1 Murder for Bid

by Susan Furlong-Bolliger

  “It sure rained last night. Hope it didn’t put a damper on your evening,” he remarked with raised brows.

  “No, the weather didn’t ruin my evening.”

  He sat forward. “I take it things didn’t go that well.”

  “No it was fine. Just not what I expected,” I said, hoping he’d drop the subject. I placed the teacup down with a thud and averted my gaze toward several potted flowers on the side of the deck.

  I was searching for a topic diversion when he pressed on, “I hope he behaved like a gentleman. I never cared for the man myself.”

  I regarded him with surprise. “Really? I didn’t know you knew him that well?”

  Dad smiled. He’d sucked me in and he knew it. “Yes, of course. When your mom first started in the business, I used to attend all the realtor functions with her. At the time, Davis was a rising star in the business. He was such a cocky young man, really full of himself.” Dad shrugged. “I guess maybe that’s what it takes in that sort of business.”

  “That sort of business is Mom’s business,” I stated boldly.

  “I know, honey. What’s more, she’s good at it. She’s built her reputation on honesty and hard work and it’s taken years. Some people aren’t willing to wait so long, that’s all.”

  “Some people meaning Greg Davis. What have you heard?”

  “Just rumors. I don’t know if your mother buys into them all or not. She sure seemed anxious to see you go out with him last night, huh?”

  “Yeah, getting me hooked up with a successful man must be high on her priority list.”

  Dad patted my arm. “She’s just worried about you.”

  “Worried or embarrassed?”

  “No. No,” he said, grabbing my hand for emphasis. “Look at me, Phillipena. Your mother and I have never been embarrassed by you. You’re a good girl. You’re a smart girl … woman. You’ve never been an embarrassment. We just don’t always understand you.” He sat back and sighed. “You see, when you left the firm and went on your hiatus, we were worried sick. No one could find you for days. Your sisters and all their kids camped out in the living room and started a full search and rescue campaign. Even your little nephews and nieces were making missing person posters.”

  “I know, Dad, I know. I’m so sorry.” We had gone through this a hundred times. My big regret about flipping out and leaving the firm was the toll it took on my family. Despite my state of mind, I should have been more considerate of them. I just lost it. I left work, got into my Lexus, and drove until I ended up in the backwoods of the Upper Peninsula where I rented a dilapidated cabin for a hundred dollars from a whiskery drunk named Azark and disconnected from reality. I holed up in that cabin for over a week before I mustered the courage to call home and tell my parents what I had done. At the time, I hadn’t realized that they had been so worried.

  Dad sighed, “No, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to bring all that up again. Just know, honey, that your mom and I love you very much. We support you no matter what you do.”

  I smiled, knowing that he meant what he said, but also that they would support me a little more willingly if I were to take on a ‘decent’ job. Or better yet, settle down, marry, and get started on a family.

  “So why did you hightail it out of here yesterday when Jack Warren showed up?” he asked, changing the subject.

  I hesitated, knowing that my answer was about to open another can of worms. “There was a car in the alley the other night. I saw it from my window right before I went to bed. It was just parked there, for I don’t know how long. Then its lights suddenly flipped on and it drove off.”

  “Someone was watching you?”

  “I don’t know. I thought so. Then when I saw a strange guy coming down the walk, I just freaked.”

  “Why would someone be watching you?”

  “I’ve been asking around about Amanda Schmidt’s death.”

  His brows furrowed. “The Schmidts?” I could practically see the light come on over his head. “Uh, oh. She’s the one who was murdered. There’s been a lot in the paper about that. Why are you interested in this?”

  “At first, I was a suspect.”

  “A suspect?” Dad bolted forward with his lips pursed, eyes bulging and head shaking back and forth. He looked like a puffer fish struggling against the current.

  I placed both hands on his shoulders. “Calm down, Dad. You’re going to pop a vein. Sean took care of it. It’s not an issue anymore.”

  He sat back and took a couple of calming breaths. “So, you’ve gone from being a suspect to being a victim.”

  I shook my head. “I don’t know that for sure.”

  He sucked in his breath, slightly trembling. “Just tell me why you’re still pursuing this woman’s murder if you’re no longer a suspect.” His blue eyes were large and worried. I searched for the right answer, one that wouldn’t cause him to worry more. He remained silent, waiting for my reply.

  “I don’t know,” I finally said. “It’s hard to explain. You see, I was out with Sean when he took the call. I was there at her house. I heard how she was murdered. It was brutal, horribly brutal.”

  Dad shuddered.

  “There’s more,” I said. “I was there earlier that afternoon, going through their garbage. It must have been just before she was killed. That’s why I was a suspect, because Richard Schmidt saw me going through his garbage. Then, I started poking around finding out things that the police didn’t seem to bother with. You see, I think Richard Schmidt killed his wife. The problem is, he’s a councilman and it’s all so political. Anyway, I feel involved and I just can’t seem to let it go.”

  “Phillipena.” Dad’s tone had shifted; I recognized a lecture coming on. “This is my fault. All those days I took you to work with me at the library and you sat around reading mystery novels,” he said, his face taking on his wise-old owl expression.

  I sat back and prepared for the onslaught.

  “Honey, you have to realize that life is not like a book. Fiction is written to entertain us, not for us to emulate. You are not a trained detective. You’ve not been schooled in police procedure. Normal citizens do not go around solving crimes like Miss Marple or Sherlock Holmes.”

  “You’re showing your age, Dad,” I jested, trying to break his focus. It didn’t work.

  “Those works are ageless, but nonetheless fiction. Do not confuse fiction with real life. You’re going around and playing detective like a professional and you’re not a professional. You’re going to make the wrong person angry. Leave the detecting up to the police. Don’t you remember the time you got in so much trouble when you chased down that poor man who was carrying his wife’s purse?”

  “Isn’t anyone ever going to let go of that? Honestly, the guy looked like a purse snatcher. How was I supposed to know?”

  “Well, I think the key thing is to leave that type of stuff up to the police. They’re trained to handle these situations.” His eyes narrowed. “Does Sean encourage you to do these types of things?”

  My stomach lurched at the mention of Sean’s name. “No, of course not. He worries about me, too.”

  “Good. I’m glad to hear that. I’ve always thought he was a sensible young man.”

  “Hey, Dad,” I interrupted, cutting him off before he launched into a Sean’s-such-a-wonderful-young-man speech. “Thanks for the tea. I’ve got to get back work. I’m really behind this week.” I leaned over and gave him a quick hug and peck on the cheek, trying to ignore the hurt expression on his face.

  He called after me, “Don’t forget about Saturday. Your mom’s worried that you don’t have anything appropriate to wear.”

  I winced.

  Chapter Ten

  Although my shoulders ached, I was happy with the way the dresser turned out. At least my week hadn’t been a total loss. Hopefully it would bring enough cash to make up for my detecting time.

  With that in mind, I decided to forgo a post office run and do a little more sleuthing. I shrugged o
ff the guilt that tugged at my conscious, I didn’t plan on completely defying my father’s advice about staying out of police business, but what would a little Internet research hurt? Anyone with a computer could look things up, right? It wasn’t as if I was interviewing suspects, or searching for murder weapons. Besides, wouldn’t Sean be grateful if I came up with some information that would help him crack the case? Maybe grateful enough to forget about my little indiscretion with Greg Davis.

  As my computer booted, I thought over the list of possible suspects. While I still favored Richard Schmidt as the murderer, I had to admit that there were several other people that would have benefited from Amanda Schmidt’s death. Both Madeline Reiner and the judge had made their way to the top of my list. I decided to start with them.

  A couple of clicks later, I was deciphering the County Bar Association’s website. Judge Reiner had been raised in Lisle and obtained his law degree in Chicago at Northwestern. In 1981, he started working in his father’s law firm, making partner in 1991 … blah, blah, blah … he was appointed as an associate judge and then a full Circuit Court Judge … pretty dry stuff. There was a ton of information about his many rulings as Chancery. He had the reputation of being a discrete and equitable presider over his bench trials. I started to read about some of his rulings, but they were too numerous and tedious to stick with for very long.

  I leaned back, stretched, and let out a jaw-cracking yawn.

  I zoomed back in on my screen and forced myself to dig around a little more. Eventually I happened upon a couple of articles that were a little more interesting. Apparently, Reiner had been a running back at Northwestern where he broke several records and was up for a Heisman. Which even I, a non-aficionado, knew was a big deal. I perused through a couple of pictures of a younger, slimmer, hairier Judge Reiner who had definitely bulked up since his glory days. Of course, so had I.

  There weren’t many references on-line to Madeline Reiner, and definitely not anything mentioning her shoplifting incidents, proof that being the wife of a judge had its benefits. All I ended up finding were a few blurbs here and there about charity events such as the library fund raiser, her community work, and ooooh … she was a Kappa Alpha Theta woman at Northwestern. In fact, she had served two terms as the sorority’s president in the eighties. It struck me that my friend Sheila, while much younger than Madeline, was also a KAT. I tucked that little tidbit of information away for future use.

  I also searched Ms. Sarah Maloney. The more I researched, the more I hated the woman. Not only was she beautiful, she was incredibly smart. After being crowned Ms. Teen Illinois, she attended the University of Illinois on a full scholarship and eventually earned her law degree at Harvard. Was there anything she couldn’t do?

  Miss Perfect was published in several law journals and, as the article said, widely admired for her inventive trial methods. Her colleagues referred to her as a tiger in the courtroom. She also, somehow, found time to work for several charitable cases and volunteer her time in the community. A couple of references actually popped up in reference to the Special Olympics. I clicked on one and got their website. Curious, I panned through the photos noticing that Sarah was in a good number of them; organizing athletes, bandaging ankles, keeping time for events… Then I saw something that made me sit up a little straighter. It was a photo of Sarah handing over a medal to a jubilant young man who had apparently just won a track and field event. Standing right next to her, in his favorite blue POLICE issue T-shirt and holding a stopwatch was Sean. Only, instead of being focused on the athlete, Sean was gazing admiringly at Sarah. There was no mistaking the expression on his face; he was completely enamored with her.

  The photo caption referred to them as co-coaches of the track and field division. Co-coaches? Well, how cozy!

  Was she the reason that Sean avoided a serious commitment? I scanned for an article date and saw that it was written just this spring. Thinking back on it, I remembered when he volunteered for the event. He seemed so excited about helping the kids, but maybe what really excited him was Sarah. How many late nights had he had at work since then? Was he spending them with her?

  I felt like puking.

  Instead I took a few bills from my emergency stash, grabbed my keys, and headed out the door. I needed therapy—a bag of chocolates and my best friend, Shep.

  *

  I was surprised when I found myself pulling into the lot at The Retro Metro. I must have gone on auto pilot because I didn’t even remember the drive or eating an entire bag of chocolates on the way.

  I parked, scooped up the pile of crumpled blue tinfoil wrappers that littered the floorboards, and started shoving them into an empty grocery bag. Then, I paused and smoothed out a couple of wrappers.

  Desperate for advice to sooth my love-torn soul, I eagerly skimmed the tiny messages on the inside of the foil. (One should never underestimate the wisdom that could be garnished from the inside of a chocolate wrapper.) I was full of hope as I read a few: Start a good habit today. What? I threw that one over my shoulder. No time now for good habits. I barely had time to keep up with my bad ones. Enjoy the silky smoothness of chocolate. Already done that, obviously. I decided to try one more: Smile, it’s contagious.

  I sighed. The chocolate gods were going to be of no help today. Perhaps Shep would have some encouraging words to share.

  He spotted me as soon as I walked in the door. “Phillipena O’Brien! Where have you been, girl? How’s business?” He wrapped me in a huge, heavenly-smelling hug. I inhaled his one-hundred-dollar-an-ounce cologne and smiled. I was feeling better already.

  “Slow right now,” I admitted.

  Shep clinched my forearm with ring studded fingers and hauled me away from a gathering of customers. “Come over here and tell me what’s new. How come I haven’t seen you here lately? I bet that boyfriend of yours is keeping you busy.”

  I tensed. “Not really.”

  Concern flashed in his eyes. He raised a brow and waved at one of his associates to handle the line forming at the register. “Come back to my office for a cup of tea. Sounds like you need to talk.”

  I followed him through the first floor, my head darting back and forth like a tennis spectator. I was especially drawn to a new display room decorated in mod-seventies. Decked out in bold patterns of orange, olive green, and brown, the room boasted some gnarly hanging beads, a funky lava lamp, and a couple of groovy vintage wooden owls. I even spied what appeared to be an authentic Aarnio ball-chair. It looked like Shep had designed it directly from one of the studio sets of the Brady Bunch, which just happened to be one my favorite childhood shows. I wanted to throw myself down on the orange leather, chrome footed sofa and wait for Marcia and Jan to return.

  Shep was a genius merchandiser. Somehow, he had managed to turn a former nuts and bolts warehouse into one of the trendiest consignment shops in the area. Designed like a furniture showroom, the two-story massive warehouse was divided into small rooms, each showcasing a different theme of decorative items and furniture. Besides the groovy seventies room, there was a roaring twenties room, a rockin’ fifties room, and even a bitchin’ eighties room that made me want to turn on some funky disco music and don some leg warmers.

  Shep’s office was in the back of the used book area, which featured a complete coffee shop with several café-style tables. As we passed, Shep waved to a group of chatty teens sprawled out on a couple of scattered sofas drinking coffees. He then raised two fingers toward the barista.

  “Pauline will bring back something in a minute. Have a seat.” He held open his office door and motioned toward a red chintz-covered chaise. He settled comfortably into one of the leather club chairs. Like everything else in the store, Shep’s office was exquisitely done.

  “It looks like business is good,” I said. For a guy that hadn’t even finished high school, Shep had done well for himself. He had a knack for turning trash into treasure. In fact, just a while back, a producer for HGTV had even approached him to appear as a g
uest on some redesign show.

  “Yes. Very good. You know my offer still stands,” he prompted.

  He was referring to an offer he made last year to make me Head of Acquisitions. A great title as far as Shep was concerned, and the pay he offered was descent, too. “Thanks, but I still want to try and make it on my own.”

  “I can understand that.” I was sure he could understand. Shep had been on his own since fourteen, when he narrowly escaped an abusive home situation and took to the streets. He rarely discussed his parents. I wasn’t even sure if he had any contact with them since he was a teenager. I wouldn’t. He had told me a few of the horrors he’d suffered growing up. I’m not sure how anyone could forgive such abuse. Luckily, Shep had escaped the trappings of childhood abuse and made a life for himself. Of course, he had a few quirks, but his eccentricities were what made him who he was.

  Pauline brought in a tray with two steaming mugs and a plate of cookies.

  “Try this new blend and tell me what you think,” he said. I’d heard rumors that Shep had once had a problem with alcohol, but all I’d ever seen him drink was tea. In fact, he was a connoisseur, traveling the world seeking out new blends and experimenting with his own blends.

  “Amazing, isn’t it? It’s taken me two years to perfect it. I call it Green Passion. It’s quite popular with my patrons.”

  “Mmm. Delicious,” I agreed, taking another sip. It had a taste I couldn’t quite place. “It’s blended with passion fruit. An unusual selection for tea, don’t you think?”

  “Yes, but good. Really good,” I declared, reaching out to help myself to a few cookies. Why not? I had already eaten seven billion calories worth of chocolate. “I’m not just here for a visit, Shep. I have a couple of favors to ask,” I said.

  “Anything for you, doll.”

  I decided to take care of essentials before pouring out my love-life woes. “My parents are expecting me to attend the Community Union Library Gala with them on Saturday. I know this is short notice, but I’m going to need an outfit and an escort. I thought you could help. It’s black tie.”