Escape Route (Murder Off-Screen Book 1) (3 page)

I could afford a new bicycle, but a rusty, wire basket and a bell with a thumb switch will not be denied. Vintage chic. It used to have pink and white streamers flapping from the handle grips until I was twelve.

Your first bra changes everything.

“Don’t you just love this place?” I said to the cheery, striped paper bag, riding shotgun in the basket.

Oakley Beach is a two-hour trip from Ocean City, set back far enough from Route 50 so that the reach-the-beach traffic didn’t cramp our Main Street, or side-swipe us with tourism. Or a whole lot of touristy dollars for renovation. If you came for a weekend getaway, Bo Peep’s Bed-and-Breakfast was the only show in town, decked out in Lilac
Moderne
and shades of violet not normally visible to the naked eye, and enough lavender potpourri to make those naked eyes bleed.

Other than that, our tidy village has no bells. A couple of whistles, but not enough to get us a page in
Fodor’s
.

Our uppity neighbor, Reed Shore, ten-miles farther south, has water view everything. Big wigs from DC travel over the Chesapeake Bay to crack crabs at Fisherman’s Catch and spend quality time at a donor’s waterfront estate. Reed Shore hosted the Queen—the one with the crown—and people I now know in LA, shot a movie there when I was waist-high and just old enough to imagine how neat it would be to work in the movies. Now that I’m five-foot-five, I’ve discovered that the dream job is not anything like I thought it would be.

Which is why, after one disappeared friend and my first box office success, I came running home to Aunt B and my bike with the bell, to realign my ducks.

~~^~~

Bub’s Bullets, Bows and Arrows needs new signage. What’s left of the paint clings to the barn wood planks in curls and bits like a puzzle with pieces missing. It has hung crooked over the entrance since 1996 when Tropical Storm Josephine blew through town on her way to Ocean City.

‘Need a ladder to set that straight,’ Bub’s been saying since 1996. Ladders appear to be at a premium in Oakley Beach to this day, but maybe in another twenty-odd, one might turn up.

The gang huddled around the card table in the storefront window, but waved at me as I leaned my trusty bike against the building. I grabbed the blue-and-green striped Stevenson’s bag since there wasn’t one pocket of shade on Bub’s side of the street. The bells jingled but the Come In sign was missing. Bub had taped up a plain sheet of paper with the words
Lab Puppies
and a phone number printed in thick, black marker.

“Hey, my girl.”

I could never remember Uncle Frank calling me by any other name. I’d been his girl since he and Aunt B adopted me after the car wreck, so he could call me any ol’ thing he wanted.

“Hey, back. Hi, guys. Hi, Bub. Phone off the hook?”

They hung their heads and folded their cards like kids caught smoking behind the shed.

“So not a social call,” Bub said. “B sent you.”

“Where are these puppies? The sign says puppies. I want an armful of puppies.”

Bus Gill thumbed his suspenders. “At home with their mama.”

“Lenore? That’s great. I thought she was done having pups.”

“This is the last. Had eight. Letting her keep one this time, but selling the rest. You’re welcome to one, though, Jaqie. They’ll be ready in two weeks. Got the three colors this time around, black, chocolate and yellow. Stop by the house for a visit. Mrs. Gill wants to hear about the doin’s in Hollywood, too. I warn you in advance, she’ll want to know all about Cary Grant.”

“But he’s—”

“Haven’t had the heart to tell her.”

I shook the bag of ice cream. “Who’s up for pecan swirl?”

Clark Morgan raised his hand. “Thought you’d never ask.”

Uncle Frank said, “Only thing he can eat on pinochle Tuesday, without his dentures.”

“Is Millie still in charge of your teeth?” I said.

Clark covered his mouth. “That wife of mine holds a grudge.”

“Shouldn’t have kissed that girl behind the Ferris wheel.” Bub slapped him on the back of the head. “Millie says without his teeth, no girls will want to kiss him.”

“Forty years. Forty years, it’s been. Like an elephant, she remembers.”

“I’ll take that,” Bub said. “Pecan swirl for everyone.”

That marked the end of the chain of custody for Aunt B’s swirl.

While the boys argued rules of pinochle and girl-kissing over bowls of ice cream, I wandered around the conglomeration of Bub’s store. Lopsided shelves of WD-40 and flour and hubcaps and hand-warmers for the hunters who lived here in season.

They’d gather around the wood stove with muddy boots propped on ancient, yellow Coke cases, and brag on what they got, or belly-ache about what they didn’t get.

Bub’s is the male version of Tilde’s Cuts to Dye For next door. Gossip and neat things to buy. There was an actual fish bowl at Russell’s Sprouts if you wanted in on the pool about whether or not Bub and Tilde would ever go public with the least kept secret in town.

“Look there,” Bub said. “Customers coming. I guess the phone-off-the-hook isn’t foolproof.” The door opened, the bells jangled. “My favorite sound,” he whispered and headed over to the cash register.

We eyed Bub’s “actual customers” in case we needed to bring them over for a sit-down about the fine weather and some pecan swirl, but the two men were strangers—one noticeably thin, one noticeably not.

I squeezed Uncle Frank’s shoulder. “Cracked Blue for dinner tonight. Aunt B says don’t be late getting home.” I tipped his hat up and kissed the top of his head. “And I really need to talk to you.”

He swiveled in his chair. “Did they find your friend?”

“No.” I hurried on before the boys piped up with their questions. I’d been weepy since I got out of bed this morning, and I didn’t want to leak all over their game. “About
Ovation
. I’m thinking of taking her for a spin.”

Uncle Frank slapped the table, and the cards and the pot jumped six-inches in the air. The two men at the counter jumped, too. One not as high as the other. “That’s the ticket! Wind in her sails, a bone in her teeth. A day on the bay.”

I left it at that. I’d wait until dinner at the restaurant, in public, with witnesses, to tell him that a day on the bay was just the beginning.

My bench was totally in the sun. I leaned back, stretched out my winter-white legs, and closed my eyes, determined to think of something else—anything else—other than Jeep. Enjoy the sunshine, I told myself. Life goes on, Uncle Frank keeps telling me. I’d soak up the warmth of our early spring, and think about how a yellow Lab could give birth to brown and black and yellow babies.

A hot plop of goo hit my knee.

“Great.” I opened one eye, expecting to find a glistening bird deposit. “Oh. Well, that’s not so bad, is it, fella?” Another yellow Lab sat on the walk in front of me, smiling. I guessed the slobber was his way of saying,
Whatcha doin’?

“No harm done.” I’d kept tissues stuffed in my pockets for a year, usually for an unexpected Jeep meltdown, but handy for dog slobber, too. “There. Good as new.” I scruffled the dog’s ears. His right one had a gob of nail polish smeared on it.

“What’s this about?” I used the damp section of the tissue and buffed, but the polish was ladled on, welding the glued hairs together in a shiny, chip-resistant patch of pink.

“So did your mistress invite you to a tea party?” I pictured a passel of little girls dressing him up in funny hats and boas. Painting his toe nails. “Did you use your best table manners? Or did you escape?”

He licked my other knee and smiled.

“So what’s your name? Max? Dexter? Mike?”

His tail thumped at each suggestion.

“You’d probably answer to Doofus, would be my bet.”

Thump. Thump.

Doofus wore a chain collar with one tag. No one in the vicinity seemed concerned about his whereabouts, so I flipped it and found he would be rabies free for three years. “Good to know. Where’s your family? They must be worried.”

The dog waited for me to do something interesting and when I didn’t, he trotted off, selected a stick I might like and set it across my knees.

“Great idea. We’ll play until your people spot you.” I dug out my phone. “Let’s take a picture in case you’re lost and we have to make you a page on Facebook. Smile.”

Doofus smiled. Not by chance. On cue. On purpose. A wide, toothy smile, like a pro.

“Nice. Now a profile with the nail polish.”

Bam. Profile.

“You’re a heartbreaker, you know that?”

“Miss! Hello, Miss!” Two men ran toward me across the park, elbows pumping. The two customers from Bub’s—Abbott and Costello without the funny hats. “That’s our dog.” The skinny guy arrived first, tripped over a wonky brick in the sidewalk and landed at my feet, next to the dog. “Hope he isn’t bothering you.”

His round companion came to an abrupt halt half-way along the winding path and hurled himself into a bush, either looking for berries or a place to die.

“Are you all right?” I had to speak up because—even at this distance—the gasping and heaving from his friend embedded in the interior of the low chaparral made it hard to hear. “Is
he
all right?”

Abbott stood and brushed off his jeans and buffed the balding nap of his corduroy jacket. Tissue residue was matted in the narrow ribs. Aunt B would have taken a roll of shipping tape to it.

The worn, suede, elbow patches had no nap left to fluff, and one was partially pulled away from the sleeve with a foot-long, frayed, beige thread wafting north and east in the wind. He batted an arm at Costello like he was swatting a gnat.

“I’m fine. He’s fine. Always wanted to be a landscaper.” This information was blurted out in-between gasping “hees” and “haws” while he braced himself, hands on knees. “Dog jumped,” he held up a finger, “out of the car,” finger number two, “while we were sh-ping.”

I did not mention that I’d seen them at Bub’s sh-ping.

I did not mention that I’d just snapped his picture next to Doofus while he fought to catch his breath.

For no good reason I could think of, I didn’t want Abbott to take my dog. We’d bonded—Doofus and I—over the slobber. Over the un-thrown stick. I didn’t trust Abbott. He was skinny. My ex-husband was skinny.

“What’s your dog’s name?”

“K—” The corduroyed man stopped and wiped the corners of his mouth with a finger and a thumb. “Klondike.” He said this while taking hold of the chain collar and folding the tag into the palm of his hand. He remained stooped over, breathing hard. “After that dog in
Call of the Wild
, Klondike.”

Doofus’s tail thumped, but I knew that a smiling, yellow Lab would thump even if you offered him coal at Christmas.

“That would be Buck.” I know my dog movies. “A St. Bernard-Shepherd mix. Not a Lab.”

“Huh? Oh, right. Buck. This one here is Klondike.”

“You should probably keep him on a leash,” I said, wanting to prolong the conversation. I wasn’t ready to say good-bye to the dog. And it still was anybody’s guess if Costello would make it out of the bush alive.

“Good idea. Thanks. We’ll be going, then.”

Doofus grinned and trotted away, led by the man with a bony finger hooked through the collar. They stopped while Abbott levered the fat man out of the ornamental shrub, and the three of them disappeared around the World War Two memorial statue.

I fished another tissue from my pocket and blew my nose. Since Aunt B wasn’t here, I scolded myself. “Get a grip. He wasn’t your dog.”

And he wasn’t Abbott’s dog. Or Costello’s, either,
my inner-self blared in that part of my brain that
knows
stuff. The same part of my brain that didn’t utter a blooming word when it came to Jeep.

I folded Doofus’s damp tissue neatly in quarters and slipped it ceremoniously into the pocket of my shorts. Even I recognized this as ridiculous. I also recognized a crossroads when I saw one. Either keep sinking into the doldrums that made me cry if a bug met its demise on my windshield, or a dog’s owner turned up ...

Or.

Get my winter-white self down to Puerto Rico. I secured Doofus’s stick in my wire basket, just in case, and pedaled home.

Most definitely time for a sea cruise. Like that old song.

Gertie was getting in her half-hour of cardio on the front porch rocker when I bumped up over the curb. “You’ll bust the rims on that contraption, Miss Hollywood.” She’d been calling me that since I got home last week. I was sure it would pass. Hoping it would pass.

“Then you’ll have to chauffeur me around, Miss Gertie.” I gave a nod to her red-and-white Corvette convertible. The car was vintage, too, but it didn’t have the snazzy bell. “The top’s down. Didn’t you have your hair done yesterday?”

“Toilet paper,” she hollered over the railing. She spritzed an invisible can of hairspray around her head. “At night. A turban of Charmin’ and a quart of Aqua Net. This hair will be here long after I’m dead and buried.” And the ozone layer is a paragraph in the history books.

I knocked the kick stand into place. “Where’s Aunt B?”

“In the kitchen. Putting away the dessert bowls and spoons.”

“How’d she know I had ice cream? Wait, how did she know I
don’t
have ice cream?”

Gertie opened the screen door and waved me through. “Your Aunt B knows everything. You should know that by now. Poor baby with no parents.”

I am used to that being part of my name—poor-baby-with-no-parents—like a nick name. The town has stopped short of calling me Little Orphan Jaqie.

I don’t remember my parents, but every registered voter in Oakley Beach does, so my memories are second hand. I write each one down. Maggie and Sean Shanahan. I’m on my seventh memory book. Notes and photos and snippets taped on the pages.

Twenty-two years after the car wreck I survived because I was strapped in ‘tight as a street walker’s drum,’ according to Doc Gilford.

Aunt B and Uncle Frank folded me into their childless world like air into meringue. That’s her metaphor, not mine. Mine would run more toward teddy bear hugs and warm, woolen mittens.

But if I ever meet a street walker with a drum, I intend to ask about that.

“Get in here and look at this moron.” It was Aunt B from the kitchen. Uncle Frank was on his way home from Bub’s, so I knew she wasn’t tagging him as the moron in question. Willie Nilly, the sheriff’s impaired brother, came to our house every Wednesday and—even at twenty-eight—needed a lot of supervision, but this was Tuesday, and, besides, she loved Willie and would not label him a moron. That left storm chasers, UFO aficionados and politicians.

The kitchen counter TV was on. It was a six-inch square black-and-white contraption that only worked if a nickel was taped inside the circle Aunt B had drawn with a silver marker. A six-inch tall man in a suit stood behind a podium clutching the edges like he might never let go. Behind him was a forest of flags. They were varying degrees of black, gray and white so I couldn’t be sure what sections of the world he claimed to be representing.

“Who is that?”

“That,” she said with a truckload of bad attitude, “is our new councilman.”

“Council
person
,” Gertie said.

“You stop with the PC claptrap, Gertrude Montague, or I’ll knock that goiter off your neck.”

My Aunt B is a wonderful woman. Everybody loves her. Even Gertrude Montague and the fleshy growth on her neck she calls Al. Aunt B could bandy threats all day at Gertie’s pet goiter, but let anyone else try and it was the woodshed for them.

“Why don’t you like him?” I said. “He looks like any other politician. Handsome, too.”

“Hasn’t lived here long enough to be elected dog catcher, never mind councilman. Doesn’t have a friend I know about and does his shopping on the Western Shore. Has yet to set foot in Stevenson’s except at election time. Which reminds me, where is the yellow Lab, I ask you?”

Yellow Lab? How did she know about Doofus? She wasn’t
that
good.

“I’m lost. What Lab are you talking about?”

“The dog. I told you. The yellow Lab with the enormous brown eyes and that smile.” She crossed her arms and shook her head. “People voted for the dog, not this piece of work.” She opened the window over the sink and took a handful of wet paper towels to the ledge. “Since Mr. Moron won, you never see the dog anymore. We’re stuck with ... with ... G E O F F Cuthbart. Who spells a name that way?”

I was in LA during Oakley Beach’s last election. Here, in our little, lost corner of the world, running for office—any office—was a big deal in the village. Being an elected official was the highest peak you could reach. You either had to win an election or get a franchise to sell Chevys if you wanted to be the Grand Marshall of our Christmas parade.

“I saw that dog,” I said. “There’s a billboard still up on Route 50. Gorgeous eyes. It did look like it was smiling. As a matter of fact—in the park—I might have—”

“Shush. Sh. A reporter asked him about King.” Gertie twisted the volume knob.

Cuthbart: “He’s at home with the children.” Hearty laugh. “My kids love King.”

Reporter: “Some people say you won because of the dog, Councilman.”

Cuthbart: “Council
person
.” He winked at the camera and the reporters nodded and mumbled apologetically. “King? I would have voted for him, as well. He may have been a shelter dog when we adopted him, but he’s better looking than me, and probably a whole lot smarter.” Crowd laughter. “Not to worry. King is a trusted member of my advisory committee.”