“Yeah. What you see is what I brought. My return flight’s at six-thirty.”
He glanced at his watch. “Twenty till eleven. Less than two hours till Rose Vandiver arrives.”
“So she’s married?”
“Divorced. And that town in Pennsylvania is Aliquippa. Two weeks ago she buried her mother up there, and now she goes through it all over again.”
I opened the car door and saw a manila envelope on the seat.
Spring slid behind the steering wheel and then realized I still waited outside. “Pick it up. That’s for you.”
I buckled my seat belt as he pulled away from the curb, and examined the envelope. The flap wasn’t glued but the metal clasp kept it sealed. “What’s in here?”
“The photos of the girl and her companion.” He blasted the horn as an enormous Cadillac changed lanes without looking. “Damn. The bigger the car, the worse the driver.”
I pulled out several sheets of photographic paper. The eight-by-ten headshot of the girl surprised me. Fletcher’s computer program and his skill had created an incredible likeness that lacked only open eyes to be portrait quality. Brown hair replaced the bandages, and although its length seemed slightly shorter than I remembered, I had no doubt anyone who knew the girl would easily recognize her. The second sheet was a black and white version. A third had taken the photograph and converted it into a line drawing.
Spring glanced over at the pictures. “Your guy’s good. Wish we had him down here. How’s your department afford someone like him?”
“He doesn’t work for the department. He’s my summer intern at the funeral home and he did this on his own. His mortuary science courses use computers for facial reconstruction.”
“Damn. Guess I’ll have to start schmoozing our area undertakers. Jimmy Patton in our department’s a whiz on computers but can’t draw a decent stick figure to save his life.”
I continued thumbing through the sheets. Fletcher had created a similar series for the mystery man, but these varied—a narrower nose in one, a higher forehead in another. I hadn’t gotten a head-on look at him during the square dance, but Fletcher would have had a clear view when Kowalski challenged the man. This combination of computer-generated images included black and white composites and line drawings. Fletcher hadn’t attempted a color version of Lincoln. “I guess he gave us enough variations.”
“Like I said, I’m impressed. He emailed these about an hour ago. He said he made the line drawings in case we thought a little vaguer picture might be useful.”
“His logic makes sense. Give too detailed an image and if something’s wrong, the viewer won’t see beyond it. A line drawing lets the witness fill in the details. Pretty smart. I didn’t tell him that.”
“We’ll see what Kowalski’s daughter has to say. Maybe start with the line drawings first.” Spring swung the unmarked police car onto the ramp for I-95 South. “I told Rose Vandiver we’d meet her at her father’s condo at one-thirty. She’s picking up a rental car at the airport. In the winter this route is clogged, but this time of year we’ll be there in less than thirty minutes.”
Delray Beach—fifteen miles. The green interstate sign whipped by as Spring accelerated. He kicked the wipers into high speed as the rain intensified.
“What do we do in the meantime?” I looked back down at the pictures. “Can we cross-reference these with your mug book?”
“Already got a man working back at the station. I thought maybe you and I could do a little old-fashioned legwork, if you’re not afraid of getting wet.”
Lieutenant Spring left I-95 at Delray’s Atlantic Avenue exit and within a few miles turned into one of the planned communities laced with flower gardens, manmade canals, and a maze of cul-de-sacs. The single-story residences were built three or four to a cluster with attached garages. Wrought-iron gates protected small private courtyards. He pulled the car to the curb in front of a central unit. Lights could be seen in the windows of the condos on either side, but the one next to me was dark.
“Is this where Kowalski lived?”
“Yeah. Grab an umbrella. We’ll show these pictures to the neighbors.”
I followed Spring through one of the gates, stepped over puddles in the uneven walkway and stood a few yards behind him under the cover of an orange umbrella. He rang the bell of the condo to the right of the Kowalskis’ and then held his ID up to the peephole. The rain drowned any noise from inside.
“Maybe no one’s home,” I said.
Spring kept his ID in front of the door as he turned to me. “The average age in this community is seventy-five. My rule is give them at least a second per year to answer.”
A minute later, the door cracked open a few inches. A wrinkled face peered beneath the taut security chain.
“Yes?” The elderly woman squinted at us.
Spring handed her his ID. “Police Department, ma’am.”
I doubted the woman was tall enough to see through the peephole. She took the ID and disappeared.
“Ma’am?” Spring yelled through the crack.
“Need my glasses.”
Spring shook his head and grinned.
After another minute, the door closed and I heard the security chain slide free.
The woman opened the door wide and stared at us over her reading glasses. She wore a pink housecoat and matching knitted slippers. She handed Spring his identification. “If you need a contribution, I can give you a small check. A little more after the first of July when my social security’s deposited.”
“No, ma’am, we’re here on official business.”
Her eyes widened and she nodded toward the Kowalskis next door. “Them?”
“Yes, ma’am. Just a few questions. We’ll be meeting the Kowalskis’ daughter in a little while. We’d prefer not to burden her by asking too many questions if you’re able to help us.”
The woman removed her glasses and stuck them in an oversized pocket. “Of course,” she said solemnly. “Please come in.”
Spring and I left our umbrellas by a ceramic duck sitting next to the door, wiped our wet feet on the welcome mat, and crossed the threshold into doily land. The lace designs were everywhere: on the back of the sofa, the armrests of all the chairs, the end tables, under the photographs on the coffee table, and even beneath the Hummel figurines behind the glass in a mahogany breakfront. The air smelled like my grandmother’s bedroom used to. A heavy dose of potpourri.
“I’m Mattie Spiegel. Can I get you gentlemen some coffee?”
“None for me,” Spring said.
I followed the lieutenant’s lead. “Me neither, thank you.”
Mattie motioned for us to sit, but Spring continued talking. “I’m Lieutenant Spring as you know, and this is Deputy Barry Clayton.” He stepped back so she could have a clear look at me. “He’s with the Sheriff’s Department in Gainesboro, North Carolina.”
I shook the woman’s small, dry hand.
“Gainesboro. That’s where—” She left the sentence incomplete.
“Yes. Mrs. Kowalski’s daughter didn’t realize he’d left Florida, and we’re trying to determine why he would come to Gainesboro.” I stopped, not wanting to take the course of the conversation away from Lieutenant Spring.
“Shuffleboard,” Mattie said.
“Shuffleboard?” Spring repeated the word as a question and looked at me for an answer.
“News to me.” I turned to Mattie. “What makes you think so, Ms. Spiegel?”
“Mrs. My Mort’s been gone ten years but I’ll always be Mrs. Spiegel.”
“Sorry,” I said.
Spring sat on the sofa and patted the cushion next to him. “Please.”
The elderly woman sat down beside him and I took a chair on the other side of the coffee table.
“Did Mr. Kowalski play shuffleboard?” Spring asked.
“Oh, my heavens, yes. Lucy too before her pain got too bad.” She flexed her fingers. “I have a touch of arthritis in my hands, and in weather like to
day my shoulder flares up, but that could be bursitis.” She looked from Spring to me. “What’s the difference between bursitis and arthritis? I used to know.”
Spring cleared his throat. He sensed we’d be categorizing bunions in a few moments if he didn’t keep Mattie on track. “So Mrs. Kowalski had to give up playing? When?”
“Must have been last fall. They were disappointed they couldn’t compete in mixed doubles at the Delray tournament.” Mattie lowered her voice like a crowd might be eavesdropping from the kitchen. “I don’t know for sure, but I think it could have been some kind of C A N C E R.” She spelled the word as if saying it could cause one of us to get it.
“But you don’t know that she was under any kind of treatment?” Spring asked.
“Well, she confided that her medicine was very expensive.” Mattie nodded at me as if that made the case.
Spring turned his attention to me. “What about Gainesboro and shuffleboard? Is there a connection?”
“The game’s popular with the Florida people. Our town has a number of courts. Hendersonville’s about thirty minutes away and has hosted national and even world tournaments.”
“Lucy mentioned Hendersonville,” Mattie said. “And Gainesboro too. They used to spend a month or two in North Carolina every summer.”
“But not this summer?” Spring asked.
“No. They couldn’t go this year.” And then under her breath, she whispered, “Cancer.”
I took up the questioning. “Mrs. Spiegel, did Mrs. Kowalski have any in-home healthcare?”
“You mean like hospice?”
“Hospice or an RN or some other medical professional who visited her?”
“No. Mitch always took her to the doctor.”
“Did he stay with her round the clock?”
“He would go out during the day, but never overnight. I guess after Lucy passed away, he decided to go to the mountains like they always did.” She sighed. “Life goes on, Deputy Clayton.”
Spring shifted on the sofa so he could look directly at Mattie. “I don’t know how much you know about what happened in Gainesboro, Mrs. Spiegel, but Mr. Kowalski evidently thought someone had harmed Lucy, so much so that he tried to kill him.”
“That’s what Rebecca Owensby said. They live in the condo on the other side. I can’t believe it. Mitch was always so quiet.”
“He didn’t have a temper?” Spring asked.
“No more than most men. Now my Mort, he could give you an earful.”
“We have some pictures we’d like to show you, Mrs. Spiegel. Tell us if you recognize anyone.” Spring signaled for me to pass him the envelope.
Mattie paled. “These aren’t pictures of the shooting, are they?”
“No, ma’am. Just some people you might have seen with the Kowalskis.”
She retrieved her glasses from her housecoat pocket and waited as the lieutenant arranged the images in the order he wanted and set them in two piles facedown on the coffee table.
He handed her the line drawing of the girl. “Does she look familiar?”
Mattie studied the face carefully, moving it back and forth for the best focus. “No. Too young and slim to be their daughter.”
Spring exchanged that rendering for the black and white photo composite. “This might be a little clearer.”
Again Mattie scrutinized the girl. “Maybe Jennifer.”
“Jennifer who?” Spring prompted.
“Jennifer the waitress at the Cracker Barrel in Boynton Beach. Sometimes I’ll ride up there with the Owensbys for lunch.”
“Did the Kowalskis know her?”
“Maybe. But they preferred Wendy’s. Seniors get a free drink, you know.”
Spring passed her the color image of the girl. “Is this Jennifer?”
The wrinkles in Mattie’s brow deepened. She looked from the black and white to the color picture. “Doesn’t look as much like her. Jennifer’s hair is browner. But I suppose she could have lightened it since she left.”
“She’s no longer at the Cracker Barrel?”
“Oh, my, no. She got in the family way. Can’t be taking people’s orders if your tummy’s halfway over the table.” Mattie paused. “I think her baby’s due about now. Maybe she’ll be back by fall.”
Disappointment showed on Spring’s face as he restacked the sheets. “How about this man?” He gave her the top picture from his second pile.
Mattie examined the line composite of Lincoln. At first, she showed no particular interest. Then her lips puckered and she nodded. “It could be,” she said more to herself than to us.
Spring leaned closer. “Could be who?”
“Could be that man who brings her medicine.”
He handed her the more detailed rendering.
“Yes. I’m pretty sure he’s the one.”
I glanced at Spring. He gave me a wink which I took for a green light. “Mrs. Spiegel, did this man work for a pharmacy?”
“I don’t think so. I’ve never seen him at CVS. I asked Lucy about him once. He came by one morning when I was in the courtyard. She said he was a friend who occasionally picked up her refills for her.”
My next question came without thinking. “Did he always come when Mr. Kowalski was away?”
Mattie blushed. “Do you think there was some,” she hesitated, searching for a palatable phrase, “inappropriate relationship?”
“No, ma’am. I just thought the simple explanation would be he picked up the refills when Mr. Kowalski couldn’t.”
“That must be it.” She relaxed, grateful that she’d avoided a potential episode of Desperate Senior Housewives. “Now that I think of it, I never saw his car when Mitch was home.”
I looked at Spring for the follow-up.
“Did she happen to mention his name?” he asked.
“Art.”
“Only Art?” Spring held back Lincoln, wanting her to supply the last name on her own.
“Artie. She just called him Artie.”
A tingle flashed down the back of my neck. Mattie had said “Artie,” but I had heard “R.D.” The dying girl hadn’t spoken initials. Artie and what Fletcher heard as “R.D.” had to be one and the same.
For the next hour, Lieutenant Spring and I checked eight other condos on the street. Only five residents were home, and nothing new came from our inquiries. The other next-door neighbor, Mrs. Owensby, confirmed that she had seen a man resembling Fletcher’s composite coming to Lucy Kowalski’s condo once or twice, but she didn’t know his name. The other neighbors knew even less. No one recognized the girl, and since that was the more accurate of the renderings, I concluded she’d never been seen by anyone we interviewed.
Spring and I grabbed a bite to eat at Wendy’s, and he assured me he wasn’t old enough to qualify for the free drink. We returned to the Kowalskis’ condo around one-thirty and found a white Taurus with an Enterprise rental sticker parked in front of the garage.
“She’s here,” Spring said. “I’ll lead, but don’t hesitate to chime in. You did fine with Mrs. Spiegel. Who knows, if people stop dying, you might have a career as a real detective.”
I didn’t hear any sarcasm in his voice. My own doubts made me want to ask what he meant by that remark, but I kept quiet.
The rain had calmed to a drizzle and we made a quick dash without umbrellas through the courtyard to the front door. Rose Vandiver must have been watching because she met us on the stoop.
I estimated Rose’s age to be close to sixty. She carried a few extra pounds, but nothing more than a woman whose years have turned her from maiden to matron. Her straight brown hair showed gray at the roots and her formal black dress was all the more formal given the multiple necklaces, bracelets, and rings she wore. As Susan had once remarked about a woman at a cocktail party, “She has nice jewelry. Too bad she wears it all at once.”
Lieutenant Spring introduced himself, then me, and expressed condolences.
“Come on in. I haven’t had a chance to go through everythin
g, but you’re welcome to look around.” She started back into the condo. “I’m at a loss as to why my father went to North Carolina with a gun.”
We followed behind her. Where doilies had been the motif at Mattie Spiegel’s, foxes were the Kowalskis’ obsession. Foxhunt prints adorned the walls. Fox figurines populated the bookshelves, fox caricatures graced the coasters, and fox placemats indicated a setting for four at the dining room table. The only variations in the décor were plaques for shuffleboard championships hanging along the wall behind the sofa and a row of trophies on the top bookshelf.
“Did your parents belong to a hunt club?” I asked.
Rose laughed. “Mom and Dad? The only horses they could ride are outside Wal-Mart and need a quarter a gallop. They went on the fox craze after spending time in Tryon, North Carolina. Threw out all the seascape paintings and driftwood sculptures and tried to bring the mountains down here.”
Tryon was an affluent community about forty miles and a thousand feet below Gainesboro. The thermal climate belt generated by the protection of the Appalachian mountains behind the town meant Tryon enjoyed moderate temperatures and a favorable environment for the horse farms that bred some of the finest steeplechase stock in the country. Even I had attended several of the world-renowned Block House races.
“Did they summer in Tryon?” I asked.
“They did before shuffleboard. About six years ago, they started playing down here. Some of their friends compete in tournaments in North Carolina during the summer so Mom and Dad started renting cottages in Gainesboro or Hendersonville to be closer to the action. That was before Mom got too sick.”
“What was the nature of your mother’s illness?” Spring asked.
“The aftermath of an illness. She had PHN.”
Spring looked at me. “Don’t know that one.”
I was as clueless as he was.
“Post-herpetic neuralgia. About eighteen months ago Mother developed shingles. She just thought she had a rash and delayed five days before going to the doctor. She missed the window for the most effective treatment. The shingles cleared up after a month, but PHN is the residual pain of the nerve damage. Actually worse than the pain of the disease. Debilitating. Her outbreak was around her torso and down her right leg. She said it was like being on fire.”
Final Undertaking: A Buryin' Barry Mystery (Buryin' Barry Series) Page 7
