by L C Hayden
“I know. It’s very appropriate.”
“I thought so, too.”
“This Bronson—kill him or just make sure he doesn’t show up?”
“A serious enough accident to keep him from traveling would suffice.”
“That’s too bad. I would’ve preferred to kill him.”
“Do as you please, just don’t leave a trail.”
“I never do.”
Doc Ponce hung up.
EIGHT
As soon as Little Carol pulled into her parents’ assigned camping space, she brought her car to a screeching halt, bolted out, and ran inside the camper. “Mom! Mom!”
Carol disengaged herself from the group of ladies. Wide-eyed and with eyebrows raised, she ran to hug her daughter. “What are you doing here?”
“Oh, Mom.”
Carol pulled away from her and studied her eyes. She turned to the ladies. “Excuse me for a while. My daughter and I—we need to talk.” She wrapped her arm around Little Carol, led her toward the bedroom, and closed the door.
* * * * *
Bronson stood in the camper’s doorway watching the interaction between mother and daughter. No matter how busy or how important Carol thought her projects were, she always made time for their girl.
Bronson’s heart swelled with pride as he watched Carol, but at the same time, a little bit of envy crept in. Little Carol—Daddy’s girl—why hadn’t she turned to him?
He walked out.
* * * * *
Linda opened her door. “Bronson, I was thinking about you. Come in.” She stepped aside.
“I’ve got bad news for you,” he said once he had entered and sat on the dinette couch.
Linda stiffened.
“Oh, no. Sorry,” Bronson quickly said. “Not that kind of bad news. It’s about your camper. The part didn’t arrive, and it won’t for a couple of days.” He stood up. “Come with me outside, and I’ll show you what the problem is.”
Linda stood up and followed him out. “What’s going on?”
“I need a couple of days to do some research, and I don’t want you alone in Minnesota. The part not arrivin’ story is good reason for you to stay put.”
“What kind of research do you plan to do?”
“I’m not sure. I need to familiarize myself with all the facts. What did the police tell you? How’s the investigation into Mitch’s death comin’ along?”
“I didn’t tell them about the pictures or the notes, so it was ruled an accident. There’s no investigation going on.”
Bronson wrote that down in his spiral notebook. “Then I’ll start one. I’ll begin with your house in Two Forks. Did Mitch have an office at home?”
Linda nodded.
“That’ll make a good startin’ place. Would you mind givin’ me the keys to your house? I also need the address. I’d like to go through his desk. Maybe talk to some of his co-workers. Any suggestions?”
“I guess Henry Clark would be good. Mitch worked pretty closely with him. Other than that, I’m not sure. Mitch didn’t like to talk about his work with me.”
Bronson added that piece of information to his notes. “So it’s okay with you if I go through your husband’s stuff?”
Linda frowned, shifted position, and glanced down.
Bronson continued. “I know I’m askin’ a lot. I wouldn’t particularly want a complete stranger going though my house either, but I’m askin’ you to trust me.”
Linda’s gaze traveled up to meet Bronson’s. She crossed her arms and stared at him.
“Going cold to Minnesota isn’t a good idea. We need to know what we’re up against. Checkin’ your husband’s past—maybe even your parents’ past—might provide the answer. What do you say?”
She shrugged.
Bronson continued, “Right now I’d say you have no one you can depend on, except me.” He captured her gaze and held it. “Will you trust me?”
She looked away, sighed, and nodded. “The key’s inside the camper. I’ll go get it and write down the address and directions.”
“Thank you. While I’m gone, I want you to stay put. Do not go to Minnesota, especially alone. If you get in trouble, go to the front office. Have them contact the police. Promise me you’ll do that.”
“I promise.”
“Good. My wife and daughter will be here, right next door. You’ve met Carol. I’ll introduce you to my daughter.”
* * * * *
Bronson waited until all the ladies from the poetry guild left before he approached Carol. “Remember when Little Carol was growin’ up and she’d get in trouble and she’d say we needed to have a family pow-wow?”
Carol’s eyes narrowed. “What are you getting at, Harry Bronson?”
“We need a family pow-wow.”
She set down the manuscript she had been studying and stood up. “You’ve been spending a lot of time with the lady next door. Is this what it’s all about?”
Little Carol sat upright on the dinette couch, hastily shutting the book she had been reading. It dropped to the floor. She ignored it. “Mom! Dad!” She glared at Bronson.
Carol smiled. “No, honey, it’s not what you’re thinking. When your dad spends extra time with a woman, it’s because he’s working.”
Dammit. How did she know? Here he thought she’d been too preoccupied to pay any attention to him. He should have known better. He flashed his daughter a disapproving glance, before turning his attention to his wife. “Now, sweetheart—”
“Don’t you sweetheart me. You’ve been working, haven’t you?”
“I wouldn’t say workin’. All we’ve been doin’ is talkin’—sort of.”
“Work’s work, Harry Bronson, no matter what you call it. This is our vacation.”
“I know that. But you’ve been busy with that reading group of yours, and now withLittle Carol here, you’ve got your hands full.”
“True, but I’ll never be too busy to spend time with you.”
Ouch, that hurt. If only he could reciprocate. He remembered broken dates, uneaten dinners, missed family gatherings. Carol might have groaned in private, but she never complained. “I need to take off. I’ll be gone two, three days at the most. When I get back, you’ll still be involved with the production. I’ll be here for openin’ night.” He smiled and winked. “Going to Two Forks, Wyoming, will keep me busy while you’re busy. I’ll be earning some darn good money, which we will use to expand our vacation time. You’ll like that, won’t you?”
Carol placed her hands on her hips. “Harry Bronson, don’t you try that rationalization crap with me. Work’s work, no matter what pretty bow you tie it up with.” She frowned. “But you’re right. A little extra income sure would come in handy. Besides, there’s nothing I can say to keep you here. You stay safe, and I swear, Harry Bronson, if you get involved in something else after this, I’ll be working with you, side-by-side.”
Bronson gathered her in his arms. “Sweetheart, I will never allow you to do anything that’s going to put you in danger. You’re much too valuable to me. After this, there will be no more cases. This is it.”
“Soon as the cow jumps over the moon, I’ll believe you.”
* * * * *
Darkness enveloped Bronson as he shoved a small, overnight suitcase into the back of his olive-green Honda CRV. He’d been extra careful not to wake Carol, but he need not have bothered. By now she was used to him coming and going at all sorts of hours. Almost nothing disturbed her precious sleep.
Little Carol, on the other hand, had awakened when Bronson opened the camper door. “Daddy, are you going to be in any danger?”
Bronson smiled and walked back to his daughter. “I’ll be fine.”
“Mom worries about you. She won’t let on, but she does. She’s worried now. Should she be?”
“I’m going to check on some guy’s paperwork. How could that be dangerous?”
Little Carol relaxed. “You sure that’s all? Mom didn’t ask.”
“She never does. I th
ink maybe that’s her way of protecting herself. What she doesn’t know won’t hurt her, but I think what she imagines sometimes is worse.”
“I’ll tell Mom what you’re doing so she won’t worry.”
“You do that.” He leaned over and gave his daughter a kiss.
“When you get back—by the way, where are you going?”
“Two Forks, Wyoming.”
“I hear tell that’s a quaint little town.”
“We’ll see.” He headed back toward the car, his daughter close to him.
“Before you go, I wanted to ask you something.”
Bronson paused and looked at her. “What’s that?”
“When you get back from Two Forks, can we go out to eat, just you and me?”
Bronson beamed.
NINE
Bronson brought the car to a halt and stared at the mansion that loomed before him. He’d known Linda was rich but hadn’t imagined her to be a millionaire. Maybe money was the issue after all.
From the safety of his car, he scanned the neighborhood. Across the street, a car pulled in. A youthful man wearing a chauffeur’s uniform stepped out and opened the door for an elderly lady. As she got out, she handed him several packages. Neither paid attention to Bronson.
Two doors down, a gardener pruned a bush. A jogger ran past; a car pulled in next door; a lady walked two dogs, a poodle and a boxer; and two teens on bikes zoomed by him. Active neighborhood. Maybe someone had noticed a stranger lurking around the house. He’d have to do a door-to-door inquiry.
Bronson stepped out onto the street and focused his attention on the next-door neighbor. Instead of going in, the man loitered by his car. When he noticed Bronson staring at him, he drank from the Coke can he carried, set it down on the edge of a nearby planter, folded his arms, leaned against the car, and stared back.
Definitely someone Bronson wanted to talk to. He headed over, noticing details. The neighbor was tall, tanned, and had a stocky build. His athletic body showed he must invest a lot of time in a gym. He was probably in his mid-thirties and kept his coarse black hair trimmed short. “Evenin’,” Bronson said.
The man nodded once.
“Bronson’s the name. Harry Bronson.”
Something flashed through the neighbor’s eyes, so quickly he wondered if he had imagined it.
“That’s Linda’s house,” the neighbor said.
“I know. She’s my cousin. With all she’s been through lately, she decided to get away. She forgot some stuff, though. I’m here to bring it to her.”
“How are you going to get in?”
“I’ve got the keys.”
“I didn’t see you at the funerals.”
“Lots of people there.” Bronson hoped that was true. “I just hung back. I’m not the in-your-face type.”
“And she gave you her keys.”
Bronson fished them out of his pocket and held them up. “Sure did.”
The neighbor nodded.
“Nice of you to watch over Linda.”
“Her and everyone else.” The neighbor made a sweeping motion with his hand. “You’d be surprised how often we get targeted just because we have money.”
No surprise there. “You sayin’ that makes me wonder about Mitch’s death.”
“What do you mean?”
“Prior to his accident, did you happen to see anybody—on foot, or in a car—hangin’ around here?”
The neighbor frowned. “That’s an unusual question.”
Bronson shrugged, as if dismissing the question’s importance. “I’m lookin’ out for my cousin, just like you. With her parents and husband gone, I don’t want anyone takin’ advantage of her.”
“Nice of you. Glad she still has someone to protect her.” He glanced away and his eyes narrowed. “Come to think of it, I did see someone. There was this car hanging around here prior to Mitch’s death. Haven’t seen it since. Wish I had made the connection before now.”
“Did you see the driver? What can you tell me about the car?”
The neighbor tightened his features in an obvious attempt to remember. “If I recall correctly, we’re looking at a small car. I was never one of those car geeks so I couldn’t give you the make or year.”
“Color?”
“Gray. Maybe light blue.”
“And the driver?”
“Average-looking. Didn’t get a very good look.”
“Age? Color of hair?”
“I’d say late forties, early fifties. Brown hair, I believe.”
Bronson noted the way the neighbor answered the questions. Very precise. “Anythin’ else you remember?”
“Yeah, she kept staring at the Randigs’ house.”
“She?”
“Didn’t I mention that?”
“You didn’t by any chance get a license number?”
“Nope. Wish I had. One thing I can tell you, though. The car had an out-of-state license.”
“Which state?”
The neighbor shrugged. “Can’t say. I remember noticing it wasn’t a local plate.”
“What color was it? What kind of design did it have?”
The neighbor shrugged again and shook his head. “Sorry.”
“Did you tell the police this?”
“I believe I mentioned it, yes, but I never connected it to Mitch’s death. You don’t think it was an accident?”
“I’m not sayin’ anything like that. Like you, I’m just watchin’ for my cousin.”
The neighbor’s eyes drilled into Bronson’s soul. “Are you a policeman? A detective, maybe? Private eye?”
“I wish.” He looked at the Randig mansion. “Best I get those things Linda needs.”
The neighbor nodded and turned toward his front door. Bronson watched him walk away before he too pivoted and headed for Linda’s house.
* * * * *
Bronson stepped into the black-and-white tiled foyer, disarmed the alarm long enough to walk further inside, reset it, flipped on the light switch, and was immediately bathed with light from thousands of crystal drops that sprouted out of the biggest chandelier he’d ever seen. He turned and lowered his head, making his face unidentifiable, just in case someone still manned the security camera.
He headed directly down the hall just as Linda had instructed him. He opened the first door to his right. The immaculate blend of oak furniture and fine paintings spoke of elegance. Bronson headed for the desk and thumbed through the calendar on it. During the two weeks prior to his death, Mitch had met with someone named Ella twelve separate times. No phone number, no address. Just the name followed by the time.
Bronson opened his notebook and jotted down: Ella: mysterious woman in the car? He returned the notebook and pen to his shirt pocket and searched the drawers. He found a plain file folder with the words Henry Clark written across it. Under the name, an address and a phone number had been scribbled. Bronson retrieved his notepad and recorded the contact information.
He sat on Mitch’s chair and thumbed through the papers in the folder. The notes had been written in cursive. The first paper read, from Henry Clark: add 1.06 more ethoxydiglycol. A date followed the notation. Bronson checked the calendar. That had been almost a month ago. He looked at the next page. From Henry C: less carbomer—maybe .007? The date was three days after the first.
He looked at the next page. From Clark: check extracts from pansy, cornflower, mallow, sage. Also from Henry . . .
Bronson set the papers down and rubbed the bridge of his nose. It didn’t make any sense to him, but it would to the right person. Nothing else in Mitch’s office attracted his attention. He flipped open his cell and called Linda.
The cell rang several times before Linda picked up. “Bronson, hi. I’m outside. I can talk. Did you find anything? Is everything okay?”
“What can you tell me about Henry Clark?”
“He and Mitch headed the fountain of youth project. He’d come over to the house and they’d talk hours and hours about the ingre
dients and amounts that should be used. Real boring stuff.”
That would explain the notes Mitch left behind. “What about Ella? What can you tell me about her?”
“Ella?”
“Yes.”
A small pause followed. “Is that a person’s name?”
Hadn’t she heard of Ella Fitzgerald?
Linda cleared her throat. “I suppose it is,” she said, answering her own question. “But I have no idea who that could be.”
“Prior to Mitch’s death, did you happen to notice a small sedan, either gray or light blue, hanging around the neighborhood, maybe even followin’ you or Mitch?”
“Good God, no. Was someone following us?”
“What can you tell me about your next-door neighbor?”
“My next-door neighbor?”
Bronson shook his head. Yes, the next-door neighbor—only one she had. The other side was the street. Why had she chosen to turn into the million-question lady?
“You must be talkin’ about the Oaxacas, Belen and Ross. They’re both nice enough.”
“Tell me about them.”
“What in the world for? What’s going on? You don’t think they’re somehow involved in Mitch’s and my parents’ deaths, do you?” She sounded as though she were gasping for air.
Bronson removed his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. Again with the questions. “How well do you know them?”
“Better than most neighbors know each other. We used to get together once a week and play bridge.”
“Used to?”
“Yeah, they went on a three-month world cruise, and then they’re planning to spend some time with their son and the grandkids. Why is this important? What’re you trying to tell me?”
Bronson folded his glasses and returned them to his pocket. “When do you expect them back?”
“Just about anytime now.”
“Can you describe Russ and Belen Oaxaca?”
“Belen, she’s rather attractive. Knows what to wear and wears it well. Loves to cook. She’d always bring some kind of goodie she’d baked to our bridge sessions. Got a good sense of humor, little wrinkle lines on the sides of her eyes. She—”
