Rip Tide (A Ripple Effect Cozy Mystery, Book 2)

by Jeanne Glidewell

  As the crowd repeated the mantra, another chant started up. It seemed to me to be an attempt to drown out the original chant. I noticed the crowd had suddenly swelled in size. Sarcova was chanting "We have the right to light," when an influx of people began to answer with, "We have the right to breathe." They carried signs that read "smokers are a public nuisance" and "don't kill my children with your nasty habit." It was then I understood the new arrivals, clearly in favor of the proposed ordinance, were protesting against the protesters who were opposed to it.

  This could get ugly very quickly, I thought. We've now created the perfect storm for turning a peaceful protest into a frenzied riot.

  Before I could round up my friends, rocks and shoes began to fly. It quickly escalated into an exchange of anything that could be turned into an airborne weapon. I swear I saw someone's dentures zip right by my left ear. If I wasn't mistaken, it was Gracie Parker's upper plate. I looked for her in the crowd but my searching ceased when I saw Mabel Hicks pull a bulky compact out of her purse and heave it at Julio Sarcova, the focal point of the mayhem. Clearly, Mabel had no clue which side of the dispute she was on. The uprising had a vacuum-like effect; it sucked a person, unwittingly, right into the eye of the storm.

  I could hear sirens in the distance closing in on the bedlam on East Market Street. Someone had set fire to the stage and the podium was beginning to smolder as Sarcova beat on it with his jacket. I knew it was a preview of coming attractions with which I had no burning desire to be involved.

  I knew it would be impossible to extract myself from the mob of rebellious citizens, so I concentrated on trying to avoid being beaned in the head by some unidentified flying object. I was ducking and bobbing while I attempted to remove myself from the chaotic scene. However, I'm ashamed to admit, I was no exception to the aforementioned vacuum effect.

  When I was hit in the shoulder by a penny loafer, I felt compelled to throw my tennis shoes back at my assailant. I missed on both throws, but at least I felt a slight bit of vindication. What I failed to notice was where my right twelve-year-old Adidas inadvertently made contact.

  Chapter 11

  "What's up, buttercup?" Rip inquired jovially when he answered my call. I felt bad, knowing Rip's cheery mood was about to disappear like David Copperfield's lovely assistant.

  "Now don't get mad," I began.

  "Oh, no!" I heard him say. "Nothing good ever follows those four words."

  "I'll explain it all later and why it wasn't my fault. But right now, it's like this, honey. I need you to come bail me out of jail."

  "What?" He was obviously floored by my remark. "Good Lord, Rapella! Have you been arrested—again?"

  "Yes. But like I said, this time it's not my fault. You see—"

  "I know, Rapella. It's never your fault," Rip cut me off with a long-suffering sigh. "Let me guess. You participated in the demonstration at City Hall this afternoon that we heard about on the news last night? I noticed you appeared intent on the details of the protest, which should have raised a red flag with me."

  "Yes. But I only—"

  "I had a bad feeling when Adelaide Hall picked you up this morning. She's a rabble-rouser if there ever was one. I should have put my foot down right then."

  "Put your foot down?" I asked. His remark hit a raw nerve. I didn't like the implication I needed to be told what I could and couldn't do, and would, without question, submissively adhere to my husband's stipulations. In a different situation I might have challenged his overbearing attitude, but I quickly backed down. As I alluded to earlier, in the course of life one has to pick her fights, and I knew this wasn't one that would end well for me.

  "Why do you have to insert yourself into every protest, no matter how ludicrous the cause? For instance, the time you got arrested for marching in front of that little clothing shop, carrying a sign demanding the store offer a senior citizen discount. I still can't believe it. Arrested for disturbing the peace in Ten Sleep, Wyoming, a town of less than three-hundred residents." Rip's voice was beginning to rise. "Not to mention, it was elk and moose hunting season. You were lucky the owners even showed up to open the store."

  "They should have realized the customer always comes first."

  "Seriously, Rapella? Have you lost your grip on reality?"

  "Well, I—"

  "And why would you even care about the new smoking ordinance?" Rip was practically yelling into the phone.

  "It just isn't right that I can't light up a cigarette in—"

  "You don't smoke, Rapella!" He bellowed, drawing each word out for an uncomfortable amount of time to make a point. I'm guessing that angry retort hit 110 on the decibel scale. I had to pull the phone away from my head for fear my eardrum might burst. "I should think you'd be dancing in the street about the new smoking ban."

  "Yes, I know, but, you see—" It might have been better if I'd mentioned to Rip that Avery had told me the demonstration's leader might be a suspect in her boyfriend's death. I'd kept that one under my hat to share with Rip after I had more concrete evidence that Julio Sarcova might have had had a motive to kill Claypool. And now I had evidence of a motive, unlikely as it might be.

  "I've heard you complain about second-hand smoke a thousand times. And, besides, what have I told you about getting involved in protests in the first place?"

  "This was different, Rip. It was absolutely necessary in order to—"

  "Absolutely necessary?" Rip asked in a cutting tone. "Really? How do you describe—"

  This time I interrupted him with a loud, "Stop! Stop, already! How can I speak in my own defense if you never let me get a word in edgewise?"

  "Okay, fine. Speak!" He grew silent, reluctantly giving me an opportunity to describe the situation. But looking around the room, I saw a dozen other protestors anxiously waiting to use the only available phone from which to place their one allotted call. So I said, "Listen, Rip, I really can't go into it right now. I'll explain it all after you come to the station and bail me out."

  "Oh, all right. Could I possibly go at least one day this week without having to bail someone out of jail? I can just imagine what the police department is going to say about this. At this rate, we're both going to be run out of town on a rail."

  "Please, honey. I'm sorry, babe. I really am, darling. It won't happen again. I promise, sweetheart." If I used any more terms of endearment in my effort to soften up my irate husband, I was going to have to puke. My sucking-up routine was nauseating, but at least it was successful.

  "Oh, all right," he repeated. "I'll be up there in ten minutes. Please tell me you didn't burn your bra this time!"

  "I didn't, I promise. But I can't say the same for a few of the girls in my bunko club. Who'd have ever thought that at seventy-three, Evelyn would still have such perky little—?"

  Click! The call abruptly ended as Rip hung up on me. Now how rude was that?

  * * *

  As expected, I received a lecture on the way home to the campground. I let Rip drone on without responding. I nodded at appropriate intervals, all the while concentrating on what to do next regarding the murder case. It's not like this was the first time I'd been subjected to a dressing down. In an emergency, I could give the speech in his place.

  "You have got to quit plunging headfirst into dangerous situations as if you have backup at your beck and call. I'm not a cop anymore. I'm not a sheriff, either. I'm nothing but an old, broken-down retired citizen. I can't come rushing in to rescue you every time you land yourself in the middle of some asinine situation."

  "Well, I wouldn't go so far as to say 'broken-down'. After all, you're still able to walk with me in the evenings, albeit not nearly as far as you used to," I finally said, mainly because it was hard to contradict any of his other comments. I wanted to convince him I'd been focusing intently on his sermon, as well. And a little booster dose of buttering up might prove worthwhile.

  As if I hadn't even spoken, Rip went right into phase two of his lecture, otherwise known as
the "am I going to have to keep my eye on you every second of the day" segment. I eventually sighed theatrically and leaned back in the passenger seat to settle in for the final phase, which was about to commence. It was his favorite part, by the way. I affectionately refer to this section of the lecture as the "it's just a matter of time before you end up dead or serving a life sentence" chapter.

  And you thought I was dramatic?

  * * *

  When we'd returned to the RV park, Rip studied the Chartreuse Caboose as he stepped out of the truck. He shook his head in disgust and mumbled, "I can't believe you talked me into painting this trailer such a God-awful color, and with the ridiculous sunflowers, to boot."

  I had hoped his temper would have mellowed by now so I could tell him some of the information I'd uncovered. But it was apparent I'd have to give Rip a little more time to cool down. He plopped down on the couch, and purely out of habit, picked up the remote to turn on the boob tube. I knew he was still simmering when he sat staring at the television for ten minutes as an old re-run of Hannah Montana aired.

  I fixed us each our customary afternoon cocktail and silently walked over to hand him his Crown and Coke. I used quart-sized Ball canning jars for this ritual, primarily so I didn't have to get up and refill martini glasses three or four times. I knew a shot of alcohol would likely help put out the fire still smoldering inside my husband's head.

  I let him down at least half of his drink before asking, "Would you like to hear why this morning's events were not entirely in vain? I did manage to get some useful info from the instigator of the protest, Julio Sarcova."

  "What about him?" Rip asked. I sensed there were still a few ashes not entirely extinguished, so I proceeded carefully. I explained what Avery had said about Sarcova the night before in the Jugs 'n Mugs kitchen. Still, Rip shook his head in disbelief when I finished my next comment.

  "I was very fortunate to be stuffed into the same paddy wagon as Sarcova."

  "You must be blessed to have such amazing good luck."

  I ignored his smart-aleck remark and continued with my recollection of the conversation I'd had with Sarcova. "To initiate a tête-à-tête, I told him I was sorry how the demonstration turned out, because it clearly did not go according to plan."

  "No shit?" Rip asked sarcastically. "Getting thrown in the pokey wasn't part of the plan?"

  "Actually, according to him, it was. He gleefully informed me the rowdy protest would surely make the evening news and the front page of the Rockport Pilot with so many protesters on both sides of the conflict getting arrested in front of the city hall. All of us getting carted off to jail was advantageous. In fact, our arrests were his greatest hope, Sarcova said."

  "You don't say." Rip was unmoved by my explanation.

  "You see, he was delighted about the attention his cause would receive due to the riot that erupted. He was quite pleased with himself, to tell the truth. I think he actually encouraged people to protest against the protestors."

  "Good for him. So how does this moron's unwarranted narcissism benefit us in this murder case?"

  Okay, I thought. At least he's listening to me now. It's not the supportive attitude I had in mind, but it's a start.

  "Our exchange was not strictly about the protest. I didn't waste any time delving into the murder and his relationship with the victim. It went something like this," I said, before reiterating the entire dialogue between Julio Sarcova and me, as best as I could recall.

  * * *

  After Sarcova had boasted about the fact we'd been busted for disturbing the peace, I had replied, "I'm glad it worked out so well for you, but it's not a good time for me to be locked up. You see, we're moving into our new place this week. Not like brand new, but it's new to us."

  Sarcova didn't respond. So I continued. "It's one of those so-called flipped houses. Silly name, don't you think? Kind of sounds like turning a home upside down on its—"

  "Who'd you buy it from?" His head swiveled my way, and he suddenly seemed intensely interested in my nervous jabbering.

  "Oh, it's some outfit named MC Hammerheads. Cute name, huh?"

  "Yeah, real cute," he replied derisively. "I feel sorry for you, lady."

  "Oh, now I get it. It's 'M' for 'Milo' and 'Moore' and 'C' for 'Cooper' and—"

  "And 'Hammerheads' for what I'd like to do to both of their noggins."

  Ignoring Julio's interjection, I said, "Now that I think about it, isn't there some rapper dude named MC Ham—?"

  "Oh, boy! Good luck, lady!" Julio said. I'd been using the irrelevant banter to get him talking, and it seemed to work. "I bought a house from them, too. It's been nothing but a nightmare ever since."

  "Oh, dear. Why is that?"

  "It started about a week after we moved in. My four-year-old son started having more difficulty in breathing than usual. He's asthmatic, by the way. He was also running a dangerously high fever. After waiting to be seen for over an hour at that walk-in clinic on Third Street, his symptoms subsided. We took him home, assuming it was just a coincidence, until his temperature skyrocketed in the middle of the night and he was struggling to breathe again. We were scared because he has severe reactions to a number of allergens."

  "Poor little guy," I sympathized. "Go on."

  "On a hunch, I cut out a section of sheetrock right near the head of Hunter's bed. As I suspected, there was a huge amount of black mold that should have been taken care of before the house was sold. The sheetrock was new, so it had obviously been put up to hide all the hazardous mold when it was detected by Claypool and his business partner, Milo Moore."

  "My, my. That's just unbelievable, ain't it?" I wasn't just pretending to be dismayed by that kind of unprofessional, unscrupulous practice. What kind of men would do such a disreputable thing, especially with a vulnerable young boy in the home?

  "Unbelievable ain't the word for it!"

  "What happened next?" I asked. Everyone in the van was listening to our conversation at this point. My bunko-mates acted as if they had no prior insight into the construction company or its owners.

  "I confronted Cooper Claypool about it, of course. He agreed to correct the problem immediately and reimburse us for Hunter's medical bills." At this stage in the story, I'd have expected Sarcova to appear at least a little satisfied. Instead, he was livid. As he continued speaking, his ire rose until the officer driving the van had to order him to lower his voice.

  "Wasn't that what you had hoped to accomplish when you confronted Claypool?"

  "Absolutely! Thing is, the jerk's not fulfilled either promise. I ran into him at Crabby's Bar and Grill Saturday and threatened to sue him if the work wasn't done by this weekend. I haven't heard from the sleezeball yet, and I'd wager he won't have the work done or the medical bills paid by next Sunday, either."

  I wondered if he'd witnessed the parking lot brawl between the business partners, but was afraid inquiring about it might make him realize I knew more than I was letting on. I had to tread lightly so it wasn't obvious I was fishing for clues that might implicate him in the murder. His next remark answered my question without me even having to ask it. "The two nincompoops got into it after I'd already approached Claypool in the bar. And, man, speak of hammering someone on the head. I'll bet Claypool's still seeing double."

  He was talking as if he didn't know Claypool had been killed, which surprised me. So, with sadness in my tone, I replied, "I doubt that. I'm thinking it's a safe bet Claypool won't get much done by Sunday either. Hard to get much done when you're six feet under."

  "Excuse me?" Sarcova asked, obviously confused by my comment.

  "He's dead."

  "What? What'd you say?"

  "Claypool's dead, as in deceased, pushing up daisies, bit the big one, went out with his flippers on, kicked the buc—"

  "What are you talking about, lady?" Now Sarcova looked as if someone had filched his last cigarette. In fact, seconds later he asked the officers up front if he could have a smoke, and the answer w
as a hearty laugh. He flipped the driver off in the rearview mirror and turned back to me as he asked, "Did something happen to Cooper Claypool?"

  "Duh," I replied, probably a tad too insensitively. "Hey, dude. I thought you told me you were living in a flipped home."

  "I did. I am." He was staring at me in distrust, probably wondering if I'd been smoking hashish instead of tobacco at the protest.

  "Whew. For a second there, I thought you might be living under a rock. How could you not have heard about it? Everyone in the county is abuzz over Claypool's death. It's all over the TV and newspapers, and it's most likely the main topic of discussion in every barber shop in town." I tried not to appear as if I knew he was a barber himself.

  "Damn! Lady, I just got back from a couple of days in Las Vegas late last night. In fact, I stopped by Crabby's on the way to the airport in Corpus when I recognized Claypool's truck in their parking lot. I had no idea he was killed after our encounter there. Man, that's a bad deal." His words indicated he was sorry to hear the news, but his sly grin said otherwise. "I guess Moore finished the job after I left."

  "No, Milo Moore was cleared. According to the authorities, he wasn't the perpetrator." To my knowledge, Milo hadn't actually been cleared, but I figured it didn't hurt to make Sarcova think he had been.

  The van had pulled up to the station, and the officers were preparing to lead us all in for processing. As an officer guided Julio Sarcova away, Sarcova turned toward me and said, "In that case, if I were the homicide detectives, I'd take a look at Maxwell. I know he had a very pissed-off bone to pick with the guy, too."

  Chapter 12

  Rip's blue funk had evaporated by the time I finished with my recital. He leaned forward, and asked, "You surely asked Sarcova who Maxwell was, didn't you?"

  "I wanted to, naturally. But they led him to a different room, and I never had an opportunity to speak with him again."