Goody Goody Gunshots (24 page)

Jawarski chuckled. “And you always do exactly what I say.”

“Well, of course I don’t. Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Look,” Jawarski said, his smile fading slightly, “it’s not that big a deal. It just occurred to me that the more information I withhold from you, the more eager you seem to investigate on your own. I thought it couldn’t hurt to see what you’d do if I gave a bit more.”

“Ah, I see. It’s just a ploy.”

“I wouldn’t call it that,” Jawarski protested mildly. “I’d say it’s more of a strategy.”

I made a face. “Same thing. And what if I don’t change my evil ways?”

He shrugged and took my hand again. “I guess we’ll have to cross that bridge when we come to it, won’t we?”

Chapter 30

Jawarski and I stayed late, eating, talking, laughing—
both of us apparently reluctant to end the evening, neither of us willing to take that next step and suggest we go home together. I’m just old-fashioned enough to believe that once you take that step, there’s no turning back. You’re in it all the way, whether you want to be or not.

When the restaurant closed, we walked through the parking lot together, arms linked around each other’s waists. Again, the longing to have someone permanent in my life rose up strong and hot. I’d missed this—dinners together, long walks in the moonlight, intimate conversations about absolutely nothing—but I needed a bit longer before I could let myself trust it.

After a long time, Jawarski settled me in the Jetta and walked to his truck on the other side of the parking lot. I could have watched him walk forever, but I knew he wouldn’t leave until he saw me drive off, so I started the car and pulled out onto the nearly deserted street, heading home. Jawarski pulled out behind me and turned in the opposite direction, and his taillights disappeared before I reached my first turn.

For the first time in days, I didn’t think about the murder. It had been too wonderful an evening to spoil with thoughts of dead bodies and knife wounds. I wound along the curving two-lane road that separated the Lotus Blossom from the west end of town, slowing as I came around the curve near the recreation center.

I was surprised to see the beam from someone’s headlights on the grassy slope between the center and the baseball /soccer fields. Wondering who was at the center this late, I slowed and glanced into the parking lot as I drove past. When I spotted Coach Hendrix’s familiar Ford truck, I tapped the brakes to slow the car even more.

In the gleam of the headlights, I saw someone moving around. A few feet farther down the road, I realized there were two people there. One was Kerry Hendrix, the other the increasingly lumpy figure of Dwayne Escott.

So the two of them were still friends. Or at least on speaking terms. I pulled to the side of the road and turned out my headlights, hoping they wouldn’t notice me there. They talked for a few minutes, their breath forming thick clouds in the cold November air. The conversation looked so normal at first, I wasn’t sure whether I was disappointed or relieved.

After a while, Kerry turned toward the truck as if the conversation was over, but Dwayne had other ideas. In a move swifter than I would have imagined for such a large man, he grabbed Kerry’s shoulder and jerked him back around so they were facing each other again. Dwayne leaned toward Kerry aggressively, his arms waving wildly in broad, agitated gestures.

Kerry jerked away from him, shoving Dwayne in the chest with both hands. The shove caught Dwayne off guard, and his arms windmilled wildly as he tried to regain his balance. Kerry took advantage of the moment and jumped into the cab of his truck and, with one last parting shout out his open window, drove off.

I stayed where I was until Dwayne calmed down and walked around to the front of the recreation center. When I was relatively certain that neither of them would see me, I pulled away from the curb and headed for home.

 
I called Jawarski the minute I found a signal again, but the call went straight to his voice mail. I left a message and drove home, where I poured a Pepsi over ice and turned on the TV for the background noise. Within minutes I was caught up in a list of questions that seemed to be growing by the day.

What
had
Kerry and Dwayne been arguing about? And who had been in the hall of the recreation center with Quentin? What did Lou Hobbs, Kerry Hendrix, Quentin Ingersol, and Dwayne Escott have in common? There must be something. What were Hobbs and Ingersol arguing about— excuse me,
discussing
—right before the murder? And what really happened the night I thought I’d seen Hobbs shot out at Hammond Junction?

I spent the next morning taking a quick inventory of supplies, but by noon I’d decided that I had a batch of laundry upstairs that desperately needed to be put through the washer and dryer—and there was only one place with the equipment to do the job right.

Old maps of Paradise divide the town into distinct sections, with Chinatown running along the creek bed and Swede Alley just above that. If you follow Swede Alley half a mile north, you’ll find yourself surrounded by modest single-family houses and apartment buildings, schools, and the less glamorous businesses no town can survive without.

I pulled up in front of the Laundromat and climbed out into the brilliant autumn sunshine. Someone had propped open the Laundromat’s door with a plastic carton, and the clean scents of laundry soap and fabric softener drifted out into the morning. I could see a couple of people milling around inside the building, one heavily pregnant woman sitting with her feet up and flipping idly through a magazine, and a couple of dark-haired, dark-eyed kids darting amid the carts and chairs as they played.

I rolled down the windows for Max, grabbed the laundry basket from my backseat, and carried the load into the building. It had been a while since I’d done my laundry in public, and all the reasons why I didn’t came rushing back the moment I stepped through the door. Personally, I think there
is
a hell—and it’s a Laundromat.

I took a few seconds to get my bearings, then gritted my teeth and found an empty machine close to the “office”—a corner separated from the rest of the Laundromat by a long table—where a slight woman with white hair was folding towels. She wore a pair of knit blue pants and a turtleneck sweater with a snowflake design. Over it all, she wore a lime-green smock with huge pockets.

After stuffing my clothes into the washer, I sprinkled soap powder over the mound and fed a handful of quarters into the machine. When the washer started filling, I wandered over to the office.

The woman glanced up as I approached. Her small, wrinkled hands stilled in the act of smoothing the towel she’d just folded. “Yeah? Do you need something?” Her voice was a surprise. Rough—probably from years of smoking—and far deeper than I would’ve expected to hear coming out of a woman her size.

I jerked a thumb toward the metal box on the wall. “I didn’t see any fabric softener. Do you have any I could buy?”

She nodded toward a wall that housed a bank of dryers and cut partway through the large room. “Fabric softener’s in the vending machine on the other side of that wall.”

“Oh. Thanks.” I turned away, then glanced back. “Is your name Corelle Davies?”

She glanced up, her eyes narrowed with wariness. “Who wants to know?”

“My name is Abby Shaw. I own a business here in town—”

Corelle began shaking her head before I’d finished talking. “Whatever it is you’re selling, we don’t want any.” She jerked her thumb toward a sign on the wall behind her. “No soliciting, or can’t you read?”

“I’m not selling anything,” I assured her quickly. “I’m just trying to find someone who knew an acquaintance of mine. His name was Hobbs, and I heard that he might have rented a room from you.”

Corelle squinted up at me. “Where did you hear that?”

Jawarski might have been willing to talk about the case with me, but I didn’t think he’d appreciate my dropping his name, so I evaded the question. “I don’t know. Around. Would you mind if I ask you just a couple of questions? It won’t take long.”

“I already answered all the questions I’m gonna. You want to know what I said to the police, you can ask them.”

“Thanks, I’ll do that. Did you know Hobbs before you rented the room to him?”

Corelle grabbed another towel from the basket at her side. “Nope.”

“So he just found you through a newspaper ad or something?”

“Or something. How should I know?”

“He didn’t tell you?”

She snapped the towel in the air and folded it in half. “He didn’t tell, I didn’t ask. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m busy.”

“Sure. Just one more thing before I go. Did he tell you
anything
about himself? Where he came from? What he was doing here in town? How long he planned to stay?”

Corelle finished folding the towel and put it on top of the stack. “We didn’t talk much. He came and went. I rarely saw him.” She eyeballed me for a minute and asked, “You with the police or something?”

“Not exactly. So Hobbs didn’t tell you why he was here?” Corelle picked up the stack of towels and carried them to the other side of the office area. “You tell me why you’re asking first.”

“It’s personal.”

“Yeah? Well, so are my answers.” She fished a pack of cigarettes from a pocket of her smock and turned toward the open door. I guess she thought the conversation was over.

Not being one to let a little thing like that stop me, I followed her outside. “So he didn’t tell you why he was here?”

She lit a cigarette and inhaled until her cheeks caved in. “If you leave now, I won’t call the cops on you.”

“If I leave now, I won’t find out what I want to know. Come on, Corelle. What’s the harm in answering a few questions—unless you have something to hide?”

She glared at me, her eyes hard and pebbly. “You don’t give up, do you?”

“Afraid not.”

“Who did you say you were again?”

“My name’s Abby Shaw. I own a candy shop downtown.”

“Yeah? I knew a lady owned a candy shop once. Name of Grace Something.”

“Grace was my great-aunt.” I’m not above name dropping when it might do me some good.

Corelle looked interested. “No kidding? You Tuck and Elaine’s girl?” I nodded, and she exhaled a thick plume of smoke. “Well, I’ll be. Why didn’t you just say so? What do you want to know?”

Who could have guessed it would be so simple? “Did Lou Hobbs tell you why he was in Paradise?”

“He told me he was here on business, but I don’t think he was telling the truth.”

“Oh? Why not?”

“Because he mentioned a couple of places that haven’t been around here in a while, like the roller rink over on Fairmont and Ray’s Drive-In. If you want my opinion, he’s been here before, but not for ten, fifteen years.”

That set me back a couple of paces. The places she’d mentioned had been popular teen hangouts for years, but they’d both gone out of business while I was living in California. Did that mean that Hobbs was from Paradise? That might explain his connections to Ingersol and Hendrix, but if he’d lived here, why hadn’t anyone else come forward to say that they recognized him?

“Did he tell you what kind of business he had here in town?”

Corelle watched the smoke drifting up from the end of her cigarette. “If he did, I’ve forgotten. He was a quiet one, I can tell you that. Didn’t talk much at all. I tried making friendly conversation when he first moved in, but I guess he wasn’t interested in talking to an old lady.”

“What about visitors? Did he ever have any?”

“None that I ever saw, except the first day he came to look at the place. Had a friend with him that day.”

Interesting. I wondered why she hadn’t mentioned that to the police. “Do you know who it was?”

She shook her head. “Don’t know his name, but I’ve seen him around. Big fella, kind of balding. Blond hair.”

Quentin Ingersol? He was tall and blond, and looking more suspicious by the minute. Or—Marshall? The thought made me almost sick. Or could it have been Dwayne? “And Hobbs? Did you run a background check on him before you rented the room to him?”

Corelle gave a sharp laugh. “Now, how would I go about doing that? I don’t have that kind of money. Most of the time, I barely get from one end of the month to the other.” She took her last drag and crushed out the cigarette beneath her foot. “Besides, he seemed all right.”

“Why do you say that?”

“I asked for a deposit, but he said he didn’t have enough money. He’d been down on his luck, and he was here to get back on his feet. That’s when his friend popped up and guaranteed that the rent would be paid.”

“The blond man.”

Corelle nodded.

“And you believed him.”

“I didn’t have any reason not to.”

I could think of a few, but I kept them to myself. “Did you happen to notice what kind of car they were in that day?”

“Sure. I may not know the driver, but I’d know that car anywhere.” Corelle turned toward the door and grinned at me over her shoulder. “They were driving Marion Escott’s Cadillac.”

Chapter 31

“Abby! You remembered!” Beaming with delight,
Marion Escott pushed open her screen door and ushered me into the cool, dark interior of her house. I held out the box of caramels I’d gone back to the shop to pick up, and glanced around to see if Dwayne was lurking nearby. I couldn’t see him, but I hadn’t noticed him immediately last time I was here either.

“I put in all your favorites, plus a couple of new varieties,” I told Marion as I sat on the sofa. “I hope you like them.”

“I know I will.” Marion set the box aside and looked at me expectantly. “You look worried, dear. Is something wrong?”

“I’m not sure,” I said, trying to ease into the conversation. “Is Dwayne around today?”

“Dwayne?” Marion scowled in confusion. “Do you need to talk to him?”