Let There Be Suspects (24 page)

“Did Bix leave town?” Cliff asked. “I haven’t seen him since . . .” His voice trailed off.

“He left on the twenty-third. He went to spend the holiday with his parents in New York.”

“Really? I thought I saw him in town on Christmas Eve. But everything’s a jumble in my head.”

“He’s gone for good. I don’t think he’s the guy for me,” Sid said.

Cliff ’s voice sounded strained. “There were some rocky moments with Ginger, too. She wasn’t always easy to be around. Love isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.”

I leapt in, aware that the questions I wanted Cliff to answer were too many, too personal, and too soon after Ginger’s death. But my opportunities were limited.

“I think you know I’ve been doing some checking around,” I said. “I want to find out who murdered Ginger, and I want Sid off the hook.”

“I can’t imagine they’re really serious about Sid being the killer,” Cliff said. “The last time I spoke to Detective Roussos he said they think it had to be somebody strong enough to move the . . . to move Ginger after, you know.”

Sid looked at me, hope leaping in her eyes. “Don’t count on anything,” I cautioned her. “They haven’t said you can go.”

“I know, but still!”

I went back to my questions. “Along the way I’ve come across a few things about Ginger I don’t understand. I need some help figuring them out. I think we all need answers.”

“What kind of things?”

I knew this was all the encouragement I was going to get. He sounded wary, and we hadn’t even really begun.

“Well, I’ve been talking to people who knew her in Cincinnati. This is a little touchy, I know, but I think she wasn’t telling the truth about that second cookbook.”

There was a heavy silence. It stretched so long I wondered if he was packing his tools.

“I just found out myself,” he said at last. “Yesterday I called the publisher to talk about paying back the advance, and somebody in the accounting department told me there was no advance, and there was no book in the works with them.”

“I’m sorry.” The words seemed inadequate.

“Ginger hated to admit defeat.”

“Don’t we all,” Sid said sympathetically.

Cliff stepped out of the bathroom and leaned in the doorway. “She was confident on the outside, but inside she was still a little girl.”

“I can relate to that,” Sid said. “I feel that way sometimes.”

The moment was historic. Sid was comparing herself to Ginger, admitting they had shared emotions, just to make Cliff feel better. I was so proud of her.

“It must have been confusing,” I said. “Because, well, the money she said she got as an advance must have come from some place else.”

“I know where,” he said, as if I hadn’t just introduced the most indelicate of subjects. “She owned a condo in Cincinnati. I guess she didn’t want me to know she sold it. She and an old boyfriend bought it together. I guess she didn’t want to remind me.”

Since I knew Kas had been living in the condo until his arrest, this seemed like wishful thinking. True, if Ginger and Kas had owned it together, maybe she had sold her share to him. But judging from what I had heard already, Ginger had been in debt to Kas, and even if she’d turned over her share of the condo, it would only have been to pay him off. Would she have come out with enough extra to help Cliff? Of course I didn’t yet know just how much help he’d needed.

“I guess Cincinnati real estate is a good investment,” I said.

“Most of my assets are tied up. Ginger’s more or less supported us for the past few months.”

I suspected that when Cliff got home and started looking through papers, he had a big surprise in store. There weren’t going to be any records of a property sale. There weren’t going to be any records, period. I was afraid no one would be issuing tax forms in Ginger’s name this year. The food on Cliff ’s table had probably been bought with drug money.

“I’ve got one more question,” I said. “It’s not a good one, so I’ll apologize in advance. But Cliff, I’ve been told that Ginger had a drug problem.”

“Who told you that?”

“Somebody who knew her before you were married.”

“Well, it’s not true.” He turned and went back into the bathroom. Sid looked up from scraping the wall and raised a brow. I shrugged. I certainly wasn’t going to argue with him.

“Thanks,” I said. “If it had been true, it might explain some things and the police ought to know.”

“Well, it’s not. When she was in a lot of pain she might take a pill to ease it, but that was rare. I would certainly know.”

I wondered. There was so much about Ginger he had been blind to.

“You should have seen her when she was little,” Sid said. “One time she fell off a bike and scraped both knees and elbows, nasty scrapes, too. I would have screamed my head off. Not Ginger. She got back on the bike and rode it all the way home without a tear.”

Cliff gave a strangled laugh, but I could almost feel the tension ease. I blessed Sid for not recounting the whole story. The bike had been Sid’s, and she’d been towing Ginger on the back when they both hit the pavement. Yes, Ginger had gotten back on and ridden the bike home, but in doing so she had left poor Sid to walk home alone through a thunderstorm.

“Aggie, do we have more rags?” Sid asked. “The scraper keeps getting gummed up.”

I was ready for a break anyway. “I’ve got some downstairs.”

“I can do it, I’m ready to turn on the power so you can use the steamer before I do the next bathroom,” Cliff said.

“I’ll get the rags, you get the power.”

“I’ll come with you. I need water,” Sid said.

They followed me downstairs, and Cliff went to restore the power while I dug under the sink for rags. I found them in a heap in the corner, not the way I’d left them. When I started to pull them out I saw why.

“Remember when Bix refused to come inside because we might have mice?” I stood and made a mental note to call the exterminator. “Well, I’m afraid we do. Or maybe rats.”

“How do you know?”

“Because the rags are now a nest.” I’d seen what looked like seed hulls and shredded paper, too.

“I should have figured right then that he was worthless,” Sid said.

Cliff joined us in the kitchen. “Who’s worthless?”

“Bix. He’s afraid of mice.”

“You’ve got mice?” Cliff made a face.

I gestured to the cabinet. “You want to help me set traps?”

He shook his head. “Not that I’m afraid of them or anything.”

Sid and I started to laugh and Cliff smiled, the first real smile I’d seen since Ginger’s death. Sid was gazing fondly at him. I couldn’t imagine there was any hope for the future there, but I was glad that for even a moment, we had forgotten to worry and simply enjoyed this new friendship.

15

I still hadn’t swept the cobwebs out of my brain, and by the time Sid and I finished removing the majority of the bedroom wallpaper, I knew I had two choices. I could go home and try to nap with the telephone ringing and people trooping in and out. Or I could walk home and hope that fresh air and exercise did the trick. In an early winter surprise the day had turned warm, nearly fifty degrees, and morning gloom had been preempted by afternoon sunshine.

Sid agreed to take the van back home for me, and I promised to stop on the way and buy homemade pierogies from a woman who made and sold them out of her house near the Oval every Saturday afternoon. Sauteed in butter with onions, drowned in sour cream with sauerkraut on the side, pierogies are an Emerald Springs treasure. I rarely miss waiting my turn in Mrs. Kowalczyk’s kitchen.

The snow of Christmas Eve night was a memory, and what was left of it was running across sidewalks and into the street. The unseasonable warmth had sent dads out a few days early to pack up the Christmas lights for another year. Children plunged arms into rapidly melting snowmen to fashion snowballs that flew in a million directions the moment they were launched.

I took unfamiliar side streets and lingered on corners watching the sun glint off slate roofs. I made friends with a dalmatian and kept my eyes open for a silver tabby who might have strayed too far. I was surprised when I wound my way to Robin Street to find DiBenedetto’s Grocery at the end of the block.

Although I had been able to form a fuzzy picture of the store Vel had fallen in love with, I hadn’t been sure where it was located. But here it was tucked into a short block in the midst of a residential neighborhood, with a barber shop on one side and a video rental on the other. I decided to stop in and see what the fuss was about.

As I had remembered, the store was dark and unattractive on the outside. Once inside, however, it was the epitome of Old World charm. The meat case had a small selection, but everything looked particularly fresh and delectable. The vegetable section—which was supposed to interest me more—was filled with things that were in season or stored well. Winter squashes and bushels of apples, sweet potatoes, and carrots with lacy green tops.

“Can I help you?”

I turned to face one of the most gorgeous men I have ever seen. I guessed he was closing in on forty, with black hair just beginning to turn gray and liquid brown eyes. I was reminded of the Roman gods in Florence’s Uffizi Gallery. He was probably six feet tall, broad shouldered and narrow hipped. And although he was dressed casually, he knew how to wear clothes.

“I’ve never shopped here before,” I confessed. “But my sister has been raving about this place.” Now, I thought I understood why—and not because the red cabbage looked firm and succulent.

“Thank her for us.”

“Unfortunately she’s gone home. A pretty blonde about my age? A little taller? Vel?”

It’s not possible to teach a man to smile like this. It’s a talent he’s born with. A slow ignition that lights the eyes one watt at a time. A smile that heats a room, even when it’s not aimed precisely at you.

“Vel understands food,” he said. “My father fell in love with her.”

“I think it’s mutual.”

“Are you Aggie or Sid?”

This acquaintance had clearly gone further than I’d imagined. Names were involved. Memory was involved. I wondered if they had exchanged phone numbers or e-mail addresses. I wondered if they had discussed where to go on their honeymoon.

“Aggie,” I said, holding out my hand. “Aggie Sloan-Wilcox.”

“I’m Marco DiBenedetto.” My hand disappeared into his.

“The store’s really not very far from my house. Now that I know where you are, I’ll be back.”

“Let me show you what we have that’s particularly good this afternoon.”

Fifteen minutes later I stood in the checkout line with one of those firm, succulent red cabbages, a bunch of carrots, a pound of fresh spinach fettuccine, and an ounce of dried porcini mushrooms. Marco carried my bag to the door while a pretty teenager came out from the back to help a couple of other customers.

“You’ll be inviting Vel back to visit?” he asked.

“She flies in whenever she can.” And I suspected a sudden upswing in flights booked.

“She likes Manhattan. I lived in Brooklyn for awhile. The city certainly draws you in. But I wanted to raise my children here with family.”

“You have children?”

“Three boys.”

My fantasies spiraled into a nosedive. In my mind I had moved Vel to Emerald Springs and renovated the right house for her and Marco. I knew one in a good neighborhood that had been on the market for too long, and I knew just what needed to be done to polish it into a jewel.

No house now.

I don’t know if Marco read my mind, my expression, or just heard his own answer. His smile smoldered once more. “Unfortunately my wife moved to California when I moved here with our sons. Or I should say my ex-wife.”

That was a sad thing, but I had trouble working up the appropriate amount of regret. “Single parenting must be tough.”

“It’s better than having two parents who don’t agree on much of anything.”

We said goodbye, and I thought how much fun it would be to go home and tell Sid what I’d discovered. This might even take her mind off her problems for a full minute.

After another unfamiliar block I planned to cut over to the Oval to get the pierogies, but as I crossed the street I noticed a sign in the yard of a green-shingled house on the far corner. Since I was in discovery mode, I wandered that way to see what other local establishments I’d missed. In a moment I was standing in front of a sign for Peter Schaefer, MD, Pain Management.

I was glad the house wasn’t ringed with picketers.

Immediately I saw the value of having the office here on this quiet block surrounded by older, modest homes in good repair. Even in winter the yard, with its expert landscaping and wide brick walkway, was a serene invitation. If I was suffering from unbearable pain, I would choose this comfortable home over a sterile office building as a place to find release.

“Mrs. Wilcox?”

I turned to find Peter Schaefer coming up the sidewalk toward me. I’d heard a car pull into the small lot that faced the side street, but I had paid little attention. Now I noticed a sleek white sedan parked in one of the spots.

“Hello.” I held out my hand. “I was walking home and saw your office. I didn’t realize you were right here.”

“I wanted a place that feels like home for my patients.”

“You succeeded. Do you serve chicken soup?”

“If that’s all I did, life would be simpler.”

“I know you’ve had a few problems.”

He didn’t seem in a hurry. He was wearing jeans—good jeans—and an Irish fisherman’s sweater under a casual winter parka. A bag from the garden supply store was tucked under one arm.

“When I moved here I hoped the community would accept what I’m trying to do. I guess I thought if I helped enough patients, the word would go out that I was doing good work and no one would bother me.”