The Rocky Road to Ruin

by Meri Allen

  Chapter 11

  The next morning, I dressed in the thin sunlight and slid carefully out my door so I didn’t get ambushed by Sprinkles. Caroline’s door was open a crack, and I could see my furry nemesis curled up on the bed, both of them asleep. Good, Caroline needed the rest. I hoped she’d slept well. Maybe I wouldn’t even tell her about the campfire up the road last night.

  After I’d returned from the campfire, I’d fallen into a deep, dreamless sleep and had awoken thinking of Buzzy’s will. I remembered what Caroline had said about not being able to find one. Had Buzzy made a will? If she’d made one, where would she keep it?

  Inside Buzzy’s room, sunlight gleamed on the frame of the double brass bed. I stepped inside and ran my fingers over the soft fabric of the quilt—cheerful, colorful, just like Buzzy herself.

  There was a purple velvet–covered settee in front of the window, with a reading lamp and a basket of knitting. Bookcases ran along one wall, stuffed with books of all kinds—Buzzy was a great reader. On her bedside table was a Bible and a bottle of sleeping pills. Would Buzzy hide her will in her Bible? I flipped through its well-worn pages but found only a few bookmarks and some greeting cards.

  I moved to her bureau. The top was covered with bottles of perfume I’m sure she never used—she always smelled like Ivory soap and cinnamon gum. Some of the bottles were expensive brands, probably from Mike. I could see him picking up a bottle and thinking the expensive price tag made it a good gift. On the wall next to a wedding photo of Buzzy and Charles was a cross-stitch that read “Happy the man whose pleasures are cheap.” That was Buzzy.

  In a corner of the room was a purple velvet cat bed, three feet long and about that high. Sprinkles’ bed had carved wooden bedposts and curtains, like something Henry VIII would sleep in if he were a show cat. Now her attitude toward me—and everyone—made sense.

  I chuckled as I ran downstairs and laced up my running shoes. I headed up the hill, past the Love Nest where a police car stood sentry. A small blue sedan with Florida plates was pulled up to the cruiser’s driver’s side window. A rental. The two drivers were deep in conversation. It was no doubt a reporter trying to get the scoop on Mike’s death—no, I amended—on Angelica’s disappearance.

  As I ran, I tried to imagine being Angelica the night of the murder. What if the killer came after her too? Angelica was strong and athletic. She could fend off an attacker, get in her car, and drive away. But if this was the scenario, why didn’t she contact the police? Or drive down to the road to the farmhouse for help?

  I considered another scenario. Say Angelica saw that note. She’s angry with Mike. What if she’d been drunk? The wine bottle was empty. She’s drunk and angry and killed Mike. She’s desperate. She threw herself into her sports car and drove off. Where would she go?

  Penniman was full of twisty back roads, lots of little lanes where Angelica could’ve gotten lost. What if her car had broken down? Or hit something?

  My footsteps had taken me to the intersection with Town Road. Directly across, Farm Lane turned into Woods Road. I waited for a car to pass then jogged across the street.

  This road was even narrower and more twisting than Farm Lane, plunging at a steep grade with an almost-hairpin curve. At that curve, a driveway descended to a long-abandoned farmhouse and a pond where generations of Penniman kids skated in the winter.

  What if she’d missed that turn?

  I hesitated at the entrance to the driveway then jogged forward. Tall laurel bushes and overgrown weeds hemmed in the narrow, rutted strip of asphalt. My footsteps slowed as the angle of the drive grew steeper, then opened into a clearing where an old farmhouse stood. You’re trespassing, Riley. But there was no sign of habitation in the farmhouse, given its peeling paint, broken windows, and sagging porch. I stood in the clearing, looking over the pond. I remembered skating on the gray ice, cold winter stars pinpricks overhead.

  I turned to go. A patch of red by the side of the driveway made me freeze. A Porsche. The car was angled in the gully on the side of the drive—the tall weeds had hidden it from my view. It was tilted onto the driver’s side, its nose crushed against a tree.

  Oh god. I ran forward, pushed through the brush. I leaned carefully onto the car—the passenger side was now the top—and looked down through the window. My eyes adjusted to the dim interior and I realized with a jolt that I was looking at a body. Angelica. She lay motionless, crumpled against the driver’s-side door, her gorgeous brown hair covering her face. “Angelica!” I shouted and pounded the glass. She didn’t move, but my pounding made the car rock. I jerked back. If the car fell, it might jar her and injure her further, or kill her if she wasn’t already dead.

  My hands trembled as I called 911.

  “Nine-one-one. Where is your emergency?”

  “I don’t know the address,” I took a breath to steady my voice. “Down by the pond at the curve of Woods Road. There’s a car that’s run off the road. A woman’s inside. She’s not responding.”

  “Don’t try to move her. EMS is on its way. Watch for them and wave them down.”

  I ran to the top of the drive and waited, torn between needing to flag down the police and wanting to find a way to get Angelica out of the car. The police cruiser sped out of Farm Lane, across Town Road, light bar flashing. The blue rental car followed right behind.

  “Here!” I waved wildly to stop the cruiser. I ran down the path, skidding on loose stones, the officer on my heels, his equipment belt jangling. He peered in the car, and muttered, “Can’t move her. Might injure her more. We’re gonna need special equipment.”

  I tried to calm my breathing. How many days had she lain here? I counted back. The funeral was Friday and it was now Monday morning. How badly was she injured? The car was smashed against the tree. The impact must have been terrible.

  Sirens screamed in the distance.

  The man from the blue rental car ran up to us. He wore a polo shirt embroidered with the logo of a Boston television station. “Is that Angelica Miguel’s car?” He started toward it.

  The cop cut him off and herded us aside. “Stay out of the way. Both of you.”

  A Penniman fire department SUV with Fire Chief in gold lettering on the door panel rocked down the drive. The man from the Boston station started filming with a tiny video camera, giving a play-by-play. It took me a moment to realize that he was recording notes as he filmed. I held my breath as the sports car was swarmed by emergency workers.

  “How’d you find her? Look at this place. You’d never see the car from the road. Was she on the floor?” I realized the reporter was talking to me but I couldn’t speak, unable to pull my eyes from the scene.

  The newsman tsked. “Tough extraction. Did you see any blood?”

  “Yes,” I whispered.

  “I wonder if she’s trapped by the dash,” he continued. “They won’t break the glass, too dangerous. They’ll probably move the car. It’s small. Lots of people here. Yep, they are.”

  The crowd of rescuers surrounded the car and walked it backward away from the tree, setting it down gently. The driver’s door and front end were crushed, the windshield spiderwebbed with broken glass. An ambulance inched down the steeply angled driveway.

  A team powered up a generator and I jumped at the roar. Two firefighters examined the vehicle, searching for the best way to get Angelica out without harming her further. The noise of the generator forced rescuers to use hand motions to communicate as they worked.

  The reporter next to me flagged down a firefighter. “Who owns this place?”

  The firefighter shrugged. “Place was condemned a few months back. Nobody comes down here except partying kids or real estate agents showing the property.”

  The newsman jutted his chin toward the rescue team. “What are they using now?”

  “A spreading tool. She’s pinned under the dash.” The generator turned off abruptly and someone shouted for a backboard. The firefighter jogged over to assist.

  The f
ire chief leaned into the car, shouting Angelica’s name and pausing as if to listen. My heart rose. “She’s alive.”

  “You think so?” the reporter snorted. “After how many days?”

  Two EMTs with a backboard raced forward. The fire chief waved everyone clear. I held my breath as they reached into the car. Angelica, limp as a ragdoll, was placed on the stretcher and one of the rescuers gently secured her to the board with straps. I rushed forward but an EMT held me back, so I called, “Angelica!”

  Her head turned slightly in my direction.

  Angelica was alive!

  A crowd had gathered at the top of the driveway. As sirens screamed down Town Road, I felt a tap at my shoulder. Detective Voelker stared down at me. “Are you the one who called this in, Ms. Rhodes?”

  My mouth went dry. “Yes. I found the car when I was jogging.”

  “You jogged down here?” He frowned. “This is private property.”

  Dark aviator glasses hid his eyes and his mouth was set, but still disbelief and suspicion radiated off him.

  And I still had to tell him about the money jar … and the scarf.

  “Ms. Rhodes—”

  “Jack!” The fire chief beckoned.

  Voelker said, “I’ll be back.”

  Tom Snow shouldered forward, beaming, no doubt thinking he was getting tonight’s scoop. “You, ice cream girl! You saved Angelica Miguel’s life. One of the EMTs said she wouldn’t have lasted another day if you hadn’t found her.” Two women threaded toward us, one of them hefting a camera. “Can we talk to you?”

  In the crowd of emergency responders, I saw the officer who’d been first on scene talking with a reporter I recognized from CNN. He pointed at me.

  “Can you give us an interview?”

  There was nothing I wanted to do less. “Sure, give me a sec,” I said. “Let’s all meet down by the pond? The police detective wants me to talk to him first.” At least the last part was true.

  The reporters headed toward the pond, exchanging notes as they went.

  I mirrored the purposeful energy of the emergency workers around me, avoided eye contact, and slipped into the crowd heading up the hill. I jogged back home. Detective Voelker would be able to find me—Penniman wasn’t that big. Finding Angelica was an incredible relief, but I was nearly overwhelmed by a wave of anxiety. The police had one murdered man and one woman who was severely injured, and I was now connected to both of them.

  Chapter 12

  Caroline wasn’t home when I returned. I took a hot shower but my nerves still jangled as I tried to push away the memory of Angelica’s crumpled body. I changed into my one pair of jeans and a purple Will Work for Ice Cream T-shirt, then jogged to Udderly. It was just before nine o’clock and no one was there yet. I took three scoops of ice cream—one vanilla, one chocolate, one mint chocolate chip—doused them with Buzzy’s secret recipe hot fudge sauce, squirted whipped cream on top, considered the mound of cream and added more, then topped that with three maraschino cherries.

  Desperate measures were called for. I rummaged in a cabinet until I found a bag of potato chips. I grabbed a handful and crumbled them over the whipped cream then sat on the stoop outside the back door, hoping no one would talk to me. When stressed, nothing beats a hot fudge sundae topped with potato chips. It wouldn’t be long before Detective Voelker showed up and he wouldn’t be happy that I’d ghosted him. Was that against the law? Ghosting a police officer?

  There are no hot fudge sundaes in jail. I shoveled in a bite, savoring the fudge, cherries, whipped cream, and salty crunch of the chips.

  Caroline and Willow emerged from the Brightwoods’ house across the lane, talking intently, their faces flushed with excitement.

  Caroline spotted me and they rushed over. “Riley, have you heard? They found Angelica!”

  “Such good news!” Willow was practically dancing with excitement.

  Caroline’s eyes fell on my sundae and her brow wrinkled. “Riley, I haven’t seen you eat one of those since you flunked the chemistry final senior year.”

  I shoveled in another bite, then set the bowl down. “It’s great news.” I licked a bit of hot fudge from my finger. “I’m the one who found Angelica.”

  Willow’s eyes widened. “Where? How is she?”

  We went into the shop’s kitchen and I filled them in on everything that had happened—Caroline listening so intently she barely blinked, Willow gasping, her joy playing out across her face. We turned on the small television on the counter and listened for more details as we started prep work.

  Willow wrapped her arms around me. “You’re a hero, Riley.”

  There was a soft knock at the screen door. Detective Voelker’s broad shoulders filled the door frame. “Miss Rhodes, may I have a word?”

  * * *

  No surprise. Detective Voelker asked me and Caroline to accompany him to the police station. Once there, Caroline went into the interview room first while I waited on an exquisitely uncomfortable plastic bench. After a half hour, Caroline and Detective Voelker emerged from the interrogation room. He bent at the waist and swept his arm down the hallway toward me, a gesture that made me think of a country dance in a Jane Austen TV adaptation. Caroline’s lips curved in a smile. How could she look so relaxed coming out of an interrogation?

  “Ms. Rhodes?” Voelker straightened and gave a curt nod toward the interrogation room. As I brushed past Caroline, I whispered, “Did you tell him about your scarf?”

  “What?” Caroline blinked. “Of course I mentioned it. Shouldn’t I?”

  I winced and thought, Not if you don’t want to be arrested. I said, “Of course.” She’d just saved me from perjury. I hadn’t been sure I’d mention that the scarf on Mike’s body was hers unless the police asked. I didn’t want to do or say anything that would incriminate Caroline.

  The police department secretary nodded to us from her desk, a phone receiver up to her ear. She wasn’t talking and I was certain there wasn’t anyone on the other end of that line. She was listening to us using a time-honored eavesdropping technique. The nameplate on her desk read “Teresa O’Malley,” but I didn’t need it. Tillie O’Malley was known as the loosest lips in Penniman and the most flamboyant dresser. Her loose cascade of black curls were highlighted with streaks of blue and corralled by a wide banana yellow head band that matched the fabric in her tropical fruit–print top. Cat eye glasses in the same yellow and fire-engine red lipstick finished her ensemble.

  Caroline squeezed my arm and turned to the detective. “Riley’s a hero! She saved Angelica!”

  Detective Voelker’s expression didn’t change. “This way, please, Ms. Rhodes.”

  He let me walk ahead of him into the interview room, closed the door, and indicated a seat at a table. I took my seat and started to grip the arms of my chair but instead shifted my posture, straightening my back and leaving my hands loose and relaxed in my lap. Look innocent, I thought. You are innocent. There was something about this cop that made me feel guilty, probably that beard and sweep of almost biblical hair that made me think of the figures painted in the Sistine Chapel.

  Voelker took the seat across from me.

  “Will Angelica be all right?” I asked.

  He scrubbed the back of his head. Without his aviator sunglasses, I could see his gray blue eyes, the color of the ocean in winter. “We have no information yet.”

  Ah, the stone wall. “But she’s alive,” I prompted.

  He waited a couple of beats, cleared his throat. “Ms. Rhodes, walk me though this morning. You went jogging and decided to run down to an abandoned farmhouse on private property because…”

  When you put it that way it did sound bad. I took a deep breath. “We used to go skating there years ago. All the kids in Penniman did. I guess you’re not from Penniman?”

  He kept his look level.

  “Okay.” I cleared my throat. “I was thinking about Angelica, what she might’ve done the night of Mike’s murder. It’s a straight shot fro
m Farm Lane to Woods Road. I thought she might have missed that hairpin turn in the road.”

  “How long had you known Miss Miguel?”

  “I met her for the first time Friday, at Buzzy Spooner’s funeral.”

  He made notes and shifted in his seat. “Did you have a relationship with Mike Spooner?”

  “Mike?” I scoffed. “No. He’s my best friend’s brother. I was his pesky little sister’s friend. And after he left for college he never really came back to the farm much at all.” A relationship? Was he developing some theory that I’d killed Mike? Maybe in a jealous rage?

  Then why would I want to help Angelica? I could’ve left her in that crashed car. I almost said that out loud. If I were jealous I’d want her dead and gone too. Seriously, was he fishing for some kind of soap-opera resolution? Or, I considered, maybe he was keeping an open mind, unlike that reporter who had Angelica killing Mike and running off—though it sure looked that way.

  Voelker ran his hand along his jaw. Despite the touch of gray at his temples, his deliberate pace made me think that perhaps he was new to being a detective. He flicked through his notebook. “After you found Mike Spooner’s body, how long were you in the guest house before you called the police?”

  I blinked. “A few minutes. I had to find the phone. I didn’t have my cell with me.” Did they have a witness who saw me go into the Love Nest? Did they think I’d spent too much time in there? You were poking around, Riley.

  Was I a suspect? I swallowed hard, then remembered the wine bottle and the money jar.

  “When I was in the house, there was something about the wine bottle that was odd. But I don’t know what … and the money jar from Udderly was missing. Have you found it?”

  Voelker’s stony look said Who’s interviewing whom? “We’ll do the investigating, Ms. Rhodes.”

  * * *

  After I read and signed my statements—including the one from the morning of Mike’s murder, which I’d completely forgotten that I was supposed to do—Detective Voelker had a uniformed police officer drop me and Caroline back at Buzzy’s house. We rode in silence except for a quick call to make sure everything was fine at Udderly.