Three Can Keep a Secret (6 page)

Chapter Twelve

Once Lucy and Tess had retired to their apartment, I headed to the office, even though I desperately needed to hit the sack. A welcome refuge from the heat, the office was also where I could do a little confidential detective work. If Lucy was going to hedge whenever I asked questions about her husband, I’d have to do some researching on my own, or I’d never get any sleep at all.

I logged onto the Internet, eating another cookie, and went to AskJeeves.com, my favorite site for finding out whatever I wanted to know. I typed in, “newspaper articles about Brad Lapp,” and got quite an array of hits. I then spent at least fifteen minutes weeding out the articles about Brad Lapp the painter in New York City, Brad Lapp the actor in Philadelphia, and Brad Lapp the rodeo cowboy in Wyoming. I pared it down to articles in the
Intelligencer Journal
and the
Lancaster New Era
—the papers the Souders had suggested and which I should’ve checked to begin with—about the Brad Lapp I wanted.

Factually, there wasn’t as much as I’d hoped for. As far as the actual event and physical trauma, it seemed Brad tripped at the top of the basement stairs and fell down the entire flight, breaking his neck and irreparably damaging his spinal cord. The newspapers didn’t go much farther than that about the injuries, except to say Lucy quit her job a week later to stay home and take care of her now quadriplegic husband.

The motive angle was much juicier. Everything was suggested, from Lucy being angry over a lover to Brad indulging in drugs and mistaking the basement door for the bathroom. Insurance policies, past relationships, and disagreements over religious issues were all discussed, as well. But as the Souders had said, the most popular theory—strangely enough, considering the usual societal fascination with extramarital sex—was Lucy’s desire to run her own dairy operation. There didn’t seem to be much of anything supporting all the gossip, but that didn’t keep the newspapers from speculating.

A few weeks into the investigation the articles petered out, and the most closure I could get was that the police were looking for whatever help people could offer. Didn’t sound too promising.

A year later a new rash of articles appeared on the occasion of Brad’s death. The whole sordid affair was brought up again, and several anonymous sources complained that Lucy had not been questioned more closely. It seemed someone at the paper wasn’t afraid to damage Lucy’s reputation. Perhaps it was already damaged beyond repair.

A note at the end of Brad’s obituary mentioned that those who wished to contribute to a fund for the family could route it through Yoder Mennonite Church. I wondered if that was Lucy’s idea, seeing how she didn’t really like the church. It could’ve been a simple way for her to let Brad’s family receive comfort from their congregation.

I sat back, halfway frustrated and halfway relieved. I had been hoping for better information about the extent of Brad’s injuries and the event itself, and I sincerely wished there had been more of a sense that the investigation found the accident exactly that—an accident.

I also felt like a goddamned snoop.

I rubbed the back of my neck as I dealt with a very unwelcome reality. To satisfy myself I’d hired someone with true grief and clean hands, I’d have to go back to the source I should’ve stuck with from the beginning.

Lucy herself.

Chapter Thirteen

I was awakened by Queenie’s frantic barking.

I slid out of bed and peeked through my blinds. A dark shape sat in the drive, close to the apartment. A car.

A glance at the clock told me it was almost two a.m. Not a time for visitors. Any visitors who were expected, anyhow, or that Lucy would want me to see.

I pulled on some shorts and went down the stairs as quickly as I could, seeing how my Motrin had worn off. By the time I got to the front door Queenie’s barking had stopped, but I couldn’t see her. I reached out and flipped the switch in the front hall that floods the yard with light.

One figure—face hidden by a ski mask—held Queenie at bay, a blanket over her head, while another stood poised at the front of the garage. Both turned to gape at me, shocked by the light. The one at the garage, face obscured by a Donald Trump mask, ran toward the car, while the one holding Queenie let go of the blanket. Queenie untangled herself and lunged at the fleeing figure. She sank her teeth into Ski Mask’s calf, and a sharp cry of pain split the air as the person stumbled.

I ran into the yard, but when I got within twenty feet of Queenie, her victim kicked her in the face, dislodging her bite, and scrambled to the car. Spitting dust, the Grand Am, already pointed toward the road, raced away. There was no time to get a license number.

“Queenie, girl, you okay?” She danced around while I gripped her collar, her throat resonating with deep growls. A quick check of her face showed no injuries, and I breathed a sigh of relief.

The door at the top of the apartment steps flew open, and Lucy stood on the landing in an oversized T-shirt. “What’s going on?” The harsh floodlight did her no favors, her face looking pale and haggard.

I glanced toward the garage and wished I’d been half a minute quicker to interrupt our visitors. Sprayed across the doors in a bloody red were the words “WHORE,” “SLUT,” and an incomplete “MURD—”. I waved a hand toward the vandalism, and Lucy trotted down the stairs to see.

She stopped short at the sight of the graffiti, her hand flying to her mouth.

“Any ideas who would do this?” I asked. I had to assume the slurs were meant for her.

She remained still, staring at the garage. I turned toward the house. “I’m calling this in.”

She spun around. “Do you have to?”

The desperation in her voice was clear, but I’d had enough. “I’m not letting this happen to my property without reporting it.”

She looked at me for a few seconds before turning back to the garage. “Do you need me?”

“Don’t know. I’ll see what the cops say.”

Slowly, she climbed the stairs to her apartment. At the top she glanced back over her shoulder. “I’ll be waiting in here.”

Within ten minutes a patrol car pulled into the lane. I recognized the officer from the month before when my barn had burned down, but couldn’t place her name.

“Officer Stern,” she said, holding out her hand.

I shook it, holding Queenie’s collar with my left hand so she wouldn’t go after the cop out of frustration. “Sorry to drag you over here again.”

“No worries. Let me see what you’ve got.”

I took her to the garage, Queenie at my heels, and she sized it up. “Nasty words. Any idea who did this, and why they would say this about you?”

“Not about me. About my new farmhand. At least, she just came yesterday, and I’ve never had trouble like this before.” Besides, if I’d been sleeping with anyone, let alone multiple people, I sure didn’t know about it.

“How about the vandals? Did you get a look at them?”

“They wore masks, so I couldn’t see their faces. But they weren’t huge. I mean, not fat, not too tall. Five-nine or -ten at the most. And the way they moved they weren’t old. The one managed to get away from Queenie, and her teeth were well sunk into him.”

“Him?”

I shrugged. “Wasn’t much to the chest, as far as I could see, on either one, but it all happened pretty fast.”

Stern scribbled on her clipboard. “What did your employee say?”

“Nothing, yet.”

“Can I talk to her?”

“Sure. She lives up there.”

Officer Stern trotted up the stairs for a short conversation with Lucy. I stayed away, figuring Lucy might say more with me out of the picture. Stern soon came down.

“I’ll take a couple of photos and have you sign a complaint. If Detective Willard wants to take it further, he’ll contact you tomorrow.”

“Fine. They also left that.” I pointed toward the brown wool blanket that had covered Queenie’s head. “Don’t know that it can help you, but I sure don’t want it.”

She grabbed a garbage bag from her trunk and carefully placed the blanket inside it. Next she got her Polaroid and snapped pictures of each offensive word.

“I guess that’s it for now,” she said. “Let us know if it happens again.”

“I will. Thanks for coming out.”

“As I said, I’m glad to do it. Sorry it happened to you.”

“Can we paint over it?” I asked.

She considered it briefly. “It’s not like we’ll lift any fingerprints. And I’ve got photos. Should be fine.”

Her taillights disappeared down the lane. Lucy’s door remained closed, and I thought it best if I didn’t go up. If she wanted to talk, she’d be down there with me, not shut in her apartment. And I was angry enough—at the vandals and at her for bringing this to my farm—that I knew I’d say something I’d regret.

“You’re a brave girl,” I told Queenie, rubbing her back. “You done good.” She panted and sniffed my face, her eyes still sparkling with anxiety. I left her on the front step, her ears perked, eyes darting toward every tiny movement. She wouldn’t sleep tonight.

I snapped off the floodlights, immersing the yard in darkness. Then I went to bed, where I soon realized I wouldn’t be sleeping any more, either.

Chapter Fourteen

I sat in my kitchen the next day, my feet up on a chair, trying to cool off. Lucy and I had put in a full morning’s work—the garage was now completely white again, thanks to her heartfelt efforts—and I was hot, sweaty, and exhausted. Crabby, too, seeing as how I had a new employee who just might be a murderer and have some major issues with men.

I finished my scrambled egg sandwich and checked the clock. Lucy had left for the hardware store, and I decided I could use a break. Lenny had never gotten around to setting a time to meet Willard, so I thought I’d drive over to the Barn and see if he was ready to go. I hadn’t heard from Willard yet that morning about the graffiti, so taking Lenny to the police station would give me a chance to tell the detective firsthand about our night visitors. I drained my glass of milk, dumped the dishes in the sink, and went out to my truck.

Queenie hung her head out the window on the way to the Biker Barn, her drool splattering onto the extended cab’s window. She loved having an outing now and again, and the guys always liked seeing her.

Well, they liked seeing her when they were in good moods. This time, the door’s bell jingled and they yelled at me in stereo to keep the damn dog out of the store. After recovering from shock, I called to her and told her to stay outside. She acted a bit offended, so I assured her it was them, not her.

“Geez, guys,” I said, returning to the showroom. “What’s up with the attitude? You act like Queenie’s got mad cow disease.”

Lenny sat on the stool in front of the counter, his head in his hands. Bart stood behind the cash register, a smoldering cigarette threatening to dump its ashes down his shirt. Lenny didn’t even look up when I spoke.

“We had some visitors last night,” Bart said.

“Yeah?”

“The unwelcome kind.”

“Rats?”

Bart rolled his eyes. “This ain’t a barn, no matter what we call it.”

“So who?”

“Thieves. Burglars. Assholes.”

My eyes darted to the cash register. “They take much?”

“Never made it in the door.”

“So how do you know someone was here?”

“Back door’s a mess. They tried to break open the locks, but either the new ones we got are too strong, or the burglars didn’t have the right tools.”

“Didn’t the alarm go off?”

Bart shook his head. “Doesn’t sound unless someone actually opens the door or breaks a window.”

Lenny stood up abruptly and disappeared into the repair shop.

“Did you call the cops?” I asked Bart.

“And tell them what? Our locks worked great and nobody got in?”

“Your property was violated.”

“Like cops would care.”

“Why wouldn’t they?”

He squinted, annoyed. “Look at me. Do I look like someone the cops go out of their way for? Do you happen to remember how many squad cars showed up at the picnic yesterday when 911 got the call about that dumbshit Trey? Our club might as well have been a terrorist group.”

“Come on, Bart. It’s not like you’re a one-percenter.”

His eyes widened and he glanced toward the shop door, shushing me with his hand.

“What?” I said.

“Don’t talk about one-percenters around Lenny if you want to keep your head on.”

A one-percenter is something the AMA—the American Motorcycle Association—came up with. They published an official statement proclaiming that ninety-nine percent of the nation’s bikers are law-abiding citizens, while only one percent are the outlaws everyone is so scared of. Shows you how paranoid the average person is.

“What’s Lenny’s problem with them?” I asked.

“Seems to think they have something to do with this break-in.”

“Oh, come on. There would be a hell of a lot more done than just a messed-up door. The place would be burned to the ground. Or we’d be outside with gas masks cleaning up piss and vomit.”

Bart rubbed a spot off the glass counter with his finger. “I told him the same thing, but ever since yesterday, Lenny’s been acting weird. It’s like his former life has snuck up on him.”

I raised my eyebrows. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Bart looked surprised, then embarrassed. “Sorry. I’m shooting my mouth off where I shouldn’t be. Forget I said anything.”

It was my turn to be annoyed. “Okay. I thought we were friends, but if you can’t trust me more than that, I’m outta here.” I slid off the stool and headed toward the door.

“Wait, Stella.” Bart scurried around the counter, reached out to touch my arm, then thought better of it. “I’m sorry. It’s just, it’s Lenny’s issue here, and I’m not sure what’s going on. It’s driving me crazy, too.”

I sighed, rubbing my forehead. “All right. I’ll go talk to him myself.”

“Be careful.”

I swung the shop doors open, and Lenny jumped up from behind the Electra-Glide he was working on. “Geez, woman, don’t you ever knock?”

I gave a half-laugh. “You just saw me in the store.”

He pierced me with an irritated look and hunkered down beside the bike again, muttering under his breath.

Thinking he might talk if I gave him a little time, I wandered over toward my poor Low Rider and took in the sad specimen. Five weeks ago it had been a beautiful, shiny black machine, thundering around with the best of them. Now it sat mutilated and crumpled, sporting quite a list of injuries: bent fork, broken headlight and turn signal, bent front rim, dented and scratched tank, demolished saddle bags, and numerous other scratches and dings.

Actually, the dented tank was no longer in evidence, as my buddies at Granger’s Welding (Jethro, Jordan, and Jermaine), were giving it a fix-up for me. Only reason I could afford that treatment was because they would extend credit. They assured me they knew where I lived.

Other than that, only small things had been repaired since I didn’t have money to pay for anything bigger. I’d buffed out the polished aluminum as well as I could and detailed away dirt and spilled oil left over from the crash. Right before my wreck, Lenny had given me a great timing cover with a skull whose eyes actually lit up. Fortunately, it survived the crash. Unfortunately, it now looked like it had been thrown under the hooves of stampeding cows. My saddlebags were at a leather shop, where the guy was deciding whether they would be worth fixing or if I should just give them up and invest in a new pair.

Ugh.

I turned back to the part of Lenny’s head visible above the bike. “So did you want to go meet Detective Willard? You have a good excuse now, with the Barn being broken into.”

He peered up at me over the Electra-Glide’s seat. “Forget it. He wouldn’t do anything about it, anyway.”

“He’s a good guy,” I said. “He’d listen.”

“I said forget it! I don’t want to go.”

“Oookaaay,” I said, mostly to myself. “I guess I’ll be going, then.”

He grunted, not lifting his head, and I went back into the salesroom.

“Wow, Lenny’s really freaked out,” I said to Bart.

He threw me a “shut up” look, his cigarette losing ashes at the sudden jerk of his head. A customer stood at the counter, and we didn’t need to broadcast the Barn’s or Lenny’s problems. I shut up.

Not wanting to turn the knife in my biker heart by looking at parts, I studied the customer Bart was talking to.

He was bald, and since he was white you could see where his receding hairline ended even though he had recently shaved his head. You could also see every bump in his skull. It seems to me white guys should just stick to keeping whatever hair God gives ’em.

His face, at least, had a little fuzz. A closely trimmed goatee surrounded thin red lips and complemented the heavy eyebrows riding over his dark eyes. I shrugged to myself. I guessed a little hair was better than none.

He wore black riding boots that looked like they’d seen about everything, which matched the tattered black jeans worn tight on his almost non-existent butt. A black T-shirt with the sleeves cut off covered his chest where his leather vest wouldn’t have. I was glad about that, seeing as how his upper body was just as skinny as his lower. I would’ve bet my best milker his chest was the sunken kind that makes a person appear like they’re always stooping.

One item of his person I could appreciate was a fancy tattoo of a snake coiled around his right biceps. The snake was red and black and held its mouth open to reveal an extra-long forked tongue. Well done, but kind of nasty. I liked it.

The guy finally reached into his pocket and pulled out a wallet attached to his belt with a chain. He slapped a couple of bills on the counter and claimed whatever it was they’d been haggling over. Looked like a gasket kit, but I couldn’t quite tell from where I was standing.

The bell dinged on the door as the guy let himself out, and I went up to the counter.

Bart held up his hands defensively. “I’m sorry. This whole break-in thing has us both rattled.”

“But Lenny’s not acting himself at all.” I sat on a stool and leaned on the counter. “He seemed a little strange when he dropped me off at home yesterday, too, but nothing this aggravated. And he’d started out yesterday so relaxed, winning The Old Man’s Home and all.”

The repair shop door slapped against the wall and Lenny came barreling into the store.

“Are the people who own that bike complete idiots? Their oil is practically coal and they apparently haven’t even heard of air filters. Why don’t they just drive it out in front of a semi and be done with it?”

He disappeared back into the shop, but immediately returned, pointing at me.

“And what the hell are you still doing here if you’re not going to buy something? Bart has better things to do than stand around yapping all day.”

He marched back into the shop and we stared after him, dumbfounded. I’m pretty sure if a fly had come by right then it would’ve had no problem setting up housekeeping in my mouth.

“This is getting beyond weird,” Bart finally said.

I tore my eyes off the shop door. “What should we do about it?”

Lenny suddenly stalked out of the shop again, bellowing to Bart that he was going out. The little bell on the door smacked against the wood. By the time I got to the window, Lenny’s bike was racing out of the parking lot.

I looked at Bart. “What the hell was that about?”

“You think I know?”

I stared out where Lenny had disappeared, then shook my head. I guessed I wouldn’t be taking him to meet Willard that day.

“You sure you don’t want to report the attempted break-in?” I asked.

Bart nodded. “I’m sure. Lenny would probably kill me, and then the business would go down the tubes, anyway, so what’s the point?”

“You want me to stick around, in case the burglars come back?”

“Nah. They’re long gone. I’ll be fine.”

“All right. But give me a call if you need me.”

Queenie and I got in the truck, Queenie back to her usual happy self. My nerves were shot, and I was concerned about the break-in, but at least the guys’ problems had made me forget my own for a while.