R.P. Dahlke - Dead Red 03 - A Dead Red Oleander

by R. P. Dahlke

  I thought he’d be annoyed, but he just moved and continued shoveling in the food. I ate my breakfast while Roxanne and Nancy chatted about dance and music and the sort of things for which I had neither interest nor inclination. By the time I wiped my mouth for the last time, Nancy was relaxed and smiling. I leaned around her and tapped my watch to show Roxanne that we needed to talk wedding dinner menu.

  “I was getting to that,” she said. “I called your Aunt Mae’s ranch foreman, gave him the address here, and the beef has been shipped. Everyone here has their invitation, and I sent out the invites to the farmers and chemical salesmen on your list. Are we missing anyone?”

  “Well, Nancy is invited, of course. And she’ll probably be bringing a friend, if that’s all right.” My gaze strayed to Jim sitting in a booth facing the door.

  Roxanne tipped an eyebrow at me. “Are you sure you don’t want to invite Detective Rodney?”

  We both knew she was kidding. “And ruin my wedding day? Not a chance.”

  “Doesn’t he work with Caleb?” Nancy asked.

  “When it can’t be helped. Different departments. The detective works for the Modesto city police, and Caleb is part of the county. And Rodney has been voted most likely to throw a monkey wrench into any party.”

  Nancy played with the tip of her ponytail. “You mean like arresting one of the guests for murder?”

  And things were going so well. “It’s doubtful you’ll be charged at all, and certainly by the time of my wedding, this will all be over and done with.”

  “Then Caleb said I was free and clear?”

  “Nothing has come back yet one way or the other,” I said, thinking about that toxicology report Caleb said still wasn’t in.

  “I can see it now. I’m dancing the hokey-pokey and the cops arrive to drag me off to jail. No thanks, Lalla. I think Jim and I should pass.”

  “The hokey-pokey and the chicken dance have been banned from this and any future weddings. Besides, it’s not like it’s my first go-round at this tie-the-knot thing. I won’t be wearing a long white gown and veil. We’ll do our vows in front of a justice of the peace right here at Roxanne’s, and our overall-wearing, redneck friends will toast us with their Bud Lights.”

  “I never got to wear a gown, white or otherwise. Arthur and I were married with such short notice we said our vows in what we had on. I thought the least they would do was allow us an Elvis wedding since we were in Vegas. But instead we got a nervous judge, no cake, and our honeymoon was a tacky little motel in Sacramento. The next day Arthur started ag-pilot school. I hated that motel, and every day of the six months we lived there.”

  Nancy took a napkin out of the metal dispenser on the counter and blew her nose. “I think I spent so much time looking for the day when we’d be out of the program and free again, I pushed it all under a rug. Now it seems like it was just a pathetic waste of time.”

  Roxanne patted Nancy’s shoulder. “I tell you what, how about you and I work on making this one special for Lalla?”

  I ducked my neck down into my shoulders turtle-like. I still couldn’t avoid Roxanne’s gloating. “It’s going to be her third, you know.”

  Nancy’s head swiveled to gawk at me. “Your third? You haven’t been accused of killing any of them, have you?”

  “No, but I did beat up my second husband’s car.”

  “Way to go, Lalla,” Nancy said, hopping off the stool. “I’m going to the loo, so go ahead and explain to Roxanne why I’m a widow.”

  Roxanne sucked in her round cheeks. “What was that?”

  “She doesn’t get to continue with a therapist if she’s out of the program. She’s afraid that the toxicology report is going to say that the oleander branch she used to roast her husband’s hotdogs is the reason her husband died, and I just thought—”

  “You just thought a five-minute checkup with a non-practicing psychologist would do it? That works for cars and oil changes, not traumatized young women.”

  “You think so? That she’s traumatized?”

  Roxanne threw up her hands. “I’m simply going on what you’ve told me so far. Analysis would take a lot longer and I’d have to be willing.”

  “Well, would you?”

  “Sweetpea, I know you mean well, but that girl needs a licensed professional. The best I can offer her is a slice of Leon’s pie and a hug.”

  “Oh. You’re right, I suppose. She’s been staying at our house and—”

  “Why is that?”

  The question would be redundant except that Roxanne didn’t know Nancy was now a target of her godfather’s crooked partners, and I couldn’t tell her. Instead I said, “Because Detective Rodney said so, that’s why. Besides, he’s threatened her with the pokey, no pun intended.”

  “Sounds like hokey to me, pun intended.”

  “I deserved that, but we—my dad and I—feel we owe her. We hired her husband, and now we’re all she’s got.”

  Roxanne looked at me sideways, but let it go. “Except for that nice-looking young man who followed you inside. What’s up with him?”

  “That’s the U.S. marshal assigned to her case.”

  “I thought you said she was out of the program.”

  “She is, but after the break-in at our house, the marshal took time off so he could look out for her.”

  Roxanne glanced at Jim Balthrop again, and tapped her fingernails on the counter to show me she knew I wasn’t being entirely honest. “So what’s next for her?”

  “Me?” Nancy said, sliding up on to her stool. “I’m going to hike Kilimanjaro, swim with the whales off Baja, learn how to surf, drive race cars. At least, I will if…”

  As the tears spilled down her cheeks, Roxanne reached over and hugged her.

  My cell jingled a merry tune. Caleb. I answered. “What’s up?”

  Nancy watched my face, hoping for some good news. I nodded for her to wait, then nodded again, did a thumbs-up, and said good-bye to Caleb.

  She expelled a sigh. “Then it wasn’t the oleander?”

  “The good news is that there wasn’t enough of the oleander toxin in his system to kill him, even with his heart condition.”

  She put a hand over her heart as if to keep it from beating out of her chest. “Is there bad news?”

  “The ME found a recent injection site.”

  “Arthur was diabetic. He injected himself every day.”

  “Diabetic? First he’s got a heart condition, now he’s diabetic?” I squeaked. “None of this was on his physical. You should’ve told me!”

  Nancy’s face crumbled. “He was asthmatic, too. He was only going to be flying for a few short months. I didn’t… we didn’t think it would matter.”

  “Jeeez, Nancy, I’m sorry to yell at you, but if Arthur had died in a plane crash, and he had health issues, our insurance wouldn’t pay. We could’ve been sued or worse, prosecuted for negligence.”

  “Arthur wasn’t thinking about anything except what he wanted. His aero-ag journeyman’s ticket, his dream job. I went along with it because I owed him. Now I wish—isn’t that Detective Rodney?”

  We turned and watched as the detective wove through the tables to our end of the counter.

  “Nancy Einstein. I need you to come downtown.”

  She jerked off the stool, her eyes wide and frightened. “Now? Are you arresting me?”

  “That hasn’t been decided yet. But we have more questions.”

  I noticed all eyes were upon the detective. Everyone’s, that is, except Jim Balthrop’s. He kept his head in a newspaper. “Please, will you allow me to drive her to your office, Detective?”

  I thought he was about to object, then he seemed to reconsider. Of course he would; I’d become the police chief’s new best friend.

  “Awright,” he growled, looking at his watch. “Be there in half an hour.” He turned on his heel and left, leaving a trail of body odor and fearful doubt in the wake.

  Nancy shuddered as she brushed one hand across her d
amp forehead. “I could be arrested. That injection site, he was diabetic. Do you think they’ll believe me?” I put my arm around her shoulders and pulled her along to the door where Jim waited.

  Outside, he leaned into the car to talk to us.

  “He must have results from the toxicology report. I’m calling Caleb. We’ll meet you there. The problem is the DA. He’s already dismissed one assault charge, but now that he’s aware of her participation in WitSec, he may not allow bail.”

  Nancy sat wide-eyed and mute with shock.

  I put the key in the ignition. “Jim, if she’s arrested, do you know of any good lawyers?”

  “The best criminal lawyer in the state owes me a favor. If, for some reason this meeting with the detective goes south, I’ve got him on speed dial.”

  I had to remind Nancy to buckle up. Life as a cropduster’s wife is tough, at best, and the divorce rate was right up there with test pilots. Add Arthur’s health problems to her resentment of the time he spent at his dream job while she withered in a tacky motel, and all could be motive for murder. Which would be ironic, since now it appeared her godfather’s partners were intent on killing her as well.

  Chapter Twelve:

  Jim Balthrop must keep an attorney in his trunk to get him to the Modesto police station so fast. Both men met us at the steps, and Caleb bounded up behind them.

  We all trooped into the station and Caleb escorted us to an assigned meeting room to wait for the detective. Twenty minutes past the time of our meeting, Detective Rodney sauntered in and, without apologizing for his tardiness, sat down, opened a file, turned on a video recorder, and repeated the case number, time, and date.

  “For the record,” he said, “your married name is Nancy Treat?”

  When she nodded, he asked that she speak the words, for the record.

  “You said there was an injection site, Detective. Arthur was diabetic, that’s why you found evidence of an injection.”

  The detective consulted some notes. “Yes, the medical examiner confirmed older injection sites, and that he was diabetic. Did he typically inject his medication into his left bicep?”

  “Never. He always did it on his right or left thigh.”

  “And did he have a set time?”

  “Yes, twice a day. Morning and night.”

  “And are you left-handed?”

  “Yes, but what does that have to do—”

  He held up a plastic bag with a small syringe in it. “We found this at your home. Do you recognize this syringe, Mrs. Treat?”

  The attorney pointed at the evidence bag. “That could have fallen out of a trash bag.”

  Nancy shook her head. “No. We never disposed of syringes in the garbage. They have to go into a special container and go back to the pharmacy.” She reached for the bag. “Let me see that.”

  The detective held it away from her reach, but then put it on the table so that she could see through the plastic and around the opaque label.

  “It could’ve been one of his,” she said, peering at the syringe, “but there’s no way he would’ve left a used syringe lying around.”

  “Well,” the attorney said, getting to his feet. “If you don’t have anything else, we’ll be leaving.”

  Detective Rodney stopped the attorney. “Then you deny ever seeing this syringe before?”

  Nancy grasped the edge of the table, her knuckles whitened with the effort. “I just told you that, didn’t I?”

  Rodney leaned across the table, his eyes intently watching hers. “It has your prints on it.”

  “So what? I handled all of his medical supplies!” She pushed the bag with its incriminating evidence across the table and turned away so that her shoulder was facing him.

  The detective leaned closer to her, his beady eyes lasering through hers for a sign of guilt. “Phenol was found in this syringe and in your husband’s body.”

  Her eyes widened. “Phenol! What the hell is that?”

  Jim Balthrop reached out and grasped her hand. “It’s a compound used in some cleaning solutions. It’s also lethal poison. Some states use it in a cocktail to execute convicted murderers, but not in California.”

  “But I wouldn’t know what phenol is, much less where to get it. Don’t you see, someone is trying to frame me!”

  “Based on the evidence of both the poison and your prints on the weapon used to inject it into the victim, I’m arresting you for the murder of your husband, Dewey Treat, also known as Arthur Einstein.” Then he reeled off her Miranda rights while a woman police officer stepped up to place Nancy in cuffs.

  Rodney noted the exact time the interview was completed and switched off the video recorder.

  We all stood, talking at once, Jim and I arguing over who was going to post bail, the attorney asking how soon the court case could be heard, while the detective made noises about getting her processed. Caleb gently herded us out the door.

  The attorney promised to find out about a hearing and bail, if any, and hurried away. In the hallway, Jim Balthrop wiped a hand across his day-old beard. “She’s right. This is a frame-up.”

  Caleb had been quiet until now. “Any thoughts you would like to share on that, Jim?”

  The marshal shook his head. “I only know she didn’t kill Arthur. The girl just doesn’t have it in her.”

  What Caleb didn’t say was as clear as if he’d said it out loud. Did Jim Balthrop have it in him to kill Arthur?

  “I have a question, Jim,” I said. “Did you think Nancy and Arthur were happily married?”

  The marshal’s lips tightened as if he couldn’t control his disapproval. “I heard it was a rush job. They had to make a decision, either go together as man and wife, or be separated, and separation is permanent. The program is very strict on the subject of no interaction with family or friends of any stripe.”

  “Then you don’t think they should’ve married?”

  He looked away, unable to meet my eyes. “I’ve never been married so it’s not my place to speculate on why anyone chooses to get married—or not. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go see what I can do about bail.”

  I grabbed his arm before he could leave. “Wait. My dad and I promised to post her bail.”

  “For murder one? That’ll be a hefty fee.”

  “Are you saying the government changed its mind and decided to keep her in the program?”

  “I’m sorry, no. They’ve wiped their hands of any further involvement. I’m taking full responsibility for her bail, if she can get it. If only I could get my hands on that Jack Lee Carton….” With a shake of his head, he turned, and with long strides, pushed through the door to the stairs.

  “Couldn’t wait for the elevator,” I said. “That is one unhappy man. Notice anything else?”

  “Nancy may not know anything about phenol as a poison, but he does.”

  I tilted my face up to his. “Glad to see it’s not just me.”

  “He knows about phenol and he’s in love with her. Not a good combination for a federal marshal.”

  I shook my head. “And for that very reason, I don’t think he did it. Leave a syringe with the poison in her house for the police to find? Not Jim, not if it meant Nancy might be accused. He’d do it some other way. No, I don’t think he killed Arthur. Any other leads?”

  “Nope. Bud doesn’t remember anything about the stranger Mad Dog met in his bar.”

  “Uh-huh. Bud has allergies, and they seem to get worse when he’s around cops. Besides, if there’s one thing I know about Bud, you have to ask the right questions to get an answer out of him.”

  “Don’t even think about it, or you’re going to step on Detective Rodney’s toes.”

  “I could use a beer and a talk with an old friend who used to work in the industry.”

  “Then I’ll go with you.”

  For a minute, a nasty thought popped up. The last time I shared my suspicions with Caleb, he shared it with Detective Rodney, and the wrong suspect was arrested. But tha
t was then, and this was now. I would have to quell my suspicious nature, since we’d promised to work on our trust. Besides, if you can’t trust the person you’re about to marry, you shouldn’t marry him.

  So I thanked him and lied. “I don’t have time to go see Bud right now, anyway.”

  His eyes flickered over my face, looking for the “tell” that said I was going to withhold any evidence from his investigation. I must be getting better at it, because before he left, he kissed me and told me he was glad to see that I was finally making sense.

  Chapter Thirteen:

  Bud’s Bar squatted on a dusty corner of a nearly abandoned strip mall in Turlock. A neon biplane mounted on the top of the building identified the bar as the place for pilots and wanna-be pilots. I expected to be the only woman in the place at this time of day.

  Women, the ones who loved pilots for fun or profit, were more likely to show up on the weekends. By closing time, most of the men would have divided their paychecks between drinks and something that passed for an hour’s worth of affection.

  I pushed through the wooden doors and strolled to the end of the bar, getting glances and a few nods, though whether from appreciation of my feminine curves or because I was in the aero-ag business was hard to tell, since dark was the color of choice for those late-night rendezvous.

  Bud worked his way down the bar, taking orders, commenting on the weather, refilling someone’s glass from the tap, until he finally got to me.

  “Welcome back, Ms. Bains.” His smile lifted his hound dog jowls a bit, though it didn’t quite reach his very intelligent eyes. “I seem to recall you liked Miller draft, am I right?”

  “Thanks, that will be perfect.”

  He pulled the beer, leaving a small head of foam, and set it down on a paper napkin and propped his hands on the bar, indicating the next move was mine.

  “I don’t suppose I need to tell you why I’m here.”

  “You know me, Ms. Bains, I’m always glad to help if I can,” he said, waiting.