Slice and Dice (27 page)

“So walk me through this. You buzzed his apartment and he let you in?”

“No. I buzzed, but there was no response. I waited a few minutes and buzzed again, but when he still didn’t answer, I figured he was in the shower or something. That’s when a woman came out and I charged past her before she could stop me. When I got upstairs, the door was ajar. I found George in the pantry. Once I saw the blood and realized he was dead, I shot out of there as fast as I could.”

“And you didn’t see anybody else?”

“The only person I saw in the entire building was the woman leaving by the front door when I first arrived. I have no idea who she was. I’m not even sure I could describe her.” He squeezed her hands again. “Sophie, you’ve got to believe me. I had nothing to do with his murder. I’d never lie to you about something so important. I should have trusted you and told you the truth right away. I hope you can understand why I didn’t. And, well, after they arrested Hongisto, I guess it seemed even less important for me to come clean — to anyone — about what I’d seen. I figured the police had their man.”

She acknowledged his comment with a slight nod.

“If he’s innocent, Sophie, I hope he gets off.”

“I do, too. Because something doesn’t add up. The neighbors I talked to said they heard George arguing with some unknown person on two different occasions on Sunday night. Harry was gone by seven. The neighbor who saw you come out of his place said she heard a second argument around seven-thirty. Harry was gone. You said you didn’t get there until close to eight. Who was he talking to?”

Nathan gazed at her thoughtfully. “If Harry really was gone, like you say, then the person
George
was arguing with at seven-thirty probably murdered him. All I know is, it wasn’t me. I’m telling you the truth. Please,
please,
believe me.” He looked at her with pleading eyes.

Maybe she was a fool. Maybe she should have her head examined, but she did believe him. Her sense of relief was so great, she felt almost giddy. “God, I’m so glad you finally trusted me enough to tell me the truth.” She threw her arms around him and hugged him tight.

They stayed that way until Sophie’s cell phone beeped.

“I’d better answer that,” she said, drawing away from him. She was embarrassed now. She knew her reaction had sent him the wrong message again. Digging in her purse, she found the phone and pressed the on button. “Hi, this is Sophie.”

“Hey, beautiful. It’s your equally beautiful husband.”

“Bram. What’s up?”

“I have to work late tonight. Someone just dropped a ton of research on my desk. Life-and-death stuff. You know the drill.”

“Intimately.”

“I think I’ll grab a quick dinner with my producer and then spend the rest of the evening in my office. Oh, except for part of the time I’ll probably be over at McDougals’Bar. Jerry Mulzak just got engaged. I told him I’d help him celebrate.

But if you need to reach me, I should be here most of the evening.”

“Thanks for letting me know. Don’t be too late.”

“I’m sure you’ll find something to occupy your time. You usually do.”

“Are you being snide?”

“Look, you’re probably relieved to have me out of your hair for a night. You can bury your nose in your office computer with complete abandon.”

“That’s an interesting image,
dear”

“I’m just doing the poor soul routine,
darling,
so you’ll take pity on me and give me a back rub when I get home. Should be around ten. No later than eleven. I love you.”

“I love you, too.” As she clicked the phone off, Nathan gave her a questioning look.

“Bram has to work late?” he asked.

“Afraid so.”

His smile returned. “Well, that’s perfect timing because I was hoping to make dinner for you this evening.”

“Nathan, I… don’t know.”

“Oh, come on, Soph. A little good food. A little Italian wine. No big deal.”

“We need to talk first.”

“I thought that’s what we were doing.”

She could see the humor return to his eyes, and that didn’t help. She hoped the right words would come when she needed them. “I know you think there’s a chance for us. But honestly, Nathan, there isn’t. I love my husband. Friendship is all I can offer you.” She couldn’t cut him off totally, refuse to see him again, especially after what Arthur had said to her earlier in the day. She had to get a better handle on this depression business of his before she condemned him to even more gloom.

“Okay, Sophie. Message received. But I do cook for my
friends,
and that means I’d still like to cook for you.”

The gleam in his eyes hadn’t diminished one bit. For a second she wondered if he’d even heard her. But when she looked at him, his expression so open and eager, she couldn’t say no. “Where and when?”

“My old college buddy, David Kingston, is a pilot for Northwest Airlines. He’s got this great condo in downtown St. Paul, just a couple blocks from the Maxfield. Since he’s winging his way to Japan as we speak, and I happen to have a key, I can prepare the meal there.” He took out a pen and a piece of paper and wrote down the address. “Say, seven o’clock?”

“What are you making?”

His grin was pregnant with meaning. “That’s a surprise. Except — I suppose I should ask. Are there foods you don’t particularly like?”

“Okra.”

“Spoken like a true northerner. Okay, I’ll nix the okra bruschetta, the okra
coi gamberetti,
and the
zuppa di
okra.”

“Yuck.”

He smiled. “And I’ll see you at seven.”

Journal Note

Wednesday, 6:20
P.M.

Just finished dinner. Before I resume my pacing, I thought I’d write a few lines.

I messengered copies of the transcripted interviews to Bram Baldric at WTWN radio this afternoon. I didn’t include my journal notes — they ‘re nobody’s business but my own. He called me a little while ago and said he’d just gotten back from dinner and was going to sit down and read through the information now. It shouldn’t take him more than an hour or two. He’s supposed to go have a drink with some buddy of his around eight, but I still hope he’ll stop by my suite later. I’ve been cooped up in here all afternoon and I’m going a little stir-crazy. Rafferty seems to find endless enjoyment in TV wrestling and various shopping channels, but I’m too preoccupied by my own thoughts and worries to do anything other than wear a groove in my bedroom rug.

Oh, I received a fax about an hour ago. I’ll copy it here so that it will go into my personal record.

FAX TRANSMISSION
DATE: May 12
FROM: Timothy Suskind, Appleton, Wisconsin
TO: Lela Dexter, Maxfield Plaza, St. Paul, Minnesota
SUBJECT: research
Page 1 of 1

 

Lela: I confirmed today that Constance and Arthur Jadek were indeed born in Goshen, Wisconsin, Constance in 1936, Arthur in 1932. Their parents are now deceased. The father, Leo,
was
the town librarian. The mother, Harriet, was a housewife. Leo apparently had a reputation for being a helpful, exceptionally kind, well-loved man. That conflicts with Constance’s comments about her family life, I believe, but then families can look very different from the outside. The Jadeks moved when Constance was five. It may be just a coincidence, but it
was
the same year the U.S. entered WWII. I haven’t determined yet if that was the reason for the move or where the move took them. I’ll keep working on it.

 

Best wishes,
Tim

 

I haven’t heard anything more from Kenneth Merlin, although I ‘m sure he’ll be dropping by again soon to find out whether or not I’ve decided to accept his bribe. Also, I haven’t received any more anonymous written threats. If this wasn’t such a serious and potentially dangerous situation, a girl could get to feel unloved.

Ingrid Nelson, the field researcher I assigned to dig up the medical files on Pepper Buckridge s death, called me today and said that the file we need can only be accessed by a relative. Pepper died at Hennepin County General, now Hennepin County Medical Center. Those records have been transferred to microfilm. If Pluto is a relative, as I suspect he may be, he’s our only hope of getting them released. When IE-mailed him this afternoon with the interview of Phillip Rapson, I also let him know the situation. The ball is in his court. Time will tell whether or not I get a chance to look at the records. It still may not prove conclusively that Pepper was poisoned by ingesting antifreeze, as I now suspect, but it should point us in that direction.

More later.

Bram leaned against the doorjamb, smiling at Rafferty. “Evening.”

“Evening,” he grunted. “I’d like to see Marie.”

“Who is it?” a voice called from inside. “Baldric,” replied Bram, still smiling at the bodyguard. “Eventful day?”

“Boring,” he muttered, chewing on a toothpick. “Just the way I like it.”

Marie bustled into the living room, tugging on a sweater. “God, I was hoping you’d stop by.”

As Rafferty moved out of the way, Bram stepped inside. “We need to talk.” He’d read through all the interviews she’d sent him, and he had to agree with her assessment. Something did smell rotten in the Buckridge family history.

“Fine. But let’s go out. Anywhere other than the hotel. I’ve been trapped in here too long.”

Bram glanced at Rafferty. “Will you be joining us?”

The bodyguard picked up his suit coat and grabbed his keys. “I’ll go get the car. I’m parked on the street a couple blocks away, so it may take a few minutes.”

“We’ll meet you at the front entrance,” said Marie.

“Not a good idea. There’s an alley behind the building. It’s right next to —”

“I know where it is,” said Bram, saving Rafferty the explanation. “We’ll meet you there. Ten minutes.”

“Take the service elevator down and leave by the rear door.”

“Is all this absolutely necessary?” asked Marie, apparently irritated by Rafferty’s rules.

“Yes.” He said the word forcefully, then slipped on his coat, buttoning it so that the shoulder holster was no longer visible. “Ten minutes,” he repeated as he left.

Once they were alone, Bram watched Marie light a cigarette. She seemed unusually tense as she walked over to the wet bar to find an ashtray. At least tonight he had no trouble understanding why. “Let’s head over to the St. Paul Hotel. It’s not far and they’ve got a decent bar. I think we could all use a drink.”

A faint smile crossed her lips. “Rafferty orders root beer when he’s on duty. It’s his favorite nonalcoholic beverage.”

Bram could have lived the rest of his life a happy man without knowing that fascinating tidbit. He assumed she was trying to dissipate her uneasiness with a stab, albeit lame, at normal conversation.

“Before we go,” said Marie, finding her purse and making sure her billfold and key were inside, “just tell me what you think, in a nutshell. Am I crazy? Am I seeing a potential scandal where none exists? You read the interviews. You saw what Pluto said about Constance. He thinks she’s a vile woman. He couldn’t cite chapter and verse, but he promised me a story, a powerful one. He’s got to be a member of Constance’s inner circle. Possibly even a family member.”

Bram nodded. “Judas, perhaps? Selling his master for thirty pieces of silver?”

“Or for something less tangible but far more compelling.”

“Such as?”

“Maybe he wants to know the exact sort of monster his mother really is.” She was smoking in quick jabs now, moving about the room restlessly.

“So you think Pluto is one of Constance’s children?”

“Yes, I think I do.”

“Who?”

“Emily or Paul.”

“Not Nathan? From what I read, I think he may prove to be every bit as dangerous as Constance.”

She stopped for a moment, then turned and studied his face through the smoke from her cigarette. “Tell me the truth. Do you think your judgment is affected because you know he’s your wife’s old boyfriend and he’s still interested in her?”

He was indignant. “Who told you that?”

She grimaced. “Nobody needed to tell me. I’ve got eyes, Baldric. And I know how to use them. If it comes as a news flash to you, I’m sorry.”

Feeling uncomfortable with the sudden turn in the conversation, Bram checked his watch. “Come on. We’d better get downstairs.”

Marie crushed out her cigarette, then followed him to the door. They rode down to the main floor in silence, mainly due to the presence of a waiter returning dirty trays to the kitchen. Once they were finally out on St. Peter, Bram looked around but couldn’t see anyone waiting for them. “What kind of car does Rafferty drive?”