Margaret Grace - Murder In Miniature

I wondered if the LPPD was ready to arrest Rosie or if they simply wanted to question her. I was itching to know how Skip had glommed on to her in the first place? Had the police interviewed David’s reunion classmates already? I tried again to think if there was something untoward about her behavior at the cocktail party, something that would have been picked up by her party-going peers. When I’d literally bumped into David, all had been cordial. The only ones who were aware of Rosie’s unhealthy obsession were the members of the crafts group and Cheryl. I didn’t know all of Rosie’s other friends, but I doubted she’d advertised her wishful thinking far and wide.

Finally the group of dignitaries gathered around the shovel. I’d forgotten that’s why we were here. Tall as I was, I still couldn’t see the little ceremonial plot where the earth would be turned over. I knew the deed had been accomplished only by the smattering of applause as the crowd dispersed, its mood somber.

“Grandma?”

I realized I’d spaced out again. “Are you hungry, sweetheart?” Food to the rescue, a time-honored Porter tradition.

“Why don’t we all head for bagels at Willie’s,” Henry said. “My idea, my treat.”

Problem solved.

On the way out of the grassy area, I saw a small knot of thirty-year alums. Among them was Cheryl Mellace, wearing an eye patch. On me, the sight of a plastic cup with gauze sticking out the sides would have looked repulsive, as if I’d become a member of the Cyclopes, but it seemed to make Cheryl even more alluring. I doubted she’d chosen it as an accessory, however, and wondered what was wrong with her eye.

“I’ll just be a sec,” I told the other three in my own party and wandered to Cheryl’s group. Henry and Taylor were more help than they could have imagined in allowing me to dodge Maddie’s scrutiny.

A much subdued round of greetings came my way from the small clutch of men and women that included Cheryl Mellace. “I’m so sorry about your friend,” I said. “I know David meant a lot to all of you.”

The murmurings in response seemed heartfelt. I focused on Cheryl, looking for a more intense reaction, but saw none. I looked at the patch over her eye. “I hope that’s not too painful,” I said.

Her one good eye glared at me. “Thanks for asking,” she said. There was no doubt in my mind that she remembered my presence outside David’s hotel room when she delivered her insults to my friend.

“And I hope your last evening with David was a good memory,” I said.

Cheryl gave me one more angry look, then she sniffled and buried her face on the chest of the man next to her, no one I recognized.

“She and David go way back, Mrs. Porter,” he explained, patting Cheryl’s back. “They were very close.”

“I know.”

Like so many establishments in Lincoln Point, from banks to car rentals to dress shops, Bagels by Willie had an Abraham Lincoln connection: Lincoln’s third son, named after his uncle William. Willie died of what was likely typhoid fever when he was Maddie’s age.

That didn’t explain the bagel shop’s New York décor, dominated by a set of black-and-white photographs of the Empire State Building, the Statue of Liberty, and other New York City landmarks, but not everything had to make sense.

I went through the motions of greeting patrons I knew. My GED student, Lourdes Pino, took my order for an asiago cheese bagel and tried to start up our usual bantering about the peculiarities of the English language.

“Don’t put flour on a flower” was her offering today. Ordinarily I’d respond in kind, but today I had nothing to counter with. “I’ll see you next Tuesday as usual, Mrs. Porter?” Lourdes asked, as if seeking assurance that I wasn’t withdrawing altogether from our relationship.

I nibbled at my bagel and tried to tune in on the enjoyable chatter among Henry, Taylor, and Maddie, about the miniature apartment building and other woodworking projects that, on another day, would have fascinated me. I perked up a bit when I heard mention of a half-scale (only a half inch to every foot of life size) rocking chair and a dining room table with an inlaid wood design.

Maddie took up the slack for me, making up for my drifting attention. Except for frequent cell phone text messages, she kept the conversation going. First we had to deal with e-mailing, then ubiquitous cell phoning, and now text messages. One more high-tech way to stay connected had invaded the environment.

During one moment of halfhearted listening, I thought I heard Maddie say she’d like to buy one of Henry’s rockers for her dollhouse at home in Palo Alto. I had the feeling I should step in and monitor my granddaughter’s interactions, but I didn’t see any harm. I trusted Henry not to take advantage of her in these dealings. In fact, in any negotiation with Maddie, I always worried about the other party.

Maddie and Taylor, who had proclaimed themselves BF, best friends, left to get ice cream for all of us. Lucky for Lincoln Point residents, Sadie at the ice cream shop two doors down and Johnny, who ran the bagel shop, were good friends who allowed each other’s customers to supplement different parts of the meal.

“I’ll have my usual chocolate malt,” I’d told Maddie.

Henry had said, “Surprise me.”

“They seem to get along so well,” I said, for lack of a good transition to adult conversation.

“Did you notice that they were TMing each other while we were talking?”

“And they probably didn’t miss a thing,” I said.

I was proud that I recognized the abbreviation for text messaging, but not pleased that most of the interaction at the table had gone right by me. I was glad it was Henry who opened the topic that had captured my attention.

“David Bridges. I can’t believe it,” he said, scratching his head, full of brown hair that was barely starting to thin. “I wonder how it happened. A heart attack, do you think? We saw him just last night and he looked great. He couldn’t have been more than… what?… forty-seven or -eight?”

I couldn’t meet his gaze. I pushed a bagel crust around with my cream cheese knife. “Not more than that,” I said.

The news would soon be the talk of the town, but I wondered how soon citizens without relatives in the Lincoln Point Police Department would know that David’s was not a natural death, that he’d been bludgeoned with his own trophy. The crowd at Willie’s included many people from the abbreviated groundbreaking ceremony, but with so little information released, there wasn’t much to talk about. Most of the snippets of conversation I heard had more to do with the one-hundred-degree temperature than with the death of David Bridges.

I didn’t feel I could share what I knew, little as it was, with Henry, but I needed someone to talk to. My head ached from the stress.

There was only one sure way to ease the tension.

I knew what I was about to do was sneaky. Maddie would never forgive me. Not until I took her to Ghirardelli’s this afternoon, anyway.

I looked around at the crowd and leaned over the table. You never knew where there was a mole. “Henry, I have a big favor to ask.”

“Hit me with it,” he said.

Bad choice of words. I swallowed hard.

“I have an important errand to run that I can’t take Maddie to. Would you mind taking her home with you and I’ll pick her up later?”

Henry’s eyebrows went up a tad, surprised, but he recovered nicely. “Can I have your chocolate malt?”

I liked his style.

A little knowledge is a dangerous thing, I reminded myself, so I was on my way to get more. There was no use having a nephew, one whose hand you’d held crossing the street not that long ago, on the police force if you couldn’t take advantage of it.