Dead In Red (10 page)

No point in leaving one now. I hung up,
noting the address before closing the phone book. Maybe I’d just
drive over there tomorrow after my stint at the bar. The more I
thought about it, the more I warmed to the idea.

The clock on the microwave read nine
twenty-five and I wondered if it was too late to call Maggie.

Probably. And what was I going to say to her
anyway? “Hi, you’re hot and I want you as much as you want me.”

Yeah, that would go over well.

Then I figured what the hell—I’d already
risked death once tonight; nothing else could faze me—and grabbed
the phone, punching in the number I’d memorized three months
before.

It rang twice before Maggie picked up.
“Hello?”

“It’s Jeff.”

“Oh.” She sounded startled—or maybe
disappointed.

“I can call back another time.”

“No, now is fine. Uh, hi.”

“Hi.” Now what?
I’d
called
her
. Say something you idiot!

“Are you okay? You sound funny.”

“I tangled with some boxes.”

“Oh yeah. Brenda said you’d be unpacking
tonight. Listen, did you find out who owned that property outside
of Ellicottville?”

“I haven’t had a chance to go back yet.”

“Well, I have a cousin whose husband works
for the Cattaraugus County Highway Department, and his sister works
for the Ellicottville Town Clerk, and he—”

“Whoa—slow down. I can’t keep track of all
those people.”

She laughed. “You don’t have to. Bottom
line—I found out who owns the house and where the tax bill is
sent.”

For a moment I was speechless. “Cynthia
Lennox?”

“How did you know? Oh yeah,” she said and
laughed again, “ I forgot. You’re psychic.”

“Never use the ‘p’ word in front of me,” I
chided her.

“Want the address?”

“Definitely.” I jotted it down. Cyn lived
somewhere in the northern part of Amherst. “How can I ever repay
you for this?”

“That’s not necessary. Although
. . . maybe we could go out again sometime. Maybe another
magical mystery tour.”

My heart rate picked up. “I’d like that. A
lot.”

“Yeah, me too.”

So ask her out already, ya dumb ass!

“Well, thanks for calling. Bye.”

“Maggie, wait—” But the connection was
already broken.

I hung up the phone.

That didn’t exactly go as planned, but at
least she wasn’t pissed at me anymore. I glanced at the address I’d
just written down. At least now I knew for certain that Cyn Lennox
had a connection to Walt Kaplan.

Now to prove it.

# # #

CHAPTER 8

It had taken twenty minutes under a hot
shower to ease the aches that twisted my poor bruised body the next
morning. It was after ten by the time I staggered into the kitchen,
with no Richard or Brenda in sight. She’d left a note, however:
“We’re off to look at wedding corsages. See you for supper.” Then
she’d drawn a little heart and signed it with a B.

Corsages? Poor Richard. He wasn’t even
married and already he was pussy whipped.

I knocked back a couple of aspirins and
hoped they’d take out the rest of the soreness. Primed with that
and a couple of cups of coffee, I headed off to work.

Off to work. I liked the sound of
that—especially after being unemployed for more than eight months.
The Whole Nine Yards was beginning to feel as much like home as my
new apartment. And after only six days I even knew a couple of the
regulars by name. But I wasn’t feeling optimistic as I entered the
bar. It was time for Tom and me to discuss what I’d discovered
about Walt’s murder.

The place was empty except for Tom at the
bar cutting fruit garnishes. He’d end up tossing more than half of
it at the end of the day since beer was his biggest seller, but he
liked to have it ready—just in case.

He looked up from the cutting board. “Hey,
Jeff. What’s new?”

I came around to the back side of the bar
and tied an apron around my waist. “Depends on the subject. For me,
nothing. But I wanted to tell you what I’ve learned about
Walt.”

Tom straightened, ever so slightly, his jaw
tightening. “So talk.”

I took a fortifying breath before starting.
“Tom, I don’t think the cops arrested the right person.”

Tom snorted a laugh and put the knife aside.
“Come on, they found the murder weapon on him.”

“That doesn’t mean he used it. Where’d he
get it? Witnesses say Buchanan was a Dumpster-diver. He might’ve
found it anywhere. And what’s his motivation for killing Walt?”

“Maybe it was a mugging.”

“Walt was stabbed forty-six times. That says
big-time anger. He had no defensive wounds. He might’ve been
unconscious when it happened. It’s also possible Walt knew his
killer. Where would he have encountered Craig Buchanan?”

“Jeez, I don’t know. Anywhere around town.
Walt lived in the area.”

“From what I gather, Buchanan never made it
up as far as Eggert Road, and Walt didn’t hang around
Williamsville.”

Tom frowned, his conviction faltering.

“What happened to Walt’s settlement?”

He grunted. “Long gone. The lawyers got the
biggest chunk and Walt blew the rest on a big red Caddy and a year
of high living. After it was gone, he moved into that dump of an
apartment. It was only monthly disability payments and the money he
made here that kept him going.”

“What happened to the Caddy?”

“He traded up every few years, although I
don’t know how he managed to pay for it.”

“Do you have the car?”

Tom hesitated. “Uh, no.”

“I didn’t see it at his apartment. You might
want to report it as missing.”

“Aw, shit.” He slapped the bar with his open
palm.

“Tell me Walt didn’t keep the title in the
glove box.”

Tom’s shoulders slumped. “I don’t know, but
I wouldn’t be surprised.”

I leaned back against the bar. “I doubt
Walt’s killer would be driving it—too conspicuous. It could’ve been
dumped or maybe even sold, if only for junk value. That would make
it harder to find, but not impossible. The cops can trace it with
the VIN number.”

“If we can find that.”

“The DMV will have it. It’s tied to the
registration and title.” I wondered how much more Tom could take.
But I needed answers. The question was, would he give them.

“I found some stuff in Walt’s apartment that
led me to check out a vacation home in Ellicottville. Did he ever
mention going there?”

Tom shook his head.

“It looks like the owner of that house also
owns the property where Walt was found. Do you know a Cynthia
Lennox?”

He shook his head, his expression hardening.
“Did you tell the cops any of this?”

“I don’t have enough evidence yet.”

“What do you need to get it—and get this
over with?”

“Time. And maybe a little luck.”

“You will keep looking into this, won’t
you?” The words were right, but the conviction was missing. I
couldn’t dismiss my gut feeling that he knew much more than he’d
shared with me.

“Of course,” I answered. As Brenda said, I
really didn’t have a choice. I knew the flashes of insight would
continue until I got to the bottom of this—case, situation—whatever
it was.

“You didn’t by any chance go through Walt’s
apartment before I got there, did you?”

His eyes flashed, his cheeks going pink.
“What do you mean?”

“Just that it seemed awfully neat,
considering the cops had already been there and all.”

Tom shook his head, looked ten years older
when he picked up the knife and finished his dissection of a lime.
He didn’t ask me any more questions and he obviously wasn’t ready
to hear what my next lines of inquiry would be.

At least not yet.

* * *

It was
almost
four-twenty when I pulled up to the little cinderblock building on
Colvin Boulevard. Broadway Theatrics was a flashy name for such a
dumpy locale. I almost didn’t find the place because it was tucked
behind a derelict gas station. A forlorn and battered blue Lumina
sat near the entrance. No windows graced the front of the building,
and its unattractive and peeling brown paint made it look like it
had survived a war.

I got out of my car and wondered if I really
wanted to venture inside. I pressed the grimy button of a doorbell
and waited for thirty seconds before trying again. And again. I was
about to give up when the door was wrenched open by a stooped man
with long white hair, captured in a ponytail at the back of his
neck. He couldn’t have been more than fifty, but looked older
because of his posture. His face hadn’t seen a razor in at least a
week. “You want something?” he growled.

“Women’s shoes. Red stiletto heels. Lots of
sparkles.”

His eyes lit up, his spine straightening. He
looked me over, shrugged, and held open the door. “Come on in.”

Broadway Theatrics was a good name for what
I found inside the shabby little building. Theatre props—a
golden-haired angel in white with a ten-foot wingspan was suspended
from the ceiling. Hand-carved marionettes, the expressions on their
painted faces macabre and menacing, glared at me from pegs on the
wall. Shelving units stood in parallel rows, neatly stacked with
shoe and other boxes. Bolts of metallic purple and red fabrics
rested on a makeshift service counter, its old-fashioned register
painted a DayGlo shade of pink.

“The workroom’s back here. Follow me,” the
proprietor said.

I did.

The back room was even more magical than the
first. Original drawings and paintings decorated the walls. Flashy
costumes on hangers hung on racks, while shoes-in-progress littered
a worktable.

The owner pulled an oblong box off a shelf
and set it on the table. Lifting the lid, he pawed through the
hundreds of photographs inside before selecting one. He tossed it
to me. “Those the shoes you mean?”

I glanced down at the picture in my hand.
The shoes were exactly the same as the one in my visions. “Yeah.
How’d you know?”

He shrugged, a smile tugging his lips. “I
have a sixth sense when it comes to shoes.”

A shiver ran up my spine, and it wasn’t from
the air conditioning. “Do you remember who you made them for?”

“It’s on the back.”

I turned the photo over. A typed sticker
listed the date, two years before, the price, and the customer:
Andrea Foxworth. Damn. I’d been hoping it would say Cynthia Lennox.
“You know this woman?” I asked.

“Sure, she’s the wardrobe mistress for the
Backstreet Players—a theatre group here in town. I made them for
some show they were doing. Integral to the plot or something. I’ve
actually made two pairs of them. Another customer came in a few
months back and requested something similar. I showed him that
picture and he asked me to make another pair.”

“Do you have a photo of them?”

“I didn’t bother, since I already had this
one.”

“You remember the other customer’s
name?”

“Sure. Walt Kaplan. He’s a regular customer.
Likes to give his lady friends mementos of their friendship. I
must’ve made a couple pairs of shoes for him every year for almost
a decade.”

“Did you know he was murdered?”

“Walt? God, no. What happened?”

I explained.

The older guy looked genuinely upset. “I get
so wrapped up here, sometimes I don’t read the paper or watch TV
for weeks at a time. Poor Walt.”

“Did you know him well?”

“Just as a customer. He loved women’s
shoes—was very knowledgeable on the subject. Sometimes he’d bring
me in a picture he’d seen in a magazine and want me to copy it. I
told him he’d be better off buying knock-offs on the Internet, but
he wanted original, hand-crafted shoes—and he was willing to pay
for them.”

I indicated the photo. “Were these the last
shoes you made for Walt?”

He nodded. “He picked them up a couple of
weeks ago.”

“Do you remember exactly when?”

He thought about it, exhaled a breath.
“First of the month maybe. He usually paid me after he got his
disability checks.”

I studied the picture. As an amateur
photographer myself, I recognized a damned fine shot. This was
professional quality work. “Can I borrow this?”

He shook his head. “It’s my only
record.”

“Can I get a copy?”

“I wouldn’t know where the negative is. I
take digital shots nowadays.”

I held the photo out. “You did this? It’s
great.”

“Thanks.”

“You got a scanner? I’ll give you a five to
copy it.”

He laughed. “That I can do. I think I even
have some photo paper around here somewhere.”

Ten minutes later I left the shop with my
copy of the picture and the address for where I’d find Andrea
Foxworth. She might be another dead end, but there was no way to
find out until I spoke to her.

Bottom line: I was making progress.

But I had another stop to make and would’ve
risked a speeding ticket to get back to Williamsville if it weren’t
for all the damned red lights and stop signs at every friggin’
intersection. Still, I pulled up to a vacant parking space near the
mill at 5:04 p.m.

The mill officially closed at five, and I
wondered how long it would take for the employees to leave. I kept
watch on the building’s front entrance as the minutes dragged by.
So far I’d only seen Cyn and the counter guy, Gene. By process of
elimination—and if there weren’t any other employees—the only other
employee should be Ted Hanson, the miller. And I hoped he wouldn’t
be accompanied by Cyn when he left—otherwise I’d have to try again
on another day. That or follow him home. I didn’t want to do that
and be accused of stalking the guy, which I was sure Cyn would
do.