In Plain Sight (29 page)

No. Not practical. He’d have the Thunderbird to consider. All kinds of awkward explanations to make to Tammi and the police. No, if he wanted to do me in he’d surely have to pick a more appropriate time and place than this. A scary thought, one to be given further consideration. Yet much more scary was the way he was now looking at me with an oddly speculative expression. It occurred to me that Brad may have far more imaginative ideas than I did about committing quickie murder.

I slid into my shoes and stood up. “Well, I’d better be going,” I said brightly. “It was nice of you to remember your and Tammi’s first-date anniversary.”

“Actually, I lucked out. I’d forgotten until she mentioned it. I just happened to have the time free for dinner together tonight. But don’t tell Tammi.”

He smiled and spoke in a rueful, just-between-you-and-me tone, but he was still looking at me with that odd expression. I considered what to do if he should make a move. My only weapon at the moment appeared to be one well-licked Dilly bar stick. Not a reassuring thought. Neither were Brad’s next words reassuring.

“Tammi reminded me that you’re the person who found Leslie Marcone’s body,” he said. “You must know something about her personal life?”

“Not all that much,” I assured him. Baby was gently trying to extract my Dilly bar weapon from my hand. I yanked it away and edged toward the door. I’d heard about jabbing a key in an attacker’s eye. Would a Dilly bar stick work?

“Mrs. Malone, I think we should talk.”

About what I was going to tell Sgt. Yates? About what he was going to do to me if I did talk to Sgt. Yates? Or was “talk” a euphemism for something considerably more deadly? In any case, I wasn’t about to ask for a detailed explanation. “Yes, we’ll have to do that sometime,” I said. I tried to muddy the waters by adding brightly, “Your venture into politics is a fascinating subject.”

“I think you know what we should talk about, Mrs. Malone.” He sounded reproachful, as if I were playing unfair. “And it isn’t politics.”

“Well, uh—”

The door opened and Skye walked in, belly button peeking between low-slung jeans and skimpy pink top. I’d never been more grateful for an interruption.

Brad looked at his watch. “You’re just getting home from the movie
now
?”

A time-conscious attitude rather less liberal than Tammi’s, I suspected. But I suppose even an adulterer/murderer can be a conscientious father.

“Well, I’ll be going,” I repeated with the same brightness, phony as a set of cheap false teeth. I reached for the doorknob.

“Did Tammi pay you earlier for sitting tonight?” Brad asked.

“No need. I enjoy sitting with Baby.” I waved my stick. “And I ate a Dilly bar.”

“I’ll walk you out to the car. And follow you home, if you’re uneasy driving alone at night,” Brad offered.

And give him a second chance to employ some creative method of eradicating me?

“No, I’m fine,” I said hastily. I gave Skye a fingertip wave.

Outside, I jumped into the Thunderbird, intending to get away from the Ridenour residence with all possible speed, only to have the engine sit there like a pet rock while I frantically pumped the pedal and twisted the key. But just when Brad opened the door and peered out, the engine suddenly roared to life and I was off like a skittish squirrel.
Thank you, Lord.

Sandy was waiting up for me, all chattery about her day and curious about mine. I wiped my perspiring hands on my pants and tried to appear calm and normal.

She was astonished when I told her Skye had gone out on a movie date. “I wonder who with? She never told me anything about a date.”

“You’ve been avoiding Skye just a bit lately, haven’t you?”

“Yeah, I guess I have,” she admitted. “I’m always afraid I’ll slip and say something about … well, you know. Especially when she’s going on and on about how important her dad is and his big political campaign and everything.”

Silence while we both contemplated what she knew and what it might mean. She gave me a sideways glance.

“Have you told anyone about Mr. Ridenour and Leslie Marcone?”

“I’m planning to discuss it with Sgt. Yates very soon.”

“Does Mr. Ridenour give you the creeps?”

I nodded. Oh, yeah. Oddly, however, by now I felt less apprehensive, even a little foolish about my melodramatic reaction to Brad Ridenour. I reminded myself that many people had been adulterers without turning into killers. Brad may truly have been concerned about my welfare when he offered to follow me home tonight.

But I was careful to set the security system before we went to bed.

29

I got up early the next morning and tiptoed around, inspecting both inside and outside the house before Sandy was up. I didn’t really think Brad Ridenour was lurking out there somewhere. Surely it would take him time to customize a deadly scheme for me. But if he
was
lurking, or had booby-trapped the door or porch, I didn’t want Sandy caught in the ambush.

As soon as she walked down the driveway to catch the school bus, I dialed the sheriff’s department and asked for Sgt. Yates. Frustration. The woman answering the phone said he was out of town.

“Could you tell me where he’s gone?”

“I’m afraid not.” The woman sounded slightly indignant that I’d dared ask.

So, did this mean Sgt. Yates had zipped off to California to further investigate ex-husband Shane Wagner and/or the other discontented partners in the company? Or perhaps he’d gone to truck company headquarters to check into details about Al Diedrich’s truck runs? Or to Toledo to pry into Astrid Gallagher’s private life?

Those people, once high on my suspect list, had slipped away, like Leslie’s body drifting away at the lake that morning. But Sgt. Yates apparently didn’t know what I did about Brad Ridenour’s involvement with Leslie, so these other suspects were undoubtedly still uppermost in his mind.

“Will he be back soon?”

“I couldn’t say.” Whether that meant she didn’t know or wasn’t about to tell me was not discernible. “Would you like to speak with someone else?”

I hesitated only momentarily before saying, “No, I’ll wait for Sgt. Yates, thank you.”

Sgt. Yates might raise his scarred eyebrow at my involvement in this murder case. He might tell me I read too many mystery novels. He may have reevaluated my eligibility as a companion for Pa Yates. But I was reasonably certain he’d investigate my information and suspicions about a popular TV anchorman, whereas some other officer might pass me off as a dotty LOL. I left my phone number and asked the woman to have Sgt. Yates call me as soon as possible.

So, no big deal, I told myself. All I had to do was stay out of Brad Ridenour’s reach until Sgt. Yates was back in town. The best way to do that today, I decided, was to get out of town. Take a long, leisurely drive somewhere. Do my nerves good too.

I grabbed a map on my way out of the house. No way could Brad Ridenour ambush me when not even I knew where I was going.

Which, I realized about two minutes later, was nowhere. The old Thunderbird, which had been balky last night and several times previously, had no more spark than a magic coach morphed into a pumpkin. When I turned the key in the ignition, there was only the silence of one hand clapping. I remembered my father telling about how his father had gone out to plow one morning and found his mule dead. I now knew the feeling. Although, hopefully, my situation was only a temporary one.

So, now what? Call a tow truck and have the ’bird hauled in to a repair shop? Try to get someone to come out here and work on it? Expensive options. Then a disturbing thought occurred to me, and I peered around uneasily. Could Brad have disabled my car with the idea of trapping me here where I’d be easily accessible for some devious plot he had in mind? For a while I’d parked the car over by the garage, where it was not visible from the road, but I’d gotten out of the habit lately, and now it was right out in front of the house. Brad could have sneaked in during the night …

Although, more likely, I reminded myself, trying to repress that tendency toward paranoia, the old ’bird was just feeling its age. Sometimes I didn’t feel like revving up in the morning either.

Then I spotted Hanson Watkins on top of the roof of his mother’s house, can of roof tar in hand. He’d once offered to take a look at the Thunderbird. Maybe he could at least get it running enough to stagger into a repair shop under its own power.

The shortest route to his house was on the lake trail. I set off briskly. Night rain had left the trailside bushes wet, so I was thoroughly sprinkled by the time I got to the yard and waved up at him.

“I hate to bother you,” I called, “but do you suppose you could come over after you’re done up there and take a look at the T-bird? It’s gone balky again.”

“Sure. I’m finished here anyway. Bedroom started leaking last night, but I think I’ve got it fixed.”

He disappeared around to the other side of the roof, where he apparently had a ladder. A minute later he came around the house, wiping his tar-stained hands on a rag.

“What seems to be the problem?”

“It just won’t start. It doesn’t even make that awful grinding noise like it has a few other times.”

“Sounds like a dead battery. Let me get this stuff cleaned off my hands, and I’ll bring my pickup over and we’ll give it a jump start.”

I walked back to the Thunderbird, and Hanson drove over a few minutes later. He parked with the nose of his pickup about a foot from the front end of the T-bird and popped the hood of the pickup. He then began a search through the back of it, which was filled with an assortment of tools, pieces of plastic pipe, and other house repair supplies.

“Would you believe I don’t seem to have jumper cables in this mess?” he finally said, sounding disgruntled. “They must be in my wife’s car back home.”

“That’s okay. I’ll just call a repair shop.” For which my checkbook would undoubtedly go into shock.

“Let me take a look anyway. If it is the battery, we can run into town and pick up a new one and give it a try. Or there’s a couple other things it might be. Dashboard lights been doing anything peculiar?”

“Not that I’ve noticed.”

He slid behind the wheel of the ’bird, leaving the door open, and tried the key himself. Nothing. He pumped the pedal and tried again. Again nothing. A dead mule is a dead mule no matter who’s at the reins.

He popped the hood open, braced it with the rod, and peered inside. He jiggled some wires. “Battery isn’t corroded, but it could still be bad. Or it might be the alternator or spark plugs. How old are they?”

Not as old as my wrinkles, but probably as old as the polyester pants I was wearing. “Good question. How about the rotor? Is that there?”

“The rotor?” Hanson turned to look at me, surprised, then laughed. “Ivy, if you know about rotors, you probably don’t need me.”

“Actually, I couldn’t tell a rotor from a radish,” I admitted. “I just remember reading about it somewhere.” In a mystery novel, where the detective removed the rotor to disable the villain’s car and keep him from escaping. But men tend not to give much credence to knowledge gleaned from mystery novels, so I didn’t mention this.

“Unless someone’s deliberately removed it, it couldn’t be missing here. They don’t just fall out. But I can check.”

“Please do,” I said. One-time car mechanic’s helper Brad Ridenour would surely know how to remove a rotor, although I didn’t explain that to Hanson.

I watched as he stretched over the big engine and pressed a couple of clips to remove something I could only identify as a thingamajig. It’s a little late in life, but one of these days I’m definitely going to learn more about the interior workings of vehicles.

Hanson peered inside. “Rotor’s right here under the distributor cap where it should be.”

“Oh. Well … that’s good, then.”

“Might be a clogged fuel filter. I’ll check. Although that shouldn’t make everything go as dead as it is.”

While Hanson was checking that out I circled the car, wondering if there was something other than rotor removal that Brad might have done to disable the engine. Or the problem could be something not directed at me personally, of course. I’ve heard of a snake or skunk or other small creature getting into a car’s inner workings. I got down on my knees and warily peered underneath.

I know very little about the underside of vehicles, but I know enough to tell that what I saw underneath the old ’bird was not a normal part of any vehicle. Neither was it a skunk or snake. Although my throat suddenly felt as if a rotor might be lodged in it.

“Hanson, you’d better take a look under here,” I croaked.

“There’s something—”

“I doubt anything down under there could be the problem. I still think it’s probably the battery—”

“Just look,” I interrupted.

He got down on his knees beside me, grunting a little as he did so. A second later he floundered backward, leaving a trail like a heavyweight worm in the loose gravel and yelling, “Get away from the car! Now!”

The panic in his voice sent me scrambling too. I backed off about ten feet, and then he yanked me to my feet and shoved until we were both a good sixty feet away. He stood there panting. His broad face had reddened from the sudden exertion, but now his skin was turning an ashy shade of pale.

“There’s something fastened to the car under there,” I said, although he obviously already knew that.

“Dynamite.”

“Dynamite?” I yelped, even though that was what it had looked like to me too. “You mean like a car bomb?”

“I’m no expert, but that’s sure what it looks like to me. Several sticks of dynamite. Probably wired to go off when the car started. All that saved you, and me too, is that the car didn’t start.”

I’d thought the old ’bird not starting was a minor disaster. Something to grumble and fret about. Instead it was a blessing.

The Lord’s protection comes in unexpected forms. Sometimes it’s a dramatic answer to prayer. Sometimes it’s unanswered prayer. And sometimes he works through the mundane situation of an old car that won’t start and a neighbor who can’t find his jumper cables.
Thank you, Lord!