Death on the Diagonal (22 page)

Belle propelled Gudgeon into the shouting throng, but he kept his eyes on the floor. “Is that her?” Belle prompted in a sotto voce tone as she positioned herself with her back to Dawn so that Gudgeon could look over her shoulder. He finally glanced up, staring goggle-eyed at the woman in the center of the copy meltdown.

“Sir? We need you to make a positive I.D. Whether you choose to pursue this or not, we need to be certain we’re on the right track.” Belle again whispered.

“No,” he murmured.

An expression Belle interpreted as utter confusion now covered his face.

“I . . . It’s not . . . It’s not her,” he added. “I’m sure of it.”

At that point, Dawn Davis caught sight of them. “What do you need? If it’s not photocopying, please go to the information desk for assistance.” The tone was both brusque and weary. In the midst of a busy morning, she had no time for confused customers taking up space.

“Mr. Gudgeon?” Belle pressed. “Can you positively state that this woman is
not
the Dawn Davis to whom you—?”

“I’m Dawn,” was the curt interruption. “What is it you want?” She instinctively glanced at her name tag, which only read
Dawn.
“How do you know my last name?”

Walt Gudgeon shook his head. “But you’re not the same young woman who—”

“Who what?” Dawn demanded.

Belle turned to face her. “Sorry, we have a friend named Dawn Davis . . . Just a coincidence.”

“Look, folks, I don’t want to be rude, but I’ve got work piling up here. I don’t know what you two want.” She paused for a second, studying them. “I’m guessing you’re not goons sent by the landlord. Ditto social services. My credit card’s paid up. The same for that heap of rusting metal the car dealer fobbed off on me.” Then Dawn leaned hard against the counter, oblivious to the howls for service surrounding her. “So state your business, or get in line with whatever copy order you’ve got. And if you’re looking for another lady named Davis, just move along, because it ain’t me.”

Noting her aggressive stance, and suspecting that the cat was out of the bag, Rosco quit his hiding place and came forward; while Dawn, at the same moment, spotted him. Her eyes narrowed, and she glared at Gudgeon and Belle. “What is this, pops?” she snarled at Gudgeon. “Are you in cahoots with this loony tune? I already warned him not to annoy me.”

At that, Gudgeon spun away and began striding briskly toward the exit. Belle and Rosco were a step behind him, and Dawn’s voice, calling loudly for the manager, followed a second later.

“It’s not her,” Gudgeon swore under his breath. “I’m going home. I never should have agreed to this ridiculous scheme. We did the electrical work on this building. There’s bound to be someone in here who’ll recognize me, and if my son . . .” He tore through the door and out into the parking lot, then turned on Rosco and Belle. “I want you to drop this investigation, Polycrates. Pretend you never met me. I don’t know where you dug up that woman in there, but as far as being a private investigator, I find you seriously lacking. And don’t waste any postage sending me a bill.”

“Her name is Dawn Davis,” was Rosco deliberate reply. “She had legitimate surgery for a damaged rotator cuff on September sixth, the same day you took your Dawn to the hospital for a kidney transplant.”

“Well, she’s not the young woman I know.” Gudgeon yanked open his car door.

“Does she at least resemble the person to whom you gave money?” Belle asked in her best “good cop” attitude.

“Hair and eyes are the same,” was the truculent response as Gudgeon climbed into his car. “And probably height and weight, too. Yeah, and age, I guess.” Then he turned the key in the ignition. “But that wasn’t Dawn. It’s not her face, and I’m insisting you get off this case,” were his parting words before he drove away.

Belle and Rosco watched the car speed off. “Actually, he can’t order me to abandon the investigation because he never paid me a nickel. I didn’t even get an advance from the guy,” Rosco observed after a moment.

Belle nodded although it was clear that her thoughts weren’t on her husband’s missing fees. “You know what’s bothering me about this? Other than the potential stolen identity problem, I mean . . . it’s a Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde sensation I’m getting about this Davis woman. It’s almost as if she’s two people herself, and then the counterfeit who duped Gudgeon is a third. Sara swears up and down that Dawn’s gentle and sweet, but that hasn’t been your experience—or mine.”

Rosco didn’t speak for a moment. “You realize that we’re both accepting the fact that Walter Gudgeon was telling us the truth about the woman in Papyrus not being the person he helped?”

“Right, but it’s a two-way street, Rosco. Dawn didn’t recognize him either.”

“These con people can be very slick.”

Belle cocked her head and looked at her husband. “And your point is?”

“Like I said, he could be lying.”

“But why would he do that?”

“Blackmail? Fear of being exposed for being a foolish guy who was conned by a pretty girl? Which would make the scene we just witnessed seem a heck of a lot more plausible. Gudgeon had cold feet before we went in there, remember? And Dawn played her part perfectly.”

Belle squinted in concentration. “He definitely didn’t want to look at her. I had to urge him to do so, and his reaction was closer to that of a kid caught stealing candy than a grown man confronting a woman who resembles someone he has more than a passing acquaintance with.”

“And then there’s the darker possibility that Gudgeon wanted to find Dawn because he plans to do her harm, either in retribution or for some even more sinister motive. We actually only have his word that he really gave her the $250,000. In other words, it’s possible that Dawn Davis isn’t the baddie in this; Gudgeon is. Either way, if we walk back in there, she’ll deny ever receiving the money, no matter what the truth is.”

Belle released a long and frustrated breath. “If you’re right, then we’re back to square one. And Sara’s still in danger . . . Any suggestions,
Mister
Polycrates?”

Rosco remained silent for another moment. “Maybe I need to explain the situation to Sara—”

“As opposed to your
junior
assistant?” was the needling response, but the feeling was more hurt than teasing.

Rosco’s tone when he answered was tender. “Sara’s relationship with you began on rocky ground, remember—?”

“That’s because she thought you were such a cute, young hunk,” Belle shot back. “And I was just an interfering word maven as well as a rival to her son in the crossword-puzzle wars.”

“I’m simply suggesting that you two may need to cool off for a bit. You’re incredibly close to Sara—as she is to you. Maybe your relationship is verging on a mother-daughter scenario, which in the Polycrates family can spell F-I-R-E-W-O-R-K-S. And I know from experience that those conflagrations can require—”

“A guy to put out the flames?” Belle asked.

“Let’s just say, a disinterested party is helpful to have on hand. And lots of water.”

Belle sighed anew. “Perhaps you’re right. Besides, women her age were raised to accept the fact that men called the shots. Maybe you can persuade her that Dawn Davis isn’t the guileless person she seems.”

“All I can do is try.”

“And apply a bit of the Polycrates charm,” Belle added with a small smile.

“The good thing is, the pressure is now on Dawn. If she’s guilty, she bolts, and we never see hide nor hair of her again. If she’s not the person who conned Gudgeon, she’ll show up at the Avon-Care center on Tuesday for her therapy.”

“Good point . . . I like the way you think.”

He put his arm around her waist. “Anything else?”

“I’ll let you know.” They began to walk to her car, and she added, “I meant to ask you, what was with the name Lexi?”

“I had to call you something, didn’t I?”

“And that was what you chose on the spur of the moment? Lex? You’ve been reading too many Batman comic books.”

“It’s from
lexicographomaniacal
, your ‘crazy about crosswords’ word. I thought you’d like it.”

“Oh,” was Belle crestfallen reply, “I was actually hoping your explanation would be that it rhymed with sexy.”

“Huh, I wish I’d thought of that . . . I guess it’s too late to change my answer, isn’t it?”

“What do you think?”

“If I answered yes, would I be correct?”

“One hundred percent, Mr. Disinterested-Party.”

26

The kitchen at Tulip House was a galley-type affair, seven feet long with beige countertops and matching cabinets on either side of a central walkway floored with ceramic tiles—a utilitarian work space that perfectly suited Jack Curry. Although he was a big man, he found the confined area much to his liking. Probably it was the horse trainer in him that enjoyed the total control he exerted over the room; nothing was more than a short step or an arm’s length away: stove, dishwasher, fridge, microwave, pots and pans, mixing bowls, knives, cutting board, sink; and he planned his meals as if arranging hurdles for a show, intermingling simpler tasks with those that required more concentration as though he were piquing a horse’s interest and enthusiasm.

At the moment he heard the knock on his front door, Jack was in the process of using a new chef ’s knife to dice a sweet green pepper destined for the western omelette he’d planned for dinner. Within easy reach were an onion, a late-season tomato, and chunk of yellow Vermont cheese, all of which would soon fall to the blade.

“Come on in,” he shouted. “The door’s unlocked.”

He returned to his work and looked up only when his visitor’s form appeared in the kitchen doorway. He shook his head slowly and gave a disapproving glance. “Not a good idea,
my partner in crime.
If we’re seen together alone too often, people might begin to talk.”

“As in, ‘What would the neighbors say?’ Is that it?”

Jack didn’t bother to respond; instead, he pushed aside the pepper and began to deftly peel the tomato.

“It’s dark. No one saw me.”

“Quite the stealthy critter, aren’t you?” He glanced at his visitor’s hands. “What’s with the gloves? Playing doctor tonight, are we?”

His unexpected guest also looked down at the gloves. “Blisters. They’re killing me. I guess I’ve been working too hard—”

“Blisters from overwork, there’s a joke. I didn’t think you knew what the phrase meant.” He gave a snide laugh and waved the tip of the knife in the air. “Come on over here. Let me show you how to make an omelette, Jack Curry style.” With his free hand, he reached up and lowered the window shade, while his guest walked over and leaned on the counter next to the stove.

“That’s the knife I gave you for your birthday . . .” The tone was suddenly wistful.

“Yep. It’s a beauty,” Jack replied. “And you know something? You’re the only one who remembered the big day.”

“The only one?”

“Surprising, ain’t it? Hell of a world we live in when
family
doesn’t care for its own.”

The response to this was an abrupt, “We’ve got to talk, Jack.”

He shrugged. “So, talk. Who do you want to be? Cleopatra? Ghengis Khan? Jack the Ripper . . . ? No, sorry. I forgot. That part’s always reserved for me.”

“Can that stuff, alright? Last night I woke up at three in the morning. I could see that damn puzzle in my head clear as day. And you know what, Jack? I didn’t like what I saw.”

His casual, “Which one?” had a disingenuous tone. He returned his concentration to the cutting board.

“Don’t get cute. It doesn’t become you.”

“Okay, so fine, we don’t make any more word games. You told me the last one was the end for you, anyway. So be it.”

“It’s a little late for that, Jacko. The cat’s out of the bag—as you well know. Did you think I was too stupid to discover what you laid out in those dumb black and white squares? You don’t think I noticed that you were straddling both sides of the fence?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. You helped make the puzzles, right? You drew ’em out with your own fingers.”

“Don’t double-cross me, Jack. I know a lot more than you think I do.”

“Goody for you.”

“Like who killed Ryan, for one thing.”

Jack’s response to this statement was to open the refrigerator door. There was no indication he’d heard a word that was said. “I know there’s cilantro in here somewhere,” he muttered to himself. “Nothing better than fresh cilantro for a nice, fresh tang . . . found it . . . good . . . Well, so, enlighten me. Who killed the lovely Ryan? Was it you? Should I be shaking in my boots?”

“Is that part of your plan? To set me up as her murderer? You’d be better off killing me, too—”

Jack reached out and pulled his guest so close their faces nearly touched. “If you don’t know what you’re talking about, you’d be well advised to keep your mouth shut.”

“I saw you, Jack. I was there.”

“Saw me? Saw me what?”

“Let me go. I can’t breathe—”

“I thought that was how you liked it.”

“Well, I don’t anymore.”

Curry released his grip; the gesture was both defiant and all-powerful. “ ‘Don’t hurt me, Jacko. I don’t like it anymore, ’ ” he mimicked as he returned to his task, but his guest’s hurried words ignored the insult.

“Sunday night. I saw you slip out the back door of the Big House. It didn’t take a brain trust to put two and two together the next morning when Ryan turned up dead.”

Jack placed the knife on the cutting board. “You’re suggesting I
killed
Ryan? Is that it?”

“I’m not
suggesting
anything. I know you did. But I don’t care. She’s gone, and we’re all happier because of it. But you’d better not buck me, or I’ll go to that Lever jerk with everything I know.”

Jack laughed. It was a hearty, self-satisfied sound. “You’re crazy. You’ve got no proof. It’s your word against mine, and we all know how much Pop C. admires me. Besides, if you saw me leave—or
think
you saw me leave—that places you at the murder scene, too, doesn’t it?”