Dead In Red

by L. L. Bartlett

  “Maybe it was a mugging.”

  “Walt was stabbed forty-six times. That says big-time anger. He had no defensive wounds. He might’ve been unconscious when it happened. It’s also possible Walt knew his killer. Where would he have encountered Craig Buchanan?”

  “Jeez, I don’t know. Anywhere around town. Walt lived in the area.”

  “From what I gather, Buchanan never made it up as far as Eggert Road, and Walt didn’t hang around Williamsville.”

  Tom frowned, his conviction faltering.

  “What happened to Walt’s settlement?”

  He grunted. “Long gone. The lawyers got the biggest chunk and Walt blew the rest on a big red Caddy and a year of high living. After it was gone, he moved into that dump of an apartment. It was only monthly disability payments and the money he made here that kept him going.”

  “What happened to the Caddy?”

  “He traded up every few years, although I don’t know how he managed to pay for it.”

  “Do you have the car?”

  Tom hesitated. “Uh, no.”

  “I didn’t see it at his apartment. You might want to report it as missing.”

  “Aw, shit.” He slapped the bar with his open palm.

  “Tell me Walt didn’t keep the title in the glove box.”

  Tom’s shoulders slumped. “I don’t know, but I wouldn’t be surprised.”

  I leaned back against the bar. “I doubt Walt’s killer would be driving it—too conspicuous. It could’ve been dumped or maybe even sold, if only for junk value. That would make it harder to find, but not impossible. The cops can trace it with the VIN number.”

  “If we can find that.”

  “The DMV will have it. It’s tied to the registration and title.” I wondered how much more Tom could take. But I needed answers. The question was, would he give them.

  “I found some stuff in Walt’s apartment that led me to check out a vacation home in Ellicottville. Did he ever mention going there?”

  Tom shook his head.

  “It looks like the owner of that house also owns the property where Walt was found. Do you know a Cynthia Lennox?”

  He shook his head, his expression hardening. “Did you tell the cops any of this?”

  “I don’t have enough evidence yet.”

  “What do you need to get it—and get this over with?”

  “Time. And maybe a little luck.”

  “You will keep looking into this, won’t you?” The words were right, but the conviction was missing. I couldn’t dismiss my gut feeling that he knew much more than he’d shared with me.

  “Of course,” I answered. As Brenda said, I really didn’t have a choice. I knew the flashes of insight would continue until I got to the bottom of this—case, situation—whatever it was.

  “You didn’t by any chance go through Walt’s apartment before I got there, did you?”

  His eyes flashed, his cheeks going pink. “What do you mean?”

  “Just that it seemed awfully neat, considering the cops had already been there and all.”

  Tom shook his head, looked ten years older when he picked up the knife and finished his dissection of a lime. He didn’t ask me any more questions and he obviously wasn’t ready to hear what my next lines of inquiry would be.

  At least not yet.

  * * *

  It was almost four-twenty when I pulled up to the little cinderblock building on Colvin Boulevard. Broadway Theatrics was a flashy name for such a dumpy locale. I almost didn’t find the place because it was tucked behind a derelict gas station. A forlorn and battered blue Lumina sat near the entrance. No windows graced the front of the building, and its unattractive and peeling brown paint made it look like it had survived a war.

  I got out of my car and wondered if I really wanted to venture inside. I pressed the grimy button of a doorbell and waited for thirty seconds before trying again. And again. I was about to give up when the door was wrenched open by a stooped man with long white hair, captured in a ponytail at the back of his neck. He couldn’t have been more than fifty, but looked older because of his posture. His face hadn’t seen a razor in at least a week. “You want something?” he growled.

  “Women’s shoes. Red stiletto heels. Lots of sparkles.”

  His eyes lit up, his spine straightening. He looked me over, shrugged, and held open the door. “Come on in.”

  Broadway Theatrics was a good name for what I found inside the shabby little building. Theatre props—a golden-haired angel in white with a ten-foot wingspan was suspended from the ceiling. Hand-carved marionettes, the expressions on their painted faces macabre and menacing, glared at me from pegs on the wall. Shelving units stood in parallel rows, neatly stacked with shoe and other boxes. Bolts of metallic purple and red fabrics rested on a makeshift service counter, its old-fashioned register painted a DayGlo shade of pink.

  “The workroom’s back here. Follow me,” the proprietor said.

  I did.

  The back room was even more magical than the first. Original drawings and paintings decorated the walls. Flashy costumes on hangers hung on racks, while shoes-in-progress littered a worktable.

  The owner pulled an oblong box off a shelf and set it on the table. Lifting the lid, he pawed through the hundreds of photographs inside before selecting one. He tossed it to me. “Those the shoes you mean?”

  I glanced down at the picture in my hand. The shoes were exactly the same as the one in my visions. “Yeah. How’d you know?”

  He shrugged, a smile tugging his lips. “I have a sixth sense when it comes to shoes.”

  A shiver ran up my spine, and it wasn’t from the air conditioning. “Do you remember who you made them for?”

  “It’s on the back.”

  I turned the photo over. A typed sticker listed the date, two years before, the price, and the customer: Andrea Foxworth. Damn. I’d been hoping it would say Cynthia Lennox. “You know this woman?” I asked.

  “Sure, she’s the wardrobe mistress for the Backstreet Players—a theatre group here in town. I made them for some show they were doing. Integral to the plot or something. I’ve actually made two pairs of them. Another customer came in a few months back and requested something similar. I showed him that picture and he asked me to make another pair.”

  “Do you have a photo of them?”

  “I didn’t bother, since I already had this one.”

  “You remember the other customer’s name?”

  “Sure. Walt Kaplan. He’s a regular customer. Likes to give his lady friends mementos of their friendship. I must’ve made a couple pairs of shoes for him every year for almost a decade.”

  “Did you know he was murdered?”

  “Walt? God, no. What happened?”

  I explained.

  The older guy looked genuinely upset. “I get so wrapped up here, sometimes I don’t read the paper or watch TV for weeks at a time. Poor Walt.”

  “Did you know him well?”

  “Just as a customer. He loved women’s shoes—was very knowledgeable on the subject. Sometimes he’d bring me in a picture he’d seen in a magazine and want me to copy it. I told him he’d be better off buying knock-offs on the Internet, but he wanted original, hand-crafted shoes—and he was willing to pay for them.”

  I indicated the photo. “Were these the last shoes you made for Walt?”

  He nodded. “He picked them up a couple of weeks ago.”

  “Do you remember exactly when?”

  He thought about it, exhaled a breath. “First of the month maybe. He usually paid me after he got his disability checks.”

  I studied the picture. As an amateur photographer myself, I recognized a damned fine shot. This was professional quality work. “Can I borrow this?”

  He shook his head. “It’s my only record.”

  “Can I get a copy?”

  “I wouldn’t know where the negative is. I take digital shots nowadays.”

  I held the photo out. “You did
this? It’s great.”

  “Thanks.”

  “You got a scanner? I’ll give you a five to copy it.”

  He laughed. “That I can do. I think I even have some photo paper around here somewhere.”

  Ten minutes later I left the shop with my copy of the picture and the address for where I’d find Andrea Foxworth. She might be another dead end, but there was no way to find out until I spoke to her.

  Bottom line: I was making progress.

  But I had another stop to make and would’ve risked a speeding ticket to get back to Williamsville if it weren’t for all the damned red lights and stop signs at every friggin’ intersection. Still, I pulled up to a vacant parking space near the mill at 5:04 p.m.

  The mill officially closed at five, and I wondered how long it would take for the employees to leave. I kept watch on the building’s front entrance as the minutes dragged by. So far I’d only seen Cyn and the counter guy, Gene. By process of elimination—and if there weren’t any other employees—the only other employee should be Ted Hanson, the miller. And I hoped he wouldn’t be accompanied by Cyn when he left—otherwise I’d have to try again on another day. That or follow him home. I didn’t want to do that and be accused of stalking the guy, which I was sure Cyn would do.

  The minutes ticked by and my car began to feel like a sauna. I couldn’t decide what was worse, stake out duty in the winter or the summer. One constant—it was always a bore.

  The counter man was the first to leave at 5:22. He paused just outside the main door, checking out the street, caught sight of me and charged ahead. Cyn must’ve warned him I might lay in wait for the miller.

  He stopped only feet from my car. “What’re you doing here?”

  “Sitting in my car. What’s it to you?”

  “Cyn told me to watch out for a runty guy who’d try and harass us.”

  Runty? I was at least two inches taller than this jerk.

  “You’ve been warned to stay away from the mill,” he continued.

  “I was warned not to trespass. I’m not on mill property.”

  “Yeah, well—well—”

  Articulate, he wasn’t.

  “We’ll just see about this.” He did an about-face and headed back for the mill. Less than a minute later, Cyn Lennox came flying out of the building and down the stairs, reminding me of a charging rhino as she made a beeline for my car. I got out, ready to face her.

  “What’re you doing here?” she demanded, fists clenched, face pink with anger.

  “I want to talk to Ted Hanson.”

  “This is harassment.”

  “For whom? I’m not on your property. You came to speak to me—I didn’t seek you out.”

  She pursed her lips, looking ready to implode.

  “But as long as you’re here, I wouldn’t mind asking you a few more questions. Like do you have a pair of red, sparkling stiletto high heels?”

  Anger turned to shock as her mouth dropped open, and it could’ve been fear that shadowed her eyes. “Get out of here.”

  She turned and stalked back to the mill. Another man had joined Gene on the little front porch. I leaned against the driver’s door of my car and watched as the three of them conferred for a couple of minutes. Cyn kept gesturing, her arms waving in anger while the newcomer tried to reason with her. Eventually she threw her hands up in the air and reentered the mill. The man descended the stairs and started toward me.

  “You Ted Hanson?” I asked when he got within earshot.

  “Yeah.”

  “Name’s Jeff Resnick.” I offered my hand. He ignored it, which was just as well. I sensed a bubble of animosity surrounding him and wasn’t eager to embrace it.

  “Cyn says you want to talk to me.”

  “You found Walt Kaplan’s body.”

  “Yeah, and I’ve already told the police everything I know.”

  “They didn’t share it with me.”

  “What’s your interest?”

  “I work for Walt’s cousin. He asked me to look into it.”

  “What are you, some kind of investigator?”

  Not anymore, I could’ve told him. I lied. “Yeah.”

  Hanson looked skeptical. “You have a license?”

  “I’m not a private investigator. Insurance.”

  “Oh.” His hostility instantly backed off. As a businessman, he understood liability. “What do you want to know?”

  “Just what you saw.”

  He shrugged. “I had an order of rye flour that was supposed to go out the next day and I came out to the porch to check how many sacks I had. At first I thought it was a bag of trash on the hillside. I looked again and saw it was a person.”

  “Did you think he was dead?”

  “No. I figured he was a drunk or something. The Hawk’s Nest,” he jerked a thumb over his shoulder to the restaurant across the way, “has a bar. A couple of years ago someone fell down the hill beside the mill and broke his neck.”

  I glanced at the pile of rubble at the side of the road. “Why doesn’t somebody put a fence around it?”

  “They demolished an old building earlier this year. There was a construction fence. I don’t know what happened to it. Kids probably tore it down.”

  “So you found Walt,” I prompted.

  He shuddered. “Yeah.”

  “The body was on its back, looking up at the sky,” I said, describing what I’d already seen in a vision.

  “Yeah. No blood that I could see, but he was this awful blue-white color.”

  “No blood on the clothes?”

  Hanson shook his head. “Not that I saw.”

  “That’s strange. The medical examiner said he was stabbed forty-six times.”

  “Really?” The news seemed to trouble Hanson. “He was wearing a dark red shirt, dark pants, and shoes. I suppose there might’ve been stains, but . . . not for that many wounds, and there was no blood around him on the ground. That would mean someone had to clean him up and dress him after they killed him.”

  “Yeah,” I agreed. “Then somebody dumped him here. There had to be a reason they chose this place. Had you ever seen Walt around here?”

  Hanson shook his head. “I’m not a part of the retail operation. Cyn and Gene deal with the customers on a one-to-one basis. They have a baker, Dana Watkins, but she’s usually gone before I get here in the morning.”

  “You have a phone number for her?”

  “No, and Cyn would just be pissed if I gave it to you anyway.”

  “I hear you, man.” I relaxed against my car once again. “Cyn called you a miller, but I noticed most of the stuff in the warehouse has already been ground.”

  “That’s my product. They use what I mill and I sell the rest to boutique bakeries throughout the northeast. The coffee shop is just the icing on the cake. The real money is and always has been the mill.”

  “That wasn’t the impression I got from Cyn.”

  “She doesn’t own the mill. It’s been in my family for over a hundred years. If she tells people she owns the business—well, it’s kind of true. The coffee shop is her baby—but she just leases space from me. Cyn’s very good at what she does. She’s only been in business here about six months and is already turning a profit. And she’s helped me find new markets for my flour. She’s hoping to sweet talk me into selling her the place, but that’ll never happen.”

  “She’s got money, then?”

  “She and her late husband owned a chain of coffee shops in the Southwest. She sold them when he died and came back to Buffalo. I guess she’s got family here, which is why she returned.”

  With a home in Amherst and a vacation home in Holiday Valley, yeah, that sounded like money. I’d have to check out the address Maggie had given me to get an idea of how much Cyn was worth.

  And why would someone with that kind of dough be caught dead wearing a pair of sparkling red hooker shoes?

  Hanson shot a look back at the mill. “She’s probably having a fit because we’ve talked
so long. Please don’t come around anymore. There’s nothing to see. The guy’s dead and the cops have already made an arrest. It’s over.”

  “Thanks for your time.”

  “No problem.”

  I offered him my hand, and this time he took it, and I tuned into him. He’d been straight with me. Now all he wanted was a beer, his recliner, and the Mets game on the tube.

  Hanson headed back for the mill and I got in my car and turned the key in the ignition. The steering wheel was hot to the touch as I maneuvered onto the street and turned the corner for Main Street. Talking to Hanson had definitely been worth it. And I now had the name of the mill’s baker. If she left before he got there, she had to start work before dawn. She probably opened the place, which meant I’d have to be out here first thing in the morning if I wanted to catch her.

  The red light at the corner took forever. I glanced down at the photo on my passenger seat. Was there any point in trying to chase down Andrea Foxworth this evening? Brenda was expecting me for supper, and I had the feeling I had better show up. But I also wasn’t sure of the reception I was likely to receive.

  Still, I steered for home. With every mile, uncertainty tightened my gut.

  # # #

  CHAPTER 9

  I arrived back home just after six to find Maggie’s little car parked in my usual spot in the driveway. Curious. I pulled along beside it. The feeling of unease intensified as I entered the house through the back door and headed for the kitchen, where I found Richard, Brenda, and Maggie sitting at the table having a drink; wine for the ladies and Richard’s usual scotch sat on a coaster in front of him.

  “There you are,” Brenda said with a decided maternal lilt. “I was beginning to think you’d fallen into a black hole.”

  “Hi,” Maggie said and blinked, her eyelashes looking longer than I remembered. She looked pretty in a pink sleeveless sweater and matching slacks. Business casual never looked so good.

  “I invited Maggie to stay for supper,” Brenda said.

  I chanced a glance at Richard, who raised his eyebrows and his glass in salute.

  Set up!

  I flashed a smile, wondering if it looked forced. “Boy, I could use a beer.” I stepped across the kitchen to the fridge, pulled out a bottle of Labatts, cracked the cap and took a fortifying swig.