Carol beamed at the cashier despite her paranoia, handing over two twenty dollar bills, brushing the girl’s hand in the process. The cashier stretched her lips in a perfunctory smile and moved her gaze to the next customer in line. She did not suspect she’d just been touched by a murderer.
Her disguise appeared foolproof. Still, every police car she saw sent her heart rate into the red zone. She did not relax until she was north of Dayton.
Planning was everything, especially when it was based on good research. Few people knew that Port Huron, a town north of Detroit, was a haven for smugglers during prohibition. Kegs of Canadian liquor were ferried with impunity across the Saint Clair River, the journey embarked upon in the middle of night at the waterway’s darkest and narrowest point.
It was a matter of math. Most people would not realize it was quicker to drive to Canada than it was to get on an international flight in Cincinnati. While the police were watching the local airports, She was driving north in Sarah’s car, each mile taking her further from pursuit and capture.
Carol pulled over at the Love’s Travel Stop outside Toledo because she did not want to arrive at Port Huron too early. Arby’s was the only place to eat, so she’d dawdled over her farmer salad as long as she could and went up to the counter a second time for onion rings. She shouldn’t eat fried foods, but Arby’s made such wonderful onion rings. Afterwards, the chocolate turnover called her name. She denied herself. Someone might remember her if she made three trips to the counter. She did not want to be remembered.
A trip to the ladies room allowed her to swap her old-lady guise for Teva sport sandals, quick-dry shorts, and a head wrap. She bought a smartphone at the Love’s store, filled her gas tank halfway—she wouldn’t need more—then spent an hour in her car registering the phone and downloading apps.
With the alarm on her new phone set for eleven-thirty, she reclined the driver’s seat as far as it would go and closed her eyes.
Carol drained the last of a cup of ghastly coffee as she drove into the south end of Port Huron. She hoped it would not give her heartburn.
A factory sat across the Busha Highway from the Saint Clair river. Carol parked Sarah’s car in the employee lot, knowing that with the factory running twenty-four hours, the car would not be discovered for weeks. A fold-up luggage trolley provided the means to haul a lightweight inflatable boat, a trolling motor, and her carry-on to a little-used landing she’d discovered on Google Earth.
Practice inside her storage unit enabled her to inflate the boat in the dark. Wading into the impenetrable black of the river gave her a bad moment, as did climbing into the wobbly boat. She shoved off with an oar and turned on the trolling motor. The boat ran aground at the Sarnia Indian Reserve fifteen not very strenuous minutes later.
She left the boat behind. The next fisherman to arrive was sure to tuck it away in the trunk of his car. After all, it cost five hundred dollars and was almost new.
Carol cut through the strip of houses along the Canadian shore, into the woods at the heart of the reserve and found a soft place under a tree to rest. She patted her pocket to ensure her pepper spray was still there, then lay her head on her carryon and drifted into restless sleep.
Sunlight and twittering birds roused Carol earlier than she would have liked. Her joints ached. She cursed herself for not bringing something warm for her one night in the Canadian woods. She stood up one cracking joint at a time and decided that would likely be the most difficult thing she would do all day.
She did what she could to brush the bits of twigs and grass off her clothes, then set out on the four mile walk to the Sarnia train station. It could not be helped. Sarnia bus service did not extend this far south. By the time she reached a Tim Hortons doughnut shop, she was ready to cry.
Carol roused from her nap on the train and used her new phone to pull up the Toronto-Pearson International Airport schedule on her browser. She booked herself a first class seat on an afternoon flight to Cozumel. Running north, only to fly south. The route was, at first glance, irrational. All the better to confound pursuers.
The Toronto airport had a large number of international flights daily, with Cancun and Cozumel serving as her gateway to Central America. She hadn’t decided between Belize and Costa Rica as her new home. Unheard of for her to not have every last detail nailed down. She would have fun traveling around before she settled. The thought of being so spontaneous made her dizzy.
Carol steadied herself with one hand on the long, stainless steel table at the airport security checkpoint while she used the other to remove her shoes. She lined them up precisely in the bin, setting her purse next to them, then her sweater. The nice young man in front of her lifted her carryon onto the rollers that fed into the scanner.
Daphne Ashling’s passport and identification passed muster. Once she was through the metal detector, she would be safe. The measures that kept terrorists out would protect her from pursuers.
She smiled brilliantly at the man monitoring the metal detector. He waved her through, then nodded politely as she crossed from danger into freedom.
“Enjoy your journey,” he said.
“I certainly will,” she answered.
Belongings retrieved, she strolled, lifting her head to take in the sun streaming through the skylights running the length of the terminal. There was time for a lovely, leisurely meal before she boarded.
She stopped to scan a map of the terminal, trying to decide what she was in the mood to eat. Indian and Thai were too spicy and sushi too adventurous for her, but the panini bar sounded promising.
Carol had just placed her order on the table’s iPad when she felt a hard hug from behind.
“Auntie! I can’t believe you’re here.”
Carol jerked away and turned to face a pair of smiling red lips and gray eyes.
“Don’t say a word.” The whispered command came from Carol’s other side as a restraining hand landed on her shoulder.
Linda Lyle slipped into the chair next to Carol’s and leaned forward.
“This is so amazing, running into you like this” Linda enthused.
Carol felt two sharp points against her bare thigh.
“Now, don’t scream, Auntie,” Linda said, her voice lower, “I have a Taser pressed against your leg. If you make one move, I will juice you up and claim you had a seizure.”
“You’re bluffing,” Carol sneered. “You can’t bring a Taser through airport security.”
“You’d be surprised, Auntie,” Leroy said, taking the seat on Carol’s other side. “You can’t bring a Taser, but you can bring everything you need to make one.”
Leroy placed a disposable camera on the table, keeping his hand on it. Two screws jutted out of the end closest to Carol. She frowned at the device.
“The screws are wired to the battery in the camera. Linda was kind enough to make one for me, too. There’s no way to control the power level.” Leroy leaned over so he could whisper. “That means you can’t predict what will happen when you use it. Makes things more fun, don’t you think?” He sat back up. “Now, we’re going to talk.”
“I think I’m hungry,” Linda said. “I see no reason why we can’t have a civilized meal while we’re here.”
“How did you find me?” Carol asked.
“Wasn’t hard,” Leroy grinned the infectious and disarming grin that sold so many books. “I remember an argument you had with the others over the best way to slip out of the country for one of the books. It was on that god-awful boring drive to Chicago for a book signing. No one ever gives me credit for paying attention. You were outvoted because your plan was too complicated. I thought it was brilliant.
“When you poofed yesterday, I knew exactly what you’d do. I figured airport security was the one sure place we could head you off, if we could get here before you. Linda was nice enough to offer me a ride. I imagine we passed you on the road.”
“What do you want?” Carol gritted out between her teeth.
“Auntie, don’t sulk,” Linda cajoled. “We’re having a reunion. You should be happy.”
Linda tapped on the table’s iPad and pulled up the menu. “Leroy, what are you in the mood for? I think I’m going for the baked penne. Easier to eat with one hand.”
“I’ll take the roast beef panini and a beer. Tell me, Auntie, how much did you sock away in the Caymans?”
Carol glared.
“Ooh, she’s giving you the stink-eye,” Linda said. “Honey, we just want you to take a minute and think about what’s at stake.”
They paused their conversation as the food arrived.
“All those foreign editions and audiobooks. So many income streams that never made it into the Bang Bang Books account,” Leroy said, watching the waiter leave. “I had no idea I was so popular.”
“Do the others know?” Carol asked.
“Not yet. How much is there? Two million? Three? You know you can’t spend it all. I want my share.”
“And you’ll let me board my plane?”
“First we need to take care of business. We’ll need you on hand until the transfers are completed. That might be tomorrow.”
“I’m not leaving this terminal,” Carol said.
“Now, Auntie,” Linda said, forking up a bite of penne. “Umm, this is so good. I’d give you a bite, but you might spit it back at me. You’re going to get sick and Leroy will get a wheelchair so we can roll you out of here. That’s if you cooperate. If we have to, we’ll bash you on the head and strap you in.”
“I bet she has everything stored on her phone,” Leroy said. “We could just take it and let her go.”
“You wouldn’t be able to crack it,” Carol sneered.
“You hired a hacker to look for me. I’m sure I can pay him more than you did.”
“Oh, dear,” Linda sighed. “I was so hoping we could be civilized about this.”
“I feel ill,” Carol said.
“That’s the spirit,” Leroy said.
19
Saturday, July 17
Peter eyed Carol Cohn on the monitor outside the downtown interrogation room. She sat at rigid attention that could only have been learned at the hands of nuns during her childhood. Her expression, one of superiority, gave no ground. On the other hand, her quick-dry shorts and wrinkle-proof knit top had been defeated through many hours of riding chained-up in Linda’s RV. The formerly perfect pouf of red hair hung in tatters around her face.
Not feeling any remorse, are you?
“Some killer, huh?” Brent said, nodding at the small figure. “Shall we go shake a confession out of her?”
Brent followed Peter into the interview room. They stood before her, arms crossed.
Carol looked up with a quizzical expression. “I don’t understand why I’m here.”
“I imagine it’s for the same reason you toppled three cat trees and ran out of Cecilie Watkins’ house.”
“Those cat trees have always been wobbly. They must have fallen on their own.”
“Dumping Sarah’s car in Port Huron? Sneaking into Canada? Flying under a fake passport?”
“Research.” Carol gave her mouth a tiny, smug quirk.
“You’ve been very busy,” Brent said, sighing with a sorrowful look. “Funneling automatic deposits from your book vendors through an account you opened using the social security number of a deceased client, then shooting the works into the Caymans.”
Carol shrugged. “A girl has to have a hobby.”
“And Sarah Schellenger? Is strangling your friends another one of your hobbies?” Brent asked.
Carol looked at them and blinked once, slowly, like a lizard. Her glasses magnified her eyes, reinforcing the resemblance.
“What happened with Sarah?” Peter asked. “You were lifelong friends.”
“Not friends. Not exactly.”
“No?” Brent asked.
Peter and Brent remained still, waiting for Carol to fill the silence. Finally she closed her eyes and heaved a sigh.
“Did you really grill Leroy for six hours when he returned?” Carol asked.
“That we did,” Brent said. “But I’m sure that’s nothing to a woman who rowed across the Saint Clair River in pitch darkness.”
“Speaking of Leroy,” Peter said, “did he tell you he recorded your conversation in the RV? The one where you accessed your offshore bank account? The shot of your balance has great resolution.”
Carol pursed her lips, thinking. Brent and Peter waited. Peter imagined she was doing the math: eventually she would tell them, if it took six hours or ten hours, or twenty. With the bank accounts, they had too much evidence for her to bluff her way out. Finally she shook her head and scoffed quietly. “I always knew he’d be trouble.
“There’s always this one person,” Carol continued, “They’re younger, taller, prettier, smarter. Everyone likes them. If you bring cupcakes you baked yourself to the church potluck, nobody eats them because they’re too busy stuffing themselves with her Oreos. If you go to a party together, all the men ignore you while they try to get her attention. She marries a man who adores her. It doesn’t matter what you do, she always does it better and her life is always easier.
“I suggest an idea for the books, and everyone poo-poos it. Sarah suggests the exact same thing two days later and they’re all on board, because she’s so brilliant. Why is that?”
“You resented Sarah,” Brent said. “You felt unappreciated. Is that why you embezzled from the group?”
“It was too easy,” she smirked. “They left all the paperwork to me. ‘Go back to your adding machine, Carol,’” she mimicked. “‘We’re the creative folks. We need you to pick up after us and keep us out of trouble with the IRS. We don’t need you for the fun stuff.’”
“If you hated her so much, why did you belong to Fiber and Snark?” Brent asked.
“I didn’t hate her, not exactly. I was her—the young girls call it a ‘frenemy’. The group was fun when it started. Sarah was just an irritant, like a little rock in your shoe that you can’t ever shake out, and every once in a while it gets into the right spot and it stabs your foot. Most of the time it was fine.”
“What changed, Mrs. Cohn?”
“When Frank passed, I had to find ways to fill my time. That’s when I started going to Sarah’s group. Anything to get out of that house. Then the writing started, and that was exciting, making money with the books. But Sarah decided we needed to give it all away, and everyone just nods their heads like a bunch of puppets.”
“So you made sure you got your share. Did Sarah realize what was going on?” Peter asked.
“Of course not. Nobody was minding the store but me.”
“Why kill her?” Peter asked.
“It was the house.”
“What house?” Brent asked, perplexed.
“Mrs. Peltier’s house? The one Sarah bought, next to Alma’s?” Peter asked.
“I loved that house since I was a little girl. That was before Ruth went dotty and turned it into a warehouse for the Home Shopping Network. I’d walk past it on the way to school and pretend I lived there. I picked a room for myself, one with a turret, and I imagined myself sitting on the window seat and waving at the world from my castle.
“Ruth never liked me. I never once got to go inside. I was in high school when Sarah started first grade, and my mother expected me to walk Sarah home every day. Ruth invited her in for cookies every Thursday.
“I’d be walking alongside Sarah, and Ruth would open her door and call out to Sarah and ask her in for a snack. The next day, Sarah would jabber on about the cookies and how many she ate, and she’d show me some gaudy piece of costume jewelry Ruth gave her to play with.
“I never should have told Sarah the house was on the market. She didn’t bother to think about me. She just barged in and outbid everyone. One person shouldn’t have so much.”
“She killed Sarah over the house?” Debby was astounded.
“She knew the contract wo
uld be voided if Sarah died before the closing,” Lia explained. “That would give her another chance at it. But I think the house was just the final straw after a lifetime of envying everything Sarah had.”
“What about Leroy? Why did she drag him into it?” Debby asked.
“Leroy’s kidnapping had nothing to do with Sarah. He’d made noises to Carol about getting involved in writing the books and running the business. Carol knew if he got his hands on the spreadsheets, he would figure out what she was doing. The accounting was perfect according to the deposits that were made to your bank, but the foreign editions were published under a separate account and the royalties were deposited into Carol’s offshore bank.
“When Carol decided to kill Sarah, Leroy’s disappearance made him a convenient scapegoat. She faked the phone call to Alice by splicing together recordings of practice interviews she did with Leroy, which she manipulated to get the phrases she needed. Then she added in enough static to make it sound like a bad connection, and when Alice’s back was turned, she deleted Alice’s messages so it could never be analyzed.
“She faked the attack on herself and drugged Cecilie’s sport drink, so when Sarah died, it would point back to Leroy and everyone would think it was about the books. If the only attack was on Sarah, the police would look at other motives for her death.
“Carol carried the burner phone with her and put the battery in when she wanted it to ping and place Leroy nearby.”
“That little—” Debby’s face was now red.
“I think the word you’re looking for is ‘biotch,’” Alice said.
“Why did she get him out of the way in the first place? What good was that going to do? He was still going to come back,” Cecilie said.
“The way I understand it, it was a two-pronged plan. By forcing him to write all day long for a month, she expected him to develop such an aversion to writing that he would happily return to being your handsome but clueless frontman,” Lia said.
Muddy Mouth: A Dog Park Mystery Page 20
