Dead Men's Tales (Olivia Grant Mysteries Book 2) (19 page)

I tore out of the room and barged into Brad's office as if the killer were right behind me with a hatchet.

My voice sounded like panting. "I know who did it. I know who committed the murder."

"Take it easy. Slow down. You look like you just saw a ghost."

"I did. I mean I remembered something from yesterday."

"What about yesterday?" His eyes widened. "You mean you
saw
the murderer?"

"No." I sat down opposite him and took some deep breaths. I'd do this calmly and logically. "First, remember I said I heard the gunshot while I was in the elevator?"

"Yes, but you said you didn't recognize it as a gunshot at the time."

"No, I didn't. I thought it might have been two cars colliding."

"I doubt you could have heard that from inside the elevator."

"Whatever. Anyway, the elevator reached the fourth floor a second later, so I thought perhaps the noise had come from up here. When I rounded the corner, I saw Carl." I had to stop and get control of myself. With a mighty effort, I pushed the grisly image out of my mind.

Brad spoke softly. "You already told me that."

"And I got sick and went into the ladies' room."

"Yes. Go on."

"And this morning, when I went back in there, I suddenly realized the difference between now and yesterday. Yesterday it smelled of smoke."

"So?"

He didn't get it.

"At nine in the morning, how could the ladies' room have smelled of smoke? You know nobody uses that room but me." I paused for dramatic effect. "That means the murderer might have been in there at the same time. He could have killed me too."

"Calm down. Aside from the smell of smoke, what makes you think anyone hid in there?"

"It stands to reason. After he shot Carl, he must have heard me coming. I wore heels, and I remember they sounded awfully loud in the hallway. So he looked around for the quickest doorway to duck into. He hid in there so I wouldn't see him."

"So how did he get out without anyone noticing?"

"He could have waited until I left and then came out later when other people started arriving. He could have mingled with the crowd."

Brad paused, rubbing his chin. "If you're right about it, you were in big danger." He frowned. "But you said you knew who killed Novotny."

"Well, not really, but the killer must have been a smoker. He wouldn't have been smoking at that moment, but the smell lingers on their clothes."

"Which of the suspects smokes?"

"John Ziegler, for one. I remember he smoked a cigarette in Rose's house after the funeral. I thought it very inconsiderate of him."

"Maybe Rose smokes too. I thought I saw ashtrays sitting around."

"She didn't smoke back when we were close friends, and people generally don't
start
the habit in middle age. That's when they quit. The ashtrays are probably left over from the days when people used fancy ones as decoration. She may think they're too pretty to put away."

"Okay, who else?"

"James Powell. When I interviewed him as he left the television station, he lit one the moment he went out the door, as if he couldn't wait to suck some nicotine."

"Except that both worked for jewelry companies, I haven't been able to find a link between his company and Hammond's. What's the motive for the murder?" He paused. "Did Novotny smoke?"

"No, I'm pretty sure he didn't. We had dinner twice, and smokers love to light up after eating. I didn't notice any smoke on his clothes either. Besides, he was dead by the time I smelled smoke in the ladies' room. And he had no reason to go into it when there's a men's room down the hall."

"So why wouldn't the murderer have used the men's room to hide in?"

"The murderer heard me coming down the hall and might have thought he couldn't reach it before I'd see him."

"Of course a woman would naturally use the ladies' room," Brad said.

"Amanda."

"She doesn't smoke."

He'd dashed my hopes again. "Well, I don't think Debra does because I didn't see any ashtrays in her office."

Before I could say any more, he came up with a question. "What did you think of Epstein's information?"

My brain switched to what I'd heard half an hour before. "I think it's the most promising lead we have."

"I do too. I've also narrowed the list down to Ziegler or Powell. Not that I'm necessarily buying the smoker-as-killer theory, but as it happens, I planned to do more thorough background checks on the two of them."

"You already investigated Ziegler, and I interviewed Powell."

"Interviewed, yes, but I need to do more thorough checking on both of them."

"Let me help."

He thought for a long time. "Okay, which do you want, Ziegler or Powell?"

"Ziegler," I said promptly. "After all, you talked to Ziegler before, and I talked to Powell. If we switch places, maybe we'll each learn something the other didn't."

"I don't anticipate necessarily talking to either of them. What we need to do is find out where they lived and what they did before they were given their present positions."

"Skeletons in the closet, you mean." I grinned. "I can do that."

"As a starting point, call Amanda's secretary, and ask her for the company file on John Ziegler. Depending on how much information he provided when he was hired, you may have to look further back."

The thought of acting the sleuth again, doing something positive to take my mind off Carl, pumped me with sudden energy. I leapt to my feet and headed for the outer office again, eager to get started.

*   * *

I'm not a telephone person. I preferred to talk to people face to face, especially if I had to ask questions. So I just jumped in my car and drove to Hammond headquarters. Brad's notes had listed the secretary's name, Toni Varig, so I asked for her immediately. Good secretaries being the helpful, efficient folk they were, she was in and available to see me.

Except that this particular secretary looked anything but helpful. Young, yes. Pretty, yes. Yet, as I should have suspected, as cool as Amanda herself. In fact, her pulled-in-a-bun hair and pinched face made me wonder if she'd been ill. However, the firmness of her jaw, straight line of her lips, and sharp glint in her eye, gave me the impression she would never allow any germs to invade her body.

Mindful that I wanted information and would have to use sweet talk to obtain any, I put on a broad smile. "I'm Olivia Grant, an associate of Brad Featherstone." She knew who
he
was.

No return smile but at least a polite response. "How can I help you?"

"Mr. Featherstone said you'd be able to supply some information about Mr. Ziegler, the vice president."

Although I'd have thought she'd question his being a suspect in Hammond's murder, she didn't even comment on the possibility.

"What kind of information?"

"The résumé he submitted for employment and his personnel file."

She frowned. "I'm afraid that information is confidential."

"Oh dear." I tried to sound upset and bewildered. "Mr. Featherstone assured me that Ms. Dillon wanted very much to assist in the investigation of Mr. Hammond's, er, untimely death."

"What does Mr. Ziegler's personnel file have to do with that?" Her cold tone made me expect ice cubes to slip out of her mouth suddenly.

"It's just routine, actually. That's why he sent me. I handle these minor matters, and it will only take a few minutes." I tried to look confident. "I'm sure Ms. Dillon would want you to cooperate."

Ms. Varig frowned some more, reached for the phone, and punched in a few numbers. She drummed her fingers while waiting. "A Mrs. Grant is here and says Mr. Featherstone requested—"

She listened for a while, said, "Very well," and hung up. "Excuse me while I get the file."

While I waited for her return, I speculated on why she'd given in. Was that Amanda she'd spoken to? Did Amanda say I had been added to the approved list for getting what I wanted? Lucky me for having a brother who cozied with the boss lady. Probably too cozy, but I didn't want to think of that.

When the secretary returned, a thin folder in hand, she warned me that the file couldn't be removed from her office. I might look in it but not remove anything.

I decided that arguing would be fruitless and not in mine or Brad's best interests. I felt pleased even to see the thing and smiled to indicate I'd obey her instructions. While my left hand opened the folder on the edge of her desk, my right hand dove into my purse for my pen and small, spiral-bound notebook.

I went straight for the oldest papers, and as I hoped, the bottom sheet was a résumé. Using the shorthand system I'd taught myself at fifteen, I made notes of the jobs Ziegler had held before coming to Hammond Jewelers, together with the dates of same. The other papers—and there were few of them—were interoffice memos regarding salary raises. Apparently, Ziegler had been doing a good job. Bully for him.

I closed the folder, pushed it across the desk, and stuffed my notebook and pen back in my purse. "Thank you so much," I gushed. "I'm sure Mr. Featherstone will be most grateful."

I left before I wanted to throw up.

I didn't wait to go back to the office to read what I'd written. It being a few light-years since I'd taken my own shorthand lesson, I wanted to read it while it was still fresh in my mind. I wanted to write out the names of Ziegler's previous employers, instead of relying on my penciled squiggles. So I sat in my car, updating the entries and studying them.

His earliest employment had been quite a long time before. Judging by his age and the dates, I figured those were part-time jobs while in college. Then, two more listings of short duration, both in New York City and, finally, a responsible job with a Wall Street stock brokerage. I soon noticed a gap in time between that job and his coming to Hammond. What was he doing those two years? Either no one at Hammond asked before they hired him, or he had a logical explanation that satisfied the powers that be. Only not yours truly.

Since I didn't think the expense account would pop for my flying to New York, I was forced to rely on the telephone after all, and I had to hurry, as they were three hours ahead of us, time-wise. I pulled out my cell phone and called the Wall Street brokerage. Hours later—or so it seemed—and at least four different recorded messages instructing me to press this for that, I finally heard a human voice and asked my question about John Ziegler's employment there. Then I waited another hour or maybe ten minutes, while a person of the female persuasion checked the records. She would tell me nothing.

"I'm sorry, but this record is confidential, and I'm not allowed to give out any information."

"Look, all I want to know is did Mr. John Ziegler work for your company, when, and for how long?" I also wanted to know the circumstances under which he left, but I was certain she would offer none of that, even if I were to ask.

"I'm sorry. I'm not allowed to say anything." With that she hung up, thereby getting rid of me.

My inventive mind substituted conjecture for the missing facts, and since we suspected him anyway, at least I did, I decided the man had something to hide.

Furthermore, that explained the company's reluctance to divulge information. In these litigious times, it was dangerous to say anything derogatory about someone, even if true. Still, what made Ziegler leave, and where could I find out? I had zero contacts on Wall Street or in all of New York, for that matter. In fact, I knew of no one in the Bay Area who could help either.

Oh, yes I did. Debra Hammond worked for an investment advisor, a very savvy one to hear her tell it. I'd ask her.

Once more, I turned to my cell phone, called Debra, and asked if I could see her for a few minutes. I could.

As I drove, I perfected my pitch, and seated in her office, I put it to her as a serious matter, the results of which might enable us to nab her father's killer.

"Let me get this straight," she said. "You want me to find out why John Ziegler left his Wall Street firm with a confidential job folder and two years of, apparently, no gainful employment?"

"Right."

"I never heard of John Ziegler's previous job. He's been with Daddy's company for a long time."

"I don't want to cast unfounded suspicion on anyone, but as I'm sure you know, everyone is a suspect in your father's murder, and the sooner we know everything about their background, the sooner we can eliminate them."

"Well, I can't help you. I don't know anything. I never even knew he worked on Wall Street before he came here."

I had my second question ready. "Isn't your boss, Mr. Yarnow, a, shall we say, expert in the financial field."

"You think he might have heard of Ziegler and know why he left that Wall Street firm?"

"It's possible."

"Why would he want to provide that information to me?"