Murder on Pea Pike

by Jean Harrington

  I snuffled up my nose and risked a peek in the rearview mirror. A forlorn-looking face with red eyes and a red nose stared back.

  “Know what your problem is, Honey? You’re jealous, plain and simple. Things could be worse, far worse. Think of poor Tallulah Bixby, whoever she was. At least you’re alive, and this isn’t the end of the world. Just the end of your silly dreaming.”

  Three years ago, when I broke up with Saxby, I promised myself no more substitutes for the real thing, no more talking myself into believing love was in the air when it was just a drift from the outhouse. Now was the time to remember that promise and the night I swore it.

  Not that I could ever forget the very first time I met Sam. Every minute of that night was etched in my brain. Saxby had dragged me to the Bijou to see some kind of action film with lots of explosions and body parts flying in the air. That was bad enough. Worse, he had a flask in his jacket pocket and kept nipping at it throughout the film. When the show was over, I refused to get in the car with him. After an argument on the sidewalk outside the theater, he let me drive us to Josie’s for coffee.

  Later, rowdy and mean drunk, despite two black coffees and a Danish, he snatched his keys off the tabletop and lurched to his feet. “Come on. Let’s get outta here.”

  “I’m not going with you, Saxby. You’re not fit to drive.”

  His eyes got small and kind of slitty. “The likesa you is tellin’ me what’s fittin’ and what ain’t? I took you out of the gutter. ’Member that, Missy. Now get the hell outside and into the damn car.”

  That’s when Sam came to the rescue with nothing more than his strong right arm. One tap on Saxby’s chest and ol’ Saxby collapsed, useless as a flat tire.

  “You heard her,” Sam said. “The lady isn’t going anywhere with you. You’re drunk. Josie, call the police.”

  “Why you—”

  Saxby went to rise up but didn’t quite make it. Instead, he landed back on his rear end and passed out on the leatherette cushion. After he’d been hauled off to the hoosegow, Sam and I had a long talk. Seemed he’d been following my sales record through MLS, and, liking what he’d seen, he offered me a job right there on the spot. Needless to say, I grabbed it.

  Ridley’s realty business rivaled Winthrop’s, and best of all, Sam was the first honorable man I’d ever known. He was always calm and levelheaded, always in control, so unlike my daddy or Billy Tubbs or Saxby the Rat. I was sure I could do a mighty fine job for him, and deep in my heart, hoped that someday he’d ….

  After a blind search, I found my compact and slapped some powder on my nose.

  “Better,” I told the face in the rearview mirror. “Not good, but better.” I stared into those red eyes. “So far, I’ve kept vow one. Now, here’s vow two. The day Sam Ridley marries Lila Lott, I’m quitting my job and moving out of Eureka Falls.”

  “Oh no you’re not.” Lord Almighty, I’m hearing voices now. “That’s your jealousy talking. I thought your momma didn’t raise no stupid children. Leave Eureka Falls and you’ll be throwing away your contacts and a town that’s become home to you. And what about all the friends you’ve made?”

  “If they’re true friends, they’ll understand.”

  “You’ll walk away with nothing.”

  “Not so. I have five years’ experience in the real estate business. When I leave, that’ll go with me. It’s more than I had when I rode in here on the back of Billy’s bike. And besides, Sam isn’t married yet.” Tamping down the little voice that whispered, “Forget it, he soon will be,” I put the car in gear and drove over to the Eureka Falls Police Station.

  Ellie, the dispatcher, looked away from her keyboard long enough to shrug a shoulder in Deputy Zach’s direction.

  He stood as I approached his desk outside of Matt Rameros’ inner office. “I’m on my way out, Honey. You here to sign your statement?”

  I nodded.

  “Have a seat.” He upped his chin at a row of molded plastic chairs against the wall. “Matt has somebody with him, but he shouldn’t be long. Ellie can get you a cup of coffee.”

  “No thanks. I’ll just wait.”

  “Suit yourself.” He gave me a two-fingered salute and left.

  I studied the wanted posters for a while then opened my cell and texted my clients to firm up our noon appointment. A murmur of voices came through the thin, plywood partition of Matt’s office. A minute or so later, chairs scraped against the floor and the door opened. Out popped none other than Charles Ames. As he hurried toward the front entrance, I jumped off my seat.

  “Mr. Ames!”

  He stopped and turned around to see who had called his name. At the sight of me, he winced and glanced about as if he needed an escape route.

  “Remember me, Honey Ingersoll? Your real estate agent? Or maybe I should say, one of them.”

  “Of course I remember you.”

  I pointed to his sling. “How’s your poor shoulder?”

  “Fine. It’s fine.” Holding a briefcase in his good hand, he stood shuffling his feet as if hell-bent to get away. But I wasn’t about to let him go yet.

  “I understand you have an interest in Sloane’s acres out near the Hermann place. That parcel hasn’t been listed yet, but when it is, Ridley’s Real Estate would be happy to accommodate you. I only hope the accident I caused wasn’t the reason you turned to another agency.”

  He shook his head. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”

  “But I have it on very good authority” ha! “that you ….”

  He stepped away from me so fast the briefcase slapped against his thigh. Nodding a curt farewell to Ellie, he hustled out of the station without another word.

  Hmm. Somebody had lied to me. Either Saxby Winthrop or Charles Ames. But which one? The man with the teenage girlfriend or the man with the sling? Sam was correct. Something was going down over at Pea Pike.

  “Honey, want to come in my office?”

  I whirled around.

  “You been crying?” Matt peered into my eyes.

  “No, Sheriff, ’course not. I just had a speck under the lid earlier.”

  “You shouldn’t lie to a cop. Didn’t your daddy ever tell you that?”

  I suppose I could have been a Savannah-style lady and said my daddy never had a reason to say any such thing, but it came out, “Hell no.”

  He laughed, and with a hand on my elbow, escorted me into his office. Lined with locked steel filing cabinets, the cramped space held a desk, two chairs, and except for his family wall art, not much else. Born in Arkansas, Matt had a warm-toned Mexican complexion. To prove both facts, not that he had to or anything, he kept a copy of his parents’ immigration papers of twenty-nine years ago on the wall, along with his birth certificate dated a year later.

  After riffling through some papers on his messy desktop, he plucked out one and handed it to me. “You might want to read this before you sign.”

  When I took it from him, our fingers accidentally touched. Or if not accidentally, I could have told Matt he was wasting his time. My sexy vibes weren’t even on autopilot; they had completely conked out.

  Anyway, I scanned the statement, signed it, and slid it back to him. “This looks about right.”

  Frowning, he placed it face down on his desk. “Since you’re involved in this Bixby case, I want you to know something.”

  Another man with news.

  “I’ve called in the state police. I would have preferred not to, but it’s the only way. Eureka Falls doesn’t have the manpower or the forensic backup to investigate a murder. Not one like this, with no witnesses and no obvious motive.”

  “None at all?”

  “Not at the present. Without a sign of forced entry, we can’t tell if the victim went into the house willingly or not. And we found no weapon. That fact plus the blood spatter pattern eliminates suicide.”

  “Blood pattern?”

  He nodded. “The killer shot from about two feet away.” H
e laid his muscular arms on the desktop and leaned in. “You sure you never met the victim before that morning at Ridley’s?”

  “Never.”

  “Do you know anyone who did? In your job, you meet a lot of people. Maybe you ran into a high school friend of hers. Or a distant relative or a neighbor.”

  “A neighbor? She was from Fayetteville, Matt.” To citizens of Eureka Falls, Fayetteville was the moon, and Matt knew it.

  He grinned, a tad lopsided, but still a grin. Except for hunting season, the local townsfolk didn’t do a lot of traipsing around the countryside. At least not countryside that involved big cities.

  “Haven’t you found out anything about her?” I asked. “Where she lived? Why she was here in the first place? Anything?”

  “I’m not at liberty to say.”

  The abandoned Caddy had been registered in Tallulah’s name. That meant he did know who she was and where she lived. Stood to reason. He knew far more than he was letting on. So, why pump me for information?

  “There’s something else.” He hesitated like he didn’t want to tell me what it was. “To the state police, you’re a person of interest.”

  The muscles in my neck tensed. “What does that mean?”

  He pointed at my report. “Your signed statement says you were first on the scene. You arrived there before Ames.”

  “That doesn’t mean I killed her.”

  “I couldn’t agree more. That’s one reason I didn’t want to call in State. But I had no choice. A girl’s been murdered. Until you’re cleared of suspicion, they’ll be checking into your background, looking for a motive. When they don’t find one, they’ll move on.” He stared at me, his troubled dark eyes darker than ever. “I probably shouldn’t be telling you all this, but consider it a warning from a friend.”

  A warning from a friend who happened to be the town sheriff. Not the same as a warning from your granny. I stiffened on my hard wooden chair. To be considered a person of interest in a murder case was worse than Daddy’s temper, worse than Billy’s abuse, worse than Saxby’s drunken fits. This was being dumped on big time, and I’d be damned if I’d just sit and take it. Little Miss Real Estate Agent needed to fight back. For my sake and for Tallulah’s too. You might even say the time had come to kick ass, but not if you were as elegant as Lila Lott. Or me.

  Chapter Eight

  For what I was conjuring up, I needed darkness, not noon sun, so I reined in my impatience and did what I had to do next, meet my clients.

  “Knock six hundred dollars off for a new water heater and y’all have a deal,” Dexter Jones said an hour later.

  “Sounds mighty fine to me,” I replied, “but I’ll have to check with the owner. I can call her right now if you like.”

  “No, I’m not convinced this is the one, sweetie,” his wife said. “I don’t like these Formica countertops. My heart’s set on granite. You know the kind with little flecks of color sprinkled through it.”

  “Emma, we’ve already looked at over two dozen places.” His voice tinged with irritation, Dexter upped his chin at me. “This lady’s running out of houses in our price range.”

  True! I wanted to shout. Either that or kiss Dexter on both cheeks and knock off his John Deere cap while I was at it. In all our viewings, he’d never once removed it. Probably bald as a fireplug.

  Anyway, the time had come for me to do what Cletus Dwyer found distasteful, jump between a husband and wife. So, I squared my shoulders. “Mrs. Jones, I do believe your husband’s right.”

  Dexter’s eyes widened as if he didn’t hear that very often.

  “Look at it this way. You can replace the counters at a later date, but once you buy a house, you can’t change the location.” I pointed out the kitchen windows. “See that beautiful grassy yard? What a wonderful place for your children to play, and best of all, this street’s a cul-de-sac. No through traffic, ever.” I paused to let her think that over, then hauled out my big guns. “Your little ones can ride their bikes around here and you’ll never have to fear for their safety. What do countertops matter compared to that?”

  “Well, when you put it that way,” she hesitated for a long, breathless moment, “I have to agree.” She beamed a triumphant smile at her husband. “Let’s take it, Dexter.”

  He tugged off his cap, revealing a mop of curly black hair, and gave my hand a firm shake. “Thanks, young lady. Now don’t forget about that water heater.”

  “I surely won’t, Mr. Jones.” I reached into my purse for the cell.

  Sounding happy, and without bothering to make any counter offers, the owner agreed to the sale. As soon as Dexter gave me a check for the down payment, I wrote Cletus Dwyer’s name on the back of my card and handed it to him. “For your mortgage, I suggest you apply to the Eureka Falls Savings & Loan. Feel free to say I sent you and deal directly with Mr. Dwyer. No one else. You’ll get the best rates from him.”

  In truth, mortgage rates were pretty much fixed, but I knew Cletus would do everything possible to help me complete this sale.

  As the Joneses headed for the bank, I headed for my apartment, though my day was far from over. But going back to the office and facing Sam so soon after he’d dropped his bombshell was more than I could bear right now. When I got home, I’d check my calls and try to relax until the witching hour.

  Twelve a.m.

  I parted my living room curtains to peek out onto Hillside Avenue. No moon tonight. Good. I slid into some clothes that, if a body was so inclined, were dark enough for rum-running. Black jeans and turtleneck and a black headscarf. Sneakers, keys, a flashlight, and I was ready to go.

  I stepped out into a night filled with the scent of spring. Night-blooming jasmine maybe. And lilac. Yes, lilac. Pulling some of that sweet air into my lungs, I put the Lincoln in gear and purred across town. As I eased along deserted Main Street, nothing moved in the light cast by the streetlamps. In the darkness between the lights, the velvet night lay eerily still. Just what I wanted.

  At the corner of Briggs and Main, I turned right and coasted into the parking lot behind Winthrop Realty. For old time’s sake, or maybe from force of habit, I parked in the slot that had been mine when I worked, in more ways than one, for Saxby.

  Key in hand, I padded over to the back door. With any luck, Saxby hadn’t changed the locks. Why would he? Crime was rare in Eureka Falls. Besides, what did he have to fear from two female ex-employees?

  Heart pounding, I inserted the key. With a click that sounded like a rifle shot in the silence, the tumblers slid back. Bingo. I stepped inside, closed the door, then stood still in the dark for a moment. Had Saxby changed things around, moved the office furniture?

  No. Everything was where I remembered it. Even the glowing green eyes of the printers were in their familiar locations. I tiptoed over to the wall of steel filing cabinets behind the new secretary’s desk. I’d start with A for Ames. If nothing came up, I’d try S for Sloane. If that failed, P for prospects. Surely one of the files would yield some useful info.

  Hoping the light wouldn’t show from the street, I aimed my flashlight into the A drawer. I didn’t have to look far. There it was, Ames, C. I lifted the folder out and laid it on a desk. Bending over for a closer look, I beamed the ray of light onto the file’s single page. Ah! I knew there had to be more to this than ….

  Was that the back door creaking open? Didn’t I lock it? I froze as a footfall sounded behind me. Then another. Someone who meant no good was heading straight for me. Oh, Lord in heaven! Before I could whirl around or even let out a scream, a large, callused hand clamped over my mouth. Seizing me in a body lock, a hard arm wrapped around my waist. The flashlight flew out of my fingers and rattled along the floor.

  “Don’t move,” he said, and my thundering heart slowed to its usual steady beat. Matt Rameros. Phew, at least an arm of the law had me in its grip, not a killer. “If I let you go, no noise. Understood?”

  When I nodded, he loosened his hold. I stepped away and spun around to f
ace him. “You nearly scared me to death.”

  He picked up my flashlight and flipped it off. In its brief glow, he hadn’t been smiling. “What are you doing in here?”

  “Well, I—”

  “Breaking and entering,” he said before I could dream up an answer.

  “What a thing to say. I want you to know I have a key.”

  “And I want you to know you have a problem. You’re under arrest.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “I never kid.” He handed me the flashlight. “Keep this off. No need to attract undue attention. Your Lincoln out there’s making enough of a statement.”

  That was when I knew there’d be no arrest. A flood of relief washed through me.

  “So, to repeat my question, what are you doing here in the middle of the night? Make it good.”

  Since he’d caught me arm deep in Saxby’s cookie jar, I figured honesty was the best policy. Also, on a gut level, I trusted Matt, something I hadn’t realized until that very moment.

  “I think Saxby Winthrop is up to something. Some kind of land deal he was supposed to keep secret but couldn’t help boasting about. It’s a property out near the Hermann place.”

  “An illegal deal?”

  I shrugged, though he probably couldn’t see it in the dark. “I don’t know. That’s what I’m trying to find out. It involves Charles Ames. Whether legal or illegal, whatever they’re doing is sneaky.”

  “Like breaking and entering?”

  I sensed more than saw his smile. “I didn’t break in. I used a key that’s my legal possession.”

  “Hand it over, and I’ll call this escapade a draw. I’ll even go one better. Put the file back where you found it, promise you won’t pull this stunt again, and we’ll forget this ever happened.”