Cafe Underground Presents
COMING UP ROSES
Book 2 -- Chapters 9
The Detective Andi Wicksham Series, by RL Bell
Copyright © 1997 RL BELL
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....author RL Bell
Andi Wicksham's INVESTIGATORY SERVICES
Chapter 9
Her mom phoned late Sunday night while she was taking a shower and Lena promised she'd have Andi return the call after eight-thirty the next morning.
Monday morning at quarter to nine, Andi used the bedroom phone for a short course in therapeutic radiation for the terminally ill. It was an eight-point-seven five in the ten point scale of mother-daughter bonding.
She and Lena got to work late. Andi didn't meet Lena's eyes or say a word until they were safely at their desks.
There were two phone messages from Ramirez--one from last night, one this morning, plus one from Francois. Files from friday lay open on her desk with Rex's new, unsealed envelope reassembled and ready to go.
Andi sank into her chair and lifted her phone, Francois would be least likely to answer, but then she remembered his change of life-style. Phone pinched between ear and shoulder, she corrected course midstream, shifting to Ramirez' number by the time her fingers started tapping buttons.
His voice-mail kicked in on the second ring--Andi risked a smile, maybe her luck was changing after all. She left a message that she'd returned his call and logged it in her notebook. That phone-tag chore completed, she slowly and deliberately punched up Francois.
Half a ring and the phone was snatched up. "Hey Andi..." he greeted.
"Yo, it's Wicksham returning your call." She hated people with caller ID.
"Good, good..." Francois answered brightly. Andi could hear rock and roll blaring in the background, she must be on a speaker-phone.
"What's up duck? How about turning the music down a notch..." Andi slipped into her all-business persona, voice textured with a faintly gritty touch of impatience.
Francois turned the music down to a tolerable din. "You asked about connections between clients? Jennifer Gould and Tyson both invested in the same Eastern Washington land scams and share controlling interest in a bunch of trade periodicals for gardeners..."
"The Bloom?" asked Andi, suddenly interested.
"The what?" responded Francois surprised.
"A rose magazine...The Bloom...out of Phoenix. They sent somebody to write a feature on Feight the weekend before he died." Andi recited the information without resorting to her notes.
There was a long pause. Over the top of the rock and roll, Andi could hear the clicking of Francois' fingers on his keyboard and various computer clicks and buzzes. "Yep...that's one of them. Anything special I should look into?"
"No...there's an editor or reporter that came to Feight's named Jason or something starting with a J. He's probably peripheral...the rag's interesting because neither Gould and Tyson mentioned owning it." He didn't need to waste time with fluff. "You got more?"
"Darrel Feight had a history with Tyson. He was named among Tyson's colleagues illegally funneling military equipment to Contra death squads in the early eighties."
Andi scribbled in her notebook. "...that so? Nothing recent?"
"Nothing much. Tyson, Gould and Feight were buying small retail outlets over the last few years. Almost a hundred percent leveraged...almost none of their own money in it. They're making a chunk of money if you go by gross receipts. None of 'em have big cash assets."
"Just three of them do retail stores? Not Dao or Laroux?" confirmed Andi, surprised.
"Dao is in commercial real estate...long time holdings, seems a conservative investor. Laroux is in a deep financial hole without even the cash flow to make regular mortgage payments...he's got zero free capital..." Francois seemed to be confirming things from notes as he talked. "I'll fax you the stuff in their names...but even together their liquid assets aren't in the million's..."
"Laroux's not involved?" asked Andi, surprised.
"Seems not...at least not with retail stores. I looked for him as attorney or agent in title and business transfers, but seems he's a family practice guy not even good enough to fend off a nasty divorce settlement."
"I'll make it a point not to use him." quipped Andi. "Anything more on Tyson or Nimitz?"
"Seems your boy Rex has a series of aliases...Samuel Hawk...Don Lee...and Rob Hardt. These are iffy...but the guy's only twenty three for God's sake."
Andi dutifully copied the names into her notebook. "So...now we put the focus on Gould. You might search Feight and Tyson's long-distance phone records...."
"...already did...they're too clean to believe. But it's easy to get a cellular billed to Timbuctoo for anything dirty." Francois' fingers tapped at a keyboard and his equipment clicked and buzzed. "Tyson encrypted his e-mail, I'm tracing his correspondents, I wouldn't be surprised if he didn't use a scrambler for voice calls. I'll throw the nets out again and give it some thought...maybe there's another angle we can work."
Andi rubbed her forehead and glanced at her watch. "Thanks....are you keeping a tab on your time? There's an actual client to bill to."
Francois chuckled, "Lena says we're billing the folks we're investigating...I like the way you do business, Wicksham..."
Andi glanced gloomily at the wall in front of her. "Thanks for the compliment. We have a problem I haven't figured out...there's got to be multiple millions of dollars of counterfeit money connecting the important players but I can't find it. I look, but instead of cash, everything's coming up roses..."
"Tough..." consoled Francois, "...but not a bad song title."
"Give me a frigging break..." Andi was not in mood for humor. Is that all you got for now?"
"Yah, dots everytink I sink..." Francois pulled a Scandinavian accent from somewhere--it came off decently for someone who'd never lived in the midwest. He chuckled and the line clicked dead.
"Humph..." granted Andi in response. She hung up the phone and looked down at her notes.
Lena looked over and said glibly. "Isn't this where you're supposed to say to me `...there's the curious incident of the dog in the night-time,' I'd reply `The dog did nothing that night,' and you'd respond `That was the curious incident...'"
"Sorry to disappoint you Watson..." Andi said, shutting her eyes and rubbing her temples.
"Wasn't the point of that Sherlock Holmes line that a dog would be expected to bark unless the intruder was someone it knew?" Lena continued eagerly.
Andi looked impatiently across and growled, "...your point being?"
"Maybe you can't find the stolen roses because they weren't stolen?"
"Then why are we doing this?" demanded Andi irritably.
"Maybe that's what the mystery really is." Lena concluded with a self-satisfied smirk.
"You read too much crime fiction...we're not in the mystery business, we investigate things..." Andi plopped a pile of files before her before to emphasize the point, but then looked in dismay at them and pushed them aside.
"I still think the Holmes and Watson schick might be a fit..." Lena pouted. "There's something about this we're not seeing. If there were never any roses--that would explain most of the problems."
Andi shot her a dirty look and returned to her notes.
There was an ominous silence from the other side of the room. "I'm going down to the bakery for a pecan roll..." Lena finally announced icily, already half up from her chair. She reeked nonverbal clues about being peeved. "Want anything?" She asked coldly as she reached for the doorknob, it sounded as if she was daring Andi to say yes.
The phone interrupted the exchange.
Andi shook her head and waved Lena on her way as she reached for the receiver.
"Hello, Wicksham..." the voice said evenly.
Andi recognized the hello. "Ramirez, mi hermanos. Como est'a?"
"I'm not having a very good Monday...and it looks like it'll get worse before it gets better..." Ramirez snapped irritably.
"Whoa, slow down...it's only quarter to ten, did Max rake you over the coals already?"
"Funny how you're somehow able to sense these things Wicksham...maybe you should go into fortune-telling." Ramirez's bad mood was one of his default settings, Andi'd seen it before. "Any comments on how you end up connected to a major counterfeiting ring?"
"Wait a bit. Hold up, amigo...my only connection is being hired by the beneficiaries of an estate--to look for roses. My work's unrelated and entirely legal. I'm nowhere near your funny money..." Andi'd had the misfortune of being too close to a couple of police cases and she wanted the record set straight up-front.
"The West Linn squad are fronting for the Treasury jerks and they seem to feel you're a player..." Ramirez' tone was officiously neutral.
"I'm a what!!" screamed Andi, far louder than was appropriate.
"According to them, you mysteriously enter the picture and visit their quarry just as they were about to spring their trap, insert yourself into the equation and incidently screwing-up their plans. You have some phony story you couldn't keep straight in the course of an hour's questioning. Then, there's the convenient fact that you show up immediately after their target gets snuffed...add that he was found with a suicide note that irrefutably ties you to the case." There was a pregnant silence. "How come their interest seems believable to me?"
Andi unfurled her driest, most cynical tone of voice, "You know what I think? The jerks don't have a clue as to what's going on and are trying to find an excuse for not coming up with anything."
"Yeah...there's that..." allowed Ramirez even handedly. "They've asked me to kindle a fire under you..." he warned after a pause.
"...frigging losers..." growled Andi vehemently. She'd experienced Ramirez' fire kindling and had an intuitive sense that counter-attack was the appropriate defence. "Just exactly what is it that they think I've done? Are they saying I'm spending forged bills, or that I've a hidden bank account, or that I've masterminded this caper? Just what sort of criminal activity are they implying?"
"I think they'd like to file you in the underling category..." Ramirez hazarded an honest guess. "...sleazy, crud on the sidewalk that needs to get scraped off for the good of society..." his candor was conversational. "You know...like dog-poop."
"Give me a break..." Andi exploded quietly.
"I've told them we go way back and that you're weird and pushy but harmless...but you're an awfully convenient fall-guy...and you got to admit that your name on the suicide-note draws a lot of attention."
And paused to let a small handful of beats go by. "So what do they want?" she grumbled resignedly.
"I'm supposed to ask where you were since the morning Tyson was offed--from midnight the night before." Ramirez resumed his tired-cop voice.
"That night I was home in bed..." Andi responded flatly.
"...that can be confirmed by?" Ramirez seemed to be taking notes.
"By Lena of course..." Andi muttered. She looked across at Lena's empty chair.
"Anybody else?" Ramirez pushed.
"Gee no, Ramirez...we try to avoid orgies on work nights..." Andi asserted sarcastically. "Get real...who else could possibly confirm if I was in bed? What sort of question is that? Half my life I'm without an alibi...so what?"
Ramirez gave a long-suffering sigh and changed the subject. "Do you know somebody by the name of Robert Hardt?"
"...Hardt?" Andi flipped back a page in her notebook. "It's an alias of Rex Nimitz...along with Don Lee and Samuel Hawk."
"Oh yeah?" asked Ramirez lightly. "They didn't have Samuel Hawk on the list..." There was a pause as he wrote it down.
"Nimitz was a member of the Phineas Priesthood..." Andi mentioned grudgingly. Better that they should have all the information possible--despite how they were acting. At least it would be a gesture of good faith.
"...beg pardon?" asked Ramirez.
"Phineas Priesthood...P..H.I..N..E..A..S. Ask your terrorism expert..."
"Sure Wicksham..." Ramirez seemed willing to tone it down a notch. "Treasury doesn't have a prayer to tie you in...but they got pull and desire. I'll need to talk to Lena...but it'll be better if it's in a separate call--I'll try to make it sound like she's not involved."
"She's in bed with me, but she's not involved?" snorted Andi.
"Hey, there's involved and there's involved. It's a funny truth...no one cares who you boff, but business connections are suspicious...ironic 'eh?" Ramirez was long past being surprised at the irrational.
"Hmmmm..." Andi murmured uncomfortably. "I got some stuff you might not know about Tyson's contacts..." She might as well mend bridges and pass on tidbits before they grew stale.
"Shoot..." responded Ramirez.
"Feight, Jennifer Gould and Tyson, were buying up small retail outlets...might check them all for laundering Tyson's bills."
"Dropping a dime on your clients 'eh?" asked Ramirez, sounding genuinely interested.
Andi tried to ignore him. "And your boy Rex Nimitz was riding in Gould's car going out to Feight's the afternoon of the day Feight died...but he didn't go inside."
"Why would he do that?" asked Ramirez.
"Beats me, maybe he grabbed the roses...I haven't got answers. Might be nothing, but nobody volunteered that he was even there when I asked." Andi paused to rub her jaw with her hand. "There's a strong connection showing Tyson syphoning cash into anti-government causes...militia stuff and all..."
"Yeah?" Ramirez encouraged, scratching notes while he listened.
"And it turns out the Treasury department's had a file on Tyson since nineteen eighty-two...when he was an Air Force Officer sneaking stolen weapons to sleazeball mercenaries. Incidently, he was doing it with Darrel Feight."
"Hold it...they what?" Ramirez called out to stop her. "The Treasury has a what on who?"
"An old file on Tyson doing arms transfers...stolen arms...that surprise you? No indictment, no conviction..." Andi answered smugly.
There was a long moment where the phone hung silent. "It's surprising you have stuff the Feds don't volunteer..." replied Ramirez stiffly.
"Gee, I don't find it surprising." Andi mumbled dryly.
"They have conflicting loyalties..." Ramirez excused them.
"Talbert and Allen's problem is their loyalties. Their conservative connections make it tough for them--it's hard to suddenly turn and treat people they've worked with the belligerence they give to the rest of the world."
Ramirez interrupted. "Where are you getting this Federal stuff anyway?"
"None of your business, Ramirez...just be thankful you got a friend," Andi answered quietly. When he didn't respond she added, "You know...reflecting on that loyalty stuff makes me a lot more understanding and compassionate of Allen and Talbert..." She sighed sarcastically. "...it must be disillusioning to realize your agency's old friends are fascists. Imagine...all this time and they never knew..."
"Anything else you want to get off your chest Wicksham?" Ramirez dropped his personal touch and returned to his official role. Lena came in the door at the moment, her mouth stuffed with a pecan roll and a white paper bag in her hand.
"No...I'm fine as I am..." quipped Andi, making it sound lighter than she felt. "Anything exciting going on in your life?"
"Naw...too much work...to little fun...too many meetings and too short a lunch-break. Unless you got something else I'm outta here..."
"Catch you on the B side...don't let the Feds tell you lies."
"Right..." answered Ramirez with a caustic laugh. "We'll talk later..."
Andi hung up her phone and let out an explosive breath. "Damn cops..." she struck-out angrily.
"What's up Sherlock?" Lena teased.
Andi covered her eyes with both hands and took a moment to recover. "The West Linn cops want to tie me to Tyson's counterfeiting or murder...probably both. They got Ramirez asking for alibis and who can substantiate them--get ready for a call." Andi glared unhappily at Lena. "I feel outed..." she complained fretfully.
"Anything else?" Lena shrugged as if she didn't care and turned back to her computer.
"No, I guess not...maybe I'm just up-tight." Andi swiveled her chair around and chewed lightly at her lower lip, debating what to tackle next. Nimitz' package languished atop the remaining new manila envelopes. It had to go--Rex would eventually come looking for it--no doubt mad as hell.
Andi watched a trio of college coeds saunter across the street in cut-offs and tank-tops, then virtuously turned back to professional tasks. Tyson's note was a problem--the writer knew of the counterfeiting, the stolen roses and her investigation. That narrowed down the field quite a bit.
Andi glanced over and caught Lena's eye. "It doesn't make much sense to go through the trouble of a locked room murder only to leave a badly done note and a half-a-million bucks."
Lena nodded, half-distracted by what she was doing. "Yeah, suicide notes aren't written to strangers."
"Maybe I'm expecting too much logic; maybe it was a beginner's mistake like inadvertently locking himself out without the cash." She picked up her pencil and tried balancing it on a finger.
"But how would an amateur pull off the perfect murder?" Lena got up to make copies and send a fax.
Andi turned to stare blankly out the window. Simpson was a wild card--Ramirez claimed she didn't even have a bank account in her name, would somebody like that be involved in counterfeiting? With neither contacts nor skills, she seemed more liability than asset. The note-writer knew about Tyson's counterfeiting--when not many people did. Where did that put Simpson?
She spun back around. "Tyson could have been offed by some faction of the militias he hung with. If that were so, it would be somebody settling a personal score."
Lena nodded. "Of course we've got nothing leading us in that direction...."
"Shit..." Andi tossed the pencil to her desk. The classical motives for murder were money, honor, revenge and sex. Sex didn't seem to be in the picture, though that didn't rule it out--Tyson had close, but unknown relationships with both Rex and Jennifer Gould. Andi had an involuntary shiver of disgust.
"He could have made an ideological faux-pas..." Lena postulated idly. "The militia's have unrealistically strict codes about things..." She sorted some papers and pushed another button on the copier.
Andi "Naw..Tyson was a jerk, but he didn't make stupid statements like a working-class bigot." She spun her chair back to the window. Crossing honor from her mental list left her with money--and as motives went, millions in phoney bills made an exceptional motive. Given half a second to reflect, it was hard to think of better incentive than control of an unlimited quantity of almost-perfect bills.
Andi looked down at the traffic and smiled. That might explain why the killer wasn't concerned with the half-million left behind--bills could be printed faster than they could be laundered. The wise move would be to go for the easy get-away, if true it showed the discipline of a professional.
Andi paused. The only ones concerned with roses, the only ones who might possibly gain by her dropping the investigation were her clients and maybe Alison if she wanted to stretch it. It was a billboard sized sign that at least one of them must be involved with Tyson.
She chewed her lower lip and looked up to find Lena watching. "Tyson's suicide note mentioned me and the roses...the murderer has to be one of our rose nuts." Andi could feel a hollowness in her chest.
"That's a revelation?" asked Lena sarcastically. "I suspected them since the beginning..." She made a saucy flounce as she reached for a file and flipped through it. "Darrel Feight...roses...rose hybridization...roses, stolen...roses, wholesale markets...Tyson, roses, Rex's envelope--roses...Gould, Laroux, Dao..." she looked up expectantly.
"Counterfeit money seemed a better a motive..." Andi admitted a bit chagrined. "Tyson's murder..."
"The suicide note said..." Lena began to remind her.
"I know...I know..." Andi shook her head. "But it started off mentioning counterfeiting and he had a half-million bucks on hand...that's a chunk of change to discard as a motive...how about his conservative causes?"
"He was both a conservative and a rose fancier. His counterfeiting pals could be too..." she walked to her table and posed with a hip thrust out.
"Exactly Watson..." Andi bit carefully at her lip. "...exactly my thought." She turned and stared fixedly out the window a long moment. "Have we checked out The Bloom yet?"
Lena remained standing while she looked through her papers. "Not yet...we gave it low priority..."
"Let's push it higher." Andi turned, her eyes suddenly sharp and clear. "...do the preliminaries with their Phoenix office and get Francois to dig into their officers and subscribers...better make that all of the rose-related publications touched by Gould and Tyson."
"Aye, aye, captain..." Lena, who'd taken notes on the back of an envelope, gave a mock salute with her pencil, spun on her heel and dropped into her chair. "Aawoooga...aawoooga...dive, dive! Battle stations everyone. Avast...belay that bilge and keel-haul any scurvy wretch on deck...pieces of eight--pieces of eight..." She slid down to a half-reclining position in her chair, grabbed a hat to pull low down over her eyes and reached up smoothly to snatch the telephone.
Andi rolled her eyes, chuckled and paged back through her notebook for Gould's phone number, spinning possible strategies as she dialed. There would be a machine on whether Gould was home or not. She'd ask for a return call, but drive out anyway--without notice. Not a bad game plan. She'd do it to Simpson too.
Lena punched numbers into her phone quietly whistling, "Sixteen men on a dead-man's chest. Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum..."
Andi pulled off the road fifty feet from Jennifer Gould's drive, a bit giddy with anticipation, peering through the bushes to see which cars were there. The investigation had grown stale--it was time to stir up the hive and see what came out.
Gould's red and white Mustang waited in the drive. There was the dry-skinned feel of summer to the early spring air and contrary smells of wood smoke and manure in the breeze. She turned off the engine and waited a moment, watching the house for signs of life.
Andi checked the side to see what cars were parked in the carport. It was empty. She backtracked to knock on the front door--no answer; she leaned on the doorbell button for the length of an eight-bar phrase, listening to the low buzz growling inside.
Andi knocked and rang again. Two minutes passed--Andi carefully opened the screen door, grasped the doorknob firmly to deaden any untoward sound and slowly turned.
It went only a bare-eighth turn before it stopped--locked.
Andi carefully shut the screen and peered in the living room window through to the glass patio-door.
Sighing with resignation, she walked back around the side of the house, past the car-port and truck to the rows of roses. There, half-way across the garden in dark glasses and a wide-brimmed hat was Gould, a basket over one arm, carefully snipping suckers from budding branches.
Andi waved, but Gould didn't see her. Andi continued to the gate before calling out. "Mrs. Gould...good to see you." She stepped through the gate without an invitation, shutting it carefully behind and striding quickly to where Gould waited, erect, hands to her sides, watching through her dark lenses.
"Beautiful day 'eh?" Andi asked insincerely. "I had some questions and was in the neighborhood..."
"Good morning Ms. Wicksham...I wasn't expecting you." responded Gould icily, slowly opening and closing the jaws of her pruning sheers as she unconsciously flexed her hand.
"Well...since I was close by..." Andi lied. She bent and pretended to examine a rose bush. "You're not pruning this time of year?"
"It's called `pinching....'" Gould responded coldly. "...are you taking up gardening? It doesn't seem your style." She evidently thought Andi's style was more along the line of mud wrestling or roller derby.
Andi pulled out her humble, aw-shucks-ma'am persona, rubbing the toe of her shoe in the dirt and confessing "No.." in an embarrassed voice. "I'm limited to a couple of window boxes and house plants..." she flicked her glance up to Gould's face.
"What are your questions?" Gould's voice relaxed toward resignation.
Andi struggled to look insecure. "...I was hoping you wouldn't mind?"
"What do you want, Ms. Wicksham?" demanded Gould impatiently.
Andi repressed her elation at having baited Gould into demanding she ask her questions--there was demonstrable practicality to the Colombo approach. "I was hoping you could tell me about Rex Nimitz..." Andi inserted what she hoped sounded like a tremor of insecurity.
"Rex? What do you want to know?" Gould's voice was haughty.
"Well I know you've been occasionally seen with him...I was wondering what you did together." Andi scratched her ear to distract Gould from noticing that she was intently watching her face to gauge her response.
"Seen with him?" said Gould distastefully. "Hopefully not by anybody that matters."
"Perhaps not..." observed Andi innocently, "...but tell me about him."
"We're not lovers..." laughed Gould condescendingly.
"Well, there was talk..." lied Andi again, probing for a weak spot, wishing she'd worn her own dark glasses.
Gould ignored the comment, "Pity he's so naive...quite a stud, isn't he? He must lift weights..." Gould's half-smile came across as more of a leer. "I give him odd jobs...he doesn't make much money at William's...it's some sort of political placement. I think he was thankful for the cash."
"Odd jobs? Like what?"
"Is this really any of your business Ms. Wicksham?" Gould stiffened irritably.
"Well..." Andi paused as if embarrassed, "...I was wondering about the afternoon after Darrel Feight died...the two of you were together..."
Jennifer Gould paused and tilted her head as if the change of perspective might pierce Andi's facade. "Yes we were..." she began carefully, "I was having him move some cedar stakes from Darrel's. The four of us discussed it that morning...I needed stakes and would otherwise just buy them..." she reached a hand to a waist-high stake standing beside a rose near-by. "...they agreed that I should take an unused pile. Warren Laroux kept a record. Have you asked him about it?"
"Oh no..." acknowledged Andi shyly. "It would have been in bad taste to say anything if you'd been in a compromising position..." Andi tried to give an embarrassed smile, but didn't think she quite pulled it off. "You didn't mention that he'd been with you..."
"You asked me who was there at Darrel's...not who I'd driven out with. I didn't see it as any of your business."
"Wouldn't it have made more sense to drive over in your truck to move a bunch of long stakes?" Andi asked innocently pointing back to the carport, she wondered if four foot stakes would even fit into the trunk of the Mustang.
"I didn't need many..." answered Gould lightly.
"Did you mention to Mr. Feight that you were a part owner of The Bloom?" Andi asked, changing subject as aggressively as possible. After all she was there to stir the kettle.
Gould's face suddenly froze, her jaw tightened, Andi could see her eyes, wide open, behind the dark glasses. "We wanted to honor Darrel and his achievement. It seemed fitting. It's what that periodical focuses upon." The explanation seemed rushed.
Andi stood silent, tilting her head expectantly.
"We wanted him interviewed that weekend because they were planning their summer issues." continued Gould lamely.
"But there weren't any roses in bloom, leaves had barely started sprouting then..." Andi pushed carefully.
"They could return for photos..." Gould argued, she nervously straightened and looked around.
Andi looked too, but there was no one to be seen. "Did you have many business ties with Mr. Tyson?" she asked bluntly.
Gould blinked behind her dark glasses. "A few...it's good to diversify. Friends talk, we share ideas...sometimes we go in together. That's normal business..." Her face had a faint sheen of perspiration now, there was a nervous impatience to the way she fidgeted.
"It's really a shame about Mr. Tyson." consoled Andi, watching Gould's response.
"A tragedy..." admitted Gould simply.
"Do you think he committed suicide?" Andi asked.
"Is that what happened?" asked Gould ingenuously.
"Shot in the chest in his study by a gun found laying by his hand..." abridged Andi.
"Doesn't seem quite right does it?" Gould mused, "But we never know what's going on in each other's minds..." She dismissed the thought with a wave of her hand.
"I suppose so..." murmured Andi unsympathetically. "Did he have many enemies?"
"None I knew of," laughed Gould coldly then shot Andi an icy glare. "...was his death a suicide?" she demanded bluntly.
Andi paused and took a breath before cautiously explaining, "There's contradictory evidence...I think there's some dispute."
Gould suddenly, visibly relaxed, "Who could have killed him?" she whispered as if pondering the question out loud. Andi got the feeling Gould was willing herself to under-react--window dressing.
"Were you aware of his political affiliations?" Andi carefully felt her way forward.
"Of course." Gould answered simply. Her lips squeezed together and she straightened defensively.
"...the type of people and organizations he raised money for?" Andi asked, pushing where she knew she wasn't wanted.
"He funded vital, but unpopular causes..." Gould's wary response confirmed that she shared the focus. Gould's eyes narrowed and she continued, somewhat guardedly. "It's necessary...for those of us believing in private property." Her lips drew back exposing her teeth, she almost spat the words.
Andi felt a cold shiver down her back. "You and Mr. Tyson worked together on more than just roses, didn't you?" Andi knew she was venturing a bit past the edge.
"Of course..." Gould returned warily. She sensed Andi's change in tactics. "You evidently know we shared a few business ties..." Hostility cracked her surface of civility.
Andi knew she'd crossed some invisible line, but pushed on. "Do you know much about his other businesses?" Andi wondered how much would it take to really rile her.
"No..." Gould responded curtly. "...and unless there's something of urgency, I should get back to work..."
"Could his political or business involvements have brought about his death?" She was out on too frail a limb, but needed to see where Gould's buttons were.
"I suppose so..." Gould returned tersely, "...anything's conceivable."
Andi smiled to acknowledge their agreement. "He must have had a lot of financial irons in the fire that will have to be taken care of. Are you involved in many?"
Even looking through the dark glasses it was clear that Gould's eyes narrowed suspiciously. "No...we shared nothing really major. You know about The Bloom...that's more recreation than business." She shook her head in derision.
Andi watched a twitch in Gould's jaw. "But didn't you have other business ties?" In for a dollar in for a dime--she watched the lines above Gould's nose deepen into creases as she frowned at the question.
"That...Ms. Wicksham is none of your business. Our personal affiliations are a bit far from your official inquiry." Her voice was icy and haughty. "Some of us are offended by that type of scrutiny."
Andi felt the cold shiver again, this time taking the cue and backing off. "Well, thank you...that's all my questions...thanks for helping out..." Andi held out her hand, but Gould had taken a step backwards, a haughty nod dismissing her without a word.
Andi dropped her hand and backed up a few steps. "Goodbye then..." She turned, uneasy about turning her back on the hostile woman, stepping lightly through the rows of roses, working for as straight a run to the gate as she could.
Gould didn't respond, she simply watched, her eyes shielded by her dark glasses, hands to her sides, the jaws of her shears clicking open and shut with the nervous flexing of her fingers.
Andi pulled away before fastening her seat-belt. It was a revealing interview, but she'd put a few corners and turn-offs between herself and Gould before swinging off the road in the shade of a tall yew tree to scribble notes.
Three minutes later, she closed her eyes to gather her thoughts--then opened her notebook and began writing. There was precious little evidence, but a truck-load of dangling-implications. Funny that so many led to Tyson, his business and what he did for the right-wing world.
She jotted down Gould's account of her connection with Rex--it fit his ambivalence and with his claim of being ordered to work with her. It wasn't a bad bit of work. She'd alluded to politics, Rex, business and that Gould's connection to Tyson was public knowledge. If that didn't rattle Gould's cage, then very little would.
Andi wrote quickly, filling two and a-half pages before stopping. Reading it back wasn't very reassuring--there wasn't a single point of fact. It was all assumption and opinion and her interpretation of body-language and expression and tone.
She glanced into the rear view mirror as she turned the key, then turned around to the left to pull out. Time for Alison Simpson.
Andi thought resentfully of her ankle and Simpson's treatment of her when she'd taken Nimitz' package. She rolled up silently beside the bushes that separated the parking lot from the house debating her approach, noting with a nervous smile that all of Feight's vehicles were there; the bronze Corolla, the blue Accord, the pick-up. She surveyed the northern garden for activity. Then, keeping the shielding bushes between herself and the house, she walked swiftly to check the south-east garden--there was no one in sight.
Andi took a deep breath and strode confidently to the porch and rang the bell, girding herself for confrontation.
The sound of female footsteps on the hard-wood floor tapped toward her from the kitchen. Andi mentally followed them down the hall, keeping count when they suspended for three beats crossing the rug, picking them back up as they continued to the front.
The door swung open and Simpson stood before her, obviously surprised. Now, instead of the dowdy dress of a poor-relative/maid she wore a well-tailored business suit and had her hair in a tasteful but conservative coif.
"Yes?" she asked politely. "I didn't think I'd see you today, Ms. Wicksham...I'm sure we don't have an appointment." Simpson's voice was curt and short. "I'm going out in a few minutes..."
Andi let the resentment she felt from being kicked well up and spill over. "Then I'm glad I was in the neighborhood and stopped by...we need to talk. I'm glad you have a minute..." She played door-to-door saleswoman from hell, avoiding Simpson's eyes and boldly stepping through the door as if invited. "...there are a couple of important questions that really can't wait..."
Andi talked a blue-streak as she turned and bore up the hall toward the kitchen, forcing her hostess to follow. "...I'm sure you'll be able to help me on this...these questions are really vital."
Once in the kitchen she turned and smiled, trying to exude every calorie of warmth in her soul. "Thanks for Rex's envelope...I'm sorry to barge in this way, but we have to talk."
"What do you want, Ms. Wicksham?" Alison Simpson demanded loudly. "I'm sorry about kicking you...I was under a lot of stress.." She didn't sound very repentant. "Your telephone message simply asked me to call..."
"Yes, but since I was out in the neighborhood talking with Ms. Gould..." Andi blustered as she pulled out a chair sat at the table as if invited.
It took Simpson a moment to regroup. She frowned at her watch, evidently deciding that the quickest way to be rid of Andi was to begrudge her a few minutes. "Fine...you might as well sit. What are your questions?" She settled across from Andi and pulled a half-finished cup of coffee across from the space at the end. The table and counters were littered with fresh lists as if just compiled this morning.
"Well, to tell the truth Ms. Simpson, I was interested in your uncle's pistol...and then maybe one or two more things..." She tried to give the blank look a librarian has when she asks what interests you have.
"You've got some nerve barging in..." Simpson fussed nervously, she appeared already decided on a cooperative path.
"I felt I had to..." Andi pleaded. "...about your Uncle's pistol...it's very important..." She sought Simpson's eyes and smiled, her head inclined slightly forward and to the left, slightly deferential, slightly humble and needy.
Simpson gave her a doubtful look and sat stone-faced, hands folded neatly in her lap. At last she took a deep breath and said. "The old Colt revolver was Uncle Darrel's...he loaned it to Mr. Tyson." That declared, she fidgeted, suddenly unsure of what to do with her hands.
Andi nodded as if in complete understanding and asked, "When did he do that?"
"I don't know..." Simpson suddenly slumped as if exhausted. She raised her gaze to about Andi's chin and opened her mouth as if to speak, but then jerked her head as if hearing a sudden noise. Then, just as suddenly, she rose to her feet walked toward the back door, then turned and headed for the stove, "Want coffee? It's already made..." She called the offer over her shoulder a moment after she retrieved clean mugs from the cupboard.
"Sure, please." Andi watched Simpson's awkward movements, the overly erect back, her way of measuring the coffee at arms length. "You seem under stress..." Andi offered neutrally.
Simpson glanced over, her chest quivered jerkily and she shut her eyes. "I think I'm finally coming to grips with Uncle Darrel being gone." She took another deep breath.
Andi nodded sympathetically, noting how the air of tragedy Simpson draped herself within seemed at odds with her business suit and hair-style.
Simpson poured coffee and carried the mugs back to the table before wiping her eyes and slipping smoothly onto her chair. "I guess there's been too much going on..."
"Regarding your uncle's estate?" questioned Andi, freezing in place and looking down at her mug so as not to distract.
"I'd no idea how many loose ends there'd be. He did so many things...property and business and bonds and everything..." Simpson shook her head in dismay.
"Did his funeral go OK? I was out of town..." Andi ran finger around the top edge of her coffee mug, but didn't drink.
"Fine..." said Simpson, not meeting her eyes.
Andi searched for a safe subject but drew a blank. "Are your uncle's friends dealing with the roses?"
"They sent a schedule for removing them." Simpson waved generally at the counter across the room near the telephone.
"Are you keeping the truck and car?" Andi shifted into low gear and plowed ahead.
Simpson gave a slight smile, "They come with the house and property...only the roses and nursery stuff were divided off."
"What are you going to do when they're gone?" Andi looked out the window at the carefully tended rows.
Simpson eyes narrowed as if in pleasure and she smiled a tight smile. "Didn't I tell you...I'll put in lawn. I never liked roses anyway...in fact I'm impatient for them to go."
Andi smiled in return, "Oh yeah...you mentioned wanting lawn." She shook her head as if musing on her forgetfulness. "Do you drive the truck or car much?"
"A time or two a week...to the store...sometimes Portland. I'll sell the truck once the roses are gone." Simpson had a wistful, far-away look in her eyes.
"Did you go to the store the day your uncle died?" Andi tried to make the question conversational.
"Why?" challenged Simpson brazenly, her eyes unnaturally wide.
"You drove the Honda Accord that afternoon...left here about quarter to one and got back about twenty-after..." Andi kept her voice quiet and non-challenging to counter-balance the substance of her question.
"The blue car?" Simpson flushed in embarrassment and appeared to be mentally grasping in desperation for an excuse. "I guess I was still in shock...I forgot..."
"Of course..." Andi lifted her mug and smiled, waiting to see if Simpson's discomfort would provoke an explanation.
Simpson looked embarrassed and confused, but she kept her lips pinched and looked fixedly out the window.
Andi changed the subject. "Tell me about Rex..." she asked, trying to return a touch of warmth to her voice.
Simpson sniffed and tossed her head like a school-girl. "What's there to say...he pretended to be friendly. She flashed a quick glance at Andi to see if she was being supportive. "I liked the way he smelled on hot days..." she gave a little embarrassed blush and glanced at Andi again.
"But then something happened?" Andi encouraged.
"He never cared about me at all..." her voice turned bitter and spiteful daggers flashed behind an otherwise bland expression.
"When did that happen, Alison?" Andi asked gently.
Simpson looked up, needy and hurt. "A few days after Uncle Darrel died..." she whispered.
"But before Mr. Tyson died?" Andi confirmed.
Simpson suddenly stiffened, "I guess so...I wasn't paying attention to what day things were..." she didn't meet Andi's gaze, looking fixedly out the window.
"What did he do?"
"Rex?" Simpson looked for confirmation.
Andi nodded silently.
Simpson's face flushed in re-lived embarrassment. "He said he thought me motherly...I'd put on lip-stick and a blouse that opened to here..." she pointed a finger vaguely between her breasts. "He said I was middle aged...but I'm not..."
She looked to Andi to be in her early thirties, Nimitz was in his early twenties--more than enough difference to be a barrier at his age. "That was when you scratched him?" Andi struggled to keep the chronology straight. "He gave you the package before that?"
"He gave it before Uncle Darrel died." She looked sorrowful. "...the thursday or friday before." she replied simply.
"I see..." murmured Andi. "...the weekend the reporter from The Bloom came...wasn't his name Jason?"
Simpson looked up and smiled wide-eyed and innocently. "Yes...it was..."
"Jason was nice?" Andi asked hopefully.
Simpson's face lit up slightly. "I liked him. We talked a lot while the others were being snooty...in a way we were both just hired help..."
"Do you know why he'd chosen that weekend to come?" Andi queried.
"He was told to...there was something else scheduled he was told to cancel so he could come."
"Did he take a lot of interest in the roses?" Andi asked.
"The stolen roses?" asked Simpson as if returning a tennis volley.
Andi smiled wanly. "Yeah, the stolen ones...did he seem overly interested?"
"Overly interested? They were the reason he came. But he thought the whole thing a waste of time...he was disappointed because the roses were nothing but twigs poking from the mud and because Uncle Darrel's friends barely gave him the time of day." Simpson shook her head slowly from side to side and made a face.
Andi paused to consider strategy. "Tell me how Rex came to give you the package..."
Alison Simpson looked across the table and gave a resigned sigh. "He'd asked before...he'd been coming over for coffee and asked if I'd do him a favor and hold something until he needed it..."
"And you said `Yes.'" prompted Andi.
"Of course..." replied Simpson distractedly. "Why not? He'd been friendly...I liked that he came around. It's not like it was going to put me out or anything..."
"Did he give you any instructions?" pushed Andi.
"He said that he put enough stamps on it to be ready so it could go anywhere...I thought that efficient and considerate. All I needed to do was put on the name and address..."
"Name and address?" asked Andi carefully.
"Yes..." Simpson looked confused at the question. "...I think he might have wanted to use some different name."
"When you gave me the envelope it already had `Rex Nimitz' written on it..." Andi mentioned casually.
"Oh..." muttered Simpson a bit deflated and embarrassed. "I must have put that on...I guess I didn't finish..." her voice faded to silence.
Andi paused a moment to let her regain her composure. Outside, birds wheeled over the roses, descending to peck worms from the soil, then rising suddenly all together, wheeling and coming down again. "How did your uncle and his friends treat Rex? Did he know much about roses?"
"He was just a staff-person of Mr. Tyson's. I don't think they liked him. They were snooty...anyway I know more about roses than him..."
Andi smiled indulgently. "...he wasn't an expert, 'eh?"
"No way..." Alison shook her head and gave a dismissive smile. "But then he didn't need to be..."
"Mr. Tyson didn't hire him for his expertise?" Andi laughingly played straight-person.
"Mr. Tyson..." spat Simpson with surprising bitterness before staring defensively out the window.
Andi let a couple of beats of time go by. "Last time we talked you spoke favorably of Mr. Tyson..." observed Andi putting a reproachful tone to the words.
"So?" demanded Simpson sharply, she lowered her chin and stared at the table. "He was an insufferable man..." she shuddered visibly.
"Did something happen that made you change your feelings?" asked Andi cautiously.
"No..." muttered Simpson acidly, she didn't look up and her hand shook so much when lifting her coffee cup that she set it back down without drinking.
Andi paused a long moment trying to gauge Simpson's state of mind. She tried for a safer subject. "Did you do an errand early that morning your uncle died...in the pick-up truck?"
Simpson shook her head without answering.
"Did your uncle go somewhere in the truck that morning?" Andi could tell she was losing Simpson and cursed herself for not returning to her uncle's pistol sooner. "Alison..." she asked gently.
When Simpson lifted her head up there were tears in her eyes. "I'm tired now...I've got things to do...I think it's time for you to go..." She rose and turned away to wipe her cheek with the back of her wrist.
Simpson walked toward the front of the house without looking back, leaving Andi no option but to follow.
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