Interior Motives (7 page)

Poor Darlene.

“I see you drive a Honda,” he said with disdain. “I guess you’ve realized it’s time to move up.”

“Ah . . . I’m not sure.”

“You will be after today.”

Tommy shouldn’t count chickens so soon. “We’ll see.”

He swept his shiny, maroon-satin-covered arm in a broad arc. “Anything in particular you like?”

“I’m afraid I don’t know much about this kind of car . . .”

And he was off. I followed him, free to let my attention roam, to scope out the place, to take note of anything and everything my heart desired. The guy loves the sound of his voice.

But there wasn’t much to notice. The showroom, while spiffy and spit-and-polish, was a Sahara but for the two of us. Tommy’s inventory encompassed all of six vehicles: two Mercedes-Benzes, one a convertible, the other a traditional boxy sedan; one lime green Jaguar with a cigar-smoke-scented interior; a beige Beemer; a black Rolls; and some red Italian creation with a name without enough loop to catch on the hook part of my Velcro brain.

A tinny rendition of “Disco Duck” pinged out in a momentary lull of the relentless onslaught of Muzak. Tommy pulled out a cell phone and flashed me more teeth than I care to see.

“It’s London.” Big, fat, cheesy wink. “Gotta take this one, doll. Look around. Try the cars. See how they fit you.”

London? Maybe London, Kentucky, or London, Texas. And the caller? Probably someone looking for his missing Jag. But I took the chance to check the odometer of each of the six cars. All had minimal mileage, but not a single vehicle was newer than four years. They couldn’t all have been driven by a grandma to church on Sunday and nothing more.

Maybe my next stop would be at Larry’s. I had no idea what the guy did or even where he lived. Time to let my fingers do the walking through the white pages.

“Tommy?”

He was too busy begging on the phone to answer me.

“Another month, man. Please. That’s all I need. How was I gonna know she was going to change everything at the last minute?”

Hmm . . . interesting tidbit.

Tommy’s championship whining continued. “Hey, listen. I got a big buyer in the showroom right now. Some ritzy decorator. I bet she’ll take the Bentley. You know, to drive rich clients around.”

Yikes!
Two big strikes against Tommy: one, there was no Bentley in the showroom, and two, if that was how he saw me, as the “big buyer,” he was in worse shape than I’d thought. In more ways than one.

“Oh, all right,” he grumped. “Two weeks, then. I’ll sell the Bentley by then, and I can pay you back in two weeks.”

That was my cue. “Tommy? Thanks for the info. You sure know your foreign cars. But I have to hurry home now. I’ll give the car some more thought.”

“No!” He ran to my side in panic. “See?” He slapped the clamshell phone shut. “I’m done. Now, which one’s it gonna be? I’ll bet I can guess. It’s the Rolls. It’s just so you.”

Not in this lifetime. “I’ll get back to you. But now I really have to hurry. So many walls, so much to faux. See ya!”

I ran. Yeah, I did the cowardly lion bit and split. I was afraid if I stayed there a minute longer, he’d tie me to the steering wheel of the Rolls and help himself to my debit card. This guy looked like hungry desperation and was a prime suspect in the mur

— Oh. Yeah. Darlene died of cancer.

That sorta deflated my sails, but it didn’t slow my pace. My Honda was a welcome sight.

The gray fedora and tan trench up ahead? Not so much.

I reached my car and thumped my head against the roof. “Bella! What are you doing here?”

“How’d’ya know it was me?” she asked, indignant. “I’m undercover.”

“You showed me the cover, remember?”

“Oh yeah.” Her brief disappointment vanished behind a smile. “Toodle-ooh, then, Haley girl. I have a kill—ah . . . er . . . killer headache, and I’d better head on home.”

I nabbed the stubby tail of her trench’s belt. “Not so fast, Sherlock Cahill. You haven’t answered my question. Why are you here? Show me a cat or a dog in the middle of the business district. A little old iguana or even a tarantula will do.”

She waved. “Oh, you’d be surprised. You have to scratch the surface to find your culp—er . . . what you’re looking for, you know.”

I tossed my backpack purse into my car and crossed my arms. “What
are
you looking for?”

She matched my stance. “How about you?”

“I asked you first.”

“I’ll tell you after you tell me, Haley girl.”

Mental scramble time. “I . . . ah . . . met Tommy Weikert when I went to meet with his mother the day she died. I was going to redesign her parlor.”

“Yeah, I know. I read the paper. But what ya want with him? Last time I checked, you said you loved your Honda and didn’t want some fancy doodadded hood for people to know you’re loaded.”

“I’m not buying one of those cars!”

“Then what are you doing here?”

Quick, quick. Think of something, Haley.

Only the funeral came to mind. “Um . . . the Weikert brothers asked Dad to do Darlene’s funeral.”

That’s as far as I would go. But it seemed to work for Bella. At least for now.

“I see. You were on an errand.”

Her easy acceptance left a funky taste in my mouth. “And now that I’m done, why don’t I give you a ride home?”

“I have my car, and I have . . . my own errands to run. See ya!”

That belt tail came in handy again. “What happened to your headache?”

She slapped my hands away. “Oh, I took something for it earlier. It just kicked in.”

“What about the Balis? How long have they been locked up?”

My question tinted her face with guilt. But then she squared her shoulders and smiled—a huge, all-the-way-around-her-head, everything’s-just-too-cool-with-my-world kind of smile. “Oh, the babies are fine, Haley. You know I leave them lots of food, water, toys, and treats.”

I didn’t buy the smile. “Yes, you do leave them food, water, and treats, but it’s you I’m sure they miss. You’ve been gone a long time.”

She pulled herself to her full height. “I’m a working mother now.” Then she gave me a slit-eyed look. “Besides, how’d you know how long I’ve been gone? You been spying on me?”

“Of course not. I hadn’t seen you in days, so I stopped by to make sure everything was all right. I’m not used to going this long without a Bella fix, you know.”

“That’s so sweet, Haley girl. I guess absence does make the heart grow longer, but I’m very busy these days. I have a couple of open cases, and I have to follow a mutedplicity of clues. So you’re just going to have to live with it—like my babies.”

Just what I was afraid of. “Care to tell me about your cases? I’m real interested.”

That got me another serving of suspicious looks. “Nothing too complicated,” Bella hedged. “You know, same old, same old in the life of a pet detective.”

“My, my, my. Well, hello there, ladies. Fancy seeing you here, outside Weikert’s Euro-Import Auto Sales. And together, no less. All that’s missing is the Balis.”

Sometimes I wish I was bigger, stronger, and of a pugilistic bent. Dutch Merrill lives because I’m none of the above.

I turned the tables on him. “And what are
you
doing here?”

“Aren’t you the one who’s always saying I have to do something about my beat-up old truck?”

I laughed. When I got control again, I said, “You’re going to trade in the rolling wreck for a set of those overrated, overpriced, froufrou wheels. Hah! We don’t live in lala land, so that doesn’t even rise to the level of a lousy excuse. Give me a break, Merrill. Why are you really here?”

“Would you believe I didn’t buy a word you said back at Tedd’s?”

Groan.
“I can’t believe you said that. I don’t lie.”

His turn to laugh. “I’ll give you that much. You don’t lie, but you don’t always tell it all.”

“Hey, a girl’s gotta keep a hint of mystery, you know.” Good grief! Where had
that
come from?

Bella clapped. “Woo-hoo! You go, Haley girl. Keep him hooked and guessing. You’ll reel him in in no time.”

I’d forgotten I had my shadow at my side, so I ducked into my Honda. “I don’t want to reel anyone in. Especially not him.”

“You could do worse,” Dutch ventured.

I slammed the door shut. “I don’t have time for this.”

He leaned his forearms on the roof of the car. “You really don’t, Haley. Quit nosing around where there’s nothing to sniff.”

“Ah . . .” Bella began to bustle down the street. “See ya, kids. It’s been real!”

I banged my forehead against the steering wheel—Bella and Dutch inspire lots of head banging. “She is snooping.” “I told you.” When I glared, he held up a warning finger. “But you are too. So cut it out. There’s nothing to snoop about. You can see how crazy Bella looks on one of her lurk missions.”

“I don’t wear vintage hats and tan coats.”

“That’s not what I mean, and you know it.”

“I don’t have to put up with this. I’m going home. Where I have a mountain of sewing to do for our joint project.”

He rapped his knuckles against the car door, then stepped away. “Remember. Nothing happened this time. The woman was sick. You have an obligation to Tedd. You promised her you’d do her proud. Don’t let her down.”

As he walked away, I remembered making that promise. But not just to Tedd.

I’d promised Darlene Weikert I wouldn’t let her down. True, I’d spoken about the redesign of her home. But things had changed. Darlene had affected me. I felt a certain responsibility toward her.

Didn’t that mean I had to put my suspicions to rest? Everyone said she’d died of natural causes.

Or would I let her down if I just gave up?

Lord? What should I do?

5

I’d just been compared to Bella—for the second time. First Dad, now Dutch. Something about it threw me—it was very uncool. Not that Bella’s not a totally cool older woman, because she is. But there is that nuttiness.

And I’m no flake. Contrary to Dutch’s opinion.

These thoughts zoomed through my mind on my way home. I considered a stop at the
dojo
but thought better of it at the last minute. I can’t keep a single solitary secret from Tyler Colby,
sensei
extraordinaire and friend for life. I wasn’t ready to share my concerns yet.

The more I learned about Darlene Weikert, her friends, and her family, the stronger the possibility of murder seemed. Yes, cancer can be a swift, ruthless killer, but Darlene hadn’t looked that sick when we met. And I should know; I watched my mother waste away from liver cancer that developed secondary to hepatitis.

I also couldn’t forget Cissy’s comment about Darlene’s recent weight gain. A woman about to succumb to cancer wouldn’t gain weight; she might bloat from medication, but Darlene hadn’t looked bloated. She’d had what looked like normal color in her face, and I remembered her eyes as clear too.

It was too much for me to figure out.

Well, Lord. No one else seems to give much thought to Darlene’s
sudden death other than Bella and me. And while I know
that matchup doesn’t much favor me, I did have my doubts from
the start. Bella just jumped in after she read that story in the
paper. She can’t stand to be anywhere but moving and shaking
in the middle of the action.

At the manse, I pulled into the driveway and parked.
Indecision
and
waffling
aren’t words that describe my normal tendencies, but that’s where I was right about then.

So, Father. Here’s the deal. Do I do like everyone says and just
forget the whole thing? Or do I follow my instincts and check
things out a little more?

As usual, I didn’t hear a Charlton Heston voice from above. Too bad God doesn’t work that way, doesn’t yell at you what you should do. Life down here would be way easier if he did.

I think.

So I’m on my own. Well, I do have your Word, and I guess
that’s my next stop.

A sense of peace filled me at the thought of the comfort I always find in Scripture. God might not boom out directions, but his Word never, ever fails.

I headed straight for my room, took my Bible, and sat in my chaise lounge, right by the window. I spent a good, long time there, soaked in verse after verse, then dropped to my knees for some heavy-duty praise and prayer.

When I stood again, I glanced out the window and saw Bella drive her eighteen-wheeler-sized vintage pink Caddie into her driveway. She bustled up the walk, unlocked the door, and scooted inside, where I’m sure her maniacal mousers welcomed her with what passes as affection from those two.

Downstairs, I went through the motions of dinner prep, my mind on the Weikerts the whole time. While Tommy was a major sleaze, all I knew about Larry was that he didn’t think much of his brother and dressed in rejects from a recycle center’s ragbag.

When Dad came in, I served the meal, ate robotlike, and communicated with “Uh-huhs” and “Reallys?” The more time passed, the more I knew I had to check out Larry Weikert.

If only I knew where to find the geek . . . er . . . guy.

Since there couldn’t be too many Weikerts in the phone book, I started there. No luck. But then I had a brainstorm. The guy looked like the poster boy for computer nerddom. It brought to mind the Internet. There are those cyber white pages sites that give out addresses with no sense of guilt at the intrusion they’ve made into people’s privacy.

The minute I typed in the guy’s name, Google had a field day. And the white pages were the least of it. Sure enough, Larry boy was the fair-haired child of the blogger world, king of the cyberwonks. He evidently did nothing that couldn’t be done via computer.

I had his snail mail address in seconds.

Although I’m not often given to rationalization, I figured that if God didn’t want me to check out Larry Weikert, he wouldn’t have made my search so easy. My decision was made.

“Ah . . . Dad?” I snagged my backpack purse on my way to the front door. “I have to run out for a little while. I need to do some . . . um . . . research, so don’t worry if I’m not back right away. Love ya, and bye!”