I caught a chill as I opened the paper. On it, all in caps, were the words “Check the Dumpster at the Ashbury.”
* * *
“All I can say,” Brad said as he tossed another green bag out of the Ashbury Dumpster, “is that as far as secret messages and amateur sleuthing go, this one lacks a certain romance. I’ll bet Magnum never had to search a Dumpster.”
Liv pulled the bag onto the plastic table that Kathleen had let us borrow, and which we’d covered with a shower curtain liner from the dollar store, where we’d also bought thick gloves to wear while sorting through the trash. We were on our twelfth bag, with about four left to go. With any luck, we’d finish just before the sun went down.
“Viewers didn’t tune in to watch Magnum go Dumpster diving,” Liv said. “They tuned in to watch him take off his shirt.”
Brad rolled his eyes at Liv. “What I’m saying is what self-respecting detective would be searching through a Dumpster? You’d never catch Sherlock Holmes knee-deep in garbage.”
“He’d send Watson,” I said.
“Nero Wolfe?” Brad suggested.
“He wouldn’t fit,” Liv said.
“He’d send Archie,” I said.
“Nancy would send Ned, I bet,” Liv said.
“And I’ll wager Miss Marple or Jessica Fletcher would probably find a nephew or niece to do it,” Brad said. “See, always the dirty jobs went to the plucky but not-too-bright sidekick.”
I looked at Liv, who winked at me and turned back to her work.
I turned away to hide the smile that was tickling my lips.
“What?” Brad said.
The laugh at Brad’s expense was short-lived, however. A few minutes later, Liv, a clear look of disgust on her face, used her gloved fingertips to move a dirty diaper into the new trash bag that awaited the sorted garbage.
“You’d better get used to that,” I said.
“What, diapers covered in used coffee grounds? I don’t think so. I swear, if I discover Chief Bixby wrote that note to keep you busy and out of his way during the investigation, well, there’ll be more diapers showing up soon. On his doorstep. In his desk drawer. In his squad car. Oooh,” she said with a wicked gleam in her eye. “In his lunch box.”
“I don’t think he’d stoop to that. He’s more direct. Besides, Opie saw someone walking away from the shop wearing that yellow cloak.” I tossed a handful of banana peels swarming with fruit flies into the can. “Someone sure liked bananas.”
“I can’t believe someone stole your cloak,” Liv said.
“I can’t believe someone stole that cloak,” I said. More than that, he or she was using it to disguise their features. And I had a sick feeling that my subconscious rendition of “Yellow Submarine,” just as I had lost consciousness, had come just as much from a flash of yellow I’d seen in my peripheral vision as it had from the dried cod in the bottom of the box.
“Still, don’t you find it odd that Bixby didn’t want to come to search the Dumpster himself after we showed him the note?” Brad said. “He looked awfully amused when he said you should check it out.”
“I was going to anyway,” I said.
“I want to go home,” Liv whined.
“Nobody’s keeping you,” I said. “You’re the one who insisted on coming.”
“I’m staying,” she said. “It just felt good to complain about it.” She tossed another handful of trash into the can. “Wait, what’s this?” She pulled out a wad of crumpled newspapers and opened them up. “Apparently someone likes turnips, too. Or didn’t like them.”
“Wait!” I stopped her just before she was going to toss them into the can. “Let me see.”
The objects in the newspaper did look like turnips, cooked and rather limp looking.
“This might be what we’re looking for,” I said.
“Does that mean I can come out now?” Brad called from inside the Dumpster.
“Yes,” I said, looking past what I strongly suspected were cooked monkshood roots, and focused on the newspaper behind it, which in its masthead showed that it came from Richmond. I tapped it with my gloved hand.
“Richmond!” Liv squealed. “That’s where Raylene lives.”
“And where Barry Brooks lived with his son,” I said, “and presumably where the rest of the Brooks people come from.”
“But that links them to the killing,” Liv said. “One of them anyhow.”
I scrunched up my nose. Something stank, and it wasn’t just the dirty diapers and rotting produce in the Dumpster. “No, it only proves that someone wanted us to find this, and wanted us to associate the monkshood with Raylene or someone else from Richmond.”
“Look.” Liv pulled a long hair out of the paper. She held it up to the light. “Platinum blonde,” she said. “Except at the root.”
“Could be Raylene’s,” I said. “But what we have here is not evidence. I think it’s a plant.”
“Well, if that’s monkshood, then it would be a plant, right?” Liv said. “It’s not animal or mineral.”
“No. The note. The monkshood. The paper. All pointing to Raylene, but nothing that really ties her to the crime at all. Now I know why Bixby wasn’t all fired up about Dumpster diving with us.”
Liv squinted at me.
“This is a diversion.”
* * *
Early the next morning Bixby and I were seated at an outdoor table at the Brew-Ha-Ha. The local eatery was doing a thriving business, and about half the patrons stocking up on their specialty coffees, lattes, and cappuccinos were dressed in medieval garb.
The sky looked dark, but I couldn’t tell if that was Eric’s promised storm beginning to materialize or the smoke from the distant wildfires.
I detailed the results of our search and presented our findings to Bixby in a large sealed baggie. He tried to hide his smirk behind a cup of coffee.
“So, Deputy,” he said, “what do you think this evidence means to the investigation?”
“Absolutely nothing.”
“Good girl.” He took the bag and poked at the cooked roots inside. “I wonder if having these analyzed makes any sense.”
“We can’t prove anything by the evidence, but we can infer a few things.”
He laid the bag on the table. “And what can you infer from this?”
“I suppose one might conjecture that since the killer is trying to frame Raylene that Raylene is not the killer.” I hated to admit it. She was my best suspect.
“That’s assuming that the killer was the one who sent you the note. It could be someone who just doesn’t like Raylene and wants to get her into trouble.”
“And Opie said she saw a woman leaving the shop.” I nibbled on a dry cuticle. “But we can’t be sure that was the person who left the note.”
“I suppose I can have Lafferty check if there’s any security footage of the Dumpster, to see if your mystery woman threw this evidence in there herself, but it’s not likely they have cameras focused back there. Unless that Randolph woman was trying to catch a band of scavenging raccoons.” His smile disappeared and he set his coffee cup down hard. “But you must admit, she could have motive for trying to frame Raylene.”
“Kathleen Randolph? No way. Raylene wasn’t even in the picture when . . . oh, but Dottie Brooks was also staying at the Ashbury. She’d probably like to see Raylene sent up for killing her husband. Dottie Brooks and Kathleen Randolph. And Kayla Leonard, I think.” I counted them off on my hand.
“Yeah?”
“Were involved with Brooks and might have reason to kill him. And frame Raylene.”
“Assuming the killer is a woman, which is a pretty big assumption based on what your intern thought she saw.”
I bit my lip. “What if I were to tell you that I have another reason to believe the killer is a woman?”
“Th
en I’d say you should tell me that reason.”
“I kind of went to the camp alone early yesterday morning.”
“After I told you . . .” He stopped and glared at me. “Okay.”
“Very early. Before dawn. And I was looking around Eli Strickland’s booth.”
“Apparently we need to talk about warrants and evidence.”
“It’s an open-air booth,” I said.
“What did you find? Or dare I ask?”
“It’s not what I found so much, but rather who found me. I was attacked.”
“By a woman?”
“I don’t know. I was hit from behind.”
He crumpled his empty coffee cup in his hand. “Which is why I told you not to go out there alone. But you never saw who hit you?”
“No, but when I woke up in the stocks—”
“The stocks? This just keeps getting better.”
“You might have enjoyed it. I was being pelted by rotten vegetables.”
“I’m sorry I missed my chance,” he said. “But if you never saw who hit you—who also may or may not be our killer—why do you think it was a woman?”
“Because Carol thought she heard a woman talking outside, around the time I must have been put in the stocks.”
“So you’ve eliminated half of our suspect pool based on what one young woman thought she saw and what another young woman thought she heard.”
“I know it’s not much,” I said.
“Look, I’ll talk with this Carol about what she thought she heard, because we can’t have you getting attacked. And I’m really sorry that happened to you. But, Audrey, there’s no real evidence here.” He leaned forward, his elbows on the table. “But there’s another inference you can make from all this. Another woman who could be implicated by this all, who would know how to find monkshood and cook it, and who would benefit by framing Raylene.”
“Who’s that?”
“You.”
“Me? Why would I frame Raylene?”
“Because you know that your father is now a suspect. He knew the victim before and had a motive. He’d been interested in Brooks. I know about his cell phone pictures. If you wanted to sway the investigation, you could easily plant the phony note yourself, toss the monkshood into the Dumpster where you’d find it, all to exonerate your own father.”
“But I would never—”
He smiled. “I knew that for sure when you said your evidence meant absolutely nothing. Which is why I won’t tell you not to go back to that camp. Just not alone.”
I raised my hand. “Scouts honor. I’m working in the Brooks’ stables with Carol and Melanie today, so there’ll be people around at all times.”
Bixby rose to leave, looking almost sad. “Just do me a favor.”
“What’s that?”
“Don’t quit your day job.”
Chapter 16
Larry’s place was hopping when Brad and I arrived. Cars were parked on both sides of the narrow street, with happy lords and ladies marching up the hill with their gourmet coffees and takeout bags.
When we got to the top, however, Larry was in a discussion with a very red-faced King Arthur, who was surrounded by his trumpeters.
“You can’t do this,” the king said. “We will not permit it.”
“Well, ‘we’ don’t really have a say about what I do on my own property, do we?” Larry said with a bit of uncharacteristic petulance. “We were not keeping our animals on our side of the fence. We were not keeping our people on our side of the fence. So I—since I’m only one dad-blamed American—decided to give free enterprise a chance and make the best out of a bad situation.” He reached into his strongbox and made change for the jester who ran up the hill with a six-pack of beer and a bag of ice.
The king let out an exasperated grunt, turned, and marched off with his merry men looking discomfited as they ran to catch up with him. One of them stayed behind and, as soon as the king was out of view, fist-bumped Larry.
My friend’s pique may have been exaggerated, because he smiled instantly when he turned around to see Brad and me.
“Good morning, Audrey,” he said. “Brad.”
“I see business is booming.” I pointed at his strongbox.
“I should just about break even for the damage those animals caused. But I did seem to irritate that little guy.”
“King Arthur? Yes, I daresay you did.”
“He’ll get over it,” Brad said.
“Audrey, I . . .” Larry scrubbed the back of his neck with his hand. “I hope you don’t mind me butting in, but are you all right?”
“I’m fine,” I said. “The doctor gave me a clean bill of health.”
“That’s always nice, but that wasn’t what I meant. See, these people talk—some of them are really quite nice—and someone told me that, well, that your father is back. I remember things weren’t always good between the two of you, and I just wanted to make sure you were all right.”
“Yeah, right now we’re fine.”
“Well, if you ever need to talk about it . . . I may not be Dr. Phil, but I know how to listen.”
“You’re sweet.” I kissed his cheek.
Brad reached into his pocket for the ten dollars that would let us cross, and Larry waved him off. But he did reach out a palm for the troubadour who tried to squeeze in with us.
“Oh, Larry?” I turned back. “You haven’t by any chance seen anyone coming or going wearing a yellow cape, have you?”
“I can’t say as I have, but some of these getups are so crazy I might not even notice.”
“Keep an eye open, okay?”
“For you I’ll keep both open.”
* * *
One place I hadn’t been yet was the stables, but fortunately Brad knew the way, not that the camp was so large that I wouldn’t have found them eventually.
They really weren’t stables in the sense of a permanent structure, rather more like a large army or circus tent, with straw on the floor and “stalls” created from rough wood rails or by stacking provender between the animals. These makeshift stalls contained at least five horses. One of them neighed a welcome, and I startled. Just unexpected.
There were only a few cows, making me wonder where all that butter and cheese for sale actually came from. Come to think of it, the sign “BUTTER CHURNED FRESH DAILY” that stood prominently in the dairy maid’s stall didn’t actually mean that all the butter was churned fresh daily, just that they churned something.
I found Melanie just outside one of the first stalls, explaining to two rather disappointed children that no, they could not feed carrots to the horses now.
“Not so close to when they’re going to be working out,” she said, “or else they’ll get sick.”
The kids walked away with their heads down and lower lips protruding about half a foot.
After they were out of earshot, Melanie giggled. “I let them feed a carrot to one of the horses the other day, and ever since they’ve been trying to do it nonstop. Those poor horses are going to turn orange at this rate.” She blew out a deep breath. “Oh, I’m so glad you’re here. This is going to be a crazy day.”
“We’re here to help,” I said. “Put us to work.”
“We?” Brad said, and when I gave him a sideways glance, he winked. “Just kidding. What can we do?”
“Do you know horses?” Melanie asked.
“I had a couple of riding lessons when I was a kid,” Brad said.
I shook my head. “Not unless you count merry-go-rounds.” And that had been an unmitigated disaster. But surely now that I was an adult, horses wouldn’t seem so big and ferocious and terrifying. Liv had once teased me about having equinophobia, but calling it a phobia would mean admitting that my fear was irrational, and I wasn’t quite sure that was the case. But surely I’d outgrow
n that fear. I mean, I could even watch Bonanza without getting queasy.
“Carol and I have to work on the barding, that is, get the horses saddled and dressed and out to the tournament grounds, and there’s really not time to teach you how to do that. I hate to do this to you, but perhaps for now you could muck out the empty stalls.”
“Muck out?”
“Clean them. Take out any manure or wet bedding and replace it with fresh.”
“Kind of like a cat’s litter box,” I said. “I’m familiar with that concept.”
Carol peeked her head around one of the stalls and came out with a beautifully attired horse. It wore what looked like a mask with eyeholes cut into it, and something rather similar to the surcoats the knights were wearing, in a pattern of yellow and red.
“That’s gorgeous,” I said. It took my breath away. Literally. And my heart was pounding a mile a minute. I smiled, trying not to show my unease, and forced myself to breathe regularly. What was that technique they teach in Psych 101 for overcoming phobias? Systematic desensitization. Working around the horses was my chance not only to snoop and learn more about Brooks’s employees, but if I played my cards right, score some free therapy as well.
“Isn’t it a beautiful caparison?” Carol said. “That’s what this getup is called, and it’s probably one of the main reasons why I wanted to work the stables this year. It’s not everywhere that you can play dress-up with live horses.”
“Here,” Melanie said, “let’s just tighten these up.” She reached out to tighten the bit of the costume that resembled a mask; it had slipped over the horse’s eye. Once the mask was back in place, the horse seemed to stare at me, sizing me up. Fresh meat?
“Not that I’m any good at it,” Carol said ruefully.
“You’re learning fine,” Melanie said. “The rest looks good. Why don’t you walk her out to the grounds.”
Carol saluted and led the horse out by the reins. I could feel my pulse go back to normal. That wasn’t too bad.
Meanwhile Melanie had scavenged two pitchforks and a rustic-looking wheelbarrow, and Brad and I soon began mucking out the stall the gorgeously attired horse had come from.
Floral Depravity Page 19
