Killer Market

22

« ^ » “The Egyptians had metal mirrors, and a great profusion of kitchen utensils, and dishes of all sorts for the table.”The Great Industries of the United States, 1872

Next morning, I discovered that Detective Underwood had a few questions of his own.

He called first thing and invited me to come out for coffee, pancakes and some informal discussion at the local IHOP.

“Don’t you ever take a day off?” I asked, sliding into the other side of his booth.

“Not during Market Week,” he said. “Have you found Savannah yet?”

“Nope. You?”

I checked. The smile was there, hidden beneath that bushy brown mustache.

“You told me not to meddle, remember?”

“And I appreciate your restraint.”

Coffee and juice arrived and when the waitress had gone away with our order, Detective Underwood said, “I was hoping you might’ve remembered if that baggie was still on the table when you walked away Thursday night.”

“Sorry. I’ve been over it and over it and I just can’t see it again after I laid it on the table.”

As we talked, Underwood proceeded to lay waste to the table. When he tore open the sugar packets, the first one ripped badly and showered sugar grains everywhere except in his cup.

I couldn’t understand how the man and his clothes stayed so neat and pristine, how his shirt and tie remained spotless.

Not the table though. By the time he had sugared and creamed to his satisfaction, it was littered with sugar papers and little empty cups of non-dairy creamer and their lids. (Every time I eat in a fast-food place, I’m always glad I take my coffee black.)

The coffee wasn’t anything to rave about, but at least it was strong and scalding hot. I sipped cautiously before asking, “Haven’t you made any progress at all?”

“Now, I didn’t say that. As a courtesy, since you’re involved, and sort of officer of the law to an officer of the court, you might say—I’m going to trust you not to let this go any further.”

“Of course,” I murmured.

He drained his orange juice and blotted his mustache on the napkin, then tossed the crumpled napkin toward the heap that was building at the end of the table and cleared a space for a tattered legal pad. I had seen this very same legal pad, crisp and unsullied, less than forty-eight hours ago. Now, its dog-eared pages hung precariously from the top and curled up at the bottom. Loose sheets covered with scribbles slid out of either side like straws sliding from a pitchfork of hay.

“We’ve checked out all the major players that were there Thursday night,” he said, paging through his messy notes.

“And?”

“Starting with Chan Nolan. He left the ALWA party about 8:50 and went next door to the Fitch and Patterson reception where he exchanged strong words with Jacob Collier, who was drunk and belligerent. Then I gather that more words passed between Nolan and Patterson. Mrs. Patterson and Drew broke that up before it turned into anything serious. Mrs. Patterson, who’s a real lady, asked Nolan to dance and Drew took her daddy out to the lobby to cool off. When the dance ended, Nolan cut out. The best we can narrow it down is that he left between 9:30 and 9:40. The 911 call was logged at 10:07, but the ME says that with that much penicillin, he’d have started reacting almost immediately and would have lapsed into a coma within minutes of ingesting it.”

“Have you learned why he came down to Dixie Babcock’s hall?”

He shook his head. “His car was parked at her house and he caught a ride to Market with her on Thursday morning. She says he was supposed to let her know if he wanted a ride back. Otherwise, he’d make his own arrangements. She says he didn’t mention it at the ALWA party, so he could’ve been planning to go home with one of those women he’d ticked off.”

“So instead of coming to borrow Dixie’s antihistamine tablets, he might only have wanted a ride back to her house?”

“Probably. I’ll get to her in a minute. First though, Kay Adams and Poppy Jackson. They left the ALWA ballroom with two other small retailers around nine and caught a shuttle bus over to one of the satellite parking lots. They drove in three cars back to the Howard Johnson on I-40 where they’re all staying, went directly to the bar and talked and drank till nearly eleven.”

Two down, but I never seriously considered those two anyhow. Our food arrived, waffles and sausage for me, French toast and bacon for Underwood. (He immediately turned a page right into his bacon.)

“Lavelle Trocchi left the room about the same time Savannah did, with six people who know her by name. She partied at the Radisson till midnight with those same six people and she did not leave the bar alone.”

Okay, so if Lavelle Trocchi was carrying a grudge, she had immediately found someone to soothe her ruffled feelings. Nice for her, but the circle was shrinking.

“Jacob Collier had words with Nolan at the Fitch and Patterson party but we can’t find anyone who saw him or his granddaughter at the ALWA party. Tracy Collier walked her grandfather back to the Radisson, then she joined the Trocchi party for an hour.”

“What about the Pattersons?” I asked.

More turning of pages, some of which were now stuck together with smears of maple syrup. The pile of dirty paper napkins continued to grow. Every time anything got on his hands, Underwood fastidiously wiped it off at once and pulled a fresh napkin from the dispenser.

“Patterson left the ALWA party a few minutes after Savannah, and Drew joined him back at their reception between 8:40 and 8:45. The band was hired till ten, and that’s when Mr. and Mrs. Patterson left, even though there were still people in the ballroom. Drew left with them and before you ask, she was returning to the ballroom when Chan was leaving. They spoke just outside the doorway, he gave her the same kiss on the cheek he’d given her mother a minute before and left. She came back in and remained there till her parents were ready to go over to her house in Emerywood where they’re staying rather than drive back and forth to Lexington.”

I didn’t like the way this was shaping.

“So that brings us down to your friend Dixie.”

“She’s your friend, too, isn’t she?” I asked.

“Well, sure. I mean, we don’t go fishing together, but my boy dated her girl a few times when they were in high school and we ran the PTA’s haunted house a couple of Halloweens.” He speared a piece of his French toast. “But that doesn’t mean I won’t haul her into court if I find she’s the one put your penicillin in his brownies.”

“She didn’t do it,” I said earnestly.

“Maybe not, but you have to admit she could’ve if she was so inclined.”

He knew he didn’t have to lay it out again for me and when I nodded, he said, “So what it comes down to is Savannah, Dixie, or you, Judge.”

“Me? I thought we agreed—”

“Well, ma’am, what I agree is that it doesn’t seem likely, but you did have means and opportunity, even if there’s no apparent motive.” He took a swallow of his orange juice. “Yet.”

“If you don’t mind my saying so, Detective Underwood, it seems to me you’re not taking Savannah very seriously. She’s the one with the baggies, brownies and my penicillin. She obviously changed her mind about bringing my tote to the soup kitchen. Instead, it winds up next to Nolan’s body. She’s the only one who could have put it there.”

He put the last morsel of bacon in his mouth and chewed a moment “Maybe. Good thing for that Heather McKenzie that you thought to dial your cell phone, else I could argue that she took the bag from Savannah and—”

“No, you couldn’t,” I said. “She was with me from the moment we ran into each other till she dropped me off in front of the GHFM building.”

“Oh, yeah. That’s right.”

“Just the same, there is something odd about her,” I said and told him how the editor of Furniture/Today couldn’t place her at first. “I wish you’d check her background.”

“Anything else?” he asked dryly.

“Actually, there is. If I had time, I’d go sit in the public library and read all the microfiche editions of your daily newspapers from six years ago.”

He frowned. “Why?”

I’d spoken with Pell that morning and he’d narrowed down the specific time for me. “For the week after the spring Market, six years ago, to see if there was any mention of a hit-and-run that week involving a black sports car. That was the first time Savannah flipped out really badly. Did you know that she took a sledgehammer to her black Porsche after Drew put a little dent in it?”

Underwood nodded as he discarded yet another napkin. “Yeah, I did hear something about that.”

“What if there was more than a little dent? What if there were blood and threads picked up when Drew hit a pedestrian, or paint smears from another car?”

“She really smashed a gorgeous car like that with a sledgehammer?”

“Savannah’s been obsessed with Drew almost since the day she was born,” I said. “From all I’ve been told, she might well have trashed her car to protect Drew. And now, when she believes that Chan is married to Drew and Lynnette is Drew’s daughter? If you think his taking Lynnette off to Malaysia is a motive for Dixie, you have to think that same motive’s just as strong for Savannah.”

“Something to consider,” he agreed, but he didn’t sound convinced.

Why?