A Line To Murder (A Puget Sound Mystery) (11 page)

Rhododendrons weren’t deciduous, but they lost dead leaves in spring and often had dried brown ones around their base. The garden had a thick layer of undisturbed beauty bark covered with a layer of the brown cylinders rhododendron leaves became. In two places, about a foot apart, they were crumbled, as if stepped on.

I turned the light out for a minute to rest my hand. Immediately the bugs, previously attracted by the beam, turned to me, a warm, perspiring, pheromone-emitting body. I fanned the air wildly and shook my head, feeling itchy all over. Then, while I waited for my pupils to dilate, I considered my latest find. Something, or someone, had to have crushed the leaves. Probably the police. But, then, wouldn’t more have dropped after that and covered the trampled spots? Could a cat or dog have done it? A big dog, maybe. Since the leaves were crushed but there were no footprints, it was anybody’s guess.

When my hand felt better, I flicked the light on again and continued crawling. My knee landed on something soft and squished it. A few minutes later I ground my hand painfully on an unseen rock. “Look at the damn leaves and let’s get out of here,” my brain said. Hoping for an important find, I swung the fading flashlight beam over them. After a quick reexamination, I decided to scrape some away from a spot to see if there was a print underneath.

Trying to blow the leaves away accomplished nothing, except to entangle my hair in the branches and get grit in my eyes. I snapped off a couple of interfering twigs and inched forward on my knees and elbows, with my nose practically on the ground, to a spot where I flicked the leaves away. Pausing again, to rest my hand, I wondered how much longer the batteries would hold out.

A dog barked and someone yelled at him.

If a burglar brakes into that man’s house and the dog doesn’t bark, the owner will blame the animal for not alerting him. What a no-win situation for man’s best friend.

Overhead, a plane flew low, on its way south toward the military
base. My heart froze when a car, radio blaring, paused
somewhere out front, but then it drove off. I flexed my
fingers and turned the flashlight back on. The batteries were dying a slow, honorable death so I hurriedly brushed until finally exposing the dirt. Just before the batteries gave out, I made out the faint outline of
a long, narrow print. Isca had complained about trying to find shoes for her slender feet. Andy had slender feet too, I remembered.

I wiggled backwards, snagging my hair even more, and stood up. Sweat ran down my neck. A crane fly, those mosquito-like things with too many growth hormones, moved in on me. I sat down on the grass for a minute to think. Andy and Isca had had a big fight. Andy didn’t want to go with me the night we found her body. The night of the Passion play he had a money clip similar to the one I just found. He had slender feet just like the footprints I found.
It’s not looking good, my friend
.

I sighed and stood. The cat reappeared and joined me while I hurried around the house and out the gate, fastening it behind me. Across the street, a male figure was silhouetted in the picture window of the Janeses’ house. How long had I been poking around? More importantly, had he been watching to see why my car was parked out front? Yikes, perhaps he thought I was the killer. I got in my car and left at regular speed. After all, I was there at the request of Isca’s dad. I, at least, had an excuse.

When I got home, I was in no mood to get a quiche ready for Dave’s brunch. I fiddled around with the radio dial, found a call-in station and listened to remarks about local politics while I beat eggs and grated cheese. I made sweet potato muffin batter to bake in the morning, let the cat in and went to bed.

Instead of dead-to-the-world, it was an insomnia night—a left side, right side debate in my brain about Andy’s guilt or innocence. I tossed and turned, tried to read, opened the window and then shut it again. Finally I got up and rooted around in the medicine cabinet until I found half
a bottle of Nyquil and took a swig. The cat settled next to me just as I fell asleep.

* * *

Dave and Francisco tapped on my door the next morning. I dried fruit pulp off my hands and unlocked the dead bolt. Dave, as always, was first. He carried a silver ice bucket holding a bottle and headed straight for my balcony, tossing a greeting over his shoulder.

“Good morning,” I called to his retreating back. “I like your Levis.” The pants were tight and we both knew he had a great butt.

I grinned and he started to smile back as he turned on the balcony. The grin turned into an exclamation. “Did you know you have a dead bird out here?”

I followed him to the balcony while Francisco put something down in the kitchen.

“It’s a crow.” I looked at the gleaming black feathers and reached to see if the body was warm.

“Maybe it flew into the glass and is just stunned.” However, as I got closer, a small hole in its breast became visible. “Somebody shot it.”

“Probably someone with a bee bee gun,” Francisco said. “I had a bee bee gun when I was a kid and that’s the way the holes looked.”

I found a garden glove that lay near the flower boxes and picked it up. “Look at its beak.”

Dave looked at the bird and at me. “It’s been cut off.”

I put the body in a weeding bucket and pushed it to a corner. “I wonder how it ended up on my balcony.”

“Maybe someone saw it was injured and made a mercy killing.”

“Maybe.”
And maybe it was a one-in-a-million when the afternoon sun hit the mirror just as I was driving down the road from Buckley, but there was no maybe that someone wrote “Enabler” on my car.
I stared at the spot on the flooring where a few black feathers remained. Nothing weird like this ever happened to me and now three things had.
Am I someone’s target? And, if so, whose and why?”

I tried to put the dead bird out of my mind and joined Francisco was in the kitchen. “What did you bring?”

“Peanut butter.”

“What for?”

“Ask Dave.” Francisco shrugged and sighed.

The table was already set. I put three fruit glasses of juice on a small tray. Francisco carried them to the balcony. My balcony had western exposure, but it was just warm enough to eat outside. “This great spring weather can’t last much longer.” I put the muffin basket down.

Francisco took a fruit platter out, and I followed with the quiche. Dave opened and poured the wine.

The morning air was so fresh the flowers stood as if outlined in a Sumi ink. Bees, some with legs that looked heavy with pollen, buzzed close by. The white patio furniture was clean and inviting under the striped umbrella.

Someone Dave knew walked on the sidewalk below. He hailed him and then leaned against the railing to carry on a conversation. I kept remembering things such as salt and pepper and napkins and went back and forth from the kitchen to the balcony trying not to think about the dead crow. According to the old poem about magpies, one was for sorrow, two for mirth. Did it count if the bird was a dead crow, mutilated and planted on someone’s property?

Francisco buttered a muffin and looked at me briefly. “A parrot?”

“He was Isca’s. Did Dave tell you about her murder?”

“Yeah. I didn’t know her, but it sucks big time for you.”

Dave returned to the table. It was small enough so we could reach the food without having to pass it.

“Let’s talk about something happy.” I was suddenly glad they were there. “Tell me about yesterday and everything.” The quiche smelled good and I took a bite. It was hot. I fanned my mouth.

“I’ve begun a rebirth.” Dave took a fork full of quiche and blew on it. “It was a fabulous experience. Fabulous. You should try it. I feel so free from some of the old baggage in my life. It’s like a whole new beginning.”

“What’s that—a rebirth? Something to do with religion?”

“No. It’s Primal Therapy. That’s what we wanted to take you to yesterday. You need to let go of the past and find a man.”

“I’m trying. Remember?”

Francisco looked at me soberly. “Just be careful. Video dating isn’t always safe.”

“Gee, thanks a whole lot.”

Dave cleared his throat. “As I was saying, we went to a group session at the Church of Divine Humanity. An introduction to Primal Therapy. It’s a way to learn to let go of painful childhood experiences and to get on with living in the now.” He took a bite of quiche. “This is good.”

Francisco and Dave had just started their relationship. I liked Francisco very much. He was a gorgeous man, with dark hair and eyes, and eyelashes any woman would die for, or pay for. As a part-time, personal fitness trainer, he often wore pastel-colored T-shirts that set off his bronzed skin. His build sometimes left women confused. He was a gay man in a strongly Catholic, very traditional family. I knew the pain he’d suffered. He went home infrequently, and always alone, maintaining a careful facade.

“Did you do a rebirth, too, Francisco?”

“Not yet, but I might. It costs a mint.”

Francisco was frugal and always had a savings account. Dave borrowed from Peter (and often me) to pay Paul. I wondered about his session, but not for long.

“Dave got a freebie as a volunteer while Dr. Janoff demonstrated. The session wasn’t as intense as a private one.”

“Is he a real doctor?”

Dave answered, “Dr. Janoff is a psychologist who is also a metaphysicist and a naturopathic physician.”

“Is this something like regression?” The cat came out of the bedroom. I put a spoonful of quiche onto my saucer and chopped it into small pieces. He came straight to my chair and meowed. I knew from experience he loved cheese.

“Sort of, but not really.” Dave’s eyes lit with enthusiasm. “You lie on a mat. The rebirther kneels beside you and talks and asks some questions and helps you relax. Then he coaches you through connected breathing.”

“That’s inhaling and exhaling without pausing.” Francisco explained before I could ask.

“Isn’t that hyperventilation?”

“Yes, but it’s necessary to raise the oxygen levels in the blood. It lets you achieve a higher state of ecstasy.”

“Or agony.” Francisco and Dave looked at each other, sharing something that I wasn’t part of. It made me lonely.

Dave and I had talked. I knew how he got the long, thick scar on his arm. It occurred when he was a boy working in the wheat fields. He’d been a gangly, skinny, “also-ran” kid to a brilliant older brother and younger twin sisters—Campbell’s soup kids with curls and dimples. Growing up, he’d always felt like an outsider in his own family. With ever-changing casts of Matts and Jeremys and Franciscos, Dave looked for something neither them nor I could give him.

“It sounds fascinating.” I’m not a touchy-feely person but I put my hand on his arm and rubbed the scar, wanting to ease the burden of his hurts.

He blinked rapidly. “Great brunch.” It sounded automatic.

Another reason why I loved him, I guess. I didn’t think the wounds would ever really heal.

“You know, Isca had a caller who referred to himself as the vicar. He talked to her about being born again. I wonder if she got it wrong and he was talking about rebirthing.”

“You should tell the police.”

“Andy says they’re getting ready to charge him. I doubt they’d be interested.”

“Then maybe you should try and find him.”

I looked at Dave in disbelief. “Me?”

“Why not?”

“But—I wouldn’t have a clue how.”

“One thing you could do is visit some of the psychic shops. There’s one in Freighthouse Square and another called the Crystal Voyager on Puyallup Avenue.”

“Will you ask around for me, too?”

“I’ll have to think about it. I’m known in the psychic community, though. If I ask, word will get around someone’s looking for him and he might hear. You don’t want that.”

“Good point.”

“You could look through the albums at Calculated Love too.”

“Oh, Yuck. Do you think...” I grimaced. “Anyway for what? I don’t know what he looks like.”

“I don’t know. Try older guys or someone who says they like old movies. Use your imagination.”

I recognized being dismissed and excused myself to get the coffee and a dish of little sherbet balls to remove the breakfast taste.
Boy did I go all out
. When I returned, the sun was beginning to warm the cement. Francisco played with the cat and Dave sat in moody silence. Voices, traffic sounds and other people’s music floated up. We sat apart, silently.

After a while, Francisco turned on my radio and helped me carry in the remains of the meal. “I’ll bet there were only about forty people there. All ages and colors. If your guy shows up, he shouldn’t be hard to spot.”

“Ummm.” I rinsed a plate and put it in the dishwasher.

“What?”

“I was thinking about the dead crow.”

Francisco crossed his arms and leaned against the counter. “Finding a crow on your doorstep is supposed to be bad luck, but the fact that it was dead meant your guardian angel has been looking out for you.”