“Mother’s not a bad person, you know. Not like the gossip that went around back then.”
“I wasn’t living here then. I didn’t hear it.”
“That selfish, greedy woman started it. She broke up their marriage, and then she said terrible, untrue things about my mother.”
“Are you talking about Dr. Beardsley’s wife?”
“Yes. The second one. The one who’s dead. You should ask the first Mrs. Beardsley what she thought of her replacement. Lorraine Beardsley and my mother were both victims, and who knows how many other lives that hateful woman ruined? I’m not surprised someone killed her.”
At this point I hoped Penny Palmer had a good alibi, because my suspect list was already crowded with people who had it in for Bonnie Beardsley.
“Even so, it must have been a shock to your father.”
“It was. He called me and I flew out here the next morning.”
So Penny was in Florida when Bonnie died. Cross her off the suspect list. Penny was anxious to get back to the hospital, so I asked for our check.
When we reached Palmer’s room, a uniformed policeman stood guarding his door. Penny spotted him and murmured, “Oh, no.”
Chapter 16
The officer standing outside the door to Palmer’s room crossed his arms on his chest and blocked our way. “Sorry, ladies. You can’t go in there right now.”
Penny’s eyes filled with tears. “What’s wrong? Has something happened to my father?”
“Nothing like that. He’s being interviewed. You can go in when we’re finished.”
Penny’s eyes widened, panic dilating her pupils. “Interviewed about what?”
“Who authorized this?” I asked. The officer didn’t answer.
Penny stepped up to the nurses’ station across the corridor and demanded to speak to the administrator immediately.
The nurse picked up her phone. I couldn’t hear what she said, but she looked determined. She put the phone down and addressed Penny. “Mr. Quinn will be here right away.”
I put an arm around Penny’s shoulders. “Try not to worry.”
“My father would never hurt anyone. This is crazy.”
I reached in my purse. “Here’s my card. Call me at my office if you need anything at all.” I wasn’t keen on explaining why I had paid a visit to Milton Palmer. With luck, I’d be gone by the time Quinn arrived. My spying was supposed to be limited to observing Dr. Beardsley.
At the elevator I pushed the down button and turned back to give Penny a wave and a reassuring smile. The doors slid open, and I stood face to face with Quinn.
“Aimee,” he said.
“Mr. Quinn.”
“Jared,” he corrected. “What brings you here at this hour?”
“Visiting a friend.” I stepped into the elevator.
“Can I keep you for a few minutes?”
“Sure,” I said. Stuck, I stepped out and followed him. He went straight to the nurse in charge.
“What’s the problem?”
“Palmer’s daughter. She asked for you.” The woman nodded toward Penny, who was slumped in a chair outside her father’s door. The powerfully built officer stood rigid beside her, arms crossed, eyes fixed on an imaginary horizon.
Quinn walked over to Penny and introduced himself. She stood up, a spark of hope in her eyes.
“This officer won’t let me see my father.”
“Would you like me to go in?” Quinn said. “See how much longer this will take?”
“Yes, please.”
The officer side-stepped until he stood blocking the door.
“You can’t go in there, sir. This is a police investigation.”
Quinn pointed to his ID badge. “You people are here at my discretion. I suggest you step out of my way.”
“Please,” Penny interrupted. “Please tell them to leave my father alone. He’s sick, and he’s on heavy medication. How can they question him that way?”
“She makes an excellent point,” Quinn said. “When I was asked about interviewing this patient, I expected to be consulted beforehand.”
The door to Palmer’s room opened and Marco Bueller stepped out and addressed the guard.
“What’s all the commotion out here?” I backed against the wall and turned my face away. It was no good; he spotted me. “What’s she doing here?”
“She works here,” Quinn said. “Are you the investigating officer?”
“No, but ….” I saw Marco wondering if I knew he wasn’t allowed to work the Beardsley case. Saw him struggling to come up with an excuse for being there.
“Well?” Quinn said. “Why are you here?”
“It was a mix-up,” Marco said. “I was asked to fill in at the last minute and didn’t realize this wasn’t one of my cases.”
“So we’re done here, right?” Quinn said. “You and your officer are leaving?”
“Right.” Marco tilted his head at the officer guarding Palmer’s door. They began walking toward the elevators.
“Just a minute,” Quinn called after Marco. “You seemed to recognize Ms. Machado. How do you know her?”
“I don’t,” Marco shot me a malevolent look. “I thought she was someone else—a friend of my brother’s.”
Misery. Marco knew he’d hit home.
With Marco and the officer gone, Penny stationed herself at her father’s bedside. Quinn and I left the building together. His concern for Penny and her father nearly made me forget he was one of my suspects. Outside, he asked where I was parked.
“I’m over in Lot 4, by the library.”
“Mine’s closer, I’ll give you a lift.” His car was in his reserved space near the VIP entrance to the penthouse.
“That’s not necessary. It isn’t quite dark. I can walk over.”
He held the door open for me. “You’d be doing me a favor. I want to know what was going on in Palmer’s room before I got the call. It appears you were there with his daughter.”
I accepted the lift and told him a friend had asked me to look in on Palmer. I explained that I’d ended up having dinner with Penny because she was worried and needed a friend. I said we had spotted the guard at the door when we returned from dinner. I stopped short of telling him Marco was most likely lying, deliberately overstepping his authority.
Quinn parked his Navigator next to my hand-me-down Buick in the lot near the library and cut the engine.
“What was all that about you and the policeman who thought he recognized you?”
“It’s a long, ugly story.”
“I have nothing else to do.”
I sat for a moment, still unnerved by the encounter with Marco. A low-riding hot rod rumbled up the street, rap music throbbing at maximum volume as it passed by.
“Aimee? Is it really that ugly?”
“The worst thing that’s ever happened to me.”
“Does it have anything to do with the death of Beardsley’s wife?”
“It could have some bearing on the investigation.”
“If there’s a chance it does, I think you should tell me about it.”
“It happened a few years ago, before I went back east to school.”
I told him my story. About the taste of blood in my mouth from biting my tongue when the tire iron came down on the top of my head. How I heard the labored breathing of the two men as they pulled me from my car. The smell of drink on them, the gravel, then the rough undergrowth scraping skin off my arms and legs as they dragged me down the embankment and into the brushy cover alongside the road.
“I was too stunned to fight,” I said. “In spite of my years of training, I realized they could do whatever they wanted to me.”
“Jesus, Aimee.” A shudder went through Quinn’s body. “You don’t have to say any more.”
But I went on. About Harry appearing like an avenging angel, rage contorting his fine features, his powerful leap breaking both of Tango’s legs, destroying one of the knees beyond repair. About the other man on h
is hands and knees, groveling. It was his idea, man, I didn’t do nothin’.
“The road was in county jurisdiction. Harry called for help, and a sheriff’s patrol car pulled up within minutes, followed by an ambulance.”
“And you. Were you okay?”
“Thanks to Harry’s good timing, I only suffered some scratches and bruises, but I hated going to the ER. They checked me for a concussion and took my vital signs. The worst was they wouldn’t believe I hadn’t been raped. They wanted to examine me. They even asked for my consent to do a rape kit. I refused, but I’m not sure they ever believed me. Harry sat there holding my hand through the whole thing. When they finally let me go, Harry stayed up with me the rest of the night checking my pupils, watching for signs of a brain hemorrhage.”
When I finished my story, I sat staring at the dashboard of Quinn’s car, angry that I’d shown weakness to a man I hardly knew.
“I’m so sorry,” he said. His voice was ragged. “I had no idea. This Tango. Where is he now?”
“Out on parole.”
“Here in Timbergate?”
“I don’t know.”
“What does this have to do with the murder of Beardsley’s wife?”
“My brother crippled Marco Bueller’s brother. Marco hates Harry. I’m afraid he hates him enough to want him arrested for this crime.”
“Just to get even? Would he do that? It seems pretty extreme. If it had been my brother, I’d feel like apologizing to you for the rest of my life.”
“Marco doesn’t see it that way. He’s never apologized to me or Harry. He can’t feel regret for what his brother did to me. He can only relate to what’s been taken from him—his family’s good name and his chances for promotion. He might want revenge, and I think he would relish putting Harry and me through hell.”
“Back there … was he was lying,” Quinn asked, “about the mix-up and not knowing it wasn’t his case? I’m no policeman, but I do know he wouldn’t be conducting an interview if he hadn’t reviewed the case file first.”
“It seems likely he was lying. But what I don’t understand is why he was there. How would talking to Palmer build a case against Harry?”
“Palmer is a suspect. Maybe your friend Marco was feeling him out to see if he might make a deathbed confession.”
“Palmer’s hardly on his deathbed, but you may be right. A confession would definitely throw a wrench in Marco’s case against Harry.”
“Tell me about this guy’s brother. Tango, is it? Is there a chance he had anything to do with Beardsley’s wife’s death?”
The question spun me in a new direction. “I don’t know. That never occurred to me.”
“So you’re telling me that your brother saved your life, and now you want to save his?”
“Yes, I owe him my life. I’ll do whatever it takes to clear his name.”
“Try not to worry about Harry. This crime is going to stay in the spotlight until it’s solved. It’s so high profile, the DA wouldn’t dare charge anyone unless the evidence was overwhelming.”
“My brother didn’t do it.”
“Of course not,” Quinn said. I wished I’d heard a stronger note of conviction in his voice.
We sat in his car in silence for a few moments while the sun finished its slide behind the mountains to the west. Floodlights switched on in the parking lot.
“I need to be going,” I said. “I have chores to do.”
Quinn came around to open the door for me. “Do you want me to follow you home?”
“Why?”
“In case this Tango character is around.”
“No. I’m a few miles out of town. I’m sure it’s out of your way.”
“It’s really no trouble.”
“Please don’t worry. I’ve learned a lot about taking care of myself since … since it happened.”
“Do you have someone at home?”
“Yes. There’s someone.” A cat was someone. A bird was someone.
“Ah, well ….” Quinn seemed to grope for something else to say.
I got into my car and started the engine. I lowered the window. “Thanks for helping with the Palmers.”
Quinn gave a little wave. “Just doing my job.” He forced a smile. “Big bucks, you know.”
“Right. See you.”
“See you.”
Driving home I regretted my decision to tell Quinn about Tango. My professional relationship with my boss had been altered by my personal baggage, and nothing I could do would change it back. I had let my fear of the Bueller brothers cloud my judgment.
As I approached my little apartment over the barn in dusky light, the llamas raised their heads. All six galloped to the barn, eager for their evening meal and hoping for a handful of cob. When I stepped out of my car, Fanny ran up and dropped a dead field mouse on my open-toed sandal, then rubbed against my leg, purring. Two feline gestures of love. She must have missed me. I didn’t have time to change out of my work clothes, so I stepped out of my heels and slipped my feet into my barnyard muck boots. I made quick work of the feeding and watering, but stars were already winking in the sky when I finished.
I locked up and changed into sweat shorts and a T-shirt, a sleepwear habit I’d acquired after the Tango Bueller assault. Since that wake-up call, I had taken other measures, too. I always kept an industrial-strength flashlight by my bed, along with my purse, car keys, and running shoes. I’d stopped short of buying a gun. Now I was sorry.
I had just put a bag of popcorn in the microwave when Harry called. The police hadn’t been in touch with him again, which meant no search warrant so far. He asked about my cooler.
“Any more funny noises?”
“No problems so far.” I said.
“Good. I’ll feel better when I can put in a new motor, but meanwhile let me know if it acts up again.”
We hung up without mentioning Bonnie Beardsley’s murder or the Bueller brothers. We seemed to have reached a tacit understanding. If either of us had anything useful to say, we would say it. Otherwise, let it alone. I had decided not to tell him about Marco’s visit to Milton Palmer unless things started looking a lot worse.
Chapter 17
After my brief conversation with Harry, I sipped a glass of lemonade and munched popcorn from the microwave bag while I surveyed my closet for something appropriate to wear to the ballet the following evening. I had no desire to make an impression on Arnie Palmer, but it was the ballet. I reminded myself that I’d accepted the date not only for love of the dance, but for the chance to learn more about the peculiar man from Manton.
A dress would require heels, and since I was going on a date with a possible killer, I wanted to be able to use my feet—either as weapons or for running. I settled on black slacks, a simple white silk blouse, and low-heeled walking shoes. With my hair up in a twist and jade earrings, I could achieve casual elegance, thanks to a little makeup and Mom’s Asian genes.
The sultry air of a hot August night had me heavy-lidded at ten thirty. Five minutes after I went to bed, I heard a high-pitched blast from one of the llamas. The shrill combination horse’s whinny and donkey’s bray jerked me out of bed. Jack and Amah had warned me that since becoming a mother, Princess had taken to sounding alarms at the least provocation. She gave another half-hearted blast, then seemed to settle down. Reassured by the quick return to silence, I plumped my pillow and got comfortable.
Before long I heard another noise—this time out on the deck. Fanny? Was she outside? She definitely wasn’t on the bed with me. I picked up my brawny flashlight and tiptoed to the door, but I kept the lights out.
I listened for her meow. Heard the scuffling noise again. I listened harder. My heart thumped in my chest. Calm down. It’s the darn cat. I looked out the peephole. No cat. No prowler.
With a ferocious feline growl, Fanny shot out from under the dinette table and flung herself at the door. Crazed, she then leapt onto the kitchen counter, pawing at the window and howling bloody murder. I shus
hed the cat and peered out the same window just as three raccoons—audacious masked bandits—made their getaway across the moonlit field. I watched until they scrambled under the fence and disappeared into a manzanita thicket. Two of the llamas had jumped up as the critters passed by, but none sounded another alarm. Not even Princess.
What had drawn the bushy-tailed marauders to the deck? I never left cat food or garbage out there, but it had to be something edible. Wide awake and morbidly curious, I knew I wouldn’t sleep until I figured it out. I locked Fanny in the bathroom and pulled on my muck boots. I took my little hammer from the kitchen drawer and hung it on the waistband of my shorts. That and my flashlight were the only weapons I could come up with.
Pitifully armed and pulsing with adrenaline, I turned on the outside light to illuminate the deck. Nothing showed through the peephole, so after a couple of deep breaths, I opened the door—and nearly screamed. Lying motionless in an elongated S shape just outside my door was a rattlesnake. A big sucker, no less than two and a half feet long, with at least eight rattles.
I’d heard stories of raccoons killing a rattler but never expected to see it myself. Judging from the reptile’s hide, several of them had sunk teeth into it before Fanny and I interrupted their meal. But why was it on my deck? I couldn’t imagine the raccoons dragging it up there.
Maybe they hadn’t. Maybe they had simply followed its scent and discovered it there. A far-fetched idea came to mind. Had someone tossed it on my deck to frighten me? I thought of Tango Bueller. Maybe he was back in town and bent on revenge. Maybe he’d used a poisonous snake to make a point. If so, that meant he knew where I lived. The thought set my ears ringing as if he’d bashed me on the head again.
Then I realized there was a more likely explanation. There was a halfway house for troubled boys a couple of miles up the road, and in the past few weeks, there had been several pranks and incidents in Coyote Creek blamed on the older teens who lived there. A series of mailboxes knocked over, toilet-papered yards, and other typical acting out. I had shooed a couple of them away from Jack and Amah’s mailbox a few days earlier. Maybe the snake was retribution. Not a pleasant thought, but I preferred troubled teens to a vengeful Tango.
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