Murder in Wonderland (10 page)

              Getting ready for her date was an exercise in futility, as every outfit was woefully wrong for the occasion, and every bit of makeup was insufficient, and every tease of the hair made her head look misshapen.

              Dinah darted out of her way, desperate for attention as Allie stumbled over the feline's pudgy little body.

              Her phone rang, and nervous currents rippled through her.

              It was a number she didn’t recognize.

              "Hello?"

              "
Uh, is this Allie?
"

              "Speaking."

              "
This is Dougie.
"

              It took her a moment. "Oh, right!"

              "Dougie the bartender."

              "Of course! How are you?"

              "Ok. Business is good. I can’t complain. A little gout in the knee though. I get it from my mother's side. Bad teeth too. It's like some gypsy cursed that whole side of the family or something because we all got it."

              "Oh yeah?" she said, confused and almost regretting asking the question.

              "Yeah. Anyway, how's things by you?"

              "They’re great. Uh, listen, I'm in a little bit of a hurry, I'm sorry."

              "Oh, hey, no worries. I won’t keep you. So, you asked me to call you if I heard anything about your, uh, your little murder over there."

              "Yeah, my little murder."

              "Well, I haven't really heard anything about the murder."

              "Ok."

              "But I did hear something about that girl that got herself killed."             

              "Tori Cardinal."

              "Yeah, that's the one."

              "Wow. Ok. What did you hear?"

              "Well, you see we get a lot of the quarry rats in here. And one of them was talking about his wife. It turns out his wife was spending a lot of time away. Not in a, whatdya call it, surreptitious manner, just a lot of time away."

              "Ok."

              "And there was this guy who came and cut the weeds with the roto-tilly."

              "Ok."

              "And he's a young guy and he's sweating. And my guy, my quarry rat, he sees his wife staring at the sweaty guy. And he gets it in his head that maybe, you know...maybe...you know..."

              "I get it. Go on."

              "Well, so, he don't say nothing. Instead he sits there and he stews about it. And she's going out all the time without him. With friends, with family, all that."

              "Ok."

              "And then one day he comes home, and you see he's been knocking back a few at my place. And he says to her, because his tongue is loose and he's not afraid to confront her or anything, he says, what are you doing going out all the time without me? And she tells him, I thought you liked your time alone. And then it all comes out. They fight. And she tells him that it wouldn't kill him to talk to her once in a while. Well, that knocks him down. Absolutely lays him out. You know...when the right person comes along, that right person can always get through to you no matter what, even when things aren’t going too well, you know what I mean?"

              Allie looked at the clock. "I-I think so."

              "Anyway, he says ok, I'll talk to you from now on. And so they’re talking again. And what she's saying now isn’t that interesting. But this guy, my guy, he's making the effort."

              "Um, Dougie, listen, I have—"

              "Just a second. I'm getting to it. So she tells him about all the things she's been doing. And one of them was this charity event. You go there and you donate and you get a chance to win a pie. The lady running the thing made all these apple pies. And it's for the war widows, right?"

              "Ok," she said, a spark of recognition in her head. "Go on."

              "Yeah, and she tells him about this girl there. This Tori Cardinal. Right? That's your dead girl?"

              "That's her."

              "There was this big scene. My guy didn’t know the details cuz he wasn't really listening too good when his wife was telling him this. But she did win a pie. And that's why this whole thing came up. Because the pie had been sitting around and the wife didn’t want it around cuz she's trying to lose weight. So he brought it with him and we were eating it."

              "Ok."

              "So that's it."

              "So, Tori and the girl running the event—I know who that is, by the way—they got into an argument and caused a little bit of a scene, and then this guy's wife won a pie."

              "That's it. She didn’t so much win it as it was a prize for donating over a certain amount. There was a whole lot of apple pies given out. The lady baked them herself."

              Allie thought for a moment. "Dougie?"

              "That's my name."

              "I want to thank you from the bottom of my heart."

              "Don’t mention it. Oh, hey, I just ordered a shipment of Fresca. I don’t know why. Quarry rats don’t drink it."

              "Dougie, you’re the man."

              "You too. Take care of yourself."

              "I will. Bye now." She clicked off the phone with a feeling like a whirlwind was finally beginning to subside, and that what had been blowing all around her head was now settling before her.

              "So how was your date with golden boy?"

              Allie gasped. "Jimmy!"             

              The boy tucked his head down.             

              "How did you know I went on a date?"

              "You did happen to notice there were other people eating in that restaurant, didn’t you? I got friends, you know. They talk."             

              "Awww, Jimmy, you’re jealous!"

              The boy tucked his head into his chest and turned to his desk. "I hate you with every measure of my being; I just want you to know this."

              "I don’t hate you."

              "Whatever," the boy said. "I made you your thing. You so owe me. I mean, you really owe me big time."

              He shuffled around a few odds and ends to reach a wooden box the approximate size of...

              "Is that what I think it is?"

              "A cigar box."

              Indeed it was. Jimmy snapped open the lid to reveal a miniature city of motherboards, components, and wires, all apparently wired to a 12-volt battery. He snapped it shut, a proud smirk on his bearded face. On the front were three or four switches, arranged in a row and neatly labelled.

              "All you have to do is turn it on, then wait about a minute, then just keep turning these knobs here until you see this light come on. That means that you..."

              He rattled off a bunch of terms that could have been spoken in Urdu, or Swahili, or Sanskrit, or any one of a half a dozen languages that fell on Allie's ears like a bunch of bleeping, blipping babble out of a genius's mouth, which, essentially, was what this was. There was talk of frequency and phase cancellation and other assorted technical verbiage.

              When he saw the look on her face, he added, "Are you sure you don’t want me to come with you?"

              "Yeah... I think so."

              "Ok. Don't call me if you need any help."

              "Ok."

              "Now, about dinner."

              "Tomorrow night? Can we say that tentatively?"

              The boy nodded, then without another word immersed himself in the next project on his desk.

              "Jimmy?"

              Without looking up. "Yes?"

              "You'll make someone very happy someday. You're incredibly sweet."

              "Thanks."

              And Allie Griffin walked out with the sci-fi cigar box.

              "This is not cool," whispered Del. "So not cool."

              The two of them were on their bellies in a hedgerow along the western side of Tori Cardinal's house. They had already hopped over a strip of police tape. Already cloaked in the murkiness of a recently darkened sky, the two of them were dressed in black from head to toe. And the two of them wore black gloves, per Allie's instructions.

              Allie fumbled with the switches and knobs on Jimmy's invention. "Just hang on. It will be over soon."

              "How do you talk me into these things?"

              "Oh stop it. You went with me to check out Phillip. How is this any different?"

              The girl's whisper raised in pitch. "We ate at the restaurant where he worked and pretended we didn't know he worked there. Everything about that was different than this."

              "It was still sneaky. Hold on, I think I got it."

              The light on the cigar box flickered. Allie turned the knob back into the position it was just in and the light flickered again. "I get it," she said. "It's like tuning in a radio station."

              The light went on and stayed on. Allie made two fists and shook them in triumph. "That's it."

              "You sure?"

              "I trust Jimmy. He said when the light goes on, I matched the frequency of the security system and now there's, like, phase cancellation? And that means the house is blind."

              "What you just said. It sounds like something the Mad Hatter would say."

              "You read the book?" Allie said excitedly.

              "I just started it. You made me feel guilty. You happy?"

              "Let's go."

              "Oh God," said Del. "Where?"

              "You know where. We discussed this."

              What they'd discussed was a basement window that Allie guessed could easily be pried open with a little heft and a lot of patience. And a crowbar.

              Allie reassured herself silently as they ran across the lawn, crowbar in hand. Jimmy Welles had assured her that although the house's security system was still armed, it could be rendered temporarily ineffective as his little Star Trek cigar box was sending out the radio signal that, in essence, made it so.

              This is crazy, she thought. But it was for the greater good. Wasn't it?

              She had no time to contemplate the ethics of the situation. Who knew how long Jimmy's cigar box would hold out.

              They went to the basement window on the side of the house. It was sheathed in relative darkness by an oak tree that partially shielded them from the security lights that were all over the place.

              "I feel naked," whispered Del.

              "Hang on," Allie grunted as she pried open the sliding basement window. She sat back with a breath. "I can’t believe how easy that was."

              "With all this security, who needs locks?"

              "Yeah, I guess. Well, me first?"

              "You think I'm getting through there? You're crazy."

              Allie looked at the window and then at her friend. "It's fine."

              "Ew, stop sizing me up, and no, it's not fine. I had a baked Alaska last night with Ben."

              "Stop it. I'm going first."

              She pulled out a pocket-sized Boy Scout flashlight, clicked it on and placed it in her mouth. She slipped through the window with ease, then stepped onto something that gave way immediately with a hideous crash.

              She'd hit the floor just hard enough to leave a bruise or two, not hard enough for anything more serious. She didn’t have to recover her flashlight to put together what had just happened, for the smell that saturated her clothes had pretty much told her the entire story: this part of the basement had been finished and made into a bar. What she'd stepped on was a glass shelf full of very expensive spirits.

              Allie was on the floor, in a puddle of booze and broken glass. She said the
word
. Multiple times. In a variety of different incarnations.

              Del peered through the window. "What the—"

              "I'm ok," said Allie. "Did you hear anything?"

              "I heard everything. We’re pretty far from the neighbors. I wouldn't worry."

              Allie grabbed her flashlight, got up, dusted herself off and cursed again. "I smell like happy hour."

              "Well, I'm sorry," said Del. "But do you mind telling me how I'm going to get in?"

              She looked around. Barstools. Thank God they weren't bolted to the floor.

              She hefted one up and over the bar in front of the window.

              "Just come through feet first and I'll help you."

              Allie couldn’t remember the last time she'd heard that much filthy language coming from the mouth of her friend as she guided the girl's legs to the stool, then steadied her as she slid and scraped along the wall beneath the window before jumping down and slipping in a puddle of something alcoholic.

              "Fantastic. Now I smell too."

              A laugh had started in Allie's throat the moment she herself had hit the floor. She'd suppressed it then. Now, with the two of them standing there, soaked with booze, the laugh came and forced itself out. It was a couple of minutes before her mirthful trembling subsided, for trying to keep it silent had made the laugh worse.

              Del was silent, and laughless.

              "I'm glad you find this hysterical."

              Allie nodded her head, her hand over her mouth.

              "You're a picture right now, you know that? And you stink like a barfly. And I have to pee now." Del huffed.

              Nothing Del could say could deter her from finding the whole thing hilarious.

              "We're gonna get caught and I'm gonna have to go in jail, and I can't pee in front of other convicts."

              Allie doubled over at this point, almost losing her flashlight. "Stop," she managed to squeak out.

              "Oh, I'll stop," said Del, adding a disgusted grunt that seemed to start Allie off all over again.

              When she finally recovered. She hugged her friend and a grateful tear came to her eye. "I love you," she said.

              "I love you too," replied Del. "I think that's obvious. Now can we do what we came here to do so we can go home and forget this ever happened?"

              "I suppose so."

              They stumbled across the basement and reached stairs leading up.

              It was a magnificent place, even in the glow of a flashlight. Verdenier was filled with homes built during the American Revolution. Most of them felt like it, with hollow floors and warped panes in the windows. This one, however, was a testament to the entrepreneurial spirit that developed Verdenier after the town got its fortuitous write-up in the Times. The floors here were solid, and many were padded with lusciously soft carpeting you could sink into for several nights on end. Some pieces of furniture were exquisitely high-end, as were the ornaments, frames, and assorted items placed strategically atop them. What wasn't high-end was antique, rustic, and flawless in its imperfection. The walls, too, seemed to conform to the decorating scheme, as they were at odd angles to each other, giving the place an otherworldly, museum-like appearance. Allie half-expected to see roped-off portions of walls and corners, with attached exhibition cards describing the historical significance within.

              "What are we looking for?" whispered Del.

              "I'll let you know when I find it."

              "That's great."

              "Just keep your eyes open."

              "They're open. What are they looking for?"

              "I told you. I don’t know. Anything. Anything that looks like the residue of a murder case."

              They entered a room and Allie froze in awe. The library.

              What she wouldn’t give to have a room like this in her house.

              "Here we go," said Del. "Would you like a moment alone?"

              She stepped toward one of the walls of shelves that extended from floor to ceiling. "Oh my. Bear with me. Look! There’s even one of those sliding ladders!"

              She put her face close to the books and inhaled. There was nothing like the smell of old books kept in fine condition. It was better than nutmeg.

              "First editions," Allie said. "They have to be. George Eliot. Jane Austen. De Quincy? Did Tori Cardinal really love books this much, or did her ex-husband? Or did her investor tell her they were a good risk?" She turned to her friend. "There's one way to tell. Let's go find her bedroom."

              They creeped up twenty-something steps to the second floor of the house. Allie peered over the railing and felt a woozy fit of vertigo coming on. Her eyes had adjusted to the darkness now. She almost didn’t need the flashlight.

              It wasn't difficult to find what had been Tori Cardinal's boudoir. It was as elegant as Allie had pictured it would be, only without the ostentatious trappings of wealth that made similar interior décor schemes so cold. This felt lived-in, and she felt a stiff chill take her by surprise. The place was in disarray, as if someone had left it suddenly. Of course, the forensics people had left their signature mark in the rumpled bedclothes and upturned carpets, perhaps taking a little less care, knowing that the owner would not be returning. It made her a little sick to think about it, like she herself was a vulture or a jackal picking over the bones of a dead person.

              "I don’t feel so good being here," she said.

              "Oh my God," said Del. "I'm so glad you said that. It's creepy, isn't it?"

              "Yeah, a little." She steered her thoughts away from their self-defeating pattern by refocusing on what she'd come here to observe. And there it was, beside the bed: a stack of three books.

              "She
was
a reader."

              She pored over the titles. Each was on the current bestseller list. Each had a bookmark of some kind in place.

              She turned to Del. "Why didn’t she ever come to one of my book clubs at the store?"

              Del shrugged. "I think it's pretty obvious she thought she was too good for all of you."

              Allie sighed. Ben was right. This woman possessed a talent for ostracizing herself.

              She looked at Del with a suddenness that made the other girl jump.

              "Follow me downstairs."

              Back in Tori Cardinal's library, Allie once again went nose to nose with the dead woman's book collection.

              Like all book lovers, Tori Cardinal arranged her library in a way that made sense to her. In this personalized order emerged a pattern that Allie, being a fellow bookworm, quickly picked up on.

              She followed Tori's arrangement plan down shelves and across and over, and her finger traced the spines along the way until she stopped with a delighted gasp.

             
Alice's Adventures in Wonderland
, in the first American edition published by Appleton in 1866. A gorgeous copy in red cloth. She removed it from the shelf and opened it. Put her nose into the spine and inhaled deeply. She threw her head back, closed her eyes, and exhaled.

              "Are you enjoying yourself?" said Del.

              "This is incredible." She began turning pages slowly. "Del, my good woman, I want to ask you a question: Who buys bookmarks?"

              "What do you mean? People who love books?"

              "You would think, right? But you're wrong. People who read books on the regular, yes, they buy bookmarks. But that rare breed like myself, and apparently our Ms. Cardinal here, people who snuggle with books, they don’t buy bookmarks."

              "No?"

              "No, we don’t, said Allie, turning pages carefully. "We go through books like crazy. And we'll stop in the middle of one to start another, and then go back to the first one after a long period of time, and we use whatever's at hand to mark our place; a receipt, a ticket stub, a tissue—"

              At this, Allie stopped and looked up at her friend, knowing that she couldn’t suppress the smile on her face. "Or this."

              A folded piece of paper. She opened it and read what was written there, apparently in Tori Cardinal's script:

              "
I don't care what you think of me. The plain truth is that you're nothing without me and you’re nothing without my money. I guarantee you that by the end of this year my will shall be done and you'll be left with nothing.
"