Dead In Red (11 page)

The minutes ticked by and my car began to
feel like a sauna. I couldn’t decide what was worse, stake out duty
in the winter or the summer. One constant—it was always a bore.

The counter man was the first to leave at
5:22. He paused just outside the main door, checking out the
street, caught sight of me and charged ahead. Cyn must’ve warned
him I might lay in wait for the miller.

He stopped only feet from my car. “What’re
you doing here?”

“Sitting in my car. What’s it to you?”

“Cyn told me to watch out for a runty guy
who’d try and harass us.”

Runty? I was at least two inches taller than
this jerk.

“You’ve been warned to stay away from the
mill,” he continued.

“I was warned not to trespass. I’m not on
mill property.”

“Yeah, well—well—”

Articulate, he wasn’t.

“We’ll just see about this.” He did an
about-face and headed back for the mill. Less than a minute later,
Cyn Lennox came flying out of the building and down the stairs,
reminding me of a charging rhino as she made a beeline for my car.
I got out, ready to face her.

“What’re you doing here?” she demanded,
fists clenched, face pink with anger.

“I want to talk to Ted Hanson.”

“This is harassment.”

“For whom? I’m not on your property. You
came to speak to me—I didn’t seek you out.”

She pursed her lips, looking ready to
implode.

“But as long as you’re here, I wouldn’t mind
asking you a few more questions. Like do you have a pair of red,
sparkling stiletto high heels?”

Anger turned to shock as her mouth dropped
open, and it could’ve been fear that shadowed her eyes. “Get out of
here.”

She turned and stalked back to the mill.
Another man had joined Gene on the little front porch. I leaned
against the driver’s door of my car and watched as the three of
them conferred for a couple of minutes. Cyn kept gesturing, her
arms waving in anger while the newcomer tried to reason with her.
Eventually she threw her hands up in the air and reentered the
mill. The man descended the stairs and started toward me.

“You Ted Hanson?” I asked when he got within
earshot.

“Yeah.”

“Name’s Jeff Resnick.” I offered my hand. He
ignored it, which was just as well. I sensed a bubble of animosity
surrounding him and wasn’t eager to embrace it.

“Cyn says you want to talk to me.”

“You found Walt Kaplan’s body.”

“Yeah, and I’ve already told the police
everything I know.”

“They didn’t share it with me.”

“What’s your interest?”

“I work for Walt’s cousin. He asked me to
look into it.”

“What are you, some kind of
investigator?”

Not anymore, I could’ve told him. I lied.
“Yeah.”

Hanson looked skeptical. “You have a
license?”

“I’m not a private investigator.
Insurance.”

“Oh.” His hostility instantly backed off. As
a businessman, he understood liability. “What do you want to
know?”

“Just what you saw.”

He shrugged. “I had an order of rye flour
that was supposed to go out the next day and I came out to the
porch to check how many sacks I had. At first I thought it was a
bag of trash on the hillside. I looked again and saw it was a
person.”

“Did you think he was dead?”

“No. I figured he was a drunk or something.
The Hawk’s Nest,” he jerked a thumb over his shoulder to the
restaurant across the way, “has a bar. A couple of years ago
someone fell down the hill beside the mill and broke his neck.”

I glanced at the pile of rubble at the side
of the road. “Why doesn’t somebody put a fence around it?”

“They demolished an old building earlier
this year. There was a construction fence. I don’t know what
happened to it. Kids probably tore it down.”

“So you found Walt,” I prompted.

He shuddered. “Yeah.”

“
The body was on its back, looking up
at the sky,” I said, describing what I’d already seen in a
vision.

“Yeah. No blood that I could see, but he was
this awful blue-white color.”

“No blood on the clothes?”

Hanson shook his head. “Not that I saw.”

“That’s strange. The medical examiner said
he was stabbed forty-six times.”

“Really?” The news seemed to trouble Hanson.
“He was wearing a dark red shirt, dark pants, and shoes. I suppose
there might’ve been stains, but . . . not for that many
wounds, and there was no blood around him on the ground. That would
mean someone had to clean him up and dress him after they killed
him.”

“Yeah,” I agreed. “Then somebody dumped him
here. There had to be a reason they chose this place. Had you ever
seen Walt around here?”

Hanson shook his head. “I’m not a part of
the retail operation. Cyn and Gene deal with the customers on a
one-to-one basis. They have a baker, Dana Watkins, but she’s
usually gone before I get here in the morning.”

“You have a phone number for her?”

“No, and Cyn would just be pissed if I gave
it to you anyway.”

“I hear you, man.” I relaxed against my car
once again. “Cyn called you a miller, but I noticed most of the
stuff in the warehouse has already been ground.”

“That’s my product. They use what I mill and
I sell the rest to boutique bakeries throughout the northeast. The
coffee shop is just the icing on the cake. The real money is and
always has been the mill.”

“That wasn’t the impression I got from
Cyn.”

“She doesn’t own the mill. It’s been in my
family for over a hundred years. If she tells people she owns the
business—well, it’s kind of true. The coffee shop is her baby—but
she just leases space from me. Cyn’s very good at what she does.
She’s only been in business here about six months and is already
turning a profit. And she’s helped me find new markets for my
flour. She’s hoping to sweet talk me into selling her the place,
but that’ll never happen.”

“She’s got money, then?”

“She and her late husband owned a chain of
coffee shops in the Southwest. She sold them when he died and came
back to Buffalo. I guess she’s got family here, which is why she
returned.”

With a home in Amherst and a vacation home
in Holiday Valley, yeah, that sounded like money. I’d have to check
out the address Maggie had given me to get an idea of how much Cyn
was worth.

And why would someone with that kind of
dough be caught dead wearing a pair of sparkling red hooker
shoes?

Hanson shot a look back at the mill. “She’s
probably having a fit because we’ve talked so long. Please don’t
come around anymore. There’s nothing to see. The guy’s dead and the
cops have already made an arrest. It’s over.”

“Thanks for your time.”

“No problem.”

I offered him my hand, and this time he took
it, and I tuned into him. He’d been straight with me. Now all he
wanted was a beer, his recliner, and the Mets game on the tube.

Hanson headed back for the mill and I got in
my car and turned the key in the ignition. The steering wheel was
hot to the touch as I maneuvered onto the street and turned the
corner for Main Street. Talking to Hanson had definitely been worth
it. And I now had the name of the mill’s baker. If she left before
he got there, she had to start work before dawn. She probably
opened the place, which meant I’d have to be out here first thing
in the morning if I wanted to catch her.

The red light at the corner took forever. I
glanced down at the photo on my passenger seat. Was there any point
in trying to chase down Andrea Foxworth this evening? Brenda was
expecting me for supper, and I had the feeling I had better show
up. But I also wasn’t sure of the reception I was likely to
receive.

Still, I steered for home. With every mile,
uncertainty tightened my gut.

# # #

CHAPTER 9

I arrived back home just after six to find
Maggie’s little car parked in my usual spot in the driveway.
Curious. I pulled along beside it. The feeling of unease
intensified as I entered the house through the back door and headed
for the kitchen, where I found Richard, Brenda, and Maggie sitting
at the table having a drink; wine for the ladies and Richard’s
usual scotch sat on a coaster in front of him.

“There you are,” Brenda said with a decided
maternal lilt. “I was beginning to think you’d fallen into a black
hole.”

“Hi,” Maggie said and blinked, her eyelashes
looking longer than I remembered. She looked pretty in a pink
sleeveless sweater and matching slacks. Business casual never
looked so good.

“I invited Maggie to stay for supper,”
Brenda said.

I chanced a glance at Richard, who raised
his eyebrows and his glass in salute.

Set up!

I flashed a smile, wondering if it looked
forced. “Boy, I could use a beer.” I stepped across the kitchen to
the fridge, pulled out a bottle of Labatts, cracked the cap and
took a fortifying swig.

“Tough day?” Maggie asked.

“Long.” I leaned against the counter,
suddenly feeling very tired. “It’s been a while since I worked, and
I had some extracurricular stuff tacked on at the end.”

“Oh?” Brenda asked.

“Yeah.” I wasn’t about to go into detail
about where I’d been or who I’d talked to. Instead, I took another
long pull on my beer.

Brenda and Maggie were on different
frequencies, but the feelings they transmitted were pretty much the
same: smothering.

I took a couple of deep breaths, which made
my ribs scream in protest, worsening the tightness in my chest.
Brenda wanted Maggie to take care of me—presumably while she and
Richard were on their honeymoon—while Maggie’s hunger for sexual
release loomed like a dark gray cloud.

“Is it hot in here?” I asked and took
another gulp of beer.

Richard swirled the ice in his glass. “Not
that I noticed.”

My breaths were coming short and fast, and
the throbbing had already started behind my eyes. I had to get away
from Brenda and Maggie before I went through a painful repeat of
two days before.

“You grilling tonight?” I asked Richard.

“Yeah.”

“Maybe we should get it going?” I hoped
Maggie wouldn’t detect the desperation in my voice.

Richard shot a look at Brenda. “Sure,” she
said, resigned, and rose from the table.

Maggie’s lips pursed, but she said nothing
as Brenda retrieved a plastic-wrapped plate of steaks from the
fridge. She grabbed a long-handled fork from the counter and passed
them to Richard. “Don’t burn mine,” she said, but her humor sounded
strained.

“They’ll be perfect.” Richard retrieved his
glass and made for the door. I gave Maggie a smile and a wave, but
I was so close on Richard’s heel I nearly stepped on him.

The screen door slammed on my back and
Richard turned on me. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

I was nearly hyperventilating and collapsed
in a sit on the back steps with a jolt that reawakened all my other
aches and pains. Hunched over, I set my beer down and covered my
eyes, not sure if I was about to puke in the geraniums. “I thought
I was gonna die in there.”

Richard’s pique instantly turned to concern.
“What’s wrong?”

I hauled in a few good breaths, my head
still muddled, my stomach still threatening to erupt. “That kitchen
was like a tornado of emotion. Between the two of them I felt like
I was about to be squashed.”

Richard studied me with his physician
eyes—and yet there was puzzlement behind them as well. “I don’t get
it. I thought you liked Maggie.”

“I do. But she wants . . .”
Christ, she was practically vibrating with desire, not that I was
going to tell him. “I’m not sure what she wants. And Brenda, she’s
definitely in matchmaker mode.”

“Tell me about it.”

I rubbed my eyes, grateful the anxiety was
starting to ebb.

Richard juggled his glass and the plate of
steaks, grasped my left arm under the bicep and pulled me to my
feet. “Come on. Get past it.”

Easy for him to say.

I shuffled after him back to the deck and
the gas grill. He lit it and shifted the steaks onto the rack. He
seemed preoccupied. I dropped down on the top step and held my beer
between my hands, trying to absorb the chill into myself, accepting
it as a balm for my ragged psyche.

“When are you going to tell me what’s going
on with you?” Richard said at last.

I squinted up at him. “What?”

“You’re chasing around, talking to all sorts
of people. Kaplan’s death is connected to custom-made shoes, but
you haven’t told me even half of it. Why?”

I took another couple of breaths, stalling
for time. Should I level with him—tell him how I was scared to
death that the next time he helped me out I might get him killed—or
lie with some cock-and-bull story, especially since I suspected his
former girlfriend of murder?

“I haven’t put enough of it together
yet.”

“Maybe I could help.”

Yeah, and this time would someone come after
him with a knife or a claw hammer or a 2001 Buick, and again I
wouldn’t see it coming or be able to protect him?

“I need to think about it some more.”

Richard poked at the steaks with the fork.
“I’m praying you wrap this up before we head for Europe, or that I
can talk you out of pursuing it. Brenda will be heartbroken if we
have to cancel our flight.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I can’t leave you here to figure this out
alone. If I hadn’t pushed you out of the way back in March—” He
stopped himself.

He was talking about the gunshot that nearly
killed him. “Don’t go there, Rich. It was my fault you got hurt. If
I hadn’t gotten you involved—”

“So this time you want to go it alone—no
backup—and get killed.”

Pain seared through my head as I flashed
again on the dripping, bloody hands. “That isn’t going to
happen.”