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

by Jeanne Glidewell

  I quickly dialed 9-1-1. I knew I had to report the man’s death to the authorities. I couldn’t just walk away and leave the poor guy hanging. And, while I waited for them to arrive on the scene, I had to come up with a reasonable excuse as to why I’d been peering inside his house to begin with. Rip and Regina were not going to buy some convoluted story about how and why I was trying to find someone who could use Suzanna Pandero’s seven unwanted cases of MRE’s. Nor would the detectives who were undoubtedly already en-route to Mr. Barnaby’s home.

  In the few minutes I had to think before they arrived, I also had to decide if I wanted to bring the frozen trash bag in the Panderos’ chest freezer to the officer’s attention. If I chose to do so, how would they react to the knowledge I’d taken it upon myself to nose around in the case of the missing Rockport citizen? Worse yet, how would Rip, a career lawman, and my husband of half-a-century, react? I wasn’t sure I was up to having to explain my actions, so I decided to play it by ear. In my experience, that was not always a stellar idea.

  I returned to the living room and unlocked the front door for the police officers to enter through when they showed up. I took a quick glance at Barlow’s body, swinging from the ceiling like a piñata at a kid’s birthday party. Before I could even react to the realization that my nausea had returned full force, I spewed chili mac all over the living room floor right beneath the homeowner’s swinging corpse.

  It probably goes without saying that it was not a pretty sight when three detectives, who had worked for my husband when he served as the county sheriff, arrived on the scene.

  “Rapella?” Joe Peabody, the current sheriff of Aransas County, asked in surprise after he walked in behind the detectives and locked eyes with me. “What are you doing here?”

  I don’t know if it was the heat, the nausea, or shock due to the situation I’d found myself in, but I collapsed to the floor like the ceiling had three weeks earlier.

  Twelve

  When I opened my eyes, I was staring into the light brown peepers of my husband’s. When he spoke, it sounded as if his voice was echoing from the bottom of a deep well. “Honey, are you okay? What in the world-world-world were you doing-doing-doing-doing in here-here-here-here?”

  I shook my head, still too dazed to respond.

  “You passed out, honey. Out of pure shock, no doubt. But you’re going to be okay. Just sit here for a moment while I go get you a glass of water.” After Rip got up to walk to Barlow’s kitchen, I looked around and noticed the room had swelled with people, mostly first responders, and wondered how long I’d been out. It had only seemed like seconds but must have been longer.

  After Rip returned with a bottle of water he’d found in the man’s refrigerator, he waited for me to take several sips. The coolness of the water seemed to work. I instantly felt more refreshed and alert. But when Rip repeated his earlier question about why I was in the deceased man’s home to begin with, I considered closing my eyes and pretending I’d slipped back into unconsciousness. I knew I’d just be delaying the inevitable so I gave him some half-baked version of the truth. I didn’t really think he’d be interested in all the unnecessary details.

  “The lady next door to Regina and Milo told me she had some cases of MRE’s she thought Mr. Barnaby might need. I volunteered to haul them up here, never expecting to find the man dangling from his ceiling. The shock of finding Barlow―”

  “―Barlow? You were on a first-name basis with him?”

  “No, of course not. Suzanna told me his name.”

  “Suzanna?”

  “Yes. Suzanna Pandero is Regina’s next-door neighbor. She’s the lady who had the extra cases of MRE’s she didn’t want.”

  Rip shook his head. “You seem to be getting awfully familiar with the neighborhood.”

  “Well, dear, you may not remember them, but we met most of the neighbors at Regina and Milo’s Christmas block party last year.” Neither the Panderos nor Barlow Barnaby had attended the party, but that was beside the point. My statement was the perfect truth, without actually saying specifically which neighbors we’d met at the get-together.

  “Oh. Sure. Now I remember them.” He didn’t remember them. I knew it and he knew it. At the moment, however, I was content to let him believe I believed him. His desire not to look as if he was losing his memory, or worse, his mind, was going to get me off the hook.

  Or so I thought.

  Sheriff Peabody quickly moved everyone but the coroner and a couple of detectives outside of Barlow’s house. Rip had me sit on a bench in the front yard because I still felt a bit unstable. We watched as Barlow’s body was brought outside to be transported to the morgue. Before you could strike a match to a bag of doggie doo-doo on someone’s porch and skedaddle, a crowd began to gather. There was something about the county coroner pulling up to the curb and hauling a body, draped in a white sheet, out of the house on a gurney that made the entire neighborhood come out of the woodwork. I know it did me when we actually lived in a neighborhood. Now we were most often camped in a crowded RV park full of retired folks, where you don’t give the coroner’s van a second thought. Another one bites the dust, being your first thought, of course.

  “Is that you, Ms. Ripple?” A deep voice asked from over my shoulder. Another male voice chimed in with, “Are you all right?”

  “Yes, Tony, it’s me. And, yeah, I’m okay, Bruno. Just a bit dazed at the moment from the shock of discovering Mr. Barnaby’s body.”

  “I’ll bet!” Tony said before they both moved on to mingle with others in the growing group.

  “Tony Torres?” Rip asked. “Bruno? Were they at the holiday block party too? How much whiskey did I drink that night?”

  “Um, no, dear. Remember I asked you about knowing Tony? Well, Tony and Bruno Watts are a couple of the subcontractors working on the Reynolds’s home. And, if memory serves me right, you nearly killed off a fifth of Jack Daniels that evening.”

  “Oh. How is Mr. Reynolds? Any news on his missing wife?”

  “No, not yet. I’m beginning to think there’s something suspicious behind her disappearance.”

  “Well, of course you do.” While Rip said this with absolutely no inflection in his voice, I knew there was a heavy dose of sarcasm cleverly embedded in his five-word response.

  “You would too if you’d heard the things I have in the last two days.”

  “How have you―” Rip began to question me but was interrupted by a woman who’d just walked up behind us.

  “I saw the ambulance and decided I'd better come down and check it out, knowing you might be here.” I groaned when I recognized Suzanna’s shrill voice. Once again, I considered faking another fainting spell. I was afraid she’d say something I’d have to scramble to find a way to explain. I hadn’t underestimated her, either. She crouched down to speak to me face to face, and asked, “That hurricane relief organization you work for is never going to believe this, are they?”

  “What is she talking about?” Rip stared at me, ignoring Suzanna.

  “Don’t be silly, dear. We’ll discuss it later. Why don’t you go say hello to Sheriff Peabody?” I pointed toward his friend, Joe. “I’m sure he’d love to see you.”

  Rip gave me a look that could melt glaciers in Antarctica. After he reluctantly walked away, I turned toward Suzanna. “You are right. This is just unbelievable. I certainly never expected something like this would happen when I volunteered to help storm victims. Why in the world would your neighbor go and kill himself like this after surviving the hurricane?”

  Suzanna sat down, Indian-style, on the grass. “I’m no detective, but I guarantee you Barlow didn’t kill himself. He was as crazy as a besotted loon, no doubt. But he never came across to me as being suicidal. My guess is that the same person who abducted Reilly Reynolds murdered Barlow. Probably heard Barlow called in to the tip hotline and was afraid he’d call in again with more incriminating information.”

  “Wow. You think so?” After Suzanna nodded, I aske
d another, more pointed question. “Why are you so convinced it was Mr. Barnaby who called in the anonymous tip?”

  “Actually, I only suspected it.” A rueful smile was on Suzanna’s face as I studied her. It quickly morphed into one of self-satisfaction when she continued. “Now I’d bet the ranch on it.”

  “You own a ranch?”

  “No. I just meant―”

  “Oh, I get it. Figure of speech. Sorry. I’m still a little light-headed. I agree with you. This suicide looks more like a set-up to me. If so, who do you think did it?” I asked, hoping to catch her off guard. No such luck, however.

  “I have my suspicions, but I’d never say them out loud,” she said.

  “You don’t think Percival could be involved, do you?”

  “No. Definitely not in Barlow’s case. He might have picked up Reilly and ran off with her,” Suzanna began as she looked solemnly up at the coroner’s van, which was slowly pulling away from the curb with Barlow’s body inside, “but he’d never do something like this.”

  “Why would you never voice your suspicions?” I asked.

  At my puzzled expression, she replied, using air quotes once again, “I have no desire to be the next ‘suicide’ victim on the block.”

  I had no option but to discuss everything I’d discovered about Reilly’s disappearance with Rip later that afternoon. I hoped my sensitive state would encourage him to listen to me and want to help me look into the situation. I told him I didn’t really want to get Regina and Milo involved in my investigation, at this stage anyway, but would welcome his assistance. I wholeheartedly expected his response to be a big, fat, juicy, “Hell, no!”

  Imagine my surprise when instead he replied, “It does sound awfully suspicious. I wonder why Joe hasn’t opened up a more active investigation into her disappearance?”

  “Could it be that he has a lot more on his plate right now than one missing citizen? Granted, that’s a major concern, but so is putting the lives of all of Rockport’s residents back on an even keel. He’s probably being pulled in all directions.”

  “Yeah,” Rip agreed. “He told me as much today when I chatted with him. Said his life is a chaotic mess right now with his own house in shambles and his kids having to be driven to Portland to attend school. Unfortunately, all of Rockport's kids are having to be absorbed by other schools in the area until their own schools can be repaired. Joe never mentioned Reilly Reynolds or the possibility her disappearance could be tied to the death of Barlow. But then, I hadn’t really expected him to.”

  “I imagine Joe’s got a lot on his mind other than just Reilly’s fate. Regina’s next-door neighbor, Suzanna Pandero, suspects her husband was having an affair with Reilly. She’s convinced Barlow Barnaby was the anonymous tipster, but that the police didn’t take it seriously because he had a habit of ‘seeing things’ after imbibing a little too much and then calling it in to the police.” Now I was using air quotes. “She also indicated he suffered from a mental illness, but that might’ve been spitefulness on her part.”

  “Oh!” Rip exclaimed. He’d plainly had an epiphany. “That Barlow Barnaby. Now I know why I recognized his name. He’s been calling in questionable eyewitness accounts for years. Most were pure nonsense, but on a couple of occasions, his tips led us to an arrest. One case netted Mr. Barnaby five thousand dollars in reward money. So, although we were tempted to put no effort whatsoever into following up on his tips, we were obligated to, just in case he truly did witness something and was phoning in a credible tip. As you can imagine, after he was awarded the five grand, the volume of tips he phoned in increased significantly.”

  “Oh, yes. I can imagine,” I said. “Suzanna is convinced the same person who abducted Reilly also murdered Mr. Barnaby. She doesn’t believe it was an actual suicide.”

  “It might not have been,” Rip said. “Just between you and me, Sheriff Peabody and I discussed the preliminary findings of the medical examiner, Chuck Beatty, who was at the scene today. He seems to think there’s a chance Barlow was a victim of murder. He’s keeping this on the down-low for now while they do a little more investigating, so don’t mention this to anyone. All right?”

  “Well, okay,” I said reluctantly.

  “Not to the ladies in your Bunko club, or the random stranger in front of you at the grocery store.”

  I had to suppress a smile. Rip was always confounded by my propensity for engaging in conversation with whoever was in the checkout line behind or in front of me. “You don’t even know them,” he’d say. He couldn’t seem to understand that every friend we had we’d spoken to for the first time somewhere, whether it was at another friend’s party or the checkout line at Ace Hardware.

  He went on, “Not even to Regina, Milo, Tony, or the other subcontractors next door. Got it?”

  “Yes, dear. My lips are sealed. I promise.” I ran an imaginary zipper across my lips, which made Rip shake his head. Rather than react to his cynicism, I asked, “What made Dr. Beatty suspect it might have been murder rather than suicide?”

  “Chuck mentioned something about the direction of the fibers on the rope, suspicious ligature marks on the victim’s neck, and a hematoma on his chin.”

  “Hematoma?”

  “Bruising, as if he might have been hit in the jaw. But it could have been an injury he sustained prior to committing suicide and not related to his death. Apparently, Barlow was prone to taking bad falls. Six months ago, he broke his collar bone tripping over a loose carpet thread.”

  “A loose carpet thread? Good grief. And I thought I was a klutz,” I said. “It doesn’t sound like much to base a murder on. How about the fact he was naked?”

  “Granted, that seems a little disturbing. However, Chuck wouldn’t consider something non-scientific as significant proof pointing either to suicide or homicide. He’s arranging to have a tox screen done to determine if the man might have been drugged before being strung up from the ceiling. Barlow was an average-sized guy, but that’s a lot of weight for most people to handle, even if the victim was comatose at the time. Chuck will also perform a full autopsy.”

  “I’m glad they’re looking into the cause of death.” I nodded as I sipped on my drink. It was too steamy to sit outside in our lawn chairs, so Rip and I sat at the kitchen table in the Chartreuse Caboose enjoying the one daily highball we allowed ourselves. Our primary physician had diagnosed Rip as a borderline diabetic and warned us about the medical hazards of over-indulging in alcohol. Dr. Herron had not been specific about the size of that one allotted drink each day, so my tequila sunrise and Rip’s Jack and Coke were served in quart-sized Ball canning jars. I didn’t want to make Rip wish he was dead by trying to help him live longer. However, I did try to cut out all other sugar from his diet and limit his carb intake. “Did Sheriff Peabody happen to mention it was Barnaby who’d called in the anonymous tip about his missing neighbor?”

  “No. He is bound by confidentiality laws to not reveal the identity of an anonymous tipster. Besides, how would I have known to ask Joe about that to begin with?” Rip replied with a look I recognized. It was the look of someone who has been left out in the cold during an important discussion. I just smiled at him lovingly. I currently had him on my side of the fence. I didn’t want him to crawl back over to the opposite side by scolding him for not paying attention to what was discussed at the dinner table. At the time of the discussion with Regina, Rip had been totally engrossed in his savory filet. Even though he’d participated in the conversation, he clearly hadn’t taken it all in. I was surprised when he asked, “Would you like me to stop by the police department tomorrow and speak with Joe about it?”

  “I don’t think so. Not yet, anyway. I don’t want him to think we’re meddling in a police matter. At least not until we have more evidence. Maybe we should do a little more snooping on our own before we bring the sheriff into it.”

  “Yeah. You’re probably right. We’ll discuss our strategy in the morning. I invited Reggie and Milo over for a drink,
and I’d rather not bring them into it yet either.”

  Once again, I was so shocked at Rip’s response, I almost choked on my cocktail. I sputtered like a fountain running out of water for nearly five minutes. I’d assured Rip my lips were sealed about the medical examiner’s conclusion that the apparent suicide was not so apparent after all. I’d soon make it clear they weren’t sealed tightly enough. I could already feel the imaginary zipper giving way. I’d have had to super-glue my lips together again in order to keep that promise.

  Thirteen

  “Joe Peabody wants to see you in his office this morning as soon as you get around.” The sound of Rip’s voice the following morning brought me from a dead sleep to full consciousness in a split second. His statement was more effective at being an instantaneous eye-opener than a phone call at two-thirty in the morning when you just know bad news is on the other end of the line.

  Why would the county sheriff want to see me? I wondered. To tell me to keep my nose out of police business? To ask me if I had an alibi for the time Barlow Barnaby died? To arrest me for impersonating a hurricane relief volunteer?

  “Say what? Why ever for?” I asked with a distinct catch in my voice. I’d convinced myself I didn’t really want to hear the answer. I’d never expected to be delighted by Rip’s response.

  “He wants to question you further about what you witnessed at the neighbor’s house yesterday. Due to your frazzled state at the time, they didn’t want to traumatize you any more than you already appeared to be. Joe thinks you might have information that can help them nail down the identity of the perp.”

  “The perp?”

  “Perp stands for perpetrator. As you’re probably aware, a perpetrator is―”