I continued studying the photos. Violeta was flat on her back. Her arms and legs were spread-eagle, sort of, suggesting she just fell back dead without struggling or suffering. “You think she went pretty quick?”
“Died instantly, as they say.”
Dale had correctly reported that Violeta was wearing only her underwear when her body was found. He had not, however, reported that it was a fancy red bra and matching panties. “She wasn’t-”
Grant answered brusquely, “There’s no evidence of this crime being sexual in any way.”
“Well, that’s something at least,” I heard myself say. I handed the photographs back to him. I moved on to another subject. “So, what did you think when Ariel Wilburger-Gowdy bailed Eddie out? You couldn’t have been overjoyed.”
“Bad guys getting out on bail stopped bothering me long ago,” he said. He put the folder back in his desk drawer. Closed the drawer with his foot. “Anything else the Hannawa Police Department can do for you today, Mrs. Sprowls?”
I was not disappointed that our chat was over. Between the black coffee and the damn air conditioning, I was fighting a losing battle with my bladder. I put the Cinderella mug on the corner of his desk. “I’m sure it has nothing to do with nothing, but are you looking into that queen of Romania nonsense?”
Grant knew me too well. “Which means you are.”
“Not exactly looking,” I said. “But it is interesting, isn’t it? A few days after she publicly claims to be the queen she’s dead.”
It was clear from Grant’s patronizing smirk that the Hannawa Police Department was not giving much credence to her claim. “I think this case has a lot more to do with good old, garden variety American greed than European history,” he said. “But if you learn something interesting-”
“You’ll be the first to know.” I stood up to leave. He remained in his chair, swiveling back and forth. “It was good seeing you, Maddy.”
“It was good seeing you.” I was telling the truth and I think he was, too.
Grant stood up now. He stretched his arms until his shirttail popped out. He walked me to the elevator. “You’re going to behave this time?”
“I always behave,” I said. “Sometimes badly, but I behave.”
“I don’t want you getting yourself into trouble.”
I knew he was getting at something. “And how might I do that?”
He pushed the down button for me. “Oh, I don’t know-illegally entering a crime scene maybe.”
“That’s illegal now, is it?”
He smiled like a mischievous elf. “Don’t let this go to your noodle, Maddy, but we didn’t know about those skeleton keys.”
I rode the elevator to the main floor. Used the ladies’ room. Successfully spun myself through the revolving doors into a blast of hot wind. It felt as if The Almighty, for some reason, had decided to punish our sinful city with a giant hair dryer. I slipped past Roscoe Blough. Headed back to the paper.
Detective Grant is one of my favorite human beings. But between you and me, I’m always relieved when our jousts are over. He’s just too good a match. He’s just as willful as I am. Just as unpredictable. Just as exasperating. And that morning I knew he’d bested me in all three. He not only knew I was sticking my shnozola in another murder, as he put it, he didn’t much care that I planned to stick it in even farther. Which meant he wanted me to stick it in farther. Which meant he had his own doubts about Eddie French’s guilt. Good gravy! He didn’t even care that I’d stuck my head inside the fitness room at the Carmichael House. Which meant he’d hidden a video camera somewhere. No doubt to catch the murderer returning to the scene of the crime. To retrieve or erase some little piece of evidence, maybe. He even volunteered that his department didn’t know about the skeleton key in the fire extinguisher box. His way of admitting that he needed me, you think? And how about all that stuff he told me about Violeta Bell? No birth certificate. Fake Social Security number. All that. It sure confirmed Gabriella’s suspicions. Not to mention mine.
I reached the paper. Pushed my face against the red-hot glass door so Al Tosi, our rickety security guard, could see me. He buzzed me in. Called after me as I drooped past him toward the elevator. “Scorcher today, no?”
9
Friday, July 21
I spent the afternoon redoing Eric’s mark-up of Thursday’s paper, making sure he heard my cussing. Actually, he hadn’t done a bad job at all, but Morgue Mama does have a reputation to protect, doesn’t she? Anyway, just when I was gathering up my stuff to get the hell out of there, Bob Averill appeared in front of my desk eating a Snickers bar. The wrapper was pulled back like a banana skin. “Everything hunky-dory, Maddy?”
“As hunky-dory as it was yesterday, Bob.” It was the umpteenth time he’d pestered me about my progress that week. He always did so without mentioning Eddie French, or Violeta Bell, or anything else relating to the case. I suppose he figured just flapping around me like a bat was intimidation enough.
He tried again. “Doing anything interesting this weekend?”
“Hopefully not,” I said. I headed for the stairs.
He fell in alongside me. He’d finished the candy bar. Now he was licking the chocolate off the wrapper. “Suzie told me you signed up for a week’s vacation.”
He was about ready to implode with frustration and I was loving it. “Actually, I’m thinking of changing it to two weeks.”
“Two weeks?”
“I’ve got five coming.”
The great man crumbled. He put his hand on my shoulder to stop me. He dug his chin onto his chest. “Maddy, please,” he whimpered, “Jeannie Salapardi has been calling every night.”
I patted his hand. Removed it from my shoulder. “That must be terribly annoying,” I said. “Have a great weekend, Bob.”
I fled into the stairwell. Hurried down to the parking deck. I got into my car and got the hell out of there. I didn’t even take time to turn on the air conditioning.
My intention that afternoon was to go straight home to James, Alex Trebek, and the last fillet of that tilapia Ike had brought me in lieu of flowers or candy. Instead, I caught myself taking a left turn onto Hawthorne Avenue.
Hawthorne is very typical of the streets surrounding Meriwether Square. It’s paved with bumpy bricks. It’s lined with big oaks. There’s not a house on it built later than 1925. I pulled to the curb just shy of the dilapidated monstrosity that Eddie French called home. My intention was simply to see where he lived and how he lived. Before I found the courage to actually knock on his door on some future date. It’s a tactic I often employ. Years ago when I was pursuing the assistant librarian’s job at The Herald-Union, I circled the building like a buzzard for two hours before going inside to apply.
According to the research Eric gave me, the house was divided into four apartments. Two down and two up. Eddie had rented 2A for the past nine years. Dale’s story said the police found traces of blood on his porch. That meant Eddie’s apartment was atop an outside stairway. Unfortunately, I could see no such stairway from my car. No doubt it was at the back of the house. I got out of my car and crept up the driveway. I’d never heard such noisy gravel in my life.
I reached the back of the house. I snuggled against the siding and peeked around the corner. Most of the backyard had been turned into parking spaces for the tenants. Eddie’s cab was parked there. So was a rusty Hausenfelter bread truck. So was a shiny silver Volvo. It’s not unusual to see Volvos in Meriwether Square-there are oodles of them in fact-but it was a bit surprising to see one less than twenty years old.
“You need help?”
It was not exactly the voice of God. But it was a voice from above. From the small deck atop the wooden stairs that zigzagged up the side of the house. It belonged to Eddie French. I recognized his gray whiskers and his rumpled Woolybears ballcap. He was sitting sideways on the railing, flicking cigarette ashes into a coffee cup. I had no choice but to turn my scouting mission into a full-fledged visit. “Mr. French?”