There's Something About Marty (A Working Stiffs Mystery Book 3) (16 page)

“Yeah?”

“You didn’t get out of the car and look around. You stayed put, where it was safe.”

She folded her arms. “Fine.”

After a minute of fidgeting, Marietta took off the olive green suede jacket she’d been wearing. She glanced at me. “Aren’t you hot?”

Heck, yes. I’d been parboiling in my wool funeral suit for almost five hours and by the smell of my rapidly failing deodorant, I should have been about done. “I’m fine.”

“Suit yourself.” Marietta chuckled. “No pun intended.”

“Yeah, very punny.”

Smirking, she started drumming against the center console. “What do you think they’re doing in there?”

I could think of one thing. “I have no idea.”

“How long do you think we’re going to be sitting out here?”

“Again, no idea.”

I heard another minute of drumming.

“I’m going to need a bathroom soon,” she said.

“It’s barely been an hour. I swear you have a bladder the size of a walnut.”

“Sorry, I had two cups of tea before we left.”

I looked up and saw movement by the SUV. Seconds later, Bob drove away, alone.

“He’s leaving.” Marietta glanced at the time on her cell phone. “Wow, if that was a quickie—slam, bam, and thank you, ma’am.”

She fastened her seatbelt.

“We’re not going anywhere just yet,” I told her. “Victoria’s still here, so let’s give him a half hour to get to that little store we passed and back.”

Sighing, Marietta unbuckled her belt and crossed her legs.

A half hour later, after no return trip by an SUV, I started the ignition and turned on the air conditioning. “Okay, let’s go find a bathroom, then we’ll check out that chapel.”

She buckled in. “Yay.”

“Where is it again?”

“Near Protection Arch Botanical Gardens. If we go back to 101 and take the next exit—”

“An actual address would be helpful.”

“River Rock Chapel, 600 Old Bluff Road.”

“We took Old Bluff Road to get here.”

“Then we must be really close.”

Driving past the house I noticed a hand-painted shingle with the number
600
hanging from the picket fence.

I hit the brakes. “Here? Your chapel is on the grounds of this bed and breakfast?”

“How wonderful! Park the car.”

“But Victoria is here somewhere.”

“Relax. She knows about the wedding, so it’s the perfect cover story.”

“It’s too coincidental. She’d never buy it.”

“We probably won’t even see her. Plus, I need to pee, so park the damned car!”

“Fine!”

I backed up and pulled into the space Bob had vacated. “Let’s keep a low profile, so try to be more Mary Jo than Marietta if you know what I mean.”

“Just relax and let me handle this.”

Relax, right. A serial killer might be inside the house and my mother wanted me to relax. “Keep your Taser handy.”

Marietta patted her tote bag. “I’ve got this. Now stop acting like a nervous Nellie.”

Who was acting? Certainly not me.

A minute later the front door opened and a middle-aged woman with soft brown curls and plump cherub cheeks smiled politely at Marietta.

“Hello, my daughter and I are planning a June wedding and were hoping to take a look at the chapel.”

“Certainly. But June is filling up fast so we should check the schedule book to see if your date is available.” The woman stepped back from the door. “If you’ll follow me.”

“This is lovely,” Marietta said as we stepped into a hardwood entryway that looked much newer than the World War I-era home. “Very homey.”

“Thank you. We do our best to make our guests comfortable.” The woman led us past a sitting room to a small office opposite the white banister staircase. “Please, have a seat.”

She settled behind a desk with Marietta sitting across from her. While they discussed dates the chapel was available, I looked at some of the pictures on the wall.

“Look at this one,” my mother said, pointing at the photo hanging closest to the desk. “The light streaming through the windows is absolutely gorgeous.”

“Nice.” I took a closer look at the bride—a beautiful Chinese woman in a sleeveless ivory sheath—standing next to a bear of a man.

Holy moly! It was a picture of Victoria and Marty McCutcheon.

“As you can see, the stained glass creates a lovely backdrop for wedding pictures.” The cherub pointed at a grainy photo of a man with a bushy gray mustache standing in the chapel with a young woman in black. “The original owner imported it from Italy as an anniversary gift for his wife.”

“And are you the current owner?” I asked, wondering why she had hung the picture of Victoria and Marty next to the one of the original owner.

“I’m Rhonda, the manager.” She pointed at Victoria’s wedding picture. “Mrs. McCutcheon is the owner.”

“Just as well that your grandmother didn’t come with us. My feet are killing me,” Marietta said, rubbing a bare foot as we cruised past the
Welcome to Port Merritt
sign at the north end of town. “At least we were able to cross the chapel and the botanical gardens off the
must see
list.”

And I was able to discover Victoria McCutcheon’s home away from home. From what Rhonda had told us, it was where
poor Mrs. McCutcheon
had met her late husband. Maybe Victoria used her charm in tandem with that of the River Rock Inn much like a fisherman made use of a shiny lure, representing herself as a financially independent woman to attract big fish.

A multimillionaire like Marty was a whopper of a fish, especially in these parts. I wouldn’t say the same for Bob. As one of the people at the flooring shop who had access to that bottle of salsa, maybe he was more of a scavenger fish, a less attractive functionary to perform the more unpleasant tasks. For a price? If Bob was expecting a share of the wealth, I’d take a clue from his dead friend and remind myself that some people weren’t very good about sharing.

I also wouldn’t attend any dinner parties at Victoria’s house.

“So, it’s two down and five potential venues to go, right?” I asked, hoping that we could use tomorrow afternoon to wrap up this episode of
Wedding Impossible
.

“Actually, six.”

“What? When did the sixth one get added?”

“Today, when we passed a cute little chapel behind a big totem pole. It looked darling.”

“Next to a big brown building with lots of RVs in the parking lot?”

“Yes! That’s the one. I didn’t care much for the look of that building, but it seems like the parking would be a plus. Especially since some of Barry’s family sound like RV people.”

“Sheesh, listen to you, Miss Priss.”

“I’m just saying that the parking might come in handy.”

“Okay, and if there are any grifters or riverboat gamblers in the family, they might enjoy that big brown casino. I know Gram and all her penny slot friends would.”

“A casino?” My mother crossed the last item off her list. “I am
not
getting married at a casino.”

And then we were back down to five.

Driving past Old Town, I put on my right turn signal.

“Why are we turning here?”

“I want to check something out.”

“Does it have something to do with Steve?” she asked as we passed the police station.

“Nope.” And he wouldn’t be overjoyed to know where I was headed.

“Speaking of Steve, don’t you think moving in with him is rushing things?”

“I’m in his guest room.” At least that’s where I had moved my clothes in case Marietta came over to have another motherly chat with Steve. “And it’s temporary.”

“Be that as it may, think of how it looks.”

I had been the odd duck in this town ever since my mother brought me here to live with her parents. Now that Rox and Eddie knew about Steve and me, I guess I didn’t care about how it looked as much as I cared about how Steve felt about me.

I tightened my grip on the steering wheel. “As you told me a few hours ago, relax and maybe think twice about which one of us is rushing things.”

Marietta folded her arms while she vented a little steam. “I am waiting nine long months to marry the man I love—a man who would prefer to run off and tie the knot tomorrow. I could have a baby sooner! Okay, not now I couldn’t, but I had you in eight and a half, so don’t talk to me about rushing things!”

I clenched my teeth. “You started it.”

“And I’m finishing it.” She straightened, lifting her chin with the air of a queen who would not deign to have RV-driving relations.

While she fumed during a few moments of blessed silence, I turned right on E Street and eased past Bob Hallahan’s house, where his silver SUV was parked in the driveway.

“Isn’t that the same car that you followed to the River Rock Inn?” Marietta asked.

“Yep.” And now I knew where he had gone after he left Victoria.

Maybe this was part of the plan, to avoid drawing attention to their relationship. Or maybe he was simply a nice widower who had made the mistake of falling in love with the wrong woman. Whatever it was, Bob was involved somehow, and I was dying to know how.

∗ ∗ ∗

Almost twenty-four hours later, my mother and I were driving back in Gram’s Honda after an afternoon of wine tasting at three of the northern peninsula wineries. As it turned out there wasn’t a wedding location in the bunch to suit her. At least we discovered a fume blanc that pleased her discriminating palate along with the wine-infused chocolate truffles I plied myself with to get through our five hours of
togetherness
.

As for the wedding venues on my mother’s list, her top candidates were still the River Rock Chapel, complicated by the fact that it was owned by a possible serial killer, and the gazebo in the botanical garden. With two more locations to visit, I was leaning toward any venue (with some semblance of the
chi
she had to have) owned by someone who didn’t leave dead people in her wake.

Since I’d been away most of the day, I turned up Third Street and looked for Steve’s car at the police station. No car. Good. I could only hope that he was enjoying his day off. At least one of us should.

Marietta shot me a sideways glance. “You can’t leave it alone, can you?”

Good grief! She was starting to sound like Steve.

I shook off the mental whiplash and turned on E to do a drive-by of Bob Hallahan’s house. “I’m just looking.”

“What for?”

Answers. Clues. Something to help me understand what the heck the McCutcheon women had been doing at his house the week of Marty’s death. If Bob had some sort of symbiotic relationship with Victoria, I could rationalize taking the risk to meet at his house. But what role did Darlene play in all this?

I slowed as we approached the dark green craftsman with the cream trim. “Remember the extenuating circumstances I mentioned yesterday?”

“Yes, but—”

“Ditto that.”

She sighed. “I see a house, cars, and no people. I don’t know what’s here to help with those circumstances, but I need to pee soon so let’s hurry up and get home.”

Since one of the cars she was referring to was parked directly in front of Bob’s house, I pulled up behind a row of mailboxes a door down from Estelle’s rambler to make a note of the license plate.

“Do you recognize the car?” Marietta asked.

“Not really.” The late model coupe looked a little familiar, but that was probably because I’d seen it parked downtown or at Eddie’s.

“Maybe Estelle knows who it belongs to.”

“I don’t want to involve her in this.” I’d done more than enough of that already.

Marietta waved. “Too bad, because she’s headed this way.”

Stifling a cringe, I rolled down the window. “Hi, Estelle. I was just showing my mom…” I pointed at the first thing I saw. “…this hydrangea in your neighbor’s yard. Amazing color this late in the season.”

She waved it off as if the gardener next door couldn’t compete with her green thumb. “If you think that’s something, come with me.”

I didn’t want to leave the cover of the car, but if Bob happened to look out his window and see us, at least this would have the appearance of a social visit to Estelle.

“If I do say so myself,” she said proudly as my mother and I followed her to the side yard, where two tall hydrangeas full of blue and lavender blooms hugged the outer wall of her living room, “these two put that other one to shame.”

“What glorious colors and so many different shades.” Marietta stepped in front of me, giving me the perfect opportunity to hang back and casually glance across the street.

Fortunately, the sun had set twenty minutes earlier and Bob’s lights were on, so I had decent visibility through the sheer curtains covering his picture window. Unfortunately, all I could see was an unoccupied living room.

After a few minutes of seeing nothing more than the occasional shadow across the street while Estelle gave us a tour of her garden, she and my mother headed inside so that Marietta could use the bathroom.

“Want to come in?” Estelle asked me as she reached for her front door. “It’s getting chilly out now that the sun’s down.” She sniffed the air. “Smells good though. Someone must be grilling burgers for supper.”

And they were making me hungry. But what I wanted a heckuva lot more than a burger was a better vantage point to get a look at who was inside that house.

Scanning the immediate vicinity, I spotted a
For Rent
sign in the overgrown front yard of the house next door to Bob’s.

I pointed at the sign. “Actually, I’m going to check out the rental across the way.”

Marietta looked at me quizzically, like she was trying to figure out why I was suddenly interested in this rental house. “I’ll just be a minute.”

“Take your time,” I said, meandering across the street to see if the house was occupied.

Walking up the driveway I spotted no drapes or curtains over the windows. A basket on the wooden porch contained a short stack of informational flyers that the owner must have set out. When I leaned over to pick one up I looked through the front window. No furniture.

Perfect. There was no one here to chase me out of their yard.

The rental didn’t have much landscaping to speak of, just a weed-choked lawn that was overdue for mowing and some mounds of heather and scrubby azaleas bordering the lot. Except on Bob’s side, where he had a six-foot-tall fence surrounding the greenery in his back yard.

As I quickly found out when I rounded the attached garage, that fence was going to present a problem. There was no raised deck, no vantage point I could use to see inside the house short of climbing the cedar tree in the back corner, and my tree-climbing days were way behind me.

That left me one option: the fence.

I’d look more like a spy than a prospective renter, which was so not the image I was going for over here. All the more reason to be quick about this and skedaddle back across the street before Estelle, the neighborhood watchwoman, saw me.

At least it was getting dark and I was wearing a black hoodie and jeans, so unless someone shined a light on me, I shouldn’t look like anything more than a shadow if I picked a spot behind some foliage. Of course, that bit of logic didn’t keep my heart from thudding in my chest as I tiptoed around a clump of heather and peered through a gap in the fence.

I did a quick scan of the back yard to check for movement. Nothing.

So far, so good.

The spotlight mounted above a sliding glass door was on. Because someone was on the deck? I didn’t see anyone, just some patio furniture—four chairs and a table—and a gas grill with the burgers that I’d been smelling for the last few minutes.

I saw a figure move by the door, but a bushy rhododendron on the other side of the fence was obscuring my view, so I crab-walked to my right until I found a knothole in the clear. Closing one eye I looked through it like it was a telescope, focusing on the person by the door—Bob Hallahan.

He was talking to someone.

The door slid open. Standing very still I held my breath.

Bob looked back at the person inside the house. “You have to exercise some patience. I know it’s tough but it’s only been a little over a week.”

Since what? Since Marty had died?

“I know,” a male on the other side of the door said. “But you weren’t there. You didn’t see it.”

“Just keep your cool.” Bob stepped to the grill, turned off the flame, and transferred the burgers to the plate in his hand.

My cell phone in my back pocket started vibrating. I couldn’t risk Bob seeing the illumination of the display if I pulled out my phone to turn it off, so I had to trust that he couldn’t hear the buzzing from thirty feet away.

The other guy stepped to the door. “Hey, man, I’m trying.”

I was trying, too, to get a better angle so that I could see him. While my phone buzzed with another text message, he turned toward me.

Holy smoke! Cameron!

“Try harder,” Bob said as he stepped back into the house.

The second he slid the glass door shut I took it as my cue to get to the car as fast as my legs would carry me.

It was also the same moment that my phone started ringing.

Crap!

Sprinting to the far side of the rental, I sounded like I’d run a hundred-yard dash by the time I finally answered.

“Where are you?” my grandmother asked. “And what have you been doing? You sound out of breath.”

“I had to run to the phone.”

“Oh, that explains why you didn’t respond to my texts.”

Jiminy Christmas, she was as impatient as her daughter.

“Dinner’s going to be ready soon.” The implication was clear in her voice, just like it had been when I was a kid. I had better come home. Immediately.