“Let’s go in to see the portraits,” I said, wanting to restore goodwill all around.
Ed looked at his watch. “You can check them out yourselves. I have to go.”
Too late.
The rest of the holiday passed without incident, but with no satisfaction, either. I made a couple of feeble attempts to determine what had happened to my car, even going back to the scene of the crime to try to jog my memory of something or someone suspicious I might have seen.
I planned my trip and my phone calls around Maddie’s and Mary Lou’s schedules, since I had no desire to share my concerns with them. It was easy enough to sneak around. Maddie was distracted, watching her DVD again and again, rehearsing how she might narrate her Share Day presentation for Tuesday. Mary Lou had gallery business and last-minute details to take care of at the civic center. Even Richard had a lot on his mind that didn’t concern me directly, having to revise a paper of his that was accepted to a major medical conference in the Midwest.
I excused myself right after dinner, claiming a headache.
No one seemed to mind.
Better days were ahead, I told myself. After all, tomorrow was Abraham Lincoln’s birthday.
Chapter 24
If I couldn’t solve my own personal case, which (in line with my new movement toward more meaningful titles) I’d dubbed “The Red Rover,” I could at least make myself useful in the matter of Brad Goodman’s murder and the related case of Zoe Howard’s anonymous bail-poster.
When all were accounted for—Richard on his way to Stanford and Mary Lou driving Maddie to Share Day at the Angelican Hills school—I set out to do some footwork.
There were two homeless shelters in town that I knew of, both in the neighborhoods south of the civic center. I drove to the first one and parked around the back. A CLOSED sign, nearly invisible among all the torn flyers and notices, was pasted to the window. I peered inside, around the dogeared sheets of paper, and saw what looked like an abandoned kitchen.
I tried to remember which year I had helped serve a holiday meal here. Too long ago, and now it was too late.
I went back to my car and felt a wave of relief to see it where I’d left it. My confidence that the theft had been a single, isolated incident rose a notch.
I had better luck with the second shelter, little more than a soup kitchen in an abandoned library branch that had closed several years ago from lack of funding. From the peeling paint and broken window shutters I gathered that funding was lacking for this establishment, also.
I knocked on the front door, and a few minutes later introduced myself to a stocky, middle-aged woman with an in-charge look. She wore an apron over a dark pants suit, low-heeled comfortable-looking shoes, and a hairnet. She carried the largest spatula I’d ever seen. She was either the administrator, the cook, or both.
“You people have already been here,” she said, not inviting me in.
“Excuse me?”
“The police. You’re with the police, aren’t you?”
It seemed that Skip had had someone act on my idea of who might have posted Zoe’s bail. But I hadn’t used “Officer” or “Detective” before my name.
“What makes you think so?”
“You’re not dressed like you’re hungry, and the only other people who come here want information, and that’s usually the police.”
Fair enough.
“I’m looking for a Debra Ketough,” I said. I stomped my feet a bit and pulled the sleeves of my jacket down, to indicate that perhaps I could step inside where it must be warmer. She didn’t acknowledge the signal.
“Same as the others,” she said. “I told them, nobody by that name comes around here. Not that I know of, anyway. We’re not big on records here, you know. We just keep track of how many meals get eaten so we can get our piddling amount of money.”
“Can I ask you a few questions?”
The woman heaved a sigh and raised the enormous wooden spatula to shoulder level. I was afraid she was going to hit me, but she merely scratched her head with the end of the handle.
“I’m really busy here. It’s almost lunchtime and I’m expecting at least twenty people who haven’t eaten since yesterday at this time.”
“You serve only lunch?”
“That’s all we can afford. We try to make it a substantial meal. Now, I have to go.”
She started to close the door. I put my foot on the threshold to stall her effort, knowing she could have crushed my ankle if she chose. I knew her bad disposition was out of frustration with her meager resources.
“What if I stay and help?” I asked.
I didn’t expect my offer to draw such a hearty laugh from this serious woman. “So you can feel good yourself?” she asked. “Or worse, badger them with questions? These people have been hassled enough by the system.”
I wished I could contradict her. “Just one quick question, then. Has any of your regular diners acted differently in the last couple of days or said anything strange?”
Another loud laugh. “You mean other than the usual talk about rich uncles that are going to leave them a fortune? Or the trip they’re going on tomorrow, to London or Rome or Paris? No. Now I really have to go.”
I withdrew my foot, thanked her, and returned to my well-behaving car. There was no communicating with this woman.
I might as well get ready for the great February event and leave the debating to the professionals.
My afternoon chores included writing a check to the shelter. Alone in the house, I rummaged in my refrigerator for something not too old and dry. (A recollection of the oversize spatula had made me hungry.) In my haste, I knocked off one of Beverly and Nick’s postcards from Hawaii. We’d stuck them all to the refrigerator door.
After three days of no mail, I missed hearing from the newly formed couple. We’d agreed we wouldn’t call since this was supposed to be important bonding time for them. I’d have to settle for reviewing the postcards we already had. A particularly colorful card pictured a long view of a Waikiki beach at sunset. The message was one I’d forgotten: We’re already planning our next vacation. This summer we’ll be doing an art tour of Europe. Plan ahead and join us in Paris! Love from B & N.
My refrigerator motor kicked on and at the same time something clicked in my head. Two other people were planning a trip to Paris? One of the soup kitchen’s diners, (though the cook thought it was just a wild rambling) and the sidewalk artist Maddie had chatted with (also considered a wild rambling).
What if the two were really the same person?
It was the only thing that made sense—our sidewalk artist had been offered a trip, more like residence in Paris, in exchange for delivering cash to the Lincoln Point jail. I remembered the woman’s upgraded coat and scarf. It all fit together. She must be Debra Ketough.
The only question was who had paid her. The field was wide open. I needed to talk to Debra Ketough herself.
Suddenly not hungry, I grabbed my purse and headed out to find her.
The buzz was palpable in the civic center plaza as Lincoln Point citizens turned out for the great debate reenactment. The festivities started with informal picnics through the day. Tailgate parties were in full swing when I arrived around four o’clock, firework displays were being prepped, and families had gathered around the park’s barbecue grills. I breathed in the heavy aromas of beef and a spicy sauce and was hungry again. Only in California, Ken would say, could you plan outdoor events in February. (He dismissed other warm climates without apology.) Today’s weather was near sixty-five and sunny, a gift from Abe, we all thought.
I parked in the high school lot, checking all the signage. The otherwise restricted lot had always been fair game on debate day, but today I read every sign twice.
I crossed Civic Drive, scanning the crowd for Debra, convinced that this was our chalk artist’s name. No luck. There were too many people between me and her favorite steps.
As I approached the steps, I still didn’t see h
er in any of her usual spots, to the right or left of the center, thoughtfully never blocking anyone’s access.
The fiddler and mime were on duty. I hoped at least one of them might help me locate their colleague. I started with the one who’d be more likely to talk.
“Have you seen Debra around today?” I asked him, right after depositing a twenty-dollar bill in his fiddle case. I hoped paying for information wasn’t illegal.
He bent over, picked the twenty out of the pile of mostly ones, and put it in his vest pocket. “Who?” His voice was high-pitched and, up close, I realized he was much older than I thought. Typically, he’d been faceless to me all this time.
“The woman who does the chalk paintings.”
“Is that her name?”
“What did you think it was?”
He shrugged shoulders. I wondered if I should drop another bill in the case, but he continued, free of further charge. “We call her Rainbow, ’cause of her chalk.”
“Have you seen Rainbow today?”
“She’s on her supper hour,” he said, enjoying his own joke. “She’s been talking about celebrating her last day. We’ve all heard that before, but this time she might be telling the truth. This morning, she brought me and Silver-man here”—he pointed across the expanse of the steps to the mime—“some doughnuts.”
“Do you think she’ll be back later?” I shouted. A new busload of people was dumped onto the plaza, this time from the Mary Todd Home, according to the logo on the side of the vehicle.
“I don’t think she’d miss the most profitable night of the year, no matter how much money she says she has. There’s still an hour to go before the debate starts and people tend to be very generous when they’re having fun. And even after the debate, the good citizens are on their way to parties and they feel guilty when they see us, so . . .” He pointed to his case.
I felt he had a good hold on the culture of Lincoln Point.
“Did Rainbow say where she got this money?” I started to feel that I owed him another deposit. He was so much more cooperative than the soup kitchen cook had been. Maybe I should have offered her a twenty.
“She just said she did an errand for a guy and now she was rich and was going to Paris tomorrow. Some errand, huh?” He leaned into me and I smelled something on his breath that wasn’t doughnuts. “You got any errands for me?” he asked with a pleasant laugh that made me wish I did.
“No, but thanks for talking to me,” I said and turned to leave. Then I swiveled back. “I’m Gerry. What’s your name?” I asked the fiddler.
“William.” He smiled and tipped his hat. “Pleased to meet you, Gerry.”
“Pleased to meet you, too, William.”
It was about time, I thought.
Now what? I couldn’t very well wait on the steps for another hour until the debate started at five thirty. I spotted an empty bench under the trees at the edge of the lawn and headed for it. I pulled out my phone as I walked, planning to call Skip with my latest theory about Debra Ketough. I hoped he would enlist the LPPD to find her. I felt sure now that she was in danger, that she was supposed to have left town and taken the killer’s secret with her. Whoever gave her the money for a new lifestyle would not be happy to see that she was still here and advertising her newfound wealth.
“Fraternizing with the help, I see.”
Ed Villard, dressed to the nines, had joined me in lock-step toward the bench. He seemed to be in a good mood again. I hoped he was getting high praise from the throngs who visited the city hall to see the special debate artwork.
“I wish we could do more for people like that,” I said. “Did you know that one of the two shelters we had in town is now closed and that our chalk artist eats at a soup kitchen?” I didn’t mention the theoretical nature of my pronouncement.
“God helps those, et cetera, et cetera,” he said and waved to an admirer. “Excuse me. My public awaits.”
I wished Mary Lou were with me to give him a good response.
I’d come to the end of the line for the moment.
I sat on the bench, phone in hand, undecided about what to do. I’d left a message for Skip, but hadn’t tapped into the general population of the LPPD. I remembered Maddie’s big day at school—Mary Lou would have taken her home by now. I called her new cell phone number.
“Hi, Grandma. I called you and your phone was off.” She sounded breathless. “It was nuts, Grandma. Everybody clapped!”
“I’m so glad.” I liked the new use of the word “nuts,” also.
“And Friday I’m going to Kyra’s house and make furniture. Is that okay?”
Before we clicked off, I listened to plans for at least five other “playdates” that Maddie had set up with her new friends in Palo Alto.
I knew her parents were rejoicing as I was.
At various times others joined me on the bench and we struck up brief conversations. We talked about the format of the original debates and how it would never work these days. Historically, the entire debate took three hours (thus the early starting time), with the first candidate speaking for one hour without a break, the second for an hour and a half, and then the first one again with a half-hour rebuttal. The order of speakers was determined by a toss of a coin.
“No sound bites back then,” an older gentleman commented.
One older couple engaged me in a discussion of the debate roles.
“Who do you think is Lincoln?” the woman asked me. “It’s always the most exciting moment when he walks out on the stage.”
“I want to know who got the Douglas role,” the man said. “My son was trying out and I know he didn’t get it because he’s been moping around for a week.”
“Apparently Douglas was very wealthy,” the woman said. “He had lots more money to spend and traveled in great style on a special train with security and servants.”
A wealthy Douglas with security guards? I’d forgotten about the major Douglas candidate, our own security guard Ryan Colson. He’d never called me back for our little chat about how he let Zoe into the artists’ work area the night of Brad Goodman’s murder. I supposed he realized he’d all but admitted to the infraction and would gain nothing by talking to me.
I wondered if he could have been the anonymous donor to Zoe’s bail, but quickly dismissed the idea. He seemed too naïve to me to have executed the plan. He’d nearly fallen apart when Zoe caught him with a new honey. Also, he couldn’t be rich enough on a guard’s salary.
But someone was. Wealthy. I focused on the word. I’d heard it spoken of someone recently, besides the real Stephen Douglas. In my concentration, I feared I was rude to a little boy who tried to talk me into helping him feed a squirrel that had arrived at our feet.
It was time to search the crowd around the steps again for Debra. The last time I strolled over I thought I saw her in a bright red jacket, but it was just the popcorn vendor, bending over to scoop up spilled product.
I stood to leave the bench and felt something jab my ribs. At the same moment, I remembered who was being talked about as being wealthy. Ed Villard, the bearded man who now held a gun—or something round and hard—against my body.
“Act natural,” Ed said into my ear.
“It’s naturally,” I said, easily the most ridiculous utterance of my week.
Chapter 25
Ed walked me away from the crowd toward the back lot of the library, which was closed today. I didn’t know for sure if what I felt was a gun, but it didn’t matter. He was a big man and could have taken me anywhere, even unarmed.
My heart raced. I thought of my family. I was supposed to meet Maddie and her parents in less than a half hour in the lobby by Mary Lou’s painting and my room box. We’d planned to go into the hall and sit together.
I looked in vain for a way to signal a passerby, but they were all engrossed in each other and in their destination. Why couldn’t they see how I was trembling?
The crowd thinned very quickly after the line of trees. Th
roughout the walk, Ed and I were strangely coupled as he held me close with his left arm, using his right arm to steady the weapon. Anyone who saw us might think we were on a date. Unless they heard his whispers, every three or four feet.
“Not a word. Understand?” came often. As did, “If you try anything, I’ll shoot you and then anyone else at random.”
“I understand,” I said, over and over, as waves of fear rippled through my body.
“I knew you were trouble the first time I met you. I hoped I was wrong. I did everything I could to dissuade you,” he said when we were nearly alone.
“You stole my car,” I said, hardly aware I’d spoken out loud.
“Yes, your pitiful little car. I must admit it was childish, but I was flailing around at that point, trying to get your attention.”
Why was I relieved that I hadn’t imagined the car theft? Wouldn’t it be better to be a bit off mentally, but alive?
“Why don’t we talk . . .” I felt a cloth tight on my mouth. An acrid scent struck my nostrils. The trees, the library building, the darkening sky—all went out of focus as I felt my body being tipped onto the seat of a silver SUV.
“Lady, lady. Are you awake?” Clack, clack, clack.
The voice and the sounds echoed in a hollow chamber. My head throbbed, my body ached. It took a while for my eyes to focus. I was in the civic center, and then I wasn’t.
“Lady, yoo-hoo, lady. Over here.”
The loud voice seemed to invade my senses. Where was I? Where was the voice coming from?
The answers took shape, like the final result in a game of Clue. I was in the Rutledge Center artists’ work area with Debra/Rainbow, who was yelling at me from across a couple of rows of empty workbenches. The clacking was the sound of her chair hitting the cement floor as she bounced her way toward me.
Malice in Miniature Page 26
