Your Chariot Awaits (27 page)

I opened the door with a feeling of dread. Now what?

“I intended to call you in the morning, but I may as well tell you now. You can come to the station and pick up your limousine whenever you want.”

My limousine was a minor detail he'd forgotten
?
Then my big rush of joy overshadowed my indignation. My limousine. I was getting it back!

“I'm surprised the techs have released it this soon, but they have.” He sounded disapproving, as if he'd have liked to keep it squirreled away from my eager hands much longer. “You can stop by my office and pick up the keys.”

“Thank you!” Then, thinking about what they may have done looking for evidence, I asked anxiously, “Is it okay?”

“Mostly.”

And with that laconic comment, DDS Molino left me to spend the night sleeping in one of Joella's wispy nightgowns and worrying about exactly what that cryptic “mostly” might mean.

29

B
efore going to bed, we made a brace for Joella's sliding glass door by whacking off an old broom handle. I wouldn't put it past DDS Molino to come back and check to see if one was in place. In spite of the sags in Joella's secondhand sofa, I drifted off to sleep with surprising speed. Only to wake with a phone jangling somewhere near my toes and a disoriented
Where-am-
I?
feeling as I shot upright.

I scrambled for the phone before it could waken Joella, then hesitated a moment before picking it up. The red numbers on Joella's clock radio showed 2:10. Phone calls at 2:10 AM are not generally joyous occasions.

“Yes?” I said warily.

“Andi?” The voice sounded surprised.

“Fitz? What are you doing calling me at this hour?”

“I was calling Joella—”

“Joella does not need to be scared out of her wits by a strange phone call in the middle of the night!”

“You're right. But I was worried. I tried to call
you
several times this evening, and you were never home. I tried again a few minutes ago, and when you didn't answer at 2 AM, I started thinking of all kinds of terrible possibilities. So I decided to see if Joella knew anything.”

I flicked on the lamp. His concern was nice, but at the same time I felt a bit miffed that his imagination was so one-dimensional. “Didn't it occur to you that maybe I was, oh, out with someone, dancing on tabletops or swinging from chandeliers?”

“No, that didn't occur to me.” He paused as if trying to picture that.

Okay, it was a stretch. About as likely as Rachel's old Barbie Doll acing a Mensa test.

“But if that's what you do on dates, I'll need to practice up.”

“Oh, never mind.”

“So why are you at Joella's? She isn't sick, is she?”

“No. She's fine. Detective Sergeant Molino advised my staying here.”

“Molino? Why?”

“The sliding glass door wouldn't close because the frame was bent—”

“Bent? How'd that happen?”

“That's where the burglars broke in.”

“Burglars!” Then he gave a resigned sigh. “Okay, we're obviously going at this backwards. Start at the beginning.”

So I did. Band concert. Break-in. Night on Joella's sofa.

“You think this is connected with Jerry's murder?”

“Detective Sergeant Molino doesn't seem to, but I do. My diamond earrings and a watch were taken, so he seems to think it's just a generic burglary. But I think the burglar was looking for something connected to the murder and just grabbed those items as a bonus.”

I wiggled my mouth and stretched my jaw trying to get everything into shape. I read a list of differences between men and women not long ago. One was that men get up in the morning as good-looking as when they go to bed. Women deteriorate overnight.

“But let's talk about it later, okay? My head doesn't work right at this hour. Why were you calling me to begin with?”

“Can't I just want to talk to you? Hear your lilting voice?”

“I'm fresh out of lilt.”

“And also to tell you that I called Ben Sutherland's Shoreline Timber Products office in Bremerton before we left. I have some interesting information. We should be back at the marina by midafternoon—why don't you come over, and I'll fix dinner? Bring Joella too. She's never seen the boat.”

“Joella has enough problems to worry about without hearing about murder suspects.”

“We'll slip off alone for a few minutes.”

Hmmm. That sounded interesting. But then I remembered his son's less-than-enthusiastic reception the other time I was at the boat. “What about Matt?”

“He can find his own sidekick to slip off with,” Fitz said airily. “Actually, he has to run over to Tacoma on business and probably won't be there anyway. Seven thirty?”

“Sounds good.”

IN THE MORNING I left a note on the door telling the finger-print technician to go around back to get in. I was in too much of a hurry to retrieve my limo to wait around for him. Joella dropped me off at the sheriff's station on her way to work.

And there it sat in the parking lot, a long, black jewel gleaming in the sun, radiating power and luxury.
My
jewel! Calling to me the way those tempting nymphs that lived on rocks in the sea called to lost sailors. Of course, giving in to that pull tended to result in a watery grave for the sailors, so I dropped the comparison there.

But what I really felt like doing was proclaiming my ownership and doing a happy dance of joy around the car. Running my fingers over every glorious inch. Patting hubcaps and hugging fenders and sniffing leather upholstery. My limou
zeen
!

That first rush of glee abruptly floundered, torpedoed by the sobering memory of the open trunk with Jerry's body stuffed inside. I felt subdued when I walked inside the station and asked for Detective Sergeant Molino.

The officer on duty said he'd already gone out on a call, but when I stated my purpose, she pulled keys out of a drawer. She, unlike DDS Molino, apparently had no regrets about returning the vehicle to me. After I provided identification she dropped the keys in my hand with a cheerful, “It's a real beaut, isn't it? Have fun.”

My arrival home brought Tom, the vulture in plaid, to his front deck to take a good look. Even from a distance he radiated disapproval. I smiled and waved.

The crime-scene van was parked at the curb, the fingerprint person apparently inside. I didn't disturb his work.

Instead, with feelings carefully set on numb neutrality, I inspected the interior of the limo from end to end. I was braced to find that the technicians had done anything from tear seats loose to rip out carpeting in their search for evidence. I did find that the tarp mural had been removed from the ceiling and folded into a neat square on a seat, apparently so the technicians could search under it. That was a big plus. Saved me the trouble.

Finally all that remained was the trunk. I steeled myself as I lifted the lid, prepared for anything from bloody stains to a chalk outline.

Nothing like that, but now I saw what DDS Molino had meant. The trunk was not okay. It had been stripped to bare metal. What had once been a lushly carpeted compartment was now a stark metal cave, like something abandoned in a junkyard.

I had expected to feel panic or even revulsion when I looked into this space that had held Jerry's body. And I did feel a great rush of horror at the memory.
Murder.

Yet, oddly, what peering into this empty hole also did was fill me with a fresh surge of anger and determination. The killer wasn't going to get away with this, not if I could help it.

I had just shut the lid on the trunk . . . gently, a slam would have felt disrespectful . . . when JoAnne Metzger came running down the street, waving wildly.

“Andi, you got it back! Oh, and just in time. My niece's wedding is tomorrow afternoon. Can you pick her up and take her to the church, and then to Sea-Tac afterward?”

“Hasn't she already made other arrangements?”

“She'll scrap 'em for a chance to do it in a limousine!”

“But won't you . . . or
she
. . . mind, you know, about the murder?”

“Andi, it was an awful thing, but I don't see that it contaminates the limo. And it would just
make
Tanya's day to have a limousine for her wedding.”

I hesitated, but then with a certain recklessness thought,
Why
not?
It would be good to have the limo used for some joyful occasion to counteract the grisliness of what had happened in it.

On a practical basis, there was also the fact that I'd probably have to get the trunk repaired before I could sell it. Might as well let the limo itself earn the money to do that.

We settled on a price, something more affordable for JoAnne than the price the limo service outfits had said they'd charge her. She said she'd call me later with addresses and details. I unexpectedly realized I was looking forward to this.

I met the fingerprint technician coming out of the house. We exchanged a few words, but I didn't even try to get any information out of her. I knew she wouldn't tell. After she left, I called a retired guy who did repair work in the neighborhood.

What I unhappily learned when he arrived was that I needed a whole new sliding glass door. He managed to straighten the frame enough that, with sufficient application of muscle, this one could be opened and closed. It still couldn't be locked, but he fixed a rod to brace it. We agreed he'd pick up a new door and install it on Monday.

After he left, I just stood there for a moment, overwhelmed by both the unexpected expense and the cleanup job facing me here in the house. Then I sternly told myself to look on the bright side: the place needed a good going-over anyway. Think how I'd feel if I'd just
done
a big housecleaning, and then this happened.

30

B
y seven I wasn't done cleaning and putting away, but I quit to shower, change to clean white capris, and add a spritz of the almost-empty bottle of Eternity I hoarded for special occasions. Joella had agreed to come, so I called her when I was ready, and she met me outside. On the way I cut a big bouquet of daisies to take along.

“You've been working so hard. I can drive,” she offered.

“Oh, that's okay. We can take my car—” I broke off, and we looked at the elegant black jewel sitting in the driveway, then at each other.

Oh, yes!

I drove out of Secret View Lane airily confident of my ability to handle the limo, only to realize a few minutes later that the gas gauge was sitting on empty. And then to realize that I had no idea where the gas cap was located. I pulled into the first gas station we came to—unfortunately the busiest one in town—and Joella jumped out to look. And discovered I'd pulled in on the wrong side of the gas pumps, of course.

So then I had to back up, with the back end of the limo sticking out there like a long, black target in the midst of a demolition derby. Joella guided me, arms waving wildly, and I jacked the wheel around, feeling as if I were trying to fit a baseball bat into a keyhole.

Sweat ran down my back, and a muscle cramped in my leg. I barely squeaked by a gas pump, missed a fender on a Lincoln by an eyelash, and kissed a trash can into a wild rock 'n' roll. But finally I was lined up properly, though I was hogging two spaces at the tanks to do it. I got out, head ducked in embarrassment, only to be greeted with a round of applause from spectators.

I looked up in astonishment. I'd expected hisses and boos, but people were clapping and whistling as if we'd just put on a command performance. Joella laughed and acknowledged the applause with a sweeping bow . . . at least as sweeping a bow as one can make when thoroughly pregnant.

A young guy gave me a thumbs-up gesture—I was relieved it wasn't a gesture of a different type—and I returned it with giddy relief. Then I thought,
Why not?
and bowed grandly too.

I filled the tank and watched incredulously as the meter rolled up into the stratosphere while gas gurgled into Uncle Ned's oversized tank. He must have wanted to be able to waltz across Texas and back without stopping to refuel.

Fortunately, it was clear sailing out of the gas station, and we drove on to the marina without incident. Although I suspected the effect of my Eternity had been considerably diluted by the deluge of nervous sweat.

Fitz happened to be looking up from the boat when I pulled up to the front edge of the parking lot, and he dashed up to meet us. Behind him, though with considerably less enthusiasm, came son Matt.

“Matt didn't have to go to Tacoma after all,” Fitz said. “So he'll be here for dinner.”

Matt was looking at the limo as if his opinion of limousines in the neighborhood matched Tom's. “This is the limo your friend was killed in?” he asked.

Of course it was this limo,
I muttered to myself.
What did you
think, that it was my
other
limo?
But all I said was, “Yes. The sheriff's department let me have it back this morning.”

Fitz hadn't seen the limo before, and he walked around it admiringly, giving the tires the ol' testosterone kick. “Wow. Impressive. Want to look at the engine, Matt?”

“No.”

Fitz ignored his son's negative response. “Open it up, would you, Andi?”

I slipped back into the driver's seat and poked at various controls until I found a lever that released the hood. Fitz shoved his hands in the pockets of his khaki shorts as he inspected the engine, and I remembered what Matt had said about his father's mechanical expertise.

Standing alongside him I said, “There's the battery.”

“Sure is,” Fitz agreed with enthusiasm. We exchanged congratulatory glances.

Matt, however, reached into the engine and pulled out what I surprised myself by recognizing as a dipstick to check the oil. “Oil's clean.”