THE BAD NEWS WAS THAT ON MONDAY, HER DAY off, Eve twisted her ankle.
No, it didn’t happen at the gym. Eve and sweat are not on a first-name basis.
She told everybody that the accident happened as she was chasing after Doc, racing to save him from meeting a tragic and horrible end under the wheels of an oncoming bus.
I knew better.
Number one, because Doc is too lazy and far too spoiled to ever think about running away from Eve. I mean, why should he? The dog lives better than a lot of people. He certainly has a bigger wardrobe than mine.
Number two, I knew that just like Eve and sweat, Eve racing anywhere is a statistical improbability.
Unless she’s racing to a sale at Nordstrom.
She finally fessed up with the truth-I knew she would-and the truth was that my instincts were right on. It was her own fault, Eve admitted. She had tried to outpace a woman who had her eye on the same pair of alligator slingbacks Eve saw from the other side of the shoe department. Eve darted. The other woman rushed forward. Eve sidestepped, pivoted, slipped.
The good news?
Well, according to Eve, the good news was that she got to the shoes first. Even though by that time, she was limping.
As far as I was concerned, the good news was that the injury wasn’t serious. However, Eve had been ordered by her doctor to stay off her feet for a couple days. And that was the second piece of good news. Because she is the hostess at Bellywasher’s and because a restaurant hostess is always on her feet, Eve was forced to take a couple days off. That meant she was free to investigate with me.
After all, Eve riding in the passenger seat while I drove qualified as staying off her feet, right?
Eve pulled down the visor on her side of the Saturn and peered at herself in the little mirror, checking to make sure her makeup was just right. Of course it was. “So, you think Raymond will work out well?” she asked me.
The way I grinned at the very mention of his name should have been a clue, but since Eve was so busy looking at herself, she didn’t notice. “He practically begged me to let him work today,” I said. “This is my first real day off in as long as I can remember. Raymond is my hero! He’s going to be perfect. I talked to him before I left home, and he’s in his glory. He actually thinks working at Très Bonne Cuisine is the best job in the whole, wide world.”
“You don’t.” Eve snapped the visor back into place. “I don’t know how you’re doing it, Annie. I mean, with the way you feel about cooking and all. And I miss you at Bellywasher’s.”
“I miss being there.” Who ever would have thought I’d say that about working at a restaurant! My grin stayed firmly in place. “I just don’t fit in at Très Bonne Cuisine. Sure, the shop is gorgeous, and most of the customers are nice. Except for the ones who come in just to see the place where Greg died.”
After a week, I should have been used to the scenario, but it still gave me the creeps. We were headed south and the early morning sun was blazing through my window. My air-conditioning was on the fritz so it wasn’t nearly as cool in the car as I would have liked. Still, I shivered.
“We need to get to the bottom of this,” I told Eve. As if she didn’t know. “The whole thing is weird, and it’s driving me crazy. Has Tyler said anything…”
OK, so subtle, I’m not. Since Eve was being less than forthcoming about her contact (or lack of it) with Tyler, it was only fair for me, as her best friend, to force the subject.
“You mean about Greg? About Greg’s murder?” Even though she’d just checked her makeup, she checked it again. “The only thing he’s said-”
“Aha! You have talked to him again!” I was so proud of my detective skills and so jazzed about catching Eve in my little trap, I didn’t realize how hard I was pressing on the accelerator. It wasn’t until I saw my speedometer inch up to seventy-five that I caught myself, and slowed right down. Sure, everybody on I-95 exceeds the speed limit. All the time. But I am not everybody. Especially when it comes to driving.
Careful to keep my speed exactly where it belonged, I moved over to the far right lane to stay out of the way of the speed demons on the road with me. The driver of the dark sedan behind me must have been gauging his own speed against mine. He slipped right behind me into the lane.
I gave Eve a sidelong glance. “You’ve been seeing Tyler.”
“That’s exactly why I haven’t told you. I knew this was how you’d take it.”
“Take it? Take what?” My heart thumped like the bass line in the music of the overloud stereo of the Hummer that whizzed by us as if we were standing still. “Eve, you and Tyler… you’re not…” I swallowed hard. No easy thing, seeing as my mouth was suddenly so parched I could barely get the words out. “You’re not engaged again, are you?”
Eve’s only reply was a squeal of laughter.
It wasn’t much, but it did make me feel better, and my heart rate ratcheted back. If Eve was laughing at the very idea of marrying Tyler, then it couldn’t really happen.
Right?
I never trust cars that actually drive slower than me. Or maybe I should say more accurately, I never trust the drivers of those cars.
As I was thinking all this, I checked my mirrors-twice-before I passed the red Camry crawling along in the right lane. The car behind me did the same. It wasn’t until I settled back in the lane and well in front of both the red Toyota and the dark sedan that I felt safe giving Eve another probing look.
“You didn’t answer me.”
“About being engaged? To Tyler?” Eve picked at her white linen pants. Not that there was any lint on them or anything. “Don’t be silly, Annie. Tyler is still engaged to Kaitlin. Technically. And even if he wasn’t… my goodness, Annie! Even if he wasn’t, a man who’s been engaged, then gets unengaged, he wouldn’t be ready to get engaged again.”
“Would you?”
“To Tyler? My goodness, you don’t have any faith in me at all, do you?” Eve sniffed in the way she always does when she’s put out.
I guess I couldn’t blame her.
Tyler had sliced and diced her heart. He had pureed her self-esteem, stir-fried her self-confidence, and served it all up on the platter of his own huge ego.
Maybe I was starting to think like I worked in a gourmet shop after all.
“So let’s go over our plan.” I figured I owed Eve for questioning her judgment, and I engineered the change of subject without any fanfare. “I’m glad you’re investigating with me, Eve. Want to grab that file folder I gave you when you got in the car?”
She did, flipped it open, and squinted at the copy I’d made of one of the licenses we’d found at Monsieur’s. “The name on the driver’s license is Bill Boxley.” Thinking, Eve cocked her head. “Do you think Monsieur’s real name is Bill Boxley? If it is, I can’t say I blame him for changing it.”
“I think it’s a distinct possibility that Bill Boxley and Jacques Lavoie are one and the same person. That would explain why he has the license, right?”
“Yeah, but…” Eve hesitated.
I was negotiating my way past a van driving too slowly in the left lane and an eighteen-wheeler in the right that didn’t seem to recognize that such things as speed limits exist. Only when we were safely by the van and watching the truck disappear into the distance in front of us, did I feel safe getting back to the conversation.
So safe, in fact, that I barely noticed that when I maneuvered my way between the van and the truck, the dark car behind me did, too.
I’d heard the uncertainty in Eve’s voice, I knew where she was headed. “Yeah, but…,” I echoed her comment. “You don’t think Monsieur might really be Bill Boxley? Or Bill might really be Monsieur?”
“I don’t know what to think. And I’m not sure I understand what you’re thinking. What are we trying to prove with a trip to Fredericksburg?”
The answer was simple enough. “ Fredericksburg…” Without taking my eyes off the road, I pointed to the photocopy of the driver’s license. I’d meant to point out the address, but instead, I poked Bill Boxley in the nose. “ Fredericksburg is the home of Bill Boxley. Of all those driver’s licenses we found at Monsieur’s, Bill Boxley’s is the most recent. Check it out. It expired just a couple years ago. All those other licenses are older.”
Eve squinted at the picture of Monsieur that graced the license. In it, his hair wasn’t quite as silvery, and he was a little thinner than the man we knew. “And…?”
“And I chose the newest license because it seems to make more sense starting there than it does starting with the older ones. My guess…” I paused here because, after all, it was something of a ta-da moment. “My guess is that we’re going to go to the address on that license, and we’re going to find Monsieur Lavoie there.”
“You mean Bill is Monsieur? Or Monsieur is Bill? But why?”
I knew Eve’s question had nothing to do with my logic, and everything to do with why people thought the way they did and did the things they did. That’s why I shrugged. “Who knows. I mean, maybe Monsieur has a wife and seven kids living out here in Fredericksburg. Though why he wouldn’t want anyone to know it, I can’t imagine. Maybe he’s gay. Or maybe-”
“Maybe he’s a spy or an agent for a rogue government.”
Just like the first time Eve had raised these possibilities, I was not about to let them distract me. “It’s the whole Vavoom! scam thing that got me thinking in this direction, Eve. I’ll bet Monsieur is up to something. Maybe not something as illegal as being a spy or the agent of a rogue government, but something he shouldn’t be up to. I’ll bet that’s why he’s got a couple of different identities. Theoretically, I suppose it’s none of our business. Unless Monsieur’s involved in something that’s going to get him into a whole bunch of trouble. Considering what happened to Greg, I think that’s a very real possibility. And even if it isn’t…” I chose to think of the problem from this angle because thinking about the myriad illegalities I didn’t even understand scared me so. “We can at least talk to him. We need to let him know we’re worried about him. And if there’s anything we can do to help him get out of whatever trouble he’s in, we need to do that, too.”
“We should also tell him the police still want to talk to him.”
I bit my tongue. It was better than bringing up Tyler ’s name again and, besides, our exit was fast approaching. I had Eve consult the MapQuest directions I’d printed out before I left the house and we found Bill Boxley’s address with no problem. It wasn’t until I pulled my car into the driveway that I realized the dark car that had been behind us on the freeway was still on our tail.
Suddenly uneasy, I craned my neck, hoping for a look at the driver, but when he passed the house and continued down the street and around a corner, I reminded myself we were not the only ones allowed to drive the freeway between Arlington and Fredericksburg. My nerves calmed by a dose of common sense, I told Eve to stay put so as not to irritate her swollen ankle and walked to the front door, wondering as I did exactly what I’d say when Monsieur answered it.
I guess I shouldn’t have worried.
Because Monsieur Lavoie didn’t answer the door.
A Confederate Civil War soldier did.
“YOU’RE BILL BOXLEY?” NOT THE BEST WAY TO START a conversation. I shook away my surprise and tried again. “Hi! I’m looking for Bill Boxley.”
“You found him.” The man who answered the door was as round as he was tall. He had a shock of salt-and-pepper hair and a beard to match. It hung down to his chest, brushing his gray wool coat with its crimson cuffs and gold curlicue embellishment.
“My goodness, aren’t you hot in that thing?” Leave it to Eve not to miss a trick. Especially when it comes to overlooking the big picture so she can glom on to the fashion consequences. She rolled down her window and called out, “It’s the middle of the summer, sugar, you must be roasting in that big ol’ coat!”
Bill Boxley laughed. I guess there’s nothing like the thick accent of a true Southern belle to warm the cockles of a Confederate officer’s heart. “Now that you mention it, young lady, I am a tad uncomfortable out here in the heat,” he called back to her at the same time he opened the front door wider so that I could step inside. “Come on. Come on in,” he said. “Your friend is welcome, too. The AC makes it much easier to tolerate this scratchy wool. On my way to get some regimental photographs taken,” he explained, glancing down at his uniform. “You know, reenactors.”
I was glad he told me. Then the house wasn’t as much of a surprise. It was a medium-size Greek Revival, complete with white columns and a covered front porch. Inside, it was furnished with antiques. The walls were dotted with tintypes of men in uniform and women holding umbrellas and wearing bustles. From where we stood in a foyer papered with cabbage roses and violets, I could see into the living room. A musket hung over the fireplace.
“So…” Bill looked at me closely. “You with the Prize Patrol?”
I guessed he was going for funny so I laughed. “That’s not it at all,” I told him. “We just…”
Just what?
I’d been so certain the door would be opened by our friend Jacques Lavoie, I hadn’t even planned for this contingency.
Like I was going to let that stop me?
I was on the trail, and, like any good detective, I wasn’t going to lose the scent this early. “My friend Eve and I… she waited in the car because she hurt her ankle… we’re just doing a little research,” I said, trying to look and sound more professional than any gourmet-shop/restaurant business manager had the right to. “Has your driver’s license ever been stolen?”
Bill had eyes the same nondescript color as the mousy brown in his hair. They opened wide. “It has. It has, indeed. But my goodness, that was years ago. You’re with the police, right? I can’t believe you’d care about a crime so old.”
“Oh, you know how it is.” I smiled widely at the same time I was careful about not answering Bill’s question. “No one ever found the license?”
“Well, no.” Leaning against a nearby wall was a sword hanging from a belt, and Bill reached for it and strapped it on. “Why does it matter after all these years? I got a new license. And that one’s not expired or anything. If you’d like to see it…” He made a move, but I stopped him, one hand briefly brushing the elegant gold cord trim on his jacket.
“That won’t be necessary,” I told him. “We’re just confirming the information. Tell me…” Considering that Bill wasn’t Monsieur, Monsieur wasn’t Bill, and Bill’s license had been stolen, a whole new world of possibilities presented themselves-all of them with fraud, felony, and identity theft written on them in letters three miles high.
Almost afraid to ask, I eased into a new avenue of questioning. “Your license, was it taken from your wallet? Or did the whole wallet go missing?”
“The whole wallet. You can read that part in the police report if you look it up. If they even keep reports as old as that.”
“And were there…” I told myself not to lose heart. Whatever Bill had to tell me, it might be important to the investigation. Even if I didn’t want to hear it. “Were there credit cards in your wallet? Were those missing, too?”
“Well, that’s the strange part, isn’t it? All the credit cards and the wallet itself… they were all returned to me. Sent right here to me at home in a big manila envelope. I called the police and told them. They came and took the envelope away. Never heard another word about what they did with it, or what they found out. But I guess you know that, too, right? The only thing I never found again was the driver’s license.”
I breathed a little easier. “And your credit card accounts… were there ever any charges associated with them from the dates they were missing? You know, purchases you hadn’t authorized and couldn’t explain?”
“Nah, nothing like that! I told the cops I’d call if there were. Believe me, I went over my credit card statements with a fine-tooth comb. Still do.” Bill took out a pocket watch and checked the time. “You will have to excuse me,” he said. “I’ve got to get over to Marye’s Heights before the photographer decides he can’t wait around any longer.” He checked his reflection in a nearby mirror and fluffed a hand through his beard. “You’ve got all the information you need?”
I did.
But notice I said that what I’d gotten from Bill Boxley was information.
I was still no closer to finding any answers.
THOUGH I WOULD HAVE BEEN HARD-PRESSED TO make a list of them, I guess there are some distinct advantages to working in a gourmet shop. I was able to prove it the next day when I used a pricey paring knife to slice apart the Bill Boxley license we’d found at Monsieur’s. My knives at home would have chewed through the plastic and left behind a mess. This one, with its handle of crafted African blackwood, full-tang blade, and double bolsters (I have no idea what any of that means, but I heard Raymond describe the knives that way to a customer), slipped through the license like magic, right under the lamination, and after that, right under the photo of Monsieur that had been carefully pasted over the one of Bill Boxley.
I’d recognize that beard anywhere.
Truth be told, I sat there for a while, staring at my handiwork, completely stumped.
Monsieur took Bill’s license and altered it to make it his own. But he didn’t touch Bill’s credit cards.
That was a good thing, right?
But it didn’t explain why Monsieur wanted to be Bill Boxley.
Because Raymond couldn’t help me out at the shop on Wednesday, I was working at Très Bonne Cuisine alone. I stewed over the problem (there I go, using cooking analogies again) all that day. But Raymond being Raymond, he felt awful about leaving me in the lurch. Me being me… well, I’m not usually one to take advantage of other people, but this situation seemed to call for serious measures. So I took advantage of Raymond’s good nature and his guilt and asked him to work on Thursday. He agreed-I knew he would-and, armed with the next most recent license in Monsieur’s stash, I got up bright and early that morning and headed north to Allentown, Pennsylvania.
Too bad Eve was feeling better (I don’t mean that to sound as callous as it does), because she was back at work at Bellywasher’s. That meant I had to make the three-and-a-half-hour drive by myself.
While I drove, I thought over what I was going to say when the man who owned this driver’s license, Fred Gardner by name, answered his front door. Would I ask all the same questions?
Have you ever lost your wallet?
Was the license taken?
How about your credit cards?
And whatever Fred Gardner told me, where would it get me?
And what would I do next?
I guess the entire experience should have been a lesson in not worrying until it was time to worry. Because when I went to the address listed on the license, I didn’t find Fred Gardner. Or a house, for that matter. All I found on the corner of two busy cross streets was an empty lot.
Curious, yes?
And while I thought it over, I stopped at a nearby mom-and-pop diner for lunch.
I already had my burger and fries in front of me when I realized I was wasting a perfect opportunity. My waitress was named MaryAnn. She was a thin woman with strikingly red hair and even more startling gray roots and since everyone who walked in seemed to know all about her and her family, I guessed she’d been around for a while.
“Excuse me.” She was walking away when I said this, and she held up one finger to tell me she’d be with me in a jiffy and fetched the coffeepot. It wasn’t what I wanted, but I didn’t object when she refilled my cup. “I wonder if you can tell me about someone who used to live around here. His name is Fred Gardner.”
“Fred Gardner, the music teacher? You bet I knew Fred. Everyone in town knew Fred. I played in the high school marching band back when he was the director. Clarinet. If it wasn’t for Mr. Gardner…” MaryAnn wore a red-and-white-striped apron. It was decorated with the kinds of pins school booster clubs sell, the ones with kids’ pictures on them. She touched a hand to a picture of a prepubescent young man with short, sandy hair and big ears. He was holding a tuba that was practically as big as he was.
“Learned to love music from that man,” she said. “And I passed that on to my kids and my grandkids. This is Jacob, my grandson. He can’t wait until he’s old enough to play in the same marching band as his granny did.” She smiled down at the button. “He’s a fine young man.”
“I’m sure.” I was. MaryAnn was just that kind of person. “Does Mr. Gardner still teach music at the high school?”
“Fred?” MaryAnn shook her head. “He’s been dead for twenty years at least. They knocked down his house just a couple months ago. His kids sold the property. You know how it is. They live out of town somewhere and they don’t give a damn. I hear they’re gonna be building a car wash over there where Fred’s house used to stand. Too bad. Used to be kids and music there all the time. Now, a car wash.” She shrugged, surrendering to the inevitability of progress.
“Then maybe you can tell me…” I’d made a copy of the picture of Monsieur-younger and thinner even than he had been on Bill Boxley’s license-from Fred Gardner’s license. I pulled it out of the file folder next to the plate where my burger and fries were getting cold and held it up for MaryAnn to see. “Is this Fred Gardner?”
She took the picture out of my hands and looked at it closely. “No way!” She’d already made a move to hand the picture back to me when she took another look. “But you know, it looks like…” She turned the picture this way and that, her eyes narrowed.
“I’ve lived around here for a long, long time,” she finally said. “That picture there… that looks like an older version of one of the boys I went to school with. He sat next to me in Mr. Gardner’s music class one year…” A lightbulb went on inside her head. I could see the glow of it in her eyes.
“Norman Applebaum,” she said, handing the picture back to me. “Can’t say for sure, but it looks a whole bunch like him. We graduated together from William Allen High. Class of ’67. My goodness, I haven’t seen Norman in years. But I do recall hearing something about him.” Again, she stopped to think. “That’s it!”
Someone called to her and MaryAnn turned away. As she headed back into the kitchen to pick up an order, she delivered her final piece of information over her shoulder.
“He went out to Las Vegas. Yeah, that’s what I heard. He went out to Las Vegas years and years ago. Last I heard, he came to a bad end out there.”