Silence while we both contemplated what she knew and what it might mean. She gave me a sideways glance.
“Have you told anyone about Mr. Ridenour and Leslie Marcone?”
“I’m planning to discuss it with Sgt. Yates very soon.”
“Does Mr. Ridenour give you the creeps?”
I nodded. Oh, yeah. Oddly, however, by now I felt less apprehensive, even a little foolish about my melodramatic reaction to Brad Ridenour. I reminded myself that many people had been adulterers without turning into killers. Brad may truly have been concerned about my welfare when he offered to follow me home tonight.
But I was careful to set the security system before we went to bed.
29
I got up early the next morning and tiptoed around, inspecting both inside and outside the house before Sandy was up. I didn’t really think Brad Ridenour was lurking out there somewhere. Surely it would take him time to customize a deadly scheme for me. But if he was lurking, or had booby-trapped the door or porch, I didn’t want Sandy caught in the ambush.
As soon as she walked down the driveway to catch the school bus, I dialed the sheriff’s department and asked for Sgt. Yates. Frustration. The woman answering the phone said he was out of town.
“Could you tell me where he’s gone?”
“I’m afraid not.” The woman sounded slightly indignant that I’d dared ask.
So, did this mean Sgt. Yates had zipped off to California to further investigate ex-husband Shane Wagner and/or the other discontented partners in the company? Or perhaps he’d gone to truck company headquarters to check into details about Al Diedrich’s truck runs? Or to Toledo to pry into Astrid Gallagher’s private life?
Those people, once high on my suspect list, had slipped away, like Leslie’s body drifting away at the lake that morning. But Sgt. Yates apparently didn’t know what I did about Brad Ridenour’s involvement with Leslie, so these other suspects were undoubtedly still uppermost in his mind.
“Will he be back soon?”
“I couldn’t say.” Whether that meant she didn’t know or wasn’t about to tell me was not discernible. “Would you like to speak with someone else?”
I hesitated only momentarily before saying, “No, I’ll wait for Sgt. Yates, thank you.”
Sgt. Yates might raise his scarred eyebrow at my involvement in this murder case. He might tell me I read too many mystery novels. He may have reevaluated my eligibility as a companion for Pa Yates. But I was reasonably certain he’d investigate my information and suspicions about a popular TV anchorman, whereas some other officer might pass me off as a dotty LOL. I left my phone number and asked the woman to have Sgt. Yates call me as soon as possible.
So, no big deal, I told myself. All I had to do was stay out of Brad Ridenour’s reach until Sgt. Yates was back in town. The best way to do that today, I decided, was to get out of town. Take a long, leisurely drive somewhere. Do my nerves good too.
I grabbed a map on my way out of the house. No way could Brad Ridenour ambush me when not even I knew where I was going.
Which, I realized about two minutes later, was nowhere. The old Thunderbird, which had been balky last night and several times previously, had no more spark than a magic coach morphed into a pumpkin. When I turned the key in the ignition, there was only the silence of one hand clapping. I remembered my father telling about how his father had gone out to plow one morning and found his mule dead. I now knew the feeling. Although, hopefully, my situation was only a temporary one.
So, now what? Call a tow truck and have the ’bird hauled in to a repair shop? Try to get someone to come out here and work on it? Expensive options. Then a disturbing thought occurred to me, and I peered around uneasily. Could Brad have disabled my car with the idea of trapping me here where I’d be easily accessible for some devious plot he had in mind? For a while I’d parked the car over by the garage, where it was not visible from the road, but I’d gotten out of the habit lately, and now it was right out in front of the house. Brad could have sneaked in during the night …
Although, more likely, I reminded myself, trying to repress that tendency toward paranoia, the old ’bird was just feeling its age. Sometimes I didn’t feel like revving up in the morning either.
Then I spotted Hanson Watkins on top of the roof of his mother’s house, can of roof tar in hand. He’d once offered to take a look at the Thunderbird. Maybe he could at least get it running enough to stagger into a repair shop under its own power.
The shortest route to his house was on the lake trail. I set off briskly. Night rain had left the trailside bushes wet, so I was thoroughly sprinkled by the time I got to the yard and waved up at him.
“I hate to bother you,” I called, “but do you suppose you could come over after you’re done up there and take a look at the T-bird? It’s gone balky again.”
“Sure. I’m finished here anyway. Bedroom started leaking last night, but I think I’ve got it fixed.”
He disappeared around to the other side of the roof, where he apparently had a ladder. A minute later he came around the house, wiping his tar-stained hands on a rag.
“What seems to be the problem?”
“It just won’t start. It doesn’t even make that awful grinding noise like it has a few other times.”
“Sounds like a dead battery. Let me get this stuff cleaned off my hands, and I’ll bring my pickup over and we’ll give it a jump start.”
I walked back to the Thunderbird, and Hanson drove over a few minutes later. He parked with the nose of his pickup about a foot from the front end of the T-bird and popped the hood of the pickup. He then began a search through the back of it, which was filled with an assortment of tools, pieces of plastic pipe, and other house repair supplies.
“Would you believe I don’t seem to have jumper cables in this mess?” he finally said, sounding disgruntled. “They must be in my wife’s car back home.”
“That’s okay. I’ll just call a repair shop.” For which my checkbook would undoubtedly go into shock.
“Let me take a look anyway. If it is the battery, we can run into town and pick up a new one and give it a try. Or there’s a couple other things it might be. Dashboard lights been doing anything peculiar?”
“Not that I’ve noticed.”
He slid behind the wheel of the ’bird, leaving the door open, and tried the key himself. Nothing. He pumped the pedal and tried again. Again nothing. A dead mule is a dead mule no matter who’s at the reins.
He popped the hood open, braced it with the rod, and peered inside. He jiggled some wires. “Battery isn’t corroded, but it could still be bad. Or it might be the alternator or spark plugs. How old are they?”
Not as old as my wrinkles, but probably as old as the polyester pants I was wearing. “Good question. How about the rotor? Is that there?”
“The rotor?” Hanson turned to look at me, surprised, then laughed. “Ivy, if you know about rotors, you probably don’t need me.”
“Actually, I couldn’t tell a rotor from a radish,” I admitted. “I just remember reading about it somewhere.” In a mystery novel, where the detective removed the rotor to disable the villain’s car and keep him from escaping. But men tend not to give much credence to knowledge gleaned from mystery novels, so I didn’t mention this.
“Unless someone’s deliberately removed it, it couldn’t be missing here. They don’t just fall out. But I can check.”
“Please do,” I said. Onetime car mechanic’s helper Brad Ridenour would surely know how to remove a rotor, although I didn’t explain that to Hanson.
I watched as he stretched over the big engine and pressed a couple of clips to remove something I could only identify as a thingamajig. It’s a little late in life, but one of these days I’m definitely going to learn more about the interior workings of vehicles.
Hanson peered inside. “Rotor’s right here under the distributor cap where it should be.”
“Oh. Well … that’s good, then.”
While Hanson was checking that out I circled the car, wondering if there was something other than rotor removal that Brad might have done to disable the engine. Or the problem could be something not directed at me personally, of course. I’ve heard of a snake or skunk or other small creature getting into a car’s inner workings. I got down on my knees and warily peered underneath.
I know very little about the underside of vehicles, but I know enough to tell that what I saw underneath the old ’bird was not a normal part of any vehicle. Neither was it a skunk or snake. Although my throat suddenly felt as if a rotor might be lodged in it.
“Hanson, you’d better take a look under here,” I croaked.
“There’s something—”
“I doubt anything down under there could be the problem. I still think it’s probably the battery—”
“Just look,” I interrupted.
He got down on his knees beside me, grunting a little as he did so. A second later he floundered backward, leaving a trail like a heavyweight worm in the loose gravel and yelling, “Get away from the car! Now!”
The panic in his voice sent me scrambling too. I backed off about ten feet, and then he yanked me to my feet and shoved until we were both a good sixty feet away. He stood there panting. His broad face had reddened from the sudden exertion, but now his skin was turning an ashy shade of pale.
“There’s something fastened to the car under there,” I said, although he obviously already knew that.
“Dynamite.”
“Dynamite?” I yelped, even though that was what it had looked like to me too. “You mean like a car bomb?”
“I’m no expert, but that’s sure what it looks like to me. Several sticks of dynamite. Probably wired to go off when the car started. All that saved you, and me too, is that the car didn’t start.”
I’d thought the old ’bird not starting was a minor disaster. Something to grumble and fret about. Instead it was a blessing.
The Lord’s protection comes in unexpected forms. Sometimes it’s a dramatic answer to prayer. Sometimes it’s unanswered prayer. And sometimes he works through the mundane situation of an old car that won’t start and a neighbor who can’t find his jumper cables. Thank you, Lord!
“You got enemies in the Mafia or something?” Hanson muttered. He pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and swiped it across his face.
No, no Mafia. But I had enemies.
The murderous Braxtons, who’d sworn to make roadkill out of me. Someone in that multitalented clan undoubtedly knew all about dynamite and car bombs, and dynamite would be readily available through Drake Braxton’s land development and construction business. I’d thought they didn’t know where I was, that I was safely in hiding, but I could very well be wrong. Maybe, for them, I was right out in plain sight.
Or it could be probable murderer Brad Ridenour. The man who’d wanted to “talk” to me about something. A man who’d worked for a mechanic in his youth and probably knew enough to figure out how and where to plant dynamite. I couldn’t think where he’d obtain dynamite on short notice, but he definitely knew where I lived and what car I drove.
And, for all I knew, maybe some of the other suspects in Leslie Marcone’s murder were after me. I was almost certain Leslie’s ex knew who I was, although he’d pretended not to. Maybe he figured he’d better get rid of me before I came up with something to prove to the police he was involved.
When you’ve raised the ire of more than one set of bad guys, it’s hard to know for sure who’s after you in any given situation.
“You want to call 911 or shall I do it?” Hanson asked.
He had a cell phone clipped to his belt, and I was feeling so shaky I wasn’t certain I could dial numbers if I got to the phone in the house. In theory, I knew the Braxtons were after me. In theory, I knew Brad Ridenour needed to get me out of the way before I blabbed. But this was no longer theory. This was three-dimensional dynamite reality: someone had honest-to-goodness tried to blow me and the Thunderbird to smithereens. “You can call.”
He made the call. His voice sounded like rusty springs, and he had to clear his throat several times, but he did a credible job of explaining the situation and giving the address. Then we just stood there looking at the two vehicles facing each other with hoods raised, like metal combatants ready to take a bite out of each other.
I wasn’t certain the dynamite mounted on the old ’bird wouldn’t spontaneously explode, and apparently neither was Hanson. He obviously did not intend to go back and move his pickup out of the danger zone. So we just stood there silently watching and waiting. I could see nervous sweat standing out on Hanson’s face. I could feel it running down my own ribs. I figured together we were making enough moisture to affect the humidity level on a weather report.
30
Finally, after what seemed like hours but was surely no more than a few minutes, we heard sirens. Hanson was still so pale that I tried to lighten things up.
“Still interested in trading your motor home for the old ’bird?”
He looked at me as if I’d told an off-color joke at a funeral, and I hastily switched to apology.
“I’m really sorry I got you involved in this. I had no idea it was anything but a minor repair problem.”
“A car bomb isn’t the kind of thing you think will happen in Woodston. You have any idea who’d do this?” He sounded both scared and bewildered, as if he still found the situation inconceivable. “It doesn’t look like a practical joke or juvenile stunt.”
“I … uh … might have some ideas.”
Another odd look. What sort of person, it asked, knows people who plant car bombs? We’d been huddled together, but now he inched away from me as if he thought I might be wired for demolition too.
Two cars from the county sheriff’s department screamed down the driveway a minute later. Spotting our two vehicles, one officer braked so hard that the car behind almost rammed into him. Four officers jumped out. I didn’t recognize any of them.
“Okay, everybody stay back,” an officer yelled.
A superfluous order at the moment, since Hanson and I were the only two people present and we were already hiding behind the big black walnut tree. Within a few minutes, however, the situation changed. People showed up, seemingly materializing out of nowhere, just as they had over at Leslie’s place. They gawked at the yellow plastic tape an officer started stringing in a wide circle around the area and looked speculatively at the vehicles with gaping hoods, everyone asking everyone else what was going on. A fire truck arrived, then an ambulance, both with flashing lights and wailing sirens. A bomb threat obviously gets top priority from all emergency services.
None of the officers approached the two vehicles. The ones who weren’t stringing up the warning tape appeared to be searching for something in the trees and bushes and yard. The booby-trapped Thunderbird and the innocent pickup were as splendidly isolated as two slabs of roast beef at a vegetarian party.
While the officers were securing the area, I picked a middle-aged officer and gave him my name.
“The Thunderbird is mine, and this is where I live,” I explained with a gesture toward the house. “When I came out this morning, the car wouldn’t start, so Mr. Watkins here came over to give it a jump start with his pickup. But he couldn’t find his jumper cables, and then we discovered the dynamite attached to the underside of my car.”
The officer looked at me doubtfully, as if suddenly suspecting they may have stormed in with a gangbusters reaction to what might be the wild imagination of a little old lady who watched too many crime shows on TV. “You’re sure it’s dynamite, not just something like, say, a loose muffler hanging down? Or a piece of paper sack or something caught underneath the car?”
Hanson stepped up. “It’s dynamite, all right. At least four sticks. I’ve worked in construction, and I can tell dynamite
when I see it. And I was down there practically looking it in the eye. I’d guess it’s wired to go off when the engine starts, but lucky for us the engine wouldn’t start.”
The officer’s patronizing attitude changed as he turned his attention to Hanson. The questions he asked now were no longer doubting. Where, exactly, was the dynamite fastened to the car? Had Hanson seen any wires attached to it? I was relieved yet annoyed. I wasn’t totally invisible to the officer, but I may as well have been. Once, he asked Hanson, “When was the car driven last?” as if I were incapable of answering for myself.
“I drove it last night. I got home about 10:30,” I snapped. “Are you going to do anything or just leave the vehicles sitting there until they explode on their own?”
It was a more tart question than I’d have asked if the deputy’s attitude hadn’t suggested that my gray hair and wrinkles meant my mental capacity was a few points short of a turnip.
“We’re waiting for a bomb squad from the state police,” Deputy Simpson, as he’d identified himself to Hanson, said.
“What were the officers looking for out in the bushes?”
“Sometimes terrorists set up secondary devices intended to take out anyone investigating the scene.”
Would the Braxtons or Brad Ridenour or Shane Wagner do that? I doubted it. They just wanted to make hash out of me. But I didn’t know that for certain, of course.
“What happens when the bomb squad gets here?” Hanson asked.
“Depends,” Deputy Simpson said. “Last year we had a pipe bomb incident, and they set it off right there in the vacant lot where it was found. They have a special device for—”
“You mean they might blow up the dynamite right where it is, while it’s still attached to my car?” I gasped.
“I don’t think so, especially considering that the house is fairly close. But they can’t risk lives just to save an old car. So if they decide they can’t disable it safely, they might have to detonate it in place.”
In Plain Sight Page 22
