Murdermobile (Portland Bookmobile Mysteries)

by B. B. Cantwell

  So he’s not just the technoid, he’s gambling with those characters, thought a stunned Hester. It sank in for a moment. “That twerpy hypocrite!” she seethed under her breath.

  Suddenly conscious that Karen would be sending search parties after her at any moment, Hester slipped off the stool and began to pick her way through the throngs.

  She got only three steps before a cry of “Whoa! Hold on!” stopped her. A coonskin cap bobbed in her face as she turned.

  “Hold on, little lady! Aren’t you forgetting something? It was a pretty lucky night for Black 8!”

  Hester gasped as the croupier handed her two beaded buckskin pouches crammed with chips. “More than $2,300 you were about to walk away from, ma’am,” he said so only Hester could hear. He grinned and gave her a nod before turning back to his wheel.

  Twenty-three hundred dollars! She couldn’t believe it. Yahoo for Black 8!

  “From now on, Bingle T. gets real tuna,” Hester resolved, striding off in search of Karen.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Wild Bill Hickok’s back was to the door, a seat he usually avoided like snakebite. He was fuming.

  He glared over the top of his poker hand. His pupils were smoldering coals, burning into the frightened eyes of the feckless greenhorn who had taken the chair in the corner where Hickok usually sat.

  “I said I’ll see yer 20 bucks and raise ya’ a hundert, boy!” Hickok snarled, acrid smoke billowing from an 8-inch cigar clenched cockily at one corner of his handlebar mustache. “Whatsa matter, catamount got yer tongue?”

  Across the table, Calamity Jane bit off a chaw of tobacco from a plug she kept in her buckskins, then smirked. She showed crooked, stained teeth to the fancy-pants dude in the buffalo bolo.

  “You tell him, Bill!” she croaked with a voice as gravelly as a Deadwood miner’s sluice.

  Paul Kenyon smiled weakly as he looked down at his hand of cards. Aces and eights! The dead man’s hand – the hand Wild Bill Hickok held when he was shot by Jack McCall! How did he get this hand?

  Kenyon’s mind raced. Damn! It must be another glitch in the program. And here he was supposed to be demonstrating how everything was fixed! He felt his face flush behind the headset. A trickle of sweat ran into his right eye. He couldn’t reach up to wipe it away.

  Across the table, seated between the holographic images of the denizens of Deadwood, the backers from Nevada watched stonily. Next to them, Tony Madras and his uncle, Lester Birdsong, exchanged glances. In the computer-generated vision dancing before his eyes, Paul could see their expressions, even though all wore the headsets.

  Paul didn’t know what to do. He’d been sure that tonight he’d be able to win back some of his losses. He thought he’d made sure of that!

  Squirming under the gaze of the casino backers, Kenyon stammered, “Umm, yes, sir, Mr. Hickok, just a moment – I got something in my eye!”

  In confusion, he pried with his free hand and inched the headset away from his forehead so he could peer down and get an unobstructed view of his cards. A pair of sevens and three queens! What the –? What was going on?

  Dropping the headset back into place, Paul looked at the image of his cards in the screen. Aces and eights!

  “Hmmmmm, well!” he said, too loudly. “Now that’s – uh – very interesting!”

  Hickok’s eyes narrowed like a cougar about to pounce. The tribal leaders shifted in their chairs. Through their headsets, Kenyon knew, they could see him sweating. He would just fold, that was the answer –

  Suddenly, the door of the saloon swung open and a deep voice called out, “Has anybody seen Festus? I’ve been lookin’ all over Dodge!”

  It was Matt Dillon. He strode in, a giant of a man, his boots clumping across the floor. He leaned against the bar and called out to the barmaid, “Howdy, Miz Kitty!”

  Kenyon sat stunned. This was a monumental foulup. The laser must be skipping between programs on the CD!

  The contract had clearly called for authenticity in the historical game scenarios. The backers had pounded the table on that point – they were learning that lesson in their Vegas re-creations of New York City and ancient Egypt. The gaming public was getting more sophisticated. In focus groups, retired school teachers gave a lot of guff if you mixed Greek gods in with the pyramids or put a replica of Chicago’s Wrigley Building in Times Square.

  Momentarily speechless, Kenyon’s voice came back as he tried to explain.

  “You know, that’s probably just a problem with the CD player not warming up enough,” he said to Madras, who looked irate. “If we could stop the program for a second – ”

  The men all started to reach up to their headsets, but just then the holographic saloon door burst open with a bang.

  The bounty hunter from “Star Wars” leapt into the room with his blaster waving. A red bullet of energy zinged past Lester Birdsong’s left ear.

  “OK, Han Solo, I know you’re in here!” the alien whined, his cockroach-like face screwed up in a sneer.

  Paul Kenyon ripped off his headset and threw his palms across his face.

  Tony Madras quickly picked up a remote-controller from the table, pointed it to a small window in the wall behind Kenyon and hit “STOP.” Then he slowly peeled the electronic gear from his head, pulled a Marlboro from a shirt pocket and lit it with a gold lighter.

  He exhaled a cloud of smoke with an audible breath, then looked over at the young man with his head cradled in his hands.

  “Time to get it right, Paul,” Madras said, a carbon-steel edge in his voice.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Just after 7 Saturday morning, Hester knocked excitedly on Nate Darrow’s apartment door. After a moment, she knocked harder and longer. Peering down the hall to see if any curious neighbors were roused, she finally turned and banged with both fists, so intently that she stumbled into the entry when the door suddenly swung wide to Darrow’s shout of “WHAT?”

  She caught herself, one palm landing flat on his bare chest. Her red-painted nails contrasted with his dark, curly chest hairs still damp from the shower.

  Flustered, Hester leapt back into the hall as she saw that Darrow wore only a bath towel, circling his waist and tucked tightly into itself just where a line of dark hairs led downward from his dime-sized navel. His wet hair was combed back in a sort of Al Pacino style. Shaving foam covered half his face.

  “I hope the building’s on fire, because if I’d been sleeping in you would NOT want to break down my door at this hour without a real good reason,” Darrow said huskily.

  Hester stammered an apology. Darrow’s glower softened. “On the other hand, if this is some kind of primitive hormonal thing where you somehow sensed I was half naked and came to pillage, I don’t really think we know each other that well yet.”

  Hester’s embarrassment turned to pique.

  “I beg your pardon, Detective Darrow. First, don’t flatter yourself. And second, I’m here on important business that I didn’t think should wait.”

  Her eyes flashed back at him, defiantly taking in a head-to-toe glance – where’d he get that tan? Certainly not in Oregon in February – as she stuck her chin in the air. “When you’re decent – and I’m not making any bets in the Mr. Adonis pageant – why don’t you come down for a cappuccino and I’ll fill you in.”

  Thoughtful for a second, Darrow then smirked as he quite obviously rubbed his chest where Hester’s hand had been. “OK, Ms. McGarrigle, I’ll be down.”

  Hester suppressed an indignant snort as she turned down the hall. “Good morning, Mr. Darrow!”

  A half-hour later, Darrow munched a hot cornmeal muffin, slurped the foam from the bottom of his coffee cup and stared out the window as he considered what Hester had just told him. Across the street, in the morning’s weak sunlight, a forsythia bush was experimenting with its first brave blooms of the season.

  “So did your friend have any idea who Duffy might have left with?” he asked Hester. Reaching to the windowsill next to h
er kitchen table, he scratched behind the ears of the big Maine Coon perched there. He heard a throaty rattle as the cat started to purr, never turning away from the window or shifting its eyes from a sparrow hopping from branch to branch in the forsythia.

  She’d dreaded bringing Karen into the fray, but there was no way Hester couldn’t tell Nate how she’d learned of Duffy’s whereabouts that night. And if Darrow’s inevitable questioning of Karen brought forth any clues as to her involvement, that might be better than if it came to light through a friend’s snooping, Hester had decided.

  Not that she’d accepted by any means that Karen was really involved in Duffy’s death, Hester reflected. She watched Bingle T. shamelessly soak up all the caressing he could get from this new friend. Absently gazing at Darrow’s hands: long, slender fingers, sprinkled with light brown hair across the knuckles – Hester quickly rose and turned to the dark green coffee carafe on the counter, trying to make sense of her thoughts. Just how much of a friend was Nate Darrow going to be? Or was he just a cop doing his job?

  Karen had been a friend almost all of her life, Hester reminded herself. Best not to rush any conclusions.

  “I’ve got some plain coffee if you want another cup?” she asked as she turned back to Darrow and held up the green carafe.

  “Please,” he nodded, sliding his cup across the table. “And you didn’t answer my question.”

  “Oh, um, no, I don’t think she really saw anyone else go.” Hester poured herself another cup. “I guess you’ll have to ask Karen.”

  “Yes, I think I’m going to have a busy day,” Darrow replied.

  When he’d come to her door earlier in faded Levis, a baggy ivory-colored fisherman’s sweater and scuffed Reeboks with no socks, Hester had immediately shared her news of the previous night, not only regarding Miss Duffy, but also the amazing secret she’d learned about the book-banning wunderkind, Paul Kenyon.

  Nate’s reaction to the latter news, instead of mirth, was more of alarm. He cautioned Hester against teasing Kenyon, or even letting on that she’d seen him at the casino.

  “I mean it, Hester. I’ve encountered a lot of people with gambling problems, and people with that particular illness usually don’t like it to be public. I had a friend, a cop down in Eugene – a good cop, as squeaky clean as they come on everything else. Casey would have thrown the book at the chief justice of the Supreme Court if he’d asked him to fix a parking ticket. But he had that one weakness.”

  Darrow shook his head at the memory.

  “Started with card games with buddies. I played with him a few times. Then he started flying down to Reno every holiday. Stopped taking his wife to Hawaii, said he liked that Nevada mountain air better. But after they opened that Indian casino down there south of Eugene, he’d be down there three, four, five nights a week. Tell you what was really sick. Before it got so bad, Casey used to go running with me. Every lunch hour, we’d do five miles along the riverfront trail on the Willamette. He was a real health nut. But you know what he did? After that casino came, he took up smoking. He hated it. It went against everything he’d once stood for. But it was the only way he could keep sneaking off to that smoky casino and still lie to his wife about it, saying he was working late when he came home smelling like a dirty ashtray.”

  Hester had listened with a mixture of sympathy and disgust. “So did he get away with it for long?”

  Nate shook his head. “No, they always think they will but they rarely do. Let’s just say that none of his friends went out of our way to cover for him after that. She found out and left with the kids. He eventually got booted out of the department, lost everything he had and basically ended up drinking himself to death at the ripe old age of 35.”

  Nate drummed his fingers on the table, took a breath and looked up at Hester. “Just be careful of this Kenyon character, OK? He might be a couple fries short of a Happy Meal.”

  Hester had groaned and thrown a sugar cube at him.

  Now, as Nate pushed away his coffee cup and started to scoot back his chair, Hester spoke on an impulse.

  “Say, you know all that money I won last night? I was thinking of celebrating with a kind of special dinner tomorrow evening. I was wondering, if you don’t have plans, could you make it?”

  Nate stopped, mild surprise on his face. He looked at her for a moment, then suggestively rubbed his hand against his chest and arched one eyebrow.

  “Why Ms. McGarrigle, I didn’t know you really cared.”

  Hester blushed again. “I don’t know why I keep talking to you, I end up turning red as a beet no matter what the conversation!”

  “But it is such a becoming match to your hair, madame,” Darrow said mischievously. As he stepped toward the front door, he turned and asked, “Um, what restaurant, and am I to squire you or shall I meet you and your friends there?”

  It was Hester’s turn to be coy.

  “Restaurant? Um, you’re looking at it!” She spread her hands and did a little pirouette in the middle of her hallway. “The cat is the only other friend I’m inviting, and all you need to squire is maybe a nice bottle of wine?”

  “Ah.” Did Hester detect a slight blush on his part? Darrow puffed out his cheeks for a moment before he spoke again.

  “Uh, Hester, I think I need to remind you that you’re a witness in an ongoing murder investigation in which I am the lead detective, and most of the possible suspects all seem to be your friends. And, honestly, we’re already on thin ice even just drinking coffee together.”

  At Hester’s crestfallen look, Nate pursed his lips, crossed his arms and stared at the floor for a moment.

  Hester spluttered, “Well, certainly, I didn’t mean anything improper – ”

  “No, of course, I know you didn’t...” Darrow looked up at her, then balled his fist and punched his own thigh. “Oh, hell. Just dinner, you know? Just a nice, civilized visit with a new neighbor, that’s all we’re talking, right? No shop talk, you don’t ask me anything about the case? We’re all grown-ups here, right?”

  “Well, of course, I – ”

  “Then madame, I’d be delighted to join you Sunday.” He bit his lip and looked past her eyes, down at her gently curving neck. A few light freckles showed just above the neckline of her cotton pullover. “And it happens I’ve been saving a special bottle of chardonnay from my brother’s winery out near McMinnville. He claims it tastes more like pears and oak than if you grew pears on an oak tree.”

  “Mmm, I can taste it already,” Hester smiled. “Six work for you?”

  “I shall be here with my hair in a braid and a song in my heart,” he quipped, shaking her hand, winking, then turning and shutting the door behind him.

  Hester just stood there, wondering where she was going with this.

  Chapter Nineteen

  “Well hey nonny nonny, the beast is back!” Hester called out later that morning, hoping the attempt at cheer would mask her trepidation as she climbed aboard Bookmobile No. 3 in its old familiar loading dock at the bookmobile barn.

  “Well, now, that’s a nice way to greet an old buddy!” growled a gravelly voice from the front of the coach. Hester turned to see Ralph O’Sullivan, the substitute driver whom she usually saw only when Pim took one of her rare vacations. Leaning out the driver’s window, he was madly wiping the side mirror, a wad of paper towels in one hand and a spray bottle of blue cleaner in the other.

  A retired Navy man from San Diego, Ralph had moved to Portland to live near his grandchildren and now worked part time driving the vans that ferried books between library branches. Owing to his previous life, Ralph was a cleanliness fiend. Today, as usual, he wore a white shirt and navy blue tie, with nary a Brylcreemed gray hair out of place. Pim always came back from vacation refreshed, to a bookmobile cleaner than it had been in months.

  “Oh, Ralph, hi! You know I was talking about this beast, the lovely magenta one that belches diesel fumes,” Hester said, stamping her foot on the old coach’s cracked linoleum. “Not
the one that belches Onionburgers,” she added with a teasing smile, remembering Ralph’s favorite lunch.

  Hester stopped and looked around in dismay. “Oh, dear, we’re not going to get a very early start, are we?”

  The police bureau’s forensics division had finally finished collecting evidence from Bookmobile No. 3 the previous afternoon. A call from the barn shortly after Darrow had left Hester’s apartment confirmed she’d be on the road again that day.

  She’d heard they’d given the old bus a thorough going over. But as she looked around at the empty shelves – all the books in cardboard boxes on the floor – Hester’s eyes widened.

  “Not much for me to tidy this time!” Ralph chuckled, running his finger along a usually dusty shelf and holding it up clean. “Newall said they went through the whole bus with special vacuums.” Seizing on the topic, he turned all the way around in his seat. “You know, Ann Rule wrote about a case down in L.A. where they convicted a guy of a triple murder based on some dryer lint he dropped from a coat pocket! Why, if you have so much as some cat hair on your cardigan, they’ll find it with these vacuums. The things have microfine filters, finer than a cigarette filter.”

  With a wan smile, Hester remembered why she always missed Pim when she was off. Ralph was OK, but he considered himself the world’s leading authority – on any topic. When he got caught up in details, it could take forever to get anything done.

  “Well, we’d better get busy,” Hester said, taking off her coat. Without thinking, she stepped toward the coat rack next to the rear cupboard. She suddenly caught herself when she saw the cupboard’s dark opening, its door now missing.

  “Oh, yeah, Hester – ” Ralph coughed. “You might not want to – They, uh, hadn’t really cleaned up everything that well back there. So Newall and I did our best with a scrub brush. They took the door off its hinges and held on to it for evidence. Not to get too graphic, but Newall said they needed to preserve the spatter patterns – ”