by Curry, Edna
He shook his head. “No, I can't do that. As soon as the sheriff notices that my truck is missing, he'll think the murderer took it and put out an APB on it. I run a reefer.”
“A reefer?”
“Sorry. A refrigerated truck. I haul perishable foodstuff. I can't take a chance on getting picked up with a load that I can't deliver. I'd get sued for my last dollar.”
“Oh.” The burger settled in her stomach like a lump of clay. So much for sending him off to work while she investigated this mess. Now she'd be guilty of hiding a suspect, possibly aiding and abetting. Yikes.
“Wait a minute,” Paul said. “I'll bet there's room in the storage place where I keep my boat and snowmobile. I have a key. It's a couple miles east of here. I had lunch with the guy who owns it last week. He was complaining about the amount of rental space he'd have empty now because everyone takes their boats out for the summer and moves them up to the lakes. I'll store my truck there.”
“Won't he think that's odd?”
Paul shrugged. “He went to his daughter's in Florida for a couple of weeks. I'll have it out of there again before he gets back. If not, I'll tell him it needs some repair and I have to wait for parts I've ordered or something.”
“All right.” As they walked out into the spring sunshine, Lacey scanned the blacktopped parking lots for any sign of a police car, but saw none. No one paid any attention to them as they got in her car and drove the short distance to the truck stop. Paul directed her to the line of semis parked behind it.
A semi with Paul's name decorating its door sat there, half-hidden in the row. It had a blue tractor and a silver trailer, looked fairly new, clean and well kept. “Nice rig,” she commented.
“Thanks. Wanta come see it?”
Nodding, Lacey parked beside it, got out with Paul and climbed up the passenger side of the cab to look inside while Paul unlocked it and climbed into the driver's seat.
The inside looked as clean and neat as the outside. A clipboard of papers, a pair of gray work gloves and an empty coke can seemed to be the only loose items.
“Very neat, too,” she said with a smile.
He nodded. “Want me to go on ahead?”
“Sure. I'll catch up. I'll follow you and pick you up.”
They drove down the road to the huge metal storage building. It sat back away from the highway and was surrounded by a cornfield. A large printed sign advertised space for off-season storage of boats, snowmobiles and travel trailers. The owner had apparently decided to make some money off the tourists who used the nearby lakes in the summertime.
She parked and watched Paul unlock the huge sliding doors. He pushed and the doors rolled easily off to the sides on an overhead track.
Reminding herself it never hurt to have every bit of information possible, Lacey picked up her notebook and wrote down the license plate number of Paul's truck. She watched as the silver semi disappeared inside.
She bit her lip, watching traffic whiz by and listening to the radio while she waited. A news bulletin informed her that the sheriff was investigating Paul's recent life to try to discover why he'd been killed. Until she found out who the dead man really was, she'd better keep Paul out of sight.
She sighed in relief as he reappeared carrying his clipboard and a duffel bag, presumably containing his clothes and personal gear. He slid the doors together, locked them and came back to her car. “All okay?”
Nodding, he said, “Let's get out of here.” He tossed his duffel bag into the Chevy's back seat and got in beside her, his clipboard on his lap.
She fumed impatiently when she got caught at the stoplight at the bridge. From here she could see the “Old Man of the Dalles” on the opposite cliffs of the St. Croix.
The light changed. Before she could react by taking her foot off the brake, a horn honked impatiently behind her. “Damn city drivers,” she said.
Paul laughed. “Cool it. It's no big deal. When you drive as much as I do, you learn to roll with the punches.”
“I suppose.” She smiled at him in spite of her impatience.
Soon they were safely on the blacktop lake road back to her place. As they drove up the winding, evergreen-lined, road to Long Lake, her house came into view. He whistled. “You call this a cabin?”
“Well,” she laughed, looking at the split-level frame house with new eyes. “I guess so, though maybe lakeside home would be more accurate. Uncle Henry always called it his cabin. He left it to me when he died a couple of years ago.”
Murdered. That was the reason she usually stayed clear of murder cases. Except that this one was so intriguing. But she wasn't going to explain all that to this fascinating stranger who might be a murderer himself.
“Come on in.” She got out, unlocked the door and stepped onto the landing inside. Five steps straight ahead led down to her office. She turned to her left and took the five steps up to the living area.
“Nice,” he said, looking around and dropping his duffel bag on a chair.
Her living room area and kitchen were really one room but, because the kitchen flooring was tiled, it had a separate feel to it. Proud of her home, she kept the hardwood parquet floors gleaming. A brown leather sofa and matching chairs were conveniently placed to take advantage of the lovely view of the lake through the large windows.
Suddenly nervous about being alone with him, she forced a note of geniality into her voice and said, “Want anything to drink? Make yourself at home while I call the cabin owner.”
“Okay, thanks. Maybe I will have a glass of milk if you've got some, to wash down some antacid.” He laid his newspaper, clipboard and key ring on the kitchen table and walked to her refrigerator.
“Sure. Glasses above and to the right of the sink.”
She sat down in an easy chair and dug for her phone book in the pile of magazines on the coffee table. Finding it, she opened it to the back cover where she'd written her frequently called numbers and dialed her friend Margaret Downing. Since Margaret was now disabled and in a wheelchair, she was almost certain to be home. Lacey knew she would be pleased to rent out her cabin this early in the year. It often sat empty until the first of June.
As she waited for Margaret to answer, her eyes again strayed to Paul. He opened the refrigerator and took out the milk, then poured a glassful and dug some tablets out of his duffel bag. He chewed them and downed the milk in one long series of swallows, then set the glass in the sink and returned the carton to the refrigerator. At least the man was neat, she thought. And I'm having trouble keeping my eyes off his great body. Watch it, girl. You don't get involved with clients. It's dangerous, remember? Or have you forgotten what happened the last time you broke that rule?
Pain raced through Lacey at the memory of that lost love and she looked away. Mark had been killed because she’d been involved with him. She must remember that.
Now her eyes soon returned to Paul of their own accord. She watched as he went to stand at the large bay windows. He was apparently admiring the view of Long Lake. Pulling off his leather jacket, he draped it over a chair. She tried to ignore the alluring silhouette he made against the blue sky while she talked to Margaret. It would never do to lose perspective and start caring about this man, however attractive he was.
A few minutes later she hung up the phone, and said, “It's all set. The cabin is yours for a week, or longer if you call her and renew. I'll need a check to deposit in her account, and then I'll walk you over to it.”
“Great. Is cash okay? Truckers usually carry cash.”
“Sure. I'll deposit it in Margaret's account for her.”
“I could use a shower and nap. I didn't get much sleep last night. Mary's baby downstairs cried a lot.”
He counted out the money and handed it to her. Then they walked along the gray crushed rock path to the cabin a couple of doors down. She took the key from its hiding place behind a planter.
“Not too hard a place to break into, is it?” Paul said, looking disapprovingly at th
e accessibility of the key.
Lacey grinned. “Margaret, the owner, lives in Minneapolis and asked me to keep an eye on it for her. She's never had a problem.” And I hope she won't this time either.
She let him in, snapping on the lights. The cabin was paneled in knotty pine with navy and red plaid curtains at the windows. It was tastefully, but inexpensively furnished in various tones of blue.
“The bedroom and bath are back there.”
“Very nice,” he commented looking around and dropping his duffel bag beside the door.
She waved a hand toward the kitchen. “If you get hungry, she keeps a few basics in the cupboards and freezer, you know, coffee, canned goods and such. There's even a washing machine and dryer next to the bathroom, with supplies. You're expected to replace whatever you use.”
“Sounds great. I could use a clean outfit after a week on the road.”
She glanced at the supplies in the cupboard. “Hmm. Maybe you'd better eat at my place until we go shopping.”
“Thanks. Sounds good to me.”
“I've got work to do. I'll be in my office for a while if you want me. You've still got my phone number?”
He shook his head, so she wrote it on a slip of paper from her notebook and handed it to him. “Call if you need anything. I'll probably go out for a while, to see what I can find out. If the sheriff doesn't have your apartment sealed off, do you want anything?”
“Well, I could use a couple shirts. I think I've got everything else I need. I keep my gear in my truck for when I'm on the road. I don't always know how many days I'll be out.” Taking a key off his ring, he handed it to her.
“Okay. I'll leave my door unlocked for you. See you later, then.” Lacey went back to her house and down the carpeted stairs to her office.
She made a fresh pot of coffee, berating herself for her impulsive invitation. What had gotten into her? True, Margaret needed the money, but had she just invited a killer to hide out under her friend's roof?
Chapter 3
In her office, Lacey turned on her computer. Sipping her hot coffee, she watched her computer do its start-up stuff on her screen. When it settled down, she double-clicked her browser icon and started cruising the Internet.
She dug up every scrap of information she could on Paul. Knowledge was her best protection. Most people would be appalled if they knew how easy it was to learn about them on a computer nowadays, if you paid the database fees.
Using his social security number for access, in a couple hours she knew, and had verified, his driver's license, and birthday. She learned that his credit was good, he paid his bills on time, and he shopped at Sears for his tools and work clothes. His trucking business took him regularly coast to coast and border to border, he tended to buy gas at the same truck stops and he loved pizza and Chinese food.
She could find nothing that sounded like a guy who'd go off the deep end and murder somebody. There was nothing unusual or out of line with what he'd told her.
So, she mused, getting up to stretch and refill her coffee cup, if the guy in Margaret's cabin is really Paul Menns, who's the dead guy in the morgue?
Next, she went through the missing persons information. Nothing clicked. It was probably a bit early for that, though. People aren't always reported missing right away. Family and friends might figure they were just off somewhere doing their own thing, and not realize anything was wrong for days.
Ben had already told her there was no match for the dead guy in missing persons. That had been before Paul's landlady had identified him, of course, but Ben might not have told her the truth. She didn't quite trust the sheriff to give it to her straight. He liked to show her up, and wasn't above leading her astray for a good laugh with his cronies.
Besides, she had a skeptical nature and always liked to verify information for herself. People sometimes had their own reasons for saying something. Or, they gave information their own slant, that might or might not be the way she saw that same information.
She printed what she'd found, filed it, then keyed in her notes on the interview with Paul and added them to the file.
Pouring another cup of coffee, she carried it upstairs and sank into an easy chair. She picked up the remote from the end table and turned on the television to catch the latest local news.
The newscaster didn't tell her anything she didn't already know. Then they interviewed the birdwatcher who had claimed to have seen the suspect leave the body beside the river.
Lacey watched incredulously as the woman, identified as Mrs. Hendricks, talked to the reporter, bragging about her feat. The dumb woman had given the television station an interview. Mrs. Hendricks happily explained that she liked to bird-watch along the Wild River area of the St. Croix because it was so delightfully peaceful there in the early morning hours. She'd seen someone on the opposite shore, turned her binoculars on him and saw him drop a body in the woods. She'd immediately gone into town and told the sheriff where to find the body.
Honestly! Lacey thought. Didn't the woman know she was putting herself in danger? If the killer did away with her, the police wouldn't have much of a case.
Mrs. Hendricks looked shocked when the newswoman informed her that she'd described the victim, not the murderer. The cameraman zoomed in on her stunned face. When she said nothing, they cut to the sportscaster.
Lacey wondered what Mrs. Hendricks would say if she told her the man's look-a-like was in a cabin just down the road from her. Or was Paul the man this woman had seen, and his double the guy in the morgue?
Lacey chewed her fingernail, then snapped off the television and took her empty cup back to the kitchen. When she put her cup in the sink, she saw Paul's glass. Fingerprints, she thought.
On impulse, she found a plastic bag, then pulled a paper towel off the roll. Carefully, she used the towel to pick up the glass and put it in the plastic bag.
Time for some legwork. She went back downstairs to her office, grabbed her purse and car keys and headed out.
First she drove over to Canton and found the Anderson apartment building. It was a large and fairly new, modern frame structure. It had a wide expanse of bare lawn with a curving sidewalk and crushed rock beds with small evergreens in front. She drove around to the rear and parked in the large blacktopped parking lot. There was no blue Cavalier. Paul's car had evidently been towed to the police station to be searched for evidence.
Lacey went inside and found the manager's office and flashed her ID, telling the woman she was looking into Paul's death for one of Paul's friends.
Mrs. Anderson was apparently the owner as well as the manager. She was a short, plump woman with long, dark hair pulled tightly back from her face and tied with a wide, red ribbon. She ushered Lacey into her cluttered office and answered her questions readily enough, but refused to give an inch on her identification.
She glared at Lacey and said, “I saw the picture in the paper, recognized him, and did my duty as a good citizen. You could have knocked me over with a feather when they wanted me to identify a body instead. I don't want any trouble in my apartment building. My husband and I never had any, and now that he's gone, I'm not putting up with any troublemakers, either. I run a tight ship here.”
“You're sure the dead man was the man who lived here, Paul Menns?”
“'Course I'm sure. Seen him lots of times. He's lived here the past couple years. But I don't know anything about what happened over the weekend, 'cause I was gone. I only got back this morning.”
“You never had any trouble with Paul before?”
“Ain't got any trouble, now. Just an empty apartment to rent.”
Lacey bit her lip, eyeing the smug look on the manager's face. What was going on here? Was Paul out of a home as well? “Empty apartment? Someone has claimed his stuff already?”
“No....”
“It's only the twentieth of May. The rent's paid 'til the end of the month?”
Her dark brows dipped. “No, 'til the first of July. He paid it
for June last week before he left.”
“Then I wouldn't get in a hurry to rent it, Mrs. Anderson. Wait until you hear from Mr. Menns' relatives about his stuff.”
“He ain't got no relatives.”
“Well, I'm sure the sheriff will find someone to claim his things.”
“Yeah, I suppose.”
Lacey left, feeling frustrated. She could hardly tell Mrs. Anderson that Paul was alive. Mrs. Anderson would immediately contact either the sheriff or the media, trying to verify it. Then where would Lacey be? The sheriff would certainly suspect that she herself was involved and find Paul. No way. Not until she figured out for herself what was going on here.
Lacey talked to several people in the apartment building. Several knew Paul by sight, and knew he drove the blue and silver semi that was parked out in back once in a while. But none of them seemed to know much about him or wanted to get involved in any way, especially if it was a murder case. They didn't know anyone who'd want to kill Paul, and said they'd already told the sheriff that.
The ladies on the third floor whose names Paul had given her agreed that his truck was a noisy nuisance. Miss Johnson was sure he'd come home early Monday morning, but she couldn't say exactly when. She'd just been awakened by the semi, and went immediately back to sleep. No, she didn't know whether he'd gone out again. Mrs. Arbeck had been gone for the weekend visiting her son and his family and hadn't come back until Monday noon. She was no help at all.
The young mother on the first floor, Mary Sanders, was more help. A pretty blonde girl, she invited Lacey into her sparsely furnished apartment and picked up her crying baby. Mary sat down and opened her blouse, then put the baby to her breast. The baby hushed immediately, and began suckling as Lacey blushed awkwardly and looked around for somewhere to sit down.
Mary said, “Have a chair. Toss those clothes on the bed. I just took them out of the dryer. I'll fold them after Sally finishes her lunch.” She smiled down at her little one and adjusted her nipple into the baby's mouth with a slender finger laid against her breast. The baby sighed and fastened one chubby fist on her mother's blouse and big blue eyes on her face.