by Sammi Carter
“I know,” I said, suddenly weary. “Go on.”
“The testimony of witnesses—several kids at the party heard Mendoza making plans for the following day. Nobody mentioned him being despondent, worried, or acting strangely, and it seems unlikely that he’d make plans with friends if he planned to leave the party and drive himself off a cliff.”
“So you think the accelerator got stuck?”
Jawarski nodded. “That’s what the investigators on the case believed.”
“And what physical evidence was there to support that theory?”
“There wasn’t much. You saw the photos.” Jawarski flipped open the folder and studied the report again. “I’ll admit this part is odd,” he said after a minute. “The crime scene investigators recorded the first skid marks at the base of the hill.”
“Which means what?”
“That he deliberately sped up that hill. They estimated his speed at over seventy miles an hour.”
“Seventy?” I gaped at him. “And they’re sure it wasn’t suicide?”
“We probably won’t ever be one hundred percent certain, but they called it an accident, and we have to go with that. He was eighteen and drunk. He probably thought he was invincible.”
Maybe he did, but I wasn’t bound by the same rules and regulations. “Is there any chance someone else was there? Maybe someone who rigged the accelerator at the bottom of the hill and then sent Davey Mendoza to his death?”
Jawarski looked up from the file wearing a deep scowl. “Murder?”
“Why not?”
“You want me to list all the reasons, or just the top three?”
I smiled at his attempt at humor. “Give me the top three.”
“Okay, how’s this for starters? How could Mendoza have been alert enough to try to stop the car, but so out of it he let someone put him in that position in the first place?”
“What if it was more than one person? What if three guys overpowered him or something?”
“Such as Hendrix, Ingersol, and Escott?”
I grinned. “If you insist, we can use them for argument’s sake.”
“Okay, what’s the motive? And how did they force him to drive?”
He had me there. Everything fit perfectly—at least in my head it did—except for the motive. There didn’t seem to be any reason for anyone to want Davey Mendoza dead. “We’ll have to work on that,” I admitted. “What about opportunity? I know they were all at the party together, but maybe Mendoza wasn’t the only one who left early.”
“Maybe not. Why don’t you ask Hendrix about that when you see him tonight?” Jawarski teased.
I called his bluff. “Good idea. I’ll do that.”
His expression sobered immediately. “I don’t want you talking to Hendrix about this case again, Abby. I don’t want you talking to Ingersol or Escott, either. Or to Ginger Ames. From here on out, you leave this investigation to the department.”
“Come on, Jawarski. I’m the best person you’ve got working on this case, and you know it.”
“I won’t deny that you’ve gathered some information that may turn out to be valuable, but you haven’t brought one scrap of proof. There’s nothing here I can use.”
Chapter 35
“Abby, call K Hendrix.”
I found the note taped to my front door when I got home from Jawarski’s office. It was only a few minutes after seven, but Divinity’s windows were dark and the parking lot empty. Jawarski and I had gone round and round over the evidence— or lack thereof—for hours. Much as I hated to admit it, there really wasn’t a single shred of evidence to support my theory, but I still believed I was on the right track.
The storm had rolled into the valley while I was at the police station, and as I unlocked the front door, thick flakes drifted from the sky. The snow was falling so fast it had already covered my footsteps in the parking lot.
I ripped the note from the door and crumpled it in my fist. The sky itself could have been falling, but I still wouldn’t have been in the mood to talk to Kerry Hendrix. I checked my watch, saw that I had an hour until practice, and groaned aloud. Maybe I’d get lucky, and the coach would cancel because of the storm. It couldn’t hurt to wish.
I fed Max a couple of Beggin’ Strips and filled his dish with kibble, then found a can of Coke in the fridge and carried it into the living room. My conversation with Jawarski had left me exhausted and disheartened, and the only thing I wanted to do was watch a little mindless, empty entertainment and go to bed early.
I pulled my emergency stash of toffee from the end table and munched a couple of pieces. Half a can of Coke later, I felt revived enough to face the world again—at least for a couple of minutes. Yes, Aunt Grace’s toffee is that good.
Since I couldn’t put it off any longer, I steeled myself for the miserable experience of talking to Coach Hendrix, smoothed out Karen’s note, and dialed the number. As I punched in the last four, I became dimly aware of something niggling at the back of my mind. A moment of déjà vu, maybe. That strange, unsettling feeling that you’ve been somewhere and done something before. The phone rang twice before I realized that the moment was more than déjà vu.
I stabbed at the Off button and shot up from the couch, almost tripping over Max as I raced to my bedroom. I threw open the closet and tore through the laundry hamper, trying to find the jeans I’d been wearing the day Elena gave me the phone number Hobbs had used when he was alive. I found three sweaters, four pairs of panties, socks, towels, and the black pants I’d worn to Richie and Dylan’s dinner party, but the jeans weren’t there.
Frustrated, I searched the bathroom, the floor of my closet, and finally lifted the bed skirt so I could check under there. When I spotted a denim leg, I yanked the jeans out from under the bed and shoved my hand into the pocket. There, deep in the bottom of the pocket, I found a crumpled piece of paper. Hands shaking, I smoothed it out and compared the numbers. The first time through, I thought I’d dreamed the match. After the second, the air left my lungs in a whoosh, and I sat back against the headboard.
So there it was. Proof that Lou Hobbs had used Kerry Hendrix’s phone. I dialed Jawarski’s number, got his voice mail, and left a message. I thought about walking back to the police station, but with the snow coming down so fast and thick, Jawarski was probably out dealing with fender benders and slide-offs. I’d have to wait until morning to tell him.
I called Kerry, got his voice mail, and left a message.
I tucked the number and message away into a dresser drawer, changed into clothes for practice, and put milk on the stove to heat. If I had to go out in the storm again, I wanted something warm and soothing to take with me.
The temptation to curl up with a good book was almost painfully strong, but every instinct I had was screaming that Kerry was involved in Lou Hobbs’s death, and I didn’t want to do anything that might make him more suspicious.
I tossed Max a rawhide bone and was just pouring the cocoa into a travel mug when someone knocked on the door. “It’s about time,” I said as I threw open the door. “Do you know how many times I’ve tried calling you?”
“You’ve called me?” Marshall looked both surprised and pleased.
“Oh. Sorry. No, I thought you were someone else.” I stood there uncertainly for a minute, unsure whether to invite him in or turn him away.
“You’re worried about why I’m here. Well, don’t be. I’m not here for . . . you and me. I need to talk to you about Ginger.”
My hesitation vanished immediately. I stepped aside to let him enter. “I have practice in about forty minutes, but I have a few minutes. I was just making homemade cocoa. Would you like some?”
He nodded and blew on his hands to warm them. “I’d love some, thanks.”
“Make yourself comfortable. I’ll be right back.”
“I can come in there if you want. I don’t mind the kitchen.”
“Whichever you want,” I called back. “It won’t take long.”
I glanced over my shoulder. “Selling fake antiques?”
Marshall’s face fell. “You know?”
“I figured it out.”
“Have you . . . have you told anyone else?”
“Have I told the police?” I nodded. “Jawarski and I both witnessed a delivery, so it’s safe to say the police are aware of what she’s doing. I don’t know how they’ll catch her, or when, but they will. If you want to help her, convince her to turn herself in and testify against the others. That might get her a lesser sentence.”
Marshall sank into one of the chairs at my chipped old table and buried his face in his hands. “I had no idea what she was doing until tonight,” he said when he could speak again.
I wasn’t sure I believed that, but I pretended to.
“Ginger’s not a strong woman, you know. She never has been. She’s easily persuaded.” He rubbed the back of his neck and let out a thin laugh. “She was an easy mark for those guys back in high school, and nothing’s changed.”
“Why did she decide to come back to Paradise?”
“Kerry talked her into coming back. He could always get her to do anything he wanted. Dwayne had taken these antiquing classes, and Kerry got the bright idea about having him fake some antiques to make some quick cash. They needed someone to front the business for them.”
“But why Ginger? I’m sure she wasn’t the only woman who would have gone along with Kerry’s scheme.”
Marshall lifted one shoulder. “I don’t know why they wanted her, but I know why she agreed. She’s had a rough time the past few years: a couple of divorces and a bankruptcy, and she lost her job just a few weeks before Kerry called her. She was feeling desperate.”
“Out of curiosity, what kind of car does Ginger drive?”
“A black Tahoe. Why?”
“With a broken light on the side?”
A confused scowl creased Marshall’s face. “I don’t know. Is it important?”
“Not right now. Don’t worry about it.” I thought about that while I stirred the cocoa into the milk and watched it dissolve. “I understand being desperate,” I said, “but if you want me to feel sorry for her, forget it.”
“No, I—”
Marshall pulled off his glasses and cleaned them with his shirttail. “I came here to ask you not to go to the authorities. I know it’s too late, but she’s promised to stop what she’s doing. She knows it was wrong.” He put his glasses on again and blinked to adjust his eyes. “She’s not a bad person, Abby. She’s just . . .” his shoulders slumped, and his voice dropped. “She’s just weak.”
The cocoa began to steam, so I filled our cups and carried them to the table. “I understand how you feel, Marshall, but she’s been cheating people. Stealing their money and giving them something worthless in return. She’s not a child. She knew what she was doing when she agreed to go along with the idea.”
“I know.” Marshall wrapped both hands around his mug and stared at it for a long time. “It’s not just the antique scam,” he said so softly I almost missed it. “She’s pregnant.”
Okay that surprised me. “I didn’t realize she was seeing anyone.” Oh God, I thought. Is Kerry Hendrix the father?
“She’s not seeing anyone now. The guy who was killed? Apparently he’s the baby’s father.”
Well, that put a new spin on things.
Marshall lifted the cup to his lips. “She swears she wants to start over, Abby. She begged me to help her. If she goes to jail, they’ll take the baby away when it’s born. And there’s no guarantee they’d let me be the baby’s guardian. With my schedule at the restaurant, I’m never home. I think it would kill her if the baby was given to strangers.”
I’d been wrong; there was a part of me that felt sorry for her. It was the part that longed for children of my own and knew I’d probably never have them. I couldn’t imagine being pregnant and knowing that the baby would be taken away.
“It won’t kill her,” I said, more to myself than to Marshall. “It’ll be tough, but she’ll get through it, and she can always petition the court to get the baby back once she’s out of jail.”
Marshall shook his head and rolled his eyes. “You have more faith in the system than I do.”
“If she cleans up her act, there’s no reason the court won’t grant her request.” I realized that my cocoa had been sitting untouched, so I worked my spoon through it for a few seconds. “Did she tell you who Hobbs really was?”
Marshall looked genuinely confused. “What do you mean?”
“I’m pretty sure Hobbs wasn’t his real name, but I’m also ninety-nine percent convinced that he went to school with Ginger and the others.”
“I suppose it’s possible, but why would he use a fake name?” Marshall thought for a second, then gave his head a firm shake. “No, it’s not possible. Ginger would have told me.”
Just like Marion Escott, the poor guy was in serious denial. “And you didn’t recognize Ginger’s boyfriend?”
Marshall started to shake his head but stopped himself. “I never actually saw him close up. He was always waiting in the car or in the house while I was outside. We were always going to get together for this or that, but it never happened. The closest I ever came, I guess, whas when I found his body, and I didn’t recognize him at all.”
“Do you remember a kid who used to hang out with the rest of that group? Davey Mendoza?”
Marshall’s gaze flew to mine. “Sure. Yeah. I haven’t thought about him in years. What makes you ask about him?”
“Do you remember how he died?”
A pained grimace stretched across his face. “Car accident. He’d been drinking at a party and went off the road on a hairpin curve. Why? What does that have to do with any of this?”
“I don’t know that it does,” I said with a sigh. “I’m just trying to figure out something that connects Kerry, Dwayne, and Quentin to Lou Hobbs. They all knew him, but they all claim they didn’t. Why do you think that is?”
“With those people?” Marshall shrugged. “It could be anything.”
“Was Davey alone when he died?”
Marshall nodded. “I remember Ginger saying that some of the kids felt bad, because they didn’t insist on going with him, but they said he’d wanted to leave before the rest of them were ready. They said he was upset over some girl. Got into it a little bit with one of the other guys. You know how that goes.”
“Which other guy?”
“What? Oh. I think it was Kerry Hendrix.”
My heart beat a little faster. “Kerry and Davey fought?”
“I don’t think they actually fought. I think it was just a bit of chest thumping, and then Mendoza decided to take off.”
I put my chin in my hand and sighed again. “Okay. Fine. So we know Hobbs wasn’t Davey Mendoza. Is there anyone else from that crowd that he could have been? Maybe someone who hung mostly on the fringes?”
Marshall thought for what felt like forever. “Maybe,” he said at last. “There was a guy named Rusty Hogan who took off for New York about that time. He didn’t have a limp, though.”
“Anything could have happened between then and now,” I pointed out. “Is that the only reason you think it might be him?”
Marshall shook his head. “He was kind of a loner. Didn’t have a lot of family. I think he was living with an aunt and uncle, but they didn’t pay a lot of attention to what he did. My mom used to fuss about it. You know how moms are: Somebody ought to talk to his aunt. Somebody ought to take him under their wing.”
He smiled at the memory. “Anyway, I remember him because we were working at the same restaurant. He was a bus-boy there, and one day he just didn’t show up for
work. I never saw him again. He was the kind of kid who could have disappeared, and nobody would have noticed.”
I nodded as I mulled over what he’d said. “I guess the next question is whether he was the kind of guy who came back the same way.”
Chapter 36
Between piles of snow and parked cars, the roads were almost too narrow for the Jetta. I drove slowly, alternately telling myself I was doing the right thing and muttering at myself for being too stupid to live. I should just tell Jawarski what I knew and let him handle it tomorrow, but something—either curiosity or pure stubbornness—kept me from driving straight to the recreation center.
Before leaving home, I’d called Jawarski again and left a message telling him what I knew and what I planned to do. Hopefully, he’d check in soon. I couldn’t let myself think about what might happen if he didn’t.
Half a block from the Ivy Attic, I slid into a parking spot on the side of the road. Five minutes, I promised myself as I hiked through shin-deep snow along the unshoveled walk. I’d just ask Ginger a couple of questions and then be on my way.
I let myself into the antique shop, grateful for the warmth that rushed out to wrap itself around me. Ginger was sitting in an antique chair, a paperback novel open on her lap, the cat lounging on the back cushion.
She stood uncertainly when she noticed me, and I saw fear in her eyes before she pulled herself together and turned on her smile.
“Good grief, Abby. What are you doing out in this weather? Are you nuts?”
“I might be,” I said with a halfhearted smile. “If you’re driving home tonight, you might want to leave early. The roads are really slick.”
“Thanks.” Ginger set aside her book and shooed the cat away. “Well, now that you’ve come all this way, what can I do for you?”
I waved her back into her chair. “I’m not here to buy anything. I’d like to ask you a couple of questions, if that’s all right.”
“I suppose it’s okay. What’s up?”
“I’d like you to tell me what you can about Davey Mendoza.”