Throw in the Trowel (22 page)

She showed me the bump-out storage room on the back where my brother kept his old Schwinn. The storage room had cabinets, too, but they were labeled for the various sports equipment they held.

Tara opened one. “Can you believe this? He still has all his high school soccer stuff.” She opened another one to show me all his trophies. “Mom won't let him keep these in the house.”

I examined his bike, which looked to be in mint condition. “I don't see a lock.”

“You have to look in the cabinet marked
Locks
.” Tara opened another door and pulled out a bicycle chain with a green rubber coating and a padlock hooked onto the end. In the lock was the key. I put it below the photo of the unknown key and had a virtual match.

“Fantastic! This is it!” I gave my niece a hug. “Tara, you may have helped”—I caught myself before I said
us solve the case
—“Uncle Marco.”

She scowled at me then walked to the open door and stood in the doorway, her arms crossed. “If you want out, you have to tell me how this helps the investigation.”

“Like you could stop me.” We had a stare down contest for about a minute; then I said, “Fine. I'll tell you, but you can't say a word to anyone.”

She made a zip-the-lips motion; then we walked out of the garage together. “The police sifted through the dirt and found the key you saw in the photo, so it's a piece of evidence.”

“A piece of evidence that means,” she said, tapping her chin, “that someone involved in the murder had a bike and a bike lock.”

“If the key they found is actually a bike lock key.”

“What else would it be? So you're looking for a person who would have been the right age to ride
a bike. Let's see. How old would Haydn's father have been back in—what year did the murder happen again?”

“Never mind what year it happened.”

“All I have to do is get on the
New Chapel News
Web site and do a search for the article. That'll tell me what year.” She smiled. “See? I can be a detective, too.”

“You're too smart for your own good, and I mean that as a warning.”

She gave me a hug. “I'm just smart like my favorite aunt.”

“Yeah, well, your favorite aunt has nearly gotten herself killed a few times. Just remember, Tara,” I said, getting into the car, “you promised to keep out of this.”

“And you remember,” she said, leaning in my window, “that you promised to keep me in the loop.”

Tara stepped back from the car and waved as I pulled away. I had already broken my promise. Would she keep hers?

•   •   •

When I got to Down the Hatch, Marco was in his office with his brother, and from what I could hear, Rafe was getting a lecture. When he stamped out five minutes later, I stood back to let him pass, then went into the office.

Marco was seated behind his desk, an irritated look on his face, but when he saw me, he brightened and stood up. “Sunshine, come see what I found.”

“Everything okay with Rafe?” I asked, following him up the hallway to the bar.

“Is everything
ever
okay with Rafe?”

I knew better than to pursue that lead.

Marco led me behind the bar, where Rafe and another bartender were mixing drinks. Rafe gave me a half smile and went back to his business.

Marco took one of the old framed photos off the wall. “This is the picture Rusty told us about,” he said quietly. “I had Gert help me with this earlier today. See any familiar faces?”

I studied the 8 x 10 faded glossy. It showed a group of smiling men standing in front of Down the Hatch. They were dressed in colorful striped shirts, bell-bottom pants and jeans, and most sported mustaches and long sideburns. One man had on an orange leisure suit.

“By the Western clothes, this is Rusty,” I said, “but I don't recognize anyone else.”

“Kermit,” Marco said, pointing to a tall, good-looking man with jaw-length sideburns. “And see this younger man he has his arm around? This is Henry.”

Henry was the best dressed of the lot, wearing a yellow shirt with royal blue stripes and matching blue bell-bottom pants. He, too, was clean-shaven, with sideburns that were shorter and thinner than the rest. Unlike the others, however, he looked miserable.

“Now check out the left side of the group,” Marco said. “Can you see the tall guy standing behind the others, almost like he's hiding? You can just see part of his face peering over the top of this man's head. This is a young Doug Cannon.”

“What would Doug be doing at a bar party?”

“Doesn't matter, Abby. What matters is what's standing beside Doug.” He pointed to a black circular object visible behind a pair of legs. “This is the rear tire of a bicycle.”

C
HAPTER TWENTY-ONE

I
studied the photo as the full implication of what I was seeing sank in. “Marco, if that's Doug's bike, then that little key the cops found could be for his bicycle lock!”

“It would appear so, but we have to consider that could have belonged to any of the men in the photo, including Henry.”

“Impeccably dressed Henry? I hardly think so, Marco.”

“Do you remember what was hanging on the wall in Henry's office? A bicycle helmet. Think of the hybrid vehicles in his parking lot. Doesn't Henry seem the kind of socially conscious guy who would have used a bicycle for transportation back then? Granted, it's more logical that it's Doug's bike because of his age, but we need proof.”

“Okay, then just listen to what I found out,” I said excitedly.

“Let's go back to my office so we have some privacy.”

I followed Marco to the back of the building, where we sat facing each other in the leather sling-back chairs in front of his desk. “I just came from my brother's house,” I said, barely able to contain my excitement, “where I did a comparison between the key from the basement and my brother's old bicycle lock key. It's a virtual match, Marco. If the key is Doug's, then the key chain is most likely his, too. Doesn't that tell you who the murderer is? And don't you think we should call in the detectives now?”

“And tell them what? That based on a key chain and an old bike lock key, we think Kermit was murdered by his son? We don't even have proof that the bones were Kermit's, Abby, and without the bones, there's no way to do a DNA analysis or use dental records to find out. For the detectives to believe that Kermit was murdered—not by his son, but just murdered period—we'd need irrefutable proof, like a confession.”

“Okay, then where do we begin?”

He took my hands in his. “I think we should be saying, here's where it ends, Abby.”

“No, Marco! I feel like we're so close to solving this.”

“Sweetheart, we're not close at all. I know you think that the evidence is pointing straight at Doug, but there are signs pointing toward Rusty now, too, and we're learning more about Henry that makes him a stronger suspect. And there's another possibility that we haven't discussed in a while.”

“Which is?”

“Collusion. Think about it, Sunshine. Doug was fifteen years old when Kermit disappeared. Would he really have been able to kill his father, bury the body, strip the clothing, and smooth over the floor without Rusty knowing? And then cold-bloodedly help pour cement over the top?”

I sighed and sat back. “When you put it that way, it does sound far-fetched.”

“Who does Doug always turn to for help?”

“Rusty. But would he have back then? He didn't know him well then.”

“Considering what we know about Rusty's history with Kermit, how much would it have taken to convince Rusty to help Doug cover up the crime? Remember that at first, Rusty claimed that the floor had never been disturbed while he owned the bar. We know now that his memory isn't as bad as he claims. It's possible we're looking at two men who are desperate to keep this case from being solved, and that makes the situation doubly dangerous.”

“Then what's our next move?”

“
My
next move is to have a talk with Rusty. I'm going to pay him a call tomorrow when the saddle shop opens.”

“Then see him at noon so I can go with you.”

“Did you not hear what I just said about this being doubly dangerous?”

“Hey, what can happen to me in the middle of the day at his shop?”

“Hey.” He put his arm around me and ushered me out from behind the bar. “Let's get something to eat.”

“That's not the end of this discussion.”

“It is for now. Come on, our booth just opened up.”

•   •   •

Tuesday

At twelve fifteen, Marco and I approached the counter at Blazing Saddles and asked the same young salesperson if we could talk to Rusty. Marco wasn't at all happy about me coming along, and we almost got into an argument about it. But I reminded him how a team works, and he finally gave in, with the stipulation that he do most of the questioning. I could tell by the set of his jaw, however, that he was still on edge. It was very unlike him.

“You handsome folks lookin' for me?” Rusty asked.

I turned and saw him coming across the floor, limping more than the last time I'd seen him. “I hope you've got some good news this time,” he said with his big smile.

“I hope we do, too,” Marco said.

“Come on into the break room,” Rusty said, motioning for us to follow. He offered us sarsaparilla, but we declined.

“Whatcha got for me this time?” Rusty asked, easing into a chair.

Marco showed him the key photo on his phone. “This was found in the dirt in the basement. What do you make of it?”

He brought it close to his eyes. “Looks like the key to a briefcase.”

“Did you ever see Kermit carry a briefcase?” Marco asked, slipping the phone into his pocket.

Rusty sighed in exasperation. “We're back to Kermit again. I keep telling you that Kermit took off with that Duchess woman. Why don't you want to believe me?”

“Why are you avoiding the question?” Marco snapped.

Rusty shook his head as though he couldn't believe what he was hearing, and frankly, Marco's sharp retort surprised me, too. “Why would a carpenter need a briefcase, Marco? Kermit carried a toolbox.”

“Would Kermit have locked his toolbox?”

“What for? He worked alone and always had it with him. That key you're wanting to connect with him could be a hundred years old. Who knows how long it's been in the dirt and, frankly, who cares? The bones you found belonged to some itinerant. End of story.”

Marco seemed to relax after that, and I could tell he was changing tactics. He leaned back and hooked one arm over the seatback, talking to Rusty like he was an old friend. “Let's test your theory about one homeless guy killing another. How old would you say those itinerants would have been back in the seventies?”

Rusty shrugged. “I don't know. Maybe somewhere in their thirties or forties.”

“Which would make them at least seventy now, senior citizens anyway,” Marco said. “Is it realistic to think that one of those vagrants would still be around town today?”

“Maybe,” Rusty said.

“Is it realistic to think that this homeless man would read about the bones, then break into the bar to steal the bones—and return a
second
time to sift through the dirt?”

Rusty scratched the back of his head but said nothing.

“Look, I know you don't want to believe that your old buddy was murdered, but Abby and I have done a lot of investigating, and the most likely scenario is that the bones did belong to Kermit. And whoever killed him came back twice to make sure there was no evidence that tied him to the murder. Hardly the actions of a senior citizen, are they? Do you see what I'm getting at?”

At Rusty's reluctant nod, Marco said, “Good. Now let's move on. Did you ever see the Duchess at your bar?”

“Never,” Rusty said. “That Gypsy wouldn't have stepped foot in my bar. She was uppity even then.”

At least we knew that the bike in the photo couldn't have belonged to Parthenia, not that I'd ever seriously thought it could.

“Did you have a rooftop garden back in the seventies?” Marco asked.

“I don't remember,” Rusty said, his gaze shifting away.

“Are you sure?” Marco asked. “I really need you to think back now, because we found a set of garden tools in the bar's basement, and I can't think of a reason to have them unless there was a rooftop garden. But don't sweat it. If you can't remember, I'm sure Gert can.”

Marco was certainly showing his interrogation skills. I could tell by the way Rusty kept rubbing his chin that he was thinking hard, probably hoping to find a way to refute Marco's claims. Throwing Gert into the picture was pure genius. Gert remembered everything.

“I seem to recall a garden up top,” Rusty said. He ran his fingers along the tabletop, as though trying to appear nonchalant. “What's so important about the tools anyway?”

“The murder weapon may have been a garden trowel,” I chimed in. “We uncovered a trowel in the dirt near the bones that matched the other tools in the basement.”

He turned to me with a look so haughty and so irate that I scooted back. “Young lady, are you trying to tie me to the murder weapon?”

“Whoa,” Marco said. “There's no reason to get upset with Abby. She's being straight with you, that's all.”

“Well, I don't like what she's implying,” Rusty retorted.

“Look,” Marco said, “we came here for help because you owned the bar when those bones were covered up. Who else would we ask, right? The reason for Abby's question is that it seems likely the trowel was lying with the rest of the garden tools and the killer picked it up. We were simply hoping you had some memory of the tools. Okay?”

Rusty looked down at the ground and grumbled, “Okay.”

“On a different subject,” Marco said, “Abby, would you show him the picture of your brother's key?”

I took out my cell phone and pulled up the photo, enlarging it so he could see the detail. When he wouldn't look immediately, Marco said, “Rusty, please cooperate with us. You're making this harder than it needs to be. You may have information that you don't even realize you know that may help us crack this case. Now please, take a look at the photo on Abby's phone.”

With a huff, he looked at my screen.

“This is my brother's bike lock key,” I told him. I put my phone on the table beside the photo. “It looks identical to the key that was found in the dirt.”

Rusty studied the photo, then sat back and folded his arms across his chest, a stubborn look on his face. “I see it.”

“Did you ever see one of the itinerants with a bike?” Marco asked.

“Of course not,” Rusty grumbled.

“Did Kermit own a bike?” Marco asked.

“Kermit wouldn't have been caught dead on a bike,” Rusty said.

“Then it would be highly unlikely for Kermit to have had a bicycle lock key in his possession, wouldn't it?” Marco asked.

Rusty shifted in his chair, looking uncomfortable.

“Did Doug have a bike?” Marco asked.

“Are you kidding? That ol' stingy Kermit wouldn't buy him one,” Rusty said sullenly.

“Did you buy him one?” Marco asked.

“Why would I buy someone else's kid a bike, Marco?”

“Because you felt sorry for Doug.”

“If I had bought that boy a bike, Kermit would have been angry as all get out.”

“Somehow I don't think that would have bothered you,” Marco said. “Didn't Doug ride over to the bar after school to see his dad?”

“Who told you that?” Rusty demanded. His chest was thrust forward, his arms back, giving me a glimpse of the tough guy he must have been at one time. “Was it that Duchess woman? Sure it was. She'd say anything to take the heat off herself.”

I made a note of his second defensive reaction.

“Rusty, come on now,” Marco said. “You know we can't reveal a source.”

“Now you're going to get all secretive on me?” Rusty shook his head sorrowfully. “I never expected this kind of treatment from you, Marco.”

Marco gave him an exasperated look. “Don't play the guilt card on me. I don't expect that kind of treatment from you. Now I'm going to ask you once more. Did Doug have a bike?”

“And I'm going to give you the same answer,” Rusty said. “No, he did not.”

I took the framed 8 x 10 photo out of a tote bag I'd brought with me and laid it in front of him. “Is this the photograph of Henry's party you told us about?”

“Yes, ma'am, it is. There's Kermit right in the middle.”

“Do you see this man's head above the man in the back row? Do you recognize him?”

With a frown he said, “That's Doug.”

“Do you see this?” I pointed out the bicycle tire.

Rusty blinked at the photo, rubbed his eyes, took another look, then shoved it away. “I don't care what this old picture shows. That wasn't his bike. If you're saying that boy killed his papa, you've got it all wrong.”

“You keep referring to Doug as a boy,” Marco said. “He's a middle-aged man, Rusty.”

Thrusting his chin defiantly in the air, Rusty said, “He's a boy to me.”

“If you're protecting him, Rusty,” Marco said, “you have to stop right now.”

Rusty scraped back his chair, his face turning an angry red. “Get out of my store.” He stabbed a gnarled finger at the doorway. “Get out and don't you ever come back.”

“Rusty, take it easy,” Marco said, rising.

“You can't go accusing my friends of murder willy-nilly and expect to be welcome!” Rusty shouted.