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

by R. P. Dahlke

  That settled, I headed for the barn, where I kept the Cadillac under a tarp.

  Pearlie came through the open doors wearing a peony-flowered sundress and carrying her purse.

  “Let me help you with that.” She put down the purse and picked up a corner on the tarp.

  “Sure,” I said, surprised at the unexpected visit. So far, she’d shown absolutely no interest in spending time with Nancy, and certainly not since the girl was residing in the county jail.

  She rolled her end of the cover until it met up with mine. “I want to go with you.”

  My eyebrows went up. “To see Nancy?”

  “I thought I’d go along for the ride. We can get some lunch after.”

  This would not do. “You’d be bored waiting.” I turned away to secure the tarp and shove it into the trunk.

  She stuck out her chin. “I won’t be bored.”

  I pulled out my last card. “I’m seeing Caleb this afternoon, and that’s not for mixed company.”

  She mulled that over for a minute, then picked up her purse and opened the passenger door. “You’re not going to see Nancy or spend the afternoon in bed with your fiancé, and you can forget about leaving me behind.”

  “So where do you think I’m going?”

  “I’m not a Bains woman for nothing, you know. It’s what I said about Mad Dog, ain’t it? Yeah, thought so. I told you Mad Dog took a call from that Jack person, and now you’re wonderin’ if Mad Dog is innocent after all. But you can’t confirm it, and since Mad Dog is your employee, you’re headed for somewhere to talk to someone who might know, and I reckon I should go with you.”

  “This won’t work, having you along. I’m going to see people who are connected with my family’s business. It could get dicey, asking questions that they won’t want to answer, and I will be discreet.”

  She unshouldered her leather purse and patted the bottom zippered compartment that held her weapon. “I can be discreet. Besides,” she said, eyeing the long line of my vintage red caddy, “I’ll pay for the gas for this sucker, and if it proves Mad Dog’s a liar then I’ll just have to deal with it.”

  “Okay, just so we’re clear on this. You’re going along with an open mind, right?”

  She nodded.

  “Then I suppose you’ll want to be completely satisfied as to who is telling the truth, even if it means Mad Dog’s in the thick of it?”

  “You got that right, Cuz.”

  “Okay, get in the car.”

  During the two-hour drive to Sacramento, I explained to Pearlie why Mad Dog might have lied to the police.

  Pearlie sniffed. “Well, of course he wanted to expose Arthur as a fraud. He already told me that. Don’t you think you’re overreacting just a bit? He said you get a little crazy when things don’t go your way.”

  “What’re you talking about?”

  “You didn’t believe him when he found out one of your pilots was pill-popping and flying.”

  “I wasn’t pleased to find I had an addict flying for us, but when Mad Dog brought it to my attention, I fired the kid.” Pearlie was right, of course, I was now hyper alert to any potential scandal that might involve our family. “It is in my best interest to clear Mad Dog from the investigation. He is, after all, my last full-time employee.”

  “I can do this, and I won’t tell Mad Dog, either. I’m good with secrets and money, ask anybody.”

  Her granny had confirmed the good-with-money part, but I still had my doubts about her ability to keep secrets, especially if it included juicy gossip that finally tipped Mad Dog into her lap.

  “All right. Then I’ll tell you something you don’t know. Nancy can’t stay in WitSec, but the Las Vegas partners have found out that her godfather is also her biological father. She had no tie to his estate, wasn’t in his will, but she still could inherit.”

  “But not if she’s in prison for murder, right? I saw that on TV. So if she gets off, she’ll be rich?”

  Now I regretted telling her. “Can’t you let go of your jealousy for one minute and see she’s no threat to you?”

  “I got it, Lalla. I was just askin’. Can’t they arrest these guys?”

  Okay, maybe I was overreacting again. “They were indicted, but with Arthur dead the case fell apart, and now the police have no one but Nancy for a suspect, which is almost as good as if she had been killed along with Arthur. I need to find the person who sold Arthur out, and I’d really rather it be someone besides Mad Dog.”

  “Makes two of us. What else?”

  “It could be someone with a grudge, or willing to turn Arthur in for a reward. Jim Balthrop says that most of the candidates for WitSec are pond scum. Mad Dog may have thought he was doing everyone a favor bringing his new friend to my party, but I doubt he stopped to think it through to the end—Arthur dead and Nancy charged for his murder. This Jack guy had some help finding Mad Dog. Think about it—short, skinny, asthmatic, heart murmur, and diabetic is not someone I’d likely hire to fly for us, even if we were short-handed. But Dewey Treat, motorcycle-riding tough-guy ag pilot with a clean physical is another story.

  “I think Arthur shared his secret with someone he thought he could trust. And, just so you know, Pearlie, it wasn’t Nancy. She’s the perfect example of someone who should stay in WitSec.”

  “I saw that on TV once. The wife couldn’t stand to be separated from her family, and called home. She ended up in a vat of lye.”

  “Nancy didn’t fake that kidnapping attempt.”

  Pearlie looked at me. We were both remembering how gingerly Nancy held a gun in her hands, her almost morbid fear of weapons.

  Pearlie reluctantly nodded. “Guess not.”

  The rest of the drive was blissfully silent.

  <><><><>

  We parked next to the outbuildings at the flight school. I made some noises about her waiting in the car.

  “Oh, come on,” she said, hopping out, “this will be fun.”

  I knocked at a door marked Office, but when no one answered, Pearlie pushed me inside and closed the door behind us.

  “This ain’t much better’n your office,” she said, noting the dusty furniture and paperwork piled up on the desk, chairs and boxes in the corners. “If I thought y’all were going to stay in business another year, I could do something with that place.”

  “Too little, too late,” I said, opening a door that went into a closet. The next one was the bathroom, thankfully unoccupied.

  “You got no sense of direction, do you, Cuz? How do you ever find where you’re goin’ in that Ag-Cat? Here’s a hallway, bet you ten dollars it leads to the outside.” Pearlie gestured for me to follow. As she reached for the knob, the door opened from the outside.

  The man coming in was of medium height and build, brown-eyed, brown hair, and in his forties by the creases radiating out from his eyes. His white shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows, his hands clean, and too nicely dressed to be somebody who worked on airplanes. He eyed Pearlie and smiled widely. No wedding band on his left hand either, which set Pearlie to wiggling like a happy puppy.

  “Lucky me, two beautiful women in one day. To what do I owe the pleasure, ladies?”

  I leaned around Pearlie and put out my hand. “Lalla Bains of Bains Aero Ag. I need to ask you a few questions about a pilot we hired earlier this year?”

  “Bains, Bains? Oh yeah, that Bains,” he said, a light coming into his brown eyes as they strayed back to my cousin. “Let’s take it into my office,” he said, motioning us back the way we came.

  He cleaned the paperwork off a couple of wooden armchairs and invited us to sit. Satisfied, he went behind his desk, and with a groan lowered himself into the chair, then popped up again. “Sorry, this bum knee acts up and I forget my manners. Got it in Afghanistan, and I’ve been on my feet too long today. I’m Don. I guess I own the place, or what’s left of it. My dad’s heart finally gave out, poor old guy.” He sighed, dragging his eyes off Pearlie. “I heard about your pilot. Someone came by
a couple of days ago… his card is in the desk somewhere.” He sat down again and rummaged through a top drawer.

  Impatient to help, I jumped right in. “Was that Marshal Jim Balthrop?”

  “Yeah, that’s him,” he said, relieved to be able to shut the drawer again. “Nice enough fellow, but I couldn’t help him.”

  “Your dad made an agreement with the feds to give Arthur Einstein the training so he could get his journeyman’s ticket. And because we were in the middle of the season and desperate for help, we took him.”

  His chair squeaked as he leaned back. “Miss Bains, I’m sorry, but you’re preaching to the choir, here. I knew my dad was in trouble with the IRS, so I’m not a bit surprised he would make a deal with the feds. Not that it did any good. Everything here,” he said, waving his hand around the shabby interior, “will go up for auction next week. I’m only here long enough to make sure his personal effects don’t go with the sale. I didn’t know your pilot, and besides, I heard his wife was arrested for killing him.”

  I declined to confirm the news. “My company’s reputation could’ve been damaged because your father chose to fake his training. If you weren’t already going out of business you’d be hearing from my lawyer.”

  He wiped a hand across the back of his neck. “I’ll ignore that. So, at this late date, what else can I possibly do to help you?”

  “I think someone in your dad’s outfit ratted him out.”

  He did a doubtful shake of his head. “There’re only two guys left, and both of them are doing inventory for the auction. One is in that big Quonset hut, and the other one is working in a poled hangar where we keep the parts.”

  He put his hands on his desk, and with a groan, pushed himself upright and limped around the desk to shake my hand.

  Pearlie waved me off. “I’ll wait here.”

  As I closed the door, I could hear her say, “Fly cropdusters? Oh, no, not me. I wouldn’t get near one of those dirty ol’ things, but I do have a nice Cessna 185. Flew it out here from Texas for my older cousin’s wedding. That was her just walked out the door. So what do you do besides clearing out your poor ol’ daddy’s estate?”

  Maybe Pearlie could find another potential husband besides Mad Dog.

  I found the first guy on the list, Clark Sullivan, in the Quonset hut, a clipboard in one hand and a cigarette dangling off his lip. He looked pleased to have an excuse to stop whatever it was he was doing.

  I stuck out my hand and told him I was looking for friends of Dewey Treat. The guy put down his busy work and took a drag on the cigarette. “Can’t help you. Didn’t know the guy that well. Maybe Alvin would know more.”

  This was pretty much the same answer I got from the owner’s son. “Is he the other guy who works here?”

  “Yeah, ask him about your pilot. They used to drink together after class. By the way, all of us will be looking for work after today. You know of any work for a good A&E mechanic, I’d sure like to hear about it.” He wrote down a phone number and I took it without telling him we were also as good as gone, and headed in the direction of the open hangar.

  Alvin had the look of a weasel; small, close-set, watery eyes of some indeterminate color behind owlish glasses. His nose was sharp, his feet tiny. I don’t know what it is that makes me think a man who has tiny feet would be a liar, but there it was, and I could see him as a guy who would sell out my pilot. But when I asked him about Dewey, he backhanded his mouth with a greasy paw against a jaw-popping yawn.

  “Sorry, not enough sleep lately,” he said, excusing himself for the yawn. “Didn’t I see you talking to Clark a minute ago?”

  “Yes,” I said. “I’m the owner of the aero-ag company where Dewey Treat last worked. I’m told you were friends with him?”

  “Who said that?”

  “Him,” I said, pointing in the direction of the Quonset hut. “He said I should ask you about Dewey Treat.”

  “Sorry, ma’am, but I wasn’t one to spend time with the students, too busy fixing whatever they break.”

  I looked at the carburetor on a bench, then at the grease on his hands. “You’re the mechanic?”

  “The one and only.”

  Maybe the guy simply liked to brag. “Clark said…”

  He shook his weaselly little head, his sharp nose lifting as if smelling a rat. “Yeah, I know what Clark says.” His mouth slipped into a lopsided grin of amusement. “That lie and the one about him being a war pilot in Afghanistan gets him a bit of action at our local watering hole. You need to ask Clark about your pilot.”

  “Clark. Not you?”

  He turned his head to the side, peering up at me from behind his thick glasses and laughed that I’d been so easy to fool. “Didn’t you see a bar about a mile back? You had to pass it on the way in. Their two cars were parked out front every night.”

  “Every night? My pilot was a newlywed.”

  “Every night but weekends. I couldn’t tell you about weekends. I don’t work then. And, like I said, I didn’t socialize with the students.”

  I pulled the phone number out of my pocket Clark had written down for me. “Is this even his phone number?”

  The weasel held out a greasy hand, and I noticed the arms were corded with muscle that reached up all the way to his shoulders in the gray T-shirt. Lifting heavy engines can do that, or maybe he was working on his image in a gym. He read it and chuckled. “Nice of him to give you my phone number.”

  I nodded, hanging on to my growing irritation, and apologized for the bother.

  “No bother, miss,” he called, as I backtracked for another round with the lying bastard, Clark Sullivan. He must’ve seen me coming because he veered away from his path to the office, and jogged for a shiny new cobalt blue Ford F-150.

  I caught up as he was starting the engine. He ignored my window tapping and put the truck in reverse. I grabbed the door handle and pulled. It was locked. And before I could react, he stepped on the gas. I tried to let go, but my engagement ring was stuck in the handle. Thinking I was being obstinate, he punched the gas and dragged me, struggling and shouting alongside his truck. He twisted the wheel over and I went flying in the opposite direction, which fortunately broke the stranglehold on my ring, leaving me in a filthy heap on the ground.

  He jerked the truck into forward, and fishtailed out of the parking lot.

  I staggered into the office, where Pearlie was sitting on the edge of the flight school owner’s desk, laughing at something he’d said. She uncrossed her very curvy legs and tilted her blonde head at me. “What on earth have you been up to now?”

  I ignored my cousin’s waspish tone and asked the owner’s son if I could use his bathroom to wash up. He pointed at the door I’d earlier mistaken for an exit. When I was as clean as I was ever going to be, I came out and caved into a chair. “It seems that Clark Sullivan knows more than he’s willing to say about my pilot.”

  “Should I call the police?” the owner’s son asked. “Did he hurt you, Miss Bains? “

  I held up my ring finger, which was now red and swelling. “I don’t think it was intentional, but he still wasn’t willing to stick around. By the way, he got into an expensive-looking truck. Is that new?”

  “Couldn’t say. I haven’t been here long enough to know what the guys drive, but I’m shocked, truly shocked. Let me get you some ice for that finger.”

  Pearlie reached out and patted his arm. “I’ll get it, sugah. I saw the fridge in your storage room.” Her Good Samaritan act would also keep him from making a fuss over me.

  Chapter Fifteen:

  I promised the aero-ag owner’s son I’d take my suspicions about his father’s employee to the authorities and asked one last favor. “Would your dad have kept Burdell Smith’s home address?”

  Anxious to get the two troublesome women out of his office, he rummaged through his dad’s old-fashioned Rolodex and came up with the card.

  “Please, take it,” he said, shoving the card into my hand. “I certainly won
’t need it.”

  I thanked him, handed my car keys to Pearlie, and insisted she drive.

  “This better be an automatic.” She examined the pedals and column shift lever.” I could use a cushion. How do you see over this huge wheel, anyways?”

  “It is an automatic. Later on the cushion. Now drive.”

  “Keep your shirt on. This will take some getting used to.” She adjusted the seat up for her shorter legs, pulled the rearview mirror down to check her lipstick, then up again to eye level and squealed.

  “What?” I swiveled around to look out the back window.

  She laughed. “Boy, howdy, those dang tail fins are so big I thought someone was following us already.”

  Now buckled up, she looked over her shoulder and carefully backed out of the yard, shifting into drive. “So, where we going? You mentioned a bar down the road, you want to stop there? Yes? No? Why’re you so quiet?”

  “I’m thinking.”

  “So think out loud. I’ll tell you if you’re on the right track or not.” Pearlie swerved to miss a pothole.

  “That truck Clark was driving,” I said, “had to cost thirty-five grand if it was a dime, and so new it didn’t have a fingerprint on it. Well, except for mine.”

  She smacked the steering wheel. “Then there’s your leak.”

  “The mechanic, the real one, said he saw Arthur and Clark’s cars at the bar every night.”

  ‘‘Bet you a hundred bucks Clark’s the killer.”

  I nodded. “I told Caleb the feds wouldn’t be able to get anything out of these people and I was right. Jim Balthrop didn’t get that Clark was Arthur’s drinking buddy.”

  “Didn’t you say Arthur was diabetic?” Pearlie asked. “The guy had a death wish or what? We’re coming up on the bar, yes or no?”

  I had to wonder what Burdell Smith’s story would be when I called, but all I got his answering machine. This is Burdell Smith’s old home for cranky cropdusters. It’s strictly B-Y-O-B here, so leave your name and number and I’ll put you on the waiting list. “Burdell’s place is only another half-hour away. Let’s go see if he’s home.”