Death on Covert Circle

by Patricia McLinn

  “Hensen’s had the chance to talk to the same people we have.”

  “We didn’t tell him we’d seen Gundy in the store — I didn’t even know we had. And Petey left out Gundy being there when he first talked to us, much less about seeing him with Karen Zalesk and Lorelei — even if he doesn’t know their names. What if he hasn’t told Hensen? That’s important information. It pushes finding her higher up our priority list.”

  “It does,” she agreed eagerly. “We can drop the dogs off and take Fern’s directions and—”

  “Not now. Yes, to dropping the dogs off, but then we have an appointment.”

  “We do?”

  “After what Ms. DesJames and Foster said yesterday, I Googled car and hire and Isaac in Cincinnati and there he was. We’re going for a drive today.”

  “That’s great. But I’m not sure he’ll consider it exactly an appointment.”

  We both chuckled. I stopped first.

  “Back to telling Hensen. Between what Petey said — though he downplayed the woman being upset — and what Aggie said, it changes the complexion of Gundy coming out with them.”

  “When you put it like that…”

  “That’s how she put it.”

  “Not exactly. Besides, Hensen could have asked her the same things I did and heard the same thing.”

  “He couldn’t have asked the same way. That was masterly.”

  Clara turned to me, beaming. “I know why you said masterly and not masterful. Because masterly is about mastering a skill, but masterful is about dominating, often another person. I looked that up recently.”

  “You are amazing, Clara. And not only for doing all this work toward being an author assistant. You can get anyone to tell you the truth.”

  “Like you?”

  “Far better than me. I ask them what I want to know, but you get them to voluntarily tell you what you want to know.”

  “I mean like I could even get you to tell me the truth?”

  My breath stopped. I was about to become an experiment in how long before a human popped from holding her breath.

  Or be scared to death by the prospect of the truth.

  Damn secrets.

  Pretending to examine raindrops hitting the windshield, I produced a chuckle, as if she’d been kidding. Actually not a bad one. Was I getting good at this?

  “I’m not forgetting about telling Hensen.” I pretended not to hear her sigh following my words. “In fairness, he can’t ask these questions the way you did or in a laidback atmosphere like this.”

  “Laidback? Not so sure,” she said dryly, as two owners in the small-dog area fussed at each other over whose dog had done what in a slight and long-over scuffle, while the dogs trotted over to the same blade of grass for a thorough side-by-side sniff.

  “You know what I mean. Not a whiff of officialdom. And if he tried your wide-eyed best-buddy routine, he’d probably get slapped with sanctions.”

  She chuckled. “Tell you what, if we don’t have it solved by Monday, we’ll tell him.”

  Great. A deadline.

  Considering I’d reacted to my self-imposed writing deadlines by blowing them off to solve a murder, I could hardly wait to see what I found to counter that deadline.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  “You two? What the hell do you want?”

  Isaac’s greeting ruined the effect of his standing by the driver’s side passenger door, politely holding it open with an umbrella overhead.

  Clara went around to the far side, so I went to the open door. “We hired a car and driver — your car and you — that’s what we want.”

  “To go where?”

  “Nowhere. To stay here and talk.”

  “You’re going to pay me to sit and talk?”

  “Your regular rate.”

  “With maybe a tip,” Clara said, “Since you’ve got it set up so I’ve got a grownup seat, instead of that little one facing the back.”

  * * * *

  The promise of pay — and possible tip — relaxed Isaac.

  He insisted on sitting in the driver’s seat, but with the divider down and him slewed around to face us, it was a good setup.

  “Birchall wasn’t all bad. Get him where he wanted to go when he wanted to be there without him ever noticing the trip and he was okay. Got real pissed when traffic screwed things up. Not the only one I drive like that. Whatever he said bounced off as long as his check didn’t bounce. And it never did. Otherwise, the job’s mostly waiting around, being ready to go the second he wanted, and making sure morons don’t mess up my car.”

  Without success, we tried different approaches to get some insight to Birchall’s time since becoming CEO of the Jolly Roger chain, his relationship with the board, any threats or enemies.

  As he had in the housewares aisle, Isaac maintained he was the hear-no-evil monkey. His evil-seeing was reserved for other drivers.

  That he’d have happily expounded on. Since we were paying, though, I cut off the rant.

  “Let’s start at the beginning of Monday. Had you driven Rod Birchall earlier in the day, before driving him here to Haines Tavern?”

  “Sure. Drove him to the corporate building like I did every day unless he was flying somewhere or was out of town.”

  “Anywhere else that morning?”

  “Nope. Got called to have the car at the rear entrance, got there early, Birchall was about a minute late. He called to Utton while I was reconfiguring the car so Utton faced backward. Then Birchall reamed him out for being late.” Isaac grinned appreciatively at this petty tactic.

  Or perhaps it was at both tactics — the reconfiguration and the late call. Unless…

  “Was someone else supposed to accompany Birchall on the surprise visit to the Haines Tavern store?”

  “No. Ms. Des-Bitch said it was going to be Utton when she gave me the day’s rundown.”

  Birchall’s late call to Utton had been a little entertainment for a bully.

  “You arrive at Haines Tavern. What happens next?”

  “Pipsqueak in the parking lot mouths off from the start about not caring if he was the CEO, he wasn’t parking in front of the door. That lame-ass Utton tries to make peace. Gets nowhere, as always.” I believed we might have stumbled on the reason Isaac was not driving for the acting Jolly Roger CEO. “So, I get out and tell the pipsqueak we we’re parking there, if I have to run his scrawny ass over.” He and Birchall sounded like they’d been soul brothers.

  “Then what?”

  “What do you mean, then what? I wait. Like always. Set up cones so no idiot drivers could scratch her up. Or those carts — God, those carts ought to be outlawed. Then I check the inside. Use the vacuum, pick up after them. Outside, wipe marks so she glows. Then wait and wait more.”

  “And went in the store. When?” His lips had parted to deny it. I added the question in hopes of avoiding the no-I-didn’t yes-you-did back and forth waste of time.

  It worked.

  “Hell if I know. Needed to use the can. Went in, did that, came back and waited more.”

  Yet we’d seen him in the store.

  “Turns out, I could’ve been waiting forever. First I knew was the cops showing up. Though didn’t know what for. Didn’t know a thing until one of those cops grabbed me and said they had questions. Wasn’t sharing any answers with me. Hitting me with questions, over and over. All sorts of questions I didn’t have the answers to. I don’t know what the hell went on in there. Can’t tell them what I don’t know.”

  “Of course you can’t.” Clara’s reflected indignation calmed him. She was going to be so good with authors. Scary good. “They had you right there as a one-of-a-kind resource and instead they were asking you about mundane things. What they should have been asking you about was how Birchall and Utton got along? Because that’s something you — and only you — would know.”

  “Not great.” His smile wasn’t pleasant. “Was going to get worse.”

  “Oh? Did you hear Rod Birch
all say something?”

  “Me? I don’t hear anything. Ever.” Then he contradicted himself. “All I know is he said something to pasty-face about a vote next week and he practically fell out of the car. Thought he was going to cry.”

  “Was Utton the one who fired you?”

  “No way. That bi—” He cut that off, but the sentiment was clear. No love lost there. “Thinks she runs the whole place. She’ll make Utton’s life a living hell.” That pleased him.

  “Why don’t you like Foster Utton? Has he ever done anything to you?”

  “Him? No way. But he’s … sneaky. Birchall was six kinds of an SOB, but you knew right where you were with him. Utton, he tries to be all nice and polite. Makes me nervous.”

  I wondered what Isaac’s tips were like when he treated people trying to be nice and polite with suspicion.

  In Birchall, he’d had a boss who truly suited him.

  Guess there’s a match for everybody.

  * * * *

  Clara volunteered to drive, which left me reading Fern’s idiosyncratic directions. The rain had stopped, but the light still wasn’t great. And there wasn’t a distance or a point of the compass in the entire string of turns.

  That didn’t seem to bother Clara, as we left the relative safety of the highway for sadistic amusement park rides masquerading as roads.

  “I’ve got something to tell you, Sheila.” She negotiated a ninety-degree turn in the road to avoid an old barn. “I’ve wanted to but we’ve been so busy… I’m so excited. I got this great opportunity. The woman teaching the authors assistant course has a regular assistant who helps her with all the tasks for the teacher’s authors and the regular assistant will be taking maternity leave and she’s asked me — me — to fill in for those months. Instead of trying to find my own clients at the very start, I’ll keep learning from her and her assistant, and I’ll get paid while I’m doing it. And then I’ll know how to handle things with clients myself later.”

  She slanted me a look.

  “You mean when you have your own business?” I asked.

  “Yeah. But more. When I work for you.”

  “Work for me?” My ribs suddenly felt as if they couldn’t contain my heart. Had she somehow learned of my Abandon All connection? Was she thinking…?

  What was she thinking?

  “Of course. When you finish your novel and start selling it and become a world-renowned and best-selling author.”

  For the last two parts, been there, done that, didn’t want to go back. The first two steps seemed impossible at the moment.

  “Me?” I got out.

  “Sure. I happened to see something on your computer the other day. It was good, Sheila.”

  This secret. Not the other ones.

  Despite the relief, I felt the heat signifying color rising from my chest to my forehead.

  “It’s not. It’s really, really not. Just notes. Barely. I’m sort of playing around with it for now. It might not — probably won’t — go anyplace.”

  “I know it will. And by then, I’ll be good at this VA stuff — author assistant — and I can help you get your name out there, build your brand, establish a readership.”

  Those sounded like phrases from her course.

  I wondered if they had segments on keeping the author you were assisting out of the spotlight, keeping their brand unknown, leaving their name alone?

  Not likely.

  “That sounds great,” I lied. “But first you have to finish your course. And — though it’s far less likely to matter — I need to finish a book. Or write something someone would want to read.”

  “I want to read whatever else you’ve written. That little bit I read? I really liked those characters. Not that I’m pushing you to let me read it. Not until you’re ready.” She touched my arm. “And don’t worry, Sheila. I won’t tell anyone you’re writing a book. Your secret’s safe with me.”

  That secret.

  But what about all the others?

  * * * *

  “Can this be it?” I asked. “It looks awfully overgrown. Doesn’t look like anybody’s been here for ages.”

  “Then this is probably it. Some of these old families like to keep a real low profile. They also like to keep things original. Except… Yeah, there are power lines going in. I’m turning in.”

  I was glad we were in her SUV, not my sedan. My closer-to-the-ground vehicle probably would have bottomed out on the ridge between the ruts on this less-than-a-road.

  “I don’t know, Clara… I can’t believe anybody’s living back here.”

  “You lived in New York City too long. Gotta get back to your country roots.”

  “All my roots are suburban. If there weren’t street lights and ice cream trucks roaming the streets, it wasn’t civilization.”

  “High time you expanded your horizons, then.”

  But I noticed she had her hands tight on the wheel as the ruts jerked the SUV one way then the other.

  I drew in a breath to re-voice my doubt, but she spoke first. “We’re definitely getting closer to the river. I can smell it.”

  I sniffed in air. I smelled air conditioning — and was grateful for it. There was a faint whiff of wet vegetation, but since the tangled leaves of the trees, bushes, and vines all glistened from the earlier rain, that didn’t say river to me.

  “Ah,” Clara said as we rounded a curve. “Here we are.”

  If this was the Gundy old Family Place, I was surprised any of them had survived long enough to procreate and pass this or anything else down to their progeny.

  I wasn’t expecting a palace, but this log structure looked like the second of the Three Little Pigs’ efforts — after the wolf huffed and puffed.

  “Clara…” Had Fern sent us on a wild goose chase — or to a deathtrap — on purpose?

  “And, look. Two vehicles.”

  Both solid, new, and well-cared-for despite recent mud, they were the most promising things I’d seen.

  We got out and picked our way past puddles — the way Clara did it looked like skipping — and reached a front porch. It sloped from side to side. The good thing was it was about six inches off the ground, so there wouldn’t be far to fall when — not if — it collapsed.

  The door was out of square, but so was the doorframe, so they matched.

  Knocking on it was like knocking on the highest grit sandpaper imaginable. After two knocks, I yanked back my hand to see if my knuckles were bleeding.

  They weren’t. Which seemed unjust, considering how they felt.

  The door opened about a foot, enough to recognize the little girl with the curls from the day of the murder at the Roger.

  Forget the Three Little Pigs. We’d fallen down the hole with Alice, into Wonderland.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  We gaped at her.

  “Nobody comes to this door,” she told us with disapproval. She held a package of colored pens.

  An adult-sized shadow appeared from out of the gloom behind her.

  Gundy Vance.

  “Lorelei. What are you—?”

  He stopped dead for an instant when he recognized us.

  Then slowly came the rest of the way forward, into the relative light of the doorway.

  Relative, because the trees overhead and the dense vegetation all around left the door in the equivalent of twilight.

  He put his hand on the girl’s head, his wide palm flattening the wild curls slightly, the gesture familiar, fond, and proprietary. All those were fine with the girl. She leaned back against him.

  “What the hell are you doing here?” a third voice asked. No big surprise it was the mystery woman from the Roger. Karen Zalesk, mother of Lorelei.

  “Fern sent us,” I blurted out.

  “Fern did?”

  “Yes,” Clara said firmly. “And gave us the directions.”

  “Has she lost her mind?” the woman demanded. “I know she’s getting old, but I thought—”

  “She still has
all her faculties.” Gundy shifted his stare from us to the top of the little girl’s head. “Okay. Come in.”

  His yanking at the old door left an ungenerous slice to enter. We made do.

  The woman had disappeared into the dimness, the girl followed, leaving Gundy to escort us through a room, along a hallway, then a wider one.

  Like some weird time travel where you walked from one century to the next, going from the cabin front, to a solid brick structure of the 1800s, then a sort of bridge to a couple rooms that had been modern in the mid-twentieth century, then up stairs to burst into a great room of glass, rock, gleaming kitchen surfaces, and views down and across the river that outshone the kitchen.

  This building had grown in layers, like a tree.

  Irresistibly drawn, I went past where Lorelei colored on papers strewn across a coffee table to the windows. Eventually, I turned with a gesture encompassing all of the building as I said, “This is … amazing.”

  “Amazing,” Clara echoed.

  The only way anyone could see the modern additions was to be on the property or from a drone. The way it was nestled into the trees and curve of the earth, it would be mostly blocked from view, even on the river.

  Our obvious appreciation visibly softened the expressions of both adults.

  “The first Gundys to come here built down at river level. They soon learned to respect its power — lost livestock and children to the Ohio.”

  Interesting the order he put them in.

  “Josiah and Anna Gundy moved their house up here, hauling up the original logs. That started a family history of never starting fresh, never starting over, never wiping the slate clean.”

  That left a pause that vibrated with echoes of previous arguments and accusations.

  There seemed to be messages going between the man and woman at a rapid rate. The pause from my end — and I suspect from Clara’s — was trying to sort out what we’d walked into.

  “You’ve discovered the deep dark family secret,” Gundy said.

  My breath hitched.

  “Our family fishing shack isn’t a shack.”

  Clara flicked me a look. Our?