Lets bake a deal, p.4
Let's Bake a Deal, page 4
Rusty began to speak again but his words trailed off, his memories slipping away into a dark hole. He sat silent, staring into thin air, trying to remember what in the world he had been talking about. Then his eyes locked on Brad with sudden clarity. “Brad?” he asked in surprise.
Brad’s head shot up. “Yeah, Rusty, I'm here.” Grateful his old friend was coming around.
Rusty sniffed the air. “You smoking that pipe of yours again?”
“Yeah, hope you don't mind.”
“You old flirt, you know my Pauline loves the smell of a pipe,” Rusty smiled. He floated his eyes over to Rita and Rhonda. “Who are you two?” he asked.
“I'm Rita Knight,” Rita smiled at Rusty.
“And I'm Rhonda Knight,” Rhonda said and tossed a loving smile at Rusty. “My sister and I are with the police.”
“You two are cops?” Rusty asked and then became excited. “Why, I was a cop for over forty years. I worked in Minneapolis and Chattanooga.” Rusty slowly raised his body up from the chair, stumped his cane with him across the floor, and walked over to the police hat and uniform hanging on the wall. “This was my dress uniform,” he announced in a proud voice. “By golly, they don't make uniforms like this anymore…or cops, for that matter.”
“They sure don't, Rusty,” Brad agreed.
Rusty nodded and moved onto a small wooden shadowbox hanging on the wall. “Know what's in this one?” he asked.
“No, we sure don't,” Rhonda answered.
“A bullet,” Rusty explained in a brave voice. “I was shot in the shoulder a few months before I retired,” he continued and then let out a dry husk of a laugh. “Served my entire life as a cop and got shot just a few months before it was time for me to hang up my badge, how is that for irony?” Rusty tapped the wooden box with his cane. “I was shot by a drunk,” he said and laughed again. “I guess that fella started celebrating my retirement too early, huh?”
“I guess so,” Rita agreed.
“Being shot is no laughing matter,” Rhonda pointed out.
“You're not lying. This was no small potatoes, either,” Rusty told Rhonda as he stared at the little wooden box and the metal slug inside it. “The fella who shot me was one of them hard men who hurt lots of people. I went to serve a warrant on him and he answered the door with a gun. Good thing I was able to get to my own gun or I wouldn't be standing here—” Rusty paused. Another slow, dark cloud loomed in the distance. “I got my gun...and I shot the fella...it was me or him...” Rusty trudged with laborious steps back over to his chair, sat down, and looked at the heavy white drape pulls to one side of the oval window. “Yeah, it was me or him,” he said and withdrew into silence. The cloud covered over his mind, dark and silent.
Rita nodded toward the hallway. Rhonda agreed and without saying a word to Rusty slipped out into the hallway with her sister and waited for Brad. “Rhonda, we can't let that old man take the fall for this murder,” Rita said in an urgent voice. “He barely knows what year it is, and he can’t remember a name five minutes after he learns it.”
“Now I understand why Brad is breaking all the rules,” Rhonda told Rita and let out a heavy breath. “I don’t feel so bad if we’re going to have to break a few rules on this one, either.”
“Well,” Rita pointed out, peering down the hallway that branched confusingly in three different directions not far from where they stood, “we're not officially cops anymore, Rhonda. The rules don't apply to us, technically.”
“But the law does,” Rhonda replied and then rolled her eyes. “Listen to me, I sound like you...being practical.”
Rita studied the hallway. The section of hallway held only two doors. The first door belonged to a Mrs. Evelyn Ellsworth, whose name was on her door and had nodded to them in greeting through the open doorway; the second door belonged to Rusty. Rita’s mind raced with questions. “I believe in being logical and practical at all times,” Rita told Rhonda in a serious voice. “Critical thinking can't be ignored.”
“And?” Rhonda asked. “So what?”
“So,” Rita told her sister, “in this situation, logic points to helping an innocent man.”
“How so?” Rhonda asked, leaning back against the wall and crossing her arms, peering at a painting of a wintry farm scene hanging against the colorful red wallpaper.
“You saw how he could barely walk without his cane. How could he even have the strength to complete a physical act like murder?” Rita stated.
Rhonda nodded. “You’re right. In other words...we’re not breaking the rules,” Rhonda told her sister. “We’re applying our own set of rational rules and logical work here.”
Rita nodded her head. “In this case...yes.”
Brad eased out of Rusty's room, closed the door, and walked over to Rita and Rhonda. “He's staring into thin air...lost inside of himself,” he said in a miserable voice.
“Brad, who is Rusty's doctor?” Rhonda asked.
Brad took a puff of his pipe. “Doc Downing,” he explained. “Downing makes a trip up here once a week and makes his rounds. When he's gone, Nurse Mae is in charge.”
“So no outside doctors,” Rhonda commented to Rita.
“That's good,” Rita pointed out. “Fewer suspects. And we need to keep this investigation internal.”
Rhonda nodded her head and focused on Brad. The poor man looked horrible and needed a distraction. “Brad, did you know about Beth and Noel?”
“No,” Brad honestly answered. “Ladies, I haven't been up here in a couple of months.” Brad looked down at his pipe. “I try to get up here and see Rusty as much as I can...but as you saw...he's getting worse. It's tough for me to see him like that.”
“It is tough,” Rita agreed. “A man who spent his life as a cop...tucked away from the world, forgotten...and forgetting himself.”
“Very sad,” Rhonda whispered.
“Maybe it's for the best.” Brad raised his eyes. “The way the world is today...maybe it's better to forget what you were altogether and live in a daze until you die.” Brad slapped out his pipe, shoved it into his pocket, and focused his eyes at Rusty's door. “Maybe it's better to forget instead of trying to remember...all remembering does is cause pain,” he snapped and walked away.
Rita stepped next to Rhonda and watched Brad walk down the short hallway, turn a corner and vanish out of sight. “Poor man is really upset.”
“Yes, he is,” Rhonda agreed. “Can you blame him?”
“No, I can't,” Rita replied and glanced in the other direction at the hallway that forked and led to what looked like a stairwell and another series of turns and twists. “Rhonda, Brad, and Mae were right about this mansion being designed like a maze. I've never seen so many hallways and doors in my life.”
Rhonda locked her eyes on Rusty's door. “Which makes you wonder how a man who can barely remember his own name found his way to a woman's room on the other side of the third floor?”
“Exactly,” Rita told her sister. “Lynn Hogan is on the west side of the third floor and Rusty's room is on the east side. In order to get to her room you have to go through a maze of hallways. Now, I could be wrong, but I don't think Rusty is capable of finding his way. I mean, I suppose it's possible. Rusty has been a resident here for a while and Mae did say he was good friends with Lynn and the poor man seems to have his lucid moments...but still...I just don't know.”
“We have a lot of questions to ask and even more answers to track down,” Rhonda told her sister, staring at Rusty’s door with worried eyes. “Brad hasn't told anyone about the murder. Beth and Noel don't know. I'm worried if they do find out they'll call the outside world. We're going to have to work under the cloak of secrecy on this. Their hiring circumstances sure do look suspicious, but we can’t afford to question them about it until the absolute last minute until we have evidence.”
“You said it,” Rita agreed. “Rusty Lowly is surely not a criminal. But he’s depending on us to track down a killer, and we can’t let the killer know he...or she...is being chased.” Rita bit down on her lower lip and thought of the Pumpkin Festival. Oh, how she wanted to be back at the fairgrounds, eating a funnel cake, drinking hot apple cider, strolling around while resting her heart under a cool autumn sky. Instead she was trapped in a strange mansion attempting to save the life of a man who—as far as she knew—was being framed for the murder of an innocent woman. Then something occurred to her. “Rhonda?”
“Yes?”
“What if...by chance...Rusty did kill the wealthy woman...and he just can't remember doing it?” Rita asked in a scared voice. “Why? What could he have gained?”
Rhonda looked at her sister with uncertainty in her eyes. “I don't know,” she answered and shook her head. “More importantly, if the unthinkable did take place...how could we get Rusty to remember what he did?”
“Let's just hope Rusty isn't the killer,” Rita said and took Rhonda's hand. “We'll exhaust every alley there is to investigate before we investigate whether...Rusty might be the killer. Come on.”
“To the kitchen?” Rhonda asked.
“To the kitchen,” Rita nodded. “We can’t tip our hand yet, but we do have two icebergs to meet.”
Rhonda nodded, and then followed her sister down the short hallway and into the maze of hallways. As they worked their way through one hallway after another, Rhonda thought about Rusty Lowly. How can we possibly rule that out?
Downstairs in a large kitchen, two women with sour expressions labored in a cheerless silence. Beth slapped turkey onto a row of sandwiches on lunch plates, while Noel ladled into each bowl the tasteless soup steaming on the stovetop. The line of trays on the counter was labeled with each resident’s name and dietary restrictions. When she reached Rusty’s tray, Noel fished something out of the pocket of her apron. She opened the tiny capsule in her hand and poured a white powder into the man's soup and stirred it around and around until the powder vanished.
Chapter Three
Rita entered the kitchen through a dim service hallway and immediately her nose alerted her to the overwhelming stench of rotting produce. Hunched over a worktable with her stringy hair escaping at the edges of a grease-stained white chef’s cap, a woman listlessly slapped limp pieces of iceberg lettuce onto a row of sandwiches. The woman wasn't tall or short, fat or thin—she was utterly average and unremarkable, except for the air of poisonous malice that pervaded her entire being. “Are you Beth?” Rita asked.
Beth, who had not heard Rita enter the kitchen, spun around, startled, and nearly dropped her handful of lettuce on the floor. “I...didn't hear you come in,” she said in a shaky voice and then quickly shook away her fear and slapped on a stern expression. “The kitchen is off limits to visitors.”
Rita studied Beth. Narrowed, beady eyes peered out at her from under a mop of permed black hair that, Rita guessed, was supposed to be stylish but was perhaps ten years out of fashion. She studied eyes filled with suspicion and resentment and saw that Beth attempted to cloak her malice with a thin veneer of power. Under the woman’s stained white apron she saw the ragged hems of black checkered uniform pants—the kind which chefs usually wore crisp and clean to convey their status in the kitchen—but here looked disgustingly faded. Not because she was a hard worker, obviously, but because she was sloppy and hated the work. Instead of power, Rita saw only stupidity and aggression.
“I was looking around,” Rita explained, not responding to the woman’s harsh comments. “I suppose I got lost again. Learning my way around this place is going to take some time.”
Beth stared at Rita with eyes that grew more vicious by the second. “I'm not a tour guide,” she snapped. “The kitchen is off limits. Now leave.”
Rita felt frustration erupt in her heart. And because she wasn't officially a cop anymore, she allowed her anger to speak. “Sister,” she snapped, pushing all rational thinking to the side, “you better watch your lip with me or I'll fatten it real quick. I've tangled with the best of them and I sure don't mind seeing who can mess up this kitchen more...you or me!”
Beth felt fear and shock rush into her chest. She was a woman who drew her bravery only from blunt fury and the kind of courage that comes from mindless mobs, or from a leader she could shield herself behind. But when forced to stand alone—forced to face a courageous person who was not cowed by simple threats—Beth’s cowardice revealed its true colors. “Get out of the kitchen…before I call the head nurse,” she stuttered, hunching over the table like a kicked dog.
“I have every right to be in this kitchen,” Rita explained and took a step toward Beth. Beth quickly retreated further behind the kitchen table. “My sister and I have been hired as security.”
“Security?” Beth asked.
Rita nodded.
“I'm aware of that,” Beth dared to answer in a snotty voice, grasping for control even though her words left her mouth shaky and uncertain.
“Then you're aware that the Street Riders could be coming into town.”
“Street Riders?” Beth asked, stopping in her tracks.
Rita nodded her head and dived into the cover story she and Rhonda had created and passed by Brad and Mae; it was vital that they possessed an undercover identity that would be believable without throwing suspicion into their corner. The idea of two security guards felt promising, just as long as the story about a gang of car thieves passed. “The Street Riders are a gang of car thieves that target large events...concerts...festivals,” Rita explained. “Last week they hit a city in Tennessee pretty hard and got away with over fifteen vehicles. State officials contacted the local sheriff and warned him that the gang might target the Pumpkin Festival.”
“What does that have to with coming up here?” Beth asked in a suspicious tone. “No car thief is going to try to steal a car this far out.”
“Word is,” Rita continued and braced herself against the countertop casually, “the guy in charge of the Street Riders knows someone right here at this home.” Rita looked around, pretending to make sure no one was listening, “He knows the residents have a lot of cars stored on the property…nice cars. Old people take good care of their cars, you know. But sometimes they forget to lock them, see? So my sister and I are undercover,” she whispered. “We believe it's possible that the Street Riders may show up here.”
Beth stared at Rita in disbelief. “You're...kidding me, right?” she asked in a cynical voice.
“No, I'm not,” Rita assured Beth. “A car has already been stolen from the fairgrounds. Now, that car could have been taken by anyone, but,” she said in a careful voice, “I don't think it's a coincidence that a car was stolen in a town only a couple of hours away from the place the Street Riders hit last week.” Rita looked around again. “It’s very possible that the guy running the gang will show up here. My job is to talk to the residents...ask some questions, you know?” Rita focused back on Beth. “Your job is to keep your mouth shut. Is that clear?”
“Who...who do you think you are?” Beth asked in a shaky voice. “You can’t just order me around. My manager will—"
Rita reached down into the front pocket of her coat and pulled out the deputy badge that Brad had given her on the ride up to the retirement home. “I'm a cop, got it?” she snapped. “And if you want to play nice, keep your mouth shut. If you want to end up in jail...well, run your mouth and see what happens,” she warned Beth. “I’m starting to think some of the staff around here might not be cooperative with our undercover operation, and if so, we’ve been deputized to take them in for questioning…if you don’t want that to happen, I suggest you play nice.” She gave Beth a meaningful look. “We are here to catch a gang of car thieves. If you step in our way I'll slap a pair of handcuffs on you so fast you won't be able to blink. Is that clear, sister?”
Fear warred with defiance on Beth's face. She despised most people. She despised cops especially—and everything they stood for. She had also never met a situation she could not get out of with a few cruel words. She clawed for one last power grab, sneering at Rita, “I don't like being...threatened.”
“It’s not a threat, it’s a promise,” Rita said simply. “I'm simply making it clear that I have a job to do and that you better stand clear.” Rita looked away from Beth, unable to bear the sight of the woman any longer, and studied the kitchen.
The kitchen was spacious and although it clearly was not getting cleaned very well under the new chef and nutritionist, the cabinets were white with red knobs, and the floor was red and white checkered tile, continuing the theme of the whole house. “Nice,” she said and walked over to a door. The door was unlocked and she opened it, realizing it led directly outside. “I want this door kept locked at all times,” she ordered and quickly activated the deadbolt.
“That’s against fire code.”
Rita shot Beth a look and pointed over to the obvious Fire Exit sign posted over the other doorway leading to the back hallway. Beth quickly lowered her eyes. “Locked at all times, is that clear?”
“I'll...keep the door locked,” Beth assured Rita and looked uncomfortable. “Look, how much longer you gonna ask questions? Noel is serving trays...I have work to do.”
Rita looked back at Beth. “How long have you been working here?” she asked.
“Couple of months. Why?”
“Where are you from?” Rita asked.
“Am I under arrest?” Beth shot back. “I know my rights. I don't have to answer any questions—”
“Give your mouth a break,” Rita snapped. “I'm just asking you some questions. Would you rather I run your background and find out that way? Fine by me.”
Beth swallowed. “Run my background...that's illegal.”
“Not if you’re obstructing an investigation, giving me probable cause to believe you’re tied to the Street Riders,” Rita informed Beth and slowly folded her arms. “You're a new employee and you don’t exactly look like this is your dream job. Rita eyed Beth with cold calculation. “I’m not stupid, sister.”
