His left eyebrow rose. “Oh? What’s the errand?”
I tried to meet his eyes, but looked away at the last second. “I need to pick up some chocolate for—”
He held up his hands to stop me. “Don’t tell me for a sick friend. I’m not as dumb as you think. Smalley’s has a reward for Eileen’s killer.”
I lowered my head and stared at my shoes. “Oh, well, I…”
“I’m not mad. If you believe you can outsmart me, go after the reward yourself. I think, though, we’d do better as a team than as competitors. Plus, if we catch the killer it’d be great publicity for the business. I’d even be able to give you that raise you keep asking for.”
I felt trapped, sure that by agreeing to join forces, I’d be forced to do all the hard work. But turning Gino down might be a mistake. My response was a cowardly, “Can I let you know later?” I probably should have told him this was personal. But that would mean revealing that a serial killer was at work. I didn’t want to tell him the same monster that killed Eileen murdered Mrs. Amato. Not yet, anyway. It was too fresh, too painful to discuss.
“Sure. But don’t take too long. I may get the guy who offed Eileen myself and keep the whole reward.”
Somehow I doubted that, but nodded. “Understood.” I grabbed my car keys and headed out for the Smalley’s on Madison in Lakewood, a suburb just west of Cleveland. It was, location-wise, the most likely store for Eileen’s job.
As luck, my luck anyway, would have it a busload of senior citizens had just arrived at Smalley’s. They crowded around the chocolate cases, oohing and aahing over the confections behind the glass. I couldn’t get near any of the employees to question. After ten tortuous minutes, the group made their selections and, giggling over their purchases, loaded back onto the bus.
I managed to secure the attention of a relieved-looking employee, “That was a whirlwind of women.”
The middle-aged clerk adjusted her paper cap. Her name tag indicated she was Assistant Manager Becky. She smiled. “Yes, it was. Can I help you?” She donned a fresh pair of clear plastic gloves and prepared to grab some chocolates for me.
My voice was low and somber. “Could you tell me if Eileen O’Donnell worked here?”
She pressed her lips together for a moment. “I couldn’t say.”
I pulled myself up to my full height. “I’m Claire, a friend of her brother, Timothy, and a private investigator. So, you can’t, or you won’t say?”
Becky glanced from side to side, as if making sure nobody could hear our conversation. “I’ve already talked to the police.” She stepped from behind the counter toward the candy displays in the back of the store.
I followed her and picked up a box of chocolate-covered peanut butter cookies, imagining the number of calories I’d consume eating the entire box. “I understand. I’m just wondering if you had any regular customers Eileen waited on.”
“I already told the police there’s only one gentleman like that. He and Eileen used to joke a lot. He comes in once or twice a week to buy chocolate covered pretzels. All I know is his name is Jerry.”
“Does he pay in cash or credit card?” I could get more information on him with a credit card receipt. Of course, that was if she let me see it.
She snickered. “He buys maybe three pieces at a time. Besides, he’s—wait! He just walked in.”
I turned around to see a man walking so slowly I would be a year older by the time he reached the candy counter. His white hair was nothing more than a rim around his head and his glasses were at least bifocals. I doubted he could even tie a bow, let alone strangle anybody. Still, I had to verify. “That’s Jerry?”
She nodded and hurried back behind the counter, leaving me alone, holding the bag of chocolate enrobed peanut butter cookies.
Feeling frustrated and refusing to leave empty handed, I bought the box of peanut butter cookies. No sense in this visit being a total waste.
I was just backing out of Smalley’s parking lot when Jerry shuffled out of the store and was picked up by someone in a dark blue sedan with a blue-and-pink Smalley’s Chocolates sticker on the bumper. A snail could have beaten him.
Heading back to the office I plotted my next move. When I parked, though, all thoughts of what to do were brushed aside. Corrigan was waiting for me and he didn’t look happy.
He approached my open car door. “Okay, Claire. I thought I made it clear you were to stay out of the O’Donnell investigation.”
My choices were to slam the door in his face and peel out of the lot or declare my innocence. “I haven’t done anything.”
He folded his arms. “No? Then what are you doing with a Smalley’s bag?”
I tore open the bag and pulled out one of the chocolate pieces of scrumptiousness. I bit into it with relish. My mouth full, “Yum. I had a taste for these babies. Want one?”
He tilted his head toward the sky. “The manager called and told me you were there asking questions.”
Caught. Before I could formulate a proclamation of innocence, he added, “I’ve got to go do my job. I’m sure Gino would like you to do yours.” He turned on his heels, thought better of it and turned back toward me. He kissed me hard. “If you behave, there’ll be more of that.”
I smirked. “If I don’t behave, there’ll probably be even more.”
He laughed, got back into his car, and left me standing alone in the office’s parking lot.
Gino still hadn’t come in. I put my purse and the chocolate into my desk drawer, all the while formulating my next step. So far, I’d come out with a zero on suspects for Eileen’s murder, so I figured it might be easier to investigate Mrs. Amato’s life. Unless, of course, I went in on this with Gino and Timothy turned out to be well-versed on his sister’s social life. Somehow I doubted that.
I grabbed another chocolate-covered peanut butter cookie and headed back out to my car. I’d have to stop for something to drink along the way.
The edges of the neighborhood in which Mrs. Amato had lived weren’t much different from my father’s. The houses were showing their ages, but the lawns were well kept. Except for the beer joints and cut-rate stores popping up all around, the area didn’t look that much different from when I was growing up. But the sense of shabby respectability grew fainter the closer I got to Mrs. Amato’s home.
The first door I knocked on was the neighbor’s across the street from Mrs. Amato. Her name was Mrs. Tonnato and her son had been two years ahead of me in school. She looked out her front room window and hobbled over to her screen door. She squinted at me as if trying to place my face.
“Mrs. Tonnato. It’s Claire. Claire DeNardo. I went to school with Jimmy.”
A smile replaced her hesitation and she opened the door. “Claire. It’s good to see you. Come in.” As soon as I stepped inside she continued, “Did you hear about Vincenza?” She wiped her eyes with a handkerchief she carried in her sleeve. “She was such a good lady. Who would do that?”
“I don’t know, but yes, that’s why I’m here.”
“Are you a cop? You know, they’ve already been here.”
I twisted the truth a bit. “I’m a private investigator, working with the police.” Okay, so I stretched the truth as if it were saltwater taffy.
“She meant a lot to so many people.”
“That includes me.” I swallowed hard. Now was not the time to let tears take over. “Did you know if she spent time with anybody recently?”
Her eyes narrowed. “You mean, like a man?” She twitched her mouth from side to side. “Well, there was that music teacher. I don’t know his name or where he was from. He was giving her piano lessons. Can you believe that? Piano lessons at her age.”
My senses tuned into what I hoped was the right channel. “What days did he come?”
She put a wrinkled hand up to her mouth, thinking. “Tuesdays. Yeah, Tuesdays because that’s the day Jimmy comes home for pasta. It’s about the only time I see him.” She pursed her lips. “Don’t have boys
. Once they’re married, they never visit.”
Ignoring her advice, I asked, “You mentioned a piano teacher. Do the police know about him?”
“No. I didn’t think to tell them. I suppose I should. He didn’t look like a murderer, but then, what does a murderer look like?”
Corrigan needed to know about this guy, and I would tell him. Just as soon as I checked him out. “That’s true. You can never tell about anyone. Which means, Mrs. Tonnato, don’t open your door for anybody you’re not absolutely sure about.”
She raised her hand and bent it at the wrist. “You sound like Jimmy. He wants me to move out of this neighborhood. Where would I go? To one of those,” she made a face, “fancy senior living places?”
“I know. My dad has no intention of leaving the neighborhood either. Look, I better go. Got to get back to work. You take care now. Okay?”
Returning to my car, it took me less than five minutes to find two individuals in the area who offered music lessons; another ten to arrive at the first instructor’s place.
It was almost noon when a plump man, looking to be in his mid-forties and dressed in a black cloak that reminded me of Jack the Ripper, exited the store I’d planned on entering. I sprinted toward him, shouting, “Donald Billingham! Wait up!”
He halted, looking as startled as a rabbit spotting a car barreling down on him. “What? What?”
Skidding to a stop, I took in a deep breath and exhaled, “Do you teach piano?”
He smoothed his pencil-thin mustache. “Yes, I do, but I assure you it wasn’t necessary to practically give me a heart attack to find that out.”
“My apologies for startling you, but I need to know. Do you go out to the pupil’s home for lessons?”
He sniffed as if I’d asked him if he wipes his mouth on his sleeve. “Never. Anyone interested in being trained by me must agree to come to my studio. No exceptions.” His eyes traveled from my feet to my head. By the pinched look on his face he didn’t approve of my black casual slacks and multicolored top.
“That’s all I needed to know. Thank you for your time.” I turned to leave, but spun around again for one more question. “Oh, do you know of any other piano teachers who do go to the pupil’s home?”
He straightened the edges of his cloak. “There’s Todd Shotswell. Although the man has no business calling himself a pianist. Of course, he plays other instruments. Equally as bad. Now if you’ll excuse me I have business with which to attend.”
“You’ve been very helpful. Thank you.”
He harrumphed and went on his way.
As for me, Todd Shotswell was next on my list to visit. Unfortunately, his store was locked tightly and the ‘Closed’ sign turned to face the public. Mr. Shotswell was nowhere in sight.
My plan was to return to his store at the end of my workday at Gino’s and before going to Cannoli’s. Once I met Shotswell I’d decide if he was a suspect. Then I’d have to present this music instructor as a suspect to Corrigan without him accusing me of getting involved in the serial murders. Even though he’d be right. But, since Corrigan didn’t answer his phone, I had more time to decide how to go about it.
Back at work, I noticed Gino and Timothy were in Gino’s office, talking in hushed tones. Wanting to ask Timothy if Eileen took piano lessons, I knocked on the door.
“Come on in, Claire.”
Gino and Timothy sat across from each other. A half-empty bottle of whiskey and two shot glasses sat between them.
Gino, his words somewhat fuzzy, explained, “Needed to unwind.”
Timothy was slouched so far down in his chair I wasn’t sure he was even conscious. Then he blinked and gave me a drunken smile, his eyes half-closed.
“Can you give Timothy a ride home, Claire? He’s in no condition to drive.” Neither was Gino.
Wondering if I’d have to then come back and take Gino to his home to sleep it off, I swallowed a sharp retort. “Sure.” With luck Timothy would stay awake long enough to tell me if Eileen took piano lessons.
Gino stood and swayed ever-so-slightly. “Come on buddy. Let’s get you to the lady’s car.”
Timothy was barely able to give me directions to his apartment without dozing off. We managed, though. He lived in one of the older buildings on Detroit Road. Of course there was no elevator. One look at him told me he’d never make it up the stairs without assistance. Cursing Gino under my breath, I got out of my car and assisted Timothy into a close approximation of a standing position.
It was a struggle but I got him up the stairs and in front of his apartment. Thank heaven he didn’t live higher than the second floor. I was huffing from the exertion and could feel the dampness in my armpits. “Timothy, give me your key. I’ll open the door for you and get you inside, okay?”
His hand missed his pocket the first time, but he finally managed to pull his key out and hand it to me. I held him up with one hand and unlocked the door with the other. We stumbled inside just as my phone rang.
Dragging Timothy toward his sofa, I pushed him down onto it and pulled my phone out. Corrigan was returning my call. Breathing hard, I answered, “Hello?”
“You sound out of breath. Were you running?”
“No, I was moving something heavy.”
Timothy chose that moment to moan. Loudly.
“What was that?”
“Nothing. I called you earlier to tell—”
Timothy, seemingly unaware I was there, stood up and unzipped his pants.
I panicked. “Stop it. Keep your pants on!”
“Who are you talking to?” Corrigan sounded none too pleased.
“Oh, crap.”
Timothy toppled over, his upper body on the sofa, his legs on the floor. He was out cold. “It doesn’t matter. He passed out.”
Corrigan sounded angry and a little wounded. “You wanted to tell me you’re with another guy who can’t keep his pants on? What the hell, Claire?”
“It’s not what you think. It’s Timothy, Gino’s friend. You know, Eileen O’Donnell’s brother. Gino got him drunk and then made me drive him home. That’s all.”
“So that isn’t what you called me about?”
“No. Of course not. I called to see if you knew that Mrs. Amato was taking piano lessons from a guy named Todd Shotswell. Maybe Eileen was too.”
“So you haven’t kept your nose out of these cases. I’m shocked. Truly shocked.” Sarcasm dripped from his words.
“Well did you?”
“Got it covered.” Papers rattled. “Shotswell has an airtight alibi for Eileen’s murder. He was playing clarinet in a concert at Holy Trinity.”
Feeling like a kid who’s had her balloon burst by a mean kid’s pin, I dropped my chin to my chest. “Oh.”
“Besides. Eileen O’Donnell didn’t appear to have any musical inclinations. There’s nothing to tie Shotswell to her. So we still have a big, fat zero for suspects.”
His tone lightened. “What time are we getting together tomorrow with the engaged couple?”
With a promise to check and call him back, we ended the conversation.
I made sure Timothy was still breathing and then left for the office to give Gino a piece of my mind. I should have known he wouldn’t be in. He must have slipped out shortly after Timothy and I left.
I forced myself to sit at the computer and make a list of everything that both murder victims had in common. It didn’t seem to be much. They were both single, late fifties to early sixties. Mrs. Amato was a widow. Eileen never married. Both lived alone in the same part of Cleveland. That was the extent of their similarities. Meaning I’d have to dig deeper.
Before I knew it, the clock said four thirty and it was time to get to Cannoli’s for my second job. My stomach let out a loud growl and I realized that the chocolate covered peanut butter cookies had been my only meal of the day. My belly was as empty as the promise of leads for this case.
Rush hour traffic in Lakewood isn’t much to talk about, so I got to my aunt’s bakery
only ten minutes late. Still, she was holding a spatula, arms crossed. “Glad you could make it.”
“I’m sorry, Aunt Lena. I’ll stay and clean up tonight.”
She softened at that. “No need. Just grab an apron.” She inspected my face. “You look starved. There’s a ham and cheese croissant in the fridge. Eat that before you start to work. I don’t want you passing out from hunger.” She pointed to a tray loaded with éclairs. “Then bring out that tray. When the cupcakes are done, take that out too.”
I practically shoveled the food in, thankful for my aunt’s power of observation. Taking a gulp of water to wash it all down, I grabbed the tray of éclairs and slid it onto the shelf in the display case.
Angie, my aunt’s long-time best friend and employee, approached me. “Hey, Claire. Glad you’re here. This place has been a madhouse all day.” She pushed her silver bangs off her forehead with the back of her hand.
A customer rapped on the counter for service. Once he was taken care of, Angie turned to me, “You okay? I heard about your old babysitter.”
I sighed, “Yeah. Thanks for asking.” Another customer needed attention and while Angie waited on her, I returned to the kitchen.
“Aunt Lena, did you tell Angie about Mrs. Amato?”
Finishing the frosting swirl on the last cupcake, she shook her head. “Angie played bingo last night and found out from one of the other players.”
“But it only happened last night. How could anyone have even known?”
She shrugged. “News like that travels fast. And you know how those women talk.” Aunt Lena pointed to the cupcakes. “These remind me. Your father wants us to meet at Lucci’s Saturday evening at seven. I told him I’ll bring a cake. Lucci’s pastry tastes like cardboard.”
A flurry of customers the rest of the evening prevented us from any further discussions about my dad or Mrs. Amato.
After washing off the last crumb from the last tray, I kissed my aunt goodnight, waved to Angie, and left. The whole drive home I thought about the people Mrs. Amato played bingo with. Could it have been one of the players holding a grudge? Did Eileen play bingo too? Or was she more of a poker player? A yawn so wide my eyes watered and interrupted my train of thought.
Cupcakes and Corpses Page 3
