Catch a Falling Knife

my address at Silver Acres and he knew Mark was staying with me. When he went out on night patrol, he could have driven to Silver Acres and found Mark’s car.”
    “Figuring that since Mark was a suspect, anyway, this might seal his fate and get Eric off the hook.”
    A reply to this remark didn’t seem necessary, so Mark and I kept silent.
    Detective Johnson wrote some notes and carefully studied them for a time, without looking up. Then he met our eyes and said, “If you’re expecting a thank you, forget it. I would have found this stuff out, sooner or later. Now I’ll follow up. I want you two to keep out of it.”

Chapter 27
     
    I still didn’t have at least one piece to the puzzle. How had Elise gotten home from Club Cavalier? Detective Johnson didn’t seem to know, or if he did he didn’t tell Mark and me. It’s possible that Eric Hoffman had returned to Club Cavalier after he had taken Ted home, but by then Elise would have been gone.
    She might have left even faster if she had seen her father and her boyfriend in the audience, but there was no way of knowing whether she had. From what I remembered of the lighting in the Club, it probably would have been difficult for her to recognize anybody sitting in the back, especially with the spotlights shining in her eyes.
    In any case, according to Lefty she had left immediately after her show. So who had given her a ride? That person could possibly be a material witness. Or even the murderer.
    In addition, where had Elise smoked marijuana? There hadn’t been a trace of any drug in her apartment, according to the police report. I was not naïve enough to believe that nothing like that ever happened in the dressing room at Club Cavalier, but she didn’t stick around long enough to do it there. The obvious conclusion was that she smoked on the ride home. So she must have been with somebody she knew quite well.
    What about her old boyfriend from last year, the one Donna said she had slept with? I didn’t know his name and Detective Johnson had never mentioned him. Maybe it was time we started looking for him. But I wanted to do something else first and Detective Johnson could have no objection.
    On Wednesday morning I went to pool aerobics with Tess. Then she went off on some errand. By the time I returned to my apartment, Mark had left for a daytime shift as bartender at the restaurant in Durham. I took my car and drove to Bethany. I knew how to get to Club Cavalier by now, without referring to a map or having somebody give me directions. Once there, I parked beside the Club and studied the street map I had brought with me, using a magnifying glass I carry to help me read small print.
    I had to go only a few blocks. I memorized the turns and was proud of the fact that several minutes later I pulled up in front of the house of Frank Scott, June Hoffman’s friend and surrogate father. I had asked June for his address. His house must have been elegant 80 years ago, but now it needed a paint job and some repairs, as did most of the neighboring homes.
    I went up several creaky wooden front steps, carefully, holding the handrail. I noted that a wheelchair ramp had been built beside the steps as an alternate path. I rang the doorbell and heard a chime of the first four notes that I associate with Big Ben, in London.
    After a wait a male voice asked, “Who is it?”
    “I’m a friend of June Hoffman,” I called in my most innocuous voice.
    The door opened. I was surprised when I didn’t see anybody on my level. I looked down and saw a man of my vintage, sitting in a wheelchair, still holding the door handle. What hair he had was white and his glasses had thick lenses. He had some ugly black spots on his face that looked like the melanomas I had had removed from mine.
    “Mr. Scott?” I said. “I’m Lillian Morgan.”
    “It isn’t often I get a visitor from my generation,” he said in a husky voice. “Come on in. In fact, it isn’t often I get a visitor from any generation, anymore.”
    He swung the door farther open and moved his wheelchair to give me room to enter. I had a speech prepared, but he told me to follow him. He propelled his wheelchair through a wide doorway into a large room. It had a genuine hardwood floor, but not much furniture, and most of that was along one wall. He gestured to a sofa, underneath four windows.
    I sat down and he said, “Do you drink tea, Mrs….? I didn’t catch your name.”
    “Lillian,” I said. “Sure.”