Hotline to Murder

CHAPTER 31

Tony couldn’t stay still. After he had left the Hotline, he had conducted another search of Bonita Beach by car. It was more difficult on a sunny Sunday morning than at night because a lot of people had apparently decided to go to the beach, perhaps for the last time this summer. Automobile traffic was heavy, as was pedestrian traffic, so if Shahla did happen to be walking, he could easily miss her.

He finally parked the car at the northern boundary of Bonita Beach and decided to walk the beach path the couple of miles to the south end and then back. He walked slowly on the concrete path, still favoring his left leg, attempting to observe everything that took place within sight and hearing.

A lot was taking place, what with the bicyclists, inline skaters, joggers, and walkers on the path. In addition, hordes of unconscious beachgoers constantly crossed the path without looking, intent on getting to the sand. As a result, near-accidents occurred regularly.

In addition to scanning the traffic on the path, Tony tried to check out all the girls on the sand catching the late summer rays. However, the beach was so wide that he couldn’t possibly get a good look at all of them. One of the attributes that made this beach desirable now worked against him. To help him concentrate, he scored the girls, depending on their looks and what they wore. He scored one for a pretty girl in a nice bikini. Using his system, he could score an additional point for an unfastened top or a thong.

Some of the best-looking girls were competing in a beach volleyball tournament. Competing here in the birthplace of beach volleyball, which was appropriate. Tony slowed down as he walked past the courts. He recognized Martha, Joy’s friend to whom he had spoken about her murder. She was partnering with another girl. She had a good figure. And her volleyball playing wasn’t bad, either. She couldn’t be the murderer. Especially if the murderer had kidnapped Shahla.

Shahla. He had to keep focused. He had to find her. He wondered if he would ever see her again. No, don’t think like that. Think positively. He would find her. Or somebody else would. He kept walking.

Shahla awoke because somebody was pounding on her head with a hammer in time to her heartbeat. She didn’t want to move, but she couldn’t stand not to. She had to make him go away. How long had she been asleep? She opened her eyes. There was a film over them, but she could see objects, however blurry they looked. It must be daylight outside. A little light was seeping through the drapes. She looked at her watch and blinked her eyes, trying to focus. As the watch hands slowly became clearer, she read the time as quarter to eight. She had slept all night. She sat up and immediately felt nauseated.

She sat on the edge of the couch, wondering whether she was going to vomit. The pounding in her head continued. She thought about trying to get to the bathroom, but was sure she wouldn’t make it. She sat motionless, waiting for the nausea to pass. After a few minutes, her stomach steadied, although her headache continued. She got up, feeling wobbly, and made her way to the bathroom.

After using the toilet, she thought about what she could do to make her body livable. She didn’t have any pills with her. She didn’t have any food or drink. Water. She needed water. She turned on the sink faucet and placed her mouth under it. She sucked in the lukewarm liquid and swallowed it until she couldn’t drink any more. She straightened up and felt a little better.

She determined that the only food she had eaten since yesterday morning was whatever she ate at the party. She had snacked on chips and dip and other so-called food that Lacey had randomly pulled off the shelves of a supermarket, but nothing substantial. What Shahla needed more than anything else was a good meal.

And to call her mother. She suddenly realized that her mother must be frantic by now. Where was her cell phone? Then she remembered. Well, she’d better get home, on the double. She took the security stick out of the track of the sliding door and opened it. Once outside she closed it again. She took a look around, but of course nobody was there. Had she imagined that she had seen something last night? She might have seen an animal. Maybe the cat that howled.

The route to her house was two blocks downhill and then relatively level along Sandview Street. At least it wasn’t uphill. Shahla walked slowly, in time to the throbbing pulse in her head. Food would help, she knew. There was food at home.

She arrived at her house and opened the door with her key. Inside she was greeted with silence. “Mom,” she called. No answer. She looked at her watch. It was a little after eight. At least her mother should be up by now, even on a Sunday morning. She went into the kitchen. A few dirty dishes sat on the counter, but they were not breakfast dishes.

Shahla went upstairs. Her mother’s bed was made. She went into Kirk’s bedroom. His bed was also made. That was indicative. He wasn’t known for making his bed in the morning. That bed hadn’t been slept in. Where had they gone? As of yesterday morning, her mother had not had any plans to go anywhere.

She checked for messages on the house answering machine. There were none. She picked up the phone and called her mother’s cell phone number. She got voice mail. She said, “Mom, it’s me, Shahla. I’m home. Give me a call.” Then she checked the garage, just to make sure. The car wasn’t there.

Her mother apparently hadn’t been very worried about her, but she should at least have left her a note. Shahla looked around, but there definitely wasn’t any note. Well, she wasn’t going to worry about them, either. She would get a call from her mother or they would show up, sooner or later. Meanwhile, she would fix herself something substantial to eat.

Maybe her mother had told a neighbor where she was going. They were good friends with the Thompsons, who lived across the street and three doors north. Shahla didn’t know their phone number, so she walked over to their house and rang the bell. There was no answer. Nobody was home this morning.

Should she call Detective Croyden and tell him about the phone call last night? He wouldn’t be working today. She didn’t want to deal with anybody else. She would call him tomorrow. Anyway, the caller was probably just one of her friends playing a joke on her. Who else would know her cell phone number and her street? She had probably overreacted last night.

Shahla had a desire for action. She had been sunning herself on the beach since early afternoon. She was all alone. Jane was out of town. Lacey’s house had looked empty when Shahla walked past it. She had rung the doorbell, just in case, but there was no answer. Her mother and Kirk were who knew where. She had come to the beach because she wasn’t going to stay in the house alone any longer on a beautiful late summer day.

She should go for a workout run for cross-country, and she had worn her running shoes with that in mind, but she still had a headache, although it was improving. And she didn’t feel like doing any more homework. She felt naked without her phone, but she had left tracks so that her mother could find her. She had written a note, saying where she was. Her mother couldn’t accuse her of disappearing again. In fact, she could accuse her mother of that very thing.

She looked north along the beach and saw people playing beach volleyball, near the long pier that provided a walking path out over the water. She was too short to be good at volleyball. She was much better at running. It looked as if all the players were girls. She remembered something about a beach volleyball tournament for amateur females this weekend.

Some of the players were undoubtedly from the Bonita Beach High team. Joy should be playing. But Joy would never play volleyball again. Shahla wondered whether Martha was playing. Martha. The question of whether Martha had anything to do with Joy’s murder was unresolved. Shahla had talked to Tony about it, but nothing had ever been done, as far as she knew.

She walked along the beach path to the volleyball courts. She saw a couple of girls from the Bonita Beach team, girls she barely knew. Then she saw Martha. Martha was playing a match. She was teamed with another girl from Bonita Beach, whose name Shahla didn’t know. Martha’s bikini was too small, but Shahla had to admit, grudgingly, that she had a better figure than Shahla had previously given her credit for. In spite of the acne on her face. She and her partner seemed to be holding their own against another team.

Shahla watched the match for a few minutes. In two-person beach volleyball, it was necessary for each player to be able to do everything well: serve, dig, set, spike and block. There were no specialists here. Martha’s game had a lot of room for improvement, but she showed promise as she sprawled in the sand after digging out a hard spike with one arm. She got up in time to run to the net, jump, and hit her partner’s set for a winner.

Martha was playing better than she had any right to be. Shahla walked to a table set up on the sand. A lady at the table must be in charge of the tournament. She was doing several things at once; talking to players clustered around her, writing down scores that were being relayed to her by the referees, and making occasional announcements concerning court assignments, using a megaphone.

When she was relatively free of her duties for a moment, Shahla asked her, “How are the Bonita Beach girls doing?”

“Not bad.” The woman smiled at her. “They’ve won a couple of matches already.” She referred to her score sheets. “Dembroski and Fulton won their first two matches.”

Martha’s last name was Dembroski.

The woman continued, “It’s such a shame that Joy Tanner was killed. She and Martha were signed up as a team for this tournament. They would have been the favorites.”

Shahla was startled. Joy and Martha a beach volleyball team? But of course. They had grown up together. They knew each other’s every thought. It was logical. In fact, Joy had said something about that to Shahla. Shahla had immediately repressed it, as she had tried to do whenever Joy mentioned Martha.

Most upsetting was that it probably destroyed any motive Martha had for murdering Joy. You didn’t murder your beach volleyball partner, especially when she might be your ticket to greatness. Shahla turned away from the table in disgust. She had willed Martha to be a murder suspect, but what one wished for and what one received were often two different things.

Shahla turned around and walked back toward the beach path. Fifty yards down the path she saw somebody who seemed familiar. The short, dark hair, the compact figure. He looked like Tony. He was walking away from her so she couldn’t see his face. And he wasn’t on crutches. It couldn’t be Tony. Her imagination was playing tricks on her.