Drop Dead on Recall (27 page)

86

By the count of
three I was still rolling down U.S. 30, unscathed. I opened my eyes. A squeal of tires pierced the air to my left. The sound seemed to be moving away from me. I checked the mirror. Just open road. In my peripheral vision I saw the Corolla fall back, horn blaring but apparently unscathed. I turned to look. The speed demon had somehow squeezed between me and the Corolla without creaming either of us and was passing me on the left. The camera in my mind worked in spite of my fear, taking in a rattletrap old cargo van with rust eating the edges of the wheel wells. The back side door was dented, and binder’s twine coiled through the handle to snake into the vehicle between the door and the frame. The driver was all but invisible behind a screen of dirty windows and reckless speed. My first impression was that it was a redhead.
Francine?
But doubt reared up. At that speed, without a clear view, I couldn’t be sure. And anyway, how would Francine know where to find me?

We shot through the intersection. The cargo van shimmied back and forth in the left-turn lane, then rocketed through the intersection and veered back across the passing lane. It disappeared from my view in front of the eighteen wheeler.

Four miles further down the road I followed the Alphonse semi into a truck stop, pulled around the big rig, and parked in front of the store and restaurant. I had to will the muscles of my hands to unclench and let loose of the steering wheel, and my thigh muscles to relax. I turned off the engine, thinking I might have to toss my cookies. Instead I draped both hands across the steering wheel at twelve o’clock, pressed my forehead against them, and waited for the adrenalin to seep away. I had to check on Jay, but I couldn’t get my limbs to move. All lucid thought faded as a visceral wave of relief rolled through me.

I was startled out of my moment of gratitude by a tap on the window. A wiry guy with a couple day's worth of whiskers was leaning toward me, a worried look on his face and an Alphonse Trucking cap on his head. I rolled down the window.

“You okay, ma’am?” He pulled the cap off, revealing close-cropped sandy hair that matched his stubble.

“Yes, thanks, I’m fine.”

“That’s good. An’ just so’s you know, I called 911 on that guy. Told ’em what he done back there. Damn fool like to kilt someone.” He gave the rim of my open window a pat, and straightened up. “Don’t know that they’ll catch ’im. He turned off back there, pulled off on one of them county roads.” He straightened up and took a step back. “More’n likely drunk.”

“Him? You could see the driver?”

He ran his fingers and thumb up and down the sides of his jaw bone and thought about that. “No ma’am, I couldn’t see that good. But dang fool driver like that more’n likely some young buck. Most women ain’t that dumb.”

A man of wisdom.

“You be safe now, ma’am.” He touched the rim of his cap with two fingers, nodded, and walked into the truck stop store.

You be safe
, I thought.
That’s what I’d like to be.
But I was starting to wonder if we were safe anywhere.

87

Jay was fine. I
walked him on the grass on the far side of the parking lot for a few minutes, then walked myself around the truck stop store for ten more, sipping coffee that I feared would put hair on my chest and looking at “scenic Indiana” ashtrays, mud guards with glittering buxom women, megaboxes of Milkduds, yard-long jerky sticks, and various other gifts from the road. Oddly enough, the coffee calmed me, and I finally got back on the horse, mine being a blue Grand Caravan. We were home, safe, an hour later.

I had hoped that Leo would also be waiting when I got there, but no such luck. I stripped off my mucky clothes and took a quick shower, pulled on some gray knit pants that have seen better days and a long-sleeved faded navy henley, and went to the kitchen to feed Jay. It was only three o’clock, and technically he eats at five, but what the heck. It had been a long day, and he isn’t fussy about his schedule, as long as the food isn’t late. Early is good.

While he snarfed up his kibble, I peeked out the back door and felt my heart rise at a hint of orange movement on Goldie’s side of the picket fence. I opened the door and stepped onto the patio, calling. As soon as Leo’s name was past my lips, though, I realized that I was looking at orange tulips swaying in the breeze. The hope that floated my heart for a moment dripped into heavy sludge around my ankles, and I went back inside.

Jay scoured the stainless bowl with his tongue, then nudged me in the pants pocket, so I let him out. I fished my cell phone out from under a bag of freeze-dried liver treats in my tote bag, slipped my feet into some grubby old tennies I keep for the garden, and joined Jay in the yard. I hit Goldie’s speed-dial number, which seemed pretty silly when I could just walk over and knock on the door, but I was busy shaking the shrubs again. There was no answer, so I folded the phone and put it in my pocket. The elastic in the waistband was so old and frail I wasn’t sure it would hold against the extra weight, but other than feeling an ominous little droop in the right side of my drawers, nothing happened.

Jay and I pottered around the yard for an hour before we went back inside. I considered checking the fridge for signs of food, but why kid myself? I wasn’t going to cook an actual meal just for me when I could have a well-rounded dinner of English muffin with grape jelly followed later in the evening by cheddar-flavored popcorn. That gave me my grains, fruit, dairy, and veggie. A big hunk of chocolate and I’d have all the important food groups covered. Dark chocolate. Just last week I heard a doctor on National Public Radio say that dark chocolate is good for us, and if it’s on NPR, it’s good enough for me.

Restlessness was getting the better of me and I was in danger of doing some dusting when my cell phone rang. As I pulled it from my pocket and opened it, I had a quickie fantasy conversation with Leo, calling to tell me to pick him up at a cat house on West Coliseum, where he was being held captive as a sardine inspector. But it wasn’t Leo, and I realized that I must be exhausted to be making up tales like that.

It was Giselle, which took me a minute to figure out from the marginally coherent bursts of English scattered between hysterical sobs and screams. “Calm down! I can’t understand you.”

“Okay,” she squeaked. “I’ll try?”

“Giselle?”

“Yes, yes, it’s me, Giselle?”
Don’t ask me!
I thought, another heart-rending sob ringing in my ear. “I can’t believe he’s dead! I don’t know what to do? There’s blood, so much blood.”

88

For a terrible moment
I thought Giselle had found Leo, and my heart crawled into my throat. But then she said, “I’m at his house? Janet? I’m here, and he’s dead, and …” She sounded like she might not be far behind him, whoever he was.

“Giselle, stop. Take a deep breath. Who’s dead? What house?”

“Greg!”

“Greg? Greg Dorn?”

“Yes, yes, Greg Dorn! What other Greg?” Her voice pitched higher and faster as she spoke. “Greg’s dead! I’m sure he’s dead. What am I going to do?”

A chill swept my body. “Have you called the police?”

“The police?”

I reached for a tissue to wipe away the tears that were spilling inexplicably down my cheeks, and forced my voice to work. “Look, Giselle, you have to call 911. Get an ambulance and the police.” Despite my lack of concrete information about whatever she’d seen, I clung to a scrap of hope. “He may not be dead.”

“They’ll think I did it!” she protested. “I didn’t! I didn’t do it!”

“Okay, look, don’t touch anything. I’ll be there in ten minutes. Wait for me, okay?”

“Okay.” Sob. “I’ll wait. I knew you’d know what to do.”

Yeah, I know what to do
. I hung up, wiped my eyes and nose, and wondered vaguely why I was crying for Greg. But it wasn’t just for Greg, I realized, but loss and senseless death, and for my mom, for my poisoned dog and my missing cat, and my own fear of being hurt, and a boatload of other sorrows, great and small. I pressed my thumb and forefinger against the inner corners of my eyes, sucked up a lungfull of air, and, not so sure that Giselle would follow through, dialed 911. I gave them the Dorn’s address, then found Jo Stevens’ card on my desk and called the cell phone number she’d jotted on the back. I loaded Jay into his crate in the back of my van and took off.

I was a block from Greg’s house when I realized I was still wearing my crappy don’t-leave-home-in-these pants. Oh well, my undies were clean and free of holes, in case of incident. Like the elastic in my ratty old pants finally giving up.
Or murder?

89

Sirens sounded in the
distance as I popped the back hatch of the Caravan, now parked in a circle of shade in front of Greg Dorn’s house. “You have to stay here, Bubby.” Jay slumped onto his bed and lodged an appeal with the droopiest eyes he could manage.

Giselle sat on the top step leading to the front porch, her feet on the bottom step. Patches like big red plums blotched her face, and black streaks radiated down her cheeks from her eyes. Her bangs stuck up and out in all directions, as if she had been pulling at them in desperation. I wondered vaguely why they looked so rigid when Giselle’s hair never seemed to benefit from hair care products. She shoved the last bite of a chocolate eclair into her mouth as I climbed the porch steps, sobbed at me by way of greeting, and ran a sticky hand through her bangs.
Ah, that’s her hairdressing secret—the holding power of sugar
. Giselle reached for another goodie from a white bag on the top step.

“Giselle. What happened?”

“I don’t know?” She burst into ragged sobs, and followed up with a choking, coughing fit.

While I waited for her to recover I pushed the pastry bag out of the way and sat down next to her. A police car skidded to the curb. I reached over and took the donut from Giselle’s hand. She’d gone limp at the sight of the police, and didn’t resist. I handed her a napkin from the bag, and suggested she pull herself together, then got up to greet the fresh-faced officer who walked up to the porch. His nametag identified him as L. Baker. I wondered if he was old enough to drive. His partner, an older guy who might or might not pass his next annual physical, stopped back a few yards in the lawn.

“We have a call about someone being injured?”

I explained that I’d just arrived, and tilted my head toward Giselle. She had pulled her feet up to the step below the one she sat on and had her arms on her knees, her face buried in their ample bulk. “Giselle?”

“Mrmff?”

“Come on, Giselle, give us a hand here. Where’s Greg?” I glanced at the cop. His expression was completely neutral, and he seemed perfectly willing to let me deal with the incoherent woman on the porch. “Giselle!”

“Back …” sob, gasp, “backyard. Sh … sh …”

I wondered why she was shushing us, but you never know with Giselle. The cop was watching the ambulance pull in and didn’t seem to notice. “What happened, ma’am? An accident?”

“N … n … no. H … h … h … he …” She started to cry.

“Giselle, what happened to Greg?” I shook her arm enough to make her gasp.

“Blood. There’s so much blood. Stabbed.”

Baker turned, placed a hand on his holster, told the EMTs to stay put, and gestured for his partner to go around the house the other direction.

“Shed. He’s in the storage sh …” Giselle tried, but she muffled the final word in more sobs.

I called after Baker, “She says he’s in the storage shed.” I had another thought, and ran a few steps after the cop. “Officer, there could be two dogs in the yard. Don’t hurt them! They know me, I can get them out of the way!”

He nodded and gestured for me to stay back. He had pulled his gun. I retreated to the porch with Giselle.

“I have to tell you something?” Giselle looked at me out of the corner of her eye.

“Yes?”

Before she could continue one of the EMTs approached and asked if Giselle needed their assistance. Taking in the crimson shade of her face and the sheen of perspiration, I understood his concern and asked if she wanted them to check her out. She shook her head.

When the EMT had retreated, Giselle murmured, “I sent you that e-mail.” I had no idea what she was talking about. “I just wanted you to leave Greg alone, because …”

Oh,
that
e-mail,
I thought. “The one telling me to butt out?”

She nodded. That explained why, at Abigail’s funeral, Greg had acted as if he hadn’t just sent me a snotty e-mail. He hadn’t.

“Okay. Forget it.” I let her relax for a moment, then asked, “Where are the dogs?”

“Hrmph?” She had retrieved the bag and was eating again, between sobs, and a blob of something gooey peeked over the edge of her lip.

“Pip and Percy. Where are they?”

She stopped chewing and turned wide eyes my way. “I don’t know?”

“Was the gate open when you got here?”

She dropped half a donut back into the bag. “No? I didn’t think of that? I forgot about the dogs when I saw Greg?” She looked at the front window of the house, sniffing and gulping. “They should be barking, huh?”

90

A black Taurus pulled
up behind the ambulance, and Detectives Stevens and Hutchinson got out and started toward us. Giselle had stopped sobbing and eating and sat hunched, rumpled and streaked with makeup, half her bangs now hanging in her eyes, the other half still sticking out at odd angles.

Jo wrinkled her forehead at Giselle. “Are they in the house?”

“Backyard,” I said.

“Right.” She turned toward the side of the house, looked around for her partner, and called “Hutch!” He was at the back of my Caravan, talking to Jay and stroking him through the crate wires.
Maybe there’s hope for the guy.
Jo gestured to her partner to follow, and turned to me and Giselle. “You both stay put.”

We sat in silence for about ten minutes. Jo finally reappeared with a pale-faced Officer Baker tagging behind. Baker conferred with the ambulance crew while Detective Stevens pulled her notebook and pen from her pocket and joined me on the bottom step.

“Ms. Swann—it is Ms. Swann?” Giselle murmured her assent, eyes wide, and Jo continued. “Ms. Swann, I understand you found Mr. Dorn?”

Giselle nodded hard enough to throw tears into the air.

“Did you move the body, or touch it?”

“No?”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, I never moved him or touched him?” She sucked in a ragged breath, and went on in a barely audible voice. “I just opened the shed, could tell he was d … d … dead.” She punctuated her pronouncement by blowing her nose.

“And Janet, did you touch or move the body?”

“I haven’t been back there. I just got here a few minutes ago. I’ve been here with Giselle.”

“Neither of you touched or moved Mr. Dorn?”

How hard is this?
I stifled Janet Demon—this was no time for a smart mouth. Giselle and I shook our heads.

“Right.” She played twenty questions—when did Giselle get here,
did either of us see or hear anyone or anything unusual, could we think of anyone who might want him dead? I wasn’t exactly full of useful information, and Giselle didn’t seem to have anything to add.

“And what were you doing here, Ms. Swann?”

Giselle looked like she might swoon under Detective Stevens’ scrutiny. “Huh?”

“Why were you here? And what were you doing in the shed?”

Giselle’s face twisted and she sniffed and choked all at once, but then she regained some control. “I, you know, wanted to see if Greg needed anything?”

Jo Stevens continued to gaze at her, quiet, waiting.

“I went to see if maybe he was in the back, and I opened the shed, the door, you know, to the shed, to see if he was there, and….”

“Was the door unlocked?”

“Huh?”

Jo softened her tone a notch. “Ms. Swann, was the door to the shed locked or unlocked?”

“Locked?”

“Yes, was it locked?” Jo apparently hadn’t yet caught on to Giselle’s interrogative affirmatives.

“Uh-huh.”

“You have a key?”

“No? I mean, you know, I know where they keep, I mean, where he keeps it under the windowsill, and I, you know, thought Greg might be in there working or something?”

I wondered whether Giselle realized what she was saying. If Greg locked himself into his shed and didn’t open the door to her, he was hiding from her. Assuming he was alive at the time.

Jo met my gaze. “It was locked when we were here looking for him. And he’s been dead a while.” She looked at the sky and shook her head. “Damn it.”

Was he in there, dead or—worse—dying, when I was here snooping around the shed?

“Oh, man, I can’t believe it, you know?” mumbled Giselle, addressing her knees as far as I could tell. She looked up at Jo and asked, “Can I go home? I can’t stand this?”

“Not yet. We need to get your statement before you leave.”

Giselle appeared to be on the verge of collapse, but agreed to wait to give a statement. She asked if she could get some tissues from her car and, permission granted, hauled herself up, using the wrought-iron railing for support. She grabbed her pastry bag and schlumped down the sidewalk to her car, which for some reason was parked across from the lot next door.

Jo called to Giselle, and caught up with her in a few long strides.

“Ms. Swann, why did you park over here?”

“Hunh?”

“Why didn’t you park right in front of Mr. Dorn’s house?”

“Oh.” The confusion left Giselle’s face. “There was a car there.”

“A car?”

“A van really. Looked like, I dunno, a work van.”

“Work van?”

“You know, like a plumber or carpenter or something. I figured Greg was having some work done?”

“Was there a sign on it?”

“A sign?”

The detective spoke slowly. “Why did you think it was a work van?”

“I dunno? It was kind of beat-up looking, you know? And the paint was faded, and it was one of those vans with no windows in back, like it’s full of work stuff, you know, equipment?”

“Right.” Jo jotted something in her notebook. “What color was it?”

“I dunno. Sort of b … b … brown?”

Sort of brown.
Could sort of brown be sort of rusty red?
I wondered.

Jo patted Giselle’s shoulder. “Okay, try to relax, Ms. Swann. An officer will be with you in a few minutes.” Giselle snuffled and coughed and seemed to study something on the ground.

Jo came back to the porch, leafing back through her notes, looking for something. I interrupted her. “Are you sure Greg is dead?”

“Oh, he’s dead.”

I started to tell her about Francine’s red van, but she was dialing her cell phone. As she waited for a response, she flipped through her ratty little notebook, seemed to confirm something, and tucked it back into her pocket. “Ellen, we need a whereabouts on a Francine Peterson.”
Great minds.
Jo gave a description of Francine’s cargo van, the license number, and Francine’s address and phone number.

“Giselle mentioned blood. I take it he wasn’t poisoned like Abigail and Suzette?”

“We can’t say he wasn’t poisoned until we have the autopsy report, but I have a hunch he didn’t
die
from poison.” I waited for the rest, and got a taste of Jo’s grim sense of humor. “I have a hunch that the chisel shoved through his eye took care of that.”