by Derek Murphy
She sighed once, looking off into space for a moment before saying, “I wish Miss Vandivort was still here. I worked there until her…difficulties, and there is no better employer to be found.”
Feeling disgruntled at hearing from yet another person how great Marta had been, Julie tried to push the feelings away and managed not to snarl at the woman before her. She vaguely remembered the name from the earlier investigation, but they hadn’t spent much time interviewing recent Vandivort employees, preferring to concentrate on the older ones who would have known all three girls.
“Back to the Websters; did you ever have the feeling that someone might be watching them? Or, that someone might have been in the house who wasn’t authorized to be there?”
Knitting her brows, Ms. Merriam looked down at the floor for a moment before lifting her head to look Julie in the eye.
“Have you been in the Websters’ house?”
At her nod, Merriam said, “Then you’ve seen how rich their carpet is. It holds footprints as easily as mud does. There were several times I went outside to bawl out the gardener for walking through the house after we’d vacuumed, only to find that the gardener was wearing those heavy workboots, while whoever had walked through the house was wearing athletic shoes. The maintenance man at the house is required to wear brogans when he’s on the job, so I knew it wasn’t him.”
“What did you do about it?”
“Well, when I determined that it wasn’t any of the staff, I asked Mr. Webster if he’d had a house-guest that we didn’t know about. His answer was always that he didn’t feel like having anyone stay with him since Mrs. Webster had died. After hearing that, I would have the maintenance man tour the house with me to make sure no one had broken in. We never found anyone, even though we checked the house from basement to attic.”
“What was Mr. Webster’s reaction to the almost certain knowledge that someone had been in the house?”
“He discounted it. Mr. Webster didn’t believe that anyone had been in the house. He believed that one of the men on the staff had worn the wrong shoes to work and didn’t want to own up to it.”
“So you remember the first time you found the footprints?”
“Yes, it was in the spring. I remember that because when I questioned the gardener, he was working on the spring plantings. The Websters have always been quite proud of their gardens and insisted on updating them each season. Mrs. Webster liked having color in the gardens all year round.”
Julie paused and considered her next two questions. They had the potential to either deliver a bomb or to cause Ms. Merriam to clam up. She decided to ask them.
“Do you believe that any member of the staff could have been complicit in Mrs. Webster’s death? Or, do you believe that any of them may have taken part in the vandalism that has been such a concern to Mr. Webster?”
The woman’s eyes narrowed and the flesh around her mouth tightened as Julie judged her to be very nearly outraged at the questions. There wasn’t the flare of fear in the eyes that would have indicated possible guilt, so Julie decided she was about to be lambasted for suggesting such a thing.
“I do not! Every member of the staff is loyal to Mr. Webster, just as they were loyal to Mrs. Webster. To think that any of us would have anything to do with the attack on her, or this later attack on Mr. Webster, is a disservice. It’s my understanding that the police have cleared everyone on the staff. I know I have been. Why would you ask such a thing?”
Not quite a clam-up, but it was at least an honest response. Julie set about mending fences.
“I’m sorry, Ms. Merriam. I have to consider every possibility. I know there are some things that I am going over that the police have already covered, but that’s part of the job. If I didn’t do it, I would be guilty of poor job performance and I believe Mr. Webster deserves the best that our firm can give him; just as his house staff gives him their best..”
Somewhat mollified, if not entirely satisfied, Ms. Merriam relaxed a bit and Julie saw the tension go out of the woman’s wrists and hands where they were displayed on her knees. There was, however, a resoluteness in the stare that looked out of her eyes and Julie saw that the woman had indeed clammed up on her. The insult had been erased, but Ms. Merriam wasn’t going to open herself up to another.
Julie said, “Well, I think that’s all for today. May I call on you again if something comes up that makes it necessary?”
Frowning a little, Merriam said, “If you must. I’d rather you didn’t though.”
Rising from her chair, Julie gathered up her purse and jacket and moved toward the door.
“I’ll try not to, but you understand that I am working for Mr. Webster now; your employer. We’re on the same side, Ms. Merriam.”
The veiled threat hadn’t gone unnoticed, and Ms. Merriam was silent, her basilisk eyes hiding everything that Julie had hoped she might glean from them. Sighing, Julie turned away and walked to the door and out of it.
As she stepped onto the porch of the small house in the Haida Hills section of the city, she looked further up into the hills near the headland. The name of the housing addition spurred her to smile slightly; the Haida had never lived around here; it was simply a builder’s attempt to make the addition more appealing to buyers. The very top of Webster’s house peeked out through the giant spruce and pine trees and she wondered if there was any significance to that. Turning, she scanned the area contained by the coastal lowlands, which included the bulk of the city, until her gaze was halted by the port itself and the marinas that lined the bay on either side of it. The Country Club Marina was closest to Webster’s house, as it was to all the houses in Harborview Heights, and she grimaced unconsciously as she remembered the tapes Carl had made of his bouts of lovemaking with Marta on her yacht.
Dissatisfied with the thoughts that leapt unbidden to the top of her mind, she closed them off and turned again to the matter at hand; finding who was trying to make Webster think his wife was haunting him. She walked to her car and slammed the door as she slid into the seat. Marta was dead. Buried by now. Why did she have to keep popping up to haunt not just Carl, but all of them? She had ruined the relationship Carl had once enjoyed with DeeDee. She had even been the cause of a nearly major falling out between Carl and Ike. Now, because of her memory, Julie was finding herself stymied in her mild attempts at starting a relationship with Carl that involved more than work.
Growling to herself, she started the engine and backed out of the driveway. There was little traffic in the small neighborhood due to it being a workday and she glanced down at the list she had taped to the dashboard of her car. Time to interview another member of Webster’s staff.
* * *
Leaning forward, Ike pulled the big, lighted magnifying glass close and positioned it over the plastic, evidence bag and its contents. While waiting for the pounding in his head to abate yesterday at Webster’s house, he had gently slid the remaining bit of the paper switch into the bag, being careful to keep it flat and pressed between the layers of plastic. DeeDee had insisted he rest the night before and so, he hadn’t taken the time to really examine the remains of the switch. Now, he had time, his head no longer pained him and the switch, still covered in a thin film of blood had been sealed off from the air, nearly halting its dissolution.
Because the switches were an almost controlled commodity in covert operations of any kind, military and civilian, the manufacturers of such things kept very detailed records of who bought them. If he could get some identifying marks isolated, it was conceivable that he might be able to get the name of the purchaser from the manufacturer.
He adjusted the height of the magnifying glass until he had it the optimum distance from the switch and attempted to read the minute markings on the paper. He could make out the name of the maker as it was in slightly larger print, but all the numbers, a few of which were erased beyond all hope of retrieving, merely blurred into a slightly squiggly line.
Okay. What did he know? The ma
nufacturer was Global Stealth Technologies. He had done some business with GST in the past. What about the numbers? He reached for yet another magnifying glass and held it under the first. Beyond all hope, most of the numbers leapt into focus and he quickly jotted them down on the notepad on his desk. A-SD-D 780357…and the remaining four numbers were lost in the mushy mass of bloody paper and corroding metal wire.
Well? What did he expect? It was a longshot anyway. At least he had something to relay to the salesman at GST. Sliding the notepad closer, he picked up the desk phone and rummaged in his desk drawer for the list of suppliers they used. Finding the number, he dialed it quickly and waited for someone to answer the call.
After the third ring, a chipper, young voice said, “Global Stealth Technologies, this is Emily speaking. How may I direct your call?”
“Good morning, Emily! This is Ike Decker in Port Morgan! How are you this morning?”
He could almost hear the smile on the other end of the line; she remembered him. Ike had always considered it necessary to schmooze the help before getting down to business when he contacted any other firm.
“Good morning, Mr. Decker! I’m just fine! How are you? It’s been quite a while since we heard from you. Do you want to speak to Mr. Highstreet? He was just saying the other day that it’s been a while since you ordered anything.”
“Yes, Emily, I’d like to talk to Bill. I might have an order for him if he can come through with some information for me.”
“Okay! Just a minute while I connect you!”
There was a click, followed by a faint hum, then two rings. With another click, Highstreet answered the phone.
“Good morning, Ike! How are you this morning? How’s that pretty wife of yours? Did you get the catalog I sent you last month?”
“Morning, Bill! DeeDee’s just fine; getting tired of being pregnant, but she’s fine. Yes, I got the catalog, but that’s not what I want to talk to you about.”
The salesman’s voice sounded as though Ike had piqued his interest as he said, “Oh? What can I do for you?”
Ike lowered his voice, letting Highstreet know that what he needed had to do with a confidential matter; which meant a case.
“Bill, I’ve got a serial number from a bit of technology from your firm and while I know you try not to divulge the identities of your customers, I really need to know who bought this bit of business from you. It involves a death and possible threat to a client.”
Highstreet was silent for a moment, then soberly, he said, “I’ll help you if I can, Ike. What have you got?”
Ike read him the partial serial number and said, “I know it’s not a complete number, but I also know you don’t make very many of these because the market for them is so small.”
Ike could hear pages flipping on the other end of the line and knew that Highstreet was consulting his own book of contacts. After a few seconds of that, Highstreet growled a little.
“I’ll have to talk to one of the other salesmen. It appears he sold a small number of those switches without making a complete record of the sale. It must have been a special order, too. A small number of them sold to just a couple of buyers. Not companies, people. We don’t do that very often, Ike. They must have either been influential or work for a company that we want to do business with. We fill special orders in those instances, hoping we can snag the company the guy works for at a later date.”
“Okay, Bill. Just get me what you can and call me when you’ve got an answer. Give my best to Felice.”
After they said their goodbyes, Ike turned back to the switch and stared at it for a few moments before saying, “Just you wait, buddy. I’ll know who bought you in a few days. Then we’ll get to the bottom of this whole thing.”
* * *
Carl had just closed the door of his apartment when the buzzer sounded, signaling that someone was at the outer door, requesting admittance. He stepped back to the intercom and pressed the button.
“I’m not in the market to buy anything, thanks.”
Releasing the button, he stepped away only to be drawn back when the buzzer sounded again. Irritated, he pressed the button again.
“Who is it?”
“Carl! Buzz me in! It’s Julie!”
He stared at the speaker of the intercom a moment, surprised that Julie had come over to his place. Alone. She had never done that before; only in company with Ike or DeeDee.
She said, “Hurry, Carl! I’ve got my arms full of take-out!”
At a nonplus, he pressed the other button to unlock the outer door and stepped back to the door of his apartment. Opening it, he stood just outside it as he waited for the elevator to make its transit. When the elevator door opened, Julie stepped out, holding two large, covered, Styrofoam plates and clutching a large, waxed pasteboard container. He recognized the container; only Jack Catchwell’s used them for drinks and he felt his mouth begin to water. The burgers from Catchwell’s were the best he had ever had. They called up memories of the long-gone burgers he had eaten back home as a kid, only better than any of those had ever been. Made from a half-pound of grass-fed beef, and liberally covered with a slab of red onion, cheddar cheese, dill pickles, romaine lettuce and fresh tomato, with a tangy mustard, the burgers were perfectly complemented by fresh-cut, crisp and chunky french-fries. The drink container, a half-gallon, would probably be some kind of diet drink since Julie was assiduous at watching her weight. Not that the meal itself would be low-cal; she was one of those illogical people who will order a fat-laden meal and a diet drink. Not that she actually needed to be careful; she jogged several miles every other day, hit the gym on the off days to pump iron and stretch and still managed to stay at the same weight she had been three years earlier when he had first met her.
He hurried forward to help her with the containers and looked down at the drink. The clear plastic lid revealed the pink contents as a cherry limeade. Carl remembered them from high school; anybody who was going to drink on the weekend always bought one of them to mix their alcohol with. He was still willing to bet that it was diet.
Moving back into his apartment, he put the containers on the kitchen table as Julie unslung the strap of her laptop case. He asked, “What’s this for? Did you think I’d forget to eat or something?”
Dimpling, she answered, “I just thought I’d bring something over from both of the two major food groups; burgers and fries.”
“What? No beer?”
She waved his suggestion away as insignificant. “You’ve got beer. I’ll bet you have one every day. Just like those disgusting salads you eat all the time. I brought you real food!”
Carl got two large glasses from the cupboard and filled them with ice while Julie got ketchup from the fridge and opened the drink container. As he put the glasses on the table, she poured for both of them and slid a plate over in front of him.
“Dig in!”
He partially deconstructed his burger and sprinkled pepper over all of it before squeezing a liberal amount of ketchup out for the fries. Picking up his burger, he took a big bite and closed his eyes, remembering some of the happier times of his childhood before his old man turned into a drunk.
When he opened his eyes, he saw Julie watching him with a half-smile on her face.
“What? Do I have mustard on my face or something?”
She shook her head. “I was just watching you go away. Where do you go when you close your eyes like that?”
He shrugged. “Just remembering.”
She took a bite of her own burger, and while still chewing, dipped a fry, still hot, into ketchup and shoved it into her mouth. Around the mouthful, she said, “Something happy, I hope.”
Shrugging again, he said, “Well, yeah.”
She stopped chewing and quietly said, “Not too many happy things to think about the past year, huh?”
He laid his burger down and chewed thoughtfully for a moment, then looked up at her.
“No. Not too many. That’s why the memories are a g
ood thing.”
Julie mentally kicked herself for bringing up the subject; it had led him automatically into thoughts of Marta and that was the last thing she wanted to do. She had no way of knowing that he had accessed memories of his early life and that Marta had been the furthest thing from his mind at that time. She decided to bite the bullet and bring it out into the open.
“Why do you think of Marta so much? I mean, I know you loved her, but the past few months, you’ve seen her going as far away from you as if she was already dead and now, she is. Why punish yourself so much?”
Shaking his head, he turned his attention back to his burger, picking it up to take another bite. After chewing thoughtfully for a few moments, he started to say something, then changed his mind and picked up a french fry.
He said, “I was thinking about when I was a kid; maybe sixteen. I and a couple of buddies had a job hauling hay and in the middle of the day, the old man we worked for would bring a big bag of burgers out to us for lunch. You have to remember that I grew up in the Great Plains and there are still a lot of areas that don’t have many trees. There was this one place right near where we were hauling that had a little stream running through it and several trees grew along the banks. It was the nearest place where we could find some shade and that’s where we used to eat our lunch. That’s what I was thinking about. Not Marta. It hurts too much to think of her all the time.”
Realizing that she had done the right thing in bringing up the subject of his memories, Julie smiled inwardly. Maybe there was still hope of getting to him. Maybe she would be the person he loved in the near future.
She said, “So, you’ve come to terms with her death? You’ve decided to get on with your life?”
He dipped another fry into the ketchup and crooked an eyebrow at it as a small smile came to his face.
“I’m not so sure she’s dead.”
Aghast, sure that he was losing touch with reality, Julie said, “But, you got the call. Buckley-Craven told you she died.”
He popped the fry into his mouth and shrugged. “Yeah. That doesn’t mean it’s true.”
