Detour

by Lorena McCourtney

  “You mean we have to sit right here all day waiting for you?”

  “No, I mean you can’t pick up and leave the area.”

  That sounded as if he suspected we might take off to avoid talking to him. I didn’t like his imperious-sounding order that we couldn’t leave the area.

  Because we could pick up and leave. No matter how many times in books and movies, and maybe in real life, people are told they can’t leave, it isn’t so. Info courtesy of a police officer friend back in Missouri, now with the FBI. Law enforcement might not like it if you left. Your leaving might frustrate and anger them. They might make it sound as if you couldn’t leave, as Deputy Hardishan was doing. But they can’t keep you from leaving unless you’re actually under arrest. Which Deputy Hardishan surely knew.

  Then he added, “Whether you realize it or not, you may have vital information. Your cooperation is important to us, and we appreciate any help you can give us.”

  Okay, I’d consider this a request rather than a high-handed order to keep us from disappearing. “We want to cooperate and help any way we can. We were planning to leave this evening, but we’ll stay to talk to you tomorrow. Thanks for calling.”

  We discussed whether we should go over and tell Sheila about Renée’s murder but hadn’t yet decided if we should do so when someone knocked on the door.

  “Everything okay out here?” Sheila asked.

  It was almost dark by now, but the oblong of light from the open door illuminated Sheila’s hooded plastic rain jacket over flowered leggings and knee-high rubber boots, also flowered. She looked as if she’d just sprouted from the ground in full bloom. I didn’t intend to invite her in. I liked Sheila fine, but I felt as if I’d run a marathon and then been pulled through a knothole, and I knew Mac felt the same or worse. Finding a dead body will do that to you, and he’d had the additional ignominy of a fall in the swamp. But before I could think of some polite excuse to keep her out, she’d scooted inside with the expertise of a shyster salesman. Mac, who apparently felt even less like chatting with Sheila than I did, instantly disappeared into the bedroom.

  “I saw you out there hosing Mac down.”

  Her playful smile startled me. She’d been watching? Now I was extra glad I’d yanked Mac inside before he went into skinny-dipping mode.

  A little coyly she added, “Fun and games among the newlyweds? I saw that pile of wet clothes outside, his and yours. I remember once when Stan and I were first married—”

  I didn’t want to picture whatever Sheila might be remembering. Or what she was imagining now. “Mac fell in a swamp out at the old Kate’s Kabins place,” I said hastily. “He was covered with mud.”

  “What were you doing out there?”

  “Just looking around.”

  “Mac falling in the swamp was what brought all the police cars? I saw them heading out that way with sirens screaming when I came home from town. I’ve been thinking I should run over and check on Duke. I worry about him. Sometimes he seems so . . . naïve and defenseless.”

  Although he seemed capable enough at avoiding marriage.

  “The police came because we called nine-one-one. Not about Mac falling in the swamp. We found Renée Echol’s body in one of the old burned-out cabins.”

  “You found Renée’s body?” Sheila gasped. Her hand touched her throat. “You mean she’s dead?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “What did you see? I mean, did she just look dead? Or did you feel for a pulse or do that breathing test like I’ve seen on TV? You know, where you hold a mirror under the person’s nose to see if it fogs up? I wonder, does that really work?”

  The rush of questions sounded almost voyeuristic, like the gawking people who gather at the scene of an accident, so I may have been a little sharp with my response. “She had what looked like a gunshot hole in her chest.”

  “How ghastly.” Sheila patted her own chest and breathed deeply, as if to see if she still could. “Are you saying she took her own life?”

  I was startled. That thought hadn’t even occurred to me. For one thing, the gun would have been right there if she’d killed herself, wouldn’t it? Although it could have been there and we just hadn’t noticed it. But shooting yourself in the chest . . .

  “The police will figure it out,” I said. “We’ll be leaving as soon as an officer comes to interview us tomorrow.”

  She ignored my statement about leaving and dropped to the sofa. “Oh, this is so . . . so sad, isn’t it? I didn’t like her. You know that. What she did to my friend Lexie ended our friendship. We had words. She was not an ethical person either in business or personal life. But to kill herself, and in such a lonely, forsaken place . . .”

  “You think she had some reason to kill herself?”

  “Well, no, not necessarily.” Sheila’s slump on the sofa straightened. “It was just my first thought, considering the awful situation she was in with Brian. Maybe he broke up with her, and she’d decided she couldn’t go on living without him. Although that seems a little melodramatic, doesn’t it?”

  “She’d just gotten an option to buy that old Kate’s Kabins property. You wouldn’t think she’d do that if she was in a mood to kill herself.”

  “Maybe it wasn’t really planned. Maybe she was giving Brian the drama-queen treatment, threatening to do it. You know, waving a gun around and then making a mistake and accidentally doing it.”

  “At a burned-out old cabin?”

  Then, as if my statement about Renée buying the property just got through to her, her hand dropped from her throat and her tone went inquisitive. “Renée was buying that old place? What in the world for? How did you find out about that?”

  “We stopped to inquire about the property at a real estate agency.”

  Sheila didn’t ask why we’d made the inquiry. Something else apparently interested her more. “I wonder where she was getting the money.”

  I also hadn’t thought about that, but it was an interesting question. From what the real estate man had said, the ocean-front property, in spite of its condition, was worth a bundle.

  “I got the impression she was fairly well off. I noticed she was wearing Jimmy Choo shoes.”

  “Oh, that.” Sheila waved a dismissive hand. “She bought name-brand stuff at some cheapie site for secondhand clothes and shoes on the internet. Though I doubt if some of the big-name items she bought were even genuine. That’s where she got that Coach bag she carried.”

  I hadn’t seen any bag with her body. “How do you know that?”

  “Like I told you before, we were friends way back when.” This time it was a shrug that dismissed that old-friends era. She squinted into space. “Maybe she was buying the property for someone who didn’t want his name known.”

  “Why would she do that?”

  “I know it’s not polite to speak ill of the dead, but Renée was sneaky. A real hustler. A wheeler and dealer, not necessarily on the up-and-up. Maybe she’d gotten some investor to put up the money and they had some scheme going. Or maybe she was trying to put something over on an investor.”

  Considering her hidden affair with Brian, Renée apparently did have a sneaky and/or scheming side. Could an investor be the Unknown Man Mac and I had contemplated? Or could it be Brian himself? He apparently had some money.

  In what sounded like something of an afterthought she added, “Is there anything I can do?”

  “I don’t think so. Going over to see Duke might be a good idea. All the police cars going by might upset him. His pickup was gone when we drove by there a couple of days ago, but I think it’s back now.”

  Sheila looked surprised and a bit annoyed. “I didn’t know he’d gone anywhere by himself. I wonder where he went?”

  Obviously not somewhere with her. Maybe he did have another girlfriend or had gone looking for a new one? I didn’t mention that possibility and just repeated what I’d said, that checking on him would be a good idea.
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  “I’ll do that right now. I wonder if Brian and Kathy know about Renée.” She shuffled her flower-booted feet and gave me a sideways look. “Of course, if Renée didn’t kill herself . . .”

  Her voice trailed off, but that sly look suggested she was thinking what had already thundered into my mind like a drum roll. If Renée hadn’t killed herself, Brian or Kathy, or the two of them together, might already know she was dead because one of them had pulled the trigger. I thought again about how edgy Kathy had been when Magnolia and I went over to say goodbye.

  None of your business, Mrs. MacPherson, I reminded myself firmly. Non-involvement, remember?

  Maybe I’d better jot that on the palm of my hand.

  MAC

  Sheila’s SUV pulled out of the driveway a few minutes later. Ivy stood at the window and watched her go. BoBandy jumped up to watch with her. He’s always interested in whatever Ivy is doing.

  “What are you thinking?” I asked.

  “I guess I’m thinking about Sheila’s ‘run-in’ with Renée about her friend’s property. She’d said that Renée threatened to retaliate by getting her in trouble with county authorities about her garage sales. That it was really a business and needed a business license or permits or something.”

  “You’re thinking Sheila could have had something to do with Renée’s demise, then?”

  “Renée’s threats surely weren’t enough to make Sheila resort to murder. I was just, you know, musing. Sheila may have drama-queen tendencies, and she seems like something of a pushy busybody, but she hardly seems like a murdering-type person.”

  She hesitated momentarily after saying that. We both knew she’d run into other killers who hadn’t seemed like “murdering-type” people.

  “She seemed quite surprised when I told her about finding Renée’s body.” Ivy tapped the arm of the sofa. “But was she really surprised?”

  Interesting point. But not something that involved us.

  “I’m sure the investigation into Renée’s death will turn up Sheila’s clash with her,” I said. “Apparently several people witnessed the altercation.”

  “So we’ll be on our way as soon as we talk to the deputy tomorrow.”

  Right. Non-involvement.

  ***

  The next day—in that abrupt way the coast does weather changes—turned bright and sunny. I hoped the deputy wouldn’t be long in coming. The open road called, and I itched to answer. Ivy spent the morning in Sheila’s laundry room washing and drying clothes that were still wet from yesterday. I helped her fold and carry the dry load back to the motorhome. She said Sheila had told her Duke was fine when she went over to see him but shocked about a death out at the cove, of course.

  “Did he know Renée?” I asked.

  “Sheila said Renée had represented the company that tried to buy the dinosaur park a couple years ago so they could put together a larger property for a resort. According to Sheila, Renée really tried to bulldoze Duke into the deal. Renée hinted to him that the state might be unhappy about some safety aspects of the dinosaur park unless some expensive improvements were made.”

  “A threat that if he didn’t sell, she’d tell the authorities about safety problems, which might force a shutdown of the park. Rather like that I’m-gonna-tell-on-you threat she made to Sheila about her yard sales,” I said.

  “Right. So Duke’s feelings toward Renée probably weren’t of the warm, fuzzy variety.”

  “Did Duke tell her where he’d been, off driving by himself?” I asked.

  “She said he told her he’d had a ‘hankering’ for pancakes at McDonald’s, so he went off to get them.” Ivy paused. “I had the impression she didn’t necessarily believe him. But they do serve breakfast all day now, you know.”

  No, I didn’t know. Sometimes we like pancakes for supper. Actually, pancakes at McDonald’s sounded like a good idea. Maybe we should stop when we went through town on our way south and get some.

  I went outside and checked the engine oil and radiators on both the motorhome and pickup so we’d be ready to go and took BoBandy for a walk. Koop came along. By noon the deputy still hadn’t arrived.

  Sheila had the garage open for her yard sale, and various customers came and went. I saw one carrying out a lamp and a waffle iron, and Sheila herself carried a bulky old TV out to a pickup for an older woman. All her bicycling and jogging apparently kept her in strong shape. After lunch we went over and looked around. She had the garage efficiently set up with shelves and counters and an old-fashioned cash register. It did look like an ongoing business, not a few-times-a-year, yard-sale thing. Ivy bought a pocketknife, and I bought a cap with a whale embroidered over the visor. I seemed to have misplaced the cap I usually wore.

  I’ve never been a fan of incense, but the garage had a pleasantly spicy scent that came from a stick Sheila was burning on a little stand. She had an oversized cup filled with sticks of incense of various scents. Twenty-five cents each.

  It wasn’t all customers buying stuff. Some guy came in with some lures, and Sheila bought a whole tackle box full of fishing gear from him. He asked about renting the little apartment over her garage, but she said the refrigerator wasn’t working and she’d have to get a new one before she rented it again. I hadn’t realized there were living quarters above the garage, but I saw now that there was a stairway inside the garage.

  Afterward Ivy texted Sandy thanks for all the information she’d sent us. I got a text from the magazine editor approving the article and photos, no revisions needed. Great. We were good to go. I kept looking at my watch.

  About 5:00, without calling ahead, the deputy finally showed up. He pulled around Sheila’s double-wide and parked beside the pickup. I saw him take time to jot down the motorhome license plate number we couldn’t remember yesterday.

  “Sorry to be so late,” he said when I opened the door before he knocked. He looked a little rumpled, and some blobs of mud clung to his uniform. A strong aroma, a smell I remembered from up-close experience with the swamp, also came with him.

  By now clouds and a gusty wind scented by the sea had moved in. When he came inside, he looked around in a way that, if he weren’t a law officer, might make me think he was, in old detective-novel terms, “casing the joint.” A moment later I realized he had something else in mind.

  “I need to interview you separately,” he said. Separate isn’t all that easy in a motorhome, as he was obviously noticing. He made a quick decision. “One of you can come out to the car with me.” He didn’t ask who wanted to go first. He pointed at Ivy. “You.”

  IVY

  We went to the car. There was wire mesh between the front and back seats. When Deputy Hardishan opened the passenger’s side door for me, I stopped short, hit with a rank aroma of swamp plus something else.

  “The vehicle used by our K-9 unit broke down this morning,” the deputy said. “We had to use this one instead.”

  Ah, that was it. The memorable scent of wet dog. “You had a dog working the crime scene?”

  I thought for a moment he was actually going to explain, but all he finally did was give one of those generic non-explanations that can be used to answer anything from why a mechanic is pulling the innards out of your car to why the bank is charging you some exorbitant new fee. “Standard procedure.”

  “Did the K-9 find anything useful?”

  I didn’t get an answer, of course. Deputy Hardishan closed the door, circled the vehicle, and slid in on the driver’s side.

  The interview started with routine questions. Full name, age, residence, occupation. I gave Mac’s son’s address in Montana as a mailing address. He’d noted that our pickup and motorhome weren’t licensed in the same state. I explained our having purchased the motorhome only recently, which then led to the one-month state of our marriage.

  That didn’t bring congratulations, but it seemed to interest him. He had questions about how long I’d known Mac and what we’d both do
ne earlier in our lives.

  “I was a librarian for many years before my retirement. You can ask Mac what he did in his younger years.”

  “I’d like to know what you know about Mr. MacPherson’s past. What he’s told you.”

  I peered at the deputy in the relatively dim light of the police car. Was he trying to catch us giving different versions of our lives? Why would that matter? The worst I could say about Mac was that he had a motorcycle tattoo with a shady past, and I saw no point in mentioning that. If they were so interested, I figured they could do background checks on us. If they hadn’t already done so.

  Finally he got around to questions about our finding the body. Why were we looking around in the burned cabins? Had we been there before? What time did we get there? Had we known Renée Echol before finding her body? How did we know she was buying the property? Had we talked to her on the phone? I tried to sneak in a couple of questions of my own as I answered his: Was Renée killed in the cabin or her body brought there from somewhere else? How long had she been dead? Did they know who’d been trying to call her on the cell phone at the time I found the body?

  I might as well have been asking questions of the mud blobs on his shirt, for all the response I got. His questions kept going. Did we own a gun?

  “No. I sometimes think we should carry one when we’re on the road, but so far we haven’t done it.”

  Where had we been during the three days preceding finding the body?

  Three days? Did that mean Renée’s body had already been autopsied and a tentative time of death established? Or was he just covering a general time period around a possible time of death?

  “We had friends visiting and we spent most of two days looking around with them.”

  “Did you or Mr. MacPherson go anywhere by yourself during the time your friends were here or after they left?”

  “Mac went to the convenience store over on the highway to pick up a newspaper and toilet tissue. We have to buy a special kind. Regular tissue can clog up motorhome tanks.”