1 Murder for Bid

by Susan Furlong-Bolliger

  Surprisingly, the street was almost vacant. The only activity came from a construction crew a few houses down, where workers were preparing to pour the basement of a new build. The rotating cement truck blocked most of the road, so I was forced to park behind one of the contractor’s trucks, a red pickup sporting the Davis Construction logo.

  I thought back to meeting Greg. It was more than just good looks with him. It was an aurora of power and success that made him so attractive. I wondered if he was serious about anyone or if he could ever be serious about me. I imagined what it would be like to run my hands through that wavy black hair of his and kiss his full lips. What was I thinking? I was already sort-of involved with a perfectly nice guy. One who had kept me from being a prime murder suspect and who, by the way, would not approve of me poking around Schmidt’s house. Then again, how would he ever find out?

  I picked my way along the orange fencing which created a barrier around the construction site; self-conscious of the stares I was receiving from a few of the workers. I breathed easier after passing without provoking any rude comments. Of course, maybe the idea of wolf-whistling at a gal with tumors on her back wasn’t their style.

  As I neared Schmidt’s house, the only indication that a brutal murder had occurred the day before was a small piece of leftover crime scene tape caught on one of the front barberry bushes. For some reason, that solo piece of tape upset me. Amanda Schmidt had been robbed of her life prematurely. What had she missed out on? Children? Grandchildren? It seemed as if the world should stop when someone so young and vital loses her life. Instead, all that was left to mark this horrific loss was a scrap of yellow tape.

  Approaching the house, I watched closely for signs of someone being home, but saw none. Aware that the construction workers were watching, I casually scooped up a newspaper lying at the end of the walk, and moved toward the front door. Hopefully, they would assume that I was a friend coming over to take care of the place in the owner’s absence. Just to make it look good, I opened the mailbox and peaked inside. Although it was stuffed with envelopes, I pretended to have found it empty. Once out of sight of the workers, I placed the newspaper carefully on the front stoop and then peaked through the narrow window which ran alongside the door. Unable to see much, I ventured around the side of the house. The workers were shouting amongst themselves now and I could hear that they were packing it up for the day. The threat of heavy rain was going to delay the pouring of the cement.

  Glad they were finally leaving, I felt much more at ease as I made my way around to the backyard. A tall privet hedge provided the privacy that I needed to snoop. More than ever, I was convinced that Schmidt had killed his wife and that he had used one of his golf clubs to do it. If I could just find that club, I could prove it.

  My eye spied the perfect hiding spot. At the far end of the yard stood a tool shed. Even from my vantage point, I could see that the door was padlocked, a sure sign that the small building held something secretly sinister.

  Several times, I circled its exterior like a hawk circling its prey. Brushing aside an out-of-control rose hedge, I braved the thorns to get a peek inside a small side window. I rubbed a circle in the dust-covered surface and strained to see inside.

  “What are you doing?” a booming voice demanded.

  I wheeled around to find myself face to face with Richard Schmidt.

  “Who are…?” His expression changed from anger to disbelief as he realized that he’d seen me before. “It’s you, the homeless woman.”

  “I’m not homeless,” I replied with dignity. I didn’t mention that I practically lived with my parents.

  He starred at me with a confused expression. “You look homeless,” he said, eyeing my outfit.

  That did it. This tumor sweater was really going to have to go.

  “Who are you and what are you doing on my property?” he asked with a flushed face. I could even see the vein throbbing at his temple. He was about to blow.

  I rushed to explain, “I’m Phillipena O’Brien. I’m dating … uh … I’m a friend of Detective Sean Panelli from the Naperville Police Force.”

  “That doesn’t explain what you’re doing trespassing on my property.”

  A siren wailed in the distance.

  “I’m checking something out.”

  “Do you work for the police?”

  I hesitated, my mind working frantically on a fabrication worthy of the situation.

  The siren was growing closer.

  “Sounds like the police are coming,” I said.

  “I called them.”

  Panic struck. “You did?” I asked, looking around frantically for a place to run.

  “Don’t even think about running,” he said, stepping closer to me. “You were here the day my wife was murdered. Did you do it? Did you kill her?”

  “Me!” This guy was a piece of work. He should have been an actor instead of a councilman. “What are you talking about? I didn’t kill your wife.” I moved in closer, feeling more confident. “What’s more, I think you did it so that you could get her out of your life and be with your mistress.”

  “My mistress?” His mouth went slack.

  “Look, Schmidt, you might as well confess. The cops will be here any minute and you’re going to have a hard time explaining what’s inside your shed.”

  “What’s inside my shed?”

  “Why the padlock? Hiding the murder weapon?” I asked.

  An angry sneer tugged at the corner of his mouth. “You’re crazy, lady.”

  “You killed her with one of your golf clubs,” I retorted.

  The sirens were coming from just down the street.

  He squinted. “One of my clubs?”

  “You were carrying eleven at the club the day she was killed. There’s only ten in your bag now.”

  Schmidt’s mouth opened, but he didn’t reply. He probably knew there was no use in denying it.

  I continued, “Amanda found out about your affair and you killed her.”

  “You’re nuts. You have no idea what you’re talking about. What affair?”

  It infuriated me that Schmidt was trying to deny the obvious. “I saw the shirt! You threw it out because there were lipstick stains all over it. You were trying to hide it because you didn’t want your wife to know that you were cheating on her. She found out anyway, didn’t she? And when she confronted you about your affair, you became enraged. You grabbed the nearest thing you could find, the golf club, and beat her to death. Then, you put her body into the hot tub to buy time.” I pushed an accusing finger against his chest. I was on this guy like white on rice. “You couldn’t have the coroner pinpointing the time of death, it would be too obvious. Then you took the jewelry to make it look like robbery. You think you’re so clever.” Accusations were spewing from my lips. I felt just like Matlock.

  Schmidt stood frozen in silence, his eyes glistening with … what? Fear? Hate?

  “You have no idea what you’re talking about…” We both turned at the sound of car doors slamming, flowed heavy footsteps accompanied by the glips of police radios. Through the shrubbery came a familiar face.

  “Pippi O’Brien?”

  Great. The responding officer would have to be someone I knew. “Hi there, Gabe.”

  Officer Gabe Sanchez was one of Sean’s friends. The last time I had seen him was at his house last summer for a barbeque.

  Sanchez stood, looking from Schmidt to me, waiting for an explanation. Schmidt spoke first, “This woman is crazy! I came home to find her in my backyard, trying to break into my shed.”

  “I wasn’t trying to break into...”

  “She’s making all sort of slanderous remarks. I want something done here and now!”

  Officer Sanchez, realizing that he was in a no-win situation, stammered for words and then stopped and let his mouth hang open. Luckily for him, at that moment the sound of rustling shrubbery revealed two more uniformed officers and, to my dismay, Sean.

  He crossed the yard
to where we stood. “Pippi?” His eyes were dark.

  I searched the ground for something to say. I could feel his embarrassment.

  “This is the homeless woman that I was telling you about. I caught her trying to break into my shed. She’s a nut. You should hear the things she’s saying. She even says she knows you.” Schmidt was in Sean’s face. “What are you going to do about this, Panelli?”

  Sean led me aside. “What were you thinking, Pippi?” he whispered.

  “I wasn’t trying to break in, I swear, Sean. I was just looking in the window.”

  He shook his head incredulously and shoved his hands into the pockets of his creased khakis. “Just looking in his window? This is private property. He could press charges.”

  “Press charges against me? He’s the murderer!”

  “Shh!”

  My eyes slid across the yard to where the insolent councilman stood yacking it up with the fellows from the force and lowered my voice. “I already told you about the golf club. I think he stashed it away in this shed after killing Amanda with it. All you have to do is look. I bet you’ll find a bloody driver.”

  “Do you know what you’re saying? He’s a city councilman. You can’t go around making those types of accusations without proof.”

  “Well, how would I get any proof, if no one believes me? Isn’t it obvious? Look, the door is padlocked.”

  “So?”

  “He’s obviously hiding something in there. You need to get a warrant right away, before he can move it.”

  Sean opened his mouth to answer but was interrupted by Schmidt who had snuck up on us. “Look, Panelli,” he said. “I’m not sure why you’re not making an arrest. I think this woman broke into my house to steal my wife’s jewelry and Amanda caught her in the act. I mean, she’s obviously desperate, she was digging through garbage cans for food.”

  Sean glared at his officers who were huddled together, snickering amongst themselves. “Actually, Councilman, I can assure you that this woman did not kill your wife. Ms. O’Brien is a personal friend of mine. She digs through garbage for a living.”

  Another round of snickers eschewed from the huddled group.

  “She digs through garbage for a living?” Schmidt asked, giving me a distasteful up and down look.

  “Yes, that is when she’s not butting into police business,” Sean replied through tight lips.

  Under the gaze of so many watchful eyes, Schmidt turned back into politician mode. He patted Sean on the back. “Well, Panelli, I can’t say I understand your taste in women,” he said, giving me another once over, “but just because she’s your girlfriend, it doesn’t give her the right to be snooping around on my property and making all these slanderous remarks about my relationship with Amanda.”

  “You’re right, sir. I apologize for Ms. O’Brien.”

  What? Apologize for me? What was Sean thinking?

  Schmidt continued, “I was not having an affair. I … I loved my wife.”

  I rolled my eyes. Schmidt was turning on the emotions again. Like any of us believed that.

  “I believe you, sir,” Sean said.

  My jaw dropped.

  “I’ll talk to Ms. O’Brien and make sure she understands the situation,” he added.

  Schmidt dropped his chin and did a sad shake of his head as if he pitied poor Sean for having such a crazy girlfriend. “Oh, alright, Panelli,” he said, patting Sean’s back and throwing in a good-old-boy smile. “Don’t sweat it. I’m not going to press charges or anything. Just keep her away from me. I don’t need this right now.”

  “Of course, sir.”

  Then Schmidt bent down and whispered something into Sean’s ear. Both men chuckled. Infuriated, I spoke up, “Since you have nothing to hide, Councilman, I’m sure that you wouldn’t mind if the police took a look inside your shed.”

  Sean’s back stiffened and his entire face, including the tips of his ears, turned red. Schmidt, on the other hand, didn’t miss a beat. “If I oblige this weird fantasy that your girlfriend has concocted, will you get her off my back, Panelli? For good?”

  “We have no cause to search your shed.” Sean glared at me. I could only imagine the fight that we’d have later.

  “I know that, Panelli. I just thought that if I were to let you, then maybe it would satisfy her and she’d leave me alone.”

  “That’s completely up to you, sir,” Sean replied.

  Schmidt pulled out a key chain and unlocked the padlock. It dangled for a second and then hit the ground with a thud. He stepped aside and dramatically swept an inviting hand in front of the door. “Be my guest gentleman … and Ms. O’Brien.”

  The group moved toward the shed with me taking up the rear. Sean pulled me back. “Let my guys go in first.”

  I waited, expecting them to come out at any second, brandishing a bloody golf club. However, after less than a minute, the officers emerged with blank expressions. “Didn’t see anything unusual, boss,” Officer Sanchez said, his eyes averting the area where I stood waiting. He actually looked embarrassed for me.

  Schmidt spoke up, “Well that’s because you officers aren’t as adept as Ms. O’Brien at finding clues. Ms. O’Brien, why don’t you have a crack at it?”

  Wishing that my red-headed skin tone didn’t defy my emotions, I took a flashlight and stepped into the shed, waving away the cob webs that were dangling from the door jam. Shining a jittery light from corner to corner, I saw a wide array of dust covered flowerpots, several well-used gardening tools, and a shelf of pesticides, but not a single golf club. If I could have, I would have locked myself in the shed and never come out.

  “Satisfied, Ms. O’Brien?” Schmidt asked after I emerged from the shed.

  Ignoring the despairing looks from the officers, I forced myself to look directly at Schmidt. I opened my mouth to reply, but a speak-and-you’ll-die glare from Sean made me rethink my retort. Instead, I just nodded and continued to glare at Schmidt. I’m not sure what my eyes revealed, but his expression readily reflected his amusement with the situation. He had made a fool out of me and he enjoyed it.

  Chapter Four

  That night, after enduring the fall out of Sean’s fury and promising him that I would never again ‘play detective,’ I laid awake in bed listening to the rain pounding the rooftop and contemplated my next move. Sure, I could leave it alone and let Sean do his job, but would justice be served? Doubtful. With the Councilman’s clout and inside connections, it was more likely that he’d get by with murder. I just couldn’t let that happen.

  So, after careful consideration, I decided that I should attend the victim’s funeral service. More than likely, Schmidt’s mistress would be there and maybe I could figure out who she was. That would go a long way toward establishing a motive. Of course, in order to pull it off, I’d have to go incognito. In my last few moments of wakefulness, I pieced together in my mind the perfect disguise.

  After a quick shower the next morning, I ran around my apartment gathering miscellaneous items. An hour later, thanks to my resale stockpile and a wig that I had left over from a Halloween stint as Velma from Scooby Doo, I left the house as a bobbed hair brunette dressed in a simple black sheath. I wore a strand of faux pearls and carried a small patent leather purse. I applied my makeup a little heavier than usual to cover my freckles and finished off the ensemble by pinning on a black pillbox hat with netting that hung low enough to cover the top half of my face. The overall effect was kind of kooky, but effective.

  The plan was to remain in the background, avoiding Schmidt and any other acquaintance who might recognize me in spite of the disguise. If asked, I would claim to know Amanda from a fundraiser committee. No one would question that. According to the obituary, Amanda was heavily involved in community affairs.

  I inched my way through traffic, cursing the relentless rain all the way downtown. The visitation was being held at one of Naperville’s finer funeral homes located in a turn-of-the-century Victorian that had been a multi-family a
partment building in the 1960s and now served to send the town’s more prominent citizens to the afterworld in style.

  Outside the entrance, several well-dressed, middle-aged couples were milling around smoking cigarettes under wide black umbrellas, and laughing quietly in nervous little spurts. I held my breath and waded through the white cloud of nicotine as quickly as I could, not wanting the smell to cling to my clothes. I was hoping to make it through the evening without any stains, rips, or clinging smells so that I could sell the dress on-line sometime next week without having to spend a cent of my potential profit on dry cleaning.

  The crowd inside the funeral home appeared to be the “Who’s Who” of Chicago. Being an avid reader of the Tribune’s community page, I recognized several politicians, corporate CEOs and even some celebrities. None of whom seemed to pay much attention to me as I made my way into the front parlor.

  I meandered through the mourners, eventually locating the crowd that was hovered around Schmidt. From what I could see, Schmidt was playing the part well with slumped shoulders and downcast eyes that welled with tears as various acquaintances expressed their condolences.

  Not wanting to get too close, in fear that he might recognize me, I slouched in an upholstered chair not far from the casket and took in my surroundings. They didn’t make houses like this one anymore. I admired the dark butternut woodwork, scrolled crown molding, paneled pocket doors, and large windows with led glass transoms. Even the furnishings were classic. I let my eyes dwell on the muted-toned fabrics used on the upholstered furniture and to frame the windows. The taupe and brown hues tastefully complimented the woodwork and lent a calming effect to the room. I’d have to remember that color combination next time I was painting my apartment.

  Then I dared let my eyes move to the center of the room and settle on the casket. Surprisingly, it was open. I glimpsed at Amanda. I could tell that her body was placed at an angle to minimize the damage done by her assailant; but even in death, Amanda Schmidt was a beautiful woman. If the murder was as brutal as Sean had indicated, the mortician must have been part magician to be able to make her look so good.