Old Maid's Puzzle (28 page)

I walked out the back door, knees shaking at the thought of Gussie out there alone with that kind of money. And a bad guy. I hoped the police would get to her before he did.

Shore's van was the first thing I saw. My blood boiled. This bastard was still here. I kicked a tire. That didn't begin to relive my stress. I banged on the side panel, my hand hurting satisfactorily. There was no answer.

I knew he didn't lock his doors, so I yanked hard on the back door handle.

To my horror, Tim Shore was lying in the back of his van, dead.

NINETEEN

OH, MY GOD. I covered my mouth. I thought I screamed, but only a tiny squeak came out. I stared at his body, sprawled on the dirty mattress. The stale smell of marijuana floated out along with another smell. Eau du death. I tried not to inhale.

My eyes adjusted to the dark interior. Tim Shore was dressed in his underwear and a T-shirt. The boxers were printed with dollar bills. He looked like he'd bedded down outside my store for the night again. I hadn't seen his van last night when I'd left because I'd gone out the front door to admire my handiwork. He must have pocketed the money Buster had given him for a hotel and slept out here again. And died.

I looked to see if he had the telltale expression that Frank Bascomb had had, but Shore's expression was smooth. If he'd been poisoned, it wasn't evident on his face.

A very white bare foot was right in front of me.

I touched him. His foot was icy. Like at a Halloween party, the freezing cold burned me and I drew my hand back as though it was on fire.

I wiped my hand on my pants. Past Shore's head, I saw Gussie's "You're nobody til someone bunny loves you" tote bag, flat and empty, ears flopping, lying on the back seat. The last time I'd seen it was in my office, full of zucchini.

I got angry. What was he doing with her bag? What else did he have that didn't belong to him? I went around to the passenger side. I was going to have a look before the police arrived. I wanted to know what this guy had been up to in my parking lot. I glanced at the shop. As long as no one came out the back door, I'd be okay.

I pulled open the front passenger door. Another decaying stench wafted out, but this one wasn't human. Squash lay in a pile, split open and rotting on the floor. A familiar key lay next to the zucchini, shiny and unused. the store key. Shore had stolen one of my keys and made a duplicate, just like Wong had suggested.

He'd broken into the store Wednesday night. Why? To steal a bag of zucchini?

I tried to remember where I'd seen Tim in the last few days. He'd been at the bank the morning Gussie and I were there. He might have overheard the conversation about the cash. Gussie had used that tote bag to carry the money. He must have been really frustrated when he didn't find the cash in the tote bag.

I picked up the PG&E bill that I'd seen on the front seat earlier in the week. The address was Milpitas. The same town that Larry had lived in, and where Frank Bascomb had his eBay account. Shore didn't live in Santa Cruz after all.

Tim Shore must have been Larry's partner. He was the "friend" who called Gussie last night. He attempted to extort her, but he'd died before he had the chance. From the looks of his clothes, he'd been dead for hours. I shivered. Gussie was out of danger, for now.

I dreaded making the next call-to the police. My insides felt like ice.

Another murder in the parking lot of QP. Did Shore kill Frank Bascomb? Poison him and watch him die before coming to class? I shivered at the idea of sitting in the same room with a murderer.

I headed back inside, but stopped as I remembered why I'd come out. Gussie was somewhere with nearly thirty thousand dollars. She could be at some rendezvous point, waiting for him to show. An awful thought crossed my mind as the wind blew through the van, refreshing the smell of marijuana.

For the third time in as many days, I headed over to Gussie's. I texted Zorn on my cell and told him there was a dead body in a van outside my store. I didn't correct him when he said he'd meet me there. I'd be there, but first I was going to find Gussie.

I parked on the street in front of her house. There was no sign of her car. It was getting dark. The porch light was on over Gussie's front door. Frugal Gussie would never leave a light burning unnecessarily. She must be home.

I rang the doorbell and banged on Gussie's door. No answer. I reached into the grinning mouth of the ceramic frog, checking for an extra key. I found nothing.

I paced off the small walkway and glanced over at Celeste's. No lights were on there. She must have gone to bed. Could Gussie be asleep? I had to know.

My years of sneaking in and out of my parents' house were about to pay off.

I went around to the back, knocking at the kitchen door and peering into the windows. I could see a new puzzle half done on the card table. She must have started one last night.

I stopped in her garden. The night jasmine gave off a sickening smell that turned my stomach. Celeste's house cast a long shadow into Gussie's backyard. It seemed to be in mourning, just like its owner.

The window to Gussie's kitchen was low to the ground. I managed to pry off the old-style screen without breaking a nail and opened the window. I pushed it up without a problem, and pulled myself inside. I overshot and landed butt first, with a thud, next to the old refrigerator. It started up with a wheeze, causing me to cry out. And clamp my hand over my mouth.

Light from the streetlight outside flooded the living room. I maneuvered through the shadowy shapes in the kitchen. The stainless steel bread box, now empty, caught the light and shimmered. It was empty. I picked my way carefully, remembering the cats who liked to trip up humans.

I didn't hear a sound. I turned on a light, further illuminating the front room. She wasn't here. I took a peek into her bedroom. I banged my shin on a plant stand, rocking the cactus and pricking myself in the process of righting it. I sucked on my finger.

I'd thought for sure I'd find Gussie here.

My phone rang. It was Buster, but I didn't answer. He'd have heard about Shore's body by now. I was sure Zorn was wondering why I wasn't at the store.

Zorn had said Larry had been struck on the head. Probably by Tim right before he came into my class. But he'd died of poison.

Gussie had a garden full of toxins. What if Tim had convinced Gussie that her grandson was in jail, but instead of handing her money over again, she'd killed him. She could have fed him the compost tea. Or given him marijuana laced with something. If I went back in that shed, would I find DDT?

I sank into Gussie's chair, like I'd been shot. The idea that Gussie, sweet Gussie, had killed someone made me weak. But I'd seen her fierce loyalty. To her grandson. To Celeste.

I glanced to the house next door. From here, I could see directly into Celeste's dining room. A light was on now. I sat up.

I could see her shadow drifting elegantly across the plain white curtains. Even alone, she was dressed in silky pajamas. I wondered what someone looking in my window would see. Ragged flannel boxers, tank top so stretched out it was dangerously close to being obscene and me, slumped in my armchair, eating right out of the cereal box.

Celeste picked up a china cup and saucer, heading for the kitchen. As she moved away, another figure was revealed, seated at the dining room table. This face was in complete profile to me. It was a very familiar silhouette. I looked at the honeymoon souvenir plaques on the kitchen wall. The same nose. That same chin.

Gussie was at Celeste's.

Relief flooded me. I'd get to her before the police did. Find her a good lawyer. Get her some help.

I let myself out of the back door. I walked through the split in the fence, thinking about these two women, so close, yet so different. Celeste and Gussie proved that quilting brought people to gether. There was no way that they would have become friends without their mutual interest in sewing. Celeste was too lady-of-themanor type, Gussie too frugal and middle class to be part of her social scene. But Gussie had gone to Celeste when Celeste needed her.

I knocked on Celeste's back door. A curtain twitched, but I couldn't catch sight of Celeste's face. When she didn't open the door right away, I knocked again.

"Celeste, it's Dewey," I called out. I know she didn't want company, but I needed to talk to Gussie. I tried the door. It was locked. I peered in the side windows, seeing only the slice of the kitchen visible from there. No activity. Just the still beauty of the wood and slate, illuminated by the under-counter lights.

I stamped my feet on the porch. I wasn't dressed for an October night. The temperature had dropped, the air had grown chilly. I shivered.

My phone rang. It was a text from Buster. "Where are you?"

Not where I was supposed to be. I put the phone back in my pocket and banged on the door again. I wasn't going back to QP until I'd settled things with Gussie.

Celeste opened the door slightly. "Dewey, what are you doing out there? Please stop."

"Celeste, thanks." I made a step to cross the threshold, but Celeste kept the door mostly closed. She was in bare feet, and had added a floor-length, navy blue quilted robe. Yellow silk pajama pants peeked from under the hem.

Her hair was down, flowing around her shoulders. The long white tresses made her look like an ethereal fairy godmother.

"I need to talk to Gussie," I said. "I've got news about Jeremy." I didn't, but I knew it would get me in the door.

"Gussie's not here."

Celeste was protecting her friend. From me? "I saw her, just a few moments ago. Sitting at your dining room table. I could see her clearly."

Celeste shrugged, her elegant shoulders lifting slightly. "You're mistaken, Dewey. Go home." She began to close the door in my face. I stuck my foot out and stopped the door.

"Wait, Celeste," I said. The door was squashing my toes. I fought not to pull away. I squared my foot, trying to jam it in farther. The door opened a fraction more. I leaned in. Celeste's face was grim.

A sharp noise emanated from the kitchen. I started, and Celeste looked sharply over her shoulder. We both let out a sigh of relief when it became apparent that it was only the automatic ice maker, cubes tumbling inside the refrigerator with a clang. I took advantage of Celeste's loosened hold, and pushed open the door. She stumbled back, but she was no match for me.

I skirted her and headed for the dining room. The Mackintosh dining room table and chairs were majestic. Straight backed, and elegant. Like Celeste. But empty.

One of the chairs was pulled away from the table. A delicate tea cup sat on the matching saucer. A slightly sweet smell came out of the cup.

"There. That's where I saw her!" I said.

Celeste was unfazed. Her arms crossed over her chest. Her earlier fatigue seemed to have gone, replaced by keen, glittering eyes and hardened resolve.

She said, "You saw me, having a cup of tea. Can't I have a snack in my own home? You should leave, Dewey. I told you I didn't want company.

"I can help Gussie," I said. "She'll be okay."

"She's not here." Celeste insisted. She held the kitchen door open as though I should scoot outside.

I ignored her and walked into the living room. I stood in the middle, turning slowly, trying to figure out where Gussie could have gone. Something about this room was out of whack, I could feel it. Celeste watched me from under the dining room arch. Her eyes tracked to the upstairs. The crown molding was at least twelve inches deep. The wood shimmered.

I headed for the magnificent mahogany staircase and listened. I didn't hear anything. "Mind if I look upstairs?"

Celeste shrugged, an elegant shrug. Her outfit looked some something a Katharine Hepburn character would wear in an AMC movie. Or maybe Barbara Stanwyck.

"Suit yourself. You know what's up there. Four bedrooms, two baths," she said.

Plenty of places to hide. Was Celeste hiding Gussie?

I walked carefully up the stairs. I listened, but didn't hear the floors creak as though someone was up there.

Celeste called up the stairs, "Be warned. I didn't make my bed today."

The first door off the hall was her bedroom. Not only had she not made her bed, but the clothes I'd seen her wearing earlier were in a heap on the floor. Celeste must really be distraught.

"Would you like a divining rod, Dewey?" Celeste called pleasantly, as though I was a favored grandchild on a scavenger hunt. "Are you looking for oil or water?"

I didn't let her needling bother me, but I was beginning to wonder if Gussie was on the road to Redding with her money. Surely if she'd been driving, the police would have picked her up by now.

No. She had to be here. I'd seen her. But what if she didn't want to be found?

The rest of the rooms were in perfect order, looking more like museum dioramas than lived-in spaces. I opened closets, wardrobes, armoires, anything big enough to hide a person. No sign of Gussie.

Larry's clothes were still in the closet in the spare room. Two tan corduroy jackets, Hawaiian shirts, shoes on the floor. It looked like he'd never left. Poor Celeste, having to deal with his debris.