A Body to Spare (The Odelia Grey Mysteries) (11 page)

I walked Emma through the house to the front door. Along the way she said goodbye to Muffin and grabbed her bag from the coffee table. From her expensive designer bag she extracted a PR photo of herself and handed it to me. It was autographed and made out to my mother. “Tell Grace I’m sorry I missed her.”

“She’ll like this a lot,” I said, looking down at the photo, which was nice but nowhere near as lovely as the real thing. “Thank you for everything, Emma. I’m still not sure what I believe, but I found the thing with my father, real or not, quite comforting, and it contained a lot of closure.”

At the door she didn’t hold out her hand to shake mine, as I expected, but wrapped her arms around me in a warm hug. I embraced her back and meant it. It wasn’t just a gesture for gesture’s sake. I really did like the woman and found her to be genuine in her warmth and concern.

“Just be careful, Dottie,” she said to me after the embrace ended.

The shock on my face must have made her realize her mistake. “I’m sorry, Odelia,” she said with a short laugh. “I don’t know where the name Dottie came from.”

But I did.

thirteen

I waved as I
watched Emma Whitecastle drive off in a Lexus hybrid SUV and wondered if maybe I should test-drive one of those myself. Greg would be okay with the hybrid part but not the Lexus part, citing it as being out of our budget. But it wouldn’t hurt to look.

After I went inside, I remembered that we’d left the back gate to the carport open. I knew Muffin hadn’t made a break for freedom because while we had left the glass slider open, we’d closed the screen slider, and the doggie door was always locked when Wainwright wasn’t home. Also, Muffin was now on the sofa, curled up for another nap. I went to her and scratched her behind her ears. She started purring in her sleep. “Guess you’re all tuckered out from playing with ghosts, huh, Muffin?” She yawned and curled up tighter.

Just as I turned to head through the dining and kitchen area to shut the gate, I caught a glimpse of someone on our patio—at least I think I saw someone skulking back there just before the figure disappeared off to the right of the slider, behind the kitchen wall. I looked down at the sleeping cat. She was useless. Wainwright would have been all over this even with his failing hearing. Even in old age, his nose was still one hundred percent functional. Even Seamus would have alerted me to the stranger’s presence by dashing through the house to hide. But not Muffin. Unless the stranger entered the house, she could care less. And even then, she’d probably show them her tummy or beg for a treat.

My first instinct was to run out the front door. My second instinct wanted to know who was back there. Was it the murderer coming back to check on things? Maybe he thought the body would still be in the trunk, and he’d come to reclaim it. But if he saw the news, he’d know that wasn’t possible, so I dismissed that idea. I mean, if I had murdered someone, I’d be checking the news for updates.

I picked up my cell phone from the table next to the recliner and called Greg. My plan was to act as naturally as possible and throw the person off-guard while also having a lifeline open. Unfortunately, my call went to voice mail.

“Hi, honey,” I said loud enough for someone lurking close to hear. Voice mail or not, I wanted the intruder to think I was on the phone with Greg. “I just had an interesting visitor here at the house,” I continued even though the voice mail beeped to say my recording time had run out.

I spoke calmly as I walked into the kitchen and posted myself near the patio door. From here the lurker could hear me but not see me unless he came in full view of the slider. Next to the door, a baseball bat leaned against the side of a counter. Greg and I didn’t care for guns, but we did like baseball bats, and both of us could and would use one if necessary. We also kept one in the bedroom. Switching the phone to my left hand, I slowly reached for the wooden bat and grasped it tightly in my right. I thought about calling someone else, but changing calls might alert whoever was out there.

“Would you believe my mother contacted a medium to see if we could connect with the ghost of the dead guy?” I forced a laugh. “She showed up here today.” I forced another laugh. “Yeah, a medium came here to the house. She left just a few minutes ago.”

Just then I saw a hand come creeping into view on the other side of the screen door. It wasn’t front and center but off near the side. It held something. At first I thought it was a gun, and panic rose from my gut into my throat, threatening to gush into a scream. But it wasn’t a gun, unless guns now came in a flat rectangle shape. It was a cell phone, and from the way it was being held it was probably recording a video or at least audio. Seeing the phone, I was glad I hadn’t mentioned Emma by name, but who knew how long that person had been out there listening. Since the story about Zach hadn’t been released yet, there was a good chance this person had been following Emma.

“No,” I said into the phone, continuing the ruse, “Mom doesn’t know she was here.” I scooted even closer to the screen and wished it was open so I could take a quick strike at the phone with the bat. I laughed again, then said into the phone. “When she does, I’m sure there will be hell to pay.”

I turned slightly to my left and raised the bat in my right, still keeping it out of direct line of sight of whoever was out there. “She did leave a signed photo for Mom,” I said into the phone as I took a firmer hold on the bat and pulled it back across my chest. “Maybe that will mollify her.” I paused. “What, honey? I didn’t hear you.” I paused for effect.

The intruder’s phone moved closer to the screen and more away from the edge, getting bolder in its presence. That was my cue. I moved closer to it on my side. Quietly I pocketed my phone and grabbed the bat with both hands, slowly raising it over my head. “By the way, Greg, Clark and Mom are coming over for dinner tonight. I’m making beef stew.”

Using all my weight, I brought the bat down as hard as I could on the screen exactly where the phone was positioned. I hit a homer. The bat tore through the screen and smashed the phone out of the person’s hand, causing screams of anguish. Before they could recover from the surprise attack, I flung open the broken screen slider and barreled out with the bat cocked and ready.

“You broke my hand!” a guy writhing on our patio screeched. He clutched his right hand close to his chest with his left. “You broke my hand, you bitch!”

“Who are you and what do you want?” I asked, ready to smash a leg to match his hand.

He tried to sit up, but when he did he vomited down the front of his jacket and the tee shirt under it. He fell back down to the concrete pad, whimpering. I almost felt bad for him. His cell phone had landed near the door. Keeping an eye on him, I picked it up. The glass front was broken but otherwise it seemed in pretty good order. It was still recording. I put it into my other pocket without shutting it off.

“Hey, that’s mine!” he protested from his prone position.

“Come and get it,” I challenged.

I pulled my own phone out and started to dial 911, but a call came through as I did. It was Greg.

“What’s going on?” Greg said. “I was meeting with a client when you called. Your message was so weird.”

“I’ll explain the call later,” I told him. “Meanwhile, I captured an intruder. This creep came into our back yard.”

“Your freaking gate was wide open, Odelia,” the guy on the ground protested. He sat up again and wiped his mouth with his good hand. He seemed steadier but didn’t try to get up.

“He’s still there?” Greg asked. “Why haven’t you called the police?”

I was stunned into inaction, torn between explaining the situation to Greg and shocked that the skinny little creep on the ground knew my name. I decided to handle Greg first. “I was about to call the police when your call came through,” I told my anxious husband.

“No,” the guy said. “No police.” He’d stopped sniveling and was shaking his head with vigor. “Please.”

“What’s he saying?” Greg asked. “Put me on speaker.” I did.

“Why were you following Emma Whitecastle?” I asked the guy on the ground, who couldn’t have weighed more than 130 soaking wet.

“Who’s Emma Whitecastle?” Greg asked.

“That was Emma Whitecastle?” the guy asked, seeming genuinely surprised. At least the news got him to stop whining. “Wow. I really hit pay dirt.”

“What’s he talking about, Odelia?” asked Greg.

Hearing Greg say my name brought me back to my original concern. “How do you know my name?” I asked the guy. “Greg, this creep called me by name. He isn’t here for Emma; he’s here for me. I caught him recording me with his phone through our patio door.”

“Who’s Emma?” Greg asked again.

“The medium Mom contacted,” I explained.

“Okay, that part I did get on voice mail,” Greg said, then paused. “Hang up, Odelia, and call the police. I’ll be there in five minutes. My client meeting wasn’t far from the house.”

“No police!” the guy on the ground insisted.

“Oh yeah,” said Greg’s voice through my phone. “There’s going to be police, buddy. Odelia, can you hold him until I get there?”

I put my phone down on our patio table and hoisted the bat. “Oh yeah, I’ve got him,” I said, getting a firm grip on the bat. “If he moves, I’ll be doing a number on him with the Louisville Slugger.”

“Check to make sure he’s alone,” Greg said.

Keeping an eye on the guy, I edged toward the open gate and glanced out into the carport and alley. I saw nothing but my rental car. Not even a curious neighbor, which wasn’t surprising considering the people who lived on both sides of us worked every day. Otherwise, someone might have heard the guy’s screech and come running. I closed the gate tight and secured it just in case he did have a partner lurking out there.

“He looks like he’s alone,” I said to Greg when I returned to the phone.

The guy was trying to stand. “Stay where you are,” I told him. “If you don’t think I’ll take another swing at you, think again.” The guy slouched against a support post.

“Greg,” I said toward my phone, “why don’t you call the cops while I stand guard.”

“No cops, please!” the guy begged. “I am alone, but please—no police. Let me go, and I’ll never bother you again. I promise.”

“Not gonna happen, buddy!” Greg yelled from the phone.

A few minutes later, Greg pulled into the alley and parked behind our garage. I unlatched the gate so Greg wouldn’t have to unlock it from his side and opened it, then went back to watching over my captive. It was another minute before Greg maneuvered himself into his wheelchair and into our back yard. When he did, he was seething. Wainwright came in with him and stood ready for a command, his usual friendly face curled in a protective snarl.

The guy was sitting upright now, still propped against one of the supports of our patio roof, with his legs sprawled out in front of him. He was cradling his right hand but had stopped whimpering about it. He wasn’t very old, maybe in his mid to late twenties. He was skinny, with
geek
written all over him from his wild, unkempt red hair to his pale skin and thick glasses.

“Did you call the police, honey?” I asked Greg.

He shook his head. “Not yet. I wanted to hear what this clown had to say for himself first.”

Said clown was staring at Wainwright with raw terror. Our dog is a big old yellow teddy bear, but one word from Greg or aggressive movement toward me or Greg and he’d attack any troublemaker. “Call off your dog,” the guy begged. “I won’t do anything stupid. I promise.”

After a few seconds, Greg said, “Down, Wainwright.” The obedient dog stopped growling but remained on alert. To the guy, Greg said, “Hand over some ID.”

The guy turned and started to reach into a back pocket with his right hand but flinched. “I can’t get it with my hand. I think she broke it.” He glared at me as he said it.

“You’re lucky that’s all she did,” Greg snapped. He turned to me. “Odelia, see if you can get his wallet.”

I handed Greg the bat. He gripped it tight and moved a little closer, positioning himself between the guy and the back gate. Wainwright moved a few steps closer too. The dog’s presence nearly sent the guy into a cold sweat. I went behind the post, keeping it between the guy and me for some security, and reached into the rear right pocket of his jeans. He leaned forward to make it easier for me.

“Steady now,” Greg warned.

I pulled out the wallet and went back to the patio table, out of reach, to check its contents. The wallet was a cheap polyester trifold with a Velcro closure, black, with comic book superheroes on the outside. I held it out for Greg to see, then said to the guy, “What are you, six years old?”

“What?” he said with false bravado. “It’s a collectible.”

The wallet contained no photos but did hold a couple of crisp twenty-dollar bills that looked fresh from an ATM. In slots in the middle section were a credit card, a library card, an employer ID, and an insurance card. On the clear plastic side was a California driver’s license. I pulled it out and reported to Greg, “John Seymour Swayze. Lives on Sixth Street in Long Beach.” I checked the birthdate and did a quick calculation. “He’s twenty-four years old.”

“So, John Seymour Swayze,” Greg said to him, “what brings you to intruding on our privacy? You do know that it’s against the law to record people without their knowing, don’t you?”

While we waited for an answer, I checked out the employer ID card. I showed it to Greg. “Honey, he works for the
LA Times
—that’s why he’s here.”

“You’re a reporter?” Greg asked. “So were you spying on my wife, as she suspects, or were you following that medium?” Greg turned to me. “What’s her name?”

“Emma Whitecastle,” I told Greg, “and she’s quite famous. Maybe this guy’s a stalker—another thing that’s against the law.”

“I’m not a stalker.” John Swayze took a deep breath. “And I wasn’t following Whitecastle.” He adjusted himself on the ground. “Can I get up? This concrete is hard and cold.”

“No,” I said, “you’ll stay there until the police take you away.”

“No police, please!” He took another deep breath. “Look. If I tell you the truth, will you let me go and
not
call the police?”

“Why don’t you want the police involved if you’ve done nothing wrong?” I asked.

“Nothing wrong?” Greg parroted to me. “He trespassed onto our property and recorded you without your knowledge. That’s hardly nothing.”

Remembering John’s phone, I pulled it out of my pocket and checked it. It was still recording. The picture was dark from being in my pocket, but the sound was good. I stopped it, then started going back through the photos and videos stored on the device.

“Hey,” John protested. “That’s private property.”

“You mean like this house?” Greg shot back.

“Greg, look at this.” I turned the phone toward Greg and restarted the video that had grabbed my attention. Greg watched with wide eyes, then glared at John. There was no doubt now who the creep was following.

“You’re the one who took the video of the body in Odelia’s car and gave it to the media,” Greg said with disgust to the wimp on the ground. “I should kick your ass for that alone.”

“But this showed up on the local TV news,” I noted. “Why not put photos in the paper?”