The Sleuth Sisters (19 page)

Chapter Thirty-eight

Retta

Rory seemed distracted, and I guessed he was busy with the Brown case. He answered my grant questions so tersely I decided not to ask him to lunch again, as I’d planned. Instead I thanked him and left. Once the case was settled and Barbara and Faye weren’t breathing down his neck, Rory and I could get to know each other better.

My phone rang as I left the police station, and I hurried to my car and closed the door against the traffic noise before answering. The screen said it was Faye. “What’s up, girlfriend?”

“Retta?” I knew from her voice something was wrong. In a tumble of words, the story came out: Barbara had been attacked, and though she’d escaped any real hurt, Faye was terrified.

“The chief says he’ll provide protection, but he can’t guard her day and night.” I was thinking about the look Barbara Ann had tossed at him. I realized it had meant,
Don’t tell Retta
. I returned my attention to Faye, whose voice teetered toward tears. “I shouldn’t have pushed her into this stupid detective thing. How could I live with myself if—”

“Easy, Faye. In the first place, Barbara Ann never in her life did anything she didn’t want to do, so you didn’t push her into anything. In the second place, it sounds like she handled herself pretty well. Third, it could be a simple mugging, unpleasant but not likely to happen twice. And finally, if Rory says he’ll protect her, you can trust him to do it.”

All the while I was reassuring Faye, however, I knew she was right. This felt like it was about Neil Brown, and the city didn’t have the manpower to provide full-time security for one citizen. “We need to solve this ourselves,” I said. “Tell me every single thing you can.”

Faye’s fear
of
Barbara was almost as great as her fear
for
Barbara. “I don’t think—”

“You don’t have to tell her I know. Now what did she say about the guy?”

Once I had all the information Faye could provide, I considered my options. A black pickup truck and a man with a possible eye injury. I assumed Rory would check the emergency room to see if anyone had gone for treatment, so I concentrated on the vehicle. If its condition was as bad as Barbara said, it would need parts. Guys who drive junkers get their parts at junkyards, and there are only two in Allport. It might be worthwhile to visit them.

Inventing a story about a man who’d helped me when my car broke down, I told the overall-clad guy at the first one I’d been in a hurry and hadn’t had any cash with me. “I’d like to give him a few bucks, you know? Men like that aren’t common nowadays.”

He knew exactly who I meant. “That’s Zack Dymond,” he said. “He musta been in a good mood, though. Usually he wouldna helped unless you paid him up front.”

“Does he live in town?”

He slid a hand under his bibs and scratched. “On Deer Point Road. I think in a trailer.”

There was no phone listing for a Zack Dymond, but there was a listing for G. Dymond, 2123 Deer Point Road. I guessed G. Dymond might be a relative, and I was right. When I called, she sounded interested in hearing more about the prize her son had won from the Allport Chamber of Commerce. “He ain’t got a phone,” she told me, “but I’ll tell ’im. He’s got a trailer on the property, and he usually comes over for supper.”
Failure to Launch
, Michigan style.

When supper-time came, I was sitting along the road between Mrs. Dymond’s run-down farmhouse and her son’s even worse-looking trailer. I’d backed my Escalade into the trees on an old logging road, hoping I’d be able to get it out again. In spring the shoulders of tertiary roads can be pretty soft, as couples who stop for some “private time” often learn to their chagrin.

Not knowing how long the wait would be, I’d brought along a diet soda, some wheat crackers, and the latest
Celebrity Tracker
magazine. At first I felt like Kinsey Milhone, but I soon realized stake-outs are boring. You can’t do anything that might distract you from what you’re watching, so mostly you sit and wish there was a bathroom nearby.

At five-twenty, the trailer’s storm door flew open and slammed against the exterior siding with a metallic thud. Apparently the closing mechanism had succumbed to wind or hard treatment. Onto the minimal, unvarnished porch stepped Zack, rubbing his belly as if he’d just finished a nap. Grabbing my binoculars, I took a look. Even from that distance, it was easy to tell the guy had a spectacular shiner. I followed him as he made his way to Momma’s and dinner. There was no sign of the truck, but a barn behind the house was closed up tight. The ancient structure listed dangerously to one side, but I’ve known some that stood for years like that. A great hiding place for a vehicle the police might be looking for.

As soon as Zack disappeared into the house, I started my car and put it into gear. It pulled smoothly back onto the road, and I was back in town before six. On the chance an unmarried, new-to-the-job police chief might stay past normal hours, I stopped at Rory’s office. He was working, shirt-sleeves folded back, and I noted nicely muscled arms. Weight-lifter, maybe?

Rory was putting papers into file drawers almost at random, and I guessed he was clearing the room for the painters. When I told him what I’d discovered and how, his expression went from curiosity to disbelief and finally to admiration. “That’s good work, Mrs.—Retta.”

I shrugged. “You’re married to a cop for fifteen years, you start thinking like one.”

“Wouldn’t it have been smarter to tell me your idea and let us follow it up?”

There it was. Nobody ever appreciates what you do for them. They always think you’re being nosy or pushy. “I have no intention of taking over your job, Rory. But my sister was attacked, and you were busy with all that’s happened. I simply did some initial digging before giving you something else to do.” I raised my hands. “He never saw me.”

“That’s good.” After a moment he added, “And I can appreciate your reasoning.” I saw in his gaze a new respect, a realization he’d misjudged me. We were actually getting somewhere.

The next morning, Rory called. “I thought you’d want to know your investigation led to the detention of one Zackary Dymond, known to some as “Z”. The truck was in the mother’s barn, as you guessed, and we got tire impressions from the alley that I think are going to match.”

“That’s great, Rory.”

“Zack’s one of the two who followed your sisters to the U.P., and according to Gabe, he fired the shots at them.” I suppressed a gasp of surprise. I’d make sure Faye spilled those details!

Unaware of my ignorance, Rory went on. “The downside is that Zack isn’t the pushover Gabe Wells is. He isn’t talking.”

“What do you think is going on?”

His tone changed as the professional law officer persona took over. “It’s too early to say, but I thank you for your help. Now I’ll let you get back to your schedule.”

And you’ll get back to yours.
That was okay, though. I wasn’t just an attractive woman to Rory now. He realized I had a brain as well.

Chapter Thirty-nine

Faye

The chief and I met for the second time when he stopped to tell Barb he’d apprehended her attacker. It was Saturday, and he looked friendlier in jeans and a dark green pullover.

Barb looked a little flustered when I told her he was downstairs. She didn’t appear until Neuencamp was seated in the office and I’d brought him a glass of iced tea. Though she was dressed casually, she wasn’t wearing the same shirt she’d had on earlier.

He filled us in on Zack’s arrest. “We bluffed our way to a confession, told him the skin under your fingernails matched his.” He grinned disarmingly. “With all the cop shows nowadays, people think we get stuff like that at the touch of a button.”

In response to a question from Barb, Neuencamp said we couldn’t visit Dymond unless he asked for us. That was disappointing. On TV P.I.’s always seem able to talk their way into an interrogation or a jail cell. In real life, the attackee doesn’t get to face her attacker and sweat out of him the reason for his crimes.

The chief shared what he could, but in the end it wasn’t much help. Dymond admitted to accosting Barb but said his intention had been robbery. He hadn’t meant to hurt her, but when she fought back, he’d grabbed her in self-defense.

“He’s a liar.”

Neuencamp gave a tight nod. “I’m not sure if he was supposed to kill you, hurt you, or just scare you, but Zack is no purse-snatcher.”

“Especially since I wasn’t carrying a purse.”

He shifted uncomfortably. “You should know he’ll probably be released.”

I heard the outrage in my voice. “Released! He attacked Barb!”

“He’s hired a lawyer. Monday first thing, I’ll bet he’s out on bail.”

“He
hired
a lawyer? Not a P.D.?” Barb asked.

“Nope. His mother hired…” Pulling a notebook from his hip pocket, he checked. “…Jamison Warren, who’s apparently the local hotshot.”

“He’s pretty good,” I volunteered.

“Pompous,” Barb sneered. “The kind of lawyer that gives us all a bad name.”

“Well, Jamison will argue it was all a huge misunderstanding.”

“And the judge will buy that?”

He raised his hands in resignation. “No witnesses. If it hadn’t been for your sister, he might have gotten away with it.”

“My sister?”

I heard the horror in Barb’s tone, but the chief said, “Retta didn’t tell you? She hunted down his vehicle and steered us to him.”

Barb’s gaze slid over to me. “I wonder how she heard about it.”

Sensing trouble, the chief set his glass on the desk, rose, and moved to the door in a strategic retreat. “I’ll ask the court to issue an order forbidding Zach to come anywhere near you. It’s the best we can do.” With that he was gone. While Rory Neuencamp might have been a brave man, he was wise enough not to mix in the family dynamics of three sleuthing sisters.

I knocked at the door of the farmhouse, shifting my purse so the strap stayed on my shoulder. It was Sunday morning, and I’d come to see what I could learn from Glenda Dymond before her son was released on Monday. Before they put their heads together and concocted a story.

The woman who came to the door was, in a word, substantial. Her frame wasn’t overly padded with flesh, but there was enough to suggest a Teutonic opera diva. Her hair, wrapped around her head in a tight braid, added to the effect. She stood erect, hands at her sides. “Ya?”

“I saw on your sign you sell fresh eggs?”

“Ya.” It was more foreign than slang, a musical slide that revealed Nordic heritage.

“Could I have a dozen, please?”

“Sure. Wait here.”

“Do you mind if I come along? I’d love to see your chickens.”

She looked down at my shoes. “Watch where you walk. They don’t care where they squirt.” Taking a basket from a nail she went off, not waiting to see if I’d changed my mind.

I followed her to the back of the house, where a chicken coop almost as crooked as the barn rested against a shed next to it. At least thirty chickens scattered as we passed, but they didn’t go far. In seconds they were back to pecking for wormy treats.

Mrs. Dymond had to stoop double to get into the dark hen-house, but she wasn’t inside long. That was good, because an unfriendly-looking rooster had begun eyeing me. White feathers shone along his sides, and he carried his scaly red head upright, his beady eyes letting me know what he thought of interlopers. The hens ignored both of us, but I sensed in the rooster’s posture a readiness to charge on the slightest provocation.

“Get, you!” Mrs. Dymond shooed the bird with a hand. “Thinks he owns the place.”

“A nice specimen,” I observed, feeling better now that the rooster had retreated.

“He keeps ’em laying. When he can’t do that, he’s Sunday supper.” She waved again at the bird, who trailed after us. “He’ll be tough by then, sure as hell.” I followed her to the porch, where she separated a container from a stack in the corner and began putting eggs into it.

“You live here all alone?” I asked.

“Ya. My son lives close, though.”

“Oh, that’s good. He can help with chores and things.”

She glanced at me with dark amusement. “Ya.”

I searched for a way to get her talking. “These days a woman alone has to be careful. Someone was attacked the other day, right in town.”

There was a pause. “What’d you hear?”

“Well, she was running, you know, for exercise.” A faint sniff conveyed Mrs. Dymond’s attitude toward those whose daily activities didn’t provide adequate physical conditioning. “A man stepped out of an alley and grabbed her. She got free, but he might have killed her.”

“He prob’ly just wanted her money. He wouldna hurt her.”

I widened my eyes. “Who knows what a man like that had in mind?”

She stopped for a moment, one hand kneading the muscles at the back of her waist. “That’s right, who knows? You weren’t there. I wasn’t there. We don’t know what he wanted. Maybe she’s one of them snooty types that deserve to get scared a little, running all alone in her expensive shoes. You weren’t there. I wasn’t there. We don’t know.”

And that,
I thought,
is how a mother justifies her son’s crimes.

Digging in my wallet for two dollar bills, I tried again. “Did you hear they caught the guy who killed his wife a few years back? That rich girl, Carrie something.”

“Carina.”

“Right. My friend said she was kind of snooty, too.”

Her jaw jutted. “Better not say that where her father can hear you.”

I took a step back as if surprised. “You know Mr. Wozniak?”

“My son works for him sometime at his place out on Pierce Lake.”

“Oh,” I let admiration vibrate in my voice. “They say it’s really something.”

She folded work-roughened hands against her middle. “Mr. Wozniak knows it was Brown that murdered his kids.”

I couldn’t resist turning her own words against her. “But he wasn’t there. You weren’t there. Like you said, we don’t know.”

She eyed me coldly. “Well, I betcha one thing. Old Stan’s gonna see that Brown pays for what he did.”

“Why would killing me help Stan Wozniak?” Barb countered when I presented my argument. It was Monday morning, and Dale, Barb, and I had breakfasted together. Barb insists I don’t have to feed her, but I worry about her eating take-out and packaged dinners. Besides, cooking for two almost isn’t worth the effort. I always make too much, so why not share?

After Dale went to the garage to putter, I’d recounted my visit to Mrs. Dymond and the conclusions I’d reached. “Two possibilities,” I told her. “First, Stan killed his own children and blamed it on Neil. Now he doesn’t want anyone proving Neil didn’t do it.”

“But he didn’t have time. Seconds after he entered the building he was calling 9-1-1.”

“Maybe he went earlier, killed them, then sneaked back later to ‘discover’ the bodies.”

“He was with other people all morning. Besides, this wasn’t a heat of anger thing, remember? Carina and Carson were both struck from behind.”

I cleared the plates, setting them in the sink and running warm water over them. Yes, I have a dishwasher, but I don’t much care for it. Soapy water is relaxing.

“Okay, second possibility. Stan didn’t kill the kids, but he’s got something else to hide.”

“That’s a little more believable, but then we have two separate problems.”

“Right. Stan’s secret and the identity of whoever really killed his kids.”

“Maybe it’s time I contacted Eric DuBois again. He might know something.”

We were interrupted by Barb’s phone. “It’s Rory.” She stared at the device as if it might bite, but I poked her elbow and she answered. “Barb Evans.”

As she listened, her face tightened. “Where is that?” ... “No, but my sister will. Thanks.”

She closed the phone with a snap and stood, setting her chair neatly against the kitchen table. “Come on, Faye. We’re about to visit our first murder scene.”

“Who?” I croaked.

“Zack Dymond. He was released from jail this morning, and he’s already dead.”