Fit To Curve (An Ellen and Geoffrey Fletcher Mystery Book 1)

by Bud Crawford

  "Alistair has new people registered," Ellen said, "depending on how quick we get out of here."

  They were on the balcony, skins prickling in the cooling April night, finishing the next-to-next-to-last bottle of Crianza. dessert had been uncommonly rich and filling. Fresh baked sour apple and rhubarb pies, with a sprinkle of maple sugar and whipped cream.

  Ellen said, "We still don't know what happened here. Can we really walk away?"

  "From here, maybe, not from the question. There are a couple stops we could make, on the way home."

  "But here's where it happened, whatever it was. Honoria said she saw Seth in the garden, right before dessert was served, sitting with David and Madison."

  "Sitting?" Geoff asked.

  "Well, it was dark, she couldn't see much just looking out the parlor window. She thought they were 'embracing.' I sensed a heretofore unexpressed primness in our Honoria."

  "He didn't stay, did he?"

  "She saw him go through the hedge. Presumably he was looking for Marti, maybe he came back later, when she was done. Weren't they supposed to meet tomorrow for lunch?"

  "Could have been twelve phone calls, eleven texts, ten facebook updates and nine tweets since this afternoon. Who can say?"

  "God damn it, Alistair!" Ellen slapped her hands on her thighs. "He slipped them into the whipped cream, all the while saying tomorrow would be the debut."

  "I'm assuming you've changed tracks here. Alistair is now he, and them's what? The truffles? Can you do that? In whipped cream?"

  "Oh yeah. Just a whisper or they would totally take over. Umami pie. Hadn't occurred to me that he'd try that. It is not common practice. Wow. Amazing job, Alistair. I knew there was something I should have noticed, been like a splinter in my tongue."

  "Ouch! Well, without being able to break out the elements, I thought the pie experience was amazing. If you're right, though, I can no longer look forward to brunch for my first taste of truffle."

  "'Our last virginities peel unrecorded as we dream walk our life.' Quoting you, I believe," Ellen said. "Can you see Seth as a killer?"

  "Don't want to. But he's kind of schizy, his little internal angels whacking way at his little devils. I think the wheel's still spinning."

  Ellen asked, "What if he either thought he had to protect Marti or preserve his claim on her?"

  "So he was reacting, doing what he had to do, rather than choosing an action? Maybe. There's a passive, acted-upon quality to him. Not I did it but it happened."

  "No connection with Dwight, though," Ellen said.

  "That we know of. Dwight and Jerry have stayed here before."

  "Let's go in, I'm getting chilled. Also, it's bedtime. I expect we'll need a good night's sleep under us to respond properly to Alistair's brunch."

  "I've got a wheelbarrow of questions and a thimble of answers. One question I can't shake and I can't resolve, should we be worried? Should anybody be? Is this situation dangerous?"

  "Is it a situation at all?" Ellen stood, picking up her glass and the empty bottle. "Does it track somehow, or just happen?"

  Geoff opened the door into the room. "It tracks. That's from my thimble."

  chapter thirty-ninth — sunday

  Geoff pumped one last time up the curb-cut onto the gravel driveway behind Juniper House and coasted towards the van. He pulled off his helmet, and looped the strap over the handlebar. His shirt was soaked through. He had pushed hard, the whole time. He climbed the windy road over the tunnel, cruised the ridge above the hospital, rolled into Kenilworth, then back to the ridge, down and across at Charlotte Street. As a second effort, he climbed Town Mountain Road along the north side of the Beaucatcher cut, pumped several miles out to the Parkway, then wiggled back down into Montford the way that Seth had taken him up. It had been as much work as all the rest of his rides in Asheville put together, he was wiped out. It felt good, but his breath was raspy and his legs were shaking. Next, a hot shower, dry clothes, lunch and a bottle of beer.

  Pictures had been forming in his mind as he pedaled. He wasn't thinking, exactly, just letting thoughts happen. There was a way to connect the pieces that was beginning to take shape. He needed to see Harold's office in Charlotte, that would help. A word with Dwight, too. And the little girl, always in red, he wondered if she could talk. Usually, things weren't what they seemed, but Andy Ross was an extreme case of this: bonhomie versus those long silences, mismatched comings and goings. Then what had Ellen asked? Did he think Madison was sexy? Of course not, dear, he'd said, to her snigger. And an interesting possibility about the Farley twins. Time was not a friend, though. He needed to push things before things pushed him.

  He stopped and let the bike lean to the right, as he swung his right leg up and over. While his leg was still traveling, just clear of the handlebars, he sensed something directly behind. He tucked his body in towards the descending arc of his leg, compacting, turning down and around. The blow landed softer than it was launched but it hit before he had turned far enough to see what or who had struck. The blackness that swallowed him was preceded by a brief obliterating flash, an explosion of pain. The shudder began at his neck and shot downwards, his toes spasmed in his shoes, and he was out.

  Curling away from the blow, meant the impact only knocked him out, and didn't crush his neck as it was intended to do. The next thing he saw was Ellen, standing over him, screaming his name. He tried to tell her everything was fine, he was just tired, but he couldn't speak, couldn't straighten his head or move his hands, and she kept on screaming.

  ~

  Stephanie turned into the drive just ahead of Ellen, gasping for breath, soaking wet despite the cool of the April noon. She was either hot from the effort or cold from the clammy shirt, she couldn't tell. She was pleased at her precedence, despite knowing Ellen had let her cross first, and could easily have beat her by half-a-mile. According to Geoff, this was a new side of Ellen. That was his bike there, wasn't it, lying on its side, front wheel and helmet twisted underneath. Funny, Geoff was usually tidier than that. He always was.

  A few steps behind her, Ellen saw the bike.

  "Geoff!" Ellen yelled. Stephanie jumped. "Geoff!" Ellen yelled again.

  Ellen ran to the bike, examined the ground around it. "Geoff!" She saw two parallel lines across the unplanted bed a few feet from the crumpled bike, crushed grass along the same track before and after. "Damn it, Geoff!"

  She's not yelling, Stephanie thought. She's screaming. What's wrong? Ellen ran along the track across the grass, burst through the hedge marking the Juniper House property line, sprinted through several of Montford's generous back yards.

  "Geoff!" Stephanie yelled. Two could do this. She ran behind Ellen. She saw footprints, not Ellen's, when the parallel lines stopped. "Geoff!"

  Ahead of them something, somebody, crashed through another hedge, out onto the sidewalk, several blocks from Juniper House. Ellen saw the branches close, a flash of color. But she stopped over Geoff, lying in the dirt of a fresh-tilled garden bed. His head was twisted to the left, his eyes were open looking up at her. She lunged forward, hands on either side of his head. "Geoffrey!" she said, almost too soft for Stephanie to hear. He was breathing, his eyes focused on hers. She brushed her hands over Geoff's forehead. His eyes followed her hand. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth. She wiped if away with her palm, wiped her palm on her shirt. His breathing was ragged, but not obstructed. He smiled up at her; he did not speak.

  Stephanie pulled the cellphone from the snap pocket of her running shorts. She dialed 911, and explained the medical emergency. Ellen stood and motioned Stephanie to move away, took out her own phone, called 911, asked for the police, and asked them to call Sprague. She stood very still and swept her eyes in widening circles around Geoff. She tried to freeze the image, the way Geoff could. There's the break in the hedge. Footprints go towards it, muddy and indistinct. The cultivated ground was soggy from the overnight rain. The grass was crushed. Behind, the way they had come, their tra
cks were on top of the tracks they had followed. She looked back down at Geoff, and knelt by his side. He was still smiling. She touched the side of his neck, pulse fast but regular. She took his hand and squeezed his fingers. Almost, she thought, he squeezed back.

  It was several hours, it was several minutes, before the ambulance arrived. They parked in a driveway, a hundred feet from Geoff. Two EMTs came running towards them, crashing through the break in the hedge. So much for crime scene, Ellen thought. Their navy-blue uniforms so like police, but the implements strapped to their belts were not cuffs or guns. The blonde woman carried a head-immobilizing neck brace, her companion had a rolled-up stretcher. In under a minute they checked vital signs, pulse, blood pressure, temperature, blood oxygen, they braced Geoff's neck, lifted him onto the stretcher. The male EMT, younger and smaller than the woman, had Chinese features, but his red hair looked natural. He ran to the ambulance, pulled out the gurney and dragged it back, running, through the hedge. They lifted Geoff with the stretcher, set him on the gurney, and pulled him quickly over the uneven ground, rolling smoothly on high white pneumatic tires.

  The gurney frame locked into the hook above the bumper, the top unclipped from the frame and slid smoothly along the tracks into the ambulance. The blond woman hopped into the van. She pulled the gurney top gently forward until it snap-locked into place. She velcroed the three sets of straps, pulled up from the floor, across Geoff, knees, waist, chest. Ellen and Stephanie climbed in behind her. She opened her mouth to object, changed her mind, smiled, and pointed to seat belts on the wall across from the stretcher. She nodded to her partner, who pushed the rear doors shut, and walked around to the driver's seat. The ambulance was rolling forward before Ellen and Stephanie had buckled their belts. The EMT pushed herself back and snapped her belt closed. The siren was louder from the outside, but inside it was constant, never receding. Five minutes seemed like fifty to Ellen. She stared across at Geoff, who mostly looked straight up, but now and then rolled his eyes all the way over until he was looking at her, at Stephanie, at the medic, then relaxed back to his straight-up stare. His arms strained against the straps, his fingers clenched and unclenched.

  The medic reached her hand across to his shoulder. "You're doing great, sir, just relax."

  "What's your name?" Geoff's voice was thin and scratchy. "I can't see the tag."

  Ellen spoke before the other woman could. "You can talk!"

  "When couldn't I talk?" Geoff said, and coughed.

  "I'm Jayne," the medic answered.

  "Oh, Geoff, are you alright?" Stephanie said. "What happened?"

  "That was going to be my question," Geoff said, barely audible over the engine and the siren. "I was riding, then Ellen was standing over me yelling. In between I was just gone. Did I hit a tree? Doesn't somebody know something?"

  chapter fortieth

  "Get good pictures, Cindy, we're using this in the book, how to completely fuck up a crime scene." Sprague and Apple had got the message from the 911 dispatcher and driven to Montford, passing the ambulance on the bridge. Cindy had been taking pictures at a fender-bender, but she had her full kit in the car. She arrived five minutes after the others.

  "I see what you mean, sir," she said. "Did they run a dirt bike back and forth over the tracks?"

  Sprague said, "Couldn't have made it worse if they had. Here's what we think went down. Back through there's the backyard, the gardens, at Juniper House. About sixty yards, the other end of the block. Fletcher's bike is there. It looks like somebody slugged him, then dragged him through the middle of all this mud. His wife had been out running with Mrs. Alden. They came on the bike, jumped to the right conclusion, then tore off along the tracks, trampling as they went. They found him lying here, called 911 twice, once for an ambulance, then with a message for us. Mrs. Fletcher thinks she saw somebody crashing through the hedge, just as they arrived. Then the ambulance guys came through, same gap in the hedge, contributing their own trampling. Then they dragged the damn gurney back and forth. First report out of the ER is good on Fletcher. Huge bruise on the neck and shoulder, right side. Nothing else confirmed."

  "This pretty much proves the case, doesn't it, sir?" Cindy lifted her camera from its sack. "Care where I start?"

  "No, just shoot along our track, plus both the hedge breaks, here and back at Juniper. Apple and I have looked already and found not a damn nickel. The only clear prints I guarantee belong to Fletcher, Alden, and the medics. I don't think there's even one you could pour a mold in, the muck being what it is. But use your own bright eyes. Call me if there's anything hot. Bob's on his way. I had him swing by the ER to bring Mrs. Alden back, she's the closest thing we have to a witness. I guess we want tape along here, but damned if I can see what we get for it. We're off to the parlor, where we left them all a minute ago, sitting innocent as babes. Somebody's not innocent, and getting wilder. Watch your own behind."

  "Aye, Lieutenant Detective, sir," Cindy said.

  "I'm serious, Officer Feather."

  "Me, too, boss. You guys go listen, I'll be a-looking and a-shooting." She pointed across the yard. "Bob's here, got his box, as well as our witness." She waved them around the long way, through the garden next door. Sprague motioned Stephanie to come around to where he was standing.

  "You-all come inside when you get done. I've got a couple uniforms coming to watch our chickens while we search anything we can get immediate permission for. I've called the station for a warrant, but we'll get started first, and get as far as we can until the warrant comes. Meanwhile, I'll walk the ground with Mrs. Alden, and see what we see. Of course we'll stay off your tracks."

  ~

  Honoria looked over her reading glasses. This was not good. Somebody was frightened, and become dangerous. Taking chances a sane person wouldn't take. This time, for her, it was even more personal. She was very fond of Geoffrey. Was the detective going to come and unmask the villain by his clever questions? That would suit her fine, but she'd be a little sorry if her new friends missed the end of the story. Here's Sprague now, with Stephanie and the pretty little Apple. He's looking so grim, but everybody is. Alistair, sitting on the yellow leather loveseat by the dining room door, seems to be oscillating between offering everybody tea and putting his fist through the wall. Toni beside him, her hand on his leg, speaking softly. Madison was straight ahead, next to David. He was reading the Wall Street Journal, she had her hands in her lap, seeming lost in thought. Marti sat in a chair alongside Ross, who seemed to be having no luck making conversation. The Farleys, she turned round to be sure, were still behind her, Mary-Beth knitting a child's sweater, Beth-Ann bent over a tiny laptop, typing steadily.

  Sprague walked into the parlor ahead of Apple. He stopped when he could see everyone. She waited behind, slightly to his right, her notebook open, pen uncapped.

  "One of the guests here, you all know Geoffrey Fletcher, was assaulted in the garden maybe an hour ago. He was been taken to Mission Hospital, we don't know the extent of his injuries. There's no possibility of accident this time, and it ups the odds that our previous incidents may have been crimes as well. Ms Markey?"

  "Could it have been a robbery, Detective?" She brushed her skirt flat across her lap, her knees were touching, legs crossed at the ankle, spike heels interlocked.

  "I suppose so," Sprague said, "but not by a very smart robber. Fletcher was wearing bicycle shorts and a t-shirt, nothing else except shoes and a helmet."

  David folded his paper and turned his palms up. The gold watch flashed as his cuff pulled back, gold rings glittered on his pudgy fingers. "I believe I can follow your thinking, Detective, but I think all of us in here, without being able to account for every last second, have been in the inn, upstairs or down since we had brunch." He folded his arms across his chest. "I don't see how any of us can help you."

  "Well that part's easy," Sprague said. "Did anyone see or hear anything that might be pertinent, that they would be willing to say publicly?" He waited. "In a private inter
view?" He waited again. "Okay, simple as can be. I want everybody to stay in this room while Apple and I search the other rooms, and the grounds. Oh, good, here they are."

  Two Asheville city policeman had come into the parlor, one very tall with very dark skin, the other two heads shorter, light brown skin. Sprague said, "Let me introduce officers Orestes Jonas and Herve Martinez. They'll hang around here with you-all while Apple and I are elsewhere."

  Sprague turned to Alistair and Toni. "Mr. Vingood, Ms. Billings, I would like your permission to search the premises. A warrant is in process, so the alternative is to sit here until it arrives, but I'd like to save time for everybody."

  "Look away, Detective," Alistair said. "Please find something that will bring this to an end. Please." He slumped back against the sofa.

  "I agree, Detective Sprague," Toni said.

  Sprague looked around the parlor. "Any of the guests object to their rooms being searched? It's technically up to Vingood and Billings, as owners. But you as renters may ask for a delay until the warrant is served, and we would respect that. Mr. Ickes?"