Another five followed the first, and the bartender became more forthcoming.
"It was ten, maybe twenty minutes ago. Pokey was with Roxie Cody and Joey Holman. You know Roxie?”
I nodded. I recognized Joey Holman’s name, too, or I thought I did,, although I couldn’t place who he was. "Do they come here often?”
"Coupla times a week.” He picked up a glass and polished it. "You c’n prob’bly still catch 'em. If you huny.”
“Huriy where?”
"Lamar Field. That’s where they was headed.”
No kidding. Lamar Field is our local Mrs.trip—one concrete and a couple of grass runways, a cluster of metal hangars, and some gas pumps. There was talk a few years back about turning it into a regional hub to service Austin and San Antonio, which would have fed a cancer of commercial development and changed life in Pecan Springs (in my opinion) for the worse. But that particular crisis had been fended off and Lamar Field remains a home for crop-dusters, sports aviators, and the local wing of the Confederate Air Force. It is also the takeoff spot for private flights to Mexico.
I looked at the bartender, a formless suspicion beginning to stir at the back of my mind. "Remind me. Who is Joey Holman?”
The bartender considered whether it was worth the trouble to hit me up for another five and decided to be generous. "Commercial pilot. Runs a charter service." He grinned, showing a wide gap between two chipped front teeth. "You wanna take a quick trip to Monterey, Saltillo, Piedras Negras — I can set you up with Joey.” Ah, it wasn’t generosity, after all. "He don’t advertise, see. Only works through word of mouth, like.” He looked at me speculatively. "ReferrMrs. From friends. He don’t feel obliged to stick with no flight plan. If you got private business, I mean.” The juke box cranked up "Mamas, Don’t Let Your Babies Grow Up To Be Cowboys," and he dropped his voice. “Joey, he’s lined up a bunch of little bitty Mrs.trips where he puts down. Don’t call no attention to the flight that way.”
I wondered briefly if I looked like the kind of person who might have private business in Mexico, but decided it didn’t matter.
“Sony, I’m not in the market right now,” I said. I could forget Lulu Burkhart, and any of the other disappointed lovers and angry husbands that Jerry Jeff Cody might have left in his wake. Pokey, Roxanne, and a charter pilot with Mexican connections who didn’t feel obligated to stick with his flight plan. The three of them added up to only one thing.
The bartender shifted his chewing gum from one side of his mouth to the other, philosophical in his disappointment. "Yeah, well, pass it along.”
I slung my bag over my shoulder and slid from the stool. "You bet I will,” I said, and headed for the door.
Lamar Field is another two or three miles out toward Staples, on the rich blackland prairie that stretches from 1-35 and the Balcones Escarpment eastward to the Gulf. There was a scattering of vehicles in the airport’s gravel parking lot, Pokey’s pickup wasn’t one of them, nor was Jerry Jeff’s white Lexus. They must have driven out with the pilot. 1 pulled in fast and skidded to a stop in front of the pink concrete-block building that houses the aviation service, a couple of charters, and the Confederate Air Force office, with its flag insignia painted prominently on the wall. I jumped out and sprinted around back, through a gate in a chain-link fence. Two guys in zip-front coveralls, one gray, one blue, stood on the concrete apron. They were gazing southward, watching a small red plane as it climbed steeply away from the field.
“I'm looking for Pokey Clendennen,” I said breathlessly. "And Roxanne Cody.”
The guy in the blue coveralls—a gray-haired, mus- tached man wearing a name badge that announced he was Charlie—turned to me, grinning. "Well, you’ll hafta look sharp, missy.” He jerked his head. "That’s them up there. In that red Cessna."
“Oh, no!” I gasped. My pulse was racing, my breath came fast, my brain was in overdrive. Pokey and Roxanne, heading south. And since Roxanne had undoubtedly made a quick visit to Jerry JefFs stash before she and her boyfriend boarded the plane, they were carrying a couple of duffle bags stuffed with Cody’s unreported income. Enough to make it a veiy long, very luxurious Mexican holiday.
“Damn,” I muttered. Why hadn’t I anticipated something like this? I’d dealt with plenty of fugitives, back in the bad old days. I knew how easy it was to disappear into the wild blue yonder, especially when the vanishing act was as well-funded as this one. In fact, Ruby had even warned me that this pair might do a flit, and I’d pooh- poohed her intuition. What an arrogant, self-assured jerk
I was, thinking I was on top of this thing when all the time, Roxanne and Pokey were one jump ahead of me!
Charlie laughed and patted my shoulder. “Hey now, hon, don’t you be so consternated,” he said, in a paternal tone. “Your friends ain’t gone forever, you know. They’ll be back.”
"Like hell,” 1 said disgustedly. I stared up at the plane, now not much bigger than a fly. It was circling the airport, still climbing, finding the right altitude for its southward flight. Its passengers had plotted a murder, executed it with cold-blooded competence, plundered their victim’s stash, and chartered themselves a getaway airplane. Of course they wouldn’t be back. In a couple of hours, they’d be safely on the ground in Mexico.
The guy in the gray suit chuckled at my obvious distress. “What’s the matter, sugar? You don’t think old Pokey can bring it off? Roxanne, too. The pair of 'em's too good to mess up somethin’ as easy as this, wouldn’t you say, Charlie?”
“Oh, heck fire, yes,” Charlie agreed vigorously. “This ain’t nothin’, compared to what that pair’s done in the past.” He pulled a pair of small binoculars out of his coverall pocket and lifted them to his eyes. “Okay, boys ’n’ girls, show us what you're made of. Let’s see that Lover’s Leap.”
And with that, two small specks separated from the fly and began to plummet toward the earth. I gave a startled, half-stifled yelp. "It’s a suicide pact!”
Gray-suit guffawed heartily. “Suicide pact? Hey, that’s good. Ain’t that good, Charlie? Suicide pact. Ol’ Pokey’ll get a kick outta that.”
Charlie handed the binoculars to me with a friendly smile. "Whazza matter, babe? You never seen skydivers before? Here, have a look.” He made a clucking noise with his tongue. “Boy, what technique. Ask me, that pair is world-class.”
I took the binoculars. In clear, bright detail, I saw a slender figure in a red suit, another in a yellow outfit, hands clasped, legs splayed, falling facedown toward earth from something like ten thousand feet. The seconds stretched out as I clutched the binoculars, my gaze frozen to the falling bodies, not realizing I was holding my breath until the skydivers released their grip, moved apart, and, first one, then the other, pulled their ripcords. Red and yellow silk billowed into graceful wings over their heads and they swung, human pendulums, beneath the parachutes.
“I gotta tell you, that’s a pretty sight,” Charlie said, with satisfied emphasis. “A damn pretty sight.”
A few minutes later, first Roxanne, then Pokey, landed on the grass beyond the concrete strip. They came down on their feet, each with a light thud, as light and graceful as birds. As if they had done this a hundred times—maybe they had—they tugged on the lines, collapsing the chutes into piles of fluid silk.
"Toldja they’d be back, didn’t I?” Gray-suit said, and chuckled.
The rest of the scene was pure anticlimax. Pokey and Roxanne registered an appropriate surprise when they saw me standing there with their skydiving buddies. Joey Holman landed the red Cessna and taxied onto the apron in front of us. Charlie and his friend shrugged into their parachute packs, picked up their helmets, and headed for the plane to take their turn falling out of the sky. Roxanne carried both chutes inside to repack them, leaving Pokey outside with me, smoking a cigarette and answering my stammered questions with apparent candor and not an ounce of obvious resentment.
No, he hadn’t seen anybody, and certainly not Roxanne, messing with his chili before he ladl
ed it into the sample cup. What under the sun gave me that ridiculous idea?
No, he had no reason to suspect that Roxanne or anybody else, for that matter, had tried to frame him—pretty silly notion, when you got right down to it, wasn’t it? If you asked him, it sounded like something some TV scriptwriter would come up with to pad out a plot.
Letters, blackmail letters? Hey, what kind of a weird joke was that? No, he couldn’t even hazard a guess as to which of Jerry Jeff’s many enemies—too many to count, even if you took your boots off—might try that kind of dumb trick. And if ol’ Jerry Jeff was playing fast and loose with the IRS, he for one didn’t know a thing about it and didn’t want to, thank you very much. If his partner had been robbing the till and forgetting to tell Uncle Sam, he just guessed he’d have to forgive the dead and forget the debt. He’d never been one to hold a grudge, anybody could tell me that.
Now if I would excuse him (this said with a shy Jimmy Stewart grin), he’d just step in that door and help Roxanne, who always volunteered to do things other people didn’t want to do, like packing parachutes and stuff. God knows, that sweet little girl needed cheering up, and that’s why he’d suggested that they keep their regular weekly skydiving date, the way they’d been doing for about six months now. It was just about Roxanne’s only recreation and it would be a shame to take it away from her, even though her heart was broken in two by her poor husband’s untimely death.
By the time I got back into the car, I was feeling about as deflated as one of those red and yellow parachutes that sweet Roxanne was unselfishly packing away. It was entirely possible that she and Pokey were guilty of doctoring Jerry Jeffs chili—in fact, I remained convinced of it, in spite of Pokey’s outstanding performance. But I had totally blown any chance to coax him to give the truth away. The way things stood now, they could live happily ever after and there was not a single thing I could do to prevent it. If justice was going to be served, somebody else would have to dish it up.
With a sigh, I reached for the cell phone and keyed in McQuaid’s number. The sooner I told him about my ridiculous blunder, the sooner I could begin to forget it.^ItIt ^It It ^%
3b J* 3b J* J» ^ 3* J» ^5 J* J*a
Chapter Seventeen
The longer a chile is cooked, the hotter the flavor. Simmering results in a dish that is hot overall; stir-frying adds flavor and a bit of spice. To lessen the heat, soak fresh chiles in a solution of three parts mild wine vinegar to one part salt for an hour.
Habeeb Salloum The Herb Quarterly Fall, 1993
To my surprise, McQuaid gave my report nothing more than a quick "Don’t be so rough on yourself, China.” He added, consolingly, "Eveiy cop knows that investigation is mostly a matter of cold trails and blind alleys.” He switched to a different subject. "I need you to look for something—tonight, if possible.”
I sagged back into the seat. “Can’t it wait?” I asked wearily.
There was a moment’s silence, then he said, sympathetically, "I understand. You must be tired, chasing all over town after red herrings. Edna Lund has volunteered to look for it. Or maybe I can reach Ruby. She’s always anxious to help.”
"What’ve you lost?” I asked, with a resigned sigh. It isn’t that I feel competitive with Ruby or anybody else,
it’s just that . . . well, if McQuaid needs something, / should be the one to respond.
“It’s not me,” McQuaid said quickly. "It’s Miss Velma.”
"Okay, so what has Miss Velma lost?”
"Her will.”
That brought me up short. “I thought she didn’t have any money to leave.”
"Maybe, maybe not. But Joyce and Edna and I have been talking to her, and her garbled statements are beginning to make some sense to us. She's pretty mixed up, but it’s clear that she’s desperately concerned about her will, and about Bunny. Actually, the two seem confused in her mind."
"Ah!” I exclaimed. "So Opal Hogge really w after Miss Velma’s money!”
"Not necessarily," McQuaid replied cautiously. "There might not be any money. But then again there might. Or there might be other properly—land, maybe, or securities—that nobody knows anything about. In fact, it’s possible that the will lists the whereabouts of a safety deposit box where she was keeping her valuables. It bears checking out, don’t you think?”
"It certainly does," I said. The way things were shaping up, it might not be possible to bring Jerry Jeffs killers to justice, or even to prove that there had been a crime. But this was something I could handle without screwing up. If there was a will to be found, surely I could find it. Anyway, I’d feel better if I had something to do, no matter how unimportant. Left to my own devices, I’d probably sit around and stew about what a moron I’d been. Suicide pact, indeed! “Where should I start looking?” I asked, chastened.
"It’s a little hard to tell, but Miss Velma seems to think it’s stored with the other papers from Perry's law office. I suppose Perry drafted it for her, and probably also witnessed it. She seems to be saying that MaeBelle might know where they are.”
“It’s possible,” I said. “MaeBelle told me that Lester hauled boxes of Tom Periy’s papers out of Miss Velma’s garage. Lester thought she could have hidden cash, so he went through everything pretly carefully. He probably didn’t check for a will, though.”
There was a moment’s pause. “I hope he didn’t burn the lot when he was finished.”
"MaeBelle said Miss Velma made them promise not to throw any of it away,” I replied. "It’s probably in the Bat- tersbys’ garage.” I glanced at my watch. "Their house is on my way home. Why don’t I stop and take a look? I can also let MaeBelle know that her aunt has been moved and that she’s being watched.”
"Good,” McQuaid said. "If Miss Velma knew her will was safe, she might be less agitated.”
“And if we knew what was in it, we might be closer to understanding the relationship between Miss Velma and Opal, and why Opal assaulted her.”
"Precisely,” McQuaid said. "Ifyou have to take the matter to the Manor’s board, the will might turn out to be a useful piece of evidence.”
"Okay,” I said with a new energy, and turned on the ignition. "You’ve talked me into it.”
Lester answered the door with a longneck in his hand. Over his shoulder, I could see the television set tuned to a baseball game. Beside Miss Velma’s recliner was a cooler full of ice and beer, and a giant bag of chips.
"She ain’t here,” Lester said. "Jamie’s in the hospital with her ’pendix. Mae Belle won’t be hack for a coupla days.” He began to push the door shut.
I pushed the door open again. "I’m not here to see MaeBelle, exactly. I wondered if I could look through the papers you took out of Miss Velma’s garage. An important legal document has been lost.” I was not going to tell him that I was looking for Mae Belle’s aunt’s will. "It’s probably with the papers that came from Air. Peny’s law office.”
Lester belched beerily. "Legal stuff, huh?” There was a roar of crowd approval on the television, and he turned around to check the action. "Well, them papers ain’t here no more.”
Bad news. "Where are they?”
"Out to my cousin’s,” he said. He was turned away from me now, his eyes on the batter sprinting toward first base.
"Your cousin’s what?”
"Yer out!” he yelled, stamping his foot and lifting his beer bottle in salute. He turned back to me, jubilant. "Damn fool oughta know better’n bunt with Marvel behind the plate and a runner on first. Ain’t got a snowball’s chance.”
"Absolutely,” I said. "Your cousin’s what?”
"My cousin’s—” It took him a moment to refocus and find his place in the conversation. "Oh, yeah. Arlie’s deer lease. There's a old bam out there, and that’s where Arlie an’ me put them boxes.” He eyed me defensively, as if I had accused him of something. "Hell’s bells, you didn’t ’spect me to leave ’em stacked up round here, didja? Wouldn’t a bin room fer anythin’ else. There’s a ton of that stuff.
”
“No,” 1 said in a conciliatoiy tone. “I’m sure you found a safe, diy place to store them.”
“We-e-11,” he said, dragging it out, “I don’t know about diy. That roof ain’t too good. Floor neither. But hell, they’re just papers. Velma hadn’t made such a stink, I woulda put a match to 'em.”
"Where is Arlie’s deer lease?” I asked.
The crowd erupted again and Lester decided to get rid of me and get back to his solitary beer party. “Take Lime Kiln Road to Stassney Junction,” he said. "Turn left three miles, go over a cattle crossin’ and through a broken gate, an’ yer there. Barn’s on the right when you drive in.” He began to close the door again.
I stuck out my foot. "May I have your permission to look through the papers? That may mean taking them where they can be examined.”
"My permission?” This seemed to amuse him momentarily, then he shrugged. "Far as I’m concerned, you can do whut you want with that junk. Makes me no never mind.” He lifted his beer and took a swig. "OF Arlie, he shot himself in the foot a couple weeks ago, so I don’t reckon he’ll care, neither.” He started to shut the door once more, then thought of something else.
"You go out there, you keep a eye out fer snakes, y’hear? I shot one humongous mama rattler inside that bam, and a bunch of her babies got away.”What happened next is a little hard to explain. What I wanted was a long, hot bath and a cup of my special-blend bedtime tea. I intended to call Brian and hear that he’d been horseback riding and swimming in the river. I intended to talk to McQuaid again, about our wedding— no, about our marriage, to help quiet the jitters. I definitely did not intend to drive out to Arlie’s deer lease and brave a pack of orphaned rattlers just to look for Miss Velma’s misplaced will, which would still be there in the morning, if it was there at all.
But our house is located just off Lime Kiln Road, only a couple of miles from Stassney Junction. And this was June, the month of long, bright twilights, when the evening air is clear as spring water and the Hill Country is so green and beautiful that you want to store away its sights, not-to-be-forgotten snapshots, in your memory. The twenly-minute drive out to the deer lease might be just what I needed to wind down after a day when I’d shuttled from one place to another, trying to fit together the pieces of an elusive truth. With any luck, the cartons would be labeled and I could find what I wanted right away. Or I could pick out likely boxes, load them in the car, and haul them home for a more thorough search. I might even be able to report success to McQuaid tonight.
Chile Death Page 23
