Halfway to Half Way (31 page)

 

 

A sudden jaw-cracker of a yawn popped his eardrums. Eyes watering, he obeyed the reflexive urge to stretch. It felt so good, he couldn't stanch the groan barreling up his throat. Smacking his lips, he blinked and googled his eyes several times to clear his vision.

 

 

Wonderfully refreshed and sleepy as hell at the same time, Delbert rose up on his forearms and peered through the binoculars. What the—

 

 

Holy camoglies.
A lens adjustment blurred what he was seeing, rather than clarifying it. Changing the binoculars back to the previous setting, he commenced a corner-to-corner visual sweep of the perimeter.

 

 

When had Moody switched off the lights at the back of the house? The kitchen window still cast its pale patch on the grass along the driveway. Another larger area of the front yard gleamed yellowish from the porch light. With it on, Delbert couldn't tell whether the living room was as dark as the back of the house, or not.

 

 

Had she gone to bed? Delbert swore under his breath. Damned old fool. Yawning and stretching and derelicting in general's the same as abandoning your post. If you were Leo, there'd be hell and a piper to pay, yes-siree, Bob.

 

 

Binoculars leveled at the back door, Delbert pulled the red walkie-talkie from his right hip pocket. "Team one, this is command central. Gimme a status report,
ASAP.
"

 

 

Silence. Garbled voices, then Leo said, "Now it is the team one, we are?"

 

 

Delbert held the walkie-talkie in front of the binoculars. Red as a dingdanged stop sign. "Goddamn it, Schnur. How'd you get IdaClare's walkie?"

 

 

"Huh? The one I got is the one you gave to me."

 

 

Again, Delbert checked the instrument in his gloved hand. Red. "Oh, yeah? What color is it?"

 

 

"The blue."

 

 

Trying to keep one eye on Moody's back door, Delbert tilted the binoculars and looked down at his transceiver. Blue.
Blue?
Thoroughly confused, he held it in front of the binoculars again. Red.

 

 

Because they're night-vision binoculars, you idiot.
He thumbed the button. "Blue is correct, team two. Clear."

 

 

Temporarily holstering the blue walkie-talkie in his turtleneck collar, Delbert took the other one—the
red
one—from his left hip pocket. "Team one. Command central. Status report on the front of the house, ASAP."

 

 

"Delbert, is that you?" IdaClare drawled.

 

 

"Who the hell else—" He growled low in his throat. "Affirmative."

 

 

"Well, the status is the same."

 

 

"Lights still on the living room?"

 

 

"If they weren't, we'd have something different to look at," she snapped. "Do we have to stay here much longer? We're both bored to tears, and Marge needs to go to the bathroom."

 

 

"In a min—" A soft
whump
seemed to have come from every direction, save up. Delbert ducked behind the roofline. He flinched as his shoulder scraped against the shingles.

 

 

Moody's back door was still shut. He'd swear to it. So were all the rear windows. Was it the echo of a car door from down the street, he'd heard? Couldn't be. It was a wooden
whump,
not a metallic one.

 

 

Craning his neck, Delbert eased the binoculars above the ridge. A coppery pink halo wreathed the corner streetlight. He chastised himself for not ascertaining whether light at certain angles would glint off the glass lenses.

 

 

By God, the back door was definitely shut. Slowly sweeping right, he almost swallowed his upper plate when the other half of the cellar door
whumped
open. Pulse galloping faster than a man his age's should, he watched Chlorine Moody creep up the concrete steps and into the backyard.

 

 

With a dark scarf knotted under her chin, dressed in a black blouse and slacks, she was almost as invisible as Delbert hoped he was. In one hand, she carried a shovel; in the other was a trowel and a halogen penlight. Its slender, bluish beam didn't diffuse like a typical flashlight's. A silvery circle on the ground no larger than a quarter marked her progress across the yard.

 

 

Eureka,
Delbert yelped to himself. He could scarcely breathe, and the roof felt fifty degrees hotter. For the love of Mike, he thought, let the Schnurs stay as still and quiet as Royal Moody.

 

 

The penlight beam jagged sharply to the left, away from what Delbert had pegged as the grave site. The shiny circle played over an upturned billed cap a few feet from the tunnel in the hedge—precisely where it had fallen when he'd pushed Leo's big fat butt through the gate. Delbert watched in horror as Chlorine bent to pick it up.

 

 

Yesterday, he'd tried talking Leo into distracting her at the front door while he slipped back into the yard for his cap. Leo's reply was in German. Delbert
sprechened
enough
Deutsch
to translate an obscene and physically impossible suggestion.

 

 

By penlight, Chlorine examined the sweat stains and the brand stamped on the cap's inner band. She peered at the hedge. The beam flicked across severed branches, their leaves wilting and brown at the edges.

 

 

Her head swiveled toward the garage. She looked up, straight at him.

 

 

His heart quivered behind his ribs. But Chlorine glanced back at the house, then tossed his cap aside.

 

 

She placed the penlight in the grass so that the beam pointed toward the alley and began to dig. Three shovelfuls of dirt had formed a small pyramid before Delbert could relax in the knowledge that she hadn't seen him. Slowly bending his knees, he inch-mealed downward below the peak of the roof. Nausea walloped him smack in the breadbasket. Elation lightened his head and set it spinning.

 

 

Chur-rekk
…pause…
chur-rekk
…pause. Counting each shallow bite the shovel took had a strangely soothing effect. Delbert interpreted the sounds as a rescue of sorts. Twenty-three years late in some respects, but not all, by any means.

 

 

His ears pricked at the mewl of a worn-out fan belt and brakes squeaking to a halt. Judging by the sound, the car could have parked on either side of the street and up a house or two, or down.

 

 

A hand braced for leverage, Delbert leaned from the waist. He stretched just enough to see a taillight flash off.

 

 

The shoveling stopped. Chlorine heard the car pull up, too. And she damn well wasn't expecting company. Delbert huddled against the roof again. He couldn't see her, didn't hear footsteps—wasn't certain he would, if she'd returned to the house.

 

 

Then, came an ever-so-faint lilting refrain, like the lid of a music box being opened. Instead of a regular doorbell, Chlorine had one of those twist-key jobs that played "Edelweiss," or some such. Much closer, though muffled, a female voice whispered, "Delbert?
Delbert.
Oh, dear, how do you work this thing, Marge?"

 

 

Yanking the walkie-talkie out of his collar, he clapped it to his chest. Carefully, feeling the spikes on his right shoe losing their grip, he wriggled up the roof again.

 

 

The cellar doors were still open, but light shone through the curtains at the rear of the house. Chlorine must have gone inside. Whoever was at the door wouldn't have rung that rinky-dink chime if he'd had a key.

 

 

Into the red transceiver, he whispered, "Team one, come in."

 

 

"Delbert! Oh, Lord almighty, we thought you were a goner."

 

 

So had he, but that was beside the point. "Status report. Quick."

 

 

"Well, you'll never believe who just went into Chlorine's house. Marge and I thought Chlorine had caught you for sure."

 

 

"Will you shut up and tell me who's here?"

 

 

"Detective Andrik, that's
who.
And that sweet young man that follows him around all the time. Phillips? Phipps? No, it's Phelps. Josh Phelps."

 

 

Delbert scowled. Hannah went to Marlin about that file on Royal. Hendrickson knew about it, too. But even if they suspected Chlorine of murder, they'd throw the investigation back to the Sanity PD. Most likely to Lieutenant Williams, that cold-case dick Hannah got a copy of the report from.

 

 

Whatever the county boys were here for, it had naught to do with Royal Moody. Except for putting the kibosh on Chlorine digging him up. The trench she'd started hadn't exposed anything, aside from a couple of gallons of dirt.

 

 

Be damned if the cops were never around when you needed 'em, but sure as God made green apples, they show up whenever you didn't.

 

 

Andrik was good for something, though. While he kept Chlorine occupied, Delbert would do the gentlemanly thing and give her a hand with the spadework.

 

 

"Team one, you still there?"

 

 

"Yes, but we're leaving and don't even try to talk us out of it. We're both fit to bust and poor Itsy and Bitsy are, too."

 

 

"This is a code-red emergency. I repeat, code red. Find a pay phone and call 911. Report a prowler at this address. Use Chlorine's name. Got that?"

 

 

"A prowler?"

 

 

"Yes, a prowler. Then call Hannah. Hendrickson's likely at the cottage with her. Tell 'em to come on the double and hang up. Come back fast as you can, park around the corner and stay put. Do you read me?"

 

 

"Yes. 911, a prowler, Hannah, come back and wait. Oh, my stars and garters, this is so exciting, I'm about to—Never mind."

 

 

Out on the street, an engine roared to life. Delbert muttered, "Amateur," and threw the red transceiver in the backpack. Pulling out the blue one, he whispered, "Team two. Do you read me?"

 

 

Not a peep. He counted to five, tried again, then gave up. Delbert stowed the rest of his gear, then crab-walked to the rope ladder. Fresh as the Schnurs ought to be from their nap,
they'd
get the first turns with Chlorine's shovel and trowel.

 

 

 

17

H
annah frowned at her cell phone. The LED screen showed the incoming call originated from a pay phone with a Sanity prefix.

 

 

David looked over her shoulder. "Probably a wrong number."

 

 

Or not. Reluctant to ask if those in Sanity PD custody made their rightful phone calls from a pay phone, she pressed the connect button. "Valhalla Springs, Hannah—"

 

 

"Delbert says get to Chlorine Moody's house on the double. Oh, and if the sheriff's with you, bring him, too."

 

 

"IdaClare? What's wrong? IdaClare?" Hannah stared at the blank screen, then looked at David. "She hung up."

 

 

"What did she say?"

 

 

"Delbert told her to call me. He wants us at Chlorine's as fast as we can get there."

 

 

"Turn off the coffee, check the stove." David pushed past her and ran for the bedroom.

 

 

"She sounded more excited than scared," Hannah called after him. It also followed that if IdaClare was Delbert's mouthpiece, the entire gumshoe gang was in the vicinity.

 

 

She collected her shoulder bag from the couch and went into the kitchen. Dirty dishes were everywhere—on the table, the counter, piled in the sink. They'd been too caught up in an emotional mess to clean up the literal one.

 

 

Garvey vs. Hendrickson had been in its nine-hundred-and-sixty-seventh round when her cell phone rang. More accurately, rounds one through four had been in their nine-hundred-and-sixty-third replay.

 

 

No, she couldn't—wouldn't—unhire Willard. The job was as tailor-made for a writer as CEO of The Garvey Group was for Hannah.

 

 

No, David wouldn't tell Luke he'd changed his mind about selling his property. No, he wouldn't explain the situation to Luke, either, in the hope the offer would be retracted. A deal was a deal. And if David lost the election to Jessup Knox, he'd have to sell it, anyway.

 

 

He felt qualified to replace the retiring Cletus Orr, but that decision would be the new sheriff's. If Knox did hire him, David would have to answer to Elvis for the next four years. He wasn't confident he'd last four days.

 

 

Stalemate. Again. Except in this continuing episode of
Hannah and David Can't Win For Losing,
the original cast of two star-crossed lovers had rapidly expanded to include Luke Sauers, Willard Johnson and Jack Clancy.

 

 

David loomed in the doorway. He'd changed out of shorts and Birkenstocks into jeans and boots. A Kevlar vest covered all but the sleeves of his white T-shirt. A leather, sidearm-heavy utility belt creaked as he buckled it on.

 

 

"This could be none of my business," Hannah said, "but aren't you a little overdressed?"

 

 

"If Bisbee's involved, it's an automatic snafu." He motioned at the front door. "And if you don't know what that stands for, look it up."

 

 

She did, and it aptly described the entire evening. The aftermath of the dessert course, anyway. Proceeding David outside, she said, "Our first fight, and we can't even do
that
without somebody interrupting."

 

 

David unlocked the Crown Vic's passenger door and opened it for her. Waiting until she was seated, he snapped, "We aren't fighting," then slammed the door.

 

 

Hannah buckled the shoulder harness, watching him stalk around the front bumper. The instant his butt hit the seat, she said, "We are, too."