Death at a Fixer-Upper (16 page)

I awoke Monday morning to find Harley sitting on my chest. The last few days' events, particularly the surreal encounter with Wayne and the homicidal trucker, seemed cartoonish in retrospect, a cheesy drama where I'd played the foil for life's bizarre jokes. I couldn't remember a weekend where I'd been the object of so much hostility. But then again, I hadn't been in real estate that long.

I started to climb out of bed, then fell back onto my pillow, remembering I was alone in the apartment. My chest contracted at the thought of meeting with my ex-husband and possibly learning the truth about all those missing years. Though what kind of truth could I expect from a man whose fundamental pledge to me had proved a lie?

I thought of Bernie and groaned aloud. Incredible—but not too surprising—that I'd managed to fuck up a potential relationship, or at least a chance at some really great sex. By rights he should have woken up next to me, deliciously naked, soft dark hair rumpled from sleep and…

Instead, here I was, alone, with only my cat for company. I was officially a lonely cat lady.

I shook myself all over, and Harley jumped to the floor. What had Gail told me? Affirmations. The power of positive thinking. Hell, it was worth a try. I swung my legs over the edge of the mattress and planted my feet on the floor, tugging at my oversized T-shirt to cover my behind. Shuffling to the bathroom, I flicked on the forty-watt bulb and stared back at my reflection in the mirror, racking my brain for something positive to say.

“You've looked worse,” I ventured. Then I tapped the top of my head smartly with my fingertips, as Gail had done, and waited for enlightenment. Nothing happened. Even New Ageism didn't want to take me on.

I used the last handful of cereal for my breakfast, then played with Harley over coffee. When we were all played out, I threw myself into packing: emptying all the kitchen cabinets and drawers into boxes, wrapping any breakables in old newspaper, sealing the boxes with clear tape, labeling them with a permanent marker. I took a break to email Becky, letting her know I'd secured the required funds to close on my new home. Within an hour she'd emailed me back, confirming our meeting at Calville Title and Escrow to sign papers.

I stared at the computer screen. The enormity of what I was undertaking suddenly made my knees weak. Was this buyer's remorse? Funny—and ironic—that it should strike a real estate professional. By that I meant myself.

But there was no turning back, not now. I took a long look around the shabby apartment, noting anew the threadbare carpet, the sweaty aluminum-paned windows that let heat out and chill in, the glittery asbestos-laced ceiling. Better times were ahead.

By eleven I was on the road to Bovington for the race finale, making a quick stop at Ernst's Foreign Car Care and Collision on the way. Ernst Keppner, the proprietor, lived in a studio apartment abutting his shop and was never very far from it, even on Memorial Day. I pressed the buzzer next to the bay doors, and he appeared after a few minutes, towel-drying his hair. His eyes were rimmed with red, and I guessed his night had been a lot more fun than mine. He smiled when he saw me; I was the sort who was destined to show up at his door fairly regularly.

“I wonder if you could do a quick estimate for me,” I said.

“Glad to. Be right out.”

He disappeared, and a minute later the shop door rolled up. Ernst had pulled on a salmon-colored coverall and was whipping a comb through his damp hair, strategically arranging it over a shiny patch of scalp. He was thin but wiry, with a mechanic's strong fingers and oil-stained fingernails. Shoving the comb into his pocket, he picked up a clipboard. “Let's take a look at her, shall we?”

He ambled up to the VW, clucking over the damage to the front end. “Dear me, dear me,” he said.

“You see, what happened was—”

He held his palm up in the universal “stop” gesture and went around to the back. His shoulders sagged, and I thought he might weep over the bumps and bruises here. His hand lingered on the rear quarter panel, like the caress of a lover.

“Poor baby,” he whispered into the gas-tank vent. “We'll make it all better.”

He made a couple of notations on his clipboard, then did a slow walk around the van, examining it carefully. Finally he tucked his pen behind his ear and spoke with deep melancholy.

“She's hurt pretty bad,” he said. “The good news is we can nurse her back to full health.”

“I'm not covered for full health. How about we compromise at ‘as good as can be expected at her age'?”

“Who's your agent?”

“Judy Moxon in Calville.”

“I happen to be a direct repair provider for Judy. You have your insurance information, by chance?”

I dug through my bag and pulled out the page of declarations I'd thought to bring. He held it out at arm's length, then put on a pair of reading glasses and brought the paper right up to his face. “I see you got comprehensive.”

“Judy threw in a free case of thirty-weight motor oil if I did comp on top of basic liability.”

He whistled. “Can't beat free oil. Well, Sam, I'll tell you what I see here. You remember when the city took down all those Monterey pines around City Hall a few years back?”

“Sure. I guess.”

“Because of the liability, that's why. Limb shear. They grow too tall too fast, then start shedding their branches. Hazardous? You bet. Lots of Montereys all over Arlinda. A pity you parked this classic machine under one of them.”

“But I didn't—”

Again the stop sign. “Believe me, I know tree damage when I see it. I'd stake my reputation on it. Specially after that wind. Some big gusts last night, am I right?”

I opened my mouth, then closed it again and nodded.

He pointed to the rear bumper. “Now, this bumper and your engine lid here. I was down at Jake's Wreckers and Fine Cigars on Alton Avenue and they had a seventy-five on the lot. Engine blown. Some weekend-mechanic rebuild is my guess. Fill here, here, and here, a little sanding, match the paint, and Bob's your uncle. Oh, and pull this little dent here.”

“That's been there for years,” I couldn't help but put in.

“So have them Monterey pines. Ought to cut 'em all down in my opinion.” He walked around to the sliding door and yanked on the handle. The door slid out of its groove and fell, but he was ready for it. “We'll take care of this, too.”

“But—”

“Sometimes tree damage can manifest itself in ways you wouldn't expect.” He gently pushed the door back into place and closed it, his hand lingering on the sheet metal.

“What's this going to cost?” I said nervously.

He fished a stick of gum out of his coveralls, picking off a few wisps of pocket lint. He offered it to me and, when I declined, popped it into his mouth and began to chew methodically. “You met your deductible yet?”

I shook my head.

“Then it'll be a hundred bucks. That work for you?”

I nodded.

“I can fit you in a week from Thursday.”

“Perfect.”

He held out his hand and we shook. “A pleasure doing business with you, Sam.”

I drove south through Grovedale for the second time in two days. It was like a ghost town today, the store windows staring vacantly out at the streets. South of town, the fast-food joints that stretched down the 101 business strip were doing a brisk lunchtime trade. Burger wrappers driven by the wind scuttled across the road. The skies were dark, threatening more rain for the final day of the race.

I passed the old nuclear power plant, now decommissioned, and the Salmon Bay Wildlife Refuge. The scenery turned soft and opaque, as if a translucent wash had been applied to an old oil painting. The floodplains of the Eider River lay to the west, stretching all the way to the Pacific.

It was a short hop from the freeway to Bovington. Onlookers were already lining up along the side of the road close to town, hoping to spot the race leaders as they rolled in from the north. I found a place to park near the war memorial and strolled down Main Street, which was as vibrant as Grovedale had been moribund. A local radio station was broadcasting live from the finish line, and the Redwood State marching band was in full swing. The sidewalks in front of the Victorian storefronts were packed with people, many of them set up for a full day's viewing: folding chairs, umbrellas for sun or rain, baskets of food. There was a line eight deep at the Porta-Potty. I found a comfortable spot with a lamppost to lean against, and waited.

Forty-five minutes later, the chili pepper from Hempstead's Hot Sauce rolled across the finish to thunderous applause. The pilots leaped out and did a victory dance in the street. After I'd clapped till my hands stung, I bought a pretzel from a food cart and munched on it, deciding to work my way down the course to see if I could spot Max and his team.

I'd gone half a block when a hand fell on my shoulder.

“Enjoying the race?” Lester Duschane said.

“I
was.”

“I've been trying to track you down since Saturday. We had a deal. Where's my exclusive?”

“You were serious about that?”

“I never joke about the news,” he said. “Never mind, though. I got the scoop from Simms at our poker game Saturday night. But maybe you could flesh it out a bit. What was your reaction when you found Ravello? Did you scream? I bet you screamed.”

I thought of Richard Ravello's cold corpse and shuddered. “First tell me what you know about Merrit Brown.”

“Playing hardball, eh? Okay, step into my office.” He ushered me into an alley that ran between two Victorian houses. The noise of the crowd dimmed.

“Listen,” he said. “I called in a favor and got a look at some old police reports. I knew the name was familiar. Four years ago her husband, Boyd, was killed in an accident.”

I remembered Merrit's colorless voice when she told me her husband was dead. “He worked in a dangerous industry.”

“It happened at their home. He died of blunt trauma, a head injury. There was an investigation.”

“Why?”

“Because the police had been out there before. The neighbor lady called the cops three times in the six months the Browns lived next door. Each time, when the officers got there, Mrs. Brown said nothing was wrong, that the television had been up too loud or some other story. But Brown had a record for drunk and disorderly, and charges pending for punching a guy in a bar. He was an ugly customer.”

My stomach lurched. “He was beating her up.”

“That was the consensus. She'd been to the ER with a broken arm and two broken ribs. But she wouldn't press charges. So when police found him dead on the kitchen floor there were questions raised. But it never went to the district attorney. The lead officer wrote it up as accidental death and provided evidence to support that. Autopsy was pretty conclusive. Blood alcohol through the roof. He'd hit his head on something sharp, made of metal. Like the corner of the stove.”

I looked down the road, lost in thought. Another team was coming in: I could just make out a pink dot on the horizon.

“Looks like Crabby made it,” Lester said. “I'd better go do my stuff. What about that interview?”

I pictured Everett Sweet's unwholesome face when he learned I'd spilled my guts to the press. “I'll get back to you.”

“Today?”

“Soon. I swear.”

“I'll hold you to that.” He strolled back toward the festivities.

I continued walking down Main Street, passing the big crustacean as it rolled toward the finish line. Two of the pilots were standing up, throwing candy into the crowd. For once, I was too distracted to dive for a piece.

The skies got darker and I felt a drop against my face. Then the heavens opened up. Rain spattered my jacket and ran down my collar. I ducked under the awning of the Wise Shepherd Wool Shop to wait it out.

An hour later, it was still raining. Four more racers had passed me on their way to the finish line. The Green Hammer was not among them. I used a break in the weather to score another pretzel, then returned to my post. There was a smudge in the distance, moving very slowly. I strained my eyes. It was Team SmithBuilt.

I left my shelter and began to jog down the road. As I drew nearer, I realized three of the four pilots were out of the rig and on the road. One was pushing from the rear, while two others were positioned on each side of the back end of the machine, supporting it rickshaw style. I recognized Max's friend Peter on the far side. Max was on the near side, laboring to keep his end up. A fourth pilot did his best to steer.

“Go, team!”
I shrieked, casting my dignity aside.
“Just a few more blocks!”

Other onlookers took up the cheer, clapping and yelling their encouragement. The hammer limped forward, no longer hammering. Now that it was drawing near, I could see that Max and his partner each held the end of a short metal rod. Max was missing a shoe. Peter's dad, Josh, was pushing, his face red with strain. The front tires were flat, and the hammer itself was spattered with something white and sticky.

With a final, supreme effort, they rolled across the finish line. Boyle senior collapsed on the ground and kissed the pavement as the crowd went wild. Cameras flashed, and the news team moved in. I found Max in all the hubbub and wrapped him up in a big squeeze.

“That was amazing,” I said. “What a finish.”

He grinned. “I was starting to wonder if we'd make it.”

“You look exhausted.”

“Didn't get much sleep last night,” he said. “Made a good start this morning, but we had a flat on the left front near Baker's Slough and somehow the spares got left behind when we packed up. A loose cow ran us off the road just outside Liscom Heights and we broke the rear axle. We made it a mile on duct tape and bungee cords, but then the right front flatted. So then we moved the rear wheels up to the front and used the broken axle to carry the thing. It wasn't too bad until the rain hit. Didn't even notice I'd lost my shoe until we had a mile to go.”