Death at a Fixer-Upper

by Sarah T. Hobart

  A farmhouse loomed ahead on the left. It was dark, with no cars in the driveway, and I shot by. The terrain sloped up and peaked at a steel bridge that spanned the slough, a murky waterway connecting the bay and the flatlands, rising and falling with the tides. Beyond that was the turn that would take me back to town and safety.

  Engine roaring, the vehicle on my tail came right up on my bumper, headlights filling my periphery. I shrieked and hit the gas, to no avail. The impact knocked me back against the seat, then forward over the wheel. I was being pushed, the steering wheel spinning uselessly between my fingers. The bus left the road and careened toward the slough. My head nearly hit the roof as the van bounced over a low concrete curb, sheared off a guardrail, skidded, and came to rest above the slough, front wheels over the concrete lip, canted downward so that I stared straight into the dark water twenty feet below. I’d bitten my lip, and the most important thing in the world seemed to be finding a tissue to stanch the blood that trickled down my chin. But I was frozen in place, too scared to feel around for my bag, fearful that any movement would send me plunging into the water.

  My attacker revved his engine and pulled back, resting a moment before a final push. I didn’t want to leave my car, but it seemed to be my only option. I gritted my teeth and reached for the door handle.

  Lights came over the ridge to the south and a car hurtled toward our little frozen tableau. The newcomer screeched to a halt behind the first vehicle, which I could see now was a gray or silver pickup truck with tinted windows. For a moment, both vehicles idled, sizing each other up in a macabre parody of what I’d seen on the Plaza only twenty minutes earlier.

  Abruptly the pickup roared to life, pulling past me and disappearing over the bridge. As it flashed by, something odd about the passenger door registered in my brain, horizontal lines that didn’t match up. The rear plate was smeared with mud. The taillights faded from view.

  Reaction set in and I began to shake all over. As though from a great distance, I heard a car door open and close. A few seconds later, someone tapped on my window. I opened my eyes. It was Wayne.

  Without thinking, I shoved the door open, knocking him back. He slipped in the mud and went down. As soon as my feet touched the ground, I was on him. I had him by the hair, my knee on his chest. My fear had morphed into a towering rage. Hot blood pounded through my veins. I could have committed murder in that moment.

  Wayne went limp, offering no resistance, and, just like that, my fury evaporated. I rolled off him and sat gasping like a landed fish. Slowly I came back into my own body. The smell of rank sludge and diesel exhaust assailed my nostrils.

  He sat up. “What was that all about?”

  “You son of a bitch.”

  “Nice to see you, too.” He brushed some of the dirt from his trousers in disgust. “Jesus, my last clean pair of pants and look at them.”

  “Skip the small talk. What are you doing here? What do you want?” Where have you been for the last thirteen years? Why did you leave us?

  He looked the same as I remembered: tall, lanky, big hands and feet. His hair was dark and curly, pulling back a little from his forehead but still thick on top. He’d cut it short on the sides, making his ears look larger than average. He smelled of wood smoke, sweat, and unwashed socks.

  “Listen,” he said, climbing to his feet. “Maybe you won’t believe me—in fact, I’m pretty sure you won’t—but I’m here to make amends. Maybe I could start by getting your van back on the street.”

  “I don’t need your help.”

  He ignored that. “You have road service? No worries. I got a tow rope here.”

  He jogged back to his car, a blue Nissan. I watched, numb, as he started the engine and pulled up to the back of the VW. He hopped out and rooted around the trunk of the car until he came up with a length of stout nylon rope. Kneeling in the dirt, he looped one end around the van’s rear axle, then rolled under the sedan and secured the other end to a metal hook.

  “That a rental?” I said.

  He shook his head. “I boosted it. Don’t worry, I’ll return it tonight. Wouldn’t want your conscience to bother you.”

  “Screw you.”

  “Yeah. Stand back in case the rope breaks.” He slid behind the wheel of the Nissan and threw it in reverse. The rope went taut as he backed up with painstaking slowness. He set the brake, then jumped out and made sure the bus was in neutral, hand brake released. Then he was in the Nissan again, backing up at a snail’s pace. For a moment, I thought the rope would let go. Then the bus began to shudder and move. The front wheels came up and over the concrete edge, finding solid ground. Wayne cut the engine.

  “Set your hand brake,” he yelled.

  I did as he said.

  He untied the ropes. “You’re good as new.”

  I could hardly agree. In the wash of the sedan’s headlights, I could see the rear bumper was crumpled and the engine compartment door was swinging from one hinge, almost folded in two. I yanked at it, and it came free in my hands. Crap. I opened the slider and tossed the mangled piece on the floor. Wayne retrieved the license plate and attached it to the bumper with some twists of wire.

  “Sam,” he said. “Listen.”

  The silence stretched past the point of comfort. He kicked at the ground.

  “Shit,” he said. “You look great.”

  “Aren’t you sweet. Asshole.”

  “I know. Sounds like a cliché, but let me explain.”

  “I’m all ears.”

  “Not here.” He scratched at the stubble along his jawline. “That guy might come back, for one. Or—or someone.”

  “Anyone in particular?”

  “No.” He met my gaze without flinching. That’s how people lie to your face.

  “You’ve been following me. Stalking me, to use the technical term.”

  This time his eyes wandered. “I wanted to talk to you. I was trying to pick the right time. When you might be, you know, receptive.”

  My temper started to climb again. “There’ll never be a right time.”

  “I know. I screwed up bad. Just give me a chance to tell you what happened.”

  “What is it you’re after?”

  He looked at me.

  “No way,” I said.

  “He’s my son.”

  “Not from where I stand.”

  “Please. Let’s just talk. Then maybe you’ll feel different.”

  I wouldn’t. Not ever. But Max had said he wanted to see his dad. I bit my lip. “Where and when?”

  “Tomorrow. Somewhere private. You ever been out to the North Jetty?”

  “Sure. I live here, in case you’d forgotten.”

  “Yeah. There’s old concrete bunkers all up and down the dunes out there. Park in the lot and look for the second bunker out from the Porta-Potty. I’ll be waiting. Two o’clock okay?”

  “Make it three. I’ll be driving back from Bovington.”

  “Three. Great. Make sure you’re not followed.” He drew a deep, shaky breath, and I realized how nervous he’d been. About my response? Or something else?

  “What was this all about?” he asked me, gesturing toward the bus.

  “I don’t know. Road rage, I suppose.”

  “Some people shouldn’t be behind the wheel.”

  “This coming from Mr. Law and Order.”

  More silence.

  “Guess I’ll see you tomorrow,” he said.

  There was a word trapped in my throat. I tried to swallow it back, but it came out anyway.

  “Thanks,” I said.

  Chapter 23

  I awoke Monday morning to find Harley sitting on my chest. The last few days’ events, particularly the surreal encounter with Wayne and the homicidal trucker, seemed cartoonish in retrospect, a cheesy drama where I’d played the foil for life’s bizarre jokes. I couldn’t remember a weekend where I’d been the object of so much hostility. But then again, I hadn’t been in real estate that long.

  I started to
climb out of bed, then fell back onto my pillow, remembering I was alone in the apartment. My chest contracted at the thought of meeting with my ex-husband and possibly learning the truth about all those missing years. Though what kind of truth could I expect from a man whose fundamental pledge to me had proved a lie?

  I thought of Bernie and groaned aloud. Incredible—but not too surprising—that I’d managed to fuck up a potential relationship, or at least a chance at some really great sex. By rights he should have woken up next to me, deliciously naked, soft dark hair rumpled from sleep and…

  Instead, here I was, alone, with only my cat for company. I was officially a lonely cat lady.

  I shook myself all over, and Harley jumped to the floor. What had Gail told me? Affirmations. The power of positive thinking. Hell, it was worth a try. I swung my legs over the edge of the mattress and planted my feet on the floor, tugging at my oversized T-shirt to cover my behind. Shuffling to the bathroom, I flicked on the forty-watt bulb and stared back at my reflection in the mirror, racking my brain for something positive to say.

  “You’ve looked worse,” I ventured. Then I tapped the top of my head smartly with my fingertips, as Gail had done, and waited for enlightenment. Nothing happened. Even New Ageism didn’t want to take me on.

  I used the last handful of cereal for my breakfast, then played with Harley over coffee. When we were all played out, I threw myself into packing: emptying all the kitchen cabinets and drawers into boxes, wrapping any breakables in old newspaper, sealing the boxes with clear tape, labeling them with a permanent marker. I took a break to email Becky, letting her know I’d secured the required funds to close on my new home. Within an hour she’d emailed me back, confirming our meeting at Calville Title and Escrow to sign papers.

  I stared at the computer screen. The enormity of what I was undertaking suddenly made my knees weak. Was this buyer’s remorse? Funny—and ironic—that it should strike a real estate professional. By that I meant myself.

  But there was no turning back, not now. I took a long look around the shabby apartment, noting anew the threadbare carpet, the sweaty aluminum-paned windows that let heat out and chill in, the glittery asbestos-laced ceiling. Better times were ahead.

  By eleven I was on the road to Bovington for the race finale, making a quick stop at Ernst’s Foreign Car Care and Collision on the way. Ernst Keppner, the proprietor, lived in a studio apartment abutting his shop and was never very far from it, even on Memorial Day. I pressed the buzzer next to the bay doors, and he appeared after a few minutes, towel-drying his hair. His eyes were rimmed with red, and I guessed his night had been a lot more fun than mine. He smiled when he saw me; I was the sort who was destined to show up at his door fairly regularly.

  “I wonder if you could do a quick estimate for me,” I said.

  “Glad to. Be right out.”

  He disappeared, and a minute later the shop door rolled up. Ernst had pulled on a salmon-colored coverall and was whipping a comb through his damp hair, strategically arranging it over a shiny patch of scalp. He was thin but wiry, with a mechanic’s strong fingers and oil-stained fingernails. Shoving the comb into his pocket, he picked up a clipboard. “Let’s take a look at her, shall we?”

  He ambled up to the VW, clucking over the damage to the front end. “Dear me, dear me,” he said.

  “You see, what happened was—”

  He held his palm up in the universal “stop” gesture and went around to the back. His shoulders sagged, and I thought he might weep over the bumps and bruises here. His hand lingered on the rear quarter panel, like the caress of a lover.

  “Poor baby,” he whispered into the gas-tank vent. “We’ll make it all better.”

  He made a couple of notations on his clipboard, then did a slow walk around the van, examining it carefully. Finally he tucked his pen behind his ear and spoke with deep melancholy.

  “She’s hurt pretty bad,” he said. “The good news is we can nurse her back to full health.”

  “I’m not covered for full health. How about we compromise at ‘as good as can be expected at her age’?”

  “Who’s your agent?”

  “Judy Moxon in Calville.”

  “I happen to be a direct repair provider for Judy. You have your insurance information, by chance?”

  I dug through my bag and pulled out the page of declarations I’d thought to bring. He held it out at arm’s length, then put on a pair of reading glasses and brought the paper right up to his face. “I see you got comprehensive.”

  “Judy threw in a free case of thirty-weight motor oil if I did comp on top of basic liability.”

  He whistled. “Can’t beat free oil. Well, Sam, I’ll tell you what I see here. You remember when the city took down all those Monterey pines around City Hall a few years back?”

  “Sure. I guess.”

  “Because of the liability, that’s why. Limb shear. They grow too tall too fast, then start shedding their branches. Hazardous? You bet. Lots of Montereys all over Arlinda. A pity you parked this classic machine under one of them.”

  “But I didn’t—”

  Again the stop sign. “Believe me, I know tree damage when I see it. I’d stake my reputation on it. Specially after that wind. Some big gusts last night, am I right?”

  I opened my mouth, then closed it again and nodded.

  He pointed to the rear bumper. “Now, this bumper and your engine lid here. I was down at Jake’s Wreckers and Fine Cigars on Alton Avenue and they had a seventy-five on the lot. Engine blown. Some weekend-mechanic rebuild is my guess. Fill here, here, and here, a little sanding, match the paint, and Bob’s your uncle. Oh, and pull this little dent here.”

  “That’s been there for years,” I couldn’t help but put in.

  “So have them Monterey pines. Ought to cut ’em all down in my opinion.” He walked around to the sliding door and yanked on the handle. The door slid out of its groove and fell, but he was ready for it. “We’ll take care of this, too.”

  “But—”

  “Sometimes tree damage can manifest itself in ways you wouldn’t expect.” He gently pushed the door back into place and closed it, his hand lingering on the sheet metal.

  “What’s this going to cost?” I said nervously.

  He fished a stick of gum out of his coveralls, picking off a few wisps of pocket lint. He offered it to me and, when I declined, popped it into his mouth and began to chew methodically. “You met your deductible yet?”

  I shook my head.

  “Then it’ll be a hundred bucks. That work for you?”

  I nodded.

  “I can fit you in a week from Thursday.”

  “Perfect.”

  He held out his hand and we shook. “A pleasure doing business with you, Sam.”

  —

  I drove south through Grovedale for the second time in two days. It was like a ghost town today, the store windows staring vacantly out at the streets. South of town, the fast-food joints that stretched down the 101 business strip were doing a brisk lunchtime trade. Burger wrappers driven by the wind scuttled across the road. The skies were dark, threatening more rain for the final day of the race.

  I passed the old nuclear power plant, now decommissioned, and the Salmon Bay Wildlife Refuge. The scenery turned soft and opaque, as if a translucent wash had been applied to an old oil painting. The floodplains of the Eider River lay to the west, stretching all the way to the Pacific.

  It was a short hop from the freeway to Bovington. Onlookers were already lining up along the side of the road close to town, hoping to spot the race leaders as they rolled in from the north. I found a place to park near the war memorial and strolled down Main Street, which was as vibrant as Grovedale had been moribund. A local radio station was broadcasting live from the finish line, and the Redwood State marching band was in full swing. The sidewalks in front of the Victorian storefronts were packed with people, many of them set up for a full day’s viewing: folding chairs, umbrellas for sun or r
ain, baskets of food. There was a line eight deep at the Porta-Potty. I found a comfortable spot with a lamppost to lean against, and waited.

  Forty-five minutes later, the chili pepper from Hempstead’s Hot Sauce rolled across the finish to thunderous applause. The pilots leaped out and did a victory dance in the street. After I’d clapped till my hands stung, I bought a pretzel from a food cart and munched on it, deciding to work my way down the course to see if I could spot Max and his team.

  I’d gone half a block when a hand fell on my shoulder.

  “Enjoying the race?” Lester Duschane said.

  “I was.”

  “I’ve been trying to track you down since Saturday. We had a deal. Where’s my exclusive?”

  “You were serious about that?”

  “I never joke about the news,” he said. “Never mind, though. I got the scoop from Simms at our poker game Saturday night. But maybe you could flesh it out a bit. What was your reaction when you found Ravello? Did you scream? I bet you screamed.”

  I thought of Richard Ravello’s cold corpse and shuddered. “First tell me what you know about Merrit Brown.”

  “Playing hardball, eh? Okay, step into my office.” He ushered me into an alley that ran between two Victorian houses. The noise of the crowd dimmed.

  “Listen,” he said. “I called in a favor and got a look at some old police reports. I knew the name was familiar. Four years ago her husband, Boyd, was killed in an accident.”

  I remembered Merrit’s colorless voice when she told me her husband was dead. “He worked in a dangerous industry.”

  “It happened at their home. He died of blunt trauma, a head injury. There was an investigation.”

  “Why?”

  “Because the police had been out there before. The neighbor lady called the cops three times in the six months the Browns lived next door. Each time, when the officers got there, Mrs. Brown said nothing was wrong, that the television had been up too loud or some other story. But Brown had a record for drunk and disorderly, and charges pending for punching a guy in a bar. He was an ugly customer.”