A Toast to Murder Page 4

  “Then we’ll get what we need,” I said with determination. “I think the first step has to be finding out who her partner is. We know Suzanne didn’t kill Lewis, so we need to figure out who could have. We need to figure out who she’s been in contact with. Based on the constant reminders of how closely I’m being watched, I can’t help but think that whoever is helping her is someone close to me, someone from the Capone Club, or maybe even an employee.” The idea made me shudder.

  “The woman at the gift shop said whoever dropped this package off for you was a man around five-ten or so, with brown hair and brown eyes,” Mal reminded me.

  Cora scoffed. “Well, that certainly narrows it down,” she said, her voice dripping with sarcasm.

  “I know,” I said. “That description fits at least four guys we know: Carter, Sam, and Greg from the Capone Club, and my day cook, Jon. Besides, in the past, unwitting accomplices have been used in the delivery of these packages, so there’s no way to know if the person who delivered this one has anything to do with any of this.” I could feel my sense of dread—and a growing anger—building. “Can’t we get a warrant or something like that for Suzanne’s phone records?” I asked.

  Mal shook his head, giving me an apologetic look. “There isn’t enough evidence to support one, and I can guarantee you she’d pull some high-powered lawyer out of her handbag to fight it. Besides, based on how savvy the letter writer has been so far, I doubt there is a trail like that for someone to find.”

  I raked a hand through my hair and sighed in irritation. “This is getting ridiculous,” I muttered, shaking my head. “There has to be a way to end this.”

  Cora, who had stopped filming, thank goodness, had been watching this interchange between me and Mal in silence. Now she spoke. “Mack, what’s up with you? Something is different. Did something happen you haven’t told me about?”

  I looked at her, then at Mal, who pursed his lips and shifted his gaze to the letter. I looked back at Cora and let out a perturbed sigh. “I suppose I’m not being as objective as I should be,” I admitted. “I’m upset about something else.” Then I told her what I’d observed between Duncan and the woman on the street. When I was done, Cora, like Mal, tried to put a different spin on things.

  “Maybe it was an old friend, or even a relative. He has a sister, doesn’t he?”

  I gave her an exasperated look. “I’m not stupid,” I said. “I know the difference between a friendly or familial kiss and a romantic one. If Duncan is kissing his sister the way he kissed this woman, we have bigger issues to deal with.”

  Cora frowned, but she made no further attempts to mitigate the situation. My phone rang then, cutting through an awkwardness that was practically palpable.

  “It’s Clay,” I said, glancing at the caller ID.

  Clay Sanders was a reporter who had been hounding me in the weeks following the initial revelation about my working with Duncan. I disliked and distrusted him initially because the articles he wrote, which were the first such pieces to appear anywhere, hadn’t been altogether kind, and they had set off most of my publicity woes. And unlike most of the other reporters who followed his lead, Clay had been irritatingly persistent in his pursuit of me, hanging out at the bar a lot and constantly grilling my staff and customers about me. I finally decided to abide by the philosophy of keeping one’s friends close and one’s enemies closer, and I had invited him into the Capone Club fold recently. In exchange for letting him in, I promised him access to insider information on any cases we worked. He already had a lot of insider knowledge on the case we were working on at the time—and he proved how clever he was by informing me and Mal that he knew what Mal really did for a living. He promised not to out Mal, and over the time we investigated that last case, he proved to be a valuable and helpful resource. He also took a bullet in the gut a few days ago while we were exposing the culprit. He was currently recuperating from the emergency surgery he’d had to have as a result. Taking that bullet had upped my confidence level in him, though I was still wary of giving him my full trust.

  The phone I was currently using was a burner that Mal had given me several days ago when I dropped mine in the toilet. I had my old phone on rice, hoping to dry it out, but so far it wasn’t working. I supposed I’d have to buy a new one at some point, but for now the burner would do. The people who needed it had the new number, and to prove my new faith in Clay, he was included on that list.

  “Hi, Clay,” I said. “How are you?”

  “I’m doing well,” he said. “I got home from the hospital about an hour ago. Can’t say I’ll miss the hospital food, but I have strict instructions to keep my diet bland and soft for the next week, so I’m not sure things will be much better here. At least I get to sleep in my own bed.”

  “I’m glad you’re doing okay. Can I bring something to you? I make a mean chicken noodle soup. Do you need someone to pick up some groceries for you?”

  “No, thanks. I’m good. My coworkers have that covered quite well. But there is something else you can do for me. Can you come by my place tomorrow morning around ten?”

  “Sure. What do you want me to bring?”

  “Just yourself. And only yourself.”

  I frowned at this.

  “There are some people I need you to meet,” Clay added, making the mystery no clearer.

  “Okay,” I said warily. “Can you give me a hint what this is about?”

  “I’d rather not,” he said. “Just trust me, okay?”

  I thought about it for a few seconds, and my gut seemed at ease with the request. “Okay,” I said, making my decision. “Give me the address.”

  He did, and I made a mental note of it. One of the handier aspects of my synesthesia is excellent memory and recall.

  Once I had disconnected the call, I explained Clay’s request to Mal and Cora.

  “What do you think it’s about?” Mal asked.

  “I don’t have the vaguest idea. He said he had some people he wanted me to meet. Maybe someone else from the paper? Someone he wants to cover for him while he’s recuperating?” I shrugged.

  “Do you want me to go with you?” Mal asked.

  “No, he was rather adamant that I come alone.”

  “I’m not sure I like that,” Mal said with a scowl. “How much do we really know about Clay?”

  “Not a lot,” I admitted. “But he’s proven trustworthy so far. If it would make you feel better, you can drive me there and wait in the car.”

  “It would.”

  “Good. Now that that’s settled, let’s get back to the letter,” I said. Reluctantly, and perhaps a bit petulantly, I forced my attention back to the letter.

  “Let’s look for words, or themes, or clichés, or idioms that are different from the other letters,” Mal suggested. “Like this phrase to make no bones about it.”

  “Bones,” Cora said thoughtfully. “A graveyard again?”

  One of the previous letters had led us to a local cemetery. “Maybe,” I said, unconvinced. “But I don’t think whoever is behind this would use the same place twice.”

  “Maybe it’s a different cemetery,” Cora said. “There’s the phrase dig deep for the answer.”

  I considered her idea, but it still felt wrong somehow. “I don’t think so,” I said in a tone that made it clear I gave the idea little credence. Leaning over the table, I stared at the letter, visualizing the words, using my synesthetic synapses to search for a pattern. And then it came to me.

  “Exhibit,” I said excitedly. “I think that’s the keyword here. Add in bones, dig, history, extinction . . . what do they all suggest when you think of them with the word exhibit?”

  Mal and Cora both looked at me, and matching smiles widened over their faces.

  “The Milwaukee Public Museum,” they said in unison.

  Chapter 4

  We sealed the letter in a plastic baggie, thereby preserving the evidence, and then sealed the various boxes inside paper bags. I carried them all int
o my father’s office so they would be out of sight. By the time that was done, it was almost three-thirty. The museum closed at five, meaning that trip would have to wait.

  “I think I’m going to call it a day,” I said to no one in particular, glancing at my watch. “I’m tired and want to take a nap. Do you guys mind?”

  Mal took the hint immediately and said he’d see me later, and after we made arrangements to get together tomorrow for the museum trip, he left, leaving Cora and me alone. Cora sat with her elbows on the table, staring at me with a pitying expression.

  “What’s that look for?” I asked.

  “This thing with Duncan is really bothering you, isn’t it?”

  “Of course it is,” I said irritably. “Wouldn’t it bother you if you saw Tiny engaging in a lip-lock with some gorgeous woman you didn’t know?”

  “Actually, not as much as you might think.” She flashed me a crooked smile and shrugged. “Anyway, we’re not talking about me and Tiny; we’re talking about you and Duncan.”

  I looked at her and sighed. “I know I’m probably overreacting. I mean, it’s not like Duncan and I have some long-standing commitment to one another. And while I assumed we were exclusive, we never actually had that discussion. So maybe I’m attaching more to the relationship than he is.”

  Cora raked her teeth over her lower lip and said, “What did this woman look like?”

  The image popped into my head as clear as if she were standing right in front of me. “She was tall and slender, with long, brunette hair. I’m not sure about the eyes because she was too far away, but I got a sense they were dark. Her features were delicate . . . button nose, high cheekbones, a small mouth.” I gave Cora an abashed look and added, “This might be a bit out there, but based on her clothing, her stature, and her general looks, I got a sense that she comes from money.”

  Cora turned her laptop toward me. “Look at this picture. Did she look anything like this woman?”

  There on the screen was the exact image of the woman I’d seen with Duncan. “That doesn’t look like her; it is her,” I said. “How did you do that?”

  Now it was Cora’s turn to look abashed. “I have a confession to make,” she said. “I did a little digging around into Duncan’s background when the two of you started getting serious. Not being nosy, mind you.” She paused and looked chagrined. “Okay, maybe I was being a little bit nosy, but I did it mainly because I wanted to make sure you weren’t getting into something you shouldn’t.”

  She bit her lip, a sheepish look on her face, waiting to see what my reaction would be. I probably should have been angry, or at least miffed with her for invading my privacy, but at the moment the only thing I felt was curiosity.

  “And?” I prompted.

  “And this woman,” she pointed at her screen, “is Duncan’s ex-fiancée.”

  This tidbit surprised me. I don’t know who I was expecting the woman to be, but ex-fiancée was definitely low on the list. “Duncan told me she left him at the altar,” I said, struggling to puzzle through the facts.

  “She did indeed,” Cora said. “And your assessment of her was spot-on. She comes from a wealthy family in Chicago, so her runaway bride escapade made the local news. Want me to pull up the article for you?”

  I shook my head. “Not now. Maybe later. What’s her name?”

  “Courtney Metcalfe,” Cora said. “Daughter of Roger Metcalfe. Roger’s grandfather, Franklin Metcalfe, was a wise fellow who invested in the stock market during the twenties and then pulled most of it out right before the 1929 crash because he didn’t like the way the market was behaving. That left Franklin with a boatload of cash during the Great Depression, and he put it to use buying up land and utility companies for a fraction of what they were worth. The family has continued to invest wisely over the years, and Roger is estimated to be worth somewhere in the neighborhood of three hundred million dollars.”

  “Wow.”

  “Yeah,” Cora said, nodding. “Who knew Duncan almost became the husband of a multimillionaire?”

  “Maybe she thought he was after her money,” I mused. “You said Courtney Metcalfe lives in Chicago?”

  Cora gave me a vague, noncommittal nod. “Sort of, although she also has a residence here in Milwaukee. She’s listed as the vice president of her family’s company, and they own or have a stake in several Milwaukee-based businesses. So I imagine she spends a fair amount of time here.”

  I wondered why Duncan hadn’t shared any of this information with me. How often did Courtney Metcalfe come to Milwaukee, and how long did she typically stay? Did Duncan know when she was in town? Had he been seeing her for a while? Was that why we had so little time together? Had he been with her at the same time he was dating me? His excuses for his inability to see me were almost always work-related, but now I wondered if he might have been lying to me. I thought back to my conversations with him, those talks where he gave me a reason he couldn’t come by. I can typically tell if someone is lying to me because there is a change in the taste or visual manifestation I experience with the sound of their voice. Duncan’s voice always tasted like chocolate, though there had been some variances in the intensity or the type of chocolate flavor depending on his mood—or maybe it was depending on mine? I tried to play back some of our past discussions about why he couldn’t come by. Had there been a change in the taste of his voice during any of them? I couldn’t recall any particular instances, but then I hadn’t been looking for them, either. Besides, Duncan knew about my ability to pick up on lies, so it would be foolish of him to be dishonest with me.

  Then again, perhaps I had been so swayed by the rich chocolate taste of his voice and my own emotions that I’d failed to notice subtle changes I should have detected. I made a mental note to be more attentive to this in the future.

  I experienced a stab of jealousy that felt like a squirmy discomfort in my chest, as if there was a worm in there wriggling around. I tried to shake it off, or at least shove it away, compartmentalizing it for later scrutiny.

  “Thanks, Cora,” I said. “You’ve been very helpful, as usual.”

  Cora eyed me with a mix of concern and suspicion. I sensed she wasn’t going to let me off that easily. “We should talk about this,” she said carefully.

  I smiled at her. “Yes, we should. And we will. Just not now. I’ll hook up with you later, and we can talk some more.”

  My capitulation had come too easily, and Cora narrowed her eyes at me, her suspicion deepening. “Don’t do anything crazy until we talk, okay?” she said.

  “I won’t.”

  “Promise?”

  “Promise.”

  Cora nodded and said nothing more. She gathered up her laptop and left.

  Once I was finally alone, I took a moment to gather my thoughts. This thing with Duncan had shaken me more than I’d expected, and I felt a well of emotion trying to crawl up my throat, making it feel tight. My forehead pounded with waves of pain, as if the tears I was holding back were crashing hard against the breakwater that was my skull. I shook it off—literally shaking my head like a dog shedding water—and after a moment, I felt some semblance of control and calm return.

  After a few slow, bracing breaths, I felt a little better. I spent the next hour watching mindless TV and eventually did fall asleep on my couch. When I awoke, I was surprised to see that it was nearly eight in the evening.

  I went downstairs to check on the bar. As usual, my staff had things well under control, and the crowd was a good one, but manageable. After checking in with all of the employees, I considered going upstairs and poking my head in on the Capone Club. But I knew Cora would be there, Cora and her endless inquisitiveness. I adored the woman—she was like a sister to me—but at the moment, I wasn’t up to the task of dodging her questions. So, instead, I asked Billy to do the closing duties for me and then headed back upstairs to the solitude of my apartment. After several more hours of TV, including one inspirational episode on the HGTV channel, I went to bed
. It was the longest night’s sleep I’d had in years.

  Chapter 5

  Mal texted me the next morning at a quarter to ten to let me know he was waiting for me out front. I had been up for a couple of hours and was ready to go, at least physically. Mentally, I felt a little uneasy about this meeting with Clay Sanders. What was he up to?

  I headed downstairs, locked the bar door behind me—my incoming staff had keys to the front door—and as soon as I settled into Mal’s car, he pulled out. We rode in silence for several minutes, and by that I mean we said nothing, though there were plenty of noises, both real and synesthetic, to keep my ears occupied. Finally, Mal said, “Penny for your thoughts.”

  I looked over at him and smiled. “I’m wondering what Clay is up to,” I lied. Truth was, my mind was still focused on Duncan and Cora’s revelations about Courtney Metcalfe, but I was working hard to tamp those thoughts down. Giving voice to them wouldn’t help.

  “Are you sure you don’t want me to come inside with you when we get to Clay’s?” Mal asked.

  “Positive. I’m not sure how much trust I have in Clay just yet, but I’m not worried about him trying to hurt me.”

  “Have you considered the possibility that he might be Suzanne’s partner?”

  I frowned, looked at Mal like he was crazy, and shook my head. “Clay is not the letter writer.”

  “How can you be sure?”

  “I don’t know . . . I just am. Call it a gut feeling.”

  Mal shook his head slowly. “Until we know for sure who’s behind this crap, I’m not trusting anyone’s gut. Keep your phone handy, and if you feel at all uncomfortable at any point, call me.”

  “Will do. I have you on speed dial.”

  Clay’s house was a small, older home only a few blocks from Duncan’s place. It was a one-story with burgundy shutters and colonial blue siding trimmed in white. The yard was covered with snow, but there were flowerbeds along the front wall and lining the sidewalk that, come spring, would make for an attractive lead-in to the small front porch.