Fatal Connections

Chapter 55

After confirming that Minetti was available, I splashed some water on my face, brushed my hair, and savored some minty mouthwash. After sniffing my underarms to make sure I didn't completely stink, I gave each one a quick just-in-case swipe of deodorant, finished dressing, and set out for Maple Lawn. The restaurant had plenty of customers but no wait-list.

Minetti and I met once again in his closet-sized office. My thoughts drifted to the brief but memorable panic I had felt in Leland's closet. That place had more elbow room than Minetti's office. I guess my problem wasn't just because of the tight space.

"Frank," I said, after he again reminded me to call him that. "Do you remember any of the people the Harcourts met with? Did any of them stand out?"

Minetti's brow furrowed. He nodded. "Maybe. I vaguely recall one or two couples they met with quite often, but I couldn't tell you who they were. Not offhand."

"Can I show you some pictures?" I went into my photos, found the shots from the church service, and opened the ones of the back and front pews.

I held the phone and swiped through the images, giving Minetti time to scrutinize each one. He scanned the back row photos without comment. When we got to the photos of the front rows, he said, "Hang on. I've seen them before." He pointed to the image of Marge Calhoun and Ryan Douglas.

"You saw these two?" I asked, pointing each one out.

Minetti nodded in the affirmative. "Yeah, them. And the young man on the other side of the woman."

Of course I knew Calhoun and Douglas, but I couldn't identify the young man next to Calhoun.

"And I think I saw those two," he added. He pointed out another man and woman seated farther back. The picture's focus wasn't on them, so their features were tougher to make out. The woman was closer to the camera. She was white. Her worried expression seemed oddly familiar. As for the guy beside her, he was white. That's all I could tell you.

"And you don't know any of them?" I asked, still looking at the worried woman in the background.

Minetti shook his head. Then, he said, "Hang on." He took another look at the photo. Then did a double take. "Well, I'll be. He's grown up."

"Who?"

Minetti pointed to the young man sitting next to Calhoun. "That's Jaden Harcourt. Their son."

And I thought he hadn't shown up for the service. Where did I get that idea?

"But you don't know the name of the woman or the man next to him?"

Minetti looked, shrugged, shook his head.

"Marge Calhoun was the Harcourts' PR woman. The older guy next to her is Ryan Douglas, their business manager."

"Is that so? We were never introduced." Minetti's voice was almost chipper. "Guests don't generally mix with the caterers, and caterers don't very often get introduced to the guests."

"I take it neither of them went to any of the Harcourts' catered events."

Minetti stiffened. "That's not what I said."

I knew that, but I had to confirm. "So, they might have been there, but you weren't introduced to them."

"Exactly." Minetti's smile twisted into a smirk. "And, like I said, they would have no reason to talk to me."

Minetti's mood seemed to darken a bit, but he seemed less angry than amused.

"And you're sure you don't recognize anyone else in any of the photos?"

We took another spin through my photos. He shook his head.

"Nope. I mean, yes, I'm sure."

That left me only a few parties of interest from the service: Ryan Douglas, Marge Calhoun, Jaden Harcourt, and the Mystery Couple. Now, I remembered why I didn't think Jaden was there. Marge told me she had tried to reach him and then acted like she hadn't been able to. But she never outright lied. In fact, she hadn't really told me anything.

It was either really late or really early when I returned home. I felt tired but not quite tired enough to hit the sack. I thought about having some coffee but I poured myself a glass of water instead. I sat at the dining table with my interview notes and research arranged at odd angles around my flowchart, which had become a mish-mash of lines and multifaceted shapes.

It was ironic that, in spite of all the complications social media may have brought to the Harcourts' lives, it seemed likely that their murders might have been the result of a problem close to home.

Then I asked myself a lot of questions. I wondered if talking to Astrid Gunderson, the cool nanny, was worth a trip all the way across the Potomac River and into Virginia. I could always try a FaceTime or Skype session, of course, but it wouldn't be quite the same as a face-to-face meeting. Besides, setting up calls like that deprived me of a favorite tactic: the element of surprise.

And how well did Marge Calhoun and Jaden Harcourt know each other? Why was Jaden at his parents' memorial service but not Amy? And how cozy were Calhoun and Douglas? What were they carefully choosing not to tell me?

On top of all that, I kept wondering what Troy Fairchild was doing camping out at a place owned by the entrepreneurial Mabel Forbes. Was it merely chance that he happened to go to The Void, which Mabel owned, and then stay at a house she owned? And how to explain that Mabel Forbes just happened to own another house across the street from the Harcourts. One furnished like an overpriced storage unit at that.

And then there was Parker Adams, Mr. Yoga Stretch. Come to think of it, I had only his word that someone knocked me unconscious that day at The Void. Maybe Adams was the person who did that. Was he following me in the brown sedan? I really wished I had gotten a good look at the driver.

Since the flowchart had become an unusable mess, I thought I would try to organize the information differently. I made a list of all the people I thought were the most likely sources and then listed all the questions I had for each one. And I wondered how much the now-deceased Aaron Gallagher could have told me.