“No, sir,” she said slowly shaking her head. “No problem at all.”
“Could you come to my house tomorrow afternoon? I've something important to discuss with you." She nodded and left.
Chapter 36
Schwartz had promised to take me to the train station after dinner. I'd decided not to stay to see Trevor's band perform again, and had reserved a seat on a train to Cleveland leaving that night. My bags were packed and loaded into his 1937 Cord 812, and we were enjoying the last of our cod broiled in dill and drawn lemon-butter. Beverly had gone to the kitchen for our vanilla mousse deserts, and Mia had gone to her room to get ready for a date with Yitzie when Schwartz said. "You did a very good job. Your father would have been proud."
I looked up and swallowed the lump, and I don’t mean the fish. "Would you say it was satisfactory?" I asked.
"It was better than satisfactory," he said. "It was excellent."
"There are still some things I don't understand," I said. "Like how did you first realize that Lewis was out of the loop on the insurance thing?"
"He had told you that his father had no insurance at all with Matthew in the room, and Matthew had gone along with it," Schwartz said, "which by itself proved nothing. But when Marjorie had let it slip in front of Lewis that she and Peggy had only been able to convince Vincent to switch policies several months ago she worried about how Lewis would react. The two points together suggested that Lewis wasn't being told everything. Which stands to reason since he wasn't living in the area. The others all were."
"Okay," I said, "another thing; Matthew kept hinting that he had information. I told you that, but you never just asked him about it."
"All Matthew knew was that he'd seen Carl go into the dining room just before his father died. He suspected that Coneely had given Carl the poison; probably he assumed it had happened when they'd greeted each other at the French doors during the sacrament. If he'd wanted to tell me that, he could have done so at any time. He had no intention of telling me anything. He was just making the announcement that he knew something hoping that it would get Carl to turn himself in. However, if he'd thought that Coneely was going to take the fall, he'd have come forward when Carl didn't. The only problem was that Donatelli got to him first."
"That's another thing. Why didn't you see that coming?"
"That's a fair question. I should have," Schwartz admitted. "All I can say is that I'd worked out the situation to where there were two mercy killers, Carl and Donatelli. I didn't realize that one of them might be also a common murderer."
“Okay, so why did you arrange the seats in such a way that Donatelli could try to escape when you revealed your theory? Didn’t you know that he would run?”
“I hoped he would,” Schwartz said. “I was lying when I said that I had gotten permission to exhume that woman’s father. I’ve never even spoken with her. Donatelli’s attempted flight is the only thing that gives the police probable cause.”
“One last thing; you seemed to be implying at one point during the charade that perhaps Sara had some part in the scheme…”
“So I did,” Schwartz said. “She may have. In fact any combination of them may have been informed of the plan to poison the senior Hanson. There’s no way of proving either of it.”
“Then what was the point of showing how long Sara stayed in the pantry?”
“For my purposes, I need Carl Hanson to confess his part and bring evidence against Donatelli,” Schwartz admitted. “Carl is the one who applied the poison, after all. If, to accomplish that, I have to plant the idea in his mind that his wife might otherwise be exposed if the investigation were to continue, so be it.”
Beverly brought in a tray with our three desert dishes, and we were enjoying them when the doorbell rang. Beverly excused herself, and soon we could hear her explaining to Jimmy that Mia would be a few minutes if he'd like to join us for coffee and mousse. He'd accepted the coffee, and he joined us at the table.
"I want to thank you again for offering me the opportunity to help out on that case," he said, "but I really want to thank you for getting me that cocaine bust. That woman sang like a little bird. Thanks to that bust, we're probably going to get a lot of dust off of the streets. If there's anything the department can do to show our appreciation."
Schwartz smiled and took his lower lip between his fingers. "As a matter of fact," he said, "there is. I assume you've confiscated her car?"
"Absolutely," Jimmy said. "It was found transporting several pounds of an illegal narcotic. What about it?"
"Well," Schwartz said, "I've just finished a contract for the city. They are indebted to me for a little over two-thousand dollars. I imagine that the department will be auctioning the Fiero to the highest bidder. It probably wouldn't bring more than two-thousand dollars considering the kinds of people those auctions attract. How about a trade; my paycheck for the Fiero."
"I'll see what I can do," Jimmy said nodding, "but I don't see a problem."
"Excellent," Schwartz said. "Professor Moreck will enjoy seeing me drive it."
***
After Mia and Jimmy had gone, Beverly and I said our good-byes. Then Schwartz and I climbed into the Cord and drove to the train depot. On the way, we spoke together about our forebears for the first time. We found a lot of common ground, but I’ll reserve that for just him and me. After all, a bargain is a bargain.
As we pulled up to the passenger entrance, we said our good-byes, and as Schwartz was taking my bags from the trunk, I hugged him from behind. He patted my hand, and to lighten the mood, I said, "That was pretty slick the way you pulled that off. You're getting a free car from the city and — what — a third of a half-a-million dollars from an insurance company. How much is that exactly?"
"It's about $167,000," Schwartz said, and I whistled as long as that trail of zeroes.
"What do you plan to do with the money?" I asked.
He smiled. He got into his car and put it in gear. Then just before he pulled away, he said, "I plan to use it to buy a red Porsche Spyder and paint it back to its original silver."
At least his timing was improving.
THE END
Common Sense (The Lupa Schwartz Mysteries, Book II)
Sample Excerpt:
Chapter One
Why don’t I remember more about that moment? Was it the cop, the one who had escorted me into that room and pulled back the sheet, was it his fault I don’t remember? Had he pre-conditioned me to expect more? Is that why I don’t remember more details? Or had I done it to myself? Had I presumed too much? Were my expectations out of line with reality because of all the horrific images I’d been trained to expect from television and the movies?
I’ve spent my life training my memory. My high level of recall is what makes me a good reporter. It’s what Schwartz valued so much when we’d worked that last case. It’s what I consider my defining characteristic. So why don’t I remember more about that day?
I don’t know what I expected to find, really. Did I think he’d be paler? Bluer? Bloated? Wetter? He’d probably only been in the water for an hour or so, tops, and he’d been fished out more than 24 hours before. Of course he wasn’t bloated or still wet … or pallid. So when the sheet came back and even his lips looked like him … like the lips I’d kissed when I took his name … like the lips I’d fallen in love with all those years before … like the lips I’d foolishly grown to trust.
It’s no good. All I remember are his lips. I vaguely remember saying, “Yes, that’s him,” and being escorted out of the room, but that’s it. I don’t even remember going back to my car; but I did go back to my car. I got in and began driving, and I remember thinking back to the night before, when I’d gotten the call.
***
It had been five months since I’d last seen Beverly, the live-in housekeeper and cook at the home of the renowned Private Investigator, Lupa Schwartz; but the telephone correspondence we had maintained made it seem like a lot less time. “Has Mia gott
en over hating me yet?” I asked, and Beverly laughed gaily.
“I suppose she has,” Beverly answered. “Did I tell you that she and Yitzie aren’t dating anymore?” Yitzie was Jimmy Yitzosky, and he was the reason that Mia Geovani had been holding a grudge against me these past few months. He was a narcotics cop, a Sergeant in the Pittsburgh Police Department, and she’d wanted him to move on to homicide; but I had foiled her plan in favor of my own then-favorite homicide dick, Detective Trevor Johns. Unfortunately, the scheme I’d hatched blew up in my face, and it had cost me the affection of both Mia and my own Ishmael (as I called Trevor.)
“No,” I said in honest surprise. “What happened?”
“Long story,” Beverly told me.
“I’ve got time,” I said, and I meant it. I’d had no life for more than a month. My job at the Cleveland office of Gamut Magazine had become the only thing I did. When I’d returned from Pittsburgh that past July with the story of the brilliant detective work Schwartz had used to solve the case of a Catholic priest framed for the last-rites-poisoning of one of his parishioners, I’d thought it would be the kick-in-the-butt my career had been in need of. Ever since my ex-husband had hijacked a utilities story that had been rightfully mine, I’d been somewhat stagnated. It probably would have been a sufficient boost too, except that I’d allowed that charmer-of-an-ex-of-mine to worm his way back into my life and had started dating him again while I was still riding the high of my own literary success. Then – as if I’d never had our young marriage annulled – I’d moved in with him. He’d started screening my email, and had snaked another story that had been rightfully mine. He was over a hundred miles away living in a quaint B&B with a company expense account working another utilities story, while I waited to edit his copy and keep house patiently awaiting his return. Of course, what he didn’t know was that the only reason I was actually awaiting his return was so that I could see his face when he saw what I’d done with a little benzene to his prized CD collection right before I dumped his sorry ass again.
So I listened to Beverly’s story, running up the tab on Dave’s (my ex-husband’s) phone bill – since the one concession I’d gotten him to agree to when I’d moved back in was keeping all of the utilities (including a house phone) in his name. Although even winning that compromise had cost me some concessions; like no frills such as caller ID, call-waiting, voice-mail, or any other extras.
So Beverly told her tale. It seemed that Mia, who was Schwartz’s mechanic (he had an extensive antique and classic car collection in a huge underground garage on his property,) had been pestering Schwartz to allow Jimmy to take credit for collaring one of Schwartz’s murder cases as he’d solved it so that Jimmy could possibly get out of the Narcotics division. Apparently Schwartz, a sucker for a pretty face – which Mia definitely had one – had agreed twice in the past month, but Jimmy had found a reason both times to make a drug bust instead. Mia had finally had enough. She’d stopped accepting Jimmy’s invitations to dinner, and she was back to playing the field. “So,” Beverly said, “Mia has no more reason to be angry with you. It was all Jimmy’s deal the whole time.”
At that moment, my handbag had begun to chirp. “Hold the line a minute, would you, Bev? My cell phone is ringing. It might be Dave.”
“Then let it ring,” Beverly said. “You’re dumping the jerk next week anyway, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” I said, “If it’s important, he can call back, right?”
“Exactly,” she said. “So are you going to just let it ring?”
“Yes, I am,” I said proudly. “So how are things with you and Lupa?”
“Cattleya,” Beverly said, “you know that our relationship is strictly professional.”
“Did I say anything to suggest that it wasn’t?”
“You implied it,” she said, “by the timing of your asking about it.” I laughed, but the distraction of that incessant ringing was driving me off my nut.
“Hold on, Bev,” I said. “Whoever this is, they’re being really persistent. It must be important.” I set the handset down and pulled the ringing phone from my purse. “Hello?”
“Cat, it’s Jana,” the voice said announcing herself to be a co-worker from the magazine office.
“Hi, Jana,” I said. “Can I call you back? I’m on long distance to Pitts...”
“Cat, listen,” Jana said interrupting. “I think maybe you’d better hang up that other call. We just got a call at the office from the Mississauga, Ohio Police. I think something has happened to Dave. They’ve been trying to get a hold of you, but...”
“What did they say about Dave?”
“They wouldn’t say anything specific. They just wanted to know if you had another phone number they could call since they kept getting a busy signal. I didn’t want to give them your cell number because I know you had it changed since you’re planning to – you know – to dump Dave again. I thought it might be a trick or something. Anyway, they’re going to call you back in a few minutes.”
“Thanks, Jana,” I said. “I’ll let you know what I find out. Goodbye.” I hung up and got back on the line with Beverly. “Bev, hi. Listen, I’ve got to clear this line. Apparently the Mississauga, Ohio police are calling to talk with me about Dave. He’s down there covering the story he stole ... on a story, so he might be in jail or something. I’ll talk to you later, okay? Bye.”
I hung up and turned on the television while I waited for the phone to ring. Less than a minute had passed when the sudden sound startled me. “Hello,” I said.
“Cattleya Hoskin?” the voice asked. I responded in the affirmative, and the voice continued, “This is Captain Hank Street of the Mississauga Police department down here in Mississauga, Ohio. Is David Hoskin your husband?”
“Yes,” I said, “my ex-husband is David Hoskin. He’s down there working on an assignment for Gamut Magazine. He’s a writer.”
“Yes, ma’am, we know,” Captain Street said. “Um, I’m sorry to have to tell you this, ma’am, but there’s been a ... well, there’s been a sort of a ... a sort of an incident.”
“Is Dave under arrest?” I asked.
“No, ma’am,” Street said. “I’m afraid he’s dead.”
It may have been a whole minute or barely a moment or any other length of time between Street’s stating the word and my repeating it as a question. I can’t say, because for me time stopped. “Dead?” I said, though whether immediately or finally — I can’t be sure.
“Yes, ma’am. Drowned,” Street said, “in the river. He was night-fishing on a pier, a sort of public dock. We’d like for you to come down and identify the body. It’s procedure. We’re sure it’s him. Could you come down in the morning?”
Notice
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Author Bio
With a profound interest in religion, liberal politics and humor, Dave began writing in High School and has not given up on it since. His first professional writing jobs came while attending the Art Institute of Pittsburgh when he was hired to create political cartoons for the Pitt News & to write humor pieces for Smile Magazine. Dave has worked in the newspaper industry as a photographer, in the online publishing industry as a weekly contributor to Streetmail.com, and was a contributing writer to the Buzz On series of informational books and to the Western online anthology, Elbow Creek.
Dave’s science fiction novel, Synthetic Blood and Mixed Emotions, is available from writewordsinc.com.
Dave currently resides in his childhood home in Toronto, OH with
his beautiful girlfriend and his teenage daughter. He enjoys participating in local community events & visiting with his two adult children and his grandson.
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