Your Chariot Awaits

by Lorena McCourtney

“It’s one of those places that’s big on privacy,” I said, remembering the few times I’d been there. “How’d the burglars get in?”

  “Either a key or a very clever lock picker. The door and lock didn’t appear to be damaged. Although that’s strictly an amateur assessment, of course.” He frowned, ridges wrinkling his high brow and slightly receding hairline. “What I can’t figure out is why they wanted all the computer stuff. It was a lot more bulky to haul off, and certainly not as valuable as a pile of cash the police said they found hidden in a bag in the toilet tank.”

  “Maybe the burglars didn’t look there, so they just took what was available. His equipment was all expensive, top-of-the- line stuff.”

  “Could be. Although I got the impression the police thought the computer equipment was the main target.”

  I thought so too.

  Tom Bolton was on his deck, making no secret that he was watching us through his binoculars. I resisted the impulse to stick out my tongue at him and waved instead. “My busybody neighbor,” I explained.

  “I thought he was going to fall off his deck watching me when I arrived,” Ryan agreed. He lifted a hand and waved too.

  Tom was not fazed. He kept right on watching.

  “Anyway, maybe taking the computer had something to do with his Web site–design business,” I suggested. “I’ve been thinking Jerry may have been dealing with some rather shady characters. How was the break-in discovered?”

  “According to the police, Jerry had a cleaning lady who came in once a week, usually on Wednesdays.”

  “Right. Consuela. She could get more housecleaning done in a morning than I could in three days.”

  “She had a key to the condo. She usually came on a week- day, but she’d been down with a stomach flu and came on Saturday instead. When she let herself in and saw what had happened, she called the police.”

  “Saturday morning. And he was killed sometime late Friday night or very early Saturday morning,” I mused.

  I was thinking, a bit guiltily, that a break-in at the condo had probably been fortunate for me. It might be the main rea-son I hadn’t been arrested yet. Surely it was connected with the murder, and the police hadn’t figured out how I could have broken in and hauled all the stuff off when I was lying out there unconscious by the limo.

  “It must have been the killer who broke into the condo,” Ryan said, his words echoing my thoughts. “The timing surely wasn’t just a coincidence.”

  “Right. I wonder if he was killed first and the condo then broken into? Or if the condo was ransacked and the computer stuff taken before he was killed. And then he was killed because of something they found in the computer files.”

  “I’m guessing he was killed first, and then they got into the condo. If they’d entered the condo first, it seems as if they’d have just stayed there and waited for him to come home and killed him then.”

  “Sounds reasonable. The thing is, I’ve never been able to figure out why he was here—and here in the middle of the night—without my knowing it. So I’ve wondered if he was killed somewhere else, and his body then brought here and put in the limousine.”

  “But why would the killer do that? If they wanted to get rid of his body, why not take it out in the woods somewhere? It looks as if there’s plenty of wild country around here where it might not be found for years. Why risk coming here?”

  “Unless they were trying to involve me some way.”

  “Strange.” He twisted the can of Pepsi on the thigh of his tan pants and gave me a sideways glance. “You, uh, want to tell me about the dent you put in his car?”

  So I did. Although I left out the part about Jerry’s sleazy attempt at “closure” and just said we’d broken up, and I was encouraging him to leave.

  Ryan smiled at “encouraging.”

  “I e-mailed Jerry to tell him I’d pay for the damage, but I never heard back. But if you’ll tell me what the repair bill is, I’ll pay it or reimburse you.”

  “The police still have the car. So, we’ll see. Don’t worry about it.”

  “I keep telling the police, I really didn’t intend to chase him with a shovel. I thought it was a broom. But I don’t think they’re convinced.”

  Ryan smiled again. “I rather think quite a few women would have liked to chase my brother with a shovel, or perhaps something even larger and more deadly. I love Jerry, but loyalty and faithfulness and sensitive breakups were not his strong points.”

  “Do you know anything about any other girlfriends?”

  Ryan shook his head. “No. I didn’t even know about the Web site business until you mentioned it. I hadn’t talked to him in . . . oh, well over a year, I suppose.”

  I gave him what skimpy information I had about the business and added, “Do you have any idea at all who might want to murder him?”

  “Living so far apart . . .” He shook his head again, then lifted his left hand and massaged his temple. “And as I said, we weren’t close.”

  I was curious about that, but he didn’t seem inclined to elaborate, and I felt uncomfortable probing into their relationship.

  Although I was thinking, if I was going to get anywhere figuring out who the killer was, maybe I’d better try to cultivate more of Fitz’s nosiness.

  “Although, when the authorities told me on Monday that he’d definitely been murdered—before that, on the phone, they were just saying he’d died under ‘suspicious circumstances’—one thought did immediately come to mind.”

  “What’s that?”

  “That it might have something to do with his gambling.”

  “Gambling! Jerry was a gambler?”

  “You didn’t know?”

  One more thing I hadn’t known about Jerry. Definitely the tip-of-the-iceberg kind of situation, what I knew about Jerry. “No, I didn’t know anything about that.”

  “Well, maybe he’d kicked the habit. But a few years back, he was really into it. He wouldn’t admit it was an addiction, but it was. Sports, horses, anything, he’d bet on it. And when I saw the Indian casinos around here . . .”

  “They’re very strictly operated. Nothing shady going on there.”

  “Maybe I’m mistaken, then.”

  And maybe he wasn’t. If Jerry was into gambling outside the casinos, something illegal, there was no telling what kind of unscrupulous characters he’d gotten tangled up with. Could his computer have held incriminating gambling records and names? Could he have owed some big gambling debt? But that didn’t seem compatible with the fact that he’d had money hidden in his toilet tank.

  Now Ryan returned my question. “Do you have any idea who could have killed him?”

  “Just some wild speculations. How long are you going to be here?”

  “I’m not sure yet. The medical examiner’s office released Jerry’s body after the autopsy yesterday, and it’s in a funeral home now. I’m trying to get arrangements made. At this point I still can’t get into the condo to look for a will and all the other information that will be needed to settle his estate.” The harried expression was back. “This has hit our folks pretty hard.”

  “Would you . . . I mean, I know it’s a lot to ask under the circumstances, since I’m a more-or-less suspect . . . but could I come with you when you are allowed into the condo?”

  He surprised me with an enthusiastic response. “Could you come? Yes! It’ll be a relief to have someone there with me. And you’ll surely be able to tell more than I can about anything that’s missing.”

  I gave him my phone number, and he said he’d call as soon as he heard from the police that they were through with the condo.

  It wasn’t until after he’d gone, and I was looking through Uncle Ned’s will to find names of relatives back in Texas to call, that I thought of something else connected to Jerry’s computer equipment, and I wondered if it was also missing.

  15

  That evening I called information and asked for a number for Lucille Noakes in Dry Wells, Texas. I’d found
her name in the will and figured she must be Cousin Larry’s mother.

  “I’d like to speak to Lucille Noakes, please,” I said when a perky, Southern-accented voice drawled, “Hello.”

  “This is Lucy,” she responded. “What can I do for you, hon?” She sounded ready to settle in for a juicy chat even before she knew who I was, the kind of person who asked a telemarketer about his wife and kids.

  I explained my identity, but before I could even get into the reason for my call, she squealed with delight.

  “Why, bless your heart, darlin’, it’s just fantastic to hear from you! Aunt Claudine’s daughter, I do declare! She just dropped out of our lives all those years ago, but Mama never forgot her. Larry told me all about how nice you were to him when he delivered the limousine. Or the limouzeen, as Uncle Ned put it.”

  “I’ve been afraid the relatives might be unhappy with me because I got the limousine, and they got . . . other things.”

  Lucille, as I’d noticed in the will, had inherited a set of Tupperware containers.

  Her laugh tinkled like a silver spoon clinking in a mint julep glass on a hot Southern day. “Now, don’t you go worryin’ about that. Everyone knows how peculiar old Ned was. You just enjoy that big ol’ limo.”

  Enjoyment was not what the limo had provided so far, but I was still hoping.

  “Actually, Uncle Ned is the reason I called. Somewhere”—I was careful not to identify my source by name—“somewhere I got the impression he’d been involved in some business dealings of a, oh, questionable nature and may have acquired some enemies along the way. The bulletproof glass in the limousine, you know.”

  “Well, yes, he was an old crook,” Lucy said cheerfully. “But a lot of those old-time Texans got rich in ways that weren’t exactly on the up-and-up. Though you don’t need to be spreadin’ that kind of talk around, of course. I figure Ned tried to make up for some of his misdeeds there at the end, leaving everything to all those charitable organizations.”

  I’d been under the impression he’d left his wealth to the charitable organizations mostly to keep it away from his relatives, but I didn’t say that. Lucy didn’t sound bitter. Maybe she needed Tupperware.

  “Do you know anyone in particular who might have been angry enough at him to do something . . . drastic?”

  “What are you sayin’, darlin’?” She sounded alarmed. “What kind of drastic? So far as I know, there’s never been any question about Uncle Ned’s death being anything other than natural.”

  “Oh, no, I didn’t mean that.” I gave her a quick rundown on Jerry’s murder and how I thought the limousine could have been searched.

  “His body was in the trunk?”

  I had no mental framework for Lucy Noakes, but I could picture a plump feminine hand touching a plump throat in distress.

  “Oh, my heavens.”

  “I’m wondering if the killer’s real motive was to find some-thing he thought was hidden in the limousine, something someone back in Texas put there. And killed Jerry just because he happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

  “Well, it’s true Uncle Ned was involved in one lawsuit after another. People were always suin’ him. Although Jasmine—that’s my sister, Jasmine Arquette—always said she thought he enjoyed those lawsuits. And he usually won, of course. Those lawyers of his could chew up a courtroom and spit it out before breakfast.”

  “I’ve wondered why Uncle Ned wrote his will himself instead of having his lawyers do it.”

  “Oh, well, he was a stubborn old coot. I doubt he trusted his lawyers any more’n he trusted anyone else. I especially remember one lawsuit, a big argument over some land Uncle Ned bought, and this guy came to the house with a shotgun. Of course Ned blasted back at him, and there was quite a ruckus. Though nobody got hurt, as I recall. But I can’t imagine why anybody’d put something in the limo, or who it would be. Or what it could be. It’d have to be something really valuable, wouldn’t it, for someone to traipse all the way from here out there to look for it?”

  Given Uncle Ned’s peculiarities, the possibilities seemed as numerous as the heirs in his will. “What was the shotgun man’s name?”

  “Oh my, let me think. Jones. Yes, that was it. Something Jones.”

  Great. That narrowed it down to a zillion or so people. Although her next words removed any concern about zeroing in on this particular Jones.

  “But he’s dead now, I’m sure. Actually, I think most of Ned’s enemies are dead. Larry said it was one of the joys of Ned’s life that he’d outlived ’em all.”

  Mr. Nice Guy.

  “Well, it was just a long shot. Probably my friend’s death had no connection with Uncle Ned.”

  “That’d be my thought too. But I’ll ask Jasmine and some of the others and see if anyone has any ideas. We don’t want any murderers runnin’ around loose, here or there.”

  I gave her my number so she could call if she wanted. “Did Larry get home okay on the bus?”

  “Oh, yes, he’s fine. Though I don’t know what’s going to become of that boy if he doesn’t settle down. Would you believe he’s traipsed off to New York—New York, can you fancy that?—on some wild-hare scheme to get into actin’?”

  No doubt a worry, I agreed silently. But perhaps preferable to sitting around watching his toenails grow. “Tell him hi from me, if you talk to him.”

  “I’ll do that. And you keep in touch now, hear? Everybody’d just love to meet you.”

  So much for a Texas connection, I decided. Like Uncle Ned’s enemies, a dead end. This killer was probably homegrown, with roots right here in Vigland. Which was not exactly reassuring.

  THE PHONE RANG after Lucy and I hung up. Sarah, calling to check on me. I told her that, no, I hadn’t been arrested or murdered yet, and she chastised me for my facetiousness. I prudently decided I wouldn’t tell her Fitz and I were into detective work of our own. She again urged me to come down there. I again declined.

  Fitz called on his cell phone Wednesday evening. They were anchored off one of the smaller San Juan Islands, the weather was fantastic, and he’d fixed chicken marsala for dinner. I told him about calling Lucille and deciding we could eliminate any traveling murderer from Texas. Also about my meeting with Ryan, the break-in at Jerry’s condo, and that I might have a chance to look around inside the condo in a day or two.

  “This Ryan invited you?”

  “I kind of invited myself.”

  “Good for you! Just don’t forget one point.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Nosiness is good. Don’t be shy. Look for anything with names or phone numbers or addresses. Peer into cubbyholes. Look in pockets. Investigate cans and bottles. Sometimes they’re phony, hollowed out to keep something inside.”

  “I’m sure the police already did all that.”

  “They might not have recognized the relevance of some-thing, and you will. Take advantage of opportunities. Ask questions. Pry.”

  “I’ll try to do that.”

  “Okay. But above all, be careful. I’ll see you when we get back. I miss you.”

  He missed me? We hardly knew each other. Although, to be honest, I kind of missed him too.

  RYAN CALLED MIDMORNING on Thursday and said the police were finished with the condo. We agreed to meet a half hour later in the parking lot behind the condo complex.

  I changed into faded jeans and an old, long-tailed blue shirt. Prowling through a dead man’s condo didn’t strike me as a dress-up occasion.

  Ryan was in slacks and a short-sleeved sports shirt when he stepped out of his rental car. He looked off toward the bay, sparkling in the sunshine, and I had the impression he’d rather be anywhere than here. A tug pulling a huge container of wood chips was headed toward Hornsby Inlet on the outgoing tide.

  “Well, I guess we might as well get at it,” he said as if he were psyching himself up for an ordeal.

  I also steeled myself when he opened the condo door, not certain what I’d feel. An ov
erwhelming sense of Jerry’s presence? An eerie echo of his absence? But the first thing that struck me wasn’t a feeling, but simply the sight of a gray powder every-where. On every hard surface of furniture, windowsills, counters, even on a coffee cup on the dining room table.

  “What is that stuff?”

  “That’s what I asked the officer when I was here before. Fingerprint powder. For picking up—what do they call them?—latent prints, I think it is.”

  Of course. I should have remembered fingerprint powder from those old Ed Montrose shows. The next thing I noticed was the empty desk where Jerry had his office set up in a corner of the big living room. As Ryan had said, everything was gone. Computer, printer, scanner. And empty drawers, like multistoried, gaping mouths, hung open on the metal file cabinet.

  “The CDs he’d burned are gone too. He kept them in a tall container over there.” I pointed to an empty spot beside the sleek, black metal desk. “I wonder about his laptop.”

  “I don’t know. If it was here, the burglars undoubtedly took it too. Do you notice anything other than computer equipment missing?”

  I glanced around. Shaded by the covering of gray powder, the black-and-white décor looked less sophisticated now. In spite of all the expense Jerry had gone to, to have the place decorated, it somehow felt almost . . . shabby. Or perhaps death brings a hint of shabbiness with it.

  The big abstract painting over the sofa lurched at an angle. Had police or burglars thought a safe might be hidden behind it? Stuffing spilled from a slash in a black pillow on the white leather sofa. Flowers in a vase on the coffee table were drooping and dead. Beyond the living room, cupboard doors in the kitchen hung open.

  It didn’t seem as if Jerry had been dead long enough for the condo to have acquired a musty, unused scent, but it had. Overlaid with something vaguely chemical smelling. Did finger-print powder have a scent?

  I didn’t see anything else missing. The sculpture of some Greek god and that awful abstract painting, probably the most valuable items in the room, were still there. Although a bur-glar, unless fairly knowledgeable, may not have known how valuable they were.