Uncommon Grounds (22 page)

“Sarah, listen to me. Could David and Patricia have been involved in some kind of anti-government group? A militia or

something?”

There was silence at the other end.

“Sarah?”

“I’m here.”

“Did you hear me? Is it possible?”

“I heard you, Maggy,” she said in no-nonsense tones. “I’m trying to figure out if you’re serious.”

“Listen Sarah, you’ve read the papers, you know about these groups. They don’t pay their taxes, refuse to get Social Security numbers, drive without driver’s licenses.”

“Oh come on. Just because Sam—”

“Do you think he lied? Or do you think David really let him drive the car?”

Silence again. “I don’t think he lied.”

“So you think it’s possible?”

“Anything’s possible, I guess.” I could almost hear her shrug. “This is a very conservative town, Maggy. There are probably a dozen Republicans for every Democrat.”

“I’m not talking about Republicans. I’m talking about the far-right fringe. People who distrust the government, protest taxes and bomb banks.”

“We all protest taxes...My God. Are you talking about the bank bombing this morning?”

I was getting cold all of a sudden. In fact, I could scarcely keep my teeth from chattering. I recognized the symptoms from the last crisis in my life, the day Ted had left. Nerves, shock, whatever. “Listen, I have to go. I’ll call you in the morning when I’ve had a chance to think.” And stop shaking.

I hung up the phone, went into my room and crawled under the covers. I thought and shook, shook and thought. A militia in Brookhills? Impossible. Besides, militias were sort of old hat. We had terrorists to worry about these days.

Pulling my old chenille bedspread off the bed, I wrapped it around my shoulders. “C’mon Frank, let’s make sure the house is locked up.” I tangled my hand in the thick fur at his neck and we made a tour of the house, my making comforting sounds like “eek!” and the occasional “oh-my-God” to keep Frank calm.

When we were done, I allowed him up on the bed and wedged myself under what was left of the covers. A hundred pounds of smelly sheepdog practically on top of me, I tried to organize my thoughts.

So what was I thinking here?

I was thinking that David might somehow have been involved with Ed. That maybe Patricia had recognized Ed in the news footage and confronted David. Maybe that’s why she decided to divorce him. After all, according to Roger, Patricia had no intention of leaving David before that. And when David found out what she had planned, he...Hewhat? Killed her? Or had Ed kill her? Or both of them had killed her?

No matter what, Pavlik’s theory still held up. David was the killer. Or one of the killers.

I went around and round all night. I wished I knew more about militias. Weren’t they wild-eyed fanatics who accused the government of bugging their homes and their dentists of bugging their teeth? Guys wearing fatigues and carrying Uzis in the north woods staging protests and chaining themselves to cars in Chicago? Could they possibly be the nice family down the street?

Another sleepless night. I jumped every time I heard a noise and Frank barely moved, which created friction between us, as you might imagine.

About the time the sun was coming up, I made a decision. I would call Pavlik. I’d prefer to talk to Gary, but I wasn’t about to incur Pavlik’s wrath again and jeopardize Gary’s career. Besides, I had to admit I wanted to see Pavlik again.

I was separated, not dead.

When I called the sheriff’s number from the store later that morning, I asked his voice mail to meet me at home at

7:00 tonight. The day dragged and so did I, from both nerves and lack of sleep. About 3:00 Henry came in, walking a little slower and stiffer than usual.

I cleared a table for him and brought over a big piece of coffee cake, cinnamon butter streusel. “Coffee or a cappuccino today, Henry?”

He folded his creaky body into the chair. “Espresso, please. A double.”

“Need a little caffeine today?”

Henry took off his hat and set in on the chair next to him. “I’m still having trouble sleeping nights.”

Aren’t we all?

Wait a second, hold that thought.

I made the double espresso and brought it to him. Then I moved his hat, a gray felt job with a red feather, and sat down. “You told me before that the kids playing ‘Cowboys and Indians’ at Poplar Creek were disturbing you. Have you ever actually seen them or have you just heard them?”

Henry looked surprised. “Please join me.”

Since I already had, I just thanked him and repeated the question.

He ducked his head to take a sip from the tiny espresso cup before he answered. “It’s not always them yahoos that keep me up every night, sometimes it’s the runs.”

Lovely. I tried again. “But when they are down there, is it kids?”

He sighed. “Suppose so. It’s too dark to see much and I have some night blindness from the war. But one thing,” he raised a gnarled finger, “if it’s kids, it’s big ones. Not the little ones. It’s ones old enough to know they shouldn’t be out raising a ruckus and shooting firecrackers at eleven o’clock at night.”

Kids with firecrackers?

Or a militia with guns on night maneuvers? Seemed nuts, but then there was a lot of that going around.

The bell above the door tinkled. I wasn’t done with Henry, but Caron was in the back so I had to get up to wait on the newcomer. I rang up the sale and finally the customer was gone. Henry was getting up to leave, too.

“Henry,” I called.

He stopped.

“The last time you told me the kids were making noise down there—do you remember what night that was?”

“Certainly,” he said as he carefully placed his hat on his head. “Thursday night. It’s always Thursday night.”

And today was Thursday.

Finally, 5:00 arrived. I pulled off my apron, pulled on my coat and sped home. I was too tired to think about what I was doing. I just hoped it was the right thing. Or at the very least, not the wrong thing.

There was a message from Sarah on voice mail commanding me to call the moment I got home to give her an update. I ignored it for once.

I hadn’t forgotten Pavlik was coming by, but I hoped to have him in and out in an hour so I could prepare for the rest of my evening. While I waited, I dug through a box of mittens and scarves in the basement and in triumph pulled out a red-trimmed navy ski mask. It would do.

The doorbell rang a little before 7:00 and I went to the front window and peeked out. Sure enough, it was Pavlik. I must have caught him on his day off. He had on jeans with a blue sweater and a buttery leather jacket.

I dropped the ski mask on the table by the window and went to the door. I had no intention of mentioning night maneuvers to Pavlik. His eyes were a clear, cool gray tonight. A good sign, I thought, and I hoped to keep them that way.

I invited him in and asked him to sit down. Frank lumbered in and settled at his feet, not even treating him like a visitor any longer. I wished I was as calm.

Pavlik gave him a scratch. “You said you needed to talk to me?” He was talking to me, presumably, even if he was paying more attention to Frank.

“I saw the film of the First National Bank robber on the news last night and I recognized him.”

“I’m not surprised. He was your L’Cafe technician.”

I must have gaped, because he went on. “Oh, I didn’t put it together until I looked back at the tape from the first robbery again. Then I finally realized I’d seen him before.”

Do you think he might have mentioned it to me? “Ed was installing the loaner when you came to the store the second time,” I remembered.

Pavlik nodded. “Remember, he didn’t have plates on his truck? These guys don’t believe they have to license their cars. After all, the Constitution doesn’t say so. Of course, the fact that cars didn’t exist at the time the Constitution was written doesn’t affect their God-given right to drive one.”

“Of course,” I said, “and he asked for cash instead of a check.”

“Cash can’t be traced, obviously, or taxed.”

Like the Harpers’ income. My mind was racing. “So you’re sure he was tied to one of these anti-government groups?”

“Domestic terrorist, really. And yes, I’m sure. The Feds had been watching him and they found plans for pipe bombs and nerve gas in his apartment printed right off the Internet. He’d been hanging out at some of the survivalist home pages on the net.”

Okay, now to take it the next step. “And David and Patricia?”

Pavlik stood up and walked to the front window. “I don’t know, but it’s certainly possible they’re part of the group. Mrs. Harper is from Chicago where the group is based.”

As is Pavlik, I thought.

“And the tax evasion points to it obviously.” He picked up the ski mask and dangled it off one finger. “I know this is Wisconsin, but isn’t it a little warm for this?”

“It’s my son’s,” I said, snatching it. “He’s away at school and I’m sorting through the things he left behind. I must have carried it from the closet when I came over to see who was at the door.”

Pavlik was just staring at me.

“When you rang the bell,” I added, knowing full well I was explaining way more than what a ski mask, even in April, called for. “Now where did I put those matching gloves?” I said, looking around in an addled housewife kind of way. I figured Pavlik would buy that, given his opinion of me. I tossed the cap at the couch and turned back to him. “Oh, well, I’ll find them later.”

“Sure you will,” Pavlik said. He looked like he was trying not to laugh.

I’d fix that. “So Ed killed Patricia.”

“How do you figure that?”

“He obviously had the know-how.”

“But you used the machine after he installed it,” he pointed out.

“He could have come back.”

“When? How would he have gotten in?”

I had been thinking about that when I wasn’t babbling about ski masks. “It must have been Sunday.”

Pavlik was looking at me like I was nuts, but then I was used to that.

“Tony Bruno, the dentist next door?”

He nodded.

“He spoke to Ed the day he installed the loaner. Kidded him about being back so soon.”

“So? He saw him on Friday when he installed the first machine.”

“No,” I insisted. “He didn’t. Tony’s office is closed on Fridays, so he and his family can go up north. They come back before mass on Sunday. He must have seen him then.”

Pavlik shook his head and pulled out his notebook. “Okay, so I’ll talk to Dr. Bruno. But even if Groschek was there, it doesn’t get Harper off the hook. Somebody had to let him in, and it’s possible Harper was up to his ears in this stuff. And somebody had to get Mrs. Harper to use the machine. That could only be her husband—with or without Groschek. Besides, we know Mr. Harper was there. Your friend Pete saw his car.”

But I was thinking about David and Patricia’s argument on Friday night. I filled Pavlik in.

“So?”

“So that was the night the first robbery took place and the surveillance video was shown on the news. Maybe Patricia recognized Ed.”

“Did she give any indication that she knew him when he installed the machine?”

That stopped me short. “No. No, she didn’t. Although she certainly wasn’t very friendly. I just chalked it up to Patricia being a snob.” Oops, speaking ill of the dead again.

Pavlik grinned.

I felt myself flush. He laughed and shoved his dang notebook and pen back in his jacket pocket. “I have to meet someone. Is there anything else?”

Yeah. Who are you meeting? But I didn’t ask. After all, I had plans for tonight, too. I just said no, and walked him to the door.

As I opened it, he hesitated and looked down at me. “You stay out of this—I’ll check it out. But I want to make sure you understand that implicating Groschek in Mrs. Harper’s murder doesn’t exonerate Mr. Harper. And,” he touched my nose with his index finger, “it also doesn’t mean that he didn’t commit suicide.”

He turned and walked down the sidewalk to a motorcycle waiting at the curb. He pulled on his helmet and roared off on his big black Harley hog. Hot damn.

Chapter Twenty

So, does one take one’s handbag when one goes surveilling?

I was willing to bet Miss Manners didn’t have an answer for that one. I opted to leave the handbag at home and slid my driver’s license into my pocket. That way they could identify the body.

I waited in the minivan in the driveway, ski mask in hand, and sure enough, at 11:00 p.m. the parade from Christ Christian commenced down Poplar Creek Drive just as it had last Thursday.

Four...five...six cars, each with more than one person in it, best as I could tell. I let the last car get well past before I backed out and followed.

We were all heading downstream toward Brookhill Road. If my hunch was right, the cars would pull in...

Sure enough, the first car took a right just past Brookhill, turning off Poplar Creek Drive onto a service road. The rest of the cars followed, but I continued on, turning right at the next driveway, which led to Brookhills Senior Manor. Poplar Creek ran directly behind the Manor’s back parking lot, separated by a barbed wire fence.

I slid my ignition key under the mat so I wouldn’t lose it and got out of the van to look around. All was quiet. I didn’t even see Henry, my favorite insomniac. Pulling apart the two strands of barbed wire, I ducked through and skittered down the muddy hill toward the creek. Although I couldn’t see in the dark, it sounded like it was still running high and fast.

I planted myself behind a wild honeysuckle bush and tried to pull down my ski mask. That’s when I remembered I’d left it in the van. Damn. Maybe this was like lying. You got better at it, the more you did it.

I was sort of hoping I wouldn’t get the chance.

I settled in to wait. And wait. Geez, how long does it take to get out of cars and walk a block or two? What were they doing? Handing out name badges? Assigning seats for the ride back? It was probably all of fifteen minutes, but it seemed a lot longer sitting there on the ground imagining field mice crawling up my pants leg. Not that I would notice, since my legs were asleep. And my butt was frozen.