A Candidate For Murder (Old Maids of Mercer Island Mysteries Book 2) (15 page)

“Thanks. I shouldn’t be gone long,” I said.

I found Blair waiting for me in the breakfast room munching on a piece of cheese and a cracker from the tray April put out for guests.

“Careful, you might gain an ounce,” I said.

“No I won’t,” she replied lightly. “Even if I do, I’ll work it off – one way or the other.”

Once again, she flashed one of her seductive smiles as I turned for the front door. I grabbed the door knob, but the door knob wouldn’t turn.

“What the…?”

I tried again. This time, the door knob turned, but I couldn’t pull the door open. I stood back when I heard a soft giggle.

“Chloe!” I called out. “Stop playing games.” I tried the door knob again, but no luck.

Blair moved up close to my ear. “Maybe she can’t hear you.”

I turned to her. “Why are you whispering?”

“I don’t know. Why are you talking to a ghost?”

I turned back to the door. “Chloe, we’re going to try to find out who stole Ahab.”

The door popped open.

I turned and gave Blair a know-it-all look and then stepped through the door.

Blair was driving her own BMW sedan today, which made me feel slightly more secure. It only took twenty minutes to get off the island and across the water to the auto shop, which sat on the outskirts of downtown Bellevue. I took the time to fill her in on Tony’s arrest.

Bellevue looks a little like the Emerald City of Oz rising out of the surrounding business district. It’s an extremely affluent area, filled with financial institutions, high-end stores, expensive restaurants, and hi-tech companies.

The auto shop sat on the other side of I-405 freeway, near Overlake Hospital. Joe Emory was the mechanic of choice for anyone who owns a high performance car. He used to take care of my Miata before one of Martha’s killers forced me off the road. The Miata was totaled. I missed that car. It fit me. It was small. And I’m small. Although I liked my new Nissan Pathfinder, it felt a touch overwhelming. On the other hand, I felt much less vulnerable in it.

As we pulled into the parking lot of Emory Auto Shop, the butterflies in my stomach were a sure sign I was questioning the decision to make this trip. What if this guy really was the man who had attacked me? And if he was the guy who attacked me, he might recognize me. Even come after me.

Blair killed the engine and grabbed her purse. When I didn’t move, she turned to me. “Why are you just sitting there? Let’s go.”

“Are you sure this is a good idea?” I asked, my eyes searching the front of the shop.

“We’re not going to do anything dangerous. All we want to do is ID him. Heck, it’s probably not even him. There’s nothing to be afraid of. Besides, I would never knowingly put your life in danger.”

She reached for the door handle as I said, “Why doesn’t that make me feel any better?”

Blair unbuttoned her wool coat so that it hung open when we got out of the car. Then she arched her back.

“What are you doing?” I asked from the other side of the car.

She looked sideways at me over the hood and just smiled. Then she stepped forward and threw open the door to the shop. I followed her inside.

The waiting room at the Emory Auto Shop felt more like a boutique than a place where auto mechanics hung out. But then, Joe Emory was a smart business man – he knew the kind of customers he attracted, and they didn’t like grease and grime. So the furniture looked like it came out of a Modern Home magazine, the floors were spotless, and there was music playing overhead. They sold designer key chains and fancy aromatics for your car. There was a high-end Keurig machine, fresh pastries, and free Diet Pepsi. I was in heaven every time I went in there.

“Hey, Joe,” Blair said with a big smile as she stepped up to the counter.

Joe Emory looked like he could have been a jockey at one point in his life. He was small and wiry and probably in his mid-50s. He’d done well for himself. He not only owned this shop, but two more – one in Lynnwood and one in Kent.

He looked up from the counter at Blair’s greeting, and the expression on his face changed from blank to open and friendly. “Hey, Mrs. Wentworth. What brings you here? I hope that BMW isn’t giving you any trouble.”

“Well there
is
this little ping,” she lied, using her manicured fingers to illustrate the
little
part. “I hear it every once in a while. I was wondering if one of your guys could take it for a spin around the block. Maybe it’s nothing,” she said leaning over the counter, giving him full view of the deep cleavage that left most men speechless.

Watching her made me think of a time in high school when a couple of my friends decided I needed some help in the seduction department. They stuffed two water balloons into my leotard moments before a boy I hoped would invite me to the homecoming dance came out of the science lab. My job was simple, just sashay past him without saying a word. Unfortunately, I panicked and tripped, landing face down at his feet. The water balloons exploded, drenching me
and
his new Wingtips. Needless to say, I never made it to the homecoming dance.

I shifted my attention to Joe Emory, who was openly staring at Blair’s water balloons. He hadn’t even noticed me. What he didn’t know was that Blair’s were as false as mine were in high school, just a little more durable. Still, from the look on his face, I thought it was a good thing he was standing behind the counter.

“Let me get Peter,” he said, running his tongue along his bottom lip. “He can take it out for a spin.” He dragged his eyes away from Blair and turned to exit through a door behind him.

“So what do we do now?” I asked.

“I know Peter,” she said, pulling back from the counter. “He’s not the one we’re looking for. So let him take the car, and we’ll wander around.”

A moment later, Joe was back. Like a homing pigeon, his eyes immediately sought out Blair’s chest. “Peter will be right here,” he said, reluctantly bringing his eyes up to meet Blair’s.

She smiled sweetly. “That’s great. Here are the keys,” she said, dropping them on the counter. “Mind if we wander around while he’s out with the car? I just love being around fast cars,” she said with a raised shoulder.

He smiled. “Of course not. The guys love having you here.”

I started to laugh and then coughed to cover the indiscretion.
Of course the guys loved having her here
, I thought.

Joe finally noticed me and said, “How are
you
, Mrs. Applegate?”

“Just fine, Joe,” I replied.

Peter came through the door and picked up the keys before approaching Blair. “Can you tell where the noises are coming from?”

Peter was one of the few men who didn’t seem fazed by Blair’s feminine wiles. And Blair knew it – you could tell by her physical reaction. Around 90% of men would turn her into an undulating, breathless woman that reeked of sex. With the other 10%, she seemed to know immediately that her physicality would be lost on them, and the sex appeal that seemed to seep from her pores only moments before would evaporate.

“I’m not really sure,” she said, standing up straight. In heels, Blair was almost 5 foot 11. Standing next to her, I usually felt like her little sister. “I thought maybe if you would just drive around the block a couple of times, you might hear it,” she said.

He shrugged. “No problem. I’ll be back in a few.”

Peter left in the BMW, and Joe returned his attention to the computer, leaving us to do what we’d come there for. We went back out the front door and turned towards the car bays. The big rolling door was all the way up, revealing a large auto shop with three hydraulic lifts and a full wall of counters and drawers filled with tools in the background.

A thin man in blue overalls leaned over the engine of a Volvo. Blair looked at me with a lift to her eyebrows. I glanced at him, but shook my head. This guy was too short and didn’t have a bandage on his face.

We wandered past the Volvo to a red Mercedes sports car. The Mercedes was up on the lift, with two mechanics tinkering beneath it. Blair jerked her head in their direction. I paused, but couldn’t get a good look. I bent over slightly and studied each one carefully as they worked.

“No,” I murmured.

We continued on as if we were perusing dogs at a dog show. Blair had her hands clasped behind her back, her purse draped over one shoulder. This helped to present her best feature to the admiring eyes that followed us.

We stopped in front of the third hydraulic lift. The lift was down, but a vintage Mustang sat there with its hood up. A couple of mechanics were working on it, but since we were standing at the tail end of the car, we couldn’t see either one of them.

“Hello, Mrs. Wentworth,” a voice called out.

“Hey, Jake,” she replied, smiling at a young man coming around the back end of the Mercedes.

Jake was in his mid-twenties with a scraggly beard. He wasn’t our guy. I knew Jake. He’d worked on my Miata a couple of times. He noticed me and smiled.

“Hi, Mrs. Applegate. How’s your Miata running?”

I frowned sadly. “I’m afraid it’s dead. It was killed by a Hummer.”

“Too bad,” he said. “Those Hummers are monsters on the road.”

“How is that new baby of yours?” Blair asked him. “Are you getting any sleep?”

While Blair kept Jake busy, I ambled past the rear of the Mustang and then turned towards the back of the shop. I came up along the wall, skirting around a huge, rolling tool box. I stopped behind the first man. He was holding a wrench for his partner with his left hand and leaning on the hood with his right. Long slender fingers with short fingernails filled with grease rested on the hood of the fender.

As I moved forward, the man turned his head and a lock of blonde hair fell out from under a baseball cap worn backwards.

“Can I help you?”

I paused. It was a woman.

“Uh…my friend is having her car checked out,” I said. “Joe said we could wander around.”

“Sure, no problem,” she said.

I was looking through the open hood when the man next to her finally looked up. I glanced at him and my heart skipped a beat. He had dark hair and deep-set, dark eyes. His nose was covered in white gauze and tape. Across his left cheek were several deep and recent scratches.

The man’s eyes flared the moment he saw me. He straightened up and took a step backwards. “Shit! I’ll be back in a minute,” he mumbled, and then turned for the office.

My heart was racing. I wanted to run after him, but I had to get more information.

“That guy didn’t seem too friendly,” I said. My fingers were clasping the straps of my purse in a death grip.

The female mechanic glanced around at the retreating image. “Oh, Big Al? He’s not so bad,” she said. “He’s only been here a short time.”

“Seems to me like he could use a little customer service training,” I said.

She chuckled. “Yeah, I suppose. But you don’t get much customer service training in the joint, if you know what I mean.”

“Is that where he got injured?”

“No. He said a dog attacked him.” She wiped her hands on a dirty rag. “Had to be a pretty big dog,” she said with a laugh. “After all, he’s a pretty burly guy.”

Suddenly I felt like I had to pee. That often happens when I get nervous.

“Julia,” Blair called from behind me. She hurried up and put a hand on my shoulder. “We have to go. Right now!” She grabbed my arm and dragged me quickly out of the shop. Her BMW was back, and she had the keys in her hand. “Get in. Fast,” she ordered.

I did as I was told and fifteen seconds later we were pulling out of the parking lot.

“What’s going on?” I asked, holding on as she whizzed out onto 116
th
Ave.

“I saw the guy with the facemask,” she said with excitement. “He came in and told Joe he had to go home for something. I saw him get into an old beat-up pickup truck. I want to follow him.”

“But how do you know where he is?”

She pointed a long, manicured fingernail ahead of us. “He’s right up there,” she said with satisfaction.

A battered old green truck was just turning onto the overpass. Blair wheeled around a minivan in front of us and screeched around the corner hot on his tail. We watched him take the exit onto I-405 South. The light in front of us turned red, and Blair roared right through it. A moment later, we were only two cars behind him on the freeway.

“Did you get a chance to see him?” she asked me.

I was gripping the armrest so hard my fingers were going numb, but I managed to answer. “Yes. I think he could be the guy. The moment he saw me, he took off. But according to the female mechanic, he’s only worked there a short time and was in prison before that.”

Blair shot a surprised glance my way. “No shit!”

“That’s kind of what he said the moment he saw me,” I replied. “But that’s not all. I asked the girl how he got injured. And she said he told them he’d been attacked by a dog.”

“Wow,” Blair exclaimed. “We got him, Julia.”

“Well, let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” I cautioned her, using the same expression Doe had earlier. “But I have to admit that I think it’s him. He seemed to be about the right height and the right size, and I could’ve sworn that that was his voice.”

We followed the old pickup truck down 405, past the Seattle Seahawks training facility on the shores of Lake Washington. We took the exit for Renton Technical College and pulled under the freeway. Renton was a former coal mining town that had grown into a burgeoning business community with the help of a Boeing plant. Downtown Renton sat in the valley, while a good two-thirds of the town sat on the east hill, called the Highlands.

The truck pulled up the hill, past Mt. Olivet Cemetery on the right and the sprawling Renton Technical College campus on the left. Greenwood Memorial Park Cemetery sat kitty-corner to the college. It was the gravesite of the famous rock star, Jimi Hendrix, one of Renton’s claims to fame.

The truck stayed on NE 4
th
Street and passed the cemetery. Then it took a right into the parking lot of an apartment complex behind the cemetery. Blair and I pulled in and parked across the lot. We watched Big Al get out of the truck and hurry into a ground floor apartment. Blair opened the glove compartment and pulled out a small pair of opera glasses. I gave her an incredulous look.

“What?” she said with raised eyebrows. “You never know when these are going to come in handy.”

She used the opera glasses to see the number of the apartment in which Big Al had disappeared. “Number 12,” she said.

“Now what do we do?”

There was a part of me that wanted to run from the car, bang on the door and burst in, hoping to find Ahab. But I knew that was a bad idea. And that he might already be dead.

“I say we go talk to him,” Blair said.

I stared at her in disbelief. “You’re kidding!”

“No. This may be your one chance to save Ahab,” she said. “That guy might be in there right now trying to kill him.”

My heart rate sped up. “Let me at least call David and have him on the phone when we do this.”

She shrugged. “Okay by me. But let’s get closer first.”

I reached for my phone just as a familiar song began to play. I glanced down at the screen, and my stomach clenched. It read, “Out of the area.” That usually meant it was my mother.

I glanced over at Blair as we exited the car, hoping I could take this call without notice. As we began to cross the parking lot, I clicked on the phone and said hello.

“Julia! Be careful,” my Mom said. “I can tell you’re about to get in trouble.”

“How do you do that?” I asked, stopping mid-stride.

Blair turned and gave me an exasperated look. Then she mimed, “Who is that?”

I ignored her. “We’re trying to rescue Ahab,” I said into the phone.