Satan's Pony

by Robin Hathaway

  “Thanks.” I decided to head straight down the street to the ocean. Maybe I’d get lucky and she’d be there.

  Despite the surroundings—hot dog stands, game arcades, and cheap bars—my first glimpse of the ocean made me forget Pi and Maggie and Tom and all the rest of the problems I’d been carrying around for the past few days. God, it was beautiful. It had been a long time since I’d been to the seashore. I closed my eyes, shutting out the vendors, the crowds, the rubbish, and inhaled deeply—searching for the smell of the sea. It eluded me on the boardwalk, but as I descended the steps to the beach, the smells of popcorn, cheese steaks, and suntan lotion were whisked away by a fresh sea breeze and I could hear the rhythmic beat and shush of the waves. When I was little, Dad and I had always spent our vacations at the seashore. I missed it.

  When my boots touched sand, I scanned the beach for a cluster of biker beauties. I didn’t have to look far. Even though the beach was crowded, they were easy to spot, because they were the only females without umbrellas—stretched out in a row, soaking up the sun. Fear of skin cancer was for wusses—part of the female biker code, no doubt. I ambled over. There were at least three blondes with nose rings.

  “Which one of you is Wendy?” I asked.

  They raised their heads in unison and stared at me.

  I waited.

  “Who wants to know?” asked the blonde at the end of the row.

  “Jo Banks,” I said. “I’m trying to find out about Sunny’s death.”

  The others laid their heads back down on their towels. The blonde on the end said, “We’ve been through all that with the police.” She fumbled for a cigarette and lit it with some difficulty in the strong breeze.

  Although all I wanted to do was take off my boots and paddle in the water, I lowered my rump on the sand next to her and said, “Tell me about you and Sunny.”

  She took a deep drag on her cigarette and looked away toward the sea. “Sunny and I were over ages ago,” she said, in a tone that belied her statement.

  “Why did you come to the party, then?”

  She looked at me. “I like parties.”

  “You didn’t come because Sunny was there?”

  “Hell, no,” she said. “It’s a big world. Plenty of fish.”

  “Did you talk to him?”

  “Oh, sure. He was glad to see me. But he had other things on his mind.”

  “Such as?”

  “You—for one.” She smiled wickedly. “I saw him cart you off.”

  I swallowed.

  “And he wasn’t feeling too good,” she added. “Something he ate.”

  I was listening carefully. A seagull dived at a trash can nearby, snatched up an old french fry, and flew away. “What did he eat?”

  “How should I know?”

  “Well, you rode back with him. I thought maybe you all stopped for pizza or something.”

  “Nah. We were souped up on meds. They kill the appetite.”

  I nodded knowingly, as if I did meds every day. “Did you see anyone fooling with Sunny’s drinks?”

  Her eyes widened. “He doesn’t … didn’t … drink anything but beer. He couldn’t afford it.”

  “And it would be pretty hard to poison a beer—is that what you’re saying?”

  “Well, yeah. You’d have to pour something into that little hole—and how could you do that before he opened it?”

  “You’ve given this some thought—”

  Her eyelids narrowed. “Say, you don’t think I did Sunny in, do ya?”

  “Hmm?”

  She jumped up, dropping her cigarette and scattering sand. “You bitch,” she yelled, hands on hips.

  “I don’t think anything.” I stood up, too. “I’m just trying to find out what happened to Sunny.”

  Several of the other girls were showing interest. Was one of their own under attack? I didn’t see any weapons lying around, and bikinis don’t leave much room for concealment. But I’d heard that some biker women were pretty good with anything sharp—broken bottles … I eyed the trash can. Cracked seashells … I scanned the sand around us.

  “Sunny was a prick,” yelled one of the recliners.

  “Yeah,” growled another. “Wendy was well rid of him.”

  Wendy still held her confrontational stance, and one by one the others were pulling themselves off their towels like so many self-adhesive postage stamps. I noticed their muscles. Although smaller than those of their male counterparts, the women were nothing to sneeze at. How could these people lead the lives they did and still stay fit? A good topic for a medical study—for some other doctor to tackle, some other time.

  “OK. Thanks for your help.” I backed away.

  “Don’t you want to stay and talk?” This from a woman whose arms and legs looked like they were carved from cedar or oak. They were all standing now, forming a circle around me. They outnumbered me ten to one. It was definitely time to go.

  I took off, pounding the sand with my boots, frightening seagulls and little children carrying buckets. I didn’t care what kind of scene I made; I wasn’t about to be pulverized by a bunch of muscle-bound females. I dashed up the steps to the boardwalk. Not until I was well onto the boards, blending with the crowd, did I dare look back They were still standing, looking after me—spoiling my ocean view.

  My bike had never looked so good. I mounted and started the long trek back to Bayfield. I was halfway home before I asked myself why Wildwood was so crowded in May. Then it dawned on me. It was Memorial Day Weekend.

  CHAPTER 36

  As I arrived at my door, I heard my phone ringing on the other side, I fumbled with my key, crashed in—stubbing my toe on the futon—and grabbed the receiver.

  “Peck here.”

  I drew a deep breath. “Any news?”

  “That sediment in the bottom of the beer bottle …”

  My heart thumped “Yes?”

  “Arsenic, and …”

  Old lace? I waited.

  “The fingerprints on the bottle belonged to Sunny—mostly.”

  “Mostly?”

  “There were two other sets. The ones all over the neck were yours, no doubt.”

  “I tried to be careful.”

  But we couldn’t match the other set to anyone in our database.” He sounded disappointed.

  Pi’s prints were in the national database, because of his prison record. “That clears Pi then, doesn’t it?”

  “Whoa. These prints might belong to anyone—some guy who worked for the beer distributor, or in the deli where the beer was sold. The poisoner who handed Sunny the beer—possibly Pi—probably wore gloves, leaving no prints.”

  Or possibly—Jingles, Wendy, or … Stan

  Why Stan? A scene in the parking lot had played itself out before me. Fran and Sunny—tight as two peas—on his bike. Stan popping up out of nowhere.

  “What about Stan?” I said, and gave him my reason.

  “What was Stan’s room number?” Peck asked.

  “Twenty-three.” As a bonus I gave him Stan’s license number.

  “Good work.”

  UR4ME wasn’t hard to remember.

  “I’ll get back to you.” He hung up.

  I glanced at my clock. Five-thirty. Still sandy and salty from my trip to the seashore, I was dying for a shower, but I called Pi first, anxious to give him the news. It rang five times before voicemail kicked in. Ohmygod. Don’t tell me he’d taken off already. I ran to the parking lot and mounted my bike. Jingles sidled up to me, wearing one of his humorless smirks.

  “Going somewhere?” he asked.

  “What’s it to you?”

  “ … to see Pi?” The smirk turned into a sneer.

  I’m sure I looked guilty. “What were you doing at that party?” I asked, turning the tables. Here was a biker ripe for some questioning. I’d been looking for one all day.

  He seemed surprised. “What d’ya mean? I was the preacher. You saw me.”

  “Not that party. The other one.”r />
  “Boozin’, dancin’—same as you. But you wouldn’t dance with me—remember?” his tone was accusatory.

  “Did you give Sunny something to drink?”

  As it dawned on him where I was headed, his manner changed from bantering to threatening. He leaned in so close I could smell his breath—a combination of stale alcohol and bad teeth. “Watch … it … girl.” The three words glowed between us like hot coals.

  I fired up and cruised out of the lot. Turning right, I headed in the opposite direction from Pi’s hideout. A few minutes later. I heard a bike behind me and glimpsed Jingles in my left side mirror. He was gaining on me. When he came alongside, he came too close. Way too close! I leaned into the shoulder, almost tipping over. “Bastard!” I screamed.

  “Hoo, hoo, hoo, hoo, hoo!” he let out one of his high-pitched squeals and tore off, narrowly missing a hay truck in front of me.

  Asshead.

  As soon as Jingles was out of sight, I made a U-turn and headed for Pi. Of course he might have had his cell phone turned off. But being out of touch made me nervous. Peck had warned that Pi wasn’t out of the woods yet (an apt expression), and there was always the possibility of extradition.

  As I rode, I tried to sort things out. Opportunity, means, and motive—I recited the familiar litany for a murder investigation. Then I applied it to the three suspects: Jingles, Wendy, and Stan.

  They all had opportunity. They were all at the party. They all had means. The rat poison was in the motel closet. But Jingles and Stan were more apt to know of its whereabouts than Wendy, who had just arrived. And by the time the party started, the closets were probably closed and locked. Maybe she had brought her own supply, I thought maliciously.

  As for motive, Jingles had the strongest. Power. He wanted Pi’s job. King of the club. What better way to get rid of Pi than to stick him with a murder rap. And Jingles was probably the only one who knew about Pi’s prison record. Wendy’s motive was easy—sexual jealousy. If she couldn’t have Sunny, then no one else should. And Stan? Again, the image of Sunny and Fran—squeezed together on his bike seat—flashed before me.

  Then there was the matter of character. Not everyone is capable of murder. Or are they? Given the right circumstances? Jingles certainly was. He wore the 1-percent patch. He had killed at least one person. Maybe more. They say it gets easier each time. And of all the bikers, he was the only one I could imagine using poison. He was sneaky.

  Wendy? She was tough. She might even have a mean streak. But a killer? It was hard to judge on such a short acquaintance, but my gut feeling was no. Some of her pals would have been better candidates. But they had no motive. Of course Pi would say the choice of weapon—poison—pointed to a woman. The hell with him.

  That left Stan. His character wasn’t hard to read. A wimpy whiner, weighted down by years with a fickle wife. Not exactly a man of action. Someone who would commit murder.

  A phrase from Jack’s manuscript suddenly came to me. How had he put it?

  The little green man comes in many guises. He can come like a worm in an apple—or like a fire in the furnace.

  In Stan’s case, he could have come both ways. Nibbling like a worm over the years as Fran indulged in her silly dalliances, then suddenly Sunny was one too many—the proverbial last straw—and the fire in the furnace kicked in.

  Deep in my thoughts as I sped through the corridor of phragmites that led to the shack, I didn’t notice the red lights spinning or hear the shouts until I broke into the clearing. Two patrol cars were parked by the door and four troopers were clustered around the porch like flies.

  “Come out with your hands up,” Trooper #1 shouted.

  I pulled to a stop and shut off my motor. “What’s going on?” I shouted.

  Trooper #1 turned, followed by the others.

  “What d’ya know? The girlfriend shows up. Good timing. Another reason for you to come out!” he yelled into the shack.

  “Stay where you are, Pi!” I yelled, spreading my glare among the troopers. “I told you, you can’t touch him,” I addressed Trooper #1.

  “That out-of-state line doesn’t hold up anymore!” he said, flapping a sheaf of papers at me. “We got the documents to extradite him.”

  “Let me see those.” I dismounted and walked over to him. The other troopers were grinning. To my dismay, the papers looked authentic. A warrant signed by the governor and several other high state officials. When I looked up, Pi was on the porch staring at me.

  “I don’t know about this …” I said hesitantly.

  “Sure, you don’t know. You don’t know shit from Shinola.” He took the cuffs off his belt and shook the screen door. “Come on, Apple Pie, or whatever your name is. You’re comin’ with us.”

  I saw Pi tense. I knew he was contemplating making a run for it, out the back door, where his bike was parked. But common sense prevailed. He knew they were armed, and he wasn’t suicidal. Slowly he unhooked the screen door and stood aside to let them in.

  They cuffed him and hauled him down the steps. As they shoved him into a patrol car, he muttered to me, “Take care of my bike,” and pressed his keys into my hand. (He must have taken them from his pocket before they cuffed him.) He seemed unruffled, except for one thing—no one but me, or maybe his mother, would have noticed it. When Archie was a boy, he had a habit of swallowing repeatedly when he was upset. In those days his neck was skinny and you could see his Adam’s apple shooting up and down spasmodically. When Pi had pressed his bike keys into my hand, I’d seen a repeated ripple under the now taut skin of his full neck

  “We’ll have you out in no time!” I growled.

  He nodded. I think he actually trusted me. Damn. Damn. Damn. And I had no idea how I could back up my words.

  After they left, I rode around to the rear of the shack, parked my bike, and mounted Pi’s. In the midst of misery there were always a few bonuses. I roared off.

  CHAPTER 37

  A patrol car was in front of the motel. (I couldn’t get away from them.) Paul was at the desk, looking drained and frail. Marie was sitting stiffly on the sofa looking furious. No bikers. They were probably at the local bars getting an early start on Saturday night.

  “What’s up?” I asked.

  “The police are searching room twenty-three, the one next to yours, for fingerprints,” Paul said wearily.

  “I’m done with my shift, but they won’t let me go home,” Marie burst out. “They say I cleaned that room too good.” She was indignant.

  I had to laugh. “That’s a backhanded compliment, Marie. You should be happy,”

  She glowered.

  “Is Peck here?”

  “He’s here,” Paul said.

  “He’s the one who told me I take my cleaning too seriously!” Marie piped up.

  “I’ll see what I can do.” I had a bone of my own to pick with Peck.

  He was leaning against the doorjamb of room 23, supervising. Over his shoulder, I glimpsed two forensics, a man and a woman, working like beavers with an array of complicated equipment.

  I confronted Peck. “What’s the big idea?”

  He turned and drawled, “Just doing my job.”

  “I don’t mean this. I mean arresting Pi.”

  “Just doing my job,” he repeated.

  “I thought you’d hold off at least till you checked out this guy.” I tapped the number 23 tacked to the door.

  “Can’t leave any stone unturned,” he said sanctimoniously.

  I wanted to slug him. But I also wanted to find out the results of the search. I decided not to push it. “How’s this going?” I asked.

  He frowned. “Nothing so far. The maids are too conscientious in this dump.”

  “Careful. You’re speaking of my home.”

  “Sorry.” He didn’t look sorry.

  “What about Stan?”

  “We sent some people to Cherry Hill to pick him up.”

  I felt better. “Arrest him?”

  “We don’t hav
e enough evidence for an arrest. They’re just bringing him in for questioning.”

  “Will you be able to get his prints?”

  “Not without his consent.”

  Damn. “What happens next?”

  “We’ll be done here in a few minutes,” he said disconsolately.

  “Then we go back to headquarters and wait.”

  I wasn’t the only one who had to wait, I realized. Suddenly I had an idea. “Excuse me.” I darted into my room, grabbed my box of surgical gloves, and headed for the basement.

  The motel basement was an enormous cinderblock space used for storage: carpet remnants, insulating material, tools, etc. Paul had a workbench down here, where he and I had once concocted a scarecrow. It seemed like a lifetime ago. The end nearest the stairs was filled with dark green trash bags. At least thirty of them. Trash was picked up Tuesdays and Fridays. There was no way to identify which rooms or even which floors the bags had come from. They weren’t neatly labeled by room number—21, 22, 23. I groaned and attacked the nearest bag.

  Sixteen bags and three pairs of surgical gloves later, I located the bourbon bottles. I lifted one carefully and set it on the bottom step. I refilled the last trash bag, retied it with a twistum, and clasping the bottle gingerly by the neck, returned to room 23.

  They were just finishing up. The forensics were packing their equipment and Peck was watching them with a dejected expression.

  “Try this.”

  “Huh?”

  I pushed the brown bottle at him. “I took it from one of Stan’s trash baskets. I’ll bet it’s loaded with prints.”

  He called the male forensic over and told him to test the bottle. He was annoyed at having to unpack again. Sure enough—a perfect set of prints emerged! The specialist handed the bottle to his female partner who wrapped it carefully in a paper sack and labeled it “evidence.” With a look that bordered on respectful, Peck said, “I’ll be in touch.”

  CHAPTER 38

  And he was. He called me an hour later and asked me to come to Headquarters to sit in on Stan’s inquiry. He didn’t have to ask twice.