3 Bean There, Done That Page 12

  No doubt about it, Caron had a big mouth. I hoped she’d only talked to Amy, but I’d think twice before I confided in her again. Sarah was the confessional by comparison.

  ‘I don’t think Ted killed anyone.’ It wasn’t the first time I’d said it, but this time I realized I meant it. I didn’t think Ted had killed Rachel.

  Why was that? Had something changed?

  Not really. Except that since Rachel’s body was found, I was no longer thinking in abstract terms.

  Rachel was dead. Rachel. Not the ‘Hotel Heiress’ or even ‘Ted’s Tootsie’. Rachel. A person I knew.

  And Ted was suspected of killing her. Ted. Not the ‘Cheating Husband’. Ted. The man who had been the love of my life.

  I might have to believe that he was a liar and a cheater. But I refused to believe he was a murderer.

  Amy was pouring steamed milk into the espresso in my mug. She topped it with froth and handed it to me.

  ‘So if you believe Ted is innocent,’ she said matter-of-factly, ‘aren’t you going to help him prove it?’

  Chapter Twelve

  Yet another good question. One that I thought about as I dodged reporters with questions about why I’d been at Ted’s house. The City Sentinel must be very happy with its circulation numbers in Brookhills.

  ‘I’d kill to find out who called the paper,’ I said to Amy.

  ‘It was that frickin’ Roger Karsten,’ Sophie called over from the table in the corner.

  I pulled a fresh pot of coffee off the heating element and went over to Sophie’s table. ‘Refill?’ I asked, and then realized she didn’t have a cup.

  ‘I’m just visiting,’ she said.

  It must be hell getting old and having your trip to the coffee shop be the high point of your day. Then again, it was often the high point of my day. Frank was cute, but he sure wasn’t much of a conversationalist.

  I got a cup and poured some coffee in it, sliding it in front of Sophie. ‘On the house,’ I said. ‘Now, how do you know it was Roger?’

  ‘I heard him tell that Kat woman.’

  Great.

  ‘Speak of the devil,’ Amy said from behind the counter. ‘Kate is crossing the parking lot and it looks like she’s coming our way.’

  ‘Dang, Maggy,’ Sophie exclaimed, ‘hide!’

  It seemed like good advice. Being careful to stay away from the window, I slid around the corner and into the office.

  ‘That’s the first place she’ll look,’ Sophie called.

  She was right, but the only other place to go was the refrigerator.

  Or outside. I let myself out the back door and into the service corridor. I could stay there but if Kate checked the office, she certainly would check the hall. Better to slip out when she’s still looking for me inside. I could go to Sarah’s office.

  I opened the door that led into the back parking lot.

  ‘Slick,’ Kate’s voice said. ‘You might have fooled a lesser woman.’ Kate was leaning casually against the building wall.

  ‘How in the world did you get back here so fast?’ I asked disgustedly. ‘You couldn’t have seen me.’

  ‘You have one full wall of mirrors,’ Kate said. ‘I saw your reflection as you slunk into the back.’

  Defeated by my own need to make Uncommon Grounds look spacious.

  ‘Those mirrors were a crappy idea in the first place,’ I muttered. ‘Fingerprints.’

  Kate whipped out her ‘Ace Reporter’ notebook. The decoder ring was probably back at the office. ‘What were you doing at your ex-husband’s house the night his wife disappeared?’

  I bit back the smart-aleck remark that would have been fun, but probably unwise.

  ‘Take a hike, Kate,’ I said, walking away from her. Today was another mild day, so I wasn’t suffering from the cold in my jeans and Uncommon Grounds T-shirt.

  ‘C’mon, Maggy,’ Kate said, trailing me, ‘give me something, will you? Please?’

  I stopped and turned. ‘Please? You said please?’ It was nearly as unusual as seeing Sarah’s legs.

  Kate gestured with her notebook. ‘I would kill to write for the CitySentinel. If I could get something, anything from you, it would be a real coup for me.’

  I still hesitated, so she pulled out her ace in the hole. ‘C’mon, Maggy. Do you truly want me to stay in Brookhills the rest of my career?’

  That did it. I waved her over. ‘Thing is, Kate. There’s really nothing to tell.’

  ‘That’s what they all say.’ She flipped open her notebook. ‘So are you and your ex back together? Is that why he killed his new wife?’

  I stepped back. Years of doing public relations taught me many lessons. One of them was controlling the interview. ‘I’ll give you a statement, but I’m not going to answer any questions.’

  Kate opened her mouth to protest, but I was insistent. ‘This isn’t negotiable.’ I nodded at her notebook. ‘Are you ready?’

  She raised the notebook and had the pen poised.

  ‘Ted Thorsen and I have an amicable divorce, but we have absolutely no intention of reuniting. From everything I’ve seen, he loved Rachel and is shocked and heartbroken over her death. He called me the morning after she disappeared, because he was upset and had no other family to call. I went to try to help. End of statement.’

  I turned on my heel. Kate was still scribbling as the service door closed behind me.

  ‘Did you get rid of her?’ Amy asked as I entered the store.

  ‘I did.’ I looked around. ‘Where did Sophie go?’

  ‘When she saw Kate circle the building she said she was going to go out and “tail” her.’

  ‘That’s good.’ I picked up the tray of dirty cups and plates to load them in the dishwasher. ‘I think Sophie could use a little excitement in her life.’

  Amy leaned over to help me. ‘I don’t think that’s all Sophie needs.’

  I pulled back and looked at Amy. ‘Are you talking about her and Henry?’

  Amy laughed and flipped up the door of the dishwasher. ‘No, I’m talking about money. Most seniors are living on a fixed income. Haven’t you noticed how she comes around for the leftover bakery at night?’

  ‘I hadn’t, but Caron mentioned it to me.’ I surveyed our assortment of delicious, yet not nutritious pastry. ‘I hope she’s not living on this stuff. Maybe we should get some wholegrains in here.’

  Amy grinned. ‘Now you’re talking.’ Amy was a natural and organic foods devotee.

  I put my hand on her arm. ‘You truly don’t think Sophie’s in serious financial trouble, do you?’

  ‘Not serious, but I think she has to watch her pennies. It can’t be easy living in Brookhills, surrounded by people who buy whatever they want without a second thought.’

  I got that. Business-owner or not, I made well below the average income in Brookhills. Heck, it was because I was a business owner. When I was working for somebody else, I did just fine.

  It was the price you pay for following your own drummer. Right into the poorhouse.

  Amy left before I did, but as I hung up my apron at six, I was still thinking about the question she had asked me about Ted.

  If I believed he was innocent, shouldn’t I do what I could to help him prove that?

  Yes, I knew that Ted wasn’t my problem anymore. But I couldn’t get over the look on his face as Pavlik had led him away. Ted was alone.

  What about Emma Byrne? the voice in my head asked. Let her help him.

  A fair question, Voice in Head. But if Rachel had been right about the affair, then Emma’s help was the last thing Ted needed. Much like me being photographed at his house and plastered all over the newspaper.

  But at least no one could prove that Ted and I were together because, simply put, we weren’t. Emma, on the other hand . . .

  If they were having an affair, Emma’s riding to his rescue would only prove Ted had a motive for getting rid of Rachel. But why would he choose to do it now, if he and Emma had been . . . affairing for
years?

  I grabbed my purse in one hand and a bag of trash in the other and headed out the back door, still noodling it.

  Money was the logical motive. Presumably Ted would inherit everything Rachel had. But how much was there? And what about the prenup Rachel had mentioned? Did that enter in? I didn’t know.

  I was saved the trouble of digging out my key to the dumpster corral because the lock hadn’t been fixed and the gate was hanging open. Trash pickup wasn’t until Friday, so the computer monitors, box spring and paint cans were still there, too. Happily, the scary man didn’t appear to be.

  Even so, I was cautious as I stepped in. Setting down my purse, I climbed up on a slat of the box spring and swung the heavy garbage bag into our dumpster. The truck-size trash bin was stenciled ‘UG’ for Uncommon Grounds, not that the identification was necessary. I would have been able to identify it blindfolded, because of the stench. I love the smell of fresh-brewed coffee. Moldy grounds is a different story.

  Retrieving my purse, I swung the dumpster gate closed behind me. It creaked back open. I shrugged. At least I’d tried to be a good dumpster doobie. Caron would be proud.

  When I rounded the corner to the front parking lot, I checked my watch. Six fifteen. I was meeting Stephen at the hotel restaurant at eight. That gave me just enough time to get home, shower, dress and drive downtown.

  I was looking forward to dinner. Not only would I be eating at what was reputed to be a wonderful restaurant, but I would be doing it – eating, that is – with a handsome man who was both interesting and, seemingly, interested.

  And if that weren’t enough, Stephen probably also had the answers to a whole lot of my questions.

  Chez Slattery (geez, did these people love the sound of their own name or what?) was on the top floor of the Slattery Arms.

  Stephen met me at the door. He was wearing a dark suit and though he looked tired, his eyes sparkled when he saw me. Given the circumstances, it had been tough to know how to dress. I’d chosen an LBD – Little Black Dress. Good for any occasion. Wedding, funeral, dinner, interrogation.

  ‘You look wonderful,’ he said, leaning down to give me a peck on the cheek.

  ‘Thank you.’ I gestured at the floor to ceiling windows. ‘The view is fabulous.’

  ‘You’ve never been here before?’ He signaled the hostess we were ready to be seated.

  ‘Not for years and years,’ I admitted.

  The hostess led us past the bar to a separate section, apparently for VIPs of some sort. There were only four tables in an area that would have held twice that number in the main area of Chez Slattery. Two of the tables were unoccupied. At the third, a well-preserved older blonde chatted with a man who looked about fifteen years her junior. I almost applauded when I walked past.

  I sat down in the chair the hostess was holding and she placed my napkin on my lap. ‘The last time I was here, the restaurant still . . .’ I made a circling motion with my finger.

  ‘Ahh, revolved. It was all the rage for a while. Now people seem to prefer not to rotate while they digest.’

  ‘You’re telling me. I was very young and not much of a drinker. Between the martinis my date was ordering for me and the motion, I don’t remember much.’

  ‘And what you do remember, you’d rather not.’ Stephen smiled from across the table.

  ‘True.’ Especially the last couple of years. My ‘date’ that night had been Ted. It was the first time we went out and he was trying to impress me.

  I looked out the window. ‘This is absolutely lovely.’

  It was. We were looking east. At our feet, the Milwaukee River sliced through the lights of the city, delineated by the harp lights of the Riverwalk.

  East Town lay on the other side of the river, its restaurants and clubs hopping, car lights zipping in and out as valets maneuvered patrons’ cars into parking spots. Beyond that, I could see the illuminated Brise Soleil, the moving sunscreen that architect Santiago Calatrava had designed to top his first building in the United States, the Quadracci Pavilion of the Milwaukee Art Museum.

  ‘Oh, look,’ I said pointing at the Brise. ‘It’s opening. I thought they closed it at night.’

  ‘I think the Art Museum has a fundraiser tonight,’ Stephen said, as we watched the wings unfurl dramatically like a huge bird – a bird with a two-hundred-foot wingspan – against the blackness that was Lake Michigan.

  The lake sparkled with sunlight on nice days and seemed as unforgiving as the ocean on stormy ones. At night, though, it was simply emptiness. The cliff, where the city lights fell away. Dark. Cold. Empty.

  The place where Rachel had died.

  I craned my head to look north.

  ‘What are you looking for?’ Stephen asked as he took the wine list from the sommelier.

  ‘The Hamilton,’ I said, without thinking.

  ‘There,’ he pointed. ‘The big cream-colored one. Why?’

  The Hamilton was about six blocks west of the lake, and that didn’t take into account the parkland, which created another buffer of two or three blocks, depending where you were on the lakefront.

  I turned to Stephen. ‘Rachel was going to the Hamilton. However did she end up in the lake?’

  Stephen’s eyes were as bleak as the lake now. I was sorry to be the cause of it, but there was no way we could dance around his sister’s death.

  ‘I’ve been trying to figure that out myself,’ he said. ‘Apparently she had on the same clothes she was wearing on Saturday when they found . . .’ He swallowed hard. ‘Her body.’

  I put my hand out to cover his. ‘I’m so sorry Stephen. I wish I could help.’

  He squeezed my hand. ‘You are, believe me. Just being here and talking through all this is a tremendous help. My mother doesn’t want to try to make sense of this. She just wants someone punished.’

  Like Ted. If this was helping Stephen, I was glad. It was helping me, too, besides being awfully pleasant. ‘I understand Rachel never showed up to meet the inspector.’

  Stephen leaned forward. ‘Really? Who told you that?’

  ‘The inspector himself. Roger Karsten used to be the Brookhills’ building inspector and now has his own inspection firm,’ I said. ‘He said he’d had an appointment to meet Rachel at the Hamilton.’

  We were interrupted by the sommelier. ‘Sorry.’ Stephen picked up the wine list. ‘Do you prefer red or white?’

  ‘Red, please. I know I should decide based on what I order, but I like red with just about anything.’

  ‘Me, too.’ He scanned the wine list. ‘I think we’ll have a French Bordeaux.’

  He pointed at one. The sommelier nodded his approval and then took the list and himself back to . . . wherever sommeliers come from.

  ‘When did you see this inspector?’ Stephen asked.

  ‘He came into Uncommon Grounds yesterday. He hasn’t been around for months, so this was the first time I’ve heard from him.’

  ‘And he just stopped by the coffeehouse out of the blue?’ Stephen sounded doubtful.

  It did seem odd when you put it like that. On the other hand . . . ‘Roger is pretty full of himself. I wouldn’t put it past him to make a special trip just to let people know he’d been interviewed by the police.’

  Stephen rubbed his chin. ‘I assume he’d know that you’re Ted’s ex-wife.’

  I snorted and the couple at the next table turned. Apparently people didn’t snort in Chez Slattery.

  ‘Sorry,’ I said, putting my hand over my mouth. ‘It’s just that everyone knows what and who everybody is doing in Brookhills.’

  Stephen smiled at that. ‘Do you think he might have been looking for information, rather than giving it? Maybe he was curious.’

  There was that. ‘He didn’t ask me anything, though he did get distracted.’ By Laurel’s boobs, if I recalled.

  ‘Did he say how long he waited for her?’

  ‘Fifteen minutes, which is quintessential Roger. He waits for no man. Or woman.’

&n
bsp; ‘Municipal inspectors can get away with that and, to be fair, they’re often on a tight schedule. But a private inspector usually will wait if a client – especially one as big as Slattery Hotels – gets hung up.’

  ‘I can see that. That would be the only way he’d get paid, after all. Though by Roger’s standards, fifteen minutes is waiting. I wonder if he tried to call her.’

  ‘Maybe. But if he called Rachel’s cellphone, we’ll never know. It was lost.’

  Like Rachel and the baby were ‘lost’

  ‘The sheriff probably has already checked the records,’ I said.

  ‘I wish we knew where she was going after her meeting at the Hamilton,’ Stephen said.

  ‘Did she keep a calendar or a datebook?’

  ‘On the phone, probably. It was new, and she was pretty addicted to it.’ He mustered up a smile.

  The blessing of all-in-one handheld technology is also its curse. Everything could be wiped out all at once. Phone, address book, calendar, the whole shebang. And we are as dependent on that information as we are our cars.

  Which reminded me. ‘Where is Rachel’s SUV?’ The Escalade shouldn’t be hard to spot. It was the size of a bus.

  ‘Nobody has seen it yet. The sheriff says that if the killer left it unlocked in the right part of town, it wouldn’t last twenty minutes before it ended up in the chop shop. I wonder if anyone saw her when she stopped back here.’

  ‘Here?’

  ‘Not here at the restaurant, but the office.’

  ‘How do you know that? Did someone see her?’

  He shook his head. ‘No, I’m only assuming she came back, because of the key cards they found in her purse. She must have taken them from the office.’

  That explained why Rachel had ‘more’ key cards. They weren’t more. They were the same ones.

  ‘Does Pavlik have any other suspects except Ted?’ I asked.

  Stephen shifted uncomfortably in his chair.

  I held up my hand. ‘That’s OK, you don’t have to say anything. It’s just . . .’ My fingers were drumming nervously on the table.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Stephen said, covering my hand this time. ‘I know this is hard on you, too. “It’s just” what?’