Dial Marr for Murder

by Karen Cantwell

  “No paths though, right?” I asked.

  Del nodded. “Right. No paths from her house to the Nature Center.”

  “I grow award-winning day lilies. Do you like day lilies?” Helen asked me.

  “So you walked from your house to the Nature Center?” I asked Helen.

  Helen’s posture loosened, and she hunched down into the loveseat. “I did?” She peered back up at me. “Do you believe in ghosts?”

  “All she remembers is gardening, and then being at the pond and seeing a ghost kill Pickle,” Del said.

  “Why can’t you let her tell the police this?”

  “When her family finds out she had that huge lapse in memory and that she’s seeing ghosts, they’re not going to let her live alone. They’ve been trying to put her in a home for months now. My brother died in one of those places.” Del clutched at the lapels of her cardigan sweater, a pained look on her face.

  “I don’t want to go to a home, Del! Don’t let them put me in a home!”

  I swung my gaze from Helen’s outburst to Del. “What did you think you were going to do here?”

  “Hide out until they found the murderer.”

  “How’s that going to happen if you don’t let her talk to the police? Maybe she did see something. Maybe someone was dressed as a ghost.”

  “Ghosts are real you know,” Helen said.

  Del crossed her arms. “Is there anything I can do to convince you not to go to the police about this?”

  I evaded Del’s request. “Helen, do you remember anything else, besides the ghost—anything else at all about Pickle’s murder?”

  Helen fixed an empty stare in my direction. “Who is Pickle?”

  Chapter Seventeen

  I left the house after giving Del my word that I’d keep her and Helen’s whereabouts a secret for a day. If some sort of lead on this murder didn’t materialize by the time Eric was better and back on the trail, I’d have no choice but to confess my knowledge of their whereabouts. Eric was a friend, but he was unlikely to forgive me for keeping important details like that to myself.

  Helen’s ghost story nagged at me. I didn’t know why, but I felt it was more significant than Del’s belief that she was just seeing things. Given the proximity of the murder to Halloween, it seemed highly likely that someone dressed as a ghost had stabbed Richard Pickleseimer.

  The afternoon was slipping away, and I still had to visit Eric then meet Colt at the jewelry store.

  Even though Eric was still a bachelor, you’d never know it. His house was immaculate on the inside. I had to admit, I was envious. There was not one used tissue wadded up on the floor next to the couch where Eric lounged with a book.

  He was skeptical of drinking the flu bomb. “I’m already sick,” he said between hacking coughs. “Thank you, though.”

  “I used organic cider as the base and more ginger. Trust me. You want a strong immune system so you can kick this monster illness faster. Look at how much better I’m doing.”

  He coughed some more before taking a sip. “I think my taste buds are dead. But at least I can drink it.”

  “Speaking of deadness,” I said. “I don’t mean to push you while you’re sick, but did you get anywhere on the Pickleseimer murder case?”

  He set the flu bomb on the coffee table. “Not really. He was killed with his own knife, I told you that, right?”

  “No.”

  “Oh. Then yes. He was killed with his own knife. I suspected as much since he was found with an empty knife holster on his calf, but I just received verification from forensics. They processed two sets of finger prints. One set were Pickle’s prints, but they couldn’t ID the second set.” Eric erupted into a coughing fit that hurt my chest just hearing it. I told him I’d leave him be, but that he should try to finish the drink I’d brought. Poor guy had it bad. He would be down for another two or three days at least. I kept my word to Del and didn’t tell Eric where she and Helen were hiding. I figured in his state, he couldn’t do anything about it anyway and talked myself into thinking he’d forget before getting back to work. I'd tell him when he was healthier and could focus on the case.

  By the time I made it to the jewelry store, Colt was already being assisted by an eager saleswoman smelling a big commission. He held out a big, sparkly, diamond-encrusted whopper. “What do you think?”

  I held up my hand feigning a need to shield my eyes from a blinding light. “That would be fine if you were marrying Zsa Zsa Gabor, maybe.”

  “Too much?” Colt studied the diamond in his palm.

  “Too showy. Too gaudy. Too everything,” I said. “Think about Vikki’s house and how she’s decorated it. Sleek, modern, not flashy or showy. That’s the kind of ring you want.”

  He addressed the saleswoman. “Show me more of what she said.”

  The woman narrowed her eyes at me. “Of course. If you’ll step down here.” She moved to her right and we sidled over. A phone rang, and the woman excused herself. “Just one moment, please.”

  “Did you find that Del woman?”

  “I did. And she wasn’t packing heat. She was, however, hiding Helen Moyer.”

  “You need to tell Eric.” Colt leaned over to peer into the glass jewelry case.

  “I know. But he’s sick.” I bit the edge of my nail. “I’m going to wait a bit.”

  Colt straightened up from the case to look at me. “Why are they hiding?”

  “Long story.” My eyes caught sight of two women entering the store. They made a bee-line toward me, their eyes wide.

  “You’re That Barbara Marr,” woman number one said, stating the obvious, and shoving a pen and paper at me. “Can I get your autograph?”

  Colt bit his lip, suppressing a snicker. I’d kick him later.

  “Sure, I guess.” This whole autograph-giving thing was new to me. I wondered if I should scribble anything besides my signature.

  As if she’d read my mind, woman number two shoved a piece of paper at me. “Me too,” she said. “Can you write, To Kara, Moms for Manners Unite?”

  “Moms for Manners?” I questioned her.

  Colt helped me out. “Your interview with Guy Mertz inspired a new movement, Curly. Where have you been?”

  I scribbled out the requested autographs, a nervous smile on my face.

  Woman number one gushed, “Moms for Manners isn’t the only one. There’s also Real Men Apologize. You’re our new hero, Barbara.”

  I handed her the paper. “Call me, Barb.”

  They thanked me and left. I kicked Colt.

  “Ouch!” he whined. “Don’t kick the messenger!”

  The sales lady returned and asked us if we saw anything more interesting.

  I pointed to a lovely pear-shaped stone, and steered the conversation to a different topic. “How did your research for Vikki go? Learn anything interesting about that POGO Lab place?”

  “I’ll say.” He picked the ring up for closer inspection, but gave it back to the woman, unimpressed. “Some pretty wild POGO stories when you dig deep enough. There are a few whackos out there who claim in the early 1980’s they were abducted as young boys and subjected to mind control and time travel experiments at a secret military base on Long Island. Only the base has been non-operational since WWII. Supposedly, POGO and this secret military installation are nearly one and the same.”

  Time travel. Hmm. “Seriously? Do you believe it?”

  He shrugged. “I’ve seen enough in my lifetime to not rule it out, let’s just put it that way. True or not though, it’s great fodder for Vikki’s next book.”

  “So you plan to dig a little deeper?” I wet my lips.

  “I do. You’ve got that glint in your eye. What gives?”

  I wasn’t about to go into Moyle’s story or my new theory about Helen’s ghost in a jewelry store with people all around. “Let’s buy this ring first. Then I want to buy you a coffee.”

  It took him so long to decide not to decide that we didn’t have time for coffee and
we had to talk while he walked me to my car.

  “So what were wrong with those rings?” I asked him.

  “None of them spoke to me.”

  “That’s okay. If it doesn’t feel right, it doesn’t feel right. You should look around some more, then. There’s a jeweler over by Lake Muir. Less commercial, and they can even design one for you if that’s what you want. We can go over there tomorrow.” We arrived at my van. “Listen, I have something to tell you now, and you have to not go crazy on me.”

  Colt’s forehead wrinkled. “When do I ever go crazy on you?”

  “When I mention Moyle’s name.” I shifted my weight from one leg to another.

  “Are you going to mention Moyle’s name?”

  “I’ve got to make this quick, because the girls will be home soon and I want to be there to meet them. So here it goes, and no going crazy.” I took a deep breath and I spilled the whole story. I told him about Moyle living in Olga’s guest house using the pseudonym Bob; that Moyle had been dreaming about Ed Sigmund, Bernie Ford, and Pickle and a flashing sign with the word POGO, and the fact that all three of them had known each other when they lived in, of all places, Long Island, New York.

  Colt’s lip twitched once or twice, but generally, he kept his cool.

  “So,” he pondered, once I’d finished. “Is Moyle the POGO graffiti artist?”

  “He could be, I guess. I was actually on my way to his place to ask that question when I got sidetracked by Del Rowenhorst.”

  “I thought you said he was homeless.”

  “I told you, he’s living in Olga’s guest house. Keep up, Colt.”

  “Right. Right. Bob the gardener. You’re throwing a lot at me here. Why are you telling me all of this, by the way?”

  “Keep digging into POGO. In case it’s somehow related to Pickle’s murder.” I snuck a peek at my phone to check the time. “I need to go.”

  “Tell me the guy’s real name again.”

  “Moyle or Pickle?”

  “Pickle.”

  “Richard Pickleseimer.” I unlocked the van. “After I get the girls working on their homework, I’ll run by Moyle’s. I’ll let you know what I learn, if anything.”

  He saluted and then pointed toward the far end of the parking lot. “I’m parked thatta way.”

  I slipped into the van and started up the engine. The clock on the dash told me I had fifteen minutes to get home before the buses arrived. Bethany had a key, but I liked to be there when they got home. I pulled my cell phone out of my coat pocket to check for missed calls or texts. I smiled when I spotted a text from Callie.

  Got an A on my Bio quiz! Highest score in the class! How are you feeling?

  I set my fingers in the typing position to reply when the hard, cold feel of steel on my neck froze me in place.

  A man’s voice in my ear gave me succinct instructions. “Hand that over. You won’t be communicating with anyone for a while.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  The man’s voice wasn’t familiar. I slid my gaze to the rearview mirror. The two eyes staring back at me were familiar though. I’d seen them in that group picture of Olga’s. The eyes of a man everyone believed to be dead. I wondered if this was Helen Moyer’s killer ghost.

  I handed over my cell. “You’re Ed Sigmund, aren’t you?”

  “Ed is dead.”

  “Or, maybe he’s not.” I squinted at the man in my back seat via the mirror. “I think you’re Ed Sigmund.”

  A cold, dead stare accompanied his answer. “Maybe I am and maybe I’m not.”

  “Seriously, let’s cut the crap, Ed. You killed Pickle.”

  He shoved the gun into my neck harder. “Drive.”

  I cut my gaze to the van’s side mirror to see if I could spot Colt. “Where to?”

  “I don’t know. Just drive.”

  “You don’t have a plan? This isn’t my first kidnapping you know. The fact of the matter is, this isn’t going to work if you don’t know where you want to take me.”

  My cavalier attitude wasn’t born out of recklessness— the rearview mirror gave me a good enough look at the gun barrel to know Ed was holding me hostage with an air pistol, not the real deal.

  The orange tip was a giveaway. Peggy’s oldest son had one just like it. Even if Ed’s was loaded with pellets, the most harm it would do would be give me a bruise. So I was feeling pretty cool. Cool as a cucumber. Until an image appeared out of nowhere in my window. A smiling young woman knocked on the glass. “Are you That Barbara Marr? Can I get your autograph?” She held up a pen and pad of paper.

  Not a very hearty kidnapper, Ed dropped to the floor of the van and as he did, I noticed a tattoo on his left hand of two crossed anchors.

  The smiling lady motioned me to roll down the window.

  As I did so, the sliding door on the passenger side swung open hard. At first, with the confusion of the toothy fan girl’s arrival, I thought Ed was making a getaway. As I wrenched around in my seat to grab him, I saw that Colt was there, dragging Ed out by the collar. Colt’s face was mad dog red with fury. I pushed my own door open into the autograph hound whose face was alight with glee.

  “He told me you were in trouble and to ask for your autograph. I’m saving That Barbara Marr. I can’t believe it! Will we be on the news?”

  Ignoring her, I circled around the van at breakneck speed. Colt needed to know the gun wasn’t real.

  “Colt! Wait! Be gentle!” I shouted.

  Two female shoppers leaving the mall spotted Colt’s attack on Ed and began shouting. The older of the two women wasn’t happy at all. “Hey! Leave that poor old man alone!”

  The younger woman, with no hesitation whatsoever, charged toward us. She’d dropped her shopping bags and had an umbrella poised to begin some serious hitting. “Mom!” she shouted. “Call 911! Report it as elder abuse!”

  By now, anyone who was in the parking lot for whatever reason, had their eyes on the pandemonium breaking out around my van. Something told me that the smiling autograph seeker would get her wish and make the evening news. “Colt!” I shouted again. “It’s not a real gun! He had no plan!”

  My would-be savior had run around the other way and was attempting to reason with the umbrella woman, but nothing was stopping the good Samaritan. In the blink of an eye, she was batting Colt with that thing like Sheriff Buford Pusser in Walking Tall.

  You know those stories on the news about some poor soul who had been beat up in broad daylight while passers-by just sat back and did nothing? Well, the good news was, you won’t find that kind of apathy in Rustic Woods. No siree. In Rustic Woods, they protect the elderly.

  And that was how not-dead Ed Sigmund got away.

  And how Colt very nearly suffered a concussion.

  The police came.

  As did the news crews.

  An hour and twenty minutes later, as I drove an achy and bruised Colt to his car across the lot, I tried to look on the bright side. “Well, at least we were able to tell the police Ed Sigmund faked his death and possibly killed Pickle. Do you think they’ll stake out his house until they catch him?”

  “If he even has a house anymore.” Colt held the cold pack that one of the EMTs had given him up to his head.

  I did a quick internet search from my phone. “Looks like he still has a house. We could drive over there now.”

  “What about the girls?”

  “I texted my mom, while the police interrogated you. She’s going over to watch them.”

  “I’ll check it out. You go home.”

  As I pulled up beside his prized GTO, his cell phone rang.

  “It’s Vikki,” he said, answering. “Hey, Red. What’s cookin’?” He’d begun to push his door open with his foot, when his motion halted. His soft expression hardened. His forehead creased.

  “Okay, okay” he said in a reassuring tone. “I’ll be right there. Do what you can to keep him calm. I’m five minutes away. Three if I ignore red lights. Hang on, baby.” He disconnected
and jumped out of the van. “Change of plans. Follow me to Vikki’s.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Your crazy man, Moyle, is what’s wrong. He’s at Vikki’s demanding his money. She says he’s shorted a brain fuse.”

  Colt wasn’t kidding about the red lights. I wouldn’t exactly say he ignored them, but he tested their limits. I tried to follow, but at the second intersection, I slowed to a safer, less ticket-inducing speed.

  His car was in the driveway when I arrived. I parked at the curb, locked my van, and ran across the front yard. From outside, I could hear Moyle’s ranting.

  Passing through the open door, I closed it behind me so neighbors wouldn’t hear the ruckus. I’d had my fill of helpful people for one day.

  Moyle writhed on Vikki’s carpeted living room floor. “Not again!” he wailed, “It hurts. Please, I’m begging you.”

  “Has he been like this the whole time?” I asked Vikki, who clung tightly to Colt.

  She shook her head. “At first, he was fine. He showed up at the sliding glass door instead of the front door, which was kind of creepy, but you’d told me he was back so I went ahead and let him in. He sat on the couch and was talking about the weather and how he’d been gardening, but it didn’t make him any money. I said I’d be glad to get his portion of the lottery winnings out of the trust, but that it would take a day or two. I offered him coffee. He said milk would be better, but then suddenly, this.” Vikki motioned to the convulsing Moyle.

  I ran to the refrigerator for milk. “He just fell to the floor without warning?” I poured milk into a glass and rushed back.

  “No. He paced at first. Rambling on about a twisty tunnel and anchors and lies.”

  My mind went back to the crossed anchors tattoo I’d just seen on Ed Sigmund’s hand. “You’re sure he said anchors?”

  She nodded. “Definitely.”

  “Ed Sigmund had a tattoo on his hand, Colt. Two black anchors, crossed.”

  “Yeah, I saw it,” Colt said.

  I crouched beside Moyle who cradled his head with his hands as if soothing a headache. “Moyle, it’s me, Barb. Do you want some milk?” I rubbed his arm to get his attention. “Can you sit up and drink?”