“You said you didn’t know anything about his business dealings.”
“That’s true. Once we got serious, I quit my job.” She licked her lips. “Ellie, if I thought it would bother you, I would have told you. But you were just so wonderful when we had coffee, and I was so — “Her voice trailed off. “I’d been doing a lot better, you know. In large part because of you.” She pulled something out of her bag. “I was hoping you’d take a look at his. But — if you don’t want to, I understand.”
I stood there. I didn’t know what to do.
She must have taken that as a rejection and turned away from the door. “It’s okay. Just forget about it.” She started back toward her car, her shoulders slumped.
I waited until she was almost at the curb. “Hold on, Lisa.”
***
I opened the clasp of the envelope she handed me and drew out a small photo. Turning it over, I saw a black and white image of a farmhouse in the center of a grassy field. The house had clapboard siding and a wraparound porch in front. Prairie grass on both sides of the house stretched to a line of trees in the back. It was a wide angle shot, but very grainy, and I couldn’t pick out any details. Something about it felt old—like it had been snapped with a Brownie camera and stuck into an album with those white corner holders.
“What is this?” I asked.
Lisa shrugged. “I don’t know. That’s why I’m spooked. It came in the mail.”
I turned over the envelope. Lisa’s name and address were typed on the front. The cancellation stamp indicated it had been mailed from downtown. But that was it. There were no other markings on the envelope. No return address.
“Was there a note?”
“Nothing.”
I studied the picture again. “Why bring it to me?”
She looked down, as if suddenly shy. “I—I know you’ve had some experience with things like this. And, like I said, well….” Her voice trailed off.
“The quality of the shot is lousy. What do you think I can do?”
“I’m not sure, but you’re a video producer…”
“Lisa, this is a still. It’s a different technology.”
She looked at me steadily.
“Why don’t you just forget about it? Throw it away? You know how screwed up the post office is these days.”
“No.” Her voice was sharp. “It was addressed to me. I—I can’t. And after what happened to Edward, I’m scared.” She wrapped her arms across her chest. “Ellie, I understand if you don’t want to help. But is there anyone you know who would?”
I looked at her. Her face was pale and drawn. Dark circles ringed her eyes. I thought about the loss she and Sam had suffered. How, after a tragedy like that you analyze, rework, and second-guess everything, wondering whether there could have been something, anything you might have done to prevent it. I’d done that when my mother died.
I sighed. “Leave it with me.”
***
Denny Horton was a commercial photographer who escaped to the country after burglars made off with the equipment from his Chicago studio. I hadn’t seen him in over a year, but after I dropped Rachel at school the next morning, I called and headed out to Kenosha.
“Ellie.” He wrapped me in a bear hug when I arrived. “Great to see you. Come on in.”
He’d grown a full beard, probably to compensate for the expanding area of shiny pink skin on his head. But he still had the same twinkle in his eye, as if he’d just heard the funniest joke in the world and couldn’t wait to pass it along.
Heavy furniture and faded raglan rugs gave his living room a timeless feel. The smoky aroma of bacon hung in the air. I tried to ignore how much my mouth watered.
“You’ve done well for yourself.”
Denny’s eyes crinkled at the corners. “You ain’t seen nothin’. Come on up”
Upstairs, several doors led off a hall that was hung with a gallery of poster-sized black and white photos, landscapes and portraits. Behind one door was a traditional photography studio with a Macintosh, an art stand, and a mounted camera. The second door opened into a video-editing suite with banks of monitors, switches, and an Avid.
I whistled, suitably impressed. “If you build it, they will come.”
“And to think I owe it all to those punks who ripped me off.” He led me back into the first room. “So what’s shakin’?”
I pulled out the photo of the farmhouse. “You mind taking a look at this?”
He inspected the shot. “What am I looking for?”
“I don’t know. Anything that tells us where it is.” I explained the situation. “I promised someone I’d check it out.”
Denny sat down at his Mac, booted up Photoshop, and placed the photo in his scanner. After a few clicks of the mouse, the farmhouse appeared on the monitor.
“Okay.” He laced his fingers together and stretched them out backwards. “Let’s roll.”
He pulled down a menu, and a group of icons appeared on the screen. He clicked on a graphic that looked like a hand and began to move it slowly over the image. When he reached a small dark area just to the left of the farmhouse’s door, he dragged an icon that looked like a magnifying glass over it.
The area grew larger and blurrier. He clicked on more icons, tinkering with the contrast, brightness, and resolution. After a few moments, something materialized.
I leaned forward. “What is that?”
“Let’s see.” He pulled down another menu and clicked.
“What are you doing now?”
“Creating more contrast. If something is blurry, we can sharpen it up, maybe figure out what it is. I’ll try five hundred per cent. You lose detail, though.”
He clicked again and suddenly three numbers appeared in a black box on the side of the door.
I stared at the screen. “Two five seven?”
“Probably the number of the house.” He clicked on the image he’d initially scanned in. “See where we started?” He grinned. The un-retouched original showed nothing but a dark mass.
I stared at the monitor. “Two-five-seven… but where? It could be anywhere.”
“That’s true.” He turned back to the monitor. “Let’s see. It’s farm country. Maybe if we could figure out what crops they were growing in the field—Hey, wait a minute!”
“What?”
“Look at this.” He pointed to a long, skinny object about twenty feet away from the house on the edge of the frame.
I squinted. I hadn’t noticed it until now. “What is it?”
He didn’t answer but began to work again, this time more slowly, panning icons across the object, then backing up the other way. After a while, something that resembled a telephone pole appeared. “Lemme rescan this.”
“Why? It’s just a telephone pole.”
“Maybe not.”
I watched as he magnified the image, pasted it into a new file, and played with the sharpness and contrast. “Take a look.”
I did and saw a post that looked like it stood eight feet above the ground. On the top was a white sign with black markings. As Denny continued to sharpen the image, letters and numbers came into focus.
“What is it?” My breath came more quickly. “What does it say?”
“It’s a road sign,” Denny said. “It says CR Ninety Three.”
***
County Road Ninety-three cuts through the western edge of Joliet, I learned on the net that night, so after dropping Rachel at school the next day, I printed out directions and headed south. It took over an hour, but finally, I turned onto a road where frame houses and weathered barns shared space with new colonials and offices. I couldn’t tell if the neighborhood was supposed to be rural farmland or suburban sprawl. Apparently, the developers couldn’t either.
The mantle of snow on the ground skewed my perspective, making everything appear cleaner, bigger, and sharper. I passed the house before I recognized the wraparound porch and clapboard siding.
I backtracked and parked at
the end of a driveway that either wasn’t visible in the photo or hadn’t been built when the shot was taken. A blue Dodge Ram was parked at the end.
As I walked up to the front door, I realized I hadn’t recognized the house because it was in much better than in the snapshot. It sported a fresh paint job, new shutters, and new windows. White curtains fluttered at the windows.
A female voice answered my knock. “Just a sec.”
I wiggled my fingers through my gloves. There was no lake breeze this far away, and the bright sun did nothing to warm the frigid air.
The door was opened by a young woman with a baby in her arms. “Hello.” She smiled. “Can I help you?”
I watched the baby grab a fistful of long, brown hair. She gently disentangled his fingers.
“I—I’m sorry to bother you. My name is Ellie Foreman. I’m from Chicago.”
“Annie Caruso. You’re a long way from home.”
***
After I explained why I was there, Annie took me to visit her neighbor, Gwen Teasdale. The Teasdales had farmed these parts for generations, she said, and like Annie, Gwen lived on one of the few farms left.
The woman, now in her eighties, set out tea and a plate of home baked cookies.
“That house has an interesting history, child,” she said.
“How so, Mrs. Teasdale?”
“Call me Gwen, honey. Everyone does. Old maid Gwen.” She winked at Annie. “You young people think I don’t know that.”
Annie colored from the neck up.
I smiled.
“That used to be owned by the Whitney family.”
“Whitney?”
“Yes ma’am. Thomas Whitney was the first warden of the state prison.”
Of course. “I didn’t realize we were that close.”
“It’s just over the rise.” Gwen looked at my face and laughed. “Don’t worry. It’s mostly closed now. Anyway, they moved out a long time ago. His wife ran off with one of the guards.”
“Who moved in?”
“No one. It just sat here. For a long while, I reckon. The place was a dump, in fact, until the Mansteads took it over. They grew soybeans and corn. But their kids—they had two sons—didn’t want any part of the farm. It went through a couple more families before Annie and her husband bought it.”
“What happened to the Mansteads?”
“They passed on. One of the boys was killed in Vietnam. The other boy—well, now let’s see. I think he went on to college. Did real well, I recall Virginia saying. Got himself a fine and fancy job at some big company.”
“You know which company?”
“Sorry.” She touched her forehead. “It’s clear out of my mind.”
“What was his name?”
“Let’s see. The brother who died was Pete. But the other one’s name was Harvey. That’s right. Harvey Manstead.”
***
When I got home, I went online and did some research on all the names Gwen Teasdale had given me. After I found what I was looking for, I grabbed my keys, threw on my coat, and called up to Rachel.
“I’ll be back in a few minutes, honey. Why don’t you boil water for pasta?”
“When I’m done on IM.”
“Who are you chatting with?”
“Sam Kaiser. Hey, did you know they’re moving?”
“I heard.”
“He says it’s soon. His mom told him to start packing.”
“Oh, I’m sure it’s not that soon. The house just went on the market.”
“Whatever.”
I wound around the long drive to the Kaiser home. There were no sidewalks in this part of the village, just wide expanses of snow-covered lawn. I parked and trudged up a shoveled path to the house, a Tudor with steeply pitched gables, massive chimney, and half-timbered exteriors. Tall, diamond-paned windows stared out from the stone facing. Though it was almost dark, I could make out a sign on the lawn that said “Under Contract.”
Maybe Rachel was right.
Lisa answered the door in a blood red designer pants suit. Her face was carefully made up, and silver flashed at her ears. She looked as if she was going out. It took her a moment to focus.
“Ellie. What are—I didn’t expect you.”
I motioned toward the sign. “That didn’t take long.”
“We were lucky.” She smiled. “At least something’s going right.”
“Well, I have news, too.”
She shot me an expectant look. “The picture?”
“I traced it.”
She pressed the palms of her hands together. “What did you find?”
“The farmhouse used to belong to Harvey Manstead.” I watched for a reaction.
She brought her hands to her chin, and her brows drew together. “Harvey Manstead? That name sounds familiar.”
“He’s the Vice-president of Finance at Riteway Corporation.”
“Of course.” She dropped her hands. “He was involved in setting up Edward’s royalty payments.” Her frown deepened. “But I don’t understand. Why would someone send me a picture of a house that belonged to him?”
“Good question. The only thing I can think of is that someone wanted to send you a message.”
“What kind of message?”
I stamped my feet in the cold, wondering why she didn’t invite me in. “Well, given all the corporate accounting scandals, you might want to take a closer look at those royalty payments.”
“What are you saying?”
“That there could be a whistle-blower inside the company.”
“Ellie, do you think Harvey Manstead is behind Edward’s problems?”
“I’m just saying that it wouldn’t hurt to take a closer look.”
Lisa shook her head, as if she were in shock. “I can’t believe it.”
“Lisa, what did Edward tell you about the royalty payments?”
“Not much. They started out fine, but then they became irregular. And when he tried to investigate, they brushed him off.”
“What about that argument he had the morning he died? What can you tell me about that?”
“Like I said, I don’t know who it was.”
I rubbed my hands together to ward off the cold. “But you saw the car. What kind of car was it?”
Her eyes narrowed, as if she were concentrating on her memory. “I think it was red.”
“A red what?”
“Something big. Four doors. Red. That’s all I know.” She laid her hand on my arm. “Ellie, do you think he—Harvey Manstead was here that morning? Arguing with Edward?”
“Like I said, I’m not saying anything. I’ll get back to you.”
“Oh, god. What if Harvey turns out to have a red car, Ellie? What do I do then?”
“You go back to the police.”
***
Village Detective Dan O’Malley was at my door two days later. “We have to talk, Ellie.”
“Why do I have a feeling I’m not going to like this?” I led him into the kitchen and poured him a cup of coffee.
He dropped his tall frame into a chair and dumped three teaspoons of sugar in his mug. “We paid Harvey Manstead a visit this morning.”
“And?”
“How well do you know Lisa Kaiser?”
“I knew I wasn’t going to like this.” I poured myself some coffee and sat down. “Our kids are in the same class. She asked me to look into that picture for her. Why?”
“She’s gone. Took her son and skipped.”
My jaw dropped. “When?”
“Sometime over the past twenty-four hours.”
I flashed back on her red pants suit. The slightly unfocused expression. Had she been getting ready to run when I showed up? No. She’d waited for me to call her back with the report that Harvey Manstead did indeed have a red Lincoln Continental—I’d talked to the manager of his garage. And she’d obviously called the police after that.
“Where’d she go?”
“We don’t know. But Manstead has an in
teresting story.” He sipped his coffee. “When we asked him what he knew about the royalty payments, he was evasive. Wouldn’t say a thing. Even had his lawyer show up. Meanwhile, a uniform called from Kaiser’s house to say it was all shut up.”
I bit my lip.
“Manstead didn’t believe us. Thought we were playing him. So we took him over there. Thought maybe it would loosen his tongue.” O’Malley smiled. “Once he realized she was gone, he flipped like a pancake.”
“He was embezzling the royalty payments?”
“Yes and no.”
I cocked my head. O’Malley wasn’t one to equivocate.
“The money was going into another account. Offshore. Held by Mrs. Edward Kaiser.”
“Manstead was putting Edward’s money into his wife’s offshore account?”
“They were lovers, Ellie.”
“Lisa Kaiser and Harvey Manstead?”
“Over ten years. They met when she worked at Riteway. He left his wife because of her, but she married Edward.”
“Ouch.”
“She kept seeing Harvey on the side. Promised they would run away together if he’d ‘fund her venture’.” O’Malley shrugged. “He believed her. Especially after she took care of Edward.”
“She killed him?”
“Manstead says she used potassium chloride.”
“The stuff you throw on your driveway to melt ice?”
He nodded. “It mimics a heart attack if you inject it in the right spot. And it’s not hard to liquefy. We found three bags in the garage.”
“Inject it? Come on, where’s she going to get a syringe? You can’t tell me Lew delivered it.”
O’Malley bared his teeth, but it wasn’t a smile. “One of the treatments for Meniere’s Disease is to inject yourself with histamines. We found an entire box of syringes in their bathroom.”
My stomach turned over. I went to the sink and emptied my coffee. “Hold on. What about the picture? The photo of the farmhouse?”
“What about it?”
“How did she get that?”
“She must have wangled it from Manstead and sent it to herself.”
“And then brought it to me.” I put the mug in the dishwasher. “But Manstead does drive a red Lincoln. I checked.”
“She made it up, Ellie. No one else saw the car, and he has a solid alibi—he was at a board meeting.”
Nice Girl Does Noir -- Vol. 1 (Intro by William Kent Krueger) Page 6
