Barbara Graham - Quilted 03 - Murder by Music (24 page)

There wasn't much new in their investigation into Scarlet's death. They had contacted the police in San Francisco, where Scarlet lived, asking for any information about her that could possibly be relevant, like threats or complaints by her or about her. Nothing yet.

He got a phone call from the Shady Nest complaining about the shots coming from across the valley. Most likely it was Angus shooting his truck again. Someone, not Sheila, needed to check. Just in case it wasn't Angus.

Mid-morning, Blossom showed up with an apple pie. He felt pathetically grateful she hadn't decided to quit baking for him just because she had a busy social life and an inheritance. “Thanks for the pie.” He shifted a stack of papers to make room for it. “What's the occasion?”

When she squeezed into one of the visitor chairs in his office, he realized she was not just sightseeing. Blossom had a mission. She shifted in the chair, not an easy feat because she filled every inch of it, and fluffed the puffy sleeves on her voluminous floral dress. “I was wondering.” She stopped speaking and stared, chewing something like a cow with its cud. Then she stopped chewing and sat staring at him with one finger pressed against the dip below her lips. Blossom's deep thinking pose. She sighed. “Is it true it's illegal to have two boyfriends?”

“Two husbands, yes.” Tony shook his head. “Two boyfriends, no.”

Her eyes widened. “Really?”

“Yes, really.” Tony found himself fascinated by her expression. Thoughtful, intrigued and a bit like she'd found out she owned a winning lottery ticket. “Why? Has someone told you something else?”

She nodded but didn't volunteer any additional information. She sat and smiled for a few minutes before hauling herself off the chair.

“Wait a minute, Blossom. Did you talk to Carl Lee?”

Tony knew Doc Wade had signed the death certificate calling Mr. Beasley's death a suicide. The family could squawk all they wanted to. Blossom and the children's hospital would share the bulk of the man's fortune.

“Yes.” Blossom gave him her sweetest smile. “I wished I could thank Mr. Beasley. That's the nicest thing anyone's ever done for me.”

Theo decided she needed a scarf or shawl to wear to the wedding later in the day. The blue dress looked lovely without a blouse but the evenings were quite chilly. She asked Katti to push her wheelchair across the street to Lila's dress shop. Once they were inside, Theo glanced up at her assistant. “Have you met Lila?”

“No.” Katti closed the door behind them. “She like pink too?”

Theo laughed. “I don't know. We'll ask.”

Theo quickly realized her timing was not good. The store was filled with other shoppers, bridesmaids, Miss Flossie and now her wheelchair and Katti. One girl stood in the center of the room, in a stunning taffeta gown, while Lila worked on the back of her dress. It was only hours until the wedding. While the bridesmaid looked panicky, Lila seemed cool and relaxed.

Barely glancing up, Lila said, “Just get what you need, Theo. We'll settle up later.”

So, with Katti searching for pink, Theo wheeled around the girls, studying the accessories. Pictures of Lila decorated a wall. Lila with locals. Lila with celebrities, including one with Scarlet's sister Elf and a much younger Gavin, Beth's brother. Lila as a child. One photograph made her laugh because it reminded her of Jamie. Dressed in a martial arts outfit, a very young Lila posed, her hands crossed in front of her. The grin exposed a huge gap where her front teeth were missing.

Theo reached for a silky, silver shawl and slipped it around her shoulders. It felt as insubstantial as a cobweb. She loved it. However, studying the tag, she was not sure about the cost.

Lila walked by and paused to carefully adjust the way it draped. She whispered, “Fifty percent off.”

“Sold.” Theo smiled, but Lila had moved on.

Katti found a wide pink leather belt with silver studs along the length. “Is pretty?”

“Absolutely,” Theo agreed. They left notes on the counter saying what they took and promising to return to pay.

Tony stared at the little man sitting across from him. Where
did
Orvan get his ideas? “What do you think is going on up there?”

Orvan's initial complaint, this visit, was that a stealth bomber had landed in his cousin Otis's tobacco patch. Fifteen minutes into his discussion, his mood changed from indignant to contrite. He shifted his skinny rear end to the front edge of the chair and leaned forward, folding almost in half, and pushed himself onto his feet. Once standing, he straightened.

At attention, he saluted Tony, exposing a band of pale skin between his sleeve and the gnarled, and permanently tanned, hand and wrist.

“I have to tell you what I did.”

Tony's heart sank. He'd hoped to get through a whole month without one of Orvan's tales of guilt and remorse. Instead, this was the old guy's second visit in a week. Nevertheless, there was always the hope this was the day Orvan would actually tell him something important. At least Ruth Ann would enjoy the day.

His secretary's dark eyes sparkled when he escorted Orvan toward the greenhouse, their nickname for the interrogation room. Her hand paused, letting pink fingernail polish pool on her thumbnail. In a flash she replaced the brush into the bottle. “Water?”

“Yes.” Staring at Ruth Ann, Orvan's eyes went glassy with desire.

Ruth Ann used a tissue to clean up the polish.

Orvan's steps slowed further as he gazed at this goddess. His hands pressed the bib of his good overalls against his heart. “My angel,” he whispered.

Ruth Ann's smile widened. “Have you been bad, Mr. Lundy?” She put an extra bounce in her step as she headed for the water.

“Yes ma'am. I have sinned.”

As the three of them entered the starkly bare, tiled interrogation room, Wade arrived and set up the video camera.

Tony glanced up the clock. It was ten-thirty in the morning.

Orvan took a sip of his water and looked a bit surprised by its flavor or, more likely, its lack of flavor. He leered at Ruth Ann again.

By noon they had learned little more than before. Finally, bowing to internal pressure created by the three bottles of water he'd sucked down, Orvan leaned forward, lacing his fingers together, officially ending his social visit.

“You know them three families what live in the holler on the far side of McKee's land?”

Tony nodded.

“What they don't know is I've been awatchin' them.”

A faint trickle of alarm slipped down Tony's spine. The ATF was watching them too. “Why?”

“Well, ‘cause I seen them climb out of a what-you-call-it? A flying saucer.”

“A flying saucer like the one on Miss Freddie's lawn?” Ruth Ann suggested. “Or Mr. Ferguson's?”

Tony guessed Miss Freddie had crossed the Atlantic on the Mayflower. The tiny woman looked too frail to lift a tea cup, but she loved to build lawn artwork from castoffs. All bore definite signs of inspiration from old science fiction movies. Space craft of all shapes and sizes, robots, and aliens were visible from the road. She and old man Ferguson seemed to be competing in a lawn art contest for two.

Orvan flapped his hands and shook his head. “No. Real.”

“Are you confessing to spying on someone?” Tony growled in frustration. “Is this your crime?”

“No, no.” Orvan stopped, holding his palms out. “I stole something from them, and I'm scared they'll kill me to get it back.”

Tony tamped down the temptation to say “Good” or “I'll help them,” and managed to ask, “What?”

“Dynamite.” Orvan's voice shook. “There's a guy who saw me take it, and he coulda shot me but didn't. This other even meaner lookin' guy didn't see me but was staring at the one guy. You know, the one what let me take it.”

“Uh-oh.” Tony knew what he had to do. He stood abruptly and walked to the door. He punched a number in his cell phone as he turned and pointed at the old man. “Orvan, go home and stay there.”

“I can get your man out.” Tony didn't bother with pleasantries. “Send me a warrant, and a photo, and I'll drag him down the mountain like any other piece of trash. Better yet, send me details on one of your co-conspirators, too.”

“What's happened?”

“One of my county's habitual idiots has been up there spying on the group. He's stolen some dynamite.
Your
man didn't shoot him.” Tony hoped he wasn't overreacting. “I have a bad feeling.”

“Thank you, Tony. I'll owe you a big one.”

Behind him, Tony heard the fax machine printing. He called Rex, who was thankfully in charge of dispatch. “You tell Wade and Sheila to get their rifles and tree climbing gear.”

Within minutes, the three of them headed into the higher elevations and separated. When Tony learned his two snipers were in position, he drove into the heart of the terrorists. He considered them nothing but a bunch of whiny, lazy losers. Very dangerous ones.

Standing behind his open door, he called out, “Sheriff.” He waved his warrants. “I'm here to arrest William Baxter and Daniel Swinborne.”

A tall man dressed in full camouflage stepped around the edge of a house. He cradled an assault rifle in his arms. “You and what army?”

Tony recognized him as the leader of this group. The man had grown up around here and knew most of the members of the Sheriff's Department. Good. “Me and Wade and Sheila.”

“I only see you.”

“Exactly.” Tony smiled. “I've got them covering me. I believe you know how effective they are with rifles.” He wished the man wasn't wearing mirrored sunglasses.

“How do I know you're telling the truth?”

“Well, for starters, I can have one of them shoot you in the foot if you want proof. You won't be able to walk.” Tony stopped smiling. “Give me Baxter and Swinborne and we'll all go home.”

No more than two minutes after they got back to the law enforcement center and locked Swinborne in a cell and put Baxter in the drunk tank with Quentin, Rex called Tony. In his normal, unflappable voice, Rex said, “The Volunteer Fire Department went to check on a chimney fire up at the Shady Nest when they came upon a vehicle partially blocking the road. They couldn't see a driver.”

“And?” Tony squeezed the receiver. It wasn't like Rex to tiptoe around something.

“They said music is blaring through the open pickup truck window. How could the driver not be deafened by it? Surely no one in the truck could hear the emergency siren or their horn. Actually, they said it didn't sound as much like music as a series of thumps, thuds and screaming that could disguise the sound of a gunshot. And it had.”

“Don't tell me this.” Tony thought about sticking his fingers into his ears and humming. “I don't have the time or the resources.”

“Yes, sir, I do know that, but
you
need to call in the TBI if you want them to help.”

“Okay, okay. Where's the pickup? I'd better go up there first.”

When he, Wade and Doc Nash arrived, the radio was still blaring. The pickup sat on one of the narrow roads leading from town to the housing development on the side of the mountain. As expected, the truck sat empty.

Tony looked toward the nearest house. Smoke billowed out of the chimney and through the surrounding roof. The building was surrounded by firemen with hoses, axes and big boots. The chief waved them forward and pointed at one of the front windows.

A neat hole pierced the screen.

Tony looked inside. The main door was ajar. Even from this distance Tony could see a very similar sized hole had pierced John D. Smith, right between the eyes. The worst building contractor in the history of the profession was very dead.

Tony sighed. His brother, Gus, had suggested something like this would happen. It was only a matter of time. Smith's enemies were legion—but dead, he would never pay them one penny of any legal judgment made against him.

Mr. John Smith and his son-in-law built the units in record time. They hired day labor and paid them slave wages. Of course they got what they paid for: workers with no skills or pride in their work.

Gus had been very outspoken in the community about Smith's workmanship. His complaints were referred to by Smith as “sour grapes,” since he and his son-in-law were making money hand over fist and the houses looked good. For a while. It took less than two months after move-in before the first lawsuit was filed. The foundation sank a foot. The house cracked like an egg dropped on a sidewalk. The other nine houses followed suit.

Tony knew the pickup with the obnoxious radio belonged to the son-in-law and wondered where the man had gone. The moment Tony stepped into the house, he saw the man's body. It lay on the floor crumpled in a heap not far from Smith. Tony guessed the shooter had killed the proverbial two birds with one stone, or more precisely, two bullets. The stone in this case was most likely a high powered rifle.

Across the narrow valley from where he stood, Tony could see Angus Farquhar's cabin. He was considering sending someone, or actually several someones, over to collect the man when Rex's voice came through the radio. He received a call from Darren Holt and said it was urgent Tony talk to his deputy.

Still angry at Darren, Tony called him.

“Sir, I've got an apparent suicide in a car up here.”

Before Tony could ask where “up here” was, Darren continued talking.

“There's a note on the driver's side window, facing out. It claims he just killed two men up at the Shady Nest. It's addressed to you.”

“No kidding.” Tony waved for everyone around him to stop moving and be quiet. “Read me the whole thing.”

Darren began, “ ‘To Sheriff Abernathy, I lost everything because of the developer known as John Smith. He cost me every penny I had, my wife and children. My home and my job. No legal means came to me, so I decided, on my own, to rid the earth of this plague. I shot him and his worthless son-in-law. The rifle is locked in the trunk of this car. Tell Nancy I will always love her and the kids, that is, unless you think telling them would make matters worse.’ ” Darren cleared his throat. “He signed it ‘yours truly, Henrik Anderson’. There's also an address and phone number in Michigan.”

“What else can you tell me about the scene? Anything?”