The Sleuth Sisters (8 page)

“How could he tell from a distance?”

A single vertical line appeared between his brows. He’d asked himself that same question. “He was pretty adamant about it, but we know what he found when he went inside.”

“Tell me.”

“Well, the door was open. He called out to Carina, but no one answered. He went inside and saw Carson, sprawled in front of the couch, face down, with the back of his head caved in. Carina was under him, lying on her back. She’d been struck on the side of the head, and a ball bat that had been sitting beside the door was missing.”

“Terrible.” The scene would have been difficult for anyone, but for a father? I understood Wozniak’s anger at Neil Brown, even as I hoped it was misplaced.

“When Stan called for help, he thought they were dead. The EMTs saw she was still alive and went to work—”

“What’s going on, Eric?” We both jumped at the voice from the doorway.

“Mr. Wozniak.” DuBois seemed to grow smaller, paler, and tighter before my eyes. He rose, sending his chair backward, where it hit the wall with a soft thud. “This is Ms.—”

“I know who she is. What I want to know is what she’s doing here.”

I rose and stepped toward the man in the doorway, though it was rather like moving toward a growling Doberman. “Mr. Wozniak, I was interviewing Mr. DuBois about—”

Wozniak’s malevolent glance stopped me cold. “Didn’t my secretary tell you I would not be interviewed about your so-called case?”

I made myself answer calmly. “No one said I couldn’t speak to the others involved.”

“Eric wasn’t involved. And we have more important things to do than chat with a nosy female who’s been scammed by the Brown family.” Wozniak was tall, with deep-set eyes, a large Adam’s apple, and working man’s hands, even after decades of financial success. I decided he wasn’t equally successful as a human being.

“I am trying to get at the truth of your daughter’s death, Mr. Wozniak.”

“The truth is that her husband killed her. But that wasn’t enough for him. He took my only son, too.” His voice rose. “Go ahead and find Neil Brown, lady. I’ll see he never takes another breath outside a prison.” He took a step toward me, and I had to force myself not to retreat in the face of anger that pulsed like a force field around him. “Now leave this property before I have you arrested for trespassing. Eric, see Ms. Evans to her car.” His tone hinted that if I didn’t have an escort, they’d be less a ficus or two.

I was as angry as I’d been in years, but Wozniak held all the cards. Gathering as much dignity as I could muster, I left the room.

As I searched for the stairs, unwilling to wait for the elevator, DuBois caught up with me. Gently, he led me to the elevator and pressed the call button. “He had no right to be rude. I told him I intended to apologize.”

“I’ll bet he was thrilled.” The elevator doors opened with a muted chime and I stepped inside. DuBois followed. Neither of us said anything. He was apologetic; I wasn’t yet ready to accept. We both knew the person who should have offered the olive branch wouldn’t do so.

When the elevator doors opened, I headed for the exit. DuBois stayed beside me, and I had to give him credit for standing up to his boss, at least a little. I slowed my pace in recognition of his attempt at atonement. We left the building, stepping into a breezy but mild afternoon.

As I got out my keys and headed toward my parking space, DuBois whistled. “Nice car!” His tone was so boy-in-love-with-power that I had to smile as he opened the door for me. I answered the obligatory questions: what size the engine was, how much horsepower, how I’d kept it cherry. Once I was inside the car, DuBois bent down so that his face was level with mine. “Stan isn’t a bad guy, Ms. Evans. He’s just touchy on the subject of his children’s murders.”

“I guess a father would be,” I admitted grudgingly.

“I didn’t know he was coming in today or I’d have suggested we meet somewhere else.” He glanced back at the impressive building. “I also didn’t realize he’d get so upset.”

“I’m sorry if I got you in trouble.”

“Don’t worry. Stan’s tough, but he treats me like a—” He stopped, embarrassed. “When he lost Carson and Carina, I was just an office away. We do okay together.”

Probably because DuBois did everything Wozniak told him to. Stan would need a nice guy like Eric to smooth the feathers he ruffled. “Thanks for the information.”

Sweeping his wind-ruffled hair off his forehead, he hurried back into the building. I imagined his boss standing in the window of his office, watching to make certain I left. I imagined it because I refused to give Wozniak the satisfaction of looking up to find out for sure.

Chapter Ten

Retta

It took a while to figure out something else I could do to help Faye and Barbara. The call to the state police was good, but I wanted to show them I could find information as well as open doors. As I thought about the Wozniak case, it occurred to me that what I have and they don’t (well, one of the things) is connections in the community. Barbara was gone for decades and no longer has any idea who anybody is. Faye stuck to family and work her whole life. I know a lot of people, especially those on the higher social levels. Why couldn’t I use that to help them?

Questioning Faye until she used the word
badgering
, I refreshed my memory of the crimes. Using the file Detective Sparks had sent them at my request, she listed the people who’d been interviewed for background information about Neil and Carina Brown. When she got to John and Susie Mason, I knew I’d hit pay dirt. Susie I knew personally.

John Mason’s wife is a dispatcher for the city’s emergency services. She has been at it for years, and she’s good at her job. At best I thought she might know something that wasn’t public knowledge. At the least she could paint me a picture of what the local police heard, did, and concluded in those first few days. Susie and I were, if not friends, friendly acquaintances, thanks to Kiwanis. The year I’d been president of the club, she’d been secretary, which necessitated a lot of working together. It was time to do lunch, and I knew just where to look for her.

McPub is the trendy eating spot in the tiny old-town section of Allport. It’s one of those dark-paneled eateries with classical music in the background and art posters on the walls. They serve over-priced salads, sweet-potato fries, and twenty different kinds of beer. On any Friday between twelve and one, the local gentry gather, celebrating the end of the work week. Knowing I’d be welcome, I invited myself along for this Friday’s lunch.

The table was almost full when I got there, and Susie was elbow-to-elbow with two other women. Someone invited me to sit on the opposite end, and I spent a pleasant hour catching up. It was good to see everyone after my winter stay at my condo in Florida, and I love McPub’s food. The noise level was high as one person after another told stories to entertain the group. We all laughed even though we’d heard most of them before.

When lunch was over, I caught up with Susie just outside the place. “Suze, can I walk back to the station with you? I need your help.”

“Sure.” She balanced her take-out carton on her purse for a moment while she dug in her pocket for sunglasses. “I’m starting to get frown lines, so I’m fighting back.”

Checking to see that no one was near us I said, “I understand you knew Neil Brown.”

She turned to look at me for a moment, but the dark glasses kept me from reading her eyes. “We were in school together. It was terrible what happened.”

I didn’t ask if she thought he’d killed his wife. “Were you on duty when the call came?”

Her gaze slid in my direction. “Yeah.” There was a question in it.

“My sisters are trying to help Meredith find him.”

She sighed. “I heard about the brain tumor. Poor kid.”

Faye hadn’t known the specifics of Meredith’s condition. “Brain tumor?”

“Yeah. They say it’s benign, but they have to remove it. The tricky part is getting it all so it can’t grow back.”

“That’s awful.” We paused for a while, reflecting on the fact that you’re fine one day and not fine the next. “If there’s anything you can tell us that might help, we’d appreciate it.”

She blew out a breath. “I took the call, that’s it. Wozniak was shouting they were dead.”

“Then later you heard Carina was still alive?”

“She lived till they got her to the hospital, but I don’t think she really had a chance. It gave the doctors time to save the baby, though. Have you ever seen Brooke?”

“Not that I know of.”

“She’s a doll. Looks just like Neil, and she’s got his temperament, too. Not like Carina.”

“Carina was difficult?”

“Humph.” That was it for a few moments, but she added, almost to herself. “She did not deserve him, and I don’t care if that’s speaking ill of the dead. Neil did everything to make their marriage work, but Carina was a selfish, scheming brat.”

A note in her voice sent three clear signals. First, Susie Mason had feelings for Neil Brown she couldn’t quite hide. Second, she’d seen Neil and Carina’s relationship the same way Meredith had, and finally, she’d said all she was going to on the subject. I switched to questions about how her daughter was doing in track, listened for a few minutes, then watched her disappear into the dispatch office, heels clicking on the sidewalk like military drumbeats. There was something more than a friend’s outrage at work. Susie was hiding something.

Returning to my car, I sat for a few minutes wondering who might tell me about any relationship Susie and Neil might have had prior to marrying other people. I couldn’t think of a person, but another inspiration hit: high school yearbooks. If I looked to see who’d graduated with Neil and Susie, I might find someone I knew well enough to ask.

I am a member of the Allport Alumni Association, called “Triple A” with no attempt at originality. Our main function is to provide a party once a year for alumni at the last home football game, but we beautify the school grounds and give out scholarships too. We had an archive of every yearbook from the ’30s to the present, kept in the library at the high school.

It took some digging to find what I wanted. Neil Brown was pictured only twice in the book, his posed senior photo and a group shot of the baseball team. In his sophomore year, however, I found pay dirt. He’d served as escort to Homecoming Queen Candidate Susie Wexford. The picture showed a boy two inches shorter than his date, who of course had chosen heels. The extent of his dressing up for the occasion was black slacks and a long-sleeved white shirt. His hair was a mess of unruly curls, his expression one of extreme discomfort.

That was what I wanted to know. Susie and Neil had once been close. Barbara and Faye had considered his buddies as possible helpers, but had they looked at Neil’s old girlfriends?

Faye was excited when I called to tell her. “That could be important,” she said. “I’ve been looking over the file, and some kids saw a blue truck parked at the dispatch center. Neil’s truck was blue, but it turned out someone passing through town stopped for directions.”

“Who told them that?”

After a prolonged hum of concentration, she read from Sparks’ notes, “
Dispatcher reports a man in a blue Chevy stopped for directions
. Neil’s pickup was a Ford Ranger.”

“Susie was the dispatcher on duty. Maybe you should talk to her.”

“Maybe I should.”

“Keep my name out of it. I don’t want my friends thinking I’m a snitch.”

Faye coughed the smoker’s version of a chuckle. “You got it, Retta. And thanks.”

I hung up, feeling that Faye was starting to lean to my side. If I kept this up, I’d soon be part of the Needs-a-New-Name Detective Agency.

Chapter Eleven

Barb

Jasper Conklin was an old guy who looked like his legs wouldn’t hold him up but his ears might. Windswept Apartments were not nearly as whimsical as the name indicated, but Jasper assured me it was a good place to live. “Lots of kids,” he said, ushering me in and indicating a blanket-shrouded couch. “I like to watch them.” He pointed at the sliding glass door, where the dying daylight revealed an overturned trike and a slightly deflated soccer ball. I could hear a child crying a floor above us, but there was no sign my host did.

He recalled Carina and Neil Brown. “They was a beautiful couple. Out of the world.”

“Happily married?”

“At first.” He shrugged. “Later on, they had fights, but everybody does.”

“What did they fight about?”

“Money, mostly. One time I heard her say her dad could help them and they could have a real house before the baby came.”

“And what did he say to that?”

Conklin frowned. “I never could hear much of what he said. But I heard her real good.”

“She was a screamer?”

“Girls, they’re different when they’re, you know, P.G.”

I hadn’t heard anyone use that euphemism in decades. “They sometimes threw things?”

“I wouldn’t say
they
. I think she did the throwing and Neil, he just did the ducking.” He laughed at his own joke, snorting a little. “He did the ducking.”

I sat with the old man for an hour, letting him talk, as Faye had advised. He was thrilled to have company, and I ended up drinking tea from a poorly-washed cup (bad eyesight) and eating slightly stale cookies from the dollar store. (“You get two packages for a buck.”) I heard stories about his kids, too busy to visit very often, and his neighbor, the object of pity because of her failing health. “Osteo-arthritis,” Jasper said, lowering his voice to emphasize the seriousness of it. “When she drives me to the doctor’s she can barely see over the steering wheel. I do the shifting ’cause she can’t raise that right arm hardly at all.”

When I finally bid Mr. Conklin goodnight, it was after nine. Once I left the reach of the parking lot’s lamps, it was as if a blanket had dropped over my car. There was no moon, no stars, and the street lights were swathed in mist so that I moved from black to light to black again.

Conditions were perfect for some night work. A billboard at the edge of town needed my healing touch, a bedding ad that read,
A person needs their rest
. Holy mixed numbers, Batman!

My paints and a change of clothes were always handy in the trunk of my car, so I was ready. The problem with the task was the billboard’s position. Situated on poles sunk deep in a ditch and rising far over my head, I didn’t know if I could reach the spot that needed fixing. At least it hadn’t rained recently, so the ditch would be dry.

At an empty house a hundred yards or so down the road from the billboard, I pulled my car far enough up the driveway that it wasn’t visible from the road. I turned it around, difficult to do with the lights out, but it makes for a quicker getaway if things go bad.

The night was cool, not cold, but I wore gloves anyway. No sense leaving fingerprints, no matter how unlikely the possibility of CSI. Hiking back to the sign, I ducked down when a car appeared, letting the darkness hide me. When I reached the sign’s base, I was pleased to see foot pegs leading up a post, supplied to facilitate changing the message. That was precisely my intent.

Climbing to the platform, I tested my reach. I couldn’t get to the top line, “A person needs,” but the last two words were accessible. I had a decision to make: “her rest” or “his rest”? The picture showed a woman, but of course masculine pronouns are understood to refer to both sexes. I decided to take the easy way. Taking out my white paint, I began doing away with the
t
and the
i
in
their
. No complaints, no outrage—just another Correctional Event.