Dead In Red (13 page)

“You do like her.”

I thought about Maggie’s all-too-elusive
smile. “Yeah, I do.”

“Then what’s the problem?”

Should I tell him that in thirty-five years
no one had ever pursued me? That “overwhelmed” was more than an apt
description of how I now felt? Sure, I’d been married. I’d had sex
with a bunch of women. But sharing what I felt had never entered
the equation before. That Maggie could read me, too, was more than
a little terrifying. I wasn’t sure I could deal with it.

Richard still waited for an answer.

“Fear of failure,” I bluffed.

He nodded, then shook his head in what
seemed like amusement. “You and Brenda are so much alike.”

“What?”

“You’re so afraid to just trust what’s
offered to you.”

Man, he just didn’t know—couldn’t
understand—what it was Maggie was after, what I was afraid to
give.

I grabbed my coffee mug, walked over to the
sink and dumped the contents, then put the mug into the dishwasher.
“I gotta go to work.” I looked over at my brother, found his
expression smug. “See ya.”

“See ya,” he echoed, and I scuttled out the
door.

# # #

CHAPTER 10

I was getting used to the routine at the bar,
picking up the ins and outs of Tom’s business and even enjoying
being around people again. The regulars weren’t used to a bartender
with loads of personality, so I filled Walt’s absence with
surprising ease. And I was learning to better shield myself from
the onslaught of others’ emotions.

Almost. It was still a drain being bombarded
with sensations, but I found distance was a good buffer. If someone
at one end of the bar was depressed, I took to hanging around the
other. Mundane tasks like washing glasses also helped keep me from
absorbing others’ emotional baggage.

It was after two when I looked up from
polishing the brass taps to see a familiar face studying me from
the last stool on the end: my ex-schoolmate, Sam Nielsen. I hadn’t
changed much over the years, but Sam’s head of once-thick dark hair
was long gone, and I didn’t think I’d ever get used to seeing his
chrome dome.

I walked down to the end of the bar. “What
can I get you?”

“Beer.”

“Any preference?”

“Canadian.”

“Draft or bottle?”

“Bottle.”

I grabbed him a Molson and a clean glass,
set it in front of him.

“You got time to talk?” he asked.

A couple of guys were nursing beers at a
table in front, watching the tube. Tom held court at the other end
of the bar with one of his cronies. Nobody seemed in dire need of
my services. “Sure. How’d you find me?”

“Hey, I
am
an investigative reporter.” He poured half the
beer into his glass. “I called your brother. You got anything to
tell me about Kaplan’s murder?”

“Shut up,” I whispered, and jerked a thumb
toward Tom. “The owner was his cousin.”

Sam glanced down at Tom, then shrugged.
“Sorry. You got anything?”

“Questions. I understand the body was
cleaned up and re-dressed after death.”

“Yeah. Sloppy job, too. I saw the police
photos. Shirt buttons were mismatched, no underwear—no socks, and
the pants were zipped, but not buttoned.”

“And no bloodstains on anything.”

“Surprisingly little, plus the usual bodily
secretions. Contrary to what you see on TV, it’s way too soon for a
lab report.”

That, I knew. “You got my message about
Buchanan’s clothes. Any blood on them?”

“No. I asked my contact at the Amherst PD
about it and he wasn’t interested in pursuing it, either. He
figures Buchanan and Kaplan weren’t clothed when the murder
happened. Either that or Buchanan ditched the clothes he’d been
wearing at the time of the murder.”

“He only had one set.”

“You can’t prove it.”

“Why’d he re-dress Kaplan?”

“Maybe some kind of ritual?”

“That’s bullshit.”

“That’s politics. They’ve arrested someone.
They don’t want to see their case go down the tubes.” Sam sipped
his beer. He accepted the situation. I couldn’t.

He eyed me. “I gave you everything I had.
Time to return the favor.”

My spine stiffened. “I’m still putting the
pieces together.”

“That’s what you said two days ago. Come on,
give.”

I looked down the bar at Tom. I hadn’t even
confided to him all that I knew—or suspected. But I’d have to toss
Sam a bone, if only to keep him feeding me what he knew. I leaned
closer, lowered my voice. “I keep seeing a custom-made woman’s
shoe.”

Sam waited for more. When I said nothing, he
frowned. “That’s it?”

“I’ve tracked down the maker. He made two
pairs, one for Kaplan, another for someone else. Got a line on who
ordered the originals. I’m going to look into that later
today.”

His frown turned to disgust. “Talk about
bullshit. What the hell’s that got to do with his murder?”

A quick glance down the bar showed me Tom
had heard Sam. “Pipe down, willya?

Sam poured the rest of his beer, took a
gulp. “You think whoever wore those shoes killed Kaplan?”

“Maybe. But those two pairs of shoes are
tied in somehow.”

Sam’s gaze bore into mine. A grin slowly
curled his lips. “You’ve got a suspect.”

I straightened, looked away.

“Come on, spill it, Jeff.”

I shook my head. “Not until I have more than
a suspicion.”

“Who is she?”

I folded my arms across my chest and leaned
against the backbar.

Sam picked up his glass and drank, never
taking his eyes off me.

“Jeff?” Tom pointed to the two guys at the
table out front.

I headed back for the taps, poured another
two beers and delivered them to the customers. By the time I got
back to the bar, Sam had finished his drink. “Am I going to have to
hunt you down again for my next update?”

“I’ll call you when I know something.”

His expression said, “Yeah, right,” and he
stood, reaching for his wallet.

I put out a hand to stop him. “It’s on
me.”

He nodded and headed for the exit. At the
door he turned, pointing a finger at me. “Call me.”

I’d call. But not until I was certain. And
right then I still had a lot more questions than answers.

* * *

I hate
to
admit when I’m wrong, but Richard may have been right about my not
being ready to return to work. I was dead on my feet by the time my
shift ended at four p.m. And yet, Sam’s visit had reignited my
curiosity about what had happened to the first pair of red-sequined
heels.

I found the home of the Backstreet Players,
an old grocery store reconfigured with a stage, near the edge of
Buffalo’s theatre district, but had to park a block away at a ramp
garage. The elevator was broken, so I had to hoof it down three
flights of stairs. The humidity was high with ninety-degree temps.
I wasn’t looking forward to duplicating my footsteps on the way
back.

Though I’d called Andrea Foxworth
beforehand, she hadn’t warned me I’d find the box office dark and
all the entrances around the building locked. Someone finally heard
me banging on one of the doors at the back of the building, and
opened it. “I’m looking for Andrea Foxworth.”

A burly guy in jeans and a grubby white
T-shirt looked me over. “She expecting you?”

“Yeah.”

He shrugged. “Okay.” And let me in.

So much for security.

The dim backstage area, plastered with “No
Smoking” signs, was full of people. In contrast with outside, the
air felt dry and chilled. Voices yelled across one another as
stocky men wheeled scenery around the stage and banks of lighting
were adjusted overhead. Grubby pointed toward a set of stairs going
down. “She should be down there—in wardrobe.”

“Thanks.”

The temperature dropped another couple of
degrees as I descended the stairs into the bowels of the building.
A double door marked “Wardrobe” stood ajar and I sidled inside to
find several women poised over commercial sewing machines.
Dressmakers’ dummies stood in full regalia—uniforms and period
dresses. The marquee had said “HMS Pinafore.” An older,
harried-looking woman with gray-streaked brown hair, shouted into a
cell phone. A baggy, full-front apron, not unlike what Sophie
always wore, covered her street clothes, while an unlit cigarette
dangled from her lips.

“You were supposed to deliver them by five
o’clock today. It is now,” she glanced at a wall clock,
“four-thirty-seven and I expect to see those wigs here within the
next twenty-three minutes or I will haunt you in this life and into
the next!” She pulled the phone from her ear, stabbed a finger on
the off button, then looked up to glare at me. “Who are you and
what are you doing down here? Security!” she bellowed toward the
door.

“Andrea Foxworth? I’m Jeff Resnick. I called
a couple of hours ago.”

She exhaled a couple of exasperated breaths,
yanked the full-size cigarette from her lips and tucked it behind
her ear. “Sorry. I forgot you were coming.” She turned her back on
me and marched over to one of the women sewing. “Those alterations
going to be finished any time soon?”

“Chill out, Andrea,” the woman said without
looking up from her work. “We’ll get everything done.”

Andrea whirled, and for a moment I thought
she might explode—at me. “I don’t have a lot of time. We’re doing a
dress rehearsal tonight and I have a million things to accomplish
before then.”

“Just five minutes. Please.”

She reached up, rubbed the cigarette with
her thumb and forefinger, then sniffed them. “I just quit and I’m a
little strung out. We’ll have to talk while I work.”

Second time in one day.

I followed her to a lumpy-looking, faded
upholstered chair where she plunked down, snatched up a dress from
a table beside it, and started ripping the seams apart.

I figured I’d better talk fast. “I
understand you ordered a pair of custom shoes from Broadway
Theatrics about two years ago.”

“Dear boy, I order lots of custom shoes from
Broadway Theatrics.”

“I have a picture.” I pulled the photo from
my shirt’s breast pocket, noting the goose bumps dotting my arm as
I handed her the picture.

She gazed at it for a second and the smile
that appeared took five years off her face. “Ah, the tramp
shoes.”

“The what?”

“That’s what the actress who wore them
called them. Said she felt like a fifty-dollar hooker in them.”

“Do you know what happened to them?”

“Sure. They were auctioned off with a lot of
other costumes and props at our big fundraiser back in the winter.
It was in all the papers.”

“Damn. That probably means you have no idea
who bought them.”

“You got that, although the auction company
gave me a list of the buyers and the final lots. That way next year
I can pair up the items that sold best and inform our target
market. I can’t let you look at it, though. It lists addresses and
I’m not giving out that kind of information to just anyone who
walks in off the street.”

“I don’t blame you. But if I gave you a name
could you confirm this person participated in the auction?”

She thought about it for a few moments. “Mmm
. . . I don’t think so. It just wouldn’t be right.”

I looked around to make sure none of the
other ladies was paying attention to me. “Are you sure I can’t
change your mind?” I showed her the edge of a twenty-dollar bill
I’d put in my pocket—just in case.

Andrea hesitated, leaned to her left to look
around me. “Well, I guess that would be okay. I mean, if you
already know the person. But what if the name isn’t on the
list?”

“I’d still expect to compensate you for your
trouble,” I whispered.

With a lot more poise than she’d shown just
moments before, Andrea set aside the garment, got up from her chair
and crossed the room to a file cabinet. She pulled out a ledger,
thumbing through it until she came to a particular page. “Who are
you looking for?”

“Cynthia Lennox, of Amherst.”

Andrea flipped ahead and ran her finger down
the list. “Lot ninety-six: red tramp shoes, vampy dress, feather
boa, and jaunty hat. Paid two hundred and thirty-five bucks for
it.” She closed the book and held out her hand. “Very nice meeting
you, Mr. Resnick.”

Palming the bill, I shook her hand.
“Likewise.”

I escorted myself back up to the stage area,
which felt positively balmy after the icebox below, and aimed for
the first door with an exit sign above it. The bright sunshine
nearly seared my retinas after the backstage gloom, but this time I
welcomed the heat as I squinted my way back to the garage.

So, Cyn Lennox had purchased the original
pair of shoes. But what did that have to do with the pair Walt
ordered? How had he seen them? Perhaps in the closet of her
vacation home in Holiday Valley? Or had he replaced shoes that
she’d ruined? I hadn’t thought to ask the shoemaker if the shoes
had been the same size. Would he even remember, as he hadn’t
bothered to document the second pair of shoes?

And how did all this relate to Walt Kaplan’s
murder?

I needed something more—some other piece of
the puzzle before I’d be able to put everything together. I needed
to grill Sam for additional information, and I needed a picture of
Cyn to show around the bar. Maybe one of The Whole Nine Yard’s
customers would recognize her. It didn’t seem likely, and yet I had
a feeling a picture was exactly what I needed to move forward in my
investigation.

“Don’t call it an
investigation
,” I could almost hear Richard
rant.

Yeah, and I also needed his camera, computer
and printer to do the deed. And I had to take a halfway decent
picture of Cyn without her knowledge.