Dead Men's Tales (Olivia Grant Mysteries Book 2) (17 page)

The assistant manager's "really early," it turned out, meant ten, which I learned when I telephoned the video store the next morning and got a recorded message. I arrived just before the hour and found a young woman unlocking the door. This one appeared to be in her late teens or early twenties, with hair of a red color that Mother Nature never imagined, a golden tan and firm body, dressed in a short, tight skirt and skimpy tank top. I remembered the time I, too, had a body like hers. Unfortunately, in those days I didn't consider it "cool" to flaunt it, so who knew?

She entered first and held the door open for me, not from any respect for my age—although young people
always
know when someone is old enough to be their mother—but because the box into which customers had dropped movies after store hours blocked the door and kept it from opening all the way. As soon as I squeezed through, she pushed the box farther away, and I told her I had come to see Mr. Woo.

"Oh, he'll be in any minute," she assured me.

She disappeared into the back of the store, then returned to the box of tapes and DVDs and systematically unloaded it. She stacked as many of the small plastic containers in her arms as she could handle and then carried them to the counter. When all of them had been transferred, she took the videotapes out of the boxes, apparently to be sure they were rewound. The DVDs didn't need to be checked.

I watched her for a few minutes, wondering how she returned them to their rightful places. Who determined, for instance, when a new release became an old release and could be put with comedy, satire, or whatever, and who decided what was a thriller, mystery, or drama? If just any employee could replace them, it seemed to me that films could get lost even easier than books in a library. At least libraries had the Dewey Decimal System. However, before I could ask the young lady, the phone rang, and she picked it up.

I moved a few feet away from the counter and waited. When she hung up, I opened my mouth to ask my question, but she beat me to it.

"Mr. Woo has been delayed and won't be in until three this afternoon."

I'm not a cursing woman, but I seriously considered expanding my vocabulary for the occasion. Instead, I thanked her, told her I'd be back at three, and walked out of the store. I wondered if detecting was always this difficult, if the people you needed to see were always somewhere else. Brad had warned me that mainly boring stuff, like finding people and asking them questions, made up the bulk of his days, but I thought a murder case would be different. Instead, except for dinners with Carl, I seemed to do nothing but try to interview other individuals.

I called Brad at his apartment, waking him up. "The video store owner is delayed until three, so I won't be back until late this afternoon."

"Huh? Oh, okay, whatever you say."

"Anything happening up there I should know about?"

"Uh, no, I don't think so." Then, in a brighter voice, "Oh yeah, I went into the office yesterday and found a message for you on voicemail. From Novotny."

I tried not to sound too eager. "What did he say?"

"Let me think. It seemed a little strange, so I'll try to repeat it verbatim." He cleared his throat. "'I need to see you. I've done a stupid thing. I'll come to your office Monday morning.'"

"A stupid thing," I repeated. "What do you suppose he meant by that?"

"I haven't the foggiest. I thought you'd know."

I hoped Carl didn't mean our exchanging a few kisses Friday night. If anyone should feel stupid about it, it was yours truly, but I didn't. So there.

"Well, thanks. See you later."

Putting my cell phone away, I walked up the street wondering what Carl meant, finally deciding not to speculate and just put it out of my mind for a while. However, how could I kill almost five hours? I'd had breakfast, it was too early for lunch, and I'd already checked out of the hotel. As I'd discovered before, except for the video store, that area of town boasted nothing but jewelry and antique shops, with an occasional expensive restaurant thrown in, not my idea of a way to muddle through five hours. I'd have given a tidy sum for a bookstore but didn't find any. Still, it was Tinsel Town, wasn't it? The home of Hollywood and the movies? Surely, an open movie theater lurked somewhere nearby.

Two blocks away, I spotted one, but every film they were showing carried the label "action adventure" with no doubt more bombs and explosions than a genuine war. My main quarrel with such films was the sound, which I felt sure could be heard in Brazil. Teenagers sold you the tickets in the theater, then collected them from you, sold you the popcorn in the lobby, and swept it up afterward, right? And they were all deaf from playing their iPods at decibels that could crack the sound barrier, so they turned up the movie volume to compensate. That, I didn't need. When I planned to see a movie, I took along a wad of cotton to put in my ears, and I didn't have any in my purse that day.

Instead, I went back to the hotel and browsed in their lobby shops without buying anything. I perused the latest fashions in resort wear, but the only outfits I really admired would have required a hefty bank loan. Eventually, I had lunch in their dining room, where I chose a small salad, then went into the lobby to sit on one of their deep plush chairs. At least I didn't look out of place. I'd chosen my best suit for that trip, a plum-colored wool that I'd bought for my wedding to Lamar. I remembered reasoning that my first wedding dress had been white satin and cost my father at least a month's salary, so I ought to spend a similar amount on an outfit for my second trip to the altar, lest anyone think I didn't care enough. If I'd known what was going to happen to that marriage, I'd have chosen sackcloth.

I glanced through
Architectural Digest
and looked at my watch for the tenth time. Then a well-dressed, middle-aged woman sat down next to me. I looked over at her briefly, and she took that as an opening for conversation.

"Are you staying here?"

It seemed a strange question, but I answered, "Yes." Well, I
had
stayed the night, hadn't I? And for all I knew, circumstances might require me to spend another night there.

"Alone?"

This seemed altogether too inquisitive. If she'd been a man instead of a plump dowager type with a gorgeous mauve suede coat over a matching dress, I'd have been up and away at the speed of a Derby winner. Instead, I just said, "Yes," and waited to hear what she'd ask next.

"Are you waiting for someone?"

"No. I need to go out later, but I'm too early." Full of curiosity now, I asked, "Are you waiting for someone?"

"Yes, my bridge partner. Four of us meet here for our usual Sunday bridge game, and she's late. I can't imagine what's keeping her." A pause while she frowned and fiddled with a diamond-studded watch that adorned her wrist along with equally jewel-bedecked bracelets. "Do you play bridge?" she asked next.

Do I play bridge? Do I love the game and even teach part-time? I merely smiled and answered, "Yes, I do."

Another pause. "Would you mind waiting here a moment, while I make a call?"

"No, I don't mind."

She went away and came back two minutes later with an even deeper frown on her face than before. "I don't mean to intrude, and please feel free to say, 'No,' but I wondered if you'd do me a huge favor?" She resumed her seat.

"If I can."

She leaned toward me and spoke quickly. "I've just learned that my partner isn't able to come today after all."

"I'm sorry to hear that." Having been in that position myself, I recognized the disappointment she felt, and by then, I also knew her next question, but I just smiled and let her ask it anyway.

"I wondered if you might be willing to take her place. Just for a few hours."

I looked at my own watch. "I'll be happy to." I could have added that her invitation not only saved me from three hours of boredom but couldn't have pleased me more.

She grinned and looked delighted. "Oh, thank you. You'll make three old widows very happy." She paused. "Oh by the way, my name is Beatrice Franklin."

"Olivia Grant."

She popped up from the seat then. "Not to rush you, but the others are already seated in the card room."

I stood, and together we walked down the lushly carpeted hall and into a small private room that faced a garden full of flowers that had no business blooming that time of year. Mrs. Franklin—I assumed she was a Mrs.—introduced me to two other silver-haired ladies wearing Barbara Bush pearls and ages somewhere between eighty and death.

One deck of cards already lay fanned out across the table, and after greeting me, they urged me to sit and passed me a dish of candy, which, since it wasn't chocolate, I managed to decline.

I won't bore you with the hands. If you don't play bridge, you won't understand or care anyway. Suffice it to say that I held my own. In spite of their advanced age, eyesight that had declined to the level of squash, and arthritic hands, the ladies played very well, reinforcing my belief that games, especially bridge, which requires considerable skill, keeps one's mind from atrophy.

However, the important thing is not so much that I played well as what happened afterward. Scores were totaled, and I had won 2020 more points than the others. I smiled, thanked the ladies for a lovely afternoon, and got to my feet.

Mrs. Franklin stopped me before I could leave the table. "Wait, we haven't given you your winnings."

Winnings? Nobody had said anything about winnings. I looked around and saw the ladies dig into their purses, bringing out wads of cash. Cash they proceeded to push in my direction. Two-thousand-twenty dollars, to be precise.

"But," I sputtered, "you didn't say we were playing for money."

"Oh, did I forget? We always play for money. Don't we, girls? One dollar a point. It's so much more interesting that way."

"But I couldn't," I protested. "I'm not a regular. I just—"

"Nonsense. You played well, and it's the rule." She scooped up the bills and, opening my purse which I'd left on my chair, stuffed them inside. All the time smiling as if she loved paying out that kind of money.

In fact, maybe she did. People who will play cards for a dollar a point must have lots of it to throw around. Her outfit and the hotel they played in should have warned me.

I backed out of the room in a daze, hailed a cab, and was halfway back to the video store before I suddenly thought of something horrible. What if I had lost instead of won? What if I had to come up with even a quarter of that much money? I nearly fainted right there in the taxi.

Thanks to my unexpected bridge game, I returned to the video store about five minutes past three, and the manager, Mr. Woo, true to his word, had already arrived at the store. The cab ride having restored my equilibrium, I produced one of my Featherstone cards, which he read through round-rimmed glasses that matched his round face. I told him my reason for coming.

"Mr. Woo, I'd like to ask you a few questions about a man who may have been a customer of yours last Saturday."

As I spoke, I pulled Harry Hammond's picture from my purse. That dislodged some of the bills Mrs. Franklin had stuffed in it, and I suddenly found myself kneeling on the floor to pick them up. Mr. Woo was polite and helped, giving me a look which hinted that, despite my card, I must be a small-time drug dealer.

That done, I stuffed the bills into the zippered compartment of my purse, and he glanced at Harry's picture for a few seconds. He pointed with a pudgy finger. "You're asking if I know this man?"

"Yes, do you recognize him?" I felt uncomfortable doing business in the middle of his store and wished he'd suggest we go back to his office or somewhere else, but he didn't. He looked me over suspiciously, as if afraid to be alone with me, as if he thought I carried a pistol in another part of my bag.

I smiled my most innocent smile. "I'm not sure the man came here, but it's very likely. We're trying to trace his whereabouts last Saturday, and I have reason to believe he came into your store around noon to have a videotape copied."

Woo took the photo and studied it, then handed it back so quickly I doubted he'd ever seen him before. "Yes, the gentleman was here."

I took a deep breath and felt my lips turning up in a smile. Good ol' intuition. "And did he come to copy a videotape?"

"Yes and no. Come into my office." Although shorter than I was and probably weighing less, Mr. Woo apparently decided I wasn't dangerous after all. He turned and headed down the hall toward the back of the shop, and I followed.

As I walked, my optimism returned. The earlier delay had proven frustrating, but once again, I felt my intuition was batting a thousand.

Mr. Woo entered a doorway on the left of the hall, and we entered a small windowless office wallpapered with giant movie posters. He went behind the desk and turned his computer on but didn't sit down or suggest I do. So we stood and waited. I felt as if I were in the middle of a gaggle of movie stars. Rambo larger than life. Marilyn with her windblown skirt billowing. Mr. Woo touched some keys, waited again, and touched a few more. "Mr. Hammond, yes."

"Yes," I repeated. "Did Mr. Hammond make the copy himself, or did you or someone else do it for him?"

He read from the screen. "Miss Bartholomew usually makes copies, but we were very busy that day. I made it for him myself."

"Mr. Hammond didn't wait for it to be made?"

"No. I told him to come back in one hour. He agreed to do that. He said he would have lunch in the restaurant across the street."

I grinned. "In that case, you saw the tape. Can you tell me what was on it?"

He looked over at me. "I like to cooperate, you see, but I cannot tell you about the tape. That was none of my business."

"I understand." I did understand. He copied the videotape but didn't watch it during the process. He just did the job as quickly as possible with no snooping or so he said, but I needed to know more. "Can you describe the tape you copied? Did it have a name anywhere on it?"

"No, I didn't see a name. I think perhaps a number." He thought a moment. "Yes, a number and the letter
H
."

H
for Hammond, perhaps. I repeated it for Mr. Woo just to be sure. "You don't remember the number?"

"No."

"Mr. Hammond left the videotape with you to copy and went away for an hour or so, is that right?"

"That's correct. He returned, I gave him the tapes, and he paid me. That is all." He touched some more keys on the keyboard and looked up at me again, smilingly confident he'd told me everything.

"Did you make a copy of the tape to keep for your store records?"

"Oh, no. I gave him the only copy."

Certain I had all the information I could possibly learn, I thanked him for his cooperation and asked him to call if he thought of anything else. We shook hands, and I left the store.

Going back to the corner, I looked for a cab at the same time I pulled out my cell phone and called Brad's number. Voicemail picked up on the fourth ring, and, miffed that he didn't answer, I left a cryptic message, saying I had news but offering no details.

Then I headed for the airport where I discovered I'd have to wait until nine p.m. to get a flight back. I spent that enforced delay in the gate area, alternately reading a paperback book I bought at the newsstand and people-watching. Judging by the clothing worn by the passengers waiting to catch flights to San Francisco, jeans with holes in the knees were still in fashion, and a trip of less than five hundred miles required you to bring two carry-ons and a garment bag the size of a sofa.

Flying was very tiring. Don't ask me why. All you did was sit in a seat. You should get up refreshed, but it didn't seem to work that way. Maybe it was due to breathing last month's air. Thank goodness they didn't let people smoke in airplanes anymore. I mean, who were they kidding with that "non-smoking area" thing? Didn't some comic say that a non-smoking area in an airplane was like having a "no-pee" zone in a swimming pool?

Of course, it was almost eleven by the time I deplaned, walked through the terminal and the parking garage, and drove south. Yet, I didn't go straight home. First, I went to the Residence Inn and knocked on the door of bungalow four. No answer. Then, I inquired at their front office for Mr. Novotny and learned he'd checked out that morning. I drove to his house and rang the doorbell repeatedly, but no one answered there either. I didn't relish the idea of having to wait until the next morning, and my worry grew exponentially.

*   * *

On Monday morning, the sky, gray and gloomy, dripped rain. I hadn't been able to fall asleep for a long while the night before and then woke up at six feeling hungry, remembering I'd had no dinner. At six-thirty I gave up trying to go back to sleep and showered and dressed. Although I seldom wore them to the office, I put on a skirt and high heels because I expected to see Carl that morning. My breakfast consisted of orange juice, cereal, and a banana that was softer than I liked. I decided I still had time, so I lingered over the newspaper, actually reading all the comics as well as headlines, Dear Abby, and the bridge column.

Finally, still too early but anxious to see Carl, I left my suburban split-level and drove to the office. I parked my car, scampered into the building through the drizzle, and took the elevator up to the fourth floor. Since few renters occupied the offices, the building's owner provided no Muzak, and only the hum of the mechanism accompanied me.

And then I heard two loud cracks. For a minute, I thought something had happened to the elevator and I would be plunged to the basement and lie in a crumpled heap of broken bones until someone found me days later. My heart raced, and my breathing accelerated. However, the elevator came to a smooth stop, and the doors opened. I looked around before getting out. Where had the sound come from, inside or outside? A car crash?

I stepped out and walked down the hall, my heels clicking loudly on the hard floor. I smelled a strange odor, like smoke but different. Then I rounded the corner to the corridor toward our office. One look and my panic came back. A man lay sprawled on the tile, his body blocking our door.

That was more déjà vu than I needed. Less than a week before, I'd come upon a man in the same condition. You tell yourself things like that happened to other people, not you. And then it did happen to you. Adrenaline pumped, my heart pounded. I dropped my purse, keys, and raincoat and ran toward him. My head felt as if it would explode. I knew then what had made that cracking sound.

I reached the body and stooped down. Once more, I looked into Carl Novotny's face, but this time I saw what I presumed to be a bullet hole in his head, another in his neck. He wasn't just knocked out this time. He was dead.