Travellin' Shoes Page 14

  “How?”

  “If they come back.”

  “Any idea what they’re after?”

  “No. But we better figure it out soon.”

  We boarded up the house as best we could. Paris gathered up her clothes and essentials and we left. I had just gotten her bags in the car and was heading back to Mama B’s when she reached up for my hand. “Stop. Pull over.”

  Pulling the car to the side of the road, I took a closer look at her and waited.

  “I don’t think I should go back to Mrs. Bethany’s.”

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t know what this whole thing is about, but I can’t put her in danger. I won’t put her in danger. What if they think I have whatever it is they are looking for? They might come looking at her house.”

  I saw where her mind was going and I appreciated her concern for Mama B’s safety.

  “Look, you’re right. They might come looking at Mama B’s. I don’t know. But anyone crazy enough to break into Mama B’s will get a lot more than they bargained for.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I’m sure.” I turned the key in the ignition and pulled away from the curb. It must have been a full five minutes before Paris realized we weren’t heading toward Mama B’s.

  “Where’re we going?”

  “I need to go by my house.” If she was surprised, she hid it well. “I have to pick up some things. I’ll be staying at Mama B’s too.”

  Tonight, my neat habits were a relief. Many women expect men to live in messy apartments with clothes strewn all over the floor and dirty dishes in the sink. The truth is, I’m lazy. If you hang your clothes up when you take them off, then you’ve only had to touch them once. If you throw them on the floor or the furniture, you’ll have to pick them up again. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but someday you’ll have to pick those clothes up and move them. Then you’ve had to move them twice. It’s the same with dishes. As soon as I finish eating, I put the dishes in the dishwasher. Not only have I eliminated the step of moving them from the counter or sink to the dishwasher, but I also don’t have to look at them. Maybe my laziness is a sign of a controlling personality, I don’t know. But it’s helped me keep my home neat, and that’s a plus.

  I gave her the fifty-cent tour.

  “I like it.”

  “Really? I thought you preferred older, more traditional décor.”

  “I do, but that doesn’t mean I don’t like other styles and can’t appreciate open spaces.” She walked around, noticing every detail. “I normally don’t care for modern décor. I find it cold and uninviting. But you’ve done a nice job of making it warm and comfortable. I really do like it.”

  I was amazed how much her opinion mattered, but then I decided I’d better give up being amazed and just go with the flow.

  While I packed, Paris plopped on the floor and amused herself with my CD and album collection. I have hundreds of CDs, tapes, and albums. Old or new, it doesn’t matter. I have one large storage unit that houses my collection.

  She had to yell from the living room for me to hear. “I would have expected you to be an iPod man.”

  I had just finished adding my toiletries to my bag and was standing at the door, watching unobserved while she browsed. She looked at home. Perhaps I breathed too hard, but somehow she sensed my scrutiny and turned toward me.

  “I even have an old record player I picked up in a junk store. It plays everything—33s, 45s and 78s. Music touches so many senses. It’s not just an auditory thing. I like to hold the albums and read the back covers and breathe in the old smell. I don’t know how to explain it.”

  “I think you’ve explained it very well. Music is an experience you have to savor. I like that.”

  “Look, I don’t want you to feel weird or anything, but I need to take a shower. It’ll only take a few minutes and then we can go.”

  “No problem. I understand completely. I love Mrs. Bethany too, but she has very little water pressure.”

  “Yeah, and if someone flushes a toilet, you get scalded.”

  We both laughed.

  “I’ll just sit here and listen to music if you show me where the CD player is.”

  I pointed her in the right direction and then went to take a nice hot shower. I made it a quick one and was hurrying to dry off and get dressed when I heard the familiar sounds of Al Jarreau floating through the house. He’s one of my all-time favorite singers. It seemed like a happy omen Paris chose him from the hundreds of CDs and albums I had. I couldn’t help smiling to myself that here was something else we had in common when I heard her singing along. She had a really good, strong voice. It was rich and mellow. Usually, when someone sings along with a record, they drown out the artist. But Paris wasn’t trying to compete with Al Jarreau. Instead, she was complementing him. She wasn’t just singing, she was harmonizing, filling in, accompanying. It was as if they were singing a duet. The song she chose was “Mornin’,” another favorite.

  I peeked around the door. Paris wasn’t just singing but dancing too. I watched in silence as she swirled and turned, dancing with a pillow from the sofa. After the song ended, she hugged the pillow and replaced it on the sofa; then she turned and noticed me watching for the first time. I applauded, and she threw her head back and laughed and then bowed.

  “I didn’t know you could sing like that. You’re amazing.”

  “Thank you. I thought you knew I sing in the church choir.”

  “A lot of people who sing in the church choir don’t sound like that.”

  She smiled. “Are you ready?”

  “Almost.”

  I grabbed my bag from the bedroom, and when I returned, Paris was on the floor, replacing all the CDs she’d taken out earlier. When the last one was in place, she reached out to me, and I helped her to her feet. I pulled her close and held her in my arms. Her hair had a faint smell of citrus. She leaned up and we kissed. It was soft and sweet and gentle. After a moment, she held up the CD I didn’t realize she was still holding. Without saying a word, I put it into the CD player. The song she’d picked was a cover of one of my favorite James Taylor tunes, “Don’t Let Me Be Lonely Tonight,” by David Sanborn and Liz Wright, whose smooth voice gave life to the suggestive lyrics. Paris started to sway and dance alone as the music filled the room. Smiling at me, she said, “Don’t get any ideas. I just love this song.” That lightened the mood, and I laughed and took her in my arms.

  We danced. Sad, but I can’t remember the last time I danced. It was probably at my sister’s wedding. Fortunately, with a slow song like this one, I didn’t need to be Fred Astaire, preferring to stand in virtually the same place and sway. But it was nice to dance, to hold someone close and just dance. There was something old fashioned and romantic about slow dancing. The song came to an end, and we stopped.

  “I’m a bit rusty,” I said.

  “Maybe we can get some practice in at Cesselly’s. I used to love to dance. I work so many long hours now with the salons, I rarely have the time.”

  It was nice that our conversation included references to the future. “I would imagine you have a long line of men waiting to take you dancing.”

  “Officer, I would have thought your investigative techniques would be better than that. If you want to know if I’m dating someone, why not just ask?”

  “Well, are you dating anyone?”

  “No, I’m not. Are you?”

  “No. But I think you knew that already. There is no way you could have known Mama B for more than twenty-four hours, let alone spent several days in her home, without her telling you everything there is to know about me.”

  “I guess I was wrong. You are a good detective after all. But she only told me things that presented you in the best possible light. She loves you as if you were her own son.”

  “And I love her like she was my mom,” I added with sincerity. “We’d better go.”

  I called Mama B to let her know what time we’d be coming. I knew she wo
uld have heard about the break-in over the police ban radio, so by the time we arrived, she had clean towels laid out in my room. When I was young and stayed with her, I slept in the blue room. It was upstairs and faced the backyard. I don’t know what it was about that room I loved so much. It had a weird ceiling that was angled and sloped down, allowing for very little head clearance. But there was a window seat, and I would sit there and look outside or read and lose myself in some imaginary adventure. The room hadn’t changed much over the years, except to seem even smaller as I grew taller. But there was something comforting about its sameness I appreciated.

  I left early the next morning, not wanting to wake Mama B or Paris. As usual, my sleep was short and interrupted by visions. It was always the same vision of a tiny girl with one shoe, but last night the visions were not quite as painful, somehow.

  By the time Harley came in, I had sorted through a ton of paperwork, answered all my emails, and was starting to return telephone calls. The first call on my list was to First State Bank President Henrietta Thomas. Mrs. Thomas had left a message asking me to call, and although the bank didn’t open for another hour, Mrs. Thomas had assured me she would be in the office by 7:30 a.m. I called and found myself speaking to the lady herself.

  “Good morning, Detective Franklin. I was wondering if you had time to stop by my office sometime today.” Not waiting for my response, she added, “Will nine thirty work for you?”

  “Yes, certainly.”

  “Good. I will talk to you then. Thank you.”

  Mrs. Thomas apparently didn’t believe in wasting words. I wondered what she had found out, but didn’t have time to ponder long because my phone rang. It was Sgt. Harris at the front desk. I was taken aback to hear Mrs. Warren was downstairs asking for me. After informing the sergeant I would be right there, I stood up. Perhaps it was something in my attitude, but Harley asked, “What’s going on?”

  “Mrs. Tyrone Warren’s downstairs.”

  Harley joined me, and we headed downstairs to discover what had compelled Mrs. Warren to travel two hundred fifty miles to see us just two days after her husband’s memorial service.

  Mrs. Warren was impeccably dressed in all-white, including a white cane that appeared to have an ivory handle. She was wearing so much jewelry I was concerned about her safety, even in a police station.

  “Mrs. Warren, it’s a pleasure to see you looking so well. How may we help you?” I decided to get to the point while Harley, ever the gentleman, offered her an arm to lean on as we entered a nearby conference room.

  Once seated, we played the generous hosts and offered Mrs. Warren coffee, but she declined.

  Now that the time to speak had finally arrived, she seemed reluctant. “You know, I think I would like a cup of coffee if it wouldn’t be too much trouble.”

  “No trouble at all,” Harley assured her as he left the room, giving me a wink so subtle I barely noticed. Fortunately, we’ve worked together enough that I knew he would be taking his time returning with the coffee, first stopping in the room next door to listen.

  I thought to repeat myself and ask why she was here, but decided instead to simply sit and wait for her to speak. Silence can be a valuable tool when you are trying to get people to talk. Most people can’t stand the silence. Mrs. Warren was no exception. It didn’t take long.

  “I guess you want to know why I’m here.”

  “Well, I did think your recent surgery might have you incapacitated for some time. However, I am glad to see you are able to get around quite nicely.”

  Her hands twitched. I could see her jaw tighten and a vein on the side of her head start to pulse. I thought she was going to give me a piece of her mind. But in a split second she took a deep breath, sighed, and regained her composure. “Well, it is difficult. I’m in a lot of pain. But I felt compelled to come here.”

  Taking a handkerchief out of her purse, she put it to her eyes, and then added, “The loss of my husband has hit me so hard I have had trouble sleeping. I can’t stop thinking of him and how he died. I just had to come here, to this place where he spent his last days. I felt I needed to see the things he saw, go to the places he went to, and touch the things he touched.” Overcome by her emotions, Mrs. Warren stopped and once again put the handkerchief to her eyes.

  I’d give the performance quite high marks. She was certainly a first-rate actress. “How can I help you?”

  “Well, I wondered if you could share with me a little of my husband’s life. Who were his friends? Where did he hang out? Also, I know most of his things were destroyed in the fire, but they can do wonders these days restoring your memories and keepsakes that have been damaged by fires and floods. As his wife, I wondered if I could have his things. They would mean so much to a woman at a time like this.”

  Now we had arrived at the heart of the matter. Mrs. Warren had come over two hundred miles less than one week after surgery to get her husband’s belongings. The idea was touching, but it seemed to me too little too late.

  “Well, Mrs. Warren, as you know, your husband was in a fire. What items were not destroyed in the fire were ruined by the water from the hoses as the firemen tried to put out the flames. I’ve gone through the house and I am sad to say there is virtually nothing left.”

  “But he must surely have had some other place where he kept things. I believe he was doing some auditing work while he was here. He must have had an office.”

  “Unfortunately, we are not at liberty to share any information because this is an ongoing investigation.”

  She struggled to find some way to get what she was after. Before she could try again, Harley entered with a steaming cup of coffee.

  “I wasn’t sure if you wanted cream and sugar, so I brought both.” Harley dropped a few packets of powdered creamer substitute and sugar on the desk and handed Mrs. Warren coffee that looked strong enough to stand a spoon in.

  “Oh … thank you so much.” The look on Mrs. Warren’s face spoke volumes. She would clearly rather die of thirst than drink anything we might present, but being the trooper she was, she forced herself to take a sip before putting it down on the table.

  “Well, I do think I have wasted your time, gentlemen. I had hoped for some … keepsake that might help me through this grieving process. But I see I shall have to satisfy myself with memories.”

  That last bit was laying it on a little thick, even for her. Harley helped her to her feet and once again provided an arm for Mrs. Warren to lean against. He helped her to the door, but she refused assistance to her car. Back inside, Harley found me at the reception desk watching the security cameras as Mrs. Warren made her way to her car.

  “What was that BS? Do you really think she honestly thought we would buy that grieving widow routine?” Harley couldn’t hide the disbelief in his voice.

  “I guess she did.”

  “How dumb does she think we are?”

  “She must be really desperate to find whatever he left,” I said.

  “Do you think she broke into Paris’ house?” Harley asked.

  “No. She may not be a grieving widow, but she did just have surgery and there’s no way she could have been responsible for that damage … at least not by herself. But I don’t believe she is here by herself. Someone put her up to that charade and I think I know who.”

  Chapter Twelve

  I sat in the office of Henrietta Thomas, the president of First State Bank, and faced one of their in-house attorneys, an internal auditor named Dudley Hogan, and an external auditor from Starling and Schuck. The room was large, but with all these people, it felt crowded.

  “We’ve reviewed the information, as you requested. Unfortunately, we have not been able to find anything that will help you with your investigation,” Mrs. Thomas said.

  “Why the crowd?”

  “Frankly, your request was unusual. We wanted to be thorough, and there were a couple of items that made this issue a serious concern.”

  “I’d like to hear anything you
have.” I pulled out a notebook and waited for her to elaborate.

  Mrs. Thomas nodded to Hogan and waited for the internal auditor to explain.

  Hogan didn’t fit my preconceived idea of a numbers cruncher. Instead of a blue suit, white shirt, and glasses, he sported an extremely loud Hawaiian shirt, white shorts, and flip-flops. He was in his mid-twenties and was chewing gum as he explained the intricacies of the transactions Thomas Warren had allegedly conducted.

  “Detective Franklin, as an internal auditor, my job is to monitor the controls setup in the bank to prevent fraud and ensure security and independence. An external auditor audits the books. I have a background in information security, which is primarily why I was called in for this situation.” Hogan chewed his gum faster the deeper he got into the narrative. “So, while we can’t find anything specifically illegal in the transactions Mr. Warren conducted, they are suspicious.”

  The external auditor from Starling and Schuck, a conservative gentleman in his mid-forties with fiery red hair and a face full of freckles, interrupted Hogan. Despite his somewhat youthful appearance, I judged his age to be early to mid-forties. Mallory, as he was introduced to me, was a partner at Starling and Schuck.

  “Perhaps I should start. As an external auditor, my job is to validate the financials. One of the unique characteristics here is that Mr. Warren chose to target service organizations with irregular income. Unlike most businesses, churches have incomes that fluctuate greatly, not only from one month to the next but from one week to the next. If the church were in the midst of a fundraiser, the congregation might rally around a specific program and donations increase. This is also an area where cash is often collected, which is harder to trace than checks.”

  As exciting as Mallory’s information was, I found my mind drifting. Having successfully stifled two yawns, I missed the third.

  “I don’t want to bore you with the details,” Mallory said.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Mallory, please forgive me. I had a long night. Please continue.”