A Treasure to Die For (4 page)

I met Julie the previous summer when she had been investigating a rash of bear and elk poaching in the hills behind my home. She was so cute with her red ponytail sticking out the back of her warden’s cap that I fell for her before she even spoke. She saved me from being arrested that day when she and her team found a planted compound-bow in my motor home. Julie noticed I was left-handed, and the bow was made for a right-handed person. My vision still gets blurry whenever I think of her.

Fred tired of catching bugs, or whatever it is dogs do when they stick their head out of an open car window, and put his head on my lap. I didn’t have the heart to push him away, even though he would soon be drooling on my leg. I couldn’t help but wonder if he was thinking of Julie too, when my cell phone rang. It was all I could do to get Fred off my lap and pull the phone out of my pocket; I nearly sideswiped the car next to me.

The other driver honked her horn and showed me her middle finger before I finally managed to turn on my phone. It was Bonnie.

“Jake! Thank God I got you. The cops are here asking a bunch of questions.”

“They came anyway?” I asked, waving to the girl who had just saluted me. “The nine-eleven operator acted like I was bothering her.”

“No! Not the sheriff, Jake. It’s a couple homicide detectives.”

I made a quick U-turn and headed back home.

***

“So where are they?” I asked as I jumped out of my Jeep after parking it in her driveway.

Bonnie was sitting in one of the rocking chairs on her front porch that I had made a few years back, during my craftsman phase. Even from a distance I could see she had been crying. With the way her makeup had stained her face, she looked like an ad for a zombie movie. “You’re too late, Jake,” she answered before starting to cry again. “They think
I
killed her. I thought they were going to arrest me.”

Suspecting Bonnie of killing Shelia was no big surprise. Shelia’s boyfriend, Craig, had said as much on live TV, and Bonnie did have a motive. I know I wouldn’t think twice about lethal injection if someone killed
my
daughter.

I sat down in the rocker next to her. “It’s okay, Bon. You have an alibi for the night of the murder. Me and Fred will vouch for you.”

Fred looked up and barked at the mention of his name. He knew Bonnie was upset and laid down by her feet with his head on his paws.

“Would you do that for me, Freddie?” She asked, with the hint of a smile.

“You can bet your next pension check on it,” I answered for my speech impaired dog, silently praying it didn’t come to that. I wasn’t in the habit of perjuring myself, nor was Fred.

Her smile had become a certified grin.“My, what a strange voice you have, Fred.”

It made me smile too. “I guess I deserved that, but tell me what the cops said to you. We may have to find you a lawyer,
muy pronto
.”

Although Fred and I were on the wagon, Bonnie wasn’t. We ended up going to her kitchen where she kept her stock of whiskey. Her memory wasn’t very clear by the time she finished a half-full fifth of Jack Daniels, but she did manage to tell me the story as best as she could remember.

The detectives played the good-cop, bad-cop routine on her in an effort to get her to confess to Shelia’s murder. The cops weren’t buying the sweet, old-lady routine; not after Craig had told them how Bonnie had tried to murder Shelia’s husband last year with peanut oil when she thought he was the hit-and-run driver. It was all the detectives needed to hear, even though spraying someone allergic to peanuts with Bactine mixed with peanut oil on a burn had as much effect as trying to kill ants with a water hose. They knew she was capable of murder, as did everyone else. But they didn’t take into account that Shelia had met a violent death. She had been stabbed, which wasn’t Bonnie’s style. Bonnie would have used poison, or something that didn’t involve blood.

She tried to tell the cops about how Craig beat Shelia, and that he should be their number-one suspect, but they weren’t interested. They didn’t quit badgering her until she’d said she needed a lawyer.

I waited for her to regain her composure with the help of Mr. Daniels. “I don’t think it was Craig anyway, Bon.”

“Of course it was him. Who else could it be?”

“Think about it, Bon. Craig told the television reporter he had been watching the CU game with a friend, and found Shelia dead on his return home. Craig is a mean SOB, but he doesn’t strike me as dumb. He must know the cops will check out his alibi, so it only follows that someone else killed Shelia. My guess is she was killed for her copy of the book, and when it failed to be the key copy, the murderer went looking for another — mine.”

The evening sun illuminated every wrinkle in her sixty-nine-year-old face. “The bald guy with tattoos and no sleeves? The guy who broke into your house?”

***

That was when I decided to find Shelia’s killer. It was bad enough the guy stole my copy of
Tom Sawyer
and trashed my house, but I couldn’t let them pin a murder on this old widow. I had to get him before the district attorney decided to go after her.

Between Bonnie’s television and Fred barking at the top of the stairs whenever he thought he heard a critter in the lower level, I had a hard time concentrating on how to find Sleeveless. I should have closed the windows to silence her television, but air conditioning isn’t necessary this high up and I needed the cool night air to cool the house or it would be too warm the next day.

It wasn’t until the next morning that my plan started to come together. We were on our way to the building-supply store again before a family of skunks, or some other unwelcome visitors, decided the downstairs busted door was an open invitation to make themselves at home. What little traffic we encountered was in the opposite direction, weekend tourists headed to the lake, which gave me time to think without exercising the defensive driving skills required in Denver.

The plan was simple. On Monday, I would stop at the bookstore on my way home from the job in Bailey and try to get a list of the people who had been at the reading. I remember signing a guest register of sorts, so I could only hope Sleeveless did too. It wouldn’t be easy, but once I eliminated the feminine names and everyone I knew, I should narrow the list down to less than a half dozen. But checking even five or six names could be tedious.

Most online searches can yield an address, phone number, and even relatives, but other than the social-media sites, none that I knew of displayed pictures. Somehow, Sleeveless didn’t strike me as a social person. It would be tough to put a face to a name without a picture, especially a face I’d only seen for less than a minute.

His tattoo suggested he might have been a Marine at one time, so I could probably search the Department of Veterans Affairs database, or the National Personnel Records, but the paperwork to do so would take months. Fortunately, there are online sites that have instant access to those databases. Only they could be costly, so I’d have to narrow my list down to one or two names before I paid for one of those services. But where did I know him from? It had to be on a construction site unless he was one of those weekend bikers who wore a business suit the rest of the week. Anything was possible.

On the other hand, Sleeveless fit the classic profile of an ex-con: bald, tattooed and a build only obtained from having spent endless hours lifting weights, or maybe he cheated and took steroids. Maybe an online background check would work; but then again, maybe I’d seen too many Stallone and Schwarzenegger movies.

Fred woke me from my thoughts with an “I’m hungry” bark when we pulled into the parking lot of the building-supply store. His favorite fast-food restaurant was right next door. “Not today, Freddie. Julie might be watching.” It was another bad habit she’d made us promise to quit.

It would have been torture to leave him in the Jeep in sight of those golden arches, so I put him on his leash and brought him with me. Evergreen’s version of the national big-box store was half the size of its cousins in the Denver area. It was also pet-friendly, which saved me from pretending I was half blind and he was my service dog.

***

We had picked out a pre-hung, steel-clad entry door and were looking at some new deadbolts when Fred began to growl. I looked up just in time to see Sleeveless over in the roofing section. “Hush, Freddie,” I whispered, trying to become invisible so I could follow Sleeveless back to his truck and get a license number. I was too late. He heard Fred, looked over at us, and froze like a cat stalking a bird. It was only a second or less, but long enough to feel the air temperature drop several degrees. For a moment our eyes locked on each other, then he picked up a gallon can of roofing cement, and threw it at us before he took off running.

The projectile missed us and hit the cart I had been pushing, creating a huge dent in my new door before it broke open and spilled its black, gooey tar all over the door and floor. I didn’t see the glob on the floor, and slipped in the mess when I tried to give pursuit. Fred had been on the other side of the cart, so he missed stepping in it and managed to drag me another ten feet before giving up the chase. All I needed to complete my humiliation was a bag of feathers. I was covered from head to foot in tar.

“What the hell is going on here?” I looked up to see a huge figure clad in khaki colored pants, and wearing a white dress shirt. His nametag said Robert something, with M
anager
in big, bold letters. Before I could answer, several orange shirted employees started to gather. “I’ve already called the sheriff on the perp, Bob,” one of them answered. She was an older woman, heavy set, and looked to be in her mid-fifties. I wasn’t too sure about her age, for she lacked any makeup, and had really short hair. Sitting there on the floor, I had a great view of her hiking boots and a feeling she wouldn’t mind planting one in my face if I tried to get up.

Fred came over to sit by me as the crowd grew bigger. I put my arm around him just in case someone tried to take him from me. “Maybe you should have called an ambulance instead,” I said, without taking my eyes off the boots. “I hope your insurance is paid up.” I had no intention of suing, and hadn’t even thought about it until I realized I might be in trouble.

The manager’s attitude changed faster than a politician at a news conference. “I’m sorry, sir, are you hurt?”

I slowly got to my feet, making a horrible face and holding my lower back. “Just bruised, I think. You really should be more careful who you let in your store. The guy who threw that can at me, must be some kind of maniac.”

“Someone threw roofing cement at you?” By the tone of his voice, no one would suspect that only moments before he had been angry enough to swear.

Boots answered before I could. “That’s why I called the sheriff, Bob. I thought they were fighting.”

“Fighting! Fred and I were minding our own business when that psycho came out of nowhere and threw the can at us. Surely your cameras must have caught it.”

“Fred? Who’s Fred?” Bob’s tone suggested he’d given up politics and gone back to being a manager.

Before I or anyone else could answer, I saw two deputies approach. One had a microphone he was talking into and the other was watching me with a hand on his holster.

“Negative on that ten-ten,” said the cop on the mike, and then slipped the mike on a shoulder strap. He was older and shorter than his partner, but with three stripes on his sleeve, I assumed he was the boss.

“Who’s in charge here?” he asked.

“I am, Sergeant, but everything is under control now,” Bob replied. Then turning to his employees, he said, “Don’t you people have something to do?”

Boots was the last to leave; she gave me a look that suggested she’d like to meet me out in the alley, and I knew it wasn’t to whisper sweet nothings in my ear.

“We got a call on a fight in progress. Is anyone hurt?” the sergeant asked.

“It wasn’t a fight, Officer,” I answered, holding Fred even tighter. “Some maniac threw a can of roofing tar at me and then ran out of here. I tried to catch him and slipped on this mess,” I said, pointing to the floor.

The sergeant looked briefly at the tar on the floor before turning back to me. “That sounds like a fight to me. Can I see some identification?”

He took my driver’s license then handed it to his partner. “Run this for me, Brandon, while I talk to the manager.”

The sergeant took Bob aside while Deputy Brandon talked into his microphone, reading my name, address, birthday, physical attributes, and driver’s license number to whoever was on the other end. I’m surprised he didn’t mention my donor status too. In the meantime, I could barely hear what the sergeant and Bob were discussing. Although I missed most of it, I did hear Bob say something about Fred and lawyers.

All I could do was stand there holding Fred’s leash, and wonder if I’d be asked to pay for the damaged door and cleanup costs. I didn’t have to think about it for long before a page came over the loudspeaker asking for a manager. I saw the sergeant hand the manager a card, and then walk over to his partner. After a few words that I couldn’t hear, they both came over to me.

Sarge did all the talking. “The management isn’t going to press any charges at this time so you are free to go after a few more questions, Mr. Martin,” he said, handing me my license back.

I started to ask, “Why would he press charges?” but bit my tongue and nodded okay instead.

“First off, who is Fred? Was somebody else with you?”

“Fred, give this nice officer a handshake and introduce yourself,” I said.

The sergeant cracked a smile when Fred sat and offered his paw. “Well, aren’t you a smart doggy?” he said before turning back to me. “What can you tell me about this man who assaulted you? Do you know him and why he would want to hurt you?”

“I believe he’s the one who broke into my home.”

“You had a burglary?”

“Last Friday.” Officer Brandon said before I could. “According to dispatch, he reported a break-in and a missing shotgun.”

“Not to mention a rare book, some silver coins and a gold ring,” I added.

The sergeant looked annoyed. I assumed because his partner didn’t tell him sooner, but then for all I knew it might be his lunch hour and I was keeping him from visiting Fred’s favorite restaurant next door. “So you
do
know the suspect?” he asked, pulling out a small notebook and pen from his shirt pocket.

“Not really. I saw him at a book signing a week ago Friday, the same night Shelia Dean was killed.”

He stopped writing and looked up, pointing his pen at me. “Shelia who?”

Deputy Brandon answered for me again. I was ready to ask if they wouldn’t mind me leaving so they could interrogate each other. “The Nail File Murder, sir. The one in Lakewood.”

The sergeant didn’t seem to catch on. Either that or he missed his calling, for he had a poker face that showed nothing. “And you think they’re connected? This Shelia who was murdered with a nail file and your burglar?”

Fred had tired of the interview and let me know by pacing back and forth. Luckily we weren’t in the garden section or he would be looking for a tree. “Yes, I think so. It’s all in a report my neighbor gave to your detectives. I hope you don’t mind, but my dog needs to relieve himself.”

Sarge looked down at Fred then put his notebook back in his pocket. “Okay, thank you for your statement, Mr. Martin, and the manager would like to talk to you after you take care of your dog.”

Sleeveless was long gone by the time we left the store, but at least I had a new door and deadbolt at a huge discount. Just mention a lawsuit and everything changes.

***

By Monday, my well-thought-out plan of finding Sleeveless from a list of names and comparing them to known felons had changed now that I knew a better way to track him down. I had spent Sunday afternoon fixing my door when an epiphany came to me. All I really needed was access to the video tapes from the building-supply store. Chances were pretty good Sleeveless would be seen running to his truck, and with a little luck, we would have its license plate to track him down.

Bonnie took all of five minutes, over our morning cup of coffee, to blow holes in my epiphany. “And how do you plan on seeing those tapes?” It felt like the time my fifth-grade teacher pointed out all the mistakes in my first, and last, attempt to write poetry. “It’s not like it’s a mom and pop store, Jake. They probably have more rules and procedures to follow than the clerks at the DMV. That manager isn’t going to let you have those tapes unless you get a court order.”

She refilled my coffee and smiled. “But your first plan might work. Except for a couple of little things, it was a good plan.”

“Thank you, Miss Henson. Can I go out and play now?”

Bonnie quit filling her cup and looked up. She had several new wrinkles I hadn’t noticed before. I stopped her before she could speak. “My fifth-grade teacher, Bon. For a moment there you reminded me of her.”

The wrinkles faded and I swear I saw a twinkle in her blue eyes. “Did you know I used to be a teacher? I subbed before Diane was born. You could have been one of my students if you had lived here at the time.”

“I’m sorry my dog ate my homework, ma’am, but if you give me another chance, I promise I’ll come up with a better plan.”

Bonnie continued the game and looked over at Fred, who had gone back to sleep some time ago, presumably after he realized there would be no breakfast. “Did you eat Jake’s homework, Freddie?”

Fred raised his head at the mention of his name, but when no table scraps appeared, he went back to sleep.

“Seriously, Bon, what’s wrong with my plan?”

She got back up from the table and headed toward the sink with her coffee pot. “Well, to begin with, that list of names. It’s usually the author who collects those names so you would have to get the list from him. Paul Wilson ain’t from around these parts, pilgrim, so that won’t be no easy chore.”

She paused to rinse out the pot while I waited for her to continue.“You want me to make more coffee?” she asked, turning back toward me.

“No thanks, Bon. So what else? You said a couple of things were wrong with my plan.”

She didn’t answer at first. She reminded me so much of my mother the way she stared at nothing at all, looking confused. “Huh? Oh my, I seem to have forgotten. It’s probably not that important, whatever it was.”