Ripped Apart (A Ripple Effect Cozy Mystery, Book 5) Page 9

  “Oh, heavens no! I love any kind of cookie. Look at me for goodness sakes!” Jessie opened up his arms to bring attention to his slight stomach paunch that had his stained sleeveless t-shirt stretched as tight as a banjo string. “I just can’t figure out why every woman from eight to eighty seems so eager to do Tony’s bidding.”

  “It must be his pleasant personality,” I replied. Jessie’s comment had been made in jest, but I hoped he didn’t think I was eighty. I might feel that old sometimes; however, I didn’t think I even looked seventy, much less a decade older.

  “His pleasant personality? Yeah, right,” Jessie said while rolling his eyes. “It pains me to say this, but Tony actually is as nice as he is good-looking. A little rough around the edges when you get him schnockered, but an all-right guy, nonetheless.”

  “I’ve heard as much.” I winked at Tony as I replied, which was a little brazen of someone old enough to be the handsome stud’s grandmother. I wanted to ask him if it was his face I’d seen on a romance novel while waiting in line at Wal-Mart. While I had the two men in good spirits, I decided to see if I could withdraw any useful information from either of them. Although I had no way of knowing what kind of guy Walker Reynolds was, I said, “Speaking of being a nice guy, how is Walker doing?”

  “He’s hanging in there,” Jessie said. Tony remained noncommittal.

  My question had yielded no worthwhile information, so I switched course. “Did you hear an eyewitness reported having seen Reilly getting into a car in front of the house here during the lull of the storm?”

  “Hadn’t heard,” Tony stated.

  “Yeah,” Jessie replied. His response was at least a trifle more revealing. Jessie sounded almost as if he was pissed off when he continued. “I also heard that over eleven hundred tips have come in through the tip hotline and none of them have led to any useful discovery. Tipsters can be so unreliable. I sometimes think they call in with vague information in hopes of getting lucky and cashing in on the reward money. I even heard a psychic called in and said she sees Reilly’s body in a large body of water. Well, duh. I could have predicted that, and I don’t claim to have any kind of sixth sense or psychic abilities. I’ll believe Reilly’s still alive when I see her with my own eyes.”

  “So you’re totally convinced she was blown off the pier while trying to chase down the couple’s dog and was washed out to sea?”

  “Yep!” Jessie said with a definitive nod. “As is Walker.”

  “That’s funny,” I said. “Bruno seemed to think Walker still believes his wife might be alive.”

  “Nah,” Jessie replied, with a shake of his head while Tony remained quiet. “I’m pretty sure Walker’s convinced she’s gone for good. He saw Scrappy run out the back door with Reilly right behind the pooch. He hasn’t laid eyes on his wife since. Do the math.”

  “I agree with Jessie. By the way, Scrappy is a something-poo, Walker said,” Tony clarified.

  “Maltipoo,” I supplied for him. “A cross between a toy poodle and a Maltese. Where is Scrappy now?”

  Before Tony could respond, Jessie began to explain. “Walker couldn’t care for him here, in a house with broken-out windows and all, so Reilly’s older sister, who lives down in the valley near Mission, Texas, came and picked him up. Scrappy will live with her until the house is rebuilt. He’s an older dog, like thirteen or fourteen, and if he were to get sick there are veterinarian clinics he can go to down in the valley. Not so here in Rockport right now. Walker knew Reilly would want her sister to care for Scrappy under the current circumstances, so he didn’t hesitate to let the pooch stay with her.”

  “I see.” I was curious why Jessie and Tony both seemed so determined to convince me that the presumed fate of Reilly Reynolds was the correct one: she had accidentally drowned during the hurricane, eventually her body would wash ashore, and life would go on for Walker, and Reilly’s other survivors, including her elderly pet. “It’s a shame her body hasn’t been discovered so her loved ones can have closure.”

  “Yeah. Closure. Sure.” Tony’s tone and expression clearly indicated he thought the notion of a person finding “closure” following the death of a loved one was a joke. Overrated, at the very least. I had to admit, I had a tendency to agree. Closure had never made me feel any better, or cry any less when the cause of a loved one’s death was determined. Closure did not lessen my grief to any extent. It certainly didn’t bring my lost loved one back to life. And it didn’t make it any easier for me to go on living without them.

  My pa’s body was found in a field behind the old farmhouse I grew up in when I was in my early twenties. It was several days before the medical examiner determined his death had been caused by the inhalation of toxic ammonia nitrate dust that had been spewed by a faulty fertilizer sprayer he was using earlier in the day. His respiratory tract became inflamed and gradually swelled up to the point it suffocated him. Knowing what happened to him did not bring me closure. It brought more heartache because I knew his senseless death could have been prevented if he’d only had the sprayer inspected before using it.

  “I understand,” I replied simply, with sadness in my heart from the memory of my father’s death. “Nonetheless, if she truly did drown, I hope her body is found soon so Walker can go about making peace with her loss and get back to the business of living.”

  “Me too,” Tony said, as Jessie merely nodded. “Although I think he’s handling her loss very well, so far. He seems pretty pragmatic about it.”

  Maybe too pragmatic, I thought. It almost sounds to me as if Walker is being lackadaisical about his wife’s disappearance. Is he glad she’s gone? Is he, in fact, the reason she’s missing? It sounds as if this JJ woman might have Walker in her sights and is trying to hook up with him, if she isn’t already doing so. Could she have something to do with Reilly's death?

  When it seemed clear the two men were becoming impatient to resume the job they’d been doing when I interrupted them, I wished them a good afternoon.

  “Thanks again for the snickerdoodles, Rapella,” Tony said.

  Jessie thanked me again, as well. “Don’t worry about your Ziploc bags, ma’am. I’ll make sure they don’t get thrown away.”

  I’m sure my face flushed at his remark, but I couldn’t take another tack on the tight-fisted issue at this stage. I’d used it as an excuse to make a return visit to the neighbor’s house before, and I’d probably need to use it again. “I appreciate it, Jessie. Waste not, want not, you know.”

  After repeating the words Regina had used the previous day, I made my way back to the trailer. It was still early in the afternoon. While I fed Dolly, I thought about a reason to canvass the folks at the end of Flamingo Road. I wanted to question those folks who had a view of the street in front of the Reynolds’s house. I was determined to unmask the anonymous eyewitness.

  Why is the tipster requesting to remain anonymous in the first place? Is she or he afraid of the perpetrator exacting revenge in the event he's identified? Or, as Jessie suggested, is the “eyewitness” guilty of calling in a prefabricated tip for some reason? And, if so, does the reason have anything to do with covering up the tipster’s own involvement in the woman’s disappearance? Once again, my mind was full of unanswered questions.

  Ten

  When I stepped into the Moores’ motorhome a few minutes later, Regina was standing in front of the refrigerator. She grabbed a couple of bottles of water and handed one of them to me. “We need to drink a lot of water in this intense heat. You about ready for lunch?”

  “Sure.” I twisted off the lid and took a long swig. It was two o’clock, but lunch had been delayed due to the project Milo and Rip had tackled that morning. “Thanks for the water, honey. I needed that. As my pa used to say, I was so dry I was pooping dust.”

  “Thanks for the visual,” Regina said with a mock grimace. “Grandpa died the day after my fifth birthday. I still remember his bear hugs and that I loved the smell of his pipe tobacco. I wish he’d lived long eno
ugh for me to get to know him better.”

  “Me too, sweetheart. You would’ve adored him. As a little girl, you were the apple of his eye.” I gave Regina a quick hug. The conversation was making my eyes grow misty, so I changed the subject. “What’s for lunch?”

  “You have a choice between vegetable lasagna, beef ravioli, or chili mac. Or, you can have what Daddy chose: penne with vegetable and sausage crumbles.”

  “I’ll just have what your father’s having. There’s no sense in making more than one dish.”

  “They’re the MRE’s, Mom,” Regina said gently as if dealing with a parent suffering from dementia. “Everyone can choose their own meal.”

  “Oh. Of course. I’d forgotten about our conversation last night. Not that I have memory issues. I’ve just had a lot on my mind.” I paused when I noticed Regina’s eyebrows were cocked. “I’ll take the chili mac.”

  “Okay, good. Then your lunch is ready as soon as you activate the heating element inside and cook it.” Regina smiled after she’d reached into a box, withdrew a plastic-covered package, and handed it to me with a metal fork. “We’re using real utensils. Daddy said he’d be here in a couple of minutes.”

  “All right. Thank you, sweetheart. As your dad said yesterday, it sure is nice that all of these relief organizations team up to help out folks who’ve been affected by Harvey.”

  It was then that I realized I had the perfect reason to canvass Regina and Milo’s closest neighbors, or at least those within eyeshot of the street in front of the Reynolds’s house.

  “Good afternoon, ma’am. My name’s Rapella Ripple.” The tall, willowy auburn-haired woman in front of me was a classic beauty. In my hand was a clipboard with a pen clipped to it, and in my stomach was some chili mac playing rugby with the pop tart that had been included in the MRE package. The pop tart had been cold and crumbly, but I’d been determined to polish off the entire meal so I could give it an honest evaluation. In retrospect, I wished I'd pitched the pop tart when I'd noticed it's condition.

  The meal had tasted fine―although it was probably not something I’d eat again if I had my druthers―but it just didn’t seem to be agreeing with me. Then again, it could have been the four or five sugar-free cookies I’d snarfed down after lunch from the batch I’d made for Bruno Watts. Like Bruno, sugar substitutes had a way of upsetting my naturally strong constitution. Either way, my stomach was roiling like a vat of boiling brew. I’d suppressed a belch just as the Panderos’ front door opened. I studied the pretty woman in front of me for a second, and said, “I’m serving as a volunteer with one of the hurricane relief teams. May I have your name please?”

  “I’m Suzanna Pandero. It’s nice to meet you, Rapella.” Suzanna’s voice was so high-pitched, it sounded almost like a squeaky dog toy. As she watched me write her name down on the sheet of paper on the clipboard, she corrected me. “That’s Suzanna with a ‘z’. S-u-z-a-n-n-a. Last name is Pandero, P-a-n-d-e-r-o.”

  “Thank you, Suzanna with a ‘z’,” I said good-naturedly. “It’s so much easier when folks spell their names for me. I have to keep a record so we don’t hit the same homes time after time while overlooking others who might be in great need.”

  “Of course.” Suzanna seemed just as nice as she could be. I found myself seething at the idea her husband, Percival, could have been sniffing after their newlywed neighbor. She opened her front door wide to allow me to enter. “Please come inside. It’s brutal out there.”

  I thanked her and followed her into the house. “It must have been unbearable with the power being out for two or three weeks.”

  “I went and stayed at my mom’s house in Horizon City. With no water, sewer, electric, Internet, phone, and all, it was impossible to stay here. Had I known how bad it was going to be, I’d have gone to her house before the storm. I’ve never been so scared in my entire life. I truly thought I was going to die. The outer walls were actually moving in and out as if the house was breathing. It was surreal.”

  “At least you probably had your husband with you, for both moral and physical support.” I was hoping my fishing expedition would net some valuable information and was pleased when it did.

  “What makes you think I have a husband?” Her expression was one of skepticism.

  “Oh, well. It was merely a supposition on my part. So you’re single?” I knew I was pushing my luck asking such personal questions, but Suzanna seemed willing to oblige me with information.

  “No, but I will be soon. My husband is a cheat and a scoundrel. I’d just kicked him out and refused to let him stay here during the storm. I haven’t seen or heard from him since.” Suzanna brushed her hands together as if ridding them of potato chip crumbs. I knew it was to illustrate how she’d washed her hands of her dastardly spouse.

  “Good for you!” I raised my hand as if to instigate a high-five. I lowered my arm awkwardly when she didn’t respond. “Where do you think he stayed during Harvey?”

  “Don’t know, don’t care. Probably with that slutty girlfriend of his.” Suzanna’s voice was now so high-pitched, it would’ve made a bloodhound howl if she’d had one.

  “Oh, doesn’t that just piss you off to no end?” I asked, trying to match her indignation to get her to engage in an open discussion as if we were BFF’s from way back. She shrugged without replying to my probing inquiry. I waited for her to reveal more pertinent information about her husband’s mistress, but after a while the silence became uncomfortable. I decided to turn toward a less invasive topic. “It must have been terrifying to be here alone during that fierce storm.”

  “Yes, it was. I’m lucky this house fared so well, but I will never again ride out a hurricane.”

  “I wouldn’t think so,” I said. “In fact, I think you’d have to be half-crazy to have done so this last go-round. My daughter and her husband rode it out too.”

  “Um, well.” Rather than form a complete response, she merely glared at me if I’d just told her that her newborn baby looked like Don Rickles. I hadn’t meant my remark to come across as insulting, but I was convinced it had when Suzanna said, “Then I guess I’m crazy.”

  “Half-crazy,” I said. “But in a good way, of course.”

  “Can a person be crazy in a good way?” She asked, still burning holes through my head with her eyes.

  “Half-crazy,” I corrected her again. Just then I saw what looked like a cross between a roof rat and a baby bunny slither out from underneath a marble-topped table. I stifled a gasp and shook my head, convinced the creature was a figment of my overworked imagination. Reeling from the hallucination, I’m sure my expression lent credence to my next comment. “And, yes, half-crazy is a compliment. I’m full-blown bat-crap crazy myself. In fact, I’m beginning to see things I’m certain don’t actually exist. The way I see it, sane folks don’t have nearly as much fun.”

  “If you say so.”

  I realized I needed to change the subject again, and fast, lest I be shown out the door as quickly as I’d just been welcomed in. “But that’s neither here nor there. The reason I stopped by was to make sure you have enough food on hand. I’m going door to door checking on folks to see if there are any supplies they desperately need. I’m sorry I ran out of cases of water, but I still have a case or two of MRE’s to hand out to anyone who needs them.”

  I suppose Mrs. Pandero was wondering where I was going to get the boxes of MRE’s should she need them because I had walked over from the Moores’ home. A case of the ready-to-eat meals was too heavy to lug around. However, I knew if she said she could use a case or two of them, I could snatch a couple of cases out of the kids’ house without them ever knowing and wheel them next door with Milo’s dolly. Fortunately, Suzanna said she had more than enough of them and would be happy to donate six or seven cases to the cause. “I’ll be content never to depend on one of those for sustenance again in my lifetime. In fact, from the last three, I ate only the Tootsie Rolls and threw the rest away. I suppose that’s being wasteful if another f
amily can use the entire meals.”

  “I suppose so, even though I have to agree with you. The Tootsie Roll was the best part of the MRE I had for lunch.”

  Suzanna chuckled along with me. Her next remark made it clear she hadn’t picked up on the fact I was afoot. “I have them stacked in the garage if you want to load them up now.”

  “No. I’m just canvassing the area right now. I’ll stop by later with the vehicle and pick them up when I’m out making deliveries. It’s very thoughtful of you to donate yours to others in need.” That was the last thing I wanted to do, but didn’t see any way to avoid it. I wasn’t ready to leave, having yet to broach the real reason behind my visit. If I didn’t ask now, I’d have to do it later when I picked up the cases of packaged meals. “Say, did you hear about your neighbor’s disappearance during the storm?”

  “Of course I have. I was just questioned yesterday for the second time by the local police department. For some reason, they aren’t completely convinced Mrs. Reynolds was blown off her dock by the high winds. I thought they’d already declared her dead.”

  “Presumed dead, more likely. However, I heard an eyewitness had reported seeing her get in a light-colored SUV-type vehicle during the lull in the storm. That’s probably what prompted the police’s new interest in her whereabouts.” I sounded like a gossipy old lady who was talking to the patron next to her as she was getting her hair rolled in a beauty salon. “Had you heard that?”

  “Yeah. It was probably the old whack job in the yellow house down the street who called it in. Not only has Mr. Barnaby spent numerous stints in the mental ward at Christus Spohn Hospital, he’s also a notorious drunk. And a nasty one, at that. Barlow Barnaby keeps the tip hotline number on speed dial, because every time he gets liquored up he ‘sees things’ and calls them in.”

  Suzanna had used air quotes to highlight ‘see things’, making it apparent Mr. Barnaby was in the habit of having hallucinations when intoxicated. That answered one question. Suzanna was clearly not the anonymous eyewitness. I had no desire to tell her my daughter suspected her, not the “old whack job down the street”. I thought it heartless of Suzanna to refer to the man in such a derogatory way.