Toured to Death (23 page)

T
he buzzer zapped in a short, furious burst as Amy threw open the office door and strode in.

Fanny was at her desk, leaning forward on her elbows and chatting up a familiar-looking young couple. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Amy and waved her over. “You'll just love the highland gorillas,” she continued without missing a beat. “We were lucky to get you reservations. That camp is sold out months in advance. Amy can tell you. She's been there. Amy, come here.” Amy stood her ground, motioning for Fanny to join her instead. “Excuse me, Matt. Wanda. I have to go humor the boss.”

“Your honeymooners?” Amy whispered. “You're sending them to Rwanda?”

“First-class safari. Her family's footing the bill.”

“You can't send them to Rwanda. Guerrillas.”

“Yes, dear. They like gorillas.”

Amy lowered her voice even further. “No, no, the human kind. Rebel forces. They're shooting people at the airport.”

“No wonder reservations were easy.”

“Mom, that package I gave you to mail this morning . . .”

“You wanted me to mail it? I mailed it. You want to see the postal receipt?”

“Damn!” Amy slapped her desktop. “Oh, it's not your fault. It's mine.”

“What's the matter now? You didn't want me to mail it?”

“I did, but I don't now.”

“Don't tell me you changed your mind?”

“Yeah.” Amy was embarrassed. “I want to check out a few things.”

“Oh, my,” Fanny gasped. “You figured something out. I knew you would.”

“Thanks. But I need to see Otto's research for the game.”

“It's in the first-floor window seat at home, under a blanket. It might smell a bit. I put in new cedar blocks.”

“What might smell? The master script?” Amy was confused. “You mean you didn't mail it?”

“I figured you might change your mind.”

“You figured? You promised to mail it.”

“Don't tell me you're upset?”

“No.” She was shaking her head, half laughing with relief. “But you just swore. You had a receipt.”

“Distrusting your mother enough to look at the receipt? Even you wouldn't do that.”

“Bless your devious heart.” Amy kissed her on the cheek, then headed for the door. “Thank you.”

Fanny watched her leave, then crossed back to her clients, strutting all the way. “Bosses. Every now and then they appreciate you.”

It was just a few blocks from the office to the brownstone, and Amy's pace slowed as she approached. She finally knew who had poisoned Georgina, at least who'd had an opportunity, the only person other than Marcus.

The envelope was just where Fanny had said, in the old cedar chest that doubled as a window seat. Amy tore open the envelope and pulled out the red script. It did smell a bit of cedar. She tucked it under her arm, then trudged up to the fourth-floor sunroom.

It shouldn't be impossible to connect the dots. Amy had a name now; she had a face and a personality and a past to delve into. She had a killer who had been ingenious and bold enough to poison a drink right under their noses. She just didn't have a motive.

Amy turned on her desk lamp and sat down with the script. She flipped to the back, to the section where Otto had compiled his notes from the San Diego investigation.

Okay, where do I start? What do I look for?
The first thing that caught her eye was the credit card receipts. During Carvel's cross-country escapade from Long Island to San Diego, he periodically charged things. Or someone did. The police had determined that the signatures were forged. She inspected the signatures, then opened up her own files and tried to compare these to one of the signatures on a tour contract. There seemed to be no similarity, but maybe an expert could make a connection.

Next, she sought out the autopsy. After that, the crime scene report. Then the notes from the San Diego district attorney. When she finally looked up, it was already eight and darkness had settled over the communal garden. The sight magically triggered her appetite, and she reached for the phone.

“Leesa? Amy Abel. How are the boys? Good. You know, I saw Billy on the street the other day with his pals. He was smoking.” Amy nodded sadly into the cell phone. “Yeah, I know. What're you gonna do? Oh, just the usual. Nothing for Fanny.” She hung up, safe in the knowledge that an order of steamed dumplings, sesame chicken, white rice, and a ripe orange would arrive at her door within fifteen minutes.

The next phone call was a bit more difficult. “Hi.”

An eavesdropper on Amy's half of the conversation would have overheard little—long pauses interrupted by the usual “I'm still here” noises of a listener. “Uh-huh. Yeah. I know. I understand.” And finally that most judgmental of phrases, “Look, I'm not blaming you.”

“No, I don't think you're a killer.” She listened for another minute, growing impatient with the excuses and explanations. “No, no, of course not.” Another interruption. “They can't arrest you.” She supposed it was just nerves that were making him go on and on like this. But still . . . “Because I know who the killer is.”
Oops.
She shouldn't have said that.

“No, I won't tell you. It's really just a guess, but a good one. Give me a few hours to think about it.” The intercom buzzed, and she knew it had to be Billy with her food. “I'm not telling anyone.” She crossed to the intercom and, without a word, pressed the door release. “I don't know.” She repeated this phrase twice more in response to different questions. “Look, Marcus, I gotta go. Someone's at the door.” And she hung up.

Amy crossed to the stairs and waited at the top of the landing, listening to the slow patter of climbing feet. “Billy?”

Two flights below, a shadow moved in the stairwell. The shadow and the echoing footfalls and the solitude of the moment brought to mind the most clichéd of mystery conventions.

It was a scene distilled from a hundred worn-out plots. Early in the last reel or somewhere late in the novel, a witness—usually a woman—tells a friend that she knows the killer's identity but for some reason refuses to tell anyone. No, that would be too easy. In nine out of ten versions, this woman quickly becomes the final victim.

“Miss Abel?” asked a breathless voice.

Amy didn't reply but retreated a foot back toward the safety of her living room.

“You shouldn't have told.”

A familiar voice, but Amy couldn't place it.

“You tell my mother I'm smoking?”

“Yes. Yes, I did,” Amy yelled out through the open doorway.

A petulant Billy appeared from around the final mid-flight landing. “Why you do that?”

“Why?” She was almost giddy from relief. “Because smoking is dumb, that's why. Very dumb. You could die.”

The stubby Chinese teenager climbed out of the shadows, waving one hand dismissively as the other held out a plastic shopping bag. “Agh, you can die from anything.”

Right. She couldn't argue with that.

 

It was all together on one plate, more thrown together than mixed. One dumpling, soy sauce, a single piece of chicken, and a clump of white rice with square corners. Amy sat meditatively on a stool by the kitchen counter, clutching her coffee cup and watching through the lit window as the plate spun on the microwave turntable. Breakfast.

“Morning, Amy.”

She didn't flinch, didn't even look up from her entertainment. She was too groggy to be surprised, not that Marcus could really surprise her anymore. “Morning.”

“I rang Fanny's bell.”

“Of course. Did you two have a nice chat?”

Marcus stood in the doorway, looking uncharacteristically sheepish. “Smells good.” He wore blue jeans and a long-sleeved white T-shirt, the sleeves pushed up to expose his forearms. It was the simplest of outfits and made him look irresistible. Amy felt manipulated.

“How was your day with Frank and company? I'm sure you held your own.”

“I survived. Want the gory details?”

“Sure.”

Marcus ignored her frosty reception. Sergeant Rawlings, he explained, had eventually obtained a court order, allowing them to take fingerprints and handwriting samples. But most of his time at the station had been wasted, going over and over his alibi on the day of Otto's murder, a day that Marcus, along with millions of others, had spent relatively alone in the midst of the bustling city. “They seemed frustrated by the lack of evidence. I felt almost sorry for them.”

“Me too.”

“Amy.” His composure was starting to crack. “I'm sorry. I should have told you. But I didn't want to hurt your feelings, and now I've done even worse. I was so afraid of being arrested.”

“Any port in a storm.”

“You know better.”

“Oh, that's right. I know because you've always been so honest.”

“Okay. You want to be mad at me. That's what this boils down to. You're glad for the excuse, so you won't have to deal with whatever might be happening between us.”

“Whoa. You and Mom
did
have a chat.”

“What was so wrong with me coming to you when I was in need? What? Would you prefer I went to someone else?”

Amy shook her head. “I don't want to discuss this.” At the beep, she popped the door and used a pot holder to retrieve the plate. Steam fogged up her glasses, but she didn't take them off, just let them steam. “You're blocking the silverware drawer.”

Marcus moved. “They sent men to search my place. And they spent a lot of time asking about the gun.”

“I'd offer you some, but I don't feel like it.” Amy stood at the counter and sliced her chicken. “Gun?”

“The gun used on Otto. It's probably the only piece of evidence that could connect me to his murder.”

“Good point. The killer probably kept it. Just in case.”

“There's a cheery thought.” He waited patiently as Amy finished the chicken and started on the dumpling. “What you said last night, is that true? You know how she was poisoned?”

Amy chewed and nodded. “I'm going to see Rawlings this morning. It might be enough for him to get a search warrant. Maybe they'll find the gun.”

“You think he'll listen?”

Amy looked doubtful. “I just wish I knew the motive.”

“So you don't think it was about milk allergies and the vengeful cook?”

“I know that's your favorite theory.”

“And not just because it's kind of wacky. It makes sense.”

“I can't tell Rawlings about the milk. As it is, he'll probably laugh at me.”

“Then why tell him? Tell me. We can smoke out this guy, you and me.”

Amy chewed as she spoke. “You know what the definition of
farce
is? A farce is when someone says, ‘Let's tell the police.' But no one does.”

“Is that a quotation?”

“I think so. My point is, I'm not going to run around trying to trap a killer.”

Marcus thought it over. “That's not the best definition of
farce.
There are plenty of farces where people call the police.”

“You're missing the point.”

“And a lot of farces are about sex, which wouldn't even entail calling the police.”

“Please,” Amy begged. “I'm still waking up.”

“How can you eat that in the morning?”

No response.

“So, if you tell Rawlings, why won't you tell me?”

“Because. Because I promised myself I wouldn't.”

“I see.” He paused, as if to think it over. “Eat your breakfast.”

Marcus backed up several steps, giving Amy the space she needed. As his eyes fell on the refrigerator door, he saw the photograph, the folded, wrinkled enlargement he had shown Doris Carvel. It was at eye level, held in place by palm tree magnets, preserved like a kid's first piece of art.

Six faces stared back from among the wrinkles. A discolored vertical fold obscured one of Burt's crutches, while a horizontal one made Jolynn a little fatter and Martha not quite so imposingly tall. A sudden flutter of light through the kitchen window played over the glossy surface, and it was this optical effect that gave enough shadow to one of the faces to send a chill of recognition through Marcus's frame.

He caught his breath and brushed his hair aside, hoping to hide the involuntary shudder. His mind was so completely occupied that he didn't even register the growing silence between them.

“What's the matter?”

“What?”

Amy had deposited her plate in the sink and was aiming hot water over the flecks of greasy rice. “I'm sorry if this is awkward,” she said, still gazing into the sink.

“No, that's all right.”

“There's no reason for me not to tell you, except pride.”

“Good a reason as any.” The words came out sounding more sarcastic than he'd intended.

“If you want me to tell you . . .”

“No. I don't need to know.” He sounded sincere, if a little distracted. “I don't want to make you late for your meeting.” Marcus was already heading for the stairs.

“Look, I'm sorry. Marcus, wait up.”

But he didn't. A minute later and two flights down, he walked into another kitchen, this one filled with the smell of coffee and freshly unwrapped lox. “Can I borrow a car?”

“A car?” Fanny had already crossed to the cupboard and was reaching for another cup. “We only have one, dear. Well, Amy has one. Coffee?”