Murder for Bid (3 page)

Sean’s grip had tightened on Schmidt’s arm. “Come on, sir.”

For a second, it looked like Schmidt might put up a fight, but he relented. His demeanor seemed to shrink as he spoke. “Fine. I’ll do whatever I can to help find who did this to Amanda.”

After Sean and another officer ushered Schmidt to the squad car across the street, the judge and his wife retreated to their Mercedes. I sat quietly for a couple of minutes watching officers move in and out of the house until I became too antsy to sit any longer. I decided to take action. Not wanting to chance it that Schmidt might recognize my “messy” red hair, I rummaged in the backseat until I found Sean’s standard police-issue sweatshirt and shrugged into it, shoving my hair inside the hood, and pulling the cord tight so that not a single curl could escape. I eased out of the car and meandered up the walkway toward the front door. I carefully kept my face turned away from the squad car where Sean, Councilman Schmidt, and another officer were deep in conversation.

I recognized most of the officers. “Hey, Pippi.” One of the guys waved.

“Hi, Jimmy. How’s Celia doing?”

“Fine. Just two more weeks.”

“Boy or girl?”

“We want to be surprised.”

“Good for you,” I responded, moving around an entourage of busy officers. Down the street, others were keeping the press at bay. The murder of a city official’s wife would occupy the prime spot on the evening news for several days.

Inching closer to the crime scene tape, I craned my neck and caught a glimpse into the home’s foyer. The display of cultured taste was impressive: marble flooring, a mahogany stair railing, and a scrolled table with a Tiffany lamp. Leaning over the tape, I could see a golf bag propped against the far wall of the foyer. It contained several clubs, three with green and blue plaid head covers. Attached to the bag handle was a golf towel with a large embossed emblem of a windmill. I recognized the symbol. The windmill was all that remained of original homestead acreage, which in the 1920s was molded and sculpted into today’s Middleton Golf Club.

From my distance, I couldn’t make out the brand of clubs Schmidt was using. Not that I would recognize them, I’m not much of a golfer, but just a couple of months ago, I had purchased a used set at an estate sale. I paid seventy-five dollars and turned them over on my on-line auction for two hundred and fifty. That particular set had ten clubs. A quick survey of Schmidt’s bag also revealed ten clubs: a driver, a putter, a couple of woods, and various irons.

“I thought I told you to stay in the car, Pippi. This is a murder scene.”

I turned on my heel and was face-to-face with Sean. He didn’t look happy.

“I know.” I nervously glanced toward the squad car where Schmidt was supposed to be. “Where’s Schmidt?”

“He went with the judge and his wife. Come on, you need to leave.” He put his hand on the small of my back and started pushing me toward the car. “Look,” he said into my ear as we made our way down the walk. “This case is going to be complicated and very public. Richard Schmidt is well-known around here. Besides, he can probably finger you as being at the crime scene earlier. You know, the homeless woman with the messy red hair.”

He was right. “Fine,” I said, shaking him off and getting into the car on my own accord. Sean rounded the vehicle and slid behind the wheel.

“Are you taking me home or are you going to bring me in as a suspect?” I asked as we pulled away from the curb.

“You didn’t tell me that he saw you digging in his garbage.”

“Guess I forgot that part.”

“Did anyone else, besides Schmidt, see you?”

“I don’t think so.”

“That’s good. Just hang low for a while.”

“So, he thinks I’m a homeless woman.”

“Well, you were going through his garbage.”

“Schmidt’s a jerk. He’s your prime suspect, isn’t he?” I asked.

“No comment.”

“What? Oh, come on, Sean. What about the shirt? He was cheating on his wife. He killed her so she wouldn’t expose his affair and tie him up in a messy divorce.”

“A shirt with a lipstick stain is hardly concrete evidence.”

“Well, why else would someone throw out a hundred dollar shirt?”

“A guy like him probably has twenty of those shirts.”

“He did it, Sean. I know he did.”

“Look, Pippi, he’s a city councilman. His reputation is impeccable. He has tons of friends, important friends. There’s even talk that he’s a shoe-in for mayor.”

“I see. He may end up being your boss.”

“Stop it!” He slapped the steering wheel. “You know that’s not how I operate.”

“I’m just saying that his political ambitions give him all the more motive to want his wife dead, especially if she was going to divorce him and go public about the affair.”

“What affair? We don’t have any proof that the guy was being unfaithful.”

I shrugged it off. Apparently he didn’t buy into the whole lipstick stain angle. “You’re going to check into it, right?” I asked.

“I know how to do my job, Pippi.”

“Of course you do. You’re good at it, too,” I added, trying to stroke his ego. “Did you say that the body was found in the tub?”

Silence.

“Shot?”
I tried.

Sean’s jaw began to twitch. “You know I can’t talk about an investigation.”

“Just tell me what’s going to be released to the media. It’ll be all over tonight’s news anyway,” I pleaded.

“Fine.
She was bludgeoned to death. Apparently, the perp killed her and then removed the jewelry from her body and some pieces that were stored in the dresser. She was beaten badly. Her whole face...” He shuddered. “She was unrecognizable.”

I reached across the seat and put a hand on his shoulder. “What a horrible way to die.” Sean’s face appeared stoic, but I knew that he was bothered. I couldn’t imagine looking at a dead body like that. The only bodies I ever saw were at open-casket funerals and that was freaky enough for me.

Sean turned down my alley. “I’m going to see you inside. I think you should stay in tonight. I’ll be busy with the case for a while, but I’ll call when I can.” He walked me inside, gave me a quick kiss, and turned to leave. I grabbed him before he got back through the door, “You didn’t mention what the murder weapon was.”

His expression turned dark. “Stay in and lock the doors,
Pippi.”

Chapter Two

The next morning, I awoke feeling disoriented. I had tossed and turned throughout the night, waking several times to think about the case. I couldn’t shake the thought of Amanda Schmidt being bludgeoned to death. That type of brutality signified rage and indicated a personal, highly emotional motive. More than likely, if this was a simple case of theft gone awry, the burglar would have delivered one fatal blow, gathered the loot, and fled.

It was almost seven and I was eager to know what new developments had occurred in the case, but I knew better than to call Sean; he was probably busy with the case. Not to mention, that he wasn’t real happy with me the night before. So instead, I flipped on the morning news. The story of Amanda Schmidt’s murder was on every local channel. Unfortunately so was I. Well, not me specifically, but a “person of interest” which happened to be a middle-aged, red-haired, heavy-set, vagrant woman dressed in torn clothing and driving a dark blue, beat up, late model station wagon. 

“What?” I asked out loud, as if the anorexic, twenty something, news anchor could hear me. “Heavy-set? What the heck are you talking about? And, middle-aged? Why I was barely in my thirties.”

I high tailed it to the bathroom, leaned over the sink, and pressed my nose against the medicine cabinet mirror. I looked real hard, but didn’t see any crow’s feet. Then, I stepped back and climbed up on the edge of the tub, twisted this way and that, so I could get a good look at my back side. (I had smashed my full length mirror six months ago on day three of the Atkins Program.) I was just noting how much better my bootie was looking when a thought occurred to me. I was a suspect in a murder case. My description, or at least a close description of me, was all over the news. Were my family and friends watching right now? Were they picking up their phones and reporting my whereabouts? Was I hearing sirens?   

I jumped down, skidded across my apartment and pulled my blinds immediately. Paranoia began creeping over me like maggots in a trash can. I resisted a strong desire to crawl back under the covers and hide. I chastised myself. I couldn’t live this way—in the shadows of suspect and paranoia. I had to do something. After all, I had a life to live, a business to run, and … oh no! How could I possibly scavenge for cast-offs when everyone within the local viewing area would be looking for a red-headed garbage picker? Something had to be done about this.

I moved to the fridge for some nourishment. I needed brain power.

Bypassing the twelve-pack of soda on the second shelf, I reached for a carton of eggs and some light yogurt. Heavy-set? What was that news reporter talking about? I had been doing great on my diet. Well, maybe I did need to shed a few more of the extra pounds that had haunted me since my days of employment with Global Financial Trading, Inc.—aka my wine and chocolate days.

It was true. I used to be a trader on the Chicago Stock Exchange. My old job was exciting, lucrative, and respectable, but the stress almost killed me. Every evening, I unwound with a glass or two, or three, of wine. Then, in the mornings, I would nurse the wine’s residual effects by carb-loading. There’s nothing like a couple donuts and a sugar-and-caffeine-filled soda to clear the morning fuzz.
And my mid-afternoon energy deficits? Well, what better than a candy bar and another calorie-laden soda to perk things up? After a while, all that wine and sugar binging left me bloated, blotchy-faced, and bitchy. Not to mention, fat. I had to leave GFT before I exploded.

Unfortunately, I still had at least fifteen pounds to go. However, despite the fact that all my jeans were popping at the seams, I decided to forgo my normal early morning exercise routine. I had items to list on my on-line auction, packages to ship, consignment shops to hit, and thanks to Richard Schmidt, a reputation to clear.

Thankfully I was dating the lead investigator on the case. Sean knew there was no way I was involved with Amanda’s murder, but he was powerless when it came to controlling the press. Who knew how long they’d keep up with this “homeless woman” angle? It wouldn’t be long before someone connected me to the murder scene that morning.

Although my resources were diminutive compared to those of the police department, I did have a trick or two up my sleeve. There was
no reason why I couldn’t contribute vital information to aid in the investigation of Amanda Schmidt’s murder. Actually, I had a few connections that Sean didn’t have. Amanda Schmidt was a well-known socialite in Naperville and as far as the upper crust goes, well, I just happened to be best friends with one of the crustiest. Well, not really best friends, but close enough.

“Sheila, this is
Pippi O’Brien.”

I heard an impatient sigh on the other end of the line.

“Sheila, you belong to the Middleton Country Club, don’t you?”

After a slight pause, Sheila answered in a lofty tone, “Yes, why do you ask?”

“Does Councilman Richard Schmidt belong to your club?”

“Yes. Why?”
Still lofty.

Undaunted, I continued in a cheerful voice, “I need to get in for a couple of hours to talk to a few people that may know Schmidt.”

“Sorry. The club is exclusive, members only,” Sheila replied tightly.

“Please, Sheila. This is important. My reputation is at stake.”

“
You
have a reputation?” she snorted.

“Listen, Sheila. I have a serious problem. Schmidt saw me outside his house yesterday morning. I was … uh … working. He thinks I might be involved in his wife’s murder somehow.”

There was a pause and then an arrogant snicker from the other end, “Oh I see, you’re the homeless lady who’s all over the news. Well, that’s what you get for going through other people’s garbage. You should really find a different job. Wait until I tell the girls at my Bunco party this evening. You’ll be the main topic of discussion.”

“You can’t tell anyone about this, especially not Schmidt. I mean, how long have you known me? You know that I could never kill someone. I was just in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“That’s the story of your life, isn’t it? Always in the wrong place at the wrong time. You’re right though, maybe I shouldn’t tell anyone. I wouldn’t want anyone to think that I actually know you. You’re such a mess. Doesn’t it bother you that people think you look like a bag lady?”

“I don’t always dress that way. I was working.”