Invisible (27 page)

I stuffed everything back in the sack, tossed it in the closet, and drove down to the main branch of the city library. Sensibly, I should have been after quilting instructions. Instead I headed for the shelves where they kept out-of-town telephone books. Marcy Alexander had said Ray Etheridge was from Little Rock, and in the Little Rock book I found listings for half a dozen Etheridges. Back home, I closed my mind to the cost and started dialing. Each time someone answered I explained in my most grandmotherly voice that I was trying to contact Debbie or Ray Etheridge.

No one knew either person. But there was one number, the number I most wanted to reach because it was listed under the name Etheridge, D. R., at which I got no answer. Not during the day, not during the evening, not all next day.

Important? Or irrelevant?

Dix finally called me Friday evening. “I’ve been doing some checking,” he said.

“Good.”

“A Raymond Etheridge was killed in an accident here on October twenty-third last year.”

“What kind of accident?”

“He was employed by an outfit called Thrif-Tee Wrecking. It’s kind of a cross between an auto junkyard and a repair shop. They buy old or wrecked cars and dismantle them for parts, or, if they’re repairable, fix them up for resale. Ray was alone there, working on his own vehicle after hours.”

“That Mustang in the photo?”

“Yes. He had the car up on ramps, both rear wheels off, and was working under the car. Somehow it slipped off the ramps. His chest was crushed. Another worker found him the next morning.”

“How terrible!” My chest felt tight and breathless just thinking about being trapped and crushed like that. Yet at the same time another thought occurred to me. There was still a pair of metal ramps out in the garage that Harley had used when he wanted to work under our car. I’d always assumed they were quite safe. How did a car slip off them? “It was definitely an accident?”

“Given the circumstances, there was an investigation, but the death was determined to be accidental. Etheridge hadn’t set the emergency brake, and apparently whatever he was doing jarred the car enough to start it moving and rolling off the ramps.”

“Maybe somebody released the emergency brake. Maybe somebody pushed the car off the ramps.”

“Mrs. M.
—
”

“Okay, okay, I know. You said it was investigated.”

“And determined to be an accident.”

“But aren’t murders, especially successful ones, sometimes made to look like accidents?”

Big silence, until he finally muttered, “It’s happened.”

Working in a junkyard/repair shop seemed an unlikely job for a bright college guy studying engineering. But both Kendra’s mother and Beth Bigelow had said Ray was all broken up by his fiancée’s death. Maybe he was just marking time until he pulled himself together enough to return to college. “Was a next of kin listed in the records?”

“A sister, Deborah Etheridge. She had the body sent to . . .” Dix trailed off, as if deciding whether I was trying to sneak in one question too many. “A suitable location.”

I didn’t bother asking him for Debbie Etheridge’s address, since he obviously wasn’t going to tell me. I had my own theory about that anyway. “Was the sister satisfied with the conclusion that his death was an accident?”

“It was mentioned in a couple of reports that she’d complained, apparently quite vehemently, that the investigation was inadequate. But that’s not an uncommon response when someone loses a loved one under unusual circumstances.”

“So nothing was done?”

“The case was reviewed. The review affirmed the previous decision of accidental death and determined that the case did not need further investigation.”

“Did you talk with anyone at the place where the accident occurred?”

“I’m not on the case. I got this much because a buddy let me dig around in the records.”

“Have you given the information I picked up in Clancy to Detective Harmon?”

“Yes, of course.” His tone went stiff. Stern law officer doing his duty regardless of personal feelings or conflicts. “He’s the officer in charge of the case.”

“Is he looking into the possibility of Kendra really being Debbie Etheridge?”

“He’s a competent, responsible officer. I’m sure he will.”

Something hung unfinished at the end of that statement. I suggested a possibility. “Eventually?”

Noncommittal grunt.

“I’d guess that Detective Harmon doesn’t give high priority to BLOL information,” I suggested.

“BLOL?”

“Busybody Little Old Lady.”

Dix ignored that. “According to a guy I talked to, Detective Harmon has a theory that the local Kendra’s death is connected with a drug case he’s also working on.”

That boyfriend of Kendra’s who had almost bowled Thea and me over had acted peculiar enough to be into drugs, I had to admit. “I suppose, even if she really was Debbie Etheridge, that her murder could involve drugs. But it doesn’t explain her using Kendra Alexander’s name.”

“I’m sure Detective Harmon will take all that into consideration. Perhaps he’ll want to talk with you.”

Right. And maybe Sean Connery will call and ask me for a date.

* * *

I tried calling the D. R. Etheridge in Little Rock again Saturday morning. Again no answer.

I threw myself into a distracting frenzy of housecleaning. Sunday morning I went to church, of course. I’d called and asked Dix if he wanted to go, but he said a flat no, not bothering with some polite excuse. Tiffany called me Sunday afternoon, just to see how I was doing. And because she was a sweet person.

“Just fine,” I said. “Keeping busy.”

“You haven’t met Ronnie Hilderman yet, have you? He’s a police officer friend of Detective Dixon’s who I’ve been seeing.”

“Dix—Detective Dixon—mentioned him.”

“Ronnie went to church with my folks and me last week and again this morning.”

“I’m pleased to hear that.” On impulse I asked her an unrelated question. “Tiffany, do you know if Bottom-Buck Barney’s does any business with an outfit called Thrif-Tee Wrecking?”

“Yeah, we get a lot of stuff from them. Their used parts are way cheaper than new ones. Sometimes we send a vehicle over there to get something big, like a second-hand engine, installed.”

I remembered Dix saying that Thrif-Tee also restored damaged cars. “Does Barney’s sell any vehicles for them?”

“I don’t know. That’s computer stuff that Jessica handles.”

“She’s the woman who took Kendra’s place?”

“Right.”

“Is there any connection between Bottom-Buck Barney’s and this Thrif-Tee place, other than buying parts from them or having them do repair work?”

“Not that I know of.” She paused. “Although, come to think of it, a relative of Mr. Retzloff’s works there. Jessica is another relative. Actually, I heard once that Mr. Retzloff is related to the owner here. Isn’t there a word for that, when relatives hire relatives for all the good jobs?”

“Nepotism.”

But I wondered if there wasn’t a much more ominous connection than nepotism. Ray Etheridge worked for Thrif-Tee. Sister Debbie, under disguise, worked for Barney’s. And now both were dead.

25

I ate breakfast and then stopped at a gas station to pick up a city map. It had taken me until late evening yesterday to reach Little Rock. The motels here, blessedly, had plenty of vacancies. Although all the money I’d recently been spending on motels and gas and phone calls was becoming worrisome. I’d told Magnolia I was going down to Arkansas, and she, in a dither about a genealogical connection who flatly refused to answer family questions, hadn’t questioned me about the trip. I think she assumed I was visiting DeeAnn again, an error I somewhat guiltily hadn’t corrected.

Now I rolled along Little Rock’s Boldway Avenue looking for 2478, the address listed in the phone book for D. R. Etheridge. It was an older section of the city, houses big enough for families with ten children, sweeping lawns, graceful old trees. But it was not the elite section of town it probably had once been, and many of the big places had been divided into apartment rentals. As had 2478 Boldway, I realized when I pulled the Thunderbird to the curb in front of it.

Okay, I was here, now what? I could almost hear Dix yelling in my ear,
Stay out of this, Mrs. M!

But people who listen to voices no one else hears, I reminded myself, get put in the weird, crazy, or S-word category. I briskly ignored the voice and slid out of the car.

I walked up the cracked sidewalk to the old-fashioned front porch. The house was of no particular vintage or architecture. Maybe Victorian to begin with, but chopped and remodeled, with a peculiar stucco addition. Even so, the wooden-railed porch had a homey, old-fashioned charm. There was a separate mailbox for each of four apartments. The name D. R. Etheridge was in the slot above #4, and an arrow on the railing pointed around back.

I found the basement apartment and rang the bell and knocked. Repeatedly. No answer. Which didn’t surprise me, of course. I went back to the porch and rang the bell marked Manager.

The woman who answered was my age, small-boned and slightly built, her gray hair almost a match for mine. She was wearing a pretty, pastel blue pantsuit, pearl earrings, and high-heeled white sandals. Which reminded me of Thea. We do hate to give up our high heels, don’t we? A little dog with a pug nose and a pink ribbon bounced up yapping and sat down beside her. She glanced at her watch as if hoping this wouldn’t take long, but her voice was friendly. “May I help you?”

“Debbie doesn’t answer her doorbell. I’m wondering, would you happen to know when she’ll be back?”

The woman looked me over and apparently decided I wasn’t casing the joint for later burglary. Perhaps one of the advantages of being, if not always invisible, at least a harmless-looking LOL. “Debbie’s out of town. I don’t expect her back anytime soon.”

I felt a surge of elation. My guess had paid off. D. R. Etheridge was Debbie! “She’s still on that job up in Missouri?”

“Yes. She’s been there for several months now. But the job’s supposed to be only temporary, you know, and she left most of her clothes and things here.”

“Have you heard from her recently?”

Small, worried crease between her eyebrows. “No, I haven’t.”

“But her rent is up to date?”

“Actually, this month’s rent is somewhat past due. But I’m sure she’ll send a money order in a few days, just like she always does,” she added hastily, as if she didn’t want to suggest Debbie was irresponsible.

“She’s such a dependable and trustworthy young woman. Unlike some tenants.” I spoke from Thea’s experience, not my own, but that throwaway comment hooked me into what was apparently a sore point with this landlady.

“Oh yes! You can’t imagine some of the wild excuses they come up with for not paying the rent. ‘I don’t have the money because I had to get the tattoo on my leg removed,’ a young man told me last week.”

“Because it said something, um, undesirable, or wasn’t the current girlfriend’s name?”

The woman rolled her eyes. “I didn’t ask for details. But Debbie always pays on time. That’s why I’ve been concerned about not hearing from her. This just isn’t like her.”

What I wanted was to get inside Debbie’s apartment and look around. A sympathetic fib would come in handy here.
I’m Debbie’s great-aunt, her grandmother’s sister Ivy. I haven’t heard from her, and I’m worried about her too. Perhaps I could just step inside the apartment and see if everything looks okay?

But, however devious my inventive mind, I was, as usual, stuck with my conscience and the truth. “Actually, the reason I’m here is because I’m afraid something
has
happened to Debbie.”

She put a hand to her mouth. “Oh no.”

I pulled out my pictures, beginning to feel I should put them on flash cards for easy access. “I have this photo.”

“That’s Debbie?” she asked doubtfully. She pulled the picture closer to bring it into better focus with her trifocals. “Oh, well, yes, of course it’s Debbie. But what in the world has she done to her hair? And that dress!”

“This woman was murdered up in Missouri a few weeks ago.”

“Debbie was murdered!”

“She was using a different name at the time. But it is Debbie, isn’t it?”

“I don’t understand. Why would she use a different name?”

“I don’t understand either,” I admitted honestly. “But her body was found in the river—”

“Oh no!”

“She lived just down the street from me, and I cared about her, and I want whoever killed her brought to justice. So that’s why I’m here. I have this other picture of her brother. Did you know him?”

She glanced at her watch again before studying the copy of Ray Etheridge’s photo. “I don’t recognize him, but I remember Debbie mentioning she’d had a brother. But he’d died, an accident or something, before she came to live here.”

“Was Debbie working when she was here? Going to school?”

“Both. She was taking college classes but working part-time for a lawyer. What she really wanted was to get into a job with the police department, but there hadn’t been any openings.”

“You mean she wanted to become a police officer?”

“Oh no. I guess there’s a lot of clerical work with a police department, and she thought it would be interesting. She was very good with computers, you know. But then this other job in Missouri turned up.”

So she was working when she had insurance money to pay for her college education. Working for a lawyer. Was that just chance? I doubted it. She could well have thought she might be able to use the lawyer’s legal connections to find out more about her brother’s death. And had computer-whiz Debbie then decided a job in the police department would give her access to police channels for some deeper investigation into her brother’s death?