Dead Giveaway (3 page)

“Good heavens!” Charlotte gasped. “They thought you got injured on purpose?”

“I guess so. I thought about turning it in, but the kind of guys who pay to fix a game don't like anyone to know about it, especially the police. And there was no way I could identify who'd sent it anyway. So I stuck it in a safe deposit box and went off to the hospital for elbow surgery.”

“But the surgery didn't work,” Lyle prompted. He'd heard this part of the story before.

Marc nodded. “That's right. After five different doctors had worked on me, they told me to forget about pitching again. And since my career in baseball was finished, I used the money to start my construction business.”

“No one ever asked you to return it?” Charlotte's hands were trembling slightly as she refilled Marc's champagne glass.

“Of course not.” Marc shrugged. “Everything turned out the way they wanted, even though my part in it was strictly unintentional. I've always regarded that cash as a kind of workman's compensation. And I've never told anybody about it before.”

“Well, we certainly won't repeat it!” Alan nodded emphatically. “I don't blame you for keeping it, though. After all, how could you return it if you didn't know who'd sent it in the first place?”

“That's exactly the way I figured it. And that's enough about me. We've got just enough time for a few words from the happy couple before I present my gift.” Marc drained his champagne glass again and motioned for the waiter to pour more. “You first, Lyle.”

Lyle was solemn as he got to his feet. “Since Charlotte and I got married twenty-five years ago, I haven't regretted a single day.”

“Isn't that sweet?” Grace started to applaud, but Charlotte reached out to grab her hands. She was well acquainted with her husband's sense of humor.

“And that single day was June fourth, nineteen eighty-nine.”

“I knew it!” Charlotte was laughing as she got to her feet. “He doesn't mean it. At least, I don't think he does. And now, I have a surprise for all of you. My book is going to be published!”

“Your book?” Moira looked puzzled. “We didn't know you were writing a book, Charlotte.”

Charlotte smiled modestly. “Well, some people might not call it a book, but I do. Remember the genealogy study I did last year?”

“Of course.” Paul rose to his feet to shake Charlotte's hand. “I, for one, was very impressed. If I remember correctly, you traced your ancestors back to the fifteenth century.”

Charlotte looked proud. “That's right, Paul. All the way back to Vicar William Henry Wingate's birth in fourteen thirty-one. But that's not the book they're going to publish.”

“Tell us, Charlotte.” Grace clapped her hands together, as excited as a child. “Who's your publisher? Is it a work of fiction, a murder mystery, or maybe a romance? You certainly could do one of those after being married for twenty-five years. No, I can't see you writing a romance. It's not cultivated enough. So I bet it's a family saga. I just love family sagas, I read one last week about some very valuable family jewels that were . . .”

Moira reached out to put her hand over Grace's mouth. “Never mind, Gracie. Be quiet and let Charlotte tell us.”

“Thank you, Moira. My book is going to be published by the Clark County Historical Society. And I'm not sure what category it is. Let's just call it a genealogical study of our land on Deer Creek Road, since I'm tracing the lineage of ownership.”

“That sounds fascinating.” Moira tried to look interested even though the very idea bored her silly. “How long have you been working on it?”

“I just started the research a few months ago and I've already discovered some things that are really quite shocking.”

Laureen looked interested. “Like what? My mother traced the history of our family, but she quit when she came upon proof that my maternal great-uncle was a horse thief.”

“Oh, it's much more shocking than that.” Charlotte began to smile. “For example, I discovered that there was once a bordello right where our building stands.”

Moira let out a whoop of laughter. “That's wonderful! Our own little red-light district. What else did you find?”

“I've barely scratched the surface, but I've been studying old assay records and I found several references to a silver mine that's reputed to be on our land. According to local legend, more than a dozen prospectors were murdered before they could stake a claim.”

Alan began to grin. “Maybe Laureen and I should do a little exploring this summer. We'd own that mine if we found it, wouldn't we, Clayton?”

“Of course.” Clayton nodded. “Our title includes all mineral rights.”

Marc frowned. “Don't waste your time, Alan. The odds of finding anything worth excavating are even longer than the odds at roulette. Right, Johnny?”

“Oh, I don't know about that.” Johnny flashed his famous grin, the one that made middle-aged ladies ask for his autograph after every show. “I think the odds at roulette are pretty good.”

Marc snorted. “Only if you own the house. Roulette's a sucker's game and you know it. How about the double zero?”

Jayne put her hand on Marc's arm. “Hush up, you two. What else did you find, Charlotte?”

“Well, there is one other thing.” Charlotte lowered her voice. “Now, I'm not entirely sure about this, but one of my references alludes to some extremely unsavory individuals who may have held title previously.”

Clayton, who was about to take a sip of champagne, set his glass down with a thump. “What on earth are you talking about, Charlotte? We went through a title search as part of our escrow and the title is clear.”

“Oh, I'm sure it is, Clayton. What I'm interested in are the crimes that may have been committed while these individuals owned our land.”

“What kind of crimes?” Hal leaned forward. “Come on, Charlotte. You can't leave us up in the air.”

“I guess not.” Charlotte's lips turned up in a mischievous smile. “All right, Hal. One more tidbit of information and that's it until I get the proper documentation. My reference alludes to several mysterious and unsolved murders.”

“Holy . . . uh . . . cripes!”

Grace laughed out loud as Moira switched words in midsentence. “Go ahead and swear, Moira. What we just heard deserves more than a ‘cripes.'”

“And I used to think genealogy was boring.” Lyle put his arm around his wife's shoulders. “How about a toast to Charlotte, the genealogical sleuth?”

As soon as the waiter had refilled their glasses, Marc stood up. “To Charlotte's book. Come on, everyone. Drink up. And then it's time for my present. I'm treating Lyle and Charlotte to the best dinner money can buy.”

“Thank you, Marc. We love to dine out.” Charlotte took a sip of her champagne. Then she noticed that everyone was leaning forward in anticipation. Marc must be taking them to a very exclusive restaurant. “Where are we going?”

“I made reservations at the fanciest restaurant I could find. And I arranged a special dinner, just for you two. How does
langoustes à la parisienne
sound? Followed by
canard à l'orange
and maybe a little strawberries Romanoff with crème Chantilly and candied violets?”

Charlotte sighed. “That sounds heavenly. But where are we going?”

“Well, that presented a little problem, but I found the perfect place. Come on. Let's go.”

Lyle looked around at the half-empty bottles of champagne. He knew how much this had set Johnny back and it was too good to waste. “You mean we're leaving right now?”

“Right now.” Marc drained his glass and stood up. “Come on, everybody. You all know the plans.”

Charlotte and Lyle exchanged puzzled glances as they got up and followed Marc out the door. Johnny whisked them into a private elevator and seconds later they stepped out on the sidewalk in front of the casino.

“This way.” Marc led them to a silver limousine idling at the curb. “Charlotte? Lyle? Climb in. I'm sending you to the Ritz for a romantic dinner.”

“The Ritz?” Lyle frowned as the chauffeur held the door open for him. “Where's that, Marc?”

“In New Orleans.”

“New Orleans? But . . . Marc!” Charlotte was so flabbergasted, she couldn't think of what to say.

Darby laughed. “Jayne and I packed your things, Charlotte. Your suitcases are in the trunk.”

“That's right.” Marc nodded. “You said you always wanted to go to Mardi Gras and this year you're going.”

Charlotte looked confused. “But where will we stay? Lyle tried to get hotel reservations over three months ago and everything was booked solid.”

“I've got a little more juice than Lyle.” Johnny grinned at her. “I called in a marker from a friend of mine and you're all set up in the bridal suite at the Orleans Hotel. What's the matter, Charlotte? Don't you want to go?”

Charlotte began to laugh. “Of course I want to go! But . . .”

“No more buts.'” Marc reached out to give her a hug. Then he shook Lyle's hand. “Now climb in. The chauffeur has your tickets and you'd better hurry. Your plane leaves in an hour.”

 

 

Lyle opened the French doors and stepped out onto the private balcony. There was another parade passing in the street below, headed by a group of jazz musicians in white suits, and Lyle groaned as he heard the familiar strains of “As The Saints Go Marching In.” He'd always liked that song, but he was sure he'd heard it a hundred times since arriving in New Orleans. Mardi Gras was a perpetual party and Lyle was growing tired of celebrating. He felt like stretching out on the bed and going to sleep, but Charlotte was so eager to take part in the festivities that it wouldn't be fair to disappoint her on their last night.

He stepped back inside the suite, shutting the doors on the music, and glanced at his watch. Charlotte was still in the bathroom, putting the finishing touches on her makeup. If she didn't hurry, they'd be late for the costume party in the hotel banquet room. Lyle felt a little silly in black leotards, a black-and-white checkered tunic, and a hat with tassels and bells. But when he'd tried the harlequin outfit on this morning, Charlotte had convinced him that it was perfect for the occasion.

“Almost ready, honey?” Lyle sat down in the wing chair facing the fireplace and yawned. One more party and then he could go home and recover from this vacation.

The bathroom door opened and Charlotte stepped out. She was dressed in a powder-blue velvet dress decorated with lace and pearls. Tonight she had long, plump curls piled up on the top of her head. Since Charlotte's hair had been short when she'd gone in to put on her costume, she had to be wearing a wig. “Well? What do you think?” Charlotte raised a blue velvet mask to her eyes and twirled around. “Do I look the part?”

“You look gorgeous, honey.” Lyle evaded the question. He wasn't sure who she was supposed to be, but guessed it was someone like Marie Antoinette.

“Let's go then.” Charlotte headed for the door and Lyle stifled another yawn as he followed. Ten more hours until he could catch some sleep on the plane. He'd never guessed that a vacation could be so exhausting.

There were several people on the elevator, and Lyle nodded to another harlequin, two devils, and a woman in a dark red velvet dress that looked a lot like Charlotte's.

Charlotte frowned as she checked the other woman in the mirrored walls of the elevator and when her lips finally turned up in a smile, Lyle breathed a sigh of relief. Charlotte had decided that she looked better than the other woman.

The elevator descended slowly, and at every floor more people in costume got on. Lyle found himself holding his breath. The scent of mingled perfumes and colognes made him feel slightly dizzy.

As the elevator started down again, Lyle felt a hand in his pocket. About to yell that someone was stealing his wallet, he felt a burning pain just below his shoulder blades. He tried to turn to see what was jabbing him, but the elevator was so crowded he couldn't move. Then, as his vision began to cloud, he heard Charlotte gasp in pain, and then everything went pitch-black.

Thief River Falls, Minnesota

 

Ellen Wingate sighed as her clamoring first graders went through the lunch line. Macaroni and cheese with chocolate pudding for dessert. Chocolate always made Billy Zabinski hyper, which was fine if he could run off some of that energy during noon recess. But today the wind was gusting and it was below zero.

“Miss Wingate? Billy's playing around with my braids again!”

“Billy? I want you to sit here.” Ellen caught Billy just as he was about to dunk Tina Halversen's long blond braids in his milk and moved him to another table.

“Are we gonna get out-thide today, Mith Wingate?” Tommy Barnes looked up from his plate and gave her a gap-toothed smile. Tommy was a dear child, freckle-faced with an unruly shock of bright red hair, and every time he lisped, he reminded Ellen of Ron Howard in
The Music Man.
Before she could answer, Billy Zabinski chimed in.

“Please, Miss Wingate? We've been real good all morning. Will you let us out?”

Ellen bit back her laughter. Billy made school sound like a prison and he did have a point. It was February in Minnesota, and for the second week running she'd had to amuse them after lunch. “I know you've been good, Billy, but it's much too cold. We'll have our recess in the classroom and I promise we'll do something extra special.”

“We could play eraser tag,” Colleen Murphy suggested.

“Perhaps.” Ellen sighed. The last time they'd played eraser tag in the classroom, they'd tipped over a desk and Annie Benson had skinned her knee. It would be safer to read them a Dr. Seuss book, if Billy would shut up long enough to listen. “All right now, is everyone settled?”

Thirty-one heads nodded in unison and Ellen smiled. They were good kids, but a seven-hour school day was much too long without the regular breaks for recess. Actually, buttoning and snapping and zipping up thirty-one sets of winter clothes was a trial in itself. They waddled out onto the playground like little stuffed bundles for ten minutes, barely mobile until the bell rang and she had to go through the whole process again in reverse. The alternative was trying to have recess in the classroom without breaking either the furniture or their necks.

“Be good for Mrs. Heino now.” Ellen turned to the lunchroom monitor, an elderly woman with a hearing problem. When Ellen first started at Garfield Elementary, she'd asked the principal whether Mrs. Heino's hearing loss had occurred before or after she'd taken the job as lunchroom monitor. But Mr. Eicht had no sense of humor, nor did the rest of his staff. Ellen wondered whether it had something to do with enduring the endless Minnesota winters year after year.

“Mrs. Heino?” Ellen raised her voice. “You can send Billy to get me in the lounge when everyone's through eating.”

Mrs. Heino nodded and Ellen beat a hasty retreat. She had ten minutes, perhaps fifteen if Mary Christine Fanger dawdled over her food.

When the current year had opened, Ellen had been delighted to find that the first and the sixth grades had common lunch periods. That meant she'd see Rob Applegate in the teachers' lounge every day. Since he was the only male teacher, and single, and she was the only female teacher under forty, it seemed natural that eventually they'd get together.

Twenty-eight years old, Ellen hadn't been out on a date since her junior year in college, when her roommate's fiancé had buttonholed one of his friends to take her to their engagement party. Ellen's escort had danced with her dutifully, but the moment the party was over he'd dropped her off at her dorm and she'd never heard from him again. Men just didn't seem to be interested in tall, lanky women with glasses. Of course, she had plenty of men friends. She helped them write their term papers and study for their exams, but they'd never shown any signs of wanting a closer relationship.

Rob Applegate was different. A thirty-six-year-old bachelor who lived in an apartment over his mother's garage, he was as tall as she was, and almost as skinny. Alma Jacobson, who taught third grade and knew everything about everyone in Thief River Falls, said he didn't have a girlfriend, but that his mother was hoping he'd get married before she was too old to enjoy her grandchildren. And he seemed to like Ellen, always stopping by her room to ask how someone's younger brother or sister was doing.

One day over coffee in the teachers' lounge, Rob had mentioned that he didn't like to see women in slacks. Ellen had never worn them to school again. And when he'd said that his favorite color was aqua blue, she'd gone right out and bought an aqua-blue sweater even though she hated the color. She'd carried flowers to his mother when Mrs. Applegate had gone into the hospital for gallbladder surgery, the card signed by the whole staff so it wouldn't look obvious. And she'd roused herself out of bed to drive to the Lutheran Church every Sunday because his brother was the minister. She'd even volunteered to teach a Sunday school class, although the last thing she wanted was to face more children on the weekends. Not that any of it mattered, now.

On her long-anticipated date with Rob, they'd gone to see a movie at the only theater in Thief River Falls, a Saturday matinee. Ellen had thought it was rather good, a shoot-out between two rival gangs on the streets of New York, but Rob hadn't liked it at all. On the drive to a steak house out on the highway, he'd complained about its gratuitous violence, another example of the movie industry's lack of commitment to the younger generation.

Despite the fact that Rob drove slowly, obeying every traffic law and speed limit sign, they'd arrived at the restaurant early. The hostess had seated them in the bar and asked if they wanted a drink. Ellen said a glass of white wine would be nice, but Rob had ordered plain 7UP. Then he'd warned her that it wouldn't do for anyone in the community to see her drinking. She was a teacher, after all, and she should take her responsibility for molding young minds more seriously. She shouldn't get the idea that he disapproved, but he only drank at home, where no prying eyes could see him.

Though Ellen had kept her glass out of sight and there was no one else in the bar, Rob seemed to be terribly nervous. When the waitress had come to take them to their table, a lovely spot looking out over a snow-covered garden, Rob had insisted they move to a place in the center of the room. Windows could be drafty, he pointed out, and he didn't want to take any chances of catching a cold and having to miss work. Even though he always left detailed lesson plans, a substitute couldn't begin to teach his class as well as he could. They'd ordered a steak for her and chicken for him. Red meat was bad for the digestion and a man over thirty had to watch his cholesterol. No garlic bread either; he didn't believe in strong spices. Decaffeinated coffee, of course, since it was past six.

Ellen still wasn't willing to give up on the only bachelor she knew. As they ate, she attempted to make conversation. Had he seen the special on public television about ancient Rome? Rob didn't own a television set. He was firmly convinced that television had done more to corrupt the morals of the young than any other technological advance in their lifetime. Ellen scratched television off her list of possible topics and asked about his hobbies. There she struck pay dirt. It seemed Rob was an amateur photographer, specializing in local birds. Did she know that there were over seventeen varieties of finch in the three-mile area surrounding Thief River Falls? He'd recently acquired a very excellent telephoto lens, four hundred millimeters. And the first day he'd gone out with his motor-driven Nikon, he'd managed to capture the mating ritual of the North American crested grosbeak. He'd be delighted to show her his photographs after dinner.

Accepting, Ellen had spent the rest of the meal wondering whether being invited to a man's apartment to see his photos of North American crested grosbeaks was the same as being asked to view someone's etchings. She hadn't asked out loud. Rob had left a straight 15 percent tip and then they'd driven back to his apartment.

That was when the trouble had started. He'd asked her to duck down in the seat three blocks before they'd reached his mother's house. It didn't look good for a bachelor to bring a woman home at night; people might talk. Ellen had complied, what else could she do? He'd driven into the garage, shut the door behind them, and whispered for her to be quiet so his mother wouldn't find out she was there. And after they'd tiptoed up the stairs, he'd headed straight for the bottle of brandy hidden behind the sugar canister in his cupboard.

She'd seen his pictures, all of them, and learned much more than she'd ever wanted to know about birds. By then he'd finished the bottle of brandy. For a man who didn't drink in public, he certainly made up for it at home. The moment the bottle was empty, he'd grabbed her and kissed her. And then he'd passed out on the couch.

Furious, Ellen had grabbed her coat and walked the ten blocks to her own apartment, practically freezing in the skirt she'd worn to please him. Rob Applegate was a terrible stick-in-the-mud and a hypocrite to boot. He'd even had the nerve to come up to her after church the next morning to ask whether she'd had a good time.

As she headed down the hallway, Ellen caught sight of her reflection in the mirrored door of the multipurpose room. Wearing a new red pantsuit she'd ordered from the Penney's extra-tall catalog, she thought she looked much better than usual. Skirts always hung awkwardly on her boyish hips, and if she tucked her blouses in, only a padded brassiere gave her any bustline at all. This pantsuit's tunic masked her figure and her legs felt warm for the first time this winter.

Heading on down the corridor, Ellen frowned at the grimy handprints on the walls. They could do with a good scrubbing or even better, a bright, cheerful paint job. Everything outside was black-and-white, glaring white sheets of snow dotted with the bare black skeletons of trees. Children needed color in their lives and the school was decorated in dirty beige and anemic green. Red and blue stripes would be nice, or even a bright cheerful yellow. Billy Zabinski might be less of a problem if school offered a nice bright environment.

A bad draft whistled under the big glass doors that led to the playground, and Ellen shivered. The snow was blowing so hard she could barely see the pine trees at the far edge of the playground. If visibility grew severely limited, as predicted in the weather report, the buses might come early to take the children home. And if the wind kept on blowing through the night, they might just have a school closure in the morning. It would be nice to have a snow day, but in Minnesota the plows hit the roads the moment the snow started to fall and stayed out until it stopped. The whole system was very efficient. They'd had years to perfect it.

Ellen sighed. Three and a half hours to go. Tomorrow would be more of the same, and next week, and next month. This was her fourth year at Garfield Elementary and it already seemed like a lifetime.

Ellen loved the first two months of winter with its sparkling blanket of white snow. But when the mercury consistently dipped down below zero and every day tested her survival skills, she began to long for the spring that was still at least another four months away. By the end of January, she was sick to death of climbing into a parka and boots and heavy mittens just to empty the garbage, and of remembering to plug in the headbolt heater on her car every night so it would start in the morning.

Her first October in Minnesota, Ellen had taken the advice of her coworkers and gathered all the necessary survival gear. In addition to the ice scraper and snow brush she carried next to her on the passenger seat, there was a twenty-pound sack of kitty litter in her trunk to add ballast so she wouldn't get stuck in a snowdrift. There was also an empty three-pound coffee can containing a candle and a book of matches to provide life-sustaining heat and light in case her car broke down. And she'd put together a cache of candy bars and bottled water that lay frozen in a shopping bag in her trunk. An extra gallon of gasoline sloshed in its plastic container, along with a can of Instant Flat-Fix that probably wouldn't even work in subzero temperatures. Ready for the long Minnesota winter, she hated every moment of it.

Ellen stared out at the slide, a snow-covered hump that rose like a prehistoric beast out of a field of unbroken white, and wondered what would happen if she just pushed open the doors, ran across the playground, climbed into her car, and drove west to California or Nevada or Arizona, or anyplace warm and sunny and green.

“There you are!” Alma Jacobson ran down the hallway to intercept her, the sleeves on her gray sweater flapping. “Mr. Eicht's looking all over for you. You've got a long-distance call in the office and he said it was an emergency.”

“Long distance?” Ellen frowned. “Did he say from where?”

“Las Vegas, Nevada. A Mr. Marc Davies. I'll take care of your class if they finish lunch before you're through.”

“Thank you, Alma.” Ellen realized that Alma was shifting from foot to foot, barely concealing her curiosity. “Marc Davies is my Uncle Lyle's partner.”

“I hope there's nothing wrong.” Alma looked genuinely concerned. “Take your time, Ellen. I'll herd them all into the multipurpose room and we'll sing “Froggie Went A'Courting.” That should be good for at least ten minutes.”

Ellen's heart was pounding as she hurried to the office. Why would Marc Davies call her? Uncle Lyle and Aunt Charlotte were her closest living relatives, but she hadn't seen them since her mother's funeral, ten years ago. Naturally, they exchanged Christmas cards and letters, but they'd never been close. She rounded the corner quickly and pushed open the office door. Mrs. Timmons, the school secretary, motioned her toward the principal's office. “Use Mr. Eicht's desk, Ellen. He said it's all right. Your call's on line two.”

Ellen was surprised to find her hands were trembling as she picked up the receiver. They were trembling even more as she put it down, five minutes later. Mrs. Timmons took one look at her pale face when she emerged, and rushed her to a chair.