name go out immediately on the prayer chain. Then I called Marla’s cell. Please pick up Arch from Elk Park Prep and call me at the following number, I said numbly into her messaging system. Better yet, please bring Arch to Southwest Hospital, as I need to be with both of you. Tom?s been shot, I explained, my voice quavering.
Then I called the Hydes. With them, I was relieved to get a machine. Briefly, I announced what had happened, and where I was. We’ll have to postpone the luncheon until later in the week, since the area is now a crime scene. I’m sure the donors will understand…
Finally I went back to my plastic chair. I felt numb.
“Goldy?” Captain Lambert asked. “I’ve been wondering, I’m just curious … of course, you’ll be talking to a detective later, but… what happened?”
And so I told my tale: how the window at our house had been shot out, how Sergeant Boyd had politely ordered my son and me to get out until Tom returned. We’d schlepped to Hyde Castle, just above Cottonwood Creek and Hyde Chapel, where I was supposed to cater a luncheon today… . And then I’d found Andy Balachek’s body in the creek, and Tom had been shot “And there’s something else you should know.” I told him about my ex- husband’s early release from prison.
“We’re trying to find Korman now,” the captain replied. “We think he’s at his old country club home in Aspen Meadow. At least, that’s where he told his parole officer he was headed - “
“Wait,” I interrupted him. My attention veered to the far side of the waiting room.
At the window that looked out on the hall, a woman’s face - porcelain skin, fine features, ink-black hair - appeared, then vanished. Goose bumps chilled my skin.
What was Charde Lauderdale doing at Southwest Hospital?
-8-
I jumped up, raced to the waiting-room door, and checked the hall. It was a noisy place. The intercom blared litanies of names and messages; orderlies rattled past pushing patient-loaded gurneys; families, nurses, and doctors chattered and strode, fast and slow, along the squeaky linoleum.
And there was Charde Lauderdale, walking quickly away. Her black hair was swept up in a French twist held with a gleaming barrette. Her red and black suit hugged her athletic figure as her high heels clickety-clicked into the distance. Maybe she was here to have her little daughter Patty examined again, to determine if there were any long-term effects from the shaking Buddy had given her. Charde turned and glanced at me, then trotted around the corner.
I rubbed my dry, cracked hands together. Curse of the caterer: too many washings, too little lotion. I stared at the hallway, as if daring Charde Lauderdale to reappear. Had Tom ever mentioned someone trying to intimidate him?
Was someone trying to intimidate me? Could the Lauderdales and their thirst for revenge be behind all that was happening? I walked back inside the waiting room.
“Captain Lambert, I need to tell you about some people named Lauderdale.” My mouth filled with bile even as I said their name. Briefly, I told Lambert of the New Year’s Eve party and its aftermath.
“I read the article,” Captain Lambert mused. “Read the report, too. We’re following up on the Lauderdales. And on your ex-husband. And on the hijackers Tom’s investigating. At this point, the suspects in the shooting of Tom are the same ones we’re considering for shooting at your house. First thing, we have to look at Balachek.”
“What exactly was going on with Andy Balachek?” I asked. “Tom only told me a few details.”
The captain pursed his lips. “Tom didn’t tell you we used to call Ray Wolff the Stinky Beef Boy?”
My mind swam. “He never mentioned bad-smelling meat. I would have remembered that.”
“A while back, Wolff stole a truckload of what he thought was prime-grade steaks. Turned out it was beef rectums.” Lambert chuckled. “The rectums were unsalable to restaurants, naturally. So he abandoned the truck. Smelled up six city blocks before Denver P.O. figured out what it was. Witnesses gave a physical description of Wolff, whom law enforcement already knew about.”
“So then Wolff got a couple of partners, one of whom was Andy Balachek?”
Lambert cocked an eyebrow. “You’re not going to go chasing after them, are you?”
My reputation for poking around in unsolved crimes again reared its busybody head. I reddened. “Of course not.” Lambert’s look was skeptical. No doubt the captain knew all about my sleuthing.
“All right,” Lambert continued after a moment. “The three-million-dollar stamp heist. The Stamp Fox is an unusual place. It’s high-class and very specialized. This country doesn’t have many fancy stamp stores, not the way they do in London or Zurich. George Renard, the owner, tried to get publicity for his store by getting articles in the local papers about Tucson’s big philatelic show. Renard wanted the world to know the value of the stamps he’d be exhibiting, and wouldn’t his boutique be a cool place to shop?” Lambert rubbed his large forehead, sighing over the store owner’s stupidity. “Problem was, the article also said Renard was flying to Tucson and shipping the collection. So your smart thief will watch the store. How many days to the stamp show? What courier does the store use? How often does the courier come? That’s how he figures out that when a FedEx truck shows up three days before the show opens, he can hit it and cash in.”
“How many valuable stamps were taken?”
“Three of them were from Mauritius. Each of those was valued at half a million pounds, which is about eight hundred thousand dollars per stamp, at today’s exchange rates. Know anything about old stamps from Mauritius? Do you even know where Mauritius is? I had to look it up.”
My laugh sounded hollow, somehow. Every amateur stamp-collector quickly learns the location of small countries that produce important stamps. “Mauritius is an island country off the coast of Africa. East of Madagascar. Their old stamps are extremely rare,” I said. “First issue was in … ah … 1850, or thereabouts? Has a picture of Queen Victoria?”
“Very good. 1847.” Lambert sounded impressed.
I thought for a minute. “But … aren’t those stamps going to be hard to fence?”
“Maybe in this country, where using pawnshops would be stupid. But if you’ve got contacts in the Far East, according to Renard, you can fence anything. Before you know it, the stolen stamps, now with huge price tags, show up in European shows. Watch it, though, Goldy. We haven’t published any pictures of the stolen stamps, or even a list of the inventory. Got it? That’s a key to our investigation. No one must know.”
“Right, okay, thanks for telling me.” The keys to a case were secret, and closely guarded by the authorities. Without willing it, I mentally placed The Stamp Fox in Furman East Shopping Center. The luxury strip mall was a mile from Lauderdale Luxury Imports. It was also, as I recalled, not far from The Huntsman, the euphemistically named gun shop for which the Jerk’s new girlfriend, Viv Martini, worked as a sales rep. The Huntsman was a freestanding store, since mall developers didn’t favor firearm retailers.
I felt dazed. “Where does shooting Tom come in?”
He shook his head. “We figure the thieves haven’t fenced the stamps yet. But we also believe Balachek was getting antsy. The FedEx driver was killed in the robbery, and Balachek could face murder or complicity charges. Plus, he had stolen his father’s truck last year, sold it for gambling money he lost, and then never paid him back. Now his dad’s in coronary care. Andy wanted his share of the robbery money so he could make things right with his dad before he died. At least, that’s what he told Tom. At first, Andy strung Tom along as to the location of the stamps. Andy told Tom when Wolff would be at Furman County Storage and Tom arrested Wolff there. It was a great collar. But our team found no stamps on Ray Wolff. Our theory is that Andy knew the location of the stamps, but wanted to trade that knowledge for a better plea deal. It’s very tentative, but we’re figuring Wolff’s gang killed Andy to keep his mouth shut. And maybe they’re after Tom because they figure Andy did tell him where the loot was.” He gave me an apologetic look. “It’s all really speculative,” he repeated.
“And the other people in the gang?”
“We just have Wolff and Balachek as suspects at this point. But witnesses to the hijacking are very clear about seeing three people. Balachek refused to tell Tom the name of the other hijacker, or if there were more people involved. That kid was scared.”
I nodded numbly. I was thankful the captain had shared his theory with me. He’d also given me more information than
cops usually gave civilians. But he knew Tom talked to me about his cases. He also knew that I’d proved helpful - if a tad meddlesome - in the past. I didn’t feel particularly helpful now, though. All I could think of was Tom
