Where The Bodies Are Buried (The Jeri Howard Series Book 8)

by Janet Dawson

  Eva unlocked the door, and we stepped into a small entry hall. Directly in front of me I saw stairs leading to the house’s lower level. A doorway to my left led to the living room, and beyond that, the kitchen. The living room had a sooty-looking fireplace opposite the doorway. That was a plus. A fireplace was on my list of things I’d like to have but was willing to live without. So were the scuffed hardwood floors.

  The living room ran the entire depth of the house. I walked toward the French doors at the back of the living room and opened them, stepping out onto a deck. I felt a small flutter of pleasure as I looked down on a large sloping backyard, overgrown with weeds but sunlit. An uneven row of pine trees ranged along the disreputable fences on three sides that separated the yard from its neighbors. The uneven boards of the fences were covered with a profusion of abutilon, otherwise known as flowering maple, a climber with bell-shaped blossoms in red, yellow, pink, and orange.

  Morning sun, I thought, looking at the yard. I could grow tomatoes over there. To my left, a flash of green caught my eye. I squinted and saw a hummingbird, its tiny wings beating rapidly as it hovered in front of a red abutilon flower, sipping the nectar with its beak. I heard the warbling of other birds, coming from the nearest pine tree.

  I saw a twinkle in Eva’s eyes as I turned and went back into the living room, but she didn’t say anything. Instead she let me explore. There was a dining room in the front corner of the house. Between this and the kitchen, two doors led to a good-sized closet and a half bath with toilet and sink. The kitchen was square and seemed larger than the one in my apartment. It had windows on two sides, one looking down on the backyard, and there was a walk-in pantry, with plenty of built-in drawers and shelves. The refrigerator looked elderly, and the stove was a gas range that was even more ancient.

  “Bedroom?” I asked Eva.

  “Downstairs,” she said, crooking a finger.

  She led me down the stairs I’d seen when we first entered the house. At the bottom we turned to the left and I saw that the bedroom took up most of the lower level, with another set of French doors leading out to the backyard. There was a full bath down here, along with a walk-in closet, a narrow room with a washer and dryer hookup, and a good-sized alcove that could be turned into a home office. I took it all in, then moved toward the French doors. I opened them and stepped onto a small patio made of uneven brick, then walked farther out into that backyard that had so enticed me from the deck. I soaked in the birdsong and gazed at the abutilon, hoping for another glimpse of the hummingbird. Then I turned to Eva, who was grinning at me like the Cheshire Cat.

  “This is it,” I told her. “I don’t care if it’s in the fire zone. I don’t care if it’s on top of the earthquake fault. This is my house.”

  Eight

  “YOU STILL HAVEN’T SEEN IT ALL,” EVA ADVISED ME, chuckling over my declaration of love. “There’s a studio apartment above the garage.”

  I remembered the windows I’d seen above the garage as I’d approached the house earlier. “Can’t be a very big one.”

  “It’s bigger than you’d think. One closet, a small kitchen, and bathroom. You could turn it into an office, if you don’t want to rent it.”

  I had no desire for a tenant, and my office arrangements in the building on Franklin Street suited me. Still, the garage apartment would make a fine guest room, I decided, after taking a look at the space. It had a separate entrance near the gate that led to the backyard, a set of wooden steps leading up the side of the garage, and it was well lit, with plenty of windows. The kitchen was really more of a counter at one end of the space, with a two-burner stove and a half-size refrigerator in addition to a small sink and about three feet of counter space. The bathroom was barely big enough for the toilet, sink, and shower stall.

  I was full of questions as Eva and I returned to the backyard I was already thinking of as mine. “How much is it? Who was the previous owner? What do we do next?”

  “It’s a probate sale, which means you take it as is, rough edges, peeling paint, and all. I know it’s going to need some work, but I really think it’s a great buy. The previous owner was an artist, a woman who’d lived here for several years. She died a few months ago, and the heirs want to get rid of the place. As for the asking price, it’s higher than you had in mind. We might be able to get that down a bit when we make the offer.”

  She quoted a figure that was more than a bit higher than I had in mind. I had taken steps to get preapproved for a loan, despite some difficulties because I was self-employed. More important, I had my nest egg stashed in the bank, at the ready. Just in case that wasn’t enough, my father had offered to help sweeten the down payment pot if I found the right place. And this was the right place.

  “I want this house,” I told her. “Let’s do it.”

  We went back to her office to set the paperwork in motion. By the time I left, it was almost noon, and I drove back to my apartment with my thoughts whirling around, thinking of appraisers, and termite inspections, and all the things that had to happen before closing the deal.

  Whoa, Jeri, I told myself. Take a deep breath. There are all sorts of things that could go wrong. Someone else might make a better offer. The loan could fall through. But my cautionary thoughts had little effect. In my head I was already selecting paint samples, polishing those hardwood floors, and deciding where to put my furniture. And landscaping my garden.

  I was wired all weekend, sharing my news about the house with everyone from my father, who was ready to write me a check to assist with the down payment, to Cassie and Eric, who were themselves looking for a place to buy. Kaz was able to make our Saturday night date, so we had a celebratory dinner at Nan Yang, my favorite Burmese restaurant, which had closed its Oakland Chinatown location in favor of a College Avenue address, not far from the house I was already calling my own. After dinner, I showed him where it was.

  The Lawter case hadn’t fled my mind, however. When I left Eva’s office that Saturday morning, I went to my own office to see if I could locate an address and phone number for Diana Palmer. A search of the phone directory and an Internet database provided me with an address on Blair Avenue in Piedmont, a small town within the confines of Oakland. My phone call to that address netted me an answering machine recording of a crisp female voice advising me that Diana wasn’t available to take a call. After the usual beep I left my name and phone number, asking that she call me.

  Then I called the Oakland Museum. I was bounced around to several offices before I confirmed that Diana Palmer worked there. But she wasn’t working this weekend. In fact, she was out of town, attending a conference, and wasn’t due back at the museum until Wednesday.

  I went back to Rob’s apartment building on Alice Street Saturday and again on Sunday, trying to locate Charlie Kellerman, Rob’s other neighbor, the one Sally Morgan had described as a drunk. Kellerman may have been in the apartment, but he didn’t answer my knock either day. I ran into Sally on Sunday afternoon as I was leaving the building. She said she hadn’t seen Kellerman at all during the weekend.

  “He’s probably in there,” she said, looking up at the fifth-floor windows. “Drinking, or passed out.”

  Even drunks have to replenish their supplies. That was how I finally caught up with Kellerman, Monday morning. I stopped at the apartment building after leaving Eva’s real estate office. She had called first thing that morning, just as I arrived at my Franklin Street office, to let me know my offer on the Chabot Road house had been accepted. Now the wheels really were in motion. I was going to be a homeowner.

  I was still basking in the glow and thinking about all I had to do before the deal closed as I walked up the sidewalk of the Alice Street apartment building and slipped in through the security door with an elderly woman towing a wheeled shopping cart. She stopped to wait for the elevator, which we’d just missed, according to the indicator. I hiked up the stairs instead. As I stepped from the stairwell I heard the elevator bell ping. The doors opened with
a slow metallic squeak. A man got off and walked quickly toward the rear of the building, passing what had been Rob Lawter’s front door. Then he stopped in front of the next door, 5-D.

  “Mr. Kellerman?” I caught up with the man as he fumbled in his pocket for his key.

  He glanced up, startled, and shrank into his rumpled brown pants and stained shirt. I’m five feet eight inches, and Kellerman was shorter, about five six. As I loomed closer, the man looked frightened. I stopped a few paces from him, smiled my best nonthreatening smile, and examined him.

  Charlie Kellerman was a drunk, all right. His pale blue eyes were watery, and the whites were bloodshot. Broken capillaries reddened the rough skin on his nose and cheeks. He was unshaven, his chin covered with the graying stubble of several days’ beard. He hadn’t bathed, either. From where I stood I could smell stale perspiration that stank of booze and lack of personal hygiene. His thinning hair was brownish gray, shaggy as though it had been awhile since he’d remembered to get a haircut. He was in his late forties, I guessed, although the effects of his alcohol addiction may have made him look older than he was.

  Kellerman stared at me, turning the key over and over in his right hand. He carried a large brown paper bag cradled in the elbow of his left arm, and when he turned toward me I heard the unmistakable sound of glass connecting with glass. The light in the hallway glinted dully on metal caps. Bottles, I thought. Lots of them. I peered into the sack and read a Chivas Regal label.

  “Mr. Kellerman, my name is Jeri Howard. I’d like to talk with you about what happened Thursday night.”

  “Wha?...” Kellerman said, his voice rusty with disuse. He looked confused.

  “Your neighbor,” I explained. “Rob Lawter, in 5-C. He fell from the window in the apartment next door. Late Thursday night. Were you home then?”

  He hugged the paper sack closer to his chest, frowning. He furrowed his brow with an effort, then I saw comprehension dawn slowly on his ravaged face. “Thursday night? What about Thursday night?” His watery blue eyes blinked once, then narrowed, at once curious and avid. “Did they send you?”

  Now I was curious, too. “Did who send me? Who are ‘they’?”

  He stared at me, and then his expression turned sly. Kellerman shook his head and puffed a reeking breath in my face. “Don’t know nothing. Go away.”

  He turned toward his front door and, after two tries, stuck his key into the lock. The door opened and I caught a glimpse of a dark, cluttered room, with magazines and newspapers piled everywhere. There was an empty bottle of Chivas Regal on the soiled carpet near the door. I glanced down at the paper sack he held again. More Chivas and, if I wasn’t mistaken, a bottle of pricey brandy.

  Kellerman had expensive taste, at least today. When I’d talked with Sally Morgan on Friday, she’d said the man had been fired from his job because of his drinking, and he lived on a bare-bones allowance provided by a brother. She’d also said he drank cheap whiskey. Which made sense, if you were an alcoholic who didn’t want to run dry.

  But today Kellerman was drinking the good stuff. Where did he get the money to buy high-priced liquor? Had he just gotten a check from his brother?

  Before I could ask him, he scurried into his lair, the bottles rattling in his paper sack, and shut the door in my face. I heard a click as the deadbolt shot into place. I knocked, twice, but he didn’t respond. Unless you counted the cackling laughter coming from behind the door.

  I had obtained some information, though. Charlie Kellerman had been expecting someone. Perhaps two someones, whose voices Sally Morgan heard the night Rob died.

  Nine

  “IT ALL COMES BACK TO BATES,” I TOLD CASSIE Monday afternoon. “When he was here last week, Rob said something was going on at the company that wasn’t supposed to be happening.”

  “And he was going to blow the whistle,” Cassie finished. She crossed her elegant legs and took a sip from the mug of coffee I’d handed her when she showed up in my office a few minutes earlier. “I just wish Rob hadn’t been so stingy with details.”

  I looked down at the open manila folder on my desk, at the photocopy of the threatening note Rob had received. “Whatever is going on at Bates is hot enough to make someone send him this note.”

  “Or he was getting too close,” Cassie said. “What did Sid say about the autopsy?”

  “It’s scheduled for this afternoon. We’ll know more when I see the report. But when I talked with Sid Friday night, he told me it looked like Rob had been struck several times. He wasn’t specific.”

  Cassie frowned. “Sounds like we can definitely rule out accident or suicide, no matter what the sister and her boyfriend think. Not that I ever believed he killed himself. The Rob Lawter I knew wouldn’t do such a thing.”

  “Carol and Leon weren’t home at the time of Rob’s death,” I said. “I’d certainly like to know where they were. And the sister called in sick Friday morning, but she wasn’t home when the police came to notify her about her brother.”

  “That could be as simple as a doctor’s appointment,” Cassie pointed out.

  “Agreed.”

  “I detect the boyfriend’s hand in the suicide theory,” she continued. “Question is, why is he so sure Rob committed suicide? Does he have a reason for wanting Rob’s death to be suicide?”

  “Robin said Leon and her uncle had an argument a couple of weeks ago, but she didn’t know why. I’ve asked her to see if she can find out. That’s one discussion I’d like to know more about. Leon’s a plant manager for Bates. Did he know what Rob was planning to do? Did he send the note?”

  I didn’t have any answers, but I certainly wanted some. “It all comes back to Bates,” I said again. “The answers are there.”

  “But if you go sniffing around Bates headquarters, how do you know what to do?”

  “I have to get in there. So I can figure out which questions to ask.”

  “How are you going to do that?” Cassie asked.

  I took a sip of coffee, then grinned. “Remember what I told you, a long time ago when we were both working as secretaries?”

  She laughed, then raised her mug to salute me. “They always need someone who can type.”

  My typing might be a little rusty, but operating a keyboard is somewhat like riding a bicycle. You never forget how.

  After Cassie returned to her own office, I left mine and walked toward the rear of the third floor, where Ruby Woods rented a suite. Woods Temporaries had been here a long time, providing general office and administrative workers, as well as legal secretaries and paralegals, to firms all over the East Bay. Ruby was a self-made woman who’d started the firm twenty years ago and managed to compete successfully with the larger, better-known temp agencies.

  Once through the entry door, I nodded at the receptionist, who knew me, and walked back to Ruby’s office. She was on the phone, but she waved me to a chair while she finished the call. When she hung up the phone, she grinned at me and leaned back in her chair.

  “Well, I haven’t seen you in awhile. Private investigator business keeping you busy?”

  “As always.” I paused. “Ruby, I need a favor. It’s a big one.”

  “You know I owe you. You kept my baby brother out of jail. He has cleaned up his act, by the way. Has a good job and he’s getting married in the spring. Now, what can I do for you?”

  I told her. The smile left her face as she contemplated what I was saying. She didn’t say anything for a moment.

  “Oh, Jeri, that is a big one,” she said finally. “The only reason a small temp agency like mine provides office workers to a large company like Bates is because old Clyde Bates made a point of using Oakland firms whenever possible. That, and because they trust that I’ll provide them with the best workers I can. I can’t jeopardize my business relationship with the company. If anything should happen...”

  “I understand,” I said. She looked distressed. “I really do, Ruby. If they found out I was a ringer, it would reflect badly on yo
u. I don’t want that to happen. It’s hard enough these days to make a living. It’s just an idea I had.”

  It was a good idea, too. Too bad it wasn’t going to pan out. Ruby’s reluctance to put me into Bates Inc. as a temp left me, for the moment, back at square one. I could, of course, offer my warm body and my rusty typing skills to one of the many other temp agencies in the Bay Area. But there was no guarantee any of those would place me in the company where I needed to be. I needed to get in there quickly, and I needed to be able to take care of the other investigations I had on my caseload as well.

  I shook my head and thought about alternatives. Cleaning crew? That would get me in, but working as an office cleaner would put me at Bates in the evening, and I had the feeling I needed to be there during regular working hours. A messenger, or a delivery person? That might get me into the building, but only for a short time, and I’d only be able to get as far as a front office receptionist or the guy in the mail room.

  There had to be another way. I’d just have to give it more thought.

  The phone rang, jarring me out of my funk. I sat up straighter, as I heard Robin Hartzell’s voice. In the background I heard the same cacophonous music her brother had been playing when I’d visited the San Leandro house on Friday night. From this, I guessed Robin was home, and her mother and Leon weren’t.

  “I called to tell you about Rob’s funeral,” she said. “It’s at the Santos-Robinson Mortuary on Estudillo, near East Fourteenth. Eleven o‘clock Saturday morning.”