Chapter 7
I was dazed by her response and sat gaping for several seconds. I pulled myself together and asked, “How? What?”
She sat still for so long, I thought she wouldn’t answer the question. However, eventually, she took a deep breath and gazed out the window as though watching a movie. “My father was a good man. He was kind and gentle and loved his family.” She swallowed hard and paused. “He worked hard . . . so hard. He was a cop. He worked the southside of town. He was loyal and he never took a bribe. He believed in doing everything by the book.” Tears streamed down her face.
“So, what happened?” I asked softly.
She swiveled her chair around and pulled tissues from the box she’d offered me earlier. “Twenty-two years on the force and he never had one black mark against him. His one fault was his loyalty. His boss, Chief Roland Waters . . . Uncle Rolly, I called him.” She scoffed. “Chief Waters was on the take. When Max Franck’s story first broke, my dad wouldn’t believe it . . . he couldn’t believe it. He’d known Roland Waters for years. They started on the force together.” She returned her gaze to the window. “Uncle Rolly’s career skyrocketed and he was promoted rapidly. My dad wasn’t jealous.” She looked earnestly at me. “He was glad, happy for his friend. He believed him to be a good man and Chief Waters promised to always take care of my dad.” She snorted. “He looked out for him all right.”
“What happened?”
“Max Franck went undercover. He found the information he needed and he approached my dad for corroboration, but my dad refused.” She turned and held her hands out. “How could he corroborate? He hadn’t known. He believed his friend was honorable, but Max Franck wouldn’t believe him. When the story broke, he painted my dad and anyone who supported the chief with the same brush of corruption.” She bowed her head. “It crushed my dad. He was investigated by internal affairs and cleared of any wrongdoing, but the court of public opinion wasn’t so forgiving. People who had been his friend and looked up to him, treated him like dirt and it broke my dad.” She cried in silence for several moments. Eventually, she wiped her eyes and pulled herself together. “Something died in him after that. So, when the doctors diagnosed him with cancer, he just gave up. He refused treatment and refused to fight. He died within six months of the diagnosis. My mom died a month later.” She sniffed. “So, Max Franck took both of my parents from me.”
“Your father died of cancer,” I said softly. “Surely, you can’t—”
“I can’t what? Blame Max Franck? But I do. I do blame him. My dad used to be strong. He was a fighter. The cancer wasn’t advanced. It hadn’t spread. With surgery and chemo, he could have beaten it, but he didn’t have the will to fight after Max Franck destroyed his life. I had to move to this two-bit town to escape the scandal while the mighty Max Franck was exalted as a champion of justice . . . a man of the people.” She pushed her chair back, hopped up, and paced around her small office like a tiger in a cage.
“Did you confront him?”
She took several short trips back and forth across the room before she stopped and folded her arms across her chest. “I waited for everyone to leave the bus. Velma Levington was asleep in the back, as was that woman . . . Rosemary.”
“Rosemary?”
She waved her hand. “The woman in the floppy hat.”
I nodded and made a mental note to write Rosemary beside the floppy-hatted woman on my list. “Were those the only two people who stayed on the bus?”
She paused in her pacing. Then she shrugged. “I think so. Those two and his bodyguard.”
“Bodyguard?”
She sighed. “The big guy with the sunglasses. You couldn’t miss him.”
I nodded. So, Sidney Sherman was Max Franck’s bodyguard. Another mental note to see what I could find out about him.
Caroline Fenton seemed anxious to finish her tale now that she’d started. “He finally got off the bus to smoke a cigarette.” She laughed. “A cigarette, can you believe it? My dad died of lung cancer and this idiot was smoking a cigarette with no ill-effects.” She shook her head at the irony. “Anyway, he got off and lit his cigarette. That’s when I confronted him. I told him exactly what I thought of him and how I held him personally responsible for the death of my parents.”
“What did he say?”
She huffed. “Nothing. The cretin just stood there puffing on his cigarette. When I was done, he flicked his cigarette away and turned and got back on the bus.” She was breathing heavily with anger. “Can you believe it? He just turned his back on me as though none of it mattered.” She paced, her steps filled with anger. “I was furious.”
“What did you do?”
“Do? I didn’t do anything. I was too angry to do anything.” She looked away. “I walked around the parking lot to give myself time to cool off.” Her eyes blazed and she snarled. “But I wish I’d been the one to kill him. I wish I’d had a gun and could have shot him dead right there.” She stopped and turned away toward the window. “I’d have slept well knowing I’d performed that community service.”
I left Caroline Fenton steaming in her office and went in search of my grandmother. One glance at my watch told me Nana Jo’s jujitsu class was over. I found her, Ruby Mae, Dorothy, and Irma waiting for me in the living room.
“There you are, Sam. We were just talking about whether we should stay here for lunch or go out.” Nana Jo tilted her head. “Are you okay?”
“Sure. I’m thinking maybe we should stay here for lunch and talk to a few more people.” I looked around at the girls. “Unless you’re all finished?”
“Lawd, no. I still have a few more people on my list,” Ruby Mae said.
The others nodded.
“Good. I need to talk to Gaston about catering the memorial too, so maybe we should eat here and push our meeting back to dinner.”
Everyone agreed.
“Great.” Nana Jo fanned herself. “I, for one, need a shower. That jujitsu class wore me out.”
“I know a better way to work up a sweat.” Irma glanced at a white-haired gentleman who walked down the hall. “I’m going to track down Melvin Cooper. That man has buns of steel. You could bounce a penny off his a—”
“Irma!” we all shouted.
Irma burst into a coughing fit. “Sorry.” She fumbled in her purse for her flask and took a swig and returned the flask to her bag. She made a few adjustments to her blouse, patted her beehive hairpiece into place, plastered a smile on her face, and then waved. “Melvin.” She stood up and pushed her chest out and glided in the direction of her prey, like a lioness about to pounce on a gazelle.
“Looks like Irma’s back to normal.” Dorothy smiled.
“Heaven help us,” Nana Jo said.
Nana Jo went to her villa to shower. Dorothy and Ruby Mae spotted others on their lists to question and managed a seemingly random encounter.
I headed in the direction of the dining room in search of Gaston Renoir, Shady Acres’ chef. A graduate of France’s Le Cordon Bleu, he relocated to Michigan and found his way to the kitchens of Shady Acres. His love of cooking prevented him from merely sitting back and enjoying retirement. Instead, he had negotiated a reduced rate for staying at the retirement village in exchange for the opportunity to do what he enjoyed most, sharing his love of food and cooking skills with the residents. Prior to Gaston’s arrival, the meals provided at Shady Acres were okay, but they were certainly nothing to write home about. Since his arrival, his wonderful meals were the subject of conversations not only with Shady Acres but in the surrounding community. He’d won an award in a local competition, and I knew, from my connections with Frank, he’d been approached by local restaurants seeking to coerce him out of retirement.
Finding the chef proved relatively easy. I merely followed my nose to the kitchen where the smell of a lemon garlic roasted chicken was making my stomach growl and my mouth salivate.
The kitchen at Shady Acres was an industrial space with lots of stainless steel. It was busy but exceptionally clean. Several young people manned various workstations and Gaston moved effortlessly from one station to the other, tasting, stirring, chopping, and throwing out instructions.
“Ah . . . the beautiful Samantha.” Gaston hurried to my side and kissed both of my cheeks. “What an honor it is to see you. What can I do for you?” He smiled broadly.
Gaston Renoir was a man who was happy, confident, and flirtatious. “Aw . . . where is that nice man of yours? If I were a couple of years younger, I might try to steal you away from him.”
I giggled. “You’re a terrible flirt, you know that.”
“What is the fun in life if a man cannot eat what he wants, drink wine, and flirt with a beautiful woman.” He shook his head. “He might as well be dead.” He laughed.
“You have a lot more people working back here now.” I looked at the younger people who rushed around the kitchen.
“Oui. I am now an instructor.” He puffed out his chest. “You must call me Professor Gaston now.” He laughed. “The Hospitality Program at MISU, they contact me. They ask if I will consider teaching at the school.”
“Wow. That’s impressive.”
He smiled. “I say, NO. I can’t possibly leave my kitchen here. But, if you want to send your students to me, then I will teach them here.” He spread his arms out wide. “And, what do you think? They say yes. So, now I have students who come here to learn from me.” He proudly patted himself on the chest. Then he turned to me. “But you did not come here to listen to me talk. No, you come here to eat, yes?”
I laughed. “No. I came to ask a favor.”
He hurried to the stove and dipped a spoon into a sauce one of the students was stirring. He rushed over to me and held it out. “You taste and give me your opinion.”
I tasted the sauce, which was creamy and delicious. “Hmm that’s yummy. What is it?”
“Ah . . . that I cannot tell. It is a secret. I don’t even tell my students all of my secrets.” He laughed. “However, you will have it tonight if you dine here.”
“I’m definitely planning to dine here.”
He clapped his hands. “Magnifique.” He leaned close and smiled. “Now, what favor do you need? If it is at all in my power, you will have.”
I smiled. “I think this will be an easy one.” I explained about the memorial service for Max Franck.
“Ah. I heard of the death. Although I did not go on the trip to Chicago, I heard of this. I will be honored to cook.”
We discussed a few simple foods, which he assured me he would be happy to provide. I promised to confirm once I’d checked with Caroline Fenton and left.
As luck would have it, when I left the kitchen, I spotted another one of my assignments sitting in the dining room looking out of the window, Sarah Jane Howard.
Sarah Jane Howard was a big woman. She wasn’t fat but was what my mom called, “big boned.” Her features were big and whenever I saw her, I was reminded of the lines from Little Red Riding Hood when Red says, “Oh, Grandmother, what big ears . . . eyes . . . hands . . . and teeth you have.” Sarah Jane Howard was big and when she smiled, I knew what poor little Red must have felt when faced by the talking wolf dressed up to look like her grandmother. Nevertheless, there was a murder to solve, so I took a deep breath, stood tall, and prepared myself.
“Samantha, what a pleasure to see you.” She smiled big and flashed her large teeth at me.
“Hello, Mrs. Howard.”
“Why don’t you call me Sarah Jane. Everyone else does.” She smiled again. I tried to focus on some part of her face that wasn’t big and didn’t remind me of a wolf ready to pounce, but her nose was also big and rather bulbous on the end. I focused instead on the mole on her chin. It was big too but didn’t seem the least bit threatening.
“How are you today?” I sat down across from her and smiled.
“I’m doing rather poorly today, I’m afraid.” She preceded to tell me about her racing pulse, blood pressure, heart fluctuations, and bowel disorder that completely turned my stomach.
“I’m sorry to hear you’re unwell.”
“Thank you, dear, but I suppose every day above ground is a blessing.”
I nodded to the mole. “You’re right. Things could always be worse, like that poor man who died on the bus.”
That intro was all it took to divert her attention away from her personal maladies so she could talk about Max Franck.
“Dear me. I was so shocked to have something like that happen and see that poor man dead on the bus. It practically rattled my insides and, I tell you, my digestion hasn’t been the same since.”
Clearly, I was wrong about diverting Sarah Jane Howard away from her digestive issues and was forced to listen to several more minutes of the complaints that occurred because of the death. When she slowed talking long enough for me to interject, I tried again. “The death was definitely a distressing ordeal. Did you by any chance know Max Franck?”
She reluctantly shook her head. “No. I’d never met him before. But I had heard he was famous.”
“He was a famous journalist and author.”
She shook her head. “I wish I’d had time to talk to him.”
“I don’t suppose you noticed anyone who did talk to him?”
“Well, funny you should mention that.” She leaned closer and smiled her big smile. “I returned to the bus a little early because I’d forgotten my gloves and it was bitterly cold outside and those winds are terrible for my rheumatism.”
I prayed silently the story of her rheumatism was a short one. Thankfully, she merely spent two minutes describing the pain.
“Now, where was I?”
“You returned early to the bus.”
“Yes, that’s right. As I got there, I saw that man . . . Max . . . arguing with a woman.”
My heart sank and I tried not to let my disappointment show. “That must have been Caroline Fenton. She had words with—”
“No, dear, not Caroline. I know her. It was another woman.”
I stared. “Do you remember who?”
“I didn’t recognize the woman. She had a large floppy hat on, and I couldn’t see her face.” She shook her head in disappointment. “I don’t think I knew her anyway. She wasn’t from the Harbor.” She sniffed.
I sat up eagerly. “I don’t suppose you remember what they were arguing about?”
Sarah Jane Howard smiled slyly. “Well, I’m not one to eavesdrop on conversations that don’t concern me, mind you.” She looked at me with the most serious expression.
I stifled a desire to laugh. “No, of course not.”
“However, they were arguing and I just thought it was unseemly and perhaps I should stand nearby in case the gentleman got rough and the lady might need assistance.” She opened her big eyes even larger.
“What a wonderful idea.” I made a mental note to add lying through my teeth to the list of things I needed to seek forgiveness for when I said my nightly prayers. “You never can tell these days.”
“My thoughts exactly.” She leaned even closer. “That woman called him a good many names that nearly curled my hair, I can tell you.”
I’ll bet they did. “Shocking.”
“It was indeed. I’m a woman of a delicate constitution, and I wasn’t raised to use such language.” She fanned herself. “Then she said she’d never asked him for anything in her whole life and wouldn’t be asking now if it wasn’t a matter of life and death, but there was nothing she wouldn’t do for Isabelle.”
“Really?”
She nodded vigorously.
“What happened next?”
Her expression changed to one of disappointment. “That’s when the man, Max, noticed me standing near the bus and called me a busy old broad and accused me of deliberately listening in on his conversation.”
“The nerve of the man.” I managed to avoid laughing by digging my nails into my palms.
She nodded. “My thoughts exactly. Why, I was just minding my own business and they were the ones fighting in the streets like common hooligans.”
I nodded my agreement.
“Did you tell the police about this?”
Sarah Jane Howard looked as though I had slapped her. “Of course not. I’m not one to gossip and I certainly was never raised to have dealings with the police, especially after the last time when that man was murdered here. Why, I had people call me a nosy busybody.” She bristled. “I can tell you, I made up my mind then and there, that I would never get involved with the police again.”
Apparently, Max had waved her off and she hadn’t even been able to get on the bus and get her gloves, which she attributed to her current arthritic distress. She didn’t have anything else of value to add and I managed to slip away with the excuse I needed to find my grandmother.
I walked away to find a quiet place to think. All the time, I wondered who the lady in the floppy hat really was and who was Isabelle? Could the floppy hat lady have actually threatened to kill Max Franck? Was it his death she was talking about? Or, was someone else in danger?