“That perv Jacobie,” said Bea. “You wouldn’t believe the crap he pulls at Mountain High.”
“They’ll use the lockbox on the front door,” whispered Wylie. “As soon as I say, I want you out that side door and lost. I mean lost fast. Do you understand?”
“Not without you!” she whispered back.
“You obey me, Bea, or I swear you’ll regret it. Okay, go!”
He watched Bea zigzag through the tall, dense pines. She ran up a gentle rise, down into a swale, and then vanished, footprints dark ovals in the white.
Wylie waited, imagining the entrance that Jacobie and Howard were likely making. When he thought he’d allowed the right amount of time for Howard to open the lockbox, unlock the door proper, hold open the door for Jacobie, who would then enter and pause in the entryway for an oh-wow moment before beginning the tour, Wylie slipped quietly out, shut the door, and strode to his truck, keys in one hand. His fingers touched the door handle.
“Yo! Wylie Welborn!” called Jacobie. He stood at the railing on the near side of the porch, holding his phone out from his ear. “What are you doing? Burglarizing this home?”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
“I’m bottom-feeding, Jacobie, just like you! Looking to buy up some recession-blasted Mammoth real estate.”
“These puppies are a steal, aren’t they?”
“From what I’ve heard.”
Jacobie lowered the phone. “I thought you were shacked up with April Holly.”
“We’re good friends, and that’s absolutely untrue.”
“Don’t get violent again.”
“Don’t make it so tempting.”
Howard Deetz came to the porch railing, holding up both lockbox and house key. “Finally! Wylie? What are you doing here?”
“Waiting for my Realtor — what’s it look like?”
“Oh, hell, come in out of the snow. I’ll split the commission with your agent if Jacobie doesn’t buy it first.”
“She’s late. I’ll try her again.”
Wylie dug out his cell phone and got into his truck. His heart was pounding hard in his ears and he was having trouble coming up with any solution other than the lame bluff he’d begun. He called an old high school friend who sold real estate. She happened to be at her desk at Century 21, with really not much going on. He told her he’d been interested in 12 Madrone for quite some time, would love to look at it.
“Set you back a million six,” said Dawn.
“I still want to see it. Can you be there in five?”
“Okay, okay. Hey, is that true about you and April Holly being an item?”
“Just friends, Dawn.”
“Hmmm. See you in five.”
Wylie got out and crunched across the driveway to the front of the house. It was a large Craftsman style with timber columns footed in river rock and a big front porch. He climbed the steps, feeling as if he were about to enter a prison, which, it occurred to him, might well be in his future.
He entered the great room, in which Jacobie Bradford and Howard Deetz stood slack-jawed and speechless amid the warehouse of bicycles and snowboards. “Jesus,” said Wylie. “The stolen ones?”
“What else could they be?” asked Jacobie. He was shooting video with his phone, sweeping down one row and up the next. He wore a fleece-lined flannel jacket and shearling boots and a knit cap in Rasta black, red, and green.
“This is the weirdest damn thing I’ve ever walked in on,” said Howard, taking out his phone, too. “I’ve found homeless families and drunks and fornicating teenagers, even a bear, but never an entire bike and board shop.”
“These are good products,” said Jacobie. “Those bearded bike thieves know their stuff.” With this, Jacobie lowered the phone, looked at recently shaven Wylie, then back at the bikes. “So, who’s your Realtor?”
“Dawn Loe.”
“Yes, hello, Officer, this is Howard Deetz, town council. Can you put me through to Sergeant Grant Bulla?”
“Where is your professed Realtor?” asked Jacobie, walking down the first row.
“Running late, she said.”
“You’ve been here awhile, then?”
“Grant, Howard Deetz — hey, you gotta get someone over to twelve Madrone. You won’t believe what’s in the living room!”
“I was early, waited in the garage, out of the snow.”
“My NielPryde!” said Jacobie, running a hand along the top tube of a beautiful road bike. “Oh, baby, baby, I missed you.” He stopped caressing the frame, as if interrupted by an idea. “You look good without the beard, Wylie.”
“You look like Mr. Clean with that shiny head.”
“Here we go again.”
Jacobie positioned himself defensively, with two rows of bikes between him and Wylie. “Humor me, Wylie. I watch too many TV cop shows, I admit it. Helps me escape. But they always tell you that in a crime, there’s no coincidences, you know? No coincidences. So, the sharp cop arrives on the scene and you’re already here. No biggie, but of all the houses for sale, why are you at this particular one? Then the sharp cop goes inside and sees the loot. So he has to figure it’s at least possible that you knew the stolen goods were here. After all, you’re a local, and the sharp cop knows the criminal tendencies in you. Then he thinks, Heck, this yokel might have stolen the damn things. So he thinks that maybe when the Realtor, Howard, and the legitimate house hunter, Jacobie, pulled up, you were already right here in this great room, maybe adding to your latest haul. And you heard them and sneaked out to the garage and tried to get to your truck and out without being seen. Fail. In fact, you didn’t look happy a minute ago when I called out to you, as captured on my phone. You still don’t look happy. Of course — and we learn this at the beginning of the episode — a few weeks ago you shaved off your beard after witnesses described the bike thieves as bearded. So that’s my plot. Think I can make it in Hollywood?”
“If someone doesn’t pinch your head, just for the fun of it.”
“There you go again, like you’re stuck in the sixth grade or something. Don’t you think anything’s funny? Can’t you use your words, like an adult?”
Howard’s voice drifted through the silence. “How would I know how they get in and out? All I know is the lockbox was locked, just like it’s supposed to be.”
“Maybe a local Realtor is in on it, too,” said Wylie. “The key to the lockbox, right? Maybe it’s Howard.”
“Maybe what’s Howard?” asked Howard. “Grant’s on his way.”
“Wylie here was conjecturing that you’re part of the bike thieves’ ring, Howie,” said Jacobie. “Because you have the lockbox key.”
Howard shrugged with apparent disinterest, started taking pictures with his phone.
“Sorry, Wylie,” said Jacobie. “I’m not a bad guy.”
“You’re annoying and insignificant.”
“I’ve done okay in life, for having no talent and an abrasive personality.”
“You’ll learn the hard way.”
“I wish I’d served my country.”
“But you have a reason you couldn’t. People like you always do.”
Jacobie nodded and glanced over at his bike. “You know what’s interesting, though? Back on the ‘no coincidences’ theory? I saw Belle trekking down Madrone in the snow when we drove up. That is to say, heading away from this house. Walking fast and determined, like she was upset. Or maybe in a hurry. Or both.”
“She’s at home doing schoolwork right now.”
“I can certify that she is not. Think I should tell the sergeant my theory?”
“What exactly is the theory?”