"Could be."
"Seems pretty cold, right on the heels of Valerie's funeral," I said.
"Maybe she's pregnant," she said softly, stopping to look in the window of a chic maternity shop.
Uh-oh. I needed to distract her from her biological clock. "Wouldn't that have pissed Valerie off."
"I don't think Valerie's in any condition to care." She'd rebounded into her attorney tone.
Phew.
"True. But that's still pretty heartless. I guess someone who plays around wouldn't have the decency to wait a respectable amount of time, even if the girl is pregnant. Lots of brides are pregnant these days. Some of them wait until after the baby is born to get married. And some don't get married at all." I steered our course toward the parking garage. It was late. I'd go look for a new bra some other time. "You know, Andrea, certain aspects of human behavior absolutely disgust me. Valerie is murdered and Greg rockets straight from grief to the altar. I wouldn't want someone who couldn't display even a drop of humanity. Melanie and Randy should show a little sensitivity, too, especially since their daughter's involved."
"I see stuff like this all the time, and worse, Thea. Someone dies and the family turns into a pack of hyenas."
"It's disgusting."
"But not uncommon."
"Do you suppose Greg's got something on Randy?"
"What do you mean?"
I told her about my "loan from Valerie" theory.
"Hmm… hard to prove without access to bank records. For that, you'd need a search warrant." She patted my shoulder when I sighed. "Sorry. It's a worthy idea, though, and I expect the sheriff's looking into it. So what's next, Sherlock?"
"To The Broken Axle."
"What's that?"
"A biker bar in Snohomish."
"Eww." She scrunched her nose. "Do we have to? I really and truly don't like this idea."
"We don't have to, your majesty. However, I'm going."
"Not alone!"
"No, with my trusty sidekicks, Delores and Miguel. Miguel was there last night and he believes he spotted the guy who stole Blackie. We're going to see if he shows up again this evening. I think he's the key to finding out who killed Valerie."
"You're just not letting this go, are you?"
"Don't worry, I'll be well protected."
"Be careful. I mean it, Thea."
We reached my car and got in. I would drop her at her office, since she had walked over, then go home to change into something appropriate for beer with the bad boys.
"Call me," she said, when I pulled up next to her car. "Let me know you're all right and what's going on."
"One more thing, Andrea. What do you know about Jacob Green?'
"Your attorney? He's one of the best, why?"
"He's kind of weird."
Andrea laughed. "Jake is that."
"But does he know what he's doing? Am I going to land in jail because of some peculiar idea Jonathan has for revenge?"
"Thea, I told you, don't worry about Jake. He's excellent. He'll take care of you. I wish you had called me for advice instead of Jonathan, but I can't fault him for sending you to Jake. Call me tomorrow."
We said goodnight and I waited while she started her car. It was time for me to rub elbows with the biker crowd.
Chapter Nineteen
Delores frowned at me when she opened her door to my knock. I grinned at her and her scowl deepened.
"Sit down. I'm not ready."
I sank into one of the overstuffed living room chairs and wished, as I always did when I sat there, that I had space in my living room for a chair like it.
"Are you sure you want to do this?" Her voice carried easily from the bedroom.
"Positive."
She walked into the living room in her stocking feet, sneakers in hand, and sat on the sofa to put them on. She wore her usual blue jeans and flannel shirt. There was no hint of the elegance I now knew she was capable of.
"You'll never guess who called me this evening." She tied the laces on the first shoe.
"Michelle Obama?"
She flicked an annoyed look at me. "Don't be a smart ass. It was Marjorie Fuller, Sarah's mother." She worked her other foot into its shoe.
"Sarah's mother? What'd she call for?"
"She canceled Sarah's riding lessons for the next month. Took the girl to the hospital. Said she had a nervous breakdown." She finished with her shoes and stood.
"Wow." I got up from my comfortable nest. "Did I tell you someone's been leaving me threatening notes taped to my front door? I'm certain Sarah's the one behind it."
"That child needs to spend some quality time with a therapist." Delores put on her down jacket. "And move out of her mother's house."
"Remember last summer when Marjorie helped with the schooling shows? What a disaster."
"Oh lord, how could I forget. If it hadn't been for your sister inventing that convoluted point system for year-end awards, and practically tying Marjorie to that old adding machine in the office, I would have lost all my volunteers." We stepped onto her front porch and she locked the door.
"Yeah. I never had anyone grab me by the collar before and hustle me out a door. The woman's a bully. Poor Sarah."
"I'm not sure I'd waste my sympathy," Delores said, as we walked to my car. "Sarah's an adult. She can make her own decisions. Anyway, dollars to doughnuts, we won't be seeing her back here."
We drove to the Copper Creek office to pick up Miguel, where he waited after doing the night barn check, then headed to the less picturesque side of town.
The Broken Axle, a single-story, concrete-block building with few windows, was painted a shade of blue usually seen on playground equipment. Neon signs, lined up under the eaves, proclaimed the brands of beer supposedly available within. The name of the bar was hand lettered across several sheets of plywood, affixed to the roof by an intricate structure of two-by-fours. A single spotlight illuminated the sign. The mist that hung earlier in the cold night air had turned to drizzle, making the seats of the numerous motorcycles parked near the door so reflective they appeared bright blue. Two men, not quite lost in shadow halfway along one of the building's walls, stood in close conversation. A quick exchange was made, a hand to pocket, then a glance in our direction. I looked away. Drugs, probably. Maybe one of them was an undercover cop. Maybe.
I stuffed my hands into my pockets, shrank into the collar of my parka, and stepped closer to Miguel and Delores. If I'd been alone I would have turned back.
Inside the bar was as crowded with bodies as the parking lot was with motorcycles. The din of laughter and shouts that passed for conversation surged around us like the acrid smoke-thick air. A basketball game blaring from the tiny TV over the bar, and the crack of billiard balls provided the only form of music in the place. Miguel led the way, winding past pool tables and around big men who, despite their inclination to study us with unconcealed interest, were disinclined to move. Every nerve in my body vibrated in a state of red alert. I stopped looking around and kept my gaze pinned on Miguel's broad back, only a foot in front of me.
He found an empty table and rounded up three chairs I touched the table top as I sat. Ick. Sticky. An ash tray directly in front of me overflowed with reeking cigarette butts. The stench, mixed with the odor of men who made scant use of deodorant or soap, stung my eyes and coated the insides of my nostrils. I couldn't remember the last time my senses had been so assaulted.
We'd barely sat when a young woman with blonde and hot pink, spiky hair, multiple facial piercings and an empty tray on her hip, slid between two customers and stood at our table regarding us with a bored expression.
"Beer?" she asked.
I was fairly certain we'd heard the entire selection.
"Three," Miguel said.
The girl pushed her way between the customers and disappeared. Miguel scanned the crowd. "I do not see him," he said, obviously referring to our quarry. "I will take a look around. Do not go anywhere." He looked directly at me.