by J. R. Ripley
“No, I—”
“What? Who?”
Murray looked over his shoulder and across the pond toward Gar Samuelson’s place.
“Gar? You think he might have shot her?”
“No, of course not. It’s just that—” Murray hung his arms over the edge of the open driver’s-side window.
“It’s just that what?”
“Gar does not like what he calls in-comers.”
“No?”
“No. Why do you think the Fritsch place is still empty after all these years?”
“Because of Gar?”
“Anytime someone comes sniffing around looking to buy the place, he causes a fuss. Acts all crazy like, sics his dog on them, accidentally sends arrows flying into the side of the cabin. Once, he nearly hit some poor soul who was only out there to appraise the property. Not that it is worth anything. Not now.”
“Does he bother the rest of you?”
“No. We’ve been here long enough. He tolerates us.”
“But Yvonne didn’t live here. Her cabin must be nearly a mile away.”
“Not quite that far, I believe.” Murray shrugged. “Gar has been getting odder and odder as the years go by. Did you know the man rides around naked every full moon?”
I shook my head. A naked man in a wheelchair chasing the full moon? That was an image I could have lived without. “He seemed so…normal when I talked to him.”
“Come back on the next full moon. See what you think then.” Murray tapped the side of the door with his knuckles. “I guess I had better finish the lawn.”
I made a U-turn and headed back the way I had come.
The whole paying my condolences and setting Yvonne’s brother straight thing had backfired big-time.
“You just keep driving nice and calm, and nobody is going to get hurt,” came a chilling voice from the back of the van.
12
My foot hit the brake.
Hard.
“Hey!”
“Sorry!” I shrieked, spinning to see my assailant, who looked vaguely familiar—in an I’m scared to death and about to die so I don’t really have time to process who you are now, thank you very much kind of way—then spinning back around again to see where I was going. I had lifted my right foot from the brake pedal. That foot seemed to have a mind of its own, and it insisted on pressing the gas pedal to the floor.
We were accelerating quickly. Fifty miles per hour…sixty!
“Slow down! You’re going to get us killed!”
“I know!” I jerked the wheel hard to the right to keep from going off the side of the road and down the embankment to the left. It was a lot closer than it had looked on the way out to Yvonne’s house. The van’s tires spun in the loose dirt. The Kia wobbled. I turned the wheel hard to the left and then the right again.
“Slow down!” the man behind me hollered once again. “Stop already!”
“I-I can’t!” I shouted back. And I couldn’t. I wasn’t saying that because I was trying to scare him. I was probably more frightened than he was. “My foot is stuck. I can’t seem to lift it!”
The more I tried, the more my foot seemed glued to the gas pedal and the gas pedal seemed glued to the floorboard.
The man scrambled forward on his hands and knees. “Just lift your foot!”
We both looked in horror at a four-way interchange ahead. Cars were coming from every direction. Unfortunately, the nearest vehicle was a truck the size of Mount Rushmore. And probably just as solid.
For a quiet country lane, the world had become quite crowded. What were the odds?
What were the odds we weren’t going to be at the epicenter of a major collision?
I didn’t have time to calculate either of them. The next thing I knew, my attacker had squeezed his way up between the front seats. He gripped my right thigh and yanked.
“Ouch!” I cried as his fingers dug into my flesh. I closed my eyes because Mount Rushmore was getting closer by the second. I had always wanted to see Mount Rushmore, but not like this.
A car with a driver who had more guts than brains dove quickly through the intersection, moving at high speed from left to right.
“Hit the brakes!” the man commanded.
“What?”
“Never mind,” he growled, and the next thing I knew he was jamming his left foot down on the brake pedal, slamming his leg between my two legs in the process and callously mashing my foot.
“Yeow!”
The trucker at the wheel of Mount Rushmore leaned on his air horn and didn’t stop until he was a hundred yards down the road.
We skidded. The back of the van wiggled like a worm on a hot sidewalk, then came to a grinding halt at the side of the road. One driver slowed to ask if we were all right. Another stopped to ask us if we were crazy.
I smiled lamely at both. What was I going to answer? I wasn’t all right, and well, I wasn’t about to answer that question about crazy. There are laws in the United States about self-incrimination.
Besides, I had a vicious killer slash hijacker in the van with me. He probably preferred me to keep mum.
“Are you crazy?” That was my hijacker, not the anonymous driver of the car we’d come within kissing distance of sideswiping.
I spun. “You!”
The man in the van wasn’t a complete stranger. He was one of Lani’s musician friends. The one without the scraggly goatee.
“What are you doing in my van?”
“I wanted to talk to you. Now I’m beginning to wish I had never bothered.” He shoved a lock of blond hair from his eye. “You really are crazy, lady. Lani just might be right about you.”
“What? That I’m bad luck? Hounded by a cloud of evil spirits?” I jammed the van into park but left it idling. I was practically frothing at the mouth.
He nodded, which only infuriated me. “Something like that.”
“And what was the big idea of hiding in my van and threatening me?”
“Threatening you? What are you talking about?” The guy really did appear oblivious.
I scowled. “You told me to keep driving, and nobody would get hurt.”
He rolled his eyes. “Yeah, and look where that almost got me. It was a joke. You know, like in the movies.”
He had one hand on the dashboard and the other on the steering wheel. “I didn’t want anybody to see me talking to you. I don’t want word to get back to Lani. So when I saw your van parked at the side of the road, I popped inside and waited for you to come out. It took you long enough.”
“Sorry I kept you waiting. Next time there’s a hijacker waiting for me in my van, I’ll try to be more prompt.”
“Couldn’t hurt,” he replied oh too glibly.
I lasered my eyes at his left leg, which was still nestled between my right and left legs. “Do you mind?”
“Not at all,” he replied with a very annoying smirk. “But you’re gonna have to let go first.”
I blushed bright red. In my fear, I had locked my legs around his. I quickly pulled them apart. “There.” I gestured to the passenger-side door. “You can leave now.”
A bead of sweat ran along his hairline. He swiped it with a finger, then wiped the finger on his jeans. “We need to talk first.”
His hair was sun-bleached and his skin suntanned. His eyes were as blue as a woodland kingfisher’s plumage. It made me uncomfortable when he looked at me because his leg had been way too close to my crotch.
“Can we go somewhere?”
“Sure,” I said, feeling my courage return. Slowly, but surely. “How about the police station, where we can talk about how you broke into my van and hijacked me?”
This caused him to chuckle. A not unpleasant sound. “And how you tried to kill us both? Besides, the van wasn’t locked, so technically that’s only enter
ing.” He wagged his finger at me. “No breaking.”
I fumed.
He glanced out the rear window. “You know, it wouldn’t surprise me if somebody hasn’t already called the police about that little stunt of yours.”
I felt a prickle at the back of my neck. I did not need Jerry Kennedy giving me grief over my driving skills.
“Look,” he said softly, no doubt feeling he’d won, “how about if we go somewhere and have a beer?”
When I failed to reply, he added, “My treat.”
“I’m not sure we have anything to talk about, Mister—?”
“Phillip Sloan.” He extended his hand. “Call me Phil.”
I had picked out a lot of names for him since discovering him hiding in my van, and Phil wasn’t even close to being one of them.
“And you’re Amy. Simms, wasn’t it?”
Phillip Sloan settled back into the passenger seat and buckled up. Whether that was his usual practice or a reflection on my driving, I couldn’t know. “So, know someplace we can get a beer? How about that truck stop out by the highway? I noticed it when me and the guys drove into town.”
“Truckee’s,” I said, reluctantly shifting into drive. “Fine. But I still don’t see what we can conceivably talk about. Your buddy, Lani, has made it clear that he doesn’t like me. What can we possibly have to discuss? Did Lani put you up to this? What’s his game?”
“Lani doesn’t know I’m here.” Phil wound his window down an inch or two to let some cool air in as we moved. “I told him I was hitching into town to scope things out.”
“In the back of my van,” I said.
“It worked out great seeing your van parked outside that old guy’s cabin.”
“Mr. Arnold wouldn’t appreciate being called old.”
Phil merely shrugged. “How old is the guy? Sixty? Seventy?”
Phil was probably correct in his guess. He looked all of twenty-five, so Murray was probably ancient in his eyes.
“If Lani didn’t put you up to this, what is it you want to speak to me about?”
“Isn’t it obvious?”
“No, it is not.”
“Yvonne, of course.”
“I barely knew her.” I glanced at him quickly, then took the on-ramp. Truckee’s was only an exit away. “I am sorry she’s dead.”
“Me, too,” Phil said. He looked straight ahead toward the mountains.
I cast nervous looks in my rearview mirror. Phil’s words had gotten to me. Chief Kennedy or one of his minions could show up any minute, lights flashing.
“I think Lani killed her.”
My foot slammed down on the brake pedal. We both flew forward.
Phil cursed me.
The car riding my butt honked furiously. I lifted my foot and accelerated. “Sorry! Sorry!”
The exit ramp was coming up quickly. I put on my blinker and slid over as the car behind me raced past.
“What did you say?” My heart was thumping so strongly, my tongue vibrated with each beat.
“I said I think Lani killed his sister.”
Strange words coming from Lani’s friend.
Truckee’s Road Stop sprawled over several acres of pitted blacktop and several more acres of gravel and dirt. It was owned by Greg and Martha Tuffnall. Greg’s granddad had built the place by hand, and a Tuffnall had been running it ever since.
Greg was an old schoolmate of mine. The two had been married only seven years but already had three kids.
Some people’s lives moved faster than others. I was single with zero kids.
I pulled up to a spot in front and climbed out. Though there was a separate bar, I led Phil to the diner, and we grabbed a table.
“Are you always so skittish?” Phil asked once the waitress had delivered two cold beers.
“What do you mean?”
Martha, a stout woman in her forties, waved from the serving window. I waved back.
“The way you reacted to finding me in your van.”
“You were hiding in the back of my van. How else would you expect a person to act?”
“Well, not so crazy, I guess.”
“I thought you were Spenner.”
“The convict?” Phil looked both amused and confused. “What would he be doing in the back of your van?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Trying to escape? Trying to murder me? Maybe take me hostage?”
“Wow.” Phil’s head bobbed up and down. “You’ve got a vivid imagination. Not to mention an overinflated opinion of yourself.”
“Me?” I said indignantly. “Look who’s talking! You’re the one who thinks Yvonne’s brother murdered her.”
“How about keeping your voice down?” Phil looked anxiously around the simple, no-frills, no-nonsense dining room, filled mostly with truckers intent on their food and the TV monitors playing every sport imaginable.
“How about telling me what’s going on?” I noticed I was drinking faster than Phil. I slowed down and munched on some salty bar mix that the waitress had supplied in a paper-lined basket.
“What makes you think Lani killed his sister? In the first place, he is, was, her brother. In the second place, and it’s a big one, he was in L.A., from what I hear. You all were, right? Don’t tell me he did it telepathically.” Maybe this guy in front of me was the killer and was merely trying to confuse me.
If so, mission accomplished.
Phil ignored the taunt. “Sure, we’re from L.A. But that’s not where we were.”
I felt a tingle. “Oh?”
“We had a gig in Charlotte.”
That got my attention. “Charlotte, North Carolina?” That was less than a two-hour drive from Ruby Lake.
“You know another one?”
“Not offhand.”
He nodded and fisted his glass. “After the gig, Lani left with some chick he met.”
“When was this?”
Phil eyed me steadily. “The night Yvonne was murdered.”
“And you think Lani, your friend, pulled the trigger?” I leaned back. “Why?”
“Lani’s got a temper. Don’t get me wrong. He’s one of my best friends, but Yvonne…well, she was special.”
“You cared for her?”
“You could say that.”
I didn’t bother saying that I just had. “You’re the one she was trying to escape from.”
Phil banged his fist on the table. “That’s a lie!” He leaned close. “Who told you that?”
“Yvonne told somebody. That somebody told me.” I wasn’t about to give this unpredictable hothead Murray’s name.
“She wasn’t escaping me,” Phil insisted. “We were simply taking a little time off from each other.”
“I see.”
“No, you don’t, but it’s the truth. You see, Yvonne and me, we sort of grew up together.” He drew a Y on the table with his finger. “We were meant to be together.”
This guy was spooky.
Was that a tinge of something deeper than sadness I noticed in his eyes? “What time was this gig of yours?”
“About five o’clock. We played the happy hour at a local brewery. We finished at seven.”
While happy hour was technically illegal in North Carolina, it only meant that establishments could not offer free or reduced-price drinks. They could, however, offer food specials.
He rattled off the name of the place. I’d never been inside but remembered seeing it downtown near the Charlotte Hornets’ basketball arena.
Phil’s face suddenly lit up. “Hey, you should come check us out sometime. We play traditional Hawaiian music with a modern flair. Sort of like Don Ho meets the Beach Boys meets Prince.”
“Thanks.” I couldn’t begin to imagine what Phil had just described. Two guitarists and a bongo player performing a ma
shup of those three disparate acts? I wasn’t going to commit myself to anything.
“We’re playing a spot in downtown Wilmington next Saturday.”
Wilmington was along the North Carolina coast. “You guys are a long way from L.A.”
“Lani lined us up a whole string of gigs out this way.”
“How convenient.”
Phil merely shrugged. “We try to get around.”
Still, Yvonne moves to town, and Lani and his band show up soon after. Shortly after that, his sister is dead. Phil might have been onto something. “So you believe Lani had plenty of time to drive to Yvonne’s cabin?”
“I wasn’t sure until we drove out here.”
“When was that?”
“The morning after the murder. Lani got a call from your police.”
“Do you remember? Did he seem upset?”
“Well, yeah, I guess he sort of did.”
“That doesn’t sound very convincing.”
“Lani doesn’t show his emotions.”
“He sure showed them to me.”
Phil chuckled. “Maybe it was all an act.”
I was wondering if I had been witnessing an act myself the last twenty minutes. “Meaning?”
“Meaning he wanted to stir things up. Create some confusion. You were convenient. Plus—” He swallowed a handful of pretzel-and-nut mix and chewed while I hung there waiting. His Adam’s apple bobbed up and down; then he said, “Plus, he said he’d heard things about you.”
“What sort of things?” I could only imagine. “Not good, I’ll bet. From whom?” I demanded.
“I have no idea. Ask Lani.”
“I just might.” My fingers drummed the table. The waitress had taken Phil’s side and brought two beers. I ignored mine. “Do you remember what this woman Lani left with looked like? Did you get her name?”
“A hot blonde. I didn’t get her name.”
“Did they leave together? Did you get a look at her car?”
“Never saw it. Lani had our van. Maybe they went together. Maybe they drove separately,” he said unhelpfully.
“He abandoned the two of you?”
“It was no big deal. It’s part of the code. If one of us meets someone special, the others fend for themselves. We hitched back to our motel and crashed.”
