Rogues Gallery (25 page)

“He was even wearing one of her rings on his pinky finger when he was shot,” I said. “Do you know the one I mean?”

“No. If he was wearing it around me, I never noticed,” Robards said. “Come on. I'll take you downstairs.”

“Ignore the mess,” his wife ordered.

The lowest level of the house was outfitted as a kind of man-cave cum guest room, with a bar and a futon. Shirts, slacks, and underwear were hanging here and piled there. Tim Crutcher gave up Ashley for this? What a dolt!

I started my search with the overflowing suitcase that lay open in a corner, looking for jewelry cases or smaller and more easily concealed loose items such as rings and necklaces.

“This is kind of creepy,” Popcorn said as she probed the pockets in a pair of pants.

Robards ran his hands along the futon mattress. “Why would Tim be paying me fifty bucks a week to stay here if he ripped off a bunch of diamonds and stuff?”

“Maybe he only did that right before he got killed,” I said. “The timeline on that isn't real clear, but Meredith Blake didn't realize the goods were missing until yesterday.”

After a half-hour search that included holding up liquor bottles to the light and rattling a Cincinnati Reds bobble head to make sure it hadn't been hollowed out, the three of us surrendered.

“What about upstairs?” I asked. “Could he have hiden the stuff in, say, the living room?”

“Naw. He kept to himself. That was part of the deal. He didn't eat with us or anything, and came and went as he wanted. There's a separate entrance through the garage and he had his own key. That night he died, we had no idea until Chief Hummel called us. Tim was here earlier that night, but he must have gone out again.”

We trooped dejectedly upstairs.

“Did you find anything?” JoAnn Robards asked.

“Not even a dust bunny,” I said.

In consolation, I took Popcorn to dinner at Bobbie McGee's.

“Well, this has been exciting,” she said as we sat down.

“Sarcasm will get you no raise.”

“I mean it! I didn't know when I woke up this morning that by the end of the day I would take part in a treasure hunt and get a free dinner. Aw, don't look so glum, Boss. Your idea didn't pan out, but at least you didn't give Ashley yet another motive.”

During breaks from discussing Oscar's mother and the vexing dilemma about which dress to wear to the concert on Friday night, Popcorn ordered a frozen margarita, a plate of chicken wing appetizers, a chef salad, and a main course of ribs.
Please don't get dessert.

I had a Hudy DeLite beer (a rare indulgence) and grilled mahi-mahi.

“Why do you not weigh five hundred pounds?” I asked as our enthusiastic server hustled off with our orders. Popcorn is only slightly chubby.

“I have a treadmill at home.”

“That's bad for your knees. My doctor told me - ”

“Hello, Jeff.”

No, my doctor didn't tell me “Hello, Jeff.” Erica Slade stood at our table, wearing a short orange dress and matching high heels. That dark beverage on ice in her glass didn't smell like tea. I introduced her to Popcorn, whose day had suddenly gotten even more exciting.

“How's it going from your end, Jeff?”

I'm sorry you asked, Erica.

“We're not ready to say.”

She moved her lush, dark hair out of her eyes. “Well, I hope you're ready soon. I'm going to try to talk to Mac tomorrow and see what he's got. Ashley was charged with first-degree murder today. I got her out on bail.”

“But that's so wrong!” Popcorn burst out. “Nobody in this town thinks Ashley's a cold-blooded murderer, even if they don't exactly believe her whole story.”
Don't you believe her whole story, Popcorn?
“Why did the prosecutor have to go for Murder One?”

The prosecutor's ex took a belt of her scotch. Her fingernails were the same shade of orange as her dress and shoes. “He always overreaches when he's between girlfriends. I think he's a little tense, you know?”

Ask a silly question...

“The last time I talked to Mac, a few hours ago, he seemed convinced that he was on to something.” I said. “That's all I can tell you right now because that's all I know. But all the prosecution has is circumstantial evidence, right?”

“You mean the facts that my client had several reasons to prefer the victim dead, that he was shot in her house, and that she'd been spending a lot of time lately at a shooting range putting little holes into a male silhouette?”

Subtle, but I see what you mean.

“Never mind that,” I said desperately. “Mac has a hell of track record. And so do you.”

“Sure. We'll make Marvin the Martian eat crow by the end of this.” She finished off her drink. “But right now I have no idea how. Goodnight, Jeff. Nice to meet you, Ms. Pokorny.”

She went back to the bar.

“Let's look at the dessert menu,” Popcorn said.

Not much more than half an hour later, after dropping Popcorn off at her car in the St. Benignus parking lot, I was back in my empty house. Instead of calling Lynda, which would just make me lonelier, I sent a text message:

Counting the hours until you get home.

She texted back:

Me too. 18!

I started humming
Boléro
.

XI

In the middle of the night I sat up in bed.
Maybe it was the Robardses!
They had a lot of kids and probably not very much money. If they found the jewelry hidden in their house, it might have been an irresistible temptation to do away with Crutcher and keep the diamonds and such for themselves. That explained what happened to the jewelry and why Crutcher was killed, totally vindicating Ashley. Brilliant!

But wait a minute. Why would they take him back to his old house to kill him? And how could they get him to go along with it? They might have taken the gems, but killing him didn't seem plausible. Too bad I'd already lost an hour of sleep by the time I figured that out.

So the next morning, when Popcorn handed me a cup of coffee, I almost wished that it was laced with caffeine.

“I've decided to wear the blue dress to the concert,” she informed me. “The green shows too much cleavage.”

Sorry, Oscar.
Apparently my vote the day before had been overruled. Popcorn must have asked her beaux what his mother would think.

“Don't worry,” I said. “As soon as Mac starts playing those dreadful bagpipes, Mrs. Hummel will be gawking at the hairy legs beneath his kilt. She won't even notice your dress.”

Popcorn's eyes widened. “Really?”

The phone rang.

“Hi, Jeff, this is Johanna Rawls. I'm working on a second-day story about the charges filed against Ashley Crutcher.” Her first-day story, spread across the top of that morning's
Erin Observer & News-Ledger
, lay on my desk.
ESTRANGED WIFE CHARGED IN SHOOTING
screamed the headline. “I was hoping to get a reaction from you.”

“Good morning to you, too.” Popcorn waved and left my office. “I don't think I'd better say anything because of my day job. I mean, I'm quoted so often in the paper as the spokesperson for St. Benignus that it would cause confusion for me to talk as the spokesperson for Jeff Cody. But Mac wouldn't have that problem. Have you tried him?”

“I did, but I couldn't reach him. He doesn't answer his home phone, his office phone, or his cell phone. So, off the record, what's going on?”

“Off the record, Johanna, I wish I knew. Mac has something up his sleeves besides his arms, but I don't know what it is.”

“What
do
you know?”

“Except for a couple of harebrained ideas I had that didn't pan out, nothing that you haven't reported already.” That included Meredith Blake's stolen jewelry report, which Oscar had quite rightly shared with Johanna since it was a matter of public record.

We chatted socially for a while (yes, I assured her, I was really looking forward to Lynda coming home) and then hung up. The office phone was barely in its cradle when my smartphone gave that little
ping
noise to let me know I had an incoming text message. It was from Mac.

Please meet me at Crutcher house 10 AM. I know where the jewelry is.

I wrote back:
Tall Rawls looking for you.

I will ask her as well.

By this time I was already out of my office. “Mac just summoned me to meet him at Ashley's,” I told Popcorn. “Since he's inviting Johanna to the party, this may be the end game.” Sometimes I mix metaphors when I'm excited. “You should come along. You've been part of this.”

She shook her head. “Somebody has to hold down the fort. You can tell me about it later. Good luck.”

The Crutcher residence was a story-and-a-half brick Cape Cod house, the kind that had been built by the thousands in Erin and around the country after the Second World War. Oscar, wearing his official uniform hat, stood on the small front porch along with Tall Rawls, Meredith Blake, and Charlie Hayworth.

“What's this all about?” Meredith demanded as Charlie lit her cigarette on the third attempt to make the lighter work.

Am I my brother-in-law's keeper?

“I'm sure that will become clear as soon as Mac arrives.”

“It better,” Oscar said darkly.

“I'm not standing around here all - ” Meredith resumed.

“There he is,” Johanna said.

Mac had just pulled up in his boat-sized Chevy. Ashley Crutcher, looking pale, got out of the front seat on the passenger side. She saw me and smiled feebly. Erica Slade hopped out of the back.

“Ah, we are all here, I see,” Mac said. “Thank you all for coming.”

I'm not going to try to record Oscar, Johanna, and Meredith all talking at once. The cacophony reminded me of the Robards household.

Mac raised his hand. “Please, please. I will explain everything inside. Ashley, lead the way. Miss Blake, please extinguish your cigarette.”

Giving Mac a foul look, Meredith ground the butt under her boot heel.

Ashley unlocked the door and went in first. The rest of us followed. Within a few seconds the Hound of the Baskervilles appeared out of nowhere and started barking like mad at Meredith Blake. Okay, it was a German shepherd, but it looked like a hellhound to me, and I wasn't even the one under attack.

“Get that beast off of me,” Meredith said.

“Ranger, quiet!”

The hound obeyed his mistress's voice. He sat looking expectantly, a low growl in his throat.

“Nice doggy,” Johanna said. She pulled out her notebook and spoke no more as she observed and recorded the drama unfolding in front of her, an objective journalist.

“So, what's this about the jewelry?” Oscar said. “I assume it's here somewhere.”

“But I'm sure it isn't,” Ashley burst out.

“Indeed it is not,” Mac said. “Except for the ring found on Tim Crutcher's corpse, Miss Blake's jewelry is resting comfortably in her own home - unless it has already been quietly sold to a private buyer.”

“What the hell?” Charlie exclaimed.

Insurance scam, that's what the hell. But not life insurance. Suddenly, I saw it all - or at least the big picture.

“Spare us the theatrics, Mr. Hayworth,” Mac said. “I am reasonably sure that your hands are not clean in this business.”

“What business?” Erica demanded, clearly unhappy at being left in the dark until now.

“Meredith Blake, desperately in need of funds to finance her chosen lifestyle, planned to report her jewels stolen, collect the insurance, and then sell the jewels to an undiscerning buyer. Fearing that she would be suspected because of her rather colorful reputation, she groomed Tim Crutcher to be the fall guy. I use the term ‘groomed' advisedly, for Miss Blake was the ‘other woman' in his life. He thought he was her love and her co-conspirator in insurance fraud. In reality, he was her victim.”

Ashley shook her head. “Of all people, I never even suspected...”

Meredith's laugh rang hollow. “That's absurd. Tell me what you're smoking, McCabe, because I want some of it. Tim Crutcher was a flunky, a guy who did odd jobs around my house. He was lucky to have a job at all, but he abused his position to steal from me.”

“I have some photos that would indicate your relationship was quite a bit closer than that.”

Mac pulled a series of prints out of his sport coat pocket and held them up for all of us to see. They showed Meredith Blake and Tim Crutcher looking more than a little chummy. She hung on him amorously as he fed a slot machine.

“Oh, all right, I was slumming, getting it on with the hired help,” Meredith said. She looked as if she'd been caught with her hand in a cookie jar. “Big deal! Charlie doesn't mind that kind of thing. How do you get from there to your pipe dream about the insurance?”

“It does seem kind of a stretch,” Oscar allowed.

“You need to learn that sometimes looking a gift horse in the mouth is the only wise course, Oscar,” Mac lectured. “What man would be caught dead wearing a woman's ring? Tim Crutcher was. Moreover, no thief, not even one without a previous record, would be so stupid as to wear hot merchandise.” S
o that's why Joe Robards never noticed Crutcher wearing the ring - Crutcher never really had it.

“The inference was immediately clear to me: That ring was placed on Crutcher's finger to frame him, and it was placed there by the person who accompanied him across the threshold of his former domicile - the same person who killed him, Meredith Blake.”

Mac looked at her. She looked back, maybe trying to figure out if he had any more evidence to whip out of his pocket. “You're just blowing smoke, Fatty. You can't prove anything.”