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

by Jeanne Glidewell

  I let Bruno, who probably weighed at least a stone less than I did, support much of my weight all the way to the curb while the forklift and truck drivers stopped working long enough to watch. I was confident Bruno wouldn’t wallop me in the head with one of my crutches with two witnesses looking on in amusement. What I really wanted to do was use a crutch to whale away on the two disrespectful onlookers until the smirks on their faces were replaced by expressions of remorse. Naturally, that was just a pipe dream I’d come up with in a fit of fury.

  I thanked Bruno as he released my arm once I was on solid ground. I laughed and said, “I’d probably have had to crawl through the yard without your assistance.”

  “Like you crawled through it earlier to get to the front porch?” When I glanced at him, he winked. I felt my face burn in mortification.

  “Oh. I was hoping you didn’t see that.”

  “I just happened to be looking out the window to see if the lumber was being stacked in the right place. No worries. I admire your ‘can do’ attitude. I also saw the doubt in your eyes as we were speaking earlier. Just for the record, Ms. Ripple―I mean Rapella―I would never lay a hand on a woman. No woman. No matter how angry I was with her. To be perfectly honest, I’ve only struck another man once in my life. And he had it coming after insulting my little sister in a bar one night. Unfortunately, the dude was much larger and much drunker than I was, and he hit me back. Five times, in fact. Maybe more, because I blacked out after the fifth punch.”

  “Oh, dear. Even though you were on the wrong end of that fight, it was gallant of you to defend your sister.”

  “Thanks. Stupid, but gallant.” Bruno grinned broadly after his remark. Maybe he really was denser than his sandwich. “Have a good evening, Rapella.”

  “I will. You too, Bruno.” I returned his smile and began to hobble back down the street to the travel trailer. Bruno’s last remarks had been spoken so sincerely, so tenderly, and so emotionally that I wanted to believe him. I really, really did. But could I? As easy as it was to be distracted by a show of kindness, I couldn’t let myself forget that people could often put up a believable front―even bad, evil, and guilty people.

  Later that afternoon, I recited a Reader’s Digest version of what had occurred at Barlow’s house to Rip, who seemed unimpressed with my observations and suspicions. He did at least assure me he’d relay what I’d said to the sheriff. I’d hoped for more enthusiasm but had to be content knowing the information would be passed on to the authorities.

  For supper, Regina invited us over to their motorhome for a light meal of grilled salmon and arugula salad. Behind our daughter’s back, as she’d issued the invitation, Rip had pretended to gag at the mention of arugula. I knew from past experience he’d rather munch on grass clippings. Salmon was pretty far down on the list of his menu preferences, as well. I shot him a look that changed his tune immediately.

  “Salmon and arugula salad sounds perfect, Reggie,” he replied to our daughter. Perfect for a grizzly bear and a rabbit, I knew he was thinking.

  “Good. See you at six.” Regina smiled lovingly at her father before winking at me. She was under no illusion. Her wink made it clear she knew her menu choices were not her father’s favorite foods. Like me, she was worried about his health. His cholesterol level had likely not been within the normal range since before she was born.

  “Anything we can bring?” Rip asked hopefully. Like rib eye steaks and baked potatoes, I sensed he wanted to add.

  “Nope. Just yourselves.”

  “Swell.” He smiled at Regina and then turned to me and rolled his eyes. I could foresee an entire bag of pork skins being consumed on our couch in the next hour and forty minutes.

  “The salmon is cooked perfectly, Regina. It just melts in your mouth.” I glanced over at Rip, who clearly did not agree. He was politely trying to choke down a mouthful of the salad. He looked like he was consuming his last supper before being shackled and led to the execution chamber.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  “I’m curious, Reggie,” I began, using her father’s nickname for her, “how well did you know Barlow?”

  “Not all that well, but I know Bruno was living with him and they argued all the time, almost as frequently as Mr. and Mrs. Willming across the street from them.”

  “Bruno?” I was floored by her remark. If Bruno had been living with Barlow, why had he not mentioned the fact to me when I’d spoken with him earlier that afternoon?

  “Yeah. He’s the guy I told you used to date Jenavieve Jacobowitz. He does drywall and is working on Walker’s house right now. One time as I was driving up the street, I saw Bruno walk out Barlow’s front door. Barlow followed, hollering so loud I could hear him with my windows rolled up. He picked up a paving stone and threw it at Bruno.”

  “Good Lord!” Rip exclaimed. “Was Bruno injured?”

  “No,” Regina said. “Barlow missed him by a mile, but it wasn’t for lack of trying.”

  “Thank goodness!” Rip replied. I was unable to speak as I tried to process the information she’d just given me, so I was glad Rip had stepped in to carry on the conversation. “Why was Bruno living with Barlow?”

  “Barlow was Bruno’s stepdad, but they didn’t see eye-to-eye on much of anything.”

  I was still musing over what I’d just learned, when Milo added, “However, as luck would have it, Bruno’s probably going to end up with Barlow's house.”

  As luck would have it? Was it luck, or motive to kill? No wonder he’s so motivated to get the place repaired. I pondered what Bruno had told me. I recalled him saying, “No one deserves to die like that. I know the family and offered them a good rate to get Barlow’s house back up to snuff so they can sell it.” He knows the family, all right. He is the family. He’s the one who wants to get the house sold.

  As if reading my mind, Milo added, “And he needs to get it fixed up and sold soon. From what I’ve heard, Bruno’s house is a complete loss and he had no insurance. After Harvey hit, he had nowhere else to go except to stay with his stepdad, whom he despised, until he could get back on his feet. Barlow’s untimely death was probably a stroke of luck for Bruno.”

  “A stroke of luck or the result of a devious plot?” I asked. “Do you think Bruno could’ve had something to do with Barlow’s death? The authorities are looking into it as a possible homicide.”

  Rip gave me a look, reminding me I’d promised not to mention the case’s recent status change to anyone, including Milo and Regina. I mouthed a “sorry about that” to Rip, who rolled his eyes in response. He should know by now that my keeping a secret was about as likely as him finishing the arugula salad he was moving around on his plate.

  Although I didn’t say it out loud, I was wondering if Bruno killed Barlow out of vengeance. Perhaps Barlow knew of Bruno’s involvement in Reilly’s disappearance and had been coerced by his stepson to call in the anonymous tip to lead the authorities astray. Then, later, in the midst of one of their disagreements, Barlow had threatened to rat him out. Killing his stepdad would’ve been a win-win solution for Bruno. First and foremost, he’d eliminate the threat of Barlow turning him in, and secondly, he’d inherit his victim’s house.

  My musing came to an end as I listened to Milo’s response to my last question. He seemed to confirm what Bruno had so earnestly told me a couple of hours prior.

  “No. I can’t believe Bruno would devise some devious plot. I really don’t think Bruno has a mean bone in his body. I can’t see him intentionally hurting any―” Milo’s remark was interrupted by Rip’s phone ringing. It was Chuck Beatty on the other end of the call.

  "No, I'm not busy. I just finished eating," Rip said, as Regina glanced at his half-eaten salmon and barely-touched arugula salad and rolled her eyes. I didn't have the heart to tell her he'd filled up on pork rinds and a can of Vienna Sausage before we'd joined her and Milo for supper.

  The three of us continued to eat quietly as we listened to Rip’s side of the phone conv
ersation. I considered an idea that’d been percolating in my brain all afternoon. I thought long and hard about where Reilly had ultimately ended up, when this idea hit me out of the blue. I was ready to suggest the homicide detectives do an x-ray of the over-sized wall separating the Reynolds’s living room from the new library, a wall that had been Bruno’s brain child by his own admission. The fireplace insert had been a last-minute inspiration, he’d told me. I had a sneaking suspicion it'd been a clever, and well-thought-out, ploy to hide his victim's body. Reilly was slender and very short, I recalled. Bruno could have dismembered her, and wrapped each piece in plastic or drywall tape. Then he could’ve stuffed her body parts in one large, thick plastic bag the same way Percival Pandero had hidden his illegal snake harvest. After which, he could have wedged the bag, or bags, between the studs supporting the wall and then, finally, sheet-rocked the wall around her. He'd then installed the fireplace insert to explain the thickness of the wall. Last-minute inspiration, my well-padded behind!

  Granted, my imagined scheme would have been a long shot, but it would explain the necessity for a wall that otherwise seemed unnecessary. Building a library for a person who was not only a non-reader but who was also missing and presumed dead, seemed implausible, if not downright ridiculous. Who needs an entire room to store their music CD’s, unless they happen to be a music producer like David Foster or Clive Owens? It was even conceivable that Walker was in on the killing of his own wife, whom he'd known was cheating on him with Percival Pandero. They could have been co-conspirators, I realized.

  If my notion was spot on, I should think Bruno, and/or Walker, would be concerned about another hurricane in the future, or a house fire, or anything that could expose Reilly’s body at some point down the road. If Bruno was the sole perpetrator, he might’ve thought, if that were to happen, Walker would likely be the prime suspect, not him.

  Just then, Rip ended the call with the medical examiner and sat his phone on a table behind him before relaying what he’d just learned to his three dinner mates. The tox screen had come back negative. Extensive testing had been done in conjunction with the autopsy, and Barlow’s cause of death had officially been ruled a suicide. Supporting this conclusion was a note the detectives had uncovered inside a bible in Barlow’s nightstand. Ironically, the note was inserted on the page that contained two Bible verses.

  So that I would choose strangling and death rather than my bones. I loathe my life; I would not live forever. Leave me alone, for my days are a breath. Job 7:15-16

  Being that the short message penned by Barlow contained the exact words from the bible verse, the authorities determined it to be a suicide note. It seemed to me to be an odd thing to write as a suicide note unless it was in conjunction with a more personal message, which it wasn’t. The bible verse constituted the entire note.

  “Oh, yeah!” Rip said, as he remembered something else Chuck had told him during their short phone conversation. “And another thing. Bruno also had a good alibi. Two days before the hurricane, he flew to San Francisco to visit an uncle who was dying from throat cancer. The uncle passed the next day, and Bruno stuck around another few days to attend the funeral.”

  “I’m sorry to hear he lost a close family member,” I said in a solemn voice. “But glad to hear Bruno has a verifiable alibi.”

  What the medical examiner had reported to Rip blew a big-ass hole in my latest theory, but at least I could finally mark a suspect off my list. On one hand, I was relieved to know Bruno wasn’t responsible for Reilly’s disappearance. But on the other hand, I was disappointed to know I was back to square one in my quest to determine who was responsible for the woman’s fate.

  As if to change the subject to something more positive, Regina said, “Before I forget to tell you guys, Chase is throwing a thirtieth birthday party for Tiffany in October. We probably won’t be able to get away, but she’d be so happy if you two could make it. She hasn’t seen her grandparents in a while, and I know she’s missed you.”

  “We’ve missed her and Chase too,” I said. Tiffany was our oldest grandchild and lived with her husband in Albuquerque, New Mexico. We hadn’t seen her in over two years. “Is it to be a surprise?”

  “No, or I wouldn’t have told you, Mom,” Regina said with a snort. “You and secrets are hardly a match made in heaven.”

  “Ain’t that the truth?” Rip said. “Your mother never could keep a secret.”

  “Whatever.” I was offended by both Regina and Rip’s remarks, but I really couldn’t argue the point. In fact, I’d just proven they were right. “We’ll put it on our schedule, sweetheart.”

  “Good. She’ll be thrilled to hear you’re coming,” Regina said.

  “Why don’t we keep the fact we’ll be there for her party to ourselves so we can surprise her? I’ll show you both I can keep a secret.” I wanted to prove it to them and myself, too.

  “Are you sure you and Milo won’t still need us in October?” Rip asked. His expression showed concern, but his tone made it clear he’d be ready to head somewhere else by then.

  “Yes. Tiffany’s birthday is the twenty-second, so we should be fine if you guys take off in mid-October.” Regina’s expression was one of gratitude, but her tone also made it clear she’d be ready for us to head somewhere else by then, too.

  I’m not sure if being able to read voices and facial expressions so accurately was a blessing or a curse.

  Twenty-Four

  After a fitful night of tossing and turning, I finally dozed off in the wee hours of the morning. I awoke at six to find Rip already up and about. From the bedroom, I could hear the coffee dripping into the carafe. I donned a pair of denim dungarees and a sleeveless cotton top and hobbled to the kitchen for a cup of strong Columbian brew.

  “What’s up, buttercup?” Rip greeted me. “How’s your ankle feeling?”

  “A little better, I suppose.” I gave him a quick peck on the lips. “But I didn’t sleep well last night.”

  “Yeah, no kidding." You kicked me a total of sixty-seven times throughout the course of the night, and several of those kicks were made with your injured ankle.”

  “You were counting?” I asked playfully.

  “Sixty-seven was a guesstimate. I lost track at forty.” Rip laughed and then grew serious. “Why couldn’t you sleep, honey?”

  “There was a pea under my mattress.”

  Rip looked at me in puzzlement. I could tell he thought I’d slipped three shots of tequila into my coffee cup. “Do you mean you stuffed that frozen bag of peas under the mattress instead of on top of your swollen ankle?”

  I should have known my reference to The Princess and the Pea, by Hans Christian Andersen, would fly over Rip’s head like a seagull trying to catch a bread crumb. “No. It was a reference from a classic children’s book where the princess in the story is tested by the prince to see if she’s a true princess before he marries her. He places a pea under her mattress. She feels the pea under the mattress and can’t sleep. The prince keeps stacking more mattresses on top of the pea, but the princess still keeps feel―”

  I stopped talking when I noticed the expression on Rip’s face. He didn’t have a clue what I was talking about, and clearly didn’t give a flying fig whether the princess passed the pea test, or not. “You lost me at ‘classic children’s book’. Were you awake half the night because you’re still upset about the missing neighbor?”

  “Yes. I couldn’t stop my mind from racing. And ‘murdered neighbor’ seems more probable than ‘missing neighbor’ at this point.”

  “Yeah, but I assumed that from the beginning. Reilly’s body would have resurfaced by now. With the constant movement of the water from tides, boat traffic, and the ever-present wind, it would have eventually jarred loose if it was hung up on something. The presence, and magnitude, of her blood on that crowbar is damning evidence of murder, as well.”

  “Absolutely.” I got up to get the coffee carafe and refilled our cups. Rip turned the television on to cat
ch the morning news, which gave me an opportunity to let those thoughts begin to race through my mind again.

  Now that I knew the murderer wasn’t Bruno, I wondered if he’d be open with me about everything he knew about Reilly and her relationship with Walker and the other men in the construction crew. I’m sure they all used each other’s tools on a regular basis. If the murder was spur of the moment, a crime of passion and opportunity, the killer might have grabbed the handiest thing available that would suffice as a weapon. If a coconut had been the closest item, Reilly might have been bonked to death with it rather than the crowbar.

  Bruno had shown kindness to me and genuine concern when I injured my ankle. He had even helped me to the street so my crutches wouldn’t sink into the saturated yard from the force of my weight. Maybe if he knew I was dabbling in Reilly’s disappearance, he’d be willing to share anything he knew that might aid me in getting to the truth of the matter.

  As it would turn out, he didn’t willingly offer me any useful information. But unbeknownst to him, his remarks led me straight to the perpetrator behind Reilly’s untimely death.

  “I’m going to make a run to Corpus for some materials. Again.” The way Rip added “again” told me he wasn’t thrilled about having to make the long trip back to Home Depot. “Milo forgot to put screws on the list, and his current project will come to a standstill soon without them. Speaking of screws, sometimes I think that boy has a loose one.”

  I smiled and gave Rip a warm hug. I had a feeling Milo had all the screws he needed and was just trying to keep Rip occupied. “Have patience, my dear. I know Milo and Regina really appreciate all your help. Both the kids have had their lives turned upside down and are understandably on edge. It’d be easy to forget something like screws. Besides, how many trips do we make to the hardware store every single time we take on a do-it-yourself project?”