Go, Ivy, Go! (19 page)

While I contemplated the possibilities, Officer DeLora showed up. Her red hair was
solidly gelled in place this morning, but she was in jeans and T-shirt rather than police uniform, and she wasn’t driving an official car.

“Ivy, are you all right?” she asked as we met while circling the burned-out hulk from opposite directions.

“I’m fine. I was in the house when it happened. Are you working on this case?”

“No, but I heard about it. I’m not on Lillian Hunnicutt’s case either.” She didn’t comment on that other than to clamp her jaw momentarily, which suggested this was not her choice. “I’m working on some burglaries out on the south side of town. But I’m off today.”

“Would you like to come inside and have some ice water? It’s all I have here. I’m staying with Eric and Tasha for now.”

She nodded. “I’m glad you won’t be here alone.”

We went inside, and I found a couple of glasses still in the cupboard. I filled them with ice and water, and we sat at the kitchen table.

Wondering why she was here, if this wasn’t her case, and this was her day off, I asked, “They’re doing lab work on cause of the explosion and fire?”

“From what I’ve heard that won’t be necessary.”

I didn’t like the sound of that.

“They know the cause of the explosion,” she explained. “The investigation isn’t complete, but the preliminary report indicates it was an accident.”

“Accident? The Braxtons dynamite my motorhome, and they’re calling it an
accident
?”

“The kitchen stove was considerably damaged, of course, but the investigators could determine that two of the burners were turned on. That let propane escape into the interior of the motorhome. When the refrigerator or hot water heater automatically turned on sometime in the night, the spark set off explosion of the propane.”

I sat there assimilating all that. It didn’t take long. “No dynamite planted under the motorhome?”

“No dynamite anywhere. That’s definite. There was considerable damage to the floor, but it all came from above, not below.”

More assimilation. “So what they’re saying is that I’m a forgetful old lady who turned on the stove burners but didn’t light them, and the ensuing explosion just happened by itself. The Braxtons didn’t have anything to do with it.”

I remembered Tasha saying the police officer had asked about my mental condition and forgetfulness, and I’d certainly felt the arson guy’s skepticism about my Braxton claims. Now I understood the removal of the crime scene tape. No crime, just an accident.

“As you probably saw yourself, the explosion blew the door off the motorhome,” Officer DeLora added. “They could tell it was locked.”

“Locked, suggesting—?”
      

“That no one had gotten inside.” Officer DeLora stood up as if she were restless. She jiggled the ice in her glass. “I probably shouldn’t be telling you any of this, but . . .” She left her reason for doing so drift off.

“So if no one got inside, that strengthens their theory that I left the burners on myself.”

“That’s apparently the thinking, yes.”

“But even if the door was locked, that doesn’t necessarily mean the Braxtons didn’t get inside,” I argued. “It’s a multi-talented family. One of them could have picked the lock.” Hadn’t Mac said that the computer store had a safe and locks section?

“That’s possible.”

I ran with the idea. “Then whatever Braxton it was slipped inside to turn on the stove burners knowing the escaping propane would explode sooner or later. They didn’t have to figure a way to set it off. A perfect blow-up-Ivy scheme, which would look like something I’d accidentally done myself. And then he locked the door when he went out.”

“You think they’d come inside even thinking you were sleeping there?”

“Why not? It wouldn’t take more than a few seconds. They probably figured that at my age I wouldn’t wake up even if they took time for a snack from the refrigerator. And even if I did wake up, I wasn’t likely to storm out of the bedroom with an assault rifle.”

But my scenario of Braxtons sneaking into the motorhome wilted even as I expanded on it. Maybe the investigators were right. I couldn’t think why I’d have left the stove burners turned on, but maybe I had. The stove in this older motorhome didn’t have some automatic
shutoff to
prevent escaping propane if a burner wasn’t lit. Maybe I
was
simply a forgetful little old lady now, accidentally responsible for destroying my own motorhome. It was a disturbing and dismaying thought, the kind that makes lurking thoughts wake up the dark dragon of senility.

Officer DeLora and I both clinked ice in our glasses for a contemplative couple of minutes. Finally I said, “I appreciate your coming and telling me all this. Is this an official visit?”

“No. I’m here on my own.”

“Would your superior officers approve?”

“Probably not.”

That sat there like roadkill between us until I finally said, “So why
are
you here?”

“I saw some statistics the other day. A couple years ago, the rate for murder cases solved in the US was just under sixty-five percent.”

“So?”

“That means thirty-five percent went
un
solved. I’m afraid the dead body in your tub is going to be among that thirty-five percent. And then there’s . . . something else about your motorhome fire.”

Her reluctant tone told me the “something else” was not good. A mental window suddenly opened on an ominous new possibility. One that I guessed had already occurred to Mac.

“Let me guess. The authorities are considering the possibility that this wasn’t an accident,” I said. “Though not because they’re giving any credibility to my claim of Braxton involvement. They’re thinking that it could be a set-up, that I did it myself to get the insurance payoff on the motorhome, and tried to make it look like a forgetful-little-old-lady accident. Insurance fraud.”

“No one seems to think you’re lacking anything in the mental department.”

“Which suggests I’m clever enough to try insurance fraud.”

She made a reluctant nod of head.

“But I could just be forgetful! I mean, I set a booby-trap for the Braxtons and then forgot and caught myself in it. I practically drowned in the syrup.”

Then I broke off. Hey, wait a minute. Did I really want to prove that I’m a few chocolate chips short on my mental cookie? I jumped to a different line of defense. “So you think you’re going to pry a confession out of me and raise your status in the department? Maybe make detective?”

“You’re a
suspicious
little old lady, aren’t you?” she snapped back.

Yeah, and not being fair, either. “I’m sorry. I appreciate your coming and telling me all this. What’s the current thinking on Lillian Hunnicutt’s body in my bathtub now?”

“There’s a ‘person of interest’ in the case. Someone she had a hair-pulling incident with at a homeless shelter several months ago. They’re trying to locate that person now.”

My being so off-base about dynamite planted under the motorhome no doubt undermined whatever minimal credibility my accusations about the Braxtons killing Lillian Hunnicutt may have had. I felt as if I’d run into a concrete wall. Fallen into a bottomless pit.

Okay, maybe that was a little melodramatic, but it was a real setback realizing the Braxtons weren’t even a footnote on law enforcement’s agenda.

Not in Lillian Hunnicutt’s death. Not in destruction of my motorhome. Not in their determination to make roadkill out of me.

It was an updated version of David and Goliath. Me vs. the Braxtons. And I didn’t even have a slingshot.

Chapter Sixteen

“But I do.”

I was so lost in my woe-is-me party, and Officer DeLora’s comment was so far from what I expected, that I simply gave a dumbfounded, “You do what?”

“I do believe the Braxtons have been trying to track you down and kill you ever since the trial. I do believe Braxton people killed Lillian Hunnicutt thinking she was you. And I do believe they were the brainpower behind the explosion in your motorhome.”

I was glad to hear that, but— “Why?”

“For one thing, because I looked up the records of Beaumont Zollinger’s trial. Your testimony was powerful and right on target. You were threatened before the trial, but you had the courage to testify anyway. You came up with the gun he used in the murder and provided evidence about illegal activity in his business dealings. The defense tried to discredit you as a witness and couldn’t do it. If prosecutors gave out gold stars, you’d get one.”

“So you don’t think I’m a paranoid crackpot with an oversized imagination?”

“No.” She gave me a frowning appraisal. “Although I don’t think coming back here and putting yourself right smack in the middle of Braxton territory was the smartest move in the world.”

That was the blunt, no-nonsense Officer DeLora I knew.

“Okay, I appreciate your believing the Braxtons have been out to get me and that they killed Lillian Hunnicutt and blew up my motorhome, but what good is it? You’re not working on either case, and apparently no one else is listening to me.”

“I figure, even if I also think it’s not a real smart move, that you’re going to be out there like some over-aged Nancy Drew investigating this yourself.”

I wasn’t about to admit that, but an ever-present aversion to dishonesty kept me from denying it. I got up and added ice to our glasses.

“So one reason I’m here is that I think you need someone looking out for you. Someone to see that you don’t get yourself killed.” Officer DeLora tilted her head and narrowed her eyes. “Or that you don’t kill anyone.”

“I wouldn’t do that!” I protested indignantly. Although, I had to admit, accidents do happen, and Braxton preservation isn’t high on my priority list. But I’d never deliberately harm anyone.

Officer DeLora didn’t comment on my protest. “Actually, I did a little investigating on my own already.” She looked around as if wary some disapproving superior in the police department might leap out from under the sink.

“And found out what?”

“Well, not enough to warrant an arrest, unfortunately. Not even enough to make the Braxton name familiar to law enforcement. But enough to suggest that Drake Braxton might not make it into model-citizen category.”

“In what way?”

“Irregularities on his construction business.
Lawsuits on defects in buildings he’s constructed.
Various traffic citations. Some credit and IRS problems. Unpaid property taxes.”

“I understand he has some new business in Arkansas or Illinois. From what I’ve seen, he must be doing quite well with it.”

“Oh? I didn’t run across that. What kind of business?”

“I don’t know. I just happened to hear about it when we were . . . talking to some people a couple days ago.”

Officer DeLora zeroed in on that, of course. “Talking to what people?”

“Drake Braxton’s mother and a niece. But we weren’t talking to them about Lillian Hunnicutt’s death. Or about the explosion in my motorhome, either. I mean, the explosion hadn’t even happened yet when we talked to them. Drake Braxton just happened to show up when Mac was getting information about the horses at the Braxton’s horse farm for a magazine article. That’s what Mac does, you know. He writes magazine articles. The mother and granddaughter are both horse lovers. Very nice people, even if they are Braxtons. They raise Paso Finos.”

My overload of information didn’t sidetrack Officer DeLora. “So you are investigating this on your own.” She waited for me to say something, but I was suddenly very busy checking out a scar on the kitchen table.

“Doing a magazine article makes a nice cover for being nosy. Very clever of you to use that ploy.” Officer DeLora’s grumpy tone negated any compliment in the statement. She stood up. “Just be careful, Ivy. Really, really careful.”

“Bo Zollinger, the man I testified against at the trial, is dead now. Did you know that?”

“No. How do you know that?”

“An FBI friend.” I hurried on before she could question how I had an FBI friend. “He was killed in a prison fight several months ago. When I heard about it just a few days ago, I thought maybe it meant the family would drop their search-and-destroy plan for me. That maybe he was the one behind their bloodhound persistence in tracking me down, and behind Lillian Hunnicutt’s murder too. And once he was dead they’d give up on their grudge against me.”

“Do you think that now?” she asked.

My gaze followed hers out the window to the skeleton of my burned-out motorhome.

“No. Drake Braxton hasn’t given up.”

“Ivy, I should tell you that amateur investigation of murder and arson isn’t
illegal
as long as you stay out of the way of the official investigation. But it is
not
a good idea.”

I pointed out that there apparently wasn’t going to be any further investigation into my motorhome explosion because it was now being called an accident. And the investigation on Lillian Hunnicutt’s death was following an irrelevant rabbit trail.

She repeated her earlier words, “Just be careful, Ivy. Very, very careful. And I’ll see what I can do to help on my end.” She added a qualification. “In an unofficial capacity, of course. I’ll give you my personal cell phone number.”

I got out my cell phone and added her name and number to my contact list.

The Lord will provide. Now, with this promise of help from Officer DeLora, minimal as it was
, he’d once more proved that. Mac was in this with me too, and I always had a direct prayer line to the Lord. I wasn’t battling the Braxtons alone. Cancel the pity party.

On impulse I said, “Hey, you want to come to a potluck barbecue tonight?
Right across the street, at Magnolia and Geoff’s place. They’re inviting everyone in the neighborhood, and you’re kind of involved in the neighborhood.”

Her head started to shake
no,
but then her face brightened. “Sure. Why not? I’ll bring my new fresh tomato casserole.”

“Great!”

I just hoped the Braxtons didn’t decide to show up too.