Sprayed Stiff (17 page)

The trampoline nodded thoughtfully.

“The Terrell Hills investigators know about this, probably more than I do by now, so you can check with them.” She grimaced. I knew about friction between police departments when it came to investigations. They all wanted to run the show instead of cooperate. This one was going to be a royal mess, and I’d just reminded her. It was Podunk PD versus the calculator cops.

Darcy handed me a steno pad. “Write down your contact information. It’s looking like the daughter and boyfriend had something to do with the Barrister murder, maybe to protect the drug business. If this Lexa contacts you, let us know immediately.”

Tramopline nodded. Bad sign.

I shook my head. “I really don’t think that Wilma got killed because she found out about the drug running and put up an argument about it. I mean, if that was the case, why not just knock her off like it was an accident? Run her over, or booby-trap her car, slit her throat and dump her in the river or something. Why would they dress her face up like clown, take half an hour to spray her hair stiff, and leave her dead in her own house? Whoever killed Wilma had a personal vendetta, not a business agenda.”

Trampoline’s eyebrows went up. The corners of Darcy’s mouth went down. She held out her hand for the steno pad. After briefly flirting with the idea of leaving Zena Zolliope’s address and phone, I was a good girl and jotted mine down and slapped it into Darcy’s open hand.

“We’ll make note of your opinion.” I didn’t see her taking any notes. “But it’s looking like we can wrap these two cases up by the time we find the two missing perps.”

Wow, what a fun ride this was going to be—Tessa insisted upon driving even though Rick had only had two sips of his Dos Equis and held a doobie at gunpoint. This had apparently rendered him unable to negotiate the roads in Tessa’s opinion, so he sat in the passenger seat up front and withstood Tessa’s silent reproof. Reproof for saving me from death, no doubt. I was not number one on her hit parade, having lured Rick back into temptations he hadn’t even thought of in years and nearly gotten him killed. I nabbed the middle seat, planting myself squarely in the middle. There was no way I was sitting next to Jon. I felt guilty about what he’d heard, but it was true, and if he was really carrying a torch, it was better he dropped it now rather than later. The man in question threw a tortured look my way as he squeezed past, then hunkered down in the backseat, arms crossed, and looked out the window.

“Where are Trudy and Mario?” I asked. Only Rick, Tessa, and Jon had been waiting for me when I was finally released by Darcy and her trampoline.

“They were smarter than we were and booked it in the bedlam that followed the gunshots,” Tessa answered tightly.

That was out of character for my best friend and her husband. I dialed her number on my cell phone. Her voice mail picked up immediately. I left a short, worried message and hung up.

“Did you all see which way Lexa and her boyfriend went?”

“I saw them come out, because I was watching for the two of you,” Tessa said, “but just a second later came the gunshot and the crowd ran around bumping into each other like a bed of disturbed fire ants. That’s about the time I lost Trudy and Mario, too. I guess they made for the door. Jon and I should’ve followed and let you two idiots walk home.”

Some not-so-latent hostility filled the van.

I tried to lighten the mood. I cleared my throat. “So, how did the interrogations go for everybody?”

There was a beat of silence. Then Rick opened his mouth, but Tessa spoke first.

“This wasn’t a job interview. My Lord, Reyn, don’t you do anything normal? A simple night out on the town turns into a shootout at the O.K. Corral. First you try to kill my cat, now my husband….”

“I’m sorry, Tessa. If I’d known there was even an outside chance of that, I would have gone alone.”
Hey, get over the cat thing,
I thought. It wasn’t my fault he was sitting in the bushes and the murderer had used him as a brick through the window. Merlin had survived without a scratch and earned some major cat mojo—he won every fight on the block now.

A small groan in the backseat told me Jon still gripped the torch.

“The lesson here is you shouldn’t go at all!” Tessa’s voice rose, then dropped back down as she continued, “Look, I was afraid for you and for Rick. Just promise me you’ll stay out of this mess until the police wrap it up. It shouldn’t be too long. It looks like the two cases were linked. They’ll have everyone who’s anyone under arrest within twenty-four hours, I hope.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of.”

“Let it go, Reyn. I didn’t see Lexa hanging around to defend you after she got you into this. She’s in too deep to save.”

Tessa reached over and switched on the news. I guess we were finished discussing our evening. The cello-phanish voice of the radio news anchor announced the news at the top of the hour: “An Alamo Heights makeup artist was found dead in her salon just after midnight. An anonymous caller tipped off police to the victim of an apparent shooting. This is the second murder this week in the ’09 zip code. The funeral for a Terrell Hills philanthropist found shot to death in her home Saturday night is set for a week from today. Wilma Locke Barrister’s mother is apparently on a retreat in the mountains of New Mexico. Family have gone to find her to bring her back to bury her daughter. In other news…”

Tessa and I stared at each other via the rearvew mirror, completely mute.

Since coincidence was out of the question, was it my fault the happy, humming dumbbell was dead?

F
OUR HOURS OF SLEEP
isn’t good for me. I felt like roadkill, wretched as it comes. My eyeballs felt like they’d been sandblasted, my lungs felt like they’d been blowtorched, and my body felt like I’d been pulled through a knothole backwards. Gran used to say that, and I could never figure out why being pulled through backwards was more of an ordeal than frontwards. Once when I was ten and feeling particularly brave, I’d asked. She told me that I had more balls than a billy goat. I decided to leave that alone, along with the knothole deal. Some things in life you just have to accept and not ask why.

I betcha Scythe would say the murders of Wilma and now Shauna were two of those things in life for me to leave alone, but I was still going to find out why. I guess that meant that Scythe and the murderer(s) didn’t intimidate me as much as Gran did.

Enough philosophical ruminating, it was time for action. I eased up in bed and leaned against the headboard. It was no sudden action—after all, I didn’t want to hurt myself. The girls didn’t look like they felt any better than I did, or perhaps they were acting like that to punish me for keeping them outside until three in the morning. Beau opened one eye, glared at me, and put her head back on the pillow next to mine. I hadn’t noticed her getting up on the bed with me, but I probably wouldn’t have noticed Ben Affleck on Viagra climbing in with me, that’s how worn-out I’d been. Char actually got up from her dog bed, dragged her tongue across my cheek, and sank down on the floor next to me. Cab sniffed at the toes of my right foot sticking out of the covers and raised her doggie eyebrows at me.

I decided to do something drastic. I threw the covers back and leaped to my feet. The girls all jumped up, barking. Mistake. My ears started ringing again after their abuse from the Roadkill. I clapped my hands over them, but it didn’t help.

Coffee. It made everything better.

If a man brought me coffee in bed before I got up in the morning, I would probably marry him on the spot. No one I’ve ever dated has even offered. I know, I pick the wrong men. Tell me about it. I tried to train my Labs to do it, but it didn’t really work out all that well. I never did get the coffee stains off my throw rugs.

I wondered if the bald vitamin salesman down the street would bring me coffee in bed. Probably. Once he forgot about my part in his toasted Porsche, I’d see about that. Scythe, I could forget. He was the macho type who’d probably expect me to bring
him
coffee in bed. Besides, he was bringing other things to Zena in bed. Right now, probably. The visual I got with that thought made me feel like a porn pervert.

I considered throwing a robe over my Lyle Lovett “Creeps Like Me” T-shirt and boxer shorts I’d worn to bed, but, frankly, robes are superfluous when in the company of only dogs. When I crossed the threshold, all three were there, trying to muscle their way in front. We nearly got stuck. Then they hauled ass down the stairs, yipping for their kibble in the kitchen. I had to take care of that before I got to the coffee, but finally I sucked in the air full of Costa Rican brew.

Ahh. The world was right again.

That is, until I zapped on the television to see the lovely and beguiling Amethyst Andrews on News4 talking to green–bow-tie–wearing Phil Wimplepool outside a house that looked familiar. Very familiar, as a matter of fact. I peered at the nineteen-inch screen on my kitchen TV. A two-story historic Spanish Colonial. Probably in Monte Vista. I recognized that front porch. Making sure the dogs were busy with their breakfast, I tiptoed to the door that leads to the salon, let myself in, and hugged the hall wall until I got to my dark office, where I could peek through the closed miniblinds.

Yikes!

Three television remote trucks were parked out front. Photographers and reporters were milling around.

Of course, being the visualizer I was, I hadn’t listened to a word they were saying on the damned news, distracted by what I was seeing; so I tip-ran back to my kitchen, hunkered down next to the television, and listened.

“…so here I am, waiting to talk to the city’s favorite amateur detective-cum-hairdresser, Reyn Marten Sawyer, about her latest
brush
with death and how it may relate to the bizarre murder of her customer’s mother, famed Terrell Hills philanthropist Wilma Barrister.”

I switched channels. The CBS affiliate also had a remote truck outside Shauna’s office, which was decorated with bright yellow
DO NOT CROSS
tape. The reporter was interviewing a neighbor who hadn’t heard anything and hadn’t seen anything, but wanted to bitch about how the murder was going to “kill his property value.” Sensitive sort.

The way the reporter wrapped up his report, it seemed the media hadn’t made the connection between Shauna and Percy, only that it was two murders in the ’09 zip in a week. I moved to the NBC affiliate, whose anchor was talking to an Austin reporter outside Bangers. Wretched Roadkill were under arrest, allegedly part of a drug distribution ring that must somehow involve Percy Barrister, who was under arrest on drug charges in New Mexico, where he’d gone to look for his mother-in-law to bring her back for the funeral. The funeral had been postponed because Lexa was missing, Percy was in jail, and Wilma’s mother wanted to burn her daughter on an Indian-style funeral pyre.

I returned to Amethyst and company, who were listening to their police reporter explain that her source had told her that the Terrell Hills cops had enough circumstantial evidence to charge Percy with his wife’s murder and Lexa and her boyfriend, who were still at large, as accessories. The police reporter turned to Manning, who stood stiff as a statue except for the beads of sweat popping out on his upper lip. Leaning toward him, she asked for a comment; then when he opened his mouth, she stepped back. Halitosis must have hit. “I cannot confirm nor deny,” he monotoned.

“Come on!” I said out loud to the almost admission. I almost felt sorry for Officer Bad Breath.

The dogs, who’d lapped up the last of their food, now started whining. They were going to have to go out, but then the assembled crowd would know I was home. Damndamndamn. I blew out a frustrated breath and shooed them out the door. It took them all of two seconds to realize we were the most popular kids on the block. They went doggie ballistic. Good, at least it would keep the pretty faces from storming my back door.

That was the upside. The downside hit immediately as all three of my phones started ringing, my cell phone, my home phone, and the salon phone, which I could hear through the wall. Great. I’d been waiting to hear from Trudy and Lexa, both of whom I’d left frantic messages for on our way home last night. I was too cheap to get caller ID so I didn’t know who was on the two land-lines. Served me right for being a tightwad, but the phone company didn’t use this as part of the marketing:
Be sure to get caller ID so if you are wanted by reporters and cops countywide, you can avoid them with alacrity while still taking calls from your friends on the lam.
I checked my cell; it was a blocked number. I had to answer.

“Hola?”
I screeched with a heavy accent.

“Hello.” Cellophane voice. “I am hoping to speak with—” Reporter. I eighty-sixed her but fast.

It rang again immediately. Another blocked number. I went through the drill another three times before I finally answered and heard: “Gory goblins and geeky ghostbusters, Reyn, who do you think is going to buy that terrible accent?”

“Trudy! Where the hell did you go?”

“Mario and I, uh, left.”

“I could see that. Thanks a lot for the moral support.”

“We were helping you in another way.”

Sure. I know I am a difficult friend to have, being involved in two murder investigations in less than a year, but, hey, when shots are fired and your pal’s behind the closed door, wouldn’t you stick around to find out if you had to write her eulogy or not?

“Well,” I allowed only a bit sullenly, “I’m just glad you two are okay. You
are
all right?”

“We’re fine.
All
your friends are fine.”

Yeah, whatever. “I’ll try to get by and see you later today.”

“Just make sure you’re not followed.”

Huh? Since when was publicity hound Trudy afraid of reporters? Sheesh. “Forget it,” I said, and hung up on whatever apology she was whispering into the phone. Just what I needed right now, my best friend to go high-maintenance on me.

My salon phone was still ringing off the hook, probably all my customers who were canceling because they didn’t want to go through a phalanx of TV cameras with their roots showing. My cell started vibrating again. I’d kept an eye on the TV and saw News4 return to the live shot of my house with Bettina shaking her booty almost out of her favorite purple suede miniskirt and her lavender satin blouse barely containing her triple-D all-water transvestite bra as she sashayed up the salon stairs. She waved at the reporters and hiked her skirt up a little higher to show more leg. Yikes. That skirt was short. I hoped she’d employed plenty of duct tape this morning or her secret would be out. Literally. That’s just what I needed.

As I watched Bettina unlock the salon door with a jaunty wave at the cameras, I looked at the number on my ringing cell phone. Charlotte. I punched the answer button. “Reyn? Reyn! Are you okay? Isn’t this exciting? You are famous! I mean, more famous than you were before! Are you going to talk to the reporters at your front door? Wow. I can’t stand it, this is so fun! Bettina’s on the news! She is so beautiful. Life is just not fair that she’s that gorgeous and she’s a he.”

“You have no idea how unfair life can be,” I dead-panned.

“Wow. I mean, really wow. Hey, did you talk to my friend?” I could hear her
wink, wink
over the phone.

“Yes, I did. She was very helpful.” Threatening, but helpful. “Listen, can you call her and try to convince her to call Lieutenant Jackson Scythe at the SAPD? She can call anonymously, but he really needs the information she gave me, even if he has to find another source to confirm it.”

“Wow. Sure. Then I’d be really part of the investigation, wouldn’t I? I’d be assistant to ‘San Antonio’s favorite amateur detective.’ You know the news is calling you that?”

I made a noncommittal sound. It didn’t matter. Charlotte didn’t ever need an answer. She was a one-person conversationalist. “I’ll call her right now and get back to you, boss.” She gasped in excitement. “Wow, maybe we can put out our own shingle—Sawyer and Holmes Investigations. Like Sherlock and Holmes. Wow!”

I shivered as she disconnected. That was scarier than anything that had happened so far.

You know, I am convinced that everything in life is timing. Think back on things that have happened to you and what might be different if you had made that green light or said no to the first boy who asked you to the senior prom. I know the answer to the second question: I’d be pregnant with five kids, which is exactly what happened to the girl who went to the prom with the second boy who asked me. I said yes to the pharmacist’s son, who was scared of his own shadow and didn’t even try to hold my hand, much less anything else. I had to say no to the studliest boy in school, who would’ve been impossible to resist in a tuxedo. I have an issue with testosterone—I can’t resist it in certain quantities. Thank goodness for that particular timing. Whew.

As I was waxing philosophical, finishing my last cup of Costa Rican and wondering what timing would behoove me in this situation, my doorbell started ringing without the accompaniment of the dogs’ barking. One of the reporters and/or cameramen (I knew women operated news cameras, too, but feminizing the name was more cumbersome than political correctness was worth) had made friends with the girls, who now sat, tails wagging, tongues lolling, inside the fence along my front walkway, and my level of protection had been severely handicapped. I’d hoped three hundred pounds of teeth-baring dogs would’ve intimidated the news pretties for longer than that. So much for Labs. I’d have to invest in a pit bull—or maybe a dragon—if I was going to keep getting involved in murder investigations.

Ring-ring. Knock-knock. “Miss Sawyer!”

I leaned forward in my kitchen chair and peered down the hallway to my living room. The door shook with more knocking. “Reyn Marten Sawyer, we know you’re in there.”

A male face wearing Pan-Cake makeup appeared at my window. I jumped back, chair and all, behind the wall. Had they no shame? Maybe the networks had called. No, probably not yet. If that were the case, the locals would be crawling up through the toilets to get at me for their chance to appear on national news.

Not that I had anything against reporters, mind you. It was the nature of their business and you couldn’t hold it against them that the only way to get ahead was to get the story that would capture the most viewers. It was just like traders who wanted to find the best undervalued stock before everyone else discovered it. I suppose you could say I was that day’s undervalued stock in the news world.

I called Scythe. “What is going on?”

He sighed heavily, and from the gravel in his voice I could tell he hadn’t slept since I’d seen him just hours before. “You heard the news?”

“I
am
the news.”

“That’s your own dumb fault.”

“Did I suggest anything different?”