Dead In Red

by L. L. Bartlett

  “No, thank you. Is there a reason for this sudden interest in feet?”

  “Walt Kaplan. Seems like it might’ve been his Achilles heel, if you’ll pardon the pun.”

  Richard shoved his hands into the pockets of his slacks. “Oh-kay. I suppose you know they’ve made an arrest.”

  “Yeah, but they’ve got the wrong guy.”

  Richard scowled. “And you’re going to keep pursuing this.”

  “They’ve got the wrong guy,” I repeated, enunciating clearly.

  “That really isn’t your concern. Did your boss ask you to keep looking into it?”

  I let out a sigh and got up from his chair. “He wants to believe the cops have solved the crime. I haven’t told him everything I’ve found out yet. When I do—”

  “He may still tell you to give it up. Will you?”

  I didn’t answer.

  “Jeff.”

  “I don’t know.”

  Richard frowned. “What do you get out of it? You’ve already got the man’s job. Does it give you a vicarious thrill to play investigator?”

  I exhaled a breath and chose my words carefully. “It used to be my job.”

  “And it isn’t anymore. Maybe it’s time you accepted the fact you have limitations. If nothing else, yesterday should’ve proved that to you.”

  Anger and shame burned through me as I pushed past him. “Thanks for the use of the computer.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  I tramped through the house with a single thought: escape. Next thing I knew, I was in my car and driving north toward Main Street with no clue as to where I was going. I pulled over and switched off the ignition. Since the mugging, I was prone to anger outbursts. The quack back in New York had warned me about it. But had it really been necessary for Richard to rub my nose in the fact that I wasn’t yet capable of holding a full-time job?

  Memories of decades-old hurts surfaced. Our first Christmas together, when Richard canceled plans we’d made to spend the day together just so he could suck up to a surgeon he never ended up working with. The times his family’s chauffeur showed up at school to cheer me on when he was too busy working to make it himself.

  I thought I’d let it all go, but there it was rubbing my ego raw once again.

  Playing investigator, huh?

  Well screw him! If nothing else, I’d find Walt Kaplan’s murderer and bring the bastard to justice just to shove it up Richard’s ass once and for all. And I had a place to start, too. Sam’s story had mentioned a witness. I started the car and headed for Main Street.

  * * *

  The Sweet Tooth Chocolate Shoppe was devoid of customers, but the silver-haired, well-rounded proprietress greeted me with enthusiasm even before the bell over the door had stopped jangling.

  “Welcome! I’m Sue. Let me know if I can be of any help,” she offered from behind the glass counter.

  The rich, fudgy scent of chocolate was heavy in the air. The day before it would’ve sent me to the curb to purge my gut. I could handle it now. I’m not a candy freak, but the aroma took me back to something good from my childhood, though the exact memory had been lost thanks to a baseball bat slamming into my skull three months earlier.

  I gazed into the multi-shelf display case at the mountains of bonbons and truffles, milk, dark and white chocolate, creams and caramels—the presentation alone was worth the exorbitant price per pound. I took a deep breath, exhaling loudly. “It smells so good in here, I’m not sure what I should get.”

  “Are you looking for a gift?”

  “For a special lady.” Brenda wasn’t likely to turn down chocolate. It would cost me at least a pound’s worth to get the information I wanted—but in the long run, a cheap price to pay. “I’ll take a pound—your choice.”

  “You can’t go wrong with our ultimate selection.”

  “Let’s go for it.”

  I watched as she brought out a flattened box with embossed gold script proclaiming the shop’s name. She twisted it into shape and slipped in a piece of baker’s tissue before selecting a number of chocolate covered morsels from the mounded glass plates until she’d filled the box.

  “I take it this is your first visit,” she said, securing the lid.

  “I read about you in the Buffalo News. That story about the homeless man they arrested for murder.”

  She shook her head, her welcoming smile fading. “I didn’t think they’d quote me.”

  “It sounded like you knew the guy.”

  “He Dumpster-dived in all the area merchants’ trash. I suppose that’s the only food he got. I felt a little sorry for him.” Her expression soured further. “But the smell.”

  “Smell?”

  “A combination of body odor, pee and—” She shuddered.

  “He never changed clothes?”

  “Not in the four or five months he hung around the neighborhood.”

  “Was he arrested in those clothes?”

  “Of course.”

  And I’d bet there wasn’t a drop of Walt Kaplan’s blood on any of them. “Do you remember what they looked like?”

  “I saw him nearly every day,” she said, taking my purchase over to the cash register. “Grubby jeans, a stained tan sweater, and one of those long, black duster coats. Even when the weather warmed up, he still wore it.” She lowered her voice. “It probably came in handy for shoplifting.”

  Sue rang up the sale and I extracted all the tip money from my wallet. “You’ve got a great shop here. I’m sure I’ll be back again.”

  “Thanks. Have a nice day now.”

  Back in my car, I wrote down Sue’s description of the suspect’s clothing. Maybe Sam and I could work together on this. He had a pipeline to the cops, and I wanted to keep a low profile. I reset my trip odometer and headed back to the Old Red Mill. It clocked in at six-tenths of a mile when I parked by a motorcycle in the lane off the main drag. Buchanan had probably tramped up and down Main Street in search of food and a dry place to sleep.

  I got out and walked around to the side of the mill. The fresh red paint and white trim lent the place a cheerful atmosphere. That Walt Kaplan’s body had been found on the property didn’t detract from its ambiance.

  The grass still hadn’t been cut, but the crime scene tape was missing. Probably Cyn Lennox had wanted to remove any evidence of Walt’s death. Already the parking spaces in front of the mill weren’t as full as they’d been when Richard and I had visited four days earlier.

  I made my way down the incline to the spot where I believed Walt’s body had lain, closed my eyes, breathing deeply, and tried to soak up something, anything. Something niggled at the edges of my mind. I crouched down and laid a hand on the grass. An image of the red shoe exploded in my mind. Shit! Other than finding the box it had been purchased in, the shoe didn’t mean anything to me. But it had to Walt. It must’ve been pretty damned important to him for the memory of it to linger even after he’d died.

  “Are you back again?”

  I straightened and turned to find an irritated Cyn Lennox standing, hands on hips, on the mill’s back porch. “Good morning.”

  “What are you doing here?”

  I feigned innocence. “Nothing.”

  “Then why are you here?”

  “I told you. Morbid curiosity.”

  “Which should have been satisfied on your last visit. Look, Richard’s my friend; you’re not. And I’d appreciate it if you’d stop hanging around my property.”

  “I was hoping to speak to your miller. Has he returned from his trip?”

  “Yes,” she grudgingly admitted. “But why should I let you talk to him?”

  “Because we live in a free country, and presumably he and you have nothing to hide.”

  Her eyes widened, her cheeks going red. Either a hot flash or I’d just made an enemy.

  “Get out of here.”

  Yup, she’d definitely never be my friend now.

  “I’m sure you heard they made an arrest.”


  “Yeah. Which means you should give up your Sherlock Holmes routine and just go home.”

  “I don’t think they arrested the right man. Or should I say woman?”

  Fury boiled beneath her seemingly in-control facade. “You keep talking and I’ll have one helluva fine lawsuit against you.”

  “Wishful thinking,” I bluffed. “We both know you haven’t told the police everything you know about Walt Kaplan’s murder.”

  “What I did or didn’t tell them is none of your damn business. Get off my property—NOW—or I’m calling the cops.”

  I waved a hand in submission. “Sure, but we’ll talk again. I guarantee it.”

  “Not if I can help it.”

  There was no point in annoying her further. I walked back to my car, feeling the heat of her stare on my back with every step. Confronting her hadn’t given me any new information, but it had confirmed what my gut kept telling me: however convoluted, Cyn Lennox had some involvement in Walt Kaplan’s death—as either a participant or a witness. Only time would tell which.

  In the meantime, I’d made an enemy. Not a smart move if she’d had a hand in Walt’s death. But I didn’t feel threatened. Not yet at least.

  * * *

  Since I didn’t have to be anywhere else that day, I figured I’d look up Craig Buchanan’s sister. Cara Scott’s white colonial stood in stark contrast from every other house on the street in Buffalo’s Cheektowaga suburb. Forest green paint on the trim was its only decoration. No trees, shrubs, or flowers adorned the yard, but the grass was freshly cut and there wasn’t a stray blade on the driveway. The woman who answered my knock looked just as severe, with her dark brown hair scraped back into a ponytail and no makeup. Her navy slacks and sleeveless white shirt were crisp with a just-ironed look to them.

  “Cara Scott? My name’s Jeff Resnick. Can I ask you a few questions?”

  “I don’t have any more comments for the press,” she said, about to slam the door in my face.

  “I’m not from the press. I’m a friend of the murdered man.” Okay, not a friend. But I had his interests at heart.

  She avoided my eyes. “I’m sorry. I—”

  “Can we talk for a few moments?”

  Cara sighed, her weary face seeming to age five years in five seconds. She stepped out onto the concrete porch. “I’m sorry,” she repeated, her lips going thin. “I’ve spent most of my life apologizing for Craig, but that’s all I can offer you.”

  “I’m not so sure. You see, I don’t think Craig killed Walt Kaplan.”

  Her head snapped up and she gazed at me with suspicion. “The police wouldn’t have arrested him if they weren’t sure. What makes you think he didn’t do it?”

  I had nothing concrete. “Just a hunch.”

  “This’ll sound cruel, but getting caught for this murder is probably the best thing that could’ve happened to Craig. He’ll be in a place where he can be cared for—he’ll be off the streets.”

  “And he won’t be your problem anymore,” I guessed.

  She crossed her arms across her chest. “I’d be lying if I didn’t agree. You have no idea of the hell Craig has put my family through. My father left us when Craig was seven. My mother bailed him out of one mess after another. He drove her to bankruptcy and finally suicide because she couldn’t take it any longer. He disrupts my life—my kids’ lives. It would be easier on us and society in general if the cops locked him up and threw away the key.”

  “But what if he’s innocent?”

  “Don’t be absurd. They found the knife on him.”

  “He might’ve come across it picking through Dumpsters.”

  Her level glare was as cold and uninviting as her sterile house and yard.

  “He’s your brother,” I tried again, thinking about Richard and what, in a short time, he’d come to mean to me.

  “Excuse me, Mr. Resnick, but I really don’t have time for this.”

  She slammed the door in my face.

  “Enjoy your freedom, Mrs. Scott.”

  As I climbed back behind the wheel of my car, I couldn’t help but think that arresting Craig Buchanan solved everyone’s problem. Tom was satisfied someone, anyone, had been arrested for Walt Kaplin’s murder; the police were happy to close the books; and Cara Scott was finally free of her space cadet brother.

  The problem remained—he didn’t do it. And there was still a murderer hanging around lovely, picturesque Williamsville.

  # # #

  CHAPTER 7

  Evening shadows filled the backyard as I worked at emptying my third bag of mulch, carefully nestling a blanket of fragrant cedar fragments around my begonias. The smell of damp earth reminded me that Walt Kaplan had been committed to the ground less than a week before, and that maybe I was the only one who cared if his killer was caught. I left a message on Sam’s voice mail, asking him to find out about bloodstains on Buchanan’s clothes; now to wait and see if he followed up on it.

  Brenda approached me from the house. I hadn’t seen her all day, but had left the box of candy on the kitchen counter with a note. She paused about five feet away and gazed down the east border, which had taken me more than an hour to weed, then focused on the clump of flowers in front of me. She’d wanted a garden and Richard had given me carte blanche to make it happen. I’d staggered the pink and white begonias with darker vincas. After years of neglect, the perennials were in sad shape. In the back of my mind I had a plan for how I wanted to bring the garden back to its former grandeur over the next couple of years, but it would take careful planning.

  “Such industry. I can’t believe what you’ve accomplished in this yard in such a short time. Wherever did you garden in Manhattan?”

  I looked over my shoulder at her. “I didn’t.”

  “Then how do you know so much about it?”

  I scattered a handful of mulch around a pink-veined coleus. “For years I saved for a house in Jersey. Shelley and me and a picket fence, and maybe a pack of kids. I read up on gardening. Figured it might make a good hobby.”

  “Has it?”

  “It’s only been three weeks, but . . . yeah. I like it—it’s calming. Plants don’t give off weird vibes like people do.”

  “And they don’t say things to upset people, either.”

  Brenda hated it when Richard and I had disagreements, and this was her chance to play peacemaker. She watched as I dumped the rest of the bag, trailing its contents over a six-foot area. “Why didn’t you come in for supper?”

  “I wasn’t hungry.”

  “There’s leftovers if you want something later.”

  I didn’t meet her gaze. “Thanks.”

  “Richard doesn’t understand,” she said. “He thinks you should just ignore those funny feelings and the insight you get. I know you can’t.”

  I leaned back on my heels and looked up at her, saw the depth of concern in her dark eyes.

  “He’s worried about leaving you alone for two weeks when we go on our honeymoon,” she continued. “After yesterday—”

  “Oh come on. It’s only the second time in three months it happened. I’ll get a handle on it eventually. But I don’t need him holding my hand for the rest of my life, either.”

  “I know. I trust you to make the decisions you need to. When we’re here, we’re your backup. I just hope you’ll take care of yourself while we’re gone. Promise me.”

  I exhaled. It wasn’t exactly admitting defeat to say what she wanted to hear, but it felt like it. “Okay. I promise.”

  She patted my shoulder, her genuine concern and caring washing over me like a warm, pleasant breeze. “Thank you. And thanks for the chocolates. They’re really decadent.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  A cardinal scolded us from the silver maple next door. Brenda had something else on her mind. I can always pick up on her anxiety.

  “You want to ask about Maggie, right?”

  “I think she’d like to talk to you,” she said.

  “And yo
u’re playing go-between?”

  “Sort of.”

  Brenda waited while I finished spreading the mulch, then offered a hand to pull me to my feet. “Ugh. How can you stand dirt under your fingernails?”

  I shrugged. “I don’t like gardening gloves. They get in the way.”

  “Then I hope your tetanus shot is up-to-date.”

  She was stalling.

  I grabbed the empty plastic bags and headed for the garage. Brenda trotted along behind me. “Are you going to call her?”

  “I don’t know.” I shoved the bags into the garbage tote and glanced at my watch: Seven-thirty. Maybe I’d call her. Maybe I wouldn’t. “I’m going up to the apartment to empty more boxes. Want to help?”

  Brenda frowned. “If I do, you won’t call her.”

  She was probably right.

  “Okay, I’ll think about it.”

  She nodded. “Then I won’t nag you anymore tonight.”

  “That mean tomorrow’s fair game?”

  She smiled. “Always.”

  * * *

  I was beginning to really like what would be my new digs. It was actually double the size of my Manhattan apartment, and every time I entered the space I felt at peace. I knew I could live here and be happy, and yet . . . it wasn’t quite home. The elusive piece of the puzzle was still missing. Maybe once I had all the furniture in place it would feel complete. Still, I wasn’t in a hurry to move in.

  The only things to sit on were the new stools at the breakfast bar. So far I hadn’t needed any more. I plunked down and found my gaze traveling to the telephone. I’d been waiting months for the opportunity to call Maggie, but I hesitated. Timing could be everything, and I didn’t want to rush into anything. Then again, if I made her wait too long, would she lose interest?

  The trip to Ellicottville had piqued her curiosity about me. Maybe she thought experiencing someone else’s emotions could be kinky.

  Hmm. I hadn’t considered that aspect of my so-called gift.

  I shook the thought away. I’d begun moving some of the stuff from my room in the big house over; among them were Walt’s shoeboxes and the envelope of his financial papers. I’d examined the box with the Holiday Valley brochure from every angle and done everything but wear the damn thing. The absurdity of that thought made me laugh. Then I figured what the hell, dropped the box on the floor and kicked off my grass-stained right sneaker. I stuck my foot in the empty box with no expectations. Instantly, the vision slammed into my consciousness with the greatest clarity yet. Bare, red-painted toenails slipped into the sparkling shoe, guided by a man’s rough hands. With exaggerated care he buckled the thin red strap around the ankle. The toes wiggled in what seemed like delight while the man’s hands traveled up to caress the shapely calf.