For Whom the Limo Rolls

by Lorena McCourtney

  “I could stop by after I’ve delivered the clients, but it will probably be after three, maybe even four before I get there.”

  “That’ll be fine. I’ll see you there. 1572 Hildebrand Drive. It’s an older home right next to that new subdivision.”

  ***

  I didn’t take Phreddie along on this run. It was almost four o’clock after I dropped the executives off and pulled into the short, gravel driveway on Hildebrand. Several foundations were laid out in the new subdivision across the street.. They looked like they’d grow into big, upscale houses, but muddy water puddled around them now.

  Mary Beth’s staging-project house was older, but well kept, rustic brown siding with an old-fashioned front porch and a stone fireplace chimney. Her red Honda was backed up to the sidewalk leading to the front steps, the trunk open.

  I was surprised, given the wind-blown rain, to find the front door also standing open. I stuck my head inside. “Mary Beth? You in here?”

  No answer, the only sound a heating system running full blast, apparently trying to cope with the open door, and a peculiar tinny, squeaky noise that I couldn’t identify. I stepped inside and closed the door behind me to keep out the weather. The house felt cold and damp, which meant the door must have been open for some time.

  The living room looked as if Mary Beth had been working on it. Get rid of the clutter, I remembered reading somewhere as advice if you’re getting ready to sell, and it looked as if furniture had been pared to an uncluttered minimum. A couple of framed wall hangings she’d apparently removed leaned against the sofa, one a toreador on black velvet, the other a stuffed fish that looked as if had a peculiar skin problem. On the wall, perhaps where one of them had been, hung a cheery fishing village scene I recognized as one I’d seen at Mary Beth’s.

  But a vase of flowers lay smashed on the hardwood floor near a coffee table, water dribbling toward the fireplace. I heard more of that peculiar noise, which now sounded like teensy, far off voices. Trafalgar’s friends trying to squeak through? Then I realized the little voices were coming from a radio on the floor between living and dining room, smashed, but still struggling valiantly with those garbled noises.

  Beyond the radio, another fallen vase, this one tangled in a lace cloth, as if both had been swept from the dining room table.

  Strange. Goose bumps shivered my arms, not just from the cold air.

  I spotted an overturned chair beyond the table. And books flung from a mahogany bookcase.

  Something definitely not right here. And where was Mary Beth?

  Okay, time to get out. Call the police. Don’t be one of those TSTL too stupid to live women who populate scary books and movies, the ones who make you wonder where their brain cells were when they walked straight into the clutches of some waiting vampire or zombie.

  Not me. I was getting out before the radio and vase smasher decided to use me for a target.

  But then I saw the foot.

  Chapter Seven

  The foot, in a blue sneaker decorated with a flower design worked in beads, the kind they sold in the gift shop at the Indian casino, was attached to a leg clad in tan pants.

  That was all I could see from where I was standing. I took a reluctant step forward so I could peer around the counter separating dining room and kitchen.

  She lay on the tiled kitchen floor. Eyes open, face swollen and discolored, body twisted as if in some horrific dance of death. Her black sweater was pushed up, exposing a pale, plump midsection. Both arms were bent, hands near her throat, fingers curled, as if she’d been desperately clutching at something when she died.

  I felt a surge of nausea and fought off conflicting urges, neither of which was heroic. One was to run screaming from the house in panic, the other to give into a lightheaded faintness and turn into a puddle on the floor.

  Resolutely I clutched the counter to steady myself then yanked my hand back. Fingerprints! Don’t mess up fingerprints the killer had left.

  My hands dripped with nervous perspiration. I rubbed them against my uniform.

  But there wasn’t necessarily a killer, I assured myself. This could be a natural death, couldn’t it? A heart attack. A stroke. Maybe she’d been eating something, and it caught in her throat.

  I knew she was dead, but I forced myself to kneel beside her motionless body and put my fingers to her throat. No beat of pulse, not even a thread. But now I could see a mark, a reddish line, around her throat. And scratches around the line, with flesh under her fingernails. I didn’t want to look at her dead eyes, but I did. Tiny red hemorrhages streaked the white around blue eyes that no longer sparkled.

  Suddenly galvanized into action, I pawed in my purse for my cell phone and, still on my knees, dialed 911. “I’m at 1572 Hildebrand Drive. There’s a-a dead woman here!”

  “I’ll send an ambulance—”

  “She’s dead!”

  “Are you a medical professional?” The operator’s tone wasn’t sarcastic, but it hinted at the possibility I could be wrong.

  Okay, I wasn’t going to argue the point. “No, I’m not. An ambulance will be fine. Anything. I-I think she was murdered.”

  “Murdered?”

  “Strangled, maybe. Her face is all . . . purple-ish.”

  The dispatcher wasn’t going to be led down any paths of speculation by a panicky caller. “Please stay on the line while I take care of this. Don’t touch anything. I’ll need to ask you some questions.”

  She put me on hold. When she returned she said both ambulance and police were on their way. Then she wanted to know my name and address, if I knew the identity of the victim, was anyone else on the premises.

  “I know her. Mary Beth Delaney. She stages houses, makes a house look good for sale? She was working on this place, and I had an appointment to meet her here. She’s lying on the kitchen floor. There’s a smashed radio and a couple of broken vases.”

  “Is anyone else on the premises?”

  I peered around fearfully. A closed door to the garage. Another closed door to somewhere. Maybe a pantry? “I don’t know.”

  “Okay, what I want you to do is get out of the house. Get out immediately. Drive to a safe area. I’ll keep the line open and you can tell me where you are so the police can contact you. Don’t touch anything, just get out. I also need a description of your car and a license number so they can identify you.”

  I gave the number, adding, “The vehicle is easy to recognize. It’s a limousine.”

  “A limousine?” she repeated doubtfully.

  “A black stretch limousine.”

  “Okay. Thank you.”

  I wanted to follow her instructions. Maybe the killer was lurking around here somewhere! But my knees seemed too weak to lift me to my feet. Mary Beth dead. Around me, the heating unit still roared, and the refrigerator rumbled with that noise it makes when ice cubes tumble into the interior bin.

  It seemed as if something more momentous should be happening. A woman is dead on the floor, her eyes staring emptily into space. But the ice making goes on. As did those tinny little voices from the smashed radio.

  I finally struggled to my feet and took a longer look at Mary Beth. Now I noticed something I hadn’t at first horrified glance. No rings on her fingers. No bracelets or necklaces or earrings. That might only mean she didn’t wear jewelry when she was working, but I doubted that. I was pretty sure Mary Beth liked her bling no matter what she was doing.

  Now I could also see that the reddish mark around her throat wasn’t a straight line. It was uneven, jagged. An eerie thought hit me. A line that looked as it could have been made by the chunky links of a heavy gold chain.

  A chain and opal worth stealing. As were the missing bracelets and earrings.

  I jumped on that thought. Yes, a burglary! A robbery. A vicious crime committed by a stranger.

  Not the thought that had instantly crashed into my mind about a killer who was not a stranger. A killer who might take grim satisfaction using his very own gift
as a murder weapon.

  At the door I uneasily looked back at the smashed vases and radio. Destroyed by a burglar on a rampage of fury and destruction? Or destroyed to make this look like a burglary that escalated into murder, but was really calculated murder from the beginning?

  Again I tried to dodge the suspicion that hammered me, but I couldn’t rid my mind of the echo of Tom’s words: She’s not gonna get away with this! And the fear Mary Beth herself had expressed about the intensity of his rage.

  I intended to do as the dispatcher said and go to a safe area immediately, but a siren was already screaming closer when I reached the limo door. The police car careened into the driveway, and I could almost see the officer’s double take when he spotted me and the limo. I recognized him even before he jumped out of the car.

  I quickly told the 911 dispatcher that help had arrived, then jumped to get in the first word. “What are you doing here?”

  Detective Sergeant Molino was with the county sheriff’s department, and we’d crossed paths before. Not that he wasn’t an excellent detective, and, in his own no-nonsense way, a nice-enough guy. But he was also the officer who had labeled my limo a “magnet for murder” and had not been particularly appreciative of my “help” in solving a couple of previous murders.

  He surveyed both me and the limo. “I might ask you the same question, Mrs. McConnell. What are you doing here?”

  “I was supposed to meet an acquaintance here—”

  “On limousine business?”

  “No, it was personal. When I found her dead, I called 911. I thought they’d send city police. Aren’t we in the city here?”

  “This area is up for annexation, but it hasn’t gone through yet. I happened to be just a few blocks away when the call came about a possible homicide at this address, so I headed on over. Which means, lucky you, that you get me for your latest murder.”

  “It isn’t my murder,” I said indignantly. “But I-I think she was strangled.”

  Detective Molino was striding toward the house even as we talked. I trotted behind trying to keep up. He turned and held up a hand.

  “You stay outside. But don’t go anywhere. I’ll need to talk to you.” He shooed me back toward the limo.

  Another car with sheriff’s department insignia roared up. Two deputies got out and, after a hasty consultation, all three officers drew guns and charged the front door. A few minutes later an ambulance arrived. A deputy came to the door and motioned the paramedics inside. Apparently they’d determined the killer wasn’t lurking in there somewhere.

  Hands in my pockets for warmth in the chilly, damp air, I paced back and forth beside the limo for a while, then walked over and peered into the open trunk of Mary Beth’s Honda. A cardboard box showed the tops of a ceramic canister set with colorful roosters for lid handles, apparently something Mary Beth had planned to use to dress up the kitchen. Colorful patchwork pillows spilled out of plastic sacks. They’d have brightened that dreary sofa inside. Up front, a crystal on a piece of red yarn dangled from the rear view mirror. Had Mary Beth been into crystal-gazing . . . or whatever New Age people did with crystals . . . as well as other-dimensional entities?

  The usual parade of crime-scene people arrived. An officer with both digital and video cameras included the limo and me in a shot, and the limo got other curious glances. A couple of people apparently recognized me and waved. I didn’t know whether to be flattered or dismayed. Did I really want to be the kind of woman whom crime-scene people recognize on sight?

  Eventually a van and a man I recognized from past experience as the local medical examiner arrived and went inside. It was dark by the time he finished and the body bag was loaded into his van. I’d had to run the engine several times to heat up the limo while I waited.

  Detective Molino came to the limo while another deputy stretched yellow crime-scene tape around the yard. We were under the glow of a yard light apparently set to come on at dark.

  I opened the door – the limo windows don’t open because of the bulletproof glass – and offered a weak smile. “We really have to stop meeting like this.”

  “But I never hear from you unless there’s a dead body involved, Mrs. McConnell.” He managed to sound reproachful.

  “Call me Andi,” I muttered.

  “You want to call me Anton?”

  “Well, uh, no.”

  “Good.” Briskly he pulled out one of those little notebooks law enforcement officers always seem to carry even in this day of computers right in their vehicles. “You know the victim?”

  “I met her once. Mary Beth Delaney.” I gave him her home address. “She does staging on houses for sale, and that’s what she was doing here.”

  “The housing market is slow, but homicide seems a bit extreme even for a dissatisfied customer.”

  “It was murder, then?”

  “I think we can safely say that it was murder,” he agreed, although I knew he wasn’t going to offer details.

  “I don’t know who hired her, or who owns the house.”

  “We’ll find out.”

  “She must have had a purse with her. There might be some information in it.” Then I felt foolish. Detective Molino didn’t need helpful suggestions from me.

  He politely didn’t mention that. “You had an appointment to meet her here?”

  “She called me this morning. She’s been dating my neighbor. You may remember him. Tom Bolton?” When he nodded, I continued. “They had a, umm, misunderstanding, and she wanted to tell me about it, perhaps get me to talk to Tom since he refused to talk to her.”

  “You know anything about this ‘misunderstanding’?”

  I hesitated, uneasy about passing along the tale of towel-snapping. “I think it would be better if you talked to Tom about that.”

  He didn’t press the issue and scribbled something in the notebook. “But she was dead when you got here, so you and she never had this conversation?”

  “Right.”

  “No one else was around when you arrived?”

  “No.”

  “Did you see or hear anything? Was there any other vehicle here?”

  “No. Just some tinny little voices on the smashed radio. I couldn’t help noticing that it looked as if she’d been strangled. That awful line around her throat”

  No comment.

  “Did you find the murder weapon?” I asked.

  “Somehow I feel you probably have a theory about the murder weapon, don’t you, Mrs. M.?”

  The shortening of my name was apparently an acknowledgement that we were nodding acquaintances, if not necessarily friends.

  “It was such a ragged line. And I know she had a necklace made of chunky gold links. It just looked as if ... well, maybe...”

  “As if she were strangled with the necklace? Was it something she usually wore?”

  “Actually, the only time I met her, she wore quite a lot of jewelry. Several gold chains and bracelets and rings. Earrings too.”

  “You think she was wearing them today?”

  “I have no idea. But it strikes me as odd that she wasn’t wearing any jewelry when I found her. Wouldn’t that suggest someone killed her and then stole the jewelry? Perhaps killed her for the jewelry?”

  “Perhaps.” He flipped the notebook shut.

  “You’ll find my fingerprints on the counter. I accidentally touched it when I first saw her.”

  “We’ll keep that in mind. I believe we already have your prints on file if we need to make a comparison.”

  “Yes, you do.” Souvenir of a previous murder investigation in which I was a suspect. Presumably I wasn’t one now. I hesitated, undecided how much to tell him. I wanted to help, but I didn’t want to implicate Tom unnecessarily. Finally, all I said was, “If you need anything more, you know where I live.”

  “Indeed I do. Thank you for your help, Mrs. M.”

  I didn’t like it, but as I drove home Detective Molino’s earlier proclamation that my limo was a “magnet for murder
” was beginning to feel all too true.

  Chapter Eight

  Lights gleamed dimly behind pulled drapes in Tom’s windows when I got home. I felt I should go tell him about Mary Beth, and yet I had the ominous feeling he might already know. That he was hunkered down in there with figurative, if not actual, blood on his hands. Detective Molino, I suspected, also would not appreciate my jumping in and giving Tom advance notice that he was on their suspect list.

  Although maybe he wasn’t, I thought hopefully. Maybe when Detective Molino and other officers questioned neighbors they’d find someone who had seen the killer running from the house with a fistful of jewelry. Someone who didn’t look anything like Tom.

  In the end, I parked the limo in my driveway, as usual, and went to my own door.

  I paused there with the door half open. Vigland Bay was over a mile away, but sometimes, like tonight, something in the atmosphere made the salt-sea scent feel as if the tidal waters were close enough to touch. I breathed the cleansing scent deeply, wishing it could cleanse away all that had happened today. Yes, I thought Mary Beth was either a crackpot or scam artist. Maybe both. I thought she hadn’t played fair with Tom, manipulating that expensive necklace out of him, and cavorting with the other guy. But seeing her lying there dead on the floor, with her desperately clutching fingers and that ragged line around her throat. . .

  Phreddie greeted me with much purring, making figure eights around my legs as I fixed a pot of tea. I didn’t feel up to eating anything at this point, so, with Phreddie on my lap, I went through the necessary mechanics of checking my answering machine and returning calls to set up appointments with the limo. There weren’t as many as I’d like, or my bank account needed. Maybe it was the time of year, but business had slowed.