Clean Getaway (Squeaky Clean Mysteries Book 13)

by Christy Barritt

  I was inclined to agree. “Thank you for your time.”

  I sat in my car after talking to Detective Marshall. I closed my eyes and leaned back against the headrest, trying to rest for a minute. It had been a long time since I’d felt this miserable. I’d forgotten what it was like.

  But at least I’d gotten through that meeting without anything embarrassing happening. No puking or weird stomach noises or quick sprints to the bathroom. Now I needed to go back and rest. I hoped this passed quickly, but knowing my luck it would try to put me out of commission for the rest of the week.

  As I sat there sucking in deep—but useless—breaths, my cell phone rang. I glanced at the screen and saw it was Riley.

  Riley. Maybe he was just what I needed to cheer me up. Better yet, maybe he had a nice update on the housing situation.

  “Hey, handsome,” I answered.

  “Gabby. What’s wrong? You sound terrible.”

  “Even with the ‘hey, handsome’ greeting?” I asked. “I thought that would cover up how I was really feeling.”

  “What’s going on?”

  I told him.

  “You poor thing,” he said. “Do you want me to come out and take care of you?”

  He had no idea how close I was to saying yes.

  “I’m hoping this will pass quickly.” Big girl, Gabby. That’s what you are. You’re possibly buying a house. You’ve got a real career. You’re married. Now act like it.

  “I’ll pray for that also,” he said. “Being sick while you’re away from home is the worst.”

  “I know, right?” What I wouldn’t give to take a sick day.

  He paused a moment. “Well, I put in an offer on the house. I’m still waiting to hear back, though.”

  “You did?” I perked up, if only for a minute.

  “That’s right. You still feeling good about it? Because it’s not too late for me to withdraw.”

  “No, I’m glad you did. Really glad. What’s next?” I’d never done the whole house-buying thing before, and I was uncertain about the process.

  “Now we wait to see if the sellers accept our offer.”

  “How long could that take?”

  “The agent thinks they’ll make a decision soon, and that they’re anxious to sell. But we’ll see.”

  “Keep me updated?”

  “You’ll know something the moment I know something,” he promised. “Now, are you sure you don’t want me to drive out there . . . ?”

  Oh, did I. Did I ever.

  “Well, I pretty much think we can rule out a murder suicide,” Evie told me that evening as she and Sherman ate some sandwiches back at the cottage house. “I looked at the reports and talked to the ME—if that’s what you would call him.” She did the half eye roll. “He had the audacity to tell me he learned everything he needed to know on YouTube and that it was a wealth of information.”

  I mentally laughed. He sounded like just the type of person I’d like to be around.

  “There was no way either of them shot themselves, not based on the gunshot angles,” Evie continued.

  I stared at her food and sneered, still feeling the aftereffects of being sick. Instead of making a big deal about it, I pulled my blanket higher around my shoulders. I was sitting on the couch and trying to recover.

  I kept going back to the question of my sickness, and whether or not it had been an accident or if someone had planned it. Just to be safe, I’d thrown away a few things—the hummus from earlier, some granola bars, and the orange juice.

  I didn’t want to think that someone had done this on purpose. I didn’t want that to be true, but it very well could be.

  “Good to know,” I said, taking a sip of some ginger ale I’d picked up on the way home. “You should know that I found one connection between the highway killer and the Simmons. Both knew Dewey.”

  “So he’s back on our suspect list?” Sherman asked.

  “Possibly,” I said. “He’s obviously not going to offer us any information, so we’d need to figure out another way to determine if he had motive, means, and opportunity.”

  “The motive could be money,” Sherman said, pulling off a piece of his sandwich and examining it before taking a bite. Everything about Sherman was peculiar, but in a good, interesting way.

  Or maybe he was examining it to make sure it didn’t appear tainted or poisoned.

  “Money is the root of all evil,” I said. “This could just have been about the cash. But we have to figure out why Margie took the money out of her account. There’s some kind of story there.”

  “It’s true.” Evie grabbed a bottle of water. “So, at this point, who else are we looking at? Which lead should we pursue?”

  “Maybe we can do Rochambeau to decide,” Sherman said.

  I raised my eyebrows. “Do what?”

  Evie and Sherman stared at me.

  “Rock, Paper, Scissors,” Evie said with an air of condescension.

  Who called Rock, Paper, Scissors Rochambeau? I knew. The same people who drank kopi luwak.

  Weirdos, and nothing anyone said would change my mind about that.

  “Anyway, back to our suspect list . . .” I glanced at my paper again, the one where I’d scribbled my notes. “I’m still not convinced that Jarrod Hedges doesn’t have anything to do with this. He fought with Ron about dating Jessie. I’d like to talk to Jessie more about this. The fact that she didn’t mention him raises some red flags for me.”

  “I agree that it’s suspicious,” Evie said. “I’d also like to dig into that relationship a little more.”

  “There’s Ray Franklin, the man who worked for Ron,” I continued. “But he’s dead now, so we have no way of hearing his side. We don’t really know what his relationship was with Ron or what they were arguing about.”

  “There’s also Emilio Perez,” Sherman said, examining yet another piece of his sandwich.

  “He’s the migrant worker, but how in the world are we going to track him down?” I asked. “The very nature of his business requires him to move. Some are undocumented.”

  “It would be nearly impossible to find him now—which would make him the perfect killer,” Evie said.

  I sighed and leaned back. I’d hoped for a more solid lead, but that was still a distant reality. “It sounds like we have our work cut out for us.”

  “Yes, it does,” Evie agreed. “Oh, and I’m close to finishing up my profile on the killer. I just thought you’d want to know.”

  I just wanted her to share it. I didn’t care if it was perfect or not. But Evie did.

  Before we could talk about it anymore, a noise caught my attention. It almost sounded like something was moving behind me—moving quietly but just enough to rustle some magazines.

  I turned around, fearing the worst. What I saw caused me to suck in a quick breath.

  It was a snake.

  A cottonmouth.

  My eyes met Evie’s at the same time.

  We had to get out of this house. Again.

  Was it too late to get my deposit back?

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Just as we reached the front door, another snake slithered out and blocked our path. This one coiled and showed his fangs, just daring us to try and get past.

  I gasped and drew back, dropping my ginger ale in the process. The glass hit the floor and shattered. My drink fizzed and liquid poured out.

  The mess was too close to that snake. I’d clean things later—if I ever dared to step foot in this house of horrors again.

  How many of these suckers were in here? And why were they all showing me their venom-laced teeth?

  “This is a nightmare,” Evie whispered. “I hate snakes.”

  She looked like she could hardly breathe as she stood there, staring at the cottonmouth. Her pale skin was even paler. Her muscles looked stiff.

  “Back door,” I said, keeping my voice eerily calm.

  I didn’t want to upset the wildlife.

  I slowly backed away, c
areful not to step on any more of the critters. I tugged Evie back with me, afraid she may not move otherwise.

  When Sherman threw open the door, Evie ran out. I was right behind her. I paused only for long enough to grab my purse, which just happened to be by the door. I might need my cell phone, which was tucked inside.

  With every step, my gaze darted about crazily. I could feel creepy crawlies all around me, whether they were there or not.

  Snakes were not cool.

  Nor was the person who’d left them in our house. But this was undeniably no accident.

  I felt like I could collapse at any time. I didn’t want to be a whiner, but that stomach sickness had knocked the wind out of me and depleted my energy. I just wanted to sleep, but sleep was a luxury I couldn’t afford right now.

  Evie, Sherman and I kept moving, rounding the house and heading toward the cars. We were all dazed and slightly speechless. I didn’t know about them, but I couldn’t help but wonder if this was all a bad dream.

  “What in the world?” Sherman muttered, pushing up his glasses.

  “This happens to me a lot,” I muttered.

  How many times now? I couldn’t count them all. Not snakes specifically, mind you. But these dangerous situations.

  I grabbed my phone and dialed Detective Hanson. He promised to come out and to bring someone from animal control with him.

  Those snakes had not wandered into our house by accident.

  I hung up and turned back to my friends.

  “Someone is trying to sabotage this investigation,” Evie stated, her eyes narrowed. “I’m starting to get angry.”

  “You’re right. Someone wants us to give up on this investigation,” I said. “That means the killer is still alive, and he’s well aware of our presence here. It’s actually good news.”

  Just as the last word left my lips, a bullet sliced the air.

  The mastermind behind the sabotage—and, mostly likely, the killer—was still out there. Still watching. Still waiting.

  “Get down!” I yelled.

  We all fell into the grass and remained low.

  My heart pounded in my ears. What would this person do next?

  I didn’t want to find out.

  But, in the meantime, we couldn’t just stay here like sitting ducks.

  Another bullet flew through the air, and shattered Sherman’s windshield. Those shots were coming from the woods on the left side of the property.

  I pulled my own gun out—more glad than ever that I’d grabbed my purse—and I army crawled to the edge of the car.

  I scanned the tree line. Finally, I saw a reflection in the distance. Glasses? Binoculars? I couldn’t be sure.

  I raised my gun and fired back.

  “What are you doing?” Evie shouted.

  “I’m defending us until the police arrive.”

  “You have a gun?” she screeched.

  “I was held captive by a notorious serial killer. So, yes, I have a gun.” I shuddered at even mentioning the ordeal. I wouldn’t wish something like that on anyone.

  “Do you know how to use it?” Evie asked.

  I tightened my grip. “It’s just like a water gun.”

  “Just like a water gun—”

  “I’m kidding.” I really should focus right now. No time to joke. She was just so easy to get riled up.

  I scanned the woods again. The glare was gone. Had the shooter left? Or was he lying low?

  I wanted more than anything to take off to the thickets and see for myself who was there. But I couldn’t do that. There would be nowhere to hide, and my body couldn’t take so much exertion right now.

  Just then a police cruiser pulled up.

  But this wasn’t the end of it. I had no doubt about that.

  Apparently, there was a regatta in town—in the winter?—and all of the hotels were booked. And, by all of the hotels, I meant the two decent ones.

  There were two rooms open at a creepy, Bates-like motel for one night. And, by creepy Bates-like motel, I meant it had a light-up sign with one of the letters flashing and buzzing with an electrical short. Even better, its name was Cape Dread, but could you guess which of the letters wasn’t working? The “r,” of course, which made it look like the hotel was named Cape Dead.

  How appropriate.

  It was a one-story establishment with all the rooms opening to a central outside court and gravel parking lot. A bar was attached to the lobby area, and country-western music blared from its depths.

  Inside, I noted that the furnishings hadn’t been updated in decades—and it smelled like it. The place was dirty. Well-used. Maybe even used on an hourly basis.

  Gross.

  I knew when I walked inside that this was the cleanest I would feel during my stay here. As soon as I sat down on the bed or used the bathroom here, I was going to feel the need to disinfect myself.

  When I looked at Evie’s expression, I knew she felt the same way. Maybe even worse because she was high-class like that.

  “I hate my life right now,” she muttered.

  I needed to be the voice of reason, I reminded myself. Be the leader I knew I was deep down inside. Keep my team strong, even as we journeyed through the Land of Cheap Motels and Unsightly Furnishings.

  “It could be worse,” I said. Had wiser words ever been spoken?

  She scowled at me. “I doubt it.”

  “It’s like you said earlier: someone wants us out of town. That must mean we’re hitting some nerves. That’s good.”

  “If you say so.”

  I didn’t have anything else to say to her. Mission: Keep My Team Strong was on hiatus.

  Already.

  Instead, I set my bags down and sucked in a deep, dust-filled and most likely mold-laden breath.

  Animal control had come by the rental cottage and captured three snakes inside the house. Sherman, Evie, and I were all in agreement: We had to get out of that house. Not just tonight, but for good. We were too vulnerable there.

  We’d packed up our stuff, made a plan for what we’d tell the rental agency, and we’d left without a trace of remorse.

  Anywhere had seemed better than that house.

  Until we got to Cape Dead.

  I grabbed a flimsy plastic ice bucket from atop the dresser, already looking for an excuse to get out of this room. “I’ll be right back.”

  “Whatever floats your boat,” Evie muttered.

  I started outside to fill it. I wanted some cold ginger ale. It was the only thing that sounded good right now. Well, that and getting away from Evie.

  I found an alcove with soda and junk food machines and an ice-maker—not to mention a cockroach and an overflowing trashcan. I stuck the bucket in the machine anyway. Nothing happened.

  Of course.

  With a sigh, I started my search for another one, heading toward the front office. Music still blared from the bar that was attached to the building. Lots of pickup trucks were parked out front, and people were coming and going.

  Great. That only made this place that much better—and by better, I meant worse.

  Sarcasm, just in case you wondered.

  The place was already creepy, and with the influx of people it would also be unsafe.

  As I slipped inside another alcove with more vending machines, I glanced out in time to see a Cadillac pull in.

  Dewey, I realized. How many people in the area drove cars like that?

  Sure enough, he hopped out a moment later and strode toward the bar, looking like he owned the place.

  I abandoned my quest for ice and slipped outside. I knew I probably wouldn’t discover anything by following him, but I wanted to keep an eye on him anyway.

  What did I have to lose?

  How many other victims said that before they died?

  I tried not to think about it.

  I slipped inside the place—it was named Shady’s, and it was obviously a popular spot in the area. It was loud and dark—neither of which were ideal for my present
state of mind. It was also smelly—like smoke, bad body odor, and alcohol—everything I hated about bars.

  At least I should be able to disappear into the fray here without being too noticeable.

  I hoped.

  I let my eyes adjust for a moment. Finally, I spotted Dewey across the room.

  He sat at the bar, talking to a woman who wore a tight, hot-pink dress. Her blonde hair was eighties big and curly, and the bangs she sported took me back in time. They were bangs like I hadn’t seen in years. Curled. Teased. Hair-sprayed until not even a hurricane would move them.

  They chatted a few minutes, and then he pulled something out of his pocket. What was that?

  His phone.

  He showed the woman beside him something on the screen. She giggled.

  Really? Women fell for his shtick? They weren’t repulsed by men with bad facial hair and extreme body odor?

  To each her own, I supposed.

  A few minutes later, the woman shook her head and scooted away from her admirer. Dewey slipped away, beer in hand. He slid next to another woman farther down the bar.

  I watched in fascination. Maybe Dewey really was all that and a bag of chips. Or maybe this area was just deprived of singles, so the few here were practically superstars.

  I got a high-top table in the corner so I could watch. When the waitress came, I ordered a water and promised a good tip for her trouble with my non-ordering self. That seemed to satisfy her.

  I just couldn’t stomach the thought of eating anything.

  In fact, at the thought of food, my stomach recoiled, and a wave of nausea hit me.

  Fight it, Gabby. Fight it.

  I took a sip of water and closed my eyes, hoping it would pass. A few minutes later, the feeling subsided. I only hoped it lasted.

  Forcing my eyes open, my gaze shot toward Dewey again. He still sat at the bar, talking to the second woman. She giggled with him also.

  I shook my head in astonishment. This was downright amazing to me. Like the invention of duct tape. Or the Scrub Daddy. Or Chinese finger traps.