Saturday Night Cleaver (A Barbara Marr Murder Mystery #4) (16 page)

“You won’t be taking a stroll down Project Runway anytime soon, let’s put it that way,” he answered. “Now, as long as her federally anointed husband is still at large, possibly there is hope for us yet.”

Voices echoed in the hall outside our prison-room. Rick and Rita I was guessing. A moment later Howard appeared in the doorway, his hands above his head. He wasn’t tied up at all. Geez, he wasn’t bruised or beaten or anything. He limped very noticeably though, leading me to assume that he was not doing so well. Rick Ash appeared next, and even though I couldn’t see it yet, I was pretty sure he held a gun to Howard’s back.

Guy’s head fell back against the wall, his spiky nose pointing to the unfinished ceiling above us. “That does it. We are officially doomed.” He gave this a moment to sink in, then followed with, “Unless, by some miracle, we are saved. In which case, this will make one hell of a good story. Emmy-worthy, possibly. I’ve always dreamed of winning a local Emmy,” he sighed.

“Over there against the wall,” Rick instructed Howard. “But not too close to the others. And, uh...” he waved the gun around in circles like a gangster in a James Cagney movie. He was thinking. “Uh, sit on your hands. Yeah, sit on your hands.”

Howard did as he said, slipping down to the floor against the wall a good six feet from Clarence. Rick stood in front of us, gun aimed in our general direction.

A small chuckle—which didn’t seem so much happy as nervous—escaped from the man with the deadly gun. “I know you now,” he said to Guy. “You’re that freak show reporter on Channel...”

“Ten,” assisted Guy. “Channel Ten. Local News at four and five. You might know my friend over there, as well—meet Clarence Heatherington, Channel Three’s movie reviewer.”

Rick Ash’s face went from obliviously blank to stymied and mildly distressed. “Crap.” He scratched his beard with his free hand.

He was a man of few words. And evidently not the most astute, which surprised me since he was a business owner. But, if what Peggy said was true, he wasn’t savvy as an entrepreneur either. Thus, the lack of aptitude made more sense.

“You okay?” Howard asked, giving me a visual once-over. Bless him, those puppy-dog eyes expressed his worry more deeply than the question.

I would have loved to have shouted, “No! I need a doctor! Karate-chop this man with the gun and get me to a hospital quick!” but dream-Frankie said this would be wrong.
Don’t show da pain
. I smiled weakly. “Doin’ good,” I said, “doin’ good. The Mercedes though, probably won’t make it through the night.”

“What happened?”

“You didn’t see?”

“Otherwise occupied at the time.”

“Right. Well, your abductor’s wife wanted to play bumper cars, only she played dirty and started before the buzzer sounded.”

My butt was starting to ache, not to mention go numb from the hard, cold concrete. For the first time, I gave my surroundings some inspection. Our stockade, if you will, was a room probably about ten feet by fifteen feet. The walls were unfinished. It reminded me of how our basement looked before they sanded and painted the drywall when we had it renovated. In fact, a bucket of something was still sitting in one corner, as well as a dry sponge and a putty-knife. Electrical outlets and light switches were naked without covers, and on the wall ahead of me and behind Rick Ash, several dangling cords protruded from the wall—unused, unconnected. There was no ceiling to speak of, just open ductwork and darkness. A stack of ceiling tiles leaned against one wall indicated they had eventual plans to hide the ductwork. The only door led to a hallway with the same unfinished atmosphere.

Peggy had mentioned a second restaurant that wasn’t getting off the ground. This might be it, although I had pictured an open establishment struggling to find clientele. This place was struggling to find a life. The Ashes’s must have had a ton of money wrapped up in another Big Score that wasn’t scoring them any monetary return at the present. Liquidating a long-lost Civil War-era treasure would probably go a long way in alleviating any financial stress.

I considered our captors. I’d already pegged Rick Ash as less-than-clever, but he had the gun and a scary nickname, so he wasn’t to be dismissed. And Rita, while I hadn’t had a chance to chat, had certainly revealed herself as lead-footed and willing-to-kill. But this giant man-boy, whose real name I hadn’t yet learned, was sizing up to be kind and gentle and very possibly our ticket out of this joint, hopefully all in one piece rather than chopped into dog-tasty, bite-sized morsels like poor Orson Sparrow.

Rita returned, black sweat pants and all. She stood next to Rick, one hand on her hip, the other twirling strands of hair that had slipped out from the haphazard bun at the back of her head. She wore a surprisingly dirty pair of running shoes with a bright magenta stripe, a crusty blue t-shirt covered by an unzipped, darker blue hoodie, and I’m pretty sure she wasn’t wearing a bra. Now, I understand that this wasn’t very important to our dire circumstances, but she was the kind of woman who needed to wear a bra—who bras were invented for. Me, if I wear a bra, it’s just for show, because the sad fact of the matter is, what little I have needs no holstering. But Rita Ash—her gallon milk jugs needed serious support. She wasn’t wearing makeup, but she had features that suggested just a little would go a long way and somehow, she looked vaguely familiar now that I saw her up close, but I couldn’t place how. Possibly we shopped at the same grocery store?

The two of them stood there, Rick packing his scruffy beard and 9mm menace and Rita with her menacing mammaries, not speaking, just looking at us like they’d look at a piece of furniture that didn’t seem nearly as stunning in their living room as it did on the showroom floor.

“This is a mess,” Rita finally sighed.

Rick raised his eyebrows as if surprised, but then just agreed, “A mess.”

They eyed us several seconds longer. Then Rick turned on her. “What were you thinking, bringing those four here?”

She stopped her hair twirling to give him a glare. “It was your idea, remember?”

Silence again, and I was beginning to thank my lucky stars that my most recent captors did not seem very decisive.

“Five hostages!” She threw her arms into the air for emphasis. “Five hostages. What are we going to do with five hostages? I can just kiss that Happy Housewives gig goodbye. I was so close, too.”

Aha! Now I knew who Rita Ash was and boy, she could clean up nice when she wanted to. A year earlier, she’d been involved in some big stink over a political fund-raising event held in the District. She claimed she had an invitation, but she wasn’t on the guest list, and all annoyed and full of herself, she barged in anyway. The ballyhoo made national news, if I remembered right, and just a few weeks ago, I had seen a local news piece announcing she was being considered for the newest cast of Happy Housewives in D.C.. I couldn’t believe Guy didn’t pick up on this earlier.

“Guy,” I said giving him an irritated glance, “how didn’t you know who Rita Ash was?”

He shrugged. “Who is she?”

“The famous party crasher—you know, last year. Whose fundraiser was that?”

“Senator Williams,” Rita said flatly. “I had an invitation.”

Some sense of recognition lit on Guy’s face. “Yes. I remember that story.” He shook his head. “Falls under entertainment and I don’t get those assignments nearly as often as I’d like. A chance to attend a premiere screening every once in a while, but my beat’s mostly the killers.”

“We’re not killers,” retorted Rita.

“Excuse me,” apologized Guy. “I did not mean to imply that you were.”

I seriously wanted to argue Rita’s assertion that she wasn’t a killer, since it sure did feel like she was trying to do me in with that car stunt.

“Actually,” Rick said to Rita. “
We’re
not killers, but
you
are. At least, by definition, right?”

Who were these people anyway?

“I told you it was an accident,” she growled, her eyes blazing. “How many times do I have to tell you that?”

Rick let out a sardonic chuckle. “Right, and you had an invitation.”

“I
did
have an invitation!” Rita’s face flamed red.

Rick and Rita were not a happy couple. Probably a lot of stress there, what with all of the murdering, cleaving, and kidnapping. I wondered if Rita knew about his little Dandi dalliance.

While we were on the subject of hurting people, I decided to ask about Colt. Did I think it was likely they’d give me a straight answer? No, but at least I could watch their reaction.

“What did you do with my friend, Colt?”

Not the slightest tick of recognition registered on either of their faces. “Colt who?” asked Rita.

“Don’t give me that. I know you’re not that dumb. Blond PI who was following you yesterday.” I pointed to Peggy. “The last time she saw him was on your street. Explain that.”

The dissatisfied spouses exchanged blank expressions. “You know about this?” Rick asked Rita.

“No,” she answered. “You?”

They seemed truly stumped. It was very hard to tell if they were playing me or not.

“I’m figuring he slipped into your house, found evidence you’d killed Orson Sparrow, so you took him hostage like you have us now. Is he still in your house? What did you do with him?”

Rita looked like she was on the verge of breaking into laughter. “Is that who she was babbling on about?” she asked, pointing to Peggy. She threw her hands in the air, seeming exasperated. “Oh my God, I can’t believe this.”

The conversation was becoming more confusing than a Fellini film. Guy read the blank look on my face. “I think I’m beginning to understand what is happening here,” he said. “Let me explain.” He wiggled a bit where he sat. “When we were...approached by this Rita woman initially, Peggy began to spill the beans, so to speak. In essence, she said that we knew the woman was keeping a man in the house, that he was Clarence’s father, and that our friend Barbara and her husband were at Rick’s bar at that very minute, to get some answers.”

Rita started pacing and Rick just rubbed that beard some more. “Holy crap,” he said finally.

Guy continued. “It would seem,” he looked at Rita. “Correct me if I’m wrong. It would seem that our kidnapping is the direct result of a misunderstanding that we knew you had killed someone. Is it possible that you not only murdered a man, but that his body is still in your house?”

Boy, crime reporting pays off. Guy really could put things together.

“She killed him,” Rick said. “I didn’t have anything to do with it!”

“It was an accident!” shouted Rita.

I needed to confirm my own theory while we were at it. “It’s Orson Sparrow, isn’t it? You killed Orson Sparrow!”

Lennie-Hagrid began chuckling on his stool and I began to wonder if I’d misjudged his kind nature.

“What’s so funny?” I asked.

“You think they kilt Orson Sparrow, that’s what’s so funny,” he chuckled some more.

“I doubt Orson Sparrow thinks it’s funny,” I countered.

He just couldn’t contain his chuckle. “They kilt someone alright, that’s true enough, but it weren’t no Orson Sparrow ‘cuz Orson’s right here in this room.”

Of the five men in the room, I was sure three of them weren’t Orson Sparrow. I looked at Rick Ash. Certainly, I’d had my run-ins with impersonators, but somehow I just didn’t think he was going to tear off a mask and say, “Hey, there, I’m a grape farmer.” That left one person. Lennie-Hagrid, the gentle giant. “You?” I asked him.

“That’s right, yoo silly goof, me!” the big man bellowed, poking himself with a monstrous thumb. “I’m Orson Sparrow and I ain’t dead.”

Chapter Fifteen

A
nd the plot thickened.

So, if Orson Sparrow wasn’t “kilt,” then whose
prącia
did I find in the woods behind my house? It was all getting to be too much with my rib cage aching and my head throbbing. On top of that, nausea was creeping up on me just a little too quickly for comfort. And we were no closer to knowing what had happened to Colt.

“I don’t feel so good,” I moaned, and leaned sideways until my head was resting on Peggy’s shoulder. Poor Peggy had been gagged through all of this and tried desperately to communicate, but had finally given up. Now she hummed “Mmm mmm,” which I decided meant, “Poor Barb.”

Rita stomped out of the room and returned several seconds later with a huge wad of plastic grocery bags. She ripped the gun from her husband’s hands and shoved the bags at him. “Tie him up,” she said, pointing the gun in Howard’s direction.

“With these?” he whined. “How am I going to do that?”

“Are you completely useless?”

Rick did as ordered and kneeled beside Howard, starting in on his wrists. Howard winced a few times.

“Maybe we could git the lady some soup or sumthin’ if she ain’t feelin’ right,” offered Orson.

Rita pinched the bridge of her nose between her fingers as if trying to relieve the pressure of a headache. “Orson. Go to the kitchen. We’ll be there in a minute.”

Meanwhile, Rick continued to tug and twist and tie until he felt satisfied that he’d eliminated any chance of Howard either hitting him or running away.

“I think it’s cutting off my circulation,” said Howard.

“Good,” interrupted Rita before Rick could do anything about it. “That means you won’t be going anywhere.” She motioned to Rick. “Come on. We need to make some decisions.”

We were left alone, although since there were five of us, that hardly felt alone. At least we were free to compare notes.

“Anyone have a cell phone?” Howard whispered.

“Miss Happy Housewife took ours,” moaned Guy.

“Mine is in my purse. Which is in the back of her car. They’re not entirely organized, but they’re not the stupidest criminals in the world either.”

“What do you think they’re doing?” whispered Clarence. “Making a bomb?”

We all shot him a bewildered glare.

“Any ideas on how to get us out of here?” I asked Howard.

He pivoted his head, surveying the room. “Not yet. I’m working on it.” He began pulling at his plastic bag binding with his teeth. That seemed like a smart idea, so I started to do the same with my ribbons, but Howard stopped me.

“No,” he whispered. You keep talking. Act natural or they’ll come back in.”

I wasn’t sure how natural I could act under the current circumstances, but talking I could do. I proceeded with my original plan: piece together the sequence of our kidnapping. Now we knew why: Peggy talked too much. But how?

“Guy,” I said, “what happened?”

“Could you elaborate?”

“Uh, okay, so we were talking on the phone then Clarence said, ‘That can’t be good’...”