Margaret Grace - Murder In Miniature

“She’ll be thrilled to hear you call it that.”

“I know. I get to tell her, okay? It’s not open-and-shut, but a little more digging is bound to uncover an illegal scheme to lock out Mellace’s competition. Since Barry is Mellace’s CFO, we figured he must have had a part in it.”

“And you had a feeling he’d be here?” I called from the kitchen where I was attending to the tea.

During the summer especially, I was thankful for a refrigerator that made ice automatically, but lately the process took on a new dimension-I wondered if some underhanded negotiations were involved in the purchase of my home refrigeration system. Had a big company ridden over a small one to get my service contract?

As soon as this case is over, I mused, I really must pursue other interests.

“We’ve been tailing Barry all day to see what plans he might make now that one of his partners is dead. Imagine my surprise… not … when Drew called in and said he’d tracked Barry to your house tonight.”

“He just stopped by, honestly. I didn’t invite him. He probably thinks I called you to arrest him.”

“Right now, we’ve just taken him in for questioning. I figure if he ended up here, he must be ready to confess.”

I was honored that criminals preferred to bare their souls in my home instead of interview room number three at the LPPD.

Larry Esterman’s name was on the tip of my tongue, but I hadn’t had a chance to look again at the package of e-mails Maddie had given me, and I didn’t want to put Rosie’s father in a bad light on the basis of a hunch. I considered telling Skip that the mystery of who mugged me in the Duns Scotus lobby had been solved, but I decided not to complicate matters.

For now, I let it go and enjoyed tea and cookies with my nephew.

I had about another half hour before I’d have to crawl into bed, no matter how warm and stuffy my bedroom was. When Skip left, I took out the e-mails. They were useless except as documentation of contract awards. Mostly boilerplate, such as pursuant to our determination and herewith we offer you . I needed the pages Maddie had given to Skip. I’d had only a glance at them in his office. On the other hand, I thought that even if they were in front of me now, I wouldn’t be able to focus. It was time to call it a day.

I turned out all the lights on my way to my bedroom. Only then did I notice the little red light blinking on my answering machine. It was unusual that I wouldn’t have seen the light when we got home this afternoon, and even more amazing that Maddie didn’t notice it.

Surely I could manage one more task before going to bed. I pushed the button.

“Hi, this is Henry. Sorry we missed each other today, Gerry. Call me when you get in later if you wish.”

Four strikes. Was there even a game that allowed that many?

On Tuesday morning at breakfast, I had a treat for Maddie, besides the homemade strawberry preserves crafter Mabel Quinlan had distributed to the group last week.

“How would you like to take a ride to San Francisco this afternoon and finally get a Ghirardelli sundae? I’ll pick you up at the Rutledge Center after class and we’ll drive right up.”

Anyone listening in on our family life would have thought that our diet revolved around ice cream: chocolate malts, caramel cashew ice cream, hot fudge sundaes. They wouldn’t be far off.

“That would be cool, Grandma. Do you have more errands to do at the hotel?”

I ruffled her curls. “Why would you ask that?”

I felt I was doing my duty as a good grandmother by at least starting our afternoon with the promised sundae.

We drove directly to Ghirardelli Square and parked a few blocks away-the best we could do, even on a weekday afternoon. A shopping area at the end of a cable car line, the square offered one of the best views in the city. Using a guide we’d picked up at the Duns Scotus over the weekend, Maddie pointed out the hills of Marin County, the Golden Gate Bridge, and the maritime museum.

For a chocolate lover, the Ghirardelli Chocolate Factory, dating back to the nineteenth century, was the centerpiece of the shopping area. The entire square smelled of sweet, melting chocolate. On this warm summer day, people were lined up around the block on Larkin Street for a chance to eat an outrageously large sundae or soda in cramped quarters.

I held our place in line while Maddie tossed a shiny penny into a fountain already full of coins, each one with a wish attached, I surmised. I never participated in such activities, even as a child. I could never isolate one wish and my parents weren’t about to have me toss in enough coins to cover them all.

Today, I’d truly be at a loss to choose among my wishes. The list ran from a healthy, happy life for Maddie, her parents, and all my friends and relatives, to a solution to the David Bridges murder case. If there were coins left over, I’d wish for another trip to England to see Queen Mary’s dollhouse.

We chose brownie sundaes, with enormous scoops of ice cream, chocolate sauce, and a large brownie stuck down the side of the bowl, in case the thousands of calories in the sundae weren’t enough. We immediately wrapped our brownies in napkins for later. We weren’t gluttons, after all.

It was hard to think of much else in the presence of such delicious decadence. Sadie’s in Lincoln Point was an outstanding little shop, but the excitement of being in San Francisco and the refreshing, cool air by the bay made everything taste better.

In spite of being in this legendary area, where Tony Ben-nett had left his heart, Maddie’s mind, like mine, drifted to the murder case.

“Grandma, can we work on the information I downloaded about those contracts and things?”

I stirred errant crumbs from the brownie into my ice cream. “We should put brownie crumbs on the counter in the Bronx house,” I said.

“Grandma?”

“I’d love to work on that information, but you gave the printout to Uncle Skip, remember?” So there.

Maddie reached into her backpack. “I have copies,” she said, with a chocolate-rimmed grin.

“I should have known.”

“If you had the e-mails I gave you, we could work on everything right now,” she said.

My turn. I reached down into my tote, on the floor by my feet. “I brought the e-mails with me.”

“I should have known,” she said.

I wondered if anyone could have been as proud of a grandchild as I was at that moment.

We both wanted to work on the contract documents on the spot, but one look at our tiny marble-topped table, and another at the long line of customers waiting for their turn at overdosing on chocolate, and we knew that was a bad idea.

“What about the hotel lobby?” I said. “You don’t have to be staying there to walk in and use the coffee tables and chairs. It will be as if we’re still registered,” I said.

Maddie gave me a sideways look. “You’re not going to dump me in the pool, are you?”

Between bouts of laughter, I made a promise to keep Maddie dry, and she accepted.

I couldn’t remember ever being so full as I was driving back toward downtown San Francisco.

“I’ll never eat again,” Maddie said, both hands on her fat-free belly, though we both knew that sentiment would barely last till dinnertime.

While I drove around the ramps of the Duns Scotus parking garage, I organized my goals for the trip.

I needed to establish the chain of custody for Rosie’s locker room scene, tracking its journey from the crafts room in my home to the hands of my LPPD nephew. If I believed Rosie, I could account for the scene up to its fate in room five sixty-eight of the Duns Scotus on Saturday morning, when Rosie unleashed thirty years of anger on it, then dumped it in the trash. The big question: who took the scene from there to the woods of Lincoln Point and then called it in?