Dead Man Stalking (Barbara Marr Murder Mystery Series Book 5)

by Karen Cantwell

  Vikki and I exchanged a look of disbelief.

  She jumped to her feet. “Hey! Stop that right now!”

  Wee Willy shot her a chilling glare with those icy eyes. Carney motioned his assistant to wheel him out, and in short order, they, like the others, were gone.

  “So these were your father’s friends?” I asked Vikki. “Not very friendly.”

  “Cecil was a good man,” said Moyle. “Are the police looking for his killer?”

  Surprisingly, Vikki didn’t flinch at the question. “It was an accident.”

  “I don’t think it was an accident,” he said, shaking his head.

  “He fell in front of a bus.”

  I detected a hint of irritation in her voice.

  Moyle laughed. “Cee Cee? Fall? In an alternate universe, maybe.”

  “Do you know something I don’t?” she demanded.

  “I know too many things, Ms. Cleveland. Too many. ‘Scuze me. I need to find a bathroom.” He pointed a finger at Vikki. “You should be finding his killer.”

  Chapter Eight

  Moyle never returned from his trip to the bathroom. The only other visitors were two of Cecil’s five ex-wives verifying with their own eyes that he was, in fact, dead. They left afterward to celebrate.

  Vikki and I sat in the large room waiting for the viewing time to end. “That Moyle guy was sure interesting, wasn’t he?”

  “Cecil had a way of finding interesting people. Usually at the homeless shelter.”

  “The one across from the library?”

  She nodded.

  “Moyle was homeless?”

  “I’m assuming as much. Neither of them would admit it, though. According to Cecil, Moyle is a time traveler from the twenty-sixth century. How convenient is that? If I had to guess, he’s a traveler from St. Elizabeth’s and they’re probably looking for him as we speak.”

  “Where did they meet?”

  “At the library. Cecil spent a lot of time there using their computers. He was too paranoid to have his own internet account, much less a computer.”

  “So he told you about Moyle, but none of these other people?”

  “I knew he rented a room from a woman, but he never told me her name.”

  “How about the wheelchair guy and his assistant?”

  “They run that lawn care company—the one with the old guys in hats and the long beards.”

  “I know that one,” I said. “ZZ Crop Lawn Care. They do one of my neighbors’ lawns. Geez. Maybe I saw your dad and never knew it.”

  “Yeah, well, he wasn’t a regular employee. He just picked up work when he needed some cash in between his get-rich schemes.”

  Finally, the viewing time came to an end. We closed the doors behind us after Vikki said one final goodbye to the man she called Cecil.

  I felt bad that she didn’t have a close relationship with her father, and wondered if she was less at peace with his passing than she appeared.

  Outside in the steamy heat, we said our goodbyes. “I’m going straight to the train station from here,” Vikki said, “but I left a key with Rosetta. She’ll only be there until three today though, so maybe you should go over now to get it.”

  “I can do that.”

  “Good. I’ll text her from my car.”

  “Thank you, again.”

  “You’re doing me a favor too. It’s nice to know someone will be keeping an eye on my place while I’m gone. Rosetta’s mother had a stroke last night so she’s leaving for Brazil tonight. She has no idea when she’ll be back.”

  “Poor Rosetta,” I gasped.

  “I know, it’s terrible,” she agreed.

  Vikki told me where to find the thermostat to control the temperature in the house, how to operate the retractable shade on her deck, and said I was free to use her pontoon boat. “Just read the motor instructions first. Have friends over and take them out if you like,” she added. “I don’t use it nearly as much as I should.”

  “I have two friends who will love that.” I gave her a light hug. “Listen, have a good trip.”

  When I finally got into my van, dripping sweat, I tore off the hat and blasted the air conditioning. I was buckling my seat belt when my phone rang.

  I cringed when I saw it was Guy.

  “Hi Guy,” I answered contritely.

  “You didn’t ask her, did you?”

  “I told you, it was her father’s viewing. It wasn’t appropriate timing. But I have good news. She’s letting me stay at her house while she’s gone. I’m sure I’ll have the chance to ask her soon. Any leads on Mr. Chang?”

  “I’m not sure I should tell you.”

  “Come on, Guy.”

  “There are no suspects at this time. That’s all they’re telling me.”

  “Okay,” I said. “I promise I’ll talk to her soon, and I’ll call you if the news is good.”

  He grumbled and hung up.

  I was excited to get to Vikki’s house, get the key, and call Roz and Peggy. It was my turn to have a wine soiree, only we’d be doing ours on Lake Muir on Vikki’s pontoon boat.

  My drive across town would have been less stressful, though, if I hadn’t noticed a familiar car following me. I’d seen it in the parking lot after the viewing. The car Moyle Just Moyle had mentioned: a tomato-red Camaro with license plates “RD CIGAR.”

  Chapter Nine

  Red Cigala tailed me for nearly five minutes. He made every turn I made, only signaling the turn after I did. Four blocks from Vikki’s house, I was considering my options, one of them being a call to 911, when the red Camaro turned into the gas station at Nine Oaks Land and Thin Branches Road.

  With my heart racing, I kept an eye on the rear view mirror. When I pulled into Vikki’s driveway, the Camaro was still nowhere in sight. I slipped out of my van warily and watched the street while I rang the bell for Rosetta.

  She didn’t answer, so I knocked loudly and rang the bell again. I was somewhat calmed by the fact that I hadn’t seen Cigala again, but was now irritated that Rosetta wasn’t coming to the door.

  Swearing under my breath, I rang one more time. When that didn’t elicit a response, I tried the door knob. It was unlocked.

  “Hello!” I shouted, stepping across the threshold. “Rosetta?”

  No answer.

  I took two more hesitant steps into the entry way. “Rosetta! It’s Barbara Marr.”

  As I passed the staircase, I heard footsteps, followed by a shriek. Make that two shrieks. Mine and Rosetta’s.

  “Oh, Miss Marr,” she said, grabbing her chest with one hand and pulling ear buds out of her ears with the other. “You scared me! Why are you here?”

  “I scared you? You scared me. I rang the bell several times. Didn’t Vikki text you that I was coming for the key?”

  “No. I think not. Wait a minute.” She retrieved a dated flip-type phone from the pocket of the sweater she had wrapped around her waist. “Oh my. Yes. She did send me the text. I am so sorry. I did not hear with the music in my ears. I like it when I clean. The music.”

  That made sense. Now if only my heart would slow down enough to understand. “You know, Rosetta, if you’re going to listen to music with ear buds when you clean, you should probably keep the front door locked.”

  “Yes, yes,” she agreed, nodding. “You are right.” She pointed toward the kitchen. “The key is this way. She keeps an extra in the cookie jar.”

  I followed, about to say how sorry I was about her mother, when my attention was drawn to a mess on the couch. The faded backpack was open and its contents were strewn about. “Rosetta, did you do this?”

  Already in the kitchen with the granite-topped island between us, she stopped to see what I was talking about. Her eyes widened. “No! How did that
happen? Miss Vikki put that in her office when she left. I see her put it there myself. With my own eyes.”

  I scanned the room and realized that a sliding glass door to Vikki’s deck was wide open.

  “And you didn’t leave that door open?” I asked.

  She shook her head. “No.” Her eyes grew even wider. “And this door I know it was closed because I locked it myself after watering outside plants. I was thinking to myself, Rosetta, lock this door now so you not forget before you leave.” She nodded. “Yes, yes. That is what I did.”

  She seemed honest enough and we had done her background check. She had no reason to lie. And I liked Rosetta. She was a little dramatic, but I have three daughters, so I’m kind of used to drama.

  “You aren’t going to tell Miss Vikki, are you?”

  “I have to tell her, Rosetta, but don’t worry. These things happen. First we have to see if anything was stolen. Help me look around.”

  “Stolen?” Rosetta’s eyes grew even wider.

  She began to scour the downstairs for signs of any theft while I collected the items in the backpack. Everything I’d seen the day before was still there, except for the manuscript, of course, which was at my house. Even the money, down to the last two pennies, was still there.

  Rosetta returned from her scan of the house, reporting no signs of anything missing or even out of place.

  “Are you very sure this wasn’t like this when you started cleaning?” I asked again.

  She gave that some thought. “You know, I cannot be that sure. I have been so upset. So many bad things happening. I must be all jumbled in the head, you know. And now that I think of it, I can not even think if I closed that door when I finished with the plants outside. I probably left it open wide just like that.”

  She had changed her tune awfully fast. “But you’re sure nothing in the house is missing or disturbed.”

  “Nothing.”

  “I wonder if we should call the police?”

  “I am thinking for what reason? I was upstairs for maybe two or three minutes—who could come in then? No, I am pretty sure it was my jumbled brain making me forget this mess and the door. I tell you though, I won’t forget the door another time. I have learned the lesson. But I must go now. I have an appointment.”

  “Okay. Oh, and I’m very sorry about your mother.”

  She looked confused. “What?” She wrung her hands nervously. “Oh, my mother. Yes. Thank you. Jumbled in the brain. Do you need anything else from me?”

  “The key please.”

  “Oh, the key!” She ran to the kitchen and was back in a second, key in hand. “Here you go. Thank you, Miss Marr. You have a good day.”

  Her behavior was definitely odd, but I’d done her background check and spoken personally with two of her previous employers, who had nothing but glowing comments about her work, professionalism, and trustworthiness.

  She probably was just jumbled in the brain over her mother’s stroke. I’ve been jumbled in the brain by far less.

  I zipped up the backpack and set it in the dining room. Then I dialed Vikki’s cell phone, figuring I should at least mention the incident, but my call went right to voicemail. Not wanting to worry her, I decided against leaving a message. I’d try again later.

  For now I was going to lock up, go home, pack a few things, including a yappy poodle, and invite Peggy and Roz for some evening wine while watching the sun set over Lake Muir.

  As I was slipping my phone back into my purse, I noticed a cell phone on the kitchen island. Thinking Rosetta had left hers behind, I picked it up and put it out of the way on a table beside the fridge, reminding myself to mention that to Vikki when we talked. Hopefully Rosetta would realize she was missing it before she left for Brazil.

  Chapter Ten

  At home I took some time to check in with the girls. Predictably, they were having a blast with their grandmothers. If they missed me, it was an afterthought. I felt good that they weren’t miserably homesick, but could have gone for a bit more longing. Just a wee bit.

  I tried to call Howard, but his phone went straight to voicemail which meant he was working. Just to keep him informed, I sent a text telling him about my plans to stay at Vikki’s house. I really yearned to hear his voice though.

  Missing the girls and Howard didn’t slow my plans for getting back to a cooler house. I worked quickly, first inviting Roz and Peggy for a wine party at sunset. Peggy could barely contain herself when I said I was staying at Vikki Cleveland’s house. And when she found out we’d be relaxing on Vikki Cleveland’s pontoon boat, I thought I might have to send the paramedics over to revive her.

  With the arrangements made, I left food and water for the cats, scooped up Puddles, his food, and his crate and locked up my inferno of a house. I headed out for a blissfully air conditioned house.

  After acquainting Puddles with the house and getting the wine into the fridge, I plopped onto Vikki’s comfy couch and soaked in the stunning lake view before deciding to pick up Cecil’s manuscript.

  With three daughters at various stages of neediness, I have little extra time in my life for luxuries like reading. Despite my love of the title, I had low expectations for Dead Man Stalking as a novel. I mean, Cecil wasn’t a published author like his daughter. So I was pleasantly surprised when he hooked me from the first page. Sam Storm was a lovable, bumbling nerd who worked in a hamburger joint. In Chapter One he was minding his own business while walking home from work when three cars sped by and tried to plug him full of bullets from an arsenal of automatic military-grade artillery.

  He thought it was just a random drive-by shooting until he got home and his house exploded. This was a guy I could relate to.

  I was in the middle of Chapter Four when the doorbell rang. I didn’t want to put the book down because Sam had just escaped decapitation, but when it tolled insistently a second time, I figured I owed it to Vikki to answer it. Maybe she was expecting a package or something. I knew it wasn’t Roz and Peggy—they weren’t due for another two hours.

  I put Puddles in his crate, which was standard operating procedure in our house since he liked to jump on people and scratch their legs to shreds.

  Opening the door, I was startled to see Isbel with-the-long-Polish-name from the funeral parlor. The woman wore more eyeliner than the entire band of KISS. And she bore an eerie resemblance to Natasha from the Rocky and Bullwinkle cartoons.

  Isbel whatever-her-name-was held a black case in her arms. “I am looking for Vikki Cleveland. Is she in this house?”

  “No,” I said, “I’m sorry, she isn’t.”

  “When, may I ask, do you expect her to return?”

  “Sometime Saturday. Can I help you?”

  “This I do not know. How well do you know Vikki? Are you perhaps, lovers?”

  I laughed. “No. No we’re not. I’m married.” For some reason, I felt compelled to clarify that statement. “To a man,” I added.

  “Oh,” she said. “I am so happy for you. But how well do you know Vikki, the daughter of Cecil Cleveland, scum of the earth and stealer of fortunes?”

  Eesh. Was she for real? “Maybe you should just come back another time,” I said. “Or I can take your number and have her contact you.”

  Isbel shoved the case at me. “This was his.” She spat on the ground. “Traitor.” She straightened, and her lips curled into a sneery smile that made my skin crawl. “Glad to have that off my arms. It is so heavy. It was his typie writer. May I come in?”

  She pushed past me into Vikki’s large foyer while I struggled to take possession of the typie writer without dropping it.

  “I don’t know...” My reluctance was in vain. She was already in the house.

  “Just for a moment to escape this oppressive heat.” She fanned herself vigorously. “I am near to die!
You can get me a glass of water with some ice, no?”

  Well, if she was near to die, could I refuse? “Okay. Sure. But just for a minute while you drink the water. This isn’t my house and I don’t know that I should be letting strangers in.”

  “I am no stranger. I met you this morning. I told you my name, so you know me. I am Isbel Morozov-Pivovarski.”

  “Yes, yes, I remember.” That last name was easy to forget though. It was a customer service rep’s worst nightmare. “The kitchen is straight ahead and to your right.”

  She breezed past me, her eyes scanning her surroundings with keen interest. Too much interest if you ask me. “I bring Cee Cee’s typie writer for his daughter. It is all he left at my apartment when he flew the nest.”

  I think she meant flew the coop, but I wanted to get her that water and move along, so I wasn’t going to correct her. I set the typewriter on the kitchen island and began opening cupboard doors looking for a glass.

  “He did not believe in computers you know. They are the tools of the ruling elite he said—how they spy on the minions known as taxpayers.”

  It took me several tries before I found the glasses. I grabbed one, filled it with cold water from the fridge, and handed it to Isbel. “Here you go. Nice and cold.” I tried to be as nice as possible. Isbel seemed to be a bit of a Jekyll and Hyde. I didn’t want to stir the Hyde in her before we waved adios.

  Isbel took the glass and meandered to the living room, admiring the view of Lake Muir. I couldn’t blame her. The view was spectacular.

  When her gaze drifted down to the couch, she spotted the manuscript. “Is that what I think it is? Is that my Cee Cee’s novel?”

  “Yes,” I answered. “It is.”