Blown To Pieces (PTO Murder Club Mystery Book 2) (9 page)

Oh God, Ben had turned to man-speak. Women gave directions like “turn at the McDonald’s,” while men insisted on using a compass. If Christopher Columbus had only listened to Queen Isabella when she told him to turn at the third Starbucks on the left, he would have found the Indies.

Ben enlarged the photo. “Latitude 30.352212 and longitude -98.034581.”

Now he was speaking in tongues.

I glanced at Monica, who was wandering around with her phone out in front of her like she was looking for a signal. “Got it. Twenty-seven inches.” She ripped off two pieces of tape and made an X at the right coordinates.

She spoke guy? Wow, I’d thought she only spoke English and Spanish.

Ben turned to me. “Write ‘pot handle’ on the flash card and put it over the X.”

I did as I was told.

Thirty minutes later, we had a whole lot of black Xs covered in white flash cards. Most of the cards had ‘organic debris’ written on them. Apart from the odd metal and wood bits, there was a lot of organic debris. What was left of Big Tommy could have been washed away with a garden hose. If I’d been a chili lover before, I sure wouldn’t be now.

“How is this helpful?” Monica voiced what I felt.

“Let’s see.” Ben closed the iPad and laced his fingers through mine, gently pulling me with him. We all tromped up six rows of bleachers. From this vantage point, the overall picture took shape.

There were definitely two distinct explosions, because the Xs seemed to have been blown out from two points.

“Can I see the crime scene photos?” Monica held out her hand for the iPad.

Ben uncovered the iPad and entered his thumbprint before handing it to her.

She scrolled through the pictures. “Are there any pics of the sides and back of the house?”

Ben shook his head. “I don’t think so. Why?”

“It would be good to know if the force of the house blast was the same all the way around. The kitchen was in the middle of the house, so if the stove was the source of the gas, wouldn’t the debris be the same all the way around the house?” Monica used her thumb and index finger to zoom in, looking at every detail in the photo.

Ben thought about it for a second. “There would be some difference based on interior walls and the number and placement of exterior windows. Over all, I think the blast would be fairly uniform.” He nodded. “I see where you’re going with this.”

That made one of us. This pretending-to-understand thing was harder than it looked.

“If the explosion didn’t come from the kitchen and was, say...centered around the front porch, there would be less debris on the sides and back of the house.” Ben’s eyes scanned the Xs on the basketball court. “Too bad it’s dark outside, or we could check now. I can run by first thing tomorrow and see.”

“What about DNA testing?” Monica crossed her arms and watched him like she was trying to figure him out.

“We don’t need his DNA analyzed. Mustang identified him only seconds before he died.” Ben put a hand in the small of my back. “If I send it out, it will take a month or more to have it tested.” He scratched his chin. “I do have a friend who owes me a favor at the state lab in Austin. I could send the samples to him, if you really think Big Tommy was murdered.”

“I think we’ve more than established that.”

“Does this mean you’re going to help us?” I didn’t trust him, but it would be good to have someone inside Lakeside PD.

“I’m intrigued. And it does seem convenient that there were two blasts.” He smiled down at me. I had the oddest feeling that he was just doing this to make me happy. Still, I would take what I could get.

Maybe Ben could be an honorary member of the PTO Murder Club. I thought it was time we took the plunge and got T-shirts. Then again, having PTOMC in matching red rhinestones across our chests wasn’t exactly covert. True, no one would know what it meant, but someone was bound to ask.

I looked Ben up and down. I didn’t think he could rock red rhinestones. Better keep our secret-club membership down to three.

At lunchtime the next day, I set off to do some real investigating. Tonight, Haley, Monica, and I were meeting up to hear what Ben had found at Big Tommy’s house.

I sat behind Portia’s wheel and entered the security code to unlock my iPhone. I’d made a list of every organization where Big Tommy had volunteered. There was the VFW, Knights of Columbus, Lakeside Food Pantry, Mobile Loaves and Fishes, Meals on Wheels, Lakeside Community Theatre, Lakeside Athletics Association, and Hands for the Homeless.

We had homeless in Lakeside? Interesting. I’d never seen any homeless in Lakeside. Maybe Big Tommy had been stashing them at his house and that was why he was murdered. Or had one of the homeless dissed Chewing Gum Willie and Big Tommy had thrown him out? Did the person come back to take down Big Tommy and Chewing Gum Willie?

That seemed a little thin.

Back to actual investigation. My plan was to start at the top and work my way down. First stop, Lakeside VFW.

I pulled onto the tree-lined driveway that meandered to the VFW hall. Not having been to any other VFW posts, I had no idea what to expect. But a perfectly manicured driveway with a canopy of oaks and the occasional crepe myrtle didn’t say “Veterans of Foreign Wars” to me. Now that I thought about it, wasn’t “Foreign Wars” sort of discriminatory? Shouldn’t it just be “Veterans”? If we had another civil war, those folks would be screwed.

I finally made it up to a large, overly ornate metal gate. Did everyone except me have a metal gate to hide behind? Maybe I should look into getting one. I’m an excellent hide-behinder.

I pulled up to what I’d thought was a call box but was in fact a dunking-booth-target-sized gray-metal button.

Was it some sort of security alarm? Was it the button to open the gate? Did it launch nuclear warheads? A sign explaining the purpose of said button would have been nice.

I clicked the down arrow on the driver’s-side door, and my window slid down. I leaned halfway out of the car and pushed the button really fast and pulled my hand away in case it electrocuted me. The gate hummed, and then in super slo-mo it began the long journey of rolling open. I watched as at the lightning-fast speed of a millimeter per minute, the gate creaked its way to the other side.

Did I have time for pizza delivery? Domino’s wasn’t far, and I was sure they could prepare the pizza and deliver it before the gate opened. Heck, I could drive to Florida and back before this thing opened.

Two hundred thousand and seventy-four years later, after a couple of ice ages had happened and lizards were now the dominant species, I drove through the open gate.

I meandered down a shorter but equally landscaped lane to an ugly, gray-cinder-block one-story that looked like it had been built five minutes after World War II ended. Seven-foot-tall red letters proclaimed this to be VFW Post 4443½. I looked around for the other half but didn’t see it.

I parked in one of the five hundred parking spaces—none of which were handicapped—and got out of my car. Maybe I should have called ahead. Were VFWs staffed during normal daytime business hours?

I went to knock on the red front door, but then just tested the lock and opened it. Light brighter than the sun poured out. I slipped my sunglasses back on and stepped inside. It appeared that the seniors overcompensated for the lack of windows with four-billion-watt bulbs. The heat radiating off the bulbs made it a balmy ninety degrees. There were a few battered, mismatched wooden tables scattered around, but it looked like the real action took place at the taking-up-two-whole-walls bar. There were several beer taps and ancient red-vinyl barstools. The décor was 1970s thrift store, with some 1980s geometric pinks and grays thrown in for pops of ugliness.

“Hey there, girlie.” Stumpy Gregg, decked out in his World War II baseball cap, some baggy, wrinkled, black polyester pants, and a light-blue Ricky Ricardo shirt, headed over in his motorized chair.

My archenemy, Salina Atan, was rumored to have slept with Stumpy Gregg. I tried really hard not to picture it.

“Are you the stripper?” He sucked on his dentures.

As you can imagine, being named Mustang Ridges, I’ve been mistaken for a stripper before...at least on paper. I looked down at my plain black sweater, gray silk pants, and black flats. What was my hook...soccer mom strips for extra cash? “No.”

“Too bad.” Stumpy did a seventeen-point turnaround and motored back to the bar. The neon flag strapped to the back of his chair flopped behind him.

“I’d like to talk to you about Big Tommy.” I went after him but had to slow my pace because his cart moved about as fast as the front gate.

“Who the hell cares about him? He’s dead. I’m alive and I want to see some boobs.” Stumpy threw the cart into reverse and beeped his way back to me. “How about you show me yours...and I’ll show you mine.” His gray caterpillar eyebrows bobbed up and down as his faded-blue eyes raked down my body. “Know why they call me Stumpy? It ain’t cause of my missing leg—”

“Not a chance.” Apparently, sexual harassment and sensitivity training had never made it onto the agenda at a VFW meeting.

A toilet flushed, and the door opposite the bar slammed open. A silver walker complete with tennis balls on the legs entered the room, followed by a stooped man who was all giant ears and thick glasses. Either his pants had swallowed his torso or they were pulled up way too high.

“Is she the entertainment?” The man’s voice was a decibel under an airplane landing.

“No,” Stumpy yelled back. He turned to me. “That’s Stormin’ Norman Kozlowski. He don’t hear so good. The VA won’t buy him hearing aids. When his wife died, he took hers, but they don’t fit, so he don’t like to wear them.”

I didn’t think hearing aids were one size fits all, but I didn’t know for sure. How would you clean them? Best not to think about it.

Stormin’ Norman walker-waltzed over. The rhythm was walker...step...step. Walker...step...step. Walker...step...step.

When I thought he was in earshot, I yelled, “Either of you know anyone who didn’t like Big Tommy?”

“What? You want to see my big salami?” Stormin’ Norman yelled back. His hand went to his zipper.

“NO.” Stumpy motored over. “She ain’t a stripper. She’s asking about Big Tommy. Do you know anyone who didn’t like him?”

Norman looked around like he was missing something. “Big Tommy was here. He just left.”

Stumpy shot him a WTF look, cupped his hands around his mouth, and shouted, “Big Tommy’s dead.”

“Dead?” Norman looked around again, making sure we weren’t hiding Big Tommy. “He ain’t dead. He was just here. Now he’s dead?”

“Yes.” I entered the verbal dart game and hoped my words hit the bull’s-eye. “Do you know anyone who might have wanted to kill him?”

“Someone killed Big Tommy?” Norman walker-step-stepped his way over to me. “Who would want to kill Big Tommy?”

I mentally scratched VFW off my list.

I made a big show of checking my watch, only I don’t have a wristwatch because there’s a clock on my phone. “I have to go. Thanks for your help.”

I made a beeline for the door.

Next stop, Knights of Columbus.

I entered the address into the navigation system and played Follow the Bouncing Red Arrow. After I meandered back down the meandering drive, I pulled out onto Highway 620 and went about a hundred feet before turning right onto a crushed-granite drive. It didn’t meander so much as ramble.

What was it with the long driveways? Maybe straight driveways were illegal in Lakeside. There was no gate. It looked like the Knights of Columbus were less exclusive than the VFW. I pulled up to a gray-cinder-block one-story that looked suspiciously like the VFW. Still, I parked in the space closest to the door. There only appeared to be nine thousand unused spaces—none were handicapped.

Large red letters announced this to be the Knights of Columbus. I opened the door and yep, Stumpy Gregg and Stormin’ Norman Kozlowski were both at the bar.

“Boobs, you’re back. Change your mind about stripping?” Stumpy sounded so hopeful.

“Not even if my life depended on it.” In fact, I couldn’t think of anything that would have compelled me to strip for these men. “Let me guess, one entrance is the VFW and the other is the Knights of Columbus.”

“You’re a smart cookie.” Stumpy stared at my breasts.

I pulled my iPhone out of my pocket and brought up the list. “I don’t suppose Lakeside Food Pantry, Mobile Loaves and Fishes, Meals on Wheels, Lakeside Community Theatre, Lakeside Athletics Association, and Hands for the Homeless all meet here too?”

“Nope, it’s just the VFW, Knights of Columbus, and the Lakeside African Relief Fund. All that other stuff don’t meet here.” Stumpy continued to stare at my breasts. I glanced at Stormin’ Norman, who was nursing a beer. It didn’t appear that he knew I was there.

“Lakeside African Relief Fund? Was Big Tommy part of that?” Why in the world was there a Lakeside African Relief Fund?

“He founded it.” Stumpy beeped his way through another seventeen-point turnaround. “How about a little tit for tat. I gave you some information, hows about you raise your sweater and show me some boob?”

“How about I show you the business end of my pepper spray?” I kind of admired his single-mindedness; then again, he was a guy, so single-mindedness was all he had.

I added Lakeside African Relief Fund to my list of Big Tommy’s organizations.

“What does Lakeside African Relief Fund do?” I’d never heard of it.

Stumpy shrugged. “Don’t know...don’t care.” He turned back to his beer.

I mentally marked Knights of Columbus off my list. Lakeside African Relief Fund sounded promising. I needed to find out whatever I could on that. I checked the clock on my phone. I had just enough time to order a pizza for lunch, go to the Lakeside food bank, interview them, and then pick up my pizza.

After calling Domino’s, I entered the food bank’s addy into my nav system and headed out. Ten minutes later, I knocked on the door marked “Food Pantry” at the back of Emmaus Catholic Church.

The door swung open, and Tweet McGee stared out at me. Tweet’s son, Drake, was in Max’s class.