The Fruitcake Murders. Ace Collins
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he added, “I probably knew him better than you did. Like you said, he was a good man, and more importantly, I think he was about to hit the Delono family’s operation with a blow that would have knocked them to their knees. Sadly, he didn’t share his information with anyone. He couldn’t. He knew there were spies all over the courthouse, so he kept everything in his head.”
“So,” she cut in, “you’ve got nothing to go on?”
“All we’ve got,” he admitted, “is that somebody stuck a knife in Elrod to keep him quiet, and therefore, the one person who might have stopped Richard Delono is dead.”
As he nervously looked back to her, the reporter shifted uneasily, her eyes finding a picture of Elrod and his wife hanging over the fireplace. It was easy to read the obvious sadness etched on her face.
“That photograph was probably taken on an anniversary,” she noted. “She’s dressed up, wearing a lily, and there are a lot of folks in the background. Must have been quite a party.” Turning her head back toward his she smiled, “And speaking of anniversaries, weddings, and such, I understand you and Lorraine Day have parted company.”
“Old news,” he quickly replied.
“Must be,” she punched back, “because she’s already engaged to George Carlisle. She sure wore a dreamy look as she showed off her new rock at the Holiday Charity Ball last night. That diamond must be five times bigger than the one you gave her. By the way, did you get the ring back and have you finished your payments on it?”
“Carlisle,” the cop spat, “wonder where she met that shyster? Hard to take the law profession down a notch, but when that guy passed the bar he did it.”
“Take it you’re not a fan,” she smiled as she applied another verbal jab. “Now don’t avoid the question, where’s the ring you gave her? Did the Cracker Jack Company repossess it and repackage it as a prize?”
His frown quickly turned upside-down, as he began his counterattack. “I see you’re not wearing your ring either. Does that mean you’re not soon becoming Mrs. Malcolm Diamonds? What a jewel he is!”
She quickly covered her left hand with her right and turned her head. Now it was her turn to change the course of the conversation. “Wonder if Mrs. Elrod will stay here in Chicago? Aren’t both of their children married and living on the West Coast? And I think she’s originally from Madison.”
Lane ignored the woman’s quick conversational detour. “Just as well he dumped you, I always thought your being called Tiffany Diamonds was nothing . . .” he paused for dramatic effect . . . “that carried much weight or class.”
She turned and once again their eyes met. This time hers were filled with fire. “He didn’t end it; I did.”
“Yeah,” he laughed, “I’ll buy that just like I’d buy one of those used cars Mr. Diamonds sells.”
“At least he’s more honest than George Carlisle.”
“Tiffany, I’d expect a more imaginative reply from one of the city’s best scribes. Anyone is more honest than a lawyer!”
“Why does it always come to this?” she demanded. “Every time we get together you have to turn it into a verbal war. A war, I might add, that you never win.”
“I would win,” he laughed, “I just don’t have your stamina. And even if I did, why would I hang around for hours just so you can get in that last feeble word? And, I might add, I didn’t start this, you did.”
“Flatfoot” she shouted while sticking out her tongue.
“Gossip monger,” he shot back.
Folding her arms across her chest she asked, “You know what your problem is? I mean other than looks and intelligence.”
He shrugged.
“Personality. When you walk into a room it feels like two people have left.”
“Then, Miss Clayton, why do you always follow me? I can’t make a turn anywhere in this city without bumping into you.”
She set her jaw and shot out a glare that carried the explosive power of an atomic bomb. “I’ve got better things to do than sit here and wait for you to get a phone call.”
“You know where the door is,” he countered. “It works both directions. Getting out of this house is just as easy as coming in.”
Grabbing her huge purse, she leapt off the couch and took four hurried steps toward the French doors. Her dramatic exit was stopped in mid-step by the ringing of the phone.
“You don’t need to stay,” he assured her.
“I’m not staying to talk to you, but I’m not leaving until I hear what that call’s all about.”
Chapter 3
3
Wednesday, December 18, 1946
10:22 p.m.
Getting up from the chair, Lane walked quickly to the end table and picked up the receiver. He felt Tiffany’s sharp eyes on his every move.
“Walker here.” As he spoke, he noted his guest retrace her steps and once more take a seat on the couch she’d just occupied. Why hadn’t she left just two minutes earlier? Why did she seem to live to complicate his life? Why had he ever noticed her in the first place? Life would have been so much simpler without Tiffany Clayton.
“Happy holidays, Lane, this is Morelli.”
“And how’s our county’s best medical examiner?” the homicide detective asked as he continued to study his uninvited guest.
“Impatient. It’s a week before Christmas and I haven’t even begun to shop for my five kids and let’s not even talk about my wife. Her list runs longer than most pieces of congressional legislation. She wants a new Hudson among other things, as if I could find one. Just be glad you’re a bachelor.”
After taking a deep breath and offering a prayer of thankfulness for being single, Lane smiled at the woman, glad she couldn’t hear both ends of the conversation. “I’m certainly happy my shopping list is short,” the cop quipped, “and I’m not planning on changing that anytime soon.” He grinned at his guest. “In fact, I can’t think of anyone I need to buy a present for. The only people on my list have been very bad this year and don’t deserve a gift.” As he watched Tiffany frown and turn her head away, he smiled and added, “Now it’s late, so enough about holiday plans. Let’s just cut to the chase. Is there anything you can give me about the knife that killed Elrod or do I hand this thing over to my team and let them start questioning the usual suspects?”
“You must have a date,” Morelli quickly observed, “Well, if you do, you can cancel it. First of all, Elrod wasn’t killed by that knife in his back.”
“What?”
“Yeah, whoever stabbed him did so at least a half an hour after he died.”
“Why would anyone plunge a knife into a dead man’s back?”
“That,” Morelli quipped, “is your problem. I just figure out how someone died, not who did it or why.”
“Then tell me,” Lane demanded, “what did kill him?”
“He was drugged,” came the reply, “and he was likely out cold when someone tapped him with a blow to the back of his head causing enough cranial bleeding to not just short-circuit his brain, but feed a vampire for a week.”
“But the coroner and his team,” Walker argued.
“Ah yes, well, with the knife sticking out of his back I’m not surprised old Doc Miller missed a few things during his quick exam. Until I cut into Elrod, I would have assumed he died in what appeared to be the obvious way, too.”
Looking back to the reporter,