Chapter 11
I woke up next morning with my head lying on my keyboard. I panicked for a moment, afraid I’d lost my manuscript. Thankfully, the document was still there, but there were 819 pages of gibberish where my chin rested on the keyboard. I deleted the excess pages and saved again to be safe.
I looked at the time. I had about thirty minutes until the time Frank and I had arranged to meet. Strapped for time, I hurried the poodles downstairs and put them out. It was chilly, but they were wearing sweaters and I knew Christopher and Zaq would be here shortly. So, I left them out while I showered. By the time I was out of the shower, I heard them barking and knew the twins had let them inside.
I still felt guilty about falling asleep on our date and considered putting on a skirt until I checked the weather app and saw it was eight degrees in Chicago. Instead, I put on jeans and a warm sweater. I took extra care with my hair and makeup. You could catch pneumonia trying to look cute in the winter in the Midwest.
When I emerged from my bedroom, Frank was having coffee with Nana Jo at the breakfast bar.
He winked. “Good morning, gorgeous.”
“Good morning, handsome.”
Nana Jo rolled her eyes. “Good grief. Let’s not start that again.” She sipped her coffee. “I can feel my blood sugar rising.”
“Speaking of sugar.” I turned to Frank. “Did you remember to bring the cake?”
Frank helped me on with my coat. “Yes. It’s in the car.”
“Cake?” Nana Jo looked up with a hopeful expression.
“Sorry. It’s spoken for, but Dawson left some cookie dough in the freezer.” I turned to leave.
“Wait.” I turned back around at the stairs. “What are you doing here? I thought you were staying at Shady Acres to talk to suspects?”
She sipped her coffee. “When I got home, I remembered I had arranged to meet Elliott this morning. Your place is closer to MISU’s library.”
Elliott was a research librarian and one of Nana Jo’s old beaus. He still held a torch for her, even though Nana Jo had moved on.
I wished her well and hurried downstairs.
* * *
Frank navigated the Chicago traffic like a pro. About halfway there he asked, “Where to first?”
“Well, there’s this mystery bookstore I’d love to visit. Then we can hit the restaurant supply store.”
Frank smiled. “Let me guess. It’s the mystery bookstore your grandmother pulled you out of the last time you were here.”
I smiled. “Right the first time.”
Frank navigated city traffic much easier than our taxi driver and dropped me off around the corner from the Murder Between the Pages bookstore. He drove around in search of a parking space.
Inside, the building was warm and the smell of books and freshly brewed coffee greeted me like an old friend. I stopped and inhaled the familiar aroma as my gaze traveled around the store. The mystery lover in me admired the colorful stocked shelves and something deep inside my soul rejoiced at seeing the shelves full of tales of mayhem and suspense. I smiled. The bookstore owner inside me couldn’t stop myself from looking critically at the dusty shelves, dimmed lighting, and water-stained roof. However, the allure of books overpowered the bookstore owner and I got lost.
“Can I help you find anything?”
I nearly jumped out of my skin. “Dear God, you scared me.” I was miles away in an Irish cottage following Alexia Gordon’s enchanting sleuth, Gethsemane Brown, through the twists and turns of solving a murder.
“I didn’t mean to frighten you.” Linda Herald, the bookstore owner I met on my first visit, apologized.
When my heart stopped racing, I smiled and reassured her I was fine.
“Samantha, right?”
“You have a great memory.”
“Not really. It’s just that I don’t meet many mystery bookstore owners.” She smiled. “Anything in particular you’re looking for?”
I shrugged. “I’m just browsing.” I looked around. “You have a lovely shop and I may steal some of your ideas.”
She laughed. “Feel free. I’ve probably stolen them from someone else.”
“Do you remember a man and a woman having an argument in your loft the last time I was here? They got quite heated.”
“Pity. That must have been Max Franck and his daughter, Rosemary.”
“You know them?” I tried to hide my surprise.
She nodded. “Max Franck is a bestselling crime writer. He’s done several book signings here.”
I leaned closer. “You know he was killed?”
She nodded. “I saw it in the newspaper. I think he expected something like that. Well, maybe not murder, but he must have expected some type of trouble.”
“What makes you say that?”
“Why else would he have hired a bodyguard?” She shrugged. “You must have seen him. He was here at the same time Max and Rosemary were arguing. The big guy with the mirror sunglasses.”
“I saw him. He was pretty hard to miss.”
She gave a half shrug and adjusted some books on a nearby shelf. “Actually, I think his agent or editor hired him, but I thought it was all just a big hoax.”
I must have looked as puzzled as I felt because she colored slightly and shrugged. “Max was here for his last book signing about a week ago. His editor made a big deal about Max’s next book. She stuck out her chest and puffed up her cheeks. ‘This next book is going to blow the lid off the theories about who killed Robert Kennedy.’ ” Linda tilted her head and gave a cocky chuckle. “ ‘Max is in so much danger. I’m concerned for his safety. I’ve gone so far as to hire a professional bodyguard to protect him.’ ”
I stared for a few seconds and then realized my mouth was open and closed it.
She nodded. “That’s the same expression I had.”
“You didn’t believe him?”
She thought for a moment and then shook her head. “Honestly, I didn’t believe him. At the time, I remember thinking it was a gimmick to get publicity and increase book sales.” She sighed. “I mean, if you wanted to hire a bodyguard, why hire someone so . . . I don’t know . . . so . . .”
“Obvious,” I volunteered.
“Exactly. I mean, he was so big and those mirrored sunglasses were over the top.” She paused. “I guess maybe he was right. Maybe it wasn’t just hype.”
“Max was here a week ago?”
“Christmas Eve.” She hurried to the counter and came back with a brochure. “This is the brochure advertising the book signing.”
I quickly read over the brochure. “May I keep this?”
“Of course. They’ll just go in the trash now.”
“So, if Max was here Christmas Eve, why was he back the day I saw him here?”
“He said he forgot something,” she said hesitantly.
“He said? You didn’t find anything?”
She shrugged. “Only the brochures. I offered to mail whatever it was to him, but he wanted to get it himself.”
“Did he say what it was?”
She shook her head. “No, but when he came in, he went up to the loft area.” She pointed to the area where I’d seen Max on the day he died.”
“Why was he arguing with his daughter? Rosemary is his daughter, isn’t she?”
She nodded.
Someone entered the store and she excused herself to go and check on her customer. However, they must not have needed assistance because she returned quickly. “Sorry about that.”
“No need to apologize. Customers come first.”
“Where were we?” She was silent for a moment. “Rosemary. I think he must have arranged to meet her here because she came not long after he arrived.”
“Do you know why they were arguing?”
She shook her head. “Honestly, I wasn’t paying attention.”
We chatted a little longer, but her customer selected a book and was waiting at the counter.
Frank had entered the store while Linda and I were talking but had maintained a discrete distance. I found him glancing through a thriller near the back of the store.
“Find something you like?”
He grinned and the look he gave me made the heat come up my neck.
I giggled. “I’m talking about the book.”
He returned it to the shelf. “I like to patronize my local mystery bookstore.” He leaned close and whispered, “I’m kind of sweet on the owner.”
I grinned. “I hear she’s kind of sweet on you too.”
I waved at Linda Herald as we left the store.
Frank had found a great parking space a block away and we were quickly on our way to the restaurant supply store.
Similar to the way I could spend hours in a bookstore, Frank could spend hours looking at ginormous pots, pans, and commercial bakeware. I wandered around while he picked out the items he wanted. Surprisingly, we were on our way in less than an hour.
Back hatch fully loaded, Frank got into the car and turned to me. “Where to now?”
I pulled out the list Caroline Fenton gave me with the names and addresses of the bus passengers. I looked for Rosemary Lindley’s name and saw she lived in Lake Forest. I went to college in Evanston, Illinois, so I was familiar with many of the suburbs and recognized the city as one of the more exclusive areas where a lot of professional athletes bought large homes. “Rosemary Lindley is Max Franck’s daughter.” I glanced down the sheet.
“How are you going to question her?”
I smiled. “That’s why I asked you to bring your delicious sour cream cake.”
He chuckled. “I should have known you weren’t planning snacks for us to enjoy.”
“If we run into traffic like we did the last time I left Chicago, we might have to dig into that cake and pick up some flowers for the grieving daughter,” I joked.
Traffic cooperated and we made it to Rosemary Lindley’s home midmorning.
As I suspected, the suburb was north of Chicago, not far from the northern border of the state. The street was called Lake Road, and we got a glimpse of Lake Michigan through the trees as we drove.
Frank pulled his car in front of the address his GPS indicated was our final destination, and we sat outside and admired the architecture. Rosemary Lindley lived in what I could only describe as a large brick mansion. The homes on this street were all massive and set on enormous lots well away from the street. Mature trees shaded the yards and, combined with the lush landscaping, created an atmosphere that screamed wealth. Unlike Chicago and the immediate suburbs, where houses were conjoined to each other or so close together you could stand between them, extend your arms and touch them, these homes were much farther apart. The lawns were vast and landscaped to provide maximum privacy from prying eyes, while providing the owners with plenty of elbow room.
Rosemary Lindley’s house had a semicircular drive with brick pavers that looked wider than the interstate we’d just exited. The front façade had three arches, which welcomed invited guests and intimidated the uninvited.
I wasn’t easily awed by ostentatious demonstrations of wealth, but this house was impressive. I was grateful Frank drove. His Porsche fit perfectly with the neighborhood whereas my Ford Escape would have been a red flag to the neighbors that we didn’t belong and to call the police.
He whistled. “Looks like Max Franck’s daughter did pretty well for herself.”
I stared at the brick and stone mansion for a few seconds and then took a deep breath and opened my door. “Let’s do this before I lose my nerve.” For a half second, I wondered about the many ways money could intimidate but decided it would only work if I allowed it to.
We got out of the car and Frank handed me the cake he had brought. Together, we walked through the middle archway to the large, double front door. Once there, I quickly rang the doorbell before my nerves came back.
I expected a butler or maid to answer but was pleasantly surprised when a woman, who was obviously the homeowner, answered.
“May I help you?”
“My name’s Samantha Washington and this”—I pointed to Frank—“is Frank Patterson. We were acquainted with your father and—”
“If you’re friends of my father, you can just go to hades, where I’m sure you’ll no doubt run into him.” She stepped back and prepared to push the door closed but was halted as Frank put out a hand and stopped the door.
She flushed from her angry outburst and, like the steam in a teakettle, looked as though she was revved up for an explosion.
I quickly collected my wits. “Mrs. Lindley, I didn’t say I was friends with your father. In fact, I barely knew him. However, I was acquainted with him and I wanted to provide my condolences to you and your family.” I extended my peace offering. “I hope you’ll accept this cake.” I turned to Frank. “Frank Patterson is an excellent chef and owns a small restaurant in North Harbor, Michigan.” I thrust the cake into her hands. “Or, if you prefer not to eat it, maybe you would give it to someone else at a hospital or nursing home rather than let it go to waste.” I nodded to Frank and turned to leave.
We were down the stairs before she spoke.
“Wait. Please. I’m so sorry.”
We turned around.
“Please, I’m sorry. Won’t you come inside?”
Frank looked at me. I shrugged and we returned to the door.
She stepped aside and we entered.
If I thought the house was impressive on the outside, the inside was even more so. We entered the two-story foyer with black and white marble tile floors and a chandelier overhead. There was an elegant curved staircase that led upstairs and, to the right, a curved doorway led to a wood-paneled room that looked like a study. I would have loved to explore the library but followed my host to the left to a formal living room.
The first home that Leon and I bought would have fit in that one room. The room was furnished with traditional sofas, chairs, and dark wood tables. A marble fireplace was centered in the middle of one of the walls, with doorways on either side. The back end of the room had a curved window and built-in window seat that looked out onto the backyard, pool, and, through the distance, the faint blue of Lake Michigan.
As we were about to sit, a faint voice called, “Mom.”
Mrs. Lindley paused. For a split second, she hesitated, but only for a split second. Her loyalties were clear. She handed me back my cake. “Excuse me.” She hurried out of the back of the room.
Frank and I glanced at each other.
“I’m going after her.” I passed the cake to him and hurried after Mrs. Lindley, straining my ears to hear conversation. The house was so large; I was afraid I’d get lost. I went through a massive kitchen, which would have made Frank drool with envy, before I heard two voices.
I peeked into a long, narrow sunroom on the back of the house. The room had one wall of windows and French doors that led outside. The floor was blue and white tile, and the décor continued the theme with blue-and-white striped sofas and comfortable chairs. Sitting on one of the sofas, covered in blankets, was a small, thin little waif of a girl with large, dark eyes. She looked very pale and frail.
The girl was connected to several machines. One provided a drip that went into her arm. Oxygen tubes went into her nose.
Mrs. Lindley adjusted one of the machines, which was beeping, and had her back to me.
The girl looked up and caught sight of me. I backed up and turned to leave.
“No, please.”
I turned and saw the girl smiling at me.
“Please. I don’t get much company.”
I smiled and took a few steps into the room. I hesitated and looked to Mrs. Lindley. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to intrude. I . . . I was just really curious about your beautiful house and I let my curiosity take control over my manners.”
Mrs. Lindley shrugged. “It’s okay.”
I decided to take that as an invitation to stay and walked over toward the girl and smiled. “Hello. My name is Samantha but everyone calls me Sam.”
She smiled. “I like that. My name’s Isabelle, but everyone calls me Isabelle.” She giggled. “I wish I had a nickname.” She glanced at Mrs. Lindley, who was replacing one of the fluid bags. “Why don’t I have a nickname, Mom?”
Mrs. Lindley glanced lovingly at the girl. “Don’t you like your name? Isabelle was your grandmother’s name.” She placed the bag onto the hook and stood. “Every time I say your name, it reminds me of her.” She gently caressed the young girl’s cheek.
“That’s okay, then. I don’t mind not having a nickname.” She leaned back against her cushions. “Can you stay a bit and talk to me?”
“I’d love to.” I looked at Mrs. Lindley.
She nodded.
I smiled and moved to one of the comfortable chairs and sat down. “Great.” I looked at Isabelle and, for a moment, I was unable to think of anything to say. After spending more than two decades as a high school English teacher, I usually felt very comfortable talking to young people. However, this little girl with the big eyes had me dumbstruck.
She smiled at me again. “Are you friends with my mom? Have we met before?”
“No. Actually, I’ve just met your mom.” I started to tell her I came to give my condolences but didn’t know if hearing her grandfather was dead would upset her. I hurriedly shut my mouth.
Mrs. Lindley must have sensed what I was thinking because she relieved my mind by stating, “Samantha came to tell me how sorry she was about your grandfather.” She swallowed hard. “She even brought a yummy cake.”
Isabelle’s eyes got even larger and a huge smile illuminated her face. “CAKE.” She clapped her hands.
Frank stuck his head around the corner. “Did I hear someone say cake?” He held up his cake.
I looked to Mrs. Lindley, and she smiled and nodded.
“Why don’t I take that and bring us some tea.” She reached out her hands and Frank handed over the cake.
“This is my . . . friend Frank.”
Frank smiled and bowed to Isabelle.
She giggled.
He looked around and noticed a chessboard in the corner. “Do you play chess?”
Isabelle nodded vigorously. “I love chess, but my mom doesn’t play and my dad isn’t here.” She looked sadly at the chessboard. “My granddad played, but he’s in heaven with my grandmother now. So, I don’t have anyone to play with.”
Frank smiled and went to the corner, picked up the chessboard, and brought it to the table next to Isabelle. “Well, you do now.” He sat down and smiled. “Black or white?”
“White.”
He spun the board around so the black pieces were in front of him. Then he removed his jacket.
The two of them talked quietly and were quickly engulfed in a game I never learned to appreciate. After watching for a few moments, I removed my jacket and went in search of our somewhat-reluctant hostess.
I followed the clinking of dishes and the familiar sounds of water filling a teakettle back to the kitchen.
Mrs. Lindley opened multiple cabinets as she searched for the items she needed to fill the large tea cart on the granite counter.
The kitchen would have made a commercial chef like Frank extremely happy. While I was no expert, I recognized the distinctive red knobs that adorned the massive eight-burner stainless steel gas stoves. There were two of them. Glancing around the kitchen, I noticed there were also two refrigerators and an incredible amount of cabinets.
A large island was situated in the center of the space, and I pulled out a barstool and perched on one of the stools. “Your house is beautiful, Mrs. Lindley.”
She continued collecting coffee mugs. “Please, call me Rosemary.”
“Thank you, Rosemary. I hope you’ll call me Sam.”
She put the kettle on the stove and turned to face me. “I’m very sorry for the way I behaved earlier.” She leaned against the cabinet. “My father and I didn’t have a very good relationship, but that’s no reason for me to take out my anger on you.”
“No apologies necessary.” I thought for a brief moment. “I didn’t know your father. I only met him a few days before he died. However, he was very friendly with one of my grandmother’s friends . . . with my friend Irma.” I smiled. “She was the reason he was on the bus to North Harbor. They were going to . . . spend some time together.”
Rosemary laughed. “You don’t have to sugarcoat it. I know my dad fancied himself as a Don Juan. It’s the reason he and my mother divorced.” She smiled. “My mom called him a tomcat.”
I smiled. “My students would have called him a playah.”
She laughed for a long time. “I haven’t laughed in a very long time.” She sighed. “I find it hard to think of my dad as anything as hip as that, but I suppose the label fits.”
The kettle whistled and she turned off the stove and filled a teapot. “Would you or . . . Frank, prefer coffee?”
I shook my head. “Tea’s fine.” I hesitated. “We’re planning a bit of a memorial for your dad at Shady Acres. We’re hoping it will help Irma and some of the other people who were on the bus get some closure.” I took a deep breath. “I was hoping you might have seen or heard something that might help.”
She tilted her head and stared. “Help how?”
“Help figure out who might have wanted to murder your dad.”
She laughed. “That list would be way too long.”
I was silent for a moment. “Well, maybe you noticed something that seemed . . . odd. It might be able to lead the police to the killer.”
She turned away and fidgeted with the cups on the tray. She took the kettle from the stove and started to fill the cups.
On a whim, I asked, “Why were you arguing with your dad at Murder Between the Pages, and why were you on the bus?”
Her hand pouring the water into the teapot faltered and she spilled water onto the counter, but she quickly recovered.
I hopped off the barstool and got a paper towel and helped to clean up.
“How did you know about the bookstore?”
“My grandmother and I were there.”
She sighed. “I called him to talk . . . about Isabelle.” She swallowed hard and paused. “He said he couldn’t meet me because he was going out of town on this bus trip and needed to pick up something from the bookstore. I thought I could talk to him . . . reason with him.” She stopped. “Plead with him, but it didn’t do any good.”
“Why did you need to plead with him?”
“Isabelle is sick. She has aplastic anemia.”
I must have looked puzzled because she sighed. “I recognize that look. Most people have never heard of it. Basically, her body doesn’t produce enough red blood cells.” She paused. “She needs a bone marrow transplant.” She looked at me. “That’s why I was arguing with my dad. Neither my husband nor I are matches. I pleaded with him to get tested.” She sniffed. “For Isabelle’s sake.”
“He wouldn’t?”
She shook her head. “At first he said he would, but he never did.” She rolled her eyes and slammed the kettle on the stove. “He was too busy. Too busy? Can you imagine? He was too busy to take a quick test that might possibly save his granddaughter’s life.” She cried.
For a brief moment, I looked on in disbelief. Then, I collected my wits, walked over, and hugged Rosemary Lindley. Initially, she stood very stiffly, but, after a few seconds, her shoulders shook and she sobbed. We stood that way for several minutes while she cried. Eventually, she pushed away.
She walked to the sink, turned on the faucet, and splashed water on her face.
When she turned the water off, I handed her a paper towel.
“Thank you.” She wiped her face. “I’m sorry. It’s been a while since I’ve cried like that. I didn’t think I had any tears left.”
We heard laughter from the sunroom and she smiled. “We better get this tea into our chess masters before it gets cold.”
She picked up the tray and carried it through the entry toward the sunroom at the back of the house, and I followed.
At the entry to the sunroom, Rosemary paused. We stood for a moment and listened. Isabelle was laughing.
“Wait. How did you do that?” Frank asked.
Isabelle laughed. “It’s called winning.”
The two laughed.
“It’s been a long time since I’ve heard her laugh like that,” Rosemary whispered.
“It’s not too much excitement for her, is it? Maybe we should go.”
She shook her head. “No. It’s not too much.” She whispered, “ ‘A merry heart doeth good like a medicine.’ ”
“Proverbs, seventeenth chapter, twenty-second verse.” I released a heavy sigh. “That was one of my husband’s favorite scriptures.”
She tilted her head toward the sunroom.
I shook my head. “No, my husband, Leon, died of cancer.” I pointed toward the sunroom. “Frank is a new . . . friend.” I smiled.
She nodded knowingly. “You’re a lucky woman.” She walked into the sunroom.
I thought for a few moments and smiled. It was true. I was a lucky woman. I followed her into the room.
We stayed another hour talking, eating cake, and laughing. Frank requested and was granted a replay, which he also lost.
Isabelle yawned and we made our exit.
Rosemary walked us to the door, where she thanked us, profusely. “It’s been a long time since I’ve seen Isabelle that happy. Thank you.”
Frank looked confused. “No thanks necessary. I enjoyed myself.”
Rosemary’s eyes and her body language reflected an internal conflict. One second, she looked as though she wanted to talk, but then a few seconds later, like she had changed her mind. I was curious how the battle would end. Eventually, she took a deep breath and blurted out, “You asked if I saw anything unusual on the bus.”
“Yes.” I didn’t want to seem too eager, but I sure hoped she was going to tell me she saw someone murdering her father.
“I did notice something.”
“Anything that seemed odd to you might be important.” I gave her my most encouraging smile.
“It’s just that when I walked down the aisle to my seat, I noticed his face and something struck me as odd.” She pondered for a moment and eventually shook her head. “It was an impression more than anything. I felt like he saw someone he recognized.”
I waited, but that was all she said. She shrugged and shook her head. “I know it’s probably nothing, and I almost—”
“No, I’m glad you mentioned it.”
She sighed. “It was probably me.” She laughed. “I thought I was so clever in that floppy hat with the big glasses, but I guess he saw right through me.”
She was probably right, but I didn’t want to discourage her. “Well, if you remember anything else, please call me.” I gave her one of the business cards my nephew Christopher had created for Market Street Mysteries, and we made our exit.
It didn’t take long to get back on the interstate. We drove a few miles in silence before Frank added, “That little girl is a chess shark.”
I laughed. “You’re going to have to learn to lose gracefully.”
He grumbled, “Easy for you to say.”
Our last stop was to the address listed for Sidney Sherman. When Frank pulled up to the address, it was a small commercial storefront on the south side of town. The lights were out and the building had bars across the windows and doors. It was obvious it was closed, so we quickly moved on.
I filled Frank in on my conversation with Rosemary Lindley. He listened quietly.
“Sounds like Max Franck was a real piece of work.”
I was glad he’d come to the same conclusion I had. “I know. It seems so bizarre. I mean, I didn’t know him long, but he didn’t seem like a jerk.”
He smiled. “Sometimes it’s not easy to tell how big of a jerk someone is until they say or do something . . . or, in this case, fail to do something important.”
Despite the cake and tea we’d eaten, we were both hungry and decided to stop for a late lunch in Michigan City, Indiana.
Senior Kelly’s was a Mexican/Irish pub. Neither ethnic group was authentic, but the margaritas were large and the atmosphere was always festive. Just as we finished eating, I got a call from Nana Jo.
“Sam, you better get back here.”
“What’s happened?”
“Someone just tried to kill Irma.”