by N. C. Lewis
At the top of the sheet, which was empty, I scribbled Doctor Ollie Stratford, Ealing Homestead, after glancing at my cell phone, 3:15 p.m.
Past her desk, I hurried, then up some stairs and through a door which closed without a sound. I must be the only person in the building, I thought. "Well," I muttered under my breath. "I'll take a quick look around and be on my way."
Along a hallway, I strode, keeping up a fast pace, slightly alarmed at the sound of my own footsteps clattering like a cymbal on the polished, concrete floor. I passed through another doorway into the corridor, which ran along the periphery of the building.
After a minute or two I stopped in front of an oak door with a square of frosted glass above which, on a golden plate, were the words Executive Suite.
The door handle turned easily, I pushed the door inward and stepped inside, letting it swing shut behind me.
And gasped.
Rita Lilly stood hands on her hips beside an executive desk.
"Hello," I said.
"Who are you?" she countered. "And what are you doing in my office?"
John always said, to connect with someone, find something in common, ideally in the first minute. My mind scrambled for a connection, after that I would answer her question.
"I'm Doctor Ollie Stratford," I said, extending my hand. "The owner of Ealing Homestead, the event center at the edge of town. I also teach at the Medlin Creek Community College. Do you happen to know Professor Bingham?"
Her eyes flickered recognition although her posture remained defensive. I needed to push the connection thing harder.
"As you know, Lenny Crispin wants to reopen the magic show." I paused, searching her face for a reaction. The left eyelid twitched, and her jaw slackened, but I couldn't make out the expression in her eyes. "Well, he's asked me if I would consider working as his assistant. That's why I am—"
Rita's jaw slackened further. She tipped her head back and let out a wild hiss. "That good-for-nothing scoundrel is more slippery than a pocketful of pudding. He's asked you to be his assistant?" Rita laughed. Her shoulders shook, and she clutched her stomach as it heaved up and down in rhythm with her laughter.
"Let me give you some advice, honey," she said wiping her eyes. "Keep away from Lenny Crispin, that man is trouble."
As she dabbed her eyes, she peered at me. "You look familiar, do I know you from somewhere?"
"Oh," I said, not wanting to bring up our original encounter, "people often say that about me. Did we meet at Medlin Creek Community College?"
Her beady eyes stared with intense focus. "No, no," she said rubbing her chin, "from somewhere else but I can't place it right now. It will come to me."
"Maybe the Medlin Creek Times? I helped solve the murder of the Bitter Bones."
Rita's face became as cold as flint. "Yes, I remember that incident. Most unfortunate."
"Yes," I agreed. "So was the death of Liza Gilbert during the show on Monday evening."
Rita folded her arms across her chest. "What's that got to do with you?"
"I was at the show and thought I would do a little digging."
"That's a matter for the sheriff's department, not for civilians," she said sharply. "Let me advise you to keep your nose out."
"Were you on good terms with Malcolm Maskerlyne?" I asked, ignoring her advice.
"Monday evening," she said suddenly. "Monday evening, that's when we first met. At the magic show." Rita paused for a moment, her eyes fixed as if in deep thought. "And I banned you from this property, didn't I, Doctor Stratford?" She reached for a button on the desk, then her hands made tight fists.
On the tips of her toes she moved in front of the desk toward me. Her beady, dark eyes darted back and forth across my face as she leaned forward. "Not that it's any of your business, but Liza got what was coming to her. I hope to God that Malcolm suffers the same fate."
A chill ran down my spine. I stepped back and said, "Do you know where Malcolm is?"
Rita took another step forward and hissed. "I got rid of Malcolm and now that snake, Lenny, pops up claiming a right to the lease. I'll get rid of him too, you just wait and see."
Suddenly, the door opened. Two men dressed in black walked in. The first tall and lanky, the other short and fat—the two crew members I ran into Monday evening. They looked at me, neither recognition nor interest showing in their eyes.
There was still one question I had to ask. "Do you know who killed Liza Gilbert?"
Rita blinked rapidly, and her piercing eyes narrowed. "Please escort Doctor Stratford from the premises," she said coldly, "and make sure she never returns."
Chapter 31
A hot shower was all I could think about as I walked through the door at Ealing Homestead. Bodie pranced and danced at my feet until I let him outside. In the bathroom, I ran the water and stepped into the shower. With a lavender foaming shower gel, I washed away the grime of the day. The steam cleansed my nostrils and flushed my eyes, and the hot water soothed away my aches and pains.
It felt like I was getting nowhere in my investigation into the death of Liza Gilbert. At least, there was nothing concrete I could put my arms around. But I knew, if I kept slogging along, then some time, suddenly, when I least expected it, a breakthrough would occur. I didn't expect a breakthrough right now, so I guess I was due one.
As soapy water splashed against my body, my mind focused on the puzzle pieces. If I had the means, motive, and opportunity, I would have the killer. But my mind drew a blank, the puzzle pieces were as far away as ever from fitting together. An unexpected breakthrough remained a distant dream.
At 6:45 p.m. I jumped in the truck and set out for Don Andrews' pizza parlor. It was a twenty-four-hour eating hole, famous in the Hill Country for its New York style pizza prepared personally by the owner, Don Andrews. It was next to the dojo on Warren Street, an area of town with a mixture of converted warehouses, craft workshops, and a meat processing plant.
The drive across town took less than ten minutes. I pulled into the parking lot where cars, trucks, and motorcycles in neat rows filled almost every spot.
I slipped out of the truck, the savory smell of yeast, cheese, onions, peppers and cooked meats caused my stomach to rumble as my mouth salivated. Tomorrow, I promised myself, would be nothing but oatmeal, salad and water.
Inside, a group of old-timers played dominoes on the long bench at the far side of the restaurant. A single female assistant served a small line of customers. She was a teenager, in her early twenties at most, with platinum-blonde hair and a face too knowing for her age. Two young men worked the preparation stations, grunting out questions and responses, moving with speed through their tasks. Several patrons sat on plastic chairs devouring their meals, and Don Andrews stood by the industrial pizza oven, one eye on the cash register, the other on the seated area.
"Ollie, over here."
The voice came from the far side of the restaurant. It was Millie. "I was waiting for you, let's go get some pizza."
For once there wasn't a line, and we placed our orders.
"Y'all are regulars here, take a seat, and I'll bring it over," the young woman assistant said with a warm smile. Don Andrews nodded as we made our way back to the table.
"Oh, Ollie," said Millie. "The owner of the newspaper is on the cost-cutting warpath again. The entertainment columnist, Johnny Spinner, is now covering the magic mumbles murder! I wanted that, what am I to do?"
Millie reached into her handbag and Madame Bleu appeared. "Ooh la la, c'est terrible. The owner of the newspaper has assigned Millie to write about the Medlin Creek golf tournament. How is it possible to write about such things with l'émotion et la passion. It is impossible!"
Millie took out a handkerchief and blew her nose. "All I want is a full-time position, but it seems to be drifting further and further away from my grasp. Ollie, I'm like a magnet for disaster. Why me?"
Professor Purple peered out from the edge of Millie's handbag, his sock puppet eyes filled with d
isappointment. "What Millie needs is a scoop. She almost had it at the magic show. Alas, she got home so late after waiting for the deputies that victory was snatched away at the last moment by Johnny Spinner's article."
He paused, then turned to look at me with wide eyes. "It is not unreasonable to expect that Millie's luck will turn soon." The professor glanced at Millie and smiled a soft, encouraging, sock puppet smile.
"Oh, look at me," Millie said, taking a bite of pizza. "Going on about my problems like a woodpecker at an oak tree." She slurped soda from the supersized cup, crunching ice between her teeth. "Ollie, what's going on with you?"
As I recounted the events of the day, the restaurant door opened. In came a tall, striking man with long, black hair drawn into a ponytail and chiseled features that came together to form a handsome face. He staggered to the counter, swaying from side to side as he peered at the menu board.
"What's it to be tonight?" asked Don Andrews, who had replaced the assistant.
"Mr. Andrews," said the man in a loud voice that held a hint of drunken slur. "I've just been celebrating with the boys. I see the lawyers in a few days then I'm rich. I'll take two slices of your Hill Country Special." He leaned against the counter, steadying himself as he waited for his order.
"That's Christoph Cleon," whispered Millie, half turning. "Liza Gilbert's nephew."
"Liza left it all to me," he boomed as he threaded his way across the restaurant to a table near the domino players. "Man, I'll soon be rich, rich, ha-ha-ha." He sat down to eat his pizza and watched the game.
Several minutes passed before we resumed our conversation.
"You didn't finish," Millie said.
"Eh?"
"The story of you today, Ollie. I want to know what happened."
In detail, I went over the events of the day, taking a bite of pizza or a slurp of soda at critical moments to heighten the drama.
At the end, Millie said, "Oh my gosh, Ollie, if we solve the magic mumbles mystery it would be front page news on the Medlin Creek Times. I'm sure if I wrote the article, the newspaper owner would give me a full-time position. And, if I help you solve the mystery, I will have to write the article."
Professor Purple appeared. "Solving this mystery is simply a matter of logic. It is not unreasonable to assume the killer is the person with the most to gain by Liza's death."
Madame Bleu appeared on Millie's other hand. "Who benefitted, as we say in French, directement, from Liza's death? Find that person and you have found Liza's killer."
Everyone turned to look at Christoph Cleon.
He sat motionless at his table, eyes half closed, broad smile on his face, nibbling on a slice of Don Andrews' Hill Country Special.
"C'est simple, is it not?" whispered Madame Bleu, her wide eyes staring at Christoph.
"Don't stare," said Professor Purple, his own eyes wide and staring in the same direction.
Millie tapped my arm. "What do you think?"
"I better add him to the suspects list," I replied.
"Ooh la la, Ollie, that will never do. It is impossible to enjoy a pizza meal when dining next to un meurtrier, how you say in English, a murderer."
Professor Purple spoke up, his tone more pompous than usual. "Ollie, for the sake of our community, you must speak with Christoph now. Find out if he killed Liza."
"Why me? Why can't you do it," I said, jabbing a finger at the professor.
Professor Purple's forehead creased into a deep frown. "When we puppets sink to the depths of murder for financial gain, I will be the first to speak up."
"Oh," was all I could muster.
"Vous devez demander…" cried Madame Bleu excitedly in French, then catching herself, repeated in English, "You must ask whether he knows his aunt died of poisoning and watch his reaction. If he swells with passion et émotion, you have him."
"We will stay over here and observe his reaction," said Millie, tugging me to my feet.
Chapter 32
What was there to lose? I wanted answers to Liza's death. If Christoph held the missing piece of the puzzle, I would have to speak with him sooner or later. Better sooner, I thought, in a well-lit place with lots of people around, and a friend watching ready to call for help.
"Okay," I said, looking down at Millie and the puppets, "I'll see what he knows."
Casually, I strolled over to where Christoph sat.
"Can I join you?"
He grunted but didn't take his eyes off the game. Before I sat down, I turned to glance at Millie. Professor Purple and Madame Bleu stared back nervously, but Millie gave the thumbs-up.
"Christoph, I'm Ollie."
His head turned slowly from the dominoes game. His hand reached up and flipped his ponytail over his shoulder.
"Hi, Ollie," he said with breath that reeked of sweet, malted beer. "Been out with the boys tonight celebrating."
"I hear," I said, and got straight to the point. "Did you say your Aunt Liza left you an inheritance?"
Christoph hiccupped and smiled, then belched.
I repeated the question.
"Christoph, did you say your Aunt Liza left you an inheritance?"
His eyes glazed over, and he looked through rather than at me. "Out with the boys tonight, you know, celebrating."
We were getting nowhere fast. I tried again.
"Your Aunt Liza—did she leave you an inheritance?"
"I like my brews," he replied. "But tonight I've gone overboard. Celebrating with the boys you see."
He held his head, closing his eyes and humming to himself. He let out a laugh, it was warm and friendly. I sighed. Where others drink themselves ugly, Christoph had drunk himself happy.
Suddenly, a loud cheer went up from the dominoes players. We turned to watch as a round-faced man with a bushy, gray beard, a squashed nose, and tiny ears, jumped up.
"Victory at last!" he cried, pumping his fists in the air. "I'm the champion, the domino player whose games are always thrillers. I did it!"
Several men offered congratulations, slapping him on the back and shaking his hand.
A wrinkly faced man with stout eyes looked in our direction and shook his head slowly. "Mr. Bubble has played dominoes at this table every Wednesday evening since I can remember, must be at least fifteen years. Never seen him win a game until tonight."
"Pizza on the house to celebrate Mr. Bubble's victory," cried Christoph.
"Pizza on the house," yelled Don Andrews, running over to Christoph to get his credit card. He sprinted back to the till and ran it through the electronic swipe. Several seconds later he sent the young, female assistant to the dominoes table to take orders. She did so, then took orders from delighted customers at the remaining tables.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Millie ordering five slices. A little wave, and I caught her eye. I signaled for five more. They'll come in handy the day after tomorrow, I thought, after my healthy eating day is over.
"New game," cried a sharp-faced man sitting at the head of the dominoes table.
"New game," came the cry back.
The pizza parlor settled down as the game got underway. Christoph turned away from the new game, regarding me with curiosity.
"Ollie?" he slurred. "Is that your name?"
"Yes, I'm pleased to meet you," I said, extending my hand.
He looked for a moment, then grasped it, drawing it toward his mouth, and kissing the back like the prince in Cinderella.
"Ollie, did I tell you that I've been out drinking with the boys tonight? We are celebrating."
"Yes. Interesting. Let me get this straight now. As I understand it, Liza left you her inheritance. Is that correct?"
Just then, a slender woman wearing a leather miniskirt and a top that left nothing to the imagination rushed into the pizza parlor. The heavy makeup couldn't disguise the deep lines that crisscrossed her face. Her head moved from left to right, her eyes dancing across each table. They settled on where I sat with Christoph.
"Christoph, you
look as pleased as a pig in a tater patch," said the woman, striding over to our table.
Christoph looked up and smiled. "Mary Jo Wilhelm, you’re back?"
She wrapped her arms around him, squeezing his face to her chest. "So sorry I ditched you last month. I love you, Chrissy baby, I don't want us ever to be apart. Now that you've got an inheritance, we don't need to be, ever!"
After a few moments she released Christoph. "Who's that hussy?" she hissed, raising a bony finger and pointing at me.
"Ollie," said Christopher with a slur.
The woman's eyes narrowed. "Gold digger! Get away from my man!"
I could sense I was getting nowhere with Christoph. If there was something strange and hidden about Liza's death, this was not the place to learn it. I got up.
"Excuse me, I'm at the wrong table."
Chapter 33
It was a rough night, my stomach complained constantly about the mistreatment administered to it during the day. The fragmented sleep marred by dreams of Mary Jo Wilhelm accusing me of trying to steal her man, which in the dream I was.
A rooster crowing on some distant ranch finally shook me awake at 5:45 a.m. It was dark out, and the haze in my mind was as thick as a London fog. Out of bed I rolled, stubbing my toe on the bedpost. I hopped into the bathroom cracking the shin of my good leg against the toilet bowl. The sharp pain that shot up my spine and into my brain did nothing to clear the fog.
I showered longer than normal, the temperature a little higher and the soap frothier. Still, in the end, even the hot water and the steam did little to shift the groggy haze from a restless sleep.
In the kitchen I let Bodie outside. "Bodie, no Hill Country walks today," I said. The hound half turned, recognizing his name, then bounded off toward the outbuildings. Back in the kitchen I warmed some milk and poured a bowl of healthy cereal. Today, I reminded myself, was salad and water. As I opened the refrigerator door to return the milk, five slices of pizza stared back. I licked my lips, but my stomach lurched. "Tomorrow," I said, peering into the fridge. "We will meet again tomorrow."
