The Claudia Hershey Mysteries - Box Set: Three Claudia Hershey Mysteries

by Laura Belgrave

  “You mean Monday, right? Because this is Saturday. The building department is closed.”

  “So try to rouse somebody. See if—what’s all that banging in the background?”

  “Sorry. I’m making breakfast for the kids. The wife’s really milking her birthday. I told her she could sleep in and I’d do the morning shtick. Come on over and I’ll fix you something, too.”

  Breakfast with the kids. Breakfast with anyone. It sounded good.

  “Thanks,” she said, “but I already ate.”

  “Caffeine isn’t eating, Lieutenant. You ought to give that stuff the boot.”

  “Not on your life.” She smiled. When had these guys gotten to know her so well? “I’ll take a rain check, though.”

  They talked until Carella was ready to summon his girls to the table. Afterward, Claudia opened the refrigerator’s freezer compartment and basked in the cool air for a minute. Then she poured fresh coffee and sat back down at the counter. Give up caffeine? Never. It was the elixir of life, the oil in her engine, the—

  Wait.

  The boot. He said give that stuff the boot.

  “God love you, Carella,” Claudia murmured. She took a hasty swallow of her coffee, then made a fast call to the chief to coordinate other details that would leave his Saturday in rubble, too. Ten minutes later she was dressed and on the road, with a destination and an idea that was leading her to it.

  Chapter 30

  Claudia had no idea how much she liked the earthy smell of leather until she entered Buddy’s Boots and inhaled the scent on a welcoming tide of chilled air. She looked for the boot maker. As he had before, Buddy Dunn sat elephantine behind his wooden bench, his fingers shaping leather. They were thick as stogies, but evidenced a dexterity that elevated mere craft into art.

  Dunn caught her eye and smiled a greeting. “I guessed you’d be back,” he said. By some trick of light his solitary ruby earring threw a sparkle when he raised his head. Or maybe it was just the contrast with his bald head that made it seem so. He wiped his hands on a stained towel. “You’ve decided you can’t live without boots after all.”

  “I don’t know about that. I’m pretty tough.” She matched his smile. “But as a matter of fact I do want some, for me and my daughter. Only not today. I’m here for another reason.”

  “Well, I’m happy to help if I can.”

  Claudia pointed at a pair of boots on a shelf behind Dunn. “Those,” she said, “aren’t those the boots one of your customers never finished paying off?”

  Dunn was too big to swivel around and look. He slowly dismounted from his stool, then angled to face them. “Yup. You’ve got a good memory.” He regarded her quizzically. “This is your other reason for being here?”

  “You said he’d been paying toward them weekly, right? And that he suddenly stopped paying a year ago or so?”

  “Yes, to both, but I don’t understand.” Dunn began to reach for the boots. “Is there—”

  “Please don’t touch those,” Claudia said so sharply that the boot maker flinched. “I’m sorry. It’s possible they’re evidence, though. Let’s just talk for a minute.”

  “Talk’s good.” Dunn heaved himself back onto his stool. He took a moment to settle himself, his breathing labored from the mild exertion. “What’s this about?”

  “Last night we recovered the skeletal remains of a man buried in an overgrown field. You might’ve heard something about. The press was out.”

  Dunn nodded. “Caught a report on the radio this morning. They didn’t have a lot to say.”

  “Well, we don’t have much to tell yet. We don’t know who the victim is and frankly we don’t have a lot to go on in identifying him. But the medical examiner’s initial report . . . well, there are some physical characteristics that brought to mind what you told me about your customer.”

  “Aw, no,” said Dunn. “I really liked this fella.”

  “Let’s not jump to conclusions. Tell me what you know about him, what he looked like, what he talked about . . . that sort of thing.”

  The boot maker steepled his fingers and rested his chin against them. He focused on Claudia, though she knew he really wasn’t seeing her now; he was calling up memories, scraps of recollections. Finally, he shook his head.

  “Juan-Carlos Santiago is his name. Mexican, I believe. He had a small build, but looked strong enough, probably from outdoor labor. I guess I’d put him at about twenty years old.”

  He spoke so softly Claudia had to lean in to hear.

  “He was just a little guy, just an everyday little guy tryin’ to make his way in the world the same as the rest of us. I can’t think of a soul who’d want to hurt him.” He blinked. “Funny, I really did think he’d walk back in the shop one day and claim his boots. At least I wouldn’t of been surprised. He wanted them that bad. He’d try them on every time he came in. I imagine there weren’t too many people he didn’t tell about those boots of his.”

  “When you say he was ‘little’, can you be more specific?”

  “Oh, maybe he stood five-six or five-seven—in that neighborhood. He had an ever-so-slight limp ’cause his left leg was a smidgen shorter than his right, just enough so I had to make an adjustment in the boots.” Dunn smiled. “What he told me was that he’d never had footwear that would let him stand proper.”

  Claudia felt a knot of certainty seizing her belly. “Do you know if he was right-handed or left-handed?”

  Dunn furrowed his brow. “Right-handed, I’d say.”

  “What else?” she said softly.

  “Not a lot. I don’t know how long he’d been here, but he’d told me he’d worked vegetable fields and citrus groves for a few years. He took what odd jobs he could between picking seasons. He sent most of his money home, at least it’s what he said and I believed him. What little he kept, he put toward the boots.”

  The boot maker had just described a migrant worker. Florida’s cheapest labor. Florida’s biggest shame. But no matter how feverishly the drum beat rose to banish their exploitation, it persisted. There was too much to be made in undocumented labor. And there were too many migrants willing to do the back-breaking work that no one else would.

  “Was he legal?”

  “If you mean did he have a Green Card or whatever, I don’t think so. But I never asked. It wasn’t any of my business. Damn. He was such a likeable guy. Really, really likable.”

  The boots Santiago longed for cast a shadow on the wall behind them, making them appear larger than they were. Claudia admired the cactus and thistle design again, and she wondered who had decided that Santiago should die, and she wondered why. She asked Dunn if he had a phone number or address on the migrant worker, knowing how remote the possibility. But the boot maker surprised her.

  “I doubt he had a phone,” Dunn said. “If he did, I would’ve tried to reach him.”

  “Right.”

  “But I have an address.” He smiled at Claudia’s startled expression. “I guess I didn’t look like a threat. Anyway, my grandmother keeps the records. She’s always talking about purging the old ones, but I doubt she has.” He pushed aside a piece of leather and retrieved a portable two-way radio from his bench. “Grams got a pair of these off eBay. If there’s a gadget to be had, she wants it. Of course, these things are actually kind of useful. I can check to see if she’s still breathing upstairs. She can check to see if I’m still breathing down here.” He pressed the talk button and after a burst of static said into the unit, “Grams, you up yet?”

  Claudia heard a crackle and then the old woman’s voice: “Buddy! You’re breaking up. How many times I have to tell you not to talk the instant you press the button? Why are you bothering me?”

  Dunn told her Claudia was with him, then asked if she’d bring down the Juan-Carlos Santiago order sheet. The radio crackled back with her response.

  “You talking about that tall woman who had the hots for Tom Dixon? The one who—”

  Dunn fumbled to muffle the radio
, but too late to do much good. He shrugged apologetically. “Sorry about that. She’s never been afraid to say the first thing that comes into her head.”

  “I remember that from the last time,” Claudia said. “Don’t worry about it.” But she was mortified just the same and hoped Mae Dunn would fold the Santiago order sheet into a paper plane and sail it down the stairs instead of bringing it personally. Her hopes were dashed when she heard the woman descending a few minutes later.

  “It’s you, all right,” she said to Claudia as she shuffled over in slippers. “I never forget a face and yours makes an impression. I mean that in a nice way.”

  Mae Dunn wore a long flannel nightgown with a purple flower pattern. It was at least one size too large for her, making her appear even tinier than Claudia remembered.

  “How do you do, Mrs. Dunn,” she said, trying to modulate her tone into something neutral. “It’s nice to see you again.”

  “Hah! You’re only here ’cause you thought Dix might show up. You youngsters wear puppy love on your sleeves.”

  “Grams,” said Dunn. “Come on, now . . .”

  “Here.” She thrust a piece of paper at her grandson. “One day I’m going to get these things in a spreadsheet and do some number crunching.”

  “Is that before or after you purge the files?” the boot maker said.

  Mae Dunn waggled a finger at him. “Don’t get mouthy with me, young man. I’d be done with the files and a spreadsheet if I didn’t have so damned much work to do on the World Wide Web.” She looked at Claudia. “That’s the Internet. I’m putting Buddy’s store online.”

  “I remember.”

  The woman nodded. “That’s right. You’re the one who put me in touch with that Booey.” She shot Dunn a look. “Now there’s a courteous young man.” Back to Claudia. “You got a cell phone?”

  “I . . . well, yes. I do.”

  “Can I see it? I’ve been thinkin’ of getting one.”

  “Grams,” Dunn said gently, “you already have one.”

  “I know that! Think I don’t know what I do and don’t have?” She shook her head. “Sometimes I think you spend too much time breathing leather and dye. “So,” she said to Claudia, “can I see it? I’m thinking of getting a new one.”

  If the cell phone would distract the woman long enough for Claudia to conclude her business and flee, she was happy to comply. She pulled it from her purse and handed it over. Mae Dunn murmured something unintelligible and wandered off, poking buttons and having a conversation with herself. Claudia hoped the old woman wouldn’t drop it. When she bought the cell phone she’d passed on the extended warranty.

  The Santiago order sheet showed that payments had actually stopped nineteen months earlier—not the year that Dunn remember. The boot maker was surprised it had been that long, but Claudia supposed that in the cloistered world of his shop time lost meaning. She looked at the address Santiago had given, recognizing it as part of a neighborhood she’d visited months earlier. That time, a lead on a petty theft had brought her there, but the lead fizzled abruptly when she stepped out of her car. Most of the residents were Hispanic and had regarded her with undisguised suspicion. Surely some of them spoke English, but they played dumb, and she spoke no Spanish.

  Claudia jotted down the address and silently vowed to crawl all over Suggs until he hired a Latino, an African-American, an Asian, a Native American and more women, in no particular order. Meanwhile, she’d send Moody to see if he could ferret out any information on Santiago. Moody spoke Spanish reasonably well, and he had more patience than she did.

  “It doesn’t look good for Juan-Carlos, does it?” Dunn asked quietly.

  Why lie? “We’ll know more later, but . . . no. Look, I’m going to need to take those boots with me. Eventually you’ll get them back.”

  Dunn shrugged. “Take your time. It’s not likely anyone else will want them.” He clambered off his stool and shuffled beneath his counter for a box.

  Claudia turned and scanned the shop. Dunn’s grandmother stood in a shadowy corner as far from them as possible. She was cackling merrily, the cell phone to her ear.

  “Grams!” Dunn called. “You’re gonna have to part with that. The lady needs to get going.”

  Mae Dunn irritably waved a hand and took her time concluding her conversation. Finally she shuffled back and handed the phone to Claudia.

  “Yours works a lot like mine, but I like mine better,” she said. “The buttons on yours are too damned tiny.”

  “Glad I could be part of your consumer test,” Claudia murmured.

  She was nearly to her car when she heard the boot maker’s grandmother calling something from the doorway. She shook her head as if she’d understood, then eased herself behind the steering wheel of the car. A half mile later Mae Dunn’s parting words caught up to her brain.

  Check your speed dial. I might’ve messed something up.

  * * *

  They tossed Farina’s house in ninety minutes. Neighbors gawked from the sidewalk, reminding Claudia of the last time they’d watched the police come out. It had to hurt; the security they cherished had been violated twice in a week and both times from inside. Their gates had not brought them trouble, but they hadn’t stopped it, either.

  Suggs had roused a judge for the warrant and arranged for the search himself, then happily informed the mayor that Bonolo was not Bonolo, but a convicted felon on the run. Lane insisted on attending the search, but he didn’t interfere. Claudia imagined he was trying to figure out how to distance himself from the man he’d cast as a hero. He tagged along behind Suggs with his mouth pulled into a worried frown.

  * * *

  Farina’s taste in furnishings ran to dark leathers and even darker woods. His family room had been converted to an entertainment center and boasted an enormous flat-screened television, a sophisticated stereo system, a wet bar, an overstuffed couch and reclining chair. His bedroom held a towering armoire, leather-trimmed water bed, another huge TV, and floor-to-ceiling mirrors that made Claudia dizzy. But the rest of his house contained so little furniture it looked like an afterthought.

  They came up empty. Farina had been a step ahead of them and there wasn’t a trace of pornography or Hemmer to be found. The big man had cleaned out and cleared out, leaving little more than a messy kitchen and a pair of Speedo swimming trunks to talk about. The kitchen suggested a hasty departure. The Speedos suggested nothing, but provided a good minute of lively banter for Suggs and an officer posted at the front door. Lane glowered at them, but said nothing. Claudia wondered if he had a pair himself. It was an image too ugly to dwell on and she was grateful when the mayor bowed out a minute later.

  Suggs watched him speed walk past the neighbors and drive off. He turned to Claudia. “Want to put any bets on how long it’ll take him to go whining back to Manning?”

  “How long has he been gone?”

  “About thirty seconds.”

  “Then he’s probably already there.”

  Thunder rumbled in the distance. Claudia peered through a window at the neighbors outside. Their ranks had thinned with the mayor’s departure, but a cluster remained, now looking anxiously toward the dark sky.

  “Come on,” said Suggs. “Let’s get out of here. Those toads want to stay and get wet, fine by me. But I put freshly laundered pants on this morning and I’m not of a mind to let rain soak the crease out of ’em.”

  Claudia thought of her own clothes. The humidity had taken the snap out of them hours earlier. But there was nothing more to do in Farina’s house and with luck she’d still have time to summon an air-conditioning repairman to her own.

  “I’m on your heels, Chief,” she said.

  “Good to hear you know your place.”

  She glanced at his face to make sure he was joking, then groaned obligingly and followed him into the muggy outside. Adjusting to the chief’s improved demeanor was a little like adjusting to the big-ass Imperial after the now-dead Cavalier. She knew it was better,
but she wasn’t sure how much to trust it.

  * * *

  She stopped at the station on her way home to check for messages and call around for an air-conditioning repair service from the chilled comfort of her office. There were no messages that couldn’t wait, and she was grateful for that, but any hope of getting her A/C unit promptly repaired vanished thirty seconds into a conversation with a harried service technician. He informed her that air conditioners were dead or dying all over town, and unless her name was preceded by Pope or President, her unit wouldn’t get fixed until Monday afternoon. No, he couldn’t say exactly when. He advised her to buy a table fan in the meantime. Claudia took the appointment and hung up.

  She ached to be home, but loathed the thought of sitting in the heat, so she reached for the Hemmer file. Again. Always again. But there had to be something they were missing and she started reviewing her notes and reports from the beginning, trying to come at it from different angles and so absorbed that it took her a moment to realize the phone on her desk was ringing.

  She picked up. “Hershey.”

  “I’m married, so you can’t kiss me, but if I weren’t you’d want to.”

  “What’s up, Emory?”

  “What’s up is that it took a string of phone calls, but I found the building inspector at home and through a combination of cunning and charm persuaded him to meet me in his office. Edgar Wiles. Nice man.”

  “Did he have much to say?”

  “Yeah, but Wiles is older than dirt and first I had to listen to endless stories about how things used to be done. I tell you this so you’ll appreciate my persistency in learning anything at all.”

  “Cut to the chase. What did the permit dates show on Hemmer’s house? Anything useful?”

  “Wish I could tell you. Wiles went to the file cabinet where the permits should be. They’re gone, and so are any cross-references to them. I thought Wiles was gonna have a heart attack.”