Murder for Bid

by Furlong Bolliger, Susan

  I jumped down, skidded across my apartment and pulled my blinds immediately. Paranoia began creeping over me like maggots in a trash can. I resisted a strong desire to crawl back under the covers and hide. I chastised myself. I couldn’t live this way—in the shadows of suspect and paranoia. I had to do something. After all, I had a life to live, a business to run, and … oh no! How could I possibly scavenge for cast-offs when everyone within the local viewing area would be looking for a red-headed garbage picker? Something had to be done about this.

  I moved to the fridge for some nourishment. I needed brain power.

  Bypassing the twelve-pack of soda on the second shelf, I reached for a carton of eggs and some light yogurt. Heavy-set? What was that news reporter talking about? I had been doing great on my diet. Well, maybe I did need to shed a few more of the extra pounds that had haunted me since my days of employment with Global Financial Trading, Inc.—aka my wine and chocolate days.

  It was true. I used to be a trader on the Chicago Stock Exchange. My old job was exciting, lucrative, and respectable, but the stress almost killed me. Every evening, I unwound with a glass or two, or three, of wine. Then, in the mornings, I would nurse the wine’s residual effects by carb-loading. There’s nothing like a couple donuts and a sugar-and-caffeine-filled soda to clear the morning fuzz. And my mid-afternoon energy deficits? Well, what better than a candy bar and another calorie-laden soda to perk things up? After a while, all that wine and sugar binging left me bloated, blotchy-faced, and bitchy. Not to mention, fat. I had to leave GFT before I exploded.

  Unfortunately, I still had at least fifteen pounds to go. However, despite the fact that all my jeans were popping at the seams, I decided to forgo my normal early morning exercise routine. I had items to list on my on-line auction, packages to ship, consignment shops to hit, and thanks to Richard Schmidt, a reputation to clear.

  Thankfully I was dating the lead investigator on the case. Sean knew there was no way I was involved with Amanda’s murder, but he was powerless when it came to controlling the press. Who knew how long they’d keep up with this “homeless woman” angle? It wouldn’t be long before someone connected me to the murder scene that morning.

  Although my resources were diminutive compared to those of the police department, I did have a trick or two up my sleeve. There was no reason why I couldn’t contribute vital information to aid in the investigation of Amanda Schmidt’s murder. Actually, I had a few connections that Sean didn’t have. Amanda Schmidt was a well-known socialite in Naperville and as far as the upper crust goes, well, I just happened to be best friends with one of the crustiest. Well, not really best friends, but close enough.

  “Sheila, this is Pippi O’Brien.”

  I heard an impatient sigh on the other end of the line.

  “Sheila, you belong to the Middleton Country Club, don’t you?”

  After a slight pause, Sheila answered in a lofty tone, “Yes, why do you ask?”

  “Does Councilman Richard Schmidt belong to your club?”

  “Yes. Why?” Still lofty.

  Undaunted, I continued in a cheerful voice, “I need to get in for a couple of hours to talk to a few people that may know Schmidt.”

  “Sorry. The club is exclusive, members only,” Sheila replied tightly.

  “Please, Sheila. This is important. My reputation is at stake.”

  “You have a reputation?” she snorted.

  “Listen, Sheila. I have a serious problem. Schmidt saw me outside his house yesterday morning. I was … uh … working. He thinks I might be involved in his wife’s murder somehow.”

  There was a pause and then an arrogant snicker from the other end, “Oh I see, you’re the homeless lady who’s all over the news. Well, that’s what you get for going through other people’s garbage. You should really find a different job. Wait until I tell the girls at my Bunco party this evening. You’ll be the main topic of discussion.”

  “You can’t tell anyone about this, especially not Schmidt. I mean, how long have you known me? You know that I could never kill someone. I was just in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

  “That’s the story of your life, isn’t it? Always in the wrong place at the wrong time. You’re right though, maybe I shouldn’t tell anyone. I wouldn’t want anyone to think that I actually know you. You’re such a mess. Doesn’t it bother you that people think you look like a bag lady?”

  “I don’t always dress that way. I was working.”

  “Whatever.”

  The conversation was winding down fast and I still hadn’t got what I called for. “Don’t you care that I may be a suspect in Amanda Schmidt’s murder? That I’ve been falsely accused and could be wrongly imprisoned for the rest of my life?” I asked.

  “No and it’s not really my problem. I have to run. I have an appointment.”

  “With Dr. Lieberman?” I asked.

  “What?”

  It always paid to have a spare ace tucked away, just in case. “Dr. Lieberman, the plastic surgeon. I saw you being wheeled out of his clinic last February.”

  “That’s not true. I was in Costa Rica for most of February. Honestly, Phillipena, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Costa Rica? Really? Well then, your husband must have been picking up someone else at the clinic. I wonder who?”

  A squirmy sound eschewed from Sheila’s end. “Fine. I had some work done, so what?”

  “Well, I don’t care, but your friends might. Oh, by the way, did you know that my parents purchased several tickets to the library fundraiser next week? They invited me to attend with them. I can hardly wait. I’m sure we’ll run into each other. Why, I bet most of your friends will be there, too. You think being associated with a homeless person is a problem? Wait until they find out you’re a regular with Dr. Nip and Tuck.”

  “That’s blackmail.” Sheila’s breath was coming in short gasps over the line.

  “Yup. Can you get me in?”

  “Even in high school, you were a pain in the butt.”

  “What about it?”

  I could just imagine her nervously tapping salon-acrylic nails as she tried to decide what to do. “Meet me at the coffee shop on Jefferson at eleven o’clock … and wear something decent.”

  *

  Sheila’s words echoed through my mind as I tossed outfit after outfit into a giant heap in the middle of my sofa. Nothing seemed right. When it came to clothing, I had two extremes: grunge, or really grunge. Oh, of course unless you counted the one matronly outfit that I wore to church on Sundays and a few sexy pieces that I save for my occasional dates with Sean. Unfortunately, neither extreme would do. What I needed now was something that fell more in the category of wealthy urban sophisticate.

  In desperation, I headed for my on-line auction stockpile. After rummaging through a few plastic storage boxes, I extracted a designer sweater set, some cotton twill shorts, and a well-worn upscale handbag that I had picked up on a successful raid of cans in the Heights area. Normally I don’t like to waste the gas going so far from my own neighborhood, but sometimes a trip to a high-end neighborhood was worth the extra money.

  After a quick shower and a few swipes with my shaver (I’m sure the clubbers wouldn’t appreciate my Sasquatch legs), I began the transformation from homeless woman to rich urban chic. I hit a slight snag when I discovered that the sheath of the sweater was made for a much bustier woman. No problem, after utilizing a few well-placed safety pins, it fit great. Besides, with the cardigan over it, no one would be able to tell that I was pinned up the back. I paired the sweater with the pair of navy twill shorts that I had snagged for three bucks off a trendy department store clearance rack. They were a wee bit tight around the waist, but that was an easy fix. I ran an elastic pony tail holder through the button hole and secured the ends around the button giving me at least an extra inch of wiggle room. Years of struggling with my weight had taught me a few tricks. As for the purse, a couple of swipes with cleaner and a few squirt
s of hot glue made it almost as good as new.

  That left only shoes. Well, bargain-bin, canvas sneakers would have to do. No one really paid much attention to shoes anyway. I tied my red curls up in a tidy upsweep and put on an oversized pair of cubic zirconium earrings. Who would know they weren’t real diamonds? “Not bad,” I thought, scrutinizing my efforts in the mirror. At least I wouldn’t be mistaken for a bag lady.

  I felt confident with my outfit until meeting up with Sheila at the coffee shop. Of course, she looked like she had just stepped out of a fashion magazine. I truly admired the way she could put an outfit together. Plainly, she didn’t feel the same way about my fashion efforts. This was apparent by the way she appraised me with disgust over the brim of her grand latte while—with obvious effort—restrained herself from making any comment on my choice of club wear. Instead, she clamped her lips into a tight line and motioned for me to follow her to her vehicle. We drove, void of conversation, through Naperville’s shopping district to the nearby rolling residential area boasting expansive treed lots and large brick-front homes. It wasn’t until we had reached the golf club entrance that I dared test Sheila’s mood with a little chit-chat.

  “Does Councilman Schmidt golf here often?” I asked.

  She ignored me.

  “I mean, you must run into him from time to time. I just figured that everyone here must know each other.”

  Sheila whipped her Sequoia into a parking spot and slammed the gear into park. “Look, Phillipena. I’m not sure what you’re up to, but I assume that since you think you’re some sort of Colombo, or Perry Mason…”

  “Perry wasn’t a detective. He was a lawyer.”

  Her eyes rolled. “Whatever. I know you’re checking up on Amanda Schmidt’s death. I don’t know why you don’t just leave it to the police.”

  “Try to understand my position, Sheila. I’m sort of a suspect in the case and my description is all over the news. Think how you would feel if you were in my shoes. Plus, I was at the crime scene. I heard first-hand how she was killed, brutally killed… and it … well, it’s affected me.”

  She shuddered.

  I continued, “Since I’m sort of a suspect, I have my reputation to clear. So, you see, it’s become sort of personal to me. Besides, it’s not that the police can’t handle this; it’s just that they may miss some things. It’s all so political. Especially since Schmidt is a Councilman and so highly respected.”

  “You think that he had something to do with his wife’s murder?” Sheila was fidgeting with a large diamond pendant that rested in the crook of her throat. I was willing to bet that she had never considered cubic zirconium as a viable substitution for the real thing. “Richard Schmidt is an acquaintance of ours. If you do anything to wreck our relationship with him, I will never forgive you.”

  “Don’t worry, Sheila. I won’t mention your name to anyone. However, since you know him, maybe you can tell me if there was, by chance, another woman?”

  “What!”

  “Was Richard Schmidt having an affair?”

  “Absolutely not.”

  I was watching Sheila closely. Her zealous reaction just confirmed what I already knew: Richard Schmidt was having an affair and Sheila suspected it. Women, especially women like Sheila, with their whole life wrapped up in their social status, knew things about people. The problem was that even if Sheila knew something about Schmidt, she would never tell me. She was loyal to her own kind.

  “I’m certain he was having an affair, Sheila,” I boldly stated. “I think he murdered his wife, probably because of his mistress.”

  “What? He doesn’t have a mistress. You’re crazy. That type of thing doesn’t happen around here.”

  “What you mean to say is that this type of thing doesn’t happen in your social circle.”

  “No, that’s not what I mean,” Sheila snapped. “Richard Schmidt is a wonderful man. Why it’s rumored that he may be running for mayor in the next election. His business is good, his health is good.”

  “How was his marriage?”

  “Of course his marriage was good. Why, he and Amanda were married for years. He was devoted to her. Just ask anyone. There’s no way that he was cheating on Amanda. Besides, if he was, I would have heard about it.”

  “I bet.”

  Sheila glared at me, stepped out and slammed the car door. I had to struggle to keep pace with her across the parking lot.

  “Once we’re inside,” Sheila said, staring straight ahead and increasing her stride, “I’m going to make myself scarce. I want as few people as possible to know that we’re here together, clear?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “David would kill me if he knew that I’d brought you here,” she added.

  David was David Scholstein, Sheila’s husband. He was ten years her senior and quite stuffy and not at all attractive; but, very rich. I suspected his wealth and prominence probably made it easy for Sheila to overlook David’s less than desirable qualities. Sheila was quite fortunate to marry into the Scholstein family. Anywhere you stood in Naperville was, at one time, Scholstein family land, sold off to residential and commercial developers for millions. Their roots could be traced back to the original settlers of the area. They were ‘old’ money people.

  “Don’t worry, Sheila. I’m always discreet. David will never know.”

  A weird twisted laugh escaped Sheila’s lips. “Believe me, Phillipena,” she said, glancing sideways, “there’s nothing discreet about you in that getup.”

  I wanted to ask her what she meant by that, but we were inside, and true to her word, Sheila disappeared. I shuffled around for a while, trying to act like whatever a club member acted like. I can’t say that I’d had a lot of experience in that area. The only time I had ever been in a country club was with my high school prom date and I’ve been trying to put that night out of my memory for years.

  After a few minutes of aimless wandering, I made my way to the pro shop.

  “Can I help you, Miss?” I turned to find a sales woman eyeing me with forced friendliness. “We just had a new shipment of apparel come in this morning, perhaps I should show you something,” she said in a sweet voice that didn’t quite match the apparent abhorrence in the scrutiny she was giving my outfit. I couldn’t quite understand what the ugly up-and-down stare was about; I thought I was looking better than I had looked in a long time.

  “Sure,” I replied, matching her sweetness with my best phony smile.

  She directed me to a display table. “Here we have several different styles of sweater sets, yellow is very popular this spring.”

  I made a noncommittal type of noise.

  “Or maybe you’re in the need of some golfing shorts? We have some of the latest fashion designs.”

  “Oh, I like that pair,” I gushed. “Actually, I think Amanda has some just like … oops, I mean had some like this,” I added with a small shudder.

  “Oh dear, were you two close?”

  “I know she enjoyed your shop,” I answered, skirting her question.

  “Yes, she came in all the time. Such a nice woman. What a shame.”

  “A shame,” I reiterated. “I can’t even imagine what Richard will do without her.”

  The sales woman began pointlessly straightening stacks of sweaters. “I can’t stop thinking about it,” she began. “Of course, I shouldn’t really say anything. I’m not supposed to discuss any member’s private business.” She shook her head. “Poor Amanda … it’s so awful.”

  “Just horrible,” I paused before prodding more. “I just can’t help but feel for him, that’s all. He feels guilty because he was here golfing the day it happened.”

  “He told you that?”

  “It’s all so sad,” I said, avoiding a complete lie.

  The sales woman heaved a sigh of pity. “I saw him that day. He seemed so … well, you know, normal. Scary, isn’t it? Just think, you’re going about your normal routine, happy or whatever, and then out of the blue a tragedy s
trikes and changes your whole life.”

  I shook my head in a slow, sad agreement. The woman didn’t need much encouragement to continue.

  “And Jason said that he’d had one of his best rounds of the season.”

  I was lost. “Jason? Jason who?”

  The woman’s eyes narrowed.

  I tried to cover my goof, “Oh, sure. I know who you’re talking about. Jason, I’ve met him. He’s a nice guy … a great golfer,” I gushed.

  She wasn’t buying it. “I can’t say that I’ve seen you around here before.” Her tone had turned chilly.

  “I’m new here,” I responded quickly.

  “Who’s your sponsor?”

  “My sponsor?” Did this lady think I was an Alcoholics Anonymous member?

  Suddenly her mood shifted. “Have you decided on a color?” she asked curtly.

  I saw no need to linger; apparently, she had figured me out. “I’ve changed my mind, thank you.”

  “You’ve changed your mind?” The woman took a few steps in my direction. “You know, I was just getting ready to return a call to Larry. You know Larry, right?”

  I shook my head. She was in my face now. In fact, our noses were so close we could almost do an Eskimo kiss.

  “Laaaary,” she replied slowly. “The head of security. Now which color did you want, so I can wrap that up for you and you can be on your way?” Again, her sweet tone returned as she gestured like a game show girl toward the table of sweater sets.

  I feebly picked up a red set in my size, “This one.”

  “Oh, good choice,” she cooed. Maybe some shorts to go with it? What’s your size?”

  I whispered my size and watched her pick out a pair of shorts. With my head down, I followed her like a scolded puppy, to the cash register.

  “That’ll be two hundred and twenty nine dollars,” she said.

  Two hundred and twenty-nine dollars? That was more than I had ever spent on clothing in my life!

  I started to balk, but the snake slid her hand across the counter and placed it right next to a multi-line phone eyeing me with an ‘I-double-dare-you’ stare.