by Tom Turner
“Yeah, get your money back while we’re at it,” Ryder said, standing up.
“I also think it’s time for a surprise drop-in on that guy Talmadge Bartow.”
“He lives here somewhere, right?”
“Yeah, I looked up his address. Up on Humpback Hill Road,” Jackie said, looking out her window.
“We’ll just say we were in the neighborhood and wanted to have a little chat.”
Jackie nodded as she watched a squirrel run along the railing of her porch. Then she looked down at her watch. “While we’re at it, how would you feel about going to an Open House.”
Ryder put up her hands. “I can’t afford anything on Mercer Island.”
Jackie laughed. “No. I mean, Miranda Cato’s house. The infamous Casa we’ve been talking about. There’s an Open House there from two to four. I know the broker who’s giving it.”
“You’re kidding? The house hasn’t sold yet?”
Jackie shook her head.
“How long’s it been on the market?”
“Like ten months or so,” Jackie said.
“Price too high?” Ryder asked.
Jackie shrugged. “I don’t really know why, it’s a great location,” she said, getting up and walking toward her kitchen. “Maybe what you just said. About there having been a murder there.”
“I’d love to see the scene of the crime,” Ryder said, watching her sister walk away. “Where you going?”
“To get the exact address of Talmadge Bartow,” Jackie said, from the kitchen. “It’s in the Mercer Island directory.”
Ryder pushed herself up out of the couch and walked toward the kitchen just as Jackie came out with a piece of paper in her hand.
“24 Humpback Hill,” Jackie said, holding up the piece of paper.
“Jesus, some of the streets here have the wackiest names.”
Fifteen minutes later, they were on the cluttered porch of a townhouse that could have used the services of a painter, a gardener, and a termite man, based on its peeling paint, unmowed lawn, and a shutter that had little holes in it like someone had taken a shotgun to it.
“What a dump,” Ryder said under her breath as Jackie pressed the buzzer. “All the other houses in here are so perfect.”
The door opened and an unshaven, grizzled man stuck his head out.
“Yes,” was all he said.
“Mr. Bartow?” Jackie asked.
“Yes, who are you?”
“Sorry to just show up like this, Mr. Bartow,” Jackie said. “But my name is Jackie Farrell, and this is my sister, Ryder. We are private investigators looking into the death of Miranda Cato.”
Bartow gasped at the mention of the name. “Well, what do you—”
“Could we just ask you a few questions?” Ryder took a step toward Bartow, who was wearing ratty pajamas and was barefoot.
Bartow looked nervous and took a step back. “Okay, but right here,” he said. “I don’t want to go in. The place is a real mess.”
They took his word for it.
“We know that you and Miranda were romantically involved,” Ryder said. “Would you mind telling us when you first heard about her murder?”
The man’s face was craggy and his cheeks sunken. His eyebrows were so bushy that they hung down to his eyelids, sheepdog-like. Jackie guessed he hadn’t shaved in at least a week.
“A detective handling the case came to the house right after it happened,” Bartow said in a monotone. “Broke the news. I was heartbroken.”
He sounded sincere.
“Did he think you might have known something about her death?” Jackie asked.
“I straightened him out in a hurry,” Bartow said. “It was the worst day of my life. The day Miranda was killed.”
“So, you had nothing to do with it?” Ryder asked, being characteristically direct.
Bartow sighed and flashed her a dirty look. “No, of course not. She was the love of my life.”
Both sisters nodded.
“Mr. Bartow,” Jackie said, “we heard that there were other men in Miranda’s life.”
Bartow let out a long, slow sigh. “Yes, but she always came back to me.”
For the first time he looked Jackie square in the eyes, then Ryder. “Besides, as I told that detective, I needed Miranda,” he said, then glanced away nervously.
“Needed her?” Jackie said. “What do you mean by that?”
Bartow looked back at her. “Money-wise. I lost my shirt back in 2008. I couldn’t live on what I had left. Miranda, let’s just say, helped me out. So, obviously, I wouldn’t kill”—Jackie knew exactly what was coming—“the golden goose.”
Jackie nodded. “Understand,” she said. “Well, Mr. Bartow, we appreciate your help and if there is anything else you think of, we are offering a thousand dollars for any information that leads to the arrest of Miranda’s killer.”
She handed him a card.
From under his bushy eyebrows, Talmadge Bartow’s bloodshot eyes seemed to get brighter for a moment, then he nodded. “Good to know,” he said. “If I think of anything, I’ll definitely give you a call.”
25
The sisters were in Jackie’s car pulling away from Bartow’s sad, slovenly house.
“That was smart of you,” Ryder said.
“What?”
“Giving the old dude an incentive in case he didn’t tell us everything he knows,” Ryder said. “By the way, right next to ‘clinical depression’ in the dictionary, there’d be a photo of him.’”
Jackie nodded. “Yeah, I felt bad for him.”
“I know, but you gotta figure out a way to get your shit together. Get a job, a hobby, a new girlfriend, whatever. Can’t just sit around in your pajamas watching soaps all day long,” Ryder said, then had an afterthought. “The way my Italian Stallion friend described him I was expecting a way different guy. You know, dangerous, threatening.”
“That was the last thing he was,” Jackie said. “Hey, do me a favor: dial Sarah Dunn’s number, will you.” She told Ryder the number.
Ryder dialed it, put it on speaker and held it up for Jackie.
Sarah Dunn answered: “Hello?”
“Hey, Sarah, it’s Jackie and Ryder.”
“Hey, Sarah,” said Ryder.
“Hey, ladies. What’s up?”
“So, we have a question,” Jackie said. “Did you know anything about your mother having a business partner? A man named John, whose last name we don’t know?”
“A partner? No idea. But you have to remember my mother played her cards pretty close to the vest,” Sarah said. “One time she said to me, when I asked her a question about the Casa, ‘The less you know the better. It’s not exactly legal, you know.’ I do remember, though, not long before she was killed, she told me she was having a problem with someone. It seemed like it was kind of serious, though she downplayed it, probably so I wouldn’t worry. That was the way she was.”
“That makes sense based on what we know. You knew Wendy, right?”
“Yes, by name anyway. Sounded like she was one of the smart ones.”
“Well, she told me that this man John and your mother had a fifty-fifty split of the profits, mainly based on John’s role as the guy who brought in all the johns. But then he decided he wanted to change the split—”
“What did he want to change it to?”
“Seventy-five for him, twenty-five for her.”
“I bet that pissed off Mom.”
“Yes, she rejected it out of hand and a few days later… well, you know the rest.”
“Which makes this John guy the main suspect, right?”
“Or someone who works for him.”
Sarah didn’t say anything for a moment. Then: “Why the hell didn’t Harry Bull and his partner come up with this?”
Jackie eyed her sister. “That’s a very good question.”
A few minutes later, they pulled up to a big brick house set back from the street with balconies on the first and second
floors.
Jackie pulled up and parked next to a silver Lincoln SUV.
“What’s this broker’s name?” Ryder asked, looking at the Lincoln.
“Uh, George. George Jurgens. Nice guy,” Jackie said. “Knows his stuff.”
They got out of the car, walked into the house, then into the large, empty living room that offered a panoramic water view.
“George? Where are you?” Jackie said loudly.
A tall man with grey hair got up from a love seat in the back and walked toward them.
“Hey, Jackie,” he said, shaking his head. “Best view in Mercer Island and I still can’t sell it.”
“This is my sister Ryder,” Jackie said, opening her hand toward Ryder.
“Hey, George, nice to meet you,” Ryder said, shaking his hand. “Why can’t you sell it?”
“Not a lot of people need four master bedrooms,” Jurgens said.
“I hear you,” Ryder said. “So, all the girls had their own big bedroom?”
Jurgens glanced at Jackie. “So, you know—”
Jackie nodded. “Yep, we know all about the place. In fact, we were hired by Miranda Cato’s daughter to investigate her mother’s death.”
Jurgens nodded. “So, the cops couldn’t solve it, huh?”
Jackie nodded.
“Too bad,” Jurgens said “I don’t know if you noticed, but it’s got a four-car garage to go along with the four master bedrooms.”
Ryder turned to Jackie, her brow furrowed. “I’m guessing so the johns’ cars wouldn’t get spotted in the driveway.”
“Very good,” Jurgens said with a nod. “Took me a long time to figure that out.”
“So, four masters, a four-car garage, not to mention a house that’s got the stigma of a murder taking place here,” Ryder said. “You gotta be a hell of a salesman to sell this place, George.”
“Yeah, I know,” Jurgens said. “But I like a challenge.”
“Well, you sure got one,” Jackie said. “Can we have a look around?”
“Sure,” Jurgens said. “Can’t buy it without looking at it.”
“Sorry, but I’m pretty happy where I am.”
Ten minutes later Jackie and Ryder descended the wide staircase back down to the living room. Jurgens, who was texting from a love seat, stood and walked over to them.
“I didn’t know people actually had big mirrors like that over their beds,” Ryder said.
George blushed.
“Guess one of the girls was an exhibitionist,” Ryder said.
“I wouldn’t know about that,” Jurgens said, the blush amping up another notch.
“Have you asked Miranda’s daughter to drop the price?” Jackie asked.
Jurgens shook his head. “Miranda never owned the place. The owner is in an LLC.”
A frown creased Jackie’s face. She had just assumed Miranda had owned it and Sarah had inherited it, “How do you know it wasn’t an LLC set up by Miranda?”
“I just do,” Jurgens said.
“Come on, George,” Jackie said. “You’re holding out on us.”
Jurgens glanced away.
“I’m going to take a wild guess,” Jackie said. “Does a man named John own it?”
Jurgens head jerked toward Jackie. “How did you know that?”
Jackie smiled. “Investigators investigate,” she said. “What is John’s last name?”
George glanced away. “John is all I know. He called me two weeks after Miranda got killed, said he owned the house, and wanted to put it on the market.”
Jackie shook her head, suspiciously. “George, I know you, and know damned well you’d never list someone’s house unless you knew their full name.”
George cocked his head, held up his hands, and smiled. “All right, all right, I’ll tell you”—he hesitated—“but I really don’t want to get in trouble with the owner, so you didn’t hear it from me. Okay?”
“Deal,” said Jackie.
“Okay, so after I got the call from the guy, I checked county records and saw that a man named John E. Redmond bought it back in 2015.”
Ryder turned to Jackie, who was writing the name in her notebook. “So that’s the name of Miranda’s not-so-silent silent partner?”
Jackie nodded. “But when you spoke to him, he didn’t want to give you his last name?”
Jurgens shrugged. “He just said, ‘John’s all you need to know. I own it in an LLC.’ Then he gave me his phone number.”
“Could you text that to me?” Jackie asked.
“No, sorry,” Jurgens said. “I’ve already told you too much. There’s this thing called confidentiality.”
“Come on, George, we’re trying to solve a murder here,” Jackie said.
“And I’m trying to sell a house here,” Jurgens said. “No offense but I don’t need this guy pissed off at me for giving you his number. I don’t want to end up like… you-know-who.”
Jackie sighed her dramatic sigh, designed specifically to get someone to change their mind. “Come on, George, I’d never tell him I got it from you.”
Ryder held up her hands. “Whoa, whoa, we don’t need to get George in trouble. Wendy’s got the number.”
Jackie snapped her fingers. “Oh, yeah, good point.”
After they left the house, Ryder went to county records on-line, looked up Casa Romantica by its address, and found John E. Redmond’s address. It was in Atlanta.
She also found out something that could turn out to be a complete game-changer.
26
Jackie was driving and Ryder was theorizing.
“Either it’s just a house house, where the guy lives, or it’s a new, improved Casa Romantica,” Ryder said.
“I know a couple who have a house here and also in Atlanta,” Jackie said. “So, it could just be a place where John goes on weekends and vacations.”
The big news was that Ryder had discovered, while perusing the county records on her cell, that John E. Redmond owned another house on Mercer Island, in addition to Casa Romantica. Its address was 128 Morning Glory Drive.
“If it’s Casa number two, I’m still liking my theory that John’s old johns wouldn’t be too keen on going to a place where someone got killed,” Ryder said.
“And would be looking for a new place to—”
“Meet chicks,” Ryder said with a chuckle.
“Makes sense,” Jackie said. “Not only that, I’ll bet at peak hours they could use more than just four bedrooms.”
“Also, if I was a cat-house architect, I’d design it so when the johns were ready to leave, there was a back way out. You know, that went directly to the garage,” Ryder said. “So all these guys aren’t bumping into each other in the living room or that stairway.”
Jackie nodded. “That’s a good point,” she said. “So rather than walk back down the staircase and be seen by everyone, they could sneak out the back way.”
“Exactly.”
“Another career you could have excelled at,” Jackie said. “Cat-house architect.”
“There are a lot of things I could have done,” Ryder said. “Besides being the brains behind this operation.”
Jackie chuckled and turned right off of Eastcross onto Morning Glory.
The houses on Morning Glory were on large lots and looked to have been built in the last ten years. They all looked to be close to ten thousand square feet of space and nobody had scrimped on the landscaping.
Jackie drove all the way to the end of the street where a house that appeared to be on two or three lots loomed up in front of them. Like Casa Romantica, it was set back pretty far from the road and separated from other houses by huge live oak specimen trees and stately pines.
Ryder’s jaw dropped. “Holy shit. This place totally puts Casa Romantica to shame.”
Jackie nodded and stopped the car. “I’d say it’s about twice the size,” she said. “Hey, can you show me that county-records site?”
Ryder handed Jackie her cell phone, which was still on the
county property website for 128 Morning Glory Road. Jackie scrolled down.
“It says it’s eleven thousand two hundred square feet and assessed at five-million- seven-hundred-fifty-thousand dollars,” Jackie said, scrolling further down. Then she pulled the iPhone closer to her face. “Jesus!”
“What?” Ryder asked.
“It’s got a mortgage for two million dollars from Sea Island Bank.”
“So?”
“That’s the bank Harry’s father is the president of.”
“Just a coincidence maybe,” Ryder said with a shrug, eyeing a blue pickup parked in the large circular driveway.
“Who knows?” Jackie said.
Ryder reached into the glove box, took out a pair of binoculars and put them up to her eyes. “I know that guy,” she said.
“What guy?”
“The guy who owns that pickup,” Ryder said. “He’s a contractor named Billy Deets.”
“How do you know him?”
“He grabbed my ass in a bar once.”
“What did you do?”
“Kneed him in the cajones.”
Jackie patted her arm. “Figured.”
“He actually turned out to be an okay guy,” Ryder said. “I had a drink with him afterwards.”
Jackie thought about her Sadie Hawkin’s Day date with Harry Bull that night. “It may be time you had another drink with ol’ Billy. Find out what you can about John E. Redmond and his house here.”
“Um, how ‘bout just a phone call?” Ryder said.
Jackie shrugged. “Face-to-face is always better.”
“Why don’t you do it? Call him up, tell him you’re my sister, and you could use a little grab-ass.”
Jackie laughed. “Ah, sorry, got my hands full with Harry... so to speak.”
Ryder nodded and tried to make out the telephone number on the sign on Billy Deets’s pickup. “Can you get a little closer?” she asked Jackie.
Jackie drove forward another twenty yards.
“Got it,” said Ryder, writing it in Jackie’s notebook.
“Go on, give him a call,” Jackie said. “Tell him you want to buy him a drink.”
