Mourning In Miniature

by Margaret Grace

I hoped she caught the sadness in my sigh. “There’s someone waiting for me. In fact that’s why I don’t have Maddie with me.” I laughed and gave her a playful poke in the shoulder. “Do you think Maddie would ever let me come here without her if I weren’t on my way to a very serious meeting?”

  Her face brightened. She got it. “I guess not. Maybe we’ll see you later.”

  “For sure,” I said.

  I caught Henry’s eye and waved. He gave me a thin smile and waved back, then put his head down and turned his attention to a pile of whipped cream.

  I left the shop, still without a sip of malt. I felt I owed Henry an explanation, though I wasn’t sure why. It wasn’t as if I’d broken a date. Maybe because I wished I’d get a chance to.

  I recovered quickly from my stress over Henry, and by the time I reached my car, half the shake was gone.

  I placed the rest of my lunch in the cup holder, but only after one more long drag on the straw. I threw my purse on the passenger seat over my jacket and prepared to start the engine. After the fact, I noticed something under my jacket. The sound my purse made indicated it fell on something other than soft cloth. I looked over and saw a manila folder under the jacket, so flat it seemed empty. The folder certainly wasn’t mine. Had Ben left it? By mistake? On purpose? No, I was sure I would have seen it, one way or the other, if he’d had it. Besides, Ben and I had already shared so much (a big wink here), he wouldn’t have delivered this in secret.

  I checked my rearview mirror and my backseat. I wanted no more surprises. I lifted my purse and jacket with care and stared at the folder. Maybe someone mistakenly dropped it in my car, thinking it was someone else’s vehicle.

  The biggest question was, why was I being so skittish over a simple-looking item from an office supply store? I grabbed the folder and opened it. One sheet of paper lay there, faceup. A bank record of some sort.

  I picked up the record, white with a pale blue grid marking rows and columns. It looked nothing like the statement I received monthly from my own bank. There was no name to indicate whose record I was looking at, but long rows of numbers across the top. An account number? A code for the originating bank? One thing was clear, even for someone as finance-challenged as I was, some very large deposits had been made to the account, sometimes only days apart.

  Why me? I asked the universe in front of me. Apparently I’d been appointed to follow up on a potential financial motive for David Bridges’s death.

  One good thing about this piece of evidence, if that’s what it was—as much as I’d snooped around and picked up things here and there in my questionably legal wanderings, there was no way Skip could blame me for this wrinkle.

  I had neither broken nor entered into any establishment illegally, and I had an excellent alibi for when the folder was placed on the seat of my car.

  Chapter 16

  The timing was perfect. I arrived at the police station just as I was draining the last bit of chocolate shake from the cup. Since I was alone in my car, I indulged in a final, loud sip, the gurgling sound worthy of a junior high cafeteria.

  The first person I saw in the sprawling, shabby waiting area was Larry Esterman, Rosie’s father. I sensed that I was about to take advantage of a distraught parent to try to continue my investigation. For his own daughter’s good, I reminded myself.

  We greeted each other with the usual pleasantries of people who don’t see each other very often. I told him he looked good, and he did the same for me.

  This seemed to be the week of reunions and the platitudes that came with them.

  Larry got quickly to what was on both our minds. “I can’t get any information on when they’ll be done with Rosie,” he told me.

  I thought it best to clear this up before I quizzed him on his Callahan and Savage dealings. I figured if I helped him with facts on how Rosie was doing, he’d be more receptive to my questions.

  I checked out the officer on duty. What luck. Drew Blackstone had his head down, engrossed in paperwork, so we hadn’t noticed each other yet. Sign-in at the LPPD was required only if a person wanted to get past the desk to the interview rooms, offices, holding cells, and other “official places” beyond.

  Drew, a former student, was next in line on my list of favorites to catch on duty when I needed a favor, after Lavana and all the other young women who were Skip’s groupies.

  “Wait here,” I said to Larry and crossed the linoleum floor to the high front desk.

  “Drew, nice to see you,” I said, with my best smile forward, reaching to shake the large man’s hand.

  “Hey, Mrs. Porter. You, too.”

  “I’ve been meaning to give you a recommendation for a book for little Davey. I know how he loves to read. If you have a pen and paper I’ll write it down for you.”

  “Oh, terrific, Mrs. Porter. And he’s not so little anymore. He’s going on nine.”

  “Almost as old as my granddaughter. As a matter of fact, it was Rosie Norman who put me onto this book because she knows I’m always on the lookout for good children’s literature.” I wrote the name and author of the book, addressing Drew at the same time. “I guess you know Mr. Esterman, Rosie’s father, over there waiting for his daughter.”

  “Yeah, he’s been really patient, not like some other people nagging about how much longer, like, every ten minutes.”

  I smiled. “He’s a nice man. Do you think you can reward his patience and check out what’s happening with Rosie? I know you’re swamped here, but—”

  Drew waved his hand. “Aw, these forms can wait. Let me go back there for you.”

  “Thanks, Drew.”

  I gave Larry a thumbs-up as I walked back to my seat next to him.

  “Quite impressive,” he said. “Now I know why Rosie called you first and me only second when you weren’t answering. Thank you so much. If you ever need a new refrigerator, just give a call.”

  “Now that you mention it, Larry, I do need information on refrigerators.”

  Larry sat up, interested, as most people were when you indicated an interest in their business or anything they’d invested a lot of time in. “Oh?”

  “Henry Baker mentioned to me that you now work for Callahan and Savage.”

  “Good old Henry. I don’t see much of him since he retired. How is he?”

  I wished I knew. I gave Larry the short version of the friendship developing between Maddie and Taylor, and then moved on.

  I dragged out a variation of the line I used with Barry. “I’ve been looking into a couple of things, and I heard something about questionable business dealings between David Bridges at the Duns Scotus and Mellace Construction. Is it true that they’re acing out your company, Callahan and Savage?”

  Larry Esterman let out a small chuckle. “I guess my daughter was right. You are amazing, Geraldine. How in the world would you know that?”

  “I . . . uh . . . I’m just really persistent, I suppose.”

  “I should tell you, you’re not at the shallow end of the pool. You need to be careful.”

  I was never very good at sports metaphors. In fact, this had not been a good week for figures of speech in general. “So it’s true?” was my careful response.

  Larry bit his lip. I had a flash of memory of a younger Mr. Esterman next to my desk in my classroom at ALHS, his teenage daughter, Rosie, waiting in the hallway. Was I sure Rosie was working to her full potential? Could she do more to be sure she got into whatever college she wanted to? Was there a particular school I’d recommend for his motherless, talented child?

  He sat next to me now, in a police waiting area, while his beloved Rosie was being interrogated by the police. It was his turn to answer some questions for me if he had any hope of helping his grown-up daughter. He seemed to realize this.

  “I’m not as involved as I was when I had my own business, but I’ve been hearing rumblings about an internal investigation. You’re right—C and S is trying to find proof of unfair practices and bring a suit against Mellace and
whoever is on the other end. You should know that it’s very, very hard to prove fraud. You need hard and fast testimonies, documents, an impeccable witness, or someone who’s willing to flip.”

  I thought of the folder someone left on the seat of my car, the folder now thrust into my tote. “What kind of documents?”

  “Bank records, internal memos, that kind of thing. But they play it close to the vest at Mellace. They have so many other businesses going all the way up past San Francisco to Marin County, and then down the other way to Monterey, that it’s easy for him to hide money.” Larry spread his hands, palms down. “I’m not saying that he does. I’m just glad I don’t have to worry about that part of it. That’s why I like semiretirement, strictly on a contract basis. I do my job when there is one and I don’t worry about the politics.”

  Rosie was a lot like her father, with a mild temperament and a voice that exuded trustworthiness and honesty, though I sensed the older Esterman was a little more worldly-wise than his daughter. I wondered again how Rosie ever became obsessed with someone like David Bridges. He must have had some charm that I wasn’t privy to, to have captured her heart as well as Cheryl’s, though I didn’t have uncontestable evidence of the latter.

  Drew emerged from a door behind the front desk. He met us halfway across the broad expanse of very old gray linoleum. “I rattled the cage back there and found out they’re just wrapping up the interview. Your daughter will be out in a couple of minutes, Mr. Esterman.”

  “When you say she’ll ‘be out’ do you mean . . . ?”

  “She’ll be free to go,” Drew said, “but they’ll probably tell her she shouldn’t leave town.”

  The sighs of relief from the two of us were audible.

  I debated showing Larry the record I had in my tote. I wanted his opinion on whether the page left in my car would constitute the kind of proof he mentioned. He had enough on his mind with his daughter’s future as uncertain as it was, but if something on the mysterious sheet could help Rosie, by pointing to someone else with a strong motive to kill David, we’d all be better off in the long run.

  Decision made. I pulled out the folder and showed him the page. “Larry, can you make any sense out of this?”

  Larry changed his glasses and peered at the sheet. “Looks like a bank record all right.” He pointed to the row of numbers across the top. “This string tells me it’s an international account. I did a little overseas business in the old days and this is a familiar template.” He pointed to the numbers that had caught my eye the first time I looked at the sheet, the five-digit numbers that stood out in their column. “Are you thinking these large deposits are kickbacks of some kind?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “Whose statement is this?”

  I smiled, embarrassed. “I have no idea.”

  I was grateful he didn’t ask how I came by the information, sparing me a third, “I have no idea.” I hoped Skip would be equally indifferent to my source.

  “I think I know—” Larry started, but we were happily interrupted.

  Rosie rushed up and hugged her father. I waited for my hug, but it didn’t come.

  “What’s the story, honey?” Larry asked.

  “I’m not arrested, but I can’t leave town.”

  “Was it Skip who interviewed you?” I asked.

  Rosie frowned at me. She worked her jaw and took deep breaths, but remained silent. I got the hint that she was upset with me, but I didn’t know why. Because I kept my phone off during a memorial service?

  “I think you should come and stay with me until all this blows over,” Larry told his daughter. He was already steering her toward the exit.

  “No, Dad. I’ll be fine, and I really want to get back to my own bed. Can you just take me home?”

  “Where’s your car?” I asked. “I can arrange to get it to your house.”

  No answer.

  I understood that Rosie wanted to cling to her father at that moment, but I had to clear the air. “Is something wrong?” I asked her, hoping she’d know I meant “between us?”

  She closed her eyes and bit her lip. “Maybe later, Gerry.”

  Larry shrugged his shoulders, but seemed equally eager to leave the police station. I couldn’t blame them.

  I collected my tote from the chair and headed back to Drew, this time to gain admission to my nephew’s office. I hoped all would go well there. I already had enough people whom I’d offended today.

  “Nothing new,” Skip said. “But you know that, if you saw Rosie downstairs on her way out.” Skip’s short-sleeved peach-colored shirt blended in with one of the faded partition walls, both clashing with his red hair. June must not have seen him leave this morning.

  “Rosie didn’t have much to say. She was anxious to get home.” I took a seat on a formerly peach-colored chair, now an undefined hue. “I wish you hadn’t picked her up before the service. When I told you—”

  “I know you feel guilty about alerting us to where she’d be, but believe me, we would have found out anyway. And wasn’t that better than interrupting the service?”

  “Not to Rosie.”

  “I’ll be honest with you, Aunt Gerry, I feel in my gut that she didn’t do it. She’s just the closest thing we have now for a suspect. The reunion classmates all checked out.”

  “Even Cheryl Mellace?”

  “Her husband says she was with him in their hotel room from midnight on.”

  “So they’re each other’s alibi. Is that legal?”

  Skip laughed. “Of course. Maybe not convincing, but legal, definitely.”

  “They could have been together all night, technically, but wasn’t David killed early in the morning?”

  “The ME is putting the time of death from about four in the morning to when the kids found him around seven thirty.” Not what I hoped—the fact that I could vouch for Rosie’s whereabouts at around seven was virtually meaningless.

  “And Ben Dobson?” I rubbed my arm where Ben had touched it, leaning on my driver-side window.

  “A couple of people at the party corroborate your story—”

  “Excuse me?” I folded my arms in mock offense.

  “Just an expression. The point is that, yes, it seems they did fight, but we talked to all the maintenance staff, too, and no one was particularly surprised, but neither could anyone think of a motive for murder. Dobson was at the highest level he could go and he got a decent salary.”

  “What about Barry Cannon?”

  “Class president, CPA, works as CFO for Mellace Construction.”

  “I know all that. What’s his alibi?”

  “The same as most people’s from four to seven in the morning. He was asleep in his hotel room.”

  What would Skip say if he knew Barry had been sending Rosie presents, in all probability setting her up to be humiliated at the hands of David? I needed one more shot at Barry before I brought this up to Skip. Barry’s reaction when I asked him about the presents told me he was indeed guilty—of present buying. Hardly a crime unless I could make a connection to David’s murder.

  That concluded my list of suspects, but I had one or two more loose ends. “I’ve been meaning to ask you, Skip, how did you manage to get hold of the locker room scene that Rosie . . . altered?”

  “We got an anonymous call that we’d find it in the woods, near the crime scene.”

  “But it wasn’t at the crime scene when you found David’s body?”

  “No, the call came afterward, later in the morning.”

  “So isn’t it likely that someone planted it there?”

  “Not necessarily. Much as we’d like to think we’re perfect, the people at the scene don’t always pick up everything. The little room was off a ways and in some bushes.”

  “And the anonymous caller knew exactly where you could find it?”

  “Right.”

  “How would the person know you hadn’t already found it unless he or she put it there after you left?”

&n
bsp; Impeccable reasoning. But that’s not what it was all about.

  “This happens a lot, Aunt Gerry. Someone calls in a tip and the timing doesn’t always make sense—maybe the person just wanted to make sure we found it—and we just have to go with it. And the locker does exist, and it was Rosie Norman who wrote hate mail on it, that’s what’s important here.”

  I wished I could argue with him. Instead, all I could do was toss other suspects his way. “What about David’s son, Kevin Malden? Have you checked out where he was over the weekend?”

  Skip scratched his head. “I’m not even surprised that you know his new name. But, yeah, he checks out. He was showing some of his stuff to a few dozen other artists at some kind of fair. And his mother, Bridges’s ex, was in Europe. Bridges’s family is a dead end.”

  Police work was frustrating. I might have to think about retiring.

  Was this the time when I should tell Skip about Ben Dobson’s trek down the path to the crime scene in Joshua Speed Woods? And show him the bank record, which might have been left by Ben?

  The bank record was the only lead I had left, if it could even be called that, and Skip needed to see it. “I have something to show you,” I said. I reached back into my shoulder tote and found the folder by feel, my normal way of digging things out of the long-handled, oversize bag. I opened the folder and found . . . nothing. No sheet of paper with possibly incriminating bank records, just the blank neutral folder stock.

  I removed the bag from my shoulder and sorted through its contents, looking for the sheet, thinking it slipped out of its folder. I fingered a thick wad of scrap fabric, meant to be left at the Mary Todd for my crafts students; a new pair of scissors, still in its shrink-wrap package; and a paperback copy of Edith Wharton’s The House of Mirth, for discussion at a book club I’d joined recently. I also saw my wallet, brush, and general purse items. No eight-and-a-half-by-eleven sheet of paper of any color.

  “Are you looking for cookies or something to do with the case?” Skip asked.

  “I had a piece of paper in this folder. I know I had it in the building because I showed it to Larry Esterman downstairs.”