Margaret Grace - Murder In Miniature

Most of the time.

I was pleased to hear Henry Baker’s voice, though any voice would have spelled my success at using the new technology.

“I hope I didn’t wake you up,” he said.

“Not at all. I’m downtown in my car.”

“I was thinking-why don’t I pick you up and we can go to David’s service together?” Henry said. “I don’t have grandfather duty today and it seems silly for us to drive separately.”

Which we’d been doing the last few decades, I thought. I liked the flexibility of having my own car, in case… well, in case something came up on The Case.

“It’s a great idea, but I have some errands to do before and after,” I said. Errands. The term I used on Maddie. Maybe I should think of another term for adults.

“Right,” Henry said, as if he didn’t believe me.

“Otherwise, I’d love to,” I said. “Some other time.”

He laughed. “Sure. Some other memorial service, okay?”

“I didn’t mean that.”

We hung up on cordial terms but I had the feeling I’d disappointed him. Too late I remembered that it was Henry who’d first mentioned that Rosie’s father was a subcontractor with Callahan and Savage. Maybe he knew more. I was sorry I’d missed an opportunity to talk to him about that.

And maybe other opportunities as well, but I was busy enough as it was.

On the way home I did the one legitimate errand I had for today and drove through the Lincoln Point Library book drop station. I’d checked out several history and English books to review for Lourdes’s use and I wanted to return the ones I thought were inappropriate for her current level. It gave me some measure of satisfaction that I was doing my unquestionable duty for my GED student, as opposed to the wild physical and mental meanderings I’d been involved in, in an effort to free my friend from suspicion of murder.

I always craned my neck when I passed Sadie’s Ice Cream Shop. Even at this hour of the morning, milk shakes beckoned. Milk was a breakfast food, was it not? Sadie’s looked dark, however, as on most days before ten o’clock. I considered stopping and looking in the window. I knew from previous experiences of these off-hours cravings that, if she or Colleen were working in the back, there was a chance I could rouse them and gain admittance.

I slowed down and pulled over to the right on Springfield Boulevard, across from Sadie’s, intending to cross the street and scan the shop for movement. This put me almost directly in front of Scrap’s, Lincoln Point’s worst fast-food restaurant. (You’d think if you were going to serve inferior foodstuff, you wouldn’t make it so obvious by the name of your establishment.)

Scrap’s opened very early to serve the breakfast-bacon-to-go crowd, a few of whom were exiting now with white paper sacks. I could almost see the grease leaking through from where I sat in my car, exchanging glasses and gathering my purse.

I was about to exit when a family group caught my eye. On closer inspection-not a family group, but Cheryl Mellace, Barry Cannon, and a little boy about four years old. I pulled my leg back in and snapped the visor down in front of my face.

Was the woman who could buy and sell the entire town of Lincoln Point a closet junk-food junkie? Neither Cheryl nor Barry had a to-go sack, so they must have eaten inside the restaurant. Who could guess that Scrap’s was the in place for celebrity sighting?

The group stopped only a few yards from my car. Cheryl and Barry, her husband’s CFO, were engaged in animated conversation, but not arguing, as far as I could make out. Cheryl held fast to the little boy’s hand. I’d read that her children were grown and figured this to be a grandson.

I thought of rolling down my window but didn’t want to make the slightest noise, lest they see me. My plan for that contingency was to wave and pretend I’d just arrived. I was torn between clandestine observation and full-fledged interaction. Why wait until the service, almost two hours away?

Before I could make my choice, the group broke up. Cheryl had picked up the little boy and walked north toward Hanks Road. The toddler nuzzled his face on Cheryl’s shoulder, as Maddie used to do. Cheryl patted his back and nuzzled him back. It was the first soft gesture I’d seen from her and I had to rethink my view of her as cold and witch-like. Grandmothers could dump their grandchildren into pools, I knew, but they couldn’t be killers, could they?

Barry came toward me. I turned my back to the sidewalk, using my purse to shield my profile. Barry walked quickly, looking straight ahead.

The moment was gone to speak to either Cheryl or Barry. My reaction time had been too slow. If I’d already had a milk shake, I might have done better.

I decided against Sadie’s also, however, and headed for home.

I thought back to the muted conversation between Cheryl and Barry. I hadn’t seen any sign of mourning or grief. Not that outward manifestations were necessary, and not that life had to stand still when a friend died. But having seen Cheryl with David on Friday night, I expected less normalcy in her behavior just two days after his death.

I replayed the scene. Had there been any clue of a romantic connection between the two? I didn’t think so. Surely, it would be too soon for Cheryl to replace David in that way. But maybe she had the ability to bounce back emotionally the way she bounced on the football field with her pom-poms.

Alas, none of this was my area of expertise.

When I returned home, I found Skip at my kitchen table with a mug of coffee, toast, and a half dozen of my ginger cookies.

“Why do you bother with the toast?” I asked him.

“Appearances.”

I poured a cup of coffee for myself and joined him.

“I thought we could chat before the service,” he said. “It would help a lot if you could give me your version of the relationship between Rosie and Bridges.”

I felt a conundrum coming on, like the hint of a headache when I didn’t get enough sleep or when I didn’t switch from coffee to tea early enough in the day. If I told Skip of the obsessive nature of Rosie’s attachment, real or fictional, to David Bridges, and her deep-seated anger after his rebuke, it would make matters worse for her.

I related the story in as neutral terms as possible, making it sound like high school-style unrequited love. “We’ve all been there,” I ended, as if I myself had once staked all my happiness on the off chance that someone I hadn’t talked to in thirty years was now longing for me.

“Hmm,” was all Skip said. Maybe, unlike me, he had been there.

“Can we review the other suspects?” I asked. “For example, have you looked into the man named Ben whom I told you about-David’s employee?”

“The SFPD might have picked up on that.”

“Might have? Don’t you share?”

“They wouldn’t necessarily share that. They interviewed a lot of the reunion class and even other guests who were at the hotel that night. I’m assuming if the fight was that public, one of them would have remembered, too.”

“They didn’t interview me or Rosie, so on that alone we know they’re not being thorough.”

Skip shrugged and left the table. He pulled a plastic storage bag from a box in my kitchen drawer and filled it with ginger cookies. From the number he took, I guessed he was planning on a long, tough day.

I was thrown back in time to the young boy, newly fatherless, who visited Ken and me (mostly Ken) more and more often, falling asleep on our guest bed or on the floor in his cousin Richard’s room, treating our home as his. They were difficult days for all of us, especially for Beverly, who drew comfort from her brother’s near adoption of her son.