Ripped Apart

by Jeanne Glidewell

  I believe in divine intervention, and that’s the only thing that can explain why Tony decided to use the Reynolds’s restroom before snatching his toolbox out of the closet I was currently cowering in. When I heard the bathroom door close, I scampered out of the closet faster than Rascal could have run from a red-tailed hawk. I made it out the kitchen door before Tony completed his business in the john, only to realize I’d left my lemonade glass on the kitchen counter where I’d set it to rummage through the photos and receipts on the table.

  I stood behind a large palm tree in the Moores’ yard, pretending to be interested in the flowering Jatropha plants growing around its base. I stepped behind the palm tree’s trunk when I heard the Reynolds’s front door open about ten minutes later. For some reason I can’t explain, because I’d never considered any of Walker’s subcontractors as suspects in Reilly’s disappearance, I used my phone to begin videoing the man as he exited the house. Without even glancing my way, Tony walked to his truck, set his toolbox and crowbar in its bed, and drove away. A man I didn’t recognize occupied the passenger seat. Though his head was barely visible over the dash, as if he was scrunched down in his seat, I thought I’d captured a decent likeness of him in the video clip I’d taken, if it was ever needed for future reference.

  Tony had either been constipated or had done something else in the Reynolds’s house besides retrieving his toolbox for that much time to have passed. I then realized another possibility was that someone else had stowed his tools in the closet, causing Tony to have to search around for his box.

  Once the TNT Demolition truck was out of sight, I went back in through the broken window to collect my drink. As I walked through the kitchen, I noticed water pooled on the counter next to the sink. A filthy rag was draped over the faucet. I was almost positive neither the rag nor the pool of water had been there before. Apparently, Tony had used the rag to wash something, which explained why it’d taken longer than expected for him to leave.

  I briefly wondered what he’d decided was necessary to clean up, but I had learned my lesson and didn’t stick around to think about it. I hastily grabbed my glass and vacated the premises.

  Once I’d returned to the Caboose, I sat at the kitchen table, sipping on what remained of the lemonade. I’d worked up a sweat, either from the heat outside or nervousness from nearly getting caught trespassing in the neighbor’s house. Rip was helping Milo on a project, and Regina had driven to a salon in Robstown, claiming a “nail polish emergency”. I didn’t know from whom Regina had inherited her high-maintenance trait, but it wasn’t from me, and it definitely wasn’t from her father, who would be content wearing the same outfit until the fabric rotted and fell off his body. If you looked “low maintenance” up in the dictionary, you’d see a photo of my bald, slightly overweight husband dressed in a solid white t-shirt that’d been bleached a thousand times, and a pair of worn-out denim pants. In another year or two, when the most threadbare areas of his blue jeans began to rip, his jeans would be right in style and worth ten times as much money as we’d paid for them a decade ago.

  I looked down at my own fingernails and decided maybe I shouldn’t brag too much about not being high maintenance. Low maintenance could also be construed as meaning that one didn’t give a rat’s ass about their appearance, and that was nothing to boast about. I was actually proud my daughter took the time and made the effort to keep herself looking good. Rip and I should both aim to be a little more like her.

  While I had the time to myself, I reviewed the video I’d taken of Tony Torres and his mysterious companion. By taking a screenshot of the dude in the passenger seat and then enhancing the image, I realized it was not a man, but rather a woman. I couldn’t make out any of her facial features but could tell she had very blond hair. With a start, I realized she resembled Reilly Reynolds, who had been short and had long, nearly white, hair. I’d only met the woman once, but I was sure Regina would be able to figure out if the woman in the video was her missing neighbor. I thought the chances were remote. A woman trying to stay hidden from the public wouldn’t ride boldly around her old neighborhood in the front seat of a pickup truck belonging to the man she’d run off with. Or, at least, one wouldn’t think so.

  Then I noticed something else disturbing in the video. The crowbar Tony had been carrying no longer seemed to have a large red stain on it, which I had originally assumed was paint. I took another screenshot from the video to enhance and was unable to detect any paint on the metal bar. I couldn’t be certain, however, as the image was extremely grainy when enlarged. Is that red stuff what Tony washed off in the sink? I wondered.

  The dirty rag draped across the faucet had appeared to have a red tint to it, but could dried paint be washed off with water? I wasn’t certain but knew Rip would probably know. Milo would if Rip didn’t, for sure. What if the red stain was blood? I asked myself. If the woman in Tony’s truck was someone other than Reilly, could the missing woman have been bludgeoned to death with the crowbar? Was that why Tony wanted it removed from the house? What motive could Tony have to want the woman dead? Surely he hadn’t been having an affair with Reilly too. Would he even consider accepting a job at the victim’s house after killing her? How could he look her husband in the eye without giving away his guilt? I know I couldn’t have pulled it off. I’d cave like a wet tent the second my victim’s spouse laid eyes on me. If Reilly’s disappearance truly was due to a homicide, and the crowbar had been the murder weapon, why would Tony ever leave it in his victim’s house, where it could be readily discovered by homicide detectives?

  Had the authorities even processed the house for trace evidence after Reilly went missing? I wondered. It sounds to me as if the local authorities have just dismissed her disappearance as a freak accident that occurred during the peak of the hurricane. Their investigation of her case has been so limited in nature. I’m sure they’ve come to the conclusion nobody could have withstood the 140+ m.p.h. winds while chasing a dog down a narrow pier, much less a petite woman like Reilly. Or did she not actually attempt such a ridiculously dangerous stunt? That story was based solely on what her spouse said, after all. Could Walker have been wise to the fact his new wife was cheating on him with their neighbor, Percival Pandero, and possibly Tony Torres? If so, could he have used the hurricane as the perfect opportunity to do away with her and make it look like an accident?

  It was questions like these that made me realize I needed to discuss the situation, and everything I’d seen and heard, with Rip. I wanted him to get more involved. I needed his help to continue my quest to discover the truth behind Reilly’s disappearance if I hoped to ever get a good night’s sleep again. As the former sheriff of the county, Rip had access to everything the local police department knew about the case, if anything. Because he was a generous, giving man, nearly everyone in the local police department owed him a favor, as well.

  Whether or not he’d be willing to use his access or cash in on any of those favors owed him remained to be seen.

  Nineteen

  Rip and I were sitting outside in our lawn chairs that evening, drinking our daily highballs. I had found the nerve to bring up my concerns about the missing neighbor again.

  “I understand your desire to bring what you’ve discovered to the attention of the Rockport Police Department, honey, but I’m afraid you’re overestimating how much pull I have there,” Rip said. “I’ve been retired more than seven years. I don’t even know half of the officers working there now. I can guarantee you that Sheriff Peabody's not going to be happy to know you’re still looking into the situation on your own. He has his ways, and I had mine.”

  “So, what are you saying? Are you going to forbid me to keep looking into Reilly’s disappearance?” I asked.

  Rip raised his eyebrows at me. “Forbid you? I would never forbid you to do anything you wanted to do. You should know better than that. I treasure my life too much to try to enforce my will on you.”

  I laughed along with him before ask
ing, “Will you help me?”

  “I suppose. As much as I can, anyway. I’m sure I can get Chuck to send that rag you told me Tony used to the lab for testing. If it is blood, they’ll be able to run the DNA through the database to see if there’s a match.”

  Chuck Beatty, the medical examiner, was still one of Rip’s closest friends. I knew he would do anything Rip asked of him if there was a way to do it without overstepping his authority and/or doing something unethical.

  “That’d be awesome!” I exclaimed. “I’ll go get it right now before it gets washed or thrown away.”

  “You need to slow your roll, dear.” Rip stuck his jar in the drink holder of his chair and turned to me. “Don’t push your luck. You don’t want to get arrested for breaking and entering. I’m sure I could get Joe to drop the charges, but it would be very embarrassing for me.”

  “Is it still considered breaking and entering if there’s no glass in the window and you can step right into the house through the window frame?” I asked.

  “Technically, yes. Any way you look at it you are trespassing on private property.”

  “I can always say I was just collecting my Ziploc bags off the kitchen table.”

  “Your what?” Rip’s expression made it clear he thought my mental capacity had slipped another notch. “Why do you have Ziploc bags on the neighbor’s table? More importantly, why would you want them back?”

  “Long story. Suffice it to say, there’s a post-it note on the bags to remind the general contractor Walker hired, Jessie Garza, to return the bags to me.”

  “I’m confused. I don’t get it.”

  “We had way too many cookies left over from my last batch, so I dropped some of them off over there. I figured they wouldn’t go to waste in a crew of construction workers.”

  “I guarantee they wouldn’t have gone to waste here either,” Rip said. “But it’s just as well you gave them away since I have an appointment to see Dr. Heron while we’re here. She badgers me about my weight every time I go in for a checkup.”

  “Exactly!” I nodded in agreement. We both had appointments to see our primary doctor in Corpus the following week. I’d gained a few pounds, too, and wasn’t looking forward to the lecture I was undoubtedly going to get from the no-nonsense physician. “Neither of us has any willpower. That’s why I didn’t want the cookies sitting on our counter, enticing me to grab one every time I walked through the kitchen. Sugar-free or not, they’re still loaded with carbs and calories.”

  While Rip was distracted by the abrupt change in subject, I took my drink inside and set the glass on the kitchen table. I exited the trailer and walked at a fast pace past Rip. “Be right back.”

  “Where do you think you’re…?” I heard Rip begin to ask, but I’d rounded the corner before he’d gotten his question completely out. I didn’t stop or even slow down to respond.

  The neighbor’s house was still empty. A loose shingle flapping on the roof made an eerie and repetitive sound that gave me the willies. I was disappointed to discover the rag was no longer draped over the kitchen faucet, nor could I find it anywhere else. The sink was spotless as if it had been cleaned with bleach since I’d last seen it. The fact someone would go to such effort to clean it up when everything else in the kitchen was a royal mess made me suspicious.

  The way I saw it, there was only one thing to do. I’d have to make a trip over to the Reynolds’s house the following morning to retrieve my valuable plastic bags. I might look to the construction workers as the cheapest, chintziest broad in the world, but I wouldn’t let something like that stop me. I didn’t care what they thought of me if it could help bring closure to Reilly’s loved ones. She deserved justice, and I was going to stop at nothing to help her get it.

  “Good morning, Bruno!” I greeted the drywall specialist who had just pulled into the neighbor’s driveway as I headed next door the following day. I reached Bruno’s truck as the diminutive fellow climbed down out of the driver’s seat. And, no, this was no coincidence. I’d seen his truck coming down the street and had hid behind the large palm tree until he got closer.

  “Good morning!” Without saying anything to prolong our conversation, he dropped the tailgate on the back of his truck and headed to the front door.

  “I’m surprised to see you. Jessie told me you were taking a few days off.”

  “Yeah, I was going to. Luckily, it only took one day to accomplish everything I needed to get done. Now I’ve taken on another job I need to get going on right away. I just stopped by Walker’s to pick up some stuff I left behind.” He walked past me as if I were a lawn ornament.

  “Did you finish the library niche you told me about?” I asked as I fell in step behind him.

  “Yep.” Bruno still seemed as if his thoughts were miles away.

  “Would you mind showing it to me?” I wasn’t going to be dissuaded by his lack of interest in carrying on a conversation with me. “I was so impressed with your clever idea and I’m curious how it turned out.”

  “Yeah, sure. I’d be happy to show it to you. I think it came out awesome. I decided to add a two-sided fireplace at the last minute, and Walker loves the result.” I’d hoped buttering him up might be effective, and it was. There weren’t too many people who didn’t like to talk about themselves, especially when someone was complimenting them on their work and ingenuity.

  I admired the library and fireplace and acted as if I hadn’t already seen his handiwork. Bruno beamed with pride as I laid it on thick. “You are amazing! This is beautiful and looks so cozy. Walker was lucky to get you for his reconstruction project. If Reilly does happen to show back up, she’ll love having the library to store either books or CD’s. Do you know whether her passion is literature or music? My guess is music.”

  With neither a yea nor a nay to my query, Bruno simply replied to my lavish praise on his work. “Thanks. I’m really pleased with the way it turned out.”

  “I should think you would be. I imagine the house will be full of workers today, won’t it?”

  “No. Like I said, I’m headed out to get started on my new job. TNT finished up all the demo work that needed to be done here, and Tony’s got a dental appointment this morning. I think Jessie might stop by later on, but that’ll be the extent of it. And Walker’s at work, so he won’t be home until later on this afternoon.”

  “What does Walker do?” I asked. I hadn’t realized until that moment I had no clue what the man did for a living.

  “He’s a private detective.”

  “Private detective? Really?” I was floored by this news. I could picture him as being involved in any other occupation other than detective work, from a deck hand on a shrimp boat to CEO of a private firm. Wouldn’t a private detective be turning over every stone, searching every nook and cranny in search of his missing wife? “Walker must be doing some investigating on his own about the loss of his wife. Isn't he?”

  “Not that I know of,” Bruno replied. He had picked up a five-gallon bucket of joint compound and a roll of drywall tape and was heading back out the door. “Mostly he does contract work for the Social Security Administration. He recently caught a man on video windsurfing in Little Bay while on disability for a disabling back injury. If the dude can windsurf, he should have no problem serving up burgers at McDonalds.”

  “That’s for sure. Good for Walker for tracking down folks who are working the system. But what about his wife? Doesn’t he want to find out what happened to her?”

  “There really ain’t much to investigate when it comes to Reilly. It’s pretty much a foregone conclusion that she was a victim of Harvey. If her body somehow got wedged under submerged debris from the storm, it might never resurface.”

  “That’s true.” It was also true that the first time I met Bruno, he’d told me Walker was the only one holding on to the hope Reilly would turn up alive and well. Why the change? In the last few days, had Walker accepted the fact Reilly was most likely dead or had Bruno altered his story, forge
tting what he’d told me previously? I followed the elfin-like man out the door, feeling like Big Foot trailing a newborn fawn. The bucket of joint compound he hoisted up into the bed of his truck looked as if it weighed more than the man lugging it. “Where’s your new job?”

  “Barlow Barnaby’s house.”

  You mean that half-witted goofball up the street who was just killed by someone who tried to make it look like a suicide? I wanted to ask, using the insulting characterization Bruno had used to describe the murder victim. Instead, I said, “Oh, really? What happened to him was just dreadful.”

  “Yes, it was,” Bruno replied. “No one deserves to die like that. I know the family, so I offered them a good rate to get Barlow’s house back up to snuff so it can be sold.”

  “That’s very thoughtful of you. I’m sure they’re appreciative.” I wonder how they’d feel about the charming way you refer to their recently deceased family member?

  “It was the least I could do. Tony’s agreed to help me out on the side. He’ll be joining me at Barlow’s after his dental appointment.”

  “That’s great.” It was nice to know where the two men could be found, should Rip and I want to question them later. “That must be why I saw him picking up his toolbox and a crowbar here yesterday.”

  “Yeah. We’ll definitely need to use some of his tools at Barlow’s house today.”

  “Hmm. How about that?” I said nonchalantly. I didn’t want to seem overly focused on the crowbar. “You got him working on a Saturday even?”

  “Yeah. Tony’s a hard worker and a dependable guy.”

  “Handy for you to know so many tradesmen to help out in a pinch, isn’t it?” It was also handy to know where I might find the crowbar I’d videoed Tony removing from the house, even if the rag had been disposed of. It was possible that, in his haste to clean up the crowbar, he’d missed a speck of blood, which I knew would be all the crime lab would need to get a DNA sample. To my knowledge, there’d been no soap or bleach on hand at the time, even though it looked as if someone had returned to scour the sink. I hoped Tony hadn’t used any bleach on the crowbar itself. Because the potential murder weapon was in his custody, he’d likely be less concerned about blood on it than on his victim’s sink.