Angel Food and Devil Dogs - A Maggie Gale Mystery
Page 24
“Good, we have to have all the evidence for Mickey’s hearing by the beginning of the week.”
“OK, if there’s anything important in the criminal stuff, I’ll call you right away.” I kissed Sara on the cheek, “Thanks for saying Kathryn’s OK,” then I tweaked her cheek lightly, “and that’s for being a bratty little sister.”
*******
Though the city was cold and gray, the combination of Kathryn in general and the fabulous sex we’d had after such a long dry spell, made me feel like a teenager. I had to fight off a goofy grin. Just the mildest recollection of last night created a personal condition that threatened to make my pants freeze in the December wind.
Bart’s place was in a residential block of rowhouses west of the Mews. I rang the bell and peered though the front door into the vestibule. Bart peeked out his apartment door, hesitated, and then came out to let me in. His right hand was heavily bandaged. He made an unsuccessful effort to hold it up and not run it into the wall. Without the pain meds he would have screamed. I wondered how they’d affect his already lacking ability to communicate.
Bart Edgar bobbed his head hello as he led me into his living room. I’d imagined Edgar’s apartment would be a mess and it was, but there were some nicely placed art objects throughout the space that counterbalanced the disorganization.
“Did you decorate this all yourself, Mr. Edgar?” I asked noticing a nonrepresentational sculpture on the mantel and a beautiful Asian style flower arrangement on a table near the door.
He nodded but said, “No.”
“No?”
“A friend, she lives next door.”
“Marry her Mr. Edgar,” I said immediately.
He looked shocked. He clearly hadn’t thought about it before. I felt sorry for the woman, but hey, maybe they would complement each other, as Amanda Knightbridge might say.
The doorbell rang. Bart went to get it. He came back into the apartment followed by a young woman carrying a brown grocery bag.
“Oh, hello,” she said, “I’m Bart’s friend Nancy, let me just put this in the kitchen.”
When she came back, Bart was obviously not going to introduce us, so I did the honors, ending with, “I’m here to ask Mr. Edgar about the explosion.”
“Perhaps I should leave?” she asked standing up.
Since she was by far the smartest part of Bart Edgar anyone had ever encountered, I said, “No, please do stay. You might be able to help.”
She nodded, then looked at Bart indulgently, “Did you take your pill?” She sounded like a kindergarten teacher, but then again, everybody spoke to him that way. Maybe she really was a kindergarten teacher. Might be a perfect match, in a grotesque kind of way.
He stared, then shook his head. She got up, went to the bathroom, got the pill, went to the kitchen, got a glass of water, came back and stood there as he swallowed it, then she sat down next to him again. I watched the entire thing with car wreck fascination.
I asked him about the day of the fire. Bart did best with yes or no questions, which meant I didn’t get much information. Finally I asked, “Mr. Edgar, did Skylar Carvelle say anything to you when he came into the rest room?”
In the book The Wizard of OZ, when the Scarecrow thought hard, the needles and pins the Wizard had put in his sack head, to make him sharp, always stuck out. I imagined at any minute Bart’s head would extrude pointy things. I doubted, however, that sharpness would ensue.
Finally he said, “Yes.”
Yes, what, you idiot!?! I wanted to scream, but instead I asked, “And what did Dr. Carvelle say?”
Bart’s face became blank with concentration, or maybe the lack of it. Finally he began to speak, encouraged by Nancy’s nodding. “Um, he said that Leo stunk of cheap cologne.”
“Stank,” said Nancy.
“Huh?” said Bart.
“Never mind,” said Nancy.
“Did he say anything else?” I asked.
“Dr. Carvelle said that, um... Jimmy Harmon spilled grape soda on him and that he wanted to wash it off because... his jacket was crash... smear.”
“Cashmere,” said Nancy.
“Yeah,” said Bart happily nodding at Nancy.
“Good, good. That’s helpful,” I said, finding myself nodding along too. Nancy beamed as though Bart had just won the spelling bee.
“OK so, right after that you went into the conference room. On the way in you passed Georgia Smith. Do you remember that?”
He nodded tentatively.
“OK, now... why did you go back into the conference room?”
He thought for a long time. “I went in to...” A dark cloud passed over Bart’s face. He shook his head in mid-sentence and said, “I don’t remember.”
“Come on now... you went back into the roommm...” I coaxed. I noticed Nancy’s mouth had dropped open for a second but now she assumed a countenance of stony silence. She looked angry, but she was mad at Bart, not me.
“Please try to think Mr. Edgar...” I insisted. But stick a fork in him, Edgar was done. He wouldn’t say anything else.
Nancy was fuming; the same look Kathryn had had when I was late to lunch. No... Nancy was more pissed.
Nancy followed me to the kitchen. I left my business card on Bart’s refrigerator under a magnet. I said, “This is my contact information, if Mr. Edgar thinks of anything else important, please call me. Please.”
Nancy nodded once, then said sympathetically, “I hope Bart isn’t your only lead, that would be like putting all your eggs in one basket.”
As I left, I tried in vain to imagine Bart calling me with something important. Maybe Nancy the earnest girlfriend with the good taste in art would help him. I wondered if she was putting all her eggs in Bart’s basket.
What if your best prospect was Bart Edgar? I frequently thank my lucky stars I’m a lesbian.
Chapter 30
It was only 1:00 PM. Visions of Kathryn swirled around my brain. I needed to think about the case. I sat in my van for a while with the motor running and the heat on full blast, entering some notes and reading through what I’d already written. I took a drawing pad out of my bag and began a sketch.
I drew three baskets. The first represented Carl’s murder, the second the bombing and a third for Skylar Carvelle’s murder. At the top of the page, I sketched 12 eggs, decorated with a symbol for each of the suspects. A musical note for Jimmy Harmon, a cross for Connie Robinson, a football helmet for Leo Getty, and so forth. In each of the crime baskets, I drew the suspect eggs that couldn’t be eliminated.
I stared at the finished drawings, then snagging my cell I called Miranda Juarez. She answered on the second ring.
“Ms. Juarez, this is Maggie Gale, I need to ask you something. On Thursday morning, I was in Skylar Carvelle’s office when Connie Robinson came in. She had a problem and I encouraged her to call you about it?”
“Yes, I remember.”
“What time did Connie get back to your office?
“I cannot say... I had some errands to do. I did not return until 2:00 PM. Connie was here when I came back.”
I asked Miranda if she knew what kind of car each of the people who were in the conference room had. Amazingly, she reeled them off efficiently; as I listened I began to sketch an egg representing Connie in the Skylar Murder basket. No Neons. Miranda drove a Camry. Connie a Geo.
I disconnected and punched in Max Bouchet’s number. “Just a few things,” I said quickly when Max picked it up on the third ring, “at the meeting, do you remember who went up first to get their drink?”
Bouchet’s voice rumbled deeply as he considered, “I think it was Bart, then Rowlina, then uh, either Jimmy Harmon or Skylar Carvelle... no Skylar was with Leo Getty, so it must have been Jimmy next, then Skylar and Leo and then Amanda Knightbridge. Is that the way you remember it?”
“Yes, that’s the order I remember. Now, do you remember anyone carrying two bottles back to their seat, or doing anything that might have concealed a bott
le?”
Max Bouchet thought carefully, probably seeing the scene in his mind, considering each character. At last he said, “No, I don’t. Do you?”
“Nope, I can’t remember anything like that. Amanda Knightbridge confirms that Leo, Skylar and Jimmy didn’t carry a bottle back to the table with them other than their own drink... she couldn’t see Rowlina Roth-Holtzmann.”
“Well, I suppose someone could have hidden it somehow. Dropped it on the floor? Put it... what... up their sleeve?” Bouchet said only half joking. “Maybe it was just a gas pipe blast... Have you checked the alibi’s for Skylar’s murder?”
“Everyone’s except Leo Getty and Rowlina Roth-Holtzmann. But it’s not just the alibis that concern me. It’s who knew I was going to Carvelle’s condo. Jimmy Harmon, Leo Getty and Connie Robinson were actually in Carvelle’s office, and Rowlina Roth-Holtzmann was right outside. And Max, forget the pipe, it was a bottle bomb.”
Max sighed, “So the list is narrowed down to four?”
“There’s one more. Miranda Juarez was on the phone to Connie and could have overheard that I was going to Carvelle’s.”
“Miranda? But, she didn’t get a drink during the meeting,” said Bouchet connecting the dots.
“Miranda was so involved with the beverages that she may have been able to set up the explosive without actually putting the drink on the table herself. Or, she could have had help...”
“But why, what’s her motive?”
“I don’t know that. But I think we have to consider her a suspect. Look Max, this is all speculation, but, I have a feeling something’s about to break... and it might be bad. Please, keep up the security around campus, OK?”
“Guards and security are working round the clock,” he assured me. “Twelve guards will be covering Carl’s memorial service tomorrow. You’ll be there, won’t you?”
“Yes, and I’d guess everyone else will be too. I’ll see you then.”
After I disconnected with Bouchet, I sketched another egg with a question mark on it in the Skylar basket, while I called the numbers I had for both Rowlina Roth-Holtzmann and Leo Getty. The egg could represent Miranda, but also any unknown factor I hadn’t considered. Neither Leo nor Rowlina answered. I left simple messages on their machines to call me back as soon as possible. I thought maybe Leo would, but figured Rowlina was as likely to call me as put a big old rainbow bumper sticker on her car.
I phoned Connie Robinson. Kathryn had told me that Connie was moving to her own apartment, but the number Miranda had given me must have been old. The person who answered was obviously Connie’s mother. She was orneriness personified. I had to pry out of her that Connie was working a volunteer shift at the soup kitchen on lower Hamilton Street.
“Mrs. Robinson, is there a way I can reach Connie now?”
“Now? Why now?” croaked Mrs. Robinson in a cigarette raspy voice, “She’s doing the Lord’s work now, even if it is in that place of sin.”
Huh? This was getting to be too much. “Does Connie have a cell phone?”
“She does have one of those things, but for the life of me I can’t guess why, it’s not like she has any friends to call.”
What a bitch, no wonder Connie moved out. “Do you have the number?” I asked sweetly.
“I don’t even know you...” she snapped back.
“Oh, I understand Mrs. Robinson, it’s no wonder Connie won’t give you the number, after all, she’s a young woman on her own now. She wouldn’t feel she needed to give her private information to you...”
“Well, I certainly do have the number!” she barked. She reeled off the digits in rapid fire to show me just how wrong I was. “Connie can’t keep things from me! Honor thy parents, that’s what she’s been taught to do, when these young girls today stop listening to their pastors and their mothers, well, that’s when they...”
Coo coo ka choo, Mrs Robinson. I could barely keep from ending with bite me, but I just said, “Thanks,” and hung up. I wondered if Connie was as psychologically damaged as a movie-of-the-week teen who had a mother like that would have been. I punched in Connie’s cell number.
“Hello?” said Connie adenoidally.
“Hi Connie, this is Maggie Gale, may I come over to the soup kitchen and talk to you for a few minutes?” I asked directly. Time was a-wastin’ and I had someplace to be later...
“Now?”
“Yes, now.”
“Oh, um... well, I guess...”
“I’ll be there in about ten minutes.” I hung up before she could think up a reason to say no.
I called Kathryn in her office. She answered on the first ring with a tone that reminded me of dark chocolate. We exchanged erotic suggestions and she ended the conversation with, “Don’t use up all your energy working.”
*********
It might be a good idea for all people to do work in homeless shelters now and then. Then more people would understand that homelessness doesn’t happen to people because they’re lazy.
When I entered the fluorescently lit, chlorine scented lobby, I headed for the check-in desk. There was no evidence this shelter was a religious place. No bleeding Jesuses were stapled over the door. No Bible verses were painted on the wall. The posters Scotch-taped all over the place skipped preaching and concentrated on information. Everything from childcare, to senior services to AIDS testing was covered.
Several men of all shapes, sizes and races were standing near the door. They eyed me when I came in, so I eyed them back. Surprisingly, one of them was that bully Shel Druckenmacher, Miranda Juarez’s ex-husband. When he recognized me he hawked like he was going to spit on me. I moved out of range.
A big sign making it clear that drugs and guns were not allowed in the building, hung behind the check-in desk. The man seated at said desk was decidedly sectarian. He beckoned me over with a large hand and an expressionless face. There were several lists on the desk. The headings included: Volunteers, Rules, Officials, Shelter Residents, Children under 18, and a big paper that just had the word NO at the top.
“I’m Maggie Gale, I’m here to speak with Connie Robinson.” I held up my laminated PI license. The guy took it and looked it over as I said, “Connie’s doing a volunteer shift. I just spoke to her on her cell phone.”
“Connie has a cell phone?... Huh.” Was his immediate response. His name badge said Arturo Murcielago. He was balding and heavy with a dark brown mustache, dark skin tones and a savvy look. He spoke slowly in measured rhythm. He didn’t smile, but he wasn’t being rude, just incredulous.
“So, may I see her?”
“Oh, yeah... she’s in the kitchen.” He copied my name, address, and phone number onto the paper headed Volunteers. “Connie’s washing dishes; you can help her.”
I guess he thought I’d balk but it wasn’t like washing toilets, or washing other people’s butts. There are a lot worse things to do in the world than washing dishes “Okey doke,” I agreed.
Arturo placidly called a lanky teenage boy named Taylor over to lead me to the kitchen.
“New volunteer?” Taylor asked quietly as we went down a hall, then pushed through double doors marked Kitchen.
“For today anyway,” I nodded.
“Hey, Connie,” Taylor shouted across the room. She didn’t hear him. “Earbuds,” he shrugged as he turned to leave.
A thin earphones wire snaked up from Connie’s pocket and disappeared under fluffy blond hair pulled back in a ponytail. I hate when this happens. If I shouted to get her attention, it would scare the shit out of her. If I tapped her on the arm she’d probably scream. I found the switch to the ceiling lights and flicked it on and off. Connie wheeled around and saw me. She was startled but at least she didn’t drop a plate, or worst yet, throw one at me.
“Hi, hope I didn’t scare you.”
“Oh, hi, yeah, no, you didn’t.” She couldn’t decide whether to be pleased or nervous that I was there.
“Arturo signed me up to help you. So, what do we do?”
We grabbed rags and bleach cleanser to wipe down the counters.
She asked idly, “How did you know I was here?”
“I called the number Miranda had for you and your mother answered...”
Her head snapped up, “You talked to my mother!?!”
“Why? What’s the big deal?”
“Well, she’s always... she doesn’t like me working here. It’s not Christian... she thinks people who don’t go to our church are hell-bound.”
“She’s entitled to her opinion.”
“It’s not just her opinion, it’s in the Bible,” Connie held her cleaning rag in mid-air as she waited curiously for my reply.
“It’s in the Bible that everybody has to go to your mother’s church? C’mon Connie, you don’t really believe that, do you?”
She didn’t say anything for several moments, intently rubbing the same four inches of counter. Then she erupted. Religion questions gushed out of her like beer from a broken keg.
Finally she cried, “Do you know the part about Hagar? Why does God say Sarah is wrong for being angry with Abraham for sleeping with the maid? Why is it OK? Because that was a long time ago?”
“It was thousands of years ago, and he wanted to have a male child,” I said, watching Connie’s forehead crease with consternation. She was having one of those crises of faith you hear about. I went on gently, “Are you wondering if that means people get to pick and choose what to believe in the Bible?”
“Well, yeah!” she nearly shouted, “yeah, why isn’t that true for everything?”
I said simply “Connie, I think each person has to decide what’s right and what’s wrong.”
“But how do you know what sin is!?!” she demanded.