Malice in Miniature

by Margaret Grace

  “What are you doing up?” Mary Lou’s voice startled me, and if she was prepared to scold her daughter as she peeked into the room, she also got a surprise.

  “I’m digging into the art world,” I whispered. “Want to help?”

  “Let’s work over tea,” she said.

  An excellent idea.

  We moved to the atrium, cold enough for Mary Lou to turn on her space heater and sit for a few moments with her hands around a mug of hot chamomile. When I told her about Maddie’s research results and my interpretation of the newspaper accounts, she took it in stride.

  “I’ve been telling you this all along, Mom. There can be an intense competitive spirit in the art world. Whether it’s all-consuming enough for murder, I don’t know.” Mary Lou shivered, from the chill and from the idea of murder among her own, I was sure.

  “We should call Skip about this,” I said. “It might be an avenue the LPPD hasn’t thought of, considering it goes back to another time and another state.”

  “And there are a lot of other exhibits they could look into to see if there’ve been similar problems with how Brad conducted himself, who else he might have dissed, et cetera,” Mary Lou said.

  So many more potential suspects, also, reminding me again how I’d closed off the list at a small number of candidates, compared to what Skip and his colleagues had to think about. Not even Zoe could be eliminated from my presumptuous attempt at a list. From what June told me of Zoe in Chicago, her friend was equally capable of escalating a competition, not for recognition or advancement in a career, but to win Brad Goodman’s attention.

  Just as Mary Lou and I agreed that those of us who weren’t the real police (she called us “virtual police”) should go to bed, my phone rang.

  The real cop was calling.

  “I know it’s late, Aunt Gerry, but if you want to come to the hospital to see Rhonda Edgerton, I can clear you.”

  Hmmm. Was I to believe that Skip was inviting me to the hospital at almost eleven o’clock at night to see a murder suspect/person of interest/assault victim? (It seemed Rhonda was all of the above.) I was amazed that he was offering me access to her.

  “How come . . . ?” I stopped, not wanting to remind him that this was out of the ordinary.

  I heard a resigned sigh from the other end of the line. “She asked for you,” Skip said. “Are you free?”

  “I’m reasonable,” I said, already walking toward the coat closet.

  I could hardly contain myself. I was finally going to meet Rhonda. She’d started out in my mind as a mere name uttered with scorn by June Chinn. She’d morphed at various times during the week into a woman with many names and personas, including one who was lashed out at by chief murder suspect Zoe Howard. She was a person who one minute carried herself like a lawyer—and the next, a crazy lady around town who may have slashed inanimate objects and an already-dead animal.

  Now she wanted to see me. A brief moment of panic intruded on my excitement—what if Rhonda had snuck a weapon into her hospital room and was waiting to . . . ? I flicked away the thought.

  With no traffic, I arrived at the hospital in record time and parked in a spot near the helicopter landing pad. Skip was waiting at the information desk to escort me through the sign-in area to the main hallway of patients’ rooms.

  Even at this late hour we dodged a steady stream of men and women pushing carts with meds and first-aid supplies. I averted my eyes from the open doors into the rooms. I knew too well how many would have spouses or parents on all-night vigils.

  “What’s new?” I asked Skip, as if we’d arranged a casual meeting for coffee at Willie’s during the daylight hours.

  “Not as much as I’d like.” Skip was showing signs of a long week and a long day. “Rhonda is pretty banged up, but nothing life-threatening.” He shrugged his shoulders and shook his head, looking helpless. “She didn’t see her attacker.”

  “Not even to say if it was a male or a female?”

  “Nuh-uh.”

  “I’m surprised she’s not blaming Zoe, whether or not she knows for sure.”

  “Not yet, anyway. She says the attacker came up from behind and held something over her mouth to knock her out. She thinks she’d be dead or being tortured somewhere if Johnny hadn’t come out into the alley.”

  “Are you going to charge her with anything?” Or Zoe? I was thinking.

  “Not unless you want to press charges about a stolen and molested pineapple.” I shook my head—I didn’t think so. “As far as criminal activity, there was nothing in her motel room to connect her with any criminal activity more serious than using fake IDs. She had a lot of pamphlets and churchy literature on marriage in the room.”

  “No law against that.”

  “None that I know of.” Skip pointed down the hall. “Her room’s the last one on the right.”

  “No kidding?” I said. “The one with the cop at the door?”

  I knew Skip was tired when he didn’t bring out his oft-used adage—“Just because she’s crazy doesn’t mean she’s not a killer.”

  Chapter 22

  We entered Rhonda’s hospital room, with me holding my breath for no clear reason. Here was yet another version of Rhonda Edgerton, in a hospital gown, blond hair pulled back, her face pasty. She looked neither crazy nor like a killer, but like a Lincoln Point oak that had been buffeted by a very strong wind. She was bruised, battered, and patched up here and there. No blood-leaking bandages, however, I was glad to see for both our sakes.

  “Well, if it isn’t the famous Geraldine Porter.”

  I felt my face redden. “Famous?”

  Rhonda folded her arms across her chest, a motion that pulled along a tube/needle combination that was stuck in her hand.

  “The woman without a life, so she has to rummage around in everyone else’s.”

  That hurt, but I couldn’t dispute it with hard facts. I hoped the sound I heard from Skip was not a snicker, but a simple clearing of his throat.

  I gathered my wits and self-esteem. “How are you feeling, Rhonda?”

  “How does it look?”

  No small talk welcome, I gathered. “You sent for me?”

  “I’ve been in town for a week or so, now, and the word is that you’re the one who pays attention and may be able to help me get through to the”—she gave Skip a disparaging look—“small town cops here.”

  This time I knew Skip was not just clearing his throat. Lucky for all of us, his pager beeped. He looked at the display and said, “Gotta go.” I had the feeling that he would have said that no matter who had summoned him, or that he might have pushed a button and summoned himself.

  “We’ll be fine,” I said.

  “I’ll bet,” he said and left the room.

  As the now highest-ranking official (by family association) in the room, I pitched into the patient/suspect.

  “What can you tell me about Brad, Rhonda? Who do you think wanted him out of the way? And try to think beyond Zoe, please.”

  Not bad, if I did think so myself. At least it seemed to work with Rhonda, who threw up her hands as far as they could go given the IV contraption attached to her.

  “Are you kidding? There was so much competition among all the artists. I thought the real estate business was cutthroat, until I saw my husband’s colleagues in action. It was all about who’s chummy with whom, you know? For this shindig—your Abraham Lincoln thing—everyone had to submit a portfolio back in the fall, and only a few got chosen. I guess a lot of people were upset that Brad got two separate commissions since he hadn’t been here that long.”

  “Do you think he was killed by another artist?”

  “I don’t know. But it wasn’t Zoe, I know that now. There’s nothing like being attacked yourself to give you a little perspective. We all loved Brad in our own demented way.”

  “We all . . . ?”

  “I tried to kid myself for a long time, but Brad played the field even when we were engaged. If he were old and rich
, he’d be called a womanizer, and I guess he was headed in that direction.”

  I saw my list of suspects growing by leaps and bounds. Not only artists across state lines, but rejected women left in Brad’s dust.

  “It must have been very difficult for you.” (This was Geraldine Porter, the sympathetic one, as opposed to all those other, crass Lincoln Point cops.)

  “It was, but I had my faith and I thought he would honor our vows. But when he left Chicago to be with Zoe, I knew it was over. Still, I had to give it one last shot. My church doesn’t believe in divorce, and I thought if I could make him see that . . .”

  “Did you have a lot of contact with Brad after the divorce?”

  “I told you. There was no divorce.”

  In spite of her strong words, Rhonda’s voice was weakening, understandable considering the hour and what she’d been through. I made an attempt to steer the narrative in the direction I wanted as I eked out the last of her energy.

  “Tell me what happened the night he was killed.”

  She stiffened, tilting her head and raising her eyebrows. “I have no idea.”

  To strengthen my resolve, I pictured Rhonda with a couple of yards of inexpensive black fabric and a bag of crafts beads, poised to make a replica of Zoe’s jacket. She didn’t look the type to join our crafts group, I had to admit.

  “We know you impersonated Zoe and slashed Brad’s paintings. The police can do amazing things with videotape these days, Rhonda. And as for those pitiful stabbings”—here I made a disgusting sound as if I were observing a stabbed raccoon and an entire, wounded fruit store at that very moment—“we have all we need on that end, too. And that’s just the beginning. There’s the rest of the skulking around town that you’ve done.”

  With each figurative tick mark enumerating her activities, Rhonda’s eyes grew wider, her lips tighter. I felt I was spot on.

  What did it say about me that the one investigative technique I’d perfected was that of lying to suspects? First to Zoe in her jail cell, then to Ryan on his way to seek greatness as Stephen Douglas, and now to Rhonda, on her night of agony. I also remembered fudging the truth a bit with Nan Browne, leading her to believe I was a friendly reporter, ready to make her and her Channel 29 shows famous.

  “I don’t want to talk anymore,” Rhonda said. She started to drift off (unless she was using her own investigative technique). In any case, I knew the interview was over.

  The last words I heard as I turned to leave were, “He still loved me, you know. And I would never, never hurt him.”

  I left the room not much smarter than when I entered, but with a definite feeling that Rhonda did everything we thought she did, from the fake jacket to the last grapefruit, but she didn’t kill the man she still considered her husband.

  This left the distinct possibility that it was the killer who attacked her. But why? From my stellar interview, it was clear that she didn’t know anything incriminating, so why bother?

  It was close to midnight, and I decided to leave those questions for the morning.

  I left the hospital and walked out toward the helicopter pad and my car.

  I approached the row I’d parked in, keys at the ready. There were still quite a few cars in the lot, even at this hour. I figured that most belonged to the staff and the rest to the poor souls who were in the ER or staying all night with a loved one. I went down the first row where I thought I’d parked and found a late-model brown Nissan in the spot I thought had been mine.

  Did I have the wrong row? I remembered exiting my car and looking directly down the hill at the Mary Todd Home, the assisted living facility where Linda worked. Maybe my car was one row over.

  It had been a long time since I’d lost track of where I parked. I usually immediately memorized my spot, having learned the hard way after losing my car in the maze that was the San Francisco airport parking garage. That was easy to understand, however; this wasn’t.

  I tried two rows in either direction. No red Ion. My car was gone.

  I walked back to the original spot, where I was sure I’d left it. I verified that (unless I’d lost my faculties) I’d parked in a legitimate spot, with no time or space restriction and no tow-away sign.

  Though the lot was well lit, it now seemed spooky. I looked for a silver or beige SUV and saw too many to count. But none of them was blinking its lights at me, crawling toward me, or otherwise harassing me.

  For the second time that day I found myself without my car, needing rescue. I fought back a frantic feeling and tried to convince myself that a stolen car was a small set-back, unrelated to the frightening events of the week. People had their cars stolen every day.

  There was nothing to be tense about—I still had my purse, my cell phone, and my wits. I took out my phone, undecided about whom to call. Did AAA respond to stolen car reports? Probably not. Should I claim family privilege and call Skip? Or wake Mary Lou and Richard, and, therefore, Maddie, to pick me up? I could call a cab. How about June or Zoe? (I felt they owed me.)

  I really should have done what an ordinary citizen with no police connections would have done and called the general number for the LPPD.

  I called Skip.

  I asked Skip to pick me up at the emergency room entrance to the hospital, which was the closest to the section of the parking lot I’d used. I walked back and stood just inside the door. He arrived there in less than ten minutes, driven by June in her blue sedan. I took a moment from my own issues to delight in the fact that the two of them seemed to have worked out a way to be together, at least for now.

  “Gerry, you poor thing. Are you freezing?” June asked. She’d brought a fleece throw and draped it around my shoulders, then pulled her own scarf up around her neck. “It’s awfully cold right by these doors.”

  Overly solicitous, I thought, but sweet. “I’m sorry to have wakened you,” I said.

  “I was up. Zoe and I talked for a while, but then she decided to go home, and then Skip . . .” She trailed off, tucking the fleece shawl closer around me, as if I were a child.

  “Thanks. But I’m really fine, you know. I just need to report my car stolen, or did you already do that, Skip?”

  “But your car is in your driveway,” June said. “We saw it there just now.”

  “It can’t be,” I said. “Unless car thieves are doing home delivery these days.” I laughed at the suggestion.

  “But—” June started.

  “Let’s just get you home,” Skip said, interrupting. He waved his arm in the direction of the sidewalk.

  June’s car was parked illegally at the curb right in front of the automatic doors. The portable blue bubble light on the roof probably convinced any local security person riding around in a cart that a ticket wouldn’t be effective.

  I climbed into the backseat and started in on my story, unsolicited.

  “I parked right near the helicopter pad. I know, because I remember where I was with respect to the Mary Todd. Then when I came out, my car was gone. In fact, shall we drive up there now and check out the spot? Maybe there’s a tow-away sign that I missed.”

  “Let’s just get you home,” Skip said again, and June obliged.

  I leaned back in the seat and closed my eyes for the short ride. I thought I’d never been so tired. So tired that maybe I was dreaming when June turned onto my street and I saw my own red Ion parked in the driveway, just as it would have been if I hadn’t driven it to the hospital.

  But I had driven it to the hospital.

  “Aunt Gerry?” Skip said, in what was probably meant to be a comforting tone. “See, there’s your car.”

  I blinked my eyes. My head hurt. The leafless trees that lined my street seemed to lean in toward the middle of the road, ready to pounce on me when I alighted the car. Their waving branches taunted me.

  “Skip, you know I drove to the hospital. I left right after you called to say that Rhonda wanted to see me.”

  “I didn’t actually see you drive up. I was waiting f
or you at the information desk, remember?”

  I bit my lip to stop myself from raving at him in frustration. I had another idea. Maybe Rhonda was in on this little trick. She hadn’t told me anything so dramatic that it couldn’t have waited until she was out of the hospital. Or that she couldn’t have put in a note or told the police directly. She’d simply told me she didn’t kill her ex-husband. She must have sent for me in order to have someone steal my car and drive it home. Why? To discredit me? To dissuade me from investigating? Hers was not the kind of mind I understood.

  Or it could have been one of Skip’s pranks, now that he was in a good mood again, thanks to his reconciliation with June.

  “This is a joke, isn’t it?” I said to Skip, now leading me out of June’s backseat the way he would a disabled person or a ninety-year-old. “You reported it stolen and your buddies came through immediately.”

  Skip’s brow was furrowed into a worried look, as if his favorite aunt had lost her mind. I couldn’t help feeling he was right.

  The motion-sensor light on my house switched on as the three of us approached my vehicle. I felt like a character in a horror novel, expecting my car to turn on its ignition by itself and lunge at me. I saw myself tumbling down my driveway, then being run over by my vehicle, then lying in a heap in the gutter while my Ion’s headlights winked.

  “You didn’t get a ride to the hospital or anything, did you, Gerry?” June asked.

  “No, I did not.” The protest was much too loud for the quiet street. “Of course not,” I whispered.

  We did a quick survey of the car. Skip opened the driver side door, which was unlocked. June and I walked around the outside, but neither of us saw anything unusual. No damage, nothing disturbed, either inside or out.

  “Where are your keys?” Skip asked.

  Finally, an easy question. I reached into my purse and produced them. Heaven only knows why I considered that a victory for me.

  “Okay, then,” he said, without telling me what that meant.