It Takes Two to Strangle (20 page)

Damon put a hand on his neighbor’s shoulder. David had only shared the duplex with him for four months, but Damon assumed he’d been divorced the entire time.

“One night next week, we’ll go out for a guys’ night,” Damon said. “If Gerry Sloman’s finished with the case he’s working on, I’ll invite him. And Teddy Fitzroy who lives a few blocks away. He manages the bowling alley in South Arlington—he’s single and is always up for some fun. We’ll go to dinner at a steakhouse and then hit one of the live music lounges down in Clarendon. What do you say?”

David looked at him appreciatively. “You really don’t have to do all of that, Damon.”

“I need a night like that myself, David. Consider it done.” Damon rose to his feet. “I’ll set it up and let you know what night works for everyone.”

David returned his hand to his tumbler and raised his drink. “Thanks, Damon. You know what Henny Youngman said? ‘When I read about the evils of drinking, I gave up reading.’”

“Just don’t overdo it, David.”

Standing behind the library’s front desk the following day, Damon thought about his trip to Morgantown. Johnnetta Frank hadn’t told him everything she knew, he felt certain, and it was gnawing at him. He replayed their conversation in his mind. It was when he asked whether she had told anyone Tabby found the photos of Hannah Roscoph that Johnnetta lied. So who did she tell?

Damon arrived home shortly after five in the afternoon. The message light was blinking and Damon instinctively knew it was Bethany. He hit play and heard her voice. “Damon, it’s Bethany Krims. I’m sorry I didn’t call you back earlier. Listen, tomorrow night isn’t going to work for me. Thank you very much for the invitation. I’m sure I’ll see you around.”

Click.

Damon winced. In the back of his mind he had expected it, but hearing her words still stung. Bethany hadn’t said she “couldn’t” make it but that “it wasn’t going to work.” There was a big difference. She hadn’t cancelled because something came up to prevent her from joining him. Rather, she changed her mind and decided to cut him off at the knees.

He called his mother and offered her the tickets to the show at the Kennedy Center. She accepted and had the good grace not to question what happened with Bethany. She would ask in a few days, but not while the wound was still fresh.

“Will you take Charles Swickley?” Damon asked.

“I don’t think so, Damon. Charles is a nice man and I’ve enjoyed spending time with him, but I’m not going to let it get serious. He’s far too old for me.”

Damon was pleased Lynne Lassard-Brown had finally come to this realization.

“Would you consider taking David Einstaff?” he asked.

“No, I thought I’d ask Rebecca. I like that girl and think it would be nice for me to get to know her even better.”

Even though she hadn’t come out and asked whether Bethany had broken off the Friday night engagement, his mother must have sensed as much. And she was making another salvo in Rebecca’s favor. Perhaps he was the only one who failed to appreciate that Rebecca was the right woman for him.

Damon found an online directory listing and dialed Johnnetta Frank. He wrestled with his conscience and justified the call—Johnnetta Frank wasn’t a suspect. The telephone rang nine times before she answered.

“Hello?” came the familiar timid voice through the receiver.

“Hello Mrs. Frank. This is Damon Lassard. We met on Monday. I came to your house just before the sheriff did.”

“I certainly remember you, Mr. Lassard. One doesn’t forget the person to whom she tells her secrets.”

That’s an opening, Damon thought. He took a breath. “A secret is why I’m calling Mrs. Frank. Two secrets actually. One that I know about, and one that I believe you have.”

He heard quiet sounds on the other end of the line. Damon pictured Johnnetta Frank crossing her arms in front of her chest and rubbing her shoulders to warm them.

“The secret I know about,” Damon said, “is that Lirim Jovanovic didn’t act alone when he took those pictures.” He summarized Victor’s role in the conspiracy and told her they found the girl in the pictures, but he didn’t disclose Hannah’s name.

“Is she well now?”

“She is, Mrs. Frank. She’s twenty-five years old and lives in California. I think that Lirim’s death and the arrest of Victor McElroy will give her the closure she needs.”

“Thank goodness,” she said quietly.

“Mrs. Frank. I’ve given you a lot of information because I feel you have the right to know. You’ve been carrying a burden for the past year and a half and I hope this news helps you.”

“It does. Thank you, Mr. Lassard. And now you want more from me. Is that right?”

The pair had not bartered ahead of time, but Johnnetta Frank recognized the debt owed for Damon’s generosity. “That’s right, ma’am.” Damon chose his next words carefully. He didn’t want to accuse her of lying. “Mrs. Frank, I think there may be something that you’ve remembered since we spoke. Someone you told about the pictures Tabby found.”

“Yes,” she replied meekly, but without hesitation. “It’s about time I came out with it. I did tell someone. It was eating away at me. Less than two weeks after Tabby found those pictures and she dies. It was just too big of a coincidence, and Tabby would never drive anywhere in the middle of the night. I tried to convince myself that she and Lirim must have had a fight and she raced out of the house to escape. That she was so frantic she forget to put on her seat belt. But if they had a bad argument, Tabby would have come to my house. Lirim would have known to try here first if Tabby left him, but he never came looking for her. No, I just don’t think she was running, which is why I’ve been suspicious about her death, and Lirim in particular.”

“Why didn’t you express your concerns to the sheriff’s office?”

“They wouldn’t have believed the ramblings of an old woman, and I just couldn’t bring myself to get involved. It wouldn’t have brought Tabby back.”

Damon decided against telling Johnnetta that if Victor was to be believed, her suspicions were dead on and Lirim had in fact killed Tabby.

“I understand,” Damon said even though he didn’t. “Please go on.”

“It’s silly. About three weeks ago I was watching a made-for-television movie late at night. It was about a man who killed his wife and tried to cover it up. I started crying. I had tried so hard to put Tabby and her accident out of my mind, but this movie brought all of my emotions and suspicions back. I needed to talk about it with someone.” Her voice broke. She was on the verge of tears. “I like the sheriff, but I wanted to talk to a woman. And I wanted to tell the one person I should have told at the outset. Clara Jovanovic.”

“You told Clara three weeks ago about Tabby finding the pictures?”

“I did. And that it happened just before her car accident. Clara and Tabby were close, especially when Clara was young. I felt she should know the truth about her father and my concerns about her mother’s death.”

“Did you go to see her or speak over the telephone?”

“She came to see me. Tabby had given me Clara’s cellular number several years ago. Tabby hadn’t been well—too much smoking. So she gave me Lirim’s and Clara’s numbers in case anything happened to her. I called Clara and told her I had some news about her parents and asked her to come see me. I told her it was serious and I would only feel comfortable discussing it in person. She was able to move some shifts around at her hospital and come here two days later.”

“And you told her everything you know?”

“Yes, I told her exactly the same thing I told you.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Frank,” Damon said. “How did she react?”

“She looked beaten down. Not angry, just sad. She thanked me politely and drove away.” Johnnetta coughed gently. “Please tell me Clara didn’t kill her father. Not that the son of a you-know-what didn’t deserve it, but I couldn’t stand to see Clara go to prison.”

“I don’t know if she killed him. I hope she didn’t,” Damon said with empathy and thanked Johnnetta Frank for her time.

Chapter 19

Johnnetta Frank told Clara that her father had tried his hand in the child pornography business. In addition, given the timing of Tabby’s discovery of the photos, Johnnetta suspected Lirim played a role in his wife’s death. And that, Damon thought, is why Johnnetta didn’t initially divulge that she had spoken with Clara—she was afraid that Clara murdered her father.

Clara had been with Anthony Weams on the night of the murder. She and Anthony could have done it together. Or for that matter, Clara, Anthony and Jordan Hall could all have been in on it. The double affair proffered to the police by the three, Clara cheating on Jordan and Anthony on his wife, could be an elaborate cover up.

Damon looked at the clock. It was just after six thirty in the evening. Richmond was a little more than one hundred miles south of Hollydale, but in Thursday evening rush hour traffic, the drive would take at least two hours. He grabbed a soda from the kitchen and sped off in the Saab to Virginia’s state capital. Damon didn’t have Clara’s home address but he remembered the name of the hospital where she worked—St. Michael’s.

Between a crude navigation system on his phone and a helpful clerk at a gas station, Damon located the hospital. It was old and decaying, probably not unlike many of its patients. There were multiple parking lots and he avoided the one nearest the emergency room. Damon didn’t want to encounter Jordan Hall before he could speak with Clara.

He approached the front desk at the main hospital entrance and asked for the geriatric medicine unit. The receptionist pointed to an elevator bank and directed him to the west wing of the fourth floor.

The ward’s lobby was a small oval with a series of hallways sprouting in every direction, not dissimilar to a spider. He told the on-duty nurse he was a friend of Clara’s, giving her the impression that Clara was expecting to see him. Damon was in luck— she was on shift, although it didn’t end for another hour.

Damon killed time in the cafeteria, trying not to think about the fat content in the mayonnaise binding his egg-salad sandwich. He debated calling Gerry Sloman. He would need to tell the detective about Johnnetta’s disclosure soon, but if he called now, Gerry would insist that he not speak to Clara. He convinced himself that meeting her wasn’t an interview, just a conversation with a relatively new friend. And he’d call Gerry right after he spoke with Clara.

At ten minutes before the end of Clara’s shift, Damon made his way back to the geriatric wing. As he began to lower himself into a stuffed brown chair, Clara strode confidently into the lobby and met Damon’s gaze. Damon hadn’t fantasized about Clara in a short white nurse’s dress, so her baby-blue uniform jacket and gray scrub pants didn’t surprise him. Her thick dark hair had a lustrous sheen and was pulled back into a short pony tail. Her face looked as if she had just scrubbed it with soap.

“Hi Damon,” she said sweetly. “I didn’t expect to see you again.”

“Hi Clara. I’d like to talk to you about something. Are you done here for the night?”

“I am. I’m pretty tired, but there’s a coffee shop around the corner if you want to buy me a cup.” She squeezed his forearm with a trembling hand and said she’d be back in a minute after she signed off on her patients’ charts.

Damon waited for five minutes before anxiety set in. Was there another exit she had taken to escape? No, he thought, that would just make her look guilty. And two minutes later, she appeared and apologized for the delay. Damon chided himself. Clara had been nothing but nice—more than nice— to him.

Zorbi’s coffee shop was nestled between a discount auto parts dealer and a vacuum supply store along a cracked sidewalk. Amateurish painted fireworks adorned the windows. The inside was dimly lit and Damon’s chair felt grimy but the place was deserted. Clara had correctly surmised that this conversation warranted privacy above all else.

They reviewed plastic coated menus, but when the waitress arrived each settled for black coffee.

Clara pulled the band from her hair and let it out. Thick tufts splayed wildly after being confined for an entire day. “So Damon, what’s so important that you need to speak with me in person after ten o’clock in Richmond?” The sweet smile had been replaced with cool skepticism.

“There’s something about your father I’d like to discuss with you,” he replied.

“If it’s about his estate, yes, I’m entitled to it, and I think you know that. There’s not much there other than a mortgaged interest in the carnival, which I’m selling to Jim Riley.”

“And the house in Morgantown,” Damon added. He didn’t point out that Lirim’s death cleared the way for Clara to recover a large sum from Tabby’s estate. Her one third share and anything that was left from Lirim’s share.

“Yes, that dump in Morgantown, too. I may have grown up there, but my father let the place waste away after Mom died. I wouldn’t be surprised if it was overrun with rats and insects, the way he used to leave food out.”

Damon leaned forward. “But you’ve been there recently and know that it is infested, don’t you?”

The waitress appeared with a pair of glazed ceramic mugs.

Clara dropped her gaze and blew gently over the top of her coffee. Her head still bowed, she said, “Tell me what you want to know, Damon.”

Damon took a sip of the scalding hot java, retracted his frame and slouched down. “Your old neighbor, Johnnetta Frank, told me that you went to see her. I know about your father’s photographs and that your mother found them less than two weeks before her death.”