Secrets and sins, p.8
Secrets and Sins, page 8
Half an hour later, McCallister and Holly sat in the boarding area with nearly an hour to kill. They sat in silence for several minutes until Holly retrieved a small bag of potato chips from her carry-on. “If you eat this entire bag for me, I’ll kiss you right here and now, in front of all these people,” she challenged.
“Hol, that sounds more like a threat than an incentive,” McCallister countered. “Besides, I don’t want any of these people watching you kiss me.”
“All right, then, party pooper. What’ll it take?”
“How about a simple ‘please’?”
“Babe, would you please eat these potato chips? It would make me very happy.”
She smiled at her and took the bag, deciding to ignore the gnawing knot in her stomach and just eat the blasted things. Holly grabbed some glam magazine from her bag, and McCallister went for the American Orchidist Association Magazine she had stashed in her own. She leafed through the pages, viewing picture after picture of incredible flowers. Holly slowly became interested and leaned in. McCallister could sense her artist’s mind appraising the different hues and angles of light.
Suddenly, Holly stabbed a page. “That’s the kind of flower I painted for that guy,” she declared. She read the caption and then affirmed, “A cattleya! Isn’t it beautiful?”
It was indeed beautiful and very, very close to how Holly had rendered it on canvas. Her talents amazed Laura. They had started dating when she was a mere eighteen years old, when she was still searching inside for unfettered access to her fount of creativity. Now, at twenty-nine, she owned it, drank it, submerged herself in it. She was truly gifted.
When Holly’s eyes returned to an article on depilatories or some such craved wisdom in her own magazine, McCallister scanned the index of the orchid magazine. When she saw the word “cataloguing,” she flipped to the specified page. “Cataloguing a Collection,” the title read. To her, it was like reading a foreign language, and the idea of cataloguing seemed like trying to find a book in the library with a reverse Dewey decimal system: knowing the code would lead to the book title.
Instead of trying to understand what was truly beyond her, she skimmed the article for mention of Mr. Faraday. “Tobias Faraday, lifelong resident of Granton, has been deeply involved with orchids since his adolescence,” a portion stated. She read a description of his command center and the layout of his greenhouse. She read the descriptions of many of the flowers she had walked past in her quest for understanding of what had happened to him.
Then, she encountered a paragraph that forced the gnawing in her stomach to reach a fever pitch. “As a neighbor and confidante of Faraday, I have enjoyed learning the ins and outs of cataloguing a collection the way he does. He told me, ‘Even with hundreds of plants, you get to know them individually, and I’ve even taken them into consideration when preparing my will. The catalogue becomes like a very personal history. There is no system that can take the place of careful, handwritten accounts of life and death.’”
The gnawing knot writhed with a life its own, intermittently seizing her insides like a tourniquet. “Something’s not right,” she mumbled as her hands flicked the article’s pages back to the first. “Something’s not right!”
“What, babe?”
“Something’s not right, Holly. I missed something. I screwed up!” Frantically, she looked at the title page again. “‘Cataloguing a Collection by T. A. Frederick.’”
“Laura, what’s wrong?”
She fumbled in her pocket for her cell and tried to settle her mind enough to remember a phone number. “I missed something, Hol! I know this sounds insane, but Faraday’s still trying to tell me something. I can’t goddamn hear him, Hol!” She stabbed the numbers, and in mid-greeting, she yelled, “Jansen, what exactly was the name on the mailbox at Faraday’s guesthouse? ... Thank you.” She hung up before he had a chance to ask what she was up to or when her plane took off. The plane! she thought.
“Laura, talk to me. You’re acting goofy. Tell me what the hell is going on!”
“Thaddeus Frederick, the guy in the guesthouse. Thaddeus A. Frederick. T. A. Frederick!” she spouted. “Faraday’s neighbor, his confidante. Read this, Holly!” She pointed to the paragraph and waited until she finished. “Does that sound like a man who would suddenly leave all his orchids to his cold-hearted sister? Why not just the money? Why the orchids, too? She told me today that she couldn’t wait to burn the things.”
“The bitch!” Holly spat. “But if she’s in jail, she can’t. Can she?”
“Well, she could if she got bail or was found not guilty, but right now, that’s not the point,” she said, her mind still racing. “He loved those things. He wouldn’t do it. And if nothing ‘can take the place of careful, handwritten accounts or life or death,’ where the hell are all his journals, Hol? We found one, only half-used. He didn’t just start. He’s nearly OCD when it comes to writing everything down! Where the hell are his journals, honey?” She abruptly stood and flattened her hands over her mouth. “I missed something, Hol. What if the sister didn’t do it? What if I did railroad an innocent person?”
“Laura, chill your ass down,” Holly yelled. “You act like you put her in the gas chamber today. She’s a bitch. She’s sitting in jail. Isn’t that what those— What are they called? Probable hearings? Preliminaries?” When McCallister nodded, she continued, “Doesn’t she have to have one of those? Didn’t you say that it basically checks your work, that it makes sure you have enough on somebody? If you’re wrong, she’s free, isn’t she? Big damn deal. Let her sit.”
“There is enough evidence, though, Holly. Chances are very good the preliminary hearing will result in her being bound over for trial. The DA thinks she’s even got enough to convict her.”
“But still, you’re acting like that already happened, babe. It hasn’t.”
Suddenly, their boarding call came over the PA. McCallister fidgeted and grabbed her bag. Holly fumbled for her own, keeping her eyes glued to McCallister the entire time. “Let’s just not go, Laura. Then you can figure out whatever you think is wrong.” She paused briefly and then braved, “Do you really think he’s talking to you?”
She chuckled, and Holly felt reassured.
“No, he doesn’t talk to me, but he was alive just the other day. He wrote notes. He made dinner and set a table. He kept a journal. He hung paintings. There are a million ways that the dead tell their story, describe who they are. I think I missed something really big.”
“Then like I said, let’s just skip Maine. Let’s stay here.”
“No!” Laura yelled and began pulling her toward the gate. “This is important to you, to us. Let’s go. I’ll call Greeley during our layover in Boston. I’ll see what he can do.”
They got their tickets scanned and then entered the tunnel to the plane. The line moved swiftly. At least it did until Holly grabbed McCallister’s jacket and refused to move one step further. McCallister tugged, but Holly still refused, digging in her heels as people from behind pushed and elbowed.
“I’m not going, Laura. You can go if you’ve got something to prove, but I’m not going.”
“Holly, don’t do this. We’re going to Maine!” she yelled back at her, while trying to pull her out of the flow of traffic. “Come on!”
“Do you want me to cause a scene?” she dared, and McCallister knew that was well within her abilities. “You don’t get it, do you? Big shot detective and you can’t even see what’s in front of your face.” She spread out her fingers and flashed her hand in McCallister’s face. “You seem to think the world revolves around me. Well, I’ve got news for you, love muffin! It does, indeed. But you’re standing there right next to me. And when you’re not happy, I’m not happy. When your world’s not right, mine’s not right either.” Her eyes suddenly welled with tears. “I don’t care about Maine. Actually, I’m getting to the point where I hate Maine. I’m sick of it. I’d sit in a dumpster for a week as long as you were with me. If we go to Maine, you won’t be with me, babe. Your head will be here. I’d rather stay here and be with you than go there with you and still not have you. If that makes any sense.”
McCallister pulled her into an embrace, only to realize that the tunnel was now deserted, except for an airline worker on each end, staring suspiciously at them. “Sorry to slow things up,” she said. Then, she moved back from Holly, looked her squarely in the eyes, and said, “Last chance, Hol. What do you want? I’ll give you whatever you want.”
Tears streamed down her face. “I want to be with you. That’s all this vacation was ever about. You and me. I want to be with you wherever that is. And if that’s here, I swear, babe, it’s okay. Do what you’ve got to do. I just want to be with you.”
McCallister was torn and dealing with her own tears. It didn’t matter to her where they were, either, as long as they were together. “Okay,” she said. “You’re right. My head will be here, and that’s not fair to you. My heart is always with you, though. I love you.” Again, she became aware of suspicious eyes staring at them. She grabbed Holly’s hand and started heading back into the terminal. “We’ve changed our minds,” she said to the worker who had scanned them in. “We’re staying home. Sorry for the trouble.”
They made a beeline for the counter and asked the worker if they could get their luggage off the plane that was about to depart. He looked at his computer terminal and said, “I’m sorry. It’s already on board, and the plane is about to leave.” He asked for their tickets, punched some keys on his keyboard, and informed them, “I can have your luggage held in Boston and flown back on the next available flight.” He paused. “It looks like it would be back here tomorrow afternoon.” He handed them a form, which McCallister began to fill out immediately.
Holly elbowed her and said, “At least now I have a socially acceptable reason for not wearing panties. They’re all in Boston for a tea party.”
They both laughed, and while the airlines worker’s crimson face should have restrained them, it only made them laugh harder. Holly giddily excused herself, leaving McCallister to contend with the man’s utter embarrassment. As she walked away, she said, “I’ll see if I can get Kate and Claudia to come back and get our sorry asses.”
Soon, they were outside in the chilly April night. They sat on a bench and waited for their friends. McCallister smoked a cigarette and churned things in her mind. She decided that above all else, she needed to speak with the elusive T. A. Frederick.
When Kate and Claudia arrived to pick them up, they dealt with an onslaught of questions. Holly grabbed Claudia and began gabbing again, while Kate approached McCallister and lit her own cigarette to join her.
“What’s the deal, Laura?” Kate asked. “If it has anything to do with the case, I swear I can listen and keep my mouth shut. You know you can trust me.”
“I do know that,” McCallister affirmed. “So off the record ... I think I missed something, and I need to keep looking. When you were at the scene yesterday, I assume you did your job and interviewed people in the neighborhood.” Kate nodded, and McCallister asked, “Did you learn anything about the guy who lives in the Faraday guesthouse?”
Kate smiled broadly. “You know, when you told me that Officer Jansen was going somewhere this morning, I would have bet my life that’s where he was going to lead me. I really thought it had to be Frederick because it was like he didn’t even exist. Nobody knew a damn thing about him, and it bothered everybody. People a block away knew the story. What a smart way to get away with murder. Nobody’s ever seen you; yet, there you are right in the crime scene’s backyard.”
McCallister nodded in acknowledgement of Kate’s reasoning. “I need to find this guy even if I have to sit on the doorstep for the next six months.” She retrieved the magazine from her bag and tossed it to her. “Page thirty-seven, marked with a piece of paper,” she instructed. “Read the author’s name and then read the last page of the article.”
She gave her time to complete the task, and then she asked her the same questions she had asked Holly, questions she still asked herself. Why did he change the will so that the orchids went to his sister and not just the money? Where were his journals? And who the hell was the invisible man in the guesthouse who penned the article?
Chapter 8
To Holly’s utter amazement and delight, McCallister got into the car and announced that she was famished. The four of them shared a meal and liberating laughter at a diner not far from the airport. It recharged them and turned the idea of missing out on vacation into utter nonsense. Holly could sense that McCallister was close again, and she vowed to tether her a little tighter this time.
Once back in the city, Kate asked McCallister if she wanted her to drive past the Faraday place to see if Frederick was at home. McCallister reasoned that a mere check on the guesthouse would do no harm. Getting the go-head, Kate made her way to the Faraday house, which proved to be foreboding in the dark of night. She pulled the car so they could spy a look to the far back. There was the guesthouse ... lights blazing.
Like a shark sensing blood in the water, she ordered Kate to pull into the back alley as she wildly rummaged through her bag to retrieve her badge. She informed them that if she got an answer at the door that she would immediately call for backup. Holly asked her whether she had her gun, and when she said that she didn’t, Holly shrieked, “What if he’s the murderer? Are you stupid?”
“I don’t think he is, Hol.”
Claudia challenged what she thought to be poor judgment. “And what caliber is your assumption, Detective?”
“I just need to do this,” she quickly concluded as she exited the car. Then, she directed Kate to pull a safe distance down the alley.
With a badge in one hand and her cell phone in the other, McCallister approached the front door and knocked loudly. “Mr. Frederick, I’m Detective McCallister of the Granton Police Department,” she yelled. “I need to speak with you, sir.” When no answer came, she repeated the routine three more times to no avail.
She ran back to the car and asked if they had a flashlight. Claudia popped the trunk; McCallister swiftly grabbed the flashlight and headed back. Carefully, she walked the parameter of the small house, trying to get a look in a window. As she did so, she yelled Frederick’s name repeatedly. When she got to the backside of the house, she noticed a drape that was not drawn completely, leaving enough of a gap to provide a glimpse inside. She neared the window, still yelling his name, and then she froze in her tracks. She dialed dispatch.
“This is Detective Laura McCallister,” she said and then quickly provided her badge number and her location. She spouted the police codes to indicate a possible dead body and her need for assistance. “I am outside the residence. I do not have my weapon.” She listened until she could hear the dispatcher in the background passing her message to a cop via radio. Then she made a mad dash to the car, covering the phone, and yelling to Kate, “There’s a body. Backup’s coming. Get the hell out of here, now!” She banged her fist on the top of the car and shouted, “Go!”
When the car sped safely out of sight, she returned to the guesthouse. She checked the front door and windows to find them all locked. Quickly, she returned to the front door and started trying to bash it in with her shoulders, but it did not give. She knew she was capable of defending herself against a physical attack, but if an armed perp was inside, she realized she was in a jam. Then, she heard her name being called on her cell and brought it to her ear. A patrol car was within two minutes.
She headed to the alley and waited, minding the house while searching for approaching lights. Soon, a squad approached, and McCallister held out her badge for the officers to see the headlight beams. Promptly, they exited the vehicle, and she filled them in on the situation. With a small battering ram proving itself more formidable than McCallister’s shoulder, the front door was quickly wide open. The officers entered the house with guns drawn, while McCallister waited, feeling like an idiot for having jumped into the situation is such an unprepared way. When the all-clear came, she made her way in and headed to the back.
“I think you’ll want to see this, Detective.”
She entered the small bedroom, turned to peer into its bathroom, and realized the body she had seen from the window was simply a dressed-up mannequin. It was fully clothed and sported a blond and gray peppered wig and matching mustache. There was even a dried pool adjacent to it that resembled blood.
“Would one of you please radio and get me a CSU team?” McCallister asked. “And do not make any jokes that a lifeless mannequin does not a crime scene make. Somebody is messing with us, and I want to know who.”
She stared at the mannequin and then moved back to the window, studying angles, making sure she hadn’t overreacted. The perspective from the window offered only a view of the lower torso and the dried pool. She reasoned that anyone would have assumed it was an actual body. She returned to the bathroom and stared some more.
After requesting and receiving a pair of gloves from an officer, she pulled them on, straddled the mannequin, and reached into its back pocket— just as she would have done to a human. From the pocket, her hand retrieved a thin, brown wallet. She carefully flipped it open to find a card. It read: Mr. Probable Cause.
What coursed through her was an unbalanced mix of anger and intrigue. Someone intentionally afforded her reasonable grounds to enter the premises without a warrant. She had been duped only to receive a coveted prize: She was standing in the residence of T. A. Frederick. Did she have probable cause to search, now that it was determined there was no body, no threat, no crime? Playing it safe, she carefully set down the wallet and scurried in pursuit anything in plain sight.
Her mind expeditiously tried to absorb the entirety of the scene. The rooms were immaculate; not a thing seemed out of place. And then, she realized that things were actually a scarcity. There was nothing on the bedroom dresser ... nothing on the bathroom sink or in the medicine cabinet ... nothing on the counters in the tiny makeshift kitchen area. Nothing. A shell. An empty house with furniture ... and a plastic dead man named Mr. Probable Cause.
