Shake Down Dead (4 page)

“Hello, Trudy. Hi, Pete.” she asked.
“Why are you all out here?”

Pete walked over to her and introduced
Izzy Espinoza to Lisa and me. “Izzy is the evening
counselor.”

Turning to Izzy he said, “Jennifer
thinks that something has happened to Whitney. Her car’s here but
we can’t find her. I figure she got a ride from
someone.”

“And I told Pete that Whitney wouldn’t
go anywhere and leave her tablecloth lying on the ground,” I said,
pointing toward Whitney’s car.

Izzy looked at me. “No, she would not
leave her precious mantel like that. She say she does not mind to
stay with Harold until Pete gets back. Something is
wrong.”

“You talked to her?” I
asked.

“I call her to say I would be late
today. She say to me to do my best.”

We all moved toward the house. Trudy
grabbed my arm and stopped Lisa and me from entering the house.
“We’d better let them handle this. It’s really none of our
business.”

“Are you sure Harold didn’t hurt
Whitney?” I asked again. “He certainly has a temper.”

“Well, that’s just not possible,
Missy.” Trudy shook my arm and yanked me in the direction of her
shop... “Harold isn’t dangerous. He’s mentally retarded, not crazy.
He has a low I. Q. and thinks like a child, but he’s a grown man
and he’s not dangerous! So there, then.”

“Sorry. I’m sorry. I didn’t know.” I
wondered when I’d learn to keep my big mouth shut.

“Well, now you do,” Trudy said slapping
her hands together. We walked quietly back into her
shop.

Settling back into our chairs, we
picked up our projects. Lisa shook out the centerpiece doily she
was working on. It was circular and was now about 15” in
diameter.

“What do you think could have happened
to her?” asked Lisa, her hand smoothing out the doily.

“I don’t know. What I do know is that
Harold had nothing to do with it.” Trudy insisted.

I haphazardly crocheted a few stitches
while gazing out the window. I was thinking about the last time I
saw Pete Champion. We had a tearful good-by the day before my
father moved Mom and me to his hometown in Illinois. I wrote long
letters to Pete almost daily, for the first few months. My mom even
let me phone him a few times. Those were the days when long
distance calls were expensive. Mom used an egg timer to limit my
calls to three minutes. I clung to the memory of our relationship,
while he moved on and started dating other girls. Finally, I
received a short note from him telling me it was best for me if we
moved on with our separate lives.

I started making friends with
schoolmates and moved on with life in Illinois without Pete. By the
end of the school year, I had made a number of friends and joined
the Drama Club.

My daydreaming was interrupted when I
looked through the back window of Trudy’s shop. A blue Chevy Aveo
swung into the group home driveway and come to a sharp stop inches
from the garage door. Sister Bernadine unfolded herself from the
little car—a gift from the parishioners from St. Theresa’s Church
on the twenty-fifth anniversary of her taking her final vows. I
always wondered how this tall slim woman fit in the teeny car. I
still didn’t know how she did it.

I hadn’t seen much of Sister Bernadine
since she became the administrator of Mary’s Haven Group Homes. I
put down my crocheting, snatched my jacket from the back of my
chair, and headed for the door. Bernie hurried across the yard, her
short navy blue veil flying behind her a navy blue sweater covering
her white blouse. In her no-nonsense voice she asked, “What the
heck is going on here?”

I started to answer her when the back
door of the group home opened and almost everyone in the house
tumbled out. Several of the residents were talking at the same
time. Most were trying to tell her what they thought had happened.
Izzy and Pete were trying to talk over the residents. Finally,
Bernie stuck two fingers in her mouth and gave a shrill whistle
while holding up her other hand in a stop sign. Everyone froze,
including me.

Bernie took a few minutes to talk to
each of the residents, then shooed them back into the house. All
but two of them moved slowly toward the house.

“Izzy, what’s going on?” she
asked.

While Izzy was giving Bernie a rundown
of what had happened, Pete maneuvered around Bernie until he was
next to me. Bernie reached into the deep pocket of her navy blue
skirt and pulled out a bright red cell phone. She hit two buttons
and was soon connected to the Sheriff’s Office.

“Lieutenant Jacobs, this is Sister
Bernadine, can I bother you to come out to the Sunrise Group Home?
We’ve had a little vandalism here and one of the residents is
involved. Thank you.” Pushing another button, she shoved the phone
back into her pocket. “Harold must be held responsible for his
actions,” she said instructed her staff. “Where’s Whitney? I need
her to sign a complaint.”

I started to explain how we found the
car and the tablecloth, which were both still in the backyard. “I’m
worried that something has happened to Whitney. Okay, she might
leave her car and get a ride from someone, but why would she leave
the tablecloth on the ground in a heap? And, why was Harold so sure
that she was out here asleep and he couldn’t wake her? This whole
scene is odd.”

Everyone was quiet for a few moments,
and then Izzy said, “I need to get supper started. Marsha and John,
it’s your turn to help.” She went into the house with the two
residents following her.

“I’m surprised you allow them to cook.
Isn’t it dangerous?” I asked Pete.

Pete explained, “The residents are
adults, not big kids. They’re responsible for many of the chores
around the house. They do their own laundry and clean their own
rooms. Although, sometimes they need a little help and direction
from the staff.”

That’s great,” I said. “I had no
idea.”

“Harold can drive the riding lawn
mower. Now we have to hide the key or he’ll drive it over to the
convenience store if he has enough cash for a Mountain
Dew.”

We were laughing about that when the
unmarked navy blue sedan with the whip antenna pulled in behind
Bernie’s little car. Pete had looped his arm casually over my
shoulder and I didn’t pull away because I didn’t want to hurt his
feelings and, frankly, it felt nice.

Lt. Jacobs, a large black man in a
wrinkled suit, exited the car on the passenger side. When the
driver’s door opened and Detective Jerry Decker got out, I tried to
slip out of Pete’s arm. Pete hung on. Decker look at me and his
dark eyes turned black.

5

Decker and I had sort of a casual
relationship. Although we’d never promised to date each other
exclusively, I took it for granted that he was only seeing me. I’m
so busy with my coffee roasting company that I don’t have time to
see more than one man. Not that I wanted to. Since my divorce, from
Edwin the Louse, Decker’s the only guy I’ve dated.

I finally pivoted around until I was
face to face with Pete and his arm was no longer draped across my
shoulders. I knew Decker had seen us laughing together. I’d have to
explain later, although I had no idea what I would say.

“So, what’s going on, Sister?” Jacobs
asked.

Bernie explained that Harold had
smashed the window of Whitney’s car and that we couldn’t find her.
“I’m sure she’s fine,” Bernie said. “However, I’ve called her home
and she’s not there and her mother doesn’t know where she is or
when she’ll be back. Henrietta said Whitney often meets with
friends after work and doesn’t always check in.”

“I’m not so sure she’s ‘just fine,’” I
said, explaining about the tablecloth and Harold not being able to
wake her up. Since I had no proof that anything had happened to
Whitney, no one paid much attention to my remarks.

“Lt. Jacobs,” Bernie said, flipping her
short navy veil over her shoulder. “I actually called you here to
help me out. Harold needs to learn a lesson and realize that he
can’t go around smashing things when he doesn’t get his own
way.”

“You want me to arrest Harold? I can’t
do that!” Jacobs protested, holding up his hands in the universal
motion for “stop!”

“No, I don’t want you to actually
arrest him. Just take him down to the station and scare the heck
out of him. Whitney will have to decide what she wants to do when
she turns up. I’m sure she’ll just want him to pay for the
damage.”

Jacobs turned and walked toward the
back door. Harold was peeking out when Jacobs waved his hand
signaling Harold to come to him. Harold slammed the screen door and
shut the heavy door. We could hear the lock click in
place.

Jacobs chuckled. “Jerry, go in and get
him. He’s afraid of me even when he hasn’t done anything
wrong.”

Decker hadn’t said a word to me, or
anyone for that matter. Now he nodded to Jacobs, turned and
strolled toward the back door, left-hand on his hip, his right hand
just above his service weapon. Decker thinks he swaggers when he
walks that way. To me, it looks more like ambling.

Decker rapped on the door and Izzy let
him in. A few minutes later, he walked out with Harold in front of
him. He held Harold by the arm and steered him to the sedan. Harold
was crying and tried to twist out of Decker’s clutches. Decker
isn’t especially tall—not that he’s short, more like compact, and
he works out regularly, so he’s quite strong. When he puts his arms
around me, I feel very safe.

“Sister, I’ll call you in a couple
hours to come and get him.”

“Oh, Lt. Jacobs,” said Bernie. “Could
you please call Pete? Its better if a staff person picks him
up.”

“Sure, Sister. Whatever you say.”
Jacobs pulled his sunglasses from his pocket.

“I want the residents to respect the
staff and not think that I can fix things for them.” Bernie
explained.

“Makes sense to me,” Jacobs replied,
giving Bernie a two-finger salute, then followed Decker to the dark
vehicle. Harold looked to Bernie from the back seat, his face
plastered to the window. We could see him mouth the words, “Help
me.”

I walked back to Trudy’s shop. When I
entered, I saw that Trudy was alone. “Where’s Lisa?” I
asked.

“She had to leave. It’s her husband’s
birthday and she always makes a heart shaped meat loaf for him.
Randy gets real lovey-dovey when he gets meatloaf. Go figure.”
Trudy laughed.

While I packed away my project, Trudy
asked what had happened out there. I told her about the “scared
straight” routine they were running on Harold.

“Trudy, I’m not so sure they should be
blowing off my concerns about Whitney. Something happened to her. I
think maybe Harold hurt her.”

“That’s just silly, Jennifer. Harold
wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

‘Then why did she leave that darn
tablecloth on the ground? And why did Harold say that she wouldn’t
wake up? Explain that.”

“Well, now,” Trudy answered. “I don’t
know what happened. I guess maybe something might have happened to
Whitney. I just know that Harold didn’t have anything to do with
it. He may have smashed her windshield but he would never hurt her.
He has a huge crush on her, doncha know?”

“I didn’t know. . .” I said.

“Listen, Jennifer, I know you figured
out who killed Wes last summer. You’re good at finding things out.
Why don’t you check around and see what you can find out about
Whitney? You’ll feel a whole lot better when you know she’s
okay.”

“I guess I could make a few phone
calls. Where does she hang out? Who are her friends?”

“I don’t know, Jennifer.” Trudy threw
up her arms. “I don’t even like her that much. She’s very spoiled
and demanding, ya’ know.”

“I’ve noticed. Okay, where does she
live?”

While Trudy wrote down Whitney’s
address, I tried to figure out how I get caught up in these things.
I didn’t care for Whitney, and her haughty mother was a big pain.
However, I did want to know what happened to her, because things
just didn’t fit.

A few minutes later, I pulled up in
front of the townhouse where Whitney and her mother lived. I hoped
that Mrs. Wentworth was sober today. After the condition he was in
when she was at Charlie’s rally a couple weeks ago, I suspected it
wasn’t a one-time thing. I took a deep breath and rang the
bell.

“Come in,” a voice shouted from
inside.

I turned the knob and opened the door a
crack. I stuck my head in and looked around. I saw Mrs. Wentworth
was sprawled across the couch, a large glass in her hand, filled
with what looked like lemonade. I knew better. Her flask was around
here somewhere.

“Find a glass and have a little drink
with me, dear.”

“Mrs. Wentworth, I’m looking for
Whitney,” I said.

“My dear, I am drooling; you may call
me Henrietta.” Taking a gulp of her drink, she said, “I don’t know
where that spoiled daughter of mine is. She’s always leaving me
here alone. No gratitude.”

“Darn! I was hoping she was here. Who
are her friends? Maybe they know where she’s at. I’m sort of
worried about her.”