by Kym Roberts
“The visitation is scheduled for Tuesday at six o’clock at the McGilly Funeral Home in Sandy. The funeral will be the next morning at nine.”
“I’ll be there.” The silence stretched on for a moment. Each of us wondering how to fill in the blank. I followed the path in front of me and asked, “Could you text me Steve’s phone number and address? He commissioned a piece for his mom ... but my computer crashed and I haven’t been able to retrieve it.” The lies seemed to flow out of my mouth like a new compulsion.
“Of course. I’ll text it to you when we get off the phone.”
I felt like a schmuck. “I’m sorry I don’t have the cake toppers, Missy.” I held one palm with the other, ebbing the flow of blood. Too bad it didn’t stop my guilt from making the promise slipping through my lips. “I hope to have the set before the services.”
“Oh ... that would be ... nice.” and there it was. Missy’s turn to lie. Her need to hold the last piece of Ryan’s love, heartbreakingly understandable. But never nice.
***
I’d called the number Missy texted me for Steve St. Claire with no success. I knew he was an architect and suspected his work hours pretty much mirrored my own, so two messages and five unanswered calls over a six-hour period had me frustrated and paranoid. I had no doubt Steve was avoiding my phone calls, I just couldn’t figure out why. He knew something that he didn’t want me to know, which made me more determined than ever to unravel his secret.
When the clock struck six I closed the shop, called Mr. Bogart and loaded him into my ten-year-old Prius, after lining the passenger seat with his blanket. As soon as I got in and closed the door on the driver’s side, I recognized my mistake. Bogart took up the entire front section of the car — and then some. Plus his blanket did nothing to protect my dash, or the windows, which he’d already slathered with his slimy wet drool.
“I guess if you’re going to be joining me for rides, we’re going to have to figure out a way to protect my car.” Bogart shook his head — ears flapping, spit flying. I grimaced as his head hit the mirror and phlegm slapped my face. “— and make both of us more comfortable.” I reached for the wet wipes stashed in the glove box and cleaned my face, then turned to my passenger and wiped the foamy string of spit forming on his chin. Mr. Bogart stopped panting, closed his mouth, and I could swear he smiled as he lifted his chin for me to wipe his jaw. I quickly swiped the dash and threw the towelettes in my trash can under the radio. “Let’s try and refrain from sharing saliva, deal?”
Bogart opened his mouth and whined, “Arr-rr-og.”
Good enough for me. I put the car in reverse and headed toward Steve’s address in Sandy. As the Prius crossed over the crosswalk at the edge of town, my back dampened with sweat and my breathing turned shallow. Bogart looked at me, cocking his head this way and that with every noise I made; his concern forced me to take a deep breath to calm the anxiety building inside me.
In two years, nine months and twenty-three days, I had only left Tickle Creek once. Not for the doctor, not to go shopping, not even to go to a movie. And my neighbors had noticed. They’d tried to get me to go into Sandy. But I’d always refused. I’d driven up the mountain once, to see where Jacob had died. I’d searched for any sign of him, but found only the burnt-out shell of his vehicle — the only skeletal remains linked to my fiancé on the ash-covered ground. The view had left me with no desire to remain in a world that had torn my heart from my chest. I left. Squelched any more questions that plagued my broken heart, and hid in Tickle Creek. In my Cabin. Until now.
Sandy had grown since my last visit. Not a lot, but there was a new drugstore at the edge of town and a new multi-stalled gas station that Dad had told me about. A coffee shop with a convenience store sat off to the side while gas jockeys ran back and forth taking care of customers. Oregonians recognize out-of-state visitors because they always pull up to the pumps and get out of their cars to fill up. Natives sit in their cars and enjoy being one of two states left in the nation that require employees to pump gasoline for customers.
Sandy was by no means a booming metropolis, but compared to Tickle Creek, I felt lost in a forest of streets with businesses the size of redwoods. My GPS quickly brought me to a more yuppie side of town, replete with condos and bike paths for the young business crowd who worked in Portland, but wanted to live the mountain lifestyle. Steve’s house was on the end of a row of quaint two-story units fashioned in Craftsman style, each sporting a different earth tone shade. I parked along the street a few houses down and turned to my dog.
“You know, you won’t be able to come in with me.”
His eyes drooped and his head cocked to the side. I swore he was saying, ‘Why not?’
“You didn’t exactly hit it off with Steve the last time the two of you met.” Mr. Bogart licked his lips and I wondered if he was trying to keep my car clean from his drool, or if he was fantasizing about biting Steve in the rear end.
“I won’t be long, lay down on your blanket and I’ll be back before you know it.”
He laid down without another word and I cracked all four windows, despite the cool evening air. After locking him in safely, I peered in the window to make sure he was comfortable. His head drooped over the console to the driver’s side, his eyes looking up in desertion.
“I’ll be back. I promise.” He didn’t look convinced; he’d probably heard those words before. Which meant it would take a while before he trusted me as much as I trusted him. After all, I was leaving an eighty-pound dog in my car. That was trust.
Steve’s condo looked the same as the rest when it came to well-manicured lawn and neatly trimmed bushes, but where the others had personal messages on the door mats and spring wreaths hanging on the doors, Steve’s door was simple. A dark, solid wood surface with a stainless steel door knocker, St. Claire boldly engraved in its surface. I chose the doorbell instead, and listened to the chimes playing inside. The door swung open almost immediately, like he was expecting company. Steve stood in the doorway, dripping sweat down his forehead, his shirt stuck to his chest with perspiration.
“Rilee.” He pulled a pair of earbuds from his ears and stood there breathing heavily. Obviously I’d interrupted a strenuous workout.
“Hi, Steve, I’m sorry to bother you.” I rushed on when he didn’t offer to let me in. “I really need to talk to you about the cake toppers. Can I come in?”
He hesitated, looking past me to see if his neighbors were watching, which seemed a little weird for a single guy.
“It won’t take long.” I tried to convince him. Of course, I had no idea how long it was going to take me to get the information out of him that I needed. In fact, I suddenly realized I had no idea how to question him at all.
As I pondered how I’d interrogate the man in front of me, he made up his mind to get me off his front porch and stepped back to allow me entry.
“I just finished running. Make yourself comfortable while I take a quick shower.” He indicated I should sit in his front room while he headed down the hall. I sat on the edge of his leather couch, lining up the questions I’d fire at him.
“Sorry,” Steve popped back in the door way, nearly scaring me to death, “can I get you anything?”
“No, I’m good ... thanks.”
He smiled awkwardly and turned away. But instead of heading down the hallway, he turned toward the room across the hallway and closed the sliding stain-glassed barn doors to what looked like an office. The door clicked with a finality that made me wonder what was inside. Again he smiled uncomfortably in my direction before heading down the hallway.
What could be so important that he would close the door? Of course, he could be protecting his personal information and valuables. After all, how well did he know me? I could be there to rob him blind.
I heard the rattle and squeal of the pipes in the wall as the water turned on in the shower, and was suddenly grateful Jacob had installed extra insulation between my store and my home. The shower door cl
osed with a soft thud, and I was up off the couch without a second thought. If Steve just wanted to protect his valuables, he had nothing to worry about. But if he was hiding something that would help me find the missing bride, then I wasn’t going to let him get in my way of giving Missy a little bit of the peace of mind I’d never received.
The office door slid open with a scraping noise that echoed through the residence. I stopped and listened for the sound of the water stopping or a hint of the shower door opening. Nothing. Everything remained status quo.
I entered the masculine art-deco office cluttered with papers and boxes. Whatever kind of architectural work Steve did, I got the distinct impression he spent a lot of time working in this room. One wall was lined with built-in shelves full of reference books. A drafting table faced a large screen, with a projector system visible on the ceiling. A desk held an expensive computer and the corner was filled with tubes that I could only guess held large-scale plans for construction projects. Seeing his office, I questioned my suspicions. Steve had some very expensive equipment and probably wanted to make sure his designs were protected. I knew the feeling. Protecting your designs in the carving world was difficult.
I started to turn away, feeling like a child making a spy story out of a missing toy, when I glimpsed the drawing on his drafting table. My feet froze to the floor. Like a ski lift lurching to a sudden halt, my body jerked to a stop. Staring at me across the room was a sketch of Missy. But this wasn’t just any sketch. This was a sketch I recognized. Heart pounding, I slowly made my way over to the table while sneaking peeks behind me to make sure I was alone. My breathing was so labored, I thought I might hyperventilate.
Missy’s eyes gleamed with love from the profile shot as she snuck a peek at her handsome groom. Only there was no groom in this charcoal sketch. Her eyes peered at the viewer — or the artist who was working on her shoulders — bared like her shoulders on the missing piece of basswood. And there was no way Steve could remember my pattern to the exact touch of the cameo hanging delicately from a linked chain around Missy’s neck.
Ryan’s face came into view next to Missy’s. Not the artist’s rendition; rather, my mind’s image of him staring up into the heavens as his body lay mangled next to the tracks.
I blinked and shook my head. Missy was alone once again on the white paper. But the question remained. Was she was alone because of a tragic accident, or a jealous best man who wanted her for himself?
The answer was staring me in the face. And I suddenly knew. Without a shadow of a doubt — whether the police recognized it or not — Ryan had not lost his life because of an accident. Ryan Hart had been murdered.
A dresser drawer slammed closed. I jumped. My body kicking into fight or flight mode.
“I’ll be with you in a second, Rilee.” Steve called from his bedroom.
Not if I could help it. I ran for the front door. That picture was more than enough proof that Steve had been in possession of my bride longer then the short time span of sitting at the bar and threatening to put it in the G-string of some stripper. He had motive. He had means. And people killed loved ones for a lot less than jealousy.
There was no way I was sticking around to find out how far he would go to cover his crimes. Steve had already killed his best friend to get the woman of his dreams, how hard would it be to kill a widow with only a dog waiting for her in the car? I reached the front door as the bedroom door opened, and looked back to see Steve realizing my find. His eyes darted from my face, to his open office door and back. Then I was out the front door before I saw murder in his eyes. I ran as fast as I could.
My breath came in short panicked bursts. Echoing through the neighborhood as air struggled to enter my lungs. The grass slippery with the evening rain, hindered my steps. Twice I almost went down.
“Rilee!”
I heard him following me but was too scared to look back. I had to get to the car. Bogart’s head popped up at the sound of Steve yelling. He suddenly became very vocal. Barking. Growling. Shaking the car as he bounced from side to side. From his actions, I could tell Steve was getting closer. Frantically I reached the driver’s door and yanked the handle. On my first try the lock didn’t register the key in my pocket and the door didn’t budge.
“Rilee, wait!”
Dream on buddy. I wasn’t getting dragged anywhere.
I yanked the door a second time and the lock gave as it registered the proximity of the key in my pocket. I yanked the door open and somehow, Bogart knew to give me room as he hugged the passenger side and tried to bite Steve through the window.
Fumbling with the handle, I slammed the door closed and hit the door lock. We were secure — momentarily — but that wouldn’t keep him from breaking the glass. I punched the power button and shifted into drive just as Steve reached the front of the car. I lurched the car forward, putting Steve on the hood, staring at me, face to face.
“Get off my car, Steve. I don’t want to hurt you.” I yelled over Bogart’s barking.
I think he said, “Rilee, please let me explain.” But that was from reading his lips since I was deaf to everything but the voice of the big angry dog next to me.
“Get off my car!” I yelled.
Even Bogart shut up for a minute. Stunned by my violence. Steve slid down the hood his hands up and I floored the car down the street as fast as my little hybrid engine would go. The last I saw Steve, he was standing in the middle of the street looking desperate, lost and miserable.
Now he knew what it felt like to lose the love of his life — forever. And his best friend wasn’t there to ease the blow.
Chapter Sixteen
Bogart’s warm, wet, gooey tongue traveled my face from chin to temple. My hands were shaking so badly, I had trouble steering the car, then a hysterical giggle somehow bubbled out of me. Which seemed to make Bogart very happy as he wiggled and waggled, blocking about eighty percent of the windshield.
“Are you happy I made it out alive, or that I came back for you?” I asked.
“Arrrrrr-rrrrrow-rrrrrogggg.”
Bogart’s enthusiastic response had me laughing, despite my certain knowledge that what everyone thought was an accident, was actually a homicide. At least in my mind. Now I had to go to the police and let them do their job.
I pulled up to a convenience store once I got into town and turned off the power. Leaning back to take a couple of deep breaths, I looked over to Bogart, whose panting had turned the fresh mountain air in my car to something a lot less pleasant.
“I need to call the police,” I told him, though he was now more interested in the hotdogs spinning on a rotisserie inside the store window. I pulled my phone out of my purse and then rummaged for Officer Martin’s number in my call list. I dialed and waited for him to answer.
“Officer Martin.” His voice seemed even less excited today — if that was possible.
“Officer Martin, this is Rilee Dust; we met at the accidental death scene on the railroad tracks.”
“Yes, Ms. Dust. I’m familiar with who you are.”
I guess I should be happy to know a cop so personally. But I wasn’t — knowing Officer Martin ranked up there with knowing the coroner because he performed an autopsy on my husband. Actually, in my case I would welcome that relationship — if it meant Jacob’s body had been put to rest.
“Yes, well I think when you hear what I have to say, you’ll want to reclassify our case to a homicide.”
A heavy sigh came through the phone, and I pictured Officer Martin leaning back in his patrol car, rubbing his hands over his eyes. I forged forward.
“You know how I was looking for the bride cake topper that matched the groom I found?”
“Yes.” He answered less than enthusiastically.
“I found it. Well. I didn’t actually find the figurine ... but I found a copy of my pattern that no one could have created without having the bride in his custody.” I was beginning to sound a little ridiculous, even to my own ears.
&nbs
p; “What does your pattern being used have to do with a homicide?” Officer Martin was getting straight to the point, so I did before I lost his interest all together.
“Ryan confessed to me the day before he died that his best man Steve was in love with his fiancée, Missy.” I sucked in some air and finished the story. “Steve didn’t want Ryan to marry Missy and tricked him into going into the strip bar. At first Ryan didn’t want to go, but Steve stole the bride figurine and threatened to photograph her in a stripper’s G-string if Ryan didn’t come into Woody’s and have a drink. Steve claimed he gave the carving back to Ryan, but he didn’t. If he had, he wouldn’t have been able to draw the sketch I just saw in his apartment. It was an exact replica.” I concluded and waited for Officer Martin to see the logic.
“Ms. Dust, there’s no crime in being in love with the same woman. There’s no crime in talking your buddy into going into a strip club. And I hate to say it, but as far as copying your pattern — you need to file suit in civil court.” It was his turn to take a breath, then “Is there anything else I can do for you?”
“But if he isn’t guilty of murder, why did he steal the figurine, why did he hide the fact that he copied the pattern, and why did he chase me down the street when I snuck into his office and found the drawing?” I recognized I’d gone too far with my own confession about the time Officer Martin opened his mouth.
“It sounds to me like the man may have a complaint of criminal trespass at the least or perhaps burglary in the first degree. Do you really want to continue this conversation?”
No. I suddenly felt like I’d said more than I needed to say. I wasn’t going to convince him that a crime had occurred, at least not an offense that didn’t list me as suspect number one. “Thank you for your time, Officer Martin.”