Here Comes the Ride

by Lorena McCourtney

  It was a cozy looking place. Rustic brown siding, with a stone chimney rising above a weathered shake roof, and a yard landscaped with lush grass, rocks of impressive size, and rhododendron and holly bushes, plus a couple of fruit trees. Woodsy, back-to-nature looking. I didn’t see any evidence of electrical people at work.

  Impulsively I went to the door, covered my hand with a corner of my shirt, and tried the door. Locked. But around back a window was open. A trellis covered with climbing ivy under the window looked sturdy.

  Not as sturdy as it looked, unfortunately, and a break skidded me downwards a couple of feet as I climbed, but I hung on and made it to the open window. Where I had to crawl out into the kitchen sink. Not easy with clenched fists so I wouldn’t leave any fingerprints. Once on the tiled floor I grabbed the first thing I could find to cover my hands while I did a quick search.

  The burglar with a dish towel.

  But I wasn’t really a burglar, I assured myself. This was merely advance scout work for Detective Molino.

  I did a quick search of the kitchen drawers and cupboards, which didn’t turn up a fancy knife but did turn up two large, unopened jars of guava juice, plus enough bottles of vitamins and minerals and various supplements I’d never heard of to energize most of Vigland. Upstairs, one corner of the only bedroom was set up as a small office with a desk and computer. I poked through a stack of invoices, including to-the-max bills on a half dozen charge cards. The Hubbards needed that million bucks of insurance money.

  I looked under the bed, felt between mattress and springs, searched a chest of drawers and the closet. No knife. Which didn’t mean anything, of course. There could be hidey-holes under the floor or up in the attic, or a zillion other places I hadn’t time to investigate. And time was running short, I realized, when I heard a car engine, and a peek out the window revealed a white van with Three Brothers Electric Service on the side. I flew down the stairs and out the back door.

  Dumb idea anyway, I acknowledged as I plunged into the thorny underbrush a few feet beyond the door. I’d rationalized my curiosity, but even if I’d found the knife I couldn’t have done anything with it. Detective Molino needed to find it in a legal search.

  My return slog through the woods brought me out at the rear of the main house. I circled around to the front and spotted Pam and four deputies just below the front steps. Her skateboard leaned against the curb beside her. Apparently she’d intended to take some time to “think” with it. A second sheriff’s department car was parked behind the first one now. I hurried toward them. Maybe they’d found Phreddie.

  Only to realize as I got closer that there was something peculiar about this little gathering. Pam’s hands were behind her.

  And she was wearing handcuffs.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  “What’s going on?” I gasped.

  “They have a warrant for my arrest,” Pam said, disbelief in her voice even as her wrists squirmed in the reality of the handcuffs.

  “This is ridiculous!” I sputtered. “Did you tell them about the partnership agreement and insurance papers we found? Cindy and Uri, those are the people you should be arresting!” I blazed at Detective Molino.

  “They found the knife,” Pam said. “A butterfly knife, with rubies in the handles." She made a little hip jiggle, nodding toward some papers sticking out of the rear pocket of her jeans.

  I grabbed them. A list of the items seized in the police search.

  “Okay, so you found a butterfly knife,” I conceded.

  “It was in Miss Gibson’s room,” Detective Molino said.

  I looked at Pam, and she lifted her shoulders in a gesture of helplessness. “I have no idea how it got there.”

  I turned to Detective Molino. “Somebody planted it! Can’t you see that?” Maybe the Stan Man was right about small-town cops. “Were there fingerprints on it?”

  “You’re asking questions again,” Detective Molino chided. But then he relented. “It’s been wiped clean.”

  “You’re saying that Pam was smart enough to wipe off fingerprints, but dumb enough to keep the knife in her room where you could find it?” I challenged.

  “Killers aren’t necessarily consistent. Fortunately for us, they make mistakes.”

  I looked at the list in my hand. Most of the items on it seemed irrelevant to me. A small cedar jewelry box, with a list of the items in it. Two notebooks. An opened bottle of Riesling. A can of—

  “Bean sprouts?”

  “The giant, thirty-two ounce size, if you’ll notice. A fairly formidable weapon. With a few hairs and a trace of blood on it. Neither of which have been lab-tested yet, but which we’re reasonably certain will prove to be the housekeeper’s.”

  “So?”

  “Shirley was hit on the back of the head,” Pam said with a shaky rattle in her voice. “She may or may not have been unconscious when she was put in the hot tub. But the blow with the can of bean sprouts kept her from being uncooperative while she was drowned.”

  “That is speculation.” Detective Molino scowled, but from the way he said it I figured Pam’s speculation was correct.

  And this proved what Fitz had said, a killer can always find a weapon. A can of bean sprouts. It might be a long time before I had an appetite for chow mein again.

  “Andi, I need a lawyer,” Pam said.

  “I’ll call that one in Olympia. What’s his name?”

  “Bloombarton. He’s part of Jefferson, Bloombarton, and Wilmington, on Capitol Way. But they know trust funds and finance, not murderers.”

  “You’re not a murderer!”

  “I’m sure Miss Gibson appreciates your vote of confidence,” Detective Molino said. He stuck out his hand for the papers I held, then tucked them into Pam’s handcuffed hand. “I’ll see that her attorney gets these. He’ll need them.” He put his hand on her upper arm and turned her toward the squad car.

  “What about bail? Michelle’s funeral service is tomorrow!”

  “That’ll be up to the judge. But I wouldn’t expect bail that soon.”

  A judge also might not be sympathetic to bail to allow the accused to attend the funeral of the victim.

  “Talk to Phyllis and Joe,” Pam said. “And Sterling, too. Maybe the service can be postponed for a few days.”

  “This knife in her room and a can of bean sprouts aren’t enough to convict her!” I hurled at Detective Molino.

  “We'll see,” he said.

  Pam looked so scared, so young and dazed. I squeezed her arm.

  “It’ll be okay,” I said. “Just think how you’ll be able to use all this in your next mystery. Great personal, firsthand research.”

  It was a weak attempt at comfort, and we both knew it.

  “I’m not writing any more. I’ve had my fill of mysteries . . . and murder. I may never even read another mystery.”

  “Oh, Pam, I’m so sorry,” I said as the deputy reached over and removed my hand from her arm—not rudely, but firmly. “I’ll pray for you. This would be a good time for you to pray too.”

  “Why? God can’t listen to everybody! He can’t care about everybody. Not if there are a million voices all talking to Him at once.”

  “But He can,” I said. “That’s one of the miracles of prayer. We each have our own lifeline to God. A Pam line. An Andi line. No waiting in line! It doesn’t matter how many others are praying at the same time, because He cares about each of us. Use your prayer line, Pam. And I’ll use mine.”

  I have to give Detective Molino credit on this point. He didn’t interrupt our little personal conversation. Pam’s last words, as he put a hand on her head and squished her into the squad car, were, “Call Mike!”

  The car with Pam, Detective Molino, and another deputy pulled away. Two deputies remained. This all felt vaguely unreal, as if I’d stepped onto the set of one of Fitz’s old shows.

  One part of me couldn’t believe it, the other part groaned They’re going to nail her. Her skateboard lay on the grass like t
he fallen armor of a captured soldier.

  “Can I go in the house?” I asked the deputies. “I need to get some names and phone numbers.”

  “Not yet.”

  “When?”

  “Probably tomorrow morning. Possibly this evening.”

  Behind them, the amorphous ice sculpture was smaller than ever. I felt as if I were melting too, going all blobby and shapeless. But I determinedly pulled myself together. This was no time to melt.

  I started to run for the limo, then turned back with another question. “Have you seen a cat? Kind of Siamese looking, with blue eyes, but some extra grayish blotches?”

  “Yeah, come to think of it, I did see a cat skulking around the garage,” one deputy said. “Though I didn’t check out its eyes or blotches.”

  Cats obviously were not high on his list of priorities. I hesitated. Go after Phreddie? Or Mike and a lawyer?

  I compromised and made a quick dash around the garage while alternately calling, “Phreddie! Phreddie!” and “Here, kitty, kitty.” Nothing.

  Then I jumped into the limo and sped to my duplex. No nosy Tom in the yard checking up on me. Maybe he was off somewhere with his lady friend. Inside, I got a number for Mike’s landscape and yard maintenance service from the phone book. But before I could call, a battered pickup pulled into my driveway.

  The woman who came to my door was tall and lanky. This must be the woman Tom had mentioned, because what she was wearing might be described as a “tent thing.” More technically a muu-muu, long and shapeless, with a wild pattern of twining vines and orchids. Something that would no doubt set Mrs. Steffan’s flower-loving heart to fluttering.

  The tattoo of a rose showed on the woman’s left arm, a butterfly on her right. A strip of leather pulled her coarse blond hair into a ponytail. More leather fringed a purse that looked as if it had been run over a few times. And beneath the muu-muu . . . could it be? Yes, motorcycle boots.

  “Your neighbor thought your duplex might be for rent. I saw the other renters moving out.”

  I had no time for renters now. I doubted I’d ever have time for this particular renter. I gave myself a quick chastising for that rush judgment, but what I did not need was an aging biker babe and her cohorts squatting in my rental.

  Tom’s assessment that she was not young, but younger than I, was about right. Forty-five, or maybe not quite. But with what I’d guess was an ages-you-fast lifestyle behind her.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, “but I’m really busy right now. I just don’t have time for rental business.”

  “That’s okay. I can wait out in my pickup.”

  “No, please don’t. I have to clean the place up yet and—and do things.”

  “I don’t mind if it hasn’t been cleaned. Maybe I could help you ‘do things’?”

  “It’s about a murder. Two murders, actually.” I figured that would end this conversation, but it didn’t.

  “I know how to use a gun,” she said.

  I blinked, but I didn't have time to analyze that mildly alarming statement. I just needed to get rid of her.

  “There’s only a bed and table in it. No real furniture. And I’m going to have to raise the rent.” I named a monthly price $10 over what I’d been charging.

  “That’s fine.”

  “I just don’t think—”

  “Please? I’d really like to rent it.” She turned and looked out across the yard and neighborhood. “It’s such a wonderful place. With grass and trees. A nice neighborhood. So . . . normal looking.”

  Normal looking. As if normal were the most valuable commodity in the world. And, looking at her, I had to guess normal, at least by my standards, hadn’t played a large part in her life.

  Then she turned back to me, and I saw the look in her blue eyes. Not a pleading for help or pity or understanding. Just a yearning. For normal.

  I guessed Tom was right. She probably didn’t have an impressive list of references.

  “What’s your name?” I asked.

  “India Beauregard.”

  “Really?” I asked doubtfully.

  “Beauregard was my great-grandfather’s last name. French aristocracy back there somewhere, he claimed. And I always wanted to be an India.”

  Chalk it up to being rattled about all that had happened and rushed by all the things I had to do. To worry about Pam and not wanting to waste time standing here with this unlikely person.

  But mostly it was that yearning in her eyes.

  Or—who knows? Maybe a nudge from God.

  “Okay, India Beauregard, you can rent it. We’ll have to take care of the rental agreement later. I’ll need first and last month’s rent and a $400 deposit.”

  She opened the floppy purse, reached inside, and counted out the full amount in twenty-dollar bills. Whatever lifestyle she’d had, apparently it had not been un-lucrative. Which was also a bit disconcerting.

  I stood there holding the money, strongly thinking about handing it back to her. Which she must have realized, because she adroitly stepped out of reach.

  “You don’t need to bother with a receipt. Is it okay if I move in now?”

  “This is a one-person deal. You can’t have anyone else move in with you,” I warned. “No biker friends with motorcycles parking on the lawn. No drugs or wild parties, or anything . . . not normal.”

  “Sounds good to me.” She crossed her heart with a tanned hand that looked surprisingly well cared for, considering her leathery face. “I promise.”

  We went over to the other side of the duplex and found the keys on the table. The previous renters had left the place clean, and a quick tour showed nothing broken. I’d have to get their security deposit back to them.

  I tossed her the keys. “Okay, make yourself at home.”

  She looked around as if I’d given her the keys to the Taj Mahal. “Oh, I will.”

  I still had my doubts. But at least those tattoos were a rose and a butterfly, not daggers and demons.

  ***

  I forgot my new renter and went back to the phone. I got hold of Mike at a landscaping job and shocked him with the news about Pam. He said he’d go to the sheriff’s station immediately and see what he could do. Lawyer Bloombarton in Olympia was properly horrified when I gave him the news and said he’d contact a good criminal lawyer for Pam. I gave him my cell number to call me back. I tried to call Joe and Phyllis or Sterling at the inn, but they weren’t in their rooms.

  Now what? Find them, I decided. A little grimly I wondered if they were on another shopping spree. Everybody, it appeared, came out winners with Michelle’s death. Except Pam.

  Back at the inn, I knocked on both doors. No answer. But Stan Steffan went by while I was knocking, and I asked him if he’d seen them.

  “They’re over in the casino playing video poker. Sucker’s game,” he growled disapprovingly. “Just takes longer than slots to lose your money.”

  Since Stan was back at the room, I guessed that meant he’d been on the losing end already. I crossed the glass walkway over to the casino. The main floor of the casino wasn’t crowded at midday on a weekday, but neither was it hurting for customers. The gambling area was divided for smooth traffic flow, sounds muted, no clink of coins since the slots now used a paper system. But the place made me vaguely uncomfortable. No windows. Soft lights that stayed the same day or night, so you had a feeling that time no longer existed. I also felt as if an earthquake or nuclear bomb destroyed everything outside, no one in here would even notice.

  I found Joe and Phyllis at video poker machines, Sterling at a dice table nearby.

  “I’d never realized this could be so much fun!” Phyllis enthused.

  “Of course it’s fun for her,” Joe said. “She’s five bucks ahead. I’m two behind.”

  They were, I saw, playing nickel machines. Not exactly high-stakes gambling, but I had the feeling jumping to higher stakes or even becoming addicted wouldn’t be all that difficult for Phyllis. I saw Sterling lay down a twenty-dollar bi
ll on the dice table.

  “I need to talk to you,” I said to Phyllis. “Could we go somewhere?”

  “Can’t it wait?” Phyllis said. “I think this machine is about to pay off big.”

  “No,” I said flatly.

  They reluctantly gave up their padded stools. Phyllis patted her poker machine as if it were an old friend. “I’ll be back.”

  “Sterling too,” I said.

  The dealer had just grabbed Sterling’s money. He scowled, but he came when Joe motioned him. I led the way out to a wide hallway.

  “Pam has been arrested,” I said. No one said anything, not even a squeak. “For murdering Michelle.”

  “What about Shirley?” Phyllis asked.

  “Well, for murdering her too, I guess.” Not so much as a peep out of any of them about Pam’s welfare, I noted.

  Joe and Phyllis looked at each other. Sterling looked at his watch, then felt for the cell phone clipped to his waist as if he needed reassurance it was still there.

  “I guess I’m not surprised,” Phyllis said. “I’ve been afraid of this all along. There was such hostility between them. And Pam was the person closest to Michelle in the wedding procession. She had the easiest access.”

  “But she didn’t do it!” I cried, appalled at Phyllis’s easy acceptance of Pam’s guilt. “They’ve made a huge mistake.”

  “Is there anything we can do to help?” Joe asked.

  He didn’t sound ready to slay dragons, but at least he’d asked, which was more than the other two did.

  “What needs to be done at the moment is contact the funeral home about the service that’s scheduled for tomorrow. Pam thought perhaps it could be postponed for a few days.”

  There was a silence that unexpectedly felt ominous before Phyllis finally spoke.

  “I don’t think that would be . . . appropriate.”

  “You don’t?”

  “Think about it,” Phyllis said. “How would it look, postponing the service just so the person who’s accused of killing her can come? Sterling can be there, and that’s what really matters. He’s her son.”

  A relationship, now that Phyllis knew Michelle’s estate went with it, she suddenly seemed eager to claim and display.