Fool's Puzzle (5 page)

“Marla?” I called out. “Eric?” My voice had a tinny echo in the empty room. No one answered. I walked back toward my office. Since Eric obviously wasn’t working on the exhibit, there was only one other thing he could be doing. That stupid book.

“Eric?” I called again. “Marla?”

Going down the hallway toward my office, I noticed light under the woodshop door. I pushed the door open. An acrid odor rose up, stung my nose. Across the L-shaped room, a worktable lay on its side. An open quart of marine varnish spread into a hardening pool on the concrete floor. I went over and tilted the can upright. Sticky varnish clung to my fingers. Irritated, I headed around the corner to find some rags to clean it up.

I felt my mouth open when I saw Marla, but it was like one of those terrible nightmares where you’re struck dumb—I couldn’t squeak a sound. She was sprawled in front of the sink, one leg twisted under her. Blood soaked her yellow tee shirt. It swam before my eyes in a kaleidoscope pattern. The brad awl sticking out of her chest quivered in the red river of what had to be arterial bleeding. I reached out to stop the vibrating wood-working instrument.

“No.” My voice was a painful whisper. The awl seemed to move again. I stared at my hand. The awl wasn’t shaking. I was.

CPR, I thought—I should do CPR. I searched the wool in my brain for the numbers—fifteen to two, five to one—I needed a partner—where was my partner—she looked like that doll—clean the cold lips with alcohol—stings—terrible smell—like hospitals—like death.

Stop it, I commanded myself. You can do this. You’ve pulled calves, you’ve seen blood. A circle of gray started to close around my eyes. This wasn’t like cattle. This was a human being. How would I do the compressions, stop the bleeding? The awl would have to be pulled out. Acidy bile rose in my throat. I grabbed the edge of the sink counter. The cold tile shocked me back to reality. She might not be alive. Find out. I bent down, touched her neck gently. Then harder. Nothing.

I backed up. A rushing, jet-engine sound filled my ears. I ran for my office.

“Help,” I croaked to the 911 operator. “Please.”

“What’s the problem?” she asked calmly. Her tiny alien voice sounded planets away.

“Marla’s dead,” I said. “The Folk Art Museum. Mission Highway.” I felt my stomach roll. “Please. Somebody come.”

“The police are on their way,” her placid voice replied. I dropped the phone.

Get out, my brain said. Whoever did this is still here. Get to the truck. Run. I gripped the handles of my chair, head reeling. Run.

I stood up, swayed uneasily, fell back into the chair. Some things are more urgent than fear. Gripping my stomach, I puked into my trash can thinking absurdly as I gagged—watercress sure doesn’t taste a heck of a lot different the second time around.

“HERE, DRINK THIS.” Miguel, one of Elvia’s younger brothers, and a new patrol officer with the San Celina Police Department, handed me a gray thermos cup of coffee. He’d stopped by after hearing the address of the murder on his radio.

“Thanks,” I said, gripping the plastic cup with both hands.

“Watch it.” He grabbed my arm, pulling me out of the way as the coroner’s black van drove up next to us. His large hand enveloping my elbow was comforting. It still surprised me whenever I saw him, chesty and solid, in his blue uniform. He couldn’t be the same little boy I’d once read
Goodnight Moon
to fifteen times in a row because he didn’t want the light turned out.

“They won’t let me go home. Why can’t I go home?” I closed my eyes and shivered in spite of my sheepskin jacket. In the blackness I saw Marla’s bloodstained chest again, the waterfall of so much human blood. I opened my eyes.

“Sorry, Benni.” He lifted his hand and ran a square hand over his cropped black hair. “The chief said he wanted to talk to you himself.”

“So where is he?”

“The detective I asked said he was down in Santa Barbara when they beeped him. You know it takes about two hours to drive up. He oughta be here soon.”

“Can they do this, Miguel? Keep me like this? Don’t I have rights or som-ething?”

“They can pretty much do what they want.” He gave me an apologetic look, then narrowed his dark-spaniel eyes. “It’d be better for you to cooperate. Better be careful with this new chief. He doesn’t have much of a sense of humor. He may not find your smartass remarks so funny.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” I danced from one foot to the other in an attempt to get warm.

“Yeah, well, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

“You said he’s not the real chief? What’s the deal?”

“He’s a temporary guy. Chief Davidson’s on medical leave. Hepatitis or his liver or something. Guess this Ortiz is from L.A.”

“Another transplant? They’re like ants, nothing stops them. Couldn’t they get a local to take the job?”

“I dunno. Maybe nobody wanted it.”

“Makes you wonder why he did.”

I sat down on the wide bumper of my truck. Police cars surrounded it, foiling any thoughts I might have of escape. No matter how tightly I pulled my jacket around me I couldn’t stop shaking, couldn’t stop thinking. Marla dead. Where was Eric? Where was Rita?

They had to know Marla was dead. At least Rita anyway. I’d seen her drive away. Where was she going? What was she thinking, driving away like that? What had she seen? My stomach lurched considering the possibilities.

“I’ve got to get back in the field.” Miguel’s deep voice jarred me back. “You going to be okay?”

“No, but there’s nothing you can do about it.” I watched him zip up his heavy jacket and fought the urge to beg him to stay.

“Want me to call Elvia?” he asked.

I handed back the empty cup. “No, it’s too late. I’ll call her tomorrow. Thanks for the coffee. You’re a good kid.”

He slipped a heavy arm around my shoulders and squeezed. “Hang in there. It’ll be over before you know it.”

After he left, I walked over to one of the detectives who’d interviewed me. He rested his forearms on a small mountain of a stomach as he chicken-scratched in a palm-sized notebook.

“Excuse me,” I said.

His eyebrows were bushy canopies over mud-colored eyes.

“What can I do for you, Ms. Harper?”

“I was wondering when I can lock up and go home.”

He sighed heavily. “Like I told your friend, Officer Aragon, the chief wants to view the scene and talk to you himself. None of us are going to be leaving until he gets here.”

“Can’t I tell him my story tomorrow?”

“Sorry.” He stuck the battered notebook inside his jacket and lifted a meaty hand in apology. “Orders.”

“Well, that’s just great,” I said. I walked back and sat down again on my bumper where, out of anxiety and a certain amount of irritation at bureaucratic pettiness, I flicked small rocks at the license plate of one of the patrol cars blocking my escape.

I gave myself ten points every time I hit the plate. Minus ten if it careened off the dented bumper. The moon inched across the sky at the same rate the chief was apparently driving up the interstate. I watched the detectives send a patrolman for coffee twice; the second time he had doughnuts. A blond uniformed officer with a crew cut offered me a cup both times. The first time, I accepted. By the time they offered the second, my stomach gurgled a definite no.

I was up to two hundred points when an older, sky-blue Corvette with an off-white rag top roared into the parking lot. I hoped it was the chief because I’d already decided that at four hundred points I was going home. Even if I had to walk.

A tall, fortyish, Hispanic man in round wire-rimmed glasses stepped out of the car. He ignored me as he walked past, ducked under the yellow crime scene tape and disappeared into the museum.

Frustrated, I picked up another handful of rocks and tossed one.

“That could be construed as vandalism against city property,” a familiar voice said with a chuckle. “California Penal Code 594. It’s a serious crime, Mrs. Harper, right up there with giving a false name to a newspaper.”

“So call a cop.” I turned to smile at Jack’s best friend and old college buddy, Carl Freedman. I moved over and patted the bumper. “Have a seat. How’d you get through? I would have thought you’d be the last person they’d let talk to me.”

“I told them I was a new investigator with the County Coroner’s office.” His tanned face crinkled as he flashed a cocky white grin.

“And they fell for it?” I asked, though I believed it. With his gold-blond hair, pale chambray-blue eyes and unabashed manner, he could sweet-talk the letter “g” out of the alphabet. His Hollywood smile had caused more than one woman to compare him to Robert Redford, something he played up so often, Jack used to call him the Sundance Kid.

“You’ve worked on your dad’s paper since you could spell your name,” I said. “They should all know you by now.”

“I can still fool some of the rookies.” He draped a wiry arm around me. “Need a friendly shoulder?”

“In exchange for what?” I leaned my head back against his arm. “Why are you here, anyway? Since when does your father let you cover the important stuff?”

“Since big brother is in Hawaii and Dad’s got the flu,” he said in a light voice.

“So what took you so long to get here, Jimmy Olsen? It’s after two o‘clock.”

“Had a game of pool, a pitcher of beer and Lois Lane to finish.”

“Is that what you’re going to tell your dad?”

“Forget him,” he said. He pulled out a pocket-sized tape recorder. “Now, tell your old buddy all the gory details.”

Before I could answer, a husky, irritated voice interrupted him.

“Who are you?”

The Hispanic man I assumed to be the chief scrutinized us with cold blue-gray eyes. He wore faded Levi’s, a pink polo shirt and a white windbreaker. His straight black hair was cut close and parted on the side—a lawyer’s haircut. A thick, neatly trimmed black mustache hid his mouth, but by the set of his jaw, he wasn’t smiling.

Carl bounced up, grinned and held out a hand. “Carl Freedman,
San Celina Tribune.
How about a personal interview for the Lifestyle Section next Sunday? How do you like living on the Central Coast, Chief Ortiz? Got any interesting hobbies?”

“Impersonating a county official can buy you a lot of trouble,” the man said, ignoring Carl’s hand. “Get lost.”

Carl faced me, his back to the chief, and crossed his eyes. “You going to be okay?”

“Oh, sure,” I said. “Now that Joe Friday has arrived.”

Carl mouthed, I’ll call you later.

I nodded and gave him a grateful smile. His silliness had helped me forget for a minute the reality of what had happened. As flaky as he was in other areas, Carl was good at that. I don’t think I would have made it through those first few weeks after Jack’s death without Carl distracting me with stories about the crazy assignments his dad gave him for the Lifestyle section of the newspaper.

The chief stared at me silently. Out of sheer nervousness, I threw a rock and hit the license plate. When he didn’t comment, I threw another one. Finally, he spoke.

“Albenia Harper?” His voice was as flat and controlled as a news anchor’s.

“That’s me.” Plink.

“I’m Chief Ortiz.”

“That’s you.” I threw two and gave myself double points.

“I need to speak with you.”

“So speak.” Three hundred fifty and counting.

“Would you please stop that?” His voice carried a slight edge this time.

Plink. I knew I was pushing it, but I’d been up there almost four hours; fatigue had short-circuited the more judicious side of my nature, which wasn’t one of my strongest traits even when I wasn’t cold, tired, scared and had a mouth that tasted like coffee-flavored puke.

“Ms. Harper.” Somehow he managed to put the threat of all his power and authority into two words.

Prudence kicked in. I dropped the rocks in the dirt, stood up and brushed off the back of my jeans. I was a smartass, but not a stupid one.

“Are you through?” he asked.

“I guess so.” I looked up into eyes the same color as a winter ocean. Odd for a Hispanic. They studied me coolly from behind his gold wire-rimmed glasses.

“Then I’d like to ask you a few questions.” He pulled a small leather notebook and gold Cross pen from the pocket of his windbreaker.

“I’ve already told two of your detectives everything I saw.”

“And now,” he said evenly, “you can tell me.”

So I repeated my story a third time, leaving out the same small detail I had with the others. I didn’t tell him about Rita. It was a stupid move, but I felt a perverse sense of family loyalty and wanted to hear her side before throwing her to the blue-uniformed wolves. I didn’t believe she’d killed Marla. Frankly, the whole thing baffled me. Now, if it had been Rita killed by Marla, that might have been understandable, maybe even justifiable.

As I spoke, Chief Ortiz’s face remained expressionless. Occasionally, he jotted something in his notebook. When I finished, he didn’t comment but stared over my head into the dark forest of eucalyptus trees behind me. I knew what he was trying to do and I was determined not to feel intimidated.

I leaned against the truck and crossed my legs. Then my arms. After a few minutes, I uncrossed both. I chewed on a hangnail. All the coffee I’d consumed started to burn in my stomach. Trying to ignore the ache, I studied the interesting mud patterns on my shoes. I contemplated asking him for a breath mint. After five minutes of silence, I had to admit he was making me nervous, and that really annoyed me.

“You said a Mr. Eric Griffin, the museum handyman, was up here with Ms. Chenier,” he finally said.

“That’s right.”

“And no one else.”

“Right.” I dropped my eyes, then realizing it probably appeared suspicious, looked back up. He raised a skeptical eyebrow and adjusted his glasses.