“Security cameras!”
“What about them?”
I grabbed Cloris’s hand and race-walked us toward the loading dock. The area had been cordoned off while the crime scene investigators continued processing the scene. News vans circled the perimeter. Camera crews and reporters had set up shop, hoping for something to broadcast in time for the six o’clock news.
Trimedia had installed security cameras at each entrance to the building after Marlys Vandenburg’s murder. “If the killer brought the body here,” I said, “he was recorded.”
We inched our way as close as possible on the opposite side of the crime scene tape. I shaded my eyes against the late afternoon sun that was beginning to dip behind the building and craned my neck. “What happened to the cameras?” Empty brackets stood several feet above either side of the overhead loading bay door. Brackets that used to hold security cameras.
“I think we’re dealing with one very smart killer,” said Cloris. “How did he remove the cameras without being captured by them?”
“By rappelling down from the roof?”
“That would indicate a very methodical killer prepared for all contingencies.”
“True but beating someone to a pulp is more a crime of passion, and those occur on the spur of the moment rather than by detailed planning.”
Cloris gaped at me. “And you know this how?”
“Excellent question, Mrs. McWerther.”
We both spun around to find Detective Batswin standing behind us. I swear that woman is part cat the way she creeps up without warning. “Well, Mrs. Pollack?”
“I’ve been reading up on murder lately.”
“And why is that? Planning one?”
I have to admit, the thought had crossed my mind over the last several months, but Dead Louse of a Spouse was already dead. Unless he showed up on my doorstep as a zombie, I’d have no need to kill him. And although a certain mother-in-law has provoked me countless times, I’d never consider acting on my fantasies.
I offered Batswin a smile. “Because as you recently pointed out to me, Detective, I keep getting plunked down in the middle of murders. Knowledge is power.”
“And a little knowledge is a dangerous thing. I’m sure I don’t have to warn you to keep your nose out of this investigation.”
“Of course not, Detective. My nose, along with the rest of me, is heading home right now.”
Cloris and I walked back toward our cars. I settled in behind the wheel of my mud brown Hyundai rattletrap and turned the key. Click . I tried again. Click . Nothing but click.
SIX
I exited the car and lifted up the hood. Don’t ask me why. At Casa Pollack anything to do with cars fell under Karl’s realm of responsibilities, a perk of being married to an auto parts salesman. Now I wished I’d paid more attention when he waxed poetic over spark plugs and distributor caps.
Cloris pulled up behind me. “Trouble?”
“The engine won’t turn over.”
She parked her car and walked over to where I stood making faces and cursing at my engine. At least I knew which piece of equipment was the engine. That was the extent of my car knowledge. This was New Jersey. We don’t even pump our own gas in this state.
Like a good friend, Cloris made faces and cursed along with me. Then she said, “You probably need to call a tow truck.”
“You have any idea what a tow truck from Morris County to Westfield will cost?”
We went back to making faces. I reprimanded the Hyundai, hoping to shame the car into starting. At one point I resorted to physical force and kicked the front bumper. The car still didn’t start, but I’d succeeded in inflicting a grapefruit-sized dent in the chrome.
A black Lincoln pulled up behind my car. The driver side window lowered. Alfred Gruenwald’s chauffeur stuck his head out and asked, “You ladies need help?”
“Love some!” I said.
He parked his car and joined us, poking his head under the hood. “Try turning it over when I tell
“What about them?”
I grabbed Cloris’s hand and race-walked us toward the loading dock. The area had been cordoned off while the crime scene investigators continued processing the scene. News vans circled the perimeter. Camera crews and reporters had set up shop, hoping for something to broadcast in time for the six o’clock news.
Trimedia had installed security cameras at each entrance to the building after Marlys Vandenburg’s murder. “If the killer brought the body here,” I said, “he was recorded.”
We inched our way as close as possible on the opposite side of the crime scene tape. I shaded my eyes against the late afternoon sun that was beginning to dip behind the building and craned my neck. “What happened to the cameras?” Empty brackets stood several feet above either side of the overhead loading bay door. Brackets that used to hold security cameras.
“I think we’re dealing with one very smart killer,” said Cloris. “How did he remove the cameras without being captured by them?”
“By rappelling down from the roof?”
“That would indicate a very methodical killer prepared for all contingencies.”
“True but beating someone to a pulp is more a crime of passion, and those occur on the spur of the moment rather than by detailed planning.”
Cloris gaped at me. “And you know this how?”
“Excellent question, Mrs. McWerther.”
We both spun around to find Detective Batswin standing behind us. I swear that woman is part cat the way she creeps up without warning. “Well, Mrs. Pollack?”
“I’ve been reading up on murder lately.”
“And why is that? Planning one?”
I have to admit, the thought had crossed my mind over the last several months, but Dead Louse of a Spouse was already dead. Unless he showed up on my doorstep as a zombie, I’d have no need to kill him. And although a certain mother-in-law has provoked me countless times, I’d never consider acting on my fantasies.
I offered Batswin a smile. “Because as you recently pointed out to me, Detective, I keep getting plunked down in the middle of murders. Knowledge is power.”
“And a little knowledge is a dangerous thing. I’m sure I don’t have to warn you to keep your nose out of this investigation.”
“Of course not, Detective. My nose, along with the rest of me, is heading home right now.”
Cloris and I walked back toward our cars. I settled in behind the wheel of my mud brown Hyundai rattletrap and turned the key. Click . I tried again. Click . Nothing but click.
SIX
I exited the car and lifted up the hood. Don’t ask me why. At Casa Pollack anything to do with cars fell under Karl’s realm of responsibilities, a perk of being married to an auto parts salesman. Now I wished I’d paid more attention when he waxed poetic over spark plugs and distributor caps.
Cloris pulled up behind me. “Trouble?”
“The engine won’t turn over.”
She parked her car and walked over to where I stood making faces and cursing at my engine. At least I knew which piece of equipment was the engine. That was the extent of my car knowledge. This was New Jersey. We don’t even pump our own gas in this state.
Like a good friend, Cloris made faces and cursed along with me. Then she said, “You probably need to call a tow truck.”
“You have any idea what a tow truck from Morris County to Westfield will cost?”
We went back to making faces. I reprimanded the Hyundai, hoping to shame the car into starting. At one point I resorted to physical force and kicked the front bumper. The car still didn’t start, but I’d succeeded in inflicting a grapefruit-sized dent in the chrome.
A black Lincoln pulled up behind my car. The driver side window lowered. Alfred Gruenwald’s chauffeur stuck his head out and asked, “You ladies need help?”
“Love some!” I said.
He parked his car and joined us, poking his head under the hood. “Try turning it over when I tell
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