Murder on the Mind (25 page)

She gave me a wry smile. “Nowhere fancy. Just good, cheap food.”

CHAPTER 20

“What do you recommend?” I asked, peering at Maggie over the top of my laminated menu.

“The fish fry, of course.”

Mike and Ann’s Tavern wasn’t fancy. Plastic flowers in plastic vases decorated each table. No one seemed to mind—every seat was taken. But it wasn’t only the good food that had attracted Maggie.

“I’m allergic to cigarette smoke,” she explained. “This was the first smoke-free bar I came across. That doesn’t matter now that the laws have changed. But this is still the best place I know for a fish fry.”

“I had a feeling you didn’t like being around smoke.”

“Who does? If I’m exposed to it for even a few minutes, I suffer for days. I just have bad lungs.”

My eyes wandered down the front of her sweater. I wasn’t disappointed in what I saw. She cleared her throat and I looked away, pretended to study the daily specials.

The beer-battered haddock, fries, coleslaw, and fresh-baked rye bread were excellent, and the portions generous. Too generous for me. Maggie assured me her dog would do justice to the leftovers.

We talked while we ate. Maggie had so many interests and amusing stories to share. In comparison, I felt like the dullest man on earth. I gave her the rest of my history—how I’d lost my job at Travelers, then used all my savings just to survive. I told her about landing the new job and how life was on the upswing until the mugging.

It seemed like every sentence I uttered began with, “I used to. . . .” I used to play racquetball. I used to dabble in photography. I used to target shoot.

I used to have a life.

“My sister Irene says you’re a loser. That I should run away from you as fast as I can.”

My stomach tightened. She’d said the words with such lightness that it almost sounded like a joke. But her sister might be right.

“Then why didn’t you cancel tonight?”

Maggie’s gaze held mine. “Because the day I met you, when you shook my hand, I felt—” She stopped, as though having trouble putting her thoughts into words. “I felt something.”

I had, too. I liked it. Wanted more.

She hesitated, then reached across the table and touched my hand, reigniting that same spark of something inside me once again.

We sat there, amidst the dinner crowd bustle, staring at each other. Smiling at each other. Studying each other. Then a shadow darkened her deep blue eyes. She released her hold, reached for her coffee cup, and lowered her gaze. “There’s something I should’ve told you.”

I swallowed dryly. “Oh?”

“Matt and I were . . . together for a while.”

Oh shit. And I’d told Nielsen to concentrate on Sumner’s ex-lovers. I worked at keeping my voice level. “You had an affair?”

She placed the cup back in its saucer, toyed with her spoon. “It was right after Gary left.” Her face seemed to crumple. “When your husband leaves you for another man, you feel like a failure as a woman. Matt and his never-ending string of compliments made me feel desirable again. But it wasn’t long before I felt pretty darn cheap.”

For a moment I thought she might cry. Then she took a breath and straightened in the booth. “Matt took advantage of me when I was vulnerable. I’m not making excuses for myself. I should’ve known better. When I finally realized what I’d allowed to happen, I was angry. I broke it off. Matt took his revenge. Got me transferred back to the secretarial pool, where I started. It took me four years to move up to the top floor again. And he made my life hell once I made it back, too.”

Her anger and resolve, stretched across the expanse of table, touched me. “Why didn’t you tell me this sooner?”

She wouldn’t look at me. “I didn’t want you to think less of me.”

I studied her troubled face as she tried to distance herself from the hurt.

“I don’t think less of you. I think less of him.”

Her smile was thin-lipped and embarrassed.

I needed more from her. But how could I get it without seeming as big a jerk as the man who’d used her? “What about Sumner’s children? Ron Myers said the youngest son has a drinking problem.”

“Michael went to rehab after he showed up drunk at school, toting a loaded gun. I’m the one who made the arrangements to get him into a place near Albany. Matt’s daughter, Diane, is the only sane one in the family.”

“What’s with Rob?” I asked. “When I spoke to him yesterday, he was pretty hostile. I got the impression he really didn’t want anyone looking into his father’s death. Like he might’ve known something about it.”

“I don’t know. Matt was great at damage control. I wondered if Rob got caught stealing or maybe selling drugs a couple of years ago. He was in some kind of trouble, but it all blew over.”

“Did Sumner confide in you about such things?”

Maggie shook her head. “He didn’t respect me—or any other woman. I once heard him tell one of the guys that women were only walking twats. I know that’s vulgar, but that’s what he was.”

I frowned. The more I learned about Sumner, the more my revulsion grew. But I needed to find out more.

“I’m trying to get in Sumner’s head—get a better understanding of him. Does that make sense?”

She nodded.

“Then tell me, where does one have a clandestine affair in Buffalo?”

“We’d meet at his condo. I don’t think Claudia knew about it. I don’t know if he owned or rented it. It might even belong to the bank. You wouldn’t believe the assets they have.”

Someone dropped a quarter in the jukebox. Elvis began singing “Suspicious Minds.”

Maggie leaned forward, and spoke louder. “I found a duplicate key in his desk while cleaning out his office.” She patted her purse beside her. “I don’t know why, but I took it.”

My eyes widened as a whole range of possibilities blossomed in my mind.

She smiled coyly. “Wanna take a drive?”

* * *

The condo was in a tract of ubiquitous clones in Tonawanda, off Sheridan Drive. If you came home drunk on a Saturday night, you’d probably never find your own place.

Maggie parked in the short drive, killed the lights and engine. No porch lamp shined at number three twenty-two. It wasn’t much to look at. A double garage took up most of the front of the place. The entrance was a white steel door. A round, leaded window was the only source of natural light on the south side of the first floor, although double dormered windows were centered on the story above.

We got out and I looked around. No neighbors peeked out to watch us. Not even a barking dog cut the silence.

Maggie headed for the front door, stuck the key in, and reached for the handle.

A sick feeling welled in my stomach.

“Wait! You have gloves?”

I met her on the steps, could hardly see her eyes in the dark.

“What for?”

“If the cops haven’t been through here already, we don’t want them finding our fingerprints when they come.”

“Good idea,” she said, and pulled a pair of knit gloves from her coat pocket. I held the cuff of my right glove between my teeth and pulled it on my hand, as she fumbled with the key in the lock.

The condo was dark. I waited until she shut the door behind us before patting the wall in search of a light switch.

A crystal chandelier illuminated the entry. Stark white walls, tiled entry, carpet and sectional furniture in the room straight ahead: the place reminded me of a hospital. No art or photos decorated the hall. To the right, a staircase led to the loft above. The place felt cold, like no one had been there in weeks.

We wandered into the living room, Maggie flicking on switches as we went. A cathedral ceiling soared some twenty feet above us. Rectangular skylights, like black eye sockets, reflected the glow of track lighting. A black-and-white, modern-art painting decorated the space above the white mantle. A companion piece of corporate art hung near the dining table. The rest of the walls were blank. A natural-looking fake fern filled the cold hearth. A stereo cabinet held audio equipment, but few CDs. The black box of a TV sat on a pedestal across from the couch, its remote the only clutter in the room.

“Not much personality, is there?” Maggie commented. “It hasn’t changed a bit since I was here five years ago.”

“Apart from the style of furniture, it’s not much different from Sumner’s house.”

I ventured farther into the sterile room, looked over the breakfast bar into the galley kitchen.

“What’s through that door? The garage?”

She nodded.

“And upstairs?”

“Two good-sized bedrooms. A terrific bathroom. Double shower, Jacuzzi bath. There’s a hot tub on the deck.” She walked over to the French doors. Beyond her I could see the lights of the other condos on the next street.

“The basement opens out to the back courtyard. Matt had a wet bar down there. Pool table, too. Wanna see?”

I shook my head, looked around the room once more. Too bad I couldn’t touch anything. I just hoped I’d suck up whatever residual essence remained of Sumner by other means.

I closed my eyes, breathed deeply, opening myself up to the place. Tendrils of something nudged at my brain.

Maggie and Sumner had made love here. He’d touched her. Maybe memorized her every curve.

A wave a jealousy washed through me.

Don’t think about it.

But I couldn’t stop. It ate at me.

I squeezed my eyes shut tighter.

The tendrils grew stronger. I wasn’t sure just what it was I was getting—but I was definitely getting something. Fear, maybe, but unlike what I’d felt before. I concentrated and the feeling swelled. Yes, another’s stomach-churning fear.

“You okay?” Maggie asked, worried.

I let out a long breath, forced a smile. “Yeah. Let’s look upstairs.”

Maggie led the way, turning on more lights as we went. It seemed to enhance my newly awakened senses, the fear expanding with each step.

“This is the guest room,” she said, adopting a real estate broker’s cadence, “but I doubt anyone’s ever stayed here.”

Like the living room, it was a study in black and white. The headboard and matching dresser were ebony enamel. A white spread covered the mattress, and sheepskin acted as a throw at the left side of the bed, its ivory softness a contrast to the stark white carpet. No night tables with bedside lamps for reading comfort. No books, either. No decorations on the walls. I opened the closet door. Nothing. Not even coat hangers.

“Next is the bathroom. I’d kill for one like this,” she said and flipped on a switch.

Chrome and tile sparkled like something out of a builder’s brochure. Except for a box of tissues, there was nothing in sight to indicate anyone lived here. I opened the medicine cabinet. An electric razor, toothpaste and single toothbrush, mouthwash, cologne, a can of men’s hair spray, and a half-empty box of condoms. Old Matt liked to be prepared. A drawer in the vanity held a dozen new toothbrushes—no doubt for use by Sumner’s lady guests—and an unopened box of disposable cups. Freshly laundered white towels sat neatly stacked in the linen closet.

“I take it Matt didn’t spend a lot of time here.”

“It didn’t take him long to climax,” she said, sarcasm filling her voice. She cleared her throat. “The master bedroom’s got a king-sized bed, a down comforter and—” I felt her tension rise.

I left the bathroom, saw a hand towel on the threshold between the master bedroom and hall. A dark smudge marred its pristine state. “What’s wrong?”

She wrinkled her nose. “Do you smell something?”

I did. A flat, coppery odor I recognized.

“Stay here,” I told her and headed down the hall.

I hit the light switch. Blood—like paint on a blank canvas—splattered the walls by the right side of the bed.

“What is it?” Maggie called.

I moved to the far side of the bed, careful not to tread on the footprint stains that ruined the carpet.

Claudia Sumner lay huddled on her side, naked, the top of her head blown clear away.

“Jeff?” Maggie cried, fear threading her voice.

No gun was visible. Where were Claudia’s clothes? Her car? In the garage?

My gaze drifted to her face as phantom images of Shelley’s murder exploded in my mind. But it was Claudia’s blood, brains, and bone sprayed across the walls, floor, and bed.

The room was suddenly too hot, making it hard to breathe. I backed away, hoped to hang onto my stomach contents long enough to reach the bathroom.

I brushed past Maggie, threw up in the sink. Coughing and gasping, I ran the water until I could catch my breath.

“What did you see?” she cried. “What’s in there?”

I wiped my mouth on my sleeve.

“Claudia.”

Maggie’s eyes went wide with fear. “She’s . . . dead?”

I nodded. “Hours ago. Maybe even yesterday.”

She took a ragged breath, eyes wild, and backed away, crashing into the wall, then bolted for the stairs.

“Wait!”