Murder as a Second Language (29 page)

I gave him the notepaper. “This is his license plate.”

“Very nice. Please wait in my office while I go deal with this.”

I replayed the conversation with Rashad until I could almost recite it backward, which was a neat trick but of no significance. Peter did not arrive to embrace me tightly and swear to defend my honor. Five minutes inched by. Jorgeson had forgotten to flip over the page on his wall calendar. The plant on his desk was in peril of losing its leaves. I was in peril of losing my mind. I was reducing to drumming my fingers on my knee when Jorgeson returned.

He shook his head sadly as he consulted a paper. “The young man may have lied to you, Ms. Malloy. According to the vehicle registration, his name is Hamdan bin Zayed Al Marktoum. We ran his name by the CIS. He's from Syria and has been in this country for about three years. He became a citizen last month. His record is pristine, not even a parking ticket. He currently lives in a condo out by the golf course. The DMV faxed over his driver's license. Is this the man?”

I squinted at the blurry image. “I think so.”

“You still need to work with the sketch artist in the conference room. Would you like some coffee before you sit down with him?”

His solicitude was so fishy that I could smell it. I suspected that someone else in the department wanted to keep me occupied for several hours. “Maybe I'll pop in on Peter and let him know I'm here,” I said.

“He's in a meeting with the chief to evaluate the situation. We don't want to call in Homeland Security if this Zayed fellow isn't involved with certain unsavory groups.”

I mumbled something and let him escort me to the conference room. The sketch artist, a middle-aged man with a bald head, looked at me expectantly. I sank down in the nearest chair and closed my eyes. I'd overreacted in the restaurant and was now about to create an international incident. I imagined the residents of Farberville gathered around City Hall, angrily demanding to know about bomb threats and armed terrorists. The airport and the college campus would be closed. City Hall would be guarded by heavily armed soldiers. Barricades would go up for no apparent reason. Grocery stores would be emptied of bread, milk, batteries, and DVD rentals.

I gave the man a vague smile and left the room to find Peter. If ever there was a need for damage control, this was it. Officers who recognized me ducked into the closest rooms; those who didn't ignored me. When I saw the chief's office, I barged inside. The room was empty. Taken aback, I studied the chairs and small sofa as if Peter and the chief had concealed themselves under the mismatched throw pillows. I was so unhinged that I went around the chief's desk to make sure they weren't tucked in the kneehole. “You need to calm down,” I said aloud, hoping I'd pay attention to my own voice. “You need to sit down and breathe until you come to your senses.”

“I do?” Jorgeson said from the doorway.

“No, I do. Where did they go? I need to speak to them now. This whole thing is out of control. Rashad—I mean Hamdan—didn't wave a gun under my nose or show me bombs in his backpack. He didn't even have a backpack!”

Jorgeson put his hands on my shoulders. “I don't guess you need more caffeine right now, Ms. Malloy. How about a cup of herbal tea instead? Don't tell anyone, but I have an electric teapot in my office. Mrs. Jorgeson says it helps my digestion.”

“I need to speak to them,” I repeated mulishly.

“Well, that may be difficult just now. The chief left for a scheduled meeting with the mayor. Deputy Chief Rosen has gone to talk to the local FBI boys. Come with me, Ms. Malloy. I'll make some tea and we'll have a nice chat, just the two of us. I hear you want to put in a greenhouse. Mrs. Jorgeson has the very same idea, so I did some research about wood and metal frames.” He took my wrist and gave a little tug. “We'll talk about lily ponds, too.”

No white-coated attendants appeared with a straightjacket. I allowed myself to be led to his office and seated in a chair. I accepted a cup of tea. It tasted like rain-barrel water. An idea of sorts came to mind. “Is there a file on Omario, the man I saw with Leslie in the sports bar?”

“I feel confident there is, Ms. Malloy.”

“Might I have a look at it?”

“Deputy Chief Rosen gave me explicit instructions not to show you any files or reports involving this case. He said you might be looking for a culinary school. There are only a couple in Farberville, but the college has a bachelor's degree in culinary arts. You might find some classes that appeal.”

Jorgeson wasn't a stone wall; he was more of a chain-link fence. I smiled. “That's a good idea. I'll look online when I get home. Thank you for the tea and the suggestion. After I take some classes, we'll have you and Mrs. Jorgeson over for dinner. You can admire my knife skills.”

“We'd like that, Ms. Malloy.”

“One other little thing, if you don't mind. It doesn't have anything to do with the investigation, I promise. Gregory Whistler's wife, Rosie, died in an accident two years ago. He was all choked up when he told me. I felt awful that I didn't know about it, even though there must have been something in the local newspaper. Could you have a quick look on your computer and tell me what happened?”

“Deputy Chief Rosen will not be happy with me.”

“Then we won't tell him, will we? I just felt so helpless when Gregory started crying and I wasn't able to comfort him. I don't need to read the file.”

Jorgeson gave me a wry look as he turned to his computer. After a minute, he said, “Her body was found in their bathtub, under the water. The medical examiner declared it an accident as a courtesy to her spouse. She'd taken a massive dose of her prescribed antidepressants and drunk a bottle of wine. The officers spoke to her psychiatrist, with Whistler's permission, and he acknowledged that she was depressed and potentially suicidal.”

“There's no way Whistler could have … assisted her?”

Jorgeson continued reading the monitor. “No, he'd gone to a conference in Boston two days earlier. The woman's closest friends were interviewed, and they all said they were worried about her. She'd stopped going out with them and hadn't attended any parties or benefits. One of them said that she'd discussed her concern with Whistler, and that neither of them could figure out what to do.” He pushed a key to send the file back to the netherworld. “There you have it, Ms. Malloy.”

“Our little secret. If the sketch artist is still here, I'm ready to meet with him. If not, give me a box of crayons and I'll do my best.”

I waited while Jorgeson picked up his phone and inquired if Mr. Rimski was available. He was. I returned to the conference room and sat down next to dear Mr. Rimski. I was surprised that he had a laptop rather than a piece of charcoal and a pad of paper. I spent the next hour doing my best and, with his painfully patient encouragement, was pleased with the result.

“You know,” I said as I picked up my purse, “you could be a billionaire if you could apply your technique to real people. Men and women would be pounding on your door, demanding you make their ears smaller and their noses straighter.”

“I'll look into it,” he said in a gloomy voice.

*   *   *

I was delighted to be back in the sunshine. I had new leads, some of which might be productive. I leaned against my car and looked across the street. The only black car was so battered that it might have lost at a demolition derby. It was also unoccupied. I took out my cell phone and called Rick's number. Five rings and voice mail. My next call was to Frances North, who was gracious enough to answer.

“This is Claire. Have you heard from Willie?”

“I spoke to her sister, who came last night from Tulsa. Willie is doing better, although they have her on a respirator as a precaution. The doctor hasn't said when she'll be released. I sent flowers from the board.” Her voice hardened. “Who did this to her? Do the police have any suspects?”

“Everyone who was at the potluck is a suspect. Did you talk to Willie?”

“Of course I talked to Willie,” she said. “I made a point of speaking to everyone, including the students. I complimented Willie on her chicken salad, even though I know where she bought it. Did you try my macaroni salad? It's my grandmother's recipe.”

“It was divine. I need to ask you something else, Frances. You held an executive meeting on Thursday, right?”

“Yes, at my house. Sonya, Willie, Drake and I discussed the budget crisis over coffee.” She stressed the beverage. “Sonya continued to voice support for Gregory and made the point that we've had this problem for the last several years. Drake disagreed and said that Gregory needs to step down if he's incapable of organizing the accounts. Willie kept talking about the phone bills. I don't know what she thought we ought to do.” She hesitated. “I thought Willie might have had a martini or two in her chambers before she came to the meeting.”

“Oh,” I said as if scandalized. “You may be right. Did you see her talking to anyone in particular at the potluck.”

“Let me think,” she said. After what felt like a very long time, she said, “I know she tried to speak to Gregory, but he was babysitting Ludmila's grandson. On my way to the ladies' room, I saw her give Sonya an envelope. It was none of my business. I returned to the classroom and made sure Rick and Austin weren't pulling another one of their childish stunts. If they went to my school, they'd spend more time on the bench outside my office than in class. They seem to think our board meetings are nothing but a joke!”

I agreed with them, but this was not the time to share. “And Willie? Did she sit next to anyone while she ate?”

“You must have noticed there weren't enough chairs. I saw her leave the room with Leslie and assumed they'd gone into her office to sit down. I found myself sharing a cubicle with a large black man who refused to look at me while he ate. I was most uncomfortable, but since I assumed he was a student, I attempted to converse. He's from one of those queer African countries.”

“Zimbabwe,” I said absently. “One of its borders is the great, gray-green, greasy Limpopo River.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Thanks for talking to me, Frances. Will you call a special board meeting?”

“Not even if you threatened to stick a screwdriver in my ear. Have a nice day.”

I closed my cell phone. Leslie was next on my list. I didn't have her phone number, but I wouldn't have called if I did. I drove to her house, with or without Hamdan, and parked around the corner in the same spot. If Charles, the surly neighbor who'd called the cops on me, was lurking, all the better. I had a few unsavory words for him. A pale green Mercedes was parked in the driveway; I'd seen it in the parking lot of the Literacy Council. I walked up the porch steps and rang the bell. I was preparing to ring it again when the door opened.

Leslie frowned. “Come in, Claire, and have a seat. There's coffee in the kitchen. I'm online with a class for fifteen more minutes.” She went down the hall to her office.

I sat down in the living room. Leslie did not leave magazines or newspapers on the table. She did, however, leave mail in a basket under it. I listened to the gentle clatter from her keyboard. She would be occupied for another ten minutes. I slid out the basket and picked up a letter. It was from a lawyer's office. A second, unopened letter was from the CIS office in Phoenix. Another half-dozen sealed envelopes were from individuals in Arizona, New Mexico, California, and Colorado; the names on the address labels in the corner suggested the correspondents were female. I dug deeper and found letters from Saudi Arabia, China, and Tajikistan. It appeared that Leslie was into pen pals. No wonder she always seemed hassled, I thought as I replaced the letters.

The clatter ceased. I smiled at her as she came into the living room. She was wearing jeans and a T-shirt, and her feet were bare. “I must look like a mess,” she said as she noticed my gaze. “I don't even have on any makeup. It's such a relief to chill out on a Saturday afternoon. Would you like a beverage?”

“No, thank you. I apologize for dropping in without calling first, but I don't have your number.”

“Let me get some coffee and I'll join you.” She walked silently into the kitchen and returned with a cup. “What can I do for you?”

“Did you hear about Willie?”

“Keiko called me yesterday afternoon. I'm so relieved that Willie is going to be okay. I understand it wasn't a heart attack.”

“Something she ate or drank. Frances told me that you and Willie retreated to your office to eat. Did you notice what was on her plate?”

Leslie's eyes widened. “You think it was food poisoning? Oh my gawd, there were so many people there, taking spoonfuls of every dish. Is anyone else ill? Does Gregory know about this? This may be a disaster. Even if we're not liable, we'll lose all our funding and have to close down.”

“No one else has reported any ill effects, so I think we can rule out food poisoning.”

“That's a relief. You want to know what Willie ate? I wasn't paying attention, and I wouldn't be able to identify any of the dishes. Is she allergic to something?”

“There's nothing in her medical records to suggest it.” I said this as if I'd reviewed them and consulted her doctor.

She made a helpless gesture. “I'm afraid I can't help you, Claire. We talked about the students. She complained about her crowded docket. She was fine when we took our plates to the plastic trash bags in the classroom. I drifted off to ask Graciela what she thought about her new tutor. Assami wanted to talk about the homework assignment. After that, Yelena put a stop to conversation with her peculiar performance. After Frances spoke, I went back to my office to continue my discussion with Assami. I didn't see Willie.”

“What time did you leave?”