“What’s the catch?”
“Well, I’ve been around you when you haven’t eaten, and it isn’t pretty. Do you really want to question my motives?” I could hear the smirk in Guy’s voice.
“Yes, I do, but I’ll see you there in five minutes. I’ll question them then.”
I read Howard’s text. He and Colt had found nothing. Howard was heading home; he’d see me there.
I texted back. Meeting Guy at Fiorenza’s. Think he’s up to something so checking it out. Won’t be too late. I added a kissy-face emoji and hit send.
Guy was at a table ordering a glass of wine when I arrived. “Hello at last, Mrs. Marr,” he said. “Would you like to order a beverage?”
“Wine sounds really good right now. Pinot grigio, please,” I told the waitress. “The most expensive brand you have. It’s on him.”
I hung my jacket on the back of the chair and sat. “You weren’t really in my neck of the woods, were you?”
“Oh, I was, I was.” Guy blinked rapidly a few times. “Have you forgotten a recent newsworthy incident at Rustic Woods Mall?”
“I didn’t see you there.” I laid my dinner napkin in my lap.
“I arrived after the hullabaloo, unfortunately. I was in Bethesda covering a missing dog case when the call came in. We sent a junior reporter, but when I heard Barbara Marr was involved, I drove over as soon as possible.” Guy’s eyes gleamed as he regarded me.
“And did you find a good story?”
“Enough.” Guy waved that subject away with a flick of his fingers. “So, on another subject, what do you know about the Richard Pickleseimer murder at the Nature Center? How is that investigation coming along?” His eyes did that gleaming thing again.
I played dumb. “How should I know? Don’t you have connections inside the police department?”
“All I am told is that the case is stalled.” He let out a long breath through his nose.
“Well, there you have it. The case is stalled.”
Guy fixed me with the razor-sharp stare of a predatory animal about to pounce. “I have reason to believe you know more than you’re telling me.”
“How in the world would you have reason to believe that, Guy?” I toyed with the napkin in my lap.
“A witness from the mall incident. I’m very good at my job, Barb. Most of the onlookers believed the altercation to be a case of elder abuse. But one lone onlooker, whom I was brilliant enough to dig up, spotted a gun in your van.” The waitress set a glass of red wine in front of Guy which he took and poised himself to sip. “Colt wasn’t beating up an old guy. He was protecting you from a man with a gun.”
The waitress raised an eyebrow while serving my glass of pinot.
“We’re writing a murder mystery play,” I told her. “Trying different dialogues out loud. What do you think?”
The waitress smirked at me. “I think that he’s Guy Mertz and you’re That Barbara Marr and that you’ve been up to your old tricks again. Can I have your autograph?”
I sighed. “Because of you, Guy, I can’t go anywhere unnoticed anymore.”
“I can’t take all of the credit now. You had the bright idea of publicly scolding Vinnie VanGo. Besides, you’re reveling in the fame, admit it.” He laughed, and sipped his wine.
I signed the waitress’ napkin and ordered spaghetti and meatballs. “And give me one to go as well, would you? He’s paying.”
Guy ordered an eggplant parmesan. When the waitress was out of earshot, he pressed the matter. “Tell me what you know.”
“I can’t.” I took a big gulp of my wine. “Eric would kill me.”
“Is the case anywhere near being solved?”
I cringed. “Let me put it this way. There are more questions than answers at the moment. A lot more questions than answers.”
I set my wine down on the table and turned on my charm. “Since you’re obviously a man with your finger on the pulse of world news, I’m wondering if you’ve ever heard stories about a top secret military research facility in Long Island?”
His eyes bulged. “Maybe I have. Are you saying this murder has conspiracy written on it?
“I’m not saying that,” I protested. “It’s unrelated. Something Colt has been working on, and he’s coming up empty-handed.”
Technically, I wasn’t lying.
“Barb, Barb, Barb,” Guy chastised me. “Do you think I was born yesterday? Colt isn’t coming up empty handed—those Ghost Kid stories are easy to locate with a simple internet search.”
I hadn’t heard that term. Those must have been the abducted kids Colt was talking about.
“I can tell I lost you. Fine, here’s what I know: there are conspiracy theories promulgated by a few people who claim they were abducted as children and subjected to mind control experiments. They claim their memories of the experimentation were erased. But, somehow those erased memories came back to them. Personally, I’ve always believed they’re just schizophrenics, but I’ll admit, the stories do appeal to my curious mind. What, pray tell, does this have to do with the Pickleseimer murder?”
“Everything or nothing,” I said, shrugging.
“That gives me mounds to go on. Hold the presses,” Guy said with a sarcastic sneer.
“Hey, Mister, you asked me here, not the other way around.” I pointed at him. “What, are you desperate for news?”
“As a matter of fact, I am. Your elder abuse piece was the juiciest bit we’ve had in days. Crime is down. It’s a real problem.” Guy leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms.
“Come on, Guy. Maybe you should consider reporting on, I don’t know, good news?”
“I’m airing something on this murder tomorrow whether you give me the inside scoop or not.”
“Just how would you do that?” I raised my eyebrows.
“I’ll have a news crew at the Nature Center at noon, recap the crime with my usual dramatic tension, and ask the question which begs asking: Where are the police when an elderly man is murdered? Nowhere, that’s where. Elder neglect, the new crime in America.”
“That’s sensationalism at its worst.”
“I’ve always been a sensationalist reporter. You love me anyway. And don’t judge.” He dipped his chin to his chest and looked up at me under his brows. “I have to put food on the table somehow. I have little mouths to feed.”
“Yes, because cat food is only for the rich anymore,” I joked. “How are Walter Cronkite and David Brinkley?”
“Old. They’re very old. So…” He stacked his elbows on the table to lean toward me. “I’m not convincing you to cough up any more information?”
“No.” I was emphatic. “Can I convince you not to go through with this absurd non-story?”
Guy shook his head. “Not unless something bigger comes up between now and then.”
We polished off our wine and meals, opting to discuss mundane topics like the weather and the history of pasta. Guy paid the bill and we parted ways outside.
“Feel free to stop by the Nature Center tomorrow. Noon. Bring any relevant tidbits with you,” he called over his shoulder in the parking lot.
“You’re on your own, Guy,” I called back.
Guy spun around, walking backwards. “Last chance to save the reputation of the police department.”
“Good night.” I waved at him.
When I turned toward my car, I came face-to-face with a woman I recognized from the volunteer group picture of Olga’s: Bernie Ford.
Chapter Twenty-One
Stunned, I staggered backward a bit. “Uh, hi.” I sounded remarkably idiotic.
As my mother had described her, Bernie Ford was a nervous little thing. Heavy on the “little.” She was maybe five feet tall, if she was lucky. Short, wavy gray hair. Her khaki rain slicker was cinched at the waist.
“You know who I am?”
Three giggly teens dashed to Bernie’s side. One gushed, “Can we get your autograph too?”
I was about to protest that I wasn
’t giving Bernie an autograph, but their presence had already done its damage. Bernie began backing away.
“No, Bernie,” I said. “Wait.”
Two more autograph seekers showed up, having just left Fiorenza’s.
Did people not have more important things to do than get an autograph from a soccer mom made famous by a silly tweet?
The growing pandemonium sent Bernie running.
I scrawled my signature and quickly tried to follow her, but she vanished into the sea of cars in the restaurant’s lot. I called her name several times, but to no avail.
I finally gave up.
While I waited for my car to warm up, I sighed and rubbed my tired eyes. It had been a long, long day. With my to-go order of spaghetti and meatballs in the passenger seat, I drove home, despondent that my own investigation skills were seriously lacking.
The house smelled like goulash when I walked in. My mother must have heated the leftovers for dinner. Her Mini Cooper wasn’t in the driveway, so I assumed she had departed once Howard got home.
The place was quiet, so I tip-toed upstairs and found Amber in her room, snuggled in bed. Her face blossomed into a smile when she saw me. “Mommy! You’re home!”
I gave her a hug and kissed the top of her head. “I missed you. I’m sorry I was gone so long.”
Amber pulled back. “Can you read to me?”
My eyes were heavy from exhaustion, but I took the book she handed me from her bedside table and persevered. Climbing in bed next to her, I delved into A Wrinkle in Time from where we’d last left off.
Apparently, it was possible to fall asleep while reading out loud to your daughter. I awoke to Howard gently shaking me.
“Barb, come on, she’s asleep,” he said. He left Amber’s room with me in tow.
Groggy, I spied the light on under Bethany’s door. I knocked quietly before peeking in. “Whatcha reading?”
“Macbeth,” she answered, looking at me over her book.
“Ah, happy bedtime reading. I can still remember a soliloquy or two from Macbeth. When I was in school, millions of years ago, we didn’t just have to read the plays, we had to memorize passages and recite them in front of the entire class.”
Bethany didn’t look impressed. “Where were you all day?”
I opened the door wider and leaned against the side, crossing my arms. “Here and there. You know. I was helping Colt pick out an engagement ring for Vikki, but shh, that’s a secret. Don’t tell him I told you.”
“So, it was you at the mall.” Bethany’s eyes narrowed. “Why was Colt beating up that old man?”
“He wasn’t beating him up and how did you figure that out anyway? We were never on camera.”
Bethany rolled her eyes. “The whole thing had you written all over it.”
“But in a good way, right?”
She cast me a quirked brow. “Is everything okay? Will we have to go stay at Grandma’s again?”
“I’m fine. Don’t you worry about me. Worry about Lady Macbeth. Now there’s a woman with issues.” I blew her a kiss. “Don’t stay up too late.”
In our bedroom, Howard was on the corner of the bed taking off his socks. “What did Guy Mertz want?”
Going to the dresser, I pulled out some pajamas. “What do you think he wanted? Information.”
Leaving the socks on the floor, he sat up to look at me, his hands dangling between his knees. “Did you give him any?”
“I’ll tell you exactly what I told him—there are more questions than answers. Then, I left the restaurant and ran into Bernie Ford, right there, in the open. She came here looking for me earlier today and then there she is outside Firoenza’s like she’d been waiting for me.”
Swooping up his socks, he tossed them in the hamper. “What did she say?”
“Nothing. She didn’t have a chance to talk. I was swarmed by fans wanting my autograph.”
Howard eyed me warily. “Swarmed?”
“I’m not exaggerating.” I moved to stand over him, my fists on my hips. “I was literally swarmed by throngs of people asking for my autograph, and they scared Bernie Ford away. She ran off!”
He started laughing so hard he grabbed his sides and nearly fell off the bed.
I crossed my arms and lifted my chin. “It’s not funny. This celebrity business is difficult. People kept interrupting us. Two ladies came in at the jewelry store when I was helping Colt pick out a ring for Vikki.”
Howard snorted with laughter one last time. “He’s really going to pop the question?”
“I think so. He didn't settle on a ring, but he said it’s because none of them spoke to him.” I made finger quotes. “We’re going to that jeweler over by Lake Muir tomorrow. Oh, and speaking of tomorrow, guess what Guy has planned?”
“A holiday special featuring his favorite local stars of Twitter?” Howard grinned up at me.
“Don’t try standup comedy. I’m way funnier than you are. Just assume your role as the straight man, okay?”
He pulled me on to the bed with him. “I’m straight all right,” he purred, kissing my neck.
I love my husband tons, but I wasn’t exactly in the mood. There was still too much to discuss. “Howard. I’m serious.” I pushed him away and slid off the bed. “He’s going to the Nature Center tomorrow with a news crew. Crime is down and he’s desperate for a story so he’s milking Pickle’s murder.”
His hooded eyes regarded me. “But you said you didn’t tell him anything.”
“I didn’t. So he’s going to claim that county police aren’t working hard enough on the case because Pickle was elderly, and now, after today’s mall parking lot attack on a senior citizen, we obviously have an elder neglect problem in our county.”
“Uh-oh.” Howard whipped off his shirt.
“I know. Eric is going to come out looking badly. What did you and Colt find on Ed Sigmund?” Throwing my pajamas on the bed, I started to undress.
“His house has a for-sale sign on it, but the place is empty. I don’t think he’s been there for a while. We drove by your friend Bernie Ford’s house. No for-sale sign, but no indication of activity either.”
“And you got my voicemail about Moyle, right?”
Clad only in his boxers, Howard approached me. “As soon as I told Colt, he left immediately for Vikki’s.”
“It’s a mess. Just a mess, I tell you. I’ve never seen so many old people hiding from the law.” I sat down on the bed to put my pj pants on. The whole day’s events tumbled through my head.
“Did you say Eric is starting to feel better?”
“I think so. But enough about that.” He sat down next to me and began to nuzzle my neck, working his Howard magic on my senses. Was I still worried about Moyle? Sure. As he kissed my shoulders, was my mind still twirling about why Del Rowenhorst had lied about Helen Moyer? Absolutely. Did Howard’s magic fingers drain those worries away? Don’t you know it.
My eyes popped open early the next morning. I couldn’t shake a sense of dread in my gut. Something in the universe felt wrong, dangerous.
I texted Callie, knowing this was one of my two allowed texts of the day, but I just couldn’t shake the horrible feeling I had that someone I loved was in trouble.
Are you okay? Just checking in. Text me back so I know you’re alive.
If she was alive, she was rolling her eyes right now, and that was just fine by me. I texted Olga about Moyle. She had said she’d let me know if he came back but I was covering all bases.
I jumped in the shower, dressed, made a cup of coffee and sat at the kitchen table waiting for a return text from Callie and reviewing the Pickle murder maze of deception in my head. The problem was that all of the facts were a jumble in my brain. I needed something more concrete to help me unjumble the mess of facts. In crime movies and television shows, detectives often devise a wall with pictures and notes and lines of string representing connections. I didn’t have a wall big enough. Or pictures. Or string, probably.
St
aring over my coffee cup and spying a box with Amber’s old Farmer Joe building set by the door to donate, I was inspired. After plucking character pieces from the box, I ripped up pieces of paper and wrote down names: the cast of characters involved, if you would. Indiana Jones purred and rubbed against my leg as I worked.
I started from the beginning, assigning a label to each character piece to persons connected with the crime. Farmer Joe was Pickle, the dead man. AKA Richard Pickleseimer. I added the words knife in chest on his label. Eric had told me Pickle was killed with his own knife but I didn’t know what kind of knife.
I made a note to ask him again.
Next, Farmer Joe’s wife was long-haired Helen Moyer, whom I’d seen running away from the scene of the crime. Under her name label, I wrote the words memory loss and a question mark. I wasn’t sure I believed that sob story anymore. Why should I? I knew that number three on my list, Del Rowenhorst, had lied to me about Helen having a family that wanted to put her in a nursing home. And if Del had lied about that, what was her reason for originally confessing to the crime?
Farmer Joe’s daughter became Del Rowenhorst and I placed her game piece right next to Helen’s. I smelled a rat with those two. Pickle, Helen, Del.
Ed Sigmund, was next. He’d be Farmer Joe’s son. On his label, I wrote, faked his own death/tried to kidnap me. Tapping on that label for a minute, I thought about the near-abduction event. Why did he even risk coming out in the open when he didn’t seem to have a plan? What did he want from me?
I was out of people pieces, but there were plenty of farm animals, so I continued, grabbing a sheep for Bernie Ford and placing it right next to Ed Sigmund, the death faker.
I leaned back to observe my work and gulp some coffee. Who else? There were others. Of course—Olga. She had raised suspicion of Bernie when she claimed Bernie had been sleeping with Pickle.
I wrote Olga on a piece of paper and the title, Informer under it. I set her playing piece next to the barn that served as the Nature Center. As I did so, I remembered the red stain I’d seen on Olga’s white shoe that morning before I discovered Pickle’s body. Was that important? I was sure I’d mentioned it to Eric when he questioned me. If it had meant something to the investigation, I would know. Or would I?
Dial Marr for Murder Page 14
