Now Mourn the Space Cadet (Conner Beach Crime Series)

by John Chabot

  "Well, it's a nice thing, anyway."

  "He's very talented."

  Mickie looked over at Paul, who was trying to listen intently as the lady with the hideous scarf talked on. Her gaze moved beyond him to the graduated tiers holding his work. She noticed, perhaps for the first time, the grace of the curves, the proportion, the subtlety of the designs. Perhaps she was prejudiced toward the potter, but she found that each piece gave her a kind of pleasure just to see it. "Yes," she said, "I suppose he is."

  "But that's not what attracted you to him?"

  "No, not at all."

  Ruth Babineau smiled. "That's good. Now, dear, there are some people I have to greet. Have some more wine, but stay away from the little sandwiches—I don't know what's in them, probably nothing lethal, but they have no taste at all."

  She glided off toward an older couple who had just come in, extending her hands as to old friends. She had to weave through some others as the place was beginning to fill up. Mickie wondered how many invitations had been sent.

  She wandered about, checking the styles, avoiding the prices, admiring a set of silver earrings that would go very nicely with her lavender turtleneck. She grew more and more covetous of an off white linen jacket, finally got up the nerve to check the price, then moved quickly on to Kaz's table of beads.

  Now and then she looked over at Paul, but he always seemed to be busy charming the customers. She decided she could have another glass of wine if she had a couple of those pate-on-crackers with it.

  As she was pouring the wine, it came to her. Not the feeling again, but what the feeling had been trying to tell her. She stood with the bottle in one hand, not moving, her eyes fixed on nowhere, until she noticed a man with an empty glass looking at her oddly. "Sorry," she said, handing him the bottle.

  The noise level had slid up several notches since she'd arrived. She looked around for someplace relatively quiet, saw only groups of talking people. Slipping sideways through the bodies, she made her way to the door and out into the courtyard.

  It was cooler in the night air and, by contrast, much quieter. The only noise was of light traffic passing the store, and a faint murmur of voices escaping from the windows behind her. Using her cell phone, she called Harry at home.

  * * *

  Harry had his feet up with his shoes off, his favorite position for thinking, for listening to music, or for catching a nap. His lap was littered with typewritten pages, many of them gathered into small stacks and stapled at an upper corner. The cat had leaped up beside him, surveyed the useless lap, and gone off in disgust. Harry had just begun a new stack when the phone rang.

  "Hello."

  He listened for a minute.

  "Yeah, some of those reports came in just before I left. I've just been going through them."

  Again he listened.

  "Yeah, I remember. A couple of glasses. Hang on, let me check."

  He checked the front sheet of several batches, settled on one, and began leafing through the sheets, running his finger down a list of items.

  "Here it is. Two jelly glasses. They were clean. No residue of anything found in them."

  After a few seconds, he said, "Wait a minute, I'll see." He turned a couple of pages to get farther into the report, then did the finger search again.

  "Just Brodbeck's prints. No others."

  "No, I don't see anything about a bottle. Good point, though. There ought to be a bottle."

  "His car? No, there weren't any bottles in his car. By the way, where are you now? I keep hearing cars go by. Aren't you at home?"

  "What are you doing there?" He frowned. "Listen, stay there and I'll —". He looked at the phone as if it had bit his ear. "God damned woman!"

  Karen, writing letters at a desk across the room, said, "I beg your pardon?"

  "Wilder, damn her."

  He picked up the phone again, started punching in numbers. He listened impatiently. "Come on, Mo, get off the phone."

  He hung up, looking worried. As he got his shoes on, Karen sat watching him. He ripped a page from his notebook, wrote on it quickly, and handed it to his wife. "Keep calling this number. Get hold of Morris. Tell him to get down to Chez Babineau, Waterside Centre. If Mickie's there, fine. If not, tell him to get out to where we found Kurt Brodbeck. Got that?"

  "What if he's not at that number? It might be his wife on the phone."

  Harry considered. "I hope he's not. I hope he's out getting a little overtime."

  "Harry, what's wrong?"

  He shook his head. "I'm not sure. Maybe nothing."

  "Is it Mickie?"

  "Yeah. If you get Morris, tell him she's out on her own."

  * * *

  Mickie found Paul free for the moment, refilling his wineglass. "I have to leave."

  Paul started to get protective, said, "Are you sure that's...." He saw her face begin to tighten, ended with, "All right, all right, you have to leave."

  "I'll be back pretty soon."

  "Why? I mean, why do you have to leave?"

  Mickie gritted her teeth. "Because I'm stupid, that's why."

  "Is that all? That's what I find so attractive about you. That and your high paying job. What'd you mess up on this time?"

  "The wine, of course. The guy brings the wine—or the whiskey, or whatever. But there wasn't any."

  CHAPTER 23

  THE DUEL

  Traffic out to the island was light. Going over the bridge, she noticed several tall-masted vessels waiting for the bridge to rise and let them through. It was always raised on the hour if any boats were waiting. She glanced at her watch and saw that it was only ten till. Not that there was any hurry. What she was doing, she thought, was really rather silly. It would make more sense to wait until morning. Why search in the dark when you can do it in daylight? At the same time, she knew she'd get no sleep if she didn't at least go out and take a look.

  Once on the island, she turned left at the lights, heading north. As early as it was, most of the storefronts were dark. It was still too early in the season to pay them to stay open much after sunset. The street was nearly empty. Only a restaurant and a couple of bars catering to locals threw light onto the sidewalk. The streetlights looked lonely.

  She passed the street where Kurt Brodbeck had once lived. After that, there was only an occasional light from a townhouse or condo. Farther on, as she passed the Siegert place, she saw that a light was on downstairs. She slowed as she passed, but saw no sign of movement inside.

  At the end of the road, she pulled into the turnaround and parked facing the dunes. It was well lighted here, with a streetlight at each end, but she knew the light wouldn't reach far enough to help her. Beyond here there were no lights, no road, no houses. Just hills of sand. It would be black out there. She thought again how foolish it probably was, then thought, Oh, what the hell, I'm here now.

  She opened the trunk and got out the flashlight, a big four-battery job one of her brothers had insisted she carry. She flicked it on once to be sure it still worked, then stepped over the barricade and headed into the dunes.

  It was several minutes later that the second car, its headlights off, coasted into the turnaround and pulled in beside the Honda.

  * * *

  Harry had less distance to travel, but he had nearly a mile of winding residential streets, complete with stop signs and traffic signals that seemed to make a career of being red. By the time he got out onto the main road, the vague uneasiness he had started with was becoming rapidly stronger. He knew he couldn't justify it logically. It had been five days since someone had tried for her—since then, nothing. On the other hand, she had been in the hospital one night and at home since then. And the boyfriend had been with her. This was her first night out. And she was alone.

  The lights started flashing and the barriers came down just before he got to the bridge. He felt the muscles at the back of his neck begin to tighten.

  He sat quietly, resisting the urge to fidget, doing what he could to c
ontrol his impatience, willing himself not to get excited. There was nothing he could do about this. Stay cool, stay cool. While the road before him moved slowly upward, he took the clip from his gun. He checked the action, reloaded it, making sure the safety was on. When he was finished, he looked again, saw the lights on the mast of a sailboat moving toward the bridge. As he watched, he saw another behind it, and then a third. They moved very, very slowly.

  * * *

  Mickie's intention had been to start where Kurt had been found. She knew the SBI people would have searched the surrounding area, but they could hardly be expected to notice everything. Over the years, a lot of blankets would have been spread in a place as dark and secluded as this, a lot of bottles and beers cans opened and tossed.

  Her plan had been to move out about twenty yards, then start making circles, spiraling outward. Execution turned out to be more difficult. The dunes were high and irregular, tending to wander, making a systematic search impossible. She settled for staying on the relatively flat sand between the dunes, following wherever they went, the beam of her flashlight sweeping back and forth before her. If she didn't find it tonight—and that seemed more and more likely—she would come back in the morning.

  She came to the end of the island, and walked down to the narrow reach that separated it from the next one to the north. On the far side a few scattered lights were reflected in the water. The tide was just turning, the water running neither in nor out, as if it couldn't make up its mind. Over the ocean, the moon was no more than a cloudy glow just above the horizon. She stood quietly, listening to the sounds of night, taking in deeply the tangy air. She had almost forgotten the bottle.

  As it was, she almost tripped over it. Her light had missed it, but she heard a faint thunk as her foot hit it. She found it with the light, nearly covered with blown sand, only a few feet from the water's edge. She squatted beside it, peering closely without touching it. She had kicked it loose of the sand—it lay label up. The wine looked black in that light. The cap was still on, the metal seal unbroken. Looking at the label, she read a very French title, Chateau Something-Or-Other. The finer print identified it as Red Table Wine, bottled in southern California. Good old Kurt, she thought. A big spender to the end. Cheap red wine in a screw cap bottle. Then she remembered Aunt Edna and the two-hundred-dollar checks, and regretted the thought.

  She was considering ways of picking up the bottle without smudging any prints, when she felt someone behind her. Had she heard something? Footsteps in the sand? Breathing? Her mind flashed to her gun, then remembered she had left it in the car. Stupid, stupid! The flashlight—she could use that. It was heavy and fit her hand nicely. She started to turn, but never made it.

  * * *

  Morris waded through crowds the way he'd wade a stream, straight ahead, as fast as he could decently go, leaving a wake of disapproving faces. He got to Paul in time to hear a sharp faced woman telling him in detail what he should do to improve his potting technique. Catching Paul's eye, he interrupted. "Is Mickie here?"

  Paul recognized him vaguely from the would-be surprise party—someone Mickie worked with.

  The woman stabbed Morris with a look. "Well, really! Would it hurt you to wait your turn?"

  He ignored her, waiting for Paul to answer.

  "No, she left a while ago. Why?"

  "She say where she was going? Or why?"

  "No. She just said she had to leave, that she'd be back later. What's wrong?"

  Morris turned and waded back to the door. As he pushed his way outside, he saw he wasn't alone. Paul was right behind him. He stopped, turning on him. He leaned forward aggressively, gave him his tough look. "What?"

  "That's what I want to know. Where's Mickie?"

  Morris smiled like a crocodile. "That's what I asked you, remember?" He turned and started to the parking lot, then became aware that Paul was still with him. Without breaking stride, he barked, "Where the hell do you think you're going?"

  "Wherever you go."

  "Like hell! Just go on back to your party."

  They crossed the street together. Morris snapped, "Now! I don't have time for this bullshit."

  They had reached Morris' car. Paul said, "Neither do I. Look, it's real simple. My car's right over there. Now, either I ride along with you, where you can keep an eye on me, or I get in my car and follow you. Your call."

  Morris could see he wasn't going to back off, and Harry had said to hurry. Damned civilians! He shrugged. "Suit yourself."

  * * *

  Mickie couldn't remember being unconscious, but her hands were behind her, tied with something stiff, and she couldn't remember that happening. Someone was behind her, hands in her armpits, dragging her. Her tied hands were under her, like the keel of a boat, plowing through the sand. She could hear the deep breaths and occasional grunts of someone working hard, and something soft kept bumping her shoulder. Drag, bump, drag, bump. A high-pitched buzzing filled her ears, and her head was pounding, making it difficult to think.

  The pulling stopped. She lay on her back, trying to figure out just where she was. The dark shapes of tall dunes loomed up on either side, cutting out any artificial light. A shadow stepped around to her side, breathing deeply, looking down at her. She rolled away, trying to get up, but a hand reached out, pulled her back. She looked up, trying to make out a face. God, but it was dark. The shadow's right hand seemed to be pointing at her.

  Oh, my God, I'm going to die!

  She lurched to one side, got up to her knees, clumsy with her hands behind her. Her back was to the other figure.

  "Turn around."

  A woman's voice. Turn around? Tina and Kurt had been shot in the chest, from in front. So had she, for that matter.

  "Not a chance."

  "Turn around and lie down."

  She knew that voice. "Go to hell!" Mickie managed to get to her feet. The pain in the side of her head flared as she did. She tried to think through it, but all she came up with was, I'll be damned if I'll die on my knees.

  The shadow moved to get in front of her, but she turned to keep her right shoulder toward it.

  Oh Lord, don't let her decide to shoot me in the back.

  "Why do you want to kill me?"

  The answer had an indignant tone. "I don't. I don't want to hurt anyone."

  Thank God!

  "But I have to."

  Oh, great.

  "Why?"

  The voice said patiently, "Because you know. You've known all along. But you didn't have enough evidence, did you?"

  Keep her talking.

  "What makes you think I knew?"

  "I heard what that detective said, that you thought Tina's best friend killed her. I've been following you. At the library you even found the books I read."

  "But —"

  "Then you found the bottle. I thought I had thrown it into the water."

  "And the same thing with Kurt Brodbeck. He knew, didn’t he? He saw you at Tina's." There was a long silence, and Mickie was afraid the talk had ended. "Did he try to blackmail you, Cheryl?"

  "He wanted me to come to his house. I told him I'd meet him out here."

  Good. She wants to talk about it. She wants me to know.

  "Did he want money?"

  A disgusted snort. "Money! No. You know what he wanted. He was a pig."

  "I know. I met him." A little rapport couldn't hurt. "What did he say?"

  "Not much."

  Cheryl inched a little further toward Mickie's front. Mickie matched the movement.

  "I met him out where we parked. He kept looking at me, you know, at my hips and my ... you know."

  "So what did you do?"

  "He wanted me to come back to his house with him, but I told him I wanted to be sure no one saw us. I think he liked that. I brought him out here. He spread out the blanket, and took out the bottle of alcohol. He wanted me to sit there with him, and drink alcohol, and...." She stopped in disgust.

  "And make love?"

  "
Love? No, not love!" She spat out the words, her deep voice starting to rise. "He wanted to fornicate!"

  "And that's why you put the sixes on his stomach."

  "The sign of the beast on his belly, and the—what do they call it?—the pentagram on his forehead upside down. Do you know what that means? It’s to summon the Prince of Darkness. He was worse than any animal. He was fit only for other devils."

  Something was odd about Cheryl's silhouette. Something bulky. The purse. That big purse she always seemed to have with her. That's what had been banging against Mickie while she was being dragged through the sand. But why bring it out here?

  "Yeah, I never quite understood all that stuff with the symbols. You're not into that, are you?"

  "God forbid! I thought it might be blamed on the worshipers of Satan. It would be ironic justice, wouldn't it?"

  "What about the stake? Was it to cover up the fact they'd been shot?"

  Oh, for God's sake, Dummy. Don't remind her about shooting.

  "No." There was another silence, and Cheryl started to shift positions again. "No, it was the same. Just another pagan symbol."

  Through the pain in her head, Mickie was trying to think. She wanted to keep Cheryl talking, but knew she'd need more than that. What would the Sensei do in her place? Probably run like a thief. But she couldn't do even that. The tall dunes on either side of her pinched together not thirty feet behind her. A dead end. She'd have to run directly at Cheryl—with her hands behind her. She wouldn't stand a chance, and knew it.

  "You should have left the bottle where it was. Your prints weren't on it, were they?"

  "I know. It was right after I'd ... after he'd been shot. I just wanted to get rid of the horrible stuff. I thought it went into the water."

  The Sensei always said to minimize your opponent's advantage. And what was Cheryl advantage? That was easy—the gun.