Detour

by Lorena McCourtney

  Not today, I hoped.

  We debated for a moment and then approached the door. I figured together we were a harmless looking older couple, although I rather doubted anyone would answer Mac’s knock anyway. I most of all didn’t expect that someone to be Ron, but the guy who opened the door fit waitress NancyLou’s description. Medium height, slim build, dark hair, mermaid tattoo on his bare arm. I don’t have to try hard to look little-old-ladyish, but I put some extra effort into it and gave him a grandmotherly smile.

  “We’re looking for a young man who was working at the Hideaway down in Eureka,” Mac said. “We think he rides a bike like that one parked out back.”

  The guy stepped back as if he was going to deny bike ownership and any connection with the Hideaway, so I said, “We seem to be in some trouble, and we just don’t know what to do. We’re hoping maybe he could help us out.”

  He looked us over, hesitated a long moment, and then pulled the door back so we could come inside. I felt a smidgen of guilt for playing the helpless-little-old-lady card, but you work with what you have. He clicked the remote on a TV showing some daytime game show and motioned us to an undersized sofa. He opened the small refrigerator. “Can I get you something to drink? I think we have root beer and Pepsi.”

  All I could see on the refrigerator shelves was a long hunk of salami and cans of Coors and Budweiser, but perhaps if he dug far enough he’d find soft drinks. That looked, however, as if it would take a major excavation, and I shook my head. Mac gave him our names. He didn’t respond with his own name, and Mac finally said, “You are Ron, aren’t you? Ron Sweeney?”

  “This must be about Renée Echol, right?” He sounded resigned.

  “We’re the ones who found Renée’s body out there at Kate’s Kabins. Apparently that puts us under suspicion in her murder.”

  “I suppose NancyLou at the Hideaway gave you my name, didn’t she? Nice lady.” He dropped into a chair across from the sofa. “But I hope she isn’t giving my name out to just anyone who asks. I didn’t think she knew I was here in Orick.”

  Mac didn’t go into how we heard about Orick. “You knew Renée outside of just telling the police she’d been in the Hideaway with a bearded guy?”

  “Well, yeah, sort of.” He squirmed as if the admission made him uncomfortable. “I do a little yard work to pick up extra money now and then, and I met her that way. She was, you know, older, but she was fun, and she liked riding around on my bike with me. She said she was thinking about getting one of her own.”

  “Did she talk about her work?” I asked.

  “Not much. But she was excited about some property she was figuring on buying, although I don’t know what it was or where.”

  “It was that old resort site, Kate’s Kabins. Where we found her body,” Mac said. “She had an option to buy it.”

  “Yeah? We were out there a couple times on the bike, but she never mentioned anything about buying it.”

  “We wonder if she was in partnership with an investor on the purchase because, from what we’ve heard, the ocean frontage made it rather pricey.”

  “You think this investor could have killed her?”

  “We’re at least wondering who he is.” Mac gave him a disarming smile. “Although, to be honest, we wondered about you too, at first. Someone heard a motorcycle going out there, maybe the night she was killed. You have a motorcycle.”

  “Me and how many thousands of other guys?” Ron retorted. “I’m not the greatest guy in the world, I admit that. I’ve outrun the cops a few times on my bike. I got cold feet and walked out on a girl the day before we were supposed to get married. But I’ve sure never killed anyone. What I’m doing right now is trying to hide out from whoever did kill her.”

  “You think the killer is also after you?”

  “A week or so before Renée was killed, I got a phone call right there at the Hideaway. It was some guy telling me to stay away from her. I didn’t take it seriously. Just kind of, you know, blew him off. But when she turned up dead, I figured maybe I’d better cool it for a while. So I came up here to stay with my buddy for a while.”

  “But why would he come after you after she was dead?”

  “When she was first reported dead, I figured the guy who called me had probably done it. So I wanted to do the right thing and went to the cops about seeing her in the Hideaway with that guy, thinking maybe it was him. But they didn’t arrest anyone, so then I got to thinking, maybe, whoever he was, he was still on the loose and he’d decide to come after me next. Or maybe he didn’t kill her, but he thought I did, and was mad enough about it to take me down. I had no idea what kind of psycho I might be dealing with, and I don’t have any ambitions toward being a dead hero.”

  A rather convoluted story, but the possibilities had obviously scared him enough to put him into hiding. “But you don’t know who the caller was?”

  “I figure it must have been the guy who was in the Hideaway with Renée or her ex-husband.”

  The ex-husband again! Mac and I exchanged a surreptitious glance. “Did you ever meet the ex-husband?”

  Ron shook his head. “I think Renée was careful we didn’t meet. She said he had a temper like a bull with porcupine quills stuck in his butt, but I think she still had a thing for him. Or maybe she was afraid of him. I dunno.”

  Busy woman. When did she have time to sell real estate, with all the men in her life?

  “An ex-con, isn’t he?” Mac asked. “Some connection with drugs?”

  “He might have been involved with drugs, all right, but what he got sent up for was stealing a safe. He and a buddy blew out the back side of a building and hauled the safe out with a forklift. A rental forklift! Can you imagine that? Took guts, but a little short on brains, know what I mean? That’s how they got him, I think, tracking down the rental. Renée didn’t even know he was out of prison until he showed up at her house one day.”

  “Does he have a parole officer? Or a job?” I asked.

  “Beats me. I think he was staying with a buddy somewhere around McKinleyville. I know he rides a Harley. I saw it there at Renée’s house a couple times. An older Screamin’ Eagle Softail that he’d stashed somewhere before he went to prison. A real classic.” Ron might be wary of the ex-husband, but he definitely admired his bike.

  And the ex-husband was another motorcycle-ish guy, now living in McKinleyville. That was another small town between the dinosaur park and Eureka. The local airport was located there. So now we were back to Duke having heard a motorcycle on the road going out to Kate’s Kabins.

  “What’s the ex-husband’s name?” Mac asked.

  “Ric. Richard, I think, but Renée said he always went by Ric.”

  “Could you give us a description of him?”

  “Like I said, I never actually met him, and the only time I accidentally saw him up close he was wearing a helmet and motorcycle leathers.”

  “Do you think he could have killed Renée?” I asked.

  “I think she was maybe afraid of him, but, like I said, she still seemed to have a thing for him.”

  “Do you think he’s still around McKinleyville?” Mac asked.

  “I don’t know. And I’m not about to go digging around to find out.” With a sharp glance between us, as if he suspected we might have digging in mind, he added, “You might think twice about doing it too.”

  “Why didn’t you just pick up and leave the area instead of coming up here to Orick?” Mac asked.

  “At first I thought they’d figure out right away who killed Renée, probably her ex or that guy I saw her with in the Hideaway, and I wouldn’t have to hide out for long. I thought I could just keep a, you know, low profile until they arrested the killer and then I’d go back to regular life.”

  “No one around Orick seems aware of your presence,” Mac assured him.

  “I don’t leave the trailer much, and I sure don’t go hoggin’ around on the bike. But if you found me so ea
sy, someone else could too. Someone a lot more dangerous.”

  “We could be dangerous, but you let us in,” I protested.

  Ron laughed. “My grandma might be dangerous too. She might smother you in cookies or drown you in hot cocoa. Anyway, I’m thinking what I’ll do now is what my little brother used to say. Make like a missile and blast off.”

  Mac stood up and I followed his move. “We certainly thank you for talking to us. You’ve been very helpful. And we’ll keep your warning about staying away from Renée’s ex-husband in mind.”

  ***

  We picked up another local newspaper on the way back to the motorhome. I gave a little gasp when I saw the photo of two items on an inside page. One was a gun, the other a nondescript cap. No printing or emblem identified the cap, but I’d know that grease stain on the visor anywhere. The stain had never been more than an unidentifiable blob to Mac, but I’d always seen the unmistakable shape of Donald Trump’s head in it.

  “That’s your cap!”

  Mac stopped the pickup at the edge of the convenience store’s parking area. He studied the photo with me. “Yeah, I guess it is. I thought I’d just misplaced it, but I must have lost it in the swamp.”

  We read the article together. A K-9 dog and handler working the scene of the murder had found the cap among reeds at the edge of the swamp, the gun later found in the water nearby. Tests were currently underway to determine if the gun was the one used in the murder. Already determined was the fact that it was an older, unregistered weapon, ownership unknown. I was relieved they didn’t identify it as a Glock. We’d never actually seen Duke’s weapon since the murder.

  “I guess I’d better go in and identify the cap they found as mine.”

  “And tell them we don’t know anything about the gun.”

  “I wonder if they’ll believe that.” Mac looked at the newspaper photo again.

  The long-barreled gun didn’t look as if it had been in the water long. It wasn’t rusty or corroded. The make, Ruger, was written in the metal on one side, and something was scratched on the handle.

  “It looks like the kind of gun an old geezer like me would own.”

  Yes, it did. And those scratches looked like initials. MM.

  MAC

  It was getting late by then, and we decided to wait until the following day to go to the sheriff’s office about the cap. I kept wondering, if a gun is unregistered, how do you prove it isn’t yours? And if it was the gun that killed Renée . . .

  We met Brian at the dinosaur park gate at 10:00 the next morning, Tuesday. I had my camera, of course. Ivy had a notebook and a couple of pens. We were both wearing old jeans, hoodies, gloves, and rubber boots.

  “It’s a pretty good climb,” Brian said. He carried a new-looking shovel and was wearing jeans too, as if he were prepared for digging. But I was apparently mistaken about his doing any digging because he handed the shovel to me before he unlocked the gate.

  “Kathy thought you should have this in case you want to dig up treasure or bodies or anything. It’s never been used. She bought it thinking I was going to dig up a garden space for her.” His smile said, Think again, Kathy.

  The long-handled shovel looked big enough to disinter a dinosaur. I told Brian to thank Kathy for her thoughtfulness in sending it along.

  We followed the winding path upward through the park, Brian puffing before we’d gone far. At the Tex the Rex figure, which was quite imposing even with a few teeth missing, he climbed over the picket fence. I followed and then helped Ivy over too. We climbed farther up the hill, struggling through brush and blackberry vines.

  Brian couldn’t immediately lead us to the old hole Duke had dug. We went up and down and back and forth on the hillside, and he had to stop and rest several times, once putting a hand on his heart. I remembered Ivy saying she’d seen a lineup of pill bottles on their kitchen counter, and I guessed now that they were Brian’s. She picked up a few interesting rocks along the way. Our movements stirred up forest debris underfoot, and twice she went into sneezing spells.

  Once, while he was resting, Ivy and I climbed higher and reached the top of the hill where the far side ended in a cliff. Not really a high cliff, maybe eighteen or twenty feet, but below lay a wicked jumble of sharp rocks. We could also see the burned remains of Kate’s Kabins and the swamp off to the south. Going back down the hill, we caught up with Brian again and then the old saber-toothed tiger Duke had told us about, a rather formidable encounter when you’re not expecting it. I heard something in the brush. I paused and spotted a flicker of movement between heavy branches.

  “What is it?” Ivy whispered.

  Ghost goat? Live goat? Cougar? The shovel wasn’t much defense, but I held it out in front of me and stepped between the noise and Ivy. Silence followed, but not exactly a comforting silence. More like a waiting-to-pounce silence. After a long moment, I whacked the shovel against a nearby tree trunk, then hit it twice more, hard, the impact vibrating up my arm and rattling my teeth. Good thing I still have my own teeth. False ones might have flown through the air like some alien denture attack.

  A larger crashing noise followed my whacks, but now it was moving away from us. I lowered the shovel.

  “You scared it off,” Ivy said.

  “Our hero.” Brian smiled, but his tone was more mocking than appreciative. “Must have been a scared deer or goat. A cougar is the only thing really dangerous out here, and they don’t make any noise when they sneak up on you.”

  We struggled around in the brush for several more minutes, Brian getting ahead of us at some point. Ivy and I both stopped short when we heard a crash louder than anything before. A blast of angry profanities followed. Definitely not a ghost goat. We pushed through a wall of rough branches, and there he was.

  Brian had found the hole. Brian was in the hole. Floundering like a beached fish. Ivy winced at a second blast of profanity.

  “Don’t just stand there!” Brian yelled. “Help me get out of here!”

  I dropped the shovel and grabbed his hand. With his feet clambering on the root-tangled side of the hole and Ivy helping by grabbing a fistful of jacket, he finally scrambled up to solid ground. Below him, muddy water puddled the bottom of a still-impressive hole. Brian wasn’t as wet and muddy as I’d been after my dip in the swamp, but he was even madder. He glared as if he’d like to shove us both in the hole, apparently blaming us for his condition.

  “I’ve had it,” he muttered and started down the hillside. “This is a waste of time.” He stumbled over a protruding stone, picked it up, and slammed it back to the ground. I won’t accuse him of targeting my foot, but a half inch closer and I’d have toe troubles.

  “I need to get some photos,” I said.

  He flapped a hand toward the hole. “Help yourself.”

  It’s rather difficult to stomp down a steep hillside, but Brian managed to do it. On a comparative scale, I’d say he was less noisy than a dinosaur but considerably louder than a ghost goat.

  I wished I’d taken photos while Brian was still in the hole, but we made do with me clambering down into the hole and Ivy snapping several shots of me to show depth and width of the excavation.

  I’m embarrassed to admit we kind of lost our way going back down the hill and floundered around in bushes and skunk cabbage for some time before we finally found the trail again. Closer to the gate, I spotted a vehicle parked out by the triceratops. A car with a familiar word and emblem blazed on the side, a familiar officer standing beside it.

  I had that cannonball-in-the-belly feeling that I knew who he was looking for.

  Chapter 13

  MAC

  Deputy Hardishan looked our way as I closed the gate behind us.

  Brian wasn’t exactly my idea of an exemplary hero figure worthy of imitating, but this looked like a good time to apply his system of preemptive action. I hurried over to the deputy.

  “Glad you’re here! We were planning to come in to se
e you today. That cap in the picture in the newspaper? It’s mine. I lost it when I fell in the swamp out there.”

  “I remember you were covered with mud,” the deputy agreed. “But you didn’t mention anything about losing a cap or a gun in the swamp.”

  I noted he’d tied the gun and cap together, and I hastened to untie them. “In the general confusion of falling in the swamp and finding the body, I didn’t even realize I’d lost the cap. But I don’t know anything about the gun. That isn’t ours. We’ve never had a gun.”

  Deputy Hardishan didn’t say anything more about the gun, but his skeptical look didn’t offer any assurance that he believed me. He glanced at the jungled hillside behind us, and I uneasily wondered if he was thinking we may have buried other incriminating evidence there.

  I offered a hasty explanation. “I’m doing another article on the treasure that’s supposedly buried somewhere in there.”

  “Dead bodies are buried there too, according to the old tales. So, if you find any, let us know.” He returned to the more important current situation. “But if you’re looking to get the cap back, it’s not going to happen anytime soon.”

  “You consider it evidence?” Ivy asked. That was exactly what they considered it, of course, although the deputy just raised his eyebrows and didn’t answer Ivy’s question. She tried another one. “Have there been any more reports of Renée being seen after the waiter saw her in the restaurant?”

  The door to Brian and Kathy’s apartment suddenly opened and Brian stepped out. Apparently we’d wandered on the hillside long enough for him to do a quick shower and change of clothing. He was in slacks and jacket now, headed for the Porsche. He stopped short when he saw Deputy Hardishan, then continued on toward the car in what I saw as a determinedly casual saunter.