Blind Dates Can Be Murder (53 page)

While the chief was questioning Ming about her cat and its pillow, Danny returned to Monica and her computer, first doing a search about Ming—which came up empty—and then one for Peter Trumble.

To their surprise, a simple Google entry netted several pages of listings. One by one, she clicked on them and they began to get a better idea of the big picture. Finally, Danny told Monica to buzz the chief.

“He needs to see this,” Danny said. “It may answer an awful lot of questions.”

“Lookey what I found,” Chuck said gleefully, coming down the stairs with a cardboard box in his arms. Jo watched as he set it on the counter, reached inside, and began pulling out machines and wires. “This is simply fascinating.”

Peter turned his head and looked away as Chuck plugged in a tape recorder and loaded a tape in it.

“The label on this tape is dated for last Thursday,” Chuck said. “It says ‘F.M.—house.’”

He pressed play. After some static, men’s voices could be heard. From the conversation and background noise, it sounded like a simple game of poker.

…think my wife would get a kick outta that—her name carved in a squash. How do you do it? I’m in for five
.

I’ll match your five. When the squash first starts growing, you use a nail or a pin or something to scratch the name real light into the skin. As it grows, the letters scar over and raise up and spell out your name
.

Frankie, what’d you do? Share a cell with Martha Stewart?

There was laughter and the clink of what sounded like plastic chips.

I just do a lot of reading. Household hints and stuff.

I’m in.

In.

I’ll meet your five and raise you five. Your dad, he was big on gardening, huh?

You bums are too rich for my blood. I’m out.

Sure. Cucumbers, squash. Couldn’t beat his tomatoes. Call.

Chuck reached over and turned off the tape recorder.

“Now why,” he said, “would a man like you be recording the conversations in Frank Malone’s house? More than that, interestingly enough, here’s a whole box of tapes from Mickey Paglino’s office. What were you doing, Peter, recording these men?”

Peter remained silent, but Jo had had enough. No one would explain what was going on, and she was tired of trying to guess.

“What is it?” she demanded. “What is the connection between the two of you?”

Neither man answered, but for the first time since all of this happened, Lettie spoke.

“Peter Trumble was there,” she said softly. “The night Chuck bombed the insurance company. Peter was almost killed.”

“Peter Trumble worked for Silver Shield Insurance,” Danny said, pointing to the screen. “The same company that Chuck Smith went to prison for bombing.”

He read the article out loud, which described how Peter had been working late one night in his office at the back of the building when the bomb went off. The impact had shot him through the window and all the way into a ditch out behind the building. Severely burned and unable to move or call for help, he had lain there for almost twelve hours before garbage men had come for a trash pickup and spotted him.

“‘Trumble has been taken to Moore City General Hospital,’” Danny read, “‘where he is listed in critical condition.’”

“What’s the date of that article?” the chief asked.

“This is from three years ago,” Danny replied. “Right after it happened. Chief, Peter Trumble’s name and address were in Jo’s address book. Chuck must have seen it and suspected that Trumble and Jo were working together to get the stains the out of the money.”

“But why would this man who was hurt and nearly killed take the money? He’s not a criminal, not like Paglino or Malone.”

“I don’t know, Chief,” Danny said, leaning back in his chair and propping up his foot. “Maybe he thought he deserved it after all he’d been through.”

Jo couldn’t believe what Lettie was saying, that Peter Trumble had been a victim of the crime that sent Chuck to jail. Apparently, his injuries from the blast had been extensive. And though Peter had testified at Chuck’s trial, a lenient judge had awarded Chuck the minimum sentence for his crimes—leaving Peter to feel utterly unvindicated.

Since the day Jo met Peter, she had thought he moved rather stiffly, but she had no idea he was the survivor of a horrific bombing accident. As he described the pain and misery that Chuck had caused him—not the mention the months of recovery and rehab—she began to understand how a criminal was born. Just like Lettie, with all of the scars hidden under clothing, she had never suspected the presence of so much pain.

“You killed Frank and you tried to kill Mickey,” Jo said softly to Peter. “That’s why you had them under electronic surveillance. So you could find a way to kill them and make it look accidental—not to mention recover the money. But why? How could you do it?”

“Imagine lying in a ditch for twelve hours, burned and helpless,” Peter snapped. “How do you think you’d feel? While I was lying there, I witnessed the robbery, I saw Paglino and Malone sneak in through the back of the insurance company and come out with bags of cash. I called out to them, but they didn’t hear me. Either that, or they pretended not to.”

“So revenge is what kept you going through the long months of recovery…” Jo guessed.

“They had to pay,” Peter replied, his jaw set. “They all had to pay.”

“But why me?” Jo persisted. “Why did you involve me?”

Peter looked at her, seeming to size up the situation. Finally, he spoke.

“I didn’t have a bug on Frank’s person, only at his house and on his phone. When I saw you on the news Friday night and learned about the kidnapping and false impersonation, I knew Frank was up to no good—but I wasn’t sure what it was. You know what they say, keep your friends close and your enemies closer. I had to find a way to spend time with you, to find out what Frank had wanted, what he had told you. I looked you up on the Internet and read about your class the next morning.”

“That’s when you came up with the idea for building a clean house. You knew that’s what would hook me.”

Chuck had been listening to their exchange, but he finally decided to join in.

“I don’t care about all of this,” he said. “All I know is, sometime Friday night, after you learned that Frankie was dead, you got in your car and went up the road to Frankie’s farm and took out all of the pickle jars. So where are they, Peter? Did you keep the pickles, or just the cash?”

“I don’t have the money,” Peter insisted.

“Yes, he does,” Jo said, her eyes suddenly wide. “And I can prove it.”

Chuck had been leaning against the wall, but now he stood up straight. She had his attention.

“The countertop,” Jo said, motioning with her head. “Run your hands over it.”

Bemused, Chuck scooped the electronic equipment into the box and dropped the box on the floor. Then he reached out and did as she said, running his hands over the marble surface.

“So?”

“So, a few days ago, that marble was perfectly smooth.”

“That isn’t smooth,” Chuck said.

“I know,” Jo replied. “Because of vinegar. Pickles are in vinegar. And vinegar eats through marble.”

Danny was impressed with the magnitude of the police response. As he hovered around the fringes, he watched the chief mobilizing the bomb unit, calling in reinforcements from Moore City, and questioning Ming Lee. The woman seemed innocent enough, but some of her answers cast a good bit of doubt on her boyfriend.

“Do you think Chuck took Jo and Lettie to Peter’s house to get the money?” Danny asked as the chief passed him by.

“The Moore City police helicopter is only about ten minutes out from there,” the chief replied. “As soon as they can do a visual, at least we’ll know if the car is there. For now, we can only hope.”

“Fine,” Peter said, his entire body communicating surrender. “You can have the money. It’s ruined anyway.”

Peter told Chuck where to look, in an Igloo cooler in the closet under the stairs. Chuck rolled out the cooler and opened the lid, his face going from hopeful to devastated with one glance.

“It’s still stained,” Chuck said softly, not even reaching inside.

“It’s dye,” Jo told him, amazed that she was almost feeling sympathetic. “It will always be stained.”

Chuck closed the cooler and sat on top of it, seeming to consider his options.

“You had to know it was ruined,” Chuck said, looking at Peter. “Why’d you bother taking it?”