Death on Planet Pizza

by Madeline Lepore Martin

  "Tool shed?" The words sounded like the punch line to some unfunny joke.

  "The tool shed is Overoye's private domain. He won't let anyone near it."

  Youngquist's silence was deafening.

  “And, it’s very close to where Gina Mae and her friends were meeting last night.”

  "Ms Isaacs..." The lieutenant was so damn tired. Spenser envisioned the weary detective rubbing her intelligent brown eyes. "I'm going to cut you some slack because I know you're hurting, but... and I'm amazed at how calmly I can say this... back off."

  "I know how fantastic this all sounds, but I really think there's a connection between the notebook's disappearance and Gina Mae's death. And possibly even the deaths of..."

  Youngquist cut Spenser off in mid plea. "I'm only going to say this one more time. Leave the investigating to us." Youngquist's volume control hit maximum amperage. "Good night."

  The dial tone was a welcome relief. Spenser placed the receiver back in its cradle and listened with reborn zeal to the TV testimonial of a satisfied Psychic Friends customer. Can I have that number again, please? Spenser replayed her conversation with Youngquist over and over again. Rational, intelligent, sapient it was not. She must think I'm an idiot.

  Spenser stared at Rocky. "Why am I doing this?" The animal did not answer. "Because my inaction has always meant tragedy." Rocky couldn't have put it better himself.

  "That's what this is all about, isn't it?" Spenser stood and stared at the picture of Asa on the television. "Redemption."

  Spenser turned off the TV, the stereo, the lights and began formulating a plan for the clandestine infiltration of the Sunflower's tool shed.

  She was totally convinced, beyond a shadow of a doubt, deep down inside herself, maybe on another plane or in some parallel universe, that she could save Tucker. And she also knew how.

  "I'm going to find that book." She patted Rocky on his fuzzy head. Wisdom is so often transient.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Saturday - late evening

  Lieutenant Tessa Youngquist allowed the gentle vibrations of the dark highway to massage her stiff muscles. This had definitely been one of the longest and most frustrating days of her career. It wasn't every day that she had the disagreeable chore of arresting someone she suspected was actually innocent. It wasn't every day that she was tempted to apologize for her actions. She really hated feeling this way.

  Which was why she was heading into the Via Regency Colony instead of her own condominium complex. She needed to see Ben. She needed to have him hold her and tell her that she was the most beautiful, most intelligent, most desirable woman on the face of the earth. She needed to hear it. Even if it is a slight exaggeration, she told herself with a smile.

  Benson Kilonzo, Ben to his friends, had been entranced by Tessa from the moment of their not-so-accidental meeting at a mutual friend's Kwanzaa celebration. He bathed her in words of adoration. She was Nefertiti incarnate. She was the blaze of crimson at sunset. She was eating it up!

  And he was a god. This dark Kenyan with mahogany eyes that swallowed her whole. He was tall and muscular and he shamefully tantalized her with his charm and elegance. Tessa let out a sigh as she eased her old, trusted Saturn into the visitor’s parking space and walked past the tennis courts, the yuppie Swedish spa, the billiard-tabled recreation complex, and the fake waterfall splashing noisily into the fake pond.

  She skirted the curvy sidewalk and stepped onto Ben's front porch. Mentally asking forgiveness of the plush rhododendron, she carefully parted its lower branches and dug out the secreted key. She opened the door, turned on the foyer light, and stood as she always did marveling at the sight before her. Directly in front of her was an oversize grand piano acting as repository for beautiful and grotesque African fetishes. Encircling the piano were Samburu walking sticks with exquisitely carved heads.

  There was an Akamba leather short kilt next to an Elkana Ong’esa soapstone of a mother and child. On the walls, Swahili ceremonial masks smiled, gaped, and frowned. The bookcases lovingly held tomes by Isak Dinesen, Godfrey Mwakikagile, and Meja Mwangi. This room always made her feel even more proud of her African ancestry.

  She loved it here. She walked to the overstuffed sofa, plopped down on its cushions of eider, and tried to check her envy.

  She'd closed her eyes for only a minute, but when she opened them again every lamp in the room was lit. It was nearly eleven and Ben was in the kitchen humming in his sexy basso profundo, making an omelet. Tessa rose and joined him.

  "Ah, the sleeping beauty has arisen."

  God, she loved his voice. It was deep and mellow and oh so veddy British and covered her like a warm wool blanket on a three-dog night. He turned, wrapped his long arms around her tiny shoulders, and drew her to him. His lips were firm, his tongue strong. His sparkling brown eyes traced her figure with a lusty leer.

  "That blouse is very becoming." His long, chocolate brown fingers brushed an errant hair away from her forehead then slowly enjoyed the soft journey around her ear, down her shoulder and onto her breast. He cupped her breast, gently caressing it. Tessa was getting a bit warm.

  He returned to his omelet. Tessa sighed and began mincing onions. "And how was your day, my sweet?" asked Ben.

  “Frustrating.”

  “Trouble in the ranks?”

  Tessa smiled. Ben knew about her ongoing difficulties with the jaded Keith Rysanek. "No, not this time.” She scraped the onions into the omelet and continued. ” I had to arrest a mentally challenged young man on suspicion of murder."

  “This was disagreeable?” Ben folded the omelet.

  “I have no qualms arresting someone with a handicap if that person is guilty.”

  "Here ..." Ben turned and offered Tessa a bite of omelet. "Enough garlic, do you think?"

  "It's perfect, Ben."

  He smiled, took the pan off the fire, and began portioning the omelet into two plates. “But you are not convinced of this man’s guilt?”

  “That is the crux. The evidence, though circumstantial, seems to point one way, but my instincts point another." Tessa was disgusted with her uncharacteristic uncertainty. "He may be mentally challenged, but that does not absolve him from justice." Tessa absentmindedly pointed the knife toward Ben’s breast bone. “Right?”

  Feeling that the conversation would progress safer without a lethal weapon aimed at him, Ben carefully grabbed the handle and placed the knife on the counter.

  "And then there's this woman," Tessa's eyes rolled upward in frustration. "She's convinced that he's innocent. Well, of course, she would be. I mean, they're friends."

  The tall Kenyan placed his hand on Tessa's waist and guided her to a bar stool. He set the plates and silverware on the breakfast bar and headed for the wine glasses.

  "Sure, I admire her resolve. It’s nice that their friendship is so uncompromising.” Tessa tweaked a bit of omelet and placed it in her mouth. “Hm, this is wonderful, Ben” she forked another morsel. "I just don’t see a happy ending for her or her friend.”

  "Chardonnay? Or maybe a nice verdejo?"

  Tessa nodded, her mouth full of the delicious omelet. “Verdejo, please,” she answered between bites.

  Ben poured the wine then sat down next to her and began eating.

  Tessa was not one to share details of an ongoing investigation, but the man sitting opposite her was not an ordinary citizen. Dr Benson Kilonzo was a visiting fellow at the local university. His specialty was international law. At the moment, he was trying to instill a sense of the complexities of jurisprudence to legal neophytes. Tessa was certain that Ben would not only understand her frustrations with the Ambrose case, but might actually be able to offer some insight.

  “So,” Ben began, once he had eaten a sufficient amount of omelet to tackle Tessa’s latest investigation. “Is this young man your only suspect?”

  “So far. He was found in the victim’s bedroom, the ribbon on his Special Olympics medal the murder weapon.”

&nb
sp; “He was caught in the act?” Ben scooped another spoonful of omelet.

  “Not precisely. He was having a grand mal seizure at the foot of the bed.”

  “Hm.” Ben ruminated, literally and figuratively. “Very circumstantial as you pointed out.”

  “Yes, but the woman had no overt enemies, there are no serial killers loose in suburbia, and nothing of hers is missing except a bracelet that the home’s director is sure was simply misplaced.”

  “I see. So, the only obvious motive is, what, a lover’s quarrel?”

  “So it would seem.”

  “No one else is under suspicion?”

  “Well, the woman I spoke of says the janitor did it.”

  Ben smiled. He sat back and took Tessa’s hand in his. He began kissing first the tips of her fingers and then the knuckles and then the palm. Between nibbles, he spoke softly. “The question of his involvement, as you well know, must hinge on the basics. Means...” Ben kissed Tessa’s wrist, which sent a shiver up her spine. “Did the defendant have the ability to commit this murder?” Ben moved closer, his lips inching sensuously up Tessa’s forearm. Tessa was pretty sure she was going to enjoy this lesson in criminal law. “Motive...what reason would he have to kill his girlfriend?” Ben’s lips were suddenly very close to Tessa’s neck. “And, opportunity,” his tongue brushed against her ear. “Did the defendant have the chance to commit the crime?”

  “Well,” answered a breathy Tessa. “He is six foot two, 208 pounds, and infinitely capable of this horrible act.” She unbuttoned the first button on Ben’s shirt. “Passion is the most common motive for murder.” Tessa loosened the second and third buttons revealing his gorgeous mahogany skin. She stroked Ben’s chest, feeling the sensation of coarse black hair on her fingertips. “And, after all, he was found in her room.”

  Ben’s mouth was on Tessa’s, his hands exploring her firm body. After a delicious, long kiss, he looked into Tessa’s eyes. “My feeling is that you are conflicted. This uncompromising woman of

  whom you speak has planted a seed of doubt.” Ben’s voice was soft, low. “And, knowing you, my sweet, you must be absolutely certain of guilt before you close an investigation.”

  Tessa sighed. She closed her eyes and whispered, “You know me too well, Professor.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Sunday - after midnight

  Spenser remembered the late autumns back in Delaware. Just before Halloween, the prismic fall foliage would gradually blend into the brown earth leaving starkly bare limbs and a gray wash to the shortened days. It was a perfect herald to this season of witches and ghouls. Southern California had no cold weather per se and few deciduous trees and therefore no real delineation between fall and winter. But what it lacked in seasonal transmutation it more than made up for in barometric abnormalities.

  It was raining.

  Yesterday the heat had sucked dry an already parched earth. But now, at exactly fourteen minutes past one in the morning, puddles of silty water were forming a gooey moat around the trailer. Five hours, twenty-eight minutes after she'd hung up on Youngquist - okay, so it'd been Youngquist who'd hung up on her - she was now rummaging around her closet for the umbrella that she used less often than her common sense.

  She still couldn't believe she was going to do this. Actually, going to the Sunflower to search a darkened tool shed next to a sinister looking cottage where a man, whom she believed was a cold-blooded killer, was, hopefully, sleeping. No guts, no glory.

  Spenser found the umbrella. Broken. An omen? "Goddamn it, I'm not going to be a chicken shit for the rest of my life," she told the uncaring bumbershoot.

  She tossed the umbrella in the garbage, opened the trailer door, and was lightly spritzed by a warm shower of gentle rain. She locked the Silverstream, raced to the Shadow, started the engine, and waited for the window defogger to do its job. Then she was off. Out of the park. Onto the steamy macadam of Route 66, heading for Cucamonga. It was so dark and stormy that not even the usual, comforting silhouettes presented themselves. Invisible were the familiar gravel mounds of Upland, the stately hundred-year-old Claremont Colleges' halls of academia, the elegant eucalypti of Etiwanda. The rain was an apathetic curtain separating Spenser from cognizance of all around her. The Sunflower entrance was a welcome sight.

  She parked the Shadow on the street, took out a penlight from the glove compartment, and made her muddy way around the Sunflower perimeter to a small opening in the oleander hedges. The rain was still rather light, but the arid earth was parsimonious, allowing little of the liquid to permeate its soil, making the trek to the tool shed a sloppy mess.

  Spenser crunched herself behind a bird of paradise and visually reconnoitered the area. The only illumination came from the mercury flood that washed over the half acre behind the home. Overoye's cottage was black, as was the tool shed. She took a deep breath and, working on pure adrenaline, skulked the fifty feet to her final destination.

  The shed, only yards away from the supervisor's cottage, was fairly large - a 15' x 25' clapboard structure sporting wide windows on each wall. Spenser walked to the door. “What the hell?” she whispered. There on the outside wall was a skull and crossbones placard, the symbol that there were dangerous chemicals in the shed. “I’ll be damned. A pirate’s flag.” Spenser tried the door. A Yale lock the size of Rhode Island, sparkling in all its just bought newness, prevented entrance. Shit.

  She rounded the shed's far side hoping the trees would shield her from the view of anyone up at this ungodly hour wondering what the hell she was doing prowling around the back forty. She tried to raise a window. No go. She stood in the rain, in complete dark, in soaked $136.95 SAS shoes that made squishy sounds whenever she moved, contemplating how to get into the shed.

  The brain-working lasted all of ten seconds. Spenser picked up a rock and broke the window. Then she prayed that the crash of glass had been sufficiently muffled by the steady pulse of rain on the tin roof. She listened for curious voices, but the night remained silent. I must live right.

  Standing on tip toes, she carefully maneuvered her arm through the broken pane, unlatched the window, and opened it. Now came the hard part. The base of the window came to Spenser's chest posing the delicate question of just how she was going to lift her chunky body onto the sill and through.

  After many unproductive efforts, she jumped up, belly flopped on the sill and rocked back and forth until the rest of her body followed. It took all of five tries and a hernia, but finally, she pulled through, landing hard on a workbench. Rolling off the bench onto the wooden floor, she knew she'd hurt herself but wasn't sure just how badly until she pulled the penlight from her pocket and surveyed her hand. The tiny shot of light illuminated a one-inch gash with a shard of glass still embedded.

  This is going to hurt. Holding her breath and gritting her teeth, she yanked the fragment out, surprised by the gush of red ooze. She grabbed a dirty oil rag and tried to stem the blood flow. Great. It'll get infected, go gangrenous, atrophy and fall off. Positive thinking, that was her motto. The perfect end to a perfect day.

  Spenser pulled her attention away from her wound and began playing the small stream of light onto the crammed shed interior. One area was devoted to gardening equipment, another to plumbing concerns, yet another to repair and maintenance. There were rakes, hoes, tillers, mowers, fertilizer, and mulch by the tons. An entire hardware store was housed in about a million storage cabinets sporting labels for nails, screws, bolts, and nuts ad infinitum. Far too many places to hide a blue notebook. Methodical search, Spenser.

  She began at the door and, moving systematically to her right, trained the penlight on every nook and cranny. It wasn't until she'd reached the far end that something interesting presented itself. In a corner, shielded from casual view by sacks of manure, was an old wooden tool box. It stood at least three feet tall and was more than a foot deep. It was also very much locked. Spenser grabbed a screwdriver and a hammer from the workbench. She pulled the driver throu
gh the lock and hit it with the hammer.

  The lock came off with a loud snap. Spenser lifted the lid and saw more than she had even imagined. The tool cradle was filled with jewelry. There were diamond earrings, pearl necklaces, gem studded rings and a silver locket. She picked up the locket and shone the light on a simple monogram...CN.

  Chloe. I knew it!

  She was so intent on what she was doing that the snick of a lock being sprung did not immediately register. It took a full five seconds before her survival instinct kicked in. It was a full five seconds too late. She rose, swung around, but had no time to duck. She saw the floor coming at her before she actually felt the blow. When her head slammed violently onto the concrete floor, she thought she heard something snap. She hoped it wasn't her nose.