Mourning In Miniature (18 page)

“One more thing, Rosie.” I took my time describing how the scene was trashed. I wrote out the words in the air between us:
I hate David
. I could tell from Rosie’s expression that she herself was the vandal. “Remember, no skirting the truth,” I reminded her.

“I trashed it. I was so angry, Gerry. I was in our room after you and Maddie left on Saturday morning. I’d shoved it in a drawer the night before. It was already broken in a lot of places. Everything was loose. I started to put the scene back into its carrier while I was packing up and I went nuts. I shaved a point on my lipstick and used it to write that graffiti and then I had this thought of making a bottle of poison. That part calmed me down in a strange way.”

It was not a pretty sight—Rosie madly writing her hate message on the miniature lockers, then, with great concentration, gathering materials from hotel supplies and fashioning the tiny bottle.

“Then you—what?—threw it away?” I was still trying to figure out how the police got hold of it. Rosie blew her nose and nodded at the same time. “I was on my way out and I started to feel so angry again. I just shoved it in the wastebasket in the room. Who needed it? I’m surprised it survived at all.”

“Good glue comes through again, huh?” I said, wondering at what point the police got hold of it.

A brief, thin, but welcome smile crept over Rosie’s face at my glue comment.

Linda kept extra clothes in her locker at the Mary Todd,
a storage place much more elegant than the rusted old gray ones that ALHS provided its students. Rosie was invited to borrow any of Linda’s pants and shirts, and she started to clean herself up. The easiest logistics would have been for Rosie to show up at the police station soon after I’d had a chance to talk to Skip.

“If you leave here an hour after I do, that should do it,” I said.

“Don’t let me go alone, Gerry,” Rosie said, reminding me of her plea before heading for David’s fictitious private party. “I’m not sure I’d be able to get there.”

This time I held firm. I needed to reclaim my family life and spend some time with Maddie and Beverly. (Oh, and Nick.)

“I’d rather not come all the way back here to get you. It might be good if you drive your own car to the station,” I said, thinking, It’s the grown-up thing to do.

Rosie didn’t look happy about that arrangement but before she could speak, Linda rescued her. “I’ll take her,” she said.

Usually moody and often disgruntled, Linda came through big-time when anyone appeared ill or needing help. I learned that firsthand when she dropped all extraneous life tasks and helped me care for Ken during the last weeks of his life.

I gave Linda a smile that she probably thought was for only her present kindnesses.

I had one more question for Rosie, a speciously easy one. “I’ve been meaning to ask you about your dad,” I said. “How’s he taking this?”

“I haven’t talked to him. Isn’t that awful. But he never liked David back then because of, you know, the date.”

“The date gone bad.” I had no idea exactly what had gone wrong but now was not the time to ask.

Rosie took a seat on the bed. She had a pair of Linda’s elastic waist pants in her hands. If she tried to hang her head any lower, she’d have swept the floor with her hair. “Uh-huh.”

“Your dad still works, I understand. For Callahan and Savage?” Just evaluating Henry Baker as a possible future source of information.

“He consults for them, mostly. He prepares bids, things like that.”

“Why are you asking about him now?” Linda asked. I knew she meant “on my time.”

I patted Rosie’s head. “I’m just trying to get Rosie back to normal and remind her that many people love her.”

Not bad for a quick cover story.

 

 

Linda walked me to the front door, leaving Rosie to
finish dressing in her clothes. Once we entered the main wing of the home, we ran into a few people I knew, mostly seniors who were enrolled in my crafts classes. We got away with a quick wave at Emma and Lizzie, veritable twins they were such close friends, and one of the best woodworkers I’d ever met, Mr. Mooney.

Seeing the old man in his trim cardigan reminded me of Henry, my newest woodworker friend. I found myself planning a way to initiate another visit to his shop. So that I could see the apartment complex he’d built for his granddaughter, and so that Maddie and Taylor could play together. There was also that unresolved computer joke begun at brunch this morning in San Francisco: why did the witch need a computer? I was eager for the punch line.

Those were the only reasons I could think of for contacting Henry Baker.

“I have news from the front,” Linda said, sounding like a war correspondent from the forties. “I was chatting around while I was on the floor and found out the memorial service for David will be next Saturday at St. Bridget’s. Kind of funny, huh? I mean Bridges and Bridget?” Linda’s nervous laugh trailed off for lack of company. “What is it with me today, Gerry? You know me, I never make this kind of joke.”

“We’re all a little off this weekend,” I said.

“But there’s more,” Linda said. “His classmates have decided to have a memorial service tomorrow morning so people who came from a distance would have a chance to participate. They won’t have the . . . uh . . . deceased, of course, but his friends will be able to say good-bye. The announcement made the local news.”

“It sounds like something not to be missed.”

Linda put her hand on my shoulder to slow me down to her walking pace. “I’m not through. I heard that the Mellaces—really Cheryl, because Walter didn’t go to ALHS—are paying for everything.”

“Nice of them.”

“Plus they’re making a second donation to the new athletic field for a special plaque with David’s name.”

Linda had truly become the eyes and ears of the world.

“They already had a little program for David at the banquet and special mention of him at the groundbreaking,” I told her.

She shrugged. “I guess when you’re a VIP in the class, you get as much attention when you’re dead as when you were alive.” Linda’s hand went to her mouth to stifle another shaky laugh. “Sorry,” she said.

I patted her shoulder. “Rosie will be out of here soon,” I promised.

Skip wasted no time getting the upper hand at our
meeting. He slid a multipage printout across the newly polished table. The police building had only a skeleton crew on Sunday afternoon, so we appropriated the conference room for our tête-à-tête. Not that it was much more attractive than Skip’s cubicle. The no-frills space, with room for about eight people around the table, had the same muddy colors on its walls as the cubicles’ partitions. The big luxury was that the room had four walls and a door, and a working air-conditioning unit. Skip had also managed to have cans of ice tea available. Not as good as Linda’s concoction, but refreshing nonetheless.

“What’s this?” I asked him, though the headings on the sheets said it all.
RFPs
.
Bidders Awards.
Names like Mellace Construction and Callahan and Savage Refrigeration stuck out as if they’d been written in a crafter’s glittery marker or puff paint.

“A little something Maddie showed me. She doesn’t know what connection this all has to the Bridges case, and neither do I. It’s just a little something she printed out.”

I couldn’t believe Maddie had . . . what . . . flipped on me? Gone over my head? There must be a popular term for what she’d done. Engaged in a little passive-aggressive attention getting? Gotten even with me for dumping her yet again at a pool, this time at Beverly’s?

Given up on me and gotten her hooks into her uncle was probably a good-enough description.

I didn’t know the connection of this information to David’s murder any more than Maddie or Skip did, but the links I did know made me uneasy. In my mind I saw a straight, incriminating line leading to lockup, with yours truly on the wrong side of the bars.

I now realized what Maddie had done: my Internet search for Callahan and Savage was what had alerted her to my interest in them, and she’d probed further. Maybe this was what could be called hacking?

The rest of the thread was unsettling. Working backward: my Internet search had been sparked by Walter Mellace’s near assault and outright accusation in the hallway, that I was representing Callahan and Savage when I was snooping around the late David Bridges’s suite.

And said snooping had been a direct result of my pilfering of the Duns Scotus key card from Skip’s desk yesterday.

If I answered the Google search question for Skip, it was a slippery slope back to a very bad decision on my part, in the office down the hall.

I took a long drink from my can of ice tea, aware of Skip’s gaze boring down on me. Technically (I was beginning to like that word), he hadn’t asked me a question and I didn’t have to talk.

I wished I’d had a chance to look at Maddie’s data before now, but what was done was done. I wondered if I were strong enough to reduce the size of Maddie’s ice cream portion as an incentive never to do something like this again.

As usual, Skip won the silence contest. I cleared my throat and answered a non-question. “I think there was some competition between Callahan and Savage and the Mellace Construction Company, and I was checking it out.”

“What’s the connection with Bridges? Because I know you wouldn’t have been looking into this unless there was one.”

“You don’t think I might just have been browsing, getting familiar with the World Wide Web?”

Skip rolled his eyes. “Can’t we do this the easy way for once?”

I took a breath. The easy way for Skip was the hard way for me. “Let’s look at the printout,” I said.

“I guess the answer is no, we’re not taking the easy route.”

“Bear with me,” I said, not knowing what that meant, other than a major stall tactic.

 

 

The printout had a list of recent contract awards for
major facilities, including several hotels and office buildings in San Francisco and in the East Bay. I scanned page after page titled Request For Proposals, with the project name, such as a remodel or an equipment overhaul. The forms gave the names of the primary companies bidding for the job, a reference to what the companies had offered by way of promised work and expected compensation, and a score for each company. The winning contractors and the dates of the awards were also indicated.

“I did a quick review of these RFPs,” Skip said. “All of these are for works completed. Nothing newer than last spring.”

“Where did Maddie get these?” I wondered aloud.

“I’m guessing she went into the building commission’s site. Some of this has to be public information.”

“She’s a whiz, isn’t she?”

“Yeah, I’m glad I’m not dealing with her right now.”

I gave him an I’m-offended look. No need to prolong that topic, however.

Skip had highlighted the Duns Scotus jobs in yellow. Some were small, for repairs and remodeling, others were large, like a complete overhaul of the hotel’s several dining facilities.

I scanned the information on the highlighted jobs. “It looks like Mellace has received all the contracts for the Duns Scotus in the last five years, including all the refrigeration contracts that Callahan and Savage bid on.”

“Right. We don’t know that these were all the projects, however.”

“But even so, Callahan and Savage bid lower on the ones we have here and they still didn’t get the contracts,” I said. “I thought the low bidder always won.”

“Not necessarily. First, not all corporations have the requirement for competitive bidding. Second, even if they do, the winning award has to do with the reputation of the company, the timeline, the staffing, what side benefits they’re offering. A lot of things.”

“Which is what these scores are all about.” I may not have been a whiz, but I could be a fast learner.