The Antique House Murders Page 10

  To his credit, Mitch maintained eye contact and kept the blushing to a minimum. “Yes, sir, Detective. I took Ms. Tate’s official statement and collected her list of stolen property.”

  “Since you were too busy tackling innocent bystanders to maintain control over an evidentiary document”—Marc flicked a glance at Vanessa—“perhaps you’d like to explain whom you have in custody?”

  The blush deepened but Mitch held his ground. “Yes, sir, Detective. This is Zachary Martin. He shoplifted something from Old Hat, apparently as a Purple Tang initiation.”

  “The Tang? Not that again.” Marc sighed. “Don’t these kids have anything better to do?”

  Paul said, “You don’t know the half of it. Some guy they call the K-Man has them bagging marijuana in bulk for resale.”

  Marc stared. “Get the hell out.”

  “Guess where they’re working out of?” Paul grinned. “C’mon, guess.”

  “High school cafeteria.”

  “Better. The Mulbridge House garage.” While Marc groped for the power of speech, Paul continued, “I’ve already got a search warrant in the works. We’re just waiting on Zach’s parents to authorize his official statement. The chief’s on the warpath over this one.”

  “Do you blame him?” Marc shook his head. “It seems I’ll be visiting Mulbridge House after all.”

  “Excuse me?” Sean raised his hand. “I’m the one who caught our budding crime lord, if that’s important.” He extended the hand with a friendly smile. “Sean Ambrose. Great to see you again, Detective Marcus Trenault.”

  After a brief hesitation, Marc shook hands. “It’s been a long time. You’ve left several messages for me.”

  “I have.” Sean glanced around. “Maybe this isn’t the best time.”

  “Why the hell not? Everyone else got to dump on my day. Why should you be denied?”

  Sean shrugged. “Okay. Actually, I suspect the harassment’s connected to the Mulbridge House vote, too, just like everything else.”

  Charley spoke without thinking. “The vote? Are you being harassed because you’re on the Planning Commission?”

  “That has to be the reason.” Sean addressed her directly, and Marc scowled. “Over the past couple of days, several OPC members have had garbage dumped on their porches, with a note saying, ‘There goes the neighborhood,’ ” he said, making air quotes. “I live in an apartment with a locked entry, so mine was spread over the hood of my car during the night.”

  Paul had his notebook out. “How come nobody reported any of this?”

  “You know how it is, Detective. These people live here, and they have to keep living here after Friday’s vote. They’re under a ton of scrutiny and pressure from neighbors and friends over what they should do. The last thing they want is to draw more attention to the controversy with a police investigation.” Sean’s face tightened, the signs of strain deepening. “Maybe because I haven’t been back very long, I’m more ticked off than afraid.”

  Charley touched his sleeve. “You did the right thing by reporting this. I’m sure you’re not in any real danger. Marc and Paul will figure out—”

  “Ms. Carpenter. May I speak with you privately?” Marc grasped Charley’s elbow and propelled her down the length of the squad room and into the alcove that housed the detective section. Once they were out of earshot, he turned to face her.

  “You got chummy with Sean Ambrose pretty fast.”

  She opened her mouth, then closed it again. “Sean? That’s your takeaway from all this?”

  “He was hanging on you like a cheap suit. Plus, you seem pretty up to speed on his personal affairs. How well do you two know each other?”

  “We’re old friends.” She folded her arms. “I didn’t spend my entire high school career pining for you, you know.”

  Marc’s eyes flashed. “What the hell does that mean?”

  “Oh, for God’s sake.” She heaved a mighty sigh. “We hung out a little the summer Frankie went to Italy. No romance, no secret handshake, no besmirched honor for you to defend. All better? Can we get back to Calvin’s murder now, please?”

  “Good idea.” He touched the tip of her nose. “We had a deal. No meddling in my homicide investigation.”

  “All I did was connect the names with—”

  He cut her off. “It’s obvious you already knew about the stolen sales records, Charley. Fess up. Now.”

  She flushed. Busted. “Pamela may have mentioned it when Frankie and I…helped her, uh, clean up Calvin’s office yesterday. But the important thing,” she rushed on as he scowled, “is that you’ve got a real lead on the killer. If whoever broke into Calvin’s office to find the missing will is part of SOAP, then Millie Peache might know who it is. She’s not tall enough, and I have no idea if she’s left-handed, but that could still—”

  Charley clapped a hand over her mouth as Marc goggled at her in shocked disbelief.

  “How in the hell do you have access to preliminary autopsy results I only received two hours ago?”

  “I, um…” Charley stared at the floor. “I ran into Trent Logan as he was leaving. He just spit it out,” she said in a small voice. “I didn’t ask, I swear.”

  When the silence finally grew unbearable, she glanced up. Marc had his hands on his hips, gazing at her in consternation.

  “It’s been barely six hours since I saw you last. Not only have you identified a possible link between my murder case and the burglaries, you may have uncovered a major drug operation running out of an abandoned house in my jurisdiction. I am…” He threw his hands up in the air. “Charley, what am I going to do with you?”

  “Buy me dinner as a thank-you?” When he laughed aloud, she knew the worst was over. “What about my theory? Are you going to question Millie? Or how about Holland? She’s got motive to conceal another will. Plus, she’s a bitch.”

  “Well, then, let’s lock her up and throw away the key.” He tweaked a curling lock of her hair. “I’ll look into it. Trust me to do my job, okay? When I can, that is. I predict Zehring will make this Purple Tang drug ring a priority, at least until forensics on Prescott come in.” He paused. “But first things first.”

  He led Charley out of the alcove and into full view of the squad room. The others had been chatting quietly, perched on desks and chairs, but they came instantly to attention. Without warning, Marc pulled her into his arms and kissed her deeply, evoking a few gasps and some scattered applause. Caught by surprise for once, she gripped his biceps as he swept her off balance and dipped her low.

  Dmitri laughed. “I taught him that move.”

  Sean murmured, “Damn. Me.” Then he laughed. “Way to go, Red.”

  When Marc finally set her back on her feet, Charley made a show of huffing irritably, smoothing her hair and adjusting her blouse. “Marking your territory?” she asked, not altogether displeased.

  “It seemed more professional than peeing in circles around you.” He stared at Sean in open challenge as Charley rolled her eyes.

  After making tentative plans for dinner that evening, Marc departed with Paul to report and get marching orders from their boss. Sean sat down with Camille to make a formal statement about the garbage vandalism, and Mitch took Zach to an interview room to wait for his parents.

  Charley’s cellphone chimed with a new email from her father. When she saw that the subject line read “Mystery of Gallagher’s Island,” she clicked on it immediately. The attachment appeared to be a map, but her phone was too small to make out any details. She glanced around and recognized an admin at a nearby workstation.

  “Brenda, could you print something out for me? In color, if you would.”

  Two minutes later she was holding a legal-sized page. It was indeed a hand-drawn map of the area in question. A small arrow indicated north. Dmitri and Vanessa read over her shoulder as she turned the map vertically.

  Charley touched several examples of careful hand lettering. “That’s Lawrence’s handwriting. Bobby must’ve print
ed this out from someplace, asked Lawrence to help him label it, then scanned it and sent it to me.”

  “So much for the senior generation shunning technology,” Dmitri murmured, clearly impressed.

  “I know, he’s totally fierce,” Charley agreed. A large blank space had been lightly shaded green. In the center of this area, Lawrence had written gallagher’s island. “Well, will you look at that,” she said in wonder.

  Labeled in bold black letters, Houk Stream showed as a meandering blue ribbon flowing around the western, southern, and eastern perimeters of the green area. The tiny waterway twisted and turned, encircling much of the Gallagher land like a moat. It ran north along Runnymede Road, forming the eastern border. The stream continued just past the northeast corner of the property, then turned east and ran under Runnymede through a culvert indicated by marks like inverted parentheses. To the north and west, the green patch abutted an unshaded area Lawrence had labeled hills and dales park. Charley was familiar with this vast area of woods, hiking trails, and picnic shelters. It was located within Dayton and maintained by the county’s Metroparks Department. Any land bordering Houk Stream, including a carefully labeled wedge just south of Gallagher’s Island, was owned by and maintained for the citizens of Oakwood by their own City Leisure Services.

  “It really is an island, in a way.” She traced the outline of Richard Gallagher’s land with her finger. “It’s almost completely hemmed in by public parkland.”

  “Not completely.” Dmitri reached over and touched a much smaller patch near the top of the map. Lawrence had drawn a dividing line and colored this area orange but left it unlabeled. “What’s this?”

  Charley stared at the line where green met orange, the only breach in the barrier around the land island. With a start, she realized what she was looking at.

  “That’s the Mulbridge estate! Leave it to my dad to give me a little mystery to solve.” Her smile faded as she considered the implications. “Well, shoot. It’s no wonder the neighbors are concerned about Holland’s housing development.” Charley folded the map and slipped it into a pocket. “It feels like everything I do lately involves Mulbridge House.”

  Was Gallagher’s Island significant in some way? It was such an odd circumstance. First the Tang, and now this. One thing was certain: There was more going on in those woods than the hunt for a missing will.

  Sean was still occupied and Marc had yet to reappear, so Charley led Dmitri and Vanessa down the wide steps from the squad room and out of the Safety Building.

  “Ready to check out your new job?” Charley’s cell chimed with another email as she headed down the sidewalk. “You’re going to love Heddy.” She pulled out her phone and clicked on a new message from her father.

  Dmitri pecked his sister on the cheek. “I’ve got to head back to work. How about sushi at six? My treat!” He loped across Park Avenue toward Slash as the girls angled left for Old Hat’s bright green door.

  Vanessa smiled. “No time like the present. Although I’m not really dressed for—” She halted as Charley gasped in dismay.

  Her father had sent her a link to a Facebook page for someone named “Treasure Girl.” Staring back at her from the newest status posting was her own face, the professional headshot from Old Hat’s website. COLLUSION? screamed the caption. Below were ranged similar pictures of Holland Mulbridge, Mayor Hyatt, and members of the City Council. Under the photo of a youngish man with a shaved head, round glasses, and a wide smile, she recognized the name of Keith Pitzer, Sean’s friend who had asked him to serve on the Planning Commission.

  With growing disbelief, she read a well-written but entirely fictional account of a supposed conspiracy between business interests and local government to rush the Mulbridge estate vote through the Oakwood Planning Commission. The mysterious author claimed that the proposed development violated the Oakwood City Charter, but that the Mulbridge family was “exerting their special brand of influence” to bury objections and get the necessary approval. Bribery was the obvious implication, though the writer was too smart to say so outright and risk a lawsuit. Charley’s motivation, it was claimed, stemmed from her desire to “rape and pillage” the historic estate for profit.

  Not-so-veiled threats of legal action and criminal charges would have made Charley laugh, if she hadn’t noted that over three hundred people had “liked” the story since it’d posted late yesterday. She scrolled through dozens of strident, paranoid comments with increasing horror. People she’d never heard of were calling for Holland’s and her immediate arrest. Suddenly she recalled Sally’s snide remark about her going to jail; this must have been what Dierdre’s friend was reading so avidly. How many other people had seen this? One especially nasty post mentioned her by name amid fiery rhetoric about the evils of capitalism, David and Goliath, and “the historic fate of the underdog.” How could people be so cruel and hateful?

  Insistent honking and a firm hand on her sleeve brought Charley back to the present. In her distress her steps had slowed until she ended up standing in the center of Park Avenue. Now a man in a truck was glaring at her and leaning on his horn as Vanessa tried to pull her out of the road.

  “Arrogant bitch!” The man’s red-faced bellow filled the quiet street as Charley stumbled onto the opposite curb. Several pedestrians stood staring at her, their attention drawn by the noise, many of their expressions openly hostile.

  “Inside. There we go,” Vanessa murmured as Heddy opened the door and drew them in. “Hi. I’m Vanessa, and I think we’ve got a problem.”

  Wordlessly, Charley handed her phone to Heddy as she paced around clothing racks, raking her fingers through her hair and trying to control a mounting fury.

  “What a terrible thing to do.” Heddy clucked her tongue as she and Vanessa finished reading. “But it explains the phone call I just received. Marjorie Davis canceled her alterations appointment for today. No explanation. She was quite rude, I must say. Most unlike her.”

  “Whoever this ‘Treasure Girl’ is, she tagged me using my business page, so everyone who follows me will see it.” Charley stared out her display window as shoppers walked by, most not giving her beautiful merchandise a second glance. “Business is already down. A scandal like this could finish Old Hat.”

  “This is clearly an alibi page,” Vanessa commented. At Heddy’s questioning expression, she elaborated. “Alibis are created for the purpose of anonymous postings. There’s no personal information at all, only a profile picture of…What is that, d’you think?”

  Vanessa tapped and swiped to enlarge the tiny image, then held up the phone. Charley stared at the screen. Instant recognition was followed by comprehension, and then a fresh wave of anger. Treasure Girl’s profile picture showed an antique rarity handmade in Germany, one of only two in the world. It was unmistakably one of Mulbridge House’s bronze laurel-wreath door knockers. The wreath leaned against a shipping crate, the edge of a distinctive “P” logo Charley also recognized just visible on the crate. Charley had no proof, but she didn’t need any. There was really only one person who could have taken that picture.

  “Goddammit!” She snatched up a pink fedora and sent it spinning across the room. “Treasure Girl? I should have known. And to think I felt sorry for her. Well, you know what? Precious Pamela Tate can kiss my—” She stopped. “Heddy, can you hold the fort for a couple of hours? Start training our new employee? If I’m able to keep her on, that is.”

  “What are you going to do?” Vanessa asked as Charley retrieved her phone and headed for the door.

  “Damage control.”

  Chapter 10

  Charley’s first thought was for her dad. Lawrence answered the home line, confirming her fears. The Facebook post had so agitated Bobby that his blood pressure became dangerously elevated. Lawrence had administered a mild sleeping aid and settled the coach down for a nap. Assured that her father was fine but with her fury redoubled, Charley ran down Park Avenue and up the front steps of Prescott’s. She rattled the door
: locked. All the lights were off, and a peek into the shadowed interior showed no signs of life.

  “Pamela? Where the hell are you, you gutless liar?” Charley pounded on the door, ignoring the curious stares of onlookers. She was itching for a fight, envisioning a forced march down to the Oakwood Register office, where Miss Treasure Girl Tate would be compelled to dictate a full retraction and apology. She banged again, but felt the emptiness within. Pamela wasn’t cowering inside with the lights off.

  Charley stood fuming, reluctant to retreat without engagement. What, she wondered in frustration, could possibly have motivated Pamela to do such a thing? This clearly went beyond her petty jealousy of Charley, since she’d also painted Holland, and indeed the entire Oakwood City Council, with the same scandalous brush. Was she working with SOAP to delay the demolition of Mulbridge House? That hardly seemed likely, considering her disdain for “obsessive estaters” like Millie Peache. Pamela had admitted to taking medication for anxiety. Did her mood disorder include delusions? Her rant the other night had certainly smacked of paranoia.

  The answer was that Charley had no idea what was going on in Pamela’s mind. And short of finding her and demanding answers and a public apology, there was little Charley could do to put this dangerous genie back in the bottle. She briefly considered, then rejected, the idea of going to the papers with some kind of denial. Bad idea, she decided. If modern politics had taught the Internet generation anything, it was to avoid drawing further attention to negative news. A back-and-forth in writing had the potential to go viral.

  The better question was what to do now. Charley shivered as a cold wind gusted down Park Avenue, slicing through her vintage high-waisted pinstriped trousers and muslin blouse. She realized she’d run out without her coat. Weak February sunlight provided no real warmth. She ground her teeth as she retraced her steps. This helpless feeling made her want to break something.