CHAPTER 23
A STRONG PAIR OF HANDS CAUGHT ME BEFORE I hit the sand. I instinctively tried to fight my way free of being held. The first backward swing of my elbow made contact.
“Ouch, tough girl, I was just trying to help,” a familiar voice said as my rescuer let me go. I looked back just as I hit the sand. Mason was rubbing his arm. “You’ve got quite an elbow swing.”
He looked down at me with concern. “Are you okay?”
I did a quick survey of myself. Somehow I had avoided any kind of injury-not even a bump on the arm. Mentally I felt a little shaky, but an inner voice ordered me to snap out of it and I obeyed. “I think so,” I said as Mason held out his arm and helped me up. It was still sinking in that I was safe. I apologized for the elbow strike and threw my arms around him, grateful to have the chance to do it.
The relief at being out of the car had made me forget my police entourage until a voice over the loudspeaker ordered me and my accomplice to put our hands on the roof of the car. The three police cars had stopped on the street. All three had their doors open as shields. This had happened before, and I knew enough to simply follow their command instead of trying to explain what had happened.
“This is why I came here this weekend,” Mason said as we both stepped out of the hug and complied with the order. “I never know what’s going to happen with you around.”
“How did you just happen to be here?” I asked as we stood side by side with our arms on top of Adele’s sand-locked car.
Mason said he’d gotten back from his aunt’s party. “You know how it is with family. I needed a tai chi break and headed to the beach. Here I was, expecting peace, and suddenly a car comes rolling on the sand. Obviously, it got my attention.”
I glanced toward the area across the street, and for the first time it registered that I was only a short distance from the gateway to the Asilomar boardwalk. After a moment the police officers came onto the beach and approached the car.
“Ms. Pink?” Sergeant French said, separating from the others. “Are you okay?” As soon as I told him I was, his tone changed. “What was all that about? Did you really think you’d get away? You would just have gotten a ticket if you’d pulled over. I’m afraid you’re in a lot more trouble now.”
“I wasn’t trying to run away from your officers,” I said. “The accelerator in the car stuck. I couldn’t stop. You really should check it out. Remember I told you about getting some information that was going to rock your case? I think someone didn’t want me to make it back.”
Sergeant French let us take our hands down and we all stepped away from the car. He stared at Mason’s tai chi outfit. “How does he fit into the picture?”
“He doesn’t,” I said. I was a little out of it from the shock of everything and started to babble that Mason was a high-level attorney from L.A. and a tai chi expert who needed to recover from a family party and had come to the beach to do some tai chi. Mason threw me a concerned look and said he’d take over.
“When I saw Molly get out of the car, it was a natural instinct to come over and help her.”
Sergeant French called over one of his officers and told him to check out the accelerator. Then he turned his attention back to me. “Okay, now why would someone not want you to make it back, and from where?”
He had his friendly face on, but I knew he was probably thinking “Humor the crazy amateur sleuth.” Mason nodded. “Molly, I’m curious, too. What’s going on?”
We were interrupted by the officer Sergeant French had sent to look over Adele’s car.
“Hey, Sarge, you aren’t going to believe this.” The uniform gave me an odd look. Sergeant French followed him. The car door was open and the officer pointed to something. Then they both knelt down. I was trying to see what they were doing and overhear their conversation. Mason reached out and touched my arm. “I’m just glad you’re all right.”
“You and me both,” I said, remembering how I’d thought it was the end. I was sure Charlie wouldn’t mind waiting a little longer.
A few moments later, Sergeant French and the other officer came back to us, both of them wearing odd expressions, and took us to the car.
“Show her what you found,” the sergeant said. The officer used a stick to fold back the floor mat, which I now saw had covered part of the accelerator. A mélange of yarn with something pink and sticky mixed in was stuck on the mat. I knelt down and leaned in to get a closer look. The smell gave it away.
“Bubble gum?” I said with surprise.
“Yes, somehow the bubble gum and that yarn mess got caught under there. The mat must have moved when you were driving and held the pedal down. The gum and yarn obviously came from the backseat. There are balls of yarn all over the place and an open bag of bubble gum.
“But don’t you see? That didn’t just happen. Someone did it to the floor mat,” I protested.
Mason was all business now. “What my client is trying to say is that she has good reason to think that someone deliberately placed that glob so the floor mat would stick to the pedal.”
“Thanks for your input, counselor, but I’d really like to hear why Ms. Pink is so sure someone wants to harm her.”
Was there any way I could explain what I’d been trying to do so it didn’t sound ridiculous? I took a deep breath and decided to give it my best shot. I said I thought Sergeant French was right that Izabelle had been meeting somebody on the beach. I explained the e-mails from the Identical Twins Anonymous sponsor. “It seems the whole point of the group is for identical twins who are having problems with being identical twins. Izabelle changed her appearance so she wouldn’t be identical anymore. She never even mentioned her sister was her twin in the memoir piece she wrote in one of the workshops. The e-mail made it sound like there was something she was going to do this weekend that involved her twin,” I said.
“So, you’re saying you think her twin was on the beach with her?” Sergeant French said. To my surprise, he was actually paying attention to what I was saying.
I nodded. “Her twin would know about her peanut allergy and probably that she had an EpiPen with her. And since Izabelle didn’t like her twin, there’s a good chance the feeling was mutual. Who better to feed her sister the peanut butter-laced s’more?” Sergeant French put up his hand.
“Sorry, Ms. Pink, I still don’t buy it that the woman was killed with a s’more. But them meeting on the beach, one way or the other, seems reasonable.”
I shrugged off his critique of my murder plan and continued. “Because of the e-mail from the Twins Anonymous guy, I began to think her twin might be here. But how to figure out who was her twin?” I asked if I could retrieve the crochet book and the manila envelope, and he gave his okay. I opened to the page with the doll model and repeated what the gray-haired woman had told me about the doll probably being made from a photo of a real little girl.
“I thought there was a good chance the doll was made from a photograph of Izabelle when she was around five years old.” I mentioned remembering the photo of the missing child I’d seen on the milk carton and how it had gotten me thinking. I swallowed, then told him about my plan to get the photo in the book age-progressed. I went over my phone search to find the photo studio. To my surprise, Sergeant French’s face lit up with interest.