Dead In Red (22 page)

“Cyn saw Brenda’s car on Saturday. It’s your
car or nothing.”

That didn’t please him, but he didn’t
protest either. “Why don’t you see if you can get off work early?”
he said.

“Because Gene doesn’t leave the mill until
at least five-thirty. And, besides, if I’m ever going to pay you
back the gazillion dollars you’ve spent taking care of me these
past few months, I need all the hours I can get.”

Richard opened his mouth to speak, but I cut
him off.

“You’re welcome to come play with me later
if you really want.” I got up to leave. “I’ll be back home about
four-thirty.”

* * *

Tom was
vacuuming as I entered the empty bar, which meant he hadn’t
gotten to it the night before. I’d probably get to mop the
floor—oh, the thrill of steady employment.

Tom saw me, waved a hello and continued his
work. I tied an apron around my waist and grabbed a stool to wait
for him to finish. Eventually he hit the off-switch, unplugged the
cord and started reeling it in.

“You must like it here. You come in early
most days,” he said.

“I gotta be somewhere. You got a few
minutes?”

“A few.” I handed him the envelope with
Walt’s will.

Tom took a seat at the nearest table, pulled
reading glasses out of his shirt’s breast pocket and quickly
scanned the paper, then let out a breath. “He left me
everything?”

“That surprises you?”

He frowned, his gaze dipping back to the
document. “I guess not. Besides his mother, I was his only other
close relative. Not that we were ever really close. And what’s he
left me, a pile of bills?”

“Why didn’t he mention his mother in the
will?”

Tom sighed. “They didn’t exactly get along.
That branch of the family has a lot of money and although he was an
only child, Walt was definitely a black sheep. He could’ve gone
into the family business, but he opted not to. You’ve heard of Ben
Kaplan Jewelers, haven’t you?”

“Whoa—only their commercials every five
minutes on the radio and TV. They’ve got to be the biggest jewelry
retailer in the city. So why’d Walt go into construction?”

He shrugged. “He probably thought it would
make him look . . . I dunno, more manly. He couldn’t have
been any good at it. He hated to get dirty. I think he was relieved
when he got to quit after his accident.”

“Your aunt still own the business?”

“Yeah, but Walt’s cousin Rachel runs it
these days. She’s good at it, too. I wouldn’t doubt my aunt leaves
the whole thing to her.”

I tapped the document still in his hand.
“You’re also listed as Walt’s executor. That means you’ve got to
settle his estate. By law you’re supposed to get things started
within ten days of a death.”

“Man, I don’t have the time for that. And
after what you’ve told me, I don’t want to know what Walt had in
that apartment or storage unit.”

“The apartment is already pretty clean, as
you know.” He didn’t deny he’d already been through it, and I went
on. “I found some pictures you wouldn’t want to see, but I’ll wait
to dispose of them. Eventually the police might want them. In the
meantime, you could call in an estate liquidator to get rid of
everything else. If you leave the stuff at the storage place,
eventually they’ll either sell or dump it, although as executor of
Walt’s estate they might haul you into small claims court for back
rent.” I handed him Walt’s keys. “You really should go through the
storage unit, just in case there’s something of value.”

Tom nodded. “Walt was a pain in the ass in
life, and is proving to be an even bigger one in death.”

“I know you said you didn’t want to know
what else I’ve found out, but—”

He exhaled a long breath. “It was one of his
fancy women killed him, right?”

“I think so.”

“It’s gonna come out,” he groused, shaking
his head. “It’s all gonna be made public and . . .” He
didn’t finish the sentence. I wasn’t quite sure if he was angry at
me or just the situation. His gaze met mine. “You know who?”

“Maybe. But I don’t know as we’ll ever be
able to prove it.”

Tom was silent for a long moment, staring at
the floor—or maybe he didn’t see it at all. Finally he looked up at
me. “Back off, Jeff. I don’t want you to get hurt.”

“You sound like my brother.”

“I’m glad someone looks out for you. I
should’ve looked out more for Walt. If I had—”

“From what I’ve learned about Walt, he
didn’t want a lot of people in his life. That he found something of
value in his transient friendships with his ladies . . .
well, maybe that’s all he needed.”

Tom didn’t look convinced. He folded the
will and stood, walked back to his office without looking back.

I’d finished swabbing the floor and was
about to dump the bucket of dirty water when Tom finally emerged.
“I’m thinking about adding happy hour food on the weekends. What do
you think?”

“More important, what does the health
department think?” I asked, accepting his change of subject.

“Yeah, I’d have to look into that. There’s
debate as to whether it encourages customers or just invites
freeloaders. You have any experience with that?”

We talked about my former bartending job,
then we moved onto sports when the first customers came in. No more
talk of Walt. Until I could prove who’d killed him, I decided to
keep it that way.

* * *

The two
o’clock doldrums had hit and there were only a couple of
Tom’s cronies nursing beers in front of the tube when Brenda strode
into The Whole Nine Yards. “Can I help you?” Tom asked, in his most
surprised and subdued voice. It wasn’t often a woman walked into
the bar. It was almost unheard of for a black woman to do
so.

“Sure,” Brenda said, sliding onto a
barstool. “I’ll have a Coke.”

“I’ll take care of the lady,” I told Tom.
“She’s a friend of mine.”

Tom raised an eyebrow, gave Brenda a nod,
and headed back down the bar to chat with his friends. Their eyes
had been on Brenda, too, but Tom distracted them.

“Looks like I gave them something to talk
about for the rest of the day,” Brenda said.

I half-filled a glass with ice, and squirted
the soda from the well trigger. “Here you are, ma’am.” Brenda
reached for her purse, but I stopped her. “It’s on the house. What
brings you to this part of town?”

“I didn’t come to spy, if that’s what you
think.” She took in the bar’s décor: artfully suspended hockey
sticks, baseball bats and other sports equipment. “Not a bad little
place. But it was actually that little candy store where you got
the chocolates that drew me out here. They were just the best, and
I kind of ran out.”

“Kind of ran out?”

“Okay, I pigged out on them and they’re gone
and I craved some more. Is that a crime?”

“No, I’m glad you liked them.”

“Yes, well, I haven’t made it there
yet. On my way, I thought I’d take a look at Cyn Lennox’s little
café at the mill. You and Richard have spoken so much about it,
and
her
. Not that I was going
to go inside and actually check it out. I mean, the time we spent
with her yesterday was just too awkward. But when I got there,
there was a big hand-written closed sign on the door.”

All my nerves went on red alert. “What?”

Brenda lifted her glass. “I thought you’d be
interested, since you and Richard were planning to play Starsky and
Hutch tonight—not that you bear the least resemblance to Ben
Stiller. And you can’t follow Cyn’s nephew around if he isn’t
there.”

“Did the sign say anything like, closed for
repairs—or sickness, anything like that?”

She shook her head and took a sip of her
drink. “No emergency telephone number, no nothing.”

My mind was racing. Cyn had been upset when
she’d come to Richard’s house the afternoon before. She’d had an
argument with Gene, and now her café was closed—just the vibe I’d
gotten while talking to Dana Watkins.

“What do you think it means?” Brenda
asked.

“Nothing good.”

She nodded. “Where will you start now?”

“With the telephone book.” I looked up.
“Tom, a phone book?”

“In my office.”

A minute later, I’d retrieved the telephone
book. I’d already checked for Gene with no results. This time I
looked for Dana Watkins. More than a column of numbers were listed
under Watkins, and as luck would have it, one of them simply said
D. Watkins. I grabbed the wall phone and dialed. Unfortunately, D.
Watkins stood for David Watkins, not Dana. I’d have to try them
all, and there was always the chance her number was unlisted—or
that she only had a cell phone.

I slammed the phone back on the
receiver.

“No luck, huh?” Brenda asked.

I shook my head.

Brenda took another sip of her Coke, her
gaze wandering to the still-open phone book. “I’m not doing
anything this afternoon. If you want, I could call all those
numbers and see if I can find your Dana. Would that help?”

“Oh, Brenda, that would be worth a million
bucks to me.”

“On the contrary, it’s very selfish of me.
Richard and I are not going to leave on this honeymoon if you’re
still looking into that man’s murder. The quicker you nail the
sucker, the easier we’ll all sleep.”

I could’ve kissed her.

She rose from her seat. “But before I do
that, I really have to go to that candy store. See you at home.”
With a wave of her hand, she was out the door.

Before I put the phone book away, I looked
up Cyn Lennox. Nothing listed in Amherst—just like nothing for
Eugene Higgins. Then again, why would there be? She’d returned to
Buffalo after it had been printed. Directory assistance was no help
either; the number was unlisted.

I spent the next two hours doing any busy
work I could think of while I pondered my next move. To find Gene,
I’d have to find Cyn. I had a feeling she’d gone to ground, but I’d
have to check out her house anyway. The actual mill wasn’t part of
the café. If Ted Hanson was on the premises, he might have an idea
of where Cyn had gone. But even if he did, he might not tell
me.

Tracking Cyn would be difficult, but not
impossible. The problem was, according to Sophie’s timetable I was
running out of time. Brenda and Richard’s plane tickets were for
Friday. And then there was the vision of the bloody hands. Time may
have already run out for someone. Cyn? Gene? Veronica?

I caught up with Tom before I left, pulled
him aside so the customers wouldn’t hear. “I might need some time
off in the next couple of days. The stuff I’m looking into has
taken a turn I hadn’t expected, and—”

Tom raised a hand, cut me off. “We’ve
already been over this; I don’t want to know about it.” He exhaled
a ragged breath, exasperated. “It’s my fault. I should’ve never
talked to you about Walt. I only thought . . . maybe, him
being a nobody, the cops wouldn’t care about finding his killer.
And then they made the arrest . . .”

I remained silent, felt my fingernails dig
into my palms as I waited for him to fire me.

He nodded toward the door. “Go on. Just call
if you’re not coming in.”

I swallowed, my mouth dry. Cutting me this
kind of slack would cost Tom; he’d either lose money if he had to
open later, or he’d exhaust himself doing both our jobs.

“Thanks.”

# # #

CHAPTER 19

Brenda hadn’t yet found Dana Watkins, having
another ten or twelve numbers left to call. But she had packed a
picnic dinner for Richard and me to eat should we need to go on
stakeout duty. “I’m going on my damn honeymoon, and nothing is
going to stop me,” she’d said as she pushed us out the door with
our life-sustaining supplies. Richard wasn’t as thrilled. The value
some people place on their car’s leather upholstery is simply
unnatural.

We hadn’t even made it to Main Street when
I’d investigated the large paper grocery sack and assured him
Brenda had packed plenty of napkins, and a half-used tin of saddle
soap—just in case.

Our first stop was The Old Red Mill. A
metallic purple motorcycle was parked in front. The bike in the
ramp garage had definitely been black. Still . . .

As Brenda described, a hand-written sign was
tacked to the café’s front door. The lights were off; already the
place looked abandoned.

Richard and I circled the building, found a
door on the far side and rang the buzzer until Ted appeared at the
door. “You again,” he muttered in greeting, his expression
sour.

“I’m looking for Cyn Lennox.”

“She isn’t here, and I doubt she’ll be back.
She told me you were bad news.”

“How am I responsible for her troubles?”

Hanson dragged a hand through his graying
hair. “Sorry. It’s just . . . since I found that guy dead
on the hill, I had a feeling my life was going to change—that I’d
be looking for a new tenant for the café.”

“What was Cyn’s excuse for closing?” Richard
asked.

“She was so upset she was babbling when she
called me last night. All I got was that she’d fired her nephew,
and she had orders for restaurants that needed filling. I asked her
about hiring someone else, but she said she couldn’t talk anymore
and hung up. The sign was up when I got here this morning.”

“Did Dana come in today?”

Hanson shook his head. “I went in and had a
look around the café. The office is a disaster. Cyn must’ve come in
and cleared out what she could. Baking supplies and equipment were
also missing.”

“Did Cyn tell you why she fired Gene?”

“No, she isn’t talking to me at all. I don’t
understand it. She thought the world of him. What could he have
done to make her so angry?”

I had a suspicion. And I had another
suspicion: that Ted and Cyn were—or had been—lovers.