by Mike Befeler
“That might be a good way to catch the culprit,” Mark said. “Woody, would you be willing to act as a sacrificial lamb?”
“Bah,” Woody said. “I’m willing to help pull the wool over someone’s eyes.” He paused as Mark and Ben looked off in another direction. “We should invite Shelby as well. Then we can each keep an eye on one of the suspects.”
“I don’t know if we can count on him,” Mark said. “Still, we should offer to include him. If we’re going to start the tournament at nine, we’ll tell Shelby that it starts at eight-thirty. Now let’s organize this. Anyone object to the Saturday after next?”
They all shook their heads, so Mark continued. “Woody, you reserve the courts. Ben, make plans to provide refreshments and balls. I’ll put a flyer together and send it out to our mailing list, including the suspects.”
“What if the four assholes don’t show?” Ben asked.
“Worst case, we have a good day of hitting the ball. Best case we uncover some good poop. I think I can make the pitch to pull them in, if they’re in town. We need to appeal to their big egos. ‘By invitation only. Exclusive for the best players in town. First annual all-Boulder platform tennis championship. Good prizes.’ How can they resist?” Mark’s intense stare met, in turn, each of his friends’ eyes. “Everyone start on this immediately. Let’s make it happen.”
“You need to fix your car window,” Woody said. “Don’t forget.”
“As if I could.” Mark wondered what he would have to deal with next.
CHAPTER 12
After Mark showered, he crafted the message for the invitation, designed an attractive brochure and printed out a draft on his color printer. Scrutinizing the result, he made several minor changes and called Woody.
“Are we lined up with the rec center?” Mark asked.
“All systems go.”
“Good. I’m sending out the invitations today to our standard list of players. Anyone else you want to invite?”
“No. That’ll be fine. How many teams can we accommodate?”
“I thought we’d limit it to eight teams. That way half of the people can play at any time. I’ll accept the first eight teams to sign up for the tournament.”
“What if the suspects send in their applications late?”
“Tournament director’s prerogative.”
Mark reread the brochure. The entry fee of twenty dollars per team seemed very reasonable. Enough to make sure people stayed committed.
He accessed the platform tennis list stored in his computer and reviewed it, verifying the suspects’ names and addresses. After deleting Manny’s name, he printed mailing labels. Good thing he had label stock in preparation for Christmas letters.
After visiting the post office to mail the invitations, Mark returned home and found the message light on the answering machine flashing. He pushed the PLAY button and heard, “Mom and Dad, this is Audrey. Give me a call as soon as you can.”
Mark’s heart skipped a beat. His daughter didn’t call very often. Was she in some kind of trouble? He thought for a moment and decided her voice on the machine sounded happy, not distressed. He took a deep breath and called her number.
“Dad, thanks for calling back,” Audrey said. “I’m sorry I haven’t called lately, but I’ve been really busy.”
“I’m delighted to hear from you. You still keeping the insurance industry running in Los Angeles?”
“Absolutely. I even received a promotion and a pay increase.”
“Good for you. Is that why you called?”
“Not only that. I need to speak with both you and Mom. Can you ask her to come to the phone?”
“Actually, she’s down in Colorado Springs visiting Norm right now.”
“Will she be back soon?”
“It could be a few days to a few weeks.”
“Oh.” There was a pause on the line. “I wanted to speak to both of you at the same time, but I’ll give Mom a call right after you and I talk, and let both her and Norm know.”
“It sounds like you have some news.”
“I do.” Another pause on the line.
“Don’t keep your old dad in suspense.”
“Well . . . I’m engaged.”
Mark almost dropped the phone. “Is this the boyfriend you’ve mentioned over the last year?”
“Yup. Adam proposed to me last night and I accepted.”
Mark pictured his daughter in a white gown, holding a bouquet of flowers. “That’s great news. Have you set a date yet?”
“No. That’s something I need to discuss with Mom.”
“She’ll be delighted to hear the news. When will we have a chance to meet Adam?”
“I want to talk to both of you to finalize a visit. Adam and I have arranged some vacation time in a little over three weeks. We plan to come see you.”
Mark’s excitement for his daughter gave way to concern. What if he hadn’t resolved the Manny Grimes murder by then? What if Sophie didn’t come back from Norm’s?
“Why don’t you call your mother, and then we can see what works.”
“Okay, Dad. I’m looking forward to seeing you.”
“Likewise and thanks for calling with the exciting news. I love you.”
“Love you, Dad.”
After Mark hung up, he sat there stunned. His little girl was getting married. After all the turmoil of the teenage years, his kids had turned out all right. All the credit to Sophie. And how did he thank her? Sending her off to exile in Colorado Springs.
He had to wrap up this investigation quickly. He sat down at his computer to resume research. He tapped his fingers on the edge of the keyboard, trying to decide what to do next. A fleeting thought of taking a nap fluttered through his brain. No, he had to crank up his activity to complete his sleuthing before his daughter came to visit. Then he remembered the broken car window. A vein in his neck started pulsing. He couldn’t give in to threats. He pounded his fist on the desk. He had to find the killer. Maybe by understanding Manny, he’d find some clues pointing to the motive for the murder.
Ten minutes later he had only come up with an Internet reference to an art exhibit. It indicated that Mr. and Mrs. Manny Grimes had loaned a painting by Courbet to a gallery in Denver. The article also included an attached image of the painting and an interview describing furniture, art objects and paintings the Grimeses had collected.
Mark realized he should contact Manny’s widow. He had addresses and phone numbers on his platform tennis list but had deleted Manny’s entry. Too bad he hadn’t kept a backup copy. He retrieved the ancient phone book, grateful that he had squirreled it away in his home office, and found a phone number for Manifred and Barbara Grimes on Bluebell east of the Chautauqua auditorium. He punched in the number, and after four rings a woman’s quivering voice answered, “Yes?”
“May I speak to Barbara Grimes, please?” Mark asked.
“That’s me.”
“Ms. Grimes, my name is Mark Yaeger. I used to play platform tennis with your husband.”
There was a pause. “Yes, he mentioned your name to me. He also said he filled in for you when you couldn’t play.”
“Yes, Manny very kindly took my place while I recuperated from cancer surgery.”
Mark thought back to when he prepared to go under the knife.
“I hope you’re doing better now.”
“I’ve recovered,” Mark said, wishing he could believe it. “I’m calling because of some investigative work regarding the murder of your husband and would appreciate a few minutes of your time.”
“My sister has been staying with me, but she’s out shopping. I suppose I’m available now.” Mark heard a sniffling sound and thought she might burst into tears at any moment.
“Excellent,” he said quickly. “I’ll be at your house in fifteen minutes.”
Barbara Grimes lived in an old, two-story, stone house that looked like it belonged on the Boulder Preservation Society’s registry of historical homes. A large
, well-manicured lawn sloped up from the sidewalk to a solid oak front door.
Mark pressed the doorbell and heard chimes play one of the few classical tunes he recognized from Beethoven’s Fifth. He waited for several minutes before the door slowly opened.
An attractive redhead in her early forties stood before him. She wore a red knit top, a black jacket, black skirt and a gold necklace with embedded rubies.
Mark stared at her, and she averted her eyes. Still not looking at him, she invited him in and pointed to a chair in the living room.
“May I offer you some coffee?”
“Yes, thank you. Black.”
When she scurried into the kitchen, Mark looked around. The matching Louis XIV furniture he had read about rested on a lush, Persian carpet that covered most of the floor, with one section of polished, grained wood showing. The walls displayed a collection of paintings and a large gilded mirror. A fire burned in a fireplace beneath a mantle exhibiting Greek vases. Mark felt like he had entered a museum.
Barbara returned and set a coffee cup and matching flower-patterned china saucer on a doily on the end table next to Mark. She sat down on a couch across from him and smoothed her skirt.
She still didn’t make eye contact.
Mark wondered how to induce Barbara to communicate with him. Then with a flash of inspiration he began to talk. “This room is amazing. Did you decorate it?”
She raised her eyes, and a hint of a smile formed on her face. “Yes. I collected all the paintings and vases.”
Mark stood and sauntered over to the painting he recognized from the Internet article. “This looks like a Courbet.”
“That’s right. One of his early works before he became a realist. I bought it at an auction in Paris, five years ago.”
Mark strolled around the room and returned to his chair. “This is quite a treat. I didn’t know a collection like this existed in Boulder.”
“I inherited some of the paintings, but I’ve selectively purchased the rest.”
She had transformed into a confident woman, and her blue eyes sparkled.
Mark took a breath. “Ms. Grimes, I’m sorry to bother you at this time, but I’d like to ask you a few questions that may help solve your husband’s murder.”
“You can call me Barbara. I’ll try to help in any way I can.”
“First, could you fill me in on Manny’s earlier life?”
She thought for a moment. “Manny was a self-made man. An orphan at age six, he learned to take care of himself. He was a natural salesman and investor. He had a full scholarship to Penn State and after college pursued a career as a stockbroker. He became independently wealthy by the age of thirty. We met in New York at an art show, married there and moved to Boulder eight years ago.”
“Did Manny discuss any business deals he had with Lee Daggett, Howard Roscoe, Ken Idler or Jacob Fish?” Mark asked.
Barbara fidgeted with her hair. “I didn’t involve myself in his business activities, so I don’t really know.”
“There may be something useful in his files. Did he have an outside office or one at home?”
“He converted our den into a home office. I stayed out of the office. That was his personal space.”
“What have the police done with Manny’s records?” Mark asked.
“They spent an hour going through his office the morning after he died. Later that day I went to stay with my sister Millie in Detroit . . .” She snuffled and wiped her eyes with a tissue clutched in her hand. “I couldn’t stay in this house by myself. She came back with me yesterday and will be here a while. She should be back soon.”
“Have you started sorting Manny’s papers?”
She frowned. “I don’t know what to do or where to start.”
“Did he have any business partners who can help you?”
She wrung her hands. “No. He worked alone.”
Mark decided to take a gamble. “You’re going to need to organize all his things, and I know that can be a daunting task. I had to do that when my dad died five years ago. I’d be willing to help.”
“Really?” She looked up at Mark, her lip quivering. “It would be such a relief to have someone take care of that.” Tears formed again in her eyes. “I dread having to even go into that office. I don’t know who to turn to. I’m not even sure where he kept his will.”
“If it’s okay with you, I could go through his files and look for the records you’ll need. And besides, we may find some new clues pointing to the murderer.”
Barbara directed Mark to Manny’s office, a spacious room containing a large mahogany desk, separate computer table and two four-drawer file cabinets. A neat stack of paper on the desk rested between the phone and a picture of Barbara on a sailboat.
Mark sat down in the leather swivel chair and opened the third drawer of the first file cabinet. He found it crammed full of unlabeled, bulging manila folders. He opened the other three drawers and saw more of the same. Then Mark picked up the papers on the top of the desk. He found bills from Qwest, Comcast, Xcel, Western Disposal, Your Store Self Storage, the Daily Camera, a Merrill Lynch account summary and several letters requesting charitable contributions.
Mark started leafing through the folders. After scanning a few of them, he discovered that although no labels appeared on the tabs, when he opened them, he often found an identifier written in pencil inside the manila jacket. More than an hour later and in the middle of the fourth drawer, a folded sheet of paper tucked between the pages of a stapled document in a folder with no written identifier caught his eye.
CHAPTER 13
Mark’s heart beat faster as he reread the handwritten letter. It said very simply: “I’ve made the last payment you’ll ever see. You’ve extracted your pound of flesh. Keep this up, you’re a dead man.” Mark shook his head in amazement that the police hadn’t removed this, but apparently they hadn’t searched the file cabinet thoroughly. No signature appeared, but the police would be able to trace the handwriting. Mark set the letter aside and continued his search.
After another half hour rifling through pointless papers, he heard Barbara call from the hallway. “If you’re hungry, I can make some sandwiches.”
“That would be great, but don’t go out of your way.”
“I’ll make something simple.”
He continued systematically leafing through the contents of the manila folders in the second file cabinet, but nothing else shed light on the murder.
Barbara arrived with a plate of sandwiches. She had removed the crusts and cut them into neat squares. She darted back out of the room like a scared rabbit.
Mark ate a square of tuna. His tongue savored the sweet-sour taste of pickle relish mixed with mayonnaise. He felt like he had been invited to a tea party. After a few more bites, he resumed surveying the files.
Halfway through the next drawer, Mark found a folder that had information related to suspect Jacob Fish. He skimmed through it. It included a photocopy of a stock certificate. Manny held shares in Jacob’s company, Creo Tech. Next appeared a copy of a letter to Jacob Fish introducing him to the principals of Lingan Ling in Taiwan and a letter to a Mr. L. Ling suggesting that Creo Tech would be a good company to work with in the United States. Finally, he found a note: “I want you out of my company. You can either sell back your shares or tear them up.” Mark compared the handwriting to the death-threat message, but this handwriting had large loops compared to the constricted writing of the first note. He set this folder on the desk.
Did he really want to know all of this? Was he running a risk of further infuriating the murderer? His stomach churned as he looked out the window and saw a group of children in bright colored jackets walking up the street toward Chautauqua. He sighed, remembering his own children years ago in their ski jackets. Then his thoughts flashed to Sophie visiting their son down in Colorado Springs.
He had to stay focused. Back to the files.
After searching through all eight drawers of the two file
cabinets, Mark had four additional manila folders stacked on the desk. One referenced Westerfield Weapons. It contained a copy of an invoice for twenty AR-15 rifles. A letter from Howard Roscoe reminded Manny of being sixty days overdue in paying the bill for his “special” order. This signature differed from the script on the threatening letter. Mark wondered if this special order had anything to do with the purported illegal weapons dealings. He wrote down the type of rifle in his notebook for future research.
Another folder had “Lee Daggett” written in pencil inside the jacket. A ledger had dates and amounts of money—always twenty thousand dollars. Mark looked for a pattern of dates. For six months Manny posted entries around the twentieth of the month. Then sporadically; some months had no listings. Nothing appeared for the last two months. Ben had mentioned a suspicion that Manny had lent money to Lee. Could this be the record of repayments?
The final folder had some perplexing information citing Idler Enterprises. It included a handwritten list titled “shipments” that had specific dates going back several years. At the bottom a note indicated “consulting opportunity” with a double underline.
Mark picked up the material he had set aside and strode into the living room, where Barbara sat talking with a woman he assumed to be her sister.
He cleared his throat, and Barbara jumped.
“I didn’t mean to startle you, but I’ve found some files that the police should review if they didn’t see them during their previous visit. I’ll call Detective Peters.”
Barbara’s head jerked. “Yes, please do that . . . Oh, meet my sister, Millie.”
The woman, who appeared to be a well-preserved but older version of Barbara, raised her eyebrows and said a curt, “Hello.”
Mark introduced himself and then asked Barbara if he could use her phone. He took the detective’s card out of his wallet, placed a call and then said to Barbara, “I’ve found something else that will be of use to you.” He handed her a manila folder. “It contains a lockbox key and number at World Savings. I expect you’ll find a copy of Manny’s will there.”
