“Molly, if he’s innocent, you got nothing to worry about. You worry more than anyone I’ve ever met in my life.”
I glanced at Lauren. She looked horridly uncomfortable at seeing the two of us go at it like this. I managed to take a deep breath and calm myself down a notch. “Maybe so, but if you’d had the run of luck that I’ve had—so bad that your neighbors were calling you Typhoid Molly—you’d leap to pessimistic conclusions, too.”
“Uh-huh. You got a point, there, Moll. If folks started callin’ me Typhoid Molly, I’d be downright ornery, too. Not to mention, seriously concerned about my testosterone level.”
“Yes, well, if…” I had launched into an immediate retort, but I had no comeback. My cheeks grew warm. I could not believe that Tommy had fed me a straight line just screaming for a witticism, and I had none to offer. “He’s innocent, Tommy. You’ve got to help us prove that.”
“See, that’s the thing, Molly. My job is not to help you or your father prove anything. It’s to find Sylvia Greene’s killer. I’ve got to keep impartial. And that’s exactly what I intend to do. In fact, if I knew your father any better than just to say hello to him when we happen to bump into each other, I’d’ve withdrawn from this investigation—”
“Tommy…” Lauren started to interrupt, but then she pursed her lips and averted her eyes.
Your testosterone level’s already so high it’s short-circuiting your brain, I thought, too late to voice the line. That was one of the advantages of composing greeting cards. There, unlike live conversation, you get however much time is needed to come up with a snappy punch line.
Again, he held up his palms. “Sorry. That’s the way things have to be.” He gave each of us a long look. “If you all want to keep peace, you better not ask me any special favors.”
My cheeks were blazing, and I wasn’t about to acknowledge that I realized Tommy was right.
Lauren murmured goodbye, and Tommy gave her a peck on the cheek, then brushed past me, got into his cruiser, and drove off.
I turned back toward Lauren, who was watching me with a sad expression on her face. “I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m making a horse’s ass out of myself this morning. Everything that comes out of my mouth seems to add to the problem.” Which was a mixed metaphor that I no longer wished to explore.
“You’re under a lot of stress right now. Anybody in your situation would be struggling. Have you already had breakfast? I made some muffins.”
“Great. Thanks.” As Lauren realized, I rarely ate breakfast but was always a willing consumer of her homemade muffins. She baked whenever she was upset. Fortunately, I found her baking wonderful comfort food, and our moods often corresponded.
I followed her into the kitchen, and she poured a cup of tea for me while I took a seat at her faux wood linoleum counter. “Lauren, don’t you have to go into work this morning?”
“It’s Tuesday. Remember?”
“Oh, right.” She was only working Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays now. Her job as secretary at the high school paid little but allowed her to be home by the time her daughter Rachel was getting out from school. Rachel and my daughter were the best of friends and were in seventh grade together.
“This is a real mess. Not just because of Tommy. My own parents are stonewalling me. As much as I hate to say this, they’re acting guilty. And how are we going to prove he’s innocent, when even Tommy, who knows my father personally, is acting as though he believes my father killed Sylvia?”
“It’s a mess, all right.”
She kept her attention focused on the teabag she was steeping for an inordinate amount of time, and I knew she was working out her phrasing for some bombshell of a statement. A minute later she dropped it, after she finally stopped fidgeting with the cup and slid it and some sort of red-berried muffin toward me.
“Molly, I know that there’s no way you’re going to want to hear this right now, but maybe you should steer clear of the whole thing.”
“You’re right. I can’t hear that, let alone do it.”
She tilted her head, in her personalized gesture of a slight shrug. Her round cheeks had reddened slightly. “The thing is, though, Molly, if your father does have something in his past that Sylvia uncovered, he obviously doesn’t want you or anyone else to know about it. Maybe you should just respect that and…back off. Know what I mean?”
“Sure, but I think that—” I broke off. What if Dad was covering up for some torrid affair that could destroy my mother and, to a lesser extent, me? “But I just had an encounter with a reporter who claims he’s going to run an article about the content of Sylvia’s news in the morning. So, if it’s going to come out anyway, I’d certainly rather hear it from my father than read about it on the front page.”
“Anyone in your shoes would,” Lauren murmured.
Anyone in my shoes? Did she know more than she was letting on? “Tell me something. You’ve known my parents almost as long as I have. Do you have any idea what this secret could be?”
To my relief, she shook her head. “No, but you sound pretty convinced that he really is hiding something. That’s different from how you felt last night.”
“Not really. I still think it’s more than likely that this is all one big smoke screen that Sylvia put up to try to intimidate my father into changing his vote.” I blew on the surface of the tea and took a sip, capped off by a bite of muffin, which was delicious—sweet, but with a nice tangy flavor from the berries—then asked, “What’s the scoop with the investigation?”
“Tommy wouldn’t tell me much of anything. He says he knows I’ll go straight to you.”
“Well, duh. So what did you find out?”
Lauren searched my eyes, then said quietly, “There was a vial in your dad’s jacket that contained some sort of really powerful, fast-acting poison. I can’t remember the name of it. Anyway, they did a blood test on Sylvia Greene at the hospital. It came back positive.”
“Meaning she was poisoned by the same substance they found in the vial?”
“Yes.”
Because this was precisely what I was expecting, I wasn’t surprised, but it was still horribly unnerving to have my worst suspicions confirmed. “Were there fingerprints on the vial?”
She shook her head.
Her news left me feeling exhausted and defeated. “I knew it. This is a living nightmare. And Tommy accuses me of being pessimistic.”
“He’s right. You are.”
“Just because you’re pessimistic doesn’t mean your life is not in the toilet.”
Lauren gave me a sad smile and crossed her arms. “Now there’s a catchy slogan. Used that on any greeting cards lately?”
“You know I always leave the sappy, sentimental cards for someone else to write. Anyway, the thing. is, no one was wearing gloves during the meeting, my father included. Someone had to have wiped the fingerprints off and slipped the vial into my father’s jacket.”
Lauren grimaced and tucked an errant lock of her brown hair behind an ear, her pretty, round face still looking deeply worried. “That’s the worst part. I overheard Tommy’s phone conversation with another officer late last night. The police examined the videotape of the proceedings last night. Nobody went near your father’s jacket the entire time the cameras were on.”
“That is hard to explain,” I murmured, taking another sip of tea and bite of muffin. “But then, the cameras weren’t on the whole time the paramedics were there trying to revive her. The killer could have slipped something into Dad’s pocket during all the confusion.”
“Have you found out who that man was who went back into the room with them?”
“Some private investigator Sylvia had hired to do a background check on Dad. Apparently the investigator didn’t say anything during the private meeting, but Dad said that Sylvia had told him this investigator had uncovered something incriminating about another board member.”
“The killer must have been somebody else on the board who Sylvia was intendin
g to strong-arm during the private meeting.”
“Right. But, supposedly, nobody knew who, except Sylvia herself. And, most likely, the person with the terrible secret.” And the private investigator! I took a couple more sips of tea, then rose, muffin in hand. “Listen, thanks for the tea and sympathy. Plus the muffin. But I’d better get home.”
She walked me to the door. “What are you going to do next?”
“Probably talk to Sylvia’s private investigator.”
She nodded and said simply, “Be careful.”
“Lauren, I do realize that, as the investigating officer, Tommy can’t play favorites.”
She pursed her lips. “Everything’s going to work itself out. Tommy will find the real killer, and if there is something haunting your dad, you’ll cope with it.”
“I hope so,” I said, trying to wage war against my much-deserved and readily apparent pessimism.
She gave me a reassuring hug.
I headed down her walkway, then stopped and stared at my parents’ place for a moment, hoping that one of my parents would sense my presence and invite me inside. When they didn’t, I slowly walked home, finishing my muffin and stuffing its paper wrapping in my jacket pocket for want of a trash can.
The phone was ringing as I unlocked my front door. As was typical, my little dog was pressed sideways against the door in anticipation of my arrival. I had to ignore her, which was difficult because I had to literally step over her in order to run to the phone. She followed at my heels, no doubt alarmed at my breach of etiquette at not pausing to pet her first.
“Hello?” I panted into the phone.
“Molly,” said the inordinately sad female voice over the line. “I saw the papers this morning. I am just so very, very sorry.”
I gritted my teeth and yanked my arms out of my jacket sleeves with a vengeance, flinging the coat onto the kitchen chair. There was only one person I knew who could be this syrupy and think that anyone would believe her to be sincere. “Hello, Stephanie.”
“Oh, Molly. I can’t help but feel responsible, in a small way, at least. You undoubtedly realize that, as Carlton’s PTA president, I never miss a board meeting, but Mikey has a bad cold, or at least he did last night. He’s much better this morning. And as wonderful as Tiffany is with children, she’s not so great with grouchy four-year-old brothers.”
“I can imagine,” I said. Stephanie’s teenage daughter, Tiffany, was our babysitter and did an adequate-enough job watching the kids. I wouldn’t call her “wonderful,” though, and was glad that my children had reached the age where I felt it was safe to leave them unsupervised for reasonable periods of time.
“So, of course, that meant that I had to stay home with my little one. I couldn’t very well bring a fussy toddler and, well,” she sighed, “this is a difficult time for me. Tiffany is going through something of a difficult phase right now.”
As was typical of Stephanie, she had immediately moved the conversation around to herself and her own problems. While speaking, I knelt to rub my cocker spaniel’s tummy. She was so spoiled it was embarrassing—true of my dog, as well as of Stephanie and her daughter.
Taking an educated guess as to what Tiffany’s current “phase” might be, I asked, “She’s dyed her hair again?”
“Lime green. She looks like the Jolly Green Giant’s niece. It just breaks my heart. Honestly, Molly. I am going to sue the company that produces these colors. If they didn’t sell them, the kids wouldn’t be able to buy them and destroy their appearances.”
And if the kids didn’t buy them, the company wouldn’t produce them. “It was nice of you to call, Stephanie, but I really have to be—”
“Rumor has it that the police think your father is the prime suspect. That must be so devastating for you and your family.”
That got my full attention. I rose from my knees and barely contained my temper enough to say, “What makes you say that? Actually, we are enjoying all of this attention immensely.”
There was a pause. “Really?”
“No, Stephanie, I was being sarcastic.”
“All of that aside, I just wanted to tell you that I’m here for you if you need me. You know how indebted I am to you, so if there’s anything I can do to help you through these difficult times, don’t hesitate to ask.”
“Fine, although I can’t think of what that would possibly—”
“I know! A spaghetti casserole! Don’t say another word. I have a marvelous recipe, and I’ll bring it to you, steaming hot,” Stephanie said.
“The recipe or the meal?”
“You are such a kidder, Molly.”
She hung up. I went back to petting the dog. “A visit from Stephanie. Oh, joy, BC. This will top off a truly marvelous morning.”
Stephanie Saunders had been my nemesis from the moment she transferred into my eighth-grade class at Carlton Central School. When we first met, she might as well have announced: “Aha, So you’re the class clown. You must be covering up a whole slew of insecurities. Let’s explore them together, so that I can forever help you to feel bad about yourself, shall we?”
However, Stephanie would be here all too soon, and there was no point in spoiling the time that I now had to myself by thinking about her. I grabbed my yellow pages and started to look through each listing for private investigators. There were twenty or so, and none of the names rang a bell. The name of the investigator at the meeting had been mentioned only in passing last night, and I couldn’t recall it. Sam…something-to-do-with-tires. Sam…Michelin? Radial? Retread? I paged to the section of tire advertisements and remembered the name: Dunlap. Sam Dunlap.
There was no “Dunlap Investigators” heading, so I started calling each listing, beginning with the first one: “AAA Investigations—All Ya Want To Know,” which should have been AYWTK by my book but that was probably less eye-catching—and asked for Sam Dunlap. At the fourth number I dialed, “Information Retrieval Services,” the man who answered said, “That’s me. What can I do for you?”
“My name is Molly Masters. I’m—”
“I know who you are,” he said, cutting me off. “What do you want?”
Though somewhat taken aback at his gruff manner, I mustered some self-assurance and answered, “I’m worried about this information you uncovered about my father. I very much doubt you’ve gotten the full picture. Innocent people are going to get hurt.”
“Hey, Ms. Masters, if any ‘innocents’ get hurt, it won’t be ‘cuz of anything I’ve done.”
“Is it true that Sylvia Greene hired you as a private investigator?”
“Yeah. But that’s nobody’s business but mine.”
Though he was obviously intent on being as uncooperative as possible, I had to press on for my father’s sake. “Would you be willing to speak with me about the incidents of the last couple of days? I’m very worried about my father. He’s under a lot of stress. Anything you could tell me that could reassure him would be extremely helpful.”
“No can do. The work I did for Ms. Greene is confidential. Even though she’s dead.”
“Okay. But could you just tell me which other board member, besides my father, Sylvia had asked you to investigate?”
“Lady, I already told you as much as I’m gonna say. I’m in more than enough hot water with the police. I don’t need to add you and your big nose to my troubles.”
He hung up.
I stood still, listening to the dial tone while replaying the conversation in my head. Me and my “big nose”—and thank you so much for the compliment, Mr. Retread—smelled a rat.
Chapter 5
We Be Goin’ in Circles
I did some serious pacing, trying to figure out how to get information out of Sam Dunlap. He’d apparently managed to dredge up something from both my Dad’s and a second board-member’s past. Maybe Sylvia had taken a scattershot approach to the problem and hired Sam Dunlap to investigate the backgrounds of all the board members at once.
Maybe I could hire him t
o perform the same search that he’d recently made for Sylvia. Minus whatever he’d turned up regarding my father, that is, because I didn’t wish to learn about my father’s past from Sam or from any other private investigator. Why, though, would somebody kill Sylvia to keep a secret hidden? The gig was already up, so to speak. The investigator also knew this person’s secret, and he’d gotten the information from someplace. The killer couldn’t hope to root out all traces of his or her past merely by getting rid of Sylvia.
I called Information Retrieval Services a second time, thinking as I did so that Sam Dunlap—and any coworkers—had probably chosen the name carefully. He could get away with saying he was from the IRS, which would put a nice scare into the other party. I recognized Sam Dunlap’s voice as he stated his company’s name.
“This is Molly Masters calling again. Mr. Dunlap, I just wanted to ask you—”
“Ms. Masters, as I already told you, the information that—”
“You already told me you have to stick to your confidentiality. But I’m wondering if I could hire you to run a second background search on the board members.”
My suggestion gave him considerable pause. Finally, he said, “I can’t do that.”
“You can’t, or you won’t?”
“Works out the same either way. Ms. Masters, I suggest you stick to whatever it is you think you do best and forget about Sylvia Greene’s death.”
Frankly, I wasn’t sure what it was that I “do best,” but come to think of it, harassing people into answering my questions was probably right up there at the top of the list of my talents. “Believe me, Mr. Dunlap, nothing would make me happier than to do just that. But my father has been accused of a crime he didn’t commit. Someone could have killed Sylvia to prevent her from publicly divulging the information that you gave her. Hasn’t it occurred to you that you could be next?”
“Yeah, of course it has. I’m not an idiot. A woman died in front of me, thanks to—” He broke off. “Hang on a sec.” When he got back on the line, his voice was calmer, though sarcastic. “Thanks for your concern, but I can take care of myself.”
Death on a School Board (Book 5 Molly Masters Mysteries) Page 5
