“We walked to school,” Beverly said.
“And there was no soccer,” I said, remembering games of stickball on Marion Avenue.
“We played with broomsticks and deflated tennis balls,” Beverly said.
“Oh,” said our privileged, unimpressed ten-year-old.
We spared Maddie long speeches about trudging two miles in the snow to get to school, arriving wet and freezing. What was the point? She was too young to grasp the concept. In a few decades Maddie would probably be studying genealogy and wishing she’d paid more attention to us. It was a bonus that at her age she cared so much about our long-ago apartment and her dad’s crib.
Speaking of which, I wondered how Abe’s Field of Dream Fences van was coming along in Arnie’s repair shop. I couldn’t believe Skip wouldn’t have forensics check it out. I’d have to speak to that boy.
We counted at least ten Abraham Lincolns walking past us, including a couple of females. Beverly recognized a young policewoman dressed in tall hat and beard, and I saw through Rosie Norman’s disguise as Honest Abe.
The now infamous (to me) Steve Talley had a leggy blonde on his arm and no fewer than five children in tow. I thought of Dolores’s characterization of his family life and wondered who they all were. A blended family, perhaps. Steve seemed to have no costume other than a black bow tie, and the others were so bundled up I couldn’t see how they were dressed.
More inching along, a short conversation with Lourdes and Kyle (looking more like Rhett Butler than Abraham Lincoln, with his neat facial hair), and then our turn to park, at last. I turned off the ignition and we started the laborious exit, gathering all our skirts, hats, and beaded purses. Maddie’s wide pant legs got caught in her seat belt and we had a rough moment when we thought we’d have to tear them to extract her.
Maddie saw Linda and Jason walking just ahead of us. “Look at Jason! He has a beard! I’m in his group for games, you know.”
“Cool,” Beverly said, in a tone that didn’t quite fit with her outfit—an elaborate green, off-the-shoulder gown, with cinched waist, matching long, fringed handbag, and of course, the Hat.
It was our turn to visit with drivers making their way to the back lot. The Mary Todd van—deep maroon, with no ornamentation except the name of the residence—was in line. We waved to Emma and Lizzie and others I didn’t recognize.
Maddie skipped ahead to join Linda and Jason, her floppy pants, tall hat, and waist-high drum making for an awkward gait.
About ten cars later, I saw it, parked diagonally in the same row as my car. The Escalade. The sun had set long ago, but the Escalade was under a streetlamp and its S-something-CH plate seemed to glow in the dark.
I swallowed hard. I peered closely but the letters in between were hopelessly lost to me unless I tried to scrape off the mud. Or was it paint? Was this even legal—driving around with only a partial plate?
I wished I’d hit it on the way in, just enough to take out a taillight, maybe. Then I could have announced at the ball, “Will the owner of the blue Cadillac Escalade please make him- or herself known.”
Just a fantasy, but it helped me relax as I considered other options. Whoever owned the offensive (to me) vehicle had arrived not much sooner than we did, since people essentially drove single file into the spots.
I tried to remember who had walked by us. Beverly’s neighbors, the Russells; Nadine Hawkes and her aunt Helen; Gail Musgrave; Steve Talley and his family; Lourdes and her son; Linda and Jason. Of all of them, only Nadine was suspect in my mind. I ran through possible ways of staking out the car or sticking a little tracker device on it (not that I had one, but I’d seen them on television).
“Gerry? Something wrong?” Beverly asked.
I knew I’d missed some of her chatter. “Not at all.”
“You have that look—like when you’re making a sketch for a miniature scene. Figuring something out.”
Was I that transparent? Evidently so.
In the lobby of the community center, outside the doors to the ballroom, something had attracted crowds at both ends. Taller than most people there, I was able to peer over a couple of rows of shoulders to see what the fuss was about. A display of Mary Todd-era jewelry? (Gertie had a collection.) Or Civil War guns? (Beader Mabel Quinlan’s husband, Jim, had a collection.) I maneuvered into the right angle eventually and saw what the fuss was about. A computer screen.
There was the model Dolores had told me about, the Talley Restoration Plan for the Nolin Creek Pines neighborhood. The streets, houses, and shops, all in living earth-tone colors, rotated before my eyes. A constant chatter drowned out the audio, but I caught the gist of the message from the onlookers.
“Is that a lingerie shop? Wow.”
“And specialty chocolates. I’ve been to the one in San Francisco.”
“I wish my street had a park like that.”
“And coffee shops!”
“A community pool.”
“What a difference from what’s there now, huh?”
Steve’s plan to attract voters appeared to be in full swing. But I had no doubt that one of Ken’s models would have been so much better.
The scene inside the ballroom was enough to push aside thoughts of rotating condo complexes and errant Escalades. Between the hardworking decorations committee and the zeal with which the citizens of Lincoln Point had thrust themselves into decking themselves out, the result was breathtaking.
I’d caught up with Maddie before we walked through the doors, eager for her reaction. “Wow,” she said. Like Jason’s, her highest approval ratings were usually expressed in one syllable.
A giant Christmas tree stood in one corner, tastefully decorated with dazzling Victorian ornaments.
Each table for eight had a small antique-style lamp. Linda’s last-minute four-inch dressmakers’ models fit perfectly, since the corset-shaped lampshades mimicked a Victorian lady’s torso—a flared top where the bosom would be, then a pinched “waist,” then curved “hips,” with fringe along the bottom.
Dinnerware was in Mary Todd’s favorite sweet briar rose design. We all knew the china was a knockoff produced by a big discount chain, but in the dim lights, next to sparkling glasses and favors, it didn’t matter. The permanent committee chair, Priscilla Davis, was in charge of keeping the place settings. She brought the plates out of storage every year, spent days running them through the industrial dishwasher in the family restaurant, and set the tables herself.
Posters depicting the life of Mary Todd Lincoln lined the sides of the room. One poster documented her 1867 trip to Scotland, and the famous quote: “Beautiful, glorious Scotland has spoilt me for every other country.” Other milestones and artifacts were depicted—her “love is eternal” wedding band, her first Springfield, Illinois, home—treading carefully past the multitude of depressing moments in her life.
The one exception was the death of her husband, for which there was a diorama. In the background was a greatly enlarged photo of Abraham Lincoln with Allan Pinkerton, called by some the “original private eye,” founder of an agency hired by Lincoln for his personal security. A footnote pointed out that Pinkerton’s men did thwart a plot to assassinate President-elect Lincoln, and that at the time of his assassination, Lincoln’s security was in the hands of U.S. Army personnel.
Perhaps this was why the Lincoln Point Police Department officers had no qualms about dressing up as Pinkerton guards for the evening. Not our fault, I could imagine their saying.
The assassination poster showed pictures of Lincoln’s horse-drawn hearse. I looked for Mary among the mourners to make some connection between that event and her birthday ball celebration, but could see nothing. The trivia—the hearse stopped at eleven cities between Washington, DC, and Springfield, Illinois; the casket was in full view through the glass windows of the carriage—was interesting to us Lincolnophiles, however.
Maddie wanted to know if she could use this event (the previously dreaded ball) and all the documentation for
a report to her history class. I thought it was a wonderful idea and once again marveled at her resourcefulness. She removed her drummer boy hat and donned a stovepipe hat and beard from a collection of them in a basket at the door, an annual accommodation (nagging reminder?) for those who neglected to show up in a costume of their choice. Maddie wanted her picture taken as Honest Abe. A nearby Lincolnite photographer obliged and Maddie returned to drummer boy mode.
“If you can e-mail me a copy, I’ll embed it in my report,” she said to the cameraman. He seemed to know what she meant.
I joined the stream of bidders and browsers crowding the table where the items for the silent auction were displayed. The offerings were unique and special—paintings by local artists of the many wineries in surrounding towns, baskets of homemade breads and jams; sets of books by authors who lived in the area. I wasn’t in the mood to bid, however. I was too distracted.
Nadine Hawkes was a couple of people in front of me, inspecting a handcrafted Mary Todd Lincoln doll. Like the First Lady (it was said), the doll had a lovely complexion, clear blue eyes, long lashes, and light brown hair with glints of bronze. She was all in white, in a typical Victorian child’s outfit: linen ankle-length pants with lace trim, topped by a sundress with embroidered flowers around the hem.
I noticed how carefully Nadine handled the doll, setting it down gently on its platform before taking up the pen and writing a number on the bidding sheet in front of it.
A doll collector? Nadine didn’t strike me as the type, which in my mind was someone softer and more nurturing than Nadine had shown herself to be. There were some people who related to pets or to inanimate objects like dolls better than they did to humans, however. Perhaps Nadine was one of them.
Then again, typecasting was a dangerous activity. I remembered Skip’s talking about a lecture he’d heard on attempts in the nineteenth century to correlate certain physiological measurements—length and width of head, lengths of fingers and toes, vertical heights of ears, distance between the eyes, and so on—to criminal behavior.
I looked around the hall with my stalker in mind, wishing I could tell by some measurement who was so interested in my comings and goings. Even the rows of neat stitching on Joanie Russell’s beautiful handmade quilt reminded me of S-something-CH, and I found myself wondering if Joanie owned an Escalade.
When Skip said he’d take care of the tickets to the ball, I thought, how nice. The Lincoln Point Police Department was one of the sponsors, along with its softball team rival, the fire department. I gave my nephew a healthy check and sat back and let him make the arrangements for our table. I should have been suspicious. Skip wasn’t one to willingly take on logistics like this, unless he had an ulterior motive.
His intentions became clear when I found the table that sported place cards for Maddie and me. Skip had selected the party of eight. The other people at our table were Beverly, Skip, June, Linda, Jason. So far, so good. The last spot, between Linda’s and mine, had a neatly lettered place card: Nick Marcus.
I wondered if Nick were within eyeshot of the table. Could I pull off a switch without being caught and labeled rude? Did I care?
Skip, dressed in his Pinkerton grays, came up behind me and whispered, “Nick doesn’t know that many people. I didn’t think you’d mind.”
I whispered back, partly covering my face with my white caroler’s muff. “He’s lived in town all his life. He’s ready to retire from the police force and he doesn’t know many people? That doesn’t say much for his social skills.”
“C’mon. It’s not like I’m making you prince and princess of the ball. I figured you could handle a little friendly conversation.” He gave me a playful punch. “Get in the party spirit, Auntie.”
I paused and breathed in the aromas of roast beef and gravy (real this time, not Linda’s miniatures), cranberries, and buttery biscuits that filled the hall. An eclectic mix of Civil War songs and holiday music wafted through the rafters. A plethora of Queen Victorias and Scarlett O’Haras swooshed by me, along with men in knickerbocker suits and others in the straw hats, striped vests, and canes of barbershop quartets. Golf attire abounded throughout the room, as did décolletage. A few couples already graced the dance floor.
Skip was right. I needed to work up some spirit.
“Hi, Nick,” I said, as he approached the table in his Abraham Lincoln costume (more suitable on his lanky body than on Jason). “Would you like to dance?”
Chapter 16
If I had to follow Skip’s rules for seating, I was going to get something out of the evening, I decided. During dinner, he sat across the table from me, between June and his mother.
“Tell us, Detective Gowen, did Carlos Guzman really have a notebook with names and numbers, as the Lincolnite reported?” I asked, with all the sweetness of maraschino velvet, one of the many “authentic” treats that graced the long dessert table. “I’m assuming the numbers were dollar amounts? Or maybe telephone numbers?”
Skip grunted and forked a piece of roast beef into his mouth.
“We know he was a coyote,” said Linda, not one to miss an opportunity for inside information, or for gossiping in general.
“Did you say coyote?” June asked.
“I guess there aren’t any in Chicago,” Beverly said.
“They’re the lowlifes who take advantage of poor people who want to get across the border from Mexico. Most of the time they take the money but they couldn’t care less about the safety and well-being of their so-called passengers.”
I wouldn’t have started this conversation unless Jason and Maddie had already asked to be excused to go to the game room. There was never a good time or place to expose children to the harsh realities of the world, but a charity ball was definitely off limits. I’d introduced the topic tonight simply to make my nephew pay for trying to manipulate my social life.
“So, if this coyote kept a notebook, it might have names of people he brought here illegally, and maybe he wanted to get more money from them,” June said.
I liked her style.
Skip gave her an annoyed look, and, for all I knew, a warning kick under the table. “Don’t you read the newspaper? Carlos Guzman died from a drunken fall.”
I looked at Nick to gauge his reaction. None. He had chosen that moment to take a pill and a long gulp of water, the Adam’s apple on his long, thin neck moving as he swallowed.
“From that conversation we had at your aunt’s house on Thursday evening, I figured that news release was a cover-up,” June said. “Until you get the evidence you need to charge someone, right? Isn’t that how you do it?”
I wished I could get up and hug June. She gave Skip a look I admired. It was a perfect combination of loving girlfriend and independent spirit.
“Are you the cop in this family now?” Skip asked. Teasing, but not without a touch of aggravation.
“June’s right about the notebook,” I said. “That gives you a long list of possible suspects.”
“Including Dolores and Sofia Muniz,” Skip said and went back to his dinner.
That silenced me for now.
In an age-old ritual, Beverly and I checked under the stall doors before starting our conversation in the ladies’ room. All clear, which was a first in my experience with public events.
“I had no idea Skip was going to seat us with Nick Marcus, Gerry. Honestly.”
“Why doesn’t he nag you or try to set you up?” I asked Beverly. I inspected my lipstick, which I wore about three times a year, whether the situation called for it or not.
“I’m his mother. I can still send him to his room without his Walkman.”
“I think they’re called iPods now.”
Beverly combed her red curls with her fingers. Even though her locks had been squashed under an enormous hat for most of the evening, they had survived beautifully. “So, Gerry, are you telling me you have no interest in dating Nick?”
“That’s what I’m telling you.”
“I
feel it’s my duty to tell you what a nice guy he is. I work with him a lot and he’s very thoughtful and easygoing.”
“I’m happy to hear that.”
“I saw you two dancing out there before dinner. Skip says it was you who asked him.”
“I lost my head for a minute. Really, it will never happen again.”
Beverly, who wore makeup as a matter of course, took my face in her left hand and with her right, did something to my lips, using a stylus like the one I used to push glue around on small pieces of wood. “His wife died a long time ago, maybe five or six years. I mean it’s not like he’s divorced and you have to worry what’s wrong with him.”
“Thanks for telling me.”
“Also, he’s very generous. You know what most guys do, when you go around collecting contributions for a birthday or a retirement cake?”
I nodded, knowing where Beverly was going with this. “Rob Levinson in history used to jingle the change in his pockets and eventually cough up a few coins.”
“Right, and Detective McConnell will even throw pennies into the mix. Well, Nick is not like that. He pulls out his billfold and gives up a five and asks, ‘Is this enough? Let me know if you need more.’ ”
“Admirable.”
“Still no interest?”
I couldn’t imagine why Beverly was being so persistent. “No. Double no.”
She primped her hair one more time. “Okay, then.”
“Okay then, what?” I looked at her grin and got it. “You? Beverly? You’re into Nick?”
She lowered the shoulders a tad on her deep green gown and gave me a flirty smile. “Only if you’re sure.”
“Go for it,” I said. I felt a burst of excitement for Beverly and a heavy burden lift from my shoulders.
It wasn’t until I saw Chrissy Gallagher, one of my best former students, that I remembered her article on Steve Talley’s slum-to-upscale condo proposal in the Lincolnite. Chrissy was in her mid to late twenties, if I calculated correctly. She was tall and slender enough to pull off the sophisticated version of Victorian style—her black dress had a white tuxedo front, a V-shaped cinched waist, a neatly fitted torso, and three rows of ruffles that fanned out at the bottom.
Mayhem in Miniature Page 15
