Death Takes a Ride (The Cate Kinkaid Files Book #3): A Novel

by Lorena McCourtney

  “Oh, I don’t think so. I wouldn’t be sending you after him if I thought he was dangerous. It’s more that I don’t want him knowing how eager I am to buy the bike or he’ll jack up the price even more. Just find out where I can get in touch with him, and I’ll approach him about the bike myself.”

  “Okay.”

  “In fact, I want this kept confidential all around,” Matt added. “I don’t want our customer to find this bike before I do and buy it himself. It can be a good moneymaker for us.”

  “Our work is always confidential.”

  12

  Cate spent the morning serving a subpoena on an uncooperative recipient and worked on another case on the computer that afternoon.

  She was trying to locate a husband who had skipped out on paying his child support, and, as so often happened, she wound up wishing she had Mitch’s computer expertise. Taking a break from that case, she tried digging up something on Andy Timmons and/or his motorcycle.

  She found some Andy Timmons information, but the name wasn’t all that unique, and most of what she found wasn’t connected to the man Halliday wanted to locate. One thing she did determine was that the old Indian motorcycle was registered to him. She made a note of the address, which was not the Jefferson Street address Matt Halliday had tried.

  Purely out of curiosity, she also tried Mace Jackson’s name on a search engine and then on a couple of Uncle Joe’s PI databases. The Jackson name wasn’t uncommon, of course, and she didn’t know if Mace was real or a nickname, so she didn’t find much that she could identify as specifically him, not even a vehicle registration or driver’s license. Which must mean there had been something else on the body that the police used to identify him the night he was killed.

  What she did find in a small newspaper article from a Salem newspaper was that someone by the name of Mace Jackson had placed second in a fifty-mile bicycle road race there. It seemed an unlikely activity for a gunman, but there was that bicycle she’d seen out back at H&B. Crime and an interest in bicycling were not necessarily exclusive, she supposed. Maybe she could check—

  She interrupted herself. No. No checking. Because, as she sternly reminded herself again, that wasn’t her case. Finding Andy Timmons and an old Indian motorcycle was her case.

  To get her brain out of cyberspace, she went for a run at about 4:00. Later, Mitch brought Clancy over for another playtime in Cate’s backyard. He thought the big, active dog needed more exercise than just a walk on the sidewalks around the condo.

  “Now don’t get your tail all in a twist about this,” Cate advised Octavia when she left the cat inside and went out to join Mitch and Clancy in the backyard.

  Mitch had a new ball for Clancy. Cate saw Octavia watching from the window seat first, then from the outdoor playroom. When Clancy ran for a ball near it, she took a flying leap and buried her claws in the screen, apparently Octavia’s interpretation of a ferocious flying tiger. Clancy jumped back, but then he edged over to sniff at her furry white form clinging to the screen. Octavia, perhaps huffy that her leap hadn’t been more intimidating, untangled her claws from the screen and jumped to her jungle-gym apparatus. She watched from there until Mitch took Clancy back to the SUV and brought the sub sandwiches he’d picked up earlier into the house.

  Cate noted Mitch’s sandwich had one end missing, and he admitted he’d broken off a chunk to give to Clancy out in the SUV. Cate, conscious of Octavia’s reproachful eyes on her, evened the situation by offering a bite of ham from her sandwich. She and Mitch talked about his day setting up a new computer system for a bakery, and hers chasing down various people.

  Mitch crumpled the wrapping paper when he finished the sandwich. “Any news yet about Clancy’s owner and when he’ll take his dog back?”

  Cate stood up. “I’ll call Shirley and ask.” She’d been thinking about talking to Shirley anyway.

  Mitch lifted a hand. “Hey, no hurry. You don’t have to do it right now.” He sounded almost alarmed, as if he hadn’t expected such express action from her.

  Cate called Shirley’s cell phone anyway, but the call went to voice mail. She was stuffing the wrapping from their sub sandwiches in the trash when her cell phone jingled.

  “I’m sorry I couldn’t answer when you just called.” Shirley sounded breathless. “I was on my way in to see Kane. I think they gave me a whole minute this time.”

  “How is he?”

  “His eyelids twitched. I think he was trying to open them!”

  Cate suspected that could be a normal movement even in a coma, but she wasn’t sure. “Will you be at the hospital again tomorrow?”

  “Saturday is just another work day at H&B, and I’m cooking dinner for Jerry tomorrow night. But I’ll come out to the hospital between when I get off work and when I start dinner.”

  “What are you cooking for him?”

  “Jerry is a meat and potatoes kind of guy, so I’m making fried chicken, mashed potatoes, green beans, and apple pie.”

  “He’ll love that. You know the old saying, the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach.”

  “I’m not trying to get to Jerry’s heart.” Shirley sounded appalled, as if Cate had just suggested she was setting a bear trap for an innocent bystander. “He’s at least ten years younger than I am. He won’t take any money for letting me use his pickup, and I just wanted to do something to repay him.”

  “Okay, keep in touch. But remember that a relationship with a younger man is not a crime.”

  “It doesn’t have to be a crime to be ridiculous.”

  Cate didn’t, of course, tell Shirley she was also working for Matt Halliday now. Confidential. But she passed Shirley’s information about Kane’s eye twitch along to Mitch.

  His opinion was the same as her own, that an eye twitch wasn’t necessarily meaningful. “So, looks like I’m stuck with Clancy for a while yet,” he added.

  “Where’s he sleeping now?”

  “At the foot of my bed.”

  “On the floor at the foot of the bed?”

  Mitch paused before he made a more specific admission. “Well, uh, no, he’s on the bed. His staying with me is just a temporary arrangement, of course, so I figured that letting him sleep there was more practical than trying to retrain him.”

  Oh yes. Very practical.

  At midmorning on Saturday, Cate located the rooming house on Jefferson easily enough. She’d decided this address Halliday had given her was probably more recent than the one on the motorcycle registration.

  It was an older, big blue house, not shabby, but it hadn’t had any recent contact with a paintbrush. A small sign said Rooms for Rent. A porch covered the front, with dormer windows above. There was a single doorbell beside a windowed door with a saggy lace curtain, which suggested the renters didn’t have separate entrances. A tiny older woman in tight purple leggings, kneesocks, and Birkenstock sandals opened the door.

  “I’m full up,” she said.

  “Thanks, but I’m not looking for a room. I’m trying to find a man named Andy Timmons. I understand he lived here?”

  “You a social worker?”

  “Did Mr. Timmons have a social worker?”

  “He was always tellin’ me, when his rent was late, that he was about to get disability payments, or a grant to go to school, or some other wild scheme he’d cooked up. I finally told him to take his old motorcycle and find some other living room to park it in.”

  “He kept his motorcycle in the living room?”

  “He was renting my studio apartment.” She jerked a thumb toward a detached building that looked like a garage remodeled into living quarters. Cate suspected “studio apartment” upgraded its status. “And yeah, I found out he was keeping his old motorcycle in there. On my carpet! Renters. You can’t believe the things they come up with.”

  Cate had to admit that if she were a landlady, she might also object to a motorcycle in the living room, but all she said was, “The motorcycle may be a fairly valuable antique mo
del.”

  “Yeah, well, I don’t care if it belonged to Elvis himself. Nobody brings a motorcycle in and parks it on my carpet. No way I’m ever going to get the oil stains out of that shag.”

  “I’m wondering if you have any idea where Mr. Timmons went after he left here?”

  “How come him and his old motorcycle are so popular all of a sudden?” She peered at Cate as if looking for concealed weapons. “Some guy was here looking for him a couple-three days ago too.”

  Mr. Halliday, no doubt. Unless the potential collector-buyer of old motorcycles had his sights on Timmons too.

  “But you don’t know where Mr. Timmons might be now?” Cate asked.

  “No, I’m just glad he isn’t here. Rent always late. Always feeling I’d better count the silverware after he did come pay it.”

  “He used the motorcycle to move out?”

  “I don’t know how he moved out. He was just gone. He drove an old Ford pickup sometimes. But maybe the pickup belonged to that girl. Andy was only paying rent for one person, but I know she stayed overnight sometimes.”

  The landlady’s face puckered in disapproval, although Cate couldn’t tell if she disapproved of the girl staying overnight or if the rent differential between one and two people was what concerned her.

  The face of an older man considerably taller than the tiny landlady appeared over her head. “Ladies, excuse me,” he said. “If I can just slip out the door without disturbing you … ?”

  He had an air of faded elegance with his bolo tie and dark jacket, silvery hair combed back in a style of yesteryear, but his blue eyes were bright and a bit mischievous.

  “Hey, Duane, you were on friendly terms with that guy with the old motorcycle when he was living here, weren’t you?”

  “Andy? Yes, of course. A young man with potential, but wasting his life, I’m afraid.” The man smiled, teeth so white and perfect Cate knew they couldn’t be his originals. “And, sadly, not open to counsel from someone who’s been there, done that, and now knows better.”

  “Would you happen to know where he went when he left here?” Cate asked.

  “I believe he had a young lady friend who was going to let him stay with her for a while. At a trailer park, I think it was, out on Cushingham.”

  “Do you know her name?”

  “I’m afraid not. I never actually met her, but I saw her a few times. A lovely young woman. Beautiful dark eyes. Very pale blonde hair.”

  “Okay, thanks. I appreciate the information.” Cate had the feeling the man could use some money and wondered if she could pay him for the information. She also realized this man would surely be insulted if she tried to do so. So all she did was repeat the words as he strode jauntily down the steps. “Thanks again. You’ve been very helpful.”

  “‘Lovely young woman. Pale blonde hair,’” the landlady mimicked. She snorted. “She had hair bleached so hard it could stand up by itself. And enough mascara and eyeliner to start a clown store.”

  Cate used her all-purpose noncommittal “um.”

  “Duane is a lovely man himself. He always sees the best in everyone.” The landlady sighed and shook her head as if that attitude were a naïve fault. With a dark huddle of eyebrows, she added, “He wouldn’t think everyone was so wonderful if he was a landlord for a while.”

  Or, Cate had to agree, if he were a private investigator.

  Back in her car, Cate used her cell phone to locate two trailer parks on Cushingham. The road ran south out of town, a hilly, wooded area not far from I-5. The first trailer park she came to was for recreational-type vehicles, not the big single-and double-wides that were situated in the park where Shirley lived, although many of the RVs had small yards and fences and looked at least semi-permanent. Cate stopped at a fifth-wheel trailer with an office sign out front.

  A beefy guy in black work pants and a cap with the trailer park name on it opened the door. Hoping Andy Timmons may have done a legal registration with the park management before moving into the woman’s RV, Cate asked about him by name.

  The man didn’t need to check registration records or wasn’t inclined to bother. “No one here named that.”

  Cate offered the description of Timmons that Matt Halliday had given her, skipping his derogatory details of Timmons looking like a druggie and/or weasel. “He may be staying with a blonde woman who drives an older Ford pickup. And he has an old Indian motorcycle. A ’48 Chief.”

  “Don’t ring no bells. And I’d of noticed an old Indian bike, that’s for sure. Had one when I was a kid.”

  “Okay, well, thanks. Is it okay if I just drive around and see if maybe I can spot them?”

  “Help yourself.”

  The RVs were parked on both sides of the long driveway that ended in a turnaround at a board fence highlighted with red reflectors. She stopped and asked a gray-haired woman working in her yard if she knew anyone named Andy Timmons. The friendly woman tried to be helpful, but she shook her head when Cate added the description of man, woman, and motorcycle.

  Cate went on to the next RV park farther down the road. A palm tree stood out front, its straggly condition testament to the fact that Eugene was not palm-tree friendly. The spaces here were smaller, the RVs crammed into them close enough for a window-to-window handshake. No one answered her ring at the office, so she drove on by. A sign said “5 mph speed limit. Strictly enforced.”

  Perhaps enforced by the bathtub-sized potholes dotting the street, Cate decided as she cautiously eased past the parked RVs. One man walking his dog shook his head when she inquired about an Andy Timmons, but she got a potential hit with the second person she talked to.

  This was a middle-aged woman, gray hair held back by an embroidered headband, down on her knees pulling weeds around the trailer hitch of her RV. She stood up, put a hand to her lower back, and came to the low picket fence.

  “That sounds like Lily Admond and her boyfriend. She lived right down there.” The woman pointed a gloved hand toward an empty spot about four spaces down the street. “She had a trailer, about a twenty-five-footer. I never knew her boyfriend’s name, but I did see his old motorcycle a couple times. Usually he kept it all covered with a tarp. My husband thought it was something real special, but it was just a dinged-up old motorcycle, far as I could see.”

  “She moved out?”

  “She mentioned going down to Arizona. Said it was hard finding a job here. But I don’t know if that’s where they went.”

  Cate could sympathize with the difficulties of finding a job. It was the reason she’d turned into an assistant PI. That and the fact that she finally figured out that God may have plans for her life that hadn’t been on her own agenda.

  “Young couple in the fifth wheel down there next to them might know more,” the woman added. “I think they were friends.”

  “Okay. Thanks.”

  Cate nosed the Honda on down to the fifth-wheel trailer next to the empty space. At one time, “fifth wheel” would have been meaningless to her, but now, courtesy of Uncle Joe, who’d considered various forms of living quarters on the road, she knew what it was. Fifth wheel meant a trailer that, rather than hooking to a hitch at the back end of a vehicle, fastened to a big wheel-like thing in a pickup bed, similar to the hookups on big commercial eighteen-wheeler truck and trailer rigs.

  The couple from the fifth wheel, with a baby in the woman’s arms, were getting into a pickup when Cate pulled up behind them. She tapped the horn to get their attention, and the woman opened the pickup window when Cate approached.

  “Hi. I’m trying to find Lily Admond and her friend Andy Timmons. I think they were parked there.” Cate motioned to the empty space. “I’m hoping you might know where they went?”

  The woman glanced over at her husband, as if uncertain about responding. The husband leaned around the woman to look at Cate.

  “You a friend of theirs?”

  Cate suspected he was really wondering if she was a bill collector or some similar unwanted company.


  “Actually, I haven’t met them. Does he still have his old bike?”

  “Oh yeah. He was thinking about selling it when his unemployment checks ran out. I wouldn’t of minded buying it off him, but Shauna here”—he gave the woman an affectionate glance—“she had this stuffy idea we should buy groceries and diapers and stuff like that instead.”

  Cate smiled and gave the woman a thumbs-up gesture. “So, do you know where they are now?”

  “Lily told me she was going to dump him,” the woman offered.

  “Yeah?” The husband looked surprised. “He told me they might go down to Nevada and get casino jobs.”

  If Timmons had picked up and gone to Nevada or Arizona, Matt Halliday probably wouldn’t be interested in tracking him all the way there to find the motorcycle. She’d have to talk to Matt again.

  “I appreciate the information,” Cate said. “I’ll stop by the office again and see if they left a forwarding address. If you happen to hear anything more about him, would you give me a call?”

  She started to fish a Belmont Investigations card out of her pocket, then thought better of it. Private investigator might scare them off. She scribbled her name and cell phone number on a page from her small notebook instead.

  Cate stopped at the office again, but the woman who answered the doorbell this time said Lily Admond hadn’t left a forwarding address with her. “I didn’t even know she was leaving until one morning she was gone.”

  “Is that unusual?”

  “Oh no. That’s what RV life is about, you know? Freedom. Sometimes I think that’s what I should be doing, instead of just sitting here watching them come and go.”

  Although what she really seemed to be saying, as her doleful gaze followed a motor home rolling past the office, was, “Instead of sitting here watching life pass me by.”

  Okay, she’d try Andy Timmons’s address from the motorcycle registration next, Cate decided. A long shot, but maybe someone there would know something helpful.

  13

  That idea resulted in a display of the changing face of the city. What may have been a modest residential area where Andy lived earlier was now a new and bustling strip mall. A tantalizing scent drifted from a small restaurant with a banner proclaiming “Best Barbecue in Town!” The hair-and-nails salon next to a dry cleaners reminded Cate her nails were beginning to look as if she shared Octavia’s love of the scratching pole. And the tattoo parlor brought back memories of the time she and college friend Tangela decided to fill one dateless Saturday night by getting tattoos. But God had wisely confused their way and given them a flat tire to boot. If not for those impediments, she might right now have a fire-breathing dragon circling her ankle. Thank you, Lord!