Escape Route (Murder Off-Screen Book 1)

by GA VanDruff

  “Miss! Hello, Miss!” Two men ran toward me across the park, elbows pumping. The two customers from Bub’s—Abbott and Costello without the funny hats. “That’s our dog.” The skinny guy arrived first, tripped over a wonky brick in the sidewalk and landed at my feet, next to the dog. “Hope he isn’t bothering you.”

  His round companion came to an abrupt halt half-way along the winding path and hurled himself into a bush, either looking for berries or a place to die.

  “Are you all right?” I had to speak up because—even at this distance—the gasping and heaving from his friend embedded in the interior of the low chaparral made it hard to hear. “Is he all right?”

  Abbott stood and brushed off his jeans and buffed the balding nap of his corduroy jacket. Tissue residue was matted in the narrow ribs. Aunt B would have taken a roll of shipping tape to it.

  The worn, suede, elbow patches had no nap left to fluff, and one was partially pulled away from the sleeve with a foot-long, frayed, beige thread wafting north and east in the wind. He batted an arm at Costello like he was swatting a gnat.

  “I’m fine. He’s fine. Always wanted to be a landscaper.” This information was blurted out in-between gasping “hees” and “haws” while he braced himself, hands on knees. “Dog jumped,” he held up a finger, “out of the car,” finger number two, “while we were sh-ping.”

  I did not mention that I’d seen them at Bub’s sh-ping.

  I did not mention that I’d just snapped his picture next to Doofus while he fought to catch his breath.

  For no good reason I could think of, I didn’t want Abbott to take my dog. We’d bonded—Doofus and I—over the slobber. Over the un-thrown stick. I didn’t trust Abbott. He was skinny. My ex-husband was skinny.

  “What’s your dog’s name?”

  “K—” The corduroyed man stopped and wiped the corners of his mouth with a finger and a thumb. “Klondike.” He said this while taking hold of the chain collar and folding the tag into the palm of his hand. He remained stooped over, breathing hard. “After that dog in Call of the Wild, Klondike.”

  Doofus’s tail thumped, but I knew that a smiling, yellow Lab would thump even if you offered him coal at Christmas.

  “That would be Buck.” I know my dog movies. “A St. Bernard-Shepherd mix. Not a Lab.”

  “Huh? Oh, right. Buck. This one here is Klondike.”

  “You should probably keep him on a leash,” I said, wanting to prolong the conversation. I wasn’t ready to say good-bye to the dog. And it still was anybody’s guess if Costello would make it out of the bush alive.

  “Good idea. Thanks. We’ll be going, then.”

  Doofus grinned and trotted away, led by the man with a bony finger hooked through the collar. They stopped while Abbott levered the fat man out of the ornamental shrub, and the three of them disappeared around the World War Two memorial statue.

  I fished another tissue from my pocket and blew my nose. Since Aunt B wasn’t here, I scolded myself. “Get a grip. He wasn’t your dog.”

  And he wasn’t Abbott’s dog. Or Costello’s, either, my inner-self blared in that part of my brain that knows stuff. The same part of my brain that didn’t utter a blooming word when it came to Jeep.

  I folded Doofus’s damp tissue neatly in quarters and slipped it ceremoniously into the pocket of my shorts. Even I recognized this as ridiculous. I also recognized a crossroads when I saw one. Either keep sinking into the doldrums that made me cry if a bug met its demise on my windshield, or a dog’s owner turned up ...

  Or.

  Get my winter-white self down to Puerto Rico. I secured Doofus’s stick in my wire basket, just in case, and pedaled home.

  Most definitely time for a sea cruise. Like that old song.

  CHAPTER 6

  Gertie was getting in her half-hour of cardio on the front porch rocker when I bumped up over the curb. “You’ll bust the rims on that contraption, Miss Hollywood.” She’d been calling me that since I got home last week. I was sure it would pass. Hoping it would pass.

  “Then you’ll have to chauffeur me around, Miss Gertie.” I gave a nod to her red-and-white Corvette convertible. The car was vintage, too, but it didn’t have the snazzy bell. “The top’s down. Didn’t you have your hair done yesterday?”

  “Toilet paper,” she hollered over the railing. She spritzed an invisible can of hairspray around her head. “At night. A turban of Charmin’ and a quart of Aqua Net. This hair will be here long after I’m dead and buried.” And the ozone layer is a paragraph in the history books.

  I knocked the kick stand into place. “Where’s Aunt B?”

  “In the kitchen. Putting away the dessert bowls and spoons.”

  “How’d she know I had ice cream? Wait, how did she know I don’t have ice cream?”

  Gertie opened the screen door and waved me through. “Your Aunt B knows everything. You should know that by now. Poor baby with no parents.”

  I am used to that being part of my name—poor-baby-with-no-parents—like a nick name. The town has stopped short of calling me Little Orphan Jaqie.

  I don’t remember my parents, but every registered voter in Oakley Beach does, so my memories are second hand. I write each one down. Maggie and Sean Shanahan. I’m on my seventh memory book. Notes and photos and snippets taped on the pages.

  Twenty-two years after the car wreck I survived because I was strapped in ‘tight as a street walker’s drum,’ according to Doc Gilford.

  Aunt B and Uncle Frank folded me into their childless world like air into meringue. That’s her metaphor, not mine. Mine would run more toward teddy bear hugs and warm, woolen mittens.

  But if I ever meet a street walker with a drum, I intend to ask about that.

  “Get in here and look at this moron.” It was Aunt B from the kitchen. Uncle Frank was on his way home from Bub’s, so I knew she wasn’t tagging him as the moron in question. Willie Nilly, the sheriff’s impaired brother, came to our house every Wednesday and—even at twenty-eight—needed a lot of supervision, but this was Tuesday, and, besides, she loved Willie and would not label him a moron. That left storm chasers, UFO aficionados and politicians.

  The kitchen counter TV was on. It was a six-inch square black-and-white contraption that only worked if a nickel was taped inside the circle Aunt B had drawn with a silver marker. A six-inch tall man in a suit stood behind a podium clutching the edges like he might never let go. Behind him was a forest of flags. They were varying degrees of black, gray and white so I couldn’t be sure what sections of the world he claimed to be representing.

  “Who is that?”

  “That,” she said with a truckload of bad attitude, “is our new councilman.”

  “Councilperson,” Gertie said.

  “You stop with the PC claptrap, Gertrude Montague, or I’ll knock that goiter off your neck.”

  My Aunt B is a wonderful woman. Everybody loves her. Even Gertrude Montague and the fleshy growth on her neck she calls Al. Aunt B could bandy threats all day at Gertie’s pet goiter, but let anyone else try and it was the woodshed for them.

  “Why don’t you like him?” I said. “He looks like any other politician. Handsome, too.”

  “Hasn’t lived here long enough to be elected dog catcher, never mind councilman. Doesn’t have a friend I know about and does his shopping on the Western Shore. Has yet to set foot in Stevenson’s except at election time. Which reminds me, where is the yellow Lab, I ask you?”

  Yellow Lab? How did she know about Doofus? She wasn’t that good.

  “I’m lost. What Lab are you talking about?”

  “The dog. I told you. The yellow Lab with the enormous brown eyes and that smile.” She crossed her arms and shook her head. “People voted for the dog, not this piece of work.” She opened the window over the sink and took a handful of wet paper towels to the ledge. “Since Mr. Moron won, you never see the dog anymore. We’re stuck with ... with ... G E O F F Cuthbart. Who spells a name that way?”

  I was
in LA during Oakley Beach’s last election. Here, in our little, lost corner of the world, running for office—any office—was a big deal in the village. Being an elected official was the highest peak you could reach. You either had to win an election or get a franchise to sell Chevys if you wanted to be the Grand Marshall of our Christmas parade.

  “I saw that dog,” I said. “There’s a billboard still up on Route 50. Gorgeous eyes. It did look like it was smiling. As a matter of fact—in the park—I might have—”

  “Shush. Sh. A reporter asked him about King.” Gertie twisted the volume knob.

  Cuthbart: “He’s at home with the children.” Hearty laugh. “My kids love King.”

  Reporter: “Some people say you won because of the dog, Councilman.”

  Cuthbart: “Councilperson.” He winked at the camera and the reporters nodded and mumbled apologetically. “King? I would have voted for him, as well. He may have been a shelter dog when we adopted him, but he’s better looking than me, and probably a whole lot smarter.” Crowd laughter. “Not to worry. King is a trusted member of my advisory committee.”

  CHAPTER 7

  King’s ears snapped in the wind. The rear window was rolled down far enough for his whole head and part of his neck to hang out. Such wonderful smells. His nose couldn’t keep up. He wasn’t sure what most of them were but that was okay. They were delicious and way better than the nasty place with the other dogs where he used to live. In that place, fear-smell covered everything.

  When the Man showed up and took him out of there, it happened so fast he only had enough time to say good-bye to his pal in the cage next to his. He tried to forget about them, but it didn’t really work out.

  Now, two different Men sat in front of him. At times, they used words he understood, but he was more interested in the scenery and the smells.

  “You shoot. I’ll dig.”

  Avery shook his head. “Don’t try and put that on me. I’m not shooting any dog. That’s bad karma, man. You’re the hit man. It’s your job, not mine.” He checked in the rearview. The stupid dog was slobbering all over the windows. “My job is digging.” He took in a deep breath and sighed. “Why are we even doing this mess?”

  Timmy banged open the glove compartment and pulled out a thick envelope. “Because we want the other half of this is why. The election is over. Don’t need the dog no more, so ...” He made a slashing motion across his neck with the envelope. “... off with his head.” He slapped Avery’s arm with the envelope. “You worry too much.” He threw the money back and slammed the compartment shut. “Lighten up. It’s a dog. He had a good run. Ate good. Got to travel. Play with kids.”

  Kids.

  King heard them from the basement back at the house, and most days they remembered to bring his food down. He made games out of chasing mice to pass the time, but they were small and if he got too close, he’d smell that fear again. They didn’t understand that he didn’t want to hurt them, so it wasn’t fun after a while.

  “You don’t know where we are, do you? You’ve been driving in circles for an hour. I thought that GPS thing was ready to go. We gotta return this car back tonight to get the rate.” Timmy jabbed a finger toward Avery. “That comes out of your share.”

  “In case you haven’t noticed, the Eastern Shore of Maryland is flat. Get a map. Get an iron. Flat. This GPS is garbage. Conked out as soon as we left the gun shop.”

  He’d been searching for a place close to the tidewater of the Chesapeake that wasn’t privately owned—which wasn’t much. It would be easier to dig in marshy ground, too. Once dead, this dog must absolutely not surface. Avery had plans for his cut of the money, and didn’t want to have to pay it back if the mutt came popping out of the ground like some vampire dog.

  Avery rolled down his window, stuck an arm out, and brought the car to a stop. “How about there?” Totally deserted, no houses, far enough from the shoreline that day-trippers wouldn’t anchor and get their Dockers slopped up with marshy water if they dinghyed ashore. “Over by that tree.”

  “Let’s go.”

  Let’s Go. King pulled his head back into the car and panted. Let’s Go meant chasing a ball or a big stick. This was like it used to be. He missed the Kids, though. Wished his other friends from the fear place could be here.

  “Come on, fella. Go for a run.” Avery held the door open and watched the yellow Lab run flat out to the water. “Look at him. He’s throwing another stick for himself to fetch. Crazy dog.”

  Timmy opened the trunk and pulled out a blue, plastic tarp. “Why don’t you just take him home with you? You can pretend he’s Old Yeller.”

  “Shut up. He can play a while, if he wants.” Avery had tried to think of a way to keep the dog, but his ideas circled back to bite him. He’d texted his sister back in Pennsylvania while Timmy was in the bathroom at the gas station, but she wasn’t having any of it. Got 3 already! No! So that was out. He didn’t have any friends to speak of. His wife didn’t want kids—or dogs—tracking through the house. Bad luck all the way around.

  “Snap out of it and toss me the rope. We’ll tie him up to that tree so I can get a clean shot. One and done.”

  “Where’s the shovel?” There weren’t a lot of places for a shovel to hide in the trunk of a rental car, but he lifted the rug and looked under it, anyway.

  Timmy emptied the gun cartridge in his hand and dropped the bullets into his jacket pocket. “Looks like I’m not the only one who forgets things around here.”

  Avery squatted the rest of the way down and banged his head against the bumper. “It’s in the trunk of my car.”

  “In Pittsburgh.”

  “In Pittsburgh.”

  King stood off to the side of the car, dripping tidewater into the belly-high marsh grass, waiting for the next thing. It was past dinner time, so he hoped the next thing involved food.

  Avery stood and checked his watch. “We’ll have to stay the night. I don’t want to go back to that Bub’s Bullets store so soon. A town this size, those old guys sitting around in there will remember us. Sign said he opens at ten.” He sighed, dreading the call to the wife. “Tie him to the tree, and spread out the tarp. It might get cold.”

  “Suppose somebody takes him?” Where he stood was identical to every other place he’d seen today. Flat, trees, an occasional shot of sunlight bouncing off the Chesapeake. Where everybody lived was a mystery. Not a house or waterfront mansion in sight. “Who knows when those crazy crab fishermen go out? Let’s just shoot him and wrap him up good in the tarp. We can toss him in the trunk until morning, then buy a shovel when that store opens up. That place had everything in there.”

  “First,” Avery held up a finger, “it’s too early for crab season. Second, if anybody stumbles across the famous King’s body, you and I won’t have to worry about collecting the second half of the money. If you get my drift. Third, I am not returning a rental car with blood splashed in the trunk. The FBI would be all over that.” He pulled a plastic bag out of the pocket in the driver’s door. “I have some water and jerky. That’ll hold him overnight, so he won’t be howling or anything.”

  “Where we stayin’? I ain’t sleeping in the car with my bad back.”

  “What do you suggest? The park? There were benches.”

  “I saw a purple-and-pink house with a sign. Get a good night’s sleep, eat breakfast, buy a shovel, dig a hole, go home.”

  Avery knew he’d never be overworked or underfed, keeping company with Timmy, and since this part of a very bad day was his fault—purple house, here we come. “Let’s get going before it gets dark.”

  ~~^~~

  King watched the car get smaller. He scratched at the rope around his neck with his hind foot. It wasn’t too tight but he knew it was there. The Man who didn’t shout all the time put water in a kind of bowl, and piled up a short stack of skinny lengths of meat. He’d eaten those right off. They had a different taste and made his tongue sting. Delicious. Maybe when the Men came back to get him, there w
ould be more.

  He stood on his hind feet for a better view but they were gone. The bright ball of light in the sky had gone, too, but the softer one glowed far over his head, so he figured he would sleep. Swimming had been fun.

  All in all, a pretty good day.

  CHAPTER 8

  “You have not touched Ovation in two years, now you’re off to Puerto Rico.” Uncle Frank was in fine form. The waiter left. He guessed we’d be a while. “I thought you meant a day or two on the bay, not sailing half-way around the world.”

  “She’s taking the Intracoastal most of the way,” Aunt B said for the third or fourth time. “You two made that trip twice after she graduated high school. I’m sure Jaqie’ll be fine. And the boat is yar.”

  “You’ve been at those old movies again, woman. Nobody says yar. More to the point, the operative word—I was with her.” His pitcher of beer was an inch from the bottom. If we didn’t get a tub of shrimp and sea scallops and pots of butter in front of him soon, I’d have to bungee him to the roof rack for the ride home. “Is this because your friend, Buick—”

  “Jeep. His name was—is Jeep McBain.”

  “This Jeep McBain fella up and leaves and you fall apart just like with that fool of a husband. Jeep a boyfriend, not just a roommate?”

  “A roommate.” Uncle Frank meant well, but his Irish was a wire brush at times. “Jeep was a roommate who also became my best friend.”

  Aunt B cut into Uncle Frank’s spiel. “Of course he meant the world to you, sweet girl. His disappearance must still be so upsetting to you.”

  “Jeep gave my script to a friend of his at the studio. That’s how Manderley got picked up.”

  “A big hit it was, too,” she said. “You wait. Murder at Manderley will be nominated for an Oscar, and Ms. Keiser has you to thank.”

  “How can she thank her if Jaqie’s hiding in Oakley Beach?” Uncle Frank flapped his plastic bib at the waiter.