Duffel Bags And Drownings by Dorothy Howell Page B
Authors: Dorothy Howell
Tags: Mystery & Crime
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and punched his address into
my cell phone.
GPS took me to the 101 freeway. I headed east, then transitioned south onto the 405
and exited on Sunset Boulevard toward UCLA. Many apartment buildings surrounded the
campus. I found the one where extra-large, possible-costume-thief-and-murderer Colby
Harmon lived off Hilgard Avenue, and squeezed my Honda into a spot at the curb.
Like everything else in the area, the building was well maintained and surrounded
by palm trees, shrubbery, and flowering plants. It looked great—on the outside. Since
I suspected the building was occupied mostly by students, I doubted the interior would
be as nice.
I followed the signs around the building, went through a door that had been propped
open, and found apartment 112. The place had a barebones, industrial look to it. Music
pounded from behind a closed door and voices floated down the stairwell from the upper
floors. Something in here didn’t smell so great.
I knocked on Colby’s door. It opened right away.
“Hey! How’s it going?” he greeted.
Colby was extra-large, all right. Tall, blonde, big shoulders, early twenties, and
kind of cute. He had on a stretched-out T-shirt and shorts, and was holding a beer.
On the drive over I’d thought about how to play this and had come up with a couple
of scenarios. After all, this guy was possibly a murderer, one of my definite he-probably-did-it
suspects. I had to be ready for anything.
But seeing Colby leaning against the door giving me a goofy life-is-great smile, I
decided to take the most direct route.
“I’m here to pick up the costume,” I said.
“Well, hey, great! Come on in!” Colby stepped back and swung the door open wide.
Wow, could it be this easy? Colby seemed very cooperative—and a little drunk—so I
was sure I could get any information out of him that I wanted, namely a confession
to Jeri’s murder. I envisioned myself giving Dan Grayson a phone call and announcing
that I’d solved the case.
Cool.
I walked inside. From the tiny entryway I could see the living room. It was cluttered
with pizza boxes, take-out cartons, paper plates, fast-food bags and wrappers, and
beer cans.
Something smelled really bad in here.
“Where’s the costume?” I asked, since I wasn’t all that excited about searching the
place.
“What costume?” Colby asked, and tipped up his beer.
“The leprechaun costume,” I said. “The one from Maisie’s Costume Shop you wore when
you left Cady Faye Catering.”
Colby frowned, as if he were thinking hard, then said, “Want a beer?”
“No,” I said.
“Okay, come on in the kitchen.”
Good grief.
I followed as Colby ambled down the short hallway into the kitchen. Yikes! The trashcan
overflowed and the sink was filled with dirty dishes. Something really creepy looking
was crusted on the stove and counter tops.
Colby opened the fridge—I didn’t dare look inside—studied it for a while, then turned
back to me and said, “Hey. Want a beer?”
“Look, I’m here to get the costume,” I told him. “The leprechaun costume you stole
from Cady Faye Catering yesterday.”
Colby frowned again and squeezed his eyes shut, causing him to sway for a bit, then
he looked at me again.
“A leprechaun costume? I stole a leprechaun costume?” He threw back his head and laughed.
“That’s killer, man. Hey, I can wear it to a St. Patrick’s Day party, huh? Do I—do
I really have a leprechaun costume?”
I was beginning to doubt it.
Suddenly, the next name on Lourdes’ printout looked very promising. I headed for the
door.
“Hey, want a beer?” Colby called.
* * *
His name was Tanner Stephens and he lived in one of Sherman Oaks’ less desirable apartment
complexes. I found the location easily enough, parked and went inside. The building
retained its weren’t-the-‘80s-great vibe, but it was clean and quiet.
I found his apartment on the second floor and rang
my cell phone.
GPS took me to the 101 freeway. I headed east, then transitioned south onto the 405
and exited on Sunset Boulevard toward UCLA. Many apartment buildings surrounded the
campus. I found the one where extra-large, possible-costume-thief-and-murderer Colby
Harmon lived off Hilgard Avenue, and squeezed my Honda into a spot at the curb.
Like everything else in the area, the building was well maintained and surrounded
by palm trees, shrubbery, and flowering plants. It looked great—on the outside. Since
I suspected the building was occupied mostly by students, I doubted the interior would
be as nice.
I followed the signs around the building, went through a door that had been propped
open, and found apartment 112. The place had a barebones, industrial look to it. Music
pounded from behind a closed door and voices floated down the stairwell from the upper
floors. Something in here didn’t smell so great.
I knocked on Colby’s door. It opened right away.
“Hey! How’s it going?” he greeted.
Colby was extra-large, all right. Tall, blonde, big shoulders, early twenties, and
kind of cute. He had on a stretched-out T-shirt and shorts, and was holding a beer.
On the drive over I’d thought about how to play this and had come up with a couple
of scenarios. After all, this guy was possibly a murderer, one of my definite he-probably-did-it
suspects. I had to be ready for anything.
But seeing Colby leaning against the door giving me a goofy life-is-great smile, I
decided to take the most direct route.
“I’m here to pick up the costume,” I said.
“Well, hey, great! Come on in!” Colby stepped back and swung the door open wide.
Wow, could it be this easy? Colby seemed very cooperative—and a little drunk—so I
was sure I could get any information out of him that I wanted, namely a confession
to Jeri’s murder. I envisioned myself giving Dan Grayson a phone call and announcing
that I’d solved the case.
Cool.
I walked inside. From the tiny entryway I could see the living room. It was cluttered
with pizza boxes, take-out cartons, paper plates, fast-food bags and wrappers, and
beer cans.
Something smelled really bad in here.
“Where’s the costume?” I asked, since I wasn’t all that excited about searching the
place.
“What costume?” Colby asked, and tipped up his beer.
“The leprechaun costume,” I said. “The one from Maisie’s Costume Shop you wore when
you left Cady Faye Catering.”
Colby frowned, as if he were thinking hard, then said, “Want a beer?”
“No,” I said.
“Okay, come on in the kitchen.”
Good grief.
I followed as Colby ambled down the short hallway into the kitchen. Yikes! The trashcan
overflowed and the sink was filled with dirty dishes. Something really creepy looking
was crusted on the stove and counter tops.
Colby opened the fridge—I didn’t dare look inside—studied it for a while, then turned
back to me and said, “Hey. Want a beer?”
“Look, I’m here to get the costume,” I told him. “The leprechaun costume you stole
from Cady Faye Catering yesterday.”
Colby frowned again and squeezed his eyes shut, causing him to sway for a bit, then
he looked at me again.
“A leprechaun costume? I stole a leprechaun costume?” He threw back his head and laughed.
“That’s killer, man. Hey, I can wear it to a St. Patrick’s Day party, huh? Do I—do
I really have a leprechaun costume?”
I was beginning to doubt it.
Suddenly, the next name on Lourdes’ printout looked very promising. I headed for the
door.
“Hey, want a beer?” Colby called.
* * *
His name was Tanner Stephens and he lived in one of Sherman Oaks’ less desirable apartment
complexes. I found the location easily enough, parked and went inside. The building
retained its weren’t-the-‘80s-great vibe, but it was clean and quiet.
I found his apartment on the second floor and rang
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