A Cold Christmas (11 page)

“Nope.”

He was wary of her and she didn't know why. Simply didn't like cops? Knew something about Holiday's murder? Wanted her to go because he was busy? Hiding something? All of the above? “Where is the furnace?”

“In the basement.”

“I'd like to see it.”

“Why you want to do that?”

“Just to be thorough.” She had no interest in the furnace. Her interest was in what Holiday had seen when he repaired it.

She thought he was going to refuse, but he led her down to the basement. It was dark and cluttered with boxes of some kind of machinery.

“Light's burnt out,” he said. “Haven't got around to changing the bulb.”

She dutifully peered through the murk at the furnace while he kept his eye on her. Something behind those boxes he didn't want her to see? She wished she could look through them, but she had no legal right to do so. She thanked him, gave him her card, and told him to call if he thought of anything that might help.

In the pickup, Susan looked up the address of Ida Ruth Dandermadden. The woman lived in a large white house, stone walkway to a porch that went across the front and around the side, with porch swings and lounge chairs.

She rang the doorbell and waited. After what seemed a long wait, a woman dressed in pleated skirt and tailored blouse opened the door. She looked to be in her eighties, with iron-gray hair pulled into a bun at the nape of her neck, a narrow face, and a thin mouth in a firm, disapproving line.

“Mrs. Dandermadden? Police Chief Wren.”

“I know who you are.” Ida Ruth Dandermadden let Susan inside with the manner of the Lady of the House who would hustle police into the kitchen rather than let them enter the parlor.

Sure enough. Ida Ruth went straight to the rear of the house, bypassing the living room. In the kitchen, she asked Susan to sit down. Susan did. She knew a command when she heard one.

Ida Ruth remained standing, arms crossed over a narrow chest. Obviously the way one questioned the help.

“You had your furnace looked at a few weeks ago,” Susan said.

“I did,” Ida Ruth said. “Is this about his murder?”

“Do you know anything about the murder?”

“I do not.”

“His name was Tim Holiday. Did you know him?”

“No.”

Oh dear, Susan thought, this was going to be tiresome. “How many times did you see him?”

“Only the once when he came to see about the furnace.”

“Never before or again? Around the neighborhood, at the supermarket?”

Ida Ruth loosened her stiff posture enough to ask if she could get Susan something.

“No, thank you. How was the work he did? Satisfactory? Or did you have to get him back again?”

“Perfectly satisfactory.”

Susan asked questions but got nothing for her troubles. “I need to see your furnace,” she said.

Ida Ruth looked startled. “Well, if you must. It's this way.”

In a dark hallway, she opened a door onto an even darker stairway going down. She reached inside and flipped a switch.

“You'll see it when you go down. If you don't mind, I'll wait here. It's hard for me to get up and down steps these days.”

The basement was huge and for the most part empty. There was an old wooden table, some chairs, a lamp, two trunks, a hot water heater, and a gas furnace. Susan dutifully trudged her way over to it. Yep, surely looked like a furnace. If Holiday had done more than fix it, she wouldn't know. She'd love to go through the trunks, but could think up no legal reason to do so. Had Holiday looked inside and found something that Ida Ruth killed him for? What? Skeleton of long-dead husband? Too much television. Had Holiday put something inside one that he didn't want to leave in his apartment? Unlikely. How would he retrieve it?

“Did you find it, dear?” Ida Ruth said impatiently.

Susan thought about pretending to sprain her ankle and taking one quick look in a trunk. She trudged back upstairs, thanked Ida Ruth, and handed her a card. “If you think of anything that might help, give me a call.”

Ida Ruth showed her to the door. “Why did she kill him?”

“Who?”

“That James girl. I knew she shouldn't be allowed to play at church. She's divorced,” Ida Ruth hissed. “And now look what she's done.”

“Why do you think she killed him?” Susan stepped out to the porch.

“I may look like an old woman to you, but Pauline tells me what goes on over there and I know what's what.” That said, Ida Ruth firmly closed the door.

11

According to the sign, the rare book and sewing machine business was open from ten to six, but when Demarco went in the place was empty. “Hey!”

An elderly man, short, with a thatch of white hair, came from a back room. He looked like a skinny Santa Claus.

“Mr. Baines?”

“I doubt you sew, and you don't look like the kind of man who collects. So what can I do for you?”

“You don't think I can read?” Demarco didn't bother to say he could also sew a rip in a trouser seam if he had to.

The man smiled, squeezing the wrinkles in his face together into a finely woven mat. “Did I jump to conclusions again? Mitch always did say I shouldn't be so quick to judge. He was the one who took care of the book side. When his grandson sold the place, I stayed on to run it for the new owner. Martin Thackeray.” He offered a fragile hand. Demarco was careful in shaking it. “I repair sewing machines. Wouldn't know a rare book if it were to sit up and sing to me. You have a sewing machine that needs fixing?”

“No.”

“Looking to buy a rare edition of Geert Groote?”

“Never heard of him.”

“Me, neither. So what can I do for you?”

“I want to know about your tenant,” Demarco said, showing his badge.

“Now, if you had a Singer circa 1926 that you wanted fixed, I'm your man, but to ask about Tim Holiday, that's all I know about him, his name. Mitchell, Jr. rented the space about three months ago. I told him not to be so hasty. Get some references and check them out. What did we know but that the man might be a smoker and burn the place down some night.”

“What did you learn?”

Thackeray held out his hands and shrugged. “I don't think Mitchell even asked for any. Too trusting, that man, like his father. You might wonder how they stayed in business all those years. But I must say Holiday was an ideal tenant.”

“How often did you see him?”

“I never saw him. Maybe once or twice. And I'll have to say he was quiet. I never heard a thing. No jumping around or loud music. What's this about?”

“The man's dead.”

“I heard that. What happened?”

Demarco got what he could from Thackeray, which amounted to nothing. He knew the black-haired female in the chief's role only had him doing this because everybody was sick, but it was good to be back in investigation. He thanked Thackeray and went out.

Six or eight other businesses were on this block. Directly across were the medical offices of Drs. Cunningham and Barrington.

He jogged across the street and entered the building. The receptionist was young and pretty and blond, in a good position to see anybody go in and out of the apartment above the rare book store.

“Officer Demarco,” he said. “I'm trying to find out…”

“I can't tell you anything about a patient.” Her back stiffened with resolve.

“The man who lives above the sewing machine repair place,” he said.

She relaxed. Sweet kid, not real bright. She'd just revealed that Holiday wasn't a patient.

“Have you ever seen him?”

She nodded hesitantly. “If you happen to look over and he's coming out or going in, you're bound to see him, you know? He was in here once.”

Demarco thought he must be losing it, if he'd been wrong about something so simple. “Was he sick?”

“Not really. He asked if I knew Mat James.”

“Do you?”

“I'm not really supposed to talk about that.”

James was a patient.

“Otherwise, just going in or out. He was— I don't know. He always seemed so sad.”

“Sad? Why do you say that?”

“I don't know. He was kind of a scary-looking guy, really, but something about him just made you think he was really sad. You know? Like he had something really tragic happen in his life.”

Haven't we all? Demarco thought. “Who else have you seen going in or out?”

“No one.”

“Friends?”

“I wouldn't know about that. I just never saw him with anybody.”

“How often did you see him?”

“I don't know. Going in and out. You don't count, you know?”

The phone rang. She picked it up and spoke softly, “Doctors Cunningham and Barrington.”

Demarco placed a card on the desk, told her to call if she thought of anything.

Next to the doctors' office was a flower shop. It was warm and steamy inside. Christmas leaped out and grabbed him. Speakers on the walls blared out carols. Cutesy-cutesy, artsy-fartsy Santas and elves and reindeer cavorted and simpered and leered from walls and shelves and displays. Ice skaters skated eternally round and round an artificial pond. Christmas trees in white and blue and pink and silver. Whatever happened to green? Baskets of glass baubles and glittery icicles, garlands of silver and gold, boxes of angels and birds and stars and bells. It was enough to convert you to instant atheism.

“Help you?” A sour-faced female sagging into middle age, with short brown hair and a busy attitude, jabbed lollipops into a large Styrofoam wheel.

“What do you know about Tim Holiday?”

“Who?”

Demarco planted himself at her side and waited until she looked up at him over the tops of her glasses. Obviously, his face didn't please her any more than his voice had. Any little kiddies wandering in here would probably go shrieking out and have nightmares.

“He lives across the street above the sewing machine repair shop.”

“What makes you think I know him?”

“Do you?”

“No.”

“You ever seen him?”

“Maybe.”

“How often?”

“How do I know? I'm busy. So if you'll just go bother somebody else, I'd appreciate it.”

He resisted the sweet thought of slapping her around. Cops were discouraged from that. “He's been killed. I'm investigating his death.”

“The poor bastard. What was he up to?”

“Why do you think he was up to something?”

She gave him her full attention. “Stands to reason. You're here, aren't you? On the run, was he?”

“What makes you think that?”

She stared at him. “Here you are with your asinine questions. You think I'm so mashed out on Christmas I can't think straight?”

“Was he ever in here?”

“Once. Wanted a bunch of daisies sent to…” She stopped mutilating the Styrofoam to think. “Aw, now, who? Oh, yeah. Caley James. Only reason I remember is because he asked questions.”

“What kind of questions?”

“Like did I know where she worked and did she work fulltime. I told him I deliver flowers, not information. I sent the daisies with a blank card.”

“Why blank?”

“Because he didn't put anything on it. Not even his name. Now, if you don't mind, I'm busy.” She resumed jabbing lollipops into innocent Styrofoam.

“Merry Christmas,” he said on the way out.

In the picture-framing shop, a small tree decorated with colored lights and tiny picture frames sat in the window; silver strands of festivity were draped over the pictures on the walls. He asked about Holiday and learned the young woman who owned the place had never seen him and didn't know anyone lived above the sewing machine place and was that legal? She had space above her shop and could she rent that?

Demarco told her to check with the city.

The waitresses at Spinner's restaurant had seen Holiday a few times. He ordered take-out food, picked it up, paid, and left. He'd been in the bakery and bought doughnuts. He'd never been in the nursery, nor had he partaken of the services of the hair salon.

Irritation itched at Demarco to go back with no information, but that's what it looked like he'd have to do.

He sat in the unmarked, thought a minute, and then fired up the motor. At the department, he sought out Digger, the computer wizard. Digger's office was a small windowless room with rows of overloaded shelves sagging under bulging folders, books, and computer printouts. Computers, printers, copiers, faxes, and machines Demarco couldn't identify were squeezed together, allowing just enough room for Digger's desk. He could barely be seen over the stacks of paper surrounding him.

“See what you can find out about Tim Holiday.”

“I'm busy,” Digger said.

He always said that. The only way to get what you wanted was to wait him out. Demarco was good at waiting. He stood by the desk and looked down at Digger until the guy looked up.

“I'll get to it as soon as I finish this stuff I'm working on.”

“It's the homicide victim.”

Digger slapped the paper he held onto the top of a teetering pile of folders. Demarco waited to see if the whole thing would topple. He wondered if Digger could sort it out if it did.

“You want me to do this now? Look at all this stuff I have to get to.”

“Now,” Demarco said.

Digger stared at him, then sighed. His fingers played over the keys. A few minutes later, the printer came to life and spewed out papers. Digger handed them to Demarco. “Now, can I get back to work?”

Demarco gave him a distracted thanks as he read.

Well well well, he thought.
Chief
Wren should find this interesting.

12

Zach was used to the cold. Living in Kansas made you used to any kind of weather, and he'd lived here most of his life. He wondered sometimes what it would be like to live in Seattle, where his mom came from. It rained most of the time. Mom missed the rain, and she missed Seattle. When Zach pointed out it rained in Kansas, she said it wasn't the same. In Kansas, the rain came with thunder and lightning and hail and tornadoes, scary stuff. In Seattle, it was sometimes soft, sometimes hard, but seldom thunder and lightning, seldom scary. Zach liked thunderstorms.