Saturday Night Cleaver (A Barbara Marr Murder Mystery #4) (13 page)

“Okay,” I whispered, turning back to them. I pointed to Clarence and Guy. “You two follow Peggy to her house, then she’ll ride with you. Peggy, give them directions to Big Score. Now scoot!”

Clarence looked like he wanted clarification, or maybe a hug, but I shooed him away. “Meet you there. Scoot! Scoot!”

They were walking out the door by the time Howard returned, drugged up and ready to go himself. “Thank goodness,” he sighed noticing the troublesome trio had departed. “Three less distractions on our plate.”

I nodded. “Couldn’t agree more.” Well, I
did
agree. I wasn’t necessarily abiding my his wishes, but I did agree with him.

We were halfway down the driveway headed back to my van when a stretch limo pulled in and slowly passed us.

“Someone important?” I wondered out loud.

Howard slipped his hand into mine while sneaking a glance back at the long black car. “I overheard a couple talking about a special mystery guest. They seemed pretty excited.”

We kept walking, but my mind wandered to the snippets I caught between the two sneering ladies at the kitchen counter. They’d been awfully enthused and titillated about that guy named John. Of course, that’s when I thought they were wives on the prowl for new meat. Now I wondered, could it be? No, that would be too far fetched. When I turned back around for a curious peek, a tall, robust man was walking toward the front door, escorted by two larger, even more robust men. Bodyguards? His hair was dark and the build seemed right.

I shook Howard more violently than I should have. “Look!”

He did, and when the door opened, freckles the invite man shouted a name that was hard to discern but had a ring of familiarity.

“Did he just say, Mr. Travolta, or was that my silly imagination?”

“It was your silly imagination,” he said. “Probably.” He pulled me across the street. “We have a friend to find.”

And as we drove off, I couldn’t help wondering: Did I just miss my chance to boogie with the Dancing King?

Howard drove to Big Score while I re-jacketed and warmed my hands on the dash heat vents. On the way, Howard filled me in on two little discoveries he made at the disco soiree. First, Shin Lee’s husband was in fact the man in the pictures as she had admitted, but more interestingly, he was also the Dr. Kyung Kong of NOVA Urology, the practice Colt had visited for an exam. Secondly, Howard had found an envelope that looked very much like the one Rita Ash had handed to Dr. Kong in that picture Colt had taken. An angry Shin Lee gave him permission to take it. He’d tucked it in the back of his pants and under his jacket to keep it hidden in case Kong showed up before we left.

When we stopped at a red light, he leaned forward, wiggled it from under the back of his jacket, and handed it to me. “I didn’t have time to look at it carefully,” he said, “It appears that Rita and Kong were conspiring to do some business related to a found treasure.”

“A found treasure?”

“You heard me.”

“But it’s so cool to say: found treasure. Are we talking like sunken ship kind of booty?”

“Booty?”

“Don’t question my lingo, fork over the facts.”

“Civil War-era gold.”

“That’s my luck. I’m tripping over dismembered members while someone else is discovering lost gold.” I let the information sink in while the puzzle pieces began to click into place. “Didn’t Erik say that the farmer guy had a disagreement with the Ashes? Maybe it has something to do with this treasure.”

“Possibly.”

I looked at the clock. Eleven thirty at night. The last time anyone had seen Colt was yesterday afternoon. “What about the Ashes’ house? Can’t the police search the place? We know he was following Rita. I’ll bet he found out about the gold somehow, they were on to him, and they...kidnapped him maybe?”

“The police can’t search their house. The wife who mentioned them in connection to her missing husband hasn’t actually shown up to identify the remains. The report she made was over the phone so the names have to be verified in person before Fairfax County could have the authority to act. I think that’s why he wanted us to meet him at the bar. Not sure, we didn’t talk too long.”

He pulled into the strip mall parking lot, the brightly lit sign welcoming us to Pine Bark Plaza. I knew of the plaza only because they had a mattress store where I bought a new box spring for Amber’s bed when she broke hers playing “Kangaroo”. Big Score Bar & Grill was two stores to the left of Mattress Heaven.

“They’re still open?” I asked. “It’s almost midnight.”

“It’s a bar and a restaurant, so I’m sure they stay open later for the bar clientele.”

“We’re so old, aren’t we? Thinking midnight is late.”

His voice went all crackly impersonating an old man. “I know, it’s already three hours past our bedtime, Edna.”

“Geez,” I giggled, “I didn’t know I married Rich Little.”

Erik had been to our house during off-duty hours before, so I recognized his personal cruiser—a black Honda Accord. Howard parked in the empty spot next to it. Once inside, I was surprised by the absence of a host or hostess to greet us, but Erik waved his hand from a booth in the far left corner and we found our way without assistance. Or a menu.

The place wasn’t rocking for a Saturday night, that’s for sure. The establishment was broken into two sections: restaurant and bar. To the left were two rows of booths and to the right was a long, oak bar where a measly party of three men sat huddled over beers. Televisions lined the walls all the way around. There must have been twenty of them, all tuned to sports or news channels. Decor was definitely sports-oriented: framed football and baseball jerseys, pennants, posters, you name it. I wasn’t overly impressed, but only because professional sports bore me to tears. I just really don’t understand sitting for hours, watching a bunch of people I don’t know, physically harm one another unless there’s a decent plot involved. Or at least a couple crusty characters like Han Solo or Sam Spade to give the show some depth.

Only one couple sat in another booth two back from where Erik sat. If Peggy was right about Rick Ash having money troubles, it was easy to see why.

I slipped into the booth across from our friend of the law. Howard sat next to me. He took my hand in his, but spoke to Erik. “We’re really worried about Colt,” he said. “Something isn’t right.”

His words actually took me by surprise and warmed me all over. It was the first time he really expressed his concern. Maybe it was the FBI training, but the man didn’t let cracks show in his armor. Not usually.

“I hear ya,” said Erik. “Any more texts?”

Howard nodded and looked at me. “When was the last one?”

Pulling my phone out of my purse, I showed Erik the text.

“Twenty-one hundred hours,” he read. He squinted, obviously trying to decipher the letters in the message. “Any idea what that means?”

I looked at the display again, myself, still baffled. “We haven’t figured that out yet.”

A bearded man yelled out to us from behind the bar. “Sorry for the wait! Be there in a minute to take your order!”

Erik scanned the room briefly, then leaned in closer, speaking more quietly. “Here’s the thing. I did a little drive around this place before coming in. Rick Ash’s truck is parked near the service entrance out back, so he’s probably here.”

“How do you know it’s his truck?” Since he was off duty, I wondered how he managed that conclusion so quickly.

“License plates.”

I nodded with a sense of understanding. “Had someone at the station run them?”

He shook his head. “They’re personalized: RRASH.”

Howard and I cringed in unison. Guess Rick Ash wasn’t going for sexy when he thought up those plates.

“I haven’t asked any questions, yet,” said Erik. “Didn’t want to raise any red flags too early. You want to run the show?” The last question was directed at Howard who nodded with a calm authority that aroused me slightly. He was so sexy when he took charge.

Mr. Facial Hair arrived a minute later, minus an order pad or a uniform as you often see on the wait staff of any restaurant or bar. He wore dusty jeans and a t-shirt bearing John Lennon’s faded image. “Sorry, business is kind of slow tonight so I sent the bartender and head cook home. If you want something to eat, the only thing I can get for you are a few of the appetizers on our menu.”

“Oh,” said Howard, “the manager has to do all the work, huh?”

The man pushed out a sardonic half-laugh. “Manager quit. I’m the owner. What can I getcha?”

“I’ll have a Corona,” said Howard who then looked to me. “Barb, you want anything?”

“The same please.”

Erik gave a nod, “Make that three.”

“Three Coronas, coming up,” said the man now positively identified as Rick Ash. “No appetizers?” he asked, already moving away to start on the order.

“Nothing, thanks,” said Howard.

While he was gone, Howard slipped the envelope he’d taken from Shin Lee’s house across the table toward Erik and whispered. “This is what I told you about on the phone,” he said. “Careful he doesn’t see it.”

Erik took the envelope while keeping an eye on Ash who was too busy behind the bar to care what we were up to. He snuck a peek inside, taking a moment to read. “What’s the Munson Treasure?” Then he flipped through a couple more of the pages. “Gold?”

“Looks like,” said Howard. “From the Civil War. Here he comes.”

Erik slipped the sheets back into the envelope, slid it onto the seat, and covered it with his jacket. Rick Ash was soon placing frosty, lime-topped, long-neck bottles in front of each of us. Howard said thank you, then added casually before Rick could move off, “So you’re the owner, Rick Ash?”

The man nodded. “That’s me.”

“I’m Howard,” he said, extending a hand for shaking. “You know a man named Orson Sparrow?”

Rick didn’t hesitate to respond with a negative. “Don’t know that name. Why?”

“He’s a friend of mine. He told us about this place, I just got the impression you knew each other.”

“Nope,” Rick said shaking his head.

Howard turned to me. “Barb, didn’t his wife say they knew Rick Ash? I swear she did.”

Ash’s response, which cut off my own role in this play, was too quick. “His wife?” he asked incredulously, as if he was surprised. He fumbled a minute, seeming thrown off balance, then added, “Who knows if I know the man. Or his wife. I meet a lot of people around here. Hard to keep track of names, you know? But tell him I said thanks for sending the business. Always appreciate that.”

He gave a little wave and headed back the bar, but I’d swear he was sweating bullets under that facial overgrowth of his. He eyed us more warily from across the room.

“No reaction when you ask about Orson,” I whispered, “but nervous wreck when you mention the wife? What’s that all about?”

My phone rang. It was Peggy. I answered, wondering where they were. “Hey there. What’s up?”

“We’re not coming,” she said.

That worked. I wouldn’t have to explain to Howard why my “entourage” decided to follow us after all.

“Okay,” I said. I was about to ask her what Clarence and Guy were planning but she beat me to it.

“I’m going with Clarence and Guy Mertz to Rick and Rita Ash’s house.”

Chapter Twelve

U
h oh.

“Who is it?” Howard asked.

“Peggy. She’s with Clarence and Guy. They want to go to the Ashes’s house.”

“No, no,” corrected Peggy when she heard me talking to Howard. “We’re there now. We took a detour for a minute though—Guy thought he recognized the name of the street you said Colt’s car was parked on. Sure enough. It’s still there, and it’s the next street over from the street the Ashes live on.”

“We knew that already,” I said.

“Tell them not to go anywhere near that house,” urged Erik quietly. “We’ll meet them there, but don’t go on the property. We don’t need that legal nightmare.”

“Peggy, Erik says-”

“Guy deciphered the texts,” she said interrupting me. “Here...” She must have handed the phone to Guy because his was the next voice in my ear.

“Barb, Guy here. I’d been working on the assumption that RM PT was short for
room point
, but that wasn’t getting me anywhere. Then I called my nephew who suggested RM PT means
arm pit
. While this doesn’t seem to make much sense either, if you look at the letters CHTG, and make the leap that Colt was off in his texting and he intended to key in an
r
instead of a
t
—they are just one letter apart on the keyboard after all—then it makes sense.”