Etta glanced between us. “What’s not true?”
Fanny flitted behind me, looking over my shoulder. “What? I can’t see that creepy thing.” She couldn’t understand cellphones or the internet.
Sandy turned the tablet so Etta could read the headlines blasting across the Sentinel’s homepage.
VINTAGE CAR DEALER FOUND DEAD IN THE RED HEAD
She shrieked and fell onto the sofa wailing.
Fumbling, I found the workroom stool before my knees buckled. “It’s Belly, not the Floyd boy?”
Sandy’s chin buckled. “What Floyd boy?”
I waved her off. “Never mind. It’s just… something else.”
Sandy hopped around waving the tablet, and doorbell tinkled. “Oh, hell and bells.”
She huffed, laying the tablet face down on the workbench, straightened her shoulders and plastered on a smile. Pushing into the showroom, she chirped cheerfully, “Merry Christmas. Welcome to the Row.”
Not only was she a wonderful, thorough nurse, she’s a great actress.
I hurried to Etta’s side. “C’mon. Hush. Don’t cry, we have a customer.”
She put her head in my lap, muttering behind her hands. “I quit... I can’t believe it... not another death... this place is jinxed. I loved that old fart.”
I patted her shoulder. “It isn’t jinxed.”
I said it aloud, so I’d believe it.
Fanny sat next to Etta’s head, patting her with a grayscale hand. “I told you it was Mr. Belly.” I had no reply for her statement. I denied hearing what she said about seeing him heading for the Beyond. It just couldn’t be true.
Etta quietly sobbed in my lap until the customer left, and I patted her shoulder. “Sugar. So much happened in one day, I can’t believe it. But I need to go to the police station.”
“Why?” She sniffed.
“I know who killed Belly!” I said it and hated saying it at the same time.
She bolted upright. “No way? Who did it?”
“I can’t tell you. Only the police.” If I said anything to either Sandy or Etta, they’d tell everyone they knew and anyone who’d listen. Dick Strand would have my hide for blabbing important information.
With flushed cheeks, Sandy walked into the workroom. “Cash and carry. No gift boxes.”
Etta stood, and I climbed from the sofa. “Listen. I gotta go to the police station.”
Fanny flickered between us. “Take me, I wanna go.”
I shook my head. “No, you can’t go.”
Putting her hands on her hips, Sandy glared. “I didn’t ask to go. Good grief, why do you want to go to the police station?”
I headed for my coat, but I was flushed and heated by the truth. “I know who killed Belly.”
“Oh, right! Did you witness the murder?” Sandy’s chin buckled.
“Hush, you ol’ hussy!” Fanny circled wielding her sewing needle. If she poked Sandy’s rear end, I wouldn’t care.
Throwing my coat over my arm, I headed for the backdoor. “Sandy call Anita. Tell her to take care of Ally and Allison. Etta snap out of it. You’re officially our gift box creator. You can handle the job.”
Fanny flickered in the corner, preparing for a major pout attack. “Aren’t you coming? If we’re lucky, you can ride in the car.”
Sandy frowned and looked at Etta. “Which one of us? I’m not going. No way.”
“Me neither.” Etta gave me a wonky look and moved behind the workbench.
“Yes, I’m coming,” Fanny gushed, flickering in golden yellow.
“C’mon then. I’ve got lots to do and no time to waste.”
Chapter 11
Freedom
I opened the car door for Fanny and waved at the seat. “Get in. The only way we’ll know is if you try.”
“Ride in that jalopy? Couldn’t I fly alongside you?”
The girls stood in the open backdoor. Sandy folded her arms across her chest and Etta chewed a fingernail.
“No. If you’re to learn more about Willie, you need to go everywhere.”
“Where’s everywhere?” Fanny leaned over looking into the car.
“On the streets of Hot Springs.” I glanced at Sandy and she spoke to Etta. I couldn’t hear what she said, but Etta nodded, agreeing with her. They think I’m certifiable, I’m talking to the open car door.
“I’m in a hurry. Get in.”
Suddenly, Fanny flared her kaleidoscope colors. “Sure. Bloke. I haven’t been in a car since…”
I glanced at the girls, grinning. “Just get in, would ‘ya? They’re still the same, maybe a little safer.”
Timidly, she sat in the seat, and I fastened the seatbelt, but it sliced through her. I shut the car door, hurrying around to the driver’s side, pretending they weren’t staring, shaking their heads and whispering.
“Y’all get inside. Get to work. Stop watching me.” I jerked my chin at them. If only I could explain my strange behavior, I would. They wouldn’t believe me, so I won’t.
“You ready?” I asked, pushing the start button.
“What happens if?”
“Don’t worry. You’re a ghost. You’ll only slip through like you do the swinging doors.”
Fanny nodded, a tendril of her loose chignon trailed around her face. The sewing needle pinned on her blouse pulsed with an extra glow.
“You’re excited?”
“I loved riding in cars. Other than dancing at the Southern Club, riding is the cat’s meow.”
Holding onto the steering wheel, I crossed my fingers, hoping this worked and backed up the car. Leaving Fanny behind in the shop bothered me. If she had freedom to experience Hot Springs like it is now, she might relax. Maybe she’d stop poking innocent folks with her sharp needle.
I shifted into drive and closed my eyes, tapping the gas pedal.
“Whoa! Nelly!” Fanny shrieked, and I opened my eyes. She was a blur of colors going backwards fading into the backseat. Her sweet face morphed and her eyes bulged like a cartoon character.
Nearing the alley exit, I asked without looking at her. “You okay?”
“I’m here. I have it figured out.”
“What?”
“I can’t just wait for the car to carry me, I need to move with it. Like sitting in the carriage, I wasn’t really sitting, I floated with it.”
“Exactly. Stay with me.”
At the alley exit, I stopped and looked left before I pulled onto Central Avenue.
“Hang on, I’m gonna speed up.”
I whipped in and out of the traffic, hot-footing toward the police station. I knew the route so well, I could get there blindfolded.
Fanny grabbed the door handle and flickered wildly. One second she’s brightly colored, then she flickers into a subdued tone as she figures out how to stay with the car.
“You got this. We’re good to go.”
“Whoa! Don’t go so fast.” She tried to hold on by gripping the door handle, but her hand slipped through it.
“I have to keep up with traffic.”
Entertained by Fanny’s efforts, I almost turned into the employee parking lot, but quickly maneuvered into the public lot.
After I parked, I said, “Please stay quiet. If I answer you, people… the cops will think I’m nuts.” I worked with cops who were full-blown nut jobs, talking to myself in the police station wouldn’t seem abnormal.
“Gahd! I can’t be sure I won’t ask questions.” She smiled as her eyes flickered in mischievous red—like a railroad crossing warning signal.
I grimaced trying to look serious and make a point. “Leave your sewing needle on the dashboard.” I pointed at a flat spot in front of her. “You’ve already poked Dick with your needle, and you can’t do it again.”
Seeing Dick jump wondering what stung his big butt was priceless.
Fanny fingered the needle. “I don’t know if I can leave it.” She shivered, and her colors moved like oil floating on water.
“What’s wrong?” If I
could’ve grabbed her hand, I would have, but didn’t try. “Are you sick?”
She gazed out the windshield. “I’ve been here before. A memory… a thought.” She shook her head. “No… it couldn’t be… not him?”
“Who. Where?” I stared out the windshield looking for what she saw. There was nothing but a beige windowless building. “Were you here with someone?”
“Yes, with Angus. There was a nightclub. A smoky little joint with tables under a big oak and an outdoor dance floor. There were candles on the tables. I drank champagne, and we danced. Me and Angus.” Her tone dipped, cracking with emotion.
My only thought about her memory of her lover was I hoped when we find, me and Anita, who killed her, it wasn’t Angus. I thought he might be her killer, but never voiced that opinion. It would not help Fanny’s plight over Willie, and would hurt her the core.
“We’ll find who killed you in due time.” I could only handle one murder at a time. For now, I must face the grim task lying ahead and would do anything to help Dick find Belly’s murderer.
I cracked open the car door and a slight sweat broke on my chest. For all the criminal reports I’d typed for the department, not once had I produced evidence which might solve a crime.
“C’mon. You can keep the needle, but act nice.”
Chapter 12
Dick Strand
How many ways do I dislike Dick Strand? All ways and sideways. I told the officer at the counter I had evidence in Belly’s death, and he told me to take a seat.
Dick kept me waiting for half an hour. Sure, he’s an important busy guy, but Bubba Smith wouldn’t have treated anyone so nonchalantly.
How much do I love Fanny Doyle? Every way and always.
She no more minded my wishes about her sewing needle than an inquisitive child who was learning to crawl. She toddled about the front office, running her fingers through unsuspecting cops’ hair or blew in their ears and mussed their typed neatly stacked reports.
They complained blaming their office mates for Fanny’s shenanigans.
“Turn off that fan! You’re blowing my papers.”
“Geez, there’s a mosquito buzzing me. At this time of the year?”
“Hank! Stop squealing that chair of yours.”
Thoroughly entertained by her antics, I was glad I agreed to her coming along.
“Ah-hum.” Dick coughed clearing his throat. “Busy day.”
“Oh, sorry. I wasn’t paying attention.” I couldn’t stop watching Fanny’s antics. I offered him my hand, and he hesitated before he shook it.
“Figures,” Dick said. “I got five minutes. What’s up?”
He turned, escorting me… us… since Fanny was flickering cheerfully, flying along behind him, poking with her needle, but purposely missing him.
At the door of his office, a weird wave of déjà vu washed over me. He hadn’t remodeled Bubba’s old office or even changed the photos on the wall.
“Have a seat.” Dick motioned at an empty chair and went behind the desk.
Seeing the room, after what—two years now—it wouldn’t surprise me if Bubba walked in said hey and sat. I had spent a good portion of my workday sitting beside his desk chicken-scratching my version of shorthand while he read his scrawled notes.
Sitting in Bubba’s old office chair, Dick fanned his fingers and touched his fingertips together, eyeing me.
“Unsolved mysteries?” I nodded at a pile of manila file folders stacked on Dick’s desktop might have been the very folders Bubba left behind.
“Pfft. You know real police work isn’t like television. Are you on a social call? Did you bring me bath bombs?” He snickered, enjoying his lowbrow humor.
“Nope. I know who killed Belly Walker.”
He leaned forward, lost his smile and asked, “Where’s your attorney?”
“Very funny. It wasn’t me.”
“You never could take a joke.” Dick pushed a button on his desk phone. “Stacee. Get in here to write down stuff.”
Fanny settled in the corner by a metal filing cabinet, simmering in cool blues and greens. She bowed her head over a sliver of red fabric, absorbing every word passing between us.
Stacee flounced into the room and held out a pocket recorder by my face.
“Okay. I’m good to go.” She clicked it on.
Dick leaned back in his chair. “Pattianna Fuqua, tell us what you know.”
I began where I thought the story was relevant, the night Muriel and I stayed up past midnight, giggling like teenagers decorating the bathtub. Muriel brought her saucy attitude, her cute dog Sadie, and I brought my bah humbug bad mood. I no more wanted to take part in anything Christmas than I’d want to poke a stick in my eye.
We ordered pizza delivery and ate sitting in folding chairs in the open bay door. It was a nice fall evening, just cool enough for a sweater but warm enough to enjoy the twinkling stars.
I found out plenty about Muriel, which Etta either didn’t know or wouldn’t acknowledge.
Dick smoldered glaring at me. “Are you telling all this about Muriel because she helped murder Belly? Or are you telling it to hear yourself talk?”
Stacee clicked off the recorder, but didn’t twitch and tossed Dick a hostile squint. Looks like I’m not the only one who dislikes Dick all ways and sideways.
“Belly was working late in another part of his building. Several times over the evening, I noticed men—more like guys coming to visit. His place is kinda a local hangout.”
Stacee clicked on the recorder. “Sorry, I forgot to turn it on.”
Dick wiped his mouth and grimaced. “Go on.”
“When the pizza arrived, I sent him a text message to come join us and, in a few minutes, he came over. He sat on the back of the trailer holding the bathtub, swinging his legs and eating a slice of pizza.”
Muriel shamelessly flirted, but I whispered he wasn’t interested in women. Which led to a five-minute conversation about whether Belly was gay, and I assured her he was not, his only interest was in fancy rims for his cars, not a motorcycle riding mama. She acted disappointed for a mere millisecond before she recovered from her short infatuation of him.
Dick rolled his hand in a circle. “Get on with it.” He glanced at his watch on the other wrist.
“He got a phone call and stood next to the building. In a few he yelled, pacing a few yards in the parking lot.”
“Yeah?” Glaring, Dick set his jaw. I knew that cop attitude, I was losing his interest.
“I didn’t ask who he yelled at. Who knows, maybe a creep who owed him money.” Twinging, I rearranged in the chair, stalling because I could only speculate over what he talked about with the caller. Speculation would not hold up in court.
“Last night,” I said, looking Dick in the eye. “He told me he’d had trouble with the Floyd clan. A kid named Bangor was picking parts for him and he thought they may have been stolen.”
Dick rolled his eyes. “Thank you, Patti. I gotta tell you that’s old news. Everyone in the county knows the Floyds will make a buck where they can. Stealing car parts isn’t the half of it.”
He pointed at Stacee, and she clicked off the recorder and left the room.
Blushing, I stood wishing I hadn’t made such a fool of myself. “Okay. I didn’t know you knew.”
Dick rolled his desk chair back. “Thanks for stopping by.”
Coming from him that was just as good as saying thanks for wasting my time.
He opened the office door. “FYI. We talked to Walker this morning.”
“You did?” Questioning Walker would be standard procedure.
“Yeah, you know Wallace Walker. The old man’s son. He said something about a quagmire, needed cash and Belly emptied an account. He and the old man got into an argument.”
“Oh my, I didn’t know.” Why hadn’t Belly been honest with me about Walker? He made me believe they weren’t having problems. Emptied an account? For what?
“I haven’t gotten enough evidence t
o pin it on that ass—kid. But I’d bet on a dead pony at the racetrack, he did it because Belly was losing money.”
Walker wasn’t that kind of person. He wouldn’t harm a hair on his father’s head. They adored each other. How could I have not known this? Why did I think coming here would help?
Fanny circled, glimmering in golden yellow. “He’s getting mighty uppity. Watch out, I’m gonna stab him.”
I shot her a look. “No! Don’t do it.”
Dick stood. “Now, I’m speculating, just between you and me. He was waiting for Belly when he pulled into the garage with the Red Head and your bathtub—it’s impounded, by the way—and shot him in the head.”
Dick opened the door and stepped out; I got up and followed him. Whispering to myself, I asked, “How could it be? No, not him.”
“Yep. Unfortunately, Walker had an alibi. A young lady named Diane with a nice set of knockers. C’mon.” He gently grabbed my elbow urging me along. “Get outta here before you faint.”
Fainting would be a very bad idea. I wanted to get out of the police station without making a gossip worthy scene. Fanny flitted around catching up to Dick. Her sewing needle glinted as she went in low and deep.
He yelped. “What the devil!” And slapped at his lower back butt. “I can’t get away from this dang static electricity.”
I still had enough will left to smirk and make a smart remark. “It’s the cold snap. Saps the moisture from the air.”
Chapter 13
Short Supplies
By the time, I got to the parking lot, I had succumbed to tears. Grief replaced my bah humbug, but I managed to leave the station without making an utter fool of myself by fainting. No one needed that.
Although, Sandy would be thrilled if I was transported by ambulance to St. Vincent’s. There she’d have me pushed into an MRI device, getting a thorough view of the inside workings of my damaged head. She’ll never give up, not until I agree to an examination to prove I am crazy.
A text message pinged my phone. Traffic heading south on Central Avenue was bumper to bumper and at the next stoplight, I glanced at the message.
Found Dead in the Red Head Page 6