7 Madness in Miniature

by Margaret Grace

  I made a note to ask Skip if there had been signs of forced entry, in which case, the entire population of Lincoln Point and beyond could have gotten in through the back door. The metal door and keypad had looked fine to me when I entered this afternoon, but I hadn’t been focusing on them with a crime scene tech’s eye.

  Next, When was Craig killed? A question I hadn’t considered until now. I’d been smugly collecting alibis for six thirty-two, the time of the earthquake, but who said Craig was killed at that moment? His body had been found at ten forty-five. He could have been killed at ten-forty. The killer could have pulled a vase out of the crate before the police arrived for their routine check. I thought it unlikely that Craig would have been in the building very late—alive, that is—but I had no way of knowing. Again, Skip would have this information. Even if the medical examiner couldn’t pinpoint a time of death exactly, the police would have traced Craig’s movements by now. They’d know if he’d been seen leaving the building, having dinner in town, whether he’d been alone, who’d been the last to see him. They’d also know—

  Tap, tap, tap.

  “Hey, Gerry?”

  I jolted, knocking my notebook to the floor. Someone was tapping on my car door.

  “Gerry? Are you okay?”

  I came to and saw Maisie Bosley standing next to my car, a worried look on her face. “I’m fine,” I said. “I must have dozed off.” Entertaining in the wee hours would do that to me.

  Maisie, not one to be easily dismissed, leaned in and put her hand on my forehead. “Your head feels pretty hot, Gerry.”

  “It’s still about ninety degrees out here,” I said. “But thank you for your concern, Maisie. I thought you weren’t feeling well.”

  “I’m fine now. Come to Willie’s with me and I’ll buy you a cold drink.”

  At the mention of Willie’s Bagels, I realized I hadn’t had anything to eat but a stale chocolate ball since my trip to Sadie’s before noon. I’d made a sandwich for Maddie before I left the house, but had nothing myself. “Make it a cinnamon bagel and it’s a deal,” I said, though my plan was to treat Maisie. And pump her for information.

  * * *

  Willie’s was named for the Lincolns’ third son, who died before his twelfth birthday. No wonder Mary had issues with depression. Losing a spouse was bad enough, but I couldn’t imagine the agony of losing a child Maddie’s age.

  Maisie and I trudged across the street toward the bagel shop, discussing nothing heavier than the weather, comparing last year’s temperatures in the month of June to this year’s, and moaning that this was to be another serious drought year. We both heaved loud sighs as we entered air-conditioned bliss. Willie’s was already decked out for Fourth of July. The old black-and-white photos that lined the walls were festooned with red-white-and-blue garlands and paper flags of all sizes.

  While Maisie stopped at the rest room, I called home and begged for another hour.

  “No worries, Gerry. We’re having a pizza party,” Bev said. “It’s been ages since I’ve spent any time here and we’re having a ball. I’ll tell Maddie you’re in the hardware store talking to Abe about plumbing supplies, and she’ll be fine.” The one thing that made life with our precocious preteen manageable was her predictability.

  When Maisie came back, she was as ready as I was to switch topics from the weather to murder.

  “What do you think about Bebe’s arrest, Gerry?” she asked.

  “Has she been arrested?” My shoulders fell. Did Maisie have more current knowledge than I did? I considered the image of Bebe, calling for a cop, pouring out her story for the official record. I hoped her confessor would be on top of the case enough to see the holes in her tall tale as clearly as I did.

  “Well, she’s been at the station all day and I think she’s still there.”

  I relaxed. “That’s different from being arrested,” I explained, as if I had a degree in criminal justice instead of English lit. “It means they’re trying to find enough evidence to charge her with the crime.”

  Maisie shrugged as if there was little difference. She wasn’t far off. “I feel bad for her. I knew she was mad; she’s always mad about something. But I guess this time she was madder than I thought,” she said.

  I gave Maisie a startled, questioning look. “You don’t believe Bebe killed Craig, do you?”

  Another shrug, from one of Bebe’s good friends. “Bebe could lose it, you know. Remember the time those hoodlums broke her front window? She chased those boys down the street and would have whipped them if she’d caught them. Then she didn’t quit until the police found the kids and made them do community service. If she’d had her way they’d have been sent to Juvenile Hall.”

  “I remember that, but—” I began, wanting to clarify the difference between whipping a vandal and bashing someone’s head in.

  “And I was there another time when a crate of ceramics was delivered to her shop and the pieces were all damaged. She was ready to throw one of the cracked platters at the driver, except he was built like a wrestler and was able to stop her.”

  Maisie went on with more examples of Bebe’s temper. By the time my cinnamon bagel with extra cream cheese arrived, I was ready to accept Craig’s murder as a crime of passion with Bebe as the perpetrator. But one bite of dough, raisin, and creamy spread, and I returned to my senses. I tried to recall whether Maisie had always seemed this ready to gossip and think the worst even of someone who was supposed to be a good friend. Probably, yes. I’m sure Maisie’s current attitude was also affected by the fact that some of Bebe’s ire had been directed toward her during these last months of SuperKrafts negotiations.

  “Those incidents are a long way from murder,” I said.

  “I know, and I’m sorry I went on and on, Gerry. Really, I’m worried about her.”

  “Did you mention Bebe’s temper to the police? I assume they questioned you?”

  Maisie seemed horrified at the thought. “Of course not. I would never tell any of this to the police. They asked me about the fight we had outside the store yesterday morning and I made it seem like it was a little spat between friends. I’m just telling you how bad she can be because you’re her friend, too.”

  It wasn’t the first time I didn’t quite get Maisie’s logic. “I’m glad to hear that, Maisie.” I finished another large segment of bagel and a long sip of iced tea, then, as casually as possible, asked, “Did you feel that earthquake yesterday? I was home with Maddie and we ended up under the table.”

  “I was home but it was over before I could even react and run to the doorway,” she said. Maddie’s “drop, cover, and hold” mantra came after Maisie’s time, as it did for me. We were the “stand under a doorframe” generation. The stance, which I’d assumed a number of times during the last decades, always felt silly to me, as if we were being asked to hold up the house. “Everyone’s been asking about the quake,” Maisie continued, “even the police, though it was among the smallest I’ve ever experienced. Of course, that didn’t keep my daughter from calling me from LA to be sure I was okay. Liz is the only one who remembers to do that.”

  Maisie droned on about which of her children checked up on her and how often. To me, the most interesting tidbit was her mentioning that, like me, the police were collecting alibis for the time of the earthquake. I decided that must mean they’d determined Craig’s time of death as following soon after the earthquake. I mentally checked off that question in my notebook.

  “How was the rest of your interview with the police?” I asked Maisie, remembering that mine was yet to happen officially. I’d told Skip I’d be back at some unspecified time. I doubted most citizens were given such leniency, and I was grateful for it. I really wanted to gather information first, and have more time to think about how I might help figure out who the true killer was.

  “You know me,” Maisie answered. “I was so nervous talking to cops. I guess everyone is. Like when you see one on the freeway, you slow down even if you’re only g
oing the speed limit. You keep thinking they’re going to arrest you, never mind that you’re completely innocent.” Maisie gasped and nearly tipped over her iced tea. “Oh, Gerry, what if that’s what happened to Bebe?”

  It was about time Maisie caught on.

  Chapter 10

  I arrived home from a day of intense meetings and walked into the middle of a party. I’d meant to relieve Bev and Nick of baby-sitting duties (not that Maddie considered herself being sat), but instead found them, along with Maddie and Henry, laughing their way through a spy girl movie, pizza, and popcorn. I felt a twinge of envy. And left out. But it was my fault. What was I doing hanging around a police station, playing sleuth, which was not my job, while my family and friends were enjoying themselves on a Sunday evening? Did I have that little respect for the police? Did I not trust them to solve this crime and trust Bebe to take care of herself? I needed some serious soul-searching.

  “Hi, everyone,” I said, crossing the atrium floor and entering the living room.

  “Grandma, come and watch,” Maddie shouted, as whoever had the remote put Spy Girl on pause.

  “Sit here,” Henry said, setting a chair from the dining room next to his.

  “This movie’s a hoot,” Nick said, scratching a hairless spot on his head. “Who’da thought?”

  Bev said, “I knew you’d like it,” to Nick, and “Let me get you a cold drink,” to me.

  In less than five minutes, I was seated next to Henry, my right hand holding a mercifully cold glass of iced tea, my left immersed in Henry’s popcorn bowl. I laughed with the others when Spy Girl literally pulled the rug out from under the thief’s feet, toppling him, thus slowing him down while the police rushed up the driveway. “Yay!” we all cheered for Spy Girl.

  I supposed I should have been glad that no one asked how my day was.

  * * *

  When Bev and Nick had left and Maddie was busy at her computer, Henry and I had a few moments. He started with an explanation for the conspicuous absence of Taylor.

  “Her pool party turned into a slumber party. Kay agreed to it. She doesn’t know about the trouble that’s brewing.”

  “There might be a letter on the way,” I said, reviewing the saga of the special mail drop Maddie had made.

  “I’ll watch for it. Maybe I’ll remember my science class tricks and steam it open if it arrives while Taylor is out of the house.”

  “It might be about a boy,” I said.

  Henry’s eyes widened. He nearly slammed his mug down on the coffee table. “What? Taylor’s barely eleven years old.”

  “Eleven and a half,” I said, quickly adding, “still way too young, though. I agree.”

  “Who is he?” Henry asked, ready to do battle.

  I explained that there was no boy for sure. I shared Mary Lou’s theory that a boy might be at the center of the quarrel between the girls, and Skip’s reluctant acceptance of the fact-finding mission. “I doubt it’s serious,” I offered and we laughed. Still, if there was a boy, I pitied him.

  “I talked to Kay, hypothetically, about a person’s responsibility if someone confesses to a crime,” Henry said, moving on to my other dilemma.

  “And?” I was all ears.

  “Of course, being an officer of the court, she strongly recommended that the hypothetical person tell the police what she heard. However, there is no legal obligation for her or him to do so, unless the hypothetical person actually saw the crime being committed, or has incontrovertible evidence that the crime was committed by the person confessing. Otherwise, it’s considered hearsay.”

  “I think I got it. I’m not…that is, the hypothetical person is not committing a crime by keeping the confession to him- or herself.”

  “Lawyerspeak, huh? They have their own language,” said Henry, who lived with two of them.

  * * *

  Maddie was back in her own bed tonight. More exactly in her father’s old bed, under her father’s nearly threadbare baseball sheet. I took my usual place on the rocker next to her. “I didn’t want to bother you and Uncle Henry while you were talking,” she said.

  “That was considerate of you.”

  “But you promised you’d tell me about your meetings today.”

  “They really were very boring.”

  “You always say that but they never are.”

  Except for this evening at the impromptu party, when her laughter could be heard over everyone else’s, Maddie had been sad these past few days. I wished I could reach over and make everything better for her. The least I could do was satisfy her curiosity.

  “Are you ready?” I asked, tickling her, getting the desired response. “Because I’m going to tell you every boring detail.”

  She sat up against her pillow, covered with bats, balls, and an occasional pennant. “Go for it,” she said through giggles.

  “First, I got in my car, put the key in the ignition, buckled my seat belt—”

  More giggles, and a poke. “Grandma!”

  “Okay, no more fooling around. I drove to SuperKrafts and sat in on a meeting where we talked about whether to have the Grand Opening of the store on Wednesday, as originally planned, or to postpone it. Is that more fascinating?”

  “Uh-huh,” Maddie said, trying to be serious.

  I continued, eventually giving Maddie the bottom line—they’d wait until Saturday to put on the gala—without repeating some of the crude remarks that were on the record, and closed with, “There will be balloons and cake and lots of special deals.”

  “Will I still be here on Saturday?”

  “You certainly will. Your mom and dad aren’t picking you up till Sunday evening.”

  “Goody.” That’s what I loved to hear. “And they’ll raffle off the dollhouses on Sunday?”

  I nodded. “People will be able to buy raffle tickets starting on Wednesday, and the winners will be announced at noon on Sunday.”

  I got another “Goody,” followed by “What did you do next?”

  I braced myself. “Then, I went to visit Mrs. Mellon at the police station.”

  Maddie pushed herself up, the better to pay attention. Clearly this was her favorite part. “Is she under arrest for killing the SuperKrafts guy?”

  “No,” I said, thinking, Not yet. “You know how the police always question everyone who ever knew a person who’s been killed.”

  “She’s the only one they’re keeping, though, isn’t she?”

  I wondered how Maddie knew that. But, of course Maddie was always on alert for information, whether the adults were aware of it or not. “That’s true. I’m sure it will all be straightened out soon,” I said, hoping to rush on past this part of my day.

  “Are you going to straighten it out for her?” she asked. I laughed and checked the state of her eyelids. No sign of sleepiness. “’Cause I could help,” she said.

  “You know if I needed anything, I would come to you first.”

  Maddie clapped and said, “Okay. I have an idea. But I want to hear what you did next.”

  I thought it wise to omit the part where I cajoled Skip into having the boy talk with her. “I ran into Mrs. Bosley. I was hungry by then, so I went to Willie’s with her and had a bagel. Then I came home and joined the party.”

  “What did you talk about with Mrs. Bosley?”

  “Nothing special.”

  “Grandma!”

  “I don’t like to share too many sad things with you,” I explained. “We talked about how awful it was that someone died, and that it was in our town, in the brand-new store that we’d been looking forward to.”

  “Yeah, but not everyone was happy about the store, like Mrs. Mellon. I’m not saying she killed the boss, but someone else who didn’t want the store probably did it, don’t you think?”

  “That’s possible,” I said. “But it’s nothing either of us should be concerned about.”

  “I was thinking of how I could help. Do you want to hear my idea?”

  Nothing was easy with m
y granddaughter. That seemed to be the price of brilliance in the family’s next generation.

  “Of course,” I said.

  She wiggled a bit, preparing to make her pitch. “Mr. Palmer died right when the earthquake hit, didn’t he?”

  “The police think so, yes.”

  “We could get everyone’s alibi for where they were during the earthquake and ask them what fell. Then we could figure out if that thing would have fallen, because stuff gets knocked off walls according to what direction the wave comes from, and maybe one of them is lying. There are sites that tell you what kind of quake it was. I can draw charts and maps.” She finally took a breath. “What do you think?”

  Where to start? Were earthquakes really that simple? Weren’t there many layers? How could we tell what happened deep down among the layers? Even if it were a simple process, not everyone used falling objects to describe their alibi. I couldn’t imagine that Maddie’s chart would amount to anything.

  “That’s a great idea,” I said. Maybe Maddie would forget this plan in the morning. And maybe the sun would rise in the west.

  “Do you have any data for me yet?” she asked.

  “Yes, I already know where some of the people were.”

  “You know where they claimed they were,” Maddie, the budding interrogator, corrected. “You can just give me the data and I’ll work on a chart. I love charts and graphs.”

  “Me, too,” I joked, and Maddie laughed even harder than she did at Spy Girl.