by Hillary Avis
A view from the Greasy Spoon’s back lot came to life. Though most of the monitor was filled with the parking area, dumpster, and back porch, a triangular sliver in the top right corner of the screen showed the highway and the single pump and front door of Wilds Gas and Go. As the video played, a few lazy cars straggled by on the highway. Eli scrubbed the video ahead until Peterson’s flamboyant Rolls Royce pulled into the gas station and parked next to the pump.
I held my breath as I watched the silent exchange. It unfolded much as Peterson had described. Homer started to pump his gas, stumbled into the side of the car, and then Peterson nearly leaped from the driver’s seat, gesturing wildly. The figures were too small to make out their expressions, but Peterson suddenly stepped back as Homer threw the first punch. A second one caught him by surprise, knocking him to the side.
“That must be the black eye,” Eli commented.
Homer staggered, knocking against the pump and pylons, just as Peterson said it happened. When he came in for another round, Peterson pushed him away—hard. Homer fell flat on the pavement, knocking his head on the concrete.
In the video, Peterson froze. He looked back over his shoulder at the highway and, seeing no one, grabbed Homer under the arms and dragged him into the office, flipping the sign in the window to “Closed” behind him.
My throat tightened. He’d left this part out of his story completely.
Eli paused the video. “This doesn’t look good for Peterson,” he said, his voice low. “Actually, it looks downright bad.”
“Keep going,” I urged. “Maybe it gets better.”
He started the video, and I gripped my mug tightly, willing the screen to show Homer walking out the door, laughing and talking with Peterson. But only Peterson reappeared. With another furtive look around, he opened his trunk and pulled out his medical kit. I groaned, and Eli hit pause again.
“Did I say bad? I meant really bad.”
“Come on, just play the rest of it.” I couldn’t take any more delays. I had to know what really happened. Eli nodded, and we leaned together to watch Peterson disappear back inside the gas station. I held my breath as minutes passed. Finally Eli scrubbed ten minutes ahead to when Peterson reappeared. He walked briskly to the trunk of the Rolls, stowed his medical bag, pumped his own gas, then got into the driver’s seat and drove off down the highway.
Eli stopped the video again and just looked at me.
“I don’t think he even has syringes in that bag,” I said, feeling inexplicably guilty even though Peterson was the one caught in a lie. “It’s regular first aid stuff, plus a stethoscope and BP cuff, if I remember right.”
“Why didn’t he just tell me he administered first aid, then?” Eli asked. “Why did he lie if he didn’t do anything wrong?”
I shook my head. I wish I knew. But nobody knew what happened inside that office except Peterson and Homer—if Homer ever woke up, that is. I shivered, a chill running down my spine despite the hot coffee I still clutched in my hands. “Wait, Peterson wouldn’t leave someone who was unconscious. He would have called an ambulance if Homer didn’t wake up. Keep going—I bet we’ll see Homer come out the front door in just a minute. And then maybe we’ll see who actually killed him.”
Eli nodded gravely. “I hope you’re right.” He let the video play on as, on the other side of the counter, Ed tended his batch of doughnuts, flipping them in the grease so the browned side was revealed.
For a long stretch there was no action save a hopeful starling in the diner’s parking lot. Finally, a car pulled into the gas station and waited at the pump. I held my breath a long minute until it drove off again, having apparently given up on filling their gas tank. Eli scrubbed the video forward until there was more action on the screen.
A pedestrian cut across the gas station’s parking lot, heading toward the door. I squinted at the screen. The tiny figure was an oddly dressed man with wild, curly hair. He wore a short green tunic and green-and-white striped tights. An elf?
“Is that Rusty Chapman?” I mused aloud.
“I think so.”
We watched as Rusty reached the door and paused for a second, staring at the “Closed” sign. Then he pulled the door open and went inside. I drew in my breath.
“What is it?” Eli asked.
“Ruth mentioned that he had a job interview lined up at the gas station. She asked him how it went while we were wrapping gifts with the Knitwits. He said he didn’t have the interview, though. He seemed a little upset about it.”
Eli frowned, his eyes still trained on the monitor. “Did he say he didn’t go or that he didn’t have an interview?”
I racked my brain for Rusty’s exact wording. “I think he said, ‘It didn’t happen.’ So I guess he had an interview. I assumed it was canceled, but it looks like he showed up for it.”
“Let’s see how long he’s in there.” Eli moved the video ahead until the door re-opened, pausing to check the time stamp. “Five minutes. Not long enough for an interview.”
“He has something,” I said, pointing at a blurred rectangular shape that Rusty clutched in his hands. “What is that?”
Eli let the video play so we could get a better look. “A paper bag, maybe? Could be the money from the till. Maybe Homer told him the interview was off, Rusty got angry and killed him, grabbed the money on the way out.”
I bit my lip. I didn’t want to believe Rusty was capable of something like that, but I also knew that money was very tight for him. He was eager to get back on his feet now that he had served his prison sentence, and he would have been frustrated to miss out on a potential job, even a low-wage one like gas station attendant. And he might have learned some new skills in prison.
“Or maybe he just bought some beef jerky from a very alive Homer Wilds,” I said defensively, pushing back against my own suspicions. “I bet if you keep that video rolling, we’ll see Homer walk out that door. Then we’ll feel silly we ever thought Rusty could be involved.”
Eli looked doubtful, but he let the video play, speeding through sections with little or no action. A white van with a logo on the door pulled around to the back of the gas station. Eli rewound, paused, and zoomed in to read the circular logo. The words were too blurry, but I recognized the image in the center, a ball of yarn with two needles stuck through it like a warm, fuzzy skull-and-crossbones.
“It’s the Knitty Gritty van. I bet it was Joan. You know, she had a lot of opinions about Homer’s drinking. She was really upset that Ruth asked him to play Santa.”
Eli chuckled. “If it was crazy to point fingers at Rusty, it’s even crazier to point them at Joan. She’s a sweet old lady who knits for charity and volunteers to give Christmas gifts to needy children.”
I rolled my eyes. “I’m not saying she killed Homer. I’m saying there are at least two people who might have seen him alive after Peterson left the gas station. We just need to talk to them. If either one is willing to go on record that Homer was alive, then Peterson is off the hook.”
Rather than responding, Eli let the video play. A few short minutes after the van pulled behind the building, it drove out the other side. He moved the video forward again, until another pedestrian figure appeared. This time, the person was instantly recognizable—on the screen, Ed exited the back door of the diner, hefting a propane tank in one hand. He walked swiftly across the parking lot, barely pausing to check for cars as he crossed the highway and went straight to the gas station’s door.
He knocked at the window and then put his hand to the glass to look inside. I held my breath, unable to keep my eyes off the real Ed on the other side of the counter, who was now removing the golden-brown doughnuts from the fryer to roll in a tray of cinnamon-sugar. The smell was tantalizing.
My attention was drawn back to the screen by Ed’s movements. When he didn’t receive an answer to a second knock at Wilds Gas and Go, he hauled the propane tank over to the large, cylindrical tank on the side of the building, filled it up, and carried it
back over to the back door of the restaurant.
Eli paused the video again and raised his head to look at Ed. Ed turned to move the doughnuts into a box and noticed Eli’s expression.
He wiped his hands on his apron and sighed. “You saw it. I know, I should have paid for the propane, but he didn’t answer—and I figured he owed me for the trash cleanup anyway.”
“Was he the one getting into your dumpster?” I asked.
Ed clicked his tongue. “Yup. First night I put the camera up, I saw him digging in the trash, throwing things around. He took the recyclables to turn in for the bottle deposit and left everything else strewn around the parking lot like a dang raccoon. I told him to knock it off, but of course all I got in return was a string of curse words.”
“Is this why you wouldn’t let me see the footage before?” Eli asked. “You didn’t want to get caught stealing propane?”
Ed nodded guiltily. “Figured it didn’t matter unless Homer really was murdered. Then I’d take my lumps. But if he bit the dust on his own, then the free propane just evened our score.”
“I see.” Eli’s attention was back on the monitor. “Did you happen to see him inside the station when you looked through the glass?”
“Nope.” Ed moved the box of doughnuts to the top of a stack that was waiting by the back door. “You’re good to go with these, Leona. Merry Christmas.”
“Thanks so much, Ed. I’ll make sure that Ruth gets you a donation receipt.” I slid off my stool, but Eli caught the sleeve of my jacket.
“Don’t you want to see what happens?” he asked. Curiosity got the better of me, and I leaned over his shoulder to watch the rest.
A couple of cars came and went, the drivers waiting only a few minutes at the pump before driving off again. Eli pushed the video further forward until a dark SUV pulled up to the front door. A tall, broad-shouldered figure exited the driver’s side door, and Eli hit pause.
“That’s me.” He sighed, disappointed, then scrubbed forward so I could see what happened after that in eight-times speed. On the screen, Eli went inside the gas station and came back out right away. A fire truck and ambulance arrived, and paramedics swarmed inside. Then more sheriff’s deputies arrived, the gas station was cordoned off, and a coroner’s van came. He stopped the video. “That’s all she wrote. You know what this means, Leona.” I didn’t like how serious his expression was as he studied my face.
“What?”
“Peterson has some explaining to do. What’s in that medical kit, for starters. And why he lied about it. I’m going to head over to your house and have a chat with him. Ideally, we can clear this all up in a few minutes. You want to come?”
I nodded, my heart heavy. “Do me a favor, will you? Wait until I get there to start questioning him? I have a bunch of doughnuts to load up first.”
Chapter 15
I found Eli and Peterson on their hands and knees on the kitchen floor when I got home, racing the toy police cars that belonged to J.W. and Izzy. The twins, who presumably had put them up to it, had lost interest and wandered off to play with their other gifts, but the two grown men were still crouched on the worn linoleum near the table, trash-talking each other.
“You’re going down, Pete. You’re going to lose so bad, California’s going to revoke your driver’s license.” Eli narrowed his eyes as Peterson counted them down.
“Three, two, one, go!”
They shoved their cars toward the fridge at the same time, looking up in surprise when I put my foot out, sending both cars veering off course. Eli’s crashed into the bottom of the cabinets and Peterson’s disappeared out the kitchen door into the entryway. A faint rattle told me it’d found the umbrella stand.
Eli scrambled to his feet and helped Peterson up, then dusted off the knees of his uniform.
I pursed my lips. “My kitchen floor is clean, thank you very much. Can we just get this over with? I’d like it if we could all move on with our day. I have doughnuts to deliver.”
Peterson gave me a quizzical look. “Get what over with?”
Eli sighed. “Sorry about this, Pete. But I need to ask you a few more questions about what happened at the gas station. I got a chance to look at the security camera footage, and what’s on tape doesn’t exactly match your story.”
Peterson’s whole body stilled, the residual playfulness from his earlier game evaporating. He pulled out a chair from the table and sat down in it, his eyes unfocused. “I had a feeling this might come up.”
Eli sat beside him. “Why’d you leave so much out of your story? If you’ve got a good explanation, I’m all ears.”
Peterson looked up at me pleadingly. “You know me better than anyone. Love me or hate me, you don’t think I hurt him, do you?”
“No, of course not. But I do think you owe Eli an explanation for why you lied.”
“We know the first part of your story was true,” Eli said, his voice rumbling low. “But then you pushed Homer pretty hard. He fell and hit his head. Tell me about what happened after that.”
Peterson sighed. “I was worried he might have a head injury, so I dragged him inside to put some ice on it.” He gnawed the inside of his cheek pensively. “He woke up pretty groggy. I grabbed my med kit from the trunk—you know I always have it with me,” he added to me.
I nodded, and he continued. “I checked his pupils, then took his BP. His reflexes were poor, but I chalked that up to the alcohol. I told him to keep the ice pack on his head and call an ambulance if he had any coordination problems. Then I left.”
Eli sat back in his chair. “I don’t believe you.”
“That’s everything I remember,” Peterson said simply.
I understood Eli’s skepticism. If Peterson was telling the truth now, then why did he leave out the part about helping Homer when he gave his first statement? I couldn’t make sense of it, especially now that I knew for sure that Rusty had seen Homer alive after Peterson left.
“Why didn’t you just say that before?” I asked.
Peterson grimaced. “When I heard he died, I thought maybe it was due to a head injury that I missed. Since I technically treated and released him, I worried I could be sued for malpractice. Selfish of me, I guess. I probably should have taken him to a hospital myself, just in case. Then he’d probably still be alive.”
His expression was so anguished, I couldn’t help feeling sorry for him. I walked around the table and put my hand on his shoulder, squeezing it comfortingly.
Eli didn’t seem as convinced. “If you don’t mind, I need to see the contents of that bag,” he said.
“It’s out in the trunk.” Peterson patted my hand and then scooted his chair back. We walked outside together, and Eli produced the keys he’d confiscated, popping the trunk of the Rolls. Peterson pulled out the leather medical bag and showed Eli which key on the ring fit the bag’s brass lock. “What are you looking for, if you don’t mind me asking?”
Eli took the bag from him and unlocked it. “Turns out that Homer was killed with an injection of antifreeze. The antifreeze itself was probably from Homer’s shop, but I need to know whether you have any sharps in this kit.”
Peterson paled, gripping the edge of the open trunk to steady himself. His reaction surprised me. I’d seen the kit before, and I couldn’t remember any needles in it. Maybe he was just rattled by the method of murder that Eli had described. I’d spent so much time hanging around Eli and chatting about his cases that I forgot what it was like, being shocked by crime.
Eli took the bag to the porch and carefully laid out the contents, one item at a time, on the clean surface of the table between the Adirondack chairs.
A stethoscope. A blood pressure cuff. A thermometer, a pulse oximeter. A plastic box full of bandages and antiseptic and Tylenol packets. Face masks, hand sanitizer, alcohol wipes, cotton swaps wrapped in sterile packaging.
I yawned and began to turn away.
“Wait!” Eli’s voice came sharply as he pulled the last item out of
the bag. He held up a small, black zippered case. Peterson passed his hand over his face as though he couldn’t bear to look, cringing away from Eli.
With a look of trepidation, Eli unzipped the case, laying it open on the small table between the Adirondack chairs. A row of individually wrapped syringes, one large and several smaller, greeted my eyes, along with a small glass vial with a printed label.
“What is this?” Eli demanded. Peterson mumbled something I couldn’t make out, his eyes on the porch floor, and apparently Eli couldn’t understand him any better than I could, because he asked, “What?”
“Botox!” Peterson burst out. “It’s Botox, OK? It was for Leona, for Christmas.”
I blinked, speechless. He was blaming his bag of murder needles on my wrinkles?
Motherclucker.
“Well, obviously, I didn’t give it to you!” he rushed to add when he noticed my expression. “Don’t be mad—I really thought you’d like it. I asked the ladies at my office and they said they’d be thrilled to get free Botox. But once I got here, I realized it was a bad idea, and I ordered you the Porsche instead.”
“Thank goodness, or else you might have been the one who got murdered,” I muttered under my breath.
Andrea stuck her head out the door and frowned at us. “Aren’t you all freezing out here?”
I realized I’d left my jacket inside, and goosebumps were raised on both my arms. I rubbed them away. “We’ll be right in.”
“You’ll be right in. Pete and I need to take a ride down to my office,” Eli said grimly. He zipped up the case and began packing everything back into the medical bag. “He has a few things to clear up.”
Andrea stepped out onto the porch, closing the door behind her. “Is he under arrest?” she asked. Her voice had a hard edge.
“No. But he needs—” Eli began, but Andrea cut him off, her eyes flashing.
“Then he’s not going anywhere with you. If you have anything to say to Mr. Davis, you can say it to me, his lawyer. Otherwise, back off.” She jabbed her finger at him, cutting a formidable figure. Eli raised his hands defensively and took a step back.