Silence—except for the cats; I could hear them crying inside. I looked over at the barn. For the first time, the doors were shut and I could just make out a hefty padlock. While I was moon-gazing I had missed these obvious signs of flight. Max had skipped, taking Lolly with him. Had things become too hot for him? “Social workers, police—police dogs!” His words came back to me. But the cats were still here. How had he persuaded Lolly to leave them? Had he sedated her?
I went and sat on my Honda to think. They couldn’t go far. Lolly had never driven outside of Bayfield, and Max would have to drive with one hand—his left. Where would they go? I had to get inside the house and see if they had left any clues, but I had no key. I tried the front door. It was locked, too. I tested all the downstairs windows. All closed and locked. I would have to bust a pane. I chose a parlor window because they were the biggest and I could climb in more easily. I got a wrench from my tool bag, but I hesitated. I hated to destroy property. Fortunately I knew the owner of the house lived in California. I smashed the pane. It made a terrible noise. I looked around nervously, but of course there was no one to hear. Except the cats. Their yowls grew louder. I reached through the hole I had made and tried to twist the lock. It was stuck. This was an old house and the parlor windows had probably not been opened for years. Maybe never—to protect the expensive, ugly furniture from dust. I would have to try another window. I smashed three windows before I found one I could unlock. I climbed in and went straight to the den.
I flicked on the desk lamp. The room was strangely silent with the TV off. Not off! Gone! So was the printer. Could that mean Max was a counterfeiter? Or just that he didn’t want to leave his expensive equipment behind? He had rented the house furnished and he owned little of value in it. But what about the printing equipment in the barn? I grabbed a flashlight and ran outside. I peered through a dusty windowpane. It was all there: press, paper cutter, stitcher, folding machine and type cabinets. He must be coming back. But when?
Returning to the den, I noticed the Yellow Pages lying open on the sofa. The open page was headed MOTELS. I carried the book over to the lamp and scanned the lists for some mark that would tell me which one they had picked. There were no marks. I couldn’t call every motel. Besides, Max would never reserve a room under his real name, and I knew he didn’t have a credit card. That would have put him in the system. He would have to pay cash. Of course if he was really a counterfeiter, he would have plenty of that. But I didn’t believe he was.
I wandered through the house, room by room, bumping into cats along the way. When I reached the kitchen, I checked their food and water supply. Both were ample. Lolly had filled every pot and bowl they owned with dry food or water, and placed them on the floor all around the room. Did this mean Max planned to return, or had Lolly prepared the food and water thinking she would be back after a few days to replenish it?
Where else could I look for clues? The attic? I had seen some luggage up there. Taking the flashlight, I went to explore. There were a few suitcases in one corner, but the pile looked smaller than when I’d looked before. When I went closer, the flashlight beam revealed that the dust around the luggage had been disturbed and there were footprints—of a man’s shoes.
I returned to the kitchen, followed by a string of cats. As they filed by, I counted. “Nine, ten, eleven …” One was missing. Sapphire. I went through the house again, calling her. I know cats enjoy hiding and driving their owners to distraction, but somehow I didn’t think that was the case this time. Lolly had taken Sapphire with her. A bad sign. Maybe Max had decided if they were leaving for good, Lolly had better have one cat to comfort her. I went down the cellar. Sure enough, the cat carrier was missing. I sat down on a cellar step and tried to think what to do next. I sure could use some of my Irish grandmother’s second sight right now.
CHAPTER 49
I rode home slowly, exhausted and depressed. The moon was high, chalk white, and had shrunk to the size of a basketball. The ten-mile ride had never seemed so long. The parking lot had only a few cars. There were never many, and during the week it was lucky if the Oakview Motor Lodge had half a dozen guests. I sometimes wondered how Maggie and Paul made a go of it. I pulled into my usual space and glanced at the car next to me. A battered maroon Chevy with a teddy bear on the backseat!
I started to laugh hysterically. Of all the motels in south Jersey, Max had picked mine! God was good. I said a silent prayer of thanks. Max didn’t know I lived in a motel. I’d never told him. All he knew was my hospital affiliation. I stifled another spurt of laughter. The Oakview Motor Lodge was just the right distance. At thirty-five miles an hour, it would have taken them an hour to get here. Max could have managed that with one hand.
I peered at the number of the unit in front of their car: 104. The window was dark, but I could hear the murmur of the TV inside. I’d better get out of here. I didn’t dare turn on my motor again. Instead, I rolled my bike to a spot behind the motel and parked it. Then I went into the lobby. Jack looked up and yawned. Soon he would be in the Land of Nod.
“Jack, I need your help,” I said.
Catching the note of urgency in my voice, he snapped to attention and said, “Sure.” He was always eager to take part in one of my escapades.
“The couple in number one oh four?”
“Yeah. His arm was in a sling and the woman looked—”
“I know them,” I said, interrupting him. “When they come in tomorrow to pay their bill, call me right away, no matter how early it is, and keep them here until I come down.”
“The girl looked way too young for the guy and sort of—”
“I want to see them. I don’t care what tricks you use, but don’t let them go until I get here.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He gave me an odd look.
“I’ll explain later. Don’t worry—they aren’t dangerous.”
“Are you sure? They looked like Bonnie and Clyde to me.”
I didn’t answer, because I wasn’t sure about Max. But I knew his gun was safe in my underwear drawer.
It was 5:30 A.M. when my phone rang. I picked up.
“They’re coming in right now,” Jack whispered, and hung up.
I had slept in my clothes. I made a quick call to Hiram Peck. Crime, like politics, makes strange bedfellows. I pulled on my sneakers, scrambled down the staircase, and burst into the lobby. I wish I’d had a camera to record their expressions. Max was in total shock. Lolly looked surprised but happy to see me.
“What are you doing here?” sputtered Max.
“I live here.”
He turned to Jack for confirmation.
“That’s right. She’s the motel doctor.” He grinned at me.
Lolly spoke about her only concern. “Jo, we had to leave the cats …”
“I know.”
“You were at the house?” Max said.
“Of course. I always go there in the evening.”
“But you couldn’t get in.”
“Not ’til I smashed a few windows.”
He blinked.
“How are the cats?” Lolly asked.
“Fine,” I said.
“Sapphire’s here.” Lolly smiled. “In the car. I better check her.” She started to go.
“Wait.” I placed my hand on her arm. “Someone’s meeting us here.”
Max looked startled.
“He’ll be here any minute.”
“What the hell’s going on?” Max was definitely wary now.
Jack looked expectantly from Max to me.
I shook my head. Lolly was impatient, anxious to check Sapphire. This was how Peck found us.
When he came in, he tipped his hat to me, something he always did—a gesture I interpreted as sarcastic, not courteous. Max’s face was ashen. Lolly seemed puzzled. Jack looked delighted. He was a writer, after all, and the plot was thickening.
CHAPTER 50
“Shall we sit down?” said Peck, as if hosting a party, and led us to the other end of th
e lobby where there was a broken-down sofa and a couple of beat-up armchairs. He waited until we were all seated before nodding at me. “You have the floor, Doctor.”
Max stared at me coldly. Lolly wore her worried frown. Jack had stayed behind at the desk, but I knew his ears were straining to catch every word we said—material for his next novel.
I cleared my throat. “I know Max”—I nodded at him—“is suspected of being involved in that roadside murder case …”
Max’s eyes widened.
“But I have concrete evidence that he is not a counterfeiter.”
For the first time, Peck showed some interest.
I pulled a sheet of paper from my pocket and spread it out before him. It read, “The quick brown fox jumped over the lazy dog.”
“This sheet was printed on Max’s printer—a Hewlett-Packard model—and I understand that you have ways of matching any printout to any printer. I also have the serial number of the printer.” I handed him a scrap of paper on which I had jotted down the number. “And if you still aren’t satisfied, his printer is in the trunk of his car.”
“What the—” Max was ready to explode.
“You can examine it for yourself,” I told Peck.
Peck took the two items I had given him and excused himself to make a cell call. He moved to a far corner of the room for privacy, and Max shot daggers at me.
“You’ll see. This will all turn out for the best.” I smiled weakly.
“Can I check Sapphire?” Lolly asked plaintively.
“Oh, sure, honey. But come right back.” I avoided looking at Max until Peck returned.
“Your serial number doesn’t match the counterfeiter’s,” Peck said. “But we’ll have to confiscate your printer for further examination. May I have your trunk key?”
Max glowered at me as he gave Peck the key. “What about my computer?” Max demanded.
“We won’t need that.”
“When will I get my printer back?”
“In a day or two.”
“I need it for my work.”
Peck glanced at Max’s disabled hand.
“I’m a one-hand typist,” Max said, noting the glance.
“How did you injure yourself, sir?”
“A printing accident.”
Max and I sat in silence while Peck went to get the printer from the car.
When Peck came back with the printer under his arm, he said, “I’d like you to accompany me to the station, sir.”
“What for?” Max and I asked in unison.
“Just routine.”
“Is that really necessary?” I said. “This man isn’t well.”
“May I speak to you in private?” Peck nodded toward the corner he had used to make his cell call.
I joined him.
“I want to check the bills he’s carrying. The murder victim could have been his partner and done the counterfeiting on his own equipment, and this guy could have been his distributor.”
I was silent. No way could Max have distributed anything to anyone. For reasons known only to me, he never left the farm. But I couldn’t tell Peck that. “Do you have your dog with you tonight, Mr. Peck?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact. He’s in the car.”
“Why don’t you bring him in and we’ll test the bills right now.”
Peck hesitated, but finally he went to get the dog. I returned to Max.
“Now what?” Max growled. “Have you arranged for him to lock me up?”
“You’ll see.”
“You’re full of surprises.”
I didn’t answer. I hoped and prayed I hadn’t outsmarted myself.
When Peck returned with his dog, he asked Max to give him a twenty-dollar bill. Max grudgingly obliged. Peck studied it under the lamp, looking for all those telltale marks I had read about on the Internet. The bill seemed to pass all the visual tests. Now he turned to the dog, who was standing patiently by.
“What’s with the dog?” Max grunted.
“Watch.” Despite my belief in Max’s innocence, I held my breath as Peck waved the bill under the dog’s nose and murmured a command.
As we watched, the dog sniffed the bill and turned his head away, completely indifferent. Peck asked for another bill. Again the dog turned away, and I swear he looked bored.
“Good boy, Jake.” Peck patted his head and handed the two bills back to Max.
“What would he do if they were counterfeit?” I asked, curious.
“He’d become very excited and bark.”
Max looked at the dog with new respect and reached out and patted his head.
Just then, Lolly came in. When she saw the dog, she froze, seeming unable to move forward or backward. Her expression registered terror. I rushed forward and pushed her outside again. I told her to get in the car and lock it. She did.
When Peck came out with Jake, he asked, “What was that all about?”
“Lolly’s afraid of dogs,” I said.
“Come on, Jake, we know when we’re not wanted.” He led the dog to his car, which was parked on the road.
CHAPTER 51
After Peck and his dog left—without Max—I was buoyant with new self-confidence. After all, I had cleared Max of one crime, so why not clear him of another? But first, I had to know why Max had fled Bayfield.
“You’d stirred things up so much, I figured it wasn’t safe to stay,” he grumbled.
I put all my renewed energy into persuading him to return home, listing all the reasons. Lolly was happy here. His doctor was nearby and he still needed medical care. He couldn’t afford to abandon his expensive printing equipment. He had been cleared of counterfeiting, and his connection with the roadside murder had all but disappeared. And then there were the cats … . I was pleased to see him wilt under the weight of my arguments.
“By the way,” I demanded, “exactly what did you plan to do with the cats?” Murder was one thing, but to leave poor defenseless cats to starve to death was another. I couldn’t be friends with someone who would do such a dastardly deed.
Max shook his head vigorously. “I planned to call the Humane Society as soon as I got safely away.”
“Honest?”
He nodded and, just like a kid, crossed his heart.
Reassured, I said. “Okay, let’s go.” And taking advantage of the moment, I added, “I’ll drive.”
Lolly had forgotten her fear of the police dog and was happily playing with Sapphire in the backseat. As I drove my three captives home, I congratulated myself on my accomplishment. To be on the safe side, I kept Max’s car keys, and I was even considering siphoning the gas from his tank and letting the air out of his tires, when it dawned on me that I had no way of getting back to the motel. I had left my Honda behind. To my chagrin, I had to ask Max if I could borrow his car.
“Sure,” he said, and actually shot me a sly grin, “as long as you bring it right back.”
“Shit,” I said. That meant I had to drive Max’s car back to the motel and ask Paul to follow me in his pickup back to Max’s farm, where I could dump his car, then have Paul drive me back to the motel. By the time this rigmarole was accomplished, it was almost noon and all my former enthusiasm for solving crimes had vanished. As I went through my daily routine, I thought constantly of how I could clear Max of Regina’s death, short of producing a witness other than Lolly. But what were the chances of finding someone who had been around that day on their desolate farm in south Jersey? Answer: zero.
Meanwhile, the clock was ticking. The window of opportunity for Max to have his reconstructive hand surgery was shrinking.
CHAPTER 52
“Hey, Jo!”
A familiar voice called to me as I was trolling home on my bike from the hospital. I came to a halt and looked back. Down the road, two small figures were running toward me. Becca and Bobby.
“Hi, guys,” I said as they came up. “Where’ve you been?”
“Rehearsing,” Becca said. “The talent show is next week.”
“Gosh, that’s right.” I said. “I can’t wait.”
“It’s really good,” Bobby interjected. “Becca’s wonderful.”
Becca blushed.
“Are you hungry?” I asked them.
“Sure,” they said together. Silly question. Kids are always hungry.
“How about if we get some ice cream at the Blue Arrow?” The diner was just down the road. I could walk my Honda. It would do me good to spend some time with people who had no connection with my clandestine world.
As we walked, they took turns telling me about the show.
“One kid’s going to imitate farm animals,” Bobby said.
“Really lame,” Becca commented.
“Another’s going to play the drums. He’s terrific,” Bobby said.
This time Becca agreed.
Seated in a booth, we each ordered a sundae. While we waited for our order, having exhausted the talent show topic, we turned to the subject of the body found by the side of the road,
“They think it was a gangster killing,” Bobby said, his eyes bright.
“The Philadelphia Mafia.” Becca was more specific.
“Hmm,” I said, picking the cherry off my sundae and placing it on the side of my plate.
“You don’t like cherries?” Bobby looked surprised.
“Nope. Want it?”
“Sure.” He reached across the table and popped it in his mouth.
“I don’t like cherries, either,” Becca said, aligning herself with the adult world.
“My dad found a body once,” Bobby said, returning to the murder topic.
“Oh?” Bobby’s father was not one of my favorite people. Once, Bobby had appeared at school with a black eye and his father had been suspected of child abuse. But Bobby refused to explain what had happened, so Mr. Shoemaker had gotten off scot-free. “When was this?” I asked.
“A while ago. Well, he didn’t actually find the body,” the boy amended. “But he saw who killed her.”
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