Hoch's Ladies

by Edward D. Hoch

  Creasey looked frightened. “Do me and my buddy need a lawyer?”

  “Not if you have nothing to hide. I want a list of all the places you two stopped on the way here, what you ate, how long it took. I want times, addresses, everything you can give me.”

  Marci had come over to see what was happening. Appleton confiscated her clipboard and gave it to the drivers for their list. “You should just concentrate on the Florida stops,” Susan advised him. “Vangridge couldn’t have intercepted them any further north.”

  “You think he went off to meet the truck?” Marci asked.

  “How else could it have happened?” Susan reasoned. “Maybe he intended to arrive with it as a surprise to everyone. Then something happened and he was killed. They foolishly put him in the truck rather than leaving him by the side of the road.”

  “That’s a nice theory,” the detective said. “Any proof for it?”

  “Not yet,” Susan admitted. “But I’ve been lucky in the past, helping the police.”

  “You do this sort of thing regular?”

  “It’s not my job. Things just happen to me.”

  “Well, you two ladies better run along now. This is my job and I’d better get at it.”

  Susan shook her head and moved away with Marci. “Is he always like that?”

  “Don’t ask me, I only met him once before, when he investigated a break-in at the store.”

  “That’s more in his line. Was anything taken?”

  “Some rifles from our sporting goods department. Nothing big.”

  Susan could hear the high-school band still playing from around the back of the mall. She noticed that a couple of patrolmen were shoveling the small mountain of snow, really just tossing it from one pile to another. It didn’t seem that they’d found anything yet. Meanwhile, the body was being photographed and videotaped from all angles. When the photographer finished with the body he took several shots of the truck. Susan opened the door and peered into the cab. Behind the seats was a cramped-looking mattress for sleeping. She studied the instruments and the clear windshield, unmarked except for a few splattered highway bugs. Then she closed the door and returned to Marci.

  She was chewing at her lipstick, sneaking an occasional peek at her watch. “I’ve gotta get those kids back to the snow pile before the whole thing melts. Won’t they ever finish?”

  “It looks as if they’re finishing up with the body. And those two with the shovels sure aren’t finding anything.”

  More cars were arriving, bringing more children to play in the snow. Marci went back over to Sergeant Appleton as soon as the body had been removed. “Can’t you give us back our snow pile?” she pleaded.

  He walked over and spoke quietly to the two officers who had just about finished their shovel work. “All right,” he said, turning to her. “It’s all yours.”

  Marci grinned and ran over to tell Jimmy Garcia; “Signal the band to start back this way with the kids. It’s Snow Day at last!”

  Susan spent much of the next hour circulating among the parents and children, some of whom were experiencing snow for the first time. She heard one mother warn her children against throwing snowballs because they were too icy, and indeed the snow seemed icy to Susan’s touch. A day and a half in the truck had not helped its consistency.

  A bit later, joining Susan for a late lunch in the store’s cafe, Marci sat back and sighed. “I think it’s going well, all things considered. How does it look from your New York viewpoint?”

  Susan took a bite of her club sandwich to give herself a moment in phrasing a reply. “I suppose if Mayfield’s manager was found murdered outside the store we might have closed the place and canceled all events for the day.”

  “That wasn’t my decision,” Marci hastened to explain. “Hank phoned the owners in Atlanta and they said as long as the snow was here we should go ahead rather than disappoint the children.”

  “Doesn’t Vangridge have a wife?”

  “Divorced, and she moved to California.”

  “No rumors about affairs with employees? It happens at Mayfield’s all the time.”

  Marci shrugged. “A few jokes about the assistant manager.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “Ann O’Toole. She’s head of purchasing. I don’t think you’ve met her. But nobody takes the jokes seriously.”

  “This whole thing isn’t any of my business, but I’ve had some experience investigating crime. If you’d like me to look into this—”

  Marci was obviously uncertain what to do. Finally she said, “Come on, I’ll see if we can find Ann.” She paid the check and they went back outside. When they located Ann O’Toole she was talking to Garcia, trying to work out the details of what had happened. “I just got here,” she told Marci. “This is terrible!” She was slender and tanned, around forty, fairly attractive but with a take-charge attitude that would turn some men off. Susan decided she could have been a schoolteacher. “Has Atlanta been notified?”

  “Hank Burnside phoned them. They told us to go ahead with Snow Day.”

  “They would.” She looked exasperated. “Their store manager is dead, for God’s sake!”

  “This is Susan Holt from Mayfield’s of Manhattan. Remember? I mentioned she wanted to come down and study our promotion.”

  Ann O’Toole tried to smile. “I’m afraid you’re not seeing us at our best, Susan.”

  “I wonder if I might help in some way. I was telling Marci I’ve had some experience with criminal investigations.”

  “Thank you, but I’m sure the police can handle it.”

  “Did Mr. Vangridge say anything about going out to meet the snow truck?” Susan asked, as if she hadn’t heard the woman decline her offer of help.

  “Not to me, and I was talking to him just last night.”

  Jimmy Garcia had started walking away during their conversation, but Susan wanted to speak to him. She caught up with him and said, “I guess we haven’t been formally introduced.”

  “I know who you are,” he replied.

  “I saw you watching me yesterday when I got into my car.”

  “I watch everyone. It’s my job.” He flexed the fingers of his right hand as he spoke, as if keeping his gun hand limber. On second thought, she wondered if he even carried a gun. At Mayfield’s the security men usually didn’t.

  “Were you working last night?” she asked.

  “I was here till the store closed. Ten o’clock. Friday nights are busy, so I’m usually here.”

  “Did Mr. Vangridge work late?”

  “The detective asked me that too. A lot of them were here till ten because of Snow Day this morning. Vangridge and Burnside and Marci. Miss O’Toole, too. They were going over last-minute details, I guess.”

  The man seemed reasonably friendly now and Susan decided he was her best chance of learning more about the police investigation. “Look, I think I can help locate the killer but I need a list of the stops the truck drivers made. Could you ask Sergeant Appleton for it?”

  “I got a copy already,” he told her. “The sergeant asked me to run some off on my copier so his men could start checking the truck stops right away. Appleton knows what he’s doing.”

  “I guess he does,” Susan agreed. “Do you think I could just have a peek at it?”

  “It’s confidential.”

  ”Then how come you have a copy?”

  “I made an extra for myself.”

  “Does Appleton know about it?”

  He sighed and reached into his breast pocket. “It won’t tell you much.”

  At first glance she was ready to believe him. They’d stopped for breakfast in North Naples around eight o’clock. The previous stop had been after midnight somewhere outside Tampa, at a truck stop with a neon dolphin jumping from the water. They didn’t remember the name. Walt Creasey had gone in for coffee and the rest room, staying about fifteen minutes in all. The Canadian, Pierre Rivage, had remained in the truck sleeping. Creasey brought him so
me coffee, and after drinking it Rivage took over the driving while Creasey slept.

  “Would you like to take a run up there?” she asked the security man, pointing to the stop north of Tampa.

  “What for? The police are checking it. Couldn’t have happened there anyway. The Canadian was asleep in the truck. The sound of the shot, or the truck doors being pushed up, would have wakened him.”

  Susan smiled. “Don’t you remember Sherlock Holmes? When you’ve excluded the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth. I think the killer left something there, and I think he’ll be back for it.”

  “We don’t even know the name of the truck stop, except that it has a neon dolphin on its sign.”

  ‘That should be easy to find.”

  “Hell, it’s a three-hour drive from here, probably more. And what’s there to see after you get there?”

  She didn’t have any answer to that, and couldn’t really blame him for declining her offer. What was there to see after she got there, except the uncertain scene of the crime? She needed more than a wild idea that was bouncing around in her head.

  It was Sergeant Appleton who finally decided her. She was watching the snowman judging when he intercepted her. “Been asking lots of questions, haven’t you?”

  “My store in Manhattan expects a full report on Gulfpalm’s Snow Day, and that includes all the glitches. I’m just trying to figure out how to word it. I could use some help.”

  “It’s far too soon for me to comment on the case. We’re just now beginning our investigation.”

  “But he was shot, wasn’t he?”

  “Yes,” he admitted.

  And the drivers must be your primary suspects. No one else would have had the key to open the truck.”

  “Certainly they’re under suspicion. Finding a motive is the difficult part. Apparently Vangridge wasn’t robbed. Why was he killed? How and where was he placed in the truck? And if it happened north of here, what was he doing up there in the first place?”

  “I can answer some of those questions for you,” she said, with a bit more confidence than she really felt. All she had at the moment was a vague hunch.

  “But first tell me if your men have learned anything. Have they checked out the last few places the truck stopped on its trip down?”

  “There was nothing at the North Naples place. We asked the Tampa police to check the truck stop in that area and they just notified me there’s nothing suspicious at that scene either. No one remembers the truck with the banners on it, but the night crew would be home sleeping how. They promised to have someone check again after midnight.”

  “I’d like to go up there.”

  He smiled like a father humoring a child. “Why, Miss Holt? Do you think you can find something the police missed?”

  “I may know what to look for.”

  He turned away, not about to get involved with amateur sleuths: “Let me know if you find anything interesting.”

  “What’s the name of that truck stop in Tampa?” she called after him. ”The one with the neon dolphin.”

  “The Neon Dolphin. How’s that for a name?”

  The last of the snow was melting in the Florida heat when she found Marci Chester bidding goodbye to the family responsible for the best snowman. ”You’ve put in a long day.”

  The perky young woman hardly had a hair out of place. “I thrive on it.” She smiled.

  “Even with your boss being found dead?”

  “Not that, of course. But the hustle and bustle of an event like this. I can’t imagine working anywhere else.”

  “Look, Marci, I’ve got a crazy idea about where Ben Vangridge might have been killed. It’s a truck stop near Tampa, about three hours from here.”

  “Why do you think it was there?”

  “Because nowhere else makes sense at all. And I think the killer left something up there.”

  “But the body and the truck and the snow are all down here,” Marci insisted. “What else is there? Even if Ben was killed up there, the murderer isn’t still hanging around.”

  “I have to go. Want to come with me?”

  Marci’s face turned serious. I have a sort of date tonight, with Hank Burnside. We wanted to unwind together, after all that’s happened. You know how it is.”

  “Sure. Go ahead. I didn’t realize you two were an item.”

  “We’re not, really.”

  “Have a good time.”

  Susan went back to her car and took out the map the rental agency had given her. Tampa was a clear shot up route 75. Maybe she could make it in less than three hours if the traffic was light.

  “I’ll go with you,” a voice behind her said. She turned to see Jimmy Garcia standing there. The security man was carrying his jacket and she could see the holster on his belt. “Get in. I’ll drive. I can make better time.”

  “Are you sure you want—?”

  “Get in.”

  The highway unwound before them as Garcia drove north toward Tampa. At first he said very little, but finally Susan decided some conversation was necessary. “What made you change your mind about coming with me?”

  At first he didn’t answer. Finally, perhaps to fill the silence between them, he said, “Vangridge was a good man. He gave me a job when I needed one. I guess I owe him this much.”

  “Do you know who killed him?”

  “It had to be one of those drivers. I can’t figure out why, though.”

  “That’s what we’re going to find out. Sergeant Appleton says the place we want is called the Neon Dolphin. Ever hear of it?”

  He shook his head, speeding up to pass a van. “Those truck stop places are pretty much alike.”

  “Some are different,” Susan said.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Sometimes they have a parking lot where drivers can leave their rigs overnight to be picked up by a relief driver. Sort of a transfer point.”

  “But the truck is at Gulfpalm. There was no transfer.”

  Susan said no more about it, shifting the conversation to the weather. “It must be great living down here, never having to worry about winter clothes or snow shovels.”

  “Do you live in Manhattan?”

  “Yes.”

  “Married?”

  “No. I was living with someone but we’re having a trial separation at the moment. With the amount I travel each year it’s difficult to maintain a relationship. What about you?”

  Garcia smiled. “I have a wife and three kids. The only thing we ever argue about is politics. She thinks I should be more active in the Cuban community. I tell her I moved to this side of the state to get away from the Cuban community.”

  They reached Tampa around dinnertime and found, the Neon Dolphin without difficulty. Susan was pleased to see the parking lot filled with a dozen or so trucks behind the restaurant. At least the trip hadn’t been in vain. She parked her rental car and they strolled along the line of parked trucks until she stopped at one that might have been a twin of the snow truck from Buffalo.

  “This is it,” she announced. “Now all we have to do is open the padlock on the back doors.”

  “Do you mind telling me what we’re looking for? Is it drugs?”

  “Not drugs. They head north from here. This cargo came south.” She walked to the back of the truck, and took a look at the lock. “Think you could open this?”

  It was almost dark and a spotlight on the roof of the truck stop illuminated only the front of the vehicles. Garcia used a small flashlight to study the padlock at the bottom of the door. “I’ll give it a try.” He slipped a small tool from his pocket and went at it like an expert. In a moment she heard a gentle click as the lock came open. Quickly removing the padlock, he pushed the door up far enough for them to peer inside with the aid of the flashlight.

  “Boxes!” Susan said. “It’s full of boxes.”

  “Crates, to be exact. Wooden crates.”

  “Give me a boost up.”

&
nbsp; She took his flashlight and moved closer. The crates were too heavy to move. “What is it?” Garcia asked.

  “The motive for Ben Vangridge’s murder.”

  Garcia climbed into the back of the truck after her, and she saw him reach for his revolver. She felt a familiar chill, and for a split second wondered if she’d made a terrible mistake. Then he opened the cylinder and emptied the cartridges into the palm of his hand. “Here, maybe I can pry it open with this.”

  He inserted the revolver barrel under one of the wooden slats and pushed down while Susan held the flashlight. The nails were pulled loose and the slat came up easily. She turned the light down, into the crate.

  “Guns! It’s full of assault weapons!”

  Jimmy Garcia nodded. “For sale to Cuban exiles. That’s what this is all about. There are always Cubans ready to buy weapons for the next invasion, and arms dealers willing to sell them.”

  Suddenly they were blinded by a powerful light. “Don’t move!” a familiar voice commanded from outside the truck. “I have a gun aimed at both of you.”

  Garcia raised his empty pistol. “And I have one aimed at you.”

  In another instant the man outside the truck might have fired, but he never had the chance. With the light in her eyes Susan couldn’t see what was happening, but she heard the shouts and the scuffling. Then the light disappeared, replaced by another, less blinding, and Sergeant Appleton was climbing into the truck. “We’ve got him, Jimmy. Is she all right?”

  Garcia snorted. “Let her tell you.”

  Susan took a deep breath. “It’s Hank Burnside, isn’t it? I recognized his voice.”

  “That’s him, Miss Holt. Now suppose you tell us how you knew about this truck.”

  Somebody went into the truck stop for coffee and Appleton took time to introduce a couple of Tampa detectives, explaining what he was doing there. “Jimmy Garcia believed you were on to something. He told me he’d drive up here with you if I could be here too. So I flew up in a police helicopter and got here ahead of you.”