Interior Motives

by Ginny Aiken

  “Then what are you doing here?”

  Quick, quick. Think of something, Haley.

  Only the funeral came to mind. “Um . . . the Weikert brothers asked Dad to do Darlene’s funeral.”

  That’s as far as I would go. But it seemed to work for Bella. At least for now.

  “I see. You were on an errand.”

  Her easy acceptance left a funky taste in my mouth. “And now that I’m done, why don’t I give you a ride home?”

  “I have my car, and I have . . . my own errands to run. See ya!”

  That belt tail came in handy again. “What happened to your headache?”

  She slapped my hands away. “Oh, I took something for it earlier. It just kicked in.”

  “What about the Balis? How long have they been locked up?”

  My question tinted her face with guilt. But then she squared her shoulders and smiled—a huge, all-the-way-around-her-head, everything’s-just-too-cool-with-my-world kind of smile. “Oh, the babies are fine, Haley. You know I leave them lots of food, water, toys, and treats.”

  I didn’t buy the smile. “Yes, you do leave them food, water, and treats, but it’s you I’m sure they miss. You’ve been gone a long time.”

  She pulled herself to her full height. “I’m a working mother now.” Then she gave me a slit-eyed look. “Besides, how’d you know how long I’ve been gone? You been spying on me?”

  “Of course not. I hadn’t seen you in days, so I stopped by to make sure everything was all right. I’m not used to going this long without a Bella fix, you know.”

  “That’s so sweet, Haley girl. I guess absence does make the heart grow longer, but I’m very busy these days. I have a couple of open cases, and I have to follow a mutedplicity of clues. So you’re just going to have to live with it—like my babies.”

  Just what I was afraid of. “Care to tell me about your cases? I’m real interested.”

  That got me another serving of suspicious looks. “Nothing too complicated,” Bella hedged. “You know, same old, same old in the life of a pet detective.”

  “My, my, my. Well, hello there, ladies. Fancy seeing you here, outside Weikert’s Euro-Import Auto Sales. And together, no less. All that’s missing is the Balis.”

  Sometimes I wish I was bigger, stronger, and of a pugilistic bent. Dutch Merrill lives because I’m none of the above.

  I turned the tables on him. “And what are you doing here?”

  “Aren’t you the one who’s always saying I have to do something about my beat-up old truck?”

  I laughed. When I got control again, I said, “You’re going to trade in the rolling wreck for a set of those overrated, overpriced, froufrou wheels. Hah! We don’t live in lala land, so that doesn’t even rise to the level of a lousy excuse. Give me a break, Merrill. Why are you really here?”

  “Would you believe I didn’t buy a word you said back at Tedd’s?”

  Groan. “I can’t believe you said that. I don’t lie.”

  His turn to laugh. “I’ll give you that much. You don’t lie, but you don’t always tell it all.”

  “Hey, a girl’s gotta keep a hint of mystery, you know.” Good grief! Where had that come from?

  Bella clapped. “Woo-hoo! You go, Haley girl. Keep him hooked and guessing. You’ll reel him in in no time.”

  I’d forgotten I had my shadow at my side, so I ducked into my Honda. “I don’t want to reel anyone in. Especially not him.”

  “You could do worse,” Dutch ventured.

  I slammed the door shut. “I don’t have time for this.”

  He leaned his forearms on the roof of the car. “You really don’t, Haley. Quit nosing around where there’s nothing to sniff.”

  “Ah . . .” Bella began to bustle down the street. “See ya, kids. It’s been real!”

  I banged my forehead against the steering wheel—Bella and Dutch inspire lots of head banging. “She is snooping.” “I told you.” When I glared, he held up a warning finger. “But you are too. So cut it out. There’s nothing to snoop about. You can see how crazy Bella looks on one of her lurk missions.”

  “I don’t wear vintage hats and tan coats.”

  “That’s not what I mean, and you know it.”

  “I don’t have to put up with this. I’m going home. Where I have a mountain of sewing to do for our joint project.”

  He rapped his knuckles against the car door, then stepped away. “Remember. Nothing happened this time. The woman was sick. You have an obligation to Tedd. You promised her you’d do her proud. Don’t let her down.”

  As he walked away, I remembered making that promise. But not just to Tedd.

  I’d promised Darlene Weikert I wouldn’t let her down. True, I’d spoken about the redesign of her home. But things had changed. Darlene had affected me. I felt a certain responsibility toward her.

  Didn’t that mean I had to put my suspicions to rest? Everyone said she’d died of natural causes.

  Or would I let her down if I just gave up?

  Lord? What should I do?

  5

  I’d just been compared to Bella—for the second time. First Dad, now Dutch. Something about it threw me—it was very uncool. Not that Bella’s not a totally cool older woman, because she is. But there is that nuttiness.

  And I’m no flake. Contrary to Dutch’s opinion.

  These thoughts zoomed through my mind on my way home. I considered a stop at the dojo but thought better of it at the last minute. I can’t keep a single solitary secret from Tyler Colby, sensei extraordinaire and friend for life. I wasn’t ready to share my concerns yet.

  The more I learned about Darlene Weikert, her friends, and her family, the stronger the possibility of murder seemed. Yes, cancer can be a swift, ruthless killer, but Darlene hadn’t looked that sick when we met. And I should know; I watched my mother waste away from liver cancer that developed secondary to hepatitis.

  I also couldn’t forget Cissy’s comment about Darlene’s recent weight gain. A woman about to succumb to cancer wouldn’t gain weight; she might bloat from medication, but Darlene hadn’t looked bloated. She’d had what looked like normal color in her face, and I remembered her eyes as clear too.

  It was too much for me to figure out.

  Well, Lord. No one else seems to give much thought to Darlene’s sudden death other than Bella and me. And while I know that matchup doesn’t much favor me, I did have my doubts from the start. Bella just jumped in after she read that story in the paper. She can’t stand to be anywhere but moving and shaking in the middle of the action.

  At the manse, I pulled into the driveway and parked. Indecision and waffling aren’t words that describe my normal tendencies, but that’s where I was right about then.

  So, Father. Here’s the deal. Do I do like everyone says and just forget the whole thing? Or do I follow my instincts and check things out a little more?

  As usual, I didn’t hear a Charlton Heston voice from above. Too bad God doesn’t work that way, doesn’t yell at you what you should do. Life down here would be way easier if he did.

  I think.

  So I’m on my own. Well, I do have your Word, and I guess that’s my next stop.

  A sense of peace filled me at the thought of the comfort I always find in Scripture. God might not boom out directions, but his Word never, ever fails.

  I headed straight for my room, took my Bible, and sat in my chaise lounge, right by the window. I spent a good, long time there, soaked in verse after verse, then dropped to my knees for some heavy-duty praise and prayer.

  When I stood again, I glanced out the window and saw Bella drive her eighteen-wheeler-sized vintage pink Caddie into her driveway. She bustled up the walk, unlocked the door, and scooted inside, where I’m sure her maniacal mousers welcomed her with what passes as affection from those two.

  Downstairs, I went through the motions of dinner prep, my mind on the Weikerts the whole time. While Tommy was a major sleaze, all I knew about Larry was that he didn
’t think much of his brother and dressed in rejects from a recycle center’s ragbag.

  When Dad came in, I served the meal, ate robotlike, and communicated with “Uh-huhs” and “Reallys?” The more time passed, the more I knew I had to check out Larry Weikert.

  If only I knew where to find the geek . . . er . . . guy.

  Since there couldn’t be too many Weikerts in the phone book, I started there. No luck. But then I had a brainstorm. The guy looked like the poster boy for computer nerddom. It brought to mind the Internet. There are those cyber white pages sites that give out addresses with no sense of guilt at the intrusion they’ve made into people’s privacy.

  The minute I typed in the guy’s name, Google had a field day. And the white pages were the least of it. Sure enough, Larry boy was the fair-haired child of the blogger world, king of the cyberwonks. He evidently did nothing that couldn’t be done via computer.

  I had his snail mail address in seconds.

  Although I’m not often given to rationalization, I figured that if God didn’t want me to check out Larry Weikert, he wouldn’t have made my search so easy. My decision was made.

  “Ah . . . Dad?” I snagged my backpack purse on my way to the front door. “I have to run out for a little while. I need to do some . . . um . . . research, so don’t worry if I’m not back right away. Love ya, and bye!”

  Before Dad could object or pepper me with questions, I ran out, plopped into my car, and sped down the street. Larry lived on Seagull Court, one of the older streets in tiny Wilmont, one where homes had hit lean times a while back. Most of the large, family-size structures had long been converted into apartments, and a slew of college kids rented them for peanuts.

  I’d never peddle my services around here.

  When I pulled up to 1569 Seagull Court, I was surprised to find a tiny shotgun-style house with a second story plopped on the first like a brooding hen on a nest of eggs. Its two stories probably didn’t add up to more than 850 to 900 square feet of living space. But it stood alone, and that said a lot: Larry’s place, the Taj Mahal of Seagull Court. Interesting.

  I parked at the end of the street and settled in to wait. What for? I didn’t know. I figured sooner or later something would come to me.

  And it did. In the person of the delivery guy.

  “Oh yeah! It’s a party, it’s a party.”

  Okay. So I quote corny stuff, but hey! It can come in handy.

  Maybe I could get in to look around if I posed as a delivery girl. At the very least, if someone caught me snooping outside, I’d have a . . . maybe excuse.

  I accosted the kid right before he stepped onto the front stoop of Larry’s place. I sniffed. Soy sauce and garlic and all other good things—yum!

  “Here,” I said with an overzealous smile. “I’ll take that—”

  I caught a glimpse of the box. “Nike?”

  He shrugged. “We’re out of bags tonight. Besides, shoe boxes work better. They don’t rip so much.”

  “Okay. Anyway, I’ll take it. I’m so hungry I could eat a bear, but Chinese’ll taste better, I’m sure. How much do I owe you?”

  “You’re not the guy who called the order in. What’s up with that?”

  Lucky for me, it was dark and he couldn’t see me blush. “Nothing. Nothing at all. I just want to surprise him is all. You know. We haven’t seen each other for days, and I figure this’ll be . . . I don’t know. Fun?”

  At first he looked even more doubtful. Then he must have had a lightbulb moment. “Oh, I get it. It’s one of those chick things. Guys don’t get it, but you do it anyway. You women are crazy. All right. It’s sixteen twenty-five.”

  “Larry must’ve been hungry,” I said before I could stop myself. I gave the boy a twenty and a nervous laugh.

  He shook his head and left. I heard him mutter, “Crazy chick.” I had to agree.

  What to do with a Nike shoe box of really hot cartons until I scope out the territory?

  What? What next, Haley?

  I looked around, stunned by the smorgasbord of louder-than-loud music that exploded out of windows next door— on both sides—across the street, to the rear, and even from the ratty Yugo that spit and sputtered down the street. I heard reggae, rap, and rock. Beneath that, New Age and jazz gave the cacophony of words a base coat of melody. And if I tried really, really hard, I could pick out a thin gloss of Mozart, which added to the bizarre feel of the place.

  As much as I wished the music were the score to a movie of my life story, complete with script and director to tell me what to do next, I was as clueless as before.

  Hot grease seeped through the shoe box onto my hand.

  What to do? What to do?

  Well, I sure wasn’t about to learn anything helpful as a human kung pao stand, so I decided to check out the house. Why? I don’t know. It just seemed the thing in movies and TV shows, and since I didn’t have a script of my own, I figured I’d take a page from theirs. Besides, I think better when I’m doing something.

  I went to the pencil-thin aisle of grass on the right-hand side of the house. It ran straight to the rear, where a monster tree blocked the way. That’s when I finally got a clue.

  Up on the second floor and toward the back, yellowy light speared out from a window and into the night sky. A hefty branch of that lovely, lovely tree spread out oh so very, very close by.

  Serendipity!

  Maybe I wouldn’t have to come face-to-face with Larry after all, moo shoo whatever in hand.

  I dropped the fragrant shoe box at the foot of the tree and called on my tree-climbing skills, skills I hadn’t used for years—at least fourteen. To my relief, they came back fast, especially since I was motivated.

  Hidden by the lush thicket of leaves, I scooched my behind onto the branch and inched forward as far as I dared. Then I parted some of the greenery.

  “Oh, wow . . .”

  I was stunned, amazed, stupefied. I’d never seen anything like it. Good grief! I couldn’t have imagined it, no matter how wild my imagination.

  Larry Weikert had more electronics stuffed in one small room than I’d seen in my entire life. NASA had nothing on the man. He had stuff hooked up with enough wires to light up New York, Chicago, LA, Dallas, and Seattle—all at one time. I stared in horrified fascination.

  Hands on one of the multitude of keyboards, Larry typed at a feverish rate. He then spun to face another wall covered in monitors and stacks of black boxes adorned with wires, buttons, and disk-eating maws. He flicked a slender silver lever, checked a screen above his head, then reached for the keyboard and beat out another bunch of stuff.

  Icons scrambled across the screen he’d checked, then morphed into a pair of lists. Curious, I widened my peephole, leaned forward, and saw it wasn’t words but numbers in one of the columns. Unless I was way wrong, it looked like Larry had pulled up the activity in a bank account or maybe a business’s financial transactions.

  He seemed fixated on this particular screen. He stood, ran a hand through his thinning hair, then pushed his glasses up to his forehead and rubbed his eyes. Something didn’t seem to add up for him. What? I didn’t know.

  But I was determined to find out.

  Mindful of my precarious perch but also aware of the solid thickness of the tree limb, I decided to scooch a couple of inches closer to the window.

  “Mmmrrrrreoooow!”

  At the sound of that familiar feral cry, I jerked. I dropped through empty space, scrambled for a handhold on leaves, twigs, anything my sheltering tree might offer. I found nothing.

  Splat!

  “Yuck!” At least I didn’t land on my butt.

  My Birkenstock offered no protection against the sticky, slithery ooze of saucy Chinese once my foot tore through the flimsy protection of the steam-dampened cardboard lid. So much for the delivery kid’s faith in Nike shoe boxes. Hope the spiffy shoes hold up better.

  Above me, still on my branch, Bali H’ai—or maybe Faux Bali, who can tell?—kept up her off-ke
y contribution to the musical stew of Seagull Court. I’m sure it was nothing less than hysterical laughter on her part. She got me, all right.

  I hobbled in a hurry toward my Honda, determined to rid myself of my very first piece of Nike footwear. Hobble, hobble, hobble, stick out my leg, and shake, shake, shake. Mushrooms and pea pods and rice littered the walkway in my wake.

  Lovely.

  Elegant.

  Sophisticated—just the look every up-and-coming interior designer wants as she goes down the street.

  Yeah right.

  But I couldn’t take the time to stop, yank off the box lid, and scrape away the remains of Larry’s dinner. I had to make my escape, and fast. Because wherever Bali is, Bella can’t be far behind. I didn’t want her to see me shackled by soy-sauced noodles and soggy cardboard. Especially not after I’d warned her against snooping.

  By now I was sure not just Larry but also the whole free world had heard Bali, my disgraceful descent from the tree, and my subsequent landing in the food.

  So much for stealthy snooping.

  I really, really had to split. Right then. No matter how much sauce and starch I smeared onto my gas pedal. I hobbled faster.

  And ran headfirst into an aftershave-scented wall. Big hands manacled my shoulders. “Not so fast,” a well-known voice said. “I thought you were too busy to go off like Bella on one of her ‘missions.’”

  “Ah . . . er . . . I was . . . oh yeah. Right. I had to deliver something—”

  “Give it up, Haley. I followed you from your house. I saw you accost the delivery kid, watched you pay for the egg foo yong. Sure, at that point, you had Larry’s dinner to deliver, so you didn’t technically lie. Then you climbed the tree. You know? You’re almost as fast as Bali, going up and coming down to obliterate the chop suey.”

  I sputtered.

  He covered my mouth. Then he added insult to injury. “I had to watch you turn into Wilmont’s latest Peeping Tom. Can you imagine how the headline would’ve gone over if the cops had caught you looking in Larry Weikert’s window?”

  Oops! “It never crossed my mind—”

  “Did anything cross your mind? Besides your loony idea that this man had something to do with his mother’s death, that is.”