by Pill, Maggie
Stan Wozniak understands the importance not only of giving to charity but being seen to do so. He’d be at the AllBoosters’ Spring Festival tonight. I’d asked Barbara to come months ago. She’d bought a ticket, but it was clear she’d had no intention of going. Until now.
“All right,” she said with a sigh of resignation. “What does one wear to this gala event?”
“It’s formal. I’ll come over and help you choose something.”
Faye made a little choking sound. “No, you won’t,” Barbara said. “I can dress myself.”
My tongue got the better of me. “You’ll arrive looking like a misplaced librarian.”
Faye dropped her cigarette butt on the ground, stepped on it, then bent to pick it up and dispose of it in a nearby can. I suspected she was also getting out of the line of fire.
“I’ll try not to disappoint you, Retta,” Barbara said, ignoring the too-innocent look on Faye’s face. “But I will not show up sparkling, flowing, or over-exposed.”
It was a slap at me, but Barbara Ann is too inhibited to enjoy clothes the way a woman should. It didn’t bother me a bit that the dress I’d chosen for the evening sparkled, flowed and, if it didn’t over-expose me, at least offered enticing possibilities.
“Why do you need to talk to Stanley?”
“He could be a murderer. I want to see him operate.”
That was just ridiculous. “Stanley would never hurt his children, though I’m sure he used his money as punishment.”
“Threatening to let them ‘…hang, beg, starve, die in the streets?’”
“What?” Faye and I spoke at once.
Barbara waved a hand. “I was quoting Juliet’s father.”
“Juliet?”
“Capulet.” She made a never-mind gesture. “Wozniak is the Lord Capulet type. Money is his god, so he uses it to make others toe the line—his line.”
Not much for Shakespeare, I merely hummed agreeably. “You’ll see. Stanley’s no killer.”
Faye looked unhappy. “We’ve got to give the new chief reason to investigate this case and not just go along with what everyone said six years ago.”
“He promised he’d be objective,” Barbara said. “Maybe he’ll find something the others missed.” Her mouth turned down a little. “I just hope he isn’t easily swayed. Wozniak is bound to press him to charge Neil with murder.”
“Maybe I can help there, too,” I told them. “I think our new chief likes me, so I might be able to balance out Stanley’s hard sell with a little soft soap.”
You could have heard my gasp in Lansing when I picked Barbara up that evening. She looked really good. Her hair, cut too short for my taste, was styled in soft curls. The dress, a long, slender thing in navy that draped nicely, softened her rather thin figure. As I could have predicted, she’d minimalized the accessories, tiny gold hoop earrings with a necklace of larger hoops. I must admit, the understatement worked. She’d even taken time for mascara.
“You look very pretty,” Barbara told me. “I suppose the outfit is new?”
“It’s a small town. Once you’ve worn a dress everyone’s seen it, so you need a new one.”
“Do you.”
I hated it when she used that tone, like I was six and she was sixteen and the ultimate expert in cool. It wasn’t like that anymore. Barbara had stopped trying, and I hadn’t. I was pleased to see she’d tried a little tonight. A dowdy dinner companion is a terrible bore.
“I hope you’ll avoid topics like global warming and fracking,” I told her. “Nobody comes to these things for a lecture.”
Barbara turned to regard me with that one raised eyebrow. “I once danced with the Vice President and managed not to blurt out that I’d voted for the other guy. I won’t step on any toes.”
When we entered the hall together, we caused a bit of a stir. I had chosen a deep red dress, perfect for my colors, and had Patsy brighten my highlights a little. It was fun to see the men react to our entrance and the women react to their reaction.
I’d arranged for us to be seated with Stanley Wozniak. He rose as we approached, smiling and stepping away from the table to hug me. “Retta. Good to see you again.” His eyes turned a darker color when he realized who was with me.
“Stanley, this is my sister, Barbara Evans.”
As we’d hoped, he chose to be polite in a social setting. “Good evening, Barbara.”
“Barb.”
I guess she thinks it’s more professional, but her name sounds like a weapon when she shortens it like that.
“This is my attorney, Calvin Combs.” Stan indicated the only other person at the table, a well-dressed gentleman with white hair and over-tanned skin. “He rode up with me from Detroit today for a few days’ R & R.” He smiled. “My date, since you didn’t answer my call, Retta.”
I gave him my Mona Lisa smile in response. The cash bar was open, and Stanley offered to get us each something. While he was gone, others assigned to our table arrived, the Catholic priest and the Comptons, an oversized couple known for supporting local arts. Greetings and introductions were exchanged. Stanley returned with wine for Barbara and me, cocktails for himself and his guest, and promptly went off with orders for the new arrivals.
“Such a nice man,” Mrs. Compton crooned, listing over the table like a sinking freighter. I thought her name was Betty, and she wasn’t known for good judgment, in art or men.
We settled in for the polite conversation required at these affairs: where a person went in Florida last winter, or Arizona, or Texas. That’s good for at least twenty minutes. Which is better? Which is more economical? Which has the best golf courses?
After that comes gardening, much-discussed in Michigan in spring, because it takes skill and judgment to succeed at it. Plant too early and frost will kill your tender new shoots. Plant too late and they won’t have time to bear fruit. Everyone talks about it, though most of the people at our table hired someone else to do the heavy work.
Barbara said little, but what she did say was pleasant and interesting. I noticed she was adept at deflecting questions about her former life, turning the conversation back to the questioner. “Yes,” I heard her tell Father Fred, “I practiced law for a long time in Tacoma. What do you think of the church’s position on amnesty for illegal aliens?”
Shortly before the meal was served, the last seat at our table filled. Rory Neuencamp entered the hall, looking ill at ease but oh, so handsome. He’d opted for black slacks with a black turtleneck under a gray jacket. I’d seen the look in GQ last fall, but I suspected Rory’s choices were his own, no matter the trend. Still, it worked for him.
I saw the hostess take his ticket and point him to our table, and I flashed him a smile of welcome. Next to me, Barbara tensed as she saw him approaching, probably uncomfortable in the company of someone who knew a lot more than she did about crime and catching criminals.
“Chief Neuencamp,” I said as he reached us. “So nice to see you.”
I made introductions, and Rory took a seat. Mrs. Compton launched into a gushing speech of welcome that prevented real communication for a while. When the emcee stepped up to the microphone, conversation halted.
Tables were chosen for order of service in the buffet line. Our group was called to go third. (I’m lucky that way!) As we stood to head to the food tables, I maneuvered Barbara into place next to Stanley. The line was all the way across the dance floor, which meant she’d have plenty of time to speak with him in comparative privacy. Mrs. Compton was still monopolizing Rory. I chatted with Mr. Combs and eavesdropped on Barbara at the same time.
Typically, Barbara Ann didn’t even try to warm Stanley up before getting to the point. “Mr. Wozniak, I want you to know our agency means no disrespect to you or your family.”
“Then leave it alone,” he ordered.
“You found Brown, now let the law deal with him.”
“But there is some doubt as to his guilt. It’s our business to—”
“A detective agency? His tone made it sound like she’d opened a house of prostitution.
“If he’s guilty, we’ll accept that. But we’ve discovered some things—”
“He’s wrapped a couple of gullible women around his finger.” His voice remained low, but the intensity was like an ocean wave splashing over her. “Don’t you think I know that? Brown convinced my daughter he was a good man, but after she married him, she saw his true nature. When she decided to divorce him, he murdered her.” Stanley’s eyes narrowed as he finished. “Brown took my children from me, and I intend to see that he pays. Don’t get in my way, Mrs. Evans.”
As Barbara frowned in that way that made her look at least five years older, I felt someone brush past me. Rory stepped between the two of them, putting a hand on her arm. “Ms. Evans, sorry to interrupt, but could we talk about those vandals you reported? If you don’t mind losing a few places in line, we could catch up on the case before we settle down to dinner.”
For a moment Barbara looked down at his hand on her arm, her expression an odd one I couldn’t decipher. Then she said, “Of course, Chief Neuencamp.”
Rory’s hand went to Barbara’s elbow in the classic gesture of a gentleman, and the two of them stepped back to his place in line. That left me next to a still-smoldering Stanley Wozniak, who struggled to regain control. After a long, tense silence he turned to me, asking, “Where’s your house in Florida, Retta? I don’t have much sense of the geography down there.”
Taking the cue, I described my second home as my mind went on its own track. As far as I knew, there’d been no vandalism. Turning sideways to glance at them from under my lashes, I watched as Rory and Barbara chatted comfortably. Our new chief had stepped in to rescue my sister from Stanley’s anger. What a nice guy he was—but I’d already figured that out!
The rest of the evening was uneventful but a little surreal. Barbara and Stanley were amicable to the group as a whole, though neither spoke directly to the other again. When we returned with our plates, she traded places so I sat next to Stanley. The meal was unexceptional, the usual baked chicken, Swedish meatballs, and corn and mashed potatoes on the side. As we ate, the chief divided his time among the diners equally, as a municipal employee must. Afterward there was dancing, and he danced with me twice. He asked Barbara once, but she looked so stiff in his arms that it couldn’t have been much fun for either of them.
The door prize giveaway dragged on too long, but the gifts were worth the wait. Barbara won a booklet of coupons for car washes, which pleased her since she’s a little obsessive about her car. I won the fifty-fifty drawing and turned my half over to AllBoosters. I got a big round of applause.
On the way home, she said, “I suppose you heard Wozniak’s threat.”
“I wouldn’t call it a threat, Barbara.”
She clucked impatiently. “Do you consider ‘Do not get in my way’ a polite request?”
“I don’t think he meant he’d hurt you. He just meant he’s determined.”
“Then who sent two guys to follow us to the U.P. and get that flash drive from Neil?”
“But he’s a respected businessman, known all over the state.”
“And respected businessmen are caught in criminal activities every day.”
While I’m not as interested in the front two sections of the Detroit Free Press as Barbara Ann is, I’m not totally ignorant. I couldn’t argue with her on that point.
Chapter Thirty-four
Barb
Faye and I spent the next morning in the office. I knew she was tied in knots because we’d been instrumental in Neil’s arrest. I was trying to look at the whole thing objectively, since I saw that she couldn’t. Embarrassing as last night had been, it was clear Wozniak truly believed Brown had killed his children. Overnight I’d come to the conclusion he hadn’t done it, since I didn’t think that sort of hatred could be faked.
It could have been Brown who stole Wozniak’s financial information. If Carson and Carina found out and called him to the apartment to confront him, he might have killed them and run away. He might have been afraid to use the information he’d stolen lest he be caught. We had only Brown’s word for some things, and he might be a clever liar.
On the other hand, there were arguments for his honesty. He could easily have done away with us when we walked into his lodge full of deer rifles. He’d been willing to hand the drive over to save Faye, which argued he hadn’t known what was on it. And while I didn’t know a lot about off-shore accounts, I thought that if a man had account numbers, passwords, and six years, he’d have been able to figure out how to withdraw the funds.
Another factor argued for Brown’s innocence. Someone had sent Gabe and the elusive “Z” to retrieve the flash drive. If Stan didn’t hire them, who was after the information? It had to be that another person was in on the scheme to drain Stan’s accounts. If so, he or she was probably responsible for Carson and Carina’s deaths. I’d wanted to ask Wozniak about who that might have been, but he’d made it clear he wasn’t going to talk to me.
I was wondering if Faye might convince Stan to talk with her mom-like approach when, like manna from heaven, my opportunity came. The phone rang, and Allport P.D. came up on the screen. At my hello, Rory asked, “Want to go with me to visit Stan Wozniak?”
“You saw the way he treated me last night,” I told him. “I’m not in his good graces.”
“I think I can convince him you need to be there. Can we meet at WOZ in half an hour?”
Promising Faye I’d fill her in as soon as possible, I headed north, forcing myself to maintain a prudent speed and obey all traffic lights. I might have passed through a few that were more orange than yellow. On the trip, I thought about what I wanted to ask Stan.
When my question list got to three, I stopped myself. Rory would do the talking. I had no right to be there. Which made me ask what had led him to invite me.
Anger. I’d seen the look on his face when Stan rejected my conciliatory overture. I’d known other men like Wozniak whose gentility was a veneer that barely covered the nastiness beneath. I had no power and I was female, so Wozniak saw no need to treat me politely. Recalling Rory’s intervention and subsequent kindness, I guessed he’d felt sorry for me. Retta’s old maid sister, he probably thought. Poor thing doesn’t have a chance against a guy like Stan.
This was the chief’s way of letting me get a little of my own back with the owner of WOZ Industries. If it really had Wozniak’s account information on it, the fact that I’d seen it would no doubt be enough to convince Stan to change his passwords immediately.
Once I understood my role, I tried to let go and enjoy the ride. It was one of those soft spring days that lets you know the worst really is over. The leaves were turning from that tentative, early green to a more robust color. The road was lined with weed-flowers that would stand only until the county got time to send a mower around to flatten them.
Rory and I met in the parking lot and went inside together. He offered no explanation for me to Stan’s secretary, a doe-eyed brunette who looked more like Miss October than Ms. Efficiency. Rory’s uniform got her all fluttery. “Certainly, Chief. I’ll let him know you’re here.”
Word had spread that Neil Brown was back, and people probably assumed the new chief had come to inform the victims’ father personally. It’s what a lot of them would have done to score points with the wealthiest man in the county.
Wozniak wasn’t happy to see me at Rory’s side. His eyes hardened and his lips tightened, but he didn’t object when Rory said, “Mr. Wozniak, we met last night, but I didn’t think it was appropriate to discuss this matter at a social event. I’m sure you remember Ms. Evans. We’re here because the
arrest made in the deaths of your children has raised some questions.”
“Please sit.” The request might have been directed at both of us, but I doubted it. Rory twisted a chair into place for me and I sat. The doe-girl hovered nearby. “Can Bambi get you something? Coffee?”
“No, thank you.” I detected a glint of enjoyment in Rory’s eyes. “You’ve probably heard that Neil Brown turned himself in to us. Ms. Evans spent some time with him and convinced him it was the right thing to do.”
Wozniak shifted in his chair. “I’m sure she meant well.”
“Things we heard from Mr. Brown give us cause to re-examine what happened that day.”
Wozniak’s prominent Adam’s apple bobbed once before he answered. “Really.”
Rory turned to me. “Barb, would you like to explain?”
Taken aback, I had to gather my wits. Wozniak turned to me, his cold stare indicating he was one hundred percent certain we didn’t need to re-examine the case.
“Mr. Wozniak, while my sister and I were at Mr. Brown’s residence, someone shot at us. Later, she was kidnapped by a man who demanded that Neil give up a flash drive your daughter gave him the day she died.”
Rory took a photograph of the drive from a manilla folder he’d brought along and set it on the desk. “Do you recognize that?”
“Everyone here has at least one,” Wozniak replied with an impatient wave of his hand.
“This one contains a file with what looks like access information to financial accounts, one of which is in the Cayman Islands.”
That surprised him, at least that’s what I thought I saw before his face went blank again.
