Skating Under the Wire: A Mystery (Rebecca Robbins Mysteries) (17 page)

When Mark answered, I apologized for interrupting and asked, “Do you and your wife know Mr. and Mrs. Kurtz?”

“Seth and Jan?” There was a smile in his voice. “Of course. They were at the welcome party Aunt Ginny threw for us a couple of weeks after Amy Jo and I moved to town. Aunt Ginny was worried we weren’t making enough friends, so she introduced us to hers. That’s the kind of woman she was. No matter how busy she was in her own life, Ginny always looked out for her family and friends. Although I’m sorry to say the party was a disappointment to her.”

“Why do you say that?”

Mark laughed. “The whole point of the party was to introduce us to people we could socialize with. While Aunt Ginny’s friends were nice, they…” He sighed. “Well, let’s just say Aunt Ginny was in her eighties and we’re … well … not.”

Fair point. “So you didn’t spend time with Seth and Jan after that day?”

“Not much. Ginny and Seth had some kind of argument, and she stopped inviting him to her parties. I guess they must have patched things up, though, because Ginny had me deliver chicken soup to the house last year when Jan came down with pneumonia. Until then I’d only heard stories, but the stories are true. Those dogs are scary.”

I agreed.

By the time I hung up, Mark and I had bonded over our fear of Indian Falls’ answers to the Hound of the Baskervilles. I had also learned that while Mark and Amy Jo met Mr. and Mrs. Kurtz soon after coming to town, Mark didn’t encounter their German shepherds until last year. If he and Amy Jo had broken into the Kurtz home, they would have come face-to-face with the dogs’ angst ten years ago.

Of course, knowing that I was looking into the thefts, Mark could have slipped the chicken-soup anecdote into the conversation to throw me off track. The perpetrator of the Thanksgiving Day thefts was smart and good at flying under the radar. If he wasn’t, Sean would have already thrown him behind bars. Still, I couldn’t get myself to believe Mark and Amy Jo were anything more than what they appeared to be—kind, good-hearted people who were grieving the loss of a beloved family member. A loss I had promised to investigate. Since I wasn’t sure what my next step in the Thanksgiving thefts case was, there was no time like the present to start.

Twelve

Ginny Chapman lived in
a first-floor one-bedroom condo at the Indian Falls Retirement Community. When the building next door was converted from an unused high school into the gathering place for shuffleboard and Sinatra, the town’s older population held bake sales, craft fairs, and raffles. The proceeds raised were to be used to create an enclosed walkway that joined the two buildings. Pop and his contemporaries were better at eating their wares than selling them, so it took eight years and a check from an anonymous donor before the walkway was built. Since the center and the retirement community shared a parking lot, rarely did cars leave their parking spots. Who needed to drive when meals, workout classes, and entertainment were available without having to walk outside? Especially now, when the weather was so cold. It was no surprise that traffic accidents and parking tickets were down fifty percent during the winter months. I was also not shocked to discover that there was no place in the parking lot for me to park.

Since there was no avoiding a stroll in the cold, I parked at the roller rink and hoofed it the two blocks to the center. I then availed myself of the heated walkway to travel in comfort the rest of the way.

My nose was still cold when I reached the light-blue-carpeted lobby of the Indian Falls Retirement Community and heard the Canon in D blare out of my purse. Several pairs of eyes looked at me as I dug my phone out of the side compartment. So much for being inconspicuous.

HOW ABOUT BARS OF SOAP WITH THE DATE STAMPED ON THE FRONT?

Sighing, I typed back,
YOUR GUESTS MIGHT THINK YOU ARE COMMENTING ON THEIR HYGIENE.
Or that Danielle and Rich had raided the housekeeping carts at the local motels.
DON’T WORRY. I’LL COME UP WITH SOMETHING.

At least I’d try, after I finished my current mission.

Sliding my phone back in my purse, I followed the posted signs to apartment 121. As far as I knew, there were only thirty condos in the three-story building, but I guess whoever created the numbering system was optimistic about the building’s chances of expansion.

Aside from the small gold letters on the door, Ginny’s apartment had no identifying markings. I considered the lack of police tape on the door a good sign. If Sean dropped by, he wouldn’t be able to prove I knew entry was a no-no.

A vaguely familiar man in ratty gray sweatpants and an oversized Elvis Arthur and Hermanos Mariachi sweatshirt came out of the apartment next to me. The few gray hairs on his head were long and stretched over the top of his head in an effort to camouflage the bald spot. He peered through his wire-rim glasses and pulled a cell phone out of his pocket as I slid the key in the lock. Unless I was mistaken, the Indian Falls gossip train was leaving the station. If I didn’t want to get flattened by the engine, I had to make this quick.

I closed the door behind me and squinted into the darkness. Someone, probably the cops, had closed the drapes in the living room. Being on the first floor meant a garden patio. It also meant neighbors could press their noses against the glass and get a glimpse inside.

Once I found the light switch, I looked around the immaculate kitchen and decided whoever closed the drapes didn’t need to bother. There wasn’t much in here to see. The white Formica countertops were free of crumbs. The black stove and microwave were devoid of fingerprints. Even the bright blue teakettle on the stove looked brand-new. Either the woman never cooked or her housekeeping skills rivaled Donna Reed’s.

I did a quick inventory of Ginny’s cupboards. Four plates, bowls, and saucers. Six plastic tumblers. Macaroni and cheese. Chocolate-chip-enhanced fiber oatmeal. Frosted Flakes. A year’s supply of chocolate pudding and Oreos. The fridge was more of the same. A Papa Dom’s pizza box. Two bottles of cranberry juice. A half gallon of milk with a seal that hadn’t been broken. Two tubs of ice cream, a box of corn dogs, and a bunch of frozen meals graced the freezer. Well, one thing was certain: Ginny wasn’t a health-food nut. She also didn’t stash scraps of paper or scribbled-on receipts in her kitchen drawers. In fact, she didn’t keep anything in here that wasn’t absolutely necessary. Impressive yet disappointing.

The living room was just as streamlined. The couch was pristine, most likely due to the plastic overlaying the bright green fabric. A small basket of perfectly rolled yarn in primary colors sat next to a dust-free rocking chair. A television and DVD player rested atop a small oak cabinet. From the perfectly shelved selection of films, I’d say Ginny liked movies where people got shot, blown up, or both.

In the bedroom, I found another television, a collection of black-and-white movies, and lots of photographs. Ginny with her family. Ginny getting a scarf from Elvis Pop. Ginny and her husband on their wedding day. Pictures of her in front of a beach resort. On a small footstool next to the bed was a partially packed suitcase. A black-and-white polka-dotted bathing suit sat on top. Ginny had started packing for this year’s escape from the snow.

Ignoring the slimy sensation rolling through my stomach, I pawed through her clothes, opened the night-table drawer, and poked around her jewelry box. Ginny’s clothes weren’t flashy. Her jewelry was minimal, and the dresser drawer was filled with a set of knitting needles, bits of yarn, and the most recent issue of
TV Guide.
I was about to close the drawer when I noticed the edge of a small book peeking out from under the magazine.

Ginny’s checkbook.

Since I now knew that Ginny preferred lace panties, I figured I’d already broken all moral boundaries. No point in stopping now.

A quick flip through her checkbook told me Ginny had a balance of two thousand sixty-three dollars and ninety-one cents. She’d paid her phone, electrical, and gas bills last week, as well as her condo association fee. I flipped back a page and noticed a check for nine thousand dollars written to Florence D. Hemmens dated two weeks ago. The day before the check was written, a deposit for that exact amount was made into the account.

Huh.

I flipped through the pages, which dated back to June of this year. Ginny appeared to be as good at balancing the books as she was at scrubbing the counters. Every month she logged a direct deposit from Social Security as well as the bills she paid. If I did the mental math correctly, Ginny spent the same amount of money every month. That amount was almost exactly covered by the check she received from the government. What she didn’t spend went toward the biannual property tax bill she faithfully paid and logged. Her property tax bill dropped her balance perilously close to zero, but the government deposit a week later remedied the matter.

I’d say one thing for Ginny: The woman knew how to budget. Fear of bouncing a check would have scared me into transferring money from savings into the account. Math wasn’t my strong point. Ginny had either nerves of steel, complete faith in her mathematical prowess, or no savings to transfer. Of course, the nine-thousand-dollar deposit and subsequent check belied the last option.

Or did it?

My search had turned up this one bankbook. Ginny didn’t own a computer, which indicated she wasn’t doing her banking online. If she had a savings account, I couldn’t find any evidence of it. Something wasn’t adding up about the deposit or the check. Too bad I hadn’t a clue what that something was.

Frowning, I tried to do a search on my phone for the recipient of the nine-thousand-dollar check. No signal. Predictable. I scribbled the name down in my notebook and slipped the bank register back into the drawer where I’d found it. Then I resumed my search.

Ginny’s bathroom would also pass the white-glove test. The medicine cabinet contained several over-the-counter vitamins, a hairbrush, and an almost empty bottle of Pepto-Bismol. The last was probably due to Ginny’s eating habits, which somehow managed to be worse than those of the kids working for me. Sitting on the green counter were a yellow toothbrush, a can of aerosol hair spray, and a prescription bottle for Ambien CR with Doc Truman’s name listed as the prescribing physician.

A glance at my watch told me it was time to clear out. Sean had probably learned about my foray into this apartment. If so, he would be on his way. For both our sakes, it would be best to avoid that particular confrontation. Still, I couldn’t help taking one last walk through the bedroom in the hopes I’d spot something more useful than Ginny’s love of sugar and her talent for keeping her life uncluttered. Although I suppose the lack of clutter was interesting. Most people who lived alone, me included, didn’t need lots of extra plates or bowls, yet we were compelled to stuff the cabinets with table settings for ten and enough kitschy coffee mugs to invite the state of Rhode Island to afternoon tea.

Huh.

I looked around the cabinets and frowned. Ginny didn’t have any mugs on her shelves. So why the teapot? To my way of thinking, microwaves had mostly usurped the teapot’s usefulness, but many coffee and tea lovers still felt compelled to have teapots on display even if they were never used. Pop did. The last time I took the lid off that teapot, I found a combination of dust and rust. Yum. Still, Pop kept the teapot as a backup in case the microwave went belly-up.

According to items on her shelves, though, Ginny didn’t drink tea. Or coffee or anything that required a mug. The woman didn’t appear to own anything that didn’t serve a purpose. So I had to wonder—what did Ginny use the teapot for?

There was one way to find out. I moved the teapot closer, removed the lid, and felt my heart stop. Inside the perfectly polished teapot was money.

Lots and lots of money.

Singles. Fives. Tens. Twenties. A couple of fifties thrown in, but nothing larger. Just stacks and stacks of small bills with a couple of rolls of quarters thrown in for good measure.

Eureka! I had found Ginny’s savings account.

I took a seat at the small square kitchen table and emptied the teapot’s cache onto the place mat in front of me. Three recounts later, I determined the teapot-trove total. Including the two rolls of quarters, Ginny had one thousand four hundred and thirty-six dollars’ worth of mad money. Not enough to retire on, but plenty to visit the riverboat casinos without fear of busting in the first twenty minutes. Especially if she played the penny slots like Pop.

I re-rubber-banded the bills, shoved them back into their steel safe, and then replaced the teapot on the stove. The sound of rustling paper stopped me in my tracks. I shifted the teapot and heard the sound again.

Sure enough, there was a piece of paper taped to the bottom of the teapot. Huzzah! The burner grill must have snagged on it when I put the pot down. Not exactly a skilled investigative technique, but I’d take it.

Careful not to tear the paper, I peeled the slip of lined notebook paper off the bottom of the kettle. On the paper were the numbers 8465793884 followed by WMCSA 765432. I read the series of letters and numbers again and waited for Ginny’s ghost to give me some insight into their meaning.

Nope. No ghost-whisperer moment. No great inspiration. Nothing.

I put the kettle back on the stove and slipped the paper into my pants pocket. These numbers and letters were important enough for Ginny to hide. Perhaps whatever they meant was important enough to kill for. That was more to go on than I had when I arrived here.

Once all the lights were off, I locked Ginny’s condo door and hurried down the hall. When I stepped into the covered walkway, I smiled. I’d made a clean getaway.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

Or not.

Plastering what I hoped was an “I’m totally innocent” smile on my face, I turned around. “Are you talking to me?”

Sean stalked across the worn carpeting. His face was red from being out in the cold. At least that’s what I was telling myself. If my actions made his cheeks turn that color, no amount of fast talking was going to keep me from singing gospel with the EstroGenocide girls.