Survival of the Fritters

by Ginger Bolton

  Why had five years elapsed between the two murders?

  Woods streamed in a blur past the old car’s windows. I fidgeted with the handle that would roll down the window next to me.

  “Finding all the right knobs for this car wasn’t easy,” Oliver told me. “Didn’t I do a great job on details?”

  My left hand curled into a fist. My nails stabbed into the heel of my hand. “Yes.”

  Details. Five years between murders. Why? Randy had left town shortly after the first murder and returned shortly before the second one.

  Five years ago, Oliver must have known that Randy was moving away. Oliver could have plotted that Randy would appear to have fled Fallingbrook to avoid being arrested for murdering Matthias. It could have worked. Randy might have been on Alec and Brent’s suspect list, but his teenage history of violence and his moving away must not have been enough for them to build a case against him.

  And then, shortly after Randy returned, someone killed Georgia. This time, Oliver’s almost flawless impersonation and his planting of evidence in Randy’s car had succeeded. Randy was in custody, charged with both murders.

  How had Oliver driven Randy’s cars without Randy’s knowledge? To keep my hands still, I slid them, palms down on the vinyl, underneath my thighs.

  Had Randy taken his cars to Oliver’s father’s dealerships for servicing? Five years ago, Randy could have told Oliver that he needed the car to be in good shape for the long drive to Wyoming. The car that Randy owned then was old, though, and probably long past its warranty. Why would he take it to a dealer, and not to a possibly less expensive mechanic?

  Tom had told me that Randy and the son of a gas station owner had injured each other with knives. I was almost certain that, five years ago, only one of Fallingbrook’s gas stations had a mechanic’s bay. If the owner of that station was the father of the boy Randy fought, Randy might have continued to avoid taking his car to that station for servicing. The other mechanics in town five years ago had worked for Oliver’s father, who had owned all of Fallingbrook’s car dealerships.

  Matthias had disappeared before an evening meeting with potential hockey players and their parents. If Oliver had been overseeing the servicing of Randy’s car, Oliver could have legitimately taken it for a test drive, a very long one. During it, Oliver could have killed Matthias and buried him near the Fallingbrook River, and then raced away from that valley while Lois photographed the setting sun. If Lois had produced the photo of the car right away, Randy might have been able to prove that his car was being serviced at the time the photo was taken. But she hadn’t, and Randy had left for Wyoming. Now, five years later, if he even remembered that his car was being serviced that evening, he probably didn’t have the receipts to prove it. He no longer had that car, for one thing.

  Early Monday morning, Randy’s car wasn’t being serviced. Oliver had removed it from the parking lot outside Randy’s apartment building. How had Oliver obtained a key without Randy’s knowledge?

  My mind seemed to spin faster than the tires on that isolated country road, and I came up with a theory. After Randy returned from Wyoming, he could have taken his car to one of Oliver’s maintenance departments. Oliver could have secretly ordered an extra key for himself. When I’d asked Oliver how he accomplished so much, he’d claimed that he never needed much sleep. Around five last Monday morning, he could have parked his own car somewhere behind Randy’s apartment building. He could have dressed like Randy, appeared near the back of the building, and taken Randy’s car.

  Starring in those plays and musicals back in high school, Oliver had been a good actor. As Captain Hook, he had swaggered around the stage. Imitating Randy’s bowlegged gait would have been a cinch.

  Randy’s car was returned to the parking lot when it was just getting light, and the man I now suspected was Oliver had disappeared behind Randy’s apartment building, probably to retrieve his own car.

  On Monday evening, the man the police and I thought was Randy had walked through Randy’s apartment building lobby. He’d left around seven and had returned, carrying a white plastic bag, around ten. Lois had been attacked around nine thirty that night.

  Watching the video, Brent and I had concluded that while Randy was gone that evening, he had attacked Lois, and then he’d brought the bag containing her photos, the bloodied rock, and the chisel into the apartment building. Later, in the wee hours of Tuesday morning, it had appeared that he’d taken the bag out through the apartment building’s rear door and shoved it into his trunk.

  “Smooth ride, isn’t it?”

  Oliver’s question made me jump. “Yes. Are the springs original?”

  “No.” He gave me a long-winded explanation about searching for and finding springs.

  Barely listening, I went back to my conjectures.

  I’d assumed that the white plastic bag that the Randy look-alike had shoved into Randy’s trunk was the one I’d seen Randy carry into his lobby, but maybe it wasn’t. Maybe the man who showed up in Randy’s lobby was Randy, while the man who came and went from behind the apartment building was Oliver.

  And Oliver had killed Georgia and attacked Lois.

  I remembered the sleeve that had been rolled up when the Randy look-alike talked to Honey Bellaire and when he parked Randy’s car a few minutes later. Had the right sleeve been rolled up to hide blood? What had become of that shirt? Oliver would have known better than to shove it into Randy’s trunk with the rest of the evidence. People constantly shed skin cells. Oliver’s DNA would have been inside that shirt.

  Randy’s car had been in the parking lot of his apartment building early Monday morning, which implied, if he wasn’t the one who took his car away that morning, that he’d been in his apartment while Georgia was murdered. Where had he gone between seven and ten Monday evening? Had he seen anyone either of those two times? If so, had he told the police, and they’d failed to corroborate his story? I pulled my hands out from underneath my jittery legs and folded my arms.

  I wanted to be home. I would ask Brent to come over. I would tell him my latest theories. What would he say?

  Probably that I was making up impossible scenarios in hopes of freeing my friend’s great-nephew.

  In a way, I hoped I was wrong about Oliver. If I was right, I could be in danger.

  The road curved, and the woods fell away, revealing a heart-stopping view of the Fallingbrook River winding through a valley. The setting sun lit the clouds and the river below them with an apricot-tinted glow. Even if I didn’t know that valley, I’d have recognized it from Lois’s photos and painting.

  Five years ago, on an evening very much like this one, Matthias had been buried in that valley.

  Chapter 34

  “It’s quite a sight, isn’t it?” Oliver said.

  “Yes.” I hoped he would think that the catch in my voice was an emotional response to the beauty of the scene.

  Cars and vans were parked on both sides of the road near the dirt track leading down to the river and, if I understood correctly, to where Matthias’s remains had been found.

  Without slowing the car, Oliver asked, “Can you tell what’s going on?”

  The vehicles were unmarked police cars and vans, and Brent was among the investigators watching the 1950 Ford police car speed past. For once, I was glad that Detective Yvonne Passenmath was fond of making her underlings toil over old trails and cold clues. Oliver couldn’t take me down that lonely track and bury me near where he, or someone, had buried Matthias.

  Reflections of the sunset on the passenger side windows could have prevented the officers from seeing me inside the black and white 1950 Ford, and I had trouble with the handle that rolled down the window. I opened it only a few inches, and then we’d passed Brent and the others. They couldn’t have caught more than a glimpse of the top of my head, and I wasn’t the only short person in the world with dark curly hair. I should have worn my Deputy Donut hat with the fuzzy donut. “It looks like a police investigation.”<
br />
  “Randy,” Oliver said. “What a tragedy.”

  I didn’t know how to respond without giving away my suspicion that Oliver was the actual murderer.

  He accelerated even more. “Have you heard of anyone else missing?”

  “No.”

  “I suppose not, now that Randy’s in jail and we’re all safe again.”

  We were heading toward Fallingbrook Falls. Although it was a popular tourist attraction, no one was likely to be tramping up and down the steep cliffs beside it after sunset. Oliver could shove me off the falls and claim later that I’d slipped.

  If I opened the door and jumped out of the car, I might hurt or kill myself. Plus, there’d be nothing to keep Oliver from stopping and making certain that I could never tell the authorities my suspicions about him. With any luck, despite my wiggling and choppy breathing, he had no idea about the disturbing thoughts churning through my brain.

  Maybe I was having that luck. Before we neared the falls, he turned the Ford around. “I’m a night owl, but you need to get up early, right?”

  “Right.” I was making a pleat in the knee of my black jeans. I slid my hands underneath my thighs again.

  I was afraid that the officers might have left the road above the river valley, but although the sun had dipped below the horizon, it was still light, and the police vehicles were still there. Oliver slowed to the speed limit.

  Brent was now on the right shoulder, his back toward us, striding toward an unmarked police car.

  “You can drop me off here.” I managed to sound calm. “Some of Alec’s old friends will take me home.”

  “I wouldn’t do that. You might be stranded for hours, waiting for them to finish.” He sounded caring and considerate. He was a good actor, I reminded myself.

  My handle turning had improved. I wound the window almost all the way down.

  We were about to pass Brent.

  He looked toward the Ford. I brushed my hair away from my forehead and then lowered my hand and pulled on my earlobe, hard, several times. It was a signal that Alec and I had worked out between us in case either of us ever wanted help from the other. It could have meant anything from “let’s make our excuses and leave this party” to “save my life.”

  I didn’t know if Alec had ever described that signal to Brent. And even if he had, did Brent see me give it? I wasn’t sure that he’d recognized me. Turning my face to look back, I caught a glimpse of his frown, and then Oliver’s wonderful car rounded a curve and left the Fallingbrook River valley behind.

  Oliver fingered the dash. “The original car didn’t have air-conditioning, but this one does. I didn’t realize you were too hot. Most women don’t like having their hair blown around.”

  I rolled the window up again. “I couldn’t resist trying it. I don’t remember ever being in a car with windows that work like this. It’s fun.” It was almost impossible to sound like I was having anything resembling fun.

  I understood why Oliver had disguised himself before he committed murders. He’d had the means and the opportunities to carry out both crimes. He’d had a motive for killing Georgia. He would have wanted to eliminate her as a witness to his being near where Matthias was buried.

  But why had he killed Matthias?

  It wouldn’t have been so that he could buy Matthias’s grocery store cheaply. I doubted that selling groceries would appeal to him. And surely Oliver, who had no children, couldn’t have been disgruntled by Matthias’s Little League team’s second-place finish, though I supposed it was possible that one of Oliver’s father’s companies could have sponsored the team.

  Had Oliver blamed Matthias for food poisoning that Oliver or someone he loved had suffered? His mother? His wife? He and the head cheerleader, Nicole, had married right out of high school and, if I remembered correctly, they’d now been divorced for three or four years.

  We hit a bump and the glove compartment door fell open and banged my knee.

  Oliver reached over and slammed the door shut. “Sorry. I’ll adjust the latch so it won’t keep doing that.”

  Oliver’s reflexes were fast, but not fast enough.

  I’d caught a glimpse of a square of paper in the glove compartment. On it was a realistic replica of Randy’s tattoo. B.A.D. I guessed that the paper was water slide paper and that Oliver had made more than one temporary tattoo like Randy’s. Oliver had been prepared to impersonate Randy more than once, and on short notice.

  Why were the ball cap, the water slide paper, and the temporary tattoo in this car? Maybe Oliver was in the process of taking them away from his own home so he could discard them. Or Oliver was preparing to plant them on someone else if Randy was somehow proven innocent. Tom, for instance. . .

  Luckily, Oliver was again reciting the car’s good points, and I didn’t have to speak except to murmur a few polite words of praise. Inside, I was seething, with anger and with fear.

  A sign welcomed us to Fallingbrook. Bright streetlights lined the road. Maybe Oliver really was taking me back to Deputy Donut. I would lock myself inside and call Brent and Misty. Even Yvonne Passenmath would be a welcome sight.

  I ran my fingers through my curls, probably tangling them more.

  Lois had said that she thought Randy had come back to Fallingbrook because of a woman, but she didn’t know who. Had Randy been with the woman on Monday evening when Lois was attacked? What was in the bag he’d taken home—leftovers from a dinner he’d shared with his girlfriend?

  If he’d been with someone, why hadn’t he told the police that he had an alibi for the time when Lois was attacked?

  Maybe he was trying to protect the woman. Maybe she was married and he hadn’t wanted to betray her secret.

  I glanced toward Oliver, frowning as traffic became heavier, and suddenly everything fell into place.

  In high school, most of the girls had been gaga over Oliver, and many had adored Randy, also.

  I remembered one time when Oliver came off the football field after scoring the winning touchdown and had found Nicole talking to Randy. Oliver had put an arm around Nicole and guided her away, not gently. He’d taken his helmet off, and his eyebrows had been low in a frown like they were now.

  What if Randy’s secret girlfriend was Nicole and, although Oliver and Nicole had been divorced for several years, Oliver was still jealous?

  Maybe Matthias hadn’t done anything to Oliver. Matthias’s only crime had probably been running out of gas and accepting a ride from a man he probably knew, at least by reputation. The Rossimers had been pillars of Fallingbrook society. Oliver could have explained why he was in Randy’s dented-up old car—he was test-driving it.

  What had Oliver planned? To frame Randy by kidnapping and killing someone while “test-driving” Randy’s car? Oliver had probably expected Randy to be put away for life.

  But it hadn’t happened. Randy’s departure for Wyoming hadn’t appeared as suspicious as Oliver might have hoped.

  And then after Nicole’s divorce, Randy had returned, and Oliver still did not want Randy to have her.

  Oliver’s voice startled me. “Are we going back to Deputy Donut, or should I drop you off at home?”

  “Deputy Donut. I left the cat there.”

  When Oliver pulled into Deputy Donut’s parking lot, the night had darkened enough for the lights over our two back doors to come on. The car’s movement would start our surveillance cameras recording. It would also send messages to Tom’s and my phones, giving us the opportunity to view the videos. An almost-inaudible ding came from my phone inside my backpack. I ignored it.

  Maybe whether or not Tom heard his phone wouldn’t matter. Almost before the Fordor came to a complete halt, I was out of it. “Thanks!” I put as much enthusiasm as possible into my voice. “I’ll talk to Tom and let you know when he can see and drive this.”

  Although Oliver hadn’t opened car doors for me that evening, suddenly he was a gentleman, escorting me to Deputy Donut’s office. On the other side of the glass door
, Dep meowed loudly, scolding me, no doubt, for leaving her alone.

  I unlocked the door and bent down toward her. She swelled up into a giant fur ball, hissed, and swatted at my hand. I tried to edge into the office in a way that would keep her inside and Oliver outside.

  I was only half successful. Dep stayed in.

  But even though she was about twice her normal size, Oliver sidled around her and came into the office with us.

  Chapter 35

  My first impulse was to grab Dep and dash out to the parking lot and down the driveway to the street, but I doubted that I could successfully flee Oliver, especially with a squirming cat in my arms. Besides, if Oliver hadn’t already guessed that I suspected him of murdering Matthias and Georgia, my sudden flight might clue him in. Try to act normal, I told myself.

  Normal. Right.

  Dep’s domain was lit only by a night-light and reflections from outside.

  The burglar alarm started beeping. I pretended I didn’t hear it and dangled Dep’s harness close to her. Still puffed up, she hissed.

  Beep.

  “Don’t forget to disarm your burglar alarm,” Oliver said.

  “It won’t take long to harness the cat and lock up again.” I reached for Dep. She ran up the carpeted stairway toward the catwalks surrounding the room near the ceiling.

  Beep . . . beep.