“Don’t think so. Not even a ball cap.”
I hadn’t really expected anyone to wear a top hat into a pub on a Friday afternoon. I tried another line of questioning. “Do you have surveillance cameras?”
Buddy winced. “The police asked that, too. I put some up. They worked for about a week, and then nothing. That was a couple of years ago, and I know I should replace them, for my own protection, you know? But I figure if they’re not going to last more than a week, why go through all the expense and time of installing them?” He polished the counter with a towel, then looked up at me and asked, “When did Kassandra apply for a job with you?”
“Yesterday. The day after she left here, August fourteenth.”
Buddy held a glass up to the light and studied it. “That’s good to know.” He set the glass down. “It did occur to me that something bad could have happened to her, too, and it hadn’t been reported. The way she left was odd. We hadn’t divvied up that day’s tips. Plus, I owe her some back pay. Maybe she’s too embarrassed to come back after leaving with no notice.”
“Did you tell the police that she left here about the time of the murder and didn’t come back?”
He turned around and lined up clean glasses in a row on the shelf behind where he’d been standing facing me. Catching my eye in the mirror behind the glasses, he said, “I didn’t think of it, since I thought she was probably with that man, and then when they arrested a different woman, I was sure Kassandra had nothing to do with the murder. And you say you saw her the next day?”
“Yes, and I saw her this noon, too. She’s working at The Craft Croft.”
“That’s a change from here. No chance for any tips there, let alone the good ones she could have earned here. I’ll stop in and see her there. I never want anyone saying I don’t pay what I promised. If you see her, tell her I have her wages and tips. The only address I have for her is in Michigan, but she said she wasn’t going back there. She was moving here.”
“I have her phone number, but not with me. It’s at Deputy Donut, on the application she filled out.”
“I have a phone number for her, too. She doesn’t pick up. I’ve left her messages to come by.” He gave the bar another swipe with the towel. “But she doesn’t. Here.” He inched a scrap of paper out from underneath an old-fashioned bronze cash register and slid it across the bar to me. “Does this look like the number you have for her?”
“I didn’t pay attention to the one she wrote on our application. Do you mind if I take a picture of this one so when I go to work tomorrow morning I can see if it’s the same one?”
“Be my guest.”
I took out my phone and snapped the picture. “I’ll let you know if I discover I have a different number.”
“Much appreciated.”
I put my phone away. “Do you know if any money went missing from your till or from any of your customers on Friday?”
“Not that I know of. And as I said, Kassandra seemed honest. I don’t think she’d have stolen from anyone. She didn’t seem interested in money.” He shrugged. “Or she’d have stuck around long enough to get paid.”
I’d been thinking of the magician, not Kassandra, but the thieving magician was probably too intent on watching for Nina to bother stealing from anyone in Suds for Buds that afternoon and evening. Nina must have infuriated him when she slammed the cash drawer on his hand. How had he found Nina’s address? I wouldn’t be surprised to learn that he, like Zippy, had sneaked a peek at Marsha Fitchelder’s clipboard. Or maybe Zippy had told him where she was going, but not when. Whether Zippy or Nina was his actual target, he’d sat in Suds for Buds for hours looking out toward Nina’s apartment.
I asked Buddy, “Did you notice if either of the man’s hands was injured or if he had a bandage around a finger or two?”
“No, sorry.”
That didn’t prove anything. A drawer slamming on the magician’s gloved fingers probably hadn’t caused noticeable injuries. Knowing that Buddy was willing to help keep an innocent woman from going to prison, and also, like many people, he relished discussing dramatic events, especially when they’d happened nearby, I asked another question. “Do you remember how he paid for the beer and hamburger and fries?” If Buddy thought or knew that the man had paid by credit card, I should tell Brent about it so he could trace the man.
Buddy stated without hesitating, “Cash. I remember for sure, because he was a big tipper, and Kassandra could have used the money. He left the cash on the table, all crisp new fives. People tip us nicely, but not usually that nicely, even when they occupy a booth all afternoon and evening.”
Crisp new fives. Now I was certain that the man who had sat watching Nina’s apartment on the thirteenth was the magician, generously doling out some of his ill-gotten gains from the Faker’s Dozen Carnival, probably the money he’d stolen from our Deputy Donut tent.
A man slipped onto the stool next to where I was standing. Buddy looked at him. “Your regular?”
Half afraid of seeing the magician, I took a better look at the man. He was shorter and older than the magician. He slapped his palm down on the bar. “You bet.”
Buddy drew a pint of stout, slid it toward him, and returned his gaze to me.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “You’re getting busy in here.”
“No problem, especially if you’d like to apply for a job.”
I smiled back. He seemed nice. “I’d like it here, but I have to stay where I am. Oh, I have one more question. Is there a rental apartment in this building?”
“No.” His forehead wrinkled in apparent concern. “Do you know someone who needs a place to live?”
“I thought that Kassandra told the manager at The Craft Croft that she lived on the second floor at this address.”
“We don’t have a second floor.”
I apologized. “One of us must have gotten it wrong.”
“Must have.”
I thanked him again and headed toward the front door. If Kassandra hadn’t noticed that Buddy’s building had no second floor, she wasn’t a very observant artist. Maybe, as I’d already guessed, Kassandra wasn’t an artist at all, but had been trying to pass off Zippy’s paintings as her own. Maybe she hadn’t expected anyone to go looking for the address she’d given The Craft Croft.
Why had she lied about her Fallingbrook address? Was the Lapeer address also a fabrication?
I detoured past the booth the man had occupied Friday afternoon and evening. Hoping no one was watching, I bent a little to put my head at about the height of the magician’s head if he was seated and peering underneath the craft beer sign. I shot a glance across the street.
The man would have had a clear view of Nina’s street door and the sidewalk in front of it.
Chapter 19
As I’d noticed earlier, Klassy Kitchens wasn’t open. Nina’s landlords were in front of it. One was sweeping the sidewalk while his twin brother was cleaning one of the two large display windows flanking the front door.
I crossed the street. Harry and Larry were close to sixty, balding, rosy-cheeked, and cheerful. They’d helped Alec and me plan our kitchen renovations, and they always waved when they saw me pick Nina up or drop her off. As usual, they were dressed alike, this time in baby blue golf shirts and khaki slacks. I couldn’t tell which one was Harry and which one was Larry.
They stopped what they were doing and came toward me, one holding his broom by his side and the other carrying a long-handled squeegee like a pole-vaulter about to vault. When they were close enough, I could read the names embroidered on their shirts.
Larry raised his squeegee higher. “Emily! We’re so upset about Nina! We know she couldn’t have done anything wrong.”
We discussed how much we liked Nina and how kind she was, never wanting anyone to be hurt.
Harry slammed the bristles of his broom down on the sidewalk. “We’d do anything to help her. Anything legal, that is.”
Larry teased, “Or mostly legal.
”
I grinned back. “We shouldn’t have to go that far. Tom wouldn’t approve.”
Harry shoved at his little pile of dust. “Chief Westhill’s a good man. We’ll try to stay on his right side.”
Larry winked at me. “Only for your sake, Emily.”
“Good,” I said, “thanks. Can you tell me about Friday evening?”
“We sure can.” Harry sounded very sure of his memories. “Not long after ten, we were still in our shop, ordering a new line of elegant faucets. Nina knocked on the front door. She’d left her purse in your car and wondered if we had spare keys.”
“We do,” Larry added, “somewhere. We promised to look for them, but she said she’d head on foot to your place. We let her out into the back alley so she could take a shortcut. Oh! Sorry about dripping on you, Emily.”
I brushed foam off my arm. “It’s okay. Now I won’t need a shower for another week.”
After a second, they caught on and chuckled.
Harry took up the story. “Nina didn’t seem involved in anything that could have upset her. She was her usual friendly self.”
Larry agreed with his twin. “She wasn’t acting like she’d just found an intruder in her apartment. How could she have? She couldn’t get into her apartment.”
I asked, “Did she try the door?”
Larry’s arm moved in time with his nodding head. “She said she did, before she came to see us.” Soapy water dribbled on all of us.
Harry dabbed soapsuds off his shoulder. “And before we let her out the back, we went to her street door with her, in case it was sticking or something, but it was thoroughly locked.”
Larry waved that squeegee high in the air again. “Securely. We both tried. So, as we said, we let her out the back way, and we haven’t seen her since.”
That corroborated my earlier guess about the man in Suds for Buds. Both Kassandra and Buddy had said that the man had stood up as if about to leave and then had sat down again. Now I was sure he’d seen Nina go to her front door and was about to follow her, but she left. He took off his jacket, stuffed it into the top of his briefcase, sat down, and watched for Nina to return.
Fortunately for Nina and for those of us who loved Nina, Zippy had come along looking like Nina and had broken in. That must have been when the man left Suds for Buds, crossed the street, and followed Zippy upstairs to Nina’s apartment.
Leaving her tote bag with her keys inside it in the donut car could have saved Nina’s life. I felt the blood rush from my face.
Harry bent forward and peered at me. “Are you okay?”
I assured him that I was, although I wasn’t. How was I going to convince Brent and Detective Gartborg that Nina was innocent of killing the mime and that Zippy’s killer posed a threat to Nina? I asked, “Did you see anyone else go to Nina’s door?”
Larry aimed his long-handled squeegee toward Klassy Kitchens. “The police asked us that, too. Come over to our front door, Emily.”
We trooped to the front door. Larry pointed northward. “See? We can’t see Nina’s door from here, or even the sidewalk in front of it, because of the way our door is recessed. We couldn’t see it even if we went inside and climbed into the show windows. Want to try?”
Even though the squeegee must have lost most of its supply of foamy water, I backed away. “No, thanks. I can tell from here that you’re right.”
“We do look out a lot of the time,” Harry admitted. “So many interesting people go up and down Wisconsin Street.”
“And we got an eyeful that night.” Larry nearly gave me an eyeful—of soapsuds. “With police cars and an ambulance, and then lots of police cars ever since.”
I glanced upward. “Do you have surveillance cameras?”
Harry scowled. “We agree with the police that we probably should have them.”
“Such an invasion of privacy,” Larry contributed, “but—”
His brother finished the sentence. “If we had surveillance cameras, maybe that sweet Nina wouldn’t be in jail and the person who deserves to be incarcerated would be there instead.”
I told them about Kassandra’s long skirts and hesitant way of moving and asked them if they’d seen her around the pub or on their side of the street or crossing toward Klassy Kitchens. They didn’t think they had. I also described, as best I could, the man with the jacket stuffed between the handles of his briefcase.
Larry gazed across the street toward Suds for Buds. “We occasionally see men carrying briefcases, even on Friday nights.”
Harry leaned his broom against the building. “You know, going straight from work to party with friends. I didn’t see one on Friday night, though.” He looked at his brother. “Did you?”
“Not a one.”
They promised to call me if they thought of or learned of anything that might help Nina. “We have the number for Deputy Donut,” Harry said. “Nina gave it to us when she first went to work for you.”
“Do you still have my cell number?”
Larry hesitated. “It should be in our customer records somewhere.” He darted inside, trotted back to us with a pen and paper, and had me dictate my number to him.
I walked home. The sun was nearing the horizon. The western sky was tinged with orange, while the sky above was pale.
At the front door, Dep mumbled her grievances about my absence. I picked her up. She purred. I rubbed my face in her warm fur.
I called Brent’s personal line and left a message that I had new and possibly important information. Waiting for him to call, I carried Dep up to the guest room. At my computer, I typed in the website address that had been on the black windowless van on the hill above the carnival.
The website featured a photo of empty wheelchairs lined up in a store window.
I looked more closely at the site and realized that although website visitors could click on a button to donate, the website didn’t specify where the donations were going or what they’d be used for, except to “help veterans.”
I found about a dozen recent complaints about the site. One outraged contributor mentioned that he had also fallen for a similar request at another site that was supposed to help veterans. After receiving none of the promised tax receipts, he had discovered that a man had been opening similar websites and then closing them after a few months—and probably after a few donations, besides. The researcher had found the man’s name, Marvin Oarhill, and had posted a picture of him.
It was a portrait from the shoulders up. The man was wearing a black jacket, a white shirt, and a white bow tie. The jacket looked formal, as if it could have tails. There was no top hat, but the man had long white hair and a long white beard that looked like they were attached to each other but not to his face. He did not resemble Santa Claus, however. His eyes were cold and hard, and he wasn’t smiling.
He was the magician who had registered for the Faker’s Dozen Carnival as Marv the Marvelous and had robbed us there.
Dep was on the windowsill. I asked her, “Does Brent know this?”
She gave me a cross-eyed look before returning to her careful study of the tree outside and any creatures that might be bedding down in it for the night.
“You’re right,” I said. “I gave Brent the van’s license number, so he knows who owns the van. But that doesn’t mean that the van is registered to the magician, or that the magician’s real name is Marvin Oarhill, or that the man uses that name when he’s pretending to be a magician. It might be one more lead for Brent to follow.”
Dep made a chirping noise. She wasn’t answering me. She had spotted a bird in the tree. The end of her tail twitched in a warning the bird couldn’t possibly see and wouldn’t have cared about if he did.
I was about to shut down my computer when I noticed that Arthur C. Arthurs had replied to my e-mail. He’d looked at the photos of the paintings I’d sent him that Kassandra Pyerson had said she’d painted.
He wrote that Zipporah Melwyn had sent him photos of the same paintings back in D
ecember. Zippy had told him that she was the artist. The paintings in the pictures Zippy sent him were the paintings he was hoping to make a detour to see during his trip to the Detroit area. He attached a couple of the photos he’d received. They were less blurry than the photos that Kassandra had given Summer, but I had to agree with Arthur C. Arthurs. They were either photos of the same paintings or of some that were eerily similar.
Who was the artist, Zippy or Kassandra? One of them must have been lying, and the other one could have written the threatening letter that someone accidentally—or on purpose—tucked underneath the donut car’s rear seat.
And very likely, Nina had not sent the letter, received it, or been in conflict with anyone over paintings left in an apartment.
It made sense that the letter’s recipient had put it into the donut car.
Who was the recipient?
Perhaps it had never been sent, and as I’d guessed before, it might have been a decoy, a threatening message that Zippy had written and then torn from a larger piece of stationery to make it look like part of an entire letter.
I went downstairs. Dep beat me to the first floor, leaped onto the arm of the wing chair, and gave me imperious looks. I sat down. Dep stepped carefully onto my lap, turned around, curled herself into a ball, and purred.
My phone rang. Brent was finally returning my call.
“Hi, Brent, I have some things to tell you.”
“About the Zipporah Melwyn case?”
“Yes. I was checking on a reference for that job applicant I told you about, the artist, and I learned some interesting things that you might or might not know. Can you come over?”
“Sorry, I have to go somewhere. Can you tell me over the phone?”
Explaining in person was usually easier. I tried to keep my disappointment out of my voice. “Okay.”
“Just a second.” He must have turned his head away from the phone because his next sentence was quieter. “I’ll meet you at my car in a few minutes, Kim.”
Chapter 20
Even the backs of my eyes were blushing. Now that Detective Gartborg had someone in custody for the murder, I’d hoped she’d moved on to her next assignment and Brent would be free to come over and give Dep some of the attention she craved, even though she was contentedly purring on my lap.
Beyond a Reasonable Donut Page 16
