Death at China Rose (Sunshine State Murders), page 29
Brad leaned his back against the rail, watching me watch the water. “What were you thinking so hard about? You finally untwisted this knot?”
“Bambi killed her grandfather and I know how she did it.” I pointed in the general direction of the lakeside path that led to Harry’s backyard. “That’s the path she took to Harry’s that night. My problem was twofold. How did she get there and back so fast...and so clean.”
“Speaking of clean, Dolores’s colleague confirmed everything you said. The majority of spatter went on the wall or on Harry, a lot of which would have been caught in that long hair of his. So the killer didn’t have to spend a lot of time cleaning up, but that’s still a pretty long hike, isn’t it?”
“Bambi didn’t walk, she rode,” I said. Something splashed in the water below, something big.
“The ATV?”
“At first that’s what I thought, but an ATV is just too loud, too intrusive. No, Bambi rode a bike.” It was so simple and yet it hadn’t occurred to me until I’d spotted the bike at the hospice. I turned to face Brad. “This murder was planned down to the last degree. Bambi hid a bicycle in the woods, along with whatever supplies she needed for the murder.”
“Like the pickax she’d pilfered from Charlie’s ATV.”
I nodded. “After sneaking out the side kitchen door, it only took her a few minutes to reach the concealed bike. From there, she rode to Big Pine Terrace. After that it was a short jog to Harry’s. The attack took less than a minute. Then it was another quick jog back to the woods and a short ride back to China Rose. And then she just had to wait until Charlie was arrested—which shouldn’t take too long, since any day she expected Ancy to find Rose’s body.”
“Charlie would pay for both murders and she’d get the prize.” Brad rubbed his temple. “When did this start? When did that girl start thinking of murder as a career plan?”
It had probably begun with Rose—baby Bambi was weaned on murder. But that wasn’t what Brad was asking. “It started with a walk in woods, when Bambi stumbled over an...artifact. I think that’s when Josie came into the picture. Bambi wanted to sell it, but knew that if Harry caught wind of it, she’d be out on her ass. After all, it belonged to him.”
“That’s Harry—greedy to the core.”
“Just like his granddaughter,” I said, taking a long drink. “After finding the artifact, Bambi called her BFF, Josie Simpson. Posing as Eve White, Josie pimped the object—first to Jon, and then Ancy. When the girls discovered that there might be more valuable artifacts buried at China Rose, they came up with a plan.”
“So these girls played Ancy.”
I nodded. “Instead of giving Ancy the correct location where the artifact was found, Josie passed on the coordinates of Rose’s grave, guaranteeing that Rose’s body would be found.”
“I can’t get my head around why Bambi didn’t tell anyone about her mom in the beginning.”
“As a child, she might not have fully understood what she’d seen. Or maybe she was too frightened to tell anyone. But later, maybe much later, she put the pieces together.”
The door thumped open, followed by the sound of soft laughter—a young couple, neither of them looking to be of drinking age. Brad and I drifted to the far left corner. I stared at the dark woods, trying to pick out the lakeside path that I knew was there, but all I saw were shadows.
“Maybe...just maybe I can accept that, but why didn’t Bambi call the police instead of going through this elaborate ruse with the excavation?”
“She couldn’t risk that. Without digging the bones up herself, she couldn’t be absolutely certain that the grave was where she thought it was. If she called the cops and there was no Rose, she risked being thrown out of China Rose. From where she stood, Harry had always chosen Charlie over her.”
Brad sipped his beer and gave a slow nod. “After all, he got to stay at China Rose while she was stuck in foster care.”
“But there’s another reason Bambi didn’t go to the police. At some point it was decided that Harry had to die.”
“He was an old man—couldn’t they wait?”
“I think Harry caught a whiff of the scheme,” I said carefully. Right now I didn’t want to open the can of worms that Etta had in her kitchen—Harry’s recorded voice saying that he was surrounded by snakes. “The old guy didn’t know everything, but he knew enough to be a threat to the conspirators. And remember, if he stopped the dig, the plan was dead.”
“And soon so was Harry,” Brad said.
I nodded. That was the truth of it. Whatever the reason, Harry was dead. Tired of standing, I sat on the picnic tabletop, which seemed cleaner than the bench. Brad sat next to me.
“It was a sweet setup,” I said. “Once Rose’s grave was discovered, Charlie was the perfect fall guy for Harry’s murder. Bambi got revenge for her mother, plus sole possession of China Rose, and whatever valuable artifacts were found at the mission site.”
“Until Adu came forward with the video and proved that Charlie couldn’t have done it,” Brad said.
We sat in silence for a few minutes. The frogs croaked loudly, getting ready for their nightly debauch. From the sounds of laughter that escaped the bar, their human counterparts were doing the same.
“Were the three of them planning to split this treasure equally?”
“That was probably the original plan, but human nature being what it is, I’d bet somebody got greedy.”
“Treasure of the Sierra Madre,” Brad murmured.
“Good film.”
“It could have gone down another way. Ancy or Josie could be the killer as easily as Bambi.”
“It’s Bambi.”
“There is one little hole in your theory—how did the murder weapon wind up at Charlie’s?”
I smiled. “So you noticed that.”
Brad leaned close and whispered in my ear. “I notice everything.”
“Bambi left the murder weapon at the crime scene—she wanted the cops to find what she thought was Charlie’s pickax. But somebody moved it, probably your boy Ancy.”
His body tensed. “He’s not my boy.”
“Ancy went to Harry’s around nine-thirty and found Harry seemingly beaten to death on his couch.”
“Why didn’t he dial 911?”
“He knew his plotting with Bambi would come to light, and there was also the matter of the pickax, which he immediately recognized as his.”
Brad shook his head, his jaw tight. “The dumb ass was afraid he’d take the fall.”
“So he grabbed the ax and dropped it off at Charlie’s trailer. Then he ran back home like a scared little piggy.”
Brad stared at the water, his eyes slits. “Ancy and I are overdue for a conversation.”
I looked up at the dark sky, with its glittering stars, but all I saw was the fear I’d seen on Ancy’s face tonight. “Don’t wait too long to talk to Ancy,” I said, but Brad was lost in thought. He was turning the pieces of the puzzle of China Rose to see where and how they came together. Suddenly I was struck with a sudden suspicion—no, certainty—that he had pocketed a few of the pieces.
“Why are you really here tonight, Brad?” I asked.
He gave me a wry look that said, What took you so long?
“I wanted to tell you that we traced Josie and Bambi to a coffee shop in Valor, where they worked as waitresses. Josie had been working at the shop for some months, when she got Bambi a job there—that was in November of last year.”
“Right after Bambi left Eve’s loving home.”
He nodded. “But by the end of February, both girls had quit.”
I was excited. “That’s around when Bambi came to China Rose—that means Josie must be nearby. Why didn’t you tell me this earlier?”
“You’re jumping the gun as usual,” Brad said, holding up two open palms. “Bambi bought a bus ticket to Mineola, but we haven’t found any trace of Josie Simpson after she quit the coffee shop. No credits cards or parking tickets—nothing.”
Just like Rose.
I told myself there was nothing ominous in Josie keeping a low profile. Obviously if she was involved in a murder conspiracy, she’d be careful not to lay any tracks. Or she was lying low in Newnansville, a college town where a girl of Josie’s age could disappear.
But there was a deeper truth, a darker one. Ben Franklin said it best: Three people can keep a secret, if two of them are dead.
I started as the door burst open—it was Moss, telling us the ceremony was about to start.
Chapter Twenty-Seven:
Everything That Rises
“Last call,” Moss said as he turned on the overhead light.
Berry and I blinked at one another. “I got nowhere to be,” he said.
“Ditto.” Figuring it’d be a late night, I’d palmed Jinks on my neighbor Frankie.
“Me neither,” Papa called from his habitual seat at the end of the bar.
“Three drafts then,” I said. While Moss drew drafts, I looked around the empty bar. The bright light exposed the ugliness that booze and soft lighting usually obscured. It wasn’t even midnight yet, but the party was definitely over.
“What’s the matter, Gorsky? You thought you’d break the case tonight?” Berry tried to play it light, but fell flat.
Kind of like Harry’s memorial.
The ceremony had started well enough, with Moss saying a few words about his friend and employer, Harry Pitts. But then it was time for Bambi to say her piece, only Bambi wasn’t there. Then someone discovered that Harry’s SUV was gone—Bambi Ware had blown off her grandfather’s big goodbye.
My opinion was that the memorial was doomed from the start. There were just too many ghosts at the banquet.
Berry’s cell rang. He glanced at the ID. “It’s Spooner.”
“Tell him he missed all the fun,” I said, stifling a yawn. Brad had slipped away before the festivities were underway.
Berry flashed a wry grin, but then his face fell like a soufflé in a cattle stampede.
“On his way home Ancy Prince wrapped his car around a tree in Newnansville. He’s in critical condition at University Hospital in Newnansville.” Berry gave the facts as he knew them in staccato fashion. The accident happened around forty-five minutes after he left China Rose. The Okpulo County officer on the scene noticed an odor of alcohol, but the tox screen showed a BAC under the legal limit.
“But,” Berry said, faltering for the first time, “they found flunitrazepam in his system.”
Three people can keep a secret, if two of them are dead. With Josie vanished and Ancy in the hospital, Bambi was the last partner standing.
“I’m gonna meet up with Spooner at the hospital. If we’re lucky, Ancy will regain consciousness and answer some questions.”
I didn’t believe in that kind of luck. Ancy had had his chances to talk and blown them all.
“Bambi put those roofies in Ancy’s beer, Berry. Everybody around Bambi Ware is either dead or missing.”
“Everybody but you.”
Not for lack of trying, I thought, remembering the thrumming bees.
Berry asked if I wanted to ride with him to the hospital.
“No thanks.” I needed to think and this was as good a place as any. I pulled out my notepad and flipped through the pages, searching for the one thing I’d missed. Though I knew my killer, I didn’t have a scrap of proof. I couldn’t even produce a solid motive. On the surface it appeared that Bambi had had no idea that she would inherit China Rose with Harry’s death. Even Etta’s recording of Harry identifying her as his legatee wasn’t proof of anything—in Florida both parties had to consent to being recorded for it to be accepted as evidence. If only I had the will.
People like to say there’s always tomorrow, but that’s a lie. Sometimes we run out of chances...and time.
I drank my beer. I felt bad about Ancy, but when you deal with snakes, expect to be bitten. But at least his terrible accident answered vital questions. I knew why he’d shown up at the memorial—Bambi had lured Ancy there, probably using the golden chalice as bait. A triumph of greed over intelligence, not a big stretch with Ancy. While dishing out pretzels or gathering empty mugs, she slipped the roofies in his beer. A final murderous triumph, except for one thing: why did she pull the vanishing act?
After doping Ancy, Bambi would want to belie any suspicion by playing the mourning granddaughter to the hilt. By taking off, she’d made herself the center of attention...and suspicion.
“You okay, Addie?”
“I’m fine, Papa.” I tapped his tattered copy of The Old Man and the Sea. “Did you read it?”
“It was okay, but I liked the short stories better. I carry this book ’cause it’s light.”
I couldn’t fault his logic. Since I wasn’t going to get much thinking done with Chatty Cathy hanging around, I drained my beer and called out a good-night to Moss. Papa did the same and followed me outside. As we made the long slog to our rides—we were both parked in Siberia—Papa kept up a steady stream of talk, most of it about Harry and their last meeting. When he paused for breath I told him he needed to let it go. “Whatever differences you and Harry had are over.”
Papa was sweating bullets—July isn’t the season for sweaters. “I wished I hadn’t given him such a hard time about the money—I shouldn’t have charged him for the letter. I knew it weren’t right.”
“Letter?”
“He wanted me to drop off that letter at the PO for him—Harry said he wanted to get it in the Saturday mail so it’d get there for Monday or Tuesday.”
I stopped short and grabbed Papa’s shoulders. “Was this a thick letter?”
“Oh, yeah—I even told Harry that there might not be enough stamps on it so he threw me a couple extra dollars for that.”
“Jesus.” It was the will. Harry had mailed it to Etta after all, but what had happened to it? Lost in the mail? “Which post office did you go to?”
Papa wiped the sweat off his forehead with a sleeve. “If I’d gone to the PO, I might have missed the rib buffet. I figured it could hold ’til Monday and Harry wouldn’t know any better.”
“So you mailed it Monday?”
Papa kicked at the mud. “By Monday there didn’t seem much point, what with Harry dead and all. It was just a dead letter from a dead man. Then I kinda forgot about it, truth to tell.”
“Where’s the fucking letter?” I asked, praying that he hadn’t tossed it.
“It’s in my car—right over there.”
* * *
Inside the Vic I turned the thick letter in my hands, studied the scrawled address: Mrs. Etta Bell. A week in Papa’s car had melted the binding glue. A well-applied fingernail and the flap opened. I checked the rearview—headlights coming from China Rose, just Moss’s red Caddy making its slow way home. When the car was out of sight, I extracted the papers and read: The Last Will and Testament of Henry Pitts.
It was a simple, straightforward document, but Etta wouldn’t have liked it. I had to hand it to the old lady—she knew her twin. Harry gave with one hand and took with the other, even from the grave. Except for a nominal bequest of two thousand dollars to Charlie Ware, Harry left the entirety of his estate to his daughter, Rose. Harry stipulated that in the event of Rose’s death, Etta would then inherit. But the astonishing part was the codicil stating in unequivocal language that Bambi Ware was not to get as much as a thin dime.
At last, a solid piece of evidence in this swamp of murder and deceit. What to do with it?
I could wait until Bambi returned and confront her with the truth, but any confession she made to me was easily denied later. I wondered again where she was. Running away had been stupid and Bambi was anything but stupid.
Once again I saw Bambi’s frightened face when she saw me manhandling Jon. Right after that, Bambi had nearly tripped over herself running back to her kitchen. And then she disappeared. Was it my rough tactics? No, that girl could stare down a bull gator in mating season. So what was it?
The thing was, I’d seen that fearful expression on that elfin face several times before: that first night, when I’d caught her in my headlights; at the hospital while she waited to learn Harry’s fate; and that night after I’d visited Charlie, when I’d suggested that she should contact her aunt Etta. The last time was tonight with Jon. Bambi was good at mimicking emotions, but on all those occasions her fear had been real.
In my mind’s eye I saw the three phantom women at the center of this murder: Bambi Ware, Josie Simpson and the fictitious Eve White. An unholy trinity—three in one.
Was such deception even possible? I pulled my cell and tried Eve White’s number—she didn’t answer and I didn’t bother with a message. Next I called Jon Monroe. He answered on the first ring.
“I need to ask you about the picture I showed you, Jon. You said one of the two girls might have been Eve White—my question is, which one?” I added that I could email the photo to him again to refresh his memory.
“I have it here,” he said as he brought the picture up on his cell. “The girl on the right resembled Eve White, but as I said before, I can’t be sure they’re the same person.”
I swallowed, my mouth suddenly dry. “Thanks, Jon.”
Jon had fingered Bambi Ware. Now it made sense: the woman I’d been calling Bambi Ware had played the part of Eve White. She knew that if Jon recognized her as Eve White, the gory trail in Harry’s house would lead back to her. With Jon beyond her bloody reach, Bambi’s only option was to run. Once China Rose was deserted, she’d pack up her toys and disappear—maybe forever. The girl shed identities as often as a snake shed its skin.
I double-checked my Glock and started the Vic.
