Authors: Gail Oust
“Humor me, okay? I just want to see what Cheryl and her guy friend are up to. Consider this my early birthday present, if you will.”
“Your birthday is in February,” she reminded me. She flicked on her turn signal and kept the BMW in sight. “This is only October.”
“Don’t tell me you’ve never heard of paying it forward?”
“By the time February rolls round, you’ll have forgotten I did you a favor back in October. That’s the drawback of payin’ it forward. Folks tend to forget. They still expect cards, presents, and cake when their big day comes.”
Up ahead, the yellow and green neon sign of a small motel lit up the night sky. The Beaver Dam Motel. Part of the
sign, however, was currently malfunctioning. It now read
THE
DAM MOTEL
.
The BMW pulled into the paved lot. “What are you doing?” I shouted when Reba Mae kept driving.
“You’ll see.” She smirked. She braked to a stop in front of a defunct gas station, executed a perfect three-point turn, and headed back in the direction we’d just come. Smiling, she shut off her headlights and dimmed the dash
while she eased to a stop at the far end of the motel parking lot.
Fortunately for us, the couple under surveillance was too engrossed in each other to notice our arrival. In the flash of neon, I saw the silhouette in the front seat separate into two separate figures. A man climbed out, then hurried around to the passenger side. Cheryl was let out of the car, embraced her companion briefly, then
laughing, disappeared with him into one of the rooms. A light flicked on, visible through a narrow slit in the drapes.
“Why’s Cheryl stayin’ at the no-tell motel?” Reba Mae switched off the ignition. “Judgin’ from the way she’s dressed and car she’s drivin’, it doesn’t look like she’s hurtin’ for money. Her purse alone cost more than a week’s stay at this fleabag.”
“Good question.” I stared
at the motel through the windshield. It was a low one-story redbrick building built in the ’70s and had seen better days. It consisted of two wings separated by a shabby office. “My guess is Cheryl brought a friend along but wants to keep it quiet.”
“Well, if they’re ‘friends,’ they’re mighty good ones,” Reba Mae observed. “Considerin’ she’s a recent widow, Cheryl’s not lettin’ any grass grow
under her feet.”
“Rusty, Chip’s partner, is under the impression that the Balboas’ divorce was final.” I lounged back on the cloth seat. “I found out only by accident that they were still married.”
Reba Mae leaned back, too, and drummed her nails on the steering wheel. “I bet she was cheatin’ on Chip with this dude. Bet five bucks he’s the reason for the divorce. Think he’s her pool boy?”
“What I think is, you’ve been watching too many reruns of
Desperate Housewives
on Lifetime.”
“Cheryl’s guy friend is hot.” Reba Mae made a fanning motion with her hand. “Never met an honest-to-gosh pool boy, but he’s got that look. All sun-streaked hair and fabulous tan.”
I shifted, trying to find a more comfortable position. “I’d be willing to wager half the people in California don’t even own
a pool—and most of those who do clean it themselves.”
“
If
I lived in California—and
if
I had a pool—I’d hire someone who looked like Cheryl’s guy friend to clean it whether it needed cleanin’ or not. I’m just sayin’…,” she added. “Why all the interest in the Widow Balboa?”
“I’m worried Melly might be charged with killing Chip,” I admitted.
“Ridiculous!” Reba Mae shook her head so emphatically,
her dangly earrings swayed. “Surely, no one who knows Melly believes she’s that coldhearted.”
“There’s more.” I fiddled with the radio to buy time to organize my thoughts, settling for an oldies station. “Beau Tucker told me—off the record—that the ME’s preliminary report stated there was less bruising, fewer fractures than expected. All Chip suffered during the course of the fall was a broken
neck.
“And if that isn’t bad enough, Beau said the ME found a bruise between Chip’s shoulder blades the size of a hand.”
“Whoo-ee!” Reba Mae whistled. “That’s pretty heavy stuff.”
“If McBride pursues the case as a homicide and not an accident, Melly is going to top his persons of interest list. I intend to find out if others might’ve had a motive to want Chip dead. Try to draw attention away
from Melly and force McBride to consider other possibilities.”
Reba Mae considered this thoughtfully. “And you’re thinkin’ Cheryl Balboa might’ve had somethin’ to do with her husband breakin’ his neck?”
“With Chip dead, Cheryl is set to inherit all his assets,” I said, voicing thoughts that until now had remained unspoken. “I’ve read enough about celebrity divorces in
People
and watched enough
Entertainment Tonight
to know California is a community property state. If the divorce were final, she’d only have been entitled to half.”
Reba Mae’s jaw dropped. “You’re not sayin’ what I think you’re sayin’?”
“It’s something to consider is all, I replied.”
The implication hung in the ensuing silence. Finally Reba Mae spoke. “Aren’t you overlookin’ one important fact, hon? I know women have
been known to kill for money, but Cheryl was in California the night Chip bought the farm.”
I hated whenever logic interfered with a perfectly thought-out motive, but instantly perked up when a new thought occurred to me. “What if … what if … she offered to pay someone to do the dirty deed for her?”
“Murder for hire?” Once more, Reba Mae nodded slowly. “Saw a movie on Lifetime just last Saturday—”
Just then, the light in Cheryl’s room blinked out.
We sat and stared at the darkened motel room for another twenty minutes before Reba Mae said, “Let’s blow this pop stand before one of my boys drives by and wonders what his momma’s car’s doin’ at the Dam Motel.” With that, she switched on the headlights and pulled out of the lot. “I like to set a good example for ’em.”
* * *
Once home
again and in bed, I couldn’t sleep. Who would want to hurt Chip? Who wanted him dead? My mind kept sorting through the puzzle pieces. I turned on my side and punched my pillow. Cheryl Balboa had the most to gain from her husband’s death, but she’d been clear across the country at the time of his death. Try as I might, she didn’t fit my image of a grieving widow. Her weeping and wailing in McBride’s
office could’ve been heard clear out on the street, yet I didn’t notice a single tear when she’d waltzed out. Seeing her behavior tonight, first at North of the Border, then at the Beaver Dam Motel, led me to believe she’d been having an affair.
I flounced onto my back and stared at the ceiling as though the answers to my questions would magically appear on the plaster. Who was the man Cheryl
was with? They acted like lovers. Had the two conspired to kill Chip? While Reba Mae binged on the Lifetime channel, had I spent too much time watching shows like
48 Hours
and
Dateline?
Only thing I knew for sure was that Melly was innocent. True, she was annoyed Chip and Rusty had reneged on the amount of money they’d initially offered, but that irritation didn’t constitute motive. Or did it?
Of course not! Melly was a paragon of virtue. She didn’t drink hard liquor, smoke, or cuss. And she certainly never lost her temper.
Even before I heard the
snick
of a key in a lock, Casey woke and growled deep in his throat. I tensed, waiting, then let out a sigh of relief when I recognized Melly’s light footsteps. “Melly?”
“Sorry if I woke you, dear,” she called. “I tried to be quiet as a
mouse.”
Casey relaxed his guard, put his head down on his paws, and resumed his interrupted night’s rest in his doggy bed near the bedroom door.
“No problem.” I yawned. “Have a good time tonight?”
“Absolutely. I’d forgotten how much I enjoy playing bridge. Mavis is going to put me down as a regular substitute.”
“Good for you, Melly. G’night.” Another yawn. Rolling over, I punched my pillow
a final time and promptly dropped off to sleep.
When I opened my eyes again, Sunday morning sunshine streamed through the blinds. The clock radio told me I’d slept much later than usual. The apartment was still. Lindsey had spent the night at her friend Taylor’s, and Melly was most likely at church.
I lay there for a moment, enjoying the peace and quiet, knowing I had the day to do as I pleased.
I hauled myself out of bed, but judging from Casey’s prancing and dancing, I knew my pooch needed out more than I needed coffee. I threw a hooded sweatshirt over my pajamas, clipped on his leash, and let him roam the vacant lot behind my shop until he took care of business.
Once I got back inside, I discovered Melly had left a note on the kitchen table. She informed me that she was going to brunch
after church and not to expect her until midafternoon. Since McBride insisted on treating her home like a crime scene, she asked if I’d do her a favor and retrieve more of her clothing.
Casey yipped impatiently while I scanned her list. “Sorry, pal,” I told him. “Breakfast is on the way.”
I poured pet food into his doggy dish, then brewed a pot of Jamaican Blue Mountain coffee. My taste buds
clamored for something sweet. A quick search of my cupboards and refrigerator revealed I had the necessary ingredients for morning glory muffins. Raisins, coconut, crushed pineapple, carrots, and apple. Healthy with a capital
H.
To add even more zing, I’d add a teaspoon of the special baking spice I’d concocted from cloves, nutmeg, and several types of cinnamon.
While the muffins baked, I showered
then blow-dried my unruly mop of red curls, pinning them back with tortoiseshell clips. I dressed for the day in rust-colored denims, oversize cream and rust sweater, and slipped my feet into soft-soled ballet flats. A swipe of mascara, blush, and lip gloss, and I was all set.
Over a second cup of coffee—and a second muffin spread with the delicious cinnamon honey butter I’d whipped up—I reviewed
Melly’s wish list. It should be a quick in and out. Easy peasy.
I
T WAS
S
UNDAY,
my only day off.
A distant church bell tolled the hour of noon. I finished loading the dishwasher and reached for my purse. Casey, his eyes like shiny black buttons, watched hopefully. “Want to come along, boy?”
Casey didn’t need coaxing. He answered my question with enthusiastic tail wagging.
Usually I walk the short distance to Melly’s, but since I’d be carrying
an armload of clothes when I returned, I elected to drive instead. Within minutes, I turned down Jefferson Street. Two blocks later, Melly’s Victorian came into view. I groaned out loud as I spotted McBride’s black Ford F-150 pickup in the driveway. I pulled in behind it and cracked the window for Casey. “Sorry, buddy, but I don’t think the chief would appreciate a canine—even a cute one—traipsing
through his crime scene.”
The door was ajar, so I let myself in. I stood for a moment, expecting McBride to appear any second, but instead heard someone moving about in the basement. Assuming he wouldn’t appreciate an interruption, I went directly upstairs to Melly’s bedroom. With luck, I’d complete my mission and be on my way before McBride even knew I was here.
Thanks to Melly’s detailed list,
it didn’t take long to gather the specified items. I filled a tote with undergarments, being careful not to look too closely. It made me uncomfortable knowing what Melly wore under her twinsets. An invasion of privacy. Next, I moved on to the closet. She’d underlined the words “don’t wrinkle” several times, so I took the outfits, hangers and all, and draped them over my arm.
Pleased with myself
for being so efficient, I started downstairs, my arms piled high. My ballet flats made little sound on the carpeted steps. Just as I predicted: In and out. Easy peasy.
“Police!” a male voice thundered. “Hands in the air.”
Startled, I dropped the tote bag. It thudded down the stairs, strewing the steps with Melly’s unmentionables. The slacks, skirts, and blouses in my arms flew through the air
like snowflakes in a blizzard.
Wyatt McBride materialized from around the corner of the hall closet, his gun in a two-handed grip aimed at my midsection, his expression as serious as sunstroke. My eyes widened at the sight.
Seeing me, he slowly lowered the weapon. “Should’ve known it was you.”
My heart rate gradually returned to normal. “McBride,” I gasped, “you scared the living daylights
out of me.”
He tucked the pistol into a holster at the small of his back. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“When was the last time you had an eye exam?” I made a sweeping motion with my hand to indicate the clothing all helter-skelter. “What does it look like?”
“This place is off-limits.”
I descended several stairs, pausing along the way to pick up a blouse here, a skirt there. I found a
small button—probably from one of Melly’s many cardigans—that must’ve come loose and slipped it into the pocket of my jeans. “If it’s ‘off-limits,’ then you should’ve had enough sense to lock the door.”
“I did,” he growled.
“It’s an old house.” I picked up a dove gray pleated skirt. “The door needs an extra nudge to engage the lock.”
McBride stooped to help. “I’ll try to keep that in mind—provided
there is a next time.”
“Since you’re out of uniform, what are
you
doing here on your day off?”
“I wanted to check the handrail on the basement stairs one more time.”
“Why?” I added a pair of camel slacks to the steadily mounting heap.
McBride shrugged his broad shoulders. “Wanted to see if a piece was missing.”
I paused to stare at him. “Do you think the handrail was defective?”
“No, nothing
like that. Don’t suppose there’s any harm in telling you. The ME found a long wooden splinter embedded in the vic’s palm. I wanted to confirm that it happened during the fall.”
“And did it?”
“Looks like a strong possibility.” McBride handed me Melly’s favorite silk blouse, the one she claimed enhanced the blue in her eyes. “Can’t say for sure, but my guess is it’ll be a match.”