“Her chocolate chip cookies?” Edwina asked hopefully.
Agnes smiled, sensing an opening. “Just for you,” she crooned, handing over the bag. “Now, spill it. What’s the news?”
“I can’t talk to you about the case, but I can tell you what else is going on. Things keep getting more and more weird.” She pulled a cookie out the bag and took a speculative bite, eyes rolling back in mock bliss as she chewed.
“Weird? In what way?” Agnes asked.
“Maybe it’s a good thing you showed up after all,” Edwina said, her voice far away. “Or maybe Mrs. O’Doul’s cookies are magic.”
“Huh?”
“I have a wild idea,” Edwina said, looking over at her confused friend. “What are the odds someone was almost hit by a falling cement block, and then Gridhorn dies the same day? What if they weren’t accidents or natural causes?”
Agnes’ eyes flared wide. “You mean, it could be murder?”
“It could be.” Edwina set down the bag of cookies and rubbed her hands together, trying to think it through. “It means he didn’t have a heart attack or a stroke, or anything like that.” She took a deep breath. “It means he was murdered, by someone who wanted him dead.”
She thought about it for a moment.
“Or by someone who wanted someone else dead, and he just got in the way.”
“What do you mean?”
“What if that cement block wasn’t meant to hit Gridhorn?” she said quietly, then looked sideways at Agnes.
“What do you mean? It wasn’t just supposed to scare him?” Agnes gave a sputtering laugh. “That’s not how I’d see it. It sounds to me like someone wanted him dead.”
Edwina’s mind was racing. “Maybe the killer just wanted someone who was close to Gridhorn to be hurt. Maybe it was a mistake that he died. I’m not saying he’s the most beloved person here, but I can certainly understand how he might rub someone the wrong way.” She thought about Baxter, now the new director. “Or how someone may have wanted his job.”
“I thought it was a heart attack, Eddie. You’re getting in way over your head on this one. I thought this case was all about a blackmailer.”
“I’m not so sure,” Edwina confided. “It seems like just about everybody here has a secret or two they don’t want to let the world know. I know I was hired to look into Miss Linwood’s blackmail case, but I keep tripping across other people’s lies. The more I pull that loose thread, the more the idea of Gridhorn dying from poor health seems to just keep unraveling.”
“Well, you be careful,” Agnes said, her eyes worried. “If someone tried to kill someone, they could try to come after you if you get too close.”
“Don’t worry about me,” Edwina said. “I’m tough as nails.”
**
After telling Agnes goodbye and showing her to the exit, Edwina made a beeline back to Serena’s workshop, but when she knocked om the door it took over a minute before it creaked open.
Serena stood in front of her, her eyes red and devoid of all makeup, her face flushed.
“Are you all right?” Edwina asked, her eyebrows pulled together in concern. “Has something happened.”
“I didn’t think you’d be back so soon,” Serena replied. “Come finish up those trousers for me, will ya?”
Edwina followed her into the workshop, and Serena thrust the pants at her. “I don’t need them pretty; I just need them done.”
Not moving, Edwina stood silent as Serena pretended to bustle around the room. Finally, she sighed, and without turning, said “What? What do you want?”
“Is there anything I can do for you?”
“Not unless you can give me back Albert,” Serena said, and broke into loud, ragged sobs.
“Oh, my gosh! What did Albert do to you?” Edwina asked breathlessly. She grabbed a tissue and handed it to the crying seamstress.
“It wasn’t Albert’s fault,” Serena sobbed, her dark-lashed eyes spilling over with tears. “I’m not a strong woman, and when I’ve had a drink or two I can get carried away sometimes.” She stopped and hiccupped once, loudly. “And I like men.”
Edwina’s breath stopped in her throat. “What are you saying, Serena?” When she didn’t get answers and Serena blew her nose into her white handkerchief, Edwina pressed the issue.
“Are you saying the reason you broke up wasn’t something Albert Gridhorn did, but was something that you had done?”
The look Serena gave her, so tortured and full of pain, answered that question for her.
“I’m not proud of it, okay?”
Edwina put a gentle hand on her arm. “What happened?” she asked, and Serena leaned her forehead into her palm and shut her eyes, as if going back to a visual memory.
“It was only one time.”
A sniffle, then she continued.
“It was supposed to be just a quiet drink in his bedroom after a really bad day. We got to talking, and before I knew it we were halfway through the entire bottle of gin.”
“Who, Serena?”
“Mr. Wickett.”
The writer, who always seemed to be more involved with his script and red pencil than any of the actors or crew. Glasses, balding with a pathetic attempt at a combover, and an amazing lack of personal style. He wasn’t exactly the sort of sexy man-about-town Edwina would picture having a fling with anyone.
Maybe the gin helped.
“Oh, I see,” she said, and Serena rolled her eyes over to Edwina’s.
“Okay, now. Don’t start. I know what you’re thinking.”
Edwina looked confused and shook her head. “No judgement here,” she said, then decided it was safest to change the subject a bit. “So, how did Gridhorn find out what happened?”
“I’m not really sure,” Serena said, slumping a bit at the memory. “Word gets around, though, when you have a small crew that travels together. You’d be amazed at what happens behind the scenes.” She sighed. “When Albert found out he was really hurt. You see, I’m not the sort who just falls into bed with people and Albert and I…we hadn’t…” Serena cut her eyes away, her voice trailing off in embarrassment. “After I’d hurt him so bad, it wasn’t fair to him to keep our relationship going. I know he was kind of a big blowhard and had a big mouth, but underneath it all, I think he was actually a pretty decent guy.” She glanced at Edwina, her face full of sorrow. “And I wasn’t worthy of him.”
Edwina watched as a lone tear slowly spilled from the corner of Serena’s eyes and rolled down her cheek. Either Serena should’ve been an actress herself, or she was genuinely regretful.
“So, do you have any idea who’d want to kill Albert Gridhorn?” Edwina asked gently.
Serena pulled out a handkerchief and quietly blew her nose.
“No, I don’t know who’d want to kill him. Yeah, he wasn’t everyone’s favorite person, but why would someone on the set kill the one guy who was holding the whole production together? He was the one who made sure we had jobs. It’d be like killing the goose who laid golden eggs. Someone would have to be crazy to do that.”
Or be so full of rage and hate it didn’t matter how much it cost someone, as long as Gridhorn died, Edwina thought, but she kept that thought to herself.
Chapter 24
“What do you mean, you’re not going to be at the Heritage Society party?”
Mrs. O’Doul, the Winterwood’s well-padded cook, was staring at Edwina as if she had two heads, the large wooden spoon in her hand forgotten.
Edwina served herself another slice of warm apple pie, and once she had plopped it onto the crockery plate, she finally answered.
“I’m sorry, Mrs. O’Doul, but it can’t be helped. I’ve got business to attend to tonight, and that comes first.” She tried to sound apologetic, but in reality, she was thrilled she didn’t have to attend another social function that her mother had organized. She’d been to literally dozens of them throughout her life, and they started blending together into a haze of strangers, fancy food, an
d small talk.
“Your mother’s going to have a conniption if you don’t make an appearance. After all the trouble she goes through to throw parties, it seems like the least you could do.”
Mrs. O’Doul had only joined the staff less than a year ago, but she was already turning out to be an advocate and devotee of Edwina’s mother. It seemed like everything Amelia did was praised and revered, sometimes to Edwina’s disappointment. Although Mrs. O’Doul had never been unkind to Edwina, it was no surprise when Mrs. O’Doul backed her mother’s wishes every time there was a difference of opinion.
“And you should see what she’s having shipped in for the buffet! Lobsters from Maine, orchids from some famous grower down in Georgia, grapes from Chile. And look!” she said, pointed toward the large kitchen island. “Look what arrived this morning, still frozen after being in the house for hours.”
Sitting on the marble slab for pastry was a small wooden crate. The top had been pried open, and Edwina could see it had a couple of metal canisters inside, and the sides were stuffed with excelsior. What had caught her attention, though, was what was leaking from the top. There was an ethereal, gossamer thread of white vapor slowly flowing over the side of the wooden box, as though some unseen volcano was sending out plumes of smoke.
“What is that stuff?” Edwina asked, mystified.
“Oh, that?” Mrs. O’Doul paused from stirring her soup to see what Edwina was talking about. “We got some of your mother’s favorite custard from Boston sent to us, special for the party. The company packed it in that, so it wouldn’t melt, even in a hot room.”
As Edwina reached out to touch it, Mrs. O’Doul gave a sharp yelp of warning.
“Don’t do that! It burns!” She tossed Edwina a kitchen towel. “If you’re going to pick it up, you’ll want to use that. I tried picking it up with my bare hand when I opened the crate, and my fingers still hurt.”
Edwina stood up and leaned over the wooden box, using the terrycloth towel to dig out a corner of the bright white ice. It stuck to the towel as soon as she pulled the ice out, and she set it carefully on the counter. Vapor kept drifting off it, almost appearing to be liquid it was so smooth.
“Is it… is it made out of water?”
“No, I don’t think so,” Mrs. O’Doul said, pulling a huge pepper grinder off the shelf and giving the soup a good spicing. “The delivery guy said it was some sort of frozen gas. It doesn’t get anything wet when it thaws, and it keeps stuff colder than normal ice.” She set the pepper grinder back in place and started to stir again. “Good for shipping ice cream and meat. Stuff like that, I guess.”
A tiny whisper in the back of Edwina’s head was starting to get louder and louder. She had to stop for a second to try to concentrate on a faint memory, trying to reassert itself.
A couple of months before, she’d been sitting across from her father, and they’d been sharing the paper. When they had breakfast together it was a morning ritual for them. After her father had perused the front-page news, he’d passed it to Edwina while he dug into the business section. The paper had been full of the usual Chicago news, and Edwina loved to read about the chaos, bloodshed, good deeds and heroes of her turbulent, colorful hometown.
One small item, stuck toward the back page of the new section, stayed in her memory. It detailed a story about a petty thief who’d stolen a man’s wallet and then had run from the police, right into an ice factory. The cops had been hot on his heels, and followed him into the building, but couldn’t find him for almost half an hour. Finally, they discovered his hiding place, in a large chest freezer by the back loading dock. He was found curled up inside, his skin flushed with color, stone dead. The coroner had examined him and declared that the thief had died from asphyxiation.
All of this would’ve been normal, except for a single sentence that the reporter had included. It turned out the freezer had been for a ‘new type of ice’, which kept food colder than normal ice made from water. They’d called it ‘dry ice’.
“Um, I’ll finish this later,
**
“Excuse me, Dr. Yeltsin, but do you have a moment?”
The Winterwood’s private physician paused, one handle on the carved doorknob of the massive front door, and smiled warmly at Edwina.
“Ah, Edwina! How are you these days?” He reached out and shook her hand. “Of course I have time for you. Taking good care of your mother?”
“Is that why you are here, Doctor? To see Mother?”
His friendly smile never faltered. “Well, she’s had a lot of stress lately, and I’ve given her a little something for her nerves. Her supply was running pretty low.” He set his leather satchel down on the oak table by the front door, careful not to bump the magnificent arrangement of hothouse flowers that was towering over it. “Is that what you wanted to talk to me about?”
Edwina paused for a moment, trying to think about how to frame her question. Dr. Yeltsin probably had no clue that a lot of her mother’s issues had to do with concern about her daughter’s new profession as a private detective.
“Not really, no. I saw something in the newspaper a while back, about a man who died in a freezer, and was wondering if knew anything about a type of ice made out of some sort of vapor? I think they called it dry ice.”
Dr. Yeltsin looked surprised and pulled off his small, round glasses to polish them with his handkerchief. “Yes, I’ve heard about it. If memory serves, it’s made out of frozen carbon dioxide.”
“It is dangerous?”
He gave her a puzzled look before carefully looping the wire earpieces of his newly cleaned glasses over his ears and adjusting the lenses in place. “Not really, no, but people should exercise some caution when handling it. From what I understand, it’s so cold it can actually cause burns on the skin.”
Edwina hadn’t had many science classes in her time at finishing school, but the thought of a frozen gas seemed fantastical. “But I’ve seen some dry ice, and it looks like it can melt. It just isn’t wet when it does. It melts as a gas. Is the gas dangerous?”
The doctor looked over her shoulder. “Is that fresh apple pie I smell?” he asked as he gave an appreciative sniff.
“Yes, Cook just made some,” Edwina said, trying not to appear impatient. “So, it’s not dangerous?”
“No, the gas isn’t dangerous,” the doctor replied, looking at Edwina as if he’d just realized how odd her line of questioning was becoming. “It’s just carbon dioxide. People can’t breathe it in too high a concentration or they can get sick. Headaches, heartbeat problems, confusion. Things like that.”
“And if they breathe too much? Like the thief in the freezer?”
He put his hand on his chest, drumming his fingers for a moment, his lips pursed in thought. “Well, it’s heavier than air, so it displaces oxygen if there’s too much carbon dioxide in an enclosed space. My guess would be the thief died of suffocation, because there was only carbon dioxide for him to breathe.”
Edwina’s eyes flared wide.
Dry ice.
Beautiful, no traces left when melted.
And absolutely deadly.
She needed answers, and she needed them now. Jogging down the hallway, she grabbed her coat from Mr. Hopkins’ cloakroom, and headed straight for the garage.
There was only one place that could solve the puzzle of what had happened to Albert Gridhorn, and that was where he had died.
Chapter 25
By the time she got to the warehouse, the winter sun was faking into soft twilight, and gas-powered streetlamps were being lit all over town.
As soon as she’d parked her car in front of the warehouse, she bounded up the stairs and tried the door handle. To her relief, it was open. Whoever had been designated last to leave and lock up must still be there, because they had to have one of the several keys given to the production company for the duration of their rental agreement.
Wending her way through the jumble of sets and equipment, Edwina headed straight fo
r the basement stairs. Max’s tour of the rambling building had been pretty brief, but Edwina had had enough time to snoop around a bit on her own. As soon as Edwina pulled open one of the double wooden doors that led to the basement, she was hit with a rush of cool air. It smelled of old timber, fragmented coal, and dust. Ahead of her was a small landing that narrowed down to a set of stairs leading downward, toward the darkness waiting below.
She reached over and pressed the button for the light, and a single, bare lightbulb over the stairs flicked on, then a couple set farther back in the basement’s gloom.
Edwina gulped once, trying to screw her courage to the sticking point, and made a mental note to always carry a flashlight with her in the future. Finally, she held her breath and walked through the doorway. It swung shut silently behind her.
Eyes wide as if to let in more light, she headed downward. The wooden steps to the basement were old and creaky, the light from the single, bare lightbulb illuminating the rickety handrail weak and pale.
Edwina brushed a hand through the short hair on her wig, trying not to imagine how many spiders were in this nearly forgotten corner under the warehouse. In her mind’s eye, she was imagining small insects eyeballing her as a possible landing spot for their travels, and the thought was very unsettling.
The floor at the bottom of the stairs was poured concrete, and a bit uneven in spots. The basement was surprisingly uncluttered, with just heavy wooden pillars set in spots to support the upper three stories of the building and occasional groups of old furniture and closets for tools. As her eyes slowly adjusted to the dimness, Edwina could make out a huge, hulking furnace to her left. It squatted like some enormous octopus, its cylindrical arms spreading from it to deliver heat and ventilation to rooms around the warehouse. A cord with lights had been strung in several spots to add extra visibility, and she walked over to investigate it. As she drew closer to the furnace, she could feel the heat from it on her face and arms, and could see a large coal chute that led down to an enormous bin, half full of coal.
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