Lou had his doubts about that. For starters, Bucky's wife would have to wade through piles of dirty clothes, stacks of food-crusted plates, and mounds of empty beer cans to find him. Lou didn't see any woman thinking that Bucky or that mess was appealing, but who knew? Love worked in mysterious ways, or so he'd been told.
Lou's "live and let live" attitude made him reluctant to get involved. He'd had enough of that while doing police work. Like all officers, he especially dreaded domestic disturbances. As Lou cocked an ear in Bucky's direction, the fuss sounded exactly like that.
Not surprising.
Bucky's Old Lady probably had a lot to gripe about, and Bucky wasn't exactly the shy and retiring type.
The noise coming from next door grew louder and louder. Lou hit the pause button on his remote and listened more carefully.
Was it a disagreement grown heated?
Or something worse like a prelude to violence?
Time to take a look-see. Parting the vinyl blinds, Lou spotted three neighbor women standing across the street and staring at the Winnebago. Their backs formed a tight wall of rejection as they ducked their heads to whisper behind their hands. Clearly, they'd heard the ruckus, too. It wasn't winding down. No, from the sound of it, things were escalating. Lou reluctantly walked into his bedroom. Keeping one ear tuned to the Winnebago, he opened his nightstand and pulled out his service revolver.
Suddenly, everything went quiet. That almost convinced Lou to let the whole thing slide and go back to watching Marlon Brando.
Then came a scream of pain.
"No rest for the weary," said Lou.
"That thing loaded?" asked Showalter. "You know better than to wave around a gun with no ammo. Especially when it's a domestic disturbance. But hey, it's your funeral."
Lou slid cartridges into all six chambers and stuck his service revolver into the rear waistband of his khaki shorts. For good measure, he grabbed his handcuffs and shoved them deep into his pants' pocket.
"Satisfied?" he asked Showalter. Getting no answer, he stepped outside into the shimmering heat. While the scorching temperature slapped him silly, Lou briefly considered calling the police. After all, they were paid to handle the situation. He wasn't. Not any longer.
He could go back inside his air-conditioned trailer and stay uninvolved. But he quickly dismissed that as downright silly. Why pull an officer off his beat for a family squabble?
It wasn't like Lou was a total waste of air and space. Not yet at least.
One woman in the anxious crowd spotted him and waved. Now he had no choice in the matter but to carry on like a sworn officer of the law.
Which he wasn't.
Not anymore.
"Should I call the authorities?" one of the women shouted to Lou.
"No, thanks. Not yet. I think I've got it covered," he said.
A second scream split the air like a cleaver chopping meat. Lou trotted the short distance to Bucky's front door and knocked hard.
No one answered. Lou could feel the eyes of the on-looking women boring a hole in his back. He leaned his head close to the door and yelled, "Hey, Bucky, it's me, Lou. Open up."
That produced no answer.
Lou tried again.
Nothing happened.
Time to turn to trickery.
"Aw, come on Bucky, let me in. I've got a couple of tickets to a Heat game down in Miami," shouted Lou. "If you don't want them someone else will!"
"A Heat game? Are they good seats?" Bucky shouted through the door, over the sound of whimpering.
"The best in the house," said Lou. As lies went, it was a whopper.
Bucky swung open the door with one hand. In the other he held a hank of hair attached to a woman. She was half-lying on the floor and half-sitting up. Her face had been pummeled, and she was spitting blood.
"Meet my Old Lady," said Bucky. His face was twitching, a telltale sign that he was high on meth. "I'm just teaching her some manners. Aren't I, darling?"
The woman put a hand to her mouth and spat out a tooth.
"Turn loose of her, Bucky. Right this minute."
"Or else what? This is my place and my rules." Bucky lifted his chin and curled his lip.
Lou considered his options. If he pounced on Bucky, it would be assault. But if Bucky took a swing at him, Lou would have every right to defend himself.
"Goad him," said Showalter. "Won't take much."
"Bucky, Bucky, Bucky. You aren't man enough to make the rules."
That was all it took. Bucky let go of the woman, stepped outside the door, and took a swing at Lou. Lou dodged the blow, grabbed Bucky's arm, twisted it behind the younger man's back, and shoved him down two small stairs to the ground. Bucky's nose hit the dirt with a satisfying crunch. Lou planted one foot in the middle of Bucky's back to keep him down.
"Ooooh!" A chorus of admiration went up from the women who'd been watching the whole shebang.
"Feels good to be back in action, huh?" said Showalter.
"You okay, miss?" Lou called to the woman on the floor inside the trailer.
Instead of answering, she covered her face and sobbed.
"Okay, now you can call 911," Lou shouted to the onlookers. "Tell them it's a ten sixty-nine, and we need an ambulance."
"I'm hurt bad!" whined Bucky.
"Shut up, Bucky," said Lou. "You just went and totally ruined a perfectly good retirement."
13
Present day…
Stuart, Florida
"Lou! It's me!" Skye sang out as she waved a greeting.
"Skye?" A gruff voice responded from behind the bright light that was shining on both of us.
After blinking a while, I could make out the silhouette of a very tall man. He lowered his flashlight beam so it wasn't blinding us.
"You okay, Skye?"
The voice belonged to the cop who'd been at Pumpernickel's earlier.
"Yes," she said. Her whole demeanor changed, softened.
"What have we got here?" The cop walked closer to us.
"Detective Lou Murray, meet my new friend, Cara Mia Delgatto," said Skye, with all the formality that would have been appropriate at a cocktail party.
Feeling a little unsure about the protocol, I didn’t offer a hand to shake. Instead I waved, a tiny close-to-my body type of gesture.
"Dick Potter is Cara’s grandfather," Skye continued.
"Right," said the detective. He exuded what some call "command presence." At six-four and two hundred-thirty pounds, he could easily win in a stare-down contest. No one in his right mind would pick a fight with this guy. This was not a man to mess with. He struck me as a gruff son of a gun, but Skye did not seem at all worried. In fact, she flashed a winsome smile at the officer.
"That's Hal Humberger on the floor," said Skye. "We think he's dead."
"What are you doing here, Skye?" the policeman asked as he moved closer to the prone form.
"Cara Mia needed my help," she said.
"You're the one who found him, ma'am?" The detective stared at me.
"Yes."
"Unit twenty-seven?" Detective Murray squatted by the body. He touched a spot on Hal Humberger's throat before speaking into his cell phone. "What's your ETA? I'll need officers to secure a possible crime scene."
Two EMTs burst through the back door of Essie's.
"Yoohoo! He's over there." Skye directed her flashlight to Mr. Humberger, not far from our feet.
A medical tech knelt to check Hal Humberger's vitals.
"Ma'am, you happened upon Mr. Humberger, how?" asked Detective Murray, getting to his feet and moving away from the action.
"The back door was unlocked. I opened it, but the lights wouldn't work. I stumbled over him," I said.
"You were alone?" he asked.
"Yes, so I ran and got Skye."
"Skye," said Detective Murray in a mock angry tone. "You know better than to walk into a dark building alone. Especially if it hasn't been cleared."
"Sorry, Lou, but whe
n Cara came and got me, we weren't even sure if Hal was dead. We thought it might be an emergency, and he might need help. Is he dead?"
"Why are we standing here in the dark? Is the power turned off?" asked the detective, speaking to no one in particular.
"I was told it was still on," I said. "When I got here, I couldn't get the lights to work. There's a fuse box on the wall next to the bathroom. Or at least that's where it used to be."
"Stay where you are," he said.
Skye and I huddled side-by-side. She reached for my hand, and I grabbed hers, feeling wonderfully assured by the contact of warm flesh. The most of the overhead fluorescent fixtures crackled to life, bathing us in a greenish glow. We blinked away our blindness.
"I want to do a quick check of the premises." Detective Murray drew his gun and walked out onto the sales floor. In a few minutes, we heard his footsteps going up the stairs. The EMTs continued to work on Mr. Humberger's body.
When Detective Murray returned, he spoke into a handset. "Got a ten sixty-four here. Request back-up to secure a crime scene. Call Detective Ollie Anderson and get him over here ASAP, copy? I could use his help."
The detective walked back to us and leveled his eyes directly on me.
Skye squeezed my hand reassuringly.
"May I be so bold as to ask how you wandered into an empty building and stumbled upon Mr. Humberger's body?" the detective asked me.
"Black Beauty burped," I talked in a rush. "I took her to Poppy's. But she needed a part. I went for a walk and bought this building. Poppy and I had a fight. I was going to sleep, but I found Mr. Humberger. I thought he was dead. Of course, I didn't know for sure that he was dead. But my phone is. Dead, I mean. I had dinner at Pumpernickel's so I knew it was open. And Skye was nice. And I'm tired. So I got Skye to help because I didn't know who else to ask. We hurried back in case Mr. Humberger was alive. But he's not. And now you're here."
"Oh-kay," he said.
None of my story made any sense, and I knew it. I would have elaborated but my teeth began chattering. Skye put an arm around me. "Lou, she's in shock."
The police officer eyed me carefully. "One thing for sure. As soon as Anderson gets here, we're all going to take a ride down to the police station."
14
One of Dad's cardinal rules: "If you're ever picked up by the police, say nothing. Keep your mouth shut. Call me or get an attorney."
"Why?" I'd ask.
"Even if you've done nothing wrong," he said, "don't talk. Things can be taken out of context and used against you. Someone else might point a finger at you and your words could come back to haunt you."
My father had offered sage advice. Later, when I came face-to-face with a particularly trying situation, I had reason to applaud Dad's wisdom.
Skye climbed into the back seat of one of the police cruisers. I grabbed my purse from the ground and climbed into the back seat of Detective Murray's vehicle. Once the door slammed shut, I fell into some sort of a stupor, a combination of exhaustion and shock. When we arrived at the Stuart Police Department, Detective Murray shook me to wake me up.
He led me to an interview room. Once I was seated, he excused himself. I put my head down on the table and fell asleep.
"I need an attorney," I mumbled, when he returned with two coffees.
"Do you have a photo ID on you?" Detective Murray set the coffees in the center of the table. From his coat pocket he withdrew creamers and a variety of sweeteners.
I handed over my driver's license. He excused himself, presumably to have someone run it through the system.
I loathe artificial creamers and sweeteners. Nasty, nasty stuff. Tastes yucky and all those chemicals are bound to make you sick. However, in my exhausted state, I grabbed two of each, doctored the poor excuse for coffee, and drank it greedily.
"How much have you had to drink tonight?" He asked me when he returned. Under the fluorescent lighting, I could see a small scar splitting his right eyebrow. Mostly, his face qualified as craggy or rugged, but definitely more interesting than handsome.
"I've had nothing to drink and I'm not drunk. I've been awake for a day and a half now with only a short stop at a hotel in Georgia." I explained that I had been on my way to Coral Gables and University of Miami to see my son when my car started acting weird.
"Do you have a local address? Family here?"
"Dick Potter is my grandfather."
"You were planning to spend the night at his house?"
"No, we had a quarrel," I said. "I decided to spend the night at Essie's. The Treasure Chest. Where we were."
"That's trespassing."
"No, it's not." I dug around in my purse and offered him my copy of the contract. "I wrote a check for earnest money and signed the contract. Mr. Humberger gave me the keys. Now could I please call a lawyer?"
He glanced over the pages of the contract.
"This only indicates your willingness to buy the place. You aren't actually the legal owner. Not yet." He passed the papers back to me
"I want an attorney. I refuse to say anything more without one."
"Sure," said Detective Murray. He handed me a phone. Fortunately, I knew Ed Wilson's home number by heart, since he and I had worked together to settle my parents' estate after my father died. Wilson had been Dad's attorney for as many years as I could remember.
"Ed? It's Cara. Cara Mia Delgatto. Right. Sorry to bother you at home. Got a little problem. I've been arrested, I think. Or I might get arrested. Either way, I need your help. I'm down here in Florida. Stuart. That's right. Where Dick lives. My grandfather. Could you help me? Oh. Right. No Florida license. I guess I knew that. You can't help me at all? No, I'm just really, really tired and not thinking straight. So you can't, huh? Okay, right, so you'll call me tomorrow with a name? Thanks. Thanks a lot."
I clicked the phone closed. "Thanks for nothing."
My parents had always given Ed Wilson the best seat in the restaurant. Wilson never paid a cent for all his meals and wine.
Now I needed help, and the man couldn't be bothered. Okay, so he didn't have a Florida license, and he wasn't a criminal attorney. He could have still told the detective to buzz off. If he had, Detective Murray would probably have backed down, because that's the way it works.
But no, Ed Wilson couldn't figure out a way to help me.
My parents treated loyalty like a religion. Now that they were dead, I wondered if they'd worshiped a false god. Wilson's lackadaisical reaction to my predicament was one in a long line of encounters with folks my parents had treated like extended family. People who had looked the other way when I turned to them.
The sharp flavor of bitterness honed my senses. I couldn't believe how alone I was.
"Look," said Detective Murray, "you aren't under arrest, Ms. Delgatto, but I do need to know what happened. I need your statement."
Despite the coffee, I was drifting toward unconsciousness again. My eyes were heavy.
"I really, really need some sleep." I slid down and rested my head against the back of the chair. Despite how uncomfortable the seat was, I dozed off until the detective shook me.
"I'm not trying to play the heavy," said Detective Murray, while spreading his big hands wide, "but I can't let you leave here without a statement. A man is dead. Give me something to work."
I threw up my hands. "Okay."
Detective Murray proved himself to be a "by the book" type of cop, as he switched on a tape recorder and took me through the routine elements of an interview.
I explained more carefully about my drive down from St. Louis, my car problems, and how Hal Humberger told me someone was planning to run my grandfather out of business by knocking down Essie's building and replacing it with a franchise.
Lou listened carefully and nodded to me. "Continue, Ms. Delgatto. You're doing just fine."
I retraced my steps to the point of finding Mr. Humberger's body and getting help. I could hear myself slurring my words. I sagged in my chair and rested my fo
rehead on the tabletop.
"Could I please just get some sleep? Lock me in a cell if you have to!"
15
When he realized I was too exhausted to be of any use, Detective Murray led me out of the interview room, and back to the waiting area where my new friend was sitting.
“I’ll need to talk to you at length, Ms. Delgatto, but I think that can wait until tomorrow.” Lou handed me a business card.
Skye offered to let me stay at her place for the night, but Lou wasn’t done with us. Not yet.
“Skye? I’d like to see her back here at ten tomorrow morning. I’m entrusting her to you.” Since I obviously wasn't going to get back into The Treasure Chest, I gladly took her up on her hospitality, but I did need my things.
"I've been wearing the same clothes for three days," I said to Detective Murray. "I dropped my stuff right outside the door of The Treasure Chest. Remember? You saw me pick up my purse. Is there any way I could have some toilet articles and a change of clothes? Please?"
"We'll see," he said.
We loaded ourselves into his car, and he took us first to Essie's store. After a quick conference with the crime scene people, he brought me my belongings. Then he dropped us off at Skye's car, an ancient black Mustang, parked behind Pumpernickel's. I picked up the smell of mold right away and started sneezing.
"Sorry. There's a leak in the roof. Otherwise, it's been a great car," she said. A cluster of crystals and a dream catcher hung from her rearview mirror.
My nose dripped, my sinuses clogged up, and my eyes itched. By the time she parked in front of an ugly apartment building, I was totally miserable. She led me up a flight of stairs, gave me a Benadryl, and I was out like a batter after three strikes. Benadryl does that to me.
The next morning, I woke up to the wonderful aroma of fresh brewed coffee. Soon the seductive scent of bacon joined in. I rolled out of a lumpy narrow bed and stretched, taking in my surroundings.
Imagine opening your eyes to the inside of a Pepto-Bismol bottle. Add maple furniture. Ugh. The combination actually hurt my eyes. Wrapping my sheet around me, I stuck my head out the door and ventured a few steps into the hall. "Skye? Hello?"
Kiki Lowenstein Books 1-3 & Cara Mia Delgatto Books 1-3: The Perfect Series for Crafters, Pet Lovers, and Readers Who Like Upbeat Books! Page 70
