“I never had any reason to suspect it.”
Ike paid Joey two dollars for the “I Like Ike” button. On the way to the car, Ike pinned it on my tee shirt. I immediately took it off. “You’re forgetting I’m a Democrat.”
He flashed me that damn don’t-you-love-me smile of his. “Lots of Democrats voted for Ike.”
“Not this one!”
We drove to Oswosso Swamp Park. We followed the trail around the rim of the marsh until we found an empty bench. We sat next to each other, our shoulders just barely touching. We didn’t say a word. We nibbled our sandwiches and chips. We slurped the sun tea I’d brewed that morning. We watched the long-legged heron do their impressions of lawn ornaments. We watched the ducks paddle by. We watched the turtles stick their snoots through the algae. We watched the human beings dumb enough to jog during what Margaret Newman in her story had called “the nation’s most blistering hot spell since rough-tough Teddy Roosevelt roasted in the Oval Office.” I didn’t know what Ike was thinking, but I was thinking about how much fun I was going to have telling Margaret that, while I enjoyed her alliteration, the Oval Office wasn’t built until the presidency of William Howard Taft.
It was Ike who finally broke the oath of silence he’d imposed before we got out of the car. “You can’t possibly think Joseph Lambright killed that old woman,” he said.
“When did I ever say that?”
“I know you were asking your questions carefully. But I also know how that wicked little brain of yours works.”
I snapped one of those tasteless baked chips between my teeth. The heron closest to us took off like the space shuttle. “I’m still at the early stages of my research. I have to suspect everybody.”
Ike shifted his attention to another heron. “What possible reason would Joseph have?”
“Maybe she snookered him.”
“Found out she sold some piece of junk from his shop for a ton of money?”
“That’s exactly right,” I said. “And when he confronted her, wanting his fair share, she refused.”
“And so he snuck into her building in the middle of the night? Took her to the basement and killed her?”
“Uh-huh.”
“That’s not the Joseph Lambright I know.”
“Nor is it the Joey Junk I know. But who knows what evil lurks in the hearts of men?”
I dug another potato chip from the bag. Ike took it away before I could scare the bejeebers out of another big dumb bird. “Or women,” he said.
11
Friday, July 28
I waited until five-thirty, then I dialed Detective Grant’s direct line. I crossed my fingers that he wouldn’t be there. I hadn’t had one mug of tea all day and my head was pounding. The last thing I needed was to get laughed at, or lectured, or both, by Scotty Grant. The finger-crossing worked: “ This is Detective Grant. Please leave a message. If your call is urgent, press extension 119. ”
My call was important but not exactly urgent. I waited for the beep and left a message: “This is Maddy Sprowls. I suppose you’ve left for the day-I’m leaving myself in a couple of minutes-but I did want to pass along a tip. Well, I guess it’s not so much a tip as an unnecessary suggestion. Most likely. Anyway, if I were you I’d check the authenticity of those antiques you took from Eddie French’s apartment. And the ones still in Violeta Bell’s condo. It wouldn’t surprise me if they’re fakes. I’m not saying they are. But they might be. Bye-bye.” I grabbed my purse and headed for the elevator.
I reached my bungalow on Brambriar Court, Ike’s car was already in the driveway. He’d had my house key for three months but this was the first time he’d used it. When I hit the button on my garage-door opener, James started barking up a storm inside. It’s good to be wanted.
Ike greeted me at the kitchen door. “Baked tilapia, wild rice, and asparagus with hollandaise sauce!”
I ducked under his arm. “I hope you used my fake eggs.”
He kissed my throbbing forehead way too hard. “Begrudgingly.”
I scratched James’ ears and headed for the bathroom. When I got back, dinner was on the table. So were a pair of candles, wine glasses, and a big bottle of Caffeine-Free Diet Coke. “How romantic!”
Ike knew enough to let me eat in silence. And then watch Wheel of Fortune and Jeopardy in silence. At eight o’clock I made him a deaclass="underline" he could watch The O’Reilly Factor if he turned the volume down. I went into my bedroom to pack. At nine o’clock we loaded James into Ike’s car-it was a lot like Sisyphus trying to roll that rock up the mountain-and headed out into the night. Ike knew enough not to hum along with the songs on the radio.
That’s the problem with Ike, by the way. He’s known me long enough to know what not to do.
It took us twenty minutes to get there. The huge, double-story building was dark except for a few windows at the rear. We drove toward them across the empty parking lot. Ike pulled up to the curb. He already had his instructions, but he knew enough to show a smidgeon of empathy anyway. “You sure you don’t want me to come in with you?”
“James would just throw a fit.”
He leaned across my overnight bag and kissed my lips. “You behave in there, okay?”
I got out of the car. Bent down and gave him the evil eye. “Not a minute after six!”
“I’ll be here.”
I forced myself up the walk to the door. The gold letters on the glass looked three feet high: HANNAWA SLEEP CENTER.
Behind the candy bowl on the counter sat a big woman wearing a white smock covered with happy blue bunnies. She was lost in a romance novel. “I’m here for my sleep test,” I said. “Sprowls.”
Without looking up she handed me a questionnaire snapped to a clipboard. “After you fill it out I’ll take you to your room.” Her voice was soft and breathy, no doubt very much like the voice of the beautiful heiress in her book at that very moment surrendering to the passions broiling within her for so very long.
I answered the questions as truthfully as I could. When I went back to the counter, she dog-eared her page, stuck the book in the pocket of her smock and led me down the hallway to my room. It was not the sterile hospital room I expected. It was as homey as anything you’d find at a Best Western. Double bed with a real wooden headboard. Paintings bolted to the flowery wallpaper. Fuzzy rug. TV on the dresser. I put my overnight bag on the bed. “How many are being tested tonight?”
“All five rooms are filled.”
“Men and women?”
“Men one night and women the next,” she said. “We don’t need anything interesting happening, do we?”
I was relieved. I’d been worrying about some grisly old sleepwalker trying to nuzzle up to me in the night. “You’re going to glue lots of wires to me, I gather.”
She headed for the door. Her hand was already retrieving the book from her smock. “Get into your PJs. Patti will be in shortly to prepare you.”
Patti turned out to be Patti Kapustova, a sawed-off girl with impressive hips that would serve her well once she was old enough to bear children. “You look too young to be a nurse,” I said.
She took it as a compliment. “I’m thirty-three-but thanks.” She looked tired and a bit agitated. She was having a devil of a time trying to untangle the wad of wires she’d brought in with her. “And I’m not a nurse,” she said. “I’m a polysomnographic technologist.”
She went into a lengthy explanation of the test, how those electrodes in her hand would be attached to my scalp, face, chest, legs, and fingers. How she would monitor my sleep from an adjoining room. How if nature called during the night I could call her and she’d help me waddle to the bathroom. “You have any questions, Mrs. Sprowls?”
I did have a question. “Kapustova-that wouldn’t be Romanian, would it?”
She softened a little. “It’s Slovak. My ex-husband’s name. I’m actually French Canadian and Welsh. Barbou and Jones and I end up with Kapustova.”