7 Madness in Miniature (6 page)

“I’ll do my best, but I can’t promise anything, Jeff.”

“I know, but just try. That’s all I’m asking.”

Only when I hung up did I notice that Maddie had been a silent partner in the phone call, her attention glued to my side of the conversation. She held her cereal spoon as if it were a pitchfork, her eyes wide and expectant.

“You’re going to help him, right, Grandma?”

“I’m going to try.”

“Are you expecting to drop me off at Taylor’s?”

“The thought crossed my mind.”

Maddie shook her head with great passion. “Uh-uh.”

“Are you going to tell me what’s wrong between you two?”

“Nothing’s wrong. I just want to go with you. You know I love seeing Uncle Skip and his friends at the station.”

It was hard for me to argue since Maddie did always want to accompany me to the LPPD. Wasn’t that a thrill for every preteen? But I knew this time the scales were tipped against being with Taylor, no matter what the alternative was. I decided not to push it. It was true that all of Skip’s coworkers in uniform loved her and I could count on at least one of them giving Maddie a tour of a corner of the building she hadn’t yet visited, or failing that, giving her free access to the food in the lunchroom.

“Be ready in a half hour,” I said, and she skipped off.

* * *

Before
I slithered into the police station and skulked around for information, I needed to call both Bev and Henry to reschedule dates. I called Henry first. We’d planned to work this morning on a miniature ice cream parlor for the ALHS auction. He was building and painting the box that would hold tiny tubs of crafts clay-cum-ice cream and a counter with the world’s smallest tip jar. I had another reason for calling him—Henry was also likely to know Jeff better than I did. He was too modest to brag about the classes full of students, mostly boys, who for one reason or another didn’t have college in their future, but needed a mentor and a creative outlet for their talents. Henry was the man, and his woodworking shop was the place.

It was immediately clear that Henry had the same facts that I had about Craig Palmer’s murder, his liaison with the Internet being Taylor. His granddaughter and her hardworking attorney parents lived in the house that Henry owned and Taylor’s mother grew up in, a convenient arrangement for all.

“How about this turn of events, huh?” Henry asked. “A murder disguised as an earthquake, and a small trembler at that. It’s tragic and so hard to fathom.”

I agreed. “Craig’s family is in New York. I can’t imagine how hard it is for his parents, learning that their son is dead, and his body is all the way across the country. I hope things will be cleared up so they can at least have some closure.”

We both paused and I realized I hadn’t taken the time to acknowledge the death of a man barely out of his youth. Henry and I had each suffered the loss of a spouse and knew the toll it took. The death of a relative or a friend or even a business associate changed everything, and a violent death was like an earthquake, rattling the foundation of life for so many people. I couldn’t imagine how much more difficult it would be to lose a child.

I heard a long sigh from Henry, getting ready to move on. “You were with him yesterday, weren’t you? Before dinner?” he asked.

“We were introduced; that’s about it, though his name has come up a lot.” I briefed Henry on the after-hours visitors I’d entertained, and then got to my question. “How well do you know Jeff Slattery?”

“Video Jeff? Nice kid.” I didn’t remind him that the kid was now in his mid-thirties. For most of us, our students were forever “kids” no matter how many children of their own they had. “He hung around the shop a lot,” Henry continued. “In fact, I thought for sure he’d go into woodcrafts more seriously when he graduated. I got him a spot at a school in Oregon where an old pal of mine started a special program that Jeff would have fit right into. He could have gotten an associate’s degree. He kept saying, maybe in a couple of years, but he ended up taking over the arcade instead.”

“Apparently he had a Plan A that didn’t work out,” I said. “After two years, when his sweetheart, Catherine Duncan, graduated, they were supposed to run off to make their fortune together.”

“In a land far away,” Henry said, in a tone that called for cueing romantic music.

“Or in Oregon.”

“What’s up with you and Jeff? Why are you asking about him?”

“He called to tell me that Bebe was taken in for questioning this morning, about Palmer’s murder. That’s what I’m assuming, anyway. Jeff isn’t clear on whether or not she’s been arrested.”

“And he wants your help, I’ll bet.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Uh-oh.”

“What is it?” I asked.

“I’d be offering to take Maddie, but with this sudden summer freeze between our girls, I’m not so sure that’s a good idea.”

I agreed and explained that Maddie had already covered that possibility with a plea to accompany me. “I’m sorry I won’t be able to keep our date to work on the ice cream parlor this morning.”

“I’m glad it’s not because our fickle granddaughters are on the outs.”

I laughed as if I hadn’t thought of that myself. “I probably won’t be long with Bebe, but I feel I have to do my best.”

“I’m free all day except for chauffeuring duty. Taylor has a pool party this afternoon at a classmate’s house. Call me when you get back? Maybe we’ll still have some time.”

“That should work. I hope I’ll be able to talk to Bebe. Granted, she is high-strung and stubborn, but I can’t see her beating up anyone physically. And certainly not killing someone. In fact, if she’s angry at anyone, it’s at Catherine. Bebe has more reasons to want to dispose of her, on both a business and a personal level.”

“But Palmer was Catherine’s boss, wasn’t he? Wouldn’t he be more to blame for the loss of her shop, in Bebe’s eyes?”

“I’m not sure Bebe saw it that way. Plus there’s the double whammy, with the rekindled romance.”

“I see your point. But Catherine is still alive.”

Beep, beep. Beep, beep.

My call-waiting signal. I checked my screen. “Catherine is alive and on my other line.”

“We’ll talk later,” we said together.

Catherine’s voice was calmer than I’d heard it since her first appearance in Lincoln Point for the SuperKrafts project. “It looks like the mystery is solved,” she said. “The police have Bebe. I’ll bet she’s the one who’s been sending me the crazy notes, too.”

I wondered if Catherine’s new-old boyfriend knew how she viewed his sister’s situation. “I understand she’s being questioned, as I’m sure many of us who saw Craig yesterday will be,” I said. Including you, I thought.

“Yes, but the police actually went to Bebe’s house and took her downtown. I just got a phone call asking me to drop in at the station sometime today. And Megan and Leo got the same call. That’s different, isn’t it?”

“Do the police claim to have evidence of Bebe’s guilt?” I asked.

I felt a tug at my arm. “Who’s guilty?” Maddie whispered.

She would choose this morning to be on time for departure. I cupped my hand over the phone mic. “Ten minutes,” I said.

“I didn’t talk to her myself, but Jeff said she didn’t mention evidence,” Catherine said. “Gerry, I’ve been thinking of showing the police the notes I’ve gotten. Now that they have Bebe, maybe they can use them.”
Against her
was unsaid, but hung in the air.

I was torn between agreeing with Catherine that the police should see her notes, which I’d recommended as soon as I’d seen them, and my slightly miffed feeling that Catherine had already made herself judge and jury against Bebe. I tried to figure out why she would take that stance. Was she genuinely relieved that her feeling of vulnerability over the notes was now gone? Happy that not only was Craig out of her life, just one more annoyance she didn’t have to deal with, but that his killer was someone who’d also been in her way, professionally and personally? Could Catherine be that selfish in her thinking? Where was the sympathy and empathy I might expect if the sister of a boyfriend, or even simply a friend and colleague, was being accused of murder?

It wasn’t my job to advise Catherine, I told myself. I was no longer her teacher, making a recommendation for a research paper or advising her on an essay for her college applications. I didn’t envy my nephew and the LPPD, whose job it was to sort it all out.

“If you’re worried about the notes, you should certainly show them to the police,” I told Catherine.

“What notes?” Maddie asked, still under foot. I gave her a smile and a gentle shove.

“Will you see if you can find out what they have on Bebe?” Catherine asked.

“I’m on my way to the station now,” I said. If she sensed that I was distancing myself from her many quandaries, and committing to nothing, she didn’t say.

* * *

I made
a quick call to Beverly’s cell to tell her our shoe shopping would have to wait.

“I’ll just stay at work, then,” she said. “Maybe tomorrow? Mondays are less crowded anyway.”

“That should be fine.”

“You know it’s not too late to think of a double wedding.”

I laughed. “It’s a great idea, and I’d do it in a minute, Bev, but what if Maddie and Taylor don’t make up? It might be awkward.”

“All the more reason for you and Henry to get married. We’d all be family then.”

“I’d love to chat some more, but, as your son would say, ‘gotta go.’ ”

I hung up and wondered why Bev’s idea didn’t sound as crazy and out of the question as it used to.

I changed out of shorts into a sleeveless dress and better looking sandals. Maddie had dressed in a clean T, a sign of great respect for where she was headed. Not enough to have brushed her unruly red curls, but I was sure she didn’t see it that way, and she was beautiful as-is.

“Do you have a stamp, Grandma?” Maddie asked as we were almost out the door.

“Sure, what do you need?”

“A stamp. For a letter.”

“Do you need any help with the letter?”

“Nope.”

Maddie followed me back to my desk, in a corner of my crafts room. On the way, I stretched my neck and strained to read the address on the envelope, but Maddie held it close. Spy Girl at work. I peeled a stamp from the roll and held out my hand for the letter, ostensibly to place the stamp on it. Maddie grinned and held her own hand out. I gave her the stamp.

“I’ll drop it in the box in front of City Hall,” she said.

I imagined myself a sleuth—locating the pad on which Maddie had written the letter, and rubbing a pencil over the top page. But Maddie had probably used her computer and my printer, so that wouldn’t work. I might be able to find a file if she’d saved the letter, or even if she hadn’t. I knew files could be dug out somehow after they’d been deleted, but I wouldn’t know where to start. At times like this, I’d call on Maddie’s computer skills to help me. How ironic.

Nostalgia took over for a moment. There was a lot to be said for the days when hard metal keys made impressions on a typewriter platen. I also longed for the days when my granddaughter couldn’t reach the mailbox.

I parked my car
in the police station lot and walked toward the building. Since Civic Center was a relatively new complex, the trees were young and useless for badly needed shade. I was glad I’d worn my floppy white cotton hat, unfashionable but necessary on a hot, dry day like today. Maddie’s fair complexion was safe under a baseball cap with the logo of her Palo Alto school soccer team. Did that make it a soccer cap? I shook my head at the question, marveling at how far afield my mind could wander some days.

Coming back to the task at hand, I felt compelled to warn Maddie. “You know you can’t stay in the office while I talk to Uncle Skip.”

“I know, I know, but I’m expecting you to tell me everything right after, like always.”

“Of course.”

I’d almost made a deal with Maddie before we left, that if she’d tell me what was up with Taylor and her, I’d keep her with me, but that would have set a very bad precedent. I didn’t need to add mutual bribery to her already full bag of borderline-acceptable tricks. I had to stick to the routine we’d established for times like this, when I had a private matter to discuss with Skip or some other adult. Maddie eventually resigned herself to the fact that she wouldn’t be in on those conversations, but at least she’d be in the environment where things were happening. I suspected that she longed for the day when she’d be considered eligible for inclusion. For now she seemed content to be handed off to anyone with a badge.

We climbed the wide concrete steps to the front door of the police station, with no lack of greeters on the way, some headed down the steps, others passing us on the right or left in the same direction during the upward trek. We heard “Hey, Red,” from a female officer and “Hi, Squirt,” from a male in uniform (no female could get away with that); we said, “Good morning” to office workers and maintenance staff. Inside the building, Maddie thrived on comments about how tall she was getting, how she must be glad to be out of school for the summer, and how it was about time she got her own badge. Some people even said, “Hi” to me.

When we entered the large, cubicle-lined area that held the working crime fighters of the LPPD, the first welcoming sound was the voice of Skip’s mother, Bev Gowen. She was coming from the direction of her son’s cubicle, her red hair signaling that another Porter family member was in our midst.

“I’m trying to make it absolutely clear to my son that a tux is required for his role in his mother’s wedding,” Bev told me. She made it sound like a tough job and I had no doubt that it was. Bev and Nick’s wedding was in a month. Besides Bev’s shoes, there was my own dress to shop for. “I heard you two were coming today,” Bev said, after bear-hugging Maddie. “I can’t wait to go shopping for our outfits. Besides shoes, I need something for my hair. Maybe tonight at the mall?”

“Grandma’s busy. She needs to talk to Uncle Skip about who’s guilty and who’s getting notes.” Bev and I looked at each other. It had been a tough sell getting Maddie excited about what she was going to wear. We’d hoped she’d warm up to it as the date approached. Not yet. “Also,” Maddie continued, “I need someone to take me to the mailbox so I can mail a letter. I could do it myself, but”—she tilted her head in my direction—“I’m not allowed.”

“I’m sure we can take care of that,” Bev said. “Shall we dump Grandma and see what’s up downstairs in the jail?”

Maddie’s eyes brightened. “Really? We can go down there? I’ve never seen a jail cell except on TV.”

“I don’t know…” I said, dragging out the words, questioning her television habits in my mind.

“Just kidding,” Bev said.

“I don’t deserve this,” I said, wandering toward Skip’s cubicle, leaving them in the dust of the hallway. I wished I could have signaled Bev to check out the address on the envelope Maddie was about to drop in the mailbox. Since I’d given her only one “Forever” stamp, the only thing I could be sure of was that the letter was staying in the United States. I had to count on my sister-in-law’s good sense and ability to pry.

“Hey,” Skip said. “I thought I heard you, Aunt Gerry.” He scratched his red-stubbled chin. “Hmm, I wonder what your agenda is. Want to weigh in on whether I have to wear a tux to the big wedding?”

“Wise guy.” Skip would know I had no opinion on clothing but quite a few on criminal proceedings.

I headed down the hall toward his cubicle, entered, and waited for him to catch up, mentally as well as physically. I took a seat and looked around as I usually did for any new decorations or change of photos. The first thing I noticed was that June’s picture was still on his desk, though pushed back a bit, half-hidden by a mug of pens and pencils. It could have meant something. It could have meant nothing. Skip entered the gap in the partitions, caught my eye, and smiled. He reached to the photo and moved it next to the mug, both now an equal distance from the edge of the desk. He was a detective, after all.

“Look, Aunt Gerry, I know my mom and dad had a quick wedding in an office somewhere because he had to leave for some army outpost.”

“I remember,” I said. None of us ever forgot that Eino Gowen, Sr. shipped out and came back several times during his military career, but he never came back from the first Gulf War. Ken and I, but especially Ken, stepped in to help his sister parent her eleven-year-old boy. Skip and our son Richard became like brothers and were still very close.

“So I kind of understand why this time Mom wants to go all formal,” Skip said. He took off his jacket, revealing a short-sleeved shirt, as if to emphasize his desire for informality. “I can’t believe my good buddy Nick is going along with all this. He’s not a tux-and-shiny-shoes kind of guy.”

“Bride’s choice,” I said, hoping to end the topic.

“Isn’t there some maximum age past which you can’t be called a bride?”

“Now you’re really annoying me.” We needed to get down to business. “No one seems to know whether Bebe’s been charged with anything,” I began.

“They’re executing a warrant for her house and car as we speak,” he said. “I’m only telling you because if you were her next-door neighbor you’d know this anyway.”

“I understand. What else would a next-door neighbor know?”

“That’s about it. Until further developments, we’re just asking her to be a cooperating witness.”

“But you think you’ll have something?”

“We’re waiting for fingerprint results on the vase. But she has no alibi and she openly fought with and threatened SuperKrafts employees.”

“But not Craig Palmer. As far as I know, she only met him once.”

“Here’s another ‘but.’ From what I understand, she’s been harassing him or the company by mail, for almost a year. True?”

“You mean interacting with him as one of the Lincoln Point citizens with a role in the restructuring of our downtown.”

“Man, you’ve really picked up on the PR lady’s jargon. Whatever. Bebe’s our best bet.”

“I hope you can do better than that.” I wasn’t sure why I was so adamant about defending Bebe. She hadn’t been shy about exploding in public and condemning SuperKrafts to all kinds of nasty fates when she lost her store. Maybe just because she needed someone on her side at the moment. “Why would she kill Palmer? SuperKrafts is a lot bigger than Craig Palmer. Their policies and tactics don’t die with him,” I reminded Skip.

He shrugged. “Craig Palmer is as big as Bebe can get. A bird in the hand. He’s bigger than Catherine Duncan.” He raised his arm and marked off a tall man—or building—in the air. “Bebe’s not about to fly to New York to find the top guy.”

“What about Leo Murray, the temporary manager, and Megan Sutley, Palmer’s admin? They were all arguing not long before the earthquake. Palmer had a lot to say about their jobs and promotions.” I wasn’t as sure as I sounded about the inner workings of SuperKrafts, but it was a definite maybe.

“We’ll get to all of them. I’m not saying we’re going to arrest Bebe before lunch. You asked and I’m telling you how the cards are stacking up.”

“Can I talk to Bebe?”

“If she wants you to.”

“Her brother wants me to.”

“I’m sure he does.”

Skip picked up the receiver on his desk phone, a somewhat old-fashioned model with buttons that linked the whole building, I assumed. Maddie would have been displeased since, as usual, his side of the conversation revealed nothing of interest. When he hung up, he motioned for me to follow him. Either the call had done its job and I was on my way to see Bebe, or Skip was leading me out onto the grass of Civic Center.

“She’s this way,” he said, giving me hope.

* * *

I was
well aware of the two kinds of rooms in the LPPD building, one for witnesses and the other for suspects. Bebe was in the windowless, uncarpeted version. She looked as I would have expected after a rough few days making a last stand against City Hall and spending half a morning in police custody, whether Skip called it that or not. Her long hair was pulled back and held together with a rubber band. I knew I had at least two of Maddie’s scrunchies in my purse and wondered if I should offer one to Bebe.

“My brother send you?” she asked, making it clear that she wasn’t the one who’d made the request to see me.

“Jeff is concerned, like all of us, Bebe.” Uninvited, I took a seat opposite her. The cop’s seat, I thought.

“Tell Jeff I’m okay. I didn’t do anything, though I kinda wish I did.”

I hoped she hadn’t expressed that sentiment to the police. I thought of reminding her that a man was dead by someone’s hand and flip remarks weren’t going to be appreciated by anyone.

“I’m sure you don’t mean that,” I offered. “But I can see why you’re stressed—”

“Who says I’m stressed?”

I bit my lip and tried another expression of sympathy for her plight and added a word of comfort I had no right to speak. “I’m sure this will all be straightened out quickly.”

Bebe shrugged. “Whatever.”

It was a good thing I was used to Bebe’s crusty manner or I might have thought she didn’t want my help.

“Would you mind answering a couple of questions?”

“You sound like the cops. They’re also pretending I have a choice. They’re saying there are fingerprints on the vase, the one Palmer was killed with. And they’re expecting them to be mine.” Bebe blew out her breath as if she had just taken a drag on a cigarette. “Of course my fingerprints are on the vase. Like I told them, my prints would be all over the place in the store. Especially on the vases. I’m a ceramics artist. A potter. I wanted to check out the new vases, look at the features, see where they were made and all. We’ve had practically free rein of the store for the last month.” She paused and rolled her eyes. “Really big of them SuperKrafts VIPs.”

“So your fingerprints could have gotten on the vase at any time.”

Bebe opened her palms to me. “Duh.”

“When was the last time you saw Craig Palmer?” I asked, apparently unable to stop sounding like a cop or a lawyer.

“Never met him.”

Another line I hoped she hadn’t used with the police, who could easily verify her meeting him, albeit briefly, yesterday at the store. I needed another tack. I reviewed the events of last evening in my mind to pinpoint a time for when Palmer’s body had been found. I recalled that Skip had received the notice when he was at my house, a little after eleven P.M. If the vase that killed him had been wielded by a person and not by Mother Nature via a three-point-one, the murder could have taken place any time between the end of the late afternoon meeting and about ten forty-five at night. I decided to use the shaker as a benchmark, until further notice.

“Bebe, where were you at the time of the earthquake?” I asked.

“Why are you still questioning me?”

“I’m trying to help—”

“Did I ask for your help?”

“Bebe, your brother and your friends”—I was guessing here—“are worried and want to help you. Is there anything you can tell me about last evening, when the man you never met was killed?” Two could play the sarcasm game.

“Look, just tell Jeff not to worry about me. That’s the only reason you’re here.” I figured she meant that’s why she’d agreed to see me. “Anything else is none of your business.”

Bebe was right. In fact, Bebe had a more realistic view of my alleged role in this investigation than anyone else. I was not a cop, simply the aunt of a cop, and if all she’d wanted was a messenger between her and her brother, that was that.

“Okay, Bebe. I understand that you don’t want my help,” I said, standing up. I headed for the door, sure that Bebe would call me back. But I didn’t hear the “Wait, wait,” that I’d heard so often in TV interview scenes where the cops fake out the witness. Bebe was willing to take her chances without intervention. I hoped that her next visitor would get more cooperation. For now, I had no choice but to leave.

I opened the door and nearly ran into Megan Sutley and Leo Murray. They’d been walking down the hallway, headed to interview rooms I knew were more plush than the one Bebe had been consigned to. We all apologized for our parts in the collision and each expressed our surprise and dismay at Craig Palmer’s murder.

“I don’t know what’s going to happen now,” Megan said, a light scent of lavender wafting in the air between us. “I’m waiting for word from Corporate on whether we should go ahead with the Grand Opening, or just have a soft opening, you know, no fanfare.”

“Works for me,” Leo said, towering over the petite Megan. His attire was casual but not off-the-rack, and not from one of many nearby sports clothing outlets.

“Then there are all the other projects back at the head office and around the country,” Megan said. “Craig was overseeing an expansion in North Carolina”—I couldn’t help wondering if they were expanding into a row of perfectly good small stores—“a potential new store in Nevada, some new contracts…”

“I imagine it will take a while to fill his position,” I said.

I heard a “Yes” from Megan and a “Not really” from Leo, at about the same time.

Leo shrugged. “Frankly, I’m expecting that Corporate will call me back to New York any minute. I’m ready to step up.” He looked over Megan’s head and past my shoulder at an officer at the end of the corridor. “I think I heard my name,” he said. “I’m in Interview Two.” Leo sauntered down the hallway, his “Excuse me” barely a mumble.