No Gun Intended (4 page)

Chapter Six

I called Mickey while Mom was administering aid to Scranton—who was unconscious on the street—and we waited for the ambulance.

“I'm going to get Mom out of here as soon as I can, Mickey.”

“Babe. Wait and talk to the police. Tell them about Scranton and…”

“There are tons of witnesses here, including the driver. It wasn't a hit and run. We don't have to stay.”

“Where's Sylvia?”

“Crouching next to Scranton and holding a cloth against his head. Someone gave it to her. A restaurant napkin, I think.”

“She'll need to apprise the EMT of his condition….”

“She can tell someone else right now what she knows about his condition and turn the first aid over to that someone else. We need to get the hell out of here. What if Scranton is involved and he has some partner lurking…?”

“Who could follow you if you leave, but if you stay…”

“We'll get a cab.”

“You're scared.”

“You bet your bookie I am.”

“I think you're safer if you wait for the police, with that crowd of people.”

I shook my head, like he could see me. “Mickey, I was slipped a gun and Claudia whatshername got beat up. Scranton is maybe stalking me. He might be looking for the backpack. Who knows what the hell could happen next? I just want to get out of here.” I could hear the ambulance siren several blocks away. “The EMTs are almost here.”

“Okay. Go home. Call the police from there. Tell them your suspicions about Scranton. Be careful. Call me when you get home. Text me on the way.”

I could see the ambulance now. “Okay. We're outta here.”

“Text me,” he repeated.

I hung up and kneeled down next to Mom. “We have to leave.”

She looked at me, alarmed. “We can't until he is in the hands of…”

I motioned to a young man squatting next to Mom. “Will you please take over applying pressure on this wound? And if he wakes up, try to keep him still. It looks like his arm is broken.” He nodded and moved into position, while I eased Mom away.

“Annabelle, this is wrong. We should stay….”

But she didn't finish her sentence. The look on my face, I can only assume, convinced her quickly that it was time for us to split.

We hustled over to the front of the Benson Hotel several blocks away, where the doorman hailed a cab for us. We were silent on the ride home and were there in fifteen minutes. I paid the driver while Mom scrambled out and up the stairs to the front door, fiddling for her key, then rushing in when Dad opened the door.

I walked in to hear Dad calling after Mom, who was running upstairs, “Syl? Something wrong?” Then he turned to me. “Bea?”

“I'm sorry, Dad.” And then I started to cry, and he started to reach for me, but then changed his mind and dashed upstairs to see after Mom.

***

Dawson listened carefully while Mom and I detailed the afternoon's events. Monroe did his wandering-around-the-room-looking-at-everything routine, like we were harboring stolen artwork or hiding a secret door leading to a basement where we held girls in slavery. He stopped his meandering when Mom tried to explain why we left.

“We simply don't know what's going on, or how we're involved, you see, Detective Dawson, and Annabelle thought we should get to a safe place and then call you.” She smiled brightly.

Monroe spoke up. “Against the law to leave the scene of an accident.”

I stood up. “Give me a break. We weren't involved in the accident. We were helping until the ambulance got there.”

“So you say.”

We had a stare-down. “What does that mean?”

He shrugged. “Maybe you had something to do with Mr. Scranton getting hit by that car.”

I guffawed. “Oh, right. Like, what, we pushed him? We already told you, we were across the street, kitty-corner to where he was. We watched him walk in front of that car.”

“So you say.”

Dawson coughed. “Look, we have some information about that gun.”

“Let's hear it.” Dad looked like he was about ready to throw Monroe out of the house.

“Well, unfortunately, it was used in a murder, here, in Portland, a couple of weeks ago. Ballistics matched the gun to bullets.”

“Good!” I said. “Then you know whose gun it is!”

Dawson shook his head. “We tracked the serial number. The gun was reported stolen about a year ago. There's only one set of prints on it, which must be yours. It had been wiped clean otherwise.”

Mom's bright smile had vanished. “Annabelle wasn't here two weeks ago,” she practically snarled.

“No, ma'am, we know Annabelle didn't commit that murder.” Dawson paused.

Monroe broke in. “But she could be connected, since she has the gun.”

I snickered. “And that's why I called you and turned it over to you? Give me a break.”

Dad patted my knee. “Detectives, what about Scranton? Is he okay, do you know?”

“He's got a broken arm and a concussion. He was lucky.” Monroe was staring at me while he said this, and I didn't avert my eyes, which wasn't easy since he had an orange crumb or something stuck on his mustache and I kept looking at it.

“He doesn't need to know that Mom took care of him, right?”

“Right,” answered Monroe. “But we'll ask him if he was following you.”

“
Will
ask?” snipped Mom. “You mean, you haven't asked him already? The accident was four hours ago!”

Monroe broke our gaze to trade looks with Dawson.

Dad stood up. “Don't tell me, he's already left the hospital.”

Dawson nodded. “Checked himself out as soon as the cast was on his arm and he saw an opportunity. But don't worry, folks, we'll find him.”

“Oh, for fuck's sake,” moaned Mom.

Dawson stood up to leave and motioned Monroe toward the door. “Stick around, Annabelle? You're in town for a week, I think?”

“Yes.”

“Good.”

Monroe reached for the front door handle, but I stopped him. “Monroe!”

He turned toward me.

“You've got Cheese Doodles stuck on your mustache.”

He stared at me. I pointed at my own lip with my finger. “Right about here.”

Right on cue, Dusty barked.

The cops left.

Chapter Seven

I was having a hard time sleeping, what with jetlag and stressing about a gun with my prints all over it. I was missing Mickey more than ever, especially since I had made tuna melts for my parents after the police left. I'm not much of a cook, but I make a mean TM. The secret is in the butter, but that's all I'm saying. Anyway, Mickey loves them and I cook them at home once a week, on Sundays.

Mom and Dad were appreciative, but not in the way Mickey usually is. If you get my drift.

I had called him earlier, to tell him about the gun being used in a murder and how I didn't like Monroe much. He promised to come out as soon as possible. I could hear the worry in his voice, so I tried to sound just fine and dandy on the phone. But I wasn't.

I texted him at eleven, two in the morning his time. “U missed TMs 2nite.”

He responded, “I missed more than that. U OK?”

“OK. Lonely.”

“Surprise 4 U tomorrow.”

“U????!!!!!”

“No. But good surprise. Get some sleep.”

“XXOO.”

“Ditto.”

I eventually did fall asleep, and woke up when I heard Dusty barking downstairs. Then the doorbell rang. And then it rang again.

I squinted at the clock—it was ten already. I figured Mom and Dad must have gone out. So I threw the afghan over my shoulders and went downstairs.

Whoever was at the door was insistent. He or she pushed the buzzer twice more in as much time as it took me to get there. It made me a little nervous, so I yelled, “Hold your pants on, I'm coming!” and peeked through the front window to see who was there.

Then I threw open the door.

“Hola, amiga!”

I threw my arms around Luis while Dusty bounced around us. “You're my surprise! Oh, Luis, it is so good to see you! Come in!”

Like I already said, Mickey and I met Luis in Las Vegas when we got ourselves in a heap of trouble, and he helped us out even when we were strangers to him. He's now our best friend in the world. I think of him as the kindest, most generous friend anyone could ever imagine—maybe he's the Latino version of Paul Newman in
Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid,
if Robert Redford was Mickey, and I was Katharine Ross, the girlfriend. Except that we're not outlaws and I don't think Luis could balance me on the handlebars of his bike while “Raindrops Keep Falling on my Head” plays in the background. But he'd try if I asked him to.

Luis dropped his bag on the floor and gave Dusty a hearty pet before he gave me a second hug. “I am here to help, however I can.”

“Let's have some coffee.”

We settled at the dining room table with our mugs, toast, and jam. Luis told me that Mickey booked his flight from Las Vegas last night. “He is worried about you, Annabelle. He is upset that he is not here himself. But it is important to find that boy.”

“I know, Luis. And don't take this the wrong way, but you're the next best thing.” I smiled. “And really, I don't know what there is to be done.”

“Any word on the man who you met at the airport?”

“Loren Scranton. No. He left the hospital and the police haven't found him.”

“And the girl?”

“Claudia. Still in a coma. Her parents are arriving in Portland today, according to the police.”

Luis sipped his coffee. “They took their time getting here,
sí
? Claudia was attacked on Monday and now it is Wednesday. What about this murder? Do you have any details?”

I sat up straight. “Just heard about that last night. But, yup, maybe we can find out more about it. They said it happened a couple of weeks ago.”

“That is a start.” He paused. “Did they return your backpack to you?”

I shook my head. “No. Because it was found at the crime scene, they're keeping it until they figure this whole thing out.” I slathered more jam on my toast. “Is it me?”

“Is what you,
amiga
?”

“Is there something about me that gets me into these impossible situations?”

Luis chuckled. “You stand out in a crowd, this is true. And I know that I am happy that your previous misfortune brought us together. But, no,
amiga
, you only have
mala suerte
.”

“What is that?”

“Bad luck.”

I raised my eyebrows.
“Mucho mala suerte.”

Luis reached his hand out to me across the table. “We will figure this out.”

I grabbed it. “You are
el mejor
.”

He laughed.
“Qué bueno.
”

Just then the back door opened and Mom and Dad walked in, flushed and tittering. “Why, hello!” Mom brushed her thick gray hair from her face as she focused on Luis.

Luis stood up and held out his hand. “It is my pleasure to meet you. I am Luis Maldonado.”

Mom considered his hand and then hugged him. “Holy shit, Luis, I'm so glad to meet you at last!”

When she let him go, he shook hands with Dad, and I beamed, feeling blessed, lucky, and safe. “Mickey flew him in.”

Dad nodded. “Good man, Mick. And you, too, Luis. Thanks for making the trip.”

“It is my pleasure, Mr. Starkey.”

“Jeff. And this is Sylvia.” He motioned to me. “Pajamas, Bea?”

I pulled the blanket tighter around me. “I slept late. I'll go change, and then maybe we can all figure out what our plan is for the day.”

Mom plopped herself down on the couch. “I know exactly what we're going to do today. We're going to visit that poor girl in the hospital.”

I was halfway up the stairs. “She's in a coma, Mom. Won't do much good.” I kept walking.

“There might be a clue in her room.”

I stopped, turned, and scooted back down. “What are you talking about?”

“Yes, darling,” added Dad. “Do tell.” Luis sat down and studied Mom.

“Well, just a little detective work. Nothing wrong with seeing if she has anything in her pockets, or if her chart gives us any information we don't already have, or we could find out if she's had any visitors, or…”

“Mom! We're not detectives!”

She rolled her eyes. “You almost are, and Luis is here now, so…”

Dad interrupted her. “I'm not sure this is a good idea.”

“It's NOT!” I stood in front of my parents. “We do not want to piss off the police and…”

This time Luis interrupted me. “Actually,
amiga,
Sylvia's idea is not a bad one. A quick visit. If anyone is suspicious, we can say that we are concerned, that is all.”

Mom jumped up. “I knew I'd like you, Luis.”

I groaned. “I'm getting dressed. But maybe just Luis and I should go to the hospital. All four of us? That's a little much.” I turned to face Luis so Mom and Dad couldn't see me and made a face that I hoped said,
Right? You're going to agree with me, right?

“I think that would be a wise move,” offered Luis, as he winked at me.

Mom sat back down. “Crap. I just want to help.”

Dad grinned. “You have, darling, by making the plan for the day. Now, Bea, get dressed, we'll all get some breakfast or lunch or whatever we're eating at eleven o'clock in the morning, and then you and Luis can get going.”

I started back up the stairs, then stopped again, and called down. “Where were you guys this morning, anyway?”

Silence.

So down the stairs I went again. Mom and Dad were making faces at each other like some special sign language. “Hello? Did you hear me?”

Dad walked over to me and put his arm around me. “You don't get to know everything, except that no harm was done to us or by us this morning and all is well. Now, really, Bea, will you please get dressed?” He kissed the side of my head.

I frowned at Mom, who gave me a fake, toothy smile. “Darling, those pajamas really are not becoming.”

I exhaled loudly and trudged back upstairs.

What the hell was going on with them?