A Minor Case of Murder Page 16

  Mrs. Patterson knew that Andy MacTavish was a clever businessman and a worthy adversary. She was confident that he would recognize the advantage of declaring an end to their season-long hostilities. Still, her recent attack on the team might have gone too far. She was concerned that she had made the dispute too personal. She was concerned that she had angered Mr. MacTavish to the point that he might ignore the business benefits of a truce. So she was pleased to hear that Andy MacTavish was considering the economics of the deal. "Mr. MacTavish is willing to buy me the property?"

  Mr. Garibaldi nodded. "If we can convince Mr. Pettigrew to accept a reasonable offer, I believe that Mr. MacTavish is likely to sign off on the arrangement."

  Mrs. Patterson was not worried about Perry Pettigrew. "It is an unusual man indeed who is not swayed by large sums of money, but if money does not motivate our Mr. Pettigrew, then we simply need to find out what does." Mrs. Patterson made it clear that by "we," she was referring to Mr. Garibaldi.

  The attorney chuckled. "I guess I have some work to do. I'd better be getting back to my office."

  Mrs. Patterson stood up. "Would you mind walking me to my car? A woman can never be too careful."

  As they strolled down the boardwalk, Mr. Garibaldi pointed to the Om Depot, its neon eyeball blinking in the sunlight, open for business and attracting a small crowd of curious customers. "I guess there's never an off-season for psychic readings."

  Mrs. Patterson snorted. "What's wrong with these people?"

  Mr. Garibaldi could tell from her tone that she was not asking a question. "It's just harmless fun. Maybe we should get a reading. Maybe she can tell us how to motivate our Mr. Pettigrew."

  Again, Mrs. Patterson snorted. Mr. Garibaldi felt like a novice torero in the ring with a determined bull. "I guess not."

  Mrs. Patterson pointed to her Lexus. "That's me, over there. Thank you for the coffee." She smiled warmly. "May I call you Louis? Yes? Let's do this again, Louis, okay?"

  Mrs. Patterson turned to leave. Almost as an afterthought, she looked back at Louis Garibaldi. "You say he drives a taxicab?"

  A Line Began to Form Outside Andy's Office

  Cassie didn't want to leave WhiteSandsBeach without Andy. She had delayed her return to Doah for as long as she could. She intended to be in the audience for Cheyenne's final mayoral debate and she wanted Andy to be there with her. Andy had declared his intention of going with her to Doah, but now that it was time to leave, he explained that Sand Skeeter business made it impossible for him to get away.

  "I can't, Cassie. There's just too much going on." Andy knew his decision did not sit well with Cassie, but there really was a lot he needed to handle, what with the dead girl, the missing girl, the bird sanctuary and the police.

  They were building a life together. Andy understood that required give and take. But he also understood that they were building their life on the foundation of his continued business success. If the business faltered, so would their relationship. It seemed obvious to Andy, and it bothered him that Cassie did not seem to understand.

  "I'm sorry, Cassie, but I have to spend some time at the ballpark today." Andy considered his options. "What if I meet you in Doah later tonight? With a little luck, I'll get there in time for the debate."

  Cassie threw her arms around him. "I love you, Andy MacTavish."

  Andy gulped down his coffee. "The sooner I get to the ballpark, the sooner I can leave."

  By the time Andy arrived at the ballpark, there was a stack of phone messages leaning like a paper Tower of Pisa. Andy sorted the slips and returned a call from Mr. Garibaldi.

  "Louis. What have you been able to find out?"

  Andy pictured Mr. Garibaldi on the other end of the telephone line, leaning back in his oversized chair, his tiny feet propped up on the edge of the desk.

  "I don't know, sir. She's an odd one, all right."

  "She? Don't you mean he? Or is our Mr. Pettigrew married?"

  Mr. Garibaldi clarified his message. "No, I don't believe he is married and, yes, he is an odd one, but, no, I wasn't referring to him just now. I was referring to the other odd one, Mrs. Patterson."

  Andy wasn't interested in her personality profile, except as it might relate to their ability to do business together. "Will we be able to deal with her?"

  The attorney believed that, yes, they probably could. "As long as we can motivate Mr. Pettigrew to sell."

  Mr. Garibaldi was troubled by some of Mrs. Patterson's remarks. "I get the feeling she knows more about Mr. Pettigrew than she is letting on."

  "Good work, Louis. Keep on it. Perhaps we can motivate Mr. Pettigrew to talk figures." Andy looked at his watch. "I'm pressed for time today, Louis. Call me back if you make any progress."

  Before Andy could place another call, the switchboard patched through an incoming call. Andy didn't recognize the name.

  "Mr. MacTavish?"

  "Yes."

  "Mr. Andy MacTavish?"

  The unfamiliar caller with the pushy telephone voice already annoyed Andy. "Who is this?"

  "I'm looking for Cassie O'Malley."

  At the mention of Cassie's name, Andy took another glance at his watch. "I'm sorry, but I'm kind of busy today. Have you tried her cell phone?"

  The caller laughed, spitting phlegm on the receiver. "I've been trying her cell phone for days. That's why I'm calling you."

  Andy was growing frustrated with the caller. "Before I hang up on you, why don't you tell me who you are and what this is all about?"

  It seemed to the caller that Andy MacTavish was acting like a jerk, but then, in an uncharacteristically self-reflective moment, the caller allowed for the possibility that it was he who was the jerk, jealous of Andy MacTavish, who had both money and Cassie. "I'm sorry. My name's Morris. I'm Cassie's editor. Perhaps she's told you about me."

  "I'm sorry if I was brusque, Morris. Cassie's on her way home to Doah. I'm going to join her there as soon as I can get away. Would you like me to tell her anything?"

  Morris wasn't sure whether he wanted to leave a message. "Is she still looking for that girl who went missing?"

  "Do you know where she is? Did you find her? Is she okay?" Andy silently said a prayer of thanks for Donna and for Morris.

  Andy raced through the work remaining, but the more quickly he attempted to finish his work, the more work there was to finish. Detective Sububie appeared unexpectedly in Andy's doorway.

  "Detective…" Andy tried to disguise the irritation in his voice. "How nice to see you again."

  Detective Sububie was in no mood for small talk. "Who had access to the Skeeter costume?"

  "Huh? Is there a problem, detective?"

  The policewoman had yet to smile. "I'll ask the questions, Mr. MacTavish. Again, who had access to the costume?"

  "Let's see…Donna, of course."

  "Of course. Who else?"

  Andy ticked them off on his fingers. "The promotions manager, the equipment manager, the laundry service, the cleaning crew. They would all have routine access. I don't think Donna locked the door to the changing room unless she was actually changing, so I guess just about anyone on the staff could have access."

  "That's very interesting. Until we have a way to narrow it down, I'll need to talk to everyone on your list."

  "Now?"

  Detective Sububie glared at the team owner. "Unless you have something more important to do than to cooperate with a police investigation."

  Andy glanced at his watch. "Of course not. The Sand Skeeters are never too busy for a local peace officer."

  Andy dialed up his executive assistant and within minutes a line began to form outside Andy's office.

  The detective set about her work. "I'd like to use your conference room for the interviews." It wasn't a request. "You can send people in one at a time."

  Andy had hoped for an early getaway on the drive to Doah, but he no longer had control of the schedule. "In any particular order?"

  Detective Sububie finally smil
ed. "Whatever."

  Andy decided to start with Donna's immediate supervisor. The interview was brief, not more than ten minutes and when it was over, Andy asked his promotions manager what it was all about.

  "I don't know, boss."

  Andy wondered aloud whether Detective Sububie had instructed him to say that.

  "No, boss. Really. I don't know." And he didn't.

  The equipment manager went next, with similar results. One by one staff went into the conference room and one by one they came out, unable to give Andy a clear picture of the detective's intentions.

  The language barrier prevented Andy from asking the laundry staff.

  When Detective Sububie completed her interviews, she sat down with Andy MacTavish in his office.

  "Please thank your employees for their cooperation. I realize this was probably uncomfortable for people, but we have a problem we need to deal with." Detective Sububie emphasized the shared nature of their problem.

  "You have a job to do, detective. I can respect that. Perhaps the staff could be of more help to you if we understood the nature of the problem."

  "The nature of the problem…" Detective Sububie shook her head. "The lab found malathion on the fibers."

  Detective Sububie watched closely for Andy's reaction. His surprise, to her trained eye, seemed genuine. "I don't understand."

  "Then let me explain. Heather's death was determined to be an accident, the result of extreme heat inside the costume mixed with excessive alcohol consumption. When I took the costume in for testing, I didn't expect to find anything. I was looking to make points by saving the squad the embarrassment of a missing lab report. No more, no less. Instead, the lab finds some kind of toxic insecticide and now all hell's gonna break loose. And somehow it's all gonna be my fault. It's not fair."

  Andy tried to make sense of the detective's tirade. "Are you saying that Heather was poisoned?"

  The detective was grim. "I'm saying, however she died, accident, murder—hell, old age—I need to figure it out, and I need to do it fast."

  Andy made a mental note to ask Mr. Garibaldi if a murder case would lessen his exposure in a civil lawsuit. "If there's anything I can do to help, detective."

  Detective Sububie had to ask. "Do you know how the insecticide ended up on the Skeeter costume?"

  What Andy knew was that the malathion, however it ended up on the costume, was not a factor in Heather's untimely death. Andy remembered Cassie's advice. Was it too late to tell the detective that Heather hadn't worn the tainted costume?

  "I don't know, detective. So what happens now?"

  Detective Sububie sighed. "I imagine the department will decide to exhume Ms. Dean's body…Damn, it's gonna get crazy around here."

  Her Unfinished Tale of Sabotage

  Cassie gathered the few belongings she had brought with her to Andy's home and threw them in her overnight bag. Then she considered leaving some of her stuff at Andy's. They hadn't discussed living together. How long did she plan to be in Doah? For the night? Until the election? Would it be presumptuous, she wondered, to leave things at Andy's, as though the beach house was now her primary home? Would it send the wrong message, she countered, to take her things back to her condo, as though her time at the ocean were now ending? What would Miss Manners say? Cassie didn't want to be a Mr. Bungle.

  She sat on the deck, enjoying the view and rethinking her packing decision. As she sat, a light rain began to fall. She listened to the staccato tap of raindrops on the deck until the morning sky began to darken. She realized she should get on the road before the weather turned ugly. Cassie opted for presumptuous. Leaving her overnight bag where it lay, she locked the beach house behind her and climbed behind the wheel of her rebuilt '67 Ford Mustang, taking only her CDs.

  Cassie loved the way the driver's seat conformed to the contours of her body. She slid Thelonius Monk into the player and turned on her windshield wipers, the rhythm of the wipers a perfect counterpoint to Monk's bebop piano and Coltrane's tenor sax. Cassie imagined Thelonius Monk composing during a driving rain.

  Puddles formed on the back roads. There was little traffic on these roads, but what little there was, was beginning to bunch up, slowed by the conditions. Still, Cassie preferred these small roads to the highway. Popping another CD in the player, Percy and Jimmy Heath, she made her way home to Doah. It seemed to Cassie that the sky cleared even as she passed the sign welcoming her to historic DoahTownship.

  Cassie pulled the Mustang into her reserved parking space. Opening the door to her condo, she was greeted with a rush of stale air. She walked from room to room, opening windows, breathing in the fresh scent of pine forest.

  Cassie poured herself a Jameson and water and started to clean house. She would not have Andy MacTavish see her condo dirty. It had been nearly fifteen years since Rob died, nearly a decade and a half that Cassie had endured a half-empty bed. She needed the condo to be perfect.

  Cassie kept one photo of Rob on her bureau. It was the only visible reminder of her young love. She picked up the photo, slipped it into the top drawer and continued cleaning. She changed the bed linens and tidied the closet. She cleaned the bathroom and put out fresh towels. She put Rob's photo back out on the bureau.

  She wiped down the kitchen counters and the stovetop. She inspected the refrigerator, disposing of past-dated milk and wilted lettuce. She walked back to her bedroom and returned Rob's photo to the drawer.

  Cassie vacuumed her carpets and organized her desk. She separated her bills from the mass of new junk mail. She read the latest issue of "Princeton Alumni Weekly." For the six hundredth consecutive time since graduation, she was not mentioned in her class notes. She retrieved Rob's photo from the drawer and stood it proudly on the bureau.

  Cassie poured herself a second glass of Jameson and dialed Cheyenne's number.

  "Still answering your own phone? I bet that stops when you become Mayor Harbrough."

  "Cassie! Where are you? How are you? Is Andy MacTavish giving you the high hard one?"

  Cassie made sure to respond to each of Cheyenne's questions. "Home. Great. And yes."

  Cheyenne was nearing the end of a surprisingly effective mayoral campaign. She was busily preparing for the final debate, reviewing her talking points and selecting her footwear. Still, all that could wait. "What's he like, Cassie?"

  Cassie pretended not to understand Cheyenne's question. "He supports all the right causes, Chey. Gives money to the local charities. Helps old ladies cross the street. A real gentleman."

  Cheyenne wanted to reach through the telephone line and smack Cassie upside the head. "Shit,

  girl. You know what I mean. Is he good?" Cassie laughed heartily. "He's good, Chey. He's good two, sometimes three times a night." Cheyenne was thrilled that Cassie finally had a love life. "I'm happy for you, Cassie. So when do

  I get to meet this good-lucking, wealthy stud-muffin?" "How about tonight?" Cheyenne was disappointed. "I can't, Cassie. The debate's tonight. Remember?" "I know, Chey. That's why I'm home. We want to be in the audience tonight." "You're bringing Andy MacTavish to the debate? That's hot." "If he gets here in time." Cassie explained the plan to Cheyenne. "I'm looking forward to seeing

  you, Cheyenne. I'm really proud of what you're doing." "I'll see you tonight, Cassie. Don't forget to check out my shoes." It felt good to be home. When Cassie hung up the phone, she noticed her folder of story ideas.

  Cassie realized she had no idea what Morris needed from her. She hadn't done any writing in weeks. She dialed her editor's number and left a message on his voice mail. She reread her unfinished tale of sabotage on BlackTomIsland and recognized her problem—she was allowing facts to intrude on her storyline. She freshened the Jameson.

  It all began with the mosquitoes (if you believe the official German version of events). Imagine. You are working as a night watchman in a warehouse. It's a lonely job, making your solitary rounds in the dark, tired and bored, and worst of all, under constant attack from hordes of
blood-crazed mosquitoes. There are millions of mosquitoes on BlackTomIsland and you're the only human host on the island overnight. It's like you're the last early bird special and the mosquitoes have all arrived with their senior citizen discount cards.

  If you really were the last early bird special, you could outrun an angry mob of senior citizens with their walkers and their canes (even motorized wheelchairs fail to achieve racing speed). But if you were the night watchman on Black Tom Island, you were the guest of honor at an all-you-can eat mosquito buffet. There would be no escape.

  If you were a night watchman in a warehouse on BlackTomIsland, you might want to carry a can of mosquito repellent, perhaps a spare can in your utility belt. But this was 1917. Mosquito repellent was a night watchman's wet dream.

  So what do you do? According to the Germans, you grab a smudge pot and start swinging it at the mosquito cloud.

  Now suppose that the warehouse serves as the storage center for a manufacturer of fine ladies' undergarments. The smudge pot accidentally sparks and a small fire spreads. The next day we read a humorous account in the newspaper and until the manufacturer can restock his wares, there is a noticeable increase in feminine droopage.

  But what if the warehouse were actually a top-secret Army munitions depot, sending covert aid to Great Britain prior to our entry into the First World War? (You don't believe that clandestine military operations began during the Reagan administration, do you?)

  When the smudge pot sparked, according to the Germans, a chain reaction was started, explosions ripping through the night sky, spreading quickly across the island, shock waves jumping across the water all the way to New York City, shattering glass, interrupting coitus (masculine droopage,) and otherwise playing havoc with business and recreation throughout the metropolitan region.

  It all began with the mosquitoes.

  Cassie saved the file and logged off the computer. It was time to head for the mayoral debate.

  Cheyenne would be disappointed when she walked in sans escort. Cassie glanced at her watch. What was keeping Andy?