3 Sleuths, 2 Dogs, 1 Murder (The Sleuth Sisters)

by Maggie Pill

  “Yes. At first I thought she was joking.”

  “But she wasn’t.”

  Darrow wore a heavy gold wedding ring, and he began turning it on his finger as he spoke. “She told her parents I was tutoring her in finance. They were so desperate to see her get passing grades, they never questioned it.” He sounded surprised at the turn his life had taken, even years later. “I moved in with her, and when she graduated that spring, we moved to Columbia, to a nice apartment her parents paid for. Chandra went to work at her daddy’s PR firm, and I did stuff for her.”

  “Stuff?”

  “Took her clothes to the dry cleaners, drove her to work and picked her up so she didn’t have to deal with traffic and pay parking fees. I made her life easier.”

  “Her parents didn’t object to you…being around?”

  Win’s smile turned bitter. “They weren’t thrilled their little girl lived with a guy whose dad was a short-order cook, but they knew I was good for Chandra.” He turned the ring again. “Her dad made it pretty clear that I was expected to earn my way by keeping her out of trouble.”

  Barb made a shrewd guess. “She was abusing drugs.”

  “And more. Chandra was a mess, and my job was to get her out the back door when trouble came in the front.” His fingers tiptoed across the table in a parody of escape.

  “Basically you got room and board in exchange for babysitting a young woman who refused to grow up.”

  Win took offense at Barb’s tone. “You’re not going to try to tell me that women don’t do the same thing.”

  “Some do.” Barb raised a hand, indicating she wouldn’t argue his decision. “You had a woman willing to support you. What happened to that cozy arrangement?”

  Win glared at her for a second before going on. “After three years, Chandra met a guy who partied with her instead of trying to keep her straight. One day she said I was a drag, a party pooper, and she wanted me gone.” He sighed deeply at the memory, but a smile—actually more of a smirk—appeared when he added, “By that time, the other women in her circle had seen how good I was to her.”

  “And some of them wanted the same thing.” Barb’s tone said she could hardly believe it.

  Win’s expression was smug. “When she tossed me out, one of her friends stepped in—” He stopped, apparently trying to remember the name. “—Paula.”

  “She offered to support you?”

  Win was patient with our disbelief. “These women mostly meet men who are as spoiled and self-centered as they are. What they want, at least at some point in their lives, is a guy who treats them like a goddess.”

  “A guy like you.”

  “Exactly.” He squirmed a little in his chair. “It went on like that. When one woman lost interest, there was always another one eager to get the Walter treatment.”

  “This sounds like a daytime serial,” I objected.

  Win’s lips tightened. “I treat them right, and they’re grateful.”

  “If they’re rich enough.”

  “Know what?” His tone was angry, and he rapped his knuckles on the tabletop. “It’s true what they say. It really is as easy to love a rich person as it is to love a poor one.”

  Barb stepped in before I could argue. “Okay. So when did you become Winston, and why?”

  His smile turned rueful. “After my thirtieth birthday, pickings in the Carolinas started getting thin. I’d been thinking about a career in the movies, so I planned a move to the West Coast. In order to break in out there, I decided to dump Walter Dubey and become somebody better.”

  “How’d you manage that?”

  Glass shifted nervously in his chair, but Winston seemed eager to tell. “First, I went to the county where I was born and looked up the birth certificate of a neighborhood kid who’d died in an accident just after we started kindergarten. All of us kids talked about it for weeks, trying to understand what dead meant, you know?”

  “The boy’s name was Winston Darrow.”

  “Great name, right?” When no one answered, he went on. “I don’t know how it works now, but back then, the records were accessible to everybody. You went in, told them you were researching your family tree, and they let you go back and find what you needed. I found Winston in the book and read everything they had about him.

  “Once I had it memorized, I left the office and waited until the clerk who’d waited on me went to lunch. When she left, I went back in and told the new clerk that my house had burned down two nights before. I made it a great story, telling how I lost everything I had when I ran out in just my boxers.”

  “Unbelievable,” I muttered, but we were all listening.

  “The second clerk was young, cute, and sympathetic. She went and got Winston’s birth certificate out and quizzed me on what it said. When I had all the right answers, she decided I must really be him. For a few bucks I got a certified copy.”

  Darrow paused, but we were waiting for more, so he said, “After that it got easier. I applied for a driver’s license, saying I was raised in the city and never needed one before. I had to take the tests, but that was easy.’ He spread his hands out on the table before him. “With a driver’s license and a birth certificate, you can get everything else you need.”

  Glass cleared his throat. “So to be clear, you changed your identity, but you had no intent to defraud anyone.”

  “That’s right,” Winston replied. “I just wanted to be someone with a little class, you know? And it worked. Winston got a Social Security card and a degree from Stanford—at least he had a diploma that said that. After a few years he applied for a passport. They don’t check back as far as you might think—at least they didn’t before 9-11. Credit cards are easy.”

  “Did ‘Winston’ ever work?” Barb made quotation marks in the air with her hands.

  He looked offended. “Of course. But not in front of the camera. That’s every bit as hard to break into as they tell you. I worked as an assistant to the assistant on a couple of movies and TV shows, and I spent some time with a big talent agency.”

  “As an agent?”

  He gave me a look, and I blushed at my naïve guess. “As a gofer, though they’re called personal assistants today. I ran errands, arranged schedules, and even played surrogate dad to one agent’s kids. The things I’d done for my ladies served well in an industry full of people too busy to live their own lives.”

  “But you went back to your ‘ladies’ eventually.”

  Win shrugged. “Hollywood was okay, but the acting career I hoped for never materialized. My jobs there helped me pick up convincing little touches for Winston’s background, though: letterhead stationery from some well-known studios and polo shirts with impressive logos.” He swatted Glass playfully. “Once I even gave myself an award for administrative excellence. But my real talent was making women happy, one at a time.”

  “And there were women everywhere out there.” Glass looked surprised at the sound of his own voice, but he was as interested as Barb and I were.

  “Yes. Hollywood is full of ladies who need emotional and social support.” His brow furrowed. “In the ’80s I had a long-term relationship I hoped would be permanent. A mature actress whose name I won’t mention wanted a man in her house but not in her bed, if you get what I mean.”

  “A lesbian.”

  “You’d be surprised how hard they tried back then to keep that private. We did well together for a long time, but things changed, and her secret became less important.”

  “So you were out again.”

  “I gave her nine good years.” His tone was aggrieved, but he ran both hands through his hair and went on. “I got past it, though. A good reputation goes a long way.”

  “Why did you leave California?”

  “Because of—” He thought for a second, again trying to call up a name. “—Bridget. She was twenty years older, but she had a great vacation home in Taos. After I’d given her three good years, I noticed Bridget flirting with the guy who was ghost
-writing her memoirs.” He snorted. “He was about twenty-two, much too young to appreciate her, but he had a great body and really, really white teeth.”

  Win paused, possibly picturing the guy who’d replaced him. “It was unexpected, so I didn’t have anyone lined up.”

  “And you weren’t getting younger,” Barb commented.

  Unconsciously, he touched his neck where the skin had begun to sag. “I have good genes, but no one’s discovered the Fountain of Youth yet.”

  I recalled a friend’s comment: “One day you slip on your coat and your mother’s hand comes out the sleeve.” For most, getting old was regrettable but inevitable. For a guy who’d spent his life being attractive and attentive, the fading of physical charms must have been terrifying.

  His smile tinged with sadness, Win said, “I was used to my girls moving on, but this time it made me uneasy. I was sixty years old, and I had nothing of my own. I needed to find stability for my old age.”

  “You needed to get married, preferably to someone who didn’t mind the fact that you had no money.”

  He made an irritated gesture. “Marriage is hard these days with all the pre-nups and background checks.”

  “So inconsiderate!” Barb rolled her eyes.

  Win’s lips quivered at her lack of sympathy. “Anyway, Taos is an amazing place to meet people, so I stayed, trusting my luck. One day I was sitting in a café, looking dignified but possibly available, when Stacy came in. She was stunning. I thought about making a move, but I’d been finding my charms worked better with cougars than tigresses, if you know what I mean.”

  “We know.” Barb’s voice betrayed impatience.

  He ignored her, caught up in his story. “Anyway, her smile left no doubt she was interested. Needless to say, when she asked if she could join me, I was thrilled.”

  “You didn’t lie about that? She came on to you?”

  Winston clicked his tongue in irritation. “I told you. Women like me.”

  “Some women,” Barb corrected. “You were—what, sixty years old? She was a lot younger. You didn’t suspect she was playing your own game on you?”

  He smiled at her naiveté. “Of course. I checked her out right away. She had a condo at the St. Bernard.” Looking embarrassed, he added, “I was at Motel 6, but I managed to give her the impression I was at El Monte Sagrado.”

  Barb made another “keep talking” gesture. “So the relationship blossomed.”

  “It did. I took her to dinner, we ended up talking until late. She invited me back to her place.” He raised his hands as if helpless to stop the train of love. “I never left.”

  “Stacy was looking for a husband?”

  His brow furrowed. “She said she was looking to settle down somewhere quiet. I was thinking the south of France, but next thing I knew we’d bought a house in Michigan.” His ebullience dimmed a little. “Where she was perfectly happy to stay twenty-four seven.”

  “And where she started ignoring you.”

  Darrow nodded glumly. “She was eager to get married, but she wasn’t that thrilled with being a wife.”

  “Maybe sex wasn’t meant to be part of it.” Glass suggested.

  Darrow looked offended. “I can promise you, it was not bad sex that led to separate bedrooms.” He paused, possibly considering citing Retta as proof of his prowess. He must have decided against it. “When I tried to talk to her about it, Stacy said I was the kind of husband she wanted.” Looking away he said firmly, “She told me, ‘You’re exactly the man I need.’”

  I looked to Barb, who raised her brows. Though Darrow’s story sounded strange, his demeanor was honest. He thought the story was true, whether it was or not.

  “A man came to our office yesterday claiming you stole from him,” Barb said. “He wants his property back.”

  Win seemed genuinely surprised. “Me? I’ve never stolen anything.”

  “Maybe you thought you deserved something one of your lady friends had. A painting, some jewelry, a family heirloom?”

  “Nothing.” His tone was firm.

  “Sometimes a person doesn’t understand the law completely. Even if you didn’t break into a person’s home and take things out of his safe, theft might still be the charge, especially if fraud is involved. Fraud is presenting yourself as something you’re not, and it can be—”

  Win interrupted her. “I only ever took things my ladies bought for me, like clothes.”

  “How about Stacy?” I asked. “Did she bring anything of value when you moved north?”

  He chewed his bottom lip. “I can’t think of anything. She only cared about her horses, which she bought up here, her computer, and her books.”

  “Are any of the books rare copies?” I asked.

  He shrugged. “Just mysteries, far as I can tell.”

  “I saw them at the house,” Barb agreed. “Paperbacks, pretty usual stuff.”

  “Stacy kept every book she ever read,” he said with the uncomprehending air of a non-reader.

  “Are the books still there?” I asked.

  “I guess so.”

  “Would you mind if we went to your house and looked through them?” I was thinking there might be something hidden in one of the books, cash or stock certificates.

  “Go ahead. The police have been all through the place, probably twice by now. I doubt they looked very hard at the books.” He turned a palm upright, adding, “I mean, nobody ever got killed for a book, right?”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Barb

  My evening with Rory was the nicest I’d had in ages. He picked me up promptly at five-thirty, and from the soapy fragrance in his car I could tell he’d showered between work and his arrival. I was dressed in the fourth outfit I’d tried on, and I’d applied a tiny bit of blush and lipstick.

  We headed for Arbor, a lovely resort in the pine woods of central Michigan. On the way, I told him about Winston’s most recent revelations. He recommended we pass the information on to Sheriff Idalski and the state police, who were helping with the investigation.

  “Ron Glass was there,” I said. “He was eager to tell them, since it casts doubt on Darrow as Stacy’s killer. Idalski will probably call for details tomorrow morning.”

  “It certainly makes all this more interesting.”

  “Isn’t that the truth!”

  By tacit consent we left business at the restaurant door to better enjoy the ambiance and each other’s company. The Arbor was as nice as I’d heard, the food delicious, and we were far enough from Allport we weren’t likely to see anyone we knew.

  Rory was a wonderful dinner companion. He talked, he listened, and he seemed to be having a good time. In the unhurried atmosphere, we drifted from topic to topic in a natural fashion. He chuckled when I described Faye’s new dog and his proprietary attitude toward her. I learned he favored the White Sox, significant tax reform, and parents who didn’t say things like “Now, Timmy, we talked about this before we left home.”

  “Do you have children?” I asked after I’d told him about Faye’s three and Retta’s two.

  He nodded. “A daughter at Ball State. Jessica.” He grinned. “No pictures. I didn’t want to bore you on our first real date.”

  “I’ll be happy to look at them next time.”

  “Then we have to make sure there’s a next time,” he said lightly, taking up the after-dinner menu. “Dessert? Since we’ve gone this far, we might as well have it all.”

  We drove home in contented silence, and I realized I hadn’t felt this way in a long time.

  At my age I’ve figured out that fretting about the future is useless. When a person’s life is half over, it’s time to enjoy present happiness and put tomorrow where it belongs, in an unknown, unknowable future. I thought I might be falling in love with Rory, but what that meant for us, I couldn’t imagine.

  Like the men of our generation were taught, Rory walked me to my front door. When he kissed me good-night, gently but firmly, I responded warmly. Rory was as g
ood at kissing as he seemed to be at everything else.

  After he left, I didn’t feel ready for sleep. Things we’d said ran through my mind, times I made him laugh, things he told me about his past. Wide awake, I decided to finish a Correction Event I’d been considering.

  Secretly but regularly, I do little things to fix the grammatical errors rampant in our community. People are careless with apostrophes, sloppy about spelling, and woefully unaware of correct word usage, especially homophones. In my car I keep a bag of supplies, including black clothing for night-time work, paints and brushes, flashlights, and other tools for fixing painted signs that have errors. Of course there are plenty of errors in printed material, too, and I’d run into one recently that screamed to be corrected.

  From my nightstand I took out a newsmagazine that had come in the mail earlier that week. I’d already circled four irritating errors with red marker. Booting the computer, I listed them in order:

  1. First line, 2nd paragraph: affect, not effect. Prices can’t “effect” tourism. If you can’t keep them straight, I suggest you use a different word.

  2. The 1990s or the ’90s, not “the 1990’s.” They don’t own anything.

  3. He said they’d go home (omit comma) and go to dinner later. Compound verbs are not separated by commas the way clauses are.

  4. Though they’re pronounced the same, Mackinac Island is spelled with a c at the end, and Mackinaw City is spelled with a w. Let’s not confuse the tourists more than they already are.

  Checking my copy twice, I printed the list on paper taken from the middle of a ream. Using a tissue in order to leave no fingerprints, I put the magazine and the letter into a mailer. I made an address label and applied it, touching only the edges. Slipping downstairs as quietly as possible to avoid waking anyone, especially Buddy the dog, I weighed the envelope on Faye’s postage scale and applied more than enough stamps to assure delivery. Back upstairs, I put it under the jogging pants I’d laid out to wear on my morning walk.

  It isn’t that I’m ashamed of what I do. It’s just that people make so much fun of what are called “Grammar Nazis” that I prefer to remediate discreetly.