Chapter 25
“Cran died of botulism!”
Tond is crying again. Blubbering really. Snot everywhere.
I’m staring at my phone, making sure it’s getting all this, when his words belatedly sink in. “Wait, say that again?”
“And I’m such a fuckup, I can’t even kill myself as good as Cran,” Tond says, rubbing his nose with a paper towel until it turns red. “Always second
best, that’s Tond Johnston!”
“No, back up. Cran what?”
“Died. Of. Botulism. That’s what the coroner’s report said. Not the car accident—botulism!”
“You can’t honestly think I’m going to buy that,” I say, abandoning subtlety and shoving my phone in his face. “Admit it to
my phone! Admit you killed him!”
He lowers my phone and puts a jar of sauerkraut in my other hand.
“I’m not hungry for cabbage!” I yell. “I’m hungry for the truth!”
“No, listen, Cran made his own pickles because he said they were healthier! I kept telling him to be careful.” He stares forlornly at the sauerkraut. “I don’t know how to run a business! I don’t even know how to balance a checkbook.”
“You guys still use check—”
“My only choice”—he grabs the jar back and holds up a pinch of sauerkraut like it’s chewing tobacco—“is to botulism myself
too.” He swallows the sauerkraut and washes it down with cooking sherry, then hiccups. “That one almost came back up,” he
says, patting his chest.
How did this get so off the rails?
Okay, think, Mo. Cran was definitely murdered. Tond said so at the funeral.
“I know you murdered your brother,” I say, pointing at him. “Because I heard you admit it at his funeral!”
Tond puts on a thinking face and then shakes his head. “Not possible, because I didn’t murder him.”
Ugh, this guy is good. Time for a new tactic.
Benny.
“And I know all about you and Benny,” I say. “So don’t even think about denying that.”
“Wait, who’s Benny?”
This guy’s got to be the world’s most annoying murderer. “What did I literally just say?”
“Sorry, sorry,” Tond says, rolling his eyes. “Got it. You know all about me and Benny.”
“You and Benny, you’re murderers in cahoots. You told him you wanted out after the Cran murder, but he wouldn’t let you out,
would he? No way. He needed your money. So he told you that first you had to ‘take care of her’ and I thought her was me but
her was Claudia!”
Tond suddenly turns a greeny pale. Gotcha, turd.
“I can explain,” Tond says slowly, side-eyeing my phone. “That conversation was about, um, a transaction of a very legal amount of money to Claud— To Ms. Alonzo. For transactional purposes. A legal real estate transaction that was 100 percent
not illegal. I can’t tell you who I was talking to, for very official, professional reasons. But it wasn’t this Benny person. And there are no cahoots.”
“Oh sure, maybe it started that way. But then Benny got Claudia to trust him and the two of you left her that envelope of
bribe money. Oh yes, I know all about that. In fact, I have the money—”
“Wait, you do?” Tond says. “Oh thank goodness, that is honestly a huge load off.”
“Don’t interrupt me when I’m making you confess, that’s so rude!”
He puts his hands in prayer position in front of his face and bows a little at me to continue. I can’t help but see he’s in
much better spirits now.
I’ve lost a little momentum. Gotta get it back.
Gotta bring the hammer down tout fuicking suite.
“But Claudia couldn’t be bought, could she? No, she wouldn’t sell her house for your big fancy parking garage. So you had
Benny kill Claudia. Just like you killed. Your. Brother.”
Check and mate.
He scrambles to his feet, and I realize I’ve only got my fists, so I hold them up like an old-timey boxer and hope I look
intimidating.
But he just starts hyperventilating. He leans against the counter to support himself. “Claudia is dead?” he wheezes. “Was it botulism??”
Playing dumb, huh? Well, this crossing guard wasn’t born yesterday.
“Spare me the theatrics,” I say.
He’s not hyperventilating anymore, but he doesn’t look guilty, either, just sort of confused. A criminal mastermind, no doubt.
“But. Why would I kill Cran? He was the one who was good at business. I hate this stuff.”
“Because . . . okay, that’s a fair question.”
“And I literally just told you—Cran died of botulism. It’s all right here.” He reaches into his pocket, and reflexively, I
punch him.
Except I’ve never punched anyone in my life, and my aim is terrible. I just barely clip his shoulder, but it still sends streaks of pain up through my elbow. He grabs
his shoulder, looking more emotionally injured than physically. “Ow! Why the violence?” he says, handing me a folded-up piece
of paper.
“Sorry,” I say, shaking my punching arm. “I thought maybe you were pulling a weapon.”
I unfold the official-looking paper. Sure enough—unless he forged this report on forged letterhead, Cran died of botulism.
Not murder. Damn.
Well, accidental poisoning could explain the slurring and stumbling Cran was doing before he died. Maybe the vomit deluge
too. Turns out Claudia was half-right when she suggested radium poisoning, I think sadly.
Also, note to self: Check on symptoms of botulism in case it’s something I should consider worrying about.
“But like for real, who the fuck is Benny?” Tond asks. “I’m telling you, I don’t know this guy. And turn that damn thing off.”
He points at my phone.
I hesitate, then press pause because obviously my whole plan has been flushed down the crapper.
Once Tond sees I’m not recording, he leans in and whispers: “I had that conversation with Merle at the funeral.”
Merle. Merle. Why do I know that name? “Who’s Merle again?”
He looks appalled. “You don’t know the name of your own alderman? Do you even vote?”
“Okay, I’m really not about to take civic responsibility lessons from a—” I stop as the full impact of what he’s said hits
me. Merle Carey. Not just my alderman. Tasha’s alderman.
Tond drunkenly bulldozes on. “And anyway, why would I give somebody bribe money and then simultaneously kill them? Does that
make any sense to you?”
“Well, I guess not,” I admit.
“Plus, if she’s dead, her house goes to her next of kin . . . what a mess. Our company’s going to hemorrhage money until it’s
out of probate. The red tape alone could bankrupt us.” His face crumples in grief as he cries out, “I mean, me.”
Oh.
God, I feel so stupid. There’s clearly a whole lotta bribery going on, and political bribery no less—which, by the way, is
already giving me a stomachache—but no murder. Just a couple of accidents.
Accidents happen all the time—they are, in fact, the fourth-leading cause of death.
And I’ve been so desperate to not feel like my life is in the toilet, I may have gotten a bit carried away. Getting carried away might be, maybe, possibly . . . a big problem for me.
I hand back the cause-of-death report.
Tond and Benny: officially not murderers.
And that’s when I realize I’ve gotten poor, innocent Benny in some very serious trouble.
I flash back to the doorbell video, and it’s like the whole thing comes into focus. He wasn’t just dropping off an envelope
of money. He was in the middle of walking dogs, and (oh god) I bet if I’d looked closely enough, one of them would have been mop-dog Charlie. Benny was just running an errand for Merle. He probably didn’t even know what he was doing.
And if Rodney O’Malley IS right about what happens in Chicago holding cells?
The neighborhood’s hottest dog walker is getting rolled and burged and whatever else Marlowe called it.
Because of me.
I need to find him and get him out of jail. Stat.
“Phew, well, glad we straightened that out,” I say. “I’ve really got to run—”
“All we wanted was a stupid beautiful cash cow of a parking garage,” Tond says, his blue eyes pleading. “I didn’t want to bribe anyone.”
“Uh-huh,” I say, backing toward the door and snapping my fingers for the dogs. “Come on, guys.”
“It’s a classic Chicago move,” Tond says, shaking his head and popping another pinch of sauerkraut. “It’s why I’m so bad at
business. I lose track of everybody I’m supposed to bribe.”
I grab Jean in a full-body hug to pull him off what is probably his favorite sofa.
“Gotta bribe the old lady,” Tond says, counting on his fingers. “Gotta quid pro quo the alderman. Gotta bribe the gas company.”
“Good lord, dog,” I mutter as the dog makes himself deadweight. “Come on, we’ve got to get a man out of jail.”
But then I process what Tond just said.
He holds up three fingers. “Well, I guess that’s just three bribes, but it feels like a lot when you’re doing it.”
“Tond,” I say, going still. “You bribed the gas company?”
He shrugs. “We had to bribe the gas company to pass inspection on some seriously not-up-to-code stuff. Some cousin of Merle’s
wife. You didn’t start recording again, did you?”
“Holy shit,” I whisper.
“What?” he whispers back.
“Tond, Claudia died of a gas leak.”
He slaps a hand over his mouth. “You don’t think—”
There’s a bang on the window, and both of us scream. Tond dives to the ground, and I swear like a (terrified) sailor. But
just as quickly, I recognize the face pressed up against the glass and it’s not a new, third murderer.
It’s Marlowe.
I throw open the window, furious. “What did I tell you about tracking my phone? This is super dangerous! This guy could have
been a murderer!”
“ ’Cept I’m not,” Tond pouts, holding his funny bone gingerly.
I lean out of the window and see that she’s balancing on the water meter. “You need to go home.”
But Marlowe’s eyes are wide. “Mo, I made a text autocorrect translation app.”
“Of course you did. Can we talk about this tomorrow?”
“No, listen. I finally translated that text Claudia sent me the night she died.”
Tond pads over to us and together we lean out of the window to look at Marlowe’s phone screen. She holds it up.
Original text: Hells no apple the cat invite affluent odor
Translated text: Help mo solve the case, investigate alderman office
Tond drops the bottle of sherry, and it shatters.
Looks like there might have been a murder after all.