Destroying Angels (Leigh Girard Book 1) Page 12

  Once I made my way home, the dusky light of the stone cottage cloaked me as I sat huddled with Salinger in the green velvet chair. I had stripped off last night’s clothes, showered, and crawled into my nightgown and robe. I know I should have gone directly to the hospital emergency room, but I couldn’t stand the thought of anyone poking and probing at my body. They would definitely want a chest x-ray and maybe an MRI. No thanks. I wasn’t due for a follow-up exam for five more months. That was soon enough for me. This sanctuary of the stone cottage and Salinger were all I needed. If the nausea and dizziness didn’t go away by evening, I’d call Lydia.

  I had made strong coffee to keep myself awake in case I had a concussion. For the moment that was all the medication I was willing to deal with. The most important thing was to keep my head clear, if that was possible. Someone had run me off the road last night and left me in a field, not caring if I was injured or dead.

  Sarah Peck immediately came to mind. She had threatened me last night at Lydia's group meeting. Maybe running me off the road was her way of punctuating the threat. But there was no way to prove it had been her. I hadn’t seen the driver nor really gotten a good look at the truck. Couldn't tell the license plate or if the driver had been a man or a woman. All I was sure of was that the truck’s color was dark: maybe dark blue or black. Other than that, it was like all the countless pickup trucks on the peninsula.

  The phone rang and I startled, spilling coffee on myself and Salinger, who jumped off the chair with a yelp. It rang again. I let the machine pick up.

  “Girard? Are you there? Pick up or you’re dead.”

  It was Jake Stevens. Damn. I had forgotten that there was a staff meeting at 8:30 AM, called in my honor. Stevens wanted me to officially meet the rest of the Gazette staff I looked at the mallard-shaped clock on the mantle; it read 10:05.

  “You’d better have a good excuse,” he continued.

  I reached over and picked up the phone. “I’m here,” I said. “You don’t have to burn me in effigy.”

  “What’s going on? Surely you didn't forget this morning's special meeting to introduce you to the other reporters? You know, to build good working relationships, rapport, possibly be able to recognize them on the street.” He was on a roll. “I have five reporters with their noses out of joint wondering who the jerk is that I had hired. Do you think you can get your butt down here sometime today?”

  “Someone ran me off the road last night,” I hesitated, “on purpose.”

  For a moment, one could hear the proverbial pin drop. I had wanted to sort things out in my mind before telling anyone about the incident. But maybe Stevens could shed some light on it.

  “Anything broken?”

  “I’ve got a bump where my head hit the steering wheel. But mostly, I’m just sore as hell from sleeping in the truck all night.” No need to go into further detail.

  “Have you been to a doctor?”

  “I’m fine. I’ll come in later this afternoon.”

  “Listen, I know you think you’re pretty tough, but don’t fart around with a head injury. Get yourself over to Emergency. Ask for Dr. Waters. He’s the best.”

  Suddenly Salinger ran for the door and stared barking. Someone was outside.

  “I gotta go. Someone’s at the door. I’ll see you later.”

  “What do you mean, on purpose—?” Before he could finish, I hung up.

  In my haste to see who was snooping around outside, I stood up too fast, and a wave of dizziness and nausea overtook me. I grabbed the back of the chair and waited for it to pass. Then I went to the window and squinted around the etched glass. Rob Martin was kneeling beside my truck, running his hand over the dent in the driver’s side door. What was he doing here? I noticed that he drove a black Dodge Ram pickup. From the window, I couldn’t see if his truck had any tell-tale dents.

  I flung open the front door. “What a surprise.”

  Salinger ran past me to give Martin the once over. He patted Salinger on the head. The gesture seemed uncharacteristic for him. I reminded myself that he was the local naturalist. Flora and fauna were what he loved, not people. Except for Sarah Peck.

  “Looks like you had an accident.” He stood up.

  “You should see the other guy.” I said. “Is this a social call?”

  “Well, you didn’t show up for the meeting, and your place was on my way, so I thought I’d stop by and see if everything was all right.” He approached me, with Salinger circling his feet.

  I wasn’t buying the new improved Rob, but I was curious over his sudden transformation.

  “Pretty robust field of asters over there.” He pointed toward the field.

  “They seem to have a will of their own.”

  “You’d think that, but it’s the weather. Tricks them into continuing to bloom. I’ve seen them around as late as Thanksgiving. Have you seen any purple heads?”

  “Not that I’ve noticed.”

  He squinted, staring at the field. “Mind if I take a look before I leave?”

  “You can look, but don’t touch.”

  I thought he would head toward the field, but instead he asked, “May I come in for a moment?”

  I didn’t want to invite him into the house, but there didn’t seem to be any tactful way out of it and still satisfy my curiosity. “Sure.” For a moment my instincts told me to leave the door open, but I didn’t want him to know I didn’t trust him. Why couldn't his black truck have been the one on my back bumper last night? I shut the door behind him.

  As he sat down on the sofa, Salinger jumped up beside him, wagging her tail as if she’d never seen a man before. She and I were going to have a heart to heart when he left.

  “Handsome dog. Shelties aren’t usually this friendly.” He picked up Salinger’s ball and threw it across the room. She ran after it as if it were a flying steak. “Most shelties are real loyal to their families, and usually real wary of strangers.” Salinger dropped the ball at Rob's feet and gazed up at him.

  “What can I say, she has no taste.”

  To his credit, he managed a smile. He seemed determined not to take offense to anything I said this morning, which set my nerves jangling. He was probably up to something. I took my usual direct approach. “Why did you think everything wasn’t all right over here?”

  “What? Oh, um . . .” He crossed one leg over the other, then put both on the floor again. “Well, you don’t strike me as the type to blow off a professional meeting. You know, Type A.” He smiled, as if he’d scored a goal.

  I smiled back. I’d been called worse things.

  “From the looks of your truck and your forehead, I was right. Did you have some kind of accident?”

  That was the second time he’d asked that question. “You might say that. Someone ran me off the road last night.” I didn’t add the “on purpose,” because I wanted to see his reaction.

  He moved his fingers up and down his shockingly red goatee. I had noticed this nervous habit of his before. “Did you get a look at the driver?”

  “No, but I did get a good look at the truck.” I was bluffing. There was a reason he had come here, and it wasn’t to see if everything was all right.

  “Then you’ve filed a police report?”

  If he kept at it, he was going to rub that goatee right off his face. “Rob, let’s cut the chit chat. Why don’t you tell me the real reason you came over here.”He seemed about to protest, and then thought better of it. “All right, we aren't candidates for best friends. But I bet you don’t know why.”

  “I’m sure you’ll tell me.”

  “See, that’s what I mean, that 'in-your face' attitude. When I lived in Chicago, I ran into it all the time from women like you. Hard-ass career women. I’m not surprised you’re living here and working at a fifth-rate newspaper. You’re probably burned out, right? Left the husband and kids, came here to drop out. Only problem is, you don’t know how to drop out. You have no idea what it means to relax, to let things go.”


  The tips of his ears were now as red as his hair. I was curious at his chauvinistic tirade. Granted, some of what he said was true—I couldn’t let things go. Still, the ferocity of his words seemed based on some personal experience.

  “You don’t know me well enough to know what kind of woman I am.”

  “Oh, I know your type real well. Let me give you some advice—back off.” He punctuated his advice with a finger pointed forcefully at me.

  “Are you talking about Carl Peck?” It was a rhetorical question. “You, of all people, should be at least a little suspicious about his death. After all, I understand the two of you went mushroom picking together, and that he was the one who got you interested in it. Don’t you find it strange that he ate an amanita? One of the most deadly of mushrooms.”

  For a minute, he didn’t say anything. Then he took a deep breath, as if gathering himself. “I see I was right, you’ve been digging around.” He grinned sardonically. His sudden self-control unnerved me. One minute he was raging at me about career-driven harpies and the next, he was making bad puns.

  “I’m a reporter. I’m suppose to dig around.”

  “Not here. Maybe back where you’re from. But not here.”

  “What’s the matter? Am I digging too close to home?”

  He jumped up from the sofa so fast that Salinger barked. “You’re going to do what you want to do anyway. Your kind never listens or learns until it’s too late and someone gets hurt.”

  “Learns what?” I didn’t like him standing over me, so I stood up. Again I was overwhelmed with nausea and dizziness.

  He didn’t seem to notice. “To let things go.” We were eye to eye, and I didn’t like what I saw. His pupils had contracted to pin points. “Just stay out of my way.” He moved toward the door, and I inwardly sighed with relief.

  “Is that at work or everywhere?” I shouted after him. He slammed the door so hard, it bounced against the frame.

  I followed him as fast as my sore body would allow, hoping to catch another glimpse of his vehicle, but ran directly into Jake Stevens, who stormed through my front door like a man on fire. When he turned back to me, he let out a long whistle. “You did say you were fine." He was grinning. My robe had loosened, and he was staring at the top of my chest. I yanked the robe shut, hoping the garish bruise had distracted him from my lopsided appearance.

  “Come to see if I’m playing hooky?” I walked back to my chair and sat down, crossing my arms over my chest.

  “I thought whoever ran you off the road might have come to pay a visit.” Stevens plopped his lanky body across the sofa.

  “You don’t know how right you might be.”

  “Martin? You’re way off. That’s not his style. He’s not the violent kind. He’s a tree hugger, Mr. Nature, the Ed Abbey of the Midwest. Ever read Abbey? Helluva writer. He could turn a description of a sunset into a reason to live.”

  “What about last Saturday? At Bailey’s? He wasn’t hugging any trees that night.”

  “Did you see him do anything?”

  “No, not really.” I conceded. “But he looked like he could.”

  “It’s no secret that he’s never gotten over the divorce. Sometimes he feels sorry for himself and goes looking for Sarah. No harm there.”

  “And her lascivious behavior doesn’t seem to help his obsession.”

  Stevens ignored my remark. “Dog suits you.” Salinger was curled up on my feet. Stevens didn’t interest her. “Besides, what reason would Martin have to run you off the road?”

  “I’ve been asking questions about Carl Peck’s death, and his lady love, Sarah Peck, doesn’t like it or me, for that matter.”

  “Why would Martin care if you investigated Peck’s death? You’d better watch out, Girard, you’re starting to sound paranoid. I could sooner see Sarah running you off the road than Martin. Say, you have any coffee?”

  “In the kitchen.” I wasn’t going to risk getting up again. It was taking all my strength not to throw up.

  “What makes you think Sarah is capable of running me off the road?” I shouted toward the kitchen.

  He came back with the coffee and sat down again. “Let’s say that she’s a woman with a very passionate and erratic nature.”

  “Is this from first hand experience?”

  “You figure it out.” He was being coy.

  “Gosh, and I thought we were starting to have a meaningful relationship. Sharing secrets and all.”

  “You tell me yours, and I’ll tell you mine.”

  “You first.”

  “We’ll save that pleasure for a cold winter evening,” he said. “Have you learned anything about Peck’s death to justify people running you off the road?”

  I told him what I knew about amanita verna mushrooms, and Sarah’s angry comments about her father. “I have a hunch that Peck did something to Sarah, some kind of abuse. Maybe physical, maybe even sexual.”

  I steeled myself for the inevitable denial from Stevens. Men always have trouble with members of their sex acting like scum. But he surprised me.

  “That certainly would explain Sarah’s anger at him. Or maybe she’s mad at him for something he did to her mother?”

  “Could be. But it doesn’t feel that way. My instinct tells me that Peck did something to her.”

  “That still doesn’t mean she killed him or ran you off the road,” Stevens persisted.

  “No, but it puts her as my number one suspect.”

  “You haven’t even proved there’s been a crime committed. The police don’t think there’s been a crime. And, do I need to remind you, it's the job of the police to develop suspect lists, not reporters.”

  “You mean your razor-quick deputy pal, Chet Jorgensen?”

  “He may take his own time, but he gets the job done. Don’t underestimate him. In fact, you’d better make a report to him about the incident last night."

  “There’s really nothing I can tell him, except that the truck was a dark color.”

  “Just do it. That’s an order from your boss.”

  I merely nodded, which could mean yes or no. “You don’t happen to know anything more about Sarah’s childhood, do you? Something to do with her father that could shed some light on this?”

  Stevens put his coffee cup on the side table. “If I did, do you think I would tell you?”

  “I think you would.”

  “You’re right, I would. But I don’t know anything. Sarah and I don’t do a lot of sharing. Of those kind of secrets, that is.” He grinned. “Why don’t you just ask her?”

  “I think I might just do that.”

  * * * * *

  I should have been home snuggled under my down comforter and nursing a cup of tea, instead of standing outside the Egg Harbor market trying to lure Renn Woulff into a conversation. And I would have been, if my headache hadn’t reached symphonic proportions just as I ran out of my migraine meds.

  “So, you’re that new gal on the paper, then” Woulff commented, running his eyes over me with slimy, obvious delight. It was about twenty degrees out, but he wasn’t wearing a coat. His hair, which probably was blonde, was so dirty it looked grey. “I swear I’ve seen you somewheres before. I never forget a pretty face or a great bod.” He gave me another spurious scan, as if I were for sale.

  “Bailey’s,” I said, trying not to inhale the whiskey aroma that seemed to encircle him like a fog.

  “Okay then, though it’s kinda early in the day,” he said, starting down the street in the direction of the waterfront.

  “No, that' s not what I meant.” I walked beside him. "Last Saturday night. We met at Bailey’s.”

  “Nope, can’t be it. I seen you in the paper.”

  “How can you be sure, it was only a head shot?" I tried not to smirk. “You got time for a cup of coffee? I’d like to hear more about you and Carl Peck.”

  “Liked that first idea better. How about a beer. If you don’t say nothing, I won’t.”

  “Secret’s safe wit
h me.” I reluctantly followed him into Bailey’s. It was barely four P.M., and we were the only customers. The bartender raised an eyebrow when Renn ordered a pitcher of beer and two shots.

  “Don’t you tell Regina, okay?” He winked at me. “She’d be jealous.”

  I ignored his intimation, and rubbed my temples, trying to ease my headache. “So, what’s the story with you and Carl Peck? You seemed pretty upset last Saturday.”

  “Hey,” Renn shouted at me. “What happened there to your head? That’s a nasty one.” He touched the bruise on my forehead. His shout had cranked up the pulse in my brain, which didn’t need to be any higher.

  “I head-butted some guy who said something about my great bod.”

  For a second, he didn’t say anything. Just leaned back in his chair so far that I thought he’d fall. Then he let the chair fall forward with a whump! “Okay, I ain’t that out of it. Yet. Not used to good looking babes picking me up.”

  Tony the bartender set the pitcher of beer and two glasses on the table. “Now I don’t want any trouble from you,” he warned Renn.

  “Just bring them shots, okay? I’m helping this here lady out with her newspaper story. So take a hike.”

  “And could I have a glass of water?” I asked the beleaguered-looking Tony.

  Woulff poured me and then himself a beer. After he’d consumed about half the glass, he said, “Nice and cold. Ain’t you drinking?”

  “Got a headache."

  “More for me then.” He grinned and slid my glass protectively toward his side of the table. “You want to know about Carl, huh? Biggest damn bastard on the peninsula. You know what he did? Talked me into selling the orchards and investing that money in that restoration business of his. Then just as that business is making money, he buys me out for a song. My family owned them orchards over a hundred years.”

  “Why did you sell to him?”

  “'Cause at the time I didn’t know the business was making money. He made it look like we was losing money. He doctored the books.”

  Tony set down two shots and a glass of water.

  “Thanks.” I tossed two Duradrin in my mouth and gulped down the water. “Didn’t you have an accountant or a lawyer check it over?”