by Kim Smith
“I recognized him, sort of. Could be the same guy. He took off like his tail was on fire, so I guess he sort of recognized me too.”
“That’s a little much for coincidence, Shan.”
“Probably. Maybe he’s been following us around? What if he saw us coming from the police station? What if he thinks we know something about the murder?”
“That could be problematic.”
“Understatement, Dee. Now, Jim wants to get off this case and drop it. He’s not much for all the confrontational stuff. Didn’t like this new development at all.”
I swiped at loose strands of hair, twirling one around a finger. “Figures. Mr. Evasion himself. I mean have you ever watched him in court? He represented my cousin, Clareta one time and—” Something in the way he said evasion, struck a nerve.
“No wonder you don’t like him. But you’ll need to tell me about it another time. Right now, take me back to Sal’s office.”
“What for?” His eyebrows shot up.
“Never mind. It’s personal.”
“You have a change of heart? Gonna get nice with ole Sombrero Sal?”
“Don’t you think it’s time he and I got on the same page and worked together? We could be a good team.”
He made the imaginary motions of locking his mouth and throwing the key out the window. Sometimes he can be a very smart dude.
###
Two hours later, I had a headache throbbing behind my eyes from looking at the stack of pictures Sal had given me. All possible men to match the Escalade driver, but I found nothing. He was none too thrilled when I admitted I had been close enough to touch the vehicle but still got no license number, or anything else.
“I’m sorry,” I told him, for the third time. “I was too shocked to get the plate number. He got away before it occurred to me and my shoulder hurt like hell from being yanked like that.”
He waved a hand like this was of no consequence, but I could see his frustration by the set of his shoulders. I picked up my tote, draped it over my good arm, and eased the metal folding chair under the table. “I think I’m done here. I have a headache and I need a rest. We have a client coming over really soon. Maybe I can come back later.”
He sat heavily in his maroon leather executive chair and it groaned from the abuse. “Fine. If you remember anything else, don’t hesitate to call.”
“I will.”
His phone rang as I moved toward the door. He answered it, and immediately the timbre of his voice changed. I shamelessly eavesdropped as I turned the knob.
“No kidding? I’ll be right there.”
I didn’t turn around. I didn’t have to. He slammed the phone down and scraped his chair back. “Wait, Shannon, wait up.”
“What?”
“Your Escalade man. They just stopped him for speeding down Highway 78. I put a BOLO in place just in case. Good thing, apparently. You can ride with me.”
Although I’d carried on about being left in the backseat previously, when news came of the arrest of the Escalade man, being hidden away suddenly appealed to me. I wanted to remain as anonymous as possible until his business was made clear.
Dwayne wrinkled his nose from his situated position in the car when I told him. “What? Me? Ride along with the PD? Um. No. I think I’ll just go on back to the office and meet our Mrs. Crachett and her kid. Weddings are a lot safer. You call me when you have something to report, okay?”
“I will. Sorry about the client thing,” I said, patting his arm where it rested in the opened window of the car. He didn’t look at me when he took off and I said a silent prayer that he wasn’t too mad.
We arrived at the scene within ten minutes. Two cruisers, blue lights flashing wildly, parked behind the Escalade and we pulled in behind them. They’d placed the driver in the back of one of the cruisers. His head appeared in silhouette. Sal walked over to get the whole story while I huddled in his Taurus.
Eventually, they opened the back door of the cruiser, assisted the guy out, walked him toward me, where the headlights shined in his face, turned him sideways and front-wise, and then returned him to his seat.
When Sal opened my door to inquire, I was definite. “Yep. That’s the guy.”
He took a beat to decipher the situation, his eyes searching my face. “Interesting.”
“What is?”
“That man is Mrs. Denaldo’s brother, David Lunsford.”
He shut the door before I could reply.
###
Later, back at the PD, I ditched Sal, who was swamped with the case, interrogation, and paperwork, and wandered to the evidence area to collect Dwayne’s camera.
Sal told me they had gotten word from Thelma’s family (who showed up to file a missing person report shortly after I left the first time) that her youngest brother was also missing.
David Lunsford drove a white Escalade, which told Sal all he needed to know to put two and two together. In other words, the case was having its strings snipped and tied, and I was, as usual, on the outside looking in. No matter what situation I found myself in lately, I had no way to get the real story because Sal wouldn’t help me out. Not even when my boss had been killed, not even when Dwayne’s friend died.
I called Dwayne, who griped at how long he had been waiting on news. He chortled about how he had handled our client alone; single-handedly booking her wedding. Another successful sales job, again, without me and without my input.
Sometimes my life sucked. And sometimes it really, truly, sucked.
Chapter Ten
Dwayne picked me up at the PD and I filled him in on all the happenings as he drove us back to the office.
“They think David Lunsford will sing like a bird about Thelma’s whereabouts and that will be that.”
“Why don’t you sound happy?”
“Something is being overlooked. I can feel it in my bones. I mean, they will have their chat with him and he may or may not tell them where she is. They may bring her in, but without evidence to prove one of them killed Dan Justice, they will let them go again.”
“Why do you think they don’t have evidence? Cops always have somethin’. So what’s being overlooked?”
“The whys. Why were they hiding out? And more importantly, why were they following us?”
He clamped his lips together and remained mute. I hate when that happens. It usually means he has ideas that are right on the money, but he isn’t going to share them.
###
Back at the office, Dwayne tinkered under Betsy’s hood in attempts to thwart further ailments. I borrowed his car rattling off my need to buy groceries as an excuse. It wasn’t much of a lie. I really did need food in my house.
I drove over to Thelma’s house, figuring she would return to it as soon as the cops finished with her, or as soon as the heat let up, whichever occurred first. Filming the contents of her house consumed me, and that was what I intended to do. Let Jimmy figure out the legalities of it. My conscience would be assuaged at any rate.
If I parked down the street, tiptoed up to the house, and quietly let myself in, then maybe I could nose around and hopefully catch her. And I had come prepared this time. I’d found my bump key, which Dee and I had forgotten about. It scooted out from under the couch when I vacuumed. Right along with the fake dog pile it had been a part of.
Sometimes my genius scares even me.
Dwayne’s trunk sported his camera bag with his camera now nestled safely inside where I had collected it from the PD. He’d been mighty happy about that. The folder with all the info from Jimmy peeked out from the camera bag too, and I removed it to the trunk for safekeeping. I slung the bag over my shoulder like a purse. If anyone happened to be looking, it would appear like one of Thelma’s friends was house sitting.
Of course, if anyone recognized me, I was sunk, but I refused to think that way right now. Like Scarlett O’Hara, I rationalized my motives in strange ways and this was no exception. I’d come here once before looking to film the damn place. Not my fau
lt a murder had occurred.
I swallowed and said a hasty prayer at such flippant disregard for the victim. Poor Dan. God rest his soul. Visions of his body returned to swamp my brain, which would only complicate things. I shook it off, attempted to focus on the job at hand.
I would earn my money or at least give it a supreme effort.
It only took a minute to get the key to work its magic. Dusk sent long shadows stretching across the windows, but once inside, my eyes quickly adjusted to the dimness. I shoved onward, closing the door behind me. Women spend an enormous amount of time in the kitchen so that is where I started.
Thelma’s kitchen only had a small space between sink and stove and fridge. Two people wouldn’t fit in there at the same time. Light oak cabinets and stainless steel sinks gleamed in the half-light. On one wall was a medium-sized buffet filled with wineglasses and miscellaneous dishware. I turned on my camera light, and filmed it all.
The fridge had three shelves and all of them sported covered dishes from meals cooked and leftovers preserved for future use. She obviously planned on eating at home. I was sure they all needed to be tossed. What a waste. My stomach growled in grief.
Wandering through the living room, I appraised a formal living room with white provincial furnishings and built-in bookcases on either side of a nice fireplace. A twinge of jealousy started as I panned the camera, breezed past the living room and went to the hallway.
The first two bedrooms were standard guest room affairs. Hardly even a speck of dust littered the tops of the dressers. Thelma was neat if nothing else. Bric-a-brac, or dust catchers, as my Aunt Tillie called them, sat around everywhere littering the tops of the furniture. I filmed and moved on.
The master bedroom’s appearance produced more interesting fare, one of controlled haste. Clothes were piled on the bed, scattered across the cedar chest, and draped over the dresser. Someone had been packing and had only wanted to take necessities.
Books lay dumped by the side of the bed as though the reader had tossed them off the nightstand in a hunt for something. I set the camera down to get a better look. Down on all fours, I peered under the bed. My efforts netted dust bunnies and a flat plastic under-the-bed box.
Using as little of my finger as I could muster, I pulled it out and tried to pry it open. It didn’t take long to realize this would require at least two fingers, but I didn’t care. I would wipe the prints. Inside, I found mementoes of a wedding including candles, ribbons and cards from the event. Had to be the Denaldo’s. Maybe she’d been looking through them in a twinge of nostalgia. Or maybe she planned an enjoyable bonfire now that the marriage was over.
Setting the box aside, I opened some of the books, picking up bits and pieces, getting a feel for her reading habits. The covers exhibited men and women in throes of ecstasy, obviously contemporary and erotic romances.
Eww. My old teacher read erotica? I tried hard to erase the vision of her reading such works, her eyes glazing over at the spicy parts. Women her age didn’t do that, did they? Then I recalled how she had been discovered cheating on her husband.
She’d made sexy videos. An uncomfortable feeling crawled up my back.
The sound of muffled voices outside the window ended my reverie. I’d been snooping too long. With my heart in my throat, I used my tee shirt hem to wipe where my fingers had been on the box and returned it where it belonged. I also wiped the covers of the books and tried to replace them where I thought they had been.
The voices got louder, at the front door, and then, a ding sounded loudly, like the security alarm alerting the owner of an opened door. A security alarm? Really? Good grief! Thank God it had been off, or I would have been toast.
Adrenaline rushing, I scrambled around the closet and found lots of room to hide. Thelma Denaldo had more shoes in there than the Steel Butterfly. The lowest rack of clothes hung close enough to the ground for me to hide behind and I wasted no time.
The visitors made soft sounds as they proceeded to check each room. The closet door opened and whoever was out there took a quick look around, but stopped just short of coming in. Crazily, I thought about jumping out to ask them who they were looking for, but knew a word from me would get me dead, or at the very least, arrested.
Before long, I found myself silently begging my shaking legs to stop their involuntary dance before they gave me away. The investigating visitors retreated, not quite closing the door all the way. How could they be unaware I stood only a breath away? I would thank my guardian angel later for talking me out of those onions I loved so much.
Waiting a few seconds until it seemed the coast was clear, I eased out from behind the clothes and inched to the closet door. One of the lurkers, suspicious after all, flung it wide open making me take a step back. I lost my footing, and fell butt-first into the clothes rack and all those damn shoes.
I would have been okay except the bracket holding the shelves above my head decided to give way and wooden shelving and boxes fell on top of me, knocking me out colder than a dead seal.
###
When I came to, it was so dark I thought I’d gone blind. Disentangling myself from the mess around me, I discovered my hurt shoulder had been injured again, and halted all movement to hug it and take deep breaths. My head hurt like a thousand bee stings, and there was blood in my mouth.
Not a good thing to wake up to, Wallace.
One handed, I pushed and pulled at shelving and boxes until a bit of illumination showed beneath a box on my legs. With supreme effort, I heaved it to one side. The room beyond glowed from a small lamp on the nightstand.
How long have I been here?
Finally, unburied, I half-crawled, half-dragged my battered body to the doorway of the closet. No sounds. No anything. I peered around. From my vantage point, I would have seen any feet in the room, had there been feet anywhere. But no. None. Nada. Whoever had entered the house was long gone.
Why they didn’t kill me or take me with them to keep my silence I couldn’t say. I suspected it was probably because I didn’t see anything, due to being too startled, then too unconscious. Not much of a threat. They had cleared out in fear of me. Yeah right. More like they could move faster without my dead weight slung over their shoulders.
I yanked on the cord hanging overhead, and blinked in the ensuing brilliance of seventy-five watts. The camera lay underneath a pile of boxes, and I scooped it up before struggling to my feet. If Dwayne had been with me, he’d be disgusted at all the whining and moaning I emitted before rushing out of the house to the car.
My smart-alecky planning had meant parking the car far enough down the street as to not be noticeable. Now, limping and cursing, I despised my smart-alecky planning.
Once in the Toyota, I used my unhurt arm to call Dwayne. He’d been blowing up my phone according to the missed calls listed on the display.
“Wall-ass! What the hell are you doin’?” He sounded positively frantic. “And where the hell are you doin’ it at?”
“Dee, did you get Betsy running?” I tried to turn the key in the ignition but realized my arm was utterly useless.
“Yes, Shannon. It’s fine. We’re both here where you left us. Now, where the hell’re you?”
I could picture him pulling the phone from his ear and looking at it strangely as if the inquisitive look would make me answer with something he wanted to hear. Hated to disappoint him.
“I’m parked on the Denaldo’s street. I’m hurt and I need you.”
“Shit! I’m there.” Dead air.
I didn’t even get to tell him not to speed in my poor old rust bucket.
###
It was 11:30 pm by the time he drove Betsy out of the hospital parking lot. I got home, got meds, and finally quit hurting. Dwayne followed me around, promising to stay the night. He gingerly adjusted a pillow under my arm, and with a worried frown, sat back on his heels. “You gonna be okay?”
“Yeah.” I touched the cut on my face just under my nose. When I’d examined my inju
ries, they amounted to a few cuts and bruises, a bad bump on my head, and a hurt wing. Again.
“You should have let them keep you overnight at the hospital.”
“Why? I’ve had a bump on the head before. It hurts like hell, and gives you a terrible headache, but I’m not going to die. If there was danger of that, they would’ve made me stay.”
“Shit, did you forget about that Richardson woman, or what? No one, not even her, knew she had a bad injury to her noggin. Until she died from it, of course.”
Celebrity news was Dwayne’s thing. He’d kept up with the story about Natasha Richardson that had been talked about on every station for days. He stood and looked around. “I can’t believe you went back over there, Shan. What in hell were you thinkin’? Why didn’t you ask me to go along? And how in hell did you get in anyway?”
Time to fess up. “I used that bump key of mine. You know the one? And I took the camera with me and got a few minutes of footage inside the house. You know, like, the kitchen, living room, and guest bedroom. But when I got to Thelma’s bedroom, I sort of got distracted. Then my attackers came in and I had to worry about staying alive. We still need to get in there and do a proper job of shooting her stuff. I think what I saw is pretty damn important.”
“Did you look at the footage?”
“Not yet.”
“Did you get any shots of the area where they found Justice?”
“No. I didn’t make it that far.”
“Did you have decent light? Did the footage look okay on the monitor?” I imagined him turning into a hungry werewolf, saliva dripping from his drooling lips, a wicked gleam in his eye as he anticipated what I might have brought home.
“It looked fine to me. At least, what I saw in the viewfinder. I know you want the low down but honestly, I just don’t have the answers right now. I’m tired. Can we talk about this later? That nasty stuff they gave me is working, but before I forget, you should get over to your car soon. Get that camera, bag, and folder out of the trunk. I’m going to sleep.”
I closed my eyes in hopes of putting an end to his interrogation.