“The bread truck,” I explained. “He delivered her antiques in an old Hausenfelter bread truck and you’re the widow of Harold Hausenfelter.”
Her acting improved a bit. “That’s just a coincidence. That’s what that is.”
“I’m not saying otherwise.”
I left Kay and the box of picture frames and wandered off to look at an exercise bicycle. Not that I was ever going to buy an exercise bicycle. It was just time for me to wander off. It was pretty clear that Kay Hausenfelter knew more about Violeta Bell’s very complicated life than she was letting on. Which meant she might also know something about her very complicated death.
All-in-all, Kay bought four picture frames and a bright pink bud vase. Ariel bought three vegetarian cookbooks. Gloria bought an ant farm as a gag gift for her ex-exterminator husband. I bought nothing.
Before calling it a day we stopped at another six houses. In addition to my prying, there was a lot of laughing and good-natured ribbing. I could see why these women enjoyed each other’s company. Each was a hoot in her own way. But despite all the fun, I had not been seduced out of my suspicions. They all knew more than they were letting on.
“Lunch time!” Gloria McPhee sang out as Eddie pulled away from the last house.
Eddie wound through the city’s hilly northern neighborhoods. I figured we were heading for a restaurant. But before I knew it we were on Hardihood Avenue heading back to the Carmichael House.
Eddie pulled up to the entrance. Gloria handed Eddie an envelope. “You can pick Maddy up in an hour,” she said.
“It will be my unconstrained pleasure,” he said, playfully tugging on the bill of his Woolybears ballcap.
We piled out of the cab with our treasures. Eddie drove off.
It seemed odd that Eddie was dismissed in such a businesslike way. He’d been so much a part of the Queens of Never Dull for so many years. You’d think they would have invited him up for lunch, wouldn’t you? Then again, Eddie had appeared quite content to take the envelope and motor off. Clearly, Eddie French had been a lot closer to Violeta Bell than the other three. Nothing more than a hired gun, if you will. Unless that efficient little scene I’d just witnessed had been prearranged for my benefit, of course.
We crowded into the elevator. Gloria punched the button for the sixth floor.
Gloria’s condo was really something. Artsy. Modern. Walls had been knocked out between the kitchen, dining room, and living rooms. The hardwood floors looked brand new. The furniture clearly was. Everything was either black or gray, or creamy white. Two black and white Shih Tzus were running around like a couple of nuts.
Gloria’s husband waved at us from the kitchen. “I hope everybody likes cat and rabbit,” he called out. He was wearing one of those stupid mushroom-shaped chef hats.
Gloria must have caught my wince. “Cat food and rabbit food,” she explained. “Salad with grilled salmon. Phil’s a real comedian.”
Gloria was the only married member of the Never Dullers. And from what I’d gleaned from Gabriella Nash’s story on them, and Eric Chen’s research, happily married to boot.
She had been born Gloria Ann Gillis. She’d moved to Hannawa from a coal-mining town in Western Pennsylvania when she was nine. “Daddy had what today they call black lung and had trouble keeping a job,” she’d told Gabriella Nash for her story. “We moved from one rental to another. So I got to know about houses at an early age.”
She’d bought her first home when she was only twenty-two. “All I ever wanted was a place I couldn’t be evicted from,” she’d told Gabriella. After a few years fixing up that first little rundown house on Baxter Street, she bought a slightly bigger and better house three doors down. That was followed by a pretty cape cod on Walhounding Avenue. “It was cute as a bug,” she’d said, “but unfortunately it also had bugs-termites. That’s how I met Phil.”
They were married in October 1962. A month later they had their first of six children. In between babies Gloria got her real estate license and little by little she became one of the most successful Realtors in Hannawa. Even though she was well into her seventies and had plenty of money, she continued to sell houses.
“Cat and rabbit now being served in the grand hall,” Phil announced in a horrible English butler’s accent. We headed for the dining room table. It was long enough to land a 747.
Phil McPhee looked more like a Presbyterian minister than a retired pest exterminator. He was tall and thin with enough white hair on his head for a dozen men his age. His teeth were a little yellow and his nostrils a little fuzzy, but he was by and large a handsome man. According to Eric’s research, he’d graduated summa cum laude from Ohio State University, with twin degrees in business and entomology. Eric had found an article on him in Pest Control magazine. “I was a practical young man,” he’d said of himself, “who was more interested in making a lot of money killing bugs than no money studying them.”
Phil kept us laughing throughout our lunch. And his salmon salad was as good as his jokes. After sherbet and coffee Gloria gave me a tour of the condo. The bedrooms were spectacular. Their bathrooms were too magnificent to use. Gloria and Phil both had an office-not converted spare bedrooms but actual offices with built-in bookcases, daybeds and massive desks. I particularly liked Phil’s desk. It was an old roll top with three long rows of pigeonholes. I also liked his wastebasket. It was covered with hundreds of hand-painted ants going every which-away. “Our oldest daughter, Carol, made it for him. For Christmas. Probably ten years ago. She’s an art teacher in Buffalo of all places.”
I took a closer look at the ants. They were all wearing little gas masks. I also took a closer look at what was in the wastebasket. Nothing but several little tightly rolled balls of fur.
16
Monday, August 7
I was determined to have an easy day. I’d mark up the weekend papers, dawdle over my mail, have a long lunch at Ike’s, and then in the afternoon do a little personal research on the relationship between dogs, enlarged tonsils, and snoring. Dr. Menke usually knew what he was talking about-I’d been going to him for twenty-five years-but this business about James possibly causing my sleep apnea was a bunch of baloney.
Eric Chen quickly changed my plans. “I’ve got that stuff you wanted on the prince’s brother, et al.,” he said, falling in next to me as I headed back to the morgue with my morning tea. I’d only given him the weekend to investigate the Clopotar clan. I hadn’t expected him to get it done that fast. “No there there?” I asked.
Before he could give me one of his smart-ass answers, Louise Lewendowski swept past us with a manic smile. “You guys hear?” she squealed. “The president is coming to Hannawa! On Thursday!”
I cringed. “This Thursday?”
She was nodding her head like a Pez dispenser with Tourettes. “Isn’t it exciting?”
“With a capital E,” I said.
Presidents don’t generally come to Hannawa, Ohio. In fact you can count presidential visits to our city on one hand, even if you don’t have a thumb: Abraham Lincoln visited twice, once on his way to Washington to be inaugurated and once on his way home to be buried. Calvin Coolidge once gave a commencement speech at Hemphill College. Ronald Reagan once made a campaign stop at Hyker Hydraulics to tout American competitiveness. Two weeks after Reagan’s re-election, Hyker announced it was moving all 1,300 of its well-paying jobs to Mexico.
Contrary to popular belief, I wasn’t at the paper for the Lincoln or Coolidge visits, but I was here for Reagan’s. Pandemonium doesn’t begin to describe it. For three days I had one damn request after another. “What do we have on this?” “What do we have on that?” “I’m on deadline, Maddy!” “I need it yesterday, Maddy!” Good gravy! You’d have thought the four Horsemen of the Apocalypse were spotted galloping up Main Street!