A Minor Case of Murder Page 20

  That was a conversation for another time. "Anyway, Andy has been getting pressure from the president of the local birding society. She wants Andy to buy the property and donate it for a bird sanctuary. His attorney has already met with the owner."

  Cassie refilled her coffee. "The mascot, the psychic, the cabbie, the bird lady…what's the connection, Morris? What am I missing?"

  Morris struggled to make the pieces fit. "You're the finest researcher I've ever met, Cassie. And a lot of this stuff has got to be in the public record. Why don't you pay a visit tomorrow to the county clerk's office? If there's a connection, maybe you'll find it there."

  Cassie gave Morris a hug. "You're the best, Morris."

  Second best, Morris told himself. "I really am happy for you, Cassie."

  A Box of Coffee

  When Donna awoke, it took her several minutes to remember where she was. She looked around at the one-room apartment. Spit was sleeping comfortably on the sofa. Donna marveled at his ability to sleep anywhere. She longed for the rest that came with her own mattress, her own comforter.

  Hiding at Spit's, Donna had discovered the simple pleasure of a daily routine. She had not found that rhythm on the first day, but with time she had learned the secret of a solitary life. Donna told herself to give the Om Depot time, but she felt more trapped now than she had at Spit's.

  Donna turned on the television, keeping the volume down low, just in time for the local weather. The television promised a gorgeous fall day; the weatherman urged everyone to spend the day outdoors. Donna changed the channel. There was an extraordinary shot of the moon reflected on the ocean. Donna was impressed by the unusual shot. "Wow. It's blue."

  "What's blue?"

  Donna screamed.

  Spit bolted upright on the sofa. "What's that?"

  Donna looked at Madame Alexina, standing in the doorway with a box of coffee and a bag of donuts. "You scared me."

  "I'm sorry. I just stopped by with breakfast." Madame Alexina put the donuts and coffee on the card table. "What's blue?"

  Donna felt foolish explaining. "Nothing. A shot of the moon on the water."

  Donna poured herself a cup of coffee and selected a jelly donut. Spit joined her at the table for a chocolate-covered donut. Madame Alexina explained, "I've already eaten breakfast," before choosing a vanilla crème donut.

  Munching on donuts, they watched the morning news. Before cutting to a commercial, the local anchor read the tease. "Local birder behind bars, after the break."

  Donna looked at Madame Alexina. "What do you think that's about?"

  The first story after the commercial break was a soft news story about a south Jersey student competing in the national spelling bee. The next story profiled activities at the local food pantry. Finally, the anchor returned to the teaser item.

  "Early this morning, an arrest was made in the case of the spectacular waterfront fire." The TV ran a short piece of film of Spit's cottage in flames.

  Donna put down her donut and stared at the screen. "Holy shit!"

  Spit looked up from his coffee. "That looks familiar."

  The TV cut to a reporter standing outside the police station. Looking into the camera, the reporter began her carefully scripted story. "Mrs. Jodi Patterson, president of a local birding group, was arrested this morning and charged with arson in connection with the case."

  In a box in the background, the TV ran a photograph of Mrs. Patterson, dressed in a wool skirt and jacket.

  Spit nearly spat up his coffee. "That's…that's…what's her name, you know, the lady with the broomstick up her butt…what's her name, you know…"

  "That's right, Spit." Madame Alexina patted Spit on the arm.

  "Shhh, I want to hear this." Donna was glued to the TV.

  "I am here with Detective Sububie, the officer who broke the case." The reporter managed to turn toward the policewoman, all the while maintaining eye contact with her TV audience.

  "What can you tell us, detective?"

  Detective Sububie adopted her official police business face. "Yesterday we received a tip that pointed us in the direction of Mrs. Patterson. We obtained a warrant to search the suspect's car. In the trunk of the car, we found a can of synthetic fuel. Preliminary reports indicate that the synthetic fuel is a match with the accelerant found in the debris by the fire investigators. Based on this evidence, we have arrested Mrs. Patterson and charged her with arson."

  "Can you tell us anything about Mrs. Patterson's motives?"

  Detective Sububie suppressed an urge to smile into the camera. "Mrs. Patterson was interested in establishing a bird sanctuary on the property. Apparently the fire was her way of encouraging the owner to relocate."

  The reporter was genuinely surprised by the detective's answer.

  "Excuse me, detective, but I understood that the property was abandoned."

  Detective Sububie weighed how much she was permitted to reveal. "Most everyone shared your understanding. Most everyone was wrong."

  It was rare that a local reporter had an opportunity to break real news. "No bodies were found at the fire. Do you know where the owner…" The reporter stopped and looked at the detective. "How many people are we talking about?"

  When Detective Sububie failed to offer a number, the reporter continued, pressing for details. "Anyway, do you know if the residents are safe? Do you know where they are now?"

  Detective Sububie looked into the camera, speaking directly to Donna. "All I am permitted to tell you is that it's over. It's safe for you to go home."

  Donna grabbed her donut and jumped up from the table, singing. "We're going home! We're going home! We're going home!"

  She looked at Spit, sitting quietly at the table. "It's over, Spit. We can go…Omigod, Spit. I'm sorry."

  Madame Alexina turned to Spit, quietly inquiring, "What are you going to do now?"

  Spit was confused by Donna's apology and Madame Alexina's question. "It's okay, guys. I'm going to rebuild."

  Donna looked at Spit with renewed admiration. "Sometimes you amaze me."

  Spit reddened. "It's not such a big deal. I've been thinking it might be fun to build one of those log homes, from a kit, you know what I mean?"

  Donna didn't have a clue what Spit meant, but it did sound like fun. "Maybe I could help."

  Spit looked at Donna, surprised by her offer. "You would do that for me?"

  Donna was reminded that men were truly oblivious life forms. "Of course. And in the meantime, I've got a two-bedroom apartment. Why don't you come home with me?"

  "Are you sure that's okay?"

  Donna tried to find the words to explain. She had spent more than a month in hiding in Spit's cottage and not once had he complained about her. She didn't know where to begin.

  "Yes, Spit, it's okay."

  Spit stared at his feet, smiling. "Okay then."

  Donna danced around the room with her donut. "We're going home! We're going home! We're going home!"

  Number Forty-Two

  For more than a decade, Cassie had been waking every morning in a half-empty bed in her condo in Doah. Once again, she was waking in a half-empty bed, only suddenly, it was a different half-emptiness. Cassie lay in her bed, staring at the ceiling, adjusting to Andy half-emptiness. It was, she decided, not the same as Rob half-emptiness. Rob half-emptiness was a dull ache, an emotional pain that stretched out into the infinite. Andy half-emptiness was a sharper pain, more physical than emotional, but the pain was tempered by the promise of a deep and abiding fullness.

  Cassie climbed from her half-empty bed. When the county clerk's office opened, she wanted to be there. She was ready to spend a day in the stacks at the record room, breathing the dry, dusty air and browsing through the public record. She was eager to get started building a paper trail, making sense of the unanswered questions and getting back to the important business of banishing half-emptiness from her life and from her bed.

  At 9:00 sharp, Cassie was standing at the front door of the county
clerk's office. She was surprised to discover the record room would not open until 10:00. There was a note on the door encouraging visitors to take advantage of the countyWeb site to initiate their record request.

  At 10:00, Cassie returned to the record room. She was the only visitor. There was an elderly gentleman nearing retirement in charge who patiently explained to Cassie that she would not be permitted to browse through the stacks.

  "But if you fill out one of these forms," he explained, "and bring it back to this window, I'll pull the file for you. You can use that table," he pointed, "over there." Cassie tried to tell the clerk that she wasn't certain which files she needed to see, but the clerk was unmoved by her dilemma. "I'm sorry, ma'am, it's the rule."

  Cassie knew better than to argue. "I understand." At least she knew where she needed to start. Her only hope was that as she worked her way through the documents, they would lead her each to the next. She asked the clerk for the title to the property.

  "Have you filled out your form?"

  Cassie filled out the form and placed it in the "form box" at the clerk's window. The clerk then went to his box, examined the form and disappeared briefly in the stacks. Five minutes later he returned.

  "Number forty-two?"

  In the empty record room, Cassie realized she was number forty-two. She signed for the file and sat down at the vacant table. There were no surprises and no new information. The land was owned in the name of Perry Pettigrew, Jr. The question, Cassie reminded herself, was whether Perry Pettigrew, Jr., and Spit were one and the same.

  It seemed like a long shot, but Cassie knew that sometimes it was useful to go back a generation. What could she learn from Perry Pettigrew, Sr.? What would Senior have to say about his son and where in the public record would he say it? Cassie filled out a form requesting a copy of the last will and testament of Perry Pettigrew, Sr. If she were lucky she would find a disillusioned father's parting shot at his ne'er-do-well son…"To my son Perry Jr., the taxicab driver, I leave my road atlas and my car deodorizer." But Cassie had no such luck. The last will and testament of Perry Pettigrew, Sr., was a dead end.

  Cassie wondered what name was printed on Spit's hack license. She could drive to the motor vehicle office, but Cassie didn't relish the idea of standing in line and bribing a motor vehicle clerk to check the records for a hack license issued to Perry Pettigrew, Jr. She thought about veteran's records, but the federal office would be even worse than the DMV.

  Cassie had an idea. She approached the clerk, seeking his advice. "I'm interested in information regarding county residents who served in Desert Storm. I was wondering if I could find that information in the county records."

  For the first time that day, but not the last, the elderly clerk took an interest in Cassie's record search. "Give me a few minutes. Perhaps I can locate something."

  It took the clerk nearly half an hour to return, but when he did he was waving a folder proudly. "When the troops returned from Desert Storm, everyone wanted to honor the soldiers."

  The clerk remembered his own experience decades earlier. "When I came home from 'Nam…I think maybe we all wanted to exorcize our collective guilt about the way we treated our Vietnam vets. Anyway, we held a ceremony here to honor all of the county residents who served in Desert Storm. Here's the file. Maybe it'll have what you're looking for."

  Cassie thanked the clerk for his help and returned to her worktable. She flipped through the program, stopping at a photograph of seven young soldiers smiling for the camera. The third face from the left was identified as Pfc. Perry Pettigrew, Jr. Cassie studied the photo. He was younger, leaner, less hirsute, but the third face from the left was unmistakably Spit.

  Cassie pushed her chair back away from the table and smiled. She loved feeling the rush of a good paper trail. What might she find in the public record about one Jodi Patterson?

  Cassie knew that Mrs. Patterson was the president of a nonprofit organization dedicated to advancing the needs of birds and birders. Nonprofits leave a substantial paper trail with the state and with the IRS. Unfortunately, they do not file papers with the county. Unless, Cassie suddenly realized, they receive any grants from county government. Cassie grabbed a form and went up to the clerk's window, requesting the file on Mrs. Patterson's organization.

  It took the clerk a while to find it, but several years past, the group had indeed filed an application for county funds. Although the proposal was rejected by the county, the application and supporting materials remained on file in the dead records room.

  Cassie read the file with care. Apparently, long before she asked Andy MacTavish to buy her a bird sanctuary, she had made the same request of the county. Cassie read the application. She reviewed the certificate of incorporation and the IRS approval of their nonprofit status. She glanced at the project budget and the letters of support. The papers revealed a woman with a grim determination to realize her vision. This was a woman for whom the ends most certainly might be used to justify the means. Perhaps to justify arson.

  Her researcher's instinct told Cassie to keep looking. She read the organization's annual report, with its feel-good stories about birds and its list of donors. Most of the names on the list were unfamiliar to Cassie. A few were familiar, but bore no special meaning. One name jumped out at her from the donor list…one name that tied it all together.

  Cassie grabbed another form and hurried over to the clerk's window, scribbling her request on the paper—the last will and testament of Harrison T. Dicke.

  Spilling Coffee Down the Front of Her T-Shirt

  Donna unlocked the door and stepped inside. Her aging garden apartment, with its shag rug, peeling paint and avocado appliances had never looked so good. The plumbing gurgled in excitement at her return. Donna showed Spit to his room.

  "This one is mine?" Spit liked the room immediately, especially the card table in the corner. "Do you mind if I buy a jigsaw puzzle?"

  "Of course not." Donna would have agreed to just about anything. She was home. It was over.

  She wanted to get on the phone, to let everyone know that she was okay, but there wasn't an everyone to call. Heather was dead. Billy was…What exactly was Billy? Donna wondered. Billy was old news. Finally she called Sand Skeeter ballpark and left a message for the team.

  That night, lying in bed on a mattress years in the making, Spit down the hall in her guest room, Donna felt like herself for the first time in a month. She woke late in the morning, well-rested and content. She could smell a fresh pot of coffee in the kitchen.

  When Cassie tried to assemble all the pieces to the puzzle, she would build a structure in her head only to find that she was left with one piece that just didn't fit. So she would try again, starting with a different piece, constructing a scenario that could accommodate all the evidence. No matter what she tried, she would be stuck at the end with one leftover piece to the puzzle. Cassie worked and reworked the puzzle as she drove back to her condo. By the time she reached Doah, she had a long list of facts, but no truths.

  Cassie poured herself a Tullamore Dew and turned on the evening news. It wasn't long before she saw the story of Mrs. Patterson's arrest. Perhaps Mrs. Patterson really was capable of committing arson to establish her bird sanctuary. The synthetic fuel was a damning piece of evidence. Still, something told Cassie there was more to the story. She watched the interview with Detective Sububie. She watched as

  the detective looked into the camera, announcing, "It's over."

  Cassie picked up the phone and dialed the police station in WhiteSandsBeach.

  "I'd like to speak to Detective Sububie, please."

  A telephone voice politely informed her that the detective was not available to take her call and offered to take a message.

  Cassie chose her words with care. "Would you please tell the detective that Cassie O'Malley is on the phone? Would you tell her that Ms. O'Malley says it's not over? Could you tell her that for me?"

  "One moment, please." The disembodied voic
e put Cassie on hold.

  She waited for the click that told her someone had picked up.

  "Ms. O'Malley? This is Detective Sububie."

  Cassie slept poorly in her half-empty bed and woke early. She called Cheyenne and Morris. Morris surprised Cassie with big news: he was thinking about selling the magazine. Cheyenne made her promise to get back by election day.

  Cassie grabbed her CDs and locked up the condo, ready for the drive to WhiteSandsBeach. She took her time, meandering along back roads through the Barrens. Doc Cheatham and Nicholas Payton squeezed into her passenger seat, trading trumpet solos.

  It was midday when Cassie pulled up to Andy's oceanfront home. No one answered the door, but Cassie knew where Andy hid the spare key. She let herself into the extraordinary beach house.

  Spit was comfortable at Donna's apartment right from the start, but it wouldn't really feel like home until he had a jigsaw puzzle spread out on the card table. Donna offered to let Spit take her car into town. After a month of inactivity, the engine strained to turn over. Spit raised the hood of Donna's car. It took several tries, but the battery was not completely dead, and with a little tinkering, he was soon on his way in pursuit of a puzzle.

  Donna sat at the kitchen table, enjoying another cup of coffee in the privacy of her own apartment. Suddenly she heard a scrabbling at the front door. Donna jumped, spilling coffee down the front of her t-shirt. She had to laugh, realizing it would take a good deal more time before she would truly be able to relax. She put her eye to the peephole in the front door.

  "Mr. MacTavish!" Donna threw open the front door, excited to see her boss. "You didn't have to come see me. I would have driven to the ballpark later today."

  Andy MacTavish was relieved to see his missing mascot. "When I heard that you were okay, I just had to see for myself. You are okay, aren't you?"