“Oh, great.”
Tom checked the bittersweet chocolate he was melting in the top of our double boiler. “Remember you told me about that lake of drainage water by the back entrance?” he asked.
“You mean, the one that Victor was so helpful bringing my boxes across?”
“The very one,” Tom replied with a grin. He lifted the pan with its pool of melted chocolate off the heat.
“OK. So there’s a lake of drainage water by the mall’s back door. How is that so important?”
“Drainage problems, which that project had in the worst way, often come from improper grading. With overexcavation, your crook is going to sell over a million dollars of extra dirt. The grading is never going to fix the problem. Lotta rain, lotta snow? That water’s gotta go somewhere. It can’t drain back into the earth, because the impervious surface of a parking lot won’t let it. So it just becomes a puddle, a pond, or one of the Great Lakes.”
“How much had Victor overexcavated?”
“’Bout six or eight inches. Over that huge expanse of land, you’re talking a lot of dirt. He sold it all through those little We Got Dirt ads, and he made about a million and a half. He had his crew helping him out, too, for cash.”
“So… how do we reconstruct the whole thing?” I puzzled.
Tom tilted his head and considered. “It’s complicated. Victor Wilson was not only very greedy, he was a very mean, very smart guy.”
But he acted nice, my mind automatically supplied. The creep.
Tom went on: “Say Lucas No-toe Holden, the former construction manager, discovered the drainage problem and accused his excavator of overexcavating and selling off the dirt. Maybe Lucas wanted to alert Barry but Victor intercepted him. By the way, you want to hear about everybody’s favorite cadaver?”
“Is this going to destroy my appetite?”
“Hope not. We got back the drug screen. Holden had been injected with cocaine, and that, we think, caused the heart attack. Again, it was probably Victor, but I doubt we’ll ever be able to prove that. Our theory is that after Victor Wilson intercepted Lucas Holden and used the hypodermic on him, Victor quickly drove—through the night—to a motel where he could wear Lucas’s sweatshirt and ball cap to check in as Lucas. Then Victor set up a scene so that it looked as if Lucas died of natural causes, and left the body.”
“And the coroner out there didn’t test for drugs because…”
Tom stood to make me another espresso. Except for bruise marks around my neck, I was in pretty good shape. I liked being pampered, though. In fact, I loved it.
“Because Lucas Holden was a diabetic with heart disease, Goldy,” Tom explained, as velvety dark coffee spiraled into a new English china espresso cup. Tom had bought it for me and hidden it until an appropriate occasion presented itself. He figured catching Victor Wilson qualified. “There was no obvious drug use,” he went on. “So they didn’t run a screen. That kind of case, the medical examiner probably wouldn’t get involved. Remember, a coroner can be a nurse whose husband is a rancher, say. Her only job is to determine the cause and manner of death. And with no foul play, no obvious drug use, the corpse in pretty good shape, then the coroner thinks, Bingo! Donation.”
“But how did Ellie become involved?” I wondered aloud, as I gratefully accepted the crema-loaded espresso.
“First you gotta look at what happened with Barry and Victor. Again, our theory is that Victor typed up a note, supposedly from Lucas Holden, saying ‘I quit! I’m going to Arizona. Send my check there.’ ‘Where in Arizona?’ Barry probably asked Victor, and Victor said ‘Prescott’ because it came into his head. While Barry was out at the site, though, he saw that something was wrong with the footings. They were even with the surface level of the dirt, instead of below it. Barry had an architecture degree, so—”
“So he acted on his own,” I interrupted, “and got the plans from the county. And took pictures. And confronted Victor?”
Tom sighed. “We think so. But that’s not all Barry confronted him about.”
I sipped the coffee and ran my fingers along my throbbing neck. “When was all this?”
“We’re guessing a month ago. That’s when Barry first confronted Victor with the overexcavation, and the returned check from Arizona. Where was Lucas? Barry wanted to know. Why hadn’t Lucas ended up where you said he was going? And, what the hell are we going to do about this drainage problem you’ve created?”
“Good Lord.”
“We figure Victor pushed Barry into the ditch when they had this confrontation. Unknown to Victor at that time, two illegal Mexican immigrants who worked for him, Jorge and Raoul Sanchez, were watching. Jorge and Raoul speak great English. And they worked their butts off for Victor, who sometimes paid them and sometimes didn’t. One day, the two brothers came early for their money, and overheard the whole thing. Barry probably asked Victor one question too many. Hey, by the way, how come these concrete footings are even with the topsoil, instead of being eight inches lower than the soil?”
I sighed and shook my head. “So Jorge and Raoul saw Victor push Barry Dean into the ditch? And knew why, after that, Barry complained about headaches?”
“Yup. Jorge and Raoul, chewed out, unpaid, and maybe just a little scared of how violent Victor could become, walked off the job. Victor, instead of being afraid of Jorge and Raoul ratting him out, called them up and said, ‘One of you needs to come over here and drive this truck into Barry Dean or I’m going to turn all of you into the INS. Then you two and your mother and all your little illegal family will be bused straight back to Mexico.’”
“That bastard.”
“Victor made Jorge and Raoul swear the person who had pushed Barry into the ditch was a woman. Using the same blackmail technique, he forced Raoul to phone in an anonymous tip that Julian had driven the truck that almost killed Barry and you. But they both felt guilty, which is why they called you anonymously to tip you off about the headaches. And left you that note in Spanish, too.”
“And I brought the bastard cookies! But I still don’t understand about the cuff links, and Ellie, and all that.”
“After the ditch incident, Victor must have been real worried about what Barry would do. In particular, he might have worried about how much Barry had told his very public girlfriend, Ellie. So before Barry could do anything, Victor probably decided to kill Barry and frame Ellie. He followed Ellie around, saw Teddy Fury nab her purse. Teddy kept the purse and the cash, but tossed the rest of the purse’s contents—including Ellie’s car keys and the cuff links receipt—into the Dumpster. Victor fished that stuff out and laid his plans. First he’d crash Ellie’s car into Barry’s, to establish the jealousy. Then he planted the cuff links in the dump truck, so it would look as if Ellie tried to kill Barry because he was having something on the side with Pam. But the truck scheme to kill Barry failed.”
“And I lost a box of shrimp rolls,” I commented.
“At that point, Victor was probably desperate,” Tom went on. “He stole your Henckels knife, stalked Barry, and stabbed him in an area invisible to security cameras, behind the P and G shoe cabinet. When the clerks approached to do the cleanup, he shoved Barry into the cabinet. But as he was leaving the store, he saw you coming in with Arch’s guitar. You were asking one clerk after another where the shoe department was. He waited, watched you discover Barry, and whacked you with the guitar.”
“Then when Julian was arrested, that worked for him, too,” I concluded glumly. “He just blackmailed—who was it? Raoul the construction worker?—to say Julian was driving the truck! That son of a bitch! He didn’t succeed in getting Jorge and Raoul into trouble, did he?”
“Don’t worry,” Tom reassured me. “Jorge’s lawyer got the INS deal he wanted, and both Jorge and Raoul are cooperating fully in the investigation.”
“Raoul and Jorge,” I murmured. “Two siblings who really care about each other.”
“Oh! And speaking of siblings! Kim Fury finally called. Apologiz
ed profusely for not getting back earlier, but she had gone out looking for her brother, whom she still seems to be constantly ticked off at. But at least she found him. Teddy wasn’t holed up studying quantum mechanics, either, sorry to say, or doing volunteer work in the ghetto. But they’re probably going to close the strip bar where he’d been living in the basement.”
“Ah.” I frowned at the dregs in my demitasse. “What was Teddy doing there?”
“Busboy. Got free rent and meals, made good tips, and he got to see the shows for free.” He perused his cake recipe and began assembling ingredients.
“All right,” I said finally. “Before we get into the whole Pam and Page thing, tell me why Barry didn’t just fire Victor when he discovered what he was doing.”
Tom turned to me. “Goldy, you yourself gave us the answer to that. First of all, as mall manager, Barry didn’t have the power to fire Victor. Pennybaker International would have had to do that. And why didn’t Barry contact Pennybaker?”
“Because he was afraid of negative publicity,” I answered grimly. “Because he was afraid all his borderline-legal antics with giving the vendors’ goods away would be discovered. Because if Pennybaker swooped in with their analysts and managers, Barry would be blamed, somehow, for the delay in the mall construction. Maybe they’d discover he was blackmailing Shane Stockham over the rent issue. And… maybe they’d even get wind of his affair with Pam Disharoon. So Barry figured, ‘I’ll hire my old college pal Goldy, the caterer who solves crimes. She’ll help me to find out what happened to Lucas No-toe Holden.’”
“You did great on this,” Tom reassured me. “The guys did check out those alibis for Ellie and Page, by the way. The women did go straight home, Ellie with Mrs. Harrington, Page in Shane’s car. Shane called a former employee of The Gadget Guy to drive him back up to the Stockham place. He didn’t want to risk driving with his wife after they’d almost killed each other at the party. Oh… and our guy who checked out Page’s alibi also asked her about all those suspicious shoes. Page never saw Barry in the shoe department. She said she bought so much footwear because that was the best way to get revenge on her stingy old husband.”
I shook my head. Tom folded sifted cocoa and sugar into the melted butter and chocolate mixture, then folded in yolks, then creamy, beaten whites. Even as much as my neck now was beginning to ache, I had to appreciate his skill. Tom regarded me with concern. “You look like you’re in pain.”
“I’ve had worse pain, please don’t worry,” I assured him.
He scraped the bowl’s luscious dark contents into a springform pan and slipped the pan into the oven. Then he came over and murmured, “Let me rub where it hurts.”
Tom’s warm hands eased along my upper back. Meanwhile, because it was not a catering day and because Tom had sworn to disinfect the kitchen over the weekend, the dogs were enjoying an unusual foray into the kitchen. Jake the bloodhound and Latte the basset hound pressed in next to me for pats. Like Tom, they also appeared worried about me. Scout the cat, however, was still in hiding. And someone else was missing, too.
“You know what’s bothering me most,” I said. “Julian—”
“OK, look. Hulsey told me to tell you that neither of us should go down to the jail. It’s an embarrassing situation for his firm, and they don’t want you or me around just yet.”
“Bad publicity?”
“You bet,” Tom replied. “Hulsey, Jones, Macauley and Wilson is the best-known criminal defense firm in the state. One partner represents a murder case’s initial suspect, you. Then he works with a second suspect, Julian Teller. Later, when a much more credible suspect gets apprehended and hit in the groin by a cop’s wife”—I shrugged modestly—“and it turns out the guy now hitting the high notes is the brother of the Wilson in Hulsey, Jones, Macauley and Wilson, they’ve got a damage-control problem on their hands. They’re worried sick the press will be all over them.”
“Yeah, yeah,” I muttered. Another sibling problem.
“Julian will be all right,” Tom reassured me. “And there’s something else,” he added. “Minor by comparison to all this. Shane Stockham called. Before he could say why he was phoning, I blasted him on his claims about the payoffs to Barry on the rent issue. I told Stockham if he didn’t tell me the truth, he’d go straight to jail. Scared the guy to death. He admitted Barry hadn’t demanded anything from him. He just made that up so he wouldn’t be blamed for holding back on his rent. His lawyer was already dealing with Pennybaker.”
“You must have put the fear of God into him.”
“That’s my job. Anyway, Shane turned all ingratiating after his admission, as if he were the best friend a cop could ever hope to have. He also said he signed up all the investors he wanted. He really needs to get some ring back from you, though. He’ll exchange it for the check he owes you.” Tom stopped his wonderful massage. “A ruby, sapphire, and diamond ring? Please, please, Miss G.—tell me it’s not stolen.”
I laughed, then promised him I would call Shane. At that moment, the doorbell rang, and the dogs went berserk.
A moment later, Tom was ushering in Ellie McNeely. I tried not to look disappointed that it wasn’t Julian. Ellie was carrying a handsome flower arrangement of dark blue iris, daffodils, and white stock, set not in a basket, but on a base topped with a… lacrosse helmet?
“It’s for Arch,” she said, her tone apologetic. “For his birthday. I told the florist I needed the most masculine thing possible, with a lacrosse theme.”
“They’re gorgeous,” I said, deeply touched.
“Oh,” she added, pulling an envelope out of her pocket, “and here’s an Abercrombie and Fitch gift certificate for him, too, just so he won’t think I’m totally square.”
“This is so unnecessary, Ellie.”
“Goldy,” she said earnestly, “I didn’t really come here because of Arch’s birthday. I came because I wanted to thank you, because I needed to thank you.” Before I could protest and say, It’s nothing, she hurried on: “You found out what happened to Barry, and got half choked to death in the process, I heard. You’ve been great.”
We invited her into the kitchen, where we all had more espresso and kept watch over the cake through the oven window. At length, Arch, clad in the sweatsuit he’d slept in, made one of his silent floating appearances.
“It’s the Birthday B—!” I stopped instantly when I registered my son’s threatening countenance. Laboriously, I got to my feet and shuffled in his direction, hoping for a birthday hug.
“Mom, don’t.” Arch drew back and gave me a pained look: Can’t you ever treat me as if I were older than three? “What’s that?” he asked, frowning at the flowers.
“They’re from Mrs. McNeely,” I said. “They’re for you. For your birthday.”
“Thanks,” he mumbled, and nodded in Ellie’s direction. “Thanks a lot.” He looked from Tom to me. “So my party’s going to be now? Is Julian out yet?”
“Don’t know,” said Tom. “But breakfast definitely won’t be the end of today’s partying.”
“They really are nice flowers,” Arch said to Ellie, with a sincere smile and brief nod.
“There’s a gift certificate, too,” Ellie said, “for A and F.” She pointed to the envelope she’d placed on the table.
At that, Arch brightened a bit more. “Well, gee. Thanks!”
Tom removed the cake from the oven, set it on a rack, then rummaged through the freezer for the last batch of Julian-made chocolate-filled croissants. I set the table and poured orange juice.
When we were digging into the flaky croissants a few minutes later, Ellie said suddenly, “I guess I’ll never know if Barry meant to get engaged or not. It doesn’t matter.” Her lovely, wet eyes regarded me earnestly. “He was two-timing me, but he wanted to get married, Goldy. He told me so at the jewelry-leasing event. He said, ‘All these arrangements we’re making today are for the temporary wearing of stones. But ours will symbolize a lifelong promise.’” I knew she was l
ooking at me for affirmation. I nodded, thinking only that Barry had a gift for communication, not necessarily one for commitment.
“Who’s ready for another croissant?” Tom cried jovially.
Arch raised his hand. Ellie, still preoccupied, burst out with, “If only I could have figured out that riddle!”
Arch cut his eyes at me. I lifted my eyebrows and gave him a knowing grin. My son had always been an expert at riddles, codes, and puzzles, and he knew how much I appreciated his talent. Arch then glanced at Tom, too, who nodded almost imperceptibly. But before Arch said anything, he unexpectedly looked back at me. His eyes held such tenderness that I was undone. Maybe in that split second, my son realized, as he hadn’t in a while, how much my appreciation of him meant that I loved him. I swallowed; my eyes flooded with tears. And then the moment was over.
My son put down his pastry and said, “I know a lot about codes, Mrs. McNeely. If it’s that kind of thing.”
“It’s not a code, it’s about sex,” Ellie explained.
Arch beamed. Well, he was turning fifteen. He said, “Fire away.”
Ellie demurred. “Oh, I’ve taken up too much of your party time. I’m sorry. I’m just preoccupied with my own problems.”
“So what’s the code?” Arch persisted.
“‘When we fight, and then we BLANK, when you do it alone, you’ll find your ring.’” Ellie wrinkled her nose. “You see, whenever we fought, we… made love afterward. I sure don’t want to know what he meant by ‘do it alone,’ for crying out loud.”
Arch shook his head. A huge grin creased his face. “I don’t think it’s about sex, Mrs. McNeely. When you fight with somebody”—and here he gave me that affectionate expression again—“you do other things. You… apologize. You get something for ‘em. You… make up.” Ellie let out breath, still bewildered. “Look, Mrs. McNeely,” Arch went on, “Barry meant when you make up, get it? Then later you put on makeup, you know? Don’t you get that?”
Chopping Spree Page 31
