I did know. Skip went to his first funeral when he was Maddie’s age, for his father, who died in the first Gulf War. That seemed enough to ask of a guy.
“I’m glad you’re back,” I said, giving her a hug.
“Thanks, Gerry. Skip doesn’t talk much about cases with me, as you know, but the rumor going around is that people think your friend Rosie Norman murdered her old boy-friend?”
I took it as a good sign that June posed the idea as a question. I was sure all of Rosie’s customers would have an equally hard time believing something so horrible about the woman who loved books and reading enough to open her own shop in a small town. Rosie had reading groups for all ages and was tied into the Lincoln Point library’s literacy program, where I tutored GED subjects. I knew she lost money giving students generous discounts on any text related to the GED program.
The question remained, however—why hadn’t she presented herself to the police? To my nephew, in fact, which should have made it as easy as it could get.
And where was she now, anyway?
I’d left messages on Linda’s and Rosie’s cell phones inviting them to the impromptu party, presumably after Rosie talked to the police. I hadn’t heard from either of them. Nor from Skip, either, in the last couple of hours.
Were they all on the run?
Henry and Taylor were due to arrive any minute. I wasn’t eager to have Henry see my crafts room with its amateur miniature projects. He had shown no tendency toward being judgmental but I was conscious of the comparison between my crafts and his wonderfully artistic woodworking.
I decided my Bronx apartment might be an acceptable piece to show him. Ken had built the miniature structure, a replica of our first residence (a term that glorified the six-hundred-and-fifty-square-foot flat) and Maddie and I worked on the interior off and on. I was proudest of its lived-in look, with “clothes” peeking from the drawers of a messy dresser in the bedroom and a “dirty” towel hung over the bathtub. Maddie wanted cracker crumbs on the kitchen counter, so we’d found a way to model that, too.
Beverly caught me brushing my hair in my bedroom. Served me right for leaving the door open.
“I know what you’re going through,” she said, with a wide smile. Her red (augmented a bit by chemistry) Porter hair looked beautifully layered as usual. “Maddie told me about Henry Baker. I don’t think I ever met him. Which is a good start. It means he never got a traffic ticket, violated the seat belt law, or abandoned his car on a city street.”
I laughed at Beverly’s reference to her job as LPPD’s much-loved civilian volunteer. “What could Maddie have said? There’s nothing to tell.”
“Uh-huh,” Beverly said, stepping behind me and massaging my shoulders.
I didn’t know how much I needed it.
We’d all decided to give Nick plants to take home for his garden, in memory of his grandfather. Nick was an avid gardener and seemed genuinely moved by the gesture.
“This is just what I need,” Nick said, the sweep of his arms encompassing all of us and the plants, too. “The best comfort is another great family.”
Henry and Taylor had contributed to the array, arriving with two pots of orange and yellow marigolds, one for Nick’s garden, and one for mine.
“How did you know about our plan for Nick?” I asked him.
“You know how it is. Maddie told Taylor; Taylor told me.” He shrugged, as if every man was quick to pick up on social protocol.
It was so delightfully noisy as seven of us passed salad, pizza, and drinks around my large dining room table, I almost missed the doorbell.
Maddie, always first to jump up for a phone call or a knock, ran to the door and came back with Linda.
“It’s Mrs. Reed,” she said, bounding back to the dining room. She pulled a chair from the kitchen into a spot at the table. “You can sit next to me, Mrs. Reed.”
Maybe I was just easy to please, but I felt a burst of pride—it was a small accommodation that Maddie had made for our guest, but she’d thought of it on her own and made a friend feel welcome.
Linda, in anything but a bounce, trundled into the room. She looked haggard and exhausted, but managed a small smile for everyone and took the seat suggested by Maddie.
“How’s your mother, Henry?” she asked.
“Not too bad, thanks, Linda.”
I guessed that Henry’s mother was in one of the three assisted living facilities that Linda had worked in over the years, but not the Mary Todd, or it would have been Henry asking the question of a dedicated nurse.
Was that a twinge of envy I felt—that Linda seemed to know more about Henry’s family than I did? Like Beverly, she knew almost everyone in town; in Linda’s case, either as patients, or as children of patients. On my side, I knew only those with an ALHS diploma obtained between three and thirty years ago.
I wondered if everyone at the table could tell how distracted I was, my perpetual state it seemed, since Friday night. I kept asking myself, Where’s Rosie? as if a corner of my mind might shout out an answer. It was clear to me that Linda was dying to tell me whatever she knew of Rosie’s current location. We exchanged glances frequently, with slightly lifted eyebrows and twitching facial muscles.
Before we had the chance to chat in private, however, my landline rang.
I excused myself and took the call in the kitchen. I stretched the cord to the back hallway, out of earshot. It was testimony to how involved I was in the case that I hoped it would be either Skip or Rosie.
It was only my son. Richard and Mary Lou called from Lake Tahoe, elevation approximately seven thousand feet, to see how things were going in the lowlands.
I was glad my call-waiting signal came before I passed the phone on to Maddie, who was prone to giving too much information to her parents.
“Can we call you back, Mary Lou? I should take this other call,” I said. Not my usual telephone protocol, but once I recognized Rosie’s cell phone number, my son and daughter-in-law were immediately relegated to second place.
“No problem,” Mary Lou said. “We’re in for the night.” I pictured their cozy retreat on the beautiful lake, far from the murky waters of Lincoln Point.
I clicked the button on my phone and heard a cough and a sniffle.
“I can’t do it, Gerry,” Rosie said. “Not until tomorrow afternoon.”
I didn’t have to ask why she needed the extra time. Rosie wanted to attend the memorial for David and was worried that she’d be arrested if she went to the station today. I couldn’t blame her for wanting to pay her last respects first.
“Where will you be until then?” I asked.
“It’s probably better if you don’t know.”
I couldn’t argue with that.
Linda stayed long enough for me to pull her aside and let her know that Rosie called. She breathed a sigh of relief.
“I didn’t know how I was going to tell you that she escaped,” she said. She threw up her hands. “She’s wearing my clothes, Gerry.” As if that was the biggest problem in either of their lives.
Beverly, Nick, and June followed soon after Linda departed. Linda did seem less tense than when she’d arrived with her burden of information about Rosie’s change of plan.
It seemed strange not to be able to brainstorm with Beverly, but her life had changed for the better and I was happy for that. At the door, she leaned over and whispered in my ear. “Good luck,” she said, a slight nod in the direction of Henry, who was being led by Maddie and Taylor toward the crafts room.
“No, no. It’s not like that,” I assured Beverly. I waved at Nick, waiting at the car, and at June, turning up her driveway. “Henry and I have a lot in common, and we might become friends,” I said.
“Uh-huh,” she said, her grin spreading. “Well, let me know how that goes, okay?”
I hoped my face would return to its normal color by the time I got to the crafts room.
Maddie seemed to be doing well with her tour of my crafts room. I joined them
and took in the utter disarray, with more works in progress than finished pieces. In one corner was a room box, newly painted in blue and gold, the colors of the University of California, Berkeley. (Richard, formerly a big fan of their football team, was now torn since he worked at Stanford, their great rival.) The scene was on its way to being a miniature dorm room. I hoped to have it finished for one of my GED students whose daughter would be starting at Cal as a freshman in a couple of weeks, the first in her family to go to college.
My Christmas scene, the one I was working on for our Alasita project, stood pitiful and boring in the center of the table. Sure, the stockings hanging on the faux brick fireplace looked decent, especially after I’d nearly lost the tips of my fingers embroidering our names on the tops, and I’d started to add toys—a wagon and a large (relatively speaking) doll. But it needed something to make it different from the low-end greeting cards of the season, sold in all the chain card stores. I didn’t have any ideas about what that could be.
Here and there on the work surfaces in my crafts room were tiny easy chairs piled with miniature books. Lamps, coat racks, teacups, and snacks were scattered around each chair, the raw material for separate scenes, about seven in all. My process was to add a rug or an afghan and other accessories to the centerpiece chairs and let the arrangements sit for a while before I committed to them. I liked to look at the various compositions over a period of days or weeks and see which combinations looked best. Once a particular design stood the test of time, I sealed it with glue, forever.
With Henry standing next to me and Maddie prattling on about each scene, the unfinished room boxes looked even more pathetic. As did the chaotic assembly of pieces of yarn, toothpicks, body parts (of dolls), and fabric scraps.
When Henry turned to address me, I wanted to close my ears against the remark.
“I’ve never seen such a happy and creative workshop,” he said. I wished I had the presence of mind to say “thank you.”
Henry fingered a small, white plastic cylinder, one of dozens on my table. “These silica gels are everywhere. They come with everything I purchase lately, even a pair of shoes. Are you collecting them?”
In answer, I reached behind to my sparsely populated “finished” shelf and picked up three of the tiny cylinders, known formally as moisture absorbers. I’d printed food labels from an Internet site of “printies” and wrapped them around the cylinders. I painted the top gray to complete the fiction.
“Presto. We have cans of diced tomatoes, sliced beets, and marinated peach halves,” I said, wondering why in the world I’d said “presto.” Henry’s presence seemed to bring out unusual responses in me. “I was determined to do something with these, so I’m collecting them to put on pantry shelves in my next general store or kitchen.”
Henry shook his head. In admiration, it seemed. “I can’t wait to see that.”
“Wow,” Taylor said.
Maddie beamed, and I felt a little less ashamed of my crafts room.
“I’ll tuck you in,” I told Maddie, who was sweet enough to let me use the phrase long after she’d outgrown it. Eleven o’clock bedtime was much too late for a “school” night, I knew, but I was a weak grandmother. Also a sneaky one. I’d conveniently waited until now to tell Maddie about her parents’ phone call. Buying time.
“I didn’t think you’d want to tuck me in tonight,” she said, a sheepish look on her adorable, freckled face. “I thought you might be mad at me.”
“Were you mad at me?” I asked, perched on the side of her bed. She always used her father’s old bedroom on her visits and had been sorry to see his original preteen bed go a couple of years ago when it became nothing more than a board and a few feathers.
“You mean, did I give Uncle Skip the printouts because I was mad at you?” Maddie asked. “Maybe a little.” She pouted. Still adorable. “You kept leaving me and going off to do interesting things.”
Like being run down and having my purse stolen. Maddie didn’t know about the former incident, and was only vaguely aware of the latter, since Duns Scotus’s gallant security man, Big Blue, had interrupted her sleep.
“I thought you were having a good time with Taylor and the other kids in the program. And you had a lot of homework to do on your laptop for camp.”
Something like “Pssshht” came out at the mention of homework. Apparently the little Porter genius could manage a lot more than homework on any given day.
“You know I love to investigate with you. Then even in Lincoln Point, you dropped me in a pool.” She hardly finished the sentence without breaking up in laughter.
“Sometimes it’s too dangerous, sweetheart. And I do tell you everything eventually.” Almost everything.
I could always tell when Maddie’s waking minutes were numbered. Her speech slurred a bit and her eyelids fluttered, as if she were trying valiantly not to miss anything. She looked now as though her time was about up. I kissed her forehead and got up to leave.
Early as it was for those of us who didn’t have school or camp in the morning, I was ready to turn in myself.
“Grandma?”
“Yes?”
“I didn’t give everything to Uncle Skip.”
I perked up. “What else do you have, sweetheart?”
But Maddie had nodded off for good, leaving me hanging.
Which was just as well, since I could hear my phone ringing in the other room.
A phone call this late at night wasn’t likely to be a casual “hi” or a quick chat to set up a lunch date. Or Cindy at Cooper’s in Benicia calling to tell me the miniature armoire and new brand of glue I’d ordered had come in. I’d already returned Richard and Mary Lou’s call. Who else was left?
I recognized Skip’s cell phone number, then his voice.
“Remember I told you I’d have more evidence soon?” he said. “Well, that’s what the meeting was about this afternoon. So, now I really need to see Rosie, and if you really don’t know where she is, I’ll have to put out a warrant to bring her in for questioning.”
My heart skipped. “What’s the new evidence, Skip?” “What does it matter?”
“Skip?”
He let out a loud sigh. “It’s about the glue.”
“The glue?” Was this, after all, a call from Cooper’s?
“We believe that the glue Rosie used on the things in the little box matches the glue used . . . elsewhere.”
Things in the little box? When this case was closed, I’d have to give Skip a refresher course on miniaturists’ jargon. “Elsewhere? You mean at the crime scene?”
“In a manner of speaking.”
Something was off about my nephew’s communication skills tonight, but that conversation, too, would have to be put on hold. There were more pressing questions. “How in the world did you get that information so fast? You’re always reminding us how crime labs are understaffed and underfunded, how they don’t come up with results in a jiffy like on television or in crime fiction.”
“That’s absolutely true. Some of the fancy equipment you see doesn’t even exist, let alone in regular police labs. And the backlog is beyond anyone’s imagining.”
Uh-oh, I opened one of Skip’s favorite topics. I had to move fast. “So what happened here? It’s Sunday night, maybe forty-eight hours since David was murdered and you have a DNA match for glue?”
“Cute, Aunt Gerry. Glue DNA. But, hey, go figure. They train the lab rookies on weekends and this looked like a more interesting, quick little task than the other three hundred jobs in backup. That’s why it’s preliminary, but it’s enough to pick Rosie up for questioning. Now, do you or do you not know where she is?”
“I don’t, honestly. But . . .”
“But?”
I couldn’t take the chance that Rosie wouldn’t show up tomorrow afternoon as she promised. She wasn’t herself. “I know where she’ll be tomorrow,” I said. “And you probably do, too.”
“Why would I?”
“I assume you’
re going to the memorial for David? I thought cops always went to memorial services, expecting the killer to show up. Or is that another myth like the modern crime lab with instant turnaround time?”
“The funeral’s not until Saturday.”
I told him about the special service on Monday, to give out-of-town classmates the chance to pay their respects.
“You’re going to earn a badge, yet,” Skip said.
“Not if it means working this late all the time.”
Chapter 13
What grandmother takes advantage of a little girl?
Much as the idea appealed to me, I stopped short of withholding breakfast from Maddie if she didn’t tell me what it was she’d held back from her uncle Skip.
“Remember, just before you fell asleep you told me you discovered something else while you were searching the Internet?”
Maddie grinned, sedately, since her mouth was full of a very bad sugarcoated cereal that Mary Lou would never buy. “I was going to use it later.”
“You mean to strike a better bargain?” I asked, working my tickling magic on her skinny torso at the same time.
My finger work had the desired effect. Maddie went to her room and came back with a sheaf of papers that looked like e-mail printouts. A quick look showed they were all from David Bridges, to various contractors and subcontractors. I recognized some of the same names that were on the material she’d given to Skip. I tried not to show my disappointment that what Maddie had kept from Skip, to give to me, was just more of the same, except that it was correspondence about the contract awards.
I asked my routine question of the whiz kid. “How did you get these?”
Maddie shrugged. Just another day in the life of a young detective. “It was part of what was there, like official correspondence for the awards, I guess. I figured if I gave some to you and some to Uncle Skip, we’d all be working together,” she said. “That’s the only reason I didn’t give everything to the same person.”
Mourning In Miniature Page 14