Ripped Apart (A Ripple Effect Cozy Mystery, Book 5) Page 12

  “I know what perp means!” I exclaimed. “This isn’t my first murder investigation, you know. I meant I was surprised they’re investigating his death as a murder now.”

  “Joe wants to speak to you about your involvement in the investigation into Reilly’s disappearance, as well.”

  “Oh. He does, does he?” Crap! I knew it was too good to be true. “How does he even know about my interest in the case?”

  “I told him.”

  “Oh. Of course.” Dang it! I knew I should’ve kept my fly trap shut. I should have waited until I had more evidence to share with Rip that pointed toward a crime, as opposed to an accident. Now I was in a position of having to justify my obsession with finding out what really happened to the missing lady, and if Barlow’s death had anything to do with it. I never liked having to justify anything, particularly my actions.

  “And, to be clear, they’re investigating Barlow’s death as a possible homicide even though they’ve made no final determination on his COD yet. COD stands for―”

  I held my hand up to stop him. “I know what COD stands for too, Rip. Cause of death. Now, when does the sheriff want to speak to me?”

  “As soon as you get up and around.”

  As I got dressed, I thought back to the first time I’d met Reilly at the Moores’ block party. She’d been just as warm and friendly as could be. I recalled her complimenting the six-bean salad I’d contributed to the buffet table and asking me to email her the recipe. She’d also told me she loved my “ugly Christmas sweater” and said red was definitely my color because I just glowed that evening. I didn’t have the heart to tell her I had worn the sweater because I thought the sewn-on bells, sequins, and lights were delightful and made for a beautiful holiday ensemble along with my green suede slacks. Come to think of it, the fact I was glowing that night might have had something to do with the string of LED lights outlining the sleigh on my sweater and lighting up Rudolph’s nose. When I’d mentioned Reilly’s caustic remark to Regina after the guests had all departed, my daughter had replied, “Of course it’s an ugly sweater. That’s what’s so cool about it.”

  Despite being offended by both Regina and Reilly’s ugly sweater remarks, I’d felt an instant fondness for Regina’s neighbor. A backhanded compliment was still a compliment, which was better than an outright insult any day of the week. Now I wanted justice for Reilly—if justice was warranted, that is.

  When Rip first said the sheriff wanted to question me, I’d hoped to use the opportunity to wheedle as much information about Reilly’s disappearance out of the sheriff as I could. I hoped to ask questions like: had they considered the missing woman might not be a casualty of the hurricane; had they questioned her husband, Walker; and did they happen to know a buxomly blond woman in town who went by the initials JJ? Instead, it now looked like I was going to be told to back off, butt out, and get back to baking cookies and dusting cobwebs off the ceiling.

  Cobweb dusting and cookie baking were actually tasks I planned to do as soon as possible. The cobwebs had been beckoning for weeks and I’d successfully managed to ignore them until Regina referred to them as disgustingly creepy and said she was beginning to feel like Wednesday Addams, Gomez and Morticia’s daughter. I had replied jokingly that I was decorating early for Halloween.

  More urgently, I wanted to bake more cookies as an excuse to speak with Tony and Bruno again, even if I wouldn’t be taking any snacks over for Bruno. I’d have to think of a different excuse to strike up another conversation with him since sugar-free cookies were no longer an option. Perhaps I could take him some of the beef jerky or paper-shell pecans Rip had picked up at a roadside market in the Texas hill country on the trip down to Rockport. I wanted to determine what prompted the sheetrock specialist and the demolition expert to walk up to the Barnaby house the previous afternoon.

  Granted, when the county coroner pulls up in front of a neighbor’s house, such as an elderly lady who shook her broom at the kids across the street every time they played in their own yard and turned her porch light on every single night of the year except Halloween, you might be tempted to walk over and investigate the situation. Your interest might be piqued out of morbid curiosity, if nothing else. But if you are a subcontractor who has had no interaction with anyone else in the neighborhood, would you really walk into the home of the recently deceased, or in this case, inject yourself into the crime scene? I didn’t think so.

  “You about ready?” Rip hollered from the living room.

  “As soon as I grab a bite for breakfast, you can take me down to the sheriff’s department. To be perfectly honest with you, I don’t know if I will be of any help to their investigation. I don’t know any more about what happened to Mr. Barnaby than they do.”

  “You might have observed more than you think. One small little detail you noticed that barely registered with you at the time could turn out to be the clue that blows the case wide open.”

  “I truly don’t believe I witnessed anything of significance. I was too overwhelmed by the sight of the man hanging by a rope in his own living room.”

  “Don’t worry, honey. It’ll be okay.” Rip had no trouble picking up the apprehension in my voice. “I’ll be with you.”

  “Oh, that’s a big relief. I was afraid I’d―”

  “Well, other than when they’re questioning you in the interrogation room.”

  Interrogation room? The next thing I remember, Rip was patting my cheek and looking into my eyes with concern. “Rapella, dear, it’s not like you to pass out the way you’ve done the last two days. I want you to make an appointment with a cardiologist in Corpus so you can get a complete cardio assessment. I wish Dr. Murillo lived in south Texas instead of Seattle.”

  Rip had recently undergone a triple bypass immediately following an Alaskan cruise we’d taken to celebrate our golden wedding anniversary. The procedure had been done in a cardiac care center in Seattle. I didn’t really believe there was anything amiss with my heart, but rather anxiety was causing my fainting spells. But I didn’t want to argue with Rip about my health. When he put his foot down about my well-being, there was no swaying him.

  Thinking about the grilling I might experience in the sheriff department’s interrogation room did nothing to quell my anxiety. I almost preferred to spend the morning hooked up to an electrocardiogram machine.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Ripple. I’m Detective Chad Morris, and I’ll be asking you some questions this morning. Let’s start with where you were between two and three yesterday morning.”

  “Asleep, next to my husband.”

  “Can anyone verify that?”

  “Duh.” What a stupid question, rookie! I wanted to shout. “My husband, Rip, can confirm my whereabouts. You may also know him as Sheriff Peabody's predecessor. Ask him, if you don’t believe me.” I was trying to hide my irritation, but not succeeding very well.

  “That won’t be necessary. Where were you at twelve-fifteen yesterday afternoon?” The young detective leaned forward in his chair and stared into my eyes from mere inches away. It was an attempt to intimidate me, I'm certain.

  “You know exactly where I was. I was at the home of Barlow Barnaby.” I squirmed in my chair. The interrogation room was even scarier than I’d imagined, as I knew multiple individuals were observing my every move and hanging on my every word from the other side of the one-way mirror.

  “Were you alone?”

  “Of course, I was. Other than the dead homeowner, that is.”

  “Can you explain why you were at Mr. Barnaby’s house?” The detective with heavily freckled cheeks looked as if he were a sophomore in high school. I wanted to wash his mouth out with turpentine for using such a disrespectful tone.

  “I explained to Sheriff Peabody why I was there.” I was indignant and couldn’t help feeling as though I was being treated like a suspect.

  “Mrs. Ripple, it’d be a lot easier for you if you just answered the questions without responding in such a defensive man
ner,” Detective Morris said.

  “How could I not react defensively? I feel like I’m being accused of killing the man when nothing could be further from the truth. I was actually there to be of assistance to him if he was short on food supplies. Am I being badgered into confessing to a crime I didn’t commit? Do I need to have a lawyer present?”

  “I don’t know. Do you?”

  Smart-ass kid! I almost spat out but stopped myself just in time. Instead, I refused to respond.

  “Do you?” he repeated. “It appears you are intentionally evading my questions. Why is that, ma’am? Do you have something to hide?”

  At his last rude question, I stood up and faced the one-way mirror. “Rip? Sheriff Peabody? Whoever’s on the other side of this mirror needs to know I’m not saying another word until I’ve retained an attorney.”

  I’d barely gotten the last word out when the door opened. Sheriff Peabody chastised Detective Morris for his antagonizing tone. He then put a hand on each of my shoulders. “Relax, Rapella. No one’s accusing you of anything. We know damn well you had nothing to do with that man’s death.”

  He glared at the detective for a moment before continuing. “We’re just trying to get all of the facts on record. We thought you might have seen something odd, or something no one else noticed. We’re just looking for something to help us determine who might have committed this crime, if indeed a crime was committed. Whether or not Mr. Barnaby’s death was actually a suicide remains undetermined at this time. An autopsy is being performed by the medical examiner as we speak. If it turns out Chuck’s findings indicate it wasn’t a suicide, we want to be on top of the case.”

  “I understand that, but―”

  “I’ll take over from here, Detective Morris.” After sending the rookie detective away, Sheriff Peabody turned back to me. “You seem to have a knack at this kind of thing, you know. No one has forgotten how helpful you were in finding the truth behind Cooper Claypool’s death last year. I’m sure you, as much as anyone, want to see Mr. Barnaby’s killer brought to justice if his death turns out to be a homicide. We’re just hoping you’ll join us in seeing this case get solved.”

  “Really?” I’m sure my expression was akin to that of the proverbial cat who swallowed the canary―whole and with great gusto―and I tried to contain the smugness that was enveloping me like a cloud of Saharan dust. “You want my help?”

  “Well, um, yeah. Sort of,” the sheriff muttered. He appeared to be having second thoughts. “Maybe not officially, but anything you can remember would sure be helpful.”

  I wanted to hawk up the aforementioned canary and spit it in his face. I felt my smugness vanish like the Statue of Liberty at one of David Copperfield’s magic shows. The sheriff didn’t actually want me to assist in the investigation. He just wanted me to calm down, tell them everything I could remember and then step back and let them use the information I’d provided to solve the case and then take all the credit. Even though I knew that’s the way the case should proceed, the idea of being patronized by the lawman was aggravating, much like a piece of gravel stuck in my craw. I decided then and there I’d limit the information I provided them. I was about to develop an acute case of temporary and self-induced amnesia.

  Once I was back home, I was determined to spend the day going over and over every little detail I could recall―from the moment I first spoke to Suzanna Pandero about the victim until the first responders arrived on the scene. Perhaps I really would happen upon some minute detail that could break the case wide open. And then I’d use it to try and solve the case myself. How dare they patronize me! I’d show them, by gosh!

  “I have to say, dear, you didn’t recall very much about what happened yesterday. I think Joe was a little disappointed you didn’t have more information to offer,” Rip said as he drove us back to the island.

  “Yeah, I sensed as much. I’m sorry I didn’t have more to share with Joe and that rude rookie. Perhaps there really is something wrong with my heart, and I wasn’t getting enough oxygen to my brain yesterday while I was at, um…well, you know, the victim’s house. I can’t seem to recall his name at the moment.” I decided to take a page out of Rip’s book about not remembering names. Maybe it’d support my claim of oxygen deprivation.

  Rip glanced at me with an odd expression. I couldn’t tell if it was one of disbelief or exasperation. “His name was Barney Barbeque.”

  “Barney Barbeque? That’s preposterous.”

  “Oh, yeah. My mistake. I’m hungry and we just passed Mac’s Pit Barbeque. I meant Barlow.” I was greatly impressed for a moment, until Rip continued. “Barney Barlow.”

  He’d gotten the Barlow part right, even though it wasn’t actually the man’s surname. I just shook my head, totally disgusted. Rip looked over at me and started to chuckle.

  “I was just joshing you, Rapella. I know the deceased man’s name is Barlow Barnaby. It’s just that you seem so uptight, I thought a little levity might help you relax a little. One way or another, I’m certain they’ll get to the bottom of both Barlow’s and Reilly Reynolds’s deaths. I don’t want to see you drive yourself nuts trying to solve these cases yourself. It’s not your responsibility to do so.”

  “It’d be a short drive.” Even as I’d replied in jest, I thought back to the discussion I’d had with Suzanna where I’d described myself as being full-blown bat-crap crazy. I was starting to wonder if perhaps the description was more accurate than I’d thought.

  Fourteen

  I woke up in a cold sweat in the wee hours of the morning. After I used the restroom, because that’s what older people habitually do in the middle of the night, I tiptoed out of the bedroom so as not to wake my husband. The tiptoeing was probably unnecessary, as it would’ve been difficult to hear a heavy metal band jamming in the living room over his snoring.

  The thought that had awakened me from a dead sleep was the memory of something odd I’d seen when I’d peered through the window on Mr. Barnaby’s front porch. Obviously, the first thing I’d noticed was the man’s body hanging from a rope wrapped around the ceiling joist. Immediately I’d tried the front door, only to find it locked. I’d peered through the window again to make sure my mind wasn’t playing tricks on me, and discovered it wasn’t. I noticed then that the sliding glass door in the kitchen was wide open, as if someone had left the house in a hurry. Curtains, sucked outside by a slight breeze, were flapping. I’d rushed around the back of the house to enter the premises.

  I now realized, if there was an intruder―besides me, of course―he or she couldn’t have left long before I’d arrived. It’d been quite hot in the mid-afternoon sun―close to ninety degrees, I’d say―and terribly humid. Although it hadn’t occurred to me at the time, I remember feeling relief from the coolness inside when I’d stepped into the living room. Had the door been open for very long, the temperature in the room would have been noticeably warmer, and the air conditioning unit would have been running, which it wasn’t.

  The only reason I remember the a/c unit wasn’t running was that I could distinctly hear a cuckoo clock marking the hour in the kitchen as I stood outside on the back deck, which would have been difficult had the a/c unit next to the deck been running. I stepped inside and briefly tried to get the sliding glass door to close. When the heavy glass door didn’t slide easily, I told myself I’d force it closed later after I checked to see if Mr. Barnaby still had a pulse. As it turned out, I couldn’t reach him to check for one and thought he appeared beyond reviving. Anyhow, I’d ended up calling 9-1-1, and the rest is history.

  Did I tell the police about the back door? I wondered. Did I mention it was open when I got there, but closed by someone other than myself by the time the first responders arrived? I don’t think so.

  When Joe Peabody had asked me in the interrogation room how I’d entered the victim’s home, I’d simply replied that I went through the door, which was unlocked. No lie there. Evasive, perhaps, but the absolute truth. I had gone through the unlo
cked door. Just not the front door. The sheriff probably assumed the front door was already unlocked when I arrived on the scene when in reality it was I who unlocked it after calling 9-1-1.

  The important factor about my recollection is that before the first responders had arrived, I’d gone back into the kitchen to close the sliding door only to find it already closed. Now that I was thinking more clearer, I realized there was no way it could have shut on its own. The salty air had no doubt caused the door track to rust, making the door difficult to slide. Living on the coast for many years had taught me that even I would begin to rust if I didn’t keep moving.

  The door having been closed by the time the detectives arrived told me one thing: Mr. Barnaby had been killed shortly before I arrived and the killer had probably still been inside the victim’s home when I’d entered through the back door. After I walked into the living room to check on Mr. Barnaby’s condition, the perpetrator had apparently exited through the back door and closed it out of habit. I also recalled the pantry door had been ajar when I’d first entered the home and closed when I’d returned to the kitchen. It seemed likely the killer had hidden in the pantry until he could exit the house unobserved.

  The mere notion the killer was in the house at the same time I was, possibly only a few feet away at some point, nearly made me pass out again. The hair on the back of my neck stood on end when I realized he might have ended my life right then and there, to eliminate the possibility I’d seen his face through the front window and would later be able to identify him.

  In that scenario, I’d have been a raving lunatic to have seen the hanging corpse and then the murderer and still been stupid enough to enter the house. But the killer was certainly in a frazzled state of mind, as well, having just murdered someone and staged his body to look like a suicide victim. He surely wouldn’t have been thinking clearly at that stage in the game. In the end, he’d apparently decided his best course of action was to flee the scene and hope I never had any clue I wasn’t alone in the house the entire time. Not including Barlow Barnaby, naturally, who wasn’t going to be telling any tales out of school any time soon.