All Signs Point to Murder

by Connie Di Marco

  “Please don’t leave like this!” I stood too. “I’m just looking at it the way the cops will.”

  She glared at me. “Well, at least I know where you stand.”

  “That’s not fair, Geneva! Look, can you get me the birth information for everyone, including Moira? Maybe that will give me some ideas.”

  She laughed mirthlessly. “Oh yeah, right. Astrology’s really gonna help us now.” The hurt must have shown on my face. “You know I’ve never been a believer.”

  “I don’t care if you are or you aren’t. I’m just asking for my own information.”

  “Forget it. You obviously think David’s guilty of something. I’m sorry I told you. I’m sorry I came to you. I thought you of all people would understand how I feel.” She walked quickly to the top of the stairs and headed down. I heard the front door slam before I was able to move.

  Open mouth, insert foot. A Sagittarian trait if ever there was one. When would I ever learn to be more tactful? I try. I really do.

  My head was pounding and frankly, I felt terrible. Of course, Geneva was upset and super sensitive. I should’ve seen that and not been so quick to offer an opinion. On second thought, the cops would be a lot less tactful. That is, if they found out.

  I heard Geneva’s car pull away as I checked the lock on the door. I walked back up the stairs and picked up the tray with the teacups. The slip of paper with Moira’s address and the key was still on the tray. Geneva had been so upset she’d forgotten to take it. Or had she? Was she still counting on my searching Moira’s apartment?

  I turned off the gas jets in the fireplace and closed the damper, hoping to retain some heat. What should I do? Should I keep my promise and search Moira’s apartment? Actually, I hadn’t really promised to do anything. I’d just told her it didn’t feel right. How could searching a dead woman’s apartment, even at the request of her sister, possibly feel right? The whole idea made my skin crawl. I decided to try to talk to Geneva tomorrow and hopefully calm her down. After some reflection, she’d realize I hadn’t meant to upset her.

  I carried the tray back to the kitchen and checked the clock over the sink. It was late, almost eleven. I could head over to Moira’s first thing tomorrow, but by then it could be too late. If the police hadn’t already searched her place, then they surely would soon. They’d probably been busy all day at Geneva’s and David’s house. And if the police hadn’t yet realized David was in the garage close to the time the murder took place, then why search his home first? I figured maybe they knew more than they were saying. If there really had been someone else in the garage with Moira, who’d shot at Rob, then whoever it was must have taken off with their gun. Was Moira’s wound consistent with Rob’s Glock? Or was Rob innocent and Moira shot by someone else? The police had to be searching for a missing gun.

  I realized that if Moira’s apartment hadn’t been searched yet, this really might be my only opportunity. I could understand Geneva’s concern—if the police learned Moira’s history, they might very well write it all off as a drug deal gone wrong. Discovering her contacts could be difficult if not impossible, and if so, how hard would they really investigate? It wasn’t Rob who’d been killed, after all.

  I downed two more aspirin and gulped some water. The altercation with Geneva hadn’t helped my head. I rinsed out the cups and left them on the dish strainer. Then I set up Wizard’s cat box and bowls and emptied my tote bag, separating laundry from fresh clothes. I pulled a heavy cable sweater over my T-shirt, grabbed my purse, Geneva’s note, and Moira’s key, and headed down the back stairs to the garage.

  eleven

  The building on Guerrero was a once-proud Victorian with bow front windows. It had since been broken up into six small units and fallen into disrepair. I drove around the block several times before I managed to find a parking spot a few doors down. The shops on the main street were long closed, and the neighborhood streets deserted. I shivered and let the car heater run another minute to warm up before I left the comfort of my little metal box. There was something about this chore that made my stomach go into knots. Rummaging through a dead woman’s possessions was bad enough, but what if I found something that implicated Moira in a crime? Drug-related or otherwise? Should I even tell Geneva? She said she’d leave it to my discretion. It was tacit approval to do what I thought best, but I really didn’t like the idea of searching a dead woman’s apartment, much less risk the police finding out.

  I climbed out of the car, careful to lock it behind me, and approached the long stairway leading to the front door. The wind had died down and now fog danced around the streetlights. It was eerily quiet. No lights shone from any of the windows. I hoped all the residents were safely tucked up in their beds. I climbed the cracked granite stairs to the entrance. The weathered door stood ajar, listing slightly on its hinges. I grasped the handle and twisted it, but the lock mechanism was out of commission. Inside, a bare overhead lightbulb hung from a chain. It cast a meager glow down the long corridor, cannibalized from a once grand entryway. The hallway smelled of dirty cat litter, moldy vegetables, and cigarette smoke. I followed the corridor to the end, and stopped at the last door on the right.

  I slipped the key Geneva had given me into the lock. It offered no resistance. The door opened immediately. Had it not been locked? I caught a slight scuffling sound and cringed. I hoped no furry long-

  tailed creatures were waiting inside for me. I reached around the doorway and felt along the wall. My fingers hit the switch. A rusting chandelier with two bulbs missing illuminated the one large room that was both Moira’s living room and bedroom. I tested the key with the door open, locking and then unlocking it. Now I felt the resistance. The door had definitely been unlocked. I stepped inside and shut it behind me, making sure the lock was secure. Was it possible someone had been here before me and left without locking the door? Or had Moira simply been careless?

  I had to make sure I was alone in the apartment. There were no hiding places in this sparsely furnished room. I checked under the bed just to be certain and opened the closet, terrified that someone or something might jump out at me. The closet was narrow and filled with a jumble of clothing, half of it on the floor. I walked into the kitchenette and spotted a doorway that led to the back stairs and the yard. I tested the handle on the door. Locked. I checked the space between the refrigerator and the wall, and then the shower stall in the bathroom. I was alone. I’d been holding my breath and finally let it out in a great sigh.

  I started with the drawers in the kitchen and checked the counter, looking for any notes with names or phone numbers. There was nothing. The kitchen was surprisingly clean, as if Moira had never used the room. Inside the refrigerator were a few condiments, a half-eaten unwrapped apple, and a loaf of whole-wheat bread. I quickly rummaged through the drawers and the freezer to make sure there were no bundles of cash disguised as frozen meat.

  The main room housed a collection of hand-me-downs and broken furniture, ripped curtains, and piles of clothing in various spots around the floor. Had Moira really lived like this? I heaved up the mattress, first on one side and then the other, making sure nothing was hidden between it and the box spring. Under the bed, I spotted only dust bunnies. I pulled open each of the bureau drawers, checked their contents, and pulled them all the way out to make sure nothing was behind them. Then I opened the small drawer in the spindly nightstand. Amid a loose pile of clutter was a dark blue velvet box embossed with the letter R in cursive gold script. Could it be from Rochecault? I was fairly certain it was—Rochecault is an infamously expensive jeweler on Maiden Lane downtown. But how could Moira have shopped there? Was this what Geneva had meant when she said her sister seemed to have a lot of money to spend?

  I opened the box and gasped. An amazing bracelet, heavy with blue stones in varying colors, rested inside. The setting had the slightly matte, industrial sheen of platinum. Moira couldn’t possibly have afforded this. Shov
ing the box into a side pocket of my purse, I decided I was definitely not leaving this for the police to find. I slid the drawer shut.

  I scanned the room. Moira hadn’t been much of a housekeeper, but there wasn’t much furniture to hide things in. I headed for the desk, a rickety affair with two drawers and a computer on top. I clicked and waited a moment. The screen came to life and asked for a password. It would take someone much more talented than I to unearth its secrets. But under a jumble of papers and unopened bills, my eye caught a small black notebook. This looked promising. Perhaps it was an address book that would give us all of Moira’s contacts. I dropped my purse on the floor and reached for the book.

  A searing pain shot through my skull. Blinded, I fell to the floor.

  twelve

  I was swimming for all I was worth, using my arms and legs to reach air from a great depth of murky water. Rotting green vegetation had caught in my hair and my legs, so heavy it was pulling me down. I struggled to free myself. When I woke, groaning, my head was throbbing and I was lying on a hard wooden floor in the dark. I gasped with terror, not able to remember where I was or how I’d arrived there. When I tried to sit up, a sharp pain in my skull took my breath away. Where was I?

  Memories filtered back. Moira’s. That was the last place I remembered. But why was it so dark? I lay very still on the floor and noticed that a gray light was coming from somewhere behind the dingy shades. Daylight. How long had I been out? Slowly, I managed to roll over and, pushing against the floor, reached a crouching position. My arms were stiff, but I could wiggle my toes. Gingerly, I reached around to touch the back of my head where it hurt. A good-sized egg had formed there. Someone had knocked me out.

  The notebook. The black notebook. I remembered now. I’d been reaching for what I hoped would be the Rosetta Stone of Moira’s life. I was sure of it … and that was the last I remembered.

  Grasping the edge of the desk, I pulled myself up and sat on the rickety chair. I reached over to the window and flicked the plastic shade. It flew up to the top. Outside, dawn had come, but a gray dawn that might just as easily be sundown. Had I lost a whole night? Who had been here? And where had they been hiding? I’d checked the whole apartment, even the back door in the kitchen, making sure it was locked. Someone had to have entered through the back door. Someone else had a key to Moira’s apartment. I’d been so busy rummaging through drawers, I hadn’t been aware of any sound as my assailant crept up on me.

  Had they taken anything? My purse? My car keys? On the floor, my purse was exactly where I’d dropped it, but someone had pulled out my wallet, leaving it open to my driver’s license. Now someone knew where I lived. More importantly, someone wanted me to know they knew where I lived. I shivered, realizing how vulnerable I’d been. I rummaged through the papers on top of the desk again. The black notebook was gone. I mentally cursed my lack of attention. That notebook could have told a lot. All of Moira’s contacts, perhaps even her recent activities.

  I dragged my purse onto my lap and replaced my wallet. I checked the time on my cell phone—six thirty in the morning. The screen on the computer was dark. At least the intruder hadn’t taken it. I debated unplugging the whole arrangement and taking it with me, but then I’d definitely be accused of interfering in a police investigation. If Geneva’s house had been searched, Moira’s had to be next on the list.

  The bracelet, I thought. Had the bracelet been taken? I unzipped the side pocket of my purse and reached in, feeling the velvet surface of the box. I breathed a sigh of relief. I could deliver the bracelet to Geneva. Geneva! I had to talk to her. I’d planned to call her this morning anyway, but first I needed to pull myself together.

  I stumbled to the bathroom and splashed water on my face. I felt a roiling in my stomach and was afraid I was going to be sick. I sat heavily on the toilet seat cover and took deep breaths until the feeling passed. Then I grabbed a clean facecloth, soaked it in cold water, and dumped ice cubes from the freezer into it to make a compress. I found a bottle of ibuprofen in the kitchen cabinet and gulped four of them with a glass of water. Remembering the back door, I hurried across the room and grasped the handle. It opened immediately, to a back stairway leading down to an overgrown yard. Whoever had been here had left by the same route, not bothering to lock the door behind him … or her.

  My hands were shaking as though my blood sugar were low. I needed food and strong coffee as soon as possible. Another rush of nausea swept over me. Did I have a concussion? My skin felt cold and clammy. I returned to the bathroom and lifted my eyelids to survey each eye, making sure both of my pupils were evenly dilated. Somewhere I’d read that one normal pupil and one dilated was a sign of concussion. They were both the same, and both responded to the bright bathroom light.

  I checked the cabinet, looking for any meds that would be out of place. I found the usual things—toothpaste, antacids, Band-Aids, not even a prescription med. Nothing unusual had been wrapped in tinfoil in the refrigerator, either, unless something had been cleverly hidden inside a mustard container. I’m rather naïve about drugs. I’m not sure I’d even know enough to recognize illicit substances. Maybe Geneva was wrong. Or maybe I was totally the wrong person to be searching Moira’s apartment. Obviously I was, or somebody wouldn’t have clunked me on the head and left me on the floor, grabbing what was probably the best clue to Moira’s life.

  My hands were still shaking badly. I didn’t trust myself to stay there any longer. If I passed out, who would find me? The police, when they arrived with a search warrant? Wouldn’t that be just dandy. How would I explain what I was doing? I dragged the chair over to the closet and climbed up to check everything on the shelf. Several sweaters were piled up. There were two boxes, one with a pair of shoes, the other filled with several scarves. Otherwise, the closet held no secrets. I climbed down, grabbed my purse, brushed my hair away from my face and headed out the door, making sure the key with the silver M was in my purse and both doors were locked behind me.

  The noises of a city coming awake greeted me as I walked to my car. At the end of the block, I heard the whine of a garbage truck’s mechanism and the clicking rails of a streetcar passing by. My car was still safe. Parked exactly where I’d left it. No windows smashed and thankfully no tickets stuck under the windshield. I glanced up at a street sign that warned No Parking on Wednesdays from ten in the morning to noon. What day was this? I had to make a conscious effort to remember. Monday. This was Monday. I had a client coming this afternoon. I really would have to pull it together.

  As I stood on the curb, I spotted a bright yellow sign over a plate-glass window at the end of the street. Nate’s Early Bite. Just what I needed. I hitched my purse over my shoulder and headed to the corner.

  The restaurant had just opened. Four men in work clothes sat in a booth while a waitress in jeans and a denim shirt headed in their direction with a large tray. The whole place smelled of frying bacon, toast, and coffee. The same waitress arrived at my table with a large mug of coffee. I ordered a fried egg with toast and hash browns. Somehow my stomach had come back on line. I tried to remember when I’d last eaten. Oh yes, the Twin Dragons, Chinese food with Cheryl the night before.

  When my order arrived, I slathered ketchup and salt over the hash browns and wolfed everything down, mopping up the last bits of egg yolk with a piece of toast. My hands had stopped shaking even though the back of my head was still throbbing. The waitress slapped a bill on my table. I left some cash for the meal and a tip and checked the time. Seven thirty. Too early to call Geneva at her mother’s house, and too early to make an unannounced visit.

  I left the diner and headed back to my car, parked midway between Moira’s apartment building and the corner. As I walked, I noticed a light-colored, nondescript sedan pull up in front of the building. An alarm bell went off in my head. The car was a little too conservative for the neighborhood. Police?

  I slowed my steps and finally halted.
I moved closer to a large van parked on my side of the street and peeked around it to get a closer look at the occupants of the car. Two men I didn’t recognize. The passenger door opened and one of the men stepped out. The driver exited next, and together they headed up the stairs to Moira’s.

  Once they were safely inside, I hurried to my car and hopped in. I revved the engine and headed home. I’d never seen these two men before, but just to be on the safe side, I didn’t want the police to see me in the neighborhood.

  thirteen

  Wizard was sitting at attention by his food bowl when I walked into the kitchen. He looked up at me and meowed piteously as if to say, Where have you been? I reached down, ignoring the sudden pain at the back of my skull, and rubbed his tummy. “Hey, big guy. I’m here. I’ll feed you.” I plopped a huge scoop of Fancy Beast in a clean bowl and placed it on his tray. He ignored my presence and made purring sounds as he dove into his food.

  I stripped off my clothes and dumped them in the laundry basket, then climbed in the shower and let water as hot as I could stand pour over my back and shoulders. With fresh clothes and clean hair and makeup I felt a thousand times better. I downed two more aspirin to hopefully forestall the pain in my head. Was my liver going to fall out from all these meds? At this point, I didn’t care. I just wanted my head to stop hurting.

  At nine o’clock, I dialed Mary Leary’s number hoping someone would be awake by now. The phone rang six times but no one answered, not even a machine. Were they all out? Or just not answering? Maybe they’d unplugged the phone so they wouldn’t be bothered. My hand hovered over the phone as I tried to decide if I should drive over and ring the bell. Surely they were there. Even if they didn’t want to be disturbed, I still very much needed to talk to Geneva. Grabbing my purse and jacket, I headed down the stairs. I pulled the door open and came face to face with Detective Paolo Ianello— or the Wolf-Faced Man, as I now thought of him.