The flowers were on my desk when I arrived at Garden View the next day. Two dozen roses, and their colors reminded me of the vivid reds and pinks of the sunrise I’d watched that Thursday morning since I couldn’t sleep and I’d spent the night staring out my third-floor apartment window.
Yes, the flowers were from Quinn.
Yes, there was a card and on it, he said he was sorry for what had happened the night before and that he could – and would – explain everything.
I recognized his handwriting, which meant he didn’t call the florist, but made the time to stop and place the order himself and, I’ll admit, this melted some of the ice that had solidified around my heart the night before. Some. Not all. Flowers or no flowers, a total thaw wasn’t going to happen until he told me what was up, and why just mentioning that note that McClure had written to Quinn’s lieutenant had made him so defensive.
And then, of course, there was the not-so-small matter of the murder weapon in Quinn’s closet.
I hadn’t said a word to him about it that Wednesday night. But then as soon as I rushed out of the bedroom, I was pretty busy hightailing it out of his place, my heart in my throat and unshed tears stinging my eyes so that I could barely see to drive home.
Even the next morning, just thinking about that fountain pen holder and the blood caked on it in nasty, rusty-colored streaks caused my heart to jump and my pulse to pound along with it. I’d seen the pen holder on the floor of McClure’s living room the night of the murder, and I remembered that it was there when I went upstairs with Quinn. It was gone when I came back downstairs. I’d assumed that it had been bagged and tagged by the crime scene people, but that will teach me. That pen holder never left McClure’s with the technicians. It had never been entered as evidence.
Because Quinn had snatched it up.
Bad enough when thinking all this through already had me feeling queasy. Worse when my phone rang. I checked the caller ID and I knew a losing cause when I saw it, so I picked up on the third ring.
‘Hi, Mom!’
‘Hi, honey! I know you’re working and I don’t want to bother you, but I just thought I’d check in and see what you’re planning to wear on Saturday.’
It took a few moments for me to figure out what she was talking about, and when I did, I groaned.
‘I’m not being pushy,’ my mother told me, as pushy as ever. ‘But I figured it’s important. You’ll want something comfortable and something easy to take off and put on if you’re trying on gowns at the bridal fair.’
This time, my groan was accompanied by a well-deserved curse word.
‘Really, Pepper!’ Mom sloughed the whole thing off as if it was meant to be funny. It wasn’t. ‘A bride is always much classier than that.’
‘Except I’m not a bride.’
‘Not yet you’re not.’
I glanced at the vase on my desk and at the flowers and greenery and tiny sprigs of white baby’s breath that overflowed from it, and I couldn’t help myself, I sighed.
‘What’s that?’ Call it mother’s instincts, I pictured Barb sitting up, cocking her head, eager and interested. ‘What’s wrong, Pepper?’
‘Nothing’s wrong.’ I lied like a champ. ‘It’s just that Quinn and I, we’re—’
‘Of course you’re fighting! That is what you were going to say, right?’ Before I had a chance to ask how in the hell she knew, my mother breezed right on. ‘It’s only natural that there would be tensions between the two of you at a time like this. You’re doing important work, figuring out the rest of your lives. You’re bound to get on each other’s nerves once in a while.’
If she could have seen me, she would have known that I shook my head. ‘That isn’t it, Mom.’
‘Then it’s the actual wedding, isn’t it? Who you want to invite, who he wants to invite. And music! My goodness, I remember the squabbles your dad and I had about the music when we were planning our wedding. He always loved Motown. And that crazy, psychedelic rock. And my Grandfather Livingston, well, he was paying for the reception and it was at his country club. He insisted on a twelve-piece orchestra and all the old standards. Your dad, he slipped the band a hundred dollar bill and had them play that old song, that Sugar Pie, Honey Bunch. You know the one.’
She sang a couple bars just in case I didn’t, then laughed. ‘Oh, I thought my grandfather was going to have a coronary right then and there! Of course things are a little easier these days because you have DJs and you can pick any kind of music you want. Remember that, Pepper, it isn’t worth fighting over. You can pick any kind of music you want, honey.’
‘We’re not fighting over music, Mom. We’re not talking about music. We’re not even talking about a wedding.’
‘Well, then that explains everything, doesn’t it? You need to talk! You need to get your ideas out in the open. If you just bottle it all in, of course you’re both going to snap.’
Snap is what we’d done.
Or at least what Quinn had done.
Thinking back to the night before, I still wondered how things had gotten out of control so quickly. It wasn’t like Quinn and I had never had a fight before; we were people with intense opinions, and his were usually wrong. But even when he was being his usual strong-willed, pig-headed, hard-nosed self, he’d never gone off the deep end. Not like he had that Wednesday evening.
‘I think we’re both just tired.’
I didn’t realize I’d even said it out loud until my mother replied. ‘Just wait! Once we’re into the planning full swing, things will really get hectic. Lots of sleep and plenty of hydration. That’s what you need.’
‘I don’t have to wait for things to get hectic, they’re already hectic, Mom. Quinn and I, we’re investigating a murder.’
Barb sucked in a breath. ‘Oh, is there a ghost involved?’
‘Sort of. Kind of. But not in the murder, more like in the robbery that took place during the murder. Maybe.’
‘Well, no wonder you’re feeling out of sorts!’ Since she’d just figured out the problems with my love life – if only it was that easy … my mother had the luxury of imparting her maternal wisdom. ‘You two have a lot going on. You’ll see. I guarantee it, honey, you’ll see how things will smooth out once you get this murder out of the way. Now, what did you say you were wearing on Saturday?’
‘I’ll find something,’ I assured her and before she could question me further, I told her I had to go and ended the call.
As it turned out, it was a good thing I did, because Eliot Ness picked that moment to materialize.
‘I couldn’t help but overhear,’ he said. ‘You and that detective—’
‘Something’s going on,’ I admitted. ‘Quinn knew Dean McClure.’
I don’t know why, but I could picture Ness nodding. ‘I knew that. Because of that note we found in the victim’s office. But I also know that the night of the murder, he never bothered to mention that he was acquainted with the victim. Not to you. Not to his fellow cops.’
‘Yeah, well, it gets worse.’ I flopped down into my desk chair. ‘Quinn’s got … I mean, he doesn’t exactly have it, it was more like it was just there. And maybe he doesn’t even know it’s there. That’s possible, isn’t it? Maybe somebody’s messing with him.’
The flurry that was Ness had been hovering on the other side of my desk. Now, it fluttered over and right in front of my face.
‘Explain,’ the G-man ordered.
It was hard to get the words out, I mean what with the lump of panic in my throat. ‘I found the murder weapon. It was at Quinn’s,’ I told him. ‘It was … It was hidden in his closet.’
The cloud scuttled back across the desk and over to one of my guest chairs. ‘It’s just like I said, corruption with in the department. It always comes down to corruption within the department.’
‘And it’s just like I said,’ I told him in no uncertain terms, ‘that isn’t possible. There’s got to be some other explanation. Quinn isn’t covering up for anyone, and he’s sure not the murderer.’
‘So his explanation, what is it?’
Ah, that was the question, the one that had kept me awake and pacing all night. ‘I thought he didn’t care about McClure’s complaint to his lieutenant. I thought it didn’t mean anything.’
‘But it did.’
I shrugged. ‘That note was still in McClure’s desk because Quinn never saw it. He hadn’t searched the house yet. If he had seen it …’ I remembered how Quinn had ripped up the complaint. ‘Well, I’m guessing if he had seen it, it never would have been picked up as evidence because he would have destroyed it.’
‘Exactly.’
I didn’t like the way Ness said this so I made sure I gave him a sour look. ‘I can wrap my brain around the complaint. It didn’t mean anything. It couldn’t have. But the murder weapon …’ I swallowed hard.
‘A fountain pen holder with a brass elephant on it.’
It wasn’t a question, but I nodded anyway
‘Al Capone collected elephants. Did you know that? He had elephants carved out of marble and ivory and wood. He had brass ones like the one on that pen holder. He liked elephants, but they always had to have their trunks raised in the air. He claimed that meant the elephants were good luck.’
‘Not so much for him, huh? He’s the one who ended up in prison.’
‘He didn’t think he ever would. He thought he was golden. Sounds like that detective of yours and Capone have some things in common.’
‘Not a chance.’ I made sure the glare that went along with this statement told Ness everything he needed to know. ‘I told you before, Quinn is honest. Sometimes, too honest.’
‘An honest man doesn’t walk away from a crime scene with the murder weapon.’
‘Which means there has to be some explanation. I mean, a really good explanation for what Quinn did.’
‘I’d like to hear it.’
‘So would I.’ My mind made up, I grabbed my phone and called Quinn, but he didn’t answer. I liked to think it was because he was busy, not because he was avoiding me. Without leaving a message, I tossed my phone on my desk. ‘So where does this leave us?’ I asked Ness.
‘Still looking for answers. The only question is—’
‘Where can we find some?’
Too antsy to sit still, I picked up my phone, all set to tuck it into my purse, and saw that The Hit List, the gangster collectors’ newsletter, was still in there where I’d put it after the meeting the other night.
So was the roster of HITmen names, addresses, and phone numbers.
‘I have suspects,’ I said and though I was talking to Ness, I was already heading to the door. I didn’t have a tour coming in to the cemetery until that afternoon and until then, I had enough time to follow a few leads, and enough stories to tell Ella to provide me with some cover for my absence. ‘You’ll see,’ I told him on my way out the door. ‘I’m going to figure out who really killed Dean McClure. And I’ll show you that there’s no way Quinn is mixed up in any of this.’
As it turned out, I found out when I called him that Nathan Armstrong was at work that day and rather than wait for his shift to be over, I met him at the gift shop at a park nature center. He was a big guy with wide shoulders and close-cropped gray hair. His short-sleeved Cleveland Metroparks polo shirt showed off bulging biceps and a stomach that was as flat as the proverbial pancake.
A guy who collected gangster-related memorabilia didn’t strike me as the type who would be a nature lover, but then over the years of being PI to the dead, I’d learned that people are full of surprises.
‘You said when you called that you’re working with the cops?’ Armstrong stuck out a hand and shook mine and I side-stepped a display of hoodies that featured pictures of songbirds on them and his question, too.
‘Pepper Martin,’ I said and if he noticed that I didn’t answer him, he never let on. ‘I just have a few questions.’
‘Sure.’ The gift shop was one of those out-doorsy sorts of place that I do everything in my power to avoid. Timber ceilings, wide windows that looked out over a deck and parkland beyond, a variety of small animals in aquariums: snakes and turtles and lizards. With a wave, he invited me over to a counter against a wall decorated with posters that featured photos of the park, and he slipped behind the counter and a display of stuffed toy critters.
‘Cute,’ I said, stroking a little fox with big eyes and fuzzy ears.
‘If you like this sort of nature crap.’
‘You don’t? You work at a park.’
‘Hey, a paycheck is a paycheck. I got my regular full time job over at the airport – I’m a baggage handler. And I got this gig part-time. It’s the only way I can keep my wife happy. You know how it is. The HITmen told me you were at the last meeting so I guess you must understand. My wife gets all bent out of shape if I spend what she calls our living money on my gangster stuff.’
‘Ah.’ I did my best to give the single syllable all the importance it deserved and thanked my lucky stars that Armstrong had steered the conversation in the direction it needed to go. ‘Gangster stuff. Like Dean McClure collected.’
The word Armstrong grumbled is best not repeated. ‘I knew you’d want to talk about him. You asked the other guys, right? At the meeting the other night?’
‘You weren’t there.’ It never hurts to get the ol’ ducks in a row. ‘Was there a reason you were avoiding the group?’
‘A reason like I killed McClure and I wasn’t ready to face the world?’ He barked out a laugh that was as big as those bulging muscles of his. It bounced around the high, timbered ceiling for a couple seconds and startled the lizard in the nearest aquarium. It scuttled under a rock and, even though I knew it couldn’t escape the aquarium, I took a step away from the scaly creature.
Rather than have Armstrong think I was as anxious for info as I actually was, I forced myself to look away from the lizard and eased into my line of questioning. ‘Tell me about him.’
‘McClure?’ He grumbled that word again, and good thing Armstrong kept his voice down because there was a grandma with a couple kids checking out the display of animal footprint pictures not too far away. Armstrong leaned over the counter and lowered his voice. ‘The world is a better place without Dean McClure in it.’
It wasn’t the first time I’d heard that opinion.
‘The HITmen think he might have stolen something from you.’
‘You found the report?’ Since I didn’t have the authority to even look for it, I was glad when Armstrong went right on. ‘Then you know the details. The guys were over for a little Christmas cheer, and when they left’ – his hands out at his sides, he lifted those massive shoulders and let his arms drop – ‘my Al Capone arrest record was nowhere to be found.’
‘And you think Dean McClure took it.’
‘I don’t think it, I know it. McClure, he was that kind of a greedy creep.’
‘It’s not in his house, not with the other things he has on display.’
‘You searched, huh?’ He actually seemed impressed by this information so I didn’t want to burst his bubble and mention the breaking and entering. ‘Well, it’s not much of a surprise that the arrest record is nowhere to be seen, is it? He wouldn’t just put it out on display. Not considering how he stole it.’
‘But there are lots of other things in his collection.’ Like I actually had to think about what I’d seen, I paused for a moment. ‘Did you and McClure often bid against each other at auctions?’
‘Me, McClure, everybody else in the collector community. We all want the same stuff, and there’s not much of it to go around.’
‘What about Angie Triccorio?’ I asked him.
‘Who?’ he asked, but then the confusion cleared from his blue eyes. ‘That crazy skinny dame? The one who was at the auction a couple weeks ago?’
‘That’s her. Why do you think she’s crazy?’
‘Because she wanted that stuff. You know, the stuff that belonged to Joey Ice Cube. And the way she was acting, she would have done anything to get it.’
I remembered what Angie had said about how she’d lost her temper when she talked to Dean. ‘You’re talking about when she and Dean McClure had that big fight.’
Armstrong pursed his lips. ‘I was there the whole time, and I never saw a fight. No, no, that’s not what I meant. I meant she was crazy because she was pleading with McClure before the auction. Begging him. She was crying so hard, her mascara was running down her cheeks.’
‘But she wasn’t yelling? She didn’t lose her temper?’
‘No yelling. In fact, it was kind of pathetic. I pulled her aside and I told her so. I told her the last thing she wanted to do was let McClure know how desperate she was to get that stuff. I told her that once he knew someone else wanted it—’
‘McClure was sure to bid on it.’
‘You got that right. That’s just the kind of guy he was.’
It was no wonder no one liked Dean McClure. ‘Do you know why McClure went to Chicago last weekend?’ I asked Armstrong.
‘I know he called and told me he was headed there.’
‘Did he say what he was planning to do?’
‘He didn’t have to. Anytime McClure knew he had a line on something that would make the rest of us jealous, that’s when he called.’
Just like the HITmen said.
‘But this time …’ Thinking, Armstrong drummed his fingers against the glass countertop and the motion-activated raccoon in the critter display started an electronic, high-pitched chatter. ‘This time he was real excited, I mean more than he’s ever been before, even when he went off to Vegas to buy Capone’s phone from some collector out there. He did mention that he was going to stop by Mount Carmel Cemetery, but that, that was no big deal. McClure, he stopped there every time he went to Chicago.’
If I was half the cemetery geek Ella thought I was, I would have known more about other cemeteries and their residents, but Armstrong, he didn’t know that. ‘Why?’ I asked him.
He lifted a silvery eyebrow. ‘Why Mount Carmel? You don’t know? That’s where Al Capone is buried.’
I guess this shouldn’t have surprised me. Except …
‘He went to the cemetery every time he was in Chicago?’ I asked Armstrong.
‘You bet. Sometimes, McClure, he’d leave a bottle of booze on Capone’s grave. Sometimes, he’d take pictures. I went with him once, back when we first met and before I knew what a jerk McClure was, and one time was enough for me. I swore I’d never go with him again.’
‘Because …’
The way Armstrong shook his shoulders made me think that even after all this time, the thought made him suddenly cold. ‘It was weird. McClure, he was weird. We went to the cemetery and yeah, I’ll admit it, it was interesting and all. I mean, I’d never been there before, and it was kind of a kick, seeing Capone’s grave. And there were flowers on that grave. Imagine that, after all these years, people still leave flowers. That time, McClure took a bottle of Sieben’s Beer. Sieben’s, that’s—’
‘The brewery Capone once owned. Yes, I know.’
I could tell by the little smile he aimed my way, Armstrong’s opinion of me rose. ‘Well, he put the bottle of beer there on Capone’s headstone, and McClure, he took a couple pictures and so did I. And then I figured we were done. I mean, how much else can you do at a cemetery? It’s really a pretty boring place.’
My opinion of him rose a tad, too, but that didn’t distract me from the matter at hand. ‘So there you were at Capone’s grave, and McClure, what did he do?’
‘He sat right down. Can you believe it? He sat right there on the ground next to the headstone,’ Armstrong said, amazement in his voice. ‘And it was like he was carrying on a conversation with the guy. He told Capone about all the stuff of his that he’d collected over the years, and if that wasn’t weird enough, he even asked questions. Things like, Was that phone I bought really from your headquarters at the Lexington Hotel? And, That collection of carved ivory elephants, I’ve read about it and wonder what happened to it. You don’t know who has it, do you?’ Like he still couldn’t believe it, Armstrong shook his head.
‘I’ll tell you what, Detective Martin,’ he said, ‘I’m just as serious about collecting as McClure ever was. It’s history, you know? These things are history and there’s stories attached to them, and it’s all interesting stuff. But McClure, he sat there chatting away and every once in a while he’d stop and cock his head. You know, like he was’ – Armstrong gave me a quick look designed to see how I’d react – ‘I know it sounds crazy, but it was like Capone … it was like Capone was answering his questions.’
Since I knew more than most about things that go bump in the night, I doubted if this was true, but that didn’t mean listening to Armstrong’s story didn’t send shivers up my spine. ‘There’s no such thing as ghosts,’ I told him, because I figured that’s what I was supposed to say.
‘Well, I know that,’ he replied, ‘and you know that. But McClure? I’m not so sure he knew it.’ Maybe Armstrong was doing his best to scatter the weird vibes that tingled through the air when he mentioned Capone’s ghost, because he waved a hand in my direction. ‘McClure was nuts, and he was a liar, and a thief.’
‘And you had every reason to be angry at him.’
He shot me a look. ‘You don’t think I—’
‘I don’t know what to think, not until I have all my facts straight. Where were you Monday evening, Mr Armstrong?’
‘You’re asking me for an alibi?’ I wondered if he really was surprised, or if he was just stalling for time. Either way, it didn’t take Nathan Armstrong long to make up his mind. He reached into his back pocket, pulled out his wallet and slapped it on the counter, then rummaged through a small pile of receipts he pulled out of it.
‘There.’ He shoved a paper across the counter to me. ‘That’s where I was. That’s my receipt from the hotel in Houston. You cops are good at checking these things. Go ahead, call the airlines and check my flights. I left here Friday evening and didn’t get back until Tuesday afternoon. I was visiting my brother. So you see’ – he whisked the receipt out from under my nose – ‘I may have hated Dean McClure, and I might actually be a little happy that he’s dead. But I sure as hell am not the one who killed him.’