All the Pretty Hearses Page 10

  “Okay,” Jean said reluctantly. “But it’s an awful picture.”

  The black wallet also looked familiar. So did the driver’s license. Judith had only glanced at the alleged owner’s age, weight, and height the first time around, but now she scrutinized the details. The young woman standing beside her was thirty-one, but the photo made her look not only older, but much less attractive.

  “There’s a passing resemblance between you and the other woman,” Judith said, handing the wallet back. “But you’re ten times better looking than the impostor—or the photo.”

  “Thanks.” Jean smiled for the first time, looking even prettier. “I suppose I got charged for the stay here.”

  “I didn’t run the card through yet,” Judith admitted. “It’s been a hectic day.”

  Jean looked relieved. “Good. I already called about a couple of my other credit cards, but I didn’t have time for the rest. The one that awful woman used is only a backup in case there’s a glitch with my AmEx personal and business cards.”

  Good for you, Judith thought, bad for me. “That’s fortunate. By the way, did you see anybody at Nordquist’s who looked even vaguely like you when your purse went missing?”

  Jean grimaced. “I was doing the winter sale and totally focused on clothes. That’s why I left my purse in the dressing room. I needed a size eight, but I’d picked up a ten by mistake, so I nipped back out to the floor to get the right size. The clerks were so busy that I didn’t want to bother them. It was hard enough to find a vacant dressing room right after work. As soon as it was five o’clock, it seemed like most of the working women downtown took off for the sale.”

  “Sure. That happens.” Judith wondered how long the other Jean Rogers had waited to find a look-alike. Maybe she’d been browsing for some time. Someone who worked at Nordquist’s might remember her. The store’s clerks were very good about recognizing people. “Which department were you in?”

  “Third floor, Free Spirit.” Jean looked intrigued. “Are you going to try to find this person?”

  “I’d like to,” Judith replied. “But she may be gone.”

  “You mean you think she left town?”

  “Ah . . . possibly.” Or, Judith thought, gone as in permanently.

  As soon as Jean Rogers left, Judith closed the front door and went back to the kitchen. Gertrude and Addison were still jabbering away.

  “Well,” her mother said, sounding more like her usual captious self, “what happened to you? We thought you’d moved out.”

  Judith noticed that though her own drink was untouched, the other two glasses were empty. “There’s been a mix-up about one of the guests. A credit-card problem. It’s straightened out now.”

  Addison nodded. “Hard to tell the innocent from the guilty these days. Say, Gert, would you like to show me your dollhouse?”

  “Why not,” the old lady said, releasing the brake on her wheelchair. “Seems like the barmaid’s about to call time. Kind of an ornery wench, don’t you think, Addy? Gimpy, too.”

  Addison chuckled. “Not saucy like you, eh?”

  “Not much. Back in my day, I could’ve taught her a thing or two about men. She’s less Polly Peachum and more Suky Tawdry, if you . . .”

  Dumbfounded by her mother’s uncharacteristic behavior and almost unbelievable knowledge of classical theater, Judith downed two quick swigs of Scotch. Her stomach growled; it dawned on her that she hadn’t eaten much since lunch. The gluelike soufflé had stuck to the roof of her mouth, but not to her ribs. She’d barely touched her own slice of pie. Although her appetite was still missing, she had to nibble on something to offset the liquor.

  Judith was making an egg-salad sandwich when Addison came back into the house. “So how did the tour go?” she asked—and realized that she sounded cross.

  “Fine. Your mother’s an amazing woman.”

  “She sure is.” Judith jammed the knife she’d been using into the cutting board. “Suddenly she’s a theater buff? Where did that come from?”

  Addison looked puzzled. “She told me that several years ago she and some of her friends from your church had season tickets to the Rep. You didn’t know that?”

  Judith felt like an idiot. “I’d forgotten.” She leaned against the counter and hung her head. “Get yourself a refill. I’m sorry. Back then I didn’t see Mother very often, or anybody else in my family when I was married to my first husband. He didn’t want to . . . share me with anyone else. Besides, I had to hold down two jobs to keep a roof over our heads. A dirty four-letter word to him was spelled w-o-r-k.”

  Addison’s smile was bittersweet. “It sounds like you’ve had some rough times.” He picked up his empty glass. “Life’s a bitch.”

  Judith carried her sandwich to the table. “You’ve had your share. Dare I ask about Amalia? The last time you and I spoke, you told me she was helping you mend.”

  “Amalia is doing the tango with some other guy these days,” Addison said, pouring out an inch of Scotch. “It was fun while it lasted. My broken leg mended fine after Joan’s killer tried to run me down in the hospital parking lot, but the broken heart won’t ever get over my late wife. She was special.”

  Judith nodded. “How are your kids and grandkids?”

  “Fine.” He added a couple of ice cubes and a dash of water to his drink before sitting down across from Judith. “Let’s cut to the chase. What do you know about your husband’s last assignment?”

  Judith swallowed her first bite of sandwich. “Not as much as I wish I did. He’d only been on the job for a little over a day.”

  “Really?” Addison seemed skeptical. “You sure about that?”

  Judith looked straight into his penetrating eyes. “Why would I be evasive? I trust you.”

  He chuckled softly. “Because you’re FASTO, and you’ve probably solved more murders in the past fifteen years than anybody in this town except your husband.”

  The reference to the fan-created Web site of Female Amateur Sleuth Tracking Offenders made Judith cringe. At least he hadn’t referred to the site as FATSO—the more easily remembered, if inaccurate, acronym she found so irritating. Despite being tall enough to add a few pounds without detection, Judith had spent her life watching the scales.

  “That’s dubious,” she said. “I haven’t solved any murders since . . . uh . . . last summer.” That wasn’t true, but Judith had never acknowledged her role in fingering the killer of two people on the Empire Builder when she and Renie had headed to Boston to join their husbands. The arrest had been made in North Dakota and her involvement had been kept secret—even from Joe.

  “Doesn’t matter,” Addison said. “Have you talked to Joe since he was arrested?”

  “Briefly,” Judith replied. “But you have.”

  Addison nodded. “So I did. I’m sure you realize what’s going on.”

  “I’m sure I don’t,” Judith snapped. “Unless,” she went on when there was no immediate response from Addison, “it’s a blind to flush out the real killer.”

  “It’s more than that.” He took a sip of his drink. “There’s some serious stuff going on behind the scenes. I’m not sure what it is either, but I have a feeling it involves some very important people on my beat.”

  Judith was taken aback. “City Hall?”

  “That’s right. No names, though I can make a few guesses. What I don’t know is who the murder vic really was. My initial reaction is that he was an undercover cop, but I’m not sure.”

  “Was he paralyzed while on the job?”

  “I don’t know,” Addison replied, frowning. “Ordinarily, the autopsy report would include that, but it hasn’t yet been released, and I’m not convinced it won’t be doctored when it is. This whole thing could even go higher than City Hall, up to the state level.”

  “Why not?” Judith murmured. “These days, party affiliations
should stand for Dissolute and Rapacious, not Democrats and Republicans. Greed and sleaze, cupidity and stupidity, at every government level. I assume Joe realizes what he’s gotten into by now.”

  “I gather that’s a given.”

  “Which reminds me,” Judith said, getting up. “I have to call the cops. A woman who checked in late this afternoon has gone AWOL. She stole somebody else’s ID to register. The victim was the person I was talking to in the front hall while you and Mother were chatting out here.”

  “Whoa!” Addison put out a hand to stop Judith from reaching the phone. “What woman?”

  Judith knew from past experience that she could trust Addison Kirby. But she often kept some speculations to herself. There had been many occasions when she didn’t share her thoughts even with Renie.

  “I don’t know who she is,” Judith finally said. “She claimed to be someone named Jean Rogers, who was in town for a conference at the convention center. She was a late arrival, checked in, and went up to her room to prepare for a presentation she’s giving tomorrow. Then she disappeared into thin air.”

  Addison frowned. “Did she say what kind of conference or convention?”

  “No, but I can look it up,” Judith said. “I keep all the big events in my scheduling book. She did mention that it was at the downtown convention center. Now that I think about it, she’s the only guest I’ve had who’s involved in whatever’s being held this week.” Just as she started to get up from the sofa, she smacked a hand to her head. “Oh, good grief! It’s the annual wedding show. That’s usually aimed at mostly a local crowd. The B&B association sometimes has a booth for wedding parties who expect out-of-town guests. I don’t think that formal presentations are part of the mix. It’s more of a user-friendly event.”

  “Sounds like the first Ms. Rogers should’ve done her homework,” Addison remarked. “So who showed up at the door while your mother was charming the socks off of me?”

  “The real Jean Rogers, or so I assume.” Judith explained that Jean’s purse had been stolen from a Nordquist’s dressing room yesterday, but recovered from a Moonbeam’s trash bin in the past hour or so. “Which,” she went on, “means the Jean who was in her room earlier this evening must’ve put it there not long before it was found.”

  Addison nodded. “That makes sense. Dump and run. The purse would be right on top and visible to whoever used the bin next. You ought to call Moonbeam’s, too.”

  “You’re right.” Judith stood in the middle of the kitchen, pondering. “I wish I’d made a copy of that driver’s license. It was a bad picture of . . .” She brightened. “Do you have a camera?”

  “In my phone,” Addison replied. “I’m no photographer, but I have to equip myself with all the latest bells and whistles on the job.”

  “Be right back.” Judith hurried into the front hall and grabbed the receipt and the keys. She was almost into the dining room when the couple from Indianapolis entered the house. “Oh! How was your dinner?” she asked, hoping they wouldn’t go into details.

  “Wonderful,” the wife replied. “I had salmon and it was the best I’ve ever eaten. The view was lovely, too. All those ferryboats going back and forth. If it hadn’t been raining, they said we could have seen the mountains in the distance beyond the ocean.”

  Judith recalled that the wife’s name was Marcia. “We’re not on the ocean,” she explained for perhaps the five-hundredth time since opening the B&B. “The bay is part of the sound. The ocean is almost a hundred miles from here.”

  The couple exchanged perplexed—and possibly incredulous—glances. “Huh,” the husband said. “That seems kind of odd.”

  “Blame it on the Ice Age,” Judith said, forcing a smile. “Excuse me, I have to make a phone call.”

  Back in the kitchen, she showed the receipt to Addison. “Here’s the real Jean Rogers’s address.”

  He frowned. “In Phoenix?”

  “Oh no!” Judith cried. “What was I thinking? She moved here last June from Phoenix. She’s listed in the phone book, though. It’s two blocks from Moonbeam’s, 2455 Rosebud North.”

  “Good memory,” he said admiringly.

  Judith shook her head. “Not really. You met my cousin and her husband at the hospital. They live just two blocks down on the same street. Jean’s address will be on the west side.”

  “You want me to talk to her?”

  “Well . . . I’d like you to take a picture of her driver’s license and show it around at Moonbeam’s to see if anyone remembers the other Jean Rogers. They bear a slight resemblance, but the real Jean is younger, better looking, and has brown eyes. The phony Jean’s eyes are blue.”

  “Okay,” Addison agreed. “Maybe you should call her first. If she lives alone, she might not be too keen on having a strange man show up at her door on a dark night.”

  “Good idea,” Judith said. “I’ll do that before I call the cops and Nordquist’s.”

  Addison was out the door by the time Judith had checked Jean’s number on her caller ID. The phone was answered on the second ring. “Hi, Jean. It’s Judith Flynn. I hate to be a pest, but would you mind letting a friend of mine take a picture of your license?”

  Jean didn’t respond right away. “Why would he want to do that?”

  “To help find whoever stole your purse,” Judith said. “Did you call the police and Nordquist’s to tell them you found it?”

  “Not yet,” Jean replied. “I didn’t know if anyone would be in the office this late at Nordquist’s. I wasn’t sure who to call at police headquarters. Anyway, as soon as I got back from your B&B, I started packing for tomorrow’s trip.” She paused. “Well . . . okay, but this kind of creeps me out. Are you sure the guy’s somebody you trust?”

  “Definitely,” Judith assured her. “His name is Addison Kirby. I’ve known him for years.”

  Jean’s sigh was audible. “If you say so. I’ll be here.”

  Judith thanked her and disconnected, then called the police theft number. After four rings, she was put on hold. Five minutes passed before a live voice responded. Judith explained the problem. The woman taking the report said that recovery of the stolen property would be duly noted, thanked Judith, and hung up.

  It was well after nine o’clock. Jean was probably right about Nordquist’s not answering their phones. The store and the offices were closed. There might be a number for the security department, but she was tired of repeating the tale of the stolen brown suede drawstring bag. She was, in fact, just plain tired.

  What little appetite she’d had seemed to have vanished. She put the uneaten half of her egg-salad sandwich into the fridge, carried the rest of her drink into the living room, and collapsed on the sofa. The fire she’d set off for the guests’ social hour had almost burned out. Taking another sip of Scotch, she tried to relax and didn’t realize she’d nodded off until the sound of the front door opening woke her up.

  “Joe?” Her voice sounded foggy in her ears. No. Joe always came in through the back door. She was struggling to get to her feet when Addison entered the living room.

  “Were you asleep?” he asked, taking off his jacket.

  Judith felt sheepish. “I guess I was.” She peered at the grandfather clock by the door to the front parlor. “My God, it’s almost ten. Did you have any luck?”

  “Sit back down,” Addison said. “You look kind of shaky.”

  Judith didn’t argue. “It’s been a long day.”

  “It’s about to get longer,” Addison said, sitting down on the matching sofa by the fireplace hearth. “I got zip. Nobody at Moonbeam’s remembered a woman who looked like the first Jean Rogers. The trash bin where the purse was found is outside of the store.”

  Judith groaned. “I should’ve thought about that. Joe and I always go there for the annual Halloween costume parade and sit outside with Renie and Bill. We use that trash can when we’
re finished. What about the real Jean? Did you get a decent picture of her driver’s license?”

  Addison shook his head and looked bleakly at Judith. “The real Jean Rogers doesn’t live at 2455 Rosebud Avenue North and never did. Mr. James Michael Rogers told me so in person. No relation, never heard of her, and thought I was nuts. The phone number you used is for a cell he got rid of last month when he upgraded. For all we know, the real Jean Rogers is at the bottom of the Grand Canyon.”

  Chapter Nine

  Judith was dumbfounded. “You mean . . . both Jean Rogers are fakes?”

  “Maybe fakes, maybe crooks.” Addison put his hands behind his head and leaned back on the sofa. “I don’t know. Can you think of any way to tie in the two women with whatever Joe has gotten involved in at police headquarters?”

  “No,” Judith replied. “Unless . . .” She paused, wondering if her tired brain was playing tricks on her. “Unless the Jean Rogers who stayed here so briefly was the one who managed to open the safe. Joe would never leave it unlocked, not with his guns in there.”

  “Maybe there is a connection,” Addison mused. “If so, there are some very clever people involved. Why would they want to get you and Joe mixed up in whatever is going on? Or is it just a coincidence because he’s the PI assigned to the possible insurance-fraud case?”

  Judith made a helpless gesture. “You mean it was part of an ongoing investigation, so they called on Joe because he’s a former police detective—and a damned good one? But whose idea was that? SANECO? The cops? And has Joe been aware of this from the start?”

  Addison smiled, but he looked more ironic than amused. “I don’t know. I may have gotten an inside track because I’m on the City Hall beat, but nobody’s telling me everything. Did Joe approach this assignment any differently than he usually does?”

  Judith considered the question carefully. “Not really. But when it ended so abruptly, he didn’t seem concerned over the loss of income.”