However, the important thing is not so much that I played well as what happened afterward. Scores were totaled, and I had won 2020 more points than the others. I smiled, thanked the ladies for a lovely afternoon, and got to my feet.
Mrs. Franklin stopped me before I could leave the table. "Wait, we haven't given you your winnings."
Winnings? Nobody had said anything about winnings. I looked around and saw the ladies dig into their purses, bringing out wads of cash. Cash they proceeded to push in my direction. Two-thousand-twenty dollars, to be precise.
"But," I sputtered, "you didn't say we were playing for money."
"Oh, did I forget? We always play for money. Don't we, girls? One dollar a point. It's so much more interesting that way."
"But I couldn't," I protested. "I'm not a regular. I just—"
"Nonsense. You played well, and it's the rule." She scooped up the bills and, opening my purse which I'd left on my chair, stuffed them inside. All the time smiling as if she loved paying out that kind of money.
In fact, maybe she did. People who will play cards for a dollar a point must have lots of it to throw around. Her outfit and the hotel they played in should have warned me.
I backed out of the room in a daze, hailed a cab, and was halfway back to the video store before I suddenly thought of something horrible. What if I had lost instead of won? What if I had to come up with even a quarter of that much money? I nearly fainted right there in the taxi.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Thanks to my unexpected bridge game, I returned to the video store about five minutes past three, and the manager, Mr. Woo, true to his word, had already arrived at the store. The cab ride having restored my equilibrium, I produced one of my Featherstone cards, which he read through round-rimmed glasses that matched his round face. I told him my reason for coming.
"Mr. Woo, I'd like to ask you a few questions about a man who may have been a customer of yours last Saturday."
As I spoke, I pulled Harry Hammond's picture from my purse. That dislodged some of the bills Mrs. Franklin had stuffed in it, and I suddenly found myself kneeling on the floor to pick them up. Mr. Woo was polite and helped, giving me a look which hinted that, despite my card, I must be a small-time drug dealer.
That done, I stuffed the bills into the zippered compartment of my purse, and he glanced at Harry's picture for a few seconds. He pointed with a pudgy finger. "You're asking if I know this man?"
"Yes, do you recognize him?" I felt uncomfortable doing business in the middle of his store and wished he'd suggest we go back to his office or somewhere else, but he didn't. He looked me over suspiciously, as if afraid to be alone with me, as if he thought I carried a pistol in another part of my bag.
I smiled my most innocent smile. "I'm not sure the man came here, but it's very likely. We're trying to trace his whereabouts last Saturday, and I have reason to believe he came into your store around noon to have a videotape copied."
Woo took the photo and studied it, then handed it back so quickly I doubted he'd ever seen him before. "Yes, the gentleman was here."
I took a deep breath and felt my lips turning up in a smile. Good ol' intuition. "And did he come to copy a videotape?"
"Yes and no. Come into my office." Although shorter than I was and probably weighing less, Mr. Woo apparently decided I wasn't dangerous after all. He turned and headed down the hall toward the back of the shop, and I followed.
As I walked, my optimism returned. The earlier delay had proven frustrating, but once again, I felt my intuition was batting a thousand.
Mr. Woo entered a doorway on the left of the hall, and we entered a small windowless office wallpapered with giant movie posters. He went behind the desk and turned his computer on but didn't sit down or suggest I do. So we stood and waited. I felt as if I were in the middle of a gaggle of movie stars. Rambo larger than life. Marilyn with her windblown skirt billowing. Mr. Woo touched some keys, waited again, and touched a few more. "Mr. Hammond, yes."
"Yes," I repeated. "Did Mr. Hammond make the copy himself, or did you or someone else do it for him?"
He read from the screen. "Miss Bartholomew usually makes copies, but we were very busy that day. I made it for him myself."
"Mr. Hammond didn't wait for it to be made?"
"No. I told him to come back in one hour. He agreed to do that. He said he would have lunch in the restaurant across the street."
I grinned. "In that case, you saw the tape. Can you tell me what was on it?"
He looked over at me. "I like to cooperate, you see, but I cannot tell you about the tape. That was none of my business."
"I understand." I did understand. He copied the videotape but didn't watch it during the process. He just did the job as quickly as possible with no snooping or so he said, but I needed to know more. "Can you describe the tape you copied? Did it have a name anywhere on it?"
"No, I didn't see a name. I think perhaps a number." He thought a moment. "Yes, a number and the letter H."
H for Hammond, perhaps. I repeated it for Mr. Woo just to be sure. "You don't remember the number?"
"No."
"Mr. Hammond left the videotape with you to copy and went away for an hour or so, is that right?"
"That's correct. He returned, I gave him the tapes, and he paid me. That is all." He touched some more keys on the keyboard and looked up at me again, smilingly confident he'd told me everything.
"Did you make a copy of the tape to keep for your store records?"
"Oh, no. I gave him the only copy."
Certain I had all the information I could possibly learn, I thanked him for his cooperation and asked him to call if he thought of anything else. We shook hands, and I left the store.
Going back to the corner, I looked for a cab at the same time I pulled out my cell phone and called Brad's number. Voicemail picked up on the fourth ring, and, miffed that he didn't answer, I left a cryptic message, saying I had news but offering no details.
Then I headed for the airport where I discovered I'd have to wait until nine p.m. to get a flight back. I spent that enforced delay in the gate area, alternately reading a paperback book I bought at the newsstand and people-watching. Judging by the clothing worn by the passengers waiting to catch flights to San Francisco, jeans with holes in the knees were still in fashion, and a trip of less than five hundred miles required you to bring two carry-ons and a garment bag the size of a sofa.
Flying was very tiring. Don't ask me why. All you did was sit in a seat. You should get up refreshed, but it didn't seem to work that way. Maybe it was due to breathing last month's air. Thank goodness they didn't let people smoke in airplanes anymore. I mean, who were they kidding with that "non-smoking area" thing? Didn't some comic say that a non-smoking area in an airplane was like having a "no-pee" zone in a swimming pool?
Of course, it was almost eleven by the time I deplaned, walked through the terminal and the parking garage, and drove south. Yet, I didn't go straight home. First, I went to the Residence Inn and knocked on the door of bungalow four. No answer. Then, I inquired at their front office for Mr. Novotny and learned he'd checked out that morning. I drove to his house and rang the doorbell repeatedly, but no one answered there either. I didn't relish the idea of having to wait until the next morning, and my worry grew exponentially.
* * *
On Monday morning, the sky, gray and gloomy, dripped rain. I hadn't been able to fall asleep for a long while the night before and then woke up at six feeling hungry, remembering I'd had no dinner. At six-thirty I gave up trying to go back to sleep and showered and dressed. Although I seldom wore them to the office, I put on a skirt and high heels because I expected to see Carl that morning. My breakfast consisted of orange juice, cereal, and a banana that was softer than I liked. I decided I still had time, so I lingered over the newspaper, actually reading all the comics as well as headlines, Dear Abby, and the bridge column.
Finally, still too early but anxious to see Carl, I left m
y suburban split-level and drove to the office. I parked my car, scampered into the building through the drizzle, and took the elevator up to the fourth floor. Since few renters occupied the offices, the building's owner provided no Muzak, and only the hum of the mechanism accompanied me.
And then I heard two loud cracks. For a minute, I thought something had happened to the elevator and I would be plunged to the basement and lie in a crumpled heap of broken bones until someone found me days later. My heart raced, and my breathing accelerated. However, the elevator came to a smooth stop, and the doors opened. I looked around before getting out. Where had the sound come from, inside or outside? A car crash?
I stepped out and walked down the hall, my heels clicking loudly on the hard floor. I smelled a strange odor, like smoke but different. Then I rounded the corner to the corridor toward our office. One look and my panic came back. A man lay sprawled on the tile, his body blocking our door.
That was more déjà vu than I needed. Less than a week before, I'd come upon a man in the same condition. You tell yourself things like that happened to other people, not you. And then it did happen to you. Adrenaline pumped, my heart pounded. I dropped my purse, keys, and raincoat and ran toward him. My head felt as if it would explode. I knew then what had made that cracking sound.
I reached the body and stooped down. Once more, I looked into Carl Novotny's face, but this time I saw what I presumed to be a bullet hole in his head, another in his neck. He wasn't just knocked out this time. He was dead.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Blood covered the front of his suit and shirt and made a puddle under him. I couldn't breathe. Tears sprang to my eyes and filled my throat. I wanted to scream, but only strangled sounds and breathless gasps came from my open mouth. "Oh no, oh no."
My knees trembled, and I stood up shakily, putting a hand on the wall to steady myself. I felt something wet and realized blood had spattered the wall and I had touched it. I looked at my palm and felt sudden nausea. In addition to my usual queasiness at the sight of blood, I realized that was Carl's blood, Carl's life that had oozed away.
"Oh no." My stomach heaved. I gagged, turned, ran to the ladies' room across the hall, and lost my breakfast in the first toilet.
I didn't know how long I knelt in front of the bowl, shaking with alternate spasms of hot and cold, but realized later it must have been only a few minutes. When I could spit up no more, I rose from the cold tile floor and lurched to a wash basin. I washed my hands and mouth three times, wondering if I'd left blood stains on the toilet bowl but didn't go back to look.
My tongue tasted horrible, and my throat burned. I filled a paper cup with water, rinsing my mouth again and again. Then I gulped some water, swallowing slowly. Finally, I dried my hands and face on six or seven paper towels and staggered out. I had to get back to Carl. I had to do something. Perhaps no one else had heard the shots. Only one other company occupied an office on that floor. Perhaps their employees hadn't come in yet.
In the hallway, I picked up my belongings and, trying not to look at the body, used both quivering hands to insert the key in the lock and turn the knob. I had to step over Carl to get inside, but luckily my legs didn't fail me, and I made it. Hands shaking, I grabbed the desk phone and punched 9-1-1, but when a woman came on the line, I could hardly speak. My mind, irrational, visualized those emergency calls they sometimes showed on the television news, and I blanked out. The woman kept talking to me, and finally, I recited my story.
I sat in the secretary's chair and put my head on the desk. I was hyperventilating, feeling as if I couldn't get enough air, and tears came flooding down again, soaking the tissues I pulled from the drawer. Finally, I heard noises in the hall. One of the men who worked for the other company on our floor poked his head inside and saw me.
"Have you called the police?"
I could only nod.
He turned and talked to someone else in the hall, and I heard other voices. Then Brad walked in, took one look at my face, and came around the desk to put his arms around me. I cried harder, slobbering against his coat, making unintelligible sounds that meant nothing except that I felt engulfed in pain and didn't know what to do about it.
The rest of the morning blurred by. The police came, of course. Also reporters, paramedics, a coroner, and Brad's cop friend, Tom Ortega. And the new secretary—gray-haired, plump, and motherly.
Brad helped me into his office and put me in his own chair, and that's where I sat, feeling more like a defendant in a serious trial than a VIP. I could swear every person who worked in the building, including Velma Edison, who actually didn't, came by at some time or other. To say nothing of tradespeople who'd apparently heard about the murder on the fourth floor and decided to see for themselves. Parry came in and put her arms around me, but I couldn't speak, and she said, "Call me when you feel up to it," and went out again. Even Rose Hammond's attorney showed up, although I couldn't figure out how he learned about it so soon.
I told my story several times to different authority figures who asked questions, forcing myself to remember and relate every minute of finding Carl lying at our door.
"Did you see anyone else, maybe the murderer, in the hallway?" one detective asked.
"No." But the possibility that the killer was still nearby when I found the body made me shiver. I might have been his next victim. Or had he made his escape by then? If so, where did he go and when?
Sometime, well after noon, they took Carl's body away, and then Brad, probably realizing I must be pretty shaken up, even though he didn't know the extent of my relationship with Carl, suggested I go home. I let him drive me there, shed all my clothes, pulled on a sleep shirt, and crawled into bed. I didn't expect to fall asleep. I continued to have bouts of near-hysterical crying, but exhaustion and the body's need to recover from traumatic events finally took their toll, and I dropped off.
When I woke up, I saw darkness inside and out, and I was hungry. Two things filtered into my brain: I had slept a long time, and I had an appetite. Both seemed a little incongruous. Even so, I put on my ratty old slippers and a robe older than Brooke Shields and went into the kitchen.
Nothing in the refrigerator appealed to me, ditto the pantry. I craved something warm and comforting, but I didn't want to cook, even if my fuzzy brain would let me remember how. Instead, I picked up the phone and ordered a pizza to be delivered. While I waited for it, I found a jar of macadamia nuts I'd been saving for my next bridge night, opened it, and had most of them eaten by the time my dinner arrived.
A tray with the pizza and a can of cold root beer in my lap, a stack of paper napkins at my side, and the TV remote close by, I indulged myself, polishing off my dinner with a large scoop of vanilla ice cream topped with chocolate sauce and Cool Whip. I ignored thoughts of what all this could do to my waistline. Old movie after old movie passed before my eyes, and during commercials, I channel-hopped, anything to keep my mind from returning to the image of Carl's bleeding body.
Brad rang the doorbell around nine and said he'd delivered my car. I let him put it away for me, and after determining I seemed to be recovering from my basket-case behavior, he said his ride waited outside, kissed me on the cheek, and left.
Sometime after midnight I fell asleep on the sofa, awoke during a loud commercial, turned off the television set, and returned to bed. Monday had ended. Then I remembered. It had been exactly one week before that Debra Hammond came into the office and started the chain of events that led to my finding Carl's body in front of our door. I wanted to cry but couldn't. I had no tears left. Surprisingly, I went right back to sleep.
* * *
I won't say I felt completely normal Tuesday morning. Even my mirror gave me nasty news. Time may heal everything else, but it does nothing for one's looks. I knew I'd never be quite the same again, and I empathized with doctors, nurses, police officers, and anyone else who had to look at people who died violently. Yet, it was worse when you knew the victim. Death and the idea of dying
came very close. The fact that you, too, would die someday suddenly took on reality. Like they say, life and dying are the only games in town. Still, Carl was young. It shouldn't have been his time.
Dragging myself out of bed, I carried on my normal routine of showering, dressing, and eating without a case of hysterics. Carl was dead. I didn't love him, but had things progressed the way they seemed to be heading, I might have gone to bed with him. If I had, I'd probably feel even worse. However, I reasoned, sooner or later I'd get over the trauma of finding his body. I knew I needed to plunge into work and find out who killed him.
Then my brain cleared, and I remembered. Brad didn't need me. He had a new secretary now. Furthermore, the police were on the case, and probably no one was offering to pay Brad or me to find the murderer. Nevertheless, I knew I wouldn't rest until I did. Could it be the same person who killed Harry? I felt certain of it, even though I had no idea what either of them had done to provoke it.
I picked up my cell phone and pressed One and Send. Brad answered.
"Why are you answering the phone?" I blurted out. "Where's the new secretary?"
"She quit. One look at the dead guy in the hall, to say nothing of all the police and reporters badgering her, and she decided she'd prefer a job in an insane asylum."
My shocked silence turned into laughter. That was getting to be a joke. "Are you serious?"
"Yes, dammit." He sounded annoyed. "I finally decided you were right and asked the agency for a mature woman, and look what happened."
I didn't know how to answer. "Okay, I'm coming in."
He didn't protest.
Dead Men's Tales (Olivia Grant Mysteries Book 2) Page 16
