Hoch's Ladies

by Edward D. Hoch

  She went back inside, unpacked her other gun, and changed from slacks to a full skirt.

  Libby parked across the street from the recording studio and slipped out of the car, moving silently around the side of the building. The figure by the back door heard her just as he popped the lock. He whirled, but she had him covered with the revolver from her purse. “A little breaking and entering, Sonny?”

  Sonny Ritz dropped the crowbar and took a step backward. “Are you after Krista’s tape, too?”

  “I don’t know anything about it.”

  “Then what are you doing breaking in here?”

  “She kept a stash hidden in the ceiling of the ladies’ john. I figure it won’t do her any good now—I might as well have it.”

  “I beat you to it, Sonny. Now get lost.”

  “What?”

  “Get lost before I call the cops.”

  He didn’t need to be told again. He hurried down the alley, disappearing from view.

  Libby waited another few seconds and then stepped inside through the jimmied door. A pen light from her purse helped guide her along the corridor. She avoided the recording studio Krista had used the previous day and went instead to the smaller, windowless studio that was rarely used. It was locked, of course. Libby fired a single shot into the lock area. The wood splintered but held, and she had to give it a sharp tug before the door finally came open.

  A muffled groan reached her ears at once and she knew she’d guessed right. Her searching fingers found the light switch and in the sudden glare of brightness she saw Krista Steele bound and gagged on the leather couch.

  Libby put down her pistol and quickly untied her, pulling the gag from her mouth.

  “Thank God!” Krista gasped. “How did you find me?”

  “I’d have been a hell of a bodyguard if I hadn’t. Your cat—”

  There was a sudden gasp from Krista, and Libby turned to see Shawn Gibbs standing in the doorway. He had a .45 automatic aimed at them. “Don’t touch your gun,” he warned Libby, “or I’ll kill you both!”

  “I’m not moving,” Libby assured him.

  “Raise your hands above your head!” he commanded. “Krista, you stay on that couch.”

  “Shawn, this is—”

  “Shut up!” He motioned toward Libby.

  “How did you find her here? When I heard the shot I thought it was the police.”

  “They’re on the way,” Libby bluffed.

  “Not likely. You’d have waited for them. But tell me what I did wrong.” Libby saw the madness in his eyes now and knew she had to keep talking.

  “I was convinced Krista didn’t die in that crash. Once I knew that, there were two things to implicate you—her purse and her cat. Krista didn’t leave the apartment until 6:55, ten minutes or more after the accident. It couldn’t have been her body in the car, yet the police identified her from the purse near the wreckage. If Krista couldn’t have been there, how could her purse be there? Only if someone took it from the apartment earlier. She’d had it with her yesterday while she was recording. Two people visited us last night— you and Sonny Ritz. Sonny stayed only briefly and I watched him every second. You stayed longer, and you walked around nervously. You had plenty of opportunity to pick up that small purse and hide it under your shirt.”

  “You’re a smart girl,” Gibbs admitted.

  “You know someone or found someone who resembled Krista in a general way and killed her this morning. You wanted to make sure the crash and the fire worked as planned before you kidnapped Krista, so you waited until after the crash to phone her—”

  “He said it was something important about the stolen tape,” Krista told Libby. “He said he’d pick me up in ten minutes.”

  “But of course, the whole scheme wouldn’t work if I was awake and heard the phone. I might have insisted on coming along. At the very least I’d know who called. How could you be sure I wouldn’t wake up, Shawn? Only if you drugged my drink while you were stealing the purse. You were the one who suggested we have a drink. I only took a sip of mine and left the rest on the table, but tonight the glasses were all empty. If I didn’t finish it, who did? Then I remembered how Tabby likes to climb up on tables and how he licked up my coffee. This morning he slept through two phone calls and Krista’s departure—highly unusual behavior for a cat, unless he was drugged instead of me.”

  “You figured it all, didn’t you?”

  “Only you could have stolen the purse, only you could have drugged the drink. Stealing the car itself was no problem. You probably took the elevator straight to the garage after you left Krista’s with the purse and used her own key to drive it away. You’d arranged the early-morning appointment with your victim and after killing her you phoned Krista from the crash scene. You picked her up by seven o’clock, drugged her, and brought her here before Zap and the others arrived.

  “Figuring she was still alive, I asked myself where you could hide her. Then I remembered this windowless recording studio. These places are all soundproof—where better to hide her? She was going to leave you after this album and record in Nashville—she told me that—and you couldn’t bear to lose her.” Krista spoke again from the couch. “He said they’d think I was dead and nobody would be looking for me. He’d keep me a prisoner and I’d record just for him. After six months or a year he’d pretend to find the recordings and say they were made before my death. He said they’d be worth a fortune.”

  “You can’t keep her here,” Libby told Gibbs, starting to lower her hands.

  “Keep them up!” he barked, waving the gun.

  Libby stepped back until her legs touched the couch. “No one stole that tape. It was an excuse to visit Krista last night and lure her from the apartment this morning.”

  “Time for you to shut up,” Gibbs said.

  He was aiming the .45 when Krista’s hand crept beneath Libby’s skirt and found the second gun. She fired once and the bullet struck Shawn Gibbs in the right shoulder, spinning him around.

  Libby crossed the room quickly and knocked the gun from his hand. “Good work!” she told Krista.

  “I remembered what you told me about your other gun.”

  “I should hire you for my bodyguard,” Libby said. “Now get out to a phone and call the police.”

  THE CACTUS KILLER

  Annie Sears was driving west, hoping to cover the 750-mile distance from El Paso to San Diego in two days. She didn’t like driving in remote areas after dark and by the time she’d crossed the Arizona

  border she was looking for a town where she might spend the night. About an hour into the state on I-10, still a long way east of Tucson, she spotted a hand-lettered sign that read: CACTUS VALLEY DAYS NEXT EXIT.

  Well, she reasoned, if they were trying to attract tourists they must have motel accommodations for them. She took the indicated exit and followed the infrequent signs south a few miles toward the Mexican border. Cactus Valley, when she reached it, was little more than a small town with a main street that seemed left over from the back lot of a Hollywood Western. But it did have lots of cactuses, not even counting the giant plastic one that dominated the grassy square and temporary crafts booths at the center of town.

  Annie decided to get a room before pursuing the delights of Cactus Valley Days, and she settled on a low-priced motel just past the plastic cactus. The room clerk, a dour young man wearing glasses and an aggressive brush cut, managed to say, “Welcome to Cactus Valley,” without smiling or even looking at her. “How long you staying?”

  “Just one night. I’m driving through to San Diego.”

  He raised his eyes to take her in. “Going to school out there?”

  That brought a little laugh from Annie. “I’ve been out of school quite a few years. I’m taking a job there. That’s why I decided to drive. I’ll need my car.”

  “Too bad you won’t be staying longer. This is our summer festival time.

  Cactus Valley Days is held every June.”

  �
�You certainly have lots of cactuses around. On the hillsides they looked like an army of tall green men, waving their arms at me.”

  “Arizona is noted for its cactuses. Our state flower is the blossom of the Saguaro cactus. It appears in May and June, blooms during the cool desert nights, and closes again by midday. It’s a special time of the year around here.”

  She filled out a registration card and paid in advance for the room. “After I shower I might take a walk over to the festival. It looks like fun.”

  He handed her a key. “Room 28 on the second floor. If you need anything, just call me. My name is Bill Symons.”

  “Thanks, Bill. I’ll do that.” She went up the stairs carrying her overnight bag. At least he’d grown a bit friendlier. Maybe she wouldn’t have to worry about him stabbing her in the shower.

  A Mexican band was on a makeshift stage playing a lively song Annie remembered from the El Paso bars, though she couldn’t come up with its name. She’d changed into a T-shirt and jeans, with her long hair pulled into a ponytail. It was still daylight and a good crowd was wandering around to the various food and craft booths, A few people were even dancing to the Latin rhythms. Next to the stage was the plastic cactus, nearly twenty feet tall. She went up and felt the realistic two-inch spines clustered on the cactus ribs. Artificial blossoms adorned the ends of the branches.

  “It’s just like the real thing,” a young woman next to her said. “We used to have a ten-footer until three years ago, but Russ Jewitt replaced it with this bigger one. He keeps it in his warehouse the rest of the year.”

  “I’m just passing through,” Annie confessed. “Who’s Russ Jewitt?”

  “He has a lumberyard and dabbles in real estate. Stay around and you’ll hear him give a speech. Are you here overnight?”

  Annie focused on the young woman. Brown hair, fairly attractive in a blouse and jeans, probably a bit younger than her, maybe mid-twenties. “I’m at the motel till morning. Then I’m off to San Diego.”

  “Great city. I visited it when I was in high school.” She stuck out her hand. “I’m Marci McGreggor.”

  “Annie Sears. Pleased to meet you.”

  “We don’t get many visitors to Cactus Valley, except during the festival. It’s every year around this time, when the cactuses blossom. Have you met Bill Symons at the motel?”

  “He checked me in.”

  “Bit of an odd bird, but he’s harmless.”

  A boy was wandering through the crowd distributing a small tabloid newspaper and Annie took one. “What’s this?”

  “Our weekly paper with a schedule of festival activities. Too bad you won’t be here longer.”

  A boxed item at the bottom of page one caught her eye: CACTUS KILLER STRIKES AGAIN. “What’s this?”

  “Don’t worry, he’s not killing people, just cactuses.”

  “Is it some sort of local joke?”

  Marci smiled ruefully. “I wish it were! Some of the cactuses out there are over a hundred years old, and this guy’s been going around with a high-powered rifle drilling them full of holes.”

  Something stirred in Annie’s memory. “Wasn’t there someone who shot at a cactus and it fell over and killed him?”

  “Yeah I think that was over near Tucson somewhere. No such luck here. The sheriff thinks he sits in his car and fires from the road. We’ve had a lot of rain and the cactuses are plump this year.”

  Their conversation was interrupted by a voice on the loudspeaker. The Mexican music had ended and a well-built man in his forties, with graying hair and cowboy boots, had taken the microphone. “That’s Russ Jewitt,” Marci whispered in her ear. “He’ll talk forever.”

  Jewitt began with the usual greeting, and then launched into a history of the area that residents had probably heard many times before. He spoke of plans for the town’s future, which seemed to include a large discount store that would bring shoppers from a hundred miles away. “Naturally it’ll be built on property he owns,” Marci whispered again. “Come on! Let’s get a beer.”

  That sounded like a good idea, so Annie followed along. A bar with the unimaginative name of Oasis was closest, and they settled at an outdoor table just far enough from the loudspeakers so they could ignore Jewitt’s ramblings. “Do you have a job here in town?” Annie asked her new acquaintance.

  “If you could call it that,” the brown-haired woman answered. “I work at the county motor pool, checking vehicles in and out all day.”

  “Do you have a family?”

  She shook her head. “I’m between husbands at the moment. How about you?”

  Annie shrugged. “I lived with a cowboy back in El Paso for three years. When we broke up I decided to try San Diego. How are the men around here?”

  “Stiff as cactuses and just as prickly. You can see how desperate we are when I tell you Bill Symons at the motel is considered one of our most eligible bachelors.”

  “He can’t be more than twenty-five. How’d he manage to get a motel of his own?”

  “He’s twenty-seven actually. The motel belonged to his folks, but his mother died and three years ago his father, Pete Symons, just ran away. Hasn’t been seen since.”

  “Was it a woman?”

  “That was everyone’s guess, maybe somebody passing through, like you are. It happened during the Cactus Valley Days festival. Jewitt saw him talking to a woman and then they were both gone. His car was still at the motel, so he must have gone off with somebody.”

  Russ Jewitt had ended his speech without their noticing, and the crowd was flowing down the paths to the various refreshment stands. A man wearing a uniform shirt and sheriff’s badge wandered over to join them at their table. “Hi, Marci. How’s it going?”

  “Fine. Sheriff Redmont, this is Annie Sears. She stopped to see our festival on the way to California.”

  “Nice to have you, Annie. Don’t let Marci here lead you astray. She’s one of Cactus Valley’s wild girls.” He said it in a way that might have hinted at some past relationship. Certainly, the sheriff was handsome, with a lazy smile that would have looked good in a Hollywood Western.

  “Sure, I’m wild,” Marci agreed, with a wink at Annie. “Think I’ll go out and shoot me some cactuses tonight.”

  “What is all this cactus killing business?” Annie asked Sheriff Redmont. “Can you really kill one with a bullet?”

  “Probably not with one bullet, but we think this guy fires several shots from an automatic rifle. Cactuses collect water and when they’re fat and bulging with it, a few well-placed shots can split their skin and the water comes pouring out. There’ve been instances of cactuses exploding if they’re hit by lightning. The cactus just collapses and that’s the end of it.”

  “How long has this shooting been going on?”

  This is the third year, though for some reason it’s mostly in May and June. My deputies keep an eye out when they’re on patrol, but there’s a lot of land out here. At first he just seemed to hit targets within sight of the road, as if he was firing from his car, but lately we’ve found some collapsed cactuses up in the hills. There are plenty of dirt roads through there. It’s probably some kid with a rifle and a pickup. He’s causing lots of damage, though.”

  Russ Jewitt was edging through the crowd with a smile and a handshake, working his way toward the sheriff. When he reached their table he took the empty chair and smiled at Annie, waiting to be introduced. Marci obliged and he shook hands with a gentlemanly nod. “Just passing through? That’s a shame. We’re friendly folk here in Cactus Valley. Where you staying?”

  She shrugged. “The motel.” Somewhat defensively she added, “It’s only for one night.”

  “That’s one night too many to be under the same roof with Bill Symons.

  That young man is a bit creepy. Wouldn’t you say so, Tom?”

  Sheriff Redmont hedged his reply. “Well, he was under his father’s thumb for all those years. His mother died when he was only ten, and then a few years back Pete ran off. Young
Bill was left with a motel to run, and no one in town he could call a real friend.”

  “I don’t know about that,” Jewitt said. “You went out with him a few times, didn’t you, Marci?”

  She gave a snort. “That was back in high school, ten years ago.”

  “I keep thinking Pete will return one of these days,” Sheriff Redmont said. “I find myself searching the crowds for him every year at the festival.”

  But Russ Jewitt simply shook his head. “I saw the woman he was with that night. She looked like a keeper. Even if they split up, he’d probably be too ashamed to show his face around here again.”

  “I don’t think so,” Marci disagreed. “I think he really cared about his son. He’d want to know how Bill was doing with the motel.”

  “If he cared about him, he wouldn’t have run off in the first place,” Jewitt said. “I offered to buy the motel from Bill, but he won’t sell. I’m hoping he’ll change his mind once his father is declared legally dead.”

  “What would you put up there?” Marci asked. “A discount store? Or maybe you’d get one of the tribes to build a casino.”

  “Maybe. Stranger things have happened.”

  Annie finished her drink and stood up. All this local banter had made her sleepy. “I think I’ll turn in early,” she told them. “I want to be on the road by eight in the morning. Nice to have met you all.”

  “We’ve got fireworks planned for ten thirty,” the sheriff told her. “Hope they don’t keep you awake.”

  Back at the motel, a night clerk had taken over for Bill Symons. Annie saw Symons across the narrow lobby, filling the soft drink machine, and walked over to say good night. “I thought I might see you at the festival.”

  “I stay away from them,” he told her. “Too much work to be done around here.”