by J. R. Ripley
“Did you tell your story to the police?”
T-Bone’s eyes darkened and narrowed. “I don’t talk to the police,” he hissed.
Dick Feller had told me that T-Bone Crawford was an ex-con. It was understandable that he wasn’t into sharing information with the local police. What was the mechanic’s crime? Dick had clammed up before getting the chance to tell me what villainy T-Bone had been convicted of committing. Whatever it was, surely even Jerry Kennedy had learned of it. Hadn’t he?
I decided there and then to make a point of learning what T-Bone had done and what Jerry did or did not know about the man’s past.
The phone in T-Bone’s pocket chirped and he dug it out. Thick, black grime coated the inside of his fingernails. He looked at the screen. “It’s the boss.”
He answered. “Yeah, Mr. LaChance?” T-Bone grunted, then said, “How’s the hunting? Oh? Too bad.” He listened a moment, nodded, and looked at me. “Yep. She’s right here.”
But I wasn’t. I was halfway to my van.
26
I was nearly to town before I noticed the motorcycle behind me. First I saw it, weaving in traffic, passing cars with abandon. Then I heard it, a threatening rumble like an approaching thunderstorm.
I parked in front of my store, ran inside, and locked the door.
“What are you doing?” exclaimed Kim. She was holding an owl house up to a customer in a tank top and jean shorts.
“I thought we’d close early,” I said, breathlessly. I took a quick look out the window as I heard the roar of the motorcycle approach.
“Are you all right, Amy?” Kim asked, leading her customer to the sales counter.
I nodded and waited while Kim rang up the sale. “Have a nice day!” I said, unlocking the front door and letting the young woman out. She looked at me like I was crazy. But I’d rather be thought crazy by a stranger than murdered by a motorcycle-riding ex-con.
“Are you sure you’re all right?” Kim stood beside me now, clutching her purse. She explained that she and Randy were meeting at his place for dinner. I told her to have a good time and watched as she climbed into her car and drove off.
Over at Ruby’s Diner, I saw T-Bone slowly dismount from his motorcycle. He removed his matte black helmet and hung it over the handlebars by its chin strap. He ran his fingers through his hair, then slowly looked my way. I dodged behind a carousel of bird-themed cards and peeked out.
There was no sign of him!
I ran to the back door and locked it. He might be sneaking around back to take me by surprise. After making sure all the doors and windows were secure, I dialed the police station on the store phone.
Jerry Kennedy picked up, and I explained the situation without mincing words.
“What were you doing down at LaChance Motors? You aren’t finally planning to get rid of that eyesore of yours, are you?”
“I was hanging flyers,” I snapped. “All perfectly innocent.”
“Hanging flyers,” he said, clearly skeptical, “or snooping into another murder?”
“Are you going to sit there arguing with me on the telephone, or are you going to get down here and arrest T-Bone Crawford?”
“Arrest him?!” snorted the chief. “Arrest him for what?”
I blew out a breath. “He is an ex-con, you know.”
“Yes,” drawled Jerry. “I do know.”
“And?”
“And the man’s done his time and he deserves to be left alone.”
“Fine,” I snarled. Jerry had finally made me mad. “I’m hanging up now. You can come by and take my cold, dead body to the morgue in the morning—if that would be more convenient for you.”
“Wait.” I heard Jerry sigh and his chair squeak. “You say Crawford followed you all the way from LaChance Motors to Birds and Bees?”
“That’s right,” I said, smugly. Finally, the man was listening to me.
“And you say he’s parked over at Ruby’s Diner?”
I said yes. “I can see his motorcycle even now. Who knows where he is?” Possibly sneaking up behind me with a knife or a garrote even as I was talking.
“Great, I’ll be right over.”
“You will?” I said, a little surprised and very hopeful.
“Yeah,” Jerry Kennedy said, right before hanging up. “I’m hungry, too!”
I slammed down the receiver and retreated to my apartment on the third floor. If T-Bone Crawford wanted me, he’d have to climb three floors to get me.
Mom was out playing cards with her friends so I had the place to myself. I nuked a frozen pizza and uncorked a bottle of red. I wondered what Derek was up to. I wondered again what he had been about to ask me when that idiot Craig showed up and spoiled everything.
I poured a generous glass of wine. He’d spoiled six years of my life. I stomped my foot against the floor. Hard. Paul and Craig’s apartment—temporary apartment—was directly below. I hoped they heard me. I hoped chunks of plaster from the ceiling fell on their heads and in their beer mugs.
I flopped down on the sofa with my wine and half the pizza and fired up my laptop. A search on Ava Turner brought up a million hits. I clicked on several but realized learning anything new about the actress that might pertain to someone wanting her dead was nearly an insurmountable task.
I searched for Patsy Klein, and the results were just the opposite. Plenty of Patsy Kleins. But none of them seemed to be the dead woman.
After my third slice of pizza and second glass of wine, with no sign of T-Bone breaking in to murder me, I searched the ex-con’s name. After a half hour of excruciating digging, I found a decade-old article from a Pittsburgh newspaper that described a Thibodaux “T-Bone” Crawford having been arrested and convicted of aggravated assault on a store clerk.
I was a store clerk!
He’d been sentenced to seven years and was expected to serve a minimum of five.
Aggravated assault? That didn’t sound good. I searched online for the definition. It wasn’t good. According to the FBI’s website, aggravated assault was an unlawful attack by one person upon another with the intent of inflicting severe bodily injury, often accompanied by use of a weapon.
I’d seen that knife T-Bone wore strapped to his belt. I’d definitely place it in the deadly weapon category. He’d had it with him in the garage, too. Maybe Chief Kennedy didn’t need to look any further than Crawford’s belt for the knife that had been used to stab Patsy Klein. . . .
I heard the key turn in the lock and looked up. “Hi, Mom.” I glanced at the clock on the wall. “You’re home early.”
“Ben wasn’t feeling well.”
“Ben?” I pulled my legs up under me on the sofa cushion. “I thought you were playing cards with the ladies?”
“No, Ben and I went to the movies.”
I smiled. “You like Ben?”
Mom placed her blue purse on the edge of the kitchen counter beside the phone. “I like a lot of people, Amy.” She poured a glass of water from the tap and took a couple of her pills.
“Yeah,” I teased, “but you really like Ben. Right?”
Mom set the glass in the sink. “I’m going to run a load of laundry before bed,” she said, in a not-so-subtle attempt to change the subject.
“This late?”
“What can I say? The sound of warm clothes tumbling in the dryer soothes me, helps me sleep.” Mom had explained in the past that when she grew up, her bedroom had shared a wall with the laundry room. She’d grown accustomed to the sounds of laundry. “Give me those clothes you’ve got on, Amy. They look disgusting.”
I tugged at my shirt and took a whiff. “Ugh. They smell disgusting too.” Like a musty garage and cigarette smoke. I changed into pj’s and settled back down on the sofa. I was nibbling at a fourth slice of cold pizza when Mom reappeared. She had changed from a simple yellow skirt and blouse to blue cotton pajamas and a rose-colored robe.
“I found this in your pants’ pocket.” She tossed me the scrap of paper, then h
eaded back to the laundry room tucked into a small space off the kitchen.
I wriggled my bare toes and fingered the square of paper. “What is it?” I wondered aloud. Then I remembered, this was the paper I’d found tucked under the ironing board in Patsy Klein’s motel room. I’d shoved it in my pocket and forgotten about it. It was probably one of those INSPECTED BY NUMBER 33 things, or some sort of note from the manufacturer about the care and cleaning of the ironing board’s synthetic cover.
I glanced over it quickly, thinking to throw it out, but sat up straight when I saw it was an old yellowed newspaper article concerning a young August Mantooth. At least, from the grainy picture, it appeared to be August Mantooth, albeit a clean-shaven one. There was no mistaking that distinctive face. Only his name then hadn’t been Mantooth. It had been Manfred.
Back in the eighties, he’d been the assistant to the director of a show at a small theater in St. Louis, Missouri. The show had closed abruptly when the theater’s receipts had gone missing. August Mantooth, then Manfred, had gone missing too.
Authorities caught up with the young man in San Francisco, where he claimed no knowledge of the theft. Police were never able to prove otherwise and the case was closed.
I toyed with the old newspaper. I knocked on my mom’s bedroom door. She was sitting up in bed, reading a historical novel. I told her what I’d found.
Mom lowered her glasses down her nose. “So you think this director was being blackmailed by Patsy Klein, the dead woman?”
“It seems so.” I explained how I’d discovered August Mantooth sneaking out of Patsy’s room at the Ruby Lake Motor Inn. I held up the news article. “He had to have been looking for this. I’d bet anything on it.”
“If he was being blackmailed by her, he doesn’t have to worry about it anymore.”
I rubbed my palms over my face. “But that would mean Patsy had been the intended victim all along. Yet she was killed in Ava’s dressing room, while dressed like Ava’s character.”
“Plus,” Mom said, lowering her book to her lap, “someone is still trying to kill Miss Turner.”
I sighed. “None of this makes any sense.”
“Murder seldom does,” Mom replied. “You should tell Jerry about this.”
I agreed. Mom held her hand to her mouth to cover a yawn. I fluffed her pillow and kissed her cheek. “Get some sleep.” I turned off the bedside lamp at Mom’s request and closed her door behind me.
It might have been the wine. It might have been my nerves settling down after my tangle with T-Bone Crawford, but I felt suddenly worn out and needed sleep as well. Before retiring, I dialed the inn’s number and asked for Mr. Mantooth. There was no answer at his cabin, but at least he hadn’t checked out and left town. I’d try to pin him down tomorrow and confront him with what I’d found.
Deep in thought, I brushed my teeth and grabbed my personal copy of the Bird Watcher’s Bible for a little light bedtime reading. I had just turned down the covers when the front door started rattling.
Now what?
I threw on my robe and cursed as I went to the door. The store was closed, the house locked up. Who could it be at this hour?
“Miss Turner!” The actress was elegantly dressed in a flowing blue silk dress and low black heels. Despite the warmth of the evening, she wore the same fox stole—or its twin—that I’d seen wrapped around her neck the night I’d found her at The Coffee and Tea House. “What brings you to Birds and Bees?” I hadn’t noticed a single bird feeder at her estate the other day. Not even a birdbath in the garden.
Then I noticed Esther standing behind the actress, swaddled in a cat-and-nicotine-scented terrycloth robe, her hair all lopsided like she’d been sleeping.
“I heard this lady banging on the front door,” snapped my tenant. “She says she is a friend of yours.”
I wasn’t too happy with Esther inviting folks into my store after hours, but I was happy to see Ava.
I frowned my displeasure at Esther. I’d deal with her later. “Thank you, Esther.” I moved away from the door. “Won’t you come in, Miss Turner?”
“You know,” Esther said, “I used to do a little acting out in Hollywood myself.”
I rolled my eyes. Esther Pilaster had been retired for as long as I could remember. She hadn’t worked since the local five and dime closed fifteen years ago.
I asked Ava if she would care for something to drink and invited her to sit. I crossed to the open window and looked down at Ruby’s Diner. There were several cars in the lot, but the Harley was long gone.
I pulled the curtains shut and took a seat in the chair across from the actress.
“You heard what happened today, I suppose?” she began.
“About the shooting at your house? Yes. Have the police come up with anything?”
She said they hadn’t. “Rumor has it that Annie Get Your Gun may continue, after all.”
I explained how I’d been trying to get Lou Ferris and August Mantooth to agree to continue with the production. “It’s for the good of the theater and the entire town.”
“Still,” she said, “I wonder if that’s wise?”
“Believe me,” I said, “I know how difficult it must be for you, the thought of returning to the theater.” I ran my tongue over my upper lip. “Your dressing room.”
She nodded somberly.
“Do you have any idea what Miss Klein was doing in your dressing room?”
The actress shrugged. “The woman was always flitting about, in and out. It was her job.”
That made sense. “Did you notice anything . . .” I struggled for words. “. . . different in your dressing room?” I cleared my throat. “I mean, after the murder?”
Her brow creased ever so slightly. “How do you mean?”
“Was there anything missing, for instance?”
“Not a thing,” Ava replied, twirling a diamond ring on her left hand. “All perfectly ordinary. Except . . .” She hesitated.
“Yes?”
“Now that you mention it, I noticed the wardrobe trunk had been moved.” She laughed lightly. “But it was nothing. Anyone might have moved it.”
“Did you mention that to the police?”
“No,” she said, solemnly. “It can’t possibly have been important. Nothing in that trunk but costumes.
I closed my eyes and pictured her dressing room at the theater. The leather-sided wardrobe trunk was a large, rectangular portable clothes closet on locking wheels with a stiff wooden rod to hold the clothing. It stood about six feet tall and was maybe two and a half feet wide.
“Besides, it couldn’t have been moved more than a foot or two.” She smiled. “I’m probably the only person to notice or care. I’m considered somewhat of a diva.”
I assured her that was not the case.
The actress rose and went to the window, running her fingers along the edge of the curtain. “I am quite concerned.”
“For your safety?”
“For all of our safety,” Miss Turner confessed, tugging at the material. I heard the sound of a car’s backfire in the distance.
I felt my skin prickle. Something in her tone made me believe her. “Is that why you’re here?” It was after ten, not exactly the witching hour, but still. I barely knew the woman and suddenly she was showing up unannounced in my apartment. What did she want?
“This may have been a mistake.” Ava turned suddenly and headed for the door.
I rose. “Where are you going?”
She had already reached the door and was opening it. “Good night, Miss Simms.”
“But—”
“I’ll show myself out.”
“Would you like me to drive you home?” I knew the actress didn’t drive. That’s why Cousin Riley chauffeured her to and from the theater for rehearsals.
“That won’t be necessary. Gail is downstairs.”
Nonetheless, I followed her down the steps to the door. Paul and Craig were coming in, their shirts untucked and their eyes glas
sy. “What are you two doing coming in the front?” I admonished them. “The front door is for customers. You’re supposed to use the back door.” A previous owner of the house had installed an exterior stairs leading from the ground to the second floor—thereby keeping renters from coming through the downstairs. Unfortunately, those stairs had been in a dangerous state of decay and proven too expensive to repair, so I’d asked my contractor to remove them, which had cost me a fraction of the money. Now I had no choice but to let renters use the interior stairs. I drew the line at using the front door, however. I seemed to be the only one aware of that line.
“Sorry.” Craig giggled. I smelled beer on his breath.
“Say,” Paul said, watching as Ava Turner slid into the back of a dark sedan at the curb, “what was Miss Turner doing here?”
“None of your business,” I said. Not that I would have admitted what she was doing here even if I’d known.
“The movie actress?” asked Craig.
Sure, he probably wanted to hit on her.
“You’re both drunk,” I said, pushing both men toward the stairs.
“Research,” Paul explained with an impish grin.
“Yeah,” said Craig. “Menu planning.”
I followed them to their apartment, then banged on Esther’s door. I heard a muffled meow, some scratching and murmuring. A moment later, Ester opened the door a crack. “It’s late,” she complained. “What do you want? I was trying to sleep.”
A blast of lemony fresh air hit me in the face. That unnatural lemony smell that comes in a spray can. I narrowed my eyes at her. I looked at the space between her feet. “I heard a cat.”
“Animal Planet.”
“You said you were asleep.”
“I said I was trying to sleep. Watching the TV helps. Now, if you don’t mind?” She slammed the door in my face.
“Don’t let strangers in the store after dark!” I hollered at the door.
“Trying to sleep!” was her reply.
I trounced back to the third floor and locked up. I heard the sound of a motorcycle and pulled the curtain aside. I was about to let it drop back when something odd caught my eye.