The telephone is a good way to talk to people without having to offer them a drink.
—Fran Lebowitz
AFTER I SPENT an hour convincing a guilt-stricken Tracy Mahoney that she did not “wish” Clifford Conway dead, Seymour and I said good night.
On our way across the rickety bridge, I began to feel woozy, and by the time we reached my car, I was so fuzzy I actually let Seymour take the wheel. When we hit the highway, he took a detour. In the mother of all ironies, Seymour drove me to the hospital.
After a few tests, the doctor told me my weak spell was due to dehydration and the fact that I’d neglected to eat more than a few bites of food for the entire day—and not because of my head wound. So, after a medicinal dose of Silva’s Seafood Shack’s famous oyster po’boy with steak fries, Seymour got me home.
My son was tucked into bed and my aunt asleep on the couch during a Mystery Classics Channel marathon of Ironside reruns—a relief because there was too much information to share, and I was too exhausted to do it. The apartment was so quiet I took a hot baking soda bath with a cold compress on my head to ease the many aches and pains.
I longed to crawl into bed and end this harrowing day. But there was a terse voice mail message from Deputy Chief Franzetti I had to return.
Eddie’s mood was not good.
“Where the hell did you go, Pen? One minute you were at the Comfy-Time; then you’re gone.”
“I felt lightheaded. I had Seymour drive me to the emergency room.”
“Nice try, but I called the hospital. You weren’t there.”
“I did go to the hospital, eventually. First I followed a lead.”
“One you’d care to share with the Quindicott Police?”
“No, sorry, it didn’t pan out . . .”
There was another reason I didn’t tell Eddie whom I’d followed and what I’d discovered. I’d already told him about Tracy’s public argument with Conway. I knew she was innocent of any wrongdoing, and her brother had good reason to be at the Comfy-Time, so there was really nothing to tell.
“How about you, Deputy Chief? Any suspects?”
“We’re looking at the security footage from the Comfy-time. The only two working cameras are aimed at the front desk inside and the parking lot outside. There are comings and goings we’ll have to look into, but we’ve got no solid leads yet.”
“And what about the phone I told you about?”
“You were right, Pen. The mobile device found on the dresser did not belong to Clifford Conway. It belonged to Walter Waverly. I spoke with Sheriff Taft, who was about to close the Waverly case up in Blackstone Falls. She says with this development, she’s going to take a second look.”
“What about Walt’s notebooks, Eddie? Did you find them in Conway’s room or his van?”
“No. And we did a thorough search.”
Something wasn’t right, I thought. Conway could have tossed the notebooks after he got what he needed—to avoid incrimination. But why take and keep Walt’s phone? It didn’t make sense.
“Have you talked to our friend Barney Finch?” I pressed.
“He hasn’t called me back. In the meantime, my officers canvassed the guests at the motel and took statements. The state police crime scene unit confirmed your witness statement to me. There was a second glass. They found a dried ring of spilled champagne on the table.”
“And?”
“We’re going with that lead for now. Champagne suggests a romantic liaison, as does the bedroom location of the body. So I sent Officer Tibbet to the Gentleman’s Oasis to see if Conway came in looking for a little relief from loneliness. I’ve got Bull McCoy asking the same questions at the Go-Go Lounge in Millstone.”
As Eddie talked, it became disappointingly clear that he’d completely rejected my theory that the murder was connected to Harriet’s portrait. He wasn’t even looking in that direction.
“Eddie, I understand why you’re pursuing those leads, but I doubt Conway’s murder was about some random pickup and a robbery, though I’m sure the killer wanted the police to think it was. Conway was a shady businessman, and his latest scheme, whatever it was, had something to do with the artwork Seymour bought from the late Walter Waverly. Harriet McClure’s portrait seems to be the key. It could be why Conway was killed, our friend was attacked, and Old Walt’s life was cut short.”
“So you say.”
“Why don’t you believe me?”
“Let me put it this way, Pen. I don’t disbelieve you, especially on the possibility that the killer wanted the scene to look like a pickup gone wrong. But face facts. If it wasn’t a blind date from hell, then the motive for Conway’s murder is far more likely to be this guy’s shady business dealings than a dusty old painting. The brutality of that beating tells me it may have been personal.”
The deputy chief’s words gave me pause. There were so many leads, so many possibilities. But I couldn’t let go of my gut feeling. Harriet’s haunting portrait had something to do with all of this. I didn’t know what, but I was too tired to continue arguing.
“I’m signing off, Eddie. I’ll be sure to come by the station and look over that first-floor guest list. Good night.”
I climbed into bed, my mood now as sour as Eddie Franzetti’s.
Why so glum, Penny?
Because we’ve got no answers. We’re right back where we started.
Not quite. Now we got two stiffs instead of one.
And two lumps on the head, if you’re keeping count.
Hey, buck up. Considering what you had to work with, you did a good thing tonight. I mean, let’s face facts. Your PI skills are still hinky. But you had the gumption to pursue a lead and eliminate a suspect. That’s not small potatoes. No decent gumshoe wants to send some poor sucker up the river without a paddle.
Believe me, Jack, I feel bad enough that I implicated Tracy in my original statement to Eddie.
Lucky you collided with that blue-haired girl artist, then. Otherwise, you would have left that building thinking you found Murder Incorporated’s secret headquarters—
And it turned out to be a church, of all things! Thank goodness I didn’t run off and tell Eddie that Reverend Mahoney was a killer with a meth lab in the woods. He’d never trust me again.
Lesson learned. Circumstantial evidence is sometimes just that—circumstantial. Until you prove otherwise, appearances can be deceiving, and a collection of facts don’t always add up to the truth. To use your lingo, you shouldn’t judge a book by its cover.
I yawned. Very funny, Jack. At least your reference is apropos.
It’s more than that.
What do you mean?
I’ll be glad to show you. But you’ll have to close your eyes first.
Another dream?
Another memory. But the same case. And while we’re back in my time, I’ll give you some PI pointers.
Like what? How not to stick my nose where it doesn’t belong?
Nix to that. “Sticking your nose in” is practically the credo of my profession, which is why I’m going to show you how to make your nose look like it belongs.
Huh?
Never hesitate to investigate, doll. You weren’t wrong to want to look inside that mystery building tonight—see if illegal activity was taking place. Only next time something like that comes up, you have to be prepared.
I yawned again, so hard this time my eyes watered.
Close those peepers, Penny, and I’ll show you how a professional does it. But first, we need to visit a little diner with a name that’s out of this world.
Out of this world? Like you, huh, Jack?
A deep, vibrating chuckle was the last thing I heard before my world faded away.