Divas and Dead Rebels (30 page)

Neither one of us moved a muscle. The only thing moving in the front seat was Chitling’s nose as she worked it over her plush car seat looking for crumbs. From what, I had no idea. She’d already dedicated a good portion of the drive sniffing out whatever was left from our earlier Sonic meal.

I wasn’t expecting a noise of any kind, so when Chen Ling suddenly put back her head and began yodeling and yowling, it scared the bejeezus out of me, and I jumped.

“Agh!” I said to indicate my distress.

“Eeeek!” replied Bitty.

“Row, row,
rooooo
,” said Chen Ling. The little dog had her head back, bellowing up at the car’s open sun roof. Birds took flight, and the hulking buzzard shifted position on the tree branch.

“Dammit,” I said crossly to Bitty, “why on earth does she have to do that?”

Having recovered somewhat, Bitty tried to calm the little . . . dog. “I don’t know,” she said finally when nothing seemed to work. “She’s definitely upset.”

“Newsflash,” I muttered, and grabbed the door handle. “Now that she’s alerted everyone within a half-mile radius that we’re here, I suppose we should go on up and knock on the door.”

“Yes,” said Bitty. “You go ahead. I’ll catch up.”

I gave her a scathing glance. “Yes, I’m sure you will. Leave your pistol in your purse. And leave your purse in the car.”

Bitty just blinked at me, and I said something else under my breath, then got out of the car and walked several yards to the back deck. The house was very quiet. No sign of human presence. Which I found a little odd since Catherine’s car sat in plain view. Yet there seemed to be something eerie about it.

Since I’ve been correctly accused of letting my imagination run amok, I decided I was overreacting to the ungodly howling of Bitty’s own personal coyote. Chitling still bayed and yodeled at whatever had caught her attention.

I peeked in a window as I passed on my way to the door, but saw nothing amiss. Everything looked tidy. A couple couches flanked a wide set of windows that looked out on the river, and the back door led directly into the kitchen. I walked to the door to knock, but saw that it was slightly ajar. I stood there a moment. The hair on the back of my neck prickled, and I was pretty sure all the hairs on my arms were standing straight up, too.

I gave myself a stern lecture. Nothing was wrong. Nothing had been wrong at the house in Oxford, and nothing was wrong here. I was, as usual, overreacting. It’s a fault of mine, a vivid imagination that leads me down the wrong path all the time.

So I knocked on the glass window of the door, calling for Catherine as I pushed it open a little wider. “Catherine? It’s Trinket Truevine. Are you awake? Catherine?”

There was no response. Nothing but a blanketing silence that seemed far too eerie. I glanced back toward Bitty. She was still sitting in the car, and Chitling was still singing her loud coyote song. No help there.

I took the bull by the horns and opened the door and stepped inside. My heart was pounding so hard my ears rang, and it took a moment for me to calm down. Then I called for Catherine again, but with the mounting sense that she wasn’t there to answer.

The living room was empty, the drapes open, a small enclosed sunroom door left ajar. I peeked into the sunroom and didn’t see anything amiss. So I turned and went across the living room past a huge fieldstone fireplace that took up nearly an entire wall, and turned down a hallway. A faint smell of smoke hovered in the house, like an old fire. Two bedrooms opened off the hall, both of them seeming undisturbed. When I turned, I saw another door, closed. Splinters of wood stuck out at odd angles from it, and my heart started up again with a beat loud enough to fill my ears.

Where the devil was Bitty?
I wondered. Probably sitting out there waiting to see if I survived or was chased by a killer. There are definitely moments when I find my cousin less than endearing. Slowly, I pushed against the door, not at all surprised to find it was a bathroom. Towels lay on the floor, and an odd round little hole in the wall caught my immediate attention. Yes. This had to be it. This had to be where Catherine was when she called me. That hole was definitely a bullet hole, I was sure of it. And there was a red smear on the side of the white and gray-streaked granite washstand that didn’t belong. I got a queasy feeling in the pit of my stomach. Blood? Oh lordy . . . and not a sign of Catherine.

Maybe . . . maybe she got away. Maybe she was out on a boat in the river or sitting on the banks somewhere fishing. No. Catherine didn’t seem the kind of woman to fish. Carefully, so as not to disturb anything should this end up being a crime scene, I backed out from the bathroom, my hands shaking and my knees weak.

When I heard a noise behind me I said, “It’s about time you got out of the car.” I started to turn when something struck me hard against the back of my neck. Everything became a blur of motion like a tornado, whirling me into darkness, then—nothing.

Chapter 15

I really do hate it when people hit me. It’s always so unnecessary. I mean, I’d be more than glad to stop doing what I was doing, or do whatever it is whoever might want me to do, just about anything to avoid getting bashed in the head. Or neck.

If asked to cease and desist or otherwise I’d suffer a knock on the noggin, I’d be quite pleasant and do so. And yet, no one has ever given me the choice in moments of crisis.

Suffice it to say, this makes me cranky. That’s why, when I finally began to swim up from the dark pool of unconsciousness where I’d been floating for heaven knew how long, I came up kicking. Normally, I’d say that was pretty much out of character from my usual calm demeanor. After the last year, however, I’m not at all sure what’s in character for me anymore. Maybe my real personality is surfacing after decades of dormancy beneath my proper upbringing and adherence to some of society’s rules, if not most.

Whatever it is, as I began to regain consciousness, I lashed out with both my feet when I perceived a presence too close. I have long legs, which as a child earned me several unkind nicknames, but they come in handy at times. When my feet connected with something solid, I heard a sound very similar to
“oof!”
It was a gruff kind of sound. Catherine had a husky voice, but not that deep. I wriggled backward, flailing frantically with both my feet.

More sounds erupted in the form of interesting swear words. In the distance I heard unearthly howling. My vision cleared just in time to see my assailant take off for the other side of the house. He wore a gray hoodie pulled up over his head, faded jeans, and grungy tennis shoes. That’s all I could tell from the back.

With a little effort, I pulled myself to my feet using a cane-back kitchen chair and staggered after him. Of course, he was too fast for me to catch, but I hoped to get a glimpse of his face or maybe the car he was driving.

By the time I got to the front deck looking out over the river, the only thing I saw was a gray blur booking it through trees and banks of fallen leaves. He disappeared in a thatch of brush.

A sudden noise behind me startled me, and I whirled around to see my cousin and her gargoyle peering at me from the doors opening onto the deck.

“Well,” she said, and I knew she was irritated by the way she said it, “how nice of you to let me know you’ve decided to stay a while.” She looked around, then said, “So is she here?”

“I don’t think so. There was someone else here, unfortunately.”

Bitty looked at me with wide eyes. “Who? Was it Breck Hartford?”

I frowned. I had to admit, “I don’t know.”

“What do you mean, you don’t know? Where’s Catherine?”

“I haven’t seen her, so I don’t know that either.”

“For goodness sake, Trinket, what have you been doing in here for so long if you still don’t know anything?”

I narrowed my eyes at her. “Mud wrestling. What do you think I’ve been doing?”

She looked at me uncertainly. The growth on her chest
woofed
at me. “Oh. Did you fall down?”

“Yes. I tend to do that when I’m given a karate chop on the neck.”

Bitty’s gasp of concern was only slightly comforting. “He hit you? Are you hurt?”

“Not very. More irritated than hurt. Did you get a look at him?”

“At who?”

I sighed. “At the guy who hit me. He just ran out of here like a scalded cat.”

“No, I didn’t see anybody. Are you sure it wasn’t Breck Hartford? He’s the kind of person who would do something like this.”

“Like this—you mean, he has a history of violence?”

“Oh, I don’t know about that. It’s just that he was always on the edge, you know? Back in our college days. He used to get in a lot of fights, on and off the football field.”

I pondered that for a moment. Breck was a big guy. Tall, and weighing over two hundred pounds at least, I’d say. The guy who had just hit me and run away was tall, but not hefty. More on the wiry side. So I shook my head.

“I’m pretty sure it wasn’t Breck Hartford who hit and ran just now. This guy was smaller. Younger.”

“So you did get a look at him.”

“No, it’s just the impression I got. You know.”

“Honestly, Trinket, you’re such a target. I suppose that your being so tall has a bit to do with it, but you’d think these people would take into consideration that you are a woman, after all.”

“By
these people
, I’m assuming you mean the criminal element we seem to attract lately.”

Bitty blinked at me. “We?”

“Yes, Sister Serenity,
we
. You don’t think I’m in this by myself, I hope.”

“You have an alarming tendency to overreact, Trinket. Of course, I’m sure it has a lot to do with the fact you keep getting hit in the head, but still, it’d be best if you could dial it down a little.”

My face got hot, and I was pretty sure I was a nice shade of crimson as I said to my dear cousin, “Perhaps I wouldn’t keep getting hit in the head if I had a back-up taking the same risks I’ve been taking.”

“Don’t be so sensitive. I’m going to check out the downstairs, and then I guess we should leave.”

I was pretty sure steam was coming out of my ears as I followed her inside and to the kitchen area. She opened a door to a flight of stairs that led down to a lower level I hadn’t known was there. It was an open area with a desk, computer, a couple of covered couches that probably made into beds, and wide windows along one wall that looked out over the slope down to the river. A set of French doors opened onto a shaded terrace, and another door led to a bathroom. I checked the bathroom quickly, and it was empty.

Then I heard Bitty scream. I knew even before I reached her what she must have found, so wasn’t that surprised to see Catherine Moore tucked into a small storage closet under the stairwell. Her crumpled body was only half-hidden by a mop, broom and large bucket. She appeared to have been strangled by a wire noose around her neck, and her head lolled forward so that her chin almost rested on her chest.

“Is s-s-she d-d-dead?” Bitty stuttered, and I made myself step forward to put a finger against Catherine’s neck to find a pulse. I felt nothing, no sign of life at all, just cold flesh, and took several steps back.

“Yes. She’s dead. Don’t touch anything. And don’t even
think
about trying to move her anywhere, either.”

“Why would I do that? Honestly, Trinket, you say the strangest things at times.”

“I’m sure I do. It has nothing to do with the present company, of course.”

Our brief verbal skirmish had the effect of getting Bitty past her initial horror so that she could cope with her discovery, and helped me, too. We went back upstairs and I put in a call to the police. Potts Camp has their own small police force, and they showed up quite quickly.

One officer took Bitty out on the front deck, and another officer kept me in the kitchen to question us separately. Frankly, I was very familiar with the drill and had to wonder what that said about my life experiences. Being familiar with police procedure is hardly something I wanted to put on my résumé.

After I ran through all the events that led up to us searching for Catherine, the officer questioning me looked at me quizzically. “So you’re what—private investigators or something?”

“No, not really. We’re just concerned citizens.”

“Did it ever occur to you to call in the police?”

“As I already told you, we tried that. It didn’t work out so well.”

“This is still a police matter, ma’am. It’s not safe to run around looking for a killer. You’d be lucky to just get arrested. You could end up dead.”

“Yes, I’m aware of that,” I said. “In our defense, I’d like to point out again that we did try to involve the police and weren’t that successful.”

“Tell me again about the man you say you saw.”

“I
did
see him. He was tall, maybe six feet, kind of wiry, and wore a gray hoodie and faded jeans.”

“Race?”

“White, I’m pretty sure. I mean, I didn’t get a good look at him except from the back. Oh, and he wore gloves. Some kind of workman’s gloves, gray with red stripes. Tennis shoes, scuffed and dirty.”