by Неизвестный
I rubbed my temples the way Tony had been rubbing his at lunch. “I mean, what about your relationship with her? Didn’t she let her apartment go when she moved in with you?”
“Our living arrangements were always supposed to be temporary,” he said. “She can get herself another apartment.”
“Does she know?” I asked. “Have you two officially broken up?”
“Officially,” he scoffed. “You make us sound like teen lovebirds.” He shook his head. “For your information, Pam and I have broken up. It all went down a few weeks ago. Please don’t think any less of Dora. She had nothing to do with it. She’s a fine woman.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
He avoided my gaze, his attention flitting around the room. With every second of silence, the unanswered question seemed to weigh heavier on him, causing his body to sink deeper into the hospital bed. He looked at me, and suddenly I saw myself through his eyes. Stormy. Angry. Disapproving. Demanding answers he didn’t have.
And he was just a person in a green patient gown, recovering from major surgery two days earlier. There was a bag attached to the side of his bed, collecting his fluids. I looked away quickly.
“Relationships are tough,” I said. “I’m not upset that you don’t want to be with Pam. I can’t say I blame you. And it’s not as though I told you about every event or sea change in my love life. But I would have appreciated a heads-up, so I knew what I was dealing with at the house.”
He answered quickly, “She doesn’t want people to know yet. She’s embarrassed. I say we let her have her dignity, let her find a new place and move out, and she can tell everyone it was her choice. It’s the least I can do. She was sweet to me, for a while, and I can’t say I don’t have a soft spot for her, despite everything.”
“Sure,” I said because I did understand. Pam hadn’t told anyone about the breakup for the same reason I’d avoided telling the truth about my own relationship, which had been over long before I moved out. I couldn’t admit my failure to others because then I’d have to endure their pity. Denial was also a factor. By ignoring the problem, there was always the slim chance it would get better on its own.
“I’m surprised Pam’s still at the house,” he said. “I thought while I was here at the hospital, she’d finally pack up the cat and the rest of her stuff.”
Horrified, I exclaimed, “Not Jeffrey!”
He looked confused. “Who’s Jeffrey? Tony implied you were dating someone, but I told him you weren’t. Have you made me a liar?”
“Jeffrey is your cat. Didn’t I tell you already? He wasn’t a girl, after all.”
He chuckled. “Life is full of surprises.”
Chapter 31
Armed with a cup of vending machine coffee that was, surprisingly enough, not the worst coffee I’d ever had, I started driving back to Misty Falls. With the dark ribbon of highway in front of me, I enjoyed that unique feeling of stability that only speedy forward movement gave.
So what if my father had just nuked another relationship? It was his life.
And so what if there was a killer on the loose in town? It had barely been a couple of days since the discovery of the body. I could trust Tony and the rest of the force to catch the guilty party. I had my own life to live. As of that moment, I would focus solely on my own business.
Hypnotized by the road, I didn’t notice blue and red lights flashing behind me until the siren came on with a startling whoop. I checked my speed guiltily, huffing in annoyance when I found I’d been barely over the speed limit. I pulled over, rolled down my window, and started digging for my wallet.
The passenger door opened. Officer Tony Milano slid into the passenger seat.
I called him a few choice names and berated him for giving me a fright. He stared straight ahead until I was done and then asked what else I knew about the blonde.
“Just that she works at the Olive Grove,” I said. “Why? What did you find when you ran her plates?”
He turned and gave me a look so serious, chills ran down my spine. “Stay away from her.”
“Tony, you’ve got to give me something concrete. I can keep quiet. You know that. Is she involved with the Michaels case, or is it something else?”
He took his time answering, and his words came out with care. “The young woman is a person of interest in an ongoing investigation.”
“Is her real name Harper?”
He shook his head. “No.”
“Okay.” I rubbed my hands together. “Whoever this chick is, she’s friends with my friend Jessica. The three of us had drinks last night at the Fox and Hound. She didn’t open up much, but give me time. I’ll get some wine and takeout food and have the girls over to my place. It’s easy these days to record people, too. I’ll just run the memo app on my phone.”
“No, you won’t,” Tony said gruffly. “If you see that girl, you’ll turn around and run the other way. And then, once you’re a safe distance, you’ll call me.”
His extreme seriousness made me snicker.
“This isn’t funny,” he said, which only made me snicker harder.
He pushed the car door open but remained seated until I stopped laughing.
“I’ll definitely call you if I see her,” I promised. “I won’t invite her back to my house to murder me.”
“Don’t invite anyone into your house,” he said. “Not until this thing’s settled. Just go to work, go home, and lock your doors. Stay there and stay safe.”
“I’m thirty-three years old,” I said. “I haven’t had a curfew in almost twenty years.”
“This isn’t a curfew,” he said. “It’s more of a suggestion.” He stepped out of the car, leaning down to add, “For your own good, please listen to me for a change.”
He shut the door on my colorful response.
Chapter 32
I got back to Misty Falls after sunset, jittery from all the caffeine I’d consumed and famished for dinner.
Jessica had called while I was on the road, asking about the investigation. She knew my father was retired but figured I would still get news before everyone else. I didn’t let on that her coworker was a person of interest, but the new information made me uneasy. Harper not only worked with Jessica but also lived in the same building. I wanted to warn my friend, but Tony’s “suggestions” reverberated in my head.
Disobeying his orders, I invited Jessica to hang out at my house that night. She sounded excited about seeing my new place but declined due to a giant backlog of laundry in need of washing. We settled on the plan of me going over to her place and helping with the laundry.
I picked up some pizza before heading straight to her place.
Jessica rented a top-floor corner unit in a three-story walk-up called Katrina Court. The building was in need of maintenance, as I’d reported to the real estate agent who’d suggested it as an investment. At least it was only decrepit enough to make the rent cheap yet not so bad that I feared for Jessica’s safety. One of the units on the lower floor used flags as curtains, but at least they were colorful, international flags.
She buzzed me in, and when I got to her apartment, she was running around in what appeared to be pajamas, her phone to her ear.
“Hang on, Mom,” she said into the phone. “I’m listening, I swear, but Stormy’s here, and my timer’s going off. I need to grab my clothes and toss them in the dryer so I don’t get a rude note from the building manager.”
I set the pizza box on the stove and swiped her keys from the counter, along with a handful of quarters. “I’ll take care of your clothes,” I said.
She held her hand over the bottom of her phone. “How will you know which loads are mine?”
“Don’t you worry about that,” I said with a wink.
I was still smiling when I located the subterranean laundry room and the two washers full of what I’d accurately predicted would be mostly pink loads. Jessica had always defied the advice that redheads shouldn’t wear pink.
T
he load of mostly green towels that had been tumbling in one of the building’s three dryers came to a stop with a buzz. In the silence, the cool, cement-lined room became as still as a crypt. I glanced at the dark corners as I fed quarters into the hungry machines. The murkiness in the far corner was playing tricks on my eyes. Between me and the darkness, a bare bulb hung over a counter-height table that I guessed residents used for folding laundry. Its plywood surface had been wrapped loosely with a plastic shower curtain. The sight of the shower curtain on the table turned my stomach.
Plastic shower curtains are not the only things used by killers to wrap body parts, but if there were a list of preferred household materials, shower curtains, which are sturdier than painters’ drop cloths, would be in the top ten.
I finished loading Jessica’s pink clothes into the dryer and fled the dank basement.
Up in the apartment, she was finishing the call with her mother when I walked back in.
“Parents,” she said, shaking her head. “You’d hope that at their age, they’d have the whole dating thing figured out, but they’re just as confused as anyone.”
“Tell me about it,” I said. “My father’s up to his old tricks. What’s going on with your mother?”
“She really likes the head chef at Accio Bistro, but now he’s making special desserts for Sandra Gomez, who’s not even officially divorced yet.”
“Sandra Gomez? Gary’s wife?” I asked. “I’m sorry to hear that, on all accounts.” Gary Gomez was a police officer and friend of my father.
We got some plates and started eating pizza while Jessica filled me in on her mother’s recent foray into dating.
After a while, we moved on to my father and the Pam situation.
Jessica looked stunned, her blue eyes wide. She twirled a strand of red hair nervously. “And Pam’s still at your father’s house?”
“Still there. Hasn’t said a word about the breakup, but by the way she was burning the french toast this morning, she’s not exactly coping. What if she won’t move out? He’ll need to evict her.”
“I can’t imagine,” she said. “You poor thing.”
“I’ll probably stay there again tonight. That sweet little kitty needs somebody sane to look after him, plus I’m not ready to deal with the whole tenant thing.”
“You’re crazy.” She gave me a sidelong look as she adjusted her seat on the sofa, pulling her knees up to hug them girlishly. “I haven’t officially met the guy, but from what I saw of him last night, I didn’t have any objections.”
“It’s complicated. Logan doesn’t know I’m his landlady. We met at the veterinarian’s office, and he said his landlady was a Type A hotshot from the big city who needed a man to take her to bed and, you know, set things right in her world.”
She reached across me for another slice of pizza. “But isn’t that exactly who you are and exactly what you need?”
I gave her upper arm a playful flick. “Nice.”
“There’s nothing wrong with this guy that we know of,” she said. “If you don’t like his beard, I’m sure he’d shave it off. Tell him it’s a condition of the lease agreement.”
“I can’t date my tenant. It’s too much pressure, and if it doesn’t work out, I’ll have to see him constantly.”
She gave me a knowing look. “Misty Falls is pretty small. That’s going to happen no matter who you date.”
“Good point,” I mused.
I helped myself to another slice of pizza, even though I knew the pepperoni would give me heartburn later.
She said, “What do I owe you for my half of the pizza?”
I glanced at the stack of mail on the coffee table, all of it unopened and looking an awful lot like bills.
“The pizza was free,” I said brightly. “They made the wrong toppings for another customer, so I took this one rather than have them throw it out.”
Jessica clapped her hands. “You have the best luck.”
We turned on the TV and selected an action-comedy movie about a female spy going undercover. The story was getting tense when both of our phones started ringing. Jessica had another call from her mother, and my alert was for the dryer loads being nearly finished. For the second time, I told Jessica to help her mother in her time of crisis while I took care of the laundry.
On the basement level, I walked as the dual dryer loads buzzed and tumbled to a stop. I pulled open the first dryer and started folding the larger items immediately so they didn’t wrinkle.
Someone opened the door behind me and came into the laundry room. I was in such bliss folding the hot clothes into tidy squares; I didn’t even turn to see who it was.
A female said, icily, “You again.”
I turned to find a horrifying sight. Harper. Not that Harper was her real name. Her blond hair was pulled up in a tight bun and pierced with two sharp-looking sticks. The person that Tony had pulled me over on the highway to warn me about stood no more than twelve feet away, a cruel look on her face.
We were alone in a concrete, windowless basement, and the only exit was behind her.
She had no laundry.
She did, however, have a hammer in her hand.
“Hi there,” I squeaked.
She gripped the hammer tightly. “I see you’re following me.”
Chapter 33
Almost anything, when used creatively, can become a weapon.
As I faced off against an attacker with a hammer, I scanned the vicinity for something to arm myself with. There was only a warehouse-sized jug of liquid detergent and a box of dryer sheets. I grabbed the jug and held it between us as a shield.
“People know I’m down here,” I said evenly. “You won’t get away with this.”
Her mouth dropped open, and her eyes bulged. “Get away with what?” She raised the hammer by an inch.
“I saw you today,” I said. “I saw you in Portland, at the pawn shop. I said your name, but you didn’t turn around because your name’s not really Harper.”
She took one step toward me, her pale eyes narrowing to slits. “Who told you that? Who told you my name’s not Harper?”
“Officer Tony Milano is looking for you, right now. He’ll be here any minute to arrest you.”
“No,” she breathed.
I gripped the jug of detergent tighter. “Yes,” I said. “Now put down your hammer and step back.”
“What?” She gave me a dumbfounded look but didn’t set down the hammer.
Suddenly, she lurched forward.
I did what seemed both necessary and prudent at the moment; I chucked the nearly-full, warehouse-sized jug of detergent at her.
The jug struck her in the stomach. She released the hammer, arms flailing. The hammer soared through the air and landed inside an open washing machine with a loud clang. As the metallic echoes faded, she stumbled backward.
Eyes bulging, she gasped, “Can’t. Breathe. Help.”
As she crumpled to the ground, I got the feeling I’d made a terrible mistake. She looked so small and fragile on the gray concrete floor. She kept gasping, making an awful wheezing sound.
I started toward the door but stopped at the light switches. One light was off. I flicked the switch up. A lamp in the far corner of the room came on, illuminating a pegboard wall of tools, which was full except for the space marked off by the outline of a hammer. The girl had come to the basement to return a tool, not to make me the next victim.
I went to the gasping girl, got down on my knees, and patted her back. She shrank away from my touch.
“You’re okay,” I said soothingly. “I just knocked the air out of your lungs. Try to calm yourself, and the breath will come to you.”
She kept wheezing. Her bun had come undone, and her golden hair fanned out on the grimy floor. I stayed by her side, apologizing and telling her how I’d had the wind knocked out of my lungs a few times. The last time had been when I was playing touch football and someone decided to turn the touch into tackle. Having your diaphragm spasm li
ke that can be frightening.
I kept patting her back, saying, “Easy now. Let it all out, pause, and then you’ll be able to breathe again.”
Between gasps, she asked, “What did I ever do to you?”
“Nothing,” I said. “I’m so sorry I hit you with that jug, Harper, or whatever your name is. I overreacted when I saw you with that hammer.”
She said, “I’ll tell you my name if you really need to know.”
“Catch your breath first,” I said gently.
While I waited for her to breathe normally, I read the sign posted for Katrina Court residents who wished to borrow tools:
1. All tools must be signed out using the sign-up sheet.
2. Tools not returned within 36 hours will be considered stolen and replacement value charged to the borrower’s apartment.
3. No auto body work beyond oil changes may be performed in the underground parking lot.
After a few minutes, the girl I’d assaulted with a bulk-warehouse-sized jug of laundry detergent was breathing normally, sitting upright, and sobbing on my shoulder.
“You were at the same pawn shop Murray Michaels used,” I explained. “Was he more than just a regular restaurant customer to you?”
“I didn’t kill him,” she said. “He was my friend. Honestly, I wouldn’t ever hurt him. I only went by his house a few times because I was curious.”
“Did you see something at his house?”
She sniffed and pulled away from my shoulder.
“I didn’t go inside,” she said. “One time, after he disappeared, some people saw me outside the house and asked who I was. It was an older man, and a little old lady, walking a small dog.”
“What did they look like?”
She wiped the tears from her eyes. “Like regular, normal people.”
“Do you remember the breed of dog?”
She sniffed. “I think it was brown. I told the couple I was his daughter. I forgot this was such a small town, where everybody knows everybody. The guy said Murray didn’t have a daughter, and they were going to call the police because I looked like I was casing the place, so I told her about how he and my mother used to date, and I thought I was his daughter, but didn’t know for sure.” She shook her head. “I’m so stupid.”