Slice and Dice (40 page)

“But it’s
not
enough, sweetheart. It’s still just circumstantial evidence. The cops could make a case against Nathan and they could be wrong all over again. I couldn’t live with myself if I had anything to do with making that happen.”

In complete frustration, Bram flung his arms in the air. “I give up.”

“Just give me one more day, okay? One more chance to talk to Nathan.”

He shook his head. “You’re not safe talking to him alone. I should be with you.”

“But he won’t talk if you’re there, Bram. You’ve got to be reasonable. Besides, he’d never hurt me. I’m certain of it. If I don’t get him to open up about George’s murder tomorrow, then I agree, we take what we know to the police.”

Bram was about to respond when the phone rang. “I’ll get it,” he said, grabbing the cordless off the end table. “Hello?” He paused. “Hey, Harry. We were just talking about you. What’s up?” He listened for a moment, then said, “Slow down and speak up. I can hardly hear you.” After nearly a minute, he put his hand over the receiver and said, “He sounds upset, Soph. Says the police are after him again. They think he’s some sort of new menace.”

“Why?”

“He won’t say over the phone. But he’s scared. And he’s got some crazy notion that you promised to help him clear his name.”

She gave a weak smile.

“Well? What do I tell him? He wants to talk to us right away.”

“Here?”

“No, over at the Belmont.”

“It’s closed.”

“We’re supposed to knock twice on the loading-dock door and wait. He’ll let us in.”

“Tell him we’re on our way.”

Harry held a finger to his lips. He was carrying a candle, lighting their way through the dark kitchen. “I’ve got more candles burning back in the bar. Nothing you can see from the street, so we should be safe.”

Even in the darkness, Sophie could see that Bram’s reaction was the same as hers. Harry seemed overly paranoid. The pressure of his upcoming murder trial was getting to him.

The interior of the restaurant was silent and almost cold. For Sophie, the silence only heightened the sense of emptiness and despair. Restaurants were like theatres, full of the music and chaos of life, but for the Belmont the curtain had come down for the last time. No wonder a heavy melancholy suffused the air surrounding her. She wondered if Bram felt it. She knew Harry did.

“Why are we whispering?” asked Bram. “Nobody’s here but us, right?”

Harry stopped abruptly and turned around. “You weren’t followed, were you? I told you to take precautions!”

“No,” said Sophie, reassuring him with her most soothing voice. “We weren’t followed.”

He stared at her a moment, then continued on through the dining room and into the bar. “Have a seat,” he said, nodding to the red vinyl-covered stools. Ducking under the counter, he popped up on the other side. “Can I fix you two something to drink?” He tossed a white cotton rag over his shoulder, then cupped his hands together expectantly.

“What are you having?” asked Bram.

“A Stinger. My third of the evening, and not my last.”

“Do you have any hazelnuts?”

“Of course I’ve got hazelnuts,” said Harry, looking annoyed.

“Drink whatever you want,” said Sophie. “I’ll be the designated driver.”

“Make it a stinger then,” said Bram, pleased with the arrangement.

“I’ll just have a ginger ale,” said Sophie. She really didn’t want anything, but she could tell that Harry needed to make a show of hospitality. After all, he’d been in the hospitality business for more than thirty years. The Belmont might be officially closed, but it was still his.

“Coming right up.” The normality of preparing drinks provided him with a momentary calm. He worked quickly, his hands knowing instinctively where to find every ingredient. He’d already set the bar up with ice and some twists of lemon. The beer pulls probably weren’t working, but all the liquor bottles were still in place. After setting the paper napkins and glasses in front of them, he lifted a bowl of the Belmont’s traditional party mix up on the counter. “Enjoy,” he said, though his usual smile was absent. Then, saluting them with his glass, he took a hefty sip of his own drink. “That’s better. Now we can get down to business.”

“What happened?” asked Sophie, glad that the formalities were over.

Harry considered the question. Wiping the countertop with the towel, he shook his head. “The D.A. wants to revoke my bail.”

“What!” Sophie was shocked. “Why?”

“Seems there’s a woman over at Gildemeister’s apartment building who says she saw me enter his place. She even heard our argument.”

“Really?” Sophie shot Bram a look that warned him not to reveal the fact that they already knew about the woman. His slight nod told her he understood.

“So?” said Bram, chewing on some peanuts. “She saw you enter his apartment. You already admitted as much. What’s the big deal?”

“The big deal is, she’s been getting threatening phone calls. Apparently, some investigator from the prosecutor’s office nosed around the building one last time, just to make sure they had their facts straight. They don’t want any surprises during the trial. Anyway, this woman — her name is Ada Pearson — said she’d seen me go into Geoige’s apartment, but when she found out she might have to testify in court, she clammed up. Refused to say another word, except that for the last two days she’s been receiving scary phone calls. They started on Thursday around noon. She said she was terrified to go anywhere now, even to the laundry room. She demanded that the investigator leave, but before he did, he got the impression that she might know something more, except that she was too frightened to talk.”

“This Ada Pearson, she has no idea who called her?” asked Bram.

“Just that it was a man. He said if she didn’t keep quiet, she wouldn’t live to see her next birthday.”

“How awful,” said Sophie.

“Yeah, and what’s worse is, the police subpoenaed her phone records. The threatening calls were all made from a pay phone at a gas station just around the corner from my house. They think I made the calls. I mean, how could I do it? I didn’t even know the woman existed!”

“That’s why they want to revoke your bail?” asked Sophie.

“You got it. The police came to my house this afternoon.

Luckily, I was out running some errands. My neighbor told me about it when I got home. There was a message on my answering machine from my lawyer telling me what was up. What could I do? I couldn’t stay there and just let them come get me. I
can’t
go back to that jail cell.”

“So you came here,” said Bram.

“I’m gonna sleep here tonight and tomorrow night and for as long as it takes.”

“You realize the police may come here looking for you.”

“God, what am I gonna do?” he rasped, leaning his elbows on the bar and rubbing his temples with die tips of his fingers. “Someone’s trying to frame me. Why can’t they see that? If I was gonna call this woman and make threats, I certainly wouldn’t do it from a phone that was a stone’s throw away from my front door. The police must figure I’ve got the IQ of a… a prune pit!”

“Calm down, Harry,” said Sophie. “Remember your blood pressure.”

“Screw my blood pressure.” He finished his drink in two neat swallows.

As he made himself another, Sophie watched him, the wheels turning inside her mind. ‘Tell me something,” she said finally, playing with the straw in her ginger ale. “Has anyone offered to buy your restaurant?”

“Sure,” he said, not looking up. “But how’s that gonna help me now?”

“Who made the offer?” asked Bram.

“A guy named Merlin. Kenneth Merlin. He works for Constance Buckridge, the famous TV chef. She runs a culinary school out east. From what he said, the school owns a bunch of restaurants around the country. They staff them with their graduates.”

“And they want to buy the Belmont,” said Sophie.

He nodded. Setting his drink on the bar, he added, “Merlin made me a decent offer. I mean, it’s nothing like what I might have gotten once upon a time, even a year ago. But under the circumstances I thought it was reasonable.”

“Did you accept?” asked Bram.

“I told him I’d think about it. I would have taken die offer, too, except that I was arrested. Thankfully, Merlin gave me a number where he could be reached. I’ve called him a couple of times, left some messages, but he hasn’t gotten back to me yet. I wish he would. I need the money to pay for my defense.” He picked up his drink.

“Harry, slow down with the booze,” said Sophie. “You shouldn’t be drinking so much, especially now.”

“What else have I got? My wife’s dead. My business is in shambles. And I’m going to jail for a murder I didn’t commit. I’d say I deserve a few good pops.” He downed half the glass.

“Not at the expense of your health. Look,” said Sophie, “you can’t stay here. There’s nowhere to sleep.”

“The floor looks pretty damn good to a guy facing a jail cell.”

She couldn’t let an old man sleep on die floor. Her father would have a fit if he found out she’d left Harry to fend for himself in his time of need. “You’re coming back to the Maxfield with us. You can call your lawyer in the morning, but for tonight you’re sleeping in a decent bed. Have you had dinner?”

“I’m a hopeless cook. I always ate at the restaurant.” His words were beginning to slur.

Sophie pushed the drink away from him. “Come on. No arguments.”

Offering her a grateful smile, he ducked back under the bar. “You’re the best, Sophie. I’m gonna tell your father what a good girl he raised just as soon as he gets home from his trip.”

“You do that.”

Together, Bram and Sophie helped
him
out to their car.

Once he was belted into the backseat, Bram shut the door. Speaking softly, he asked, “When did you tell Nathan about Ada Pearson, that she’d seen him coming out of George’s apartment?”

“Wednesday afternoon.”

“And the threatening calls started on Thursday.”

“I know what you’re thinking.”

“He made those calls, Sophie. And he did it in a way that pointed the finger at Harry. He’s a cold-blooded killer, and he wants an innocent man to take the fall for him. What other conclusion can you draw?”

She thrashed around in her mind for something to say, some reason why Nathan might not be guilty. “He could have told someone else about it. Paul. Constance. Kenny. Maybe one of them made the calls.”

Bram took ahold of Sophie’s arm. “Why do you refuse to face the obvious?”

“Because it’s not obvious to me.”

Totally out of patience with her, he got into the car on the passenger’s side and slammed the door. “Let’s go.”

He was angry and Sophie was helpless to do anything about it, at least for tonight. She wasn’t the kind of woman who cried easily, but she could feel tears welling up in her eyes. She had to talk to Nathan tomorrow, and then, no matter what the outcome, she and Bram would go to the police with what they knew. If they didn’t, Harry would be convicted of a murder he didn’t commit. As much as she wanted to give Nathan the benefit of the doubt, she couldn’t allow Harry to be falsely convicted.

Journal Note

Friday, Midnight
Red Wing, Minnesota

Late this afternoon I was forced to check into a fourth hotel, again without so much as a toothbrush or a stitch of clean clothes to my name. After I got back from an afternoon interview, I found two nasty-looking thugs milling around in front of my hotel room door. They were packing guns under their expensive suits and looked like they weren’t going to leave anytime soon. Thank God they didn’t see me. I was standing behind a group of people on a crowded elevator and was about to edge my way to the front when the doors opened. I spied them immediately, so I bent my head down and hid behind a tall man until we reached the next floor. Feeling as if Id just had a near-death experience, I got off and rushed to the stairway, making a hasty exit. I left everything behind, except for what I had with me — the clothes on my back my purse, and my laptop computer. I headed east on Interstate 94, then south on Highway 61, and finally ended up at the St. James Hotel in Red Wing. It’s about an hour south of the Twin Cities. I don’t know how Constance found me, but I’m not taking any more chances. I bought a blonde wig and I’m wearing it for the duration of my stay in Minnesota, which won’t be long. I leave tomorrow.

After the interview I conducted this afternoon with Beverly Custerson, Constance s best friend during the late Fifties and early Sixties, there s no reason for me to stay any longer. The mystery surrounding Pepper Buckridge s death, and the dynamics of much of the Buckridge family history since that time, will never be fully cleared up, at least not by anyone outside the family. The whole situation was more convoluted than I ever thought. Pepper was indeed poisoned. But more on that later.