Mayhem in Miniature

by Margaret Grace

  “Are you blaming me because some hooligan picked my car to vandalize?”

  “What were you and Chrissy Gallagher talking about?”

  “As she told you, we were chatting about the decline of literacy in our society. Newspapers and magazines are filled with photos and very little text. You’d be amazed at the long, wordy stories in newsmagazines years ago. I had occasion to look up an old issue of Time and—”

  “So this is all a huge fluke? You’re snooping around town looking for a murderer, and just by chance your car is targeted by a couple of kids who skipped the ball?”

  “What do you mean snooping around?”

  “I have someone on you.”

  I gave him a wide-eyed look. “Does that mean what I think it means? You’re having me followed?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “By a police car?”

  “A cop, yes. But not in a police car, of course.” Skip smiled, the first I’d seen since before the ball, I realized. “We’re not the Keystone Cops.”

  I had a fleeting image of the Escalade, driven by one of Lincoln Point’s finest, tonight in an Honest Abe costume for further cover. “Where was he while my tires were being lacerated? Inside watching me dance?”

  “He must have figured you were safe with all us Pinkertons around.”

  At least I wasn’t being stalked. I thought it strange that an unmarked LPPD car would have a vanity plate, but maybe they were using private cars these days, or using the personalized plates as a distraction. It worked for me. A warm ripple ran through me and I felt a release of tension.

  Then annoyance kicked in.

  “Why are you following me?”

  “I took you up on the van angle and went to talk to Abe at the hardware store. You know, Field of Dream Fences, with the bars and all.”

  “So you do listen to me. I’m amazed.”

  “Abe tells me, ‘What a coincidence. Your aunt was just in here asking about the van, too.’ ” How nice to live in a small town. “I put out an informal BOLO.”

  I frowned. BOLO, BOLO . . . it was on the tip of my tongue.

  “Be on the lookout,” Skip said. “For two reasons. One, you might be in trouble, and two, you might be pursuing something else we should know about.”

  “I’m flattered.”

  “Don’t be. You were seen at Video Jeff’s. I must admit we were baffled there. Until we figured out that Gus Boudette, the Mary Todd van driver worked there, and so on and so on.”

  “Does all this mean that you’re warming to my idea that Sofia Muniz was framed?”

  “It’s possible, yes.”

  “What about the van? Did you find anything in it?”

  “Our forensics guys looked it over. There was nothing obvious, but we sent it to San Jose where they have a much better setup.”

  “Are you releasing Sofia?”

  Skip sighed heavily. “Can’t do it yet, Aunt Gerry. The blood results are back and it was definitely Carlos Guzman’s all over the lady’s clothes.”

  “But—”

  Skip showed me his palms. “That’s enough. I’ve already told you too much. Just stay out of it, okay?”

  “You admit my idea to follow up on the bars and the van was a good one, don’t you?”

  “Maybe. Just maybe. It depends what we get from San Jose.”

  “One more thing. Did you know that Gus Boudette has probably skipped town? I talked to a couple of his roommates.”

  “I know. We were on you there, too. We’re looking for him.”

  “Isn’t it possible that it was Gus who framed Sofia and has now just fled?”

  Skip shook his head, still covered by his Pinkerton cap. “Do you have a motive handy? We don’t.”

  “How long have you been looking into it? If you didn’t even think of it until after you saw me in his neighborhood, that’s what”—I looked up at the big clock on the city hall tower—“seven or eight hours, during most of which you were dancing. And one more thing—”

  “You’ve already said that.”

  “Then, two more, okay? Gus Boudette went straight to Nolin Creek Pines to find Sofia. He told us that. But, you know what? Nowhere in Sofia’s files does it have that address.”

  “It’s somewhere.”

  I shook my head. “Dolores worked very hard to keep her past address off the record. Whoever knew where to look, it was because they took her there.”

  Skip grunted, in a tone that said “interesting.”

  I waited him out this time.

  “Okay,” he said, after a moment. “I will definitely put that in the mix.”

  “Huh?”

  “I’ll give it some thought, add it to the list of things to check. You know, investigate.”

  I laughed, more from nervousness than amusement. “Thanks.”

  Skip pointed in the direction of my car and the workers, who were finishing up with my wheels. The smaller of the two men carried my four battered tires to the truck and threw them into the large bed. “See that? It’s not funny.”

  “I know. I want you to find out who did this. Isn’t there some kind of database for this? A file on previous tire slashers? Or were you thinking of pinning this on Sofia Muniz also?”

  “Only if she managed to get past her guard.”

  “That’s another thing. What can you possibly hope to accomplish by essentially imprisoning an old woman who hardly knows what day it is?”

  “It’s for her own good.” It didn’t seem that long ago that his mother and I had said that to him. I didn’t see how it applied to Sofia. “Believe me, I’m hoping you’re right, that some kids with too much time on their hands picked your little red car to party with.”

  “At least you’re not blaming Jason Reed this time.” A reference to the many times Jason was accused of any and all mischief within a certain radius of his home and school.

  “That was a low blow.”

  “I suppose.”

  “Look, we have to cover all bases and take into account that this tire disaster might be related to the Guzman case. So I want you to pretend it’s almost Christmas, and you have to get a tree—”

  “Christmas is almost two weeks away, and I have a tree, remember?”

  “Then make up the bed for my cousin Richard, and do Auntie things, okay?”

  “I suppose.”

  “Make me some ginger cookies.”

  “Okay.”

  “And by the way, no one says hooligan anymore.”

  “Well, no one refers to the Keystone Cops, either.”

  Skip followed me home in a department car. I half expected to look back and see S-something-CH on the license plate. I made a note to ask him what the significance of the word was, whatever its middle letters. It occurred to me there might not even be letters in between, like a heart. S-someone loves CH.

  There were no surprises along the way to my Eichler neighborhood on the north side of town, but Skip walked in with me and checked my house, room by room. I was required to stand in the entryway while he did this.

  I looked wistfully at the house next door where my granddaughter was sleeping, I hoped. June’s lights were out except for a few glowing night lamps. I was confident that one of them was in Maddie’s temporary bedroom. I thought of remarking to Skip what a wonderful person June Chinn was, but didn’t want to make too big a deal of the relationship. She wouldn’t be the first of Skip’s girlfriends whom we all loved and had to do without eventually.

  Skip gave me a hug at the door. “I love you, you know,” he said.

  I knew that, and that he had only my best welfare at heart. I was glad we parted friends.

  I had a message on my answering machine from Chrissy Gallagher. She must have called me immediately upon arriving home, even before extracting herself from her high-collared, cinch-belt Victorian gown.

  “So nice to see you tonight, Geraldine. I’d love to chat with you again. How does tomorrow sound? Give me a jingle at . . .”

  Gone was “Mrs. P
orter,” I noticed. We were now partners in journalism.

  I was too tired to decide what to do about Chrissy. I didn’t want her to go off on her own willy-nilly, printing what I’d said at the ball, but neither did I feel right meeting her and sharing even more information. It was getting harder and harder to keep straight what I knew from my own snooping (I was sure a better word would come to me after a night’s sleep) and what I learned from Skip. While he didn’t exactly swear me to secrecy, I intended to act as though he did.

  Also, I had a meeting with Dolores at ten in the morning at the Mary Todd. I could hardly remember why we were getting together, except that it had to do with how she could afford to keep her grandmother in such luxury. It didn’t seem to matter at the moment.

  There was Maddie to think of. I’d have to find the words to downplay tonight’s tire incident. I’d promised her that we’d spend Sunday putting the finishing touches on the Christmas decorations in the house and yard, and shopping for gifts for her parents.

  I peeled off my caroler’s outfit and ran through the possibilities for someone to take care of Maddie in the morning while I met Dolores. June wouldn’t be working, but I didn’t want to impose on her. I’d probably already cut into her weekend time with Skip.

  Neither did I want to call on Beverly. She’d been doing too much lately and I wanted her around for a very long time. I also wanted her to have enough energy for her burgeoning dating life.

  My best bet was Linda, who’d be working tomorrow at the very site of my meeting with Dolores. I’d offer Maddie the employee lounge again, this time with her own videos, and we’d have a Sadie’s treat for lunch.

  With all I had ahead of me—wrapping presents, cleaning out the guest room for Richard and Mary Lou, planning the menu for Christmas dinner, getting the last of my cards in the mail—I crawled into bed wondering if Ethel Hudson had been at the ball. My last thought before falling asleep was to remember to ask Nadine if she had delivered the See’s candy.

  Chapter 18

  I had only a few minutes of quiet with my coffee before Maddie bounded into the house on Sunday morning, before eight o’clock, her new soccer ball under her arm. June trailed her, carrying the bundles I’d thrust on her so I could wait with Skip for my car to come back from life support.

  “June has cable and DIRECTV and DSL,” Maddie said, in an accusatory tone.

  “Maybe you should just move in with June,” I said, planting a kiss on her uncombed red curls. Apparently June didn’t demand much grooming, either. Not the first time it crossed my mind that June might make a better grandmother.

  June, dressed for her morning run, smiled at us. “We had a good time, but don’t let her fool you. All she talked about last night was her grandmother. How Grandma reads to her, how Grandma fixes her pillow, how Grandma teaches her crafts, and on and on.”

  “Wait till she hears what Grandma has in mind for today,” I said.

  “Uh-oh,” Maddie said, tapping her soccer ball with her foot so it rolled across the atrium. I knew she was giving it a hard mental kick.

  “Don’t worry. Our route includes Sadie’s,” I told her. “It can’t be all bad.”

  “Again?” Maddie said, as I gave her the itinerary.

  A second breakfast of cookies and milk had done only a little for her spirits.

  “How about a little dollhouse work?” I suggested. “We don’t have to leave until quarter to ten.”

  “We need a couple of pillows,” Maddie said. “I was thinking of putting two on the loveseat, and a small one in the crib.”

  “Let’s go.” I led the way to her room, where I kept my fabric.

  Minutes later we were rummaging in a three-tiered storage cart, looking for scraps with the right designs. Maddie put aside a pale yellow, narrow stripe for the crib (excellent choice). She picked up a bold floral for the loveseat. The flowers were much too big for a tiny pillow, but I didn’t say a word. I watched her hold up the piece and turn it around at various angles. She held her thumb and index finger about an inch apart, roughly the size of the pillow-to-be, and moved them over the fabric. Then she discarded the design in favor of a smaller print.

  “I saw you do that when we were looking for material for the bedspread,” she said, grinning.

  She may not have known exactly why I hugged her so hard.

  How could I drag this child to my boring excursions when she gives me so much pleasure? I berated myself. Today was definitely the last time.

  We took the materials out to the atrium, so pleasant in the morning light.

  “We need stuffing,” Maddie said after we’d cut the fabric and hand-stitched (that word, a possible for S-something-CH,rang in my ears) three sides to make a pouch. Maybe the wife or girlfriend of my cop chaperone was a miniaturist.

  “The stuffing is already here,” I said.

  “I don’t see it.”

  “What do you see?”

  “Not the cotton batting. That’s in the other room.”

  “No, not the cotton batting.”

  Her eyes darted around the atrium. She had that intense look that I’d seen on her grandfather when he was focusing on one thing and one thing only.

  “I don’t see any stuffing.”

  “Shall I tell you where it is?”

  “Give me a hint.”

  “Okay. We need a very small amount. If we use the regular polyester stuffing or cotton batting, such a tiny gob will be very stiff. The pillow will not flop nicely. We need something—”

  “Loose! Like tiny rocks!” she said, pointing to the gravel in the bed around the atrium.

  I hadn’t thought of pebbles. “That would work, or . . .”

  She held up her hand and gave me a satisfied smile. She reached over and picked up the saltshaker I kept on the table.

  We high-fived, then set to work. We filled the pouch with salt, stitched the last side, and inspected it. I placed it on the table, took my finger and moved some grains around, making a head mark.

  “Wow. Cool.”

  I figured I’d redeemed myself a bit.

  After our pillow session, Maddie was a much less reluctant passenger in the Ion (with its four new tires), holding on to her tote of videos and a package of ginger cookies from my freezer. If the employee lounge at the Mary Todd was to become my day-care center, the least I could do was contribute to the snacks.

  “Just an hour at most. Then we’ll go shopping wherever you want. How’s that?” I asked.

  I caught her expression in my rearview mirror. “Resigned” came to mind.

  “Fine,” she said.

  No “wow” or “cool.” But no “nuts,” either. I was grateful for the “fine.”

  I handed Maddie off to Linda, feeling like I was sentencing her to a prison term. She headed for the lounge, her shoelaces hanging down the sides of her sneakers, while Linda and I were still talking. It bothered me that she knew just which way to turn.

  Linda and I spoke simultaneously.

  “Did you find out anything about Ethel Hudson?” from me.

  “When can I bring Jason by again?” from her.

  There was the same overlap in our answers.

  “Not yet. I just got here a few minutes ago, and I have to do my rounds first.”

  “Has he done the homework I gave him yesterday?”

  The strains of “I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus” lightened the moment. As did a troupe of children dressed like Santa’s elves marching loudly through the lobby, bound for one of the recreation rooms. Morning entertainment, evidently.

  “You first,” Linda said. “What is it you want to know exactly?”

  “I’d like to know if she exists,” I said. Linda’s quizzical look pointed out to me how odd that sounded. “I’m looking into something for Dolores.”

  “Okay, I get it. I’ll see what I can find out. Where are you meeting Dolores?”

  “She says there’s a small parlor on the third floor of the care center.”

  “Uh-huh
. I’ll take you there, and we can talk on the way.”

  About Jason, I presumed, but I had one more clarification. “Can you also find the names of Mr. Mooney’s relatives? Maybe Ethel Hudson is one of them.”

  “I’ll see what I can do. I have to time it when certain people are on break.”

  I didn’t want to know more than that.

  The elevator music was less upbeat than the music piped through the lobby. We heard the kinds of bland arrangements that made even “Jingle Bell Rock” sound like a waltz.

  “Has Jason done anything with the outline I gave him?” I asked Linda.

  “He worked at the video place yesterday afternoon and we were out late last night, like everybody else, Gerry.”

  I understood her tone of annoyance and defensiveness. Of course, Jason would have had very little time to work on an essay. I’d done so much, and so much had happened to me in the last twenty-four hours since my session with him that I’d lost track of time. “Sorry, I forgot how busy he is,” I said. “Let’s wait until he has a chance to work on what we talked about yesterday, then we’ll schedule another day.”

  That seemed to satisfy her.

  As soon as we exited the elevator I saw Dolores pacing the floor in front of the little parlor. It was two minutes after ten o’clock.

  I questioned the choice of the Abraham Lincoln quote on the wall of the visiting area in the care center: “Die when I may, I want it said of me by those who knew me best, that I always plucked a thistle and planted a flower where I thought a flower would grow.” The sentiment gave the small, windowless room the feel of a mortuary parlor. I imagined a minister saying of a dear departed, “He always planted a flower . . .” and so on.

  Not wanting Dolores to have the upper hand because of her power outfits, I’d dressed better than I normally would on a casual Sunday morning, in brown slacks and a new beige sweater set (I was glad they were back in fashion). I needn’t have bothered. Dolores was in what I might call Nolin Creek Pines clothes—jeans and a hooded plain gray sweatshirt that, though clean, looked no better than what I might wear gardening. Only her knee-length black boots looked nice and highly polished.