A Secondhand Murder

by Lesley A. Diehl

  I turned around and looked at Grandy in the backseat. “Hey. You doing okay?”

  She nodded. “Did you find Jerry?”

  I hesitated. Napolitani knew what Jerry was up to. I didn’t, but I had some papers under my shirt that might help me find out. “Nope. He’s on his own.”

  “About time. That boy needs to grow up.”

  “That boy is about to become my son-in-law and the father of my grandchild.” Napolitani didn’t sound altogether happy about it.

  “All the more reason for him to become an adult.”

  “Well, we’ll see what tonight brings.” He sounded even less happy than before, but nevertheless resigned to whatever might happen.

  I tried to relax in the comfort of the leather-clad seat, to let my mind wander a bit, to ruminate over the night’s events while the two of them talked. I could feel the heat rising in my face and neck again. This time it wasn’t embarrassment, but anger.

  “You weren’t trying to help me.” I interrupted their conversation. “You were running your own game, one that somehow involved Jerry. You lied to me. I trusted you.”

  He said nothing but looked straight ahead, carefully driving the speed limit. At the strip mall he pulled into the space beside my rental, shut off the SUV’s engine, and faced me.

  “I didn’t lie. There were details about tonight’s program that I didn’t tell you about, yes. You didn’t need to know everything.”

  For the first time since we had met, I could see the danger that lurked beneath his smooth appearance. I’d said enough. He stared me down for a few extra beats before shifting in his seat to address Grandy.

  “My pleasure.” He kissed her hand. “I hope the evening was entertaining, and that you found what you were looking for.”

  “We didn’t.” I kept the anger out of my voice this time.

  His smile didn’t falter. “So sorry, then. Don’t think too badly of me, my dear. I find that I quite like and respect you. I wouldn’t have taken you along on this trip if I didn’t, but my first responsibility is to my family. Jerry understands that. I hope you will, too.”

  “You did just fine.” Grandy reached out and patted his cheek much as one would a child’s.

  “That was fun, exciting.” Grandy pulled down the visor in my rental and looked at her face. “I think I look a little tired. I’m hungry.”

  In the rearview mirror, I could see Alex’s car following us. “Let’s pull over at one of these bar and grills before we run out of places to stop.”

  “You look like you could use a scotch, honey.”

  “I could, but I’m not taking a chance on driving with a couple of drinks in me.”

  “I’ll drive.”

  “You’re on.”

  “I can drive Madeleine and me in this car,” she said, “and you and Alex can return in his. How about that?”

  I ignored her suggestion, slammed the car door and started up the pea rock walkway to the restaurant’s entrance.

  “I could also stay at Madeleine’s for the night. I’ll bet she wouldn’t mind.”

  “Leave it. I’m not sure where Alex and I stand just now.”

  “Well, I am.” She sounded so certain, so pleased.

  We entered and chose a booth across from the bar. Madeleine and Alex joined us. Everyone except me ordered burgers and cokes. I asked for a scotch.

  “Nothing to eat?” asked Grandy.

  I shook my head.

  When our order arrived, the others discussed the evening in hushed tones while I contemplated the amber liquid in my glass.

  “I’ll be right back.” I left my scotch untouched on the table, grabbed my purse, and got up. Alex did, too.

  “Don’t return there. There’s nothing you can do for Jerry.”

  “I know that, but I have to see what’s happening. It’s not just Jerry. There’s something that’s bothering me.”

  “I’ll come with you.”

  “No, I want to go on my own.”

  “And snoop around again, with the cops there?”

  “I won’t be snooping this time. I’m going to take the direct approach.” I started across the parking lot. Alex stood at the bar’s entrance for a moment, then came after me.

  “If you ever want me to kiss you again, you’ll stay here.”

  I hesitated a moment, then continued to my car. In the outside mirror, I saw his reflection in the moonlight, hands in his pockets, his head down, any expression on his handsome face hidden by the shadows.

  I started the engine and pressed down on the accelerator, leaving Alex behind. I was going to be direct. No back door entry for me this time. I was going in the front.

  When I arrived at the Sanders’ house, all was quiet. No cops, but there were two cars parked in the circular driveway—a Cadillac I recognized as the one Valerie had driven and a Lincoln Navigator. I stepped up to the door and rang the bell.

  Mr. Sanders’ son, Dwight, answered. For a moment he seemed not to recognize me, then a look of angry alarm came over his face.

  “You. What do you want?”

  “I wanted another look at you. You were standing by your stepmother’s Cadillac in front of my store the day she was murdered. I saw you.”

  “You’re crazy. I was here at home. With my sister. I told the cops that already.”

  “I think sis lied for you. I might ask why she’d do that, but the family must stick together, right? Even if one of you is a killer.”

  I saw movement behind him. Valerie’s daughter, Constance, appeared at his side.

  “Who’s a killer?” She leaned against the doorjamb, a cigarette in her hand. “Oh, it’s you. What do you want?”

  “I want to find your mother’s killer”

  “Why should you care? Your family and mine have never been on good terms. Mother told me all about it.”

  “She accused me of murdering Mom,” Dwight said.

  “I saw your stepbrother in the parking lot the day of your mother’s murder. I don’t understand why you covered for him.”

  Her nonchalant pose slipped a bit as she threw a nervous glance in his direction. “We don’t need to talk to you.” She closed the door in my face.

  The nervous reactions of the two siblings told me all I needed to know. It had taken me a while to put it together, but there was a lot going on in my life right now—the murder, my attraction to Alex, the consignment shop, my car’s destruction and finally, the theft of the knife. Whew! No wonder I hadn’t remembered seeing Dwight by Valerie’s car the day of the murder until tonight.

  I never forget a face. Sometimes it takes a little time, but if I let the image cook in the recesses of my brain, I can eventually place it. In this case, seeing Dwight at the funeral had triggered something for me, but I hadn’t been able to place it until tonight. The figure in the kitchen, too shadowy for me to identify outright as the son, had flipped a switch in my mind. When I had walked up the drive and seen the Cadillac, my suspicions had been confirmed, especially now that I’d gotten another look at Dwight.

  I flipped open my cellphone to call Frida. I could identify Valerie’s stepson and place him at the store. I was certain that Frida could now get a search warrant for the Sanders’ house. What I had forgotten to take into account was that all of my snooping around might have made some people angry. The last thing I remembered was something hitting me on the head. Then everything went black.

  Chapter 17

  The smells in my small prison were familiar, gasoline and oil and something else I’d rather not think about, something more organic and … rotten. I was hogtied, hands in back of me connected by a rope to my feet. I moved a bit and managed to rub a hand against my back pocket, hoping against all odds I’d find my cellphone there. No such luck. It must have slipped from my hand when I was hit.

  Maybe someone in the Sanders’ house had seen what happened and called the police. Then I remembered that someone in that house was a murderer. They didn’t want to see me rescued by the police. I was
the witness who could put the killer, Valerie’s stepson, at the crime scene. Would the family protect him? Would they kill me to keep him safe? Yeah, likely. These people were rich. Grandy was right. There was something seriously twisted about that clan.

  The motion of the car changed. It slowed, and I felt the tires gripping gravel, not concrete. Odors from the country came to me, the moldy stench of brackish water and a sweet fragrance, probably from burning sugarcane fields. Where were they taking me? Stones crunching beneath the tires gave way to a softer noise, a dirt road. The car stopped and in the silence, frogs croaked. Then a terrifying bellow ripped apart the night—the mating call of a bull alligator.

  The trunk lid opened. Someone grabbed me and dragged me out. I hit the ground with a thunk. The only sound my captor made was a low “humph,” then I heard the door close. The idling car shifted into drive and pulled away, the sound of the departing engine soon engulfed by the chattering of birds, frogs, and wind blowing through swamp grasses and palms.

  I lay there for a few minutes. The alligator roared again. This time I thought his bellow was closer, fuller, more menacing. I wondered, was that the call for a mate or the dinner bell for me?

  If I could get my blindfold off, maybe I could see where I was and, from there, how I could escape. I rubbed my head against the ground working to dislodge the material from over my eyes. After a while, I was able to move the blindfold away from my left eye. Not much help. Everything was pitch black.

  I knew that the car had come down a road, dirt to be sure, but a road nonetheless. If I could wriggle toward it, maybe someone would find me. I worked my way like a sidewinder snake in what I thought might be the right direction, but ended up in a swampy area instead. Wrong way. I reversed my motion and soon hit what felt like earth. More wiggling and I hit another dirt patch. Had to be two tracks. Now what?

  I was exhausted. My wrists were chafed and aching, and my legs were beginning to cramp. I lay there. This might be the end for me, an ignominious finish for a girl from the Northeast—eaten by alligators in a Florida swamp.

  That wasn’t even the worst thing I could imagine. I remembered reading about a number of Burmese pythons and anacondas that had recently invaded Southern Florida. I’d read an article in the Sabal Bay News about a constrictor measuring over seventeen feet that had been killed in the area. I shivered despite the hot humid night. Could a snake that size swallow a person of my height? Maybe not, especially the way I was tied up. I tried to position my body so it formed more of an angle from my head to my feet, but that only made my neck and legs spasm more. I couldn’t hold the pose. Was I doomed to become some reptile’s dinner? I had to get a grip on my runaway imagination.

  After an indeterminable amount of time had passed, I saw headlights. Friend or foe? Was my captor checking back in to see if I had been snatched from the swamp’s buffet table yet? If I rolled off the road, the car might pass me by. Oh, the hell with it. This was my only chance. I remained where I was.

  The vehicle—a truck with a roof panel of lights switched on—slowed and stopped about ten yards away.

  “Well, lookee here. We got ourselves a woman. All wrapped up like a Christmas gift,” yelled the driver out his window.

  Pure idiocy. I had no wrapping paper on me, and the rope could hardly be construed as ribbon.

  Two men got out and approached me. Both wore dirty, beaten-up cowboy hats and equally old, probably manure-covered boots. Just my luck. I’d run into a couple of good ol’ boys cruising the back roads for wild pig or … Well, I might just do.

  “Would you mind? This is really an uncomfortable position.” I looked up into a set of eyes as cold as a Minnesota winter.

  “I’ll bet.” The driver pulled a knife out of a sheath on his belt and strolled toward me.

  I groaned inwardly. I was wrong about my demise. It wouldn’t be an alligator that got me but rather—dum-de-dum banjo music playing in the background—a Deliverance style movie scene, featuring a cowboy from Florida.

  He stooped and held the knife in front of my face as he licked his lips. Then he reached out, put his hand on my cheek, and pushed my face to one side.

  “This is a very sharp knife.”

  He reached around to my back and slid the blade under the ropes, cutting through them as if they were pudding. “I didn’t want you to look over and flinch. You could have been hurt.”

  He grasped my arm and helped me to stand.

  “I called it in,” said the truck’s passenger.

  “Who are you guys?”

  “Who are you?” the driver asked back. “Got any ID?”

  I backed up a few steps. “You first.”

  “We’re Drug Enforcement Agents. We got a tip that someone was out here waiting for a shipment of coke.”

  “If you’re thinking that’s me, you’re wrong. Someone kidnapped me and left me here as alligator feed.”

  The radio from inside the truck crackled. The passenger reached into the cab and took the call.

  “Headquarters got an alert from the state police. She’s right. A woman was taken from outside a home in West Palm. Name of Eve Appel or Eve Taylor.”

  “That’s me. I reached into my back pocket and extracted my license.

  “Connecticut, huh? Yep, she’s the one.”

  The driver kicked his boot into the dirt and swore. “Blew the whole damn deal. Might as well take her back. Nobody’s gonna show now.”

  Neither of the men said much as we traveled down the dirt road, which eased onto a gravel connector and eventually became pavement, just as I had suspected. From there we took I95 South and turned on an exit I was unfamiliar with. Several lefts and rights later, we drove up to a gray four-story building in a section of West Palm that looked more like a slum than the opulent east coast you see advertised in the Florida tourist brochures.

  I walked through the front entrance of the building and into a small foyer. Its walls were painted the most depressing shade of green I had seen since science class in college. My driver, who had introduced himself as “Bud,” opened an inside door that led down a hallway and into a room filled with metal desks peopled by agents with the DEA insignia on the back of their jackets. Everyone looked up as I entered. No one greeted me, merely gave me the steady cop eye, the same cold dispassionate look worn by my two rescuers.

  “You can use the phone over there.” Bud gestured toward a desk piled high with papers.

  “Thanks. Uh, can I ask you something?”

  He gave a miniscule nod of approval.

  “Did I do something wrong?”

  “You messed up a drug bust. We had been working on it for two months, then you came along and scared the guys off. Yeah, you could say you did something wrong.”

  “It wasn’t my fault, you know.”

  “Find us the guy who dumped you out there and we’d be glad to transfer our pissed off feelings onto him.”

  I thought better of trying to argue with him or his partner, who looked even more peeved. The rest of the agents didn’t appear likely to be won over to my side, either. What a bunch of grumps. I could have died out there. I would have died out there.

  I felt a shiver run down my spine but shook it off. So. Who to call? Alex, Grandy, Madeleine, Frida? As much as I wanted my friends to be assured of my safety, I needed Frida to get into the Sanders’ house with a search warrant so that she could arrest the son-in-law for murder. Then there was my kidnapping. This seemed a matter of police importance. When I got her on the phone, Frida agreed.

  “Where are you? We heard that the authorities found you and that you are alive, but that’s all.”

  I told her the entire story, minus the part about breaking into the Sanders’ house.

  “Sit tight. I’ll get the warrant. I know a judge who stays up watching HGTV all hours of the night.”

  “That’s great. How long before she can sign it?”

  “She? It’s a he.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Well, his wi
fe isn’t. She loves the ideas he gets for decorating their house from Design Now. Think you can get someone to give you a lift back here?”

  I looked around the room at the scowling faces. “No way.”

  “Right. I’ll have Alex or Madeleine pick you up.”

  “Please don’t send Madeleine. You know how she is. I might never get home.”

  “Alex it is then. Oh, by the way, is Bud around there?”

  “You want to talk with him?”

  “Nah, just tell him I said hi.”

  I did, and his frown seemed to defrost a bit.

  After I had hung up the phone, I told him that someone would be picking me up. He grunted and gestured toward a chair at an empty desk.

  “I could wait outside.” Where the climate wasn’t so icy.

  He laughed. I think it was a laugh, or perhaps he had some kind of throat condition that made him sound like a parrot on amphetamines.

  “Aaarugh, awk, awk. Did you take a look at the neighborhood we’re in? The folks that live around here aren’t fond of our enterprise. They’d jump at the chance to strip you naked, take your wallet and then, well, let’s not even think about what would happen next. Even if we were to hear you yelling—on the off chance that someone cared enough to run outside to save you—we still couldn’t get to you in time. Sit.”

  I sat.

  By the time Alex pushed through the door, the sun was coming up, and I was nodding off. There was a little drool on my shoulder.

  Alex dashed over and gathered me up into his arms, slobber and all. “Hey, babe. Am I glad to see you. We were worried sick.”

  I untangled my arms and legs from his embrace.

  “It took you long enough.” I tried to look angry, but I felt tears filling my eyes. Before I could do anything about it, I was bawling harder than I had since my steady, Mick Sawyer, broke up with me in the eighth grade.

  “You’re with me and safe.” He pushed my hair back off my sweaty forehead and kissed it. “You smell kind of …”

  “What?”

  “Funky.”

  “Funky?”