The Fitzgerald Ruse

by Mark de Castrique

  I felt guilty that I’d been so abrupt. “Amanda,” I called.

  She stopped and faced me.

  “Thanks for the muffins,” I said. “They were delicious.”

  She smiled. “I’m glad you liked them. Last night I pulled a double shift and the bakery down the street was just making their first run when I got off. My husband loves their muffins for breakfast.”

  “You worked sixteen hours?”

  “My relief, Jack Mountjoy, got sick yesterday afternoon. I’m covering for him again tonight. The work’s easy.” She laughed. “As long as I can stay awake to make my rounds.” She looked at the bag again. “You sure you don’t need help with that?”

  “Positive. It looks heavier than it is. Just some old files I’m putting in our new cabinets.”

  “I’m glad you’re here, Mr. Blackman. I know you and Ms. Robertson will be a big success.”

  I thanked her and watched her continue on her rounds. Her good spirit was all the more remarkable for the hardship Nathan Armitage had told me she endured.

  Nakayla had set several bags of office supplies on my floor. One of them was large enough to conceal the lockbox and I figured carrying a bag from Staples was better than from a defunct department store.

  I’d started putting away legal pads and assorted manila envelopes when my cell phone rang. I recognized Ethel Barkley’s number.

  “Mrs. Barkley?”

  “No, Sam. It’s Captain. Ethel had me call. Told me where this number was in her apartment.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Oh, she’s okay. We think she skipped her meds this afternoon. Probably got excited that you were coming. She doubled up her missed dose right before supper and on an empty stomach it made her woozy.”

  “Did she fall?”

  “Nah. She kinda passed out at the table. No big deal.”

  I had an image of old people stepping over Ethel to get to the buffet line. “I’m supposed to come see her tonight.”

  “That’s what she said. And she’s madder than a wet hen because Golden Oaks’ policy states she has to stay in the assisted living unit for observation. She should be out first thing in the morning if everything’s normal. She’s already ornery again. A good sign.”

  “Will you call me?”

  “I could but Ethel asked me to pass this number to the front desk. They’ll be the first to know when she’s back in her room.”

  I glanced down at the Staples bag holding the swastika-sealed lockbox. The sooner I got rid of it, the better both Ethel Barkley and I’d feel. “Okay. Tell them to call as soon as she’s released, no matter how early.”

  “Roger, that.”

  “And tell Ethel everything went fine, and to get a good night’s sleep.”

  “Will do, Sam. I told her you were the man for the job, whatever it was.”

  Captain had probably been on enough missions in his military career that he wasn’t the least bit curious about what Ethel’s had been for me.

  A few minutes later, Nakayla’s number flashed in the caller ID window.

  “Where are you?” I asked.

  “Coming in on Broadway. I picked up two printers on sale at Office Depot. Can you meet me in front of the building and help me unload them? I’ll treat you to dinner.”

  Even though my back and leg ached from toting the lockbox, I couldn’t refuse her offer.

  We spent an hour hooking up printers to our laptops, aligning ink cartridges, and trouble-shooting the multiple features. Then we organized the rest of the supplies Nakayla had purchased so that tomorrow morning we’d be ready for business.

  “How about Tupelo Honey Café?” Nakayla asked.

  The restaurant was a favorite on College Street, a few blocks away.

  “If we can get in. It’s nearly seven.”

  The restaurant didn’t take reservations and the wait could be long.

  Nakayla grabbed my hand. “So, we’ll have a drink and you can tell me about our first case.”

  We’d spent the setup time reading printer directions and I’d yet to mention anything about my meeting with Ethel Barkley.

  I resisted her tug toward the door and instead pulled her back to my office. “Let me show you something first. I don’t want to talk about it in the café.”

  I led her around my desk and then pulled the lockbox from the bag.

  “Oh, my God. What’s in it?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Nakayla bent down and ran her fingers quickly over the swastika as if it might bite her. “Is this old lady a Nazi?”

  “How should I know? She didn’t goose-step or shout seig heil! She said she betrayed F. Scott Fitzgerald and that something in this box was going to make it right.”

  “What are you going to do with it?”

  “I was supposed to bring it to her tonight, but Captain called and said she’s not feeling well. I’ll take it to her in the morning.” I slid the lockbox back in the bag.

  “Shouldn’t you notify the authorities?”

  “About what?” Now I was the one tugging her toward the door. “It’s not illegal to have a World War Two souvenir.”

  “If that’s all it is.”

  “Look. Ethel’s a bit nutty, but harmless. If I find Adolph Hitler’s stamped passport to Argentina in there, I’ll be sure to report it.”

  “Then why didn’t you want to talk about it at Tupelo Honey.”

  “Because pinot noir and the word swastika don’t go well together.” I opened the office door and nudged Nakayla into the hall. “Besides, I don’t want anything to distract you from my terrific Napoleonic lines.”

  “Your what?”

  “Sorry. You’ll have to wait. I don’t want to overwhelm you before dinner.”

  She punched me in the side. “I’ve heard enough of your lines, hotshot. Here’s mine. I’ve changed my mind. You’re picking up the check.”

  Chapter Six

  And so I’d picked up the check, polished off the wine, and now crouched over a body in our office.

  “Nakayla?” My voice quivered. I reached up the wall, feeling for the light switch. The overhead fixture came on instantly, but I needed a few seconds to comprehend the horror before me.

  Amanda Whitfield sprawled like a rag doll, her neck bent at such a wicked angle that I suspected there was no point in calling for an ambulance. I checked her carotid artery for a pulse and tested for a pupil reaction, but my initial assessment had been correct. The poor woman had died instantly when someone snapped her neck like a dry twig.

  I heard footsteps behind me, then a gasp.

  Nakayla leaned against the doorjamb and raised a hand to her throat. “What happened?”

  “I don’t know.” I stepped into my office and flipped on the overhead light. The bag with Ethel Barkley’s swastika-sealed box was gone. “Let’s get back in the hall. This is a crime scene. Use your cell to call the police.”

  The police department was less than a hundred yards away and within five minutes two uniformed officers burst from the elevator. I recognized them, but I couldn’t tell them apart. Patrolmen Ted and Al Newland were identical twins. Their uncle worked as a homicide detective. I hoped his nephews would put in a back-channel call to Curt Newland so Newly would be the first of Asheville’s investigative team to arrive.

  “The victim’s in the office,” I said, and glanced at their nameplates to keep them straight.

  “Did you call for an ambulance?” Ted asked.

  “No. She’s clearly dead. I didn’t want medics contaminating the scene.”

  Al nodded. “I’ll go in and check things out. Ted, call Uncle Newly.”

  “Tell him it’s the night watchman,” I said. “She never got her gun out of her holster.” I let Al pass by me to enter the office alone.

  Ted had been on his cell phone less than a minute when he waved me over. “He wants to talk to you.”

  “Newly,” I said, skipping past a hello. “She’s Amanda Whitfield and works for Nat
han Armitage. Someone broke her neck.”

  “Jesus, not Mandy.” His voice choked on the words.

  “You know her?”

  “Yes. She and her husband were in school with the twins. Ted and Al were ushers in their wedding.”

  I turned around to see Al coming out of the office. His face was chalk white. Tears sparkled on his cheeks. He whispered “Mandy” to his brother. His twin shook his head in disbelief and pushed by him. Nakayla understood the crime scene had become intensely personal and went to comfort Al who leaned against the wall, his face now buried in his hands.

  “They’re taking it hard,” I told Newland. “How soon will you be here?”

  “Ten minutes. I’ll call the crime lab from the car. Tell the twins to cover the building entrances. Tell them no one comes in or out. I’ll bring in backup.”

  I realized Detective Newland was putting me in charge. “Okay. Anything else?”

  “Sit tight. I’d like you to go over the scene with me. Let me know if anything’s missing.”

  I knew what was missing, but I didn’t say it over the phone. Client confidentiality was an important tenet of a private investigation. I’d promised Ethel Barkley that I’d keep her so-called mission between us. But, I hadn’t bargained on murder, and my military career of serving the interests of justice outweighed the obligation I felt to a ninety-year-old woman and a Nazi lockbox. I would tell Detective Newland everything that had happened, but I’d also inform Ethel Barkley that the mission had failed.

  “Got it,” I assured him. “See you in a few minutes.”

  I relayed Newland’s request to his nephews and they left to take up their positions on the ground floor.

  “So we wait,” Nakayla whispered, as if afraid of disturbing the dead.

  “Not for long. Detective Newland and his reinforcements will be here soon.”

  “I’m tired of standing,” she said, and sat on the hall floor, resting her back against the door.

  My stump hurt and I eased down beside her. I stretched both legs straight in front of me.

  Nakayla locked her hand in mine. “Who knew we had the lockbox?”

  “Ross Tennant, the bank manager. Also some guard named Ralph. I suppose anyone in the bank lobby could have seen me coming out of the safe-deposit room with a full bag. And Amanda saw the box outside this door. She must have heard something on her rounds and gone in to investigate.” I had the sick feeling that she might have seen the wastebasket with the crushed muffins inside. A totally stupid and irrational concern that I couldn’t shake. Had Amanda thought we didn’t like them? “I’ve got to check something.”

  “Aren’t we supposed to stay clear?”

  “This will just take a second.” I opened the door and stayed close to the wall farthest from Amanda’s body. I’d dumped the muffins in the wastebasket in the corner nearest the window. In the dim light from the outside street lamps, I could see a fresh trash liner. Thankfully, the cleaning crew had been through before Amanda. That fact could also help narrow the timeframe for the murder.

  “Sam, I hear a door opening.” Nakayla hurried into the office.

  “Whoever it is can’t leave the building.”

  Without hesitation, Nakayla stepped back in the hall. I joined her and we became a barricade blocking the way. The corridor in front of us turned right and we couldn’t see around the corner. The sharp clicks of a woman’s heels grew louder.

  Cory DeMille appeared, walking briskly, her attention focused on straightening the running shoes in her shopping bag while juggling her thermos. She looked up and jumped at the sight of us.

  “My God, you scared me to death.” She laughed nervously. “Blackman and Robertson are certainly putting in the late hours.” Her voice rose, as if she wanted someone else to hear the words.

  “I’m afraid we’re all going to be putting in late hours tonight,” I said. “The police are sealing off the building and no one can leave.”

  Her face paled. “What’s happened?”

  “Tell whoever’s in your office to come out here and I’ll tell you.”

  She didn’t argue, but walked back to the corner and yelled down the hall. “Hewitt, come quickly. Something’s wrong.”

  Within a few seconds, a man bolted around the corner. His stringy gray hair draped to his shoulders and a pair of reading glasses dangling from a cord around his neck bounced against his chest. In a rumpled white linen shirt and beltless tan slacks, he looked more like an aging, overweight rock star at a beach cabana than the lawyer his paralegal described as the best defense attorney in town.

  He eyed Nakayla and me with suspicion. “What’s the trouble?”

  I didn’t mince words. “Amanda Whitfield, the security guard, has been murdered. She’s in our office.”

  A strangled cry caught in Cory Demille’s throat. She reached out and steadied herself against the wall.

  Hewitt Donaldson stood rock solid. His eyes narrowed as he studied Nakayla and me. “You’ve called the police?”

  “Yes. You can relax. We didn’t kill her.”

  He took a deep breath. “The police will want statements.” He turned to Cory. “Why don’t we wait in the office where you can sit down.”

  She nodded. “I’m okay. But I just can’t believe it.”

  Donaldson looked at me. “You’re Sam Blackman, right?”

  “Yes. This is my partner, Nakayla Robertson.”

  “Would you get us when the police arrive?”

  Nakayla took a wobbly step forward. “Can I join you? I feel a little faint.”

  I grabbed her arm to steady her and tried to look concerned. Nakayla’s instincts had been sharper than mine. She wasn’t going to let them be alone together in case they suddenly needed to concoct a story.

  “Certainly, my dear,” Donaldson said. “Let me help you.”

  He took Nakayla’s other arm as I released her. “Can I bring you anything?” he asked me. “Water? I keep some scotch handy if you need something stronger.”

  “No, thank you.”

  “I’ll be back to keep you company.” Donaldson took each woman by the hand and walked between them to his office.

  A few minutes later I heard a loud clatter of rolling wheels and bumping metal as if a train had started rumbling down the hall. Donaldson returned, pushing two desk chairs that seemed intent on going in opposite directions.

  “These damn things are like runaway grocery carts.” He shoved one over to me and plopped down in the other. “No sense standing and waiting.”

  “Thanks.” I maneuvered the chair in front of the door and sat.

  “Glad to meet you, Sam,” Donaldson said. “Wish it was under better circumstances.”

  “Yeah. Amanda seemed like a good kid.” Although she couldn’t be much younger than me, Amanda had a little girl quality that her uniform couldn’t disguise. Anger burned in my chest and I was glad Newland was giving me some part to play.

  Donaldson must have read my mind. “Are you going to be involved in the investigation?”

  “Officially, no. But Detective Newland’s on his way and he’s been open to my opinions before.”

  “He ought to be. You saved their bacon.”

  I let his jab at the police pass. “I can work in ways they can’t. Newland’s all right.”

  “I suppose he’s the best of the lot,” Donaldson said without enthusiasm. “Any idea why this happened?”

  Warning bells sounded in my head. I realized I could be talking to the potential attorney for the murderer. If Hewitt Donaldson were the best defense lawyer in town, then he would be looking for every possible angle to clear his client.

  “No. Maybe someone saw us moving in and thought they’d heist our new stuff.”

  “Anything missing?”

  “I haven’t had a chance to go through everything. As soon as I saw the body, Nakayla called the police. We’re keeping the crime scene pristine.” It was my turn to give an informal grilling. “Did you and Cory hear anything?”


  “No. We were going over deposition videos for a trial tomorrow.”

  “You were quiet. I didn’t hear a sound in the hall.”

  Donaldson grinned. “Good. I like a skeptic. We were listening on headsets because I don’t want there to be a sound in the hall for just anyone to hear.” He glanced at his wristwatch. “Cory had to meet her fiancé at the airport. The connector from Charlotte doesn’t get in until nine. I hope she left a message for him to take a cab.”

  He looked past me to the door. “Any sign of a break-in?”

  “No. And I’m positive we locked up.”

  Donaldson ran his tongue across his gapped teeth. “Well, that raises the ugly possibility of an inside job. Maybe Amanda stumbled onto someone she knew and that sealed her fate.”

  Before I could comment, the elevator doors opened and Detective Newland squeezed out followed by two other plain-clothes officers, three uniforms, and a crime lab tech pushing a cart of supplies. The men had been packed so tightly in the elevator there couldn’t have been much room left for air to breathe on the ride up.

  Unlike Donaldson, Newland wore his gray hair in short, springy curls, but they were just as disheveled. “Sam, we got here as quick as we could.” Newland cast a sharp stare at Donaldson. “Congratulations, Hewitt. I knew you could out-chase the ambulances but this is the first time you’ve beaten the police.”

  “Not in a courtroom.”

  “His office is on this floor,” I said, trying to defuse their petty bickering. “He and his paralegal are waiting to give their statements.”

  “Fine.” Newland turned to the two plain-clothes men. “Chip, you and Jim escort the esteemed counselor back to his office and see if you can arrange to question him and his associate separately. If there’s no room, take them to the station.”

  Donaldson got up. “Would one of you gentlemen bring Sam’s chair? I don’t want to break up a set.”

  I rose and let a detective push the chair after the flamboyant attorney.

  “I hate to think how many crooks that bastard’s gotten off,” Newland muttered. “Let’s boot and glove. Jenkins, do a pass with the video camera and then stills.”

  The crime lab tech handed me latex gloves and shoe covers similar to those worn by the staff in an operating room. As soon as the three of us were ready, Newland opened the door.