Ding Dong Dead

by Deb Baker

  No. She didn’t buy into the bodyguard idea. Maybe gullible Daisy believed in Jerome, but Gretchen didn’t. He’d scared her from the very beginning with his sneaky ways and cold eyes.

  “The cops have your mother,” Daisy said.

  “She’s the main witness.”

  “They took her in.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “My friends keep me informed. I’ll get back to you when I know more. In the meantime, be careful.”

  Daisy disconnected, leaving Gretchen confused about many things. Daisy might sound more lucid these days, but she was clearly still paranoid and delusional.

  Then she remembered Andy. She had forgotten to warn Daisy to stay away from him, to stop assisting him. Not that it mattered any longer.

  The police must have needed Caroline’s statement at the police station. She’d be working her way through bureaucratic red tape, trying to explain the entire story front to back. But why hadn’t Caroline called Gretchen to let her know?

  Maybe her mother hadn’t wanted to put her through hours of tedium at the police station. Or Matt had arrived on the scene and had lost his sense of humor. Or she wanted to give Gretchen enough time to interview Julie without a battalion of law enforcement officers arriving and scaring the cop-phobic woman away.

  But Julie hadn’t held up her end. Where was she? Why hadn’t she called?

  Oh jeez.

  A quick glance at the phone showed that the phone was now dead.

  Gretchen was stranded at the banquet hall without a phone or transportation.

  What if, a big if, Daisy was correct about Jerome? Impossible. He had come inside the museum with a knife, and he would have killed them if he’d been given the chance.

  No, they couldn’t have been wrong about Jerome.

  She had time right now to think about the killings, to go over everything that had transpired. She selected one of Bonnie’s teddy bears from the stage display. It had button-shaped eyes, plush faux fur, and a white crocheted collar with a pink bow. Gretchen made herself comfortable in the stage chair with the teddy bear in her lap and stared at the large Barbie doll.

  Good thing she had locked the front door.

  At least she’d done something right.

  Eventually they would come looking for her. She’d stay right where she was until that happened.

  44

  Andy Thomasia is attempting to learn the ways of the street people, trying to blend in, to be cautious of blind alleys-and suspicious of everyone he meets. He has turned his hours of wakefulness around, sleeping through the day in one of Nacho’s safe places, roaming the streets at night. He only has to do this for two days, he repeatedly tells himself.

  Time’s almost up.

  After Gretchen left him sitting in her car in the parking lot, running away as though she had something to hide, he’d searched the car. He took her cell phone, turning it off to save on power. He scooped up quarters from the ashtray and put them in his pocket to use for bus tickets. He couldn’t follow the women once they drove away in the cab, but he would use the Phoenix transportation system to search some of the places they may have gone.

  He wants information from them, whatever they might have. Why would Gretchen run unless someone has turned them against him, convinced the Birches that he is guilty? Were they judging him on old evidence or on new?

  He takes a bus toward the coffee shop where he first met Caroline, thinking about the woman from his past. The only thing different about Caroline since he saw her years ago is the color of her hair. And the distrustful daughter. The bus continues past the museum, where he observes a police officer getting into a squad car. What’s going on there?

  A few blocks later, Andy steps down from the bus. He strolls along the crosswalk toward the banquet hall. Good thing Caroline had mentioned it or he wouldn’t have known where to look next.

  The museum is off-limits if the cops are hanging around, that’s obvious. He wonders what might have occurred there, but he doesn’t dwell on it for long.

  Andy leans against the entrance and peers inside through a door pane. A tiny bit of light shines down the hall, which could be anybody or nobody. But Caroline and Gretchen might be inside.

  If they aren’t, he’ll pass the morning off the street, waiting for them. Sunday, Gretchen had said. She would turn him in on Sunday. He’ll stay inside and call Caroline’s cell from the one he took from Gretchen’s car. When the time is right.

  If they are inside, he’ll deal with them.

  Locks. Andy shakes his head. Not good for squat. A lock is guaranteed to give you a false sense of security. All he needs for this one is a paper clip and a screwdriver, but he has the whole lock-picking shebang. He might as well use them, get in the fastest way. He removes a tool from his pocket and does a visual sweep up and down the sidewalk and street. No one notices the bum by the door.

  Andy rakes the lock by inserting a pick into the keyhole. Then he pulls it out quickly, hearing the click of the pins. Next he turns the plug with a tension wrench and grins with satisfaction.

  That’s all it takes. He’s inside.

  45

  Gretchen finished off another cup of coffee and started a fresh pot. Nothing like caffeine to get her mind working in full throttle. She’d gone over the past week’s events, recalling as many little nuances as possible, noting anything and everything unusual, which turned out to be most of it. Her aunt Gertie had been wise with her advice. Any time her instincts had set off an alarm in her head, any time she thought connections weren’t logical, she made another mental note.

  She wanted to prove without a doubt that Jerome was a killer. Could she work through events and verify it by eliminating some of the other suspects?

  But the task got too large. Her head couldn’t hold it all, especially after the long sleepless night. She went to pen and paper, using her newly acquired family tree-building skills to form branches for murder suspects.

  She began one limb of the tree by writing in names of the attorney and the newest trust beneficiary: Dean McNalty and Trudy Fernwich. But Gretchen had few observations to work with. A woman she’d never met who wanted to remain anonymous had hired an attorney to keep her identity secret and to make the museum happen.

  If Dean McNalty wanted to eliminate the Swilling trust beneficiaries, he would have killed Trudy Fernwich, not Allison Thomasia.

  Trudy Fernwich might have killed Allison, but Caroline had also been attacked. Would the Fernwich woman have offered the doll club the opportunity to convert the house only to turn around and try to kill them? Not likely.

  She crossed off McNalty and Fernwich.

  Jerome had a switchblade and a bad attitude. He was her first pick. But Daisy didn’t think he’d done anything wrong, and Daisy wasn’t easily fooled. She also had that unexplained networking thing going on. Could their drums beat out the name of the real killer if the homeless community needed to know? Gretchen wouldn’t be surprised.

  Then she remembered her mother’s comment about Jerome. She had seen him at the accident, speaking with the homeless. His presence established evidence against him, suggesting that he was following Caroline. It could also be the basis for his innocence, if Daisy was correct about his role as protector.

  Next, Gretchen wrote down the names of the doll club members, but she quickly eliminated them. After all, they were her friends. They were working hard to make the fundraiser a success.

  Her pen wavered above Julie’s name. Julie Wicker was the peacemaker of the group, running interference between the director and the cast, always having a kind word to say. So why hadn’t Julie met her as she said she would? What did she know? Gretchen prayed that Julie hadn’t been murdered for what she knew. She didn’t want the reason to take Julie’s name off of the list to be because she’d been killed.

  What about Andy? He didn’t have an alibi, and he’d left identification at the cemetery like a calling card. And he and his wife were estranged when she died.r />
  Andy and Jerome were tied for first place.

  But Andy hadn’t attacked her with a weapon as Jerome had. Thinking back on the encounter, Jerome hadn’t exactly attacked them. He hadn’t even put up much resistance. Gretchen’s adrenaline had been pumping hard at the time. Now she wondered if her mother and she had initiated the assault.

  The more she thought, the more confused she became.

  While she was at it, she might as well add the ghost to the murder tree she was creating. What if the apparition held a grudge against the family and would haunt them forever, killing descendants in bloody revenge? Gretchen didn’t write that down. It was too far out in Ninaland for her.

  Gretchen left the coffee pot to work its magic brew and returned to the comfort of the stage chair.

  That’s when she heard a soft click coming from down the hall.

  46

  Gretchen ducked into the break room and pressed her body up behind the door, one eye staring out from the crack. Heavy footsteps slowly approached.

  A cold blast of intuition had propelled Gretchen out of the chair and off the stage, telling her to seek shelter. Hurry. She reacted to the perceived threat and ran, now feeling slightly foolish for hiding behind a door.

  She’d lost all perspective. She was running scared instead of standing and fighting. Yet she wasn’t about to come out without knowing who was inside the room.

  Through the crack in the door, she watched and waited. Footsteps paused. She flattened herself further. Whoever was inside the building was as wary as she.

  The footsteps continued forward until he came into view.

  Andy Thomasia!

  The man had a way of working with locks that frightened her. What was wrong with him that he couldn’t respect a locked door? He was carrying a weapon of some sort, holding it in his right hand as though he expected to use it soon.

  The silence was so absolute, Gretchen was sure he’d hear her if she swallowed or blinked. She froze, motionless like the six-foot Barbie on the stage that had caught his attention. She had a moment to think of her next move while he stepped up on the stage and walked around the enormous doll.

  She didn’t have anything to protect herself with. Where was her pepper spray? Gretchen couldn’t remember what she’d done with it after spraying Jerome.

  Daisy had been right about Jerome. Now that she was locked in a deserted building with the murdered woman’s husband, she believed Daisy.

  Too late.

  Think! How am I going to escape?

  Andy’s gaze found the teddy bear lying on the floor in front of the chair that Gretchen had so hastily abandoned. He swung his head toward the break room, alert again, hunting for sound or motion. He cocked his head, his eyes sweeping along the floor from the stage to the door where Gretchen hid.

  She pressed against the wall.

  His eyes followed the crack in the door from the bottom up. He looked sinister, gaunt and menacing.

  Their eyes locked.

  “Don’t come down from the stage,” Gretchen said. “Or I’ll shoot.”

  “You’re the exact image of your mother. Feisty, passionate.” Andy moved fluidly down the stage steps. “Impulsive.”

  “I mean it. Stop.”

  “You don’t have a gun.”

  “I do.”

  “Show me.”

  “I don’t take orders from you.”

  Oh jeez.

  “Where’s Caroline?” he asked.

  “She’ll be here any minute with the police.”

  Where are you, Mom?

  Andy looked a little worn around the edges. Under different circumstances, Gretchen would have felt sorry for him. That is, if he hadn’t been so adept at breaking and entering. And if his driver’s license hadn’t been left at the scene of the murder. “What happened at the museum?” he asked.

  “Why?”

  “I saw a cop leaving.”

  “I don’t know what happened,” Gretchen lied.

  My mother and I decided to beat up the wrong guy.

  “Come out from behind the door,” Andy said. “We need to talk.”

  “I wouldn’t have helped you in the first place if I knew then what I know now.”

  “Somebody is setting me up. You have to believe me.”

  “Go away. Tell that to the police.”

  “Come out and talk to me.”

  “Yeah, right, like I’ll trot right over and let you stab me.”

  Andy scowled. Then he glanced at the thing in his hand. “Oh, this? It’s my lock pick.” He put it in his pocket and held up his hands as though that would reassure her.

  Gretchen, still flattened against the wall behind the door, looked back into the break room, frantic to find a weapon and protect herself. Where was the stage pistol? That would get her out of here. He wouldn’t know that it was a fake.

  The gun wasn’t in sight.

  “I tell you what,” Andy said, taking one slow step at a time toward her, “I’ll come in there and we’ll have a cup of that wonderful-smelling coffee and share information.”

  “Stay out. I’m warning you.”

  “But I’m turning myself in, right? I’m giving myself up to you.”

  He came closer, reached the threshold. When he walked through the doorway, Gretchen used all her might to slam the door against him. She locked both palms against the back of the door and shoved as hard as she could, throwing all her body weight behind it.

  She felt resistance, but she’d expected that. If his reflexes were slower than hers, the door might hit him in the head. That didn’t happen. Instead, the door was coming back at her.

  They were locked in a war against each other. He, on the outside, determined to get in. She, on the inside, doing everything she could to keep him out.

  Gretchen was a strong woman. She’d been jealous of all the Phoenix twig women when she had first arrived in Arizona, but now, she thanked her body. Heavier would have been even better. Three hundred pounds would have been perfect.

  She was no match for Andy. He had the advantage of additional weight and more arm strength.

  He was going to kill her after he won this last arm-wrestling bout.

  She felt the door inching back at her, heard both of them breathing hard, felt her feet sliding back, and looked around one last time for a weapon.

  Then she was flung away and the door banged against the wall, wide open.

  “I don’t have time for this,” Andy snarled, coming at her. “You’re going to tell me what you know, if I have to force it out of you.”

  Gretchen grabbed the first thing she saw, the first thing she could get in her grasp, and whipped it at him. The coffeepot crashed into Andy and a wave of hot coffee shot from the rim.

  He slapped his hands against his face, trying to wipe away the hot brew.

  “Strike one,” she screamed, feeling warriorlike in spite of her terror. The coffeepot shattered on the floor, but she was already moving, picking up a heavy mug and throwing it at him, striking his forehead. She wasn’t going down without a fight. She’d make sure to scratch him. They would find traces of his DNA under her fingernails. She’d figure out how to leave a message before she died.

  She backed toward a small, cluttered table in the corner. Stage props were piled on it, and she almost collapsed in joy when she saw the butt of the stage gun poking out of the mess.

  Gretchen grabbed the gun and trained it on Andy. “Turn around slowly,” she said. “Do it!”

  That stopped him. Without another word, he did as she demanded, turning his back to her. He looked overly confident for a man in his position. His hands were in his pockets. The pick!

  Without further thought, she clunked him on the head with the gun. He wobbled. She drew back and struck again, harder this time. He crashed to the floor.

  Standing over his prone body, Gretchen hoped she hadn’t hit him too hard. What if she’d killed him?

  Andy didn’t move.

  Was he breathing?


  Gretchen wasn’t about to get close enough to find out or to be grabbed.

  She’d call the cops and an ambulance.

  Should she run out into the street and flag someone down?

  She’d get Mr. B. He’d help her.

  Gretchen pounded up the stairs and rapped hard on Mr. B.’s apartment door, watching her back all the way, feeling afraid, feeling the adrenaline.

  47

  Mr. B. didn’t answer her desperate knocks. She turned the doorknob.

  Unlocked.

  What a break.

  If he wasn’t at home, she could still go inside and use his phone. He’d never know, and if he did, he’d understand that she’d had no choice. Gretchen opened the door cautiously, not wanting to startle Mr. B. if he was home. “It’s Gretchen,” she called, trying to project her voice out, but not loud enough to give her location away to Andy. “I need to use your phone.”

  Gretchen quickly shut the door behind her and locked it, loving the sound of the bolt action. Then she remembered Andy’s lock-picking tool. He still had it.

  Move quickly, she told herself. Although he hadn’t looked like he was in any shape to pursue her.

  She looked around at the typical single older male décor, stark in contrast to what he’d accomplished with the lower banquet hall. The smell of pipe tobacco hung in the air, thick and soothing.

  Gretchen moved through the apartment, still calling out softly while glancing around for a landline. A younger man might not have one in these modern days of high-tech advancement and wireless connections, but Gretchen had noticed Mr. B.’s old-fashioned mannerisms and she’d never seen him using a cell phone.

  He’d have a landline phone in his house.

  The small kitchen and living area didn’t produce one.

  The door to the only other room in the apartment was closed. She tapped. Nothing from inside.

  Slowly she turned the handle.

  What would he think if he came home and found her inside, searching through his house? How embarrassing would that be?