The Marquesa's Necklace (Oak Grove Mysteries Book 1) (10 page)

The printer couldn’t spit out paper fast enough. Officer Felton covered his embarrassment by digging into the file cabinet by the desk and pulling out a couple of manila envelopes. I detected the remains of a blush when he handed the paperwork to me.

“Tell Detective Thomason we all hope he gets better soon,” Officer Felton said.

“I will. I’ll try not to delay his recovery too much,” I said, winking and giggling again, sending the blood rushing back to his face. Like an actress collecting an Oscar, I strolled out the door. My prize was contained in the two envelopes clutched in my firm grip.

I glanced at the report on his incident first, and struck pay dirt. I knew the body shop his Mustang had been towed to; I’d had work done on George there several times. I drove by slowly and caught a glimpse of a red vehicle up on one of their lifts. Good. That meant the car was being repaired. Funny, I liked the car better than the owner.

The box of postcards still sat on my dresser where I’d left it when I returned home. I carried it to the front room and set it on the coffee table while I went to the kitchen and poured a glass of Riesling. I curled up on the loveseat and contemplated the box, while I sipped the wine. Was I betraying Jake by studying them for a clue to some crime, betraying Freddie by going through them without him, or betraying myself if I didn’t do it?

I spent an hour or two studying the postcards, remembering the stories Jake told me about the places he’d traveled, and the plans we made to go to some of them together. I allowed myself to cry then, mourning the man I’d loved. That man was dead now as far as I was concerned; and the Jake who sat in a prison cell was a different person.

Eventually I pulled open my laptop and went to work. I started by listing the locations the cards were from and the date he had been there. A fairly simple spreadsheet, but easy to manipulate if I felt the need. In another column I would list the local newspapers, and the last column would be for police reports. Nothing minor like speeding or jaywalking, although some small town papers listed those sorts of offenses in their police blotters; I was only interested in unsolved crimes.

Midnight fled by before I gave up the quest, no closer to an answer. No pattern, no crimes that tied together. Maybe Jake had been nothing more than a playboy. No, I didn’t believe that. Why would he have fought so hard when we were arrested if he wasn’t guilty of something? Having sex with women all over the country isn’t a crime, and that’s all the prosecutor proved he was doing.

The morning brought no new revelations, so I packed up my laptop and went to the library. I had several research projects lined up, and I’d been neglecting my authors. They were willing to give me some leeway, but I didn’t want to push my luck. I set up at a table facing the main doors and hit the card catalog.

There was an on-line system, but I enjoyed the physical act of flipping through the cards. The feel of the paper lightly scraping across my fingertips, the almost musky smell of the older ones connected me to the books in a way the keys on a keyboard never could. It’s almost like I found the books I needed through a mystical relationship.

When the reminder on my laptop popped up to point out it was quitting time—yes, I set myself an alarm so I don’t end up staying until closing—it took me fifteen minutes to re-shelve the accumulated books. The simple act of placing each book back where it belonged was a prayer offered to the spirits that protect the library. As I adjusted the spine of the last book to meet the edge of the shelf, I whispered a plea that they would protect me as well. It seemed my ghost had deserted me. Like all the men in my life, he had betrayed me.

I forced myself to show up at the Pink Flamingo for girls’ night out. I didn’t want to face the questioning I knew I deserved, but I figured it would only make things worse if I made excuses and didn’t go. I even dressed up—my best jeans, a shimmery pale blue blouse and those sandals with the spiked heels. I looked the part of a woman who didn’t have a care in the world. As I climbed out of Dolores in the parking lot of the bar, I heard a wolf whistle coming from one of the men standing near the back door. Unsure if the whistle was for me or the car, I smiled and waved before I went inside.

The girls were waiting for me, and I barely sat down before they pounced. What was going on between me and Detective Thomason? Would I be staying with him while he recuperated? For Pete’s sake, they didn’t even give me time to order my beer first. Luckily, the waitress’ arrival forced them to concentrate on their menus.

The relief was short-lived, but at least it gave me time to craft my response. “We’re going through a rough patch right now,” I answered.

“Ooh. You gonna tell us about it?” Merrilee grinned. For an English teacher, she sometimes used the worst grammar.

“Let’s just say he has a hard time turning off the cop.” I gratefully took my beer from the waitress and took a sip. Just a plain old domestic draft for once. “I understand, but I’m not sure I can handle it.”

“Frankly, I was surprised you hooked up with him at all,” Merrilee said. “You didn’t seem to be too fond of him last year.”

“I wasn’t. And that’s part of the problem. I keep expecting him to whip out his handcuffs.” I decided to play the trump card and batted my eyes. “I might not mind if we were in the bedroom.”

My friends howled with laughter until our food arrived and we got down to the serious business of feeding our faces. I almost forgot to watch the front door. Almost.

I was the first to notice when Eric Wolff walked in and scanned the place. I kicked Sarah. “Guess who just showed up?”

“Not Detective Thomason? I thought he was out of action for a couple of weeks.”

“Nope. Guess again.” I grinned as she twisted in her seat.

“I didn’t know he was back in town,” she gasped as she turned back around. She ran her fingers through her hair and her tongue across her lips. “Do I have anything stuck in my teeth?” she asked anxiously.

“You look fine,” Merrilee assured her. “And he’s spotted us, so take a deep breath.”

Sarah did a good job of acting surprised when he paused by our booth. “Any room for me?” he asked. I must admit, he had a nice voice. But I still didn’t like those eyes. He must have sensed it, because he avoided looking at me.

“Eric!” she squealed. “What are you doing here?”

“I missed you,” he replied, leaning over and kissing her on the cheek. “Okay if I join you ladies?”

“Of course not!” Janine laughed as she pushed over on the bench to make room for him to sit next to Sarah.

He hung out with us for about an hour, and insisted on paying all of our tabs when he left. I couldn’t figure out one valid reason not to like him, but I didn’t trust him enough to buy a used car from him. I just smiled when Sarah ran on for the next half hour about how wonderful he was. By the time I got home, I was too tired to deal with the police reports sitting on my kitchen table.

Chapter Thirteen

Unfortunately, I forgot to set my alarm, and I woke up too late to tackle the reports. It was the day of my monthly meeting with the authors’ group, and I needed to clean up some of my research before we met for lunch. We took over the back room in an all-you-can-eat restaurant, the Wrangler, for these get-togethers. They would critique each other’s writing, share potential plot ideas, and gossip. They gossiped a lot. I would take notes on what they were working on, and suggest ideas for research topics. We’d been doing this for almost two years now, and I liked to think my work had contributed to several books making the best-seller list. Low on the list of best sellers, but better than no mention at all.

We left in time for the staff to set up for the evening rush. Standing by Dolores, showing her off, I noticed a black car cruising down the street, going slower than the speed limit. Because of the tinted windows I couldn’t be sure, but I thought it was Eric Wolff driving. I started to wave, but the car sped up and disappeared around the corner. For a brief moment, I thought I saw some scratches on the back bumper. I tried to convince myself it was just a trick of the sunlight and shadows from the trees that lined the street, but suddenly I was in a hurry to get home to those manila envelopes on my coffee table.

*****

I started with the most recent one—Detective Thomason’s crash. I wanted to find out how accurate the newspaper article was or wasn’t. Pushing aside the stack of postcards on the coffee table, I settled down on the loveseat and pulled out the paperwork.

While doing research, I’d read my share of police reports and knew what to expect. Just the facts, Ma’am. The incident occurred at nine at night, so after dark. Detective Thomason was off-duty, driving down the 500 block of Spruce Drive—that would have put him about a block from my place, I wondered if he was checking up on me—he lived on the other side of town. It was a public street, so I couldn’t object. At a stop sign, a car pulled up behind him with its headlights off. He’d tapped his brakes several times, hoping to alert the other driver to the situation.

At the next intersection, the driver of the car still hadn’t turned on its lights, so Detective Thomason put the Mustang in park, figuring he would check and see if there was a problem. About the time he opened his door and swung his leg out, the other car rammed the Mustang’s rear end. Not an accidental, gentle tap, either, but hard enough that the door of the Mustang slammed against his leg.

He’d pulled his leg back into the car and reached for his cell phone. Yet another hard bump made him drop it, but this time the other car accelerated around him.

Ignoring the sensation of a warm liquid running down his calf, Detective Thomason gave chase. In my mind, I could see it—the other driver would have made unexpected turns, cut through alleys, sped through red lights, and Detective Thomason would have stuck close behind. When the vehicle left town, he stayed glued to its tail.

Once they cleared the subdivisions south of town, he stomped on the gas pedal until the front bumper of the Mustang almost touched the rear bumper of the other vehicle and flashed his lights several times. The driver had slowed abruptly, causing the two cars to bump, and Detective Thomason’s chest hit the steering wheel. The driver then pulled into the other lane and adjusted his speed so that the two vehicles were side by side.

The detective tried to ram the side of the Mustang into the passenger’s side of the other car, but wasn’t able to push it off the road. The other vehicle fell back slightly, then, with a sudden burst of speed, rammed into the rear quarter panel of the Mustang, knocking it into a spin. Detective Thomason remembered hitting the brakes, the car sliding, his head hitting the steering wheel, and a barbed-wire fence rushing at him.

The description of the car and its driver was meager. A dark-colored sedan, with out of state plates. Its driver was probably male, but a baseball cap, worn low on the forehead, made identification doubtful if not nearly impossible.

Shaken, I dropped the report on the table and draped my afghan over me.

Sure, cops make enemies. Detective Thomason wasn’t exactly my most favorite person anymore, but to try to kill him? Things like that don’t happen in our little town. Besides, the report said the plates weren’t local. I couldn’t access the police department computers—I’m no hacker—but the newspaper printed a list of everyone who got busted each week. And they do have a nice on-line archive. Two years ago seemed like a good place to start.

Either I was losing my research skills or I was approaching the problem all wrong. The biggest crime news in the past year was me and Jake. Neither of us tried to run Detective Thomason off the road. I did learn a few things. Darla Smith, who was only a few years older than me, had been arrested twice for drunk driving. It made me sad—ever since her seven-year old got run over by an old lady who stepped on the gas instead of the brake, Darla had been falling apart. And Harry, an old friend of my mother’s, got busted for possession of drug paraphernalia. He’s getting up there in years, but still dresses like its 1968. I got distracted and traced down the court report. Thankfully, the judge who handled the case let Harry off with a good talking to.

There was one interesting report. A guy from Chicago got busted for stealing a car. He was out on bail, but that would explain the out-of-state plates. And if he was smart, he would have used a stolen car. Pure speculation, because the reports didn’t even mention if Detective Thomason had been involved in the case. I needed to find out more. I made a mental note to drop by and visit the detective the next day. At least I had hope that the attack had nothing to do with me.

When I propped my feet up on the table, I’d knocked over the stack of postcards, and they lay scattered on the floor. I knelt down to gather them up and stopped at the one from the Grand Canyon. Had Jake picked up a woman while he had been there? A tourist, or one of the college girls that work there during the summer? I flipped the card over to check out the date. September thirteenth. But as I studied the postmark, I noticed something. Something that didn’t add up.

Why would a postcard from Arizona be postmarked in San Francisco? And the one from Seattle was stamped in Chicago? I should have called Detective Thomason right then. Instead, I opened up my spreadsheet and added several new columns. By then, the battery on my laptop was running down. After plugging it in to recharge and starting a pot of coffee, I tucked myself into one corner of the loveseat and went to work.

Adrenaline and caffeine kept me going long past my normal bedtime, but I woke mid-morning curled up on the loveseat with the laptop on the floor.