Malicious Mischief (A Rylie Keyes Mystery) (Entangled Select) (7 page)

“Damn it, Mother.” Mackenzie’s eyes, her voice were pissed. “How can you be so—?”

“So what, darling?”

“Mackenzie!”

All eyes turned to Paul Desmont at his second floor office window. His neck was craned outside, his face creased with a frown, and his eyes still unseen behind dark glasses.

“Lilith, shouldn’t you be writing?” His voice had regained is usual softness. “You have a deadline, remember?”

“Deadline, smeadline,” she said. “My publisher hearts me.”

“Two years to finish a book is absurd. You need to write faster,” Mackenzie said.

Paul smiled dolefully, giving his daughter a disappointed look. “Mackenzie, shouldn’t you be leaving for work? And, Lilith, turn off the lights when you’re done in the garage.”

Zach touched my arm. “I need to get something from my apartment. I’ll be back in a minute,” he said and started uphill.

“Wait,” Mackenzie said, catching up. “I’ll walk with you.”

Zach gave me a long look. “Okay, sure.”

Together, they climbed the driveway and veered toward the woods between houses.

“Don’t cut through Leland’s property,” Lilith yelled after them.

Mackenzie raised an open palm. “Talk to the hand.”

Lilith shrugged it off and jumped on their nearby tram to descend the hill.

Zach reappeared from the woods a moment later. “Rylie, over here.”

With Solo at my heels, I broke into the small clearing.

“Take a look at this,” Zach said, pointing to a black satin cap discarded on the ground. “Isn’t that a Jewish kippah?”

I nodded.

“Maybe it means something, maybe it doesn’t,” he said, “but Otto was missing his.”

“It’s Otto’s,” Solo said matter-of-factly. “I’d recognize it anywhere.”

“It is,” I agreed, though my mind reeled with the fact that this discovery suggested Otto had been killed only twenty feet from my bedroom window, which just might implicate me even more. So armed with this newest discovery all lingering doubt about investigating his murder vanished with a
poo
f.

“See the clip?” I pointed to the silver fastener dangling from the edge of the kippah. “Even though Otto was bald, he always wore that same hairclip. I heard him once say it had sentimental value. I never saw him wear another.”

“Never,” Solo confirmed.

“See the star on the tip?” I went on. “Normally it’s blue, or at least that’s what I’ve seen on others, but on Otto’s the enamel is worn off. Just like this one, nothing left but silver.”

“So Otto tried to go to the fundraiser, but never made it,” Zach said, looking uphill.

My gaze followed his, trailing up the support columns to Leland’s home office and the street level garage above it. The towering height made me dizzy. “I wonder why the kippah is here and not on his head.”

“Maybe the killer knocked it off when they smothered him,” Solo suggested.

“Don’t touch,” Zach warned Mackenzie as she started to reach down. “It’s evidence.”

The kippah was a yard away from a crushed rhododendron and in the middle of a dirt trail that twisted the two hundred feet from the street above to Leland’s lakeside house below. Clear to see were drag marks across the trail, through some stinging nettles, around a stack of firewood, and into the woods to my driveway, where I had parked the van last night.

“What are you looking at?” Solo asked.

I considered. “Maybe Otto was killed up there,” I said, eyeing the balcony outside Leland’s street-side home office.

“You think someone threw him over the rail,” Solo said, staring uphill, too.

“Possibly,” I said. “Otto was a small man, way too small to tumble over a large rhododendron like this one and crush it. No, he had to drop on it from above.”

“Oh, get real, Rylie,” Mackenzie said. “How do you know that rhoddy wasn’t already like that? It’s not like you walk this way a lot to Zach’s place, not like” —her eyes met his— “others.”

They were involved. The thought struck me that they had been for some time, even though Zach often insisted since the shooting he didn’t want long-term relationships. I dropped my gaze, in a moment of hopelessness. Mackenzie was so dynamic, so self-assured, and not for the first time, I resented that everything I wanted—parents, stability,
Zach
—she possessed.

“This is now a crime scene,” Zach said.

Mackenzie curled into him, her eyes on me. “Hold me, Zach. I’m frightened.”

He wrapped her in his arms, shifting his gaze in my direction, a sliver of sorry in his eyes.

I looked down again, thinking, wondering, how I could ever compete with her.

~Life is short. Don’t be a dick~

I felt better after I had showered and changed and eaten a cheese stick. There was a quiet peace about our little home, as though family long gone watched over me. Still, another five minutes of my own pity party must have passed before I was able to grab a pencil and scribble a note to Granddad. No vivid exposé on this morning’s accident would do, nor would a barefaced fib. I may not be completely up-front with Granddad on all the goings-on in my life, but I don’t like to flagrantly lie, either. Plus, with Leland as my neighbor, there was zero chance of this disaster staying hush-hush for long.

I decided to carry on Joe Friday-like, “Just the facts, ma’am.” I stared at what I had written before I erased the part about finding Otto Weiner dead in the back of the van. Naturally, Granddad would never leave town with me involved in a murder, and in order to investigate this case, he had to be gone—
had to be
! I ended with “See you tomorrow. Love, Rylie.”

Next, I called Leland’s house from the landline Granddad refused to give up. It was an added expense to our budget and hard to remember the last time I’d used it, but with my cell phone AWOL at Suicide Trestle, I was happy to have it. The phone, meanwhile, was still ringing in my ear. Five rings later, I stood blinking in the sunlight glancing off the lake and into the windows.

There came a squeak of the front door, and Solo with a heaving chest and gasping breath appeared. “There are way too many steps to climb up from the dock.”

“Granddad says that if he ever wins the Lotto he’s gonna buy a tram like Leland’s.”

“It’s a lemon, that tram,” he said. “It’s always breaking. And it squeaks. Stick with the Desmonts’ brand. It’s ironclad. Who are you calling?”

“Leland. But there is still no answer, so I’m calling Tita now.”

The instant I uttered her name, Tita answered, “What!”

Typical Tita. Gruff. “It’s me, Rylie.”

“I noticed,” she said. “But more importantly, how come you’re not at work?”

Tita Iglesias, head chef at FoY and a former gang member, was the sole breadwinner in her family, supporting two kids, overbearing parents, and a moocher ex-husband. Sort of like a Latina Britney Spears.

“I had an accident in FoY’s van,” I said. “It’s totaled.”

“Not a surprise. You’ve been with us, what, four months? It’s fate.”

“I’m okay, though. Thanks for asking. The bad news is, Otto Weiner is dead.”

Long silence.

“Let me get this straight,” she said. “You not only totaled the van, but you killed Otto?”

“Yes to the first question and no to the second. Someone suffocated him. They stashed his body in the van,” I said.

“That’s it then, it’s over.”

“What’s over?”

Another pause. “You know? Otto, his bad temper.”

As soon as she spoke, I knew she was hiding something, but over the phone was not the time to question her. “Hey, listen, Karl Lipschitz is making Solo and me go to the station to give our statements—”

“I have an idea. How about you never call me again?” she said. “I frown on having guilt by association linked to my name.”

I groaned. “Ah, come on, I really need you to drive Gilad and Elsa to their Sunday services. No other seniors signed up for rides, so they would be your only two. Pretty please.”

“
Gracias a Dios
,” she said. “You still gonna make your shift at the marathon? We need every able body we can get to man FoY’s tent. It’s gonna be crazy busy.”

“Sure thing. We’ll walk over after we’re done at the station. By the way, since you’ll be in the area dropping off Gilad at temple, would you mind swinging by Suicide Trestle and picking up my jacket? I hung it on the rail at the north end. My cell phone is in the pocket.”

She said a four-letter-word—also known as excrement used to fertilize crops—and agreed to retrieve my things, then hung up.

Solo and I jumped into the squad car and Zach took off. At the top of the driveway, my across-the-street neighbor was about to drop a letter into my mailbox. When elderly Mrs. Bebitch looked up, she demanded we stop by flailing her garden trowel. Zach pulled up alongside, Solo rolled down the passenger window, and she leaned inside.

Zach and Solo greeted her. I, on the other hand, tried to be inconspicuous in the backseat. The woman freaked me out. She was never without that stupid trowel, which she wheeled freely at any hapless stupido who dared park on her private lane.

“So, Rylie,” Mrs. Bebitch said. “The tax assessor wants his money. What is that look for, Zach O’Neil? I don’t check the addressee on envelopes. How could I have known I was opening Rylie’s grandfather’s mail? Oh, that reminds me, I saw your mother last night, Zach. I don’t mind telling you, it was hard to see her looking so miserable after you shot and killed that poor man last winter.”

Zach grimaced, but she appeared oblivious to it.

“Well,” she said. “Your shoulder must be better as your mother looks years younger, or maybe it’s having Father O’Brian from St. Patrick’s to cook for when he visits us. I will tell you this. I tasted her beef stew last night, before five o’clock Mass. Bland. Very bland.”

“Father O’Brian watches his salt. He has high blood pressure,” Zach said.

“I guess you heard he’s retiring,” she said.

Zach nodded.

“What we will do at St. Mary’s without a priest, only heaven knows. There is a serious shortage. Young men these days don’t want to make the sacrifice. Sex, sex, sex, that is all they think about. I ask you, what about my mortal soul?” She glanced at the letter in her hand and thrust it toward me. “Here.”

“Thanks,” I managed as Solo relayed the letter. I tucked it away unread. It hardly mattered. I knew how much we owed the taxman.

“Five minutes it took me to walk down here, Rylie Tabitha Keyes. Five minutes of my life, I’ll never get back. All thanks to your grandfather’s negligence. Imagine a man of his age not able to manage his money.”

Grrrr.
“Thank you, Mrs. Bebitch. Don’t let me keep you from your post.” I nodded to her hillside home. “It’s a terrific thing you do, keeping your private street free of trespassers.”

My sarcasm was not lost on her, a plump gray-haired woman with trifecta chins. “Afraid I’ll see what you’re up to, are you?”

“Up to?” I said. “How interesting.”

“What I saw from you last night wasn’t interesting, but—well, I suppose it isn’t my place to say, but a man’s apartment. Really, Rylie. And you.” She waved her trowel at Zach. “I expect you’re encouraging her. Don’t all men. Sex. Sex. Sex, that’s all you think about.”

I made a wild guess since I knew she could see Zach’s street-side apartment from her house. “Do you mean when I knocked on Zach’s door?”

She shot me a pitying look, sniffed, and strode off, her trusty towel swaying at her side.

Explaining quickly, I gave Zach a brief account of how I had stopped by to ask him to the fundraiser, only to find his car parked outside but him not at home.

He eased out a long breath. “I was…was sleeping. I picked up some extra hours last night, starting at nine. I got some shut-eye before.”

It occurred to me that he looked oddly annoyed. “God, I hope I didn’t wake you.”

“Don’t worry about it,” he said.

The edge to his voice proved my suspicion. “I did wake you. I’m sorry.”

He turned to stare at me. “Rylie, I said it was okay. Just drop it, all right?”

Solo’s gaze flicked over then quickly away.

“Sure,” I said, realizing the root of his anger. He hadn’t been alone and wasn’t comfortable with me knowing.

After a quick detour due to today’s Bellevue Marathon, we pulled into the police station with me feeling like a condemned woman. Not that I was dressed like one. I had done my best to look confident and professional by power dressing in an outfit I reserved for job interviews: off-the-rack suit, black and old school, everyday pumps, simple white blouse. And just in case I needed to flash a provocative ankle, I added back-seamed stockings.

Oh yeah, avoiding jail was not a spectator sport.

Zach parked and looked over the seatback. “Lipschitz is gonna give you a hard time just for kicks. Maybe you should get a lawyer.”

“That makes me look guilty,” I said.

“And you look so innocent now,” he said.

“I resent that.”

“I’m with ya, girlfriend.” Solo reached over to pound fists. “Stay tough.”

A shallow victory, but I wasn’t greedy.

“Look on the bright side,” Solo said. “You might’ve saved them old folks from a stroke or cancer. And don’t get me started on the horrors of Alzheimer’s.”

“I didn’t kill anyone.”

“I dunno,” he said. “With those last two, you might have been a factor.”

Solo said it with a laugh, which told me he had meant it as a joke. Problem is it was the truth, the sad truth, the unvarnished truth. I was partially responsible for two deaths. And for the first time—delayed by shock or disbelief, perhaps—I was flooded with what I suspected was the same gut-wrenching guilt Zach had been experiencing these past months. I almost fainted under the emotional onslaught. I closed my eyes.

“Rylie?”

Though Solo’s worried tone made my stomach tighten, I couldn’t lift my eyelids, couldn’t risk what it would do to me to see the blame on his face.

“Rylie,” he said again. “I just meant—”

Zach cut off his clarification. “Listen to me, Rylie.” His voice was low and tender, the voice he had used for over twenty years to soothe me. “You are not to blame. Three coincidental deaths? Something here isn’t right.”

“Not to mention how they tried to kill you,” Solo put in.

“Pure speculation,” Zach said.

“Credible theory,” Solo countered.

“Maybe,” Zach said. “But you didn’t hear that from me, got it?”

“Would it have killed you to say please?” Solo asked.

“Say please for what? I didn’t say anything,” Zach said, his voice sheepish.

“Oh right. Murder? What murder?” Solo asked, playing along.

“Exactly,” Zach said.

Some of my misery dissipated at their playful banter. I opened my eyes. “Really? I’m having a moment here. This is no time to make fun.”

Zach sighed. “Just relax and tell Lipschitz the truth. And remember people do a lot to cover up murder, even risk their lives to throw off suspicion.” He stared at me and I stared at him, and I knew he was warning me about a line of attack from Lipschitz. “I’ll be at the other side of the station if you need me, at the complaint desk. Don’t let him put words in your mouth. Be brave.”

I was bleeding bravery by the minute. “What’s to tell? I don’t know anything yet.”

“Yet? Yet! Oh, no you don’t. No. No. No.” He narrowed his eyes. “And if that isn’t clear enough, no!”

“Did you just tell me no?” I fell back against the seat.

“I’ll do more than that. I’m ordering you not to get involved in this investigation. Look, it’s looking real bad for Leland. And who do we know that is desperate to keep her job? Listen, desperate people make good scapegoats. You’ll do as you’re told.”

“Do as I’m told?” I repeated, bamboozled.

Then I did one of those childish moves where I crossed my arms over my chest and stuck out my bottom lip. I had no idea what came over me. It only made me look more juvenile than usual, but I was insulted. And crushed.

“That’s what I said,” Zach confirmed.

“I’m not a kid,” I said.

“Then stop acting like one.” He nodded to my crossed arms. “It’s time to grow up.”

Be livid or even hysterical, anything but hurt.

“I don’t need to tell you how serious this is,” he said. “Stop acting cute.”

He thinks I’m cute
was all I could think, which only proved his point. I did act immature and it was making him nuts. It didn’t take a genius to realize that to compete with Mackenzie for his affection I had to improve his poor opinion of me, which oddly enough would begin when I solved Otto’s murder.

I folded my hands in my lap. “I’ll do what you say,” I said, my fingers crossed.

Bright sunshine streamed in through the police station windows. Zach had left us to resume his duties at the information and complaint desk and Solo stretched out in a lavishly carved, upholstered chair. Good job, Bellevue. Few cities considered the posh taste of crooks and felons. I sat down beside him, spied a run in my seamed stockings, and sighed.
So much for armed and dangerous.

“These Buddhist guys are the bomb.” Solo tapped the cover of a local magazine. “They’re Tibetan monks. And that’s a mandala, or sand drawing. It symbolizes the fleeting nature of material life.”

I knew zilch about Buddhism. “Pretty.”

“Pretty!”

I smiled at his look of indignation.

“They’re wicked cool, mawn. And guess what? They’re making one right here, in the front lobby.”

“Good to know,” I said, spying Officer Yancy Quirk scribbling on a notepad as he hung up the station desk phone. I waved when he looked my way. I knew he was gay, a secret between us since high school, and I believe so far unknown to anyone on the force. Serious acne scarred his spray-on-tan face and his muscles bulged like rock-filled socks, all the results of years of steroid use in the hope of disguising his sexuality. I stood and went to say hello.

“I hear your butt gave an old dude a heart attack,” Yancy said as I drew near.

I made a noncommittal sound.

He touched my arm. “Hey, don’t beat yourself up. It wasn’t your fault.”

I gulped, but no words came out.

“Don’t be an asshat, Yancy. Of course it was her fault,” a male voice said.

I turned my head.

Karl Lipschitz approached. He stopped barely a foot away. He was over six feet, nearer to six four, with slim shoulders and waist. Pale stubble as sporadic as caterpillar hair dotted his jaw. “Sweet Cheeks,” he said, his lips hard. “I’m gonna need a picture of your ass for evidence.”

“Hilarious.” I moved around him. He moved with me and blocked my way.

“Fair warning.” He licked his lips. “When I’m finished, you’re gonna beg for mercy. I’m hard just thinking about it,” he whispered.

I ignored the hunger in his eyes. “So much for professionalism.”