"Suit yourself. Listen, I think I hear someone calling you," Mel lied.
Bunting went back inside. Mel walked away from the door and down the alley behind the theater and took out his cell phone. He called his office assistant, giving what the assistant probably thought were very odd instructions to do searches. And what to do with the evidence if it was located.
He went back into the theater, looking for Jane. He found her sitting in the front row of seats, needlepointing. She had something weird on her
head, like glasses with little flashlights at each side.
"That's cute," he said.
"It isn't cute at all," she said with a laugh. "But it lets me see what I'm doing. Why are you here tonight?"
"Just snooping around again. Have the caterers come yet?"
"They should be here any moment. Shelley just went to look for them in the alley. Good ones are getting thin on the ground. She's still hoping to find at least two that are really good, and is only pleased with one so far."
A few minutes later they saw Shelley at the edge of the stage, telling everyone that the snack supper would be ready in ten minutes.
"Are you going to be a taster along with me?" Jane asked.
"I will. I haven't had dinner. I might stick around and eat all the leftovers."
"I have plenty of good leftovers at home," Jane said, taking off her headgear and bundling up her needlepoint project. "I planned to have them with the kids when I get home. Want to join us?"
"I'll be a taster and eat again with you later. I'm really hungry."
"How's the investigation into Denny's death going?" Jane asked as they strolled toward the side steps to the stage.
"Fits and starts. No solid evidence yet."
"And you still can't get an answer from Denny's parents?"
"Nope. And I'm driving the local cops crazy, checking to see if anyone is finally at home. I hope I never have to meet them in person. They'd probably want to beat me senseless. I wouldn't blame them."
Shelley agreed to Mel tasting the snacks, and soon after eating, he and Jane left the theater in separate cars. When they arrived within moments of each other at Jane's house, her kids were already tucking into the leftovers. Mike had made a huge sandwich with a thick slice of meatloaf, mayo, and tomato. Todd had made a more modest sandwich with a thin slice of meatloaf and no tomato. He claimed that tomatoes gave him spots. Katie had picked at a tuna salad Jane had made before leaving for the theater. There was plenty of everything left for Mel.
Jane had seldom seen Mel eat so much at one time. He restrained himself from gulping it down, but ate steadily, complimenting Jane as he finished off the last of the tuna salad. "Do you have any dessert?" he asked.
"Only York peppermint patties."
"One will do."
They left the kids to clean up what was still left, and went to sit in the living room.
"I feel like one of your cats who just consumed a muskrat. But unlike them, I won't throw up on
the sofa or the patio," Mel said. "I don't remember ever being as hungry as I was tonight. I can't be sure, but I don't think I had anything to eat all day except a small bag of potato chips."
Jane turned the television on to a music station playing light classical and said, "A long day for you, then? Have you learned anything else?"
"No, but I'm close now. Those Roth people are bound to come home sometime, and I have some other searches going on."
His cell phone rang, and he stood up with an overstuffed groan and fished in his trouser pocket. "VanDyne here — yes!" He paused to listen for a while. "Good. Arriving when? Thanks for going to so much trouble to help us."
He turned off the phone and subsided on the sofa. "I ate too much. I feel as if I've turned into the Michelin Man."
"That sounded important."
"The well-traveled Roths finally came home. They're on a plane to Chicago as we speak. I'll have to meet them at their hotel at ten-thirty. Meanwhile, I need to walk this meal off."
"Let me know what you find out, if you can," Jane asked as Mel practically fled to his car.
"Who was that man who just ran through our kitchen?" Mike called out to his mother.
Mel went back to his office and did some research on the Internet before going to meet the Roths. He
was standing at the door of their hotel, holding a sign that said "Roth," when a taxi pulled up and unloaded a ton of luggage. An excruciatingly thin middle-aged woman emerged and said harshly, "Who are you?"
"I'm Detective VanDyne. I'm in charge of your son's case. Your room is confirmed. You don't need to check in and your luggage will be delivered."
"Who killed him, and why?" she demanded.
"We're not sure yet. I'm sorry for your loss, ma'am. I know you've had a very long, hard day, I'll take you or your husband to officially identify him first thing in the morning, and then we'll have to talk about him."
"I can't imagine why we weren't told sooner. My aunt in Portland, Oregon, had our schedule with telephone numbers, and my brother in Nebraska had them, too."
Mel was dumbfounded by this remark, but merely said, "Mrs. Roth, we didn't know you had an aunt in Oregon or a brother in Nebraska. How could we have reached them? I made several calls a day and your answering machine refused to record them. Is that all of your luggage?"
Her husband approached, lugging some of the bags. Mel introduced himself again and said, repeating himself, "I'm very sorry for your loss, Mr. Roth. I know you've had a long day. Unfortunately, I'll need one or both of you to identify
your son in the morning and then be interviewed."
The man, his eyes red and downcast, said quietly, "Yes. I see. What time in the morning?"
"Let's say ten o'clock?" Mel suggested. "I'll meet you right here. I'm sincerely sorry that you have to go through this, and will try to make this as easy on you as I'm able."
He had to tip the taxi driver, who was still standing by his vehicle with the trunk open. And then Mel tipped the valet who was loading up the luggage. Mel seldom let himself make snap judgments, but it was clear that Mrs. Roth was a type of woman he'd met before. An angry woman. One of those women who wanted full control of the lives of her family. And when she and women like her lost that control, they placed the blame on someone — almost anyone — who crossed their paths. Mrs. Roth was angry that the police hadn't solved the murder of her son. She was angry at Mel in particular. She was probably mad at her husband for no reason. Mel wasn't looking forward to dealing with her tomorrow. He wished he could deal with her husband, who was obviously grieving. He was more likely to want to talk about his son.
Twenty-one
The needlepoint group was really making progress. Sam had taken out all his sections that were too tight and redone them. Shelley's sampler was more than halfway done and looked gorgeous. Jane was only slightly behind Shelley. Jane, like Sam, had been forced to remove one section that hadn't worked out, and discovered that it was harder to work with canvas that was slightly limp from already being used. Jane and Sam sympathized with each other over this unpleasant surprise.
"Next time I do a sampler, I'll remember to do it right to begin with," Jane said.
"I hope I will, too," Sam agreed.
Again, Tazz hadn't turned up, which was a relief to Jane. She wondered whether Tazz was embarrassed or furious or both that Jane had bluntly turned down the idea of writing Tazz's costume book for her. Or maybe Tazz's absence had nothing to do with Jane.
Elizabeth, who apparently had more time than most of the group to work on her sampler, had only four sections to finish. Jane was still doubtful about Elizabeth's choices of colors, but apparently Elizabeth had an eye for contrasts that really did look good.
After they had all complimented each other, Elizabeth asked Ms. Bunting what her husband was doing today while Ms. Bunting was at the meeting.
"The old fool is looking for his missing golf club at secondhand stores," she said with a laugh. "Nobody but an idiot, or a
rich person wanting a receipt for an antique to reduce his taxes, would turn it over to a secondhand store. If I were looking for it, I'd go to pawnshops. Or order a duplicate on eBay."
"What's eBay?" Elizabeth asked.
The rest of them looked at her with astonishment. "It's a place on the Internet that holds thousands of auctions," Shelley said.
"There are also lots of golf club sites in other places on the Internet," Sam put in. "Some sell restored antique golf clubs. My son-in-law is an avid collector of them. It makes it really easy to buy him birthday and Christmas presents."
"What will we do when we're all through with our samplers?" Elizabeth asked Martha, clearly not interested in the subject at hand. She had no interest in the Internet. Jane suspected that Elizabeth had never, and probably never would, own or operate a computer. And was undoubtedly proud of herself for it.
"We're going to master basket-weave patterns," Martha said. "I've noticed that none of you seem to have used this valuable stitch. It's the most durable of all of them. We'll be making a pillow, blocking it, adding special stitches around the edging, mastering trim for the surround, and stuffing the pillow properly when that's done. If you want to take the second level of classes later, those deal with creating your own designs. Mazes, animals, Christmas stockings, using beading and ornaments."
Shelley's eyes lit up like beacons. "I can't wait to take that class."
Only Jane knew of Shelley's vast collection of pretty beads, little buttons, and tiny ornaments. Shelley never had figured out what to do with them. Now she knew.
The worst part of Mel's job used to be taking people to the morgue to identify their nearest and dearest. For one thing, it was fiercely cold there and stank of formaldehyde and antiseptic. Thank goodness, eight years ago they'd changed this. Now the body, with only the face showing, was wheeled into a room with a glass partition. No odor. No hint of the stem-to-stern autopsy. There was a curtain behind the glass that would open
when the people responsible for identifying the body were in place.
Still, it was shocking.
When the curtain opened, Mr. Roth looked as if he was about to faint. Mel led him to a chair nearby. "I'm sorry I have to ask, but is this your son?"
Mr. Roth had bent forward, hands over his eyes, and was trying gulp back his urge to cry.
"Of course it's our son," Mrs. Roth said. "Harry, get a grip. We have to face up to this."
As if Harry had to be told this, Mel thought.
Mrs. Roth frowned at Mel and demanded, "Close those curtains. We've seen enough."
"Come along when you're both ready," Mel told them. "I'll be waiting in the hall for you. There are questions I need to ask. Take all the time you need."
Mel sat down by the door, simmering. He should try to see this from Mrs. Roth's viewpoint. She'd lost her only child. But why did she have to be so rude? Not only to him, but to her husband.
He only had to sit there for a few minutes before the couple emerged.
Mrs. Roth was pale, but composed. Mr. Roth was still mopping at his eyes.
"I'm taking you to my office in an unmarked police car. You'll be more comfortable there," Mel said. "I'd like to interview you and find out what your son was like." As they entered the elevator, Mel added, "I'd like to speak to each of you separately. Mrs. Roth, could I order you some coffee or tea while you wait?"
"I'm not waiting. We'll be interviewed together."
"I'm sorry, but you will have to wait," Mel said firmly.
"Then orange pekoe tea with sugar," she snapped.
When she'd settled irritably in the outer office, Mel offered Mr. Roth coffee, which Roth accepted numbly. Mel waited for the man to speak.
"He was our only child — we adopted him," Mr. Roth said softly. "Aggie couldn't have children. I must apologize for her behavior. You mustn't think she doesn't care that Denny is dead. She's simply keeping her armor on — she's good at that."
He teared up again. "I loved the boy from the first. It was a little harder for Aggie. I think she thought adoption wasn't quite 'nice' and that it suggested something was wrong with her. It might have been better if we'd taken a little girl instead. But he was such a good boy. I taught him to play softball. I took him to circuses. I helped him with homework. I…"
He couldn't go on. Mel handed him a box of tissues and went to look out the window for a few moments until Roth said, "I'm sorry. What else do you want to know?"
"Did Denny make friends easily?"
"Of course. Aggie and I made sure of that. She did the room-mother things, made him take dancing lessons, which, surprisingly, he liked. She threw wonderful birthdays and let him invite all his friends. And he always had lots of them. He was happy until…"
"Until what?"
"Until he decided out of the blue that he wanted to know who his biological parents were. Aggie was appalled. He always knew he was adopted but never seemed to care until two years ago."
"Did it hurt your feelings?" Mel asked.
"Not especially. I suspected it might happen when he grew up. I myself was adopted and had wonderful parents, and I never cared who actually sired me."
"Did you or your wife know who Denny's biological parents were?"
"No. The adoption agency offered to tell us the available adoptee's ethnic background. We didn't care."
"How did your wife take this idea of Denny's interest in finding his genetic parents?"
"She hated it. She felt that all that we had done for him had been wasted. She considered it a personal betrayal."
"Did your son have any enemies that you know of?"
"No. Until he got this bug in his ear about finding his 'real' parents, he had nothing but friends. It changed him. It became an obsession and he dropped all his friends to pursue it."
Mel's interview with Mrs. Roth didn't surprise him. First, she was outraged that she had to wait so long, "And the girl who served me tea never came back with the sugar I'd asked for."
So Mrs. Roth had also been rude to the young secretary who brought her tea, Mel thought.
"Well, it's time for your husband to sit around now. Tell me about Denny."
"He was such a nice boy. And we treated him as if he were a prince. He had everything he wanted. Good, expensive clothing, a generous allowance. We even bought him his first car when he turned sixteen and paid the taxes and registration fees for him."
"And then?"
"He took up with the idea of being an actor, of all things. I explained how hard it was to be an actor. All those interviews and classes, and the sort of competition there was. Every good-looking young person in the world wants to be an actor or actress. Very few of them succeed. But he wouldn't listen to me. He actually moved out of our home to stay in some dismal apartments. Can you imagine?"
"What did your husband think of this?" Mel asked.
"He stayed out of it, saying Denny was an adult and had to make his own decisions. And it just became worse."
"In what way?"
"He came home for a Thanksgiving dinner and told us he'd decided he wanted to find his 'real' parents. 'Real' is the word he used. We were his real parents. We'd raised him from the day he was only two days old. I felt as if he'd stuck a knife in my chest."
"Did your husband agree?" Mel asked.
"No. He said the same stupid thing. Denny was entitled to do so, if it meant so much to him."
"Did Denny succeed in finding out anything?"
"I have no idea," she said. "And I don't want to know. If this is all you need to ask us, we need to get on with arranging the funeral. We have three plots in a cemetery here in Chicago we bought while we lived here. One for me, one for Harry, and one for Denny. Someday we'll be there with him again. And we need to know where his things are. His clothes, his books, his checkbook so we can cancel the account."
"They're in boxes. They'll be delivered to your hotel as soon as you want."
"Today," she said firmly, standing up and heading for the door. S
he stopped briefly, and said, "You will tell us who killed him when you get around to finding out, won't you?"
She didn't even wait for an answer — just slammed the door on her way out.
Mel was simply glad she was gone. During Mrs. Roth's rant, he'd had an insight that might prove worthwhile. He knew exactly which pile of paperwork it was in. The one that he thought he'd never need again. He went looking for it.
Twenty-two
When Jane and Shelley left the needlepoint shop, Shelley suggested they stop somewhere for lunch.
"We're on our last caterer tonight for the dress rehearsal and have to feed quite a lot of extra people. The whole cast and crew. Props people, lighting people, even the scene painters and their teacher will be there."
"Do you think you have caterers for tonight who can cope well?" Jane asked.
"Only if we do it in the lobby, which the college has approved. In fact, most caterers like to feed a real meal to a couple of hundred people rather than the snack suppers they've done so far. That's the real test of their skills."
"We haven't tried Chinese catering, so for lunch, let's go to that Chinese restaurant we always like," Jane suggested. "They have the best jasmine tea I've ever tasted."
When they'd placed their orders, Shelley said,"I went to that Internet site that you told me about. The Annie Silverstone one. She seems to be an attractive, interesting person with a good background in publishing. But there weren't the details I wanted to see."
"Like what?" Jane asked.
"Like who are the writers she represents? We know Felicity is one, but you'd think she'd mention others."
"I think most of her authors wouldn't want to be mentioned," Jane said. "It would invite people with crappy manuscripts to send them, claiming that someone like Felicity had recommended the agent. Even if Felicity had never heard of the person."
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