A Minor Case of Murder Page 19

  "In a couple of hours, when the stores open, I'll bring you clean clothes and food. In the meantime, why don't you take a nice hot bath?"

  Donna thought that a hot bath would be wonderful. "But maybe I should wait until I have a change of clothes."

  Madame Alexina offered up a solution. "I have two kinds of customers in my business—the ones who want a reading and the ones who want a show. You know what I mean; they want a reading like they've seen in the movies."

  Donna wanted to be polite, but she was not in the mood for a story. "I don't think I'm following you."

  "I'm sorry. It's just some of my customers want me to do this whole medieval sorceress thing so I keep a couple of long black robes in the closet. They're clean and they're comfortable."

  Madame Alexina looked in the closet. "Excellent. One for each of you."

  She had been so busy worrying about Donna and Spit, Madame Alexina had barely stopped to consider her own needs. "You should be okay here. I'm going to go home for a few minutes. On my way back, I'll stop at the store. Do you have any special requests?"

  Spit was sitting at the card table, largely ignoring the ladies' conversation. "A jigsaw puzzle would be nice."

  Madame Alexina departed, locking the door behind her as she left. Donna ran a bath. Crouching down behind the partial wall, she began to disrobe.

  "No peeking, okay, Spit?"

  Donna submerged herself, relaxing in the hot water.

  At Spit's cottage, they had spent weeks alone together. They had grown close, but not intimate. Donna thought of Spit as a platonic friend, a male girlfriend if you will—a well-meaning, but embarrassing, somewhat addled male friend. Donna hadn't a clue how Spit thought of her, but she was pretty sure it wasn't sexual. Still, there had been a moment on the pontoon boat … Donna wondered what would happen if she asked Spit to soap her back.

  But Donna didn't ask. She told herself, by way of excuse, that it was better that way. She soaped up. She soaked in the tub. She allowed the moment to pass. She climbed out of the tub. Crouching down inside the cubicle she toweled herself dry. It was at that moment, clean and dry and smelling of soap, that Donna realized she had forgotten the sorcerer's robe.

  "Spit, would you hand me one of those robes?"

  "Yeah, sure."

  "Remember, Spit, no peeking."

  Standing a full arm's-length from the cubicle with his eyes averted, Spit draped a black robe over the wall.

  Donna emerged from the cubicle, dressed like a sorceress (like a sorceress without underclothes), drying her hair with the towel. Spit couldn't help but notice the way Donna's body moved inside the robe.

  "You should try it, Spit. You'll feel great."

  Spit blushed, caught thinking about just how it might feel. "I don't know. I'm not much for baths."

  But Donna was persuasive, and lying in the tub, Spit admitted that she had been right. Spit also admitted, at least to himself, that he liked it when he caught her peeking.

  When Madame Alexina returned, she found the two of them in their robes, freshly scrubbed, smelling of Ivory soap and black magic.

  "Sorry I took so long. I had a flat."

  Spit looked through the bag of provisions. "You forgot the jigsaw puzzle."

  Closing Arguments

  Leaving their half-eaten breakfast at the Eggery, Cassie and Andy raced back to her condo. Andy kissed her deeply, mourning the loss of a tranquil day in the Pine Barrens. Grabbing his overnight bag, Andy jumped into his Lexus and pulled out of the lot, heading for the parkway. How was it, he asked himself, that when his personal life was so unbelievably good, his business life could spin so horribly out of control.

  Andy got his Lexus up to seventy on the parkway and made great time heading for WhiteSandsBeach. He was nearly home when he caught up to a stopped line of cars. Sitting in his luxury car, cursing at the traffic gods, Andy called his attorney, arranging to meet at the ballpark. It took half an hour to inch past the VW minivan with the flat tire.

  Andy recognized Mr. Garibaldi's Cadillac Seville sitting in the Sand Skeeter parking lot. Mr. Garibaldi was waiting in the outer office.

  "C'mon in, Louis. Can I get you something?" Andy barely slowed down, disappearing into the inner office.

  Mr. Garibaldi climbed slowly off the sofa and followed Andy into his private office. "An iced tea would be nice."

  Andy buzzed for two glasses of iced tea. "What do we know about the fire, Louis?"

  Louis did his best to explain the situation, both what he knew and what he suspected. Andy listened closely, interrupting the attorney and repeating back the key points.

  "Let me see if I have it straight, Louis. The fire occurred on the land we're trying to buy, a couple of days after you met with the owner. Also after you met with Mrs. Patterson about your meeting with the owner."

  Mr. Garibaldi nodded. "That's right, sir."

  Andy continued. "The authorities seem to believe that the property was abandoned. Why don't they know about Mr. Pettigrew, Louis?"

  "I'm not sure, sir. All I can tell you is, when I saw the land, I thought it was abandoned too. It sure didn't look like anyone was living way out there."

  Andy considered the attorney's explanation. "Maybe. In any event, it would be nice to know what has happened to our Mr. Pettigrew."

  Mr. Garibaldi admitted that he, too, was troubled by the whereabouts of the eccentric Mr. Pettigrew. "Yes, it would, sir. I'll keep working on that."

  Andy stood up, walking around his office, thinking out loud. "What I don't understand is why you believe that Mrs. Patterson is involved. Couldn't it just be coincidence?"

  Mr. Garibaldi watched as Andy paced. "I'm sorry, Mr. MacTavish. Was that question meant for me?"

  Andy returned to his chair. "Yes, Louis, it is. Explain to me again why you suspect Mrs. Patterson."

  "To begin with, sir, I have been an attorney far too long to believe in coincidence. Coincidence is the explanation of choice when you don't have an alibi."

  With that, Louis pulled himself up from his chair, buttoned his suit coat and smiled warmly, the experienced litigator making closing arguments.

  "We know that Mrs. Patterson wants the land, wants it badly. When I told her that Mr. Pettigrew wasn't interested in moving off the land, she would not accept my answer. She told me she would do whatever was necessary to motivate Mr. Pettigrew to sell."

  It still seemed to Andy that Mr. Garibaldi did not have sufficient evidence to draw the conclusion that Mrs. Patterson had torched the property.

  But Mr. Garibaldi had not yet finished his summation to the jury. "As yet, there has been no official announcement of findings, but unofficially, the fire investigators are already calling it arson. The details are sketchy, but it is apparent that the investigation has turned up evidence of an accelerant."

  Mr. Garibaldi paused for effect. "I may be mistaken, sir, but I will trust my gut on this. My considerable gut tells me that they will find the accelerant in the trunk of Mrs. Patterson's automobile."

  As Louis turned to sit, Andy imagined he could hear the attorney announce, "I rest my case."

  Andy weighed his options, assessing the risks and benefits were he to act on his attorney's gut instinct. "So what is our next move, counselor? Do we report your suspicions to the police?"

  Mr. Garibaldi nodded. "I am an officer of the court. I believe it is my legal and moral obligation to report this information to the appropriate authorities."

  Andy decided to place a call to Detective Sububie.

  When the detective understood why Andy was calling, she agreed to meet him at the ballpark.

  "Mr. MacTavish."

  Andy was growing accustomed to seeing the grim-faced Detective Sububie standing in his doorway. "Please come in, detective."

  "Thank you, Mr. MacTavish."

  Andy introduced the policewoman to his attorney, the rotund Mr. Garibaldi.

  Detective Sububie ignored the attorney, speaking instead to Andy MacTavish. "I wondered how long
it would take before you lawyered up."

  Mr. Garibaldi smiled expansively, at ease dealing with the police. "I am here, detective, as an officer of the court. Mr. MacTavish called you, and I am here, because we have information about the fire, information that the police can use as the basis for bringing criminal charges. Wouldn't you like to be the detective who gets credit for breaking the case?"

  Detective Sububie again chose to ignore the attorney. "Mr. MacTavish, I am not in a good mood today. I'm warning you, sir, don't mess with me."

  Andy MacTavish told the detective his story, Louis Garibaldi filling in the details. Detective Sububie revealed little of her thinking, interrupting just one time to ask Mr. Garibaldi about the accelerant.

  "What exactly will we find in her car?"

  Mr. Garibaldi explained. "Mrs. Patterson believes she'll be assaulted by a pervert if she breaks down on the road somewhere."

  Andy hadn't heard this part before.

  "She's so consumed with fear that she carries a canister of synthetic fuel in the trunk."

  Detective Sububie was taking no chances. She didn't entirely trust Andy MacTavish or his attorney. "And you know this how?"

  Mr. Garibaldi leaned back in his chair. "Mrs. Patterson told me all about it. Look, maybe I'm wrong, but it should be easy enough for you to find out. If the synthetic fuel matches the accelerant…"

  Detective Sububie nodded, allowing just the slightest trace of a smile to cross her face. "I see what you mean."

  The way that Mr. Garibaldi handled the detective reminded Andy just why he had chosen to retain the attorney's services. The fire might yet work to his advantage. Andy walked the policewoman to the door. "Thank you for coming out to the ballpark."

  But Andy was not yet rid of the detective.

  "We're not done yet." Detective Sububie turned and faced Andy. "We still need to talk about Ms. Heather Dean."

  Andy looked over at his attorney. Mr. Garibaldi said nothing.

  Detective Sububie continued. "I need your assistance, Mr. MacTavish."

  Andy smiled uneasily. "I'm always happy to help the police, detective."

  Detective Sububie wasn't smiling. "Thank you. So, can you explain to me how come the lab can find traces of malathion on the Skeeter costume, but not a single trace of that same toxin on the dead body?" Detective Sububie shook her head. "Not a trace."

  Andy didn't know what to say. "I gather the department exhumed Ms. Dean's body then?"

  "Yes, we did. Based on information that I developed. And what do we have to show for it? Her death remains an accident, but now it's an accident complicated by a mystery. The department looks incompetent and the family is calling for an investigation of our handling of the case. And I'm caught

  right in the middle."

  Detective Sububie glared at Andy. "Is there something you want to tell me, Mr. MacTavish?"

  Andy glanced at his attorney. "I wish I could be more help, detective, but I've told you everything I know."

  Detective Sububie tried again. " 'Cause if you know something that you haven't told me, it might look like you're obstructing a police investigation."

  Andy again turned to his attorney. Mr. Garibaldi rose to his feet. "My client told you he doesn't have any further information. I think we're done here, detective."

  "For now." Detective Sububie turned and walked out the door.

  Second Best

  Cassie sat in her empty condo watching more tape of the fire. She knew very little about the fire, but what little she did know, didn't make sense. Cassie watched the part again when Madame Alexina caused a commotion among the bystanders. What was she doing there? And how was it that Morris appeared to know more about the fire than the reporters on the scene?

  Cassie picked up the phone, thinking, one day, she should learn how to program her frequently called numbers. She dialed the phone. An answering machine said, "Hello."

  "Morris. It's me. Pick up the damn phone."

  The machine invited Cassie to leave a message.

  "Listen to me, Morris. I need to see you. I'll come by the office at…"

  "You're coming to the office? Damn, this is important." In more than a decade of writing for the magazine, Cassie had been to the office just three times.

  "Thanks for picking up, Morris."

  "Sorry I couldn't get to the phone quicker. I was checking proofs."

  Morris had built a small but successful printing business on Staten Island before moving to New Jersey and buying the nearly bankrupt (morally as well as financially) magazine. His original plan for the rag sheet was to transform it into a journal of serious political analysis. He opened an office in the state capital to have access to the state's power brokers. Although he never did succeed in transforming the magazine's subject matter, he did bring a certain style to the magazine's questionable content and a very respectable profit margin to the annual operating budget. By all accounts, the turnaround could be traced to a day, almost fifteen years past, when a recently widowed Cassie O'Malley wandered into the Trenton office, looking for a job covering the state legislature.

  Cassie's ability to take a hodgepodge of outlandish events and construct a plausible cover story, coupled with Morris's ruthless editorial cynicism, had been an instant hit with the readers.

  After so many years living and working in New Jersey, Morris liked to maintain he was a native, born and raised in AtlanticCounty. Cassie winked and played along, but the truth was, every time Morris talked about growing up at the beach, the natives knew him for an impostor.

  Cassie made her second trip to the office six years into her employment, when she first investigated the secret tunnels underneath the state capitol. Her third visit occurred one evening en route to a hockey game when Cassie stopped to use the office bathroom. When Cassie announced her fourth visit to the magazine's office, Morris knew that she was more than a little worried about the fire.

  Morris cleared a spot for Cassie among the piles of paper, the photos, stories and research, the ad copy and correspondence.

  "Cassie, sweetie, you look wonderful." Morris pushed aside another pile of paper. "Here, sit. Can I get you a cup of coffee?"

  "Thanks." Cassie looked around the small office. There was even more paper than she remembered. "How's the conversion coming along?" Cassie was referring to Morris's technology plan to create the paperless office.

  "I'm almost there. So what brings you into the office today? The fire?"

  "Yeah, the fire. What can you tell me about it?"

  "The fire started shortly after midnight, quickly consuming the cottages and boardwalk. According to the authorities, the property was abandoned."

  "But you believe Donna Carter was hiding there?"

  Morris nodded.

  Cassie had a million questions about the fire and one very specific question about her editor. "How do you know so much about the fire?"

  "I called it in." Morris saw the puzzlement on Cassie's face. "Maybe I'd better start at the beginning."

  "You called me a couple of weeks ago and asked me if I had heard anything about the missing girl. Remember?"

  Cassie thought about that night at Andy's oceanfront home. She was missing him already. "I remember."

  "Well, I hadn't heard anything, but I decided to check it out myself."

  Cassie was startled. "Why'd you do that?"

  "I thought there might be a story." Morris knew the real answer would make him sound jealous or pitiful, or both. "Anyway, I sat on Donna's apartment, waiting for something to happen. It didn't take long."

  "What didn't take long?"

  "A cab pulled up to the apartment. The driver let himself inside and came back out a few minutes later carrying a suitcase. I followed the cab to land's end. Since then, whenever I can clear my schedule, I've been keeping an eye on the place."

  "And you did all that for a story?" Cassie knew Morris better than that.

  "Yeah."

  Cassie let him slide. "So why'd you wait so long to
call me?"

  "You told me to call your cell, remember? I don't think you wanted me to know about Andy. Anyway, I tried to call you for days. This morning was the first time you picked up."

  Cassie wondered what else Morris might have learned. "There was a piece of footage on the news…a commotion among the bystanders at the fire…did you see it, Morris?"

  "Not when it happened, but this morning on TV, yeah, I saw it."

  "The red-haired lady at the center of the commotion…what do you know about her?"

  Morris recalled the middle-aged lady with the wild hair. "Sorry, Cassie. I don't know anything about her at all."

  "But I do. Do you remember the story I wrote about the psychic spy?"

  Morris grinned; the story about remote spies working for the CIA was sure to be an instant classic. "Of course. You don't mean?

  "Yeah, Morris. That was her. Madame Alexina. Don't you think that's a strange coincidence?"

  Morris reached for a file on his desk, sending random papers fluttering to the floor.

  "Damn. If you think that's strange, wait till you hear this. The guy who lived in the shack, the cabbie who was helping Cassie hide out…you know him too."

  Cassie was stunned. "I do?"

  "Yeah." Morris thumbed through the old file. "When you investigated the Wehnke case…do you remember the night at the train station?"

  "Holy shit, Morris. You mean the cabbie we met at the train station, the one who identified the mayor's wife, that guy?"

  Morris showed her the old file. "Yeah, that guy, Spit."

  Cassie glanced at the folder. "Spit lived out there? This is getting really strange, Morris. He can't possibly own the place, can he? It's gotta be a rental."

  Morris didn't see where she was heading. "I don't understand, Cassie. What difference does it make?"

  Cassie had been careful to avoid bringing Andy's name into the conversation, but there was no other way to explain. Morris would just have to get over it. "You know I'm seeing Andy MacTavish, right?"

  Morris wanted to be happy for Cassie. Really. Only deep down he wanted her to be happy with him. And he knew that she knew it too. "Yeah. I'm happy for you, Cassie."