Dead Men's Tales (Olivia Grant Mysteries Book 2) (12 page)

I awoke Thursday morning to sunshine and blue skies. The grass and decking outside my bedroom window looked wet, however, so I assumed it had rained most of the night. I hadn't heard it, but I was born and spent the first years of my life in the Midwest, where I learned to sleep through thunder and lightning. So I had no difficulty ignoring mere raindrops on rooftops.

While I took my shower, a guilty feeling surfaced. Harry's briefcase still sat in the trunk of my car, and I needed to see Novotny and trade it for Brad's. I phoned Mills Hospital again and learned Carl Novotny had been discharged. Two things made that good news. First, apparently his injuries hadn't been too serious and I had worried needlessly, and second, I decided I could swing by his house to do the briefcase-swap on my way to the office.

Yet, when I dialed his home number, only his voicemail picked up. A call to his office proved equally fruitless. A recording told me he wouldn't be in until Monday and to leave a message. So he was still recuperating, but where?

Acting on the theory he was home but just not picking up the phone, I drove over and parked in front. A trip up the front walk, carefully navigating the treacherous steps, discouraged me, because I noticed two rolled-up newspapers decorating the lawn. I rang the doorbell anyway, lots of times. I could hear the chimes ding-donging away inside, but no one showed up to let me in.

A narrow strip of window on one side of the door gave a sliver view of the front hallway, and, feeling pretty bold by then, I pressed close to the glass. The front hall appeared normal. No bodies, dead or alive, no blood on the floor, nothing out of place. I tried the doorknob, but it wouldn't turn, and I still drew the line at breaking and entering. After our dinner Tuesday night and the silly, romantic images that flashed across my mind whenever I thought about Carl, I was more than a little upset that I couldn't find him. I worried that whoever had tried to "off" him then might have succeeded this time, and he lay in a pool of blood somewhere beyond my line of sight.

Finally, I persuaded my brain that he wouldn't let himself be attacked the same way again and went down the one step onto the lawn. I scooped up the papers and placed them behind an azalea bush. I considered it my good deed for the day and atonement for peeking in his window.

I drove to Brad's office building, unlocked the door, and turned on lights. Then I started the computer and typed up my notes from my quick trip to L.A. Since Brad still hadn't arrived, I called his apartment but got
his
voicemail. Obviously, it wasn't my day for reaching people, and I vented my frustration by hanging up the phone instead of leaving a message.

I waited another hour for Brad, during which time I finished typing the notes of my trip to L.A. I knew I should listen to the tapes of Brad's interview with John Ziegler and type those notes for the file, but by then it was after ten thirty. I itched to be active, so I decided to go sleuthing on my own. If Brad wasn't around to tell me not to, it was his own fault.

I looked at my list of names and crossed off five: Rose, Debra, Amanda, Ziegler, and Novotny. Not that I had, or could have, absolved any of those people of guilt, but at least they'd been interviewed. Of course, I leaned toward eliminating Carl. After all, he couldn't very well have hit himself over the head, and anyway, I liked him. I told myself I couldn't be attracted to anyone who had the capacity to kill someone else.

We had yet to see McDonald and Powell. Since I couldn't reach McDonald, I decided to interview Powell. Surely, an advance visit to get my reaction to the man would be helpful and not even remotely beyond my authority. A call to the jewelry store in the mall netted the information he'd gone to the television studio to make a commercial. Did I want to leave a message? No, I did not. I put a note on Brad's desk, locked up the office, and headed for the television station.

KDMG was not one of the large network stations. It was local and occupied a cinder-block building near the bay in either Belmont or Redwood City, depending on where the dividing line snaked through the flatlands that once held salt ponds.

Inside a dark entryway, a heavyset, muscular woman—who looked like she could arm wrestle gorillas—gave me a scowl and asked what I wanted. I mentioned James Powell and instinctively backed up a little, thinking that if I hadn't said the magic word, she might pick me up and throw me back out into the parking lot.

Instead, she got to her feet and led me down a narrow corridor. "Mr. Powell is taping now and will be out soon." She stopped at a door marked
Greenroom
and told me I could wait there. She opened the door, flipped on a harsh overhead fluorescent light, and hiked off.

Of course, I knew that
greenroom
was a title for the place people waited or prepared to go on stage and was rarely actually painted green, although once upon a time they may have been. That one was cinder-block gray, contained someone's discarded, sagging sofa, two directors' chairs with black canvas seats and, along one wall, a wide expanse of mirror above a counter littered with combs and brushes, various types of makeup, jars of cold cream, and a giant box of discount-store-brand tissues.

I sat in one of the chairs for about five minutes and then, feeling even more frustrated, decided not to wait, telling myself Powell might not come back to that room after his taping. I opened the door and looked down the corridor. Seeing no one, I left the greenroom and tippy-toed in the opposite direction from the gorilla wrestler.

The corridor turned right, and I soon found myself behind large black curtains. I heard noises on the other side, so I went through the opening into a large, high-ceilinged studio, two of whose corners contained little stage sets with tables and chairs. I also saw three large cameras mounted on rolling dollies, thick cables running all over the floor like boa constrictors, and two men in jeans and sport shirts, one working a camera.

My gaze leaped, however, to a brilliantly lighted sidewall with a blown-up photo of the interior of a jewelry store. In front of the photo stood a man I assumed to be Powell. He was dressed in an expensive business suit, pale blue shirt, and striped tie. His hair was wavy and as thick as a helmet, his smile full of white teeth, and he read lines with animation from a teleprompter fastened below the camera in front of him.

Had the photo behind him pictured rows of used cars, he would have seemed less out of place. Whereas Hammond Jewelers was the Tiffany of San Ricardo, with tasteful ads in slick magazines, Powell's store, judging by his spiel, was the Crazy Eddie of the jewelry discount chains.

Which is not to say the man didn't have a certain amount of charm. He was good-looking in a Nicolas Cage type of way, tall and broad-shouldered, and his eyes actually twinkled when he described the tremendous values his company offered the jewelry buyer.

While I waited for him to finish, I remembered that Powell was only an employee—manager of the store at Bay Meadows Mall—and Kevin McDonald owned it. According to Carl, after Hammond and McDonald split up, McDonald opened his own chain of stores in Los Angeles, but apparently he couldn't resist plunking one down right in Harry's backyard. Like little boys going, "nyaa, nyaa."

I stood in the darkened wings for a good fifteen minutes, no one bothering me, thinking Powell was making another commercial I'd mute if I ever saw it. I wasn't one of those people who put down television or swore they never watched, but I had to agree that ninety percent of the time, when the producers went for mediocrity, they nailed it.

On the other hand, the remaining ten percent was pretty good. One or two sitcoms, some PBS programs, the history channel, documentaries. Those were never at the top of the ratings lists, so I supposed we had to be grateful they were available at all.

Some of the bright lights switched off, and I realized the taping had ended. I shook myself out of my critical mood and donned my ersatz detective persona. Then, as Powell began to walk briskly in my direction, I stepped toward him.

"Mr. Powell, I'm Olivia Grant with Featherstone Detective Agency. May I have a few words with you?"

He kept on walking, only slightly slower, looking me over. "Do I know you?"

"No." As he left the studio, I followed close behind him, and in this fashion, we hurried down the corridor toward the front door.

"We're investigating the murder of Harry Hammond."

"That has nothing to do with me." He marched on and passed the greenroom without so much as slowing down, justifying my decision not to wait.

I persisted, following Powell out the front door. "You attended the banquet where someone killed him."

"Me and a hundred other people." He stopped just outside and pulled out a cigarette and lit it, inhaling deeply. "The police asked me some questions, just like everyone else. I don't know anything about his murder." He pocketed his cigarette lighter and crossed the small parking lot, unlocking his car door with a "tweet-tweet."

I knew I had to get his attention before he climbed inside and drove off, so I raised my voice. "I happen to know you're having a relationship with someone who
is
involved."

It worked. He stopped and smiled at me. "Ms. Grant?"

I had to admire his remembering my name, considering how repeatedly he tried to ignore me.

I smiled back. "Yes?"

"Who told you such a thing?"

"I'm afraid I can't reveal my sources, but some people might think that gives you a reasonable motive for Hammond's murder."

He paused, but the smile stayed in place. I wondered if he was one of those people who could look happy while hearing that a tidal wave had just destroyed his Kona beach house.

"Ms. Grant, I believe your source is mistaken."

"Then you deny having an affair?"

"Absolutely. I also deny killing Hammond or even having a motive to kill him."

"But your relationship—"

"Is strictly business. And just because I happen to work for a rival jewelry company of Hammond's doesn't make me a suspect."

"No, but—" I didn't finish that sentence either.

"I'm very busy and don't have time for this. I am
not
involved with anyone connected with Hammond, except in the most superficial business sense." He exchanged his smile for a frown. "Do yourself a favor, and please don't bother me again."

While I watched him wheel his car, a gray Mercedes or maybe a BMW or Nissan—all the cars looked alike to me—out of the parking lot, I wondered about several things. First, did he realize I was recording him, or did he just not care? Actually, since I got so little information out of him, it hardly mattered.

Second, why would he say that he and Debra Hammond had a purely business relationship? He wasn't
my
type, but I didn't think it beyond the realm of possibility that Debra would find James Powell attractive. Okay, what if they didn't have anything romantic going on? My mind invented some different scenarios.

Did Debra plan to join Powell's company? Powell didn't own it, so that didn't make sense. Besides, why should she? She had a perfectly good job, which she seemed to enjoy. Did she and Powell plan to start their own jewelry company, a rival of both Hammond's and McDonald's, and give Daddy more competition? Hardly. Nevertheless, I wanted to talk to Debra again.

As I got into my own car—not a Mercedes but a Paid-For—I suddenly remembered I'd be seeing her in less than two hours at her father's funeral. For me, it was serendipity.

The service for Harry Hammond took place in one of those white frame buildings that tried hard to look like a nondenominational church but was really an upscale funeral home. At the far end of the assigned room, a large number of flower displays almost hid a closed casket, and I wondered if Harry really lay in there or if the coroner still had his body. An organist, hidden behind some ficus trees in the corner, played appropriately somber music, and then a minister, apparently a friend of Harry's, read verses from the Bible and spoke about death in general and Harry in particular. Finally, people got up and filed past Rose and Debra seated in the front row, murmuring condolences. I did the same.

I didn't like funerals and instructed my siblings not to have one for me. They're to send out announcements to anyone they think might be interested in learning of my demise, and that's it. What makes funerals even worse these days is those bright-eyed people who insist, "This isn't a sad occasion. This is a celebration of life!" Sorry, lady, but the honored guest isn't around anymore, and I, for one, am definitely sad about it.

The other part of my dislike stems from feeling inadequate at saying the right things to the bereaved and the, sometimes inappropriate, need to cry. In Harry's case, I had no difficulty summoning tears. I hadn't seen him in many years, but I remembered his dedication to building his company, how, when she was little, he loved to take Debra to the zoo, and how he enjoyed playing bridge with Stephen and me, even though he didn't concentrate on the game enough to win very often.

Afterward, I watched the brief ceremony at the cemetery, and then, like most of the people present, continued on to the Hammonds' house. Caterers in black-and-white uniforms stood behind the dining room table laden with food and, in the breakfast room where Rose and I had our conversation a few days before, two young women served coffee and tea from silver pots. I recognized a few people I'd been friends with before Stephen died, but most of the fifty-odd fellow mourners were strangers.

I decided almost immediately not to question Debra about her alleged affair with James Powell after all—at least not then and there—but I could observe and listen. Wasn't that what detectives did? Interpret attitudes and remarks in their quest for the truth? Besides, I once read an article about how to read body language, and I tried to put it to use.

However, before I could even begin, Carl Novotny approached me, and I felt butterflies dance in my midriff.

"Are you all right?" I asked him.

"Yes, I'm fine." He turned his head to show me a large bandage. "Except for this, of course." He smiled, took my free hand (the other held a cracker with something gooey on it), and then let go almost at once. "Do I have you to thank for saving my life?"

I spoke softly. "I didn't save your life. The paramedics did."

"They told me a woman called them, and for some reason, I thought of you."

I felt flattered by his admission and hoped I wouldn't blush. "We had forgotten to swap the briefcases before we left the restaurant, so I looked up your address and drove to your house."

"Thank God you did. They told me the attacker probably used the fireplace poker but made only a glancing blow. Maybe you came along just then and spoiled his aim."

The feelings I'd had that night washed over me again. Being on the scene, I might have had a close call myself, but perhaps I saved Carl's life. It was a heady feeling, and I wondered how real heroes handled it.

"Do you have any idea who could have done it? Have you talked to the police?"

"They questioned me, but I couldn't tell them much."

My plan to detect by observation and listening shifted into overdrive. Carl showed what I thought of as classic signs of a lie: eyes shifting, shoulders hunched, fingers curled. I asked myself why. Didn't he want the culprit brought to justice?

"Did you surprise a burglar? Did he break in? Did he take anything?"

"Yes and no. He broke in sometime earlier. I must have surprised him when I came home."

"Did you see him?"

"No. I knew something was wrong the moment I stepped inside. I walked through the living room, and suddenly, I felt this awful whack on my head, and I blacked out."

"Is anything missing?"

"Not that I can tell. He probably hadn't been there very long before I showed up. Then you came and scared him off."

Possible. Nevertheless, I still felt Carl knew more about the incident than he cared to reveal. I also knew that arguing with him might be pointless. If he wanted to hide something, let him, but I did issue a warning. "You should protect yourself, you know. Get a security system."

"I'm having one installed next week. Meantime, I'm not living at home right now."

That explained my not finding him there that morning. I felt relieved he'd moved out, but I still harbored some concern for him.

He changed the subject. "I have your, I mean Mr. Featherstone's, briefcase with me. Do you have Hammond's?"

"Yes, it's still in the trunk of my car. Do you want to get it now?"

"Please." He put his hand under my elbow and guided me toward the back door of the house, so I deposited my paper napkin and still mysterious-but-untasted cracker on the nearest end table and went with him. First, he went to his car and pulled out Brad's briefcase. Next, we trekked over to mine. All the while, Carl kept looking around, as if not wanting anyone to see us make the switch. No problem. It was growing dark and had turned very cold, so no one else had come outside.

I gave him Harry's briefcase. "Here, you can return it to Amanda now."

"I don't think she's here."

That surprised me and got me to thinking. I hadn't seen Amanda since the cemetery. Did her strained relationship with Rose cause her to skip the wake? While I thought about that, I put Brad's briefcase in the trunk of my car and locked it.

"I'm leaving now," Carl said. "The doctor says I shouldn't overdo things. Could we have dinner again tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow?" I tried to hide my pleasure in knowing he wanted to see me again. I had no plans for Friday night—or Saturday night, if anyone cared to know—but I paused anyway, as if mentally consulting my social calendar. Then I thought of all the notes I still had to type, plus a sudden reluctance to have him come to my house. If I trusted the man, I shouldn't have hesitated on that issue, but I did anyway.

"I have tons of work to do. Could you pick me up at the office?"

"How about seven?"

"Fine." He squeezed my hand before walking back to his car. I retreated to the warm house, then rescued my cracker and took a bite. The stuff on top seemed like cheese but with an aftertaste so hot I thought it should have a warning label: Do not eat this before operating heavy machinery. Living in California with its multi-million Latinos (and almost as many ethnic restaurants), you'd think I'd have developed a taste for spicy food by then, but I hadn't. I read somewhere that there's a syndrome for people, usually women, like me. We have a gene that registers certain foods as bitter. (No, Mother, I can't eat my spinach. I have this mutant gene.)

I deposited the remains of the cracker in a plastic-lined wastebasket and headed for the beverage bar where several long gulps of 7 Up eventually brought my tongue back to normal.

When I returned to the living room, I saw Brad and Amanda enter together. Why so late? Where had they been? I didn't like my conclusion but had no time to develop another theory because they headed straight for me.

"You remember Olivia, don't you?" he asked Amanda.

"Of course. How are you?"

Before I could answer, Brad said, "I'll get you something to drink," and walked off.

I looked over Amanda's tasteful black designer original, wishing I'd stuffed the dress I wore into the ragbag that morning.

I skipped any small talk. "May I offer my congratulations? Brad tells me you'll probably become the new president of Hammond Jewelry."

"Yes." Her short answer, said with a smile like a well-fed alligator, disturbed me, but I plunged on.

"I like to see women elevated to important positions."

She snapped out an answer. "That they deserve."

I waited for her to elaborate on that, but she didn't. Was she always so abrupt? I asked myself again why, aside from her looks, Brad spent so much time with her. The girls he dated in high school had more often been editors of the yearbook than beauty queens.

I filled in what seemed to me an awkward silence. "I hear you've promoted Carl Novotny to executive assistant. Making changes already?"

"Is he here?" Eyes narrowing, she looked around the room.

"He's gone now."

She looked past me, as if trying to find someone more interesting in the crowd, and I realized we were the same height, yet she somehow managed to seem taller. I sucked in my stomach and pulled my shoulders back, feeling like a thirteen-year-old whose mother had just reminded her to stand up straight.

"He's been with the firm a long time. He's earned the promotion."

"Terrible about what happened to him the other night though." I searched her face for signs of emotion of some kind. Guilt, fear, pity, anything. Saw none.

"Yes." Again the short answer.

I had decided to ask her if she still felt Rose might have killed her husband, but just then, Brad returned carrying a drink for each of us. He handed one to Amanda and then took my arm to lead me away, as if he didn't want me spending too much time talking to the woman. Like in case I wanted to know how come he seemed to know her beverage preferences without asking.

He walked and talked. "I want to point out John Ziegler to you."

Then I
really
suspected his motive. Why did he want me to see the vice president? He'd already questioned the man and didn't consider him responsible for Harry's murder. Nevertheless, I accompanied Brad anyway.

"That's Ziegler." He made a small gesture with the glass in his left hand. The man was in his fifties, tall and husky, with hair that was going gray and a mustache that wasn't. He didn't look especially like my idea of a middle-class businessman. He seemed nervous. Why? Because he knew who killed Hammond?

Brad had only said he wanted me to
see
Ziegler and then disappeared, but I thought a conversation might be in order, so I went up to him and introduced myself. "I'm Olivia Grant, friend of the family."

"John Ziegler, from the company. This is my wife." He turned slightly toward the woman next to him, a chubby blonde, and I shook hands with both of them. Then I just stayed there and waited for him to say something. People always wanted to fill up silences. Heaven knows, I was often guilty of that myself, but that time I wanted to get information, not give it, so I just waited him out.

"Terrible thing, isn't it?" His voice held a slight trace of the South. "The murder, I mean."

"Yes. I understand you were there."

"At the banquet? Yeah, we were all there. In the dinin' room, that is. Didn't see anything. Awful lot of commotion, and then they started questionin' us."

"And in the office? Is Mr. Hammond's death causing problems?"

He gave me a look that said it was none of my business, which, at least in his mind, was true, but I counted his attitude as a strike against him. He could have at least said "yes," even if he didn't elaborate on it. Then he pulled a pack of cigarettes from his breast pocket and lit one, and I had one more reason to distrust him. With all the information out there about smoking, I figured people who did it were either careless about their own health or inconsiderate of others. Or did his grandpappy grow tobacco and hooked him as a young'un?

Nevertheless, I wanted to get back to Amanda. I backed away from Ziegler and found Brad again. "Where were you and Amanda before showing up here?"

"Nowhere. Don't be so suspicious." He took a long sip of his drink.

"Did you have to pressure her into coming?"

"Of course not."

"What's her relationship with Rose these days?"

"They're on speaking terms. Once, Rose might have suspected Hammond of having an affair with Amanda, but she's certainly not worried about that anymore."

"No," I muttered. "She has ten worse things to think about."

Brad drained his glass. "I'm going to mingle. See you later." He walked away.

Mingling, in detective's terms, I decided, was another word for investigating, so I put a smile on my face and went forth to pry.