Dead In Red (8 page)

“I take it this is your first visit,” she
said, securing the lid.

“I read about you in the
Buffalo News
. That story about the
homeless man they arrested for murder.”

She shook her head, her welcoming smile
fading. “I didn’t think they’d quote me.”

“It sounded like you knew the guy.”

“He Dumpster-dived in all the area
merchants’ trash. I suppose that’s the only food he got. I felt a
little sorry for him.” Her expression soured further. “But the
smell.”

“Smell?”

“A combination of body odor, pee and—” She
shuddered.

“He never changed clothes?”

“Not in the four or five months he hung
around the neighborhood.”

“Was he arrested in those clothes?”

“Of course.”

And I’d bet there wasn’t a drop of Walt
Kaplan’s blood on any of them. “Do you remember what they looked
like?”

“I saw him nearly every day,” she said,
taking my purchase over to the cash register. “Grubby jeans, a
stained tan sweater, and one of those long, black duster coats.
Even when the weather warmed up, he still wore it.” She lowered her
voice. “It probably came in handy for shoplifting.”

Sue rang up the sale and I extracted all the
tip money from my wallet. “You’ve got a great shop here. I’m sure
I’ll be back again.”

“Thanks. Have a nice day now.”

Back in my car, I wrote down Sue’s
description of the suspect’s clothing. Maybe Sam and I could work
together on this. He had a pipeline to the cops, and I wanted to
keep a low profile. I reset my trip odometer and headed back to the
Old Red Mill. It clocked in at six-tenths of a mile when I parked
by a motorcycle in the lane off the main drag. Buchanan had
probably tramped up and down Main Street in search of food and a
dry place to sleep.

I got out and walked around to the side of
the mill. The fresh red paint and white trim lent the place a
cheerful atmosphere. That Walt Kaplan’s body had been found on the
property didn’t detract from its ambiance.

The grass still hadn’t been cut, but the
crime scene tape was missing. Probably Cyn Lennox had wanted to
remove any evidence of Walt’s death. Already the parking spaces in
front of the mill weren’t as full as they’d been when Richard and I
had visited four days earlier.

I made my way down the incline to the spot
where I believed Walt’s body had lain, closed my eyes, breathing
deeply, and tried to soak up something, anything. Something niggled
at the edges of my mind. I crouched down and laid a hand on the
grass. An image of the red shoe exploded in my mind. Shit! Other
than finding the box it had been purchased in, the shoe didn’t mean
anything to me. But it had to Walt. It must’ve been pretty damned
important to him for the memory of it to linger even after he’d
died.

“Are you back again?”

I straightened and turned to find an
irritated Cyn Lennox standing, hands on hips, on the mill’s back
porch. “Good morning.”

“What are you doing here?”

I feigned innocence. “Nothing.”

“Then why are you here?”

“I told you. Morbid curiosity.”

“Which should have been satisfied on your
last visit. Look, Richard’s my friend; you’re not. And I’d
appreciate it if you’d stop hanging around my property.”

“I was hoping to speak to your miller. Has
he returned from his trip?”

“Yes,” she grudgingly admitted. “But why
should I let you talk to him?”

“Because we live in a free country, and
presumably he and you have nothing to hide.”

Her eyes widened, her cheeks going red.
Either a hot flash or I’d just made an enemy.

“Get out of here.”

Yup, she’d definitely never be my friend
now.

“I’m sure you heard they made an
arrest.”

“Yeah. Which means you should give up your
Sherlock Holmes routine and just go home.”

“I don’t think they arrested the right man.
Or should I say woman?”

Fury boiled beneath her seemingly in-control
facade. “You keep talking and I’ll have one helluva fine lawsuit
against you.”

“Wishful thinking,” I bluffed. “We both know
you haven’t told the police everything you know about Walt Kaplan’s
murder.”

“What I did or didn’t tell them is none of
your damn business. Get off my property—NOW—or I’m calling the
cops.”

I waved a hand in submission. “Sure, but
we’ll talk again. I guarantee it.”

“Not if I can help it.”

There was no point in annoying her further.
I walked back to my car, feeling the heat of her stare on my back
with every step. Confronting her hadn’t given me any new
information, but it had confirmed what my gut kept telling me:
however convoluted, Cyn Lennox had some involvement in Walt
Kaplan’s death—as either a participant or a witness. Only time
would tell which.

In the meantime, I’d made an enemy. Not a
smart move if she’d had a hand in Walt’s death. But I didn’t feel
threatened. Not yet at least.

* * *

Since I
didn’t
have to be anywhere else that day, I figured I’d look up Craig
Buchanan’s sister. Cara Scott’s white colonial stood in stark
contrast from every other house on the street in Buffalo’s
Cheektowaga suburb. Forest green paint on the trim was its only
decoration. No trees, shrubs, or flowers adorned the yard, but the
grass was freshly cut and there wasn’t a stray blade on the
driveway. The woman who answered my knock looked just as severe,
with her dark brown hair scraped back into a ponytail and no
makeup. Her navy slacks and sleeveless white shirt were crisp with
a just-ironed look to them.

“Cara Scott? My name’s Jeff Resnick. Can I
ask you a few questions?”

“I don’t have any more comments for the
press,” she said, about to slam the door in my face.

“I’m not from the press. I’m a friend of the
murdered man.” Okay, not a friend. But I had his interests at
heart.

She avoided my eyes. “I’m sorry. I—”

“Can we talk for a few moments?”

Cara sighed, her weary face seeming to age
five years in five seconds. She stepped out onto the concrete
porch. “I’m sorry,” she repeated, her lips going thin. “I’ve spent
most of my life apologizing for Craig, but that’s all I can offer
you.”

“I’m not so sure. You see, I don’t think
Craig killed Walt Kaplan.”

Her head snapped up and she gazed at me with
suspicion. “The police wouldn’t have arrested him if they weren’t
sure. What makes you think he didn’t do it?”

I had nothing concrete. “Just a hunch.”

“This’ll sound cruel, but getting caught for
this murder is probably the best thing that could’ve happened to
Craig. He’ll be in a place where he can be cared for—he’ll be off
the streets.”

“And he won’t be your problem anymore,” I
guessed.

She crossed her arms across her chest. “I’d
be lying if I didn’t agree. You have no idea of the hell Craig has
put my family through. My father left us when Craig was seven. My
mother bailed him out of one mess after another. He drove her to
bankruptcy and finally suicide because she couldn’t take it any
longer. He disrupts my life—my kids’ lives. It would be easier on
us and society in general if the cops locked him up and threw away
the key.”

“But what if he’s innocent?”

“Don’t be absurd. They found the knife on
him.”

“He might’ve come across it picking through
Dumpsters.”

Her level glare was as cold and uninviting
as her sterile house and yard.

“He’s your brother,” I tried again, thinking
about Richard and what, in a short time, he’d come to mean to
me.

“Excuse me, Mr. Resnick, but I really don’t
have time for this.”

She slammed the door in my face.

“Enjoy your freedom, Mrs. Scott.”

As I climbed back behind the wheel of my
car, I couldn’t help but think that arresting Craig Buchanan solved
everyone’s problem. Tom was satisfied someone, anyone, had been
arrested for Walt Kaplin’s murder; the police were happy to close
the books; and Cara Scott was finally free of her space cadet
brother.

The problem remained—he didn’t do it. And
there was still a murderer hanging around lovely, picturesque
Williamsville.

# # #

CHAPTER 7

Evening shadows filled the backyard as I
worked at emptying my third bag of mulch, carefully nestling a
blanket of fragrant cedar fragments around my begonias. The smell
of damp earth reminded me that Walt Kaplan had been committed to
the ground less than a week before, and that maybe I was the only
one who cared if his killer was caught. I left a message on Sam’s
voice mail, asking him to find out about bloodstains on Buchanan’s
clothes; now to wait and see if he followed up on it.

Brenda approached me from the house. I
hadn’t seen her all day, but had left the box of candy on the
kitchen counter with a note. She paused about five feet away and
gazed down the east border, which had taken me more than an hour to
weed, then focused on the clump of flowers in front of me. She’d
wanted a garden and Richard had given me
carte blanche
to make it happen. I’d staggered
the pink and white begonias with darker vincas. After years of
neglect, the perennials were in sad shape. In the back of my mind I
had a plan for how I wanted to bring the garden back to its former
grandeur over the next couple of years, but it would take careful
planning.

“Such industry. I can’t believe what you’ve
accomplished in this yard in such a short time. Wherever did you
garden in Manhattan?”

I looked over my shoulder at her. “I
didn’t.”

“Then how do you know so much about it?”

I scattered a handful of mulch around a
pink-veined coleus. “For years I saved for a house in Jersey.
Shelley and me and a picket fence, and maybe a pack of kids. I read
up on gardening. Figured it might make a good hobby.”

“Has it?”

“It’s only been three weeks, but
. . . yeah. I like it—it’s calming. Plants don’t give off
weird vibes like people do.”

“And they don’t say things to upset people,
either.”

Brenda hated it when Richard and I had
disagreements, and this was her chance to play peacemaker. She
watched as I dumped the rest of the bag, trailing its contents over
a six-foot area. “Why didn’t you come in for supper?”

“I wasn’t hungry.”

“There’s leftovers if you want something
later.”

I didn’t meet her gaze. “Thanks.”

“Richard doesn’t understand,” she said. “He
thinks you should just ignore those funny feelings and the insight
you get. I know you can’t.”

I leaned back on my heels and looked up at
her, saw the depth of concern in her dark eyes.

“He’s worried about leaving you alone for
two weeks when we go on our honeymoon,” she continued. “After
yesterday—”

“Oh come on. It’s only the second time in
three months it happened. I’ll get a handle on it eventually. But I
don’t need him holding my hand for the rest of my life,
either.”

“I know. I trust you to make the decisions
you need to. When we’re here, we’re your backup. I just hope you’ll
take care of yourself while we’re gone. Promise me.”

I exhaled. It wasn’t exactly admitting
defeat to say what she wanted to hear, but it felt like it. “Okay.
I promise.”

She patted my shoulder, her genuine concern
and caring washing over me like a warm, pleasant breeze. “Thank
you. And thanks for the chocolates. They’re really decadent.”

“You’re welcome.”

A cardinal scolded us from the silver maple
next door. Brenda had something else on her mind. I can always pick
up on her anxiety.

“You want to ask about Maggie, right?”

“I think she’d like to talk to you,” she
said.

“And you’re playing go-between?”

“Sort of.”

Brenda waited while I finished spreading the
mulch, then offered a hand to pull me to my feet. “Ugh. How can you
stand dirt under your fingernails?”

I shrugged. “I don’t like gardening gloves.
They get in the way.”

“Then I hope your tetanus shot is
up-to-date.”

She was stalling.

I grabbed the empty plastic bags and headed
for the garage. Brenda trotted along behind me. “Are you going to
call her?”

“I don’t know.” I shoved the bags into the
garbage tote and glanced at my watch: Seven-thirty. Maybe I’d call
her. Maybe I wouldn’t. “I’m going up to the apartment to empty more
boxes. Want to help?”

Brenda frowned. “If I do, you won’t call
her.”

She was probably right.

“Okay, I’ll think about it.”

She nodded. “Then I won’t nag you anymore
tonight.”

“That mean tomorrow’s fair game?”

She smiled. “Always.”

* * *

I was
beginning to really like what would be my new digs. It was
actually double the size of my Manhattan apartment, and every time
I entered the space I felt at peace. I knew I could live here and
be happy, and yet . . . it wasn’t quite home. The elusive
piece of the puzzle was still missing. Maybe once I had all the
furniture in place it would feel complete. Still, I wasn’t in a
hurry to move in.

The only things to sit on were the new
stools at the breakfast bar. So far I hadn’t needed any more. I
plunked down and found my gaze traveling to the telephone. I’d been
waiting months for the opportunity to call Maggie, but I hesitated.
Timing could be everything, and I didn’t want to rush into
anything. Then again, if I made her wait too long, would she lose
interest?

The trip to Ellicottville had piqued her
curiosity about me. Maybe she thought experiencing someone else’s
emotions could be kinky.

Hmm. I hadn’t considered that aspect
of my so-called
gift
.