Cold Feet (Five Star Mystery Series)

by Karen Pullen

  “What did you do?” Lying down, my eyes kept sagging shut, so I sat up and took a long swig of water. I wanted to hear Fredricks’s story.

  “I called the Troop C District Six office of the Highway Patrol. They said you’d already asked for backup and a trooper was on his way to the rest stop. I went back into the dining room and ate my dinner. Then I served the apple galette, with shaved candied ginger and some homemade ice cream. I poured a Riesling. I told them about a tasting challenge I’d won.

  “But all the while I worried about you. As soon as I could decently leave the table, I called SHP again and was patched through to the trooper who answered your call. He’d found your car, locked, but you were nowhere in sight. He asked around and someone had noticed Dana helping you into another car.You looked drunk.”

  “She jumped me and injected me. I don’t remember anything after that.” Except urping on her feet.

  “I notified Richard, pointed my guests at the coffee, and went to work.”

  “Was it on the news?”

  “Good question. Richard and I had a disagreement about that. It went on the news as an abduction.”

  “With my name?”

  “Name and picture. But no mention that you were an agent.”

  If Jax had seen the story, if he had talked with Dana, he now knew the real name of the woman she’d grabbed. Not Stacy, but Stella Lavender. I closed my eyes and pretended to be Jax.

  Dana, my dear, look at the news. Her name is Stella Lavender. Could she be related to Fern Lavender? I dimly recall . . . doesn’t Fern have a granddaughter? I didn’t really notice . . . what was her name . . . Stella? Yes! Very interesting, this development. Dana, you stupid bitch, what have you done? Yes, it might have gone like that.

  Or another way I wasn’t ready to consider quite yet.

  “How did you find out where I was?”

  “I realized your personal cell phone wasn’t in your purse, and you might have it with you. So I asked the cell phone company to triangulate it. It took them hours but as soon as they said ‘East Waters Street’ I knew. It was quite a surprise to find your grandmother and Bebe Bernigan there before us.”

  “Ah, Fern and Bebe. Quite the odd couple. Does Bebe know I’m police?”

  “I didn’t tell her.”

  I hoped Fern hadn’t either. A problem for another day. We waited for a long time. I dozed, then woke. He slept too, his head resting on his folded arms at the foot of the examining table. Finally, an Indian doctor pulled the curtain aside and asked me what was wrong.

  I felt like an idiot telling him my nose hurt.

  “What happened?” he asked. His touch was so gentle I barely winced.

  “I ran into a door.”

  He looked at Fredricks, then back at me. “I’d like to talk with her alone, sir.”

  “Hey, relax,” I said. “We’re both police. I got into a scuffle with someone.”

  He looked down at the fresh track marks on my arms. “Oh please. Do I need to call security?”

  “Hold on,” Fredricks said, pulling out his ID. “Surely you heard on the news—the woman missing from a rest stop? It’s her. She was held and drugged.”

  “I don’t have time to read the papers,” he said. “I’m on call one night out of four. When I go home, I sleep. But you know what? You are such a mismatched pair you have to be telling the truth.”

  Once we got all that out of the way, the doctor was very nice.

  “Ice won’t help at this point,” he said. “I don’t see any bleeding and I don’t think anything is broken. Wait about three more days until the swelling diminishes, then see your regular doctor if you’re worried. Can I get you a painkiller?”

  “Not necessary. I’m trying to quit,” I said.

  Finally, just before midnight, my chariot reached my doorstep. All was back to normal, except that raging paranoia seized me as I opened the door. Fredricks had pointed out the obvious. Dana knew she’d grabbed the girl who’d bought a kilo from Jax. Fredricks had managed to keep my identity as an SBI agent out of the news, but Jax could know my unusual name, could connect it with Fern’s, and remember meeting me. Though I wasn’t in the phone book, it wouldn’t be difficult to find out where I lived.

  Fredricks checked the doors and windows; all was secure. Still, I thought about asking him to sleep on the couch. I decided I’d keep my weapon close by for the rest of my life and woe be unto anyone who broached my personal space. Exception—Merle, my darling dog, who whimpered happily as I leaned down for a slobbery kiss.

  I brought the SIG into the bathroom. I didn’t like what I saw in the mirror. My face was a blue-red-purple mess, my arms were dotted with injection sites, my ribs and back were bruised from the various falls, thumps, and squeezes Dana had administered. But these battle scars would fade. It felt so good to know I’d busted her in the face and she was going to prison.

  I filled the tub and added lavender bubble bath—it’s supposed to be warming and calming. I sank into the water and allowed the bubbles to do their trick.

  CHAPTER 18

  * * *

  Sunday Morning

  The lavender worked wonders. In the morning I woke up feeling almost normal, willing to tackle my life again. Life intruded quickly when I listened to my phone messages. While I was on my little vay-cay with Dana, everyone else was busy creating havoc.

  Ingrid wanted to know if I could recommend a private investigator. She didn’t say why.

  Tricia Scott needed to talk. It was important.

  A county sergeant was going to interview Dana when she got out of the hospital, to see what she could tell them about Jax; did I want to watch?

  Hogan had some information regarding real estate that I’d be interested in.

  The facts of my twenty-four-hour abduction and rescue were beginning to filter out, thanks to the Internet, and a reporter wanted an interview. At least a dozen callers asked if I was all right.

  Lieutenant Anselmo Morales wanted a face-to-face.

  Monica Reardon, director of the North Carolina Birthing Center, reminded me of my appointment at noon tomorrow. Whoever put me on her schedule apparently forgot to note I was with the SBI, because she seemed to be under the impression that I was pregnant—she asked me to bring my insurance card.

  Everywhere I looked, someone wanted a piece of me, and my calm unraveled in a hundred directions. So, after a cup of coffee, I took Merle out for a run. Both of us needed the exercise and the endorphins. Others were using the exercise trail—moms pushing jog strollers, seniors walking briskly, and one fellow, a real athlete, lapping everyone else. The sun was charging up the planet, and the northern hemisphere had entered the autumnal phase of its solar circuit. Nearly all the trees were leafless. My alert level had dropped from red (paranoid) to orange (cautious), so I didn’t check the strollers to make sure they contained babies, or look for gun bulges in the seniors’ jackets, though I made sure no one was following me by running clockwise, opposite the flow.

  What were my priorities? Hogan could be handled with a phone call. No interview with a reporter, ever.That left Anselmo at the top of the to-do list. Then Tricia. The sergeant, yes. Finally, I’d call Ingrid.

  The sight of me startled Anselmo. “Wow.You look like you were in a car wreck.” He motioned toward a chair. We were in his office in the Essex County Law Enforcement Center, an impersonal and bureaucratic room that could have been a generic office except for a poster-size photograph of a pretty blue sailboat on a sparkling sea. It was tilted and moving fast into a cotton candy sunset.

  “I look worse than I feel.”

  “Your grandmother caught DeGrasso, I heard.”

  “Essentially, yes.” I shook my head, still amazed by that.

  “And how are you?”

  “Nothing’s broken. I feel good, actually. Unless I smile.”

  “I’ll try not to make you smile, Stella.” He made a serious face and I tried not to smile. I was starting to feel comfortable around him, mostly fo
r all the things he wasn’t. He wasn’t insecure. He would never make a remark about my (lack of) height. He wouldn’t push my buttons like Hogan, or condescend like Richard, or ply me with food like Fredricks. Probably he didn’t know me well enough, and for now, I was happy to keep it that way. Distance equaled respect.

  “I’m thinking about taking up martial arts,” I said. “What do you recommend?” I was fit enough—I could outrun most criminals—but, as Fredricks had suggested, I needed some good judo moves so the next time a Dana type mashed me into a wall I could flip her to the ground and plant my foot on her ginormous backside.

  “I’ve seen one Steven Seagal movie. Lots of air chops and kicking. I prefer this.” He patted his gun holster. “What did you learn in Wilmington?”

  “Friday seems like a month away. Let’s see.” I consulted my notes. “Delia Scott told me that her husband and Justine had an affair five years ago when they both worked at the same hospital. Then he was fired for stalking Justine. He hasn’t had a job since then. Quite a surprise to everyone when Justine turned out to be his step-nephew’s fiancée.”

  “And they came to the wedding?”

  “I wondered about that. But Delia didn’t seem to blame Justine for anything. She was quite realistic about her husband’s problem and its consequences. I talked with Webster. He’s harder to read. Delia told me he was chronically unfaithful. He swore that Justine had forgiven him and he no longer had feelings for her. He was happy that she was getting married and wanted him to attend the wedding.”

  “Keep him on the list.”

  “Exactly.” I told him about my visit to Mike’s townhouse. “Our victim wrote a cookbook. A vegan cookbook.” I rifled through my bag and pulled out Enchanted Food. “Here, Mike wanted me to give these out.You can keep it.”

  He studied Justine’s picture on the back cover. “She was a writer? A chef?”

  “And a photographer. Look at the pictures.”

  He tuned the pages. “I never heard of these ingredients.

  Kudzu? I thought that was a weed.”

  “My grandmother makes jelly with the flowers. Mike also gave me this.” I handed him the plastic bag containing the Italian charm bracelet. “The B&B owner mailed it to him, along with the rest of Justine’s belongings. But Mike said it wasn’t hers. See? Wrong birthday. Justine didn’t own a dog, she wasn’t a teacher.”

  “Whose is it?”

  “And how did it come to be in her room at the B&B? I’m going to put a researcher to work on it, see if he can come up with some candidates.” Whenever I mentioned Hogan, I tended to blush but perhaps pink cheeks weren’t so obvious under purple eyes. “I also talked to Justine’s doctor, the one who performed her sex reassignment surgery. She was adamant that Justine would have been completely believable as a woman.”

  “That supports Mike Olmert’s contention that he didn’t know she was transsexual.”

  “And one more thing. Justine had a brother. I talked with him while I was in Wilmington. He didn’t know about the wedding, in fact he said he lost track of his sister a few years ago. Actually still he refers to her as his brother.”

  Anselmo raised his eyebrows. “Confusing.”

  “He still calls her ‘John’ and thinks of her as male.”

  “No wonder he wasn’t invited to the wedding.” He stood and stretched. “Want some coffee?”

  More caffeine would starve off my incipient headache. “Sure.”

  He poured me a cup. “Poisoning cases take a long time,” he said. “Ann Miller Koontz was finally sentenced five years after she poisoned her husband.” He referred to a recent Durham murder case.

  “There was no evidence. Just her lover’s confession to his lawyer before he committed suicide.”

  He took a milk carton out of a little fridge and handed it to me. “No evidence in this one either. Neither forensic nor circumstantial. A confession would be helpful.”

  “Maybe someone will feel guilty.”

  “It happens,” he said. “We need a lucky break.”

  “Pretty boat,” I said, pointing to the picture. “You sail?”

  “Yes—her name’s Blueblood. Like that spot right there.” He reached out and touched my bruised cheek. “I’ll take you out on her sometime.”

  I felt a bit faint. Must have been low blood sugar.

  The boom arm swung up to let me drive into Silver Hills, past the starter castles and mini-Greek temples with four-car garages and drought-parched lawns. Tricia Scott opened her door. She wore a pastel floral shirt and pink pants, shoes, and headband. An Easter egg vision, except for her spray-hardened hair.

  “Oh! I’ve been praying for you,” Tricia said. “Thank God you’re all right. Except . . .” she pointed delicately to my face. “Are you okay?”

  “Thanks, yes, it will fade.You wanted to talk to me.”

  She invited me into the kitchen and offered me coffee. I glanced at her desk and there was Fern’s preliminary sketch of the painting that Tricia had commissioned for her book. Curious, I took a closer look. Fern had toned it down somewhat—Jesus’ hair was less scruffy. His eyes had a manic glint and he looked furious. He looked like General Patton with a beard.

  Tricia looked over my shoulder. “I love it. It perfectly captures his leadership qualities. I’m going to have her add some women soldiers in the background. With weapons.”

  “Weapons?”

  “Spears, swords, that kind of stuff. I’ve decided to emphasize female empowerment in my book.”

  “A cause I can support.” I took a grateful sip of the coffee. “Where’s Scoop?”

  “He’s upstairs, getting ready for his weekly broadcast. Come and see. Online congregation, hymns from a CD, some sermon he prints off the web. It’s an utter perversion.” She jumped up and left the room.

  “Oh, I don’t know . . .” I said, but Tricia was halfway up the stairs to the big room over their garage, and her last comment made me curious.

  Scoop celebrated our entry into the room by throwing a hymnal against the wall. “Oops, sorry,” he said. “I didn’t hear you coming. The fucking microphone is broken. Call Mike and get him over here to fix it pronto.”

  “No problem.” Tricia left the room to place the call.

  I wasn’t taken to church as a child—Fern summarily rejected all organized religion as patriarchal and oppressive to women—but I did know that preachers weren’t supposed to throw hymnals and swear like Tony Soprano. Scoop had pasted pictures to the wall—Jesus with the fishermen, holding a child who looked frightened, counseling a blank-looking Martha. Not particularly inspirational, and I have to say, not a very realistic portrayal if Fern’s research had been accurate.

  I wanted to ask Scoop why Jax was at his stepson Mike’s wedding, but didn’t want to connect myself to Jax. I tried an oblique approach. “My grandmother Fern met a fascinating man at the wedding. He’s going to help her build a chicken coop. Jack something?”

  He took the cigar out of his mouth and studied it. “Jax Covas.”

  “Ah, that’s it. An interesting man. A church member?”

  “Uh, yes.” He turned his back to me and looked out the window, then picked up a notebook and leafed through it, looking anywhere except at me. I was about to push him a bit further when Tricia returned.

  “Mike’s on the way,” she said to Scoop, then took my arm and led me to a chair in the last row, away from the pulpit and her husband. “I have to tell you something. Here, sit by me.” Her eyes were wide and excited. She whispered low, for my ears only. “I had a revelation this morning, Stella. I know what you’re thinking—that only Mormon elders have revelations, but middle-aged evangelical women can summon them up too, especially when they are questioning the fundamentals.”

  At that moment Scoop let out a string of curses like a twelveyear-old trying out new swears. “I have to be online in ten minutes! They want to see me screw this up!” He punched the heavy wooden pulpit. “Ow, goddammit!”

  “Darling, please.
We have company here,” Tricia called to him.

  “If I lose members, I’ll lose money, I have mortgages to pay. I’ll go bankrupt. Where the hell is Mike?”

  “He’ll be here in two minutes. He said he could fix it.” Tricia barely blinked at his rant. “Anyhow, Stella, starting with first principles, marriages everywhere are full of pain. Do you agree?”

  I nodded. The whack job behind the pulpit provided excellent proof. She leaned toward me confidentially. “My first husband left me for the church secretary’s tits, a fact as clear as glass to anyone who cared to look. It was humiliating. At least Scoop is discreet, bless his treacherous little heart. And I apologize, he’s under stress right now.” She paused, glancing at her husband. His comb-over had loosened and long greasy strands dangled off the side of his head as he fussed with his equipment and muttered imprecations. She pursed her lips and turned back to me. “Really early this morning, maybe four o’clock, the cat woke me up. She was hopping around on the bed, tossing a poor dead shrew here and there. I pitched it into the trash then went back to bed and began to pray. What can I do, what can I offer to the world, that would make a difference?”

  “I don’t know.” I was bemused by the change in her expression. Her eyes were alight, and the constant tension had left her face.

  “It’s a rhetorical question, honey. I prayed until the sun came up, and then it came to me in a revelation. A new business. I will lead Christian tours to beautiful places. Fly away from this cold loveless house to warm beaches like Cancun and Maui and San Juan. Bible readings, meditation, couples counseling. Think of the website—mai tais, toes in the sand, courteous Christian natives. An attractive couple exchanging loving glances.”

  The front door opened. “We’re up here,” Scoop called down. “Hurry, I’ve only got a few minutes.” His aggravated voice disturbed Tricia’s reverie and she frowned.

  Mike lumbered up the stairs and into the room. His face was pale, his beard stubbly, and he looked exhausted. He glanced at me. “Wow, what happened to you?”