Monster in Miniature (17 page)

Poor Maddie. How bored did an eleven-year-old have to be before she memorized weather statistics? Bored was better than “in danger” however. The thought that Maddie might have been with me in Oliver’s apartment was too much to contemplate. Guns or no guns, the two men had been scary. I had a strong feeling that if I hadn’t fallen and knocked myself out, they might have done it for me.

“How come you’re using your computer to look up the weather with all there is to do at Pier Thirty-nine? Isn’t there a lookout where you can see lots of sea lions?”

“Yeah, we did that.”

“Aren’t there jugglers and puppet shows? And the merry-go-round?”

“Please, Grandma. How old do you think I am?”

Apparently, ten years older than she was last year when she seemed to enjoy the entertainment. I pictured Maddie clicking away at her computer while tourists all around her took photos of the marine life and the beautiful hills of Marin County across the bay.

On the other hand, there was Maddie, with access to the Internet. An idea came to me. I tried to brush it away but gave in to it.

“Are you online now, sweetheart?”

“Yeah. It’s kind of spotty, but we found this little restaurant with Wi-Fi. Aunt Beverly’s in the restroom. But don’t worry. There’s a whole class of kids here with their teacher and she’s keeping an eye on me. I mean, I don’t need her eye, but Aunt Beverly made the deal.”

“Can you look up a man named Patrick Lynch for me?”

“I already did.”

She must not have understood me. “I’m talking about a man who’s a businessman, a developer, in Lincoln Point.” Not a rock star or a sports figure who may have the same name was what I meant.

“I know. I already found him. He has his own webpage so it makes it easier. I gave up researching Mrs. Giles’s brother, because Uncle Skip already knows so much about him, so I switched to that other man you were talking about, Patrick Lynch.”

“How did you remember his name?”

She sighed, sounding very tired of having to ask this question. “How old do you think I am?”

Never mind how old she was, my granddaughter was way ahead of every child in her age group. I was sure I was the only grandmother who felt that way. I wondered if there was a bumper sticker with that saying.

Now for the real question. “Was there a photograph of Mr. Lynch? Can you tell me what he looks like?”

“Yeah, there were lots of images. He’s kind of gross-looking. He’s bald and he has this scar on his cheek.”

I swallowed, my suspicion confirmed. Should I feel better or worse that my temporary captor was a respected (by some) businessman? Worse, I decided, since he was also a murder suspect in at least two minds, Susan’s and mine. I felt a call to Skip coming on.

“Does that help with The Case, Grandma? Huh?”

“It’s a big help, sweetheart. Thank you. You did so well that now you can go back to enjoying the sea lions because there’s nothing more to do on the case.”

“If I was sitting there next to you, you’d tickle me, right? Because there’s still a lot to do, right?”

I thought of asking her to look up Max Crowley also, but I was fairly sure he was the second man in Oliver’s apartment. If I needed to, I could try to find him on my own, admittedly lame computer.

I glanced at Susan’s sorry room box, now on my kitchen counter, waiting to be moved to the crafts room for repair. It was going to be hard to work on it without thinking of the frightening men who’d handled it and of the chance that one or both of them might be Oliver’s murderer. I looked past the room box toward the door leading to the garage and pictured the piles of unopened cartons. I thought of Oliver’s list of “potentials for investigation,” of his own sullied reputation, and Ken’s name on the list. And the most commanding image of all, flashing before my eyes—the photographs of Ken holding someone’s baby.

“Right, Grandma?” Maddie repeated. “The investigation isn’t over.”

“I mean it, sweetheart. There’s nothing more to do,” I said.

 

 

Even if Maddie and Beverly left San Francisco immedi
ately, they wouldn’t be home for at least an hour. They’d be traveling south on the 101 freeway, which was busy all day long. At one in the afternoon, there was no telling how clogged up the lanes would be in both directions.

Beverly had taken the phone before I hung up with Maddie. “I give up,” she said. “I think this was a bad idea. Maddie misses you.”

“You mean she misses the action,” I said.

“Uh-huh. We’ll be home shortly.”

I could get a lot done in an hour. The garage beckoned me. What other photographs or memorabilia lurked out there in the boxes that had sat on my shelves for more than five years? I could tear them all open right now and put the whole issue of Ken’s other life to rest.

I could also call my nephew for an update. With one sentence he could end my agony—“We checked it all out,” he could say, “and Uncle Ken’s name was on that list only because he attended a meeting once.”

“Whew,” I’d say, and move on.

I decided to leave that fantasy alive and called Susan.

“There’s nothing much to report,” I told her. “Except that the wonderful room box you made for Oliver was in a very special place on his bookshelf. I’m sure you saw it there.”

“I didn’t visit him as often as I should have, Gerry,” Susan said, her voice choking. “I loved my brother, and I didn’t do enough for him.”

“Nobody ever does, Susan.”

I gave Susan a chance to pull herself together, then braced myself for two other things she needed to hear. I told her first how I’d dropped the precious box.

“But I know I can repair it very easily,” I said quickly.

“Don’t worry about that, Gerry. I can do it myself. I’m glad you took it away. I’d been worried that maybe the police took it or a cleaning person or something. I sure would like to have it. I don’t know when I’m going to be able to go back to that apartment. Unless you come with me?”

“What about his daughters?” I asked, not willing to commit to a return visit to the orange couch. I could still taste the sticky fuzz from the carpet though I brushed my teeth and gargled three or four times when I got home.

“Jeanine and Casey were traveling around Europe with their mother and an aunt when all this happened. They’re on their way back today. I hate to put the girls through the ordeal of going to their father’s apartment.”

“You don’t need to decide anything right away, Susan. I know how many awful details you have to attend to, but can you take it easy for the rest of the day?”

“I suppose.” The last syllable came out like a long sigh. “So there’s nothing else?” she asked me. I wished I could have told her that Skip was putting handcuffs on Oliver’s killer at this very moment. Images of possible suspects flashed through my mind. I startled at one of old Lillian Ferguson in a pink flowery housedress being carted off to jail. In the fantasy, she was followed quickly by a man with an enormous tattoo displayed on his naked upper torso.

I really needed to get back to the boring life of a retired schoolteacher.

“There is one question I have,” I said to Susan, with a casual air. “Did you give the key to Oliver’s place to anyone else?”

“No, of course not. Was someone there?”

“No, no. I just wondered. I wouldn’t have wanted to walk in on anyone. You go and rest and I’ll talk to you later.”

I clicked off and let out a loud groan. I wasn’t happy about the ease with which I was able to invent stories—lies—lately. I was angry with myself about lying to both Maddie and Susan. For their own good, I reasoned, but my stomach turned over and the chamomile tea seemed to have gone sour.

I pushed speed dial for Skip’s cell phone. With his
girlfriend in Chicago, he should be free to spend an hour with his aunt on a Sunday afternoon, preferably before his mother and Maddie returned from San Francisco. I’d have to take my chances on a scolding, but I hoped he’d be able to help me separate truth from fiction about the people involved in his investigation.

“Hey, Aunt Gerry,” he said right away. Caller ID was one technological marvel I’d immediately embraced.

“Any news?” I asked.

“Do you have some kind of radar for these things?”

“What things?”

“We traced the gun in Halbert’s hand to one that was used in a crime about five years ago.”

“That’s progress, isn’t it?”

“In a manner of speaking, but you won’t like what state the crime took place in.”

It hardly took half a minute. “Tennessee,” I said.

“There’s that radar again.”

“I’m sure there are a lot of guns in Tennessee, Skip, and that some of them end up in California.” In Lincoln Point, in the hands of a Tennessee native? I hardly believed it myself. “It looks like whoever killed Oliver went to a lot of trouble to make it look like a suicide.”

“Off the record, Aunt Gerry, who would kill himself on someone else’s porch?”

“I’m glad you’re coming around,” I said.

“So, let’s see if I can guess what you did all day,” Skip said. “You got your newspaper, read it from cover to cover while you drank coffee and ate some toast, did the crossword puzzle . . .”

“I had coffee at Seward’s Folly. You might want to stop in and talk to Kayla, who works there.”

“Uh-huh. Shall I file this under ‘anonymous tip’?”

“There’s more. Can you stop by to hear the rest?”

“I can hardly wait, but I’m covering for Juan right now. And then I have to make a stop at Seward’s Folly apparently. What’s for dinner?”

“Whatever you like.”

 

 

My habit was to use an address book until there were so
many whiteouts, erasures, and marks that the pages were nearly worn away. I bought a new book every three or four years, but never threw out the old, out-of-date books, even though many entries were for friends now deceased or in another state with a different name and several different phone numbers.

I kept all the old books in a bottom drawer of the desk in my bedroom. Every now and then, for one reason or another, I needed to look at one of them. This afternoon, I had reason to look for the address book that might contain a home phone number for Ken’s old partner in architecture, Artie Dodd.

I found the book I wanted, a small, black spiral-bound notebook with a tab for each letter of the alphabet. I rubbed my hands over the cover, though it wasn’t dusty or crumpled. Anyone watching might have thought I was invoking the help of a genie, or casting a witch’s spell over the contents. A good witch, I hoped.

A few minutes later I was entering a number I’d had several years ago for Artie Dodd. Not long after Ken died, Artie, who was at least fifteen years older than Ken, retired. He sold the consulting business, located a few miles to the south in Sunnyvale, to a couple of young architects. Ken and Artie’s wonderful secretary, Esther, and I had promised to keep in touch. But as so often happens in such situations, we lost track of each other.

What were the chances that Artie still lived in Sunnyvale?

I took a few deep breaths, waiting for the results of my entry. I heard the familiar three-note signal, followed by a voice saying, “We’re sorry, you have reached a number that is no longer in service.” I wasn’t surprised, but I was relieved.

Who tries to reach a number hoping there will be no answer?

I needed to focus. Did I really want to follow the trail from the children’s clothing and photographs in the Bronx box back to Ken’s past, no matter where it led?

I knew I wouldn’t be at peace until I did.

Unlike Patrick Lynch, a professional with his own webpage, Artie Dodd was a mere retiree like myself, so I figured it would be nearly impossible to find him among probably thousands of other United States residents with the same name.

I tried to think back to times I’d been with Artie and his wife, usually at an opening ceremony for one of the firm’s buildings or at a holiday gathering. Had they talked about where they might like to live in retirement? Many Bay Area professionals moved to Point Reyes or Inverness, about eighty miles northwest of Lincoln Point, on Tomales Bay, or to Lake Tahoe, or even to Phoenix, Arizona, as if California (even Sunnyvale) weren’t sunny enough for them.

I tried directory assistance for a couple of likely destinations, but either Artie hadn’t moved to the places I chose or his number was unlisted. I couldn’t even come up with a recollection of what Artie’s hobbies were. Was he a golfer headed for the attractions of Pebble Beach in Monterey? Was he a recreational gambler, headed for Reno? Did he sail?

I finally quit taxing my memory and decided to try to reach the people at the new firm tomorrow, Monday, to see if they had a forwarding number for the former owner of the company.

I imagined talking to Artie the following day. How would I phrase my burning questions? “Hi, Artie. Were you and your partner dirty?” I might inquire. “Oh, by the way, do you know if my husband had a child besides our son, Richard?”