The Sleuth Sisters (23 page)

Chapter Fifty-four

Faye

The man Barb had tackled gave up when I kicked the gun from his hand, picked it up, and pointed it at him. As the third flare faded overhead, I turned on my light. “You okay, Barb?”

“Yes,” she replied, though she grimaced as she stood. “Banged up, but nothing’s broken.”

“What’s going on in there?” Retta demanded.

“We’re okay,” I told her. “How about you?”

“Good,” she called. “A man came over the fence, and I’ve got my gun on him. Is he a good guy or a bad guy?”

I was pretty sure Retta had no gun, but with her you never know. I looked to Barb. “Would that be Gabe she’s talking about?”

“Yes.”

“I thought I recognized the little creep, but he was moving pretty fast.” I raised my voice. “Keep him under guard, Retta. We’re going to want to talk to him.”

“Okay,” she called. “We’ll meet you at the cars.”

Turning back I asked Barb, “And who is this?”

“Eric DuBois, soon to be former second banana atWOZ Industries.” She gave him a nudge with her foot. “Let’s go.”

She didn’t have to ask me twice. The stress was getting to me, even though most of the danger seemed to be over. I was still on the wrong side of a fence that kept me from plunging into the Pit, but somehow it was a little better with Barb beside me.

I gave her the gun, since she has more experience with them, and I kept the light on the path ahead. When we got to the hole in the fence, Barb went through first, awkwardly but still more gracefully than I would. When she was situated, gun ready, on the other side, we sent DuBois through. Finally I wedged the flashlight into the fence so she could keep watch on him while I exited. I didn’t mind a bit that the beam was aimed at him and not at me as I fought that demon wire a second time.

We found Retta standing behind Gabe, who grinned weakly, hands raised to indicate submission. When I stepped past him, I saw that Retta’s “gun” was her umbrella. She shrugged. “He was climbing the fence, so he had his back to me.”

Sirens wailed in the distance. We waited in silence, exhausted and still shaky from the adrenalin pumped into our systems. There was a lot that needed to be explained, but no one seemed to be in a hurry for that. DuBois maintained a stony silence, and even Gabe sensed that this time, there was no explaining away what he’d done.

The first police car on scene surprised us. Rory Neuencamp did a sliding turn, hit the brakes, and was out almost before it stopped. “Barb, are you all right?”

“Fine,” she replied, but the waver in her voice said differently. Now that it was over, she looked ready to collapse.

“Give me that.” He took the gun from her and turned to me with a silent request. Setting the light on the hood of the Chevy, I put a supporting arm around her. Actually, I wasn’t that much better off, so we kind of held each other up.

“I thought you were on the way to Saginaw,” I said to the chief.

“After Retta’s call, I turned around.” His tone shaded toward humor. “Somehow I had the idea you needed help, but I guess the three of you together are a match for just about anything.”

“No, really,” I told him. “We’re very glad you’re here. How did you find us?”

“Well, I heard the 9-1-1 call on the scanner, and then flares started lighting up the sky.”

“Retta did that,” I told him. “Good thinking, Sis.”

“He was going to push me over the edge.” Barb glared at DuBois, who scowled back.

“He tried to shoot me,” I said, “but Barb knocked him down.”

“How did you two find me out here?” she asked.

Retta flashed her most innocent smile. “Good detective work, that’s how.”

“Well, you saved my life.” Her voice softened. “Thanks, Retta.”

For once Baby Sister was speechless.

A county police car pulled in and two officers got out, hands on their weapons. “It’s under control,” Rory told them. “You can cuff these two.”

“Do we need an ambulance?”

Rory looked at us, and we all shook our heads. “Guess not. Mirandize the prisoners and transport them in separate cars so they don’t get a chance to make up a story.” He turned to us. “Will you come to the station? I need to hear from all of you, and it might as well be together.”

I looked at Barb, who nodded to indicate she was willing. “We can follow you there.”

Retta said the last thing I expected. “Barbara Ann, why don’t you ride with the chief? Faye can bring your car along, and we’ll meet you there.”

Retta

I love it when things work out, and the Brown case went very well. Eric DuBois’ lawyer tried to plead the murders down to manslaughter, but Stan put pressure on the D.A.’s office, and no deals were made. They used every delaying tactic imaginable, so the trial hasn’t started yet. It really doesn’t make much difference. He was denied bail, and nobody doubts a guilty verdict.

Faye actually spoke for the other guy, Gabe. He got some time in the county jail, but she talked to the people at her church, who got him into a GED program. She actually went to visit him and promised she’d help him get work once he’s released. I tried to talk to Barbara about it, figuring she has more sway than I do on Faye’s activities, but she shut me down with, “It isn’t a bad idea. We might be able to use him here from time to time.”

Neil Brown was released, so he was able to be at his sister’s side when she went into surgery. The doctors were optimistic about their success, but brain tumors require a wait-and-see period during which Meredith would be checked frequently. In the meantime, she recovered and went back to her second-graders.

It would be a lie to say I wasn’t surprised that Barbara Ann and Rory were attracted to each other. I’m usually better at picking up signs, but it wasn’t the end of the world. There are other men out there, and a girl might miss one, but another will come along.

As far as the agency goes, I made no progress on changing the name. I bought the items I thought the place needed and was told I could take them back. I dropped off some ideas for a nicer logo and got no response whatsoever.

But—and it’s a big one—Barbara Ann said in front of Rory and Faye that I’d saved her life. Later she told the reporters who interviewed her about her ordeal how smart I was and how much help I’d been.

I’d never by pushy about it, but I’ll be part of the Smart Detective Agency yet.

A Word about the Author

Maggie writes mysteries, loves fine chocolate, and has three cats--Bobbi, Harry, and Jo--and two dogs, a lab named Barker and a rescue dog named Pie.

Maggie and her husband might be found hiking, but they seldom prepare properly for it. It’s more of a “Let’s see what’s over that hill!” type of lifestyle.

You can contact Maggie on Facebook at

https://www.facebook.com/maggie.pill

or at her Wordpress blog

http://wordpress.maggiepill.com/

The Sleuth Sisters: and Retta Makes Three

Chapter One: Retta

It’s hard to say which is worse, learning your gentleman friend’s been arrested for murder or learning the victim was his wife.

When the call came, I was doing some on-line shopping. It’s hard to buy decent clothes in Allport, Michigan, since we’re two hours north of just about everywhere. The UPS drivers know me well, and they’ve even gone so far as to leave packages in my car if it happens to be sitting in the driveway of my sisters’ detective agency. It saves a few miles and a few minutes, which I understand is a priority for them.

I was looking at my favorite shoe site when a distinctive ring-tone sounded. Touching the screen, I said, “Hey, Faye, what’s up?”

“Hi, Retta.” Her tone of voice revealed she had bad news. I had a momentary thought something had happened to her husband Dale, whose health hasn’t been good for some time. What she said totally surprised me. “Are you seeing a man named Winston Darrow?”

I considered asking what business that was of hers. My sisters had started a business without me—without even telling me—and they’d made it clear I wasn’t part of it. Since they’d left their baby sister out of the Smart Detective Agency, why should I keep them informed about my love life?

It isn’t really Faye’s fault, though. Barbara, our older sister, has objections to a three-woman operation. She says I’m too bossy. I say she’s too stubborn to take help when it’s offered.

Anyway, I said, “A few times. We met at a thing and hit it off, and he asked me out.”

Unlike my sisters, I have a social life, and Winston and I had met at a Republican fund-raising dinner. While I’m not political in terms of party, I do support candidates who support the police. My husband, a state cop, was killed in the line of duty, and my efforts to get better body armor state-wide meant I’d met most of the movers and shakers of Michigan legislation at one time or another.

After chatting for a few minutes, Winston and I had ended up sitting together at dinner. He was good-looking and charming, if a little shallow. He’d told me he was divorced, which is why the news Faye was about to dump on me was a double shock.

“Mr. Darrow called the office this morning. He’s under arrest for his wife’s murder, and he wants us to prove he’s innocent of the crime.”

My tone rose a notch. “Winston is married? I mean, he was married?”

“I’m sorry, Retta. His wife was shot some time Thursday night. Barb told him we’d look into it but we couldn’t guarantee anything.”

My mind was going in a dozen directions. Winston was married. He was in jail, accused of murdering a woman I hadn’t known existed, at least not in the present tense. I was angry and embarrassed, but over all that, something else reverberated. I couldn’t see Winston killing anything, much less a living, breathing, still-attached wife. “Faye, he’s not the murdering type.”

Faye kept her voice low, and I guessed she was trying to keep Barbara from hearing. “Retta, I didn’t think it was right to take this case without letting you know, because you’re bound to be dragged into it.”

Another shocker. “Am I a suspect?”

“Right now, the police seem to think Darrrow acted alone, but if he killed his wife, it might have been to be free to marry you.”

I shook my head vigorously, though she couldn’t see it. “That’s ridiculous. In the first place, I’m not even close to thinking about marrying Winston. In the second place, the guy cringes when he steps on a bug. He doesn’t hunt. He doesn’t fish. It’s one of the reasons I liked him—no long, boring stories about what he saw in the woods yesterday.”

“Well, he did own a gun, or at least his wife did, and it’s missing.”

“Which proves nothing unless it’s the gun that killed her.”

I could almost see Faye raising a hand to calm me down. “I’m just saying the police have a case. Barb’s looking into it, and she’ll be honest with him. We don’t take people’s money if we think it’s a waste of time.”

“I can tell you right now, it’s not a waste. Winston Darrow is no murderer, and I’m counting on you to keep me informed.”

She hesitated. “He says he was with you the night his wife died.”

“Well, not
all
night, if that’s what you’re asking. He left around midnight.”

“That doesn’t help him, then. She died on the back porch or their home, and apparently the snow makes it hard to tell exactly what time. They think it was after eleven and before two.”

“So if he left my place at twelve, he had time to get home and kill her.” I heard a little moan and realized it was me. “What a mess!”

“Just stay off Barb’s case until she makes some inquiries. You know she’ll hate it if you start giving her advice.”

“I never give advice, especially to Barbara I’m-Always-Fine-on-My-Own Evans.” I had a thought. “You should call Rory Neuencamp and see what he knows. It’ll be out of his jurisdiction, but cops talk to cops. Oh, and you should check divorce records. Winston told me he and his wife split three years ago.”

Faye’s tone was patient. “We’ll do that.”

I ended the call and closed my iPad, too distracted to finish my on-line transaction. As Faye’s news sank in, I got up and walked around the room. Winston was in trouble. Apparently he’d remembered me mentioning my sisters’ business and called them for help. I was a little mad at him for lying to me, but I was also sure he hadn’t killed anyone. I started pacing. What could I do to help?

Chapter Two: Barb

“So what was her reaction?”

Faye jumped a mile, and I smiled grimly. She deserved a little scare for the call to Retta, but I’d known from the first it would happen. Faye is a softie, and she can’t remember that Retta drives us both nuts with her meddling. Besides, this time she was probably right. If Retta was going to be in the spotlight as the Other Woman in a murder investigation, she had a right to know.

“He told her he’s been divorced for years.” Fay’s eyes hardened as her un-soft side emerged, the one that shows when someone she loves is abused. “The guy’s obviously a Number One Jerk.”

“Being a jerk doesn’t necessarily make him a murderer,” I commented. I’d been on the Net, finding out what I could about Mr. and Mrs. Darrow. So far I hadn’t found much.

It’s amazing how much can be learned about a person if you know where to look, and the Smart Detective Agency had developed an array of sources over the year of its existence. Checking at my notes—yes, I still take notes with pen and paper—I said, “Winston Darrow, fifty-eight years old, self-described entrepreneur. His wife Stacy is—was a housewife. They’re comfortable financially, own a home on a lake between here and Gaylord, and have three vehicles: a Lexus, a Prius, and a Tundra. He’s a member of the local Kiwanis Club, the Rotary, the Republican Party, and the Friends of the Library but doesn’t often attend meetings. He pays his dues and shows up at functions that might be fun, dinners, parties, stuff like that. Mrs. Darrow stays home a lot, but she’s a member of a dozen on-line groups, mostly connected to reading mysteries and collecting Carnival glass.”

“Good reading choice,” Faye replied. Cozies are her second favorite, after romances. She looked down at her keyboard. “Do you think Chief Neuencamp could help with this?”

I guessed Retta had made that suggestion, which was why Faye didn’t meet my gaze. Rory probably could help, but I was reluctant to ask. In the first place, I didn’t want our local police chief to think we expected him to support our agency by doing our job for us. In the second place, I didn’t want him to think I called because I was chasing after him. Our relationship was cordial, and both Faye and Retta thought Rory was interested in taking it a step farther. It seemed to me he was holding back, and I wasn’t completely sure why. It might be a desire to keep professional distance between the Allport police and the city’s only detective agency. What I didn’t want to think about, much less believe, was that Rory thought of me only as a friend.

“Let’s do a little more digging on our own first,” I told Faye. “When I talk to the chief, I want to have my facts straight.”

We spent the rest of the morning pulling together every scrap of information we could find on the Darrows. They’d moved to Michigan five years before from
Taos
,
New Mexico
. Their marriage license, dated almost five years ago, said her maiden name was Stacy Kern, but none of the Stacy Kerns I got in Taos seemed like a fit for Winston, being either too old or too young. I started with the older ones. From the little I knew, Winston seemed like the kind of guy who might woo and marry an older woman as an alternative to working for a living. None of those names worked out, though. When I checked the younger Stacy Kerns list, there it was. Stacy was fifteen years Winston’s junior, according to the date on her birth certificate. Her parents, Alice (Duggan) and Charles Kern, were both listed as being born in Rutland, Vermont.

I pictured a plain girl who’d married an older man, maybe a father figure. Looking for pictures, I found nothing for a long time, but finally one turned up on Win’s Facebook timeline. It said, “Win & Stacy Got Married.” They were standing in front of a sprawling red-brick courthouse, and when I set the cursor over it, Taos, New Mexico came up. Unfortunately, whoever snapped the picture hadn’t timed the shot well, and Stacy was digging in her purse for something. All I saw was a trim figure, a stylish mini-dress, and a lot of dark brown hair.

Did it make sense that Win wanted to trade his thirty-something wife in for Retta so badly that he’d murdered her? It wasn’t the way things usually went, but one never knows. Retta didn’t look fifty, and she was attractive—at least, until she tried to run your life.