by Deb Baker
“Because…” Janice pointed at the screen. “That might be him.”
________________________
Janice went home to finish making dinner, dragging two boys who wouldn’t leave until Gretchen gave each of them an old doll she had been saving for parts. It was a small price to pay for the valuable information she had received from Janice.
Gretchen turned off the overhead lights to reduce any glare on the screen and stared at the photograph.
The cop was out of focus, on the periphery of the action that Peter was intent on capturing. The officer must have realized the photographer was shooting toward him because he had turned his face away. His movement blurred part of his body and he had one arm raised as if to ward off a blow.
Or that could be Gretchen’s imagination.
Something about the man seemed familiar to her now that she was really studying him. The way he stood, the tilt of his head…think.
Imagine him without the uniform.
Gretchen put her hand up to the screen and covered his body so only the back of his head was exposed.
Nina had accused her of inflexibility, insinuating that she couldn’t see auras because of her inability to let go of what she thought reality should be.
Feeling slightly ridiculous, she found her purse and put on the aura glasses. Returning to the computer, she saw nothing different except for a change in the colors created by the indigo lenses.
She wondered if Nina would tell her no one could see auras emanating from pictures. She also wondered if Nina made up the rules as she went along.
Gretchen removed the glasses and thought about another of Nina’s comments. She needed to use her third eye. She sighed heavily before going back to the picture.
Then she saw it. The bushy eyebrows. In the picture his hair was a glossy black, not white, as it had been during the auction.
At the time, Gretchen had thought him odd with white hair and black eyebrows, but suddenly it made sense. It’s much harder to disguise eyebrows than hair. He wasn’t nearly as old as he’d pretended while bidding so fervently on the Kewpie dolls.
The cop in Peter’s photograph was Duanne Wilson.
Was Duanne Wilson impersonating a police officer? Or was he actually a cop? Gretchen didn’t really care whether he was or not.
She really didn’t care if her third eye had helped her or not.
Because she knew what had happened, and that’s all that mattered.
She felt surprisingly calm as she stared at the man she knew had to be the killer. But why so many deaths? And why hadn’t he been seen?
Dressed in a cop’s uniform, that’s how he’d done it.
He could kill Ronny Beam in broad daylight without witnesses. He could bide his time using the Phoenix Police Department as camouflage. And Peter must have let him into his apartment because of the uniform.
Brett was the biggest puzzle. Why push him in front of a car? Unless he was part of the scheme. What if Brett had told Duanne to bid on the Kewpies, knowing all along they were concealed in the Ginny box? Maybe he had tried to steal them for himself. It was a possibility.
Then there was Ronny Beam. He planned to write a story about the diamonds. That would give the police a motive in the investigation of Percy’s murder. If the reporter hadn’t dug through Chiggy’s personal boxes, he’d probably be alive today, although his big mouth may have doomed him anyway.
Peter Finch had taken a picture of Duanne in his uniform. When she looked again at the photograph, Gretchen could see more clearly that Duanne was attempting to hide from the camera. Peter had been attacked and left for dead because of the pictures. That expained why Duanne had removed Peter’s computer and camera equipment after shooting him.
She still thought it was more than a coincidence that most of the men who had been at Chiggy’s house before the auction were now dead. Had Duanne been there? How else would he have known who his targets were?
Peter had told her who had been present before the auction started: Peter, of course, Howie, Brett, Ronny, and Steve. That was it. No one else…
Gretchen saw light for the first time.
Of course! There must have been one more person at the house. The killer would have blended into the background, but he was there all the time.
The mover.
None of the others would have known who he was. Only Chiggy. But she hadn’t recognized him because her eyesight was as bad as a rhino’s.
He must also have been the person who wrote Chiggy the letter with the veiled threats. What had it said? So nice of you to help me find my treasure, just don’t double-cross me.
Everything made perfect sense now. Except the final question, the one she didn’t have an answer for: why was she next on his list?
THIRTY-EIGHT
“Nina, I need to find Daisy,” Gretchen said into the phone. “Have you heard from her?”
“You sound rushed. What’s going on?”
“I’ll explain later.”
“Have you tried her cell?”
“Daisy has a cell phone?” Technology was changing even the street people. “She’s homeless. How did she get a phone?”
“Beats me. Here’s the number.”
_____________
“Daisy, this is Gretchen.”
“Oh, it’s you.” Gretchen could hear the disappointment in her voice. “I thought it might be my agent with good news.”
“Sorry. I need to know who told you to find a safe place to stay.”
“Why?” Wary. “You haven’t told anyone that I’m not at your house, have you? If he knew, he’d be angry.”
“Who would be angry?”
“I promised not to tell.”
“Come on,” Gretchen said. “I won’t tell anyone.” She felt like she was back in seventh grade. Back then, she remembered, no one really kept a promise.
“It was Detective Albright,” Daisy said.
“What does Detective Albright have to do with this?”
“He came downtown the other night and warned me.”
“What did he say?”
“He said bad things were happening in downtown Phoenix, and I should get away for a while.”
“I thought Detective Albright was the one who beat up Albert.”
“Why would you think that?”
“Because I’m the one who told him about Albert.”
“Well, Albert was attacked by someone else.”
It hadn’t been Matt.
Gretchen hung up the phone, leaned her elbows on the doll worktable, and stared out the window at Camelback Mountain.
She’d been wrong about Matt, and she was relieved. He hadn’t beat up Albert. Instead, he’d warned Daisy.
If Gretchen had shared more information with him, maybe the real killer would be behind bars right now.
If only she’d trusted him more…
_______________
April appeared at the door.
“Why’s the front door locked?” she asked when Gretchen let her in.
“I’ve been a little nervous lately. I can’t see who’s at the door. I need to install a peephole.”
“Let’s go,” April said, missing the significance of Gretchen’s comment about locks and bolts.
“Go where?”
April had stuffed herself into a black, clingy number, and Gretchen could see every ripple and ridge. “To the Phoenician. We’re having a goodbye reception for the Boston Kewpie Club. They’re going home tomorrow. Well, all except Steve, who has to stay in Phoenix.”
“I have to go to Brett’s memorial service,” Gretchen said wistfully, wishing she could celebrate life, renewal, and friendships with April and the doll group rather than mourn a tragic death.
“I don’t know who else will be at this service,” April said. “No one I know has been invited.”
“I think the gathering is for the people who were at Chiggy’s auction when Brett died. Howie must have arranged it.”
“Where is it?”
“Someplace on McDowell Street.”
“Do you need directions?”
Gretchen shook her head. “I’ll find it. We have to talk later about the murders.”
“I’ll call you after the party,” April said. “Right now, I’m running late.”
______________
“Lilly Beth, I know you’re in there,” Gretchen said, after knocking until her hand hurt. “I can see you through the window.”
She backed up and peeked in, her eyes adjusting to the darkening night. Lilly Beth stepped farther back into the shadows.
Gretchen pointed at her and their eyes met. “See, there you are. Let me in.”
Finally the door opened a crack.
“What do you want?” Lilly Beth asked.
Gretchen thrust a printout of a photograph through the crack. “This police officer came to my house,” she said. “And you talked to him.”
“That’s the back of a head. Even if I did, so?”
“So, what did he want?”
“That’s private information under the federal homeland security law.”
“I demand to know under the freedom of information act, and that supersedes homeland security.”
The ridiculousness of the conversation wasn’t lost on Gretchen. Lilly Beth had more screws loose than Daisy ever would.
“He didn’t tell me,” Lilly Beth said. “It’s on a need-to-know basis, and I didn’t need to know.”
Translation: Lilly Beth never stopped talking long enough to find out.
Lilly Beth, once started, took off like a buzzard smelling carrion.
“I don’t know what’s going on over there,” Lilly Beth said. “But whatever it is, the police are on notice. That nice police officer has a job to do and I’m going to see that he accomplishes it. I’ll help him in any way I can.” Lilly Beth looked Gretchen up and down. “I’m on the side of the law.”
“He’s driving a green truck, not a squad car,” Gretchen said. “Don’t you think that’s suspicious?”
“He’s undercover.” Lilly Beth frowned. “Although, you’d think he’d hide it better. If he shows up in the same truck every time, people are going to start noticing.”
Gretchen felt cold. Every time? “How many times has he been here?”
“Three. I watch for him at the window because I want to support the police, and I tell him that every single time. I think he appreciates my efforts. Last time I took out some of my chocolate chip cookies. I had just baked them.”
“What did he do? Did he knock on my door?”
“Lucky for you, you haven’t been home even once, and I tell him that. I think he’s going to arrest you if he can pin you down. What you did, I don’t even want to know. The going-ons in this neighborhood are ruining the property values.”
“What did he say?”
“Like I told you, he kept it to himself, as he should. Quiet man.” Lilly Beth thought a second. “Humph…now that I think of it, he didn’t say more than a word or two.”
Lilly Beth wouldn’t have given him a chance.
Gretchen was pretty sure her busybody neighbor, in her own conniving way, had unknowingly saved her from the same fate as Brett and Ronny. Lilly Beth was like the neighborhood watchdog. She also had pit bull jaws. Once she latched on, there was no getting away.
With any luck, she’d driven him off for good.
“If you see his truck again,” Gretchen said. “Stay away from him.”
“Oh sure, like I’d listen to you. Whatever you did, you’ll have to suffer the consequences.”
Gretchen hurried back to her house.
It was time to call Detective Albright and fess up.
THIRTY-NINE
Gretchen called Bonnie Albright for Matt’s private phone number. Belatedly, she remembered that Bonnie would be on her way to the Phoenician for the Boston Kewpie Club’s bon voyage party. She thought about calling Nina’s cell phone, but their repaired relationship was still delicate, and she wouldn’t disrupt Nina’s good time with Eric again unless she had to.
She called the police dispatch nonemergency number and was told that Detective Albright was unavailable.
“I need his phone number,” she said.
“I’m afraid I can’t give that out.”
“Can you get a message to him?” she asked.
“Certainly.”
“I have important information involving a case he’s working. He has to call me immediately.”
“We’ll see that he receives the message,” the dispatcher said, dispassionately taking her cell phone number. Gretchen wondered if he really would be informed and, if so, when. She couldn’t wait much longer.
She dressed in somber clothes- black pants and a beige top with decorative black buttons - and ran a brush through her hair. Brace yourself, she thought, this is only the beginning. Ronny Beam’s funeral was also coming up, and she knew the next few days would be as sorrowful as the last. Even though she hadn’t known either of the victims well, Brett and Ronny meant more to her than mere statistics and canned obituaries in the Phoenix newspaper.
Nimrod and Wobbles followed her into the kitchen. As always, she was amazed that their internal clocks were so accurate, telling them exactly when dinner should be ready. She fed them and nibbled at leftovers in the refrigerator. The invitation hadn’t mentioned food.
She scooped up Nimrod, locked the door, and drove toward McDowell Street, scanning the traffic around her for signs of the green truck. She hadn’t realized how many Arizonians drove pickup trucks until now. On this moonless Phoenix night, every truck seemed dark and potentially dangerous.
The Sky Harbor Airport lights grew brighter as she continued. She wound her way to the far west side of the airport and began to check the street signs, searching for McDowell Street.
A plane came in directly overhead, wheels visible in preparation for landing, and it reminded Gretchen that the Boston Kewpie Club would be returning home in the morning. She hadn’t spent much time at all with them. If not for the memorial service, she would be at the party at the Phoenician this minute, sipping expensive red wine and nibbling French cheeses.
Maybe she could swing by on her way home if it wasn’t too late.
Right now, as she turned onto McDowell and realized how dark and desolate the area was, she longed for Aunt Nina and the spectacular lights of the elegant Phoenician Resort.
What was she thinking to come here by herself? She flipped on an overhead light and checked the address on the invitation. The 1500 block.
“We just passed Fourteenth Street,” she informed Nimrod. “So it has to be in the next block.” The teacup poodle wagged his tail.
She crawled along McDowell looking for the address, then turned the car around and slowly edged back along the other side.
She stopped the Echo and looked at the address on the invitation again.
That was the house where the memorial service should be starting, a one-story with a swamp cooler on the roof.
But something was wrong.
No lights illuminated the interior of the house, no cars were parked in front, no mourners congregated inside waiting to hear comforting words to ease their grief.
The house was totally dark.
She looked at the invitation for the third time. It was the kind you could buy in any store that carried greeting cards. The details of the memorial service had been handwritten. She’d automatically assumed Howie Howard had organized the event because the handwriting was distinctly male. No graceful loops or careful lettering to denote a feminine hand.
Gretchen double-checked to make sure the doors of the Echo were locked and pulled quickly away from the darkened house, circling the block one last time. The house with the swamp cooler on the roof remained dark.
The more she thought about it, the more unlikely it became that the service would be here, next to the airport, and that no one else from the Phoenix Dollers Club had been invited. Absolutely no one that she knew would be
in attendance.
Not only that, it had coincided with the Boston Kewpie members’ farewell party, so she wouldn’t have Nina or April or any of the other club members to attend with her.
Convenient for someone who might want to get her alone. Hadn’t she seen this exact scenario in enough thrillers? Hadn’t she laughed cynically at the hapless victims and their incredible lack of forethought?
“Gee,” she said, talking to Nimrod again. “Wouldn’t you think we’d stay out of dark alleys when a killer is on the prowl?” His ears twitched as he listened.
Gretchen drove toward the bright lights of the airport.
She asked herself again, why?
That had been the three-letter word of the day, of the week.
Why, why, why had she received a bogus invitation?
Maybe because someone wanted to lure her away from her home by inviting her to an event she would feel compelled to attend. Gretchen Birch’s whereabouts could be guaranteed for Monday night at eight o’clock.
So much for varying her routine to throw off the bad guys.
Several blocks ahead, the street she was on would end abruptly, the overpass into the airport directly in front of her. Bright lights and safety. Looking into the sky she could see planes lining up awaiting clearance to land.
But the invitation had arrived several days ago. If this was premeditated, the sender knew even then what he wanted her to do and where he wanted her to be.
He also could have known that the Boston visitors would be having a party and that her friends and family were not likely to attend the memorial service with her. They would opt for the opulence of the Phoenician over a service they hadn’t been invited to.
Gretchen felt manipulated and angry with herself for blindly following the predictable path she’d been so artfully steered along.
Was he at her house right now? Waiting for her?
No - not for her. If she was the target, he could have waited for her on this lonely street. Gretchen stared into the few parked cars scattered along McDowell and was relieved to find them empty.
