On the Run (29 page)

An ugly thought, but money often turned people ugly.

“But why would Jock and Jessie change their will? There were no other children to inherit.”

“Who knows? Maybe they wanted their paintball war games group to have enough money to buy paintballs for the next fifty years. Maybe they decided to set up a paintball scholarship. Maybe they wanted their money to go to some ‘Save the Emus’ organization.”

“Did the Northcutts have a home safe where they’d keep a will?” I asked. “Or maybe a safe deposit box?”

“I wasn’t exactly their confidante. I wouldn’t even know if they had a piggy bank.”

“You thought you had something coming from them too,” Abilene broke in to remind him. Bluntly she added, “Maybe Jock and Jessie weren’t dead when you got here. Maybe they refused to give you the forty dollars you thought they owed you. So you became angry and—”

“That’s crazy! Sure, I was teed off about the money, but like I already said, I did not kill them over forty lousy bucks!”

“People have been murdered for forty lousy
cents
,” Abilene said.

And what I wondered was: how many “lousy bucks” would it take for Ute to commit murder? Would several hundred thousand dollars worth of gold coins do it? Just because he’d denied knowledge of the coins didn’t mean he didn’t know about them. If they did actually exist.

“Have you ever run around here barefoot?” I interrupted.

“Barefoot?” Even through the net, Ute’s expression came across as baffled at this peculiar change of subject. “You’ve got to be kidding. With snakes or who-knows-what crawling out of that swamp back there? And what’s barefoot got to do with anything anyway?”

“We found a barefoot track back by the swamp. Maybe it was the killer’s track.” Abilene pointedly inspected Ute’s feet as if measuring them for size or looking for incriminating mud.

“Oh. Well. That.” His tone was dismissive.

“That,” I repeated.

“I came back the day after I found the bodies. I drove around on the far side of the woods and hiked through so nobody’d see me coming out here. I thought maybe I could locate the script before anyone else found the bodies. Except the two of
you
were already here. Then
she
”—he jabbed a finger through the net in Abilene’s direction and gave her a baleful glare—“she headed right toward me in the woods, and I ran. Only I fell in that stupid swamp and practically drowned—”

“There’s only a foot or two of water,” Abilene said.

“Yeah, well, there’s about three more feet of mud down in the bottom. By the time I got out I was covered with about forty pounds of the stuff, and my shoes and socks were so full of it I couldn’t even walk. So I took them off and kept going. I suppose I left some barefoot tracks.”

Another small mystery explained. We were scared of what might be lurking out there in the woods that day, and it was just Ute. Belly-flopping in the swamp.

“And then I finally got up the nerve to come back later to see if the place was empty, but no, you were still here. And Frank too. The war-game warriors, chasing around out in the woods, shooting each other—and me—with paintballs.”

Oh yes, I remembered my splat on a target that took off through the brush. Ute again.

So we now had explanations for several small mysteries that had helped fuel my suspicion that Jock and Jessie had been murdered. How the lock came to be on a different side of the gate. The odd thump in the house. The barefoot track. There were also the suspicious rumors we’d heard about Ute himself.

Okay, Ute wasn’t the most noble character in survival land, that was for certain. A writer who was willing to pass someone else’s creative work off as his own. A man with a much too large and colorful vocabulary of epithets. A man who pretended to be something he wasn’t. A man who was willing to let dead bodies sit on a blood-soaked sofa instead of calling the police.

But probably not a murderer.

So, what did this mean? That the Northcutts’ deaths really were a mutually agreed upon homicide/suicide, and Abilene and I were victims of our overactive, mystery-novel-fueled imaginations?

Could be.

“I guess we should turn him loose,” I said reluctantly.

Abilene nodded with equal reluctance. She eyed the bat as if she’d like to take at least one whack at him. I kept a firm grip on it.

“It’s about time,” Ute said.

We pulled and pushed, rolling him around like a lumpy log as we tried to get him out of the net. More dust billowed. More noisy complaints about our rough technique from Ute. We were all panting with the exertion. I did spot Ute’s tattoo in the melee. It looked like a vulture to me, although I supposed the artist’s intention may have been an eagle.

“We’re going to have to cut him loose,” Abilene said finally. “Do you have a pocketknife?” she asked Ute.

“I had one of those switchblade kind. But I accidentally hit the button on it, and it came open in my pocket. I was lucky I didn’t cut my leg off. So I got rid of it.”

“Figures,” Abilene muttered, and I had to agree. Ute was no hardy survivalist ready for any emergency. He was probably fortunate he hadn’t severed a finger using his can opener. “I’ll go get something from the house.”

“Did the emus ever lay any eggs while you were here?” I inquired while Ute and I waited. He’d scooted himself over to where the stacked brush offered more shade than I did. He scratched vigorously at a knee.

“I never saw any.”

“Abilene found one.”

He looked up with mild curiosity. “Yeah? What’s it look like?”

“It’s big. And green.”

He wrinkled his nose in distaste. “Figures. Stupid birds.”

Maybe what the Northcutts should have done with their money was organize an “emus aren’t as stupid as you think they are” society, since the birds seemed in need of better press than they were getting.

Abilene returned with a butcher knife from the kitchen. Ute eyed it warily as she hacked through the tough strands of netting.

“Thank you,” he muttered when he was finally able to crawl out and stand upright. He brushed at dirt, twigs, and ants clinging to his shirt and shorts. A dirty imprint of the net crisscrossed his backside.

I watched him, thinking that if he’d been acting a part here, this was when we’d find out. I glanced at Abilene and knew she was thinking the same thing. She had a killer grip on the butcher knife. I surreptitiously picked up the baseball bat again.

He didn’t, however, seem to have attack in mind. He ran a hand across his shaved scalp and disengaged a clinging leaf and a couple of ants.

“What are you going to do now?” I asked.

“Right now, hike back to my van.”

“And then?”

“And then maybe I’ll just pick up and head for where I came from.”

“L.A.?”

“Before that. Cincinnati. I’m starting to think that if I have to resort to plagiarism”—he paused when he said the word, as if it made a bad taste in his mouth—“then maybe I’d better reassess my talents as a writer.” He paused again. “My brother’s always wanted me to go into his insurance business with him. Maybe I’ll do it. But he isn’t going to like the tattoo.” He turned his head and touched the spot behind his ear again. It still looked like a vulture to me.

“If you let your hair grow out, it’ll probably cover the tattoo,” Abilene offered.

He smiled, the first time he’d done so. It made a nice change in his face. “Yeah, I guess it will. Thanks. And if I ever need a booby trap designer, I’ll look you up. It’s been a . . . unique experience meeting you ladies,” he added. “Not one I’ll soon forget.”

I decided not to investigate whether that was compliment or complaint. He shook hands with both of us. He headed into the woods, but a few feet away he stopped and turned.

“You know, if I were you, I wouldn’t muddle around in this murder thing too far.”

I started to protest the word
muddle
, but the somber tone of his voice stopped me. “What do you mean?”

“If what happened here wasn’t suicide, then there’s one very clever, very ruthless, very cold-blooded killer on the loose. A killer who might kill again to protect himself. So just . . . be careful.”

29

I was glad Ute had turned out to be a different person than we’d thought. Glad, too, that he seemed to have had a change of heart and direction. But at the same time I found myself feeling mildly let down. He’d been our primary suspect, and now he wasn’t.

So where did that leave us?

In spite of the ever-present problem of the note, Ute himself obviously had suspicions that Jock and Jessie had been murdered. He’d made that plain with his warning to us to be careful. He’d also offered his own long list of suspects.

So?

So drop it
, I decided resolutely. That list of suspects was shaky as a six-foot tower of Jell-O.

We went back to the house for breakfast. Koop met us at the door. Some cats might have been indignant about being locked in all that time, but Koop, laid-back gentleman that he was, merely offered us an inquiring meow.
Everything okay
now?
After hotcakes and bacon, Abilene went out to repair a loose board on the deck. I worked on the filing system.

Mac called at about 11:00. The doctor wanted him to see a physical therapist for his wrist for at least a couple of weeks, maybe longer, so it would be a while before he could come back up here. I was disappointed, and, I was gratified to realize, he was too, although neither of us went into effusive detail about it. I went on to tell him about our adventures capturing Ute and that the emu egg was doing fine, but we hadn’t found a safe or any more gold coins.

“You’re an interesting woman,” Mac said. He sounded reflective. “I talk to ladies here in the RV park. They tell me about a game show on TV or a two-for-one coupon for a restaurant or invite me to play pinochle. You tell me about murder and mayhem and hidden treasure. And green eggs.”

“Is that good or bad?”

“Hmmm.” He sounded undecided, and I didn’t press for a judgment. Probably because I was afraid it would not be a favorable one. Although I felt better when he said, “I miss you.”

“I miss you too.”

“If you could get away, maybe you could drive down just for the day? There’s a Thai restaurant here that makes a great dish called Tom Yum Po Tak.”

“What’s Tom Yum Po Tak?”

“You’ll just have to come see.”

“Maybe I’ll do that.”

The following morning Abilene and I decided to drive into Dulcy. Without our resident skulker to worry about, I figured leaving the place untended for a few hours would be okay, although I did lock the gate securely when we went out.

In Dulcy, I went to the window at the post office, but no more mail had arrived. As if it were a spur-of-the-moment idea, I suggested to Abilene that we stop at the somewhat pretentious-sounding Hair by Elsie next door to Gus’s Groceries, and I was pleasantly surprised when she readily agreed. Frank had given us an advance on our caretaking salaries, so she had a few dollars.

The shop was not jammed with customers on this weekday morning, and Abilene got right into a chair. The woman couldn’t work miracles with her short hair, but she evened up the most ragged spikes and gave it a little style with a curling iron. With her bruises almost faded away by now, Abilene came out looking very attractive.

A fact instantly noted by Deputy Hamilton when we stepped out of the salon and ran into him getting a Dr Pepper from the machine in front of the grocery store.

“Mrs. Malone. And Ms. Morrison. How nice to see you again.” He was still working with the name that had been on the Social Security card Abilene had used as identification that day we’d found the bodies. I gave her a sideways glance, wondering if she’d correct it to Tyler, but she didn’t.

“Would you like something to drink?” He motioned toward the machine. “Not the most elegant ambiance here, but the drinks are cold.” He popped the lid on the can he was holding.

I looked at Abilene. She shook her head, and I said, “Thanks, no. We have some shopping to do.”

“You’re still working out at the Northcutt place?”

“Mrs.” Abilene said suddenly.

“Mrs.?” Deputy Hamilton repeated.

“Mrs. Morrison. I’m married.”

“Oh.” He looked quite taken aback by the information. “I didn’t know that.”

An awkward time was had by all, I thought as the three of us just stood there. Abilene offered no further information, and I was trying to think what to say next when Deputy Hamilton took charge with a brisk change of subject.

“You’ve heard the news about Eddie Howell, I suppose?”

“Actually, no. Has something happened? We don’t get a newspaper, and we haven’t had the TV on the last couple days.”

“Case closed. We got the killer. Of course, the DA still has to convict the guy, but it looks like a solid case. We have an eyewitness, and the gun that killed Eddie was found in the guy’s possession.”

“A drug involvement, as you suspected?”

“And how. Eddie was in it up to his ears, but he’d decided he wanted out. His ‘buddies’ felt he was too big a risk, knowing as much he did, so they made sure he couldn’t blow the whistle on them.”

“There are other local people involved, then?” I asked.

“Unfortunately, yes. But a friend of the guy who pulled the trigger on Eddie spouted names, trying to save his own neck. We made a clean sweep.”

I hesitated about bringing this up but decided I’d always wonder if I didn’t. “I’ve wondered if Jock and Jessie Northcutt could have been involved in drugs.”

Deputy Hamilton looked surprised. “Oh? Well, I can’t say about personal use, of course, but they weren’t involved with the local drug scene. The drugs were coming out of Oklahoma City, and the police there have rounded up the ringleaders. This won’t solve the local drug problem totally, but it puts a nice dent in it.”

I was relieved to hear Jock and Jessie hadn’t been involved. It was also one more reason to accept their deaths as homicide/suicide, not some clever murder.

“Their former employee, Ute, wasn’t involved with the drugs either?”

“No. Much to my surprise,” Deputy Hamilton admitted. He also sounded a bit disappointed.