Daddy's Gone a Hunting

90

Frank Ramsey awakened on Friday morning at six o’clock, as usual. He had slept well, despite the unsettling phone call from Peggy Hotchkiss, because he had been weary. But as soon as he woke up, a heavy sense of having let her down came over him. He showered, dressed, and went downstairs. The coffee was on a timer and he poured a cup and began to sip as, with the other hand, he opened the refrigerator and took out a container of orange juice and then a package of blueberries. From there he went to the pantry, viewed his choice of breakfast cereals, and selected one.

“Sit down,” Celia told him. “I’ll put breakfast out.”

He had not heard her come down the stairs, but as always, he was glad she was there. She was wearing satin pajamas with a matching robe that came down to her knees. It was one of his gifts to her on her last birthday. The saleswoman had assured him that his wife would love this set and fortunately she had been right. Ceil did love it. And he loved her in it.

“I’m sorry about that call last night,” she said matter-of-factly as she poured orange juice into a glass. “But from what you told me, I can understand why Mrs. Hotchkiss was so upset.”

“So can I,” Frank agreed. “Ceil, there’s no question that her husband admitted punching Jamie. Drunk or not, that was a nasty thing to do, and it certainly proves that he had a hair-trigger temper and was capable of violence.”

He gave her a grateful glance as she refilled his coffee cup. “And Ceil, it’s entirely possible that Hotchkiss was in the area twenty-eight years ago and somehow crossed paths with Tracey Sloane. Just about every man who was ever on the list as possibly being connected to Tracey was checked and rechecked and it’s always come to a dead end. Maybe Clyde is the one who killed her.” He paused. “Obviously the fire department is not involved in that investigation,” he said.

“It sounds like you’re trying to convince yourself that Hotchkiss killed one or both of those girls, but you’re just not there,” Celia commented.

Frank shrugged. “I think you know me too well. I am trying to convince myself. But I think we’re all missing something.”

Celia poured herself a cup of coffee and sat across from him. She knew that her husband used her as a sounding board when he was thinking aloud. “So what do you think you’re missing?” she asked.

“Well, for example, Lottie Schmidt.”

“That poor woman! Come on, Frank.”

“That poor woman is a consummate liar and a consummate phony. The fact is that Lottie Schmidt has come up with the most fantastic yarn to explain how Gus was able to buy that house in Minnesota for their daughter. According to her, Gus came from an aristocratic family in Germany and when the Nazis took over, they confiscated all of his family’s property. She claims that he got a big reparation payment five years ago. We’re having one of our computer experts research her story. He promised a report by noon at the latest.”

“My guess is that Gus came by that money honestly, one way or the other, and Lottie is worried she’ll be in trouble with the IRS because he didn’t pay taxes on whatever money he received.”

“There’s more to it than that,” Frank said firmly. “And somehow I think it has to do with the whole mess surrounding the Connelly fire and the fact that there’s no question that it was deliberately set.”

Three hours later, the computer expert who had been tracking Lottie’s story about Gus’s background called Frank as he and Nathan were catching up on their emails in their Fort Totten office. “Frank, I’ve got the whole Schmidt background for you. I just emailed it. You’re going to love it. It’s pretty much what you told me you suspected. But she didn’t just make the whole thing up. She actually came pretty close to the truth. Close but no cigar.”

“I can’t wait,” Frank Ramsey told him. “Lottie Schmidt put on such a good act of being an aristocratic wife that Nathan and I almost kissed her hand. As she was throwing us out of her house,” he added.