‘You want to explain?’
This wasn’t the first time I’d seen Quinn at a crime scene. I knew he had his small, leather-covered notebook out to jot down anything a witness – in this case, me – could tell him. He wasn’t looking at the blank notebook page, though. He was giving me the same once-over he’d already given me as soon as he was inside Dean McClure’s door.
As if it would somehow help him make sense of what he was seeing, he shook his head, and a strand of inky hair curled across his forehead like a question mark. ‘Why are you dressed like that?’ he asked.
‘Dressed?’ I glanced down at myself and cringed. I’d forgotten the flannel pants that were inches too short, the Bugs Bunny T-shirt, the tennis shoes. Ariel’s socks had pink flamingoes on them. My current oh-so-unfashionable state was pretty traumatic so I could be forgiven for blocking out the memory, still, I reminded myself that in the great scheme of things, it was a good thing Quinn and the two uniformed cops who’d showed up with him weren’t there because of my felonious plans at McClure’s. I’d hate to go to jail looking like this. ‘It’s kind of a long story,’ I told him.
‘And I kind of need to know.’ He tapped the tip of his pen against the notebook. ‘What are you doing here, Pepper? And where …’ The reality of my appearance did not exactly jibe with Quinn’s expectations of me, thank goodness. I guess that’s why he had a hard time getting over it. ‘Where did you get those awful clothes?’
‘Ella’s. I told you I was at Ella’s. When I left you that voicemail. She was sick, see, and I was muddy. Because I was at the Ness monument, and she was driving, and there was this fox and—’
‘Got it.’ He held up a hand to stop the flow of my words. ‘So let’s get back to what’s really important.’ He glanced at the body on the floor and the crime scene technicians who’d arrived just a little while after he had showed up in response to my call. ‘How do you know the victim? And what are you doing here?’
‘I told you, Quinn. Back at the cemetery, I told you all about it. I didn’t know Dean McClure at all. I never met him.’ I couldn’t help myself. As much as I didn’t want to see it or to relive those heart-stopping moments when the light of my flashlight first raked over Dean McClure’s smashed skull, I looked at the victim and the pool of blood that had soaked into the carpet and turned it from plain old ordinary beige to sickening red. I took a couple steps back from it all and lowered my voice. ‘Dean McClure is the guy who has Eliot Ness’s ashes,’ I said. ‘You know, the guy I told you I was coming to see.’
‘To get the ashes back.’
I nodded, but since Quinn was writing something in his little notebook, I don’t think he saw me. At least not until he gave me an eagle-eye look. ‘And the ashes are …’
I shrugged and, as soon as I did, realized it was a mistake. I should have told Quinn I knew exactly where the ashes were. I should have told him McClure had left them somewhere for me like on the back porch, and that I only found the body because I wanted to thank him in person and he didn’t answer the door when I knocked.
Now I’d have to come up with some other half-assed story to explain myself when I finally did find the ashes and whisked them out of the house.
‘What time were you supposed to meet him?’
Quinn’s question snapped me to. ‘Time?’ I had no idea what time it was so I had no idea how to cover for my lies. ‘He told me to stop by anytime,’ I said. ‘I was over at Ella’s. You know, on account of the mud and the fox and all, and I had to wait until Rachel got home. You know, Rachel—’
‘Ella’s daughter. Yes, I know. What does that have to do with our victim?’
‘Well, I’m just trying to answer your question. About the time. McClure … when he called and left me that message this morning … he said to stop by anytime, and I guess I got here sometime around seven.’
Quinn made note of this.
‘How did you get inside?’
This time, the truth seemed the easiest course of action. ‘The back door.’ I poked a thumb over my shoulder in that direction. ‘It was open. And when he didn’t answer when I knocked …’ I hoped my shrug said it all. ‘That’s when I came in here and that’s when I saw …’ Again, I looked at the gash on the back of McClure’s head. Thanks to the ghosts in my life, I might know more than most about death, but I knew next to nothing about dying. Still, even I could see that the marble paperweight had been used to bash in McClure’s head. It was a hefty piece, and I’d bet anything, he’d died pretty quickly.
‘And the ashes?’
When Quinn spoke, I flinched and turned back to him. ‘The ashes … I can just go get them right now.’ As if I actually knew where I was headed, I backed a few more steps away from Quinn. ‘I’ll get those ashes and I’ll be out of your way in a two shakes of a lamb’s tail.’
I winced at my choice of words, but luckily, Quinn had no way of knowing that I was suddenly talking like a certain cop from the thirties.
‘Oh, no!’ I knew it would come to this so I wasn’t surprised even if I was disappointed when he cut me off at the knees. ‘What you’re going to do is wait until I’m done here so I can get some more details from you.’ Quinn pointed to the dining room. ‘In the meantime, in there. Sit down, and don’t touch anything, and don’t make any phone calls and don’t do anything except wait until I’m done here. Got that?’
‘Right.’ I gave him a crisp salute. ‘Dining room. That’s where I’ll be.’
I sashayed that way, making sure I took as much of a look around the living room as I could. Now that the lights were on, I saw what I hadn’t had a chance to see when I’d snuck in with the light of my flashlight app leading the way. Two walls of the room were lined with bookcases and there were clear plastic display boxes on each shelf, lined up like soldiers. Ink pen, a typewriter, a man’s hat, an old black telephone. Each display case had a single object in it and a little engraved brass plaque in front of it.
Ness was right, McClure was a collector, all right, and I could tell he cherished his collection. There wasn’t a speck of dust on any of the display cases, and those brass plaques shined.
Once I was in the dining room, I saw that there were even more items on display in there, including the framed photograph of a man with a big smile and a round face who was standing in front of a car that reminded me of the Buick I’d seen at the cemetery earlier that day. There were more display cases, too, and I glanced over a heavy gold cigarette lighter, a wristwatch with a worn face, an ashtray, a black leather wallet.
There were other framed pictures on the wall, and though Quinn had told me I couldn’t touch anything, he hadn’t said anything about looking. One gold frame with elaborate curlicues on it was home to the birth certificate of someone named Joseph Anthony Triccorio, and it wasn’t hung, it was set on top of a buffet, leaning against the wall. So was another frame that had nothing in it but a scrap of paper and whatever was scribbled on it in faded pencil, I sure couldn’t read it.
Yeah, there were lots of things displayed in Dean McClure’s home, all right.
None of them looked like Eliot Ness’s ashes.
On cue, there was a swirl of sparkles near the table, and I sat down right next to it. ‘So …’ I made sure I kept my voice down; Quinn might suspect what I was up to, but there was no way I wanted anyone else to notice. ‘What’s going on here, Ness? What do you make of it?’
‘It’s not good.’
‘Thanks, I needed someone to tell me that. Walking into a murder scene is nobody’s idea of good.’
‘Not what I’m talking about. I had a quick look around while you were busy talking to the detective.’ As if to prove he could, that swirl swished over to the other side of the room and was back again in a flash. ‘Like I told you, McClure kept his most valuable items in the living room. Did you notice them when you were in there?’
‘I saw a couple things. The phone, the pen.’
‘And the empty case?’
I leaned back to look into the living room, but from here, I couldn’t see anything but the backs of the two uniformed officers who were standing between me and Dean McClure, and the crime scene people who were on their knees next to the body, searching for evidence.
‘There’s an empty case?’ I asked Ness.
As if he was nodding, the swirl moved up and down.
I was almost afraid to ask, ‘Your ashes?’
‘Gone.’
It didn’t take long for his words to sink in or for the reality of the situation to come crashing down. ‘So you’re telling me you had me break into the house when—’
‘Shhh!’ Maybe he forgot that nobody could hear him but me, because Ness whispered. ‘You don’t want anyone to know you weren’t supposed to be here. You actually …’ He cleared his throat. ‘You did very well talking to that detective. You’re quick on your feet, and you covered your tracks.’
‘No thanks to you who had me break into a house to steal something that isn’t even here.’
‘But they were here!’ Ness insisted. ‘I know they were. Someone must have—’
‘Killed McClure to get your ashes?’ This was a new thought, and I sat up like a shot. ‘You think someone knew the ashes were here? That they broke in just like I …’ I stopped myself just short of saying it. ‘That they came for the ashes just like I came for the ashes, only McClure was still here, he hadn’t gone to his collectors’ meeting yet? You think that someone killed him, then walked off with your ashes?’
‘It’s possible,’ Ness conceded, ‘though we don’t have enough evidence yet to prove it. Why don’t you …’ I don’t know why, but I had the feeling he looked over his shoulder to see what the cops were up to. ‘Take a look around,’ he said. ‘Maybe you’ll find something useful.’
What I’d find was big time trouble from Quinn.
If he caught me.
Since he was busy and those two cops were still standing between us, I took the moment to slip out of my chair and into the kitchen.
‘All right.’ I rubbed my hands together and looked around. Dean McClure’s kitchen was as bare bones basic as the rest of the house. There was a stove and fridge on one wall, a sink on the other and, above it, a window that looked out over the backyard. Someone had turned on the back porch light – no doubt to look for evidence back there – and the light glowed against a sink where dishes and pots and pans were piled in a mound that looked none too balanced. In contrast to the mess in the sink, every inch of wall space in the room was crammed with framed photographs lovingly arranged: black-and-white pictures of guys in old-fashioned clothes standing in front of big houses and tacky looking restaurants, a gigantic poster from The Godfather, another picture of the same man I’d seen in that photo that included the old car. This picture was taken closer up, and I could see that the guy had three jagged scars on his left jaw.
Behind me, I heard Ness mumble. ‘Al Capone,’ he said.
‘The gangster?’ I studied the photograph with new interest. ‘I thought this McClure guy thought you were the main man when it came to old time stuff.’
‘He collected all sorts of memorabilia from the thirties. Things that once belonged to me, like that wallet you saw. And things that belonged to gangsters. That cigarette lighter in the other room, that was Capone’s. So was that telephone and, if I’m not mistaken, that fountain pen holder, the one that was used as the murder weapon.’
‘I don’t get it,’ I admitted. ‘Why?’
‘I assume because it was on hand and it fit the bill. That marble base must weigh at least—’
‘Not what I’m talking about,’ I interrupted him. ‘Why this stuff? Why would McClure or anybody else collect it?’
‘Why do some people collect stamps? And some collect coins? It starts out as an interest, and in some people it turns into an obsession.’
I thought about the living room and the dining room. I glanced around at the photos that filled the walls. ‘McClure was obsessed.’
‘Obviously. No one but a person with a fixation about his collection would have stolen my ashes from that garage in Pennsylvania.’
‘Then if whoever killed McClure did take the ashes, he must be even more obsessed than McClure was. It’s one thing to break into a garage to take ashes. It’s another to kill a person to get your hands on those ashes. We’re dealing with one sick individual.’
‘Or one who’s very clever.’
Thinking this over, I turned my back on the picture of Capone and glanced around the kitchen. There was a pile of mail on the green Formica countertop and, with a quick look into the living room to make sure Quinn was still busy, I checked it out. ‘Bills and advertising flyers,’ I grumbled. ‘And this. Look!’ I held up a newsletter so Ness could see it. ‘The latest issue of something called The Hit List.’ I read the line underneath the name of the publication. ‘A newsletter for collectors of gangster memorabilia.’ This I decided might come in handy, so I folded the newsletter in half and tucked it into the waistband of my flannel pants.
‘Hey, Harrison!’ Another cop stuck his head in the front door. ‘A basement window is broken. Come on out here and have a look.’ Quinn left, those two uniformed cops went with him, and since there might be evidence to be found, the crime scene folks tagged along. I saw a chance I might not get again. Before they could return, I scampered into the living room and acted like I had every right to be there.
One eye on the door to watch for the return of Quinn and his buddies, I scanned the display cases and found the one Ness had talked about.
The one that was empty.
I moved in close and checked out the brass plaque. It didn’t say a thing about ashes, and I guess that’s understandable. If McClure stole the ashes all those years before, he’d hardly want to advertise that he had them. No, in fact, the engraving on the plaque was simple and to the point: Eliot Ness, 1903–1957.
Satisfied that I’d seen all there was to see, I scampered back into the dining room just as Quinn came back in through the front door. This time, there were paramedics with him who got ready to remove the body.
I settled myself in a chair with my back to all that activity in the living room. ‘What were they in?’ I asked Ness out of the corner of my mouth.
‘You mean the ashes? They were in a wooden box about yea long …’ I wrinkled my nose and screwed up my mouth to remind him that though he might be holding his ghostly hands apart to show me the dimensions of the box, I couldn’t see him.
Ness cleared his throat. ‘When McClure found the ashes originally, they were in a cardboard box. Just an old cardboard box. He apparently didn’t think that was fitting, and he had a box specially made for the ashes. It’s mahogany, about a foot long, maybe three inches high.’
‘Like a mini coffin.’
‘I suppose so.’ Ness sniffed. ‘I’ve had a look around and I don’t see the box anywhere.’
‘Because the killer took it with him.’
‘You talking to …’ Quinn walked into the dining room, and I looked over my shoulder at him just in time to see him glance around uncertainly. ‘Is Ness here?’ he asked.
I nodded.
‘What can he tell us?’ Quinn wanted to know.
There was a time I would have jumped on the table and done the happy dance at hearing this. The fact that Quinn accepted my crazy Gift – and all the weirdness that went with it – made my heart squeeze.
But it did not make me stupid.
‘You sure you want to talk about this here?’ I asked Quinn.
He called over his shoulder. ‘Hey, Rodriguez, I’m going to have a look around. I’m taking the witness with me.’
‘Got it,’ one of the cops called back, and Quinn and I went through the living room and up the stairs.
There was a time – a time when I lived in a grand suburban McMansion with parents who indulged my every whim – when I would have said McClure’s house was tiny. These days when I was living in a third-floor apartment about the size of the closet I’d once had at home, I was not one to judge. Quinn and I walked down a short, narrow hallway and into a bedroom that contained a double bed, a dresser – and barely enough room to move. Never one to take chances, Quinn closed the door behind us.
‘So?’ OK so he bought into the whole Gift thing, that didn’t mean Quinn was exactly comfortable with it. As if he couldn’t believe what he was saying, he shifted from foot to foot against carpeting that was the same boring beige as the stuff downstairs, at least the stuff without the blood soaked into it. ‘Is Ness here? Can he help us?’
I glanced around, but there was no sign of the little cloud I’d come to associate with the country’s most famous Prohibition agent. ‘He was here,’ I told him. ‘He came with me when I came to … er … pick up the ashes. Makes sense, right? They are his ashes.’
‘And you said you didn’t have them yet. That you could just get them and get out of here.’
I couldn’t help but sigh. ‘There’s an empty display case downstairs, Quinn, and a plaque with Eliot Ness’s name on it in front of the case. Ness says that’s where the ashes were. They’re gone now.’
‘Gone before tonight? Or taken by the same person who murdered Dean McClure?’
‘I don’t know. And Ness doesn’t, either. He swears McClure had them.’
‘So in addition to a murder, we might be talking about a robbery.’
Without my name associated with it, thank goodness.
‘Why would anybody want ashes? Anybody’s ashes?’ I asked Quinn.
‘I don’t know.’ He shivered, and I wondered if looking at dead bodies was finally getting to him. It was as warm as blazes in the tiny bedroom. ‘But we’re going to find out. You saw McClure’s face, right?’
I admitted that I hadn’t taken a good look.
‘Bloody nose,’ Quinn told me. ‘Somebody took a poke at him. So we know there was a struggle, and it could have been because someone other than you wanted those ashes.’
‘Makes sense.’
He made a note of the robbery and, when someone called out his name from downstairs, he opened the bedroom door.
‘You’re going to have to work late tonight, aren’t you?’ I am not the emotionally needy type, but after all I’d been through that day, it would have been nice to sleep with Quinn’s arms around me. ‘I could wait for you at your place.’
When he turned around, there was a smile on his face. He brushed a finger against his left cheek ‘I’ll tell you what, I’ll stop by your place if I can.’
‘I’ll wait up.’
‘Don’t.’ He stepped out into the hallway. ‘It might be pretty late, and I don’t want you to miss your beauty sleep, my sweet.’
‘My sweet!’ Good thing we were upstairs where nobody could see us when I bopped him on the shoulder. Echoing what he’d heard from Wally that morning was Quinn’s idea of a joke. Only I wasn’t laughing. I couldn’t help but remember that it was the same thing Ella had said when she’d drifted off to sleep that afternoon.
While I thought about this, Quinn headed back downstairs and I trailed along. By the time I got into the living room, the paramedics had Dean McClure’s body on a gurney and the crime scene techs must have been busy, too, because that pen holder with the bloodied base was nowhere in sight. Neither were Quinn and his cohorts, so I took another minute to look around and, satisfied there was nothing else for me to see, I headed out the way I’d come in.
Outside on the back porch, I took a second to take stock of the yard. Not that there was much to see: a couple rose bushes that were still bare, a spindly looking tree, a garage with the door closed.
And no one around.
I checked over my shoulder just to be sure and scrambled over to the garage. There were windows in the door that was rolled down, but it was dark in there, and I couldn’t see a thing. I checked along the side of the garage, found a door, and slipped inside.
Don’t ask me what I thought I might find, but I guess I was hoping that McClure, obsessed Ness fan that he was, might have decided to return his hero’s ashes to a garage, the place he’d originally found them.
Then again, that would have been too easy.
I inched into the garage in the dark, just barely able to make out the hulking shape of a car that looked mighty familiar. Caution be damned, I needed a better look. I felt along the wall, found a switch, and flicked on the light.
That’s when I saw exactly what my gut had told me I’d see.
A shiny black 1938 Buick.
The exact car that had brought that mysterious package to the cemetery.