Murder as a Second Language: A Claire Malloy Mystery (Claire Malloy Mysteries)

by Hess, Joan

  “I have no idea.” He had a British accent, to my surprise. “I studied bacteriology at Oxford.”

  “Oh.” It took a minute to process this. “Then why have you been following me for the last few days? Shouldn’t you be hunting for wild berries that cure cancer or dissecting cows’ brains?”

  “Only on weekends. What makes you think I’m following you, Claire?”

  I did not care for the informal use of my name. “Mostly from watching you in my rearview mirror. Are you going to claim you always come into restaurants through their kitchens? That by some great cosmic coincidence, my car appears in front of yours no matter where you’re going?”

  He pursed his lips. “An acquaintance asked me to see what you’ve been up to, that’s all.”

  “What about my tires? Was that a harmless prank?”

  “You shouldn’t make wild accusations without proof.”

  I wanted to dump the soup in his lap. “What’s your name, and who’s this acquaintance of yours?”

  “My name is Rashad, and my acquaintance prefers to remain anonymous.”

  “Are you a hit man?”

  He smirked. “No, I’m a graduate assistant. It’s not nearly as lucrative.”

  The waitress was less leery as she put down the bill, but she didn’t linger or ask me if I wanted a refill. I put my forearms on the table and leaned forward. “Okay, enough baloney. I want to know who this ‘acquaintance’ is and why he or she thinks I deserve all this attention. Does it concern the murder at the Literacy Council on Monday night? Abetting a felon is a felony. The two of you could end up in adjoining cells.”

  “All I know about the murder is what I read in the newspaper. The police haven’t made any progress.”

  “They don’t give hourly press conferences or post reports on the Internet. If this doesn’t have anything to do with that, then what does it have to do with? Yes, I may be poking around to assist the police. That’s all I’ve been doing. If there’s some major international plot to launder billions of dollars or blow up buildings, I don’t know anything about it. Got that?”

  He took sunglasses out his pocket and put them on. “I’m so glad we had this little talk, Claire. I’ll pass along your statement.”

  “Do that, and stop following me!” I was thoroughly exasperated. I gauged whether or not there was enough tea in the bottom of my glass to emphasize my point. There were people in the booth behind him. I didn’t want to nail one of them with a stray ice cube.

  “Keep your eyes on the rearview mirror.” He put a twenty-dollar bill on the table. “Allow me to treat you to lunch.” He made his way to the front door and turned in the direction of the Book Depot.

  I dug out my cell phone and called the store. When Jacob answered, I said, “Go across the street and get the license plate number of that black car. Quickly, before its driver returns.” Jacob sighed as he acquiesced. I ended the call and punched Peter’s number. I failed to exhale until he answered. “What’s up, Claire?”

  “Not much, if you exclude the conversation I just had with a man who followed me from the Book Depot to a restaurant on Thurber Street.” I recounted what I could of the encounter. “Now he’s walking to his car parked by the beer garden. Brown jacket, black hair, average height, sensational eyelashes. Send a patrol car to pick him up.”

  “And arrest him for what? “

  “I’m not a police officer. You’re the one who should figure out what law he’s broken. How about stalking me? That’s a criminal offense.”

  “There’s a difference between stalking and talking, or even tailing someone. He didn’t threaten you. The only time he’s approached you is when you invited him to sit down at your booth. You’re welcome to present it to the DA. He leaves early on Friday afternoons, so you’d better call quickly.”

  “You don’t care that this … this man … this foreigner who could be working for some terrorist outfit, for all we know—you don’t care that he’s watching me? You won’t even ask Homeland Security about him?” My voice was rising, but I couldn’t control it. “Don’t be surprised if you find me in a pool of blood on the kitchen floor! That’s if you find my body at all! Maybe I’ll be checked luggage on a flight to Pakistan! You know how much I hate camels!” I had pretty much everyone’s attention by now. Their expressions ranged from amusement to alarm. My waitress held a fist to her mouth, and her eyes were filled with tears. I waved the twenty-dollar bill at her so she’d be distracted by the possibility of a big tip. My other hand held the cell against my ear while Peter sputtered and stuttered.

  He finally calmed down. “Do you want me to send a patrol car to pick you up?”

  “No, I want you to send a patrol car to pick up Rashad. Haven’t you listened to anything I’ve been saying? He admitted that he’s been following me. Oh, and Jiang admitted to the same thing, but he promised to stop. This man implied that he has no intention of stopping.”

  Peter was quiet for a moment. “All right, I’ll send a car. If we can locate him, I’ll have him brought in. Go back to the Book Depot—take the sidewalk, not the alley—and drive straight here. I’ll have our sketch artist waiting. Work with him until you’re satisfied, and I’ll have flyers printed for all of our patrol officers and campus security. We can bring him in for the slightest traffic violation, and I can assure you that he’ll commit one.”

  “It’s comforting to know we’re that close to totalitarianism.” I told him I’d see him within half an hour and left the twenty-dollar bill on the table. As I walked down Thurber Street, I struggled not to glance over my shoulder. I’d already embarrassed myself in the restaurant; I didn’t want to look as if I’d just broken out of jail. The black car was no longer parked across the street. Scowling, I went into the Book Depot and headed for the tiny restroom. I washed my hands and face, but I still felt grimy. I desperately wanted to know who’d persuaded him to follow me.

  I wadded up the paper towel and dropped it in the wastebasket, confident that Jacob would empty it within minutes of my departure. He ran a tight ship. My casual approach to paying bills, reading invoices, replacing files, and returning calls to publishers’ reps must have kept him from sleeping well at night. His waking hours were haunted by the specter of me coming into the bookstore and undoing his meticulous system. I stopped in the doorway to the front room in order not to cause him distress.

  “Did you get the license plate?”

  He handed me a piece of notepaper with a neatly printed line of letters and numbers. “The driver appeared about ten minutes ago and drove away.”

  “Describe him.”

  “Average size, black hair, brown jacket.”

  Even though the police hadn’t arrived in time to grab Rashad, I had his number—if only that of his license plate. “Thanks, Jacob. I’ll see you later.”

  He twitched. “Later today?”

  “Monday or Tuesday.” I went out the back door and drove to the PD. If Rashad was behind me, he was keeping a discreet distance. Jorgeson came out of his office as soon as I was inside. He clasped my hands and said, “Ms. Malloy, I am deeply disturbed about this man.”

  I gave him the notepaper. “This is his license plate.”

  “Very nice. Please wait in my office while I go deal with this.”

  I replayed the conversation with Rashad until I could almost recite it backward, which was a neat trick but of no significance. Peter did not arrive to embrace me tightly and swear to defend my honor. Five minutes inched by. Jorgeson had forgotten to flip over the page on his wall calendar. The plant on his desk was in peril of losing its leaves. I was in peril of losing my mind. I was reducing to drumming my fingers on my knee when Jorgeson returned.

  He shook his head sadly as he consulted a paper. “The young man may have lied to you, Ms. Malloy. According to the vehicle registration, his name is Hamdan bin Zayed Al Marktoum. We ran his name by the CIS. He’s from Syria and has been in this country for about three years. He became a citizen last month. His record is
pristine, not even a parking ticket. He currently lives in a condo out by the golf course. The DMV faxed over his driver’s license. Is this the man?”

  I squinted at the blurry image. “I think so.”

  “You still need to work with the sketch artist in the conference room. Would you like some coffee before you sit down with him?”

  His solicitude was so fishy that I could smell it. I suspected that someone else in the department wanted to keep me occupied for several hours. “Maybe I’ll pop in on Peter and let him know I’m here,” I said.

  “He’s in a meeting with the chief to evaluate the situation. We don’t want to call in Homeland Security if this Zayed fellow isn’t involved with certain unsavory groups.”

  I mumbled something and let him escort me to the conference room. The sketch artist, a middle-aged man with a bald head, looked at me expectantly. I sank down in the nearest chair and closed my eyes. I’d overreacted in the restaurant and was now about to create an international incident. I imagined the residents of Farberville gathered around City Hall, angrily demanding to know about bomb threats and armed terrorists. The airport and the college campus would be closed. City Hall would be guarded by heavily armed soldiers. Barricades would go up for no apparent reason. Grocery stores would be emptied of bread, milk, batteries, and DVD rentals.

  I gave the man a vague smile and left the room to find Peter. If ever there was a need for damage control, this was it. Officers who recognized me ducked into the closest rooms; those who didn’t ignored me. When I saw the chief’s office, I barged inside. The room was empty. Taken aback, I studied the chairs and small sofa as if Peter and the chief had concealed themselves under the mismatched throw pillows. I was so unhinged that I went around the chief’s desk to make sure they weren’t tucked in the kneehole. “You need to calm down,” I said aloud, hoping I’d pay attention to my own voice. “You need to sit down and breathe until you come to your senses.”

  “I do?” Jorgeson said from the doorway.

  “No, I do. Where did they go? I need to speak to them now. This whole thing is out of control. Rashad—I mean Hamdan—didn’t wave a gun under my nose or show me bombs in his backpack. He didn’t even have a backpack!”

  Jorgeson put his hands on my shoulders. “I don’t guess you need more caffeine right now, Ms. Malloy. How about a cup of herbal tea instead? Don’t tell anyone, but I have an electric teapot in my office. Mrs. Jorgeson says it helps my digestion.”

  “I need to speak to them,” I repeated mulishly.

  “Well, that may be difficult just now. The chief left for a scheduled meeting with the mayor. Deputy Chief Rosen has gone to talk to the local FBI boys. Come with me, Ms. Malloy. I’ll make some tea and we’ll have a nice chat, just the two of us. I hear you want to put in a greenhouse. Mrs. Jorgeson has the very same idea, so I did some research about wood and metal frames.” He took my wrist and gave a little tug. “We’ll talk about lily ponds, too.”

  No white-coated attendants appeared with a straightjacket. I allowed myself to be led to his office and seated in a chair. I accepted a cup of tea. It tasted like rain-barrel water. An idea of sorts came to mind. “Is there a file on Omario, the man I saw with Leslie in the sports bar?”

  “I feel confident there is, Ms. Malloy.”

  “Might I have a look at it?”

  “Deputy Chief Rosen gave me explicit instructions not to show you any files or reports involving this case. He said you might be looking for a culinary school. There are only a couple in Farberville, but the college has a bachelor’s degree in culinary arts. You might find some classes that appeal.”

  Jorgeson wasn’t a stone wall; he was more of a chain-link fence. I smiled. “That’s a good idea. I’ll look online when I get home. Thank you for the tea and the suggestion. After I take some classes, we’ll have you and Mrs. Jorgeson over for dinner. You can admire my knife skills.”

  “We’d like that, Ms. Malloy.”

  “One other little thing, if you don’t mind. It doesn’t have anything to do with the investigation, I promise. Gregory Whistler’s wife, Rosie, died in an accident two years ago. He was all choked up when he told me. I felt awful that I didn’t know about it, even though there must have been something in the local newspaper. Could you have a quick look on your computer and tell me what happened?”

  “Deputy Chief Rosen will not be happy with me.”

  “Then we won’t tell him, will we? I just felt so helpless when Gregory started crying and I wasn’t able to comfort him. I don’t need to read the file.”

  Jorgeson gave me a wry look as he turned to his computer. After a minute, he said, “Her body was found in their bathtub, under the water. The medical examiner declared it an accident as a courtesy to her spouse. She’d taken a massive dose of her prescribed antidepressants and drunk a bottle of wine. The officers spoke to her psychiatrist, with Whistler’s permission, and he acknowledged that she was depressed and potentially suicidal.”

  “There’s no way Whistler could have … assisted her?”

  Jorgeson continued reading the monitor. “No, he’d gone to a conference in Boston two days earlier. The woman’s closest friends were interviewed, and they all said they were worried about her. She’d stopped going out with them and hadn’t attended any parties or benefits. One of them said that she’d discussed her concern with Whistler, and that neither of them could figure out what to do.” He pushed a key to send the file back to the netherworld. “There you have it, Ms. Malloy.”

  “Our little secret. If the sketch artist is still here, I’m ready to meet with him. If not, give me a box of crayons and I’ll do my best.”

  I waited while Jorgeson picked up his phone and inquired if Mr. Rimski was available. He was. I returned to the conference room and sat down next to dear Mr. Rimski. I was surprised that he had a laptop rather than a piece of charcoal and a pad of paper. I spent the next hour doing my best and, with his painfully patient encouragement, was pleased with the result.

  “You know,” I said as I picked up my purse, “you could be a billionaire if you could apply your technique to real people. Men and women would be pounding on your door, demanding you make their ears smaller and their noses straighter.”

  “I’ll look into it,” he said in a gloomy voice.

  * * *

  I was delighted to be back in the sunshine. I had new leads, some of which might be productive. I leaned against my car and looked across the street. The only black car was so battered that it might have lost at a demolition derby. It was also unoccupied. I took out my cell phone and called Rick’s number. Five rings and voice mail. My next call was to Frances North, who was gracious enough to answer.

  “This is Claire. Have you heard from Willie?”

  “I spoke to her sister, who came last night from Tulsa. Willie is doing better, although they have her on a respirator as a precaution. The doctor hasn’t said when she’ll be released. I sent flowers from the board.” Her voice hardened. “Who did this to her? Do the police have any suspects?”

  “Everyone who was at the potluck is a suspect. Did you talk to Willie?”

  “Of course I talked to Willie,” she said. “I made a point of speaking to everyone, including the students. I complimented Willie on her chicken salad, even though I know where she bought it. Did you try my macaroni salad? It’s my grandmother’s recipe.”

  “It was divine. I need to ask you something else, Frances. You held an executive meeting on Thursday, right?”

  “Yes, at my house. Sonya, Willie, Drake and I discussed the budget crisis over coffee.” She stressed the beverage. “Sonya continued to voice support for Gregory and made the point that we’ve had this problem for the last several years. Drake disagreed and said that Gregory needs to step down if he’s incapable of organizing the accounts. Willie kept talking about the phone bills. I don’t know what she thought we ought to do.” She hesitated. “I thought Willie might have had a martini or two in her chambers before she came to the meet
ing.”

  “Oh,” I said as if scandalized. “You may be right. Did you see her talking to anyone in particular at the potluck.”

  “Let me think,” she said. After what felt like a very long time, she said, “I know she tried to speak to Gregory, but he was babysitting Ludmila’s grandson. On my way to the ladies’ room, I saw her give Sonya an envelope. It was none of my business. I returned to the classroom and made sure Rick and Austin weren’t pulling another one of their childish stunts. If they went to my school, they’d spend more time on the bench outside my office than in class. They seem to think our board meetings are nothing but a joke!”

  I agreed with them, but this was not the time to share. “And Willie? Did she sit next to anyone while she ate?”

  “You must have noticed there weren’t enough chairs. I saw her leave the room with Leslie and assumed they’d gone into her office to sit down. I found myself sharing a cubicle with a large black man who refused to look at me while he ate. I was most uncomfortable, but since I assumed he was a student, I attempted to converse. He’s from one of those queer African countries.”

  “Zimbabwe,” I said absently. “One of its borders is the great, gray-green, greasy Limpopo River.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Thanks for talking to me, Frances. Will you call a special board meeting?”

  “Not even if you threatened to stick a screwdriver in my ear. Have a nice day.”

  I closed my cell phone. Leslie was next on my list. I didn’t have her phone number, but I wouldn’t have called if I did. I drove to her house, with or without Hamdan, and parked around the corner in the same spot. If Charles, the surly neighbor who’d called the cops on me, was lurking, all the better. I had a few unsavory words for him. A pale green Mercedes was parked in the driveway; I’d seen it in the parking lot of the Literacy Council. I walked up the porch steps and rang the bell. I was preparing to ring it again when the door opened.

  Leslie frowned. “Come in, Claire, and have a seat. There’s coffee in the kitchen. I’m online with a class for fifteen more minutes.” She went down the hall to her office.