Strange Brew (The Tortie Kitten Mystery Trilogy Series Book 2)

by Constance Barker

  “He wasn’t holding the bag when he was shot,” I noted.

  “These records are worth some money,” Burl said. “Count Five, Psychotic Reaction, the original pressing, The Barbarians, eponymous, and Inner Views by Sonny Bono.”

  “Like Sonny and Cher Sonny Bono?” I said.

  “The very one. That’s probably only worth ten bucks, even though it’s still unopened. The Barbarians is worth maybe eighty bucks, as clean as this one is, maybe a hundred-twenty-five, hundred fifty for the Count Five,” Burl said. “I collect some vintage vinyl.”

  Of course he did. “Where do you think he got them?”

  “Oh-Seven-Hundred on a Sunday?—a garage sale.”

  Shen pulled out his cell phone. “I’m on it.”

  Chapter 3

  The shopping bag and albums were bagged and tagged. Sheila and the diener did the same for the victim. The day shift sergeant walked over purposefully. His name tag read Mork.

  “I think we may be in luck on an ID,” Sgt. Mork said. “My guys took down all the tags on the vehicles in front. One of them isn’t a Safeway employee, according to the manager in the store.”

  Shen stared at his phone. I heard a tweedly-tweedly little song come from the device. Hopefully, he was actually looking for local garage sales.

  “Vandermoot, John Denver, address on South Gardener,” Sgt. Mork said.

  I took out my notebook and wrote it down. Shen was still diddling with his phone. “So not so local. Playtown address.” Playtown was the local name for the worst part of the worst neighborhood in Delta Vista, on the east side of town. “Nice work, Sarge.”

  “Won’t be long until we finish the canvas. Pretty good spot for a hit. No witnesses.” The sergeant’s thoughts mirrored my own.

  “Roger that,” Burl said.

  “Still, hard to believe someone would shotgun a guy for his wallet this early on a Sunday. Not in the Links, anyway,” Sgt. Mork mused.

  “He didn’t take the albums,” Burl said. “Maybe the doer didn’t know he had about two hundred bucks worth in the bag. Probably more than in the vic’s wallet.”

  “Unless...” I had a weird thought.

  Burl and the sergeant gave me expectant looks.

  “No, that’s too out there,” I argued with myself. “What if the killer was actually after the records—and he took the one or ones that were worth real money?”

  Sgt. Mork stuck out his lower lip in thought.

  “Pretty long shot,” Burl said. “But this guy may be a picker. A couple psychedelic records and an old garage band, somewhat rare. That doesn’t necessarily make him a collector, despite the vintage. He could be selling vintage vinyl for a living.”

  “The only way to know is to hit up the local garage sales. If our vic did buy them from somebody’s sale, we’ll know for sure,” I said.

  “Garage sale?” The sergeant gave me a comical squint. “You look more dressed for Walmart”

  I was wearing my least ratty Jacksonville Jaguars top, yoga pants, and my most ratty sneakers. An over sized plain blue windbreaker wasn’t hiding anything. The plan for the day was to pick over the furniture stored in the attic of the house where I lived. Tales of bedbugs, lice and fleas meant I’d be wielding a vacuum cleaner, and inspecting every nook with a strong light and magnifying glass. This outfit was not meant to be seen in public. “I’m supposed to be off today,” I said as an excuse.

  Burl gave me the up-and-down. “I wouldn’t mind if you wore yoga pants every day.”

  I scowled at him. “Really, Burl?”

  “Oh, I could definitely get used to it,” Sgt. Mork said, brows raised.

  While I kind of enjoyed a little objectification, I couldn’t let on. It wouldn’t be professional. “Let’s go, Shen. Whatcha got?”

  Shen continued to stare at his cell phone. The little mind-worm of a song tweedled on. His eyes looked glazed over.

  “Chuck?” I moved closer.

  Burl and the sergeant exchanged low words, and chuckled.

  “Inspector Shen,” I said with more force.

  He blinked a few times before looking at me. “Three garage sales in the area. One makes the most sense. It would put our victim on a path between there and his car in the front lot.”

  Shen walked toward Fontaine Avenue, instead of back toward the car. I followed, not really interested in the exercise. My partner wasn’t much better dressed than me. He had volunteered to help move any passable furniture out of my attic. Jeans, DVMPD T-shirt, sneakers, and a Sacramento Kings baseball cap.

  We turned right on Links Boulevard and walked under the West Side Freeway overpass. Two blocks later, we were in a nice neighborhood. People were milling around a house on Rosewood and Frazier avenues. I saw why we were hoofing it. There was no place to park. Cars were jammed up in what few parking spaces stood on the curved intersection.

  While we still weren’t into spring yet, the day was warm, the sky was cloudless, and it would’ve made for a nice day off. People walked down the home’s driveway with uncovered treasures in hand. At least some people were enjoying themselves.

  A two-car garage stood at the end of the drive, doors open. To the left, a path led into the back yard. We poked around a little.

  “It looks like this is where the 80s came to die,” Shen said.

  I noted an Alf doll, lots of He Man and Star Wars, Transformers, Ninja Turtles and GI Joe dolls, milk crates filled with record albums, VHS and cassette tapes; dusty old game consoles and boxes of video game cartridges; a bunch of Gameboys, some Walkmans without headphones.

  “Some of this stuff is worth big bucks,” Shen said.

  I looked at him. “Why?”

  “They’re asking eighty bucks for that Alf doll.” He browsed around. “Thundercats, Smurfs, hey, neon polos. Neon’s coming back, right?”

  We weren’t here to shop. At least, I certainly wasn’t. “That must be the homeowner.”

  In the shade of the garage, a little old lady parked herself in an outdoor lounge chair. Shen dragged his eyes away. “Those stereo components look vintage. They might be tube-driven.”

  We headed into the garage. I went for the old lady. Shen started inspecting the stereo stuff. “Are you the owner of the house?” I asked.

  “If you’re trying to talk me down on the Alf doll, forget it.” The woman wore a lot of makeup, a San Francisco 49ers T-shirt and a long tie-dye skirt over Birkenstock sandals with socks.

  “We’re actually with the police, ma’am. I’m Inspector Garcia, my partner, Inspector Shen.” I fished my badge wallet out of my jacket.

  “Am I committing a crime?” the old lady frowned.

  “Eighty bucks for an Alf doll?” I said. “Maybe.”

  The woman’s name was Linda Strathmore. She owned the house along with her husband. “This is my son’s junk,” she explained. “He finally moved out of the house.”

  “Was he a collector?”

  “Hoarder is a better word. He finally moves out, and says his place is too small for all his stuff. Well, I’ve wanted a crafting room for years now. I warned him if he didn’t get rid of this crap, I would.”

  Shen knelt before the stack of stereo components. “You’re really asking only a hundred bucks for this stuff?”

  “Yes, but you have to move it today, and do it without my help. I have a bad back,” Linda said. “Excuse me.”

  A few customers wandered up with goods in hand. They tried to talk Linda Strathmore down. She wouldn’t budge.

  “This is all tube stuff,” Shen whispered to me. “Do you think it would be okay to put it in the trunk of the cruiser until lunch?”

  “First of all, that’s against the regs,” I said. Mostly as an excuse—I didn’t want to carry around a bunch of heavy, dusty stereo crapola. “Second, why would you even want this stuff?”

  “Seriously? This is high-end gear, Mare.” His expression looked thought-stricken. “Hey, you drove Babykiller over here. We could put it in your trunk.”

&nb
sp; Babykiller was a car given to me for free by my fellow officers in CAPs. Mostly because I was bumming too many rides. While we could probably fit the entire wares of the garage sale in the trunk of the Chrysler Cordoba, I shook my head. Linda was done bilking her nostalgic customers.

  “We’re on the clock, Shen. Get it together.”

  He remained prostrate before the altar of tube-driven stereo.

  “Actually, we’re looking for a man who might’ve bought some records from you earlier. He’s mid-thirties, about three hundred pounds, glasses.”

  Linda frowned. “That describes all five of the guys browsing records today. Can you be more specific? What color was his hair?”

  I had no idea what color his hair was, other than blood red. “Too-bright ugly white sneakers, powder blue dad jeans, black and red bowling shirt, reusable plastic shopping bag and tortoise shell, horn-rim glasses.”

  “Porkpie hat?” Linda asked.

  No hat at the scene. “No.”

  “He was here at six-thirty. It looked like he had slept in his car, waiting for me to open. I told him he had to wait until seven. The man looked at all the records very quickly. He bought four.”

  Shen shot me a look. “Are you sure it was four?”

  Linda nodded. “Two bucks a piece, four for seven dollars. He tried to talk me down, because he wanted five. No way, Jose. I needed fives and singles for change. So for sure it was four.”

  “Do you have any idea what the records were?” I asked.

  She shook her head. “I just wanna get rid of the lot. Just so you know, there will be a blowout sale at the end of the day.”

  Shen returned his attention to the components. “Analog equipment, Mare.”

  “Would your son know?” I ignored Shen.

  “Maybe. He’s kind of anal.”

  I wrote the information down. The son, Darren Strathmore, lived in Wagner Heights on Sherwood Forest Road. Not quite as nice a neighborhood as this, but not bad.

  “Thanks for your time, Mrs. Strathmore.” I handed her one of my cards. “If you think of anything else about the man who bought the records, give me a call.”

  “Is he in trouble for something?” Linda Strathmore asked.

  Not anymore, I thought. “No, ma’am. Thanks again.”

  We headed back down the driveway, avoiding the queue of other nostalgic shoppers. Shen slumped his shoulders like a petulant kid. “That stuff is probably worth thousands on eBay.”

  “Really? So why is nobody grabbing it?”

  His features went thoughtful. “Huh. I don’t know.”

  “She’s telling the truth,” I said, my psychic abilities at work. “For all the good that does us.”

  Our phones rang simultaneously. I answered mine. It was Burl Jefferson.

  “Hey, good news. One of the uniforms found a smashed up cell phone near the scene. We’ll have to take it to the lab, but I’ll bet it belonged to the vic.”

  Shen stared at his cell phone as we walked.

  “Are you still at the scene?” I wondered if Chuck was going to step in a pothole or something. “We’ll be back in a couple minutes.”

  “I’ll wait,” Jefferson said, and disconnected.

  Chapter 4

  Both my supervisor, Lt. Danielson, who we lovingly called Lieutenant Dan after the Forest Gump movie, and Chief of Police Christopher Walker were on scene when we got back to the Safeway lot.

  “Put the phone away, Shen,” I said. “The brass hats are here.”

  Chuck mumbled something, still glued to the screen.

  “Report, Inspectors,” Danielson said. He didn’t like me much. Maybe it was because the higher-ups had forced him to take me into CAPs. Or it could be that I tended to go a little rogue, a little loose cannon. Most likely, it was because I was a witch, and the town was chock-a-block with paranormal crime. Call it prejudice, discrimination, whatever. He was already giving me the hairy eyeball.

  “Vandermoot was at a garage sale at oh-seven-hundred. He purchased four record albums. Only three were found in his possession. We have an address on the previous owner of the records. Hopefully, we can identify the missing album through him.”

  Danielson made a face. “Why is that important?”

  I wasn’t exactly sure. “It’s just odd that the shooter took the victim’s wallet and watch, but only one record and left the bag with the other records behind.”

  Danielson’s face made a face. “You think someone killed a man over a record album?”

  “When we find him, we’ll ask him,” I said.

  “Sounds like a long shot,” the chief said.

  “Everything’s a long shot, until it isn’t.” I said. “Is Jefferson still here?”

  “Jefferson has some actual evidence,” Lieutenant Dan said. “I sent him to CSU with it. The phone was found down in a storm drain.”

  The Loot pointed vaguely. Maybe two or three yards from where the body had been, a rusty grate now leaned against a tree. Two uniforms were kneeling over the hole it had uncovered.

  “Badly damaged?” I asked.

  “Burl says his guys can get it working,” the chief said. “Bupkis on the canvas. There’s no view from the apartments. Security cameras on the Safeway building point at the loading dock. They don’t reach this far.”

  “It might mean the killer was familiar with the area. He knew he could hit Vandermoot back here without being seen,” I said. “A passerby wouldn’t know about the view from the apartments, or that the security cameras weren’t pointed this way.”

  Danielson sighed. “You think this was premeditated?”

  “Maybe not the murder, just the location. The hit smells professional. The doer policed his brass, killed Vandermoot execution style. But the killer didn’t wait by the victim’s car to surprise him. He avoided cameras and witnesses. It’s like he already knew this was a good place to do it. I think the victim came this way because it was a convenient shortcut. There are several places that would work along the route between here and the garage sale. Under the overpass, for instance. But he chose this place. I think it was on purpose.”

  The chief’s face went thoughtful.

  “It could be like you say,” Lieutenant Dan said, “But still just be a robber waiting for a likely target to walk through the lot. Could’ve been gang-bangers doing a drug deal, and the victim interrupted—wrong place, wrong time.”

  First of all, I couldn’t imagine a gangster getting out of bed before noon. Second, a robber with a shotgun in broad daylight didn’t make sense either. Who would the target be on a Sunday morning, dog walkers? Joggers? Garage sale shoppers?

  “I’m sorta with Garcia on this, Lieutenant,” Chief Walker said. “It has that feel. Not a night crime, not a crime of opportunity. Call it a hunch.”

  I felt waves of emotion seething off Lieutenant Dan. None of it was positive. “Okay, run down your record collector. Until you hear from CSU. Garcia, find some normal pants. Shen, quit playing with your damn phone.”

  Shen looked up, eyes wide. “Huh?”

  “YOU WANNA DRIVE?” SHEN had parked the cruiser alongside the supermarket. He always had a cruiser. He signed them out at night, and drove them home. His neighbors liked to advertise that law enforcement lived in the hood.

  “You never ask me to drive,” I said. “If it’s so you can play on your phone some more, then no. You drive.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Shen said, but he got behind the wheel.

  “Oh, crap. Almost forgot.” I pulled out my cell phone.

  “A-ha!” Shen accused.

  “Remy’s coming over to help us move furniture out of the attic,” I said. “I gotta call and let him know we’re working.”

  Shen hopped on the West Side Highway. “Is he your boyfriend now? I thought the suspect you slept with was your boyfriend.”

  I turned my heated face toward the passenger window. “Remy’s a friend. I don’t have a boyfriend.”

  “What is this, high s
chool?”

  Memories of Memorie always flooded in at the wrong time.

  “HAMBURGER HAMBURGER cheeseburger!” Memorie fiercely strummed her pink ukulele, working on her latest song. It was a Sunday off, just like this was supposed to be.

  “Isn’t your favorite show on?” I asked my girl. “The dinosaur show on YouTube Kids?”

  She continued to strum, and gave me a condescending look. “It’s not a dinosaur show, Aunt Mary, it’s about prehistoric life. This week is,” Memorie did a sports broadcaster voice, “Dimetrodon—your ancient cousin.”

  Murph walked into the living room with the big tray. “Bacon and egg day,” he announced. “With very lightly toasted toast.”

  Memorie put the uke aside in favor of breakfast. I found YouTube Kids on the smart TV. My niece’s show was the first recommended. We tucked in and settled back for some science. Murph put the tray on the coffee table and snuggled next to me.

  For the first time in my life, I had somehow stumbled into domestic bliss. I had a beautiful little girl (without all the body modifications of a pregnancy) who loved to sing and dance, loved horses, unicorns, dinosaurs and the color purple. I had an attentive man who could cook, and despite his laid back demeanor, had a more than enough edge to keep him interesting.

  We had taken my niece in when her mother, Kathleen, had gone down on criminal charges. Murph and I collected Memorie and her pitiful collection of possessions from a crack house deep on the west side of St. Augustine. It had taken a little time for Memorie to come out of her shell. Not that I blamed her. Kathleen Murphy was an addict, a convicted prostitute and drug dealer. Her circle of acquaintances were of the same ilk.

  Memorie had blossomed under our care, although I personally didn’t feel responsible for my girl’s renaissance. It was in her the whole time. She just needed a little security and a regular meal schedule to shine on. As a homicide cop, I wasn’t the one keeping regular hours. Murph, as a professional gambler, usually had plenty of time on his hands to play parent. I loved him for it. As for my own parenting skills, what I mostly did was provide encouragement, stood back in awe of her, and loved her as much as I could.