by Sharon Dunn
“Did you hear that?” Ginger patted Earl on the shoulder with a fist. “Lets go toward that noise.”
Earl groaned. “Can you make a decision and stick with it?” He turned the wheel in the direction of the noise. “We’re both going to end up with whiplash.”
Lumbering through the grass, Earl closed in on the origin of the noise. A man shouted a curse. A second voice let out a smorgasbord of swearing.
They were nearly on top of the second golf cart before it came into view from the band of light created by the Pepper Light. The scene was like something in a children’s book, the ones where you had to make up a story about what happened based on what you saw in the picture.
Ginger spotlighted the bits and pieces of images with her Pepper Light. A man lay face down on the ground. What must have been a child’s toy boat was scattered in pieces not too far from the man. Two men paced beside a golf cart. One of them had to be approaching seven feet in height. He had geometric features, square shoulders, square cheek bones. The other man resembled an actor playing a mafia hit man.
The man on the ground had been hit by the golf cart, and his toy boat had gotten the brunt of it.
The shorter man, Mr. Mafia, bustled around the golf cart. The large man leaned over the body on the grass. When Ginger and Earl came up on him, he jerked his head up and stumbled backward.
What was the proper etiquette in this situation? They had obviously nearly driven into a crime in progress. “Hi,” said Ginger. “Nice evening.”
“Were just out doing some late-night golfing.” Earl’s voice was very Sunday afternoon tea party, would-you-like-butter-with-your-biscuit in tone.
Good, Earl had decided to go with the ruse. Thank you, dear husband.
Mr. Mafia reached behind his back toward his waistband. Instinct told Ginger he wasn’t hiking his pants up. Probably had a gun tucked in his waistband.
The tall man thrust his chin up and shook his head. The other man pulled an empty hand from behind his back. Whatever these guys were up to, it wasn’t good.
Earl chuckled. “I’m afraid we have just gotten a little lost.”
The taller man reached down and gathered up the small unconscious man like he was a feather pillow. He lifted the man so his face was visible.
Ginger stifled a gasp. Mr. Simpson.
The fat, short man spoke out of the side of his mouth. “Our friend here has had a bit much to drink. We were just headed over to the tenth hole.”
A splotch of blood on Mr. Simpson’s forehead came into view as Ginger jerked the flashlight from one face to another.
Ginger stood up in the golf cart. “That doesn’t look like too much to drink to me.” She leaped out of the cart and stalked toward them.
The big man dropped Mr. Simpson and lunged toward her.
She froze. A man that size could clobber her with a single blow.
Earl climbed out of the cart and stood beside her. She squared her shoulders. They could take on these guys.
Mr. Mafia closed the distance between them. She saw the bulge of a weapon in his waistband.
Her mouth went dry. She took a step back. Maybe fighting with these guys wasn’t such a good idea.
Mr. Simpson stirred.
His movement triggered looks and nods between the two thugs. The big ones attention was drawn to something up the hill. He tugged Mr. Mafias sleeve, and they sprinted back toward the other cart. By the time Mr. Mafia got to the cart, the big man was already behind the wheel.
Guns or no guns, she wasn’t about to let these criminals get away Ginger raced back to their cart and hopped in the drivers side, pressing the accelerator to the floor. She zoomed toward her husband. “Hop in, Earl,” she yelled.
Mr. Simpson lifted his head. His eyes were swimming. As they sped past the crushed boat, the glint of jewelry caught Ginger’s eye. One criminal at a time. They had a few minutes before Simpson became coherent.
Earl leaned out of the cart as they sped past Mr. Simpson. Mr. Simpson groaned and clutched his face.
“What did you do?”
Earl held up the Pepper Light. “Just a little insurance that he’ll be there when we get back.”
“You think of everything.”
Ginger glanced back to see what the criminals had been alarmed by. Suzanne, Arleta, and a man she didn’t recognize who lagged behind were closing in on foot. Five to two. Those were better odds. She pushed the accelerator to the floor.
Her cart traversed across the green for what seemed like several minutes. Ginger was tempted to jump out and run up the hill. It felt like they were moving backward. The other cart disappeared over the top of a hill.
She bounced in her seat. “Can’t this thing go any faster?”
“This isn’t a Corvette.”
They rolled to the top of a hill. The other cart was nearly to the end of the fairway, which connected to a path. Once they left the golf course, they could scatter almost anywhere into the darkness. Chasing them on foot through the city would be futile. She and Earl had to catch them now.
Ginger pressed the accelerator to the floor. She rocked her torso forward and back as if that would make the cart go faster. “Come on, you old thing.”
The men turned onto the path. Their cart puttered toward a fence with an open gate.
Earl gripped the tiny windshield.
“Come on. Go, go, go!” They were over halfway down the hill. She wanted to glance over her shoulder, to see if her backup had made it, but there was no time.
The men were within twenty feet of the gate when she saw a flash of red lights and heard a siren. A police car blocked the gate, and another pulled up behind it.
Ginger steered the cart out onto the path.
The two thugs held their hands up as the police came toward them.
Arleta and Suzanne dragged a wobbling Mr. Simpson down the hill with the help of the man, who was also a police officer.
Ginger crawled out of the cart, shaking her head. “How did the police know to come here?”
Xabier stepped from out of the shadows that surrounded the police cars.
Kindra held her breath as the sun climbed higher in the sky above the hotels and shopping malls. Morning light spilled over the parking lot filled with garage sale vendors waking up for one more day of selling.
The sidewalks below looked cold and abandoned. Hours before, they had been neon bright and bursting with noise. Only a few cars crawled along the streets that were not shut off for the garage sales. She leaned against the brick wall of the rooftop garden, inhaling the smell of lilac. Dew, like transparent jewels, shimmered on some of the leaves and flowers. Sunday morning in Calamity, Nevada. God was here too.
Footsteps, distinctive in the morning silence, sounded on the stairs that led up to the garden. She turned as Xabier’s head emerged.
“Thanks for meeting me up here.” Already her throat had gone dry. She laced her fingers together, pressing knuckle against knuckle. She had had a night to think, and she knew what she needed to do. Please God, give me the strength I need.
He shrugged. “Thank you for taking care of my mom … when I couldn’t. I just talked to her. She’s doing okay.”
Xabier could show up in a garbage sack with a banana peel on his head and he would be handsome, but he was truly endearing in his oversized royal blue T-shirt and tan khakis with pockets on the legs. Maybe it was sort of that shy-guy way he had of hanging his head and hunching his shoulders.
He pulled a white flower off one of the bushes and then moved toward her. He stood beside her, resting his elbow on the brick fence and twisting the flower in his fingers. Their shoulders touched.
She wasn’t sure where to start. She had had an elaborate speech scripted out in her head. Of course, all that flew out the window when she saw Xabier.
“So you fly out later today, huh?”
“Yep, back to Montana. The bad guys are in jail, thanks to you. Suzanne and Arleta are meeting me in few minutes so we can celebrate …
a lot of things.”
“I don’t want you to go.” He slipped the flower into her hand, brushing his fingers over her palm. “Let’s run away and get married. There’s like a ton of places you can do it in this state.”
She jerked her head back. Whoa. That came out of nowhere. “Xabier, I—” She had the sensation of turning in circles in a warm, swirling pool of water, slowly going under, but too dizzy and entranced by the comfort to care.
He cupped the bottom of her hand.
“And then what would we do after we were married?” She had been prepared for almost anything, but not a marriage proposal.
“I don’t know.” He raised his hands in the air and stepped back. “Sell my half of the hotel once all this is cleared up. We could go live in London. They have theaters everywhere there.”
Her checklist said that she should date a guy at least a year before she thought about getting married. No matter how she did the math, three days didn’t come close to qualifying. They hadn’t even had a real date. “And after that? What do we do when the money runs out?”
He shook his head as if he couldn’t comprehend her question. In a way, he couldn’t. “Why do you have to script your life out for the next forty years? No matter what kind of plan you make, things will happen that spin you in a totally different direction. Believe me, I know. Doesn’t what I said sound like fun? I’m not asking you to live with me without marriage. I respect your beliefs. I want to marry you.”
She strode over to a bench and ran her hand over the cool metal. “But Xabier, my beliefs aren’t your beliefs.” What a coward she was. She didn’t even look at him when she drove the knife through his heart.
“I called the police last night. I’m not trying to do everything on my own anymore. Isn’t that a good start?” he pleaded.
When she finally lifted her head and looked at him, she saw sadness in his eyes. She’d done that. She’d inflicted that wound.
She opened her hand. The flower he had given her was crushed. “That was a big step. But it’s not—”
Xabier swayed back and forth, studied a plant, and then stared at the ground. Through an act of will or maybe it was just an act, he smiled and did a dance step that involved turning in a half circle. “I know.” He ran his fingers through his hair and leaned close to her. “I grew up in the church, remember? You guys like to marry your own kind and all that.”
She giggled. “Yeah, our own kind.” She sure was going to miss this guy. He was worried about her pain and willing to turn into a clown to get her past it.
“I like to make you laugh. Wish I could hear that for the rest of my life.”
“I got my checklist. I have to finish college and then—”
“—you need to meet a nice Christian guy.” His shoulder drooped. “I don’t know if that will ever be me.”
She looked into his dark brown eyes. “You’re something special, Xabier Knight.”
“Not special enough to get the girl of my dreams.” His voice was tinged with bitterness, but he managed another smile for her.
Invisible weight pressed on her shoulders, and she wanted to collapse into a chair. She’d deceived him into thinking there could be more between them because being with him felt so good. The wounded look in his eyes nearly crushed her. “I didn’t mean to be just one more cruel Christian who led you on and let you down.”
“I don’t think you’re cruel.” He turned his back to her and walked toward a potted plant on a pedestal. “Would you do one thing for me?”
“Sure.”
“Would you put ‘be more spontaneous’ on that list of yours ’cause I think you need that.”
“I’ll do that. Would you do something for me? Keep hanging out with your mom? She needs you and you need her.”
“’Cause you’re just secretly hoping that I’ll come around spiritually. I bet you and my mom talked about how you’re going to pray for me. ‘Poor prodigal son Xabier. We’ll pray him into the kingdom.’”
His voice had become a bit mocking. She had to hand it to him though. He had described the scene almost exactly as it had happened. Were Christians that predictable? “Can’t pull the spandex over your eyes, can we?”
Xabier shoved his hands in his pockets.
A couple came up through the entrance. They glanced at Xabier and Kindra and then headed toward the other side of the garden, holding hands and leaning close to each other. Morning light warmed Kindra’s skin. She closed her eyes. This garden should be the place where people fall in love, not where they break up.
Xabier pulled her close and kissed her on the cheek. “Why don’t you go be with your friends?”
“But I want—” What she wanted was to not feel so rotten for the horrible way she had deceived him. He was the better person. “It’s my fault. I hurt you.”
He shrugged, but she saw the pain in his eyes. “It’s not that I don’t believe in God.”
“Maybe you will find your way back to Him.”
“Maybe, but not today. I won’t lie to you.” He twirled her out of the embrace in a move from a ballroom dance and then stepped toward her. Like butterfly wings, his hand brushed over her arm. “Turn your back, and I’ll be gone.”
“Looks like we have a triple header this morning.” Detective Jacobson waved a clipboard at Mallory.
“No thanks to the Calamity PD, huh?” Mallory took the clipboard and filed through the stack of paperwork.
Jacobson shrugged. “If the Salinski woman wants to play junior detective, it saves us man-hours.”
Early-morning activity in the police station was at a minimum. A few officers sat in carrels typing up reports or talking on the phone. Commander Laughlin wouldn’t be in for another hour.
All the witness statements had been taken for both Simpson and the two other men. Nevada law allowed them to hold a suspect for twenty-four hours without charging him with anything. Mallory had opted to wait until morning to question them when she was more alert. Sometimes, too, a night in jail made a suspect more likely to see the error of his ways.
Detective Jacobson looked fresh and effervescent. On her way out the door this morning, Mallory had dared herself a glance in the mirror, conjuring up comparisons to things that had been run over with steamrollers. “Who’s behind door number one?”
“Confirmed jewelry thief, Mr. Alex Simpson.”
Mallory’s head cleared. Her thoughts sharpened like that moment in third grade when she knew she could recite the entire multiplication table. This was going to be easier than she had imagined. “He fessed up?”
“I don’t think being on the run suited him.” Jacobson smiled. “Being run over helped too. People from the hotel have already come in to identify the jewelry. He didn’t give up anything on his relationship with Dustin Clydell.”
“And door number two?”
“We pulled sheets on our golf-cart guys.” Jacobson flipped through the papers on Mallory’s clipboard and pointed to one. “The first guy is Fred Danske. He’s a bouncer from Vegas with a history of assault.”
“The other guy?”
“Still down in the holding cell. Milo Warren, recently employed as a used car salesman in Vegas, moved here six months ago from Los Angeles. Left California because of all the back child support he owed.” Jacobson pointed to an item on the sheet. “Due to appear in court for beating up a fellow blackjack player.”
“Everyone needs a hobby.” Last night when she’d gotten the call from the patrol officer, she’d been given the Reader’s Digest version of the reason for the men’s being taken into custody. Before she could formulate lines of questioning for Danske and Warren, she needed to get some details, read over witness statements. Simpson would be the easy one; she’d been thinking about what she would ask him since the Salinski woman had pointed the finger at him as the thief. Now to figure out what he had to do with Dustin’s death. “Give me twenty minutes to review this?”
“I need to grab coffee and a doughnut.” Jacobson put her hand
over her mouth. “Oh, sorry.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Mallory said. “Eat all the doughnuts you want. I’m the one with the food issues.”
Twenty minutes later, Mallory headed down the hallway toward interrogation room number two with Jacobson, doughnut-breath woman, right behind her. The room was painted a color somewhere between pink and peach. A hue that was designed to have a calming effect on all who gazed at it … or at least that was what the decorator had promised.
Across the room, Fred Danske slouched in the interrogation chair. His skin had a yellow tinge. He gazed at them with watery eyes. The night in jail had not done him good. Exactly what Mallory had hoped for. The chair disappeared beneath his massive body.
Jacobson took the chair across the table from Danske. Mallory chose a position against the far wall. She deliberately stared at him long enough to make him uncomfortable. He scooted his chair up to the table, put his hands on it, then on his lap and then back on the table.
Jacobson smiled at the suspect, and he smiled back. “You like to play golf, Mr. Danske?”
Danske shrugged. “I hit a few balls, swing a stick from time to time.”
“At night.” Mallory made both words sound like hammer blows on steel.
Danske jerked his gaze toward Mallory. He leaned back in his chair, lifting his chin. Despite the bravado, she could read fear in his eyes.
Then he looked back at Jacobson. He grinned, resting elbows on the table and leaning toward her.
Done with enough subtlety, good cop-bad cop really did work.
“Look, I was just hired by a guy in Vegas to get Dustin Clydell to pay up.”
“Dustin Clydell owed Eternal Nirvana one million dollars. That’s a pretty big chunk of money.” Mallory crossed her arms.
Danske shrugged. “Clydell signed on the dotted line.”
“There was only twenty thousand in the envelope Xabier Knight gave you.” Jacobson rubbed a page in her notebook with her thumb.
Fred raised an eyebrow and sucked on the inside of his cheek.
“Did your employer tell you that threatening physical harm to Dustin and his son was okay?” Mallory had a feeling that at some point Danske had acted on his own for his own benefit.
