Travellin' Shoes Read online

  Mrs. Warren opened the door in a long, white negligee. “What took you so long, I ….”

  At least she had the decency to blush. After a moment of hesitation and shock, she quickly hobbled off to the bathroom and came back in a robe. “Well, you might as well shut the door and come in.”

  With that hearty welcome, Harley and I closed the door and entered the suite. Mama B’s house would have fit inside this suite at least once, maybe twice. We followed Mrs. Warren as far as the living room/dining room area, where she took a seat on the sofa. Perturbed didn’t begin to scratch the surface of her demeanor. I decided to launch right in, hoping her anger might make her less guarded.

  “Are we interrupting anything?” I asked as innocently as I could.

  Mrs. Warren scowled. “Of course not. What could you possibly be interrupting?” Sarcasm was not an attractive cloak for Mrs. Warren.

  “I only asked because when you opened the door, you looked as though you were expecting someone.”

  “I ordered room service. I thought you were the waiter. That’s all.” She couldn’t even look me in the eye.

  “In that case, do you mind if we sit down and ask you a few questions?”

  She obviously did mind very much. She looked at the gold Rolex on her arm and sighed. “I guess I have a little time. As you can see by the way I’m dressed, I was just about to turn in. I’m very tired.”

  “Before you ate?” I asked.

  “I get tired very easily after my surgery. I got tired of waiting and had just decided to get ready for bed. I don’t think that’s a crime, not even in St. Joseph, Indiana, is it?”

  Harley took this opportunity to jump into the conversation. Summoning all of his Southern charm, he said, “Of course not, ma’am. We just wanted to ask one or two more questions if you’re feeling up to it. May I get you something—a pillow or a glass of water?”

  Sometimes he can really come on a little strong with the Southern-gentleman thing. But Mrs. Warren, like most women, ate it up. She actually smiled.

  “No, but thank you so much. I think I’ll be fine now.” The implication being she wasn’t fine while I was talking, but she was now that Harley was taking charge.

  I moved away from them to look out the window while Harley sat at her feet and asked her, “Mrs. Warren, we were wondering if your husband mentioned any papers or files he might have had in his possession?”

  I waited just a moment for the response when I heard Harley say, “Mrs. Warren, are you okay? You don’t look very well.” The anxiety made me turn to see Mrs. Warren, who had suddenly lost all color and slumped back onto the sofa.

  “Are you okay? Do you need a doctor?” Harley’s concern was obvious. Mrs. Warren wasn’t faking. She wasn’t that good of an actress to pull this scene off.

  “Mrs. Warren, do you have any medications? Is there anything we can get for you?” I asked.

  She nodded.

  I was already on my way to the bathroom. I barely had time to register the fact there was a man’s travel case with razor and clippers on the counter before I filled a glass with water and rushed back.

  “Here, drink this.” I handed her the glass, and she gulped it down while Harley tried to get her consent to call an ambulance.

  After finishing most of the water, Mrs. Warren seemed slightly more in control of herself. Her hand was steadier as she gave the glass back to me. She shook her head and whispered, “No. I don’t want an ambulance. I don’t need a doctor. I’m so sorry. I don’t know what came over me. I just suddenly felt light-headed and ill.”

  At that moment, there was a knock at the door. I didn’t think it possible, but Mrs. Warren got paler. Her eyes darted back and forth and she made an attempt to rise, but Harley stopped her.

  “No, ma’am. You stay right there. I’ll be more than happy to get that. It’s probably just your room service.”

  Harley rushed to the door and opened it to Mr. Bryce Chandler.

  He looked even more shocked to see us than Mrs. Warren had been. Surprise, anger, and frustration all registered on his face in less than half a second before he said, “Oh, is anything wrong with Mrs. Warren?”

  She had recovered her wits enough to yell, “Bryce. I’m in here!”

  Harley stepped aside as Bryce Chandler hurried into the room. Seeing Mrs. Warren on the sofa, he halted.

  She held out a hand as he advanced. “Thank you so much for coming by on such short notice.” Mrs. Warren was providing the excuse and Bryce Chandler seized on it.

  “Well, of course. When I got your call, I hurried here at once. It’s the least I can do for such old friends as you and … and Tye. Are you okay?”

  “Yes. I just had a bad spell, and these two policemen were kind enough to look after me, but I really would like to lie down. Can I trouble you to help me?”

  “It’s no trouble at all.” He turned to us. “Gentlemen, Mrs. Warren isn’t well. I think it would be best if you left. I can help her back to bed.”

  I’ll just bet you could help her to bed, I thought. We couldn’t force her to answer our questions now, and as soon as we left, she’d brief Bryce Chandler.

  Harley tried one last time. “Mrs. Warren, are you sure you wouldn’t like me to call a doctor for you? You looked deathly ill a moment ago when we were talking about your husband’s books.”

  Harley had gotten a strike in, and we both watched for a reaction. Mrs. Warren was on guard this time, and Bryce Chandler was a much cooler customer. However, his hands tensed. A vein pulsed on the side of his head.

  “No. No. That won’t be necessary. I just wasn’t feeling well and I haven’t eaten. I was just a little light-headed. That’s all.”

  “Well, if you’re sure.” Harley was so good at that charming routine, I almost believed his show of sympathy and compassion.

  “Thank you both so much for your concern, but I just want to lie down.”

  With that, Harley and I made our exit from the luxurious penthouse suite of Mrs. Warren. Neither of us said a word as we walked down the hall and rode in the elevator.

  I’d have bet my pension that Mrs. Tye Warren and Mr. Bryce Chandler were both staying in the same room. Apparently, his wife didn’t review the credit card statements or maybe he didn’t care if she did.

  Harley and I went back to the precinct. Obviously, we’d hit a nerve with Chandler and Mrs. Warren. They were both in town and could have broken into Paris’ Salon. Mrs. Warren’s alibi was tight; she couldn’t have killed her husband. But Bryce Chandler was another story. He was starting to look like an excellent suspect.

  We spent the rest of the day in the never-ending battle to keep up with paperwork. Solving one case didn’t necessarily mean an end to the paperwork and we both had a lot to do. By the time I looked up, it was late. I got another message from First State Bank, but given the hour, I’d have to call them first thing tomorrow.

  It was late and my day had started very early. I decided to swing by the salon. I told myself I was checking on the shop. After all, it had been broken into just two days earlier. I knew Paris tended to spend the mornings and most workdays at her new salon, Un Jour à Paris—which I’d learned meant, A Day in Paris. And her evenings and weekends were spent at Hair 2 Dye 4. Apparently, most African-American women like to get their hair done close to the weekend. Mama B said it was so their hair was fresh for church on Sunday. Paris said her younger clients wanted their hair to be fresh for going out to the clubs. Regardless of the reason, the evenings and weekends were extremely busy at Hair 2 Dye 4, while A Day in Paris was busier during the mornings and weekdays. The upper-class salon tended to attract a different clientele.

  She was at Hair 2 Dye 4 and had one client in the chair, one under the dryer, and another waiting. Seeing me, she smiled and waved me in. At almost seven at night, things were still bustling. Two other stylists were here too, and one appeared to be sewing something into Mercedes Jackson’s head.

  “What brings you down?” Paris was styling her cli
ent’s hair with large, elaborate curlers in a device like an oven.

  “That looks extremely dangerous,” I said, staring at the huge oven and the curlers she wielded as if on autopilot.

  “I suppose they are … in the wrong hands.” She smiled. “But I’m a highly trained professional.”

  I smiled back, recalling the first time we’d met, when I’d said the same line to her.

  “What is that thing?” I pointed to the oven looking device.

  “It’s called a Marcel Stove. It heats the curlers.” She patted it with her hand. “They’re actually going out of fashion, but some of my clients prefer them.”

  I stared at the device, but tried to move on. “I’m just making sure everything’s okay after the break-in.”

  “Everything seems fine. Nothing was taken.”

  “Will you be here long?” I asked. “I mean, if you aren’t comfortable being here late, then maybe I can escort you to your car … for safety,” I added.

  She grinned. “Thank you. That’s very thoughtful, but I’ve got two more clients after this. It’ll be about two more hours before I get out tonight. I’ll make sure to walk out with my last client.”

  “Are you going to see Mama B tonight?”

  “I don’t know. It’s been a long day, and I’m about ready to crash.” I supported that statement with a yawn. Amazing how just a couple of weeks ago, I couldn’t sleep more than a few hours, and now I was actually feeling tired and looking forward to a good night’s sleep—well, at least a few hours. The nightmares hadn’t stopped altogether, but they were not as intense.

  “You’d better get some sleep.”

  I took a few steps away and beckoned for Paris.

  She put down the curlers and told her client she would return in a minute, then followed me to a corner. Leaning in close to her ear, I whispered, “What is she doing to Mercedes?” I darted my eyes toward Mercedes Jackson, who was sitting in a nearby chair.

  Paris smiled and whispered back, “She’s sewing in hair. It’s called a weave or a sew-in.”

  The stylist had a long needle shaped like a fishhook. Paris glanced over at Mercedes and noted she was turned in such a way that she would be unlikely to notice the extra attention before continuing in a soft voice, “She used to come in to get her sew-in done every two weeks, but for several months she’s slacked off. It’s very expensive.”

  “How much?”

  “Two hundred dollars.”

  “Every two weeks?

  Paris nodded.

  “That’s a lot of money to spend on your hair.”

  She shrugged. “Most women can’t afford to come that often. But if you want it to look really nice and fresh ….” She shrugged again. “I’m guessing that between her weave and her nails, she drops about five hundred dollars a month.”

  “I wonder how she affords it.” I was genuinely puzzled.

  “I doubt if she pays for it herself,” Paris whispered. “Mercedes is the type who would have someone … supporting her.”

  “Ah … I see what you mean.”

  Seeing me yawn again, she said with a laugh, “You better get home before you fall over.”

  I was so tired, I skipped dinner and headed straight to bed. For the first time since the accident, I was too tired to dream. I thought I might even sleep through the entire night.

  As soon as my head hit the pillow, I fell into a deep sleep. But a full night’s sleep was not to be. At two, my cellphone rang. A body had been found at the church.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Police cars swarmed in front of the church. The area was cordoned off, but an officer manning the barricade recognized me and let me through. I took the stairs two at a time and rushed inside.

  Reverend Hamilton, wearing an old bathrobe, was at the back of the church giving a statement to a uniformed officer.

  “RJ, praise the Lord.” Reverend Hamilton sighed with relief. “I’m glad to see you.”

  “I’m pretty happy to see you too, Reverend.” I took a few extra breaths to release my tension and steady my nerves. “What happened? Who died?”

  Reverend Hamilton shrugged. “Beats me. I’ve never seen him before.”

  I walked over to the body crumpled in a heap at the front of the altar. I stood over the man and looked down.

  Harley joined me. “Bryce Chandler.”

  “What happened?” I asked Reverend Hamilton.

  “I have no idea. I was at home asleep and heard a gunshot. It sounded like it came from the church. I looked out the window and thought I saw a light, so I threw on a robe and came running. When I got here, I found the side door of the church open and him on the floor.”

  The coroner was fairly confident the cause of death was a gunshot to the side of the head at close range, but of course the official cause of death would have to wait until the autopsy. Within a few hours, he’d be able to tell us if the gun was the same caliber as the gun used to kill both Warrendale and Bryce Chandler.

  “How’d he get in?” Harley asked as we examined the side door. The door had been dusted for prints, and as expected, there were a ton of them. Lots of people used that side door each and every week. The side door was just to the right of the piano at the front of the church. It was the closest door for choir members who parked in the side parking lot to reach the choir stand. It was also the area designated for smokers.

  “No signs the door was forced.” Harley examined the frame. “Who has a key?”

  Reverend Hamilton thought for a minute. “Myself, Minister Chapman, the musicians, Deacons, Warrendale had one, the head of the Usher Board, the head of the Mother’s Board—”

  “In short, just about everyone.”

  He nodded. “That pretty well sums it up.”

  “But why did he come here?” Harley asked. “And why in the middle of the night?”

  Only one possibility made sense to me. “He met someone here.”

  Harley and I decided to take the bull by the horns and tackle Mrs. Warren first. She was still at the Hilton, and the desk clerk remembered us.

  Mrs. Warren looked furtively around the room for a moment before she stepped back for us to enter.

  “What do you want now?”

  “I think you should sit down.” I indicated a chair in the living room area of the suite.

  She seemed taken aback, but she sat down and invited us to do the same.

  “Let’s stop playing games. We need the truth. Mrs. Warren, have you been here all night?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “And Mr. Chandler?” Harley asked.

  “He went out last night. He said he needed to meet with someone. Why? What’s wrong?”

  “Do you know who he went to meet?” I asked.

  “He didn’t say. I don’t think he knew. He just got a call asking for a meeting. They said they had information about Tye.” Mrs. Warren was fidgeting as she asked, “What’s happened?”

  “Mr. Chandler was killed last night.” I watched her response carefully.

  I expected screams or cries. Instead, Mrs. Warren slumped over and collapsed. Harley called for an ambulance.

  I lifted her onto the bed. Then I got a cold compress from the bathroom and applied it to her forehead. It seemed every time we met with Mrs. Warren, she fell ill. Normally, I would be extremely suspicious if it wasn’t so obvious that she was truly unwell.

  Soon, Mrs. Warren was on her way to Memorial Hospital. Given the events of the last twenty-four hours, the hospital might prove to be the safest place for her. I couldn’t be sure the murderer wouldn’t be coming for her next.

  The rest of the day was spent almost entirely in meetings. We met with Chief Mike, who was upset that not only had we failed to solve Thomas Warrendale’s murder but now our prime suspect had been murdered. Then we spent an hour hearing how frustrated and disappointed the mayor was. That was followed by another meeting with Chief Mike. By the time I got outside again, it was dark.

  Detective Hastings called
to tell us Mrs. Bryce Chandler had taken the news of her husband’s demise with surprising good humor. She voluntarily shared that she had wanted a divorce for a long time but had signed a prenuptial agreement. Now that Chandler was dead, she could finish out the rest of her days in style. If she hadn’t had an iron-clad alibi, and if I weren’t so sure Chandler’s murder was connected to Warrendale, I might have suspected her.

  Harley and I reviewed the coroner’s report and the crime scene investigator’s evidence again, looking for some clue we had missed. There had to be something. We reviewed all the forensic information and looked at the photos and evidence bags taken from the first death. The photos showed the charred furniture covered in soot and ashes, but something struck me as odd.

  Moving into one of the conference rooms, Harley and I took the photos and laid them out so we got a sense of the house. Modern technology being what it is, we also had a video. After we’d watched the video at least four times, Harley was ready to throttle me.

  “Are you seeing something in that? Because I can’t take much more of this.”

  “I’m not sure. It seems like … wait. Freeze it!” I shouted.

  Harley pressed the pause button on the laptop. “What’s that?” I pointed to a shiny object on the floor under a suitcase and a lot of debris.

  Harley squinted to identify the one object shining amid a sea of gray before giving up and attempting to zoom in for a better look.

  “I can’t quite make it out,” he mumbled as he continued to manipulate the shot. Finally, after a few more seconds of adjustments, the image became clear. “Looks like a lighter. Did Warren smoke?”

  Rummaging through the evidence bags, I found the one containing the lighter. It wasn’t as shiny, since the soot and ash had dulled it. Rubbing my finger across the plastic, I was able to clear off enough soot to see the gold of the metal and the faint scratches that indicated the engraving.