The Sleuth Sisters (16 page)

Chapter Twenty-nine

Retta

The shop was called Entrez, and the French theme was carried out everywhere: white, lacy furniture, draped pastel curtains, and prints of Paris landmarks on the wall. The stylist’s name was Simone. Her French accent was real, though Michigan-isms had crept into her vocabulary over the twenty years she’d been here.

Claiming I had to attend a funeral, I asked for a trim. Eyeing me critically over the wet head of her current customer, Simone said, “Return in twenty minutes. I will fit you in.”

After browsing a couple of over-priced clothing stores, I returned. The customer was putting on her glasses as Simone swept up clumps of gray hair littering the floor. Soon I was in the chair, and she stood behind me as we both faced the mirror. “A trim, you say?”

“Not more than half an inch.” I didn’t want Patsy to suspect I’d gone to another stylist. “This funeral is unexpected, but I want to look my best.”

Simone raised her brows briefly, which I interpreted as irritation. She probably wanted to try something creative with my hair, which stylists often tell me is perfect to work with: full-bodied, thick, and with just enough curl to make it easy to style.

Choosing her tools, she wet a section with a squirt bottle and began clipping the hair into manageable blocks. I waited for a question, and it wasn’t long in coming. “Where do you live?”

I had my story ready. “Detroit, but I’m staying at a cabin near Allport, on Pierce Lake.”

“Ah, yes. I once had a customer who lived on that lake.” Her eyes met mine in the mirror. “I thought her family owned it.”

“Someone owns most of it,” I responded. “There’s a huge house on the opposite side that looks like something from
Architectural Digest
.”

She chuckled. “That sounds right. Her father is quite concerned with money, I think.”

“And is she as concerned with it as her father?”

Simone pressed her lips together for a second. “She died.”

“Oh. I’m sorry to hear it.”

Hairdressers are great listeners, but to whom do they ever get to talk? I was the perfect candidate: a stranger to tell an old story to. “She was murdered by her husband.”

“How awful!”

“Yes.” For a few seconds there was only the grind of scissor blades meeting. Bits of hair fell onto the plastic cape over my shoulders. I tried not to shudder. “I was surprised, you know?” Her sentences ended with the Gallic rise, and
you know?
might well have been
n’est pas?
“I thought he was crazy for her. But maybe that was it, you know? Maybe a little too crazy.”

“You met him?”

“He came in on her first visit. After that, he would wait in the car. She said he was silly about her pregnancy, but I think she liked that he worried about her.”

“So you were surprised when he killed her?”

“Who knows which of us is capable of such a thing?” Simone said philosophically. “But he seemed…gentle, even in dirty jeans and work boots.”

“She married a working man? I thought you said her dad was rich.”

Simone chuckled. “This girl, she was like a matador, and her father was the bull.”

“She goaded him.”

“That is the word. Her father wanted her to marry someone in his business. Instead she chose this construction worker, very handsome, but not a man for the suit and tie, you know?”

“You think she chose—” I caught myself and didn’t use Brown’s name. “—this guy because her father disapproved?”

She thought about it. “I think she loved him as much as a spoiled girl can love anybody.”

“That’s good.”

She snipped for a while then said thoughtfully, “The last time she came here, she said they would move to Detroit soon. He didn’t want to, but she said he would do as she wanted.”

“And that’s why he killed her?”

A shrug. “The TV said they fought. Her brother was there, and he was killed, too.”

I was thinking back to something she’d said earlier. “Her father wanted her to marry someone else? Someone who worked for him?”

“His ‘right-hand toad,’ she called him.”

Carina might have said
toady
, but there wasn’t much difference. Eric DuBois was Stan’s right-hand man. Had she rejected DuBois because she didn’t like him, or because Stanley did?

After tipping Simone generously for not butchering my hair, I drove back to Allport, my mind digesting and dissecting what I’d learned. Stanley Wozniak had hoped for a connection between his daughter and Eric, but Carina chose Neil, married Neil, and became pregnant with Neil’s baby. It seemed highly unlikely DuBois would have waited a year then killed Carina to frame Neil. What would it have accomplished? No girl, no fortune, no in with the boss. Unless he was a lunatic, DuBois gained nothing. I knew Faye wouldn’t like it, but Neil Brown was still the most likely candidate for life in prison.

Chapter Thirty

Barb

We took the eastern leg of 123 southward to I-75, just north of St. Ignace. Soon we saw the Mackinac Bridge towering gracefully over the straits. I wondered how Faye would do driving across, since she usually shuts her eyes on the section where gridwork makes a car sway and rumble. She handled it well, probably unwilling to show weakness in Gabe’s presence.

We planned to go directly to the police department, where Neil would surrender himself. Faye and I would introduce Gabe and tell the part of the story we could attest to. Nobody expected Neil would be set free immediately, but we had to begin somewhere.

It was almost five o’clock when we arrived at the Allport P.D. Tom Stevens was surprisingly calm at the appearance of his longest-sought suspect, but word spread quickly. Soon people began passing his office door, moving in slow motion as they tried to get a look at us. Several city employees invented reasons to collect in the hallway. Tom frowned at them intermittently as he listened and tried to look as if he had an open mind.

“You understand I’m taking you into custody,” he told Neil when we finished.

“Yes, sir.”

Tom fell into his old lecturing way. “You gave the legal system a lot of headaches, son.”

“It was a mistake to run,” Neil agreed. “Because I wasn’t here, nobody looked for the person who really killed my wife. If I’d told my side of it, maybe he’d have been caught.”

“Or you’d have gone to prison,” Faye put in. I hoped she wouldn’t start telling Tom his job, though I had to admit, his obvious assumption Neil was guilty made me nervous.

Brown seemed resigned as he was taken for processing, an officer on either side. Once he left, Stevens turned to us. “Not wise, going up there on your own.”

“We weren’t sure it was actually him.”

“Well, you were lucky. He coulda hit you both over the head like he did his wife.”

“You don’t know he did that.”

Stevens folded his hands on the desk. “Faye, you’ve seen the evidence against him.”

Her voice rose a notch, and I sensed trouble ahead. “Why did someone send Gabe here to follow us up there and steal a flash drive from Neil?”

Her question reminded Tom of the other player present. “Oh, yeah.” Without moving, Gabe seemed to shrink into his chair. “Mr. Wills is acquainted with the Allport P.D., ain’t you?”

Gabe didn’t answer. He seemed to find the floor tiles really interesting.

“That doesn’t make his story less credible,” Faye insisted. “He had no reason to follow us except that someone hired him to see if we found Neil.”

Stevens rubbed both cheeks with a beefy, spread hand. “If some guy hired Mr. Sleazy here, it only proves somebody was interested in finding Brown. If old Gabe went off the deep end and started shooting, he’s in big trouble.”

Gabe found his voice. “I told you, my associate did the shooting.”

“A person you refuse to name and who probably doesn’t exist.”

He seemed insulted at the slur on his honesty. “He does too!”

Faye interrupted before Gabe could go into his story again. “And the flash drive?”

“Maybe somebody thinks it has evidence against Brown on it.”

“By somebody you mean Stan Wozniak.” Faye’s tone was as sharp.

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to.”

There it was. Stevens believed Stan Wozniak had hired Gabe Wills to follow us. Any deeper purpose would not be considered. With a warning glance to Faye, I rose from my chair. Her neck was splotched with red, which meant she was furious, but she followed my lead.

“Thank you, Officer Stevens.” I was almost as frustrated as my sister. Somewhere along the line, I’d become convinced Neil was innocent, but Stevens pooh-poohed the whole idea. Could he not see there was something going on that needed investigation?

No. He’d gladly take the credit for apprehending a suspect who’d eluded the law for years, and he was unwilling to complicate the accepted story with possible alternatives.

As we left, Faye blew out a breath of frustration. “You know he’ll charge Gabe with stalking or something and ignore the rest of it.”

“We’re going to appeal to a higher power.”

“What?”

“The new chief is a former Chicago police officer. He won’t have preconceived ideas of this case, and he’s got more investigative experience than the rest of the department put together.” I paused. “And there’s one other thing that might make him want to help us.”

“What’s that?”

“When we had dinner the other evening, he mentioned that he finds me attractive.” I left my sister wide-eyed and gasping as I turned toward the car, hiding a grin I couldn’t suppress.

Chapter Thirty-one

Retta

I arrived at the chief’s office at eight-fifteen the next morning, time enough to let Rory settle in but hoping to catch him before anyone else got in the way.

“Mrs. Stilson,” he said as I entered. Since a couple of deputies were present, it seemed we were going to keep things businesslike.

“Chief.” I nodded to the others. “Did you have a chance to look into that matter?”

“I did.” His glance took in my outfit, chosen carefully to be attractive without seeming overly planned. “Please, come on back.”

The room he led me to wasn’t inviting, even if the inhabitant was. The dingy-yellow walls were scraped and scratched by years of wear. There was almost no furniture, just a battered desk, an office chair with cracks in its leather back, and two straight chairs for guests. “They’re going to paint,” he said apologetically. “I decided not to move my stuff in until they finish.”

“If you’d like a female perspective, I could help with color and fabric choices,” I offered. “Just a few little things can really brighten things, but I know men are no good at that.”

“It’s nice of you to offer.” He had his back to me, and I couldn’t see his face, but his voice seemed a shade cooler. “Coffee?”

Surprisingly good coffee came from a complicated-looking machine behind his desk. After I’d complimented the blend, he dropped a bombshell. “I suppose you know we have Neil Brown in custody, since it was your sisters who brought him in.”

Adjusting my jacket to give myself a moment, I wondered if I should admit they hadn’t told me. He’d wonder why I wasn’t in on such big news. “I haven’t spoken to them since they left for the U.P. You know how many dead spots there are up there.”

“I see.” It couldn’t tell from his tone how much he did see, but he left it alone. “Do you still want to know what was in Kowaleski’s notes?” He stumbled over the Polish pronunciation.

“It’s Kuh-vuh-LES-ski, but we called him K. And, yes. It might help us wrap things up.”

Consulting a notebook lying open before him, he said, “I found it interesting that Kow—uh, K, thought one witness was lying. He said something didn’t ring true in her statements.”

“Sue Mason.” When he looked up, surprised at my deductive powers, I added, “A woman can tell when another woman has a thing for a man. If Brown was in trouble, she’d try to help.”

“K thought she probably saw Brown before he took off.”

“The truck at the dispatch office.”

Rory nodded. “K figured she didn’t know anything specific, so he dropped it.”

I picked at a sliver of wood sticking out from the desk corner. Rory frowned, so I put my hands in my lap. “Sue’s a good person. At worst, she told Brown the police were after him, maybe urged him to run. It’s what someone with a soft spot for an old flame might do.”

He looked down at the notebook again. “He wasn’t willing to ruin her reputation because she showed bad judgment that made no difference in the end.”

A soft knock interrupted, and a young officer stuck his head in. “Sorry, Chief, but you told me to let you know. They’re here.”

“Thanks, Gates.” Rory rose, signaling he had other things to do.

I meant to thank him and slip out, promising we’d get together again soon, but I stopped dead when I saw who’d come to speak with the new chief.

Chapter Thirty-two

Faye

Arranging to meet Barb outside the chief’s office at 8:30, I went in early to visit Neil Brown. He’d been put in the tiny cell the city uses to hold prisoners until arrangements are made for whatever comes next. After reading the email Retta had sent summarizing what she learned in our absence, I wanted to clarify some things with Neil.

Despite the fact that the cell was completely open and eight feet from the doorway, the guy on duty made a big deal of asking formally if Neil wanted to talk to me. He almost smiled as he gave assent. At first we talked about food and rest and what he might need me to bring him. The deputy soon lost interest, and I turned to what I really wanted to know.

“Where did you leave your truck when you went to see Carina that day?”

“On the street,” Neil answered. “There was a spot right in front. Why?”

“That’s a point for us,” I said. “The man Wozniak saw left on foot. My sister checked it out, and she says he couldn’t have seen you clearly from where he was.”

“He couldn’t have seen me at all,” Neil said. “I was long gone by the time he got there.”

“But don’t you get it? It proves he’s mistaken.”

He gave me a reproachful look. “Do you think he’d ever admit that?”

“No.” We fell silent, and the sounds of the room broke into my focus. The phone rang. Feet shuffled. The deputy spoke to someone about a missing bicycle. Everyday stuff, but nothing was everyday for Neil, locked in, suspected of murder, and unable to do anything about it.

No doubt he regretted coming back to Allport. Overnight he’d gone pale under his tan and his eyes looked sunken. I promised myself we’d try harder to clear him. But how?

“I’ve been thinking about the files on that drive,” he said. “Something on it isn’t what it appears to be. Otherwise, why were those guys so anxious to get it?”

“Kidnapping is a pretty drastic step.”

“Gabe wanted the money, but the person who sent him for it is afraid.”

“Of what?”

He shrugged. “That it’ll prove I’m innocent, maybe?”

“Because if you are, the police will start looking for someone else.”

He nodded. “Three of the files make sense to me. Stan might keep track of fishing spots and information on Pierce Lake. The one listing Carson’s failures is like him, too. Keeping track of what the kid cost him.”

“And the fourth?”

“That’s the odd one.”

“Because it lists old water bills?”

“Because Stan doesn’t get water bills. He’s got a well.”

I hadn’t thought of that. “We plan to show the drive to Chief Neuencamp this morning. We’ll see what we can come up with together.”

Neil made a doubtful grimace. “I hope the chief’s more willing to listen than Stevens was.” His eyelids drooped. “Meri visited last night. I told her not to come back.”

Recalling what Neil didn’t yet know, that his sister was facing life-threatening surgery, I faked a confident smile, assured him we were on the case, and left him in that awful place.

I was still thinking about my talk with Neil when we got to the chief’s office. Barb seemed to get stuck in the doorway. Peering around her, I saw Retta, her chair pulled up close to the desk. She rose from her chair, giving the impression that a noose hung from the ceiling had been pulled tight. “I think we’re done with plans for the grant, aren’t we, Chief?”

“Yes,” he replied blandly. “That’s under control, but you might want to stay.”

“Stay?” Retta and Barb spoke at once.

“It will save repeating things later.” He looked at them in turn. “Is that okay?”

Barb nodded stiffly, her face blank. Retta’s smile was thin as water. “If I can help.”

For a while the chief seemed to be the only person in the room who could function. He herded Barb and me in and went across the hall to get another chair. Though I was curious about Retta’s presence, the image of Neil in that cell kept resurfacing in my mind. We’d brought him back to what might be life in prison. Even though Barb and Retta sat there with tension crackling between them like gathering lightening, I had to convince the chief Neil was innocent.

Once we were seated, the chief said, “You must be Ms. Burner. Rory Neuencamp.”

“Faye. It’s nice to meet you, chief.” Barb stayed silent, so I gave him a synopsis. Of course he’d heard it from Tom, but he’d probably slanted things to make Neil seem guilty.

“Mr. Brown turned himself in voluntarily,” I finished. “He wants to set things straight.”

“A few years behind schedule,” Neuencamp said mildly.

“He didn’t think anyone would listen to his side of it,” I argued. “That’s why he ran away.” Assuming an air of confidence I added, “We plan to prove he didn’t kill his wife.”

“I see.” Neuencamp’s gaze sought my sister’s. Barb shifted in her chair but said nothing.

“Gabe, the man we, um, convinced to return with us, will tell you he was hired by someone to retrieve this flash drive.” Digging into the zipper pocket of my purse, I took out the drive. I’d refused to give it to Tom, arguing it was too important to entrust to anyone but the chief. “What’s on this could be what got Carina and Carson killed.”

I looked to Barb. “Neil says look at the water file. Stan doesn’t get water bills.”

Retta made a sound like a hiccup, and we all turned to look at her. “The computer tech at WOZ told Stanley to hide his financial files under an innocent-looking title, like an electric bill.”

“An old one that no one would take any interest in.” Barb had returned from whatever planet she’d been visiting. She leaned toward Neuencamp. “Chief, you need to look at the file.”

He seemed doubtful. “Do we know who this drive belongs to?”

“It was given to Brown by his wife, who’s deceased. I think the law would call it his.”

“But the drive might contain sensitive infomation.”

She regarded him coolly. “You won’t know unless you look, will you?”

With a shrug the chief plugged the drive into his computer. As he waited for it to load he asked, “The water bill is the important one?”

Barb shrugged. “Brown’s right. Stan would have a well out there.”

Neuencamp clicked on the file. “What are the letters at the beginning of each line?”

“They didn’t ring any bells.” Barb clearly wished she could go around the desk and look over his shoulder, but she stayed where she was.

“Read them off, please, Rory.” I looked at Retta, who’d taken out a pen and a scrap of paper. Quickly I did the same, writing down each entry as he read it off. I leaned so Barb could see my list, and we all fell silent, trying to fit words to the initials. “AM, MT, CI, and NYSB.”

Retta got the first item. “Allport Merchant. They use AM as their logo.”

After a moment’s thought, I said, “MT could be Michigan Trust. They’re based in Detroit, where Wozniak lived for years.”

“If they’re banks, that would make NYSB New York State Bank,” Barb said.

The chief nodded. “What’s CI?”

There was another silence as we thought about possible bank names. Connecticut International? Cincinnati Investments? Commercial & Industrial?

“The only things that come to my mind aren’t banks,” I said. “Counter Intelligence. Confidential Informant. Certifiably Insane.” I was getting desperate.

Barb looked up at the chief. “Not a bank. Think offshore accounts.”

Neuencamp smiled. “Cayman Islands.”

“They’re all places where Stanley has money!” Retta beamed at us, though her wattage dimmed a little when she met Barb’s gaze and didn’t get an answering beam.

The chief was studying the screen. “If this was my code, the numbers after each one wouldn’t be amounts. They’d be the account numbers.”

“And Usage_Q1 and so on are the passwords.” Retta said. “He’s got capitals, a number, and special characters in each one, just like the computer guy advised.”

“You need to ask Wozniak about this,” Barb said, and I cringed a little at her bossy tone.

The chief didn’t seem to mind. “He might be a little touchy about us looking at his files.”

“Which is why we have to tell him. If he hasn’t changed his passwords in the last six years he’s an idiot, but he certainly needs to change them now.”

“Since there was no love lost between Stanley and Neil,” Retta said, “maybe the son and the son-in-law joined forces to steal Stanley’s money.”

“If that were the case, why were Carina and Carson murdered?”

“Something went wrong. Brown killed them, but then he couldn’t access the money because he was afraid they’d track him down.”

For once I found Retta as irritating as Barb did. How could she believe Neil was a killer? I reminded myself she’d never met him. She was just staying neutral, like a good investigator.

Touching a notebook on his desk, Neuencamp spoke to Barb. “I’m been reading up on the case. Can you tell me why you think Brown might be innocent?”

She ticked off the points on her fingers. “He’s had the drive all these years and never used it, which indicates he didn’t know what was on it. Someone followed us to the U.P. and demanded he hand it over, and I’m almost sure Neil had no idea what they were talking about.” Noticing that Barb’s “Mr. Brown” and “Brown” references had become “Neil,” I smiled to myself. She believed in him too.

For the first time, Retta spoke directly to Barb. “If Carina gave that flash drive to her husband, she’d probably figured out her brother planned to steal their dad’s money.”

“Why Carson?”

“He stayed at Stanley’s house for the first few days of his visit, even though things hadn’t been good between them. I think he wanted a chance to get at his dad’s computer.” She explained to Barb and the chief what she’d learned at WOZ, ending with Art Chalmers’ impression Carson had been concerned for the safety of Stan’s financial information.

Barb presented a theory. “Carson stays at Stan’s and copies any files he thinks might be the right one to his own flash drive.”

Entering the spirit of things, Neuencamp leaned back in the chair. “His sister found out about it somehow, which is why she was upset that morning.”

“Everybody’s flash drive looked the same,” I reminded them. “She probably picked up Carson’s thinking she had her own and saw what was on it.”

“So she confronts Carson, asking him what he’s doing with Stan’s files.”

“Which started the argument Neil interrupted,” Barb said. “His DNA and blood got on Carson’s clothing when he defended his wife.”

Neuencamp seemed to return to cop mode. “Just how strongly did he defend her?”

“Neil says they were both alive when he left,” Barb said.

“So who killed them?”

She hesitated, probably unwilling to accuse anyone. “It’s possible Wozniak didn’t react well when he learned what his son intended.”

I doubted the chief knew Wozniak well, being new to Allport. Could he accept the idea that a prominent businessman had caught his son stealing from him and killed him in anger?

“Carina was there,” Barb said. “She saw what happened, and that’s why she was killed.”

“It’s possible,” Neuencamp said, “but there are a couple of things to keep in mind.” Flipping through the notebook, he consulted a couple of pages. “First, Carson was hit as he bent over her, indicating the wife was struck first. Second, the police processed Wozniak’s clothing. He didn’t have the kind of blood spatter a person would get from bashing two people’s heads in. He had blood on his hands and shirt front, consistent with him holding his children to his chest.”

I got an image of a frantic father cradling his dead son and almost felt sorry for Wozniak. Still, other than Neil he was the best suspect. “He’d have regretted it as soon as it was over.”

Neuencamp rearranged the things on his desk, a classic signal that a meeting is about to end. “Let me look into this. I haven’t talked to Brown yet, haven’t had much chance to talk to Tom, either.” To Barb he said, “I’ll be objective. That’s all I can offer right now.”

“That’s all we ask, Chief.” She rose and we left, leaving Retta and the chief together.

When we got outside, however, Barb stopped on the sidewalk, allowing me time for a smoke. I lit up, feeling far from cheerful about Neil’s future. Chief Neuencamp had listened politely, but that didn’t mean he believed us. And it was hard to walk away, knowing Brooke’s daddy would soon be transferred to the county lock-up.

“What do you think she was doing in there?”

I exhaled before answering. “Butting in, I suppose. Or batting her false eyelashes at the new chief to see if he’s susceptible to her charms.” I glanced at my reflection in the window of the building. My face looked its age, maybe more. “I wonder what it’s like to get any man you want just by being you. I don’t think I ever had that power, and I sure don’t have it now.”

“I never begrudged Retta her ability to charm men,” Barb said vaguely. I noticed, though, that she spoke in past tense.