Requiem for a Realtor (24 page)

“If you say so. He said to feel free to bring my problems to him. So I did.”

“What were you talking about?”

“My cat. I asked him to take a look at her.”

“Anything wrong?”

“What's the difference? There's nothing wrong with me and he won't let me alone.”

“What did he say?”

“He said he wasn't a vet. I told him I was. Korean War. I was giving him the story of the battle for Pusan when he left me.”

Poor David Jameson, Father Dowling thought as he went on to the rectory. How often good intentions are a pain in the neck. He would have to begin a novena that Jameson would marry Bridget and begin and end his charity at home.

5

With less work to do than usual Shirley Escalante brooded over the deaths of Stanley Collins and Bob Oliver. The one had been her employer, and the other had been right here in the office talking to her the day before he was killed, so she could hardly expect not to think about them. Gradually a dreadful possibility occurred to her. Maybe Phyllis Collins benefitted from the death of her husband, but no one imagined that she had anything to do with it. Someone else benefitted, too. George Sawyer. And after Bob Oliver had left her that day after Mrs. Sawyer's visit, George Sawyer came in, and she told him that the reporter had been there.

“What the hell for?”

“He does these feature articles in the
Tribune.
He is planning one on Realtors. The photographer took at least a hundred pictures.”

“Of what?”

“The office. Mine, yours, Mr. Collins.”

“You let him into Stanley's office?”

“They just took some photographs.”

She had half a mind to tell him that his own wife had been in there, too. Mr. Sawyer stormed into Stanley's office, slamming the door shut behind him.

Shirley was stunned. She had expected him to be delighted at the prospect of free publicity. He was banging around in his late partner's office, opening and shutting drawers, grumbling audibly. When he came out he stood in front of Shirley's desk.

“I suppose he asked you a lot of questions.”

“He was trying to understand how an agency like this works. They wanted your photograph, too.”

“Was he alone in the offices?”

“No! The photographer was with him. I was with him.”

He got control of himself. “I don't like people snooping around here. You should have known better.”

Shirley was furious. “I thought I was doing something beneficial for the firm.”

“Okay. Okay. He wasn't alone in there?”

“No!” What on earth difference would it have made if he had been?

He was about to respond in anger, but he swung away, went into his own office, slamming the door. Shirley escaped to the restroom. When she returned George Sawyer was seated at her desk. He rose.

“I'm going out. You can reach me on my cell phone.”

He did not look at her, as if he were ashamed of the scene he had put on. But after he was gone she thought his manner seemed to have been more of guilt than shame. From that moment she was certain he had killed both his partner and Bob Oliver.

The following day this conviction had strengthened. But what was she to do with such knowledge? She had already spoken with Lieutenant Horvath, but she wanted a more sympathetic ear for her story. And she wanted to talk to someone who could persuade her she was wrong if she was. She thought of Father Dowling.

He was the priest who had presided at the funeral of Stanley Collins. At the time, Shirley had entertained thoughts of again practicing her faith, but she had slept late last Sunday as she usually did. Even so, something in the priest's voice and manner made her sure she could talk to him and tell him the awful suspicions she had about George Sawyer.

The woman who answered the rectory door was a bit of a surprise. Did Father Dowling's mother act as his housekeeper?

“At the moment, he's over at the school,” the housekeeper said when Shirley asked if she could speak with Father Dowling. “Of course, it's no longer a school. We use it now as a center for older people. You can wait here in the parlor.” She came in with Shirley, got her seated, and then sat herself, smiling receptively.

“Are you his mother?”

“Mother? Whose mother?”

“Father Dowling's.”

“My name is Marie Murkin. I am the housekeeper.” She had gotten to her feet. Her smile was gone.

“Oh, I'm so sorry.”

“Have you ever met Father?”

“I've only seen him from a distance.”

The frown went even if the smile did not return. “When you see him you will see why your question surprised me.” Again she sat. “Do you live in the parish?”

“I think so.”

“Don't you know?”

“I don't belong.”

“But you want to. Is that why you're here?”

Shirley had not been prepared for this. She tried to imagine herself quizzing clients at Sawyer and Collins like this. The thought led her to tell Marie Murkin where she worked.

“Really! You worked for Stanley Collins?”

“And for his partner, George Sawyer. I am the office manager.”

There was the sound of a door opening, and a moment later the priest stood in the doorway. Marie Murkin had risen.

“Father, this is the office manager at Sawyer and Collins.”

He came toward her and took her hand.

“My name is Shirley Escalante. I have to talk with you.”

“Is that all right, Marie?”

The housekeeper gave out an unconvincing little laugh and hurried down the hallway. Father Dowling closed the door and took a seat at the desk. “Well then?”

“I don't know where to begin.”

“Why not try the beginning.”

“Well, I do work at Sawyer and Collins. And, of course, you know what happened to Mr. Collins.”

He nodded. She had been right to think that she could tell him everything, and she did. Because somehow it did seem the beginning, she started with the key to Stanley Collins's car.

“I had an extra set in the office, but when the police asked about that I couldn't find them. They were gone. Other than George Sawyer, no one else would have known of those keys.”

“And you think he took them.”

“Their partnership was an endless quarrel. Somehow they remained friends of a sort but in the office it was constant wrangling. Most of it initiated by George Sawyer, who thought Mr. Collins did not carry his weight in the agency.”

“Was that true?”

She wished she could deny it, but she couldn't. Besides, it was that constant accusation that had turned her mind to suspecting George Sawyer. And then she mentioned the mutual insurance policy.

“Everyone talked about how much the widow would gain, but Mr. Sawyer will collect a million dollars in insurance money. Maybe more, given the way Mr. Collins died.”

“Double indemnity.”

“I guess.”

She told the priest of the way both partners frequented the Rendezvous. “It was just outside that nightclub that Mr. Collins was struck. And by his own car, which was then left in the club parking lot where the police found it the next day.”

“So your fear is that Mr. Sawyer, having taken the keys from your desk, used them to take his partner's car and run him down?”

“Yes.”

“For the insurance money.”

“Father, it's worse. I think he may have been responsible for the death of Bob Oliver as well.”

“Good heavens.”

She told him of George Sawyer's reaction to learning that Oliver and his photographer had been at the agency, of his strange behavior when he learned that the reporter had been in his partner's office.

“Was anything missing?”

“He didn't say that.”

“Would you know if something was missing from Stanley Collins's office?”

Shirley stared at him. “I should have checked.”

“Have you just come from the agency?”

“Yes.”

“Would you like me to come back there with you while you see if anything is missing from Mr. Collins's office?”

“Would you?”

He rose. “It isn't just curiosity, Shirley. If there is any basis for your suspicions, it might not be safe for you to be there alone.”

“Oh, my Lord.”

It seemed to tell against her suspicion that she had never felt fear in the presence of George Sawyer.

Entering the office in the company of Father Dowling made it seem a strange place. The priest stood and looked about him.

“Show me where you kept the keys.”

She took him to her desk and sat before opening the drawer. As she did so, she began again describing how she had done then just what she was doing now.

“I keep them all here, with little tags.” She began to rummage through the keys in the plastic tray and then stopped.

“Is something the matter?”

For answer, Shirley held up a key. “This is it! It's back.”

He sat across from her, and it helped that his reaction to her discovery was calm. Shirley's own mind was a cascade of thoughts.

“When did you last check the keys?”

“Father, he put it back here the other day. Now I am sure of it. He sat at this desk. I stepped out of the office, if only to get away from him. He was in a terrible mood. He was sitting here when I returned.”

“And you're sure George Sawyer had it.”

“What do you think?”

He had taken out his pipe and now seemed surprised to find it in his hand.

“I think you should call Lieutenant Horvath.”

6

Cy Horvath went to the agency offices when he received Shirley Escalante's phone call and looked at the ignition key she took from the plastic tray in her desk drawer.

“This wasn't here when we looked before.”

“No.”

“What's the explanation?”

She observed a moment of silence, as if wondering what loyalty demanded. Then she said in a low voice, “Mr. Sawyer.”

He listened while she told him of George Sawyer's coming to the office and sitting at her desk.

“There's more.”

“Go on.”

“He was very upset when I told him Bob Oliver had been here.”

Her account of Oliver's visit, once alone, the second time with his photographer, was detailed.

“He was such a nice man.”

For a moment he thought she meant George Sawyer.

“Have you any idea where George Sawyer is?”

“I could page him.”

“Go ahead.”

She left a message on Sawyer's pager, asking him to call in, not saying why. Ten minutes later the phone rang. It was Sawyer. Cy reached for the instrument.

“Sawyer? Lieutenant Horvath. Where can we meet?”

“Meet? What for?”

“I'd rather tell you personally.”

“Lieutenant, I have to earn a living. I think you'll agree that I have been cooperative. Of course I'll see you again, but at the moment—”

“Where are you?”

A pause long enough to make Cy wonder if the connection had been broken. “As it happens, I am coming to the office.”

“I'll be here.”

From a window, Cy watched Sawyer pull into the parking lot behind the building. He sat in his car for a minute before the door opened and he got out, in shirtsleeves, swinging his suit jacket over his shoulder, an angry look on his face. He came through the door as if he were conducting a raid. He glared at Cy.

“Well, what is it?”

“Your partner's ignition key has turned up.”

Sawyer assumed a look of disbelief. “What the hell difference does that make?”

“I'll explain it to you. Stanley Collins had been run over by his own car. His ignition key was in his pocket. There was no key in the car. So where was the key used by whoever ran down Collins?”

“His wife had a key. There was a key in the office.” He looked at Shirley, who was standing next to her desk. “Show him the key to Stanley's car.”

“This is it,” Cy said, holding it up. “Miss Escalante just gave it to me.”

“And that is why you wanted to talk to me?”

“The key has been missing, Sawyer. When I first came here to talk to Miss Escalante she told me about her tray of extra keys. The ignition key to Collins's car was missing. Now it's back.”

Sawyer took a hanger from the coat rack and arranged his suit jacket on it and hung it up. He looked at Shirley. “Did you tell him about Bob Oliver's visit?”

“Yes.”

Sawyer looked at Cy. “Does that help you?”

“How?”

“Oh, come on. Stanley was his brother-in-law. He hated his guts, and not without reason, considering the way he treated Oliver's sister.”

“Phyllis.”

“Phyllis.”

“You think Bob Oliver killed his brother-in-law?”

“Horvath, you're the cop, not me. Figure it out.”

“So who ran over Bob Oliver?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Haven't you heard?”

“Horvath, I don't know what in hell you are talking about.”

Anyone who sold real estate had to be an actor of sorts. George Sawyer gave a convincing impression of someone who had not heard of the death of Bob Oliver. So Cy told him about it.

“I don't think he ran himself down, Sawyer. Any more than your partner did.”

“Where did it happen?”

“Behind the Frosinone Hotel.”

“The Frosinone! Maybe you better check with the Pianones.”

“Maybe you better check with your lawyer.”

“You're kidding.”

“No. I am not kidding. Your lawyer would advise you to say nothing while I point out to you that you and Stanley Collins were not on the best of terms. Quite apart from business difficulties, there was the matter of Wanda Janski. Stanley cut you out there, didn't he? Who better than you knew how he hung around the Rendezvous? You probably knew where he parked his car. And you knew where to get an ignition key.”