Back Story (16 page)

“But you helped Powell with that,” I said.

“Shut up, Walt!” Rob snapped.

Walt threw up his hands. “Oh, what’s the use? He knows.”

“I do,” I said. “Your grandfather killed Powell, right? He worried that Powell was going to let the secret out.”

Rob took a long time, and then he said, “My grandfather didn’t kill Powell.”

“He had someone do it, though,” I said. “They got Powell drunk, drove him out east of town and crashed his car. Made it look like an accident, and no one was the wiser.”

“Maybe,” Rob said.

“And when Dewey Webb got too close to figuring it out, your grandfather had him killed.” Rob started to protest, so I said, “Or he had a lackey kill him.” Rob’s eyes flicked away and then back to me. I was right again. “And when Sam Webb started asking questions,” I pointed a finger at him, “you had him killed.”

“Prove it,” Rob said.

“I don’t have to.” I waved a hand at the door. “I’m at a benefit with tons of rich, well-connected people who I’m sure would be interested to know the Halloway past.” I stood up. “I’ve been looking around your estate. You’ve got lots of beautiful artwork here. I wonder what the provenance of those pieces is. That’s a really interesting topic these days, what with people investigating art stolen during World War II. Can you prove where you got all those pieces? How about I go out there and start asking questions, and we’ll see what that stirs up.”

Rob’s hand disappeared into a desk drawer. “I don’t think so.” The hand emerged holding a small gun.

Just then, my phone buzzed in my pocket, and a second later, the door opened and a big man in a dark suit appeared. He slipped inside and shut the door. I recognized him, too. It was the man who’d broken into Brad’s house and chased me out the window.

Rob glanced at the man and then eyed me carefully. “We’re going to have to do something about you.”

“It’ll be a pleasure,” the man in the suit said.

“Put your hands where I can see them,” Rob ordered.

I held my hands up.

“Sit back down.”

I sat back down. I wondered how I could get to the Glock.

“Paul,” Rob said to the man in the suit. “We need to get rid of him and make it look like an accident. You can take him out –”

The door swung inward and hit Paul hard on the backside.

“Oh,” Willie said. She stumbled into Paul. “Hey, handsome, how about getting a beautiful woman a drink?”

I stared at Willie with my mouth open. Everything froze for a second as my mind raced. Did she see the gun in Rob’s hand? I had a flash of anger and worry about her, but then pride. She’d known something was wrong, and she was providing a distraction! My mind suddenly started operating again.

“Duck!” I yelled.

I bent down and snatched my Glock from the holster just as a shot rang out over my head. Willie fell into Paul in a mock faint. In true gentlemanly fashion, he grabbed her. Walt panicked and threw up his hands. In the process, his cane whacked Rob’s arm and the gun fell with a thud to the floor. I swung my gun up and aimed at Rob.

“Hold it right there,” I said in my best Bogie imitation. “Don’t make me shoot you.” I really didn’t want to, but I was prepared to.

A couple of men rushed into the room, followed by women who I assumed were their wives or dates. Behind them, more party guests congregated.

“We heard a shot,” one of the men said.

Then they all took in the scene.

“What in the world!” a women in a pink dress said.

“Call the police,” I said. I looked hard at Rob. I pulled out the recorder. “I have everything recorded.”

Rob paled.

“It’s over,” I said.

***

Hours later, I was sitting in my home office, still in my tux, with bow tie and cummerbund loosened. I was still wired, so I’d fixed a drink – hard liquor after the evening’s events – and was mulling things over.

Rob Halloway had finally realized he couldn’t escape, and one of the guests had called the police. Willie and I’d had to stay at the Halloway mansion long into the night, answering questions, and by the time we got home, Willie was exhausted and had gone to bed.

As I relished the silence, I took a sip of my Manhattan and stared at Dewey’s journal. I still couldn’t believe what he had discovered. I flipped through the journal to his last entry, and then noticed an old newspaper article taped to a page. It was a funeral notice. I wondered if Clara had taped it into the journal…

1955

A warm morning sun bathed the grounds of Fort Logan National Cemetery as a small crowd milled around a fresh burial site, some whispering to each other, some waiting patiently for the woman who stood in front of a silver casket covered in an American flag. They were all concerned about Clara Webb, but she didn’t notice.

Clara took a deep breath and her shoulders stooped with a sadness that was emphasized by her black dress, small black hat and gold band on her left ring finger. She held tightly to Sam’s hand. He stared at the casket, then up at his mother.

“I miss Daddy.” The little boy’s small voice broke the stillness.

Clara nodded, her face hardened against the pain she felt. “I miss him, too, Sam,” she murmured.

“Why can’t he come home?”

“He’s in heaven.” Sam’s lip trembled and she squeezed his hand hard. “We have to go on,” she said. “That’s what your father would want.”

Sam nodded, but he didn’t understand. They stood in silence for a while, and then Clara backed away from the casket, still clutching Sam’s hand. A man in a black suit approached. He quickly took off his hat. It was Richard Hensler, one of their neighbors.

“Mrs. Webb, I want to express my sympathy to you and your son.”

Clara looked up. “Thank you.” She forced a smile.

“Clara, I –” he stopped, then said, “I lost my wife a year ago, so I know what you must be feeling.”

“Thank you,” she repeated. “I know you understand.”

“If you need anything,” Richard began and then his voice faded away.

“I appreciate that,” Clara said as they began walking down a row of white marble and granite tombstones.

“What do the…police know?”

Clara glanced at Sam, then waved at an older man with a shock of white hair. “Dad?”

He quickly moved toward her. She put Sam’s hand into his grandfather’s. “Go with Grandpa.”

Sam trotted off with his grandfather. Clara watched him, then slowed her pace. “The police don’t know much. From what I can tell, the case will never be solved.”

Richard shook his head. “What a shame.”

Clara bit her lower lip. “Dewey was a good man. He deserves justice.” She turned around for one final look at the casket. “I hope someday he gets it.”

Reed – 2015

Lorraine Fitzsimmons looked cross when she opened the door.

“Mr. Ferguson, if you don’t quit harassing me, I’m going to call the police,” she said by way of greeting. The door started to shut.

I smiled my most charming smile and held up a hand. “Please, just give me a moment,” I said hurriedly before she slammed the door. I was
not
going to shove my foot in the doorjamb and get it smashed. “I came to apologize.”

That stopped her. “Apologize?”

“Yes. If I could take a minute to explain.”

She gnawed at her lip, then reluctantly stepped aside. I slipped past her and into the living room. She sat down in one of the leather chairs and I perched on the edge of the couch.

“Well?” She arched her eyebrows and waited.

“Your grandfather did what he was accused of.”

“We’ve established that,” she said slowly.

“But I thought Powell was also involved in a scheme to steal artwork from Jewish refugees before and during World War II.”

Her jaw dropped. “That’s awful! My grandfather wouldn’t have done that.”

I nodded. “That’s true. He wasn’t involved in any of that. All he did was buy some artwork from the Halloways. They were the ones who were stealing the artwork.”

“The Halloways? You’re kidding.”

“I wish I was.” I proceeded to explain the rest of the story, and concluded with, “I felt like I owed you an apology because I suspected your grandfather, and I told you as much. But I had it all wrong.”

She gazed at me with eyes that slowly softened. “I appreciate that,” she finally said.

“There is one more thing.”

The softness froze. “What?”

I hesitated. “Your grandfather’s death wasn’t an accident.”

“What happened?”

I told her, and by the time I’d finished, she had tears in her eyes.

“It’s unfortunate that my grandfather had all the problems he did, and his connections with the Mafia…” her voice trailed off. Then she met my gaze. “But I do believe my father and uncle learned from that, and they lived better lives. And I believe I have, too.”

I smiled again. “That’s all that matters, then.” I stood up to go.

“Thank you for telling me this,” she said.

“You’re welcome.”

When I left, she was still sitting in the living room, a faraway look in her eyes.

***

I asked Brad Webb to meet me at The Cruise Room, still located in the Oxford Hotel, but completely renovated since its decline in the ’50s. At six o’clock, he came in, glanced around, and saw me sitting at a booth near the back.

“This is an unusual place to meet,” he said as he slid in across the table. He studied the Art Deco style and the bas-relief scenes still on the walls. “It’s different.”

“The martinis are still recommended,” I said.

“Still?”

“This place was first known for its martinis.”

“Okay.” A waitress in a black tuxedo and red lipstick came up and we ordered classic martinis. Then he clasped his hands together, rested them on the table and looked at me. “Is there a reason to meet here?”

“This is where Dewey came to find out where Walt Cummings worked,” I said. “That was the fence who sold Floyd Powell’s artwork.”

“Right,” Brad said. “I remember you mentioning Cummings.”

“And that ultimately led to the Halloway family.” For the second time that day, I had to deliver the news about the Halloways’ involvement in stealing artwork from the Jewish families and their involvement in a murder, this time Sam Webb’s.

Brad kept shaking his head as I talked. “Unbelievable,” he said when I’d finished.

I sighed. “Robert Halloway had to get rid of Dewey because Dewey had it figured out. And all these years later, his son, Rob Halloway, had to keep the secret as well.”

“So Halloway came after my dad when he started asking questions,” Brad said.

“The initials W.C. were written on Sam’s list. I think he contacted Walt, and Walt told Rob someone was asking questions,” I said. “So Rob had to get rid of Sam.”

He swore. “He killed my dad.”

“I doubt Rob did it himself,” I said. “He’s too smart for that. I called my friend who’s a detective with the Denver Police Department and told her everything. Lakewood Police are going to reopen the case, but she doesn’t have much faith that they’ll find anything new. Rob’s people were very careful.”

Brad stared at his hands and then said, “Well, knowing is something, I guess.”

The waitress returned with our martinis and we sipped them in silence. I would’ve preferred my usual, a beer, but when in Rome…

“What about me?” Brad finally asked. “Why come after me?”

“Once your dad started asking questions, Halloway had to get the files, once and for all.”

“He admitted to that?”

I shook my head. “Not in so many words, but he did pull his gun on me in order to shut me up.”

“What’s going to happen to him?”

“Since the evidence is circumstantial, I don’t know if any charges will be brought against him.” I shrugged. “He’s incredibly wealthy and he’s already hired a team of high-priced trial lawyers, so he’ll probably get off. But the scandal may ruin him. And no one’s going to come after you again.”

“When would the murders have ended?”

“Who knows?” I said. “Rob Halloway was desperate to keep the family’s past a secret.”

“What happened to all the artwork?”

I shook my head. “I don’t know. So much of the artwork stolen during that time has never been returned to the rightful owners.”

“Yeah, you’re right,” Brad said. “What a shame.”

I picked up the files and journal I’d set on the seat beside me and slid them across the table. “These are yours.”

He rubbed a hand lightly over them. “Who knew all the secrets these held?”

“You were right, though. Someone was after you.”

He smiled. “Thanks for your help.”

“Sure,” I said.

“It’s been an interesting journey, and I found out a lot more about my grandfather.”

He held up his glass. “How about a toast to Dewey Webb and my father?”

“I’ll drink to that,” I said.

I’d bet it was one of the best toasts that night.

***

When I got home, Willie was on the phone. I didn’t have to give her my most charming smile, but I did anyway. She grinned back.

“Who is it?” I asked quietly.

“Your mother,” she mouthed.

I started to make my escape into my office, but she grabbed my arm to stop me.

“Reed just came home,” she said into the phone. “I’ll put you on speaker so we can all talk.”

I glared at her and her grin grew even bigger. Then my mother’s voice blared through the phone.

“Reed, dear, Willie said you’ve finished up your case.”

“Yes, Mother.”

“It’s going to cause quite a stir in the society pages,” she said.

“Are there still society pages?” I asked innocently.

“Don’t be fresh, dear,” she snipped. “What will happen to Rob Halloway?”

“He’ll probably get off.”

“That would be terrible,” she said. “Although it would be nice if their foundation could continue. They’ve done some good work over the years.”

“That’s true,” Willie said.

“Anyway,” Mother continued, “Willie and I have been talking about places to have the rehearsal dinner, and now you have some free time, so you can go look at them. We’ve got a list, and I don’t think it’ll take too much time to check them out.”

“Oh, I can’t wait. It’s every man’s dream to help plan his wedding.”

“Don’t be fresh, dear,” she repeated.

THE END

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Back Story
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AUTHOR’S NOTE

Detective Sarah Spillman appears in three short stories that you can read in the short story collection,
Take Five
. It also includes a Reed Ferguson short story,
Elvis And The Sports Card Cheat
. You can also buy the stories separately.

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