“Pigs such as this aren’t suited to forage on their own and they are sensitive to cold temperatures. We need to find her before something bad happens.”
Anyone spotting the runaway pig is asked to called the Sheriff’s Department at 555-1957.
I wish I could have seen L.J.’s face when she read that article—seen her from a safe distance, of course. Noah Lakefield’s reportorial talents were certainly enlivening the pages of the Dacus Clarion. He might soon be escorted to the county line in the dark of night by a couple of burly guys wearing holstered handguns, but until then, he was adding some sparkle.
I wandered onto the office’s porch and sat in one of Melvin’s rocking chairs to read. It didn’t take long to peruse the newspaper’s classified ads; the whole paper wasn’t but twelve pages long. No new real estate offerings popped out at me. At this early stage in my search, asking my family for the name of an agent was too complicated; my mom would want to know why I couldn’t stay with them. I went inside to call the company with the largest real estate ad.
I asked Missy Jones, the chipper woman who answered the phone, if she could show me what was available. She sounded so excited, she must have been levitating. She invited me to come right down to her office.
I still hadn’t seen or heard from Melvin, so I locked my office and the front door. We needed some kind of sign on the door, maybe one of those BE BACK AT card-board clocks. Then again, we needed a lot of things to be a proper place of business. Should I be worried about Melvin? We also should work on some ground rules. I needed to know when to worry.
The Upstate Realty Company office was in an adorable dollhouse on the opposite end of Main Street from Melvin’s grand Victorian. The front door opened directly into the dollhouse’s single room. Inside, two desks faced each other, and two women stood in the center of the small room, chatting. Not much else would fit inside.
The perkiest-looking of the two greeted me. “Avery Andrews?” A forty-something-year-old woman with artfully streaked blond hair and an expression of permanent surprise offered me her hand.
“Yes. Missy?”
“So nice to meet you. If you don’t mind waiting—”
The other woman, older, in a subdued pantsuit with short gray hair, carried an expensive but much-worn handbag over her shoulder. I realized she didn’t work here.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt. I’ll wait out-side.”
“No, don’t go.” The older woman, the one I took to be another customer, reached out her hand as she studied me with grave interest. “You’re Avery Andrews?” She studied me intently.
I nodded.
“I’m Alex Shoal,” she said.
“Shoal?” Not a common name, at least around here.
“Lionel Shoal’s wife.” She paused, giving her pronouncement time to reorder things in my brain. “I understand that comes as a surprise to people in town,” she said.
“Um, yes. I’m afraid it does.”
“As I was just telling Ms. Jones here, it comes as a surprise to me, too, to find I’m not the only Mrs. Lionel Shoal in town.”
“Yes, ma’am. I can see how . . .” I let my sentence trail off.
“Actually,” she said, “I was hoping to meet you, after I saw your name in the newspaper article this morning. I can’t believe we’ve run into each other like this.”
Dacus is a small town, but not usually this small.
“We could talk after you finish your business here,” I offered. This was bound to be more interesting than looking at Dacus real estate offerings.
“No, we were finished, but I don’t want to interfere. You’ve come to see Ms. Jones.” Alex smiled at Missy, who had been watching us as if we were her favorite soap opera.
“Missy and I can always talk later, can’t we?” I said.
Missy’s perennial smile narrowed a fraction as she watched a couple of potential clients prepare to swim off the hook. I doubted the Upstate Realty office was jammed to capacity very often.
“Missy, I’ll call you for an appointment—and give you a little more warning next time.” I gave her what I hoped was a conciliatory smile. She still looked disappointed, maybe because she would miss out on the next installment of the drama.
“Thank you for your help, Ms. Jones. You’ve been most gracious,” Alex Shoal said, shaking Missy’s hand.
Alex and I stepped out onto the dollhouse-sized porch.
“Is your office far?” she asked.
“The other end of town.”
“Suppose we sit in my car a moment. Do you mind?”
A brown Mercedes with some age on it sat parked at the curb.
The interior was spotless and the front seat almost as spacious as a sofa. The sun warmed the interior. Alex slid in behind the wheel and turned to face me. She had wide, intelligent brown eyes outlined with delicate smile wrinkles.
“I’m not sure where to begin, except to say I’m curious,” she said.
“About?”
“The other Mrs. Shoal. If you don’t mind me asking.”
Her expression was pleasant and pained at the same time, but she was too gracious to call attention to how awkward this was for her.
“I don’t really know her. I first saw her last Sunday, in a local restaurant with your—with Mr. Shoal. They were new in town and were pointed out to me. Then she came up to me, at lunch on Tuesday. Wanted me to talk to Mr. Shoal, about a legal matter.”
“A divorce?” Her throaty, smooth voice didn’t falter.
I hesitated. It wouldn’t hurt to tell her. “No.”
“What’s she like?”
A natural question. “Very . . . different from you.” Polar opposites, I wanted to say.
“In what way?”
I shrugged, studying her. Was it worse to know or to imagine? “Please understand, I don’t know her. Our interactions were limited.”
“Is she young?”
“No. Though she. . . dresses young.” Hard to add and subtract makeup and attitude, but I calculated that Valerie and Alex were likely very close in age. I couldn’t see why Lionel Shoal had moved on from this quiet but classy-looking lady to Valerie. One could never quite know about couples. Maybe he’d been shopping for younger and got fooled. More likely, from what I’d seen, Valerie had latched on to him, and it wasn’t for his sex appeal.
“Does she look cheap? Don’t answer that. I’m sorry. That’s not fair to you.”
I shrugged; it felt disrespectful to Valerie whatever her-name-was to say it aloud.
Alex Shoal looked past me out the car window, her hands folded in her lap. I had admired her cultured restraint Maybe it was the easy way the tiny wrinkles on her face had outlined a warm smile in Missy’s office. Maybe it was her Lauren Bacall voice, or her deep brown eyes tense with pain. Whatever it was, I liked her, and my heart hurt for her.
“I knew something was up,” she said, her tone still matter-of-fact “I just didn’t dream it was this. Everyone kept hounding him, the newspaper, the creditors. He left Phoenix to make a fresh start. A new project, a new place.”
She gave a bitter laugh. “I should have known. I guess the biggest surprise is how stupid and blind I am—have been, for years. You work to build a marriage, keep it together. . .”
Her composure cracked. Tears turned her eyes liquid, but she didn’t bother fumbling for a handkerchief. She just let them fall.
‘Twenty-five years. Two children. Countless moves, always just ahead of the creditors. Always another pot of gold at the end of another rainbow. Rainbows fade quickly around Lionel, but I kept believing they were really there.”
“I’m so sorry, Mrs. Shoal.”
She blinked as if she’d just remembered I was there. “What stuns me most is my own stupidity. Looking back, dear God, who could be such an idiot? His father died recently. As soon as he got his inheritance, I should’ve known. For the first time ever in our lives, he finally had money, after all the get-rich promises and schemes”
&nb
sp; Her shoulders rose and fell with a shaky sigh. “You know what he told me? That he had to keep the money in a separate account, in his name, for tax reasons. Wouldn’t give me enough to pay off even one of the credit cards or the back rent. Said we could take care of it all at once, after the estate was settled. That was a lie, wasn’t it? To keep me from getting anything in a divorce, wasn’t it?”
Her tone had become insistent with a tinge of panic.
“I don’t really know anything about Arizona law,” I said.
Her gaze was intent. She knew I was hedging.
“Yes, ma’am,” I said, “that was likely what he had in mind.”
The tears fell in a flood. She gave one wrenching sob, as if it had been torn from her chest. Her carefully constructed dam burst.
“I. . . can’t pay. He’s taken . . . everything I had. This car. . . is all I have left of what my daddy left. . . to me.” She sobbed, her face twisted with hurt and fear.
I didn’t know what else to do. I leaned over and put my arms around her. Even with the steering wheel in the way, she turned and buried her face on my shoulder and cried like I’ve never heard anyone cry.
If Missy looked out her real estate office window, she’d likely decide not to sell either of us a house in a decent neighborhood, given such a penchant for questionable public displays of affection.
It took several minutes for Alex Shoal to cry herself out. As the sobs became less racking, I fumbled in my jacket pocket for a tissue and found a clean one.
“I’m. . . so sorry.” She blew her nose and reached under the seat for her purse and more tissues. “I’m so sorry.”
“You’re entitled. Lord only knows.” I patted her shoulder and leaned back to allow her to regain her dignity.
“Are you going to be okay?”
She blew her nose and nodded.
“I know you’ve got a lot to work through. My office is straight down the street, on this side. A mauve Victorian with a wraparound porch. There’s no sign, but you can’t miss it. Please let me know if there’s anything I can do to help.” I talked fast, wanting to offer her help and get out of her way at the same time.
She nodded, holding a tissue to her nose, her eyes closed.
I really needed to get some business cards printed. This was no time to fumble around for a scrap of paper to jot down my phone number.
As I left Alex parked at the curb, Missy waved hopefully at me from her office window. I waved back, but I couldn’t bring myself to go talk about real estate.
On the walk to my office, I decided on a detour to the newspaper office. I needed an update on the latest breaking news.
18
Midday Wednesday
The note on the Clarion’s front counter said, “Leave your work order in the slot or come back at 1:30,” and was signed “Alice.”
Rather than head up the creaky stairs to see if Dad was in his office, I scouted around downstairs among the crowded machinery and paper-littered worktables and found Noah Lakefield at a desk against the back wall. The best I’d hoped for was getting his cell phone number from Walter, the editor, or his wife, Alice, also known as the ad sales department and office manager. But here he was in person. Not much of a workspace for the ace reporter, tucked away alone with the hard-ware. Not that Dad’s office upstairs was fancier, just better organized.
I rolled an office chair with a lopsided back over to join Noah at his desk.
He looked faintly irritated at the interruption and squinted like he wasn’t quite sure who I was. He’d been engrossed in his computer screen. I understood. I hate having someone blunder in when I’m concentrating on a project.
As recognition dawned, he punched a button to bring up a blank screen, raked his fingers through his tangle of curls, and turned to face me.
“What kind of warm welcome is this?” I said. “No hi ’ner nothing?”
He didn’t frown, but he sure didn’t smile.
“Sorry to bother you,” I said, “but where else could I go for the latest news?”
“About?”
“The Dacus death spree. By the way, liked both your articles. Especially the one about the pig. I’d be careful about speeding or spitting on the sidewalk, if I were you. However, except for the Sheriff’s Department, everyone is enjoying it mightily.”
He thawed enough to offer a small smile of acknowledgment. I didn’t know what prompted his mood, but I would ignore it and assume it had nothing to do with me until further notice.
“What do the cops know that they aren’t broadcasting?”
He shrugged, his expression reserved.
I offered him a tantalizing tidbit to thaw him out. “Have you talked to anybody who saw Lionel Shoal’s body?”
He raised his eyebrows. “No. You?”
“I was there. Anybody mention any funny coincidences?”
His bushy eyebrows knitted together in a frown and he shook his head.
“Hey, I didn’t come here to do all the talking,” I said to give him a playful nudge.
His eyes narrowed. “What, you going to get your daddy to make me talk to you? Why don’t you ask him what’s going on?”
“Because he wouldn’t know.” His sharp tone set me back on my heels, but I kept my voice even, the better to draw him out.
“No shit,” he said.
“Whoa. What’s that all about?”
He sized me up for a minute, maybe surprised I’d agreed with him. “Pardon me for saying it, but your dad doesn’t know shit about the newspaper business.”
“That’s a news flash? Everybody in town knows that. Dad knows that, in case you didn’t know. That’s why he pays people who do know the business.”
He studied me. I struggled to hold my temper, feeling protective of Dad. Who does this guy think he is? And why the attitude, out of nowhere? I put on my best impassive negotiator face, though I wanted to punch him.
“So—why?” he said, his arms outstretched in frustrated supplication.
“He retired early. The paper was about to fold. He’s a mechanical engineer, the paper had a bunch of old machines he could keep running. He’s singularly uninterested in local gossip, but he dearly loves machine grease. Made sense to him. Seems to me you have a job thanks to that. So?”
He shook his head in resignation. I didn’t ask what frustration had led to his outburst. Whatever it was, he could work it out. My dad didn’t need me defending him, even though I had to admit I was struggling not to.
So why had this talented hotshot accepted a job at this little half-time newspaper, half-time print shop? Best wait and ask him when he wasn’t so defensive—and when I wasn’t just about ready to smack him.
“Like I said, I didn’t come here to do all the talking. You want to swap stories, or shall I leave you to your computer screen?” And your little hissy fit.
He took stock for a moment. “Ruffin, the guy in the mine, didn’t die of natural causes. He was shot six times with a Browning Nazi-Belgium nine-millimeter.”
“Wow, how’d they trace the gun?”
“They didn’t. The gun was found with the body.”
“Good detective work there. Any idea whose gun?”
“Naw. A rare make, guys brought them home from World War II, but they’re sold now at gun shows and such. They’ve ruled out suicide or accident.
“Nothing about the scene is similar to the death of Suse Knight. Can’t find any connection between Knight and Ruffin. Can’t find any connection with the explosion at Golden Cove. Thought they had a lead on that one, some woman who offered a blow job to a highway department employee—”
“In exchange for some dynamite.”
He looked surprised. “Not some. Just one stick. How do you know about that?”
“I’ve got my sources.” I couldn’t keep up our game of information one-upmanship. “Is that the funniest thing you’ve—” I broke up, laughing.
Noah fought it but couldn’t help himself, despite his pique. Once he got starte
d laughing, neither of us could stop. We laughed until we both teared up.
“I’ve heard the fishing’s good around here,” he said, wiping his eyes.
“Only if you get there before her boyfriend shows up to net his limit—and everybody else’s.”
He took some time to catch his breath and get back to his story. “They can’t find any connection between that dynamite and the explosion. Suse Knight’s death also appears unrelated. At first, they feared she’d contracted some deadly disease, even called in the CDC. Her face was contorted, her muscles spasmed so severely they couldn’t get her laid flat on the stretcher. She looked like something out of a horror movie.”
I shuddered as my own mental images of Lionel Shoal’s body replayed, the stuff of nightmares.
“Again, no connection. Lionel Shoal, of course, is involved with Golden Cove. They can’t find any means or motive for him blowing up his property. No relationship with Len Ruffin, other than Ruffin’s body being found on Golden Cove property. And no relationship at all between Suse Knight and Ruffin, Shoal, or Golden Cove that anyone can find.”
“Except that Lionel Shoal and Suse Knight died the same way.”
He sat forward, his eyes wide. “What?”
“Lionel Shoal’s face was distorted and his back arched and frozen, just like Suse Knight’s. Suse had been throwing up all over the place. So had Shoal. Looked like he’d been eating candy.”
“A box of chocolates?”
I nodded.
“The kind in brown paper cups?”
“Yep. They were spilled all over the floor.”
He smacked his palm on the desk. “That’s exactly what they found around Suse Knight’s body.” He rolled his chair toward me in his excitement. “I knew these things just couldn’t be coincidence. They had to be related.”
“But you still have all the bits that don’t fit. Like a giant puzzle with pieces from different boxes. An odd connection here and there, but no picture. You don’t even have any edge pieces to frame it in.”
“There’s one edge piece,” he said. “Suse Knight and Lionel Shoal were both poisoned. Strychnine.”
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