by Hess, Joan
“I came to thank you for your assistance, and to let you know that you can leave now. We’ve found translators. I don’t know if I’ll be home for dinner.” He gave me a little wave as he walked away.
“Home for dinner?” asked Keiko. “I thought he said his name Deputy Chief Losen.” She covered her mouth with her hand. “I do not have right to ask you questions, Mrs. Marroy. Please excuse me.”
“We’re married. I chose not to change my name at this stage of my life.” I did not add that at the moment he was Deputy Chief Loser, at least in my mind. “I guess I’ll run along. Call me if you need me.”
I strolled out into the open area and looked for an excuse to linger. Calmness had settled in after the storm. Unless this was the eye of the hurricane. As I went out to my car, the police officer lifted the yellow tape and told me to have a nice day, ma’am. After a small series of escapades involving the police force, I recognized some of them. They recognized me as well. I was renowned or infamous, depending on one’s point of view.
I was too keyed up to go home and curl up with a book. There was no reason to tackle another culinary challenge. My fair-weather husband had so many potential witnesses to question that he might not be home until midnight. I sat in my car until an officer began to approach.
I went to Mucha Mocha for coffee, a blueberry scone, and serious thought. The scattering of occupants on the patio were all texting or tapping on laptops. Gregory, wherever he was, was not skulking in a corner. I sat at a table in the shade. I’d been inside the Farberville Literacy Council four times in less than a week, but I still had very little idea about the dynamics. The structure of the daily schedule was straightforward. Students came and went, as did their tutors. Leslie taught classes and retreated to her office during breaks. Keiko interviewed new students, did the paperwork, and oversaw the program. Gregory came in late but raised money after hours. The board members were hardly omnipresent. I’d seen Sonya there. It had been mentioned that Rick was examining the books, presumably in Gregory’s office—which brought me back to what Gregory had told me about the nasty jokes and petty theft. I’d forgotten about it, but I began to wonder if the perp was somehow involved in Ludmila’s death. Being an upright citizen devoted to assisting the police whenever possible, I made a mental note to tell Peter about it.
My coffee had cooled by the time I came up with an idea. I have to admit it wasn’t among my most brilliant ideas, but I needed to do something. I drove up Thurber Street and turned into the historic district. Miss Parchester’s house, shabby but dignified, sat between a restored antebellum manor and a grubby boardinghouse. I went to the front door, smiled as I saw a handwritten sign that advised me to beware of the cats, and knocked. When she didn’t answer, I tried to peer through a window, but it was covered with sheers and allowed only a vague view of the dim living room. I knocked again and had started down the steps when the door opened.
“Why, Claire,” trilled Miss Parchester, “I wasn’t expecting company. Do come in and have some tea. I believe I have some cookies in the pantry. Or would you rather have lunch? I may need to trot to the store unless you have a fondness for canned tomato soup. Do you?”
She was aglow with pleasure, her hands fluttery and her eyes bright. I felt a pang of guilt, since I’d come to weasel information out of her. I made a second mental note to visit her on a regular basis (monthly, not weekly). “You’re so kind, Miss Parchester, but I just wanted to talk with you. I hope I’m not interrupting. I can always come back later.”
“I won’t hear of it,” she said. “Come right in and I’ll put on the kettle. There’s nothing like a nice cup of tea, is there? Papa preferred his manly drink, of course, but Mama and I loved our tea. You may have to help me find the package of cookies. I don’t recall seeing them since before Christmas. Watch out for the cats, dearie. Some of them are skittish.”
She continued blithering as I came in and shared the sofa with a limp gray cat. I suggested that we skip the cookies, and then flipped through an old issue of National Geographic while she bustled about in the kitchen. A tabby wound around my ankles and sashayed away, swishing its tail. There was a sense of movement in the room that was unnerving, as shadows glided behind furniture and settled in dark corners. I wasn’t ailurophobic, but I wasn’t overly fond of cats. I forced myself to gaze at a photograph of a tribe of headhunters in Indonesia when I heard an odd noise upstairs. I debated the possibility that Miss Parchester had stashed a gentleman caller in one of the bedrooms, but I had to admit the idea was ludicrous. To the best of my limited knowledge in the field of felinology, cats were incapable of turning doorknobs. I glanced at the top of the staircase. A large black cat with pure evil shining in its eyes stalked to the landing and regarded me as if I were a crunchy chipmunk. It looked capable of anything.
“Is Puddy bothering you?” asked Miss Parchester as she came into the room and set a tea tray on the coffee table. “He awoke in a foul mood this morning. He yowled when I offered him breakfast and has been lurking upstairs ever since. He imagines himself to be a panther on the prowl, but he hasn’t had much practice since the exterminator came last month. Lemon or milk, Claire?”
I requested lemon. Once she’d done the hostess routine, I balanced the saucer on my knee and said, “There was a tragedy at the Literacy Council last night. Ludmila Grabowski died after hitting her head on the copy machine. Did you know her?”
“Oh, how sad.” She took a sip of tea. “Her grandson must be devastated. The woman was not very nice, I’m sorry to say. She was a bully. Poor little Miao was terrified of her. Ludmila had it in her head that the girl was a spy for the Chinese government. When I came in one morning, Ludmila had Miao backed into a corner and was berating her in Polish. I almost whacked her on the head with my handbag. She deserved it.”
My hand quivered as I felt a chill curl down my back. I swallowed and said, “You weren’t at the Literacy Council last night, were you? I thought you told me that you tutor in the mornings.”
Miss Parchester wasn’t all blither, although she seemed to prefer to come across as a genteel Southern lady of a particular age. I knew from past events that she had a keen mind. Her eyes bored into me as she said, “You’re absolutely correct, Claire. I tutor Tuesday, Wednesday, and Friday mornings. Miao comes all three mornings. Mudada can only make it once a week, although he attends classes in the evening. He works at an auto repair shop. You haven’t met him, have you? He’s from Zimbabwe, which I believe used to be Rhodesia. The Limpopo River runs through it.” She clasped her hands. “I shall never forget how the Elephant’s Child got his trunk on the banks of the great, gray-green, greasy Limpopo River!”
I gave her points for turning the topic from the Farberville Literacy Council to Kipling in less than thirty seconds. “If you were supposed to tutor this morning, why didn’t you go?”
“Would you like more tea, Claire? I do feel bad that I cannot offer you a cookie or a biscuit.”
“Why didn’t you go to the Literacy Council this morning?” I persisted, hoping she would not toss out a diversion about how the camel got its hump or the leopard got his spots.
She refilled her cup and set down the pot. “Miao called earlier and canceled our session. She had some disturbing news from home. She’s somewhat hard to understand on the telephone, but I gathered that her grandfather died over the weekend. She’s from a village called Tai Po and is making arrangements to go home. The family is Buddhist, so the funeral can go on for forty-nine days. That sounds exhausting.”
“Will you take a new student?”
“I doubt it,” she said. “I’m an old lady, as much as I hate to say it. I have my garden club and my book club, and I mustn’t forget my monthly happy hour with the ladies from my church. Last time we met at the bar across from the Performing Arts Center, and were asked to leave. Ruthie and Adele got into a frightful argument about same-sex marriage. I wish we hadn’t ordered that third pitcher of margaritas…”
I steeled mys
elf not to envision the scene. I thanked Miss Parchester for the tea and went out to my car, aware I hadn’t learned a damn thing except the location of the Limpopo River—the great, gray-green, greasy Limpopo River. I hesitated for a moment, wondering if in some obscure way Miss Parchester had given me a warning not to poke my nose (or trunk) into the investigation.
Surely not.
It was frustrating to be across town from the ongoing activity. Peter would be shuffling people in and out of a makeshift interrogation room. Jorgeson was likely to be in Keiko’s office gleaning information from the paperwork. By now officers would have located Gregory and Leslie and brought them in. Caron and Inez would be at the lake. The board members who weren’t chained to their desks would be arriving at the Literacy Council. I had a feeling Sonya would handle damage control. Peter would not be pleased if I showed up again.
The library was only a block away. I decided to assist the police by doing background research on whatever seemed remotely pertinent. I left my car parked in front of Miss Parchester’s house and walked down the sidewalk, appreciating the maple trees and fiercely planted flower beds. Once inside, I sat down at a computer and stared at the blank screen.
A white-haired lady in a cardigan appeared beside me. “Having trouble? Perhaps I can be of help.” She leaned over me and hit the space bar on the keyboard. “Now I’ve got you started. Call if you need more help.” She wandered away in search of more techno-dummies.
The only help I’d needed was a clue where to start. Earlier in the summer I’d mastered the art of Googling. I started with myself, just as a refresher. After a highly enjoyable half hour of reading about my prowess, I focused on the board members. Austin had rated a photograph in the local newspaper upon being presented with an ADDY Award two years ago for an especially creative series of commercials. Frances North had been named Principal of the Year five years ago and been runner-up twice since then. Drake Whitbream and his wife, Becky, were quite the socialites, meriting photographs at pricey fund-raising events. Rick Lester and Sonya Emerson had yet to make themselves known to the newspaper’s readership.
Wilhelmina Constantine won, hands down, for the most Google hits. She had presided over a trial involving millions of dollars of real estate, ruled in favor of the plaintiffs of a class-action suit over school taxes, dismissed a negligence case against Farber College, and shot down another class action for sexual discrimination at Sell-Mart, the local merchandising behemoth. I doubted that I would agree with her politics.
I moved on to Gregory Whistler. There were plenty of photographs of him accepting checks from civic clubs. He was in a group shot of the board members holding an oversized faux check from the United Way. There were several unfamiliar faces, presumably the board members who were taking summer vacations. Everybody beamed except for Austin, who had his hands in his pockets and a goofy grin on his face. A feature article on the Literacy Council noted the hiring of Gregory Whistler as executive director.
I kept digging until I found the obituary of Rosalind Whistler. The cause of death had been ruled an accident. She’d attended Farber College, as Gregory had mentioned. Her parents were deceased, and she had two siblings, a brother in Oregon and a sister in Iowa. The funeral had been held in a Presbyterian church. That was about it. I was curious about the “accident,” which covered everything from falling down the stairs to discovering one’s parachute was shredded. It was more likely to be a car wreck.
Going to the library was not among my most brilliant ideas. I walked back to my car and tried to come up with something with more potential. After fifteen minutes of convoluted and useless ideas, it occurred to me that only mad dogs and Englishmen sat in their cars in the midday sun, and I was in danger of perspiring. I prefer blood to sweat. I found a brochure that I’d picked up at the Literacy Council and called the number on my cell phone.
As soon as Keiko chirped, I said, “This is Claire Malloy, but don’t say my name out loud, okay?”
“Whatever you say, Mrs. Marroy. You are a kind lady.”
I winced. “What’s going on there?”
“Much less confusion, but students are not happy. Gregory is not happy, either. He is in his office with Chief Deputy Losen.”
“Did the police locate Leslie?”
“No, Mrs. Marroy. They went to her house, but she was not home. Do you think something bad happened to her? She is our best teacher.” Keiko sighed. “She is also our only teacher this summer. In the fall we get graduate students from the Education Department at college. It is very funny to watch them sometimes.”
“I’m sure it is,” I said before she could elaborate. “Do you have Leslie’s address? I’ll stop by and see if she’s home now.”
“Yes, Mrs. Marroy. I will have to look for it on my desk. The police wanted much information, and I had to pull many folders out of the drawer.” During the lull, I could hear paper shuffling and a word in Japanese that required no translation. “Okay, Mrs. Marroy, I have it. I hope she is not sick.” She told me the address, and would have continued had not a male voice asked her a question.
“Thanks.” I ended the call before she blurted out my name again, although I had little faith that she wouldn’t if anyone asked. The address was in the neighborhood where Caron and I had lived before Prince Charming sprang for my dream castle. I drove by the small yellow house, keeping an eye out for a patrol car in the vicinity. The coast appeared to be clear, but I parked around the corner anyway. It was improbable that Peter would have assigned a plainclothes detective to stake out her house. She hadn’t been at the Literacy Council the previous night.
No car was parked in front of the house or in the driveway, and no one responded to the doorbell. I walked down the driveway to a detached garage with padlocked doors. No windows, but enough weeds to suggest that Leslie had not kept her car inside it. I went back to the porch and pushed the doorbell button. After several more tries, I gave up. As I came down the steps, I saw a young man watching me from the curb. He had long, stringy hair and dirty feet.
He cut me off when I reached the sidewalk. “Who are you?”
“Would you believe me if I said I was a census taker?”
“No,” he said. “There have been some burglaries around here lately, some during the day. Why don’t you just tell me who you are? Are you a friend of the lady who lives here?”
Not exactly. “Yes,” I said firmly, “and I’m worried about her. She didn’t show up at the Farberville Literacy Council this morning to teach her classes. Have you seen her?”
He still seemed skeptical. “No. The cops were here earlier, looking for her. I’ve never seen you around here.”
“I’m not a burglar, for pity’s sake! I’m a friend of hers. Did you see her last night?”
“Somebody was banging on her door about ten thirty.”
“Did you see who it was?” I asked, doing my best not to sound excited. “Male or female, anything like that?”
“I don’t spy on my neighbors. Do you think I’d go out to the front yard so I could see who it was? I don’t even know the woman, except to say hello when we meet on the sidewalk. For all I know, it could have been you.”
“Casing the joint? If I were a burglar, I wouldn’t announce my presence, would I? Why don’t you run along and snoop around at someone else’s house?”
We were not destined to be best friends. He walked across the yard of the house next door, went inside, and slammed the door. I fumed for a moment, thinking of all the amazingly barbed retorts I could have used to squelch him like a bug. A grimy little bug. Once I’d cooled off, I went back down the driveway and into the backyard. Leslie had not been a gardener. The grass was skimpy, and large bushes stood on either side of the back door stoop. I knocked on the door without success. I had no reason to think Leslie was home and merely unwilling to answer the door. Although, I told myself, she could be inside, so ill that she couldn’t get out of bed. She could be crumpled on the floor with a broken leg or even unconscious
. On the other hand, her car was missing, which implied that she’d gone somewhere for whatever reason. One possibility was obvious—she was responsible for Ludmila’s death. She might be driving toward Mexico or Canada, depending on whether she preferred searing summers or freezing winters. Or her car could be in a chop shop.
The door was locked, and I was not skilled in the genteel art of picking locks with a hairpin (if I’d had such a thing). I looked at the windows. One was slightly open, clearly an invitation to make sure that Leslie was not in a puddle of blood. I dragged a garbage can under the window, did what I could to secure the lid, and then managed to crawl onto it. I finally made it to my feet, clung to the sill until I had my balance, and shoved open the window. Had the garbage can not flipped over under my weight, it would have been quite a display of ingenuity. As it was, I kicked and squirmed my way across the sill and flopped face-first onto a bed, bounced, and rolled onto the floor. I lay still for a moment, listening for gasps from either Leslie or myself. I decided I was unharmed and, I dearly hoped, alone. Such entrances can be tricky to explain.
Leslie’s bedroom was tidy, the bed made and a stack of books aligned on the bedside table. Most people in the act of fleeing don’t dally to close drawers or empty the wastebasket. The closet contained dresses, blouses, suits, and a few bare coat hangers. Shoes were in neat pairs on the floor. The only anomaly was one large, worn athletic shoe in a back corner. Leslie had two feet, and neither was apt to fit it. I concluded it had been left by a previous tenant. I declined to examine it, since brown recluse spiders were fond of such residences.
I went out to the hall. The bathroom was as tidy as the bedroom, and there were no splatters of blood in the bathtub or on the floor. Her makeup, toothbrush and toothpaste, and similar items were next to the sink. The living room held no surprises, nor did the kitchen or the small dining room. I returned to the hall and went into the second bedroom, which had been converted into an office. The bookcase held heavy tomes, boxes of supplies, and packages of printer paper. I sat down at the desk and picked up the top folder from a stack of perhaps a dozen. A photograph of a thirtyish, ebony-skinned man had been stapled to what appeared to be a résumé. I noticed that he was from Zaire and was a graduate student in astrophysics at a university in Arizona. I put aside his folder and picked up the next one. It, too, had a photograph, this one of a swarthy man from Egypt. He was working on a degree in mechanical engineering.