It's Beginning to Look a Lot Like Murder, page 19
"The jewelry?" Cassie asked.
Detective Bebedict nodded. "The jewelry."
They stared at one another over two steaming cups of coffee. "If Morris is involved in this, Little Mack is gonna know," Eggs added. "At some point, he's gonna get tired of dealing with amateurs."
Constitutional Issues
Cassie was unable to sleep. She knew Morris was incapable of murder, but Detective Bebedict told her that in his experience, most murders were committed by people who were incapable of killing, right up until the moment that they weren't. She knew that Morris had an alibi for the Big Mack murder, that he was stranded in Woodbine without a car, but the situation with Louie was more complicated. By his own admission, Morris had serious money problems. By his own admission, Louie had ripped him off for the value of his autographed guitar. When she drove to Woodbine with Eggs, they found Morris pounding on the door of the closed pawnshop. And later that night, after they left, Morris broke into the shop. She didn't believe Morris was the killer. But she couldn't shake the feeling that he was somehow involved. When Eggs laid it out for her, it was hard to ignore the possibility.
Cassie realized that Eggs didn't have the evidence to arrest Morris for the murder of Louis Feldman. If he did, he would not have approached Cassie for help. The detective's theory of the crime pointed to a single killer responsible for both crimes. It would be an insider at the Mall of New Jersey stealing from unsuspecting shoppers and passing the goods to Big Mack, who would then use Louie to unload the stolen property. The theory pointed to Oliver, not Morris and Oliver was already in custody. Eggs told her more than once that he did not believe in coincidence. Even if it turned out that there were two killers, the detective was convinced these were not two unrelated killings. Until he could nail down the connection, he could neither implicate nor exonerate Morris.
Despite the ache that had settled in her chest, Cassie agreed to help. It was late at night when she placed the call.
"It looks bad, Morris. But I told Eggs it doesn't matter how it looks. I told him you couldn't possibly be involved in a double murder."
"What did he say next?"
"I can't do this over the phone, Morris. Meet me at the Eggery for breakfast."
"But . . ."
"Please, Morris. Let's not do this over the phone."
Cassie was unable to sleep. She poured a Jameson's and water and flipped on the television. cable channel eight was replaying the town council meeting, shown live earlier that evening while Cassie was on her non-date with Eggs Bebedict. She recalled Cheyenne's prediction of trouble at the meeting and sat down to watch the re-broadcast. It occurred to Cassie that the meeting was over. She didn't have to watch the tape; she could call Cheyenne and ask. But Cassie was tired of talking; she was tired of thinking. She sipped her Irish whiskey and watched her friend Cheyenne on TV.
"Many of you will remember," Cheyenne was leaning into the camera, her ample chest dominating the TV screen, speaking directly to Cassie and to the other habitual Council watchers who were following the action on local access cable and to the handful of township residents sitting in the Council room. "Many of you will remember the divisiveness which characterized the previous administration here in Doah."
Cheyenne took her eye off the camera just long enough to look at the former Mayor, "Big Jim" Donovan, sitting in the audience. "Please do not misunderstand. I have the greatest of admiration and a certain undeniable fondness for our former Mayor." In the audience, "Big Jim" stirred. Embarrassed by the attention, Mayor Donovan made his way clumsily to the exit.
Cassie chuckled as the camera followed the former Mayor taking his leave.
"But it is no secret that this town found itself embroiled in a series of nasty disputes involving land use decisions and later about religious displays on municipal property. I believe we have made great progress on the land use issues. I wish we could say the same on the matter of religious tolerance."
Sitting in the audience, Charles Meriwether nearly jumped out of his seat, eager for a fight. Looking around the room, he quickly sat down, waiting to see what Mayor Harbrough would do.
Sitting at home, Cassie refilled her Irish whiskey. She wondered if Cheyenne was really about to take on the issue of religion in public life. She didn't have to wait to find out.
"Fifty years ago, Doah was almost entirely a white, Christian community. I realize that there are some who look back wistfully at that time." Cheyenne stared directly at Mr. Meriwether. "But I do not believe in looking backwards. I believe we must look forwards. Doah has become a town of rich ethnic, cultural and religious diversity. I take great pride in that diversity and have always seen it as a real strength in our community. As long as I am the mayor, we will not apologize for our diversity."
The audience sitting in the Council room was surprisingly quiet. Watching at home on TV, Cassie found it difficult to gauge their reaction. Cheyenne, standing at the podium, was finding it equally difficult.
"I understand," Cheyenne plowed ahead, "that there are some in this community who feel that removing the manger from the municipal building is anti-Christian. I do not need to remind you that decision was made under the previous administration, on the advice of our township attorney. I think that a large majority in town would agree that we do not wish any one religion to take precedence over any other religion in the public life of Doah. And so we are faced with a dilemma. How do we create a climate in Doah in which every citizen is free to worship or not, to believe or not, and to share that experience with like-minded neighbors, without marginalizing others in this diverse community of ours?"
Several members of the audience rose to speak, but Cheyenne had no intention of relinquishing the floor.
"It would be easy for me to hide behind constitutional issues, to suggest that our religious life should happen in our homes and in our churches and synagogues, but the truth is, I happen to believe there is an appropriate role for our public institutions as well. I think that municipal government can acknowledge Christmas without tearing down the wall between church and state."
"Speaking for a moment not as mayor, but as a private citizen who happens to be Jewish, I have to say that I have never been offended by Christmas displays. To tell you the truth, I kind of like them. And we could all use a little more 'peace on earth, goodwill to men.' It seems to me that the town can acknowledge the events that are important to its citizens—Christian, Jewish, Muslim, Hindu. Isn't that after all what it means to celebrate our diversity?"
"I am therefore announcing tonight the formation of an ad hoc Mayor's advisory committee to address these issues directly. If you have an opinion, the committee will want to hear it. In the meantime, this is the last Council meeting before Christmas, so with your permission, I would ask that we table any further township business. I would ask you to join me in the first annual Mayoral Christmas party."
"Ho! Ho! Ho!"
All eyes turned to the rear of the Council room. The doors swung open and Santa strode in, looking very much like the sheriff walking into a barroom in Dodge City, there to restore order and Christmas cheer.
"Ho! Ho! Ho! Merry Christmas everybody."
In the municipal building, Council members and audience alike were stunned by Santa's unscheduled appearance. Watching at home on TV, perhaps it was the surprise, or maybe just one too many Irish whiskeys, but Cassie nearly fell out of her chair.
Cheyenne had arranged for eggnog and pastries and these were carried into the room moments after Santa's arrival. She had also arranged for Santa to deliver gifts. Her favorite was for one of her harshest critics, a Thesaurus with an inscription from the mayor herself—"In case you run out of ways to say I'm doing a crummy job."
After the party, Cheyenne sat in her office in the municipal building. "Thanks for agreeing to play Santa Claus tonight."
"It was fun." Taking off his hat and gloves, peeling off his white whiskers, "Big Jim" Donovan grinned. "There are some in this town who were convinced you were going to do a lousy job as Mayor. You know I was never one of them. You're proving yourself to be an admirable Mayor."
"Thank you, Jim."
"Just so you understand that's not going to stop me from challenging you in the next election.
"I wouldn't have it any other way." She reached out and put her hand on Santa's thigh.
Better Make this One Decaf
Cassie fell asleep with the television on, Santa holding court in the Council room; ho, ho, ho echoing in her dreams. Morris, on the other hand, barely slept at all after Cassie's phone call. He was standing at the Eggery's front door when it opened for business at 6:30 in the morning. When Cassie strolled into the restaurant at 9:00, he was on his third pot of black coffee.
"You look horrible, Morris." Despite all the coffee, his eyes were bloodshot and half shut. What remained of his hair hung off the side of his head in random patches. A farmer had plowed deep furrows in Morris's brow.
"What did you tell him, Cassie?"
"I told him it wasn't you, that when Big Mack was murdered, you were stranded without a car at that motel in Woodbine."
"And then?"
Cassie shook her head. "Detective Bebedict didn't say very much, but he thought it was curious you were in Woodbine, of all places. Tell me again, Morris. You didn't have anything to do with Louie Feldman's murder, did you?"
Morris nearly burned his mouth on his coffee. "After all these years, do you really need to ask?"
"I'm sorry, Morris." Cassie couldn't meet his gaze. "Did you?"
"No, Cassie. I had nothing to do with Louie's murder. And I didn't plant any evidence, either."
"Okay, Morris. I'm sorry. Your connection to Louie is just an unfortunate coincidence. I won't ask you, ever again."
"Thank you, Cassie." Morris was relieved.
"But what about your connection to the Macks? You owed them money, right?"
Morris nodded. "I told you that already."
Cassie tried to remember the conversation. "But you never told me how you hooked up with the Macks. I mean, you were always pretty careful who you did business with."
"I told you, Cassie. The magazine wasn't generating the kind of revenue you thought it was. I was falling deeper and deeper in debt."
"But you sold the magazine. I mean that must have covered the debt, at least. It did cover the debt, didn't it Morris?"
Morris tried to find a simple explanation to a complicated question. "Well, yes . . . and no. I had some rather large gambling debts. I couldn't go to the bank, not while the sale of the magazine was in process."
Cassie had known Morris for nearly two decades and in all that time she hadn't realized he had a gambling problem. "So you went to the Macks."
"Yeah. I went to the Macks."
Cassie didn't know what else to say. "Have you ordered breakfast?" She signaled for the waitress.
"Are you—grr—here again?"
Cassie laughed. "I guess I have been here a lot the last couple of weeks. This is my friend, Morris." She turned to Morris to make the introduction. "Morris, Greta."
"Nice to meet you Greta."
"Same—grr—here."
Cassie asked for her regular. Morris ordered pancakes and a fourth pot of coffee. "Better make this one decaf," he added, as an afterthought.
Greta disappeared into the kitchen.
"So what am I supposed to do now?"
"Detective Bebedict would like you to go to the station house today to answer a few more questions."
"Do I have a choice?"
"Not really."
Morris was feeling sorry for himself. He tried to pinpoint the moment his life had begun to fall apart. All he could think of was when his car got a flat tire deep in the Pine Barrens, but he knew his troubles started years earlier. "Can I eat my breakfast first?"
Cassie tried not to laugh. "Of course you can."
A busboy stopped at the table with a fresh pot of coffee. He didn't seem happy to be working.
"I know that boy," Morris said, as the busboy made his way around the restaurant.
Cassie was surprised. "I don't know how. That's Greta's son. He just started working here."
Morris stared at the busboy's back. "Well, I know him from someplace."
No Witnesses, No Prints
There was a deep chill in the station house. It felt like someone had deposited an enormous block of dry ice right in the center of the squad room. Detective Bebedict looked up and realized that the block of dry ice was none other than his captain, who was definitely not happy to find the local hero still in lock-up. "Bebedict," he roared, "I thought I told you to cut him loose."
Eggs Bebedict didn't like the captain, but he respected the chain of command. "I think we've got enough to charge him, Captain."
"You got jack, Detective. No witnesses, no prints, nothing."
"With all due respect, Captain," Eggs spit the words out, "I've got the stolen jewelry."
The captain looked at his detective. "Ah, that's right. You've got the jewelry." The captain paused. "And what exactly does the jewelry prove?"
Detective Bebedict wanted to smack some sense into his captain. "It all fits, Captain. Don't you see? Oliver was stealing from unsuspecting shoppers at the mall. If, like Mrs. Bayardi, they realized they'd been robbed, he'd make sure nothing ever happened with their complaint. Meanwhile, he was passing the stuff to the Macks."
"I know. I know," the captain said, waving Eggs off. "And the Macks were disposing of the stuff at Louie's pawnshop."
"That's right Captain. Only something blew up between Oliver and Big Mack."
"That's an interesting theory, Bebedict, but you've got no proof. Find me the proof, Bebedict and I'll back you. Meanwhile, cut Berryhill loose."
Eggs had more to say, but his captain cut him off. "That's an order, Detective."
Eggs released Oliver Berryhill and thanked him for his cooperation. If he was going to make the case, Detective Bebedict knew he would have to squeeze Morris. He hoped Cassie would understand. The detective dialed Cassie's cell phone.
"Cassie, it's me . . . Eggs. Have you talked to him yet?"
"I'm with him now. By the way detective, thanks for dinner last night. It was fun."
"Yeah. Same here. So is he coming in?"
"I'm having trouble hearing you. It's kind of noisy in here." Cassie looked around. In a corner of the restaurant, Greta and her son were arguing again. Cassie figured it was another argument about the busboy job. It seemed pretty clear that Greta was losing.
"I asked if Morris would be coming to the station house this morning."
The argument seemed to be escalating. Cassie walked out to the parking lot, looking for a quieter place to talk.
"We're having breakfast. He'll stop by the station house when we're done."
"Tell him I get cranky when I have to wait."
"Easy, Eggs."
"Just tell him . . . please."
Cassie smiled into the phone. "That's better. Expect him in an hour or so."
"Make it half an hour."
At that moment, Greta's son came storming out of the restaurant, followed by his mother. "You are in so much trouble, young man." Cassie noticed that Greta didn't growl when she was yelling.
"I'm sorry, Eggs. What was that?"
"Just tell him to get here as soon as possible. Okay Cassie?"
Cassie was having difficulty focusing on her phone call with Eggs. Greta and her son were getting even louder in the parking lot. She did her best to block out the noise and said good-bye into her cell. "Thanks again for dinner. Call me later today." Cassie closed her cell phone and walked back into the dining room. Her eggs were waiting for her return.
Morris looked up from his pancakes. It was obvious to Morris that the phone call had been about him. He didn't like the part he could hear. He figured the part he couldn't hear was even worse. "Is everything okay?"
Cassie wasn't sure. "I think you better finish up those pancakes and get over to the station house."
Morris took a large bite of pancake drenched in syrup. "Will you come with me to see the detective?"
"I think you have to do this on your own, Morris. Besides, there's something I need to check out."
Morris was hopeful. "Something that's gonna help me with the detective?"
"I don't see how. Did you watch the Council meeting last night?" Cassie didn't wait for Morris to answer. "This is gonna sound stupid, but . . . does Santa Claus usually wear gloves?"
A Veritable Universe of Christmas Trees
Cassie looked across the table at Morris, wiping the maple syrup from his plate with the last bite of pancake. "Go on, Morris. Go talk to Detective Bebedict."
Morris tried to prolong the last bite of breakfast all morning.
"Go on, Morris. I'll settle up the bill."
Morris, reluctantly, rose to leave.
"Just tell him the truth, Morris, no matter how bad it sounds. If there's one thing I've learned, it's not to lie to the police. Now get out of here."
Morris walked slowly to the door. He looked back at Cassie as though he would never see her again.
Cassie looked around the restaurant, eager to pay her bill and leave, but Greta had not yet returned. She waved down the hostess and paid for breakfast.
In the parking lot, climbing into her Mustang, Cassie noticed the quiet. Greta and her son had taken their argument elsewhere. She popped a Christmas CD in the player—Ella singing some great old songs as only Ella could sing them—and pointed her car toward the mall. Cassie wasn't sure what she was looking for, didn't know why Santa's gloves were tugging at the edge of her consciousness; she only knew she needed to find out.
It was a chilly December day. There was no snow in the forecast, but Cassie could feel it in the air. Ella was dreaming of a white Christmas. Suddenly, Cassie was too. Christmas was a bittersweet time for Cassie, dreaming of the "should have been" Christmases with her late husband. This year, the holiday season had been neither bitter nor sweet. She had hardly even thought about Rob. The holiday season started with an annoying story assignment that had somehow morphed into a double murder. Despite it all, on a back road in the Pine Barrens, surrounded by a veritable universe of Christmas trees, Ella was singing about a white Christmas.
