Dearly Depotted (15 page)

At one o’clock I slid into the last booth at Down the Hatch, and a few minutes later Marco joined me. We ordered sandwiches, then got down to business. Marco was in his serious PI mode, taking notes and asking questions as I filled him in on everything I had learned from my conversation with Richard. I even had my timeline with me, written across a sheet of yellow legal paper, a reminder of that nightmare year in law school.

He looked at it and said, “Did Richard give you these times?”

I leaned over and tapped one of the lines. “He gave me this one—the exact moment he sent the file over the Internet.”

“What about these?” Marco pointed out the time Richard had left and returned.

“Those are from Grace, but Richard confirmed them.”

Marco gazed at me as if he couldn’t believe what I’d just said.

“What?”

“It doesn’t work if
you
supply the times for the person you’re questioning. You should let him do it. But that’s okay,” he quickly added, sensing my chagrin. “You’re new at this. You’ll learn.”

Damn right I’d learn. I wouldn’t make that mistake twice. I waited until our sandwiches and fries had been delivered, then, as I picked through the steaming mound of fries, looking for the crispiest ones, I said, “We have to find a way to verify Richard’s alibi.”

“Are you one hundred percent sure he didn’t do it?”

I jabbed a fry in the ketchup and popped it in my mouth, savoring the burst of tangy flavor as I thought about his question.

“If you have to think about it,” Marco said, picking up his sandwich, “you’re not sure.”

“I’m not one hundred percent sure, no.”

“Then he stays on your suspect list.”

“Fine, but I still say Josiah Turner is the most likely killer.”

“When are you going to go see him?”

I thought about the chilly reception I’d get when I showed up on his front steps. Family connections or not, he wouldn’t welcome me with open arms. Open fire, maybe. “I might just question Melanie instead. She’ll be able to give me the details.”

“Even if those details incriminate her father, the man who’s supporting her and her baby? I don’t think so.”

“You never know. She might be glad to get rid of the old coot. In fact,” I said, thinking out loud, “if he were convicted of murder, Melanie would have that farm all to herself, wouldn’t she?”

Marco took a swig of his cola. “So she murders her ex-boyfriend, pins it on her father, and gets rid of two problems at once. Interesting theory. How well do you know Melanie?”

“Not very well. The only times I ever saw her were at Jillian’s birthday parties when we were kids.” I paused to take a bite of my BLT. “The problem with that theory is, Melanie just doesn’t strike me as the murdering type.”

“Which means you’ve got to find a way to get her father to talk to you. I’ll check police records to see if anything turns up about him there.”

“Don’t you think the key to solving the case is to find out why Jack came back to the banquet center? And why he had on a waiter’s outfit? Someone who was there Monday night has to know.”

“Yeah, his killer. That’s why you need to be smart when you talk to these people. Remember, you’re just trying to get a little information to help a friend. You’re not out to bag a murderer. And no interviews without witnesses around. Got it?”

I saluted him. “Yes, sir.”

“Anyone else on your list?”

“Vince Vogel.”

“What about Jack’s brother? He might have some answers as to why Jack went back.”

I was a little squeamish about questioning Rick so soon after he’d lost his brother, but I didn’t want to tell Marco that. Private investigators, even amateur ones, shouldn’t let a little squeamishness stop them. I borrowed his pen, turned my timeline over, and wrote
Rick Snyder
on the back.

“Have you interviewed the staff at the banquet center to see if anyone noticed a new face among the waiters?”

I added that to the paper, too. I had to make a trip there anyway to pick up my vases and risers.

“Why don’t you try talking to Claymore’s grandmother again?” Marco suggested. “With some gentle probing you might get her to remember more details of what she saw that night.”

I wrote it down.

Marco read over his own notes. “It would help to have the autopsy report, but that probably won’t be available for a few days. In the meantime, you can be working down your list of names, and I’ll pay a visit to the boys in blue and see what I can shake out there.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

He put aside his pen, picked up what was left of his sandwich, and smoothly engulfed it. I stared in amazement. His throat muscles had barely moved.

“What?” he mumbled.

“How do you eat like that?”

“Like what?”

“Like a pelican swallowing a fish. Never mind. I’ll try to get out to see Grandma Osborne today. Shall we meet at nineteen hundred hours to review our information?” At Marco’s frown I said, “Didn’t I say that right?”

“Yes, if you were in the army.”

“Fine. I’ll drop by here tonight at seven o’clock.”

He checked his watch and slid out of the booth. “How about I’ll call you instead? Lunch is on the house.” He stopped to talk to the bartender, then strode out the door.

That was a brush-off if I’d ever heard one. I glowered at the empty spot across from me. Why the sudden rush? And why didn’t he want me to drop by the bar? Did he have a hot date planned for tonight and didn’t want me to know?

Still stewing, I finished my sandwich and headed back to Bloomers, where I knew there were several dozen roses waiting to have their thorns stripped. At the moment it was sounding like good therapy.

 

I was dethorning those very roses—and enjoying every minute of it—when I heard the bell over the door. Since Grace had gone to lunch and Lottie was busy manning the parlor, I went up front to see whether I was needed. There stood Trudee DeWitt’s husband, Don, all six feet five inches of him, and after taking in the disgruntled look on his face, I immediately started calculating how much grass seed it would take to fill in those red stripes of lawn.

Don was a large man in his early forties, long-faced and starting to go bald on top. As the owner of the DeWitt Bottling Company, he was a wealthy man, yet he still drove a beat-up pickup truck and wore the same outfit every day: old work boots, faded jeans, and a light blue, long-sleeved cotton shirt with a company logo on the pocket. He was a shy, soft-spoken man, which sometimes gave people the notion that he was a pushover. He wasn’t.

Several years back, a new employee at his bottling plant, hired on as a delivery man, had made the mistake of mocking Don, imitating his lumbering walk and rough-edged speech, not realizing his boss was standing nearby. Don let it go on for a few minutes, and when the man continued to ridicule him, he stepped up behind him and lifted him over his head as if he were nothing more than a rag doll. Everyone thought Don was about to heave the frightened man across the room. Instead, after a few nerve-wracking minutes, he set him on his feet, said quietly, “Don’t ever do that again,” then walked off. The man quit the same day, and the story became part of the town lore.

“Don, I’m really,
really
sorry about the red paint,” I said to mollify him. “I’ll deduct the cost of new seed from your bill.”

“Red paint?” For a moment he looked stymied, then his face cleared and he said, “I didn’t come here about the grass—it’ll grow back. There’s something else I have to talk to you about.” He glanced over his shoulder toward the coffee parlor, then added, “In private.”

I was startled. I’d met him on only two prior occasions, and then only for business purposes. Lottie and Herman were the ones who’d known him for a long time.

Feeling a little anxious, I led Don back to the workroom, where he stood scrunching his cap in his big hands and shifting from foot to foot, as if he could barely contain his distress.

“Okay, Don,” I said, perching on a stool to give me some height, “let’s talk.”

“One of your helpers,” he said gravely, “is annoying me.”

There was no way I could avoid it. I took a breath, smiled, and said, “Which helper would that be?”

“Karl.”

Why was I not surprised?

 

 

 

 

K
arl had always been the black sheep of the family, and after seeing how he’d drooled over Trudee, I was almost afraid to ask what had caused Don’s concern. I pulled out a stool for him, but he shook his head, preferring to stand.

“So,” I said, trying to look so helpful and sweet that he wouldn’t have the heart to sue me, “what’s the problem?”

Don put his cap on the table and started to say something, only to hesitate, scratch his ear, rub his palms against his hips, glance over his shoulder, and finally blurt, “I can’t stand the way that young pup hangs around our house. I’ve seen the way he stares at my wife, and you know Trudee—she’s an eyeful. I can’t honestly fault the boy for gawking . . . It’s just that, well, I think she
likes
it—maybe she even likes the boy—and I don’t know what to do about it. I’m a good deal older than she is—and I sure ain’t much in the looks department—so I can’t blame her for being attracted to a young buck like that.”

I wanted to laugh at the image of Trudee with gangly, shaggy-haired Karl, but I couldn’t—not when this poor man was in turmoil. “Don, do you genuinely believe Trudee would fall for a boy your daughter’s age?”

“I don’t like to think so. Still, this kid shouldn’t be hanging around our house all the time. I’d say something myself, but I don’t want my wife to think I’m jealous of a teenager, and I don’t want to offend Lottie and Herman, either.”

“Trust me; Karl isn’t a threat. He’s just got that teenage hormonal thing going on. You remember how that is, don’t you? Think back to when you were his age. I’ll bet you had a crush on an older woman who didn’t even know you existed.”

He shook his head. No crush. Time for the straightforward approach. “I’ll make sure Karl stays away from your house. And just so you know, I saw Karl admire your wife a time or two, but she was completely oblivious to it. She loves you, Don.”

His chest swelled with relief. He put on his cap and held out his hand, pumping my arm up and down so hard I thought I’d inflate. “Thanks. I really appreciate it.”

“No problem. Just keep having those big parties—with lots of flowers.”

Five minutes later, I was arranging the bouquet of roses when Lottie came in and began to jabber. “Whew. Thank goodness the lunch rush is finally over. We had quite a crowd. Putting in that coffee shop was a stroke of genius. I even got two flower orders from it. My, Don DeWitt sure seemed worked up over something, didn’t he?”

That was her roundabout way of asking me what was going on with him.

I didn’t want to tell her about Karl’s crush on Trudee because I knew it was a harmless stage he had to go through. Besides, Lottie would be upset and get on his case; then he’d be angry at me for ratting him out. I was better off handling the matter by myself. “Don’s fine,” I told her. “It must be tough being an insecure man married to a gorgeous woman.”

“Yeah, Herman has the same problem.” With a guffaw, Lottie went to the cooler to pull flowers for her orders.

I finished the bouquet and wrote out the gift card, then noticed the address on the order: 403 Freeburg Road. Grandma Osborne lived a block away, which meant I could drop off the roses and visit her on the same trip. The bell over the door jingled, so I got up to see who it was. I parted the curtain, and there was Grace tucking her purse behind the counter.

“Any word on Richard?” I asked.

“When I checked a little while ago he was still being interviewed.” She gave the clock on the wall a worried glance. “He’d been there for two hours already.”

“The police are just trying to be thorough,” I assured her. “I’ll bet he’ll be calling any minute to say he’s heading back to the sports center.”

The phone rang almost on cue. Grace started toward the counter, but then we heard Lottie pick it up in the workroom, singing out in her firm voice, “Bloomers.”

For a moment she was silent; then I heard her say, “Why are you at the DeWitts’ house? Didn’t you finish up there this morning?”

Grace and I exchanged looks. It wasn’t Richard. But by Lottie’s tone of voice I could tell it was one of her sons. I crossed my fingers and hoped it wasn’t Karl.

“Okay,” Lottie said with a weary sigh. “I’ll be there later.”

“The next phone call will be from Richard,” I promised Grace, then headed back to the workroom to find out what was going on. “Who called?” I asked, trying to be casual about it.

“Karl. He said he’d promised Trudee he’d weed her garden this afternoon. You think he’d ever weed our garden? Fat chance.”