Catharine Bramkamp - Real Estate Diva 03 - In Good Faith (25 page)

“The television news picked it up right away. I
’m sure it was because of the children, and all those family photos. We are now such a visual culture, photos are absolutely essential. I should have thought of that sooner. Of course, I had to take them myself, another miscalculation.”

I swallowed. The portly, professorial, gentleman morphed into someone far more menacing that I had ever thought possible.  He smiled happily at me. He had all his teeth, but they were yellow with age, and his smile did not help mitigate the over all impression of a mind gone awry.

“Yes, they did.” I acknowledged more calmly than I felt.

I took a small step to the lef
t. I could almost reach the door. “That should make you happy right?  Mission accomplished?” 

He took a step towards me, and I had no choice but to take a step back, away from the door, so tantalizingly close. I tried to remember where my car was parked. Had I locked it? Where were my keys?  In my pocket.

I said the first thing that came to mind. “I don’t have children.”

“That’s okay
.” He acknowledged pleasantly. “Still, you are tremendously newsworthy. I recognize you from the tribute to poor Beverley. You are an excellent victim, especially if you’re killed during an amateur investigation, doing your part to expose Beverley’s killer. The current girlfriend helping the dead ex-wife.  Very interesting angle, in addition, you have notoriety, I read about you in the paper all the time.”  He casually picked up a knife, a large triangle shaped knife (no, I did not recognize the brand, it was large and looked very sharp) and waved it in my direction. I arched back, but did not move, the space was too small for much dodging or ducking. 

“
Those are paid advertisements.” I pointed out. “Different than editorial, everyone knows that.”  Get out. Get. Out.

He shook his head and looked, well kindly, except for the knife
clutched in his hand.  Now, I’ve been bludgeoned, beaten, smacked and nearly immolated, but facing a big knife, wielded by a killer with intent, overwhelmed me, but not with adrenaline, rather by a sense of terrible loneliness. To die alone with no one near, how truly awful. I felt for poor Beverley and Cyndi.  Great, another learning experience. I suppose this will build character. If I survive.

I took another step, the incessant music in my brain: get out, get out. I had faced unhinged mad men before, but not one so completely sensible.
The rain roared onto the trailer, water cascaded down the small windows as if we were in a car wash.

  “Come on
.” He waved the knife and slowly approached me. “It won’t hurt a bit, you’ll feel a little tug, then blessed darkness, and the rest,” he shrugged. “The rest is up to me and you won’t care at all.”

He eyed me. “But you are much larger than the other three.” He glanced at the knife, and I held my breath. I did not have an exit strategy (except for get out), and the thought of him chasing me through a slick, and empty parking lot in the pouring rain, was not a good one. I would become a horror film heroine, I would not get into my car fast enough. He’d follow me into the front seat, and we’d end up wrestling for the knife in an even more confined space than the RV.

He frowned at the size of the knife, versus the size of my, well, me.

But, apparently it was not a problem.  “I was disappointed there were never photos of  Beverley.”

“
And you worked so hard.” I realized now why the police never released details about the murder scene. I was one of the only people who knew how poor Beverley had ended up. Me and the murderer.

“
It was so difficult to get her head off. And there we no photos.” He spoke as if relating how hard it is to open a wine bottle stuffed with a synthetic cork.

“
You made quite an effort.” I swallowed. I knew ten seconds before, but his comment confirmed it. The real deal. I had found the murderer, all by myself. And there in lies the problem. I was all alone.

“
I did.” He gestured with knife. “All that staging, wasted.  I may drive away, this is not working out as well as I hoped.”

“
Sometimes murder is can be that way.” I agreed.

I backed away a whole inch, it was a far as I could go. The rain beat down. Sheets of water obscured the windows. I couldn’t see anything outside, and of course, no one could see in.

He advanced, completely confident of the outcome. A murderer with tenure.

My phone rang.  I had to ignore it, as much as I wanted to brandish it, claiming it could be a buyer and would he understand if I took this? 

I backed up and hit the built-in banquet.

So who saves Allison? Who comes in at the last minute? Does someone come at the last minute? 

Yes, someone does. The imperious Martha Anderson. She didn’t even bother knocking on the RV’s flimsy door, but pulled it open as if she owned the place. A steaming hot turkey proceeded her into the doorway. 

“
Good!” She announced. “You’re ready to carve.”

The professor looked down at the knife in his hand.

“Martha!” I greeted her loudly enough to be heard over the rain. I pulled her into the RV because I couldn’t very well push her out backwards. Once she took a step inside, I grabbed the turkey, barely balanced in the flimsy aluminum tray in the first place, and threw it as hard as I could straight at the professor.

He dropped the knife to defend himself against the steaming white meat and hot grease, and in that second, I pushed Martha back out of the RV (forward, it gave her a more fighting chance), and followed her stumbling bulk, pushing the door closed behind me. 

“What are you doing!”  Martha yelled.

I kept my hand on the door handle, and my body weight pushed against the door to hold it closed. It would only be a second before, here he was.

The professor banged on the door, but I didn’t budge. The rain plastered my hair down and quickly trickled down the back of my jacket. Call me the human doorstop.

I looked around for something to secure the door, but the parking lot was empty of random pieces of wood.  

The rain made the handle and the little metal steps leading to the door, too slippery for a good purchase, especially long term.

“
Your car!”  I yelled at Martha.

“
What?” She stood solidly in the lot, looking at me as if I were mad. Which could be, but I had a killer inside. Did he have the keys to the RV? He must, he drove Cyndi’s body to the Homeless Prevention League and back again. I could slash the tires after I secured the door.

“
Get in your car. Drive it here!” I called to Martha.

“
What? That was a perfectly good turkey, donated by Cooper Milk.”

“
Believe me, they will understand. Your car, I need to block the door.”

“
But then the professor can’t get out!”

“
Exactly.” The door heaved against me from the professor’s efforts. I pushed back and held onto the handle, as I worked to keep my feet wedged on the stair step.  
                            Martha hesitated, still not processing what happened. She eyed the bulging door and the sounds of the man knocking against it. In a fair fight, I can take him, and for me, this moment was completely fair. The door smacked against me. I wedged my heels under the steps and braced myself with all the energy and pounds at my disposal.

I gestured frantically to the door, and pointed to her car.  She finally moved, in slow motion it looked to me, but I was pumped through with more desperate energy tha
n she so my perception of time was quite different.

The door handle was slippery. A nail broke as I tried to maintain my grip, my shoulder slipped but I steadied myself and pushed harder. At least the song had disappeared, I was out, not finished with him, but at least outside, and away from the knife.

After about a thousand years, Martha (I think I can call her Martha, after all we’ve been through together), started the motor and pulled the car closer. Closer.

The door gave and I slipped.  He must be looking for another exit. I pulled out my phone and scrolled to the second number on my screen, the police.

I waved her closer. She had no idea what I wanted to do, but I did. Closer.

Fortunately I had kept my grip on the door handle. He returned with new force, pushing and yelling. 

Martha peered at me through her windshield, still completely puzzled.

“
Please!” My hair was a mess, I had turkey drippings all down my skirt.  It would be ruined if I didn’t get to a dry cleaners quickly. She probably thought I was a lunatic.

“
Push the car up against the door.”

I kept my hand on the door, as soon as her bumper was close enough
, I jumped to one side and kicked away the stairs. I threw my arms towards the door as if I was pointing out the view, imagine this city scene at night.  Here, I gestured. I hope she got it by now, that she needed to pull her car up against the door. 

She paused, the rain whipping against the windshield. “Go!” I yelled. “Block the door, now!”

She did, the grill of her Cadillac banged into the side of the RV and effectively  covered the bottom half of the door. It bent under the impact, but held.  The professor howled from inside.

I stepped away.  Two finger nails had completely popped off and I was due at Emily’s in an hour. I hate when that happens.

The professor had quite a vocabulary of swear words.

It’s really sad that the Rivers Bend police is number two on my most called list. 

* * *

“Umm. Hi.” Ben let me into the side door. I couldn’t risk encountering Emily in my current state.

I staggered into the library, and sat down on the first inviting piece of furniture. 

“You look like you’ve been busy
.” He ventured.  He was a very good man.  And despite some of his inabilities to handle aggressive fundraisers, he knew how to handle me.

“I broke two nails
.” I announced. 

“Ah
.” he shoved his hands into his jeans pockets, and rocked on his heels.  “And what were you doing that justified sacrificing your lovely and expensive fingernails?”  

The calming cocoon of shock that insulated me enough to speak to the police, nod to Mr
. Morris, who waved me on, sign a hastily written report, leave my business card and assure  everyone I was not leaving town. The calm that helped me drive north, putting up with holiday songs on the radio that all seemed to mention turkeys.  The calm got me here to this chair, suddenly split open and fell away.

“I found Beverley’s killer
.” I wailed. Tears overwhelmed me now I was safe.

I don’t think I’ve ever cried in front of Ben. But I didn’t have enough fortitude left to stem the tide, and pretend to be strong. I was not strong. I kept walking in on horribly mutilated bodies and tonight, I almost joined their ranks.

That thought made me cry harder.  

“I’m going to delay dinner
.” I hiccupped.

“Oh baby, it’s crab, it will keep.” He sank down next to me, wrapped his arms around me and held me tightly against his chest. He felt good. I clung to him as only a ravaged, upset heroine can, and sobbed out the last four hours.

At least Martha Anderson had been impressed.

She didn’t stay in the car, once she blocked the RV door.  She struggled out, shoes first, the bulk of her last. Her raincoat caught on the door, she jerked the coat free and slammed the door in fit of pique.

“What are you doing!” She waved at the RV, now rocking suggestively due to the professor’s exertions.  “He’s still in there.”

“Yes
he is.”     

Sirens flared up from around the corner. Excellent. The professor was still beating against the door.

The only coherent words I heard were “This is an outrage.”  Yes, it was.

“He is the murderer
.” I announced.

She put her hands on her hips and glared at me. The rain had let up some, but water was still pouring out of the sky, and I swear, Martha Anderson’s hair was completely unaffected.

“Now, how did you come to such an unsupported and spurious conclusion?  Just because he’s homeless, is that it?” She demanded, still indignant, I assumed, about the sacrificed roasted turkey.

Two police cars, red and blue lights flashing, illuminated the wet, black asphalt and skidded so close to me, the tires sprayed water on my boots.

Guns drawn, they politely asked Martha to move her car again. In a huff, she did.

I thought for a second that the professor could have escaped from a window. But the windows are small and he is round,
that escape would have not been an option.  I happily stepped to one side as the police extracted the professor, appropriately with guns drawn and handcuffs ready.

“He told me
.” I said to Martha.

“He told me
.” I repeated to Ben.