Plateful of Murder

by Carole Fowkes

  Despite it being early, Cannoli’s hopped with customers. Before I could do more than kiss Aunt Lena’s cheek, she handed me an apron and asked me to take the counter for a few minutes until her sometime counter help, all-the-time friend, Angie, arrived. “She was supposed to be here already. Hope her car didn’t break down again.”

  “Okay, but there’s something —”

  She pinched my cheeks and in a voice you’d use to address a puppy said, “You’re such a good kid.” We heard the back door open and my aunt tilted her head. “That’s probably Angie. Hold your thought.” She dashed off to the kitchen.

  While I waited, a customer bought a dozen chocolate chunk biscotti. I reached for one for myself, but the phone rang. And rang. Since my aunt didn’t answer it, I did.

  Heavy breaths, like the caller had been running. Then he began to sing, the tune again different.

  “Last night, last night

  You saw what I will do.

  You’re digging way too deep piggy. Oh,

  Next time there may not be a warning

  And what then will become of you?”

  Chapter Fourteen

  The call ended, but it took a minute for my arm to move and drop the phone from my ear. Another minute for me to think straight. Struggling for a breath, my eyes scanned the room full of women. He could see me, observe my actions, but the reverse wasn’t true. My hand grabbed at my throat and it struck me how this monster had invaded my life and now that of my family’s. I wanted to whisk myself and my family away someplace else, but capturing this guy was the only way we’d ever be safe.

  Turning my back to the customers, I called Corrigan to have a breakdown, but it went into his voicemail. I didn’t leave a message, though because Angie came right up to me, tying her apron around her waist. “Go on, Sweetie. I got this.” So intent on taking care of the next customer, she didn’t notice my state.

  “Thanks.” If this were an ordinary day, I would’ve gone into the kitchen for goodbyes. This time was different. My aunt would have picked up on my traumatized state in less time than it takes a flea to jump on a dog.

  I started toward my car to drive to the police station, but stopped halfway there. That song. Again it was a familiar one, but placing it proved impossible for me. Would knowing the names of the songs make it easier to identify the killer? I headed to my office to play some tunes.

  Playing song after song in my office yielded nothing, but I’d return to the task after a visit to the hospital. Even if they didn’t let me see Ed, I needed to be there for him.

  All the way there I checked my rearview mirror to see if someone was following me. Eventually my grip loosened on the steering wheel. No one on the road seemed the least bit interested in my comings and goings.

  People around the hospital entrance were greeted by my stomach’s growls so I dashed into the coffee shop and grabbed a muffin. It tasted like chocolate-scented Styrofoam. At least it’d keep my belly from announcing its presence to everyone.

  I finished the muffin and stepped out of the elevator on Ed’s floor. The last bite stuck in my throat, but it stopped bothering me when I spotted Corrigan.

  The detective was pounding one fist into the palm of his other hand. He leaned into a young cop, who looked like he’d rather be anywhere but in front of Corrigan.

  The infraction must have been serious, judging from Corrigan’s reaction. Something to do with Ed? Had Ed died? I froze. Being confronted with bad news can do that to me. Before I could thaw, the detective spotted me.

  “Claire.” The other cop slinked away. “I was going to call you. Ed regained consciousness for a little bit.” He clenched his fists. “He slipped back though.” His voice rose, “Officer Johnson notified me too late.”

  Without thinking, I clutched Corrigan’s arm. “Did Ed say anything?”

  “Nurse said he tried, but couldn’t get any words out.”

  I templed my hands over my nose and mouth. Tears filled my eyes. Corrigan lowered his voice and between gritted teeth said, “I’ll catch the bastard, I promise.”

  I sniffed, “But that won’t help Ed now.”

  Corrigan stared at me for a second and chewed on his lower lip. “Come on.” He took my elbow.

  I stood cemented to the floor. “Where to?”

  “Cafeteria. You look like you could use a cup of something.”

  The muffin left a lump in my throat. Maybe some tea would wash it down, but I didn’t want to miss out if Ed regained consciousness. Corrigan must have read my mind. “Everyone on this floor now knows if there’s any change in Ed’s status, they better get hold of me immediately.”

  We rode down the elevator side by side. It’s funny how everyone stares straight ahead when they’re riding up or down. But I rebelled and leaned against the wall to check the people getting on and off. Could any of them be the killer, biding their time, waiting to finish Ed off if he did regain consciousness? I shook my head slightly to dislodge that thought. Seeing killers everywhere would render me useless. Not that I’d done any sort of bang-up job so far.

  I sighed so loudly, Corrigan and an elderly woman using a walker turned toward me. The woman asked me in a thick Polish accent, “You okay, young lady?”

  “Oh yes. Just thinking.”

  She looked at me through eyes filmy with cataracts and smiled. “I wish for you the thoughts are of joy, not sadness.” Her face dropped and her jowls trembled. I wanted to reach out to her, to say something comforting. But the elevator dinged and the doors opened. She set her walker over the gap and turned and pointed her finger first at me and then at Corrigan. “Be good to each other. Too soon life is over.”

  The door closed. Corrigan cleared his throat and played with his tie. I took his actions to mean he thought being linked with me romantically would be worse than getting caught on video mooning the Pope.“There are worse things, you know,” I snapped.

  He looked straight ahead. “Worse than what?”

  “Being, you know, with me.” My pride pushed the point.

  The corners of his mouth curved upwards. “It’s crossed my mind.”

  The elevator bounced to a stop and the doors opened. I dropped my hands on my hips. “So I’ve got to guard myself against more than just the killer.”

  He chuckled.

  Together at the cafeteria table, I wrapped my hands around the hot cup of tea and looked down into the liquid. “I got another call this morning at my aunt’s restaurant.”

  He slammed his cup down and the coffee sloshed onto the table.“When were you—never mind. Tell me about it.”

  I did my best with the description. “He sang it again. Different tune, just as familiar though.” My voice trembled.

  “Could you recall the song?”

  “Not without hearing it again.” Not sure, even then. That’s me, about as useful as a fork with a bowl of soup.

  I rested my chin in my hand, my eyes closed, trying to get the tune from my memory down to my mouth. I opened my eyes and shook my head. “Nothing.”

  “Maybe it’ll come back to you. We’ll trace the call, although he probably used another disposable phone. Guy must have a dozen. But right now all we’ve got is a bunch of leads that don’t go anywhere. Eagleton is still a person of interest, but we still don’t have enough to arrest him.” He tapped his spoon against the saucer. “Ed’s the best chance we’ve got.”

  I pushed back my chair. “Speaking of Ed, I’m going back. I want to be there if he wakes up.”

  But there was no change and after waiting around for another hour, I decided more good would come from my office work. I reassured myself that things just seemed beyond my fingertips, but if I worked hard enough, the killer’s identity would come to me. With luck he’d be captured before he got to me. That feeling of someone walking on my grave overcame me again.

  In the hospital parking lot, a teenage girl walked behind me, singing, and paying little attention to her surroundings. I halted so abruptly she almost crashed int
o me. “What are you singing?”

  She pulled out one of her ear buds and, her voice dripped with you-are-an-idiot sarcasm. “OhMyGod, you’re like the last person on earth to not know West Side Story. It’s old, but so good. I’m playing Maria at school. They just did it at the Playhouse a month or so ago.” Looking up and shaking her head, she put her ear buds back in and walked away, singing.

  My first reaction was to run back and tell Corrigan, but I changed my mind. After all, this was still my case.

  Back in my office, the soundtrack to West Side Story played on my computer. Sure enough, three of the songs had been used by the killer, Maria, Tonight and America. Despite the words being very different, listening to the tunes again made my heart race. I’d heard enough.

  The guy liked musicals, or he liked that one. How to use this information, though. It wasn’t like I could ask Eagleton or Sean or anyone if they happened to enjoy West Side Story.

  The teenager claimed the Playhouse had done it recently. A quick search of its season offerings revealed West Side Story had played only one night. If luck was with me, they kept a record of who had attended.

  I called the Playhouse box office and a woman answered. “Hello,” I began in my most professional voice. “This is Claire DeNardo, investigator. I’m looking for some information on a recent crime.”

  The woman’s voice rose. “We aren’t in some trouble are we? And who did you say you were with?”

  Having been told more than once my voice sounded like a child over the phone, and not wanting this woman to think this was a prank call, I spoke in a low tone. “I’m working with the police, and we need the list of those who purchased tickets for West Side Story.” I squeezed my eyes closed and held my breath.

  “Sorry, but that information isn’t readily available.” She didn’t sound sorry at all. “Perhaps if you come in person with the police, we can get it for you.”

  So much for using my official voice.

  Today had zipped by and I realized if I didn’t hurry, Michael would be having dinner without me. My stomach, elated it was getting some attention, growled its appreciation. It’d been upset since that dried-out muffin incident this morning.

  I threw on some makeup while driving to his house, knowing there’d be delicious food and great company. After the last couple of days, this dinner would be like uncovering a piece of chocolate in a kale salad.

  I waited for Michael to come to the door, still unsure what to tell him regarding last night, only knowing to keep Ed out of it. If Michael knew what’d happened to Ed, for sure he’d fire me from the case. This evening was not going to include an argument with Michael.

  When he opened the door, wonderful cooking aromas wafted around him. “Hi Claire. Come in.”

  “Hi Michael. M-m-m, it smells so good in here.” I commanded my salivary glands to behave so I wouldn’t drool.

  He smiled. “Hope you’ll like it. Some wine?”

  I returned his smile. “With that aroma, how could I not? And wine would be nice.”

  He left the room to pour our drinks, and I glanced around the living room, absently wondering if he had West Side Story’s soundtrack. My head throbbed. So what if he did have the soundtrack? Probably thousands of people do, including my father.

  “Headache?” Michael returned with two glasses and handed one to me.

  “Oh, no. Just…” Better to change the subject. “How about a toast?”

  “Okay. To what?”

  To finding the killer? “To a wonderful meal and a gracious host.” We raised our glasses.

  Dinner was a flurry of mouthwatering food and witty conversation. All of it on Michael’s part. Instead of relaxing me and allowing my charm to dazzle, the wine made me slightly nauseated. I knew there was cause for concern when even a chocolate crème brulee didn’t send me into nirvana. My mind kept going back to the phone calls.

  As soon as etiquette allowed, I excused myself to check my messages. No Corrigan. Now who was being elusive, damn him. Slipping my phone into my pocket, I headed to the kitchen and counted my blessings that Michael hadn’t brought the case up during dinner. Just a matter of time though before the subject came up. Sure enough, a short time after entering the kitchen, I felt like the turkey who was invited for Thanksgiving dinner.

  “Michael, that was such a fantastic meal, the least I can do is help you clean up.” My hope was he wouldn’t bring up my resigning from the case until much later, if at all.

  He half-smiled and handed me a towel. “No argument from me.” If only he wouldn’t argue with me about anything tonight. My current fragile composure might not have withstood any sort of challenge.

  Maybe he sensed that because we worked in companionable silence until everything was cleaned and stored. Without asking, Michael then poured both of us more wine. “You’ve been so tense. Let’s sit down and you can tell me what you learned.”

  The moment of half-truths had come. No more stalling on this discussion. My mind created and edited what information I was willing to share as Michael guided me to the sofa.

  My sin-of-omission report to Michael began with, “The last person to have been with Constance may have been John Luther, Triton’s future CEO. She was having an affair with him. Eagleton, her previous lover, and his assistant, Sean Lawrence, knew about it.”

  Michael sat on the edge of his seat. “Go on.”

  “Eagleton and Sean Lawrence met with someone from another drug company, a pharmacist named George Workosky, the evening Mallorie was killed.”

  “Isn’t there more? Didn’t you tell me someone was bringing you evidence?”

  The best way to handle this was with complete dishonesty. “I thought so too. But they never showed up.”

  Michael’s eyes became slits and he folded his arms across his chest. “What aren’t you telling me?”

  My hand flew to my breast like his question shocked me when, in reality, I would have been surprised if he hadn’t asked it. My charade continued. “Michael, how could you think I’m withholding information? You’re my client.”

  He took my hand into his two warm ones. “Sorry. I’m just anxious to get whoever killed Constance. This must be confusing you. One minute I ask you to drop the case; the next I’m asking for information.”

  “It’s okay.” My phone vibrated. As much as I wanted to answer it, doing so might mean Michael would learn about my latest threatening call or about Ed. I withdrew my hand and patted his. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to go to, well, you know.” I sprinted to the bathroom as if in competition with five other women for a restroom single-seater.

  I closed the bathroom door behind me and checked my phone. One missed call. I called Corrigan back.

  “Corrigan here. What’s up?”

  With my back to the door, I cupped my hand over the phone and whispered, “The tunes are from West Side Story. I tried to get a list of who’d seen it at the Playhouse, but they wouldn’t give it to me.”

  “West Side Story? Like, ‘When you’re a Jet— ”

  “Yeah, that one.”

  “Not sure I follow you. What does the Playhouse have to do with it?”

  “The play was there last month. Maybe the tunes stuck in the killer’s head.” Now that my theory was out in the open, the intelligence of my assumption seemed doubtful. But he surprised me.

  “A long shot, but one worth checking out.”

  “Count me in on it since it was my idea.” I felt like the kid no one likes, but they play with him because he owns the ball.

  Corrigan heaved a loud, annoyed sigh. “Tell you what. I’ll let you know if I need you.”

  “But—” He’d disconnected. “What a weasel.”

  Although unprepared to discuss dropping the case with Michael, I couldn’t very well crawl out the bathroom window to avoid it. How wonderful it would be if he realized his thinking was erroneous and begged me to keep digging. But this was Cleveland, not Fantasyland. Like a soldier going into a skirmish, I stood straight,
threw my shoulders back and marched out the door.

  Michael waited for me in the living room. “Since you haven’t gotten any further on it, do you agree now to drop the case?”

  I pretended to have something in my left eye and blinked furiously, even pulling on my eyelid to give me some time. But with my limited acting ability and fear of actually injuring my eye, I stopped stalling. “Do you really, really believe the police can find the murderer, Michael?”

  “My faith in them isn’t the point here. They haven’t been getting threatening calls. The simple truth is my feelings for you have grown and keeping you out of harm’s way is now a high priority for me.” He paused. “I have a blank check for you. Just tell me what my balance is.”

  The words came to me all of a sudden, and they managed to follow one of Gino’s rules. “Only tell the client what you want him to know.”

  “If you really want me to back off the case, then so be it. Keep your check, though.” My hand rose to block his protest. “Let me finish. Once the police arrest Constance’s murderer, you can pay me. I just couldn’t take the money before then. Besides, you’ve already covered my expenses with your initial payment.”

  Dropping the case wasn’t really an option. Now that the killer had touched my family, my only option was see this to the end. A PI can’t function if she’s scared to distraction that her father and aunt could come to some harm. My intentions were good. Keep everyone important to me as safe and worry-free as possible.

  Backing off, therefore, could mean a number of things, including proceeding with more caution. That was my interpretation in this instance.

  I forced myself to return his gaze and not to twitch, and in return, he stopped staring at me.

  “All right, Claire. We have a deal. By the way, Detective Corrigan wants to see me.”

  “Maybe he has some information.” Skirting an argument tired me out so much my bones ached. “Michael, it’s bad form to eat and run, but I’m exhausted. The evening’s young, but right now I don’t feel like I am. Mind if I head home?”