The room was in disarray with a jumble of drawers thrown haphazardly about. The door to the closet was wide open. The few clothes that Julie Davenport had were strewn on the floor. Kitchen cabinets had been thoroughly searched. Davenport’s toiletries were in a heap in the middle of the bathroom floor. Despite the jumbled mess, the apartment smelled distinctly of lavender.
Uffda, thought Mildred, after satisfying herself that whoever had wreaked havoc on Davenport’s apartment was long gone.
Mildred went through the few possessions of Julie Davenport. She was amazed at the lack of personality in the room. It was almost as if Davenport had been camping out.
Maybe, thought Mildred, that is exactly what Julie Davenport was doing.
Gathering up a few dresses to lend credence to her cover, Mildred picked up the small apartment and returned the drawers to their rightful places. Mildred then returned the apartment key to the superintendent. Mildred told the woman that she could help herself to anything left in the room. Mildred walked slowly away from the office door.
The portly woman stood in the doorway and watched Mildred through beady eyes.
Mildred drove to the Des Moines Airport and boarded Northwest Flight 1092 to Minneapolis. Arriving at Minneapolis St. Paul Airport shortly after 5 p.m., Mildred went downstairs to the luggage area and headed to the Avis Rental Car counter. Using her maiden name of Lutsen, Mildred rented a Ford Taurus. She then went out the door, across the traffic lanes into the parking garage where she boarded the white trailer to the rental car dispatching area.
After finding her car, Mildred drove out of the parking garage and exited the airport going west on Route 5 toward Interstate 494. On Interstate 494, Mildred drove west until she saw the Thunderbird Hotel. The Thunderbird, with its Indian motif, was Mildred’s favorite hotel in the Twin Cities. She always stayed there while in Minneapolis.
Once she was settled in her room at the Thunderbird, Mildred checked the Minneapolis and the St. Paul yellow pages on the chance that Walsh Auto Repair was in the metropolitan area. There it was, Walsh Auto Repair on Lake Street in Minneapolis.
“This is getting too easy,” Mildred muttered to herself.
She would check out Walsh Auto Repair in the morning.
Steve Clark was working late at the branch office of Reedy Securities going over Julie Davenport’s call records, trying to sort out what commitments needed to be attended to and which clients needed to be called about her death. Luckily, Julie had kept meticulous records, which facilitated Clark’s task immensely. Like the others in the Reedy Securities office, Clark had come to appreciate the efficient but quiet Julie Davenport. Clark remembered that she was also quite attractive with the most beautiful blue eyes.
It was a thankless job, going through the calling cards and order tickets, but it had to be done. Clark had been at this task since mid-afternoon. One by one, his staff had poked their heads in his doorway to say good night. Soon Clark was by himself. He normally enjoyed evenings like this because he could take care of those tasks that always seemed to elude him during the work day.
This evening was different. The work was tedious and his mood was somber. The attractive Julie Davenport had caught his fancy. He had imagined that she was favorably impressed with him as well. After all, her aunt, Mrs. Lutsen, did say that Julie had written about him.
With a start, Clark thought he heard a sound in the back of the office. That’s strange, he thought, didn’t everybody go home? Thinking that someone had come back to pick up something, Clark turned toward his office door and called out, “Anyone here?”
Silence. He shrugged and went back to checking Julie’s records. For a new account executive, Julie had really worked the telephone. There must have been a thousand records in her file. Too bad, thought Clark, Julie would have made one hell of a stockbroker.
Another noise.
Clark put down his papers. A worried look crossed his face. Maybe it’s just my imagination, he thought, but I’d better check.
Clark got out of his seat and carefully walked to his office door. Opening the door completely and looking out, Clark noticed the light in the back of the corridor. Funny, he thought, someone left their light on.
Clark walked quietly toward the light, which he now recognized as Julie Davenport’s old office. Mrs. Lutsen must have left it on, he thought.
Clark reached the doorway and saw the craggy, blond-haired man about forty-five years of age sitting in Julie’s chair. He was rummaging through her desk and the box of personal possessions.
“Who the hell are you?” Clark said. “What are you doing here?”
With deliberate slowness, the blond man, dressed in a pink polo shirt and stone-washed dungarees, looked up at the door. Clark stared at the silent intruder and looked into his pale blue eyes. He was startled. The eyes of the intruder fixed on him, but for the life of him Clark could see no acknowledgment, no surprise, no fear, no anger. All that Clark saw were pale blue eyes that bore right through him.
The intruder said nothing. He raised his Colt .45 caliber combat commander auto pistol with the new silencer he had just obtained and took aim at the interloper. He squeezed off one shot. There was no report, just a soft sound.
The round hit Clark in the forehead. The impact of the .45 caliber slug threw his lifeless body against the filing cabinets opposite the door to Julie Davenport’s office. Clark’s body then slid silently and limply to the floor. The intruder got up out of his seat and slowly walked over to the slumped body of the former Steven Clark.
Dispassionately, Walsh squeezed two more silent rounds into the slumped lifeless body. Rivers of blood ran down the cabinets and soaked into the light tan carpet.
Walsh placed the pistol into the belt of his dungarees, took some papers and the stuffed animal that he had once given Julie. He turned off the lights in the office and casually walked out the back door.
Closing the door carefully, Walsh walked into the parking lot, got into his Jeep, and drove out of the parking lot on to Grand Avenue going east. At the junction of Grand Avenue and Route 65, Walsh turned north and quickly connected to Interstate 235 which became Interstate 35 to Minneapolis. Walsh looked at the clock on the dashboard. It was 8:00 p.m. If he pushed the speed limit, he could be home by 11:30 p.m.
After checking out of the Thunderbird Hotel, Mildred got into the rented Ford Taurus and drove out of the motel parking lot and back on to Interstate 494 headed east. Her route would take her around the Minneapolis Airport and on to Route 5 and then Route 62. On Route 62, Mildred headed west until she turned right heading north on Interstate 35. At the Lake Street exit, Mildred turned off and headed east on the busy commercial street.
After passing Engelbretsen’s, a favorite Scandinavian meat and gift shop, Mildred slowed down to find Walsh Auto Repair. As soon as Mildred drove past Walsh Auto Repair, she turned off on to a side street and got out of her car. She took the plastic cup of tap water she filled in her motel room and carefully balanced in the Ford Taurus’ cup holder, opened the gas tank and poured the tap water into the tank. Mildred then put the empty plastic cup into the glove compartment of the car. She turned on the ignition and started to drive the car around. Pretty soon, the car was choking and wheezing from the water in the gasoline.
Despite the laboring of the engine, Mildred was able to get the rental car to the entrance of Walsh Auto Repair. With a final wheeze, the car died and refused to start. Mildred got out and with a greatly concerned look, went up to the entrance of Walsh Auto Repair.