“Six.”
“Four, but only with your guarantee of absolute silence in the matter.” He paused, and up went his eyebrow. “And a dinner date. Saturday night at seven.”
“Done! But dinner only.” I stared him straight in the eyes. “No dessert.” I stood, and after smoothing my skirt over my hips, bent over the desk and gave him a soft peck on the cheek.
He flushed bright pink, a shade that went well with his lavender shirt.
“Thank you, Cletus darling. You won’t regret it.”
What I didn’t add, as I strolled out of his office with a happy little goodbye wave, was I hoped I wouldn’t regret it. I’d saved Amelia’s home for a few months, but if Sam Ridley learned how I’d threatened the wealthiest, most powerful man in the county, I might be the one out on the sidewalk.
Chapter Three
After making a quick call to Amelia with the good news, I checked my watch and gasped. No point in worrying about what might happen when Sam Ridley came back from New Orleans. Right now I was in a worse fix. I had an appointment in fifteen minutes at the old Hermann farm out on Pea Pike, a twenty-minute drive away.
Speeding wouldn’t help. If either Matt or his deputy, Zach Johnson, stopped me, I’d never make that appointment, and I had to, just had to. I needed the sale. Otherwise, Sam might think all I’d done since he left was babysit the office. He liked results, and when you came right down to it, so did I. The way I looked at it, a girl like me, with no family to speak of, no formal schooling and no money, had only two paths in life: marry and depend on a man or stay single and depend on herself. From what I’d seen of married life, my vote was to stay single, unless Mr. Wonderful came along. I slid behind the wheel of my car with a sigh. Problem was, he had come along but didn’t know I existed. So, what good was that?
Yes, her own wits were all a girl could count on, though in my business, she also needed good wheels. And in that I had lucked out. With last December’s year-end bonus, I’d bought a nearly new, big ol’ Lincoln Town Car. A Harley Hog would have been better by far, but I didn’t buy the Linc for fun. It was a sales tool I kept waxed and polished. Never knowing when a client might ask to see a listing, I had to be ready at a moment’s notice to take him to his dream house.
Today, though, the voice on the phone, a Mr. Charles Ames, had said he’d meet me at the property. He used to live here in Yarborough County and knew where it was located. Ten miles out of town and set on a hilly ridge off the pike, the Hermann farmhouse had a sweeping view of the valley, a pump handle in the kitchen for water, and an outhouse in the yard for necessities.
I hoped Mr. Ames had deep pockets. Anyone who bought the place would need them to upgrade it to twenty-first century standards. For someone with the means to do so, the pretty view alone would be well worth the cost.
At the edge of town, I rolled down the windows and let the spring air waft through the car and play with my hair. Without clients along to impress, I didn’t have to listen to that Beethoven music again. Instead, I put Miranda on so she could rip out “The Fastest Girl in Town.” I sang along with her loud enough to jar my teeth, enjoying the scent of newly mown grass and the breeze with its promise of summer. Before long, wildflowers would carpet the hills and ….
An empty car parked by the side of the road caught my attention. I drove by too fast to catch the license plate number, but unless I was mistaken, it was that girl’s, Tallulah Whatsername’s, sapphire blue Caddy. Hmm. If that didn’t beat all. There wasn’t a house or a store within walking distance, not in a pair of silver stilettos. Maybe she’d had engine trouble, and some good ol’ boy had picked her up. Strange, though, she hadn’t used a cell phone to call for road service. Or maybe she’d changed her shoes and gone for a tramp in the woods, but I doubted it. She hadn’t looked like the type of gal who was into nature trails.
I nearly stopped and backed up to make sure she wasn’t in trouble, but I was already late and couldn’t afford to botch this deal. Besides, Tallulah had struck me as a girl who could take care of herself. But just to be sure, as soon as I got to the farm, I’d call 911.
Five minutes late, I turned off the pike onto the rutty lane that led up the rise to the Hermann place. The house, an unpainted chink-walled log cabin, had a saggy shake roof, its only bragging point a fireplace somebody had built by hand years ago, one stone at a time.
In the gravelly patch fronting the house, a rusted-out Ford pickup sat on four bald, flat tires. So, Mr. Ames hadn’t arrived yet. At least I didn’t think he had. He’d sounded too interested in the place to have driven off in a huff over a five-minute delay. Fairly sure he’d be by in a little while, I parked, made the 911 call, then strolled across the scruffy yard to the cabin door. The double wide I grew up in had been bad enough, but this was worse, far worse.
Hoping the splintery boards would hold a hundred and fifteen-pound woman—well, one eighteen—I ventured onto the porch and pushed open a squeaky door that had never known a key. Something small and furry scurried out of a moldy chair in the front room and disappeared into what passed for a kitchen. A mouse. I shuddered and told myself to toughen up. Selling houses in rural Arkansas wasn’t for sissies.
No one had shown an interest in the place for over a year, and that was easy to understand. It was damp and dirty, with cobwebs hanging in the corners and tattered rags at the windows. Worse, an outhouse odor rose above the dampness. A squirrel maybe. Or a ’possum.
I tiptoed across the creaky floor. How would I explain the odor to Mr. Ames? I hoped it wouldn’t matter. He might be planning to tear down the cabin and build a brand-new house. Or he could have an interest in history—it was my understanding some people were keen on it—and planned to take the warpy old place apart, board by board, and rebuild it as a tribute to the past. No matter. Whatever his interest might be, I’d base my sales pitch on the beauty of the scene, the acreage, the privacy.
Phew. That odor was mighty strong. I left the door open to the fresh air and, with my pulse revving up a bit, peered into the back room to see what critter might have died in there.
Omigod. No, no, no!
I couldn’t believe my eyes. They were lying to me. They had to be. But then I did believe, and a scream ripped from my throat.
Stretched out on her back, the silver stilettos still crisscrossed to her knees, Tallulah Bixby lay in a puddle of blood with a bullet hole in the middle of her chest.
Chapter Four
For a frozen moment, I couldn’t move. Then I came to in a rush, and with the scream still throbbing in my throat, I whirled around and raced like a madwoman out of the cabin, onto the porch. Wild with fear, paying no mind to where I was going, I ran willy-nilly right into a man’s chest, whacking the both of us off our feet.
The breath knocked from my body, I landed in a patch of weeds and came to, gulping the air. An arm’s length away, the man I’d plowed into lay spread-eagled on the ground. A frail little guy, he was as quiet as dirt, his eyes closed, glasses bent and hanging off his nose, and his hat knocked halfway across the yard.
My heart pounding overtime, I scrambled to my feet. Who was this man? The killer? Or …?
“Mr. Ames?” No answer.
I bent down and patted his arm, but he didn’t move a muscle. He looked so small and skinny, I doubted he was the killer, come back to polish me off. He was just a man who needed help. As for poor Tallulah, the only one who could help her now was Matt Rameros.
In no time flat, Matt’s cruiser, with Zach behind the wheel, careened into the yard, sending up a cloud of dust that settled over me like dirty confetti.
Zach had barely cut the engine when Matt’s boots hit the gravel. “Honey,” he hurried across the yard, “are you all right?”
“I think so.” Now that help was here, I was feeling more certain by the minute.
As Zach bent over the unconscious stranger, Matt held me so tight his gun pressed against my thigh.
“Tell me what happened,” he said.
I loosened his hold. Backing up a step, I pointed toward the open cabin door. “Like I told you on the phone, there’s a dead woman in there. She’s been shot.” I hiccupped. “In the chest. It’s the woman I saw drive off in that blue Caddy.”
“He’s out cold,” Zach called across to Matt.
“Have 911 send an ambulance,” Matt said. Turning to me, he added, “Stay here, Honey. You’ll be safe with Zach.”
Though I could have told him that Tallulah, except for a scampering mouse or two, was alone in the cabin, he slipped his gun from its holster and disappeared inside. While Zach made his call, I slumped onto the edge of the porch and leaned against a rickety post.
I’d never been so low before, not even on the day Billy Tubbs slugged me. He never got to do it a second time, though. I walked out on him that same day. Nobody knows, except for Matt Rameros. I’m so ashamed of it. Anyway, what happened back then was nothing compared to what happened to Tallulah today. Poor thing, she’d met a horrible end, killed and dumped in an abandoned house like a piece of trash. Why? There had to be a reason.
The stranger moaned, his voice mingling in the soft air with the twitter of the birds. Zach closed his cell phone, helped him to sit up, and after a while, to stand.
Shaky-kneed, barely conscious, the man fingered his right shoulder. “I think I’ve broken something.”
“Come, sit down.” Zach walked him over to the bottom step. “An ambulance is on the way.”
Leaning heavily on the deputy’s arm, the man squatted beside me and managed a smile.
“I’m so sorry I banged into you,” I said. “But there’s a dead body in the house, and it scared me plumb out of my wits. I didn’t know what all I was doing. I ain’t … I mean, I’m not usually like this, but it was so awful I lost—”
“Understandable.” He patted my hand. “No need to go on.”
Zach picked up the man’s briefcase and hat, shook off the dust and handed them to him.
“Are you Mr. Charles Ames, by any chance?” I asked.
“The same. May I assume you’re Miss Ingersoll?”
“In the flesh.”
He smiled, a real one this time. “I can see that. Pleased to meet you.”
“Is that a fact? Under the circumstances, I ….”
Footsteps sounded on the cabin floor, and Matt reappeared, grim-faced. “We need the coroner.”
Zach didn’t waste a second in reaching for his phone
One boot on a step, one on a patch of gravel, Matt jutted his chin at me. “You think the girl inside is the same one who came into Ridley’s earlier?”
“Yes. She said her name was Tallulah … Bixby, I think, and she drove off in a Cadillac. The one I believe was stolen.”
He shook his head. “No, it’s not stolen. It’s registered to a Tallulah Bixby.”
I gasped. “Then it really is hers. So why did she leave it by the road?”
“A good question.” Matt glanced down at Mr. Ames.
Before he could ask his name, I said, “This is my client, Mr. Charles Ames.”
Matt nodded. “Glad you’re awake, sir. I have some questions for you.” His glance cut over to me. “For both of you. Which of you arrived here first?”
“I did.” I raised my hand like I was back in Miss McGinty’s third grade class.
I’d never seen Matt so serious. He sure didn’t act this way the times he ate apple pie at Josie’s Diner.
He strode over to the cruiser, returning with a handheld recorder. He pressed play. “Are you Miss Honey Ingersoll?”
“Well, for goodness sake, Matt Rameros, you know perfectly well who I am.”
With a sigh, he turned off the recorder. “Cooperate, will you, Honey? This is a murder investigation. The basic facts have to be stated.”
“Oh. Sorry. I’ve never been involved in a police procedure before.” Though, truth be told, a few times there when Daddy was around, I wished I had been. His voice still echoes in my ear, See this strap, gal? It’s got your name on it.
“That’s all right. We’ll start again. Just answer the questions to the best of your ability. Okay?”
I nodded. If Matt wanted to speak to me like I was a little off in the head, I couldn’t blame him. So I womaned up, and the rest of the interview went down nice and easy.
Mr. Ames’s interview did too, though his was short. All he said was, “I walked up onto the porch, and this young lady, Miss Ingersoll here, knocked me senseless.”
His questions finished, Matt turned off the recorder. “You’ll both need to sign your statements. Any time this weekend will be fine. The station’s open twenty-four seven. Will that be a problem for you, Mr. Ames?”
“Not at all. I’m planning to be here for several days.”
“Excellent. And, Miss Ingersoll, I know you’re,” he cleared his throat, “available.”
Oh, he did, did he? Anyway, he’d barely finished speaking his piece when a siren shattered the quiet of the Hermann hilltop. A few minutes later, an EMS vehicle roared up the rise, followed by the coroner’s black panel truck.
Two medics rushed over to us.
“These are your patients.” Matt pointed to Mr. Ames and me. To the coroner he said, “The body’s inside.”
As the doc went in to examine Tallulah, the medics took a look at us. Except for being shook up and nervous, I was fine, but Mr. Ames needed an X-ray.”
“My car …” he began.
“Deputy Johnson will drive it to the hospital for you,” Matt said.
Mr. Ames nodded. “Very well, I’ll go with the medics. But first I must complete my reason for being here.” He unzipped the briefcase he’d been holding on his lap, took out a legal-sized envelope, and handed it to me. “For you. Or to be more specific, for this property.”
I gaped at him. “You still want it, even though a woman was killed here?”
He smiled. “I still do.”
“You must love the view.”
“Indeed. Now, would you please make certain the payment is in the correct amount?”
I took the envelope, slid a finger under the flap, and removed a certified check. Drawn on the Fayetteville Federal Trust Bank, it was made out for the full amount of the sale. I stared at the check. No question about it. Mr. Charles Ames had bought the farm.
Chapter Five
That same afternoon, I deposited the certified check in the Eureka Falls S&L. The teller stared at my soiled suit with questions in her eyes, so I explained I’d been showing a neglected property. Sort of true, sort of not, but close enough.
By evening, Sam Ridley hadn’t yet returned or called the office, and I’d about decided he wasn’t lingering in New Orleans to admire the French Quarter. More likely, cruising a bayou and having him a red-hot time with some floozy.
Though the thought gnawed at me, I took comfort in the notion he’d trusted me with his business for a whole week. To clue him in on what had happened, I sent a text message describing the murder and saying both Ridley’s Realty and I were just fine, thank you very much.
Friday, the day after the murder, the Eureka Falls Evening Star plastered Tallulah’s death all over the first three pages. Except for weddings and crop failures, Kelsey Davis, the editor, seldom had exciting news to report. With a murder to tell about, he went on as long as a Sunday preacher. He even beefed up the account with photographs of the cabin, Sheriff Matt, and me. He got in a snapshot of the coroner’s truck, too. None of Mr. Ames, though. I guess Kelsey couldn’t find one in time to include it.
I scanned the article quickly; just as I suspected, Ridley’s Real Estate was mentioned. Four times. What would Sam think when he read all this stuff? I stopped worrying about it. I could have been killed in that cabin, in the line of duty, and no way was that part of my job description.
At noon, I dashed out to buy BLTs and shakes for Mrs. Otis and me. When I got back to the office, she said, “You just missed Sam’s call.”
“Oh, no.” I dropped the deli bag on her desk.
>
“You need him for something?” she asked.
“Yes … no … what did he say?”
“He spoke with Sheriff Rameros, who told him there’s no need to rush back. So he’s going to stay on for the weekend. Has a commitment or something.” She handed me a memo slip with some numbers scrawled on it. “You can reach him here if you have to.”
I tucked the slip in a pocket and resisted the urge to kick over the wastebasket. I would have loved to talk to him, hear his voice, tell him the whole story of yesterday. Lunch. Who needed lunch, anyway? I should have skipped it like I usually did.
On the plus side, the old saying that there’s no such thing as bad publicity did seem to be true. Due to poor Tallulah’s death, Mrs. Otis and I were kept busy all day answering calls. Most were curiosity seekers with a nose for news, but Mrs. Otis had a talent for filtering those out, and by day’s end, I had a solid list of appointments all set for Saturday and Sunday.
Working people like to look for real estate on weekends, a plum time for walk-through showings and open houses. On the down side, a weekend schedule with no set hours and appointments, often running into the evenings, makes it hard for a girl to date. As a result, since I’d ditched Saxby, I’d been living like a nun in my little garden apartment. I didn’t mind.
Between Billy Tubbs Whaddya mean you don’t want to do it again? What else you good for? and Saxby Winthrop If my momma was to find out we’re cohabitatin’, it would just about kill her, my choices in men had been mighty poor. When it came to dating, I guess you could say I’d pretty much chickened out, a phrase I understood most poultry farmers hereabouts hated.
Anyway, business kept me busy, and on Saturday, I showed six properties to three different couples. One pair warmed right up to a cozy little ranch house on a quiet, dead-end street. I’d give them time to think about it and call back around Tuesday to see if they had any questions.
Murder on Pea Pike Page 2
