Rosie was high on my list of babysitters for Maddie, and one of the first people I called when I finished a book and wanted to discuss it.
She couldn’t have done it. That was that.
Rosie’s behavior so far this weekend seemed uncharacteristically immature and dramatic, to be sure, but that was a long way from having murderous intentions. Just for drill, I indulged in a worst-case scenario-if Rosie Norman were going to kill anyone, the victim would have been Cheryl Mellace. Poor David had been much more civil to Rosie in the doorway of his hotel room, even inviting her in for a drink. It was the petite, popular Cheryl who’d mocked her so mercilessly.
Frank called us to order, his voice booming over the PA system. The crowd quieted, and I knew it would grow even quieter in a moment.
“Welcome to the future site of our new athletic field and modern stadium. It’s great to see so many Lincoln Point residents and friends. I want to extend a special welcome and thank-you to the alumni of the thirty-year reunion class. Your fund-raising drive gave us the largest single contribution to the project.”
Loud applause, whistling, and the cheering appropriate to a stadium erupted. I tried to imagine my tutoring sessions in the library with an even better PA system at full volume like this at game time.
When the noise died down, Frank began what must have been one of the most difficult addresses of his career-announcing the death of a classmate. “And now I have a very sad duty. I’ve just learned that one of our most illustrious alumni and a friend to all of us, David Bridges, who was to address us today, has passed away unexpectedly.” Frank stepped away from the mike. I imagined how shaken he must be. “That’s all we know at the moment,” he continued, with a shaky voice.
A mixture of gasps and groans rippled through the crowd. I hadn’t looked at the program carefully, finding it more useful as a fan, so this was the first I’d realized that David was to speak. I wasn’t surprised, however. I knew that more than just his own classmates had appreciated David’s fame as a football star. I thought of the large number of glassed-in cases in the ALHS hallways that were dedicated to displays of sports trophies and photographs of teams in action. Even all these years later, top athletes like David were embedded in the school’s memory and credited with giving the school status in the county.
How would his fans and friends react if they knew that David didn’t just pass quietly away, but died at the hands of a murderer?
Maddie tugged my arm. “Grandma? Do you know that man? Isn’t that the one Mrs. Norman talks about on crafts night?”
“Yes, sweetheart, but it’s nothing for you to worry about.”
Maddie looked up at me, squinting into the sunny sky. “I heard you say Uncle Skip’s name, you know, on that phone call. Was it about the man’s death? Did he call you for help investigating? You know how helpful I can be,” she said.
Maddie had adopted the perfect combination of techniques used by her father and his cousin at that age. My son, Richard, used intimidation, drilling us with questions that demanded straight answers. Ken and I were sure he was going to be a prosecuting attorney some day, not the orthopedic surgeon he became. His cousin, Skip, took the calm road to getting what he wanted. He remained soft-spoken, teasing, and charming, your best friend-who ended up a cop. Go figure.
I had to remain strong in the face of a young opponent who’d mastered both approaches.
“There’s nothing for us to do, Maddie. All we know is that the man passed away.”
She sank back in her chair and picked up her fanning, appeased for now.
I caught Henry’s eye. He seemed to be aware of my conversation with Maddie. We shared looks of sadness and confusion. He stroked Taylor’s head, his fingers reaching to her ears, as if to protect her from any further unpleasant news.
But there was no more information coming from the stage. Frank closed by asking us all to take a moment of silence to think of David and to pray for his family and loved ones. While we reflected, the high school band played a few somber notes, sounding like a modified “Taps.”
Barry Cannon, class president and Rosie’s current best friend among her classmates, it seemed, stepped to the mike. “We’re all stunned and very sad. Frank-Principal Thayer-gave us the word only a couple of minutes ago.” Murmurings continued to ripple through the crowd as Barry’s voice cracked, then recovered. “The officers of the thirty-year reunion class have decided to hold the banquet tonight as planned, because we think David would want us to be together.” Barry had a stentorian voice, for someone so small in stature. He seemed to break down, but rallied and went on for a few more minutes, his closing remarks advising us to take every opportunity to enjoy life, since “you never know.”
Several other speakers stepped up to the podium, expressing gratitude to the chief donors and predicting great victories for the teams of ALHS in the new facility, but all in very moderate tones, more befitting a memorial service than a happy groundbreaking ceremony.
I tuned out most of the rhetoric, my mind on Rosie and the investigation. Usually I’d be bothered by the oppressive heat, but today that was a distant second to the discomfort I felt over David’s murder and Rosie’s situation.
I wondered if the LPPD was ready to arrest Rosie or if they simply wanted to question her. I was itching to know how Skip had glommed on to her in the first place? Had the police interviewed David’s reunion classmates already? I tried again to think if there was something untoward about her behavior at the cocktail party, something that would have been picked up by her party-going peers. When I’d literally bumped into David, all had been cordial. The only ones who were aware of Rosie’s unhealthy obsession were the members of the crafts group and Cheryl. I didn’t know all of Rosie’s other friends, but I doubted she’d advertised her wishful thinking far and wide.
Finally the group of dignitaries gathered around the shovel. I’d forgotten that’s why we were here. Tall as I was, I still couldn’t see the little ceremonial plot where the earth would be turned over. I knew the deed had been accomplished only by the smattering of applause as the crowd dispersed, its mood somber.
“Grandma?”
I realized I’d spaced out again. “Are you hungry, sweetheart?” Food to the rescue, a time-honored Porter tradition.
“Why don’t we all head for bagels at Willie’s,” Henry said. “My idea, my treat.”
Problem solved.
On the way out of the grassy area, I saw a small knot of thirty-year alums. Among them was Cheryl Mellace, wearing an eye patch. On me, the sight of a plastic cup with gauze sticking out the sides would have looked repulsive, as if I’d become a member of the Cyclopes, but it seemed to make Cheryl even more alluring. I doubted she’d chosen it as an accessory, however, and wondered what was wrong with her eye.
“I’ll just be a sec,” I told the other three in my own party and wandered to Cheryl’s group. Henry and Taylor were more help than they could have imagined in allowing me to dodge Maddie’s scrutiny.
A much subdued round of greetings came my way from the small clutch of men and women that included Cheryl Mellace. “I’m so sorry about your friend,” I said. “I know David meant a lot to all of you.”
The murmurings in response seemed heartfelt. I focused on Cheryl, looking for a more intense reaction, but saw none. I looked at the patch over her eye. “I hope that’s not too painful,” I said.
Her one good eye glared at me. “Thanks for asking,” she said. There was no doubt in my mind that she remembered my presence outside David’s hotel room when she delivered her insults to my friend.
“And I hope your last evening with David was a good memory,” I said.
Cheryl gave me one more angry look, then she sniffled and buried her face on the chest of the man next to her, no one I recognized.
“She and David go way back, Mrs. Porter,” he explained, patting Cheryl’s back. “They were very close.”
“I know.”
Like so many establishments in Li
ncoln Point, from banks to car rentals to dress shops, Bagels by Willie had an Abraham Lincoln connection: Lincoln’s third son, named after his uncle William. Willie died of what was likely typhoid fever when he was Maddie’s age.
That didn’t explain the bagel shop’s New York décor, dominated by a set of black-and-white photographs of the Empire State Building, the Statue of Liberty, and other New York City landmarks, but not everything had to make sense.
I went through the motions of greeting patrons I knew. My GED student, Lourdes Pino, took my order for an asiago cheese bagel and tried to start up our usual bantering about the peculiarities of the English language.
“Don’t put flour on a flower” was her offering today. Ordinarily I’d respond in kind, but today I had nothing to counter with. “I’ll see you next Tuesday as usual, Mrs. Porter?” Lourdes asked, as if seeking assurance that I wasn’t withdrawing altogether from our relationship.
I nibbled at my bagel and tried to tune in on the enjoyable chatter among Henry, Taylor, and Maddie, about the miniature apartment building and other woodworking projects that, on another day, would have fascinated me. I perked up a bit when I heard mention of a half-scale (only a half inch to every foot of life size) rocking chair and a dining room table with an inlaid wood design.
Maddie took up the slack for me, making up for my drifting attention. Except for frequent cell phone text messages, she kept the conversation going. First we had to deal with e-mailing, then ubiquitous cell phoning, and now text messages. One more high-tech way to stay connected had invaded the environment.
During one moment of halfhearted listening, I thought I heard Maddie say she’d like to buy one of Henry’s rockers for her dollhouse at home in Palo Alto. I had the feeling I should step in and monitor my granddaughter’s interactions, but I didn’t see any harm. I trusted Henry not to take advantage of her in these dealings. In fact, in any negotiation with Maddie, I always worried about the other party.
Maddie and Taylor, who had proclaimed themselves BF, best friends, left to get ice cream for all of us. Lucky for Lincoln Point residents, Sadie at the ice cream shop two doors down and Johnny, who ran the bagel shop, were good friends who allowed each other’s customers to supplement different parts of the meal.
“I’ll have my usual chocolate malt,” I’d told Maddie.
Henry had said, “Surprise me.”
“They seem to get along so well,” I said, for lack of a good transition to adult conversation.
“Did you notice that they were TMing each other while we were talking?”
“And they probably didn’t miss a thing,” I said.
I was proud that I recognized the abbreviation for text messaging, but not pleased that most of the interaction at the table had gone right by me. I was glad it was Henry who opened the topic that had captured my attention.
“David Bridges. I can’t believe it,” he said, scratching his head, full of brown hair that was barely starting to thin. “I wonder how it happened. A heart attack, do you think? We saw him just last night and he looked great. He couldn’t have been more than… what?… forty-seven or -eight?”
I couldn’t meet his gaze. I pushed a bagel crust around with my cream cheese knife. “Not more than that,” I said.
The news would soon be the talk of the town, but I wondered how soon citizens without relatives in the Lincoln Point Police Department would know that David’s was not a natural death, that he’d been bludgeoned with his own trophy. The crowd at Willie’s included many people from the abbreviated groundbreaking ceremony, but with so little information released, there wasn’t much to talk about. Most of the snippets of conversation I heard had more to do with the one-hundred-degree temperature than with the death of David Bridges.
I didn’t feel I could share what I knew, little as it was, with Henry, but I needed someone to talk to. My head ached from the stress.
There was only one sure way to ease the tension.
I knew what I was about to do was sneaky. Maddie would never forgive me. Not until I took her to Ghirardelli’s this afternoon, anyway.
I looked around at the crowd and leaned over the table. You never knew where there was a mole. “Henry, I have a big favor to ask.”
“Hit me with it,” he said.
Bad choice of words. I swallowed hard.
“I have an important errand to run that I can’t take Maddie to. Would you mind taking her home with you and I’ll pick her up later?”
Henry’s eyebrows went up a tad, surprised, but he recovered nicely. “Can I have your chocolate malt?”
I liked his style.
Chapter 5
A little knowledge is a dangerous thing, I reminded myself, so I was on my way to get more. There was no use having a nephew, one whose hand you’d held crossing the street not that long ago, on the police force if you couldn’t take advantage of it.
I walked the few blocks down Springfield Boulevard, past the high school and the now-deserted groundbreaking site, to the police department, part of the civic center complex along with the city hall and the library. On my way down the street and up to Skip’s second-floor cubicle, I rehearsed.
“You got me involved,” I’d say, reminding him of his phone call alerting me to David’s murder and requesting my help in locating Rosie. Maybe that was too junior high, reminiscent of many such “he started it” exchanges between Skip and my son, Richard.
“I’d like to help” wouldn’t work, since Skip consistently reminded me that the Lincoln Point Police Department had enough sworn officers to take care of business.
“Excuse me?” he’d say. “Do you have a badge?”
“I’m your only aunt and you owe me” might do the trick, but I’d used it before.
I realized I needed some new material.
I always preferred dealing with female LPPD officers, not because of any sexist or feminist leanings, but because usually they were hot for (Maddie’s term; I still preferred the old-fashioned “sweet on”) Skip. This meant that they’d be especially accommodating and nice to me. It didn’t seem to matter that Skip and June, my next-door neighbor, were practically engaged. Maybe even one step closer this weekend since Skip had taken June to Seattle to meet his mother’s boyfriend’s family. Never mind that the weekend was cut off at the pass. His intentions spoke of commitment.
Was every extended family this complicated to talk about?
I was in luck. Lavana Rollins, an attractive member of the almost-thirty crowd, like Skip, was on duty at the front desk. After the hot-weather talk, I got to my point.
“Too bad Skip had to cut his trip to Seattle short,” I said to Lavana.
“Yeah, we got this big case, and so many people are on vacation in faraway places. Poor Skip was close enough to be called back.”
“I just heard the announcement. It’s such a shame about David Bridges,” I said.
“Too true. I didn’t know him, but I guess he was very popular around here during the football heyday at the high school.”
The days Lincoln Point expected to get back with a new stadium. “I had David as a student a long time ago. I hope you’re making progress finding his killer.”
“Ha. They don’t tell me anything. I’m just a uniform,” she said. “Don’t get me wrong. I love my job. I get to carry the evidence.” Lavana’s laugh was hearty, befitting her substantial frame. “The strangest thing came in this morning, though. You’d have found it very interesting.”
I didn’t have to fake my intense curiosity. “Oh?”
“Hey, Rollins.” I heard a deep voice from behind the wide front counter where Lavana stood. “How about those files?”
“Gotta go,” Lavana told me. “Skip should be here any minute. You can go on back and wait.”
That was my hoped-for scenario: that I’d have a few minutes alone at Skip’s desk to reflect. Or to snoop, depending on what you wanted to call it. I did wonder about the evidence Lavana mentioned, but it would have been unseemly to act nosy
.
“Thanks, Lavana.” I gave her a grateful smile. “I know the way.”
“You didn’t happen to bring any of those ginger cookies?” she whispered. Apparently if I did, she wasn’t planning on sharing.
As a matter of fact, I had pulled a bag out of the cooler in my car, as an offering to Skip, but I was willing to use them to barter wherever necessary. I opened a small plastic container within the bag and invited her to help herself. It was a small price to pay for a few minutes alone in Skip’s cubicle.
Food as sycophantism. Another time-honored Porter tradition.
I sat in Skip’s office, in the visitors’ chair, facing the cubicle opening and his bulletin board. I had a paperback of To Kill a Mockingbird open on my lap, for effect. I really had wanted to reread the classic, but today it served double duty as a cover.
The beige corkboard was cluttered with business and personal items, including a wonderful photo of a very young Maddie, her father, and me. I remembered the long-ago trip to Pier 39, one of San Francisco’s many fun places for kids. If Skip gave me any grief today, I’d remind him of his loving family.
Maddie looked happy in the photo, next to a life-size yellow cartoon animal of no particular delineation. Unlike now, I mused, when she was probably fuming as much as an eleven-year-old could fume. Maddie was in a prolonged Nancy Drew phase and hated to be left out of any investigative tasks. She was at least in an environment she might like, this time, with someone her own age and a wonderful (I guessed) workshop to browse in.
I saw nothing useful on Skip’s bulletin board. I’d been hoping for a to-do list. Clear Rosie Norman could have been an item. Then, Arrest John Doe. I started a mental list of who John Doe could be. No one had asked my opinion, but I thought the police should be looking into David’s ex-wife, his estranged son, and especially the Duns Scotus employee we all saw him arguing with last night.
Murder In Miniature Page 5
