The Chocolate Castle Clue (26 page)

Shep had to know something he had never told about the death of Dan Rice. Maybe even something he didn't realize was important. Something that changed the whole relationship of Charlie and Mrs. Rice and forced Charlie to kill her.

I stood up and walked around the living room, telling myself to calm down. This was more speculation than deduction. I forced myself to sit down again.

After all, Mrs. Rice seemed to encourage people to dislike her. I'd met her for less than ten minutes, and I'd been ready to yell at her. But dislike and hatred are two different things. I might have bawled her out, but I wouldn't have killed her.

Then I remembered something Hogan Jones had told me once. Motive doesn't matter.

A professional law officer, he had said, wants to know who committed a particular crime. If knowing the motive helps, that's a good thing. But knowing who did it and how they did it counts more than knowing why.

“We can figure out why after the arrest,” he had said.

So the first question was: Was it physically possible for Charlie to be the killer?

First, I thought the killer had hidden his motor scooter in the garage off our alley. Did Charlie even know that garage existed?

Yes, he did. I had told him myself on Saturday. I had mentioned that I found the Pier-O-Ette memorabilia while cleaning out a garage, and I described where it was.

Second, could he have made a copy of the key to my car? Yes, if he had the skill to make one—a skill Sergeant Hugh Jackson said many used-car dealers would have—he'd gotten a good look at my keys that same morning. They hung on the outside of my purse.

I was concentrating so hard on Good-Time Charlie and on what Hogan had said that when the phone rang I nearly fell off the couch. Then I nearly dropped the phone when I picked it up.

“Lee? Miz Woodyard?”

“Shep?”

“Yes. I'm sorry to bother you at home. Is Joe there?”

“No. He said he was going to call you.”

“Yes. We agreed to meet here at the Sidewalk Café half an hour ago, but he hasn't shown up. I wondered if I had the place mixed up. Or the time. Or something.”

“It's not like Joe not to keep an appointment. Or at least call.”

“He did call to say he'd be a few minutes late. He said he had to make a stop first. Is something wrong with his car? He said he wanted to check with the garage.”

I had to swallow a yelp. “Garage” was a significant word for me right at that moment.

Joe had told me he'd make a check on the TenHuis garage and storage room. But he'd indicated it would be a quick check of a location less than a block away from the Sidewalk Café. A routine check shouldn't have taken as long as half an hour.

I felt sure he'd run into trouble, but I didn't tell Shep that. I promised Shep that I'd try to reach Joe; then I hung up rudely. Shep was still talking.

I immediately called Joe's cell, but after four rings I got the voice mail.

I tried not to panic. Joe might have left his phone in the truck. Or he could be walking into the Sidewalk Café at that moment. But I didn't believe it. I was afraid that Joe had gone to check out that garage and had met up with Good-Time Charlie. Or whoever had been riding the motor scooter.

I'd called the garage to Joe's attention before I began to suspect that Charlie was the person who had been involved with the big motor-scooter chase and tire-slashing episode. If Joe ran into Charlie, he wouldn't see him as a threat. He would just see him as a buffoon.

I stood there in the kitchen with the phone in one hand and the fingers of my other hand hovering over 9-1-1.

But if I called the police, what could I tell them? That I was afraid we'd had an intruder in an almost empty garage? Warner Pier had only one patrolman on duty at a time. He wouldn't give a call like that high priority.

Could I ask some neighboring businessman to go and check on the garage? No, I couldn't do that without endangering someone who had nothing to do with all this.

I put the phone away and picked up my purse and car keys. I had to go downtown and look at that garage in person.

All the way I told myself I was being truly dumb. Stupid, just the way Joe had said. I vowed that if everything was all right, I'd never let Joe, or anyone else, know that I'd gone there looking for him. But I still felt compelled to go.

I drove across the Warner River Bridge looking closely at every truck that came toward me. None of them were Joe's. He wasn't headed home. I turned onto Fifth Street and drove slowly down it. And there, at the curb half a block from the Sidewalk Café, I saw Joe's truck.

“Whew!” I gave a loud sigh of relief. I pulled in beside the truck, jumped out of my van, and ran inside the Sidewalk. Shep was sitting at the bar.

“Lee?” He looked surprised.

“Where's Joe?”

“I don't know, Lee. I'm still waitin', just like you said to do.”

“His truck's outside.”

“Then he's got to be someplace close by.”

I didn't say another word. I just turned around and went back out the door. I ran to the corner, cut across the street to the alley, and headed for that garage.

It wasn't dark yet, but sunset was near. There was sunlight on the street, but shadows made the alley dark. As soon as I was inside it, I began to walk carefully. It was an alley, after all, used for stuff like old boxes and trash. I wasn't eager to fall over a tin can or slip on a banana peel. I watched where I was putting my feet, stepping gingerly.

Our garage was almost halfway down the block, on the left. Because I was watching my footing, not looking straight ahead, I was well into the alley when I saw a dark panel truck outside the garage.

If I'd been scared before, that truck sent me into absolute terror.

I yanked out my cell phone, and for the second time in ten minutes, my fingers hovered over 9-1-1. But I didn't punch the numbers.

My certainty that a dark truck was involved in Mrs. Rice's death was not based on any proof that would be accepted by investigators. It was just a wild guess on my part. I could be wrong. And if I involved the police, even the Warner Pier police, and I was wrong—well, the state police already thought I was some sort of nut. That would confirm their impression.

So what? If it kept Joe safe, did I care what the state police thought of me?

Not really. But I cared what Joe thought of me. If he were at the garage for some logical reason, if he didn't want the police involved, if he wasn't there at all—well, we were not on the best of terms anyway. I'd better not embarrass him.

So I clutched that phone in my hand, and I hugged the wall, and I walked toward the truck and the garage as quietly as I could. I almost stepped on a bottle as I passed the wine shop's Dumpster. I picked it up and kept tiptoeing along.

As I got closer I heard the murmur of voices, and I realized the garage door was open. Not the ordinary door. That was the one that went into the storage side of the big room. It was the overhead door that was open. But its light wasn't on. It took me a moment to remember that the bulb had been burned out.

I felt for my “no-harm charm” chain. The tiny flashlight on it might prove to be valuable. And I kept walking as silently as possible, headed for that door.

Then I heard a voice speaking clearly. And it wasn't Joe.

“Okay, Woodyard,” it said. “I'm sorry you got involved in this, but you and that pretty wife of yours—well, you're just too damn curious. Now, you close the door, and then we can turn on the light.”

I recognized the voice. It was Charlie. Good-Time Charlie. My wild guess had been right.

Charlie wasn't making any jokes this time. And neither was Joe. I could tell by his voice. He was deadly serious.

“We could turn on the overhead light right now, Charlie. Nobody will see it. Not back in this alley.”

“Close that door!” Charlie's voice sounded as if he were talking to a junior salesman who had let an easy sale escape. “Now!”

When I heard Charlie talking I had stopped walking, and now I discovered I was standing in front of the single door. I leaned back against it, and it moved slightly. The door wasn't closed tightly.

The overhead door rattled and began to move downward slowly.

I was certain Charlie had killed Mrs. Rice. If the garage door was closed, Charlie could fire a gun and the noise would be muffled. That must be the reason he wanted it shut. If Joe was closed up in that garage with Charlie, I was sure Charlie would kill him.

I reached into my purse, yanked out the garage door opener that had been there since the previous Friday, and punched the button.

The overhead door wavered. Then it stopped going down and started to go back up.

“What the hell?” Charlie's voice was angry. “Why'd you do that?”

“I didn't.” Joe sounded surprised, too. “I just punched the button once.”

“Punch it again.”

The door clattered and groaned. Again it started down. I let it get about two feet down, then punched my opener. It quivered to a stop and went back up.

It wasn't completely dark inside the garage. There was some sort of light in there, and I figured out that it was coming from the makeshift light over the little workbench at the back of the garage. I was familiar with that light. It wasn't a real lamp; it was a mechanic's work light clamped onto a hook on the wall. It cast a glaring light on the workbench, but it left the rest of the big room pitch dark. The wall-mounted garage door opener was over the bench.

If Charlie and Joe tried to look out into the garage, they couldn't see anything. I decided I could push the small door open a few inches without getting caught.

Luck was with me. When I peeked into the garage, there was no reaction from either Charlie or Joe. I opened the door wide enough that I could slip inside, and I pushed the door almost shut behind me. The three big filing cabinets were between me and Good-Time Charlie. Plus, he was turned away from me.

I heard Charlie growl. “There's something screwy going on. You must have the opener.”

“Not me.” I could see Joe holding his hands under the work light.

I could see Charlie's hands, too, and I had been right. A silver pistol was in one of them.

“To hell with it,” Charlie said. “I'm not waiting any longer.”

The words chilled me. Fooling around with the garage door opener wasn't going to save Joe. I had to do something fast.

So I swung back the bottle in my hand, and I threw it as hard as I could. It smashed into the back wall.

“Run!” I yelled it with full lung power. “Run, Joe!”

I turned and ran myself, yanking the small door open and plunging out into the alley. I made a hard right and ran toward the cross street.

“Help! Murder!” I shrieked all the way up the alley. And I zigzagged. I knew Charlie still had that gun, and I didn't want to be an easy target.

I heard feet pounding behind me. I hoped it was Joe, but I didn't turn around to see. I just kept running and screaming.

I came to the end of the alley and rushed out into Peach Street.

And I was surrounded by a throng of bicycles.

The sun was just setting, and there was plenty of light. “Lee! Lee!” People were yelling at me. Bicycles and women were all around me, going every which way. The scene was mass confusion.

I had run into Aunt Nettie and the Pier-O-Ettes. All six of them—and each on a three-wheeled bicycle. They were circling around, teetering this way and that, yelling, stopping, riding—any action that can be done on a bike was being performed.

I skidded to a halt. I wanted to run, but I was surrounded. I didn't know which way to jump.

I whirled around toward the alley, and I realized that I needed to move some way. I'd better not stand still.

Charlie had just come dashing out of the alley, close on my heels. I needed to keep running away from him.

But I couldn't. I was surrounded by those darn women on three-wheelers. If I ran right, if I ran left, I was going to smash into one of them. And if I did, one of us was going to go kerflop, right into the gutter, or up the curb, or onto the roof of a car—someplace we didn't want to be.

But Charlie was in the same predicament. He couldn't move either. He stood there, waving a pistol, and turning round and round.

He looked like a madman. His face was frantic.

More footsteps pounded, and Joe ran out of the alley. Charlie apparently heard him, and he swung around, pointing that pistol toward him.

“No!” That was me, screaming.

“No!” That was Aunt Nettie, screaming.