Murder in Miniature (18 page)

Chuck pointed to the counter where one could sit on a diner-style stool and have a cup of coffee and a slice of Debbie Sheridan’s rhubarb pie, in season. Today, there were no bar customers. Debbie (one of the few Lincoln Point citizens too old to have been my student) was behind the counter, straightening napkins, sugar packets, and condiments. She gave Chuck a big wave.

“Her,” Chuck said. He marched over to the counter, leaned his long frame over, and planted a kiss on Debbie.

I turned away as quickly as possible, but I could have sworn I heard a wet smack.

Silly as it was, I wondered if I’d ever be able to eat there again.

Beverly walked me to my car, where I planned to stash
the leftovers from lunch before knocking on Skip’s door, so to speak.

As we approached my Ion, I saw something on the windshield. A parking ticket in the police department lot? How embarrassing. But the lot was open to the public, and the spaces weren’t metered. I checked the area for something obvious, like a sign that read
RESERVED FOR CHIEF OF POLICE
, but saw no such restriction on the spot I’d chosen.

I clicked open the trunk for Beverly so she could claim her picnic cooler, borrowed for my days at the crafts fair. I went around to the front of the car and plucked the piece of paper from under my windshield wiper.

I unfolded lined, white paper, the size of the pages in a black-and-white marble-cover composition book.
BACK OFF
, I read.
OR SOMETHING BAD WILL HAPPEN TO YOU, TOO
.

What? The lettering was like that of a child’s, in ballpoint pen, but more suited to crayons. A joke? Maybe, but my knees didn’t know the difference, and I had to support myself by leaning on the hood of the car.

I looked around the lot. Other than Beverly, who had placed her red-and-white cooler on the ground while she closed the trunk, I saw only a woman with a child in a stroller. A balloon tied to the handle whipped around the woman’s face, and both mother and child laughed over it. The day was sunny, with a pleasant breeze. The note in my hand seemed out of place, meant for the darkness of an urban alley, not the cheery suburban setting of downtown Lincoln Point.

I thought how lucky that Maddie wasn’t around. It hit home to me again how much I worried about her safety when she was with me.

“What is it?” Beverly asked. “Don’t tell me you got a ticket? Too bad we don’t know anyone who can fix it.”

Nothing to worry Beverly about. A joke. Kids out of school with nothing better to do.

“It’s an ad for that new Chinese restaurant. You probably have one, too,” I said.

I hoped not.

I asked myself: Why is it that lately every time I’m with
my nephew, I’m hiding something? Before this week’s episodes with Linda, Tippi Wyatt, and Dudley Crane, I led a normal life. Some would have called it boring, in fact. Now I was party to borderline obstruction of justice, and the object of a threatening note.

I’d immediately tucked the note into a zipper pocket on the outside of my purse, with no intention of showing it to Skip. It would only serve to give him ammunition, I reasoned. He’d probably say, “Ditto, Auntie. Back off.” If I remembered correctly, he had recently used the same phrase on me.

I nearly changed my mind about going into the station. I was afraid deception would show on my face, that somehow Skip’s cop training would tell him I had something in my purse that should be reported to the police.

When he greeted me in the foyer, a few seconds after I stepped through the sliding front doors of the building, I jumped.

“You look surprised to see me,” Skip said. “When I’m the one who should be shocked.” He had that teasing look in his eyes that I’m sure he used successfully in his dating life. And maybe also in his cop life.

“I, uh, have an idea I wanted to share with you.”

“I’ll bet you do. Maddie’s gone home, and now what? Might as well play detective.”

My nephew was fast becoming just another annoying young man, like my son. “Skip, I have enough to do. That’s not why I’m here.”

“Come on back,” he said, leading the way to his cubicle. “It’s a good thing you’re my favorite aunt.”

“I’m your only aunt.”

“Exactly.”

Smart guy. I wasn’t sure he deserved my help, with that attitude. On the other hand, I was the one who needed information.

After only slight jostling among officers coming and going in the narrow passageways of the cubicle maze, we settled in front of Skip’s desk. The agreeable breeze that wafted outdoors was singularly missing back here. I imagined it took a few days for the old building to cool down after an extended heat wave.

“I think I know who Jason Reed’s biological father is,” I said, positioning myself to capture a bit of action from the fan.

While I ran down my logic, Skip swiveled back and forth in his chair, expressionless. I wished I’d brought him one of Willie’s cookies again, to soften him up.

“Interesting,” he said, when I’d finished.

“Interesting how? As in, you’ll look into it? Get DNA and all that? Are you at least testing to see if Tippi is Jason’s mother?”

“I can’t talk about the details, Aunt Gerry. You know better than that.” Skip leaned closer, and lowered his voice. Cubicle protocol, I figured. “I know I’ve given you a heads-up a couple of times this week, about the Reeds, and maybe that was a bad precedent. I’m sorry if I misled you. I have to treat your ideas the way I would handle any tip that came in over the hotline.”

“Tips? Is that what I’m giving you? Maybe I should call in on the hotline, then. I’ll bet I’d get more satisfaction.” I couldn’t remember being so upset with my nephew since he was a teenager and kept Richard out past his curfew.

Skip tapped a pencil on his desk. “I’m sure it’s frustrating for you. I know you feel a certain connection to Tippi Wyatt, having been at the crime scene, for all practical purposes. And with Maddie, at that. And I know Dudley Crane was a friend. And that you want to protect Linda. But you wouldn’t want me to do something against policy, would you?”

He was right. I was learning something new about my nephew. This was the first time I’d tried to interact with him on a professional level, and he was being just that. Professional. I had no right to be upset.

But that didn’t mean I’d have to give up completely, either. He was a public servant, and I was the public.

“How about a couple of ‘concerned citizen’ questions, then?” I asked.

A deep sigh from Skip, followed by a gesture that said, “Be my guest.”

“Has Tippi’s body been buried already? Or sent somewhere?”

Skip hesitated, as if he were consulting some rulebook about what to tell a concerned citizen. “We’re waiting on information about possible relatives.”

“Meanwhile you can get a DNA sample, right? Oops, sorry, that was outside tip-givers’ boundaries.”

Skip laughed.

“And the gun issue? Whether the same gun was used for both murders?”

Skip gave me a look that said, “not a chance,” which immediately turned to surprise when “Take Me Out to the Ball Game” rang through the room. It was good to hear his hearty laugh.

“Maddie,” I said.

“Sweet.”

We took turns telling Maddie we missed her already and promised we’d call often.

I left soon after, quitting before I was too far behind.

As soon as the automatic doors opened to let me out of
the police building, I peered in the direction of my car. The feeling of panic I had when I read the note came back. From a distance my windshield seemed bare, however, and after several friendly “good afternoon” exchanges with nonthreatening types crossing the civic-center plaza, my nervous system settled down.

I did a number of errands that I’d let slide in the last couple of weeks. I stopped at the library to pick up flyers for the Friends’ book sale and bought a book on California history for Angela at Rosie Norman’s bookstore. I drove by the theater to see what was playing for when Beverly and I resumed our movie nights, though I knew they’d be showing the same Maddie-level movie all summer. I browsed the card shop and chose a sympathy note for an old friend in San Francisco whose husband died, and a birthday greeting for a woman who helped out with the library’s literacy program. I made a run to buy boring paper products, toothpaste, vitamins, and other staples for the house.

The tasks took a chunk out of the afternoon. I told myself this spurt of running around town had nothing to do with not wanting to go home to an empty house.

I thought I’d exhausted the options offered by Lincoln Point—I had no dry cleaning in the summer, and all my shoes were in good repair—until I spotted red-white-and-blue banners hanging from a small building, a block off Springfield Boulevard. The campaign headquarters of Jack Wilson. As a concerned citizen, I felt an immediate need to get myself informed before Election Day.

I parked around the back of the building, scanning the area as I left my car, and beeped the alarm to on. Nothing like a little note to make one paranoid.

The door to the Wilson headquarters was wide open, which meant no air-conditioning, but it couldn’t be worse than the LPPD, I figured. Right I was. The building, a converted cottage, had a nice cross breeze. The ambience was also helped by the fact that there was no peeling paint, nor stains left by felons past, on the walls. They were freshly painted, a stark white, the better to show off posters of the candidate, in his navy blue suit and red power tie, in full smiling splendor.

Gail Musgrave, the sister who was passed over for the family jewel, as I now thought of her, sat close to the front door at a desk piled high with brochures, all with the same smiling photo of Jack Wilson. A large, boxy briefcase that I recognized as Gail’s cosmetics samples bag was by her feet. Double duty today, I guessed, doing both of her part-time jobs.

The room was quiet. The phones and faxes sat silent, as if they’d been turned off. Not what I expected to find, until I remembered—it was late Friday afternoon in the summer. Everyone was on the road already, for Tahoe to the north or Santa Cruz to the south, for a weekend away.

Gail looked crisp, as usual, in a sleeveless, pastel flower-print dress. “Hi, Gerry. What brings you here?”

The same question Beverly had asked of Chuck Reed in Sheridan’s. Was I that out of place? Considering that I’d never been here, nor to anyone else’s campaign headquarters since I was in college (Mary Lou would be ashamed of her mother-in-law), the answer was, yes.

“I thought I’d get caught up on the issues,” I said, sounding hollow even to myself. I picked up a brochure.

Gail laughed. “Sure you did.”

“Lots of people have just happened to find themselves in the neighborhood today.” This from Karen Striker, entering from a doorway to the right, carrying a large carton that partially hid her tanned thighs.

For once I was glad not to have the Porter red hair and corresponding quick-to-blush skin. “I guess there’s not much going on in this town, and the appearance of a fifty-thousand-dollar gem is big news.”

Karen smiled and brushed her denim shorts clear of dust from the box she’d set down. “I’m trying to convince Jack to bring in the gem and charge people to have a look. Or, excuse me, make a campaign contribution to have a look.”

Karen seemed to be a good customer of Gail’s, as well as a campaign worker—in spite of very casual dress, her makeup was extensive and perfect. Her fingernails were done in a summery salmon color, and her toenails, prominent against her yellow flip-flops, matched.

“We have our sapphire back, and all is well,” Gail said. “I’m not sure I want to parade it around town.” She was making an attempt to be light, but I detected a serious undertone. I didn’t miss the “we,” either.

I had so many questions. Too bad this was not the time to ask her to speculate on where the gem had been, or why her father had chosen to keep it a secret from her. And what she thought of her parents’ decision to will it solely to Jack.

“As long as you’re here, help yourself to some iced tea and cookies,” Karen said, pointing to a small kitchenette off the main room. “I don’t recommend the coffee, which has been sitting there all day.”

Iced tea sounded good. Plus, a little refreshment break would extend my stay naturally. “I think I will. Thanks,” I said, and headed toward the doorway Karen indicated. My plan was to come up with a growth/no-growth question to give my visit some credibility.

The room, probably the kitchen in the original bungalow, had been divided clumsily into a storage area and a small nook encompassing the sink, stove, and refrigerator. Rolled-up posters, boxes of bumper stickers, and bags of campaign buttons overflowed into the snack area. No chairs or tables would fit.

I squeezed between unopened cartons and made it to the counter, where a tray held a pitcher of tea, condiments, and a plate of store-bought filled cookies.

A coatrack, out of place only inches from the counter, held a navy jacket on a hanger. A red tie was looped around the hook of the hanger, producing the effect of a store-window mannequin. Jack Wilson’s costume, as seen in the posters in the main room.

I smiled as a memory came to mind, of my husband, who also used to keep a nice jacket and tie at his office, in case he was called to an impromptu meeting with a client. Otherwise, he worked in his favorite blue cotton shirts, sleeves rolled up.

Thoughts of Ken, combined with the cramped quarters, threw me off balance. As I reached for a cup, my oversize purse swung around and knocked Wilson’s jacket from the hanger. Luckily no tea was spilled in the incident.

Other things spilled, however, from the jacket. Two bronze-color pens, with
JACK WILSON FOR COUNCIL
in bold letters, and a small notepad. I looked over my shoulder, hoping to be alone with my misdeed and make things right before anyone noticed. I heard Karen and Gail talking in the outer room and knew I was clear.

I put the pens back in the outside pocket, and picked up the small notepad. In bright blue letters, I read (not that I was actually reading, but the letters passed before my eyes, unbidden),
CRANE’S JEWELERS, INC
.

Odd that Jack would have a pad from Dudley Crane’s store. I would have expected Jack to go as far as he needed to—the Milpitas mall, for example—for jewelry purchases, rather than patronize the business of his staunch rival.

The first two pages of the pad had intriguing doodles. I guessed it was Dudley’s hand that had drawn the excellent representations of various pieces of jewelry. A pendant, a ring, a bracelet, a choker—all featuring the same stone.

A stone I recognized, even in a sketched version. One that had been at the bottom of my tote. The Wilsons’ Ceylon sapphire.

In printed letters, along the vertical edge of the top page, I read,
J—PICK ONE!

I heard the phone ring in the main room. Bad timing. Either Karen or Gail would have to answer, leaving the other one free to come back here. The pages of the notepad were furled, and I didn’t think I could get them straightened out quickly enough to insert the pad neatly into the jacket pocket.

Only one thing to do. I stuffed the pad into my purse.

When Karen appeared moments later, I was stirring unneeded sugar into my iced tea. I never did that, but I wanted to look busy enough to have stayed in the kitchen longer than it would take to pour a cup of tea and return to the outer room.

“Everything okay back here?” Karen asked.

“Oh, yes. I was trying to decide whether to take a cookie.” I was sure my hand was shaking, but Karen didn’t seem to notice anything off about my outward appearance.

“Please do. First, you’re skinny, and second, we need to finish these up. The weekend kids are great about bringing homemade goodies.” Karen covered her mouth, a gesture I remembered from when she spilled the beans the other night about Jason’s birthplace. “Sorry. I didn’t mean you should eat the inferior stuff. No offense.”

I laughed and took a cookie. I bit off a piece. “None taken.”

Karen needed to work on her brain-to-mouth timing, as I would often tell my high-school students, but I was glad she had her own gaffe to cover up and wasn’t aware of mine.

I needed to get out of the building. Between the threatening note from my windshield and Jack’s (Dudley’s) notepad, I felt my purse was the most interesting thing in Lincoln Point at the moment and I wanted to go home and study its contents.

We walked into the outer room, where Gail was finishing a phone conversation.

I looked at my watch. “Is it that late already? I’d better be going.”

“We’re about to lock up anyway,” Karen said. “We’re just waiting for Jack to pick us up. We’re going to dinner and then there’s a meeting this evening to discuss what to do in light of the empty spot on the ballot.” She lowered her voice appropriately at “empty spot” as if to honor the deceased.

“Is it an open meeting?” I asked.

“Oh, definitely,” Karen said. “It’s at eight in city hall. You should—”

Gail put her hand out, nearly blocking Karen’s mouth. “Well, technically, yes, it’s open. But it will be very boring, I promise you.”

On the contrary
, I thought,
it might be even more interesting than my tote
.

“Thanks for the warning,” I said, and moved toward the door to the outside. At which point, I’d be officially walking off with property not my own.

Moving in a straight line, but turned sideways to wave good-bye to Karen and Gail, I bumped into a solid mass. About my height, and muscular.

“Gerry?” Among the hundreds of faces of Jack Wilson that surrounded me on the walls, the real Jack emerged in front of me, obstructing my path. “What a surprise,” he said.

I really had to work on my community involvement.

“Gerry’s curious about the sapphire,” Karen said.

Gail gave her a silencing look. I suspected there would be some discussion later over Karen’s naïvete and openness, quite unbefitting a political campaigner. I tried to remember when Gail had become so serious and uncommunicative. Perhaps she was simply tired, schlepping cosmetics by day, taking classes at night, and working for her brother’s campaign.

“Well, of course, I’m curious,” I said. “Isn’t everyone? But I’m especially interested in how it came to be in Dudley Crane’s possession.”

Now who was not thinking before speaking? I had no evidence that the sapphire had been anywhere but with Jack Wilson, and then with Jason Reed (and then me). It was my guess, and only a guess—once I ruled out Jason’s sneaking into a private home to steal a piece of jewelry—that Jason and/or Just Eddie had stolen it in the Crane robbery.

The effect of my guess rippled through the room. Gail dropped a stack of brochures on the floor. Karen looked puzzled and began to cough. Jack stretched his thick neck nervously.

“I’m sure I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Jack said. At nearly six o’clock on Friday afternoon, while most voters were in shorts and tank tops, Jack Wilson was in a three-piece suit. Maybe that wasn’t the only reason he was sweating. “I doubt that poor Dudley was the one who stole the gem.”

“Of course not,” I said.

Jack turned to Karen and Gail. Before my eyes, he snapped his fingers. “Can I get a cold drink here?”

I thought that behavior went out when love beads came in. I decided to leave before witnessing the women’s response.

“I’ll see you all at the meeting tonight,” I said. I pulled a brochure from my tote and waved it. “Meanwhile I’ll just go home and read up on the issues.”

I stuffed the brochure back into my tote, where it would eventually fall to the bottom and join expired coupons for soft drinks and paper towels, plus receipts for parking garages, the ice cream shop, and photographs developed in years past.

I seemed to be doing a lot of thinking in my car lately.

As I’d gone about my errands earlier, I’d thought about the timeline Beverly had given me on the gemstone. The whole story seemed more and more suspicious. The gem was present and accounted for, apparently, in Gail and Jack’s mother’s possession, until it was bequeathed to Jack only.

Now I wondered if, by any chance, Gail had contested the will and then, conveniently, Jack reported the gem stolen, making her challenge moot.

A wild leap, many of which I’d been making lately. There was nothing to suggest that Gail was anything but loving and loyal to her brother. Or that Jack would go to such lengths as to fake its theft, to keep it from his sister.