The demands of playing football, weekends of partying, and hours spent playing bridge did not leave much time for classwork. Morris had an academic advisor who kept tabs on the football players. Halfway through Morris’s first semester, the advisor told him that he was going to be placed on academic probation if he didn’t straighten up. That would have cost him his football scholarship. Morris could not afford college without the scholarship and he couldn’t give up the parties, so he decided that bridge had to go, and he did not play again until a fellow police retiree told him about the regular bridge game at the community center a few blocks from his house.
A few days after the arrival of the poisoned chocolates at Regina’s home, and shortly before Morris was going to leave for the community center, Roger Dillon asked Morris to meet him for dinner, but wouldn’t say why. Morris was distracted. Much to his partner’s annoyance, he misbid or misplayed hands several times.
As soon as the bridge games ended, Morris walked four blocks to a neighborhood Italian restaurant. Roger was seated in a booth near the front of the restaurant, and a bottle of Chianti was standing in the center of the table.
“Okay, Roger, enough mystery. Why have you purchased my favorite Chianti?”
“It’s part of your consulting fee. Dinner is the other half.”
“Consulting on what?”
“A very interesting case. I assume you know that Robert Chesterfield was murdered onstage in the middle of the finale to his magic show.”
“Everyone knows that. It’s been front-page news.”
“Do you also know that someone sent Regina Barrister, Chesterfield’s old attorney, a box of poisoned chocolates?”
“It was on the news.”
“What did you think about when you heard about the chocolates?”
“Sophie Randall’s case.”
“Exactly.”
“Do you think there’s a connection?”
“That’s why I’m buying you dinner and giving you these,” Dillon said as he reached below the table and brought up a stack of police reports. “This is everything we know about the murder in the theater and the attempt on Regina. I’ve also included the reports from the Arthur Gentry and Sophie Randall cases. I’m curious to see if you can make anything of them.”
“Is giving me the reports legal? I’m not a cop anymore.”
“No, you’re not. But the minute you take a sip of this Chianti, you will be a paid consultant.”
Morris laughed. Then he filled his wineglass. “Okay, you’ve hooked me. I’ll give these the once-over and get back to you.”
“Sounds good.”
Morris was a regular, and the owner’s daughter walked over to take their order. “Hi, Mr. Quinlan. Do you want the spaghetti Bolognese?” she asked.
“No, Flo. My friend here is treating, so I’ll have the veal Parmesan with spaghetti aglio olio. Coffee, too, please. And don’t forget to bring the dessert menu when I’ve finished my entrée.”
Roger smiled. He knew that Morris was taking advantage, but it would be worth it if he came up with an idea that would help solve these cases.
* * *
Morris got home a little after nine. He was too keyed up by the challenge Roger had presented to think about going to bed, so he cleared his kitchen table, brewed a cup of coffee, and started going through the police reports.
When he was finished, Morris had no brilliant insights. On the surface, there were enough similarities to the Randall poisoning case to suggest a connection to the attempt on Barrister, but Sophie Randall and Arthur Gentry had been poisoned twenty-plus years ago, and the killer was most probably Robert Chesterfield, who was dead.
It was midnight when Morris finished reading the reports for the second time. He’d hoped he would have a brilliant Sherlockian insight that would solve the case, but he did not have an aha moment, so he went to bed, hoping that something would occur to him after a good night’s sleep.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
Jeff Hodges took the elevator to the third floor of an old cast-iron building two blocks from the Willamette River and entered the offices of Oregon Talent, Inc. Marvin Olmstead, the owner of the agency, was a man of middle age with a year-around tan, slicked-back auburn hair, and pearly white teeth, which he flashed at Jeff when his secretary escorted him into Olmstead’s office.
“How can I help you, Mr. Hodges?” Olmstead asked as soon as he had examined Jeff’s business card.
“I’m the investigator for Robin Lockwood’s law firm.”
“She’s representing David Turner, isn’t she?”
Jeff nodded. “He’s accused of murdering Robert Chesterfield onstage, while Chesterfield was performing a magic trick. Maria Rodriguez, Nancy Porter, and Sheila Monroe were the assistants who helped Chesterfield perform the illusion, and your agency represents them. I wanted to get some background on the women.”
“What do you want to know?”
“Can you tell me a little about Maria Rodriguez?”
“Maria is local, born and raised in Portland. I’ve represented her for four years. She’s had small parts in three movies that were filmed here, and she’s done some theater. Her dad was a magician until he quit to sell real estate. She worked in his act when she was little, and she’s my go-to when I get a request for a magician’s assistant.”
“What does she do when she’s not working in show business?”
Olmstead laughed. “What every ‘actor’ does when they’re not in a show. She’s a waitress.”
“What about Sheila Monroe?”
“She’s getting a teaching degree at PSU. She moved here from New Jersey with her boyfriend three years ago when he was accepted at Lewis and Clark Law School. I’ve been repping her for two years.” Olmstead shook his head. “Sheila’s a good kid. She was really shaken up by the murder.”
“I was in the audience,” Jeff said. “I remember that she was hysterical when she discovered the body.”
“I saw her the next day, and she was still a mess.”
“What about Nancy Porter?”
“I don’t know her very well.”
“Why is that?”
“Renee Chambers was supposed to work Chesterfield’s show, but she called me at the last minute because her mother fell ill and she had to go home to Wyoming.”
“That must have been upsetting,” Jeff said.
“Renee had worked a magic show with Porter somewhere in the Midwest. Minnesota, I think. Anyway, she said she’d talked to Nancy and she was willing to fill in. We met when she got to town and signed a contract. She seemed like a good kid, but I haven’t had much contact with her.”
“Have Rodriguez, Porter, or Monroe ever worked with David Turner?”
“Not to my knowledge. Certainly not in Oregon or Washington while they were with my agency. Turner’s never done a show in Oregon. He had a show in Seattle, but Sheila and Maria didn’t work it.”
“What about Miss Porter?”
“If she worked with him, she never told me. You’ll have to ask her.”