Perforating Pierre (Jane Delaney Mysteries Book 3)

by Pamela Burford

  Dom flashed me a surreptitious smile. He approved of Tucker, I knew. And he had to be relieved that his daughter appeared to be directing her romantic energy to a more suitable, age-appropriate, not to mention living boyfriend. Also, the fact she’d accepted this ride from the father she’d accused of coldblooded murder a mere five days earlier had to be a positive indicator of family harmony.

  “So where are you guys off to?” Kari asked.

  Dom glanced at me. He offered a minute shrug, not lost on his daughter.

  “What?” Eagerly she leaned forward. She shook my shoulder. “Tell me!”

  Her dad seemed to be okay with it, so… “Well, the restaurant needs to be cleaned,” I said.

  She stared for a heartbeat, then fell back against the seat, her face drained of color.

  She wasn’t the only one. Tucker appeared just as shaken. “You mean you…” He cleared his throat. “You’re going to clean up all that blood and everything?”

  “No!” I assured him. “No, no, we’re hiring someone. Professionals. They do this sort of thing all the time.” I offered a weak smile.

  Kari’s voice was tiny. “Well, I asked.”

  Tucker directed his blank gaze out the window. She grabbed his hand again, clutching it with both of hers. He seemed not to notice.

  After we dropped the kids off, we drove through the town in silence. It was a typical Saturday morning in Crystal Harbor, with heavy vehicular traffic and plenty of locals and day tourists patronizing the quaint stores and eateries.

  As expected, Denny Pinheiro had agreed to meet me at Dewatre that morning to inspect the scene, with Victor none the wiser. Dom, however, was not so easily evaded. Last night at Murray’s, he’d heard me mention the impending cleanup and, thanks to his long association with yours truly and my creepy vocation, was familiar with how swiftly these things get done. No sooner was I off the phone with Denny than he’d phoned. He was going with me. It was nonnegotiable. What time should he pick me up?

  When Dom makes up his mind about something, arguing is pointless. And the truth is, I didn’t want to go alone. Ushering Denny into an environment in need of his distinctive services wasn’t something I’d ever get used to, but in this instance it was worse because I knew the victim. He’d been a friend. So yes, I was grateful for Dom’s solid presence. I told him so again, for about the dozenth time.

  He patted my jeans-clad thigh. “This nasty business will be over before you know it, Janey. Then what do you say we go get a bite to eat?”

  We thought about that for about half a second before shaking our heads in unison and muttering, “Maybe not” and “Some other time.”

  “Don’t park on the street,” I said. “Go around back and park in the alley behind Dewatre. We’ll let ourselves in through the service entrance. No need to attract attention.” I’d already told Denny to meet me back there.

  He showed up eight minutes early, pulling up behind the reeking dumpster in a gleaming, tomato-red VW Beetle. I made the introductions. Denny, lean and wiry with thinning chestnut hair and a neat goatee, stands about five seven on a good day and looks like a shrimp next to my ex. But what he lacks in physical presence, he makes up for with a thundering baritone voice that positively oozes authority. He carried a clipboard.

  Dom grabbed the keyring out of my hand before I could stop him. “You stay out here, Janey. I can show Denny—”

  “No,” I said. “I appreciate it, Dom, but that’s not—”

  “Don’t be stubborn,” he said. “You don’t have to prove any—”

  “I’m not trying to prove anything. This is my responsib—”

  “You two are just adorable,” Denny boomed, “but I have other stops this morning, so if one of you could please unlock this door?”

  With a disgruntled sigh, Dom did so. The instant the heavy door swung open, the smell hit us. It wasn’t the worst odor I’d experienced in my two-decade stint as Death Diva—use your imagination—but it was no spring meadow either. Denny didn’t hesitate but strode right into the restaurant’s kitchen. I hauled in a nice, deep lungful of Dumpster-scented air, held it, and followed him inside. Dom brought up the rear, making a funny little sound deep in his throat that reminded me of Sexy Beast entering the vet’s office.

  And there it all was. The dried blood, which we carefully avoided. The flies. The shoe prints, featuring a distinctive pattern of chevrons and concentric circles. The letters S, E, A, and R squirted on the floor tiles. The abandoned cooking ingredients. Noticeably absent was the serving platter, collected as evidence, no doubt. I catalogued all these things in the nanosecond it took to make a sweeping visual survey of the room.

  There was one thing I needed to do before the place was cleaned up and any lingering evidence obliterated. It had occurred to me in the middle of the night as I lay awake trying to determine my next move. I hauled out my cell phone and snapped a bunch of pictures of the bloody shoe prints. I had to retake several that were out of focus due to a slight tremor in my fingers and the fact I was still holding my breath.

  I exhaled on a hurried “I’ll meet you up front” as I sprinted through the kitchen and shoved through the double doors. The dining room was a sea of bare tables supporting upturned chairs, by all appearances untouched since before Swing’s death if you didn’t count the dark fingerprint powder that now begrimed various surfaces.

  I made my way to the very front of the building, gulping air and aiming for a corner spot away from the big picture window. I had no desire to be spied by curious pedestrians strolling past. The odor from the kitchen lingered in my nostrils.

  The shoe prints. Yep, they were big. Size thirteen, according to Dom. His own size. Romulus Tooley’s size, too? I hoped Ben would be able to provide an answer to that one, along with Tooley’s whereabouts the morning Swing was killed.

  Okay, I could shove away the thought no longer, much as I’d tried.

  Tucker. Kari’s sweet, besotted scholar athlete. Passionate about swimming. Passionate about a future in the healing sciences. Passionate about his girlfriend. I recalled his heartfelt declaration after he’d faced off with Tooley the day of the funeral.

  I love you, Kari. I’d do anything for you. Anything!

  Tucker, who seemed to know a little too much about things he couldn’t, shouldn’t, know about.

  You’re going to clean up all that blood and everything?

  Well, the blood was a given, right? I mean, everyone knew how Swing had died. A stabbing equals blood. But then Tucker had gone and said everything. What kind of everything would the average walking-around person assume to be present at that kind of crime scene? I happened to know what everything meant in this case because I’d been there. I’d seen the cooking ingredients, the platter, the word scrawled on the floor. Everything.

  Was I overreacting? Probably. Blood and everything. So what? Didn’t teens in particular throw around words like everything without even knowing what the heck they meant by it?

  At that moment I dearly wished I’d thought to look at Tucker’s feet when we’d dropped off the kids at the train station. His feet could be puny little size sevens for all I knew, and then I could stop obsessing about the everything.

  Dom entered the dining room in under a minute. Only his male pride had kept him in the Kitchen of Horrors for that long, I was certain.

  “The guy’s thorough, I’ll give him that,” he said, as he joined me in my secluded little corner. “He’s checking out the storage areas, office, everywhere.”

  “The cops and crime-scene techs were probably all over the building,” I said. “Traces of blood could be anywhere—it’s a biohazard. Denny’s guys use Luminol or something to test for it. By the time they’re done decontaminating this place, no one will be able to tell anything happened here. It’ll be like new.”

  Dom looked dubious. “If you say so. Why would anyone go into his line of work?”

  I shrugged. “Why would anyone go into my line of work? Denny used to be an EMT, so he
has the stomach for it. Years ago he did a suicide clean-up as a favor for a pal and ended up starting a business.”

  After a moment Dom said, “Victor doesn’t know you’re here, does he?”

  “He’s been through enough.”

  He nodded in a noncommittal way. “So. You like this guy?”

  “He seems nice enough.”

  He grunted. “He really seems to have made himself at home.”

  “That’s what houseguests do.”

  “And he’s working in the city?” he asked. “Commuting?”

  “For now.”

  “Interesting.” There was that dopey nod again.

  “Interesting how?” I had no intention of making this easier for him. After all those years watching my ex cycle through multiple fiancées and wives—and me, let’s face it, not giving him all that much to feel jealous about in return—I was having fun watching him squirm.

  Oh please, there’s nothing mean about it. After what that man put me through? Okay, maybe not intentionally. I mean, you could say he was just, you know, “living his life” or whatever after our divorce. But still.

  “Be careful, Janey. That’s all I’m saying.”

  “‘Be careful’? What does that mean?”

  “It means I don’t want you hurt,” he said. “That’s all.”

  My jaw hinged open to respond, but my good sense locked it in place while the withering comebacks scrolled harmlessly through my brainpan.

  “What?” he asked. “What does that look mean? Come on, let’s have it.”

  I took a calming breath. “Yeah. I do.”

  “You do what?”

  “Like him,” I said, and watched with satisfaction as that simple statement hit home. “I’ve really enjoyed getting to know Victor. I’m looking forward to getting to know him better.”

  “You met the guy less than a week ago, Janey.”

  “That’s where the ‘getting to know him better’ part comes in.”

  Dom gave an exasperated sigh. “Fine. I just don’t want you to get—”

  “Do not say it again,” I warned. I was staring at the only man who’d ever really hurt me. The fact that he hadn’t meant to was immaterial.

  “Well, does he feel the same way?” he asked.

  I was saved from trying to formulate an answer by the sudden squeal of car brakes from beyond the big front window. Dom and I edged close enough to peek outside without being seen. A nondescript beige sedan had stopped in the middle of the street right I front of Dewatre. The driver remained behind the wheel as two individuals jumped out of the car.

  I say individuals because their gender wasn’t immediately apparent. This was due to the full-head masks they wore. The driver was a panda. The one carrying a brick was a rhino. And the one holding the flame of a cigarette lighter to the rag sticking out of a bottle was a lion. As my brain began to register the strangeness of this—Halloween? No, not for another few weeks—the rhino hurled the brick through the window.

  I screamed as glass sprayed in all directions. The alarm system kicked in with an earsplitting wail. Dom yanked me out of the line of fire as the lion hauled back to toss what I belatedly identified as a Molotov cocktail.

  He successfully chucked the makeshift firebomb into the restaurant, but not before the flaming wick and dripping gasoline had ignited his mask and the back of his jacket. His shrieks were audible over the alarm as he fell to the street, yanking off the mask and rolling to extinguish the flames.

  The bottle shattered on a table a few feet from us. The fireball was instantaneous, a column of flame engulfing the table and its upturned chairs as puddles of burning gasoline littered the floor around it. The dining room contained no shortage of fuel—the whole place would go up in no time. The fierce heat and acrid smell compounded my terror as Dom seized my hand and started running. We gave the conflagration a wide berth as we raced for the front door.

  Outside, a crowd was beginning to form. As usual, most held up their cell phones. Hey, why be merely a passive observer or—now, here’s a crazy thought—offer assistance when you can document the moment for Facebook and YouTube?

  The thrower of the Molotov cocktail lay curled on the street, not due to any injuries he’d sustained from having inadvertently set himself on fire—singed hair and black streaks on his windbreaker appeared to be the worst of it—but because Cheyenne O’Rourke was gleefully kicking him with her stratospheric, money-patterned platform sneakers, in between licks of a soft-serve chocolate ice-cream cone with rainbow sprinkles. The crowd urged her on with cheers and shouted encouragement.

  I happened to know that Cheyenne, a sullen local teenager who worked for Dom at Janey’s Place, wasn’t above a bit of hooliganism herself, but it would appear she had little use for arsonists. Either that or she simply enjoyed kicking a man while he was down. Meanwhile the arsonist’s buddies laid rubber, abandoning the poor schmuck to the vindictive bystanders, their vehicle’s swiftly retreating license plate obscured with a liberal coating of mud.

  Oh, did I mention? The poor abandoned schmuck was Romulus Tooley.

  “All right, Cheyenne, I think he got the message.” Dom managed to separate his employee and the SEAR spokesman, but not before she got in one final, well-aimed kick that had Tooley squealing in agony, and every male in the vicinity wincing.

  “That crazy SOB,” Dom muttered.

  Tracking his gaze to the restaurant, I realized he was not referring to Tooley. Denny Pinheiro had wheeled a full janitor’s bucket into the dining room, where the fire was rapidly spreading.

  Silly me, I’d assumed Denny had escaped out the back when the excitement started. Turned out the former EMT had been preparing to battle the blaze single-handedly. Once a first responder, always a first responder. Black smoke billowed through the broken window. Sirens warbled in the distance.

  “Denny! Get the hell out of there!” Dom sprinted back into the restaurant, leaving Tooley to the less-than-tender mercies of the onlookers. The sniveling SEAR spokesman offered little resistance as a couple of burly construction workers dragged him onto the sidewalk opposite Dewatre.

  “I did it for the animals,” Tooley bleated.

  “Don’t even.” Cheyenne lobbed the sloppy remains of her cone, nailing him in the kisser.

  I peered into the restaurant, squinting through the smoke to see what Dom and Denny were up to. “What are you doing?” I screeched, trying to be heard over the brain-skewering alarm. “Get out!”

  The flames abruptly abated. I saw the two men drop the big janitor’s bucket. They’d flung the contents onto the fire, extinguishing much but not all of it. I kept hollering for them to get out—the fire trucks were rounding the corner, for crying out loud!—but instead the men grabbed a stack of folded white tablecloths off the bar and used them to snuff out the remaining flames.

  Twenty minutes later, the firefighters had finished tromping through the place, ostensibly to ensure the danger was past but really, I suspect, to get a good eyeful of the notorious murder scene in the kitchen. Juicy grist for the Crystal Harbor gossip mill. They pretended to chastise Denny and Dom for risking their hides putting out the blaze, but no one was fooled. The guys had received congratulations and backslaps from the cheering throng. Even Cheyenne was being hailed as a hero for “subduing” the dangerous ecoterrorist, who was currently on his way to the police station, with a detour to Harbor Memorial Hospital to check out any injuries.

  The cops had pushed the looky-loos a half block from Dewatre, which had now become the site of two, count ’em two, major crime scenes in less than a week. Dom and I stood chatting with the milling bystanders, watching the cops string yellow crime-scene tape yet again, when I heard my name being called.

  I turned to see Victor bulling his way through the crowd. “Are you all right?” he said when he reached me. “The alarm company called. I left you a voice mail.”

  “I guess I didn’t hear my phone,” I said. “Things were kind of loud.” The alarm had finally b
een silenced, thank heaven.

  His worried gaze should have made him less handsome. Ask me if it did. Go ahead, ask.

  “You smell like smoke,” he said. “Were you in there when it happened?”

  I nodded. He pulled me into a bone-crushing hug. “Jane, mon Dieu, you could have been killed.” He pulled back for a second to ask if I was hurt. When I shook my head no, he hugged me even tighter. And yeah, it felt as good as you’re imagining.

  I was aware of Dom’s silent presence next to us. I said, “I’m all right, really, Victor.”

  He released me but kept hold of my hands. “You met the cleaning person here,” he accused. “You thought to spare me, yes?” Correctly interpreting my expression, he said, “Foolish woman. I’m not so fragile as you think.”

  “Um, Dom helped to put out the fire.” Gently I extricated myself from Victor’s hold. “Along with Denny—that’s the cleaning guy. He’s around here somewhere.” When last I’d seen Denny, he’d been schmoozing with some of his firefighter buddies.

  Belatedly Victor took in Dom’s rumpled appearance, the soot clinging to every square inch of him. “Another case of temporary insanity.” But he said it with kindness. He extended his hand. “Thank you, Dom.”

  Dom appeared momentarily perplexed—why was Victor thanking him? I watched comprehension slam home with the realization that my houseguest now owned Dewatre, being his brother’s sole beneficiary. He mumbled something appropriate and moved away through the crowd as Victor slid a protective arm around me.

  8

  This Is a Serious Matter and Everyone in This Reum Is Under Suspicion

  I WAS IN my kitchen examining the front page of the Harbor Herald, the town’s weekly newspaper, when I heard the doorbell ring, to the accompaniment of Sexy Beast’s territorial hysteria. This was followed moments later by the sound of the front door opening and the indistinct murmur of male voices. It was Wednesday evening, sevenish. I’d just picked up Victor at the train station. He’d spent the day working at his firm’s Manhattan office.