Throw in the Trowel (9 page)

I switched lunch hours with Lottie, and shortly before one o'clock Marco and I made the five-block walk south on Washington Street to an old brick carriage house across the railroad tracks. The weather was nippy for late September, with a stiff breeze, so even though the sun was shining, I wrapped my blue denim jacket tightly around me and stuck close to Marco's side. Seedy was back at Bloomers with Lottie and Grace, happily curled in her bed.

“What's our strategy?” I asked Marco.

“Show Greer the photo and get him to tell us as much as he can about it. As far as he's concerned, we're simply on a fact-finding mission. I'm not going to play connect the dots with him.”

“He's bound to put the facts together, Marco. Henry can't be a stupid man and run a successful business.”

“Of course he will. That's what I want him to do. When he makes the connection, just follow my lead.”

I threaded my fingers through Marco's and gave his hand a happy squeeze. “Team Salvare on the job.”

The renovated carriage house served as both office and warehouse for Greer Plumbing. It had solar panels on the clay-tiled roof, both quite uncommon in Northwest Indiana, as well as two hybrid vehicles parked outside with the Greer logo on them. I pointed them out to Marco. “We know one thing about Henry. He's energy-conscious.”

A man around Marco's age rose from the reception desk and ushered us to Henry's office in the front corner of the building. The room had a tan ceramic tile floor and narrow windows on the exterior walls, but instead of interior walls, it had partitions made from tall, royal blue metal file cabinets. It contained a modern oak desk with a shiny black granite top, black mesh desk chair, and two lime green folding chairs in front of the desk.

Henry rose as we came in, and walked around the desk to greet us, looking a bit puzzled to see two of us. He was a model-handsome man possibly in his late fifties. He had a slender build, medium height, light brown hair that had gone white at the temples, pale blue eyes, and a warm smile. He wore a blue checkered shirt tucked neatly into dark blue jeans, a navy pullover sweater draped over his shoulders and tied around his neck, a navy belt, and navy canvas shoes.

He had a thick stainless steel watch with a blue face on one wrist and a wide blue rubber band on the other. I could practically feel Jillian shudder. She wasn't a big fan of matchy-matchy, as she called it.

“Marco Salvare,” my beloved said, shaking Henry's hand. “We haven't met officially, but your company is handling repair work for me at my bar.”

“At last we meet in person,” Henry said with a smile. “And this is Abby Knight, as I recall.” He had a distinctly formal manner of speaking that sounded almost old-fashioned.

“It's Abby Salvare now,” Marco said, looking at me with such a glimmer of pride that a surge of happiness welled up deep inside me. “We were married recently.”

It was all I could do not to throw my arms around him and hug him tightly, so I linked arms with him instead. I had to learn to contain my exuberance.

Henry turned his warm smile on me. “I hadn't heard that you'd gotten married. That's wonderful. Congratulations to both of you.”

“Thank you,” I said demurely, while the child inside me danced.

I glanced at the surroundings as we settled onto the folding chairs. Several sports trophies were displayed on the metal filing cabinets, and a pair of hockey sticks and a blue bicycle helmet hung from hooks on one wall. Henry's desktop was interesting, too. It held a large, ultrathin computer monitor, keyboard, wireless mouse with a bright blue-and-green-plaid mouse pad, a royal blue pen, a two-foot-tall prickly pear cactus in a lime green pot, a neon blue plastic holder for sticky notes, and a square lime green clock. It was still matchy-matchy
,
but I liked the artistry of it.

Then I looked up and saw three enormous curving spiderwebs suspended from the two-story ceiling, one of them positioned right over my head. And where there were spiderwebs . . . I gave a hard shudder. I wasn't afraid of much, but spiders could make me shriek like a little girl.

Henry leaned forward in his swivel chair, suddenly serious. “I hope you haven't come about the work Stan's doing for you. He's one of my best plumbers.”

“You're aware that I had to stop the work,” Marco said.

Henry looked perplexed. “The last time I spoke with Stan, he told me about the condition of the pipes, but he didn't seem to think he'd have any trouble fixing it.”

“When was that?” Marco asked.

“Tuesday afternoon. I have to apologize for not knowing that there's been a subsequent problem, Mr. Salvare. I've been away for a two-day convention in Chicago and just got back last night. Please tell me what the issue is. My goal is always to satisfy the customer.”

Marco folded his arms and sat back. I knew what was coming, so, as per Marco's training, I focused on Henry's face.

“The issue,” Marco said, “is that we found human remains beneath the basement floor.”

CH
APTER NINE

H
enry's eyes widened and his hand went to his throat. “You found a body?”

“A skeleton,” Marco said.

For a moment, all Henry did was sit there shaking his head in disbelief. “I can see now why you stopped the work. Do you have any idea who it is—or should I say was?”

“The detectives haven't identified the remains yet,” I said. “We thought maybe you could help with that.”

“Me?” Henry appeared surprised but not alarmed. “I'm confused. Shouldn't the police be handling the investigation?”

“We're assisting,” Marco said.

He was being rather tight-lipped, so I added, “Marco's a private investigator. We've helped the police a number of times. You've probably read about us in the newspaper.”

Henry blinked at me. Okay, so maybe he didn't read newspapers. Before he had a chance to ask any more questions, I took the key chain photo out of my purse and laid it in front of him. “This item was found near the remains. Can you make out the logo on it?”

He leaned over the photo. “My God. I haven't seen one of these in decades.”

“Would you identify it for us, please?” Marco asked.

“It's a Cannon Construction key chain. You say it was found near the body?”

“About two feet away,” Marco said. “Any idea how it might have gotten there?”

“I suppose Kermit could have dropped it while he was working there,” Henry said. “Kermit was the owner of Cannon Construction. I'm assuming keys were discovered with it.”

“None found,” Marco said, “but the investigation is ongoing.”

I took out my notepad and pen, expecting Henry to ask whether we thought the bones were Kermit's, but he merely folded his hands on the desk and looked at us as though waiting for the next question.

“Can you tell us anything else about the key chain?” I asked.

He tilted his head, as though thinking it over. “Not a whole lot, I'm afraid. If I remember correctly Kermit had one, as did his wife and son.”

“Did you have one?” Marco asked.

“No, Kermit had them made before I came aboard.” Henry studied the photo again. “My goodness, does this bring back memories. Kermit used to stick his finger through the ring and twirl the keys around as he talked. It drove people absolutely bonkers.”

“What kind of work was Kermit doing for Down the Hatch?” Marco asked.

“He was hired to install drywall in the basement's main room to cover up the old concrete blocks, put in a cement floor, and make a storage room near the staircase.”

“Who had contracted for the work?” Marco asked.

“Rusty Miller,” Henry said.

Aha! That was what Grace had said, too. I made a note and put an asterisk beside it.

“Were you working for Kermit at the time?” I asked.

As Henry began to speak, I thought I felt something crawling on my shoulder—a spider? I brushed furiously at my shirt, feeling a shriek coming that would split eardrums.

No, no, no! Stifle it!
that little voice in my head cried.
You have to be professional. Don't embarrass Marco.
I clamped down on my tongue, using all my willpower to muffle that scream. I looked at the floor to see if anything had fallen off, but the tile was clear. I glanced at the web hanging above me. Had I imagined it?

Then I realized Henry had stopped talking, and I'd missed his answer. I let out a breath, only then realizing I'd been holding it, and pasted on a smile. “I'm sorry. You were saying?”

“I said we were partners at that time.” Henry was watching me curiously.

“Did Cannon Construction put in the cement floor?” Marco asked.

“No, Rusty did,” Henry said.

That was a stunner. I wrote:
How could Rusty not remember owning the bar when the basement work was done?
I underlined it and wrote
Fishy
next to it, then subtly showed the notepad to Marco.

“Why didn't Kermit do the floor?” Marco asked.

“It's a long story,” Henry said, then sighed sadly, if a tad dramatically.

Unfazed by emotion, Marco said, “Can you give us the condensed version?”

Henry plucked a tissue from the box on his desk and wiped a smudge off the shiny granite top. “The condensed version is that Kermit wasn't getting the job done because of his drinking problem, and then he stopped showing up altogether. Rusty decided to take matters into his own hands, so he laid the cement.”

“Weren't you working with Kermit?” I asked.

Henry handed the photo back to me. “I was on another job, a remodel of the New Chapel Savings and Loan's second floor.”

“Was it typical to work separately?” I asked.

“Sure, if we had multiple jobs going. There were only two of us back then.”

“Just so I'm clear on this,” Marco said, “did Rusty fire Kermit?”

“Yes, and then apologized to me later,” Henry said. “To be honest, I wasn't aware that Rusty was having problems with Kermit because sometimes I'd go days without seeing Kermit. It wasn't until Kermit's wife, Lila, called me to ask if I knew where her husband was that I learned something was amiss. We both guessed he'd gone on a bender, so I checked with Rusty to see if he knew where Kermit was.”

Strange how Rusty hadn't mentioned any of that in the newspaper story. I also noted Henry's
To be honest.
Marco had once told me that it could indicate that a lie was forthcoming.

“Did you talk to Rusty on the phone,” Marco asked, “or go see him in person?”

“In person, of course,” Henry said. “I was as concerned as Lila was. As soon as I received her call, I went straight to Down the Hatch to find out what had happened. That was when I learned what Kermit had been up to, and frankly, I didn't blame Rusty for being frustrated—I knew he'd needed to get the basement finished to bring the building up to code—but I wished he'd let me know what was going on. I would have put the floor in for him.”

“So Rusty never approached you
about finishing the basement?” Marco asked.

“Not the floor. Rusty had already taken care of it. Well, I should amend, with Doug Cannon's help.”

“Kermit's son was working with his dad?” I asked.

“Oh, no, Kermit never allowed that.” Henry paused and gave us an apologetic smile. “I'm sorry. I can see that I'm confusing you. Doug would sometimes ride his bicycle over after school to wherever his dad was working to see if he could help. Not that Kermit ever let him. But that's an entirely different matter. Anyway, as I recall, Doug stopped by to see his dad and found Rusty pouring a new floor, so he helped.”

“Did you learn that from Rusty?” Marco asked.

“I believe so,” Henry said. “It's been a long time.”

“But Rusty did hire you to build the storage room?” Marco asked.

“Correct, plus he had me remodel the kitchen and bathrooms upstairs. But by that time, I was working alone,” Henry said.

“Did you ever find out why Kermit didn't show up for that job?” I asked. I loved playing dumb.

Henry studied us quietly, as though taking our measure, then said, “You're young, so you may not be familiar with some of New Chapel's more colorful
history, but Kermit abandoned his family and ran off with another woman.”

I wasn't good at pretending to be surprised, so I focused on writing it down.

“Would you give us the woman's name?” Marco asked.

“Are you familiar with the artist known as the Duchess of Tenth Street?” Henry gave a sniff of disgust. “It was her.”

Feigning ignorance, which I
was
good at, I said, “Parthenia Pappas? She lives in town.”

“She came back,” Henry said. “Alone.”

“Did she ever say anything about Kermit?” I asked. “Where he was, what he was doing?”

Henry's mouth tightened, as though the subject were distasteful. “I wouldn't know. I haven't spoken to her since that time.”

“His family must have been worried sick about him,” I said.

“I'd use the word
hurt
instead,” Henry said. “Especially Doug. You know how a boy wants to look up to his father. Sadly, Kermit left a lot to be desired as a father and a husband.”

“Even so,” I said, “Kermit's abandonment must have devastated them financially.”

Henry rolled the bright blue pen back and forth along the granite. “Not really. They managed well without him. The business was viable enough to provide a good income for all of us. Lila ran it quite successfully until Doug was old enough to step in. At that point I left to form my plumbing company. That was my bigger interest anyway.”

Remembering what Grace had said about Kermit treating Henry better than he'd treated his own son, I said, “You don't sound sorry about Kermit's leaving. Weren't you close to him?”

“Not really, but of course I was sorry that he abandoned his family. Absolutely,” Henry said. “Kermit was a cad to leave them in the lurch. It colors my feelings toward him to this day.”

A cad? Who besides Grace used that word anymore? “He left you in the lurch, too, didn't he?”

Henry shrugged. “Let's just say you take the good with the bad in a partnership.”

Was that a tickle on my neck? I scrunched my eyes shut and told myself that I was imagining it, but dear God, there it was again—and here came the shriek.

Don't scream, Abby. Do. Not. Scream. Focus! Be a professional not a sissy.

It was all I could do not to open my mouth and let out that shriek. Instead, shuddering hard, I slapped my neck and turned my collar out, giving it a good brushing. But once again, nothing fell to the floor. I cast another fearful glance up at the web but saw no spiders dangling. What I really wanted was to take a closer look at the floor to see if there were any signs of the little fiends, but I didn't want to appear as though I wasn't paying attention.

Marco glanced at me to see if I was ready, then said, “Would you tell us about Kermit's drinking habits?”

Henry gazed at the pen as he rolled it, as though deciding what to say. “I guess the family won't mind me telling you this since it was widely known, but for maybe the last six months before Kermit left town, his drinking had become a major problem. He'd bring whiskey in a thermos and drink steadily all afternoon, then finish up work for the day and hit the bar before going home. He had a large capacity for alcohol, but eventually it got to the point where he wasn't functioning well.”

“That must have put quite a burden on you,” Marco said.

“To some extent, yes. I had to make up for the work he didn't get done.” Henry paused, as though about to say something else, but then he merely smiled and shrugged. “Partnerships don't always work out.”

He was certainly cavalier about it. I wrote:
Motive for Henry—Kermit wasn't a good partner. Left him in the lurch.
Since the business had thrived without Kermit, the motive was weak but all I had at that point.

Still caught in his reminiscing, Henry said with a sigh, “Poor Lila. Sometimes she'd call me late at night and ask me to help her get him home from the bar. It wasn't a good scene at all. And Kermit was a mean drunk. The girls were afraid of him.”

“Daughters?” I asked.

“Two,” Henry said. “Sweet little things. One was in middle school and one in elementary school. Kermit's son, Doug, was very protective of them. He wouldn't let his dad near them when Kermit had been drinking.”

“Was Kermit abusive?” I asked.

“No one talked about that much back then,” Henry said, “and I never saw any of them sporting bruises, but as we know, there are all kinds of abuse.”

I felt something crawling on my right hand and twitched like I'd been bitten. “Damn it!” I shook my hand furiously but nothing was there.

Both men stared at me in surprise. Knowing I should have a better explanation than
I thought I felt a spider
, I said, “I just hate hearing about abuse. But please continue.” Then, using the pen to casually scratch my neck, I turned a hostile eye upward, imagining tiny octocreepies dropping down on me like miniature parachutists. But again I saw nothing. I
had
to get a look at the floor.

“Let's just say that Kermit was very heavy-handed with his criticisms,” Henry continued, “especially toward the people he loved.”

With my hand still tingling from the imagined bite, I wrote hastily:
Kermit was verbally abusive.
Then I “accidently” dropped my pen on the floor so I could see what was beneath me.

No spiders at all. Was I hallucinating them simply because I'd seen the webs? I retrieved my pen just as Henry crossed his ankles beneath the desk, revealing the soles of his neat blue shoes. How odd. Brown mud was caked in the ridges. More mud lay in little piles on the floor, as though it had fallen off the shoes as it dried.