All the Pretty Hearses (10 page)

Addison nodded. “That makes sense. Dump and run. The purse would be right on top and visible to whoever used the bin next. You ought to call Moonbeam’s, too.”

“You’re right.” Judith stood in the middle of the kitchen, pondering. “I wish I’d made a copy of that driver’s license. It was a bad picture of . . .” She brightened. “Do you have a camera?”

“In my phone,” Addison replied. “I’m no photographer, but I have to equip myself with all the latest bells and whistles on the job.”

“Be right back.” Judith hurried into the front hall and grabbed the receipt and the keys. She was almost into the dining room when the couple from Indianapolis entered the house. “Oh! How was your dinner?” she asked, hoping they wouldn’t go into details.

“Wonderful,” the wife replied. “I had salmon and it was the best I’ve ever eaten. The view was lovely, too. All those ferryboats going back and forth. If it hadn’t been raining, they said we could have seen the mountains in the distance beyond the ocean.”

Judith recalled that the wife’s name was Marcia. “We’re not on the ocean,” she explained for perhaps the five-hundredth time since opening the B&B. “The bay is part of the sound. The ocean is almost a hundred miles from here.”

The couple exchanged perplexed—and possibly incredulous—glances. “Huh,” the husband said. “That seems kind of odd.”

“Blame it on the Ice Age,” Judith said, forcing a smile. “Excuse me, I have to make a phone call.”

Back in the kitchen, she showed the receipt to Addison. “Here’s the real Jean Rogers’s address.”

He frowned. “In Phoenix?”

“Oh no!” Judith cried. “What was I thinking? She moved here last June from Phoenix. She’s listed in the phone book, though. It’s two blocks from Moonbeam’s, 2455 Rosebud North.”

“Good memory,” he said admiringly.

Judith shook her head. “Not really. You met my cousin and her husband at the hospital. They live just two blocks down on the same street. Jean’s address will be on the west side.”

“You want me to talk to her?”

“Well . . . I’d like you to take a picture of her driver’s license and show it around at Moonbeam’s to see if anyone remembers the other Jean Rogers. They bear a slight resemblance, but the real Jean is younger, better looking, and has brown eyes. The phony Jean’s eyes are blue.”

“Okay,” Addison agreed. “Maybe you should call her first. If she lives alone, she might not be too keen on having a strange man show up at her door on a dark night.”

“Good idea,” Judith said. “I’ll do that before I call the cops and Nordquist’s.”

Addison was out the door by the time Judith had checked Jean’s number on her caller ID. The phone was answered on the second ring. “Hi, Jean. It’s Judith Flynn. I hate to be a pest, but would you mind letting a friend of mine take a picture of your license?”

Jean didn’t respond right away. “Why would he want to do that?”

“To help find whoever stole your purse,” Judith said. “Did you call the police and Nordquist’s to tell them you found it?”

“Not yet,” Jean replied. “I didn’t know if anyone would be in the office this late at Nordquist’s. I wasn’t sure who to call at police headquarters. Anyway, as soon as I got back from your B&B, I started packing for tomorrow’s trip.” She paused. “Well . . . okay, but this kind of creeps me out. Are you sure the guy’s somebody you trust?”

“Definitely,” Judith assured her. “His name is Addison Kirby. I’ve known him for years.”

Jean’s sigh was audible. “If you say so. I’ll be here.”

Judith thanked her and disconnected, then called the police theft number. After four rings, she was put on hold. Five minutes passed before a live voice responded. Judith explained the problem. The woman taking the report said that recovery of the stolen property would be duly noted, thanked Judith, and hung up.

It was well after nine o’clock. Jean was probably right about Nordquist’s not answering their phones. The store and the offices were closed. There might be a number for the security department, but she was tired of repeating the tale of the stolen brown suede drawstring bag. She was, in fact, just plain tired.

What little appetite she’d had seemed to have vanished. She put the uneaten half of her egg-salad sandwich into the fridge, carried the rest of her drink into the living room, and collapsed on the sofa. The fire she’d set off for the guests’ social hour had almost burned out. Taking another sip of Scotch, she tried to relax and didn’t realize she’d nodded off until the sound of the front door opening woke her up.

“Joe?” Her voice sounded foggy in her ears. No. Joe always came in through the back door. She was struggling to get to her feet when Addison entered the living room.

“Were you asleep?” he asked, taking off his jacket.

Judith felt sheepish. “I guess I was.” She peered at the grandfather clock by the door to the front parlor. “My God, it’s almost ten. Did you have any luck?”

“Sit back down,” Addison said. “You look kind of shaky.”

Judith didn’t argue. “It’s been a long day.”

“It’s about to get longer,” Addison said, sitting down on the matching sofa by the fireplace hearth. “I got zip. Nobody at Moonbeam’s remembered a woman who looked like the first Jean Rogers. The trash bin where the purse was found is outside of the store.”

Judith groaned. “I should’ve thought about that. Joe and I always go there for the annual Halloween costume parade and sit outside with Renie and Bill. We use that trash can when we’re finished. What about the real Jean? Did you get a decent picture of her driver’s license?”

Addison shook his head and looked bleakly at Judith. “The real Jean Rogers doesn’t live at 2455 Rosebud Avenue North and never did. Mr. James Michael Rogers told me so in person. No relation, never heard of her, and thought I was nuts. The phone number you used is for a cell he got rid of last month when he upgraded. For all we know, the real Jean Rogers is at the bottom of the Grand Canyon.”

Chapter Nine

J
udith was dumbfounded. “You mean . . .
both
Jean Rogers are fakes?”

“Maybe fakes, maybe crooks.” Addison put his hands behind his head and leaned back on the sofa. “I don’t know. Can you think of any way to tie in the two women with whatever Joe has gotten involved in at police headquarters?”

“No,” Judith replied. “Unless . . .” She paused, wondering if her tired brain was playing tricks on her. “Unless the Jean Rogers who stayed here so briefly was the one who managed to open the safe. Joe would never leave it unlocked, not with his guns in there.”

“Maybe there
is
a connection,” Addison mused. “If so, there are some very clever people involved. Why would they want to get you and Joe mixed up in whatever is going on? Or is it just a coincidence because he’s the PI assigned to the possible insurance-fraud case?”

Judith made a helpless gesture. “You mean it was part of an ongoing investigation, so they called on Joe because he’s a former police detective—and a damned good one? But whose idea was that? SANECO? The cops? And has Joe been aware of this from the start?”

Addison smiled, but he looked more ironic than amused. “I don’t know. I may have gotten an inside track because I’m on the City Hall beat, but nobody’s telling me everything. Did Joe approach this assignment any differently than he usually does?”

Judith considered the question carefully. “Not really. But when it ended so abruptly, he didn’t seem concerned over the loss of income.”

“That might indicate he knew the job wasn’t finished,” Addison suggested. “But he can’t tell you—”

Judith held up her hand. “Wait—I think I know why he asked me to look for the gun that wasn’t there. It was his way of letting me know something else was going on and that . . .” She took a deep breath. “That it has something to do with the B&B.”

“Gun?” Addison looked puzzled. “What gun?”

“The Smith & Wesson he’d carried during the surveillance,” Judith replied, then explained why Joe’s request had been so odd. “He couldn’t say too much because he thought someone might be listening in.”

“At which end?”

The question startled Judith. “At the time, I thought he meant where he was, not here. But now I have to wonder.”

“Maybe the safe holds more than the other guns,” Addison murmured. “What else does Joe keep there?”

“I looked,” Judith said. “Just personal stuff. Nothing to do with specific PI assignments. He keeps those in a filing cabinet.”

“Okay.” Addison stared at the embers in the fireplace grate. “If the safe was open, it might be that there
was
something in it that’s also gone,” he said after a long pause. “It could be background on someone, including the guy who got killed.”

“Joe wasn’t sure the vic was using his real name.”

“So I gathered. But he must’ve been told how the on-the-job accident had happened.”

Judith considered the idea. “Over the years, I’ve seen some of the forms he’s gotten from his clients, especially the ones involving insurance fraud. They give the basics—name of suspected fraud perp, occupation, type of accident, and a copy of the original policy. Cheating spouses, missing persons—all that sort of thing is more detailed and there’s usually no form involved. If a crime has been committed, there’s a copy of a police report. Frankly, Joe doesn’t like taking missing-persons cases, especially when children are involved. I can double-check to see if I missed anything pertinent to the current—I should say
former
—case.”

“It’s not really closed, is it?”

“No.” Judith gazed at the plate rail that lined the living room’s walls. “I’m trying to think of any suspicious guests—other than Jean Rogers—who’ve been here this week. Frankly, they seem like a pretty tame group. This is the B&B’s slowest time of year. Are you really going to spend the night or was that just a ruse to grill me about what’s going on downtown?”

Addison sighed. “I hadn’t decided—until now. My condo’s fine. I was reluctant to call you, but I had to find out how much you knew about what’s happening with your husband. Now I think I should stay.”

“You’re welcome to,” Judith said, “but why?”

He grimaced. “Because you need somebody you can trust.”

In spite of herself, Judith shivered. Addison’s keen blue eyes seemed to hold some kind of wisdom—or maybe portent—that she lacked. “If you’re trying to scare me,” she said quietly, “you’ve done it.”

“Good.” He stood up and stretched. “What time do you lock up?”

“Ten.” She glanced at the grandfather clock. “Five minutes from now. All of the guests aren’t back yet, but like you, they have a front door key.”

“Where do you sleep?”

“The family quarters are on the third floor. I can lock the door behind me.”

“Do that.” Addison walked over to the bay window. “Still raining. I’m wondering if I should stay down here or go up to my room.”

“You want to grill the guests? You already missed the middle-aged couple from Indianapolis.”

“I’ll catch that pair at breakfast.”

Judith couldn’t help but laugh. “I wouldn’t worry about them. They think we’re on the Pacific Ocean.”

“So do most other people who aren’t from around here. I don’t think they ever look at a map.”

“Bill calls it a ‘bunker’ mentality. The world moves so fast these days that people just hunker down and practice self-preservation. It’s not only being self-centered, it’s being centered on self.”

Addison nodded. “If I ever go crazy, I’ll have to make an appointment with Bill. Does he make house calls? Or does he practice what he preaches and never leaves his own house?”

“He prefers not to, but sometimes it’s necessary—if only to escape from Renie.” Judith picked up her unfinished cocktail and rose from the sofa. “I’m going to clean up the kitchen. If you want anything to eat, feel free to forage.”

“Should I check on your mother?”

“You think she’s in danger? Get real. Jack the Ripper would’ve set an unbeatable hundred-meter dash record if he’d come up against her.”

“But . . .” Addison looked flummoxed. “She seems so . . . sweet.”

“So did Lizzie Borden.” Judith peered at Addison. “You’ve been reading people for as long as I have. You really aren’t taken in, are you?”

Addison sighed. “No. But it was fun while it lasted. Your mother does know a lot about theater.”

Judith nodded. “I’d forgotten that part of her life. It’s strange. My father died when I was very young. There’s so much I don’t know about him. I’ve cursed myself a thousand times for not asking more questions about what he did when he was young, his courtship of Mother, how he felt about teaching.”

Addison nodded. “Children—even adult children—don’t seem to twig to the fact that their parents had a life before they were born. My own three only ask about my job if something I’ve written impacts them.”

“Bunker mentality,” Judith murmured. “Maybe it’s been around a lot longer than Bill thinks. It’s just gotten worse.”

“My job is asking questions. That’s why I wanted to talk to your mother privately when I went out to her apartment.”

Judith frowned. “What did you want to ask her?”

“About what she saw or heard when Joe was arrested. There was a second vehicle in the driveway behind the squad car.”

“Yes, she told me that, but couldn’t see what kind of car it was.”

“I pressed her a bit,” Addison said. “It wasn’t a car. What she described sounded more like a truck, dark color. What do you make of that?”

“Nothing,” Judith said after a pause, “but maybe my neighbor Arlene Rankers saw something. She has what we call ABS—Arlene’s Broadcasting System. She knows everything that goes on around this neighborhood, especially in the cul-de-sac. Arlene’s indispensable. I can’t begin to tell you how many times she’s helped me find out . . . things I’ve needed to know. Unfortunately, she and Carl go to bed early. I’ll have to wait until tomorrow to talk to her.”

“Wow. She sounds like a treasure trove of a source.”

“She’s all that and more. Both Arlene and Carl are amazing neighbors. They’ve taken over the B&B—and Mother—for me on several occasions.”

“Do you think I should put them on the newspaper payroll?”

Judith smiled. “Is there such a thing anymore?”

Addison shook his head. “No. But I would if I could. You look beat. It’s after ten. Go to bed. I’ll be in charge.”

Judith felt obligated to argue—but didn’t. Addison was right. She was beat. But not beaten.

T
he two widowed sisters were up early, despite coming in late from the family reunion dinner. They wanted to get a head start on their visit to other relatives who lived outside of the city. Traffic, the sister from San Diego said, might not be as bad as in Southern California, but it was still daunting—especially to the other sister from Green Bay.

The couple from Indianapolis had arrived in the dining room a quarter of an hour later, still talking about their waterfront experience—and apparently still convinced they had been on the ocean.

Addison had joined Judith in the kitchen just as she was about to take Gertrude’s breakfast out to the toolshed. He insisted on delivering the tray in person. Judith protested, but only in a halfhearted manner. Despite being tired, she’d had trouble getting to sleep without Joe beside her. She kept picturing him lying in a dank cell on a cot with only a small, barred window so high up in the concrete wall that he couldn’t see anything outside except dark nights and gray days. She knew better, having seen the local jail, but the image haunted her anyway. Instead of a grim cell, Joe might be sleeping in the spare bedroom at Woody and Sondra Price’s Tudor brick house on the Eastside.

By 8:20, Addison had returned from the toolshed and was adroitly quizzing the widows between mouthfuls of buttermilk pancakes, ham, sausage, eggs, and freshly squeezed orange juice. Apparently they didn’t strike him as master criminals, so he moved on to Edgar and Marcia from Indianapolis. The young couple hadn’t yet come downstairs. Nor had the Beard-Smythes, which was just fine with Judith. She hoped they’d have breakfast elsewhere, anywhere except under Hillside Manor’s roof. All she wanted was to take their money and let them run.

It was going on nine when Edgar and Marcia headed back upstairs. Judith sat down at the dining room table. “Any luck?”

Addison drank the last of his orange juice. “No. I couldn’t even convince them they aren’t on the ocean and I had trouble trying to tell them they couldn’t drive to Alaska for lunch. Who’s left?”

“Just the young couple from British Columbia, last name Owens.”

“First names?”

“Geoff—spelled as in Chaucer, Cindy with an
i
and a
y
—in that order. I looked them up in the register. You can’t be too sure how anybody spells anything these days, including Smith. Oh!” Judith made a face. “I completely forgot to tell you about the nonguests, Alicia and Reggie Beard-
Smythe
.”

Addison looked perplexed. “You mean there are some other people here I didn’t know about?”

Embarrassed, Judith nodded. “I forgot. I
wanted
to forget. The Beard-Smythes are a stinking-rich couple from our parish. Their gas furnace and hot-water heater went out and are supposed to be fixed today. I got conned into letting them stay here last night. They were in Room Three. Still are—if I can be that unlucky.”

Addison scowled. “Do they have a dog?”

“Yes, an Irish wolfhound named Mayo. How did you know?”

“I heard a dog bark just before I got up,” Addison replied. “At first, I thought it was outside, but when I went down the hall to the shower, I heard it again and thought it sounded closer. You allow pets?”

“Not as a rule, but I had no idea they were bringing Mayo along.” Judith stood up. “Damn. That means they’re still here.”

“Want to give me a quick rundown?”

Judith sighed. “I don’t know them well,” she admitted, lowering her voice in case the Beard-Smythes were on their way downstairs. “They moved to Heraldsgate Hill several years ago. They had two children, both teenagers, who spent a couple of years at our parochial school before going on to high school. I suppose they’re grown by now. We see them sometimes at church on Sunday morning, but I think they usually go to the Saturday-evening vigil Mass. I gather they’ve been active in some of the fund-raisers, which is more than I can be, other than offering something that doesn’t involve attending the events. I simply don’t have the time.”

“Understandable,” Addison agreed. “So where does the Beard-Smythe money come from?”

Judith was stumped. “I’ve no idea.” She gestured to the dining room window that looked out toward the mammoth laurel hedge and the Rankers house. “I’ll get Arlene over here to talk to you. But not until the Beard-Smythes have—”

She was interrupted by the phone. After hurrying out to the kitchen, she looked at the screen before answering. To her puzzlement, the name showed up as R. J. Smythe. “Yes?” she said, feeling relieved that the couple must have left without being noticed.

“When is breakfast delivered?” Reggie inquired. “We’ve been up for half an hour. Norma Paine said you started serving at eight.”

Judith’s temporarily lifted spirits plummeted. “I do. But I serve it in the dining room.”

Reggie’s next words were indistinct, apparently intended not for Judith but for his wife. A shriek was followed by a spate of not-quite-decipherable words from Alicia.

“I’m afraid that won’t do,” Reggie said stiltedly. “This is a bed-and-breakfast, correct? Doesn’t that imply that breakfast is served in bed?”

“No,” Judith snapped. “Have you ever stayed at a B&B before?”

“Certainly not,” Reggie replied. “When we travel, we stay in five-star hotels unless we’re stranded in a city that has only four-star accommodations. Everyone has to put up with certain inconveniences, especially when traveling abroad.”

Judith tried to keep her temper in check. “I have a full breakfast waiting for you in the dining room. If you’re hungry, come and get it. Otherwise, try the drive-through at Booger Barn.” Despite her best intentions, she slammed the phone down.