The Unraveling of Violeta Bell mm-3

by C. R. Corwin

  “That’s it?”

  “That’s it. No insurance policies. No stocks or annuities. No CDs or savings accounts. Just a checking account dwindling toward zero.”

  “Dwindling? So she used to have more?”

  Grant showed me a stack of printouts from the First Sovereignty Bank. It showed very few deposits but oodles of cash withdrawals. Over the past eight years she’d gone through $385,000. “Any tax records?” I asked.

  “That’s the fun part,” he said. “She loyally paid her city taxes, but she never paid a penny in state or federal taxes. No sales taxes. No income taxes.”

  I went back to her will. In it she requested that her remains be cremated. She named one of her fellow Queens of Never Dull as her executor. “Why do you think she chose Gloria McPhee?” I asked.

  Grant shrugged like the Italian he wasn’t. “They were friends.”

  I scowled like the librarian I was. “Of course you’re aware that Mrs. McPhee is on the art museum board of trustees.”

  He pretended to be surprised. “No kidding? We’ll have to look into that!”

  I was trying to see what else he might have in that folder. “Are those photographs of the murder scene?”

  “Believe me, Maddy. You don’t want to see these.”

  I impatiently wriggled my fingers at him.

  He handed me the photos.

  There were ten of them in all. They all showed Violeta sprawled out dead on the exercise mat. They were taken from different angles and different distances. I tried to be hard-boiled, the way cops on TV always are. “Tiny bullet holes,” I said.

  “Homicide-wise, a. 22 isn’t a very reliable weapon,” Grant said. “Sort of a BB-gun on steroids. The assailant apparently understood that. Three quick shots at point-blank range right in the heart there. And only three.”

  I knew where he was going. “And the killer wrapped the gun with Violeta’s bathrobe to muffle the sound.”

  “That’s right,” said Grant. “Small caliber gun. Middle of the night. Basement. Big, fluffy bathrobe wrapped around and around just to make sure. The assailant was very careful that nobody saw anything or heard anything.”

  “And nobody did?”

  “Just the asswipe pulling the trigger.”

  I continued studying the photos. Violeta was flat on her back. Her arms and legs were spread-eagle, sort of, suggesting she just fell back dead without struggling or suffering. “You think she went pretty quick?”

  “Died instantly, as they say.”

  Dale had correctly reported that Violeta was wearing only her underwear when her body was found. He had not, however, reported that it was a fancy red bra and matching panties. “She wasn’t-”

  Grant answered brusquely, “There’s no evidence of this crime being sexual in any way.”

  “Well, that’s something at least,” I heard myself say. I handed the photographs back to him. I moved on to another subject. “So, what did you think when Ariel Wilburger-Gowdy bailed Eddie out? You couldn’t have been overjoyed.”

  “Bad guys getting out on bail stopped bothering me long ago,” he said. He put the folder back in his desk drawer. Closed the drawer with his foot. “Anything else the Hannawa Police Department can do for you today, Mrs. Sprowls?”

  I was not disappointed that our chat was over. Between the black coffee and the damn air conditioning, I was fighting a losing battle with my bladder. I put the Cinderella mug on the corner of his desk. “I’m sure it has nothing to do with nothing, but are you looking into that queen of Romania nonsense?”

  Grant knew me too well. “Which means you are.”

  “Not exactly looking,” I said. “But it is interesting, isn’t it? A few days after she publicly claims to be the queen she’s dead.”

  It was clear from Grant’s patronizing smirk that the Hannawa Police Department was not giving much credence to her claim. “I think this case has a lot more to do with good old, garden variety American greed than European history,” he said. “But if you learn something interesting-”

  “You’ll be the first to know.” I stood up to leave. He remained in his chair, swiveling back and forth. “It was good seeing you, Maddy.”

  “It was good seeing you.” I was telling the truth and I think he was, too.

  Grant stood up now. He stretched his arms until his shirttail popped out. He walked me to the elevator. “You’re going to behave this time?”

  “I always behave,” I said. “Sometimes badly, but I behave.”

  “I don’t want you getting yourself into trouble.”

  I knew he was getting at something. “And how might I do that?”

  He pushed the down button for me. “Oh, I don’t know-illegally entering a crime scene maybe.”

  “That’s illegal now, is it?”

  He smiled like a mischievous elf. “Don’t let this go to your noodle, Maddy, but we didn’t know about those skeleton keys.”

  I rode the elevator to the main floor. Used the ladies’ room. Successfully spun myself through the revolving doors into a blast of hot wind. It felt as if The Almighty, for some reason, had decided to punish our sinful city with a giant hair dryer. I slipped past Roscoe Blough. Headed back to the paper.

  Detective Grant is one of my favorite human beings. But between you and me, I’m always relieved when our jousts are over. He’s just too good a match. He’s just as willful as I am. Just as unpredictable. Just as exasperating. And that morning I knew he’d bested me in all three. He not only knew I was sticking my shnozola in another murder, as he put it, he didn’t much care that I planned to stick it in even farther. Which meant he wanted me to stick it in farther. Which meant he had his own doubts about Eddie French’s guilt. Good gravy! He didn’t even care that I’d stuck my head inside the fitness room at the Carmichael House. Which meant he’d hidden a video camera somewhere. No doubt to catch the murderer returning to the scene of the crime. To retrieve or erase some little piece of evidence, maybe. He even volunteered that his department didn’t know about the skeleton key in the fire extinguisher box. His way of admitting that he needed me, you think? And how about all that stuff he told me about Violeta Bell? No birth certificate. Fake Social Security number. All that. It sure confirmed Gabriella’s suspicions. Not to mention mine.

  I reached the paper. Pushed my face against the red-hot glass door so Al Tosi, our rickety security guard, could see me. He buzzed me in. Called after me as I drooped past him toward the elevator. “Scorcher today, no?”

  9

  Friday, July 21

  I spent the afternoon redoing Eric’s mark-up of Thursday’s paper, making sure he heard my cussing. Actually, he hadn’t done a bad job at all, but Morgue Mama does have a reputation to protect, doesn’t she? Anyway, just when I was gathering up my stuff to get the hell out of there, Bob Averill appeared in front of my desk eating a Snickers bar. The wrapper was pulled back like a banana skin. “Everything hunky-dory, Maddy?”

  “As hunky-dory as it was yesterday, Bob.” It was the umpteenth time he’d pestered me about my progress that week. He always did so without mentioning Eddie French, or Violeta Bell, or anything else relating to the case. I suppose he figured just flapping around me like a bat was intimidation enough.

  He tried again. “Doing anything interesting this weekend?”

  “Hopefully not,” I said. I headed for the stairs.

  He fell in alongside me. He’d finished the candy bar. Now he was licking the chocolate off the wrapper. “Suzie told me you signed up for a week’s vacation.”

  He was about ready to implode with frustration and I was loving it. “Actually, I’m thinking of changing it to two weeks.”

  “Two weeks?”

  “I’ve got five coming.”

  The great man crumbled. He put his hand on my shoulder to stop me. He dug his chin onto his chest. “Maddy, please,” he whimpered, “Jeannie Salapardi has been calling every night.”

  I patted his hand. Removed it from my shoulder. “That must
be terribly annoying,” I said. “Have a great weekend, Bob.”

  I fled into the stairwell. Hurried down to the parking deck. I got into my car and got the hell out of there. I didn’t even take time to turn on the air conditioning.

  My intention that afternoon was to go straight home to James, Alex Trebek, and the last fillet of that tilapia Ike had brought me in lieu of flowers or candy. Instead, I caught myself taking a left turn onto Hawthorne Avenue.

  Hawthorne is very typical of the streets surrounding Meriwether Square. It’s paved with bumpy bricks. It’s lined with big oaks. There’s not a house on it built later than 1925. I pulled to the curb just shy of the dilapidated monstrosity that Eddie French called home. My intention was simply to see where he lived and how he lived. Before I found the courage to actually knock on his door on some future date. It’s a tactic I often employ. Years ago when I was pursuing the assistant librarian’s job at The Herald-Union, I circled the building like a buzzard for two hours before going inside to apply.

  According to the research Eric gave me, the house was divided into four apartments. Two down and two up. Eddie had rented 2A for the past nine years. Dale’s story said the police found traces of blood on his porch. That meant Eddie’s apartment was atop an outside stairway. Unfortunately, I could see no such stairway from my car. No doubt it was at the back of the house. I got out of my car and crept up the driveway. I’d never heard such noisy gravel in my life.

  I reached the back of the house. I snuggled against the siding and peeked around the corner. Most of the backyard had been turned into parking spaces for the tenants. Eddie’s cab was parked there. So was a rusty Hausenfelter bread truck. So was a shiny silver Volvo. It’s not unusual to see Volvos in Meriwether Square-there are oodles of them in fact-but it was a bit surprising to see one less than twenty years old.

  “You need help?”

  It was not exactly the voice of God. But it was a voice from above. From the small deck atop the wooden stairs that zigzagged up the side of the house. It belonged to Eddie French. I recognized his gray whiskers and his rumpled Woolybears ballcap. He was sitting sideways on the railing, flicking cigarette ashes into a coffee cup. I had no choice but to turn my scouting mission into a full-fledged visit. “Mr. French?”

  His voice was sleepy. Nasal. “In the flesh, madam.”

  Gabriella in her ignorance had said he talked like an old hippie. Actually, it was more of a fifties’ hipster voice, sculptured more by black coffee and nicotine than funny mushrooms and Pepsi-Cola. “I hope you don’t mind me dropping by,” I said, before realizing I hadn’t introduced myself yet. “I’m Maddy Sprowls, by the way.”

  He’d heard of me. “Oh yes-the buttinsky responsible for my current conundrum.”

  I advanced to the bottom of the stairway. “I am somewhat responsible,” I admitted.

  He flicked a caterpillar of ashes into his cup. “And I am resoundedly irresponsible,” he said.

  It took me a few seconds to translate his particular brand of English. Even then I wasn’t 100 percent sure of what he meant. I eased myself onto the first step. “For Violeta Bell’s murder, you mean?”

  “Is there somebody else I didn’t kill?”

  Had I actually planned on confronting Eddie that afternoon, I would have been prepared for his hostility. But I hadn’t, and I wasn’t. I found myself stammering like a little girl who’d just been caught drawing on the wall with her mother’s bright red lipstick. I moved up another step. “No, no. Of course not, no. And there are people who don’t think you killed Ms. Bell, either.”

  He flipped his spent cigarette in my direction. “Including the diminutive apparition sneaking up my backstairs?”

  Before I could answer, the screen door to his apartment banged open. A woman came out. She was fiftyish. Impeccably and expensively dressed in white slacks, a melon crepe tee and designer flip-flops. She, too, was wearing a baseball cap, a bright pink one. A perky blond ponytail stuck out the back. She just had to be the owner of the silver Volvo. “Are you Jeannie?” I asked.

  She pressed her palms on the railing and leaned out. Even from down there I could see her jaw muscles tighten. “I’m Mrs. Salapardi,” she said. “Can I help you?”

  Eddie filled her in before I could open my mouth. “That, sis, is Bob Averill’s ace in the hole.”

  That changed everything. Suddenly Jeannie was smiling like Glinda the Good Witch, beckoning me to come up with both hands. “Maddy, I’ve been dying to meet you.” She said when I reached the top. “Just dying.”

  “Bob told you about me, did he?”

  Eddie remained perched on the railing. Jeannie warmly shook my hand with both of hers. “He sure did,” she cooed.

  I could tell by the twitches at the tips of her phony baloney smile that he hadn’t mentioned how frumpily unimpressive I was. The only way to counter her correct impression of me-and hide the fact that after two weeks of snooping I hadn’t learned a damn thing that would prove her brother’s innocence-was to get right to business. “So Mr. French, is that old bread truck down there the vehicle you allegedly used to haul those antiques from Violeta Bell’s condominium?”

  Eddie splayed his hand across his heart. He pushed an opened pack of Newports to the top of his shirt pocket. He bowed his head low and pulled out a cigarette with his lips. A very cool move. “So say the gendarmes.”

  “You do own it, then?”

  He struck a stick match on his fingernail and lit his cigarette. Filled his lungs with smoke. Suppressed a cough. “No one owns it that I know. It sort of belongs to the neighborhood. Anybody needs a short haul, there it is. Keys in the ashtray. Hopefully enough liquefied brontosaurus in the tank to get you there and back.”

  Knowing Meriwether Square as I did, I knew he could very well be telling the truth. “What about the license plates?”

  Smoke rolled out of his nostrils. “That is the metaphysical part of the mystery. New stickers appear every April like tulips through the cold, cold earth.”

  I knew he could be telling the truth about that, too. “Exactly where did the police find that blood?”

  Eddie pointed to a faint chalk circle on the floor of the deck, about a foot from the welcome mat. I kneeled next to it. Inside the circle was a dark brown blotch. When I got my nose close enough, I could see the faint zigzag of tennis shoe treads. I looked over at Eddie’s feet. He was wearing a spotless pair of white Nikes.

  Eddie clicked his toes together. “Brand f-ing new they are,” he said, in an exaggerated British accent. “The bobbies in their ‘aste confiscated all me bloody footwear, they did.”

  “And was there actually blood on one of your shoes?” I asked.

  “I’m sure you can find all kinds of stuff on anybody’s shoes,” Eddie said. “Life being the untidy juggernaut it is.”

  “So, there was blood?”

  “So sayeth the men in blue,” said Eddie. “But I sternly cautioned them not to jump to conclusions. That if indeed it proved to be blood, then there was a high probability that said blood did not dribble from the veins or arteries of a bipedal primate.”

  I was pretty sure I was following him. “Not human?”

  “Eddie’s got a cat,” Jeannie explained.

  He corrected her. “It ain’t my cat. Sort of a neighborhood cat. I put out a can of tuna every once in a while. And the grateful beast rewards me with a variety of headless beasts. Rats. Mice. Moles. Rabbits. Right here at my door.”

  I studied the stain again. “That’s animal blood, then?”

  “I’d be surprised otherwise,” Eddie said.

  “Why don’t we go inside and talk,” Jeannie said.

  The living room in Eddie’s apartment was exactly what you’d expect. Hot. Stuffy. Darkened by cheap, half-pulled shades. There was a plaid sofa decorated with an Indian blanket. A rocking chair stacked with newspapers. A bookcase crammed full of paperbacks. A sisal rug long overdue for the city’s landfill.

  Jeannie offered me the rocker. Eddie
dutifully removed the newspapers. They sat on the sofa. He with his cigarette and coffee cup. She with her twitching smile. “Bob seems pretty confident you can find the murderer,” Jeannie said.

  “For all I know the murderer is sitting across from me, polluting my lungs with second-hand smoke,” I said, rocking back and forth.

  Jeannie was stunned. Her voice jumped two octaves. “I thought you were on board with Eddie’s innocence?”

  Eddie was merely amused. The result, I suppose, of being interrogated by the police a time or two. “Chill, darlin’,” he said, patting his sister’s knee. “She’s good-cop-bad-copping me, that’s all. Playing both parts with aplomb.”

  With no idea what I should say, or should not say, I blundered straight ahead. “Everybody knows about your gun phobia,” I said. “So there’s no need to get into that. And it’s pretty clear your alibi for the night of the murder isn’t worth a hill of beans. Otherwise you wouldn’t have been arrested.”

  Jeannie immediately protested. “He was only arrested for the antiques.”

  “Antiques from the condo of a dead woman,” I barked. “Your brother has got to take this thing seriously. We may be only a few days from a murder charge here.”

  The guilt of blowing smoke in my face finally got to Eddie, apparently. He smashed his cigarette into the cup. He told me what presumably he’d told the police. “Those antiques were gifts. She gave them to me approximately two weeks before her unfortunate demise. Perhaps the reason no one saw me load them into that truck I don’t own is because it was late at night. The reason it was late at night is because the economic realities of my hardscrabble, law-abiding life force me to work from early morning to long after more affluent people are asleep. Hannawa ain’t exactly New York cab-driving-wise.” He sniffed the smoke wafting from his coffee cup. “The long and short of it is that I did not kill the lady and I did not steal her precious shit.”

  I told him that I’d seen the police department’s list of the antiques they found in his apartment. “Why would she give you all those expensive things?”