“I don’t know,” said Brainert. “Maybe Donald Easterbrook didn’t care.”
“He cared,” said Milner. “What man wouldn’t?”
This time I spoke up. “Okay, maybe Donald had a motive for killing Bethany, but that doesn’t explain Angel’s murder or Victoria Banks’s disappearance.”
“Okay,” said Fiona. “What about Hal McConnell? Unreasoning rage caused by unrequited love . . . Maybe he followed her to the utility room, tried to force his affections on her, she had choice words for him and he kills her?”
Joyce nodded with enthusiasm. “Sounds like it could happen.”
“Only on one of your soaps,” said Seymour.
“It did,” said Joyce. “Last month on Destiny.”
“Destiny?” asked Linda. “I don’t know that soap.”
“Korean channel. Out of Boston,” said Joyce. “Chin loved Bo-bae with all his heart, but she was cruel to him and one day when he declared himself, she humiliated him, and in a fit of rage, he smothered her with a silk pillow.”
The Quibblers stared at Joyce.
Linda Cooper-Logan leaned forward, wide-eyed. “What channel?”
“Seventy-two.”
I cleared my throat. “Getting back to Johnny’s case . . . Hal McConnell might have killed Bethany, true, and he might have even killed Angel. But he never would have hurt Victoria, because, in my opinion, he’s transferred all the affection he felt for Bethany to her younger sister.”
“Hey!” Seymour cried. “Then maybe Victoria isn’t dead or kidnapped. Nobody’s found a corpse or a ransom note. Maybe Angel killed Bethany then Victoria and Hal killed Angel and then ran off.”
“Sounds good, except I spoke to Hal today,” I informed him. “He hasn’t run off. And he said he was on the West Coast interviewing at a grad school. He took the red eye last night and just got in this morning.”
Seymour’s face dropped. “Oh.”
“You just read too many of those damn pulp novels,” said Fiona. “That, or you’re an incurable romantic.”
Seymour snorted. “Forty-five years of bachelorhood has cured me of any residual romanticism, I assure you.”
“Anyway,” said Brainert, “according to Angel’s book, Bethany slept with dozens of men. Any one of them could have been the killer.”
“Yeah,” said Milner, nodding. “I couldn’t tell you the number of crime stories I’ve read that had the victim dying during rough or kinky sex. And Angel wasn’t exactly pure as the driven snow. Maybe she ran afoul of the same pervert.”
Mr. Koh groaned again.
“Take it easy, Dad,” said his daughter. “It’s nothing I haven’t heard on Court TV.” But Joyce’s words did not reassure her father. Once again, he said something in Korean, and she came back at him in the same language. Then they continued arguing back and forth.
“Well, the meeting has finally degenerated, so I move we call it a night,” Brainert declared.
“I second the motion,” said Linda. “Mil and I have to get up early and start baking.”
Brainert slammed the hammer down. “This meeting is adjourned . . . and I’m getting me a real gavel for the next get-together. The damn thing is quite useful.”
“Good God,” I groaned. “I’ve created a monster.”
After everyone left and my aunt climbed the stairs to bed, I turned off the coffeemaker and the lights in the community room. Then I headed to the storage room to fetch the note Johnny left for Mina. I wanted to make sure she found it as soon as she got to work on Sunday, as I wouldn’t be here to give it to her. Tomorrow I was scheduled to take Spencer to the McClure family reunion at Windswept, an outing I would have gladly traded for a more pleasant experience—like a root canal sans novocain.
I found the note in the center of the old desk—a letter, really, sealed in an envelope culled from boxes of stationery, Mina’s name in ink, printed in neat script on the front.
As I picked it up to take it into the store, I spied Johnny’s denim work shirt draped over the back of the metal chair he’d been sitting on. He’d shed the garment earlier in the evening and had apparently forgotten it when he left. I picked up the shirt, and a bundle of keys dropped out of the breast pocket with a loud clatter. The keys to Bud’s store, his home—and the Napp’s Hardware truck concealed in the woods near the highway.
“Jack, are you there?”
Lay it on me, doll.
“Johnny forgot his keys . . . do you think there’s something inside that truck that might back up his story and help to clear him?”
Or incriminate him. Sure. Or there could be nothing but fresh air . . . We’ll find out when we get there.
“What?”
Come on, doll, humor me. Except for this afternoon I’ve been penned in this den since 1949. Let’s broaden my horizon.
IT WAS MIDNIGHT before we got on the road. I’d checked on the sleeping Spencer and told Aunt Sadie I was ducking out to the all-night convenience store for a few things. She raised an eyebrow but didn’t ask any questions.
The heat of the day had given way to a breezy night. With my car windows rolled down, the pungent scent of Quindicott’s saltwater inlet permeated the air. The cloudless sky was jammed with stars, and the roads were virtually deserted as I moved through town and out into the countryside. I didn’t see another pair of headlights until we approached the main highway. Along a wooded stretch without streetlights, I slowed the car.
“The lovers’ lane is along this stretch of road somewhere, if I remember correctly.”
And you know this how?
“Jack, even I was young once . . .”
Hmm. Makes me wonder, babe . . . Just how many smooching parties did you attend?
“None. I was a wallflower. My husband was my first and only real boyfriend. But my late brother Pete was a heart-breaker. He used to talk about this place to his friends, and I eavesdropped.”
I see, baby . . . practicing your surveillance techniques even then.
“Funny, Jack.”
I swerved off the highway, onto the shoulder, then slowly edged my car onto a narrow, unpaved service road consisting of two worn wheel paths with vegetation growing in the middle. As we bumped along, I could hear the tall grasses scraping along the bottom of my car. After rolling along for about a hundred yards, the road was blocked by two concrete posts with a steel cable strung between them.
End of the line, doll.
“Not according to Joyce Koh.”
I stopped the car, threw it into neutral, and popped the door. The interior alarm beeped, informing me I’d left the keys in the ignition. The door only opened about halfway before it hit a wall of scrub weeds and gnarled trees. I had to squeeze my way around it.
Over the purring engine I could hear night sounds—crickets, the buzz of cicadas, and the roar of traffic on the highway, still almost a mile away. In the glare of the headlights, I examined the barrier. Despite Joyce’s assurances, it didn’t seem possible to detach the steel cable and proceed, except on foot. Then I noticed that the ring bolt on one post lacked a nut to hold it in place. I grabbed the cable with both hands and tugged. The ring nut popped out of its hole and the thick steel cable dropped to the ground.
Neat trick, noted Jack. Put the cable back and it looks like a dead end. The patrolling prowl car jockeys who come along think the place is jalopy free, meanwhile half the bobby-soxers in town are using the strip like a hot-sheets motel. How did Johnny-boy find this spot, I wonder?
I smiled. “My guess is that Mina showed it to him.”
Hmm. Still waters run hot, I guess. Wouldn’t be the first time.
Back behind the wheel again, I drove between the concrete poles and onto the road beyond. As we crawled along, the headlights cast bizarre shadows all around us. The brush was so close on either side that it seemed like we were moving through a narrow tunnel. Trees leaned into the roadway like giant hooded sentinels, their branches resembled curling claws that seemed to reach out like hands ready to st
rangle. I tried to forget the memory of Angel’s corpse, the yellow rope wrapped around her throat; the description of Bethany’s murder, the belt around her throat.
A branch bumped the windshield, startling me.
“Talk to me, Jack, so I don’t feel all alone.”
How far back does this rabbit trail you call a road go, sister?
“Couldn’t say.”
Just when I feared I would have to back all the way out of a dead end, I came to a wide, circular clearing large enough to accommodate a half-dozen vehicles. Though the area seemed remote, I saw twinkling lights through the thick, old tree trunks—a faraway building probably—but I could not make out any details. I circled the area until I spied a gleam of metal in the headlights’ glare. Half-smothered in branches, sat a big red pickup truck with Napp Hardware in black letters on the side. I stopped the car and cut the engine.
Inside the trees the night sounds were more pronounced, the traffic roar muted. I heard an owl hoot as I moved carefully to the truck, the flashlight from my glove compartment in hand. I tried three keys in the door before I found the right one. Finally the lock clicked. I reached for the handle when a voice in my head stopped me.
The bulls and the lab boys will get around to finding the truck sooner or later. They’ll be dusting for prints, so you don’t want to leave any behind.
“How—”
Use the material from your blouse like a glove—
You want me to take it off ?”
I didn’t say that, but now that you mention it . . .
“Don’t worry, Jack. I’ll manage.”
I stuck my hand into the tail of my shirt. The door opened with a metallic groan. In the dim glow of the roof light I could see the messy interior of the cab, which smelled of oil, turpentine, and fresh paint. There were tools and boxes of nails between the two bucket seats, sheets of sandpaper scattered on the floor, and several old copies of the weekly penny-saver newspaper.
“Jack, what are we looking for?”
Won’t know until we find it, cupcake.
I crawled inside the cab, careful not to touch anything with my hands. I used the flashlight to check the back of the pickup, which was filled with building materials, a toolbox, some electrical drills and saws, a portable lathe, cans of paint, and bundles of rags. I also spied coils of yellow rope—probably the same type found wrapped around Angel Stark’s throat. Since it was nearly impossible to squeeze into the open bed of the pickup from the cab, I focused my attention on searching the driver’s area. As I rifled through the glove compartment, I moved my leg and several tiny metallic objects clattered to the floor. I played my flashlight along the floor mat until I saw them—two bullets, with brass casings and silver tips.
Bingo, dollface. Those are .38 caliber slugs. Didn’t Johnny-boy say that trampy Emily Dickinson threw bullets in his face?
“That’s right! What do we do? Call the police?”
Nix to that. Best that we were never here, officially anyway. Johnny will tell his side of the story. When the coppers come up here, they’ll find a bullet and know that part of his story is true, anyway.
“There are two bullets, Jack.”
We’re going to take one slug and leave the other. That way, if the fix is already in on Johnny-boy, you can go to Chief Ciders and admit you were here first and show him what you found.
“The chief would only say I made a story up to protect Johnny.”
Possible—unless you find Angel’s gun, and they can lift prints off one of the bullets. So let’s hope we never have to go that route. Now, grab one of those slugs with your blouse, wrap it up real gentle like, so if there is a print on it you don’t smear it.
There was no way I was going to reach one of the bullets with the shirt still on my back. I sighed and stripped it off, then wound the material around my hand. Dressed only in my khaki pants and white cotton bra, my skin prickled in the night’s slight breeze and I felt Jack’s eyes on me—which was, of course, patently ridiculous.
Now that’s what I call broadening my horizons, baby.
My cheeks flamed. “Cut it out, Jack.”
My fingers closed around the slug and I grabbed it, wrapped it, then I climbed out of the cab, closed the door, and made sure it was locked. I felt naked and vulnerable and I nearly screamed when headlights flashed through the trees—not from the direction of the service road, but from whatever that building was beyond the trees.
Then the headlights went out and I swore I heard voices, faintly and far away. That got me curious. I moved away from my own car, toward the light peeking through the trees. I found a path and followed it, my flashlight beam stabbing through the darkness.
Another pair of headlights shone through the woods, and I soon realized I was approaching the parking lot of the Comfy-Time Motel. Lit up beyond the trees was the very vending area where I’d found the cell phone earlier in the day.
“Jack . . .”
I know. This doesn’t look good for Johnny-boy. Victoria Banks was snatched less than a hundred yards from where he stashed his wheels—too close to be a coincidence, the coppers will insist.
I sighed. It was after midnight, and I was lurking in the woods near a motel parking lot in my bra with my blouse wrapped around a bullet.
“I think I’ve seen enough, Jack.”
I turned and panned the trees with my flashlight—the light caught the edge of a dingy white rectangle, and I saw it was that old rusting Private Property sign hanging from one nail on the giant oak tree that split the single trail in two.
I retraced my steps down the trail where I had come from but more paths branched off and I realized that it was easier to find a building in the darkness than a car parked in the woods.
“Oh, God, Jack . . . I think I took the wrong path . . . I think I’m lost . . .”
Don’t panic, kid.
But I did. I turned around and retraced my steps once more and started again. I began moving so quickly I almost outpaced my own flashlight beam. The column of light danced with my every step, throwing crazy shadows. My heart raced as I stumbled along. Suddenly my foot caught something and I went down onto my hands and knees. I still clutched the bundled blouse with the bullet, but the flashlight flew from my hand.
It landed off the path, rolled and stopped. The beam of light fell on what looked like a squirming black mass. I blinked as a cloud of flittering night bugs rose from the heap on the ground. I looked closer, saw a length of yellow rope encircling puffy black flesh, straw-blonde hair pulled into a tight ponytail, and pale, mottled skin still crawling with insects.
Then I screamed.
CHAPTER 20
The Getaway
I’m the sucker in this deal. You’re the smart guy.
—Raymond Chandler, “Blackmailer’s Don’t Shoot,” Black Mask magazine, 1933 (featuring Philip Mallory, the precursor to Philip Marlowe)
I WAS SICKENED, horrified, panicked. I picked up the flashlight and blindly ran. Branches clawed my head and arms, scrub brush tore my slacks, stones invaded my sandals.
Baby, wait! Slow down!
Jack tried to stop me, but I wasn’t a hardened ex-cop turned P.I. with a hundred crime scenes in my past and a gun strapped under my shoulder for protection. I was a widowed single mother completely lost—and in over my head.
Penelope!
The sound of my own name finally broke through. I couldn’t remember the last time Jack had called me anything but doll or baby. My steps slowed.
“Jack . . . it was . . . Victoria Banks . . . ,” I rasped, trying to catch my breath. “She was strangled, just like Angel . . . with yellow rope . . .”
I want you to calm down, go back to that body, and take a closer look.
“No, Jack. I have to get out of here. I have to call the police.”
But . . .
Jack kept talking, but I wasn’t listening. I continued moving along the path, not sure where I was going, just as long as it was away from those grotesque remains. My
heart was beating faster than moth wings against a porch light, and my palms were so slick with sweat I almost dropped the flashlight.
When it felt to me as if I’d run far enough, I began sweeping the milky beam in wide arcs to either side of the trail, looking hard into the woods until, thankfully, I caught a glimpse of Bud’s red pickup about twenty feet away. I jogged through the trees toward it. From there, I made my way back to my Saturn.
I opened the trunk, ripped a section of paper towel off the roll I kept there, carefully transferred the bullet into it, put it in my pocket, and threw my blouse back on. Inside the car, I pulled out the small silver cell phone I had thrown into my purse earlier.
Baby, what are you doing?
I opened the phone. The display screen’s neon green lit the pitch dark interior of the Saturn with an eerie glow. “What do you think I’m doing?” I snapped aloud. “I’m calling the police. Then I’m waiting right here until they arrive and I’m going to tell them everything.”
I understand why you want to do that, but take my advice. Don’t.
“Why?”
You hid Johnny in your back room when you knew the police were looking for him, that’s why. You withheld evidence to protect him, you’re in the middle of the woods after having tampered with more evidence and you don’t have a get out of jail free ticket—
“What are you talking about? This is murder, not Monopoly!”
Listen up, doll. A ‘get out of jail free ticket’ is a private investigator’s license. Something you don’t possess, the last time I checked, and if you’re not careful, they’ll start looking at you with accessory and obstruction charges.
“But you were the one who suggested we come out here!”
Don’t go soft on me now, sister. You were the one who asked for my help on this case — even employed a little emotional blackmail as I recall. I was the one said you better take a few swimming lessons before you jumped into the deep water. Well, it’s too late to turn back. You’re not just involved, you’re in over your head, and there’s only one thing to do when you get on a ferry like this . . . ride it all the way to the other side of the river.
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