by Cathy Tully
“Do you still need an oil change?”
CHAPTER TWELVE
The sky had turned overcast as she and Bitsy turned into the parking lot of Colin Rogers’s shop, OK Automotive. Susannah ran her fingers through her hair, hoping to quell the volume brought on by the increase in humidity.
Stevie Duncan peeked out the door, his eyes wide. The logo for OK Automotive was stenciled on the door in blue. Behind it, Stevie shook his head. His disheveled shoulder-length brown hair swayed from side to side but failed to hide his protruding ears. “We’re closed,” he said to Susannah and slammed the door shut with a whump, two large bells slapping the glass.
The women looked at each other. They had rehearsed different scenarios that would allow them to question Colin about his relationship with Anita Alvarez. None of them included having the door slammed in their faces.
Bitsy looked at her watch. “That don’t make no kind of sense. It’s eleven thirty on a Monday morning. How am I gonna get my car inspected?” She banged on the door and waved at Stevie, pointing toward her SUV. He blinked rapidly and licked his lips. She put her hands up in prayer posture, mouthing the words please, please, please.
He scowled at them and swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing. He turned and rushed through the door to the garage. They waited, but he didn’t return.
“I see that impassioned plea worked.” Susannah dialed the phone number stenciled on the window. It was a typical automotive shop, a brick building that housed a small office on one side with four massive roll-up doors on the other. Signs for oil change and inspection hung over each of the doors. All had small oval windows embedded in the ribbed steel. The farthest door was deeply dented and streaked with blue paint. The potholed parking area was riddled with oil stains but sat empty except for two used cars and Bitsy’s SUV. The answering machine picked up but after a few words the line went dead.
“If Stevie’s here, Colin must be in there.”
They approached the first roll-up door. No light shone through the windows, but Susannah heard music. She cupped her hands and peered inside. Bitsy did the same. “Why is this place so dark in the middle of the day? Is this a zombie garage?” Bitsy asked.
Through the window, Susannah saw a late-model Toyota up on a rack. Colin worked in the pit beneath, a shop light illuminating his work area. Susannah tapped on the glass, hoping to get his attention. He continued working.
“You have to make more noise than that. My cousin Cenetta owns an auto shop in Alabama, and she’s half deaf from working around them pneumatic drills.”
Susannah pounded harder, and Colin climbed out of the pit and yelled something over his shoulder, then disappeared.
Bitsy crossed her arms. “He doesn’t move like the undead.”
“Hey, y’all,” a voice called.
Stevie cowered behind the glass door, which he held against his chest like a shield. He craned his neck. “Mr. Colin says he’s fixin’ to call the police if you don’t get.”
Then he was gone, the lock thrown into place before they could move. Bitsy pursed her lips, hands on her hips. Susannah banged harder on the window and paused, then banged again. Colin reappeared and grabbed something off his workbench. The door lurched up with a rattle of chains, retracting faster than Susannah would have thought a garage door could move, and as it went higher Colin stepped toward them, holding a crowbar poised to strike.
Bitsy grabbed Susannah’s arm. “I have my Smith & Wesson, but I used all my ammo shooting at zombie targets.”
Susannah placed her hand over Bitsy’s, which was already digging inside her purse where she carried the 9mm pistol.
Colin slowed as he came out of the garage, squinting in the sun. “Why don’t you leave me alone?” He stopped. “Ms. Long? Dr. Shine?” He looked from her to Bitsy, then back. “What are you doing here?”
Susannah pointed to Stevie, whose face was red with exertion from yanking the overhead door skyward in Guinness World Record time; his hands still gripped the chain. “Didn’t he tell you? Bitsy needs an inspection.”
Colin shook his head. “He told me there were two crazy women banging on the door.” He pulled a dirty rag out of his pocket and wiped his hands. “We’ve had some trouble, and we’re both a little rattled.” He looked at his assistant. “Stevie, this is Dr. Shine, the chiropractor, and Bitsy Long, the woman who owns the shop you were telling me about.” He turned to Bitsy. “His girlfriend favors some of those scarves in your shop.”
Bitsy softened. “You tell her to come see me. I’ll give her a ten percent discount if you get me my inspection today.”
“I’m sorry, I can’t.” Colin frowned and studied his hand as he dragged the rag across his palm. “Someone broke in and vandalized my computer. They won’t leave me alone.”
Susannah took a step toward him. “Who won’t leave you alone?”
“I don’t know who it is.” Colin slumped, his face falling. “And the police have been no help.”
“Is that new detective hounding you, too?” Bitsy asked.
“Who? No.” Colin straightened and inhaled. “Come on in. The least I can do is offer you a drink. I know I can use one.” He led them through the garage. The light still hung under the Toyota, and Susannah glanced down into the pit. Colin said, “Shut the door, Stevie.”
The younger man threw a latch, and the door rolled down with the same rattling of chains that had accompanied its ascent. Colin tapped his temple. “He’s a good worker, but none too bright.”
He waved them into a supply room, which held floor-to-ceiling shelves stacked with the shop inventory. Used auto parts commingled with new ones. A desktop smudged with dark fingerprints held a catalog the size of an old-fashioned city phone book alongside a computer monitor. A mini fridge sat in the corner of the room, decorated by a faded bumper sticker that read: My Grass Is Blue. Next to it were two plastic chairs. Colin opened a cabinet and with trembling hands pulled out a glass and a bottle of Jack Daniel’s. He poured himself a double and took a quick sip before putting the bottle down and setting two smaller glasses on the workbench. He tilted the bottle toward Susannah and Bitsy. “Y’all drinking?”
“No thanks,” Susannah said with a slight flick of her hand.
“I don’t want to ruin my appetite,” Bitsy said.
He took another short sip and then leaned against the counter. “I’m so sorry, y’all. I didn’t recognize you with your face on the glass like that. I’ve had to call the police a few times, but by the time they get here, the troublemakers are gone.” His eyes darkened. “Explain that to me, when my business is practically across the street from the police station.”
“Are you saying that they’re not answering your calls on purpose?” asked Susannah.
“No. They answer, but in their own time.”
“Why?”
Colin scowled. “The same reason why everyone is avoiding me and my business has dried up: Tomás,” he said, and took another drink, banging the glass down on the counter. “That man is spreading lies about me, and there’s nothing I can do about it. He’s telling everyone that I killed Anita.”
“Ain’t no way Mr. Colin kilt her,” Stevie said. He moved past Colin, retrieved a can of Red Bull from the mini fridge, and popped the top. “We was here working the whole day. I done told that to Chief Randy, but nobody minds me.”
“You got that right,” Colin said. His voice, etched with whiskey, had a deeper edge to it.
“I seen them tear up the parking lot and crash into the bay door,” Stevie said, hanging his head. “The police won’t do nothing ’cause I didn’t get no tag number.”
“That ain’t your fault, I didn’t get it neither,” Colin said, motioning to the shop. “You go do me a favor and make sure the doors are locked. I’m done for today.”
“Sure thing, Mr. Colin.”
Colin watched him go. “That detective lady made him feel stupid cause he couldn’t remember the tag, like he’s soft in the head or something.” He lowered
his voice. “He can read good as me, but he ain’t worth a dang around people. Anyway, he knows enough to help me out around here.” He nodded at the auto parts catalog.
“You think they’re not investigating because they believe Tomás?”
“I’m thinking they’re looking for someone to pin the murder on so they can close this case right quick and look like heroes,” he said, walking to the end of the desk and looking down the aisle that Stevie had exited. “Stevie wouldn’t make no good witness for me. Put him in a room with that detective, and he’d say whatever she wanted him to say. He knows it too. He’s been shaking like a dog with fleas since he met her”—at the mention of fleas, Bitsy looked around, alarmed—“and my alibi would be gone, along with the truth.”
“Surely Randy wouldn’t let that happen,” Susannah said, feeling a prickling on her neck. Would Detective Withers coerce a confession to make an arrest? Susannah wasn’t sure. “He’s honest. He wants to find the truth.”
“Keep telling yourself that, Doc.” His words came slower, and Susannah thought he’d had more than the three sips of Jack Daniel’s she had seen. “I told Randy he had the wrong guy. I told him what happened that night with Anita.”
Bitsy’s eyes were round. “What happened?”
He glanced over at her. “Well, I got nothing to hide. Tomás is telling everyone the first part. I might as well finish the story.” He spread his fingers as if considering their callouses and dirt for the first time. “I was for sure at the bar.” He pointed in the direction of the restaurant. “I was having a few drinks, and I got lit. I admit it. Getting drunk at a bar ain’t no crime that I ever heard. I wasn’t driving. I keep a cot here, in case I don’t feel like driving home.” He waved his hand in the direction of a door.
“What happened?” Susannah asked.
“He’s sayin’ I pushed her, but I never pushed her. I was leaving, and she was walking me out. She was good like that, Anita. She didn’t judge me, like some people. She liked having me there, even if I was half in the bag. She said it made her feel safe.”
“Safe from what?”
“I’m not sure. She never would say.” His eyes were glassy, and he reached for the bottle.
Susannah had to keep him on track. She leaned past him to reach for one of the empty glasses and thrust it under the bottle. “I think I will have that drink now.” She gave Bitsy a nudge with the toe of her shoe and nodded at the empty glass.
“Me too,” Bitsy chimed in. “I’m sure my appetite will be fine.”
Colin grunted and poured.
“She never said what she was afraid of?”
“No, but I think it had to do with the dark blue sedan.”
“Dark blue sedan?”
“I told Randy I didn’t push her that night. She slipped. She walked me to the door, and we saw a dark blue sedan pull up. Looked like a Hyundai, but I couldn’t be sure. It was plumb dark out. As soon as she saw it, she turned around so fast she had me spinning. She must have slipped on something, and she hit the bar.” Colin looked down, inspecting his hands again. He pulled a pocketknife out of his pocket and dug the blade under his thumbnail. Bitsy stifled a tiny gasp as she watched Colin scrape the dirt from the blade and wipe it on his pant leg.
“And then what happened?” asked Susannah.
“Well, I ain’t proud of it,” he said, his tone getting morose. “I was more’n a little drunk, and I almost fell on her. But I didn’t. I grabbed the bar to steady myself, and I helped her up. Then suddenly Tomás came in, yelling in Spanish. Anita yelled louder. I don’t speak no Spanish, but I could tell they was fightin’. She waved him away, and he went back into the kitchen. You ask me, Tomás could be the one who killed her. That night, he had hate in his eyes.”
“And then what?” Bitsy asked, mesmerized by the story, her hands clasped around the drink, which she hadn’t touched.
“And then I left.”
“That’s all?”
“No, there’s one more thing, and here’s where I think Randy and the detective think I’m lying.”
“What is it?”
“I saw that same blue car later on. I came here and watched TV for a while.” He indicated the door with a jerk of his chin. “When I went out to get some stuff out of the truck, I saw that same car. So I watched it.”
“What did it do?”
“It went to the Cantina. It was closed by then, the lights were out, and I wondered, ‘What is this person up to?’ I was about to call the police when a funny thing happened.”
“What, what?” Bitsy said.
“Anita came out and got into the car, and they drove away.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
A flashing blue light blinked through the window, strobing off Larraine’s white coiffure and dancing in her glasses. Her hand flew to her mouth, and the file she held fell to the floor. “Stand back,” she said, pulling Susannah away from the door. A loud rap rattled the glass. Her frown deepened. “I’m glad Tina’s not here.”
Susannah shot her a quizzical look. What was that supposed to mean? Tina had taken the day off to deal with some auto repairs. Larraine studied her hands, and Susannah pushed the curtain to the side. Keith Cawthorn’s ham-sized hand rapped again. His piercing black eyes scanned the office as she opened the door, and he bent his frame to get through. Behind him, three police vehicles crowded the lot. Randy stood to the side, looking into the distance. A man and a woman dressed in plain clothes were being lectured by Detective Withers.
Keith took a tentative step forward and handed Susannah an envelope. “Dr. Shine, this is a search warrant,” he said, clasping his hands together in front of his belt. Susannah appreciated his attempt to appear nonthreatening and quasi-human sized. Keith stood six feet five and had the wingspan of a jumbo jet. He nodded at Larraine and then met Susannah’s eye. “Don’t fuss with them none,” he said gravely, his expression pulled into a tight mask.
Larraine stepped out of the way with a small squeak.
“Let them be, and we’ll be out of here quick.” He leaned down and said, “Don’t give her an excuse to get destructive or seize any of your equipment.”
Susannah tried to read the document, but the print swam before her eyes. Anger and humiliation burbled up from deep inside. For over a decade, she had thrown herself into a new career, working with her patients and forsaking memories of her police career. At the time, she believed that leaving law enforcement was the right thing to do, but it was a painful and humbling time in her life. She had lost face before her father and one brother, though her other brother was ambivalent. Tone, her partner, had encouraged her to work through her health issues and remain on the job, but in the end he respected her decision. He and his wife, Irma, had been her biggest supporters in her change of career, which had made her even more ashamed to admit that fear of failure as a law enforcement officer had motivated her exit from the force and eventual departure from her hometown. In the intervening years, Randy’s taunts had stung, and she had reassessed her decision many times and found her present occupation much more suited to her personality. She was older and more confident. Fear did not motivate her actions anymore. At least she had told herself that enough times that she believed it.
Then why were her knees shaking and her mouth suddenly parched?
She had been expecting this since Marcie had tipped her off, but it still made no sense to her. What were they looking for? Anita had never been a patient, so there was no medical file pertinent to her. They could return with her name embossed in gold and there wouldn’t be anything in the office related to her. Besides, what reason would she have had to kill Anita?
A rap-rap-rap-rap interrupted her thoughts. Detective Withers leaned into the doorway, her compact frame taut, an enormous flashlight in her hand. Wisps of dirty-blond hair escaped her bun and waved around her face. She retracted her lips in a movement that was three-quarters pained grimace and the one-quarter Louisiana debutante.
“Officer Cawthorn is correct,”
she said, pointing the flashlight for emphasis. “Y’all stay out of our way, and we’ll be outta here in two shakes of a snake’s tail.” Her lips receded, displaying small but menacing teeth.
Susannah tried to return the smile, but it didn’t work. Her dry mouth wouldn’t allow her lips to slide. She cleared her throat instead. “Detective,” she said, working to keep the shaking out of her voice. “Federal regulations protect the personal health information of my patients. I can’t give you open access to all my patient files.”
Detective Withers’s smile faded but did not completely diminish. “You are aware that there are exceptions for reasons of police investigation.” Her tone was soft Southern charm mingled with a shade of female Terminator, and the words gave Susannah a chill.
“Certainly,” Susannah said, aware of the rough New York inflections she could not shed. In a game of dueling accents, she would lose.
“A crime was committed on these premises,” Detective Withers said, holding up the warrant and shaking its pages. “This warrant gives me legal authority to search this office and seize any evidence.”
“I’m happy to comply, but when it comes to patient information, your warrant will have to specify which files you want to examine.”
Detective Withers’s face deepened in color, and she backed out of the doorway, barking a command at a uniformed officer. When she returned, she directed the other officers to avoid the patient files. Susannah got out of their way as they fell on the office, methodically searching every room. After two hours, Larraine reported that Detective Withers was now in the supply room.
“I won’t be surprised if she looks in the refrigerator too,” Larraine commented. They left Susannah’s office and found the detective scowling at a shelf of supplements. Rows of supplement boxes were neatly arranged across several shelves, but what had her attention were the brown glass bottles, filled with liquid herbal solutions, that lined a cabinet in the corner.
She motioned to a colleague in the hall, the debutante grimace reappearing. “Take those bottles,” she said, indicating the shelf that held the liquid herbs. Her eyes glinted as she faced Susannah. “I wonder what you’ll think of the federal regulations that prohibit a quack like you from practicing medicine without a license.”
