Disguise for Death

by Sylvia Nickels

  Must be someone from out of town for the festival. Who in Fall Creek would drive a silver Hummer?

  Had she missed Clupper’s exit from the parking lot? No, here he came walking around the other end of the row of cars. She got out and followed him, keeping a discreet distance.

  Passing a booth decked with scarves of every description, she paused and bought an over-sized multicolored silk. She draped its length over her left shoulder and knotted it loosely at the opposite hip as she walked. Since she was already wearing the wraparound sunglasses she favored, she was a little more confident that, detective or no, he would not recognize her if he saw her.

  Feeling a little absurd but not enough to break off the pursuit, she kept his broad form in sight. He approached one of half a dozen tables set up on the sidewalk in front of a cafe. A woman, smooth dark hair in a mound of braids on her head, was already seated at the table. She reached for a tall wine glass as Clupper pulled out the opposite chair.

  Near the two was an empty table, a tall elephant ear plant in a huge plastic planter between them. Pretending not to see a couple heading for the table, Royce grabbed one of the chairs and sat.

  A vaguely familiar look about the woman with Clupper teased the edges of her absorption in trying to hear what they said. Then a picture popped into her mind. The tag on the silver Hummer, partially obscured by spilled chocolate—TBM. A vanity plate. The car belonged to Thelma Morrell, who had evidently replaced the Lexus SUV she usually drove for the distinctive Hummer. Even Amanda Sage would probably think twice before buying a vehicle like that, though she most likely could. How like Thelma Morrell, choosing a car that very few in Fall Creek could afford. She was the woman at the table with Clupper. Royce picked up the menu and strained to catch their voices.

  The woman said, “You must take me for a fool.”

  “No, a realist.”

  “The little bitch is dead. I have nothing to fear.”

  “How convenient.”

  A short silence, but the woman said nothing Royce could hear.

  “And your husband, too.”

  “My husband’s murder has been a shock to me.” Her tone of voice gave little credibility to the assertion.

  “Touching. Now I want the rest of my money.” Apparently, the depth of her grief was lost on Clupper.

  Thelma’s chair scraped on the ornamental brick sidewalk. “I’m leaving.”

  “Be a shame to wind up in prison after all these years.”

  “You’d be right there, too, you miserable thief.”

  “That’s good, coming from you. After you arranged the robbery of your husband’s business to pay off a blackmailer.”

  “His business? His business?” Thelma’s voice rose with each word, then was silent for a moment. “You’d better be satisfied with the twenty thousand I agreed to give the little bitch, against my better judgment.”

  “You’re accusing me of taking it?”

  “You tried to shake her down. You wanted more than I agreed to pay you for delivering it. When she refused, you decided you’d just keep all of it,” Thelma said, her voice dripping venom.

  “I never saw the money. You took it to the motel yourself. She told you it wasn’t enough, and you killed her.”

  “Think you can shake me down, too? I unlocked the door, put the money in the key drop box, and left. Did he come back and catch you? Did you kill him and—”

  Royce’s heart lurched, and she missed the woman’s last words. She knew her face must have blanched. Concern replaced the bored look on the spike-haired server’s face as he stood waiting for her order. “Are you all right, ma’am?”

  “Yes. Just iced tea, please,” she managed to choke out.

  When she could hear again, Clupper was saying “…ver saw the kid or your dear departed. I used the key to the drop box you gave me, got the money, and took it to the woman.”

  “The door was locked when the sales manager arrived this morning.”

  “How much did you pay him to say that? Or is he one of your ‘conquests’?” His intonation gave the word a crude meaning. Clupper raised his voice. “Hey, bud, bring me another beer.”

  Thelma seemed to have gained control. She made no reply to Clupper’s insinuation and returned to discussing the money. “So maybe the kid came back, found the door unlocked and the safe empty. Bert came back, too, and accused him of taking the money. They argued, and he killed Bert.”

  Clupper gave a coarse laugh. “You wish. I want the rest of the money we agreed on. And I want it now. Or the police will hear from me.”

  “I doubt it. Then you’d have to explain how a convicted—”

  “I did my time. Now it’s your turn.”

  “Take your hand off me, you misbegotten moron. You’ve got your money. Take it and get out of town.”

  “I’ll leave here when my business is finished.”

  “It’s finished. A junker like you’re driving could be involved in a tragic accident.”

  “People in glass houses and all that rot,” Clupper sneered. “Chief Granite and the FBI would be very interested in all the visits that TV bitch makes to your house—oh, I mean your estate. And the fight the two of you had with your husband.”

  There was silence at their table for a moment. Then Thelma spoke in a low tone filled with barely controlled rage. “You dared spy on me? I think you’ve forgotten who you’re dealing with, Clupper.”

  Clupper shoved his chair back so hard he nearly tipped the plastic planter over on Royce. “I’d be careful with the wine. Even Hummers have accidents.”

  Royce risked a glance between the big leaves of the plant. The man pushed his way between the tables and headed down the sidewalk, heavy footsteps audible for half a minute.

  Thelma Morrell still sat at the table, blowing smoke rings. Royce couldn’t leave. She and Thelma barely knew each other, but Thelma might recognize her. She wasn’t sure anyway that her legs would support her right then. She grasped her glass of tea, thoughts racing. Her fears for Palm’s safety were well-founded.

  Where could he be? What might those two have done to him? Was Thelma Morrell actually involved in her husband’s murder? And what did Clupper mean, that TV bitch who visited Thelma? The only local woman on TV that she knew certainly had a bitchy attitude, but what was her connection to Thelma Morrell? From their conversation, Clupper was a criminal, maybe even an accomplice to murder. Certainly not FBI. He didn’t flash his ID when he and Agent Howard confronted her this morning. How could she find out?

  At last, Thelma threw some money on the table and stalked off in the same direction as the man. After a few minutes, Royce paid her own bill and wandered through the crowd in the opposite direction.

  Where was Palm? What should she do? Go to the police? Thelma and Clupper both denied knowledge of Palm’s whereabouts. Were they lying to each other? And who was the woman they accused each other of killing? How did Bert Morrell’s murder tie into whatever they were talking about?

  Pushing through the throngs of strangers, Royce could not believe the turn events had taken. Blown away last night by Hal’s marriage proposal, she’d made the decision to go to France while talking to Chrys, only to hear of Palm’s predicament this morning. Nothing made sense. Especially not the conversation she had just overheard between Thelma and the man from this morning in her own back garden.

  She must find Palm. Then find a way to clear him of suspicion in the robbery and murder. Maybe he was back home by now. Better go and see. Suddenly, Clupper’s words in the police station lobby, ostensibly to Chuck but directed toward her, came back like a blow. Devon! Would he dare hurt Devon? She had to get home.

  Chapter Eight

  Royce glanced around to orient herself, then headed down the block and around a corner. When she reached her car, she scrambled in and started the engine. In her anxiety to reach home, she pulled into traffic with little regard for safety, provoking honks and gestures.

  Exceeding the speed limit, risking a speeding ti
cket, which she was certain Jared would refuse to dismiss, she wove through several blocks of festival traffic. A late-model white Buick blocked her from the turn lane when she reached the bypass on-ramp. Praying the driver could brake in time, she pulled in front of it anyway. The Buick rocked as its tires shrieked, and the blonde driver’s mouth movements indicated that Royce was being consigned to reckless drivers’ perdition. This kind of foolhardy driving was not her usual habit, but fear for Devon overpowered her good sense. She pulled onto her quiet, shady street in record time.

  No sign of the beat-up black rental Ford. She quickly checked on Devon by cutting around the house. Relief flooded her when her four-legged friend stood up as she approached. But he didn’t romp toward her as usual to show his pleasure at her return. In fact, as she got closer, she realized he was swaying on his long legs.

  “Devon? Are you okay, Devon?”

  She dropped to her knees beside him. He looked up at her with slightly glazed eyes. “Oh, God. Devon. What’s wrong, baby?”

  Her fingers shook as she unhooked the chain from the dog’s collar and picked him up. She stumbled toward the deck, his fifty pounds of almost dead weight in her arms. As she gently deposited him on the redwood deck to unlock the back door, Chrys Wynter appeared through the gap in the hedge. Chrys did not wear her usual sunny smile. Deep furrows creased her smooth brow as she saw Royce struggling to free the scarf she still wore, which had tangled around Devon’s collar.

  “Royce! I’ve been calling you. Have you…?” Her voice faltered. “What’s wrong?”

  “I think somebody poisoned Devon. I have to call the vet.”

  Chrys dropped to the deck. “Poisoned him?”

  “Will you stay with him while I call?”

  “Sure.” Chrys scooted over to the panting dog. She patted his head, ran her hand down his back and talked gently to him. “It’s okay, Dev. The vet will fix you up.”

  Royce rushed back out the door. “Dr. Loper said for me to bring him right down. He’ll meet us at the clinic.”

  Chrys helped Royce get the limp dog onto the backseat. “I’ll come with you. Just let me run back and get my bag.” Less than a minute later, Chrys was back. She pulled her cell phone from her bag, glanced at it, and shoved it in its pocket, opened the passenger door, and jumped in.

  Royce broke the speed limit again getting to the veterinary clinic, thankful that it was only two miles away. Dr. Loper was already waiting when she pulled in the driveway and stopped at the back door. He lifted Devon from the back seat and took him inside, Royce and Chrys on his heels.

  Dr. Loper laid the dog on the waist-high examining table. He checked each eye, opened his mouth wide, and held the long tongue down with a canine tongue depressor.

  “No chemical burns or blisters, so apparently he was not given anything caustic. I’ll get a temp and draw some blood.”

  Royce put her arms around the dog’s neck and laid her cheek against his head. He twisted around and licked her face, then laid his head on her arm. He made no sound while Dr. Loper used the thermometer, then a long needle attached to a syringe to draw blood.

  “Temperature only elevated a degree or two. I’ll go ahead and force a little charcoal compound into his stomach to start to neutralize whatever might be there. I’ll run some tests that should tell me something, but it will take several hours.”

  “Do you think he’ll be all right? If anything happens—” Royce’s voice broke.

  “I can’t promise at this point, Royce. But I think he will. I’ll run these tests, then take him home with me so I can watch him. You go home. And try not to worry. I’ll call you in the morning.”

  “Come on, Royce. Dr. Loper will take care of Devon.” Chrys touched Royce’s arm.

  Royce gave her dog a final hug and backed toward the door, not breaking eye contact with him until the door closed.

  “Want me to drive home?” Chrys asked.

  “No. Thanks. I’m okay.” Royce headed back to Hedge Street, her heavy heart still at the clinic with Devon.

  Chrys looked over at Royce, hesitated, then said, “I came over ten minutes before you got home and rang your back doorbell.”

  “Was Devon all right then?” Royce asked.

  “I thought he was asleep.” Chrys swallowed. “He was lying in front of his house. He didn’t move when I spoke to him.”

  “Did you see anybody near him?”

  “No…no.”

  “You don’t sound certain. What?” Royce demanded.

  Chrys seemed near tears. “As I stepped off the deck, I thought I saw a flash of movement near the greenhouse. Then decided it must have been the wind moving one of those little trees next to it. I’m sorry, Royce.”

  “It’s okay, Chrys. He has to be okay.”

  Royce pulled into the driveway, and they entered her house, through the front door this time. Chrys followed Royce into her kitchen and sat at the table. “Sure he is.” She started to say something else when her gaze settled on Royce and looked her up and down. “Are you trying—er—I mean, that’s a nice scarf, Royce. Been shopping?”

  Royce had forgotten she was still wearing the silk scarf she’d bought as a disguise. “Impulse. I was down at the festival.”

  Chrys shook her head. “Not exactly your style. No offense.”

  “None taken. You said you’d been calling me when you first came over?” Maybe talking about whatever seemed to be bothering Chrys would take her mind off her fear for Devon.

  The younger woman’s worried look returned. “If you’ve been at the festival, you may not know about the robbery and murder of Bert Morrell. And that the police are looking for Palm Woodstone.”

  “Palm would never commit robbery. And certainly not murder.” Royce untied the scarf, folded it, and laid it over the back of the desk chair. She kicked off her shoes, picked up the kettle and went over to the sink. “Tea?”

  “Thanks. You heard. And of course not. But they’re looking for him. The radio said they just want to question him.”

  Royce turned heat on under the tea kettle and placed cups and tea bags on the table. “I take it you haven’t seen him either?”

  “No.” Chrys clasped her hands together on the table. “Royce, I’m uneasy.”

  “So am I. I’m afraid Palm could be hurt, or worse.”

  “Uneasy about my mother, I meant.”

  “Is she sick?”

  “I haven’t been able to reach her. She doesn’t answer her apartment phone, and she isn’t in the shop.”

  “Maybe she just—oh, ran to the store for milk or something.”

  “We talk several times a week. But I always call her on Sunday afternoon. I’ve been trying since I got back to the house after lunch with Brenda.”

  “She’s never been out of touch, even for a few hours?”

  “No. We’re close. She knows I worry about her. Thanks for the tea, Royce. I’ll keep trying to call her.” Chrys rose, leaving her tea almost untouched.

  “I’m sure she’s fine. If you hear anything about Palm, let me know?”

  “Sure. But you’d hear first. If I don’t get Mom by noon tomorrow, I’m taking time off to go see her.”

  Chrys crossed the back deck, steps slowing as she punched a button on her cell phone and held it to her ear.

  Royce was rummaging in the refrigerator for something light—she hadn’t the heart to prepare a full meal—when the phone rang. Maybe it was news about Palm. She hurried to answer.

  “Have you thought about what I asked?” She recognized the voice as the one from Saturday’s phone call about the money and Eddy’s will.

  “Who are you? What do you want?” The caller didn’t answer, and the dial tone sounded in her ear. She slammed the receiver down. Immediately, the phone rang again. “Hello, hello, who’s there?”

  “Royce, what the hell’s going on?”

  “Oh, Hal. You’re back already.”

  “Just trash at the market, came back early. Police stopped me just as I g
ot into town. They’re asking me all kinds of questions about Palmer.” Hal never used the shortened form of his son’s name.

  “They haven’t told you?”

  “Told me what, for God’s sake?”

  “Morrell Motors was robbed. The police seem to think Palm had something to do with it. And Bert’s dead.” She hated even to say it, remembering what she’d overheard this afternoon.

  “Bert dead? How? And what does Palmer say?” She listened for, and failed to hear in his voice, the outrage one would expect from a father whose son was being accused of a crime.

  “Did you talk to Palm before you left for Asheville?”

  “Hell, no, he didn’t come home last night.”

  She heard a voice in the background on the other end call out, “Woodstone, get back here.”

  “Keep your damn shirt on,” he shouted. “I damn well forced your precious Jared Granite to let me use the telephone. Call Marc. Tell him I may need him to get down here to the station.”

  Trust Hal. Giving her orders even after their last less-than-civil parting. Her “precious Jared”? What did he mean by that? Figure it out later.

  “Marc is out of town,” she said.

  “Well, get hold of him.” The phone went dead.

  She hung up the phone. She knew other lawyers in Fall Creek, of course. Should she call one for Hal? Hell, no. Let him get his own lawyer. She couldn’t imagine the police holding him. So far as she knew, they didn’t arrest parents for crimes their adult children were suspected of committing. Tempting though it might be, with Hal’s temper.

  Why did he call Jared her “precious”?

  A memory suddenly filled her mind. She and Eleanor stood at either end of Eddy’s casket in the funeral home visitation room. The heavy fragrance of the many floral tributes had been almost overwhelming. The long line of people wanting to offer condolences seemed endless. Eddy was popular with Fall Creek’s residents, and most of the town it seemed had come out to pay their respects.

  The police squads who were off duty came by, then relieved those on duty so they might say goodbye. Chief Jared Granite trailed one of the groups. He had been Eddy’s partner for several years before he made detective, then resigned to join the Marines. He ultimately became chief on his return to civilian life. He took Royce’s hands and then gathered her into an embrace. She felt a tremor in the muscular arms encased in the crisp chief’s uniform. Her tears flowed, then she stepped back, reaching for control.