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Authors: Janet Finsilver

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BOOK: Murder at Redwood Cove
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Chapter 31
I
raced toward the storage building.
What was Charlie doing there?
Delivering water? No. It was Saturday.
Where was Suzie?
Forget polite knocking. I twisted the knob and pushed the door open.
Charlie was sprawled on his side on the floor. Suzie crouched beside him, one hand on his shoulder.
“Suzie, are you okay?” I ran up to her.
As she turned, a huge metal wrench gleamed in her hand.
The expression on her face reminded me of the bobcat I surprised in the barn one winter, hunched over a slaughtered goat. The predator's lips had been curled back in a defiant snarl. Its eyes shifted from side to side, seeking escape, then back to me. Trapped.
I froze.
“Suzie, what happened? Are . . . are . . . you okay?” I stammered.
A trickle of blood glistened on Charlie's cheek. There was no movement. He was unconscious . . . or dead.
She rose slowly, her eyes never leaving me. “It's my third strike. I won't go back,” she uttered between clenched teeth. “I won't.”
Suzie moved to my left. Before I realized what she was doing, she had cut me off from the door. She came toward me, the heavy tool at her side, a red stain along its edge.
“I didn't want to hurt anybody, but I won't go back.”
“What are you talking about? Go back where? And what's a third strike?” I slowly began to back into the storage shelves. My peripheral vision worked overtime trying to find something I could use to defend myself.
“Prison, that's where. I'm in for life with a third offense.” The wrench began to rise. “I'd rather die.”
Life in prison. She'd rather die. There was nothing for her to lose if she killed me.
I stumbled back another step and grabbed a wire shelf. Industrial-sized olive oil cans were stacked next to my hand.
She approached, wrench held high, gripping it with both hands.
Keep her talking.
“Did you kill Bob?”
Suzie stopped. “He found out I was involved with the abalone poaching and wanted me to turn myself in. Get a lighter sentence.” She stared at me with eyes devoid of emotion. “I told him I wouldn't go back to jail. He said he was sorry, but he had to do what was right. I grabbed his arm and begged, but he insisted he had to report it.” Her shoulders sagged. “I shoved him. I was so scared, so angry.”
“Suzie, you didn't plan to kill him. It wasn't premeditated.” I darted a quick glance at the bottles and cans on the shelves. “That makes a difference.”
“His wasn't deliberate, but Jason's was.” Suzie took a step forward. “He planned on splitting and tried to blackmail me over Bob's death. I knew he'd always be a threat.”
A shaft of sunlight hit a strand of Suzie's hair. Gold. Jason's prematurely gray hair. Silver. The words the Sentinels had decoded. Now it all made sense.
She lunged at me, swinging the wrench downward.
I seized one of the large cans of olive oil by the handle, held it up, and blocked the blow. The clashing sound of metal on metal made my ears ring. I staggered under the fierce power of the hit and went down on one knee. Pain shot through my wrist.
Suzie swung again.
Another crushing blow. The can buckled. She raised the wrench upward, but before she could swing again, I thrust the container into her legs.
She staggered, and the tool aimed for my head came down on the can, puncturing it. Oil spewed out. I stepped backward; Suzie came forward, then began slipping in the greasy liquid. It was like some macabre dance—bloodied wrench and dancing feet.
Suzie began to fall. She clutched a wire shelf with one hand to stay upright.
I leapt for the wrench.
She struck out at me and missed. The momentum of the heavy weapon pulled it out of her hand and sent it flying.
Suzie let go of her support and grabbed the front of my fleece vest with both hands. She yanked me toward her. My feet hit the oil. I clutched her jacket. We began to slide like ice-skaters out of control. We held on to each other in an embrace of death. If I let go, I could die.
Her hands released me for an instant and then they were around my throat.
I lost my balance, and we crashed to the floor. The impact broke her grip.
We rolled over and over—grabbing, hitting, slapping. My head hit the concrete as Suzie managed to slam me downward. Pain blasted through my forehead. I pushed her over, caught a handful of hair, and pulled her head back. Suzie raked my face with her fingernails.
She locked a foot onto the end of the wire shelf; her body went stiff, stopping our movement. Suzie shoved, and I slid.
She got to her knees. The wrench was a couple of feet away. As she reached for it, I launched myself forward and into her, knocking her backward. Her head grazed a metal shelf.
Suzie fell back and blinked a few times. She didn't move.
But I did. With shaking fingers, I unbuckled my belt and ripped it off. I turned her over and cinched her hands together behind her back.
She began to struggle, but the knot held.
I hunched over, my head in my hands, gasping for air. Straightening up, there were red smears on my hands. I gingerly touched my throbbing temple. There'd be a humdinger of a bump.
The door burst open. Fran and two male game wardens ran into the room, guns raised.
“Is there anyone else here?” Fran barked at me.
“I don't know.”
“I'll check.” One of the men headed behind the shelving area. The other one hurried to Charlie, calling for an ambulance on his cell phone.
Fran approached me. “Are you okay?”
“I think so. Careful. That's oil on the floor.”
Her boot was ready to land in a pool of it.
“Trust me, I know how slippery it is.”
Sirens rapidly got louder.
Fran did a quick survey of the room and went over to where towels hung next to a large sink. She took them and covered the oil on the floor. Ignoring Suzie, she knelt down next to me.
She leaned in and examined my injury. “How do you feel? Are you nauseated?”
“No.” I knew the routine questions. I'd fallen off horses enough times. “I've been through the concussion questions before. I don't have any of the symptoms.”
Fran nodded. “Good.” She turned to look at Charlie.
I saw faint stirrings.
“He's coming to,” said the man kneeling next to him.
A moan heralded Charlie's return to the living.
“Everything is clear back here,” said the warden who'd checked the back area.
A deafening siren suddenly stopped. Doors slammed, and a familiar voice yelled, “Stay there and keep people out.”
Deputy Sheriff Stanton plunged through the door, gun drawn.
“It's all under control,” Fran said immediately.
He lowered his gun.
Someone shouted, “Kelly, are you in there? Are you okay?”
Scott.
I grabbed a shelf and pulled myself to my feet.
“Are you sure you should be doing that?” Fran asked.
No
. “Yes. I'll be fine.” I hobbled to a window, careful to stay on the towels Fran had put down. I struggled with the latch and was finally able to crack the warped wood open an inch. It was enough.
“Scott, I'm okay. I'll be out in a bit.” With that, I sank to the floor, my head pounding.
Another siren stopped. Two paramedics, kits in hand, rushed through the door. One went to Charlie, and one hurried to me, carefully following Fran's towel trail.
He knelt down beside me. “Let me look.”
The medic gently examined my wound and then my entire head. “Lucky. I only see one small cut and some scrapes.”
“Nothing like a good can of olive oil to keep you healthy.” My pathetic attempt at a joke. Either that or cry. What a fool I'd been. I'd trusted Suzie so completely.
“Do you hurt anywhere else?” He opened his case.
“No. I'm trembling, but that's the adrenaline.”
“Understandable.” He cleaned the area on my forehead. “We always recommend people go to the hospital after a head injury to get checked out.”
“I'll have someone take me over.”
He snapped his case shut. A warden and the other paramedic were taking Charlie out the door on a stretcher.
I grasped the window ledge and began to haul myself up. This was beginning to be a habit.
“Let me help you.” He supported me as I stood, then he went to Suzie.
Fran came over. “We all want to thank you.”
“For what?” Getting beaten up by Suzie?
“Charlie's one of us. He's been working undercover. He'd be dead if you hadn't shown up. We're grateful.” The grizzled woman turned away as tears showed in the corners of her eyes. She grabbed a handkerchief out of her pocket and wiped her eyes. Visible emotion gone.
Charlie. An officer of the law. How far off was I on that one.
“How did you know we were here?”
“He radioed in he had a suspect in the abalone poaching ring. Charlie gave us her name and location and said she was packing her car with personal possessions. He figured she was fleeing.” Fran shook her head. “We got here as fast as we could. It's a big county.”
“I demand to be let in!” an authoritative voice came through the flimsy walls. “One of my employees is in there. It's my responsibility to take care of her.”
Corrigan. Not great timing.
“Do you see a mirror around here? Or do you have one?”
Fran gave me a funny look. “Uh . . . I haven't seen one.” She paused. “And maybe you don't want one right now.”
What was that supposed to mean? The tough, no-nonsense game warden was looking at me like I was Medusa.
Nothing to be done about it. I ran my fingers through my hair, feeling greasy, matted strands. I wiped my face with a corner of my once-white shirt and saw a dirty smear with a little blood mixed in. Straightening my shoulders, I marched out—or more like tottered.
Corrigan stood outside the door, looming over a tall deputy who blocked his way. He was about to say something when he saw me. His mouth remained open, but he said nothing.
Uh-oh. That bad. I should've known from Fran's reaction. Tommy and Fred were next to him. I didn't think Tommy's eyes could get any bigger than I'd seen them, but they did. Even Fred looked serious.
“I'm okay. Really. If something was really wrong, they'd have sent me off in the ambulance. You don't have to worry about . . .” I was rattling on.
“Kelly, breathe.” Scott walked up next to me and put an arm around my shoulders.
Oh. Breathing.
Fran approached Corrigan. “Are you Kelly's employer?”
“Yes.” Corrigan's tone was subdued.
“I'm Warden Fran Cartwright.” She thrust her hand out to Corrigan and they shook. “Kelly saved the life of one of our officers. She's one tough cookie. We're all deeply grateful to her.”
“Thanks for telling me that.” Corrigan looked in my direction. “She means a lot to us.”
Chapter 32
T
he next morning I awoke in my room at the inn with more painful muscles than I'd ever had before, and that was saying a lot after growing up on a ranch. I stretched one limb at a time. They all responded way too vocally in terms of pain.
I threw back the covers and walked stiffly over to the coffeemaker. Thank you, Corrigan, for your devotion to superb java. Smelling the ground beans was the beginning of revival.
The aroma of freshly brewed coffee greeted me as I stepped out of the shower. Wonderful! But what I saw in the mirror was a different kind of hello. The beginning of a black eye made me look like a one-eyed raccoon. Good thing my sister was into makeup and insisted I carry supplies when I packed in a hurry.
I toweled off, dressed, and did my usual routine with extra eye time. Yesterday's events churned through my mind like a movie on fast-forward. The fight. The hospital. A tired Scott saying good night and leaving for the company retreat. The smell of frying bacon filled the hallway as I walked toward the kitchen.
Helen glanced up from stirring a pan full of scrambled eggs. “Good morning. How do you feel?”
“Creaky, but walking.”
She laughed. “Well, maybe we can oil your joints with some good food.” Helen turned off the burner. “Scott called. He should be here any minute.”
Oil. Right. I rubbed the bump on my head.
As if on cue, Scott opened the door and walked in. “Kelly, how are you?”
I smiled. “A little sore, but fine.”
Helen added sautéed red and green bell peppers, onions, mushrooms, and a generous pinch of fresh herbs to the eggs and piled them onto two plates. She placed homemade wheat toast and bacon next to them. I could get used to this.
Silverware and napkins were already on the counters. “Dig in.” She put the meal in front of us.
And that we did. It had been a long twenty-four hours.
“Scott, thanks for taking me to the emergency room yesterday,” I said between mouthfuls. The wait, the tests, and the examinations had taken hours. Dinner never happened.
“You're welcome.” He was devouring his breakfast.
We ate in dedicated silence for a few minutes.
“Where's Tommy?” I asked.
“Enjoying his newfound freedom,” Helen replied. “He's outside playing with Fred.”
“I'm sure happy it's all over.” My shoulders slumped, emotional exhaustion dragging them down.
Scott pushed his plate back. “Thanks for the terrific breakfast, Helen. That'll help see me through the day.”
“You're welcome. All of you have done so much to help Tommy and me. I appreciate it.” She picked up his dish. “It's the least I can do.”
Scott turned to me. “Corrigan should be arriving shortly. He wants us all to meet in the conference room. He's invited the Silver Sentinels.”
The Silver Sentinels? What was that about? “Okay. I'll be ready.”
Scott's cell phone rang, and he stepped outside to answer it.
I headed back to my room to check my blossoming black eye. I put on a little more makeup and headed for the conference room, where Bob's accident had first been declared a murder.
The group was there. In deference to breakfast, Mary had brought croissants, dark purple fruit oozing from the ends. I sat next to the Professor. The fragrance of his aftershave drifted through the air. Ivan rubbed at a nicked area on his chin—a hazard from shaving. Rudy placed one of Mary's treats on a small plate. Gertie sat up straight, pen and notepad ready.
What a wonderful group of people. I was so fortunate to have met them.
Tommy and Fred bounded in, followed by Corrigan and Helen.
“Hey, everyone.” Fran entered with Deputy Sheriff Stanton behind her.
Helen had already put water pitchers and glasses on the table. Mugs were on top of a back cabinet, with two large thermoses of coffee next to them. Plates, silverware, and napkins were on the counter, along with a basket heaped with muffins. She'd been busy this morning.
“Fran, how is Charlie?” I asked.
“He'll be fine. He has to stay put in the hospital for a while, though.” She laughed. “That will be real torture for him. He's always on the go.”
Corrigan shifted in his chair. “I want to thank you all for meeting with me today and helping to bring closure to the recent tragic events. Please, tell me what happened from the beginning.”
I listened as each person shared their thoughts and actions. I chimed in as appropriate. The story was told.
“I can add some new information.” Deputy Sheriff Stanton pushed his coffee mug back and put his elbows on the table. “Suzie told us everything. She had nothing to lose and maybe some small consideration to be gained. Suzie partnered with Jason. She let him store the abalone in the refrigerators at the hotel.”
I shook my head, still stunned by the turn of events.
“Bob knew Jason was poaching but didn't know where such a large amount of abalone was being kept between his trips to San Francisco. When Bob visited Suzie on the day he died, he encountered Jason and suspected Suzie was his accomplice.”
“Who attacked Tommy?” asked Gertie.
I realized they didn't know everything that happened. It seemed like ages ago that Tommy shared Fred's escapade.
“Jason attempted to toss Tommy off the cliff because he saw him loading bags of abalone into his van,” the deputy said.
All eyes turned to the boy.
Tommy sat on the floor in the corner of the room, staring at the dog lounging in his lap. He gently tugged on Fred's long ears.
“Suzie stopped him. Bob's death wasn't planned. She panicked.” Stanton sighed. “Killing Tommy would've been cold-blooded murder. She wouldn't allow that. She has a streak of decency in her.”
“What about Jason's murder?” I asked.
“She told Jason what happened to Bob. They didn't know how much information he had collected or where it was. Hence Bob's stolen phone.” Deputy Stanton shot me a look. “Suzie heard your phone conversation and knew where Helen put it. She saw you talking to the kids and got to the inn before you.”
Ha! I was right about it being connected.
“Jason decided to run. He demanded she meet him and bring money.”
“Ah . . . good old-fashioned blackmail.” The Professor nodded his head. “Fear and greed weighed in here. Basic emotions lie at the bottom of most murders.”
“Suzie wasn't sure what she was going to do. She took what money she could gather together and a gun that had belonged to her husband.” He shrugged. “Jason said thanks and he'd be in touch for more. Then she pulled the gun. They fought. She shot.”
“Thanks for telling us. I'm glad we can bring closure to Bob's death,” Corrigan said.
The silence lengthened. Everyone seemed to be examining their fingernails. Fred stood up and yawned.
Corrigan called out, “Hey, Fred, come here, boy.”
The low-slung hound walked over to Corrigan.
He ruffled his ears. “This is the one who failed his final exam at the cancer clinic?”
“Yeah,” Tommy said.
“Bob told me about him.”
“They asked us if we wanted him because he couldn't be one of their cancer detection dogs,” Tommy said.
“
Nyet!
Enough!” Ivan roared. “This is great dog. Is wrong people don't know.” He scowled as Mary grabbed his arm.
“We all promised,” she pleaded.
“Ivan, no!” Rudy implored, tugging on Ivan's other arm.
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“He smell cancer. Like trained.” Ivan glared defiantly at the others.
“How do you know?” I asked.
The Professor let out a deep sigh. “We take Fred when we go on visits to nursing homes. He's a certified therapy dog.”
Gertie piped up. “We saw that with certain patients he put his paw on their knee. We didn't think anything of it at first.”
“One of the people told me she'd been diagnosed with cancer,” Mary said. “I saw Fred put his paw on her knee when we entered the room.”
Mary grabbed one of her breakfast pastries and took several quick bites.
We all waited to hear more.
She looked at a corner of the ceiling, avoiding eye contact. “I had another person tell me the same thing that day, and Fred put his paw on that person's knee, as well.”
“When Mary told us her story, we began comparing notes,” the Professor said.
Rudy chimed in. “We believe Fred can detect cancer. He just doesn't signal it the way he was taught.”
“We not say anything,” Ivan rumbled. “We not want boy to lose dog. Maybe he have to go back to clinic.” He clasped his work-worn hands together. “We not want to lose dog, either.”
“There's no problem there,” Helen said. “Tommy's named as sole owner on his papers.”
I swear five pairs of stiff shoulders dropped simultaneously and five grins appeared.
“So . . . if Fred puts his paw on a person's knee, that means they have cancer?” Tommy asked.
“Appears that way,” the Professor said.
Tommy stood and began to back away. “No,” he shouted, an expression of horror on his face.
Fear shot through me. “Tommy, what is it?”
He looked at me with wild eyes and raced from the room, Fred on his heels.
I followed, a fleeting vision of bewildered looks from the group in my mind. I grabbed the truck keys and a fleece from a hook by the door and ran to the Toyota.
Pulling out of the driveway, I caught a glimpse of Tommy cutting across the adjacent field on his bike. As I watched, he began to ascend a steep hill, the bike lurching from side to side as he struggled to make it to the top. Fred followed. The two disappeared over the crest.
I didn't want to stop him. I wanted to see where he was going. And I didn't want to lose him. I pushed the gas pedal down.
As I reached the top, Tommy bounced his way down a dirt path to my left, through an empty lot. Not able to follow in the pickup, I stopped and took binoculars out of the glove box.
Tommy turned into a driveway, dropped his bike, and ran up to the front door of a house. He pounded on it.
I recognized the VW bus parked next to the home.
Daniel opened the door.
Tears streamed down Tommy's face. I couldn't hear him, but I could read his lips.
“Where's Allie?” he mouthed.
Daniel opened the door wider, and Tommy pushed past, followed by Fred.
I put the binoculars down, put the truck in gear, and drove to the home via a more roundabout way.
I pulled into the driveway, turned the vehicle off, and paused for a minute. I was scared what this might mean. I dreaded telling Daniel.
It had to be done. I took several deep breaths, got out, and walked to the door. I raised my hand and hesitated. Then I gave a couple of sharp raps.
It took Daniel a couple of minutes to answer. “Kelly, thank goodness you're here. What's wrong with Tommy? He's crying so hard, he can't speak.”
“Daniel, we need to talk.”
BOOK: Murder at Redwood Cove
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