Malicious Mischief (A Rylie Keyes Mystery) (Entangled Select) (5 page)

“So you wanna play rough?” Doris scrambled into the back of the truck and started pummeling Cokey Bill with a slew of fish and fish guts.

I rushed forward, hands out. “Stop it. You’ll hurt him.”

“Shut your cakehole,” she said, lobbing fish my way, breathing hard, arms robotic.

I leaped clear of the muck, ducking down at the front bumper. The quantity of fish hitting the pavement dropped off, so I peeked up over the hood to see if Doris was running out of steam. She was indeed. In fact, she was stock-still. Then she teetered. Swayed back. After several seconds of whirly eye rolls, she wilted forward like a stream of hot summer taffy.

I yanked open the door and jumped inside. “Doris?”

No sound. No movement. Nothing.

Cokey Bill tossed a fish tail at her head. “Now there’s a decent stiffy. Must be the aneurism the docs warned about.”

I lifted her wrist. No pulse. “Do you know CPR?”

He tapped his canister. “I got no air.”

“How about a cell phone?” I grabbed his arm, shook it a little. “Call 911.”

He stared at his wife. “How about that, my Doris is a fine specimen of a dead gal.”

Crimony. I scrambled into the back to give CPR a shot. Way out of my league, but I had to try. Blind to everything, I flipped Doris onto her back.

Cokey Bill wheezed. “Holy cow, look how much color has come to her cheeks. She don’t look like a ghost no more.”

I couldn’t stop myself from looking. Her face was indeed colorful.
And bloody
. My eyes popped wide at the sight of all that red. Gulping breaths, I told myself not to faint.

“Hey, girlie, you think I should tell Maybelline about fish blood? Might be a little lolly in it for me—” Cokey Bill broke off with a gasp. “Blimey, look at that, your arse is bare.”

I managed to look down. Froze. Zach’s jacket had somehow twisted to the front, leaving my butt out in the open. I started to tug it back into place, spied a huge pool of blood nearby, and keeled over.
Splat.

“Isn’t that somethin’, you’re wearing a pink thong.” Cokey Bill’s voice sounded distant. “Doris won’t wear one, on account of her incontinence.”

Dizzily, I struggled to my knees, staggered a little, then righted with a hand to one of the orange boxes for support. “Mr. Oley—we need to get—help. Doris needs—help.”

“Ah, that’s the sweetest thing, you moving over like that. I got a nice view now.”

I lapsed into a moment of stillness, hand to my heart. I had a strong feeling nothing could be done for Doris, so I wanted to give Cokey Bill a moment with his wife.

“Rare and beautiful thing, a nice ass,” he said.

Omigod! “Are you kidding me? You pervert. You’re looking at my butt!”

“I’m a simple man,” he said.

“You should be ashamed—” I broke off when his eyes went glassy. “Mr. Oley, are you all right?”

He sunk lower in his seat, grinned, and sagged against the steering wheel, making the horn blare with his pointy nose.

I couldn’t move, couldn’t blink. This wasn’t happening.

Solo popped his head inside the open passenger door. “Holy crap!”

“Where have you been?” I managed.

“Watching some bunnies in the bushes.” He looked from Cokey Bill to Doris and back to me. “What did you do, whisper them to death?”

“No!” I said, gulping air. “Check his pulse.” Then I closed my eyes to the blood and straddled Doris to do my best with CPR. It didn’t matter that I thought it was useless, I couldn’t give up on her or Cokey Bill. A minute later, I eyed Solo. “How’s he doing?”

He shook his head, shoulders slumped. “Dead.”

The blood left my face, I felt it go, drip by bloody drip. “You sure?”

He nodded. “Pretty darn.”

I dragged my eyes off Cokey Bill and went back to work on Doris. The shock and effort made me woozier. My panting and the footsteps outside sounded as one. When the truck’s rear doors flew open, my heart skipped a beat.

“Holy Mother Mary!” Zach said.

Fish and guts streamed out in a silver wave. Zach leaped back. I grabbed for something, anything, but my hands were slimy. The truck’s sharp angle made it worse. I missed a hand strap, but fisted some of Doris’s shirt. She wasn’t moving, probably caught on something. I heard a ripping noise. Ack! She was on the loose.

A jaunty slippery-slide over the rear bumper whipped me higher than a bucking horse. We bounced onto the pavement, bounced again. It turned out Doris was kind of springy. Even so, we went splat, a bouncy splat that whipped me onto my back, my knees heavenward, and my arms above my head. I opened one eye, peered up at Zach; his eyes were steely.

“I can explain.”

~The truth will set you free, but first it will piss you off~

Listening to me explain away the best part of a half hour had worsened Zach’s mood. He scowled as the ME wagon departed with Doris and Cokey Bill’s bodies in the back.

The ME observed no outward signs of foul play (
as if
), but an official verdict would come after an autopsy. Upon hearing what happened in the panel truck, the ME had grinned as though wanting a peek of my butt. Pathetic as it sounded, I smiled a little.

Nearby in an unmarked car, Detective Alistair Barclay was on the phone with his wife. His teeth were clamped on a licorice stick and he talked around it. “You should’ve seen it, Trudy. A truck load of mackerel and smack-dab in the middle was Rylie Keyes. You know, Hawthorne’s granddaughter. Yes, yes, that’s her, the one who can’t hold down a job—” Our eyes met through the passenger window. He looked at me apologetically for a long moment in silence before going on to discuss dinner plans with his wife.

I admit to hear others talk of my flakiness shook me. I was now convinced that I had to investigate Otto’s murder to prove myself, but I had to do it without Granddad knowing until after I’d solved it.

“Look, Trudy, I’ve gotta run.” He disconnected. “Rylie, I’ll have your statement ready when you get to the station. Stop by and sign it.” Another moment of serious quiet ensued. “And don’t let Lipschitz rattle you. He’s a punk.”

I forced a smile at his sweet attempt to cheer me up. He had once saved Granddad’s life during a bust gone wrong. I had never come close to thanking him enough.

“Lipschitz a punk. Tell us something we don’t know.” Zach slapped a farewell hand to the car as Alistair drove off.

I adjusted Zach’s jacket at my waist and glanced at my watch. I wanted to change clothes. I wanted to get away from this place. I wanted to forget that three seniors died here, or in Otto’s case was found dead here. And I wanted to be alone with Zach. Maybe it was being this close to death that made me feel the click of time, but I was ready to tell him how I really felt.

“Zach,” I said. “Can we leave?”

Brief pause. “Leave?” he repeated. “Leave for where?”

“My house. Changing clothes. The police station.”

His eyes went to my waist. Then he laughed. “Oh, yeah, sorry. But we can’t leave just yet. I have to help with some last minute evidence. I won’t be long, promise.”

I looked at my watch again. “Go ahead, take your time. The longer it takes the more pissed off Lipschitz will get. And, of course, a girl wants the detective investigating her pissed off. It adds to the thrill.”

“I know this isn’t the best time to mention this, but you’re a nut,” he said and left.

After helping a second tow-truck driver hoist the panel truck onto the flatbed, Solo strode over. “That sure was a load of mackerel. It’s weird, but I could have sworn Leland’s vitamins say Peruvian fish oil? It’s the best but expensive.”

I caught the worry in his voice. “Maybe there’s a temporary shortage or something.”

“Maybe,” he said unconvincingly. “False advertising and good sales don’t always mix. It smacks of bad business. It doesn’t take much to lose customer loyalty. One scandal can bring a company to their knees.”

“That would be really bad.” I looked around and found Zach beside the tow-truck. Another officer approached him, held out a clear bag, and Zach dropped in what appeared to be a piece of paper.

“Don’t tell anyone, but I got a look at that note,” Solo said. “It was in the panel truck—”

“Taped to the dashboard, right? I saw it. What did it say?”

“Sunday at dawn. That’s the time of your accident. Creepy, huh?”

“Totally creepy,” I said. “Pretty thin, though, but it could spell intent.”

“Intent?” Solo asked.

“Meaning Doris and Cokey Bill planned to run me off the road.”

“You think?” he asked.

“I think.”

“But why would they come back later on this morning? Wouldn’t they worry you could identify them, or at least identify the panel truck?”

“Good point,” I said. “Maybe the note had nothing to do with me.”

“You’re sure this panel truck is the same one that ran you off the road?” he asked.

I nodded.

“Then the note must be about you,” he said.

“Or it could be about the fish delivery. Perhaps there were two deliveries scheduled for this morning, one at dawn, and one a little while ago.”

“Sure, why not?” he said. “After they dropped off the first load of fish, they left the laboratory and entered the freeway the wrong-way and ran you off the road. Considering their age and health, they probably never got more than a quick look at FoY’s van, or your face. So they wouldn’t worry about being identified.”

“True, they didn’t act like they knew me. Not that I could tell at least,” I admitted, and then gave him a puzzled look at a sudden thought. “Uh-oh, I see a flaw in our theory.”

“Sing away.”

“Before Zach opened the back doors, the asphalt was wet but clean, no fish or guts. Solo, there were no signs of an earlier fish delivery at daybreak, only the one when I showed up.”

“Well done, mawn. You’re right. Only now, we’ve hit a speed bump. If there was no earlier delivery, then the note and running you off the road must have been on purpose. Then, as if nothing was out of the ordinary, they came back here for their usual fish delivery, drawing all suspicion off themselves.”

“You make it sound like they were hired to kill me,” I said.

“Blame the evidence,” he said. “But why would someone want you dead?”

“Well, I guess if dead,” I said, thinking, “I couldn’t defend myself, couldn’t deny having something to do with Otto’s murder.”

“Ah yes, the perfect scapegoat. The big question is who hired the Oley’s?”

Two jigsaw pieces from my conversation with them teamed up. “I remember Cokey Bill saying, ‘We did as we was—were—told.’ Then he demanded their extra cash. At the time I thought he was referring to the fish delivery, but now—”

“You think Leland hired them?” he said. “They do deliver fish for him. It’d be easy enough to ask them to do another job as well.”

“Are you saying Leland wants me dead? That’s insane.”

“Well, he might have killed Otto and just wants you blamed for it.”

“You can’t really think that,” I said. “Solo, you know Leland. He’s good people.”

“In moments of insanity, good people do bad things.”

“Not this time. Leland practically ordered me to dump the trash from the fundraiser last night. He said he wanted it done before I went to Suicide Trestle. But I got rear-ended and was running late to meet you, so I blew it off until this morning. No way did he know that, though.”

Solo chewed on that. “Why did he want the trash dumped at the laboratory in the first place, why not at his house or FoY?”

“It was too much for residential pick-up. You know how picky they are. And the Dumpsters at FoY have been non-stop full since the plumbing overhaul began.”

“Oh yeah, the new low-flow toilets. They’re awful. Nothing worse than having to flush more than once,” he said.

Zach came up and announced it was finally time to leave. Together, we three walked to the squad car. Solo started to open the rear passenger door, but I stopped him. “Go ahead and sit up front. You’ll be more comfortable.”

Solo thanked me in Samoan. “
Tulou.
” He slid into the front seat, then closed the door.

Zach smoothed a stray hair from my face. “You worry me, Rylie. You need someone to take care of you.”

Inhale. Exhale. “Do I?”

He seemed to weigh his words. “I think I’m seeing my future.”

This blindsided me. Giddy romantic thoughts spun in my head as a diesel engine approached. A whistle sounded. I thought it contained more come-on than greeting. I looked over as Fire Engine #16 rumbled by again, only this time from the laboratory parking lot.

“Hey, Rylie, what’s crack-a-lackin’?” said a male voice. Curtis Hobbs was again riding shotgun, but now his big puss was hanging out the window. “Has your mouth gotten any wider?”

I am often reminded that I haven’t always chosen winners when it comes to men.

“Why did he say that?” Zach asked, leaning in.

I ran my tongue over my lips. “No idea.”

With our faces near enough to tangle breath, we shyly grinned at each other. He brushed his lips to mine, drawing a thumb along my cheek. This took me back to his comfort when we were kids and I’d tumbled down a ravine in the woods. He had soothed away my tears then, as he had countless times. There had always been Zach to count on.
Always.

I peered into his soft gray eyes, the shade of clouds whispering with rain. When his mouth found mine again, my lips parted. A lingering pause came before he joined me, discovering—reassuring. Nothing sounded but the subtle moan in my throat.

Then as sudden as it began, he pulled back, his narrowed gaze fixed on my chin. He blinked, but didn’t meet my eyes. “I better get you home,” he said and opened the car door.

We inched through construction and arrive at the Overlake area uphill from Lake Sammamish. I spent the time in a daze, my mind teeming over Otto’s murder and Zach’s kiss.

From the backseat, I studied his profile. The tension was still there, over me, over his life. Strong in my heart was the feeling that he needed more time to get over the convenience store shooting, the guilt, the sadness, and the fear of flashbacks. I confess this didn’t sit well with me. I tried to tell myself that knowing the truth about how I felt might help him heal, but I found even I didn’t believe that. Almost certainly, it would only confuse the issue. So I was feeling a bit down when I made up my mind to be patient, to wait a little longer to be honest with him.

Zach bulleted the squad car down my steep driveway, the sharp hairpin turn forcing him to bump over the edge of a flowerbed crammed with foxgloves in order to park. I looked to the spot near our garage where Granddad usually parked his ancient Jetta. Empty. I mentioned this to Solo.

“Remember?” he said. “He’s going to a craft show in Portland this afternoon.”

Granddad had taken up glass blowing after retirement to earn extra money. “Slipped my mind, I guess.”

Solo had his door open. “I’ll check to see if Leland is at home. I’m headed that way.” Solo lived down the hill, on Granddad’s old sailboat tied up to our rickety dock alongside Leland’s new dock and beachside home. “I won’t be long.”

“Good idea,” Zach said.

As I climbed from the squad car, I heard an angry outburst from my neighbor’s garage. Lilith and Paul Desmont’s striking house was downhill by the lake, but their garage/office was uphill beside our tiny house, adjacent to our shared driveway. Lilith was a romance author who penned stories about women battling demons and falling in love bondage style. Paul was a self-made real estate millionaire who flipped houses until the economic downturn.

I spotted Paul standing by his over-the-garage office window. Seeing him, this gentle man who was a caring father to his daughter Mackenzie, always triggered a childish longing. It seemed to me, rather enviously, that Mackenzie Desmont was a very lucky girl. Paul returned my wave, an ever-present tissue ready to wipe tears from his sun sensitive eyes in his hand. As always, he wore a pair of sunglasses.

More curses spewed from the garage. I veered toward it, noticing as I went a familiar fisherman casting a line below on the lake. I opened the side garage door and stepped inside, the many bright lights making me blink.

“Stay back,” Lilith screamed, spraying the air with spit. “Or I’ll kill you.”

She had the facade of a middle-age hippie in her tie-dyed caftan, flowing red hair, and dangling earrings. At five-eight in stocking feet, she was imposing. And as a habit, she tucked a flower behind her ear. This morning’s choice: Shasta daisy.

“Who’s in there?” Zach shouted.

I leaned out the door. “It’s Lilith Desmont.”

“Back off!” Lilith yelled. “I want to spill blood.”

“Why is she yelling?” Zach called.

“Don’t know, but she’s hitting a punching bag,” I said.

“She’s at it again?” he said. “Tell her to go easy. She broke a finger at Christmas, a thumb last summer, and a knuckle a while back,” he said and slid behind the wheel.

I slanted Lilith a look. “Geez, maybe you need some calcium.”

“You just wait,” she snapped. “My critics will blog about me on the web tomorrow. Readers love to find fault. They adore ripping a poor writer to shreds.”

“Your readers love you,” I said.

“Tell that to Wicked Spirit. She wrote on Dragon.com that my latest book wasn’t even good enough to slobber out a demon’s mouth.”

I had read that book. It was pretty much what I would expect a demon to slobber. “That’s horrible.”

“Well, I showed her,” Lilith said. “A friend at Dragon removed the review. Insult one of my books, I think not.”

My gaze strayed as she laid into the punching bag again. I spied a nearby rack of domination clothing. I would not let myself smile at the wrist restraints, whips, leather jumpsuits, and masks. Where Paul Desmont usually kept his vast array of pricey golf equipment, the racks were oddly empty.

I started to ask why when Lilith shrieked and cradled her quickly swelling wrist. I remembered the fisherman on the lake. Probably there to see a nearly naked Lilith prance around her all-glass house, a regular thing for her, or Solo had once told me, blushing profusely.

“There’s a fisherman near your dock,” I told her.

“Really?” She brightened and rushed outside to the railing. “Ahoy there, have you caught me a trout yet?” There came a minute of sultry chatter between them before Lilith threw me a blushing look of her own. “I guess you can tell. He’s smitten with me. Most men are.”

“Nice,” I said, holding back a grin. “Well, I need to change clothes. I had a little accident.”

“At Suicide Trestle? Oh, don’t look so surprised. It isn’t like you had a date.”

She had a point
. “No, the accident was after, in the van.”

“Did a senior get hurt?”

“No one got hurt—exactly.”

“Oh God, you killed them? You braked too fast and smashed their brittle skulls.”