Murder and Mozzarella

by Carole Fowkes

  He left me standing alone, my head filled with this latest twist. The relationship between Jennifer and John. John and Mark Fenton, not to mention my wondering if Jennifer worked for Fenton in more than one capacity.

  This Vanderson case was like a buffet dinner. Every time you thought you had enough, another dish came out. I went to talk to Darcy Mills to try and clear my plate.

  Chapter Nineteen

  The address my snooping had earlier uncovered for Darcy was in a three-story apartment building in a southeastern suburb of Cleveland. The building’s security was the buzzer type, as in anyone can ring the buzzers and someone will let them in. That was my method here. Unfortunately, nobody responded.

  At the end of the block was a wine and beer shop that looked like it catered to the less fortunate. It was a gamble, but as long as I was here, I figured it was worth a chance. The bell tinkled as I entered and a guy who’s physique reminded me of the bouncer at Brandi’s bar, the Night Shade, sauntered in from the back room.

  His voice sounded like he’d just had throat surgery, raspy and strained. “Can I help you?”

  “I’m looking for this woman, Darcy Mills.” I showed him the only picture I had of her. “Have you seen her lately?”

  The guy shook a cigarette out of a half-empty pack, lit up, and blew the smoke over my head. “Can’t say as I have.” He took another drag from his cigarette. “But if I was you, I’d leave it alone.” With that he turned his back to me.

  For too long in this case I’ve been told to back off. After so many times, I’d had it. Frustration drove me to challenge him. “Well, I’m not you and I want to know what you can tell me about Ms. Mills.”

  He glanced around, as if a customer had magically appeared. “What’s it worth to you?”

  That was the second time on this case that question had been put to me. I should have anticipated it. Instead, I had to quickly calculate the money left in my possession. “$18.”

  He snorted his contempt.

  Hoping somehow that money had reproduced in my purse, I dug around in the purse’s side pockets and bottom. “$18.22, no, 23 cents. And, wait a minute. A $1 scratch-off lottery ticket.” My aunt must have slipped that in when I went to see her earlier. She was convinced one day we’d hit it big.

  The shop owner snatched all of it. “You didn’t hear nothing from me, but the lady entertains.”

  I scowled, “You mean she sings, or tells jokes?” Then it hit me. “Entertains men for money?” Just like Jennifer.

  “Bigwigs. Big money. Now beat it.”

  “First, how do you know—”

  Bunching his fists, he snarled, “That’s all $18 buys ya. So get out. Now.”

  “Of course. Thanks. Bye.”

  When I reached my car, I tried processing this new information, but it just led to more questions. Who were the other bigwigs? What was Mark Fenton’s involvement in all this and did Corrigan know about it already? And, what did Collin know about Jennifer’s side job? Was it enough to get him killed?

  My mind was still working furiously when I got back to work. But finding my office door ajar stopped me cold. I wasn’t going to call the police in case I had merely, still fuzzy-headed when I left, forgotten to lock the place up. Nonetheless, there was no sense in taking any chances. I pulled my gun from my purse and with what I imagined was professional stealth, went in.

  There, sitting in my small reception area, drinking a cup of my coffee was John Vanderson. “The door was unlocked, so I took the liberty…”

  Taking a wide stance to appear larger and more threatening than my small frame suggested, I demanded, “Why are you here, Mr. Vanderson?”

  “To congratulate you.” Barely controlled anger and sarcasm dripped from his words. “Now both my wife and my stepdaughter have been charged with murder. Don’t get me wrong. I’m convinced Trish killed my son. She resented him from day one. My wife is innocent, yet she’s been arrested as well. I must admit, I’m glad you didn’t decide to work for me. I’d likely be in jail for something, too.”

  Knowing there was a bit of truth in his comment, I could feel the blood rush to my face and I stammered a weak response. “They, they didn’t kill anyone.”

  He rose from the chair and seemed to fill the room with his presence. “I wanted to hire you to stay out of my family’s life. You refused. Now I’m telling you. My wife and stepdaughter need help. But not from you. Am I understood?”

  Outrage overtook my fear. “No. They could use all the help they can get. Trish’s attorney and I’ve been talking—”

  He snorted. “That ends now. I’ve hired someone else.” He reached into his jacket pocket and, not knowing if he was desperate enough to point a gun at me, I stiffened. To my relief it was only a check. “This should cover the remainder of what my wife owes you. My family’s business with you is done.” He laid the check on the table and calmly left my office.

  I stood there stunned. But not too stunned to pick up the check for $10,000 by its corner and stare longingly at it. There was a lot I could do with that money. Like pay the rent and utilities, even buy Charlie a new bed. If I cashed the check, that’d be the end of my involvement on this case and the end of my having to deal with the intimidating John Vanderson. Too bad my sense of fairness and feeling of responsibility to Trish and Mrs. Vanderson stopped me. If this was a television show and I was the heroine, I’d have ripped up the check. But this was real life, my life, and visions of my business closing because I couldn’t pay rent wormed into my head. The check went into the desk drawer for later consideration.

  With some reluctance, my thoughts returned to Vanderson’s accusations. He was correct in that, since I’d worked for Mrs. Vanderson, both she and Trish had been arrested. But that didn’t mean the blame rested with me. If he was interested in the welfare of his wife and stepdaughter wouldn’t he welcome any assistance, even mine? Did he really believe the arrests were my fault? If he didn’t think his wife killed Jennifer Nelson, who did he think the murderer was?

  Much as I hated to do it, I called Corrigan to see if he’d questioned John Vanderson in connection with Jennifer’s murder.

  Before I could get to that, Corrigan and I mutually expressed our regret for the strained meal we’d shared. Then I asked him about Vanderson.

  He released a deep sigh. “Yeah. We knew what he was up to with Ms. Nelson, but like I said, the guy’s alibi that he was in Youngstown checked out.” He cleared his throat. “He was with a client. Never mind who. She vouched for him. And since Youngstown is over an hour from Cleveland, he couldn’t have done it.”

  “What a sleaze!”

  “Maybe, but we don’t arrest people for being morally bankrupt.”

  “You should.”

  His laugh was more like a bark. “Yeah, sure. Then our prisons would be overcrowded with politicians. If that’s it, I’ve got to go. Dinner tonight at six? I promise to be on my best behavior.”

  “Me too. See you. Love you.”

  After a quick repeat of the phrase, Corrigan ended our call. I was satisfied our relationship would survive this case, but I wasn’t satisfied with his responses. John Vanderson was corrupt. Maybe he didn’t kill Parker or Collin, but why was he with another woman, a so-called client, when it had been pretty clear he’d been involved with Jennifer Nelson? Or was his relationship strictly a $100, or whatever the going rate is, affair? I rubbed my furrowed eyebrows and turned on my computer, once again staring at Fenton’s table of names and numbers. With any luck, which had been lacking so far in this case, inspiration would hit me.

  The magic wasn’t there and all I got from this table of fictional names was a literature lesson. Finally, I massaged the back of my neck and looked away from the computer screen. That’s when I heard somebody open the door to my office.

  “You should get a receptionist.” It was the reporter who’d given me Darcy’s name.

  Quickly minimizing Fenton’s table on my screen, I rose. “What can I do for you?”

/>   He grinned and that’s when I noticed how young he was. Early 20’s, maybe just out of college. Too bad his youth and probable newbie reporter status didn’t squelch his cockiness. “You mean what we can do for each other?” Without my permission, he took a seat.

  “First, what’s your name and how did you find me?”

  “Ethan Clarke. And it was easy. Now, do you want to hear my proposition?”

  “Sure, I’ll listen. That doesn’t mean we have a deal, though.”

  He sat back in the chair as if this had been his office and then steepled his fingers. “Darcy Mills, aka Anna Karenina.”

  That got my attention. “What was Jennifer Nelson’s alias?”

  The smirk on his face told me he knew, but wasn’t about to just give it up. “First we talk.”

  “What is it you want?” If it was money, he was out of luck. My last $18.23 was in the pocket of that guy at the wine and beer store.

  “An exclusive interview with Trish Vanderson.”

  The thought of that currently fragile girl being exposed made my stomach sour.

  He must have read my mind because he leaned forward, adding, “Hey! Anyone in the news business would sell their right arm for this chance. You get it for me and I swear you’ll have info you can work with.”

  “Why are you coming to me and not her attorney?”

  He harrumphed. “That little…He wouldn’t even talk to me. The only reporter he’d talk to would be ones he has in his pocket.”

  Telling my heart to slow down, I tried not to appear too eager. “What information are you talking about?”

  Running his tongue inside his full lower lip, he reached into his back pocket. “Do these people look familiar?” He clicked onto a photo on his phone and held it up to me.

  My lungs felt as if the air had been kicked out of them. “That’s Darcy. And isn’t that the councilman? Ed Johnson?”

  Ethan pulled the phone away just as I went to grab it. “Uh uh. There’s more of this, but first, do we have a deal?”

  Feeling dizzy, I sucked in a deep breath. “I personally don’t think an interview would be in Trish’s best interest. But I’ll ask and leave it up to her.

  Looking like a fox that had cornered a chicken, he said, “I’ll call you tomorrow morning. If you get me the interview, you get this photo and maybe a couple others. Plus Jennifer’s alias. If not…”

  I waved my hand in dismissal. “I’ll see what I can do.” I ushered him to the door, wishing I could knock him down and make off with his phone.

  In the first moments after he left, I debated whether it’d be throwing Trish to a wolf encouraging this interview. But if she didn’t do it, she could land forever into a pile of thorns known as prison.

  Before I could make up my mind, I pulled Fenton’s list again. Sure enough, Anna Karenina was in a column. A sum of money followed and the initials, E.J. as in Ed Johnson, after it. I scooted my chair closer to the screen so fast I almost slipped off.

  The initials on the spreadsheet were the customers’ names. I scanned the list, looking for John Vanderson. But his initials weren’t there. Was John a freebie? Biting my lower lip, my eyes staring at the wall, I tried to work around the gaps and formulate a likely scenario.

  From the conversation I overheard between Fenton and Darcy, I’d say he ran things. John Vanderson was a client, but was there more to it than that? Who were the other clients? My bet was they were other high-powered men. I also bet that the customer list was why I was told to stay away from Fenton.

  My questions and suppositions couldn’t wait until dinner with Corrigan. Recalling my promise to him that I’d be on my best behavior during dinner and afterwards, I headed toward the police station to question him about Fenton’s activities and about the initials of clients on his spreadsheet. After all, the evening was technically five hours away so there was an excellent chance Corrigan would calm down by then.

  Chapter Twenty

  I barreled into the police station and was detained by the front desk officer. Detective Corrigan was in an interview. Detective Tilka, of course, was available. By no means did I want to speak with her, though. I told the officer I’d wait for Corrigan.

  Fifteen minutes turned into thirty, then sixty. I paced, checked phone messages, and made a couple notes, but the time still dragged. If there’d been any chance of cooperation from Abby, I’d have broken down and talked to her, but that was as likely as finding a calorie-free chocolate chip cookie that tasted good.

  My patience almost exhausted, I requested that the officer check and see if Corrigan was now free. The busy guy gave me a put-upon look but did so. “He’ll be right up to see you.”

  “Thank you.” I smoothed my hair and waited. To my great dismay and irritation, it wasn’t Corrigan who greeted me, but Abby.

  With a tone that was more weary than mean, she asked, “Claire, what are you doing here? Aren’t you seeing Brian tonight?”

  Plastering a smile on my face, I responded with, “Do you and my fiancé discuss everything?”

  “We’re partners. Anyway, he’s not available right now. Captain has him sequestered in his office. Your best bet is to hope he’s out by dinner time.”

  Immediately my concern for Corrigan kicked in. “Is everything all right?”

  With a wave of her hand she discounted my worry. “Police business. Nothing for you to get upset about. You should go home.”

  Irritated at her dismissal, I wished I was taller so I could stare her down. Instead I settled for, “Police business could be anything. What aren’t you telling me?”

  “Nothing. If you’re so curious, ask him tonight.”

  I felt like I was reaching for a cloud. It was there, but I couldn’t grab any part of it. “Okay. I’ll do that.” Unable to resist, I added, “In between kisses.” As soon as those last words were out of my mouth, I was embarrassed over my childish response and kept my head down all the way to my car.

  ***

  The remainder of Saturday afternoon zipped by, but I was no closer to answering any of my questions concerning Fenton. Harold finally returned the call I’d put in to him earlier, and we discussed my conversation with Ethan Clarke, the reporter.

  His response was less than enthusiastic. “Claire, my dear, this man could potentially harm Trish’s case. And he might open a can of worms, believe me, you don’t want to open.”

  “But what if the information he gives me could prove somebody else killed Jennifer? That could certainly help the mother’s case.” I couldn’t resist adding, “Plus, why does everyone think I should keep away from any mention of a possible prostitution ring run by Mark Fenton and supported by John Vanderson and others like him?”

  What followed was such a long pause I thought Harold had hung up.

  His sigh was almost melodramatic. “I’ll speak with my client and see if she’s agreeable. But before that, I’d like a list of this reporter’s questions.”

  Drumming my fingers on my desk, I hesitated only a moment. “I’ll see what I can do.”

  To my surprise, Ethan didn’t answer his phone and my message went to his voicemail. Waiting for his return call, I again went through the evidence in my possession as well as possible motives for the cast of characters.

  Was Parker killed because of the pictures he had Brandi take of his father and of Collin, both looking cozy with Jennifer, or because he was just a scum? No closer to solving his murder than the other two deaths that followed, I dropped my head in my hands. Doubts of my ability struck. Maybe I was only good at finding Spam cans.

  A thought broke through the black clouds in my mind and I raised my head. The woman Ranger Roger had spotted near the Spam can location was most likely looking for Collin’s missing shoe. Since my dog, Charlie, found it first and the cops now had it, the shoe angle was a dead end. But I squeezed my eyes shut and tried to imagine the woman’s scarf as described by Ranger Roger. Something told me locating that scarf would lead me to its wearer. And then, to whoever kil
led Collin.

  My phone rang, interrupting my thoughts. It was the reporter. “Well? Do I have my interview?”

  “Trish and her attorney want to see the list of questions you’re planning on asking.”

  He snorted his contempt. “As if I couldn’t change them once I started the inverview. But, okay, I’ll make a list and email it to you. But I need an answer by tomorrow.”

  “I’ll try. Oh, another thing.” I was improvising and hoping it wouldn’t squelch the deal. “If you have photos of Jennifer Nelson with anyone, Trish’s attorney requests they be shown to me before the interview is granted.”

  “The thing is—”

  “Do you have any or not?” My stomach was sinking, as were my hopes of getting anything out of this.

  He huffed, “Showing you anything before the interview wasn’t part of the deal.”

  “It is now.” I held my ground.

  “But…”

  Playing the tough guy never sat easily on my shoulders, but I pushed ahead. “But what?” Then I knew. “You don’t have anything besides that photo you already showed me? You lied!”

  His voice turned nasty, “Like you’re any better than me.”

  It was useless to try and keep the disgust from my voice. “There won’t be an interview.”

  “Wait! I could give you proof Darcy Mills works for Mark Fenton. She’s also involved with John Vanderson.”

  I already knew Darcy worked for Fenton. But it would be worth having proof about her and Vanderson, so I asked the reporter if he had it.

  “Well, um…”

  “Forget it!” Ending the call, I slammed my hand against the arm of the chair. “What a lot of nerve…”

  I put a call into Harold to tell him not to bother asking Trish, but it went to voicemail. Doesn’t anyone answer their phones anymore? I left a brief message about my conversation with the reporter.

  Two hours before I had to get back to my apartment for dinner with Corrigan, and I continued drawing blanks. I studied my information so hard, words began to blur. Still, I pushed through desperately trying to swallow my fear that I wasn’t good enough for the job.