[To Die For 01] - A View to Die For (2012) (16 page)

Megan was smiling when she joined me at the kitchen table. She reached down and petted Fred. “I hear you’ve been a bad boy this morning, Freddie,” she said with a huge grin on her face.

“Good morning, Sleeping Beauty,” I said to her. “Can I get you some coffee?”

“Thank you, Porky. I’d like that very much.” Her smile had vanished. “Then, we need to talk.”

Could she have heard Mom and me talking
? I wondered while I got up and fetched her coffee. “Care for a bagel?” I asked, trying to remember if I had said something to hurt Megan’s feelings.

“Maybe later. I’m sorry we didn’t tell you about the money,” she answered. “But I only found out a couple days ago myself.”

The coffee was barely warm. A light was blinking on the coffee pot. First it was blue, then red, and then blue again. “What’s wrong with this thing, Meg?” I asked while putting her cup in the microwave.

She looked at me with an odd, blank look. “Is the microwave broken?” she asked.

“No. I meant the coffee pot. These lights have been going on all morning. It’s starting to annoy me.” I set the microwave for thirty seconds and pushed start.

“It wants to be cleaned,” she answered. “Another example of irritating technology.”

The microwave dinged, but I just stood there frozen. Some people would call it an epiphany or, at the least, a revelation. Whatever one called it, I suddenly realized who murdered Mike and Bill. “It’s Bennet,” I said.

Her blank look was back. “What are you talking about, Jake?”

“Well, I don’t have all the details yet.” I was interrupted by another ding of the microwave before I could finish. I removed the cup and joined her at the table. “Bennet is the guy in the Tracker. He must be the mysterious Born2fish that we found on Mike’s computer. He was evidently looking for something down by your dock that could connect him to Atkins’ murder. I think he must have dropped something down there when he dumped Bill’s body.”

Megan took a sip of her coffee then made a sour face and set it down. “Nothing worse than reheated coffee,” she said. “I know Bennet isn’t your favorite deputy, but how on earth did you come to that ridiculous conclusion?”

“The blinking lights and the boots,” I answered. “That’s why computers will never take over. Only the human brain has the gift to make such a far-out connection.”

Megan’s expression changed to condescendence. “Have you been drinking already, Jake?”

I sat down at the table and took a deep breath to collect my thoughts. “Mike and Bill knew something that got them killed. My guess is they were blackmailing Bennet, or should I say Born2fish, and it cost them their lives.”

Megan got up and went over to the coffee pot. “Go on,” she said, and started to make a fresh pot.

“At first, I thought Mike was just trying to sell coins to Hal. Now I realize it was the other way around. Hal gave Mike, or Bill, the coins to pay him off.”

Megan finished with the coffee maker and returned to the table. I could see I finally had her interest. “It must have been Bill,” she said. “Mike would never get involved in blackmail. He was a lot of things, but he was not a crook. But I thought you said Bennet killed them. Why did Hal pay them off?”

“Hal is Bennet’s partner. Hal and Bennet are involved in drugs. When Bill, assuming Mike was an altar boy as you say, found out, he decided to get in on the deal. That’s when Hal paid them off with his coin collection until Bennet could take care of business.”

Megan just stared at me. It seemed like forever, but the stare only lasted a few seconds. “And you got all this from a pair of boots and a coffee pot?”

I had to laugh. “That and Taylor’s truck. Then I had a little help from my new friends, the Maguires.”

Megan looked at me with a smile of recognition. “Of course. The police auction. Bennet must have told Hal to buy the truck. That explains why he insisted on buying that piece of junk. But how did…” Her coffee maker cut her off. Brown liquid was pouring all over her counter.

Megan jumped out of her chair and rushed over to the pot. “Damn piece of junk,” she said. “Just because I didn’t put the pot all the way in, it has to punish me.” She unplugged the pot and began wiping up the mess. “But how did this Chinese piece of crap and the Maguires help you solve the puzzle?”

Despite my sister’s predicament at the moment, I felt like I just won Jeopardy and couldn’t wait to tell the world. “The boots that Harley wore at the funeral are the same brand as those that made the prints by our mysterious fisherman. They are made by a company called Bates, a company that specializes in boots for military and law enforcement. It was the red and blue flashing lights of your irritating coffee pot that turned on my neurons to make the connection to Bennet.”

“Sounds logical,” Megan said after returning to the table. “Good thing you haven’t been drinking.”

Now it was my turn to second guess. “Why’s that, Meg?”

“Because now all you have to do is prove it, and there’s no more coffee to sober you up. That was the last of it,” she said, pointing toward her hissing coffee maker.

The first step in connecting Bennet to the murders was to get the DMV check from Rosenblum. I needed some proof that it was Bennet in the Tracker boat who had been sneaking around Meg’s dock. Rosenblum still had the title to my motor home, so I decided to drive over to his office and kill the proverbial two birds.

By the time I pulled on to the highway toward town, I was beginning to wish I had kept my theory of the murders to myself. I was going to need a lot more than a boat and a pair of shoes to prove Bennet was the culprit. Then I saw the Pig’s Roast up ahead and impulsively pulled into the parking lot. With any luck, Linda would be working her shift.

The bartender from the day before was serving, and Linda was nowhere in sight. “Look who the dog drug in,” he said.

“Hi, Sam,” I said while taking a seat at the bar. “Did Linda get my message?”

He already had an open Coors for me. “Sorry, Jake. Better luck next time,” he said as he handed me my beer. “She took off with the roofer who’s been hanging around here. Came by this morning for her paycheck, and said they were on their way to California. But she did leave you this note.” He handed me a folded piece of paper with the same beautiful handwriting I had seen on the menu of the Rusted Kettle.

I looked around the bar to see who was listening then stuffed it in my back pocket and reached for my beer. “One more Dear John to add to my collection,” I said for the benefit of a couple at a nearby table. There were several more people at the window tables, but I figured with the juke box blasting out an old Dolly Parton classic that they were too far away to catch our conversation.

“Yeah, me too,” he answered with a sad voice. “My note said basically the same thing. I’m going to miss her big fat-ass bouncing around here.”

I started to say something almost as crude when we were interrupted by one of the patrons at the window table waving for Sam’s attention. Sam rolled his eyes, but not so the customer could see, and he headed over to their table. I put a five on the counter and headed out the door. “Catch you later, Sam. I’ve got an appointment with my lawyer,” I said.

Despite the white-lie I told Sam, I didn’t have an actual appointment with Rosenblum. His secretary acted upset when I barged into his office. I knew he had a secretary from the first time I had contacted him on my phone back at the Kansas rest-area, but this was the first time I actually met her. “I’m sorry. Mr. Rosenblum has a client right now. Was he expecting you?” she asked. She was flipping through what looked to be an appointment book.

She didn’t look like the sexpot I’d imagined. I was beginning to wonder if she was his mother when the office door opened and a balding, gray-hair, distinguished gentleman walked out. Rosenblum was right behind him. I recognized his visitor as Judge Simons from my father’s funeral reception.

Rosenblum acknowledged me with a nod of his head while walking his friend to the outer door. “Thank you, George. And don’t forget our tee-time tomorrow,” he said before shutting the door.

“Jake! Come on in to my office. I thought you’d be here an hour ago,” he said and offered his hand. He turned to his secretary, who had given up on her appointment book and was just staring at me. “It’s okay Shirley. This is Jake Martin. We won’t take a minute.”

He headed for his office without waiting for her to greet me. I followed like a kid being led to the principal’s office, wondering how he knew I was coming. Rosenblum offered me a chair and went behind his desk. “I think this is what you came for,” he said, picking up some papers off his desk. “Here’s the title for your motor home and the carfax I ran on Taylor’s truck. Sorry, but I couldn’t get the DMV check you wanted. ”

I dropped the papers. “How did you know I was coming?” I asked.

He smiled and retrieved the papers from his desk a second time. “Megan told me you were on your way. I expected you before lunch, so I didn’t tell my secretary. Now tell me why you think Bennet killed Mike and Bill.”

My mind was racing, trying to guess how much he knew. I sat back down and told him my theory about the murders. Like most stories that get told and re-told, it took me much longer than when I first told Megan. I had to fill him in on details like the boot print and how I met the Maguires. We were only interrupted by his secretary twice.

He didn’t seem to mind that it took more than a couple of minutes to explain my theory. “I’d be careful who you tell that to. Bennet has a lot of powerful friends around here,” he said after I finished. “That’s why I couldn’t get the DMV check.”

Rosenblum leaned back in his chair the way I’d seen him do several days ago when Meg and I had been here. “I have a feeling Bennet was on the list of Tracker owners, and my source must have got cold feet. But if you’re so sure he did it, you don’t really need the list anymore – just drive by his place. He lives next to the school on Elm.”

“If the boat is there. He could have it in the water someplace or in storage,” I answered, waiting for him to slip and fall from his chair. To my disappointment, it didn’t happen.

Rosenblum rose from his chair. I assumed it was my cue to leave, so I rose too. “Thanks, Ira. I’ll check out Bennet’s house like you suggested, and this carfax will be a big help once I contact some of the previous owners to see if they knew Hal.”

“That would be dangerous, Jake. If someone on that list is dealing drugs, you don’t want them on your tail. Look at the service locations. Check to see if Hal has any customers in those locations, and you might have some real evidence.”

I thanked the lawyer again and left his office with the title to my new motor home, and I headed toward the license bureau. I had gone into Rosenblum’s office thinking I had all the answers to solving Mike’s murder, and now I realized, I had nothing. Like he said, I needed real evidence; hunches would never prove anything in court.

Truman had the only license bureau for the entire county. Most states called it the Department of Motor Vehicles, but I could plainly see the sign down the street saying otherwise. It was in the same square as the courthouse and only a short walk from Rosenblum’s office. A bell over the door announced my presence. When I walked in, two women in their mid to late forties looked up from their computer screens. The office wasn’t much bigger than a one-room schoolhouse. It didn’t look the least bit official. There were no long lines waiting for the next available clerk - only the two women and one haggard-looking gray-haired man at the counter. I must have entered the wrong building. I went back outside, took a second look at the sign, and then went back inside. The bell rang again.

“Is this where I get plates for a vehicle?” I asked while walking toward the counter.

Everyone stopped whatever they were doing and looked my way, all three of them. “Yes, Sir,” one of the women replied. She was a dead ringer for the actress in the movie
Misery
. “What can we help you with?”

“I just bought a motor home and need to get plates for it.” I said, handing her the title. “Are you related to Kathy Bates by any chance?”

“Who?” she asked.

“The actress. You could pass as her twin.” The bell rang again, and we both turned our heads to watch a huge guy come through the door. His head nearly touched the top of the jamb, and there wasn’t an inch left on either side.

“Hi, honey,” she said to the Incredible Hulk. “Would you be a sweetheart and lock the door? I can leave after I finish here.” Without saying a word, her sweetheart did as he was told. And I began to wonder if I could escape out the back before they had a chance to torture me. Visions of her swinging a sledge hammer against my ankles, like in the movie, filled my head.

Kathy turned back to me. “We will need proof of insurance, and your personal property tax receipts. I also need to see your inspection report.”

“Property tax receipts?” I asked, deciding to drop the chit-chat before hubby, or whoever he was, took offense.

“I can call over to the collector’s office, and she can confirm you paid your taxes if you want. Unless you’re new here. Then you will have to get a new residence card from her.”

“Won’t do you no good.” The old man next to me cut in. “Mary done left already. I just come from there.”

I couldn’t help but turn to the old guy, but I was distracted by what I saw on the computer screen his clerk was using. It looked like a vehicle history report like the one Rosenblum had given me. “So I can’t leave Dodge until Monday?” I asked.

He looked at me blankly. “What’s that supposed to mean?” he asked.

He wasn’t alone. Even the Incredible Hulk was staring at me. “Sorry. It’s another one of my bad jokes,” I answered before turning back to the clerk. “Actually, I don’t live here. I only wanted to get a temporary tag to get me by for a couple of weeks until I go back to Colorado.”

Being from out of town had been all the explanation I needed. The Hulk went back to reading his Sports Illustrated, and the leathered sole next to me finished his business and left without looking my way. The clerk that reminded me of Kathy Bates gave me a thirty-day tag, and I left without offending the Hulk.