Wild Goose Chase

by Terri Thayer

  I thought back to the earlier demonstration. The saleswoman had been using the ergonomic one. “Yes, why?”

  He pulled too quickly onto the street, bouncing me. My head banged against the window as the truck slid around a corner. I scrambled for my seat belt.

  “Hey, slow down. What’s the hurry all of a sudden?” I said, fighting panic.

  He kept his eyes on the road, changing lanes without signaling. Something I’d said had caused this sudden need for speed.

  “What is it? Why do the different types of cutter matter? What does that mean?” I asked.

  “Murder.”

  I heard bells ringing. A red-striped wooden arm began its descent across the roadway in front of us. A loud horn sounded. Buster goosed the accelerator toward the railroad crossing.

  I yelled. “You’ll never make it!”

  He shot me a look and hit the brakes hard, thrusting me forward. I broke my fall with hands braced on the dashboard. The bumper stopped just shy of the tracks as a freight train began its slow procession.

  Buster threw the truck into park and pounded the steering wheel. “Shit, piss, fuck,” he said.

  “Nice talk,” I said, rubbing my wrist.

  “Sorry, but this train takes at least six minutes to pass.”

  I peered down the length of the train, then at him. “You said murder. Why?”

  “I didn’t say that.” He tapped a nervous rhythm on the dashboard with his thumbs, keeping his eyes straight ahead.

  He could deny it, but I’d heard him. “Yeah, you did.”

  I watched as his face shuttered. The cop was back with his game face on. The one who acquired information didn’t give any out. Our lovely interlude was over.

  “Drop it, Dewey. I’m not about to talk to a civilian about an ongoing investigation.”

  Civilian? I bristled at the tag. I crossed my arms and looked out the window, focusing on the rotary cutters to keep from feeling how belittling his remark was.

  I was the only one who knew what Claire’s body had looked like, besides Myra. I allowed the picture of the hotel room to form in my mind. The bedcovers lying partly on the floor. The blood. The curved-handle cutter lying next to her.

  My heart sank as I tumbled to what Buster had already figured out. “If she had dropped it while using it …” I voiced what I didn’t want to know. “The blade would have closed before the cutter ever hit her. Someone deliberately cut Claire.”

  I turned slowly to him, the horrible truth descending between us like a curtain on a bed in an old black-and-white movie, keeping us apart. In the blink of an eye, his job had changed from explaining a fatal accident to catching a murderer. And I truly was a civilian, an unnecessary burden. Or worse, a suspect.

  He sat higher in his seat, his shoulders stiff. He glanced in the mirror and pulled his tie up, knotting it with a vicious tug. The transformation was complete. From Buster, friend and lover, to Benjamin Healy, homicide detective.

  Murder changed everything.

  The train continued on, sounding like bottles knocking against each other. Metal-barred cars carrying chickens trundled past. Feathers floated in the air. Fifty cars must have gone by already and still no caboose in sight. I pulled on the confining neck of my T-shirt. I wanted out of the truck.

  “Buster, you know I didn’t do this, right?”

  He nodded once, without looking at me.

  I didn’t do it, but someone did. “What about the fashion show? I mean, everyone is going to be there. Do you think it’s safe?”

  “You’ll be fine, Dewey.” Buster rapped his fingers on the steering wheel, beating out a tuneless rhythm. “There’ll be lots of people around, right? Chances are Claire’s death has nothing to do with the quilt show. Murders like this are almost always committed by the people closest to the victim. We’ll talk to her husband again.”

  He’d lapsed into copspeak. Claire had become just another victim, her loved ones viewed as potential suspects. I could see him grow distant, probably figuring out his next move. I wanted to keep him here with me. In my mind, I reenacted my route to Claire’s room. I remembered I’d never told Buster about seeing Justine in the hall just before I got to the door.

  “Buster, Justine was there and she owed Claire money,” I offered, watching his face. “She stole the cash from yesterday’s admittance from the show. Eve was furious last night when she found out.”

  “Stop,” he said softly. His hands had stilled and he unconsciously brought one up to run through his hair. He looked straight out the windshield, shoulders hunched, elbows leaning on the steering wheel.

  “No, listen to me,” I said. “I know you have to talk to Claire’s family, but there is something going on at the show. Money is missing.”

  The notebook might hold a clue. Maybe Justine had made notes on her gambling. I arched my back to get my fingers into my pocket. Buster grabbed my arm, stopping me.

  “Dewey, it’s a quilt show, for crying out loud.”

  I pulled my hand away. “There’s plenty of cash around.”

  He shook his head, his expression hard. I didn’t like this look.

  “I could ask around,” I said. “Everyone thinks of me as just my mother’s daughter. I bet I could get people to open up, tell me what they know.”

  He looked at me, incredulous. “You’ve got to be kidding me, Dewey. What do you think this is—some kind of game? We’re talking about murder, remember?”

  “Remember? I found Claire’s body, didn’t I? Do you think that’s easy to forget?”

  “That entitles you to sympathy, not—”

  “So you feel sorry for me? Is that what this has been about?” I flung my arm out of his grasp, pointing at the seat between us. “‘Poor Dewey, she found a dead body, I think I’ll cheer her up.’ Instead of holding your hand out in sympathy, you haul out your—”

  “Dewey,” he warned. “You can’t bring Audra back.”

  My heart stopped. “My mother? What does she have to do with this?”

  His voice was soft. “I’ve seen this, Dewey. A cop can’t get the bad guy he’s chasing, so he transfers his rage to the next poor slob in his sights. It doesn’t make for good police work.”

  “My mother’s death has nothing to do with Claire’s,” I yelled. Buster put a restraining hand on me, but I shook it off. I reached down and pulled on my socks so hard, I nearly put my big toe through the seam. I jammed my foot in my sneaker and brought my foot up to tie my laces. Buster frowned at my shoe on his upholstery. I brought my other foot up and silently dared him to say anything.

  “Don’t take this personally, Dewey. This is my profession.”

  “Why should I take anything personally? I have cable. I’ve seen Moonlighting. I know once the sex happens, the relationship is over.”

  “Don’t make this about us, Dewey. You don’t know anything about my job.”

  “Hey, coming out in your big blue truck was your idea. Just get me back to the show. I’ve wasted enough time this afternoon.”

  I wasn’t about to tell him that I was always on the lookout for a tan Camry with a dented front-quarter panel. Did he have any idea how many tan Camrys were on the streets of San Jose? He had no clue what it was like to be unable to go to the mall without first circling the parking garage for the car that killed your mother, or to drive for miles on your day off, sometimes south to Paso Robles, sometimes north to Napa County, just driving and looking at license plates. Catching glimpses of drivers, trying to picture what the guy looked like. Looking for the last thing my mother saw before she died.

  He started to protest, but I waved him off. Sex with Buster had been a really dumb idea. I felt stripped bare, vulnerable in a way I wouldn’t have if we’d kept our clothes on.

  “What do you know about my mother’s death anyway?”
I muttered under my breath.

  ____

  I jumped out of Buster’s truck before he brought it to a complete halt by the fountain in front of the convention center. I didn’t want to give him the chance to help me down from the high seat. My speedy exit was hampered by a blue-haired woman dragging a bulging canvas tote on wheels, moving at a slug’s pace, blocking the sidewalk next to the truck.

  After several false starts, I finally got around her and hurried inside, feeling Buster’s eyes on my back. I looked for signs to the fashion show dress rehearsal. The signs led me past the quilt show, down the hall, and farther into the convention center.

  What a fool I’d been. As angry as I was at Buster for tossing off my interest in Claire’s murder as some kind of game, I was madder at myself for thinking that he and I could exchange bodily fluids without any consequences. I felt like an idiot. Sex. There was always a price to be paid.

  I’d been away for hours. How could I have let the afternoon get so far away from me? My face flamed at the thought of Buster and I entwined in the front seat of his truck.

  Gone was the feeling of relaxation, now I could only think of everything I needed to do. I had an appointment at five with the Freitas sisters and another at six with Colin Bergstrom. I would tell Justine I was out of the fashion show. There was no time. Even if I found a buyer tonight, I’d still have to get the computer back from the police and get all the files up to date. I wanted to run the new system at the show for at least one day so I could show the new owner how well it worked. I needed to make the inventory balance. I still had those invoices from WGC to reconcile. I had no time for a fashion show. Justine would just have to understand.

  A sign pointed to the auditorium to my left. I walked a long way down a corridor. This auditorium was far away from the convention center, and no other events were being held down this way. The hallway widened and I saw the auditorium doors. I passed the closed doors and continued looking for the backstage area.

  I slowed at the thought of facing Justine. Buster might not think she was capable of murder, but I wasn’t sure. Had Claire been alive or dead when Justine walked away from her door?

  A hand snaked out of the doorway and grabbed me.

  “You’re late,” Eve said, jerking me into the dressing room.

  My heart pounded. “Where’s Justine?” I gasped. After the way she treated me this morning, Eve was the last person I wanted to deal with.

  Her eyes glittered and she ran a rough hand over her hair. Her skin was pale; dark pouches had formed under her eyes since I’d seen her earlier.

  “Is she in here?” I said, trying to peer around Eve. I could only see an array of half-dressed women, milling about a room nearly twenty feet square. Clothes were everywhere—on the floor, on the backs of the chairs, hanging from a long rack. The scene was like a G-rated, middle-aged, well-fed episode of Las Vegas Showgirls.

  “She’s around somewhere,” she said, not looking at me.

  I reached for the notebook but stopped. Something in Eve’s tone made me realize Justine was not here. “Didn’t she show up?”

  Eve gave me a look that said this was her business and she would tend to it. “Not a problem. I’ve got everything under control.”

  “I’m missing the matching cloche,” someone yelled.

  “Look in the hamper over there,” she shouted, her eyes darting around the room as her attention scattered. “Some stuff hasn’t gotten unpacked yet.”

  “What a zoo,” someone muttered.

  A pretty woman with mahogany skin dashed by in a full skirt and a jogging bra, shouting about a missing bustier. Eve checked her clipboard and directed the woman to the back of the room.

  First Justine had stolen money from JustEve; now she’d blown off the fashion show. No wonder Eve was in such a foul temper. I began to say something sympathetic, but she held up her clipboard as though warding me off from treading on her personal life.

  “Go find your outfit, Dewey. We’re running late. The lighting people are complaining because they can’t get in to focus the lights. The stage is locked up tight, and no one can find the key. Everything’s behind schedule.”

  “Listen, I can’t be in the fashion show. I’ve got appointments to keep.”

  Eve stiffened and frowned. She flinched as the soundtrack from West Side Story blared suddenly and the group began singing along with the lyrics about feeling pretty, oh so pretty. Lark had said Justine liked to keep the atmosphere lighthearted. Eve obviously didn’t do fun well.

  “What time is your appointment?”

  “Five.”

  “You’re not going to make it. You need to be here for rehearsal.” Eve was not backing down. I could see she wasn’t going to let me go.

  “I’ve got to be out of here in an hour,” I said.

  “Find Lark. She’ll give you your selection.”

  I reached for the notebook. Buster hadn’t wanted it. I didn’t want to be responsible for it any longer.

  “Okay, but Eve, wait. Take this notebook from me, please. I don’t want to misplace it. If it’s not Justine’s, put it in your lost and found or something.”

  I reached in my pocket. As soon as I did, I realized the notebook was no longer there. I’d lost it and I had a good idea where—Buster’s truck.

  Eve saw the confused look on my face and dismissed me, pointing toward Lark. She moved away to settle an argument over shoe choices. The notebook was in Buster’s hands now. He was the detective—let him figure out what it meant.

  Along the wall to my right were wooden cubbyholes. Street clothes, gym bags, purses hung from old-fashioned brass hooks. The opposite wall was bisected horizontally by a continuous countertop, with large mirrors above it. Globes were spaced about a foot apart, creating bright pools of light underneath.

  Lark motioned me over, pulling a hanger off the free-standing rack at the end of the counter. The outfit shook as if it was alive. It was made up of nothing but pink feathers ranging in hue from Pepto Bismol to Barbie Mustang to Mary Kay Cadillac. Without the hanger, I wouldn’t have guessed it was attire.

  I shrank back in horror. “How many flamingoes had to die for that dress?”

  Lark tch’d. “It’s a marvelous piece. Each feather is hand-stitched to the base. It’s very Sex and the City.”

  “More like cat in the birdcage.”

  “Find something to wear,” Eve commanded, from across the room where she was tugging on a recalcitrant zipper.

  Lark put the pink monstrosity back on the rack and pulled out another outfit. I blinked; she had to be messing with me. Was this her idea of a joke? The top was a bandeau bra and the skirt consisted of thousands of ribbons sewn onto a waistband. Ribbons of all colors and sizes, but none more than an inch wide. Anyone walking in the skirt would expose their private parts each time they moved. The title card read Rainbow Coalition. Jesse Jackson would be so proud.

  What had I agreed to? What kind of fashion show was this? I looked around. As the models pulled on clothes, the answer became too apparent. The outfits in this fashion show were outlandish. Laughter erupted as a woman in a space-age foil dress struck a pose. I saw a woman in a red flapper-style dress, her hair pulled back with a sequined headband. In the corner, a woman was checking herself in the mirror, tilting a hot pink and neon green two-foot-tall Cat-in-the-Hat hat just so. It matched her swing coat and turtleneck dress. As I watched, she thrust her feet into coordinating shoes, covered in pink and green beads.

  I had to shut my eyes. It hurt to look at this stuff. Kym had to be laughing her ass off right about now. There was no way I was going to wear one of these creations in front of an audience. Lark tugged at my belt buckle with one hand, pulling my T-shirt out of my waistband with the other. “Let’s go. Time’s a-wasting.”

  I grabbed a handful of my shirt and stopped her. �
�No way, I’m not going to do this.”

  Lark tossed a glance at Eve, who handed a jewel-encrusted belt to a tiny Asian woman and threw me a don’t-make-me-come-over-there look.

  “You’re here, Dewey,” Lark said. “Lighten up, have fun.”

  I didn’t see how that was possible. I released my T-shirt and tried to relax. I felt a tap on my shoulder.

  “Wear this.” Myra was standing behind me. She was dressed almost the same as she was yesterday—another navy suit, this one with pinstripes. She looked like the lone peahen in a room full of peacocks.

  To my relief, she was holding a pretty ensemble in shades of blue, green, and purple. The jacket looked to be of normal hip length, pieced of many small quilt blocks. The dress was sleeveless with a gored skirt, done in alternating bands of color. I could have kissed her.

  “That’s not part of the fashion show,” said Lark, her face screwed up in disapproval as she took the hanger from Myra.

  “This is a Claire Armstrong original,” Myra said haughtily.

  “I don’t care who made it. There’s a lineup already in place,” Lark said. “You can’t insert new outfits in willy-nilly.”

  “I want it in,” Myra said. “That’s the least we can do to honor Claire.”

  I hadn’t seen this assertive side of Myra, and I admired her loyalty.

  A whistle blew, shrilly cutting through the noisy chatter of the dressing room, ending all conversations, including Myra and Lark’s standoff. They glowered at each other. The more I looked at Claire’s outfit, the more I could see myself wearing it.

  From atop a chair, Eve let the whistle fall back on her chest, cupped a hand around her mouth, and yelled, “The keys to the stage door should be here shortly. I want you completely dressed and lined up, at the stage entrance, in ten minutes.” She pointed to a small red door cut into the wall at the far end of the counter. A brass plate read “Stage.”

  Her comments caused a flurry of activity as the models finished dressing.

  I reached for Claire’s outfit.