1 Lost Under a Ladder

by Linda O. Johnston

My Warren’s parents, brother, and sister survived him. They all lived in Boston. In L.A., I’d been his closest survivor, and it had hurt. Still did, even though we weren’t related. We’d been engaged but hadn’t set a wedding date.

  I didn’t know how long Tarzal and Preston had been business partners. Time didn’t matter. Closeness did.

  I made my way through the crowd to the large table that held Tarzal’s superstition books. Not many were left.

  I supposed that the publicity surrounding his murder might bring people in to buy his book as a collector’s item, if nothing else.

  I kept my ears open, in case someone said something that could lead to a new suspect or clue, but the snatches of conversation I heard mostly centered around trying to figure out exactly where the evil deed had occurred.

  Sighing, I again maneuvered among the closely packed people and approached Preston at the cash register.

  I’d only met him a few days ago. Then, he had appeared like a suave, though aging, man. Now he looked more aging than anything else. He still wore a nice suit but it seemed to hang on him as if he had already lost weight. His face was drawn, and the wrinkles I’d seen there before seemed to have given birth to a whole new litter of additional ones.

  Preston finished taking money from the guy ahead of me, who picked up his plastic bag with a book or two in it, stuffed his receipt into it, and headed into the crowd. Preston then looked blearily toward me.

  “Oh, hello, Rory. How are you?”

  “Okay,” I said. “But more important, how are you?”

  His thin lips moved slightly toward his right side in a half smile. “I’ve been better.”

  “I figured.” I handed the copy of The Destiny of Superstitions that I’d been carrying toward him. “I need this.”

  His eyes narrowed as if in confusion. “You need it?”

  “I’m staying in Destiny a while longer and, though I read it before I got here, I can’t remember all the superstitions in it. To survive here I’ll need a reference book.”

  Bad choice of words I realized immediately: survive. I wasn’t concerned about ending up like Tarzal—though without knowing who’d killed him and why, maybe that was naive. But Preston didn’t react to it.

  “Okay.” He reached for the book and the credit card I held out, scanned the book’s barcode and my card, then put them on the counter as the receipt printed for me to sign. “Here,” he said, handing everything to me.

  He was acting like a robot, doing all the right things but with no reaction, no emotion.

  I didn’t know him, not well, but I really felt bad for him. The guy was clearly grieving.

  “Thanks,” I said as we finished the transaction. I put my credit card away, then tucked the receipt into the book without asking for a bag. Not yet moving away so he could deal with the next customer, I said, “By the way, did you tell anyone about what I told Tarzal and you—I mean, why I came to Destiny? The ladder superstition?”

  “Well, yes,” he said. “Was it a secret? I didn’t tell too many people, but …”

  But more than just Justin, I gathered. “It’s okay. But, Preston, as I said, I’ll be in town a while longer helping out at the Lucky Dog next door. If you need anything, even just to talk, just let me know.”

  His eyes widened in surprise, as if I’d tried to seduce him. His smile this time lifted both edges of his mouth, although not much more than before. “Thank you, Rory. I appreciate that.” He didn’t say whether he might take me up on it, though. Instead, he held his hand out around my side, reaching for the next person’s purchase.

  I was through here … for now.

  Or so I thought. As I reached the door, a man took a sideways step to block me. “Rory?”

  I blinked, trying to place him. I thought I’d seen him before but wasn’t sure.

  And then, as I glanced down at his hands at his sides, I realized why he looked familiar. He was carrying a tablet computer.

  He was one of the two people I’d seen and, because of their photo and note-taking, thought might be media folks.

  “That’s me,” I said. “Excuse me.” I tried to maneuver around him, but he didn’t budge.

  “My name is Derek Vardox. My family owns the local weekly newspaper, The Destiny Star. It’s mostly a fun rag where we talk about our townsfolk and superstitions, but we do include real news if it affects Destiny.” He paused, looking down at me with curious brown eyes. “You found Kenneth Tarzal’s body, didn’t you?”

  “That’s right. I’ve had to talk to the police about it, but I don’t have to talk to you.” I’m not usually that impolite—but I’m also not usually confronted by the media. I didn’t want my picture or quotes to appear in this man’s publication or anywhere else.

  “That’s true,” he said. “But I want as much information as possible to make sure we get everything right. And since I’ve heard that the authorities seem to be zeroing in on poor Martha Jallopia as their main suspect … well, I like Martha. I go to her shop often since I have a couple of Labs at home, and I just don’t see her killing anyone.”

  I inhaled deeply. Did he know I was running the Lucky Dog for her now? Probably, if he knew my name and that I’d found Tarzal. The information was out there if he asked questions, which, as a reporter, he undoubtedly did.

  I stared at him, trying to convey no emotion at all in my expression. He had a full head of sandy-colored hair and a fairly nice-looking face with a longish nose and high cheekbones. He wore a gray knit shirt over dark trousers. His interested expression didn’t quit as he cocked his head and continued to regard me intensely.

  “Look,” I said. “I don’t want any more publicity over this. If you promise to refer to me only as an unnamed source or whatever, I’ll give you the short version of what I know.”

  “Fair enough.” He smiled expectantly and raising his tablet. “Let me record this for accuracy only. I won’t use your likeness or voice. Okay?”

  “All right.” I paused. “I don’t want you to use my dog’s name or refer to the fact that I’m trying to help Martha at her shop or anything else. But for your information only as you do your research, yes, thanks to the keen nose of my dog Pluckie, who seemed insistent about going into the bookstore as I tried to pass by, I found poor Mr. Tarzal. I called 911. You’ve probably learned from the police that he was stabbed by a shard from a broken mirror. It was … sad. Horrible.” I looked at him. “That’s all for now, but I’m glad you want to help Martha. I don’t think she’s done anything wrong. And if you keep your promise not to name me, I’d talk to you again. But right now I have to leave.” Mostly because I’d had enough, and people inside the shop were staring at us.

  “Fine,” he said. “I know where to find you.”

  _____

  I’d only taken a few hurried steps onto the still-crowded sidewalk outside, trying to escape Derek Vardox and my thoughts, when my cell phone rang. I pulled it from my jeans pocket.

  It was the same number I’d called a little while ago—the lawyer. Or at least her office.

  “Hello?” I said.

  “Hello, Rory? This is attorney Emily Rasmuten. You called me before about Martha Jallopia.”

  I moved from the sidewalk and into the area between the two stores where I’d last spoken with Justin. It was late enough in the afternoon that there were more shadows than light here. “Thanks for returning my call.” I started to tell her the dilemma of Martha being considered a suspect in Tarzal’s murder.

  “Yes, I’ve heard about it. So has everyone in town and probably beyond here, too.”

  Partly thanks to the Destiny Star, I figured, although I was aware that the murder had also appeared in some broadcast media and online and there’d been some speculation as to who’d done it.

  “I gather she’s been read her Miranda rights,” I said, “even though she’s not under arrest
… yet.” I didn’t want to give any details of my conversations with Martha or Justin. “She told me that you represent her on some other matters. Do you handle criminal cases, too?”

  “Yes,” she said. “Destiny’s a small enough town that the few attorneys here don’t specialize too much.” She paused. “Did Martha say she wants to hire me to represent her on this matter, too?”

  “We’ve talked about it,” I said. “She’s not been well and is pretty much confined to her home above the Lucky Dog Boutique, although she has come downstairs a bit.” I didn’t want to get into the fact that she happened to have gotten downstairs at a particularly bad time. “I told her I’d call you for her. She’s got access to her phone, so it would be great if you’d call her back.”

  “Yes, she and I would need to talk for her to retain me. And I won’t want it to appear that I’m soliciting her business.”

  “Well, she said she wanted to talk to you, so it shouldn’t hurt for you to call her.”

  “Right. I will. Thank you, Rory. You sound like a good friend.”

  “I hope to be. I don’t know her well.”

  “But—well, rumors do flow through this town like any superstition,” she said. “I heard that you and your dog saved her life before, and you may be helping to save it again.”

  She couldn’t see my brief shrug. “I liked Martha from the moment I met her. I don’t think she could have hurt Tarzal.”

  “But she has a motive.”

  That wasn’t a question. And I wasn’t about to respond anyway.

  “I will get in touch with Martha. Thanks for calling, Rory.”

  I pushed the button to hang up. And then I realized there was someone else I wanted to talk to, the sooner the better. I’d stuck a business card into my pocket when I’d gotten it at the Wishbones- to-Go, and called Destiny’s Luckiest Tours. This time, I left a message for Arlen Jallopia to call me. He was apparently out giving a tour just then. He might be working late tonight, or not. I hoped to talk to him as soon as possible.

  While I was on the phone, I reserved a spot on one of the tours Arlen was scheduled for the next day. One way or another, I’d at least get to see him. To talk to him alone? That remained to be seen.

  _____

  I got the call back from Arlen a short while after I’d dug back into helping customers at the Lucky Dog. Fortunately, the people I’d been with were still making up their minds about some decorative collars and leashes they were trying on their cocker spaniel—a dog Pluckie seemed to like a lot. In any event, I was able to walk away to the side of the store to answer my phone, still keeping an eye on them to make sure Pluckie wasn’t bothering them.

  “Hi, Rory? This is Arlen Jallopia. I got your message. Is everything okay with Martha?”

  “Mostly,” I said. “But I’d like to talk to you about her. Are you available to join me for dinner?”

  “Sure,” he said. “I’d like to talk to you, too.”

  fifteen

  Arlen had told me his last tour that day ended at six thirty. We decided to meet at the Shamrock Steakhouse at six forty-five.

  Millie was leaving the Lucky Dog around six o’clock, but Jeri said she would be there to wait on any late-day customers and close up.

  I really liked the young ladies Martha had chosen to be her assistants. They were teaching me a lot as well as making sure that the Lucky Dog remained lucky with its touristy patrons. I’d gathered that the store remained profitable and that Martha could afford to pay me a salary, as promised. I nevertheless pondered some ideas to make it bring in even more money.

  Pluckie and I soon reached the Shamrock Steakhouse and saved a table outside on the patio. The air was cool, but not cold. Another pleasant evening here in the area just south of the mountains in the Los Padres National Forest.

  But it was nearly seven fifteen. Arlen was late.

  I wondered if this was an aberration or his norm. Would he have retained his job as a tour guide if he was habitually late? Unlikely.

  Maybe he had underestimated the time it would take him to get here from wherever the tours met. Or maybe his being late now was some kind of message to me. Assuming I could figure it out. Of course a lot of people didn’t think twice about running half an hour or more late. I considered calling him, though, to make sure there hadn’t been some kind of misunderstanding.

  “Can I get you something besides water while you’re waiting?” My server this evening was different from the one who’d taken care of Justin and me a couple of nights ago. He wore the same kind of tall green hat as well as a vest and other clothing with shamrock decorations. Four leaf clovers. Symbols of good luck.

  What the heck? It was late enough in a day that had had some pretty rough moments. Hard to believe it had just been this morning when Pluckie and I had found Tarzal … “Yes, please,” I said, and ordered an Irish ale on tap, as well as more water in a dog bowl for Pluckie.

  She wasn’t the only dog on the patio this night, either. There was a German shepherd under a table in the next row, and two small white terriers a few rows over. None seemed particularly interested in my pup or each other, a good thing in an environment like this.

  I studied the menu. I intended to eat here this night whether or not Arlen showed up.

  Was there any kind of superstition about being stood up for a meal?

  “Hi, Rory,” said a voice from behind me. “Sorry I’m late.” Arlen squeezed around the nearby occupied tables toward the seat across from me. He bent to pat Pluckie on the head. “My last group of tourists was gung-ho on getting a whole bunch of pictures at our last stop, so we were behind schedule. I didn’t think I’d be this late, though, or I’d have called you.”

  At least he was apologetic and polite. And I was probably overreacting because of the emotional and difficult day I’d had, my concern over Martha—and having been the only person on this patio who didn’t have another diner with her before Arlen arrived.

  “That’s okay,” I said and realized I meant it. Most of my angst before had been unnecessary, and now I could relax.

  Arlen’s appearance still reminded me a bit of a TV actor—maybe not one, but a conglomeration: young and pert and trying a bit too hard to look cute and sexy.

  He asked our server for a beer, too. “Did you order your dinner yet?” he asked.

  “No.”

  “I can recommend the sirloin tips pretty highly. The T-bone, too. Although if you prefer something lighter, their steak sandwiches are great.”

  “I had a sirloin the other night,” I told him. “I liked it a lot, so I may just stay with the tried and true.”

  “Oh, you’ve been here before?”

  “I ate here on my first night in town.” I didn’t explain that I’d been with the chief of police, who, at the time, had been wining and dining me partly to convince me to help out Arlen’s aunt while she recuperated.

  When our beers arrived along with some delicious Irish soda bread, Pluckie sat up and sniffed the air. I gave her a tiny taste of bread and she settled back down with what appeared to be a contented sigh.

  I looked at Arlen. I hadn’t exactly thought this through. I didn’t want to ask him if he happened to have killed Tarzal because the man wasn’t getting along with his Aunt Martha, or maybe for some other reason. But I could at least sound him out to learn if he knew about their argument.

  “I thought we should talk,” I said, “because I’m concerned about your aunt. She seems to be healing, although it’s only been a couple of days. I’m concerned that she’s not taking the best care of herself.”

  “You mean because she’s walking up and down the steps at her place when she’s not supposed to?”

  Had one of the store staff told him that? Or had Martha herself ?

  Turned out to be the latter.

  “That and other things,” I said. “How’d y
ou know that she’d been negotiating the steps?”

  “I talked to her before,” he said. “When I heard that Kenneth Tarzal had been murdered. She was upset because apparently the fact she’d been able to get downstairs on her own despite just being released from the hospital made her a suspect.”

  “That’s my understanding, too,” I said. “But I don’t really understand what they think her motive could be.” That wasn’t true, of course, but I wanted to see if Arlen knew.

  He did. His expression grew solemn. “I think it’s pretty insubstantial, but Aunt Martha did tell me she’d had some business meetings planned with the men next door. She was doubtful they’d go well because she thought Tarzal and his partner Preston were going to twist her arm to give up the Lucky Dog Boutique. She intended to resist all temptation and was hoping to convince them instead to go after the property on the other side of their shop, around the corner.”

  “I suppose she may have been hoping for that result when she first saw Pluckie and said my little black and white dog was a good omen for a business meeting.”

  “Right. But she refuses to acknowledge that, whatever the guys at the bookstore were hoping to build on the property there, they wanted it all to face onto Destiny Boulevard, not around the corner.”

  I hesitated. “You know that … well, I understand that Tarzal threatened her with making sure to publicize bad luck superstitions about dogs and the Lucky Dog Boutique so it would close anyway if she didn’t cooperate.”

  “She told me.”

  Our meals came then. Arlen, too, had ordered steak—a T-bone. That had been the most expensive meal on the menu.

  And I suspected it would be on my nickel. We hadn’t discussed who’d be paying. Since meeting here had been my invitation, he might be expecting that I’d treat.

  I just hoped I’d get something useful out of him.

  “This is great,” I said a few minutes later after my first bite of meat. “How’s yours?”

  His smile told me it was good even before his words did. “Delicious. Anyway, Rory, I guess you may be wondering what I thought of Martha’s arguing with Tarzal and Preston. I was all for it, since I doubted they’d pay her what her property is worth. She bought it years ago when she moved to Destiny and opened the store. Things have only gotten better in town, so I’m sure she’d make a hefty profit on it—but the Lucky Dog’s really profitable, too. Yes, she could move it, but it’s a great location.”