by J. R. Ripley
Riley rushed through the door. “Amy! Come quick!” He grabbed my arms. “Did you hear?”
“Calm down, Riley,” I said, pulling myself free, despite the red marks his fingers left on my arms. “Yes, I heard. Somebody tried to shoot Ava Turner.” I draped an arm over his shoulder. “Relax. She’s fine.” Riley’s love for the woman knew no bounds. I wasn’t sure I wanted to know what that was all about. She had to be twice his age.
Riley was shaking his head. “No,” he spat. “Chief Kennedy arrested Rhonda!”
23
“I just brought the woman in for questioning.” Chief Kennedy angrily pushed a mess of papers around on his desk, only succeeding in making the workspace look even more disheveled. “I didn’t strap her to the electric chair.” He glared at Riley. “What is it with everybody in Ruby Lake that they have to exaggerate so damn much?”
“I’m innocent!” cried Rhonda, wringing her hands. She was sitting on the edge of a chair at the end of the chief’s desk. Her baggy khaki pants were wrinkled, and her pullover top was stained—with what, I didn’t know. Even her usually perfectly applied and controlled makeup was a wreck. Her hair looked like a bird’s nest somebody had dumped on her head. I’d never seen her look worse.
Riley stood behind her chair with his hands on her shoulders, like he was some sort of guardian angel. “Don’t worry,” he said. “I called Mom.”
“I know, I know,” I exclaimed in answer to my cousin’s plea of innocence. I turned to Jerry. “Why on earth would Rhonda shoot Ava Turner?”
“I don’t know,” his voice grumbled out. “Why don’t you ask her? So far,” he said, turning to my cousin, “she hasn’t said anything that makes much sense to me.”
“I will.” I strode quickly across the room, grabbed one of the guest chairs at Officer Sutton’s empty desk, and pulled up next to Rhonda. “Rhonda,” I began, softly. “Please tell Chief Kennedy that you were not shooting at Miss Turner.” I stroked her hand.
“I did not shoot Ava Turner,” she said, her jaw tight.
“Then what were you doing out in the woods behind the woman’s house?” Chief Kennedy asked.
My brow went up in alarm. “Ava Turner’s house?” That couldn’t be good.
“That’s right,” Jerry said, his tone smug. “She was seen by some hikers.”
“You know I make my own natural hair products,” Rhonda cried. “I was picking leaves and flowers.” She narrowed her eyes at the chief. “Not shooting people.”
I did know. Using such things as chamomile, elderflower, and rosemary, Rhonda mixes up natural hair and makeup products that she sells to her customers at the beauty salon. Some of it wasn’t bad at all. Except for whatever it was she’d had me try for the holidays that had turned my hair shamrock green. That had been one memorable Christmas Eve party.
Jerry sighed and lifted a rifle beside his desk. “Your rifle has been fired recently. How do you explain that?”
“I told you. I was shooting at squirrels this morning.” Rhonda pushed her fingers nervously through her hair. The action did nothing to help.
I gaped at my cousin.
“Don’t look at me like that,” she snapped. “You know that I never hit them.”
“It’s against the law to shoot a firearm within town limits,” Jerry said. “I could arrest you for that alone.”
Rhonda pleaded at me with her eyes.
I was at a loss for what to say or do next and was relieved when Mom and Aunt Betty pushed through the door of the police station. Ben Harlan, Derek’s father and, better still, high-powered attorney, stood between them.
Mom came quickly. “Are you all right, Amy? Are they hurting you?”
I assured her that I was fine. Mom had had the dubious pleasure of visiting me in the police station on more than one previous occasion, so I couldn’t blame her for her mistaken concern.
Mom reached for my head and pulled at a lock of my hair. “Is that chocolate frosting in your hair?”
I pulled my head away. “It’s nothing, Mom. Really.”
Rhonda ran to her mother’s side and took her hand. “Don’t worry,” Aunt Betty said with authority. “Nobody touches my baby.” She aimed that last remark directly at Jerry.
I noticed him sink several inches into his chair.
“I hope you had a warrant for that rifle, Chief.” Ben tugged at the sleeves of his striped shirt and winked at Rhonda.
“I didn’t need a warrant. Officer Reynolds went to Ms. Foxcombe’s home and she invited him inside.”
“Is that true, Rhonda?” the lawyer asked my cousin.
“Y-yes,” she stammered. “I don’t have anything to hide.”
Jerry snorted.
“Chief,” Ben said, hovering over the desk, “I am very sorry to hear about Ms. Turner’s troubles, but unless you have something more than the account of some hikers who saw my client in the woods . . .”
“She fought with the dead woman who was killed in Ava Turner’s dressing room. She was seen in the vicinity of the attempted shooting of Ms. Turner at around the time of the shooting.”
Ben looked down his nose at the chief. “Was she seen carrying a rifle?”
Jerry pulled a face. “No.” He cast his eyes on his suspect the way a fisherman looks at his catch when he knows he’s about to release it.
“Why would Rhonda Foxcombe want to murder Ava Turner, anyway?”
“I don’t know.” Jerry jerked his thumb at me. “Why don’t you ask her? She’s the one that seems to think there’s some big deadly conspiracy going on around here. Personally,” the chief said, thumping a stack of papers atop his desk, “I think this whole crime is based on jealousy or money or just plain orneriness.” Jerry stood. “Or maybe Rhonda doesn’t like the way her brother is fawning all over Miss Turner?”
I saw Riley blush.
“What?!” shrieked Rhonda, releasing her grip on her mother. “I would never hurt a woman that Riley liked. I would never hurt anybody.”
“My Rhonda is no more a killer than—than Amy here.” Aunt Betty aimed her index finger at me and I took a step back. “My daughter is gentle as a lamb.”
“Do you have any more questions for my client, Chief?” Ben rested the palm of his hand on Rhonda’s shoulder.
Kennedy kicked back his chair and stomped to the coffeepot. He cursed when he discovered it empty and jabbed the carafe under the faucet. He turned and glared at the group of us. “What the hell are you all still doing in my office?”
Jerry ripped the top off a bag of ground coffee, spilling a considerable amount of it over his shoes and carpet. “Get out of here before I arrest the damn lot of you for loitering!”
Before leaving, I couldn’t resist putting in my own two cents’ worth. “You know, Jerry, you ought to be talking to some real suspects instead of harassing the fine citizens of Ruby Lake. The ones who pay your salary.”
The chief opened his mouth to reply, but stopped when I put up my hand. “Like August Mantooth, the director, for instance. Did you know he was leaving town?”
I shook my head from side to side to express my disappointment in his job performance. “If he hasn’t gone already. Did you ever think he might be the killer? Maybe he murdered Patsy Klein and then tried to kill Ava Turner when he got the wrong woman the first time.”
The chief of police seemed unimpressed. “And now you figure he’s on the run because he’s afraid we might be on to him?”
“Maybe he doesn’t know you as well as I do.”
Jerry’s face scrunched up like a plum left too long in the sun. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Think about it!” I cried as Riley grabbed me by the arm and dragged me outside.
While Mom, Aunt Betty, and my cousins decided to go join Ben Harlan, who’d generously offered to take everyone out to celebrate, I begged off.
It was time to pay a visit to the Ruby Lake Motor Lodge and our dear director, August Mantooth—if, as Lou had intimated, the man hadn’t already left town.
A local landmark since the fifties, the Ruby Lake Motor Inn is situated on what we locals consider Lower Lake Shore Drive, across the road from Ruby Lake. There is a big, popular public marina located at this edge of the lake as well. Permanent boat slips were available. There were also boat rentals, everything from kayaks to pontoon boats to cruisers.
Built in the so-called “neon era,” the Ruby Lake Motor Inn was comprised of an L-shaped building that contained thirty rooms. It also housed the office and a small diner in the shorter line of the L. Behind the motel, eight studio-sized, rustic cabins with kitchens and wood-burning fireplaces had been added to accommodate those guests wanting a few more home comforts or planning an extended stay.
Rust-pitted thirty-foot-tall steel posts held up the motel’s iconic giant ruby-red neon sign. A smaller amber sign braced high up between the posts proclaimed that there were no vacancies.
Dick Feller was sitting behind the front desk, sipping coffee and reading the newspaper as I came through the door. I smelled fried chicken coming from the diner, and my stomach pleaded with me to take a break and get something to eat. I ignored its plea.
A mother and daughter were thumbing through the postcard carousel near the newsstand.
Dick lowered his newspaper and looked up as I came in. His espresso-colored eyes were a stark contrast to his pasty white skin. Dick was skinny as a proverbial rail and went from point A to point B with an economy of moves. It had surprised me to discover that he had shown an interest in acting in the community theater. It seemed so contrary to his nature. But then, I barely knew the man.
“Hello, Amy. What brings you by?” His hair was short and brown and dull.
“I wanted to let you know that Annie Get Your Gun has been canceled.”
The front desk manager folded his newspaper and set it at the edge of the counter. “Yes, I know.”
“Oh, so Lou called you?” In truth, I was sure he had known, but I’d needed an opening.
“Mr. Mantooth himself told me.” He clicked his tongue. “Such a shame.”
I drummed my fingers against the counter. “Lou told me Mr. Mantooth has a room here. Is he still around? I was hoping to catch him if he is.”
“I suppose so.” Dick’s eyes went to the computer. “He mentioned he would be checking out. Returning to New York City, I imagine. But he hasn’t turned in his room key yet.”
“Would you mind giving me his room number? I’d like to say good-bye.” I knew from experience that Dick was a stickler for following the rules. One of those rules was never to give out a room number. I was sure there was a good reason for that. But that didn’t mean the rule should apply to me.
Sure enough, Dick frowned. He swiveled the computer screen and his fingers glided over the keyboard. “Let me give him a call.” After checking the computer, he dialed the director’s room. “Sorry,” he said, putting down the receiver. “No answer.”
“That’s okay,” I said, grabbing my purse off the counter. “You tried, right?”
I stopped at the door. The mother and daughter placed two postcards on the counter: one a view of the lake and the other a shot of Lake Shore Drive as it wound through town. Both pictures had clearly been taken from the air. “Was Patsy Klein staying here, too?”
“That’s right,” Dick said. The little girl handed him a five-dollar bill and he popped open the register. “Room twenty-two. And I’ll be happy when the police release the room. Todd and Angie are more annoyed with each day.” Todd Carr and his wife, Angie, were the motel’s proprietors.
He slid the two postcards into a slender brown bag. “Thank you very much,” he said to the girl.
“Here it is, almost high season,” Dick said, redirecting his attention to me, “and we can’t rent out the room until Chief Kennedy gives us the go ahead. We’re fully booked, too.”
“Hopefully, things will get back to normal soon enough,” I said. Though, personally, I was beginning to wonder if there was such a thing as normal in Ruby Lake. Everything and everybody seemed a little . . . quirky, and hiding a secret or two. Had it always been that way? Had I been too young to notice before?
I held the door open for the girl and her mother, then headed down the covered walkway along which the motel’s main guest rooms were located. I knew there was a passage around midway leading back to the cabins behind. August Mantooth was staying in Cabin 6. Yes, I’d been looking over Dick’s shoulder. But what did it matter so long as I got results?
I was about to turn when I noticed a familiar shape step out of a room up ahead. He looked left, then right. I dodged behind a stainless-steel icemaker and peeked. It was August Mantooth.
That was odd. I knew for a fact that he’d been staying in one of the cabins. What was he doing coming out of one of the motel rooms? Visiting another guest? That was always a possibility. Then why did he look like he’d been skulking? Was he having an affair?
A young couple walked past me holding hands. I smiled awkwardly. “Dropped something behind the machine,” I said clumsily as they looked over their shoulders at me and whispered to one another.
The director shuffled off toward the cabins, and I walked quickly to the room he’d left. A scrap of tattered yellow police tape hung off the knob. I looked at the door. Room 22.
Patsy Klein’s room!
So unless he was having an affair with Patsy Klein’s ghost, the affair theory had to go out the window. Had it been curiosity that drove him to enter a room that the police had quarantined or was he looking for something? If so, what?
I tried the handle. The door was unlocked. There was no seeing in the window because the drapes were pulled shut. Was anybody else inside? Or had August Mantooth been alone?
I dragged my teeth over my lower lip. I looked left, then right, and then out to the parking lot. The mother and daughter from the lobby were now climbing into a sedan with a man waiting behind the wheel.
There was no one else in sight. I knew the room was off limits, but what could I do? This was practically an invitation. The room was practically begging me to come inside.
I opened the door just wide enough to pass and quickly slid inside. The lamps were out, but there was enough sunlight seeping through the curtains for me to easily move around.
There was nothing impressive about the room. Two double beds faced a dresser with a flat-screen TV. A large, battered tan suitcase lay atop the bed farthest from the door. Its contents, mostly clothing and toiletries, spilled over the side and onto the flowery red and orange quilt.
A search of the night table and dresser drawers turned up nothing of interest, a Bible in the nightstand, some extra clothing and underwear in the dresser drawers, a light jacket hanging in the alcove that also held a portable ironing board. There was no sign of a laptop or other electronic devices like a cell phone or tablet. A page-curled copy of our script lay open on the floor beside an upholstered chair. It had been annotated in pencil.
The bathroom was empty, except for some used motel-sized shampoo and conditioner bottles and soiled towels. An open cosmetic kit sat in front of the dressing area mirror beside the sink.
The only other thing of interest was the small makeshift shelf that Patsy had built on the corner of the dresser. A row of books and DVDs were held in place by bookends comprised of an ice bucket on one side and the iron on the other. The DVD titles were a mix of Hollywood films and Broadway shows, including Annie Get Your Gun. The books included everything from popular fiction to a crime reference book—how odd—to Ava Turner’s autobiography, Ava Turner, With Love. There was even a book on writing for the stage. Apparently, Ms. Klein had aspirations to be more than a backstage helper.
The Ava Turner autobiography was one I was tempted to take and read myself. I was beginning to think that the actress had led a very interesting life indeed. And, from what the vet, Jane Buchman, had related, that included a whole lot of love.
Why had Ava Turner returned to Ruby Lake? The town must seem terribly dul
l compared to the worlds of New York and Hollywood.
I peeked under the beds and I searched the suitcase and the clothes. All the while, my heart was racing. Each time I heard footsteps pass by outside the window, I feared discovery. Worse yet, the police might return. If Chief Kennedy found me snooping around, he’d throw the book at me.
I picked up my pace. I found nothing of note in the suitcase either. Moving to the alcove, I checked the pockets of the hanging jacket. Nothing.
Not that I knew what I was looking for or even expected to find anything. If there had been anything of interest, the police would have removed it days ago.
The jacket slid off the hanger. I bent to retrieve it and banged my head on the ironing board. The ironing board crashed to the carpet. “Shh!” My hands were shaking as I picked up the ironing board and stood it back in the alcove. As I did, I noticed a sliver of paper sticking out from under the ironing board cover.
The gray telephone on the nightstand started ringing loudly and I about had a heart attack. “Time to get out of here,” I muttered, glancing over at flashing red light on the phone as it blinked on and off like a burglar alarm. I thrust the paper in my slacks and tiptoed to the door.
Peeking through the curtains, I saw Dick Feller speaking with August Mantooth. The director was throwing a suitcase into the trunk of a nondescript dark sedan. What were they conversing about? Did Dick know the director had been in Ms. Klein’s room? Had he given him the key?
A moment later, Dick headed back to the lobby. Mr. Mantooth slammed the trunk down and disappeared, probably back to his cabin for more luggage.
I had to catch him before he left town.
Mantooth’s cabin door was open so I didn’t waste time on social convention. I marched up the front steps and went inside.
The director was hastily tossing clothes into a trunk on the floor. “Ms. Simms,” he said. “What are you doing here?”
I noticed a slight red blush to his cheeks that his beard couldn’t hide. “Hello, Mr. Mantooth. Are you leaving?”
“Show’s over,” he said, clumsily folding a hideous pink shirt and tossing it onto his growing pile. “Haven’t you heard?”
