by Kathy Krevat
“That’s exactly why we need my plan,” I said. “Even if he decides to roll up his little network and get out of town, he might be the kind of person who doesn’t like to leave loose ends behind. We have to flush him out or I’ll be looking over my shoulder for a long time. I don’t want to live like that.”
She looked down at the counter, considering it. Then she looked out the window at the rain and considered it some more.
Then she said, “Okay.”
* * * *
First, I told my dad to take Annie to a double feature at the movies. He looked at me funny but did it.
Then the Wizard got to work, putting a wire on both Norma and me, and installing a bunch of bugs in Benson’s house, along with tiny cameras. We were going to draw the fixer out and capture him in Benson’s house. It was weirdly poetic, like a neat justice circle.
Yollie stopped by and I brought her into my living room, right by the bookcase. “Here’s that recording,” she said, doing a great job of following the script and sounding natural. “I couldn’t make much of it out but maybe your detective friend can.”
“What could you hear?” I asked.
“It sounded like a threat,” she said. “But it was kinda muffled. I bet the police can do that magic stuff like they do on TV and make it really clear.”
“Thanks,” I said. “I’ll call Norma.”
We said our good-byes and I called Norma, putting her on speaker phone. “Hi Norma, I think you’re going to want to send someone over for this. Um, I’ll call you right back. Someone else is calling.”
Right on schedule, Fabiola, Benson’s housekeeper, called. I put her on speakerphone too. “I remembered something,” she said. “Benson had a hiding place. He was really mad that I disturbed it by accident one day.” Her Italian accent was more pronounced, maybe because she was nervous.
“What’s in it?” I asked.
“A bunch of tapes,” she said. “He said it was insurance, but that doesn’t make sense. He didn’t sell insurance.”
“That is weird,” I said. “Where’s the hiding place?”
“It’s in the back of the antique cabinet in the corner of the dining room,” she said. “It has a trick door but you can see a hook if you look closely.”
“Thanks for letting me know.” I spoke clearly.
We hung up and I dialed Norma to relay the new information. My hope was that whoever was listening on the other side of that bug would be worried about what was on Steven’s recording and even more worried about Benson’s tapes.
“Damn it, I need to get another warrant. Can you meet me at Benson’s in an hour?” Norma asked. “And bring the recording.”
“Sure,” I said.
I paced the house, looking out all of the windows to see if I could see anyone. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. Trouble shadowed me, occasionally meowing. What the heck are you doing? It’s not going to go the way you think it will.
I might have been projecting my worries onto her.
Exactly forty minutes later, I ran out to my dad’s car, getting totally soaked on the way. I started the engine, and flicked the windshield wipers on. They had a hard time keeping up with the rain.
“You okay?” I asked as I pulled out of the driveway.
“Quiet,” Norma said from her hiding place on the back seat. She was covered with a blanket the same color as the interior.
I slowly drove toward Benson’s house, wondering what the cameras were catching there. I stopped at a stop sign. Right past the intersection, a fast-moving sheet of water ran down a hill on one side, across the street and down into the steep canyon on the other side. I drove into the water slowly, worried about how deep it really was. Then I heard the loud sound of a gunning engine.
I looked up in time to see a large pickup truck with an oversized grill crash into my side of the car. It kept going, pushing us right over the side of the road into the canyon.
Chapter 23
The car continued sliding down the muddy hillside, coming to a stop against the trunk of a small tree halfway down the slope. “Are you okay?” I yelled to Norma.
“I’m fine,” she said. “You?”
“I think so,” I said. “My leg hurts.”
She swore. “We’re lucky the car didn’t roll.”
Oh man. I didn’t even think of that. Sliding so far in the mud was bad enough.
She peered up the hill through the rain. “Someone is coming. He has to be coming for the recording. I’m going to circle around and get him from behind. Got it?”
I was so scared that I couldn’t answer.
“Colbie,” she said, her voice calm and sure. “Trust me. It’ll be okay. Just keep him talking.”
“Wait!” I said. I hit the button that would keep the interior lights from going on. “Okay, now.”
She was out the door on the other side in a flash, sliding to the ground, and gently closing the door again. I had to hold myself back from begging her to stay with me. This was definitely not going according to plan.
The sound of the rain on the car changed from a dull roar to a hiss as it eased up, and I could hear my heart pounding. Then it stopped for one full beat when I saw someone sliding down the slope in the mud.
I whimpered and had to remind myself to play my part.
Even after he was standing right beside the car in his jacket with the hood up, it took me a long time to recognize him. Drake, the pyramid scam guy from Chubby’s Pizza and the farmers’ market.
“Drake? What are you doing here? Call 911!” I realized he couldn’t hear me and reached out slowly to open the window a couple of inches. Rain water splashed in, the angle of my car allowing it to pour down the inside of the door. “Drake? Can you help me get out? My leg is stuck.”
“Give me the recording,” he said, his tone vicious. He pulled a gun out of the back of his jeans and pointed it at me. It was so close, I could see the rain drops falling on it and bouncing off.
“What?” I shook my head like I was confused. “Wait. You’re the one following me? You put the tracker on my car? Why?”
“I’m careful and I do my research,” he said. “I thought you might be trouble. So I kept an eye on you.” He had a buzz cut under the hood and he no longer had a beer belly. His big hands held the gun like he knew what to do with it. The whole goofy guy persona had been a disguise, and I’d fallen for it.
I remembered the last time we met at Chubby’s. I’d introduced him to Elliott. He shook my son’s hand. I shuddered. “But the tow truck guy found it and took it off,” I whined.
He scowled at me. “I hid the next one better.”
Of course. “I’m so confused. I think I hit my head.” I made my voice weak. “So you’re the one who killed Benson?”
He stepped closer. “Don’t act stupid. It won’t work.”
I had to keep him talking. “What did Benson ever do to you?”
“Benson killed himself,” he said. “Now hand it over.”
“That doesn’t make any sense.” I sat up straight and reached for my purse.
“Easy there,” he said.
“I don’t have a gun. Oh, you probably know that,” I said. I didn’t have to act to sound terrified. I was frightened to my bones. “My theory is that he got mad that the student went back on his deal and he was going to rescind the recommendation to help get his reputation back. Maybe even expose you.” I reluctantly dug in my purse, pulling out a small bottle of water and some used tissues.
“You’ve been very productive,” he said. “Especially for a soccer mom. I underestimated you.”
He still hadn’t admitted anything for the microphone.
I pulled out a notebook and a half-empty pack of sugarless chewing gum. “What do you mean Benson killed himself?” I peered into the purse, as if actually trying to find something.
“He said he had proof of our relationship. He freaked out when I was holding that tool and rammed his own damn neck into it.” He shook his head in disgust.
I didn’t react, but inside my stomach clenched at his matter-of-fact tone. “But what about Opal?” I pulled out three pens and a protein bar wrapper. “What happened to her?”
“She made the mistake of trying to blackmail me,” he said.
Then I remembered why I was even at Chubby’s. “You put crickets in Pico’s restaurant!” I said. “Why’d you have to go and do that?”
“You were too protected there,” he said. “Now give me the recording.”
There was only one reason he was telling me all this. He didn’t expect me to be around to tell anyone. Where was Norma? I moved slower, pulling out one program from The Lion King, and then another. This was going to take a while. I’d seen the play five times.
“That’s enough delaying,” he said. “Just give me the damn purse.” He reached in to grab it and Norma stepped up behind him, holding her gun to the back of his head. “Drop the gun.”
His face turned red with anger and he didn’t move for a moment, as if he was contemplating shooting me anyway.
I didn’t move, scared senseless.
Norma pushed harder, grinding the barrel against his skull. “Now.”
Sirens rang out from the top of the hill, along with the sound of doors slamming and people yelling.
He threw the gun into the mud, and police officers swarmed down the hill.
I sagged with relief, starting to cry in earnest.
* * * *
Lani stopped by the next morning, bringing my favorite peach and mango donuts to my perch on the couch.
“Hey Momma,” I said.
She gave me a brilliant smile. “How are you feeling?”
I pointed to my leg which I had propped up on some pillows. “Other than a bruised leg, I’m good.”
My bag was packed and Joss would be picking me up soon for our trip to Temecula. I’d been cleared by the doctor for fine dining and wine tasting, but not hiking. Two days all by ourselves in a beautiful area with nothing to worry about? It seemed like heaven.
Lani sat down on the other end of the couch, and Trouble left me to be petted by someone new. “Tell me everything.” She picked up the cat and put her in her lap.
“Well, our plan kind of worked,” I said. I’d been worried that Norma would get in trouble for not only agreeing to it, but also for being such a big part of it.
Norma had told me she’d be fine. “We got him and no one else died,” she’d said.
“Your harebrained plan,” Lani interjected. “We really should have held that intervention.”
“We just didn’t expect him to go after us on the way there,” I complained. “I guess we should have thought it through a little better.”
“No kidding,” she said. “Tell me about this Drake guy.”
“Drake Frost is actually Duncan Foster, an ex-Army intelligence guy who decided to use his skills to cash in on the whole college craze.” My voice was light, but talking about him still made me shudder inside.
“I can’t believe there really was a fixer.” She shook her head in amazement.
“It took me too long to believe it,” I said. “It still sounds like a movie instead of real life.”
Someone on Twitter already said they were writing a screenplay.
“Did he really make a million dollars a kid, like that A&D employee said?” she asked. “And are you ever going to tell me who he or she was?”
“No,” I said. “And I don’t think Norma’s figured that out yet. But he was throwing around a lot of cash, so he must have made a ton.”
“Enough to justify murder in his own twisted head, I guess,” she said.
I paused for a minute, remembering the scene in the car. “He told me that Benson’s death was an accident.” I almost believed him. But then he’d killed Opal and would’ve killed me if it wasn’t for Norma.
She blew out a scoffing breath. “Right.”
“He said he was holding the mandrel against Benson’s neck. That Benson fought to get away and it went into his neck.” My voice shook. Saying it brought back the memory of finding Benson’s body and the garage blowing up.
“Ouch.” She winced. “Do you think a jury will buy it?”
“Probably not,” I said. “Especially since he blew up the place to get rid of any evidence.”
“And he didn’t care who else got hurt,” she said, indignant. “That was before we had any rain. It was so dry, the whole neighborhood could have burned down. Or worse.”
“Well, now he’s being charged with two murders and arson,” I said.
“I hope he never gets out,” Lani said.
“You want to hear the most interesting part?” I asked. “Norma said that what he was doing—all the grade-changing and buying recommendation letters—wasn’t actually illegal.”
“What? It has to be,” she said.
“I know, right?” I said. “If he hadn’t killed Benson and Opal, he wouldn’t be going to jail.”
“Someone’s got to fix that,” she said. “For lack of a better word. It’s like a big old loophole for unethical college counselors to drive through.”
“I’m pretty sure that Sunnyside High School, and maybe a lot of other schools, are going to do a grade audit for the last few years, since no one knows when any of this started. If they find any discrepancies, those students might lose their place in college and even their scholarships.”
“That’s a fitting punishment,” she said. “Hey, have you heard from Zoey?”
I nodded. “Yeah, she said her lawyer thinks she’ll be let off since it was clearly self-defense. All of the police who were there seem to be on her side.”
“And Zeke?”
“She said he’s great.”
“She better tell him never to send his DNA into one of the Ancestry places,” she said.
I laughed. “That’s true. But knowing the kind of guy Red is, he probably doesn’t want his DNA information stored by one of those services either.”
“Okay, last question,” she said. “Any news on your big business proposal?”
“Nothing concrete,” I said. “But Quincy’s contact said they’re leaning toward accepting it. I won’t believe it until it actually happens. If it happens.”
“Well, if karma has anything to do with it, they’ll say yes.” She stood up and Trouble protested. Bring back my lap.
She bent over to hug me. “If anyone deserves good things to happen to them, it’s you.”
“Thanks.”
She let go and stood up. “I have to go. Piper has an ultrasound today. We get to see our little baby bean again.” Her face beamed with happiness. “Can you please keep yourself safe for a little while?”
“I’m definitely taking a break from mysteries, for the weekend at least,” I assured her with a laugh.
With perfect timing, Joss called.
I held up the phone to show Lani. “I’m choosing romance.”
If you enjoyed
The Trouble with Talent,
look for the first
Gourmet Cat Mystery
For a peek at The Trouble with Murder,
turn the page and enjoy!
Available at your favorite e-retailers.
Chapter 1
A chicken rang the doorbell.
I stood in the open doorway, a little dumbfounded, and stared down at the beige bird with a mop of floppy feathers on its head that looked like a hat. The kind of hat women wore as a half joke to opening day at the horse races. How could it even see through that thing? And did it really just ring the doorbell?
Braving the mid-morning heat of Sunnyside, California, inland from downtown San Diego by twent
y miles and what felt like twenty degrees hotter, I stuck my head out and looked up and down my dad’s street. No teens were hanging around, giggling over their prank.
The chicken ruffled its whole body as if to say, “Yes, it was me.” The you idiot was implied by the way it poked his beak toward me and then scratched its feet on the wooden porch floor.
“Right.” I spoke out loud. To a chicken. I had to get out of the house more.
I’d been up since four in the morning, grinding various chicken parts and cooking them for my organic cat food business, and I was already tired. Maybe this was a poultry hallucination brought on by exhaustion. Or induced by guilt.
Maybe this was the king of the chicken underworld, seeking retribution for what was going on in my kitchen.
I shook my head. I had to stop reading so many of those horror novels my bloodthirsty twelve-year-old son, Elliott, couldn’t get enough of.
My dad shuffled over to stand beside me, tugging his bathrobe tighter around his waist. “Hey, Charlie,” he said.
I raised my eyebrows. He was talking to a bird too. “A boy bird?” I asked. Was that really the most important thing about the chicken on our doorstep?
The chicken ignored both of us, now finding the railing fascinating enough to peck.
“Of course he’s a boy bird,” he said, his Boston accent coming through. “He’s one of Joss’s Buff Laces.”
“What?”
“His chickens. This is a Buff Laced Polish chicken,” he said. “Look at that comb.”
“Comb?” I asked.
“That foofy thing on the top of his head,” he told me.
The comb in question was quite remarkable, but what did I know about chickens?
“How did it, he, make it to the doorbell?” I thought chickens didn’t fly. Wasn’t that the whole point of them? Food that can’t fly away?
“Charlie was owned by some shrink at a college or something,” he said, his normal morning mad-scientist hair almost matching the bird’s.
As if to demonstrate, Charlie flapped his wings, getting enough lift to hop onto the planter with some drooping lavender in it. He stretched out his neck to poke his beak at the doorbell. It took a few tries but then he got it, tilting his head as though he was listening to the “Yankee Doodle” tune that made me grind my teeth every time I heard it, and then hopped down, looking up at me expectantly.
