Murder In Miniature

by Margaret Grace

In other circumstances, I’d have called Rosie to watch Maddie while I did an errand connected to a police investigation. Rosie’s situation came into stark relief now that she was the errand.

  By one fifteen, Ben still hadn’t emerged from the woods. Why hadn’t it crossed my mind before now that he might be a second victim? I hated to think that Joshua Speed Woods, named after a nineteenth-century gentleman who was Abraham Lincoln’s best friend, had turned into a killing field.

  I talked myself out of making a call that would dispatch an emergency vehicle into the woods. It was more likely that Ben was in there destroying evidence that might incriminate him.

  Or was he, like me, unable to leave the investigation of his boss’s murder to law enforcement?

  I took out my phone to call Linda. I needed a status report on Rosie. Usually I’d worry about waking Linda up, since Monday was her day to sleep in when she’d been on call all weekend. I decided to risk Linda’s wrath if she’d gone back to bed after phoning to alert me about Rosie’s unwelcome trip to the station.

  “Have you heard from Rosie?” I asked, tense about Linda’s sleepy voice.

  “Aren’t you there yet?” she asked, annoyed.

  “Not yet.”

  “Poor Rosie.”

  “Linda, I’m doing my best for Rosie. It’s not as if I went to the movies.” Or to lunch with a friend who makes dollhouses, I added silently.

  “Oh, then you’re investigating?” she said, sounding like Maddie. “I’m worried. I could go down there myself, but really you’re better at that kind of thing.”

  “I can go to the station now if you’ll pick up Maddie at the Rutledge Center. Her class is over at one thirty, but she’s usually late anyway.”

  “I can do it. I actually got some sleep last night. The natives weren’t as restless as they usually are Sunday evenings.”

  “They have preferred times of restlessness?”

  I shouldn’t have asked. Linda loved an opportunity to vent about the families of her patients. About anything, now that I thought of it.

  “All the dutiful sons and daughters visit on Sundays for a couple of hours and they get the residents all worked up. They bring their little kids who run around, and they give the patients candy and junk food, which is not good for them. Then, of course, the relatives go home and we’re left to calm everybody down. Sometimes I think it would be better if we didn’t allow visitors.”

  “I don’t blame you for getting upset at inconsiderate visitors,” I said, hoping to move on soon. I was getting hotter by the second, looking around the inside of my car for something that might serve as a fan. I’d already shed my seersucker jacket, leaving me in a sleeveless white blouse. I stretched across the seat and pulled out a map of the San Francisco Bay Area from the glove compartment. I unfolded and refolded it to work as a fan. It would have to do.

  “I’m not complaining. You know I love my work, but some of the relatives really tick me off.”

  “I don’t blame you,” I repeated, whipping the map in front of my face. “So can you pick up Maddie? If you can do that, I’ll go to the station and see what’s up with Rosie.”

  “Done,” she said.

  I considered calling Maddie to tell her that Mrs. Reed would be taking her home with her for a short while. I knew Maddie would be put out and easily divine what was going on. I planned to get back in her good graces with a waiver of her vegetable requirement at dinner and an extra shake of Parmesan on her popcorn tonight.

  If only I could take care of my abandonment of Henry as easily. After rejecting his offer to carpool and running off without explanation when he said he’d wait for me to join him at the reception, I wouldn’t blame him if he crossed me off his list of possible new friends. I hoped Maddie and Taylor wouldn’t have to break up (so to speak) also.

  I decided not to call Skip, either. My “aunt magic” worked better impromptu and in person. I hoped he was tied up as the one interviewing Rosie, anyway.

  Time to call an end to the stakeout. Besides my other discomforts, I was starving. I considered going to Sadie’s for a malt to go before heading to the police department. I adjusted myself in the seat and prepared to turn the key in the ignition. If I turned the key, it meant Skip’s; if I got out of the car, it meant Sadie’s, only a short walk away. Wasn’t there a child’s game with rules like that?

  “Something I can do for you?”

  I heard a deep voice and saw a sweaty arm on my window ledge.

  I jumped and bumped my elbow on my horn, making a noise that caused me to jump again.

  Ben Dobson leaned in on my window. His breath was foul, from a cigar I thought, and his face weathered. He wasn’t a big man, but he had a powerful presence.

  I surveyed the parking lot. I saw no one entering or exiting a car nearby. My remote control had a panic button. I could push it now, but my experience with false alarms told me that no one paid attention to a blaring horn and flashing lights. I had no reason to think anyone would come to my rescue now. It might simply annoy Ben and provoke him to an unpleasant action.

  “I… I was just leaving.”

  “I hear you want to talk to me.” Ben couldn’t miss my surprise. “Word gets around. I still have buddies at the Scotus. And who else would be following me?”

  Mike the electrician came to mind.

  I looked around, thinking he might have brought Mike as backup or to help carry me into the woods.

  I felt faint, from the heat, from hunger, and from what I sensed as danger.

  Ben took advantage of my glaring discomfort and momentary paralysis to come around to the passenger side and get in my car, knocking on my hood on the way. It sounded like a “this is my lucky day” knock, which might have meant the opposite for me. He made himself comfortable, sitting partly on my jacket, facing me, his left hand on the back of the seat. I was grateful for the apparent absence of a weapon.

  “I’m here. Talk to me,” he said, in an almost casual tone, showing me his palms. It was obvious that he knew how intimidating he was; he didn’t need threatening language.

  Wasn’t this what I wanted, after all? A chance to talk to the employee who’d argued with David on the night of his murder. The trouble was, it might be my last interview.

  Might as well get it started.

  “You followed your boss into our reunion cocktail party the other night. What were you fighting over?”

  “You’re really asking, did I kill him, right?”

  I wasn’t that dumb. There was only one answer. “No, of course not. I was hoping to get a lead on who did.”

  “You a cop?”

  Ask your friend, Mike. He asked me the same question, I wanted to say. Instead I smiled as politely as anyone in a state of quiet hysteria could.

  “Not exactly. But my nephew is a cop. He’s expecting me any minute.”

  Ben laughed, before I got to “He’ll send out the fleet if I don’t show up.” A lame survival technique. “Yeah, right,” he said, possibly not even believing the first part of what might be my dying declaration. His laugh wasn’t as evil as I had imagined it would be. I settled down a bit, though my jaw was no less tight and my hands grasped the steering wheel as if I’d applied tacky glue to both.

  “Look, Ben. Right now, one of my close friends is the only suspect in David Bridges’s murder. I’m grasping at straws, trying to figure out who really killed him. I thought you might be able to direct me to someone who had a motive. Maybe another one of his employees.”

  “We weren’t that close.”

  “What about his personal life? I know he’s divorced and estranged from his son.”

  Ben shook his head. “Don’t waste your time on them. Debbie has moved on. She’s married to a Hollywood pool boy and could care less what Bridges does anymore. And him and Kevin-they’re not estranged.” He stumbled over the word, as if it were as unfamiliar to him as what a ticket cost to the annual fall miniatures show in San Jose. “Kevin took his mother’s maiden name, Malden, a
nd lives in Carmel in some artists’ colony. Bridges could never get over that the kid didn’t want to play football like his old man, so he pretends the kid is estranged but they still kept in touch from a distance.” A little more trippingly that time.

  “I thought you weren’t close.”

  I immediately wanted to retract that flip remark, but Ben seemed to let it slide. “Look, I’m in your face for one reason. To let you know that you’d be better off going back to your dollhouses.”

  I swallowed hard. How did he know my hobby? What else did he know about me and, especially, Maddie? The last thing I wanted was for the conversation, such as it was, to take a turn to the personal.

  I cleared my throat. “I’m just curious, Ben. Didn’t I hear you tell David that you could”-I drew quotation marks in the hot, still air between us-“burn him.”

  “I was blowing smoke. He didn’t give me a big enough raise and I was mad at him.”

  My first, unspoken, response was what Ben himself had just said: “Yeah, right.”

  “Is there anything to the rumor”-I made up one on the spot-“that your boss was involved in some kind of preferential treatment for certain contractors?”

  “Who told you that?” Ben asked.

  “It’s public knowledge that the awards for all the recent projects at the Duns Scotus, like remodeling and equipment upgrades, have gone to Mellace Construction here in Lincoln Point. It’s either a coincidence or something shady is going on.”

  “Shady, I like that. But I wouldn’t know anything about it.”

  Between the miserable weather and the barely abating fear I experienced from having Ben Dobson in my car, I was ready to give up. Maybe my recollection of the incident between David and Ben was exaggerated, made into something it wasn’t, out of a desire to lay blame for the murder on anyone but Rosie.

  I took a breath, amazingly calm and sure I wasn’t in danger from Ben. Not at the moment anyway. “Can you tell me one thing? What were you doing in the woods just now?”

  Ben got out of the car, closed the door, and leaned in. He gave me a wicked smile. “You’re too much of a lady for me to tell you.”

  I couldn’t help smiling back, though I didn’t believe him for a minute.

  I wasn’t ready to face Skip or Rosie. Thanks to very poor decisions today, I was hot, bothered, and hungry. A quick side trip to Sadie’s would take only ten minutes if it wasn’t too crowded. I’d get a chocolate malt to go and imbibe while I drove to the police station. So far there was no California law against eating while driving.

  My parking spot facing the woods was right behind Sadie’s. I got out of my car and left it unlocked, the windows down. There was nothing worth stealing and it would be much better than coming back to an even hotter car.

  I wished I had time to get the car washed, inside and out, to erase the presence of Ben Dobson. Though I hadn’t been as afraid of him at the end of the exchange as at the abrupt beginning, I still had an uneasy feeling. Maddie would have called the whole meeting creepy.

  With long legs and the image of a chocolate malt spurring me on, I reached Sadie’s in less than five minutes and joined a short line. I fished my wallet out of my purse, licked my dry lips, and waited, feeling guilty that I wasn’t already on my way down Springfield Boulevard toward Rosie.

  My turn at last. “The usual, Gerry?” Colleen asked.

  “Yes, but I’m on a very tight schedule today.”

  Most days I enjoyed chatting with Colleen, Sadie’s lovely Irish daughter-in-law, especially about her graduate school classes in political science. Today, she caught on quickly to my pressing need and prepared my malt in record time. I couldn’t wait to take that first long sip of the thick chocolaty liquid.

  “Hi, Mrs. Porter,” a girl’s voice said. “We just saw you. Where’s Maddie? Isn’t she out of class by now?” I turned around and nearly tripped over Taylor. I followed her pointing finger to a table in the back where Henry sat with a sundae in front of him. “Come back and eat with us.”

  Not again. This would be my third strike today if this were a game with Henry Baker. I went back and forth about how I’d spend the next hour. Did Rosie really need me? She hadn’t called, so maybe everything had been resolved without me. Didn’t I deserve a little ice cream break with friends? But what if Rosie was in custody?

  My better self won. “I’d love to,” I told Taylor. “But I really can’t right now. I have a very important errand to do.”

  Taylor’s face fell. Her pout was a lot like Maddie’s-therefore, nearly irresistible. “Just till you finish your shake?”

  I hoped she caught the sadness in my sigh. “There’s someone waiting for me. In fact that’s why I don’t have Maddie with me.” I laughed and gave her a playful poke in the shoulder. “Do you think Maddie would ever let me come here without her if I weren’t on my way to a very serious meeting?”

  Her face brightened. She got it. “I guess not. Maybe we’ll see you later.”

  “For sure,” I said.

  I caught Henry’s eye and waved. He gave me a thin smile and waved back, then put his head down and turned his attention to a pile of whipped cream.

  I left the shop, still without a sip of malt. I felt I owed Henry an explanation, though I wasn’t sure why. It wasn’t as if I’d broken a date. Maybe because I wished I’d get a chance to.

  I recovered quickly from my stress over Henry, and by the time I reached my car, half the shake was gone.

  I placed the rest of my lunch in the cup holder, but only after one more long drag on the straw. I threw my purse on the passenger seat over my jacket and prepared to start the engine. After the fact, I noticed something under my jacket. The sound my purse made indicated it fell on something other than soft cloth. I looked over and saw a manila folder under the jacket, so flat it seemed empty. The folder certainly wasn’t mine. Had Ben left it? By mistake? On purpose? No, I was sure I would have seen it, one way or the other, if he’d had it. Besides, Ben and I had already shared so much (a big wink here), he wouldn’t have delivered this in secret.

  I checked my rearview mirror and my backseat. I wanted no more surprises. I lifted my purse and jacket with care and stared at the folder. Maybe someone mistakenly dropped it in my car, thinking it was someone else’s vehicle.

  The biggest question was, why was I being so skittish over a simple-looking item from an office supply store? I grabbed the folder and opened it. One sheet of paper lay there, faceup. A bank record of some sort.

  I picked up the record, white with a pale blue grid marking rows and columns. It looked nothing like the statement I received monthly from my own bank. There was no name to indicate whose record I was looking at, but long rows of numbers across the top. An account number? A code for the originating bank? One thing was clear, even for someone as finance-challenged as I was, some very large deposits had been made to the account, sometimes only days apart.

  Why me? I asked the universe in front of me. Apparently I’d been appointed to follow up on a potential financial motive for David Bridges’s death.

  One good thing about this piece of evidence, if that’s what it was-as much as I’d snooped around and picked up things here and there in my questionably legal wanderings, there was no way Skip could blame me for this wrinkle.

  I had neither broken nor entered into any establishment illegally, and I had an excellent alibi for when the folder was placed on the seat of my car.

  Chapter 16

  The timing was perfect. I arrived at the police station just as I was draining the last bit of chocolate shake from the cup. Since I was alone in my car, I indulged in a final, loud sip, the gurgling sound worthy of a junior high cafeteria.

  The first person I saw in the sprawling, shabby waiting area was Larry Esterman, Rosie’s father. I sensed that I was about to take advantage of a distraught parent to try to continue my investigation. For his own daughter’s good, I reminded myself.

  We greeted each other with the usual pleasantries
of people who don’t see each other very often. I told him he looked good, and he did the same for me.

  This seemed to be the week of reunions and the platitudes that came with them.

  Larry got quickly to what was on both our minds. “I can’t get any information on when they’ll be done with Rosie,” he told me.

  I thought it best to clear this up before I quizzed him on his Callahan and Savage dealings. I figured if I helped him with facts on how Rosie was doing, he’d be more receptive to my questions.

  I checked out the officer on duty. What luck. Drew Blackstone had his head down, engrossed in paperwork, so we hadn’t noticed each other yet. Sign-in at the LPPD was required only if a person wanted to get past the desk to the interview rooms, offices, holding cells, and other “official places” beyond.

  Drew, a former student, was next in line on my list of favorites to catch on duty when I needed a favor, after Lavana and all the other young women who were Skip’s groupies.

  “Wait here,” I said to Larry and crossed the linoleum floor to the high front desk.

  “Drew, nice to see you,” I said, with my best smile forward, reaching to shake the large man’s hand.

  “Hey, Mrs. Porter. You, too.”

  “I’ve been meaning to give you a recommendation for a book for little Davey. I know how he loves to read. If you have a pen and paper I’ll write it down for you.”

  “Oh, terrific, Mrs. Porter. And he’s not so little anymore. He’s going on nine.”

  “Almost as old as my granddaughter. As a matter of fact, it was Rosie Norman who put me onto this book because she knows I’m always on the lookout for good children’s literature.” I wrote the name and author of the book, addressing Drew at the same time. “I guess you know Mr. Esterman, Rosie’s father, over there waiting for his daughter.”

  “Yeah, he’s been really patient, not like some other people nagging about how much longer, like, every ten minutes.”

  I smiled. “He’s a nice man. Do you think you can reward his patience and check out what’s happening with Rosie? I know you’re swamped here, but-”