Deadly Illusions

by Chester D. Campbell

  ———

  When we got to the office a little after ten, there was a message to call Wayne Marshall, the Saints’ landlord.

  “I thought you’d want to know,” he said in a rush. “That house burned down early this morning.”

  “The Saints’ house?”

  “Yeah. With all the damned furniture and everything else inside. It was blazing big time before anyone saw it. I just came from over there. It’s a total loss.”

  “Any idea what caused it?” I asked.

  “They say there’s indications it may have been arson. Looks like it started in the basement. The investigators are supposed to go over it later. I’ve got insurance, of course. Thank God I have an air-tight alibi for last night.” His laugh sounded forced.

  Jill and I drove back to Antioch and found the house just as Marshall had described it, nothing left but a pile of rubble. Yellow crime scene tape had been strung around the perimeter. Cheating a bit, I got close enough to see that nothing in the basement could possibly have survived. Particularly not drawers in a wooden workbench. I suspected Damon Saint had made certain nobody would be searching for clues to whatever he had been doing in his workshop.

  Small pieces of blackened paneling, bits of burned fabric and other scraps of material were scattered about the yard, no doubt most blown by the wind. I wandered around picking through them and found a few pieces of scorched paper with writing on them. One had some names, but not enough to help. Mostly fragments. Then I came across a scrap that had what appeared to be telephone numbers, written with a ball point pen. Two numbers were complete, all seven digits. Another had been burned away except for the last two digits.

  “Do you think they might lead us somewhere?” Jill asked.

  I studied the paper for a moment, considering the alternatives. I could leave it here and maybe the fire investigators would find it. But the chances were also good they would overlook such a small scrap. Where the fire started and what likely caused it would be the focus of their search. I stuck the paper in my pocket. “We’ll find out.”

  We drove back to the office and I tried the first number.

  “You have reached the Gold Curtain Dinner Theatre,” a recorded voice said. “Our regular business hours are two till eleven p.m. Tickets are still available for tonight’s performance. Please call back.”

  When I told Jill, she frowned. “I didn’t get the impression that Damon was too big on cultural events. According to Molly, he wasn’t much interested in going out except to a hockey game. I wonder if he was planning to take some other lady to the theatre?”

  “Maybe Flossie Tarwater, only he probably wouldn’t hold her hand.” I put a check mark beside the number. “I’m afraid that one’s not going to be much help to us. I’ll call back after two, though, and see if they’ve ever heard of Damon Saint. Let’s see who answers the other number.”

  When I dialed, I got a different kind of message. “The number you have called is not in service. If you have reached this number by mistake, please check the directory and try again.”

  Had somebody failed to pay their phone bill, or was this another hasty departure like the Saints’? I stared at the little scrap of paper with its browned and blackened edges as I gave Jill the bad news. “Looks like we drew a blank on this one, too.”

  She shook her head. “I presume it’s things like this that drive detectives wild.”

  “Or wil-der,” I said as I dropped the paper into the long middle drawer in my desk.

  Jill crossed her arms and frowned. “What do we do now?”

  “About all we can do is offer a small prayer for Molly. Hope something falls in our lap.” I checked my watch. It wasn’t noon yet. “I think I’ll start making some calls to line up our buffet crew for Sunday.”

  “Go ahead. I can’t get Molly off my mind, though. I’m going over to Maxxim Motor Freight and see what I can find out about her. Maybe they’ve heard something.”

  “I doubt it,” I said. “Why don’t you call like you did before?”

  “How many times have I heard you say if you don’t know who you’re dealing with, it’s better to talk face-to-face. Maybe I can come up with more information this way.”

  I gave her a dismissive wave. “Have at it, babe. You’ve been learning well. And while you’re there, find out what kind of car Molly drives.”

  ———

  The clock on the office wall showed well after one, and my stomach was pushing me to start looking for a place to eat, when Jill walked in. I knew by the expression on her face she had turned up something disturbing.

  “They haven’t heard from her,” she said. “Of course, they hadn’t really expected to, since this is the last of her days off. But I got to talk to Mr. Crenshaw.” She arched a finely drawn eyebrow in a sign of awe. “You should see his office. Talk about plush. I never expected that at a truck line.”

  “He deals with a lot more than a truck line,” I said. “That’s probably the headquarters for his empire.”

  “It looked fit for a king. Thick white carpet, velvet draperies. His desk sits up on a platform.”

  “The king’s throne?”

  “Something like that. Anyway, when I explained things to Mr. Crenshaw, he was quite anxious that we let him know anything we found out about her.”

  “If she’s his administrative assistant, they probably work pretty close.”

  “Well, he gave me a look at her file. Guess what? Her name was Molly Harrison before she married.”

  When she paused, I looked over my shoulder. “Should I know Molly Harrison?”

  “Her mother was Darlene Harrison.”

  Something clicked in my brain. “Your cousin Darlene?”

  “The cousin I was almost as close to as a sister until you married me and dragged me away.”

  “Dragged?” That wasn’t quite the way I remembered it, but Jill likes to paint dramatic pictures. Anyway, I recalled Darlene as the daughter of Jill’s Aunt Francine, an older sister of her mother. Jill had been a teenager when her mom died. The aunt died the same year as Jill’s father back in the seventies. At the funeral, Darlene had told Jill about plans to adopt a girl of around ten, the same age as her natural son, Nick.

  “I only met the girl once,” Jill said, “when she was twelve. That was two years before Darlene was killed in that car accident.”

  As I recalled, we were stationed in Germany and missed Darlene’s funeral. Jill later heard that Molly was causing her father lots of problems.

  “Did you get to talk to Molly’s friend?” I asked.

  “Peggy Davidson. No, but I left my card and asked them again to have her call me as soon as she gets back. And I asked about Molly’s car. She drives a little red Nissan Sentra.” Jill sat down behind her desk and reached a hand up to rub her forehead. I had seen the gesture before when she felt bogged down by frustration. “We have to do something to help Molly, Greg. I owe it to Darlene.”

  I moved over and perched on the corner of her desk. “Doesn’t Molly’s brother live in Nashville? Maybe we could talk to him and get a line on her.”

  Jill looked up the number for Nick Harrison and called, but got no answer.

  Having no other way to turn, we took time out to eat lunch at a restaurant on the other end of the shopping center. While there we encountered Wayne Marshall accompanied by a tall blonde. She was a lot younger, a little taller and not nearly as wide. As soon as he saw us, he headed for our table. He introduced the girl as an agent with his real estate agency. Jill invited them to join us, but Marshall declined.

  “I just talked to the fire department investigator a little while ago,” he said. “The fire was definitely arson. Whoever did it knew what he was doing. He burned the place pretty thoroughly but didn’t leave any clues to his identity.”

  “Did you tell them about Damon?” I asked.

  “Yeah. The guy said they plan to keep looking for evidence, but they definitely want to talk to Damon, see if he has an alibi. I told th
e fireman I had no idea where the Saints moved to. You heard anything else of him?”

  “Not a thing. I’ll probably check back with Heritage Car Rentals and see if he’s showed up around there.”

  “Maybe you ought to talk to the fire investigator. Tell him what you think.”

  I wasn’t sure that was such a good idea. I had picked up what they would consider a piece of evidence, which now resided in my desk drawer. If they were to question me about our trip to the scene, I wouldn’t like the idea of lying about what I had found. I would, of course. But I wouldn’t like it.

  I put all that aside when we got back to the office and concentrated on lining up my cadre of buffet diners for Sunday at King Cole’s. Late that afternoon Jill finally got in touch with Nick Harrison. He had just arrived home, though he would not be there for long. A program at the school where he taught required his presence. He agreed to see us in the morning.

  Just as we were about to hang it up for the day, a young black man walked into the office and looked around, then smiled and approached me. Dressed casually, as though he might have been ready to head for a nearby bar, he stuck out a large, calloused hand that suggested some type of manual labor.

  “Mr. McKenzie? I’m Tony Yarnell.”

  His alcoholic breath reinforced the bar possibility. He looked mid-thirties, muscular, a bit overweight. I shook his hand. “What can I do for you, Tony?”

  “I’m an old friend of Molly Saint’s. I got something of hers I need bad to get to her. I heard you been looking for her and thought you might could steer me in the right direction.”

  “Who told you I was looking for Molly?”

  “The nice old woman who lives next door. Said you seem to be a pretty sharp guy, you’d probably know where I could find her.”

  The flattery sounded insincere. “If that’s the case, Miss Flossie was a bit premature. We haven’t located Molly yet. What did you have for her, Tony?”

  He gave me a conspiratorial grin. “It’s something real personal. I don’t think Molly would want me to say.”

  “If you’d like to leave us a phone number,” I said, picking up a pad from the desk, “we’ll be happy to get back in touch when we have something.”

  The smile faded. “That’s okay. I’m not usually where you can get me. I’ll call you. Thanks.”

  He turned and started for the door.

  “We would appreciate it if you would return the favor,” I said. “Call us if you hear anything about Molly.”

  He glanced around before opening the door. “Yeah. Sure.”

  After he left, Jill’s face was expressionless. “What do you make of that?”

  “That is a man with a hidden agenda. And I’d like to know what it is. He lied about everything, even nice old Flossie Tarwater.”

  “Should we check into him?”

  I lifted the phone and toyed with it a moment before punching in the number. “I hate to risk becoming an annoyance to Phil Adamson. Sure wish I could help him in some way.”

  ———

  Phil returned my call at home that evening. He said mine was the easiest question to answer he’d had all day. Tony Yarnell was a heavy-drinking part-time construction worker, part-time con man. He had been in and out of jail enough to be well known to everybody who worked there, as well as to a sizeable segment of the police force. The info might have been helpful had it given me any idea of what his connection with Molly Saint could be. But it hadn’t.

  13

  Nick Harrison was a husky man with curly black hair and a bit of a droop to his broad shoulders. A football player in high school, he now resembled a forty-year-old out-of-shape linebacker complete with balloon tire around the middle. Jill recalled hearing from another relative a few years back that he had married his high school sweetheart, a pretty but overweight blonde. After graduation from a local college, he had gone into teaching.

  Nick met us Saturday morning at the door to his modest split-level on a quiet street in Goodlettsville, a suburb on the opposite side of the county from us. He waved at Jill. “Come on in. I read a few months back about that murder you all solved down in Florida.”

  “Things get pretty exciting when you’re married to a super sleuth,” she said, taking a seat beside me and patting my leg. We were in a sparely furnished living room with thick brown carpet, one of those spotless rooms so perfect you knew they only dared walk into it with visitors.

  “Mom used to talk about how much fun you two had as girls,” he said.

  Jill had a nostalgic look. “I have some great memories of those days. I hated we couldn’t be here for her funeral. Seems like that was fourteen forevers ago. So you’re a school teacher. What subjects?”

  “Social studies—history and geography. At a big comprehensive high school.”

  “Are the kids as bad these days as we read about in the paper?” Jill asked.

  “Too many are. And I have a teenager of my own, so I get it day and night.” He gave a slight chuckle. “She and my wife Zori went to Rivergate Mall this morning. Sorry you missed them.”

  “I’m sorry, too. I’d like to have met them. What year is your daughter in school?”

  “She’s a junior. I can’t believe I’ll soon have a daughter in college.”

  “Time has a habit of getting away from us,” Jill said. “Which brings me to the reason for our visit, Nick. We’re here about your sister Molly. Have you heard anything from her the past few days?”

  He rumpled his broad brow. “I hadn’t heard from her in ages until last weekend. I’m afraid we haven’t been on very good terms for a long time.”

  “What’s the problem?”

  “Were you aware that my dad died about four years ago?”

  Jill shook her head. “Sorry. It must have happened around the time we moved here. I didn’t see the obit, and no one called me.”

  “Probably my fault. He had a heart attack. Took him in an instant. I guess that’s the best way to go. But it pretty well put the kibosh on the relationship between Molly and me.”

  “Why was that?”

  “I don’t know if you’re aware of her background before my parents adopted her.”

  Nick explained that Molly’s birth parents had been abusive alcoholics. The state took her away from them and put her into a foster home. Her rebellious behavior had caused some real problems while in foster care. Darlene had hoped to turn the girl’s life around and seemed to be making progress. But after Darlene died, Molly became more difficult. In high school she drank and smoked marijuana and hung out late. She quit school in her senior year and got a job as a waitress. After that Molly bounced around from one guy to another and occasionally tangled with the police.

  “Dad gave up on her,” Nick said. “When he died, I found he had written a will leaving everything to me. He specifically wrote in it that she was to get nothing. He was sure she’d just throw it away. I sold his house for enough to pay off the mortgage on this place. He had about thirty thousand in savings that I put away as a college fund for Bitsy. That’s our daughter.”

  “I take it Molly wasn’t too happy about that,” Jill said.

  “She flew into a rage, demanded I split everything with her. She even threatened to have somebody work me over if I didn’t. I’d heard about her new husband and didn’t know if she meant him or somebody else. Anyway, I felt sorry for her, but after that I wasn’t about to give her anything.”

  I had remained quiet, letting Jill carry the conversation up to this point. “Were you aware that Molly took a secretarial course and has been working the past few years for Maxxim Motor Freight?” I asked.

  “Yeah. She mentioned that when we talked.”

  “We came over this morning for a very specific reason,” I said. “Molly is missing.”

  “Missing?” He jerked his head up. “Where’s Damon Saint?”

  “They moved out of their house late Wednesday night,” Jill said. “We haven’t been able to find either of them.”

&nbs
p; We had to respect Molly’s desire for confidentiality, but there were some things her brother needed to know. “Actually, Damon is the reason we’re looking for her. Molly came to us last Tuesday. She asked us to do a background check on him, said she was afraid of him.”

  Nick’s eyes lit up. “Of course. That’s why she called me Sunday afternoon. She had read something in the paper about a McKenzie Investigations. Said it was run by Jill and Greg McKenzie. She wondered if that was mom’s cousin. I told her I was sure it was you.”

  Jill’s face darkened. “I had a strange feeling about her from the start. But she didn’t let on that she knew who I was. I thought she’d probably run her fingers down the Yellow Pages and picked us out.”

  “Molly didn’t mention anything to me about having trouble with Damon,” Nick said. “What’d he do?”

  “It was just some threats. But now that we can’t find her, we’re really worried.”

  “We have reason to believe Damon is a man with violent tendencies,” I said. “If you hear anything from her, we’d appreciate your calling us immediately.”

  As we drove away from Goodlettsville, Jill and I talked about what we had learned from Nick Harrison. He had given us a new perspective on Molly. She wasn’t just the slightly naughty unpolished free spirit she had appeared. Not only had she been a holy terror as a teenager, she had threatened her brother with bodily harm over a forfeited inheritance.

  I suspected that was mostly talk. From what we knew about her relationship with Damon, it seemed unlikely she had ever seriously entertained recruiting him to work over her brother. But we now knew she was capable of things we hadn’t expected. It made me wonder more about Tony Yarnell’s connection with Molly. What had the young con man been involved in with her? And what other surprises were waiting to pop up out there?

  “I hated to hear about that squabble between Molly and Nick,” Jill said. “I don’t like family feuds. We never had them on my branch of the family tree.”

  That was true up to a point. As far as I knew, she and her parents got along fine. But Jill’s dad had never warmed to the idea of having me as a son-in-law. An astute businessman, he wasn’t too well versed on the military. He thought the armed forces were peopled by guys who couldn’t make it on the outside. I felt sorry for all the agony Jill went through in her efforts to get her dad and me together in some sort of harmonious relationship. Trouble was we were both too bullheaded and opinionated.