“I’d like to make a robe for the Bronx bathroom,” Maddie said.
“We can look through our scraps,” I said.
It made my heart swell that we could talk like this, each knowing what the other meant. I knew that Maddie didn’t mean a life-size robe or the New York borough that was three thousand miles away, and she knew that I was referring to pieces of fabric to put together for a tiny article of clothing.
Terry cloth was hard to work with; the nap was so large and spread out on most selections that the robe or towel wouldn’t be able to drape well over a tiny tub or rod. We had several choices, such as dipping the fabric in a glue and water mixture to shape it, or using a thinner fabric with a tighter weave that looked like terry.
We chose the former. I made the glue bath while Maddie rummaged through the box of fabric scraps and found the shade of blue she had in mind.
I heard her groan as she cut the material. “It’s picking up everything,” she said, showing me what would end up as a sleeve, with tiny beads clinging to it. She had a hard time shaking them off as they clung to the almost magnetic fabric. “It’s just like my winter terry robe at home. It’s as sticky as tape sometimes.”
The revelation flashed in my mind like the only neon sign in Lincoln Point, the one in the window of Jeff’s Video Arcade on Springfield Boulevard. Terry cloth picks up things-pieces of thread, hair, lint, and now beads. Why not a tiny oval mirror?
I pictured the hallway on the eleventh floor of the Duns Scotus Hotel. The scene was vivid, playing out before me: Cheryl in her robe, leaving David’s room to get ice. Cheryl and Rosie arguing, then wrestling with the locker room box. One of the tiny mirrors, not glued on properly (that was the hardest to imagine) coming off in the struggle and sticking to Cheryl’s robe. The mirror finally falling from the robe in the entryway to David’s suite.
For completeness, I had to add: Gerry entering David’s suite with a key stolen from a Lincoln Point homicide detective and finding the mirror on the floor.
It made sense, and if some variation of my play was true, I could hold onto my belief that Rosie told the truth when she said she never went into David’s room.
I was glad I hadn’t presented the mirror to Skip.
Had I just cleared Rosie?
I wished it were that easy.
“Can you have two BFFs?” Maddie asked me while we were saying good night.
“Of course. Do you have a new best friend in town besides Taylor?”
“Doug, in my class.”
“That’s nice. You’ve told me about him. He’s Dusty Doug in your mini soda fountain, right?”
She nodded. “He’s the one who lets me tell jokes and laughs at them.”
“Maybe I can meet him sometime.”
“Nuh-uh.”
Uh-oh. It was too soon in Maddie’s life for her to be keeping her family away from her friends. I took comfort in the fact that she’d told me his name. It occurred to me that Doug might be the reason Maddie wasn’t kicking her legs anymore when I left her behind.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” I said, with a smile that was supposed to tell her I wasn’t bothered.
“Grandma, do you have a good picture of me and you?”
“I’m sure I do. What do you want it for?”
She patted a spot next to her clock. “Just to put on my table here. Mine are all on my old computer at home.”
“I’ll dig one out for you. That reminds me. Why did the witch need a computer? I’ve been dying to know.”
Maddie shook a sleepy head. “Nuh-uh, can’t tell you till we’re with Taylor and Mr. Baker. That was the deal.”
“Oh. Well, that might not happen, sweetheart.”
“Why not?”
“You can still have playdates with Taylor, but it might not include her grandfather and me.”
“Did you fight with Mr. Baker?”
“No. It’s just-”
“Complicated, right? That’s what my parents always say when their friends get divorced or something.”
“Right. It’s complicated.”
Usually, no matter how hot the day, nights in the Bay Area were cool. Without even trying to do anything productive, I took a glass of herbal ice tea to the coolest spot in the house-my atrium, one of the features of my Eichler home that I couldn’t live without. My house had needed a whole new roof last year, and Richard had suggested an upgrade while I was at it-a retractable atrium skylight. It seemed a luxury I didn’t need, but now I didn’t know why I’d waited so long to have it installed. When it was closed, the acrylic material cast beautiful patterns of light on the floor; when it was open the atrium was completely exposed to the cool outside air.
I pushed the button and watched the skylight slide back on its track.
I refused to let my recent atrium experience in the Duns Scotus color my pleasure. These were my trees, my plants. I could name every one of them-azalea, mums, cyclamen-and they harbored no danger.
It was the kind of night when Ken and I, unable to sleep, might come out here and chat about the upcoming week or share with each other our own reviews of books and movies. The ferns planted around the edge were a labor of love our first few months and still reminded me of a wonderful time in my life. The multitude of empty pots that I’d neglected to fill were only a mild reproach.
In recent years, Beverly came by often to relate her adventures as a civilian volunteer for the LPPD. She had funny stories about SUVs driving on the sidewalks to get around traffic or about the excuses people came up with for not wearing seat belts. “I’m on my way to get it fixed” was all too common, and “I’m allergic to vinyl” was one of my favorites.
I pictured Beverly on her porch on this warm, windless night, sharing stories with Nick. A smile came to my face. Beverly had contracted rheumatic fever as a child and lived day to day with a damaged heart. We’d had several scares when we thought we’d lost her and never predicted that she’d live longer than her brother, Ken. There was no one who deserved a loving companion more than she did.
Maddie was sleeping in the corner bedroom; that was enough company for me.
Or so I thought.
I heard the faintest knocking on my front door. I put down my glass and turned my better ear to the sound. Unmistakable shuffling noises reached my ear along with another soft tap, tap, tap. Someone was at my door at ten thirty. Not the latest I’d ever had company, but generally late night visitors were expected.
I got up and checked the peephole. Barry Cannon peered back at me from the other side.
My breath caught. Barry looked the most unkempt I’d ever seen him. If peephole lenses could be trusted, he had a miserable expression and a dark shadow on his face. He wore a stretched-out T-shirt with a sports logo on the front.
How did he know where I lived? I wasn’t listed in the phone book. I thought back and realized I’d probably put my address in the faculty section of Rosie’s updated yearbook.
I debated whether to open the door. I worried about Maddie, in dreamland one room away. Barry shuffled his feet and tapped again.
My ear was still close to the door and I jumped, though the knock was light.
I took a breath. No one who comes to kill you knocks so gently, I reasoned, or looks so downtrodden. Also, Barry was shorter than I was, and even though he was more muscular, I’d always thought that height gave one the edge.
I opened the door.
“I’m sorry to bother you so late, Mrs. Porter,” Barry said. “But remember you said you wanted to meet with me.”
So I had.
“Come in, Barry,” I said, ushering him into the atrium. As he passed by me in my foyer, I’d detected no smell of alcohol, which brought me great relief.
“I know this isn’t what you had in mind, but I need to talk to you,” he said.
I tried to hide my excitement at having a chance to interview Barry in a better environment than Miller’s Mortuary. I recalled his nasty mood at that time and took his presence i
n my home so late at night as a sign that he was ready to cooperate.
I wasn’t completely devoid of fear, however. What if he was a killer? Killing twice wouldn’t be a great leap. I wondered if I should slip my cell phone into my pocket and surreptitiously keep my index finger on the speed dial button for Skip. I also thought of saying something like, “I’m not alone, you know. My very tall, husky son is in the next room.” Or, to protect Maddie, I might say, “I’m utterly alone in the house.”
This was no way to start an interview.
“Can I get you a glass of tea? Or something else to drink?” I asked him.
Barry shook his head, running his hand across his forehead at the same time. When the light from the small lamp in the atrium hit just right, I could see beads of perspiration. “I’m good, thanks. I shouldn’t have been so rude to you today.”
Barry’s manner put me at ease. He seemed as dejected as Rosie when David let her down. “It wasn’t the right time to approach you, Barry. I’m really sorry for the loss of your good friend. But I have so many questions about his death and I need to have them answered.”
“I’m aware of that. And that Rosie is being accused of killing David. I know you became friends after graduation and I’m sure you want to clear her.”
“I want to discover the truth.” Wasn’t that always what prosecutors said in their opening trial remarks?
“Everyone in the gang is talking about how you’re going around investigating and I decided to come here myself and set everything straight. You know, you still have a lot of power over your students, Mrs. Porter. I guess we still need your approval.” Not everyone, I thought, calling Cheryl’s “you’re not my teacher anymore” outburst to mind. “I swear to you, I could never have killed David. He and I have been friends since we were kids.”
Barry broke down and I had a moment of feeling sorry for him, but I couldn’t let him get away without answering a few questions. He sat hunched on a chair across from me. We might have been in English 1A at the Abraham Lincoln High School thirty years ago. But then all Barry would have had to explain was why his Steinbeck paper would be late.
“Maybe you didn’t kill your friend, Barry, but you do have some explaining to do.”
Barry nodded. “I don’t know where to start, Mrs. Porter.”
“Maybe you can begin by telling me why you sent Rosie presents using David’s name.”
Barry folded his hands, as if in prayer. I could tell he wanted to ask me how I knew about the misrepresented gifts, but thought better of it. He lumbered up from the chair.
“I shouldn’t have come. I’ve said all I wanted to say, and that’s it.”
“Barry Cannon,” I said, in a classroom voice, mindless of Maddie sleeping not far away.
It worked. My roughly forty-eight-year-old former student, whose brown hair was now sprinkled with gray, responded like the well-behaved young man he used to be and sat down again, letting out a long breath. “I’m not proud of this.”
I put the best spin I could on the situation. “Barry, someone else’s life is at stake here. If you were too shy to ask Rosie out for yourself-”
Barry’s loud, rueful laugh interrupted me. I was afraid Maddie would wake. But remembering the drama she’d snoozed through at the Duns Scotus, I relaxed.
“No, no, no,” Barry said. I was glad Rosie wasn’t around to hear his vehement denial of his wanting to spend time with her. In her fragile state, she would have taken it as yet one more rejection by her classmates. “I’m not courting Rosie. If anyone, I was courting her father.”
“Oh?” I hoped for a quick explanation and Barry came through.
“What I mean is, I was trying to get inside information from Callahan and Savage. Her father, Larry Esterman, consults for them now. We wanted David to do it himself-to buddy up to Rosie so we could get to her father. We knew Rosie was still vulnerable as far as David was concerned. She never held him accountable for an incident that happened when we were seniors.”
High schoolers and their incidents that “happened.” I didn’t look forward to the days when Maddie would be in the thick of it. I consoled myself with the fact that Richard seemed to get through those years without trauma of the magnitude Rosie had experienced. But, unlike his daughter, Richard had a steady, nearly unflappable temperament, and took virtually no risks. Good qualities in an orthopedic surgeon, I supposed.
I remembered Rosie’s mention of an unexpected visit Barry made to her shop. “You actually did a little research about how Rosie felt about David, didn’t you? You went to her shop and tested the waters.” If I were standing, my hands would have been on my hips in a how-could-you stance.
“I said I wasn’t proud of this. But David refused to try to manipulate Rosie. He said once was enough.”
Big of him, I thought. “How did you happen to have David’s trophy when you bought the candy in the hotel gift shop?”
Barry looked at me with surprise. I was sure I appeared smarter to him now than I ever had while teaching him the intricacies of literary criticism. “I was responsible for taking it from the cocktail party. You can’t imagine how valuable something like that is. I can’t believe it’s in police custody now, like any other weapon.”
“Did you take the trophy to David in his suite?”
“Yeah, he wanted it for the night on Friday. Then I was supposed to pick it up before the banquet on Saturday night.”
I gave Barry a few moments to mourn his friend again. I had the idea that in his mind they were seventeen or even ten years old and that he was reliving many of their good times together.
Not by a long shot did I have what I needed from Barry, however, and I started in on a different track. “Why didn’t you approach Larry Esterman directly?”
“We thought about it, but he was pretty angry back then at what we pulled on Rosie. We doubted he’d take to our scheme.”
“You keep saying ‘we,’ Barry. I assume you’re referring to Mellace Construction?”
Barry jolted his head up. “Are we on the record here, Mrs. Porter? Because-”
“I’m not LPPD, Barry.”
“Close enough. I knew this was a bad idea, but, believe it or not, I want to see David’s killer caught. Very badly.”
“Without owning up to your part in fraudulent business practices.”
Barry took a deep breath. “That about sums it up.”
I needed a recap. “Let me see if I have this straight. Mellace Construction, with you as its CFO, goes around finding out what other companies are going to bid for jobs and then bids lower to get the contract. That’s why you needed help from a Callahan and Savage insider like Larry Esterman.” Barry nodded and I continued. “And when that doesn’t work, you simply work a deal with people like David Bridges who are willing to cheat and give you the contract anyway. For a cut, I assume.” Another slow nod from Barry. “Is that how Mellace got the contract for the new athletic field? Because our city managers are as unscrupulous as you and your company are?”
“That’s harsh, Mrs. Porter.”
“So are your practices.” I had a brainstorm. “Was it you who stole my purse?”
Barry’s head couldn’t go any lower. “I never, never would have hurt you, Mrs. Porter. Walter told me he saw you sneaking into David’s room after the murder. He figured you were with C and S and found something damaging.”
I was probably more shocked than I should have been, given the events of the weekend. “You knocked me over and stole my purse, Barry.”
“Can I get some tea?”
“I’ll be right back,” I said.
Chapter 19
I hurried the tea preparation because I didn’t want to lose Barry. We’d been sitting in a spot past the middle of the atrium, toward the front door, just out of range of sight from the kitchen. I hoped his attack of conscience or whatever had sent him to me wasn’t waning.
I carried in a tray of tea and cookies (since Barry had been so cooperative thus far) and asked
as I was walking, “What happened with David, Barry? Did he start to get nervous about breaking the law, so someone in your company had to get him out of the way?” The someone I had in mind was Walter Mellace, the hallway hulk, who had accosted me. My theory was taking shape-Walter thought I was from Callahan and Savage, looking for the evidence David had claimed to have to expose Mellace Construction. Why else would anyone be breaking into David’s suite?
Barry shot down that theory almost before I’d mounted it. “No way. David was on board. There’s a big remodel of the Duns Scotus coming up. He was totally ready to do whatever it took to give us that huge contract.”
Barry said this with pride in his voice. It was a depressing thought, that two boyhood friends who had probably shared innocent games were now proud partners in a fraudulent business scheme. Maybe that first not-so-innocent game they played with Rosie’s and Mathis’s self-confidence was the beginning of their partnership in crime.
I shared none of that musing with Barry.
I thought of Ben Dobson, my recent passenger. “Could someone else have had proof of the fraud and tried to get a cut of the money? Or, possibly blackmail David?”
“I thought of that, but then why kill the person who might be cutting you in or paying you big bucks to keep quiet?”
“Good point.”
The way Barry gobbled up my ginger cookies, he would have given Skip a run for his money in a cookie-eating contest. “These are awesome, Mrs. Porter,” he said.
In spite of the flattery, I intended to pursue one more avenue. “Tell me about Cheryl Mellace, Barry.”
“There’s a piece of work, huh? I don’t know. I guess it was never really over between those two.”
Murder In Miniature Page 20