Death on Covert Circle

by Patricia McLinn

  Clara and I leaned in concert, our instinctive body language trying to keep the whole thing from flipping over.

  A slice of dark blue became recognizable as the woman’s designer jeans. Then a patterned blur resolved into the girl’s safety halter.

  The volume faded to nothing, then jumped back loudly, like a finger might have accidently unmuted it.

  “…daughter because it might make the label a line or two longer. You would have killed Lorelei without giving it a second thought.”

  Utton jerked in his chair. “Oh, dear. Not at all what he had in mind. I’m afraid there’s nothing usable there.”

  We both looked at him.

  First, because it sounded like he was still worried about not satisfying his dead boss.

  Second, because, was he serious? Under what circumstances would he possibly consider using any of that video, no matter what it looked like? But especially not for the cheesy CEO-charming-an-adorable-child footage his former boss had been after.

  As it was, no, we agreed with him, there was nothing usable by Rod Birchall’s standards.

  There was, however, possibly something useful to us.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  “Can Foster truly be that dense?” Clara said once we were in my car, heading back to Haines Tavern.

  “If he’s not, he’s a great actor. But people can be deadly without being smart or attuned to other people. And, you know, for him to have survived and risen in the corporate atmosphere, he must be somewhat astute.”

  “Or people wanted him around because he was no threat.”

  I shot Clara a glance at that glum comment, then returned my attention to the road.

  After crossing the Brent Spence Bridge over the Ohio River into Kentucky, we now had to climb through the Cut in the Hill.

  These days, the stretch was notorious for accidents when southbound rush hour traffic on I-75 drove into the descending sun or when northbound traffic descended rapidly toward the bridge. It warranted alertness at all times.

  The double-decker bridge received more attention and alarm, what with losing chunks of concrete not so long ago and carrying twice as much traffic as it was built to hold. But rumor is local news outlets keep a standing headline ready to slap on the latest incident: “Another Crash Wrecks Commute on Cut in the Hill.”

  Trying to cheer up Clara, I said, “Wasn’t the view from here on a TV show?”

  “Opening credits in the WKRP in Cincinnati reruns show the skyline and river and Fountain Square.”

  “I thought Urban told me about another show. An even older one.”

  “Oh, right. The view from the Cut in the Hill down to the bridge was on an old TV soap opera called The Edge of Darkness, though they didn’t call it Cincinnati.”

  “That’s it. That’s the one I heard about.”

  “There’ve been recent movies shot around here, too.” My hopes that I’d cheered her up deflated along with her extended sigh. “Doesn’t help us any, though. I had such hopes about this visit.”

  “Maybe not, but you know, Clara, what you said about Foster Utton not being a threat to anyone was very astute. Utton’s very ineptitude might have made him more appealing to those above him on the corporate ladder.”

  “Thanks, but the Jolly Roger corporate headquarters and Foster Utton were still pretty much dead ends.”

  “When we get back to my house, we’ll start searching for that woman with the bits and pieces we picked up.”

  “I suppose we can look at the video again in case we missed anything, but it’s a long shot.”

  “Look at it again? But—”

  “I sent a copy to my phone while I was helping Foster.”

  “That’s brilliant, Clara. We’ll definitely look at the video again.”

  “Okay. But I’m going to need sustenance. Let’s get off at Buttermilk Pike and go to Graeter’s for ice cream.”

  “An ice cream place is on Buttermilk Pike?”

  “Time for another Cincinnati-Northern Kentucky history lesson, Sheila. Over ice cream.”

  * * * *

  She delivered the lesson over two generous scoops each. Chocolate chip-toffee for me and salted caramel-chocolate chip for her.

  Graeter’s was started in the 1870s by Louis Graeter, later joined by his wife Regina, who carried on after his death. The ice cream is still made in something called a French pot and the chocolate chips are actually chips of chocolate.

  Clara’s story about Buttermilk Pike was almost as good as the ice cream.

  “There were lots of dairies in the area and with the wagons carrying the containers over bumpy dirt roads, the milk would start to churn. Voila! Buttermilk Pike.”

  “I’m going to have to brag to Urban about knowing this. I’m going to get some to take home.”

  We both did. Clara bought more than me, but only because she added Ned’s favorite black cherry-chocolate chip.

  At my house, with the containers temporarily stored in the freezer, we settled at the small kitchen table.

  “Let’s watch the video again, then recap,” I suggested.

  Nothing new.

  “But we did pick up some info,” I argued, partly with myself.

  “We know her daughter’s name is Lorelei,” Clara said. “And I remember the woman, Lorelei’s mother, saying something about fighting him — we fought to get Jolly Roger to improve its labels — like she might be part of a group.”

  “You’re right. And if she’s part of a group…” I pulled my laptop in front of me and opened it. “…we might be able to find her.”

  My first tries bombed. Who knew that many groups advocated better food labels? Or concerned about food allergies. I’d heard about severe allergies to peanuts, but the culprits went way, way beyond peanuts. Wow. Some people were allergic to celery. There were times I’d practically lived on the stuff, trying to get into a certain dress for a certain dance with a certain boy. Ah, youth.

  “Try more specific,” Clara suggested. “Add Roger — the Jolly Roger.”

  I raised my index finger, then dropped it to point at her in acknowledgment. “And I’ll try a search adding Birchall’s name. Since she knew who he was, she might have had dealings with him.”

  We found multiple groups who’d had dealings with him. None, apparently, pleasant. As my searches pulled up names of specific women, Clara wrote them down. Then we searched for those people. None we found was the woman from the grocery store, though we had no hits for about a third.

  Next, we tried names of organizations mentioned.

  This took more time as we sorted through their sites for board members, founders, volunteers. Again, not all of them had photos we could find. But all the photos we did find eliminated those women.

  Clara leaned back, interlocking her fingers and stretching her arms. “And they say detecting is glamorous.”

  She’d spoken as the back door opened.

  “Who says that? Not anybody who’s ever done it.” Teague stepped in, eyeing the laptop and array of papers on the table. “Breaker went out again. Get that checked by an electrician, Sheila. Soon.”

  He strode to the half bath where — oddly — a previous owner had placed the breaker for the outdoor electrical outlets. It had taken us both an age to find it the first time it decided to flip off, but by now it was routine.

  Not a routine Teague approved of.

  He was back with us in no time, asking, “What are you detecting?”

  “Trying to detect,” Clara corrected. “Trying to figure out the name of the woman with the little girl Rod Birchall wanted his picture taken with. We told you about her. She was really unhappy with Birchall — the woman, not the girl, although when her mother got upset, she cried. Anyway, things the woman said indicated she might have had a history with him.”

  As I got up to replenish her coffee and my ice water, Clara told him the searches we’d done.

  He added ice to his thermos. “Impressive.”

  “But we’re
stuck now and we haven’t found her.”

  “Not finding people is the detective’s lot in life. Being stuck isn’t. Keep searching. Include anything distinctive about her in your searches. Narrows the field.” He opened the back door. “I mean it about the electrician, Sheila. You don’t start contacting people and I’ll hire one myself and bill you for his services — and mine for finding him.”

  The door closed behind him and Clara immediately said, “What do you think of what he said?”

  “I’ll get one, I’ll get one. I was going to start calling between the meeting with the parks people and the meeting at the dog park yesterday, but I’ve been a little busy.”

  Oddly, I’d had no inclination to give up writing — or not writing — time to call electricians. But Teague didn’t need to know that.

  “No, no, I meant the other stuff — though you should get an electrician if Teague’s worried. Ned knows people. I’ll ask him. But I meant the other stuff he said about something distinctive.”

  “We don’t know anything distinctive about her. No visible scars. Nice clothes, but how do we add that to a search? She was a woman shopping in the Jolly Roger in Haines Tavern, Kentucky with her daughter, who apparently has food allergies, potentially fatal food allergies and—”

  My head jerked up. Clara’s eyes sparked. We’d gotten it at the same time.

  “Daughter. A daughter named Lorelei.”

  We got back to work, searching each of the names not yet eliminated in combination with “daughter” and “Lorelei.” If that didn’t work, we tried “daughter” alone.

  One by one by one, we eliminated more. Passing the halfway mark on the list. Then three-quarters. Then—

  “Got her. I think.” I skimmed an account a second time. “This has got to be her. Karen Zalesk.” It was the third to the last name.

  “Thank heavens. I didn’t want to have to start back through all those organizations. Does it mention Lorelei?”

  “Not by name, but listen to this. There are a couple paragraphs from a roster of volunteers about what food labels mean to them, explaining why they’re volunteering. This part—” I pointed to it on the screen, even though Clara couldn’t see it. “—is where Karen Zalesk said her young daughter nearly died from a food allergy.”

  “That must have been terrifying. Now we know the woman’s name, what’s next?”

  “We see where she lives and pay her a visit.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  But Karen Zalesk didn’t live in Haines Tavern.

  Or in Stringer.

  Or anywhere in North Bend County that we could find.

  We tried the last name without the first name with no better luck. We also searched for Lorelei, with and without Zalesk. No luck there, either.

  “Let’s expand the search to nearby counties and Cincinnati,” Clara said.

  “You think someone came from another county, much less across the river from Cincinnati, to shop at the Haines Tavern Jolly Roger?”

  “No. But what else are we going to try?”

  I started searching.

  With the same result — no one by that name.

  “What now?”

  “Let’s try that online neighborhood bulletin board,” I said.

  The woman wasn’t registered. “If we ask if anyone knows her, someone could warn her we’re looking for her and she might never be found.”

  “Right, and if Deputy Eckles found out, he’d have us drawn and quartered.”

  “Even with Hensen running this investigation, let’s not put the idea in Eckles’ head.”

  “Agreed.” This time Clara sighed before asking, “So, what now?”

  “Give up on this for the moment. And try something else. Like going to the Roger to see if the manager’s there.”

  “We could call— No. Not a good idea considering his history with phone calls. Let’s go. Besides, I have something else I want to do at the Roger.”

  “More orange juice?”

  “No. An experiment.”

  * * * *

  Normality had returned to the Haines Tavern Jolly Roger to the extent that Petey greeted us with a smile in the parking lot.

  He also, however, shook his head and pursed his lips.

  “Rough day, Petey?”

  “Not like yesterday.”

  Clara and I nodded solemnly.

  “Trouble,” Petey intoned. “Those folks from corporate were trouble from the second they came speeding in here. That’s when I let Jacqueline know what was on the doorstep. Car comes barreling straight at me like they’ll run me down soon as look at me. I tell them they can’t park there and the driver guy starts yelling out his window at me. Nasty. Then that other guy — the string bean that can’t hold himself upright — gets out of the car and starts talking to me like I’m a halfwit.

  “Didn’t care who they inconvenienced, either. Tried to tell them folks couldn’t get into the handicapped spots with them there. They didn’t care.

  “After a while — well, now, some good time after you two went in, a few of the regulars came out, telling me they tried to tell him what was what but he didn’t listen. They’re not all like that, folks that run companies. The good ones — rare as hen’s teeth these days — want to know what customers think. Never him. Anyway, next thing I knew, the deputies were running up on us fast and then they weren’t letting anybody in or out.”

  “Which customers came out and told you about what happened?”

  He rattled off names. None were Aggie Hickmott or Phyllis Ezzard. “Said there was a set-to inside, customers telling him off and Mr. Bigshot not paying any attention.”

  “What about Aggie Hickmott or Phyllis Ezzard? Do you know them? Did you see them leave?”

  “Know them. Can’t say I saw ’em leaving.”

  “How about a man in his forties. Dark hair, white shirt, about this tall—” Clara held her hand above her head. Petey started shaking his head. “—wearing jeans. No?”

  As Petey shook his head, he must have recognized our disappointment.

  “Thing is, I’m not watching the doors all the time. Carts take me to one side or the other and I’m not going to see much of the opposite door, see? As much as I try to pay attention, people do come and go without me spotting them.”

  “You didn’t see anybody in between the customers who told you about others complaining to the CEO and when the deputies arrived?”

  He slanted a look up toward me. “Don’t want to get anybody in trouble.”

  “If they didn’t do anything wrong, you can’t get them in trouble.”

  “Maybe. Maybe. That driver was out here the whole time.”

  “What about a woman with a little girl? Really cute little girl, blonde curls, maybe four years old. The woman had on a red top, jeans.”

  “Got a real nice smile out of the little girl as they went in. A bit of one from her mama — and she seems like a person who could use more smiles.”

  “What about leaving?”

  He shook his head. “That was going in. Mind you, like I said, I’m not paying attention every second a door opens or closes. Got to keep the parking lot cleared of carts, get them wiped down, and back inside for folks to use. Otherwise, I’m not doing my job.”

  That was reasonable. And disappointing.

  Knowing when any of the people left couldn’t completely eliminate them, since the murderer could have struck any time from the moment Birchall went in back until Jacqueline spotted him on the floor — a span of at least fifteen minutes, probably closer to twenty. But it might trim the window of opportunity for yet.

  Or, better yet, someone might have run out of the building gasping, What have I done? What have I done?

  That would be a nice little hint.

  “Petey, is the manager here today? Or the assistant manager, Jacqueline?”

  “She’s off today—”

  Good thing we knew where to find her later.

  “—but Kurt’s here. Thing is, he’
s off on his break. Wouldn’t expect him back for another ten minutes anyway. I can tell him when he gets back you want to see him and—”

  “No, no. Don’t—”

  Before I could say more, Clara took my arm as she said to Petey, “We have other things to do inside first. We don’t know exactly when we’ll finish up. We’ll look for him. No need for him to come looking for us until we’re ready.”

  With thanks, we headed inside, with Clara steering me quickly, still with that hold on my arm.

  “Why’d you stop me from telling Petey we didn’t want him to warn Kurt Verker we want to talk to him?”

  “Because then it becomes a matter of loyalty to tell Kurt. But if he thinks Kurt knowing might interfere with our convenience, that trumps loyalty to his boss.”

  “How on earth do you figure that?”

  “Because Petey was born and raised in Kentucky and I know Kentucky men. Especially older Kentucky men.” She practically tossed her hair as she took a cart and started off.

  * * * *

  Torn between a desire to laugh and a strong suspicion she was right, I hurried to catch up with her, partway down the frozen vegetable aisle, heading toward the back.

  “I take it this is the time to conduct the experiment you mentioned?”

  “It is.”

  “Going to share?”

  She looked around. We were alone. “We’ve been talking lots about time, but we don’t know how much time’s involved. So we’re going to time exactly how long it takes to get from each of the other back room doors to where Birchall was bashed on the head, presumably lying on the floor and vulnerable because of the food allergy reaction.”

  “Did you bring stopwatches?” I teased.

  “Of course not. We’ll use our phones.

  We did.

  But we had to adjust our experiment.

  The door from the dairy section into the back was blocked to civilians by police tape. The next door, by the meat department was locked. As was the door between the bakery and the deli.