Escape Route (Murder Off-Screen Book 1) (15 page)

With this business of the flare gun, I’d forgotten I had a knife of my own.

I yanked it out of the waist of my shorts—taking bits of me in its serrated notches—and slashed the top of his right hand.

Carl yowled and his knife flew out of his hand.

I belly-flopped on top of him. The three of us rolled around the cockpit, Carl’s legs still tight around Doofus’s neck. I had to free my dog before his neck snapped.

I climbed over Carl’s chest, spun around and squeezed between him and the back of the bench, and wrapped my legs around his barrel of a chest. I was pounding the top of his head like a bongo, when I spotted the bolt cutters still on the cabin roof where he’d left them, inches from the farthest reach of my hand. I’d taken yoga lessons for eleven minutes my first year in LA, but none of the poses helped. My arm wouldn’t stretch that far.

Doofus yelped.

You’ve read the stories about grandmas lifting locomotives off their grandbabies. This was that.

I used my body like a forklift and heaved Carl and Doofus the three inches I needed, and got a grip on the cutter handle nearest my fingertips. I swung the thing overhead, brought it down with the handles open wide in a V, and yanked the V’s notch tight against Carl’s Adam’s apple. His neck was the walnut in my cracker.

“Let go of my dog!” I squeezed the handles together.

He let go of my dog.

Doofus was free and had the good sense to get to the dock.

I, on the other hand, had a whole new set of issues. There was a really angry man trapped between the pincers of a bolt cutter being forced together by a tired, underfed Irish chick.

Carl’s boat began to snap and sizzle at the end of the dock, too close to
Brother
and
Ovation
not to send them up in flames, along with the weathered, wood dock. Maybe even Dell’s main building—and José.

I had a tiger by the tail and I couldn’t keep this up for another five hours until Dell showed up at the marina. A blazing inferno should catch someone’s eye, but that would be cutting it pretty close.

As my adrenaline tank hit the E mark, Dell’s truck tore across the parking lot, skidding sideways in the gravel to a stop. He jumped out and raced inside the steel building, while Gertie rounded from the passenger side, sprinting toward me like an Olympian.

“Are you hurt?” she shouted as she came.

I could barely shake my head because I had no wind left for talking. Carl gave one more gigantic shove and broke free just as Gertie reached the dock.

Like so many men before him in H Block, Carl underestimated Gertie and her goiter. He used the captain’s chair to pull himself upright, which made Gertie smile. She charged across the dock, made two gigantic leaps to the deck and grabbed his arm, then wove it into some kind of Kung Fu macramé knot. With one arm, she paraded him off the boat.

“Goose neck,” she called out over her shoulder. “One of my all-time faves.”

I nodded dumbly. Goose. Smoked goose would taste wonderful.

Dell ran past me pushing a cart with a fire extinguisher the size of Apollo 13. “Come on, Little Bit.”

“What about Gertie?”

“Let her have some fun. Now, grab that hose.”

While I cranked the faucet full open, three state police cars roared into the marina and slid to a synchronized stop behind Dell’s truck. Deputy Beatty wheeled his El Camino beside the state cars, lumbered out, shaking his inhaler to life, wearing his jammies.

“Jaqie, c’mon with that hose. Do not aim that water here. Use it to soak down
Brother
and the dock.”

“Why can’t I help you?”

“You used a flare on the cruiser, right? That’s what Gertie and I saw from her house.”

“It was accidental. I didn’t—”

“No matter. Water will only make it worse.” He circled the wheeled cart sideways and unleashed the extinguisher on the flaming interior. “Get busy on
Brother.”

I turned the nozzle to a streaming dribble and cooled off
Brother’s
deck and hull as the fireboat arrived, bobbing in its own wake.

“Whatcha got there, Dell?”

“Category D, Cap.”

“Stand down. We got it from here.”

Dell saluted a high-five to the firefighters and steered the extinguisher away to the parking lot, taking me with him. I stopped at the end of the dock and drank from the hose. Doofus showed up, so I gave him a drink and a once over. Carl had not been able to cut on him.

Just the possibility made me dizzy. I stuck my head under the nozzle before I shut the faucet off. I combed what was left of my hair with my fingers.

Greasy, black smoke billowed over the marina’s metal roof. The fireboat’s front nozzle bore down on the cabin cruiser. They trained the two side-mounts on
Brother
and the back wall of the marina, in case the fire tried to jump.

In minutes, the fire was out and then the cabin cruiser sank. Its roof stood out of the water three feet, underneath
Brother’s
bowsprit. We were officially parked in.

That’s when Uncle Frank and Aunt B pulled in next to the El Camino.

“All we need is Russell’s coleslaw and it’s the Fourth of July,” I told Doofus.

“Jaqie Shanahan?” One of the state troopers crossed the lot in my direction.

“Yes, sir. Mind if I sit?” Not so much a question as an announcement. My knees buckled and I benched myself on Dell’s bumper.

“Detective Driver sends his regards.”

“Stumpy?”

“I’m Sergeant Kilroy, Baltimore PD. Esteban and I go way back.”

“How did you know?”

“Your guy, Carl, has been in our system for decades. Got wind he was headed over to the Eastern Shore, and that was a parole violation. I put that together with Driver’s info. Few coincidences in police work.

“Here’s your cell phone. Sorry, but your ponytail is in an evidence bag.”

Aunt B marched into the fray. “Jaqie, are you all right?” She hugged me to her chenille robe—soft and safe and warm. I nodded.

Uncle Frank turned my head left and right, and squeezed my shoulders like melons, testing for broken bones. “We should take her to the ER.”

“The ER. I’ve got to call Ed.”

“Tomorrow. Right now, you’re going home.” Aunt B plucked the phone out of my hand and slid it in the pocket of her robe.

Gertie had turned Carl over to another trooper, who’d stuffed him in the patrol car. She and the trooper compared “goose neck” techniques while Deputy Beatty jumped around in his worn-out slippers trying to wedge himself into the take-down.

“I’m the deputy hee-ee-re.” He had to stop and take a draw from his inhaler. “I’m in charge while the sheriff—”

“Oh, be quiet, Franklin. You’re overexcited and you know what that does to your asthma.”

“Yes, Aunt Bee-hee-ee.”

“Jaqie, you and King ride with us. Trooper, if you need to talk to my niece, follow us to the house. I’ll make coffee.”

“Yes, Aunt B.” Kilroy winked at me. “Coffee sounds good.”

“Frank, have Dell drive you home.”

He waved from
Brother’s
deck. Uncle Frank and Dell would be there until dawn checking for signs of damage to the boats or the marina, then there would be the chin-wag with the firefighters who’d saved the day.

I ran into the marina and got José, who was wide awake, tucked his jar under my arm and headed for my ride.

Kilroy sent a team on to the Cuthbart mansion. Deputy Beatty got his wish and led the way. He didn’t have one of those stick-on roof lights, but he had a flashlight that flashed S O S if you hit the switch the right way. Off they went to pick up the woman who would be First Lady, with the interior of the El Camino signaling wildly for help like the Titanic.

Another team was at Gertie’s releasing Abbott and Costello. Gertie had rousted them out of bed and locked them in her bomb shelter for safekeeping when she saw the flare.

My cell phone rang in Aunt B’s pocket. “Don’t talk too long.” She scowled, but kissed my cheek, all the same.

“Hey, Ed,” I said. “I’ve only got three-percent power, so talk fast.”

“Twins. I’m a dad, Jaqs. Twins!”

“Ed, we knew that, already. What kind of twins?”

“Two boys! Can you believe it?”

“That’s wonderful. I am so happy for you. How’s Dianne?”

“She hates me.”

“She’ll get over it.” Everyone always did. “I’ll come by tomorrow.”

“Great. Great. Hey, you and the dog okay? I saw a flare from the waiting room. Looked like it came from the marina.”

“We’re good. Waiting room? You didn’t go into delivery with her?”

“You kidding me? No way, José. Hey, how is my little guy?”

“He’s fine. Thinks he’s Pavarotti. Goodnight.
Dad
.”

~~^~~

I slept fourteen hours.

I woke up next to a handsome, blond guy, chewing his left hind foot like it was dipped in gravy.

Aunt B stuck her head in the door. “Tilde’s got you both an appointment in an hour. Better hop to.”

Hopping was out, but I did crawl to the bathroom. I stood in front of the mirror with my eyes shut. I hadn’t seen “the new me” since psychotic Carl and his construction equipment scalped me. I opened my eyes slowly.

I was Betty Boop.

Not with the curvaceous figure and crazy, tiny waist. But with the short spikes of hair going hither and yon. Boop hair. Maybe I’d start a craze.

Two hours later, my hair was more Halle Berry than Boop, and Doofus was Old Yeller—all over.

“That’ll keep him under cover six weeks,” Tilde said. “By then you’ll be in Puerto Rico. Lucky you.” She held up both his ears. “Now that’s a perfect match. I am
so
good.”

Tilde scooted behind the counter and got out her Polaroid camera. “Smile, you two.”

That’s when I found out what a camera hog the dog really was. He did smile. Then he did a sit and a point and a raised paw and a profile.

“That’s enough. If you had thumbs, I’d have to buy a selfie stick.”

We waited for the pictures to develop, and watched through the front window as Gail Landry worked to get her
Chatter
van parallel-parked in front of the salon.

“Did you ever get this much attention in Hollywood?”

“No. Who would want it?” I stepped back from the window. Maybe Gail would give up if I stayed inside long enough. Aunt B had fended off the Baltimore TV people this morning. ‘Gone back to LA. You just missed her.’ They didn’t try too hard, took her at her word and moved on to fry bigger fish.

Tilde turned the collar up on her red, polyester smock. “I’d love it. I used to do repertory theater in Jersey in my younger days.” She fluttered her lashes and wiggled her hips. “The lights, the applause—hundreds of people watching.” She shivered and rubbed her arms. “Fun. Fun.”

“I bet you did a great job.” Tilde was still blonde and curvy. She actually had a Betty Boop waistline. “Did you ever think of going to Hollywood?”

“And leave that one?” She jerked her red-lacquered thumbnail toward the back room that had the door that was always opened to Bub’s.

I’m twenty-six. Which would set Tilde’s biological clock at least close to forty-five. “He does know, right? I mean, Bub cannot be that dense.”

She laughed out loud and pulled a long, silver chain free of her blouse. “He’s still waiting for me to say yes.” A diamond ring the size of a paperweight dangled from the chain. “Twenty years long enough to keep him guessing?”

“You’ve carried all those carats around your neck for twenty years? No wonder your posture is so good. Counter-balance.” I rocked the ring in the palm of my hand. “I’ve got a five dollar bet in Russell’s fishbowl for a June wedding.”

She dropped the ring back in its hiding place. “Not that I’m saying, but you plan to come back from your Caribbean sail this summer. Bring some Hollywood hunk with you.” Tilde nudged me and ran her hand down Doofus’s neck. “That is if you know anybody hunkier than this guy.

“Or
that
guy,” she said, looking through the front window. “My goodness gracious,
who
might that be?”

Goodness gracious was pretty close. Yikes and holy smoke might be more accurate. Get a bag. Toss in your high school crush, the guy on the recruiting poster and that stranger you locked eyes with for a split-second before the light changed.

Shake the bag, and there he stood, outside Tilde’s, reading a piece of paper and then the sign above the salon. He tossed the paper in the trash receptacle at the curb by
Chatter’s
left, front fender. Gail rolled the window down, spotting a stranger in town, no doubt hoping for a story and a podcast, or—more likely—dinner and a movie.

“Goodness gracious.” Tilde tore off her smock and posed, front and back, in the mirror behind the counter. “How do I look?”

“Terrific. But you’re engaged.”

She waggled her empty ring finger. “I haven’t said yes, yet. This one’s more your type, anyway. Doesn’t mean I have to look like a washer woman.”

My type. Goofy. Dopey. Lazy. Name any cartoon character.

“Look there,” Tilde said. “He’s shooing
Chatter
away.”

She plucked at my hair. “Stand up straight and suck in your stomach. Where is your stomach? Never mind. Shoulders back.” She demonstrated, then regarded me. “Forget the shoulders. Just smile.”

There we stood like two mannequins and a dog in the salon’s window while he tucked a thick, legal-looking envelope under his arm and headed to the door.

Doofus greeted this total stranger as if he were his long, lost owner.

The guy set the envelope on a chair in the waiting area and squatted down to tussle with him, but gave both of us the once over. “This is the right place. Who belongs to this guy?”

Mannequins don’t speak, so neither did we. I poked Tilde with my elbow, and said, “Walk-ins are welcome—right, Tilde?”

Hearing familiar words kick-started her brain. She sidled over to him with her arm outstretched. “They most certainly are welcome.”

He shook her hand and lit up the room with his smile. “You are the owner?”

Tilde reverted into lock down, still gripping his hand.

“I am Jaqie. Tilde is the one still shaking your hand, and the dog chewing your leg is Doofus.”

I stuck my hand out, which gave him an excuse to withdraw his from Tilde’s. The motion brought her back to earth.

We finished shaking hands all around, and he pulled two business cards from the pocket of his shirt.

“I am Mark Kingsford. I represent Geoff Cuthbart.”

“You’re an agent?” Tilde said, clearly stuck on his Hollywood looks.

He laughed and angels sang. “No. I’m his attorney.” He nodded at the card in her hand. “May I?” He indicated the remaining chairs in Tilde’s waiting area, inviting us to sit with him.

Doofus stretched out in the rectangle of sun on the wood floor, and rested his head on his front paws.

“I don’t know if Jaqie should be—”

“I understand if Ms. Shanahan—”

“That’s fine,” I said. “What can I do for you, Mr. Kingsford?”

“Mark, please. Call me Mark.” He leaned forward and ran his hand along Doofus’s back. “As you may have heard, Councilman Cuthbart recently lost his dog in a tragic accident and had planned to have a public memorial tomorrow evening.”

I watched his hand slide through Doofus’s ruff and down his spine. “A tragic loss. Tragic.”

“With last night’s recent developments, there appears to be a question as to whether or not it was his dog that was killed by the hit-and-run driver.”

Tilde stood up as if she’d just remembered an appointment, then sat back down. “Excuse me. I need to powder my nose.”

We waited, but absent actual powdering, were at a loss for words. I jogged Tilde’s memory by pointing to the door that led to the back room. “It’s through there.”

“Oh. Yes, it is. Excuse me.”

Now that she recalled that there was a back room, wild horses couldn’t have kept her in her chair. Tilde is a top-notch stylist, who cannot tell a lie. She blames the hairspray. Little white ones—I
love
that color on you—that dress does
not
make you look fat. But big, flat out blatant lies to a lawyer? No amount of theater background would get her past that. If Call Me Mark asked her about Doofus’s ear, we’d probably end up handcuffed to Nilly’s hitching post.

“Tilde’s engaged,” I said, by way of explanation as she ran the gauntlet of hair driers and styling stations, bypassing the back room, altogether, and took the front steps two at a time. “Wedding plans.” I swirled an imaginary whirlwind with my finger. “So many plans.”

As the door whispered closed, Mark slipped out of his chair and went down on one knee. Doofus raised his head and tried to reach Mark with his tongue. He took hold of Doofus’s head and looked into the dog’s eyes.

“You’re such a good dog, aren’t you?” Mark smiled up at me. “He’s a beauty.” He ran his thumb along Doofus’s left ear and turned it in the sunlight. “I’ve always preferred yellow Labs. In my opinion, they have the mildest dispositions.”

“I’m prejudiced.” I tilted my head so I could twirl my ponytail, but it wasn’t there.

“Where did you get him?” Mark’s dark brown eyes drilled into mine. I’m a terrible liar, far worse than my now-absent stylist. He’d know.

“Doofus is a rescue.”

Mark gave Doofus’s right ear the same evaluation he’d given the left. This time, he sniffed his thumb and rubbed it with his index finger, like you do when you check the puddle on the driveway under the front of your car.

He got to his feet and dusted the knees of his slacks, then sat in the chair next to me.

“Doofus is one lucky dog,” he said. “It will give Mr. Cuthbart closure to know that he is doing the right thing.”

I checked the clock on the wall between the shelves of shampoo and mousse. I’d held my breath for six minutes. That had to be a record somewhere. “I’m lucky to have found him.”

“This,” he said, picking up the envelope from the chair, “is for you. It’s ten-thousand dollars in cash.”

“What! I’m not taking that. Why would you do that? What?”

Mark let the air settle. Waited until I stopped sputtering. “Mr. Cuthbart wants you to give the money to your favorite charity.”

“My favorite what?”

Attorney Kingsford was a patient man. “Mr. Cuthbart trusts you to do the right thing.” He shifted his gaze to Doofus, back to me. “No strings. Francine Cuthbart has gone home to Baltimore ... since all this
unpleasantness
was dismissed, thanks to your cooperation with the authorities. Mr. Cuthbart hoped you’d agree that a charitable donation to the cause of your choice was entirely appropriate.” He set the envelope on my knees. “Please.”

We both knew what it was
really
for—two one-way tickets out of town. Since Doofus and I were already booked on
Ovation,
the bribe was moot, but I’d already chosen my favorite charity, so I said, “Fine. Tell Mr. Cuthbart this
is
going to a worthy cause.”

Mark stood, and I walked with him to the door. He pointed to the soggy business card clutched in my hand.

“My cell is on there. Maybe dinner sometime? You’ll call?”

Now that we knew where we stood, Mark Kingsford’s eyes didn’t look diabolical in the least.

“Sometime. Maybe,” I said. “I live in LA, so ...”

“I’ll take you to the best hamburger joint in West Hollywood.” He put his finger across smiling lips. “But you can’t tell anyone about it.” He reached up and jingled the bells on the door before he opened it and stepped out into the beautiful day.

I watched him until he was out of sight. I flipped the dead bolt, switched the sign to Closed and laid down next to Doofus in the sun.

~~^~~

“Now who is who?” Seven bundled babies slept, lined up behind the nursery window. Four in pink. Three in blue. I don’t know how many hours Ed had stood there, staring at his twin boys, by the time I arrived.

“How’s your nose?”

“Huh? Oh, that. It’s fine.” He tapped the glass with his finger. “The one on the right is Ed.” He blushed. “Dianne said so. And he’s the biggest. Jack is on the left.”

“Ed and
Jack
? You’re kidding me. Tell me you’re kidding me.”

“I’m kidding you. Dianne woulda killed me.” He gave me a one-armed squeeze. “Ted. Ed and Ted.”

“Well, Ed and Ted are just beautiful.”

We leaned against the glass and watched Ted sleep, while Ed squirmed and kicked at his swaddling until one bootied foot shot free.

“Takes after me.”

“Come on. You go sit down, and I’ll grab you some decaf.”

By the time I got back to the waiting area, Daddy Ed was out cold. I set the coffee on the side table, and tucked a check in his pocket. I’d written on the memo line —
Paid in Full–Shipwright/Bounty Hunter
.

I tiptoed out.

Doofus, José and I had one more stop to make. Mrs. Gill was dying to know what Cary Grant was up to these days.

I’d think of something.