by Gina Cresse
I joined him in his laughter for a moment, then I stopped. “I think you’re jerking my chain, Frank. I think you get a kick out of getting reactions out of people.”
Frank’s face turned serious. He laced his fingers together and put them on the table. “What do you have of my dad’s stuff?”
I relaxed. It occurred to me that Frank might be just a little bit dangerous and I probably should not have confronted him that way. I was glad that his behavior turned rational rather than radical.
“Everything, but I don’t imagine you can keep it all here. I found a few photo albums I thought you might want.”
His face lit up. “Pictures?”
“Uh huh. I brought them with me. They’re in my car.”
“That’d be great. How about my little league trophies?”
I frowned. “I didn’t bring those. They’d been broken,” I said.
“Broken? How?”
“Kids broke into your father’s house after he died. They vandalized the place.”
“Creeps. Did they catch them?” he asked.
“I think so. Did you know about a painting your father bought after your mother died? He had it hanging in the living room.”
“My dad never bought a painting in his life.”
“Are you sure? I mean, you haven’t lived at home for a long time,” I said.
“He came to visit me every week until he died. Spent the whole day with me. He hated long stretches without talking, so he made lists of every little thing he did that week so we’d have stuff to talk about. He would have told me if he did something like spend money on a painting.”
I was disappointed, but at least my trip wasn’t for nothing. Frank would get the family photo albums, and I was glad for that. “Well, I’ll get those albums for you,” I said as I stood to leave.
“But I do remember him telling me someone gave him a painting.”
I sat back down. “You do?”
“Yeah. He said he felt a little guilty for hanging it up, because he liked it even though it was purple, and my mom hated purple.”
I perked up. “That’s the one. Who gave it to him?”
“Heck if I know. A friend of his, I think. Maybe someone who lived in the neighborhood. All I remember is he said he carried it home on foot, and it was sort of big and awkward.”
I felt a sudden urge to dangle this new evidence in front of Sam’s arrogant face. He thinks he’s so smart.
“Thanks, Frank. I’ll get those albums for you now.”
Chapter Nine
I balanced a peach pie in my left hand as I rang Bob and Agnes’s doorbell with my right. That triggered a reaction in Tiger, their cocker spaniel, who I could hear frantically barking on the other side of the door. Agnes opened the door, hanging on to his collar. She gawked at me for a moment.
“Hi, Agnes. It’s me, Devonie, from next door. Remember? You brought my husband and me flowers from your garden?”
After a few seconds, the old wheel cogs clicked and she remembered. “Oh, yes.” Then her gaze shot past me, searching for something beyond her front porch. “Did you bring your husband?” she asked, straining to see around the corner of the house. Tiger struggled to free himself from her grip. She picked him up in her arms.
“Not today, I’m afraid. He’s working. I wanted to bring you and Bob this pie, though. Sort of a thank you for calling us the other night to warn us about the intruder.”
“Who is it, pumpkin?” Bob’s voice called, trailing from some room at the back of the house. A moment later, he was at Agnes’s side, with his arm around her shoulders.
“It’s that girl from next door, you know, the doctor’s wife,” Agnes replied.
I smiled. “Devonie,” I reminded her. “I brought you a pie. It’s peach.”
Bob’s face lit up like a Malibu brushfire. “Who told you I love peach pie? Come on in,” he said, pushing the screen door open to allow me through.
Agnes handed Tiger off to Bob, I assume to protect me from having my leg taken off, or at least part of my foot. She snatched the pie from my hands and scurried off to the kitchen with it. Bob led me from the foyer to the living room, where he released Tiger into the back yard. I noticed the floor plan of their house was nearly identical to Rancho Costa Little, only in reverse.
Unlike Lou, Bob and Agnes had kept their home up-to-date. Ceramic tile floors in the entry and kitchen, and polished granite countertops made the home look much more contemporary than it really was. They had installed skylights in the kitchen, which brightened it up considerably. Rather than carpet, the remainder of the house boasted hardwood floors, which were finished in a tone a little darker than I liked, but it was very pretty. The place was gorgeous.
I gazed around the living room. “Your house is beautiful,” I said. “Would you mind giving me a tour?”
Bob’s chest puffed up like a rooster. “Did all the work myself,” he bragged. “Come on. Wait till you see what I did with the bathrooms.”
I followed Bob through the house, admiring every detail. I discretely examined each painting on every wall, checking for signatures. When we returned to the living room, I paid particular attention to a painting hanging over their sofa.
“This is great,” I said. The painting depicted a view of the ocean on a sunny day from a white-railed porch. Vibrant flowers planted in clay pots scattered around the deck added color and charm. A child’s plastic pail and shovel sat in the sand a short distance from the steps, adding interest to the piece. If you looked at it long enough, you could almost hear the waves gently rolling in.
“Like it?” Bob replied, straightening the frame a tinge.
“I love it,” I said, searching the lower corners for a signature. “Where’d you get it?”
Bob puffed up again, and I wondered if he was going to confess to be the artist. “Best art deal I’ve ever made,” he said. “Bought it down at a little art show they have in the park every year. The artist was an unknown at the time. I finagled the price down to half of what he was asking. Now, he’s a hotshot with a deal for calendars and greeting cards. His work is worth thousands, and I have an original.”
I admired the painting a moment longer. “You know, I used to dabble in art when I was younger. I had a little talent, but not enough motivation to ever pursue it seriously,” I said.
Bob motioned for me to take a seat on the sofa. He sat down in a leather recliner across from me. He looked like a king sitting on his throne. “That talent’s a gift. You’re lucky to have it.” He leaned forward and straightened the coffee table books sitting in front of him. “When you don’t use a gift like that, it’s like giving a child a toy she won’t play with. You watch with anticipation, waiting for the little one to play, and when she doesn’t, you’re disappointed. Now me? I couldn’t draw a straight line with a ruler. My only gift is knowing good art when I see it. Now Agnes, she’s a different story.”
I perked up. “Really?”
“Yes. You should see her needlepoint. Magnificent. She did a life-size of John Wayne that’ll knock your socks off.”
“Life-size? That must have taken years,” I said.
Agnes entered the room carrying a tray with three slices of pie and a pitcher of ice tea. Bob helped her with the tray. “How long did John Wayne take you?” he asked.
“Three years,” she proudly replied.
“Gave it to my grandson for his birthday. He uses it for a bedspread,” Bob continued.
“I’d like to see it sometime. Do you paint, also?” I asked her.
Agnes handed me a slice of pie and a fork. “No. Just the needlework, and I knit and crochet. Arthritis is making it hard to do that much. Now, I spend most of my time in the garden.”
“I was just wondering,” I continued. “Do you know the painting Lou had hanging in his living room?”
Bob and Agnes exchanged glances. “The purple mountains?” Bob replied.
“That’s the one. Do you know where he got it?” I asked.
Bob scratched
his head and looked at Agnes. “Gee, pumpkin, you recall where Lou got that?”
Agnes shook her head. “I never really cared for it. Too much of the same color. I like more variety.”
“I was told that someone in the neighborhood may have given it to him. Are there any artists living around here that you know of?” I asked.
“There’s Wally, but that painting’s not his style. He does what they call impressionist art. Looks like something my three-year-old granddaughter could do, but the critics love it.”
“Besides, Wally would never give a painting away,” Agnes added. “Wouldn’t even donate one for our annual church auction.”
I glanced out the window and noticed Tiger playing with a red-and-white ball in the back yard. He tossed it in the air and tried to catch it. “What’s that your dog has?” I asked, pointing to the unusual ball.
Bob squinted to see what I was pointing at. “Oh, that’s his float.”
“Float?” I asked.
“Yeah. You know. For fishing,” Bob explained. “I think it was one of Lou’s. It showed up in our back yard right after he passed away.”
“It did? How do you suppose it got in your yard?”
“Well, Lou just got back from a fishing trip with his son that night. I figured he never had a chance to put his gear away before he died. That’s about the time those kids were breaking into houses around here.”
“Rotten kids,” Agnes had to throw into the conversation.
Bob nodded in agreement. “Anyhow, Tiger was probably barking up a storm over in our yard, so they may have tossed him anything that looked like a ball to shut him up. He loves balls, as you can see.”
I watched Tiger throw the ball and run after it till his tongue hung nearly to the ground. “Does he ever get tired?” I asked.
“Oh, yeah. Pretty soon he’ll quit and go lay down,” Bob replied.
“So Lou had gone on a fishing trip just before he died?” I asked.
“Yeah. Him and Joey went up to Big Bear that weekend. We watched the place for him.”
“He was gone for two days?”
“That’s right. He left early Saturday morning and didn’t get home until late Sunday night. Joey found him the next morning. He came by to drop off the fish they’d caught after he cleaned them.”
I thought about this for a moment. “How did Joey get in the house?”
“I don’t know. Maybe he knew about Lou’s hide-a-key over the door. He grew up in that house. Wouldn’t surprise me if he had his own key,” Bob said.
Bob noticed my troubled expression. “You’re not still worried about someone having keys to the place, are you?”
I shook my head. “No. I had the locks changed. I’m sure no one is interested in getting into the house anymore.”
“I almost forgot. Did they ever catch the guy who was in there the other night when I called you?”
“No. He disappeared before the police got there. Did you ever see anything other than lights inside the house that night?” I asked.
Bob thought for a moment, then shook his head. “Never saw a car or anything, if that’s what you’re after. And I kept my eye on the place from the second I called you right up until the police car showed up. Whoever was in there snuck out like a cat in the dark.”
Agnes cleared her throat. “Not to change the subject, but why the sudden interest in that painting?” she asked.
I studied Bob’s face, then Agnes’s. They didn’t strike me as murders, but I wasn’t ready to cross them off of my suspect list just yet. “Oh, I just wanted to know where I could get another one to go with it.”
Just as Bob had predicted, Tiger got tired of his game with the fishing float and found a shady spot under a tree to rest. I set my empty pie plate on the tray and stood up, indicating that I was ready to leave. Bob thanked me for the pie, and Agnes insisted that I bring Craig with me the next time I came to visit. I promised I would.
I was developing a clearer picture of what may have happened to Lou. The murderer must have known that Lou would be gone for the weekend. If the murderer knew Lou well enough to know his personal lottery numbers, he probably also knew of Lou’s fishing trip. The killer probably discovered the winning numbers on Saturday night, and recognized them as Lou’s. He would have had only about twenty-four hours to come up with—and execute—his plan. I wondered how someone could get his hands on cyanide on such short notice. I drove to the police lab to talk to Eric.
I interrupted Eric in the middle of his tuna fish sandwich. He gladly offered me a chair at his small desk, and half of his lunch. “You talk to Sam lately?” he asked.
“Not today. I thought I’d go see him after I talk to you.”
“What’s up?” he asked, still chewing a mouthful of food.
“I was wondering how someone could get their hands on cyanide? It can’t be that easy, can it?”
Eric quickly nodded his head and swallowed a bite of his sandwich. “Cyanide’s used commercially in metal recovery, like extracting gold or silver from their ores. It’s also used in electroplating metals like gold, silver, copper and platinum.”
Eric opened a bag of potato chips and offered them to me. I removed one from the bag and ate it.
“Now you know you can’t eat just one,” he said, shoving the bag toward me. I smiled and took a handful. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d eaten a potato chip.
“So, if you worked for a mining company—?”
“Or a jewelry or metal plating company. Some chemical supply firms sell it. You can get the stuff. It’s not like we’re talking about plutonium.”
“And it’s a powder?” I asked.
Eric nodded. “Or it can be in the form of a pellet. You heard about the mining company helicopter that accidentally dropped a couple tons of it in some jungle somewhere? Those were pellets. What a mess that was.”
“So it was probably pellets that our murderer used. That’s why he had to grind them up and got the paint pigment mixed up with the cyanide,” I suggested.
Eric nodded in agreement as he gulped down milk from a thermos that left a white mustache on his upper lip.
I thanked Eric for the information and the chips, and headed for Sam’s office.
When I walked in, Sam was busy hanging a whiteboard on his wall.
“What’s that for?” I asked.
“It’s supposed to help solve crimes,” he replied, still working the screwdriver.
“How?”
He set his tools down and stepped back to admire his work. “By making the scenes more visible. Kind of like a storyboard. Sometimes it helps to see all your clues at once. We have one in the bullpen. I thought I’d like to have one in here, too. See if it helps.”
I nodded. “Sort of like a big version of your little notebook,” I offered.
“Sort of, except I can’t carry this around with me.”
I stared at the board for a moment. “It’s crooked,” I said.
“What?”
“Look. It’s not level. That side is higher than this side.”
Sam backed up a couple feet and stared at the board. “It looks straight to me,” he argued.
“Did you use a level?”
“No. I measured from the ceiling.”
“How do you know the ceiling is level?” I asked.
Sam dropped the screwdriver into his desk drawer and shoved it closed. “Is there a reason for this visit, or did you just drop by to bug me?”
“I came by to talk about Lou Winnomore. I was just over talking to Eric in the lab.”
Sam was busy removing assorted colors of dry-erase pens from a box. He placed them one-by-one on the tray at the bottom of the whiteboard, then turned the box over and shook it until the eraser fell out. “So talk.”
I stood up and walked over to the board, picked up the blue pen and removed the cap.
Sam looked at me as if I’d just taken his wallet. “What are you doing?” he demanded.
“I’m going to use
your new tool to help solve this crime. You mind?”
Sam snatched the pen from my hand. “You can’t be the first one to write on my board. I’ll do the writing.”
I returned to my seat. “Fine, but don’t forget to keep the pen covered when you’re not using it, or it’ll dry out.”
“I know that,” he scoffed. “I was going to do this anyway, so don’t go thinking this is your idea.”
“Okay. Okay. What do you think about starting with a timeline?” I suggested.
Sam smiled and pointed the pen at me. “Good idea.” He drew a horizontal line on the board and made a couple of small vertical marks on it. “Let’s start with the purchase of the ticket.”
“Good. That had to happen some time between Wednesday night and early Saturday morning,” I said.
“No. He could have bought the ticket right up until the time of the draw on Saturday night,” Sam replied.
“I don’t think so. Lou left early on Saturday morning to go on a fishing trip with his son. He would have already bought the ticket for Saturday night’s game.”
“How do you know that?” he asked.
“I talked to the neighbors this morning. They told me.”
Sam glared at me.
I pointed toward his hand. “You’re pen is going to dry out.”
“What else did they tell you?”
“I’ll get to that. Just write down what I said.”
He scribbled something small and illegible. “I can’t read that. You’ve got a whole big board there. You can write a little bigger, can’t you?”
He snapped the cap back on the pen and marched across the room to where I sat. “Here,” he said, slapping the pen in my hand. “I’m going to save myself a lot of grief and just let you do it.”
I filled out the timeline with everything we’d learned so far. Then I began a list at one end of the board. “This is everything we know about the killer. He was probably a friend of Lou’s. He knew Lou’s regular numbers. He knew about the fishing trip. He had easy access to cyanide. He either knew about the hidden key, or he had a key to Lou’s house.”
“Or, he picked the lock,” Sam offered.
