From the Grounds Up (25 page)

'Can I help you?'

'Funny. And I hope so.'

I explained about the broken window in the store next door to the depot.

'Did you report it to the police?' Laurel asked.

'I didn't even think about that,' I admitted. 'Is it too late?'

'No, and it would be a nice favor to the owner. That way they'd have a police report for the insurance company.'

If their insurance coverage was like mine, another twenty windows would have to be broken before the deductible was exhausted and coverage kicked in.

Still, it was the right thing to do. Plus, it would get me the information I wanted without having to explain why. Laurel might be a fount of data, but this wellspring flowed both ways.

'Who does own it?' I asked.

'If I had a dollar for every time someone asked that question.' She brought her laptop computer to the counter.

'People always want to know who owns the property next door to them?'

'No, not just any property,' Laurel said, slipping on her reading glasses. 'I'm talking in particular about the one next to the depot. A hotel chain is looking to build in the Junction area.'

Ah-hah.

As Laurel spoke, she was tapping at her keyboard. Now she swiveled the laptop so the screen faced me. 'I keep telling people this is all public record and available online. Anyone can access it, you just need the address or the owner's name.'

'I don't have the owner's name,' I said.

Laurel rolled her eyes. 'But you do have the address, right?'

'Umm.'

'Oh, for God's sake.' She turned it back and tapped some more. 'At least the last guy had the address.'

'And who was that?' I asked it in what I hoped was a casual, I'm-just-marking-time kind of way.

Laurel eyed me over her glasses. 'Why do you care?'

'I don't.'

'Then why are you asking?'

'Just marking time until you're done.'

'Right.' She was searching through the paper on the counter. 'I think I still have the sticky-note with the address. It has his name on it.'

She selected a miniature sheet of lined paper and held it up. 'Here it is.'

'Seven-fifty Junction Road,' I read. 'And,' I looked up at Laurel, 'From the Desk of Art Jenada?'

She hit enter and positioned the laptop again so I could see the screen.

Why would Jenada look up the ownership of his own property? Unless . . .

I pulled the computer closer to me.

Site Address: 750 Junction Drive

Property Owner: Eisvogel, Kornell

Son of a gun.

Chapter Twenty-Six

'This can't be right,' I said more to myself than to Laurel. 'He's dead.'

'Then the property will go to his heir or heirs.' She reclaimed her computer. 'The hotel people have probably already tracked them down.'

'Him,' I corrected, 'and they probably have. But I have next dibs on the guy.'

They say you always find what you're looking for in the last place you look.

Well, duh.

So, of course, I didn't expect to find Ronny in the
first
place I looked.

On the way to the depot I called Sarah, only to get her voicemail. I couldn't remember the code to bypass it, so I had to wait through the long-winded menu of 'Kingston Realty--if you want this, press that'.

When I finally heard the beep, I left my own long, meandering message--too long, apparently, because the phone beeped back at maybe the four-minute mark and cut me off. When given the option, I pushed the '7' key to delete, intending to re-record more succinctly.

The thing was, though, how does one say, 'I think your cousin has been playing us. He will inherit the florist shop from Kornell and may have killed him to get both that and the depot. You might be next, so give me a call when you get the chance. Toodle-oo.'

By the time I'd worked out the perfect message, I was at the depot. There was no sign of life when I pulled up in front. I checked my cellphone. Nine a.m. No wonder Ronny wasn't here at the Junction; he'd still be at Sarah's place.

I tried her again and was rewarded with the same Kingston Realty greeting and menu. Not wanting to waste more Ronny-free time, I flipped my phone closed before the outgoing message ended and exited the Escape. As I did, something caught my attention.

The florist shop. Something was different.

I approached. Same dirty windows, but the broken one had been boarded up. I assumed the police hadn't done it, because I hadn't called them. And I didn't see Art Jenada doing manual labor that benefitted someone else. Besides, he saw the florist shop as a 'tear-down'.

So that left Ronny. Was there something valuable inside? Or maybe just something he didn't want anyone to see?

The window was covered by a 4-foot by 4-foot sheet of plywood. It had been a hasty job--nails instead of screws, like the sabotaged deck railing, and not many nails even at that.

I looked around for something to slip under the edge of the board and pry it off. I tried a branch from the flowering bush, but it was too flexible. As I went to toss it away, I realized the twig, like the blossom that had snagged in my hair, had no scent. So if Jenada was not the talcum-wearing culprit, where had the aroma come from? I certainly hadn't imagined it.

Had I?

I returned to the Escape and got its tire iron. Then I went back to the window. The job didn't take much effort with the right tool. I pried one side free and the weight of the wood did the rest.

As the plywood fell away, I got the familiar whiff of flowers. No, I hadn't been imagining it.

Levering myself up on to the windowsill, I was reluctantly grateful to Ronny for clearing out the glass shards before boarding the thing up.

This visit, it was the morning sun that was slanting through the filthy windows, illuminating the check-out counter and skanky fake flowers.

I swung one leg over the sill, catching my knee on a stalagmite of glass that had been missed.

'Careless, Ronny,' I said, as I felt blood--but no pain--run down my leg. I dearly hoped I wouldn't stumble across a body, as was my habit. The DNA evidence alone would put me away for life.

Once in, I opened my cell to try Sarah again. If I bled out, I wanted them to find my body before it started to smell.

As I selected her name from my address book, I circled the room, trying to locate the floral smell. My nose led me to the grocery bags on the floor.

The rock that had been used to break the window was still atop one of them. I nudged it aside.

That bag and its twin, sitting cockeyed nearby, were both from Schultz's, just like the bag Mario had salvaged from the trunk of Sarah's Firebird.

Two Schultz's sacks. Ronny had come into the depot with them. This was just after Sarah's car had taken its last, lamented dive on to the porch. Ronny had--supposedly--returned from the senior home and the bags--supposedly, too--contained things from the room Vi and Kornell shared before she went into the Sunrise wing.

Cellphone still clutched in one hand, I picked up the crushed bag and dumped out the contents.

A sweet-smelling white cloud enveloped me.

'Silken Petals,' I said, almost choking on it.

'Vi's favorite,' a voice from outside the cloud said.

As the talc cleared, a form started to take shape.

Tight black pants, white socks, black shoes, open shirt. Inked-on sideburns. Slicked back hair with a lock dangling down.

Apparently, Elvis
was
in the building.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

'Did you buy all these for Vi?' I still had my cell in hand and faintly registered the Kingston Realty message starting. I slid the phone, open, into my pocket hoping Ronny wouldn't hear the outgoing announcement, too.

'I did. Every one of them.' He even sounded like Elvis Presley. Low-pitched, southern twang. 'But they kept disappearing. Vi especially loved the sprinkle bottles, so she could just turn them over and tap the powder out. Arthritis, you know.'

'No, I didn't know.' Edging away, I tried to string Ronny along. 'Did the arthritis contribute to her fall?'

'My father "contributed to her fall". The bastard killed the only person who ever loved me.'

I thought it best not to expand on that just yet. 'You said Vi's Silken Petals kept disappearing?'

'That witch in the souped-up wheelchair was taking them. Everybody knew that. Her room was next to Vi's and my father's, so I took them back.'

A beep from my pocket.

'Clara Huseby is dead, you know.' I said it loudly to cover the cell sound. 'An accident with her wheelchair. Sarah and I found her.'

'So I heard.' Ronny was squirming in his pants, like they were chafing him. Or maybe it was his homage to the pelvis of Elvis.

Now Ronny smirked. 'That wheelchair was giving Clara all sorts of problems. I tried to fix it, but . . .' He shrugged.

'You
are
good with your hands. Did you inspect the car Sarah wants to buy?'

'I did. Looks like just the thing for her.'

I'd have bet it was. Ronny probably turned Firebird II into a death trap. And he already had the deed to the depot. If Sarah was out of the way, even without the partnership papers signed, he could forge the deed with nobody alive to question the signature.

Except me.

I needed to warn Sarah. Get enough damning information on tape so that when the recording ended and she received it as a voicemail, Sarah would know not to drive the new Firebird.

Somebody knowing where Maggy Thorsen was would be a good thing, too. Blood still trickled down my leg, but I had a feeling that was the least of my current worries.

I coughed like I was clearing my throat. 'Sorry,' I said loudly, 'but when the bottle broke, the talcum got in my throat. I don't know if the florist kept the water on, but I could use something to drink.' There. That should tell Sarah where I was.

'The water's disconnected,' Ronny said. 'My father, the cheap bastard, had it turned off.'

'So cheap he wouldn't pay a mechanic? Is that why Kornell asked you to fix the Buick's fuel line?' I asked.

'Please. He never wanted me touch his precious classic.'

'More precious than his own son?'

'At least this one.' More squirming.

I knew he was thinking about Tommy. 'Even so, you did your best to fix Kornell's car.'

'What can I say? I'm a saint.'

And I was sweating bullets. 'The Buick's clock was off, too. I mean in addition to the fuel line.'

'A real shame.' Ronny attempted to stick his hands in his pockets, but the pants were too tight. He settled for hooking his thumbs in the belt loops.

'And the depot clock? That was wrong, too.'

'A timely convergence, you might say.' Ronny didn't sound so much like Elvis anymore. 'But still, the chances of anything happening?' He shrugged.

'Yet
every
thing did,' I said. 'It must have seemed like a sign from God to you.'

Ronny's thumbs slipped out of the belt loops. 'Not a sign from God, Maggy. Just an accident.'

'But a very lucky accident.' I needed to move things along before the recording ended. I knew I risked agitating him, but I had to take the chance. 'You inherited this place from Kornell and when you realized--thanks to me telling you Wednesday--that the depot wasn't part of the package, you decided to throw in with Sarah and me, figuring you'd get the property one way or the other.'

I hurried on before he could interrupt. 'You probably rigged up the bad electrical wires and plumbing yourself. The hose under the sink was a nice touch--you cut it from the garden hose outside. No wonder Jenada was able to obtain a permit for his restaurant. Everything was fine until you got hold of the place.'

A very Elvis sneer.

'You rammed Sarah's Firebird into the building, too, didn't you?'

'Don't be silly,' Ronny said. 'I just turned the car around for her.'

'And forgot to set the parking brake?' As I said it, I finally heard a faint beep from my pocket, followed by a woman's voice signaling that the message had reached its maximum length. If I did nothing, the voicemail would automatically go to Sarah's phone.

Ronny shrugged. 'I suppose I might have. Don't quite remember.' He bent over and lifted the rock I'd left on the floor.

Bad sign.

I held up my hands, playing for time. 'One thing that I don't know, though, is how the flour got in Sarah's car.'

A grunted laugh. 'There was a floury apron on the porch railing,' Ronny said. 'I might have shook it over the seat before I followed Art into the depot.'

'You knew the apron was Art's?'

'It seemed a good bet, don't you think?'

'So you set him up?'

'I just wanted to cause a little confusion.' Ronny gave an Elvis pout. 'I figured any white powder would give the emergency workers pause.'

He hefted the rock like he was weighing whether it would crush my skull. If Ronny's MO was
staging
accidents, what was he going to do? Bean me with the rock and say I fell on to it climbing through the window?

That could work, come to think of it. Meaning, I probably shouldn't mention it to him.

Instead, I said the next thing that came into my head.

'What about Vi?' I was edging away. There was a simple thumb-turn deadlock on the door. I'd stand a better chance going out that way than through the window. 'Did you kill her, too?'

Unlike my other accusations, this one seemed to shake him. 'My father killed her. I told you that.'

'Your father?' I was still moving.

Only problem was that Ronny was shadowing me. 'Yes, my father. He used to hit me, did you know that?'

I decided to take another shot in the dark. 'Of course he hit you. You killed his son. Who could blame—?'

'I was his son,
too
,' Ronny roared. 'It was an accident.'

'Was it, Ronny? Was it really?' The florist shop's door was less than four feet away now.

'Stop that,' Ronny shouted, raising the rock.

I wasn't sure if he meant talking or moving, so I ceased both.

'Get back over there.' He was indicating the corner where I'd started, near the bags and far from the door.