The finger, if I wasn’t mistaken. And I wasn’t. “Let me guess. You noticed it was gone after your lady friend left.”
When he didn’t say anything, I asked, “Why do you need it back?”
“I don’t. Not it per se.” His voice rose, the phrases coming fast and disjointed. “There was an article of jewelry associated with the—the item. I was compelled to report its loss to the family. You understand? In matters of personal possessions, there can never be any hint of impropriety. To be accused of dishonest conduct would ruin any mortuary, especially when it involves a family heirloom. The return of the jewelry in question, handled with the utmost discretion, would lay the matter to rest.”
“Not on your life, Harold. Marian Woods is dead. Talk to the police.”
“I can’t.”
I drew in my breath. “Then give me the name.”
“I don’t understand you.”
“The deceased. Whoever was in your workroom when Marian stopped by.”
“That information is entirely confidential.”
“Tell me.”
“I most certainly will not.” A pause, and I heard the chime of a bell. “There’s someone in the lobby. A customer. I have to go now.”
“Suppose I told you I knew the whereabouts of the item.”
A pause. “Let me think it over. I’ll call you tonight.”
“Wait!”
But he’d hung up.
—
I drove with my foot to the floor the last few miles to Grovedale, then parked on a side street just south of the courthouse, double-checking all the door locks. I didn’t want to return to find that the scruffy drinkers lounging on the courthouse steps had taken up residence in the camper while I was conducting my jailhouse business.
ABC Bonds was directly across the street from County Corrections, a storefront in a single-story building that occupied half the block. The façade was unprepossessing, with peeling brown paint and cracked plate glass. I pushed open the door and found the space within bisected by a long, high counter, clearly to keep the deadbeat clientele where they belonged. On the business side of the counter, a woman leaned back in her office chair munching Cheetos from a family-size bag, her eyes fixed on a tiny television playing a daytime soap.
“Yes?” she said, her eyes on the drama unfolding on the screen.
“I’m looking for Mort.”
“He’s at lunch,” she said vaguely.
“I don’t have much time.” I glanced at my watch.
“I’m sure he won’t be long.” She reached forward and turned up the volume of her portable TV. Her fingers were orange with powdered cheese.
“Can you help me? I just need to drop off—”
“Sorry,” she said. “Take a seat.”
The waiting area was furnished with metal folding chairs linked together for intimacy, with the kind of faux-cloth padded seats that made me want to lay down a protective paper cover before sitting. So I stood, shifting from foot to foot with impatience, unconsciously taking in the story line of the soap. I learned that Ramon had fathered Sonia’s baby and that Lawrence’s adopted daughter Gillian was actually the transgender son of his most hated business rival. At five minutes to one, I cleared my throat. “I’ll come back.”
“Oh,” she said. “I hear him. Hang on.” She rose from her chair in slow motion, not wanting to miss a thing as Gillian confessed to gaining control of the family company by seducing Lawrence’s chief financial officer and buying up a majority of the stock. Tapping on a door set in the back wall, she yelled, “Mort?”
A middle-aged man with slicked-back dark hair poked his head out. “Yeah?” Then he saw me and his face lit up.
“Please, come on back,” he said, hustling forward and unlatching a half door built into the counter.
“I only have a minute,” I said.
“I understand completely,” he said, one hand on my elbow. His fingers were damp, his grip firm. He guided me into a tiny office. “When a loved one is in trouble, time is of the essence, am I right?”
“He’s not a loved one.” I took the chair he offered me, glancing around at an office furnished in cheap paneling and faded gray loop carpet. Two windows looked out on the alley that ran behind the building; both were protected by metal security grilles. The air reeked of stale aftershave and sweaty underarms.
“Listen,” I said. “I don’t mean to be rude, but I’m late for a hearing. Wayne Briggs said you needed some cash so he could make bail. I have it.”
Mort became even more expansive. “Excellent. Yes, of course. Briggs. Let me pull up his file.” He reached into a battered filing cabinet and began to thumb through folders while I fidgeted. One o’clock. I’d have to sprint over to the courthouse like Wilma Rudolph to make the bail hearing.
“Here we go,” Mort said, extracting a file. “Yes. I just need the balance of the bond and your husband is a free man.”
“Ex-husband.” Not even that, truth be told. “Here you go. Two hundred bucks. I need a receipt.” I laid the bills on the desk.
He peered at me through dark rodent eyes. “The balance due is three hundred, Mrs. Briggs.”
“What?”
He gave a little laugh. “Perhaps your, er, ex-husband misunderstood, Mrs.—”
“Don’t call me that. Ever. It’s Turner.” Something seemed to snap in my brain, a sudden clarity was nearly blinding. I pocketed my money and stood up. “Have a nice day.”
“But your husband—”
“He can rot in jail.” I turned on my heel and left.
—
I dashed to the courthouse and waited in line to clear security, thankful I’d emptied my bag and pockets of anything, like tweezers or nail clippers, that might be construed as a weapon. Courtroom D was on the fourth floor, according to a directory posted by the elevators. Figuring the stairs would be faster, I pushed open a heavy door and began to climb, my shoes clattering up the metal risers with a hollow sound that echoed down the stairwell. I burst into a long, carpeted hall. People were filing out of a room down at the end.
I accosted a security guard by the double doors. “Courtroom D?”
He pointed at the ceiling. “Next floor up.”
Shit! One of the elevators was idle, the door open. I jumped in and hit the button for the fourth floor. The door slid shut, and I was propelled upward at a leisurely pace that set my teeth on edge.
With a grinding of gears, the elevator lurched to a stop and the door slid open. A tall, thin man with gray hair stepped in, followed by Everett Sweet, dressed in prison orange. Behind the two men came another security guard, his hand resting lightly on his belt.
I’d started to disembark but froze in my astonishment. The guard stood aside, inviting me to get out in no uncertain terms.
“Everett,” I said.
His head came up, and he stared at me. His cheeks had lost their fullness, the skin hanging like the floppy jowls of a Saint Bernard. Three days’ worth of grizzled beard covered his chin. The harsh lighting made his face ashy and his eyes hollow. Orange was definitely not his color.
“I have to talk to you,” I said.
“No talking,” the guard said. “Ma’am, move along.”
Everett glanced at the gray-haired man; his attorney, I presumed. “Warren?”
The attorney gave me the once-over. “It’s okay, Tim,” he told the guard.
“Are you being released?” I asked Everett.
He shook his head bleakly. “Bail denied.”
The elevator stopped at the next floor down, and we got off. The guard steered us into a small room and took a post at the door. “Two minutes,” he said.
Everett made introductions. “My attorney, Warren Crane. Sam Turner.”
“A pleasure,” I said, then forgot him. “Listen to me. Marian set you up.”
“I don’t believe that for a minute.”
“Believe it. She must have been furious with you. Why? Why’d you divorce?”
“Tha
t’s none of your business.” He seemed to see me for the first time. “Did you change your hair?”
“C’mon, Everett, I’m trying to help you here! Gail is leaving Home Sweet Home. Carl has already left.”
“Carl was three months behind on his desk rent anyway. A shame about Gail. But I can always rebuild my staff.”
“Not if you’re in prison.”
“It won’t come to that. I didn’t kill Marian.” Beads of sweat broke out on his forehead. “I think I loved her.”
I wanted to tear at my hair. “Did she ever have access to your email?”
“No, no. Of course not.”
His voice didn’t ring true. The security guard glanced at his watch. Desperately, I said, “You met at McMillan, didn’t you?”
“A couple of times. She liked to combine business with—ahem—pleasure.”
“And you brought your laptop.”
“Well, naturally. She wanted to fine-tune the listing and add pictures.”
“Did you ever leave her alone with it?”
“I—” Suddenly color suffused his face. I had my answer.
“Marian wrote those letters to herself, on your computer,” I said. “And left a finger at McMillan. With your ring on it.”
“Nonsense. Obviously we parted on good terms.”
“You may have parted on good terms. How did Shakespeare put it? ‘Hell hath no fury,’ etcetera, etcetera.”
“It was Congreve,” he murmured.
“Whoever. She set out to ruin you. And now she’s dead. Everyone I’ve talked to says she played pretty loose with the rules. I think she was planning to disappear and take you down in the process. You must have really pissed her off.” Trust Everett to do that.
He was silent a moment, and I fidgeted, watching the guard. Finally, Everett sighed.
“She had a—unique code of ethics. I found I wasn’t comfortable with her viewpoint, that the ends justify the means. So we ended the marriage. By mutual agreement.”
The guard cleared his throat and pointed at his watch. “Right,” I said. “Well, take it easy. See you around.”
It was an inane remark, and I caught the stricken look in Everett’s eyes as I headed out the door. But to me it was a pledge.
Chapter 29
On the return trip, I pulled into the business park south of town and rumbled to the back of the lot. The lights at the crematorium were off, the blinds drawn. I hopped out and tried the front door. Locked. No one responded to my knock.
Just for kicks, I strolled around the building. The blue Honda was there. No hearse. The bay doors were closed and locked. I took a few steps back and surveyed the building. The big smokestack was active; the air above it rippled with intense heat. Harold was working.
I climbed back into the VW, trying to ignore the little wriggle of unease in my gut. Everything was fine. I’d call him later, when he wasn’t so busy. The engine backfired, making me jump in my seat, and I peeled out of the lot.
Before heading home, I made another stop. In the haze of afternoon sun, the boardinghouse on Front Street looked even more dispirited than it had yesterday. As I pulled up, a loose shingle slid down the roof, kicked off the sagging gutter, and disappeared in the tall grass.
Mama Jean came to the door in response to my knock. Her housedress was blue today, but she wore the same filthy apron. Smoke curled from the ubiquitous cigarette. “He ain’t back yet.”
“I know. I found him.”
She took a drag. “Good. Tell him he’s gotta get me the rent today or he’s out.”
“He’s having, uh, legal troubles. Can you cut him some slack?”
“Honey, I don’t cut no slack. That’s how I stay in business. You gonna pay what he owes?”
I shook my head. “I’ve been doing that for fourteen years.”
She looked at me, then looked away, her bleary eyes fixed on the cars like moving dots on the freeway. “Lotta guys pass through here. Most of them, their light’s gone out. Drugs, drink, what have you. Life’s beat them down, and down’s where they’re gonna stay. Briggs, I can’t say. He’s not straight, but maybe he’s got a shot. There’s some light left.”
“He has a son. A good kid.”
Her gaze turned inward, to a place I’d never been. “I had a boy once.”
We stood there for a moment, the smoke drifting lazily up from her cigarette.
Then she took a last drag and ground it out on the scarred railing. “He’s got a week to bring his rent current. Then he’s out.”
“Thank you,” I said.
She nodded and went back inside. I returned to the bus and drove home.
—
Max was out, but Stacy was sprawled on my couch. Harley was in her lap.
“Good God,” she said when she saw my hair.
“I’m starting a trend.”
“I’m sure it’ll be all the rage come Halloween.”
I dropped some kitty crunchies in Harley’s dish, and he leaped to the floor and trotted over. “Have you eaten?”
“Don’t go to any trouble.”
“I won’t. I have a couple of frozen pizzas here. They’re not vegan.”
“Fuck vegan. That was Lars’s idea anyway. I’d kill for pepperoni.”
I threw the pizzas in the oven and poured Stacy a glass of wine. “Is Max home?”
“He’s come and gone. Told me to tell you he was planning to catch a movie with Alison after her shift and her dad would give him a ride home.”
I stared. “He told you this?”
She shrugged. “I’m not his mom. He said you’d make a big fuss about it. Like it was some sort of date.”
“Of course I’d make a fuss. How was he dressed? Was he wearing a clean shirt?”
“Case in point.”
When the timer went off, I hauled out the pizzas. A few minutes later, Stacy sat back with a belch. “God, I’ve missed that. What’s for dessert?”
I considered. It was still early. “Let’s go get some ice cream.”
“Lead the way. I’ll treat.” She grabbed her crutches and hobbled toward the door.
It took a little effort to boost my sister into the passenger seat, but I got her settled and stowed her crutches in back. As I started the engine with its usual roar of combusting hydrocarbons, she said, “Have you considered something a bit more eco-groovy? We have just the one planet, you know.”
“I’m saving up for a Prius.”
“Really?”
“No.” I completed a three-point turn by rolling up and over the sidewalk, then rumbled down the street. “You want the good stuff in the pints or the kind that comes in cardboard blocks?”
“Blocks. Chocolate marshmallow swirl.”
“You got it.” I veered south toward the big-box grocery.
In the lull that followed, I realized Harold still hadn’t called. An image of heat distorting the air above Distant Horizons popped into my head.
We were crossing over the 101 with our destination in sight when I abruptly jerked the wheel hard left and we skidded onto the southbound on-ramp. Stacy grabbed the sissy bar. “You wanna take it easy?”
“Sorry. I have to make a stop.”
“Don’t tell me. You’re checking up on Max. Jesus, Sam, don’t hover. Give the kid some space.”
“I’m not hovering.” I merged with every bit of horsepower in my stable, which wasn’t a whole lot. Traffic flashed past us on the left.
“Sure you are. Just like Mom and Dad. You don’t know how easy you had it compared to me.”
I turned to stare at her, which caused the van to bounce into the breakdown lane. “What are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about being the oldest. Having to set an example. Everything I did was under a big parental microscope. By the time you came along, they’d mellowed out. Because I wore them down. You got away with shit I never could.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“You think so? I couldn’t date till I was sixteen, then
it was only in groups. Nine o’clock curfew. Had to make good grades. God help me if I brought home a B plus. They’d sit me down and tell me how disappointed they were.”
“It wasn’t that bad.”
“No? Why do you think I moved out right after my eighteenth birthday?”
I hit my signal and moved into the left lane. “I didn’t have it any easier.”
“Sure you did. You had a life.” She propped her booted foot up on the dash. “I suppose deep down I was jealous. Even though you got knocked up by the time you were twenty.”
I was so startled I nearly stalled the engine in the path of an oncoming tractor trailer. Stacy squeaked as the chrome grille bore down on us. Then we leaped forward and scooted into the business park.
“Shit,” she said. “I nearly wet my pants. What a dumbass design, making you cross freeway traffic like that. What are we doing here, anyway?” Panic had made her a little cranky.
“I have to talk to a guy.” I parked in front of the drab little building, then hopped out and went around to the passenger side. “You want to wait here? I won’t be long.”
“I’ll come with you.”
I retrieved her crutches and helped her climb down. “I never knew you felt that way.”
“Forget it,” she said. “I was just blowing off steam.”
It was after business hours, and the exterior lights were starting to flicker in the pre-dusk fog. I poked my head around the side of the building. The Honda was still there. I tried the knob and was surprised to feel it turn easily. The door chime burbled as we entered the lobby, which was lit by a single security bulb above the STAFF ONLY door. In the dim light, the small room with its display of urns was vaguely sinister.
“Creepy,” Stacy said. I couldn’t disagree.
While we waited for someone to appear, I moved to the shelf where the guest book resided. It was gone. Not only that, the urns had been rearranged to fill the gap. “I’m getting a really bad feeling about this,” I said.
“You wanna split?”
I did, in the worst way. Reluctantly, I tried the staff door. Locked. Now what?
A Killer Location Page 18