by V. M. Burns
I stared at the paper. If I was serious about figuring out who killed Albert, I’d need to investigate each of these things. How did someone even begin to investigate the mob? Or drugs or illegal weapons either, for that matter? I looked over at Aggie, who had fallen asleep with her head on my leg. “Agatha Christie made investigating seem so easy.” I scratched Aggie behind her ear. “Miss Marple did it and rarely left her village of St. Mary Mead, but how on earth can I do it in Lighthouse Dunes?” Eventually, I gave up. I needed to think. I got up, dressed, and went downstairs.
I didn’t want to wake the house by brewing coffee at four in the morning, so I decided to leave. My car was in the garage and most likely blocked by David’s rental. So I grabbed the spare keys from the hook by the back door. I’d take the car Stephanie drove whenever she was in town. Multiple vehicles were one of the perks when your husband owned a used car dealership.
Outside, I remembered the spare car had been gone earlier. I almost turned around to go back inside and get my own car keys but noticed all of the cars were back. No point in going back for my car keys now. Besides, the garage door was loud and would wake the house. So, I kept walking to the spare car. When I walked by the RV, I noticed the light was on. So I tapped lightly on the door.
Dixie opened the door. “Where do you think you’re going?”
“I couldn’t sleep. I’m going out for coffee. What’s your excuse?”
“Wait for me.” She stuck her head back inside and grabbed her purse. Then she came out and locked the door behind her. “I’m going with you.”
“I don’t need a babysitter.”
“I know, but you’re going out for coffee, and I may need a gallon before the day’s out.”
We hopped in the older model Volvo we used to drive around town or for one of the kids when they were in town. The car was close to fifteen years old and had over two hundred thousand miles on it. It was easier for my mother-in-law to get in and out of if I had to transport her or her mother to the doctor’s office or on other errands. Albert often found himself too busy to do so. I tried not to get bitter at the thought of all the times I’d dropped what I was doing to play taxi service for people who barely tolerated me.
“You might want to slow down a tad.” Dixie looked at me from the corner of her eye.
I glanced at the speedometer. I was going eighty-five miles per hour down the moonlit streets of Lighthouse Dunes. “Sorry.” I eased off the gas.
“It would be perfectly normal if you were feeling stressed,” she said in that quiet, sympathetic voice people always used at funerals. “Your husband’s funeral service is in a few hours and, regardless of what happened in the last year or so, he was still your husband, your lover, and the father of your children.”
I drove past the grocery store and past Albert’s car dealership to the interstate. I got on the interstate and drove west toward Chicago, putting the pedal to the floor. It took a bit for my old beater to get revved up. She was great around town for city driving but needed a bit of coaxing for interstates. However, once she got up to speed, she flew down the highway. The old girl didn’t look like much, but she had it where it counted. We drove in silence for twenty miles. I didn’t even realize I was crying until the tears made it hard to see. When my nose started to run, I took the next exit and pulled off the interstate. There was a casino, and I pulled into the parking lot and cried.
Dixie took off her seat belt and reached over and hugged me. I cried on her shoulder in the parking lot of the casino until I didn’t have any more tears left.
“I’m done.” I pulled away and used my sleeve to wipe my face dry. “Can you get me a tissue from the glove box?”
Dixie opened the glove box and reached in. She felt around in the deep compartment and then froze.
“What?” I looked concerned. “Don’t tell me I left something gross in there.” I laughed.
She shook her head and then slowly lifted her hand up. At the end of her hand was a gun.
“Where did you get that?” I asked.
“From your glove compartment,” she said.
I stared at the gun. “Whose is it?”
She shrugged. “I have no idea. Isn’t it yours?”
“I’ve never seen that before in my life.”
We sat staring at each other for what felt like an hour but, in reality, was more like thirty seconds.
“Well, what’s it doing in there?” I asked.
“It’s framing you for murder is what it’s doing.”
I pulled a handkerchief from my purse, reached over, and picked up the gun from the handle, careful to keep the business end pointed away from Dixie and me. Never having handled a gun before, I was not only cautious but just short of terrified.
“We should get rid of it,” Dixie said.
“We can’t do that. It’s evidence. We need to get this to the police. Maybe they can find out who owns it and trace it to the killer.” I stared at the gun and then shoved it into my purse.
“We need to tie a rock to it and toss it into Lake Michigan, if you ask me,” Dixie said. “The killer would be a fool to use his own gun to commit murder. Besides, why leave it in your glove box if it can be traced back to him?”
I stared. When my brain finally grasped what she was saying, I started to shake. My hands shook and I started to hyperventilate.
Dixie closed the glove box and got out of the car. She came around to the driver’s side and helped me out of the car. “You need a drink.”
She looked around and then hurried me toward the casino.
We went inside. It was early in the morning and it wasn’t crowded, although there were still a good number of people. The air was thick with smoke. Casinos and bars were two of the few places where smokers were allowed to smoke unfettered in the state, and they took advantage of it. We spotted a bar over to the right and headed for it.
Seated at a table near the back of the bar, we ordered two glasses of wine and waited until our waitress brought them.
My hand shook so bad when I tried to take a drink, I spilled most of it down the front of my blouse. Eventually, I managed to get the glass to my mouth and took a long sip. I looked around to make sure no one was close enough to overhear our conversation, then leaned close and whispered, “How do you think that got in there?”
Dixie shook her head. “I have no idea. Who had access to your car?”
I thought. “Well, anyone could have done it. The car’s been on the street for nearly a week.”
“Was it locked?”
I shook my head. “We don’t keep anything valuable in it, and frankly, if someone wanted to steal it, I’d be happy to give them fifty dollars to take it away.” I paused and took another drink. “It never occurred to me someone would put something in it.” Something else occurred to me, and I nearly spilled my glass.
“What is it? You just went as white as a sheet.” Dixie reached across and touched my hand. “And your hand is ice cold.”
“It just dawned on me. Whoever murdered Albert knows me. He—”
“Or she.”
I nodded. “Or she, knows where I live. They know what kind of car I drive. They came to my house and entered my vehicle and planted a gun—”
“Shhh.” She looked around at the waitress, who had just come up to the table.
“Can I get you another drink?” A thin girl dressed in a green Robin Hood costume, with green hair to match, asked.
“Yes, can you please bring us two more glasses of wine?” Dixie ordered.
I was still too shaken to speak. I watched the girl walk away, although she glanced back at us twice. “Do you think she heard me?”
Dixie shrugged. “I don’t know.”
We sat quietly until she brought our drinks.
She placed the glasses on the table and then looked at me again. “Do I know you?�
� She paused. “You look really familiar, but I can’t place where I’ve seen you before.”
I shrugged. “I guess I just have one of those faces,” I said vaguely.
She stood and tilted her head to the side. “No, I know I’ve seen your face before. I just can’t remember where.”
I grabbed the glass of wine and downed it in one gulp. “Well, I think we’re ready for our check now.”
She walked away to ring up our bill. When she returned, she placed the bill on the table and continued to stare.
I wanted to tell her it was rude to stare at people but didn’t want to draw any more attention to myself than I already had. I fumbled in my purse for the money to pay the bill and found twenty dollars. I put it on the table, grabbed my purse, and rose from the table.
“I’ll get your change.”
“No. Just keep the change.” I hurried to get around her.
She stood openmouthed. “That’s ten dollars.”
“Merry Christmas.” I walked toward the door to leave.
Right before we walked out of the bar, I heard the waitress say, “Now I know where I’ve seen you before. You’re the lady who shot your husband.”
CHAPTER 7
My heart raced and heat rose up my neck. I hurried to the car, eager to get away as quickly as possible. I jumped behind the wheel and sped out of the parking lot, almost before Dixie’s door was closed. I got on the interstate and headed back toward Lighthouse Dunes. The blood rushed to my head, and my heart pulsated so my ears sounded like I was hearing the ocean in my head. It was nearly impossible to hear anything as I sped along the interstate.
“Lilly, you need to slow down. You’re going too fast.”
I glanced at the speedometer. My adrenaline had manifested in another pedal-to-the-metal mad dash down the freeway. I eased off the gas and pressed the brake, but not before I passed a patrol car, waiting in the median with his radar detection gun pointed right at my vehicle.
I was almost to my exit for Lighthouse Dunes. I looked over to apologize to Dixie for my crazy driving, when I noticed the lights on at the dealership. I was just about to mention the lights when I heard the sirens. “That’s for me, isn’t it?”
“Ask not for whom the sirens blare. They blare for you.”
“Gobble-darn, blast-dab-nab-bit.”
“Keep that up and you’ll need to wash your mouth out with soap.”
I pulled over to the side of the road. “Can you look in the glove box for the registration?”
Dixie opened the glove box and rummaged around, pulling out paper after paper. She held each of them up and squinted to read what they were.
I rooted through my purse in search of my driver’s license and froze when my hand hit the gun. “Oh my God.”
“What?”
I pulled the gun, still wrapped in the handkerchief, out of my purse.
Dixie reached for it. “Give me that.” She took the gun and shoved it into the glove box and slammed the door shut, just as the officer approached the window.
I rolled down the window. “Hello, Officer, I’m so sorry. I didn’t realize how rapidly I was going. I think my foot must have gotten stuck.” I laughed.
“Can I see your driver’s license, vehicle registration, and proof of insurance?” the square-jawed, buzz-cut, just-the-facts-ma’am patrolman demanded.
I fumbled in my purse for my driver’s license, but Officer Prune Face stared at me as though he was waiting for me to offer to sell him drugs or illegal weapons. Eventually, I found my driver’s license and insurance card and handed them over.
“Vehicle registration?”
I looked at Dixie, and she opened the glove box wide enough to get her hand inside and then reached in and fumbled around for what felt like hours. I tried to lighten the mood. “Have you been doing this long?”
Officer Stony Face grunted. “It might help if you opened the glove box and turned on the car’s interior light.”
Dixie looked stricken.
“The hinge is broken. Unless you hold it properly, it falls off,” I said quickly.
He stared at me as though he was reading my mind. I tried desperately to empty all of my thoughts and look as innocent as I possibly could while, at the same time, mentally willing Dixie to hurry up and find the vehicle registration.
I must have done too good of a job at emptying my mind, because my vacant expression caused the officer to lean close. “Have you been drinking?”
I paused. “I had a glass of wine.”
He sniffed the air like a hound dog and then stood up and patted his gun. “Would you mind getting out of the car?”
I huffed, probably not a good idea when your breath smells like red wine and you’ve got a supersensitive bloodhound-nosed policeman sniffing around you. I opened the car door and put one leg out. Unfortunately, I got the strap of my purse, which I’d placed on the floor behind my legs, wrapped around my right leg. So when I tried to stand up, I tripped and would have fallen flat on the asphalt had gun-patting Officer Go-Ahead-And-Make-My-Day not broken my fall.
Once I was upright, Officer Granite Jaw did what I didn’t think possible and became even more serious and uptight. “Stand over there and don’t move,” he said without the slightest crack of a smile.
Dixie looked as shocked as I felt. “Come on, officer. Is that really necessary?” She opened her car door.
Officer Quick-Draw-McGraw pulled his gun from his hip, pointed it at her, and shouted at the top of his voice, “Stay in the car. Get back in the car now!”
Talk about a buzzkill. I stood by the car as straight as a rod, with both hands raised. When Dixie was back in the car, he lowered his weapon and walked back to his patrol car. He got on the radio and stayed there for about fifteen minutes, while I stood outside my car and Dixie sat inside.
“Do you think he’s going to search the car?” Dixie whispered.
“I don’t know. Can you look for that registration while he’s in his patrol car?” I whispered like a ventriloquist, trying not to move my lips or alter my facial expression.
“We need to get rid of this gun,” Dixie said, while she tackled the glove box. Eventually, she announced, “Found it.”
I breathed a sigh of relief and glanced over to the patrol car. Just when I thought we might be able to get out of this without any further humiliation, I heard sirens and three other patrol cars arrived. Obviously, Officer Lock-’Em-Up had called for backup.
I stood on the interstate, shivering, but not from the cold. What was going on here? Why were there five policemen standing together like a solid wall of blue steel looking at me? Had Officer Get-Out-Of-The-Car seen the gun in the glove box? Did the rocket scientist/waitress at the bar call the police and tell them to be on the lookout for me? Or, when he got on his radio, did he discover I was a wanted criminal? Was there a warrant out for my arrest? A million questions tumbled through my head at the speed of light. I’d been standing outside for a long time, and all the uncertainty and a good amount of fear had turned my legs into jelly. Every newspaper headline or media clip of negative encounters with the police flashed through my head, and I was so terrified I had an overwhelming desire to laugh hysterically. In my mind, I knew the vast majority of police officers were nice, hardworking men and women who got paid a pittance for putting their lives on the line, and up until Albert was shot, I had never run afoul of the law. Police officers were my friends. That was what I had been taught in school. That was what I believed. I repeated that mantra over and over in my head. Police officers are my friend. Police officers are my friend.
Officer I-Feel-Tough-With-My-Posse-Backing-Me-Up strutted over to me and stood almost toe to toe. “Look in my eyes,” he ordered.
I was tempted to step back. He was violating my personal space, but I decided to do exactly what was asked and stared him in the eyes. It was uncomfortabl
e to be that close to someone and have to look directly in their eyes, but I did. After what felt like an hour, he backed up.
“I want you to walk a straight line. Take nine steps, heel to toe, along a straight line, turn on one foot, and then do it in the opposite direction, heel to toe.”
I’d seen this on television, so I felt pretty comfortable. Again, I made sure to do exactly what the officer asked and took nine and only nine steps, turned, and then took nine steps in the opposite direction. Thankfully, years of ballet as a child and yoga recently had left me with a modicum of grace. I didn’t wobble. If Dixie was outside of the car, I would have been tempted to high-five her when I finished, but instead, I merely stopped and waited.
“Now lift one leg about six inches off the ground and stand that way for thirty seconds.”
“Does it matter which leg?”
He shook his head.
I took a deep breath, found my center, then lifted one leg and stood that way until he told me it was okay to put my leg down.
When I’d successfully completed all three tasks, I thought the ordeal was over, until he whipped out a Breathalyzer.
I knew I wasn’t drunk. In fact, if I had been previously, the reality of this situation had certainly scared me sober. Nevertheless, with a lawyer for a daughter, I knew that refusing to take a Breathalyzer would violate something called implied consent. My take-the-world-by-storm daughter was a big proponent of civil liberties and the individual’s rights to due process and a lot of other lawyerly mumbo-jumbo that sounded great when you were watching Perry Mason or watching hearings on television. In reality, refusing to take a Breathalyzer in Indiana meant immediate arrest and having your license suspended. Stephanie was the fight-for-your-rights, stand-up-to-the-establishment, and change-the-system person in our family. Funny, at the time, I remember saying to her, “You should never drink and drive, and if you have nothing to hide, why not take the Breathalyzer?” My words had come back to bite me.
I said a brief prayer and blew into the device.