With dirty dishes stacked by the sink, Gideon washed and I wiped. I withheld a few facts while the crestfallen Adam Porter was present. Gideon’s jaw dropped when I told him Gina also slept with Barton Reed.
“How’d you learn that?”
“He told me.”
“Unbelievable. This has all the unsavory qualities of a soap opera.” He shook his head in sheer bafflement.
“Barton was also kind enough to give her an alibi for Wednesday night.”
“But she was with Adam.”
“She couldn’t have been in two places at the same time. He lied for her.”
“Why?”
I shrugged. “I’m finding out he lies a lot.” I filled him in on my Barton Reed encounter over on Winding Trail, which brought us right back to Gina.
“You know, Janice put it together that Adam and Gina were seeing each other. She said she was his type.”
I tilted my eyebrows.
Laughing, he said, “Janice said Gina wore skirts that just barely skimmed her crotch.”
That brought the play picture to mind. Yes, Gina’s miniscule wardrobe would attract Adam’s eligible-bachelor status.
Gideon loaded dishes in the drainer and I lifted them out. Together, we rehashed the plot to steal the artifacts while our tally of suspects again dwindled to nil. Gina and Wilkey had each other for alibis, and we could scare up no earthly reason why Adam would break in, then hang around.
“Who’s left?” Gideon sulked.
My mind flashed on the scene as it must have been Tuesday night out at Dooley’s. Our vindicated suspects were all present. And so was one other. “Trey Rosemont,” I suggested with a shrug.
“But he’s dead.” Gideon pulled the plug on the drain and twisted soapy water through his fingers and out of the dishrag.
Closing the cupboard door, I said, “There’s something else that’s been bothering me. Wilkey said Gina came here from Illinois. Trey’s car had Illinois plates. And—news flash—Barton Reed hails from Chicago. There’s a pattern here.”
“Barton, too? Really?” His expression changed from incredulous to resigned. “Why am I surprised? He connects to Gina, and that feeds right back to the college.”
Before I could speak, Gideon jumped ahead of me with the next link, Chicago’s underground collector of Egyptian artifacts. “Ulrich Closson!” He snapped his fingers. “It only makes sense that he’s somehow behind this. Sherrie’s got to get on this if she hasn’t already.”
Gideon selected his tack to move this forward. I would use another. “Clay and Georgie should be at the park tomorrow. Hopefully, they’ll have a report on Trey’s alias. That might reveal something. Maybe a tie to Closson.” I still felt the cross-connection between the murder and the theft.
I flipped off the kitchen light. We headed up the stairs side by side. Something Gideon said to Adam came back to me. “You told Adam that Vince thought Gina had a partner. Where’d he get that?”
Gideon tugged his shirttail loose and worked the buttons. “From Bill Mackey. He regained consciousness. Vince called while you two were out front. He went to see him. Billy says he thinks there were two thieves. He told Vince he caught one at the door, and then was hit from behind by the other.”
“What else does he remember?”
“Just that he hesitated when he saw the first man. He said at first he thought he was another guard. Vince said his exact words were: ‘He looked like one of us.’”
“Campus police?”
“I guess.”
“That’s odd. Maybe that’s just the concussion scrambling things. Is he going to be released soon?”
“Vince said another couple of days.”
At the landing where the staircase bends back on itself, Gideon stopped to switch the downstairs lights off and the bedroom lights on. The room, to the right of the stairs, remained dark. Its cozy setting includes an oversized television, a scarred leather couch, and wooden bookcases, darkened by time. They ring the walls and are heaped with all things Gideon.
Gideon went ahead of me into our bedroom with its adjoining bathroom. One of Grams’ favorite oil paintings hangs above the headboard, a sunny gathering of delicate Southern ladies at the turn of the century. Each room upstairs has a skylight while French doors in the larger two rooms step out to dwarfed balconies. They’re ideal for gazing at the moon or sipping coffee in the morning.
Gideon sighed. It was a blend of fatigue and discouragement. He felt the weight of Eastwood’s nightmare. Shrugging out of his shirt, he said softly, “I smell like smoke, little girl. I’m going to grab a quick shower.” He bent to kiss my cheek and left his shirt on the pillow-topped mattress covered by a quilt swirled in muted shades of apricot, forest green, rose, and ecru.
I watched him go. His back muscles rippled as he pulled at his belt. Even as he disappeared into the bathroom, I knew the zipper was next, and my shameless loins sprang to life. I didn’t mind that. Of course, I didn’t. I had a debt to pay, as he duly noted in Night Sticks’ parking lot this morning.
I pivoted and scrambled back downstairs for the last of the wine with thoughts of Adam Porter and Gina Frawley nipping at my heels. His would be a lonely heart tonight, I thought. And she was a scheming, utterly deceptive, and loathsome little trollop. She snuck out on another life with no goodbye, no forwarding address, not even the promise of a postcard.
The first thing Gideon saw when he stepped out of the shower was the half-filled wineglass on the sink’s countertop. Then he raised his blue eyes to my reflection in the mirror above. I stood against the doorframe, glass in hand, casually swirling its contents. I was going for coy, but failed miserably. His eyes swung around slowly and came to rest on the real me. The look he put on his face was as naughty as the grin on mine. I was clad only in pearls and heels. Now, who was the trollop?
“What’s this?” he asked wantonly, tilting his head and smiling.
“I thought we’d take care of that little bookkeeping matter you mentioned earlier.”
And so we spent the next little while fully embracing the principles of creative accounting…and a few other things.
Teamwork
Sunday dawned meekly. The sun’s warmth hid shyly behind a gauzy sky for most of the morning. Now it was just plain hot as the all-city baseball tournament packed the stands at Primrose Park’s athletic complex.
Penny and I were tucked away along the first-base sideline in our webbed lawn chairs and far enough back not to be the target of foul balls. No one wandered past, but we still had a decent view of Gideon out in right field. Penny wore a floppy hat with a brim that shielded her face from the sun. I was not so equipped. Tomorrow, there would be squint lines around the corner of my eyes, tiny streaks still white while the rest of my face showed a new layer of rosy tan.
I brought her up to speed on the two investigations, specifically, fast Gina. It took us nearly four innings to cover her trio of gentlemen friends sufficiently. We hashed things out, then backtracked and hashed things out some more. Penny had a working relationship with Barton Reed, knew of Adam Porter by name, and relied on me for background on Wilkey Summer.
“Quite an array,” she said. “I guess Gina was the kind who didn’t really have a type.”
“She was sort of like a sailor: a guy in every port.”
“Theater, college, and rundown dive.”
Just then, there was a crack of the bat. A ball flew into right field. Gideon raced forward. It would drop in the uncovered territory behind first and second base. I moved out the edge of my chair.
Penny grabbed my arm and shouted, “Run, Gideon.”
We were both on our feet when Gideon dove with his arm and glove stretched out. The leather webbing grazed the turf. He tumbled to a stop, then thrust the glove high. The ball was wedged inside. A cheer went up. Third out. Gideon and his teammates came in. Night Sticks led Arbuckle Manufacturing by one run. Penny and I were still clapping when I noticed Gideon heading our direction. I rushed out to me
et him. Grass stains showed on his jersey from the last play.
“Wrenn, I broke my sunglasses out there.” He handed me the two pieces. “Can you go home and get my other pair? They’re in my dresser.”
“Sure. Be right back.” Luckily, the park and home were just five minutes apart.
Penny decided against making the trip with me. She expected Max to arrive soon, after he finished checking in on a calf at the Norris farm.
I was tramping around the perimeter of a second ball diamond hosting the first-round game between Tidwell’s Sporting Goods and Computer Geeks when I heard someone call my name and slowed to search through pockets of fans. I came up with the sunny face of Georgie Crandall, obviously off-duty. He wore sandals, knee-length shorts, and a loose-fitting border shirt in a busy print allowing extra room to drape his pudgy midsection.
I veered off his direction. “Hi, Puddin’. Have you seen Clay? Is he here, too?”
He fed himself a handful of popcorn, then dropped the box in a heavy-duty trashcan. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand before answering. “Haven’t seen him.”
We teamed up and shuffled off in the direction of the parking lot. I told him about my errand for Gideon.
“You had a small dinner party last night,” Georgie said, trudging along beside me. “A barbeque. It smelled great.”
“We did have someone over,” I said cautiously to the salivating man.
“You shouldn’t be consorting with known criminals.”
Surprised by his inference to, and apparent knowledge of, our guest, Adam Porter, I said, “How’d you know who— You ran his plates!”
“Just telling you, it doesn’t look good, Grayson,” he said with mock disapproval.
“You ran his plates!” I repeated incredulously, then returned his broad grin.
“Sure I did,” he admitted, shoulders back, chest out. “I’m nosy as hell. So, did you get anything out of him?”
Playing up false indignation, I said, “Oh, like Gideon and I wouldn’t invite him over because he was down on his luck and needed a friend or two to spend the evening with.”
For a fleeting second, his shameful eyes dropped to the ground, then shot right back. “That’s bullshit, Grayson. What’d you get?”
Bypassing the question, I flicked a finger toward Clay, coming our way on his banged-up loafers. He looked hot in a heavy waffle-weave shirt and navy chinos. Georgie and I picked up our pace to meet him. He pushed the last bite of a hot dog into his mouth, then washed it down with Coke. He slid a paper napkin across his mouth, then used it to mop a sweaty forehead, before wadding it into the palm of his hand.
Clay steered our little group out of the mainstream and into the welcome shade of a white birch tree with its uniquely mottled and peeling trunk. Here, I fielded Georgie’s question, filling the two men in on Adam Porter’s relationship with Gina Frawley and my belief that the associate professor unwittingly let his keys out of his possession. Their duplication gave a pair of thieves access to the building and safe where the Egyptian collection was stored. While Georgie knew Bill Mackey regained consciousness yesterday and that Sherrie went to the hospital to question him, neither man was aware he raised the thief-count to two.
My eyes jumped from one man’s face to the other while they exchanged silent communication. I felt like Tarbutton with my good-girl behavior and hoping the praise due me would not be denied.
A toothy smile appeared on Clay’s face, where I hadn’t seen one for days. “Good work, Grayson.”
Ah, a Milk-Bone high.
“She is a persistent little devil, isn’t she, chief?”
The wise old chief chose to neither agree nor disagree, seeing that sentence as the loaded question it was. “I just came from Montague’s office,” Clay said instead, speaking of Haven’s current police chief.
“Working on a Sunday. That never puts him in a good mood,” Georgie interjected.
“He had Elmore in his office before me.”
“What happened?” I asked.
Clay took a breath, then paraphrased Montague’s comments with regard to the homicide lieutenant. “Elmore has nothing back yet from Schaumburg. He let that fall through the cracks, and a second request had to be made. The report’s been promised for first thing Monday. Montague told Elmore to get his lackadaisical ass—pardon my French—in gear and determine if anything warrants another look at the house. If not, he wants the quarantine lifted tomorrow by three-thirty. Five at the latest. Anyway, that’s what Montague wanted to tell me.”
“That’s good news, Clay. About the house,” I said. “What’s Schaumburg?”
“Schaumburg, Illinois,” Georgie put in.
Clay went on. “Rosemont’s driver’s license—rather, Jimmy Kushmaul’s license and registration shows he resided there.”
“Wait a minute. How close is Schaumburg to Chicago? Do you know?”
“Next town over. Why?”
“We’ve got an Illinois theme going here that can’t be overlooked.” I counted off the participants. “Jimmy. Wilkey told me Gina came from Illinois. Barton Reed makes three. And there’s a collector of Egyptian artifacts Gideon asked Sherrie to investigate. He’s from Chicago. I agree with Montague. If facts weren’t materializing at a pathetically slow pace, we might have a solution to this.” Both men verbalized agreement. “Anything on Gina Frawley’s whereabouts? That might help.” I looked from one to the other.
“Negative,” Clay answered, “but your name was mentioned.”
I felt my eyebrows shoot up a couple of inches. “My name? In Montague’s office?”
He nodded.
“Oh, this can’t be good.”
“After Georgie cut Baines off in the parking lot, he came in crying obstruction of justice.”
“He wants to charge me with obstruction,” I said, baffled by the detective’s logic, unless it was just his bullying nature at work.
“You. Him.” Clay tipped his head from me to Georgie. “At the time, he wasn’t being selective.”
“No way that’s gonna stick.” Then Georgie paused. “But I expect Montague will have a few words for me on Monday.”
“It appears,” Clay said, “Baines picked up your trail yesterday morning at Night Sticks when you went back for your car. I’m assuming you didn’t notice the tail over to Glickstein’s.”
I shook my head. Beaten by Baines again. I had to admit I was awed by the simplicity of his plan. He came into Night Sticks after me Friday night, seeing Midnight in the lot. Then he got me drunk on chocolate martinis laced with a wee too much vodka for the drive home. Saturday morning, he blended into the scenery, waiting for me to retrieve my car. After that, he followed me, and I was none the wiser.
“He got curious,” Clay was saying, “when you came out of Glickstein’s with an envelope, so he went in after you. Glickstein got all puffed up, told him he complied with a directive from the mayor. Baines wore street clothes so he flashed his badge and asked Glickstein to provide him with a duplicate of whatever he gave you.”
“Did he get it?”
A smile spread across Clay’s face. “Glickstein said the mayor could have it without question, but he wouldn’t give it to Baines without a warrant.”
I grinned.
“Two points for the good guys,” Georgie cheered.
“He left empty-handed. Glickstein kept his mouth shut all the way around. Baines doesn’t know you were after the play pictures.”
“Hey, I’ve got those in the car. Do you want to see what Gina looks like?”
Just then, the most comical look came over Georgie’s face. His head tilted to one side and his eyes glazed over. He stared off in the direction of the grassy pedestrian thoroughfare over by the ball diamonds. “Ah, my flaxen-haired goddess.”
He honed in on Sergeant Sherrie Lippincott’s slow, purposeful stroll. Plenty of heads turned. Her heavy braid plunging down her back, her tanktop cut dangerously low in front, her skirt a tight fit, stopping above the knee.
“She should know right away about that professor’s keys. Don’t worry,” he said to me, “I’ll just say a little birdie told me.” Then he passed between Clay and me.
Clay chuckled. I groaned and rolled my eyes. “A little birdie. That’ll take her all of a half-second to figure out.” Although, I thought, his knowledge of the duplicated keys and how he obtained the information had very little to do with his desire to spend time with the sergeant.
Clay and I watched Georgie scurry off. Just before he fell into step with her, he looked back at us and sucked in his gut. After that, they were lost in the crowd.
“Why aren’t you in the stands watching?” Clay asked.
“Oh, I forgot! Gideon broke his sunglasses. I’m supposed to be heading home for his other pair.”
From behind the wheel of his truck, Clay said, “Georgie got Baines pretty cranked up with the screamin’-skidmarks routine. He’s not going to get over it just because Montague told him to.”
Undoubtedly, Clay’s offer to drive me home to retrieve Gideon’s sunglasses held an ulterior motive. It was time for a lecture.
“Clay, I know what you’re going to say, but I am being careful.”
“I don’t like Baines trailing along behind you. Promise me you’ll keep your eyes open. And don’t concentrate solely on Baines. Remember, there’s a murderer out there.”
Clay’s words were unnecessary. The nagging mental picture I couldn’t erase of the flies feasting on Trey Rosemont’s body was reminder enough. I didn’t prolong the argument, but fell silent. Trey, of course, connected to the Rosemont estate and to what I learned yesterday while speaking with the telephone crew. I didn’t know how to broach the subject. Not that the lead in the case itself held me back. The resulting questions from Clay did, wondering how I even chanced a meeting with the three-man crew. If answered truthfully, they would reveal a certain vulnerability of mine. A view beneath the surface. An insight leaving the writer open to ridicule.
Biting my lip, I turned to him, offering this preamble. “You know, Clay, I don’t think I could write about any other town but Havens. I need to feel passionate about the topic. Absorbed by the place, like the theater, and now the alley. Almost possessed. I know it sounds crazy, but these places talk to me. Do you know what that’s like?”
Deadly Homecoming at Rosemont Page 23