by Gail Oust
“I’ll be sure to relay the message next time I hear from her.”
Beau shot me a dirty look before climbing into the police cruiser and driving away. Doug arrived minutes later. Madison flew to him and threw herself into his arms. “Oh, Daddy, I hate it here.”
Doug patted her back consolingly. “It’s all right, baby. We don’t have to stay if it makes you this unhappy.”
I watched Doug comfort his daughter with a feeling of finality. Curtain going down in Act Three of a family drama. Curtain going down on me and Doug, too.
* * *
I spent the rest of the day halfheartedly setting out Christmas decorations. Not even twinkle lights and candy canes lifted my sagging spirits. I felt myself sinking deeper and deeper into the doldrums. If the thought of losing Doug wasn’t depressing enough, I could lose Reba Mae as well. Finally, I brought myself up short. The situation called for some of that old-fashioned when the going gets tough the tough get going mind-set. That pull yourself up by the bootstrap mentality. That every cloud has a silver lining frame of mind. By the time Lindsey came home from school, my resolve had hardened into a plan.
“Honey, you’re in charge,” I told my girl as I headed out the door. “I’ve got an errand that can’t wait.”
Wanda Needmore was my target. When it came to “straight,” the paralegal had been more straitlaced than straightforward. Jumping into my Beetle, I aimed for the offices of Prescott and Wainwright, Attorneys-at-Law. Wanda’s name wouldn’t be eliminated unless I was convinced she didn’t kill Sandy. The paralegal had been livid at the prospect of a lawsuit. As far as I was concerned, that provided motive up the wazoo. And, furthermore, Cot and Melly had reported seeing Ms. Prim-and-Proper uncharacteristically disheveled the night of the murder.
I pulled into the drive and parked next to Wanda’s Honda. I took it as a good omen that other than mine, her Honda was the only vehicle present. This meant everyone either was occupied elsewhere or had already left for the day. I switched off the engine and sat contemplating the best approach. Dealing with Wanda would require a certain degree of finesse. I couldn’t very well come right out and ask her if she’d killed Sandy. Better to choose a more subtle approach.
Feeling more confident after my little pep talk, I got out of the car and marched down the walk and up the steps. A large holly wreath adorned the front door, a reminder I still hadn’t replaced my fall wreath with an evergreen. Since no one was around to detain me, I went directly to Wanda’s office and found her seated behind her desk. She was the epitome of decorum in a tailored gray suit and white blouse. A blue silk scarf draped gracefully around her neck added the only bit of color.
“Hi,” I said with a bright smile. “CJ here?”
Irritation flickered across Wanda’s features as she glanced up from the documents she’d been studying. “Sorry. You just missed him.”
“Oh, drat! He must have forgotten our meeting,” I improvised. “Tell him I’ll call tomorrow to reschedule.”
“I’ll do that.”
Wanda resumed reading the papers in front of her, but she should’ve remembered I wasn’t the type to be easily ignored. “I suppose you’ve heard the news that Reba Mae’s missing,” I said, adopting a conversational tone. “When McBride finds her, it’s only a matter of time before she’s arrested. Unless, that is, she can provide an alibi for the time of the murder.”
“Hmm.”
Hmm? Was that all the woman had to say?
My presence must have annoyed her, because she stopped reading to glare at me. “Piper, if you don’t mind, some of us have work to do,” she said pointedly.
“Did you kill Sandy?” I blurted.
She lifted a perfectly arched brow. “Excuse me?”
“Do you have an alibi for the night Sandy was killed?” I asked, throwing finesse to the winds. Subtle had never been my strong suit either. “It’s general knowledge you filed a lawsuit alleging Sandy reneged on an agreement between the two of you.”
“We had a verbal agreement,” Wanda admitted at last. “I had a check in my hand for the deposit when she announced she’d sold the property I was interested in to a higher bidder.”
I advanced farther into the room. “That must have been a huge disappointment.”
“It was!” Wanda snapped. “Sandy was an ambitious, greedy woman who threatened a countersuit against me for pain and suffering if I didn’t drop my complaint.”
“So did you go directly home after the final rehearsal?”
Wanda’s mouth tightened into a hard line. “What I do with my free time Monday nights is hardly any of your business. Now if you don’t get out of my office, I’ll see that you’re charged with harassment.”
Apparently Wanda wasn’t well versed in subtle any more than I was, so I took my leave. As I hurried to my car, my mind worked almost as quickly as my legs. Wanda had been very specific about a certain day of the week—Monday. Sandy had been killed on a Monday. Today was also a Monday. What did Wanda do Monday nights that she wanted secret? Curiouser and curiouser.
My stakeout skills hadn’t been tested in a while. I’d miss having Reba Mae along as my trusty sidekick, but I thought I was up to the task.
CHAPTER 33
“SWEETIE, WHY DON’T you ask Taylor to join you at the Pizza Palace for dinner before your study session? My treat.”
Lindsey gave me a suspicious look. “You feeling all right, Mom?”
“Never better,” I said, handing her a twenty.
The instant Lindsey left, her backpack slung over her shoulder, I closed up shop earlier than usual. No doubt Melly would have frowned upon my lack of business acumen, but these were extenuating circumstances. I changed into what I’d come to think of as my cat burglar costume: black jeans, turtleneck, watch cap, and, since nights had turned cool, a black zip-up fleece. Next I set about loading my supplies—Diet Coke, thermos of coffee, ham sandwich, chips, and cookies—into a duffel. No stakeout was worth its salt without snacks. I’d learned that trick from Reba Mae. She always brought the tastiest sandwiches and juiciest gossip. Surveillance would certainly have fewer calories without her along.
Casey watched my preparations with a hopeful gleam in his eyes. “Sorry to disappoint you, pup,” I told him. “This time I’m flying solo.”
I patted the pocket of my fleece for the reassuring weight of my penlight and cell phone. I glanced around the kitchen a final time to make sure I wasn’t forgetting anything; then, reassured I had what I needed, I left the apartment. Once outside, I stood for a moment, peering through the purple twilight for signs of McBride. He was nowhere in sight. Hoping he’d given up shadowing me, I ran to my car and, for the second time that day, headed for Prescott and Wainwright.
I parked a discreet distance down the block that afforded a clear view of their office. Wanda, I knew, was a creature of habit. Always the first to arrive, the last to leave. The second hand of my watch crept toward six o’clock, and as predictable as ever, Wanda left the office. Or was it Wanda? Leaning forward, I squinted through the windshield. Did the woman have a twin, a doppelganger? The tailored suit I’d seen her wearing earlier had disappeared and in its place were jeans and a heavy-duty leather jacket. Wanda didn’t seem the type to even own a pair of jeans much less be seen wearing them in public. And what was with the heavy-duty leather?
Wanda got into her Honda and backed down the drive. I slouched down in my seat, but I needn’t have bothered, since she turned in the opposite direction. I started to follow, keeping several car lengths behind. If I’d had an inkling I’d be doing surveillance someday, I would have opted for a less conspicuous mode of transportation than a sour-apple green VW Beetle. Maybe the next vehicle I purchased would be a nice, gray, nondescript sedan.
Instead of heading toward her home, Wanda surprised me. Leaving Brandywine Creek behind, she turned down Old County Road. About a mile or two past Pets ’R People, Wanda signaled a left turn onto a winding, narrow two-lane road. Soon after I saw the blink o
f her turning signal, then her taillights vanished down a rutted dirt drive. I cruised past the spot, which was marked by a mailbox that listed drunkenly to one side. What was she up to? I wondered. Except for a few scattered farms, there wasn’t much out here. As soon as I could, I turned around and retraced my route. I was almost back at Old County Road when a trio of motorcycles flew past, their throaty engines wide open. In my rearview mirror, I saw all three bikes slow, then wheel into the drive with the crooked mailbox.
There was only one way to find out what was going on. I shifted into reverse, stopping just shy of the driveway in question. I parked as far off the road as possible and got out of my car. The situation called for stealth. Surveillance would best be accomplished on foot. Switching on my penlight and keeping to the shadows, I cautiously made my way down a dirt drive lined with bare-limbed trees and scrub pine.
The drive opened into a clearing. Light spilled from every window on the ground floor of a two-story farmhouse with weathered siding. A single floodlight was mounted above the door of a barn that was otherwise dark. A half-dozen motorcycles sprouted from a yard that consisted mostly of hard-packed earth. I didn’t know much about motorcycles, but even to my unpracticed eye, these appeared to be king-of-the-road variety—big, shiny, and powerful. Instantly Hells Angels and the classic film Easy Rider sprang to mind.
I inched closer to the house for a better look and peeked through a window into what turned out to be the kitchen. It was a large room with both men and women milling about. All were dressed in clothing similar to Wanda’s jeans and leather—bikers’ gear. Some held coffee cups, some beer cans, and still others to my amazement held stemmed wineglasses.
“Hold it! Don’t move!” a whiskey-rough voice barked.
I froze. I literally couldn’t move. Even speech seemed to have deserted me.
“Now turn around,” the man ordered.
I heard the bikers chatter as they filed out of the farmhouse. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw that I was surrounded.
“Having a driveway alert system was money well spent,” the whiskey-voiced man chortled. “Know right away when someone’s coming.”
“What in the world is she doing here?” I heard Wanda ask.
At the sound of a familiar voice, I began to unthaw from my flash-freeze. I turned slowly, nearly dropping the penlight when I saw a shotgun aimed at me.
“Hoyt, lower that dang thing before you give the lady a heart attack.”
Another familiar voice, I thought with relief. This one belonged to Dale Simons, owner of the local Swap and Shop.
Hoyt, a burly man with a neatly trimmed gray beard, lowered the weapon and leaned it against the house. “This is private property, lady. I could call the cops. Charge you with trespassing.”
My back brushed the weathered siding making retreat impossible. I licked my lips which suddenly had gone dry and floundered for a plausible explanation for my being there. My gaze swept over the unsmiling bikers in search of a friendly face. They were an older bunch than I’d anticipated. I recognized my insurance agent and his wife, CJ’s chiropractor, and the assistant manager of my bank among the group. Professionals, not hooligans.
“So, is this some kind of a club?” I asked with false bravado. “Can anyone join?”
“Sorry, darlin’,” Hoyt drawled. “I’ve seen you toolin’ around town. Can’t join as long as you claim a VW as your only form of transportation.”
Everyone laughed at my expense, and I felt blood rush to my face.
“This is an invitation-only kind of club,” Dale explained, taking pity on me. “Folks tend to misjudge motorcyclists, view them in a certain light. We’re picky about who we allow in our inner circle.”
The banker, whose name temporarily escaped me, nodded his agreement. “People often prejudge people on Harleys.”
“Makes them think of Hells Angels,” someone added.
“Or that old movie with Peter Fonda and Dennis Hopper. You know the one,” Hoyt said, his forehead wrinkling as he struggled to recall the title.
I winced. Guilty on all counts. “So, Wanda,” I said, getting down to business, “is this where you went after rehearsal the night of the murder?”
“Well, well, well … that’s what all the snooping is about.” Chuckling, Dale casually draped his arm around Wanda’s shoulders. “If memory serves, we met at my house in town that night to plan our next road rally. Wanda got there soon as rehearsal ended.”
“That meeting lasted till nearly midnight,” CJ’s chiropractor added. “And most of us had to get up early for work the next morning.”
“Dale and I are travel buddies. Have been ever since Yancy passed,” Wanda admitted, sounding defensive. “I’ve cultivated a certain image over the years and don’t relish being a laughingstock because of my new interest.”
Dale smiled fondly at his starchy companion. “If I have my way, Wanda and I will be more than travel buddies.”
Wanda … and Dale? Who knew? A textbook case of opposites attracting.
“I trust you’ll keep our … friendship … under wraps for the time being.” Wanda placed her hand on top of Dale’s. “Once Dottie Hemmings discovers I belong to a motorcycle club, people will be gossiping behind my back.”
Hoyt twisted his head to peer over his shoulder. “Don’t see your Beetle anywhere, darlin’.”
“I, um, left it back on the road and walked the rest of the way.”
“Let me give you a lift.” The burly biker grinned, and I caught the glint of a gold tooth. “Plenty of room on my bike for a pretty little thing like you.”
“Hoyt’s always been partial to redheads,” laughed a plump woman with streaked blond hair scraped into a ponytail.
Hoyt unstrapped a helmet from the back of a maroon Harley-Davidson parked nearby. “Here you go,” he said, handing me a spare helmet. “State law in Georgia. Hop on.”
The remainder of the club drifted back into the farmhouse. Hoyt donned a helmet, straddled the motorcycle, and worked magic with the controls until the machine roared like a lion. It was now or never. I put on the helmet and swung on board.
“Hold tight, darlin’.”
I wrapped my arms around Hoyt’s ample girth and off we zoomed down the rutted drive toward my car. My first motorcycle ride ended much too quickly. I was surprised to discover I’d actually enjoyed it. I climbed down, removed my helmet, and thanked the man.
He winked. “Ever decide to turn in your Beetle for a hog, give me a call.”
“Thanks,” I said, and smiled. I assumed “hog” was another name for a Harley but made a mental note to Google that later.
* * *
My stakeout hadn’t been a total bust. Thus far tonight, I’d been caught trespassing, stared down the barrel of a shotgun, been threatened with arrest, and passed up an invitation to become a motorcycle chick. That’s the most adventure I’d had in months. And—bottom line—my last viable suspect had an alibi that could be verified by a dozen biker buddies.
It all amounted to zero progress in saving my best friend’s bacon and finding the real killer. I drove back to town slowly. I blew out a breath, feeling frustrated beyond belief. If Wanda wasn’t the guilty party, she’d have no reason to slash the tires on Madison’s car or carve a warning into the door. A cold-blooded killer walked the streets of Brandywine Creek, free as a breeze, terrified Madison might bring their freedom to a halt. Madison, whether she knew it or not, was the key to unlocking a mystery.
A logging truck whizzed past. I shook my head and looked around, surprised to find myself stopped at the junction of Old County Road. I’d been driving on autopilot. One more stop, I decided then and there, before going home. I hit the accelerator and made a right turn.
There was no sign of either Doug’s SUV or Madison’s Miata when I pulled into Pets ’R People, but lights burned in the living quarters. I assumed one or both of them was home and their vehicles in the garage. It was early yet; therefore I wasn’t worried I’d wake someone. Befor
e I could reconsider I got out of my car and went up the walk. After I rang the bell and knocked, Madison cracked open the door.
“My dad’s not here,” she said. “He was called out on some kind of emergency. A horse or cow, I don’t remember which.”
“That’s all right. You’re the one I wanted to see.”
“Me? What for?”
“Mind if I come in?”
Madison stepped aside, then twisted the dead bolt. “Daddy said to keep the doors locked and not to let anyone in, but I suppose he won’t mind if it’s you. I was about to have a cup of tea. Want one?” Not waiting for an answer, she turned and led the way to the kitchen.
“I really don’t want tea,” I said, taking a chair at the table. “I just wanted to talk to you. Someone is going to extremes to frighten you. I can’t help but think this person, whoever they might be, believes you heard—or saw—something that might incriminate them in Sandy’s death.”
Madison filled a kettle and turned on a burner. “I’ve been over and over everything a hundred times. I don’t know what you expect from me.”
I realized I still wore the knit watch cap. Tugging it off, I ran my fingers through my matted hair. “Why don’t we try to look at things from a different angle?”
She took a package of Earl Grey tea from the cupboard. “I don’t know what I can tell you that you don’t already know.”
“Start at the beginning. Tell me everything you remember about rehearsal that night.”
She placed a tea bag in a china cup painted with dogwood blossoms. “Like what?”
Getting Lindsey to open up was like prying open a clam. I blew out a breath. “For instance, did Sandy seem upset? Angry? Nervous? Anything out of the ordinary?”
While waiting for the water to boil, Madison leaned against the counter, arms folded across her chest. With her face scrubbed clean and her hair loose, she could easily have passed for fourteen. Poor kid, I thought, she was still a child in many ways and doing her best to cope under trying circumstances.
