Broken Vows Mystery 01-For Better, for Murder Page 3

  He tipped his imaginary hat and drove off toward the sunset.

  I watched until his car disappeared, my lasagna churning in my stomach. A murder and a lunch date with Ray all in one day. It was a lot to process. At least Tim’s death was in capable hands so I could grieve for him without concern for justice. But I had the uneasy feeling Ray might be back with more questions, questions I needed better answers to in order to stay off his suspect list. I couldn’t just say “trust me” to this man I’d left after promising to stick with him through the good times and the bad.

  And, after seeing Tim’s dead body this morning, bad had taken on a whole new meaning.

  The phone rang when I entered the showroom. I grabbed the extension near the door.

  “Ms. Asdale, Brennan Rowe here. Any word yet?”

  Mr. Rowe had asked me to find him a special 1957 Mercedes-Benz 300SL roadster to add to his ample car collection. I’d heard a rumor one would appear on the auction block soon, a six-cylinder four-speed with tan exterior and green interior, in mint condition, just like he wanted. He called me daily now, lest I forget. He’d authorized me to bid as high as three quarters of a million dollars, including the bidder’s premium. I wouldn’t forget. I couldn’t wait.

  “Not yet, Mr. Rowe, but soon, I think.”

  “Leave no stone unturned, Ms. Asdale.”

  He didn’t have to tell me that. For me, it wasn’t the car. It was the thrill of the hunt. And the thrill of the bidding, just like at a Sotheby’s auction. I now checked the auto auction house’s website twice a day. I wanted to be the mysterious bidder phoning in the winning bid. I wanted the dollars I paid for premium cable access at home and in the office, the only access that provided the SPEED channel, to pay off for me big time. Mr. Rowe had promised me a five thousand dollar broker’s fee. It wouldn’t be as much of a thrill as being the bidder on Howard Hughes’ 1953 Buick Roadmaster, which sold four years ago for $1.6 million at Barrett-Jackson’s third annual Palm Beach auction, or the bidder on the 1966 Shelby Cobra 427 Super Snake, which sold at auction in January for a record-setting $5.5 million. But it was close enough for this small-town girl.

  I checked my desk for messages, then strode into the shop. Cory’s legs were sticking out from underneath a DeLorean DMC-12, identical to the one in the movie Back to the Future. Many car aficionados estimated six thousand DeLoreans, which began production in 1981 and ended shortly thereafter, still existed today. A few of us who shop the market on occasion knew for a fact how many were still on the road, but we were an exclusive club.

  “Cory? Any messages?”

  He dug his heels into the floor and rolled out from underneath the car on his mechanic’s creeper. “All three of the television news channels called, asking for an on-camera interview. I made appointments for myself at three, four, and five o’clock. They’re going to set up in the showroom by the Ferrari. This may be my big chance to get on Broadway.”

  “You’re shittin’ me.”

  “I am, but that’s another dollar for the can. You sound like a garage monkey.”

  I had enlisted Cory to help me stop swearing by charging me a dollar each time I slipped. I’d learned to swear at the feet of the master—my dad, who had raised me from age twelve. Lately, Cory tended to encourage me. I suspected he was saving for a Ferrari of his own. “What did you really say?”

  “No comment. No comment. No comment.”

  “Good. Thanks. Listen, can you assume your salesman look? I have to go see Erica. She’s hearing voices again that say I’m in danger.”

  “Sure.” Cory unzipped his navy coveralls and kicked them with precision onto the workbench three yards away. Now he wore tan chinos and a baby blue pinstriped dress shirt, untucked of course. He pulled the protective covers off his loafers and stripped the surgical gloves from his delicate hands. A long time ago he’d figured out the gloves were the best solution for keeping his hands pure white for the stage. Scrubbing with D & L hand cleaner and a nail brush daily had been murder.

  “The caroling is at two, if you want to lock up for half an hour to join in.” I knew no one would be shopping for cars at that time, and Cory had the purest tenor tones of any singer I knew. He’d put the paid cast to shame. Maybe someone would follow him back into the shop to compliment him and end up buying a car. I could use the cash. I had a sinking feeling the loan on the Ferrari would be outstanding for some time to come.

  “Great. I wanted to check out the chestnuts.”

  With anybody else, I’d think free roasted nuts, but not Cory. “Okay, but no necking in the cars.”

  He lowered his chin. “Yes, Mommy.”

  I smiled so he wouldn’t know the pain the nickname caused me and darted out the door.

  It took forty-five minutes to reach the city and the psych center, even when I pressed the pedal of my black 1990 Porsche 944 S2 a little harder than the speed limit and the road conditions allowed. A smooth-riding car, the Porsche had been a graduation present from my father. He’d bought it from an insurance company after it had bounced off two trees and a Winnebago. He did the restoration work himself. I would’ve preferred a red 911, but he insisted this car would serve me well. So far, it had. It had inspired me to change the garage to a sports car boutique after his death, much more fitting for Wachobe’s upscale image and its zoning board’s vision, or at least so I’d thought at the time.

  I made the turn onto the psych center’s main drive. Erica resided on the fourth floor of the state facility—the tower as it was referred to. Sometimes she even thought she was Rapunzel. She had the long blonde hair for the role, but not the kind and gentle demeanor. Often, she was angry and demanding, alienating her peers. Always, she was incapable of holding a job, although able to obtain one during her manic periods. The telephone calls to her co-workers at all hours of the day and night usually did her in. Her compulsive spending sprees left her homeless, which was why Ray and I took her in. We could put up with her headstrong behavior, her massive collection of wine corks and bottle caps, the many nights we found her rutting on the couch with some loser, and her constant refusals to take her medication on the days she felt “good.” What we couldn’t take were the multiple suicide attempts which occurred, oddly enough, as her depression lifted and her activity levels increased.

  The psych center tried medication, electroconvulsive therapy, and psychotherapy. None of them worked for long. She’d been in and out of here for three years now, long enough for me to know all of the staff on a very personal level. I believed Erica actually preferred living here now, and I sometimes wondered if her suicide attempts merely paved the way for her to return here after she’d struggled on the outside for a while, like a perpetual parole violator.

  Tommye hugged me as I stepped off the elevator, and I smelled Chanel No. 5 and … peanut butter. I released her squishy, comforting body and looked at her freckled brown face and warm chocolate eyes.

  “Wheels, it’s been too long.”

  Tears smarted in my eyes. “How is she?”

  “I just gave her the dinner tray. She seems rational. She knows you’re coming.” Tommye and I walked in step down the hallway. “She kept asking me what time.”

  “I’m sorry it took me so long. I had quite a day.”

  “Want to talk about it?”

  “No, but thanks.” I knocked on Erica’s door and swung it open. “I’ll stop by on my way out.”

  Erica’s walls were covered with pictures of butterflies cut from magazines and a few she’d drawn herself. I’d admired them until I learned she coveted their short life span. She wasn’t in bed. Her half-eaten tray sat at the foot of it. I knocked on the closed bathroom door. No response.

  “Erica? Hey, I’m here.”

  Still no response. I turned the knob. She wasn’t in there. I bent down and looked under the bed. Nothing but dust bunnies. An ounce of my lasagna washed back up my throat, leaving a fiery trail. I headed down the hall to the recreation room, which held three other patients, a te
levision, and a Ping-Pong table, but no Erica. When I asked if they’d seen her, they all shook their heads.

  I jogged down the hall, looking in every room and startling one of the occupants into choking on his cherry Jell-O. I apologized profusely. I raced to the nurse’s desk, where Tommye now stood.

  “She’s not in her room. She’s not in the rec room either, or any of the other patients’ rooms.”

  Tommye held up her index finger. “Did you check the broom closet? I caught her and Sam in there the other day, doing the wild thing.”

  “Who’s Sam?”

  “Samuel Green. He’s a new patient. Good-looking boy, but a sociopath. Stabbed his mother in the hand when she tried to serve him pork chops.”

  Tommye hustled down the hall to find the closet empty.

  “Okay, Wheels, now let’s not panic. I’m going to check the floor again.”

  Ten minutes later, no Erica. Tommye sounded the alarm and the staff began a floor by floor search. It took an hour, and they didn’t find her. They did notice Sam was missing too.

  One hour after my arrival at the psych center, I conceded defeat and called Ray.

  Ray appeared at the psych center twenty minutes later. He interviewed the staff and the seventy-year-old retiree who passed for security at the front door, asked for a description of Sam, and disappeared outside to search around in the light snow that had begun minutes after I dialed his number.

  I watched out the lobby windows. He returned ten minutes later and stamped snow off his shoes.

  “I found two sets of tracks exiting the rear entrance and heading toward the woods. They ended roadside. Looks like maybe the two of them hitchhiked or arranged for a ride. I’m going to take the patrol car over to the neighborhood and knock on a few doors to see if I can find someone who witnessed them getting into a car.”

  “Should I come with you?”

  He laid a comforting hand on my shoulder. “You’ve had enough excitement for one day. I’ll call you as soon as I learn something.”

  I trudged into the elevator and got off at the fourth floor to collect my coat from the nurse’s station. Tommye’s shift had ended an hour ago, and she had left on time, eager to get home to the pot roast she left in her slow cooker and unfazed by yet another unscheduled release. The psych center had them at least once a week. One time I picked up a naked woman walking down the major roadway leading to the psych center drive. I returned her here. Where else could she have belonged?

  In the car, I listened to the news, fearing I would hear about a daring Bonnie and Clyde robbery at the local 7-Eleven. Erica had robbed stores before when she was loose and manic, mostly shoplifting food items. I didn’t hear about any robberies. I did hear about Tim Lapham’s murder and the scene of the crime—Asdale Auto Imports, owned by yours truly, who had “No comment.” Cory must have fielded a few more phone calls in my absence. I clicked off the radio.

  My cell phone rang. I swerved to the side of the road. Angry motorists honked as they swept past me, rocking the Porsche with their draft. It was against New York State law to drive and talk on the cell phone at the same time. Ray would be all over me if I got a ticket. Besides, I wanted to hear what he had to say.

  It wasn’t him. It was my best friend, Isabelle Branch. “Hi, Jolene. Where are you?”

  “In my car.”

  “Are we on for lunch tomorrow?”

  “I guess so.” I gave her the short version of the untimely death of my ex-beau, Erica’s great escape, and my reluctant reliance on Ray. As I articulated the situation, my shock and denial hit home, and my hand shook, bumping the phone against my cheek.

  “Do you want me to come over?”

  “No. I’m fine.” I wasn’t, but I could pretend with the best of them.

  “Well, if you’re sure. But call me right away if you need anything. I’ll let you go now, but meet me tomorrow for lunch. Meantime, lock all your doors, and don’t let Erica bring the sociopath into your apartment.”

  That would be hard to prevent. Erica shared my apartment during the periods when the doctors released her with their assurances she was fit for society. She had her own key and knew where I hid the spare.

  I put the car in gear and traveled the next twenty miles in a haze of delayed post-traumatic stress, concerned for Tim’s children now without a father, for the town with a killer on the loose, for Erica who had undoubtedly hooked up with another loser, and for what I’d lost with Ray. Selfishly, I also grieved for the loss of my peaceful life of work and home, where each day had blended into the next without much drama, rumor, or fanfare, all things I liked to avoid. This morning, it seemed as though the trumpeters had announced the arrival of a whole new era, one I feared would be my undoing. When I reached my driveway, I realized I couldn’t remember looking at the road since Isabelle’s call.

  I called Cory at home to tell him about Erica and to thank him for locking up. He’d been with our family and the shop in both its incarnations for ten years. Nothing about my family surprised him.

  I passed the evening watching SPEED-TV and trying to blot out Tim’s face in death. I was unsuccessful. His twisted expression flashed over and over in my mind. I continued to wonder why anyone would want to kill such a nice man.

  Ray called at ten o’clock. “Darlin’, I can’t find her. I need sleep. I’ll try again tomorrow after Tim Lapham’s autopsy.”

  I almost dropped the phone with that mental image. Instead, I clenched it in my hand to prevent myself from shaking again. “Okay. Thanks for trying.” I hung up.

  Erica had been missing more than she’d been present in the last three years. She would surface soon enough and the state would expect me to pay her bill to hold her room in the meantime. The dead man in my showroom, one I had dated however briefly, filled my thoughts as I put on my pajamas and lay down for the night.

  Images of Tim’s twisted face and blood-soaked body flashed before me again. The fact that he wore no coat bothered me. It had been below zero last night. He wouldn’t have wandered out without one.

  I felt sad for his family. I wondered if Walter or Ray had been the one to tell his wife, Becky, and how she took it. I should call her his ex-wife, but I knew Becky would probably still see herself as joined to him, just the way I felt about Ray and me.

  I felt a little nervous about unlocking the shop tomorrow, dreading an encore. Why did the killer pick my sports car to dump the body? It couldn’t have been an easy feat to carry Tim’s dead weight into the showroom and set him inside the car.

  Who did Dad give the alarm combination to? The alarm company didn’t track activations and deactivations, but I knew the killer had to have turned off the alarm. I’d entered the code as always when I arrived at the shop this morning at nine forty-five. My off-hours visitor had known the code, and I had no idea who it could be.

  ___

  Sleep did not overtake my worries until around three a.m. Every creak in my house made me bolt upright in bed. Every scrape of a blowing tree limb sounded like an intruder breaking in. Around one a.m. it had occurred to me that the killer might have wanted to frame me or Cory for murder, but I couldn’t think of any reason someone would want to do such a thing to me. And Cory, well, he was a lovable puppy. Everyone seemed to enjoy him.

  In the morning, I wore jeans with a bright red turtleneck and a Christmas-tree-patterned cardigan to the shop, trying to cheer myself up. I avoided looking at the spot where Tim had last lain.

  I tried to pay bills, but the balance in my account couldn’t cover all of them. I spent twice as much time as usual running the numbers because of my lack of sleep and dire thoughts. Every noise in the building sent me rocketing out of my chair to investigate. I finally relaxed when I looked up to catch a handful of crime scene tourists peeking in my window and pointing to the Ferrari. Who would dare harm me with an audience?

  My cell phone rang at eleven o’clock. I flipped the top open but didn’t recognize the number.

  “Ms. Asdale, Brennan Rowe.
Any news yet?”

  “Not yet. I checked the website this morning. It’s still not scheduled for the block.”

  “Very well. I trust Tim Lapham’s murder isn’t going to put a crimp in our deal.”

  “Ah no, of course not. I’m right on top of things.”

  “Excellent. I’ll call again tomorrow.”

  I started to remind him it really wasn’t necessary to call me daily, but he hung up too fast. Then I wondered how he got my cell phone number. I certainly never gave it to him. And why would Tim’s death put a crimp in our deal? Brennan Rowe was obsessed. After I got his car and my money, I hoped never to hear from him again. But in the back of my mind, I wondered if he’d heard the rumors of my fight with Tim and thought I might be the guilty party. I couldn’t bid from behind bars, now could I?

  At noon I rose, pushed in my chair, and put on my coat to cross the street to the Coachman Inn, a historic village landmark. The inn served breakfast, lunch, and dinner, operated paddle boat dinner cruises on the lake, and rented tastefully decorated rooms with comfy four-poster beds and gas fireplaces.

  In the lamp-lit, pine-floored entryway, Isabelle threw her arms around me and hugged me in a rib-cracking embrace. She and I had roomed together for six years at college while we pursued our undergraduate and masters degrees in business. I loved her like the sister I never had. Effervescent. Sociable. Fun. Thank God she took a liking to me too. She’d even been brave enough never to question me about my mother’s death and to stay at my house with Erica and my dad, who defined eccentric. She was also the only one in my life who never called me by a nickname. I liked to think that meant she took me seriously.

  We had to wait a minute to be seated. Isabelle took our coats to the coatroom while I remained in the entry, glancing at the framed photographs of the lake scattered on the walls. A beautiful tall woman with long brown hair entered the restaurant and stopped dead, staring at me with recognition in her eyes. I gave her my best sales smile, uncertain if she was a customer’s wife. She walked over and extended her hand to me.