Checked Out (21 page)

“P
epper spray!” Alexa said, backing out of the cramped room. “Stay away everyone. Call 911! Get an ambulance.”

The library director half carried Helen to the break room and sat her at the kitchen table.

“Blair is still in there,” Helen said. “I sprayed her.” Her eyes were streaming and her face was on fire.

“We’ll let the police deal with her,” Alexa said. “Pepper spray hurts, but it won’t kill her. Seraphina, lock the Kingsley collection door and stand guard. Gladys, watch the library. Lisa, hand me that milk in the fridge.”

“Milk?” Helen wheezed. She tried to wipe her teary eyes, but Alexa stopped her.

“Don’t rub your eyes! That will make it worse. When you said you were armed with pepper spray, I looked up the antidote online, just in case you used it.”

Of course you did, Helen thought. If her ribs didn’t hurt so much, she would have laughed.

“Pepper spray inflames the capillaries and causes a horrific burning sensation,” Alexa said, once again a reference librarian.

Tell me about it, Helen thought.

“Rubbing your eyes will open more capillaries and spread the burning. Lisa, fill a big, shallow bowl with warm water and dishwashing soap.”

Alexa sloshed cold milk on a clean towel and draped it over Helen’s face, then put more milk-soaked towels on her neck, hands, and arms.

Helen gasped out her story through the milky towel: “Blair ran down Charlotte at her job interview—that’s why her car is in the shop. She tried to search for the watercolor here but you threw her out.”

“Dreadful,” Alexa said. “Just dreadful. Why would she do that?”

“She thought the library was entitled to the Kingsleys’ million-dollar watercolor and that the money would save this building,” Helen said.

“So she killed that poor girl,” Alexa said.

“And tried to kill me with the rattlesnake,” Helen said. “She admitted it.”

The cold milk and Alexa’s gentle touch were soothing. “I was wrong about her, Helen. I’m so sorry. Do you feel better?”

“A little,” Helen said, her voice raspy as a rusty hinge.

“I wish there was a painless way to fix this,” Alexa said. “Next, I have to remove that pepper spray oil from your face. Lisa, where’s that bowl of soapy water? Good. Put it right in front of Helen.”

Alexa must have tested the water. “The temperature is perfect,” she said. “Warm, but not too hot.” She took the milky towel off Helen’s face, and she tried to focus her weepy, watery eyes.

“You look a little better,” Alexa said. “Now stick your face in the soapy water and let the detergent start breaking down that pepper oil.”

Helen closed her eyes again, took a deep breath and stuck her head in the water for as long as she could. When she brought her head out, Alexa said, “No, don’t wipe it away. Sit there for a
minute, and then do it again. Okay, another deep breath. In you go. Lisa, more soapy water.”

Helen was relieved to hear sirens. Help had finally arrived. The ambulance crew worked on her pepper-sprayed skin while Alexa told the Flora Park uniform that Blair Hoagland had attacked Helen and killed homeless Charlotte. She also gave him the name of Blair’s repair shop so the white car could be impounded.

Helen looked like a rejected library donation: Her blouse was torn at the shoulder and paper clips tinseled her hair, which was drenched with milk and soapy water.

It hurt to talk. But the uniform cop listened as Helen gasped out her story. When he realized that Blair had murdered the Bettencourt hit-and-run victim, he tried to call Detective Micah Doben, but he’d left for the day. Instead, Detective Earline V. Culver took the call.

Helen knew her name only later because she’d kept the detective’s card. At the time, Helen had just vague impressions of the woman: sharp-eyed, smart, coal black hair.

Helen was dizzy and her chest felt as if it were wrapped with sharp metal bands. Her eyes still burned.

“You’re lucky it wasn’t police-grade spray,” Detective Culver told her. “That’s even worse.”

Helen didn’t feel lucky. She struggled through her story again until the detective interrupted. “Why are you having trouble talking? Are you hurt?”

“Yes,” Helen gasped. “Blair dropped a dictionary on my chest. A big one. About two thousand pages. I can’t breathe so well.”

“You need to go to the ER,” she said. “The ambulance will take you now.”

“Call my husband,” Helen said, and rattled off Phil’s cell phone number.

*   *   *

Helen got to see Blair led away in handcuffs. Alexa was relieved that the head Friend of the Library was taken out through the staff
entrance, but the intrepid
Flora Park Gazette
photographer captured the scene.

As four beefy paramedics loaded Helen into the ambulance, she said, “You’ll make sure to find the Chevy and impound it at the repair shop, won’t you? And test the undercarriage for DNA and blood? And the paint chips—check them against the white paint found on Charlotte’s body.”

“I know how to run a case, Ms. Hawthorne,” Detective Culver said, somewhat sharply.

*   *   *

A worried Phil met Helen at the ER. Her hair was sticky and stinking of spoiled milk. Her eyes still stung, but the pain was bearable. By then she’d been helped into a hospital gown and had a bruise the size of a dinner plate on her chest. “Is that as painful as it looks?” Phil asked.

Helen nodded.

“Your eyes are all red.”

“Pepper spray,” she gasped.

Phil took her hand and asked, “Are you having trouble talking?”

She nodded again, then said, “Tell me what’s going on with Trey.”

“Oh, this story is good,” Phil said. “Broker—that’s Detective Stanley Morgan—executed a search warrant at dawn. Trey lives with his parents, and the cops searched the Lohan family’s six-thousand-square-foot house. Which, by the way, is built a lot better than LCC’s cheesy rentals.

“The police didn’t find anything in Trey’s room except a key to an apartment in one of the LCC developments. His father insisted that he gave the apartment to his son, but Broker couldn’t figure out what a spoiled rich kid would be doing there—even the cops go into that apartment complex in pairs—so he got another search warrant.

“Turned out the enterprising young man was running a shoplifting ring out of his LCC apartment. Light-fingered residents
would go to the big-box stores and steal electronics, household appliances, tablet computers, watches—all the stuff he and his friend Ozzie Ormond were selling at discount prices in Light Up the Night.

“Trey also did a little boosting on his own, stealing jewelry at the homes where he partied. That’s where he got the Tiffany bracelet he gave Bree for her birthday.

“He was careful to steal only one thing at those parties, like that Tiffany bracelet. It was expensive, but not especially rare. His drug-addled friends were so out of it, they often didn’t miss the item for days, or thought they’d lost it.

“But Trey was desperate. He was deep in debt from gambling, and greedy besides. He broke his own rule at Bree’s party. He stole two things: an expensive—and easily identifiable—ruby-and-diamond necklace, and the Coakleys’ golf cart with the custom seat cushions. He’s going away for a long time.”

Helen managed a smile.

“Can I ask you about that Tiffany bracelet, Helen? Your eyebrows went halfway up your forehead when Bree’s daddy said he’d buy his daughter one just like it. I gather they’re expensive.”

Helen nodded.

“How much?” he asked. “Five hundred dollars?”

Helen laughed, then winced. It hurt too much. She shook her head and remembered just in time not to rub her itchy eyes.

“A thousand dollars?” Phil asked.

“Fifteen hundred,” she croaked.

“For that little thing?” Phil asked.

Helen nodded again.

“Bet the old boy’s sorry he opened his mouth,” Phil said. “A fifteen-hundred-dollar bracelet. That was one expensive visit to the cop shop.”

Helen tried to smile again, but it still hurt. “What about Snake Boy?” she asked.

“All we can prove so far is that Ozzie Ormond was an accessory in the cart theft, and that’s on the security video, but we’re still looking. The police are talking to Snake Boy again, and this time, they have a warrant for his apartment. Right now, we can’t find any connection between Ozzie and his girlfriend, Chloe, and the theft of the ruby necklace, but we’re looking.”

That was when the emergency room doctor, a young, coffee-colored man with thick black hair, showed up in Helen’s cubicle. He poked and prodded, then sent Helen off for X-rays. An eye specialist examined her and her eyes were rinsed with more saline solution.

Two hours later, the coffee-skinned doctor said, “Your eyes will hurt for another two or three days, Ms. Hawthorne, but there’s no permanent damage. You also have a cracked rib. It’s painful, but there’s not much I can do except give you pain pills. We don’t tape up ribs like the old days.

“It’s important to keep your lungs healthy. As you heal, practice taking deep breaths. And don’t be afraid of taking the pain medication, Ms. Hawthorne, because keeping the pain under control is important for taking strong, deep breaths.”

Helen popped two pills under the doctor’s supervision, and soon felt like she was flying. By the time she and Phil got back to the Coronado, a sunset salute was in progress, and Helen was feeling no pain. Her sunglasses hid her red eyes.

Margery, Peggy and Markos were sitting at the umbrella table, drinking mojitos and scooping up hummus with pita triangles. Margery and Markos both wore purple shorts, but Helen thought they looked better on the muscular Markos. Margery’s tangerine orange manicure was the same color as her glowing cigarette end.

Markos waved them over. “Phil! Helen! I made mojitos and hummus.”

“I actually like hummus,” Phil said, though he avoided the carrots and celery sticks and heaped only pita on his plate. Phil
also took a mojito, but Helen waved hers away. “I’ll take a rain check tonight,” she said.

Margery looked at her oddly and handed her a bottle of cold water.

Peggy, mojito in hand, said, “I brought home a mate for Pete. Come meet her.” Peggy, with her green shorts, red hair and beautiful beak, looked like an exotic bird.

The two Quaker parrots were exploring their handsome new home, a black hexagon pagoda cage six feet tall. Peggy had rolled it out by the pool.

She pointed out its features: “With the rollers, I can bring it outside when the weather’s nice. It has two wooden perches, two swings, four stainless-steel cups and a slide-out tray for easy cleaning.”

Pete—at least Helen thought it was him—was on the top perch. A second bright green parrot with sober gray feathers on her head looked exactly like Pete, except Helen thought she might be a smidge smaller.

“That’s the new woman on the swing, right?” Helen asked.

“That’s her,” Peggy said.

“How do you tell them apart?” Helen asked.

“You can’t, except by a DNA test. I recognize Pete’s familiar mannerisms. She’s a year old, in her parrot prime.”

“Aw,” Helen said woozily, and chanted, “Pete’s got a girlfriend.

“What’s her name?” she asked.

“Patience,” Peggy said. “The perfect name for a Quaker parrot. She’ll need it to live with Pete.”

“Doesn’t he like her?” Helen said.

“I don’t know yet,” Peggy said. “He’s been avoiding her. I took a big risk getting him a girlfriend. I wanted Pete to have some company while I’m at work all day and out most evenings with Daniel. I thought another bird would give him someone to talk to. Instead, he’s not talking to anyone, even me.”

“You’ve spoiled him,” Margery said.

Peggy sighed. “Maybe he’s a one-woman bird.”

Helen watched the two birds in their new home. Patience hopped closer to Pete. He backed away and flew down to a lower perch.

“Maybe he’s shy,” Helen said.

“Maybe he feels trapped,” Peggy said. “If he were in the wild, he’d have plenty of space to roam and lots of women. Instead, I’ve forced her on him. Now he’s locked in a cage with a permanent blind date.”

“Give them time,” Helen said. “It’s too soon.” She giggled. “It will take time to see if love is for the birds.” She laughed at her own joke, way too loudly. The others stared.

“Are you drunk?” Margery said.

“No, stoned to the gills,” Helen said, cheerfully. “I caught me a killer and Phil broke up a shoplifting ring. It’s been a busy day.”

“Sit down and tell us,” Margery said, puffing on her Marlboro.

Phil guided the giddy Helen to a chaise by the pool, and this time she winced when she sat down. She could feel the pain through the comfortable cloud of drugs.

Helen told her friends about Charlotte Dams’s brutal hit-and-run death and how she’d been laughed out of the Bettencourt police station.

“Really?” Markos said. “The cop was that rude to you?”

“Yep. You don’t have to be from another country to get bad treatment,” Helen said.

She finished with a colorful version of her fight with Blair, and was roundly applauded. They made sympathetic gasps when she whipped off her sunglasses and showed her red, watery eyes.

“Put those things back on,” Margery said. “You look like you’re bleeding to death.”

“I don’t feel as bad as I look. But wait—there’s more!” she said, with a loopy grin. “Phil, tell them what happened with Trey. Markos, you had a part in bringing him down.”

Markos smiled. “I’m an operative,” he said.

Phil told his story, ending with, “Trey’s bonded out for grand theft felony. The police are still trying to figure out if his father is involved in the thefts, since Trey used the family’s business pickup to deliver the golf cart to the fence.”

“Bet the Lohan family will have an interesting discussion at dinner tonight,” Margery said.

Markos started to say something, but they heard a loud
squawk
and looked over at Pete’s new home.

“Woo-hoo!” the parrot said. “Hello. Pete’s got a girlfriend. Pete’s got a girlfriend.” His singsong squawking imitation of Helen was eerily hilarious.

“He’s talking!” Peggy said. “Look! He’s got heart-shaped wings.”