Escape Route (Murder Off-Screen Book 1)

by GA VanDruff

  I woke up next to a handsome, blond guy, chewing his left hind foot like it was dipped in gravy.

  Aunt B stuck her head in the door. “Tilde’s got you both an appointment in an hour. Better hop to.”

  Hopping was out, but I did crawl to the bathroom. I stood in front of the mirror with my eyes shut. I hadn’t seen “the new me” since psychotic Carl and his construction equipment scalped me. I opened my eyes slowly.

  I was Betty Boop.

  Not with the curvaceous figure and crazy, tiny waist. But with the short spikes of hair going hither and yon. Boop hair. Maybe I’d start a craze.

  Two hours later, my hair was more Halle Berry than Boop, and Doofus was Old Yeller—all over.

  “That’ll keep him under cover six weeks,” Tilde said. “By then you’ll be in Puerto Rico. Lucky you.” She held up both his ears. “Now that’s a perfect match. I am so good.”

  Tilde scooted behind the counter and got out her Polaroid camera. “Smile, you two.”

  That’s when I found out what a camera hog the dog really was. He did smile. Then he did a sit and a point and a raised paw and a profile.

  “That’s enough. If you had thumbs, I’d have to buy a selfie stick.”

  We waited for the pictures to develop, and watched through the front window as Gail Landry worked to get her Chatter van parallel-parked in front of the salon.

  “Did you ever get this much attention in Hollywood?”

  “No. Who would want it?” I stepped back from the window. Maybe Gail would give up if I stayed inside long enough. Aunt B had fended off the Baltimore TV people this morning. ‘Gone back to LA. You just missed her.’ They didn’t try too hard, took her at her word and moved on to fry bigger fish.

  Tilde turned the collar up on her red, polyester smock. “I’d love it. I used to do repertory theater in Jersey in my younger days.” She fluttered her lashes and wiggled her hips. “The lights, the applause—hundreds of people watching.” She shivered and rubbed her arms. “Fun. Fun.”

  “I bet you did a great job.” Tilde was still blonde and curvy. She actually had a Betty Boop waistline. “Did you ever think of going to Hollywood?”

  “And leave that one?” She jerked her red-lacquered thumbnail toward the back room that had the door that was always opened to Bub’s.

  I’m twenty-six. Which would set Tilde’s biological clock at least close to forty-five. “He does know, right? I mean, Bub cannot be that dense.”

  She laughed out loud and pulled a long, silver chain free of her blouse. “He’s still waiting for me to say yes.” A diamond ring the size of a paperweight dangled from the chain. “Twenty years long enough to keep him guessing?”

  “You’ve carried all those carats around your neck for twenty years? No wonder your posture is so good. Counter-balance.” I rocked the ring in the palm of my hand. “I’ve got a five dollar bet in Russell’s fishbowl for a June wedding.”

  She dropped the ring back in its hiding place. “Not that I’m saying, but you plan to come back from your Caribbean sail this summer. Bring some Hollywood hunk with you.” Tilde nudged me and ran her hand down Doofus’s neck. “That is if you know anybody hunkier than this guy.

  “Or that guy,” she said, looking through the front window. “My goodness gracious, who might that be?”

  CHAPTER 40

  Goodness gracious was pretty close. Yikes and holy smoke might be more accurate. Get a bag. Toss in your high school crush, the guy on the recruiting poster and that stranger you locked eyes with for a split-second before the light changed.

  Shake the bag, and there he stood, outside Tilde’s, reading a piece of paper and then the sign above the salon. He tossed the paper in the trash receptacle at the curb by Chatter’s left, front fender. Gail rolled the window down, spotting a stranger in town, no doubt hoping for a story and a podcast, or—more likely—dinner and a movie.

  “Goodness gracious.” Tilde tore off her smock and posed, front and back, in the mirror behind the counter. “How do I look?”

  “Terrific. But you’re engaged.”

  She waggled her empty ring finger. “I haven’t said yes, yet. This one’s more your type, anyway. Doesn’t mean I have to look like a washer woman.”

  My type. Goofy. Dopey. Lazy. Name any cartoon character.

  “Look there,” Tilde said. “He’s shooing Chatter away.”

  She plucked at my hair. “Stand up straight and suck in your stomach. Where is your stomach? Never mind. Shoulders back.” She demonstrated, then regarded me. “Forget the shoulders. Just smile.”

  There we stood like two mannequins and a dog in the salon’s window while he tucked a thick, legal-looking envelope under his arm and headed to the door.

  Doofus greeted this total stranger as if he were his long, lost owner.

  The guy set the envelope on a chair in the waiting area and squatted down to tussle with him, but gave both of us the once over. “This is the right place. Who belongs to this guy?”

  Mannequins don’t speak, so neither did we. I poked Tilde with my elbow, and said, “Walk-ins are welcome—right, Tilde?”

  Hearing familiar words kick-started her brain. She sidled over to him with her arm outstretched. “They most certainly are welcome.”

  He shook her hand and lit up the room with his smile. “You are the owner?”

  Tilde reverted into lock down, still gripping his hand.

  “I am Jaqie. Tilde is the one still shaking your hand, and the dog chewing your leg is Doofus.”

  I stuck my hand out, which gave him an excuse to withdraw his from Tilde’s. The motion brought her back to earth.

  We finished shaking hands all around, and he pulled two business cards from the pocket of his shirt.

  “I am Mark Kingsford. I represent Geoff Cuthbart.”

  “You’re an agent?” Tilde said, clearly stuck on his Hollywood looks.

  He laughed and angels sang. “No. I’m his attorney.” He nodded at the card in her hand. “May I?” He indicated the remaining chairs in Tilde’s waiting area, inviting us to sit with him.

  Doofus stretched out in the rectangle of sun on the wood floor, and rested his head on his front paws.

  “I don’t know if Jaqie should be—”

  “I understand if Ms. Shanahan—”

  “That’s fine,” I said. “What can I do for you, Mr. Kingsford?”

  “Mark, please. Call me Mark.” He leaned forward and ran his hand along Doofus’s back. “As you may have heard, Councilman Cuthbart recently lost his dog in a tragic accident and had planned to have a public memorial tomorrow evening.”

  I watched his hand slide through Doofus’s ruff and down his spine. “A tragic loss. Tragic.”

  “With last night’s recent developments, there appears to be a question as to whether or not it was his dog that was killed by the hit-and-run driver.”

  Tilde stood up as if she’d just remembered an appointment, then sat back down. “Excuse me. I need to powder my nose.”

  We waited, but absent actual powdering, were at a loss for words. I jogged Tilde’s memory by pointing to the door that led to the back room. “It’s through there.”

  “Oh. Yes, it is. Excuse me.”

  Now that she recalled that there was a back room, wild horses couldn’t have kept her in her chair. Tilde is a top-notch stylist, who cannot tell a lie. She blames the hairspray. Little white ones—I love that color on you—that dress does not make you look fat. But big, flat out blatant lies to a lawyer? No amount of theater background would get her past that. If Call Me Mark asked her about Doofus’s ear, we’d probably end up handcuffed to Nilly’s hitching post.

  “Tilde’s engaged,” I said, by way of explanation as she ran the gauntlet of hair driers and styling stations, bypassing the back room, altogether, and took the front steps two at a time. “Wedding plans.” I swirled an imaginary whirlwind with my finger. “So many plans.”

  As the door whispered closed, Mark slipped out of his chair and wen
t down on one knee. Doofus raised his head and tried to reach Mark with his tongue. He took hold of Doofus’s head and looked into the dog’s eyes.

  “You’re such a good dog, aren’t you?” Mark smiled up at me. “He’s a beauty.” He ran his thumb along Doofus’s left ear and turned it in the sunlight. “I’ve always preferred yellow Labs. In my opinion, they have the mildest dispositions.”

  “I’m prejudiced.” I tilted my head so I could twirl my ponytail, but it wasn’t there.

  “Where did you get him?” Mark’s dark brown eyes drilled into mine. I’m a terrible liar, far worse than my now-absent stylist. He’d know.

  “Doofus is a rescue.”

  Mark gave Doofus’s right ear the same evaluation he’d given the left. This time, he sniffed his thumb and rubbed it with his index finger, like you do when you check the puddle on the driveway under the front of your car.

  He got to his feet and dusted the knees of his slacks, then sat in the chair next to me.

  “Doofus is one lucky dog,” he said. “It will give Mr. Cuthbart closure to know that he is doing the right thing.”

  I checked the clock on the wall between the shelves of shampoo and mousse. I’d held my breath for six minutes. That had to be a record somewhere. “I’m lucky to have found him.”

  “This,” he said, picking up the envelope from the chair, “is for you. It’s ten-thousand dollars in cash.”

  “What! I’m not taking that. Why would you do that? What?”

  Mark let the air settle. Waited until I stopped sputtering. “Mr. Cuthbart wants you to give the money to your favorite charity.”

  “My favorite what?”

  Attorney Kingsford was a patient man. “Mr. Cuthbart trusts you to do the right thing.” He shifted his gaze to Doofus, back to me. “No strings. Francine Cuthbart has gone home to Baltimore ... since all this unpleasantness was dismissed, thanks to your cooperation with the authorities. Mr. Cuthbart hoped you’d agree that a charitable donation to the cause of your choice was entirely appropriate.” He set the envelope on my knees. “Please.”

  We both knew what it was really for—two one-way tickets out of town. Since Doofus and I were already booked on Ovation, the bribe was moot, but I’d already chosen my favorite charity, so I said, “Fine. Tell Mr. Cuthbart this is going to a worthy cause.”

  Mark stood, and I walked with him to the door. He pointed to the soggy business card clutched in my hand.

  “My cell is on there. Maybe dinner sometime? You’ll call?”

  Now that we knew where we stood, Mark Kingsford’s eyes didn’t look diabolical in the least.

  “Sometime. Maybe,” I said. “I live in LA, so ...”

  “I’ll take you to the best hamburger joint in West Hollywood.” He put his finger across smiling lips. “But you can’t tell anyone about it.” He reached up and jingled the bells on the door before he opened it and stepped out into the beautiful day.

  I watched him until he was out of sight. I flipped the dead bolt, switched the sign to Closed and laid down next to Doofus in the sun.

  ~~^~~

  “Now who is who?” Seven bundled babies slept, lined up behind the nursery window. Four in pink. Three in blue. I don’t know how many hours Ed had stood there, staring at his twin boys, by the time I arrived.

  “How’s your nose?”

  “Huh? Oh, that. It’s fine.” He tapped the glass with his finger. “The one on the right is Ed.” He blushed. “Dianne said so. And he’s the biggest. Jack is on the left.”

  “Ed and Jack? You’re kidding me. Tell me you’re kidding me.”

  “I’m kidding you. Dianne woulda killed me.” He gave me a one-armed squeeze. “Ted. Ed and Ted.”

  “Well, Ed and Ted are just beautiful.”

  We leaned against the glass and watched Ted sleep, while Ed squirmed and kicked at his swaddling until one bootied foot shot free.

  “Takes after me.”

  “Come on. You go sit down, and I’ll grab you some decaf.”

  By the time I got back to the waiting area, Daddy Ed was out cold. I set the coffee on the side table, and tucked a check in his pocket. I’d written on the memo line —Paid in Full–Shipwright/Bounty Hunter.

  I tiptoed out.

  Doofus, José and I had one more stop to make. Mrs. Gill was dying to know what Cary Grant was up to these days.

  I’d think of something.

  CHAPTER 41

  “You didn’t press charges against Francine Cuthbart?”

  I pictured Esteban, back in LA, at his desk, with stacks of thick folders at each elbow, and a coffee cup on top of each stack. “No. No, I did not.” I kept talking over the incredulous silence booming at me from the west coast. “It’s over, Stubby—thanks to you and Sergeant Kilroy. Doofus is safe. That’s all I ever wanted, Doofus safe. Plus, I got a new hairdo in time for the cast off. Day after tomorrow, Puerto Rico, here we come.” At the moment, I’m taking the kids on a road trip.”

  Stubby let the disapproving silence hang between us for several seconds, then he said, “Kids?”

  “Doofus, José and one hitchhiker.”

  “Doofus—as in King—aka the deceased Labrador? Who is José?”

  Doofus had inaugurated two-thirds of the trees on the pet side of the rest stop, while José supervised from my pocket. “José is his best friend.” A pair of crows had been eyeballing the little guy as brunch, so I had peeled him off the dog’s forehead and tucked him safely away.

  “Jaqie. Hitchhiker? You know better.”

  “Aw, it’s okay. I’m bigger than he is. Any word from Trooper Kilroy?”

  “He’s crazy about your—Gertie. Did I get it right?”

  “Everybody’s crazy about Gertie.”

  “Do you want the legalese version, or the plain English version?”

  “Plain, please. Bring me up to speed.”

  “Dog poop. Francine Pelley Cuthbart is anti-dog poop. To the extreme. But you already knew that.”

  Uncle Frank had been right that night at the restaurant. All of this because of Francine’s geraniums.

  “Your pal, Geoff, was not aware any of this was going on. I spoke to his personal attorney, Mark Kingsford. Cuthbart still believes King’s ashes were the ones he tossed off some bridge out there. His attorney let it slip—on purpose—that Cuthbart’s divorcing his wife, taking the kids and moving to Palm Springs.

  “This Mark seemed genuinely impressed by you. Anything I should know?”

  “Lawyers. Make a case out of everything.” I’d been meaning to throw that business card away. “Who’s in trouble at the end of all this?”

  “Nobody but Carl. He’s going back in. Aggravated assault, attempted kidnapping—”

  “Styling without a license.”

  Stubby snorted and coughed. “Not while I’m drinking coffee, kiddo. Anyway, Carl won’t be coming back out. Ever. Never gave up Francine Cuthbart, though. She must’ve taken real good care of him.

  “The two so-called hit men from Pennsylvania were sent packing. They weren’t talking, and Mrs. Cuthbart claimed to not know them. We found a few pieces of evidence on the one guy’s cell, but nothing solid enough to hold them.”

  “What about Joe?”

  “Joe Packard had no charges to press. Swears he found a stray dog, had it for an hour or so, and then it ran off. Got mugged when he wandered into a dangerous neighborhood, chasing after it.” At last, Stubby lightened up and laughed at the other end of the line. “You never told me Oakley Beach had a dangerous neighborhood.”

  “The duck pond does get slick in January. So, Detective, where does all this leave me?”

  “Where do you want to be, kiddo?”

  “On my way to Puerto Rico. I need a vacation from my vacation. Palm trees, the Caribbean. I’ve got the brochures.”

  “Go with God, my child. If Kilroy needs you, he’s going to go through Gertie. She must be some kinda gal.”

  “She is that. Hey, can I send you a postcard when we arrive?”<
br />
  “You’d better. And, Jaqie, you know I’m still on the case, right?”

  “Jeep? Yes, Stubby, I know you are.”

  “See ya on the red carpet, kiddo.”

  I put the phone, the dog and the gecko in my rented van.

  A big crate for Doofus. A smaller one for our hitchhiker, Rex Junior, Lenore’s last yellow puppy, with a jaunty blue ribbon tied around his neck, on the way to his Forever Home.

  I checked that Cuthbart’s big, fat envelope was still safe under my front seat. It was. I’d written on it—For the Care and Upkeep of one Rex, Jr. I slipped it back in place, then eased onto 70W, headed to the mountains of Pennsylvania.

  To Jimmy Packard’s house.

  <<<>>>

  Thank you for reading Escape Route. It’s the prequel to Jaqie’s Puerto Rican adventure, Escape Clause. I’ve included the first chapter at the end of the book, so you can follow Jaqie and the gang to Puerto Rico to see what happens next!

  ESCAPE CLAUSE

  by

  GA VanDruff

  CHAPTER 1

  The weird thing about the ghost who stood watching the seagulls eat the corpse’s nose was that the corpse wasn’t his.

  The body, just shy of high tide, lay spread-eagled on its back in a finely tailored suit.

  The ghost, on the other hand, was dressed for the beach, slender, clean-shaven and transparent. I mean, you couldn’t see his liver, or anything unsettling like that, but you could definitely watch the sunrise through where his liver probably was—or had been.

  I’d left my pocketbook back on my boat, hanging on a hook in the galley. It was stuffed with brochures promising me a Caribbean paradise. Typical turquoise waters, tropical breezes, palm fronds kind of fare. Birds brunching on a middle-aged, white male stretched out surfside had not been among the images promoted by Puerto Rico’s Board of Tourism. Guaranteed.

  I eased the outboard’s throttle and backed up ever so slowly. We puttered beyond the folds of whitecaps and ducked behind a lone, house-sized rock tossed down by an ancient glacier two or three eons before I blundered onto this beach. I shut off the engine. Doofus wanted to swim. Labradors always want to swim, but I shook my head no, so he sighed and stared off in the opposite direction. I had to pull myself together.