Deadline for Lenny Stern, Peter Marabell [sneezy the snowman read aloud .TXT] 📗

the stairs to the double front doors and punched the button. A familiar tune chimed my arrival. I knew it, but couldn’t place it. It felt wrong here.

The door opened slowly.

“Mrs. Cavendish? Sylvia Cavendish?” I said. The woman was probably in her sixties, but looked older and harder. Her salt-and-pepper hair was more salt than anything else. It framed a triangle-shaped face with wide-spread oval eyes. Her clothes were straight out of Ann Taylor: tapered black slacks, a white linen V-neck shirt, and no jewelry.

“Yes?” she said, her mouth barely moving.

“Ma’am, hello. I’m Michael Russo. I’m a private investigator looking into a crime committed recently in Harbor Springs.”

“No, you’re not,” she said.

I expected the door in my face. Instead, Sylvia opened the door wide, moved forward, and stood on the threshold.

“I know who you are. I don’t understand … why are you here? What do you want with us?”

I caught the “us.”

“My sons may have indulged you, Mr. Russo, but I have no interest in doing so.”

She took two steps back and slammed the door.

I’ve had interviews like that before, so brief as to be non-existent and annoying. I didn’t always learn anything helpful. I certainly didn’t with Sylvia, but if there was a chance … .

I walked back to my car, leaned on the hood and looked back at the elegant lakefront house. A pleasant place to live. I guess Henri and I worried for nothing about arousing the suspicions of the Cavendish family. It wasn’t that Sylvia was expecting me to show up, but she wasn’t surprised when I did. I heard a vehicle and turned around. A truck — small, white, with “Cavendish” in large letters on the side panels — stopped behind my car.

The driver’s side door swung open, and out came Walter Cavendish. Three long strides, and he stood in front of me.

“What are you doing here?”

“Funny, your mother just asked me the same question.”

He shot a brief glance at the house.

“Who the hell do you think you are … bothering mother like that. You got no business, no business …”

He took a step forward, opening my car door. “Get in.” Then, almost yelling, “Get the hell out of here, and don’t come back!”

I pulled away from the house, watching the rearview mirror. Walter had already turned and was marching toward the house.

43

AJ didn’t respond to my text. A call went to voicemail. I put my phone on the desk and looked up. Sandy stood at the doorway. She had that look, the one that signaled she knew very well what I was trying to do.

But when Sandy wanted to be diplomatic, she was good at it.

“Are you still wondering,” she said, “how Sylvia Cavendish knew it was you?”

I shrugged. “Probably a waste of time.”

“If the Cavendish family really is behind the threats to Lenny Stern …”

“Not to mention killing Kate Hubbell.”

“And Kate. Don’t you think they would have expected you or Henri to show up sooner or later?”

“That’s the logical conclusion, sure.”

“It’s the only conclusion that makes sense,” Sandy said.

“Where did you say Henri was? I know you told me, but I was distracted, I guess.”

Sandy chose not to follow up on my comment. More diplomacy.

“He went to the island for the day. He said he needed to check on repairs. On his house, I think.”

“Good time to go, since Lenny’s still in Chicago.”

I glanced at the time on my computer screen. “Aren’t you here late?”

“I’m leaving in a minute,” Sandy said. “Remember the Simmons file?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Finished up. I’ll drop it at the courthouse in the morning. Besides, Dad’s playing bridge with some of his buddies.”

“You don’t have to make dinner?”

“Yeah, but he’ll be late. A couple of beers after cards. He won’t be in a hurry for dinner.”

She hesitated at the door.

“What’s up?” I said.

“Call her again, boss. Call no text.”

I decided quickly to return her courtesy and chose diplomacy. I nodded. Sandy smiled, and returned to her desk.

I tapped AJ’s number.

“Hi, Michael,” AJ said. She sounded too formal, but she was at work. At least that was my rationale. I tried not to read any more into it.

“How’s things?” I said.

“You know, how about you?”

Perhaps there was more to it.

“Okay,” I said, skipping my friendly visit with Sylvia Cavendish. “Thought about making pasta and a salad. Want to join me?

“Ah … it’s pretty hectic here,” she said.

“I’m not starving,” I said. “I can wait.”

“How about a rain check. Is that all right?”

“Sure. A rain check it is.” It didn’t feel like I had much of a choice.

“All right,” AJ said. “Got to go. See you.”

I was uncomfortable the way it ended, not edgy or annoyed, just uncomfortable. We’ve had that same conversation dozens of times over the years. Most of the time we shared dinner somewhere. Occasionally, we did not. Either way was okay. But they used to be easier conversations.

I no longer felt like putting together dinner. I tapped the keyboard, went to Pallette Bistro’s menu. I tapped out an order for crab cakes and a Caesar salad, and paid for it. I was only going a couple of blocks, of course, but some menu items tasted better than others by the time I got them home. I picked up my brief bag and left the office.

I tossed my bag in the car, went across the street to pick up dinner, and drove home.

I always liked dinner at home, on the couch, in old running clothes. By myself was good, being with AJ was better. I walked toward the rear entrance of my building, brief bag over my shoulder. My toughest decision was, wine or scotch. What sounded better with crab cakes?

I never saw them.

I hit the tarmac. Hard. Face down. A boot to the ribs. Again. A knee, low in the back. Jerked to my feet by two guys, one on each side, yanking my arms. Shoved forward into a big SUV, spun around. Held up, held back. A blow, straight to the midsection. No air.

“Listen, asshole.” Elbow to the side