Her sobs came in great heaving gasps and seemed to go on forever, but it was probably less than a minute. Gradually they subsided in a series of gulps and sighs. Slowly she pulled away and wiped her wet face on her sleeve. “You really have a grip.” She rubbed her arms where I had held them.
“Sorry.” I said.
To my surprise, she smiled. “I'm sorry, too, Jo,” she said, “for the way I lashed out at you last night. I shouldn'tâ”
“No, Mag. You were right. I should have told you what Nick said. I was all caught up in my own selfish affairs.”
We sat for a while, staring at the field of new green corn. A soft breeze smelling of May flowers came in the window, stirring the curtains. For a brief moment I think we felt at peace.
When I left Maggie, it was only two-thirty. It was all I could do to keep from calling the lab, Peck, Piâ
somebody
! I needed answers. I was paralyzed, frustrated by not being able to take action. When I got back to my room, I called Dad. As usual he was thrilled to hear from me and, as usual, I kicked myself for not calling him more often. I wanted to tell him about Archie, but I held back. He'd only worryâand at age seventy, he didn't need that. We chatted awhile. He told me he had a new customer. A bulb and seed company. Their hundred-page, semiannual catalog would keep a roof over his head a little while longer, he said with a chuckle. I was happy. Dad without work was like a hot dog without mustard. Maybe he could put off retirement for another few years. I did tell him about Nick, because he had met the Nelsons. He was deeply distressed and promised to write to them.
When I hung up, I felt better. Maybe I would go to Wildwood. I called Pi for Wendy's number. She was staying at a cheap motel with a bunch of other old ladies. Comfort by the Sea, he thought it was called.
I burned rubber and made the trip in an hour and fifteen minutes. One thing about south Jersey roadsâthere was nobody on them. Traffic jams were as scarce as hens' teeth. When I found the
motel, I was informed by one stoned old lady that “they're all at the beach.”
Great. Wildwood was well known for its miles of beaches. And I didn't even know what Wendy looked like. The girl gave me a generic description. “Blond, nose ring, bikini ⦠blueâI think ⦔
“Thanks.” I decided to head straight down the street to the ocean. Maybe I'd get lucky and she'd be there.
Despite the surroundingsâhot dog stands, game arcades, and cheap barsâmy first glimpse of the ocean made me forget Pi and Maggie and Tom and all the rest of the problems I'd been carrying around for the past few days. God, it was beautiful. It had been a long time since I'd been to the seashore. I closed my eyes, shutting out the vendors, the crowds, the rubbish, and inhaled deeplyâsearching for the smell of the sea. It eluded me on the boardwalk, but as I descended the steps to the beach, the smells of popcorn, cheese steaks, and suntan lotion were whisked away by a fresh sea breeze and I could hear the rhythmic beat and shush of the waves. When I was little, Dad and I had always spent our vacations at the seashore. I missed it.
When my boots touched sand, I scanned the beach for a cluster of biker beauties. I didn't have to look far. Even though the beach was crowded, they were easy to spot, because they were the only females without umbrellasâstretched out in a row, soaking up the sun. Fear of skin cancer was for wussesâpart of the female biker code, no doubt. I ambled over. There were at least three blondes with nose rings.
“Which one of you is Wendy?” I asked.
They raised their heads in unison and stared at me.
I waited.
“Who wants to know?” asked the blonde at the end of the row.
“Jo Banks,” I said. “I'm trying to find out about Sunny's death.”
The others laid their heads back down on their towels. The blonde on the end said, “We've been through all that with the police.” She fumbled for a cigarette and lit it with some difficulty in the strong breeze.
Although all I wanted to do was take off my boots and paddle in
the water, I lowered my rump on the sand next to her and said, “Tell me about you and Sunny.”
She took a deep drag on her cigarette and looked away toward the sea. “Sunny and I were over ages ago,” she said, in a tone that belied her statement.
“Why did you come to the party, then?”
She looked at me. “I like parties.”
“You didn't come because Sunny was there?”
“Hell, no,” she said. “It's a big world. Plenty of fish.”
“Did you talk to him?”
“Oh, sure. He was glad to see me. But he had other things on his mind.”
“Such as?”
“Youâfor one.” She smiled wickedly. “I saw him cart you off.”
I swallowed.
“And he wasn't feeling too good,” she added. “Something he ate.”
I was listening carefully. A seagull dived at a trash can nearby, snatched up an old french fry, and flew away. “What did he eat?”
“How should I know?”
“Well, you rode back with him. I thought maybe you all stopped for pizza or something.”
“Nah. We were souped up on meds. They kill the appetite.”
I nodded knowingly, as if I did meds every day. “Did you see anyone fooling with Sunny's drinks?”
Her eyes widened. “He doesn't ⦠didn't ⦠drink anything but beer. He couldn't afford it.”
“And it would be pretty hard to poison a beerâis that what you're saying?”
“Well, yeah. You'd have to pour something into that little holeâand how could you do that before he opened it?”
“You've given this some thoughtâ”
Her eyelids narrowed. “Say, you don't think I did Sunny in, do ya?”
“Hmm?”
She jumped up, dropping her cigarette and scattering sand.
“You bitch,”
she yelled, hands on hips.
“I don't think anything.” I stood up, too. “I'm just trying to find out what happened to Sunny.”
Several of the other girls were showing interest. Was one of their own under attack? I didn't see any weapons lying around, and bikinis don't leave much room for concealment. But I'd heard that some biker women were pretty good with anything sharpâbroken bottles ⦠I eyed the trash can. Cracked seashells ⦠I scanned the sand around us.
“Sunny was a prick,” yelled one of the recliners.
“Yeah,” growled another. “Wendy was well rid of him.”
Wendy still held her confrontational stance, and one by one the others were pulling themselves off their towels like so many self-adhesive postage stamps. I noticed their muscles. Although smaller than those of their male counterparts, the women were nothing to sneeze at. How could these people lead the lives they did and still stay fit? A good topic for a medical studyâfor some other doctor to tackle, some other time.
“OK. Thanks for your help.” I backed away.
“Don't you want to stay and talk?” This from a woman whose arms and legs looked like they were carved from cedar or oak. They were all standing now, forming a circle around me. They outnumbered me ten to one. It was definitely time to go.
I took off, pounding the sand with my boots, frightening seagulls and little children carrying buckets. I didn't care what kind of scene I made; I wasn't about to be pulverized by a bunch of muscle-bound females. I dashed up the steps to the boardwalk. Not until I was well onto the boards, blending with the crowd, did I dare look back They were still standing, looking after meâspoiling my ocean view.
My bike had never looked so good. I mounted and started the long trek back to Bayfield. I was halfway home before I asked myself why Wildwood was so crowded in May. Then it dawned on me. It was Memorial Day Weekend.
As I arrived at my door, I heard my phone ringing on the other side, I fumbled with my key, crashed inâstubbing my toe on the futonâand grabbed the receiver.
“Peck here.”
I drew a deep breath. “Any news?”
“That sediment in the bottom of the beer bottle ⦔
My heart thumped “Yes?”
“Arsenic, and ⦔
Old lace? I waited.
“The fingerprints on the bottle belonged to Sunnyâmostly.”
“Mostly?”
“There were two other sets. The ones all over the neck were yours, no doubt.”
“I tried to be careful.”
But we couldn't match the other set to anyone in our database.” He sounded disappointed.
Pi's prints were in the national database, because of his prison record. “That clears Pi then, doesn't it?”
“Whoa. These prints might belong to anyoneâsome guy who worked for the beer distributor, or in the deli where the beer was sold. The poisoner who handed Sunny the beerâpossibly Piâprobably wore gloves, leaving no prints.”
Or possiblyâJingles, Wendy, or ⦠Stan
Why Stan? A scene in the parking lot had played itself out before me. Fran and Sunnyâtight as two peasâon his bike. Stan popping up out of nowhere.
“What about Stan?” I said, and gave him my reason.
“What was Stan's room number?” Peck asked.
“Twenty-three.” As a bonus I gave him Stan's license number.
“Good work.”
UR4ME wasn't hard to remember.
“I'll get back to you.” He hung up.
I glanced at my clock. Five-thirty. Still sandy and salty from my trip to the seashore, I was dying for a shower, but I called Pi first, anxious to give him the news. It rang five times before voicemail kicked in. Ohmygod. Don't tell me he'd taken off already. I ran to the parking lot and mounted my bike. Jingles sidled up to me, wearing one of his humorless smirks.
“Going somewhere?” he asked.
“What's it to you?”
“ ⦠to see Pi?” The smirk turned into a sneer.
I'm sure I looked guilty. “What were
you
doing at that party?” I asked, turning the tables. Here was a biker ripe for some questioning. I'd been looking for one all day.
He seemed surprised. “What d'ya mean? I was the preacher. You saw me.”
“Not that party. The other one.”
“Boozin', dancin'âsame as you. But you wouldn't dance with meâremember?” his tone was accusatory.
“Did you give Sunny something to drink?”
As it dawned on him where I was headed, his manner changed from bantering to threatening. He leaned in so close I could smell his breathâa combination of stale alcohol and bad teeth. “
Watch â¦
it â¦
girl
.” The three words glowed between us like hot coals.
I fired up and cruised out of the lot. Turning right, I headed in the opposite direction from Pi's hideout. A few minutes later. I
heard a bike behind me and glimpsed Jingles in my left side mirror. He was gaining on me. When he came alongside, he came too close. Way too close! I leaned into the shoulder, almost tipping over. “Bastard!” I screamed.
“Hoo, hoo, hoo, hoo, hoo!” he let out one of his high-pitched squeals and tore off, narrowly missing a hay truck in front of me.
Asshead.
As soon as Jingles was out of sight, I made a U-turn and headed for Pi. Of course he might have had his cell phone turned off. But being out of touch made me nervous. Peck had warned that Pi wasn't out of the woods yet (an apt expression), and there was always the possibility of extradition.
As I rode, I tried to sort things out. Opportunity, means, and motiveâI recited the familiar litany for a murder investigation. Then I applied it to the three suspects: Jingles, Wendy, and Stan.
They all had opportunity. They were all at the party. They all had means. The rat poison was in the motel closet. But Jingles and Stan were more apt to know of its whereabouts than Wendy, who had just arrived. And by the time the party started, the closets were probably closed and locked. Maybe she had brought her own supply, I thought maliciously.
As for motive, Jingles had the strongest. Power. He wanted Pi's job. King of the club. What better way to get rid of Pi than to stick him with a murder rap. And Jingles was probably the only one who knew about Pi's prison record. Wendy's motive was easyâsexual jealousy. If she couldn't have Sunny, then no one else should. And Stan? Again, the image of Sunny and Franâsqueezed together on his bike seatâflashed before me.
Then there was the matter of character. Not everyone is capable of murder. Or are they? Given the right circumstances? Jingles certainly was. He wore the 1-percent patch. He had killed at least one person. Maybe more. They say it gets easier each time. And of all the bikers, he was the only one I could imagine using poison. He was sneaky.
Wendy? She was tough. She might even have a mean streak. But
a killer? It was hard to judge on such a short acquaintance, but my gut feeling was no. Some of her pals would have been better candidates. But they had no motive. Of course Pi would say the choice of weaponâpoisonâpointed to a woman. The hell with him.
That left Stan. His character wasn't hard to read. A wimpy whiner, weighted down by years with a fickle wife. Not exactly a man of action. Someone who would commit murder.
A phrase from Jack's manuscript suddenly came to me. How had he put it?
The little green man comes in many guises. He can come like a worm in an appleâor like a fire in the furnace.
In Stan's case, he could have come both ways. Nibbling like a worm over the years as Fran indulged in her silly dalliances, then suddenly Sunny was one too manyâthe proverbial last strawâand the fire in the furnace kicked in.
Deep in my thoughts as I sped through the corridor of phragmites that led to the shack, I didn't notice the red lights spinning or hear the shouts until I broke into the clearing. Two patrol cars were parked by the door and four troopers were clustered around the porch like flies.
“Come out with your hands up,” Trooper #1 shouted.
I pulled to a stop and shut off my motor. “What's going on?” I shouted.
Trooper #1 turned, followed by the others.
“What d'ya know? The girlfriend shows up. Good timing.
Another reason for you to come out!
” he yelled into the shack.
“Stay where you are, Pi!” I yelled, spreading my glare among the troopers. “I told you, you can't touch him,” I addressed Trooper #1.
“That out-of-state line doesn't hold up anymore!” he said, flapping a sheaf of papers at me. “We got the documents to extradite him.”
“Let me see those.” I dismounted and walked over to him. The other troopers were grinning. To my dismay, the papers looked
authentic. A warrant signed by the governor and several other high state officials. When I looked up, Pi was on the porch staring at me.
“I don't know about this ⦔ I said hesitantly.
“Sure, you don't know. You don't know shit from Shinola.” He took the cuffs off his belt and shook the screen door. “Come on, Apple Pie, or whatever your name is. You're comin' with us.”
I saw Pi tense. I knew he was contemplating making a run for it, out the back door, where his bike was parked. But common sense prevailed. He knew they were armed, and he wasn't suicidal. Slowly he unhooked the screen door and stood aside to let them in.
They cuffed him and hauled him down the steps. As they shoved him into a patrol car, he muttered to me, “Take care of my bike,” and pressed his keys into my hand. (He must have taken them from his pocket before they cuffed him.) He seemed unruffled, except for one thingâno one but me, or maybe his mother, would have noticed it. When Archie was a boy, he had a habit of swallowing repeatedly when he was upset. In those days his neck was skinny and you could see his Adam's apple shooting up and down spasmodically. When Pi had pressed his bike keys into my hand, I'd seen a repeated ripple under the now taut skin of his full neck
“We'll have you out in no time!” I growled.
He nodded. I think he actually trusted me.
Damn. Damn. Damn.
And I had no idea how I could back up my words.
After they left, I rode around to the rear of the shack, parked my bike, and mounted Pi's. In the midst of misery there were always a few bonuses. I roared off.