Antiques Roadkill (15 page)

The little family lingered awhile, making sure my two hungry “friends” didn’t return. The mother offered to help me with the spilled basket, but I declined, and the little family moved on, the kid turning back to look in fascination at the crazy-eyed little dog who’d so spooked the big bad wolves.

Sushi had found her way over to the spilled basket and was sniffing around, making sure lunch was still there. I bent to gather everything—the food, in various plastic bags, had survived—when someone began to clap, the sound reverberating off the rock walls.

I looked up toward the source of the applause.

Sitting on the ledge overlooking the Devil’s Punch Bowl, khaki-clad legs dangling, was the real reason for my trip—Joe Lange.

“You handled yourself well,” he said in his overly enunciated baritone. “… For a civilian.”

Annoyed, I straightened, basket in hand. “And where were
you
when I needed you?”

Joe didn’t answer, just tossed a rope over the ledge of the rock and began to climb down. I was impressed until he lost his grip and fell about ten feet to the ground with a
whump!
Seemingly unhurt, he sprang up in the cloud of dust he’d raised, and I suppressed a smile.

I’d known Joe since biology class in junior high. Basically, he was a would-be man’s man who was really an eternal boy, and a nerd who saw himself as much smarter than he actually was. I’m not saying that he didn’t have brains, but he had sporadic black holes among the gray matter that he’d fall into.

While Joe wasn’t hard on a female’s eyes, tall and loose-limbed with nice features, those features were a wee bit off: one eye higher than the other, mouth a little too wide, nose leaning to one side. And as long as I’d known him, he seemed perpetually forty years old, as if he’d come out of the womb that way (ouch!).

Joe had a penchant for pretzels and hard liquor—almost always to ill effect—believed in Nostradamus, and was a certified (and certifiable) gun nut. He was a Trekker—not Trekkie!—and strictly orthodox (classic Trek, only). Come to think of it, he was kind of like Mr. Spock—an incompetent Mr. Spock.

That said, he was essentially harmless, a loyal friend, and interesting if bizarre company, guaranteed to be funny … although the latter was not always intentional.

Back when we both attended community college, Joe had joined the National Guard; he loved being a weekend warrior … but then along came Desert Storm, and his unit got called up, something I think he never expected.

The war must have been rough on Joe, because he got sent home before his tour was finished, for reasons never explained (to me, anyway), and he hasn’t really seemed right since.

Joe said, “I thought your ETA was oh-ten-hundred.”

“What?”

He sighed. “Estimated time of arrival? Ten o’clock?”

“Oh.” I’d forgotten to adjust to military-speak. “Revelry was late this morning.”

“That’s
reveille.”

“Whatever.”

Joe eyed the basket. “I see you brought provisions.”

“Yes, provisions. But if there’s dirt among the protein and vitamins, it’s your own damn fault.”

He waved me off dismissively. “I’d have stepped in if it got ugly.”

“Got
ugly? Didn’t you get a good look at those two? It
started
ugly.”

He gestured for me to follow him. I scooped Sushi up and we left the beaten path, climbed up some rocks, and sat under a leaning, half-dead tree that threatened to topple at the slightest breeze.

I spread out a festive red tablecloth and began to dole out the food, serving up the yapping, drooling Sushi first.

“Not bad rations,” Joe said after a moment, his mouth full.

“Thanks.”

Sushi had already gobbled up her portion—one corner of my sandwich—and began stalking ours. Joe made a friend for life, giving her tiny bites now and then, mindful of her sharp teeth.

Sidebar:
my other dog, the late Bluto, was the greediest animal I ever knew. Once, while Mother was away, he got up on a chair and ate my entire pancake and sausage breakfast when I went to answer the phone … and he’d
already had
his own dog food! That made me mad. And I wondered just how much Bluto would eat … if given the opportunity. So I took a fifteen-pound turkey out of the fridge, cooked it, placed it on the kitchen floor, and left the house to go play with some friends. Well, when Mother came home late that afternoon, she found Bluto passed out over the stripped-clean turkey carcass. I was in
so much trouble
because (1) the vet had to pump the dog’s stomach, and (2) that turkey was supposed to be for our Thanksgiving dinner!

Bluto never hankered after turkey much, after that.

As we moved on to the thawed Girl Scout cookies, Joe asked, “So what’s this covert meeting about?”

I said, “Well … I could use some information.”

His eyes narrowed; with the one eye too high, it gave him a vaguely demented look. “Reconnaissance?”

“Call it … research.”

The eyes tensed. “Explain.”

I shifted to get a better look at him, trying to convey a certain seriousness without setting him off. “Way I see it, Joe, when you hang at the park, you always try to kinda fly in under the radar …”

“Affirmative.”

“… and are in a position to hear and see things.”

He nodded curtly.

“And I suppose you know about Clint Carson’s death.”

“I’ve heard the scuttlebutt, affirmative.”

Encouraged, I pressed him. “Ever see him out here with any of the drug crowd? Crackheads, dopers, whoever?”

He thought for a moment. “Negative,” he said. But then he leaned forward and quietly said, “Not that a lot of trafficking hasn’t gone on, in and out of this place.”

“Local?”

This time he gave me three whole nods. “And as far away as Colorado.”

Remembering the Colorado license plate Mother had heard about from her bartender friend at the hardware store, I chewed thoughtfully on a cookie.

Joe said, “Look—if it’s drug dealing you’re ‘researching …’”

“Yes?”

“I did witness something odd out here one night.”

I waited for the shoe to drop.

“You know that cop that got kicked off the force?”

Mia.

What a clunk
that
shoe made.…

Swallowing, I bobbed my head. “We were friends as little kids.”

“Well, the grown-up version was up top with another cop. They sat in an unmarked car for a long time, having a real confab. Then she got out and drove off in her own vehicle.”

Shaking my head, I asked, “What did you make of
that?”

Joe shrugged. “I thought something was going down—and I don’t mean sexually.”

“Did you know who the other policeman was?”

“Negative. He never got out of the car. All I saw was the blue uniform.”

“So … it could have even been another woman?”

“No. That wasn’t my impression. I can differentiate the sexes with some ease.”

“Good to hear.… You wouldn’t happen to know Brian Lawson?”

“Yes. A good man.”

“Could … could it have been
him,
meeting with Mia?”

“Affirmative.”

My eyes popped. “You mean it
was
Lawson?”

“No. Affirmative it
could
have been Lawson.”

“Oh.”

Sushi was getting restless, and I was afraid she might take a tumble off the rock, so I began to pack up the trash.

As I did, I asked him, “How come you hang around out at the Den so much, Joe?”

“Surely you jest?”

I squinted at him sideways. “Uh, no.…”

He squinted back. “Because of the terrorists, of course.”

My eyebrows headed north. “Here? In Wild Cat Den?”

He looked at me as if I had lost my mind. “Of course! Don’t you see?”

“Uh, no.…”

Very quietly, leaning close, he said, “It’s the perfect place. No one would ever expect them to strike here.”

I said, “Uh, gee. Never thought of it like that.”

Joe smiled, filled his scrawny chest with air. “That’s why you’re lucky you’ve got
me,
watching your back.”

Then he gave me a loose salute for good-bye and headed back toward the Punch Bowl.

I had started the downward trek with Sushi and basket when he called out after me, “Hey, Brandy! Heads-up! I spotted a cougar this morning!”

Oh dear. If Joe was seeing cougars now, how could I believe anything else he’d seen?

I called back with my thanks, and headed on down.

Then I was alone on the trail, every sensible human being in the Wild Cat Den vicinity having had the sense to get out of the heat and humidity.

I had passed Fat Man’s Squeeze and was approaching Steamboat Rock, when an unmistakable scream came from close by, making me all but jump out of my skin.

Not a human scream, an animal one—a wildcat!

And I’m not kidding, this time.

I tossed the basket, clutched Sushi to my pounding chest, and raced down the path as fast as I could. Nearing the bottom, I stumbled over a tree root snaked across the path, skinning both knees, but managed to hang on to Soosh.

Finally I burst into the clearing and looked over my shoulder expecting to see a mountain lion leaping out.…

But there was nothing.

I had the sudden quick image of Joe sitting up on a rock, pushing a button on a boom box to play a prerecorded wildcat screech, grinning crazily to himself. Wouldn’t put it past him … a great terrorist deterrent, wildcats.…

A few lingering tourists, packing up their belongings, stared at the frazzled young woman with disarrayed hair, frightened expression, and skinned knees, clutching a dog
with even wilder eyes, as she walked on wobbly legs toward her car.

No way was I going to go back for that basket!

“Don’t go up there,” I told them, and booked.

After we were locked safely in the Taurus, I said to Sushi, “And how did you like our little outing?” My heart was beating like a disco bass line.

Even Soosh looked a little traumatized.

Driving back on the River Road, I noticed that the police tape across the entrance to Carson’s place had been removed.

What the heck?
I thought, and pulled in, cruising down the one-way lane, and came to a stop in front of the farmhouse.

I got out and stood near the car, appraising the place. Funny how everything seemed different in the daylight—the tan clapboard with its gingerbread accents looked homey and inviting … not like the Amityville-like house of the night I’d come out here. The barn, too, with its funky old rooster weather vane, appeared nothing more than a facility for farm equipment storage, rather than a good place to bury bodies.

I swiveled at the sound of another car coming down the lane, tires snapping tiny twigs. A silver sedan pulled into view, and I wondered who else was anxious to look around the murdered man’s digs.

The car came to a stop behind mine, and the woman behind the wheel eyed me as suspiciously as I did her.

Could she be the mysterious lady Ashley saw with Carson at the Haven Motel? Assuming the motel woman wasn’t my sister Peggy Sue, of course.…

She climbed out. Middle-aged, dressed in a brown linen suit, sporting short helmet-hair, she asked in a coolly professional manner, “Can I help you?”

It was as if I’d just entered a dress shop and the manager had deemed me too dowdy to trade there.

“Just having a look around,” I said pleasantly.

Her demeanor suddenly became more friendly. “Oh! Then you’re interested in the place?”

I wasn’t sure what she meant, so I said, “Maybe.”

She stuck out a slender, manicured hand. “I’m Sue Roth,” she said. “My company is handling this property.”

Now
I knew what she meant. At least she didn’t consider me too dowdy to be a customer.

“Would you like me to show you around?” she asked.

Recalling some recent advice given me by a fortune cookie—
Confucius say: Better to be lucky than smart—
I smiled and said, “Very much—could we start with the barn?”

“The barn?” The Realtor was looking at me curiously, even skeptically. “Most women want to see the kitchen right off.”

“That’ll be my second stop! But that barn looks perfect for my hobby.”

“Hobby?”

“Refinishing furniture.”

She brightened again. “Oh! Are
you
an antique dealer, too?” Instantly her face fell. “Oh … sorry. That was tactless.”

Shrugging, I said, “Doesn’t bother me that someone died here.”

Sue let some air out, in obvious relief; then she rolled her eyes. “Good … good. Because some buyers, well, find that a little off-putting, about a property—especially if there was … foul play.”

Which explained why slick Sue hadn’t turned her nose up at a sweaty girl with skinned knees, a beat-up jalopy, and a shih-tzu with white eyeballs. A prospect was a prospect.…

I retrieved Sushi from the car, then followed the crisply professional Realtor to the barn, where she used a jangling
key chain to unlock the padlock on the double doors, and together we swung them creakingly open.

I don’t know what I expected to see … my beloved furniture stacked in a corner, just waiting for me, maybe?

But, of course, the barn was empty. Zip, zilch, zally, zero … no furniture, and for that matter, nary a backhoe, salt lick, or bail of hay—only floating dust motes.

I turned to Sue. “What happened to everything in here?”

Her eyes narrowed. “Oh—you mean all that furniture that was stacked to the ceiling?”

I nodded.

“Why, the police took it, naturally.”

“Why would the police ‘naturally’ do that?”

Sue shrugged, not terribly interested—how did this help her make a sale?

“All I know,” she said, mildly annoyed, “is that everything in the barn, and everything in the house? Was confiscated.
Why,
I don’t know. Maybe you should go talk to the police, if it’s the furniture you’re after. Do you care to have a look at that kitchen, or not?”

A Trash ‘n’ Treasures Tip

To revarnish or not to revarnish, that is the question. You might be stripping away value along with the old coat. Consult an expert before proceeding … after which, you can say good-bye to your thirty-five-dollar manicure.