THE SHAKESPEARE MURDERS Read online

  “Good plan. Good luck,” he said.

  “Thanks doc.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  The weekend came and I was looking forward to my date with Ben. We have so little free time between us that we have a difficult time planning a real date. He had made reservations for us at a great steak place. It might not be very ladylike, but I love a good steak. I had gone all out and even bought a new outfit to wear, believe it or not, a dress, a red dress with matching not too high-heels. I was even planning to wear jewelry and subtle makeup. I hoped that Ben would be pleased. He deserved a bit of extra attention. The man had been a saint in his patience with me as I stalled our relationship. I’ve decided to quit pushing him away and see where the relationship goes.

  **

  Monday arrived, but still no ID on the guy chilling in the drawer over at the city morgue. So far it was just a sound bite on the news. Man found stabbed in a field, police suspect foul play. Since we haven’t given them the details of how many times he was stabbed or about the message we found it didn’t make much of a news story so by Monday it wasn’t even in the papers and didn’t make the ten o’clock news. Only one reporter had tried to bribe one of the morgue employees to see the autopsy report. That in itself is a record.

  We have a rule about that kind of thing. If you show anyone in the press the autopsy results you end up on the slab next to the guy. A tad harsh perhaps but we haven’t had any leaks either.

  “Hey, Bar...Toni,” Eric Taylor yelled across the room.

  Have I mentioned how much I don’t like this smartass?

  “Yes, Commissioner Taylor’s little baby boy,” I yelled back.

  A few people snickered. Most people had more sense than to say something like that but no one accused me of that very often.

  “That’s real funny Bartoni. Someone is on line three for you,” he said, giving me the finger.

  It occurred to me that they had left the wrong guy in that field. Taylor was much more deserving. I picked up the phone.

  “Detective Bartoni. How can I help you?”

  “I need to speak to a Detective Bartoni,” a female voice said.

  What is with people? Do they ever listen? I just said I was Detective Bartoni. I thought about saying I would go get her then decided against it.

  “That’s me. How can I help you?”

  “Oh, you’re Detective Bartoni?”

  God help me.

  “What can I do for you?”

  “My name is Janet Farley. I live in Greenwood. A friend of mine happened to hear on the news about a body found the other day. My husband didn’t come home from a business trip like he was supposed to today so I thought I would call. They didn’t give a description but Melvin is never late coming home. It was a three day show and he was coming back home this morning.”

  “And you think it could be your husband?”

  “I’m not sure but like I said. Melvin is very punctual. He is never late to a meeting or coming home. One thing you can say about Melvin is that he is always on time.”

  “Uh-huh. I see Mrs. Farley. Can you describe your husband?”

  “Let’s see. Five-nine...he tells everyone he is five eleven but he isn’t. He weighs about one hundred and ninety-five. Brown eyes, light brown hair. He wears it kind of short but he needs a haircut. He has a wedding ring that has 2-23-79 etched on the inside of it. I don’t know what kind of watch he had on but it was fairly new and silver,” she told me.

  “No facial hair?”

  “He gets a heavy five o’clock shadow but no, no mustache or beard.”

  “Do you know what he had on?”

  “Not really. It’s been a couple days. He took several changes of clothes. You wouldn’t expect him to wear the same thing for three days in a row,” she said, like I had lost my mind.

  She was probably right on that matter.

  “If you live in Greenwood, why didn’t he come home each night?” I asked.

  “Well the show isn’t over until 9:00 p.m. and he often entertains clients or is invited to eat with them. It is just easier this way,” she said.

  Yeah I bet. Out playing while the misses sits at home.

  “Do you have access to internet service Mrs. Farley?”

  “My daughter does. She is always on it. That’s all she does. You know how kids are.”

  “Could she email me a picture of Mr. Farley?”

  “I guess she could. I don’t really know. She is always emailing someone.”

  “If she can, would you have her email me a picture? Write this down. Have it emailed to [email protected]. Got that?”

  “ABartoni at IPD dot org.”

  “That’s right. If she can’t send it call me back and we will make other arrangements,” I told her.

  “Does it sound like that guy could be Melvin?”

  “It’s really hard to say. That description fits a lot of people. A picture would really help. Let’s not cross that bridge until I have something more to go on. By the way, did Mr. Farley ever serve in the Armed Forces?”

  “Why no.”

  “Work for the Government?”

  “No.”

  “I’m sorry, what did you say he did for a living?”

  “He sells costumes and stage props.”

  “Like for plays?”

  “Yes. They had a big trade show the last three days.”

  “Has he ever been in any Shakespeare plays?”

  “I don’t think so. He isn’t an actor. He just sells the props and stuff. You know, swords, fancy hats and stuff like that.

  “Where was the tradeshow?”

  “At the convention center. I surprised you didn’t know about it. It’s very big you know?”

  “Sorry, I must have missed it,” I replied, trying to not sound sarcastic.

  “Why are you asking me all of this?”

  “Just routine questions. Nothing to be alarmed about. As soon as I get the picture or hear from you I’ll be in touch one way or the other. If Mr. Farley does show up in the meantime, please make sure you let us know.”

  “I certainly will. Thank you Detective Bartoni.”

  “Thanks for calling.”

  I was sure we had dear old Melvin in the meat locker. Someone had decided to give him an advanced case of arthritis at an early age. I called Doc Sorenson.

  “What do you want now?” his crusty old voice danced across the fiber optic line.

  “Grumpy booger. Does our John Doe have a wedding ring with the inscription of 2-23-79 on it?”

  “Hold your horses a second,” he said and I could hear the phone hit the desk.

  I loved the old coot but he could be a real pain at times. I could hear him coming back.

  “2-23-79. That’s what it says right here.”

  “Name’s Melvin Farley. Lives in Greenwood. His wife called him in missing.”

  “Probably just ran away. No one lives in Greenwood,” Doc replied.

  “Apparently this guy did. Anyway he was up here for a tradeshow. Get this. He sells stage props.”

  I waited but he said nothing.

  “Stage props…get it?”

  “I hate to break this to you genius but selling props isn’t quite the same thing as knowing or understanding Shakespeare. That’s like asking the guy at Jiffy Lube if he can rebuild your engine. Other than getting dirty, no real connection,” the good doctor pointed out.

  “I get the analogy but it is a possible tie in. Better than anything else we have at the moment.”

  “Sounds more like you’re clutching at straws if you ask me,” he said.

  “In that case, I’m not asking,” I said and hung up.

  I went to the captain and filled him in. He told me to take a hike. How rude. Turns out he meant to Greenwood and talk to Mrs. Farley.

  “Take Dan with you. Our budget can’t stand for you to total another car,” he yelled after me.

  What a waste of breath. Of course I would take Dan and he would drive. For the record, however
, those totaled cars were so not my fault. They were all due to circumstances beyond my control. After all, even Dan has a totaled car on his record from when the body was so rudely dropped through our windshield.

  I almost panicked. I couldn’t find Dan any place and I was getting desperate. Okay, Eric Taylor was there but I would rather have a root canal than ride with that jerk. Dan was the only person I could stand for that long a car ride.

  “We are going to Greenwood,” I said when I saw him coming out of the restroom.

  “It seems the good Mrs. Farley didn’t have a picture of Mr. Farley that could be digitally uploaded.”

  “Meaning?”

  “You get to drive us to Greenwood,” I said getting in the passenger’s side.

  “Hey Bartoni, you asleep? We’re at the turn off. Where do you want me to go?”

  “What? Oh, we need to find Jackson Street. Stop at the station over there and I’ll ask someone,” I said.

  I was about to pee my pants. I rushed in, did my business and asked for directions. Turns out we weren’t too far from where we were headed. Only two wrong turns later we pulled up in front of an older, but neatly kept, two story house. A minivan was parked in the driveway and a dog was proceeding to show exactly what he thought of it. My sentiments exactly.

  “I’ll do the talking but if she starts crying, it would be better if you took over, understand?” I said as we walked up the steps and rang the doorbell.

  “Why?”

  “Because I don’t relate to crying very well. Just do it okay?”

  A petite woman with dark brown hair answered the door.

  “You must be detective Bartoni,” she said, opening the door for us to come inside.

  “Yes and this is my partner, Detective Roberts.”

  “Come on in. I won’t bite,” she said when we stood on the front porch.

  I really hate going into other people’s houses. It always feels so restrictive. It’s part of the job but I am never comfortable with it. The front room was small and had a peculiar smell that I couldn’t quite place. It wasn’t offensive, just different.

  The television was an older 25-inch wood cabinet model with a VCR sitting on top. People still have VCR? Pictures of kids at various stages in their lives were hanging on the walls. A photo of a young couple that had obviously just gotten married dominated one wall with pictures of kids all around it.

  The light filtering through the curtains was as gray as the mood I was in. I immediately recognized a picture of a younger man standing next to a boat as the deceased Mr. Farley.

  * * *

  The drive back was solemn. Once the small talk was out of the way and I had shown her a picture of the late Mr. Farley it had gone downhill quickly.

  It’s always the same. Shock, denial, how, when, where, why? All of the questions that everyone asks but don’t really want answers to immediately because they can’t really process the information. It’s a reflexive reaction more than anything else.

  I felt sorrier for Mrs. Farley than I did for Mr. Farley. I don’t mean that in a cruel way. It’s just that she would have to deal with it for a long, long time and well, he was pretty much out of the picture at this point.

  “This sucks,” Dan finally said.

  “Oh yeah, big time.”

  “So what now, back to the station?”

  “No, I’ve been thinking. Let’s head to the convention center.”

  “Why? The tradeshow is over.”

  “That’s true but we can find out who put it on and who the other vendors were. We can get a list of the attendees that pre-registered as well. Someone has a record of that.”

  “You think one of his competitors did this?”

  “I don’t have the foggiest idea but it’s a place to start and right now we don’t have squat.”

  “Sounds like a long shot.”

  “I’ve taken longer,” I told Dan.

  We got to the convention center forty-five minutes later and it took almost that long to find someone who knew what the heck was going on around the place. We finally found an assistant to the assistant event manager.

  “The tradeshow you held last weekend. I need to get some information about it,” I said.

  “Tradeshow? We had four tradeshows last weekend. Which one are you talking about?”

  “The Stage, Theatrical, and Artisan Paraphernalia Show,” I said.

  It’s quite a pretentious mouth full if you ask me.

  “That was on the main level, M-1, 2 and 3,” he said like that explained everything.

  “That’s great, but what I want to know is who booked it, who put it on, and how I find them?”

  “Oh. Well. I don’t know if I can give out that kind of information.”

  That is so typical in today’s world. Everyone is afraid to take a leak without permission. This is exactly the kind of BS that sends me up a wall. He is talking to the frickin police and he thinks he needs permission? What a moron.

  “Young man, here is what I want you to do. Go get permission from whomever it is you think necessary but if I don’t have that information in three minutes flat I’m going to haul you in for obstruction on a murder case. Now go,” I said looking at my watch for effect.

  I didn’t really mean it but I figured what the heck, it was as good a bluff as I could come up with on the spur of the moment.

  “Oh God. I don’t know if I can locate my boss in three minutes,” he stammered.

  “Two minutes and forty-eight seconds,” I corrected.

  He looked at Dan and then at me and back at Dan. His eyes were getting wider by the second and I was beginning to worry that they may pop out of his head when he suddenly turned and headed for a door marked OFFICE. I looked over at Dan.

  “Either he went to call or to lock himself in,” I said.

  “Maybe change his pants. I think he wet himself,” Dan said laughing.

  “Let’s give him another minute and we will go see what he is up to.”

  We didn’t have to wait long. He returned with a clipboard and handed it to me. A list of the recent shows with names, addresses, phone numbers, and all kinds of good stuff was noted. I copied it all down and handed it back to him.

  “What is your name?” I asked when I had finished.

  “Uh…”

  “It’s okay. I was going to put in a good word about your cooperation.”

  “Really?”

  “Really.

  “Tim Mather.”

  “Good job, Tim. I’ll send a letter to your boss.”

  “Gee, that would be really great.”

  “Couldn’t do any harm,” I said, shaking his sweaty hand.

  * * *

  “You’re so bad sometimes,” Dan said when we got outside.

  “Okay.”

  “I’ll send him a letter,” he mimicked.

  “Hey, I will.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “You know, you just don’t have enough faith in people.”

  “Oh, I have faith in people. What I don’t have is faith in your follow through with this,” he said.

  Try to do something nice and what does it get you? I made a mental note to really write the letter.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Linda Evens had just gotten back from the grocery store. The SUV was loaded down with bags of frozen foods, canned goods, and a mountain of other perishable food that looked like it could feed a small army. Having two teenage boys who played high school sports was like having perpetual eating machines in the house. They were always hungry. Her arms loaded, she managed to kick the back door open with her foot and struggle with the weight of the bags to the kitchen table.

  “Let me assist thee with thy burden,” a voice said from behind her.

  She let out a startled yelp. She was not really afraid but hadn’t expected anyone to be home at this time of the day. Then it began to sink in. It wasn’t a familiar voice. She turned and just as she did a pair of strong hands grasped her around the neck, shutti
ng off any sound that she may have tried to make.

  She grabbed at the man’s arms but she couldn’t budge them. She reached for his face, trying to fight him off but he held her out from him. She began to kick and scratch but nothing managed to deter him or to lessen the grip he had on her throat.

  It crossed her mind that he was studying her while he was slowly squeezing the life out of her, almost like she was a specimen under a microscope. He wasn’t smiling. In fact, he seemed almost detached. She could feel darkness closing in. Her struggling became less pronounced. There wasn’t much pain, only a drifting sensation and then nothing.

  **

  Linda slowly awoke not knowing exactly what had happened. She opened her eyes but nothing made any sense. She was sitting in a strange room. It looked like a warehouse or abandoned factory of some kind.

  She shook her head but it was hard to focus. She waited a few seconds before opening her eyes again. It was cold and her neck hurt. What had happened? The last thing she remembered was looking into the lifeless eyes of a stranger’s face. She looked around the room but saw no one near. She was tied to a chair, naked in a freezing cold room and had no way of knowing how she got there or where she was.

  “Help,” she called in a feeble voice. She swallowed hard. It hurt just to breath but she knew that she had to try.

  “Help me. Someone. Please, help me,” she tried again.

  “Fair maiden, will no one come to your rescue?” the man said behind her.

  “Oh God. Please don’t hurt me. What do you want? I don’t have much money but I’ll give you what I do have. I have a family. Two sons. Please don’t kill me,” she begged.

  “Money? Money? How quickly nature falls into revolt when gold becomes her object. Money. I have no use for your money wench,” he shouted.

  He strutted back in forth in front of her, a long robe billowing out behind him. He slashed a long slender sword in front of him, thrusting and parrying into the darkness.

  He stopped and turned to face her and saluted her with the foil. Suddenly he started taking balestara steps towards her, leaping and lunging until the sword stopped less than an inch from her bare breast, and then a series of passé arriere or crossover steps backward. She screamed and he whirled and shouted, “I will hear no more of thy foul mouth.”