“Those are paid advertisements.” I pointed out. “Different than editorial, everyone knows that.” Get out. Get. Out.
He shook his head and looked, well kindly, except for the knife clutched in his hand. Now, I’ve been bludgeoned, beaten, smacked and nearly immolated, but facing a big knife, wielded by a killer with intent, overwhelmed me, but not with adrenaline, rather by a sense of terrible loneliness. To die alone with no one near, how truly awful. I felt for poor Beverley and Cyndi. Great, another learning experience. I suppose this will build character. If I survive.
I took another step, the incessant music in my brain: get out, get out. I had faced unhinged mad men before, but not one so completely sensible. The rain roared onto the trailer, water cascaded down the small windows as if we were in a car wash.
“Come on.” He waved the knife and slowly approached me. “It won’t hurt a bit, you’ll feel a little tug, then blessed darkness, and the rest,” he shrugged. “The rest is up to me and you won’t care at all.”
He eyed me. “But you are much larger than the other three.” He glanced at the knife, and I held my breath. I did not have an exit strategy (except for get out), and the thought of him chasing me through a slick, and empty parking lot in the pouring rain, was not a good one. I would become a horror film heroine, I would not get into my car fast enough. He’d follow me into the front seat, and we’d end up wrestling for the knife in an even more confined space than the RV.
He frowned at the size of the knife, versus the size of my, well, me.
But, apparently it was not a problem. “I was disappointed there were never photos of Beverley.”
“And you worked so hard.” I realized now why the police never released details about the murder scene. I was one of the only people who knew how poor Beverley had ended up. Me and the murderer.
“It was so difficult to get her head off. And there we no photos.” He spoke as if relating how hard it is to open a wine bottle stuffed with a synthetic cork.
“You made quite an effort.” I swallowed. I knew ten seconds before, but his comment confirmed it. The real deal. I had found the murderer, all by myself. And there in lies the problem. I was all alone.
“I did.” He gestured with knife. “All that staging, wasted. I may drive away, this is not working out as well as I hoped.”
“Sometimes murder is can be that way.” I agreed.
I backed away a whole inch, it was a far as I could go. The rain beat down. Sheets of water obscured the windows. I couldn’t see anything outside, and of course, no one could see in.
He advanced, completely confident of the outcome. A murderer with tenure.
My phone rang. I had to ignore it, as much as I wanted to brandish it, claiming it could be a buyer and would he understand if I took this?
I backed up and hit the built-in banquet.
So who saves Allison? Who comes in at the last minute? Does someone come at the last minute?
Yes, someone does. The imperious Martha Anderson. She didn’t even bother knocking on the RV’s flimsy door, but pulled it open as if she owned the place. A steaming hot turkey proceeded her into the doorway.
“Good!” She announced. “You’re ready to carve.”
The professor looked down at the knife in his hand.
“Martha!” I greeted her loudly enough to be heard over the rain. I pulled her into the RV because I couldn’t very well push her out backwards. Once she took a step inside, I grabbed the turkey, barely balanced in the flimsy aluminum tray in the first place, and threw it as hard as I could straight at the professor.
He dropped the knife to defend himself against the steaming white meat and hot grease, and in that second, I pushed Martha back out of the RV (forward, it gave her a more fighting chance), and followed her stumbling bulk, pushing the door closed behind me.
“What are you doing!” Martha yelled.
I kept my hand on the door handle, and my body weight pushed against the door to hold it closed. It would only be a second before, here he was.
The professor banged on the door, but I didn’t budge. The rain plastered my hair down and quickly trickled down the back of my jacket. Call me the human doorstop.
I looked around for something to secure the door, but the parking lot was empty of random pieces of wood.
The rain made the handle and the little metal steps leading to the door, too slippery for a good purchase, especially long term.
“Your car!” I yelled at Martha.
“What?” She stood solidly in the lot, looking at me as if I were mad. Which could be, but I had a killer inside. Did he have the keys to the RV? He must, he drove Cyndi’s body to the Homeless Prevention League and back again. I could slash the tires after I secured the door.
“Get in your car. Drive it here!” I called to Martha.
“What? That was a perfectly good turkey, donated by Cooper Milk.”
“Believe me, they will understand. Your car, I need to block the door.”
“But then the professor can’t get out!”
“Exactly.” The door heaved against me from the professor’s efforts. I pushed back and held onto the handle, as I worked to keep my feet wedged on the stair step. Martha hesitated, still not processing what happened. She eyed the bulging door and the sounds of the man knocking against it. In a fair fight, I can take him, and for me, this moment was completely fair. The door smacked against me. I wedged my heels under the steps and braced myself with all the energy and pounds at my disposal.
I gestured frantically to the door, and pointed to her car. She finally moved, in slow motion it looked to me, but I was pumped through with more desperate energy than she so my perception of time was quite different.
The door handle was slippery. A nail broke as I tried to maintain my grip, my shoulder slipped but I steadied myself and pushed harder. At least the song had disappeared, I was out, not finished with him, but at least outside, and away from the knife.
After about a thousand years, Martha (I think I can call her Martha, after all we’ve been through together), started the motor and pulled the car closer. Closer.
The door gave and I slipped. He must be looking for another exit. I pulled out my phone and scrolled to the second number on my screen, the police.
I waved her closer. She had no idea what I wanted to do, but I did. Closer.
Fortunately I had kept my grip on the door handle. He returned with new force, pushing and yelling.
Martha peered at me through her windshield, still completely puzzled.
“Please!” My hair was a mess, I had turkey drippings all down my skirt. It would be ruined if I didn’t get to a dry cleaners quickly. She probably thought I was a lunatic.
“Push the car up against the door.”
I kept my hand on the door, as soon as her bumper was close enough, I jumped to one side and kicked away the stairs. I threw my arms towards the door as if I was pointing out the view, imagine this city scene at night. Here, I gestured. I hope she got it by now, that she needed to pull her car up against the door.
She paused, the rain whipping against the windshield. “Go!” I yelled. “Block the door, now!”
She did, the grill of her Cadillac banged into the side of the RV and effectively covered the bottom half of the door. It bent under the impact, but held. The professor howled from inside.
I stepped away. Two finger nails had completely popped off and I was due at Emily’s in an hour. I hate when that happens.
The professor had quite a vocabulary of swear words.
It’s really sad that the Rivers Bend police is number two on my most called list.
* * *
“Umm. Hi.” Ben let me into the side door. I couldn’t risk encountering Emily in my current state.
I staggered into the library, and sat down on the first inviting piece of furniture.
“You look like you’ve been busy.” He ventured. He was a very good man. And despite some of his inabilities to handle aggressive f
undraisers, he knew how to handle me.
“I broke two nails.” I announced.
“Ah.” he shoved his hands into his jeans pockets, and rocked on his heels. “And what were you doing that justified sacrificing your lovely and expensive fingernails?”
The calming cocoon of shock that insulated me enough to speak to the police, nod to Mr. Morris, who waved me on, sign a hastily written report, leave my business card and assure everyone I was not leaving town. The calm that helped me drive north, putting up with holiday songs on the radio that all seemed to mention turkeys. The calm got me here to this chair, suddenly split open and fell away.
“I found Beverley’s killer.” I wailed. Tears overwhelmed me now I was safe.
I don’t think I’ve ever cried in front of Ben. But I didn’t have enough fortitude left to stem the tide, and pretend to be strong. I was not strong. I kept walking in on horribly mutilated bodies and tonight, I almost joined their ranks.
That thought made me cry harder.
“I’m going to delay dinner.” I hiccupped.
“Oh baby, it’s crab, it will keep.” He sank down next to me, wrapped his arms around me and held me tightly against his chest. He felt good. I clung to him as only a ravaged, upset heroine can, and sobbed out the last four hours.
At least Martha Anderson had been impressed.
She didn’t stay in the car, once she blocked the RV door. She struggled out, shoes first, the bulk of her last. Her raincoat caught on the door, she jerked the coat free and slammed the door in fit of pique.
“What are you doing!” She waved at the RV, now rocking suggestively due to the professor’s exertions. “He’s still in there.”
“Yes he is.”
Sirens flared up from around the corner. Excellent. The professor was still beating against the door.
The only coherent words I heard were “This is an outrage.” Yes, it was.
“He is the murderer.” I announced.
She put her hands on her hips and glared at me. The rain had let up some, but water was still pouring out of the sky, and I swear, Martha Anderson’s hair was completely unaffected.
“Now, how did you come to such an unsupported and spurious conclusion? Just because he’s homeless, is that it?” She demanded, still indignant, I assumed, about the sacrificed roasted turkey.
Two police cars, red and blue lights flashing, illuminated the wet, black asphalt and skidded so close to me, the tires sprayed water on my boots.
Guns drawn, they politely asked Martha to move her car again. In a huff, she did.
I thought for a second that the professor could have escaped from a window. But the windows are small and he is round, that escape would have not been an option. I happily stepped to one side as the police extracted the professor, appropriately with guns drawn and handcuffs ready.
“He told me.” I said to Martha.
“He told me.” I repeated to Ben.
“No good deed goes unpunished.” Ben declared. Which was my holiday theme.
He led me to the shower and left me in peace to wash away the afternoon, but he was ready with his thick terry cloth robe when I emerged. Barefoot, my hair in a ponytail because that was all there was to do, I found two blue SpongeBob band-aids in my purse, and wrapped my damaged, nail-less fingers. Sure, applying first aid made the loss of the two nails more obvious, but much more cheerful. I buried my hand into the pocket of his robe and was ready to endure a festive Christmas Eve.
We walked down an inner stairs, and into the family room that blended seamlessly into the inviting kitchen. A large fake pine tree barely cleared the high ceiling. It was festooned with frosted grapes and miniature wine glasses, along with gold dipped grape leaves. Purple and red lights made it glow. It was startlingly elegant.
“Oh my goodness you poor thing!” Emily greeted me warmly, more warmly than I deserved. “Come here, sit down. What possessed you to walk into the den of a murderer?”
“It was an RV.” I hitched up the robe and regarded her a bit warily. She had warmed considerably since our last conversion at the jail, did I trust her?
“Ben told me you found out who killed Beverley.” She guided me to the kitchen table. Two large ceramic bowls were filled with cracked crab legs and bodies. Two empty bowls were ready for the carnage to follow. It’s kind of odd to massacre a crab in honor of Christmas, but December is Crab Season and we Californians love our crab.
I had a choice of melted butter or mayonnaise. Ah, a woman after my own heart. I relaxed a little more.
Ben poured me a glass of white wine. I didn’t bother to scrutinize the label.
“It was an accident. I didn’t guess he was the murderer until he told me.”
You may not believe that I really do find these murderers and killers completely by accident. Perhaps, I should have my chi re-calibrated, or whatever Rosemary does periodically. Or I could spend the day at the spa at Sonoma Mission Inn; that would work well in the re-calibration department.
“Why?” Ben asked. He passed me the crab parts, I took a white piece of body and two large legs. I broke them open, and started fishing out the moist meat.
I knew what Ben was asking. “I think he wanted the attention. And murder, something gruesome, had the best chance of getting covered by the media. He didn’t count on the media, at least in Rivers Bend, to be sensitive to both the victims, and the survivors. His work was not reported on as thoroughly as he hoped.”
“That was it? Why didn’t he publish a book or something?”
“Do you have any idea how hard it to get a book contract?” I countered. I swirled my delectable crabmeat into the clarified butter, and popped it into my mouth, if there is a heaven; they are serving Dungeness crab.
“The professor knew that Beverley was popular and famous, at least locally. It made sense to think her death would make the news.”
“Okay, how did they get in?” Ben demanded, calmly. I did not take offense, he needed answers and I was not myself. I knew I wasn’t delivering information as quickly as he needed.
“She simply let him in. She knew him, why not? There were rumors about board members fraternizing with the clients, nothing concrete. I don’t think it was only about Beverley and the president.”
“Beverley and the president of the Homeless Prevention League?” Ben drank down half his wine.
“Sorry, I thought you knew.”
Ben shook his head and gestured with a crab claw for me to continue. Emily expertly pulled apart a crab body and listened.
“Remember, we overheard that Beverley hired the homeless? She needed to paint over Thanksgiving weekend, who else would help her? The Professor probably showed up for some spending money, and apparently decided to stay and get himself fifteen minutes of fame.”
“That, he got.”
“You have been working on this for the last month.” Emily concluded. She poured more wine for all of us.
“With Ben.” I pointed out.
Emily shook her head. “I don’t think anyone’s ever done something like that for Ben, ever.”
I acknowledged her compliment silently. Considering what I’ve done TO Ben I wasn’t sure that doing something FOR Ben put me back in the black as far as doing good deeds was concerned, but I was happy to take her praise. I was very happy to accept her praise.
Emily toasted me with a crab leg. “Welcome to the family.”
Chapter 19
Even though it was gruesome, what with Richard and Allen racing around the house, fighting over the toys, stealing each other’s candy, tearing open gifts, including mine, in a orgy of greed, I do miss those childhood Christmas mornings.
On the other hand, it was delicious to wake up with someone on Christmas morning.
Ben served me coffee and the paper in bed.
The headlines in the Rivers Bend Press under Happy Holidays read: “The Professor is the Madman.” Someone who reads real books actually works at the Press.
Murderer found! Stalwart D
onor Halts Escape. A blurry picture of Martha’s car, the high centered Escalade, occupied the rest of the page. Towards the bottom, the headline “Not a Merry Christmas for the Homeless Prevention League” took up the rest of the front page.
“Didn’t even get his photo in the paper.” I commented.
“So much for the fifteen minutes of fame.” Ben poured me more coffee.
“I can see why you give to the arts.”
“A more boring choice, certainly. Until the museum you support purchases stolen art.”
“That would be a problem.” I agreed.
Beverley was named again, clearly one of the victims of the madman. Her house, however, was not mentioned, nor was I. I escaped the scene of the capture before Chris Connor appeared. Ah, Merry Christmas to me.
Chris Conner had only the police and upright (and stalwart), Martha Anderson to interview. That suited me fine. I was infamous enough.
The professor was being held for psychiatric evaluation.
“Come on.” Ben tossed the papers on the floor, and took my cup for me. “The best part of the day is the morning, we need to go down.”
I had been too busy and too distracted to leave stuff at his house – only that one bag from Thanksgiving and those clothes had been overused. So I sucked it up and went downstairs dressed again in his robe.
Emily greeted me with a hug. She wore a cashmere robe, but no slippers. Her feet were twisted and deformed from years of wearing pointed high heel shoes. I hoped I wasn’t looking into the future of my own feet and toes.
Catharine Bramkamp - Real Estate Diva 03 - In Good Faith Page 23