A Killing Fair (21 page)

 

Chapter 32: The Setup

W
e decided to sleep on it. Even that was a flop. After a night of tossing and turning while various scenarios ran through my head, I met Al for breakfast at a coffee­house near his home. His eyes looked as red-rimmed and baggy as mine felt.

We drank coffee and swapped ideas. Al had printed a series of pix showing Erik looking on before Vinnie's first bite, reacting to the first bite and beating a hasty retreat. Our plan was to show these pix to Brownie and set up an arrest scene that would be photographed and witnessed only by Al and me. Warren Mitchell and Alan Jeffrey reporting live.

We decided to schedule an interview with Erik on the pretense of talking about the financial problems at his theater and slide into questions about his reaction at Heritage Square as Vinnie began eating the poisoned food. I would have my trusty mini-recorder running and try to get him to talk about why he tried to kill Scott Hall. When I had what I needed, I would yell for help and the cops would rush in, one step ahead of Al with his camera.

“We have to call Erik today and set up the interview for Tuesday when we're back to work,” I said. “Then we can show your pix to Brownie first-thing Tuesday morning and set up the sting.”

“The sooner the better,” Al said. “Remember, a stitch in time saves nine.”

“How do stitches apply to snagging Erickson?”

“The quicker we sew him up the less stitches we're likely to get.”

“Fewer,” I said. “The correct word is fewer stitches.”

“We're being picky about our grammar while we're bagging a killer?”

“I can't help myself. It's a knee-jerk reaction.”

“Well, stop being a jerk or I'll give you a knee where your reaction will be tears and loud wailing.”

“No kneed for that. Let's get started with Mr. Erickson.” I took out my cell phone.

Erik had given me his card printed with the home and pharmacy numbers. He had written his cell phone number on the back with a ballpoint pen. I called the pharmacy first and was told that Mr. Erickson does not come in on Saturdays.

Next I tried his home, and Joyce answered. I greeted her and asked for Erik.

“He's at his damn old theater,” she said. “Where he always is on Saturday.”

“This early, even when the theater is dark?” I asked. The next production at the Parkside Players Theatre wasn't scheduled to open until Thursday of the next week.

“He practically lives there. If it wasn't for square dancing he'd never leave the goddamn place.”

“Can I get him there on his cell?”

“Damned if I know. I've never tried.”

“Thanks, Joyce. I'll give it a shot.”

“Make the shot bourbon and he'll be your friend forever,” Joyce said. “Have a good day.” She set her phone down harder than necessary.

“Sounds like a wife who's tired of playing second fiddle to a theater,” I said.

“A woman scorned is a woman who answers the call of her square dance caller,” Al said.

“I think you called that one right.” I punched in Erik's cell phone number and the call went to voice mail. I asked him to call me as soon as possible to discuss a potential story about the theater.

“Whatever he's doing at the theater this early on Saturday he's too busy to answer the phone,” I said.

“Maybe Joyce isn't the only Erickson getting a little on the side.”

 

* * *

 

Al had gone home to mow his lawn, and I was stuffing a bag filled with who knows what kind of stuff into the already overstuffed trunk of my Civic when Erik called. “Why not come down right now?” he said when I asked about setting up an interview at the theater. “I'm here alone and ready to talk.”

I couldn't tell him it was because I also wanted to set up an arrest, so I said, “I can't get a photographer to go with me right now. I'm not actually working today so I'm not in the office.”

“Do you always call people about stories on your day off?”

“A reporter never rests. I guess I've gone from alcoholic to workaholic.”

“I know how that goes. My wife is always bitching that I spend too much time in the theater when I'm not doing my day job.”

“Wives can be a problem.”

“Ain't that the god's truth? Listen, I'm working at the pharmacy from seven until four Tuesday, but I can meet you and your photographer at the theater around 4:30 or so,” he said.

“Sounds good,” I said. “See you then.”

“I'll look forward to it.”

I snapped off the phone. “So will I,” I said as I went back to stuffing the bag of stuff into the trunk.

 

* * *

 

The problem with moving a short distance is that you think it's foolish to spend money on a mover so you do everything yourself. During the last two weeks, Martha and I had hauled dozens of carloads of clothing, small appliances, light furniture, and general junk from the Grand Avenue apartment to our new home on Lexington Avenue. Then on Saturday afternoon we rented a small truck to carry the big stuff—refrigerator, stove, bed, and a couple of dressers. Al, Kevin, and Kristin helped us load and unload the truck, and Carol fed us supper.

The timing couldn't have been tighter. We had to be out of the Grand Avenue apartment by Sunday night because the landlord was inspecting the place for damage and cleanliness Monday morning so the new renter could take possession later that day. Martha and I were up at dawn Sunday, and spent the day huffing and puffing like the Little Engine That Could removing all traces of our inhabitance of the Grand Avenue apartment.

“You could eat off the floors if we had anything to eat,” Martha said at a few minutes after five o'clock.

“I scraped some chunks of dried cat food off the kitchen floor near where the refrigerator used to sit,” I said. “They're in the trash barrel if you want a quick snack.”

“I'll wait and eat fresh food with Sherlock,” she said.

We were as tired as marathon runners on an uphill course by the time we dragged ourselves into our cars and drove to Lexington Avenue. All we were thinking about was having a pizza delivered, attacking it like vultures ripping apart a road kill and tumbling into bed. When we got to our new home, Zhoumaya Jones was sitting in her wheelchair on the porch. “Your cat is gone,” she said.

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“I mean your cat is gone,” Zhoumaya said. “I went to your apartment to deliver a welcome gift, and he shot out past me the second I opened the door. He barely touched the stairs on the way down, and he took off like a Vikings running back when he hit the bottom. I'm really sorry, but there's no way I could chase him.”

We had taken Sherlock Holmes to the apartment on Satur­day morning to keep him out from under our feet while we lugged furniture and appliances to the truck. When we'd gone back to clean, we'd left him in the new place with more than a day's supply of food and water and a brand new container of kitty litter. Apparently it didn't feel like home to him.

“Which way did he go?” Martha said.

Zhoumaya pointed north. “That way.”

“That's the right direction if he's trying to go home,” I said. “How long ago did he leave?”

Zhoumaya checked her watch. “Almost an hour.”

I turned to Martha. “Shall we drive back at crawl speed and see if we can spot him on the sidewalk?”

“It's worth a try,” Martha said. “You drive and I'll spot.”

“I'm really, really sorry,” Zhoumaya said.

“Not your fault,” I said. Actually, it was her fault but this was a good time to be gracious. After all, she'd been delivering a welcome gift, not merely going in to do the snoopy landlord thing. At least that's what she'd said she was doing.

We crept along, retracing the route we'd just taken, drawing some angry scowls, a few horn honks and at least one extended middle finger from other drivers. We saw two cats, neither of which was Sherlock.

When we reached our recently abandoned apartment, we turned around and went slowly back, frustrating another set of drivers. Again no Sherlock. By the time we returned to our new home, the sun was about to disappear. In a few minutes it would be too dark to hunt for a mostly black cat.

We dragged ourselves out of the car and up the steps and into the apartment. On the counter in the kitchen was a large basket of fresh fruit, wrapped in translucent red plastic and tied with a huge red bow. I picked up the attached card and read it out loud: “Welcome, dear friends, to your new home. May you find peace and happiness here. Your friend always, Zhoumaya.”

“Not a very good start on the peace and happiness,” Martha said.

“Couldn't be much worse,” I said. “I'll walk the route back to Grand Avenue tomorrow. It's only a couple of miles each way. For now, we might as well get the pizza and go to bed.”

“I'll pass on the pizza. I'm going straight to bed.”

I also passed on the pizza. My appetite was gone, but I ate an apple from Zhoumaya's gift basket to partially fill the void I knew was there before heading for bed. By the time I crawled in beside Martha, she was as responsive as a stone.

Even though I was exhausted, I lay awake for a long time wondering where my feline companion of almost ten years was spending the night. When I finally fell asleep, I dreamed of dozens of black-and-white cats zigzagging through speeding cars, trucks, and buses on an extremely busy street.

 

Chapter 33: The Walking Man

U
sually I wave goodbye from my side of the bed when Martha leaves for work on my day off. This day was different. I was up before Martha and was out the door to look for Sherlock Holmes while she was still standing naked brushing her teeth after her shower. I only paused long enough to pat Martha's lovely bare ass on the way to the door, and she mumbled something around her toothbrush that sounded like, “Good luck.”

I walked all the way back to the apartment on Grand Avenue, checking every driveway and alley along the way. I encountered six dogs, three cats, half a dozen squirrels and one small rabbit, but didn't find Sherlock. I made a mental note to keep my distance from two of the less friendly dogs on the way back.

I checked the parking lot and the back steps of the Grand Avenue apartment building while calling Sherlock's name, not that he had ever answered to it. Nothing. I went in and knocked on the door of what had been my apartment for twelve years. The door was opened by Israel J. Eisenstein, also known as Izzy, who stepped back with a look of surprise. Izzy, a seventy-five-year-old retired accountant, lived at the other end of the hall and served as the building owner's onsite manager.

“I'm looking for my cat,” I said. “He took off and I thought he might have come back here.”

“I only just started inspecting the apartment,” Izzy said. “I didn't see your cat anywhere around when I took my morning constitutional.” Izzy measures five feet, four inches in both height and breadth, and his morning constitutional consists of taking a bag of trash to the barrel beside the back door.

“Please grab him if you see him. I'll give you my cell number so you can call.” I pulled an old grocery list out of my back pocket and scribbled the number on it with a pencil I'd left beside the kitchen phone.

“I'll keep an eye out,” Izzy said as he pretended to pluck out his right eyeball. “The apartment looks great so far, by the way. Compliment Martha for me.”

“Hey, I did a lot of the cleanup work,” I said.

“So tell me, who bossed the job? A messy schmuck like you would not have left this place so spotless without a push from somebody.”

He had me there because he'd seen how I lived before Martha moved in with me. “Okay, I'll compliment Martha,” I said.

I had coffee and a bagel for breakfast at a nearby restaurant before hiking back. There I passed the word that a hungry black-and-white cat might come scrounging for food around the back door. I walked on the opposite side of the street on my return trip and had similar results: five dogs, two cats and three squirrels. No rabbits this time.

I considered making lost kitty posters and tacking them to power poles, but decided it would be a waste of time and paper. I thought my best bet would be to keep checking around my old neighborhood. Sherlock had to be heading that way.

After the lunch hour, I called Detective Curtis Brown's private number and got his voice mail. It said that Detective Brown was away from his office and would return on Thursday.

Thursday? Damn! There went our plan for catching Vinnie's killer without sharing the arrest with all the other media hawks. I wouldn't even suggest our idea to anyone but Brownie. I wasn't sure that even Brownie would agree, and I knew that anyone else in homicide would send the troops charging out to collar Erik Erickson as soon as they saw Al's pix. The chief would announce the arrest to the world, and there would be no exclusive for the Daily Dispatch.

I called Al at home and told him the bad news. After a long conversation in which we weighed all the advantages and disadvantages of a police backup, we decided to keep our date with Erik and record the conversation without assistance from the cops. After the meeting with Erik, we'd take the pix and a copy of the tape to whoever was subbing for Brownie and let the police do their thing.

“What else is happening?” Al asked. “The move go okay yesterday?”

“It was okay until we lost Sherlock,” I said. I described the cat's disappearance and our futile search.

“You should put up some posters. You know, missing cat, call the number on his collar, that kind of thing.”

“I thought of that but it's probably a waste of time and paper.”

“Okay, paper costs money but how valuable is your time today?”

I decided Al was right; to hell with paper and time. I made a batch of lost kitty posters and tacked them to poles as I hiked the circuit to the Grand Avenue apartment and back again. Still no Sherlock. I stopped counting dogs, cats, and squirrels. There were no rabbits.

I also called the Daily Dispatch and put a missing kitty notice in the paper. It was not a waste of money because as an employee I got the ad for free.

When Martha came home, we walked the circuit again, one on each side of the street both ways. By the end of this trip my feet were growing blisters as big as golf balls. Or maybe they were hailstones. They felt awful damn big anyway.

For the first time in many years, I missed my Monday night Alcoholics Anonymous meeting on a week when I was at home. I was just too pooped and pain-ridden to go. I resolved to make time for getting back into the running routine that I'd dropped because there wasn't time for running.

 

* * *

 

I limped into the office on sore and aching feet Tuesday morning.

“Moving that tough on you?” asked Don Boxwood, who had turned down an invitation to help.

“It's a long story,” I said. “See me at lunch if you want the gruesome details.”

Someone else really did want the gruesome details. That someone was my faithful AA buddy, Jayne Halvorson. She had already left a message on my voice mail. “What happened to you last night?” it said. I called and told her.

“You should have come to the meeting,” she said. “We all could have gone cat hunting afterward.”

“I couldn't have walked another step,” I said. “Besides, you'd never see Sherlock in the dark.”

“Well, just keep checking around the old apartment. Cats are known for returning to their old homes.”

“This one turned up there as a homeless stray in the first place. I'm expecting him to go back but I'm worried about what might happen to him on the way.”

“Have you taught him to look both ways before crossing a street?” she asked.

“The only thing he ever looks both ways for are his food dish and our bed. I'm counting on him surviving with at least one of his nine lives.”

My luck stayed bad. Don O'Rourke sent me on assignment that required walking at least a half a mile with a woman who was walking coast-to-coast for peace. She was determined to log eight hours of actual walking time per day so she was stopping only briefly for interviews. If you wanted more than a canned three-minute spiel, you had to walk with her. Just what my poor feet needed.

Al and I weren't sure how much to tell Don about our scheduled interview with Erik Erickson. We decided not to break the news about either our discovery of a switch in intended poison victims or our suspicion that Erik was the poison provider. I told Don we were doing a story about Erik's theater being in trouble, which was true. We just didn't delve into the nature of the trouble on the program.

“Did you get another message from Willow this morning?” Al asked when we met for lunch.

“I deleted it without delay,” I said. “I assume you got one, too.”

“I did. And I deleted it deliberately.”

“The woman could be delightful if she wasn't so deranged.”

“Her determination depresses me.”

“Likewise. My patience is depleted. So what have you been doing all morning when you weren't deleting e-mails? I could have used you on my interview with the interminable walker.”

Al took a long drink of coffee. “I had a shot at City Hall and another one at the old Federal Courthouse. I had a weird feeling—almost like I was being followed—while I was walking to them both.”

“Did you check to see if you really were being followed?”

“Sort of. I looked around but I didn't see anybody.”

 

* * *

 

At 4:02 p.m. that afternoon, two cars—one headed east and one headed west and turning south—came together at the intersection of Kellogg Boulevard and Robert Street. They met each other with considerable force because one was trying to beat a yellow light and the other was jumping the green. The cars were demolished and several of their occupants were injured. Police cars and ambulances swarmed to the scene.

At 4:04 that afternoon, Al came to my desk armed with all his portable photo equipment. “I've been all over town today and now they want me shoot a crash at Kellogg and Robert,” he said. “You go ahead to the theater and I'll meet you there.”

“Still feel like you're being followed?” I asked.

“Yeah, now that you mention it I do,” he said. “I've had that crazy feeling all day but I haven't seen any bad guys behind me.”

“Well, I'll go over to the theater to talk to the bad guy we know is ahead of you. To paraphrase old Will Shakespeare: ‘The play's the thing wherein I'll catch the killer of the king.'”

“The king?”

“King Vinnie, ruler of King Vinnie's Steakhouse.”

“Don't catch him before I get to the theater. I don't want to miss the curtain call.”

Normally I would have walked to the Parkside Players Theatre, but my feet were complaining so vehemently about their sorry treatment of late that I chose to drive. This wouldn't save much pain going to the theater because I had to hobble in the opposite direction to get my car from the parking ramp. However, it meant I wouldn't have to walk back after the interview. I could drive directly to the police station.

There were no open parking places in front of the building so I circled the block. By some divine intervention, I arrived at the back of the building just as a car was pulling out. I zipped into the spot behind a BMW with a bumper sticker that said, “I'd rather be square dancing.” Now whose car might that be? I limped into the building through a rear door that led into the lobby and turned on my pocket tape recorder.

The lighting in the theater was akin to a cave full of bats, and I didn't see anybody when I walked in. I yelled, “Anybody home?”

“Over here,” came the reply. “Stage right. Backstage right, actually. I'm adjusting some things.”

Erik Erickson was standing in the shadows in an area normally blocked from the viewing audience by a black teaser. I walked down the center aisle, stepped onto the low platform that served as a stage and took a couple of steps toward Erik.

“Stop right there,” he said.

It was barked like an order so I stopped. Was he on to me?

“I'm fooling with lights and teasers and you might get caught in something,” he said. “What did you want to talk about?”

“A few weeks back you told me the theater had financial problems because of declining attendance. I was thinking that a story just before your next show goes up might bring back some people who haven't been coming.”

“It also might drive more people away,” Erik said.

“Not if it's worded right,” I said. “I'm pretty good at spinning stories if I do say so myself.”

“Really? I noticed you had a little trouble with the one you spun about Vinnie Luciano's son being the one who poisoned him.”

How unkind of him to notice a minuscule mistake like that. “That wasn't my finest moment.”

“And you seemed pretty sure that Vinnie's cousin was the killer, too, as I recall.”

This was too much to absorb without a counter punch. “What if I was wrong because everybody was looking for suspects where there weren't any?”

“What do you mean by that?”

“I mean, what if Vinnie wasn't the intended target? What if somebody else was supposed to eat the poison?”

“That's crazy,” Erik said. “Who else could it have been?”

“Well, according to the advance story in our paper, a square dance caller named Scott Hall was supposed to have been the one who sampled the square meal at Heritage Square that morning.”

“Really?”

“Really. Now suppose that for some reason somebody who had access to strychnine wanted to kill Scott Hall. Suppose that person was the one who hired that goon to steal Fairchild's costume and deliver the poison.”

“Who'd want to kill Scott, for god's sake? He's a great caller.”

“Somebody might have had an issue with him. Something personal perhaps.” I was thinking it was time for Al to show up. We were getting close to got'cha time and I wasn't sure I could stop Erik if he decided to take off running before I had something incriminating on my tape.

“Any idea who that somebody might be?” Erik asked.

“Actually, I do,” I said. “Al has some photos of a square dancer on the Heritage Square stage looking guilty as hell just as Vinnie is taking a bite.”

“Really?”

“Really. Want to see them?” I held up three prints that I'd pulled from my inside sport coat pocket.

Erik was standing against the stage right wall with his left hand behind his back. I could see motion in his shoulder and arm but I couldn't see what the hand was doing. A metallic clanking noise above my head told me what it was. He had loosened a line that held a heavy steel pipe hanging high above the stage. That pipe, to which several hundred pounds of stage lights were attached, was falling toward the spot where I was standing.

I dove forward, launching myself headfirst farther onto the stage, but I didn't go far enough. The rigging missed my head and torso, but it crashed onto my right ankle, pinning it to the stage. Where the hell was Al when I needed him?

I was lying on my right side, with my head toward Erik. As I struggled to pull my leg free, he walked toward me and picked up the photos that had gone flying when I hit the deck. He looked at them and smiled. “Interesting,” he said.