4 Decoupage Can Be Deadly (28 page)

As soon as she left with the order, MacIntyre plunged into beg-mode. “I don’t care what I have to do on your show; I’ll sweep floors. I need a job, any job.”

Even though we’d scratched MacIntyre off our list of probably suspects, Tino and I had to maintain our ruse. I parroted my spiel about the early stages of the process and conducting preliminary interviews, ending with, “Why not tell us about your situation?”

He immediately launched into a summary of the trials and tribulations that comprised his life, beginning with a one-car accident that had permanently landed his wife in a wheelchair two years ago and cost him his career.

“What caused the accident?” I asked, suspecting I already knew the answer.

He didn’t disappoint. “The cops said I was drunk, but I wasn’t. I’d only had four beers that night. They used a faulty Breathalyzer.”

I wondered how often the police heard that excuse.

“We skidded on a patch of black ice,” he continued. “The car swerved off the road and slammed into a tree. Christina suffered permanent nerve damage to her legs. I walked away without a scratch.”

“Man, that’s rough,” said Tino.

“Tell me about it. She’d just gone back to work after eighteen months of treatment and therapy when that douche bag Gruenwald fired her.”

“Fired?” Tino raised his eyebrows and challenged MacIntyre. “I thought you said on the phone that she was laid off when the magazine she worked for folded?”

“Did I? Fired. Laid off.” MacIntyre shrugged. “What’s the difference? She’s out of work, thanks to him.” He continued to whine until the waitress returned with our drinks.

“What about you?” I asked after taking a sip of my margarita. “You said the accident cost you your career. Why? You weren’t injured.”

“I can thank the cops and their damn false police report for that. According to my employer, I violated their code of conduct, and that’s grounds for dismissal.”

“What type of work did you do?”

MacIntyre mumbled his answer. “I was a drug counselor for the state corrections bureau.”

“I see.”

He slammed his hand on the table, knocking over the salt and pepper shakers and sloshing the liquid in our glasses. “No you don’t. I’m a big guy. I can handle four beers, dammit! I wasn’t drunk.”

Like he wasn’t drunk now. I’m sure, had he lived for me to learn his secrets, Dead Louse of a Spouse would have denied having a gambling problem. Addiction and denial went hand-in-hand.

The waitress brought out the platter of nachos. Even though I had no appetite, I placed a few on my plate to nibble while I drank, not wanting the tequila to go to my head.

Tino and I were wasting our time with this guy, but I continued to let him rant while I sipped my margarita, nibbled on a few nachos, and allowed my mind to wander. From dealing with Mama and Lucille over the years, I’d perfected the fine art of pretense. With frequent nods of my head and the occasional, “I see” or “Uh-huh,” I gave the impression of engaging in the conversation while my mind focused elsewhere. As Paul MacIntyre continued to blame everyone else for his own shortcomings and troubles, I contemplated how few variations of Lepra-Bunny-Bears I could get away with making for the March issue.

After another ten minutes, Tino glanced at his watch. “Look at the time. We’ve got to hustle to make it to our next appointment on time.” He signaled the waitress for the bill, then headed to the bar to pay it.

“Sorry to cut this short,” I said to MacIntyre when Tino returned to the table. “We’ll be in touch once we’ve made our decisions.”

“I meant what I said; I’ll do any job you’ve got.”

“I’ll keep that in mind, Mr. MacIntyre. Good luck to you and your wife.”

“Luck?” He laughed derisively. “If I had luck, I wouldn’t be sitting here begging you for a spot on some stupid reality TV show, would I?”

I decided not to answer. Instead, I turned my back on him and headed for the exit, happy to leave Paul MacIntyre to cry alone into his beer, blaming the world for his woes as he continued to add to them.

As we left the tavern, Tino said, “He drank three double bourbons before we arrived. I gave the bartender money to call a cab for him.”

“How do you know about the bourbons?”

“The waitress added them to our bill.”

“I’ll bet he told her to do that before we arrived.”

“No doubt.”

“I hope Mr. Gruenwald is reimbursing you.”

He shrugged. “Don’t worry about it.”

I wouldn’t have let Paul MacIntyre scam me out of three double bourbons, but people who spend twelve hundred dollars on designer sunglasses don’t sweat such trivialities.

~*~

Tino dropped me off at Trimedia shortly after three o’clock. I slipped out of my UsTV windbreaker, removed the ball cap, and undid my ponytail before opening the car door. “You’re not coming in?” I asked when he remained seated, the engine running.

“Can’t. I have to pick up Mr. G. in the city.”

“I’ll try not to get myself killed,” I said.

“You better not. I don’t want your death on my hands.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it, Tino.” I waved good-bye and headed upstairs to cram a day’s worth of work into a couple of hours.

“Where have you been all day?” asked Cloris when she caught me ducking into my cubicle. “Off catching bad guys?”

I filled her in on my latest theory regarding
Bear Essentials
. “Of the three most likely suspects, I think we can eliminate two of them.”

“And the third?”

I told her about our meeting with Borz Kazbek.

“Aside from being a woman-hating creep, why do you think he’s the killer?” she asked.

“Process of elimination.” I pulled out my sewing machine from where I stored it under the counter and hoisted it onto a cleared workspace. “If not Kazbek, then whom?”

“You’ve ruled out your hunky shadow? What about the crystal embedded in the sole of his shoe and the one in the trunk of the car?”

“Coincidence. He probably picked up both in Gruenwald’s office. If Philomena and Gruenwald were having an afternoon delight, those crystals could be hiding in the carpet, stuck between the couch cushions, anywhere.”

Cloris scrunched up her nose. “TMI. Not to mention what it says about the cleaning staff.”

“But logical, right?”

“I suppose. Now what?”

“I mention Borz Kazbek to Detective Batswin, just in case he’s not on her radar, then get back to my real job.” My Lepra-Bunny-Bear deadline couldn’t wait for me to solve Philomena’s murder.

For the remainder of the work day, I concentrated on the March issue. Pulling muslin from the storage closet and three sizes of bunny and bear patterns from my files, I constructed a prototype of a Lepra-Bunny-Bear family—mama, papa, and baby Lepra-Bunny-Bear. Once satisfied with the results, I called it a day. It wasn’t until I stepped out of my cubicle and headed to the elevator, that I realized I’d totally lost track of time. Quiet filled the halls.

TWENTY-TWO

Ever since last winter when I returned to work after hours and discovered a dead body in my cubicle, silence in the workplace has creeped me out. The lack of click-clacking computer keys, chattering coworkers, and tap-tap-tapping of heels along the corridors reminded me a killer still lurked in our midst. At times like this, I wished the overprotective, imposing hulk of Tino Martinelli stood by my side.

The elevator dinged its arrival. I inhaled a deep calming breath as the doors swished open and stepped inside, pushing the button for the ground floor. I took comfort in knowing that even at seven o’clock in the evening, I wouldn’t exit the building into total darkness. Although the days steadily grew darker, the end of Daylight Savings Time wouldn’t arrive for several weeks yet.

As expected, the parking lot was empty except for my Jetta. I beeped open the door lock and slipped behind the wheel. After locking the door and fastening my seatbelt, I inhaled another deep breath, but instead of exhaling a sigh of relief, I gasped. A folded piece of paper sat trapped under my windshield wiper.

I sat statue-still for a solid minute, a death grip on my steering wheel, as I stared through the glass at the small white square of folded paper. My mind raced with all sorts of scenarios, none of them good.

Had Borz Kazbek followed Tino and me back to Trimedia and figured out we weren’t who we said we were? Was the note a threat? There was only one way to find out, but I first needed to screw up the courage to do so. Part of me—a very large cowardly part of me—wanted to convince myself that ignorance was bliss.

A much smaller part of me knew I had no choice but to open the door and reach around to retrieve the note. First, I started the engine. Then I unbuckled my seatbelt and unlocked the door. As fast as I could, I swung open the door, stepped one foot out onto the blacktop, reached over the door, and grabbed the note. Then I slipped back into the car, slammed and locked the door, and sat trembling with the note in my lap.

I tried a few more calming breaths with limited success. My limbs continued to shake, and my heart continued to beat rapidly. So I ratcheted up my courage as high as possible and unfolded the note.

I WON’T BE IGNORED. I WILL HAVE JUSTICE.

Who won’t be ignored? Justice for what? The typewritten note made no sense. It contained no clue as to the sender’s identity other than the person probably didn’t own a computer. Who uses a typewriter any more—and an old typewriter, at that, from the looks of the uneven ink and broken J?

Philomena’s killer was still on the loose, possibly prowling around Trimedia, but if the note had some connection to the murder, that connection escaped me. I hated word puzzles. I’d dealt with too many of them over the last few months. Between the note I discovered in Lou Beaumont’s apartment, the ones sent by Erica Milano’s stalker, and the puzzle of Lyndella Wegner’s journals, I’d had my fill of cryptic messages. Now this one. I needed an Enigma machine. Or a decoder ring.

Too bad there’s never a decryption device around when you need one. In lieu of any code-breaking hardware, I placed a call to Detective Batswin, pushed the button to engage the speaker, and placed my cell in the cup holder.

Never one for unnecessary pleasantries, Batswin answered with, “What can I do for you now, Mrs. Pollack?”

I shifted into Drive, released the brake, and exited the Trimedia parking lot. “I thought you should know about a couple of things that have come up,” I said.

“Since we met yesterday?”

“Yes. There’s a former employee of
Bear Essentials
, Borz Kazbek, who—”

“Who you went to see today.”

“How did you know that?”

“When we picked him up for questioning, he mentioned a meeting with a couple of TV producers. Anyone you know, Mrs. Pollack.”

“I’m just doing my job, Detective.”

“No, you’re doing my job.”

“Yes, but—”

“There are no
buts
. Keep your nose out of this investigation. I don’t need a killer getting off on a technicality because some overly-nosy civilian decided to play Nancy Drew.”

“Does that mean you don’t want to know about the note I found stuck on my car windshield?”

“What note? When?”

“A few minutes ago. It says, “
I won’t be ignored. I will have justice
.” All caps. Written on an old typewriter.”

“What do you think it means?”

“I don’t have a clue. You’re the detective.”

Batswin’s annoyance with me came through loud and clear as she let loose an exasperated exhalation. “You haven’t pissed anyone off lately, have you?”

“Other than you? No.”

After another loud breath of annoyance, she said, “My life was a lot less complicated before our paths crossed, Mrs. Pollack.”

“Mine, too, Detective.” What I wouldn’t give to turn back the clock and not find a dead body glued to my desk chair. “What do you want me to do with the note?”

“Where are you?”

“On my way home.”

“Don’t handle the paper any more than you already have. I’ll pick it up from you tomorrow.” She hung up.

My phone rang a moment later. I flipped it open, quickly glanced at the display, then blindly fumbled with the answer and speaker buttons as I kept my eyes on traffic.

“Good. You’re alive,” said Zack after I’d said hello. “The natives are restless.”

“Which natives? Two-legged, four-legged or winged?”

“All of the above.”

“Are you counting yourself among the two-legged variety?”

“Absolutely. I miss you. Coming home soon?”

“I’m about half an hour away. I lost track of time at work. What’s going on there?”

“The usual. Lucille’s minions have overrun your house. The boys and Ralph are camped out in my apartment. Poor Mephisto wanted to escape with them, but Lucille accused me of attempted dog-napping.”

Just another normal day at
Casa Pollack
. If it weren’t for a killer on the loose, I’d turn the car around and head back to camp out at the office for the night. Gruenwald’s couch looked comfortable enough for sleeping. With any luck, it opened up into a bed. “At least Mama isn’t there,” I said.