Once settled in the straight-back chair opposite me, she tapped off a cold ash and took a drag.
“What did you find out from Augusta Vanderhoff? Did you get her son’s address?”
Her face clouded. “Oh, dear, I thought Mr. Clay would’ve told you.”
“Told me what?”
“It’s dreadful, Miss Wrenn. David’s dead.”
“Dead. What happened?”
“He joined the marines. Augusta said he was killed by friendly fire. She had one of those tri-cornered flags in a display case on the mantel.” The Salem rested again in its tray, her hands giving me general dimensions. “His name was etched on a plate. It looked nice. I felt perfectly awful, bringing it all up again. Mr. Clay did, too. How could I not have known?” she said, scolding herself. Surely the volume of clippings in the other room spoke of her thoroughness in such things.
“So we still know nothing about the secret passages,” I said, my disappointment apparent. Any hope of locating them dwindled quickly, like the sound of retreating thunder.
“I don’t know how we’re going to find out now. Only the boys knew. Mr. Clay seemed to want to stay and talk. But it had to be upsetting for Augusta. I cut the visit short and dragged him out with our belated sympathies. Then he dragged me to Avondale, to see the grave. I’m not sure why he wanted to go.” Behind her glasses, she wore a perplexed expression.
I sat my lemonade down. “He’s a cop, Ruby. They do things like that.”
I did the same thing when I researched the Rosemont family. Even though I held the obituaries for each family member in my hand, death lured me to the same Avondale Cemetery, to stand before the graves as if the paper record meant nothing. Marble gravestones, sharply chiseled epitaphs, an unyielding blanket of earth, these spoke of the cold, hard reality of death and of the secrets death keeps for itself.
Lost in thought, I was momentarily confused when Ruby eased the subject of David’s death over to Trey’s.
“His family’s gone, Miss Wrenn. Who will bury him?” Her words were a plea for help.
“Leave it to me, Ruby. He may have ties in Illinois. The police are checking on that. If nothing comes of it, we’ll talk with his mother’s attorney. Trey was named beneficiary of her estate, so there’s probably money there for his burial.”
“At Avondale? With his people?”
With my reassurance, relief spread onto her face. Pleased to see it, I sipped the tart, cool beverage and only then realized the oversized crayon sketch laying between us was a new rende
ring. “What’s this, Ruby? More of Clay’s artwork?”
“Mr. Clay came over early this morning,” she said, through a mouthful of smoke. I didn’t mention he spent the rest of the morning with Elmore at headquarters. “We laid out the grounds to see all the points of access. Those were his words. To me, they’re just the ways in and out.”
I studied the scale drawing. It gave a feel for the distances between landmarks. Roadways bordered three sides of the Rosemont property Clay owned. They were labeled in black. Ruby’s scrawl. Open swirls of green represented the wooded areas and made a mat around the entire picture. On the south and east, the dense Rosemont Woods was depicted, not the thin ribbon of trees found along Hattersfield. Purple crayon overlaid the drive in from Hattersfield, which forked to a stub near the house, and continued on, downgraded to a dirt road, ending at the carriage house in the open meadow. Both structures were red rectangles. Clay made a juvenile attempt to place Trey’s car where it sat the morning after the murder. He angled it off the parking pad and into the yard. Rather than a top view of the Cutlass, to be congruent with the rest, he placed it on its side, correctly outlining the body in gray and tires in black.
I could picture the two of them huddled over the table, Clay swapping details of the crime for Ruby’s stories about the family and grounds. They made an unlikely-but-interesting pair. I was sorry I missed it.
With Ruby’s permission, I selected orange from the colors resident on the tabletop and drew in two small squares to symbolize the formal gardens and workshop.
If the map included a legend, brown would identify the footpaths. There were two: Trey’s path to the school bus—a quick-connect from the back door to Hattersfield; and the path leading to the sky-blue circle, representing the fishing pond. This one jutted off into the woods halfway between the main house and the carriage house.
Behind the manor house, a wide swath of brown cut through the woods on the east side, giving access to the family’s vast farmland, which Clay did not own. The meadowland section of farm road had gone unused for nearly two decades, allowing nature to reclaim it.
Deadly Homecoming at Rosemont Page 19