Flipped For Murder (15 page)

Chapter 23

I locked my back door at two minutes before six o'clock and hustled down the drive, clutching a bottle of wine. It was only a ten-minute walk to Jim's condo downtown, but I hated to cut time close like this. Although, even if I was late, I doubted Jim would have a dog in that hunt. I wore a pair of jeans I thought flattered my posterior, tucked into knee-high leather boots, and finally decided on a tunic-length soft sweater in a deep rose after trying on and discarding nearly every sweater I owned. My hair, which I'd rearranged about sixteen times, now fell in loose curls on the shoulders of my jacket.

I'd never been to Jim's home before. His law office? Sure, a dozen times. He'd held the closing for the store there. Before then, we'd met to arrange the purchase details; and after that, to get all the permits sorted out, with no help from Stella. But I'd passed his building bunches of times, the one he'd pointed out on our way home from the roadhouse on our date that seemed like weeks ago instead of only six days. The downstairs of his building housed the consignment shop, as well as Wheelworks, the bike shop where I left my cycle for tune-ups.

I walked fast, even though I'd rather be cycling. I was overdue for a long ride. I got all kinds of itchy when I didn't get out on the roads for a few days in a row. I could have ridden to Adele's this afternoon, but I'd thought it might end up making me late for dinner. Tonight I didn't want to ride home in the dark with wine in my system. Not another soul was out, not even on this stretch of Main Street. South Lick shut up like a hermit crab at the end of the business day. There were only a couple of restaurants to draw people out, and the one bar was on the other side of town.

So it looked like Don was in custody. He must have been the person the eyewitness saw going into Stella's house before Stella was killed. I wished he weren't the murderer, but wishing didn't have any place in a crime investigation. At least the authorities focusing on him should take the pressure off me.

Cutting through a narrow path running alongside the bank, I took the shortcut down the alley behind the row of shops. The sun hadn't yet set, although clouds were blowing back in and the light was dim between the backs of the three-story buildings on either side. Glancing up, I saw lights on in a couple of windows up high, but there weren't any windows at street level, only locked metal doors.

I heard a rustling behind me and checked over my shoulder, but it was only dry leaves twirling in the wind.
Maybe walking alone in an alley with a murderer on the loose isn't such a hot idea. No,
I told myself,
Don is sitting safely in a jail cell. Or is he? But what if Buck was wrong? Maybe he'd only brought Don in for questioning and then let him go.
I scrabbled in my bag for the reassuring feel of my phone, extracting it and sliding it into my jacket pocket. Anyway, it wasn't a very long alley.

I'd almost reached Walnut, the cross street I was heading for, when a loud, high-pitched noise
zinged
past me. A puff of red dust popped out of the bricks in the wall to my left. I stared at it and swore as I broke into a run. Another shot landed in the pavement where my foot had rested a second before. Yelling, I didn't take the time to see where it came from. I ran as fast as my short legs could take me, not stopping until I was in the clear, smack in the middle of Walnut.

The shots stopped. I stared back at the alley, but no one emerged. If somebody was shooting at me, I was in big trouble. And this wasn't any after-school target practice, either.

A car honked and I levitated like a kangaroo, emitting a screech as I did so. I was standing in the middle of the street, after all. I gave a weak wave at the impatient SUV and made my way to the far sidewalk. My legs barely held me up, and my brain was as full of Jell-O as my legs.

I should call the police. And hurry to Jim's. No reason not to do both,
I finally told myself. I pressed 911 and set off at the fastest stride I could muster.

“Dispatch. What's your emergency?”

My ears were ringing, but I could hear her through it. “Someone just took two shots at me. I was in the alley behind Main between Walnut and North Streets.”

“Are you safe now?” she asked.

“Yes. I think so.”

She asked for my name and address, which I supplied. “Where are you at now?” she asked.

“I'm walking to my friend's condo, 180 Walnut. I'm almost there.” My voice wobbled as I walked, but I didn't care. My legs wobbled, too.

“We'll send someone to check out the area. Did you see the shooter?”

“No.”

“Any idea who it might be?”

“No!” How could I have an idea when I didn't even . . .
Oh. Stella was shot dead. Was I meant to be murder number two?
No, I wasn't about to get into a discussion of Stella's murder with a dispatcher. “At least one of the shots went into the brick wall, though.”

“The officer will call you at this number with further questions. You're sure you're safe now, Ms. Jordan?”

“I'm not going into any more alleys, I'll tell you that much.”

“Wise decision. Thank you for your call.” She disconnected.

I'd never been so happy to see a building as when I arrived at number 180, although the two stores flanking the lit entrance were closed and dark, of course. I located Jim's buzzer on the panel in the doorway and pressed it, leaning my shoulder against the wall.

His tinny voice crept out of the speaker. “Robbie?”

“Yep.”

“I'll buzz you in. Third floor, back.”

A buzzer rasped and the door clicked. I pulled it open and hurried down a hallway with black-and-white tiles in a diagonal pattern on the floor. A large potted plant sat at the base of a well-lit marble stairway leading up. The walls were a clean white and the whole thing projected an airy, spacious feel, which helped me finally breathe again. When I hit the landing on the second floor, I glanced up to see Jim hanging over the railing one floor up.

“Welcome to Hollywood,” he called.

I kept climbing, my boots clacking on the marble. I hung on to the banister in case my legs gave way. When I reached the third and top floor, I said, “It does kind of remind me of Hollywood.” I handed him the wine, which miraculously I didn't drop in my desperation to escape the shooter.

“It's the Art Deco period, the new modernism. This building was constructed in 1939 and I love it.” He took my hand, padded along the hall in his socks to an open doorway, and extended his other arm.
“Mi casa.”

I walked in ahead of him, letting go of his hand. When I spied a leather couch, I sank down onto it and let out a big breath.

“Are you all right?” Jim hurried to my side. He peered down at me. “You look pale. Did something happen?”

“Somebody took a couple of shots at me.”

“What?” He plopped down next to me. “Are you hurt? Did you call the police? Where were you?” He stroked my forehead and ran his hand along the back of my head. That should have been a heavenly sensation, but I could barely feel it.

“Hey, one question at a time. I'm not hurt. If they were aiming for me, they missed. Not by much, but that's all that counts, right?” I smiled, but it didn't have much strength behind it. “Yes, I reported it to a dispatcher. An officer might call me back.”

“Was it at the store?” His pale eyebrows drew so close in the middle they almost merged.

“No, the alley. I was cutting over to Walnut, behind Main. Not the best idea after hours, I realize.”

“Oh, Robbie. If you'd been hurt, I—” He extended an arm behind me and wrapped the other one around me, hugging so tight I could hardly breathe.

I finally managed to wriggle free. “But I wasn't hurt. I sure want to know who took aim at me, though.”

 

 

Forty minutes later I sat catty-corner from Jim at a small dining table near the window with the last, weak rays of daylight slanting through the trees above South Lick Creek. Candlelight reflected off our wineglasses as we dug into salmon steaks he'd gas grilled on the small deck cantilevered out from the building. A dish of roasted sweet potatoes with a curry treatment sat in the middle of the table next to a wooden bowl filled with salad. Goat cheese and dried cranberries peeked out of the greens. The beige place mats and forest-green napkins matched the simple masculine decor of the room.

“This is super, Jim. Thank you.” I lifted my glass of Pinot Grigio.

“Makes me nervous cooking for a chef, but I gave it my best effort.” He laughed as he matched my lift. “Here's to you, Robbie.”

“Here's to not getting shot at.” I took a sip and set the glass down. I was recovering from the wobblies, but I couldn't shake the shock of being someone's target. “The shots angled downward and there aren't any windows on the street level. Whoever it was must have been on one of the upper floors.”

“I wonder who it was. The top floors of those buildings have flats in them.”

“Any idea who lives there?” I savored a bite of the sweet potato. I'd never thought to use Indian flavors on the deep orange root, but it was a perfect match. For a moment the food took my thoughts away from the alley.

“Well, they're not fancy penthouses, I can tell you. More like bare-bones low rent.” He pushed his glasses back up his nose.

“More so, the question is, who would want to aim a gun at me? And then fire it.” I glanced at my phone, which lay still and dark on the far side of the table. “I'm surprised the police haven't called me back yet.”

“Could take them a while to check things out.”

“Yeah, they might be busy with something else. I forgot to tell you I saw Wanda driving Don in a cruiser earlier today. And he was in the back. Does that mean they arrested him?”

“Interesting. Yes, it might. I'm assuming it's in connection to the murder.” He gazed at the now-dark window, running the thumb of his left hand over his fingernails.

“If they arrested Don for the murder, then it wasn't Stella's murderer who shot at me.”

“Unless . . .” He cocked his head.

“Unless they got the wrong guy, I know. This afternoon I thought I was getting shot at, too.”

“Really?”

“I took a quick walk in the state park, and all of a sudden, I heard shots. I was out in the woods and I didn't know if it was hunters or some lunatic aiming at me. My walk turned into a run trying to get back to my van. And then a ranger said it was only a youth target practice I heard. I felt pretty stupid.”

“You couldn't have known it was target practice.”

“Too bad what happened on my way here wasn't as innocent.” My phone lit up and vibrated, so I grabbed it and connected. I said “hello” and heard Buck's voice in return. “Did you find my shooter?” I kept my gaze on Jim.

“Nope. We checked out the apartments above the bank, though, and didn't pick up any suspects, although a couple of the apartments are either empty or nobody answered the door. Did you get a sense of what kind of firearm they used?”

“What? How would I know that? I don't know the first thing about guns, remember? Can't you, like, figure it out from the bullet hole in the wall?”

“What bullet hole?”

I slumped a little. “You didn't look at the walls of the alley? I told the dispatcher one shot went into the brick wall.”

“It's a pretty long alley.” Static crept around the edge of his voice.

“No, it isn't. It's only one block long. And I was down near Walnut. Maybe twenty yards away.” I tapped my fork against the side of my plate.

“We'll take a look in the morning.”

“In the morning.” I rolled my eyes at Jim.

“Yup. If you think of anything else you might have seen or heard, you call the station.”

“I will. Hey, I saw Wanda driving Don O'Neill in a cruiser today. Did you arrest him for the murder?”

Jim leaned forward, forearms folded on the table.

Buck didn't speak for a minute. When he did, it was in a mournful tone. “Can you imagine for just a little minute why I can't talk to you about that, Robbie?”

“I have a valid reason for asking. If he's the killer, then I'm not, right? I can put a sign on my door that says, ‘Okay to Eat Here. She's Not Going to Murder You.' I've been losing customers because I was a person of interest, at least according to the
Sentinel.
”

He blew out a big, noisy breath. “Yes. We're holding Don for the murder. But we have a long ways to go.”

“Was he the person reported to have gone into Stella's the day she was killed?”

“That's right. He says he didn't kill her, of course.”

“Of course.”

“That he simply went over to visit her.” Background noise flowed out of the phone. “Gotta go. We'll look into your shooter as we can, Robbie. I'd advise—”

“Staying out of alleys. I promise.”

He disconnected and I filled Jim in on what Buck told me.

“So they're holding Don,” Jim said. “Interesting.”

I gazed at the remnants of my interrupted dinner. “You wouldn't even believe what Corrine cooked up for tomorrow.” I told him about the fund-raiser.

“Poor timing,” Jim said. “I can't believe she's going to get much of a turnout.”

“There was no stopping her. I don't mind hosting the event. It'll be good publicity.” I finished my last bite of salad and gazed at him. “Do you think Don would kill Stella?”

“No idea. It's hard to imagine why anyone would kill another being—you know me, I don't even believe in killing animals for food—but we all know murder happens. I wonder if she was threatening him somehow.”