Читать книгу Off the Beaten Path - John Schlarbaum - Страница 7

With no schedule to speak of, Dawn and I took a leisurely approach to our Sunday morning. The previous evening’s quick dip in the warm lake and subsequent beach bonfire had a very calming effect on our bodies and minds. It was just what we needed after the roadside chaos aboard the terror bus.

“I’m going to hit the gym. Meet you poolside in an hour?”

“Sounds like a plan,” Dawn said while packing a small beach bag with suntan lotion, her music player and the souvenir paperback from the tour. “I’m planning to read the Eric McDowell chapter first to see what all the fuss is about. I skimmed it a bit already and it took a year to get to trial. So for this Debra woman, it’s been five years proclaiming Eric’s innocence. That’s a long time.”

“For me, the intriguing part is it’s his mother-in-law doing all the screaming and spray painting.”

“I’ve never been married, so don’t know all the ins and outs of in-law relationships,” Dawn smiled. “Did your former mother-in-law like you?”

I had to think back a very long time for my answer. “We were always on good terms, although if on trial for killing her daughter, she wouldn’t be protesting with a sign reading FREE STEVE! Nor would I expect her to.”

“Oh yeah, your personal arrest code for family and friends. How does that work again?” Dawn asked with a tinge of sarcasm in her voice.

“Laugh all you like at my code. I just hope you’ll never have to abide by it.”

“But you’re not making any promises, right?”

“No promises, correct. My previous track record indicates a criminal reoccurrence may very well happen in the future.”

“And that’s when the code kicks in.”

“Exactly.” I sat on the bed and tied my shoes. “So, unless you actually witness the crime I’ve been charged with, no matter how heinous or trivial, when asked by the media, ‘Do you think he did it?’ your answer should always be what?”

Dawn sported a new serious face. “I wasn’t there, but this would be totally out of character for the Steve Cassidy I know.”

“Perfect,” I said as I crossed the room. “There’s nothing sadder than seeing loved ones claiming their child is innocent to a mob of reporters. It doesn’t matter if they’ve confessed, their blood is mixed with the victim’s, their alibi doesn’t hold up, or that the accused is heard yelling, ‘I’m going to shoot you with this gun and kill you dead.’ These poor shell-shocked people destroy their credibility one sound bite at a time. It’s depressing.”

“Then you don’t buy the idea parents should stand behind their children at all costs?”

“Not if Little Jimmy or Sue are outright criminals,” I said. “And my code isn’t about whether my friends believe I’m guilty, it’s that I have no problem with them not defending me in public. I’m trying to save their reputation with their family and friends.”

“You are like the bestest friend I have,” Dawn laughed.

I held the door open for her as we walked into the hallway. “And don’t you forget it.”

***

My gym regimen consists entirely of using equipment that will do most of the work, such as a treadmill, elliptical or stationary bike. Even when I’m doing laps in the pool, the water is helping in some capacity. Through diet, some exercise and the benefits of good genes, it’s not hard for me to stay in decent shape. I have nothing against the barbell and weight lifting devotees, although having biceps the same shape and feel as a small bag of potatoes is beyond my understanding. On the machines, I can also catch up on the world by watching sports, news and sometimes cooking programs, which are broadcast on the suspended television screens. Why a gym member would want to view The Chocolate Channel at 6:30 a.m. while trying to lose weight is also beyond my comprehension.

After working up a mild sweat, I found Dawn soaking in the sun on a lounger with a fruit drink in one hand and the tour book in the other. “Good workout?” I kidded her as I reclined in the chair beside her.

“Sun tanning is being considered for the next summer games, if you must know,” she replied.

“In that case, I’d like to submit an application for the official Lotion Applier position. I have good hands you know.”

“Oh, I know,” Dawn smirked. “Even so, I’ll have to equally consider all applicants before choosing you.”

“Is that so?” I countered. “Would the same apply if I started to train as a pole vaulter and needed someone to help with my–”

“Vaulting techniques? Yes, definitely.”

We both laughed, secure in the knowledge that over the past few months, our male and female friends with benefits had slowly been set aside to pursue a monogamous relationship.

Noticing Dawn was reading one of the first chapters of the book, I asked, “What’s the deal with the McDowell murder anyhow? Did he do it or not?”

Dawn set her drink on the side table and sat up, flipping to the final chapter. “Rodney wasn’t kidding about it being a circumstantial case,” she replied. “For the detectives everything came down to Lucy’s life insurance policy and Eric’s cheating. Case closed.”

“Was there any physical evidence Eric had stabbed Lucy?”

“None, but remember it was his house. His fingerprints and DNA were already all over the place.”

“No matching shoe prints or hairs in her blood on the floor?”

“Nada.”

“What about the killer’s voice from the 911 call? Did they identify it as Eric’s through some sort of high tech audio analysis?” I inquired, not wanting to go zero for three.

“They did run tests but the results came back inconclusive,” Dawn said.

“Sounds like Eric’s jury was made up of angry insurance agents and spurned spouses,” I offered. “There were no other suspects?”

Dawn turned a few pages. “Not really. Rodney and his partner talked to all of Lucy’s friends, co-workers and parents of the children she taught. The only problem was, they all had alibis, and no one had a motive to want her dead, especially not in such a violent way.”

“The stabbing was a very personal act, along with the taunting beforehand,” I agreed. “I take it Lucy was portrayed as the good wife, trusted friend, and amazing teacher of our youth, without a mean or deceptive bone in her body?”

Dawn closed the book and picked up her drink. “Pretty much.”

“The question remains, why is her mother so adamant Eric was framed?”

“Maybe she has a sixth sense.”

“Maybe she’s the killer,” I said, “or knows the real killer, but is too frightened to reveal them to the police because she likes to breathe.”

“Both scenarios sound far-fetched, although I’d still love to see you prove either one,” Dawn responded.

“I’ve seen stranger outcomes,” I replied, as I removed my t-shirt and settled back into the lounger. “Do you want to grab some lunch, maybe check out those boutiques and bookstore around the corner in awhile?”

“Let’s aim for noon, do some sightseeing and then get back here for more rays.”

“You got it.”

Dawn put on her headphones and I flipped through Rodney’s book of murderous tales, enjoying the additional information he didn’t have time to relate during the tour. Like when reviewing other investigators’ surveillance reports, as I read I found myself thinking, Investigated that, investigated that, dated the subject’s girlfriend after I investigated that, investigated that. A majority of the cases consisted of life’s three necessary evils: money, sex and jealousy.

I set the book aside and closed my eyes, envisioning the time when Dawn’s newly tanned skin would be against my own pale white skin in some way, shape or form, preferably all three. Sleep came quickly and the next thing I knew, Dawn was gently waking me, having already packed everything up.

“Hey sleepyhead, what about that lunch? I’m starving.”

I slowly returned to the land of the living and stretched my arms above my head. “High noon, already?”

“Time flies when you’re having fun,” Dawn said with a grin.

We walked through the hotel lobby to the city’s touristy shopping district, a nice section of shops, restaurants with outdoor patios and a waterfront ice cream parlour advertising its 34^th year in business. Deciding a light lunch was all that was required, we settled on Book A Lunch, a combination independent bookstore and sandwich shop. A former residence, the living room and dining room areas had nice oak shelves featuring new books, all of which had their covers facing out for quick review. The sandwich shop was conveniently located in the kitchen on the main floor, where four bistro tables were set up for customers.

“I love this place,” Dawn commented to the sole female employee. “Everything has a very warm and cozy feel to it. Have you been open long?”

“Almost a year now,” came the reply. “I’m Dara, the owner of this fine establishment. I take it you are visiting our lovely waterfront this weekend.”

“We are,” I said, as I noticed a shelf beside the checkout counter displaying three novels written by one Dara Revin. “An author who owns her own bookstore. Is this how you cut out the middleman?”

Dara glanced at her novels and smiled. “Trust me, I’m not making my living off those self-published books, although owning the store allows me to generate a little more interest in them. Better out in the open than in my basement.”

Dawn walked to the shelf and picked up the one I knew would attract her attention. “The Beginning of Dawn. What’s this one about?” she asked our genial host.

“Dawn is a young widow trying to start life over.”

“I like the tagline on the back cover,” Dawn said. “A coming-of-age story, if you believe life begins at 28. I’m going to buy it. Would you autograph it for me?”

Like a seasoned pro, Dara replied, “When I’m asked that question at book shows my response is usually, whenever there’s a signing event, I figure I should be there for it.”

We all laughed as Dawn set the book on the counter and handed over a $20 bill that Dara set to one side, not ringing it through the cash register. As she inscribed the front inside cover To Dawn – Today is just the beginning! the bell inside the front door rang, indicating a new customer had arrived.

“Thank you so much,” Dawn gushed. “I’ve never met a real author. Now if I like this one, which I’m sure I will, can I order your other books online?”

Dara handed Dawn a bookmark that displayed all three covers of her books. “Take one of my functional business cards, as I like to call them. My website is listed on it.”

“Sweet,” Dawn said, placing the bookmark in her new book.

As our attention was on the local celebrity book signing process, none of us had taken into account the other patron. Dawn and I were about to move into the kitchen to select one of the freshly made sandwiches on display, when the fourth person in the room spoke up.

“Well if it isn’t one of the Tour of True Terror terrorists. Did you enjoy the show last night, Missy?”

To say we were startled by this would be an understatement.

“Excuse me?” Dawn asked, as the question was aimed squarely at her.

“Debra!” Dara broke in. “You can’t come in here and abuse my customers.”

“Why not?” Debra Stanfield countered. “She abused me last night when she stopped in front of Eric and Lucy’s house, gawking at the place like it was a freak show exhibit, all the while listening to Rodney spreading his vicious lies.”

I was baffled how Eric McDowell’s mother-in-law knew Dawn had taken the previous evening’s tour. I was sure neither of us had made any type of direct eye contact during her deranged ranting episode. Had she staked out the kiosk and taken pictures of each person exiting the bus for future reference? Before I could come to some logical answer, it was presented, as Ms. Stanfield pointed to the tour’s souvenir book sticking out of the side pocket of Dawn’s beach bag.

“Did you get to the part where Detective Dutton and Detective Ingles write that Eric was their one and only suspect? That’s because they didn’t investigate any other options or leads.”

Having dealt with her share of angry, belligerent bar and restaurant drunks over the years, Dawn knew exactly how to handle this situation. The look she gave me was I got this covered, big fella. No need to be my hero.

“As a matter of fact, Steve and I—my name is Dawn by the way—did read that section and we both wondered about your son-in-law’s case.” That we knew who she was made Debra stop in her tracks as she approached us. “As for being terrorists, well, that’s just not the case. Tourists, yes, terrorists, no,” Dawn continued undeterred. “There’s a daily guided tour of the city’s art gallery we could’ve signed up for, but decided the True Terror evening sounded more interesting. Obviously, as out-of-towners we have no axe to grind with you personally. We’re sorry about the death of your daughter, which is something a true terrorist wouldn’t feel.”

Our accuser was at a loss for words before saying, “I know. I’m sorry for my outburst. My anger is with Detective Dutton and I hate that he’s making any kind of money off Eric’s situation.”

Seeing that she appeared to be on the verge of crying, I asked, “Dara, do you serve coffee in the kitchen as well as sandwiches and soup? I think we could all use a change of scenery and tone, maybe to sit and talk more.” Dara said she’d put on a fresh pot and headed to the kitchen. “I used to be a police officer—”

“Who now works as a private investigator on different files, including cold cases,” Dawn interrupted proudly.

“Yes, I’ve worked a few cold case files,” I said. “With my background, I know how detectives think and would like to discuss the circumstances surrounding Eric’s case, if you have the time. Maybe I can give you some insight into why Eric was charged and prosecuted.”

“An outsider’s perspective,” Dawn suggested.

The anger was gone from Debra’s face, replaced with an expression combining weariness and resignation. “I would like that, if it’s not taking time away from you.”

“We came in here for a good book and lunch,” Dawn said. “I found the book, so now it’s time for lunch.”

Not quite friends, definitely no longer enemies, the three of us joined Dara in the kitchen where she served us lunch at a table, leaving every once in a while to attend to customers out front. We learned Debra had lived in Dannenberg her entire life, had gone to school with Retired Rodney years earlier, and had been his friend, until Lucy’s death.

“When she opened this place, Dara carried Rodney’s book on consignment, wanting to promote local authors and area history,” Debra mentioned between spoonfuls of French onion soup. “But when I told her how the investigation was carried out, she decided not to renew the contract once the initial ten copies were sold and she’s kept her promise.”

“Have you convinced anyone else of Eric’s innocence?” I asked, before devouring my chicken and bacon wrap. “What about the newspapers or TV stations? Any interested investigative reporters wanting to make a name for themselves?”

“Yes and no,” Debra replied wiping her mouth with a napkin. “A few people were interested but soon learned how powerful Rodney and Det. Ingles still are in the community. The stories never saw the light of day. I even hired two independent investigators to look into Eric’s case and their reports both came back with substandard results. I think they were approached by the current police brass not to make waves.”

“Can you prove that?” Dawn asked.

“Both investigators were former city officers. I thought that would be to my advantage, as they’d know all the players involved. I think it backfired though and they were threatened that the force wouldn’t be co-operative on any future files needing assistance.”

I thought back to my own early days in the P.I. game and getting the same kind of runaround. My police corruption trial and subsequent firing were quite scandalous. Police services around the country knew my name and face. I was toxic to any employee brave enough to give up a new lead or assist on some case, no matter if it was a minor car accident report request, or something more serious.

“That’s very possible,” I agreed with her. “The conversation would go something like, ‘Stop looking into this case and we’ll guarantee to help you out later.’ It’s almost like a plea bargain.”

“Can they do that, legally?” Dawn asked me.

“Like any government run organization, they have the power to slow down requests, lose requests or simply ignore them, if they believe their case was justified and they got a conviction fair and square,” I said.

“No one likes to admit they got it wrong,” Debra added, making eye contact with Dawn, then me.

“How do you know you’re not the one who’s wrong?” Dawn asked point blank.

The question temporarily stumped Debra. Either she was stunned by the very notion or still didn’t have a clear answer in her head. Thus far she hadn’t given us any hard facts to back her claim. I was expecting an explosion of emotions like she’d demonstrated earlier in the front room and during the tour, yet she remained calm.

“Because a mother knows,” she said softly. “Are either of you parents?” We shook our heads. “When you two have children, you’ll immediately feel a bond stronger than anything you’ve ever experienced. Kids are the ultimate game changer and not only in the way they take up your free time. They transform you as much as you try to shape them. You can’t have one without the other.” She paused. “Unlike Lucy, Eric wasn’t my flesh and bones but he might as well have been, even with all his faults.”

“Did you know they were having marital problems before Eric came home that night?” Dawn asked gently.

I almost didn’t hear her answer as I tried to wrap my head around the concept of having children with Dawn.

That’s never going to happen, right big fella?

“Lucy told me she had her suspicions about Eric. He was working late and being stand-offish around her. Little things she couldn’t prove.”

“Did she ever come right out and ask him?” I questioned.

“Not that I know of,” Debra said. “She would’ve told me.”

“Debra, is it possible she did ask him during breakfast or over the phone the day she was killed?” Dawn asked.

“Anything is possible.” Debra appeared to be worn down by our questions. Glancing at her watch, she said, “I’ve taken up enough of your time.” She withdrew money from her purse, placed it on the table and stood. “I do appreciate our talk. After all these years, I think Eric’s only hope is that the real killer is arrested, probably during a routine traffic stop, and confesses.”

Even then, with Eric already convicted, the killer could delay things by saying Eric had hired him in the first place, I thought.

Dawn and I stood to say our farewells. “Do you still have those private investigator reports?” I asked, my competitive juices beginning to simmer.

“I do. I have an entire banker’s box filled with trial evidence and news clippings. Everything related to the case.”

“Would you mind sending me copies of the reports? Again, maybe I’ll see something you haven’t. You know, read between the lines using my past experience to guide me.” An expression of hopefulness flashed on Debra’s face. “I can’t make any promises.”

Without hesitation, Lucy McDowell’s grieving mother asked for our home address. “I’ll send them tomorrow morning.”

I shook Debra’s hand and Dawn gave her a warm hug.

“Hope is all I have left and you’ve provided me with some today,” Debra said, fighting back tears. “You can’t imagine how glad I am for your help.” She stepped forward and gave me a hug before leaving the store, saying goodbye to Dara as she did.

Dara re-entered the kitchen with a grin on her face. “I don’t know what you two said, but I haven’t seen her smile like that for a very long time.”

“Steve’s a private investigator and offered to look over the evidence against Eric,” Dawn said.

“That explains everything. Do you think you can help her?”

“I made no guarantees. Either way, good or bad, a fresh set of eyes is always a positive thing,” I answered. “Plus, I have no connection to the original investigation or the police force.”

We helped Dara clean off our table and left a short time later.

“I got a new book and you picked up a new file,” Dawn said taking my hand as we hit the boardwalk. “We need to visit Book A Lunch more often.”

“Wonderful. Our new vacation destination is the murder capital of the region,” I said. “As for Debra, she freaks out last night and we get a free souvenir. Today she freaks out and we get a free lunch. Is it just me or do I seem to attract only crazy women these days, present company excluded, of course?”

“Of course.”

“And until I see what she has stored away, I’m not counting on this being a new file, per se.”

“I don’t believe that for a minute. I know you,” Dawn said boldly. “Once Debra said two other investigators hadn’t found any new evidence, your brain started working overtime. I swear I heard the hamster wheel in your head begin to squeak into motion.”

“If you must know, that hamster is always on the move,” I said with a laugh, “but like me sometimes it needs to close its eyes for a while to refocus on what’s important in life.”

“That’s what you’re doing in your recliner while we’re watching television most nights, refocusing?”

“That and charging my batteries to keep up with you when we go to bed.”

“Ah, that is the nicest thing any old man has ever said to me,” Dawn said with a funny smirk.

We walked in silent bliss through the nearby riverside park, circling back to the hotel to relax poolside. Dawn cracked open her new novel and I put on my headphones, preparing to drift back to sleep listening to a classic rock playlist.

“I’m going to take this time to refocus, okay?” I asked, as Pat Benatar began to accuse me of being a heartbreaker, dream maker and love taker.

“You do that. One topic I’m sure you’re not going to focus on is having children with me.” Dawn let out a mischievous laugh and looked over to me.

As she knew I would, I pointed my index fingers to both ears and with a goofy smile mouthed the words, “What? I can’t hear you over the music.”

In turn, she lightly hit my shoulder with her hand and blew me a kiss. “Don’t worry. I’ll think about it for both of us. Sweet dreams, baby.”

Sweet dreams?

Baby?

We had yet to have any truly serious conversations about our future. This was fun, why spoil it by mixing in adult situations neither of us were prepared to contemplate?

Did Dawn grow up dreaming of having 2.3 kids, the white picket fenced yard and a husband who was home every night?

If so, would that be a relationship dealbreaker later on?

Closing my eyes, the only thing I could concentrate on was the little devil on my shoulder whispering, “You got yourself a live one here, Steve. Proceed with extreme caution.”

Unfortunately for me, the words caution and Dawn do not readily go together.