For Whom the Limo Rolls

by Lorena McCourtney

  I glanced out the kitchen window every few minutes, and I was looking when a car branded with a sheriff’s department emblem pulled up in front of Tom’s gate. Two men got out, one wiry figure easily identifiable against the oblong of light at Tom’s open door as Detective Molino.

  The car was there a good hour, but when it left, I was relieved to see that Detective Molino and the other deputy were alone. They weren’t hauling Tom off in handcuffs. I thought about going over to tell him how sorry I was about Mary Beth, but I wasn’t sure how that would go over, given what had happened between them. Tom wasn’t the most sensitive guy in the world. Knowing someone had killed her, he might just be muttering a grumpy good riddance. An even worse scenario was that he might be the killer, congratulating himself on his success. So I called Fitz instead.

  “Fitz, soliciting your vote as Senior Hunk of the Year, here.”

  He made me smile in spite of the events of the day. “You’ve got it,” I assured him. “Do you have a minute? Something happened today.”

  “How come with you and that particular tone of voice I know it’s something more than a hangnail or a spider in a cupboard?”

  “You’re right. It’s more serious than that.”

  “Are you okay? How about Sarah and Rachel? And Phreddie?”

  “We’re all fine. Not so Mary Beth, the entity-from-another-dimension woman. Tom’s girlfriend. I was supposed to meet her today. But when I got there, I-I found her body on the floor.”

  “Body as in dead?”

  “Very dead.” I explained the circumstances, Fitz adding an encouraging hmm or I see here and there. “Detective Molino just left Tom’s house a few minutes ago. They were there quite a while.”

  “Tom’s a suspect?”

  “I think she was strangled with that necklace he gave her. I don’t like to think it, but I’m not sure he didn’t do it. He was terribly angry with her.”

  “What about this other man in the shower-and-towel-snapping incident?”

  I blinked. “I don’t know. I hadn’t even thought about him.” I hadn’t, in fact, gone beyond thinking about Tom, or some faceless burglar, in Mary Beth’s death. But the other man. . . Yes! Had he been unaware of Mary Beth’s relationship with Tom until the shower-scene incident? Had he been as angry as Tom to find out she was leading a double romantic life?

  The other man was definitely a possibility. And surely there were many other possibilities also. People from her channeling group, perhaps. Especially if she was running some kind of scam. Maybe someone from her past. How long had she been working the Trafalgar gig?

  “It isn’t up to you to figure out who killed her,” Fitz reminded. “This is Detective Molino’s job.”

  “Would that have stopped Ed Montrose, P.I.E.?” I asked, referring to the private investigator he had played on TV some years back.

  “That’s different.” He paused. “At least don’t do anything drastic until I get back.”

  “Drastic as in—?”

  “Probably whatever you have in mind.”

  “Actually, at the moment, I don’t have anything in mind.” Although, even as I said that, a couple of thoughts popped up like teenager zits.

  “Good.” He sounded approving if not necessarily convinced.

  “How much longer will you be in Bremerton?”

  “They’re about half done with the boat, so it’ll be a few more days.”

  “I miss you,” I said.

  “I miss you too.”

  ***

  The murder turned up on the TV news, of course, but the information was all low key. Nothing about how Mary Beth was killed, no mention of either Tom, me, or Trafalgar. Also no mention of any suspect under arrest, simply one of those uninformative statements the sheriff’s department liked to issue, that they were following several leads. Actually, the murder was more or less eclipsed by a pileup of vehicles out on the highway in which three people were killed and two more badly injured.

  And politics! So much politics on both TV and radio, both advertisements and news. The media had been at it for months, getting heavier as we approached November, everything from presidential candidates right on down to city councilmen.

  I tuned out most of it, but I was shocked to recognize the name of one of the dead in the accident, Charlie Slawson, a deacon at our church. I didn’t know him beyond an occasional “hello,” but I decided to call Edith Bellevue, the woman who usually led Wednesday night Bible study, and see if there was anything I could do.

  “Yes, we’re all very upset about it,” Edith said. She hesitated and then added, “There’s something that didn’t come out in the early news reports but no doubt will be public soon. The accident was Charlie’s fault. He pulled out of a side road and slammed right into another car. And he had a blood alcohol content way over the legal limit.”

  “Oh, no! I’m so sorry to hear that.”

  “Apparently he’s had a drinking problem ever since his wife died three years ago, but only a few people knew about it.”

  I had the uneasy feeling she was more annoyed that she hadn’t known about the drinking problem than she was sorry about the problem itself. Then I chastised myself for thinking that and again asked if there was anything I could do.

  “I don’t think so. He has a son and grandchildren down in Arizona, and the prayer chain is praying for them. And for the injured people.”

  The prayer chain had only recently been started at church. I’d detoured being on it before this, but now I impulsively said I’d like to be added. She said she’d do that, then checked a list and gave me the name of the person on the chain who’d call me and who I should then call. “These prayer warriors are more important than anyone realizes,” she said.

  ***

  Life went on. I dutifully prayed when I got a call about someone needing prayer. I had clients to serve, the limo was due for an oil change, and I had to call Sarah and tell her about my latest brush with murder. She didn’t seem surprised, just sighed and said I really should consider those karate lessons for self-defense. And then she told me how she’d just learned to use your car keys as an effective weapon to jab an assailant’s eyes. I got a full-blown description of the technique.

  “Rachel knows how to do this too?”

  “Oh yes.”

  I gave a what’s-the-world-coming-to sigh, but I tucked the information about the technique back in a mental storage area.

  On Tuesday, when I pulled into my driveway in the limo, a sheriff’s department car was again parked in front of Tom’s house. And this time, when the officers came out as I was walking to my front door, they had Tom between them. In handcuffs.

  So they had enough on him to arrest him. I felt sad but not really surprised. Poor Tom. Maybe he should have stuck with spying on the neighbors instead of getting a girlfriend.

  I was surprised to see India peering out her front window, also watching. I hadn’t seen her since that blueberry-muffin night when she’d been friendly enough but had also turned down my invitation to church. Now she gave me a little wave, then her door opened and she walked across her half of the yard toward me, motorcycle boots clomping, muumuu flowing around her long legs. The chilly evening mist made me wonder if she was into long johns under the muumuu yet.

  “What’s going on?” she asked as the squad car drove away. “Tom upset someone with his binocular activity?”

  “More serious than that, I’m afraid. Perhaps you saw on the news about the woman who was found dead in a house over near the highway?”

  “I saw it, although I guess I didn’t think much about it. Which is sad, isn’t it? Murder should provoke a bigger reaction. And there was that awful accident out on the highway too.”

  “The murdered woman was Tom’s girlfriend.”

  “Really? The channeling woman? I’ve been seeing it on the news. And they think he killed her?”

  So Mary Beth’s channeling activities were in the news stories now. “You want to come inside, and I’ll tell y
ou what I know? Including that I was the one who found the body.”

  She did a double-take on that one, head jerking back in surprise. “I’m making burritos. Why don’t you come over to my place?”

  I was glad to do that. By the time I’d taken a quick shower, changed to comfortable sweats, and got over to her place, she had the burritos and homemade salsa ready to dish up.

  “I brought Phreddie,” I said. “I hope you don’t mind. I couldn’t take him along today, and he gets annoyed at being left home alone too long.” Also, when annoyed, he likes to shred toilet tissue. Which exasperates me, but sometimes I wonder if tissue shredding isn’t a better solution than the ways some humans cope with their frustrations and unhappiness. Like drinking. Or chummying up to other-dimensional entities.

  “Phreddie is always welcome.”

  She dished up the burritos, salsa, and coffee. When we sat down at the table, Phreddie took off to explore this side of the duplex.

  “Secret View Lane must not look quite so normal to you now,” I suggested regretfully. “I find a dead body. Tom gets arrested for murder.”

  From what India had said when she rented the duplex, she liked the “normal” and “ordinary” ambiance of this little dead-end street. I wasn’t certain why the mundane appealed to her, but I had the feeling Secret View Lane had now slipped out of the comfort zone.

  “I’m not sure anywhere is normal anymore,” she said a little wistfully. “Maybe normal always was a myth.”

  “Normal may be in short supply these days, but, as I keep reminding myself, God is in control.”

  No comment on that. What she said was, “As I think I told you once, I know how to shoot a gun.”

  “That’s how you cope with . . . not normal?” I asked, a bit dismayed.

  She laughed and reached over to pat my hand. “Don’t worry. I’m not practicing quick-draws in the bathroom.”

  So it was just a back-up measure for her. Like Sarah and her key-in-the-eye technique. I felt another of those what’s-this-world-coming-to sighs coming on.

  “Do you have a gun?” I asked.

  “As a matter of fact, I do. Two, actually.” She dropped the subject there, however. Apparently this was not show-and-tell time. “More salsa?” she offered.

  I told her how I’d happened to find the body and the motive that may have led to Tom’s arrest. The burritos were wonderful. Guiltily I realized that, in spite of everything, my appetite was chugging along fine. Phreddie wandered back to the living room and made himself at home on the sofa. I was relieved no telltale bits of tissue paper clung to his paws or mouth.

  “Do you think Tom did it?” India asked.

  “I don’t want to. Tom and I have never been big buddies, but I certainly never figured him for a killer. The police aren’t saying anything, but I’m pretty sure the murder weapon was a necklace Tom gave her.”

  “People aren’t always what we think they are.”

  Another of those statements that suggested she had some personal experience that had jaundiced her view of both the world and God. Curious as always, I gave her an expectant lift of eyebrows, but she stonewalled my curiosity with a pleasant smile.

  Over in the corner I could see her computer silently displaying a screen saver of colorful fish drifting in an undersea scene of rocks and coral.

  “You know, it’s probably none of my business,” I said impulsively, “but I keep wondering what you do over here all the time. Do you have friends on the internet or something?”

  “Actually. . .” She hesitated as if undecided whether to confide in me but finally took a chance on it. “I spend a lot of time studying the stock market.”

  “You’re one of those high-powered day traders?” I asked, astonished.

  She smiled. “Oh, no, nothing as risky as that. But I try to keep up on what’s happening and make a few prudent buys and sells. I need some income, and I’m a little short on marketable job skills.”

  And how many job opportunities are there for a muumuu-clad woman in motorcycle boots, who knows how to shoot a gun?

  “Maybe you should acquire some marketable skills. There’s a community college here. You could take some courses.”

  “Actually, the stock market thing is fairly profitable.” Hesitation, as if she were again calculating whether what she was about to say revealed too much. “My husband taught me about doing it.”

  Another surprise. “You’re married?”

  “I was. He’s dead now.”

  “Oh, I’m so sorry.”

  “We were living way out in the middle of nowhere in—” She broke off as if she’d almost slipped and named a location. “We didn’t have a lot to do out there, and this proved profitable. My husband was an accountant before he became a—” She broke off again, then looked down at her feet, although she was in slippers, not motorcycle boots, now.

  “A biker?” I suggested. She hesitated a moment and then nodded.

  Accountant-cum-biker seemed a strange progression. As did India’s progression from Donna Karan dresses and a Coach handbag to her present gear. “You’d been married a long time?”

  “Four years,” she said. “He was a wonderful guy.”

  Four years. I figured her for forty-ish, which left a lot of earlier years unaccounted for. I waited a moment, wondering if she’d say anything about her husband’s death. When she didn’t, I said, “You know a lot about computers?”

  “Enough to manage what I do with the stock market. But I’ve never had any formal training, just what Connor taught me. I don’t think it’s enough to qualify me for any computer job.”

  “Connor was your husband?” I tacked that name onto the last name she’d given me. “Connor Beauregard?”

  She looked momentarily surprised, but the lines in her face relaxed. “Of course,” she said smoothly. “Connor Beauregard.”

  And I’m the Lone Ranger, and that’s my trusty sidekick Tonto purring over there on the sofa.

  “I’ve been thinking I should set up a website for my limo business. I used a computer for years when I was working for an insurance company here in town, but I don’t know how to do websites.” I was, in fact, pretty much roadkill on the superhighway of technology. “Maybe you do?”

  “No, but I’m sure there are software programs available. I’ll see what I can find.” I caught an unexpected glimmer of interest, even excitement. “Actually, I’d like to do that. It sounds like fun.”

  Chapter Nine

  Back home, I kept thinking I should do something about Tom. Should someone be notified he’d been arrested? I knew nothing about his family, although I was reasonably certain he had no one in this area. I knew he had a lawyer, although I was doubtful about the criminal-defense abilities of that sue-happy guy. But that lawyer would probably know who should be informed about the arrest. Or was that kind of thinking dodging my neighborly duty to do something myself?

  Next morning I did go over and make sure both Tom’s house and car were securely locked. I knew he had a box at the post office downtown, as I did, so an accumulation of mail wouldn’t be a problem. At this time of year, the yard might quickly look ragged, but it wouldn’t need watering.

  After a run to Sea-Tac with the limo, I drove around by Hildebrand Street. Yellow crime-scene tape still blocked the driveway and circled the house, but I didn’t see any police cars. At Mary Beth’s house the situation was reversed. A deputy’s car in the driveway, but no crime-scene tape. The neighbor was sweeping her front steps. Her black slacks and fitted black jacket looked a bit overdressed for the job, and I suspected the sweeping was just an excuse for trying to see what was going on at Mary Beth’s house.

  By Friday I decided to call Detective Molino and ask if I could visit Tom to see if he needed anything done, but when I got home from a trip up to Quilcene I was surprised to see Tom standing on his front deck. I felt a flurry of relief. They’d let him go! They must have found the real killer after all.

  I waved at him. When he waved ba
ck, I had the odd feeling he’d been watching for me. A few minutes later he rang my doorbell. When I opened the door, Phreddie took one look and scrambled for the bedroom. Mary Beth’s influence on Tom’s attire had apparently fizzled. He was back to his McWeird plaid pants, although I didn’t know if that influenced Phreddie’s judgment.

  “I’m so glad to see you’re home!” I motioned him inside. “They dropped the charges?”

  “No, I’m out on bail.”

  I was surprised. I thought bail took longer than that, that maybe bail wasn’t even possible on a murder charge. Maybe he did have a good lawyer.

  “I guess they decided that as a long-time, home-owning resident with no criminal record I was a good risk. That I wasn’t going to take off for South America or somewhere, or murder anyone else.” He sounded more grumpy than appreciative.

  “I’m sure you’re very reliable.”

  “Of course that woman judge socked me with enough bail to run that Mickey-Mouse court for six months.”

  “You’re still charged with the murder?” I also wondered about the big bail. How had Tom come up with enough money to pay that so quickly?

  “My lawyer’s working on the charges. They haven’t set a trial date yet.” Oddly, he didn’t sound as concerned as I thought he should be, almost as if the murder charge were only an irrelevant inconvenience. On a darker note he added, “Our American justice system is controlled by communists and socialists and liberals and tree-huggers and women and all those other jerks.”

  One could never accuse Tom of political correctness.

  “Well, I, uh, hope it all works out.” Almost reluctantly, considering I, as a woman, was right there on his list,” I added, “Is there anything I can do?”

  He gave me an appraising look as he plopped on my sofa. “Yes, there is.”

  Uh-oh. I didn’t like the sound of that. I backed off from instantly inquiring what that something was. “Why do they think you killed her?” I asked cautiously.