by J. R. Ripley
And to put me out of business in the process.
18
“What are you doing here, Simms?”
“I thought I’d see if I could tape a flyer in your window.”
Chief Kennedy had his hands in the file cabinet near the door to the police station. “This is a police station not a mini-mart.” He slammed the drawer shut.
Officer Sutton looked up from the paperwork spread out on his desk.
Jerry waved his fingers at me. “Take your paper and go. You ought to know better.”
I did know better. But sticking a flyer up in his window wasn’t the real reason I’d come. “Okay, okay. Don’t get your shorts in a bunch.” I pressed my palm against the door. “Say, while I’m here . . .” I turned and followed Jerry to his desk near the back.
The police station still gave me the shivers. I’d spent more time in this place than I liked recently, and not of my own volition. “What’s the word on the knife?” Chief Kennedy’s mouth hung open. “Lift any prints? Test for blood yet?”
Jerry fell into his chair and crossed his legs and arms. “Do you have any idea how long these things take?”
“Long?” I said, with a half smile. A glare was his only response. “Whose knife was it anyway? It doesn’t take long to lift a fingerprint.”
“There were no prints on the knife, Simms.” He pointed to the door. “Now go.”
“Yeah, just like the gun,” Officer Sutton put in.
Jerry sent his underling a look that clammed him up and got him moving paperwork again.
“No prints, huh? I’m not surprised,” I replied. “Somebody planted that knife.”
“In an empty locker,” said Chief Kennedy. “Have you got an explanation for that?”
I admitted I didn’t. “Don’t you think you should be providing Miss Turner with security?”
“She told me she didn’t want any. Not that I have the manpower to provide it if she did.”
“I have a theory that our killer isn’t going to stop until Miss Turner is dead.” I loomed over Jerry like a bad shadow. “I also have a few theories on who might want to see Ava Turner cross to the other side.” I arched my brow. “If you get my drift.”
“I’ve got my own theories, Simms.”
“Like who?” I scoffed. “My cousin Rhonda? The killer hairdresser? Why would she want Ava Turner dead? Both she and Riley adore her.”
“No, smarty-pants. Though she is on my list. And you can tell her I said so.” He leaned forward in his chair and his gut spilled over his belt. “I do believe I’ve narrowed down the suspects to a precious few.”
Now he had me interested. “Such as?”
“Such as you can read about it in the Weekender once I get them in custody.” Quick as a cat, Jerry sprang from his desk and marched me out of the police station by the elbow.
* * *
I’d finally reconnected with Derek yesterday, and he’d agreed to take the two children to see Sammy the towhee. That was fine by me. There was no sense causing a deeper rift between me and his ex, Amy. Kim was working at the flip house, Mr. Withers’s former home, so I made that my next stop. I had another hour before I had to get back to the store. I’d left Mom and her sister in charge. I knew Aunt Betty was driving Mom for her checkup so I couldn’t afford to be late getting back.
Randy and Kim were hard at work on the master bath. Rather, I should say Randy was hard at work demoing the old yellow ceramic tile that matched the yellow toilet, tub, and sink. Kim was on her cell phone.
“Hi, Amy.” She held up a finger. “What’s that?” she said into the phone. “Uh-huh. That’s right.”
I turned to Randy in exasperation. “How’s it going?”
He lowered the claw hammer he held in his right hand and pushed damp hair from his white-powder-coated face. “Rough, but we’ll get there. What brings you, Amy?” He extended the hand with the hammer. “Come to help?”
“Sorry.” I coughed. There was a lot of grout dust swimming around in the tiny space. “I came to get Mr. Withers’s old bird feeder.”
Randy grinned. “Help yourself. It’s out back. Kim told me what you’re doing. I think it’s great. I told your friend here”—he aimed the tool at my partner—“to put me down for fifty.”
“Pounds or bucks?”
Randy’s gap-tooth grin widened. “Whichever helps the most.”
I told him thanks again and hurried out of the dust cloud and into warm afternoon sunshine. There were two bird feeders in the yard. I recognized the one hanging in the maple off the back porch right away. That was the feeder that had been giving Floyd Withers so much trouble the first day he’d walked into my store. It was a tube feeder. And it was empty. Poor birds. Not that there wasn’t plenty of natural nourishment around.
The second feeder, a hopper with a gabled green roof, was attached to a black pole and sat close to the big shed near the edge of the property. There was a small cast-cement birdbath beside it. What water there was in the bowl was dirty, and a ring of scum surrounded the edges of the basin. I spotted a garden hose and gave it a good rinse before refilling it.
* * *
I got back to Birds & Bees in the nick of time. Mom was wrapping up a sale. She’d sold two varieties of seed, a hanging seed feeder, and a hummingbird feeder. Yea, Mom!
Mom reached behind her and untied her apron. I took it and hung it on the hook behind the counter. Aunt Betty appeared from the back. “It’s about time, young lady.”
My aunt was dressed to kill in a red dress and black heels. You’d never know she was nearly twice my age. And with her hair now dyed a brilliant blond, you’d never take her for my mother’s sister, let alone her twin. “We were getting nervous. You know how the doctors’ offices are these days. They hate it when you’re late.”
“I know. Sorry, Aunt Betty.”
“Leave the poor girl alone,” Mom said with a smile. “Our Amy has a lot to handle.” She picked up her purse and tucked it under her arm.
“Well, hopefully the extra money will help with that.” Aunt Betty ran a tube of bright red lipstick around lips.
“Believe me,” said my mother, “it will.”
“Extra money?” That sounded good. “What extra money?” Though, as far as I was concerned, there was no such thing as extra money.
Something soft but massive bounced against my back. My hip ricocheted off the sales counter and I turned.
“Oops!” Paul Anderson smiled at me from around the side of a large bare mattress that he was holding up at one end. “Sorry about that.” He turned to his partner, who was nothing more than a pair of arms and legs from where I stood. “Okay, let’s go. One or two more trips and we’re done!”
“Right!” came the muffled reply.
Anderson turned and angled the bulky mattress toward the stairs. He had the back end and his helper the front. I stood, mouth agape, as they traipsed up to my second floor.
“What the devil is going on?” My eyes flew from Mom to Aunt Betty and back again to my mother, who stood there with a funny look on her face and squirmed. Aunt Betty chose that moment to say she’d bring the car around, allowing me to focus on my mom. “Mother?”
Mom wrung her hands and glanced up the stairs, from which we heard the sounds of banging and slamming and not a little bit of cursing. “What is going on? Why is Paul Anderson lugging a mattress up my stairs?”
Mom sucked in her lower lip. Outside, Aunt Betty tooted her horn. “That’s me,” said Mom. “Gotta go!” Mom went for the door and I dogged her heels.
She stopped at the entrance. “I’m sure it will be fine. You’ll hardly notice he’s here. Besides,” Mom said, planting a kiss on my cheek and starting down to the street, “Kim assured me you would be fine with it.”
What had Kim done?
I slowly turned the lock and hung the closed sign. Then I counted to ten. Then I counted to one hundred.
Then I headed upstairs to have it out with Mr. Anderson. The door to the apartment n
ext door to Esther’s hung open. I heard voices inside.
Paul’s elbow was resting on the kitchen island top. He was tipping back a beer. “Hey, Amy.” He set his can on the counter and walked toward me.
I stood agog. The apartment was full of furniture. This was an empty apartment. At least, it was supposed to be. “What’s all this?” I spread my arms.
“My stuff. I’m moving in.” His smile was one-hundred watt. “I know Kim said tomorrow, but there’s no time like the present, right?”
“Oh, no, you’re not!” My voice went up a notch. “You need to get all this—this junk of yours out of here.” Most of the furniture looked like it had come from a college dorm. The matching pair of keg-based tables most of all.
“What do you mean? Your partner said you were cool with this.” He folded his arms over his chest. “In fact, she said it was your idea.”
I closed my eyes for a moment. “Look,” I began, trying desperately to stay calm, “I don’t know what Kim—”
“We getting a new roommate?” Esther stuck her head around the corner.
“Yes,” Paul said.
“No,” I retorted simultaneously.
Anderson extended his hand with a smile. “I’m your new neighbor, Paul Anderson.”
“Esther Pilaster.” Esther fluffed her hair. “I’m right next door if you need anything, honey.” She turned her eyes on me. “Or if you need any pointers on how to handle this one.” She jerked a gnarly, long-nailed pink thumb my way.
Paul laughed. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
Esther said goodbye and returned to her apartment.
“Look, Mr. Anderson, like I was saying—”
“What’s all the commotion?”
The blood in my veins congealed and my brain did a flip-flop. A gangly fellow in a sharp pair of blue jeans and a gray and blue UNC T-shirt appeared at the bedroom door. It was the guy who’d been at the other end of the mattress. It was also the guy I had once shared a mattress with.
“Craig?” I gasped.
The dimples in Craig’s ridiculously handsome face deepened. “Hi, Amy! Long time no see.”
19
“Craig?” I repeated, taking a step back toward the open door. My
Cmouth went dry.
“So you do know my partner,” Paul said.
“Yeah,” Craig said, swaddling me in his arms.
I worked myself free. “You are not staying here, too.” I looked worriedly from one man to the other.
Craig ran a hand through his hair. “Only for a couple of days.” He punched Paul in the side of the arm. “Checking up on my investment.”
“Well, the first thing I suggest . . .” I said, struggling to breathe. All of a sudden I was feeling claustrophobic and breathless. “. . . is that the two of you check into a motel.”
“A motel?” Craig helped himself to a beer from the Styrofoam chest on the counter. Ice water dripped down the sides of the can and spilled all over my hardwood floors. “You wouldn’t really make us sleep in a motel?” He popped the lid and took a long pull. “After all we’ve been through? We’re friends.”
“We’ve been through a lot, all right.” I folded my arms across my chest and scowled. “Cheating, lying.” I shook my head. “After all we’ve been through together, I ought to make you sleep in the Dumpster. You are trash, after all.”
Peter burst out laughing. A moment later, Craig joined in.
“Why not stay at your house?” I suggested, knowing Craig would never take me up on the Dumpster idea. “You did mention you had a house.”
“No certificate of occupancy, remember?” Paul winked at Craig, who didn’t look like he’d shaved in three days. The stubble added a certain allure, and he knew it.
“So park that camper thingamajig of yours in the driveway and sleep there.”
“No power hookup. Besides, this is more convenient.”
“Not for me, it isn’t.”
“Think of it this way,” Paul said, “the sooner we get the build-out completed, the sooner we open for business.”
“Yeah, and put me out of business,” I mumbled.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Paul asked.
I narrowed my eyes at the two of them. “You know what it means.”
Paul and Craig shared a look of confusion. I wondered if they shared a brain as well. “I’m talking about the eminent domain of my house and business.”
“Oh, that,” Paul said with a dismissive wave of the hand. “You worry too much. Besides, it could be good for business.”
“Yours maybe, but not mine.” How convenient for Paul and Craig to own a brew pub next door to a well-known Italian restaurant franchise. There would be a lot more synergy between those two businesses than there would with a birding supply store.
I resisted the urge to accuse the entire commission of political corruption. “I’m going to fight it, you know.”
“And you should, Amy,” said Paul, rather glibly, I thought. “To tell you the truth, I don’t know which way I’ll vote on the matter.”
I frowned at him. Was he trying to pull the wool over my eyes? Lull me into complacency? If he was, it wasn’t going to work. I’d fight the rezoning all the way.
“I don’t see what the big deal is, Amy,” Craig said, putting in his two cents. “It seems to me you could reopen this little bird store of yours anywhere.”
Had he been talking to Robert LaChance? “I’ve invested a lot in this place, Craig. You wouldn’t understand that, would you?” A lot of time and a lot of money. Like all the time I had invested in my failed relationship with him.
I crossed to the wall where an old dumbwaiter had once held something I’d rather not think about. Okay, it was a dead body. That was one of the reasons I hadn’t gotten around to renting the space out. First, I’d been busy. Second, folks in town knew about the dead body and, believe it or not, it discouraged renters. Craig, on the other hand, loved all that supernatural stuff and, if I told him the room’s history, it would only encourage him to stay.
A four-foot-tall massive black safe now sat directly in front of the dumbwaiter. The name REMINGTON was stenciled across the top of the door in gold letters. “Is this a gun safe?” I asked in disbelief.
“Yeah.” Paul crossed the small living room and placed his arm over the top. “You can never be too safe, you know?”
“No guns allowed.”
Paul looked at Craig, who shrugged and said, “Don’t look at me.”
“Fine,” Paul replied. “We’ll move it over to the pub.”
Craig groaned. “Do you have any idea how heavy that thing is?”
“I suggest you watch your toes on your way out,” was my only reply.
“Wait,” said Paul, grabbing my arm as I made to leave the apartment. “Does this mean you’ll let us stay?”
“Well . . .”
“Come one, Amy. This is all your fault, after all.”
My brow shot up. “My fault? How do you figure that?”
“You reported me to the police.”
“I never reported you!”
“Whatever,” Paul replied, clearly not believing me. “I got a huge ticket and was told I couldn’t live on the street in my camper. I had to find someplace to live.” He filled Craig in on his visit from the police. “So when your friend, Kim, told me you were offering this place and it was only eight hundred dollars a month—”
“Eight hundred?” I interrupted. I was only getting three hundred a month from Esther.
Paul nodded. “I already gave your mother my check. She said she’d stick it in the register. Did Kim get the rate wrong?” He patted his pockets as if looking for something. “Not enough?”
I waved my hands at waist level. “No, no. Eight hundred is exactly right. Of course,” I said, thinking quickly, “if Bigelow the gigolo is going to stay here, I’ll have to charge an extra fifty a day.”
“An extra fifty?” squawked Paul.
Craig pressed down on his fri
end’s shoulder. “No worries.” He pulled out his wallet and handed over five twenty-dollar bills. “Here’s the first couple of days’ extra rent.”
“But fifty dollars,” Paul began again.
Craig ran his finger along the edge of the damp beer can. “Worth every penny,” he said, giving me one of his patented tall, dark, and handsome looks.
I made for the door before my body did something stupid, like swoon.
* * *
I microwaved some frozen mac and cheese with broccoli and washed it down with a glass of red wine. At least under the same roof I’d be able to keep an eye on them and whatever they were up to. Then I headed for Kim’s house. I could have called first, but that would only have given her notice. I wanted the element of surprise.
Kim owned a craftsman-style bungalow on the opposite side of town. There’s a full-width porch stretching from one outside end post to the other. Square posts rest atop chestnut red brick piers, which rise just slightly above the white porch railing. To my knowledge, the painted red flower box beneath the triple attic window has never held any flowers or living things of any kind, other than the occasional rooting chipmunk and squirrel.
Kim had maintained the home’s classic color scheme: stone-colored weatherboard with white trim and a red door. Kim’s car was in the driveway leading back to the single-car garage.
I knocked on the kitchen door. There was no answer so I let myself in with the spare key under the flowerpot on the back porch.
“Hey, Amy,” Kim said, strolling into the kitchen in a puffy yellow robe. A bath towel was draped over her head. “Man,” she began, pulling a couple of glasses down from the cabinet, “you wouldn’t believe how dirty a job remodeling is.”
I chuckled. I’d seen her remodeling efforts. They’d been mostly of the bystander variety. I took the glass of sweet tea she’d offered, drank, then set my glass beside the sink. “I hear I have you to thank for my new tenant.”
“Isn’t it great?” Kim said. She rooted around in the fridge and pulled out bucket of leftover fried chicken. “Want some?”
“No, thanks. I ate.”