Murdermobile (Portland Bookmobile Mysteries)

by B. B. Cantwell

  Darrow, hovering outside the half-open bathroom door, cleared his throat. “Uh, Hester, excuse me, but I’ve got to disappear.”

  She quickly rinsed her face, blotted with a towel and pulled her robe tight as she stepped out. Standing by the front door, Darrow was all dressed and had on his bomber jacket, the burgundy tie trailing from one pocket. Beyond him, Hester saw the kitchen window dotted with raindrops.

  “Well, looks like another day of the same old, same old out there,” she said. “Try to stay dry. Don’t get your nice jacket all wet.” She looked at the coat. “Ha! I guess everybody wears leather jackets now!”

  Darrow looked down. “Oh, do you like it? They had a huge sale at that factory store out in Beaverton. Considering the mob there last weekend, you’re probably right. Your description of the Bookmobile Bandit could fit half of Portland.”

  Silent for a moment, he looked uncharacteristically serious. “Uh, Hester, listen. I talked to one of the crime scene folks and she’s going to run over to the bookmobile first thing and just take a look around. Probably there’s nothing to see, it’s just good form. Probably she won’t slow you up at all this morning.”

  “Oh.” She crossed her arms. “Do you really think – ”

  “Well, you never know. Maybe the guy dropped his wallet or spit out his gum or jotted his address down on one of those ‘patron comment’ cards, you never know.” Darrow gave a half grin.

  “So you do think it was the murderer.”

  Hester’s statement hung in the air unchallenged. Suddenly feeling formal again after their intimacy, she self-consciously plucked at the terry cloth pills on her pink bathrobe sleeve. Darrow jingled the keys in his jacket pocket, then spoke again.

  “And Hester, I asked one of my cohorts to kind of keep a watch on the bookmobile for a couple days. Name’s Harry Harrington. He might come aboard and say hi, or you might not even see him. No big deal, just a routine part of this kind of business.”

  Hester took this in with a growing sense of concern. “Oh, listen, I don’t think that’s really necessary. I hate to put anybody to all that trouble. I mean I’ve got Ralph driving and he’s ex-Navy and all. Goodness, we can take care of ourselves.”

  Darrow started to pull the door open.

  “Well, humor me and just pretend you’re in a B movie. Like I say, you probably won’t even know Harry’s around. But do me a favor and lead an ordinary, boring life for a few days. Don’t go wandering down dark alleys in search of adventure.”

  Nate took Hester’s hand and held it for a moment. He leaned forward and gave her a gentle peck on the cheek, then spoke softly into her ear.

  “I had a wonderful time at your house last night, Ms. McGarrigle. And I have to say I agree with you. It is nicer with chicken than with veal.”

  Hester swatted him on the rear. Darrow strode off down the hall to go to work.

  He would never get the time to shave that day.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Albina Terrace was one of North Portland’s low-income “projects,” and Hester had a love-hate relationship with the place.

  Over the years, she’d kept an eye out for youngsters who showed an extra spark, who exhibited the first signs of the love for reading that she remembered so fondly from her childhood, especially the long summers at the Oregon Coast when her mother would help her put together a personal library from which she could choose a book anytime she liked. She loved to curl up against a favorite log on the beach and smell the tangy breeze that ruffled her hair as she plowed through her favorite stories.

  Not that these kids would get that sort of childhood, Hester thought. She looked out the bookmobile’s window at the rows of identical duplexes, where graffiti had been painted over so often that the painters had long ago given up on matching the paint color. Hester could count five different shades of brown.

  But she had managed to latch on to four or five Albina kids who’d become faithful bookmobile fanatics over the years. Hester liked to think she played some role in their growing up right. One of “her kids” had just won a full ride to Willamette University on a computer science scholarship.

  This morning, however, Albina was playing its flip side for Hester. She’d spent much of the last half-hour trying to control a crowd of overexcited 3- and 4-year-olds whose mothers seemed to think Hester was a babysitter, not a professional with a master’s degree.

  Two of the mothers, underfed bleached blondes in their early 20s, lurked in the paperback romance section. Hester was never sure which children belonged to which mother, and blank stares had taught her not to ask. This morning, one mother was snapping her gum.

  “Excuse me! I’m sorry, but we don’t allow gum on the bookmobile, no matter how old you are!” Hester announced, trying to put on what her mother called her “Hester Sunshine” voice.

  The guilty mother, who wore a striped pink maternity top, stopped chewing and looked toward Hester with her eyebrows raised and hands outspread in a “not me” pantomime.

  Hester pointed to the trash can with a stern look, then turned to Ralph, who slouched in the driver’s seat and had his nose buried in a Louis L’Amour paperback. “Oh, lord, I’ve become my third-grade teacher,” she moaned. “Keep rulers away from me or I’m liable to start smacking palms.”

  Hester turned back to her post just in time to spy Paul Kenyon climbing through the rear door. A flash of puzzlement on her face caused Kenyon to smile as he strode forward.

  “Hester,” he said with a nod.

  “Hardly your neighborhood, is it?” Hester replied when she found her voice.

  “Oh, I’m on my way to St. Johns on a consulting job, but I had to stop when I saw the bookmobile here. The police told me you saw somebody skulking around the old bus over the weekend, so I thought I’d take a look. You know, crime-scene management was my emphasis at the academy. It’s phenomenal how a footprint or something can lead you right to a killer.”

  Hester could hardly believe what she was hearing. “Nate Darrow told you? But when? I only just –”

  “Oh, I just ran into him. He had asked me to keep in touch after I helped him out with some background on the Duffy case.”

  Her mind reeled. How could Nate trust this two-faced mama’s boy? Her throat tightened at the thought that Paul Kenyon might make some sort of political hay out of solving Duffy’s murder.

  Flustered, she dropped her eyes and busied her hands, opening a fresh box stuffed with paperbacks.

  “Well, I’ll just have a look around,” Kenyon said, turning and picking a path around two 4-year-olds staging a mock ray-gun battle on the floor.

  Hester fumed to herself, not sure whether to be more irritated at Paul Kenyon’s interference in her trying morning or furious at Darrow for violating her confidence. She found herself stamping due dates with such ferocity that the gum-chewing mother flinched and pulled her hands away until Hester shoved her checked-out paperbacks across the table.

  Finally, the last Albina mother was at the check-out, and only Paul Kenyon remained in the rear of the bookmobile, thumbing through the latest issue of PC Digest, when the Instie-Circ emitted a series of piercing beeps as Hester tried to scan the code on a book titled “Miami Vixens.”

  Ozone filled the air as the screen flashed twice, then went dark. “Not again!” Hester groaned. She’d lost her day’s records Saturday, too, when the machine had crashed.

  “I can’t believe Dora keeps insisting this piece of junk saves us money!” she exclaimed to Ralph. “Tomorrow I’m going to go in and tell her just how much we’ve lost because of this machine!”

  Hester continued to fiddle with the Instie-Circ.

  Paul glanced up, an odd look on his face. His eye caught Hester’s.

  “Paul! You’re still here! Can you reboot this thing? It’s all DOS and I can never remember all the commands. This is the most user-unfriendly computer ever made.”

  With a nod, Kenyon strode forward. Hester stood and let him sit at the Instie-Circ. Clic
king the power switch twice in rapid succession, he watched the screen glow to life. Then he rapidly typed in commands.

  Hester jotted down the title and library-card number for the final patron, who turned in relief and clambered out of the bus.

  The bookmobile was now silent except for the staccato clicking of the computer keyboard. Ralph remained absorbed in his Western.

  Hester awkwardly made small talk over her shoulder as she reshelved some books.

  “I have to tell you, Paul, I can’t believe you figured out those entry codes all on your own! You really have computers all figured out, don’t you? I bet you can make a mint at what you’re doing!”

  Hester winced at her own fawning tone. She’d always found it difficult to bear silence when corralled with someone with whom she felt uncomfortable.

  Paul looked over the screen at her as if to respond, then bit his lip.

  But after a moment more of furious typing, he paused and looked up at Hester. He suddenly resembled a kindergartner whose teacher had praised his finger painting. “Well why don’t we get to know each other better, Hest? We could go to a movie or something.”

  Hester rubbed her forehead. She couldn’t say she hadn’t asked for that.

  Clearing her throat, she found a reserve of strength as she turned back to Paul with her most condescending smile. Tiptoeing behind him, she reached down, lifted Paul by the shoulders and moved him away from the computer. She patted his arm once, lightly.

  “Maybe some day when you decide books are more fun to read than to burn,” Hester cooed.

  As she pushed him away, she looked down at where her fingers touched him. Her smile froze for a moment. She looked up at him, businesslike. “Thanks for your help, Paul. Now can I help you find any books? We’ve got to be heading for Bonneville.”

  Kenyon, at first confused, flushed in anger and pushed roughly past Hester. “No, you’ve given me enough. I don’t deserve this kind of treatment from a damn desk clerk!”

  He stormed out of the front entrance, slamming the door behind him.

  Ralph finally looked up in alarm. “Hey, Hester, what was with that twerp? He bother you?”

  Hester sat with her hand splayed across her face and exhaled long and loudly. “No, I’m OK. I’m not sure what’s going on with him. I’m not sure of a lot of things these days.”

  After a moment, she jumped to her feet, glanced at her wristwatch and began to fold up the Instie-Circ.

  “Anyway, we’ve got an appointment up at Bonneville, and first we’ve got to get some lunch. I’m famished.”

  “You up for the Char-Burger?” Ralph asked. The Columbia Gorge’s most popular restaurant, just beyond Bonneville in the quaint river-town of Cascade Locks, was actually just over the line into the next county. But Pim and the other drivers had long ago cast off worries about questions from curious taxpayers who might notice the bookmobile in the Char-Burger’s parking lot. The burgers were just too tasty.

  “Only if I can have a Super Bacon Burger with chili fries,” Hester replied with a grin.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Ralph stowed his paperback in the glove box, put a foot on the clutch and turned the ignition key. An acrid cloud of exhaust quickly enveloped the old bus as he worked the pedal to warm up the engine.

  Hester finished stowing books, popped her date stamp into a box, fastened all the small brass hooks to keep drawers closed and climbed into the front seat opposite Ralph. She was just clicking her seatbelt when she peered into the fish-eye mirror out her window and glimpsed something that made her snap her fingers.

  “Oh, drat, I forgot the back step again. Hold on, Ralph!”

  Hester scrambled out of her seat and dashed to the rear door. She pushed the door open with her foot and reached down to pull in the step.

  A hand grabbed her wrist. Hester gasped.

  Paul Kenyon slid around the corner from behind the bookmobile and pushed Hester back inside. He pulled the step in behind him and shut the door.

  In the dimness of the rear of the bus, Hester couldn’t see so much as feel the barrel of the old Smith & Wesson police special that pressed into her side.

  “Let’s go quietly up forward if you don’t want to make a big mess all over your books,” Paul said in a spooky monotone. Ralph, oblivious, was still working the gas pedal to keep the idling engine alive.

  Paul wrapped his free hand tightly under Hester’s rib cage and walked her forward. Gasping to catch her breath as adrenalin set her heart crazily pounding, Hester got a noseful of Kenyon’s cloying cologne mixed with the oily leather smell of his tan coat.

  Hester suddenly whirled her head and looked down at the coat, then up into Paul’s eyes. She tried not to react.

  “Like the coat? I thought you had recognized it. How much more did you see the other night? I just couldn’t give you any more time to remember.”

  “But why – ” They reached the middle of the bus. Ralph finally turned in his seat to look for Hester.

  “Are we going today, Hester? – ” He stopped short. “Hey, you, what are you – ”

  Like a snake tightening a coil, Paul shifted the revolver so Ralph could see it pointing at Hester’s heart.

  “Ralph, we’re going for a ride. I suggest you keep your seat unless you want another dead librarian aboard this murdermobile.” Kenyon chuckled at his own effort at cleverness.

  “I believe you’re heading up into the Gorge, which is just fine with me. I’ve got some friends up in Corbin who can make this whole bus disappear at the bottom of the Columbia and nobody will ever find it.”

  Moments later, as the lumbering bus bounced over a speed bump on its way out of the Albina Terrace parking lot, a thin, balding man in a gray three-piece suit pushed his eyeglasses up on the bridge of his nose as he stepped out the front door of the complex’s community center.

  “Drink enough coffee on any surveillance job and eventually you’ve got to recycle some of it,” Lt. Harry Harrington of the Portland Police Bureau muttered to himself as he dashed for the door of his unmarked blue Caprice.

  Chapter Twenty-six

  The bookmobile bounced and shook as it hit 50 mph on Marine Drive, following the Columbia River upstream. As the magenta bus passed the riverside edge of Portland International Airport, a smiling Eskimo on the tail of an Alaska 737 seemed to race it for a moment before zooming skyward over the river.

  As the bookmobile skirted the houseboat moorage edging Gresham and Troutdale, Paul forced Hester to climb into her own seat up front “so everything looks normal.” He kept the gun’s muzzle planted in her back.

  More than fear, Hester felt anger at letting herself get into such a plight. Her temper made her reckless.

  “So, Paul, just tell us why you killed Miss Duffy?” she spoke loudly over the engine’s growl. “Couldn’t she shout ‘Sieg Heil’ loudly enough?”

  Kenyon jabbed the gun into her ribs hard enough to make Hester gasp. Ralph clenched his jaw. “Hester, let it go,” the driver said.

  But Kenyon wasn’t one to ignore a captive audience. He smiled eerily, like a dental patient on too much gas.

  “Well, Hester, I get the idea you know about it anyway. And so you and Aunt Sara are going to end up having more in common than you ever thought.”

  As he stared out the window at the rotting remains of last fall’s pumpkin crop in a soggy field along the road, the big bus jounced over a pothole, then lurched as Ralph hit the brakes too hard. “Watch it!” Kenyon yelled. He caught his balance before he spoke again, in a drugged-sounding voice Hester could barely hear over the rumbling diesel.

  “She’d figured out just what a handy little machine you have there,” he said, nodding toward the Instie-Circ, stowed in its case behind Ralph’s seat. Hester looked confused.

  Paul read her thoughts. “Well, maybe you hadn’t put it all together.”

  He smirked. “The thing is, that handy little machine has multiple talents, despite how much you swear at it. Not only can it check ou
t a Dr. Seuss book to a preschooler, but when you get back to the bookmobile barn and plug it into the data line, that little machine is just ancient enough, with such elementary safeguards, that you can access every record in the Portland City Library. And old Sara was so dumb about computers, and such a penny pincher, she had everything on one ancient mainframe. Financial records, too.”

  At this last statement, Kenyon gave another sickly smile. Pride and ego and superiority wrapped into it. Hester wanted to gag at his gloating.

  “And you know, Hest, it’s amazing what you can do these days with electronic fund transfers. Pretty soon, we really are going to be a cashless society. I think it’s wonderful.”

  Ralph turned up the Troutdale ramp onto Interstate 84 eastbound. Hester watched the Sandy River flash by beneath the freeway, and thought of Pim in her jail cell. Anger rose again.

  “So you thought you’d let Pim go to prison for you? You spineless coward!”

  “Shut up!” Kenyon yelled. Hester could see a vein pulse in his forehead. His fury turned to panic as the bookmobile suddenly lurched once more, sending him careening against the dashboard.

  Before Hester could react, Kenyon regained his feet, wildly waving the gun in Ralph’s face. “Cut it out with the brakes! Just– just stop it! Hear me? Don’t screw with me!” He was screaming. Hester wondered if he was hopped up on more than adrenaline.

  “It’s the damn potholes,” Ralph said shakily, fear in his voice. “Sorry. Please.”

  Paul lowered the gun and peered through the windshield, now rain-spattered. The gorge walls towered ahead, cloaked in evergreen and the gray skeletons of bare maples. He breathed fast and shallowly. Hester shrank in her seat.

  “OK, here’s what we’ll do, I think. We’ll keep your appointment at Bonneville. We’ll just play it cool and do what you normally do there. And if you try anything, I’ll maybe have some of your customers join us on our little drive. Maybe a couple of school kids – ”

  “Leave them out of this,” Hester snapped.