Your Chariot Awaits (16 page)

Now Ryan returned my question. “Do you have any idea who could have killed him?”

“Just some wild speculations. How long are you going to be here?”

“I'm not sure yet. The medical examiner's office released Jerry's body after the autopsy yesterday, and it's in a funeral home now. I'm trying to get arrangements made. At this point I still can't get into the condo to look for a will and all the other information that will be needed to settle his estate.” The harried expression was back. “This has hit our folks pretty hard.”

“Would you . . . I mean, I know it's a lot to ask under the circumstances, since I'm a more-or-less suspect . . . but could I come with you when you are allowed into the condo?”

He surprised me with an enthusiastic response. “Could you come? Yes! It'll be a relief to have someone there with me. And you'll surely be able to tell more than I can about anything that's missing.”

I gave him my phone number, and he said he'd call as soon as he heard from the police that they were through with the condo.

It wasn't until after he'd gone, and I was looking through Uncle Ned's will to find names of relatives back in Texas to call, that I thought of something else connected to Jerry's computer equipment, and I wondered if it was also missing.

15

T
hat evening I called information and asked for a number for Lucille Noakes in Dry Wells, Texas. I'd found her name in the will and figured she must be Cousin Larry's mother.

“I'd like to speak to Lucille Noakes, please,” I said when a perky, Southern-accented voice drawled, “Hello.”

“This is Lucy,” she responded. “What can I do for you, hon?” She sounded ready to settle in for a juicy chat even before she knew who I was, the kind of person who asked a telemarketer about his wife and kids.

I explained my identity, but before I could even get into the reason for my call, she squealed with delight.

“Why, bless your heart, darlin', it's just fantastic to hear from you! Aunt Claudine's daughter, I do declare! She just dropped out of our lives all those years ago, but Mama never forgot her. Larry told me all about how nice you were to him when he delivered the limousine. Or the
limouzeen
, as Uncle Ned put it.”

“I've been afraid the relatives might be unhappy with me because I got the limousine, and they got . . . other things.”

Lucille, as I'd noticed in the will, had inherited a set of Tupperware containers.

Her laugh tinkled like a silver spoon clinking in a mint julep glass on a hot Southern day. “Now, don't you go worryin' about that. Everyone knows how peculiar old Ned was. You just enjoy that big ol' limo.”

Enjoyment was not what the limo had provided so far, but I was still hoping.

“Actually, Uncle Ned is the reason I called. Somewhere”—I was careful not to identify my source by name—“somewhere I got the impression he'd been involved in some business dealings of a, oh, questionable nature and may have acquired some enemies along the way. The bulletproof glass in the limousine, you know.”

“Well, yes, he was an old crook,” Lucy said cheerfully. “But a lot of those old-time Texans got rich in ways that weren't exactly on the up-and-up. Though you don't need to be spreadin' that kind of talk around, of course. I figure Ned tried to make up for some of his misdeeds there at the end, leaving everything to all those charitable organizations.”

I'd been under the impression he'd left his wealth to the charitable organizations mostly to keep it away from his relatives, but I didn't say that. Lucy didn't sound bitter. Maybe she needed Tupperware.

“Do you know anyone in particular who might have been angry enough at him to do something . . . drastic?”

“What are you sayin', darlin'?” She sounded alarmed. “What kind of drastic? So far as I know, there's never been any question about Uncle Ned's death being anything other than natural.”

“Oh, no, I didn't mean that.” I gave her a quick rundown on Jerry's murder and how I thought the limousine could have been searched.

“His body was in the trunk?”

I had no mental framework for Lucy Noakes, but I could picture a plump feminine hand touching a plump throat in distress.

“Oh, my heavens.”

“I'm wondering if the killer's real motive was to find some-thing he thought was hidden in the limousine, something someone back in Texas put there. And killed Jerry just because he happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“Well, it's true Uncle Ned was involved in one lawsuit after another. People were always suin' him. Although Jasmine—that's my sister, Jasmine Arquette—always said she thought he enjoyed those lawsuits. And he usually won, of course. Those lawyers of his could chew up a courtroom and spit it out before breakfast.”

“I've wondered why Uncle Ned wrote his will himself instead of having his lawyers do it.”

“Oh, well, he was a stubborn old coot. I doubt he trusted his lawyers any more'n he trusted anyone else. I especially remember one lawsuit, a big argument over some land Uncle Ned bought, and this guy came to the house with a shotgun. Of course Ned blasted back at him, and there was quite a ruckus. Though nobody got hurt, as I recall. But I can't imagine why anybody'd put something in the limo, or who it would be. Or what it could be. It'd have to be something really valuable, wouldn't it, for someone to traipse all the way from here out there to look for it?”

Given Uncle Ned's peculiarities, the possibilities seemed as numerous as the heirs in his will. “What was the shotgun man's name?”

“Oh my, let me think. Jones. Yes, that was it. Something Jones.”

Great. That narrowed it down to a zillion or so people. Although her next words removed any concern about zeroing in on this particular Jones.

“But he's dead now, I'm sure. Actually, I think most of Ned's enemies are dead. Larry said it was one of the joys of Ned's life that he'd outlived 'em all.”

Mr. Nice Guy.

“Well, it was just a long shot. Probably my friend's death had no connection with Uncle Ned.”

“That'd be my thought too. But I'll ask Jasmine and some of the others and see if anyone has any ideas. We don't want any murderers runnin' around loose, here or there.”

I gave her my number so she could call if she wanted. “Did Larry get home okay on the bus?”

“Oh, yes, he's fine. Though I don't know what's going to become of that boy if he doesn't settle down. Would you believe he's traipsed off to New York—New York, can you fancy that?—on some wild-hare scheme to get into actin'?”

No doubt a worry, I agreed silently. But perhaps preferable to sitting around watching his toenails grow. “Tell him hi from me, if you talk to him.”

“I'll do that. And you keep in touch now, hear? Everybody'd just love to meet you.”

So much for a Texas connection, I decided. Like Uncle Ned's enemies, a dead end. This killer was probably homegrown, with roots right here in Vigland. Which was not exactly reassuring.

THE PHONE RANG after Lucy and I hung up. Sarah, calling to check on me. I told her that, no, I hadn't been arrested or murdered yet, and she chastised me for my facetiousness. I prudently decided I wouldn't tell her Fitz and I were into detective work of our own. She again urged me to come down there. I again declined.

Fitz called on his cell phone Wednesday evening. They were anchored off one of the smaller San Juan Islands, the weather was fantastic, and he'd fixed chicken marsala for dinner. I told him about calling Lucille and deciding we could eliminate any traveling murderer from Texas. Also about my meeting with Ryan, the break-in at Jerry's condo, and that I might have a chance to look around inside the condo in a day or two.

“This Ryan invited you?”

“I kind of invited myself.”

“Good for you! Just don't forget one point.”

“What's that?”

“Nosiness is good. Don't be shy. Look for anything with names or phone numbers or addresses. Peer into cubbyholes. Look in pockets. Investigate cans and bottles. Sometimes they're phony, hollowed out to keep something inside.”

“I'm sure the police already did all that.”

“They might not have recognized the relevance of some-thing, and you will. Take advantage of opportunities. Ask questions. Pry.”

“I'll try to do that.”

“Okay. But above all, be careful. I'll see you when we get back. I miss you.”

He missed me? We hardly knew each other. Although, to be honest, I kind of missed him too.

RYAN CALLED MIDMORNING on Thursday and said the police were finished with the condo. We agreed to meet a half hour later in the parking lot behind the condo complex.

I changed into faded jeans and an old, long-tailed blue shirt. Prowling through a dead man's condo didn't strike me as a dress-up occasion.

Ryan was in slacks and a short-sleeved sports shirt when he stepped out of his rental car. He looked off toward the bay, sparkling in the sunshine, and I had the impression he'd rather be anywhere than here. A tug pulling a huge container of wood chips was headed toward Hornsby Inlet on the outgoing tide.

“Well, I guess we might as well get at it,” he said as if he were psyching himself up for an ordeal.

I also steeled myself when he opened the condo door, not certain what I'd feel. An overwhelming sense of Jerry's presence? An eerie echo of his absence? But the first thing that struck me wasn't a feeling, but simply the sight of a gray powder every-where. On every hard surface of furniture, windowsills, counters, even on a coffee cup on the dining room table.

“What is that stuff?”

“That's what I asked the officer when I was here before. Fingerprint powder. For picking up—what do they call them?—latent prints, I think it is.”

Of course. I should have remembered fingerprint powder from those old Ed Montrose shows. The next thing I noticed was the empty desk where Jerry had his office set up in a corner of the big living room. As Ryan had said, everything was gone. Computer, printer, scanner. And empty drawers, like multistoried, gaping mouths, hung open on the metal file cabinet.

“The CDs he'd burned are gone too. He kept them in a tall container over there.” I pointed to an empty spot beside the sleek, black metal desk. “I wonder about his laptop.”

“I don't know. If it was here, the burglars undoubtedly took it too. Do you notice anything other than computer equipment missing?”

I glanced around. Shaded by the covering of gray powder, the black-and-white décor looked less sophisticated now. In spite of all the expense Jerry had gone to, to have the place decorated, it somehow felt almost . . . shabby. Or perhaps death brings a hint of shabbiness with it.

The big abstract painting over the sofa lurched at an angle. Had police or burglars thought a safe might be hidden behind it? Stuffing spilled from a slash in a black pillow on the white leather sofa. Flowers in a vase on the coffee table were drooping and dead. Beyond the living room, cupboard doors in the kitchen hung open.

It didn't seem as if Jerry had been dead long enough for the condo to have acquired a musty, unused scent, but it had. Overlaid with something vaguely chemical smelling. Did finger-print powder have a scent?

I didn't see anything else missing. The sculpture of some Greek god and that awful abstract painting, probably the most valuable items in the room, were still there. Although a bur-glar, unless fairly knowledgeable, may not have known how valuable they were.

“No, I don't notice anything else missing. Oh, but I remembered something the other night. He had a little gadget called a flash drive. It was only about this big.” I measured off a small, oblong space with my fingers. “He always carried it on a keychain in his pocket.”

“Yeah, I know what they are. I've never used one, but I know you can plug it into your computer. Works like a backup system to store important files in case something happens with the computer, or you can use it to move information from one computer to another. He kept information from his Web site–design business on it?”

“I assume so.” Although it had always struck me as a little egotistical that he considered his Web site stuff so valuable he had to carry it with him every minute. “He misplaced the thing one time and had a fit about it until he found where it had dropped out of his pants pocket and fallen under a nightstand. I wonder what's happened to it now?”

“It apparently wasn't in his pocket when he was killed. The police kept his clothing as part of the evidence, but after the autopsy they gave me the personal items that were on the body. Just his wallet, some loose change, and a roll of breath-freshener mints.”

“Where did you get the key to get in here today?”

“The police. They got it from the cleaning lady when they came to investigate her call.”

Ryan jingled the key against coins in his pocket. It made an oddly empty, lonely sound in the silent apartment.
Echoes of the
dead
, I thought, squelching a shiver. Jerry used to jingle his keys like that. Where were those keys now?

“No cell phone?” I hadn't thought of that either until now, but Jerry's cell phone would have been a gold mine of information. It was one of those do-everything-but-prophesy-the-future kind of phones, and I knew he kept a lot of information on it. “He always had it clipped to his belt.”

“No. And I think the police would have told me if they'd kept anything like that. They gave me a list of a few items they removed from the condo. So the cell phone and flash drive must simply be missing.”

Stolen off Jerry's body, no doubt. Along with the keys. Which solidified the thought that the break-in at the condo had come after the murder. They'd used the stolen keys to enter. This time I couldn't squelch the shiver. “What about a watch? Jerry had an expensive Rolex.”