Due for Discard

by Sharon St. George

  Please, God, I thought, let this be the one.

  I ran for my tweezers, picked up the toenail and slid it into a small paper bag. I stapled the bag shut and put it in the kitchen cupboard. At last I had a clue. Or I would have, if Bonnie Beardsley’s assailant had grabbed her foot while he was dumping her body. He might have left a fingerprint on that nail.

  I called Nick. He picked up on the first ring.

  “Were you sitting by the phone?”

  “Yes,” he said. “Where are you?”

  “Home.”

  “At your grandparents’ house?”

  “Not exactly. I’m in the studio apartment over their barn.”

  “Jesus, that’s where you’re living?”

  “It’s not that bad, and it’s only temporary.”

  “It’s a hovel.”

  “Never mind about that. Harry said to call you if I needed help.”

  “What kind of help?”

  “I want you to find out if Buck Sawyer has any influence with a crime lab somewhere out of the area.”

  “Why?

  “I think I found a false toenail from Bonnie Beardsley’s body. It was at the Dumpster site the day after her body was found.”

  “You’re thinking someone’s fingerprint could be on the toenail? That’s a whopper of a long shot, isn’t it?”

  “It’s better than nothing,” I said. “Someone dumped her. What if he wasn’t wearing gloves? Hannah said she was wearing acrylic toenails, and one from her big toe was missing. What if this is it?”

  “What about prints on the rest of her body? And what about the deer bag they found her in?”

  “I don’t think Sawyer County’s crime lab is sophisticated enough to recover prints from flesh or fabric. They would have to send her remains and clothing to Sacramento, where there’s bound to be a backlog. If Marco and Connie Keefer are convinced Harry’s the killer, they might not have bothered.”

  “So what do you want to do?” Nick asked.

  “I want to find out as soon as possible if there’s a print on this acrylic toenail.”

  “Seems pretty improbable, but if you’re right and this ever goes to trial, you’d have to give it up at discovery.”

  “I know, but I can’t give it to the Timbergate PD before we get it analyzed. I’m afraid Marco Bueller would find some way to bury it. I’m sure he has friends on the force who owe him favors. I don’t want to take that chance.”

  “Okay, I see your point, but don’t get your hopes up. I’ll have to get back to you. How late will you be up?”

  “Doesn’t matter.”

  I paced the apartment, opening and closing the cupboard, staring at the paper bag. If there was a print, would it be complete enough to confirm a match? Would the owner of the print be in any data base? Whopper of a long shot was right. But in spite of Nick’s warning, it gave me hope at a time when it was sorely needed.

  My phone rang and I pounced on it. “Nick?”

  “Yep. Pack an overnight bag. We’re flying to San Francisco in the morning.”

  “Why there?”

  “Buck’s late wife was a patient at a medical center in the city. She was treated well, and he thanked the institution with a sizeable donation.”

  “How will that help? We need a crime lab.”

  “Buck knows someone at the hospital there who knows someone at a forensics lab in the Bay Area. Don’t ask any more questions. Just meet me at the muni airport tomorrow morning at seven. I’m flying the Citation.”

  “Doesn’t sound familiar.”

  “It’s Buck’s newest Cessna. Mustang Citation. Seats six. It’s more plane than we need, but it’s what’s available right now.”

  “What time will we be back? I still have to take care of the ranch.”

  “We might be gone overnight. Call Hannah. She knows what to do.”

  “I can’t just—”

  “Aimee, work with me. If we’re going to do this, we don’t have a lot of time. Call Hannah, then get some sleep. On second thought, make some notes. You work with Beardsley, the dead woman’s husband, and I know how nosy you are. You’ve probably been snooping like crazy. I’m guessing you know more about his dead wife than the police do.”

  “I’m not nosy, I’m curious.” He didn’t need to know I was spying for Jared Quinn.

  “Right,” Nick said. “Do you want me to come out there? I could sleep in the main house.”

  “No, I’m fine alone.” With him that close, I’d have been awake all night for sure, longing for the old times and wishing I were lying in his arms.

  Hannah didn’t answer when I called, so I left a message saying I’d call again early in the morning.

  I poured a cup of coffee and listed the names of everyone I knew who had a connection to Bonnie Beardsley. Her not-so-grieving husband topped the list. Much as I disliked the idea, I added Quinn’s name next. He had dated Bonnie, however briefly. Then came Milton and Arnetta Palmer, followed by the swinging Underhills of Everlasting Pets, who had had some kind of kinky relationship with Bonnie Beardsley. The last person I could think of was Dr. Beardsley’s ex-wife, who was days away from becoming Mrs. Troy Bilkowsky. I was still searching for a clear motive for Bonnie’s killer, and Lorraine Beardsley was unfinished business.

  Penny Palmer’s words came back to me. You should ask the first Mrs. Beardsley what she thinks of Bonnie. I searched my mind for what I knew about Lorraine Beardsley. The scene in the civic center lobby came to mind: Maybelline Black gushing about Lorraine’s engagement. Lorraine had too much class to snub her ex-husband’s eccentric library volunteer. I made a note: Learn more about Lorraine. From Maybelline?

  Arnetta Palmer had a connection to Lorraine as well. At the ballet, they’d behaved as if they’d never met, but the very next day at Stone Soup they’d acted like the best of chums. I wondered again what that was about. Was it really possible they had teamed up to rid the world of Bonnie Beardsley?

  Around midnight, I thought I might be able to sleep. I tucked my notes in my purse and pulled a small overnight bag out of my closet. I packed a bare minimum, mainly underwear and toiletries. I put out a light turtleneck, jeans and low-heeled boots for the plane ride, along with a denim jacket. San Francisco could be cold in the summertime. I left my bag near the front door and set my alarm for six o’clock.

  Chapter 26

  “You’re spending the weekend with Nick?”

  Hannah’s shout through the phone early Saturday morning set my right eardrum vibrating. I switched to my other ear and tried to explain that the trip was about helping Harry and had absolutely nothing to do with Nick and me.

  “Just toss some hay to the llamas this afternoon, and make sure everyone has water. The turkeys won’t need more food before I get back.”

  “What about Fanny and Bosco?”

  “I’ve been keeping them in the apartment with me, but I’m putting them back in the main house with the A/C on low. You might need to adjust it if we get another scorcher tomorrow.”

  “Got it. Do you want me to check your apartment?”

  “No need … wait, I almost forgot. There’s a dead snake in my refrigerator. Your dad might want it for his collection.”

  “What kind of snake?” Hannah asked.

  “Rattler.”

  “Good. He could use another one of those.”

  “It’s in my freezer compartment,” I said, “in a plastic bag.”

  “Care to explain why?”

  “It was on my deck the other night. I had to kill it.”

  “On your deck? How?”

  “I think raccoons dragged it up there.” I hoped that was what happened. I didn’t want to think about other, more troubling, explanations.

  “Why would they do that?” Hannah asked.

  “I don’t know, but that’s where I found it.”

  “Wow. That’s unusual … and kind of creepy. I’ll take it over to Dad tonight.”

  “Thanks. And Harry just changed my locks, so I’
ll leave my extra key in a baggie in the cob bin. Just dig around for it.”

  “Got it. You’d better get moving if you’re meeting Nick at seven.”

  “Okay. I’ll call you tomorrow if we’re running late getting back.”

  “I hope you are late,” she said. “It’s about time you two—”

  “Stop it. We’re not getting back together.” She was as bad as Vanza when it came to Nick and me. I checked the time. Six thirty.

  I drove to the airport, parked in the overnight lot and entered the small terminal with a few minutes to spare. Nick stood at a car rental kiosk chatting with a pretty clerk who didn’t look a day over fifteen. When he spotted me and called out, “Hi, Honey, I got you a coffee,” the pretty clerk’s face fell.

  We walked to the hangar where the Mustang Citation waited. It was magnificent, even by Buck Sawyer’s billionaire standards, with sleek, futuristic exterior lines and a leather interior done up in champagne tones.

  “Holy Cow,” I said.

  Nick smiled. “I thought you’d like it.”

  “How much is this trip costing us?”

  “Nothing. It’s on Buck.”

  “Why?”

  “He likes Harry.”

  Nick went through his final checklist before he taxied onto the runway and executed his usual perfect takeoff. We reached altitude and he set the autopilot for what promised to be a short hop. I doubted we would cruise more than thirty minutes before starting our approach to SFO. Riding shotgun, I fell into my old habit of scanning the sky for other air traffic.

  Nick and I couldn’t carry on much of a conversation with headsets on, so I rummaged through his CD case and listened to the score of Les Misérables until we reached San Francisco. We had to wait for permission to land, so Nick circled above a low ceiling of clouds that obscured the runways. I passed the minutes by tracking the Citation’s shadow play on the white blanket below us.

  When our turn came, Nick touched down so smoothly that I had to look out at the runway to confirm that our wheels were on the ground. We taxied to the private aviation terminal where he had arranged to leave the plane overnight; then we walked to the terminal’s long-term parking lot where Buck’s Prius waited. As we drove north toward San Francisco, the clouds broke and sunlight drenched the majestic hills of the city.

  Nick kept pace with the swift-moving northbound traffic, driving as expertly as he flew.

  “Do you have your notes handy?”

  “Right here.” I pulled them from my purse.

  “What do you have so far?”

  I described the various suspects and their connection to Bonnie Beardsley. I reviewed everything I’d written the evening before, ending with Dr. Beardsley inviting me to go out for a so-called business dinner.

  “Did you accept?”

  “No. I told him I was engaged.”

  Nick smiled, but kept his eyes on the road. “Are you?”

  “Of course not.”

  He laughed out loud. “Hey, last I heard, you had a boyfriend. I thought things might have heated up since then.”

  “It might seem funny to you, but lying to a murder suspect is outside my comfort zone.”

  Nick sobered. “Damn, I’m sorry. You were right to turn him down. Don’t let him change your mind.”

  We had reached the heart of downtown San Francisco, so I opened my window to draw in the bouquet of the city: diesel smoke from the city buses, the heady fragrance of the flower stalls, the mouth-watering aromas from hot dog carts and pretzel vendors. Encompassing all of it was a briny breeze from the bay.

  “Hungry?” Nick asked. The hot dog aroma must have gotten to him, too.

  “A little, but I can wait.” I watched the flow of people and traffic on the city streets and sidewalks.

  “You’re quiet. What are you thinking?” Nick asked.

  “Harry has absolutely no motive,” I said. “Do you think this is all Marco Bueller’s doing? Has he convinced Keefer that Harry is the killer?”

  “That’s what Abe is up against. Marco’s bias against Harry.”

  Nick drove into the underground parking garage at the med center. I held the little bag with the fake toenail as we walked toward the elevator.

  Nick pushed the button. “What do you know about those Everlasting Pets people?”

  “The Underhills? They’re creepy and sleazy, but they’re a legitimate nonprofit from what I can tell. The woman said Bonnie Beardsley was their soul mate, whatever that means.”

  I started to tell him how the Underhills were schmoozing Arnetta Palmer and me at the ballet when Arnetta was passing as Arnie, then realized I’d never told him the rest of her story. I filled him in on Arnetta Palmer’s gender confusion and her true identity.

  “So your ballet date was a woman passing as a man? That explains a lot.” He managed to keep a straight face, but I could tell it wasn’t easy.

  “Right. They thought she was a guy and hinted about the four of us getting together. I’d rather have my skin peeled off.”

  “Why?”

  “If you met them, you wouldn’t have to ask.”

  “I plan to. You can arrange a double date when we get back to town.”

  “You can’t be serious.”

  Nick laughed. “I’m dead serious.” He didn’t elaborate, so I let it go for the moment.

  We rode the elevator to the main lobby, where Nick asked for a Dr. Larry Tipton. I handed the little paper bag to Nick.

  “Oh, yes,” the receptionist said. “He’s expecting you.”

  Dr. Tipton came out a few minutes later and shook hands with both of us in turn. Apparently, all necessary communication had taken place earlier, because the doctor simply took the bag Nick offered and said, “I’ll be in touch.”

  As we made our way back to the garage, I turned to Nick. “That’s it? What do we do now? Wait?”

  “Yes. But we have a nice place to wait.”

  “Where?”

  “Sausalito. We’ll drop off our bags and get some lunch.”

  “We’re staying in Sausalito?”

  “Don’t worry, Buck’s yacht has three staterooms.”

  “We’re staying on the yacht?” I’d heard about the luxurious Sawyer yacht but hadn’t seen it.

  “Buck hasn’t been able to use it all summer. He promised Delta he’d take her and some of her friends out next weekend. He said we’d be doing him a favor if we spent the night on it and stocked the larder. He gave me a grocery list. I was hoping you’d go to the market while I start the engine and inspect the rigging and sails.”

  We crossed the Golden Gate, driving headlong into a picture postcard. Excited tourists walked the bridge, stopping every few feet to snap photos. Billowing white sails dotted the gray-green water below us, and puffy white clouds rode the cool bay breeze.

  Nick took Bridgeway Drive to the north end of Sausalito. Turning on Harbor Drive, he parked near the business office of the harbor where Buck’s yacht was moored. He went inside and emerged moments later with a key to the marina. Whistling softly, he led the way down the dock through a forest of masts. Buck’s pampered yacht, one of the largest in the basin, was at the end of the slip. Its brass trim shone, and the deep umber color of the teakwood decks suggested they had been freshly oiled.

  Down below, the portholes flooded the cabin with sunlight. The curtains and cushions in plaid fabric of red, white, and blue accentuated the nautical tone.

  “Which stateroom do you want?” Nick held out my overnight bag.

  “The smallest.” I dropped my bag on the V-shaped berth in the bow, farthest away from the other two in the stern. I made a show of fingering the door’s lock and checking to make sure it worked. Nick noticed, as he was meant to.

  “You don’t really think you’re going to need that, do you?”

  “You never know.”

  “Let’s get back to our detective work.” He tossed his small duffle on the bed in one of the aft berths. “Some of your suspects sound like oddballs, b
ut I haven’t heard anything that makes me think killer.”

  “Well somebody did it, and it wasn’t Harry.”

  “Hey, take it easy. I’m on your side.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Never mind. Let’s go get some lunch.”

  We walked to a combination deli and bait shop near the harbor office, where we both opted for the fish and chips and beer.

  I spread my notes on a small table and we rehashed the information I’d gathered on my suspects: Dr. Beardsley, Jared Quinn, the Palmers, and the Underhills. After repeating everything I’d already told Nick about them, I felt we were getting nowhere and said so.

  “Then let’s assume for a moment that they’re all innocent,” Nick said. “We know Harry’s innocent. Where does that leave us?”

  “Nowhere.”

  “What about the guy in the camo clothes?”

  “That could have been any of my suspects.”

  “What if it wasn’t?”

  “Then we’re back to looking for a mysterious stranger.”

  “Not necessarily,” Nick said. “How about Tango Bueller?”

  “You’re the one who told me about Tango’s amazing effort to redeem himself. It’s hard to believe a guy who’s trying that hard would—”

  “I agree, but we can’t overlook any possibilities. You said Bonnie had sex with someone just before she died.”

  “Are you suggesting Tango raped and killed her?”

  “It’s possible, isn’t it?”

  “Barely possible,” I said, “but after what I saw the night he changed my tire, he’s the last person I’d suspect.”

  “Then who else? Any idea who she might have been intimate with?”

  “No, but Hannah’s friend at the TPD says there was no concrete evidence of rape, so the sex could have been consensual. If it was, why would her lover kill her?”

  “If there was sex, especially if it was unprotected, there’s probably a specimen. What about DNA?”

  “It’s been checked against Beardsley and Harry. It’s not a match with either of them.” At that I swallowed hard. Damn them for subjecting Harry to that embarrassment.

  “That should work in Harry’s favor,” Nick said, “but prosecution could argue Harry killed her because he discovered she was cheating with someone besides him.”