The Wolfe Widow (A Book Collector Mystery) (17 page)

“What’s he doing here?”

At that moment, Jones got off his bar stool and sauntered across the room, pausing to exchange a few pleasantries with Frankie and Junior. “Good question.”

Cherie said, “Do you think he’s investigating our landscapers? Perhaps he’s on to them.”

“Maybe. He seems awfully friendly with them, don’t you think?”

“He does, now that you mention it. He’s sitting down. Look at that. They’re buying him a drink. Could it be a setup?”

“I don’t like this at all. Harrison Falls is a fairly small community. It wouldn’t be surprising if Detective Jones knew Frank Riley at least. They look about the same age, midfifties. Maybe they went to school together or something or played some kind of sports.”

“So you’d better get your ducks in a row before you go to him with your suspicions.”

I nodded. “Absolutely. I’ll need some kind of proof before I do, and I’m beginning to conclude that Detective Jones isn’t the person to present that proof to.”

“Who would be?”

Tyler Dekker would have been nice, but he was out of reach. “I don’t know yet. And I think I’d better find out.”

“What do we need to do next?”

“We need to find out more about them. We need to know if they have police records. If there’s a connection between them and Muriel, or between them and Vera. Or all of the above.”

“I could try a date with Frankie.”

I bit my lip. “I don’t know. These guys are really dangerous. I wouldn’t want you out on a limb.”

She laughed. A long, low throaty laugh that attracted quite a bit of male attention everywhere in the bar. I slumped down in my chair to make sure none of that attention came to me. Cherie had no known connection with Vera, Muriel or anyone else in our current drama. I did. And Detective Jones could easily recognize me if he took a good look. But it was fine. No one in Sullivan’s showed the slightest interest in
me
.

“The date could be somewhere fairly public.”

“And if he’s not happy with the outcome of it?”

“He won’t find me.”

“But he’ll have your name.”

“You don’t actually think he’ll have my real name, do you, sweetness?”

“Even so. We have to figure out what you’d learn from him that would make it worth the risk.”

“Risk? I don’t think there’d be much risk for me.”

“You are talking to a person who never even met him, let alone tried to ‘manage’ him, and then ended up facedown in a pile of leaves before being hauled off to Emergency.”

“But you weren’t expecting trouble.”

“Apparently I was asking for it, though. And you would be too. Don’t take a chance. We’ll think of something else.”

“Like what?”

By now, Jones’s and the two landscapers’ drinks had arrived. The hilarity level at the table had gone up. Lots of backslapping. Way too much. Although this gave me a sinking feeling, I was glad I had seen him. Otherwise I would have gone straight to him with what little I’d learned about them.

Cherie tilted her head and regarded our suspicious backslappers. “We need to learn more about them.”

“I already put Kev on it.” Of course, I wasn’t too hopeful that would get us anywhere. So many tasks with Kev end up with zero results.

“That’s awesome. And I can also check them out online and see what I learn.”

“Sure thing. Then if we need to, and I hope we won’t, you can call him and we’ll set something in motion. Maybe if we could get a photo of them.”

“We can do that now.”

“What? Don’t—” But of course, it was too late. Cherie was heading back to the jukebox, iPhone in hand. She made quite a show out of getting a selfie with the jukebox. Then followed it by a pout. She sashayed over to the drooling Frankie and his son and a bemused-looking Detective Jones. I heard her ask if Frankie could take a picture of her.

“I love this old jukebox,” she gushed. “Love it to bits. Do you mind, darlin’?”

Frankie didn’t mind as it turned out. Cherie’s poses were provocative to say the least. I had to smother a grin as every eye in the place was on her. “Why don’t you get in the picture too?” she cooed. “You’re doing all the work.”

Detective Jones took advantage of the interruption to slip from the bar and vanish through the front door. In the meantime, Frankie practically tripped over his own feet getting up there. “And Junior too. Do you mind taking a couple of shots of us?” she asked the server.

It was quite obvious that the server really did mind. But there wasn’t much she could do. Once she handed the phone back to Cherie, insult was added to injury as Cherie checked out the results, frowning prettily. Eventually, she pronounced herself satisfied and swayed back to rejoin me.

“Got ’em,” she said.

“Can you send them to me? I’ll print them out and show them to the witnesses. I hope they don’t find you too distracting,” I said with a grin. “I’m heading out now, so I need you to create another of your little diversions until I get in the car. I’ll wait for you. I’ll get a shot of the truck too. Not sure why I didn’t before.”

Once again, Cherie was the perfect accomplice. I slipped through the door like a noodle down a hungry throat. My heart almost stopped as Detective Jones stubbed out a cigarette and headed back in. I scuttled past him, head down, hoping he wouldn’t see my face and make a connection with the hit-and-run victim he’d interviewed.

I kept looking over my shoulder as I snapped the photos of the red truck. Why had I insisted on telling that cop about the other hit-and-run? If there was a connection between him and the Rileys and between the Rileys and the old hit-and-run, he’d know about that too. I shook my head. Junior wouldn’t have even been born back then. But Jones and Frankie, they were tight.

I was chewing my lip five minutes later when the door to the bar opened. Cherie turned around and waved back to someone, then hurried over to my car.

“Did you get it?”

“Yup. Lots of them.” I patted my phone.

I gunned it and we spun out of the parking lot.

“He’s still sitting there with them. Every time I went over, the conversation stopped. I thought I heard your name, though. Couldn’t be positive. Does he know where you’re staying?”

“The cop? Sure he does. He interviewed me at Uncle Mick’s.”

“Perhaps you’d better stay somewhere else.”

“Where? I can’t go to Vera’s. I can’t go anywhere, really. He’s a cop. If I check into a hotel he’d be able to find that out.”

“Stay with me. None of these people know my name or where I live.”

“You’re pretty identifiable. They could find you.”

“Trust me. They couldn’t find their noses on their faces.”

“I guess we should keep moving before it’s too late,” I said.

“Don’t forget my offer,” Cherie said.

My head was beginning to swim. I asked myself how well I really knew Cherie. After all, she just showed up out of nowhere and now she was like family. I’d been had before by sudden intense friends. Could I trust her?

On the other hand, she had helped out hugely. I was probably just being paranoid. But as we say in our family, just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean they’re not out to get you.

I said, “Tonight I’m going to sleep in my own bed. Uncle Mick and Uncle Lucky will be back. I just need to relax. I’m safe there. Once you and Kev find out more about these guys, we’ll figure out what action to take. I mean, if they turn out to be criminals with a mean streak, we’ll factor that in.”

“Killjoy,” Cherie said.

F
ROM
THE
TIME
I got home, walked the dogs, dodged the cats and climbed into bed, maybe twenty minutes elapsed. I didn’t even read the first page of
Champagne for One
before conking out. I did have a fleeting thought that “champagne for one” sort of described me in my abandoned state.

The next thing, it was daylight and who knew what Archie Goodwin had gotten up to in that book. I crawled out of bed feeling like I had been hit by a truck. Oh right. I had been.

Two dogs looked at me with great interest. Was I thinking about food?

But before there was any food, we had pressing business to attend to. I slipped my jacket on over my pink plaid flannel pajamas and stuck my feet into the first pair of kicks I spotted and headed out with the dogs. The brisk fall air helped to clear my head. Perhaps I was starting to get back to normal. I didn’t run into any neighbors, of course, because our part of the street is entirely made up of buildings owned by my uncles, including the flagship Michael Kelly’s Fine Antiques. The other buildings, purchased through the miracle of shell companies, were either rentals or empty. The garages were particularly useful for the storage of the many unofficial Kelly vehicles. Mick and Lucky had recently acquired the former dress shop across the street. No one had mentioned what they’d acquired it for. I didn’t ask. I didn’t want to know. Whatever the purpose, it had a particularly vacant look today with the forlorn “FOR RENT” sign in the shop’s front window. With the economy the way it was, there wasn’t much hope that anyone would actually try to rent it.

Maybe someday, Karen would be able to get her mystery bookstore business up and running again. But Karen still had lingering memory and energy issues from the attack on her the previous spring. Plus she was now living happily ever after married to Lucky. It occurred to me that I might get my own little business going there. The location would be right. There was a space upstairs that might make a wonderfully chic loft apartment. It would be close to my uncles. I was sure that they would cut me a deal on the rent. This made an entertaining daydream any time I was walking the dogs, but I really wasn’t ready to give up on my last job. Nor was I ready yet to toss Vera to the wolf that was Muriel Delgado and her vile Riley accomplices.

So, back to work.

First, I fed the dogs. Apparently they hadn’t had a bite to eat in a couple of years. Then I took my chances to give some food to the cats. Unfortunately, we had run out of their food. How had that happened? You can’t really count on Uncle Kev for anything and so, naturally, he had rescued the cats, but hadn’t brought enough of the food they really liked. Not, as you might expect, caviar or peeled shrimp or catnip-infused tuna, but Blue Wilderness brand, specifically duck flavor. Oh,
pardonnez-moi
. Decadent and not easily found, I grumped. They had started looking at me like I’d make a nice tasty snack.

I did think they might carry Blue Wilderness at the Poocherie in their Famous Felines section. Of course, the shops weren’t open yet to check. I tried everything I could think. They turned down my offering of other treats. Finally, I had a vague memory of Uncle Kev once enticing them with Cheez-Its. Naturally, there were Cheez-Its in Uncle Mick’s cupboard. I listened to their complaints and tried to explain that (a) I would pick up more Blue Wilderness and (b) it shouldn’t be long before they were back to being kings of the castle at Van Alst House and (c) I really hoped Cheez-Its weren’t bad for them, even if they had survived when Uncle Kev had offered them.

I don’t know much about cats or their diets and after all it was the kind of household where Cheez-Its could make a human meal and I’d be most likely having sugary cereal myself.

I tossed the Cheez-Its toward them and was surprised to see them pounce.

“I hope you enjoy them, at least. Sorry they’re not served in a crystal bowl.”

It sounded like they said “yada yada” in response to my comment. But that might have been my imagination.

“I know you’re missing company,” I said, extending my hand, intending to stroke Good Cat. Good Cat likes a bit of human contact. Everyone knows Bad Cat doesn’t care for people except for Vera, so I quickly withdrew to get yet another bandage and a bit of antiseptic. He has quite the reach.

As I settled in to my own breakfast—the last of the Sugar Frosted Flakes combined with the dregs of the Count Chocula added up to one bowl. I wondered what they were having at Van Alst House. A mountain of pancakes with high-grade maple syrup? Fluffy scrambled eggs with chives and a towering plate of hot buttered toast? A Dutch baby with fruit and whipped cream? It didn’t bear thinking about, but it did increase my resolve.

As I had all that increased resolve, it was time to get going. I wasn’t the only one getting going. Although there was no word from Uncle Kev (maybe he knew I’d be upset about the cat food situation), Cherie had been busy. She’d sent me the series of photos of the Rileys, smiling like fools. In the pix where Cherie had also appeared, she seemed to have Photoshopped herself out of the picture.

Good thinking.

One of the photos had the Rileys appearing to be reasonably somber. Their pudgy faces in repose still managed to look dangerous. I printed five copies of that one as well as the silly smiling versions. This was a big step forward. I hurried upstairs to get dressed for the day. The dizziness I’d been experiencing since I’d been hit seemed to be gone. I was feeling good again. In fact, I was in Archie Goodwin mode. He’d be on the case if he were me. He wouldn’t be sitting around feeling sorry for himself and reading mysteries, not that I had been. Okay, maybe a bit. He’d keep hitting the streets to see what he could find. And he would look damn stylish doing it. I would stick to the basics, black turtleneck and tight well-worn jeans, my plaid coat and oversize deep orange purse.

I needed two things besides cat food: First, I wanted more dope about the Rileys. Second, but more important, it was past time to find what linked Vera and Muriel. Archie wouldn’t let a single encounter with another human being pass without getting some information and neither should I.

So who would know something about Vera and Muriel in high school? Their friends, of course, but who had they been? With the exception of Eddie, I’d never heard Vera mention even one friend from her past. In fact, she never mentioned Eddie either. He was the one maintaining that one-sided friendship. Certainly, she had no friends outside of me and my family and the signora in Harrison Falls.

Mindy and Tom were the people I’d found who were closest to Muriel. That wasn’t very close. They had told me about the hit-and-run death of the stepfather, Pete Delaney. I was grateful, but at an impasse.

Vera was fifty-five. Muriel about the same, I figured. I could talk to people that age and see what turned up. I knew from conversations with Vera that she had gone to private school in Switzerland but had returned to graduate from high school in Harrison Falls. That must have been a rough ride, I’d thought at the time. I figured the time frame was when the Van Alst Factory was failing at the hands of Leonard Van Alst. Vera had adored her father, but the rest of the world seemed to think he’d been a fool when it came to running a business. Now that I knew he’d also had a mistress on the side and that mistress was Muriel’s mother, the plot was thick all right.

So they both had gone to school in Harrison Falls, even if Vera had only been there briefly. I’d have to talk to people in that age group. How hard could that be? As I’ve mentioned, Harrison Falls is a small place and people have long and bitter memories.

I paused and my eyes opened. Detective Jack Jones. He was also in his midfifties, unless I missed my guess. I’d figured back in the bar that might explain his chumminess with the Rileys, as Frank had probably been at school with him.

What to do next?

Of course. Archie would go find a teacher. He’d charm that teacher (almost certainly a woman) until she was ready to tell him anything.

I would have to do the same. Naturally, anyone who’d been a teacher when Vera and Muriel were in attendance would be long retired. Maybe even long, long retired. But how to find out who?

Was it merely a coincidence that Walter picked that moment to nudge my leg and look at me with googly eyes?

“What?” I said.

Walter did a little dance.

“It’s not like you would know any retired teachers, Walter. So are you just angling for a T-R-E-A-T? You haven’t had one since we walked down Main Street.”

Walter looked so disappointed that it was all I could do not to laugh. “Who do you know, Walter? You say you’re friends with anyone who has food, like Lainie and Phyllis? Oh, Phyllis was a teacher. Nice one, Walter.” Walter just kept dancing; it was almost like he really knew what I was talking about. Cobain looked on from his position on my bed, hope gleaming in his liquid brown eyes. “Okay, fellas. Let’s go downtown. And no drama when I pick up cat food.”

Both dogs were ready. Cobain lumbered to his feet and both of them stood wagging at the door, promising to be good, until I hooked up their leashes.

First, we strolled over to Bridge Street to the Poocherie to fulfill my promise to the cats, before I started my detecting duties. I was glad to see Jasmine and her pink-tipped hair and metallic smile this time. Walter and Cobain were thrilled to be there. The place was an olfactory paradise for them. While I was talking to Jasmine, I could hear Cobain’s tail thumping. Walter’s tail doesn’t reach to the floor, but it was wagging. Hope springs eternal if you’re a dog in a store full of treats.

“What happened to you?” Jasmine squeaked.

“What do you mean?”

“Your face.”

“My face?” I didn’t expect to be insulted and, while I may not be the reigning Miss Universe, as a rule people don’t think there’s much wrong with my face.

“Bruises.”

“Oh. Right. I got hit by a truck. Did you hear about that on the news?”

“I never listen to the news. But bummer. Are you okay, Jordan? Except for your face, I mean.”

I glanced around for a mirror, but as it was a pet store there weren’t many, except for the one in the parrot’s cage and I wasn’t desperate enough to try that. I had to let the bruise comments go and seize the opportunity.

“Yes,” I said. “Not that the cops have been any help.”

“I’m not surprised,” Jasmine said. “They just try to keep us down.”

I chose not to explore where that might lead. Once I’d purchased a couple of bags of Blue Wilderness, I showed her the picture of the Rileys. “I think these are the guys who drove the truck that hit me. Do you know them?”

She stared at the printout and scratched her pink-tipped head. “Yeah, they do look familiar. I’ve seen them here on the street. Not long ago.”

“Really? They drive a red truck with
FXR
on the side.”

The door opened, the bell over it jingled and the store filled with chattering dog walkers. Jasmine glanced at them, just as the tail of an energetic golden retriever knocked over a display of cans. I’d lost her.

As she headed over to redo the display, I wrote down my cell number. “Please call me if you remember. Any time of day or night. I’d appreciate it. They’re dangerous.”

“Sure thing. Grab a couple of treats for your pooches.”

I had to leave the dogs outside the Sweet Spot while I popped in. I told myself not to be overwhelmed by all the wonderful candy and chocolates and fudge. The owner’s name was Rachel and she was far too polite to mention my bruises. I did tell her that I’d been hit by a truck and showed her the photos. She shook her head when I showed her the photos of the Rileys. Rachel was probably in her late thirties. She’d come to Harrison Falls with her husband. I figured she wouldn’t know either Muriel or Vera. I did ask anyway.

“I wish I could help. We live over on the other side of Grandville. I don’t know many people outside the shop. But Phyllis Zelman at the Food Drop knows everyone.”

“We’re on our way there next. I’d like to get some of that fudge. Might need to give someone a little gift.”

Rachel wrapped up the fudge, walked to the shop door with me and produced a couple of dog treats from her pocket. “Good doggies, waiting so patiently outside.”

“Oh, they’ve already had—oh well.”

All I heard was a pair of gulps.

Next stop, the Food Drop.

There was no sign of Phyllis, but I walked through calling out her name. Walter galloped ahead and stood by a closed door and tried to wag himself airborne. Finally there was a rustling and what sounded like muffled swearing from a back room. I stuck my head in and spotted Phyllis wrestling with a large garbage bag filled with canned food.

Her round black-framed glasses had slipped down her nose and she uttered an expression not really suited to a retired teacher running a food bank.

That took me by surprise and I’m afraid that I laughed. I also offered to help.

“I wish people would use their brains,” she said. “Boxes are a lot easier.”

“Right.” I helped her wrestle the bag of cans over to the nearest shelf.