Ken and I went on this kind of outing often, except we’d have divided up our list. We’d go our separate ways through the aisles and then meet at the checkout stand, as if we’d been on a scavenger hunt. He’d have been responsible for the heavy goods, like five-pound bags of flour or rice, and items that came in large cans and glass bottles. I’d have picked up the fruit and vegetables, dairy, and condiments.
“You don’t trust me to choose bananas,” he might say. “That’s why you always get the produce.” He was right. He ate bananas when they were greener than the felt carpeting in my dollhouse attic; I liked them soft, just this side of banana bread.
The supermarket was no place for tearing up, but I seemed to be worse than ever at dealing with my memories. I knew the great unknown that had reared itself through the cartons in the garage was partly responsible for this resurgence of melancholy and self-pity.
I hadn’t told anyone about the photographs or the little girl’s clothing I’d found in Ken’s Bronx box. I’d all but promised Beverly I’d tell her what was “wrong.” I knew Henry and Skip were standing by, ready to listen and to help. Henry had done me a great service, lending his back to the task of getting the boxes down from the shelves, with no expectations of satisfying his curiosity. I couldn’t ask for better family and friends. Even the one begging me to solve her brother’s murder.
No matter what, I was going to tear open the rest of the boxes as soon as possible, and then get to the bottom of the Bronx issue and anything else that surprised me. That was one thing I could take control of, even if I couldn’t solve a murder single-handedly.
For now, I focused on selecting the freshest mushrooms in the bin and checking the expiration date on the tub of sour cream. There was nothing wrong with a little homey companionship around the little (if not miniature) things in life.
“Why don’t you and Taylor join us for dinner?” I asked Henry. “Kay and Bill, too, if they’re not busy.”
Henry’s smile was endearing, his eyes as wide as Maddie’s when a new flavor of ice cream appeared in Sadie’s freezer case. He whipped out his cell phone.
“Kay?” he said after a few seconds. “I’ve got some good news.”
I took that as a “yes.”
We picked up the girls at the front of the store. They were busy with their laptops, the area around them full of wrappers from chocolate candy rolls. In my day we were lucky if the store had a gumball machine or a stationary rocking horse for entertainment while our parents shopped. Free candy was out of the question and Wi-Fi hadn’t been conceived.
“A party for dinner,” Maddie said, as we left the store. She’d reverted to her old habit of waving her arms when she was excited. If she’d been seated, she’d have been kicking her legs, also.
From the backseat of Henry’s SUV, Maddie called her parents and left a message that she missed them, but she was having the best day ever. She called Beverly and invited her, too. “We’re having beef,” she’d said, as if that were important to her. I knew what was important to my granddaughter was that our house would be filled with people she loved and that maybe her grandmother would return to her normal, cheery mood.
Maddie and Taylor were engaged in animated conversation over a movie that featured a futuristic cat. Henry was animated also, swinging by a couple of side streets (skipping Sangamon River Road) on the way back to Sadie’s to collect my car, to see what was new by way of Halloween decorations.
Maddie cheered at an enormous fake snow globe containing a large, stiff ghost with a silly smile on its face. I suspected batteries were involved as white flakes fell from the top of the globe and then back up again in a never-ending snowstorm. Taylor counted the number of black cats she saw and announced the total every few minutes. Henry joined in when he spied one, and Maddie clapped every time.
I wondered at the extent of my crabbiness lately, if a simple dinner invitation could evoke this celebratory mood.
We turned down Gettysburg Boulevard, a wide street with tracts of homes on either side. The first house gave Taylor what she was waiting for.
“There’s the fiftieth black cat,” Taylor said, as her grandfather slowed down for a good look. Then she shrieked, “Gross!” and covered her eyes.
We followed her pointing finger to an olive green house that looked like many of the other houses on the street, except for the body hanging from it.
For a minute I thought the woman might be real. A life-size mannequin dressed in a black evening gown hung from the tip of the A-frame roof. Her arms dangled; her dark hair fell to her shoulders. She swung freely, her fancy jeweled slippers catching the light from the setting sun. From the expression on her face she might have been happily waiting for her next dance partner. She seemed oblivious to the six or seven bats hanging around her shoulders.
I felt dizzy and glad I was seated as the image of the real, murdered Oliver Halbert came to my mind. Since our citizens were oblivious to good taste, I thought of asking the Lincoln Point city council to issue a directive to homeowners to remove all such so-called decorations from their lawns in deference to the recent murder. I didn’t mind a jack-o’lantern or two, but I found simulated murder scenes particularly offensive this year. My own newly generated party mood was now dissipating at a rapid pace.
If this mood lasted beyond the next traffic light, I’d call Councilwoman Gail Musgrave. As a member of our crafts group, Gail was subject to our requests now and then. We tried to limit our solicitations to matters of importance. In my present state, I though my complaint was justified.
Henry caught my expression and put his hand on my shoulder in a calming gesture.
It was a good feeling.
Chapter 12
I wondered what Skip would think when he saw that our meeting and the dinner I’d promised him had turned into a party. When we spoke on the phone and set up his visit for this evening, the implication was that we’d share information on Oliver Halbert’s murder case.
By now he’d probably interviewed Kayla, but I hadn’t told him about my visit with Lillian Ferguson or the goon incident at Oliver’s apartment. I thought I might leave out the part with the gun. It hadn’t been used, or even shown, after all; I’d tripped and gone unconscious all on my own.
Fortunately, I was pretty good at scheming and figured out a way to have the best of both worlds—a meeting with Skip plus the party everyone seemed to be dying for.
I had a plan.
Once we were home, I made a call to Skip from inside the walk-in closet in my bedroom, where not even Maddie would trespass.
“You want to meet where?” he asked, in a “have you lost it?” tone.
“See you in ten,” I said.
In the supermarket, Henry had insisted on adding another package of beef tips and putting them in his own basket. Now he offered to help prepare the main dish, as I knew he would. Henry loved to cook and, in fact, I had a feeling the stroganoff would be much better in his hands.
I handed him an apron and made sure he was engrossed in browning the strips of beef. The girls had already trotted off to Maddie’s room.
“I forgot something and have to run out for a minute. Will you be okay here for a short time?” I asked Henry.
“Sure,” he said. “What are we missing?”
I paused. “Milk,” I said, a beat too late.
Henry leaned over and whispered to me. “I’ll toss out whatever that white stuff is in the fridge.”
“Thanks.” I patted him on the back. Our second physical gesture of the afternoon. (Just as well that I had no time to dwell on why that deserved to be noted.)
I could hear Taylor’s squealing laughter through Maddie’s slightly open window as I backed out of my garage and drove off down the street to not buy milk.
The unmarked LPPD sedan was parked in the front row of cars at the convenience store on Springfield Boulevard, just across from the high school. Skip exited his car as I pulled up and parked next to him. If either of us popped a trunk
, the moment would have been perfect for the crucial drug-bust scene in a DEA movie.
Skip joined me in the Saturn. He sat on the passenger seat of my car rolling a Styrofoam cup half filled with coffee slowly between his hands.
“This is a far cry from what Seward’s Folly serves,” he said.
“We have a lot of business to take care of, and a crowd is about to descend on my house,” I said. I gave him a quick rundown of how the party got started and who would be there.
“Okay, you first,” he said.
I began with the contradiction between Lillian’s alibi for her twins and Kayla’s statements this morning.
“You interviewed Mrs. Ferguson?” Skip asked.
I twisted my wrist in a “so-so” fashion. “I wouldn’t call it an interview. More like a visit to check on her after the awful scene on her porch.”
Skip shook his head. “Such a good neighbor.”
“Did you talk to Kayla?” I asked.
Another shake of his russet head. “She split for the day shortly after her shift ended at noon. We’re trying to locate her. No one else in the shop seems to remember the two men together.”
“That’s disappointing. Maybe Kayla is just bored with her job and was trying to impress her customers,” I said. I’d already described the EMTs and what I thought was a singles party in the making.
“It happens. We’ll catch up with her on Tuesday when she’s back to work, if not before.”
“I was in Oliver’s apartment,” I said. Funny how quickly I could get to a point with simple, declarative sentences when severely pressed for time.
“Okay,” Skip said, drawing out the first syllable.
“Susan gave me a key,” I added. “She wanted me to go in and look around.”
“In case the dumb cops didn’t do their job.”
“No, no.” I paused and smiled. “Well, yes. But she also wanted me to take back a room box she’d made for him, before the landlord went in and packed everything up.”
“We’re finished there. Why doesn’t Susan pack it up?”
“Hard to explain,” I said, thinking of how difficult it had been for me to clear our home of Ken’s things. There was still a lot of Ken in our Eichler—I wore his pajamas and shirts on occasion and used many of his special desk accessories.
After a little teasing—“Did you find the crucial piece of evidence we missed?” Skip had asked—I told Skip about the other visitors to Oliver’s bachelor pad, mentally cringing at what his response would be.
“I’m fairly sure one of them was Patrick Lynch.”
Skip’s grunt-like breath was louder than I expected. “Do you like putting yourself in danger, Aunt Gerry? Is there—?”
“Skip, we don’t have time for this right now. Do you have an idea who the men were from my descriptions?”
He nodded. “Lynch, most likely. And the other one was probably Crowley. They’re like Mutt and Jeff. One tall and one short, right?”
I wasn’t completely convinced. “The shorter one behaved in a subservient manner. From what you’ve told me, I’d expect Lynch to treat Max Crowley as a peer.”
“First, Lynch doesn’t have any peers. He thinks he’s above everyone and untouchable. And by taking Crowley on after the scandal, he’s making him beholden.”
“But they were both involved in the scandal.”
“Private businessmen can get away with more than city officials can.”
I thought of asking, “How come?” but there was only the slimmest of chances that I’d ever understand.
“They were looking for something. Seriously,” I said, thinking about the butt of the gun protruding from Max Crowley’s belt.
“We went through the apartment. We took Oliver’s computer and anything that looked relevant. So far we’ve found nothing except that list I told you about.”
I took a troubled breath. “The list, yes.” Ken’s name flashed before me, somehow in larger font than the other names, and in bold print.
“Remember, it’s just that. A list,” Skip said, catching my expression. “There’s no information about anyone on the list. We don’t know why anyone’s name is on it except Oliver thought it should be.”
“Right. The list could mean anything.”
“We were hoping his hard drive would have real data. We’re still scouring it, but so far, there’s nothing on it that helps us.” Skip looked at his watch. “How long till your real company arrives at the house?”
“It’s covered,” I said, thinking of what a good host Henry would make for Beverly, Kay, and Bill. “I have something else.” Skip watched intently as I took three photographs from my purse and handed them to him. “Have you ever seen these?”
He frowned and peered at the set.
“Polaroids? Who takes Polaroids anymore? These must be from the Elizabethan age.” I gave him a curious look. He shrugged. “I’m taking a class in Shakespeare. You know, trying something different.”
My nephew was full of surprises, but this one rattled me. “And you didn’t tell me? Your aunt who spent twenty-seven years teaching Shakespeare, and you didn’t tell me?”
“Now you know how I feel when you go off and do my job.”
“You have a point. For now.”
“Sometimes I don’t know what’s worse, having you depressed, like about this thing with Uncle Ken, or having you in a great mood and interfering with a murder investigation.”
“Luckily, you don’t have to decide, do you?” I clicked the dome light on and pointed to the photos. “Do you recognize where these were taken? Or anything else in the picture?”
Skip held the photos to the light and squinted. “It looks like a young Uncle Ken. Can’t make out the background. Some big institution.”
I swallowed and wet my lips, which had gone dry in only the last few minutes. “And the child?”
“I don’t know. Could it be Richard or me?”
“No. The background is completely unfamiliar to me. I know it’s not either of you. I lived through your infancy and your cousin’s, remember? And it’s a girl.”
“Oh, I guess you can tell from the pink.”
“Correct.” I didn’t know why I wasn’t disposed to tell him about the rest of the pink—the bib, the hat, the jacket, and the flowered onesie that had also been in the “personal” envelope.
Skip’s face took on a serious thinking expression. He tapped the photos on his knee. “Do you mind if I take these? We have software that might help identify the site.”
“You can tell where it is from software?”
“Don’t get me wrong. We don’t have those miracle computers you see on TV shows with those fictitious, high-tech multimedia crime labs that are cleaner than heaven. Ours are—”
I held up my hand. I’d heard this speech and sympathized with real-life law enforcement. “I know. Crime labs in the United States are understaffed, underequipped, and it’s a wonder anything can be done for the cause of justice in this country.” In spite of my light tone, I believed Skip’s reports on the underfunded public forensic science agencies.
“Just so you understand. We do have a limited database that we can tap into with all the major institutions in the country. Schools, hospitals, government buildings, that kind of thing.”
“I just want to make something clear, but I don’t want any questions,” I said.
“Shoot.”
“These photographs are not related to Oliver Halbert’s case.”
“Glad to hear it.”
“I mean, you may not want to use department resources—”
Skip interrupted my labored speech. “Don’t worry about it, okay?”
I gave him the envelope I’d kept the photos in. “Thanks,” I said.
I felt more excited than was warranted by Skip’s caveats about the ability of the software to identify the building in the photos, but a long shot was better than no shot. If Skip was curious about who I thought the child in the photos was, he didn’t let on. I w
as glad for that, and for the fact that he didn’t seem to remember how I’d nearly jumped him when he’d tried to pick up papers from the floor of my garage earlier.
“By the way, did Mom tell you she and Nick are going on another trip? It’s one of those ‘if it’s Tuesday, it’s Belgium’ tours through Europe,” Skip said.
“She did tell me. It sounds wonderful.”
“When are you and Henry going to take a little vacation together?”
It wasn’t hard to translate—after many years as a widow, Beverly, Skip’s mom, had a new boyfriend, a retired police detective whom she’d met working as a civilian volunteer for the LPPD.
Wasn’t it time I put myself out there, too? It wasn’t the first time Skip or Beverly had hinted at that. I figured I could still count on my son to frown upon the idea, but probably not my daughter-in-law, and certainly not my granddaughter, who was desperate to BFF me with Henry.
“Let’s go to dinner,” I said.
Kay and Bill didn’t seem to mind that their hostess had been missing. To my relief, no one queried me about milk. I’d have to ask Henry later what his cover story for me had been. It occurred to me that I was building a long list of things to ask Henry later. I looked forward to the session.
Beverly, always happy to meet new people (not just a boyfriend) had struck up a conversation with attorneys Kay and Bill about evidence laws and the one known as “fruit of the poisoned tree.” As I walked by with a tray of cheese and crackers, I heard unanimity that the law should be revisited.
Henry, who anyone would nominate to play the role of Happy in a remake of Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs, hummed while he drained the noodles and prepared to serve the main course.
I thought the least I could do was hold the plates as he filled them. Maddie and Taylor delivered the steaming dishes to the table where special wine (from Kay and Bill) and a multi-ingredient salad (from Beverly) awaited.
Monster in Miniature Page 14
