Invisible (15 page)

“I can’t believe it,” she said. Though she did believe it, of course. Her horrified expression said so. It was just one of those things people say. “I gave her my recipe for vegetarian lasagna,” she added, as if that somehow should have protected Kendra.

I couldn’t think of anything comforting to say. Especially when a totally new thought suddenly roared into my mind.

Detective Dixon had said the body could have been dumped into a tributary and floated on down to the river.

A tributary. A creek.

Splash.

13

Detective Dixon had asked me to contact him if I thought of anything more. He’d given me a card, adding his unlisted home number in ballpoint pen on the back.

Now I’d definitely thought of something. But was it of value or just my imagination spinning wheelies? I decided I’d let him decide and called him that evening. I was a little surprised to find him home. I briefly wondered where “home” was. And what did a police detective do in his spare time?

“I hope I didn’t interrupt anything?” I said. “Or wake you?”

“I’m just getting some supplies together for a course I’m taking at the community college.”

“Course in what?”

“Flower photography.” He sounded defensive, as if flower photography was somehow un-detectiveish. “I find it relaxing.”

And a nice change from people offing each other with guns, knives, baseball bats, et cetera, I suspected.

I told him why I was calling, about Hangman’s Creek and someone throwing something off the bridge that night. “Although I didn’t actually see it happen. I was lying on the ground, and my face was turned the other way. But I heard the trunk lid of the car open and then a splash.”

Detective Dixon groaned. “Mrs. Malone—”

I hurried on before he could dive into another lecture. “There’s an old refrigerator on the bank down below the bridge, so when I heard this splash I figured it was someone dumping trash or some other old appliance. But you’d said Kendra’s body could have been thrown into a tributary, and now I’m wondering if this was when and where it happened.”

He asked what night this was, something I should have figured out before I called him, of course. But after looking at the calendar by the phone, and mumbling to myself about what snacks I’d had on which nights and the guy making the pit stop—all of which, I suspected, made it look as if my memory was about as stable as melting ice cream—I finally got it pinned down.

“I did get a look at the car when it turned around and came by again. I don’t know the make, but it was big, long, and expensive looking. Again, I didn’t get a license plate number—”

Another groan.

“But it was definitely a Missouri plate, and the first number may have been a seven.”

“We’ll check it out,” Detective Dixon said.

“And tell me what you find out?”

“I’ll see. We’re also going to have to check out the apartment. Can you let us in tomorrow afternoon?”

“I’ll be here.”

“And you’re remembering your promise about not going out to the cemetery anymore by yourself, right?”

“Right.”

But there was something else I hadn’t promised, and it wasn’t dangerous anyway.

* * *

I picked up Thea’s mail right after breakfast next morning. The pile on her kitchen table was growing. I hadn’t heard anything more from her daughter, Molly. Then I stood there with mental dust motes of guilt dancing around in my head. Because this snoop I was planning was much more personal than just going through Thea’s photos.

Yet since it might help find Kendra’s killer, I could almost hear Thea saying, “Go for it, girl.”

What I was looking for turned out to be not all that difficult to find. Thea’s photos might be a jungle of disorganization, but her business affairs were not. She’d turned one corner of the bedroom down the hall into a neat little office, and there was Walter’s old rolltop desk, a goose-necked lamp, an ancient Underwood typewriter, and a two-drawer filing cabinet. A manila folder in the bottom drawer was labeled Rental Agreements.

The agreement with Kendra was right on top, a standard, office-supply form with Thea’s and Kendra’s signatures. Kendra’s handwriting had a strong back slant, letters nicely formed, name easily readable. Attached to the agreement was what I was looking for: the list of references Kendra had given.

I didn’t want to make long-distance calls from Thea’s phone, so I took the list over to my house. I started with the number for a Richard Lehman, who was listed as a former landlord. I got a recording saying the number was no longer in use. I was reluctant to try Information for a current number. They charge some exorbitant amount for such calls.

I went to the next name: Anne Morgan, also a former landlord. The woman who answered said, “Lenninger’s Carpets.” After some confusion on both sides, it seemed I did have the number I’d dialed, but this person had never heard of either an Anne Morgan or Kendra Alexander. A yell to someone else in the office confirmed that neither had ever worked for Lenninger’s Carpets, and no one there was a landlord.

Two down. Two to go.

I took time out for a glass of iced tea and to consider whether or not I should be doing this. I had a feeling Detective Dixon wouldn’t approve. Yet I didn’t see how I could be doing their investigation any harm. I might, in fact, be saving Detective Dixon investigative time by finding out where in California Kendra was from. And he’d said they could use any help they could get. I decided not to delve into whether he’d meant that literally, at least concerning help from me.

The next name was Judy Ortemo, a character reference. Judy Ortemo was unknown by the person who picked up the phone at a noisy Taco Bell. Ditto for Kendra Alexander. “Which Taco Bell?” I inquired. The one on 163rd Street, the girl answered impatiently. The city was to remain anonymous, because she hung up without telling me.

The last name on Kendra’s list was Pastor E. R. Bremerton, at Rio Bravo Community Church in a California town of the same name. Thea had mentioned this reference. Again I thought a ministerial reference seemed odd, given that Kendra had never shown any indications of having a church affiliation. But an actual letter from Pastor Bremerton was attached. In glowing terms, it assured “To Whom It May Concern” that Kendra was a conscientious, trustworthy person, of exemplary moral character, and that the writer had known the Alexander family for years. A fancy, unreadable signature looked like the jagged lines on a graph made by one of those machines when I was in the hospital for gallbladder surgery.

I dialed the number. This time I got a slightly deaf, irate man who called me an unsavory name, said he wasn’t buying anything and to take his name off my list or he’d sue me.

I was a little bewildered, given that I hadn’t tried to sell him anything, but I assured him he was definitely off my list.

This time I invested in Information and learned that there was no E. R. Bremerton in Rio Bravo, California, because there was no Rio Bravo. It occurred to me that Rio Bravo was, in fact, the name of an old John Wayne movie.

But there was that lovely letterhead on which the recommendation was written, complete with a drawing of a stream running by a little country church . . .

Which proved nothing, of course. Computer expertise begins in first grade these days, doesn’t it? By high school, any devious sophomore could probably turn out a decent letterhead for anything from his father’s company to NASA. Bright, competent Kendra could certainly do so.

I looked back through the list of references. One name not panning out probably didn’t mean anything. People moved, phone numbers changed. Kendra might have gotten one digit wrong, throwing everything off.

Even two unverifiable references wasn’t beyond reason.

But all four? No. Sweet, friendly, considerate Kendra had pulled her references out of thin air, every one of them as phony as plastic fruit. Maybe even played a sly little game with that Rio Bravo name. I remembered her saying once that she really liked John Wayne’s old movies.

Hadn’t she worried about getting caught in her deception? Apparently not. Or, more likely, she was simply willing to take a chance that Thea wouldn’t check the out-of-state references. A safe bet, actually, and one without consequences if it didn’t work. If Thea had confronted her about false references, she’d simply have gone elsewhere to rent an apartment to fulfill her agenda. Because she had an agenda, I was certain now.

But what was that agenda? Why the deception?

Was there some awful secret lurking in Kendra’s background? Bank embezzlement, apartment fire arson, insurance fraud? Was she even from California?

I thought about the dyed hair and eyebrows. The evasiveness about her past. What appeared to be a sleazy affair.

Not good.

I also thought about how she’d run errands for Thea, driven her out to Country Peace and other places, given us matching boxes of chocolates after she realized we were celebrating birthdays. Her teasing cheerfulness with both of us, her caring concern about me after Thea’s death.

I just couldn’t believe Kendra had done something awful before she showed up to rent Thea’s apartment. Yet she’d obviously been far more devious than we’d ever suspected.

But, given her fate, perhaps not devious enough.

Which meant . . . what?

That she was running away from someone in her past? Someone she was afraid of and disguising herself to hide from? Someone who had found and murdered her?

That photo I’d found in her apartment. Was he the murderer?

I located the photo where I’d placed it on top of the chest of drawers in my bedroom. I’d give it to Detective Dixon when they came to look at the apartment.

But then I wouldn’t have it anymore . . .

I couldn’t give myself any good reason that should matter, but I made a quick trip to the one-hour photo shop to have it copied anyway. Turned out that making a copy without the negative to work from cost more than I felt comfortable paying, so I did it el cheapo. Three dimes plunked into the photocopy machine got me three copies of the photo. They weren’t in color, but they were reasonably sharp. I did get a color print made of the negative I still had of Kendra’s photo, which cost only twenty-four cents.

* * *

I’d had visions of a team of experts arriving with a van of technical equipment to collect evidence from the apartment, so I was a little disappointed when only Detective Dixon and another man whom he introduced as Detective Harmon arrived at about 3:00.

I let them in with Thea’s key. They looked around, not much differently, I thought, than if they were considering renting the apartment themselves. I was a bit disappointed in that too. I wanted to see some real Sherlock Holmes–style detective work, some fingerprint powder and evidence-gathering with tweezers. I told them that I’d straightened the furniture and showed them where I thought I’d touched it.

“So maybe you’ll need to take my fingerprints?” I could hear the hopeful sound in my own voice. I’d never been fingerprinted and was interested in how it was done.

“Maybe we will,” Detective Dixon agreed. “We’ll send someone from the crime scene unit around within the next day or two to dust for fingerprints and see if they can pick up anything useful in the way of hair or fibers. But you say the man she was seeing seldom came to the apartment?”

“That’s right.”

“Did she have other visitors?” Detective Harmon asked. This was the first time he’d spoken; he’d merely nodded when Detective Dixon introduced us. He was taller than stocky-bodied Detective Dixon, with a deeply tanned face, thinning dark hair, and mirrored sunglasses. Which seemed just a bit pretentious, considering he was merely inspecting a basement apartment, not running down terrorists on a sunlit freeway. He’d opened and slammed doors in the apartment with an air of impatience, and I got the impression he thought being here was a waste of time.

“No other visitors that I know of. But there is this.” I whipped out the photo, feeling rather like a magician rescuing a trick for a bored audience.

“Who is it?” Detective Dixon turned the photo over, same as I’d done when I first picked it up.

“I don’t know.” I explained how I’d found it. “I’m wondering if Kendra was hiding out here. Maybe hiding from this man. And he found her.”

“Women don’t usually keep a photo of a stalker as if it were a precious memento,” Detective Harmon pointed out.

True,
I thought, feeling dumb.

“But it may be useful,” Detective Dixon said. I could see he was trying to be diplomatic and not downgrade my evidence, which Detective Harmon had already dismissed. “Maybe he’s an old boyfriend, one she still had feelings for.”

“Old boyfriends sometimes stalk and murder their old girlfriends,” I said, and I could see Detective Harmon give a mental roll of eyes.

“We’ll be in touch,” Detective Dixon said when we went back outside. He locked the door and handed me the key. “Don’t let anyone else in.”

“By the way, is anything happening on finding out who’s been vandalizing the Country Peace cemetery?” I asked.

“Not that I’ve heard.”

“I was thinking maybe the public would come up with something helpful after the sheriff’s office gave the information to the newspaper.”