Lucy came into the office. “There are three numbers that show up quite a few times on my father’s cell phone bill. Well, four, actually. But the fourth is Miriam’s cell, and that just makes sense.”
“What are the others?”
She read the first one out to me. I opened a browser on the computer and Googled it. If it was a landline, and not unlisted, there was a good chance whoever it belonged to would turn up.
Felicia Chalmers.
“Tell me about Felicia,” I said.
“Is it her number?”
I nodded.
Lucy Brighton stopped to think. “She still lives in Promise Falls, far as I know. I mean, I have nothing to do with her. We weren’t enemies or anything, but once she and Dad broke up, there was no reason to keep in touch. I think she’s got a condo somewhere around here. I think if she’d remarried, Dad would have mentioned it.”
“The two of them clearly have kept in touch. Did your father have financial obligations to her?”
“He gave her a lump sum when they divorced, but not all that much. I wouldn’t be surprised if he slipped her some money now and then. But there were no kids to worry about. And she was the one who’d pushed to get out of the marriage.”
“But she kept the name,” I said.
“Her own last name is Dimpfelmyer. What would you do?”
The Google search had brought up an address on Braymore Drive. I wrote it down in my notebook. Maybe Felicia was still trusted to have a key. And to know the code. Maybe Adam and Miriam’s sex life included his ex. A threesome. I could imagine Felicia might want those DVDs back. If she’d heard about Adam and Miriam getting killed at the drive-in, she wouldn’t want whoever had to empty the house — Lucy, presumably — finding those home movies. So she busted in, grabbed them, and ran out the back when Lucy got here.
It wasn’t a bad theory. And it was a good place to start.
“What’s the next number?” I asked.
She read it off. I did another Google search and came up with nothing. Probably a cell.
“Let’s have a look at the address book,” I said. Lucy handed it to me. I started flipping through the pages, looking for a number that matched the one she’d just given me.
I went through the entire book without getting a hit. I made a note of it, would check it later.
“What’s the last one?” I asked, scribbling it down as Lucy read it off to me. I went to the Google search field again and entered it. Again, no luck. Probably another cell. So I went back to the address book.
This time, I had better luck. And I only had to go to the Ds.
“You ever heard of someone named Clive Duncomb?” I asked Lucy.
She shook her head.
I turned again to my friend Mr. Google.
“Whoa,” I said, seeing a number of stories come up.
“What?”
“He’s the head of security at Thackeray. And a few days ago he blew some kid’s head off.”
“My God. Why?”
“If it was plagiarism, things have gotten a lot tougher than when I was at school.”
I decided to start with Felicia Chalmers.
She lived in the Waterside Towers condo development, about half a mile downstream from the falls in the center of town. To call it a tower was a stretch. It was a five-story building, which, with the exception of the water tower, was as tall as structures got in Promise Falls.
I parked in a guest spot and entered the outer lobby. No one was on duty, but that didn’t mean I was able to walk in. There was a directory and a panel of buttons by the second door. I found Felicia Chalmers in 502, which meant she was on the top floor.
I hated buzzers. If the woman didn’t want to talk to me, she wouldn’t have to let me in. It was a lot easier to say no to people when you didn’t have to see them face-to-face. And I didn’t want to have to explain, through a speaker, why I was here.
Someone was coming along the sidewalk, heading to the main door of the building. A middle-aged woman with a set of keys in her hand.
I leaned in close to the panel of buttons, appeared to be taking my hand away from one of them, and as the woman came into the building, I said, loudly, “Okay, then, I’ll be up in a second.”
I turned, smiled at the woman with the key. She unlocked the door, glanced my way.
“I’m just waiting to be buzzed in,” I said, making no move to try to sneak in as she pulled open the glass door.
“Oh, just go ahead,” she said, holding the door for me.
“Oh, thanks.”
I scooted in, then politely stepped aside to let her walk ahead of me as we headed for the elevator. The woman got off at three, and I stayed on until the doors opened at five. I got my bearings, figured that 502 was to the left, and walked down the carpeted hallway until I was at Felicia Chalmers’s apartment.
I could hear music inside as I rapped on the door.
Five seconds later, I heard a chain sliding back, and then the door opened. I had to adjust my gaze downward. In high heels, she might have been five-three, but she was barefoot and the top of her head was barely level with my chin. Her blond hair was pulled back into a ponytail, and she was dressed in some turquoise workout clothes. Trickles of sweat ran down her temple.
“Yes?” she asked over the sound of Chicago performing “Does Anybody Really Know What Time It Is?”
“Ms. Chalmers? Felicia Chalmers?”
“How did you get into the building?”
I got out my ID. “I’m Cal Weaver. I’m a private investigator. I’d like to ask you a few questions.”
She put a hand on her hip. “About what?”
“About your former husband, Adam Chalmers.”
Her eyebrows shot up. “God, what’s he done? Wait, let me guess. There’s a woman involved. There’s always a woman involved one way or another.”
Shit.
“Ms. Chalmers, you haven’t heard?”
“Haven’t heard what?”
“May I come in?”
Worry washed over her face. She opened the door wide, let me in, and closed it. She went over to an iPod resting on a Bose stereo unit, muted it, then crossed the room to what I was guessing was the bedroom, and pulled the door shut.
Having completed those errands, she asked, “What’s going on?”
“The accident last night? At the Constellation Drive-in?”
“What accident at what drive-in?”
“Have you watched TV this morning, been online? Facebook, Twitter? Seen the news?”
She shook her head slowly. “I don’t watch the news. It’s all bad. And I’m not on those other things. About the only thing I use is e-mail. Please tell me what’s going on.”
“There was an explosion last night, at the drive-in. The screen came down on a couple of the cars. One of them belonged to Adam Chalmers. He was in the car with his wife, Miriam.”
“What?”
“Mr. Chalmers and his wife were killed. I’m sorry to be the one to break this to you.”
“Adam’s dead?”
“I thought someone would have been in touch. Or that you would have heard somehow.”
“That’s impossible. Oh my God, this is awful. This is unbelievable. I was talking to him yesterday. I mean, not on the phone, but e-mail.” She shook her head. “God, I need a drink. Get me a drink.”
She pointed toward the kitchen.
“What would you like?”
“There’s a bottle of red in the rack there. Glasses on the right. Fill one of them to the fucking brim.”
She dropped herself onto an oversized couch, brought her feet up, and tucked them under her thighs. “Help yourself, too.”
I went into the kitchen, where I noticed three empty beer bottles standing in the sink. Given what she’d sent me in here for, beer didn’t strike me as her beverage of choice, but you never knew. Maybe she liked wine in the morning, and beer at night. But my beer theory was buttressed by the opened bag of spicy Doritos, rolled up and kept fresh with a rubber band. Didn’t seem to match the workout regimen.