Good thing, I thought. Seemed like the original Bonnie had been enough trouble. Cloning her would just be asking for it.
“Then you and Bonnie were close?” I asked.
“She and Grover and I were three peas in a pod.”
“Grover?”
“My husband. Grover and I adored Bonnie. And she felt the same about us. We often remarked that we were soul mates.”
“I’m sorry for your loss.”
“I don’t know how Grover and I will ever find another Bonnie.” The appraising way Willow looked at me made me want to turn and run out the door, but just then I heard a man’s voice from the back room.
“Come on, get your ass in the car. I’m starving.”
Willow’s face flamed. “In a minute, Grover. I’m with a client.”
A moment later Underhill appeared at his wife’s side, unruffled and oozing charm. He was a big guy, in his fifties, I guessed, with a thick seventies-style mustache and jet black hair styled in a pompadour.
“Sorry to interrupt. I didn’t know Willow had an appointment.” He flashed a mouthful of capped teeth and left the way he had come.
“I should let you go,” I said.
“Don’t worry about him, he’ll wait.” Willow beamed at me. “Would you like an application? Once the paperwork is done, we can proceed with a biopsy of your llama.”
“I’d like to think about it a little longer,” I said.
Willow gave me a brochure about their cloning program and extracted my promise to visit their new facility. I made my getaway, uncertain whether I had learned anything useful. I had determined to my satisfaction that the Underhills were an odd couple, and that when Bonnie was alive, they’d been an even odder threesome.
Chapter 8
My next stop was Harry’s newest building project, a two-tiered mega-mall that would draw shoppers from at least three neighboring counties. If everything worked out, he would make enough money on this venture to retire before he was thirty. But he wouldn’t. He loved his work far more than the lifestyle it afforded.
Living alone in a llama pasture had a certain quirky charm, but while the folks were away, I knew I’d sleep better at night with a deadbolt on my door. When I got to Harry’s mammoth construction site, huge yellow earth-moving machines were prowling like prehistoric behemoths, biting into red clay dirt, rearing, twisting and turning, so like the bright yellow Tonka versions Harry had adored when he was a toddler.
In work boots, jeans, and hard hat, he stood alone at the edge of the excavation. The sight flooded me with so much love, it took my breath away. My little brother was carved deep in my heart, and I thought I’d die if anything happened to him.
Blinking away the moisture in my eyes, I plastered on a grin and called out to him.
“Hey, Brother.”
He turned, looked a little surprised to see me, but broke into a smile and waved. “Hi, Sis. Come over here. This is awesome. Take a look.”
We stood together staring at the spectacle. Harry’s eyes glowed with pleasure. “Remember how we used to do that? Build roads and construction sites around the edges of Jack’s garden?”
“Is it still as much fun?”
“More. The playground is bigger now.”
He took my elbow and we walked toward the site supervisor’s trailer. Inside, the cool air goose-pimpled the skin on my arms. The custom-built Airstream Land Yacht housed a well-stocked pantry, TV, microwave, and three laptop computers. I’d asked once what it cost, and Harry would only admit to less than half a million. His job foremen took turns spending the night at the work site, and Harry sometimes stayed over if a major screw-up or set-back required immediate attention.
He opened his fridge and pulled out a bottle of raspberry tea.
“Here you go.” He took a bottle of water for himself and plopped into the chair next to his scaled-down drafting table. After a long swig, he got around to asking why I was there.
I perched on his settee. “I need a deadbolt for my apartment.”
“Why?”
“Jack and Amah are going to be gone for two weeks. Llama stuff.”
“Ah, you’re alone out there in the pasture without Jack around. Why don’t you stay in their house?”
“Amah offered, but the guest room smells of snake and bird poop.”
“Only to you with your delicate nose.”
“That’s not all. The house is too big and creaky, and not one of their doors has a decent lock, not to mention the windows. I actually feel more comfortable over the barn. I don’t think they’d mind if we put a deadbolt on the door.”
“Of course not. Do you have the hardware?”
“It’s in my car.”
He agreed to meet me at the ranch in an hour if I’d spring for dinner. I stopped off at Country Pizza, a little place tucked next to the grocery store at the Four Corners mini-mall in Coyote Creek. While I waited, it occurred to me that for the first time since Bonnie Beardsley’s death, Harry and I had talked to each other without mentioning her name.
At home, I changed into shorts and a tank top and switched on my window-mounted swamp cooler. I had dropped off Jack and Amah’s mail at the main house but brought the local paper with me. Bonnie Beardsley was back on the front page.
Socialite’s Murder Investigation Continues. My stomach churned as I read the headline. Our local district attorney, Connie Keefer, was quoted as being unable to provide details of the investigation. Keefer wasn’t particularly young or beautiful, but gossip linked her with several of Timbergate’s high-profile bachelors. Maybe her position of power was the ultimate aphrodisiac, or maybe she was just awesome in bed.
Whatever the reason, the latest stud she’d been seen with was Police Investigator Marco Bueller, the brother of Tango, the thug who had cracked my head with a tire iron and tried to rape me. Bueller would never stop hating my brother. Harry rapped on my door, interrupting my thoughts.
After we ate our pizza, Harry installed the deadbolt in ten minutes flat.
“Anything else you need done around here?”
“Just the swamp cooler.”
“It’s getting dark. I’ll do it this weekend.” He spotted the newspaper on my table, picked it up, and read the headline, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth.
“Connie Keefer’s grandstanding again. What a publicity hound.”
“How can you be so cavalier about this? Have you heard who she’s dating?”
“I’ve heard. It won’t last. Marco Bueller is not going to get serious about a Botoxed prima donna like Keefer.”
“It might last until she picks a prime suspect in the Bonnie Beardsley case.”
“We’ve already talked about this. Marco won’t be allowed to investigate this case.”
“Not officially, but give me a break. He’s sleeping with the DA and you’re really not worried? Even if nothing comes of it, your reputation will be tarnished. What if the killer is never found? Our parents spent decades of hard work and sacrifice to build a business and make our family name stand for integrity and a strong work ethic. You’re their only son. All Mom and Dad achieved will be lost if the Machado name becomes associated with an unsolved murder case.” I choked up and couldn’t go on.
“Don’t you think I’m aware of that?” Harry said. “Why do you think I’m telling you not to call them? When Dad retired and turned the business over to me, he said the good Machado name would be my greatest asset. He made me promise to protect it.”
“The family name is only part of it. God, Harry, you could be arrested, even convicted and sent to prison. That would break all of our hearts.”
“It’s too soon to worry about that, Aimee. We have no idea where this is going.” He picked up his tools and opened the door. “Tell you what, if Abe Edelman tells me to worry, I’ll worry.”
“But Abe does real estate law. He’s not a defense attorney.”
“He was a DA’s investigator in Southern California before he got his fill of criminal
law and moved to Timbergate,” Harry said. “He’s more than qualified if I need him. Now let it go.”
“Okay. If you promise to consult Abe at the least sign of trouble, I’ll let it go for now.”
“Fine.” He glanced out the kitchen window. “I’d better leave. It’s almost dark and you have a barnyard full of critters to feed.”
“How about some help?”
“Sorry, I have a date.”
Of course. He always had a date. I watched from the top of the stairs while he shooed a turkey off the hood of his Jag and inspected the paint for scratches. Half a minute later he was headed down the lane toward the street. Our conversation had only strengthened my resolve to prove Harry’s innocence.
The chores took another forty-five minutes, and by the time I finished, I was hungry again. I settled at my computer with a bag of microwaved kettle corn and a cold beer. Since I’d already met the creepy Underhills from Everlasting Pets, Bonnie’s Natural History Museum stalker was next on my list. I decided to hang out there on Saturday morning.
That would leave all day Sunday to pursue other leads. I was determined to learn the whereabouts of Milton Palmer’s ex-wife, Arnetta. She had to be out there somewhere. Palmer might know where she was, but I had no plausible excuse for asking him. He’d been “off on assignment” from the evening news for several days, and that was starting to arouse my curiosity. Maybe it wasn’t his spurned wife who I should be looking at. Maybe ol’ Milton had carried a grudge all this time. Being in the public eye and all, it must have been pretty embarrassing being dumped by Bonnie. But why kill her now? Their affair had ended almost three years ago.
I booted up the computer and re-checked some people search sites for Arnetta Palmer, but came up blank again. I tried a truncated name search using Arn* Palmer and got thirty-two hits in the U.S. Most of them turned out to be Arnolds. Had all these people been named after a famous golfer?
There was only one candidate residing in California. An Arnie Palmer lived in Manton, a small mountain community east of Timbergate where the economy was sustained by apple orchards and marijuana farms. It seemed unlikely, but I supposed Arnie could be a woman. I made a note of the address and phone number and tried calling, but without success. No answer, no answering machine.
Chapter 9
Saturday morning I checked my disguise in the mirror. In my shortest skirt, highest heels, blue contact lenses and a blond wig left over from a grad school Halloween party, I was ready to visit the Natural History Museum where Bonnie Beardsley had flirted with her alleged stalker. The odds of running into him, if he existed, were astronomical, but I liked the museum and had nothing better to do.
After an elderly gentleman docent gave me an absurdly detailed lecture on the skeletal structure of turtles, I wandered over to the aquarium’s viewing wall to wait for a highly touted visitor attraction: fish feeding time. The gathering crowd squeezed together for a better view of the fishy antics. Feeling slightly claustrophobic, I tried to step back, but whoever was behind me didn’t budge. Meanwhile the space in front of me had closed, and I couldn’t step forward. The body behind me wasn’t quite making contact with my backside, but I definitely felt my personal space being invaded. The miniskirt that barely covered my behind wasn’t helping.
A low voice spoke near my right ear. “Awesome creatures, aren’t they?”
I responded with a barely perceptible nod of my head. This was creepier than I’d expected. What would I do if this was the stalker?
After a few minutes of watching various forms of marine life snatching and gobbling their breakfast, the crowd dispersed. I wondered if the man behind me would make a move. I didn’t have to wonder long.
He stepped alongside me, still watching the fish-viewing wall. I was surprised to see how harmless he looked. Probably in his late thirties, only a couple of inches taller than my five foot four, he was slender, clean-shaven, and handsome verging on pretty. His clothes were Eddie Bauer. His light brown hair was thick and well-cut. The term metrosexual came to mind. A straight guy, apparently, but with a flair for grooming and style. And not creepy in the least.
He turned to me. “Hi. Do you come to the museum often?”
“Once in a while,” I said.
“Do you live in the area?”
“Uh-huh.”
“I hope you won’t think I’m too forward,” he said, “but I haven’t met many people since I moved here. Could I buy you a cup of coffee? Pick your brain about things to do in Timbergate?”
The museum café was a short walk in plain sight of staff and visitors. I figured that was safe enough, so we headed over and found a free table.
“I should introduce myself,” he said. “I’m Arnie Palmer. No relation to the golfer. I suck at sports.”
Holy crap. Of all the fish exhibits in all the natural history museums in the world, Arnie Palmer had walked into mine. He had to be the Arnie Palmer from Manton who popped up in my online search. And he was a guy, so he sure wasn’t Arnetta, but was he Bonnie’s stalker?
“And you are …?” he said.
My mind raced as I tried to invent a name for myself. What came out was really stupid.
“Ingrid.”
“Ingrid …?”
Damn, I needed a last name. A lock of hair from my wig tickled my cheek.
“Wiggins,” I said, feeling a little faint. “Ingrid Wiggins.” A waitress came by to take our orders. I asked for coffee and apple pie. Arnie ordered green tea and pecan pie.
“Lots of apples where I live,” Arnie said.
“Oh?” I played dumb.
“Manton. Thirty minutes east of here. Up in the pines. Do you know it?”
“I’ve heard of it.”
“Not much to do there, but it’s cooler than Timbergate, and the rent’s reasonable.”
I took a tiny bite of pie and washed it down with coffee. I was torn between the need to know more about this guy and a yearning to get the hell out of there, but there was one question I had to ask.
“We have a newscaster here named Palmer. Are you related?”
“No.” He shrugged. “I get that a lot, though. It’s a very common name.”
True. I’d discovered that during all those people searches.
I glanced at my watch. “You asked about things to do in Timbergate. I have a couple of suggestions, then I have to be going.”
“So soon?” His obvious disappointment was flattering, and just short of pathetic.
“We have a community theater, a concert series, a convention center, art exhibits, a sports arena, but you said you suck at sports, so I guess that’s out.” I took a breath, trying to slow my rapid-fire delivery. “Anyway, you can get more information at the Visitors Bureau. When you leave the museum parking lot, make a right at the intersection. It’s just down the street.”
“Any singles bars in town?”
“Probably, but I don’t do the bar scene, so I’m not a good person to ask.” Considering my miniskirt and four-inch heels, he probably found that hard to believe. “It’s been nice meeting you, Arnie, but I really have to go.” I stood. “I’m meeting my boyfriend for lunch at the gun club. He teaches marksmanship there.”
“No problem. In fact, I’d like to meet your boyfriend. I just bought a gun and I could use some pointers. Can I get your phone number? I’d like to follow up on this.”
Mr. Harmless just bought a gun? Great. “I just moved,” I said. “I don’t have a new phone number yet.”
“No cellphone?”
“Sorry.”
He looked disappointed, then brightened. “What’s your boyfriend’s name? I can call the gun club and ask for him.”
Would this never end? “He doesn’t like me giving out his name. He’s a little paranoid. Besides, anyone at the gun club could help you.”
I walked out of the coffee shop, pinched toes screaming in pain, stomach growling protest at the apple pie I’d left behind.
What a fiasco. Ingrid Wiggins with a paranoi
d, gun-totin’ boyfriend. Not the alter ego I’d have imagined for myself. Worse, I had no hard evidence that Arnie Palmer was the museum stalker. And yet, there was the bizarre coincidence of his name. I sensed there was something connecting Arnie to Bonnie Beardsley, but short of seeing him again, I had no idea how to figure out what it was.
Back in Coyote Creek, I started the daily chores at Amah and Jack’s house by collecting the mail and paper. The king snake’s eyes were cloudy and its skin was dull, which meant it was about to shed and wouldn’t need food for several days. Amah’s cat stared hungrily at the cockatiel, which was hunched in a corner of its cage like a prisoner on death row. I didn’t like the looks of that scenario, so I put the cat in its carrier, put the birdcage in my car, and took them both down the lane to my lonely little apartment where I could keep an eye on them. Truth was, I needed the company.
The llamas wandered over to watch while I lugged everything upstairs, but they lost interest when I didn’t offer hay or grain.
The birdcage fit fine on top of my dresser, and the cat took over the futon as if she owned it. I changed into shorts, a T-shirt, and sandals, and made a tuna sandwich. Taking a bite, I picked up the paper. The tuna stuck in my throat when I read the headline: PROMINENT ARCHITECT QUESTIONED IN BEARDSLEY CASE. Heart racing, I scanned the article.
District Attorney Connie Keefer said local architect Harrison Machado, designer and builder of Timbergate’s controversial Timber Mountain Mall, is one of several people being interviewed. When asked if the victim’s husband, Dr. Vane Beardsley, was a suspect, she had no comment.
My phone rang while I was reading the article for the third time. Harry, sounding subdued, said he was on his way over.
I met him downstairs in the stable yard. “I just read the paper. What’s going on?”
“Nothing.” He pulled a wire stripper from a tool box in his trunk. “I told you Keefer would milk this. She’s got no leads, so she’s manufacturing news stories out of nothing.”
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