by Dale Mayer
Mack studied the vehicle and nodded. “Yeah, but it’s not that uncommon. Particularly if people have accidents without insurance coverage, and they want to fix the damage cheap. They’ll go for parts from a junkyard, and it doesn’t matter what color it is.”
“Do you think people’s buying habits are the same everywhere?”
“What are you talking about?”
“Susan said the vehicle that ran the two boys off the road was put together with all different panels. As in, it was a mishmash of colors, like somebody had tried to build or repair a vehicle with other auto parts from, you know, destroyed vehicles.”
“Yes, I do remember that.”
“So could this be the same car from twenty-nine years ago?” she asked.
“Not sure, but I’d say it’s newer than that. But … maybe all of Hornby’s vehicles ended up looking like this. I’ll have to check into that further.” He withdrew a notepad and a pen from his pocket and jotted something down. “But Hornby was supposedly in the vehicle with Susan.”
“Right.” Doreen tried to put it together in her mind. “Do you think she gave a half-assed confession?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “I’d have to look into that file, see if her statement is even in there.”
“Something should be there.”
“I hope so as she’s not around anymore for us to question.”
“No,” she said, “but her great-uncle is. Maybe other family members are still alive too.”
He turned to look at her, his hands on his hips. It wasn’t anger that she saw; it was worry. “Hornby is dangerous,” he said bluntly. “You get that, right?”
“I do now,” she said. “He forced his way into the house. Then he wouldn’t leave as he was casing the joint.”
“Only when he saw me standing in the kitchen doorway did he turn to leave.”
“Hey,” Doreen asked, “how come he didn’t see your car in my driveway?”
“One of your neighbors must have visitors parking on the street, and one of them cut off part of your driveway. I didn’t want to box you in, so I parked a couple doors down.”
She nodded, but her frown remained.
“It’s not like Hornby should recognize my personal vehicle.”
“What do you think he would have done if you weren’t here?” she asked slowly.
“Well, funny you’re considering that now because you weren’t thinking about your own personal danger earlier,” he said. “You were thinking about him assessing the contents of your house. And where to hit him with that fire poker.”
She winced. “Because he was staring at individual pieces, as if calculating its value. As if he already knew this house was full of valuables.”
“So maybe we should check his association with your intruder,” Mack said thoughtfully. “The last thing I want is yet another intruder in here, picking up what the first one missed. It would make it look like Darth McLeod was innocent, since he was locked up at the time of this proposed future break-in. That could give rise to enough reasonable doubt that his case would get thrown out.”
She didn’t quite follow all the legal parts, but she did understand the part about another intruder. “That is not what I want.” She looked at Mugs. “And Mugs couldn’t stand Hornby, which is also very indicative of him being dangerous.”
“True enough,” Mack said. “But I wish Mugs had barked when the intruder had initially forced his way in.”
“Well, of course he didn’t,” she said, looking at Mack in surprise.
He frowned at her. “What are you talking about?”
She beamed up at him. “Mugs knew you were here. So, if anybody would get into the heavyweight-protector mode, Mugs would expect you to be it. If you weren’t here, he would have been much more of a guard dog.”
“I doubt it.” He shook his head, looking at Mugs, who now lay on the floor with his ears puddling beside him. “He’s not a watchdog.”
“Don’t insult him,” she warned. “You two have a great relationship. Don’t ruin that.”
“Come on, let’s eat,” he said. “Dinner is ready.”
She stared at him in surprise, her mind still trying to switch from Hornby’s potential involvement in the accident that had killed the two men long ago back to tonight’s dinner. “How can it be done? We didn’t do anything with the pasta yet.”
“I was putting it in the pot of boiling water when Hornby arrived. And that was a surprisingly longish encounter,” he said. “Let’s get the table set. By then it should be done.”
And very quickly they sat down with two beautiful plates of spaghetti.
She sighed happily. “The only thing missing is garlic bread.”
“I meant to pick up some French bread and make some,” he admitted, “but I forgot. Sorry, I saw a few signs that my mother has been declining mentally. It’s worrying me.” He glanced over at her. “I’ve been distracted.”
“Ugh that’s tough,” she said. “And I get that you’re worried but I’m stuck on something else you said—you can make garlic bread?” Her eyes rounded. “I used to eat it as a snack when my husband wasn’t looking,” she said with a wince at the bad memories.
“Why didn’t you want him to know?” he asked in an ominous tone.
She gave him that breezy smile. “Oh, you know. Back to that I might get fat if I ate too many carbs thing,” she said.
Mack just shook his head and proceeded to twirl his fork into the spaghetti, getting a big mouthful.
She watched in amazement as the entire forkful went into his mouth. By contrast, she used a spoon and a fork. “I learned a long time ago to only take a few noodles at a time.” Carefully she coiled up several noodles using her spoon, and then, with a nice tiny little bite, she popped it into her mouth and swooned. “Oh, my. That’s absolutely fantastic.”
Mack appeared mollified as he watched her thoroughly enjoy her dinner. “The thing about a sauce like this is,” he said in a conversational tone, “we can make a large pot of it. Then you can eat it for several days, and you can freeze some.”
She looked back at the pot. “So there are leftovers?”
He nodded. “Absolutely. And it’s no trouble to put it in the fridge. We cooked too many noodles today, so you can warm up both them and the sauce in the microwave.”
She stared at him in delight. And then she shook her head. “So that’s what people do? They make enough meals for several days at a time?” As far as she was concerned, that was genius.
He smiled. “That’s what I do. I’ll make a stew and eat it for two or three days. I’ll make a chili and have it for two or three days.”
She sighed rapturously. “Just the thought of having food for two or three days sounds wonderful.” She dug into her pasta again. When she could feel his hard stare, she refused to look up. “I’m eating. I’m eating.”
“Not enough,” he said. “Just in the few weeks you’ve been here, you’ve lost at least ten pounds.”
She considered that and shrugged. “I’ve been active,” she said, “but it is what it is.”
“That isn’t something you can just brush off,” he growled. “You have to take better care of yourself.”
“With your help I’m doing that. But I’m a long way off from learning how to make that sauce.”
“True. It was probably not a good one to start with.” He pondered that a moment. “We could do something a lot simpler tomorrow,” he said thoughtfully. “There’s still leftover pasta. I can show you how to make a carbonara pasta. That’s super, super simple. Or even just a scramble.”
She listened to the terms roll off his tongue, like she was supposed to understand what language he spoke. But she was determined to learn, especially if it meant she would get food like this again. She stared at her plate. “Honestly, I’ve seen videos on YouTube where they have these fabulous dishes at the end, but I’m always suspicious a chef has arrived with a meal just before they’re ready to sit down, so it looks like th
ey actually made it.”
He laughed. “You know what? Probably a lot of people out there do pull stunts like that, but I wouldn’t count on it. It’s not hard to cook. A few more dishes and you’ll be fine.”
“One dish,” she said, “the chef used to make for me that I loved so much. It had feta cheese, fresh tomatoes, basil, and pasta. With some vinaigrette, served like a salad.”
He nodded. “Pasta salad is good.”
“It had artichokes in it.” Suddenly her mouth watered at the remembered taste of pickled artichokes. “I have no clue what made me think of that right now. But I loved that dish.”
“I’d have to pick up some artichokes, pickled of course. I presume that is what you want. But it would be easy enough to toss together. I could show you how to spin plain pasta into four or five different meals.”
She wanted to cry, yet, at the same time, her laughter bubbled out. “You are a godsend,” she said. “But I’ll stop talking now, so I can focus on eating.”
And that was what she did. With every bite, she closed her eyes and moaned in joy. When she was done, she looked up to see Mack watching her, leaning back in his chair, resting against the nearby wall, his arms across his chest, his plate empty too.
“What?” she asked suspiciously.
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen anybody enjoy their food more,” he said quietly. “It makes me think all kinds of things.”
She narrowed her gaze at him. “Like what?” Was he flirting with her? It seemed to be a trend lately. She wasn’t sure she liked it. She really liked Mack, but, at the moment, she liked his cooking more than the thought of getting into a troubled relationship.
He brushed a hand in the air as if washing away the conversation. “So probably two meals’ worth are left in the pot of just spaghetti. What would you like to make tomorrow?”
“Something simple,” she said.
“Well, there’s probably nothing simpler than the salad you were just talking about. So, when I come tomorrow at dinnertime,” he said, “you can make that for me.”
She frowned. “But I don’t know how.”
He chuckled. “Was there anything else in it, like black olives or chickpeas?”
She nodded slowly. “Both of those sometimes. But usually just black olives.”
“Then I’ll pick up a can and show you how easy it is.”
“Perfect,” she said.
He got to his feet. “Now let’s get the dishes done.” But then his phone rang. He pulled it out. “Damn. I have to leave. There’s been an accident.”
“Whereabouts?” she asked.
He frowned. “A few blocks from here.”
“Oh, dear,” she said. “Go. Duty calls. I’ll do the dishes.”
He hesitated and looked around the kitchen. “I don’t usually leave the kitchen this dirty.”
“It’s not dirty,” she said. “Go.”
“If you don’t mind,” he said, still hesitating.
She patted him on the arm. “I mean it. Go. I had an absolutely fabulous dinner. I’ll put it all away, and tomorrow we’ll pick up the pieces and make something new.”
He chuckled and snagged her into a big hug. “Thank you.” As he stepped out the front door, he turned and came back into the kitchen. “Set the alarms. I don’t want Hornby coming back inside.”
She winced, followed him, closed the front door, and set the alarm. She didn’t bother with the kitchen one yet because she was still working in there. Plus she might take a cup of tea out to the backyard shortly.
Clean up took longer than she’d expected, but finally she was done. With all the counters cleaned off, she made herself a cup of tea and sat outside to watch the sunset. When her phone rang, she was surprised to see Mack’s number.
“Hey,” he said.
“Hey,” she said. “Dishes are done. I’m sitting out in the back, having a cup of tea.”
“Sounds good to me. It was a car accident,” he said. “It was Hornby.”
“What?” she asked in surprise. “Was he the one hurt?”
“Yes,” he said. “The trouble was, he had the accident because he’d been shot. He’ll be okay, but I wanted you to know he’s not a danger to you. At least not tonight.”
“What?” her heart sank. “Will people think it was me?”
Mack went silent for too long.
“You’re making me nervous. Say something.”
“Why would they think it was you?” he asked curiously.
“Because he was at my house, and we had an ugly confrontation,” she said slowly.
“I was there with you,” he said. “I was a witness to that. And he left healthy and very unhappy.”
“True,” she said thoughtfully. “But this doesn’t feel right.”
“It doesn’t feel wrong either,” he corrected. “People like Hornby make enemies. A lot of enemies. So don’t go thinking it was connected to your cold case.”
She hesitated, her mind busily considering how it all fit together. “I get what you’re saying,” she said, “but you know it’ll be hard not to.”
“He’s alive. He’s in the hospital, likely heading for surgery. I can’t speak with him until at least tomorrow.”
“Check his vehicle over very carefully,” she said. “Look for anything connected to Johnny’s death.”
“What would that be? It’s not even the same vehicle most likely,” he said. “You think a confessional letter will be in his glove box?”
“For all you know, he’s got something of Johnny’s tucked away that he’s been carrying around with him all this time. Too bad he didn’t see the cross in my dining room,” she said. “We might have learned something by seeing his reaction to it.”
“You weren’t too worried about what kind of reaction he might give you at that time,” he said. “You were a crazy Amazonian woman with a poker in your hand.”
“He was after my priceless antiques that I need to get packed up and shipped out of here as soon as possible,” she cried. “I still have to wait until Monday.”
“So two more nights,” he said. “Anyway, you probably don’t have to worry about Hornby tonight.”
“And, for that, thank you,” she said warmly. “I’ll sleep much better now.”
Chapter 22
Sunday Morning …
When she got up the next morning, Doreen couldn’t resist pouring fresh coffee into a travel mug, and—with all the animals in tow, and the alarms set—she walked up the creek. It was her favorite place to stroll. Although she’d slept well last night, still something about Hornby made her uncomfortable. Also, she couldn’t help but wonder who had shot him and why.
As she passed the turnoff to Penny’s house, Doreen wondered if it was too early to call and to ask a question. Deciding there would never be a better time, she hopped across the creek on the rocks with Thaddeus on her shoulder. Mugs traipsed through the creek behind her, now dripping little dribbles of creek water. However, Goliath howled on the far side, where he’d been left behind. He wasn’t into getting his paws wet at all.
She walked back over and scooped him up against her chest. Only Thaddeus didn’t like that and tried to peck the top of his head. Finally she plunked Goliath down on the other side. “Sorry, buddy. Not quite enough dry rocks here for you, are there?”
She kept walking until she came to Penny’s door. She knocked several times. No answer. Frowning, she wondered if Penny was still asleep. How rude Doreen was, knocking early enough to wake up Penny.
Doreen waited a little longer, then stepped out of the yard.
One of the neighbors came out of his house, looked at her, and said, “Penny isn’t here.”
She turned to face him. “Really?”
He nodded. “She left last night with a suitcase in her hand.”
“Oh,” she said. “I’m sorry to hear that.” She wasn’t sure what to do about it. “Any idea how long she’ll be gone?”
The neighbor shook his head. “Not a clue.�
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“I don’t see a For Sale sign,” she said out loud.
He looked at her in surprise. “I don’t think she’s selling, is she?”
Doreen thought back to their earlier conversation and had to wonder if Penny had said she was selling or if she was planning on selling. “I thought it was her intention, but I can’t remember if she said it was already for sale or not.”
“Maybe,” he said. “She didn’t have a lot of savings after George’s death so might need to sell the house. That way she can buy a condo and have money in the bank. But then again, maybe she wants to get away from the memories.”
“I imagine,” she said, “it could go either way.”
She was a little perturbed as she headed back toward the creek. She pulled out her phone and called Penny’s number. When there was no answer, she left a voicemail.
The foursome tripped their way back down the creek bed to her little bridge and walked across, having come full circle from home. “It’s still early, guys. Do we want to do some garden work?”
They all looked at her like she was crazy. She had to admit that she probably was. Not to mention she was also hungry.
When she got back in her house, she gave them breakfast and made toast and cheese for herself before she sat down at her laptop. How much did she really know about Penny? Not a lot and still that niggling question remained as to why she might have left. She could have gone to a friend’s house in town, staying overnight because they wanted a couple drinks, and she didn’t want to drive home. Really no way to know. Besides, no need to be suspicious of Penny because she had asked Doreen to look into Johnny’s death. If Penny had had something to do with his death, then she wouldn’t expose herself to an investigation like that. Besides, Penny was pretty small. She couldn’t have killed Johnny. Or rather, she could have killed him but not moved him afterward. At least not alone …
It was also an interesting coincidence that Hornby arrived at Doreen’s house, got shot shortly thereafter, and Penny disappeared, just like that.
