Same old story. The cops came, the cops went. At least these were different cops. These cops did take me a little more seriously since the sidewalk in front of my restaurant was the scene of a murder only a few days before.
All morning I halfway expected Rick to come charging in, demanding to know what was going on, schmoozing with the cops, proclaiming his innocence. I guess that means I only half believed my own accusations of his guilt. When he didn’t show up, I realized it actually was possible, even probable, that he did try to destroy my place. That thought made me a little sick to my stomach, but a can of Coke soon put that right.
It was noon by the time Paula and I got everything taken care of, including contacting a professional service to clean and repaint. They estimated they could have us back in business by the weekend. Since Saturday was our slowest day, I put a sign on the door saying we’d be closed until Monday.
Then I went straight to Fred’s house.
He opened the door and frowned. “You look terrible. Why do you have soot all over you? Why do you smell like smoke? Did you burn some cookies?”
“Rick tried to burn down my shop.” I pushed past him, heading across his hardwood floor toward his leather sofa. On those surfaces, anything I dribbled could be easily cleaned.
“Wait!” He produced a large white towel and threw it over the sofa. “Now you can sit. You’re covered in soot.”
I sank down onto the towel-covered sofa. “I know that. Stop obsessing about a little soot. We have bigger things to obsess about. Did you hear what I said?”
He sat in the matching recliner. “I heard you. I’m waiting for you to continue. Did you catch Rick in the act?”
“No.” I told him why I thought Rick was guilty.
He nodded. “That’s actually a very logical conclusion.”
“You sound surprised.”
“That Rick would try to burn down Death by Chocolate? No, that doesn’t surprise me. He did threaten you, and the man has no scruples.”
“No, you sound surprised that I came to a logical conclusion.”
“You’re not always logical when it comes to Rick.”
I wiped a hand across my grimy forehead then held the grimy hand an inch above the immaculate caramel colored leather arm of Fred’s sofa. “Take that back.”
For a split second, he looked uncomfortable. But only for a split second. I might have imagined it. “Do you want to visit George Murray in prison?” he asked, successfully distracting me from any malicious activity I’d been contemplating.
“Yes.”
“Go take a shower and meet me back here at four.”
Fred has a way of winning arguments without ever raising his voice.
***
I showered, fed Henry, and was so exhausted I took a short nap in spite of my cat’s noisy demands to go out and prowl. I considered letting him roam for a while now that I was certain Rick and Lisa were the intruders. Rick wouldn’t harm a defenseless cat. On the other hand, I would have never thought Rick would burn down a defenseless restaurant. After consideration, I decided Henry had to remain inside.
We needed to figure out what was going on with my house and put a stop to it soon before Henry called the ASPCA and reported me for cruelty.
I was at Fred’s house by 4:00. He inspected me carefully before he let me sit in his white Mercedes.
“I showered,” I told him through gritted teeth.
“You might have missed a spot.”
I slid into his car and slammed the door.
Even with his speed limit driving, we arrived at the mini-prison in less than twenty minutes. Creepy to think it was that close.
We stopped at a gate. Fred handed the guard something. The man looked, handed it back, pressed a button that opened the gate, and waved us on through.
“What did you give him?” I asked.
“Identification.”
“What kind of identification.”
“Valid identification.” He pulled into a parking spot.
I was going to be spending a lot of time at home the next few days, waiting for Death by Chocolate to be clean again. Maybe I could spy on Fred and learn some of his secrets.
“Are you coming with me or staying in the car?” he asked.
I put my spy plans on hold and got out.
We went through a couple more guards, signed in and were finally seated in a large room with half a dozen rectangular tables surrounded by chairs. A man and woman at one of the tables on the far side of the room leaned toward each other, talking quietly. Except for the armed guard standing beside the door, it was actually pretty mundane. No bars between tables or men in stripes sitting around whittling with homemade shivs.
Fred and I sat on one side of a table in the middle of the room.
“Don’t we have to talk on phones through thick glass?”
“You watch too much television. George Murray was convicted of dealing drugs, not being a serial killer.”
A door whooshed open, and I turned to see a man in a blue shirt and blue work pants being escorted to our table by another guard. The man in blue wasn’t wearing handcuffs or leg irons.
He sat down across from us then smiled up at his escort. “Thanks, Ed.”
Ed? He was on a first name basis with the guard? Weren’t guards and prisoners supposed to hate each other?
Ed nodded and moved away to stand beside the other guard.
Fred rose and extended a hand across the table. “Fred Sommers.”
The prisoner shook Fred’s hand. “George Murray.” He stood about average height, had brown hair and brown eyes. Except for a tattoo of an angry eagle on one forearm and a tattoo of a heart with lopsided initials on the other, he looked quite ordinary.
“Lindsay Powell,” I said. The words came out as kind of a croak, so I cleared my throat and tried again.
Suddenly he didn’t look so ordinary anymore. Something shifted behind those dark eyes. He recognized my name.
“Lindsay lives in your grandparents’ old house,” Fred said.
“Yeah?” was Murray’s only reply.
“There have been some odd occurrences in that house.”
Murray grinned. “Odd? You mean like ghosts? Surely you folks don’t believe in ghosts, do you?”
Fred straightened his glasses though they hadn’t been crooked and returned Murray’s smile. “More like flesh and blood people digging around in Lindsay’s basement.”
Murray’s grin remained in place, but it looked strained as if his facial muscles were fighting to turn down instead of up.
I thought we’d come to talk about the beige car registered in his name, but this line of questioning was interesting. He definitely knew something about my basement.
“We talked to your grandparents,” I said. “They mentioned you spent some time with them before you...uh...when you were younger.”
“You talked to my grandparents?” His face softened, he folded his hands, and his gaze dropped to the table as if the tough guy didn’t want us to see his tender side.
“You love your grandparents, don’t you?” I asked, feeling a sudden rush of tenderness. Fred shot me a glare and kicked me under the table.
Murray lifted his gaze and glared at me too. “Course I do! Everybody loves their grandparents. What do you think, I’m some kind of a psycho?”
“No, of course not!” Another lie. I was racking them up lately.
“We thought you might have some idea of what those people were looking for in your grandparents’ old basement.” Fred resumed control of the questioning.
Murray shook his head. “How would I know?”
Fred shrugged. “Boys are curious. They explore hidden places that adults ignore. Perhaps you came across a secret bookcase with old books or a hidden room with an antique chest.”
I turned my head slowly and looked at Fred. Where was Mr. Practical coming up with this fanciful stuff?
The corner of Murray’s mouth twitched. “Nah. That’s just an old house. Nothing special about it. I’m surprised it’s still standing. Probably fall down around you one day.”
I shifted on the hard, wooden chair. Now in addition to everything else, I’d be watching the ceiling for signs of drooping.
“It’s a solidly built structure.” Fred sounded intent on reassuring me. He probably didn’t want me calling him in the middle of the night if a piece of ceiling molding came loose.
Murray lifted one shoulder in a halfhearted shrug. “Yeah, whatever. Look, I don’t know anything about anybody breaking into your house. Sorry I couldn’t help you.” He started to rise, but Fred lifted a restraining hand, and Murray sat down again.
“Do you know why your former cellmate, Rodney Bradford, wanted to buy your grandparents’ old house?”
There it was again, that darkness at the back of his eyes. He forcibly lifted the corners of his mouth in a makeshift smile. “Me and Rodney got close, talked a lot. You do that when you’re in a place like this. I told him about my grandparents, how my visits with them were the best times of my life. I guess he just wanted to pretend they were his grandparents and that he had them good times.”
Fred nodded. “I suppose that makes sense. He married a woman he loved and thought they could have a good life together in that little house where other people had been happy.”
The darkness got darker and the smile more forced. The corners of his mouth were actually turning white with the effort. “Exactly.”
“He met Lisa while he was in prison. Did you know her?”
Murray gave up the effort. His face sagged into a scowl. “Why would I know her?”
“You and Bradford were cellmates. You were close, talked a lot. Surely he told you about the woman he loved.”
Murray hesitated. “Yeah, sure, he told me.”
“You didn’t approve of his relationship with Lisa?”
“It don’t matter whether I approved or not. None of my business who he married.”
“She’s going to end up living in your grandparents’ house,” I said.
He sat upright, suddenly intent. “What? Where’d she get the money to buy a house?”
“She doesn’t need money. You see, I don’t actually own the house outright. My estranged husband and I own it together, and he’s offering me a really good deal in the divorce if I’ll let him have the house. He and Lisa are getting married as soon as our divorce is final, and then she’ll be living in your grandparents’ old house where you had such great times when you were growing up.” Lying for a good cause doesn’t count.
Murray’s hands clenched on the table, his knuckles white.
“I guess that’s something you’re gonna have to work out with your husband. Look, I got kitchen duty this week. I need to get back to work.” He rose, and this time Fred stood with him. I remained seated. Fred wasn’t finished with him yet.
“Of course. Just one more question. Your car, the beige Ford you owned when you were sent to prison, what happened to that car?”
Murray looked at Fred, then me, then the guard, then the wall on the right and the wall on the left. “My car?”
“Yes, your car, the beige Ford.”
“I don’t know. I might have left it with a friend. Or maybe it was in a garage being worked on. Could be my grandparents have it. Did you ask them?”
“No, we didn’t.”
“Then maybe you ought to ask them. I’m in the slammer. Some old car doesn’t matter to me in here.” He started toward the door. “Ed, I’m ready to go.”
Fred grabbed his arm. “Thank you for talking to us.” He forcibly shook Murray’s hand again then held it for an extra beat, his gaze on the man’s forearm.
Murray yanked his hand away, gave Fred a totally freaked out look, and practically ran for the exit.
“Okay,” I said, rising to stand beside Fred, “what was that about? Why were you so interested in his tattoo?”
“The initials.”
I shrugged. “They’re ugly, like the artist was drunk when he did it.”
“Or like a really bad tattoo artist, maybe a self-styled prison artist, tried to turn one set of initials into another.”