Disguise for Death

by Sylvia Nickels

  “Thanks. Now I’d better get these plants into their beds.”

  Chrys rose. “And I’d better get going.” She glided through the hedge again and disappeared. A moment later, Royce heard the engine of the Sages’ Porsche start up and then fade as Chrys drove away to her brunch.

  For the first time since that dreadful day last fall, she began to feel a buoyancy of spirit, anticipation, even.

  After more than two decades as a policeman’s wife, hearing almost daily of dangers narrowly averted by fellow officers, Royce thought she should have been more prepared for Eddy’s death. But found she was not in the weeks following that watershed day in her life. When the phone rang, she answered, expecting to hear his voice telling her he was working late. Hearing sirens wailing through the streets, she would say a quick prayer for his safety before the reality hit her again that it was now far too late.

  Finishing the book, having it accepted for publication, helped her get through those months. Now it was time to move on. She would cash her advance check when it came and buy her ticket. She had mentioned France to Chrys more on impulse than anything. But her conviction grew that she should carry out her plan. Go to France, the American cemetery at Brittany, and lay a wreath on Carl Thorne’s grave as a final closure to her life with Eddy. That dark period in the early years would stay buried, hidden. She would remember only the good times.

  Having come to that firm decision, she rose and pulled her gardening gloves back on.

  Just as she picked up a flat of geraniums, a familiar low rumbling sounded from the direction of the igloo-shaped dog house behind her. Then Devon’s chain rattled as he stood up, roused from his sun-induced doze. Her hand stopped in midair, blood-red blossoms trailing along the purple bruise.

  “Royce Thorne?” A strange male voice broke the Sunday quiet of her garden.

  She dropped the geranium on the potting bench and whirled to face the intruder. A polite voice, not loud—why had it provoked the threatening rumble from Devon? Her heart jumped and her throat constricted when Devon growled again. She swallowed and demanded, “Who are you?”

  A man stood about four feet from her, relaxed but alert, eyes fixed on her. Dark suit, medium height, light hair. Though outwardly he did not appear threatening, his presence had disturbed Devon, and she was wary.

  The man raised his left hand. It held a shield in a black leather holder. “Special Agent Howard, FBI, Mrs. Thorne. I’d like a few minutes of your time, please.”

  “Special Agent Howard, was it necessary to sneak up on me in my own garden?”

  “Sorry, ma’am, I rang your doorbell. When there was no answer—” He broke off as a dark form moved past Royce and stood in front of her, teeth bared, alert ears waiting for her command.

  The dog’s eyes were not fixed on the blond man. He stared at a second man who was crossing the bed of spring violets Royce had planted only yesterday. The long flower bed joined her back garden and the Woodstone’s yard next door. Up to now it had been successful in its purpose, to discourage just such shortcuts children in the neighborhood liked to take through the yards. But it hadn’t stopped this person.

  Taller and heavier than Agent Howard, the man’s weight had pressed down through even the robust-smelling mulch that would keep the earth from drying out before the saucy plants were well started.

  She skewered him with a look as he reached the heavily laden lilac bush next to the bed of violets. His brown suit contrasted sharply with the fragrant purple blooms. The well-worn fabric pulled tight across his shoulders as he bent forward, wiping clinging mud from the run-down heel of his left shoe onto her grass.

  She asked with exaggerated politeness, “And who are you?”

  “Name’s Clupper. Need to ask you a few questions.” The man’s narrow lips stretched over yellowed teeth in what he may have meant as a smile.

  “Mr. Clupper, or Special Agent Clupper, or whoever you are, does the FBI make a habit of wrecking the gardens of private citizens?”

  “I’m sure Mr. Clupper will be glad to repair your flowers,” Agent Howard said.

  “Never mind. What can I do for you?”

  Devon’s low, rumbling growls continued to issue from his throat as he stared at Clupper.

  Clupper’s thin lips almost disappeared as he closed them over the yellow teeth. “You and your dog are very hostile, Mrs. Thorne.”

  He remained standing next to the lilac bush as Agent Howard’s gaze locked on him for a long moment. Some signal seemed to pass between them, then Howard spoke again. “As I was saying, I rang your doorbell. When there was no answer, I thought, hoped, someone might be here in the back. I just need to ask a couple of questions.”

  “Yes?”

  “Do you know the whereabouts of your neighbors, the Woodstones?”

  “The Woodstones?”

  Clupper approached them, apparently disregarding his partner’s unspoken disapproval. “Where’s Palmer Woodstone hiding?”

  “Palmer Woodstone? Hiding?” A sudden burst of louder music from the radio added to the surreal effect Royce was feeling from the questions.

  Snap out of it, Royce. Stop parroting his words.

  The radio’s volume decreased again as she turned back toward the first man.

  “Can you tell us where to find Mr. Woodstone?” Agent Howard asked in a soft voice.

  “Why is the FBI looking for Palm?”

  “We’d like to speak with both Mr. Woodstone and his father.” Agent Howard’s voice remained conciliatory.

  “Better tell us or it could be trouble for you.” Clupper peered at Royce, his bushy brows meeting above eyes with pupils like black marbles.

  “I’m afraid I can’t help you,” she said. “Now I think you’d better go.”

  When they made no move to go, Royce reached down and unclipped the chain but held onto Devon’s collar.

  “Are you threatening a federal agent?” Clupper’s tone was still aggressive, but he began to back away. Howard looked at Clupper and made a motion with his head, then started toward the side of the house.

  “I told you I haven’t seen my neighbors.” Royce’s voice rose a little in spite of her effort to control it.

  Agent Howard turned back for a moment. “Oh, Mrs. Thorne, do you know a couple named Morrell? Bert and Thelma? Have you seen either of them today?”

  “The Lexus dealer? That Morrell?” The perplexity she felt at the sudden change of subject must have been visible on her face.

  Howard nodded.

  “Is that why you asked about Palm? He works for them now—their accountant—for a couple of years.” She shook her head. “No, I haven’t seen them. I wouldn’t have a reason to have seen them.”

  “Right.” Howard turned and took Clupper’s arm, urging him to move.

  Clupper narrowed his eyes and jerked loose from the other agent. “If you care about your fiancé or his son, you’ll tell us their whereabouts.”

  The man’s parting shot was so unexpected she could hardly credit it. “Fian—Agent Clupper, I don’t know where you get your information, but you’re way out of line. Go. My dog doesn’t like strangers.” Not always true. But he didn’t like this one. Devon could look ferocious, and the deep growls rumbling from his throat now issued through bared teeth.

  The men reached the corner of Royce’s house and disappeared from view. Royce and the dog followed quickly, to be sure they left. As she rounded the corner, Agent Howard got in the driver’s side of a dark, late-model SUV.

  A starter ground for a second, then a couple of backfires sounded. The noise came from a black, beat-up Ford parked in front of the Woodstone house, not Howard’s car. It bore a Creekside Auto Rental sticker on the rear bumper. The unpleasant Clupper was at the wheel as it jerked down the street. She frowned. Why would two federal agents coming to the same location arrive in different cars? And such different vehicles?

  “FBI in Fall Creek, Devon? Looking for Hal and Palm. And the Morrells? Why?” The dog twitched his ears
, as if giving a doggy shrug in answer to the rhetorical question.

  Royce and the dog retraced their steps as the man’s words continued to echo in her mind. And why, for God’s sake, did Clupper call Hal her fiancé? Did the FBI have Hal’s house bugged? Why would it? But even if the house was bugged, anybody listening would know she’d turned him down.

  Chapter Six

  Devon, chain reclipped, lay down on the grass in front of his kennel, and Royce picked up her trowel. She went to work on the big ugly footsteps among the violets with fierce energy. Only one blue and white blossom was beyond help. But wrath out of all proportion to the damage powered her hands as she gripped the trowel.

  No doubt Agent Clupper would have been pleased to see her agitation. After repairing the violet bed, she stuck a geranium into a pot and troweled dirt into it until only a petal or two of the bloom showed.

  Clupper had asked, “Where’s Palmer Woodstone hiding?” implying that Palm was in trouble. If Palm was in trouble, was it because her speculation that Hal knew Palm was Eddy’s son was true, and he had told Palm? But what trouble? Or was it something else, and was Hal involved in whatever was going on? She tossed the trowel in the grass and sat at the picnic table again. Staring into the distance, she tried to come up with something, anything, to account for her unpleasant visitor’s implication that Palm was in trouble.

  Her troubling thoughts seemed only to go in circles, so she reached over and turned the dial on the radio. The jazz program had given way to a church program, and she tuned through several others before she heard the insistent introduction which signaled a breaking news special. The announcer began reading in a somber voice.

  “Bert Morrell, owner of the local Lexus dealership, was found shot to death in his office this morning, apparently the victim of a robbery. His wife, Thelma Morrell, reported the robbery/murder at the luxury car agency and says the company accountant is missing. Mrs. Morrell also told police no gun was kept in the office.”

  Bert Morrell murdered? Palm missing? So that’s what had brought the federal agents to her garden this morning with their questions. Clupper said Palm was hiding. Did they believe Palm was involved in Bert’s death and the robbery? But the FBI didn’t usually involve itself in local crimes, even murder, except in special circumstances.

  If Hal had known his son was missing last night, he made no mention of it. Palm’s name had not come up at all during the evening. She could only guess the two were in the midst of one of their fights on how the greenhouse/nursery business should be run. And of course, her precipitous exit soon after Hal’s proposal had ended the evening rather suddenly.

  The announcer went on to say the sales manager had discovered the robbery and murder when he arrived at the dealership around nine a.m. He told authorities the door was locked as usual and he used his key to enter. Mr. Morrell’s office door was open, and he had just found the body when Mrs. Morrell arrived. The safe was open and Saturday’s receipts gone. They told police that, as far as they knew, the accountant, Palmer Woodstone, was the last person to leave the premises Saturday evening.

  Woodstone was not scheduled to work this morning, and a police visit to his house found no one home.

  “Authorities are asking anyone who may have any information about the crime or the whereabouts of the accountant, Palmer Woodstone, to call the Fall Creek Police Department.”

  As she attempted to absorb the news of Bert Morrell’s murder, another report caught her attention. “…tragic incident in Fall Creek. A woman was found badly beaten, barely breathing, in her room at a local motel. Police have not been able to identify her at this time. She was transported to Fall Creek Medical Center, where she was admitted to the intensive care unit.”

  Royce shivered, remembering her own close call with potential violence, only averted because of Devon. Fall Creek was becoming as bad as the noisy, bustling city she and Eddy had purposely rejected, and now Palm might be hurt, lying in a ditch somewhere, bleeding—maybe dying. Oh, God, no.

  She had to call the police and find out what was going on. Better yet, she’d go see the chief himself. Never mind that she had made it a point to avoid Jared Granite since Eddy’s funeral.

  Briefly debating with herself whether to take Devon inside, she decided to let him enjoy the fresh air. She wouldn’t be gone long. She switched off the radio and picked it up, crossed the deck, and went into her kitchen.

  When she placed the radio on her corner desk, she bumped the telephone. Did Hal know about the robbery by now? In all decency, she ought to call and see if he was home. Probably not, since it was almost noon and he always left for Asheville at eleven o’clock. His schedule was like clockwork. But where had he been when the police, and presumably, the FBI agents, came to his house?

  She dialed the Woodstone telephone number, knowing it would ring in the greenhouse as well as the house. There was no answer after it had rung at least two minutes. As she put the phone down, the bell shrilled.

  When she answered, a whisper, barely audible, came over the line. “Royce.”

  “Yes. Hello. Who’s there?” She pressed the phone hard against her ear.

  “Royce.” Again her name, the caller seemed to strain to whisper louder. She could hardly make out the words, but she thought it was a woman.

  The gentle voice of another female came over the line. “You’re too weak. Shouldn’t be on the phone. Let me make the call for—” The line clicked and dial tone hummed.

  Royce slowly replaced the receiver. Now what, or who? No time to puzzle over strange telephone calls now. She had to get to the station and headed upstairs to change. She grabbed the first outfit that came to hand, a dull brown shirt and pants. Threw them on the bed. She showered in record time and dressed as quickly.

  More weekend traffic than usual, due to Springfest, slowed her progress, but twenty minutes later, she entered the public lobby at the police station. Sergeant Brand greeted her with a wave as she pushed through the etched glass doors.

  “Is the chief in his office, Chuck?”

  “Yeah. Lucianne’s in with him. Will whatever it is keep a minute?”

  “Lucianne? In Fall Creek?”

  “Breezed in early this morning. Waitin’ for the chief when he came in.”

  “Took a story about a robbery and murder to bring Lucianne back to town, huh?”

  “Nope, that wasn’t it. She arrived before that story broke. Said she was here on something else. Got a tip.”

  “Guess she still has friends in the department.”

  “Yep.” Chuck’s tone and the shortness of his answer indicated that he was not one of the friends.

  “What brings you in, Royce? This crime wave we’re having?”

  Just then Chief Granite’s office door swung open, and a slim woman with long red hair stood in the doorway, hand on the frame as she leaned back in, still talking. She spoke loudly enough that Royce could hear.

  “Jared. I’ve already told you. My source was an anonymous tip.” She appeared to listen for a few seconds, then said, “I told you that, too. The source only said, ‘You better check out a story in Fall Creek. About a federal fugitive the FBI’d love to get their hands on.’ ”

  She swung around, closing the door with a bang. The irritated frown pulling her penciled brows down and full lips pressed together did not detract from her arresting strawberry-blonde beauty.

  Seeing Royce, she stopped short. An expression Royce couldn’t read flashed across her face as she looked Royce over from head to toe. Then a practiced smile parted the full lips. She held out both hands. “How nice to see you again, Royce. Let’s have a cup of coffee and catch up.”

  “Maybe later, Lucianne.”

  “Meet me at Frankie’s when you’re finished here. I’ll wait for you.”

  Lucianne released her hands and headed for the door. She turned back to Royce and winked, then pushed through the glass doors.

  A warm smile lit Jared Granite’s face when he looked up to see Royce standi
ng in the open door of his office. He stood and extended his hand. “We haven’t seen you for too long, Royce. You’re looking well. Have a seat.”

  “Thank you.”

  “What brings you here?”

  “Palm Woodstone. And Bert Morrell, of course. The radio report said he was murdered? Is it true?”

  “Sit, Royce. Please. Does it take a murder for you to come see us?” Granite sat down as she did, opened a drawer, and slid in a file.

  Was it information about Palm? Would he tell her if it was?

  A pair of upholstered chairs faced the chief’s dark oak desk. Royce perched on the edge of one. Two black varnished wooden chairs stood next to a side wall. The green leaves of a live ficus tree contrasted with the cheerful yellow walls. Jared shared his father’s liking for an office that combined utilitarian economy with the homey touch of the six-foot tree and carpet instead of tile underfoot.

  Jared Granite Sr. had suffered a fatal heart attack five years ago. Jared Jr. had recently returned from a ten-year stint as a Marine Corps MP, and the city board appointed him to succeed his father as Chief of Police.

  “Since you came here, Royce, it saves us a trip to your house.”

  “My house?”

  “When did you last see Palm Woodstone?”

  Her chest muscles contracted as if the breath had been knocked out of her. Then anger brought a surge of adrenaline, and she could speak. “Jared Granite. You do not seriously imagine that Palm Woodstone could do anything illegal?”

  “Royce. Calm down.”

  “You know Palm. Why, you were advisor when he was president of the Police Explorers Post in high school.”

  “Take it easy,” the chief repeated. “I’m not accusing Palm. Right now, we just want to talk to him.”

  “The radio report said Palm is missing. And I had visitors this morning asking about him.”

  “Visitors?” Granite’s tanned forehead wrinkled over dark brows. “So? What kind of visitors?”

  “They claimed to be FBI. Lucianne mentioned the FBI as she was leaving. What’s the FBI doing in Fall Creek?”