Murder in Miniature (21 page)

It was common knowledge, even among the most casual voters, that the open seat would be a tie-breaking seat. Six council members—four who were not up for reelection, and two incumbents—were split down the middle. I was ashamed to admit that I couldn’t name which member stood for which position.

A man I recognized from a real estate office stood up, still dressed in a business suit. “It seems to me we ought to do everything we can to offer a pro-growth candidate, to balance the ticket. Otherwise, why have an election at all?”

“That’s why we’re here,” Roberts said. For the life of me, I couldn’t remember which side Roberts came down on. “We want to give you a chance to present a candidate. There’s a certain amount of city funds available to assist if someone wants to run.” This last announcement met with a round of applause.

A man I didn’t know stood up, cap in hand, respectfully. “Why do we need an election to tell us that we should have more cops on the street? Does anyone in this town feel safe right now?”

A murmur of no’s rippled through the assembly. From there it took off. A free-for-all, that Roberts’s gavel and microphone were no match for. The orderly meeting became a rerun of the rally on the street earlier in the week.

“More development means more money for services.”

“What are they doing with the money we already have?”

“Do you want them to raise our taxes?” (I didn’t follow the thread of this person’s argument, but she may not have meant it to be logical.)

“What good are low taxes if we’re not safe on the street?”

“I’m afraid to leave my house at night.”

“What about our kids? Who’s next?”

Roberts banged his gavel over and over. I guessed he wished he had those little blue cards, after all. He shouted through the mike. “Please, please, we’ll never get anywhere if we don’t have order.” The uproar ran its course, and the hall settled down. “If you raise your hands, we’ll be happy to answer your questions.”

A young man raised his hand. “Has there been any progress on the murder case?”

Not what Roberts expected when he invited questions. Before he could answer, Mike Rafferty, the chief of police (Skip’s boss, whose son had been my student in AP English) stood up. When I turned to see him, I recognized at least one row of policemen, including my nephew, sitting in the back of the hall. I wondered if I could get through the crowd quickly enough to corner Skip when the meeting was over.

“We are using all our resources to investigate the crimes of the past week,” the chief said. I was glad he made it plural, though he might have meant the jewelry-store robbery and Crane’s murder. Rafferty was not in uniform, but his large physique and booming voice gave him the look and sound of authority.

The next few questions had the same “who killed Crane?” bent to them, and the chief’s answer was a verbal anagram of his first statement.

Was this time well spent?
I asked myself. I thought not. I could have stayed home and made an entire restaurant out of the little white plastic “tables” that held up the covers of pizza boxes. (I had an abundance of them from dinners with Maddie.)

Maybe I could salvage the evening. Before I could reconsider, my hand was in the air. “Mrs. Porter,” Chief Rafferty said. I hoped he had only the fondest memories of me at PTA meetings.

I stood up. I thought I’d conquered my fear of public speaking during my first week of teaching, but this was an altogether different situation. I cleared my throat. I reminded myself that probably a third of the attendees had been my students during my thirty-year career. “Chief Rafferty, do you have any reason to believe that the murders of Tippi Wyatt and Dudley Crane are related?”

The buzz went through the hall. I picked out snatches of commentary, “good question” being the most prominent. I relaxed my hold on the chair in front of me and sat down.

“Good question,” the chief echoed. “I’m sure you know that we can’t divulge any information that would compromise our investigation.”

I wondered if the “we” included my nephew.

I was happy with the follow-up questions—Was the same gun used? Were there fingerprints anywhere? Any more information on the woman? Did the woman have any relatives in Lincoln Point? The answer, however, was the same for all, a variation of “We can’t comment on an open case.”

With not much accomplished, to my mind, Roberts declared the meeting over. “We’ll review tonight’s discussion and submit a report, which will be available to you in the usual formats. Thank you all for coming.” He pounded the gavel one last time.

I heard everything from “boo” to less polite ejaculations, over the din of hundreds of chairs scraping against the floor. Was this typical of council sessions? No issues were resolved, and people were more upset now than before the meeting started. We never even got back to the original agenda: Who would fill the ballot slot left vacant by Dudley’s murder?

I probably should have stayed home and played with my furniture.

But then I wouldn’t have (literally) run into Skip.

Of course, he did it deliberately. I could tell by the smirk
and the twinkle and the…well…the Skip look. “I kept waiting for you to ask a question,” he said to me. “I knew if you were in the room, you would, and”—he threw up his hands in mock glee—“you did.”

“So, will you answer it for me?”

“You weren’t happy with the chief’s answer?”

“No, and neither were you, or you wouldn’t be looking over your shoulder right now as you’re asking me.”

“Nice catch.”

We walked out to the sidewalk and toward Springfield Boulevard, where my car was parked, eventually breaking away from the crowd. I secretly (stupidly) hoped there would be a note on my car while Skip was with me. “Imagine that!” I’d say, and submit the note for handwriting analysis.

“Do you want to grab a coffee?” Skip asked. We both looked up and down the street. The only beacon was the light from Sadie’s ice cream shop.

“Ice cream it is,” I said.

Being the only show in town, Sadie’s was crowded, but with an escort like Skip, we got a table pretty quickly. Two high-school girls (I could spot them a mile away) vied for the privilege of giving Skip a menu. The other girl handed one to me and led us to a booth by the large window that looked onto Springfield Boulevard.

Sadie’s was brightly lit, with everything—floor, walls, chairs, tables, servers’ uniforms, signage—in pink and white. In our window seat, we were practically on display on the otherwise dimly lit boulevard.

I’d thought about what might have provoked someone (besides Jason) to warn me to back off. I’d concluded that the only reason anyone would have to think I was “investigating” was that they saw me at the police station. I seldom visited Skip there, and anyone who knew me would be aware of that. Now here I was slurping a mocha shake, across from a cop (eating a caramel cashew sundae) in Sadie’s window for all the world to see.

I couldn’t worry about it; for the moment anyway, I couldn’t be safer. And there was a slight chance that Jason had lied about the second note.

“Linda and Jason will be showing up at the station in the morning,” I said.

Skip nodded. “I caught the call right before I left for the meeting. I’m glad. And, really, if you had anything to do with their coming forward on their own—almost on their own—thanks.”

“Meanwhile, there’s another crime you may not be aware of yet.”

I told Skip the history of the sapphire. He was relaxed, spooning ice cream into his mouth, but listening attentively. I could tell he hadn’t already thought of the conspiracy theory. Maybe, before going on, I could take advantage of the moment.

“Was the same gun used in both murders?” I asked him. I could see my car, parked across the street. I strained to determine if there was anything under the windshield wiper. I hoped there was no stalker in the shadows, reading my lips.

Skip gave a hearty laugh. “Nice shot. You don’t let me rest a minute, do you?”

“It was worth a try. It doesn’t seem that long ago that I could fool you into thinking a fairy left money under your pillow.”

“Nah, I never believed that crap.”

“Your mother’s heart will be broken.” I drew a long, refreshing mouthful of chocolate shake through my straw. “Back to the sapphire. I, uh, may be able to help you when it comes to making a case for insurance fraud.”

I dug in my purse and pulled out a business-size envelope that I’d used to protect the Crane notepad. I pulled out the pad and handed it to Skip. “What do you think? Doesn’t it look like Dudley Crane and Jack Wilson had something going on the side?”

Skip whistled as he flipped back and forth between the pages that were written on. A good sign. He turned the book sideways to read the “
PICK ONE
” message.

Before he could ask, I said, “In case you’re wondering, it fell out of a jacket.”

Saturday morning, I felt I’d done all I could, with my limited
information, to set things right in Lincoln Point. I’d been of some help with the Crane’s Jewelers robbery by working with Linda and Jason. And I felt sure the Crane-Wilson insurance fraud wouldn’t have come to light as quickly if I hadn’t found the drawing and presented it to Skip.

Two out of three wasn’t bad. It wasn’t my job to find a killer.

There was no way Skip was going to include me in the murder investigation, and I had no good reason for wanting to be part of it, other than wanting to clear Linda and Jason. And “capture” whoever had threatened me.

I wanted to contact Mr. Windshield Note, tell him to be advised that
I am, indeed, backing off.
I hoped he would get the message and assume all my future police department visits would have to do only with an aunt visiting her nephew.

My phone rang as I was covering the tops of my collection of “pizza tables” with contact paper in a red-and-white-checked design. I envisioned an Italian restaurant with wine bottles on each table. I’d seen the perfect tall, thin wood bottle shapes in packages at the crafts store. I’d paint them a dark green like Chianti bottles.

I picked up the phone in the laundry room, which had one of my many crafts tables. How appropriate—the call was from fellow crafter Karen Striker.

Before she could tell me why she was calling, I roped her into brainstorming an idea for the bottom of the Chianti bottles.

“Hmm. I’d use some netting, like, from a thin, close-weave strainer. Then, you know, you can spray paint it a basket color and glue to the bottles.”

Excellent. I could see it take shape in my mind, how I’d also roll some of the netting together and form a handle. “Thanks, Karen,” I said. I almost said, “Like, thanks.”

“Don’t forget to put candles in a few of the bottles,” she said.

“Good idea. But I’ll bet that’s not why you called.”

“You’re right. This really is a solicitation for help with our campaign.”

I couldn’t believe Jack Wilson was still campaigning. Thanks to the do-nothing meeting of the evening before, Jack was de facto on the city council. Unless the police were ready to bring the case to the DA and he was indicted for fraud. Either way, he didn’t need to campaign.

Karen was still talking. “…ask for your support. Look, Gerry, I don’t know where you come down on the growth/no-growth thing, but I think you’ll be happy with Gail’s platform.”

“Gail’s platform?”

“Yes, didn’t you hear the first part of this? Sorry, I tend to babble. Gail is running for the council seat. I’m her campaign manager. Sort of. I mean I’m just learning.”

“And Jack…?”

“At this time, Jack has some legal issues to deal with.” Karen clicked her tongue. “Oh, what am I saying? You know it’s about the sapphire, Gerry. You practically told us yourself yesterday.”

I was amazed at the quick work of the LPPD. No doubt the chief of police had something to do with giving Jack a heads-up so he could turn himself in. No perp-walk, as Skip would say, for a prominent citizen like Jack Wilson.

I was still processing the news. Gail Musgrave was running for city council.

Karen kept up her end of the conversation. “You know that Gail has been a Lincoln Point businesswoman for many years. She’s now studying to be a broker right here in town, and she has her finger on the needs of the community. Her platform is one of responsible development.” I heard no “likes” or “you knows” and pictured Karen reading from a cue card. “Gail feels that only with…well, I guess I don’t really need to pitch to you, do I? The fact is, we could use some volunteers, Gerry. And I thought, since you’re retired…”

Karen was too young to know that life in retirement was often busier than ever. “Isn’t Gail guaranteed the seat if she runs unopposed? As Jack would be?”

“Not exactly. She needs thirty-three percent of the vote in any case. Some old clause in the election rules says that if a candidate doesn’t hit that minimum, the city can keep the seat vacant for six months and then start all over again.”

“And Gail’s afraid she might not make it, since she doesn’t have the name recognition her brother does.”

“Right. She’s kind of an unknown quantity, and we’re trying to change that.”

I looked through the glass sliding doors of my laundry room, at my Eichler neighborhood and beyond. Maybe it was time for me to get involved in the workings of my city. It was very comfortable to work with literacy students as a way of contributing, but, truthfully, I had the time and the resources to do more.

Didn’t I grow up with John F. Kennedy’s, “Ask not what your country can do for you…”? Wasn’t I in college during the bumper-sticker revolution: “If you’re not part of the solution, you’re part of the problem.” So what if I was a late bloomer? I could still get out there and do my bit.

I felt so patriotic, I nearly pledged allegiance to the little flag decal Maddie had stuck to my washing machine when she was about four years old.

“What do you need?” I asked Karen.

Excited about my new “job”—I’d signed up to answer
phones and do routine clerical work at the formerly-known-as Wilson, now Musgrave, campaign headquarters—I decided to start spreading the word immediately.

I began with Beverly. Today was one of her seat-belt checking days, so I punched in her cell-phone number.

“Go, Gail,” Beverly said, when I gave her the news. “And go, Geraldine. I’m so glad you’re doing this.”

I heard the swoosh of traffic in the background. I knew Beverly was a good multitasker and her job wouldn’t suffer for this call. “Me, too. And I know Gail would be an excellent council member.”

“I guess she has the last laugh, or whatever you want to call it. She’ll have the sapphire
and
the office.”

“Life is strange.”

“Speaking of strange, I saw the oddest thing a few minutes ago. Oops, just a second, I need to check off one in the offender column.” Beverly faded away for a short time, to mark on her clipboard, I assumed, then came back. “I saw Just Eddie heading out of town in his old truck, with a pile of furniture in the back.”

My throat caught. “What? Beverly, how long ago was this?”

“Maybe five or ten minutes. Why the excitement? Don’t tell me you’ll miss him?”

Just Eddie must have gotten wind of the fact that Jason was about to turn himself in and tell all. “I’ll explain later.”

I hung up quickly and punched in Skip’s number.

“Lincoln Point Police.”

“Skip Gowen, please. It’s urgent.”

“I’ll put you through.”

After three rings, I knew it was going to the answering machine, so I hung up and called the desk again.

“I need you to put out an APB on…on a white truck with furniture in the back.”

How dumb was that? No surprise that I didn’t immediately hear the sounds of sirens in the distance.

“And who’s calling, please?”

“Geraldine Porter. I…thank you, anyway.”

I hung up and dialed Skip’s cell.

I heard a very sleepy, “Hello?”

Of course. Saturday morning. Skip was sleeping in, either alone or…Embarrassing as it was to wake him, I had a mission.

“Skip, I just hung up with your mom. She saw Just Eddie trying to skip town. His truck was full of—”

“Just Eddie is already in custody. The last call that woke me up”—he cleared his throat meaningfully—“was to tell me he’s on his way in, in a cruiser. I figured I had a few minutes to get to the station.”

“What about Linda and Jason?”

“I was on a code five, a stakeout, from midnight until four this morning, so Paul took their statements. Anyway, you’ll be interested to know that Just Eddie is actually Edward Doucette. He has a record in New York. Jumped bail. And he’s probably linked to a few other robberies in this county.”

A fugitive from justice hanging around our youth? “How did he get a job with the school district?”

“He used his stepfather’s name. School records had him as Edward Duchin. Sad to say, police departments are not great on reciprocity. A really complete national database is a dream waiting to happen.”

“And Eddie’s cheap and flexible,” I added, knowing school budgets.

“Yeah, and he’s been supplementing his income with robberies. Somewhere there’s a pile of loot.”

“Okay. Sorry to wake you, Skip. And did I thank you for the ice cream last night?”

Skip laughed. “I’d be happier if you were a twenty-five-year-old, single girl saying, ‘Thanks for last night.’”

“I’m blushing.”

I hung up, confused. Either someone else was driving Just Eddie’s truck, or Beverly was mistaken. I called her back.

During the first three rings, I dismissed the thought of Beverly’s making an error. She’d been dealing with the Lincoln Point car population for years. On seat-belt checks, on the abandoned-vehicle watch, and on duty occasionally at the impound lot. She knew cars.

So, who else could have been driving Just Eddie’s truck?

On the fourth ring, it came to me. Jason had been holding something back during our three-way chat after his semi-stalking me. He’d been quick to give up Just Eddie, but I’d had the feeling there was someone else. It came to me—whom would Jason protect? The man he thought of as his father.

Chuck Reed.

Beverly answered before the fifth ring. “Sorry, Gerry, I had a run of offenders to tick off.”

“Did you see the driver?”

“I see lots of drivers.”

“In Just Eddie’s truck. Are you sure he was the driver?”

“Well, he was going kind of fast. And to tell you the truth, I look at the seat belt, not the face. But, now that you mention it, the driver was too tall and skinny for Just Eddie.”

“Could it have been Chuck Reed?”

“Definitely could have been. What is all this about, Gerry?”

“Later, I promise. Thanks.”

I punched in Skip’s number again.

It was all starting to make sense. Chuck was in on the robberies. It was Chuck whom Maddie saw on the videotape the night Linda was stranded, the night Tippi Wyatt was murdered. He was driving Just Eddie’s truck. Making a delivery of stolen goods, maybe, and he caught Tippi snooping around—perhaps looking for Just Eddie—and killed her. Or he may have killed her somewhere else and dumped her body there in the middle of the night.

And Dudley Crane’s murder? He was not the most honest man, it was turning out, and may have tried to fence the sapphire through Chuck. It wasn’t a stretch to imagine Chuck’s getting greedy. I figured I was on to about 80 percent of the truth, the rest conjecture; but one thing I was sure of was that Chuck Reed would have to make one stop before he fled town.

He was on his way to Bird’s Storage, with the “cheep rates” sign that had annoyed Maddie. Why else would he need Just Eddie’s truck again, unless he had to get the pile of loot Skip mentioned, that wouldn’t fit in his own small sports car?

Skip’s machine picked up. A fine time for him to be between cell towers, or in the shower.

I left a convoluted message, not quite as foolish as my earlier request for an APB. I hoped Skip would get the message in time. By now I was convinced that Chuck Reed was guilty of a double homicide.

So what on earth possessed me to grab my keys and go after him? Where was the mild-mannered, retired English teacher who wouldn’t even ride the Ferris wheel on the Lincoln Point Fairgrounds?

I can only say that my newfound desire for community service propelled me out the door before I could think things through. A Lincoln quote came to me, one that I’d had lettered on the blackboard in my classroom: “Let us have faith that right makes might, and in that faith, let us, to the end, dare to do our duty as we understand it.”

I got in my car and drove the route I’d taken a week ago, toward Bird’s Storage, very grateful that my granddaughter was safe with her parents in LA.