Murdermobile (Portland Bookmobile Mysteries)

by B. B. Cantwell

  “Of course I’ll check on her. I’ll make some calls as soon as I’m back at the library. I’m afraid I can’t stay long. They haven’t got anybody to cover the info desk after my lunch break.”

  Pim managed a grateful little grin. Hester studied the creases in Pim’s brown forehead, speckled with age spots. Hester had never seen her friend look so old.

  “Pim, do you want to tell me about it?”

  “Oh, Hester, it was awful. After those jackbooted, uniformed monkeys brought me in here, that Darrell fellow –”

  “You mean Detective Darrow?”

  “Yeah, that suit you’re so stuck on. He came in around 10:30 last night and they put me in one of those creepy rooms like you see on ‘NYPD Blue,’ with the two-way mirrors on the wall and everything, as if you don’t realize you’re being watched.”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Hester clucked.

  “Well, they parked me in there all alone at first for about a half hour, just to make me sweat, and I knew all the time they were outside watching me. Well, finally that Darrell comes in and he and this other detective kept me in there for about two hours asking me all about the booster shoe and why it had Miss Duffy’s blood and hair on it, and my fingerprints.”

  Hester cocked her head.

  “Pim, have they proven all that? I thought their lab was going to analyze it.”

  Pim puffed up her cheeks, then blew into the mouthpiece with a windy “whoosh.” She nodded, looking wearier.

  “Apparently they put a rush on it and the lab results were complete just before they closed up shop last night. Now they’re even going to do one of those NRA tests or whatever it’s called.”

  “DNA, you mean?”

  “Whatever. Hester, somebody conked Miss Duffy with my booster shoe, and the police are charging me with it! Hester, this is crazy!”

  “I know, Pim, I know!”

  Hester’s mind raced. Pim couldn’t kill anybody. She blustered when riled, but she was one of the gentlest people on Earth. Hester remembered the time the bookmobile ran over a squirrel. A distraught Pim insisted on stopping so she could wrap the dead animal in an old blanket and take it home for a proper burial in her rose garden. The little cross she erected was still there.

  “Listen, Pim, who’s your lawyer? Have you talked to him yet?”

  “Ha!” She snorted. “Them jackboots read me my rights and said they’d get me one of those public defenders if I couldn’t afford a lawyer. I told ’em ‘no way, Jose.’ ”

  “Pim, haven’t you ever used a lawyer? What about your divorce?”

  “That bloodsucker? He’s the reason I’ll never pay a cent to another lawyer, not if my life depends on it!”

  It just might, Hester thought with a moment of dread. She rolled her eyes.

  “But Pim, the public defenders can help you. The law requires the state to pay for a lawyer if you can’t. Or won’t.”

  Hester glared at her stubborn friend.

  “Nope. Everybody knows those public defenders are just a bunch of Willamette U. dropouts. I might just as well go do a cannonball off the Vista bridge as put my life in the hands of those clowns.”

  Hester glowered in frustration. “So what are you going to do?”

  Pim gave a smug smile. “I’m going to defend myself.”

  “What?!” Hester choked.

  “That’s right.” Pim sat back in her metal folding chair and crossed her legs. “I watched Judge Wapner for years. I know how those guys operate. Besides which, don’t forget one thing, Hest.”

  Wearily, Hester pinched the bridge of her nose and peered through a web of fingers at Pim. “What’s that?”

  “I’m innocent. So I can sue these turkeys for false arrest. I’ll probably end up richer than that Microsoft guy, Phil Gates.”

  * * *

  A little after six that night, Hester peered out through the fisheye peephole to see Nate Darrow’s nose looking like an Idaho russet potato knocking at her apartment door.

  Grabbing the remote to mute Peter Jennings on her kitchen TV, she swung open the door and Darrow’s nose returned to normal.

  “I can’t believe you’ve arrested her!” Hester snapped before he could say anything. “She couldn’t possibly have done it! How could you let them storm into her home like the Gestapo coming at midnight?”

  Darrow shrank back into the hall, step by step, until Hester had him pinned against the opposite wall. He raised one palm to fend off her fury. In the other hand he held a small, gift-wrapped package.

  “Whoa! Time out!” Darrow’s eyes blinked wide like a nervous racehorse’s. Her reaction was more than he expected. Swallowing surprise, he responded with thinly veiled anger.

  “First of all, nobody’s the Gestapo and it wasn’t midnight. We follow the rules, despite what you’ve seen in trashy movies. If your friend has a complaint, she’s welcome to file it with Internal Affairs!”

  “I don’t go to trashy movies, Herr Himmler!” She thrust out her chin and returned his belligerent stare. Darrow blinked first. He raised his head to gaze at the dusty, torch-shaped light fixture on the mint-green wall. He spoke again, more softly this time, but with an undertone of resentment.

  “For what it’s worth, the decision to arrest her last night wasn’t mine. But we didn’t have a lot of choice in the situation, what with all the library association bluenoses shaking their bank books at the mayor. Anyway, your friend isn’t exactly blameless. Motive plus opportunity plus evidence equals arrest. Go look it up in the primer for ‘Law & Justice 101’.”

  Darrow caught his breath.

  “Look, I’m sorry all this had to happen. And, actually –” He clenched a fist to his mouth. “Hester, I came by because I know Ethel’s your friend, and I wanted to let you know that I object – probably even more than you do – to how she was taken into custody.”

  Hester glared at him. “Oh?” she finally said.

  “That’s right. Look, they fast-tracked the warrant. They got a judge to come in after dinner last night. I got the call on it just as I left the Mumfrey Mansion,” Darrow explained quickly. “I had to ask for assistance because it was in Multnomah County’s jurisdiction. But I expected to make the arrest, and keep it quiet and – well, polite.” He studied the scuffed door jamb, then continued with a pained expression.

  “Unfortunately, as you might have heard on the news, the sheriff just inaugurated his dandy new SWAT team last week and has been dying to try it out. Well, the hot dog who heads it happened to get a look at the report the bureau faxed over about Miss Pimala. Apparently he picked up on that bit about ‘taking out’ the library administration and concluded that little old Ethel might have an AK-47 stashed in her coat closet. On the drive out there, I got stuck behind a jackknifed semi on the Banfield and – well, the geniuses decided not to wait.”

  Hester turned away from him, but continued a slow boil.

  “Well, congratulations, you’re a noble soul,” she said sarcastically. “But I think you should know the library board met in emergency session this afternoon and was all set to fire Pim with no more questions asked, thanks to all the calls they got after TV news got wind of last night’s little ‘Raid on Entebbe.’ Thanks to calmer heads, the union persuaded them to give her vacation time. But I can tell you from seeing her today, looking about 80 years old in an ill-fitting orange jumpsuit, that this is far, far from a vacation!”

  Darrow nodded, rubbing his temples. “Most days I like being a cop,” he muttered. “Other days kind of suck.”

  Hester flattened her mouth and turned back to face him. Her eyes strayed down to the package. Impulsively, she spun on her heel. She left the door open as she strode into the kitchen to check on a pot of boiling potatoes.

  “You’d better come in!” she called brusquely behind her. “My little old lady neighbors are pretty quick to call Portland’s best to report strange men loitering in the hallway. You might not enjoy explaining.”

  The apartment was redolent with the s
picy aroma of pork, paprika and cooked cabbage. Nate followed her into the kitchen. Steam droplets coated the leaded glass of built-in china cupboards.

  “Mmm, this place smells like the best cafe in Budapest!”

  Hester’s mouth turned up at one edge. She nodded Nate towards a wicker chair at her tiny kitchen table and gave a tug to straighten the red Chinese silk housecoat she liked to wear when she cooked.

  “You’re pretty close. My mother’s family came from a little town near the border of Austria and Hungary. Hungarian peasant fare is my idea of comfort food. You know that part of the world?”

  “I was one of those teenagers with a backpack and a Eurailpass. A buddy and I spent the summer after high school, along with half the rest of the American teenage population in 1976. Paprika has been one of my favorite seasonings ever since.”

  An eyebrow arched, Hester reached to the window sill and lifted a large crystal goblet of pear-colored chardonnay. “Have you eaten? Lord knows I always have leftovers. My grandmother’s old recipes make enough for a family of 10. I’ve yet to learn to cook for one.”

  “Uh, thanks, I already Escaped from New York. Though, uh, a little taste never hurt.” He looked around the kitchen. Atop the refrigerator sat a blooming purple primrose with the supermarket price sticker still on the plastic pot. “Uh, I don’t suppose you have a cold beer for a parched public servant?”

  Hester curtly nodded. “Fridge.” Hoisting a huge stainless steel spoon and stirring the bubbling pork concoction, she stole a glance at Darrow’s waist as he kneeled to pull a Blue Heron Pale Ale from the refrigerator’s lower shelf. A silvery detective’s shield peeked from a leather flap snapped around his belt.

  “Good thing you’re out running in the mornings or you’d have to get your arteries rootered out before you’re 50, the things you eat.”

  “Ah, but life’s too short to eat boiled bulgur. Had a housemate in college who hardly ate anything else. Biggest bore in Eugene.” He smiled. “Uh, say, I brought you a little present.”

  Nate nodded at the package as he popped the cap from his beer. Hester knit her brows and pushed a steam-limpened curl out of her eyes. She took the package and ripped open the paper.

  “A can of Barbasol?” She looked quizzically at Darrow. He sat low in the chair, his arms and legs crossed, smirking.

  “After you, uh, ran into me at the meeting last night, I thought maybe you could use that.” He chuckled. “That moustache was terrible!”

  “Oh.” Hester’s face reddened again. “That.”

  “I know – wicked to remind you. But you blush so well.”

  “Humph.”

  “Interesting group, wasn’t it?”

  “You know they would have clammed up in a minute if my friend and I had shown up without any kind of disguise. We just wanted to find out what they were plotting in revenge for – for what happened to Miss Duffy.”

  Mulling this, Darrow propped his feet on a stool and loosened his tartan necktie with a comfortable grunt.

  “Your friend seemed pretty steamed up about defending that children’s author. What was that all about? I’d sort of like to talk to this Teri June person. Is she local?”

  Hester whirled away from Nate and furiously stirred at the stove. Amidst the billowing steam, she reached up to struggle with the switch to an ancient, dusty ventilator fan, which finally came on with a “pocketa-pocketa-pocketa.”

  “Oh? Her? Um, I don’t know much about her. She just writes silly little books for girls. Never really met her...At least, that is, I guess we’ve talked, but I’ve never actually been introduced.”

  Hester winced and took a slurp of wine. Damn, why couldn’t Karen just have kept her little secret?

  Darrow sipped at his beer bottle, then rolled his tongue through his lower lip.

  “Talked, but not been introduced? Look, Hester, I’m not sure just what you and your friend were really up to last night, but I have a feeling you’re sticking your nose a little too far into this whole situation. I know Ethel is your friend. But she’ll get her day in court. The best way you could help her is to convince her to get a good lawyer.”

  He gazed up at the droplets collecting on the peeling yellow enamel above Hester’s stove. “Do you know she plans to defend herself?”

  Hester rapidly nodded her head in exasperation. “Yes! And I’ve already tried to talk her out of it. To no avail. Once she gets an idea like that, she’s like a bear with a bun.” She let out a big sigh. “Look, have you, uh, found out anything about some silly letters Pim might have written...?”

  Darrow’s head jerked up and his eyes widened. “And just how did you hear about that part of my investigation, Inspector?”

  “Oh, well, you know Paul Kenyon. He talks a lot, wouldn’t you agree?” Hester smiled coquettishly.

  Darrow smoldered. “Thanks a lot to the genius downtown who put that monkey on my back.” He swigged his beer. “Well, since you ask, yes, I checked with both The Oregonian and library administration. Both confirm a history of inflammatory letters accusing Duffy of racism. All of the letters apparently from the same well-used typewriter, all bearing the same ‘anonymous’ signature, and I quote: ‘A Discriminated Liberry Employee.’ But they also all bore the same return address – a P.O. box out at Troutdale station. Seems your Pim was a stickler for obeying postal regulations – always included a return address.”

  Hester winced again. “Pim never was exactly a rocket scientist,” she groaned.

  Darrow looked pensive for a moment, then reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a paper clearly stamped at the top in red ink: “COPY.”

  “You never saw this,” he said to Hester as he tossed the document on the counter. “And if you tell anybody about any part of this conversation, I’ll tell them you smoke funny cigarettes and I’ll turn my apartment just above you into a neighborhood homeless shelter where I’ll teach every bum in Portland to do the flamenco. Do I make myself perfectly clear?”

  Hester nodded dumbly.

  “We found this in a trash can when we searched her trailer last night.” He spread it for Hester to read. The type was uneven, obviously the work of an old typewriter badly in need of a new ribbon. The letter was to the editor of The Oregonian.

  A sentence near the bottom caught Hester’s eye:

  “That old biddy Duffy is no bettur then oNE of them Klu Kluck Klaxoners. IN fact, she probly wearS one of those pointed pillow cases on her head at evEry meetiNg of the Wommen who Cain’t havE Chldren. She makEs me sick to my sTumach! She has ruint my life.”

  “Oh, Pim.” Hester crossed her arms tightly and pursed her lips. She turned to Nate.

  “Look, I know this looks bad. But this is something she didn’t even mail! She was just letting off steam. Why, this is an awful invasion of her privacy. She was angry and hurt – more than I realized. But 90 percent of the staff resented Miss Duffy in one way or another. You’ve got to believe me. Pim couldn’t have killed anyone.” Her eyes pleaded with Darrow.

  He remained silent. Then he pointed to the top of the letter. “Take a look at that.”

  The date typed at the top of the crumpled paper was the previous Saturday.

  “The day Miss Duffy died!” Hester gasped involuntarily.

  Darrow nodded mutely.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Friday morning dawned sunny and crisp. It was Hester’s half-day off. After an exhausted and luxurious sleep in until almost 9, she caught a bus downtown and enjoyed a leisurely breakfast at the Heathman Pub and Bakery. Large windows looked out on a corner behind the Arlene Schnitzer Concert Hall – named for the Portland steel heiress whose largesse had bought its renovation. Across the way was a stretch of downtown’s lovely tree-shaded Park Blocks.

  In brown grass across the street, this morning brought a peek of orange from the season’s first crocuses, hearty survivors of the week’s weather, Hester noted with amazement from her stool at the window counter.

  Her nine-grain bagel smeared wi
th ricotta cheese and tart gooseberry preserves was a favorite counterpoint to the strong Italian coffee the pub served in mugs almost as generous as their pint ale glasses.

  But this morning, Hester couldn’t give herself up to pleasant preoccupation with The New York Times crossword or aimless people-watching as the mix of Brooks-Brothers-clad lawyers and Norm-Thompson-clad everybody-else rushed past on the sidewalk outside.

  This morning, she pondered the puzzle of Pim.

  She had talked longer than she’d intended with her bookmobile colleague the previous afternoon, until the jail matron finally came and shooed Hester away so somebody else could use the room.

  Hester had asked Pim to recount her conversation with Darrow at the bookmobile barn, word-for-word as much as she could recall. That, plus what she’d been able to pump from Darrow and read in the paper, now filled her mind. Slowly, she tried to sort the facts.

  The autopsy said Duffy had died Saturday night – sometime between 8 p.m. and midnight, the medical examiner believed. She had been wearing her best outfit, the blue dress that she only ever wore for special occasions – anybody at the library could tell you that.

  Yet her whereabouts earlier that evening and what led her to the bookmobile remained a mystery. Darrow said they’d tracked her from the time neighbors saw her leave her Rose City-district bungalow around 5:30, then to dinner, apparently alone, at her favorite senior-citizen smorgasbord, North’s Chuck Wagon, out on 82nd. From there, she had disappeared.

  What had she been up to? Why all dressed up on a Saturday night? Could it be Miss Duffy had a date? Maybe meeting a friend at the theater or a concert? Maybe even a boyfriend?

  Hester realized that neither she nor any of her colleagues had ever thought of Duffy as having a private social life, much less a romantic side. But even nuns were known to fall in love, sometimes with the most unlikely of suitors. Had there been a mystery man in the retired librarian’s life? Had the relationship somehow turned ugly?