7 Madness in Miniature

by Margaret Grace

  “More tea, anyone?” I asked. “I can cut a fresh lemon.”

  Catherine looked at her watch. “I really should get going. I’ve kept you up long enough already, Gerry.” She stood and brushed invisible specks from her pants, and picked up her tote. She seemed annoyed enough to ask for her wine back. “Nice to meet you, Skip. Good luck with the reports,” she said, with an insincerity that I could taste.

  Skip reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a card. I winced. I’d hoped he wouldn’t do that. “Take this, please, Catherine. And call me if you think of anything else.”

  Catherine plucked the card from Skip’s hand, and without looking at it, dropped it into her tote. She gave me a small wave and headed for the door. I joined her in the short walk past the ficus.

  “I’m so sorry if we made you uncomfortable,” I said, assuming part of the blame, for not interrupting Skip sooner.

  Catherine shook her head. “I’m just tired,” she said. “Thanks for…” She seemed to be struggling to think of something to be grateful for.

  “Call me or come by any time,” I said. I heard no response.

  As soon as the lock clicked into place, I turned to my nephew.

  “Speak,” I said.

  “What?”

  “What, indeed. What was that about? You were grilling her as if she were a suspect in one of your murder investigations.”

  Skip raised his eyebrows and bit his upper lip, a sure sign of pressure. He spread his palms, as if to say…

  And I finally saw it. I drew in my breath. “Craig Palmer was murdered, wasn’t he?”

  A slow nod and a sigh were all I needed for a reply. I put on more water, for coffee this time. The day was getting longer and longer.

  Chapter 5

  Skip indulged me with an explanation of his behavior toward my guest. He’d just learned that Craig Palmer’s death wasn’t caused by the three-point-one, though his killer apparently hoped that would be the assumption. Once Skip realized I might know the victim, he’d come by to tell me, though he claimed he wouldn’t have awakened me if my house had been dark.

  “But when I saw the car outside, I asked myself, ‘Who could possibly be visiting my aunt at this hour, if not a suspect in my case?’ ” he said.

  “How can you say that?”

  “Because you’re, like, the Lincoln Point Guide to Everything and Everyone. You’re at most one degree of separation from anyone in town. More sought after than the mayor probably.”

  “It’s my connection to you that sends everyone my way,” I said. “I’m the go-to person for anything that involves the police or might involve the police.”

  Ignoring my disclaimer, Skip went on. “So I thought, ‘Here’s my chance.’ I wanted to get as much as I could out of whoever was visiting you before they knew that we knew we had a murder on our hands.”

  “You didn’t have to be rude to her.”

  “I wasn’t that rude. You have to admit, Catherine Duncan is a good candidate. Employee, former lover.”

  “You know that already? You work fast.”

  He stood briefly and took a bow. “Glad you noticed.”

  “How do you know for sure it was murder?” I asked.

  “I’ll explain later. After all you’re a suspect, too”—he was saved by his grin—“but for now, I’d like your take on the principals, the people meeting in that back room.”

  Teasing aside, I knew I’d soon be giving my statement, along with everyone else who was connected to Craig Palmer, especially on the day of his murder.

  I reviewed what I knew for Skip. There had been three meetings that I knew of—first, the one in the store, with Catherine, Bebe, and Maisie, then the impromptu Sadie’s meeting, and finally, the late afternoon meeting among only the SuperKrafts employees. I assumed Skip was most interested in the last one, the gathering that seemed to have ended in murder.

  “But I wasn’t at the three o’clock meeting, so all I know is what Catherine told me,” I said.

  “Understood.” He reached for his fifth or sixth cookie and though I didn’t ask why, he offered a defense. “They’re smaller than usual, Aunt Gerry,” he said, then, “Go for it. Just give me a rundown on whatever you know about the meetings.”

  It had occurred to me while Skip was badgering my guest that Catherine didn’t mention the argument that had erupted at the final meeting with Craig Palmer, nor the fight she and Craig had over their relationship. I could understand why she wouldn’t want to share the details, since at first she didn’t think of herself as being formally questioned by the police in my atrium. But I decided I’d be sorry if I didn’t dump everything I knew onto Skip, right now. I told him what I knew about Leo’s wanting to go back to New York to claim a possible promotion, and Craig and Megan’s wanting him to stay in Lincoln Point for the rest of the year. Maybe to thwart Leo’s upgrade, maybe for some other reason. I ended by making light of a possible ex-lovers’ quarrel sometime during a break in the three o’clock meeting.

  “As far as all the career maneuvers, I don’t know how much clout Craig had, but I gathered it was significant enough to cause stress among them,” I added.

  “That much trouble in a crafts store?” he asked.

  “Politics,” I said. “It’s everywhere. Except in the Lincoln Point Police Department, which I suppose runs on brotherly love.” Skip pretended to gag. “There’s also the local front,” I said, taking a big gulp of air.

  I hated to speak ill of my neighbors, and surely wouldn’t have if I’d been talking to any other officer of the law. The fact that I was telling my nephew made it different somehow. Skip was thoroughly honest and dedicated not only to his job but also to the citizens of his hometown. I knew he would use the information carefully. Skip was a modest guy in spite of his meteoric (my word) rise in the ranks of the LPPD, the youngest homicide detective in the squad. So what if he used “Hail to the Chief” as the ring tone on his cell phone.

  “There’s something else,” I began. “About that earlier meeting, before we all went to Sadie’s. I’m not sure who else was present, but certainly Catherine, Maisie Bosley, and Bebe Mellon.”

  “Yes? “

  “Did you happen to hear anything about a public display of anger?” I asked.

  “You mean the fight between Bebe and Maisie on Springfield Boulevard?” he asked.

  “You are good. Let me put that in context for you.”

  I recapped the tensions around SuperKrafts’ taking over the spaces formerly belonging to Maisie and Bebe. “Maisie seems to have adjusted, but it’s been hard for Bebe to let go. Not for a minute do I think she’d hurt anyone over it.”

  “I’ll take it all under advisement. Thanks a lot, Aunt Gerry. We need to get you on the payroll.”

  “I’ll stick to being the official baker.”

  “Works for me. Anything else come to mind?”

  “There’s one other little twist. Video Jeff.”

  “The game store Jeff? Jeff Slattery?”

  I nodded, and though I was beginning to feel like the worst kind of snitch, laid it all out for Skip—the high school romance between Catherine and Jeff, Bebe’s little brother; how the relationship went south fifteen years ago when Catherine left town with her family, but might be heading north at the moment.

  “This is over and above Catherine’s not-quite-ended romance with Craig?”

  I confirmed his assessment, but drew the line at telling Skip about the notes Catherine had been receiving at her hotel room. Whether pertinent to the love triangle or not, the threats in the notes were directed to Catherine, after all, not to the murdered Craig Palmer. If Catherine wanted the help of the police with the letters, she could ask for it herself, as I’d recommended in the first place. Besides, if I blabbed any more, I’d never hear a secret in this town again.

  Not surprisingly, Skip sensed my discomfort. “I know this is hard for you, Aunt Gerry, and believe me, I won’t abuse this. Kidding aside, you know I value your insights.”r />
  No wonder I loved my nephew.

  When my atrium clock struck three, we both stood up, taking the chime as an ending bell of some kind.

  “Are you going to be able to get any sleep?” I asked Skip, whose eyelids were at the lowest still-awake position I’d ever seen.

  “Not likely. This is an unusual situation in that some of the prime suspects could get on a plane to JFK any minute.”

  “I hadn’t thought of that.”

  “Maybe if we’re lucky, a local will be the guilty party,” he said with a grin.

  “Skip! Are you trying to annoy me tonight? This morning?”

  “No, but I am a little grouchy.” Skip indicated the object of his grouchiness by tilting his head toward my neighbor on the left, his on-again, off-again girlfriend, June Chinn, a tech writer in a Silicon Valley software firm. Fortunately, June and I stayed friends no matter what the weather was between her and my nephew. His mother, Bev, and I had been rooting for June from the beginning of their dating life.

  “How big is this tiff with June?”

  Skip sighed. “Dollhouse size.”

  Whatever that meant.

  * * *

  “I felt another shock last night,” Maddie said at breakfast. Although we were eating later than usual—nine o’clock—both morning and breakfast seemed to come fast on the heels of my post-midnight snacks.

  “Really? An aftershock?” I asked.

  “Uh-huh,” Maddie said, between gulps of orange juice. “And I woke up and you weren’t in bed.”

  “I must have been raiding the fridge.”

  Maddie gave me a sideways look. “Then I thought I heard Uncle Skip’s voice.”

  “Imagine that.”

  “I wanted to get up, but my legs were, like, I couldn’t move them, so I just zonked out again.”

  “I’m glad you were able to go back to sleep.”

  “Is there a case, Grandma?”

  I should have known. I couldn’t remember exactly when Maddie became obsessed with cases. Before she could say the word properly, it seemed to me. More than once Skip had used her extraordinary computer skills to help in an investigation, which thrilled her. I was proud of her, but also worried that she was headed for a life of crime. Crime fighting, that is. It was enough to worry about my nephew in his professional role; in my dreams my granddaughter was in a much less hazardous occupation. Like building dollhouses, for example.

  “Uncle Skip is busy with his job,” I said.

  “Anything I can help with?”

  “I’m sure he’ll call you if he needs you. Don’t you have a book to read for school?”

  “I thought the case might be about the man who died in the earthquake.”

  “What man?” A lame response but I’d been startled by Maddie’s remark. Had my granddaughter been eavesdropping last night? It wouldn’t have been the first time, but generally she made an appearance eventually when she heard something interesting and wanted in.

  “It’s on the Internet. It said a man in Lincoln Point was killed when a big vase fell on him. That must have been awful.”

  A vase was the murder weapon? Maddie already knew more than I did. Maybe Internet news, rather than via a cop nephew, was the way to get information. “Did they say how he died?” I asked her, wondering if the word “murder” had come up.

  “I told you. A big vase fell on his head. From the earthquake. That’s why I was confused. If it was an accident then Uncle Skip wouldn’t have anything to investigate, right, Grandma?”

  “If it was an accident, that’s right.”

  “Hmm,” Maddie said. “You’re making it sound like it wasn’t an accident.”

  “You know, we should check our earthquake kits,” I said.

  “Grandma, you’re not answering me.” She paused. “Oh, never mind. Let’s check our kits and then if we need supplies we can go downtown and buy them.”

  Downtown, where the action was. How had I allowed this to happen? What normal eleven-year-old would rather see crime scene tape than visit a theme park? On the other hand, her grandmother had the same preference.

  Dum dum, da da dum, da da dum.

  My cell phone, a Sousa march programmed by Maddie in honor of the next holiday, the Fourth of July. I was treated to (or subjected to, depending on her choice) a new ring tone whenever she felt the need to fiddle with a mobile device.

  “Mrs. Porter? This is Jeff Slattery. It’s been a while since I’ve seen you or talked to you.”

  Video Jeff, Bebe’s kid brother. “Jeff, of course. Congratulations on the new look for your shop. I’ve only seen the outside, but I can tell that you’ve put a lot of work into it.”

  “Yeah, thanks. I guess it looks less like a dive now, huh?” Close to what I was thinking, but no need for me to confirm it. “Mrs. Porter, the police have picked up Bebe. They didn’t say it but I know they think my sister killed Palmer.”

  Jeff sounded fraught with worry. I didn’t know him or his store very well. I’d had him as a student only in a freshman composition class, and hardly ever set foot in his arcade. I felt a massive pang of guilt—wasn’t I the one who’d steered Skip toward a disgruntled Bebe?

  “I’m sure they’re questioning anyone who had anything to do with Craig Palmer and all the negotiations for the store.”

  “I don’t know. They went to her house early this morning. She called me about eight o’clock.”

  “Have they actually arrested her?”

  “I don’t think so. They let her call me and I saw her for a couple of minutes. That’s a good sign, isn’t it?”

  “It sounds good,” I said, hoping I sounded convincing.

  “But they’re saying she can’t go home yet. I know you’re connected to the police department.” At that moment I wished Skip could have heard this confirmation that my so-called claim to fame in town was due to him. “Is that normal procedure?” Jeff asked.

  Only if they expected to find something within a certain time frame that I couldn’t remember. I tried to recall Skip’s tutorials. Twenty-four hours? Or was it forty-eight, and then they had to release a suspect or charge her with the crime, and they wouldn’t do that unless they thought they had enough evidence that pointed to her. I decided not to share that much with her brother.

  “Jeff, if Bebe didn’t hurt Mr. Palmer—”

  “She didn’t, Mrs. Porter. She couldn’t have. You know her. She can sound mean sometimes, but she’s all talk. She’s really a very gentle person.”

  I wondered if Jeff had ever seen his sister angry. Or heard her vitriol against SuperKrafts and those who represented the store.

  “Would you like me to see what I can find out, Jeff?” I wanted to take back the offer almost as soon as it left my mouth. Who was I to pretend to hand out hope with respect to the dealings of the LPPD and their investigations?

  But when I heard Jeff’s response, a deep sigh that I took as great relief and gratitude, the reason he’d called me, I couldn’t retreat. “Would you, Mrs. Porter? I hate to impose on you or your nephew, but that would be so great. Thank you, thank you.”

  “I have to ask you something, Jeff.”

  “Shoot.”

  “Did your sister know that you and Catherine were seeing each other again?”

  A long pause. I figured I’d caught Jeff by surprise with my insider knowledge. “Not until yesterday,” he said when he came back on the line. “Bebe came into the shop, which she hardly ever does, and found me and Catherine in the back. We were arguing, but she could tell that we were, you know…together.”

  Interesting that lovers could argue in a way that someone knew they were…lovers. Another mystery. Besides that, I was building a new image of Catherine, arguing with her current ex-boyfriend and also with her former ex-boyfriend, who was now her current boyfriend. Busy life. I wondered how she kept it all straight.

  “How did your sister respond when she saw you two?”

  “She was mad, but she knew there was nothing she could
do about it. I’m not seventeen anymore. Or even twenty. What does this have to do with Palmer’s murder?”

  “I’m not sure, Jeff, but if I’m going to help Bebe, I want to know as much as possible about her state of mind.”

  “Okay, sure. I get it.”

  My next question should have been, “Where were you when the vase crashed onto Craig’s head?” but I couldn’t bring myself to ask it. There must have been some reason the police picked up Bebe and not her brother. If Jeff knew of Craig’s reluctance to accept the end of his affair with Catherine, then Jeff had a strong reason to want the former lover out of the way.

  “I’ll do my best, but I can’t promise anything, Jeff.”

  “I know, but just try. That’s all I’m asking.”

  Only when I hung up did I notice that Maddie had been a silent partner in the phone call, her attention glued to my side of the conversation. She held her cereal spoon as if it were a pitchfork, her eyes wide and expectant.

  “You’re going to help him, right, Grandma?”

  “I’m going to try.”

  “Are you expecting to drop me off at Taylor’s?”

  “The thought crossed my mind.”

  Maddie shook her head with great passion. “Uh-uh.”

  “Are you going to tell me what’s wrong between you two?”

  “Nothing’s wrong. I just want to go with you. You know I love seeing Uncle Skip and his friends at the station.”

  It was hard for me to argue since Maddie did always want to accompany me to the LPPD. Wasn’t that a thrill for every preteen? But I knew this time the scales were tipped against being with Taylor, no matter what the alternative was. I decided not to push it. It was true that all of Skip’s coworkers in uniform loved her and I could count on at least one of them giving Maddie a tour of a corner of the building she hadn’t yet visited, or failing that, giving her free access to the food in the lunchroom.

  “Be ready in a half hour,” I said, and she skipped off.

  * * *

  Before I slithered into the police station and skulked around for information, I needed to call both Bev and Henry to reschedule dates. I called Henry first. We’d planned to work this morning on a miniature ice cream parlor for the ALHS auction. He was building and painting the box that would hold tiny tubs of crafts clay-cum-ice cream and a counter with the world’s smallest tip jar. I had another reason for calling him—Henry was also likely to know Jeff better than I did. He was too modest to brag about the classes full of students, mostly boys, who for one reason or another didn’t have college in their future, but needed a mentor and a creative outlet for their talents. Henry was the man, and his woodworking shop was the place.