The Ginseng Conspiracy (A Kay Driscoll Mystery) (30 page)

* * * *

When I arrived home, lunch was prepared and waiting. Phil had came home early from his lab. I hurried upstairs and put the sunglasses and recorder into a bag on the top shelf of my closet and came back down.

Andrew walked through the door just as we finished eating.

“Andrew!” I stood up and greeted him with a big hug and kiss.

“Hello, Mom,” Andrew said, putting his arms around me. He handed me a book. “I brought along this mystery for you that I just finished.
Lethal Liaison
. Maybe you could use it for your book club. It's a thriller.”

“We're always looking for a good book. Thanks.”

“Hi, Dad. Happy birthday, Will! Rose says happy birthday, also.”

“Thanks, Andy.”

I looked around. “Where's Rose?”

“Rose was called into work this morning,” Andy said. “She'll be there all day.”

“Andy, let's go downstairs for a couple of minutes,” Will said. “I want to show you this great billiard trick shot I've been perfecting.”

So all Will ever does is study, work, and go to class, eh? I smiled. “Phil, you made lunch. Why don't you join them downstairs for a game? I'll clean up and come down later. We can play teams.”

As soon as they all went downstairs to play pool, I called Thom to check on Agents Mitchell and Langenberg. To my relief, he confirmed the two were who they said they were. I told him about finding the recorder, also about my dislike of being swept aside by the agents, and reiterated if it hadn't been for me there wouldn't be a case at all. He told me to turn over the recorder to the agents, that withholding evidence and impeding an investigation was a crime, and spoke again about the danger involved.

Downstairs the activity soon turned from pool to jamming, which was inevitable, whenever Phil, Andrew, and Will were together. It was as natural to them as breathing. I enjoyed listening, and could hear them almost as well upstairs as downstairs where they were playing. After a while, the music became a background to my thoughts about the threat Marissa overheard at the patisserie:
What should we do about Kay Driscoll?

Where did Phil keep the batteries? I started searching through the kitchen drawers. I needed to listen to the recorder, and I hoped it wasn't damaged from being outside so long.

The bass groove disappeared from the jam session downstairs. Andrew walked into the kitchen as I finished going through a drawer. He loved to cook and started chopping up the vegetables on the counter for a salad while we talked. I could hear Phil and Will still playing downstairs.

“Rose wanted to come. She was so sorry she had to go into work.”

“Rose is a wonderful girl.” It was kind of nice though just having the four of us spending time together. He'd be with Rose all of the time soon enough. I couldn't believe my baby was getting married.

“What's all this about, you looking into some professor's murder?”

“What?” I needed to get up to the bedroom and find out what was on the recorder. There might be some batteries in the dining room buffet drawer. I wondered if Sherman put new ones in when he left for the interview with Dr. Anders. What did Andrew just say?

“I heard someone broke in the other night when you were home alone. That's scary.”

I opened up the refrigerator and took out a red onion and yellow and green peppers to slice. “There wasn't any sign of forced entry. The police think they must have had the keys to the back door.”

“That's even worse. I hope you had the locks changed?”

“The next day. Elizabeth—you've met Elizabeth from across the street—she thought it was a doctor I work with at the free clinic.”

“A doctor? Well, that could explain how he got in,” Andrew said, grating some pecorino cheese. If Sherman did put in new batteries, he could have recorded everything from the interview to his death. Thirty hours, Will said. That would have covered it. He looked in such a hurry Friday night though. Would he have taken the time? I hope at least the interview was recorded.

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“You worked at the free clinic this past week, right?”

I started to mince garlic. “Yes.”

“With that doctor who's head of the free clinic?”

“Yes.”

“Where do you keep your purse?”

“In a locker.”

“He might have a master key.”

“I don't know. Kind of a stretch, don't you think? But, I did take in patients the first half hour to fill Dr. Anders' rooms before he came on the unit.” There would have been plenty of time. Plus, he has access to casting material and could have made a copy of my keys. I looked at my watch. I hope the FBI doesn't get here until tonight so I have time to listen to the recorder. I continued making the marinade combining sour cream, cumin, and the garlic in a small bowl and put it into the refrigerator.

“You'd better keep your keys in your pocket from now on.”

“Andrew, this is all going to be coming to a head real soon. I don't want you to worry about any of this. I think I’m safe now that the FBI is in town keeping an eye on the situation.”

“The FBI!” His voice expressed concern. He sighed. “Okay, Mom, but please try to be careful. I don't want anything to happen to you. The FBI can’t be everywhere all the time.” Andrew gave me a hug. “Oops...sorry, olive oil on my hands.”

Later, when Andrew and Will went outside to keep Phil company as he grilled the steaks and chicken breasts, I searched in the dining room buffet for batteries. Finding none, I went back into the kitchen and glanced out the window. Beers in hand, Phil, Andy, and Will all stood around the grill talking and joking. The three of them looked like they were having a great time, just like old times except now instead of two little squirts, Andrew was six feet tall, his blond hair had changed to sandy brown, and Will was just a couple of inches shorter. Andrew looked over at the kitchen window, smiled, and waved. I waved back then continued to look through the drawers for some batteries.

I opened the bottom drawer next to the sink. Voilà. The batteries. I glanced out the window. Andy and Will started throwing the football around. I grabbed the package and started up the stairs, taking two at a time. Reaching our bedroom, I took the bag off the top shelf of my closet that held the recorder and broken sunglasses. Damn it. The batteries were the wrong kind. The doorbell rang. It couldn't be
them
so soon. Tonight after the birthday dinner, I'd go to the store and buy the right batteries. This would have to wait until then. I would release the recorder, but not before listening to it. I put everything back into the bag and up on the shelf. I came back downstairs and answered the door just after the doorbell rang for the third time.

Agents Mitchell and Langenberg stood outside the door. “Hello, Mrs. Driscoll,” Agent Mitchell said. “Is this a good time?”

Damn it! I wish I had listened to the recorder. My temples started pulsating. I hoped I wasn't developing a tic. “Yes. Please come in.” I smiled, unclenching my fists.

They entered, and we sat down in the living room for a few moments of awkward silence. Agent Mitchell started talking. “I understand you have a copy of Sherman Walters' toxicology report.”

“Yes, I found the report in Dr. Anders’ office in his files. It's handwritten and unsigned. I work with him, and it is his handwriting.” I walked over to a living room table, opened up the drawer and retrieved the paper.

Agent Mitchell looked at the report for a few minutes and said, “We understand from Agent Harris you want to remain anonymous. We can’t promise you anything. Please realize we need to collect more evidence before we can proceed on this case. If we collect enough evidence, most likely you will have to testify about what you saw in the store.”

I told them about finding Al's sunglasses earlier in the day and his being one of the hooded six.

“Al Stewart is in the report,” Agent Mitchell said.

“The night of the Ball, a photographer from the newspaper took pictures of everyone. You can check with him. Al's sunglasses will match up with the photograph.

“Is this what you were holding up this morning?” Agent Mitchell asked.

I hesitated. Should I tell them about the recorder? Had Thom told them? I'd give it to them after I listen to it. A few more hours weren't going to matter.

Agent Langenberg smiled. “Mrs. Driscoll, we're here to help you. If you know anything, please tell us.”

“Mrs. Driscoll, we talked to Agent Harris a couple of hours ago. He mentioned you found a recorder this morning belonging to Dr. Walters,” Agent Mitchell said speaking in a monotone. “May we please have it?”

Damn it, Thom. My face grew hot. My heart started thumping hard. “Oh, the recorder. Yes. We often saw the professor walking to the college, talking into a recorder,” I started. If I was going to hand it over, I wanted them to know the significance of it. I told them about his using it to record interviews. “It must have slipped out of his pocket when he was dragged down the embankment.” Agent Mitchell looked down at his watch. “The batteries are dead. I hope it recorded a decent amount before losing power.”

“We'll take the recorder along with us and analyze the contents,” Agent Mitchell said. This guy was getting on my nerves.

“It's upstairs. I'll go get it.” I took my time going upstairs to our bedroom to retrieve the recorder. If only I had listened to it. I believed Deirdre that all would have been revealed here. I didn't want to part with it, but the agents were right. They were here to help.

I felt the batteries in my pocket. If only they would have been the right ones. I wanted to hear who and what the device had born witness to, the last moments of Sherman’s life. I bet so many clues to his murder were on that tape. I took the bag off of the top shelf of my closet once more that held the recorder and sunglasses. I turned around to go downstairs when I spotted Phil's MP3 player on his bedside table. I looked in the battery compartment. It had the correct batteries. I closed the bedroom door, put the batteries in the recorder, and turned it on. I could hear people talking. I turned the sound up a little, but not too much so that the agents would hear it downstairs. I recognized Dr. Anders voice saying something about...

There was a knock on the door. “This is Agent Mitchell. Mrs. Driscoll, are you in there?”

“Just one minute.” I took the batteries out and put the old ones back in. I stood up.

The door opened. Agent Mitchell scowled. I placed the recorder and sunglasses into his expectant open hand. Upon returning downstairs, he put them into his briefcase. There was a protracted silence as we sat in the living room.

The vacuum of silence encouraged me to offer more information that I'd discovered. I looked toward Agent Langenberg. “The night before his death, Sherman met with Dr. Anders at Sonnie's, a local bar. He told his secretary about this appointment. I can get a copy of the appointment date and time for you. A bartender next door saw Sherman being helped out of the back door of Sonnie's later Friday evening by two men into a waiting car.”

I told them about my conversation with Uncle Jimi and gave his contact information. Agent Mitchell wrote everything down on a small, leather bound note pad.

“Will you notify the police here?” I asked with concern.

“A note in my report states you saw Deputy Chief William Murphy of the Sudbury Falls Police Department in the vacant store, also,” Agent Mitchell said.

“That’s correct. He's involved in the plot to kill Walters.” I cleared my throat. This agent seemed to know almost everything about the case, and he was good at getting me to give him whatever information he didn’t have yet.

“We'll keep the police out of it for now, with Deputy Chief Bill Murphy being an
alleged
co-conspirator.” Mitchell flipped his note pad shut when he finished writing.

“Thank you, Mrs. Driscoll, for all of your help,” Agent Langenberg said, getting up. “Agent Harris said you had done good work here. By the way, he asked if we would please tell you to be careful...to be very careful. Remember, let the professionals handle this investigation.”

“Please continue to keep yourself available in case we have any more questions,” Agent Langenberg said.

After the agents left, I went into the kitchen and sautéed the onions and peppers in a large skillet. I warmed the flour tortillas and went outside just as Phil was putting the meat on a platter. “It sure smells delicious. Everything is ready in the house,” I said, perhaps with a tinge of too much enthusiasm.

The fajitas were excellent and the cheesecake, incredible. Will grinned as we sang “Happy Birthday” to him.

* * * *

Later in the evening, after William and Andrew went out to meet up with some friends, I heard the soft melodic sounds of Phil's guitar, as his strong fingers plucked the strings. I walked into the room with a bottle of red wine and two glasses, “Phil, would you like a glass of wine?”

He leaned his guitar against an end table. “Sure, hon, that'd be nice.”

I sat down on the sofa next to him, poured wine into our glasses, and put the bottle on the coffee table. I pulled up my legs and leaned my elbow up on the sofa facing Phil. “I think we need to talk about what's been going on these past couple of weeks. Last night, you mentioned you hoped I wasn't getting involved in 'all of this.' I can only imagine you are talking about Sherman's death. I
am
involved in it.”