Mourning In Miniature (19 page)

“There’s a cycle for this kind of thing. Sometimes RFPs go out to third parties, like brokers. The broker will solicit proposals from companies, then sift through all the applicants and try to match the needs of the buyer with the needs of the seller.”

My head was dizzy. I wished I’d paid more attention when Ken talked about this part of his business. Not that he was a builder or an expert at trades himself, but as an architect he’d dealt with this network of people and forms over the years.

It seemed that lately I’d been paying the consequences of inattention to things that would turn out to be useful. Like Rosie’s ramblings during crafts night and Ken’s humble opinions on contracts and subcontracts and sub-subcontracts.

This printout said one thing—either Mellace was the absolute best contractor around, especially for the Duns Scotus, or the Duns Scotus would have no other. It was as fishy as the grading procedures of some ALHS teachers I knew during my career.

“Who decides all this?”

“Good question,” Skip said. “Might not hurt to find out.”

And I had a good idea where to start. With Walter Mellace, if anyone could get to him. And with Rosie Norman, the daughter of a Callahan and Savage employee, if she would just show up.

It was almost an hour since I’d left the Mary Todd. I expected Skip to get a call from the duty cop downstairs any minute, telling him one Rosie Norman wanted to see him.

The phone in the conference room rang at that moment.

Good timing, except I could tell from Skip’s end of the conversation that it wasn’t a Rosie alert.

“Okay, I guess I know where I stand,” Skip said in a light tone. “Do I have to serve them ice tea?”

A soft laugh and Skip hung up.

“We have to move,” he said.

“I’m not through with you,” I said.

“Back at you. Can you wait for me in my office? It seems some bigwigs want the conference room. I’ll clean this up and be right there.”

“No problem.”

 

 

In truth, it had been my greatest wish to be alone in
Skip’s office. Even as I walked past the empty cubicles I reached into my tote and pulled out the key card to David Bridges’s room. I fingered it all the way down the row of offices, my heart racing in time with my quick steps.

I entered the dull orange-and-brown-felt cubicle, relieved to find Skip’s desk and extra chair cluttered as usual. I immediately knocked a stack of folders from his visitor’s chair. I made sure papers didn’t fly too far, just enough distance for me to have to gather them and place them on the corner of the desk, amid other stacks. And in pulling them together, I managed to slip the key card between who knew what case and who knew what other case.

By the time Skip returned, I was settled on the chair. I’d taken out my notebook and pen and was making notes on the RFP review we’d just been through. Calm as can be.

“Turns out the meeting’s not just for bigwigs. I need to be at it, Aunt Gerry. We’ll have to continue this later.”

Another plus. Rosie hadn’t shown up yet and I was running out of delay tactics.

I got up to leave. I tapped the stack of folders I’d knocked over and replaced on his desk. “Oh, I dropped some stuff when I moved things from the chair,” I said. “So this pile might be a little mixed up. Sorry.”

I felt my homicide detective nephew could see right through me. But not directly, because I kept my eyes cast down the whole time I was talking.

I expected repercussions at some time, but for now, he let me off the hook.

My thin towels, with their faded blue stripes, some from
the earliest years of our marriage, looked pitiful after the plush vanilla bath sheets at the Duns Scotus. Two nights at a San Francisco hotel made my house, and most of my belongings, look equally shabby. I wasn’t usually interested in flowery scents, but I rummaged for the fragrant soap I’d taken (not pilfered, as I do in cops’ offices) from room five sixty-eight and put it on my cosmetics shelf. A definite upgrade.

I reminded myself of the trade-off for the hotel amenities: I’d been accosted in an elegantly appointed hallway and had had my purse stolen in their thickly verdant lobby. I resolved to go back someday when I wasn’t hanging out with murder suspects.

I was in desperate need of some time at home, mediocre though it was, and of time with my family. I also needed to get to a miniature project soon to help me relax and gain perspective. Very often I solved a problem only when I stopped thinking hard about it and escaped to a different world for a while—a world where a small suction cup could be turned into a bathroom plunger or a bead from a broken necklace could be the base of a tiny lamp.

Today, however, my safe world of miniatures was marred by visions of Rosie’s trashed locker hallway. I had to keep reminding myself that the red in the
I hate David
scrawl was only lipstick and not David Bridges’s blood.

I had about a half hour alone, enough for a quick shower and unpacking, before Beverly and Nick would be bringing Maddie back. The best of both worlds.

Maddie called from Beverly’s as they were leaving.

“Can I invite Taylor to come over tonight, Grandma?”

“Of course.”

I wondered who would drive Taylor to my house.

 

 

On Sunday evening, my home was just the way I liked
it—crowded with family and friends. Beverly and Nick had provided pizza for all and I’d phoned Sadie’s for a delivery of enough ice cream for a whole football team. The flavors included Maddie’s favorite triple chocolate, though I was still a bit put out about the way she’d wormed herself into the investigation without me.

I needed a serious discussion with my granddaughter about the printout caper. It wasn’t clear why it bothered me so much that she’d delivered the material to Skip directly. Unless it meant that I was afraid she was growing apart from me. I waved my hand at an imaginary audience in my head. Ridiculous, I told myself, on both counts.

June Chinn, Skip’s almost-fiancée, caught up with me in my pantry as I was searching for a new box of crackers. In faded denim shorts and a black tank top, June could have been a top model in the “short women” category. Her latest style statement was a tattoo on her lower back—the area that was universally visible now on young women as soon as they stretched or bent over. June had chosen a simple design, the Chinese symbol for peace.

She’d brought a large salad with bean sprouts, which she’d prepared in her own kitchen, next door to mine.

“I’m sorry about all that’s going on here,” she said. “But in a way, I’m glad Skip was called back before the funeral in Seattle. He doesn’t do well at that kind of thing. Well, nobody does, but you know what I mean.”

I did know. Skip went to his first funeral when he was Maddie’s age, for his father, who died in the first Gulf War. That seemed enough to ask of a guy.

“I’m glad you’re back,” I said, giving her a hug.

“Thanks, Gerry. Skip doesn’t talk much about cases with me, as you know, but the rumor going around is that people think your friend Rosie Norman murdered her old boy-friend?”

I took it as a good sign that June posed the idea as a question. I was sure all of Rosie’s customers would have an equally hard time believing something so horrible about the woman who loved books and reading enough to open her own shop in a small town. Rosie had reading groups for all ages and was tied into the Lincoln Point library’s literacy program, where I tutored GED subjects. I knew she lost money giving students generous discounts on any text related to the GED program.

The question remained, however—why hadn’t she presented herself to the police? To my nephew, in fact, which should have made it as easy as it could get.

And where was she now, anyway?

I’d left messages on Linda’s and Rosie’s cell phones inviting them to the impromptu party, presumably after Rosie talked to the police. I hadn’t heard from either of them. Nor from Skip, either, in the last couple of hours.

Were they all on the run?

Henry and Taylor were due to arrive any minute. I wasn’t
eager to have Henry see my crafts room with its amateur miniature projects. He had shown no tendency toward being judgmental but I was conscious of the comparison between my crafts and his wonderfully artistic woodworking.

I decided my Bronx apartment might be an acceptable piece to show him. Ken had built the miniature structure, a replica of our first residence (a term that glorified the six-hundred-and-fifty-square-foot flat) and Maddie and I worked on the interior off and on. I was proudest of its lived-in look, with “clothes” peeking from the drawers of a messy dresser in the bedroom and a “dirty” towel hung over the bathtub. Maddie wanted cracker crumbs on the kitchen counter, so we’d found a way to model that, too.

Beverly caught me brushing my hair in my bedroom. Served me right for leaving the door open.

“I know what you’re going through,” she said, with a wide smile. Her red (augmented a bit by chemistry) Porter hair looked beautifully layered as usual. “Maddie told me about Henry Baker. I don’t think I ever met him. Which is a good start. It means he never got a traffic ticket, violated the seat belt law, or abandoned his car on a city street.”

I laughed at Beverly’s reference to her job as LPPD’s much-loved civilian volunteer. “What could Maddie have said? There’s nothing to tell.”

“Uh-huh,” Beverly said, stepping behind me and massaging my shoulders.

I didn’t know how much I needed it.

 

 

We’d all decided to give Nick plants to take home for his
garden, in memory of his grandfather. Nick was an avid gardener and seemed genuinely moved by the gesture.

“This is just what I need,” Nick said, the sweep of his arms encompassing all of us and the plants, too. “The best comfort is another great family.”

Henry and Taylor had contributed to the array, arriving with two pots of orange and yellow marigolds, one for Nick’s garden, and one for mine.

“How did you know about our plan for Nick?” I asked him.

“You know how it is. Maddie told Taylor; Taylor told me.” He shrugged, as if every man was quick to pick up on social protocol.

It was so delightfully noisy as seven of us passed salad, pizza, and drinks around my large dining room table, I almost missed the doorbell.

Maddie, always first to jump up for a phone call or a knock, ran to the door and came back with Linda.

“It’s Mrs. Reed,” she said, bounding back to the dining room. She pulled a chair from the kitchen into a spot at the table. “You can sit next to me, Mrs. Reed.”

Maybe I was just easy to please, but I felt a burst of pride—it was a small accommodation that Maddie had made for our guest, but she’d thought of it on her own and made a friend feel welcome.

Linda, in anything but a bounce, trundled into the room. She looked haggard and exhausted, but managed a small smile for everyone and took the seat suggested by Maddie.

“How’s your mother, Henry?” she asked.

“Not too bad, thanks, Linda.”

I guessed that Henry’s mother was in one of the three assisted living facilities that Linda had worked in over the years, but not the Mary Todd, or it would have been Henry asking the question of a dedicated nurse.

Was that a twinge of envy I felt—that Linda seemed to know more about Henry’s family than I did? Like Beverly, she knew almost everyone in town; in Linda’s case, either as patients, or as children of patients. On my side, I knew only those with an ALHS diploma obtained between three and thirty years ago.

I wondered if everyone at the table could tell how distracted I was, my perpetual state it seemed, since Friday night. I kept asking myself,
Where’s Rosie?
as if a corner of my mind might shout out an answer. It was clear to me that Linda was dying to tell me whatever she knew of Rosie’s current location. We exchanged glances frequently, with slightly lifted eyebrows and twitching facial muscles.