This Little Piggy Went to Murder (17 page)

Sophie pulled on the short wisps of hair around her ears. Damn haircut. She couldn’t wait till it grew out. “What are you saying?”

“Your presence at that house right now could be a big help to us. That is, if you’d be willing to cooperate.”

“Cooperate?”

“Exactly. Tell us what’s going on in there. Call me if you see anything suspicious. Anything at all.”

“You mean be your spy.” The suggestion disgusted her.

Wardlaw dropped the pencil he was holding. “If you like.”

Sophie didn’t. She started to get up.

“I can see I’ve approached this the wrong way. Please, just give me one more minute of your time.” He folded his hands on his desktop and tried another, this time a bit more grandfatherly, smile.

Sophie could see the fatigue in the deep lines around his eyes. Those lines hadn’t been there the first time they’d met. She felt momentarily sorry for him.

“Three people have been murdered, Ms. Greenway. No matter what you might think of them personally, they each had a right to their lives. Unless we stop the individual who’s responsible, there’s going to be another murder. Perhaps even two. The point is, you can help. I’m not asking you to sneak around corners, ransack personal belongings. I’m merely asking you to keep your eyes and ears open, and if you see something you think we should know, give me a call. That’s it. Nothing more.”

Sophie thought about what she’d seen yesterday. Claire removing the poison from Amanda’s purse and slipping it into Luther’s jacket. Later in the evening, when she’d had a chance to talk to Luther privately, he hadn’t seemed very upset about it. At the time, she’d found his reaction strange. But the question right now was, what would the police make of Claire’s actions? “Detective Wardlaw, there is one thing …”

Wardlaw took off his glasses and set them carefully on the desktop. “Yes?”

“Well, yesterday, just after you left the living room with Jenny Tremlet, I happened to see something.”

His frown deepened.

“Actually, I saw Claire Van Dorn take a large, brown plastic bottle out of Amanda’s purse, wipe it clean of fingerprints, and put it into the pocket of Luther’s jacket. I understand now that you think it was the poison that killed Sydney.”

Wardlaw looked past her, obviously ruminating over what she’d just said.

“To be honest,” continued Sophie, “I don’t think Claire knew what it was when she first found it. Amanda had sent her out of the room to go upstairs and wake Luther. She’d asked Claire to get a bottle of prescription pills out of her purse on her way down. I don’t know why Claire did what she did. Perhaps to protect Amanda. But it’s not right to let you think Luther had anything to do with hiding that bottle.”

Wardlaw scratched his chin. “It seems we need to talk to Ms. Van Dorn again. I appreciate the tip.”

Sophie nodded. She didn’t feel entirely at ease about what she’d just confided, but it was probably best to tell the truth.

“Anything else you’d like to tell us?” asked Wardlaw.

Sophie could tell he figured she was holding something else back. She decided to ask the sixty-four thousand dollar question. “Who do you think the murderer is?”

“I don’t know.”

“But you have a theory.”

He nodded.

“And you’re not going to tell me.”

“I may be wrong, but I doubt you’d like my answer. I will say this much. I know you’re very concerned about all this. The fact is, the murderer could easily be a man or a woman.”

“But what about Lars Olson? How could a woman have done that?”

Wardlaw leaned back in his chair. “I see you’ve given this some thought. All right, let me explain something to you. We’re pretty sure Olson walked from a car to the spot under the bridge where he was tied up and gagged. He’d been drinking, and the autopsy showed a slow-acting sedative in his system. It wouldn’t take any physical strength to simply wait until he collapsed and then take a rope and tie it around his neck. The bridge is low at the base. Easy to get to. No one saw anyone dragging a body. There was a bluegrass festival in Canal Park that night. Lots of people were milling around. Even though the murderer picked a remote spot under the bridge, someone would have seen something blatantly suspicious.” Wardlaw leaned forward and rubbed his sore eyes. “If Mr. Olson was lucky, he never regained consciousness.”

“And the other two murders —”

“A gunshot — and poison.”

“Are you saying you think the murderer
was
a woman then?”

“I’m not saying anything one way or the other, Ms. Greenway.” He flipped his notebook closed.

Sophie knew the conversation was over. “Well, I suppose I better get going. I’ve got a long list of things I need to accomplish today.”

Wardlaw stood. “We’ll need to run some tests on those notes you’ve given us. Perhaps they’ll offer some further information. But one word of caution. As I said before, my feeling is that you’re not in any danger. At least not right now. But it’s just a feeling. If you and your husband choose to leave, in the long run that might be the wisest thing to do. In any case, things could change. Please don’t get involved in this any more deeply than you already are. And call me if you have anything to report or if you need my help.” He handed her his card. “My home phone is at the bottom. If you need me, don’t hesitate to use it.”

He walked her to the door, extending his hand and attempting one final, somewhat sad, smile. As Sophie got on the elevator and waited for the door to close, she caught a glimpse of him as he turned back into his office .

The expression on his face made her shiver.

“I’m afraid we don’t seem to have a copy of that particular article,” said a tall, gangly young man. He bent across the counter, his thin fingers playing with a paper clip.The sign above his head read DULUTH DAILY NEWS — ARCHIVES DEPARTMENT. “Have you tried the public library? They keep old copies of the newspaper on microfilm. We haven’t changed over yet. Sometimes things get misplaced.”

Misplaced my ass, thought Sophie. She glared at him. “I’ve already tried the Duluth library, the library in Clouquet, and I’ve even called the main library in Minneapolis. Nobody seems to be able to locate it.” Angrily, she reflected on the wild goose chase she’d been on all day. The article on Jack Grendel, which she’d first seen in Herman Grendel’s office, had been completely excised from public record. The question was: why?

The young man scratched his cheek. “Yeah, it is kind of strange that nobody has it. Well, I suppose I could have someone else look through our files.”

Sophie held up her hand. “Don’t bother. It wouId be a waste of time.” She picked up her gloves and hurried out of the office. There was no use pursuing a dead end. It was admirably clear she had wasted the better part of the day chasing a phantom.

Sophie regretted the mistake she’d made at the picnic yesterday. In front of Amanda, she’d asked Jack about the clipping — told him of the scrapbook she’d found in his father’s house. Amanda seemed angry that she would bring it up again. Jack, on the other hand, casually explained that he’d intended to spend some time as a volunteer at the clinic, but was accepted at Stanford, one thing leading to another, and he never went. Simple. No big deal. Indeed, it had sounded completely innocent over sponge cake and lemonade. If it hadn’t been for Amanda’s reaction earlier in the day, Sophie would probably have dropped the whole thing. Yet, even if Jack was a good actor, Amanda’s nervousness had told her much more than either intended. Something was amiss. Somebody was hiding something. It was a funny feeling to think she was being handled, kept at arm’s length by two of her oldest friends.

Passing a phone booth in the lobby, an idea occurred to her. She pulled out her phone credit card and stepped into the booth. A second later she was talking to an operator in Green Dells, Wisconsin.

“Can you repeat that name?” asked a clipped, female voice.

“Damascus Gate.” Sophie matched the woman’s overly precise manner.

“Are you sure it’s in Green Dells?”

“I am.”

“All right, just a minute.”

The line cracked a couple of times as the operator searched for the number.

“It’s not part of the Saltzman Clinic, is it?”

Sophie was becoming impatient. How hard could it be to find any given number in a small town? “I don’t know. I’ve never heard of the Saltzman Clinic.”

“Oh, here it is. It was under St. Luke’s Lutheran Church — Damascus Gate Center. Here’s your number.”

Sophie wrote it down and hung up. Once again, she punched the buttons.

“DGC,” said a distracted male voice. He sounded busy.

“Hello. I’m calling long distance. I’m hoping you can help me.”

“Yeah?” Another phone was ringing in the background.

“I understand you use volunteers at your clinic.”

“We’re not a clinic. We’re a halfway house. And yes, we do use volunteers sometimes. Drug rehab is expensive. Volunteers help defray some of the cost.”

Drug rehab, mused Sophie. “I was told you began as a center to help injured vets returning from Vietnam.”

“That was along time ago. And even then, drug rehab was a big part of what we did.”

“Do you recall a volunteer by the name of Jack Grendel? He would have donated some time at your facility back in 1969”

The man started to laugh. “Are you kidding? Do you know anything about halfway houses? We should remember a volunteer from twenty-five years ago?”

Sophie was not going to be put off. “Please, this is very important. We’re trying to … establish that this young man, ah … actually made it back from Vietnam. Don’t you have any records you could check?”

“Yeah, we got records. But twenty-five years ago, my God, I wouldn’t know where to look.”

“It’s important,” said Sophie.

The voice hesitated. “All right, I suppose I could run down to the basement and see what I can shake loose. What was that last name?”

Sophie pronounced it carefully and then spelled it. She waited as the man dropped the phone on the desk. After what seemed like an eternity, he returned.

“Our files from back then are pretty messed up — office duties weren’t a high priority. Anyway, I couldn’t find anything with that name on it. If he was here, I would think something would’ve shown up, but I can’t say for sure. I did ask Pastor Iverson — he was one of the men who started the center. He couldn’t place the name either.”

“I see. Well, thanks for your time. lf you do run across anything, let me give you my number. Ask to speak with Sophie Greenway — no one else, okay? And don’t say where you’re calling from.”

“I get it,” said the guy. “Don’t worry. We know how to be discreet.”

Sophie waited while he wrote everything down. After he hung, up, she grabbed her purse and gym bag and headed for the nearest women’s room. She felt a bit like Clark Kent searching out a phone booth in which to change into his Superman costume. If she didn’t hurry and get into her disguise — heavy padding, a woman’s curly black wig, Twins T-shirt, sweatpants, tennis shoes, and a plaid blazer — she’d be late for her dinner reservation at the Gasthaus Rethenau. It was perfect casual attire for northern Minnesota. She’d fade into the woodwork. Before she left Minneapolis, she’d promised the food editor at the newspaper an accurate and typically colorful review of the current culinary offerings at Duluth’s finest German restaurant. The food at the opening didn’t truly reflect the menu or service. To do it justice, she had to have a meal there and base her comments on that experience. It was a tough job, but then somebody … et cetera.

After donning her new identity, she stepped into the chilly, misty afternoon. The stiff wind off the lake caused her to pull her leather coat more closely around her body. This morning may have felt like summer, but this was Duluth. One minute it was July, the next January. Sophie remembered how much her mother used to grumble at having to pack for their trips to the North Shore. You have to pack for every season, she would say. With three children and a husband that was no small accomplishment. Her father, not being responsible for these minor, insignificant ministrations, always felt the changeable weather was one of Duluth’s most charming features.

Leaning into the wind, Sophie dashed across the street to her car. After a short but scenic drive along London Road, she found herself seated comfortably at a linen-covered table in a dark, cozy corner of the main dining room. It was still early for the dinner meal, so the room wasn’t crowded. Sophie studied the menu as she sipped her German beer. The schweinepfeffer in horseradish cream with spätzle and braised red cabbage caught her eye.

“Good evening,” said a familiar voice.

Sophie looked up. “Claire. This is … how did you recognize me?”

“Your ring.” Claire nodded to her hand. “It’s a tigereye. I noticed it the first time we met.”

“You’re very observant.”