Zach wondered if he dared take a closer look at the minivan. Before he could decide, the big guy in the black sweatshirt trotted down the steps and got in it. Zach watched it leave. Who was this Baines anyway? And why was he threatening Dad?
Before he could chicken out, he went up on the porch and thumbed the doorbell. He heard it pealing away inside. If anybody came to the door, a wife or something, he’d say he was selling magazines to make money for school band uniforms. Nobody wanted to buy magazines. Candy sometimes, if you looked pitiful enough, but not mags. Nobody answered. Cupping his hands around his eyes, he tried to peer through a narrow panel of heavy glass with swirls all through it. By squinting, he could make out an entryway, a long couch, and a big window on the far side. Looked empty.
He followed a path around back to a patio-like thing and a multipaned glass door. With his pulse jumping around, he looked in. Library with shelves of books all the way to the ceiling. Wow! He’d love to get in there and go through them. He saw a fireplace and a long leather couch, coffee table in front. Desk with computer and a stack of computer printout. Right on top of the printout, Dad’s manila envelope.
It was so full the sides bulged. What could be in it? Zach itched to get his fingers around it, and without exactly meaning to, he had his hand on the knob and was turning it. The thud in his chest was so loud, he probably wouldn’t hear a diesel bearing down on him.
Just a look at the envelope; he wouldn’t touch anything else. Just to see what Dad had going with this guy.
One quick glance over his shoulder and he was inside, breathing hard like he’d just run up a mountain. The air was thick and heavy with a faint sweet undersmell, almost like cherry soda.
He moved to the desk and spotted the gun behind the printout. Looked just like the one Dad bought. Had Baines killed the furnace guy? The cherry smell was stronger around the desk. He leaned over and sniffed, then picked up the small paper bag tucked in behind the monitor and unfolded the top. Pipe tobacco. Didn’t smell half bad before it was smoked.
He put it back and hefted Dad’s envelope. Heavy. The flap was closed and the little metal tabs flat. He bent them up, opened the flap, and looked inside.
Money.
Stacks of it held together with rubber bands. He slipped a thumb and forefinger inside and pulled out a stack. Used fifties. Real? Of course, real, stupid. Where would his dad get counterfeit money? Where would his dad get real money? He pulled out another stack and fanned through it. Why was Dad giving all this money to the Baines guy?
Footsteps crunched on the gravel driveway outside.
Zach stuffed the money back, dropped the envelope, and was out the door, running through shrubs and around debris on the opposite side of the house. He pounded across the road, slid through bushes, and plunged down the slope. Pressing against the frozen dirt, he listened for somebody crashing after him.
Had Baines driven away and then come back on foot? He could be waiting at the top with his gun. Moving carefully so he didn’t tumble into the water, Zach made his way along the river’s edge, grabbing at bare tree limbs to help himself along. One snapped, sounded like a gunshot. He tried to get as far from the brown house as possible.
Could his breath be seen if Baines watched from the road? He was puffing like a dragon. Finally, he clambered up the bank to the road. A black minivan whipped around the corner and clipped his shoulder as it sped by. He spun, stumbled, and rolled down the bank.
Brakes squealed.
He huddled against the dirt.
“Hey!”
Silence.
“HEY!”
A bulky man in jeans and a KU sweatshirt came down the bank, sliding on his heels. “You stupid or what!”
Zach pulled in air. It wasn’t Baines. This guy wasn’t as tall or as thick, and he had kind of thin gray hair.
“You coulda’ been killed!” His jacket had the same cherry-sweet smell as Baines’s office. Probably used the same tobacco.
“Hey, kid, you okay?”
“Yeah.”
“Here.” The man stuck out a hand.
Zach saw himself dragged up and thrown in the minivan.
“Come on!”
Zach’s arm was seized and he was hauled up the bank.
“Don’t go running in the road like that.”
“No, sir.”
With a grunt, the guy got back in his minivan. Black like Baines’s, but this one had a sign on the side: “Learn to Fly. Private Lessons. Stop Wishing, Start Flying, Porter Kane,” and a phone number.
Zach trudged along the edge of the road. His ears were freezing and he unzipped a pocket to get his cap.
It was gone.
Could he have lost it at Baines’s house? It wouldn’t matter except it had his name stitched inside.
10
Susan flipped through her notes until she found the list of people Holiday had worked for the week before he was killed. Unfolding the map, she jotted down addresses in some sort of order and started off for the nearest, the Wakefield residence.
The house was new, or relatively so, set in an area of similar homes, all built about twenty years ago. White, wood frame with a brick facing and a picket fence.
Christmas lights were draped over a fir tree in front, strung along the eaves and across the top of the garage. Ho ho ho. Her chances of getting home for Christmas were slim to zero, and what was she going to tell Reardon? Hold on to the job while I clear this homicide? She braced herself against the wind, trotted up the walkway, and rang the bell.
“Who is it?” A female voice called.
“Chief Wren.”
Silence, then “What do you want?”
“Mrs. Wakefield?”
“Yes.”
“I’d like to ask you a few questions.”
“What about?”
“Could I come in, Mrs. Wakefield? It’s awfully cold out here.”
“I’m so sorry.” The door opened to reveal a small pretty woman in her thirties, blond, dressed in rose-colored slacks and sweater. Around her shoulders, she had a pink fuzzy robe.
“Please, come in.”
Her face was puffy, bruised black and blue, one eye almost swollen shut. She’d been badly beaten. “Mrs. Wakefield—”
“Cindy. Please excuse the way I look. I swear I’m so clumsy sometimes. I tripped over the cat and tumbled all the way down the stairs. Have you ever heard of such a thing?”
Yes. That or a variation thereof. Always from a woman with bruises, broken bones, teeth knocked out.
“It looks worse than it is. Please come in.”
The living room smelled of Christmas from the fir tree in the corner with brightly wrapped gifts underneath. A wreath hung over the fireplace and red stockings were tacked to the mantel. Ceramic elves capered over the end tables.
“Please sit down.”
Susan sat on the brown plaid couch and Cindy backed up to a matching easy chair at a right angle.
“Who hit you, Mrs. Wakefield?”
“Nobody! Good heavens, I told you I fell. You wouldn’t believe how clumsy I am sometimes. It’s a wonder I don’t break my neck.”
That might happen one day. “Was it your husband?”
“Harley? Of course not! He’d never hit me.”
Susan had heard that also, scores of times. She made a mental note to check on domestic violence reports and visits to the emergency room.
“Would you like some hot chocolate?” Cindy started for the kitchen. “That’s such a cold weather thing, isn’t it?”
“Please, don’t bother. I want to ask about your furnace.”
“Furnace?” Cindy looked confused for a moment, then she was guarded and wary. “What about it?”
She went into a kitchen bright enough to make Susan blink. Wallpaper with bright yellow daisies, floor shiny from recent waxing, cabinets painted a dazzling white.
“You had it repaired lately.”
“Yes,” Cindy admitted. She took milk from the refrigerator and p
oured it into a saucepan.
“Who fixed it?”
“Oh, my goodness, you’d have to ask my husband. He takes care of all that.”
She was lying. Why lie about a simple thing like that? “Shanky’s Furnace?” The kitchen smelled of cloves and cinnamon.
“Maybe. I just don’t know.”
“Did you know Tim Holiday?”
Cindy turned pale beneath the bruises. The mention of the victim’s name frightened her.
“School wasn’t in session the day he came here. You were home.”
Cindy’s hand shook as she spooned cocoa into mugs, and a sprinkle fell on the yellow countertop, looking like freckles.
“You let him in,” Susan said, as though she knew exactly what happened.
“Oh, yes, I remember now.”
“Was the work satisfactory?”
“Yes, it was. It is. You can feel how warm it is.”
Sweltering, in Susan’s opinion. It made her feel light-headed. “What does your husband do?”
Cindy didn’t say, None of your business. She answered like a nicely brought up young woman. Her husband worked at a supermarket. “I teach English at the high school.” She chatted on about her students and how much she loved teaching, but that it really was nice to have a break now and then and how even so, she would be glad to see them when school started again after the new year.
“Tell me about Tim Holiday.”
Cindy sloshed milk as she was stirring it, turned off the burner, and poured hot chocolate into the waiting white mugs with little yellow daisies. “I don’t know anything about him.” She dropped in tiny marshmallows.
Susan gingerly sipped the hot liquid, trying to avoid the melting white marshmallows spreading out into a sweet goo, something she’d stayed away from since the days of roasting them over a camp fire. Cindy claimed to know nothing about Holiday, but the mention of his name had set her nerves jangling like chimes in a Kansas wind. Sweet little schoolteacher kills furnace repairman? Susan might chase that around some more if she could dig up a motive.
The furnace sat in an alcove off the kitchen, and Susan took a look at it. When she left she gave Cindy a card. “If you think of anything, or if you need anything, call me. I can help.”
Susan thought she’d have Demarco talk to Mr. Harley Wakefield, lean on him a bit and mention cops don’t look kindly on men who beat up their wives. Demarco was enough to scare anybody. Could Holiday have known about the wife beating? Would Harley Wakefield care if he did? Care enough to murder Holiday?
* * *
Porter Kane lived in a small pale brick house about six blocks from the Baptist church with Joseph missing from the crèche. The one-story house was located toward the rear of a huge lot, a detached garage to one side. A black minivan sat in the driveway, logo on the side about flying instructions. This amount of space in San Francisco would allow you to retire in style and take expensive vacations. Winter-dead grass stretched all the way back. Near the garage were two bare-limbed trees and a floodlight atop a pole. With the wind grabbing her hair, she hustled to the door and knocked.
“Mr. Kane?”
“Yeah?”
He had the look of a man who felt life had broken its promise to him. Burly, in his fifties, just under six feet with muscles gone slack from lack of exercise, thin grayish hair.
“Chief Wren. May I come in?”
The front door opened onto a small entryway that led directly into the living room, which was remarkable only for its lack of a Christmas tree. An easy chair sat within comfortable viewing distance of the television set, the small table by the chair had an ashtray with a pipe resting in it. Dust was thick over all.
“Have a seat,” he said.
She sat on one end of the couch. “I need to ask you about Tim Holiday.”
“I heard about him.” Kane dropped into the easy chair and reached for a pack of cigarettes. “Poor bastard. You catch the son of a bitch who did it?”
“Not yet. Holiday was out to repair your furnace on the sixth.”
“Right.” He shook out a cigarette and lit it.
“Is it working now?”
“Yeah.”
“Holiday repaired it and you’ve had no further trouble?”
“Nope.”
He was wary of her and she didn’t know why. Simply didn’t like cops? Knew something about Holiday’s murder? Wanted her to go because he was busy? Hiding something? All of the above? “Where is the furnace?”
“In the basement.”
“I’d like to see it.”
“Why you want to do that?”
“Just to be thorough.” She had no interest in the furnace. Her interest was in what Holiday had seen when he repaired it.
She thought he was going to refuse, but he led her down to the basement. It was dark and cluttered with boxes of some kind of machinery.
“Light’s burnt out,” he said. “Haven’t got around to changing the bulb.”
She dutifully peered through the murk at the furnace while he kept his eye on her. Something behind those boxes he didn’t want her to see? She wished she could look through them, but she had no legal right to do so. She thanked him, gave him her card, and told him to call if he thought of anything that might help.
In the pickup, Susan looked up the address of Ida Ruth Dandermadden. The woman lived in a large white house, stone walkway to a porch that went across the front and around the side, with porch swings and lounge chairs.
She rang the doorbell and waited. After what seemed a long wait, a woman dressed in pleated skirt and tailored blouse opened the door. She looked to be in her eighties, with iron-gray hair pulled into a bun at the nape of her neck, a narrow face, and a thin mouth in a firm, disapproving line.
“Mrs. Dandermadden? Police Chief Wren.”
“I know who you are.” Ida Ruth Dandermadden let Susan inside with the manner of the Lady of the House who would hustle police into the kitchen rather than let them enter the parlor.
Sure enough. Ida Ruth went straight to the rear of the house, bypassing the living room. In the kitchen, she asked Susan to sit down. Susan did. She knew a command when she heard one.
Ida Ruth remained standing, arms crossed over a narrow chest. Obviously the way one questioned the help.
“You had your furnace looked at a few weeks ago,” Susan said.
“I did,” Ida Ruth said. “Is this about his murder?”
“Do you know anything about the murder?”
“I do not.”
“His name was Tim Holiday. Did you know him?”
“No.”
Oh dear, Susan thought, this was going to be tiresome. “How many times did you see him?”
“Only the once when he came to see about the furnace.”
“Never before or again? Around the neighborhood, at the supermarket?”
Ida Ruth loosened her stiff posture enough to ask if she could get Susan something.
“No, thank you. How was the work he did? Satisfactory? Or did you have to get him back again?”
“Perfectly satisfactory.”
Susan asked questions but got nothing for her troubles. “I need to see your furnace,” she said.
Ida Ruth looked startled. “Well, if you must. It’s this way.”
In a dark hallway, she opened a door onto an even darker stairway going down. She reached inside and flipped a switch.
“You’ll see it when you go down. If you don’t mind, I’ll wait here. It’s hard for me to get up and down steps these days.”
The basement was huge and for the most part empty. There was an old wooden table, some chairs, a lamp, two trunks, a hot water heater, and a gas furnace. Susan dutifully trudged her way over to it. Yep, surely looked like a furnace. If Holiday had done more than fix it, she wouldn’t know. She’d love to go through the trunks, but could think up no legal reason to do so. Had Holiday looked inside and found something that Ida Ruth killed him for? What? Skeleton of long-dead husband? Too much televi
sion. Had Holiday put something inside one that he didn’t want to leave in his apartment? Unlikely. How would he retrieve it?
“Did you find it, dear?” Ida Ruth said impatiently.
Susan thought about pretending to sprain her ankle and taking one quick look in a trunk. She trudged back upstairs, thanked Ida Ruth, and handed her a card. “If you think of anything that might help, give me a call.”
Ida Ruth showed her to the door. “Why did she kill him?”
“Who?”
“That James girl. I knew she shouldn’t be allowed to play at church. She’s divorced,” Ida Ruth hissed. “And now look what she’s done.”
“Why do you think she killed him?” Susan stepped out to the porch.
“I may look like an old woman to you, but Pauline tells me what goes on over there and I know what’s what.” That said, Ida Ruth firmly closed the door.
11
According to the sign, the rare book and sewing machine business was open from ten to six, but when Demarco went in the place was empty. “Hey!”
An elderly man, short, with a thatch of white hair, came from a back room. He looked like a skinny Santa Claus.
“Mr. Baines?”
“I doubt you sew, and you don’t look like the kind of man who collects. So what can I do for you?”
“You don’t think I can read?” Demarco didn’t bother to say he could also sew a rip in a trouser seam if he had to.
The man smiled, squeezing the wrinkles in his face together into a finely woven mat. “Did I jump to conclusions again? Mitch always did say I shouldn’t be so quick to judge. He was the one who took care of the book side. When his grandson sold the place, I stayed on to run it for the new owner. Martin Thackeray.” He offered a fragile hand. Demarco was careful in shaking it. “I repair sewing machines. Wouldn’t know a rare book if it were to sit up and sing to me. You have a sewing machine that needs fixing?”
“No.”
“Looking to buy a rare edition of Geert Groote?”
“Never heard of him.”
“Me, neither. So what can I do for you?”
“I want to know about your tenant,” Demarco said, showing his badge.
“Now, if you had a Singer circa 1926 that you wanted fixed, I’m your man, but to ask about Tim Holiday, that’s all I know about him, his name. Mitchell, Jr. rented the space about three months ago. I told him not to be so hasty. Get some references and check them out. What did we know but that the man might be a smoker and burn the place down some night.”
A Cold Christmas Page 8