Malice in Miniature

by Margaret Grace

  “Fruit,” two people said, but I couldn’t be sure which two.

  “—so to speak,” Skip continued. “And I’m not saying you shouldn’t be suspicious of someone you don’t know in the neighborhood, but I wouldn’t panic.”

  “I guess you got the pineapple because there just happened to be a crate of them on your doorstep,” Linda said.

  “Seems that way,” Skip said. “And possibly it was the same with the raccoon.” (Maddie had opened the door to using the word outright when she told the story to Linda.)

  “The person saw a dead raccoon handy and used it? So they carried fruit to do the deed but then used the dead animal instead?” I almost laughed at the image, but truly, I didn’t know what to think. If I had to record my feelings, I’d place them somewhere between Mary Lou’s cavalier attitude and Richard’s full-alert status.

  “I wonder why we got grapefruits?” Linda asked.

  Now my headache was bad. I rubbed my forehead and got up to get an aspirin from the cupboard. I noticed that Maddie had left the room before our so-called conversation was over. This was not like her. I walked down the hallway toward her room and heard tub water running in the bathroom we shared. I smelled fake strawberries.

  Maddie was taking her second voluntary bath of the week.

  What was that saying about an ill wind?

  Before he left, Skip drew me outside to the walkway. No one questioned why he needed a minute alone with me.

  “Any word from June?”

  “Not yet, but—”

  “I didn’t think so.”

  “Oh.”

  He interrupted me, I reasoned. It’s not my fault that I’m not telling him where June is. I sincerely hoped she was on a plane to the San Jose airport.

  “I have something,” he said. “Uniforms picked up a woman for disturbing the peace downtown. In front of the courthouse, no less. She was carrying a sign about ‘can’t put asunder.’ Something from the Bible, against divorce, I guess.”

  Skip had missed the wedding-going era when we all knew the phrase, “What God has joined together, let no man put asunder.” I had to admit I didn’t know for sure whether it was biblical or not.

  “Rhonda?” I asked, picturing her marching for her cause.

  He nodded. I took a moment to admire the way my outside light captured all the different shades of red in his hair. Like his mother’s hair, and his uncle Ken’s.

  “She had a Florida DL on her this time—Rebecca E. Garrity. It has to be the same woman, though she changes her appearance a little and uses a different ID each time.”

  “Where could Rhonda be getting all these different IDs? And why would she do it?”

  “It’s not that hard to do. It’s not even as hard as identity theft to have fake IDs made up. How old is your driver’s license photo, for example?”

  “Very,” I admitted. I’d been renewing by mail for the last several years. My hair was longer, my face fatter. “I figure the authorities are trained to notice the basics.”

  “You wish. As to why, who knows what a vindictive ex-wife will do?”

  “Do you think Rhonda’s the one putting these things on doorsteps?”

  “It’s entirely possible. She seems nuts enough, but we have no evidence.”

  “Can you search her hotel room or wherever she’s staying?”

  “I think they let her go without even putting in for a search warrant. I have a call in to a buddy on that beat to check out the details.”

  I felt my jaw tighten. “How could that happen? That they would just let her go?” I seemed to have no control over the shrillness of my voice and its accusatory ring.

  Skip stayed calm, at least in terms of his tone. “You heard Linda. No one at the station is taking this very seriously. There’s a disconnect between the guys on the street and what’s going on in the Goodman case.”

  “LPPD isn’t that big, Skip. Don’t you talk to each other?”

  He raised his eyebrows and gave me a look that said I was close to crossing a line. I took a step back, both physically and symbolically.

  “I’m sorry. I know it’s not your fault.”

  “Believe me, I’m working hard on this. I’m trying to get my case together to show that this woman has now been identified as a person of interest in the murder investigation and not just the wild protestor or the dead raccoon and fruit slasher.”

  He turned to go to his car.

  “Is there anything I can do?” A weak gesture, but I needed to offer.

  Over his shoulder Skip said, “Yeah, try to keep Maddie away from checking out Willie’s silverware.”

  I laughed, relieved that he wasn’t as upset with me as he looked. But I didn’t promise anything.

  Linda hadn’t left yet. Apparently she also needed a word with me before she went home to bed.

  “If you need anything, anything at all, Gerry, just ask, okay? I can cozy up to old Mrs. Browne at the home and see if I can pick up anything. Whatever. Just ask.”

  “I need someone to finish my room box for Tuesday.”

  She gave me a look.

  “Just kidding,” I said.

  But I wasn’t.

  Chapter 16

  Middle-of-the-night phone calls weren’t as rare as they should have been in my home, and they were never welcome. At one in the morning, with Richard and his family safe under my roof, that left only Skip and Beverly at the top of my worry list as I reached for the phone next to my bed.

  “Gerry? I know it’s late, but I just got in and got your message.”

  I sat up, pulled the covers up to my neck, and cranked up the heat on my electric blanket from three to five.

  “June! Everyone’s concerned about you.”

  “Hello?” from Richard.

  I’d unplugged the extension in Maddie’s room, but not the one in my usual bedroom from which Richard might be summoned at any hour. I’d picked up on the second ring, but my son had been quicker.

  “It’s okay, Richard. I have it.”

  “Who is it? Everything all right?” he whispered, sparing Mary Lou.

  June was silent, so it was all up to me. “It’s a crafts emergency,” I said with a hoarse, sleepy chuckle.

  “Right,” he said and hung up.

  “Is Rhonda really in Lincoln Point?” June asked. “I tried to get hold of Zoe, but of course she can’t take calls. It’s so frustrating.”

  “Rhonda’s here. She’s using several different names, but she visited Zoe.”

  June groaned. “That’s all Zoe needs.”

  “When are you coming home?”

  “Who wants to know?”

  “We should talk, June.”

  “I feel like I’m in Lincoln Point. There’s a big celebration going on here in Chicago because it’s some number anniversary of the Republican convention when Lincoln was nominated for president.”

  “Do you need a ride from the airport when you get here?” I asked, to get her on track. I knew the answer was no, since her car had been missing from her driveway since she left. I figured it was now in the airport parking lot.

  “I really do want to talk to you, Gerry. I’ve spent a lot of time going to all of Rhonda’s old haunts. I can’t tell you how many people I’ve found who’d be willing to swear that Rhonda told them she wanted to kill Zoe.”

  “But Zoe wasn’t killed.”

  “That’s not the point.”

  “What about Skip, June?”

  “What about him?”

  “Have you called him?”

  “I’ve been doing a lot of thinking.”

  I felt I couldn’t go any further if she wasn’t forthcoming. I wasn’t a matchmaker, or even Skip’s mother. If June wanted to confide any more in me, she’d have to take the lead.

  June never said what conclusions she’d come to as a result of all her thinking. She said she had “more evidence” that Rhonda killed the man she still thought of as her husband, but every time I asked her to be specific, she lost t
rack of the topic and went off on a track about her and Skip.

  We finally hung up, at an impasse as to when or whether June would return, how she would deal with Zoe’s guilt or innocence, what she saw as her future with Skip.

  There was nothing for me to do but go back to sleep.

  Before anyone else was up on Sunday morning, Mary Lou and I sat in my atrium with mugs of coffee and a plate of mini scones, ready to hatch a plan. A Southern California girl who thought February was much too cold here in “the north,” Mary Lou had bought a space heater for the area. She sat close to it now, wrapped in an afghan I’d knitted for her when Maddie was born.

  We needed to make the most of the day, when Richard and Maddie would be at a reading program at the library and then out to lunch. It was their special father/daughter time together and we couldn’t be more grateful. We’d encouraged them also to take in a movie.

  “And even if you want dinner out, that’s okay,” Mary Lou had said.

  “I don’t think we’re fooling them one bit,” I said now. “But at least we won’t need to make excuses to snoop around for a while,” I said.

  “Amen,” Mary Lou said. “Has June called?”

  I briefed Mary Lou on the phone call that had awakened her husband, but apparently not her. “She says she can come up with witnesses and has evidence that Rhonda killed Brad,” I told Mary Lou. “I’m not putting much stock in it, however,” I said. “She has too much invested in the outcome.”

  “And we don’t?”

  “Good point.”

  “I suppose you’re going to do ‘errands’ today,” Maddie said at breakfast. Her air quotes around errands said it all. She couldn’t say much more without offending her father and appearing ungrateful for the special day he’d planned for them.

  “What kind of errands do you do on a Sunday?” Richard asked. “The banks are closed. Also, the post office and the shops on Springfield don’t open until noon.”

  I wondered if he really were oblivious to our intentions. I searched his face and saw no telltale signs that said he was teasing. His high forehead had frown lines that just meant he was serious about eating his Spanish omelet, one of his wife’s specialties.

  “They’re more like odds and ends,” Mary Lou said. “Finishing up little projects. Getting ready for our move. That kind of thing.”

  “I want to hear everything when we get back,” Maddie said. She threw up her hands. “Or . . .”

  I leaned over to tickle her. “Or you won’t kiss me good night?”

  She grinned. “You got that right.”

  It was a big price to pay.

  Once Mary Lou and I were free, our first stop was at the Rutledge Center. Mary Lou would do some legitimate work on her painting and I would assist (carrying her notebook? mixing paint? rinsing brushes? If challenged, I’d think of something).

  I’d decided to try to recreate the timeline of the night of Brad’s murder. I couldn’t help thinking that if I found a way to clear Zoe, all would be well. June would come back from Illinois, the land of Lincoln, and be Skip’s wonderful girlfriend and my helpful neighbor, and there would be no more messy animate or inanimate objects left on the doorsteps of our neighborhoods. We could all celebrate Lincoln’s birthday on Tuesday and (I didn’t like this part) a family farewell party the following week when my dear houseguests would be moving into their new Palo Alto home.

  Once Mary Lou was set up, I took off for the east wing.

  “I’ll cover this end, and see what I can pick up,” Mary Lou had said. “Putting in a sky doesn’t take too much concentration.”

  At that moment, she’d sounded like me, or any of my miniaturist friends, known for such statements as, “It will take me about ten minutes to put a new stairway in my house.”

  Parking close to the television studio was not a problem on Sunday morning, especially now that I knew my way around the maze of chain-link fences and chunky concrete barriers. I sat in my car facing the stairway that had been encircled by crime-scene tape only a few days ago. My intention was to enter the studio (I didn’t know how yet) and make my way around to the artists’ work area, as Zoe claimed to have done on Monday night.

  The single studio window was dark. I tapped my steering wheel. Thinking. My thoughts included a reexamination of my motives and goals for this exercise. Did I have nothing better to do with my time? Wouldn’t this morning be better spent organizing my fabric shelves? Visiting older friends, some of whom have lost mobility over the past few years? Giving more time to the library’s tutoring program?

  I knew there was a next-to-zero chance that the door would be unlocked as it had been the last times I’d been here. But I was here now, and there was no harm in trying to get in. I might even be warmer if I moved around outside than I was sitting in my car. I wished I’d worn a heavier jacket than my unlined corduroy, but by midafternoon, I’d be turning on the air-conditioning in my car. Such was the climate of the Bay Area, where we experienced four seasons a day.

  I got out of my car, one of only a half dozen in the huge lot, and headed for the entrance.

  On the landing at the top of the short flight of steps, I pulled at the handle of the dark brown metal door. Nothing budged. I leaned as far as I could to the left, trying to see into the window. I had a narrow view of a desk lamp and a table full of papers. Nothing else. I knocked, knowing it would be fruitless.

  Tap, tap. Tap, tap.

  “Can I help you?”

  I jumped back and grabbed the railing. The deep voice hadn’t come from inside, but from behind me, at the bottom of the steps.

  Why did those words startle me so much lately? Whether from security guard Ryan Colson, television star Nan Browne, or this young man—the phrase had caught me off guard at times when I knew I was an interloper.

  A considerably overweight young man stood still, one hand deep in the pocket of his thick down vest, the other leaning on a large, blue, barrel-shaped container on wheels, with mops and cleaning supplies sticking out from its rim.

  “I . . . uh . . . was on Nan Browne’s show the other day”—establishing credentials, dropping a name, implying: don’t hurt me—“and I think I left my bag in the studio.”

  “Huh,” he said. Believing? Suspicious? I couldn’t tell from his you-don’t-say tone.

  I rethought my lie. I wasn’t at all sure I wanted this man—the huge ring of keys on his belt notwithstanding—to let me in. The idea of being alone with him in the black-draped studio wasn’t appealing. My cell phone was far away, in a pretty Vera Bradley case in the bowels of my tote (the one I didn’t leave in the studio on Friday, wink, wink). What good was emergency equipment if it wasn’t handy? I resolved to change that habit, given the chance.

  “I’m Mrs. Porter,” I said. Tell a potential threat your name, I remembered from somewhere. Make it personal. On the plus side, as I studied his pudgy, friendly face, I was beginning to think of the young man as an ally.

  “Dirk,” he said.

  “I’m surprised you’re working on a Sunday, Dirk,” I said, looking down on his bulk. He was taller than me by a couple of inches, and I didn’t even want to guess by how many pounds.

  “Yeah, I go to school, so they let me flex my hours.”

  “What are you studying?” The teacher in me genuinely cared.

  “Computer science at San Jose State.”

  The more Dirk talked, the better I felt. “Do you work nights, then?”

  “No, I take classes at night.”

  Hmmm.

  “How about last Monday night? Were you working then?”

  “No, I take classes at night.” I detected a slight slowing of his speech, as if to accommodate the dull Mrs. Porter at the top of the steps. “I don’t get out of class until ten thirty on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. Now I’m kind of glad, after . . . you know.”

  Maddie’s not here, I wanted to say. You can use the word murder. “Did you know the victim, Brad Goodman?” I asked Dirk.

 
“Nah, I sweep up over there, too, but you’d be surprised how stuck-up those artists can be. They look right through a janitor.”

  “Is there another custodian who works nights?”

  “Nah, they can barely afford me, and believe me, I’m not a big-budget item.”

  Like the chilly breeze that swept my scarf up from my chest, there went yet another part of Zoe Howard’s story—that she’d snuck into the studio when a janitor propped the door open on Monday night.

  “Well, I’m sure you have work to do,” I said, still on my perch on the stairway landing.

  “Yeah. I know you want to get in and I’m sorry about your bag, but you’ll have to wait until tomorrow when the staff comes in. I’m not supposed to let anyone in, especially on this side. They’re very fussy, with all the equipment and all.”

  Not during the day, I thought.

  I had another Zoe-lie-detector test for the ponderous young man. “That’s okay. My daughter-in-law is working on the other side of the center, in the artists’ work area. I can just go in over there and walk back through to the studio.”

  He shook his head, sending long straight hair across his pudgy forehead. “No way. You can’t get through from the studio to the other parts of the complex. Or vice versa.”

  I smiled, pleased that he didn’t say “visa versa.” He was a credit to his school.

  “No secret way, known only to the in-crowd?” I asked.

  “No way.” For a moment I thought he was going to repeat his whole response. “I’m really sorry I can’t help you, Mrs. Porter, but as little as this job pays, I still can’t afford to get in trouble.”

  “You’ve already helped me a great deal, Dirk,” I said.

  Having waved good-bye to Dirk, who waited until I got in my car (lest I break in to retrieve my tote?), I drove around to the north side and parked near the door to the artists’ work area. I couldn’t wait to tell Mary Lou my latest discovery—that Zoe lied about how she got into the complex on the night of the murder.