Don't Cry Over Killed Milk (13 page)

Lynne considered the question. “He doesn’t own The Garden Grove, so I doubt he’d be doing it to drive sales. I suppose if he was a glory hound, he could be planning to swoop in and save the day with his gardening expertise.”

“Maybe. Does he have a grudge against the citizens of Hollydale?”

“I’ve never heard anything like that,” Lynne said. “You’re certain he’s the culprit?”

“I’m not positive.” Damon refrained from revealing that he was acting on a tip that came into the Crime Solvers’ line. He hadn’t asked Arthur Jenkins, but surely there was a tacit prohibition against doing anything with a tip other than passing it along to the police.

After finishing his coffee, Damon kissed his mother goodbye and drove to The Garden Grove. He spotted Clementine in the spacious outdoor area helping a customer in the herb section.

Damon feigned interest in a row of emerald and golden Euonymus plants. He wondered how Clementine’s moniker had originated. The man was in his late forties. His thin black hair was gelled and combed straight back over his scalp. Beady eyes rested in deep sockets above gaunt cheeks and a weasel-shaped nose. Damon left the garden center before Clementine had the opportunity to ask him if he needed assistance. Watching the man at work, Damon thought, wouldn’t accomplish anything.

Chapter 13

After passing the early afternoon hours volunteering at the library, Damon decided to pay Dottie Milk another visit. The police had finally released Jeremiah’s body, and his funeral was slated for the following morning. Dottie might be busy planning the details, but Damon wanted to ask her delicately about RDF Corporation.

“I’m sorry to bother you, Mrs. Milk,” Damon said when Dottie opened the door to the Milk family home, “but I was hoping to ask you one more thing about your son.”

“Come in, Mr. Lassard.” Dottie didn’t look as wild-eyed as the first time Damon had seen the woman. She was dressed plainly in slacks and a sweatshirt. Damon followed Dottie to the same living room he sat in days earlier.

“Thank you for speaking with Veronica,” Dottie said. “She came over and we talked for almost two hours. It was so nice to have a conversation with someone who had feelings for Jeremiah. I think she and I are the only living souls who knew him more than casually.”

Damon nodded but mentally added Glenda Atwater’s grandson, Matthew, to the list of people who knew Jeremiah well.

“I’m glad Veronica came to visit,” Damon said, sitting down.

“It really lifted my spirits. I was so distraught when I found out Jeremiah died. My friend Bernice in Phoenix had to drive me to the airport and physically walk me to the security line.” Before sitting, Dottie asked, “Can I get you some tea?”

Damon declined. “How are the funeral arrangements coming along? Is there anything I can do to help?”

“Thank you for offering, but there’s nothing that needs to be done. The funeral director is handling everything. There will be a short service at the funeral home before the burial, but I’m not having anything here at the house. I expect the gathering to be small. Veronica will come, and I suppose some of his colleagues from the park will feel obligated to attend. I have a sister who lives in Philadelphia; she’s driving down. You’ve been so kind, Mr. Lassard. I’d be happy if you could come as well.”

Feeling bad that attendance would be so sparse, Damon agreed. Besides, it would give him another chance to observe the park workers. And Damon thought self-indulgently, if Gerry went to the funeral, maybe he could ask him about alibis for those other than Emmanuel Alvarez and Aylin Erul. The previous day, Gerry had been called away from their conversation in the Atwaters’ driveway before Damon had the chance to inquire.

“Now, what was it that you wanted to know?” Dottie asked, interrupting Damon’s thoughts.

He leaned forward. “Have you ever heard of a company called RDF?”

She answered quickly. “I haven’t, sorry.”

“Jeremiah never mentioned it?”

Dottie shook her head.

“Okay, sorry to bother you. It’s just that I think RDF could have something to do with Jeremiah’s death.”

Dottie cocked her head to one side. “How’s that?”

“If you remember, when we met earlier this week, I asked you about Jeremiah coming into a substantial sum of money. It looks like he did. But then he turned around and passed the majority of it along to RDF Corporation. The problem is RDF doesn’t appear to be anything except a corporate shell.”

“That does sound strange,” Dottie said and glanced around the room.

Damon had a premonition. He envisioned a secret stash of papers hidden in a safe behind one of the framed maps adorning the walls.

“You’re welcome to look through the papers in his office,” Dottie said. “The police have already been through them. They said they didn’t find anything out of the ordinary.”

“That would be great,” Damon said. “Thank you.”

Dottie excused herself. She said she had been planning to go to the grocery store and the pharmacy. But she gave Damon permission to cull through Jeremiah’s papers while she was out.

* * *

After Dottie left, Damon gently lifted removed each of the maps from the living room walls—nothing but painted drywall. He quickly rehung them and then checked behind the framed pictures hanging throughout the rest of the house. No luck. Dottie had only given him permission to go through Jeremiah’s office files but Damon first quickly searched the other rooms of the house. After striking out, Damon turned to the office.

He focused on the desk and filing cabinet, which was unlocked, presumably by the police. Damon methodically combed through the dead man’s papers—credit card bills, property tax statements, and retirement account records. Nothing suggested that Jeremiah Milk had any money other than a moderate income from Tripping Falls State Park.

Damon spent another five minutes in vain, checking the rest of the room and every surface of the filing cabinet and desk for a secret compartment. If Jeremiah had a stash of papers detailing the comings and goings of the money he received from Alistair Atwater, they didn’t appear to be in the man’s home.

Damon wondered if Jeremiah kept files at Tripping Falls. The rangers didn’t have offices, but Jeremiah could have hidden something in the rangers’ lounge or in any of the other park buildings. For that matter, he could have buried a shoebox full of papers—finding it would be like looking for a needle in … eight hundred acres of parkland.

Before giving up, Damon took one last look around the room. Inside a closet hung a collection of old sport coats and dusty suits. Damon patted down the pockets of each. When Damon pressed against a houndstooth-patterned jacket crammed against the side wall of the closet, he felt something small and hard. His heartbeat quickened. He instinctively looked toward the door of the office. The house was still quiet.

Damon reached into the inside pocket of the jacket and pulled out a small box designed to store cufflinks. He was momentarily disappointed. Then he opened the box. Inside lay a small key and a yellow sticky note with an address and the number “47” written in pencil.

As Damon tucked the box and its contents into his pants pocket, he heard the home’s front door open.

“Are you still here, Mr. Lassard?” called Dottie from downstairs.

“I was just finishing up,” Damon replied and hopped down the steps.

“Find anything?”

Damon fudged the truth. “All of Jeremiah’s financial paperwork looked pretty standard to me. Nothing unusual.” He thanked Dottie for her graciousness, helped her lift two grocery sacks onto the kitchen counter, and made his way home on foot.

As he walked, Damon’s mind raced. If the key opened a safe deposit box, Damon thought, he wouldn’t be able to get inside. At a minimum, he’d need Jeremiah’s driver’s license. Most banks required a signature card as well. He neither had those items nor did he look anything like Jeremiah.

Back at his duplex, Damon punched the address from the sticky note into his computer. He smiled at the result. It matched the location of a fitness center in Frederick, Maryland—an hour’s drive from Hollydale.

He contemplated whether to tell Gerry about the key. Did Margaret Hobbes’ ban on discussion of the case between the two men still apply after Damon led the police to the source of Jeremiah Milk’s wealth? It probably would in the lieutenant’s mind. Recalling his misguided run-in with Shin Ho-Pyong, Damon decided to see what fruit the fitness center bore before disclosing his find to Gerry.

Damon glanced at the clock. Ten minutes after six. According to its website, the fitness center closed at seven o’clock on Friday evenings—not enough time to make it to Frederick. Damon would visit the gym after Jeremiah’s funeral the following morning. It could wait—he had other detective work he wanted to do in the meantime.

* * *

At seven-thirty in the evening, darkness began to settle over Hollydale. An hour later, Damon pulled on black pants and a black zip-up fleece. He tucked a digital camera and sportsman binoculars into the fleece’s pockets and drove to Beauregard “Clementine” Snead’s house.

Clementine lived two blocks from the Fish Barrel, an unpretentious bar and grill along the primary commercial street in Hollydale. Bethany Krims’ father, Jackson, owned the eatery. Clementine’s home was a two-story, brick-fronted row house, positioned in the center of a strip of five identical residences. Damon parked his Saab on a street perpendicular to Clementine’s block. From that vantage point, he had a clear view of Clementine’s front door and the car parked in his driveway. Damon shut off his engine and waited.

It wasn’t a well-executed stakeout. Given his proximity to the Fish Barrel on a Friday night, dozens of people parked on the nearby streets and took the sidewalk past Damon’s car en route to and from the restaurant. Damon pretended to be sleeping when anyone passed by on foot.

At nine-thirty, Damon heard heavy footsteps coming down the sidewalk behind his car. He snapped his eyes shut. Fifteen seconds later, there was a rapping on his driver’s side window. He cracked open an eye. Mrs. Chenworth’s face was pressed against the glass. Damon instinctively jerked his head back.

“What are you doing in there, Damon?” she shouted.

Damon urgently put a finger to his lips. He tried to slide down the window. It didn’t budge—the power was off. He cracked the driver’s side door. “Shh!”

Mrs. Chenworth looked from side to side. She tried to whisper but sounded like a frog. “Who are you hiding from, Damon Lassard?”

“No one, Mrs. Chenworth. Just keep walking.”

She looked at him through the gap in the car door. “Why are you wearing all black?” she croaked. Her hands were planted on considerable hips.

“I’ll tell you later, Mrs. Chenworth, I promise. Please go.”

The look of frustration on the gossipy woman’s face was suddenly replaced by one of curiosity. Damon could see the figurative wheels in her brain churning. She lowered her voice a decibel level. “Are you on a stakeout?”

Damon reflexively glanced in the direction of Clementine’s row house. Light was visible through a front window, but Damon was too far away to see movement. “Mrs. Chenworth,” he pleaded. “You still go to Cynthia’s, right?” Damon knew she spent almost every morning at the salon, holding court.

Mrs. Chenworth nodded. Thick brown curls bobbed in front of her pudgy face. “Of course. You know I like to have coffee there with the ladies.”

“Okay,” Damon whispered. “I promise I’ll come by soon and tell you exactly what I’m doing. But you have to go. Now. And don’t tell anyone I’m here.”

The older woman winked at Damon, then waddled off down the sidewalk.

Damon shut the car door and slumped down in his seat. He would have to ask Gerry for some tips on covert surveillance.

At eleven o’clock, the lights in Clementine’s house went out. Damon waited but the man did not emerge. When Cynthia witnessed a shadowy figure meddling with crepe myrtles in her neighbor’s yard, it had been just before dawn. Damon didn’t know if he could stay awake that long. He longed for a caffeinated beverage. Instead, all he had was a center console full of hard candies pocketed from hostess stands across Arlington.

Damon spent the next two hours forcing his eyes open. Then, at one in the morning, he saw a figure emerge from Clementine’s house. Street lights assisted Damon’s vision. Beauregard “Clementine” Snead opened the trunk of his car and placed a duffel bag inside. The master gardener, dressed from head to toe in black, slid into the car and drove off slowly.

Damon let Clementine’s car crawl two blocks ahead and then started the Saab’s engine. Damon turned off his headlights to follow, careful to be less obvious than when he had trailed Shin Ho-Pyong.

Clementine drove less than half of a mile. He parked near a house with a pair of large crepe myrtles in the front yard. Given the late hour, Damon couldn’t stop on the same street without looking conspicuous. He passed the house, turned the corner, and parked one block down. He crept through two backyards, then hid behind a nearby home’s chimney. Peeking out, Damon could see Clementine Snead in the adjacent house’s front yard.

Damon focused his binoculars on Clementine. The man was bent over in front of a crepe myrtle, reaching into his duffel bag. Damon expected to see him extract a canister of insects. But Clementine let him down. He pulled out a handheld mechanical instrument, flicked a switch, and held it against a leaf. It appeared as if he was taking a reading. Clementine jotted something down with a pen on a small notepad and took a second reading against a different leaf, then a third and a fourth. Damon longed to photograph Clementine, but he didn’t want the flash to betray him. Instead, he turned off both the shutter sound and flash and surreptitiously snapped several pictures, even though he knew they would come out blurry.

After taking seven readings, Clementine moved to the yard’s other crepe myrtle and repeated the process. Clementine examined an additional thirteen crepe myrtle trees in six other yards before returning home an hour later.