Mourning In Miniature (32 page)

Most of the time, I loved living in our small, Abraham Lincoln-obsessed town (every day-care child started out learning that he was the tallest president in history, and it took off from there), but once in a while I needed a break and our trips to San Francisco had served the purpose. It wasn’t the city’s fault that the reunion weekend had been marred by tragedy.

So, it was with some reluctance that Maddie and I decided to go home where we could spread out the printouts and talk in private. Using words like “fraud,” “murder,” and “payola” in a public place seemed unnecessarily awkward.

 

 

Maddie followed her recently established “hot day in
Lincoln Point” routine: as soon as we got in the door, she pushed the button to retract the atrium skylight. She was so enamored of the technology, I feared I’d have to rein her in from opening my house to the cold and rain come the winter (such as it was in this part of the state).

Once we were both in lighter clothing, Maddie nibbled on one of the brownies we’d taken from Ghirardelli’s, while I arranged the printouts on the dining room table.

“I can’t believe you’re hungry,” I said.

“I didn’t eat all my sundae.”

“You mean you didn’t lick the bowl?”

“Uh-huh.”

Sheets of paper filled with charts and numbers were my least favorite thing to read, let alone study. My need to procrastinate was so great that I ate a snack of crackers and cheese myself.

Finally, we settled ourselves side by side at the table, Maddie perched on a stool so she could see the whole area. It had been a while since I’d had a glance at Skip’s copy of the material. He’d highlighted areas of interest, which made it easier to focus. We were starting from scratch.

I started with the headings on the columns. At the top of each sheet was the designation
RFP Summary
, followed by the name of the project.

At the bottom of each page was a boilerplate statement:

I also noted, in fine print, a statement advising vendors that they could appeal a decision within fifteen days of notification of rejection. I wondered if anyone had ever taken advantage of that right, especially Callahan and Savage.

Maddie and I each picked up a page for a closer look and read together, half out loud, half to ourselves. My first sheet was for an equipment upgrade on the heating and cooling system at the Duns Scotus in 2006. The
RFP Issue Date
was listed as February 6, 2006. The bids were submitted two months later.

Maddie showed me a similar breakdown on her sheet, with an RFP going out on June 13, 2005, and bids coming in three months later. There were seven bidding companies, with Mellace’s bid the second highest. Once again, Mellace had an asterisk next to its name.

“We’ve known this all along,” I said to Maddie (and myself), dejected.

Skip had processed all this information already, and Barry had as much as confessed these irregularities. I’d been hoping that with a closer look, I’d be able to come up with more, something that tied David directly to fraud. Barry had mentioned an upcoming major remodeling project for the Duns Scotus, but either the RFP for that hadn’t gone out or the printouts we had were simply outdated.

Reading these sheets, one could argue that Mellace Construction’s high bid was worth it because of their years of experience or excellent customer references. Or that Callahan and Savage’s low bid was balanced by poor qualifications of their staff or another criterion of which I had no clue. I had to resign myself to the fact that I’d come up with nothing new.

“Let’s check the e-mails,” Maddie said, sweeping the RFP summaries to the side.

We took our positions and focused.

The correspondence was much easier to read, being word-based instead of number-based. Almost all the e-mails were from David Bridges to Mellace Construction, a few to other companies that had won a contract.

“I guess it would look suspicious if Mellace got totally all the contracts,” Maddie said, at the same time that I was thinking it.

The text of the e-mails was all the same, except for numbers filled in, for the amount of the contract and the agreed-to start and finish of the projects.

I’d lost track of the number of dead ends in this case, while my friend was virtually a prisoner of an elaborate frame.

“It’s hopeless,” I said.

“Let’s not give up, Grandma. I’m not sure what we’re looking for exactly, but we might still be able to find it.”

I was sorry that I’d expressed my despondency out loud. To humor my granddaughter I put a positive face on and said, “Okay, let’s try another approach. We could make up a time line, putting everything we have in chronological order, whether it’s an RFP summary or an e-mail. Can you do that while I see about something for dinner? You must be starving.”

I was only half joking, since Maddie had been in a heavy-eating phase all summer, not that you could tell from her skinny body.

“I’m starving for something good, like pizza.”

“Ice cream sundae and brownies for lunch and pizza for dinner. I don’t think so. Try again.”

“Then can you make tuna casserole?”

Was Maddie the only contemporary eleven-year-old who even knew what tuna casserole was? “Tuna casserole it is.”

“With no peas, and lots of potato chip crumbs on top.”

“And you won’t tell your mom?”

“Duh.”

“Deal.”

 

 

The best thing about tuna casserole was that I didn’t
need to look at a recipe. I had my own variation, adjusted to Maddie’s taste at three years old right up to the present. No pimiento or almonds, and cream of celery instead of cream of mushroom soup. I did sneak in a better grade of cheese than the original recipe called for.

I assembled the masterpiece and put it in the oven. In thirty-five minutes, we’d be set to go.

“Something’s funny here,” Maddie called from one room away.

I walked into the dining room and peered over her shoulder. “Show me.”

“Okay, see this line on the RPFs?” I saw no value in correcting her. “It tells you when the bids were asked for. So, look at this one, Project Number 20988, for fixing the air-conditioning units in the hotel. It has the date January 10, 2005.” Maddie plucked an e-mail from the stack. “Then here’s the e-mail letter to the Mellace company saying congratulations, because they got the contract for Project Number 20988. That’s the same number. But the date is December 29, 2004. That’s why I was confused. I was trying to put January after December. Get it?”

I certainly did get it. David Bridges informed Mellace of a winning bid and then sent out a request for bids ten days later. Was there a time warp due to New Year’s Eve 2004?

There was no Callahan and Savage bid on Project 20988, and it was a small Duns Scotus project, thus showing that David spread the fraud around, among different size bids.

“Are there any more pairs like this?” my voice carried an excitement that I know pleased Maddie.

“I don’t know yet. Let’s look.”

We created a most interesting time line, with three more cases of an RFP going out after Mellace was notified of the winning bid. I hoped what we’d put together constituted the kind of proof Larry Esterman had talked about, the kind that could put someone in jail, the kind that someone might kill for.

Walter Mellace moved up a notch on my list of suspects. All the nice things Barry and Rosie had said and thought about David Bridges were taking their toll, and I envisioned David’s deciding to play it straight, something Mellace would not be happy about. I was sure the LPPD would be eager to know my conclusions.

 

 

After I left a message at all of Skip’s numbers, Maddie
and I sat across from each other over a steaming tuna casserole.

Maddie was beside herself with agitation, trying to talk with large mouthfuls of noodles. “I can’t wait to tell Uncle Skip,” she said, though I know she had only the vaguest notion of the meaning of what she’d uncovered and understood only a fraction of the concept of fraud, as perpetrated by Mellace Construction and their coconspirators.

“I’ll make sure Uncle Skip knows who the detective was this evening,” I said.

Maddie shrugged. “We’re a good team, right?”

I gave her my biggest smile. “The best.”

 

 

A callback from Skip came about halfway through the
second helping for each of us.

“I hope your news is better than mine,” he said.

My first thought was that Rosie skipped town; my second, that there was more evidence against her. My second thought was correct.

“Let me talk to him, let me talk to him,” Maddie said, nearly choking. She’d come to my side and was leaning in, trying to speak into the phone. I still had a height advantage, so I stood up and held the phone out of reach, almost knocking over my coffee mug. What was this? A spiraling back to an impatient toddler? Eleven was a tricky age.

“It’s about something else,” I told her.

“We got another call,” Skip said.

“About that other call—” I wanted to rush in and tell him what I’d learned about the last anonymous tip he’d gotten—about the convenient location of Rosie’s locker room box, right at the crime scene. There I was spiraling back from middle age to impatient youth.

Skip talked over me. “Someone who was staying across the hall on the eleventh floor of the Duns Scotus saw the whole scene that night.”

“Friday night?”

“Yeah, he says he needed ice, but he checked the peephole first because he was trying to avoid someone. He’d heard the voices, and then when he looked he saw and heard the exchange on the threshold of Bridges’s room. He said Rosie looked furious.”

“He could tell what her expression was through a peephole?”

“That’s what he says.”

“And he called Rosie by name?”

“Not exactly. He said ‘one of the two women outside Bridges’s door’ and I figured it wasn’t you.”

“What’s this man’s name?”

“I can’t tell you that.”

“Was he from the reunion class?” Silence, which I took for “yes.” “Was he on the football team?” More silence, therefore, another “yes.” “Well, can you at least check to see whether he’s one of the gang who hung out with David and Barry?”

“I can do that.”

“Does this new alleged tip mean that you’re bringing Rosie back in?”

“None of this is anything but circumstantial. Unless we can put her in the woods at the time of the murder, we can’t arrest her. Too bad those trees don’t have cameras. I mean, to catch whoever did it.”

“I know a lot of parents who would like that idea.”

“I just remembered, you left me a message everywhere. What’s up?”

“I have a couple of ”—a poke from Maddie made me wince—“Maddie and I have some information for you. Can you stop by?”

“Not till a lot later. We have some visiting politicians coming in this week and they’re making us rehearse a show-and-tell for them. You know, I’d rather ride my bike to your house.”

“You hate to ride your bike.”

“That’s my point. If you come by here, I’ll squeeze you in.”

It was already after nine o’clock, and a school night of sorts. I’d had a late night with Barry, and a long day, with stressful driving to and from San Francisco. I had to decide whether presenting the evidence we’d dug up was urgent. I thought not. The police already had Barry. Our little revelation was just icing on the cake, more a thrill for Maddie than something that would be a breakthrough in proving fraud, but nothing to clinch the murder case.

I felt another trick coming on, on Maddie, who, I knew, could be in the car and buckled up in a matter of seconds.

“That’s too bad, Skip. We’ll see you tomorrow,” I said. Maddie was hanging on my every word, so I made a sad face for show.

“You don’t want to give the little redhead a vote, do you?” Skip asked.

“Uh-huh, thanks. You have a good night, too.”

Maddie had returned to the last of her tuna casserole. She drained her glass of milk and heaved a big sigh for a little girl. “We have to wait, huh?” It pained me to have deliberately kept her away from her big moment. “It’s a good thing I have a lot of homework to keep me busy tonight,” she said.

 

 

In an unusual turn of events, Maddie told me she wanted
to do some computer work early this evening. It seemed too much to hope that an interesting school project had balanced out the disappointment of a delayed meeting with the police.