twenty-five
THE CELL PHONE NUMBER SENT ME TO THE VOICE mailbox. I dialed the office number.
“Scythe’s desk.” I’d know that gum smack anywhere.
“Crandall here.”
I greeted Crandall. “Scythe’s not around?”
“No, Sherlock, he’s not. What can I do for you?”
“He wasn’t by chance following me earlier, was he?”
“He has better things to do than babysit you, Sherlock.”
“Hey, Crandall, I’ve got a copy of the limited edition of Cher’s smash hits if you tell me where Scythe is.”
The long pause told me he was tempted. Finally, he smacked his gum. “No can do, Sherlock. You’ll have to wait to jump his bones.”
“That’s not what this is about!”
“Sure, then tell me what it’s about.”
I knew I should go ahead and lay out all I’d learned that morning to Crandall. After all, a cop was a cop. It wasn’t as if Scythe took me so seriously, but Crandall took me less so.
“Come on, you’re burning daylight,” he said.
I went through the autopsy result and being followed, my visit to the Van Dykes’ house. I told him I’d narrowed it down to Villita (rather, a hired hit man) or Van Dyke. He listened until I finished, then he laughed.
“You’re telling me you think a U.S. senator killed the Salon King to keep him from ratting out about whose DNA the kid carries because the son’s running for office and that might damage his campaign?”
“Or…it was Van Dyke,” I began.
“The lawnmower-turned-million-dollar-check-casher killed the Salon King to protect a secret that might be (a) that he and the wife were playing hide the salami decades ago or, worse, (b) that he killed the wife’s husband to get the moolah. Or both. The Salon King took money to keep his trap shut a long time ago but was about to renege on the deal. We don’t know why, but it could be because the rich ex-weed-puller is about to take on the Salon King’s secret son in said political race.”
“Right, sort of.” His sarcastic delivery made it sound far-fetched.
“And we have zero evidence of all this.”
“Well, you could probably get Sarah Johnstone Van Dyke to admit on tape that she gave Ricardo that money.”
“I hate to tell you this, Sherlock, but monetary gifts aren’t against the law.”
“But—”
“Sorry to say.” He paused to smack his gum. “I’m not buying this, but As the World Turns might, unless they’ve already used it as episode 454. The fact is, I think you’ve listened to the gossip of one too many bored housewives. That and all those hair chemicals you snort every day obviously form a potent combination.”
“Except—”
“Here’s some advice. Let us do the investigating. You go back to cutting hair. I hear you gave yourself a new ’do. Why not try another one if you’ve got some extra creative energy on your hands? I’ll tell Scythe you called. Try to stay out of trouble, would ya?”
He hung up in my ear just as I’d opened my mouth for my counterattack. Sure, he’d tell Scythe. And why did Scythe tell him about my new hairstyle? I could just see the two of them yukking it up. Muttering to myself, I threw my phone onto the passenger seat and checked the rearview mirror as I turned into the salon parking lot. I couldn’t see any dark sedans. Still, I leaped out of the truck and hustled to the salon door, wincing as I passed the dent on the panel, wincing again when I passed the bubble-gum blue Miata.
With the weekend approaching, the salon was buzzing with activity. Every stylist had a customer. Daisy Dawn had one set of nails in her chair and two waiting. I had appointments booked until six o’clock. I figured I was safe from bloodthirsty killers until evening. I didn’t think whoever was after me wanted to take on handfuls of women in perm curlers, foiled chemicals, and wet acrylics.
Or Mario.
The hero in question was regaling the lobby with the harrowing version of his narrow escape from death and how he saved me from certain doom. When I walked in, he nearly killed me with a bear hug.
“Where have you been? We’ve been so worried.”
The two women in the love seat whom I didn’t know nodded, eyes wide. Sherlyn had her thousand-pound shoes kicked off and was reviewing her pedicure.
Strangers were terrified for me. Employees could care less. How heartwarming. I turned back to Mario. “I took the long way home to make sure I wasn’t being followed.”
“Oh. It seemed like forever. I was about to come looking for you again.”
Darn. Lost opportunity.
“Thanks anyway. I’m home now to stay.” I left him to finish his tale.
One of the women sighed. “I think you look just like George Clooney. You know, he was on Regis this morning.”
I paused a step. Who was the hero now?
All my appointments wanted to talk about Ricardo. If they hadn’t seen the snippets of the funeral on television, then they’d heard about it and thought I was brave. I wasn’t sure if the bravery was for wearing the fuchsia spandex in public or for my challenge to uncover his secrets. Maybe a little of both.
I was blowing dry my last appointment—a point-cut wedge I’d dyed a lovely shade of R-3—when the phone rang. I’d sent Sherlyn home already when the salon cleared out, and Mario had gone into my house to make himself a snack. Scythe had never called, and I was tempted just to let the damn thing go to the answering machine. In the ensuing hours since my chat with Crandall, I’d decided that I shouldn’t share my theory with Scythe after all. It did sound ridiculous. Mike Van Dyke probably recognized me from TV and newspapers and hadn’t wanted a rabble rouser poking around his precious tropical garden. The car following me was probably just a heavy for Villita, there to tell me to lay off the little woman so she didn’t cry and run her mascara. He was probably the same guy who’d broken into my house and was likely behind bars right now, caught by the cop who’d been tailing us.
“Transformations, more than meets the eye.”
Traffic noise blared into the phone. “Reyn? This is Mama Tru. Is Mario there?”
I sucked in a breath to answer, but she went on before I could. “My Trans Am is broken down here on Loop 410 and Nacogdoches and—” Honk!
“Mama Tru?” I yelled.
“A*shole!” she screamed. “Not you, Reyn dear. I’m sorry.”
“Mama Tru, you just sit tight, you hear? I’m sending Mario to get you right now.”
“No, no. I know he has to protect you from getting killed—” Zoom. Beep.
“It sounds like you’re in more danger of that than I am, Mama.” Mario walked down the hall, half a sandwich with what looked like olives and portabello mushrooms hanging out of his mouth. “He’s on his way.”
I filled Mario in and shoved him, protesting, out the salon door, down the steps, and into the Miata. “Trudy and I will be back in a little while,” he said out the window. “She’s probably almost done at her job. Once I get Mama taken care of—”
“Don’t worry about anything, Mario. Look.” I pointed at the front of the house, where I could see a marked police car. I waved at the officer, who looked bored out of his gourd. He waved back. “I’ve already got company.”
“Okay.” Mario didn’t look too sure, but he drove off anyway.
I headed back to the salon, turned off all the fans, lights, and one curling iron (I’d have to talk to Enrique about that tomorrow). I set the alarm and went into my house. I wondered with a tinge of pique how Scythe had made out that day. I’d bet anything he’d gone through the list I’d given him, probably found the likely suspect and put him behind bars already. I probably was off in soap opera land, and they’d have a good laugh over me. Meanwhile, I was still having trouble reconciling the friend I knew with the man I’d come to know with my digging. I guess Scythe was right when he told me to leave well enough alone. I hated that.
The girls were crying outside. I let them inside and almost immediately heard a distant boom. They ran to the right side of the house. I followed, and we saw a plume of smoke coming from down the street, out of sight.
“Geez, if it’s not one thing, it’s forty,” I muttered amid the barking. Then I realized I sounded just like my mother and gave myself a mental slap.
I hurried to the front window. The cop car was gone. I thought he might be on top of things, but just in case, I thought I ought to call 911. I picked up the phone. It was dead. Maybe someone had hit a telephone pole. Did they still use poles, or did they bury everything underground? I guess I should be more on top of advances in general technology instead of just in hairstyling tools.
Where was my cell phone?
I remembered throwing it onto the passenger seat. Maybe Scythe had tried to call me on it. I forgave him. Sort of.
I told the girls to stay—which I doubt they heard, they were baying so loudly—then, grabbing the keys out of my purse, I went out the kitchen door. I retrieved the phone, saw I’d missed four calls, and entered my voice mailbox. Another boom echoed from down the street. I walked around the house to see if I could discern more before I called 911. Plus, I was selfish enough to want to hear my messages first. Scythe was the first call. “I don’t know where you are, but get home so I can get a guy on you. I’ll be there to talk to you as soon as I can.”
Hmm. Sounded like he might be taking me seriously after all.
Or just wanted me to stay out of his way. A more likely scenario.
I’d reached the front porch, when I looked up and caught sight of a pair of male legs behind the gardenia bush next to the steps.
“Well, well, what took you so long?” I asked, hanging up the phone.
“I had to wait until everyone left, stupid bitch. I’ve been out here all afternoon.”
I was just registering the fact that this wasn’t Scythe’s baritone—it wasn’t a baritone at all but a weedy tenor—when he leaped forward and put a vise grip on my upper arm. If I hadn’t been so busy assuming it was my friendly nemesis, the too-tan legs with knees too knobby to be Scythe’s (remember, I’d felt those knees) would’ve been a dead giveaway. Bad play on words, I thought, since dead is probably just how this guy wanted me. The girls were going nuts inside, banging their noses against the window. I heard sirens down the street. Oh, if only one of the police cars or fire engines passed by my house, maybe I could get someone’s attention. I struggled, kicking out and bucking with my body. He knocked the car keys and cell phone out of my hand; they both skidded across the porch and off into the flower bed. He wrapped his arms around me, and I saw he was wearing tennis whites and snowy Reboks.
Uh-oh. Maybe I shook the Van Dykes’ tree a little too hard.
“Damn, damn, damn.”
“Shut up,” he hissed, slapping a piece of duct tape over my mouth. Shoot, he’d taken away my best weapon.
Some petunias started singing the William Tell Overture. Now I could tell where my phone was, if I could just get this cretin off me. I kicked him in the crotch, and his grip loosened for an instant. I dove for the petunias, hanging my torso off the end of the porch. He grabbed my feet and sat on them. I searched the flowers, beheading them with abandon. The phone, with my superior luck, had stopped ringing. I felt eyes on me and looked deeper into the bushes to Rick and Laurel’s white cat, Merlin. I wondered why she wasn’t heading for the hills with all this noise, and then I remembered she was deaf. I was trying to send her a Dr. Doolittle message to run for help, when my fingers touched something metal, small, and cylindrical. Not the phone. I lifted it up and saw the can of pepper spray that I’d lost out of my purse when Jolie ran into me the morning Ricardo died.
Van Dyke was dragging me toward the front door. I drew my hands up at my chest to hide the can. We’d reached the front door, with me still facedown on the porch. I could feel him grab the back of my shirt, lifting me up. His arm was wrapped around my waist; his other hand reached up to grab my hands. I shoved them down. Up. Down.
“This isn’t a Laurel and Hardy movie.” He swore and grabbed my hair instead and pulled hard. Ouch.
“Open the door,” he ordered. I don’t know what he’d planned to do about the dogs that were ready to rip him limb from limb, but that wasn’t my problem. He wouldn’t get that far. I put my finger on the trigger of the pepper spray and twisted the doorknob with my other hand, opening the door just as I aimed behind me and sprayed.
“Aaaaaa!” Van Dyke let me go and fell back as I slipped through the door, shut it, and threw the dead bolt.
The girls were drowning me in dog spit. I ripped the duct tape off my face, taking some skin with it. Worse than ouch. I don’t know which of us was swearing more, me or Van Dyke. I peeked. He was writhing on the edge of the porch, trying to get his skinny tanned legs back under him, tears streaming down the right side of his face. It looked like I’d only gotten him in one eye.
Where was Scythe when you needed him?
I heard the William Tell Overture outside again. Damn.
I wondered if I could make it to the back of the house and jump into my truck before he got to me. The keys! They were in the petunias, too. Where was that extra set I had? Why wasn’t I more organized?
“That will be my if-I-live resolution—to get organized,” I muttered to myself as I ran to the kitchen. Char followed. Beau and Cab stayed at the window, barking at Van Dyke.
I yanked open my junk drawer and started throwing things out. No keys. Glass shattered at the front of the house. The dogs went ballistic, nails skidding on hardwood. Char booked it out the kitchen door to get in on the action. I was a little worried that one of them would get hurt fighting Van Dyke, but I knew they’d have him cornered in the living room long enough for me to get the phone and call the police. I ran down the hallway and caught sight of a gremlinish white ball of fur headed straight for me, right before I was nearly mowed down by my own three dogs. Legs tangled in crazed canines, I nearly fell as they raced up the stairs after what I belatedly realized was Merlin.
How did Merlin get into the house?
I seriously doubted he threw himself through the plate-glass window to save me, despite my Dr. Doolittle message. I felt a little guilty anyway, although I didn’t see any blood.
I heard Van Dyke picking his way through the glass.
I ran for the kitchen door and was caught again.
This time, I felt tears welling in my eyes at the hopelessness of it all. My dogs were upstairs, cat cornered, baying at the tops of their lungs. They could stay that way for hours. The sirens were drowning them out completely, so even the neighbors wouldn’t wonder about the noise. My cell phone was outside, and a murderer was inside with his tennis-fit arms wrapped around me.
Now I felt the point of a knife against my throat.
Well, I guess I could’ve hidden the kitchen knives while I was looking for my damned truck keys, couldn’t I? This guy was an opportunistic killer, just grabbed whatever was handy. Oleander. Brush pick. Kitchen knife.
That would be my second if-I-live-through-this resolution—hide all sharp objects in case I decide to go poking around in a murdered friend’s life again.
Maybe I wouldn’t have any friends left. If Mario and Trudy came back any time soon, Van Dyke might off them, too. Of course, I’d bet I was going first.
Panic threatened to overwhelm me. As usual, I was thinking way too much. I told my survival instincts to take over my brain. Screw thinking. Start doing.
Too late. I felt the duct tape going around my wrists, then taping my arms to my sides. I still had my legs, which I spread as far apart as I could. The knife then dug into the vicinity of my kidney. Have I mentioned I really hate knives—like worse than guns or snakes or needles? I could envision the blade invading my skin, diving into my organs. The vision paralyzed me. He taped my ankles together, then shoved me into a chair. And taped me into that, too.
“People can see me sitting here,” I pointed out.
“Right.” He looked outside and back to me like he’d had a plan all along. “And they’ll think you are enjoying a nice salad for dinner.”
“What salad?” I asked.
He pulled a Ziploc bag full of green leaves out of the pocket of his shorts. “Oleander salad.”
Uh-oh.