Death among the Roses: a Melanie Hart Mystery (Melanie Hart Cozy Mysteries Book 1) (19 page)

“You’re right. The connection had nothing to do with Gary’s loyalty to you.”

“Oh, stop toying with me and just tell me whatever it is you have to say, would you?”

I set my dry sandwich on its wrapper and raised my head. “Cordelia, someone has told me that they overheard you and Gary involved in a heated argument shortly before his death.”

Color rose to her cheeks. “Who said that.”

“Who it was doesn’t matter. But what the argument was about might.”

She shook her head. “Why don’t you leave it alone, Melanie. Our discussion had nothing to do with Gary’s death.”

“And I think you’re lying.”

Cordelia’s jaw dropped. “How dare you say that to me. You know what I’ve been through. Gary was my world.”

“Yes. But two people have been murdered. You need to fess up to what you know. Maybe, you’re correct. Maybe the argument has nothing to do with the murders. But you need to share what you know with someone so to help you evaluate its importance, and I’m the best friend you have.”

Cordelia sat staring out the window at the lake for a long moment. Finally, she took a breath and said, “What I’m about to tell you has to be kept strictly between you and me. Promise?”

“I agree unless your story points to a killer. Then, we go straight to Gossford.”

My friend didn’t care much for my opinion. But ultimately, she set her jaw and nodded. Cordelia might be many things but a coward wasn’t one of them.

She looked over at me, her gray eyes pleading for my support. “No one knows about this. Not even Gary’s parents. Gary would die all over again if he knew his weakness of his was going to be made public.”

I reached out, rubbed her upper arm. “Please, tell me what the fight was about. I’ll try my best to keep what you tell me private.”

Cordelia’s brow wrinkled. “Gary had an addiction.”

“To drugs?”

“No, he was a gambler. His was a full-blown addiction. I can’t tell you the amount of money he’d gone through to feed his habit, but I know it was a significant figure.”

“Where did he place his bets? Online?” I couldn’t remember Gary taking off for places like Atlantic City or Las Vegas. Of course, today, in Illinois, one can chuck coins into slot machines at the local bowling alley.

“No. He had bookie, someone local… or perhaps someone he knew well. He never spelled it out. Trust me, Gary was paying through the nose to feed his habit. Someone was making a fortune off him.”

A bookmaker? That kind of activity would be difficult to hide in a county as small as ours. Surely I would have heard about such an illicit operation through one of my police contacts. My thoughts turned uselessly to Larkin. After our last exchange I doubted he’d give me any further insider information
—
whether off the record or on it.

“What about Stepich?” I asked.

She shrugged. “As I said, I don’t know. But what brought him to mind?”

“I guess because his family is rumored to have ties to organized crime.”

“Where did you pick that up?

“That’s not important.”

Cordelia sighed. “Gary was awfully fond of Tony. I never got that the feeling from him when he was talking about his bookie that Tony was involved. Gary only brought the subject up because he felt I should know about this problem of his before he married me. He thought it might change the way I felt about him. Maybe even alter my plans to marry him.”

“Isn’t there a program called Gambler’s Anonymous?”

“Yes. And Gary had tracked it down. He was a member. He swore to me he’d given up gambling. But he wanted me to know the risk remained. Apparently, like alcohol. gambling is a difficult addiction to shake.”

“Did he owe the bookmaker money?”

“Yes.”

“Was he worried about the bookie killing him?”

“No. He figured the guy would rather to get his money than end his life. And Gary couldn’t pay the debt off if he was dead.”

“Okay, so Gary was confessing his sin to you. What was the argument about then?”

“I wanted Gary to go to the police and turn this bookie in.”

“He didn’t want to do that?”

“No. He insisted doing going to the cops might get him killed.”

My heart banged in my chest. Had I just discovered the motive for Gary’s death?

The tears Cordelia had been bravely containing suddenly began pouring down her face. “Don’t you see?” she sobbed. “My silly concern for right and wrong, good and bad, got Gary killed. This whole thing is my fault. If I hadn’t insisted on his turning this bookie in to the police, Gary would still be alive today.”

I had to believe Gary’s gambling addiction provided a major clue as to who had murdered Gary. I couldn’t believe Cordelia had suppressed such important information. Maybe I didn’t know my friend as well as I thought I had.

A
bout twenty minutes later, I broke one of Ginger’s cardinal rules for the second time. This time, I walked into her beauty shop rather than calling her. I was determined to fill her in on my brutal session with Cordelia, and unwilling to wait until after business hours to do so.

At first sight of me, Ginger’s face flushed red. I could almost picture her as a dragon and breathing fire at me just then.

“You’re not due for a haircut for another two weeks,” she hissed. “This had better not be about this other business of ours.”

I couldn’t quite figure out Ginger’s opposition to my showing my face here. No one around us had any idea of what we were up to. But Ginger’s always been a woman of strong convictions. And what I thought about her stance on this would hardly matter. In fact, I thought her overreaction to my presence was the less clever idea. Especially when I glanced about the shop.

Two women, one young, one middle aged, sat in stylists’ chairs. Their eyes and ears strained to pick up every nuance of our exchange. Probably valuing their employment, the two stylists working on the clients kept their gazes firmly focused on the task at hand. They didn’t fool me, though. They were no more averse to dishing out dirt than were the customers in their chairs. If either Ginger or I breathed a word about our investigative efforts before this group, the news would make the rounds in this small burg before Ginger and I even had time to turn around.

“Ginger,” I whispered, “let’s go to the break room, okay? I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t think my information was important.”

Ginger raised a cautioning finger at me. “This one time only. You got that?”

I nodded.

“And not another word until we get there,” Ginger spat.

“Agreed.”

With her head held high, she swiveled and set off toward a door at the far end of the room. I trailed along behind her.

Once we reached our destination with the door closed tightly behind us, I told Ginger that I’d gone to question Cordelia about the argument she and Gary had been engaged in.

“How dare you,” Ginger snapped.

“Me? What have I done?”

She raised her chin. “I told you about their disagreement. You should have taken me with you when you questioned Cordelia. That was my lead.”

I sighed. Ginger had a point. “Sorry,” I said, “but when I learned about the second murder, I panicked.”

Ginger’s brows drew together in puzzlement. “What second murder? There’s been another murder?”

I nodded. “Candy Collins is dead.”

“Our Candy? The woman whose apartment we broke into last night?” Ginger collapsed on a stool at the break-room table and gazed up at me. “She’s dead?”

I sat down at the table across from her. “Dad got the call this morning. I wrote up the story on Candy’s death. It’s coming out in this afternoon’s paper.”

“What happened?”

I filled Ginger in on what I knew, including Cordelia’s explanation of Gary’s gambling addiction.

“How long had Cordelia known about this little problem of his?”

I sighed. “Apparently Gary didn’t tell her until a few days before the wedding.”

“Wow.” Ginger stared off into space a moment. “Does this information lead us to a killer?”

“Maybe. If we can figure out the name of the bookie, I think we’ll probably have discovered the killer.”

Ginger stared at me, her eyes round. “So who do you like for it?”

I bit my lip, realizing I was about to offend my friend. “I don’t want to tell you this, but it makes Stepich look even more attractive as a suspect.”

Ginger’s lips compressed into a thin hard line. “No way.”

“Hear me out, okay? I’ve been told his has family may have ties to organized crime. And from what I’ve read, bookmaking isn’t much of a stretch under those circumstances.”

“But Tony never left the church,” Ginger protested.

“I agree. That's what he says. But you asked me who looked guilty, not if I could wrap the case up in a neat little package.”

“Still, I hope you’re wrong. I mean Tony was inside the church.”

“He could have slipped out that little back door in the corner without risking being seen. There’s a big screen there. He could have slipped out under cover of it.”

I glanced over at my friend. She looked so distraught. But truth was truth. Hiding from it advanced nothing. “So perhaps,’ I said gently, “Stepich followed Gary outside, persuaded him to climb into the car, and then drove off with him. That’s possible. Surely you can see that.”

Ginger shrugged.

“We know the killer didn’t make that phone call. Candy did. So Gary would have no reason to suspect his friend.”

“But Stepich doesn’t live anywhere around here,” Ginger protested. “How did Gary place his bets.”

“There are things called phones.”

Ginger shuddered. “Are you going to tell Gossford about this gambling bit?”

“I’m mulling it over.” I cast a glance about the tidy room before returning my attention to Ginger. Like it’s mistress, the room was neat, organized, geared toward the task at hand. I understood how much mucking up her image of Tony hurt her. “Cordelia doesn’t want me to,” I said. “She’s worried about protecting Gary’s reputation. But I think the information may be too important to withhold.”

“Well, I hope you’ll keep it to yourself for a little while, at least. Cordelia has already been through enough. She doesn’t need to see Gary’s name tossed about by the local harpies. And as far as Cordelia feeling guilty and thinking she was the cause of Gary’s murder, you tell her that Gary owns his death all by himself. If he hadn’t been gambling, Cordelia wouldn’t have need to tell him to go to the police.”

“Agreed.”

***

When I stepped into our living room that night, I found Dad standing beside the fireplace with a big grin on his face.

“What’s up?” I asked. I must admit it cheered me to see at least one of us happy.

Dad’s gray eyes sparkled. “You wrote a magnificent story on the death of that young woman. I thought we should celebrate your victory. I’ve decided to take you out to dinner.”

For Dad to offer to eat out, I had to believe I’d done something quite right. Still, I was drained. I’d have loved to settle down in the kitchen with even just a warm bowl of soup before toddling upstairs and curling into a ball on the bed and nursing my wounds. But this was Dad standing before me. The man who almost never ate out. How could I spoil what he deemed a celebration?

“Where do you want to go?” I asked.

“To Bella’s Place, I think,” Dad answered. “She’s a solid advertiser with our paper. I should probably dine there more often than I do.”

I immediately agreed with his suggestion. At least it didn’t involve a long drive out of town. And my mouth began to water at the thought of a platter of her wonderful fried chicken.

“Do you want to freshen up first?” Dad asked.

“Do I look that awful?”

“Not to me.”

But what the hey. If he was picking up the check, I could at least slap on some fresh makeup and run a comb through my hair.

“Back in a flash,” I said.

About fifteen minutes later, Dad and I walked into Bella’s Place. The surprise of the evening was to find the gaudy restaurateur missing from her stool inside the front door of her establishment.

“Good evening,” Jimmy, crooned upon spotting us. “What a treat. Mr. Hart. I know of your skill in the kitchen. I’m honored to have you choose our restaurant to dine in tonight.

Obviously, Jimmy didn’t understand my Dad. Sucking up to the big buckaroo usually backfired. And indeed I watched my father tense under Jimmy’s lavish review.

“Do you have any tables available?” Dad asked, rather stiffly.

“For you,” Bella’s over-eager progeny said, “I’ll find one anytime you care to join us.”

He was laying it on thicker and thicker, I thought with glee. Bella would have his hide when she found out. And knowing my father as I did, I suspected a report on Jimmy’s less-than-intelligent behavior would quickly make it back to her.

Oh, I thought, how I’d love to be a fly on the wall when that little interchange went down. “Where is Bella,” I asked. I couldn’t remember coming here and not finding the woman perched on her stool.

“She’s not feeling well tonight. A touch of the flu, I believe.”

And I couldn’t imagine Bella appreciating having that information tossed about. Bella had always struck me a woman who liked to keep her problems to herself. She’d best pass that attitude along her kid, I thought.

Kid? I wondered. At his age? Jimmy at around forty could hardly a considered child. But he was like a prince, I thought, waiting for the queen to kick off so he could take over the country. I wondered what his life was like living in the shadow of his illustrious mother.

Jimmy snapped his fingers and the latest of the restaurant’s many hostesses instantly arrived to lead us to a table. It was almost impossible to keep track of the turnover of staff that took place with such startling regularity. After we were seated, a bottle of wine arrived, compliments of the house. I thought for a moment that Dad was going to hurl the bottle right back at the hapless fool playing tonight’s restaurant manager. Dad disapproved strongly of anything that might be taken as a bribe.

After the waitress walked off with our orders, my mind turned to what I’d learned about Gary today. “Dad,” I asked, “what do you know about gambling operations here? Have you ever heard the names of any local bookies?”

Father pursed his lips and shook his head. “The county’s pretty small, Melanie. I’ve never heard a name mentioned. With the speed word travels here, I think it would be difficult to keep a business like that under wraps.”

“What if I told you I’d caught wind of such a business?”

Dad shifted in his chair, a worried frown darkening his brow. “Where have you been sticking your nose now, my dear?”

“That doesn’t matter. What I want to know is if you think it’s feasible?”

Dad leaned forward and placed his elbows on the table, his hands folded below his chin. “I suppose it could happen. But the bookie would need to be very careful or he’d be quickly exposed.”

“I disagree. The bookie’s victims would be as anxious to keep mum as he was. They wouldn’t want the world to know about their gambling habits, either.”

“I suppose it could happen. What do you want to do? Run a news story?” Suddenly Father’s face grimaced. He studied me closely a minute. “What are you up to, Melanie? Has this anything to do with Gary’s murder? Because I’ve told you I don’t want you poking about in that business. Chief Gossford would take a dim view of it, too.”

I sighed in frustration. “Dad, this hasn’t anything to do with Gary’s murder.”

Oh boy. The devil was going to get me for telling that whopper.

Dad cast me a worried frown. “If you have information on gambling you should take what you know to Gossford. Let him handle this.”

I gave myself an internal kick. I should have know what Father’s response would be. Then, as I gazed about the restaurant and watched the comings and goings of diners and Jimmy on the reception desk a new light dawned for me.

***

Later that night, safely ensconced in my bedroom, I called Ginger.

“What now?” she demanded.

“Geesh. Talk about cranky.”

“Considering you went off to talk to Cordelia by yourself, you should count your stars that you’re still breathing.”

Ignoring her ire, I carried on, eager to share my latest thought with her. “Ginger, I’ve decided Stepich wasn’t the only person who might have been Gary’s bookie.”

“You’re kidding? What’s brought this shift about?”

“Dad and I ate at Bella’s Place tonight. And I’ve had a thought. Stepich’s family isn’t the only one who’s family has possible mob ties.”

“I’m sorry. I’m not following you.”

“Jimmy Gravits. His family is alleged to have had ties to Al Capone.”

“Yeah, I’ve heard that too. But those connections existed back in the 1930s.”

“I know that. But being mobbed up probably doesn’t just fade out with time. Or maybe it plants the dream of being a successful crook in an already corrupt mind.”

“You think Jimmy’s mind runs in that direction?”

“Truthfully, I don’t even want to think about Jimmy’s imaginings.”

“So how do you have this figured?”

“I think Jimmy’s a wanna be. Think about it. Mother’s only little boy is still firmly under his mother’s thumb. He doesn’t own the restaurant he works at. He doesn’t have a say in how it’s run. And more importantly, he has access to waitresses who work there. And I bet he isn’t above using them any way he pleases.”

“You think he got Candy to call Gary?”

“That’s exactly what I think.”

“Yikes.”

“Indeed.”