Alibis Can Be Murder

by Connie Shelton

  I went back to the Jeep. I could sit out here awhile and see if he came home. Meanwhile, maybe there was a way to get his cell phone number without calling my brother. I dialed the number for the agent listed on the real estate sign.

  “I’m at 4910 Desert Vista Drive,” I said. “I was here two days ago and—”

  “Oh, yes. You must have come for the open house.”

  “Uh, no … I’m just trying to reach the owner and hoped you would have a number for him.”

  “Normally, there’s no contact between buyer and seller. It’s why they have an agent, so we can handle all the negotiations.”

  “Oh, sorry. You’ve misunderstood. I’m not interested in buying the house. I just need to reach Mr. Livingston on another matter entirely.”

  “Livingston?”

  “The homeowner.” How dense could this lady be?

  “You’re at my listing on Desert Vista? I’m sorry but the owner’s name is Cruikshank. I don’t think there’s anyone named Livingston associated …”

  I looked again at my directions, then at the house, to be sure the address was right, took a breath. “I was here the day before yesterday. Jay Livingston answered the door and invited me inside. We sat in the living room, talked and conducted a little business. That’s what I need to talk to him about today.”

  “Ma’am, I’m sorry I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  My thoughts swam. I began to think I had no idea what I was talking about. I forced myself to get on track while I had her on the phone.

  “Sorry. Tell me more about the open house. Were you the agent on site?”

  “Yes, from ten to four.”

  “And you never left?”

  “Oh. I did take a short lunch break. One of my colleagues was supposed to take my place during the noon hour but she had a family emergency and couldn’t make it. Her husband stopped by to tell me. He offered to watch the place and hand out cards while I ran out to pick up food. Really, I wasn’t gone very long.”

  Just long enough. I thanked her and hung up, sitting in my vehicle with a zillion thoughts running through my head.

  The only scenario that made any sense was that, somehow, Jay Livingston had staked out a house for sale and given that address. I had to wonder why, but there must be a reason and the reason surely had to do with keeping himself out of our reach. Unless he’d known in advance about the upcoming open house, he must have planned to break in somehow. The logistics of timing and coordination boggled my mind, but the fact was he’d done it. I marveled at how smooth he’d been, how perfectly at ease in convincing me this was his house. I was beginning to see more con man than collector in the man.

  I’d passed a Denny’s restaurant near one of the freeway exits and decided a decent meal would help my flagging energy and give me the time to plan my next steps. I took a table near the windows and ordered a chef’s salad. My phone chimed with a little reminder I’d set a few days ago. Ignoring that, I remembered Ron’s earlier call while I was on the road so I checked my voice mail instead. The chewing-out was fairly predictable. What was I doing, taking off on my own and where did I think I was taking the diamond ring? Yada, yada …

  I laid the phone on the table when my salad arrived and resolved to forget about Ron, at least until I’d eaten. I’d been right about the food—eating did perk up my energy. It also became clear I wasn’t going to have much luck stumbling around the city on my own looking for Livingston. The man could be anywhere in the world. I paid my bill and went out to the Jeep.

  Might as well call Ron back now. He may have become more furious with the passing hours, but I figured facing the music with some miles between us was better than in the office tomorrow morning. I dialed his number and leaned back in my seat to await my fate.

  Chapter 32

  Ron’s suggestion turned out to be the one thing I had not expected to hear from him: report the fraud to the local authorities. Since Livingston’s residence was in Texas, and since the sale of the lesser-value ring had taken place there, we could sic their people on him. When he put it like that, I sort of relished the idea.

  I looked up the address of the main police station and let the tiny map on my phone direct me to it. For a city of close to seven hundred thousand people, the police department seemed a bit skimpy in comparison to the nearby federal Border Patrol facility. I supposed that was the impact of budgeting law enforcement resources at the border. I parked and went inside, gave a synopsis of the reason for my visit to an information officer and was directed upstairs to the major crimes division.

  Whether I’d caught the lunch hour or whether the division was hopelessly understaffed, I couldn’t tell. The office I entered contained three desks, only one of which was manned at the moment. The guy’s suit jacket hung over the back of his chair and his short-sleeved white shirt was unbuttoned at the neck, his tie loosened. He had cocoa skin and dark hair with a generous sprinkling of gray. His nameplate said he was M. Lujan. When Lujan asked how he could help me, his voice sounded bored.

  I gave the basics: I’d been in contact with a local man with a collectible Super Bowl ring to sell. I’d brought the agreed-upon amount of cash and he’d sold me a ring worth far less. I received a knowing-but-tired look that said: you foolish people never learn to examine the merchandise, do you?

  Lujan’s expression closed further when I explained how I’d come back to find the house where we’d conducted this bit of business wasn’t actually Livingston’s house. A wry smile crossed his face when I told how Livingston had tricked the realtor into leaving it unattended long enough to pull his scam.

  “I’ll give him a B-plus for creativity,” Lujan said, not looking up as he typed my statement on a form on his computer screen.

  He printed the statement and had me sign it. He asked to see the ring—seemed mildly dazzled when the light hit the diamonds—and took several photos of it, including (naturally) the parts I should have looked at more closely before I forked over the cash.

  I stepped out into the bright sunshine when it was all over, relieved to have shifted part of the burden to an authority figure, although Lujan had not exactly radiated hope that we would be seeing Bobby Lorrento’s ring anytime soon. The police session had taken longer than I expected, my stomach was churning from the salad at lunch, and I would be late getting home. But nothing about staying away overnight appealed to me. I walked to my Jeep, got in and called Ron to report the last two hours’ accomplishments.

  By the time I went through Las Cruces, my gut was in definite rebellion and I pulled over at a gas station/convenience store to see what over-the-counter remedies might be available. With two packets of tummy treatment chewable tablets and a large bottle of water in hand, I continued my journey.

  An hour later, a flashing dashboard light caught my attention and I noticed the Jeep’s temperature gauge had gone into the red zone. I edged off the roadway as far as I could and shut down. I hadn’t passed an exit in at least twenty miles and didn’t remember signage promising another anytime soon. I powered all the windows down and hoped for enough breeze to keep me from becoming roasted Charlie out here in the desert.

  Well, I’d been paying a little extra on my insurance every month for roadside assistance—this looked like the perfect time to use it. I grabbed my phone and the little card with the number from my wallet. The phone showed one bar of signal strength and the battery had ten percent left.

  Crap. Would this fun day never end? Was it some misalignment of the planets or something? I couldn’t seem to catch a break.

  I connected—barely—with a perky young woman who wanted to go through a Q&A session, but I interrupted by giving my location.

  “Look, I’ve got probably a minute or two to talk. My car’s out of commission and I need to be towed to the nearest garage. I’d appreciate anything you can do to make that happen.”

  Her response sounded polite, although the scratchy quality of the signal didn’t exactly assure me she’d heard
everything I said. The phone went dead before she finished talking. Double crap.

  I took another of my tummy soothers and blew out a breath of frustration.

  Okay, Charlie, think.

  Somewhere in here I had a phone charger cord. I hoped it was for the current device, as they all seem to have different connection plugs. I rummaged in the glovebox without luck, then tackled the little compartment in the console. Nothing there either. Sometimes stuff found its way under the seat. I leaned over and ran my hand beneath the passenger seat, coming up with a gum wrapper and a gas receipt before my fingers touched a cord. Aha!

  I’d started to pull on it when all at once my Jeep rocked violently. I slammed against the dashboard. Something bit into my ribcage and my head whacked the glovebox door. I felt the car move, tires screaming in protest against pavement and gravel. Then it went still.

  The whole thing happened instantaneously but it took me a long, stunned moment to figure out that I’d been hit by another vehicle. I groaned and pushed myself upward.

  “Shit, man!” came a voice from outside.

  “You hit a parked car, dude,” said a second male voice.

  They both giggled.

  I managed to get myself upright, spun around to see out. My Jeep was no longer parked neatly parallel to the road, but sat nose-down where the verge dropped away, hind end still on pavement. A vivid-orange Trans Am’s crumpled front end had taken out my left rear quarter-panel.

  My karma for asking whether this day could get any worse.

  A teenage boy stood at the collision point, while the driver was trying to put the car in gear and back away. The passenger spotted me and his eyes got saucer-like. He scrambled to get back in the car, which by now had steam spewing from under the hood.

  “Oh, no you don’t,” I said, throwing my shoulder into my door to shove it open. “You’re not going anywhere.”

  I said it with a lot more authority than my pounding head and screaming lower back really felt. I stomped over to his driver’s door and yanked it open. Beer fumes rolled out, and I spotted a half-dozen empty cans in the back seat. Before he could stop me, I reached across the kid in the driver’s seat and twisted his key from the ignition.

  “Seriously?”

  “Damn straight. You think you’re gonna do this and just drive off?” The day’s frustrations built to a head. “Give me your phone. Right now!”

  He actually handed it over. Never in my life had I exerted such power over a teenager, and I have to say it felt pretty good.

  I took a step back and pressed the button to activate the phone. It had stronger signal reception than mine had gotten earlier. I dialed 911 and waited for it to connect. The driver squirmed in his seat.

  “You two. Stay right where you are,” I ordered.

  “I need to—”

  “Shut it. You’ve capped off a shitty day for me and you’ll just have to wait it out.” I jammed his keys into my jeans pocket.

  The emergency operator came on and I described the location and situation. “We’ll need two tow trucks and the police should take a report.”

  My idea of being home drifted away with the steam from the Trans Am. The two boys didn’t look happy. I envisioned lectures from parents, a court appearance on a drunk-driving charge, and whatever else their irresponsible act had brought down upon them. For me, I had a feeling my Jeep was toast. I looked at her and wanted to cry.

  By this time, passing traffic had slowed to a crawl, although the accident wasn’t blocking a lane. The impulse to stare couldn’t be helped. I stomped up the road a ways and came back, having blown off only a little of my ire. In the distance, I saw a tow truck coming toward us.

  The truck driver pulled to the median and made a U-turn, which really caused the traffic to bunch up. He steered to the front of my vehicle and got out.

  “Road Care called and dispatched me,” said the burly man with shaggy brown hair and a beard that seemed too much in the ninety-degree heat. “Didn’t say nothin’ about an accident.”

  “Yeah, well, that’s because there wasn’t one when I first called. My Jeep overheated and I was waiting for a tow when these two bashed me.”

  He gave a sympathetic nod.

  “The police are on the way. At least I hope they are,” I said. A glance toward the Trans Am showed both boys having a nervous conversation inside.

  Sure enough, within a couple minutes a State Police black-and-white appeared over the horizon, lights and siren going full tilt. The car made the same move the tow truck had, except it came to a halt behind the teens and a slightly built female officer got out. From the look she sent toward the boys, I guessed this wasn’t the first time she’d responded to an accident involving beer-drinking college kids.

  She bypassed the orange car and walked up to me. I went through the story of my breakdown and the crash, handing over the boy’s keys and phone.

  “This was good thinking,” she said, indicating the keys.

  “I doubt he would have gotten far, but he was sure willing to try,” I said.

  “Are you injured?” she asked.

  “I don’t think so.”

  The tow truck driver pointed toward my temple and I rubbed it with fingers that came away with a little blood. The officer took my statement and released me to ride along with the truck after he’d hooked onto my Jeep. It was a bit of a process, as he straightened the vehicle’s position and lifted her onto the bed of his truck. Meanwhile, the officer did breath tests with the two kids and they both ended up in the back seat of her cruiser. A second truck arrived to haul their vehicle away as I was retrieving my purse, phone and charger cord from mine. Little black specks danced in my vision when I bent over, and my driver ushered me to his truck and gave me a bottle of water.

  “We’ll get you to T or C real soon and you can get some rest.”

  Any hope of making it home tonight quickly faded. My head throbbed, and muscles I didn’t remember began to make themselves known. In the one thing I’d done right all day, I remembered to run my hand down inside my purse and make sure the twenty-five-thousand-dollar ring was still there.

  Chapter 33

  Truth or Consequences, New Mexico, sits approximately in the middle of the state and as the nearest town to Elephant Butte Lake is a fairly major recreation attraction during the summer months. April being a bit pre-season for boating, I was able to get a room at one of the many lovely little strip motels after a long rigmarole of delivering my damaged Jeep to a fenced yard of other broken toys, clearing my possessions out of it and renting a plain-vanilla sedan to get myself home. I indulged in that most comfortable of comfort food, Kentucky Fried Chicken, and took my little boxed dinner to the room. The desk clerk was kind enough to provide me with a toothbrush, toothpaste and comb. I suppose my slightly battered face accounted for the sympathetic glances I received everywhere.

  Fortified with food and pain meds, I took a deep breath and called home.

  “I’m fine, hon, but there’s not much way I want to drive back to Albuquerque tonight,” I said, after glossing over the basics of my day.

  “El Paso? When did that idea come up?”

  I admitted the trip had been very spur-of-the-moment, but made something of a deal out of the new twist in the hunt for Jay Livingston.

  “Okay, then. I’ve got Freckles here at the house,” he said. “Ron brought her by when he left the office for the day, concerned that you weren’t back yet. You might want to give him a call.”

  My head pounded some more at the thought, but I did it. Ron wasn’t pleased to hear about the lukewarm response from the El Paso police, and I got the feeling he didn’t hold much hope of catching up with Bobby Lorrento’s diamond ring anytime soon. Finally, I told him I was achy and exhausted and would have to postpone any further lectures until tomorrow because, dammit, I wanted to go to sleep now.

  Muscles were seriously cramping up now and, although I couldn’t remember what time I’d last taken ibuprofen, I loaded up on mor
e before peeling off my clothes and crawling between the sheets. Sleep lasted exactly as long as the pills. Four hours after taking them, I rolled over and felt every ache and pain again.

  I indulged myself in a good bout of self pity, wanting my husband and my dog and my own bed. Seeing as how none of them materialized, no matter how much I whined about it, I took more pills and tried pacing the room a few times to walk off some of the soreness.

  My body wanted rest but my mind was awhirl. This ill-conceived trip had certainly complicated my life. One of the first steps, I supposed, would be to call my insurance company and find out how long it would take to get my Jeep back in working order. According to the little wallet card, they had a 24-hour number to call for claims, and since I wasn’t getting back to sleep on the hard-as-a-board mattress anytime soon, I called it.

  A benefit, I discovered, of placing a business call at one o’clock in the morning is the call gets answered right away. No sitting on hold, no jingly music ad nauseam. The female voice at the other end wasn’t exactly perky at this hour, but she did offer sympathy about the accident and asked if I was all right. She took all the information and said she would send a claims adjuster to the yard where the Jeep sat, cold and alone. The thought depressed me.

  By the time I finished the call, I was tired again but couldn’t shake the antsy feeling. I lay down again and actually dozed for a few hours. By daybreak I decided there was nothing holding me here. I gathered my skimpy possessions and got into my generic rental for the two-hour drive home.

  Drake seemed surprised to see me when I walked into the kitchen in time for the coffee he was brewing. He set down the carafe and pulled me close. I moaned a little when his hug squeezed a sensitive muscle and he held me at arm’s length.

  “You okay?” he asked, running his finger gently near the cut on my forehead.

  I nodded. “Yeah, I’m just going to clean up and change clothes before I head for the office.”