Gumshoe Ghost Mystery: Dying for the Past Part 7

"You dropped something.' Captain Sutter bent down and retrieved a black driving glove.

"No, I don't think so." Andre looked at it. "It's not mine. I didn't bring gloves."

Captain Sutter turned the glove over, then handed it to the deputy. She rubbed her fingers together and smelled them. "Deputy, have the techs check this."

The deputy walked off.

"Captain?" Andre asked. "Check for what?"

"Later," she said, gesturing toward the door. "After you."

We followed Andre to a new Mercedes convertible parked inside the mansion entrance in a long row of other expensive automobiles. Captain Sutter issued orders to the deputies waiting there and turned to Andre. "Very nice car, Professor. I didn't know academia paid so well."

"It doesn't," Andre sneered. "But being the leading authority on Civil War studies and a historical adviser to the White House does. I've written three books in the past two years alone. If you must know."

"She didn't mean anything, Andre," Angel said. "Captain, please, can we-"

"Captain Sutter," one of the deputies called, s.h.i.+ning his flashlight toward us. "We've got something."

They do?

On the pa.s.senger side of the car, a deputy knelt down, searching the front seats and floor. Captain Sutter leaned inside over his shoulder, looking at what the deputy pointed out between the seats.

"Bear, what is it?" Angel called. "What did they find?"

He held up a hand and moved in closer.

I said, "Relax, Angel. It can't be anything important."

Bear stood back and turned toward us. His face was stone.

Captain Sutter stood up, too, slipped on a rubber crime scene glove, and took something from the deputy kneeling at the open car door. She looked at Bear and they both walked back to Angel, Andre, and me.

"Professor Cartier," her voice was ice. "We found this under your seat. Can you explain it?"

She held a .22 caliber cartridge.

"No, no. Bullets in my car? Don't be absurd," Andre said in a low voice. "This is all a mistake. Someone-"

"Bear, stop this." Angel took hold of Andre's arm. "This is all wrong. You know this is all wrong. Someone is framing him. It has to be someone else."

Captain Sutter's radio squawked and she stepped away to talk. When she returned, she was grim and cold. "Professor Cartier, our crime techs found preliminary results of gunshot residue on your driving glove. You do own driving gloves, don't you?"

"Yes, I do. But I told you," he said, shaking his head, "it is not my glove. Mine are in my car." He turned and looked over at Angel. "Angela, I cannot explain this. Not now."

"What are you talking about, Andre?"

Captain Sutter threw a chin at one of the deputies who burrowed back into the Mercedes. When he emerged, he shook his head.

"No gloves, Captain."

Bear's voice was grave. "Andre, if you can explain any of this, now would be a good time."

"I cannot. Someone is trying to frame me. You must see it too, right?"

"Maybe." Captain Sutter glanced at Bear and nodded once.

Bear moved around behind Andre, took a set of handcuffs from one of the deputies, and clasped them around his wrists.

"I'm sorry, Angela. I am." Captain Sutter's voice was all business. "Professor Andre Cartier, you're under arrest for the murder of Steph-anos Grecco."

fifteen.

Detective Mike Spence closed his cell phone and walked over to a deputy standing in the kitchen entrance talking with a young girl in a catering uniform.

"Hospital says Cal will be okay, Woods. Bullet missed the bone and went right through. They put him into surgery and they expect he'll be back to work in a few weeks."

"Lucky man, Cal Clemens," Woods said. "I'll pa.s.s the word."

"Where are we on the count?"

Woods flipped through a notebook. "One hundred-eighty three guests, twenty-two catering staff-not counting us-at the s.h.i.+ndig."

"It's a gala, Woods. Jeez, a gala." Spence cracked a smile and took the notebook. "How many are left?"

"Twenty-one guests and two caterers to go. Soon as you say, we'll release those we've interviewed. Just say the word."

"Word." Spence flipped a couple pages. "And I want you to match up every interview with the names on the list, okay?"

Woods' eyebrows rose. "Okay, but we got 'em all. They've been corralled in rooms since the killing."

"Humor me. You know the Cap, she'll kick my b.u.t.t if we miss anything. And I don't want Bear going off on me. Just do it. Then double-check and then you can release 'em."

Woods shrugged, mumbled something, and walked off.

Spence went into the kitchen where a wide powerful man in a tuxedo was hand-chopping the air at an older man in a chef's jacket and checkered pants. "Hey, what's going on? We got a problem?"

The tuxedoed man turned around. He glared at Spence and didn't answer. He was tall and broad and filled the tuxedo like a heavyweight boxer. He smacked the chef beside the head, cursed in some language foreign to Spence, and started to walk away.

"Whoa there, kemo sabe." Spence grabbed his arm. "I asked you if you had a problem."

"Da." The man yanked his arm free and spat out in a heavy gruff accent, "What you want? This my business, not police business."

"Oh, yeah?" Spence held tight and looked him over in slow, critical snapshots. "It's my business because I say it is. So, stop slapping the staff around."

"Mind your own business. I'm the boss."

Spence was taken aback. "Hey, buddy, lose the att.i.tude. I'm Detective Spence-Sheriff's Office. You are?"

"Peter. I am Festival Catering and Entertainment manager." Peter's voice was heavy and deep, with a Ukrainian flavor. "When we be free to go? You have cost much money and enough of my time."

"Oh, we have?" Spence let the man's arm go and jabbed a pen at his chest. "Sorry our murder investigation has caused such disruption to you and your cook. Now, Peter, let's try your full name, shall we?"

"Cook? Yanni is executive chef. How stupid to suggest-"

"Your name, mister. While I'm young."

Peter was much taller than Spence and stared down at him with powerful arms folded and muscles bulging at the tuxedo fabric. 7 "Stick it, Petya." Spence jabbed the pen again, leaving blue ink marks on Petya's starched white s.h.i.+rt. He put the pen away. "You can leave as soon as we finish interviewing your people. We got a couple to go."

"You stupid man." Petya went to the sink and wet a napkin, dabbing at his s.h.i.+rt. "You'll pay for s.h.i.+rt, yes? And interviews are all wrong."

"Why?"

"Roster the lady professor give you is not right. Kravitz scheduled tonight-he not show. So roster is not good. I already explain to other cop."

Spence lifted his radio, threw a finger in the air for Petya to wait, and walked to the hall. He spoke with Deputy Woods on his radio while keeping an eye on Petya Sergeyevich Chernyshov.

The conversation lasted only a moment.

"Bulls.h.i.+t, Petya. You had twenty-two names on your roster, counting you, and twenty-two warm bodies were checked in by my guys. You replaced Kravitz with someone."

Petya shrugged. "Yes, that is right. I didn't say no, did I? I say Kravitz did not come here. He sent Jorge-someone. I was-"

"Where's Jorge-someone?"

Petya looked at the chef leaning against the sink. The chef shook his head and looked away. Petya said, "We not know. He left. Maybe sick. Maybe other work. Who knows, maybe girlfriend."

"He just left?" Spence smiled like a snake about to strike. "You lost a guy wearing a white dinner jacket and carrying the lobster bisque? How did you lose him?"

Petya stared back and shrugged.

"I need an address and phone. And I need it fast."

"I am sorry. I do not have information you want. I told you, Kravitz send him. We were rushed and I need someone to serve. No papers. I pay cash."

Spence lifted his radio again and spit out orders to check all the guests and grounds for the missing caterer. He peered at Petya. "I guess since there's no paperwork you don't have a description either, right?"

Petya shook his head. "I asked. No one saw him much, you know. No one know him. They say he was Mexican or something. He did not speak but was doing good job. I leave him alone."

"Sure, right. No one spoke. Paid cash. You run a tight s.h.i.+p here, Petya. I'll put a BOLO out for a Mexican-or-something in a white jacket doing a great job. Perfect. You're a big help."

Petya muttered something and made the chef laugh.

"You got something else to say?" Spence stepped forward. "Listen, Petya, you and me are going to go around pretty soon. You-"

"Detective?" Deputy Woods walked into the kitchen. "A minute, Mike?"

"What for Christ's sake," Spence said. "Me and Petya are-"

"Detective, we're missing two guests."

Petya spat a coa.r.s.e laugh. "Oh, so Detective, it is you missing someone? Important someone?"

"Shove it." Spence whirled around at Woods. "What are you talking about?"

Woods had his notebook out. "One-hundred eighty three guests on the list. One-hundred eighty three checked off on arrival. We're doing a name-to-interview comparison, but-"

"What-one-eight-three equals one-eighty-three, right?" Spence shrugged. "If you got 'em all-"

"We didn't." Woods flipped to a page and handed the pad to Spence. "There were two uninvited guests who weren't on the list. So we should have one-eighty-five. We only got one-eighty-three now."

Spence ran over the checkmarks and comments alongside each name. "Who's missing, Woods? Did you count the stiff?"

"Yeah, I counted him. We got some big shot from DC who refused to sign the guest list and some bodyguard who came in with someone else. Both were vouched in by one of Professor Tucker's VIPs."

"One of Angela's friends?" Spence looked up and threw a dagger-eye at Petya who smiled ear-to-ear. "Who, Woods? Who vouched for the uninvited guests?"

"Our suspect, Mike. Professor Andre Cartier."

sixteen.

"No worries, Professor Cartier," Captain Sutter said as Andre was led toward a police cruiser. "If you're innocent, it'll all be okay."

"Oh, Captain?" Andre snapped over his shoulder. "The innocent go free? Does it always work so well?"

She didn't answer. She didn't have to. She walked off into the house.

Angel was crying and Bear tried consoling her with a big paw wrapped around her shoulders. It wasn't working.

I stood there, watching and wis.h.i.+ng it were me holding her close. But it wasn't and it couldn't be-ever again. Well, not the same way, anyhow.

"Angel," I said, "I'm going to look around the house some more. Bear and I will figure this out. You know we will. Andre will be fine."

She nodded, pulled away from Bear, and walked toward the street.

I hatched an idea and followed Bear to the rear sitting room that had been taken over as a makes.h.i.+ft command post. Captain Sutter sat at a table making notes. In front of her were three evidence bags containing the .22-caliber pistol, Andre's driving glove, and the .22-caliber sh.e.l.l found in Andre's Mercedes.