by Lane Stone
“Our family is from Cologne, Germany.”
I was about to go back to my office, happy that at least I had learned about her last phone conversation with Billy B. It sounded like he knew he might be in danger.
“Sue?” This time Julie’s voice was stronger. She was addressing me instead of walking away from me.
I turned and saw her eyes were narrowed. “We’re Jewish. That’s why there are so few members of my family left. Neither my dad nor Uncle William would ever talk about it, though.”
“I’m sorry,” I said.
“I know,” she said. “Everybody’s always sorry.”
She held my gaze for a beat, then nodded and went out the front door.
Chapter 27
“Here’s my attorney now,” Martin Ziegler was saying when I walked into the interrogation room.
I looked around wondering if his lawyer was anyone I knew. Rick, Chief Turner, Officer Statler, and Martin were the only people there. I was confused but sat in the one chair that was left empty. Martin looked at me expectantly. No one said a word.
It suddenly dawned on me.
“What?” I yelled. “I’m not your attorney. I’m not anybody’s attorney. I’m not an attorney!”
John glared at Martin. “Mr. Ziegler, you said you were representing yourself.”
“Same difference,” he said, stretching out the words. Saaaame differeeeeence. “I decided to choose someone else to represent me. Tomato tomato.” Toooomayyytoooo, tomahhhhtooo.
I shook my head, just as Rick was doing. I was starting to understand Martin’s fabrications. They were like when Douglas Adams called the “Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy” books a trilogy in five parts. It seemed he wasn’t trying to mislead, rather he was trying to be inaccurate.
“Martin,” I said, hoping he heard the threat in my voice. “You have hurt my friend enough. I’m going to ask you a few questions and I dare you to lie to me.” No one was breathing in the room but me. “You see, I never lose my temper. I find it. And you have pushed me to that point.” I was speaking slowly and clearly. I hadn’t taken my eyes off Martin Ziegler. “You are in serious trouble. Billy B. either borrowed or stole your car and you got it back, leaving his murdered body there. Did you see him when you came for your car?”
“Nnno,” he croaked. “He wasn’t anywhere around.”
“How did you know to come to my house to find your car?” I asked.
“I didn’t, I mean at first. I went to Buckingham’s and it wasn’t there.”
“Then how did you know to come to my house next? Do you know where I live?”
“I could kind of follow the car by the smoke and the smell. It’s something I can do because of my bond with my car.” It had nothing to do with his relationship with that environmental nightmare he called a car. You could have the worst head cold in the world and follow those exhaust fumes. I raised an eyebrow in warning.
“When did you realize your car was missing?” I asked. I wanted it all. Step by step.
Martin’s eyes darted from side to side. “You’re not much of a lawyer,” he finally said.
I shook my head and wondered if I should leave, but I couldn’t do that to Rick. If I did, I’d be letting Dayle down too. And Billy B. So instead, I gave him a laser stare guaranteed to make someone tell the truth. Right. Lady Anthea could probably do this better.
“I’m just sayin’,” Martin added, having the gall to shake his head in disappointment of my work.
“Pop, no one here thinks you killed Billy B.—” Rick said.
He was interrupted by Chief Turner’s throat clearing.
A chuckle escaped from Officer Statler, but she quickly regained her professionalism.
“Mr. Ziegler, this morning I reviewed footage from traffic cameras all the way down Savannah Road. They show you driving the car late Monday morning,” Chief Turner said.
I leaned forward and said, “If my car was stolen, my best friend would not be the first person I accused. For you, it was. And you knew where he had taken the car. Had you borrowed something of his?” He looked to his right, out the window. I could see muscles of his neck tense and release, over and over. When he looked back around there were tears in his eyes. “Yeah, his dog. We were going to take good care of it, though. And we would have given it back.”
It had not been my intention to embarrass him in front of his son. Murder wasn’t the only sin that could make someone guilty and culpable. I would not allow Martin Ziegler to make me that person. He was just so infuriating.
“Pop!” Rick yelled. “Sue, don’t worry about it. It’s just something he does. He makes himself cry.”
What had it been like for Rick having Martin as a father? How did he survive it? Now I was leaving. I stood and turned to Chief Turner. “He and Captain Sandy Westlake stole Wags and took him to the Harbor of Refuge Lighthouse. He couldn’t hide him in his apartment since it’s right over the deli. Billy B. stole puppy food to give them to try to get the dog back. Billy B. was trying to get away from someone that morning.” Then I turned to Martin. “Be thankful that Wags was okay when we got to him.” I was about to leave when the image of the newspaper articles about Buckingham’s and me flashed in my head. “He came to me for help and I wasn’t there. Because of the stunt you pulled, I was at the Harbor of Refuge Lighthouse.” Was he looking for my help? Could I have done anything if I had been at home?
Martin shrugged his shoulders.
Then to the room or the universe, I said, “Until we know who Billy B. was afraid of, he’s a suspect.” I pointed to Martin Ziegler.
Chief Turner’s eyes were on me as I made my way out, but he was talking to the recorder. “Sue Patrick is leaving the interrogation room.”
Rick sighed and gave me a smile.
“Elvis has left the building,” we said at the same time.
Chapter 28
Chief Turner rose, too. He nodded at Officer Statler and she got it, that she was being left in charge.
As soon as he closed the door behind us, he said, “Remember when I questioned Martin Tuesday night and he said Billy B. might have gone to Buckingham’s or to your house looking for a dog to track Wags? You thought it was ridiculous, but maybe it was true since he admitted to stealing the dog just now.”
“I still think it was one of Martin’s fibs. There was nothing on the body or in the car with Wags’s scent on it for a dog to know what he was supposed to be tracking.”
He nodded. “Did you find out what you wanted to know from Julie Berger?”
“Yeah, Wags doesn’t know her and she didn’t know Wags,” I said, keeping my voice low.
“So she and her uncle weren’t close? If she’s even his niece,” he said.
Here we went again. He’d labeled her a suspect.
“She said they talked every week and last week he sounded nervous.”
Chief Turner was shaking his head and he ran a hand over it. “They didn’t talk, they emailed.”
“Was that Friday?” I asked, remembering how she’d corrected herself. Had she known phone calls could be verified?
“In their last email, he told her she was the sole beneficiary of his will. She doesn’t come to see him for years, and then she shows up.” He shrugged his shoulders and raised his hands, palms up, like, I rest my case.
I nodded. “So the timing of her first visit to Lewes is suspicious?”
“Everything about her is suspicious,” he said.
* * * *
Irish Eyes was just up the street from Anglers. Kyle O’Malley was waiting for me at the bar when I arrived. He was dressed in black from his cashmere turtleneck and leather jacket down to his jeans and boots.
I had gone back to Buckingham’s and came in with Wags in my arms.
He gave the dog pats on his back and shoulders. “Nice touch,” he said and ga
ve me an air-kiss. He had been referring to me bringing Wags for our visit with Pauline von der Osten, but the way he had patted the dog showed a nice touch, too. Many, maybe most, dogs hate to be patted on the head. They will tolerate it, but don’t like it.
“What’s good here?” Kyle asked.
“Oysters on the half shell,” I said, looking around. “I don’t think they’re going to let me stay in here with him.” We placed our order and told the bartender we were going to the back deck.
Kyle picked up his beer and followed Wags and me out. He took in the water view before sitting down. Being on the water meant we were colder, but neither of us complained. The Lewes Irish Eyes is on the canal and the Milton location is on the Broadkill River.
“Could not believe I found Pauline von der Osten. I didn’t know if she was even still alive. She’s in one of those continuing care places. She’s in her nineties but she sounded good. Looks like I might be able to have a decent interview,” he said. Then he got out his phone and took a few photos of Wags.
“Where does she live?” I asked. The waitress had brought a glass of chardonnay and I took a sip.
“Some old age home pessimistically named Autumn Acres,” he said. “Sounds like spring’s over, summer’s done, you’re going down.”
“I don’t think they call them old age homes anymore. I know where it is.” Despite Kyle’s dreary analysis of the name of the place, it looked pleasant enough from the outside.
The fresh oysters were lowered to our table. Wags got up to sniff but immediately laid back down. Not for him.
“Is it far?” he asked, slathering an oyster with horseradish.
“Nothing in Lewes is far,” I said. I was thinking about the business’s location on Plantations Boulevard. Billy B. would have walked by it every day. “I need to tell you more of the story. She gave him to a man in town named Billy B. and he was found murdered Monday morning.”
“Fantastic!”
“Kyle!”
“I mean, not for him, obviously,” he said. “Don’t turn around but you have an admirer. Oh, he’s leaving. Too bad.”
I stopped myself before asking if he was wearing a police uniform, but I couldn’t stop myself from grinning.
Wags had been dozing by my foot but jerked awake. He growled and wedged himself behind my legs. He wasn’t snarling at anyone behind me, where my so-called secret admirer had been. Wags’s reaction was to someone on the other end of the deck. I looked over Kyle’s shoulder and saw Sandy Westlake. Suddenly Wags took off after him and when Westlake recovered from the shock, he leaned down and scooped Wags up. With the Pug under one arm like a football he turned to run. I leapt out of my chair and ran to the railing. I climbed over and took off after them. I decided I wouldn’t be able to catch him since he had a head start, but I could embarrass him. “Captain Westlake!” I screamed. He had a lot more to lose doing this than the amount of money he would make from Wags.
He slowed and put the dog down on the ground. “Just playing with ya,” he said. “Just a little joke.”
“Right.” I picked Wags up and walked around to the deck steps.
“Let’s go,” I said to Kyle.
“This is getting better and better.” He paid our check and left a large tip. “Want to go in my car?” His car was a Porsche 911 Carrera, so that was really just a rhetorical question. I got Wags’s harness out of my car. Once I had myself seated in Kyle’s car I hooked the Pug to my seat belt. The engine purred as we drove away from Irish Eyes.
I was thinking about how annoyed I was with myself for not having Wags on a leash at the restaurant and what Mason would say if he knew, when the loud truck came up behind us. The gravel from the parking lot scattered. I looked at the side mirror and saw Captain Sandy Westlake. What was he thinking? “Get away from him,” I said to Kyle. We zoomed up Anglers Road to Savannah Road, and turned right.
Unfortunately, we were still zooming once we were on Savannah Road and before I could warn Kyle about Lewes’s low and serious speed limits, a police car pulled out from the parking lot on the side of a store, siren on. “You can’t zoom on Savannah Road,” I said.
“Is this what they mean by lower, slower Delaware?” he asked. Later, I would have to explain that those bumper stickers referred to the slower pace we preferred here in southern Delaware, but for now there was a police officer to hear out.
“Registration and license, please.”
I pushed myself back into the seat and looked out the passenger-side window.
“Excuse me,” Kyle said. He needed to open the glove compartment and my knees were in the way.
“Sue,” Chief Turner said. The look he gave me was about as warm as what I’d seen on Abby’s face when she saw someone was going away in the Jeep with me and it wasn’t her.
When Wags, the little traitor, saw Chief Turner and heard his voice he wagged his tail so hard his whole body lurched on my lap.
“Sorry,” I said to Kyle as Chief Turner ran his plates and license. “Hopefully it’ll be a warning.” Then I whispered to Wags that he wasn’t supposed to be enraptured to see a police officer who was writing a ticket.
I was still looking out the side mirror tracking Sandy Westlake. He had turned right, as we had. Then he made a right onto Second Street. I had thought that was a good thing. Now that he was parking in front of Mozart’s, I was rethinking it. He looked up the street at us and smirked. If he had been the one parked on the side of the road engaging with the local police, I would have done the same. Who am I kidding? I would have laughed my ass off. Then he traipsed into Mozart’s.
Chief Turner was back. He handed Kyle his documents and said, “This is just a warning, Mr. O’Malley. Watch your speed.” Then he looked at me, “Where were you coming from in such a hurry?” The question seemed odd. Why would he care? I heard a message in his voice, but needed a little more to go on.
“I think the name of the place was Irish Eyes,” Kyle answered.
“Hmm, just got a complaint about a disturbance there. That’s all. I’m sure you’re in a hurry to get where you’re going, but watch your speed.” He had emphasized “get where you’re going,” and I took the hint.
I could either waste time defending my actions at Irish Eyes or I could make myself scarce before he got the details on whatever had happened there. I chose the latter. “Thanks,” I said.
The powerful car floated up Savannah Road and crossed Highway 1. Then we made a left onto Plantations Boulevard. “Autumn Acres is on our left, past this light,” I told Kyle. “Ms. von der Osten will be so happy to see Wags.”
The two-story building was faced with white stone. The lobby was filled with sofas and rocking chairs. A fire roared in the fireplace directly ahead of us. A man was taping red paper hearts to the inside of a window. Kyle approached him and introduced us. When I saw who it was I tried to stop him, but I was too late.
“H-e-l-l-o, Sue,” Dr. Walton said. Obviously he was still working off his community service hours.
Kyle looked at me, with a raised eyebrow, at the man’s obvious animosity. I wanted to tell him that not every man in town hated me. Just the three he had encountered on this one afternoon.
“We’re here to see Pauline von der Osten,” Kyle said.
Dr. Walton pointed to an attractive lady wearing a silk blouse and jeans who had appeared at a reception window, and we walked over.
“Hi, Sue,” Kate Carter said.
“Hi!” I hoped Kyle had noticed her friendly greeting. “Do you volunteer here?”
“Just a half-day a week. I wish I could do more. There are so many interesting people living here,” she said.
Kyle asked her where we could find the opera singer.
“Oh, she’s in her room. She’s one of the most fascinating residents,” Kate said, coming around and leading us down a carpeted hallway.
I notice
d the poster advertising the commemoration events on an easel by the entrance door. “Wait, this date is last week.”
“Howard Fourie came and gave a presentation to the residents since most can’t get out to go to one of the venues,” she said. “Mrs. von der Osten’s daughter-in-law converted her old reel-to-reel tapes into a DVD and she’s been watching it nonstop. She’s enjoying it so much. She turned ninety last year and she has something new to enjoy. Isn’t that wonderful?”
We agreed it was.
Her room had an elaborate Valentine’s decoration on the door. Kate knocked and we waited.
“Come in,” a heavily accented voice said.
“You have two guests,” Kate said.
The petite woman was dwarfed by her Queen Anne chair, which was turned to face a side table, with a computer on it. All had been positioned to prevent glare caused by the sun shining in through the big window on one side of the room. She motioned for us to come and watch the grainy image with her. “This is the very best part,” she said, with her German accent.
I left my handbag, which was really a beach bag, by her door and went to kneel beside her. She looked over and smiled.
“I’m Sue Patrick,” I whispered to keep from interrupting the music.
Kyle introduced himself and reached over to shake her hand. Then she turned her attention back to the screen. “Thank you for seeing me, Mrs. von der Osten,” he said.
“Please call me Pauline.”
Two young boys were singing opera, in German. They wore matching short pants and what looked like dress shirts, tucked in. Their voices were angelic and they were freakishly talented. These prodigies did exist.
My bag barked and Wags jumped out. Pauline’s hands flew to her mouth and she shrieked. “Is it? Could it be? Mein liebling!”
“It is!” I said.
Wags ran to her and I picked him up and placed him on the chair beside her.
