Sixty Minutes for Murder

by Mary Maxwell

  He pulled a key fob from his pocket, aimed it at the Ford and the parking lights flashed twice as the familiar beep-beep-beep cleaved the late afternoon silence.

  “I won’t know that,” I said, “until I come across it myself.”

  Kanter tugged open the door. “Well, good luck with that,” he said, swinging into the front seat. “My attorney was present for all three conversations with the police. I have nothing to hide. And I had nothing to do with Wendy’s untimely death.”

  As he pulled the seatbelt across his chest, my eyes drifted toward a shadowy form on the passenger seat. It was a shoulder bag, glossy brown leather with a snap closure on the flap and the same triple grommet accents that I’d seen at Pearl White’s shop the previous day. Tucked beneath the bag was a pair of red fleece gloves.

  My heart skidded into slow motion as my mind reeled with facts about the case. Red fibers. Ligature marks. The impression of three grommets on Wendy’s neck.

  As I prepared to ask another question, the truck’s engine roared to life, Kanter offered one more farewell and the door closed with a hard, cold metallic thud. I watched as he put the pickup in gear and sped across the parking lot toward the exit onto Kellogg Street.

  “It’s okay,” I said as he hit the brakes once before disappearing around the corner. “If he can’t answer my questions, I’ll find someone that can.”

  CHAPTER 21

  “First of all,” I said when Dina Kincaid answered the phone a few minutes later, “I’m not stalking you. I have some news about the Wendy Barr case.”

  It was my third attempt to reach her, a final effort before resorting to a barrage of long text messages describing my encounter with Frank Kanter and the items in his truck.

  “I was wondering about that,” said the CCPD detective. “Your name’s on my call log a bunch of times, but I didn’t see a voicemail.”

  “I called twice before,” I said. “Not a bunch. And I decided to try you one last time before sending it all by text.”

  “What’s going on?”

  “It’s Frank Kanter,” I said. “Did you interview him?”

  “Tyler handled that one,” she answered. “I believe they met twice at Kanter’s office and once here at the station. Why do you want to know?”

  “I’m just curious if he was believable,” I said. “I mean, in terms of demeanor and alibi.”

  Dina snickered into the phone. “You sound pretty revved up, Katie. Did something happen this afternoon?”

  “I made a quick stop at the Sagebrush Lofts,” I told her. “I ran into Sharon Ruiz and a woman that works for her. After talking to them for a few minutes, I went into the lobby to double check the list of tenants. While I was doing that, Frank Kanter stepped out of the elevator.”

  “Uh-huh,” she said. “So far, I’m not quite grasping the significance. Did he say something suspicious?”

  “It wasn’t exactly what he said. It was what I saw in the front seat of his truck.”

  “Okay, I’m listening.”

  “A leather shoulder bag with a triple-grommet strap,” I said. “Along with a pair of red fleece gloves.”

  “Did you say red fleece?”

  “Yes, red fleece. And they reminded me of the—”

  “He’s not our guy,” Dina said firmly. “We’ve checked his alibi. It’s totally solid; witness statements, credit card receipts and footage from a streaming teleconference confirm that Frank Kanter was in Billings on Sunday evening. He drove back to Crescent Creek the following afternoon.”

  “What about the shoulder bag and gloves?” I asked.

  “Circumstantial, at best,” Dina answered. “We’ve corroborated his story with three business contacts in Billings, a woman at the hotel where he stayed and the car rental agency.”

  “He rented a car for the drive?”

  She laughed. “Still legal, as far as I know. Kanter loaned his pickup to someone that weekend.”

  “Do you know who?” I asked.

  “No,” Dina said. “Once we substantiated his whereabouts, it didn’t seem relevant.”

  “Could I persuade you to change your mind now?” I asked. “The bag that I saw definitely had a three-grommet strap like the one used to strangle Wendy. And the gloves were red; maybe they’d match the fibers found on her body.”

  “And maybe not,” Dina said. “If it’ll make you feel better, I’ll have Detective Armstrong circle back with Kanter.”

  “I think that would be a good idea,” I said. “My gut tells me there’s a connection between Kanter and Wendy’s murder.”

  “Well, we don’t need your gut for that,” she said. “Wendy was Kanter’s tenant. They’ve known one another for years.” She paused. “And there’s something else; reports that Kanter and Wendy were seen arguing recently in the lobby of the Sagebrush Lofts.”

  “Well, that’s interesting,” I said. “He just told me that he hasn’t talked to Wendy in months.”

  Dina chuckled softly. “He’s obviously having some challenges with the truth. We’ve been checking Wendy’s phone records. There are dozens of calls between them in the past five, six weeks alone.”

  “Why would Frank Kanter lie to me about talking to Wendy?”

  “I can’t answer that one,” Dina said. “Maybe he’s leery of discussing an active investigation with someone outside of the Crescent Creek PD.”

  “Whatever is behind it,” I said, “isn’t that even more reason to check on the shoulder bag and gloves in his truck?”

  “I’ll ask Tyler to have another chat with Kanter,” Dina said. “Why are you so amped up about the guy?”

  “I don’t know, but there’s something sketchy about him.”

  “True,” she agreed. “But if we used that as a marker, half the people we’ve ever met could be under suspicion.”

  “Is that a joke?” I asked.

  She offered a deflated laugh. “Sorry, Katie. It was a bad one. I’m on that slippery slope that goes from being on top of the world to being in the pits.”

  “You sound pretty buoyant for someone sliding toward despair,” I said.

  “It’s the case,” she replied. “I’d actually been looking at Kanter, too. Even though his alibi is solid for the night Wendy died, I still get the sense that he’s involved in something dodgy.”

  “And you’re absolutely sure about his alibi, right?”

  “Solid and confirmed,” Dina said. “And that’s not all. We also have evidence that potentially exonerates Kanter and every other possible male suspect.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Wendy scratched the person that attacked her,” answered Dina. “The DNA recovered from under her fingernails is definitely from a female.”

  “Well, well,” I said. “That’s a step in the right direction.”

  Dina laughed. “It’s like that old saying,” she told me. “A journey of a thousand miles begins with one step. And, to be honest, I cannot wait to reach the finish line.”

  CHAPTER 22

  “Well, look who’s here!” Blanche Speltzer called excitedly when I walked into Tipton’s Liquor Mart a few minutes later. “My favorite Katie in the whole wide world!”

  “Aren’t you sweet?” I walked over and gave the silver-haired firecracker a hug. “I’m flattered to be your favorite.”

  She shimmied briefly and added a wily grin. “To be honest, dear,” she said. “You’re also the only Katie that I know. But that doesn’t diminish my affection for you.”

  I glanced in her shopping cart, doing a quick inventory of the selection. Besides bottles of vodka, tequila, scotch and red wine, the assortment included two tubes of ChapStick and a six-pack of Yoo-hoo chocolate drink.

  “What?” Blanche said. “Are you judging me?”

  I shook my head. “I’m sorry. I was being nosy.”

  “I’m an open book,” she said. “Anyway, Boris and I are having a little party on Sunday evening. The vodka is for Sasha McLellan. The tequila is for Alan Waite, although I don’t
know why Boris invited him. The last time he came to one of our little shindigs, Alan confused the laundry hamper for the toilet.” She groaned, rolled her eyes and moved on to the next item. “This is for Ken Higby because he’ll only drink scotch on the rocks. Danielle Breen told me that she’s going through a red wine phase. And the Yoo-hoo is for Boris. He’s cutting back on the adult beverages.”

  “Any particular reason?” I smiled. “Has he been bending his elbow too much lately?”

  She frowned. “My darling husband is going through a phase of his own,” she explained. “Yoga, juice cleanses, wheatgrass tablets and proats for breakfast every morning.”

  “Proats?”

  Blanche heaved a sigh. “Oatmeal packed with protein,” she said. “It’s the same thing he’s been eating for the past six decades, but now he adds hemp and chia seeds, peanut butter, cinnamon and diced Fiber One bars to the bowl.”

  Her expression was priceless; part frustration, part surrender and part exasperated spouse.

  “How do you feel about all of that?” I asked.

  The frown on her face instantly flicked into a smile. “All things must pass,” she said. “I give this new bunch of baloney another five or six weeks. Then I can stop making special trips to Pete and Marla’s health food store.”

  “Too bad they don’t sell chia and hemp seeds here,” I teased. “Then you could get liquor and some of the special ingredients for your hubby’s proats in one spot.”

  “Wouldn’t that be ideal?” Blanche mused. “I’m always up for anything that makes life easier. We need to save as much time as possible to snuggle and canoodle.”

  We both laughed. Then she asked if Zack and I wanted to stop by on Saturday evening.

  “You were on my list to call later,” she said, “which makes running into you even lovelier.”

  “It sounds nice,” I said. “What can we bring?”

  “We’ll have everything covered,” Blanche answered. “Unless you and that handsome photographer have developed new beverage preferences since the last time you were over.”

  “We’re easy,” I said. “We’ll be happy with tap water and a lemon wedge if it means spending time with you.”

  Blanche swiveled her hips and wagged one slender finger. “Save the sweet talk, missy! We already have the beer at home that Zack likes, and I just picked up the shiraz that you enjoy so much.” She reached down and clicked one fingernail against two of the wine bottles. “People are arriving around six-thirty or so, and we’ll have plenty of grilled chicken, spinach soufflé and roast potatoes for dinner at eight.”

  “Well, that sounds perfect!” I said. “Thank you for the invitation.”

  “My pleasure, dear,” Blanche replied. “We love having you and Zack join our little jamborees. You’re smart and sassy with just the right amount of discretion.”

  “Good to know,” I said. “We’ll see you Sunday at six-thirty.”

  “What a treat!” Blanche reached out and squeezed my hand. “I’m so happy that I ran into you, dear. Give that hunk a little peck on the cheek for me when you see him later.”

  “Likewise,” I said. “Tell Boris that I said hello, and keep up the good work with the proats!”

  CHAPTER 23

  The offices of Gordon Janitorial were located on the top floor of a limestone building on the west side of Crescent Creek. I’d visited the address many times when I was in high school to make Sky High deliveries for my parents, so the lobby felt quaint and nostalgic when I stepped through the door late that afternoon.

  As the tiny elevator creaked slowly toward the fourth floor, I thought about the simplicity and pleasure of those long ago trips to the building. I remembered my mother calling out as I departed the kitchen with the bakery boxes. She was always adding a few extra words of wisdom as I left. Don’t slouch! Smile and be polite! No bubblegum! And remember to always be a lady, even if Janet O’Dwyer says something snarky about your derrière!

  The hazy memories vanished as the elevator lurched to stop. When the doors finally opened, I stepped into a wide hallway leading to the company’s offices.

  “May I help you?” asked a woman behind a sleek mahogany desk in the reception area. Her face was familiar, but we’d never met.

  “I have an appointment with Anthony Pappalardo,” I said. “He’s expecting me.”

  “And your name?”

  “Oh, sorry!” My cheeks went pink. “It’s Kate Reed.”

  She invited me to have a seat before getting up and going through the unmarked door behind her desk. I went over, picked up a copy of National Geographic and sat down on the sofa. I’d barely started flipping the pages when the door opened and a man with curly salt-and-pepper hair came toward me. He was pudgy, pale and around fifty, dressed in dark slacks, leather loafers and a crisp white shirt.

  “You must be Kate,” he said. “I’m Tony.”

  We shook hands and made small talk about the weather before he suggested that we go into the conference room. I followed him out of the reception area and into a long corridor lined with closed doors.

  “My office is a pigsty,” he said with a full-bodied laugh. “We moved into this space about five months ago, but I haven’t found the time to unpack most of my files.”

  “I know how that goes,” I replied. “Some of my things are still in crates from my most recent move back home.”

  “Are you originally from Crescent Creek?” Tony asked.

  “I am, but I went to Chicago for college. I fell in love with the city, and then found a great job after graduating.”

  He stopped beside the only open door and gestured for me to go inside. I went into the conference, pulled one of the heavy oak chairs from beneath the table and took a seat.

  “I was based in Chicago for about five, six years,” he said, walking around the room and sitting across from me. “Great town, but too much traffic and craziness. When the Colorado regional position opened up, I jumped through hoops to get the promotion.”

  “Congratulations,” I said. “How do you like the change?”

  “Best decision that I’ve made yet,” he said. “Other than marrying my wife, of course.”

  “Of course.”

  Tony cleared his throat. “Well, then,” he said. “What can I help you with? Did you change your mind about the proposal that I sent over?”

  I shook my head. “It’s actually about Wendy Barr,” I said. “I’m sure that you’ve heard the news.”

  “Terrible thing,” he replied, casting his gaze to the table. “I heard about it from someone in our office on Monday morning. It was really such an incredible shock. I talked to Wendy a couple of days before she was…” He took a deep breath. “Well, before she died.”

  “Can you tell me what the conversation was about?” I asked.

  Tony frowned. “I’m sorry,” he said.

  “I’m helping the local police with their investigation,” I explained. “I know that you talked to Detective Armstrong about the—”

  “But you’re not a cop,” he interrupted. “Unless I’m missing something here.”

  I smiled. “No, you’re absolutely correct. I’m not a member of the CCPD, but I am serving as a consulting detective for the investigation. I’ve helped them with a couple of other cases since I moved back to town, and they—”

  He stopped me with one hand. “I’m sorry to cut you off again, Kate. But it might be best for you to call Arnie McDermott in our national office. He’s the regional sales manager that handles Colorado.”

  “I’ll be happy to do that,” I said. “But I’d also like to get your thoughts on the situation.”

  I watched while Pappalardo scribbled a name and telephone number on the back of a business card.

  “My brother-in-law works for the Tulsa PD,” he continued, sliding the card across the table to me. “I called him after I heard the news about Wendy, just because I didn’t want any trouble or mixed messages. I know that we’ve only been in town for a short while, but I
’ve heard plenty of whispered allegations about our company trying to steal Wendy’s business from her.”

  “Really? Whispered allegations?”

  He made a face. “You know what I mean; gossip and rumors, people who start talking before they know the truth.”

  “And what is the truth?” I asked. “Not to disagree with you, because I know that people like to talk, but are you interested in monopolizing the local commercial cleaning market?”

  Tony pushed back from the table. “That’s ludicrous!” he snapped. “We’re an ethical organization with full transparency when it comes to our business practices!”

  “It wasn’t an accusation,” I said calmly. “I’m just trying to understand how your company was approaching the market. I mean, Wendy’s outfit was the only game in town for years, and then Gordon Janitorial suddenly arrived with much lower pricing.”

  “That’s called smart business,” Tony said. “The law of the jungle.”

  I smiled. “Oh, so you see Crescent Creek as a jungle?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous!” His eyes went flat as the muscles in his jaw pulsed. “We’re talking about business, nothing more.”

  “Fair enough,” I said. “So…how’s business going so far?”

  The hard, cold stare brightened slightly. “We’re making progress. Targeting smaller communities can be lucrative if you have enough volume.”

  “That was probably Wendy’s experience, too,” I said.

  “True,” Tony agreed. “She obviously developed loyalty with her customers over the years. Even with our more affordable cost structure, we’ve only had a few of Wendy’s regulars take us up on our free three-day trial.”

  “Really?”

  He laughed. “Why do you sound surprised?”

  “Well, I’d actually heard that Wendy had lost several accounts to you guys,” I answered. “Is that not the case?”

  “We’ve been signing contracts,” Tony told me. “But we haven’t stolen any business from Wendy.” He stopped, shifted in the chair and cleared his throat. “It’s interesting that you called me about this,” he went on. “I actually found an email that Wendy sent to me the day before she died. It was a follow-up to something we’d discussed about someone here in Crescent Creek. I’d been trying to get on his calendar, but the guy kept dodging my calls. Wendy said that I should be grateful, but it was bugging me. Then I saw her note…” He blinked a few times and swallowed again. “I should probably be telling this to the police, but I think—”