Design on a Crime (10 page)

"Thanks." Gussie was one of the nicest people I knew, and
I was glad she'd called. "Thanks for checking on me too. You
didn't have to, but I'm glad we talked. You helped me clear my
thoughts, and I now have a better idea what to do next."

"That really sets my mind at ease." Gussie's sarcasm wasn't
wasted, but I wasn't about to back down. I was the one in
danger of a change of address.

Gussie added, "I don't like the idea of you taking such risks,
but I guess I'm going to have to be happy with it, right?"

"That's right. Now, you'd better run, run, run to bed before Tom takes my Starbucks away. Real punishment, you
know."

This chuckle had more oomph. "Good night, Haley. And let
me know what you find out. I am concerned about you."

"I know, but you shouldn't be. Now, get a good rest, and
I'll talk to you again soon."

I hung up and stared at the phone. Maybe Bella did have
the right idea. To a certain extent, that is. I wasn't about to
turn into Angela Lansbury, nor was I going to start dressing
out of L. L. Bean, but I could check out those two men. If
nothing else, I had a couple of questions for Steve.

Tomorrow looked like a good day for answers.

Okay. So why did I ever think I could pull this off?

I'd driven past Marge's house about seventeen times already, and nothing came to me. I had no idea how to approach
my mentor's widower.

Especially since he had company, company that was in no
apparent hurry to leave.

A silver Jaguar sat in the driveway next to the Norwalks'
Mercedes. For work, Marge had relied on a box truck; it could
handle the tallest highboy or armoire. For herself, she'd used
the VW Bug. She only used the Mercedes when she met new
customers or when she and Steve went out together. The rest
of the time, Steve used the posh vehicle. His drive to and from
the school where he taught algebra and geometry was less
than a five-mile round trip.

"Well, I'm not going to learn anything while I waste gas,
am l?"

I pulled into a strip mall about a half mile away from the
entrance to the enclave of mansions. That's what I called them.
Most residents preferred the euphemism "luxury home."

They were luxurious, all right. I'd love to land a contract to
do one or two. That'd set me up for years to come. But they'd
still be mansions, no matter what.

At the moment, though, the only one I cared about was
the cedar, glass, and steel one at the end of the cul-de-sac.
I didn't bother to lock my Honda. It looked ridiculously
humble among the Saabs, BMWs, Mercedes, and Volvos in
the parking lot.

I hurried toward the Norwalk home. But by the time I
reached the lush rhododendrons at the end of the long driveway, I still had nothing but the need to know who'd killed
Marge. I'd take any idea right about now, no matter how
crazy, even something Bella cooked up.

Oh, don't be such a wimp! Thus bolstered, I approached the
front door. As I aimed for the bell, music wafted from the
backyard.

Strange. You'd figure a widower of only days would be
more likely to spend time in silent reflection remembering
his late wife. But if I wasn't mistaken, Steve Norwalk had
chosen the lush, sensual sound of Ravel's "Bolero" for this
morning's tune.

I figured I'd better not make much noise. At the very least,
I didn't know if I'd find the man weeping because the music
had held some particular meaning for him and Marge. I
wouldn't want to just burst in on him.

Then I heard a giggle. A feminine giggle. A flirty feminine
giggle. That didn't sound like a lot of grieving going on.

I took my time and was pretty careful about where I
crept. As I came to the end of the side walkway, I grinned.
Up ahead sat the perfect cover. Because Marge's new home
was such a chichi place, even the trash rated its own private
abode. I'd laughed myself silly when she'd shown me the
shed.

"Hey!" she'd cried. "I don't want garbage and recycling
junk to mess up the curb appeal."

Now I was glad she'd had the foresight. If I pushed the
cracked-open door a bit further, I could hide behind it and still
see the backyard through the space between the hinges.

Which is what I did.

And nearly blew my excellent cover. The sight of Steve
Norwalk and Noreen Daventry in bathing suits-if one could
call the Band-Aids they wore on their buff bodies bathing
suits-and wrapped around each other nearly made me
puke.

How dare they! Poor Marge wasn't even in the ground yet,
and here they were cavorting in her house, her pool. I glared
at them.

They were way too close for new acquaintances. Had Marge
known about the affair?

Maybe I wouldn't get to ask Steve any pointed questions
today, but at least I'd learned something new. There was another suspect in the design of this crime, and her name was
Noreen.

That brought up another question. Should I stay and see
if I could hear anything that might incriminate them? Or
should I head straight for Detective Tsu's office with my
discovery?

As I pondered my dilemma, a strange squeak came from
my left, right behind the gargantuan trash toter our fair hamlet
provides its residents for their refuse.

I'm not crazy about scavengers. Give me dogs, cats, bunnies, even the occasional guinea pig, but real rodents? Reptiles? Vultures and buzzards? Uh-uh. I'll pass on those.

I scooted out as far as possible and still remain hidden
behind the door. Of course, I tripped-on a huge beat-up
running shoe, foot within.

To my credit, I didn't scream. But the inhuman squeal that
rose from behind the trash can scared about ten years off my
life. A pair of rats sped past me. Their humongous size horrified me, so I zigged when they zagged and brought my heel
down on the grungy sneaker.

"What do you think you're doing?" Dutch snarled.

When my heart resumed beating, I said, "Ah ... well ... I
wanted to pay my condolences ... Yeah, that's it. I wanted
to pay Steve Norwalk a condolence call."

Dutch gave me a look of pure disgust.

I didn't blame him. I wouldn't buy it either if I'd found
the person who tried to feed it to me in a trash shed. So I
figured it didn't really count as a lie. It was just a momentary
diversion.

Another of those giggles rose over the notes of "Bolero."

Dutch looked over the door. I leaned to peer through my
crack between the hinges. Thanks to Ravel, neither Noreen
nor Steve seemed to have heard the rats. Their embrace had
only grown steamier since I last checked.

"I'd never have pegged you for a peeping Tom," Dutch
muttered. "Thomasina, actually."

"Those two are disgusting." I put more distance between
us and waved poolward. "I can't believe they're-"

Crash!

No way the two on the lounge chair could've missed that.
People in China heard the trash can fall. On me.

"Come on," Dutch ordered. "We have to get out of here before they call the cops and we're hauled in for trespassing."

He grabbed my arm and, before I scraped the wilted lettuce, coffee grounds, and soggy potato chips off my clothes,
dragged me away. It wasn't an easy proposition, I'll give him
that, since my sandals slid on repulsive green goo, but Dutch
wasn't about to be thwarted.

"Oh, for crying out loud." With a final yank to my arm, he
knocked me off balance and scooped me up in his arms.

Fear hitched in my throat. My heart pounded. He was too
close. I was too vulnerable. Four years melted away.

He trotted off, and in spite of my efforts to escape, I noticed
the wrapper stuck on his shoulder.

I laughed. It was a nervous laugh, shrill, full of strain, and on
the verge of panic, but still a laugh. The label seemed appropriate. I might be garbed in produce past its prime, but Dutch bore
a warning. The label on his shirt decreed him a Nutty Buddy.
Buddy? I didn't think so.

Nutty? Oh yeah.

"Put me down."

My demand gave him no leeway, and I know he heard it,
since I made it mere millimeters from his ear.

It was a nice enough ear but, apparently, out of order.

He jogged down the drive, past the two pricey cars, and
didn't pause when he reached the sidewalk. His stamina
impressed me; his noncompliance didn't.

I had to get out of his clutches before a panic attack struck.
I hadn't had one in about a year. Since he hadn't harmed
me-yet-I held my breath for a couple of seconds, long
enough for my heartbeat to resume a semiregular rhythm.

"Hey!" I smacked his shoulder, dislodging the Nutty Buddy
wrapper. Pity. It suited him to a T. "What's wrong with you?
Can't you hear? I said, put me down."

"Nothing's wrong with me, and my hearing's fine."

He didn't even sound out of breath. And I'm no teenymini woman. But I couldn't let his strength blind me to his
insanity.

"I just have a healthy regard for freedom," he added. "We have to get out of Dodge ASAP, and those funky sandals of
yours look like they'd make lousy joggers."

"My Birkenstocks are excellent for everything."

"Not for staying ahead of the jailer."

"You should know."

That stopped him. I took advantage of his downgraded
momentum to shove myself out of his grasp. I nearly landed
on my rear.

Since he didn't answer, I stole a peek. Uh-oh. He wasn't
happy.

"Just for the record," he said through gritted teeth, "I've
never been arrested. Don't even get speeding tickets. None yet,
and I'm thirty years old. That should tell you something."

"Yeah. You run faster than the law. And not by foot
either."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"That you got yourself a lawyer who kept you this side of
trouble in that slippery slope mess you made."

As I indicted him, I heard Noreen, no longer out in the
backyard.

Dutch looked back. "Come on. It'll be worse if she finds
us here. Trust me on this."

My stomach did a nervous flutter. Trust was not one of my
strong suits. Plus, his Tarzan swoop had brought back unbearable feelings. Loss of control didn't sit well with me.

"Fine. I'll go. On my own steam." My sandals slapped the
concrete in a brisk beat.

Where did this sleazoid get off demanding answers, anyway? I was innocent. Well, innocent of everything except for maybe a wee bit of trespassing and eavesdropping. But what
was his deal?

"So now that we're on our way to freedom, Dutch, how
about you tell me what you were doing in Marge's trash
shed?"

"I found you there, and I asked first. How about an
answer?"

Thank goodness the strip mall was only about a block
away. I'd had enough of Dutch. "I told you I came to pay my
condolences-"

"Uh-huh. And the moon is made of marshmallows, and
Mars of ketchup and beets."

"Gross!" I'd take a diversion any day. "Good thing you
didn't go into cooking, even if you're a less than excellent
builder-"

"You don't know a thing about me, so don't condemn me
until you do. If you recall the stories you seem familiar with,
I won that suit."

"That means nothing. Lawyers come in all stripes, and they
twist the truth every which way but up."

"Not in my case."

I stopped in my tracks. "The house slid down the hill."

He got in my face. "Because my subcontractor cut corners
when he drilled into the hill to install the support beams for
the house. Instead of going twenty feet down, he only went
ten. He also used cheap cement to anchor them. It was full
of sand and practically melted in that monsoon we had. He
made a killing off not just me, but a bunch of other contractors and then skipped to Rio. I proved it, and it's a matter of
public record."

I gaped. Then I scoffed. "If that's the case, then why
does your name still reek of old fish in the Seattle business
community?"

He ground his teeth. I saw his cheek muscles flex.

"I'm the one who uncovered the subcontractor's rip-off."
His voice came out as tight as those muscles. "I pulled the
plug on a scam that took in some of the area's major players. They hate to look gullible, so they resent me for naming
them as fellow dupes. That kind of thing puts a damper on
referrals."