Moss Hysteria (15 page)

I jumped and said guiltily, “I wasn't concentrating on anything important.”

Lottie looked at me oddly. “Okay. Would you hand me some fern?”

I handed her the greenery, gathered my birthday flowers, and pushed all thoughts of the contest out of my mind so I could get back to work.

The order specified orange and yellow, so I used mini cosmos, gerbera daisies, ranunculus, and white roses, a bright combination of yellow, orange, and white, and then filled in with baby's breath and statice, all in a glass ball base filled with clear marbles.

“You're humming,” Lottie said, patting my back. “I haven't heard you hum in ages. You must be happy.”

She caught me by surprise. I'd been thinking about that contest entry again.

•   •   •

We arrived at the Building Commission office in the administration center at eleven forty-five a.m. only to learn that the building inspector had already checked out for lunch.

“What time will he be back?” Marco asked.

One of the two women behind the counter, a young woman whose name tag lay partially hidden beneath her long blond hair, glanced at the other woman, who seemed old enough to be her grandmother. The other woman, wearing a name tag that read
Diane
, waggled her hand. “It varies.”

“Would you give us an approximation?” Marco asked.

Another exchange of glances. Then the young woman flipped back her long hair, giving me a view of her name—Hevyn—and opened her mouth to speak, but Diane cut her off. “Leave your name and phone number and we'll have him contact you.”

We were being given the runaround. Marco focused his penetrating gaze on Diane, causing her to blush hotly. “Do you expect him back at all today?”

“I really can't say what his schedule is like,” said Diane, pushing a piece of paper and a pen across the counter. “As I said, it varies.”

Marco laid his business card on the counter, ignoring the memo paper. “Just give him this and tell him it's important.”

Diane didn't even glance at the card, but her young associate did, her blue eyes widening. I made eye contact with her and smiled. “If Mr. Dell does show up this afternoon, would you be sure to call us? Any help would be appreciated.” I slipped one of my cards into her hand. “If you can't reach my husband, you can find me at Bloomers Flower Shop. I'm the owner.”

•   •   •

“I wonder why they were being so secretive,” I said, as we made our way down a back staircase. We'd opted to skip the crowded elevator and get a little exercise instead.

“I don't know, but something's up.” Marco opened the glass door at the bottom and we stepped outside into bright sun.

“What if he doesn't call?”

“Then we'll either stake out his office, find his home address, or—”

“Mr. and Mrs. Salvare?”

We turned to see Hevyn leaning out the door, glancing around as though she was afraid of being seen. She held out a scrap of paper. “You can find what you need here.”

I opened it up.
Washtub Tap
had been hastily scrawled on it. “Thank you,” I said, handing it to Marco.

“What he's doing?” she said. “It's not right.” And then she was gone.

Hevyn had answered our prayers.

•   •   •

The Washtub Tap, located northwest of New Chapel, was an old wooden building with peeling blue paint and a flat roof. It was so named because of the ancient, rusty, claw-footed bathtub that sat by the door. The tub was planted with geraniums just starting to bud. I stopped to break off some yellow leaves while Marco surveyed the exterior.

“No sign of a black sedan in the parking lot,” he said, opening the door for me.

The inside of the bar looked as decrepit as the outside, with scarred, creaking wooden floorboards and old plaster walls whose white paint had bronzed with age and was flaking off in potato chip–sized pieces. More light came from windows on either side of the door than from the low-wattage coach lights that rimmed the room.

The wide L-shaped bar was made of a dark wood and kept well polished. The mirror behind it was tarnished and missing much of its silver backing. The wooden stools had red seats, the padding cracked from years of use. Age-darkened ladder-back chairs nestled around square oak tables, filling the rest of the space.

Marco's bar looked stunningly modern by contrast.

Having never met Maynard Dell, we asked an amicable bartender to point him out. He indicated a table in the back corner where one man was holding court. His round pate gleamed like a billiard ball and his double chin held a tangle of thick, wiry gray hair that ran from one ear to the other, giving him the appearance of having his head on upside down. He wore a button-down blue denim shirt tucked loosely into black pants held up by red-striped suspenders that curved around his generous belly.

Maynard and his cronies, men of different ages but all dressed in similar clothing, were laughing uproariously and clinking beer bottles, swigging for a long moment and then sighing in unison. When we approached, they regarded us curiously.

“Mr. Dell?” Marco handed him his business card. “Marco and Abby Salvare. We'd like to have a word with you.”

Maynard glanced at the card then flicked it away, sending it skittering across the table. Another man picked it up and read it, then passed it to someone else. “I'm at lunch,” Maynard said in a bored voice. “If you need an inspection, call my office.”

“This isn't about an inspection,” Marco said. “It's about a murder investigation.”

Maynard looked at him with a baleful eye. “And just why is it you came to me?”

“We believe you have information that may help us.”

Maynard snorted, causing his cronies to snort, too. “Do I, now?”

“Yes, sir. So we can either talk here in front of your friends or go somewhere private. It's your choice.”

“Son,” Maynard said, “you're misinformed. I know you're talking about that fellow from Brandywine and I'll tell you straight out I don't know anything about him except what I read in the papers.” He folded his hands across his belly and grinned at his buddies as though proud of his tough stance.

“Then you're ready to swear to the police that you've never had any dealings with Dirk Singletary?” Marco asked. “Because that's the fellow I'm referring to, and also the one you've been dealing with at Brandywine for several months—unless the building commissioner was also misinformed.”

Maynard eyed Marco but didn't comment.

“If you don't talk to us now,” Marco said, “you will be talking to detectives later. I can guarantee that.”

“Really?” said Maynard with a smirk. “And just why is that?”

“Because I'm prepared to tell them about that little arrangement you and Dirk had regarding the homes you were supposed to inspect in Brandywine.”

Maynard sat forward, his heavy neck growing red as he stabbed a thick finger at Marco. “Now don't you go making aspersions like that in front of my friends.”

“Then I suggest we find somewhere else to talk,” Marco said, “because I have more aspersions, and you'll like them even less.”

At the hushed murmuring among his cohorts, Maynard got up and adjusted his pants over his belly. “There's a private room up the hallway.”

W
e sat at a long pine table in a room at the back of the building. Marco placed me at the head of the table then took a seat opposite the annoyed building inspector. In the light from an overhead fluorescent tube, Maynard looked old, with wrinkled bags beneath squinting eyes, deep marionette lines that ran from his bulbous nose to his Brillo pad beard, and yellow fingernails on his cigar-stub digits.

As I started a new page in the notebook, Marco began the interview. “Who inspects new construction in New Chapel?”

“I do.”

“Did you inspect the homes in Brandywine?”

With a glare Maynard said, “I just said I was the guy, didn't I?”

“What makes you the expert on building construction?”

“Forty years of experience, that's what makes me an expert. Tell me, son. How many years would you say you've been an expert in your field?”

Marco ignored the dig. “What kind of electrical education have you had?”

Maynard rubbed a hand over his beard, muffling his words.

“Did you say a two-week course?” I asked.

“Two days,” he mumbled, looking out over the room.

“So roughly fourteen hours,” Marco said, “whereas a journeyman electrician needs a five-year apprenticeship before he can call himself an expert. Are you certified?”

“Hold on a second,” Maynard said hotly. “You told me this was about Dirk Singletary. You keep your questions on that subject or I'm gonna walk right out of here.”

“All right,” Marco said evenly. “Let's get right to the investigation. We've learned that some of the homes in Brandywine were not properly inspected and are not up to code but passed anyway.”

“Says who?” Maynard demanded, his fat fingers gripping the table edges.

“Says someone who knows wiring.”

Maynard sat back, crossing his arms. “Give me proof.”

“I can do that. I know a journeyman electrician who's willing to come out to inspect one of the homes later today. He's promised to give me an honest assessment from top to bottom. Would you like us to come back with that proof and bring the police investigators with us or would you rather continue now?”

Maynard slammed his fist on the table. “I tested every one of those houses. The wiring was fine.”

“What method do you use?”

“Method? I don't have a method. I have a specialized tool.”

“What does this
specialized tool
do?”

“It tells me whether electricity is flowing through the wires.”

“Do you go outlet by outlet to check?”

“What are you getting at?”

“Do you go outlet by outlet?”

Maynard ran his fingers through his beard, tugging at the snarls. “A random sampling is all that's necessary.”

“Would I be able to buy this
specialized tool
at the hardware store?”

Maynard shrugged.

“Isn't it, in fact, a twenty-four-dollar GFIC tester that anyone can buy to see if their outlets work?”

Maynard glared at Marco but didn't reply.

“Do you inspect the electrical boxes?”

“Yes.”

“Do you check to see if the switches connect to what they say they do?”

Again Maynard only glared.

“How can you say a house meets code if you don't inspect those things?”

Maynard shoved his chair back, hitting the plank wall. “I don't have to sit here for this—this—witch hunt.”

Marco sat forward, his expression intense, his forearms on the table. “It's a murderer hunt, Mr. Dell, and you, unfortunately, are a suspect.”

Maynard was so flustered he couldn't speak. Now Marco had him where he wanted him and was about to turn up the heat. “Dirk Singletary knew you were passing Brandywine homes fraudulently, didn't he?”

“That's a lie! I did my job—
do
my job—to the best of my ability.”

“But your ability is the problem, isn't it? You don't have the certification to do a proper job, so you pass homes that might not be up to code. They might, in fact, be dangerous to live in. Dirk Singletary knew it, and yet he didn't report you because he knew he could make money from that knowledge. So what was his price?”

The building inspector was on his feet, bristling with outrage. “You're talking nonsense!”

Marco stood, too, and placed his palms on the table, leaning forward to shorten the distance between them. When he spoke his voice was absolutely calm and utterly, deadly serious. “Sit down, Mr. Dell, and pay close attention to what I'm about to say.”

As Maynard took his measure, I held my breath, worried that we'd lose our chance to question him. But it must have finally sunk in that Marco meant business because, with what was left of his pride, he sat down once again and adjusted his chair.

And then Marco began again. “We are fully aware of Dirk's money-making schemes. Rest assured, Mr. Dell, you aren't the only one affected, but you
are
the only one being uncooperative, and there is
nothing
that makes a detective more suspicious than an uncooperative suspect.

“Now here's the important part,” Marco continued. “We have a credible witness who will testify that you threatened to kill Dirk Singletary.”

“What?” he choked out, on his feet again.

“You heard me. So it would behoove you to cooperate because detectives generally go easier on cooperative witnesses. Got that? Because, believe me, my wife and I have no vested interest in protecting you from police interrogation. So I'll ask you again. How much did Dirk ask you to pay him?”

It was a calculated move on Marco's part. If he'd guessed wrong about the demand for money, Maynard could tell us to go take a hike and walk out the door. But he merely studied Marco with calculating eyes before resuming his seat.

“And just so you know,” Marco said, “where the detectives go, so goes Connor MacKay. You're familiar with Connor, right? The crime scene reporter for the
New Chapel News
? Imagine what a scoop he'd have.”

Maynard continue to regard Marco, and I could almost hear the wheels turning in his brain. After another minute, Marco glanced at his watch and said to me, “Let's go. We still have time to catch Detective Wells before she leaves.”

“All right!” Maynard cried. He collapsed against the back of his chair, all his bluster gone. “All right.”

•   •   •

I went to the bartender and ordered coffees for us—Maynard seemed to need something more sobering than alcohol—and as we waited for them to be delivered, he asked, “Just what are you proposing to do with the information I give you?”

“Turn it over to the detectives and impress upon them how cooperative you're being,” Marco said.

Maynard rubbed his heavy hand across his mouth, his crafty gaze on my husband. Finally, he put his hands on the table, folded together pleadingly, as he took on a new persona, that of a beleaguered old man. “You have to understand where I'm coming from, son. I'm a year away from retirement. My health isn't good. My wife is sickly. I've got a roof that needs replacing, an old furnace . . . I'm in no position to hand out money.

“So when Dirk approached me out of the blue, insinuating that he could get me fired because of a few things he claimed to have seen, well, you can imagine my shock. Something like that could cause an old man to collapse right there on the spot. I told him if he thought I had any money he was barking up the wrong tree, but he didn't care one whit about me or my problems. No, sir. He was desperate. He had to have that money now or else. I explained that the only money I had was in my life insurance policy, and that scumbag was okay with me cashing it in. And then he gave me a deadline.”

Marco waited while the bartender came in with a tray, placing steaming mugs, a bowl of coffee creamers, and packets of sweeteners in front of us. Then he asked, “What was the deadline?”

“I don't remember the exact date, but I think it was sometime next week.”

Marco and I exchanged glances, then I wrote in the notebook:
Doesn't remember blackmail deadline?

Marco said, “So you agreed to pay the money.”

“Yes, sir. I had no choice.”

“What was Dirk going to do if you didn't meet your deadline?”

“He told me he had proof that I wasn't doing my job that he could show to the mayor and commissioners.”

“What kind of proof?”

Maynard picked up his mug with both hands as though he was having trouble keeping it steady. “Photos is what he said.”

“Did he ever show you the photos?”

Maynard shook his head then used his trembling hands to bring the mug to his lips. I guessed it was an attempt to make us feel sorry for him.

“Do you have any idea what the photos show?”

“No, sir. When I was on the premises at Brandywine, I was inspecting. I don't know what he could've seen.”

“Wouldn't a reasonable person ask to see the photos before handing over money?” Marco asked.

Maynard stared into his cup as though embarrassed. “I didn't think of it.”

I had to pinch my lips to keep from scoffing. I didn't believe him for a second.

“Mr. Dell, what kind of car do you own?” asked Marco.

“It's parked right out front, a white van with the town logo on it. A company car.”

“What about your wife?”

“She drives a red Buick LeSabre.”

“Where were you from seven to ten o'clock on the Friday evening Dirk was found murdered?”

“Home with my wife.”

“What time did you leave work that Friday?”

Maynard stroked his beard for a moment. “Five o'clock.”

“Is that the time you usually quit?”

He nodded.

“Did you stop at Brandywine before heading home?”

“No, sir.”

“What time did you arrive at your residence?”

“About seven o'clock.”

“Why so late?”

After a noisy sip of coffee, he said, “I usually have a few beers with my buddies after work on Fridays.”

“Here?”

“Yes. It's on the way home.”

“Do you live in New Chapel?”

“Not New Chapel proper, no.”

“Why are you here now?”

“I'm on my lunch break.”

“I didn't see any food.”

Eyeing Marco over the mug, Maynard said slyly, “I was warming up to it.”

“How long is your lunch break?”

“An hour.”

“So if I ask the bartender how long you usually stay, he'll say an hour?”

“Maybe a little longer.”

“Maybe all afternoon?”

“No, sir,” Maynard said. “I might stretch my lunch hour on occasion, but I'm a hardworking man who puts in an honest day's work.”

I had to stop myself from snickering.

Marco studied him for a moment, then said to me, “Anything I missed?”

I shook my head.

“Okay, Mr. Dell, that will do it for now.”

Maynard downed the rest of his coffee then rose with an exaggerated groan and lumbered out of the room.

Marco looked at me. “Let's see what the bartender has to say about that Friday night.”

•   •   •

Our habit was to go over all the information we'd gleaned after every interview, so once we were in the car heading back to town, I opened the notebook. “Ready.”

“First question,” Marco said, “why were you so quiet?”

“You were on a roll, Marco. My function today was totally supportive.”

He put his hand on my arm. “I just wanted to be sure it wasn't because of anything I said about our last interview. We're a team, Sunshine. Never forget that.”

I smiled at him. Actually, it
was
a little about what he'd said to me. My goal now was to redeem myself in his eyes.

“What did you think of Maynard's answer to the deadline question?” Marco asked. “If someone were blackmailing me and gave me a deadline, you'd better believe I'd know it down to the minute. Also I question why he didn't ask to see those photos. No one in their right mind would pay up without seeing proof. And for that reason I think he knew what the photos would show. It's also why he just moved to number one on my suspect list.”

Mitzi was still my number one. “Wasn't it pathetic how Maynard suddenly tried to make himself out to be a helpless old man?”

“Quite an act. So our next step is to verify that the white van is Maynard's only vehicle and that he can take it home. I doubt there's any use in talking to his wife about what time he got home that Friday—I'm sure Maynard will coach her—but I'll give her a call anyway.”

“The bartender wasn't much help about that Friday night, but at least we found out ourselves that Maynard could've easily made it to Brandywine before seven thirty.”

Marco pulled into a public parking lot. “I'm going to ask Jane if she found any photos among Dirk's things. If she thought it would take the heat off her, she might share them with us. And that might be a way to get in the door again.” He shut off the engine and reached over to tweak my nose. “Now on to a more pleasant subject. How about dinner at the bar tonight?”