Free Fall

55

About thirty minutes after Mr. Ceepak is tossed out of the Sand Bar, Christine and I decide to call it a night.

“Big day tomorrow,” I say and stretch into a pretty phony yawn. I even pat my hand over my open mouth a couple times.

That makes Christine smile.

“Sorry,” I say. “It’s the hour, not the company.”

I escort her down to the parking lot and her VW.

“Everything okay at the motel?” I ask.

“Yeah. Becca gave me a really nice room.” She moves closer. “Would you like to see it?” Her voice is extremely husky. And by husky, I do not mean the size of blue jeans chubby boys wear.

“Yes,” I say. “I’d love to come over. But …”

“I know,” says Christine. “You’ve got a murder to solve.”

“Something like that.”

She shrugs. “Can’t blame a girl for trying.”

Then she goes up on her toes so she can kiss me.

I, naturally, kiss back.

I’ll skip the juicy details but lets just say we linger.

When we finally break out of lip lock, both of us are a little discombobulated, our clothes slightly disheveled. I also notice I’m breathing a little more rapidly than when I’m, say, brushing my teeth.

“Thanks for standing up for me.” Christine leans her head against my chest. It’s a good fit.

“Mr. Ceepak is a nasty piece of work,” I say.

“I hate when mean people like him try to push other people around. He reminds me so much of Shona and Judith. They shouldn’t get away with the horrible stuff they do. Someone has to stop them.”

“And that’s why God invented cops and soldiers,” I say, hoping to tamp down the smoldering anger I see burning in her eyes.

“Don’t worry. I’m not going to do anything dumb or stupid, Danny.”

“Good. That’s my job.”

Christine smiles.

We kiss one more time.

And then she putters away in her VW.

Tuesday morning, Ceepak and I roll in his detective-mobile to “The Gold Coast” jewelry shop at 1510 Ocean Avenue.

The store isn’t open, but we press our badges against the glass-panel front door and the lone worker inside twists open the lock to let us in.

“Sorry to be intruding so early in the morning,” says Ceepak. “Is Cele Deemer available?”

“I’m Cele,” says the bony woman who opened the front door. Her skin is so tan and tight, it reminds me of an old leather suitcase with ribs.

“How can I help you, gentlemen?”

“Do you know Judith Rosen?”

“Certainly. We’ve been friends since high school. And don’t you dare ask me how long ago that was.”

She laughs and brings a hand up to her enormous golden necklace, which halfway reminds me of the chest pieces chariot drivers used to wear. She’s also wearing enough golden rings for a solo in a Christmas carol.

“Now then, officers-what’s this all about?”

“We are investigating the murder of Mrs. Rosen’s father-in-law.”

Ms. Deemer clucks her tongue a couple times. “Such a tragedy. How can I help?”

“You design and create your own jewelry?” asks Ceepak.

“That’s right. I work exclusively in gold. Bracelets, rings, necklaces …”

“And do you use cyanide?”

She nods. “A liquid product called ‘Twenty-Four K.’ Of course, I only use it in a very well ventilated space. I have an exhaust fan and fume hood right over my workbench in the back. Plus, I always wear chemical safety goggles, neoprene gloves, and a rubber apron whenever I work with it.”

“Wise precautions,” says Ceepak.”

“Well, it’s extremely toxic. Fatal if ingested.” Ms. Deemer gasps. “Is that what happened to Dr. Rosen?”

Ceepak doesn’t answer. Instead, he asks, “Where do you store your cyanide solution?”

“In my workshop.”

I glance toward the rear of the shop. There is a flimsy goldsequined curtain hanging on a rod above an open doorway. Anybody could breeze through and help themselves to anything on Ms. Deemer’s supply shelves. Her workshop security situation is, in a word, nonexistent.

“A while back,” says Ceepak, “we understand you created a ring for your friend, Judith Rosen.”

“Actually, her husband was my client.” She laughs. “It was supposed to be a big, romantic Valentine’s Day gift. Well, on Valentine’s Day, David gives Judith a gift certificate that his father came in and bought for him. A very generous gift certificate, by the way. Five thousand dollars. But when David gives Judith a gold envelope with a slip of golden paper inside instead of jewelry, she hits the roof. I don’t blame her. Seriously. What kind of romantic Valentine’s Day gift is that? So, Judith made David come in here and tell me what to design just to prove he knows what his wife likes. Of course, he doesn’t. What husband does? So, I help David out a little. Tell him how Judith has a thing for hearts. David comes up with the keyhole idea-like she has the key to his heart. A little corny, sure, but, hey, he’s trying, am I right?”

“Yes, ma’am. Do you see David and Judith socially?”

“David? Not really. I see him on the sidewalk sometimes. He works just up the block.”

“And Judith?”

“I see her maybe once or twice a month. Her gym is around the corner.” She leans in like she’s going to let us in on some big, juicy secret. “I think she only goes to the gym to get a massage. You know what I mean?” Here she uses her hands to mime her cheeks bloating up like blowfish. “Anyway, sometimes, when her son is at school, Jude drops by with pasta or pizza.”

“Is David ever involved in these lunches?”

“No. Just us girls. We eat in the back and I show her whatever I’m working on.”

“In your workroom?”

“That’s right.”

“And David?” asks Ceepak. “Did he ever spend time in your workshop?”

“Maybe. When I was doing the heart ring. I think he was back there with me once or twice so I could show him the work in progress.”

So David and Judith both knew a local spot where they could pick up some cyanide.

“Has David been back in your shop since he ordered the ring?” I ask.

“No. Just Judith.”

“Do you ever use powdered cyanide?” asks Ceepak.

“Not for years. Oh, speaking of Judith, this is cute.”

Cele Deemer pulls a sheet of paper out from under a pile of receipts and ledger books.

“Last couple months, over lunch, we’ve been brainstorming a design for a big, chunky ‘J’ she could wear on a necklace like a rapper.”

“Was this something Mrs. Rosen anticipated purchasing in the near future?”

“I doubt it. Not unless she won the Lottery. That’s what we always said. When her numbers hit, we’d make the fourteen-karat ‘J.’”

“How much do you estimate such an item would cost?”

“Three, four times more than her ring. But there’s no harm in dreaming, am I right?”

True. Unless, of course, you take a few illegal steps to make your dreams come true.

Like poisoning your father-in-law.