“No, I don’t. I think it was Mary Beth putting on some big act. Trafalgar doesn’t exist,” I repeated firmly and gave it a rephrasing for extra emphasis. “He isn’t real.”
Tom’s eyebrows scrunched together as he glowered at me. “What I know is that Trafalgar doesn’t like it when people say bad things about him.”
“I’m not saying bad things! I’m just saying—” Another mental whack. Listening to Tom, I kept getting dragged back into this Trafalgar-is-real thing. “Tom, somebody here on this earth, someone right here in this dimension, killed Mary Beth. Trafalgar didn’t do it because he doesn’t exist. And if it wasn’t you who killed her, then you’d better start worrying about who it was.”
“And you’d better be careful,” Tom said ominously as he jumped to his feet and stomped toward the door. With a hand on the knob he turned and said, “Or maybe he’ll do the same thing to you he did to Mary Beth. He’s already mad at you.”
He peered around the room again, as if searching corners for Trafalgar. And in spite of myself, I found my gaze following his up to the far corner of the living room.
“Is that where other-dimensional entities hang out when they’re in this dimension?” I asked. “In the corners of people’s ceilings?”
“Trafalgar doesn’t like smart-asses,” Tom muttered as he stalked out.
I locked the door behind him and called Phreddie. I felt exasperated and discouraged and frustrated. I needed the comfort of Phreddie’s warm fur and purr. But instead of coming to me he went to the sofa where Tom had sat and sniffed the cushion as if he were part bloodhound.
And then he sat on the arm of the sofa and tilted his head to study the upper, far-right corner of the living room, tail twitching. My gaze followed his uneasily. Animals heard and smelled things beyond the scope of human ability; did they see things too? Then I grabbed hold of myself.
“Phreddie, stop that!”
Which he did, and I chastised myself for letting imagination run away with me for a minute there. All that was in that corner of the living room was a spiderweb. I grabbed a newspaper, climbed on a chair, and whacked the gauzy web as I’d have liked to whack Tom.
I brewed a cup of chamomile tea and, with Phreddie now curled in my lap, tried to decide what to do. Tom was not the kind of guy to arouse any great sympathy for his predicament, especially when he seemed determined to dig himself in deeper with his claims about Trafalgar being the guilty entity. His opinionated stubbornness didn’t make me want to rush to his aid. Talking to him was about as effective as when I argued the benefits of broccoli with a then four-year-old Sarah who would only howl that it tasted like poison weeds.
The problem was, I was pretty sure Tom hadn’t killed Mary Beth. If for no other reason than that he was so stubborn in his misguided belief Trafalgar had done it.
Yet, at this point, with a murder charge against Tom, were the authorities even looking at any other possibilities? They had the MOM thing going with him: motive, opportunity, and means, the biggies in pinpointing suspects. Fingerprints too.
But, at this point, frustrating as Tom was, I also saw an odd vulnerability lurking behind his grumpy stubbornness. Deep down, he was a lonely man. He’d reached out to Mary Beth and naively been taken in by her. Which now might lead to much more deadly consequences than a lost investment.
I sighed. Even a snarling pit bull needs someone on his side occasionally.
And I figured there was one thing I could do that might help Tom.
Chapter Eleven
I planned to call Detective Molino first thing next morning, but before I could pick up the phone the woman ahead of me on the prayer chain called. She had several new names to add to the list. An older woman in the hospital, a younger one with pregnancy problems, plus a guy desperate for a job.
“And, finally, there’s Lori Crampton and her folks, Jack and Linda,” the woman said.
“I know who she is, though I can’t place her parents. Dark-haired girl who sang a beautiful solo a couple of weeks ago? And then gave a wonderful testimony too?”
“Right. She’s missing.”
“Missing!”
“Well, maybe missing isn’t the right word. She seems to have run off. She left a note, so they don’t think anything has actually happened to her. But they don’t know where she is, so it’s a big worry. She’s only sixteen.” A drop in tone. “There may be a guy involved. Maybe someone older. Her parents think she was seeing someone on the sly.”
“Have the police been notified?”
“Yes, and they’re on the lookout for her, but I don’t think they get as excited about a runaway as they do an abduction. Oh, and don’t forget our church elder who was killed. It appears his son may also have a drinking problem.”
I called the next name on the prayer chain to pass the names along. Though, after a minute of reflection, I edited some of the information. Sure, we needed to know the problems we were praying about, but I had the uneasy feeling, if care weren’t exerted, this could become a gossip chain.
Then I rather awkwardly offered the names of these people in prayer myself, awkward because, even though I pray quite a lot, I often have the feeling I’m not exactly in the loop with God. How could I be when, even though my faith is growing, I still have so much doubt and confusion? How come there are so many different versions and translations of the Bible? Which are we to believe? I didn’t have any problem with Jesus walking on water or miraculously healing so many people, but I’m puzzled by those verses in Matthew about how Jesus, when the fig tree didn’t have any fruit on it, told the fig tree it would never again bear fruit. Wasn’t that just a little, well, petty?
I called the sheriff’s department and asked for Detective Molino. He wasn’t in, so all I could do was leave a message asking him to call me. Which left Phreddie and me looking at each other.
“So, now what?” I asked. My next limo job wasn’t until six o’clock, when I was taking four young couples on a moving pizza party to celebrate a promotion.
Phreddie mrrowed in answer to my question, and I tossed up my hands in horror. “You’re saying I should spend the morning doing housework?”
Another mrrow, which I could all too easily interpret as Yes, housework. If it gets any deeper in here you’re going to need a bulldozer instead of a vacuum cleaner.
Okay, it was probably only my own subconscious nagging me about housework. Cats aren’t into telepathic communication. But when Phreddie jumped on top the washer and looked at me, I took the hint and gathered up a load of laundry.
Vacuuming was next on the agenda, but another thought occurred to me. If I talked to some of the people in the channeling group, maybe I could learn something to reinforce the possibility I wanted to present to Detective Molino. Yes! Much more important than a few dustballs and dirt.
It was an idea that proved singularly unproductive. I couldn’t do anything about contacting the people for whom I had first names only, and the others either weren’t listed in the directory, didn’t answer the phone, or had an answering machine on which I didn’t want to leave a message that made me sound like your friendly neighborhood crackpot. If Tom had checked up on these people, I had to envy his snoop expertise.
Okay, I sighed in resignation when the phone idea fizzled. Housework it was. I dragged the vacuum cleaner out of the closet. Then another thought occurred to me, one that sounded like a lot more fun. Suppose I drove up to Bremerton! It wasn’t all that far, and wouldn’t Fitz be surprised? We could go to lunch, maybe wander some antique stores.
Well, no, I couldn’t totally surprise him. I’d have to call ahead, or I’d never find the Miss Nora.
“Yes, Phreddie, you can come too,” I offered as a bribe so we’d have no more mrrows about housework. I headed for the phone to call Fitz, but then the doorbell rang. I cringed slightly. Was Tom back, maybe offering me a “love gift” to contact Trafalgar? But when I opened the door—
“Fitz!” There he stood, silver hair and mustache, wiry
muscles, Irish blue eyes, killer grin. You don’t have to be twenty-five to have a killer grin. He held out his arms, and I stepped into them.
After a big hug, which I was pretty sure Tom was watching from across the street, I pulled Fitz inside and kicked the vacuum hose aside. Do housework when Fitz was in town? Do you eat cookie crumbs when there’s cheesecake on the menu?
“You’re back from Bremerton already?” Oh, yeah, Fitz was definitely cheesecake.
“No. My car’s here at the marina, of course, so I rented one up there and drove down.”
“To take care of business here?”
“To see you, Andi, dear. I decided I couldn’t live another day without seeing you.” He pressed a hand to his heart, gave me a soulful look, and lifted my hand to kiss it.
This was such a coincidence I could ignore the melodrama. “Would you believe that’s exactly what I’d just decided to do? Drive up to Bremerton to see you? Maybe it’s true, great minds do think alike!”
“Or maybe . . . people in love think alike?”
That made me gulp. Love. We’re skirted around that a few times, but we’d never really gone there before. Though I had to admit I flirted with the idea occasionally.
He still had hold of my right hand, and he leaned back to study me. “I didn’t mean to scare you off.”
“I’m not scared,” I scoffed.
“No? Then how come you look like someone’s about to shove you off a cliff?” I was still considering that when he kissed me on the nose. “We’ll just go for the great minds thing right now, okay?”
I wasn’t certain if I was relieved or disappointed, but I knew I was very glad he’d come.
I made coffee, Phreddie draped himself around Fitz’s neck, and I brought Fitz up to date on the murder, Tom’s astonishing claim about Trafalgar, and my unsuccessful phone sleuthing. I showed him the list of names Tom had given me and the notes I’d made on each.
He pointed to the one that wasn’t a name, just a description, and I realized I’d skipped over the most accessible person on the list.
“Brilliant!” I said, and dropped a kiss on top his head. “And I’m so glad you’re here so we can do it together. I need your expertise.”
Fitz fingered the kissed spot, then frowned. “You’re buttering me up. For your own nefarious purposes.”
“Shall we take a car or the limo?”
“The limo, I think. It lends a certain, oh, cachet to an investigation.”
“Right.” I grabbed the limo keys from the hook by the back door and then his hand.
Fitz dragged his feet halfway to the front door. “Hey, wait a minute. You tricked me by not asking a yes or no question about whether we were going to do this. You made it a this or that question, how we were going to do it.”
“Now who do you suppose I learned that technique from?”
***
There didn’t appear to be any activity around Mary Beth’s house when I pulled the limo into the driveway next door. I grabbed a notebook and pen from the glove compartment before we got out. I also folded a form letter from the phone company and tucked it into the notebook. Paperwork always makes things look more official.
Fitz rang the bell. I looked back at the landscaping. A dozen shrubs had each been manicured into three precise round balls. Another shrub sprouted four squares. No leaf straggled from the crew-cut hedge across the far side of the property.
A tall, slim woman, with blonde hair in a short, angular cut, opened the door. She was about my age but considerably more stylish. White slacks, cable-knit white sweater, diamond-stud earrings. At first I thought she must be just leaving to go somewhere, but then I remembered this was the woman who swept her front steps in a chic black suit. How would she feel if she knew Tom had ignored all that and described her as “the nosy neighbor” next door?
A small white poodle ran out and yapped at us from behind the woman’s legs. The poodle had been trimmed with the same precision as the shrubbery, complete to round ball on its tail.
“Yes?” the woman said, very coolly. Then she spotted the limo, and I sensed a thaw. “Were you looking for someone?”
Fitz flashed her a smile. “You, actually. If we could have a few moments of your time?” He held up a hand, palm forward. “We aren’t selling anything, I promise. This concerns a private investigation into the unfortunate death of your neighbor.”
“Police have swarmed all over the place, and a couple of detectives have been here twice. And several reporters too. I was afraid something like this would happen from the day that woman moved in.”
“You were afraid she’d be murdered?” I asked, surprised.
“No, I just meant . . . she didn’t fit here. People coming and going at all hours. Cars parked everywhere, even out on the street. Furniture moving in and out.” She looked at Fitz, and he smiled sympathetically.
“Property values,” he murmured.
“Exactly. She was a renter, you know, not an owner.” She spoke the word renter as if it were on a level with hair ball.
I didn’t know why, but I felt obliged to give Mary Beth a smidgen of defense. “The furniture moving probably had to do with her work. She staged houses, you know, made them look attractive for buyers. She stored most of the items in her home.”
The woman looked to Fitz for confirmation, as if I couldn’t be trusted. He nodded reassuringly and said, “We were wondering if you could tell us something about Mrs. Delaney. You strike me as a very observant person, someone who could be of great help, Mrs.—?”
“Lawrence. Danielle Lawrence. My husband was a well-known surgeon here in Vigland before his death two years ago.”
Was the surgically altered shrubbery something he’d started in his spare time, and she’d continued in his memory?
Fitz put a hand on my shoulder. “This is Andi McConnell, and I’m Keegan Fitzgerald. Fitz to my friends, so, please, call me that.”
I felt like kicking Fitz in the shin for laying on the charm thicker than cream cheese on a bagel, but it was apparently working, because she said, “Please, do come in.”
So I just squeezed my hand a little tighter around his elbow. Danielle Lawrence had already managed to get into the conversation that she was a widow, and she was looking at Fitz like Phreddie eyeing a fresh can of tuna.
She opened the door wider and motioned us to a living room done in striking contrasts of dark blue and white, with touches of gold. Dramatic blue carpet, white marble fireplace, gold-framed seascape over the mantel. White sofa, midnight-blue pillows, gold statue of Venus de Milo on the coffee table. I wondered if she had a blue dog around somewhere to balance the white poodle bouncing around our feet.
She motioned us to the sofa. A fresh, lemony scent decorated the air, although on second sniff I detected a sharper undertone of disinfectant.
“Do you live here in the area?” she asked Fitz.
“I live on my son’s charter sailboat, the Miss Nora. We take guests all over Puget Sound and up into the San Juan Islands. Perhaps you’ve seen the boat at the marina?”
“No, but that sounds so interesting. I’ll have to tell my son, and perhaps we could all take a sail when he and my granddaughters are up from Arizona.”
Warm smile from Fitz. “That would be great.”
She didn’t ask where I lived.
Yet suddenly, in spite of Fitz’s charm, she seemed to have an attack of suspicion. She clasped her hands over her knees. “What exactly, is your relationship with this . . . unfortunate situation?”
“As you put it, an unfortunate situation, and Mrs. McConnell here—” He motioned to me. A necessary gesture, since she seemed to have forgotten I existed. “Has unfortunately been drawn into it because she had been to Mrs. Delaney’s house in the company of the man accused of the crime, and she was also the one who found the body. A private investigation, as I said, separate from the police one.” He managed to make our investigation sound elite and dignified, a step above police clumsiness.
; I noted that the explanation didn’t really legitimize our coming here to ask nosy questions, but Danielle hopefully wouldn’t notice.
“I remember seeing the limousine over there.”
I pulled out a card and handed it to her. “Andi’s Limouzeen Service.”
A moment later, when she held the card between thumb and forefinger and eyed it as if counting the bacteria on its surface, I realized I probably shouldn’t have produced the card. She’d apparently thought we were passengers in the limo, with a chauffeur waiting, and operating a limo service was not up to her surgically defined level of social acceptability. Especially one called a limouzeen.
“So,” Fitz said, “we’re wondering if you had any contact with Mrs. Delaney or any of the people at her channeling sessions?”
I scooted my notebook under my purse. I had the feeling that at this point looking official was not the best strategy. Let Fitz work his charm.
“I didn’t really have any personal contact with her, but I went to a couple of group sessions,” Danielle admitted, her tone reluctant. “I don’t believe in that entity-from-another-dimension nonsense, of course, but I was curious. Since it was taking place right next door, I felt I should know what kind of people it was bringing into the neighborhood.”
Fitz’s sage nod agreed that was a wise step. “And what did you learn?”
Unfortunately, while Fitz’s charm was working on Danielle, mine suddenly took effect on the poodle. It jumped on my lap, dug its sharp little claws into my chest, and licked my right cheek.
“Do behave, Bébé,” Danielle said, and then blithely ignored Bébé’s assault on my other cheek. “They were about what you’d expect. Mostly strangely dressed people with peculiar ideas. Some man kept asking about Atlantis. Another wanted to contact some dead relative. One woman burned some heavy incense, and another had a sack of lumpy looking cookies. Who knows what was in them? Some odd woman had bells she jangled until I wanted to strangle her.”
A more recent news report had revealed Mary Beth had been strangled, and Danielle now gave a small, “Oh!” and her manicured fingertips touched her lips as she apparently realized, considering what had happened to Mary Beth, that this was a less than sensitive remark.
For Whom the Limo Rolls Page 8