Death at a Fixer-Upper (12 page)

Within half an hour, order had been restored and the race was allowed to continue. In past years, the crowd dispersed like magic after the start. Today people lingered, rubbernecking at the wreck of the Flaming Dragon and the emergency medical personnel tending the injured.

I hovered on the outskirts of the crowd, still limp with relief that Max and his team had gotten away safely. The crowd began to thin, and I caught a glimpse of the Turnip Queen smiling up at a fresh-faced paramedic as he applied salve to her arm. The mayor was nowhere to be seen. Two other EMTs loaded a stretcher into a waiting ambulance and closed the doors. Fenton Ziegler, I presumed. The crowd parted and the ambulance rolled away, lights flashing. The show was over.

“There she is,” I heard a voice say.

I looked over my shoulder and saw the big woman with the dimpled elbows. She had a couple of friends with her who made her look like the runt of the litter.

“Get her!” she said.

I didn't wait around to see what they had planned for me. I ducked through the stragglers and sprinted down the alley that ran past the Chinese restaurant, then crossed the street, slowing to a fast trot in front of the building shared by Second Chances Thrift Store and the Soaring Spirit Medical Cannabis Dispensary. I made a quick left, then a right, and decided I'd lost them. Just to make sure, I doubled back around until I found myself a block north and west of the Plaza. No sign of pursuit, so I relaxed.

The weekly farmers' market, displaced by the big race, was in full swing on Ninth Street, crowded with a glut of erstwhile spectators. I joined their ranks, wandering through displays of leafy chard and bunched red beets. I lingered at a table covered with bedding plants, thinking Max and I could put in a little vegetable garden. Of course we'd need a shovel, and probably some fencing. Manure wasn't out of the realm of possibility, either. My feet moved ahead of their own accord, and I arrived at a square table draped with a checkered tablecloth. Pints of clear amber liquid were laid out in rows. The sun was blazing down, and I realized I was thirsty.

“How much?” I asked the young man seated behind the table.

“Five bucks a bottle,” he said. “Organic, vegan, free-range, hand-extracted.”

“Seems awfully expensive.”

“Rabbit urine doesn't come cheap,” he agreed. “But you can't beat it for alkalizing your soil.”

I moved on hastily, pausing in front of a booth covered with photographs of trees and shrubs. A woman in her thirties with thick dark hair smiled at me. “I can tell you love plants,” she said.

“You can?”

“Sure.” She handed me a brochure from a stack on her table. “The Arlinda Botanical Society is one of the area's oldest nonprofit organizations. I could read you our mission statement, but most people don't give a fig about that—they just want to grow a decent tomato here in the fog belt, right?”

“I didn't think that was possible.”

“It's all in the variety you choose. Or we can help you plan and build a little hothouse. Or put in a native-plants garden. If you're having trouble with slugs and aphids, we can show you how to control them nontoxically.”

“Sounds fantastic.”

“All our workshops are free to members,” she said. “Here's my card. Our website is listed there, and that's where you'll find an application for membership. We'll be expanding our interpretive center soon, due to a recent endowment.”

“The Harrington estate.” I dropped the card in my bag.

“Oh, you've heard? Isn't it wonderful? I thought it might take months to sell, but we've already had an offer.”

My eyebrows rose. “Just the one offer?”

“That's right. A woman who truly loves flowers, our agent says.”

Someone called my name. I glanced up and saw Lester Duschane bearing down on me, a big smile on his face.

“I have to go,” I told the woman.

Lester intercepted me a few yards from the booth. “Hey,” he said. “Got a moment?”

“I need to get to Martin's Crossing.”

“Me, too. I'm covering the dunes stage of the race. Don't worry, we have plenty of time.”

I bit back a sigh. Lester Duschane was the publisher, editor, and chief reporter for the
Arlinda Shout,
a ragged little daily he printed out of his garage. He was dark-haired and eager, with thick glasses and stubby legs. He was also persistent as hell.

He trotted along beside me as I strode through the market. “I hear you found a body. Over at the Harrington property.”

“No comment.”

“Throw me a bone here. I have a deadline to meet. What can you tell my readers about the dead guy?”

I shrugged. “He was dead. That's all I know.”

“He was your client, so I'm told.”

“Maybe. Maybe not.” Not anymore.

“The authorities are calling it an accident. You have any reason to believe otherwise?”

“Why would I?”

He waved a hand. “It'd make things more interesting.”

I didn't say anything. Lester panted along beside me.

“Kind of spooky, that old house,” he said. “You wouldn't catch me living there.”

“Unless you have six hundred grand socked away somewhere, you don't have to worry about that.”

“But someone still lives there, right? A lady and her daughter. What's her name? Mavis something?”

“Merrit. Merrit Brown.”

We'd reached the intersection of Eighth and Sunset, and I started to turn off toward the office. Lester clutched at my sleeve.

“Hang on,” he said. “That name seems familiar. I swear I've come across it before.”

“In what context?”

He shook his head. “I'll have to do a little digging. How about I get in touch if I come up with anything?”

I considered. It might be useful. “Sure.”

“For a price, of course.”

I rolled my eyes. “What do you want?”

“An exclusive. The next body you stumble on, the
Shout
gets the story. Deal?”

“There won't be any more bodies.”

“Don't be a pessimist,” he said. “Crime sells papers.”

I turned on my heel and left him at the intersection. The guy had balls, that much was certain. But enough recreation; it was time to get to the office. Maybe new clients, fresh from the excitement of the race, were lined up at the front door, eager to purchase property in that wacky town of Arlinda. Anything was possible.

I used the back door, scanning the street in case my pursuers were hard on my heels. No sign of Curly today. I unlocked the door and went inside, turning the deadbolt behind me.

At first I thought I was alone. I started a pot of coffee and availed myself of the toilet, then washed my hands at the sink, examining my face in the mirror. There was a glob of sticky stuff in my hair that was either styling gel or bird droppings, but apart from that I couldn't complain.

Little fingers of dread suddenly walked up my spine. In a horror movie, something awful would appear behind my reflection in the glass. I whirled around. Nothing. Just nerves.

“Get a grip,” I said out loud. My voice sounded tinny in the stagnant air of the office.

I headed back to the kitchen for coffee. That was when I noticed the figure at my desk. The navy blue jacket, tight across his shoulders, jogged my memory. Ravello. He was seated in my chair, which was swiveled away from the door. I heard the soft hum of my computer. He'd made himself right at home.

Stifling a surge of annoyance, I took a few steps toward the desk. “Richard?”

He didn't budge. In two strides, I reached my chair and spun it around. Richard Ravello was slumped against the seatback, his wrists balanced on the padded armrests. His mouth was slack, his eyes vacant. He was dead. I stood frozen in place, taking in the flecks of foam on the chin, the stained shirtfront. Then I got the hell out of there.

I spent the next two hours telling various official personages everything I knew about Richard Ravello, which turned out to be not all that much. The deputy coroner arrived, out of breath and still wearing a bicycle helmet, his Lycra shorts revealing shapely calves. I retreated to Biddie's office and tried to reach Everett by phone without much hope. He placed a high premium on the sanctity of his weekends.

There was a tap on the door. I looked up, almost groaning when I recognized the officer standing there.

“Lieutenant Sims,” I said. “Nice to see you again.”

Henry Sims was built like a boxer, thick and muscular, all hard dark eyes and restless energy. “Ms. Turner,” he said. “I have your statement. Just need to ask you a few more questions.”

“Really, I'd love to stay, but I need to get to Martin's Crossing to catch the race.”

“A man is dead.” He looked at me with narrowed eyes. “I'd expect you to be a little more broken up. He's your client, after all.”

“Was
my client. And it's not that I'm coldhearted—it's just that my son is racing this year and I don't want to miss anything. Besides, people have heart attacks every day. Or strokes.”

If Sims noticed I was asking a question, he ignored it. “When did you last see your client?”

I sighed. “Thursday. It's all there in my statement. I wrote up an offer for him and talked to him on the phone that night. I haven't spoken to him since.”

“You wrote an offer for the man and didn't keep in touch with him?” He shook his head. “When my wife and I bought our house, our agent was on the phone with us twice a day. But then she had a real strong work ethic.”

I was stung. “I tried to reach him. He never picked up. Or called me back. Jerk.” The minute the word was out, I could have kicked myself.

“Ah. You didn't like him.” He looked at me as if I were a nice piece of fish for his dinner.

“Maybe I just didn't know him well enough. Can I go now?”

“I need you to sign your statement. And stick around town. Don't decide this is a good time to take that vacation you've been dreaming about.”

“My dreams are about making a living,” I snapped. I dashed off my signature, brushed past Sims, and almost galloped out the back door. I was halfway home and bathed in sweat before I slowed down.

By the time I reached Arlinda Heights and the hardware store, the sun was on its downward journey. I threw my bag into the VW and heaved myself in after it, then tore out of the parking lot, muttering curses at the exigencies of fate. Maybe I could still catch some of the dune racing if I put my foot to the floor.

I thundered west on Salmon Bay Boulevard, oblivious to the rich pastures dotted with cattle on my right and the glitter of the sun across the bay on my left. A few farmhouses were scattered along the road. As I followed the curve south into Martin's Crossing, the houses grew closer together, little more than shacks surrounded by derelict cars and rusted fishing boats. Through the trees I spotted the boarded-up windows of the former Martin's Ferry General Store, whose owners had finally given up trying to make a go of it in this hard-luck burg.

I skidded through a right turn and straightened the wheel, heading toward the community center. The road, usually narrowed by parked cars lining the shoulders, was wide open. When I reached the center, the lot was nearly empty. I pulled into a spot and began to trot up the sandy path toward the beach. There was always a chance I could catch a few stragglers.

I toiled up a slope until I reached the crest, a panoramic view of the ocean laid out before me. My heart gave a leap. There was a machine up ahead, not a quarter mile away. Was it Max? I jogged on, sand filling my sneakers until each shoe weighed about a pound.

When I was a hundred yards off, I recognized the contestant as the planter from Badger and Bros. The pilots were out of the cockpit and standing next to their contraption. As I panted up, I saw that the back wheels were buried to the hubs in sand.

“You swore to me you had the dune stage figured out,” the woman said to her companion.

He pulled a flask from his jacket pocket and took a long swig. “She did fine on her test runs. The course got churned up, that's what happened. We shouldna been off the back. I bet the front-runners didn't have to contend with this soft shit.” He kicked at a hillock of sand.

“Whose fault is that? I told you to put in some extra training and lay off the Easter candy. Our axle weight is up eleven pounds over last year, and I bet I know where to find them.” She looked pointedly at his middle.

“Hey, it's not my fault Murray's had the fuckin' Creme Eggs on clearance. I'm only human.” He looked up and spotted me. “Miss, you want to give us a hand here?”

I hesitated. “I'm trying to catch up to the pack.”

“They're long gone. We could do with a little push.”

“Won't using outside help disqualify you?”

“Hell, our race is done,” the woman said. “Thanks to Wide Load here.”

“Your mother,” he said.

I looked around. “What happened to your pit crew?”

The woman snorted. “He paid 'em in advance. In mushrooms.”

“Shiitakes,” the man put in hastily.

“Right.” She rolled her eyes.

I considered leaving the two to bicker and roast in the hot sand, but I was joined by an umbilicus to the race and its cooperative spirit. “Let's do it,” I said.

Forty-five minutes later, the machine and its load of faux vermiculite rolled onto the paved parking lot of the community center. The woman groaned and mopped her face with a bandana. “If I ever agree to do this again, take me out back and shoot me,” she said to no one in particular.

“You say that every year,” her co-pilot said.

I glanced at my watch. Racing was over for today.

“Well, good luck,” I said. “Tough break. I hope you're still friends.”

“Honey, we'll never be friends,” the woman said. “We're married.”

I retraced my route to Arlinda, following the speed limit this time. I made a stop at Murray's to check for leftover Easter candy, but all I found on the discount shelf was a crushed cellophane package of marshmallow bunnies. Twenty minutes later I was back home, with the bunnies and a bag of emergency potato chips.

I spent a few minutes entertaining Harley with a piece of toilet paper tied to a string until we both ran out of steam. Then I sat slumped at the kitchen table contemplating a new career—something less stressful, like crash-test dummy. The phone rang. I figured it might be Bernie, and I was right.

“There are easier ways to get out of having dinner with me,” he said.

“I wanted dinner. And—” I'd started to add “And dessert.” I was more rattled than I realized.

“And what?”

I pulled myself together. “And what's the deal with Richard Ravello? Why was he at my desk? And dead?”

Bernie's sigh carried clearly over the phone lines. “I can tell you this much. Being a client of yours seems to be a risky proposition right now.”

“I was just considering a new line of work.”

“As far as Ravello goes, we won't have the toxicology reports back for at least a week. But the coroner told us to check for something he might have ingested. Some sort of vegetable alkaloid.”

“Are you telling me he was
poisoned
?”

“Looks that way. Any reason come to mind?”

“None. He was kind of a dick, but no more so than a lot of people. One of those rabid developers who want to cover any open patch of green with houses.”

“About that,” Bernie said. “You said in your statement he worked for Eastside Builders in Redding.”

“That's what he told me.”

“There is such a company, but I talked to the president earlier today and he's never heard of Ravello. He also said there are no plans to expand their holdings westward.”

“So he lied to me.”

“Why would he do that?”

I considered, thinking back over the showing. Ravello hadn't wanted to spend a lot of time inside the house, but that seemed natural enough, given his purported plans to tear down the old structure. I suddenly remembered how much time I'd invested in his fictional backstory: the trip to County Records, the appointment with Klinghoffer, the stop at City Hall, and my humiliating encounter with Fenton Ziegler, where I'd been called a drone and bitten on the ankle. “Dammit,” I said.

“What?”

“I just realized I'm not going to get paid.” Klinghoffer's words of advice suddenly made all too much sense.

“So you're all out of viable clients?”

“Of the two who wrote offers, yes. Raymond Carleton-Hughes was the other one.”

“That reminds me. We did a routine search on Mr. Carleton-Hughes in the course of identifying his next of kin.”

“I love it when you use police jargon.”

He cleared his throat. “Yes. Well. Turns out his real name is plain Raymond Hughes of Albany, New York, no fixed address. He did eight years in a New York state prison for grand larceny and was released seven years ago. Since then he's worked off and on under the table as a day laborer. Just hanging on. Wonder what brought him to Arlinda?”

I had a flash of intuition that the answer to that was tied to the Harrington estate. How I didn't know. All I knew was that my clients had cost me a night of almost certainly fantastic sex.

“Maybe we can do dinner another time?” I said.

There was a pause. “I'd do anything to get away tonight,” he said. “Even commit a crime myself.”

I smiled.

“Tomorrow?” he said.

“You're on.” I hung up, a little surprised at myself. I'd
flirted,
for God's sake. Then I smiled again. Tomorrow wasn't all that far off. And surely nothing more could happen between now and then.