Death at a Fixer-Upper (13 page)

The phone woke me up at eight.

“Good, you're up,” Gail said.

“I am
now.
”

“This is big. The crash at the race yesterday? Sabotage. And they've made an arrest. You'll never guess who.”

“Please, just tell me.” I staggered to my feet and headed to the kitchen for coffee.

Her voice dropped to a hoarse whisper. “Walter Wagstaffe. Charged with malicious mischief. Do you know him? He's—”

“I know him.” I thought of the encounter with Wagstaffe and his little white dog, then remembered I'd glimpsed him piloting for Bayside Exterminators. “What about his rig? Do they forfeit?”

“One of the pit crew was allowed to stand in. But Fenton Ziegler and his dragon had to scratch. He's in traction at Arlinda Medical.”

I bit the head off the last marshmallow bunny as the coffee began to drip. “Who's your source? Chet again?”

“Not this time. Our neighbor's daughter is dating a Grovedale parking-enforcement officer, and she picked it up from him. That's where they took him into custody. In front of his team and everything.”

“They must have had some reason.”

“His pipe,” she said. “They found it in the alley by Fenton's shop.”

“He was there Friday. I saw him. He and Ziegler were going at it hammer and tongs…” I stopped, realizing what I was saying.

“There you go. You'll probably be the prosecution's star witness.”

“I don't know. It doesn't feel right.” I washed down the last of the gooey marshmallow with coffee, feeling a little sick. Maybe a diet of corn syrup and yellow food dye No. 6 wasn't such a hot idea.

“You planning to catch the water stage?” Gail said.

“Huh? Oh. Yeah. I have a couple of errands to run first.”

“I heard about your client. Give me the details.”

I told her about finding Ravello at our shared desk.

“Ugh,” she said. “Gross. You know what this means.”

“We're going to need a new chair.”

“Probably a new desk, too.”

I ran a load of laundry to the Spin 'n' Go in town and watched it through the glass porthole go around and around, like the thoughts tumbling about in my head. I didn't like the notion I might be called to testify about the little scene in the alley. Sure, Wagstaffe and Ziegler had argued. And yet…somehow I'd had the distinct impression they were enjoying themselves. That they'd sparred before, like a couple of bantam roosters strutting their stuff before the lady hens.

I shook my head and told myself to stick to real estate. Collecting my still sizzling laundry from the dryer, I threw it in the bus. Time to get a move on if I wanted a decent parking spot in Grovedale.

Instead, driven by a sudden impulse I locked up the VW and trotted across the street to the hipster grocery. The store was packed with shoppers looking for bargains in free-range carrots and gluten-free pancake mix. I picked up a dark-chocolate-and-hazelnut bar and a bottle of Arlinda Nutty Brown Ale. I paid cash at the register and tucked both items into my bag. Maybe I'd be making a fool of myself, but that had never stopped me before.

Back in the bus, I drove a few blocks north, then turned west onto Shoreline Drive until I reached the boxy array of single-level buildings that was the Arlinda Medical Center. I rolled the bus into one of the visitors' slots and jumped out.

The hospital was laid out in a nonsensical single-story maze from years of injudicious planning, with additional buildings tacked on in response to the growth of the community. I followed a concrete path minimally landscaped with limp begonias until I reached an information kiosk, where I found a map of the facility. Ignoring the rude message some individual had scratched into the Plexiglas cover, I placed my finger on the X that informed me, “You are here,” and traced a route to the two wings of patient rooms.

My stomach growled, and my eyes fell on a couple of vending machines that shared the space; one offered an array of salty snack foods equally divided between trans fats and high-fructose corn syrup, the other a selection of carbonated beverages sweetened with ingredients that had led to the demise of laboratory rats in double-blind experiments. Part of the medical center's plan to drum up a bigger customer base, no doubt. My hand started to fumble for loose change of its own accord, but I arrested it, just to prove to myself I wasn't a slave to my urges.

Double glass doors swished open automatically as I approached them. There was no one at the front desk, though I could hear the low murmur of voices coming from an office to my right. I walked down the hall, treading lightly on the institutional-grade linoleum as if that might help me avoid detection. My unease at being in a medical setting mounted despite the warmth of the pastel colors used on the walls—the mauve, peach, and pale green intended to lull me into a state of compliance before various parts of my body were probed unmercifully the minute I let down my guard.

I passed Radiology and then turned a corner at Nuclear Medicine, which I gave a wide berth. A heavyset man was shuffling along the hallway ahead of me, one hand pushing an oxygen canister, the other clutching the back flaps of his hospital gown in a vain attempt at modesty. He was breathing with effort, his shoulders straining with every inhalation, as if to manually pump air into his lungs. Corded blue veins jutted from his legs, the pattern as intricate as the tributaries of the Blue River. As I caught up to him, he began to cough, deep, ragged sounds that seemed about to tear his chest apart. He paused to regroup and saw me hurrying by.

“Forty years of cigarettes,” he said, his voice like a load of gravel in a hopper. “You want my advice? Quit now.”

“I don't smoke.”

“Don't start. And go easy on the sweets. You gotta treat your body right or it'll quit on you.”

I mumbled a thanks and picked up the pace, pledging on the spot to eat sensibly. Starting—well, soon.

Suites 100 to 195 were down the next corridor on the right. A nurse's aide was backing out of a room just ahead, pulling a stainless steel meal cart after her. I ducked into a curtained alcove until she made a three-point turn and pushed the cart into the next room down the line. I moved along the hall, passing four or five unoccupied “suites,” until I reached the last one on the left, which had Ziegler's name printed on a white label and affixed to the chart on the door. I debated knocking, then just turned the knob and entered.

Fenton Ziegler lay in the hospital bed, one leg in traction. His arms were bandaged and there was a contusion on his forehead the size of a dragon's egg. He'd not gone down easily.

“Oh, Christ,” he said when he saw me. “It's Florence Nightingale come to see me on my bed of pain.”

“Thought you might appreciate some company.”

“That's what comes of thinking. Suppose the nurses were changing my bedpan. You even consider that?”

“I tried not to.” I dug through my bag and extracted the bottle of beer and the chocolate bar. “I brought you these.”

“Hmph,” he said. “Trying to buy me off.” But he examined the label on the bottle and his face brightened just a bit.

“Listen, Mr. Ziegler—”

“Cut the ‘Mister' crap,” he said. “I could die at any moment, and I don't want to go out feeling like an old man.”

“Really? You might die?”

“Or want to. You ever fracture your femur? Of course you haven't. They tell me I've got ten screws holding the ends of the bone together. I hope the surgeon used stainless steel and not some cut-rate zinc amalgam he bought by the gross from Malaysia. Shit, I'm in so much pain I can't even hit the call button to get you thrown outta here. So talk.”

“Mr.—uh, Fenton, I was just wondering if you knew Walter Wagstaffe'd been arrested.”

He sat up a little straighter, then winced. “Walter? On what charge? Being an arrogant know-it-all?”

“Malicious mischief. For what happened to you. They think he sabotaged your machine.”

Color flooded his cheeks in purple blotches. “Balderdash. Walter had nothing to do with it.”

“They found evidence near your shop. I saw you two going at it the other day.”

He was shaking his head before I'd finished. “You don't understand. Walter and I, we go way back. Posturing, that's all it is. One-upmanship. We have our little rituals before the race. It's all part of the spectacle.”

“You seemed pretty angry with each other.”

“Maybe Walter and I aren't pals, I'll grant you that. But we share a mutual respect. We both love the race. There's lines we'd never cross. Walter, stoop to sabotage? You're barking up the wrong tree, missy.”

My thoughts exactly. “Who, then?”

He shrugged. “That anyone would do it at all is beyond my understanding. Some crank, I suppose.”

“How'd they get into your shop?”

“Oh. As far as that goes.” He looked a little embarrassed. “Fact is, with the race and all I've gotten a little behind on my home maintenance. The lock on the shop doors, it looks good, but the wood under the hasp is rotted as hell. Anyone could pry it off with a screwdriver, then bung it back in place when they're done.”

“Would it take a lot of technical know-how to mess with your rig?”

He waggled his hand. “Not much. A little hacksaw work on the steering and brakes. Some basic plumbing to cause the propane torch to jam open.”

There was a fumbling at the door. With remarkable agility for a man in traction, Fenton slid the beer under the bedcovers. A nurse's aide entered, pushing the meal cart ahead of her. She was brown-haired and plump, exuding homely good cheer until she noted Fenton's animated posture. Then she clucked in disapproval.

“Doctor doesn't want our patient excited,” she said to me. “He should rest.”

“This is my niece,” Fenton snapped. “You gonna deny me the solace of my family at a time like this? I'll sue this hospital to its substandard foundation.”

“It's fine,” she said hastily. “I didn't know she was family.” She placed a covered dish on Fenton's bedside table and lifted the lid. “I brought you a nice lunch.”

Fenton jabbed a finger toward the plate, where some brown and green foodstuffs resided in separate compartments. “Looks like someone was sick on my plate. What do you call this?”

The aide smiled brightly. “Lean ground beef and rice patty topped with fat-free brown gravy, a mélange of fresh vegetables, and sugar-free cherry gelatin for dessert. I believe you'll find it very tasty.”

“I believe you couldn't be more wrong. Now leave us alone.”

Unperturbed, she backed the cart into the hall. When the door had closed behind her, Fenton extracted the bottle and used the edge of his bedside table to knock off the cap. He took a healthy swig, wiping his mouth on the shoulder of his gown. I eyed the plate of food.

“Christ,” he said. “Don't tell me you want that.”

“I skipped breakfast.” Since stale Easter candy hardly qualified.

“It's your funeral. Dig in.” He pushed the tray toward me.

I took a forkful of beef patty. It had the texture of a rubber bouncy ball and much the same flavor, but I polished it off in no time flat. I passed on the mélange, which was heavy on lima beans, but eyed the cherry Jell-O cubes with approval: maybe the red food coloring would balance out the yellow. After the last cube was gone, I belched delicately and dabbed my lips with the napkin provided.

“What's your interest in all this?” Fenton asked suddenly.

What, indeed? “I, uh—”

“Never mind. Nosy, like all women. Just keep Wagstaffe out of it. There's damn few things you can count on in this life. The fellowship of the race is one of them.”

He unwrapped a corner of the chocolate bar, then pointed a finger at me. “What about that other business? The Harrington estate? You still aiming to cover it with little gimcrack houses?”

I watched him take a bite and forgot what I was planning to say.

“Oh, for God's sake.” He broke off a square and handed it to me. “Answer my question.”

“Yes. I mean, no. My client has, ah, rescinded his offer.”

“Good. Because I'll fight it with my last breath.”

His turn of phrase made a little bell ding in my head. Could it be that—no, it was too far-fetched.

“What is it?” he said. “You look as if you've seen a ghost.”

“Just gas. You were right about the food here.”

He gave a hoarse little chuckle. “You're all right, Turner,” he said. “You'd better leave now. God help me, I'm starting to like you.”

I was late getting to Grovedale for the water launch and found parking by the docks to be nonexistent. I circled the lot twice, then began to maneuver the bus into a makeshift spot on the grass. While I was hunting for reverse, there was a tap on my window. A scrofulous lad in a yellow vest was shaking his head no, no, no.

I rolled down the window. “What?”

“You can't park there,” he said. “Didn't you see the sign?”

“Sure I did. It said, ‘Fine for parking.' ”

He didn't even blink, such was the poverty of my humor. “Lot's full. Move along.”

I rolled my eyes and forced the shifter back into first with a grinding of gears. Ten minutes later, I'd secured a spot four blocks away on Second Street, along a row of historic Victorian houses. A man reeled along the sidewalk, drinking in the impressive architecture. Then he leaned over and vomited on the expanse of manicured lawn. I took off on foot before my karma got any worse.

When I'd finally legged it down to the water, I found myself hemmed in by the crowd, my view of the bay obscured by festive tourists draped in Hawaiian shirts and fancy cameras. I gripped my cheap point-and-shoot and insinuated myself through small gaps between people, working my way south toward a more favorable vantage point body by body. I caught a gleam of churning water, and with a final push I found myself on the front lines, toes resting on the long concrete dock that descended to the bay. The Crustacean Sensation was just cresting the top of the slope, its four pilots making minute adjustments to their pontoons in preparation for the water voyage. I raised my camera.

“Everyone BACK!” The youth in the yellow vest moved along the front row, gesturing with outspread arms like a born-again preacher exhorting his audience to repent their sins. A few people shuffled in place in a display of compliance. Yellow Vest wasn't fooled.

“Unless you can show me a crew pass, you don't belong here!” he hollered.

Grumbling, the people on either side of me stepped back, immeasurably improving my own position. Before I could snap a few shots, Yellow Vest descended on me like a gnat on warm flesh.

“Lady, maybe you didn't hear me,” he barked in my face. His breath smelled of kung-pao chicken. “This area is for race personnel only.”

“Press,” I said, holding up my camera.

“No shit. What paper?”

I thought rapidly
. “High Times?”

“Move along,” he said, taking me by the elbow. He herded me back, almost stepping on my toes. I peered under his outstretched arms and spotted Max and the Green Hammer two machines back in line.

The crustacean crew pushed off and rumbled down the dock toward the water, gaining speed as they prepared to launch. The noise of the crowd swelled to a crescendo as the machine plunged into Salmon Bay. For an instant, the bow was submerged and a capsize appeared unavoidable, but the crew hauled back, bringing up the nose and settling into the surf on the pontoons. Applause rippled through the crowd and cameras clicked.

A rumble of another sort permeated my subconscious. The ground seemed to tremble under my feet. I glanced through Yellow Vest's sweat-stained armpit. The big woman from yesterday's tussle was bearing down on me like a maddened rhinoceros. Her nostrils flared and her arms pumped like pistons as she charged. Obviously she intended to squash me like a ripe tomato, reducing me to a smear of sauce on the concrete. I gave a squawk of alarm. Yellow Vest glanced over his shoulder and yelped. He released my elbow and dodged left, leaving me hapless and alone in the woman's path. My camera slipped from my fingers. I bent to retrieve it before it clattered against the hard ground and the woman shot by, missing me by the thickness of her overstretched tank top. A rush of wind followed in her wake, blowing me back with the impetus of a hurricane and smelling faintly of French fries and brimstone.

Unable to control her momentum, the woman flew down the dock, arms windmilling the air. She reared back on her dimpled calves in an attempt to put on the brakes. At the last minute, she veered right, hit the log barrier, and went airborne. The crowd gasped collectively as she parted the air like a cannonball, hitting the water in a spectacular belly flop.

A tsunami of water went up, crashing over the stern of the Crustacean Sensation and almost swamping it. The crew bailed frantically and barely managed to avoid rolling over. Meanwhile, the woman bobbed to the surface and opened her mouth wide enough to swallow half the bay.

“Help!” she shrieked. “I can't swim!”

A few stalwart citizens began to mount a halfhearted rescue, stripping off their cameras and jackets. Then a thin woman in a red kayak reached down into the hull and brought out a lifesaving ring. She tossed it at the floundering woman. I was gratified to see it bounce smartly off her forehead and land in the water.

I felt a hand on my arm. It was Yellow Vest.

“You know that lady?”

“Never met her before in my life.” Not formally, anyway.

“Stay here.” He turned to hail another race official. I shook off his grasp and melted into the crowd.