Plateful of Murder (11 page)

At least now it didn’t look like she planned to stab me with her letter opener. “But why are you looking in Sean’s office? You can’t possibly think he’s involved in murder. That man is practically a saint with what he puts up with. And he never complains.” She glanced toward his desk. “Although…”

I tried to sound casual. “Although?”

She waved her hand as if batting an annoying fly. “Nothing. Just that Sean did look awfully nervous yesterday. We had a meeting late in the afternoon, and he couldn’t keep his mind on it. Kept looking at the clock and checking his phone messages.”

She stopped abruptly and went back to looking at me as if deciding whether or not to have me guillotined. “Never mind. Okay. It may not be the smartest thing to do, but I’m letting you go. Mallorie wasn’t my favorite person. Still, whoever killed her should be caught.” Her eyes narrowed. “Don’t come back.”

“Never again. Ever. Thank you so much.” I stepped out of Sean’s office. “Just one thing.” I bit my lower lip. “Mind if I use the bathroom?”

She huffed, but led me to the closest one and followed me in like a high school monitor. I made up a rule Gino probably didn’t think of. Never drink tea before snooping
.

Tara made sure Triton’s outside door would lock behind me. When it did, Ed came out of the shadows.

My upper lip curled. “Thanks for nothing. She was going to turn me over to the police.”

He waved off my concern. “I was coming back for you. Didn’t count on you giving yourself away so soon. I wanted to wait until Tara went to the break room for coffee.” He chuckled, “She steals a pack of it about once a week. Thinks no one notices.” He continued, “Anyway, I didn’t find zilch. But then, Tara interrupted me.”

I told him about finding the business card. “According to Tara, Sean was antsy yesterday afternoon. Maybe because of that 6:00 meeting with this guy, Workosky.”

Ed scratched his head. “Could be. Let’s go check it out.”

“No need for you to come, Ed.” It was great having his help, but it wasn’t fair to him. Besides getting into trouble with the police, he could lose his job over this. He could also be in as much danger as me. And, to tell the truth, I wasn’t even sure there’d be any money to pay him. 

Ed wasn’t about to be deterred. “No way, Jose. This is getting good. Hell, I’m not even counting on the money you owe me. I’m in. No argument.”

My wholehearted trust in Ed was still forming, but there was little doubt in my mind his muscle could come in handy.
Of course, I’d probably need to take a second job at Aunt Lena’s to pay him. That assumed we both survived this case.

We drove back to the Owl to get my car. “My theory is Eagleton and Sean are jumping ship and met with this Workosky guy last night. If that’s the case, though, neither of them could be Mallorie’s killer.”

Ed drummed his steering wheel and thought out loud. “That would explain them leaving early, but one of them could’ve slipped out long enough to do the job and come back. He could have said he was in the john with belly problems.”

I grimaced. “You don’t do that if you’re trying to impress someone.”

He shrugged. “A guy might.”

We passed a billboard advertising bathroom renovations. That ad, plus the noticeable failure of my deodorant, overwhelmed me with the desire for a hot shower. When Ed pulled up next to my car, I opened the door and said, “Give me an hour. After that, I’ll be ready for anything.”

He shot me a cocky smile. “Sure thing. But instead of cooling my heels, waiting, think I’ll try my luck with Luther’s office.”

Parked in my assigned spot in my apartment’s lot, I didn’t leave the car until sure nobody was stalking me. My heart raced, urging me toward the building’s door and up the stairs to my place.
Please, please don’t let someone be inside.

A can of mace in my hand, I threw open the door and scanned the room while listening for any out-of-the-ordinary noise. Nothing. With both feet inside, I spun like cops do on television. Convinced the place was clear, I locked my door behind me and blew out a relieved breath, but sucked it back in when my phone rang.
Thank God for caller ID.

“Where have you been?” It was a very irate Aunt Lena. “This is the third time I’ve called.”

I checked my phone. Three missed calls.
Was one from Corrigan?
“Do you need something?”

My aunt’s voice was honey on a buttermilk biscuit. “I know it’s short notice, but can you fill in for your father again tonight? Just a few hours. And bring that nice boy, Michael, with you.”

My shoulders slumped and I wanted to revolt like the surliest teen. Instead, “What time do you need me?”

It wasn’t hard to picture her crafty grin. “From 7:00 to 9:00. And you’ll bring Michael?”

Biting my lip hard stopped me from scolding her for attempted matchmaking. “I don’t know if he’ll come.”

“You’ll ask him, though.” Not a question, not even a request.

I turned my face to heaven and begged for patience. She meant well. “Yeah, but he may have other plans.”

“He may not. Ask him.”

After I practically cut her off, I stomped into the bathroom and came out again to make sure my door’s deadbolt was on. My phone lay on the sofa, within easy reach and beckoning to me. Despite being irritated when my aunt brought it up, having Michael come along on Saturday seemed like a wonderful idea. I could claim my aunt wanted to see him again. After all, she did.

Michael didn’t answer his phone, so after leaving a message, I returned to the bathroom and hoped to feel better after my shower. My skin tingled from the beads of hot water that fell. The rhythm of the water calmed me enough so that, for a brief moment, I believed everything would turn out fine.

Combing my hair, I stared into the mirror, not seeing, concentrating on what to say to Michael when we talked next. When I did notice my reflection, that woman had a soft smile on her face.

Too bad my phone went off and interrupted the pleasant interlude. Wrapping the towel around my still damp body I rushed to answer it. Probably Aunt Lena to find out Michael’s answer
.

It was Detective Corrigan. “Hi Claire. Called you again last night to make sure you were okay. I was concerned.”

I kept my explanation short and dishonest. “Thank you for that. Everything is fine. My friend and I couldn’t sleep, so we went for coffee.” A clump of hair fell into my eyes. In my attempt to push it back, my towel fell off. I bent down to pick it up and banged my head on the table. “Ooph.” I rubbed the now sore spot and dropped the towel again, but let it lay.

“You okay?”

“Just hit my head.” Rather than explain about being naked, I changed the subject, moving into the personal stuff. “When you called, I thought you were my aunt. She’s playing Cupid.”
Why did that come out of my mouth?
It wasn’t his business. 

His laugh sounded warm and genuine. “I get it. My family does the same thing. Being single can be tricky. Everyone wants you to find someone.” For a second there was an awkward silence. He cleared his throat. “I also called you earlier to ask if you remembered anything else from last night.” His tone switched and we were back to business. “Like agreeing to come into the station first thing?”

My hand flew up to my mouth. “On my way there.” It had unbelievably slipped my mind.

“You better be.” He paused. “Whether you realize it or not, I’m concerned about you. Don’t want to see your body. I mean, shot, or strangled. You know, dead.”

His sudden verbal awkwardness struck me as sweet, but before I could respond, he hung up.

All the way to the police station my mind fought against remembering the details of last night’s phone call. Distracted, I ran a red light and laid on my horn, hoping no cars had driven into my path. Thank God for clear intersections. My memories of last night could wait until reaching my destination.

When I pulled up to the station, Detective Corrigan was waiting. He greeted me with a wry smiled. “So you finally made it.”

“Nice to see you, too.”

We wound our way back to his desk, and after an attempt at getting me to relax, Corrigan asked me to repeat the ugly words the killer had spoken. They flashed through my mind as if they’d been spoken that same moment. My palms moistened as I painstakingly recited them. I blinked to keep the tears from rolling down my cheeks.

He leaned in, elbows on his thighs. “Claire, let’s see if we can figure out whose number that was.” He took my phone and called a woman over. “This is Julie Chou. She’s going to see what she can find out about your caller.”

He said a few words to the woman then turned back to me. “Did you detect any accent or unusual speech pattern?”

“No.”

“Any background noises, like a horn or train or anything?”

“No, but...”

“But what?”

“He sang his message.”

Corrigan cocked his head. “Sang it? Do you remember the tune?”

My face scrunched up in an effort to recall. Usually, I get earworms, that annoying repetition of a song. It doesn’t matter what era it’s from or whether it’s a favorite song or not, it just plays over and over in my head. But the caller’s tune wasn’t one of those. “No idea, but it sounded familiar like, you know, ‘Jingle Bells’.”

“He sang Christmas carols?”

“No! But it was a tune I’ve heard before. Maybe it was a theme song from a show he liked.”

“Hmmm. Well, keep trying to remember it. Could be important.” He asked me more questions I couldn’t answer and, by the time he was done, we were both frustrated.

He rotated his neck and it made cracking noises. “At least if you get another one, you know what to pay attention to. And with the phone tap we’ll be able to listen in.”

My shoulders tightened. “You don’t think he’ll call again.”

He looked me in the eye. “Unfortunately he will.” He leaned in toward me. “Claire, drop this case. You’re in over your head.”

In other words, I should light some candles, and pray to not get murdered. But letting go of this case wasn’t an option. “Appreciate your concern.”

He continued to stare at me, then sat back in his chair and chewed on his lower lip. “Not gonna do it, are you?”

I didn’t want him angry, knowing he might be the only one between me and the phone-calling killer. “You’re right, of course, but…”

He closed down the case file and rested his hands flat on his desk, as close to me as he could be without touching me. “If you stay on this case, you could end up on the list of victims.”

No words could describe my mixed-up feelings, so rather than try to explain, I looked away.

“Unbelievable.” He walked off to retrieve my phone and handed it to me. “If we get anything on that number, I’ll let you know.”

“Thank you.” I stood and offered him my hand. He shook it firmly and, it seemed to me, held it a second longer than necessary.

Outside the safety of the police station, working at
Cannoli’s
started looking better and better. Inhaling deeply, I put that idea to rest. There was a case to solve.

Back at my office, I googled Biologic Solutions to see if any relationship with Triton existed. Seems they weren’t competitors, since each had products to service a different segment of the medication-taking population. I switched my search to George Workosky and found out he was the new boy wonder of Biologic Solutions, linked with research in holding back the aging process. So far there were no new drugs in the pipeline, but according to one press release, production of anti-aging pills sat just over the horizon. Triton’s press releases didn’t mention any similar research.

Two hours later and I was still no wiser about why Sean and Eagleton had met with Workosky. One bit of information helped. Biologic Solutions was headquartered in Connecticut, so maybe Workosky flew in to meet with Sean and Eagleton. Cafe Palermo, the restaurant where they probably met, was located in the Majestic Hotel. Workosky might be staying there.

I paced back and forth, debating the wisdom of visiting him. My common sense urged me to do so. My imagination, sometimes the ruling party of my brain, ran wild.
What if he was the killer?
I took a deep breath to calm myself. Then called Ed.

Ed’s assurance was tinged with impatience. “Workosky’s a pharmacist, not a gangster.”

I scowled and defended my skittishness. “But maybe he has a sideline, like a hired assassin.”

He sighed. “Yeah. Maybe if Constance and Mallorie had been poisoned. Otherwise, it’s not likely he killed them.”

Even though Ed didn’t believe Workosky had anything to do with the murders, it was a relief when he agreed to meet me at the Majestic and be my backup, if needed.

We entered the Majestic’s lobby and overheard the clerk at the registration desk address a fair-haired, early forties-looking man. “Was everything to your liking, Mr. Workosky?”

Ed pointed at Workosky and mimed what my actions should be. To which I vehemently shook my head.

Watching our quarry turn to leave, though, I was forced to say something. “You’re George Workosky?” As soon as he nodded, my tongue tied itself up and, to my horror, no more words came out. Luckily, I stood between him and his suitcase, and when he hesitated to move around me, I whipped out one of my business cards and handed it to him. I winced at the smear of chocolate on it and in that second, my ability to speak returned.“I’m Claire DeNardo, Private Investigator, working on the murder of—”

He held up his hand. “Already talked to the police. Look, I have a plane to catch, so if you’ll excuse me…” He reached around to grab his bag. I stepped sideways, ready to let him get away. Only Ed’s bugged-eyed look stopped me.

“Just a couple questions.” He wasn’t stopping and I panicked. “How would you like a ride to the airport?” My stomach sunk, realizing a potential murderer would be riding in my car. Just the two of us.

Out of the corner of my eye I could see Ed look down and rub his forehead. It was obvious he thought my actions bordered on lunacy.

Workosky squinted at me and a smile curled the corners of his mouth. “Why not? I don’t often have a pretty woman chauffer me around.”