3 Bean There, Done That Read online

  She had her eyes wide open and was holding her eyebrows aloft. The wrinkle was still there, but it was frozen, like a crevice in a glacier.

  I glanced over at the A table, wondering which Brookhills Barbie was Vickie. All the ladies were staring back at me. In fact, both tables had been watching me since I’d latte’d and cappuccino’d them.

  I knew what they wanted. Information. And they wouldn’t give up until they got it. In Sophie, I had a friend who would relay the information both kindly and dependably. The next best thing to appearing on Larry King Live.

  I smiled back at Sophie. ‘You look wonderful, Sophie. Ten years younger.’

  She seemed a little disappointed. I guess ten years would still put her at seventy and she was hoping for more than that. Still, Sophie had other things on her mind than her forehead.

  ‘Maggy, what was that dang man thinking? They’re saying he killed Rachel, stole her money and then ran.’

  ‘I know.’

  Her mouth tightened. ‘You think he did it.’ The voice was Sophie’s, but the accusatory tone sounded just like Eric.

  I opened my mouth to answer, without the slightest idea what I was going to say. Happily, I was interrupted by the sleigh bells on the door.

  When I looked up gratefully, I saw Stephen Slattery. Which made me even more grateful.

  Sophie gave Stephen a sly smile, before turning back to me. ‘I’ll let you take care of your customer,’ she said with an attempt at a wink.

  As she returned to the table, she gave Stephen the once-over. He stepped up to the counter, pulling on his collar. ‘I guess I know what women feel like when they pass a construction site,’ he said.

  ‘You should feel complimented,’ I said. ‘Sophie doesn’t ogle just anyone.’

  He gave me a shadow of a grin. ‘I’m sorry if I caused you trouble last night. I understand you were there when the sheriff arrived at Rachel’s house.’

  I noticed it was no longer Ted and Rachel’s house. Not that I could blame him.

  ‘I was,’ I said. ‘But that certainly wasn’t your fault. I should have been smart and done what you did when you saw the e-mail: call the sheriff instead of checking on Ted myself.’

  Stephen stared at me for a long moment. ‘You can’t spend twenty years with someone and not care about them. Even after they betray you.’

  ‘Betray,’ I said. ‘That’s an awfully mild word for everything Ted has done. The cheating was nothing.’

  ‘So you believe he killed Rachel now?’

  Why did everyone keep asking me that? Why did it matter what I thought? ‘I don’t know what else to believe. Rachel was murdered and dumped into Lake Michigan. The money is gone and so is Ted.’

  ‘So you know about the money?’

  ‘I do. Half a million dollars could take him a long way.’

  ‘Half a million is hardly worth killing for. It’s a drop in the bucket these days.’

  Spoken like a member of the A table. ‘Sounds like your bucket is a whole lot bigger than mine.’

  Stephen looked startled. ‘I’m sorry. I sounded like my mother there. The thing is that Rachel’s trust fund is worth millions.’

  ‘Millions? As in more than one or two?’ I asked, leaning closer so no one else could hear. ‘Did Ted get that, too?’

  ‘My mother has the trust funds tied up so tight, even we can’t get to the money without jumping through her hoops. She’s made damn sure a spouse can never touch it. That’s why Rachel had Ted sign a prenuptial agreement. Slattery money passes only to Slatterys. And, of course, Slattery heirs.’

  ‘Now that Rachel is dead, who―’ My question was interrupted by the beeping of my cellphone, which I had tucked under the counter in case Eric called. As I picked it up, it registered that a text message had been left.

  I flipped the phone open. The message read: ‘could dad be in lake teree’.

  ‘Have you ever heard of Lake Teree?’ I asked Stephen.

  He craned his neck to see what I was talking about. ‘Lake Teree?’ He gave it a French pronunciation. ‘I’ve never heard of it.’

  ‘Me neither.’

  Stephen took a step back from the counter. ‘Listen, I need to leave. I just wanted to make sure you’re all right.’

  ‘Sure. Thanks,’ I said absently, still studying the message. By the time I looked up, Stephen was gone.

  That was quick. I was starting to get weird vibes from Stephen all of a sudden. He had seemed like a regular guy, even in his fancy office. Today, though . . . he seemed more like a Slattery. Of The Slatterys. And why had he practically run out of the store just now?

  I’d give that more thought, but first I wanted to get back to Eric. ‘Where?’ I texted.

  I was waiting for the answering message when Sarah came in. She was flashing a couple of tickets.

  ‘Hey,’ she said. ‘I have two tickets for the tonight’s Twilight Tour downtown. Want to go?’

  ‘You enjoyed it so much the other night that you bought tickets for everyone?’ I asked, taking the tickets. ‘Who would I go with?’

  ‘Me, you idiot.’ She pulled them out of my hand. ‘Saturday night’s tour was cancelled.’

  That explained why I’d seen Sarah and her Firebird heading home that afternoon, instead of toward downtown. I hadn’t given it much thought in all my pre-Pavlik excitement.

  ‘I don’t know. I might not be good company. Besides –’ I held up the phone – ‘I’m waiting for a text from Eric.’

  ‘So?’ Sarah shrugged. ‘Believe it or not, Maggy, those things are portable. You can walk with them. You can even drive.’

  Sarcasm, I didn’t need. Or maybe I did. I preferred it to her Barbie moments. ‘I have to work until six,’ I said, pulling out the brochure she’d left with me on Saturday.

  ‘The tour starts at seven,’ Sarah said.

  I was busy looking at the brochure. Not so much because I was interested, but because I wanted to fill my mind with anything but the ugly mess my life had become. As luck would have it, though, one of the buildings on the tour was the Hamilton.

  ‘It goes to the Hamilton,’ I murmured.

  ‘Of course,’ Sarah said. ‘It’s one of the oldest buildings in Milwaukee.’

  The silent cellphone was on the counter. For all I knew, Eric had texted before he went into class. I could never keep his schedule straight and when I did think I had it, he changed it. Sarah was right. He could get hold of me, whether I was here or at home.

  Or, even, on a tour of the last place Rachel was supposed to go.

  Chapter Fifteen

  We’d agreed that Sarah would pick me up at six fifteen and we’d drive downtown together. At six fifteen, I locked up and went out to the front parking lot.

  The unseasonably warm weather of the past few days had taken a more seasonable turn. The temperature had dropped to about forty-five degrees, which wasn’t all that bad except that when I’d left home it had been seventy. The light jacket I was wearing couldn’t stand up to the chill in the air and the stiff breeze that had kicked up.

  I could go back into Uncommon Grounds or climb into the Escape to keep warm, but that would be like surrendering. It was spring, damn it, it should act like it.

  I hoped it was warmer downtown or I was going to turn into an icicle on the walking tour. Lake Michigan has a moderating effect on the temperature, making it cooler near the lake during the summer and warmer during the winter. In April, it was anybody’s guess.

  I pulled my hands up into my jacket sleeves to keep them warm. Stephen’s quick visit this afternoon was still bothering me. He’d said he wanted to make sure I was all right, but he’d left so abruptly it made me wonder what had precipitated it.

  We’d been talking about Rachel’s trust fund. Did he think I was pumping him for information? Or that he’d said too much about ‘the family business’? Maybe he even thought I was after his trust fund?

  Nah. My jeans and Uncommon Grounds apron might scream many things about me, but ‘g
old-digger’ wasn’t one of them.

  A movement to my left caught my attention. Thinking it might be ‘dumpster man’, I cautiously peeked around the corner. False alarm. A squirrel was scaling the tree next to the back door.

  I checked my watch. Six thirty. Sarah was late. We’d barely make it to the tour, even if she arrived right now. Even worse, I still hadn’t heard back from Eric and I was beginning to worry. His classes must be over by now.

  I stomped my feet on the asphalt to keep warm and tried to remember what I’d been thinking about when the squirrel distracted me.

  Ah, yes. According to Stephen, Rachel had millions tied up in a trust fund, presumably from her parents or her maternal grandparents, the Whitakers. That was money Ted couldn’t touch. So why would he kill her for half a million, when he could have stayed married to Rachel and reaped the benefits of all of it?

  Maybe the murder was an accident. Ted really hadn’t meant to kick her, smash in her face and toss her in the lake.

  Yeah, that was it. An accident. Right.

  So . . . maybe it had initially been an accident. Maybe she’d fallen. Or maybe he’d even lost his temper and shoved her during an argument and she’d hit her head. Then he panicked and tried to cover it up by making it seem like a mugging.

  No. Ted wasn’t exactly the sharpest drill in the office, but even he couldn’t believe the police would buy that. Pregnant woman, kicked in the stomach, beaten in the face – it was a much more personal murder.

  Personal: Lover. Friend. Family.

  Brother?

  I shivered, but not because of the cold. Could I actually be considering Stephen a suspect? I’d much rather think that witch of a mother had killed Rachel.

  But . . .

  When Rachel had gone off and married Ted, she’d deserted the family business, leaving Stephen to fill the role of ‘golden child’. When she gets pregnant, though, she decides to come back into the fold.

  A grandchild would become the center of the Slattery universe. Rachel, back in the company business, could lower Stephen’s worth in the eyes of their mother. Add a multimillion trust fund that likely would go to Stephen as the sole Slattery heir when Rachel died, and what did you have?

  A motive for murder. And a much better one than Ted had.

  The ungodly sound of the Firebird’s horn interrupted my thoughts. Sarah’s passenger door just missed me as she reached across and slung it open. ‘Get in, we’re late.’

  ‘Whose fault is that?’ I asked as I slid in.

  I barely had the door closed before Sarah took off. ‘We’ll meet the group at the Hamilton.’

  Perfect, since the hotel was all I really cared about seeing anyway. I only had Roger Karsten’s word that Rachel hadn’t shown up there. And Roger’s word was always questionable in my book.

  Stephen said Rachel must have returned to his office later to retrieve the key cards. What if she hadn’t? What if Stephen had killed her and planted the keys on her body to incriminate Ted?

  Yikes. My head was spinning. Rachel told me her brother caught Ted and his lover ‘in the act’. But maybe Stephen was the one acting here.

  The lover, the calendar, the key cards – could that all have been Stephen’s invention? Right down to the supposed ‘matching’ of key cards to calendars?

  If so, Ted could be completely innocent in this.

  There was that pesky half million dollars, of course. But who could really blame him for taking that? By this point, he had to wonder if he was being framed. Assuming he had no role in Rachel’s death, the money was rightfully his anyway. Maybe the only thing he could think to do was take the money and run.

  ‘What in the hell are you thinking about?’

  Sarah’s voice snapped me from my . . . well, ‘reverie’ sounded way too peaceful for what was bouncing around in my head. ‘You haven’t said a word for twenty minutes.’

  ‘Twenty minutes? Are we almost there?’ I looked around. Indeed, we were passing Miller Park, which meant we’d be at the Hamilton in minutes. I checked my watch. Ten to seven, we might still make it.

  ‘Sorry. I was just thinking about the tour.’ I wasn’t willing to share my theory with Sarah yet. In fact, I wasn’t willing to share it with anyone. For now.

  We were a little late, but our tour group was still standing in front of the Hamilton. It seemed our fellow tour members were members of the Red Hat Society, a social group of older women who choose red hats and socialization over orthopedic shoes and loneliness. I knew about them because Sophie Daystrom is an enthusiastic member of the Brookhills chapter.

  In fact, Sophie herself wiggled fingers at me over the tour guide’s head. She was wearing a red fedora. It looked like a dyed version of the gray one that Henry, her off-again, on-again squeeze wore. She and the other ladies also sported purple or lavender outfits

  Sarah was looking around. ‘I guess Emma isn’t leading this one.’

  Good guess. The tour guide was eighty’ish, a wizened five foot two, and male.

  ‘The owners are remodeling the front entrance hall,’ he told us after he’d taken our tickets, ‘so we’ll have to enter through the loading dock.’ He flashed an unnaturally white smile at Sophie. ‘But I’ll be more than happy to help anyone who needs a –’ he cupped his hands – ‘a lift.’

  Sophie giggled.

  I felt giddy myself. The loading dock was just what I wanted to see. I’d feared I’d have to sneak away from the group to do it.

  I’d been giving the Stephen-as-suspect scenario more thought. If he had waited at the Hamilton and killed Rachel when she arrived, Stephen still would have to get her body to the lake to dispose of it. But an accomplice – Roger Karsten, for instance – would make it ever so much simpler.

  Rachel could have shown up right on time and found the two of them waiting for her. After they killed her, the loading dock would be the perfect place to trundle the body to a vehicle without anyone seeing it.

  There was the question of why Roger would get involved, of course. Maybe something to do with kickbacks of some kind. An inspector who ‘found’ something could cost a seller a lot of money. And save a buyer a bundle.

  I was liking my theory more and more. And being able to include that sleaze Roger Karsten? Priceless.

  Sophie dropped back to join me as we rounded the corner of the building.

  ‘I think he likes me,’ she whispered, nodding toward the back of the guide. ‘I could get lucky tonight.’

  ‘Lucky?’ I was so distracted I tripped over a trash can, sending it toppling. A rat scurried out from behind me to investigate a tantalizing tangle of discarded pink coat and shabby brocade fabric, no doubt from the remodeling. The fabric might have graced the entrance hall of the Hamilton for decades, but now it lay beneath the remains of a half-eaten hamburger and a slice of pepperoni pizza covered in fine white fuzz. Trash à la mold – who could resist? Not the rat, by the looks of it.

  Sophie put out her hand to keep me from falling into the smorgasbord. ‘You bet your butt,’ she said. ‘I haven’t eaten yet.’ She kicked in the direction of the rodent.

  ‘Don’t incite the rats,’ I scolded. ‘Are you talking about a dinner invitation?’

  Sophie shrugged. ‘If that’s what you people call it.’

  I was afraid to ask for clarification.

  ‘That was a mouse,’ Sarah’s voice said in my ear. For once she was a welcome distraction.

  Sophie just kept talking. ‘I was brought up on a farm, you know. With the animals and all, things were different there.’

  I was completely confused. I turned to Sarah. ‘Mouse?’

  ‘Mouse,’ she confirmed. ‘What was different, Sophie?’

  Nooooo.

  ‘Meals,’ Sophie said, falling in step with her. ‘We had our big meal at noon and called it dinner. Our evening meal was supper and . . .’

  Breathing a sigh of relief, I caught up to the tour guide, who was starting up the steps of the loading dock. ‘Excuse me, but is the
Hamilton completely empty now?’

  The guide’s pale blue eyes brightened as he caught sight of me. ‘It is, with the exception of the construction workers in the lobby area. We’re lucky they’re allowing us in to see the place before further renovation takes place.’

  As he put his key into the lock of what resembled a giant steel garage door, I glanced around. I wasn’t sure what I thought I’d see. Signs of a vehicle being parked there? There probably had been thousands of vehicles in and out every year for all the years the Hamilton had been there. How exactly did I figure out whether any of them had been made by the vehicle Stephen had used, perhaps Rachel’s own Escalade?

  As for signs of ‘disturbance’ in the accumulated grime – something a TV investigator would take note of – well, dirt is dirt. At least to me. I’ve spent years trying to ignore it, in fact.

  The old tour guide leaned down to grasp the handle in order to roll up the door. I went to help but he waved me off. ‘This is how I get my exercise,’ he said, easily lifting it. ‘Next tour I use my left arm. That way I balance.’

  I liked this guy. ‘So do you come here a lot?’

  He gave me a sideways grin as he waved through the red hats. ‘You use that line on all the old guys?’

  I laughed. ‘No, just the ones who hold the Red Hat Ladies in thrall.’ I nodded toward a gaggle of them who were glancing toward us while trying to look like they weren’t.

  ‘Red Hots, I call them,’ he said. ‘They’re great gals. They keep me young, just like they’re doing for themselves – going out on the town, having Botox parties and all.’

  Startled, I glanced over to where Sophie had joined her friends. Sure enough, there wasn’t an eyebrow moving in the bunch.

  ‘They invited me to one of them last year,’ our guide continued, shaking his head. ‘Hurt like hell.’

  ‘What did you have done?’ Sarah had come up behind me.

  ‘Crows feet,’ he said. ‘Helped for a while, but then it went back to normal. Collagen in the lips lasted longer.’ He pursed his lips.

  ‘You, you . . .’ I started.