“Well, they might’ve—if they’d been for her. It’s your name on the card.”
I almost spewed my coffee. “My name?”
Richard nodded toward the vase. “Check it out.”
I crossed the kitchen in four steps, set my mug down on the table with a thunk, and tore open the envelope.
Sorry to overwhelm you last night. Let’s try again . . . this time on your timetable. Maggie.
I blew out a long breath.
“From anyone we know?” Richard asked with mock innocence.
“Yeah.” I handed him the card. He scrutinized it before passing it back.
“No one’s ever sent me flowers.”
“It’s a first for me, too.”
“What’re you going to do about it?”
“I don’t know. Say ‘thank you’ like my Mama done taught me. Then, I don’t know.”
“You do like her.”
I thought about Maggie’s all-too-elusive smile. “Yeah, I do.”
“Then what’s the problem?”
Should I tell him that in thirty-five years no one had ever pursued me? That “overwhelmed” was more than an apt description of how I now felt? Sure, I’d been married. I’d had sex with a bunch of women. But sharing what I felt had never entered the equation before. That Maggie could read me, too, was more than a little terrifying. I wasn’t sure I could deal with it.
Richard still waited for an answer.
“Fear of failure,” I bluffed.
He nodded, then shook his head in what seemed like amusement. “You and Brenda are so much alike.”
“What?”
“You’re so afraid to just trust what’s offered to you.”
Man, he just didn’t know—couldn’t understand—what it was Maggie was after, what I was afraid to give.
I grabbed my coffee mug, walked over to the sink and dumped the contents, then put the mug into the dishwasher. “I gotta go to work.” I looked over at my brother, found his expression smug. “See ya.”
“See ya,” he echoed, and I scuttled out the door.
# # #
CHAPTER 10
I was getting used to the routine at the bar, picking up the ins and outs of Tom’s business and even enjoying being around people again. The regulars weren’t used to a bartender with loads of personality, so I filled Walt’s absence with surprising ease. And I was learning to better shield myself from the onslaught of others’ emotions.
Almost. It was still a drain being bombarded with sensations, but I found distance was a good buffer. If someone at one end of the bar was depressed, I took to hanging around the other. Mundane tasks like washing glasses also helped keep me from absorbing others’ emotional baggage.
It was after two when I looked up from polishing the brass taps to see a familiar face studying me from the last stool on the end: my ex-schoolmate, Sam Nielsen. I hadn’t changed much over the years, but Sam’s head of once-thick dark hair was long gone, and I didn’t think I’d ever get used to seeing his chrome dome.
I walked down to the end of the bar. “What can I get you?”
“Beer.”
“Any preference?”
“Canadian.”
“Draft or bottle?”
“Bottle.”
I grabbed him a Molson and a clean glass, set it in front of him.
“You got time to talk?” he asked.
A couple of guys were nursing beers at a table in front, watching the tube. Tom held court at the other end of the bar with one of his cronies. Nobody seemed in dire need of my services. “Sure. How’d you find me?”
“Hey, I am an investigative reporter.” He poured half the beer into his glass. “I called your brother. You got anything to tell me about Kaplan’s murder?”
“Shut up,” I whispered, and jerked a thumb toward Tom. “The owner was his cousin.”
Sam glanced down at Tom, then shrugged. “Sorry. You got anything?”
“Questions. I understand the body was cleaned up and re-dressed after death.”
“Yeah. Sloppy job, too. I saw the police photos. Shirt buttons were mismatched, no underwear—no socks, and the pants were zipped, but not buttoned.”
“And no bloodstains on anything.”
“Surprisingly little, plus the usual bodily secretions. Contrary to what you see on TV, it’s way too soon for a lab report.”
That, I knew. “You got my message about Buchanan’s clothes. Any blood on them?”
“No. I asked my contact at the Amherst PD about it and he wasn’t interested in pursuing it, either. He figures Buchanan and Kaplan weren’t clothed when the murder happened. Either that or Buchanan ditched the clothes he’d been wearing at the time of the murder.”
“He only had one set.”
“You can’t prove it.”
“Why’d he re-dress Kaplan?”
“Maybe some kind of ritual?”
“That’s bullshit.”
“That’s politics. They’ve arrested someone. They don’t want to see their case go down the tubes.” Sam sipped his beer. He accepted the situation. I couldn’t.
He eyed me. “I gave you everything I had. Time to return the favor.”
My spine stiffened. “I’m still putting the pieces together.”
“That’s what you said two days ago. Come on, give.”
I looked down the bar at Tom. I hadn’t even confided to him all that I knew—or suspected. But I’d have to toss Sam a bone, if only to keep him feeding me what he knew. I leaned closer, lowered my voice. “I keep seeing a custom-made woman’s shoe.”
Sam waited for more. When I said nothing, he frowned. “That’s it?”
“I’ve tracked down the maker. He made two pairs, one for Kaplan, another for someone else. Got a line on who ordered the originals. I’m going to look into that later today.”
His frown turned to disgust. “Talk about bullshit. What the hell’s that got to do with his murder?”
A quick glance down the bar showed me Tom had heard Sam. “Pipe down, willya?
Sam poured the rest of his beer, took a gulp. “You think whoever wore those shoes killed Kaplan?”
“Maybe. But those two pairs of shoes are tied in somehow.”
Sam’s gaze bore into mine. A grin slowly curled his lips. “You’ve got a suspect.”
I straightened, looked away.
“Come on, spill it, Jeff.”
I shook my head. “Not until I have more than a suspicion.”
“Who is she?”
I folded my arms across my chest and leaned against the backbar.
Sam picked up his glass and drank, never taking his eyes off me.
“Jeff?” Tom pointed to the two guys at the table out front.
I headed back for the taps, poured another two beers and delivered them to the customers. By the time I got back to the bar, Sam had finished his drink. “Am I going to have to hunt you down again for my next update?”
“I’ll call you when I know something.”
His expression said, “Yeah, right,” and he stood, reaching for his wallet.
I put out a hand to stop him. “It’s on me.”
He nodded and headed for the exit. At the door he turned, pointing a finger at me. “Call me.”
I’d call. But not until I was certain. And right then I still had a lot more questions than answers.
* * *
I hate to admit when I’m wrong, but Richard may have been right about my not being ready to return to work. I was dead on my feet by the time my shift ended at four p.m. And yet, Sam’s visit had reignited my curiosity about what had happened to the first pair of red-sequined heels.
I found the home of the Backstreet Players, an old grocery store reconfigured with a stage, near the edge of Buffalo’s theatre district, but had to park a block away at a ramp garage. The elevator was broken, so I had to hoof it down three flights of stairs. The humidity was high with ninety-degree temps. I wasn’t looking forward to duplicating my footsteps on t
he way back.
Though I’d called Andrea Foxworth beforehand, she hadn’t warned me I’d find the box office dark and all the entrances around the building locked. Someone finally heard me banging on one of the doors at the back of the building, and opened it. “I’m looking for Andrea Foxworth.”
A burly guy in jeans and a grubby white T-shirt looked me over. “She expecting you?”
“Yeah.”
He shrugged. “Okay.” And let me in.
So much for security.
The dim backstage area, plastered with “No Smoking” signs, was full of people. In contrast with outside, the air felt dry and chilled. Voices yelled across one another as stocky men wheeled scenery around the stage and banks of lighting were adjusted overhead. Grubby pointed toward a set of stairs going down. “She should be down there—in wardrobe.”
“Thanks.”
The temperature dropped another couple of degrees as I descended the stairs into the bowels of the building. A double door marked “Wardrobe” stood ajar and I sidled inside to find several women poised over commercial sewing machines. Dressmakers’ dummies stood in full regalia—uniforms and period dresses. The marquee had said “HMS Pinafore.” An older, harried-looking woman with gray-streaked brown hair, shouted into a cell phone. A baggy, full-front apron, not unlike what Sophie always wore, covered her street clothes, while an unlit cigarette dangled from her lips.
“You were supposed to deliver them by five o’clock today. It is now,” she glanced at a wall clock, “four-thirty-seven and I expect to see those wigs here within the next twenty-three minutes or I will haunt you in this life and into the next!” She pulled the phone from her ear, stabbed a finger on the off button, then looked up to glare at me. “Who are you and what are you doing down here? Security!” she bellowed toward the door.
“Andrea Foxworth? I’m Jeff Resnick. I called a couple of hours ago.”
She exhaled a couple of exasperated breaths, yanked the full-size cigarette from her lips and tucked it behind her ear. “Sorry. I forgot you were coming.” She turned her back on me and marched over to one of the women sewing. “Those alterations going to be finished any time soon?”
“Chill out, Andrea,” the woman said without looking up from her work. “We’ll get everything done.”
Andrea whirled, and for a moment I thought she might explode—at me. “I don’t have a lot of time. We’re doing a dress rehearsal tonight and I have a million things to accomplish before then.”
“Just five minutes. Please.”
She reached up, rubbed the cigarette with her thumb and forefinger, then sniffed them. “I just quit and I’m a little strung out. We’ll have to talk while I work.”
Second time in one day.
I followed her to a lumpy-looking, faded upholstered chair where she plunked down, snatched up a dress from a table beside it, and started ripping the seams apart.
I figured I’d better talk fast. “I understand you ordered a pair of custom shoes from Broadway Theatrics about two years ago.”
“Dear boy, I order lots of custom shoes from Broadway Theatrics.”
“I have a picture.” I pulled the photo from my shirt’s breast pocket, noting the goose bumps dotting my arm as I handed her the picture.
She gazed at it for a second and the smile that appeared took five years off her face. “Ah, the tramp shoes.”
“The what?”
“That’s what the actress who wore them called them. Said she felt like a fifty-dollar hooker in them.”
“Do you know what happened to them?”
“Sure. They were auctioned off with a lot of other costumes and props at our big fundraiser back in the winter. It was in all the papers.”
“Damn. That probably means you have no idea who bought them.”
“You got that, although the auction company gave me a list of the buyers and the final lots. That way next year I can pair up the items that sold best and inform our target market. I can’t let you look at it, though. It lists addresses and I’m not giving out that kind of information to just anyone who walks in off the street.”
“I don’t blame you. But if I gave you a name could you confirm this person participated in the auction?”
She thought about it for a few moments. “Mmm . . . I don’t think so. It just wouldn’t be right.”
I looked around to make sure none of the other ladies was paying attention to me. “Are you sure I can’t change your mind?” I showed her the edge of a twenty-dollar bill I’d put in my pocket—just in case.
Andrea hesitated, leaned to her left to look around me. “Well, I guess that would be okay. I mean, if you already know the person. But what if the name isn’t on the list?”
“I’d still expect to compensate you for your trouble,” I whispered.
With a lot more poise than she’d shown just moments before, Andrea set aside the garment, got up from her chair and crossed the room to a file cabinet. She pulled out a ledger, thumbing through it until she came to a particular page. “Who are you looking for?”
“Cynthia Lennox, of Amherst.”
Andrea flipped ahead and ran her finger down the list. “Lot ninety-six: red tramp shoes, vampy dress, feather boa, and jaunty hat. Paid two hundred and thirty-five bucks for it.” She closed the book and held out her hand. “Very nice meeting you, Mr. Resnick.”
Palming the bill, I shook her hand. “Likewise.”
I escorted myself back up to the stage area, which felt positively balmy after the icebox below, and aimed for the first door with an exit sign above it. The bright sunshine nearly seared my retinas after the backstage gloom, but this time I welcomed the heat as I squinted my way back to the garage.
So, Cyn Lennox had purchased the original pair of shoes. But what did that have to do with the pair Walt ordered? How had he seen them? Perhaps in the closet of her vacation home in Holiday Valley? Or had he replaced shoes that she’d ruined? I hadn’t thought to ask the shoemaker if the shoes had been the same size. Would he even remember, as he hadn’t bothered to document the second pair of shoes?
And how did all this relate to Walt Kaplan’s murder?
I needed something more—some other piece of the puzzle before I’d be able to put everything together. I needed to grill Sam for additional information, and I needed a picture of Cyn to show around the bar. Maybe one of The Whole Nine Yard’s customers would recognize her. It didn’t seem likely, and yet I had a feeling a picture was exactly what I needed to move forward in my investigation.
“Don’t call it an investigation,” I could almost hear Richard rant.
Yeah, and I also needed his camera, computer and printer to do the deed. And I had to take a halfway decent picture of Cyn without her knowledge.
Oh yeah—this was going to be so easy.
Not!
First things first, I told myself. Get the camera; worry about the rest later.
Already sweating, I reached the ramp garage, following a man and woman in office attire, briefcases in hand, their suit jackets draped over their arms. Good looking and cheerful after a hard day’s work, they looked like they just stepped out of a Lord and Taylor ad. The three of us entered the stairwell.
Damn broken elevators. Damn stinking muggy weather. A vein in my temple throbbed by the time I made it to the second level, where the woman peeled off with a wave to her colleague. The guy picked up his pace, leaving me shaking with fatigue by the time I trudged up the last few steps.
My car was at the end of the aisle, a million miles away. The guy had already unlocked his car, had ditched the briefcase and was setting his folded jacket over top of the passenger seat as I plodded past.
The roar of an engine reverberated off the concrete and a motorcycle rounded the corner, going far too fast. I froze, like a deer in headlights, as the bike rushed toward me.
“Look out!” the office worker shouted.
The rider’s black faceplate reflected the dull glow of the overhead fluorescent lamps.
A jerk at my neck pulled me off balance. I landed on my ass, rolling into the wheel well of a car, my nose scraping rubber.
“Are you okay? What an asshole!”
I’m not the asshole, I felt like shouting, then realized he’d meant the biker, not me.
He helped me to my feet, steadied me. “You okay?” he asked again.
“Yeah.” I dusted off my jeans, realized he must’ve grabbed me by the back of the shirt—pulled me to safety. “Thanks, man.”
He studied my face, was probably about my age, and looked as shook up as I felt. “You need help getting to your car or something?”
It was adrenaline that had me shaking now. “I’m fine. Thanks again.”
I felt his gaze on my back as I headed for my car. Okay, was the biker just some idiot having fun, or had I pissed someone off?
I preferred to think the former, but I suspected the latter.
* * *
Brenda was setting the table as I entered the kitchen. She turned to give me an ambivalent stare. “Are you actually going to grace us with your presence tonight?”
I glanced at the table. “Well, there are three plates, so I sort of thought I might. And I might even eat something, too.” I crossed to the fridge and took out a beer and cracked the cap.
Driving for twenty minutes in my air-conditioned car had had a calming effect on me. I had no intention of mentioning my little adventure.
I took a tentative sniff of the aroma permeating the kitchen. “Roast chicken—on a Wednesday?”
“Is there a better day?”
“When I was a kid, roast chicken was reserved for Thanksgiving and Christmas.”
Brenda straightened the tablecloth. “My mother made it every Sunday—winter, spring, summer and fall. But this came from the Deli Department at Wegmans.”
I leaned against the counter and took a long pull of my beer.
Brenda scrutinized my face. “You look tired. You’re not pushing yourself too hard, are you?”
If she only knew. “Isn’t that what I need to do to find my limits?”
She seemed preoccupied as she turned away to fold the paper napkins into miniature bishop’s miters, setting them on the plates; a nice touch. Then again, Brenda always managed to add simple joys to everyday life.
Dead In Red Page 10
