Your Chariot Awaits (13 page)

I was astonished. “But I remember it! It's the only crime show I've ever really liked. They're usually so grim and gory.” I peered more closely at him, a little doubtful. “You were Ed Montrose?”

“In person. I still have my old slouch hat back on the boat.”

I tried to subtract twenty years and then remembered a difference. “Ed Montrose had a mustache.”

Fitz leaned over and grabbed a handful of cut grass. He plastered it between upper lip and nose, leaning his head back to hold it in place. “That help?” he asked.

In spite of all the tension of the day, I giggled, à la Joella. “It's a little green, but yes, that helps. Hey, you really are Ed Montrose!”

He wiped the grass mustache away and grinned at me. “You really did like the show?”

“Oh, yes. Ed was kind of droll, and he had this wry sense of humor, and he was always willing to admit when he made a mistake. And I liked the way he'd sit down with his stubby old pencil and make lists and think things through intellectually. It wasn't all just high-tech stuff. He used his brains. And I loved that slouchy old hat he always wore . . . and he put alfalfa sprouts on everything.”

“Hey, you do remember the show, don't you?” Fitz sounded both surprised and pleased.

He was right about a mess inside. The house wasn't trashed, but kitchen drawers had been searched right down to removing the liners, the contents scattered on the counter. In the bed-room, bureau drawers had been emptied and turned over.

“Looking to see if anything was taped to the underside,” Fitz explained.

Sofa cushions removed, bedding tossed aside, nightstand contents dumped on the bed, clothes jumbled in piles on a chair. Even the cover on the toilet tank was awry.

“A more common place to hide something than many people realize,” Fitz commented. “One of our shows had a murderer who put the leftover rat poison he'd killed his wife with in a plastic bag and hid it in there.”

They'd rummaged through my canister set, spilling flour and sugar and tea. They'd looked in my spice jars and an open box of Bisquick. They'd found the place in the hallway where you could push aside a panel in the ceiling and get up to the attic. Fitz had to climb up on a chair to get it scooted back into place.

Although it wasn't all the searchers' mess, I had to admit. Herds of dust bunnies from under the sofa, where they'd moved it aside. Circular marks in the bathroom cabinet, where bottles had stood. And I'd never realized how the gunk on the inside of a toilet tank can accumulate. I could see marks on the side where someone's fingers had slid down to reach the bot-tom. I wondered who got that fun job. Not Detective Sergeant Molino, I'd bet.

I also wondered if they joked about these things after they got back to the station.
Hey, you wouldn't believe that McConnell
place. Looked like she hadn't cleaned house since she hit menopause.

I didn't expect Fitz to stay and help straighten it all up, but he did, including getting out the vacuum to suck up the dust bunnies and other debris on the carpet. After doing the house, we went out to the Corolla, replaced the floor mats, and picked up the items scattered on the grass.

It was close to six o'clock by the time everything was back in order. By then I was embarrassed that Fitz knew so much about my personal life. Including the fact that I had two car-tons of “Cinnamon Sunrise” hair coloring in my bathroom. It must look as if I had to put it on industrial strength, although it was actually a buy-one, get-one-free special.

Afterward I peered in the refrigerator. “I really appreciate the help. Can I fix you a hamburger? And there's some deli coleslaw and leftover birthday cake Joella made.”

“I was thinking maybe I'd spring for that dinner we talked about. How about the new steak house out by the highway?”

“That's really nice of you, but I don't know . . . I guess I just don't feel up to going out. I'm kind of frazzled. Thanks anyway.”

He didn't lack persistence. “How about if I go pick up a couple of steaks and cook them here?”

“You've already done so much.”

He grinned. “I figure I have to do quite a lot to make up for my big social gaffe in reading your letter at the Sweet Breeze.”

“Hey, I remember Ed Montrose was always reading other people's stuff! He'd go through trash in garbage cans, and he could read a letter upside down on a desk or in someone's hand. And when he went into an office, he'd pick up anything on the counter and just start reading it.”

“Try it sometime. You may be surprised at what it does to speed up service. Someone always rushes over to see what you're doing. And you find out all sorts of interesting things. Did you know the shoe store in the shopping center sent around a memo telling employees that too much soap was being wasted in staff restrooms?”

“What fascinating information.”

He grinned again. “The quality of data acquired in this manner does tend to be a bit uneven.”

I showered and changed to jeans while he went to pick up the steaks. He returned with two T-bones plus deli Caesar salad, garlic bread, and a carton of alfalfa sprouts. All I had to do was make coffee and set the table. I watched, curious, as he expertly did the steaks under the broiler.

“Where did you learn to cook well enough to handle all the cooking for guests on the sailboat charter trips?”

“My wife was ill with cancer for quite a while before she passed away. She hadn't much appetite, so I did the best I could to make meals appetizing for her. Then, after she was gone, I was on my own, of course, with both the cooking and cleaning. For the sailboat trips, I keep buying cookbooks, or sometimes I just expand my old recipes. So far, no one's come down with food poisoning.”

“How long ago did your wife pass away?”

“Seven years.” He swallowed. “Emily died on our thirty-fourth anniversary.”

“Oh . . . I'm so sorry.”

“I try to keep the happy memories and let the rest go. How about you?”

“Divorced. About a dozen years ago. I was just glad my daughter was all grown up and married before it happened. Although her marriage also broke up not long ago. I hope it isn't turning into a family tradition. There's my granddaughter, Rachel.”

“These are hard times for marriages.” He turned the steaks with tongs, careful not to puncture the surface and let juices escape. “You never remarried?”

“At first I was so disillusioned with marriage I wouldn't have noticed Mr. Right if he thundered through the front door on a white horse. Then, after a while, I don't know . . . I was never into the singles scene, and life just kind of drifted along.”

“Is your ex-husband around?”

“No, he and his new wife took off for the wilds of South America within a couple months of our divorce. He had a midlife crisis, I guess you'd call it, and decided he had to save the world and the environment before it was too late. I didn't fit into his plans.”

“A hard way to find out.”

“I didn't know until after he'd gone how he'd gutted the finances on the furniture store business we'd been building up for years. He borrowed money I didn't know about. Second-mortgaged the house. Business bills unpaid. All things I should have known about, but didn't.”

“Because you trusted him.”

I nodded. “I couldn't keep the business going, and wound up going to work for F&N.” And paying off all the debts he'd run up, which took several years.

“He's still down in South America?”

“As far as I know. He's never kept in touch with Sarah or Rachel.” I was more bitter about that than the divorce. Sarah never said anything about it, but I knew how hurt she was. Rachel didn't remember him.

I had the radio tuned to an oldies station while we ate— nice, mellow background music—and Fitz told funny stories about working on the Ed Montrose set and other shows he'd done since then. But he stopped talking and we both stopped eating, my fork halfway to my mouth, when the words, “A spokesman for the local county sheriff's department said today—” came on.

The report went on to say that an autopsy done on the body discovered in a limousine just outside Vigland on Saturday morning had revealed death was caused by a gunshot. The sheriff's department had several leads, and numerous tips had come in, but no arrests had been made yet.

“Now we know why they were searching for a gun,” Fitz said.

The silencer listed on the search warrant also made sense. Apparently no one on Secret View Lane had heard a shot in the night, so they must figure a silencer had been used.

“They must have asked for the search warrant as soon as the medical examiner told them the cause of death. They really do think I killed him.”

“Did Jerry himself own a gun?”

“I have no idea.” I found the possibility startling at first, but it took no more than a few seconds to realize it was the macho kind of thing Jerry would do. “Though I doubt it was registered if he did have one. Jerry didn't always . . . play by the rules.”

He'd hinted he had somehow dodged paying the big state sales tax on the Trans Am, although I'd never been clear how he'd done it.

“Was he a hunter?”

“I don't think so. At least he never mentioned it. But I don't really know. I'm only now realizing how little I knew him.”

We had leftover birthday cake, and then, after dinner, Fitz helped clean up and put things into the dishwasher.

“Well, I'd better be getting back to the boat,” he said. “I have that appointment at the lawyer's office in the morning, and I have to stock up on supplies for the next trip too.”

“I'll be over about eight o'clock to pick up the SUV.” I walked with him to the door and turned on the outside light. “I'm really glad you came over. It's nice to have someone around who knows about such things as search warrants.”

“Everything's going to turn out okay.” He gave my arm a reassuring squeeze. “The police sometimes give people a hard time, but most of them are pretty good at their jobs.”

“But sometimes they make mistakes. Sometimes innocent people get accused, even convicted. I almost feel as if
I
need to do something to find out who the real killer is before they decide it's me.”

He'd started down the three steps to the sidewalk, but he came back a step, a sudden gleam in his eyes. “So let's do it.”

“Do it? Investigate the murder, you mean? You and me?”

“Do you have anything to go on?”

“Maybe a few little things, but not much. And there may not be much time before they make it official and arrest me.”

“Then we'd better get going.”

“I don't think this is something that can be figured out the way Ed Montrose did it, always in a half hour.”

“It may take us a little longer, but let's do it.”

“Us? You and me?” I repeated doubtfully.

“Why not? Ed Montrose, P.I.E., sleuths again! I was always telling the producer Ed needed a good-looking sidekick. Now he has one.”

“Who says the sleuth is male and the sidekick is female?”

“Well, uh, that's just the way it is.”

We'll see.

13

W
e settled at the kitchen table with paper, pens, and fresh cups of coffee. We made notes about every person I could think of who might be involved, although I couldn't supply names for most of them. Fitz called them “persons of interest” since their involvement wasn't necessarily strong enough to make them suspects. On that list were:

— a dark-haired, attractive woman named Elena in Olympia, possibly a girlfriend, about thirty years old

— other unknown current or former girlfriends, including the one who had called the condo while I was there

— neighbors in his condo who'd had to get rid of their cat because of Jerry's complaints

— a waiter who'd been fired because he spilled coffee on Jerry

— a car-wash attendant who'd been angry and belligerent after Jerry chewed him out about the minuscule scratch on the Trans Am

Then there were the Web site people, more viable suspects in my opinion, than those with petty grudges: the “weekend commando” people who may have, for whatever warped reason, lumped Jerry in with other dangerous “conspirators” and decided he had to be eliminated. The vampire lady who may have been angry enough to do something because of Jerry's cavalier attitude toward the status of vampires.

Other Web site clients that I didn't know about. This was where I figured the real possibilities lurked. Who knew what kind of people Jerry may have been dealing with?

“Although there's another possibility,” I added as I cut fresh helpings of birthday cake to go with the fresh pot of coffee. “Maybe the killing didn't really have anything to do with Jerry or anything he'd done. Maybe he just stumbled into something he shouldn't have.”

“And got killed by accident or mistake?”

“Possibly.”

I gave Fitz details on how I'd inherited the limou
zeen
, as it was called in Uncle Ned's will, and that it had bulletproof glass because Uncle Ned apparently thought he was in danger. “Cousin Larry said Uncle Ned had been involved in various questionable business dealings. He may have had serious enemies.”

“He sounds like a strange one, all right.”

“But if there
was
something to his fears, maybe someone connected with his shyster activities came here because the limo was somehow involved . . .” The thought, fizzled because I couldn't think where to go with it, but Fitz jumped on it.

“You mean someone associated with your Uncle Ned either as an accomplice or a victim of his questionable activi-ties came here to look for something hidden in the limousine, and Jerry happened to get in the way, so he got killed?”

“Yes! When I looked inside the limo shortly after the deputies got here the first time, I had the impression someone
had
been in there. Nothing was torn up or damaged, but things seemed . . . not quite right.”