Evelyn David - Sullivan Investigations 02 - Murder Takes the Cake (2 page)

Chapter 2

“
You mean besides your sister Maura, who swears that jacket you’re wearing belongs.…” Mac laughed, then sobered as he caught sight of his goddaughter’s face. The dark circles under her eyes and pale cheeks told him this was no joke and there wouldn’t be a punch line to follow. He moved quickly to Bridget’s side and put his arm around her shoulders. “Hey, it’s going to be okay. Let’s go into my office and we’ll figure this out.”

He took a twenty-dollar bill from his wallet and gave it to JJ.
“Would you pick up Whiskey for me? Stop and buy her lunch and get whatever you want too.”

JJ nodded, grabbed her backpack, and left without asking the questions Mac could see she clearly wanted to ask.

He and Bridget went into the back room, transformed by JJ during the last week into a warm and inviting office with a painted black desk and matching leather chair. Placed opposite to the desk were two wooden side chairs. A dark green futon sofa, often sprinkled with dog hair, was centered on one wall.

“
Want some coffee?” Mac fiddled with a machine on the walnut credenza behind his desk. “JJ traded some computer work for one of these new-fangled coffee makers that grinds the beans, brews them, and I think plays the national anthem of Colombia when it fills the cup. I think I’ve figured out how to work it.”

“
No, thanks,” Bridget sat on the edge of one of the chairs and looked at her godfather defiantly. “I know I’ve got this reputation of being a little…uh…out there. And I’ve made a few bad choices that didn’t turn out so well–the story about the ‘shake-a-snake’ preacher for one. Although in my defense, who would have thought he would have kept his snakes in the trunk of his car. And maybe going undercover at that vampire club wasn’t the wisest decision.”

“
Still hanging garlic around your apartment?” Mac laughed, remembering the one time he visited Bridget’s place after her ‘accidental outing’ as a reporter and the batty group’s half-hearted threats of revenge.

“
No. And I’m not crazy or being paranoid, no matter what Josh says.”

Mac held up his hands to ward off the attack.
“Hey, I’m not the one who said you were, or at least you’re no crazier than the rest of your family.” He grinned. “Why don’t you tell me what this is all about? Start from the beginning. Who’s Josh? Have you checked his incisors?”

“
Uncle Mac! I’m serious.”

“
Sorry.” Mac did know who Josh was. He’d heard plenty about him from Jeff–so far nothing good. Of course his old friend was a tad prejudiced where his daughters were concerned. Bridget’s Boston fiancé was no exception. According to Jeff, the guy was, too rich, too smooth, too concerned about appearances, and had way too much influence over his daughter.

Bridget shrugged off her jacket and eased back in the chair.

“Why do you think someone is trying to kill you now? Did you max out your credit cards? Is Josh already married?”

“
No and no! Will you stop and just let me tell you?”

“
Okay. Shoot!”

“
Uncle Mac!”

He held up his hands.
“I’m trying to lighten the mood. First, let me get my sunglasses, Ms. Bling. That boulder on your finger is creating a glare off these white walls.”

Bridget face got almost as red as her hair. She glanced down at the 2.5-carat solitaire sparkling on her left finger.
“I don’t think it’s a blood diamond or anything. I mean it was Josh’s mother’s engagement ring, maybe even his grandmother’s, so back then it wasn’t financing wars or anything.”

“
Nah. No wars. Back then it was just whether you thought eight-year-olds should be mining carbon for rich ladies fingers.”

Bridget looked stricken.
“I hadn’t thought of that.”

She stared at the stone, and then rubbed it on her shirt. The facets sparkled in the light.
“I think it’s too big,”

She paused then looked up with a cocky grin.
“Mom insists size always matters. I told her I agreed with her but that we weren’t just talking about jewelry.”

Mac threw back his head and roared,
“Sweet Jesus, Bridget, did Kathleen….”

“
Yeah, Mom didn’t laugh nearly as hard as Dad. What can I say? She’s always been such a Catholic girls’ school goody-goody. Anyway, Josh wants me to wear it and….” She exhaled a loud sigh.

“
Yeah, Bridget, we all have to make sacrifices in life.” Mac grinned.

The young reporter huffed.
“Maybe I need to let my fingers do the walking. You’re not the only detective in town.” Bridget crossed her arms over her chest, ring finger tucked under. “And you’re probably not even the best.”

“
Yep, I’m definitely out of the top ten. But you won’t find anyone cheaper.” Mac smiled. “And besides kid, you know I love you, so talk!”

“
It started with a margarita, made with tequila, Grand Marnier, and rat poison.”

***

Rachel pushed open the wooden door to the basement storeroom and flipped on the light. The harsh glare from the fluorescent fixture revealed walls lined floor-to-ceiling with steel shelving holding the O’Herlihy Funeral Home supply of caskets. The mortuary was prepared to handle the aftermath of the St. Valentine’s Day massacre judging by the number of coffins Jeff, the owner, had stockpiled.

“
Please,” she whispered to herself at she eyed the coffins on the top shelf. “Let Jeff have stored the missing merchandise at floor level.”

Rachel began comparing the invoices on her clipboard to the numbers hanging off the tags of each casket.
“Damn,” she muttered, as a quick glance confirmed the lower shelves held the more economical final resting places for customers of O’Herlihy’s Funeral Home. Obviously, Jeff shelved the more expensive merchandise on the higher shelves, figuring they were bought less frequently than the more accessible caskets on the lower sills. She was going to have to climb and she hated ladders.

Rachel dragged the portable stepladder from the corner over to the far wall. Double-checking the ladder
‘s locking mechanism, she gingerly climbed up until her head almost touched the ceiling. After thirty minutes of climbing up and down, shuffling the ladder around the room, and checking the individual casket tag, the problem was clear. One Persian Bronze casket with a champagne velvet interior, adjustable bed, and continuously welded bottom, wholesaling for $2500, was nowhere to be seen. Nor could she find a $3500 Venetian Bronze casket and worst of all–two $7000 solid mahogany oversized caskets with all the bells and whistles were missing.

Rachel checked her watch, and then climbed down the ladder. It was time to switch funeral home hats. At 2 P.M., bookkeeper extraordinaire Rachel Brenner needed to change into Rachel Brenner, make-up artist to the stars, or at least the local celebrities of Washington, D.C. In just the two months since Rachel had joined O
‘Herlihys, word had gotten around that she could transform the faces of even the plainest corpses into beautiful visions reminiscent, or better, of their glory days of life.

That was her challenge for the afternoon. Jeff had prepped the body. It was now up to her to style the hair and do the final makeup for Martha Martinelli, a recently deceased local radio talk-show host. Martha, whose unexpected passing would be mourned by her seven sisters, five nieces, and six nephews, had a face ideally suited for the radio airwaves, but not so much for in person close-ups. Rachel clicked off the light and headed down the hall towards the prep room. Time to make magic so Martha
‘s last sign-off was her best.

***

“I’m really doing you a favor,” JJ announced as she popped a ketchup-laden fry into her mouth. “There are 210 calories in this small bag of fries. That’s probably a quarter of your daily intake.”

Whiskey growled.

“No, that’s not right. What do you weigh…about 125 pounds, right?” She looked expectantly at her furry companion.

The dog snorted, then started to stand as the assistant reached for another handful of the fried delicacies. Whiskey settled back down on the car seat when JJ dropped the pile on the paper bag between them. The twosome was sitting in the Golden Arches parking lot on Rockville Pike enjoying a Happy Meal and Southwest Salad with chicken.

“Let me see. I read somewhere that you should feed a dog 290 calories for every 15 pounds he…”

The wolfhound looked up and nudged JJ
‘s hand.

“
Okay, for every 15 pounds she weighs. So….” JJ closed her eyes to concentrate. Whiskey snuggled her head under the young woman’s arm to delicately snatch some of the chicken strips from the salad, then slid back across the seat. She spit out the lettuce that unfortunately was on top of the meat.

“
So 125 pounds divided by 15 is…eight and some change times 290,” JJ paused trying to do the math in her head. “Hey, you’ve got to eat almost…almost 2500 calories a day to keep your girlish figure.”

Whiskey polished off the last chicken morsel.

“Of course that should include a lot of protein, which fries definitely are not.” JJ reached for the last handful and dipped them in the mound of ketchup heaped in the middle of the burger wrapper. She popped them in her mouth, and then licked the salty remnants from her fingers.

“
Okay, let’s go check out some missing turkeys.” JJ threw all the garbage in the McDonald’s bag, dug the keys out of her jeans pocket, and started the car. The 15-year old Toyota Camry, whose blue color had long been forgotten, was now part of the O’Herlihy Funeral Home fleet, taken in trade for the lovely sendoff Jeff had arranged for Zachary Matthias Fuller, an old friend of his father. Fuller, who’d owned a luncheonette on Capitol Hill, was forced into early and unhappy retirement at the age of 87, when skyrocketing rents and the gentrified need for yet more java stands pushed him out. For the past three weeks, the car had been on permanent loan to Mac, who had lent it to his assistant during her recovery.

“
Since Mac is busy with Bridget, I think we should go out to the turkey farm.” She turned left and headed for the Beltway. “Let’s check out the scene of the crime. And if the guy seems legit, we’ll get him to sign a contract.”

Whiskey inched across the seat and put her head on JJ
‘s lap.

“
Okay, you take a nap and I’ll drive.”

***

“A margarita made with rat poison? Don’t really think that’s going to catch on.” Mac pulled a lined, yellow legal pad from his desk drawer. “Keep talking.”

“
It was after work–day before yesterday. I had drinks with Ken Edelstein.”

Mac wrote the name down on a pad.
“Who’s he?”

“
Ken was a reporter. He was one of the old guys; had a lot of contacts with the police. I got to know him pretty well. Great researcher. He was helping me earlier in the year with some genealogical stuff for Josh. Lately, he was assigned to the enterprise team.”

Mac
‘s raised eyebrows asked the question.

“
That’s the group I’m assigned to. We’ve got a broad mandate to investigate the big stories. We’re not on a daily deadline. We’re supposed to dig deeper and analyze what we’ve found.”

“
Like the police corruption in the A-1 district.”

“
Yes. Also the ‘Big Dig’ project, health care insurance problems, and school funding,” Bridget said. “Ken and I were going to Tequila Sunrise and catch up on some new leads with the police story. We saw two other members of the team and joined them. The bar has cheap drinks during happy hour. Excellent passion fruit margaritas.”

Mac grimaced.
“What happened to two-fisted reporters drinking straight shots of whiskey?”

“
Hey, they’re really good and the bar makes this incredible guacamole with pineapple.…”

Mac waved off the culinary diversion.
“Were you the only one to order a passion fruit drink?”

“
No. Actually we all did. It was the drink of the night, so it was only two bucks.”

“
And then what happened. Come on Bridget, I’m not looking for the Pulitzer Prize version, just the who, what, when, where, and how facts. Then maybe we can figure out the ‘why.’”

Bridget straightened up in her chair.
“So we’d had a couple of rounds of drinks, somebody ordered chicken quesadillas, guacamole, chips, and salsa. Burt and I–he’s another reporter–got up to sing some karaoke while we waited for fresh drinks. We’d had a couple of margaritas and were feeling no pain. We’d just started the second verse of ‘You Don’t Bring Me Flowers’ when the waitress brought another round. I saw Ken down his drink, and then take a healthy slug from my glass. Anyway, he got this odd look on his face. Like the taste was off or something. He said something to Melissa, the other reporter who was at the table with him, but it was so loud and noisy I don’t think she could hear him. He stood up and started to sway. It was like watching a movie in slow-motion, with the sound off. I could see he was struggling, but couldn’t move, couldn’t do anything.”