“Uh-huh.”
“Not that far from the shopping center we’ve been to.”
“Uh-huh.”
“What a coincidence.”
“Uh-huh,” she said yet again, looking through her backpack, emerging with a package of M&Ms.
“Does your dad do business with them?”
“I don’t know. He gets letters from them sometimes.” She gave me an embarrassed look. “I pulled that envelope out of the recycle trash in his office. It was clean, really.”
“Oh, yes, I noticed how clean it was.” I drummed my fingers on the steering wheel. I couldn’t think of a way to probe further without alarming Maddie. I’d have to be patient and on the alert for another opportunity.
“Do you think Sadie will give you extra nuts today?” I asked her.
“Extra nuts and extra whipped cream. Yeah!”
She offered me the M&M bag. I took a couple thinking that chewing would use up some of my nervous energy.
What I wanted to ask Maddie: Does Daddy seem upset after he gets those letters from Stanford? Has he mentioned feeling ill?
I wondered if Richard had been roaming the state, going to different medical centers for tests or treatments for an unknown, life-threatening illness.
I knew he wouldn’t want to worry me prematurely.
Too late.
Chapter 8
Maddie and I clocked into the lobby of the Mary Todd at ten thirty, according to the oversize timepiece on the wall at reception. The number of decorations seemed to have doubled in a day. Massive wrapped presents that I thought must be fake (that is, empty boxes) were spread out in front of the fireplace. Extra Christmas trees had sprouted on the end tables and bookcase shelves. A giant menorah competed with a red metal sleigh for the center of a large coffee table in an alcove. I expected Santa any minute.
Linda met us at the desk and offered Maddie an alternative to sitting with octogenarians for an hour and a half.
“I can take you to the employee lounge. There’s a vending machine, and also a TV and VCR,” Linda told Maddie. “And a bunch of videos for when staff members have to bring their kids to work.”
I took her indulgence toward my granddaughter to mean that she was sorry she’d hung up on me during our disagreement over tutoring Jason. This was her pattern: never apologize for poor behavior, simply make up for it another way. If only I could figure out what to do next. Tactic number one, pretend Linda had never told me her son was flunking English (then she might never bring it up again, either); or, tactic number two, bring it up and give her a list of tutors I’d recommend (in which case, she might hang up on me again or turn her back now).
I expect it was not the videos that swung Maddie toward the lounge, but rather that she foresaw another opportunity to hold court with attentive adults.
I arrived at the ground-floor classroom at ten thirty-five, more or less on time for my crafts session. A sign reminding the residents of the schedule had been duly posted on the door. I’d had no trouble last year convincing the coordinator of activities to add my favorite Mary Todd Lincoln quote to the sign: MY EVIL GENIUS, PROCRASTINATION, HAS WHISPERED ME TO TARRY ’TIL A MORE CONVENIENT SEASON. I didn’t know the context in which Mrs. Lincoln used the sentence, but it seemed perfectly suited to inspire crafters to waste no more time getting to their projects.
I didn’t think being five minutes late qualified as delinquent enough to have someone else take over the classroom, but there he was in my seat at the front of the room. Detective Eino (Skip) Gowen Jr. He must have left his office immediately and driven right past Maddie and me as we strolled up Springfield Boulevard on the way to Sadie’s.
Worse, he’d already charmed the class members, as evidenced by indulgent looks from the women. Not too many cute, young, redheaded boys walked these halls, I suspected. I noticed Emma and Lizzie at the front table, having figured out which day of the week to expect a class. For my sake, I wished they wouldn’t wear nearly matching housedresses, color their hair the same (ash blond) hue, wear rimless glasses from the same designer, and use identical hand gestures.
Sitting on a stool behind and to the left of Skip was a plump, fifty-something woman I didn’t recognize. I squinted (producing a strange-looking smile, I was sure) as I passed her, the better to read her badge. On the lapel of her expensive-looking suit was a gold rectangle with black lettering: NADINE HAWKES, FINANCIAL MANAGER. A tiny cameo of Mary Todd Lincoln—a widely known photo, and the home’s logo—graced the corner of the rectangle.
I thought “financial manager” was a somewhat high rank to be attending this crafts class-cum-interview session. Was “escorting” a police detective a plum assignment? I’d have to ask Linda later.
Gertie, the knitter, and a few drop-ins whose names I didn’t know (except for my new friend, Sandy Sechrest) had all raised their hands and were talking over each other.
“I knew her well.”
“I knew her better.”
“I was here when she joined us.”
I presumed this was in response to a question from Skip about who knew Sofia Muniz. Even Mr. Mooney, who always pretended not to be paying attention (maybe in his day only girls were obedient students?), had his good ear turned in Skip’s direction.
“We sat together in the theater sometimes,” he said. “And I’ve been to her suite.” I wondered if the Wandering Irishman had simply drifted into Sofia’s room.
The classroom was abuzz with side comments on the visit of the young policeman. What happened to interviewing suspects and witnesses separately? I wondered. I anticipated Skip’s explanation—that with a group like this, where there were most likely no suspects among them, but only innocent witnesses and many contradictory views, there was a better chance of getting to the “truth” in a communal setting.
“And here’s your instructor,” Skip said, with a grand gesture toward his aunt, now occupying a seat at a front table. “I don’t want to interfere with your class, Mrs. Porter, but it would help our investigation if I could have a few more minutes.” He addressed this plea (using his most Cary Grant- like voice) to me. I was more annoyed than the occasion called for that Skip hadn’t waited for me to begin his interview. I knew most students showed up at least ten or fifteen minutes early, so, I calculated, he’d already had about twenty minutes with them.
But what could I say? I didn’t want to be charged with lack of cooperation with the LPPD. I gave the detective a warm smile. “Certainly, Detective Gowen,” I said. “Take all the time you need.” A worried look crossed his face as he saw me opening my notebook. I clicked on my pen and smiled.
“So, try to think back a few days or even a week,” said Cary Grant (everyone in the room except Skip would know who Cary Grant was). “Did anyone notice Mrs. Muniz behaving any differently lately?”
Hands shot up again. Ms. Hawkes shifted her body on the stool nervously. Maybe she was worried that her residents would say something embarrassing to the management. Or maybe her chubby body was uncomfortable on the backless stool.
“She talked about her baby great-granddaughter and how awful it was she had no father.” (I knew Sofia had only one great-granddaughter, Ernestine, who was no baby.)
“She missed Nolin Creek Pines more than ever.” (I knew this.)
“She had a fight with the gardener.” (Really?)
“Is the gardener who was killed the one she had the fight with?” Skip asked, smooth as silk.
“Yes, Carl Tirado. She had a fight with him yesterday.”
“No, the fight was with her own granddaughter.” (Over what?)
“No, no, the fight was with Gus Boudette, our van driver.”
Ms. Hawkes frowned at that, clearly more comfortable with personal comments about Sofia, as opposed to observations related to her institution.
“She got mad at the cook. She said he made a poor excuse for a quesadilla. He spelled it wrong on the menus and used American cheese.”
In the background, Ms. Hawkes gri
maced, as if criticism of the Mary Todd cook was more distasteful than a murdered gardener.
The non sequiturs followed (so to speak) quickly.
“I’ve been here since the residence opened and nothing like this has ever happened.”
“It’s only been open three years.”
“So we should expect a resident will commit a murder every three years?”
I stopped taking notes.
Skip thanked the group and promised to visit again soon (hardly, I thought).
Ms. Hawkes stepped down from her stool perch, straightened to her full five feet nine inches (I guessed, but about my height at any rate), and adjusted her skirt, too tight for her wide hips and thighs. Her man-style haircut, with almost no extra strands to “bounce,” made her a formidable sight. “Thank you, Detective Gowen. We hope this investigation will be over soon and we can all go back to the peace and comfort we’ve come to expect from Mary Todd living. We know you and all the good men and women of the Lincoln Point Police Department are working very hard to put an end to this distressing situation.”
“Distressing to whom?” I muttered, inaudibly I hoped. Ms. Hawkes, with her thick lips, sounded more concerned about the image of the Mary Todd than about her residents who might be upset at the situation. Or for possibly another member of the Lincoln Point community who was a murderer.
It struck home to me that the murderer might indeed be a resident or a staff member at the Nancy Hanks or even the Mary Todd. If I had to say, I’d guess I’d been picturing a lowlife who crossed into Lincoln Point from San Jose. I pictured this drifter murdering Carlos Guzman for no reason and taking advantage of a wandering senior citizen by smearing her with blood to frame her. It made sense to me. I wondered what Ms. Hawkes’s theory of the case was. I thought I knew Skip’s, regrettably.
Skip shuffled his feet, his little “tell” that he was eager to leave.
Ms. Hawkes opened her arms to the group. “Ladies and gentlemen”—she nodded toward Mr. Mooney—“thank you all for your cooperation this morning. Please feel free to contact my office if you have any questions whatsoever. Now we’ll send the nice police officer back to work and let Mrs. Porter have her arts-and-crafts time.”
By then I was so aggravated by her condescending tone to the crafters, the police department, and me, that I wanted to make a little round Play-Doh model of her and dunk it into a swimming pool (easily constructed using the kidney-shaped pans that were ubiquitous in hospitals).
I saw Skip head for the door and bumped (only slightly) into Ms. Hawkes’s curvy body as I hurried to catch up with my slippery nephew. “Not so fast, Skip. Why did you start without me?” I whispered. “You used my information that they’d all be here together and then you didn’t include me.”
“That’s what cops do,” he said. If he hadn’t leaned over and given me a kiss—“Love you, Auntie,” he added—I might have stayed angry with him.
I looked back into the classroom. Ms. Hawkes had left. Some of the more enterprising students had become immediately engrossed in measuring, cutting, painting, or gluing. Others continued talking.
I considered how to proceed. My usual format was to present a “tip” at the beginning of each class and then wander among the tables helping each participant as best I could. I decided to forgo the tip today and work the room. I tied my heavily loaded crafts apron around my waist and approached the first table.
Of course Emma and Lizzie were working on similar projects, which were more like scrapbooking (for their grandchildren, who probably looked as much alike as they did) than miniatures. I wondered why they didn’t just sign up for the straight scrapbooking class on Mondays, but maybe that was the day they did twin calisthenics. Mostly, Emma and Lizzie sat side by side arranging photos, tasseled programs, and ragged ticket stubs on typical oversize scrapbook pages. I was able to help with the occasional three-dimensional value-added item, like a piece of fabric made into a prom dress, or a scrap of leather fashioned into a suitcase for the “trips we have taken” page.
“I miss Sofia, don’t you?” I said to Lizzie and Emma.
They both nodded. “Lizzie saw her that night” (aha, it must have been Emma speaking). Between focusing on a way to remember who was who (the one addressed as Lizzie had a bigger nose) and wanting to know more about Sofia’s last evening before the murder, I felt a headache coming on. I persevered.
“Where did you see Sofia, Lizzie?” I asked.
“In the garden.” That much I knew. “It was very late.” More interesting.
“Was she talking to anyone?”
“Her granddaughter,” Emma said. “They were arguing.”
This is no use, I thought. Dolores hadn’t seen her grandmother that night; she’d simply called her at seven thirty to say good night. I offered the women a suggestion for making tiny paper flowers into a model corsage (a la 1940s proms) and moved on to Mr. Mooney. Maybe the Wandering Irishman, Sofia’s movie partner, had some juicy tidbits about her activities this past week.
Mr. Mooney had the most intricate and finely crafted project. His nearly bald head was bent over the half-scale (one-half inch equals one foot) schoolroom he was building for his great-granddaughter who taught third grade in rural Kentucky. The tiny wooden desks were stained to look old and worn. They were the old-fashioned combination school furniture, with desk and pew-type chair attached by a metal bar that sat on the floor. The “legs” holding up the desk and chair were painted to look like ornate metal supports. A pot-bellied stove graced the corner of the room; stencil-shaped alphabet letters were arranged across the top of a blackboard made of black construction paper. Here and there names and initials were carved into the tops of the desks. I knew the elaborate Jane was for his great-granddaughter. A heart surrounded a pair of initials: JM+LF. James Mooney and . . . ? I imagined a lovely young Laura or Lucy, possibly JM’s wife of many years.
I often wished I could be in the room to see the delighted expressions when my crafters presented their finished products to their family members.
Linda, an excellent craftswoman herself, usually stopped by to admire Mr. Mooney’s work. And to pick up some tips for her own projects. Not today, however. I hoped it was because she was busy gathering intelligence for me or checkingon Maddie, and not because she wasn’t ready to face me over the tutoring Jason issue.
“I’ll bet Ethel Hudson is the one who knows it all,” Mr. Mooney whispered to me.
I bent over to hear him better. “Excuse me?”
“Ask them about Ethel Hudson. She’s probably on vacation, but she lives in a special room. She gets checks from the bank all the time. I think she’s the one who can tell you anything you want to know about Sofia Muniz or anyone else.”
“Thank you, Mr. Mooney,” I said, scratching my head with a plastic scorer.
Ethel Hudson was not a name I’d ever heard, but my association with the staff and residents of Mary Todd was limited to Linda Reed and the people who took my classes. I filed the name under “miscellaneous.”
At the back table, struggling with a small block of wood and a much-too-large paintbrush was Sandy Sechrest, the woman in the flat next to Sofia’s. I’d never seen her in class before. In front of her was an old-style metal box of paints, like the kind I had in first grade (probably now issued to bright two-year-olds). Its little circles of primary colors were mostly caked dry. When I approached her she looked up at me and frowned. The expression could have related to the person who had given her inferior supplies, but I suspected it also had to do with her unhappy experience with me yesterday.
I decided to start out on a first-name basis.
“Can I help you with that, Sandy?” I asked. “I’m Geraldine. I was with Sofia’s granddaughter, Dolores, yesterday.”
“I know who you are. I’m old, but I’m not crazy.”
“I’m sure you’re not, Sandy. I was surprised you didn’t have anything to say to the police officer who was here.” (A little stretch of the truth couldn’t hur
t.)
“Why should I? No one believes me. You didn’t believe what I told you.”
“Why don’t you tell me again?”
She sighed and focused on her unwieldy paintbrush.
“I promise to listen very carefully this time,” I said.
Another sigh, this one her own form of condescension. “I saw them take Sofia to jail in the van. It was light brown and had bars on it.”
Yesterday it was a yellow bus. Another dead end? Unfortunately, yes. I reached into my apron pocket and pulled out a thin brush and a bottle of wood paint.
“These might work better for you, Sandy. What are you making?”
Sandy stood up, not happy. She’d seen through to my disbelief. She put her wet child’s paintbrush in the box and banged it shut. She was out the door in a flash, leaving behind a pitiful block of wood streaked with bloodred paint.
I was angry with myself for my insensitivity, obviously insulting a well-meaning old woman. I was no better than Financial Manager Hawkes. Sandy had come for companionship, most likely, and was willing to share her information and I’d been patronizing. I’d probably never see her in class again. I groaned at the thought that I’d given miniaturists a bad name.
Linda came by with Maddie about twenty minutes after noon, just as I finished cleaning up the room. Mary Todd seniors were a neat group, but there was always a wayward strip of glue dots or a pair of scissors or a sliver of nude wood to pick up.
“I can take my lunch break now,” Linda said. “Do you want to eat here with me?”
All was well between us, I assumed, gratefully.
I felt more than heard Maddie’s moan. I knew she was comparing Sadie’s Ice Cream Shop on the one hand, with institutional boiled beef with carrots and mashed potatoes on the other.
“We had plans—” I started.
“Oh, not in the employee cafeteria,” Linda said, guessing one reason for our reluctance. “Now that I’m full time, I get to use the main dining room twice a month, with up to four guests.” She seemed to stand straighter as she threw back her shoulders. “And it’s free.” I had another surge of delight at Linda’s newfound good fortune, which had been a long time coming. So what if she had a lapse into ill temper now and then. “It has a terrific menu and a great chef. We’re even listed in the Lincoln Point tour guide.”
Mayhem in Miniature Page 8
