The police arrived barely in time. Anne was on the verge of discovering Cyndi for herself. First to enter the office, my own officer, Robert Yarnell, the nice young man who was on the scene at Beverley’s. He stopped cold when he saw me. I grimaced and gestured upstairs. He nodded and hurried up to Cyndi’s living quarters.
“Oh, Hell!” He said clearly as he opened the door.
“What?” Demanded Anne, “that’s Cyndi’s …”
“Home?” I interrupted. “It’s illegal to live in an area zoned for office and retail use.”
“Whatever.” Anne’s attention was riveted on Officer Robert and what he was doing. He was giving himself a minute and I did not blame him. After composing himself, we heard him calling for back up and the ambulance.
“It’s Cyndi, she’s been murdered.” I am nothing, if not helpful, during an emergency.
“No.” Anne said automatically. “Steven took her with him.”
“No, he didn’t.” I assured her.
“What is going on here!” Martha Anderson swooped in and planted her redoubtable self in the middle of the office lobby. She must monitor police calls. I was quite glad my make-up was good, my boots were dry, and my hair was smooth. I probably was a little pale, but that couldn’t be helped, considering the situation.
Dame Anderson stopped a few feet short of med. “Have we been introduced?”
“Allison Little, Carrie Eliot’s friend.”
She looked at me blankly.
“Ben Weiss?” I added helpfully.
“Oh, yes, you were with Mr. Wiess at the dinner. Now, why are all these police officers here? Working to find Steven I assume. But we have serious matters to discuss. Where are the rest of the board members?”
“I haven’t heard from them, but Harold is on his way.” Anne backed into her own small office to avoid another police officer who dashed up the stairs to help Officer Robert.
My phone buzzed, I moved behind the stairs to answer.
“That is not good enough. Call them! You!” Martha Anderson bellowed.
Officer Yarnell carefully walked down the stairs towards Mrs. Anderson. From his expression he was clearly not sure which was worse, the body upstairs, or the irate woman downstairs.
“Hi, Allison? This is Bo Freeman.”
“Ma’am, I’ll have to ask you to leave the building,” Officer Yarnell said very carefully and calmly, something he probably learned in police training.
“Leave the building! I just arrived! We need to call a board meeting, this is shocking and where is Harold? If he’s not here in five minutes, he’s fired!”
“I want to make an offer on the house.” Mr. Freeman said.
I asked him to repeat himself.
Officer Robert Yarnell didn’t even wait for Martha to finish her rant. He hustled her into the morning fog. I trailed behind, arranging to meet Bo at Starbucks the next morning.
The patio at the entrance of the HPL office surrounded a fountain that no longer ran water, even though the building complex was named Fountain Lakes. The “Lake” in the center resembled primordial soup, very ecological, very green.
“Okay.” Officer Yarnell took a deep breath, “who found the body?”
“Body?” Demanded Martha. “Body? What are you talking about?”
At that inauspicious moment, Harold, the other player in this tiny poorly attended morality play, slouched towards our little group.
“Locked out of the office?” He asked pleasantly, as if he knew this would be the case. He seemed unconcerned about the police cars, the approaching ambulance, the officers swarming in and out of his office.
“No.” Martha glared at him, glared at her watch, a nice designer model decorated with a few modest diamonds. “At least we are not locked out physically. Apparently we’ve been locked out informationally for years.”
Is that a word? I kept quiet.
Harold scratched his head and shrugged. He was strikingly calm in the face of this irate, major donor. Did he already have a ticket to a nice, warm place? Did he have his own money carefully stashed away, bit-by-bit, from various and untraceable donations? I think that’s how you do it.
“Do you know what this means?” Martha demanded of the remaining staff, which would be Anne.
“We’ll lose our $367.68 of United Way funding?” Anne opened her very large purse, and started to hunt through it.
“Very funny, young lady, you need spend your energy finding the President, this is a terrible mess!”
I thought that the mess upstairs was considerably more terrible, but this wasn’t a contest.
The procedure was the same as it was at Beverley’s house. Only I had far more explaining to do to the nice officers, Robert included. But the police officer in charge took my explanation at face value, asked if I knew where Ben Stone was – I assured them I didn’t keep track of Ben every second of the day – and as a response, they bade me to wait while they talked with all the other “witnesses.”
Anne pulled out a copy of the Rivers Bend Press from her purse and handed it to Harold. She pulled out a donut from the handbag, and took a bite.
Momentarily distracted by the ambulance and the awful black body bag, the officers abandoned us to a miasma of silence as thick as the brackish water in the fountain. I really needed a Starbucks coffee. As soon as I was released, that’s where I planned to go. The cheerful acknowledgement of the joys of Christmas manifested in the seasonal red and white paper cups courtesy of the green colored franchise, was exactly the kind of holiday cheer I longed for.
“I was thinking.” Harold reflected. Folding the paper in half, then half again. “We never seem to mention a solution.”
“There is no solution.” Martha snapped. “As long as there are human settlements, there will be members who have no interest in joining in the work of the community. We will always have homeless, and we will always have the poor. And thus, you and I will always have a job, a mission to help those who cannot help themselves.”
“If we want it.” Harold replied.
Anne looked away.
The adage, no good deed goes unpunished, was written specifically with me in mind. My feet were cold. My hands were cold. Fortunately, I did not have long to wait. The officers released me first. I happily left the other three to glare accusingly at one another. I swung by Starbucks for some holiday comfort in Venti size, and bought a cinnamon latte for Carrie. It was the best I could do, they don’t allow wine in the hospital.
I wanted to tell her what was happening, at least before she was released.
“I get to leave tonight,” she announced as I came in with the coffee.
“Good, I’ll pick you up.”
“Patrick will take me, I’m spending the holidays with his family, at their house.”
The Sullivan family compound was fairly notorious. Many people think it’s something they can drive by and gawk at, but it has the same kind of mystery and inaccessibility as Lucas Ranch or Neverland. You can see the gates of the place, but that’s it. The Sullivans helpfully erected a sign with a tasteful rendition of their mascot, the cooper chicken (it’s a rooster really, but the alliteration works better with chicken) that identifies the acreage as the family homes, but that’s as good as it gets for the great unwashed.
“Take pictures.” I instruct her.
“Guaranteed.”
I took a breath, a big breath, because of what I really suspected, and blurted it right out. Patrick could walk in any second now, and I didn’t want the sight of his poor, guilty face to complicate things for Carrie.
“I found Cyndi, she was,” I paused.
“Murdered. I heard it on the news, about an hour ago,” Carrie confirmed.
“That’s pretty quick, I just found the body two hours ago.”
“Anonymous tip. Straight to CNN, photos.” She shuddered, then dropped her head into her hands.
“I said some terrible things to Cyndi.” Carrie voice was hoarse. “I’m a complete bitch.”
“Do you think she beat you up for it? In which case, I’d call you two even.”
Carrie shook her head. “No, I did say she was an opportunist and shouldn’t be sleeping with board members, or the President.”
“What, there’s a rule about that?”
Carrie smiled, although I could tell it hurt her to do so. I’d hold back on my jokes, for her sake, although tragedy brings out the black humorist in me.
“She was sleeping with the boss. That’s not terribly unusual.”
“Did she mention she had children?” Carrie continued. “Did she tell you that her husband abused her both physically, and mentally and the reason she couldn’t convince the courts to give her the kids was because she had no home, no attorney and no income and he did?”
“No, she didn’t mention that.” I tried to re-arrange my opinion about Cyndi.
“Poor thing,” I said. I studied my best friend’s bruises. No, I changed my mind, Cyndi was not a poor thing.
“She did that to you.” I pointed out. If Carrie had accidentally fallen into the hands of our butcher, she would not be here at all. I reached out and grabbed her hand. She squeezed back.
“She probably did, but I’ll live. She must have been pretty frightened, and angry, to do this. But who did that to her?”
“The ex-husband will be the first suspect.”
“They usually are, for good reason,” Carried agreed.
* * *
Many people, me included, should not begin a gray day with the full media blast of newspaper, television and Internet. No one. But, after everything that happened in the last few days, I felt compelled to watch, read and listen to anything, and everything that may give me a clue to how this all will end. I wanted a why, I wanted a who.
The press did in fact, have a field day with linking up all the murders associated with the Homeless Prevention League. The Rivers Bend Press splashed poor Cyndi’s story across the front page. No photos, thank god, it’s a family paper, but her story was featured in every possible media outlet. Fox News featured Cyndi as a story of the mother, slain. Her homelessness was highlighted and emphasized. The grief stricken children were featured in the morning news talk show. The husband was mentioned, there was a nice photograph posted of he and his dark hair, Chilean wife. He was still in Chile, thank you.
Not even the media could blame the ex-husband and anoint him as the guilty party. All they had was speculation, so the reporters speculated paragraph after paragraph. Reporters focused on the holiday slayer, the list was growing, no one was safe. If you wanted to buy a hand saw at Home Depot, you had to show ID.
I should stop watching TV all together, but that resolution was as futile as my yearly resolution to eat something other than round foods. As if those narrow, often oblong, vegetables are tasty and/or filling.
The other fall out from the discovery of Cyndi’s body (and I gave the discovery honors to Anne, so it was her name on the police report and thus, she will be the poor sap Chris Conner will stalk for a quote) was that the doings of the Homeless Prevention League fell under closer scrutiny.
Cyndi worked there. Beverly volunteered there and, in an amazing stretch of credibility worthy of a Cirque du Soliel performer, one of the Rivers Bend Press reporters – not Conner - speculated that the two other bodies found in the creek bed both last summer, and recently, could have well been recipients of services of the Homeless Prevention League.
The reporter didn’t point out that all the victims were women. That fact clearly slipped right by. Photos of the bodies, all but Beverley’s, were featured in a large spread on the inside pages of the paper. I didn’t even want to turn on my computer, there would the same news, the same awful photos, I couldn’t bear it.
The holidays were brought up as a possible scapegoat, the alienation of mankind was cited at least twice in articles, and a number of times in letters to the editor.
Carrie’s attack was not mentioned for two reasons; one, she was alive, and two, Chris Connor had other people to pursue. Conner was now camped at the door of the Homeless Prevention League office, never a snappy dresser in the first place, after a day on stake-out, she was in danger of resembling one of their clients and collecting donations.
Still grumpy, I stopped by my own office. Patricia should have been in fine mood, what with all the murder and mayhem going around, but she was as gloomy as me.
“It’s always the ex-spouse or lover.” She declared in sepulchral tones. Patricia’s favorite holiday, Halloween, had come and gone. Christmas wasn’t so festive for her. She much preferred to spend a month dressed as a vampire and tracking all the blood mobiles in the county. She uses a color map and marks the mobile spots with tiny bat stickers.
“It’s always a relative, or lover.” I said impatiently.
Rosemary and Katherine were arguing in Katherine’s office. The door was closed, but I could hear the words carbs and protein bandied about. Someone needed a cookie.
“Are you sure?” Patricia persisted. “I mean, how long have you been seeing Ben? I read in a blog that he was the ex-husband of that Beverley Weiss. And it’s often the ex.”
“A few months.” I admitted.
“See? That’s not long enough at all. You have no idea what this guy’s really like.”
“I met his grandmother.” I pointed out.
“Sometimes, the grandmother helps.” She declared triumphantly.
“Or is already dead, in the basement.” I countered.
“That’s the mother.” The phone rang, and Patricia snapped it up.
The carb/protein/personal trainer agenda argument escalated, and Katherine stormed out of her own office.
“I’m right, you wait and see.” She said over her shoulder.
“But,” Rosemary yelled from the sanctuary of the office. “I’m the one who’s five pounds ahead.”
“Uh, how are you doing?” I tried to get Katherine attention.
“Escrow fell through, the lender declared bankruptcy this morning.” Katherine said shortly.
“See Inez?”
“I will, she usually has names of brokers who can find funds.” She drew in a breath, and patted her hair. “Worst market I’ve ever seen. And now we can’t even hang out our signs.”
“Worst than the 80s?” I squeaked.
“Oh, much worst.” She glanced back at her office. “But not the worst thing in the world.” She marched down to Inez’s office, located at the back of the building.
Rosemary poked her head out of her office door. “Is she gone?”
“Down to see Inez.” I confirmed.
Rosemary nodded. “I’m not really losing any weight, not even my personal trainer is helping. But, don’t tell Katherine.”
“Are you giving up?”
“Yeah, but I’ll let her compete until New Years.” Rosemary nodded with, I will editorialize here, a great deal of satisfaction.
“You can see how miserable she is.” I said.
“Yeah, she’s pretty miserable isn’t she?” Rosemary displayed the first smile I’d seen in a month. “Want a cup cake? It’s on your round food list.”
“Sure.” I recommend my round food diet to everyone, especially if you already feel pretty good about how you look, and are now searching for inner happiness. Nothing creates inner happiness better than a frosted cup cake.
I called Ben, but I couldn’t get through. Usually, he grabs the phone before his voice mail has a chance to run its course.
This time, I got the full message.
I had the pest inspection for Silverpoint, so I was busy part of the day. When I remembered, I called Ben again. Still no answer. I called the office to be sure my phone was working. I thought about calling his house, but I didn’t want to disturb or alarm Emily if Ben wasn’t actually home. I glanced out at the grey overcast sky. The air looked cold and unwelcoming. So uninspiring. With no Ben to distract me, I went home at five and spent the evening hunkered down. If he wanted his own time by himsel
f, that was fine by me.
I suffered through another restless night and opted not to start the morning with televised news. What could they say? It’s almost Christmas? People steal from the poor. Women are murdered. And no one can find a good reason why.
I checked my phone, no calls from Ben.
I called his phone and got the same, all too familiar, phone recording.
I poured more coffee, and headed to the shower to distract myself.
There was a message on my phone when I emerged, all steamy and pink, but with no one to appreciate it.
I hit the details button, but there was no ID. Okay fine. I scrolled through the voice mail program and listened to the message left five minutes ago.
“Allison? This is Peter Klausen O’Reilly, (he was so distracted he forgot the third, my stomach clenched, and the coffee rose in my throat). “I’m here at the police station, with Ben, can you come down?”
Chapter 17
I held the phone, stunned. O’Reilly’s voice continued as he gave directions, plus two parking alternatives, because parking is always problem at the courthouse – something I never personally experienced, not being a hardened criminal with many appointments to keep with the judge. I was stalling. I listened to the message again, then realized I had to launch into action.
In any emergency, it’s normal to throw on whatever clothing is laying on top of the pile on the closet floor, and go, go, go! I knew that a second, or even a minute or two, spent getting dressed in real clothes would garner long term benefits, if only for me. So I hurried into a grown-up outfit as fast as I could. I managed to rip through two sets of pantyhose in the process, but I persisted. I hoped that in the satitorial hierarchy of the incarcerated, pantyhose would elevate me above the regulars.
The sky grew darker instead of lighter, and seemed to press down on me as I drove up the freeway to the courthouse. Had they jailed Ben? Had they tortured him and now he was a puddle of human flesh and broken dreams? Should I stop watching selections from my James Bond DVD collection late at night?
I parked, per the instructions from O’Reilly, and hurried to the courthouse.
Catharine Bramkamp - Real Estate Diva 03 - In Good Faith Page 20
