A Killing Fair (12 page)

 

Chapter 16: Baring Up

M
y Friday began with a call from Douglas Riley, informing me that he had filed a lawsuit in the name of Vinnie Luciano's three children contesting Vinnie's most recent will and testament. “Louie said you'd be interested,” the lawyer known as the Bulldog said.

“Thank you. I'm extremely interested,” I said. “Who does this leave in charge of King Vinnie's Steakhouse?”

“Good question,” he said. “According to the law, it's Vito, but we've put a provision into the suit forbidding him from making any changes in the business or selling anything connected to the restaurant until the question of ownership is settled.”

“Could Vito close the restaurant?”

“No, the restaurant must remain in operation.”

“What happens if Vito runs it deep into the red while the lawsuit drags on?”

“We've included a provision that puts a neutral accountant in charge of the books so Vito can't skim off the profits or intentionally run the business into the ground.”

“How about unintentionally?”

“We don't think he's stupid—just crooked as a spiral staircase.”

“Can I use that quote?” I asked.

“Be my guest,” Riley said. “Any more questions?”

“I can't think of any right now but I may be calling you back.” He gave me his phone number and wished me a nice day.

Linda L. Lansing's office phone number was on my speed dial. I called it and asked for Andrew Morris. The call was transferred and an upbeat voice said, “Hi, Mitch, how are you this morning?”

I realized I had met this man at a retirement party for one of Martha's colleagues in July. We did the “I'm fine, how are you, I'm fine routine,” and then I asked if he had a comment on the legal challenge to Vinnie Luciano's will.

“Did Vito tell you to call me?” he asked.

“He did,” I said. “He said he has no comment and referred me to you.”

“Well, I'm sorry but I can't comment until the suit is filed.”

“It was filed this morning. Doug Riley just called me.”

“Oh, jeez, they've got the Bulldog?”

“They have. They're very serious about this. By the way, Riley says your client is as crooked as a spiral staircase.”

“That sounds like Riley. I'm not responding to personal slurs.”

“Are you responding to the challenge?”

“Not at this moment,” Morris said. “I can't comment until I see what they're saying. How about I call you after I've had a chance to read it?”

“I knew you'd say that but I had to make the call.”

“Whatever. Probably won't get back to you until Saturday. I've got a full plate in front of me this morning.”

“Don't forget about me,” I said.

“If I do you can sic Martha Todd on me,” he said.

“You'll be sorry if I do. She'll make the Bulldog look like a puppy.”

I doubted that talking to Detective K.G. Barnes would be worth the effort but I made the routine call. She was, of course, in a meeting. However, she called back in less than ten minutes.

“Did running your plea for information have any results?” I asked.

“We got several calls,” she said. “Unfortunately, none were productive”

“Were all of them kooks?”

“We never classify our callers as anything but concerned citizens, Mr. Mitchell.”

“Any of them confess to the murder?”

“We can't comment on the content of the calls other than to say they were not productive,” KGB said.

“I have a tidbit for you. This morning Vinnie Luciano's children filed a suit to throw out the new will.”

“Thank you, we'll make a note of that.”

“Even though you think ownership of the restaurant isn't a motivating factor in the murder?”

“Even though. A person never knows, do we?” I silently tried to sort out the grammar in that sentence.

When I gave up, I said, “Nice talking to you, detective. I'll check in again tomorrow.”

“We're always happy to be of assistance. Have a good day, Mr. Mitchell.” As if that bitch cared about my day.

I had one more call to make. I went to the cafeteria, bought a cup of coffee and returned to make that call.

“Homicidebrown,” said St. Paul Police Detective Curtis Brown.

“Dailydispatchmitchell,” I said in my matching one-word response.

“Hey, Mitch, how've you been?” Brownie said. “Sorry we haven't had any work for you lately.”

“I've been missing you. It's time for another killing in St. Paul.”

“Are you calling to report one?”

“Not this time. But I am calling to ask for help on one that is growing colder by the day.”

“And would you be talking about a certain event at the State Fairgrounds?”

“I would be.” I took a sip of coffee during his reply.

“I read your piece yesterday saying the Falcon Heights police haven't turned up one damn suspect,” Brownie said. “They must be crapping their pants with nothing to show for their work on the murder of a prominent guy like Vinnie.”

“They don't sound too concerned about it,” I said. “But I have some suspects even if they don't.”

“Yeah? Who?”

“I can't tell you, but would it be possible for me to find out if Vito Luciano and Louie Luciano have rap sheets on file? This is strictly for background—it won't be in the paper unless they're arrested, in which case I'll go through channels.” Another sip of coffee.

“Vito and Louie, huh? Well, those two are worth checking. I hear that both of them were after the restaurant like two lonesome sailors chasing the only whore on the dock. Do you know that Louie and his brother and sister are contesting the will?”

“You heard that already? They just filed this morning.”

“My grapevine is long and fruitful,” Brownie said. “You guarantee the stuff you want is for background only?”

“Swear it on a stack of stylebooks,” I said. I was counting on the mutual trust Brownie and I had built up over almost ten years.

“I'm doing this only because I'm as interested in solving Vinnie's murder as you are. I'll get back to you. Have a good day.”

My day was getting better. The filing of the lawsuit gave me a fresh story lead and the background on Vito and Louie might give me some insight as to how either of them would go about setting up a killing. My mood was getting mellow when Al appeared with no coffee in his hands and a frazzled look on his face.

“What's up?” I asked.

He did not take his customary seat on the corner of my desk. “When I came in just now, she was standing outside the front door.”

“Willow?” I said.

“Who else? Luckily, I saw her before she saw me, and I turned around and came in through the skyway.” More than forty of the blocks in downtown St. Paul are interconnected by a skyway at the second-story level. A person can walk all over the core of the city without ever having to go outside. This is a great boon during the winter when the temperature at street level is down to zero or below.

“Now are you convinced that she's a stalker?”

“Okay, I'm convinced. What should I do?”

“I'd get a restraining order keeping her away from this building. And, come to think of it, away from your home, too.”

“You think she'd go to the house?”

“It would be the next step if she can't catch you here,” I said. “Imagine Carol opening the door and finding Willow standing there—maybe with no clothes on.”

“I can barely imagine Carol's reaction. She doesn't even know Willow exists.”

“Maybe it's time to give her the naked truth. It might head off an unpleasant surprise.”

“I'll have to think about that. Meanwhile, do you know a good lawyer?”

“I live with one of the best,” I said.

“I can't go to Martha and tell her I've been carrying on an e-mail exchange with a nutty woman,” Al said.

“She already knows.”

“You told her about Willow?”

“Everything but the bare titties. She'll never say anything but I'm sure she'll advise you to tell Carol right away.”

“I'll take that advice under advisement,” Al said. “What's Martha's phone number?”

 

* * *

 

“Did you hear from Al today?” I asked Martha after greeting her with a hug and a kiss as she came through the apartment door.

“I did,” she said. “I got him on track to get a restraining order tomorrow but there are two problems with it.”

“Can you talk about them without breaking attorney-client privilege?”

“If I don't tell you I'm sure he will. Number one, we don't know Willow's last name, so the order might not hold up in court, and number two, we don't know where she lives. The order will have to be served on the street, assuming she can be found.”

“They might try the Daily Dispatch front door tomorrow morning,” I said. “Al spent the day going in and out through the skyway because she was standing there big as life this morning.”

“What about you?” Martha asked. “Did you see her when you went out?”

“I didn't see anyone who looked like the picture Al showed me. I never left the building until four o'clock, and at some point she had to get tired of standing there. She'd need to eat or drink or go find a bathroom eventually.”

“Sometimes obsessive people can suspend normal body functions for incredible periods of time. We had a case where a stalker waited outside the stalkee's house for three days without food or water.”

“What about . . .”

“Must have done it in the dark if it ever became necessary.”

“Didn't the stalker's target call the cops?”

“She had no restraining order and he was on a public street. He finally passed out, so she went to court, got an order and took a cop with her to hand it to the creep as she went back into her house.”

“Did you advise Al to tell Carol about Willow?” I asked.

“I most certainly did,” Martha said.

“Did he do it?”

“Who knows? We'll find out pretty soon because we're invited there for dinner.”

From the conversation at the Jeffrey home it was obvious that Al had not said anything to Carol about his problems with Willow. This made for some tension at the dinner table any time the conversation touched on any of our activities during the day. Once Carol asked Martha if she was dealing with any interesting new cases, and Martha's coffee-with-cream complexion darkened a shade as she replied that she had acquired kind of a kooky new client but could not discuss it with anyone. Al found it necessary to go into the kitchen for coffee at that point.

We were eating dessert—wide slabs of cherry pie with mounds of vanilla ice cream—when the doorbell rang. Kristin jumped up and trotted to the door. We heard the door open, and a second later we heard Kristin scream. Her face was as red as the cherries in the pie when she came running back into the dining room.

“Mom, there's a naked woman standing on our porch,” she said.

Al was up and heading for the door like a human cannon ball.

“Get her last name and address,” I yelled.

Martha kicked me hard in the left shinbone under the table.

 

Chapter 17: Means and Motive

T
he Jeffrey abode was not where I wanted to be for the next half hour, but that's where I was and there was no getting out. Carol was rip-shit with all of us—Al, me and Martha—for having, as she said, “conspired to keep her in the dark about that crazy woman.” The storm finally subsided after we all apologized for the third time, and both Martha and I convinced Carol that we had done everything but twist Al's arm to the breaking point to persuade him to tell her about Willow.

As for Willow, she hadn't stayed long. With his cell phone in his hand, Al had given her fifteen seconds to leave his property before dialing 911. She had laughed, but had turned away and strolled to her car, emphasizing every measured step with a swing of her bare buttocks. I confess I watched every undulation over Al's shoulder, and was as startled as he was when Willow stooped and gave us a ten-second moon shot before going around to the driver's side of the car.

“Now what?” Carol said as she finally sat down.

“Restraining order,” we three said in unison.

“Are you going to hand it to her the next time she shows up naked on our porch?” Carol asked.

“We'll find a quick way to serve her,” Martha said. “We sure don't want her showing up here again. Poor Kristin.”

Poor Kristin had retreated to her bedroom after some soothing and apologizing from all of us. Kevin, on the other hand, had volunteered to answer the door the next time Willow rang the bell.

* * *

After an immaterial half day of work on Saturday morning, I helped Martha pile some boxes into the car and drove to our new apartment. Zhoumaya Jones had told us we could start moving stuff in at any time so we decided to get started.

We had no key, so I rang Zhoumaya's doorbell. “Well, look who's here,” she said in her gravelly voice. “Come on in while I round up a key.”

We stepped inside as she spun her wheelchair around and rolled ahead of us to the living room. “Sit yourselves down,” she said. “I'll be back in a minute. How about some iced tea?” We said iced tea would be very nice and she wheeled away to the kitchen. She returned with a tray holding three glasses of iced tea and our apartment key on her lap.

“Oh, Zhoumaya, I could have helped with that,” Martha said.

“Don't need help,” Zhoumaya said. “I've been practicing my balancing act for occasions like this.”

“Are you still into marathon training?” I asked as I plucked two glasses off the tray. I handed one to Carol and took a long drink from the other.

“I am, and nobody's run over me yet,” Zhoumaya said. “Yesterday a guy slowed down beside me and his passenger leaned out the window and asked if I wanted a tow.”

“I'd be scared to death to be on the street in a wheelchair,” Carol said.

“I've got a great big old neon orange flag on a stick so people can see me real good,” Zhoumaya said.

“You're okay as long as drivers use it as a warning and not as a target,” I said.

“Aren't you the jolly one,” Zhoumaya said. “I'll bet you see that glass you're holding as half empty, not half full.”

“Actually it's only three-eighths empty,” I said. “My job as a reporter has trained me to see the negative side of things.”

“That's too bad. Speaking of job, your last story about poor Mr. Luciano's murder was pretty negative.”

“You mean the one about no suspects and nobody left to question?”

“That's the one. There was a lot of talk about it in City Hall that day. Is that murder going to go unsolved?”

“Not if I can help it. I'm still digging at it.”

“He always thinks he's better than the police,” Martha said. “And sometimes he's even right.”

“That's not always a good thing,” I said. “I've been shot, kicked in the groin, whacked on the head and almost drowned a couple of times by killers Al and I exposed.”

“Well, be careful of what people give you to eat while you're exposing this one,” Zhoumaya said.

I held up my glass of tea and said, “Should I be worried about this?”

“If you should be worried, you're already too late,” she said.

We finished our tea with no dire consequences, took the key and went to the door. As we turned to say goodbye, Zhoumaya said, “You can keep the key. And you don't have to check on the basement. That sloppy landlord has gotten rid of all the trash down there.”

I felt my face grow as warm as an egg in a kettle of boiling water as I thanked her.

 

* * *

 

Monday morning found me back in the police station. Augie Augustine had called in sick and Don had caught me on my cell phone as I was getting into my car. I had suggested maybe Augie could use some outside assistance with his health problem and Don had said Augie had personal problems that were none of my business.

Thus chastised, I dug through the weekend police reports and came up with a real doozy to start the day. It seemed that a man was drinking alone in his apartment when his girlfriend forced her way in, screaming curses and accusing him of cheating on her. He locked himself in the living room and she knocked a wall down, threw a television onto the floor, smashing it, and dumped a case of beer on the floor, with several bottles breaking. The report said there also were blood stains on the wall.

The man tried to run down the stairs to get away but the girlfriend picked up a stool, chased him and hit him with it. Police charged the woman with assault and battery with a dangerous weapon (the stool), burglary with an armed assault, and malicious mischief causing more than $250 worth of damage.

The man was also charged with assault and battery because the woman's hand was cut while he was scuffling with her. Life in these United States—you can't make this stuff up.

I had finished dealing with the reports and was slurping on my second cup of coffee when Detective Curtis Brown walked into the office. He greeted me, laid two sheets of paper on my desk and said, “You didn't get these from me.”

“Get something?” I said. “Nonsense. I haven't so much as talked to you for several weeks.”

“Keep that in mind,” Brownie said as he turned and left the office.

The first sheet dealt with Vito Luciano. It showed a couple of arrests for speeding and one for driving while intoxicated. Next came the biggie: doping horses at the Canterbury Park race track in connivance with a chemist who worked at 3M Company.

The doping case was four years old. It had gone to a grand jury, which failed to indict either Vito or the chemist because of lack of evidence. However, it was noted that Vito and his chemist buddy were barred from the track by the Minnesota Racing Commission.

Fascinating. Was said chemist still in St. Paul? Could said chemist concoct a potion to poison a Square Meal on a Stick? The first question might be answered by a call to 3M. Answering the second would require some finesse in a conversation with Vito Luciano.

The second sheet dealt with Louie Luciano. Three speeding tickets, a driver's license suspension, a domestic violence charge that was dropped, and the grand prize: an attempted murder charge that resulted in a fine and three years probation. Louie had choked a neighbor nearly to death during an argument over cutting trees along their property line. The man had protested after Louie cut down three tall trees on the neighbor's side of the line in order to improve Louie's television reception. The court also had ordered Louie to replace the trees.

I thought a phone call to the neighbor might be interesting. His name was Edgar Palmer and his address was no longer next door to Louie when I found the listing in the phone book. I called the number and a woman answered.

I identified myself and asked for Edgar Palmer. She said he was at work and would be home about 5:30.

“Are you his wife?” I asked.

“Yes,” she said. “What's this about?”

“It's about Louie Luciano nearly killing your husband two years ago. I notice you've moved out of that house.”

“We moved after Louie poisoned our dog,” she said. “We didn't think it was safe there anymore.”

“Louie poisoned your dog?”

“We couldn't prove it was Louie, but somebody poisoned Lucky and who else would it have been. Louie had been really nasty to us ever since the fight about the trees. Our daughter was being treated for hemophilia at the time, and the sleazy so-and-so knew that Lucky was her best friend.”

“That's terrible. How's your daughter doing?”

“She's recovered, thank you,” she said.

“Do you know what kind of poison killed your dog?” I asked.

“We took Lucky's body to the vet. He said it was strychnine.”

I restrained myself from shouting “bingo,” calmly thanked Mrs. Palmer for the information and said I wouldn't need to talk to her husband.

“Has this got something to do with Louie's father's murder?” she asked.

“One never knows,” I said. “But I'm going to find out.”

“I hope you can put that rotten bastard away for life,” she said.

With the help of Mrs. Palmer's revelation that strychnine killed her daughter's dog, maybe I could.

My next call went to 3M. After pressing my way through a multitude of menu numbers, I finally connected with a human female who asked how she could direct my call.

“Doctor Philip Lymanski,” I said.

“One moment.” A phone began ringing and after the fifth ring a man said, “This is Doctor Lymanski.”

He was still on the scene, available to assist Vito Luciano if needed for the concoction of a deadly sandwich filling. However, I wasn't prepared to talk to him yet. “Oh, sorry,” I said. “Wrong number.”

I almost let out a war whoop when I put down the phone. Now I had two bona fide suspects with motives for murder and the means to kill with chemicals. Should I call KGB and tell her everything I'd learned?