Sleuthing Women

by Lois Winston

  How could a person misspell “come” but get “maintenance” right? That didn’t make any sense. Was this someone with legitimate information? Or was this a trap to lure me into an unsafe place and kill me?

  So much for thinking the note might be from Jonette, even though her spelling had always been problematic. She would have called or come over if she had something important to tell me. And, she hadn’t sent me notes since high school geometry class.

  Charlie would have spelled every word correctly and added a few extra sentences to make himself sound more important. I couldn’t imagine him leaving me a note unless he thought my phone line was tapped or there were electronic bugs in my house. Not that I had any experience with either of those things, but I’d watched my fair share of detective shows and read plenty of thrillers.

  Was my house bugged? There had been plenty of cops here two days ago. They might have bugged my house trying to find out if I knew anything about Ed Monday.

  I looked around my familiar kitchen, and every shadowy nook and cranny seemed like a great hiding place for a listening device. I pawed through stacks of junk mail before I realized I had no idea what I was looking for.

  I shoved the hair back from my face and took a deep breath. I needed a reality break here. The likelihood of my house being bugged by the authorities or Dudley’s killer wasn’t very high. I was jumping to conclusions because of that note.

  That note. I picked it up again by its corners and reread it. The words hadn’t changed any in the last five minutes. If I called Britt or anyone else, the person wouldn’t show up. Questions shot through my head like bullets.

  Why me?

  Why a private meeting?

  What time was dawn anyway?

  I sat down hard in a kitchen chair. Was I really going to do what the note said? The killer had already struck twice, and I could be facing certain death. If the killer had sent this, he’d been standing in my yard. He’d sat in my car. He’d been close to my family.

  My fists clenched reflexively. I was never letting my daughters out of my sight again. Hogan’s Glen was a dangerous place. Bad things happened here.

  The chances of me being able to keep my daughters locked in the house for the rest of their lives were slim to none. There had to be a better way, because if I restricted our freedom of motion due to someone else’s activity, hadn’t they won? I didn’t want to spend the next forty or so years being afraid of my shadow.

  I wasn’t completely defenseless. I had Daddy’s guns under my bed. If I decided to do as the note said, I could take Daddy’s pistol with me, for protection. I knew which end of a gun was which, even though I wasn’t a great marksman.

  Maybe I should call Rafe to go with me. Only, the meet was set for the golf course, Rafe’s home turf. Was Rafe the one who sent me the note? Athletes weren’t usually star students. He might be a lousy speller.

  What if I called him and he was the killer? Would he kill me and my entire family?

  I couldn’t trust anyone.

  I shouldn’t go.

  It was crazy to go, but I needed to go because I had absolutely no idea who killed Dudley. It could have been Robert Joy the sleazy developer. I thought I’d ruled him out, but the note had appeared right after I visited his last development.

  Darnell had plenty of reasons to kill Dudley, and he was mean enough to do it. Jasper’s mother, the blind sharpshooter couldn’t have done it. Jasper and Rafe worked at the golf course so they had plenty of opportunity. Jasper had guns in his house. Did Rafe?

  Britt believed the killer might be Charlie or Jonette or Bitsy. All of them had reason to hate Dudley. Charlie thought my neighbor, Ed Monday the fugitive bomber, had done it. I hated Denise for breaking up my marriage, but she had a solid alibi for Dudley’s murder. I knew Mama, the girls and I didn’t kill anyone, but I didn’t know much else for certain.

  If I didn’t go and this was a “Deep Throat” source that for some reason couldn’t go to the authorities and who trusted only me, this case might never get solved. And I really wanted to end this reign of terror. I’d like to show the world that in spite of being set aside by my husband, I still had some value. That what I did mattered.

  Madonna must have gotten lonely upstairs because she padded down to see what was keeping me. I patted her big head and a plan began to form. While Madonna wasn’t a pit bull or a rottweiler, she had the advantage of being huge. Her size was intimidating if you didn’t know her or know much about the friendliness of Saint Bernards in general. I could take her with me. With Madonna and a gun I should be safe.

  I could also take my cell phone, punch in the emergency number, and hold my thumb poised on the send button while I waited at the maintenance shed. That might work.

  I reached over and picked up today’s paper from the hutch where Mama had left it after she’d done the crossword puzzle. Sunrise was at six a.m. If I got to the course early, I would have the advantage of knowing the lay of the land ahead of time.

  This was starting to sound like a very viable, very safe plan. I’d take my cell phone, Daddy’s pistol, the dog, and a flashlight. That sounded good. And dark clothing to blend into the shadows.

  I exhaled slowly.

  I must be nuts.

  I was going to do this.

  Meet with an unknown person in a secluded area.

  Alone.

  Not exactly smart when you looked at it that way. But I could leave a note for Mama and the girls telling them where I was.

  Yeah. That was good. I tucked a small flashlight in my shoulder bag and went upstairs to set my alarm clock for five a.m. I didn’t want to oversleep and miss the meeting. I wanted to solve these murders. And I wanted the killer to pay for what he’d done.

  I found a pair of dark slacks, an old black turtleneck, dark socks, and black slip-on loafers. Too bad I didn’t have black sneakers.

  That done, the only thing left to find was Daddy’s pistol. I’d kept his guns hidden under my bed in hopes that would keep Mama and the girls from finding them. I’d seen the guns under there from time to time when I declared war on dust bunnies, but for the most part, the taupe dust ruffle on my bed covered a multitude of sins.

  Getting down on my knees and leaning over was all the invitation Madonna needed. She lay down next to me and thumped her tail happily, expecting me to wrestle with her. I lifted the ruffle and made a chilling discovery. There were only two guns under my bed.

  Daddy’s pistol was missing.

  Where was it?

  Had Mama come in and retrieved the gun as soon as people in town started being murdered? Or, even more worrisome, did one of the girls have it?

  I would find out just as soon as I got back from my early-morning meeting. Neither the twenty-two rifle nor the shotgun was small enough to fit in my purse, so I couldn’t take either of them.

  But now I had no weapon. There went half of my security plan.

  It was probably better that way. I might have hurt myself or someone else if I had a gun. A “loaded” cell phone and a giant dog should be enough for an early morning meeting, right?

  I could be careful. What were the chances the note was left by a homicidal maniac? Few things in life were certain. If I had to believe something, I was going to believe that the person who left the note had information, nothing more.

  No problem.

  As I got ready for bed I repeated those words over and over again so that I would believe them. I stared at the ceiling of my room, sure that I would never fall asleep.

  So it was something of a shock to hear the alarm clock ring in the dark. I quickly hit the off button and slipped into my stealth outfit. Madonna groaned and lowered her big head back on my spare pillow. “No you don’t,” I said. “Get up. You’re my first line of defense if this meeting turns ugly.”

  She must have thought I was talking to myself because she didn’t move. It was only when I tugged on her collar that she stirred herself to grudgingly descend her throne.

  I only
had the smallest of qualms about taking a quite possibly pregnant dog into the line of fire. Would the dogcatcher come and take Madonna from me if he knew I was endangering her life?

  I couldn’t worry about animal welfare now. I had a killer to apprehend and I could only do that if I got to this meeting without alerting anyone else. I had no intention of Animal Control or my family members knowing that we’d left this house.

  Fortifying myself with coffee was a necessity. In the kitchen, I scribbled off a quick note to Mama and the girls giving them specific instructions to call the police if I wasn’t home before it was time to leave for school.

  The dog seemed to catch my nervousness because she kept pacing around the kitchen. I double-checked to make sure that the flashlight worked, then drove to the golf course.

  There were no cars on the road, no cars in the parking lot. Everyone who had any sense was still home in their beds, where they should be.

  The closer I got to the maintenance shed, the more I questioned my sanity. This was not a smart thing to do. I should have disregarded the note and called someone.

  If I was a cigarette smoker, I’d be chain-smoking right now. As it was, I craved chocolate and wished I kept a supply of candy bars in my car for emergencies. The closest thing I could find to chocolate in the Gray Beast was a used gum wrapper. Ugh.

  I grasped Madonna’s leash and steered her in the direction of the maintenance shed. Birds were making rustling sounds in the dark trees lining the parking lot. My nerves shouted, “Go home.” But I couldn’t. I was a woman on a mission.

  The person who sent me that note had information I needed. I had to keep believing that. If I didn’t, then the only other possibility was that I was going to my own funeral.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  There was a chill in my bones that had nothing to do with the brisk pre-dawn air. My plan to hold my cell phone in one hand with the emergency number already punched in was a no-go. I needed the flashlight because it was pitch black out here and I had the dog leash in my other hand.

  I hoped like anything this wasn’t a trap. I didn’t relish being the killer’s next victim. No one was lurking outside the maintenance shed, but the acrid smell of gasoline wafting out of the building puckered my nose.

  Madonna was my weathervane. She wasn’t agitated or off balance in any way and I felt relieved. So far, everything was going according to my plan. I stood outside the windowless building and waited. Was someone hiding inside the shed? I’d feel safer if I knew that no one was in there.

  I entered the maintenance shed, stepping over the path of straw that led out the door. Madonna pulled me along on her leash.

  Everything seemed to be in a semblance of order. There was no evidence of vandalism, no big white envelopes with my name on them sitting around. There were no people lurking behind the large grass-cutting machines in the darkest corners of the building.

  Shovels and rakes lined the walls. You never knew what might come in handy in a situation like this. I was admiring a motorized sand trap rake when Madonna nudged me and I stumbled. As I went down on my knees, a gun roared in my ears and the shed door swung shut.

  I cowered beside Madonna on the floor. I was too scared to move, too scared to stay put. I took a shaky breath of the gasoline-scented air. This was bad. I had to get out of here.

  No more shots rang out. I concluded I was alone in the shed. I grabbed my light and rushed to the door. It was locked.

  Madonna barked incessantly at the door. Why didn’t she bark before we were locked in? What kind of guard dog was she?

  My stomach fell to my knees.

  I wanted out of this building, fast.

  Okay, Cleo. You’ve got a brain. Use it.

  Why would someone shoot at you and then lock you in this aluminum frame building?

  The pungent odor of gasoline permeated the air. With the quivering beam of my flashlight I traced the straw path on the floor. I’d assumed that the straw was used to cushion the concrete floor, but now that I thought about it, having straw around a place that spilled a lot of gasoline wasn’t a good thing. All it would take was one spark and this place would go up like a matchbox.

  The line of straw ended in a big heap, as if someone had been carrying straw away from the pile and lots had dropped on the way out of the building. Still, the pile worried me.

  I darted over to investigate it. The closer I got, the stronger the smell of gasoline became. Whoever spilled the gas must have tried to cover it up with the straw. Rafe’s occupational safety program needed a serious overhaul.

  Red metal glinted at me from the pile. I pushed the straw aside and discovered three open gasoline cans and several bags of fertilizer. A cold chill raced down my spine.

  This was not good. This pile of flammables and combustibles were a disaster in the making. I hurriedly sealed the cans and dragged them away from the straw.

  Madonna pawed the door. Her incensed barks reverberated through the metallic building. I tugged the heavy fertilizer bags in the other direction from the gas.

  That’s when I smelled smoke. My breath caught in my throat. Smoke. The straw. Fire.

  What if I hadn’t discovered that pile of gasoline and fertilizer? I wouldn’t be long for this world.

  A high-pitched cackle sounded outside, scaring the breath back in me. I had to get out of here. Right now. Or I would be toast.

  This building wasn’t ventilated. Even if the shed didn’t go up in flames, smoke inhalation could be fatal. I ran a quick lap of the building perimeter, Madonna barking at my heels, urging me faster and faster.

  My lungs burned.

  My hamstrings ached.

  Why hadn’t I kept in shape?

  I couldn’t budge the big bay doors. They must be padlocked from the outside. I swore under my breath, fighting panic as I tried to continue my assessment. No windows and all the doors were locked.

  But this place was filled with tools and machines. I huffed my way over to the biggest mower and climbed up on it. I’d seen the guy cutting the fairways with this big gang-style mower. The engine was in front, tractor style, and that gave me hope that it was powerful enough to get me out of here.

  Flames licked under the doorway. I was running out of time. The fire would be in the building in seconds. Madonna barked unceasingly.

  I turned the key.

  Click.

  Nothing happened.

  The engine didn’t turn over.

  Ohgod. Ohgod. Ohgod.

  I was too young to die. I wanted to see my girls grow up, to hold my grandbabies.

  Think, Cleo.

  If the motor didn’t start automatically, then there must be a combination of things to do. I’d never driven a tractor like this before, but once on vacation I’d ridden Uncle George’s field tractor. That one had a clutch which had to be engaged and a manual choke mechanism.

  I looked frantically at the knobs and pedals and began pulling and pushing things in various combinations. One knob activated headlights on the tractor.

  I turned the key again and heard the engine whir until it caught. The room brightened as the fire caught in the straw near the door. I pushed a ball-headed lever by the seat forward and maneuvered towards the nearest wall.

  I didn’t know if this would work but I wasn’t waiting around for help to find me. I was getting out of here right now. Please, please, let this work.

  Metal grated and groaned when the mower struck the wall. I crouched down and covered my head as rivets popped and the wall failed. Fresh air wafted in my face. I gulped untainted air as if I’d been underwater too long.

  Bizarre questions flickered through my brain. Would my auto insurance cover this accident? And, how would I explain to Rafe that I’d destroyed his maintenance shed? How much did a maintenance shed cost, anyway?

  Madonna surged through the hole I’d made in the wall and bounded around the building, barking as she ran. I couldn’t worry about the shed now. Madonna was on the trail of someone.

&nbs
p; I followed her on the tractor, the headlights picking up the twin trails of paw prints and human footprints on the dew-covered grass of the number two fairway.

  I lost sight of Madonna but I heard her barking over the rumble of the tractor. In the faint pink light of daybreak, I drove down the center of the fairway of this par five. It doglegged left and once I rounded the bend, I visually picked up Madonna about one hundred yards ahead of me.

  She’d stopped running and was standing on someone.

  Good girl.

  The person under Madonna wore dark clothing and was not very large. A metallic object gleamed in the grass about five feet from the dog. I drove up, stopped the tractor, and jumped down. I investigated the metallic object first. In the tractor’s headlights, I recognized the initials engraved in the handle plate.

  J. A. S.

  Daddy’s initials. Joseph Anthony Sampson. This was Daddy’s pistol. My heart caught in my throat. How had this person ended up with my father’s gun? Had the killer been in my house like Charles Manson’s creepy crawly people?

  Had Dudley and the bank guard been shot with Daddy’s gun? I picked up the gun and pointed it at the person under my dog.

  A person who was sneezing her head off. I saw traces of bleached blonde hair trailing from her stocking cap and I suddenly knew who Madonna had taken down.

  Denise.

  Charlie’s wife.

  I should have trusted my instincts.

  Denise had everything. Why did she have to kill people? Wasn’t it enough that she’d ruined my life? How much destruction was enough for this woman?

  Why? That question hammered through my brain, and I couldn’t begin to answer it.

  But I did remember I had my cell phone in my purse which was miraculously still slung across my chest, bandolier style. I dialed the emergency number and requested assistance. I didn’t call Madonna off Denise or encourage Madonna to stop barking.

  That barking was the sweetest sound I’d ever heard, second only to the wail of the approaching sirens. That day when Denise lay down on my bed flashed into my head. She must have stolen Daddy’s gun then. Did she hear I’d burned the bedding she touched? Was that why she tried to burn me to a crisp?