Shoot First, Ask Questions Later, page 17
I was relieved when the kids decided to go to bed. So were Moon and Rachel, who’d been yawning for two hours, but had steadfastly stayed in order to support my fracturing family. I hugged them both tighter than usual when they headed home.
I’d cleaned up on automatic pilot, watched by Kodak, and then I’d fallen into bed. But every time I closed my eyes, I could hear Paige’s heartbreaking sobs all over again. Tears drenched my pillow. Unable to help my children with their pain, I felt like a failure as a mother.
I don’t know when I finally fell asleep, but it was eight in the morning when the doorbell woke me. I shrugged into a robe and stumbled toward the front door.
When I opened it, Sheriff Jim Rockland tipped his cowboy hat. “Morning, ma’am.”
Without a word, I waved him inside, led the way to the kitchen, and made a pot of coffee. When I turned around, he was cradling a purring Kodak against his chest. “Have a seat,” I invited.
He sat and ran an appraising eye over me. “Rough night?”
I nodded.
“Doctor Diamond has made it clear that he doesn’t want your daughter to pay any consequences for the orange juice.”
I smiled ruefully. “Good, because she’s already suffering enough because of her father.”
Rockland grimaced. “Afraid there’s nothing to be done about that.”
I pulled a couple of mugs out of a cabinet. “Is that why you’re here? To tell me Paige is in the clear?”
“No, ma’am.”
The seriousness of his tone, put me on edge. “What?”
“It’s about Susan Meister,” he began slowly.
I shook my head, guessing what he was about to say.
“She died last night.”
I grabbed onto the kitchen counter for support as shock and grief hit me like a wave. “She was so young.”
Rockland stayed silent as the coffee pot hissed and gurgled.
Finally, I managed to say, “Thank you for letting me know.”
“That’s not the only reason I’m here.”
I dropped my head to my chest. I was emotionally battered and beaten and couldn’t take another body blow.
“Ray told me about what you heard on the video and of the fraud theory,” the sheriff said carefully.
I perked up slightly. This didn’t sound like it had to be more bad news.
“We’re exploring the angle. I’ve got calls in to the Bar Association to see if Hunzer’s been charged with anything.”
I raised my head to look at him. “You think it’s a viable lead?”
He shrugged. “It’s a lead that’s worth chasing down.”
I nodded, secretly deciding I was going to do just that.
But without a car, I was stuck staying at home where I once again studied the photographs, hoping they’d reveal another clue (they didn’t) and caught up on household chores and cooking. While I did all the busy work, I came up with a plan for the next day.
And it was a doozy.
36
The next morning, while Paige slept in, I borrowed Rachel’s car again. I drove Henry to work and then made my way over to Greg Hunzer’s office. I didn’t know quite how I was going to pull it off, but I was going to figure out if he was committing fraud. Sue Meister deserved justice.
There were no cars in the lot, but the lights were on inside and I could see someone moving around.
Sitting in my car, hyping myself up to march into Hunzer’s office, I was surprised to see MaryAnne Ettinger, the girlfriend of the deceased, practically skipping across the parking lot, smiling while talking on her phone. If that didn’t look suspicious, I didn’t know what did.
Being in super sleuth mode, I eased the car into drive and began to follow her. Three blocks later, I watched her run into the outstretched arms of another man. I gasped as Little Al, the mechanic, picked her up and swung her in a circle. I grabbed my phone and took a couple of pictures as, with their arms around each other, they strolled into a nearby house. I captured the house number and street sign and then returned to Hunzer’s place of business, determined to find proof that he, MaryAnne and Little Al had conspired to kill poor Gunnar and Sue.
This time, I didn’t hesitate. I parked and marched straight through the glass doors emblazoned with Hunzer and Associates. I knew what kind of people he’d been associating with and I was going to bring him down.
There was no receptionist at the front desk, so I called, “Hello?”
Hunzer himself stuck his head out from behind a door. His eyes narrowed with recognition. “Mrs. Long?”
“Mr. Hunzer. I need your help.”
“My help?” He sounded surprised. I’d never hidden my dislike for the man and now I was asking for his assistance. Still, I could see his curiousity as he walked up to me.
“As you know, my husband is missing.”
He nodded.
“I want you to help me get him declared dead.”
“Well, Mrs. Long, that could—"
I could tell immediately he was going to turn me down, so I appealed to his greed. “I’m willing to pay top dollar to have you guide me through this ordeal.”
I saw him calculating in his head and knew I had him hooked.
“Let’s talk,” he said with a solicitous smile. “Come into my office.”
He ushered me into the same room where I’d watched Karl sign away all our money to that woman, and felt sick to my stomach. I wondered if this was where the deaths of Sue and Gunnar had been plotted.
He settled himself behind his desk, pulled out a legal pad and a fancy fountain pen, and began in an officious tone, “Mrs. Long, I—”
“Could I get something to drink?” I blurted out. “A cup of coffee?”
He frowned.
“It’s just that the doctor gave me a prescription to help me sleep after Karl…you know…and it leaves me with my mouth so dry and makes it so hard to concentrate.” I did my best impression of one of Rachel’s coquettish smiles, complete with batting my eyelashes.
“Of course,” he murmured. “I’ll be right back.” He stepped out of the office, closing the door behind him.
I shot out of my seat and raced around the desk, pulling my phone out. I didn’t know what I was looking for, but I was going to take photographic evidence of it once I found it. I opened the side drawer, prepared to rifle through it like a professional cat burglar, but instead I froze.
Right on top was a printout of a photograph with text above it. I stared at the picture of Hunzer’s red sports car, its windshield smashed to smithereens, and read the message accompanying it: Your head is next.
A wave of certainty that Hunzer was not the killer almost knocked me off my feet. I snapped a quick pic of the warning note, closed the drawer, and ran out of the office.
“Mrs. Long!” Hunzer called, but I didn’t pause to look back at him. I ran out of the building, straight to Rachel’s car and drove away.
Sheriff Rockland looked surprised to see me when I knocked on the frame of the door for his office a few minutes later. He’d been doing paperwork and peered at me over reading glasses that sat low on his nose. “Come in.”
I stepped in and closed the door firmly behind me.
Taking off his glasses, he watched me carefully. “I take it I shouldn’t say good morning.”
“I know something about the case,” I told him, waving my phone at him.
He sat up straighter. “You found something in the photos?”
Instead of answering, I rounded his desk, put my phone down, and displayed the note I’d just seen in Greg Hunzer’s desk.
He put his glasses back on and stared at it. After a few seconds, he said, “It’s not your car.”
“No, it’s Greg Hunzer’s.”
He sat back in his seat. “And he showed this to you?”
“Not exactly.”
He gave me a long look. “What does not exactly mean?”
“I was just in his office and I saw it in the drawer of his desk.”
Rockland pushed his chair back so that he could get a better look at me. “You happened to see this in the drawer of his desk?” Disbelief and disapproval warred in his tone.
I took a step back, realizing for the first time that this wasn’t going the way I’d imagined. “I looked through his desk and found it.”
He let out a sigh. “You can’t do that.”
“I know, I know, but—”
“What do you want me to do with this? Go to Hunzer and say, Kiki Long went through your personal belongings and found this. Want to tell me who’s threatening you?”
He spoke softly, his anger controlled, but I knew I’d messed up. I hung my head. The man had taken a chance on me and I’d let him down.
“Look,” he said, his voice gentler. “I know you’re trying to help, but I hired you to be a photographer, not an investigator.”
I nodded. Then, I remembered MaryAnne and Little Al. “Can I show you one more thing?”
“Kiki!” he snapped with frustration.
“This was in public view,” I promised quickly.
“Fine, go ahead.”
I could tell I’d reached the end of his patience, so I quickly swiped to the pictures of MaryAnne and Little Al until I found one that showed both their faces as they embraced. “Gunnar’s girlfriend, MaryAnne Ettinger, and the mechanic, Little Al.”
He examined the picture carefully. “When was this taken?”
“About half an hour ago.”
“You’ve had a busy morning,” he drawled.
“But it’s suspicious, isn’t it? The girlfriend of the dead guy hooking up with the ex-con?”
He glanced at me with surprise. “How do you know he’s an ex-con?”
“His uncle told me when I took my car in to be serviced.”
He tapped the phone with his finger. “Get me a printout of this.”
“Yes, Sir,” I sighed with relief.
“And then, get out of here,” he muttered. “Leave the police work to the professionals.”
I scooped up my phone and practically ran out of his office, almost barreling into Ray Balentine, who’d been preparing to knock on the door.
“Good morning,” he said with a smile.
“Morning.”
As I dashed away, I heard Rockland ask, “Did you need something, Ray?”
I printed the photograph the sheriff had requested and gave it to Grace Bailey to give to him.
“You okay?” she asked. “You look a little flustered?”
“Just a lot on my mind,” I told her with a distracted smile.
“Camera in the back lot is fixed,” she said. “Did you get a new car?”
“No, I just borrowed the one I’m driving from a friend.”
“Rachel Gold?” she guessed.
I nodded, surprised she recognized the car and knew the owner.
Noting my expression, she confided on a whisper, “We get specialized training on memorizing the pairings of vehicles and their drivers.”
“Oh,” I murmured, impressed.
She chuckled. “Not really. I’ve worked on a fundraising committee for the animal shelter with Rachel. She tells the best stories about her worst dates.”
I grinned. “That’s Rachel.”
The phone rang and Grace answered it, so I waved and left.
Walking back out to Rachel’s car, smiling at the thought of my friend telling her worst date stories, an idea suddenly occurred to me that made me stumble. Once I’d regained my balance, I knew what I had to do.
Even if the sheriff wouldn’t approve.
37
I waited for Maria Lopez at the Farmer’s Bounty stand, pacing back and forth, but she didn’t show up. Instead, the booth was set up for self-service, with prices clearly marked, and a locked box set up to collect payment.
I waited and waited, as the sun moved higher in the sky and the air grew increasingly warmer. I fiddled with my ring, which grew darker with each passing moment.
Finally, when a man pulled into the parking lot, I pulled out my phone and dialed Maria’s number.
She answered on the third ring. “Good morning, Kiki.”
“Morning. Sorry to bother you,” I said in a rush of nervous excitement, barely aware of the driver in a baseball cap who’d gotten out of his car and was picking through the vegetables. “I have a quick question.”
“Shoot.”
“You mentioned a guy who the Bensmillers wanted to fire but then couldn’t because he was injured and sued them.”
“Just between us, I’ve heard a rumor that they’re selling off their westernmost parcel of land just to pay him off. Must have been a heck of a settlement.”
“Do you remember his name?” I tried not to sound over-eager, thinking I might have finally cracked the case.
“Yoan,” she revealed. “Can’t remember his last name.”
“Oh.” The excitement rushed out of me like air out of a balloon.
“He worked on a bunch of places around here. The McMillans gave him work for a season. Even I was stupid enough to hire him for about a week last autumn. Didn’t take me as long as the others to figure out he’s a smooth talker but a lousy worker.”
I was only half-listening. I’d been wrong about Hunzer and now I was wrong about this. I could only hope that Sheriff Rockland was following up on my lead about Little Al.
Suddenly, Maria snapped her fingers, a sound that echoed like a gunshot through the phone’s connection. “Staninski! That’s his name. Yoan Staninski. But he wanted everyone to call him Stan the Man. How cheesy is that?”
“Stan the Man is cheesy,” I agreed, grinning widely, flooded with excitement. “Thanks for your help, Maria. Talk soon.”
“Later.” She disconnected the call.
As I rushed to my car, wanting to report in-person what I’d just discovered to Sheriff Rockland, I caught a glimpse of the remains of the structure in the distance. The old farmhouse. Complete with the still-used root cellar. Old-fashioned refrigeration.
“That could preserve a body,” I muttered. Turning sharply, I jogged toward the old foundation. It was easy to spot the entrance to the root cellar. The door was held closed by a long branch jammed through a metal loop, a primitive, yet effective, form of security.
As I reached for the stick, a buzz jolted through my hand and up my arm. Ignoring the sensation, I tugged the branch free and pulled open the door. Looking down at the steps carved into the red clay, I knew I shouldn’t go in. Still, I needed to know if I was right. “I’ll shoot pictures, first, and let the sheriff ask questions later,” I muttered.
Turning on my phone’s flashlight, I slowly crept down the stairs. Shadows flickered across the walls as I moved and it smelled like damp earth and sweet apples. I shone the light in an arc through the space. I spotted it in the middle of the floor. Holding my breath, I shuffled closer to the small round object until I confirmed its identity. A green button, just like the kind that was missing from Gunnar Falstaff’s dress shirt.
I swallowed hard, a chill racing down my spine that had nothing to do with the coolness of the cellar. This is where Gunnar had been kept.
I shot a picture of the button and then turned, eager to get out of the claustrophobic space. I had to call the sheriff.
That’s when the door above slammed shut, trapping me.
38
“No!” I screamed, racing up the steps and banging on the overhead door. “Let me out!”
I heard a cold, calculating laugh as the branch scraped along the door’s surface, bolting me in.
“Let me out!” I screamed again, but I heard nothing else.
Hands trembling, I dialed 9-1-1.
Nothing happened.
Squinting at my phone, I realized I had no signal.
Desperately, I composed a text to the sheriff and Ray Balentine in the hopes the signal would make it out and they’d come rescue me. I sent a second text, explaining my theory that Stan the Man was the one committing fraud, since Rachel had seen him rollerblading right after I’d seen him using crutches.
Using the flashlight, I examined every inch of the root cellar, hoping to find a way out, but there was none. I jammed my shoulder into the door, hoping to dislodge the branch and free myself, but it didn’t budge.
My shoulder ached and I was breathing hard when I finally sank down on the bottom step and faced the reality that I might die. Knowing I should conserve the battery life of my phone, I turned off the flashlight and sat in the pitch black with my darkest thoughts.
Sitting there, I worried about my kids. Would my body be recovered, or would I just disappear from their lives without a trace, like their father had? Thoughts of Karl had me rehashing all the mistakes I’d made with him. Swamped with regrets, self-recrimination and worries about how my children would cope left me a sobbing, sniveling mess.
I don’t know how long I sat there, lost in feeling hopeless and sorry for myself, before the scream jolted me back to awareness.
Realizing someone was nearby, I started screaming, “Help! Help! I’m in the root cellar! Let me out!”
I held my breath, listening.
And there was another scream.
It took me a second to realize that someone wasn’t being tortured nearby.
It was a goat.
There was no rescuer nearby, just a hungry, probably pissed off, goat.
I had to cover my mouth with my hand so I wouldn’t succumb to the hysterical laughter that welled up.
The goat bleated right next to the door. I’m no expert on goat sounds, but this one sounded just like Loki, the goat who’d tried to eat my camera bag.
“Tell you what, Loki,” I bargained through the door. “If you eat that branch that’s keeping me trapped, I’ll buy you your own bushel of apples.”
He bleated again, as if to say, “Deal.”
Suddenly exhausted, I sank back down onto the cool earth as the stress of the last few months hit me like a freight train. I only meant to rest for a minute, but I dozed off. When I awoke with a start, later, I had to fumble in the dark to find my phone. Somehow, I’d slept the entire day away. It was now after ten at night.
