by Norma Huss
Mel stared at me, thinking that I’d tricked him. I’d made him look bad. All of his good intentions, wasted.
“A good cook, though,” he said with a nod, like that solved any problem.
Taking advantage of any possibility of the status quo, I quickly said, “This computer search is really a continuation of my job. I misplaced some files, and I’m determined to find them on my own time.”
“So I don’t have to rescue you from a life on the street.”
I glared at Sylvie and she smirked. I grabbed the pile of paper and separated the piles. “Naturally the two printouts won’t be the same.”
“Still illegal, I imagine.” Mel had stopped smiling. Evidently, Sylvie’s revelation had reached his morality center.
“Should I destroy these copies?” I asked.
“No,” Sylvie shouted, then added in a much quieter voice, “I mean, we’ll look first, and if there’s nothing to find, we will naturally destroy all copies. Anything else would be...”
“Unthinkable, right?” I finished for her.
“You did go to all that trouble,” Sylvie added, smiling at Mel like he’d accomplished something wonderful, just by listening without roaring. “And there is murder involved.”
That was her motivation—solve any mystery, fictional OR real. And make goo-goo eyes at any male. Had she enthralled him? I repeated, “The two print-outs won’t be the same.”
Sylvie’s head was close to Mel’s, which didn’t seem to bother him at all. “The same as what?” she asked.
“Each other.”
“So what’s the point?” she asked, but Mel was ahead of her.
“Someone’s cooking the books?”
I shrugged. “If they are, receivables is where to find out. We’ll compare them and I’ll make a list of any differences.” That’s the way I’d done it, way back in a former life. Quite a reliable indication of theft, actually.
“And the misplaced files? How do they come in?”
“They disappeared over lunch hour when the office was supposedly empty.”
“Not misplaced,” Mel said. “Stolen.”
“I might have filed them away.”
Sylvie grabbed a pile of paper. “And they might show up on these files, right?”
Mel was not happy. However, Sylvie sweet-talked him and he finally relented. He read two pages of names and amounts. Then Sylvie read two while he watched her. He was definitely warming up. After each page, I checked my list against Accounts Paid. One of Sylvie’s discrepancies was also missing from the paid files.
“Did I get this right?” I asked, repeating the name.
I had, and the amount was considerable. I checked and double-checked, but it wasn’t there. “That’s it,” I said.
“The smoking gun! The proof,” Sylvie said. “We’ve got them.”
Mel chuckled. Evidently much too enamored of my dear sister. “Just circle that item and continue reading.”
That’s what we did. We found two more missing files. “A total of $5,218,” I said. “Not bad for a week’s work.”
“Aha, that woman was in the office absconding with money,” Sylvie said.
“There were four days between the two copies, and the second was copied before she came in,” I reminded her. “Doesn’t have to be Barb. Anyone could have done it.”
“Another idea,” Mel said. “The shipments could have been returned, thus, no payment due.”
“You do have a way of spoiling things.”
Mel had a question. “What are you trying to find, Jo?”
“The connection to murder. Everything somehow touched that office.”
“Except for Lacy.”
“Lacy and Zip,” Sylvie added.
Mel turned to me. “You mean the Zip who listened to my radio? He’s the man they found beaten severely?”
“Yes, that’s him, but he can’t be part of the Hemingway murder case. The street says he was running and someone from out of town caught him and nearly killed him. Besides, he’s still alive.”
Slowly, Mel said, “I hear he’s involved in big time theft, like fencing stolen jewelry, but in Miami. He must have crossed someone important.”
“I hate to point out the obvious,” Sylvie said, “but there is no connection between Zip or anyone else. You said stolen jewelry?”
Mel nodded.
“Weird.” Sylvie mumbled, “No, it couldn’t be connected,” then continued. “One woman, Mrs. Hemingway, and one man, the salesman, worked together.”
“Asher.”
“Asher,” she repeated, “worked for the same company.” She eyed me, waiting. I didn’t interrupt. “Two out of four, really, three victims, doesn’t constitute a serial killer.”
“The exception that proves the rule,” I said in my best know-it-all, older sister voice.
“That’s for school stuff, like ‘i before e.’ Or is it the other way around?”
I ignored Sylvie’s interruption. “Besides, there’s the method, the plastic bag.”
“We don’t know how Asher was killed,” Sylvie said, then eyeing me, added, “do we?”
“No.”
Mel had been following us like a bouncing tennis ball. “Do you know, for sure, how any of them were killed, or are you listening to rumors?”
“Jo’s lawyer found out,” Sylvie said. “Of course, we don’t know about Asher, like I said.”
Thankful that Sylvie had answered, and we’d kept Mel’s contribution to the facts out of the picture, I said, “It’s got to be an office connection.”
But Mel, ever the devil’s advocate, asked, “What good will this connection do you?”
Sylvie flew to my protection. “Are you crazy? It will prove she’s not the killer. Why, even when the police... My God!”
Sylvie, profane? And twice in the same day? A single “damn” was her limit. So, naturally I stared at her. She’d been struck deaf and dumb, maybe? She was even paler than when I told her I found Asher’s body. Her mouth was wide open, and not a single word issued from the cavity, which couldn’t last.
It didn’t. “She was wearing your coat. Jo, your coat.”
“That’s a connection?” Mel said.
I think that’s what he said, because at the same time, I gasped. “They wanted to kill me?”
“Maybe. Remember, Francine stole Vic before she ever met Asher.”
“Who is Vic?”
To my horror, Sylvie told him everything. “Victor Barnette, Jo’s first husband. He and Francine were in an auto accident, she was injured, but he was killed.”
“Okay, you’ve got your connection,” Mel said.
As for me, I was in shock. It was no fun being a target. I wanted to run, but where? I couldn’t go home. Not after the police told me to stay in town. I wanted to scream, but what would that get me? I had to think, but I couldn’t.
Where was Clyde when I really needed him?
Chapter 34
For all practical purposes, I was invisible. They talked about me, just as I knew they would. They didn’t mention my first husband, the rat, or even my second husband, equally a rat but still living—somewhere. They didn’t skip anything else.
Sylvie asked Mel, “Did you really believe Jo was a—street person?”
Mel nodded. “So maybe the killer believed that too, but he didn’t know she had a new coat.”
“You knew she had a new coat?” Sylvie’s mind was clicking. “When did she get it?”
“Saturday. I relayed the information to her that the police were looking for a woman with that coat.”
“Well, I knew that. They came and showed it to me. It wasn’t until Monday though.”
I wanted to say, “Cut to the chase. Who did it?” I could not, for they knew no more than I did. Instead, I walked to the kitchen, turned, then asked from the door, “What’s for dinner?”
Behind me, Sylvie gasped. “Jo!” She sputtered, but she couldn’t think of an appropriate put-down for my supposed rudeness.
> “It’s a tradition.” Mel was, no doubt, swallowing peals of laughter. I knew Sylvie was trying, not too successfully, to realign her face from shock to confusion to acceptance of the unexplainable. Meanwhile, Mel told me, “I’m short of everything. No meat. Only frozen or canned stuff.”
I left them to discuss the whys and wherefores of my temporarily homeless life. Would Sylvie mention Clyde? He and Mel hadn’t met. Meanwhile, I snooped. Hot dog buns but no hot dogs. Eggs and even a few assorted vegetables. I turned on the oven, got out pans, and meditated on murder.
Was my coat the connection to Lacy’s death? Did I feel guilt or merely relief that I wasn’t the body? How could I know anything that would jeopardize the killer? I never met Francine. And she was killed before I took over her desk, or entered her house. The connection between Francine and Asher was definite, but did their office or personal relationship precipitate murder? And why? Jealousy, revenge, what?
I scraped carrots and a potato, then chopped them. Added a package of frozen asparagus. Tossed them with olive oil. Forget Zip. He was out of the picture. I cut the buns into strips, buttered them and sprinkled dried herbs profusely. For that matter, why should the mix include Lacy?
“What do you think, Clyde?”
He stood, stretched, turned end for end, and sat again, quite contented with the aroma filling the kitchen.
Turn to something else? What else? The missing files? The museum? Neither of them involved Asher, nor could they inspire a rage to kill. None of our clues led anywhere. I’d heard Zip’s voice before—asking for Mr. Talbit when I answered the phone. But, why had he called?
“We have it solved,” Sylvie said as she poked her head into the kitchen.
Mel trailed her, shaking his head. “Whether you knew anything or not, the killer thought you did. You worked at Mrs. Hemingway’s desk. You were in her house. Both wonderful opportunities to learn something.”
“Except there was nothing to learn, so how does that solve the murder?” I asked her. “Answer me this. Who was the killer and why did he kill? And leave out my being in the house. I wasn’t there before Francine was killed and nobody knew I had been there before Lacy was killed.”
“Mel said the same thing. But remember, this is only one clue. A first step.”
“And an excellent first step too,” Mel said, adding apologetically, “I set the table.”
“What? Why?”
I’d lost control. That’s what came of leaving the two of them together. He’d changed the rules. I always set the table, then announced, “Dinner is served.”
Then as I brought in the scrambled eggs over herb-toasted buns, I heard Sylvie telling the worst story.
“The ‘Trues’ do that, you know. Invent their authors’ names so they stay anonymous. There was no White Widow. And that bogus claim that she was a killer just because she wrote like a killer? Absolutely insane. Jo was completely exonerated by the trial.”
I plunked the dish on the table, much too firmly, left, and returned with the roasted vegetable platter.
Sylvie was conspicuously silent. Mel said, “Your sister tells me you are quite the talented writer.”
“My sister has one of the biggest mouths in captivity,”I said with more anger than sense.
Clearly, I had to set limits. I didn’t begin my campaign until after dinner. When Sylvie insisted I stay with her, I agreed. It was the best way to separate them. They were too cozy, and talking too much about me. And, if they kept talking, Sylvie might think of something else to add.
~ ~
Going to Sylvie’s was a mistake. As soon as we were inside her door, she started. “Mel seems very nice.”
“Yes, he does,” I answered, which didn’t confirm whether he was actually nice, or just seemed nice.
“Did you meet him when you first started this homeless thing?”
“Does it matter?”
She caught my tone. “I’m only making conversation. You know I like to talk about men. Is he available?”
“Look, I don’t want to discuss Mel, or anybody. Okay?”
“Then I suppose you don’t want to talk about why you didn’t take our list to the police. Or why you didn’t even go to the police when you said you would.”
“I changed my mind. Did you hear that? I distinctly told you I was going to the office. Were you listening?”
She glared like she’d love to start a, “Did not,” “Did too,” battle. Instead, she said, “Really. I could listen to you for six years and never get a straight answer. Like, did any of those supposedly true stories you wrote ever happen? Can you deny they were all lies?”
“You broke into Mr. Talbit’s house. That doesn’t count?”
Momentarily that quieted her. But she started up again. “Maybe I’ve got you all wrong,” she said. “Maybe you’re living with Mel. Is that where you go? And now you’re angry because I know about it. Why didn’t you just tell me to leave instead of going through that crazy charade? You think you’re fooling me?”
Where was the sisterly closeness? Non-existent, that’s where. “Sylvie,” I said, “I’m sorry to have to say this. You and I are not compatible.”
“Just when you want a free room or a patsy, right? And no questions asked. You want it all your way.”
I controlled my temper with difficulty, made even worse because she could have a point.
“Come on, Clyde, we’re not wanted here.” I went to the closet, took my jacket, put it on, shouldered my bag, and walked out the door.
Sylvie slammed it behind me.
~ ~
I should have called a cab first. Sylvie lived off a bus route, and they didn’t come that late anyway. I had my cell phone, but I didn’t use it. I walked. I walked for over an hour. I needed that hour.
Chapter 35
Walking and talking to myself solved only one problem. At the end was a Days Inn with a vacancy for the night and a free continental breakfast in the morning. There were still dead people littering the landscape, no reliable clues, Sylvie was mad, and Mel knew I was an unreliable liar.
The next morning, I’d decided. I was out of the detecting business. I’d dump everything I knew or suspected at the police station, give them my address, and promise to stay put—at home. My car was locked in the garage, but come Monday, I’d do it all. Definitely.
Too bad I couldn’t try another job. If I really wanted a chapter on the working homeless, I needed more than one example. What could a homeless woman do? Where? Grocery checker. Or bagger. Pizza delivery, if she had a car. Pump gas, except everyone does it themselves. Clean hotel rooms, toilets. Ride a trash collector’s truck. Hold the “slow” sign at a road construction site. Pat at the employment agency was no longer a source. Would she ever help another bag lady? That discarded envelope from Mrs. Hemingway’s house. Any homeless woman could find trashed envelopes. That’s an idea to include. At least, think about it.
“Freedom, Inc.” was the company’s name. I dug the envelope out of my bag. It had a local address. No ndication of type of business. New, obviously, since the name hadn’t been in the library files. It was in the telephone book with dark print, so it was a business. But I wasn’t about to search the entire yellow page directory. They’d be closed on a Sunday. Perhaps I should call them on Monday. Stop in. No. Forget it.
As I refolded the envelope I noticed Mrs. Hemingway had used the back as a scratch pad. A list, headed, “Questionable.” Names, amounts.
Dagen, Alfred, $8,224.
Darmont, Betty, $971.
What was this list? Certainly not people Francine owed money to.
Davison, D. W., $1,002.
Deal, Janice, $462.
Deefer, Andrew, $4,087.
Deefer? That was the name I remembered, the name on one of the files I’d found, then lost. Was Mr. Deefer’s first name Andrew? Was the amount just over $4,000? Seemed right.
So what made the list, “Questionable?” Blackmail? Embezzlement? A crime, possibly. But if Francine que
stioned the names, it had to be someone else’s crime. Someone was blackmailing those people? But why the odd amounts?
Forget it. I was out of the detective business.
I strolled past houses, gardens, and the last Mom and Pop grocery store in the world. It was closed for church, but, according to the sign in the door, would be open from two to four. Long enough for the neighbors to get a quart of milk.
Not blackmail. Embezzlement was my guess. But the blackmailer was Francine.
No, I wouldn’t think about it. The little store, how did it stay afloat? Penny candy for the kids? But there was no penny candy, hadn’t been for years. Cost a nickel during the war they say. My memory didn’t go back that far. I remembered candy bars for a dime.
Deefer, it was definitely Deefer.
I still had questions. Slowly I refolded the envelope with its list of names and dollar amounts. Why not embezzlement? Supposedly unpaid Receivables that were actually paid. But whose thieving hands had those funds reached?
Was embezzlement a reason to kill? Not for me. Neither was a misplaced gold ring. But then, I wouldn’t choose murder to solve any problem.
There was always the hornet’s nest Francine Hemingway stirred up with her love life. Messed up emotions often cut deep.
I stuck the list in my bag. If I were still in the detecting business, I could do nothing. At least, nothing at the moment.
A long Sunday stretched ahead without a purpose. The day was beautiful. Fresh breeze, blue skies, perfect sailing weather. I could walk to Queensboro’s answer to Ego Alley in Annapolis, watch the parade of stink pots revving their go-fast engines, walk further to see graceful sloops and swift catamarans on the bay. Possibly stroll in the park, or visit a church, a museum.
A museum, yes. I did send Keisha to investigate. A little follow-up couldn’t hurt. For Sylvie, of course. She would still be into the mystery. I called Keisha for an update of her day at Waterman’s Museum. After one ring she picked up the phone and said, “Can I call you back? I’m headed for work.”
“Keisha, this is Jo,” I said quickly. “You’ll be at the museum?”
“Not today. Maizie’s Diner. Got to go.” She hung up so quickly I felt the breeze.
