Deadly Gamble: A Girl and Her Dog Cozy Mystery Page 5
I tried to make them into dates and times. The 94 and 96 might be dates, but 19? 157 might be a time, but 782? On a yellow notepad, I rewrote them in other sequences, but didn't come up with anything that way, either. The letters could clearly be initials, but finding BT, CP, and TZ in the phone directory would obviously be futile.
The ringing telephone interrupted me just about the time I was getting frustrated anyway.
"Charlie, I'm so glad I finally reached you!" Paul sounded like he was about to impart some tragic news.
"Gram told me you're coming to town this weekend. Is there some emergency?"
"No." He sounded puzzled. "Just wanted to let you know we're coming."
"Driving or flying?"
"Driving." That was okay with me. Flying meant I'd have to pick them up at the airport. Of course, driving meant they'd pull in late at night, so I'd either have to wait up or leave them a key.
"Just you, or everyone?"
"All of us."
"Great." Great.
"Well, I'll see you when?"
"Probably late Friday night."
"Good, I'll see you then." He hung up.
Most of Paul's conversations go this way. With Ron, I seem to always have things to say. Maybe it's because we work together, I'm not sure. We've always been close, though. Ron is the oldest; as a kid he was my protector. Paul's in the middle. Maybe there's something to that middle child thing. I should read up on it sometime. One nice thing about Paul's visits—he and Lorraine have plenty of old friends in town to see besides me.
It was beginning to get dark outside, so I turned on a few lamps and closed the drapes. I re-read the newspaper article on the murder. The shots had been heard by a neighbor around nine, and the police arrived at the scene about nine-twenty. I studied the fuzzy picture of Detweiller, which, judging by the hairstyle and clothing, had to be at least ten years old. Longish dark hair and heavy sideburns past the earlobes framed a boyish face. The lopsided smile exuded sex. Dark hair sprouted from the open collar of his shirt. Even in the blurred photo a cocky attitude came through. I honestly thought Stacy had better taste.
Still full from tea, I decided not to bother with dinner. I spent another hour staring at Gary's numbers, but gave it up in favor of a movie on TV. It's an escape technique, I know, but I still wasn't ready to examine my own feelings about Stacy, Brad and this whole situation.
My bedside clock said it was three-oh-eight when I woke from an apparently sound sleep with the answer. The codes were names and phone numbers. And it wasn't even that tricky. I pulled on a robe and went to the kitchen. Florescent light is nearly unbearable at three a.m. but I couldn't wait. I ripped the top sheet off the yellow pad to expose a clean page. I wrote down each of the numbers in reverse sequence and moved the letters to the end. Sure enough, they were all Albuquerque prefixes. The dashes had apparently been placed to confuse the casual looker. I would bet money that I'd find each of these numbers when I checked them tomorrow in our crisscross directory at the office.
Rusty had followed me into the kitchen, worried that I might be indulging in a late-night snack without him. When no food appeared, he satisfied himself by drinking about a quart of water from his bowl, then dribbling half of it across the floor. I wiped up the spots, then we both headed back to bed. I slept like a dead person until seven.
By ten o'clock, I'd looked up all the phone numbers on the code sheets. As I'd suspected, the two-letter combination with each matched a name. I was feeling like quite the investigator. All I had to do now was figure out whether this had any relevance at all to Detweiller's death.
I thought of the racing form I'd seen at the house. Stupid of me not to steal that, too, as long as I was now heavy into thievery. Detweiller obviously liked to play the horses, and the fact that he carried a list of names and phone numbers around in code made me think he might be doing a little bookmaking. I'd written down complete names and addresses to go with the phone numbers on the coded list. There was quite a variety here. Some of the addresses were in very affluent parts of town. One of them might even be a neighbor of Stacy's. I'd have to check that out. Maybe Gary's chance meeting with her at the country club hadn't been pure chance after all.
"What's up?" Sally stood in my doorway, laughing at how she'd just about startled me out of my chair.
"I'm working on a case. For Stacy North."
"A case? Isn't that Ron's department?" Then my words really registered. "For Stacy North! As in Brad North? As in heartbreak of the century?"
"Don't over-dramatize. That was ten years ago, my heart wasn't broken, just mildly cracked, and from what I'm learning now, I think I have a lot to thank Stacy for."
"You're kidding."
"Unh-unh." I began to realize that this conversation wasn't exactly discreet, so I busied myself shuffling the papers around, covering up any vital evidence in the process.
"Look, what I really stopped in for was to see if you'd like to go backpacking with Ross and me this weekend. We're going down to the Gila." She tried to make it sound like Disneyland.
"Gee, I uh.. I can't. Paul and Lorraine and the kids are coming." I hoped I sounded properly regretful. Truthfully, I'd rather have a root canal.
"Well, maybe some other time." She breezed away, feelings apparently intact.
A pile of correspondence waited to be answered, but I couldn't get my mind off Detweiller. Who wanted him dead? At this point I didn't have enough information to hazard a guess. I thought about interviewing all the people on my list. There must have been forty names, an awesome task assuming that any of them would even talk to me. I tried to think of a logical place to begin.
Motive, means, opportunity. The three key words in finding a criminal. What I needed at this point were more facts. I called Stacy at home, suggesting lunch. She recommended the club, and I said I'd come by her house to pick her up. She gave me directions. I wasn't sure what had prompted my offer to come to her house. I'd never had the least curiosity about her life with Brad but now I wondered. Maybe I'd gain some insight into the friend I hadn't seen in so long.
I organized my desk and watered all the plants in the office before leaving. Rusty stayed behind to keep Sally company. I dashed home to change clothes before starting the trek to the far northeast heights. I'd never been inside the Tanoan Country Club, and hoped that an emerald green dress with soft wool draped flatteringly across the bodice would be appropriate. The color set off my auburn hair nicely anyway. I chucked the down jacket for a calf length wool coat that I hadn't worn in ten years and hoped it wasn't too far out of style.
The temperature was in the fifties, with a clear sky the color of a robin's egg. I was no sooner in the car than I decided the wool coat would have to go. I couldn't handle the bulk or the warmth. Outside, I could stand it but not in here.
The Tanoan community is just about as far away as one can get from the side of town where I live—geographically and mentally. Surrounded by white walls the observer gets glimpses of what would probably be stately homes if they weren't packed so tightly together. From the outside the impression is lots of earth tone stucco, windows, balconies, and Spanish tile, jammed into a conglomeration that makes it difficult to know where one house begins and the other ends. Each of these architectural delights needs a minimum of two acres to show it off properly. Instead, they are crammed onto regular city lots. And to think they pay extra for this coziness.
I turned left at the first break in the big white wall. A matching white guardhouse was planted into the middle of the drive, with hefty-looking black iron gates on either side. The gate leading in stood open, but a guard with folded arms waited, daring me to drive through without sto
pping. On the other side, the exit, fearsome tire spikes awaited any who might attempt gate running through the "outie." I wasn't sure I wanted in at all, certainly not badly enough to pay for four flat tires.
I pulled to a stop beside the guard. On closer inspection, he was at least seventy, with a big toothless grin that wasn't the least bit scary. I told him where I was going and he waved me through. His smile remained the same throughout, and I wondered whether he even heard my words.
The North home was about three blocks into the rabbit warren of curving streets. Stacy had given good directions. I found the three story wonder, despite the fact that style wise it was very much like three-fourths of its neighbors. Light tan stucco, broken by two balconies across the front, long windows, curved at the top, and a mahogany door inset with beveled glass. Every window was curtained in white sheers, which appealed to my sense of neatness, but they also gave the place a sense of separation, of being locked away from the world. I tried to imagine these people having a pathway through the hedge to the elderly neighbor with whom they'd had a lifelong grandmotherly relationship. But their hedges were made of unyielding block walls, perfectly stuccoed to match their perfect houses. Most of the people were high powered two-career families who worked ninety hours a week to afford their affluence.
I touched a button beside the door, setting off a pealing of chimes. Stacy opened the door moments later. She wore white wool slacks and a turtleneck sweater that looked like it was made of cotton candy. Her hair and makeup were perfect, although her smile was a little stiff. I gathered that she had completely recovered from Gary Detweiller's death and now wanted to pretend he never existed.
"Well, Stace, you guys have really made it big." I gazed around at the foyer. Apparently, it was the reaction she expected. Her smile warmed up as she offered to show me around. I oohed and aahed at the appropriate times as she led me through eighteen rooms of mauve carpet, mauve wall coverings, and mauve tile. The brag wall in the study was covered with framed certificates proclaiming Brad the Outstanding Young Attorney of the Year several years running. Photos of Stacy and Brad standing next to various politicians and movie stars broke up the monotony of the certificates. Wide smiles and cocktail glasses were the prevailing theme and many of the photos were signed by the famous member of the group, usually with some very sincere preface like Love Ya... or Kisses... I found myself saying things like "Well, well," and "Would you look at that" over and over. We did about fifteen minutes of this routine before I got a long enough break to remind her about lunch.
To reach the Tanoan Country Club, we exited the community through the guard post where I'd come in, onto Academy Road. Less than a mile up the road another turn-in opened past another guard gate onto a winding lane leading to yet another stucco and red tiled structure. Inside, thick carpet cushioned our feet as we made our way past a receptionist and up a wide staircase to the restaurant on the second floor.
The maitre d' greeted Stacy with just the right combination of familiarity and genuflection. I stood by, practicing Stacy's slightly drooped mouth and half lowered eyelids, wondering if I'd ever have a need to learn country club protocol. We followed Andre, whose real name was probably Andy, to a corner table where windows on two sides gave the full sweeping view of the city. Right now it was a panoramic display of gray, topped by a frosting of brown air. Well, maybe it was spectacular at night.
We perused the menu and placed our orders before I got a chance to get down to the real reason for the lunch date.
"I guess you figured out that I wanted to update you on the case," I began. "So far, I haven't learned a lot. Apparently Gary was into gambling pretty heavily. I'm going to work on that angle first."
Stacy shushed me briefly while the waiter brought our salads.
"I don't want anyone here to connect me with that man," she whispered. "You know how staff people can be."
I wanted to shake this uppity attitude right out of her but I let it slide. "Do you know anything about Gary's movements on Wednesday?" I asked. "I'm trying to put together a picture that leads to him sitting in his car in the driveway at nine that night."
"Absolutely not." Her voice rose four notes. "I had nothing whatsoever to do with the man after he took my watch."
"Okay, okay." I patted the tablecloth near her hand. "I just have to ask the questions. Stacy, where were you at nine o'clock on Wednesday?"
"Charlie!" A couple of heads turned, and she lowered her voice immediately. "What are you getting at?"
"Stacy, you better face facts. The police might be asking that very question if they ever make the connection with you. You better be ready with an answer."
She chewed at her salad slowly before speaking again. "That was the night Brad got home from his business trip. I picked him up at the airport. The flight came in at nine-thirty. That's where I was."
I fixed a long look on her. I wanted to believe her, but it was entirely possible for a person to be at Detweiller's house at nine, then beat it to the airport by nine-thirty to meet a plane. She sat up very straight and returned my stare.
"Charlie, I'm telling you, I was at the airport."
"Okay." I let it drop. We ate in silence for a few minutes before changing the subject. When I dropped her off at her house thirty minutes later, I couldn't resist adding one more word of caution.
"Stacy, if you have any proof at all to back up your airport story, I suggest you get it ready. I have a feeling the police are going to want to see it."
I glanced back in my rearview mirror as I pulled out of her circular drive. She stood on the front porch, glued to the spot, her face pale.
Chapter 5