Murder in the Dog Days (Maggie Ryan) (19 page)

“What do you think caused the crash?”

“Well, like I told Colby, the experts are saying terrorism. I’m no expert but I think that makes sense. I couldn’t figure out why Colby was asking me.”

“Maybe he thought you’d know if someone had a grudge against your father.” Holly thought about scooting forward in the big chair but it was steeply slanted as well as slippery. She settled for a steady gaze.

“Who knows?” Moffatt, despite filling his chair better, didn’t seem very much at ease either. “I don’t know all that much about my father’s business, honey. I didn’t work with him.”

“Did you think the investigation was progressing well?”

“God!” Moffatt snorted. “I don’t know why they haven’t quit by now! You know that congressman hasn’t found a damn thing that wasn’t in the first report. But it just goes on and on!”

“Don’t you want them to find out why your father died?”

“Oh, yeah, yeah, of course,” Moffatt conceded. “Except they should know when to quit, honey. Doesn’t do any good to keep going over the same old stuff. Beating dead horses. The facts don’t change, right? No matter how often you go over them?”

Wrong, Moffatt. A fact that made no sense the first time through might combine with another later on in a way that made the whole configuration shift. But aloud she said only, “It must be a problem for you that the investigation is still open.”

He shrugged. “No big deal. Of course I want to settle the estate, honey, who wouldn’t? But the lawyers say we gotta wait. So we wait.”

“They’re sitting on a lot of money that’s rightfully yours?”

He didn’t blink, he’d seen it coming. Probably Colby had asked him too. Or Olivia or the ever-present Maggie. He said smoothly, “I don’t know how much. Doesn’t matter anyway. The important thing is that they get it settled eventually. Damn slow lawyers! It’s not just me, but all the others—you know, prolonging the agony. We just want to get it behind us, not have all these questions all the time.” He smiled quickly. “Present beautiful company excepted!”

“What was your relationship with your father?”

A grimace of disgust. “It was fine! Someone’s been trotting out that old stuff about college for you. Don’t listen to them, honey.”

“I’d like to hear your side.”

“Look, it’s no big deal. I’m not the only guy who wanted to break away on his own at that age. Dad was a successful man and had a lot of strong opinions. So I get to Maryland, football scholarship, coeds falling at my feet, fraternities lined up wanting me to pledge…” He had forgotten her legs, was blinking out the window now at the rain drenching the brick commercial row across the street. Holly wondered if he had ever again reached the ego-gratifying pinnacle of those heady days.

“Your dad must have been pleased,” she prompted.

He slammed a heavy fist onto the table. “Never satisfied! He wanted me to go the executive route. Didn’t like the courses I chose, didn’t like my grades…” He looked at his fist, still clenched on the table, and pulled himself together. “Well, fathers are like that. They think they know what’s best. I don’t hold it against him.”

Yeah, tell me another one. Holly turned the page. “He made you leave Maryland?”

“In a way. I got to drinking—you know, at that age, you want to try everything, and the parties were fun. It’s easy to get carried away. And I was under all this pressure from him.”

Pressure. Sure, Moffatt. Were your buddies maimed and dying all around you? Or were you maybe working twenty-hour shifts in the operating room? Holly damped the licking flames of contempt and asked levelly, “How did he find out you were drinking too much?”

“Well, my grades were shot sophomore year.” Moffatt was not looking at her any more. His elbows were on his desk, his fleshy fists against his eyes. “I coulda got that under control, you know, it was just I was young yet. And one night I hit a tree and this girl I was with got hurt. Goddamn cunt sued.” He cleared his throat. “Pardon my French. Anyway, Dad had to pay a whole lot even out of court. That was the end for me.”

“What happened to her?” Holly inquired mildly.

“She said her face and arm got hurt. I mean, big deal, you face that stuff in a game all the time!”

Holly noted it down without asking if the goddamn cunt had been supplied with helmet and protective pads. If the elder Moffatt had paid up, the young woman must have had a damn good case against young Leon. Enough smashed bones and stitches to convince Moffatt’s high-priced lawyers they couldn’t win. Holly decided to look up the case later. She said, “So you had to leave college.”

“Yeah. And Dad said he was finished with me, to get out on my own. Join the Army or something.” He uncovered his eyes. “Well, that seemed dumb. I had a good lottery number. So I signed onto a construction crew.”

“I see. Did your father stay mad?”

“For a while. But I got my act together, married Judy. He liked her. Came to the wedding and everything. Then I got a chance to buy into this outfit with Horse Pulaski. Dad came round then. It’s a good business, too.”

“Your dad invested in it, then?”

“Yeah, sure. Like I say, it’s a good business.”

So the official line was wild oats followed by mature reconciliation. Ho hum. But possibly true. Holly asked, “When Dale Colby talked to you, did he have any particular line of questioning?”

He smiled. “He asked pretty much the same questions as lady detectives ask.” When she didn’t smile back he coaxed, “C’mon, honey, loosen up! You could be real pretty if you’d smile!”

Holly turned crisply to a new page. “Now, just a routine question. Can you tell me where you were yesterday afternoon?”

“Sheesh.” He looked at her a moment, frowning, then shrugged and answered with exaggerated businesslike coolness. “Windover Country Club. Had lunch there with a client about one o’clock, went to golf with another at two-thirty. Finished about five.”

“And after that?”

“Drinks, home to the wife. Normal day.”

Holly looked at him directly. “On a normal day are you angry enough at Colby to visit the Sun-Dispatch office and complain?”

A spasm of pain crossed his face. “God. I’ve never had good timing.”

“Could you explain what made you so angry yesterday morning?”

A look of cunning that didn’t suit his jowly face flickered through his eyes and was gone. “He just asked so many questions. He was asking about Tracy again.”

“Tracy?”

“The girl who sued. I was fed up. But, listen, I bet when you ask other people, they’ll be fed up with his questions too. Maybe he was just doing his job but it gets on a guy’s nerves after a while.”

“Yeah. Who else do you think was fed up?”

He became vague. “Oh, you know. Maybe somebody connected with that congressman Dad liked so much.”

“Okay. Can you tell me anything else about Dale Colby?”

“Not really. I didn’t know the guy.”

“Anything else about your dad? Did he have enemies?”

He rolled his eyes up. “Everybody asks the same thing! Look, I really didn’t know the details of his business. Ask his partners, his employees.” He looked at the watch that dented his pudgy wrist. “Now, Miss Shiner, I do have an important lunch appointment soon.”

Holly sat still. “Yes, I understand that you’re very busy, Mr. Moffatt. Just a couple more questions. Can you tell me about Blankenship?”

For an instant Moffatt looked as though she’d walloped him with a two-by-four. Then he shrugged again, very casually. “That’s all settled. Last fall it was settled.”

“And how did the settlement affect you?”

“We could manage!” he said vehemently. “Obviously we weren’t that happy about it because we weren’t to blame. But it’s a good business, like I say. We can swing it.” He looked at his watch again. “I really do have to get ready for a meeting.”

“Did Colby ask you about Blankenship?”

“No more than he asked about anything else! Now—”

She cut him off by grabbing the arms of her chair and shoving herself erect. “Thank you, Mr. Moffatt. I’ll get back to you as the case develops.”

“Yes.” He smiled his thick-lipped smile and got up to open the door for her. “Good-bye, Miss Shiner.”

“Detective Schreiner, Mr. Moffatt. Good-bye.”

The reception area was empty. No people lined up for important lunch meetings, not even a receptionist at the moment. Holly started down the hall, spotted the ladies’, and went in.

Moffatt’s secretary was at the mirror, carefully arranging an elaborate Raquel Welch hairstyle. “Oh, hi,” she said.

“Hi, Rosalie.” Holly dropped her bag on the sink counter next to Rosalie and pulled out her own brush. “Your hair’s gorgeous,” she said in an admiring tone.

“Thanks. Takes time, though. You ever think about dying yours?” Rosalie asked, in the instant comradeship of two women sharing a mirror.

Holly looked at her own dull sandy-brown mop. “I’ve thought about blonde,” she admitted.

“Oh, you’d look great! Course you’d have to use a little more mascara so you wouldn’t look too washed out.” Rosalie replaced her hairbrush and began to hunt through her big bag.

“Yeah, that’s the problem,” Holly told her confidingly. “This is a crazy job I’ve got. I got maced once at a demonstration. Cried for ten minutes, and my face looked like a zebra’s. I never wore mascara to work again.”

“God, I never thought of that! Me, I get caught in the rain like today and it takes two hours to recover.” Rosalie produced a lip brush and began lining her mouth carefully.

Holly edged toward the topic she wanted. “You like working for Moffatt?”

“Sure. See, I’m not that fast at typing. Probably have to do grocery checkout except dear old Porky likes my style.” She gave a quick hip-wriggle and grinned at Holly in the mirror, then sobered. “What were you asking him about?”

Holly pulled out her own light lipstick. She looked faded next to the younger woman. Eyes hollow, face permanently taut in a way that Rosalie’s lipliners and purple eye shadow could never help. “We talked about a lot of stuff,” she answered. “Like Blankenship.”

“God, what a mess!” The heavily made-up eyes fluttered at Holly’s image anxiously. “Is it going to be all right? I mean, I want to know because after the ruling Leon said he might have to let me go.”

Holly colored her upper lip in two strokes before she said, “I don’t think it will come to that. You’re an important employee, right? The firm needs you.”

“Yeah, sure. But if the firm is bankrupt?”

“Well—” Things were slipping into place. Holly asked, “But isn’t Moffatt getting an inheritance?”

“Yeah, but I don’t think that’s coming through soon. The lawyers are sitting on that money.”

“Still, they should be able to hang on for a while.” Holly finished her mouth and dropped the lipstick into her purse.

“Maybe.” Rosalie looked glum. “But it’s been a year since Leon lost the suit, and he’s just about run out of excuses.”

“Lawyers can usually think of new ones.”

“Yeah. Hey, thanks, that cheers me up.” Rosalie tossed her makeup back into her bag and carefully tucked her shiny blouse into her belt to give maximum emphasis to her cleavage. She knew what Leon liked about her, all right. She picked up her bag, said, “Well, see you,” and teetered toward the door in her high heels.

Holly watched the door close before pulling out her notebook to write herself a memo. So Leon Moffatt’s “good business” was maybe on the edge of bankruptcy. As of last fall. And his dad had probably had his fill of bailing out his clumsy son. How convenient for Leon that his stubborn father had checked out just in time for him to inherit what the old man wouldn’t give. And how annoying if a nosy reporter like Dale Colby noticed how convenient it had been.

Check the country club to see if Leon’s alibi held up.

Look up the Blankenship case.

And look up Leon’s rap sheet. He probably had a string of DWI’s besides the crack-up with poor Tracy.

But right now Holly was only four blocks from the insurance firm where the pilot’s sister worked. Priscilla Lewis. Talk to her next.

12

Priscilla Lewis turned out to be a few years older than Holly, with dark wavy hair and smile lines flavoring her eyes. When Holly identified herself she glanced at the big clock high on the wall of the open-plan, beige and buff office. “I was about to go to lunch,” she explained in a pleasant voice.

“If you’re not meeting anyone, we could go together,” Holly suggested. “I could use a bite myself. I just have a few questions about a reporter named Dale Colby, and about your brother.”

Priscilla Lewis studied Holly for a moment, then picked up her phone and cancelled her appointment with someone named Ben. She gathered her things and smiled at Holly. “Okay. Let’s go. Is the Rosebud Cafe all right?”

“Sure.”

Over tuna salad Holly told Priscilla Lewis about Dale Colby’s death. Priscilla expressed shock and confirmed that Colby had called her several times since the plane crash. “I don’t think I helped him that much, though I wanted to,” she said. “They don’t seem to be making much headway. But it’s probably something political having to do with Knox, don’t you think? I don’t see how it could have been directed at Corky.”