years was gone. “It seems that Eddie French is the worthless older brother of Tippy’s sorority sister,” he said.
Tippy was Bob’s wife. Several years younger than him, trim and pretty. A real ballbuster. Bob would still be writing high school sports at that little weekly in Coshocton County if she hadn’t rescued his dormant potential from the dustbin of happiness. “And this sorority sister knows her worthless brother couldn’t possibly have murdered Violeta Bell?”
Bob took a much more modest sip from his shake. “She was on the phone half the night crying to Tippy about it. Which meant Tippy was crying to me the other half.”
“And now you’re crying to me?”
“You know how irascible Tippy can be.”
I did know how irascible Tippy could be. I also knew it would be smart to stick to the facts. “According to Dale Marabout’s story, the police found Bell’s stuff in his apartment. And he’s got quite a record, too.”
“Yes they did, and yes he does,” Bob admitted. “But sorority sisters are sisters for life and, well-”
I finished the sentence. “And I owe my shaky future at the paper to your good graces?”
The Bob Averill of old would have gone ballistic over a remark like that. The new one only got more docile. “I can’t put Marabout or some other reporter on this. That would be unethical. This is a personal matter.”
“But you can put me on it?”
“No putting. Begging.”
The waitress arrived with our platters. The meatloaf was stacked high inside huge Kaiser rolls. The enormous globs of au gratin potatoes were steaming. “Frankly, it feels more like putting,” I said.
Bob hadn’t learned his lesson from the milkshake. He filled his mouth with potatoes, getting a dandy cheese burn on the roof of his mouth. “Look Maddy, I know this stinks. I’ve spent the last two years trying to stop you from snooping into murders and now I’m asking you to do exactly that. But for some reason you’re good at it.”
He was right about that. For some reason I was good at it. “What if I say no?”
Despite his weakened condition, he still had enough sense not to answer my question directly. “To tell you the truth, Maddy, I’ve never cared much for Jeannie. That’s Tippy’s sorority sister. Jeannie Salapardi. She’s full of herself and full of ideas for making me a better husband.”
I’m sure my eyebrows went up about a foot. “Salapardi? Of the Honda-Toyota-Mitsubishi dealership Salapardis?”
Bob grinned a bit. “That’s right. She’s married to Dave ‘Drive You Crazy’ Salapardi-”
Again I finished the sentence. “The paper’s largest advertiser.”
His grin wobbled into a frown. “I’m far more afraid of my wife than losing a million dollars a year in advertising.”
“You’re an honest man, Bob.” I wasn’t being sarcastic. He was an honest man. And almost as afraid of me as he was of his wife. I knew he wouldn’t be asking for help unless he was in a real pickle. I summed things up. “So, you don’t like Jeannie Salapardi, and you want me to prove that her brother didn’t murder Violeta Bell?”
Bob’s cheeks were stuffed full of meatloaf. He nodded as he chewed. “Actually, I’d consider it a personal victory if her brother were convicted. If he’s guilty.”
That surprised me. “If he’s guilty?”
The tortured husband gave way to the truth-loving newspaperman. “When Eddie French was twelve years old he shot his best friend in the foot. With a pellet gun. Accidentally. Gangrene set in and the boy lost half his foot. The boy was the star of the junior high school basketball team. Destined to be a star in high school and college. Maybe even the pros. That’s how good the kid was, apparently. Jeannie says that Eddie was so riddled with guilt that he smashed his pellet gun with a sledgehammer. He developed a physical aversion to guns of any sort. When he was drafted into the Army, during Vietnam, he refused to even touch a rifle. He spent the rest of his basic training shuffling between the psycho ward and the guardhouse. He was eventually given a dishonorable discharge.”
I interrupted with the obvious. “But he’s a convicted criminal.”
Bob was really chewing and nodding now. “Yes, he is. Burglary. Auto theft. Fencing. Bad checks. Dealing the evil weed. But nothing that ever involved guns.”
I did not want to be intrigued. Not for all the Darjeeling tea in India. But I was intrigued. “And Violeta Bell was found shot full of holes.”
Bob didn’t get me back to the paper until three o’clock. I immediately summoned Eric Chen. He dropped into the chair next to my desk and slid down until his neck was resting on the back. “Heaven’s to Betsy,” I barked, “this is a place of business. Show a little professionalism.”
He crossed his legs and wiggled his dangling foot. He stuck out his pinky finger when he took a sip from his bottle of Mountain Dew. “That better?”
“Much better.” I told him I’d just had lunch with Bob Averill. He told me that the entire newsroom was buzzing about it. That the boys in sports were offering odds on when my last day would be.
“I hope you put your money on When Hell Freezes Over.”
He smiled at me like Buddha. “As a matter of fact I did.”
Eric is the perfect assistant. Lazy and loyal. When Bob hired him fifteen years ago, it was not only to oversee the computerization of the morgue, it was to be my eventual replacement. But my refusal to retire hasn’t bothered Eric in the least. He plays with the computers, reads his comic books, drinks his Mountain Dews, and collects a very good paycheck. I got down to the nitty gritty. “Bob’s in something of a pickle.”
“Which means you’re in a pickle, too?”
“And you,” I said. “And probably a whole lot of other people before we’re through.”
I handed him a copy of Gabriella’s story with a lot of names underlined in red. “I need whatever you can find in our files on the four women. Kay Hausenfelter, Ariel Wilburger-Gowdy, Gloria McPhee, and Violeta Bell. There should be plenty on each.”
Apparently Eric had been reading more than his comic books. “Violeta Bell? Didn’t she just get murdered?”
“Yes she did. And the police think the cab driver, Eddie French, did it.”
“But he didn’t?”
“That’s what Bob wants us to find out.” I explained the predicament that Bob found himself in with his wife and her sorority sister.
Eric rolled his Chinese-American eyes. “Women.”
I reminded him that I was a woman, too.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “I was including you.”
“Good-I also think it’s a good idea to see what we have on the sorority sister. Check Jeanette Salapardi.”
“Salapardi? Of the Honda-Toyota-Mitsu-”
“That’s the one. And when you’re done checking the morgue files, see what you can find online.”
“I’ll Google the hell out of them.”
I wagged my finger at him. “And you’ll keep your lips zipped. Bob Averill doesn’t want Tinker to know about this.”
Eric finally showed a little enthusiasm. “Oh, baby! When the lid blows on this one there’ll be smelly brown stuff dripping everywhere!”
I tried to remain sour-faced. But I’m sure at least one side of my mouth was curled into a smirk. “Yes, there will.”
As soon as Eric went back to his desk, I swung around to my computer. I checked the metro desk’s budget to see if Dale Marabout was writing a follow up on the murder. He was. Then I clicked over to the file where those stories are kept-the written basket-to see if he’d already filed it. He had.
He was reporting that police had found a single, bloody shoeprint on the landing outside French’s apartment. They were having the blood checked to see if it matched Violeta Bell’s. They’d also found French’s fingerprints “just about everywhere” in Bell’s condominium. There also was this:
Police would neither confirm nor deny reports that they’d failed to find French’s fingerprints in the basement fitness room where Bell’s body was found.
This little, one-sentence paragraph was telling on a number of counts. It meant that police investigators almost certainly had not found French’s fingerprints in the fitness room. And if not, why not? Would French have clumsily left his fingerprints in her condo after taking pains not to leave any at the murder scene? It also meant that
