“Did Ben bet with him?”
Shrugs all around, and Alice said, “Maybe the other way around. I don’t know for sure.” She met Elizabeth’s gaze and looked away.
Elizabeth stood. “I’ll stop by the insurance office.”
“Now we didn’t,” Nancy began.
“I won’t use your names. I saw Gordon at the diner a lot. He’s a logical person to talk to.” Elizabeth smiled slightly. “I’ll let you know how things progress.”
“You will?” Gene asked.
“Not confidential details, just updates. I don’t mean to sound disrespectful to Ben, but I’m hoping this wasn’t random.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
GORDON BEALS had been in town for almost ten years. He’d worked for a larger insurance company in Kansas City for more than twenty years before that, but he got tired of slackers.
Young guys who got out of college and had no idea how to make a living went into insurance thinking they’d set their own schedules, join Rotary and sell car and life insurance like candy. Not hardly.
Eventually, they figured out work was a grind and they had to really understand who would benefit from a whole life rather than term policy. Gordon had to spend time with each of them to explain basic things like life expectancy and why people paid more if they bought insurance when they were older. The worst part was the little twits thought he should take them to lunch to talk about it.
If the newbies didn’t figure it out, they flunked the state insurance exam. Fine by him.
Life in an Illinois town like Logland was more pleasant, and he could actually afford a small house. He hadn’t really wanted one, but the apartments were mostly young people who sat around the pool in warm weather and stole his parking space after he dug it out after a big snow.
The disadvantages of the house were that people in Logland were overly friendly, and the Sweathog College students urinated by the oak tree at the edge of his property, which was just two blocks from the football field.
The friendliness was the bigger problem. People paid attention, noticed who he talked to.
“Say, Gordon, you and the mayor gettin’ to be best buddies?”
Or, “Saw you and the funeral director talkin’ real serious in the frozen food aisle. You aren’t sick are you?”
When you like to bet on sports and play high-stakes poker games, you don’t want people to pay attention to what you’re up to. And you don't want your bookie to be murdered.
The morning after the murder, Ben was all Gordon could think about.
Calling Ben a bookie was a stretch. He was a guy searching for a way to make extra bucks, and the people who bet with him were a bunch of small town hicks. But Ben was honest, and Uncle Sam couldn't find Gordon's winnings.
The poor guy probably got killed by a drug punk. But what if it was somebody who knew Ben might have some winnings stashed away? Where else would they hunt for untraceable funds?
Gordon was pondering this unfortunate prospect when the insurance company receptionist buzzed to tell him Chief Friedman wanted to talk to him. He wasn’t happy that she had come to the firm. Not that he would let her see his displeasure.
“Good to see you, Elizabeth! Say, I hear life expectancy on law enforcement types is up.”
He thought her expression was kind of sour, but it’s not like he saw her a lot.
“That’s always good to hear.” She sat in an upholstered seat in front of his polished desk.
He moved behind it, easing his six-foot-two frame into a high-backed leather chair.
Elizabeth studied him directly. “I’m talking to a lot of people about Ben Addison.”
Gordon took a piece of red licorice from a jar on his desk. “Damn shame. Any ideas on who did it?”
“Not really.” She shook her head as Gordon pointed to the licorice jar. “I know you ate there a lot of mornings. Did you notice anything unusual the last few days, hear anyone arguing with Ben?”
Gordon adopted a pose of deep thought, though it was marred by the red licorice sticking out of the corner of his mouth. “Don’t think so. Waiters were pretty ticked about the tip stuff. They mostly didn’t talk except to take orders. Used to be they’d chat more.”
Elizabeth had taken out a notebook and crossed her legs. Gordon thought police uniforms were a waste on pretty women.
"Do you think any of them were angry enough to get in an altercation with Ben? Not necessarily intending to kill him."
Gordon considered this. "I'd...find that hard to believe. I mean, I didn't know any of them away from the diner. The older waiter, can't think of his name."
"Steve Johnson."
"Right. I was mostly there in the morning, and it was Nick or Marti. Johnson was there later. Not especially friendly, but never saw him be rude with Ben, or anything like that."
Elizabeth jotted a note and then looked at him again. “So, it’s easy to remember overt threats. How about something less clear? Anyone complain a lot about the food, or tell Ben they wouldn’t eat at the Bully Pulpit again?”
“Don’t recall. People who didn’t like the food usually didn’t come back. Except maybe for coffee and muffins. He bought those from Doris’s cookie place.”
“Right.”
Again she stared at him very directly. Gordon didn’t like it.
“Did you know Ben well, other than at the diner?”
Gordon was starting to think she knew about his side hobbies. He tried not to appear nervous. “No. Just to run into him around town, that sort of thing.”
She smiled. “Heard you were both big sports fans.”
He returned the grin. After all, she didn’t know how much Ben owed Gordon because Gordon used his math skills to make good choices about pro football teams. “Everyone roots for the Frisky Heifers in this town.”
“Sure.” She wrote something in her notebook. “Lots of good amateur sports in this part of Illinois.”
Damn. It had to be Alice or Squeaky who told her about his sideline. Maybe he needed to lay off the betting for a while. Or do it online. Could the police see his online bets?
“Go Illini!” Somehow, this didn’t come out as the rousing endorsement for the state university football team that he’d intended. He could feel sweat at his armpits and was glad he had on a sports coat.
“I don’t mean to tarnish Ben’s reputation, but I’m following all avenues. I heard he played online fantasy football. Betting on it is illegal in Illinois, but the gambler is usually the only one out money. Any indication he did more than play the lottery or visit casinos in the real world?
Gordon relaxed. He certainly hadn’t been Ben’s bookie, so he was in the clear. “I think he bought a few tickets when the Powerball jackpot was high.”
Elizabeth stood and pulled a card from her pocket to place on his desk. “That has my direct line on the back. Don’t pass it around, but if you think of anything give me a call.”
Gordon relaxed. He should have known he didn’t have to worry about cops in a one-horse town like Logland.
CHAPTER EIGHT
ELIZABETH HAD EXCHANGED pleasantries with the owner of the insurance firm for a moment, and now stood on the sidewalk outside the office. How could she find out if Ben Addison owed Gordon Beals a lot of money?
Or maybe Gordon owed Ben money. But that didn't make sense. If the coffee shop crew was correct, Gordon accepted bets, not placed them. Or was someone trying to mislead her?
And even if she could learn who owed whom money, it didn’t make sense for gamblers to kill each other. No one would get their money, and other wagerers might point fingers.
Her phone buzzed as she entered the black Crown Vic reserved for the Logland chief.
“Elizabeth? Skelly. Don’t have toxicology results yet, but wanted you to know it was a laceration to the femoral artery that killed him. He bled out pretty fast. “
She put in an earbud so she could talk and drive. “So was he stabbed right there by the doorway?”
“The
blood pool indicates it, and you didn’t find a trail of it anywhere else.”
“Huh. Wonder why he didn’t call for help?”
“Coulda been in shock, and I think I saw his cell phone on the counter. Maybe he thought someone would be in soon and didn’t want to move.”
“We’ll check his phone. No one went out the front door. They must have gone out the alley entrance in the back.”
“And no cameras there,” Skelly said. “Calderone told me that.”
“And the only one in the diner was pointed at the cash register.”
Skelly said nothing for two seconds. "And you wanted to leave Chicago so you wouldn't work as hard."
"You know I never said that." She paused. "I had hoped not to do as many homicide cases."
"Always a first one. I’ll let you know what the tox reports show. You got your work cut out for you.” Skelly hung up.
Elizabeth punched off her phone and murmured, “Tell me something I don’t know.”
She pushed aside the image of a three-year old boy lying on the front steps of his family's Southside Chicago duplex. His mother had had him on one hip and groceries on the other.
A stray bullet went through the little guy into his mom. She was the more fortunate of the pair. Not really, though. If the image was still in Elizabeth's brain, it had to be seared on the mother's.
She turned away from the route that would take her to the police station and drove toward the sandwich shop near city hall. Since Steve Johnson sometimes worked at the diner at night, she wanted his take on the after-midnight crowd. Rather than pull Johnson away from his second job, she’d start off talking to him while he worked.
Her phone buzzed before she’d driven another block. The frantic voice of the chemistry professor-cum-cop was loud. “I need you at the frat…put the God-damned thing down!...house right now. If you do…” He hung up.
Elizabeth had no idea whether he ended the call voluntarily, so she turned on the cherry light on her dashboard and sped up.
Campus, which was roughly ten two-story buildings and a few barns, was on the south side of town. The one frat house was not far from the hog barn. Elizabeth sped down several tree-lined streets, ignoring the waves of two elementary-age boys.
Tires squealed as she pulled into the circular drive, turned off the car, and jumped out. Her impulse was to keep a hand on the gun at her hip, but she quelled it. How dangerous could it be?
She ran up the porch steps, her regulation police shoes pounding on each one. The oak door had wide, frosted panels and her car's cherry light bounced on the glass.
Elizabeth didn’t knock. She yelled "police" and ran in, looking in rooms to the left and right of the center hall. Her gaze went up an open staircase that sat at the back of the entry foyer. No one appeared.
Then her eyes focused to the left, and she stopped. In that room was a large table, if you could call a thick sheet of plywood sitting on tall sawhorses a table.
Campus cop Wally Kermit was on his hands and knees atop it. Encircling him were three goats, two bleating loudly. Rasping laughter drifted up from under the table.
Red-faced and clearly furious, Kermit bellowed at Elizabeth. “Make ‘em call off the goats, Chief.”
Two men in baggy bathing suits scrambled to their feet. Elizabeth judged them to be eighteen or nineteen. Not likely twenty-one. The taller one, who even had on a shirt, fell over, dropping his can of beer as he tumbled.
The other, whose naked chest bore the lettering “KIZZ puts the FIZZ in your beer,” said, “Oh, crap! The fuzz!”
Elizabeth bellowed, “Shut up! All of you.”
“Oh, shit,” came from under the table.
The goats stopped. The two closest to Elizabeth stared at her, unblinking. Pattering hooves brought the third from the other side of the table to face her. He stared, then seemed to cough, and threw up chunks of hotdogs. The beer stench was overwhelming and she almost gagged.
The bile in Elizabeth’s throat was more from anger than odor. “You idiots gave a goat beer?”
“I didn’t…” began Wally Kermit.
“Not you! Climb down.”
“They’ll eat anything,” came from under the table.
The campus cop didn’t really have dignity to regain. He made the best of it as he sat on his tailbone and slid toward the edge of the table, which nearly tipped over. “Splinters!” he yelled.
Elizabeth eyed the goats as she gestured to the standing frat guy. “Pick up your friend and stand against the wall.”
Paint-on-the-chest gaped downward as the sound of retching rose from under the table.
In unison, the goats bleated and headed toward Elizabeth. She glanced at the standing student.
He swallowed. “They’re just going to the kitchen. That’s where their regular food bowls are.”
Elizabeth frowned. “There better be goat food in them.”
“Cat food.” He looked at her and then on the floor. “He’s passed out. I mean, sleeping.”
The goats clopped toward the kitchen.
Kermit hopped to the floor and puffed his chest in Elizabeth’s direction. “I knew they had that traffic cone. Bastards sicced the goats on me.”
Elizabeth started to ask how a teacher at an ag school happened to be afraid of goats, but she remembered he taught chemistry. “You okay?”
Kermit rubbed his butt. “You got any tweezers?”
“No. Did you find the traffic cone?”
A male voice, which actually sounded sober, came from near the top of the staircase in the foyer. “I haven’t seen one. Why should we have it?”
Elizabeth walked into the entry hall and gazed up. The man was maybe twenty-one, and he seemed more like a 1950s movie frat man – parted hair, a square jaw, and tan Dockers rather than baggy shorts.
“Please come down here.” As he began to descend, she asked, “Is anyone in charge here?”
“I’m the fraternity president, but I don’t usually pretend to be in charge.”
His dimpled smile struck Elizabeth as part of an act to appear disarming. “Someone should be. Are these…” she nodded toward the adjoining room, “men supposed to be here?”
He had reached the bottom of the open staircase and extended a hand as he peered over her shoulder and then back at her. “Blake Wessley. They were voted into membership, if that’s what you mean.”
Elizabeth accepted a brief handshake. “Chief Elizabeth Friedman. I sent Officer Kermit to retrieve a stolen parking cone, and things do not seem to have gone well.”
Wessley turned toward the entry to the dining room. The man who had been under the table had made it to his feet. He swayed as he held onto the plywood table. “Monty, Professor Sprout, do you have something that belongs to Chief Friedman?”
“Ummm,” said the one who sported the chest writing.
“Buurrp,” said the swaying man. He wore what Elizabeth now recognized was a Hogwarts tee-shirt.
Elizabeth could feel her face reddening as she tried to control her fury. “Did you steal a traffic cone and encourage your goats to go after Professor Kermit?”
“Monty?” Wessley asked.
Monty turned out to be the chest-emblazoned member of the pair. “We, um, didn’t know it belonged to you, ma’am.”
“Where is it?” she snapped.
“Um, outside?” Monty asked.
“How would I know?” Elizabeth asked. “Where is it?”
Wessley turned a smug expression toward Elizabeth. “He meant it as a declarative sentence, chief.”
He must be in Jen’s English course. Elizabeth inwardly cursed. She hated upspeak. It made interrogating people harder. Half the time people would do the lilting question mark sound when they told an officer their names.
She turned to Monty. “Go get it.”
The frat brother referred to as Professor Sprout slid down the wall.
“See,” Monty said, “it’s kind of been altered.”
Elizabeth folded her arms
over her chest and stared at Monty. “You better not be talking about destruction of government property.”
His tone was earnest. “It’s not destroyed. We, um, painted it.”
“Bring it in,” she ordered.
Campus Cop Kermit had been examining the seat of his pants. “I’ll go with him.” He moved toward the kitchen, which was where Monty was ambling.
“You just want away from the smell,” Elizabeth muttered.
“There’s fresher air in the living room.” Wessley moved to the larger room on the other side of the foyer.
Before joining him, Elizabeth stooped to peer under the table. Professor Sprout sat against the wall, breathing through his agape mouth. At least he wouldn’t drown in his own vomit.
In contrast to the disarray of the dining room, the living room held two large sofas, worn but serviceable, and an array of small tables and footstools. Elizabeth thought this was probably the room parents visited on homecoming weekend.
Wessley gestured to a sofa, but Elizabeth shook her head. “Let’s make this quick. I sent Officer Kermit over here to retrieve a traffic cone. Then I get a frantic call from him, drive over here, and find him stranded on your so-called dining room table surrounded by goats. What the hell are you people running here?”
Wessley gave an exaggerated shrug. “I’m sorry, chief. I was studying upstairs and had my headphones on.”
When Elizabeth frowned at him, he grinned and added, “You’re just seeing some boyish energy.”
“More like I’m seeing a couple of drunks who stole public property.” She surveyed the room. “And I’m guessing when I have the boyish energizers show me their ID they won’t be twenty-one.”
She narrowed her eyes and studied Wessley. “The college requires that all school organizations or affiliates adhere to state liquor laws.”
Wessley sat on a dark brown couch and gazed up at her. “We’re really careful about it. I’m not their keeper, but if I’d have known they were tossing ‘em back I would have made them head home.”
“Great. Driving?” Elizabeth sat on an opposite couch.
He shook his head. “They both live in town. Only a few of the members live in the house.”
Tip a Hat to Murder Page 4
