Death at a Fixer-Upper (23 page)

I took a few steps and stumbled over something that slid away from my foot with a metallic rattle. Reaching down, I felt the rounded links of a heavy chain between my fingers. I followed the links until they ended at a thick leather collar big enough for three Shih Tzus.

I dropped the collar and continued my journey around the perimeter, checking for breaks in the razor-wire loops that topped the fence. I was midway along the back run when I heard a low growl that kicked my fight-or-flight reaction into high gear, with flight being my preferred option. My eyes adjusted and I made out a dark shape between a dump truck and a bulldozer.

A light came on in Fletcher's office. In its glow I could see Bruno was some sort of shepherd, tall and square, with a long nose and pointed ears. The feeble light played off a row of white teeth, little glittering beacons of death. He stood perfectly still, staring me down, the hair on his back raised to indicate unfriendly intentions. I wanted to groan aloud.

Ever so slowly, I felt around in my purse. There were the M&M's. I fingered the bag, then remembered chocolate was supposed to be bad for dogs. I might be guilty of a host of felonies today, but I drew the line at animal cruelty.

I rummaged deeper and unearthed a bag of cheese crackers from an airline that had gone belly-up a few years back. Maybe it was time to do a little spring cleaning. Shelving that thought for later, I tore open the bag and shook a cracker out onto my palm. It appeared fresh and crisp. Thank God for preservatives.

“Here you go, buddy,” I whispered, and tossed a piece toward the dog.

With a snap of his jaws, the shepherd caught the cracker and gulped it down. The angry light in his eyes was replaced with a speculative look. I tossed over another morsel.

The dog swallowed, ran his tongue over his lips, then rushed toward me. I braced for those sparkling teeth to rip at my flesh, but instead the dog licked my hand, snuffling around my palm and whining like a pup. The long plumed tail wagged furiously.

“Hey, fella,” I whispered. More wagging.

I fed Bruno three more crackers and began to move along the fence again. The dog followed, sniffing at my heels and occasionally tugging at my pants leg in a disconcerting way. I was approaching the main gate when I saw the outline of a silver pickup truck. The SmithBuilt logo, bold white letters with a black border, was visible on the door. I ran my hand over it and felt the sticky residue of duct tape. Moving around to the front, I checked the bumper. Dented.

Bruno pushed his nose into my hand and whined. I shook the bag.

“Sorry, big guy, all gone,” I whispered.

To my consternation, the dog leaped into the air and started chasing his tail with gusto. Tiring of that, he bounded toward me, crouched low with his big feet splayed out, and began to bark.

“Shhhh!”
I hissed.

The back door of the building opened and closed. I tried to make myself small between the truck and the chain-link fence, but the dog was right there, barking his head off. A thin beam of light played over me.

“I see you've met Bruno,” Fletcher said.

I steadied my voice with an effort. “Nice dog.” With the additional light, I could see he really was a handsome animal, square and well muscled, with a thick tawny coat, dark face, intelligent eyes, and all those gleaming white teeth.

Bruno barked and whined.

“Bruno! Quiet.” The dog sat down abruptly.

Fletcher shifted position, and I could see him better now. He was holding my flashlight in one hand. The other was behind his back.

“Belgian Malinois,” he said. “Pick of the litter, imported from Amsterdam. The Malinois is the next big thing in security work and personal protection. Smarter than your average Dobie, more drive than a German shepherd. My wife thought I was crazy to spend thirty-five hundred bucks on a dog. Buy the best, that's always been my motto.”

Except when it came to building materials, I thought. “So what's he doing here in the equipment yard?”

He snorted. “Fuckin' Jehovah's Witnesses should've known better than to step foot on my property. Bruno didn't like the look of them. Frankly, I don't blame him. I had to work out a deal with Animal Control to duck a lawsuit. All over a couple measly stitches—can you believe that? But the big guy loves it here. Lots of room to roam. And he's already caught me a trespasser. Good boy.” His voice took on a wheedling quality. Bruno looked at him, then back at me.

I assessed my options and didn't like the odds. Before I could formulate a brilliant plan, Fletcher came at me, swinging the sledgehammer. I shrieked and dove away from the pickup. In the dim light, I misjudged the distance and crashed hard into the fence. My mouth went dry as he closed in.

The hammer was arcing down when Bruno glided forward and sank his teeth into Fletcher's left buttock. He bleated with surprise and pain, and the dog tightened his grip.

“What the hell!” Fletcher shrieked. “Get off me, you fucking dog!”

The dog released his hold, then lunged forward, bringing Fletcher down. The hammer skidded across the pavement. Bruno waded in and took a fresh grip, somewhere in the inner thigh region. Fletcher began screaming.

I was already on my feet, racing for the door. I sprinted through the building and burst out the front. By the time I hit the street, the screaming was intermingled with the wail of police sirens. Mrs. Smith had finally put it together.

I spent the waning hours of the evening telling my story to Sergeant Alexis Garcia at the Arlinda PD. I omitted nothing, including my criminal trespass at SmithBuilt headquarters, except for what Merrit had told me in confidence. Once or twice the sergeant ran a hand down her face and coughed into her sleeve. Then she cleared her throat and stood up. “Wait here a moment,” she said.

I sat alone in her office for twenty minutes, waiting to be booked and fingerprinted and reviewing what I knew about bail bonds, which was next to nothing. Then the door opened and Bernie Aguilar walked in. He looked at me and shook his head. “Where's Max?” he said.

“Staying with friends.”

“Any special reason?”

“I've been feeling a little threatened lately, to be honest.”

“You should have told me.”

“I didn't think—”

“That's evident.”

It was the first time I'd seen him angry. That and residual excess adrenaline lit my own short fuse. “Book me or let me go home. I've had a tough week. Some asshole's been trying to kill me.”

Bernie took a slow, deep breath, visibly working to calm himself. “The department could have initiated an investigation against Smith. Collected evidence. The stuff we get paid to do. We're pretty damn effective at our jobs.”

He was right, of course. But my mouth seemed to have disconnected from my brain. “So do it now. Or is he already back on the streets?”

He looked at the floor, then back at me. To my amazement, there was a half smile on his lips.

“Actually, Barbara Smith made a very complete and detailed statement. On the basis of it, we were able to book Mr. Smith for two homicides, with other potential charges pending. Malicious mischief, vehicular assault, you name it. Quite a long list.”

I felt as if a heavy cloud had lifted. “I don't understand. Why would she do that?”

“Someone apparently suggested that Fletcher was stepping out on her. She thought it over and decided to talk to us. You wouldn't know anything about that, would you?”

“Nope.” I pushed a pencil around the desktop. “I'm glad it's working out. What about Bruno? Is he in trouble, too?”

Bernie shook his head. “Smith's not too bad. Fifteen, twenty stitches and a separated shoulder. He'll be ready for trial in no time. The dog was clearly provoked. Matter of fact, we've been thinking of adding a K-9 unit.” He hesitated, then said, “I also got a call from Merrit Brown this afternoon.”

I looked at him. He nodded.

“I guess I have you to thank for her coming forward. I'm not sure if we'll be able to tie Smith to Edsel Harrington's death, but we'll dig around and see what comes to light.”

“That's great.” I stood up, suddenly bone-weary. “Am I free to go?”

“For now.” He stepped through the door, then leaned back into the room. “Oh, and Sam,” he said.

My heart thumped in my chest. Here it came. The friendship talk. Stacy, Wayne, the ghosts of relationships past.

“Don't leave town,” he said.

I arrived at the office shortly after nine the following morning. A soft mist lingered over Arlinda, washing its colors together into a pastel-hued velvet painting. Patches of pale blue sky promised sunshine to come, and the air was warm and scented with sweet jasmine, flowering quince, and roasting coffee.

I trudged up the front steps a little stiffly. I'd spent the week spinning my wheels, chasing ghosts, immersing myself in a past that didn't feel real to me, though I knew it was mine. Locking the door behind me, I turned on the phones and the canned music, then started a pot of coffee and checked my in-box for hot leads. It was, not surprisingly, empty.

When the coffee had finished brewing, I poured out a couple of mugs and opened the back door. Curly was there, his long legs folded lotus style and his hands resting on his knees. His eyes were dreamy, his thoughts far away. He stirred, and I wondered if he'd been meditating. His bedroll was neatly secured to his pack frame and the rest of his gear had been stowed.

I handed him the mug and two sugars, and he thanked me. I had nothing pressing, so I took a seat on the steps. We sat in companionable silence for a few minutes before I said, “Beautiful morning.”

He sighed and shook his head, seeming to come out of some sort of reverie. “A day the Lord made.” He unfolded his legs and stretched them out in front of him. His jeans were patched at the knees with squares of red flannel plaid, the pattern reminiscent of winter jammies, and his face was serene. He looked over at me.

“Sister, I'm guessing you've had a long coupla days.”

“How can you tell?”

“From your aura,” he said. “You ever try yoga? It's healthy for mind, body, and spirit.”

“I'll make a note of it.” I closed my eyes and let an errant ray of pale sunlight warm my face.

“You do that. Change is gonna come.” He was quiet for a moment. When he spoke again, there was something new in his voice, some resolution, that made me open my eyes.

“Been a rolling stone for the better part of forty years now,” he said, almost to himself. “But I always meant to come back to Arlinda. And this is why. Skies as blue as robin's eggs, good-hearted friendly folk, the air so fresh you just know God made it yesterday. And the trees. Lord. You stand under one and look up and you know you're gazin' straight up into heaven. Trees like that have stood through time and the tides of men: the wars and the poverty and man's pettiness and greed and heartlessness. Many have fallen, but enough still stand to say man sometimes gets things right. And that's how it should be.”

I didn't say anything. Secretly, I was memorizing Curly's words for use in a glossy sales flyer.

“Edsel Harrington was a friend of mine,” he said unexpectedly. “Matter of fact, Ed and I spent most of ten years wandering up and down the West Coast after I came back from the war. He hadn't served due to his heart, but we were pals. After I was discharged I looked him up, and he had the wanderlust just as bad as me.” He laughed. “Couple of crazy kids, we were. Fancied ourselves Jack Kerouac and Neal Cassady. He wrote some poetry, but it wasn't much good. I'd come from privilege, and Ed always knew the estate would go to him, so we bummed our way up to Alaska and back down to Baja three or four times, seeing life. Slept in boxcars, brothels, ditches, nice hotels when we were a few bucks ahead. We had just about every experience a young man dreams of having. But after a time he went back home to his family, and I kept rolling. Maybe I was still searching for something. But I wouldn't have known if I'd found it. Not then.”

He took a long sip from his mug. “By the time I thought to forgive my family, they were gone. Gone and buried. I felt like I'd been pulled up by the roots.”

I nodded. I knew about loss.

“I hear the estate's been put up for sale.”

“That's right,” I said, surprised at the sudden change of gears.

“Any takers?”

I thought about the maelstrom of offers and shook my head. “Not to my knowledge.”

“Took a walk by there yesterday evening,” he said. “Place's been let go pretty bad.”

“It's a mess. I don't know if it can be fixed up.”

He looked at me thoughtfully with his clear eyes. “That's the funny thing, Sam. Sometimes people will tell you a thing's too far gone to be made right again. And maybe that's true. You can't fix something up to be exactly the same as it was before. But if that's not your goal you can do a lot of good. It's all in how you look at it.”

“I suppose you're right.” My mind wandered a little, thinking about all the things in my life that had gone wrong. Could they be mended? Hard to say.

“Well, I'd sure like to buy that place,” Curly said.

I dragged my mind back to the present. “Yeah. Sure. You and a lot of other people.”

He rummaged in his pocket and withdrew a dirty piece of paper, folded and refolded many times. He handed it to me. I opened it up and spread it out on my knee. It was a statement from the Jorgensen Family Trust of Seattle, Washington, dated September of the previous year. My eyes fell on the column of assets, and I gasped. “Holy shit!”

Curly laughed out loud and clapped me on the shoulder.

“You think they'd take cash?” he said.

I poked my head into Everett's office a little after one. “Just wanted to let you know I have the Harrington estate under contract,” I told him.

He put down his crossword. “Congratulations. You see? Sometimes all you have to do is sit back and let the cards play out.”

“Uh, sure.” Then, because I was dying of curiosity, I asked, “How was your date?”

“She wasn't right for me.”

“What a shame. Too needy?”

“Too male.” He picked up his pen, a gesture of dismissal, and I ducked out.

Biddie was coming up the front steps just as I burst out the door. She prepared to brush by me, but I stopped her.

“Hey,” I said. “You have any more of those funny spells?”

“Don't be worryin' yourself,” she said. “I'm fine.”

I stared after her as she clomped off. Was it possible she'd really seen—no, surely not. I shook my head and hit the streets.

I drove out Eleventh Street. The mist had burned away, replaced by a liquid warmth that filled my veins with dangerous longing. I pulled up near the secret gate, shut off the engine, and squared my shoulders. Sam Turner, all business. At least I'd called ahead this time.

Merrit answered my knock. Her eyes were less haunted today, and her color brighter. She caught my expression and nodded.

“I'm in remission,” she said. “The doctors haven't confirmed it, but I feel it. Right down to my bones.” She hesitated, her eyes dark. “ ‘And the truth shall set ye free,' ” she said softly. “John 8:32.”

The words tugged me toward an awareness I hadn't yet assimilated. Maybe, after so many years of imprisonment, I was free, too.

We were silent a moment, lost in our own thoughts. Then Merrit said, “They caught that fella killed all those people. And Eddie.”

“I doubt if they'll ever be able to prove it about Eddie.”

“Doesn't matter. We know the way of it.”

“That's right.”

“You have other news for me.”

“I do.”

“Be a shame to waste this sunshine,” she said. “Let's sit in the garden. I'll just grab my tea. Can I get you something? I have chocolate-chip cookies just out of the oven.”

My mouth watered. “I wouldn't say no to cookies.”

She stepped back into the kitchen, reappearing a moment later with a plate of cookies and a mug of dark fluid with a slice of lemon floating in it. We made our way to the brick pavilion, with Oliver shuffling along in our footsteps. Some of the climbers had bloomed, the flowers deep pink and profuse.

I settled into the lawn chair. Oliver, instead of taking his usual place in the grass, curled at my feet, his weight pressed against my legs. I reached down and gave his coarse fur a tentative scritch, and he groaned with pleasure, shifting about so my fingers hit his favorite spots. Maybe my luck was changing—with dogs, at any rate.

“I got something for you,” Merrit said. She disappeared into the greenhouse, returning a moment later with a glass quart jar full of sticks in water, each with a little green leaf. “For your new place,” she said shyly, handing it to me.

I was nearly speechless. “Are these—”

“Roses. I took a cutting from each of my favorites. It's real easy to root them. I wrote you out some instructions.”

I rubbed my eyes with the heel of my hand. “You shouldn't have gone to so much trouble.”

“I wanted to. Makes me happy to think of Eddie's flowers living on at your place. I couldn't stand the thought of them getting plowed under. Instructions are right here.” She handed me a sheet of paper covered in delicate cursive, as if a spider had dipped its feet in ink and wandered all over the page. “Some people like to use the store-bought rooting compound, but Eddie swore by willow tea. Or use alder, which we got more of in Arlinda. Either way. You can hold them in water like this for a month or so long as you keep them from drying out.”

I pictured our soon-to-be home, the old Fickle Hill General Store, covered in heavy, sweet blossoms. “Let's talk first, and then we'll see if you want to give me anything.”

“Good enough.” She smiled a little. “No offense, Sam, but every time you show up at my door I have to brace myself. The estate is sold is my guess.”

“Looks that way. Cash offer. Could close as soon as two weeks from now.” I hesitated. “I know this will be hard on you and Lily.”

“We knew it was coming.” She stared into her tea, as if trying to discern her future in its depths. “Tell me about the new owner. You think he can lay these ghosts to rest?”

“I think so. And he loves flowers.”

“That will make Eddie happy.” She gave me a wan smile. “Don't look so troubled, hon. We'll land on our feet. We always do. I've got enough set by for a motel room, even for a month or two if it comes to that. I put my name back into the county IHSS caregiver pool and it's just a matter of time before they call me.”

There was a rustle of grass, and Lily bounded up. She wore the same soft print dress I'd seen her in the first time; it floated around her like fairy wings. She twirled in the sun, eyes sparkling.

“It's so warm and nice today,” she said.

Merrit roused herself from the depths of her chair. “You're home early.”

“I left during recess. I thought you might need me.”

“Sweetheart, don't do that. You know the school's gonna call and fuss.”

“I thought you might need me,” she repeated. For an instant, that old soul looked out from her eyes.

Merrit sighed in exasperation and leaned back. “Honey, we'll be moving soon.”

“I know. The flowers told me so.”

“Did they, now.” She smiled at her daughter.

“Have you decided which roses you're going to take?” I asked her.

She shook her head. “Plants belong in the earth,” she said. “It was a sweet thought of Eddie's, though. I wish things had turned out for him and Vito. Family meant a lot to him. And Vito wasn't a bad sort, from what Eddie told me. He always spoke kindly of him.”

“I thought they had a falling-out.”

“I just assumed it. What he told me was the boy was real handy with a shovel and a big help to him. Like I told you, gardening ran in the blood.”

A quiver of nervous excitement started at the back of my neck and traveled down to my toes. “Did Eddie say what kind of help Vito gave him?”

“Said he put in some plants, as I recall.”

“Which ones? Do you know?”

She thought it over with maddening slowness. “Roses, that's for certain. Maybe the Queen Isabellas. Rich dark red, tendency to climb. They're over in the far corner. No, must've been the Belle Stars. Pale pink, full-sized flowers, low-growing.”

I was almost dancing with impatience. “Is there any way to be sure?”

“Give me a minute to think back.” She concentrated, her brow furrowed. Then she shook her head. “Nope. I just can't remember offhand.”

“Shoot.” I scuffed my shoe in the grass.

“ 'Course there's records.”

“Records?”

“In the greenhouse. He kept everything there.”

“I think we should take a look.” I waited till she was out of her chair, then herded her toward the glass structure, suppressing the urge to nip at her heels like a sheepdog. We entered the musty warmth of the greenhouse, and Merrit walked over to a wooden file box.

“Never knew a real estate agent to take such an interest in flowers,” she said. She walked her fingers through the files, then pulled one out and opened it. Inside was a mildewed three-ring binder. Merrit began leafing through it while I hopped from one foot to the other.

“Here we go. Yes. Look here.” She drew her finger down a column of dates, the ink so faded it was almost illegible. “I'll be darned. Must be the Arlinda Junes.”

I grabbed a shovel from the corner and trotted back to the rose garden while Merrit tucked all the paperwork away and followed me more slowly. Selecting a plant, I stabbed the blade of the shovel into the earth.

“Can I ask what the hell you're doing?” Merrit said, her mild tone robbing the words of any offense.

“Digging up your legacy.” I worked my way around the shrub, jumping on the top of the shovel to drive it deep.

“I already told you to forget it. Leave them be.”

“In a minute. I need to check something.” I hauled back on the handle until the root ball tore free from the ground in a shower of rich loam. I set the plant aside and slid the shovel out from under it, using the blade to dig around the hole. Dirt and clay. Shoot.