Colt grinned and took my grocery bag off my shoulder to carry it in for me. “Glad to have you back in the land of the living.”
“Thanks. I’m glad to be back.” I unlocked the front door. “What brings you by?”
“Two things. Advice and internet.” Colt snapped his fingers. “Three things. Can I get your autograph too, now that you’re so famous?”
“You joke, but someone did ask me for my autograph a few days ago.” I stuck my tongue out at him. “So there.” I stepped inside and closed the door behind him. “What’s wrong with your internet?”
“It’s out at my place.”
“Well, then come on in to the internet and advice café. Would you like some coffee as well?”
Colt followed me into the kitchen, dropping my grocery bag on the counter and making himself comfortable at the dining table. “If you’re offering.”
I measured out coffee into a new filter. “Does this mysterious advice have anything to do with Vikki?”
“She turns her manuscript in tomorrow morning and our celebration dinner is tomorrow night. I’ve decided to propose either at dinner or afterwards, back at her place.” Colt drummed his fingers on the dining table.
“That’s right, I was supposed to come up with some good ideas for you.” I gave him an apologetic look while pouring the water into the maker. “I’m sorry.”
“You get a pass this time. I mean, you’re such a big celebrity now, I should feel honored to be drinking your coffee. How’s Meryl by the way?”
My apologetic look turned scornful. “Strike two for you, mister. Maybe I don’t want to offer you advice after all.”
“White flag, you win.” Colt held up both hands. “No more teasing.”
“What did you decide about a ring?”
“I want to propose with a ring. It feels right.” His head bobbed in satisfaction.
“And you want my help picking one out.”
“See, this is why we’re friends.” Colt tapped his temple. “You can read my mind.”
“Eric is sick so I’m going to go visit him later. I also want to stop by the Nature Center just to pick Olga’s brain about some things.” I got a mug out of cabinet for Colt. “How about we go shopping after the girls get home from school?”
“That works. Which do you think is better timing for the proposal? Restaurant, or afterwards?”
I gave that some thought. Vikki was a private person, despite her status as a bestselling thriller writer. Or maybe because of it. From what I knew of her, I was guessing a more intimate setting would please her more than a restaurant, down-on-one-knee kind of proposal.
Vikki lived on the coveted shores of Lake Muir; she had a dock and a pontoon boat. The weather was supposed to be unseasonably warm this weekend. While they were at dinner, I could sneak over to her house and create a romantic setting on the boat for him to pop the question. It would be perfect. I smiled, and bounced on my toes in happy anticipation. “Not only are you going to propose afterwards at her place, but I’m going to see to it that the night will be one to remember.”
Colt was pleased with my idea. He got to work on the internet in our closet-turned-office just off the kitchen while I made a new-and-improved immunity drink for Eric. After wiping the counter clean and running a load of dishes, I grabbed the coffee pot to warm up Colt’s cup. He had papers spread out on the small desk.
“What job are you working on right now?” I asked, looking over his shoulder.
“It’s not a job, per se.” Colt reclined in the desk chair. “I’m doing some research for Vikki.”
“For what?”
“When she takes writing breaks, she walks that paved path that follows Dogwood Stream, over near the high school. The last few days, she’s been noticing graffiti that’s giving her a kernel of an idea for her next book, so she asked me to dig a little deeper.”
“Graffiti in Rustic Woods? You mean, like spray paint graffiti?”
Colt nodded. “Right on the pavement.” He took out his cell phone and scrolled. “I took some pictures.” He tapped a few times, then handed the phone to me for a better look. After enlarging the image, I sucked in a breath and tried to hide my instant concern. Neon green spray paint spelled out a word in capital letters: POGO.
I scrolled to the next picture, words painted in bright red: die POGO die.
The last picture might have been the scariest: black and white skulls flanking the words, POGO kills.
POGO. Like the neon light Moyle saw flashing in his dreams. There had to be a connection. Had Moyle walked on the same path and unconsciously manifested the graffiti in his dreams? Or, was he the artist, himself? With Colt’s distaste for Moyle, I didn’t want to reveal too much too soon. I played dumb.
“Pogo? Is that a person, do you think? Or maybe a gang?”
“Gang was my first thought, but my search isn’t finding any matches related that way.” Colt turned toward the computer and clicked on one of the open tabs. “There’s a Pogo Trucking company in Washington state. Nothing unusual or suspicious as far as I can see.” He clicked on a different tab. “But there’s this POGO Labs I just located. Stands for Pond Oceanic and Geological Operations.” Leaning back in the office chair, Colt threaded his fingers behind his head. “This kind of thing might be right up Vikki’s alley as far as a thriller story goes.”
I crossed my arms with pretended nonchalance, but was keenly interested. “Why?”
“It’s a military research lab. Put the words military and research together and my mind goes to conspiracy theory and government cover-up type stuff.”
Yeah, me too, I thought. “Let me guess, they’re located in Washington, DC.”
“No,” he said. “Long Island, New York.”
Chapter Fifteen
This military research facility was located in Long Island, New York. Coincidentally, or maybe not so coincidentally, Bernie Ford, Pickle, and Ed Sigmund had all lived and worked in Long Island. It seemed crazy to even consider a connection between POGO Labs and the three volunteers, but two of them were dead and the other missing, so maybe not so crazy? If I went to that crazy place, though, where did Moyle fit in?
My head swam. I loved treacherous plots and intrigue in my movies, but in my own life, not so much. Hopefully, there was no connection at all and this was just an innocent concurrence of events.
I wasn’t one to keep things from Colt, but his distrust of Moyle was too strong for me to admit my own interest in the graffiti or POGO Labs. I grabbed the thermos of new flu bomb and my van keys and I told Colt to lock up the house when he was done with his research. I had a Russian brain to pick.
I found Olga acting as receptionist at the front desk.
“Your volunteers are still all sick?” I asked her.
“Not sick. Missing. This is Bernie’s usual time slot. If she is not dead, I would like to kill her myself. I hate this answering of phones. I show her. I eat her cookies.” Olga pulled a Scottish shortbread from a package and dipped it into a steaming mug of tea.
“It’s interesting you mention Bernie, because I actually wanted to ask you more about her.” I perched a hip on the edge of the desk.
“It is not interesting that I mention her,” Olga said. “I mention her because you ask me if my volunteers are sick.” She shook her cookie at me. “You just need good segue to ask me question.”
“Right. Okay. You have me there. Anyway, I was wondering if there is anything else you can tell me about the volunteers.”
She squinted at me. “You are a nosy one, aren’t you Barbara Marr.”
I feigned indifference. “Is there anything inherently wrong with being nosy?”
“Well, this is why you get into much trouble like Sharon Forrest say.” Placing a hand on her chest, she looked at me from under her brows. “But this is okay, because I like the nosiness. And besides, Sharon Forrest is the pan calling the pot black. Wait here.” She jumped off her chair, scooted down the hall to her office and returned momentaril
y with a framed photograph. “This was taken at our volunteer appreciation picnic. Ed Sigmund was still alive.” She pointed to a handsome, gray-haired man. “That is him there. Next to him is Bernie. And, of course, this other man you saw with a knife in his chest. Pickle.” She clicked her tongue and shook her head. “Such a shame.”
Since I’d only seen Pickle’s dead body from across the pond, I didn’t recognize his image in the photograph without her assistance. I did recognize Del Rowenhorst and Sharon Forrest.
I pointed to the last woman in the photograph. The woman with long, straight hair. “This is Helen Moyer?”
“Yes.”
“And you said she and Del were close with Ed and Bernie and Pickle as well?”
“I would not say this exactly, no.” Olga tapped on the glass of the picture. “Helen, she is friendly with everyone, but better friends with Del. They are very close, even live on same street not far from here. Helen, if you ask me, is having the memory problems. Many times this year, she just forget to come in. One time she lost key to utility room and we find it in refrigerator.”
“Del and Helen didn’t move here from Long Island as far as you know?”
Olga shrugged, and placed the picture down on the desk. “I could not tell you this for sure. Helen talk all the time about growing up in Missouri, but this is all I know.”
“Did Bernie, Ed, or Pickle ever talk about something called POGO Labs?”
“No, but I hear this word POGO from Bob.”
“Moyle,” I corrected her.
“You say Moyle, I say Bob. Potato, potato.”
“Turns out, there is a POGO Lab located in Long Island, New York. It’s a military research facility.”
“You don’t say?” Olga pushed her glasses onto the bridge of her nose. “I never thought of this before, but Bob, he always act strange when I see him with Ed or Pickle or Bernie.” She moved back behind the reception desk to sit down. “Stranger than usual because he is peculiar guy if you have not noticed.”
“Did Moyle—Bob—ever tell you he was a time traveler from the future?”
“Sure, sure he did.” Olga nodded, a small smile playing around her mouth. “The year 2525. I just figure his brain was all cooked up from CIA mind control methods.”
My mouth fell open. “He’s talked to you about the CIA?”
“Not at all. But he has that look like Russian agent I once knew.”
Chapter Sixteen
When I left, there was a huge knot in my stomach. Maybe she was right about Moyle. We did live in the CIA’s backyard, after all. It would explain a lot about his behavior. Possibly he was a Jason Bourne gone-haywire in a different way. I decided to drive over to have another visit with Moyle before going to Eric’s.
A couple of miles from Olga’s house, sitting at a red light, I spotted Del Rowenhorst, wild orange hair and all, coming out of the drug store on the corner. She was slipping on sunglasses and a scarf while making her way to the bus stop.
I made a quick turnaround, and pulled over in a safe spot to idle and keep my eye on Del. Soon enough, a bus arrived and Del embarked. Feeling like an undercover cop, I followed the city transport as it meandered across town. Finally, Del got off in an unfamiliar neighborhood and after a short walk up the street entered a small house.
I parked my van at the curb. The house was a split-level with a one car garage, typical for Rustic Woods. I was almost sure that Olga said Del lived on the same street as Helen near the Nature Center. This house was miles away.
I dialed Colt. He picked up on the second ring.
“Yeah?”
“Are you still at the computer?”
“Yeah. Just about to leave. You need something?”
“Look up this address for me: 359 Rippling Brook Way. See who owns it.”
I could hear the clicking of the keyboard. “Forrest Real Estate Group.”
“As in Sharon Forrest? My nemesis?”
“Just reading what it says here. It’s an LLC. Why are we doing this?”
“I just spotted Del Rowenhorst going into that house,” I explained.
“Rowenhorst. Why do I know that name?”
“She’s the one who confessed to killing Pickle while you were waiting to be questioned.”
“Oh, right. I can’t remember now—did she kill him?”
“No. But she disappeared like Bernie Ford and Helen Moyer.”
“And who’s Helen Moyer?”
“The long-haired woman I saw fleeing the scene of the murder. Well, I’m assuming it was Helen.”
“So what are you doing now?”
“Deciding my next move.” I scanned the windows of the house, looking for any movement inside.
“I thought you were going to Eric’s.”
I reached in my glove compartment for my pepper spray. “Slight detour.” Stuffing keys and spray into my pocket, I opened my car door. “I’m going to have a little talk with Del first. If I don’t show up at the jewelry store later, call the police.”
“You want me to come over for backup?”
“Nah. I should be okay.” I walked down the sidewalk to the driveway. “She’s almost eighty. How dangerous can she be?”
“You never met my great-granny, Big Bertha Baron. She packed heat until she was ninety-nine.”
“I’ll text you if it looks perilous.” I disconnected, slipped the phone into my back jeans pocket, and made my way up the brick walkway.
After failing to locate a doorbell, I rapped hard on the door.
Silence.
I knocked again, harder and longer.
Silence still.
Del Rowenhorst was either hard of hearing or avoiding visitors. I guessed the latter. But, just in case deafness was an issue, I rapped one more time and hollered “Hello! Anyone home?”
Still, the door remained closed.
“Okay, Del Rowenhorst,” I muttered. “You asked for it.” I stepped off the front stoop onto the leaf covered lawn, slipping around the side of the house. I’d been in plenty of split levels around Rustic Woods like this one, and they almost always had back decks with sliding glass doors.
The only thing that might slow me down would be a fence, but luckily this house did not have one. The deck was old and weathered, but it had stairs. That was all the invitation I needed.
Unfortunately, drapes were pulled closed across the sliding glass door. I tugged on the handle, but it was locked. I stepped back to gain a wider view of the house. Every window had drapes and blinds pulled. Not in a giving-up kind of mood, I went back to the sliding glass door and cupped my hands against the glass hoping to somehow peek through the sliver of open space between draperies.
I twisted my head one way and then the other in a futile effort to spy anything through the crack when suddenly the curtains parted and half a woman’s face appeared. I jumped back, startled.
As quickly as they parted, they shut again, but I’d seen enough orange to know that woman was Del Rowenhorst.
I banged on the glass. “Del! Del Rowenhorst! I know it’s you in there! I’ve seen you now, so if you don’t want me going to the police and telling them where you are, you’ll need to let me in!”
The curtains didn’t so much as flutter.
“Del! Come on. I just want to talk to you for a few minutes. If I found you, it’s only a matter of time until the police do, so why not let me in?”
Finally, the draperies swung open. Del stared at me through the window. Slowly, looking a little defeated, she unlocked and slid the door open. “How did you find us?”
The “us” remark wasn’t lost on me, but I didn’t want to answer a question with a question. “I saw you take the bus back on the other side of town so I followed you here. Who’s here with you? Helen and Bernie?”
“Why would Bernie be here?” she asked in response.
Helen came from the kitchen, answering part of the question at least. “Del?” she asked, looking me up and down, and blinking rapidly. “Is everything okay?
Am I in trouble?” Helen Moyer was slightly bent and frail. Her long hair was pulled back in a scraggly pony tail. She wrung her thin, arthritic hands with worry. “You aren’t going to take me away are you?”
Del motioned me to close the door. “Please, she gets cold easily.” She guided her friend to sit on a loveseat that faced the door. “No one is going to take you away, and you aren’t in trouble.”
“Did you tell her the ghost was real, Del? Did you tell her?” Helen’s voice grew shrill.
“Did she see who killed Pickle? Because if she did, you could be…” I saw the terror grow on Helen’s face as I spoke. I didn’t want to upset her anymore so I stopped short of offering any more dire descriptions. Del didn’t seem like a stupid woman; she didn’t need me to spell out the obvious. I changed the direction of my inquiry. “What are you hiding from?”
“Helen didn’t see anything,” Del explained.
“Don’t talk about me like I’m not here, Del,” Helen chastised her, but then confusion clouded her pallid face. “What didn’t I see?”
“Pickle. You didn’t see who killed him.” Del placed a soothing hand on Helen’s arm.
Helen gasped. “Someone killed Pickle?”
“See, this is what she does.” Del gazed at Helen with pity. “She can’t remember. Her family wants to put her in a home.”
“Oh!” Helen’s face shone recognition. “Yes, I do remember one thing: a ghost killed Pickle.”
Del patted her hand. “It’s okay.”
“Maybe you should start from the beginning.” My spidey-sense tingled.
Del paced. “That day, I was getting ready to help with decorations for the Halloween Walk when Helen showed up at my door, frantic. She’s been having lapses in her memory for about a year now. Sometimes she’d go weeks without any problem, but then, like that day, she’d apparently misplaced an entire chunk of time.”
“I love to garden.” Helen’s eyes lit as she smiled.
“She’d been gardening in her yard. Of course, as the crow flies, her house is, maybe a quarter of a mile, half a mile from the Nature Center.”
Dial Marr for Murder Page 11