Here Comes the Ride

by Lorena McCourtney

  Chapter Nineteen

  “I know who killed Michelle,” he announced.

  You looked in the mirror, and there he was?

  But all I said was a wary, “You do?” as I eased the limo around the casino’s circular driveway.

  “I figured it out tonight. My subconscious is always working when I’m at a blackjack table. That’s where I get some of my best ideas.”

  Like the idea for that movie about the chainsaw-wielding vampire? Oh, yeah, great idea. Lots of artistic value. “One of the wedding guests?” I asked cautiously.

  “Obviously the person was present at the wedding. That’s a no-brainer. I’m seeing it like a script. In a good script, the murderer is never the obvious suspect. There’s a twist, a hidden agenda, that the average person can’t spot.”

  The implication being that he was much more clever than the average person.

  “But in non-scripted real life, the murderer is often someone quite straightforward,” I said. “The wife or the husband. The friend or neighbor or business partner.”

  He turned his head to look at me. I couldn’t see any expression through the barrier of the sunglasses, but I got the distinct impression of Big Important Bug looking down on Tiny No-Brainer Bug. Squishing said bug being a strong possibility.

  “So who do you say it is?” I asked hastily.

  “I don’t care to reveal a specific name yet, but I will when I have the proof to go with what I already know.”

  “You’re turning detective?” I asked with as much dismay as Detective Molino no doubt felt about my sleuthing.

  “These small-town cops will never figure it out. They couldn’t find a candy thief leaving a trail of chocolate fingerprints. That’s why Alice and I’ve stayed on. We want Michelle’s killer brought to justice.”

  Detective Molino and I have our differences, but I didn’t appreciate Stan Steffan’s disdainful attitude toward the local authorities.

  “Actually, Detective Molino is with the county sheriff’s department, not the ‘small-town cops.’ ”

  He waved a hand to dismiss that as a trivial technicality. “Whatever.”

  “Do you intend to discuss your, umm, epiphany with Detective Molino?”

  “I’ll talk to someone higher up when the time comes.”

  No one but top brass for Stan Steffan. So why, I wondered, was he deigning to tell me all this? I flicked the turn signal and eased onto Hornsby Loop. “Are you considering the possibility that if the killer realizes you’re onto him, or her, your own life might be in danger?”

  “I can take care of myself.”

  The arrogant answer implied an invincible superiority. His superior intellect, no doubt. Maybe a black belt in karate, or a Colt .45 in his pocket? Or another obvious possibility: if he were the murderer, he had no reason to fear anyone else.

  “Guy tried to carjack my Mercedes once. Bad choice for him.”

  He obviously expected me to ask why this was a bad choice for the carjacker, so I obliged. As he was telling me how he’d done the guy in by slamming the car into the side of a building, I figured out why he’d turned so chatty. Stan Steffan needed an audience, even if it was only a lone limo chauffeur. Praise. Applause. The kind of guy who, if he got away with murder, might turn it into a movie to parade his cleverness?

  I failed to play my assigned part as breathless applauder, and we rode to the gate in silence. I slipped the remote control from the visor and touched the button. The gate opened, then closed behind us.

  “Did you get a good look at the knife that was used to kill Michelle?” I asked.

  “No. The body was covered by the time I saw it. Why?”

  “I was thinking that if you’d seen the knife, perhaps you could identify it for the authorities.”

  “How could I identify it? It wasn’t mine.” Was that an undercurrent of alarm beneath the ever-present scorn? Identifying it as his wasn’t what I’d meant, but it was interesting that he took it that way.

  “Identify it in a general way, I mean. Since you’re an expert on such matters.”

  “I collect Japanese swords of historic significance and value. I’m not knowledgeable about other types of knives.” He added a wary-sounding question. “Did you see it?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “Could you describe it?”

  “I don’t think I can do that.” With a certain superiority of my own I added, “Confidential information, you know.”

  Okay, so that implied I was working some insider role with the authorities, which wasn’t exactly accurate, but I figured the fact that it was a butterfly knife should be confidential. Although the Stan Man here might already know exactly what kind of knife it was.

  Yet the basic problem with that immediately jumped up to whack me again. What motive could he have for murdering Michelle? Her death ended any chance of his prying a sizable investment in his movie out of her.

  I stopped the limo at the front steps. He opened the door, but before getting out he asked, “You were the first one to the body. I suppose you have some theory about who did it?”

  “Solving murders is a matter for the authorities, not me.”

  “But someone said you helped catch the killer of some old boyfriend. Body in the trunk or something. A regular Murder-She-Wrote woman.”

  Any egotistical temptation I may have had to claim super-sleuth powers was doused by a feeling that knowing too much might not be healthy around Stan Steffan. So all I said was, “I’m a limousine chauffeur, not a detective.”

  After dropping him off at the steps, I parked in the graveled alleyway between the house and garage. I was circling the house to go in the back way when my cell phone rang. I glanced at the caller ID.

  “Fitz?” I said, wondering why he’d call at this late hour.

  “You’re okay?”

  “I’m fine. No problems.”

  “Good. I just wanted to make sure you got there okay.” Fitz’s concern felt more warming than a dip in the hot tub.

  “You think Stan Steffan is a murderer?”

  “Everybody’s a suspect, remember? But even if he isn’t a murderer, we know he’s a woman chaser. And you’re a very attractive woman.”

  I could have argued that Stan Steffan’s taste ran to targets considerably younger and more shapely than yours truly, but I decided to bask in the compliment instead. “He told me he knows who killed Michelle. Though he doesn’t intend to reveal who it is until he comes up with the evidence.”

  “What made him so talkative?”

  “I was surprised too, but he’s big on impressing people, and I guess I was the only one available at the moment.”

  “Stan Steffan playing detective sounds dangerous to me.”

  “Because there’s nothing worse than an amateur bumbling around in murder?”

  “Because maybe he isn’t looking for evidence to incriminate someone. Maybe what he really wants is to grab any evidence that might incriminate him. And maybe he wouldn’t be averse to eliminating someone who got in his way.”

  “You’re a suspicious man, Keegan Fitzpatrick.”

  “That’s the key to long life for a detective. Watch out for that guy, Andi. I’d feel a lot better if you moved back home.”

  “I will as soon as I can.”

  He paused, as if considering pushing for a more definite commitment, but finally said, “Okay. Talk to you tomorrow.”

  ***

  I woke with the peculiar feeling something had wakened me, but I lay there in the dark for several minutes without hearing anything. I turned on the lamp and checked the clock. 2:45. I lay there sleepless for another ten minutes, then got up and slipped a robe over my pajamas.

  I padded barefoot down the hallway to Michelle’s office. Pam had said I could “poke around” in there if I wanted. She probably hadn’t expected me to do it in the middle of the night, but a couple of years ago, in one of my occasional self-improvement frenzies, I’d decided that whenever I couldn’t sleep I’d get up and do
something constructive with the time. On that theory I’ve finished my taxes, reorganized the medicine chest in the bathroom, and learned that a do-it-yourself haircut at 2:30 am is not a wise idea.

  Except that someone else apparently had the same thought about not wasting sleepless hours. Faint light from the upper hallway shone down the stairs, dimly illuminating the closed door to the office, but glimmers of light also flickered unevenly under the door. Someone with a flashlight? Or could a computer screen make that jumpy light?

  Who? Why?

  I could yank the door open—

  Yeah, right. And find myself facing a murderer. With more potent weaponry than what I had, which, after feeling around in the pockets of my robe, appeared to be two bobby pins and a paper clip.

  Yet, even unarmed, I couldn’t ignore the situation and slink silently back to my room. Knowing who was in there could be the key to identifying Michelle’s killer. No convenient keyhole to peek through, however.

  No problem! The guest closet was on the other side of the foyer. I’d just hide in there and have a sleuth’s-eye view when the office door opened.

  The catch on the closet door made only an infinitesimal click as I turned the knob. So far, so good. I’d just make myself comfortable in here—

  But I almost panicked when I slipped inside. The closet wasn’t empty! Someone large and hairy and long armed— I stifled a shriek, then twisted and turned and flailed my fists in a frantic effort to escape the smothering presence.

  And managed a triumphant victory over my ruthless opponent—a fur-collared jacket.

  I had no idea how much noise this one-sided battle had caused, but I crouched there frozen, expecting the murderer to fling the door open at any moment. But after several minutes all that happened was that the fur made me sneeze, my back stiffened, and my left foot went to sleep. Carefully I straightened to a slightly less uncomfortable position leaning against the back wall.

  Then I waited. And waited. My nose itched. My right leg cramped. My ears developed a peculiar ring. Who was in there? It had to be one of the people in residence at the house. Top guess: Stan Steffan. Although the search seemed rather quiet for someone of his bulk and impatience.

  After what felt like hours, though was probably no more than fifteen minutes, I eased the door open a few inches to peer out. All I saw was Phreddie sitting on the steps leading upstairs.

  I was less certain now that what I’d seen—and could still see—was really light under the door. Maybe what appeared to be a flicker of flashlight or computer screen was some trick of moonlight through the office window. I might hide here stiff-kneed until daylight and no one would ever come out of that office.

  Now what? The drapes on the windows in the office were probably closed, but if I sneaked out on the front porch I could at least tell if there was an actual light on in the room. With a lucky break, I might even be able to see who was in there.

  Okay, lights, camera, action!

  I squeezed out of the closet, tiptoed to the front door, turned the lock, and slipped outside. The deadbolt type lock was reassuring. I left the door open a few inches, just in case I needed to make a rush jump back inside. Even if the night breeze coming off the inlet blew the door shut, the deadbolt wouldn’t lock by itself and leave me stranded outside.

  Right away I spotted the dim, jumpy light in the room. Yes, someone was definitely in there! Sliding along the wall, hands behind me, I inched closer to the window. If there was just a tiny gap between the drapes—

  The room went dark just before I got there. Could the searcher somehow be aware I was out here? I stiffened against the wall. A moment later I heard the office door open and close softly. Someone coming after me? Or getting away?

  Recklessly I lunged back toward the door. If I could peek inside I might still see who had been in the room—

  In astonishment I saw the door go shut before I reached it. Could the night breeze do that?

  A moment later the distinct snick of the deadbolt told me this was no force of nature; this was human action. I stared at the knob, then jiggled it in dismay.

  Just my luck. A neat-freak murderer, conscientiously tidying up so some nasty burglar couldn’t get inside.

  I tried to correlate that personality trait with the occupants of the house. Considering Stan Steffan’s stated intention to find “evidence,” he loomed as top suspect in this clandestine search of the office, but I couldn’t see him conscientiously locking the door. Shirley’d do it, of course, but she could search the office whenever she wanted; she didn’t have to sneak in at night. Also, except for an allegiance to Fitz’s “everybody’s a suspect” philosophy, I’d about 99 percent eliminated Shirley.

  That left Mrs. Steffan and Sterling’s parents. Phyllis Forsythe? A quiet, probably methodical woman. She’d close and lock doors. But she was scared even in her bed, so it didn’t seem likely she’d be out sneaking around. Which left—

  Oh, good one, Ms. Hotshot Sleuth, I interrupted myself. I’m busily running a personality inventory on suspects while ignoring a crucial detail of the moment. Which is that I’m standing here in my pajamas and robe, with a damp breeze shivering my bare toes.

  And I’m locked out of the house.

  Chapter Twenty

  I circled the house eying windows. At Shirley’s, I tossed a chunk of gravel against the pane. No response. I tried the back door, hopefully thinking I may have left it unlocked when I came in that way. No, I’d locked it as conscientiously as the killer had locked the front door. I tried another pebble at Pam’s attic window, but at that upward distance I may as well have been trying to hit a passing jet.

  Inspiration! The limo. A great place to spend the night, secure and comfortable. Like a pajama party with an old friend. There was even a blanket in the trunk. I rushed back around the house, bare feet ouching on the gravel when I got off the grass. Only to find that I’d securely locked the limo too. I tended to be diligent about that ever since finding the old boyfriend’s body in the trunk.

  Nothing to do but wait it out. I circled back to sit on the front porch, feet tucked under my robe, back against the wall. To my surprise, Phreddie joined me. He’d apparently sneaked out when the door was open. I rearranged my legs into a lap, and he climbed in. My friend Joella, whose baby had been born in my limo, had once told me stray moments were good for talking to the Lord, so I took advantage of this opportunity.

  Dumb thing I did here, God, right? Do you look after people who make dumb mistakes? I hope so. Thanks for not letting whoever was in the office catch me. I could be sitting here not just cold and uncomfortable; I could be clunked on the head or have a knife in my back. Lord, it’s kind of off the subject at the moment, but help me to be a better witness and example to Pam. Fitz too. Oh, and thanks for sending Phreddie to keep me company.

  I was still cold and uncomfortable, but Phreddie made a purry bundle of warmth in my lap, and I must have drifted off to sleep.

  Because I woke in the midst of a tangled dream about murderers and cats and Fitz.

  “Andi, Andi, wake up! What are you doing out here? And Phreddie! Bad cat. You’re not supposed to be outside at night.”

  Then it wasn’t the dream I was tangled in, it was my robe twisted around my feet. Pam grabbed Phreddie when my struggles disturbed him, and I scrambled to my feet.

  What was I doing out here on the porch in the middle of the night? It took me a moment to remember.

  “Someone was in Michelle’s office. I was trying to see who. I got locked out of the house. So did Phreddie. What are you doing out here?”

  “I’ve been drinking coffee and talking to Mike.”

  “You’re just getting home? It must be—what? Three or four o’clock in the morning!”

  “You sound like a mother.”

  “I am a mother.”

  “We had a lot to talk about. Let’s get you inside. You’re cold as ice. What do you mean, someone was in Michelle’s office?”

  She unlocked the door, a
nd I creaked inside. Hunched on a hard board floor in the damp night air makes mature joints feel like the rusting transmission of a ’73 Pinto.

  “Someone was prowling around in Michelle’s office with a flashlight. Or maybe they had her computer on. Could you tell if anything’s missing?”

  “I doubt it. I haven’t been in there since she was killed. But maybe we shouldn’t touch anything in case there are fingerprints.”

  “I doubt Detective Molino is going to rush out here with fingerprint powder just because I thought someone was in the office. Fingerprints wouldn’t prove anything anyway. Everybody’s been in and out of the office.”

  “Yeah. I guess so.” As if she couldn’t think of any further reason not to enter the office, Pam turned the knob and flicked on the light.

  We both looked around cautiously. I knew whoever had been in here was gone. I’d heard the prowler leave. Yet I couldn’t escape a nervous apprehension of lurking danger. Like some kid peering under the bed looking for the resident monster, I leaned over and peered under the desk.

  Nothing there but a plastic mat to protect the hardwood floor from the scootings of the office chair.

  Phreddie squirmed, and Pam set him down. He shot away from the room as if some essence of Michelle remained. Pam looked as if she’d like to follow him.

  “Are you okay?” I asked.

  “This just feels so . . . creepy. As if Michelle might be watching. And not like us snooping around.”

  “No one’s watching us,” I assured her. Except maybe that glassy-eyed leopard. Irrelevantly, looking up at it, I asked, “Have you thought of taking that thing down?”

  “I guess I could.”

  But I doubted she would. Her father may not have acquired the leopard as some personal trophy to his masculinity level, but he’d bought it, and maybe she considered that a trophy of sorts.

  “How about if I fix you something hot to drink before you go back to bed?” she asked.