The Sleuth Sisters (21 page)

Chapter Forty-three

Faye

I made scalloped potatoes for dinner, with asparagus and homemade cloverleaf rolls. When Barb wasn’t there at six, I figured she was delayed. At six-thirty, I checked her calendar, thinking she’d made an appointment I was unaware of. A call to her cell went to voicemail.

After I’d told her about Phyllis DuBois being Stan’s former secretary, she’d gone to interview her. As far as I knew, that was all she intended. At quarter to seven, I told Dale to go ahead and eat, and I called Mrs. DuBois.

“Yes, I met Ms. Evans this afternoon,” she told me. “We had a nice talk.”

“Might anything you said have led her somewhere else?”

“Hmm. I don’t think so. I just repeated what I told the police back then.”

“There was nothing she seemed to find especially interesting?”

“I can’t think of a thing.”

Thanking her, I hung up, telling myself that a week ago, I wouldn’t have worried when she was an hour late. The attack and all the other crazy stuff associated with the Brown case had made me jumpy. Barb had her phone. She’d call if she needed me.

By seven-thirty I was pacing, and Dale retreated to another room where he didn’t have to watch. “She’s fine,” he insisted. “Probably met a friend and forgot all about eating with us.”

Loyal to my sister, I didn’t point out Barb didn’t have any friends, at least not the type she’d meet casually and decide to share an evening out together. Rory! She’d had dinner with him once. Maybe it had happened again.

But she’d have called. Barb is considerate that way.

Unable to quiet my unease, I called the police station and asked for Chief Neuencamp. “He isn’t here,” an officer told me. “You can speak to the deputy chief.”

Tom Stevens was as unhelpful as usual. “She’s probably shopping,” he told me in that “Now, honey” tone of his. “Barb’s a grown woman. You can’t be tracking her all over town.”

“She was attacked a few days ago.”

“And the guy that did it is dead. He can’t hurt her now.”

Mentioning that someone had hired and probably killed Zack wouldn’t get me anywhere with Tom. “Is there a way I could speak to the chief?”

Patiently Tom replied, “You could talk to him, but it wouldn’t do no good. He’s gone to Saginaw to pick up a local low-life that got himself arrested down there.”

I ended the call and sat for a while, phone in hand. Where could Barb be? What had distracted her so much she didn’t think to let me know she wasn’t coming home?

Retta came to mind. They’d seemed on friendly terms that morning. I called.

“Oh, hi, Faye. What are you up to?” Retta’s voice faded in and out, and I heard soft clunks and doors opening and closing.

“What are you doing?”

“Changing my clothes, I’ve got Miss Allport tryouts tonight.”

“Have you heard from Barb this afternoon?”

“No. Why?”

Fears tumbled out, and by the time I’d finished, I was almost in tears. “Where can she be, Retta? She never forgets to call. Never.”

“No, I don’t suppose she does.” I heard a closet door close. “Get a jacket, Faye. It’s cool and kind of rainy. I’ll pick you up in ten.”

Chapter Forty-four

Barb

Two hours in a car trunk is longer than you can imagine. If you have to inhabit one, a vintage Chevy is probably a good choice, but that doesn’t mean it’s comfortable. I’d banged a knee getting in, and it throbbed the whole time. It was dark, of course, and the air was dusty and unwholesome. I lay next to my bag of Correction Event supplies, and I mentally went through its contents, hoping there was something in there that might help me escape. Paint: no. Brushes: no. Black clothing: no. I resolved that if I got out of this mess, I’d add a few things to my kit, like a knife, a pair of handcuffs, and a gun.

I’d been in the trunk for a while when sounds interrupted my panicked thoughts. I’d been trying to convince myself I could survive in this cramped, dark space. Of course, if I did, it would only be to die later. The car shifted, and I heard the musical tones of a phone number being punched onto a keypad. I heard the burr of the phone ringing. The voice that answered, however, was only an occasional squawk.

“Gabe?” ... “Do you know who this is?” ... “That’s right.” ... “I need you to do something for me.” … “Don’t be stupid. Zack probably irritated somebody in town and paid the price.” ... “There’s a thousand dollars in it for you.” ... “It’s a lame charge, Gabe. They’ll never make it stick.” ... “All right. I’ll make it two thousand, but I need you to come right away.” ... “I can give you a thousand now and the rest tomorrow morning when the banks open.” ... “That’s good. Do you know where the viewing point for the Pit is?” ... “Right. Meet me there in an hour.”

The phone clicked shut and DuBois began humming, pleased with himself. What was he planning? Gabe wasn’t the type I’d call to help with a murder, so why was he joining us?

“No one was supposed to get hurt.” I pictured DuBois turning his face toward the back of the car as he spoke. Did he expect me to answer? To ask for further explanation? Not likely. I was fighting to stay sane.

After a while he started in again. “It was Carson’s idea. When Stan said no more money, he got desperate. They were barely speaking when he went home after Carina’s wedding.”

Mention of Carina seemed to divert his thoughts. “She should have married me. Stan wanted it, and I was willing. Carina was kind of a pain, but she was hot, you know?”

No, I don’t, but you’d never have turned her into a scared rabbit like you did Phyllis.

“Carina wanted Brown, though. I think that was mostly to irritate her old man.”

It was silent for a while up front, and I tried to think what I’d do when he opened the trunk. If I could kick the gun out of his hand, I might have time to escape. I tried to visualize it in my mind, practicing successful images so they’d turn into action when my chance came.

He started talking again. “So Carson’s extremely unhappy with his dad, and we start talking at the reception. We were a little drunk, but Carson says Stan’s stingy, and I say, ‘You ought to work for him.’ Pretty soon Carson’s telling me how Stan’s got money in an offshore account, a couple million. He bragged he could get at it, and we joked about helping ourselves. That was it, just joking, you know?”

I pictured them, two young males impatient to get what they thought they deserved, outdoing each other in bold proposals for stealing the old lion’s wealth.

“A few months later, Carson calls me at home. He’s been thinking about our little joke, and he says we can get away with taking the money.” DuBois laughed, a brittle, rueful sound. “I was young, you know? It sounded good to me.”

My arm was going numb, and I wriggled onto my back. The spare tire interfered somewhat, but I managed to make myself a little less uncomfortable.

“Carson’s part was to find the files and copy them for me. My job was to figure out Stan’s system and transfer the money to our own offshore account the next time Stan went fishing in some remote spot.” His tone turned whiny. “It should have worked.”

Surely Stan would have become suspicious when Carson started throwing money around like the storied drunken sailor, but would he accuse his own son of theft? DuBois would probably have been safe as long as Stan thought Carson alone was responsible.

But Carson had carelessly left the flash drive where Carina had mistaken it for hers. I pictured her frown as she realized whose files were on the drive and her realization that Carson had taken them from their father’s house.

“Carson phoned as soon as Carina left that morning,” Eric said. “We were at the lawyer’s office, but I stepped out to take the call.” His tone turned outraged. “I could not believe it. The guy comes to me—he comes to me—then freaks out when that bitch gets suspicious! He was going to tell everything. Stan would forgive Carson, but no way in hell would he forgive me.”

Even in my misery I was enthralled, imagining DuBois’ dreams turning to nightmares.

“So Stan and I go back to the office, and Phyllis says Carina wants him to come to her place right away. I remind him he’s got a lunch meeting, and he says he’ll see her later. When he leaves I slip out the back and drive into town. I park my car a couple blocks away and head for Carina’s apartment. I didn’t intend to hurt either of them, I swear. I thought I could make it work.” He groaned softly at the memory of how that plan had twisted into something terrible.

“Carina answered the door, and she lit into me right away. How dare I plot against Stan with all he’d done for me—that kind of thing. It was like she was nuts, screaming and swearing. She says, ‘You’ll be sorry you talked Carson into stealing from Dad!’ Me! She thought I talked Carson into it! He called me! The bat was sitting by the door--”

A thump on the car seat indicated DuBois relived the memory of killing Carina.

When he began again, his voice was calmer but still taut with emotion. “I didn’t even realize what I’d done until I was standing over her with the bat in my hand. Then Carson comes out of the bathroom shouting, ‘What did you do?’ He bent over her, and I knew he wouldn’t understand.” He let out a breath that was almost a sob. “It was all his fault, and he didn’t get it!”

When he spoke again it was creepy, because he described the image that had risen in my mind. “I was a mess, blood all over me. I grabbed Neil’s hoodie and put it over my clothes. I shoved the bat up the sleeve and pulled the hood over my head. I didn’t know Stan saw me leaving until later.” He chuckled softly. “He thought it was Neil.”

“I was pretty stirred up, but I knew I had to get back to WOZ. My suit was black, and I keep a fresh shirt in my office for emergencies. I let myself in the back door, washed up in my bathroom, and put on the clean shirt. That night I took the hoodie, the bat, and my bloody clothes and buried them.”

After a long silence that made me think he was finished, DuBois spoke again, his voice low. “There was one more problem. Stan’s secretary, Phyllis, came looking for me while I was gone. I made up a story about leaving to pay a speeding ticket. Phyllis isn’t very smart, as you probably noticed, but she had a thing for me. When I asked her to keep it quiet, she agreed.”

Had Phyllis suspected she’d been scammed? Probably not.

DuBois sighed deeply. “From then on, I was extra nice to Phyllis, so she wouldn’t want to tell anyone I was gone for a while that day. I didn’t intend to marry her, but I couldn’t let her think too much, you know? It would have been easy to find out there wasn’t any ticket, but Phyllis isn’t the type who’d check up on her boyfriend.” His laugh this time was bitter. “She’s a looker, and they say I’m lucky. Long as you don’t want someone to talk to, she’s a great wife.”

After that there was silence that felt like it lasted for days. I almost missed DuBois’ voice after while. I had a few questions, but I could guess the answers. He’d probably met Zach through Stan Wozniak and recognized a fellow human being who wasn’t particularly human.

More and more, my body objected to its awkward position. I was still afraid. I tried to remain determined to escape, but I felt myself becoming lethargic. Everything stopped mattering. In the end I just waited, passive and stoical.

I’d sunk to a semi-conscious state when the lid opened and a flashlight beam hit my eyes. “Get out.”

To my undying shame, I could not. DuBois had to help me. Once I stood on solid ground, I shut my eyes, waiting for the world to stop spinning.

After a few moments I felt a little better. It was dark, and rain was still falling. There was a quarter moon, visible from time to time as clouds scuffed across the sky. When my head settled and my body once again obeyed my commands, I looked to Eric to see what was next.

“Get in. You’re driving.”

I obeyed. He went to the other side, climbed in, and sank down, his back against the door. If anyone happened to see us on the road, it would appear I was headed for the Pit alone.

Chapter Forty-five

Retta

Faye was waiting out front, and she climbed in so fast I hardly had to slow the car down.

“Where should we start?” she asked.

“Mrs. DuBois says she left a little after five, right?”

“Right.”

I mentioned a couple of places she might have gone, but Faye dismissed both. “Do you think we should call the police?”

“I tried that.” Faye explained Tom’s attitude and Rory’s absence. “I thought she might have gone to see the chief with what she learned from Phyllis DuBois, but I can’t contact him.”

I pulled the car over to the curb. “I can.” Grabbing my bag from the backseat, I took out my phone and told it, “Call Rory.” In seconds, he was on the line. “Neuencamp.”

“Rory, it’s Retta Stilson. I understand you’re on the road, but Faye’s worried about Barbara. She didn’t come home, and we wondered if you talked to her this afternoon.”

“I didn’t talk to her,” he answered, “but I saw her leaving town. I was at the gas station when she went past, going south on 23.”

“Hmm. I wonder where she’d have been going.”

“I don’t know,” he answered. “Come to think of it, she looked unhappy. I thought she was mad at me.” The phone crackled as he made a movement I couldn’t identify. “No message?”

“No.”

There was a pause before he said, “I don’t like that.”

I opened my mouth to reassure him, but then I glanced at Faye’s white face. She was scared. “We’re going to see what we can find out. I’ll keep you informed.”

“Please do.”

I closed the phone and turned to Faye. “Rory saw Barbara on 23, going south.”

She frowned. “Let’s drive out that way. Maybe she had a flat tire or something.”

Instead of saying she’d have called in that case, I put the car in gear and did as she said.

Chapter Forty-six

Barb

I turned into the viewing point’s parking area, a small space of dirt carved out of a thick stand of alder and birch trees. At the center of the area, a short flight of stairs led to the plank platform that I knew from my earlier visit revealed a spectacular view of Lake Huron, the expanse of the Pit, and a sheer drop to the Pit’s floor, a hundred feet below.

“Get out,” DuBois ordered. When I obeyed, he exited the other side and came around. Glancing at my flat shoes, he said, “Good choice. We have to do some walking.”

I searched my mind for a way to delay him, but what good would it do? No one knew I was here. No amount of dragging my feet would help me now.

“Hey.” With my already high stress level, the voice almost set me screaming. I turned to see Gabe approaching. It was difficult to make out his features in the dark, but there was no mistaking his shambling gait and slouched posture.

When he got close, Gabe stopped. “What’s she doing here?”

DuBois stepped forward, pointing the gun at Gabe’s chest. “She’s going to be murdered.”

“What?” Gabe was stunned. “I never killed nobody.”

“Shut up and do as you’re told.” With a tense gesture, DuBois indicated that Gabe and I should go left. We paralleled the platform, coming around its southern end, where a six-foot fence continued along the rim of the Pit. I remembered that the fence angled away from the edge, making a wedge of land the local teens called Party City. Someone had cut a hole in the fence, low to the ground and just big enough to crawl through. No doubt the kids tested their courage by hanging out on the wrong side of the protective fence. In the faint light I saw beer cans and a “pocket-rocket” liquor bottle, all empty.

“Through the rabbit hole, Ms. Evans,” DuBois said cheerfully.

Gabe looked at the fence then at Eric. Though not the brightest bulb in the chandelier, he was getting a glimmer. “Look, Mister. I don’t want the money. I promise I’ll keep quiet—”

“I said shut up. Ms. Evans, do as I said. Gabe, follow her through. Both of you, stop on the other side. Remember, a bullet goes a lot faster than you can run.”

I couldn’t bend myself low enough to pass through the hole, though an image of laughing teens scooting lightly to the other side came to mind. Older, stiffer, and less willing, I crawled through on hands and knees. Radiating fear, Gabe came so close behind me that my shoe brushed his arm. I turned, ostensibly to hold the fencing back for him, and stuck a tissue from my pocket through the diamond-shaped pattern of the fence wire.

DuBois did a good job of getting through without taking the light off us. I considered trying to kick at the gun as he squirmed through, but he kept a firm hold on it, using his elbows to bear his weight. “Head down the path,” he ordered, aiming the light at a break in the trees more suited to the passage of deer than humans. “I’ll shine the light ahead so you can see your way.” He sounded almost solicitous, like a good WOZ Industries employee protecting guests on the property from harm. A person might not believe only one of us was going to be coming back.

Surreptitiously draping another tissue on a branch, I started walking. It was all I could do.