Ripped Apart (A Ripple Effect Cozy Mystery, Book 5)

by Jeanne Glidewell

  Mental illness was a disabling disease, not something to be ridiculed, and growing older was something none of us could prevent as long as we were still breathing. Suzanna included. But it brought up a second question. If the alcoholic neighbor was prone to having imaginary figments and calling in dubious sightings, how credible was Mr. Barnaby’s observation that his neighbor had gotten into someone’s car that night if indeed he was the anonymous caller? It was beginning to look probable, as Barnaby had been Bruno’s presumption, too.

  Suzanna’s statement had me once again doubting the likelihood that something nefarious had happened to Reilly Reynolds. It made more sense that the missing woman had been blown off her dock while chasing after her Maltipoo, and her body had yet to wash ashore somewhere.

  Maybe, I thought, I should stop by and see if Mr. Barnaby needed any MRE’s to sustain himself until food was more readily available. If he was as elderly as Suzanna Pandero implied, he might’ve been unable to travel to one of the locations handing out supplies. With any luck, he’d be able to use a few cases. Because, after all, I’d need to do something with the six or seven cases I’d be picking up from Suzanna’s house. I could hardly show up at my daughter’s house with them. Regina had made it clear she didn’t want any more MRE’s, and there was nowhere in the Chartreuse Caboose to store more than a couple of boxes.

  I could dump the rest, even though I hated to be so wasteful. There were mountains of rubbish and debris in front of nearly every home in town, and the piles were growing larger by the day.

  I was certain the cases of MRE’s would go unnoticed if I pitched them on a neighbor’s pile. An added bonus to this option would be that I wouldn’t have to explain to Rip or Regina how I’d ended up with them in the first place. And, with this thought in mind, my conservative nature was beaten out by my desire to keep my investigation to myself until I had something substantial to share.

  I really wasn’t actually pursuing an investigation at this stage. It would be more accurately described as an inquiry. I was merely analyzing the situation to determine if I thought something was amiss. The way I saw it, the victim deserved justice if her life was taken by anyone other than God himself.

  Eleven

  No one was home at the other houses within view of a vehicle that might have parked in front of the Reynolds’s home during the hurricane. The houses on Key Allegro Island were primarily vacation homes, rentals, and weekend retreats. Currently, Rockport, Texas was not on anyone’s list of appealing vacation spots, other than from curiosity about the storm’s aftermath.

  Very few of the homes were even habitable. What was once a beautiful two-story home, two or three doors up from the Reynolds, was in the process of being dozed down. It’d likely be replaced by a brand new dwelling that met the now-mandatory building codes designed to withstand category 5 hurricanes. The entire top floor had been ripped apart as if a bomb had exploded in the hall closet. I vaguely remembered Regina mentioning this home to me during a phone call and said a little prayer for its owners, praying they had good insurance to cover the cost to rebuild. Many, I knew, did not!

  Saddened yet again by the devastation all around me, I was thankful my daughter’s home was still standing. I walked back to the trailer to use the restroom and drink a bottle of water to keep hydrated. It was hotter than smoldering coal, and I was sweating like a cow moose in labor.

  When I noticed Regina’s car was gone, I sent her a text. Where R U?

  On my way to Beeville to get my oil changed and my tires rotated, she replied. Both are way overdue so I thought I better get it done today.

  Don’t blame you. You aren’t driving right now, are you? I asked.

  Of course not. I pulled over to read your text.

  Good. It pays to be safe. Beeville’s a long way to drive to get your vehicle serviced, I typed.

  I know, but Jiffy Lube in Rockport is closed indefinitely. Corpus Christi is nearly as far away as Beeville and has more traffic to contend with, Regina’s text read.

  Okra. Drive safari. Just then I realized I needed to borrow Milo’s dolly. Did you lick your garage door?

  SMH. Whatever. And, no, the garage is open. Why do you ask? There was a laughing face emoji at the beginning of Regina’s text. I didn’t know at the time that SMH in texting lingo meant “shaking my head”, but I knew using “whatever” as a single-word response was usually a way to dismiss something or someone. It wasn’t until I reread my last text and saw what the auto-correct feature had done to my response that I understood the reason behind Regina’s emoji. I sent one more text that began with an emoji of a laughing cat’s face.

  I meant to say okay, drive safely. And I wondered if your garage was locked because I need to borrow Milo’s dolly to haul a box of crap from our storage compartment to the curb.

  I’ll be careful, was her immediate reply. A second one quickly followed. Our garage door is open. And just so you know, I rarely ever lick it.

  I laughed at Regina’s wisecrack and stuffed the cell phone into my back jeans pocket. I knew her appointment would keep her away from home for two to three hours, at least, and Rip and Milo were out helping a friend of Milo’s on a time-sensitive project. Now would be a great time to collect Suzanna Pandero’s unwanted cases of MRE’s and then try to foist them off on the elderly fellow up the street. I chugged a full bottle of water before grabbing my keys off the kitchen counter.

  “Well, that was quick!” Suzanna said when she opened her front door. Her squeaky voice reminded me of an animated character in one of the cartoons Regina watched as a child.

  “Yes. I decided to begin my scheduled deliveries and resume canvassing the area later on. Picking up your cases of MRE’s was the most sensible place to start.”

  “Can you back up to my garage? The cases are heavy.”

  “I already did. You told me earlier where they were stored.” I smiled and turned toward the garage as she closed the door behind her. The garage was located on the ground floor of her stilt home. Along with a flight of stairs, she had an outdoor elevator that went up to the main living area on the second floor. The Moores’ home had an elevator too, but I always took the stairs when given a choice.

  There turned out to be nine cases of MRE’s she wanted “out of her hair”, as she put it. It was clear Suzanna’s thoughtful donation was based more on the notion of a free trash pickup than a charitable contribution. We loaded seven of the boxes―or to be more exact, I loaded five and she loaded two. She then led me to a rudimentary bathroom in the rear of the garage. She unlocked the lockbox on the door of the john with a digital code, which I thought was security overkill. When we stepped inside, she pointed to the last two cases, which were resting on top of a large chest freezer set into a niche in the wall. “That’s the last of them.”

  As I began to hoist one off the lid of the freezer, Suzanna stopped me. “You know what? Maybe I should keep a couple of them. Just in case.”

  “Of course.” My voice sounded dubious, even inside my own head. She’d appeared so anxious to be rid of them and had mentioned never wanting to eat one of the meals again. Surely she didn’t want the Tootsie Rolls in them that desperately. You could buy an entire bag for a few bucks at nearly any store.

  “Plus, it helps keep the lid closed on the freezer. It’s an older model, probably twenty-five years old or better, so the lid doesn’t seal as tightly as it used to. I wouldn’t want the contents to thaw out.”

  “Of course not,” I said. “You probably lost a lot of meat and other frozen food items already when you were without power for so many days.”

  “No. I have a small generator, and I hooked it up to the freezer.”

  “And the fridge no doubt.”

  “Well, no, there wasn’t―”

  “And a fan along with a few lights?” My remark was said in the form of a question, to which Suzanna shook her head. “Did the generator supply enough power to keep the A/C running?”

  “It’s just a small generator,�
�� she replied. She sounded defensive, but I’d only been trying to make polite small talk. “I didn’t need any of that stuff. Like I told you before, I went to stay with my mother in Horizon City until the power, sewer, and water were restored. Percival insisted I keep the freezer running so the contents wouldn’t rot.”

  “Makes sense. Meat is expensive these days.” As I replied, Suzanna covered the two boxes on her chest freezer with an old, grease-stained bedspread that’d been wadded up and stuffed into the corner of an old tub that clearly hadn’t been bathed in for years. “Looks like that spread has seen better days.”

  “Yep. Percival used it when working on his car.”

  “Looks like he needs a new one, and maybe a toolbox for Christmas,” I joked as I studied the bathtub. The old tub was basically a cast iron storage box. It was full of miscellaneous household maintenance stuff like a nail gun, a ball-peen hammer, several different kinds of hand saws, a bag of rags, a bottle of Clorox bleach, and a rusty iron skillet that looked as if it’d be more useful for knocking out intruders or cheating spouses than frying up bacon. There were also a few quarts of synthetic oil and an opened, but empty, orange box that had once contained a Fram oil filter. The grimy bedspread Suzanna had draped over the freezer looked as if her estranged husband, Percival, had laid it under his vehicle when he’d changed the oil.

  When I gazed at her curiously, she stumbled over an explanation. “Well, um. Percival, um, he’s my ex―well, he’s my soon-to-be-ex. I booted his worthless, lying butt out. All he’ll be getting from me for Christmas are divorce papers.”

  “Oh.” I wasn’t sure how to respond. Suzanna appeared nervous and was repeating things she’d already told me. Her comments had nothing to do with putting the stained spread on the freezer. She clearly felt uncomfortable, as she continued. “This old rag was his, and now I want it off my garage floor and―”

  “On top of your chest freezer?” I supplied when she paused.

  “Well, just for now.” She led me outside as if in a hurry for me to leave. Her anxious demeanor made me ache to see what was really inside her chest freezer. She did have a bone to pick with her missing neighbor, after all, if the rumors were correct about her husband having an affair with the woman. “I’ve been meaning to get that freezer defrosted and cleaned out. Some of the stuff in there is old and probably freezer burnt. I’ll probably get on that in the next day or two.”

  “Oh, no!” I exclaimed, bending over at the waist in the middle of her driveway. I had experienced a slight rumbling in my belly―the kind that is often a preview of upcoming attractions of an unpleasant nature―and decided to use it to my advantage before I had to rush home to camp out in the trailer’s little bathroom. I was dying to see what she was so anxious to dispose of inside that freezer. “I ate something for lunch that didn’t agree with me. I think I’m going to throw up. Could I possibly use this restroom?”

  “Very well,” Suzanna consented, after a lengthy spell of consideration. “But I’m not certain the toilet still flushes.”

  “Hmm.” That’s not good, I thought. I pointed toward the stool. “There’s a small plastic trashcan next to the toilet I could use. If I soil it, I will replace it with a new one.”

  “No need. I don’t want it anyway. We’ll just throw it on the pile of debris on the curb.”

  “Thank you,” I said, before an unexpected belch erupted from somewhere down around my naval. “Pardon me, dear.”

  For a moment, I thought she was going to stay in the bathroom with me. Luckily, she stepped outside and closed the door before I had to ask for some privacy. Was she now going to press her ear to it while I was inside supposedly tossing my cookies?

  Just in case my suspicion was correct, I tried to make some believable gagging noises as I gently lifted the bedspread off the freezer and sat it and the two cases of MRE’s down on the floor as quietly as I could. I lifted up the freezer door and was shocked to find nothing but a large plastic garbage bag inside. The black bag was covered in frost as if the old freezer had not been defrosted in over two decades.

  I gasped out loud in alarm. I’m not sure if it’s from watching too many episodes of Criminal Minds on television or what, but my first instinct was that I’d just discovered the body of Reilly Reynolds. My second thought, though, was, How can that be when the frost on top of the bag looks as if it hasn’t been disturbed in years, and Reilly disappeared less than a month ago? Had the contents thawed out and then refroze once she’d hooked the generator up to the freezer? One thing’s for sure. This freezer definitely needed to be defrosted and cleaned out.

  “You okay in there?” I heard from outside the door. Not wanting her to know I’d possibly uncovered the truth behind her missing neighbor, I let out a feigned puking sound. Her voice sounded genuinely concerned when she asked, “Should I come in? Maybe get you a wet rag or something?”

  “No. I’m all right. I’m about done. I think it was the heat of the day that has gotten to me. Either that or that damned dried-up pop tart I ate from the MRE I had for lunch."

  “Well, all right. I’m right here if you need me.”

  “Okay, thanks!” Gag, belch, upchuck noises. “I’ll be out in a moment.”

  There was no way I could chip the ice off the frozen trash bag to get an idea of what was inside. I hadn’t noticed an ice pick in the conglomeration of items in the bathtub. I took a photo of the ice-covered bag with my phone before gently closing the lid of the freezer and hoisting the cases of pre-packaged meals back on top of it. I then arranged the bedspread as best I could remember it looking before I’d taken everything off the freezer to scrutinize its contents.

  Before leaving, I tried to flush the toilet. Nothing happened. There was very little water in the bottom of the toilet and when I lifted the lid off the back, I saw there was none at all in the tank.

  “I didn’t think it would flush.” Suzanna said as she opened the bathroom door and walked inside.

  “Uh.” I was at a loss for words, so I merely stared at her like a deer caught in the headlights of an oncoming freight train.

  “I don’t know how many times I asked that no-good bast―” Her chattering came to an abrupt stop when she looked down into the toilet and saw nothing but a cup or two of water. She then glanced into the still unsoiled plastic trash can.

  I shrugged and forced a smile. To explain the lack of vomit in the toilet despite all the gagging and gross noises I’d faked, I said, “Dry heaves. Don’t you just hate when that happens?”

  Suzanna looked at me as if I’d just told her I’d hacked up a pipe wrench and placed it in the bathtub with all the other random tools.

  When she didn’t reply to my dry-heaves remark, I added, “But that’s not apt to last, so I’d better get going. Thank you again for the use of your facilities. You never know when a dry heave might take a bad turn, and the next thing you know you’re spewing like a geyser in Yellowstone.”

  I walked straight through the garage without making further eye contact with the homeowner, who probably was ready to spew like a geyser herself. I don’t know about other folks, but just the sound or mention of someone upchucking makes my stomach queasy as well, and it’s all I can do not to join them. That might have explained the sudden green tint in Suzanna’s cheeks. I know I was now feeling sick enough to my stomach to actually throw up.

  Somehow, by the time I’d returned to the truck and started it, my stomach had managed to settle down a bit, and I no longer felt on the verge of an actual bathroom emergency. I decided while Rip, Regina, and Milo were away from home, I’d pay a visit to Barlow Barnaby. If he called in the tip about Reilly getting into a vehicle during the lull of the storm, I might be able to drag more information out of him. I could be pretty persuasive when I wanted to.

  I’m also a pretty good judge of character. I expected to determine if the man’s observation was a true sighting or merely a vision brought on by self-inflicted insanity―the kind caused by too much alcohol―if indeed he was t
he anonymous eyewitness. What I didn’t expect was to see the body of a butt naked man when I peered through the small window in his front door. Thanks to Harvey, the ceiling had caved in, exposing a row of two-by-fours bisected by a cross beam. Tied to that wooden cross beam was a rope from which Barlow Barnaby hung by the neck.

  At least this time there was no mistaking the man’s condition. Unlike Jessie Garza, the contractor in charge of rebuilding the Reynolds’s home, this man really was deader than a doornail. His neck was bent at an unnatural angle, his tongue lolled out of his open mouth, and his skin was a pale blue from his forehead to his toes. I tried not to look at the rest of him, lest my respite from nausea be short-lived. Who undresses down to their birthday suit before offing themselves? I wondered. Even dead, I don’t want anyone gawking at my nude body. If I’m ever discovered dangling from a rope, you can be certain I’ll be decked out in layers. If I’m nude, call the homicide detectives, because clearly my suicide was not self-inflicted.

  I tried the front doorknob, which was locked. But I could see through the window that the sliding glass door at the rear of the kitchen was wide open. I raced around the house and ran inside. I sprinted through the kitchen and into the living room, thinking I might be able to save the man. Barlow was definitely beyond help when I examined his condition closer. He also had the gnarliest toenails I’d ever seen on a person. Good grief, had the man never heard of podiatrists or, at the very least, toenail clippers?

  I ran back to the kitchen to close the back door, but it’d already been secured. I’d had difficulty with it a few moments earlier, but it must have slid shut on its own somehow. I didn’t want the man to be hit with a higher electric bill than necessary, which I later realized was an illogical thought given the homeowner would never again be responsible for paying any bills.