Sweet as Pie Crimes (5 page)

Chapter 8

Blinded by the darkness, I felt as vulnerable as when Marcus had pointed the knife at my throat.  That terrorizing memory made me question why I had come to this abandoned farm to help the man who had callously held me captive.  But then I remembered the heartwarming picture of Marcus with the two little patients in one of the articles about his conviction, and my purpose in helping him was immediately reaffirmed. 

My mind became a blank slate again as the breathing and footsteps were suddenly a few feet behind me.  I tightened my jaw as I turned around, trying in futility to recognize the person standing there.  The shadow appeared large, male, and menacing.  Was it Marcus…or someone more dangerous?

“Becca, you came to me.  Just in a nick of time too! I knew you would,” Marcus said in a caressing tone as my jaw unclenched and I exhaled in a swoosh of relief.

“You scared the hell out of me.  Again.  You’re very good at that, aren’t you?” I said sarcastically.

“I’m sorry,” he said sincerely, reaching out a hand in the darkness to find my cheek and smooth his palm across it.

“So you’re a doctor?”

His white teeth glinted in the night in a
proud smile.  “Yes, I am.” The shine vanished as he corrected himself.  “Well, I
was
.  Until I was convicted of murdering my wife.”

“Tell me the whole story.  All I know is what the newspaper articles online told me.  But I want to hear it from you.  Who did it, Marcus? If it really wasn’t you, then who was it?”

“I could spend hours telling you my story, but we have to get out of here, so I’m going to give you the short version.  My wife and I were in the middle of a divorce because she was cheating on me.  She had an affair for over a year, and I didn’t suspect a thing because I was too busy with my residency, trying to build my medical career.”

He paused and I bit the inside of my cheeks, thinking how this revelation incriminated him even more.  Now he had a motive, in addition to money and belongings, to kill his wife.  But I let his story unfold without interrupting even as my pulse quickened inside the vein in my wrist.

“I know what you’re thinking.” He read my thoughts.  “Motive, right?  Wrong.  Caitlyn made the mistake of cheating on me with an older guy who was also married.  And when she threatened to tell his wife about the affair, he decided to silence her.  That’s my theory, anyway.  I’ve never been able to prove it because she was murdered in our bedroom and there was no sign of a break in.  So obviously I was the one they looked at first.  Actually, I was the only one they
ever
looked at,” he finished bitterly.

“But the articles said that the knife was never found.  How could they convict you without DNA proof or something more scientific?” I argued.

“Becca, there are men sitting on death row right now for crimes they didn’t commit. Some of them have been there since the 80’s when DNA profiling was just emerging as a science.  It happens every day in our justice system.  Innocent people are put away while criminals walk free.” His voice was laced with impatience and frustration.

I nodded and simply said, “I know, it’s terrible.  But I still have so many questions…”

“And I’ll be glad to answer them.  But not right now.  We’ve got to get out of here.  And out of Washington before I get caught.  Come on, let’s go.” He offered me his hand as I grabbed on and let him lead me around the bend to the parking lot.

“Where are we going?” I asked foolishly, acutely aware of the ramifications of aiding an escaped convict.  His stride had morphed into a sprint, and I battled to keep up with him.  Of course he wanted to use my car to get away.  What other options were there at this point?  But we needed some kind of plan before we took to the road.  I couldn’t just race around the country with him until he was inevitably caught or we crashed and burned from running too recklessly.

“Keys,” he clipped, holding out his hand expectantly.

“You want to drive?” I asked incredulously.

“Yes,” he replied brusquely.  “Becca, just give me the keys.  You came out here tonight for a reason.  You know I’m innocent.  That’s why you’re here.  Let me drive so I can get a little closer to finally proving that innocence.”

Reluctantly, I placed my keys in his hand and climbed into the passenger side of the car.  His teeth shone again in the moonlight as he revved up the engine and sped out of the bumpy lot.

“Be careful!” I warned.  “The lot isn’t paved, and the last thing we want is a flat tire.”

“You’re right,” he allowed, pumping the brake
s just a tad before swooping onto the paved road. 

“You at least have to tell me where we’re going,” I insisted. 

“We’re going to California,” he answered in a monotone.

“California? Are you crazy? If we go back there, you’ll definitely be caught!”

“Listen, even the Feds are on my ass right now.  It doesn’t matter where I go.  I’m a marked man.  But I have to go to California to get to Caitlyn’s killer.  He still lives in San Francisco.  Bastard.” Grimacing, Marcus picked up a southbound road and cut over into the left lane.

“Speeding will only draw more attention to us,” I pointed out.

“Right again.  I’m glad I have you with me, Becca.  In fact, I predict that you’re going to be the key to my liberation.”

“What do you mean?”

“You’re going to use some of that small town charm of yours to frame Caitlyn’s killer.”

***
 

As dawn
shimmered over the misty horizon, I wasn’t sure if we were in Oregon or California.  And I definitely wasn’t sure of Marcus’s plan.  In a way, it sounded just ludicrous enough to work, but in another way, it just sounded ludicrous.  I had never thought of myself as possessing much natural charm, especially since my heinous divorce and subsequent hiatus from dating.  But clearly Marcus viewed me through gentler eyes. 

“Can we pull over and get some coffee?” I asked pleadingly, already anticipating that he would reject my supplication.

“I’d love to, Becca, but we can’t stop now.  We’ll be in San Francisco later and then you can put our plan into action.”

“Our plan?  You mean
your
plan.  And I don’t think I can put anything into action the way I feel right now,” I complained, glancing at my dreadful reflection in the side view mirror.  My unwashed hair looked matted and greasy, and my eyes had developed conspicuous purple rings under the lids from my severe lack of sleep. 

“You look beautiful,” Marcus countered as I rolled my eyes, even though I could tell he was sincere.

“So you really expect me to go into this man’s place of work and just start flirting with him.  What’s his name anyway?”

“Benson Helling,” Marcus said tightly.  “And he’s a bartender, so flirting is part of his job.”

“How do you know he still works at the same bar?”

“I have my methods,” Marcus evaded.
  “He owns the bar,” he elaborated slightly as I nodded.

“And how did you manage to get out of San Quentin? I’ve been wracking my brain about that one since the police in Idaho told me about your escape.” I glanced over at him curiously as he appeared blank-faced and inclined to continue evading my intrusive questions.

“Like I said, I have my methods.” Yup, not gonna tell me a damn thing.

“Was it an inside job?” I prodded. “I mean, did someone from the prison help you get out?”

Marcus snorted in disgust.  “The people in that prison wouldn’t help get me a cup of water if I were dying of thirst.”

“I’ll take that as a no,” I replied wryly.  “What about that doctor, your mentor?  What was his name? From the article?  Bill Townsend…I think.”

Marcus fell silent and his eyes darkened like midnight blue coal.  I knew I had struck a nerve.  So he had received help from a respected physician, some sort of monetary assistance, I assumed.  I folded my hands in my lap, more convinced than ever that Marcus was innocent and this Benson Helling bartender guy must be the culprit.

“Is he still married to his wife?”

“Yes, that’s what makes this plan so foolproof.  He doesn’t give a damn about her, but he doesn’t want to lose his house or his business in a divorce settlement.  It’s so ironic that the cops thought I didn’t want to lose my assets divorcing Caitlyn.  Hell, all I wanted was to be free of a woman who cheated on me.”

I tilted my head sympathetically, fully relating to Marcus’s pain.  I wanted to commiserate and share my story of infidelity, but I didn’t feel quite ready to open up to him.  My sister, mom, and small circle of girlfriends were the only ones I had confided in about my deceitful ex-husband. 

“Okay, so let me get this straight,” I changed the subject back to the plan to trap Helling as Marcus looked relieved.  “I’m going to start out by flirting with him over a drink or two.  And then once he’s at ease, I’m going to---somehow magically---get a confession out of him.  Right?”

“Right.  Except it won’t be magic.  People’s true selves come out when they drink.  He won’t even realize that he’s confessing to you with a couple of gin and tonics in his system.”

“Well I don’t know about you, Sherlock Holmes, but I don’t carry a tape recorder on me.  So how are we going to get proof that he ever said anything?  It will be my word against his.” And my word could get me arrested for aiding and abetting an escaped convict, I refrained from adding.

“Benson’s Bar & Grille is one of the trendiest places in San Francisco.  There will be people everywhere to witness the confession.
”

“And you’re assuming that these people will want to cooperate?  Maybe they won’t want to get involved with a national manhunt and murder investigation,” I poked holes in his plan as he ran a frustrated hand through his wavy hair.

“Well if they’re subpoenaed by a court of law, then they’ll have to cooperate,” Marcus argued.

“But that wouldn’t happen right there in the bar.  I think you’re getting ahead of yourself,” I said more gently.

Marcus shook his head bitterly and conceded, “You’re right.  I’ve just been trying so long to clear my name.  It’s like a pipe dream at this point.  Maybe I didn’t think this through so well, but it could still work.  I’m counting on you, Becca.  You’re not only a sexy woman, but also a smart one, and I know you can carry this off.”

“I’ll try my best,” I promised.  “But don’t you think you’re putting an awful lot of faith into a stranger?”

“Who? You?”

“Yes.”

“You don’t feel like a stranger, but I guess you are,” he chuckled, winking at me and grinning before returning his attention to the road.  Now
that
was natural charm. 

Tension climbed between us for the rest of the morning as he mastered the California roads, and I repeatedly glanced in the mirror to check that I still looked unattractive.  If I didn’t smell so recycled and feel so blah from the sleepless road trip, I would have told Marcus to pull over to the side of the highway so I could kiss those perfectly carved lips
of his.

Instead, I dove my hand into my purse, retrieving my phone so I could text Lori to open and run the shoppe.  I paused, wondering what I could say to her that wouldn’t arouse suspicion or concern.  Hating myself for lying, I tapped a few sentences into the phone, telling her I was spending the day
apple picking for my deep dish pies.  What a deep dish lie!  But I sent the message anyway, cringing inwardly as I hoped she would believe me.

“Are you ready to roll?” Marcus asked boldly.

“Hmmm?” I murmured before sharply taking in a breath as the glowing sign came into view:

Benson’s Bar & Grille

Chapter 9

“You look frozen in time,” Marcus observed as I sat up stiffly in my seat.

“I’m so nervous,” I admitted, as though realizing for the first time the enormity of what I had agreed to undertake.

Questions swam around in my head: what if someone recognized Marcus and called the police
and
implicated me as an accessory?  What if I botched the meeting with Benson and we had driven all this distance for nothing?  The what if’s continued to plague me as I drenched my lips in scarlet gloss and mechanically stepped out of the car, trying to catch my balance.

“Aren’t you coming?” I asked as Marcus tailed several paces behind me.

“We’re not a couple, remember?” He hissed impatiently.

“I know that!”

“No, I mean for the purposes of this trap meeting, we don’t even know each other!  You’re going into that bar as a single woman ready to mingle with other people.”

I rolled my eyes at the “single and ready to mingle” stereotype before squaring my shoulders and forcing myself to adopt a coquettish persona.  What would my name be?  Leilani.  I had always loved the exotic sounding moniker.  So what if it was a Hawaiian name and I looked every ounce my mixed German and Irish background?  For tonight, I would be Leilani.  At least
I could live out one of my dreams while I risked my freedom to help a gorgeous but infuriating stranger.

Marcus dawdled outside, bowing his head and staring at the pavement as I sauntered into the restaurant and took a seat at the bar.  A young bartender, no more than 25 or 26, immediately came up to me to take my drink order.  There was no way this was Benson, I thought
, as Marcus had described him as an older man.  What if damn Benson had taken the night off?  One more little detail that Marcus had neglected to consider in his haste to clear his name.

“What’s your pleasure, ma’am?”

Damn it! The ma’am added so much insult to injury, but I smiled brightly for the silly lad and replied, “I’ll start with a white wine spritzer.  Is Benson around?” My high-pitched tone must have given away my nervousness, but the kid didn’t seem to notice.

“Actually, yeah.  I think he’s in the kitchen.  Who should I say is looking for him?”

Well now I was the one who hadn’t thought ahead.  Benson didn’t know me by Becca or Leilani or any other name on earth, so I winged it.  “An admirer,” I replied breezily.

The young man smirked and nodded as he walked backwards towards the kitchen.  I didn’t care for the tour his eyes took of my body as he backed away.  Inwardly, I giggled as his tight rump slammed into the counter and he yelped, “Ow!”

Moments later, a gray haired man with a wooly beard and wine glass in his hand appeared.  “Your white wine spritzer,” he offered with a knowing grin before saying with rich satisfaction, “I heard that an admirer was looking for me.”

I cleared my throat and prepared to put on an Oscar-worthy performance. 
How crazy Marcus’s wife was for cheating on him with this lump!  The paunchy, 50-something beast was not someone I would normally flirt with.  In fact, he was not someone I would
ever
flirt with, not even if I were shipwrecked and alone in Antarctica.  He also didn’t look like a murderer, I thought.  But then again, what does a murderer look like?  I had asked myself that question too many times in recent days and been unable to come up with a consistent answer.  A murderer could be someone with the face of a demon---or he could just be the middle aged man next door.

“Hi, are you Benson?” I cooed.

“Guilty as charged,” he said ironically as I flinched in surprise.

“Oh, well,” I muttered, “I just wanted to meet the owner and congratulate him on a job well done.  This is a great place.”

“Thank you,” he received proudly.  “I don’t believe I’ve seen you around here before.  What’s your name?”

“Leilani.” The tropical name rolled off my tongue as he arched an interested eyebrow.

“Nice name,” he said with glimmering eyes.

“Why don’t you join me?” I asked, ignoring the gleam in his green-gray eyes.

“I’d love to, Leilani, but I’ve got customers to tend to.”

“Yes, and you’re talking to one right now.  Just have one drink with me.  I’m new to the area and I’ve been so lonely lately…” My self-loathing grew with every fib I told.  At the same time, the lying became easier and, with each sip of my spritzer, I could feel myself relaxing.

“Well, I suppose I could join you for a drink or two.  Welcome to San Francisco,” he bellowed, grabbing a frosty bottle of Corona and holding it up in an impromptu toast.

“Thank you,” I said, raising my glass and then draining it. 

“Let me get you another one of those.  On the house,” Benson said heartily as he refilled my glass.  I glanced at his freckled hands, noticing that he didn’t wear a wedding band.  Either he had gotten divorced and Marcus wasn’t aware of it…or he kept the wedding band at home so he could chat up pretty strangers like “Leilani.”

“Thank you.  That’s very kind.” I immediately brought the glass to my lips and took a deep swallow, as though the liquid could offer me much needed strength.  “So are you married?” I ventured as Benson looked surprised.

“Well you just cut right to the chase, don’t you, young lady?” He chuckled lasciviously, and I thought how the only redeeming thing about him was that he had referred to me as ‘young lady’ rather than ‘ma’am.’

“It’s just a question,” I said dismissively.

“And the answer is no.  I’m divorced.” Something in his tone alerted me that he was digging some deep dish lies of his own, but I didn’t say anything.  As he leered at me, I wondered how much more of this ridiculous banter I could tolerate.  Flirting with even a handsome stranger in a bar was completely out of character for me, let alone engaging in small talk with a possible murderer.

Cold liquid and ice on my wrist start
led me as I turned to my left while an older gentleman immediately apologized.  “So sorry.  I’m so clumsy.  Let me clean that up for you.”

As the gentleman
wiped down the bar with a napkin, Benson peered at him through narrowed eyes.  “Not very nice to spill a drink on a lady,” he barked.

“It was an accident,” the meek older man explained.

“Don’t I know you from somewhere?” Benson said accusingly as the man stared down at the bar as he continued to swish around the napkin.

“I think I’m fine now, thank you,” I said gently as the man curiously kept sponging up the liquid.

“I know I’ve seen you somewhere before,” Benson reprised, all notions of flirting apparently erased.  “On TV?  No.  Where have I seen you?” Benson scratched his plush beard with consternation before bursting out, “You’re that doctor from the newspaper blog!  The one who was defending that lowlife murderer who killed his wife!”

My eyes bulged out as I put two and two together, instantly recognizing the benevolent face of Dr. Bill Townsend, whom the blog had featured as a staunch supporter of Marcus.  I had already suspected that Dr. Townsend helped Marcus escape San Quentin, but apparently he was also a part of the plan to frame Benson Helling.  As I opened my mouth to speak to the doctor, he bolted
from his bar stool, knocking another drink over as he raced to flee the restaurant.

“What the hell is going on here? I’m calling the police!” Benson shouted as I hightailed it out of the bar, feeling his unsettling eyes boring into me as I ran.

I looked around the parking lot wildly, gasping for air as a blue Corvette sped off in a choking billow of exhaust fumes.  Marcus was in the driver seat of my sedan with the engine already fired up.  I raced to the passenger side, fumbling with the door momentarily before hurling myself into the car.

“Benson’s calling the police,” I said urgently as Marcus accelerated to a speed I hadn’t known my boring old car was capable of handling.

The stench of burning rubber permeated the northern California air as Marcus whirled out of the parking lot in the opposite direction of the Corvette.  More questions buzzed in my brain as I prayed the police wouldn’t catch us now.  Tack on a speeding ticket to the offenses we had already committed and Marcus wouldn’t be the only one headed to the slammer. 

“Why would Benson call the police if he has something to hide? Wouldn’t he be afraid of the police?” I wondered aloud as Marcus careened sideways to avoid a pothole.

“He’s cocky, that’s why.  He’s gotten away with this murder all these years and thinks he’ll never get caught.”

“That makes sense,” I said, nodding my head and trying to stay serene in the
wake of the ongoing mania.  “So Dr. Townsend was your accomplice?”

“Damn it, Becca!  Don’t ask me questions I can’t answer!”

“But I saw him in there…and that was him driving away in the Corvette, right?” I persisted as Marcus clamped his lips shut angrily.  “Why is he putting his life and freedom on the line for you?  Is he your long lost uncle or something?” Again, the inappropriate humor, I know.  I should start biting my nails instead of putting my foot in my mouth all the time.

Instead of mocking me, Marcus answered levelly, “He’s putting his life on the line for me because I’ve done the same thing for him.  In a sense.
” He took a long pause before resuming in a grave voice. “His oldest granddaughter has a rare genetic disorder that causes her vision to gradually deteriorate until she’s completely blind.  I was doing research on her condition.  I was this close,” he made a tiny space between his thumb and forefinger, “
this
close to finding a cure when I was arrested.”

“Wow,” I breathed, humbled by his explanation and hating myself
even more for my ill-timed one liner. 

“S
he’s 10 years old now.  Her name is Victoria, and to my knowledge, no one’s been researching her disorder because it’s so rare.  So there’s no real money or glory in finding a cure.  But if I could just get back to work, I wouldn’t quit until I finally found a cure and made sure she would never lose her eyesight.” Marcus spoke passionately and with more sincerity in those few breaths than I had heard in all three years of my marriage combined. 

“What do we do next?  How can we get you back to work when we can’t even get your name cleared?” My voice rose in frustration as I felt more invested than ever in making sure Marcus never went back to prison.  They’d have to take me in kicking, biting, and screaming before I would reveal any of the secrets he had confided in me.

“Duck down!” Marcus yelled abruptly.

Without needing to look, I heard the blaring sirens behind us, as a police car closed in on our vehicle.