by Gale Borger
"Hmmm? Uh yeah, I'm incredible."
Her bemused expression made me want to hurl. I left her there and headed back out to the car.
"Sure," I mumbled, "Mag's incredible." I sighed and reached inside the SUV. With an un-lady like grunt I hauled the whiteboard out and into the house.
I passed the kitchen on my way to Mag's office just as Ian turned a still dazed Mag around and cupped her face. "So, beautiful, are you going to marry me or what?" He kissed her again and bounded out of the house to the car. She stumbled behind him and followed him out while the dogs brought up the rear of the party.
I had the whiteboard set up and my notes and recorder ready. Where the heck is Romeo and Juliet?
I looked out the front window and watched as
Mag held the SUV's gate up and Ian dug his laptop out of the back. Ian trotted with the dogs back to the front door. He turned back to wait for Mag. She stared at him. He flashed her his lopsided smile and tilted his head. "Coming, Sweetheart?" Wesley took this as his engraved invitation to bound up onto the porch and scamper inside.
Mag stood inside the front door looking a little dazed. I stood next to her and we looked into the mirror on the wall. I could see we were wearing identical stunned expressions. I recovered first and smacked Mag in the back of the head. "Snap out of it, bride-to-be. Wesley just invaded your kitchen." Galvanized into action, Mag sprinted for the front door.
Later on, with a brat in one hand and a white board marker in the other, I looked at what we had so far. Not a hell of a lot. I retrieved the recorder and we went over the information as I had taken it when I first observed the body. I added and corrected as I went along:
I had noted general information I would need for my investigation. Graff, Carole Marie. Female, White, age 45-50 (exact D.O.B.?), brown hair, blue eyes, approximately 5'5" and 135 pounds. No jewelry visible, leather glove on one hand. I noted: Where's the other glove?
Beginning at the end, I wrote on the whiteboard that her boots were scuffed, small clumps of mud on the inside heel. Well worn–appear to be working boots. Grass and mud embedded by the toe of the left boot.
Was she dragged or was it from working outside? Looking closely I saw the grass on the toe was folded over the sole, some grass was broken off at this point. Scrape marks across the top of that same toe and down the side of the foot. I took note of the scrape marks on her jeans indicating that at some point, Carole was dragged over the ground (great deduction, Sherlock, how else did she get under your parents' house?). Off to the side, I scribbled notes as a million questions floated around in my head:
1) How did she get to Mom's house?
2) Dragged how far?
3) Why not carried or transported on wheels–re-check the yard for signs of scuffle.
4) One perpetrator working alone, or perhaps an unplanned murder?
5) What the heck as in her pocket?
6) Is J.J. coming by tonight?
Okay Buzz, focus. Pressing the button on the recorder I listened to my voice droning on. Mentally I began ticking off facts as I had observed them. Boots, then blue jeans, grass, mud stains, burdocks and chaff are visible on the bottom by the right ankle (the left had not been visible at this time), dirt and grass stains running parallel with the leg appeared on the thighs and knees. Jeans are not new, but not yet ready for the ragbag. Levi brand.
I thought I was placing too much faith in a couple of seeds, while Carole's body got colder by the minute. Ian had tentatively identified the seeds. He knew he had two varieties of poppy seeds–one being the opium poppy, the other, California poppy. Another he thought was a cactus seed, but he did not yet know which kind. The last he could not identify without his personal software.
The Rob Graff thing really had me going. I called Glenn's cell phone. He assured me that Rob was just having difficulty dealing with Carole's death.
He rambled on and on about Rob's great relationship with his mother, about Carole's movements the day before her death, almost as if he was reading a script. Something didn't ring true with the whole thing, especially with Rob's cryptic remark about 'her' lurking in the back of my mind. I thanked him and hung up.
On a whim, I called my friend, Janelle, down at the Clerk of Courts office and asked her to trace birth, death and marriage information on the three of them. Janelle called me back within the hour with some very interesting news. She did not find any local information on Glenn and Carole, which only meant that they were not married or born in our county. She then accessed the mainframe computer. She did not find either name on a marriage certificate, but found their names under births, to the same parents, but in South Dakota. After the initial wave of nausea passed through me, I asked Janelle to go on.
She said she contacted one of her friends at the IRS, and there was no record of a Robert J. Graff having been born, died, or married to either Carole or her husband Glenn. She told me one more interesting thing. Someone had requested Carole's birth and death certificates online yesterday, the day I found Carol's body.
Janelle said she could trace the customer by the credit card information and get back to me. I asked one last favor of Janelle, and that was to keep our conversation confidential. She told me she had not spoken to me in over a month and hung up.
Back to the drawing board, or the white board, in this instance. I told Ian and Mag what little I had learned, and Ian let out a big breath. He stood, hands on hips, and paced back and forth. The dogs followed his movements as if they were watching a slow motion ping-pong game. Ian bit a nail, he swiped at his face, and he paced some more. He came to a stop in front of the white board. He stared at it for almost a full minute before turning to us. "We need more help. We are getting nowhere fast."
"Duh?" I said
"No shit, Sherlock," Mag said
The dogs watched Ian with benign interest in case he had a hot dog in his pocket. Ian looked back at them and smiled. "Well, at least there are two other professionals besides me in this room." Wesley grinned at him and Hilary delicately passed gas.
Ian came over and squatted beside us. He fisted his hands in front of him and looked at the floor, gathering his thoughts. He inhaled and blew out a long breath. "If we can put the sarcasm on hold, ladies, I think I can help here. I have a couple of contacts I can get a hold of who may be able to shed some light on the Graff thing."
Contacts? Since when does a science teacher have 'contacts'? I stared at him and he stared back. I guessed this is what I felt all along was bothering me about him. The piece that didn't fit, the feelings my mom calls 'The Irish'. I sometimes hate it when I'm right. Ian Connor was a phony.
I wondered how much of himself he was willing to divulge at this point, or rather, how much he was willing to trust us with whatever his secrets were. I was getting angry and wished I had a TASER so I could pop him one in the ass.
I spoke first, trying for polite. I failed miserably and it came out as bitch.
"All right, cowboy. What the Hell is going on and who are you really? Don't give me the, 'I'm a plant-boy geek who happens to work for the University, and who happened to be in Milwaukee yesterday, and who just happened to be free this morning' to come to a podunk town to mix with the local idiots who are floundering around to do what? Make sure we keep floundering, or to do enough ground work so you guys can move in and take over. Or am I wrong and you're one of the bad guys?"
Ian squirmed uncomfortably and looked at Mag. She looked wounded. That really pissed me off. I was on a roll, and The Bitch turned into The Bitch of the Royal Potentate. I love it. "You know what else I think, plant boy? I think you reek of Fed. Before this morning's talk with Janelle, I thought the Graffs might have been Feds, but their trail is too sloppy; their cover too easy to blow."
I had a full head of steam going now. I put my arm around Mag's shoulders. "So you go ahead and make your little 'contacts', Fed Boy, and you ride off into the sunset, tooting your Yuppie Scum Beemer horn, and leave us the hell alone!"
As I le
t him stew on that I got even angrier. "So what do you guys suspect? Domestic Terrorism? Drugs? Trafficking of something else? Is Rob Graff in on it? Are they all illegal?"
I was thinking out loud now. "It's gotta be domestic, and it has to be big."
I glared at him. "And you came from Milwaukee, so my guess is you must be FBI. Were you all waiting for Mag or me to get hit before moving on this, or were you just entertaining yourself with the local color before pulling out?"
I heard a sob from Mag, who ran from the room. The dogs followed her. I heard the back door slam.
Ian glared at me.
"You Bitch."
"Wait a minute, asshole, before you start the requisite name calling. You're just pissed off that I caught on, so now instead of being intuitive or good at what I do, typical male feelings of inferiority provoke you into calling the female a Bitch." I laughed. "That's really rich. Well, have at it, Big Boy. I have better things to do than to be insulted by a scumbag like you."
I spun and made a grand exit. "And leave my sister alone!"
I slammed the back door for good measure. I found Mag and the dogs in the back yard all piled on the big swing. One of the beautiful things about having big dogs around you is that they stick by you when your world turns to crap, and they let you cry in their fur as long as you pay them off in snacks. At this moment, Mag had her arms around Wesley's neck, crying softly. Hilary was in her lap, taking on the burdens of the world. I squeezed in and made sure I was touching all three of them. With one foot I set us to rocking.
We rocked for a while in silence. "Mag, no matter what happens with Ian, we're still a team, and we still need to find out what happened to Carole."
Mag looked up, her tear-stained face wearing a hopeful expression. "Really, Buzz? I thought you'd dump me so I wouldn't be a burden to you anymore. What a dumb ass I am. I bought into everything Mr. Butthead said."
"Slow down, Mag. If you recall, Mr. Butthead didn't say much, which is why I initially had a problem with him. I speculated and guessed. I had a feeling about him and unfortunately I was right. But I was blowing smoke in there–I'd bet he's no bad guy. To give him his due, when it came to you, I didn't have any of those feelings like he was a phony, or giving us a line of crap. Maybe he isn't the pig I thought he was. Maybe he's just a little porker." She smiled. "At any rate, he should be pretty pissed at me about now."
I realized at that point what I said was true. Ian seemed like a pretty straight-up guy, except for when it came to who he worked for and what he was doing down here. Mag sniffed again and wiped her nose on Wesley's neck. Wes grinned and panted.
She thought long and hard before turning to me. "You know, I never did ask him what he was about. I just kind of ran out. You know how I cry ugly. I didn't want to subject him to that."
"Actually, Mag, I think crying ugly is a Miller trait. We all get that big old red nose, blotchy face, and swollen eyes. That's one reason why having big dogs is better than having a man. Look at Wes. He's got boogers in his hair, and he's happy as a clam. Dogs never care if you cry pretty or if your hair is a wreck. They are all about unconditional love. Give yourself a minute to get under control. Maybe you ought to go back in the house and see if you have a big dog you can love, or a small pig you can put on a spit."
"I love you, Buzz, thanks."
"I love you too, Maggot. Now get out of here."
Wes, Hilary, and I sat for a while, swinging in Mag's back yard. I thought about where we going to go from here on the case, and what part, if any, Ian would play. I relaxed and began to hum. The dogs settled in and fell asleep; each smiled and twitched as they romped in their doggie dreams.
12
For the next fifteen hours, Alejandro had nothing to do but think. He thought back about many things that had held little meaning at the time they happened. He thought how odd it was that some of those occurrences now took on a more sinister meaning.
He had many unanswered questions. Like why did Martinez insist they bring all mares to the championships, rather than the best horse for the job? Why was Eduardo Martinez late arriving, and why did he not check into his hotel? How did Martinez know what happened at the barns if Alejandro did not tell him? Why did Martinez hire people to find Huerta before he knew Huerta was missing? Were the thugs who beat up him and Jose possibly hired by Martinez? Why would Martinez send thugs to beat up Alejandro and Jose anyway? Why not just ask them if they knew where Dr. Huerta was? Hell, was Dr. Huerta even a doctor? Did someone think Alejandro knew too much? Did they think he had figured something out? Another terrible thought crossed his mind: was Alejandro Montoya supposed to die in Dallas?
Though he knew it was paranoid, he drove off the Interstate and onto small country roads to check on his horses. He could not deviate too far from his route because of the time element. He did not stop often, and he did not eat.
Martinez called him once to find out where he was. Alejandro told him he was in Joplin, Missouri, when in fact he was crossing the Mississippi into Illinois. He tried to ask Martinez questions about Huerta and Jose, but Martinez cut him off and hung up, leaving Alejandro even more confused and more frightened.
When Alejandro made it north of Chicago, he looked for a place to pull off the Interstate again. He saw what looked like a petting zoo off of Highway 176, and pulled into the parking lot. It was late in the afternoon and the place was closed.
Having little to do but think during the long hours on the road, he convinced himself there must be answers to some of his questions hidden in the horse trailer. He opened all the service doors to let in the night air for the mares. He pulled everything out of the dressing room and the truck. He spread it across three parking stalls, separating his belongings from those of Jose and Dr. Huerta.
Alejandro searched through the belongings, not knowing what he was looking for. He looked through the stacks of clothing and hygiene items, but found nothing suspicious looking. "I am now talking like a movie detective," he told the mares, "All those nights of watching CSI paid off."
He searched Huerta's veterinary bag, but found nothing more suspicious than birthing gloves, regular gloves, a large set of what looked like grilling tongs, and assorted wraps, needles, threads, and various other 'doctor' things. "Birthing gloves?" He thought about it. Perhaps to check for pregnancy down the road.
He was reloading the tack room with Dr. Huerta's hanging clothes when a small bubble envelope fell out of an inside jacket pocket. Alejandro picked it up and flipped it over. It was addressed to a Mrs. Carole Graff in White Bass Lake, Wisconsin. What held Alejandro's attention was the return address. It was from some Mexican research group he never heard of, but the address was the Martinez ranch!
Alejandro finished stuffing Huerta's and Jose's things back in the tack room. He put his own things in the backseat of the truck. He threw the bubble envelope into the glove compartment of the truck. When he leaned across the seat, he noticed something was wedged under the passenger seat. He grabbed the flashlight.
Directing the light under the seat, he tugged on what appeared to be a briefcase. He yanked it out, stumbling backward when it tore loose. It flew out from under the seat, smacking him on the chin. He thought how ironic it was to have just injured the only spot on his entire body that did not already hurt. Rubbing his chin, he inspected the briefcase
It was dark brown leather and unfamiliar to him. He wondered if it could have belonged to Dr. Huerta. The thought came to him that one could mistake this bag for the one holding the registration and health papers for the mares. Alejandro remembered the last time he saw Huerta. He was jogging around the corner of the barn with a briefcase in his hand. Was this the briefcase he carried? Did he take the wrong briefcase? If so, then what was in this one? Dare he look inside something that did not belong to him? He thought that after all that had happened to him over the last 24 hours, hell, yes, he dared!
Just as he reached for the latch on the case, red and blue lights flashed on the main road. Alejandro stuf
fed the case back under the seat and walked around the trailer. He stroked and spoke to the mares before closing their doors. The squad pulled into the lot and caught Alejandro in the spotlight.
"Hey, Buddy, are you okay?" The funny Midwestern accent injected a friendly note into the question. Alejandro smiled as he turned toward the squad.
"I'm fine, officers. It seemed one of my horses was making a racket and I wanted to make sure they were all okay."
One officer was looking at the in-car computer. "Probably checking the plates," Alejandro thought. He hoped Martinez had everything up to date. The other officer looked in the trailer windows as he spoke.
"You got some nice horses in there. Where are you headed?"
"To the," he checked his notes, "Gamble Horse Farm in Gurnee, sir. I have brood mares to drop off." Not knowing where the next statement came from, he also blurted, "Then I need to make a stop in White Bass Lake across the border. I am on vacation, but I might be checking out a new job, too."
"White Bass Lake? Nice town. Good folks. I know the sheriff up there. Mr.?"
"Montoya, sir." He handed over his driver's license, thinking wouldn't it be his luck if Martinez reported his truck and trailer stolen?
The police officer strolled back to the squad and handed his license to the other cop. Alejandro thought fast. "I might see the sheriff when I get up to White Bass Lake, do you want me to send him your good wishes?"
The cop smiled. "Sure. You tell Sheriff Green that Mark Olsen from Mundelein says he owes me a doughnut. He'll understand." The other police officer stepped away from the squad and handed Alejandro his license.
"You can also tell that no-good weasel that he owes Harry Ballard a fish fry!" They both laughed at the 'inside' joke.
Alejandro discovered from the officers he was only two exits away from the one he needed. He thanked them both and climbed into the truck. He pulled back onto the Interstate and within twenty minutes was pulling into the front lot of Gamble's Horse Farm.
