Hiding Gladys (A Cleo Cooper Mystery) (10 page)

“Mind if I ask what kind of gun was used to kill Irene?”

Sheriff Evans crossed his arms and widened his stance. “Mind telling me where Gladys Walton is?”

It was no use. I caved. “She’s at my ex-husband’s beach house on Wrightsville Beach. My dog’s with her and my son’s coming in on Thursday. No one, other than my ex-husband and now you, knows where she is. I’m sure we can keep it that way.” I gave him my best lopsided smile.

Sheriff Evans looked at my gun again and said, “The bullet removed from Miz Mizzell’s skull was a .22. And, as for the reason I wanted to know if you had a gun, considering the kind of situation we’re dealing with here, you may need it. And let me warn you now, I’m just about a hair’s-breadth away from closing down your testing site until we wrap up this case.”

I looked stricken, probably suicidal. Sheriff Evans shook his head. “I’ll call you soon as I decide the best way for me to meet with Miz Walton again.”

All I could do was nod. It wasn’t as if I hadn’t been expecting it, but I still needed a tumbler of Jack Black, pronto. Maybe two.

SIXTEEN

All the crap that
was screwing up my project—Irene’s murder, keeping Gladys hidden from her children, that overprotective moose of a sheriff—had me too wired to let the alcohol do its work. Add to that my skittish banker, Lonnie, pushing up my completion date from very difficult to nearly impossible, and you’ve got a recipe for nervous breakdown, not a whiskey on the rocks.

I longed for someone to talk to, but Tulip was playing guard dog for Gladys. Maybe catching up with Henri would have the soothing, lulling effect I was looking for. Thirty minutes later I was still listening to her wrestle with such monumental decisions as which shoes at Monkey’s 50-percent-off sale went best with her current wardrobe. There was also that perennial favorite of how much longer she was going to let the latest testosterone-laden guy in her life pant before making it perfectly clear he was never going to make it to the Promised Land.

“I mean, I don’t care how hot he is, how can you get worked up about a tax accountant, Mom?”

“I can see where that’d be a problem,” I said just as another call beeped in. Nash Finley. Without missing a beat, I cut Henri off in mid-sentence, “I need to catch this. Business!”

“What’s up, Nash?” I asked nonchalantly.

“Me. I’m in the air en route to the beach. Are you anywhere near the Albert J. Ellis Airport?”

“As a matter of fact, I am.”

“Good. Can you pick me up there in about an hour?”

I checked my watch and tried to dampen the surge of energy that rushed through me.
Easy, girl
. I still wasn’t in any way sure I wanted a relationship with him. Flashbacks of our white hot sex gave me the idea that a little sex was just what I needed right now to take my mind off business troubles.

“You still there?” he asked in response to my deadening silence of indecision.

“Where’s your car?”

“At Wrightsville Beach, at the Blockade Runner. Safety Department had a seminar there for North and South Carolina quarries, and one of the foreman, Billy—you remember him?”

“Yes, I know Billy.”

“Well, he drove my car down from Raleigh and was supposed to leave it at the airport for me. But something got mixed up and he left it at the hotel. Anyway, before I made other arrangements, I thought I’d check with you.” Then, his voice lowered, took on a playful tone, and he added, “I’ll make sure you’re well compensated for your trouble.”

Maybe it was my old buddy, Jack Daniel’s. Maybe it was my hormones. Or maybe it was a thumb of the nose to Bud and the young bimbo. Whatever the reason, I said, “Sure, Nash. I’ll pick you up.”

I showered and dressed in a pair of creamy linen slacks and a crisp, white sleeveless blouse. I pinned my hair up loosely with a tortoiseshell clip, the tension between tailored and tousled being the idea.

Ellis Airport lies just northwest of the town of Stella and about fifty minutes from Wrightsville. I got there a little early, so had time to indulge myself watching private planes taking off and landing. I grew up on
Dallas
and
Dynasty
. If Mattel had made a Barbie corporate jet, I would have had one. In hot pink, to match the RV.

A particularly sleek little Cessna Conquest set down on the runway like a fairy tern on a calm sea and taxied to the hangar about fifty yards from where I stood. I leaned against a corner of the terminal building behind a cyclone fence and watched, blinking in the bright glare of the sun. Should have brought my shades.

Nash got out, followed by the pilot. He fussed with his bag as the pilot moved into the shade under the wing of the plane. When he waved, I waved back, losing sight of his companion, who headed into the hangar. Nash was carrying only a small overnight bag as he followed me to the Jeep.

Blue crab claws and grilled pork tenderloin at the Port Land Grille—delicious. What followed was … well, let’s just characterize Nash’s remarkable set of skills as potentially life-threatening, as I worried my heart couldn’t take all the exertion.

Afterward, as we lounged on the balcony of his ocean-view room listening to the surf pound the beach, my mind was everywhere but on the romance of the moment. Particularly troubling to me was the fact that the sheriff had also suspected Irene was killed because she looked like Gladys. I resisted looking at my watch; I knew it was too late to run by and see Gladys. Wasn’t there some way I could move this project along faster? For everyone’s safety.

Nash startled me when he took my hand, kissed my palm, and said, “Did you like my flowers?”

“Flowers?”

“The ones I sent to your house in Raleigh—so they’d arrive on Monday? … You know, after we were together on Friday.”

And here I’d thought Robert Earle and Shirley had brought those flowers to soften up Gladys. They must have picked them up at my door and pocketed the card.

“I’m sorry,” I fibbed with great aplomb. “I’ve been too busy to remember my manners. Yes. I got them and they were beautiful.”

“Just wanted to be sure,” he said, arranging his chair to face me more directly. “A little something to say I enjoyed being with you. So what’s on for this weekend?”

I withdrew my hand because at that moment I knew, regardless of how much fun I was having, a little space between us was needed—at least until I got Gladys’s project under wraps. It was probably just that uncomfortable feeling I get when I’ve got too much on my plate; nevertheless, this wasn’t fair to either one of us.

“My son is visiting,” I said. “He’ll be staying at Bud’s place, Seahaven. I want to spend some time with him.”

“Oh.” In the dim light, I couldn’t quite read his expression.

“There’s always next weekend, though,” I said as I gathered my things and headed for the door. “I’ll give you a ring later.”

Silky darkness enveloped the Jeep as I navigated the beach roads back to the Morning Glory Inn, calming me and allowing me to muster my thoughts and prepare for tomorrow. Then technology intruded. My cell rang. It was William.

“Hi, Mom. Listen, Joe’s dad needs to leave tomorrow … early. In fact, I’ll be at that little airport around eight thirty in the morning. Is that doable for you?”

“No problem, I’ll be there.”

Perfect. Will’s slightly early arrival could be just what I needed to speed things up a bit. I’d call Wink in the morning and let him know it would be after lunch before I could get to the site.

Wednesday morning, after catching up on Will’s latest news, I watched him finish up a second helping of scrambled eggs at a diner and said, “By the way, did you ever find any information on that company I asked you to look into, I.T.N.F. TestCo Group?”

“No, and I’ve made a pretty thorough search. But I’ll keep looking.”

“Atta boy. If anyone can find it, you can.”

Later, on the drive to Seahaven we had a lengthy discussion on the presentation and I brought him up to speed on the new deadline the bankers had given me. We arrived at the beach house a little before lunch. Gladys met us at the parking area by the road with Tulip.

“Can I take Tulip out on the beach?” Will asked after I introduced him to Gladys.

Tulip stopped in her tracks and swung her head in my direction. I swear that hound can understand English.

“Sure,” I said.

“I’ve got cold cuts, chicken, and potato salad in the fridge whenever you’re ready for lunch,” Gladys said.

“Will, did you hear Gladys?”

“Gotcha!” Will yelled as he banged up the stairs and headed for the house, Tulip racing ahead of him.

I turned my attention back to Gladys as we walked to the house. It had only been a few days, but I hardly recognized her. Her facial features were relaxed, her short grey hair, previously worn in tight curls, now blew freely about her face. Her jeans were rolled up to her knees and she was barefooted. Quite a change from leather tie-ups and elastic-waisted polyester pants.

She looked so happy I decided not to tell her what the sheriff had said about Robert Earle and the grill cover. Besides, who knew, it was still an open investigation and anything could happen. Anyway, the sheriff did say he wanted to talk to her. I’d let him tell her.

Later, after we finished our lunch on the gazebo, Will took off with Tulip again and Gladys and I chatted as we cleaned up. “Your Bud sure is a nice man,” Gladys said.

Now that was news. “Pardon,” I said. “You’ve met him?”

“Why yes. He and I enjoyed iced tea and a long conversation the other day when he dropped by to make sure some building materials he’d ordered had been delivered. I believe he said he’d be replacing all the porch railings.”

Something that should have been done years ago. It’s a wonder someone hadn’t fallen through one of them. A delicious image of Bud’s girlfriend flailing helplessly as she plummeted to the ground came to mind. I smiled inwardly but then realized Gladys was looking at me expectantly. “I’m sorry. What did you say?”

“I said I can’t believe you let such a great guy get away.”

“First of all, Gladys, I didn’t let Bud get away. I … oh, you know what?” I said, deciding this was yet another conversation best deferred. No way I wanted to get between their new friendship or try to explain my old marriage. Not with all I had to do. “You’re right. He’s definitely a nice-looking man and he’ll make someone a nice husband someday.”

Will bounded back up the stairs from the beach. “Remember, Mom, I’m taking Gladys for a boat ride tomorrow,” he said as he flew past us and into the house. Henri kept a twenty-two-foot, flat-bottom skiff in a slip at Captain Eddie’s, the marina right across the road on the sound side. “But don’t worry, I’ll have your presentation ready before Tuesday. I’m going to work on it Saturday and Sunday. Get everything set up so all I need is the data to plug in … no later than Monday.”

I looked at my watch. “Speaking of that,” I said. “I need to go. I’ve got to get back to work.”

SEVENTEEN

When I arrived on
Gladys’s property, I left the Jeep in my usual spot under some trees at the edge of the field so I wouldn’t beat it up further driving to the rig on a dozer trail. I could barely hear the rig through the woods, but what I heard made me stop and listen closer. The sounds coming from the drill site were slightly different, almost like an echo. Good grief. If this was more trouble, I needed some water. I opened the door to the backseat and plundered through the stuff on the floor for an unopened bottle of Evian I knew was back there somewhere.

Ahh, there it was, wedged under the seat-adjustment bar on the passenger side. When I straightened up to get in better position to make the reach, I spotted something poking out from under a folded beach towel I keep on the backseat in case Tulip takes an unscheduled swim. I lifted the towel. Will’s laptop. Damn. It must have slid there during our trip from the airport. I bent again to reach for the water wondering when I’d have time to take it back to him.

I was still butt up, face to the floorboard, reaching under the seat, when I felt a tap on my back. My friend the rattler must have been lurking somewhere in my brain cells because I nearly jerked my arm out of the socket trying to back out of the car. And thus I tangled legs with and knocked over the person who had tapped me.

“What the fuck!” said an irate Shirley Walton from where she sat in the hay stubble.

“What the fuck, yourself,” I said from where I also was sprawled on the ground. “You scared the hell out of me. What do you want?”

“I want my mother,” she said, her face in major pout mode.

“We all do. Mine’s dead, and yours will get in touch with you in her own time, not yours.”

Shirley stood up and brushed wisps of hay from her shorts. “You don’t understand. There’s a bunch of detectives from the sheriff’s department at my house right now, tearing the place apart looking for … what? I don’t know.”

I stood up and brushed myself off. “Did you ask if they had a search warrant?”

“Of course I did. You think I’m stupid?”

Resist the temptation, Cleo
. “Actually, Shirley, I think you’re probably not stupid. In fact, I think you’re smart, smart enough to know your mother is neither crazy nor incapacitated in any way. Moreover”—I took her elbow, and walked her toward her white Lexus—“if you’ll stop and think about all these things that are happening to you—your cousin murdered, your mother taking leave of you and your brother, the police questioning you, your house being searched—you’d realize all these things are happening for a reason. Either you’re part of the reason, or else you know things. Things that in the deepest recesses of your heart would lead you to what that reason is.”

I opened the car door for her.

Shirley got in but didn’t say anything, just sat there.

“Maybe you need to do some soul searching,” I said. “Because I can tell you from experience, once your mother is really gone, as in dead, no amount of reasoning can bring her back.”

“Dead? Who said anything about dead?”

“I’m just saying … all these high-pressure tactics you and Robert Earle are employing could have unintended consequences.” I looked past her to the interior of the car. On the passenger seat, poking halfway out of a plastic shopping bag, was one of several packages of cigarillos. Shirley made an exasperated little huffing noise and started the engine.

“By the way,” I said as she pulled the car into gear, “how do you guys always know when I arrive on site?”

“Any fool can see you when you pass by the house on the way here.”

“See,” I said, patting the door frame, “you are smart. You should’ve been a detective.” Shirley rolled her eyes, sniffed, and roared off.

Cigarillos. Did she buy them for herself or someone else? I wasn’t sure, but I thought I even detected a faint odor on her. The same odor I’d smelled on the back porch of the old tenant house behind the well. On the very day I’d fallen into that well and someone had maybe even helped me over the edge.

Interesting.

The difference in the sound emanating from the drill site became clear as soon as I broke from the woods into the clearing where the crew was working. Not an echo after all; two drills were grinding away at my underground mountain … and my dwindling bank account.

“Wink,” I said, pointing to the other rig, “where did that come from?”

He looked to the far side of the clearing where a second crew loaded augers flights and prepared to move to another hole. “Well, look, we need to hustle to make your deadline. We were doing pretty good too, until the chain on the kelly broke on that piece-of-shit backup rig. Then I had to call Purdue’s. Lucky for us, they’d finished the engine work on the rig you and the boys dumped in the creek—
”

“Oh now, wait a minute … ”

He grinned. “Door’s just wired shut on the driver’s side, but that won’t stop us from drilling holes, so I sent Mule to pick it up and called in another crew to run it. While he was gone, Stick and I actually fixed the kelly on the backup. Now we’re operating two crews. It’s all good news, since it means we’ll be done here Friday.”

“See, Wink, that’s why you get the big bucks. I’m just glad I was taking my son to his dad’s and missed all the extra drama. I’d have had a stroke.”

By quitting time, I’d caught up with entering all the new drill results in my records and on my map. In the morning I’d start the tedious job of logging the core samples.

Back at the Morning Glory I nibbled halfheartedly at a Subway ham on wheat, but the heat and stress had left me with little appetite. I switched on the TV, then turned it off, irritated by the clamoring herd of anchormen and women and their glow-in-the-dark teeth. It seemed a better plan to break open my newest James Hall novel—I loved to read about Florida—pour myself a Jack Black on ice, then hit the hay.

Then I remembered Will’s laptop

I got up and retrieved my cell.

“Your laptop is in my Jeep. Slid under some stuff in the backseat.”

“Oh, man. I haven’t missed it yet. You want me to come get it? I could use Dad’s truck.”

“Is he there?”

“No. But he’s coming tomorrow to cook Gladys and me a frogmore stew. She’s never had one. You want me to tell him you’ll be here to help eat it?”

I could hear the hope in his voice but I was used to squashing it, so I said, “No. I don’t have time. But thanks for asking. I’ll just drop the computer off and head back here. I need to be on-site all day Saturday to see that the job’s wrapped up nice and tidy. I may even have to work Sunday too.”

“Okay,” he said sulkily. “But I wish I could talk you into … ”

I cut him off. “Gotta go, sugar. I’ll leave all the data you need on the kitchen counter with the laptop. We’ll talk later.”

I clicked off, flopped face first onto the chenille bedspread, and breathed in the fragrance of lavender-scented detergent. Next thing I knew, the traffic report for the greater Jacksonville area blared out from the room’s radio alarm clock. It was six a.m.

My luck held all day Thursday—no earthquakes or hurricanes or suicide bombers—so I left everything in Wink’s capable hands and knocked off a little early. I reached the Causeway Bridge to Wrightsville Beach just as the sun began its westward slide into Bogue Sound.

Grabbing Will’s computer, I started the long trek from the parking area down the boardwalk that led to the house. I slowed a bit to savor the sea breeze on my face, the muffled sound of thundering waves, the crying of gulls and shorebirds working the beach. Maybe it was the angle of the late afternoon sunlight, but Seahaven seemed to shimmer in the golden light, a mirage that could disappear in an instant, which was the antithesis of how I’d always felt about it. In my mind, Seahaven was one of those houses that would always be there. Through hurricanes and zoning changes and generations, it would last.

I trotted up the steep wooden exterior steps at the side of the house that lead to the kitchen door. As I stepped in and set the laptop on the counter, I noticed a sliding-glass door that led to the front deck was open, a gauzy curtain blowing pleasantly in the breeze. “Anybody home?” I crossed the great room and slid the door closed. The house grew even quieter. I called out again. “Gladys? You here?” Then I heard it. A sound like someone had dropped something on the hardwood floor overhead—something small, like a pencil. “Will?” I headed for the stairs.

I went up and poked my head into his bedroom. Unmade bed, wet bathing suit on the floor in the adjoining bathroom. Like the great room below, the upstairs bedrooms on the ocean side all had glass doors that opened onto a deck running the complete width of the house, though the upper floor, and thus the deck, was cantilevered out an additional five feet. I stepped out on the deck, looked up and down the beach. Just a few late afternoon surfers. No Will.

I walked up the hall to the room I’d given Gladys only a few days ago. Here, everything was neat as a pin, the bed made, towels in the bathroom folded. A pang of anxiety made me walk to the closet to see if her suitcase was gone.

I opened the door, and that’s when a large man in a black ski mask surged out of the closet, knocking me down. I guess being flat on my back wasn’t conducive to rational thought because, like an idiot, I grabbed his sneakered foot and tripped him. Maybe it was just the instinct to protect what’s mine—or used to be mine. In any event, he went down like a felled tree.

“Umph!”

Don’t ask me what, but there was something suspiciously familiar about the man now scrambling to regain his footing.

“Robert Earle?” I said as I grabbed for the ski mask.

He dodged my hand, bounced to his feet, and jerked me to mine by my ponytail.

“Ouch! Stop that, you moron!” I kicked out with and caught him square on the shin with my field boot.

It was as if I’d poured lighter fluid on a charcoal fire. He bellowed, reached out with one hand and grabbed me by my neck with an intensity that told me he meant to kill me right then and there. With his other hand, he grabbed the waist of my jeans and lifted me off the floor. It didn’t take me long to realize he was planning to use my head like a battering ram and smash it into the sliding glass doors. I threw my hands up just in time to protect my face. My arms, shoulder and the right side of my forehead took the brunt of the blow He was grabbing me everywhere, hellbent on trying to swing me headfirst into that glass door.

But he wasn’t getting it done because I was kicking, biting, and scratching—anything to get out of his clutches. Finally, I managed to connect a knee with his crotch. Air whooshed from his lungs as he dropped me and staggered backwards. That gave me the second I needed to get out onto the deck.

I tried to hold the door closed. With ten times my strength, he rammed it open so hard, it all but busted from the track. Then, his fingers flexed like eagle talons, he began to stalk toward me. For every step he took forward, I backed up one, trying desperately to think of a way to escape this maniac. Suddenly, I felt the railing at my back. Trapped like a rat! I could always jump. Hell, no. The drop to the ground was twenty-five feet straight into a rock garden.

Before I had time to come up with a plan, the asshole charged me again. I dropped to my knees and shot between his feet like a rabbit. He lunged right over my head and into the railing.

Good old Bud and his knack for procrastination. With the sound of splintering wood, my attacker sailed right through the rotted railing and into the open air beyond.

My legs were too wobbly to stand, so I crawled to the edge of the deck. Then a creepy thought hit me. What if he wasn’t down there? What if he’d somehow landed on the deck below and was coming back up after me right now?

I leaned over the edge and peered down. Lucky break. The ski-masked Robert Earle was lying facedown in a group planting of yucca trees. And they don’t call the long, spike-tipped leaves Spanish bayonets for nothing.

I watched the prone figure for a moment. It didn’t move. I pulled out my cell, incredibly not broken. I told Bud when he answered to drop everything and get the hell over to Seahaven.