I wiggled my mouth and stretched my jaw trying to get everything into shape. I read a list of differences between men and women not long ago. One was that men get up in the morning as good-looking as when they go to bed. Women deteriorate overnight.
“But let’s talk about it later, okay? My head doesn’t work right at this hour. Why were you calling me to begin with?”
“Can’t I just want to talk to you? Hear your lilting voice?”
“I’m fresh out of lilt.”
“And also to tell you that I called Ben Sutherland’s Shoreline Timber Products office in Bremerton before we left. I have some interesting information. We should be back at the marina by midafternoon—why don’t you come over, and I’ll fix dinner? Bring Joella too. She’s never seen the boat.”
“Joella has enough problems to worry about without hearing about murder suspects.”
“We’ll slip off alone for a few minutes.”
Hmmm. That sounded interesting. But then I remembered his son’s less-than-enthusiastic reception the other time I was at the boat. “What about Matt?”
“He can find his own sidekick to slip off with,” Fitz said airily. “Actually, he has to run over to Tacoma on business and probably won’t be there anyway. Seven thirty?”
“Sounds good.”
IN THE MORNING I left a note on the door telling the finger-print technician to go around back to get in. I was in too much of a hurry to retrieve my limo to wait around for him. Joella dropped me off at the sheriff’s station on her way to work.
And there it sat in the parking lot, a long, black jewel gleaming in the sun, radiating power and luxury. My jewel! Calling to me the way those tempting nymphs that lived on rocks in the sea called to lost sailors. Of course, giving in to that pull tended to result in a watery grave for the sailors, so I dropped the comparison there.
But what I really felt like doing was proclaiming my ownership and doing a happy dance of joy around the car. Running my fingers over every glorious inch. Patting hubcaps and hugging fenders and sniffing leather upholstery. My limouzeen!
That first rush of glee abruptly floundered, torpedoed by the sobering memory of the open trunk with Jerry’s body stuffed inside. I felt subdued when I walked inside the station and asked for Detective Sergeant Molino.
The officer on duty said he’d already gone out on a call, but when I stated my purpose, she pulled keys out of a drawer. She, unlike DDS Molino, apparently had no regrets about returning the vehicle to me. After I provided identification she dropped the keys in my hand with a cheerful, “It’s a real beaut, isn’t it? Have fun.”
My arrival home brought Tom, the vulture in plaid, to his front deck to take a good look. Even from a distance he radiated disapproval. I smiled and waved.
The crime-scene van was parked at the curb, the fingerprint person apparently inside. I didn’t disturb his work.
Instead, with feelings carefully set on numb neutrality, I inspected the interior of the limo from end to end. I was braced to find that the technicians had done anything from tear seats loose to rip out carpeting in their search for evidence. I did find that the tarp mural had been removed from the ceiling and folded into a neat square on a seat, apparently so the technicians could search under it. That was a big plus. Saved me the trouble.
Finally all that remained was the trunk. I steeled myself as I lifted the lid, prepared for anything from bloody stains to a chalk outline.
Nothing like that, but now I saw what DDS Molino had meant. The trunk was not okay. It had been stripped to bare metal. What had once been a lushly carpeted compartment was now a stark metal cave, like something abandoned in a junkyard.
I had expected to feel panic or even revulsion when I looked into this space that had held Jerry’s body. And I did feel a great rush of horror at the memory. Murder.
Yet, oddly, what peering into this empty hole also did was fill me with a fresh surge of anger and determination. The killer wasn’t going to get away with this, not if I could help it.
I had just shut the lid on the trunk . . . gently, a slam would have felt disrespectful . . . when JoAnne Metzger came running down the street, waving wildly.
“Andi, you got it back! Oh, and just in time. My niece’s wedding is tomorrow afternoon. Can you pick her up and take her to the church, and then to Sea-Tac afterward?”
“Hasn’t she already made other arrangements?”
“She’ll scrap ’em for a chance to do it in a limousine!”
“But won’t you . . . or she . . . mind, you know, about the murder?”
“Andi, it was an awful thing, but I don’t see that it contaminates the limo. And it would just make Tanya’s day to have a limousine for her wedding.”
I hesitated, but then with a certain recklessness thought, Why not? It would be good to have the limo used for some joyful occasion to counteract the grisliness of what had happened in it.
On a practical basis, there was also the fact that I’d probably have to get the trunk repaired before I could sell it. Might as well let the limo itself earn the money to do that.
We settled on a price, something more affordable for JoAnne than the price the limo service outfits had said they’d charge her. She said she’d call me later with addresses and details. I unexpectedly realized I was looking forward to this.
I met the fingerprint technician coming out of the house. We exchanged a few words, but I didn’t even try to get any information out of her. I knew she wouldn’t tell. After she left, I called a retired guy who did repair work in the neighborhood.
What I unhappily learned when he arrived was that I needed a whole new sliding glass door. He managed to straighten the frame enough that, with sufficient application of muscle, this one could be opened and closed. It still couldn’t be locked, but he fixed a rod to brace it. We agreed he’d pick up a new door and install it on Monday.
After he left, I just stood there for a moment, overwhelmed by both the unexpected expense and the cleanup job facing me here in the house. Then I sternly told myself to look on the bright side: the place needed a good going-over anyway. Think how I’d feel if I’d just done a big housecleaning, and then this happened.
30
By seven I wasn’t done cleaning and putting away, but I quit to shower, change to clean white capris, and add a spritz of the almost-empty bottle of Eternity I hoarded for special occasions. Joella had agreed to come, so I called her when I was ready, and she met me outside. On the way I cut a big bouquet of daisies to take along.
“You’ve been working so hard. I can drive,” she offered.
“Oh, that’s okay. We can take my car—” I broke off, and we looked at the elegant black jewel sitting in the driveway, then at each other.
Oh, yes!
I drove out of Secret View Lane airily confident of my ability to handle the limo, only to realize a few minutes later that the gas gauge was sitting on empty. And then to realize that I had no idea where the gas cap was located. I pulled into the first gas station we came to—unfortunately the busiest one in town—and Joella jumped out to look. And discovered I’d pulled in on the wrong side of the gas pumps, of course.
So then I had to back up, with the back end of the limo sticking out there like a long, black target in the midst of a demolition derby. Joella guided me, arms waving wildly, and I jacked the wheel around, feeling as if I were trying to fit a baseball bat into a keyhole.
Sweat ran down my back, and a muscle cramped in my leg. I barely squeaked by a gas pump, missed a fender on a Lincoln by an eyelash, and kissed a trash can into a wild rock ’n’ roll. But finally I was lined up properly, though I was hogging two spaces at the tanks to do it. I got out, head ducked in embarrassment, only to be greeted with a round of applause from spectators.
I looked up in astonishment. I’d expected hisses and boos, but people were clapping and whistling as if we’d just put on a command performance. Joella laughed and acknowledged the applause with a sweeping bow . . . at least as s
weeping a bow as one can make when thoroughly pregnant.
A young guy gave me a thumbs-up gesture—I was relieved it wasn’t a gesture of a different type—and I returned it with giddy relief. Then I thought, Why not? and bowed grandly too.
I filled the tank and watched incredulously as the meter rolled up into the stratosphere while gas gurgled into Uncle Ned’s oversized tank. He must have wanted to be able to waltz across Texas and back without stopping to refuel.
Fortunately, it was clear sailing out of the gas station, and we drove on to the marina without incident. Although I suspected the effect of my Eternity had been considerably diluted by the deluge of nervous sweat.
Fitz happened to be looking up from the boat when I pulled up to the front edge of the parking lot, and he dashed up to meet us. Behind him, though with considerably less enthusiasm, came son Matt.
“Matt didn’t have to go to Tacoma after all,” Fitz said. “So he’ll be here for dinner.”
Matt was looking at the limo as if his opinion of limousines in the neighborhood matched Tom’s. “This is the limo your friend was killed in?” he asked.
Of course it was this limo, I muttered to myself. What did you think, that it was my other limo? But all I said was, “Yes. The sheriff’s department let me have it back this morning.”
Fitz hadn’t seen the limo before, and he walked around it admiringly, giving the tires the ol’ testosterone kick. “Wow. Impressive. Want to look at the engine, Matt?”
“No.”
Fitz ignored his son’s negative response. “Open it up, would you, Andi?”
I slipped back into the driver’s seat and poked at various controls until I found a lever that released the hood. Fitz shoved his hands in the pockets of his khaki shorts as he inspected the engine, and I remembered what Matt had said about his father’s mechanical expertise.
Standing alongside him I said, “There’s the battery.”
“Sure is,” Fitz agreed with enthusiasm. We exchanged congratulatory glances.
Matt, however, reached into the engine and pulled out what I surprised myself by recognizing as a dipstick to check the oil. “Oil’s clean.”
“And it’s a very safe vehicle,” Joella said. “It even has bullet-proof windows.”
Matt frowned. “And why is that?”
I explained about Uncle Ned’s eccentricity and paranoia, adding Cousin Larry’s comment that I’d be safe if I ever decided to take up bank robbing.
Matt was not amused. “There’s no such thing as actual bulletproof glass,” he said. “The correct term is bullet resistant. Bullets may not go through it, but they aren’t going to bounce off like PingPong balls. Isn’t that right, Dad?”
“That’s right,” Fitz agreed, although he didn’t sound happy about having to back up his son’s grumpy opinion.
Matt closed the hood. “Nice vehicle. Looks to be in good shape. Too bad the murder puts kind of a stigma on it.”
“There’s no—no stigma!” I argued testily. “A neighbor has already asked me to use it for her niece’s wedding tomorrow.”
“Hey, great,” Fitz said. “You’re in business!” To Matt he added, “Andi is thinking about starting her own limousine service.”
Matt just folded his arms and scowled as if I’d announced I was going into business taking local terrorists on scouting jaunts. “I hope you’re prepared for a mountain of red tape and regulations and permits. And you’d better be loaded with insurance. People like to sue, you know,” he added gloomily.
“Andi is very competent at that sort of thing,” Fitz said. “She knows all about insurance.”
I appreciated the vote of confidence, but I had to admit I’d never thought about such complications as permits. And it occurred to me now that my liability policy might not extend to cover a new vehicle being used to transport paying customers. F&N handled property and life insurance, not vehicle insurance, so I had no experience in that area.
We went on board then, where Fitz had a barbecue grill set up in the cockpit area. I gave him the article I’d cut out of the newspaper, along with the bouquet of daisies.
“Hey, Shastas, aren’t they?” He sounded delighted. “Thanks.”
“It’s a really good photo of you in the newspaper,” I added.
“What can I say? I’m photogenic. Aging like fine wine.”
Matt unexpectedly laughed, reminding me that I probably shouldn’t take his grumpiness too seriously. “What you are is a senior citizen full of hot air.”
Joella asked if she could see inside the boat, and Matt looked pleased and motioned her through the cabin door. Fitz went inside for a vase and then set it and daisies on a little table near the grill.
By the time Matt and Joella returned, a fragrant scent of barbecuing chicken drifted from the grill, and Fitz and I were enthusiastically discussing daisies.
“I’ve had really good luck with those Cape Town Blues in the window box in the galley,” he said. “They don’t get as much sun there as daisies need, but I set the box outside when I can.”
“He babies those daisies as if they were—”
“The grandchildren you’ve never gotten around to providing me?” Fitz asked tartly.
To head off what looked like trouble brewing, I jumped in. “I’ve never tried Cape Town Blues, but I had good luck growing the dwarf Snowcap variety in indoor pots.”
Matt looked at Joella. “How do you feel about daisies?”
“I guess I can take ’em or leave ’em,” Joella admitted, and he awarded her an approving smile.
A few minutes later we were sitting on the padded bench seats surrounding the cockpit, with plates on our laps. The marina lay in the shadow of the hills around the bay now. Fitz’s chicken was golden on the outside, tender and tasty inside. Crisp salad, heavy on the alfalfa sprouts. Garlic French bread toasted on the barbecue.
As Fitz and I had agreed, we didn’t talk about the murder, but after we’d eaten, he said, “Andi and I are going to take a stroll around the marina and look at the other boats, okay?”
Joella said, “Sure,” and Matt, though he gave the two of us a suspicious glance, asked if she’d like to go inside and see what was on TV.
Fitz and I walked out on one of the side docks that branched off the main dock and, with a circling of seagulls squawking in hope of a handout, sat on a bench at the end. I told him about my late-night visit from Elena and her warning about husband Donny.
“So I think he’s a pretty strong candidate. He had motive and opportunity, plus a gun and the expertise to use it.”
“Don’t count Big Daddy Sutherland out yet,” Fitz said. He went on to tell me that when he called Shoreline Timber, he’d asked about Benton Sutherland’s availability for an interview for an article he was working on.
“What article?” I cut in.
“I might write an article; who knows?” He gave an airy wave. “I’ve done a few. Anyway, they said they doubted he’d be in this area in the near future, because—get this—he’d recently spent several days here.”
“Did you pin them down on a date?”
“He arrived three days before Jerry’s murder and left the day after it. Although the woman I talked to didn’t phrase it that way, of course.”
Interesting. Also interesting that no one back in Georgia had clued Ryan in on this trip. “What was he doing here?”
“Holding meetings with management, touring the facilities, talking with workers, etc. But not so busy, I’m thinking, that he couldn’t have made a quick jaunt down to Vigland to get rid of a bothersome son-in-law. Which I suspect may have been the real reason for his trip.”
“But what about the break-in at my place last night? He couldn’t have done that.”
Fitz’s eyebrows scrunched thoughtfully. “That seems to point more toward the Donny guy, all right.”
“Unless Big Daddy made a return trip.”
“I’ll make another phone call to Sutherland’s office in Georgia and try to find out if
he’s been out here again.”
“And I’ll see if Elena can tell me anything about Donny’s whereabouts during the break-in time.”
When we got back to the boat, Fitz dished up strawberry shortcake with whipped cream for dessert.
Then Matt, obviously knowing his father and I hadn’t gone off to look at boats, said, “I suppose you two have now worked up some wild James Bond scheme for capturing the murderer?”
“What we really need is a Batmobile,” Fitz said. “It’s hard to be a real crime buster without a Batmobile.” He frowned and spoke as seriously as if he’d been searching the classifieds for a used model.
“Dad, you’ve got to be serious about this,” Matt said. “You’re both getting in way over your heads. Murder isn’t for amateurs. It’s not a TV show.”
Fitz sighed. “It isn’t as if we’re trying to corner the killer in a dark alley.”
“Doesn’t it occur to you that if the killer didn’t find whatever he was looking for when he broke into Andi’s house, he may decide to try some other tactic? Like coming after Andi herself?”
It wasn’t a thought that had occurred to me, and I felt something cold and slimy slither up my spine. “Why would he do that?”
“He may think this guy who was killed—what was his name?”
“Jerry,” Fitz supplied.
“He may think this Jerry confided in Andi before he was killed, and Andi may know where whatever it is he’s after is located.”
“But Jerry didn’t confide in me—”
“The killer doesn’t know that. He may even think the two of you were involved together in whatever it was that got Jerry killed. You go stomping around in this like the Keystone Kops, and he may decide to eliminate you like he did Jerry.”
Much like what Elena had said regarding her husband. Only somehow it sounded even more menacing in Matt’s angry tones. Even Fitz looked worried, and Joella gave a little gasp.
“You’re in danger, both of you, don’t you realize that? You’re daisy detectives”—Matt flicked his fingers disdainfully at the flowers in the vase—“meddling in a shark-eat-shark world.”
I thought Fitz might be getting angry too. Matt was really laying it on about our level of amateurism and incompetence.
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