Peach Clobbered

by Anna Gerard

  I recalled Daniel’s offhanded remark about both the ladies and the men admiring Harry. But no way was I going to fall into that politically incorrect trap by asking the man about his actual orientation. Instead, I asked, “Did it work?”

  “She just laughed and said I wouldn’t be the first gay man she’d turned straight. In fact, I think it made it more of a challenge for her. I couldn’t turn my back on her without her grabbing my butt … or other things.”

  “And no, it’s not a compliment,” he added, apparently worried I was going to laugh. “That woman is a predator. I seriously considered quitting every single day, but like I said, I needed the cash.”

  “Hey, I feel your pain,” I said with an ironic snort. “Not too many guys have the bad luck to experience firsthand the crap that women have been dealing with for years. But back to Jack. My cray-cray story is a whole lot different.”

  I told him what Jack had said about the needed repairs to his great-aunt’s house, and the fact that nothing the carpenter turned ice cream mogul had mentioned as being a problem actually was. When I finished, Harry shrugged.

  “Maybe the real estate agent had her own people fix it,” he suggested. “Or maybe there wasn’t anything wrong, and that was an excuse to see you alone.”

  He waggled his eyebrows suggestively, the gesture momentarily reminding me of Mason Denman. Except that Harry was taller and younger and more handsome. And probably not gay.

  I shook my head. “I already asked Mason over at Weary Bones about that, and he said no way would Jack step out on his wife. No, I’m thinking maybe there’s something that has to do with the house. He and Jill thought about buying it, you know. And Jack said a while back he did some repairs to some of the paneling.”

  “Hmmm … that sounds like a subplot of a movie I was in called House of Death. So you think maybe he saw something hidden in the wall while he was doing his fix, and now he wants to go back and get it?”

  “Yes … maybe … I don’t know.”

  Put that way, my theory sounded pretty idiotic. Unless it somehow tied into Bainbridge’s death, and the possibility that Harry was actually the intended victim.

  “Okay, this is even crazier than your movie,” I warned him. “Is it possible that Jack thinks you know about whatever is in the house that he’s trying to find a way to steal, and he wanted you out of the way so when he located it, no one would know it came from your great-aunt’s place?”

  “You’re right,” he replied in an admiring tone. Then, before I could bask in that unexpected praise, he slanted me a look and clarified, “That is crazier than my movie.”

  “No crazier than you claiming that you might have been the intended victim.”

  He didn’t reply to that, his expression suddenly shuttered. Pleased I’d shut him down, at least temporarily, I took another swig of cold water. Why had I thought that Harry Westcott, of all people, could help me unravel my twisted thoughts? But even as I indulged my pique, something in his manner caught me short.

  “Hold on. There really is a reason you think Bainbridge’s killer was targeting you, isn’t there?”

  He slowly nodded. “It’s like this. I’ve got a stalker, and I can’t get rid of her. She’s been following me for almost two years now. At first, it was kind of amusing. I mean, I’m not Brad Pitt or George Clooney or Denzel Washington. I’m just your everyday C-list … okay, D-list … actor. Actually, I kind of felt like having someone obsessed with me put me in the big time.”

  “Big mistake, huh?” I said.

  He sighed.

  “After a few months, every role I landed, somehow she managed to get into a crowd scene, or she was serving food at craft services or something. Most of the time she didn’t even say anything, wasn’t even close enough to touch. She was just always … there.”

  He hesitated, looking suddenly pale despite his tan.

  “But about two months ago, things got pretty freaking scary,” he continued. “It happened outside my motel in Austin. It was close to midnight after I’d left the set, and she was waiting in the parking lot for me. She opened this long raincoat she was wearing, and all she had on beneath it was her underwear. At first, I thought she was flashing me. Then I noticed this huge knife she had stuck in this fancy red garter she was wearing.”

  I reflexively caught my breath, picturing that scene in my head. But his next words were what sent a shiver through me despite the morning heat.

  “She looked me right in the eye and told me that if she couldn’t have me, then she’d make sure no one else could either.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  “Wow,” I said, a bit inadequately, given the situation.

  He must have taken my muted response as disbelief, for he shot back, “So you think I’m imagining this wacko? You think I made up that whole knife thing?”

  “Not at all,” I hurried to reassure him. “Look, my ex-husband is a pro golfer. I know all about the gallery girls. And the ones the pros always joke about belonging to the PGA—the Party Groupie Association. And lots of names worse than that. Some of those ladies can turn pretty psycho. I remember one time back in Dallas when—”

  “Hold on,” he cut me short. “Your ex is Cameron Fleet? The golfer, Cameron Fleet?”

  “I don’t like to spread that around, but, yes. Why, do you know him?”

  “I shot an allergy medication commercial with him last fall. You remember the one.”

  Of course I did. In fact, I’d given up network TV for a couple of months to avoid watching a high-def version of Cam pop up once every sixty minutes during prime time. But I didn’t remember seeing Harry in it.

  “I don’t remember seeing you in it.”

  “Yeah, well, I was there.”

  Harry popped out of his chair and stood slightly bent, arms straight and hands clasped as if he were clutching an imaginary golf club. In a quite credible imitation of Cameron’s good-old-boy drawl, he repeated the product’s familiar phrase, “No sneezing … no wheezing. Life is pleasing.”

  He paused to sink the imaginary putt, and then looked up again, this time flashing an uncanny version of Cam’s trademark shit-eating grin. “Do like I do,” he continued in his Cameron voice. “Take an Allergone before you take on the outdoors.”

  He straightened again, abruptly coming out of character.

  “I was hired to play his caddie,” he explained, a hint of remembered outrage coloring his tone. “In the original version of the commercial, I had a line right after he made his shot. ‘Great putt, Mr. Fleet,’ was what I said, and then we were supposed to high-five.”

  Harry slumped back into his chair again. “Turns out your ex didn’t like sharing the spotlight, so after the first take he had a little talk with the sponsor. Next thing I know, I’m hanging out over at craft services while the great Cameron Fleet does a solo performance. He cost me a decent chunk of change that day.”

  I felt Harry’s pain. Good old Cam had cost me a decent chunk of change, too … and a pretty big helping of self-respect on top of that.

  “Yeah, he’s pretty much a jerk when the camera isn’t on him,” I commiserated. Then, recalling the true issue at hand, I went on, “So what about this stalker woman? Do you have a name, a description?”

  “Her name’s Lana … I think her last name’s Harwood, but she might have been lying about that. Hell, she might have lied about the Lana part, too.”

  “And what does this maybe-her-name-is-Lana-and-maybe-it’s-not look like?”

  He shot me an annoyed look but answered, “Caucasian, probably in her fifties, about your height but heavier. Not fat or anything,” he hurried to qualify, probably worried that I might go all militant female at the mention of a woman’s weight. “Her hair is blonde … except sometimes it’s brown. Oh, and once it was red. I don’t know if she dyes it or if she wears wigs. She’s pretty. Not so good-looking that you’d turn and look at her on the street or anything, but not bad.”

  I suppressed a snorting little laugh. “S
o, basically, she looks like almost every other middle-aged white stalker woman in the country.”

  “Except that she’s got this cutesy tattoo on her left arm. It’s a bunch of dancing gummy bears in different colors wrapped around her bicep.”

  I straightened in my chair like I’d been jabbed in the back.

  “Not gummy bears,” I slowly said as realization hit. “Grateful Dead bears … the marching cartoon bears like off that old rock album. My uncle had a tattoo like that. The fans who used to follow the band around to all their tour stops were called Deadheads, and those bears were this sort of this calling-card icon for them.”

  “So she likes musicians, too. What’s that have to do with me?”

  I swallowed hard. “Your friend Lana is right here in Cymbeline. And this time she’s a brunette. I talked to her myself. She’s the woman who flagged me down to tell me that you … well, Bainbridge … had been stabbed.”

  Harry was silent for a long moment. Finally, I asked, “Did you mention anything to the sheriff about this Lana person?”

  He shook his head.

  “Well, what are you waiting for? We should let her know that we’re pretty sure who murdered Gregory, and that up until yesterday she was still in town. Right?”

  Instead of answering with a rousing Right! as I expected, he said, “I’ve got an idea. Give me fifteen minutes.”

  “I’ll give you ten,” I told him as he leaped to his feet and started for the bus. “If you’re not back by then, I’m going to tell Sheriff Lamb about her myself.”

  While Harry was busy doing … well, whatever … I pulled out my phone and swiped on the news-feed headline that had announced the sheriff’s press conference. Not that watching it was going to distract me from the realization that I might have been literally hands-on with a crazed murderer the day before.

  As usual, start time for the live event was running behind. But the camera was panning the square, and I could see that the place was literally packed. Every parking spot except those blocked for official business—sheriff’s department vehicles, the town council’s cars—was taken. No fewer than four satellite trucks rounded out the media circus, with dishes raised high looming over everything.

  As I squinted at the screen, Melissa Jane Green and the rest of the town council, followed by the sheriff, all made their way up the bandstand steps. Melissa Jane spoke first, bellying up to an elaborate, carved wood podium that I suspected had been borrowed from Mason’s antique shop.

  She introduced herself and talked about the virtues of the town and its people, saying how shocked we all were by this intrusion of big-city life. Finally, she wound down and introduced Sheriff Lamb, who took the podium radiating cool professionalism.

  After a few words of thanks, the sheriff began reading what I assumed was the official statement. An instant of panic flashed through me as I wondered if she’d mention any witness names … most particularly, mine. The last thing I needed was a herd of reporters converging on the house trying to get first-person accounts out of me. And certainly I didn’t want my nuns subjected to the same craziness, either.

  And what if this Lana person put two and two together and figured out who I was? Harry might not be the only one who had to worry about knives in the night!

  But to my relief, Sheriff Lamb mentioned only “witnesses” and “concerned citizens” when explaining how the crime scene had unfolded. Of course, I wasn’t naive enough to think I wasn’t going to see some blowback at some point. The Cymbeline Sentinel was bound to send a reporter my way sooner rather than later. But with luck, the sheriff would make an arrest before that happened.

  I’d just listened to a brief description of the dead man’s fatal injuries when a quavering voice beside me said, “Young lady, can you possibly help me out?”

  I was on edge enough over the whole Lana situation that the unexpected question made me jump. However, the speaker wasn’t a middle-aged female stalker. Instead, he was a grandfatherly type wearing baggy khakis, a loud plaid dress shirt, clip-on sunglasses, and a golf cap, and he was leaning over me.

  More to the point, he was actually leering down the neckline of my shirt, which, given the way I was slouched in the lawn chair, gaped wide open.

  I promptly sat up straight to block his view. Now I understood why Mama had always admonished me not to slump.

  “What can I help you with?” I snapped.

  He pointed an unsteady finger past the parking lot. “I hear sumpthin’s goin’ on at the square this morning. Do you know what?”

  “The sheriff is holding a press conference about yesterday’s murder. There’s press here from all around the state wanting to know—Harry?”

  The man whipped off the glasses and gave me a broad wink. Sure enough, Grandpa Lech was actually Harry in disguise. I stared harder, realizing that the transformation had been done with little more than a wig and cap and old man’s clothes. He wasn’t wearing any makeup, but had I not been so close to him, I wouldn’t have noticed the lack of wrinkles and liver spots. The attitude he projected was more than sufficient.

  “All right, you got me. Pretty impressive,” I told him. “But what’s the point?”

  “The press conference is still going on, right? You know how they say that arsonists have a habit of sticking around to watch the fires they set? Maybe Lana will be on the square trying to find out if anyone suspects her. And she’ll probably be looking for me in the crowd while she’s at it. We should head over there and see if we can find her first.”

  Which kind of made sense. Except I had a feeling that Sheriff Lamb wasn’t the sort to appreciate amateurs sticking their noses into official business. And what were we supposed to do if we spotted Lana? Pull a citizen’s arrest or something?

  Harry must have sensed my hesitation, for he pressed on.

  “Look, Nina, you’re not the one who’s in danger. You think I want to spend the rest of my life looking over my shoulder and waiting for her to stick a knife into me for real? We can’t count on Connie and her guys being able to find this woman, especially when I don’t know her real name or what she really looks like. Heck, that ridiculous bear tattoo might be a sticker, for all we know. The best chance of her being found is for you and me to do the legwork.”

  Bad idea. Really bad idea, I told myself.

  “Fine, I’ll do it,” I agreed, and stood.

  Because, when it came down to it, this Lana person also knew that I could put her near the scene of Bainbridge’s murder. If she had really done the deed, and she learned that Harry and I knew each other, I might be added to her list of not-so-favorite people. And knowing how the woman dealt with frustration, that was one list I didn’t care to make.

  “The sheriff still has the mike,” I told him, taking another look at the live video. “If we get moving, we’ll be there before the press conference is over.”

  But Harry apparently was working from a different playbook than me. “Speaking of moving,” he interjected, “hang on a minute.”

  Sliding on the old-man sunglasses again, he trotted over to the back of the bus, opened the rear door, and pulled out what at first glance looked like a giant spoked wheel. As I watched, he fumbled with the contraption for a moment, unfolding it into what I realized was one of those lightweight wheelchairs. He relocked the bus door and then rolled the chair over to me.

  “Voilà,” he said with a wave of his hand as he sat down in it. “This is guaranteed to give us a free pass anywhere at the press conference. So how about a push?”

  “Seriously?”

  “Why not? It’s been about five years since I’ve used this thing. I bought it at a thrift store to practice for the role of a paraplegic soldier. I got pretty good with it—heck, I could even pop a wheelie—but it’s been a while. Besides, poor old Grampy Westcott isn’t nearly strong enough to propel himself all the way from here to the square.”

  He sat back and gave me the satisfied look of a minor potentate waiting on his servants to carry him in his
sedan chair.

  I snorted. “You can tell Grampy Westcott that he’s in charge of his own transportation. I’ll help you look for Lana, but no way am I going to push you all over town. Besides, your little charade is kind of insulting to people who actually do have a legitimate disability,” I said, and started walking.

  He wheeled after me.

  “It’s too bad you feel that way,” he observed as we weaved through the parked cars. “I thought we were pals now … which is why I’d decided not to let all those out-of-town reporters know that Cameron Fleet’s ex-wife is involved in a murder. But with that attitude, I don’t feel any obligation to keep my mouth shut.”

  I halted and swung about.

  “Why, you—”

  I bit off the first expletive that came to mind. This was just what I’d been worried about, although it hadn’t occurred to me that Harry would play the role of leaker. Time to nip that plan in the bud.

  “You sneaky snake,” I finally compromised on. “Here I’m trying to help you avoid the pointy end of a knife, and you’re threatening to stick one in my back.”

  “Hey, I’m just trying to help out our friends from the press with a human-interest angle. By tomorrow morning you’ll have reporters camped all over your yard looking for dirt. But look at it this way. That should mean a lot of publicity for your new B&B.”

  Right. The kind of publicity I didn’t want.

  I gritted my teeth. “Fine, I’ll push you to the square. But once the press conference is over and we’ve talked to Sheriff Lamb, you’re on your own getting back here with that chair.”

  “Fair enough. Oh, and I’ll have you know that several disabled-veterans groups compared my paraplegic soldier performance quite favorably to Gary Sinise’s Lieutenant Dan from Forrest Gump.”

  Not bothering to reply to that, I grabbed the wheelchair handles and propelled him forward. Fortunately for him, all the street corners in the downtown area were ADA compliant, meaning I rolled him down ramps rather than bumped him off curbs. I noticed, though, that he was taking this role seriously. Somehow, he’d managed to contort and shrink his body deep into the chair so that he did look like a little old man being shuttled about.