As the coffee was brewing, I gazed out the kitchen window, realizing that my sidewalk was buried, as was the drive. If I wanted to bring my little car back home, I’d have to clear out the drive at least. I prayed that the plows would have had a run at the roads or driving the old Toyota would be a real challenge. What if the guy at the dealership was right? What if I couldn’t get my car home?
As I finished with the walkway, Sam helping by depositing sticks on the cleared path, I heard the phone in the kitchen ring. I flung down the shovel and launched myself toward the door. The answering machine came on, and Der began to leave a message.
“Hey, Murph,” he said, “still asleep, or not home?”
“I’m right here. It’s kind of early. What’s up?” I sounded pretty not guilty to my own ear.
“I hope you have something to eat in your fridge cuz I can’t make it out there for coffee this morning. The senior investigator wants a briefing on the murder at eleven so I’m tied up,” Der said.
“What do you mean, you’re tied up? I thought we had a date.”
“Well, how about we have dinner tonight? I’ll pick you up. I don’t expect you’ll want to meet me anywhere. These roads are pretty treacherous, and I can’t see you driving anywhere in that little Toyota of yours, can you?”
I didn’t know whether I should feel relief that I didn’t have to get the SUV back into town, considering all I did to make that happen, or if I should be angry at myself for going to such lengths to fool Der. I decided I should be angry—at Der.
“I’m out here shoveling snow to clear a path for you and your car and you’re not coming?” I yelled into the receiver.
“I’m sorry. We’ll make it an early dinner, Okay?”
“Well, maybe.”
“How about this to cheer you? We’ll both go visit the fraternity house this evening after dinner. Everyone should be back from the city by then. Unless you don’t want to go. Oh, by the way, did you get the messages I left on your answering machine?”
“Uh, no. I haven’t had the time to listen to them yet. Sorry I didn’t answer the phone when you called. I turned off the ringer upstairs so I didn’t hear it.” Lies, lies, lies. The things men forced a woman to do just to have a life.
With the drive and walkway clear, I felt the exhaustion of too little sleep and too much physical exercise set in. I made for my bed with the niggling feeling that I had forgotten something. I thought about the SUV and its sure-footedness and, sighing with contentment, rolled onto my side and slid effortlessly back into sleep.
The phone rang at about ten. I knew the time immediately because my head was turned toward the bedside table and one eye was located a few inches from the clock.
“Der, why are you calling me again? You’re supposed to be in a meeting.” Of course I was yelling.
“Dr. Murphy, please don’t yell at me again. This is Mr. Russo at Mountain Motoring Company calling again. I came into the office early to draw up the papers on the car as you demanded, er, asked me, and I was wondering what happened to you or to our car, for that matter.”
“Oh, shit. Excuse me. I mean, shucks, it’s you. I’ve been detained. I’ll be there in a jiffy.” I hung up the phone, pulled on my clothes again, called for Sam, and ran out of the house into the garage. The snow continued to come down, making the driving challenging even for the SUV. How in the hell was I going to get my poor little car back home?
Mr. Russo met me at the door of the dealership, relieved to see that I indeed showed up with his car. He gestured toward a chair in his office and ran a tiny damp hand over some greasy strands of hair combed to camouflage his balding head.
“You know what?” I shrugged out of my army coat. “Maybe you were right yesterday. Maybe the leather upholstery is more my style. It’s easy to clean, right?”
“Yes, sure.” His tone was assuring although perhaps a little less enthusiastic than he might have been if Sam weren’t trying to get him to throw the stick she carried into the showroom by dropping it on his shoes.
“And I’ll want to take it for a test drive just as with the other one.”
“But Dr. Murphy, they drive much the same. They’re the same model. This one just has leather interior in place of the cloth.” Mr. Russo’s voice began to take on a distinctive whine.
“No deal then.” I got up from the chair and prepared to leave.
“Fine, fine, take it for a drive, but have it back here in an hour or so.”
“Hour or so? I got to drive the other one overnight. I want this one overnight too. How in the hell can I get back home with my other car in all this snow? That’s what these cars are good at, right? Going through snow. So let’s go through some snow here. I’ll return it tomorrow morning before eight. I have classes at the college at nine.”
Mr. Russo looked as if he would prefer throwing me and my drooling pooch out of the dealership and into the path of a snowplow. But with the hope of becoming salesperson of the month, a distinction that was recently taken from him by a younger, more aggressive, newer hire, (I saw the picture prominently displayed on the wall at the entrance), he reluctantly gave in, agreeing that I could take the car overnight. Since the leather interior cost more, the higher commission he would realize from its sale would more than offset all his trouble, if he didn’t figure in the cost of cleaning his shoes of snow and drool and the time he spent earlier this morning waiting for me to show. I knew all he really hoped for was for me to be gone and for his wife to forgive his coming into the dealership on a snowy Sunday morning.
“Fine.” He wiped a bit of moisture from the corners of his eyes. “Take it, for as long as you like. I’m sure you and your dog will find it very comfortable and easy to drive on these roads.”
“Don’t be silly. I have no intention of letting my dog drive this car no matter what the road conditions.”
I grabbed the keys from his outstretched hands and turned to go. As Sam and I drove out of the dealership, I could see through the windows that Mr. Russo had his head down on his desk. I could have sworn his shoulders were shaking as if he were crying.
“That man,” I said to Sam, “ought not to be dealing with the public if he can’t handle a little sales resistance.”
Chapter 12
I left the SUV in the drive pulled to one side so that Der would have room for his car. I played with Sam in the yard, hoping to satisfy her appetite for stick chasing enough that I could resume my nap without having Sam nudging me for attention every five minutes. The adventures of yesterday and today wore out both of us, and we headed for bed.
Several hours later, I awoke a bit more refreshed than I was earlier in the day. A hot shower and some coffee completed my climb to consciousness. The snowplow came by several times later in the afternoon as I was working at my desk. I saw Der’s headlights reflected on the wall opposite my desk just as I shut down my computer. My stomach rumbled, and I realized how hungry I was.
“Anybody home?”
Sam greeted him noisily, running around and around him, challenging him to grab her, then dashing beyond his reach.
“I’m starved,” I said as I entered the kitchen. “Settle down, Sam. You had your play time today and a lot of it, too.”
“Say, what’s with the SUV in the drive?”
“Oh, that. I’m test driving it. I just got it today.” Not a lie, not yet.
“How did you get into town today with your car? The roads are dreadful.”
I should have been better prepared for this line of questioning, but I was not, so I did the best I could.
“I drove very slowly, very, very slowly.”
“Why today of all days?”
“A great deal. Test drive a car today and get ten per cent off the price. I heard it on the radio. It was a snow day sale. Can you believe it?” I hoped he would.
“Can we take it into town? Let me give it a whirl.”
“Fine.” I was only too happy that the subject of how I got the car was left behind.
>
I grabbed for the army coat on the hook in the kitchen, then quickly changed my mind.
“It’s really gotten cold out, Murph. You may just want that coat.”
“I thought I’d put on something more presentable for our dinner.” Something that frat boy wouldn’t recognize.
“Dinner first or the frat house?” Der said as we sped down the road, snow swirling in our wake.
“Dinner.”
*
The snow diminished, and I could see patches of moonlight coming through the clouds. What a storm. I was glad it was over. I hated winters in these hills, especially the commute into the campus. Maybe I should give serious consideration to buying this SUV. Der whistled a tuneless song through his teeth, intent upon the road.
“Great little car,” he said. He turned into the parking lot of the diner. “So you’re really going to buy it? It’s about time you got reliable transportation, especially with the winter that’s being predicted.”
The diner was all but deserted, and we were seated immediately. Der chose the pot roast, while I decided to have the chef’s salad. The comment about “middle-aged fat woman” made by the frat boy really got to me. I could stand to lose a few pounds.
“So what’s our strategy at the frat house?” I decided I might as well feign cooperation early into the project so that he wouldn’t change his mind about taking me along. I really wanted to get a better look at that file folder in the bedroom. I reached out for one of Der’s fries with a “do you mind?” Since he signaled no to me, I grabbed a handful more.
“I’m going to scare them a little by directly connecting the frat boys with a criminal investigation,” Der said.
“You already tried that when we talked to our subjects. What you got for your efforts was a threat from one of them to hire a lawyer. What makes you think it’ll work this time?” I shoved a few more fries into my mouth.
“This time I’m going to allude to a witness, not specifying male or female, but indicating that someone knew the fraternity was behind writing story endings in your research, which were evidence in a crime.”
“It could work, I guess. What’s my role?”
“Just stand there and be observant.” There was a note of warning in his voice.
I was observant already, and it only created more questions, not fewer. I just had to get back into that bedroom and look at the file folder.
“Murph, do you know what you did?” Der’s question startled me. I wondered for a moment if he was going to ask me straight out if I’d been in the frat house last night.
“You just ate all my French fries!”
“We can get another order.” I waved my hand at the waitress.
“Never mind. I’d better cut them out. I think I’m getting a middle-aged paunch.” He patted his flat belly. I narrowed my eyes at him and wondered what he meant by that.
When we arrived at the frat house, every light appeared to be lit, and rock music played loudly inside. Our knock at the door was not heard above the sound of drums and electric guitar so we let ourselves in and stood at the door to the living room. The young men seated in the chairs and lying on the couches in the living room appeared to be adding to the décor, which I remembered well from the night before: cigarettes, pizza cartons and beer. The only thing missing was the snake cage. It must have been moved, I guessed, looking around nervously. The guys were all watching a football game on the television (it was difficult to say what they were getting out of the game since the commentators could not be heard). Between the music and the television, it took a while before they noticed Der and me in the doorway. One of the young men finally rose from the couch with beer bottle in his hand and approached us.
“Whazzup?” His speech was none too clear.
“I’d like to speak to someone in charge, perhaps, your president,” Der said. He flashed identification.
The frat brother stepped to the foot of the stairs and yelled up the stairs, “Cops are here again.” He then returned to his seat on the couch.
“Come on up,” said a voice from upstairs.
Der and I climbed the stairs. At the top the same voice directed us to the room in which I found the folder. “In here. This is the crime scene.” Obviously the brothers were under the mistaken impression that we were there about the intruder the previous night.
Two fraternity brothers looked at us as we entered the large bedroom. Each held the requisite beer bottle. The smaller of the two lay on the bed. The taller one of them stepped forward and addressed Der.
“You were already here once today. What are you bugging us again for?” he said.
“And you would be?” said Der.
“I’m the frat president, Adam Stokes.”
Der turned his attention to the other brother.
“And you?”
“Ryan Cleates.”
Adam was of average height with dark brown hair, shushed into a spiky style, individual strands separated by glossy hair gel. His shirt and pants shouted casual costly, as did the Rolex watch on his wrist. His eyes were blue and his features regular. He looked like a model in a Ralph Lauren ad. Had it not been for the belligerent tone of his voice and arrogant posture, he could be a poster boy for the bright, contemporary college man on his way to success.
The other frat brother, Ryan, was smaller, not more than five and a half feet. His face still contained a smattering of pimples from late adolescence, and his eyes were gray. His hair was cropped so close to a bumpy head that it was impossible to guess at its color, something brownish. But the most striking feature about Ryan was that he just plain looked sick. His color was poor, and he kept wiping his runny nose on the sleeve of his sweatshirt. The beer bottle appeared to be merely a decoration in his hand. I identified him as the young man in the room last night. When he shifted his eyes in my direction, he appeared to be looking at me somewhat suspiciously. However, his gaze moved on from me to Der’s figure and then to the frat president.
“Tell ’em what happened, Ryan,” Adam said. “As if we haven’t gone over this again and again.” Adam sat back down on the bed and took a pull of his beer.
I looked at Der wondering how long he was going to let this go on before he informed them of the true purpose of his visit. But Der seemed content to do nothing to correct their assumptions about his presence.
“It’s pretty simple, as I told you guys before. I was sick so I stayed here while everyone went out to the bars. Most of the guys were in the city for the weekend. I was asleep when I heard a noise and saw someone over by the desk with a flashlight. I called out to the person, and they swung the flashlight around so that it caught me in the eyes. I only got a glimpse of her. I mean I think it was at her, some old, fat woman, I think. Probably a bag lady looking for a handout and a warm place to settle.”
“Bag lady!” I said. “That’s disgusting.” I caught myself before saying any more. And here I was feeling kind of sorry for him with his cold and all.
“Yeah, we thought so. Those people rarely bathe. We sure don’t need them crawling around in our house,” Adam said from his position on the bed.
“Might add too much class to this dump,” I said under my breath.
Der laid a hand on my arm to restrain me from saying anything out loud and said, “Actually we’re here for quite another purpose. We have a witness who says that you and this fraternity have been involved in criminal activities.”
Ryan’s face turned visibly whiter and greener, and I thought he might throw up. Adam set his beer bottle on the bedside table and, for the first time in the evening, looked interested in what Der was saying.
“Let me introduce you to Dr. Murphy from the college if you’ve not met her before. She’s conducting some research on campus and finding that subjects are coming into the sessions with made-up stories, provided, our witness says, by this fraternity.”
“So what?” said Adam. The arrogance was back in his voice and the beer bottle once more in his hand. “That’s just
a prank, not a crime.”
“If the stories provide a connection to a crime, then it’s criminal.”
“What crime?” Adam set his bottle back down and eyed the overflowing desk across the room. I followed his gaze and saw his eyes fasten on the file folder I’d picked up the night before. He arose from the bed and approached the desk, beginning to shift the objects on the desk around. As he reached for the file folder, I launched myself across the small space that separated us. We collided over the desk, sending the file folder flying to the floor.
“Oh, sorry,” I said, “I thought you were reaching for these to give to Ryan.” I held up a box of tissues. “I just thought I’d help. I didn’t mean to bump you. Oh, but what’s this?” I snatched up the folder and the papers that were in it before Adam could retrieve it from the floor. “It looks like some papers from my research. How would you get them?”
“Let me see those.” Der held out his hand while I collected the papers and put them into the folder to hand to him. Der perused them quickly. “Very interesting. I think I might want to take these for now.”
“You can’t. You need a search warrant,” Adam said.
“These were in plain sight, so I’m allowed to confiscate them,” Der said. “But perhaps now you’ll be willing to talk a little about what these are and how you got them.”
I thought Der had them, but Adam appeared to collect himself, saying, “That bag lady must have left them here when she broke into the house.”
“Well, she didn’t break in,” I said.
Three pairs of eyes looked at me suspiciously.
“The door was open tonight when we came in. I just assumed you leave it open most of the time.”
“I don’t think we have anything more to say to you, so you’d better leave. We aren’t up for any police harassment tonight. Poor Ryan here is ill as you can tell, and his recovery was set back by last night’s intrusion. He just can’t handle a lot of stress right now,” Adam said.
I thought it very unlikely that Adam cared anything about Ryan or his illness, but the line about stress was probably correct. I’d bet a little pressure put on Mr. Ryan Cleates out of earshot of Adam might scare him into a very talkative mood.
Failure is Fatal Page 10
