Scheduled to Death

by Mary Feliz

  “Mrs. McDougal, you know better. You’re disturbing a crime scene. I ought to have you arrested. I told you to stay away from here.”

  “I—”

  “No excuses. I don’t want to hear them. You need to stop what you’re doing, get into your car, and drive away. With your pal Linc in custody, you couldn’t resist trying to muck up the evidence, could you?”

  “What evidence?” I broke in when Awful stopped to take a breath. “The garage is not a crime scene. I’m just finishing up the job Linc hired me to do. He labeled all this for disposal weeks ago.”

  “Weeks ago, eh? If you’re such an efficient organizer, why’s it still here? Huh?”

  I ignored his question. “There is still a bit of work to be done in the house, Detective. Do you know when your people will be finished with it?”

  “When we’re finished.”

  I shook my head. There was really no point in going toe to toe with this man. He was a hopeless mess of a human being and I stood zero chance of changing him for the better. In fact, if both Paolo and Linc’s futures weren’t so closely intertwined with his, his constant obstruction and childish vying for supremacy would have been laughable.

  “Detective,” I began in what I hoped was my most patient, compliant, and polite tone. “I’ve arranged for a charity service to pick up those boxes and a few more of the ones in the garage at ten this morning. Did you want your men to look them over before the charity truck arrives? Or do you want to call the charity and tell them not to come? I’m happy to help find Sarah’s killer in whatever way I can.”

  “I told you to stay out of it,” he said.

  “Would you like to take all this down to the station? Or to the county crime lab?”

  Logging in every item in every bag and box in the garage and dealing with the paperwork required for evidence in a felony trial was, I expected, more than the detective wanted to get into. It would be a big job with a big price tag.

  Paolo had told me that the detective had boasted that he could solve any crime faster and with less expense than any of Orchard View’s current detectives and their fancy modern methods. All it took, Gordon Apfel had said, was good, old-fashioned police work—something I suspected he knew little about.

  I pointed at the garbage bags stacked in a lopsided pyramid next to the remaining boxes. “Those are all discards for recycling,” I said. “I want to get them out to the curb as soon as the charity picks up the boxes.” I checked my watch. “Orchard View Refuse usually hits this neighborhood at about noon with its trucks.”

  Detective Awful stared from me, to the boxes at the curb, and then to the remaining stacks of discards in the carriage house. He wiped sweat from his forehead with a large bandanna.

  “You need to stay out of the house,” he said, shaking his finger at me. “And clear out as soon as your little housekeeping chores here are done.”

  “Absolutely.” I was going to add sir to appease the detective, but couldn’t bring myself to do it.

  “Mrs. McDougal—”

  “It’s McDonald, actually. Maggie McDonald. But thank you so much for letting me finish up here. Please let me know if there is anything I can do to help you out.”

  “Just—stay—out—of—my—investigation.”

  I nodded, gritting my teeth to keep from saying anything that he could take the wrong way.

  The detective’s phone rang. He turned his back on me and walked toward the street while he took the call.

  I’d started loading up the handcart with the last of the boxes when I heard the Range Rover’s engine again. As before, the driver revved the motor at the end of the street and drove slowly past Linc’s house. Perhaps because of the police vehicle parked at the curb, this time the Range Rover didn’t stop.

  I pulled my phone from my pocket and ran toward the detective.

  “Did you see that? That black Range Rover? That’s the third time I’ve seen it around here, doing the same thing—gunning its engine and driving slowly past the house, like it’s stalking Linc. Do you know if someone is threatening him? Maybe someone who doesn’t know you have him in custody? I have a picture of the license plate right here. It’s a little blurry, though.” I punched rapidly at the screen with my forefinger to bring up my stored photos.

  “Mrs. McDougal—”

  “McDonald. Mrs. McDonald. Maggie.”

  “Right. What did I tell you?”

  “Stay out of it?”

  “Exactly.” Detective Awful turned abruptly and stomped to his car. Before I could think of anything else to add, he was gone. I wondered why he’d come to the house in the first place this morning. Had one of the neighbors seen me and dialed 911, thinking I was robbing Linc’s house? If that were the case, surely dispatch would have sent a uniformed detective, rather than the head of a murder investigation? There was no way I could find out. Not while Awful was telling me to stay away.

  The best thing for me to do, I decided, was to focus on the job at hand and get Linc’s discards stacked at the curb.

  * * *

  The charity truck’s driver was writing me a receipt when Paolo pulled his Subaru to the curb.

  “Hey Maggie,” Paolo said after the truck pulled away. “I got your message about the house. If you need to get inside, I can let you in or . . .” He looked up and down the street as if he was expecting spies to jump out from behind the nearest shrub. “The locks haven’t been changed,” he said in a whisper. “The old keys will still work.”

  I shook my head. “I don’t need to get in today and I did tell Sir Awful I’d stay away . . . for now.” I thought for a moment and started tapping on my phone. “There is something you can do for me, though. I keep seeing this black Range Rover. I saw it at the garden yesterday and here at the house twice today. It might be someone from the neighborhood, but it’s coming and going at odd times and is making me nervous. I suppose whoever is driving could be a teenaged boy, high on testosterone, doing some drive-by stalking of a girl he has a crush on. But a shiny new Range Rover? For a teenager? It doesn’t add up. And the driver seems . . . aggressive. There’s lots of tire squealing, engine revving, rapid stops and starts. That kind of thing.”

  There were a few kids at the high school who drove showy new cars or their parents’ pricey castoffs and drove with that “notice me” kind of behavior. For the most part, though, the parking lots were full of Toyotas, Hondas, and other vehicles almost as old as the teens who drove them. Cars that wouldn’t be ruined by a few more dings, but that could safely transport kids in a town without school buses. And most, though inexperienced, were conscientious adherents to the vehicle code.

  Paolo nodded and peered at my blurry photos. “I don’t know if there’s anything we can do with these pictures, but from your description of the driver’s behavior, it sounds like he’s up to no good. We’ll keep an eye out and I’ll check to see if there are other complaints. Can you send me the photos?”

  I tapped the screen on my phone to send the images to him. “If he keeps coming around, I’ll try to get a clearer picture of that tag,” I said.

  “Don’t, Maggie. I’m worried that the driver may realize you’re taking his picture and try to stop you. Don’t engage him.” Paolo looked me in the eye, which I knew was difficult for him. He excelled at the analytical aspects of police work but—though he was working on it—interpersonal interactions still didn’t come naturally to him. “Please? Promise?”

  I did.

  Paolo helped me carry the last bags out for pickup by the garbage and recycling truck, then went back to work.

  I returned the handcart to the garage in case we needed it for hauling out the equipment in Linc’s workroom. Then I swept the floor clean and locked the garage door.

  Brushing my dusty hands on my jeans, I looked toward the back of the house. Yesterday, when I saw the Range Rover, I thought I’d seen Santana in the passenger seat. If she was volunteering this afternoon, she might be able to identify the driver for me. Unless th
e driver seemed as aggressive and threatening to her as he seemed to me. I’d ask her. If she was willing to provide the name of the guy behind the Range Rover’s wheel, it would allow me to solve that mystery without breaking my promise to Paolo.

  I set off across the grass and ducked through the hedge.

  Chapter 11

  GPS Systems, online calendars, contact lists, and other digital organizational tools can be wonderful things–but only when three conditions are met:

  1. You learn their features.

  2. You use them.

  3. They work.

  Use the strategies, technologies, and applications that work for you, not those that work for your next-door neighbor’s tech whiz kid, nor those that work for your best friend.

  From the Notebook of Maggie McDonald,

  Simplicity Itself Organizing Services

  Wednesday, November 5, 10:45 a.m.

  Once through the hedge, I stood still, examining the garden as a whole. Instead of turning left, toward the shed, I turned right. I surprised a small cottontail rabbit, which froze and then bounded into the shrubbery. Rustling vegetation told me the rabbit was putting lots of distance between us, probably along a familiar escape route.

  My own path wound between the plots, which were heavily planted with winter vegetables or strewn with compost, ready to be turned over to restore the soil. I walked the path until it meandered back to the parking lot on the residential street in front of the garden shed. I heard water running into a metal container and saw Santana bending over the spigot.

  I watched her as I approached, aware that she probably wouldn’t be able to hear my footsteps on the gravel over the sound of the water sloshing against the metal sides of her watering can. Like most teens and young adults, Santana was better looking than she probably thought she was–strong, fit, and slim, and with long, straight blond hair escaping her ponytail.

  I cleared my throat and she nearly dropped the watering can. She stepped back, startled.

  “Good morning, Mrs. McDonald. You scared me!”

  “I’m sorry, Santana. I wanted to come back and have another look around. I came the long way past the gardens at the back.”

  “Did you see Mr. Haskell’s herb garden? It’s my favorite. He’s asked me to water it while he’s on vacation. I love the smell of the herbs—like a perfume or something.”

  “I must have missed it. Are you going back there now? Maybe you could show me?”

  Santana nodded and waved politely for me to precede her on the path. It made for an awkward walk, since I had to keep looking back to verify I was headed in the right direction.

  I didn’t take me long to realize that Santana was also checking the path behind her, as if she was afraid someone was following her. She caught me noticing and startled, much like the rabbit had earlier.

  “Go on, Mrs. McDonald, Maggie,” she said. “We’ll turn left just before we get to the end.”

  Mr. Haskell’s garden was as fragrant as Santana had described. Each well-pruned stand of perennial herb was marked with its own stake: rosemary, lavender, lemon thyme, verbena, and chives.

  Santana watered the plants, closed her eyes, and breathed in deeply. Her shoulders relaxed and she smiled. “You’re a skeptic and you think I’m nuts, I’ll bet, but do it. It’s so relaxing. It makes me believe all that aromatherapy stuff.”

  I did as she asked: Closed my eyes and took a deep, slow breath layered with the scent of the herbs and rich, warmed soil. I took a second breath and opened my eyes to see Santana staring expectedly with an amused look on her face.

  “Told you so,” she said.

  “You did. And you were right.” I broke off a bit of lavender and rubbed it between my fingers. “I can see . . . er, smell, why this is your favorite.”

  Santana knelt to pinch off a few branches and clean up dead leaves, which she put in the now-empty watering can.

  I pulled out my phone, selected my photo app, and scrolled to the picture of the Range Rover. Santana spent a lot of time here in the garden. If the Range Rover belonged to a neighbor, she would almost certainly have heard and seen it.

  “Would you mind looking at a picture I took?” I said, holding out the phone. “It’s a little blurry, but I think you might be able to identify it.”

  Santana brushed her hands on her overalls and took the phone from me. She enlarged the picture, then shaded her eyes to peer at it.

  “It’s a black Range Rover and relatively new,” I said. “I’ve been seeing it around Linc’s house, and the other day it was in the parking lot here. Do you know the driver? Is he local?”

  Santana gasped, turned pale, and shook her head. She handed the phone back to me, still shaking her head.

  “What is it? Do you know him?” I asked as I took the phone and looked at the picture to see if it had changed into something more alarming than a big, black SUV.

  Santana backed away and walked quickly toward the shed, mumbling something about finishing her chores.

  The gravel behind me crunched and I turned to see a silver-haired man in his late seventies, doffing a crumpled felt hat that was a good match for Indiana Jones’s Stetson fedora.

  “Morning, ma’am,” he said. “I thought I heard voices here. Were you talking to yourself?”

  I smiled. “No, Santana was here. She just left. Do you know her?”

  “Of course. She’s always a big help. My big bag of mulch was getting a little too awkward for me to lift from the car to the wheelbarrow and she took care of it for me. Chatting all the while like a little sparrow. Made me forget I’m an old man.”

  I started to respond, but he went on talking. “Seeing you’re here, can you use any of these vegetables? I overplant and get way more than I can eat by myself.”

  He thrust forward a flat basket artfully arranged with carrots, turnips, shiny green kale, and bright rainbow chard.

  I looked to see if he really meant for me to take it. He nodded and I selected a carrot and a bunch of chard.

  “No, no. Take it all. I picked some just yesterday that will last me the week. Where’s your car? I’ll walk you to it.”

  “I—well, I—” I stammered. “I’ve been working over at the Sinclairs’, cleaning out the garage for the professor. I’m parked in front of his house. You don’t want to go all the way over there.”

  “No,” he agreed. “I’m about done for the day. Take the basket and bring it back to the shed next time you come.” He held the basket out and raised his eyebrows when I didn’t take it from him right away. “Go on, now. Take it. I can’t hold it here all day. I trust you. What would you want with a dirty, empty basket? Bring it back and I’ll fill it again. If I’m not here, just leave it at the shed. No one will take it.”

  I smiled at the old-fashioned system of trust and gentility. “I’d be delighted,” I said and nearly curtsied.

  His face lit up. “I’m grateful to be able to share. It’s my pleasure. My pleasure, indeed.” He lifted his hat, brushed his hands on his worn trousers, and headed down the path toward the shed and the parking lot beyond.

  Too late, I realized I should have shown him the picture on my phone. I followed after him, hoping to see Santana again before I left.

  When I got to the shed, the older man had left and Santana was locking up. She carried a forest-green backpack heavily loaded with what looked like textbooks.

  “Santana, are you on your way to a class? Can I give you a lift?”

  The girl visibly relaxed and let out a breath. Hoisting the strap of her backpack up on her shoulder, she took a step toward me.

  “Would you mind? I’m headed up to Foothill College. I was going to catch the bus, but I’m running a little late.”

  “Of course I don’t mind. My car’s over in front of Professor Sinclair’s house. I’ll have you there in ten minutes.”

  “Thanks,” she said. “Wednesdays are slow around here. Other days I can get a ride from one of the other volunteers, but Wednesdays I count on cat
ching the bus.”

  I switched the vegetable basket to my other hand, and we walked side by side on the path that led back to the opening in the hedge. Once we’d settled in the car and were on the road, I looked over at Santana, sitting comfortably, but with her hand still tightly wrapped around the strap of her backpack the way she might protect her belongings among strangers on public transportation.

  “What classes are you taking?” I asked, expecting her to mention the general-education classes most kids took to figure out what they were interested in and to prepare for transferring to one of the four-year state schools.

  “Calculus three and physics,” she said. “The professor is so cool. He works at Stanford part of the week and teaches a class or two at the junior college. He says he’ll write me a recommendation for Stanford. I want to do engineering. Maybe aero-astro or biomedical.”

  “Wow,” I said, making the turn onto Foothill Expressway and dodging a car that changed lanes without looking. “I was expecting general-education courses like English or history or something.”

  “I’m taking a vampire-lit course at night, but it’s super-easy—and fun too. The other students are really nice.”

  “I think I know someone else taking that class—Lily Takahashi. Do you know her?”

  “Yeah. Lily, anyway. I don’t know her last name.”

  I remembered that Lily had said there was a girl in the class who was afraid of some guy and that was why they all walked in a group to the parking lot. I wondered if I should mention that to Santana. I didn’t know her very well and asking about an abusive partner was personal. On the other hand, if Santana was trying to get out of an abusive relationship, she might well need some help. She was a young girl with few resources other than the fiercely protective Boots. I forged ahead.

  “Lily said there was someone in the class who was afraid of a stalker or someone like that,” I said, hesitating and waiting for a response.

  Santana stared out the side window, tightened the grip on her backpack, and chewed on a hangnail.