Orrie’s maroon leisure suit fit him like a sausage casing. The bolo tie circling his enormous neck was fastened with a replica of the Confederate flag. There was a surreal quality about the moment that left me dazed.
As soon as I had performed introductions, Orrie announced, “I gotta take a leak.” He turned to Maybelline. “Meet me at the truck.” With that, he elbowed his way through the slow-moving crowd, leaving the three of us behind.
“Are you new to the area, Mr. Palmer?” Maybelline asked Arnie.
“You could say that,” he replied.
“Your name is so familiar. There’s a celebrity—”
“I don’t play golf,” Arnie said.
“No, no, not that celebrity. I’m thinking of our local luminary, Milton Palmer. Any relation?”
“I’m afraid not. It’s a common name.”
True. I remembered asking Arnie the same question and recalled seeing a lot of Palmers listed when I looked for Milton Palmer’s number.
“Well, any friend of Ms. Machado’s is a friend of mine,” Maybelline said, as if she were bestowing knighthood on Arnie.
The crowd finally began to move, and the three of us progressed to the lobby. I turned to say goodnight to Maybelline, only to have her say, “Oh, look, there’s Lorraine. She adores ballet. Let’s go say hello.”
Lorraine? Could she mean the ex-Mrs. Beardsley? This was an opportunity I couldn’t let pass.
“Woo-hoo, Lorraine. Over here, dear.”
Several heads turned, but Maybelline continued waving and calling out until the poor woman had no choice but to come our way. The attractive man who accompanied her wore an amused grin. He looked a bit younger than Lorraine, and very fit in an open-collared white shirt and navy blazer.
Lorraine was no slouch, herself. Slender, tastefully dressed in a two-piece white brocade dress, she wore a diamond bracelet and earrings, and her blond hair was cut and colored in a style that flattered her California tan.
Maybelline introduced me as Vane’s new librarian and Arnie as my boyfriend. Lorraine introduced her companion, Troy Bilkowsky.
Maybelline lifted Lorraine’s left hand. “Is this what I think it is?”
Lorraine smiled up at Troy. “Yes, it is.”
The rock on her third finger sparkled in the light from the lobby chandeliers. Her betrothed obviously had some bucks. Some women got all the rich guys. So much for Lorraine as a suspect. Living well was definitely the best revenge.
The lobby was nearly empty, and the staffers were giving us meaningful looks. Get out so we can close up.
Arnie walked me to my car with Maybelline trotting at our heels until she reached Orrie’s truck, parked two spaces away. Orrie sat in his cab with the engine running. Maybelline stood on her side of the vehicle glaring at him until he figured out what was wrong. He exited his side, walked around, and opened the door for her. He looked so chagrined that I almost felt sorry for him. As soon as Maybelline scrambled in, he gave the door a shove, catching her floppy ostrich feather collar and pulling her face until it was scrunched against the window.
She let out a screech.
Orrie muttered, “What the—”
When he saw the problem, he opened her door again to free her collar. She rubbed her throat and gasped, “What’s your hurry? You could have killed me.”
Orrie jumped into the driver’s seat, gunned his engine and pulled out.
Arnie and I stood outside my car for an awkward moment. Since this was not a real date, there was no need to make decisions about seeing each other again or initiating a good night kiss.
“Drive home safe,” he said, “and thanks for coming.”
“It was my pleasure.” As I voiced that polite response, I realized it was true. Arnie had shown me a lovely time in spite of zero chemistry between us. If it turned out he was as innocent as he seemed, he was the sort of person who would make a great friend. He insisted on waiting until my car started and my doors were locked, then he gave a little salute and strode off.
He had not mentioned the Underhills, and neither had I. It wasn’t important, since I didn’t plan on seeing Arnie again. I put Alicia Keys in the CD player and headed home. Five miles out of town, I noticed my steering wheel pulling to the right. I flashed back to the flat tire three years earlier. It couldn’t be happening again.
But it was. I nearly lost control and had no choice but to stop on the shoulder. The moon gave enough light for me to check my surroundings. The embankment to my right sloped upward at a forty-five degree angle for about fifteen feet, topped by a screen of manzanita bushes.
I’d been a sitting duck waiting in my car the last time. Never again. I activated my hazard lights and scooted out the passenger side door. Scrambling up the bank, I hunkered down behind a screen of manzanita bushes and called road service on my cellphone. I was given an estimate of thirty minutes. Meanwhile, three cars slowed when they saw the Buick’s hazard lights, but none stopped.
I was about to dial Harry when passing headlights illuminated a familiar-looking old Trans Am pulling up behind my car. The driver got out and stood for a moment, looking at my tire. Just then a pickup slowed down and seemed to catch the other driver’s attention. Two good Samaritans or two bad guys in cahoots? After a brief exchange, the pickup moved on.
The Trans Am driver reached into his car and pulled out a long stick. Now what? He leaned on the stick, and it suddenly dawned on me. The stick was a cane, and the man was Tango Bueller. No wonder the car looked familiar; it was the same one he had driven that night three years ago. I expected a rush of fear, but it didn’t come. Neither did anger. Tango’s limp was so severe, a child could have knocked him over with one push. No wonder he’d waved the other driver on. What was he going to do?
He shone his flashlight on my license plate, then looked around, probably wondering where I’d gone. I ducked low behind the brush. Maybe he hadn’t recognized the car before he stopped, but I couldn’t be sure. Had he been following me?
Tango limped to the driver’s side door, opened it and popped the trunk open. Great, in my hurry to get out and hide, I’d forgotten to lock the car. What did he expect to find? Whatever it was, he would be disappointed. I watched in fascination while he searched. Sorry, Tango, there’s nothing there to sell. You’ll have to get your drug money from some other poor chump.
Tango set his cane on the hood of his car and used both hands to lift something out of my trunk. My spare tire. He was taking my spare. Now I was angry. Who would parole a dirt bag like that? No question he was planning to make my life hell. He set the spare down and reached back into my trunk. When he stood up, I saw my jack in one hand and my tire iron in the other. For a moment, my vision blurred. Three years ago, a tire iron had nearly killed me. What Tango did next brought tears to my eyes.
He changed my tire.
When he finished, he put the flat tire and tools back in my trunk and closed it. Then he walked to his car and sat inside for a moment. I couldn’t see what he was doing, but when he got out, he limped around to my windshield and tucked something under my wiper. He gave my front fender a gentle pat, got into his car and drove away.
I crouched there in disbelief until something rustled in the brush behind me. Time to get moving. I scrambled down the hill and pulled the piece of paper from my windshield wiper. I jammed it in my purse, got in the car and drove home, convinced I’d slipped into a parallel universe.
Inside the bunkhouse I shot the deadbolt and pulled my shades. I took the piece of paper from my purse. It was a brochure from the Helping Hand Rescue Mission. In a spidery scrawl, two words were written in the margin with a pencil: Amends, Tango.
Tears flowed, and I gave in to them, whether from relief or confusion I wasn’t sure. One thing was clear. If Tango Bueller had found a higher power, there was hope for the rest of the world.
Chapter 20
Thursday morning Harry met me at the tire shop. We left my car there, and as he drove me to work in his Jag, I told
him my astonishing Tango Bueller story.
“It was dark, Sis. Are you’re sure it was Tango?”
“Trust me. I’d know him in any light.”
“I’ll do some checking.”
“Start at the Helping Hand Rescue Mission.” I took the brochure out of my purse. “Maybe he’s living there.”
Harry braked the Jag to let a trio of laughing teenage girls cross the street. “If Tango’s clean and sober, he doesn’t need to live at the Rescue Mission.”
“What do you mean?”
He pulled into the parking lot next to the library building. “There’s more to Tango than a rap sheet.”
“So tell me.”
“Neither of us has time right now. I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you last night, but I’m impressed as hell about Tango. Maybe he really is on the road to redemption. If you want to know more about him I suggest you talk to Nick.” Nick again.
“Why Nick?”
He sighed. “He knows Tango’s history better than I do. Now get out, I’m late.”
“Wait,” I said. “Have you heard anything more about a warrant to search your place?”
Harry expelled a long breath. “Not yet, but I suppose it’s still a possibility. They’re not exactly keeping me informed.” He nodded toward my door. “Out, Sis. I’ve got to go. Try not to worry. I’ll pick you up at lunchtime and take you back to the tire shop.”
I made an effort to be friendly to Orrie Mercer at the library entrance. It seemed the socially correct thing, seeing as how his relationship with Maybelline had been confirmed at the ballet the night before.
“Hello, Mr. Mercer,” I said.
He allowed me an almost imperceptible nod, but underscored the greeting by spitting a brown streak of tobacco juice into a potted begonia near the door.
Once I was inside, things looked up. With Lola on the job, the morning passed smoothly. Twenty years Maybelline’s senior and her opposite in attitude, Lola embraced new technology. Her arthritic fingers flew over the computer keyboard as she explored our software programs and databases. She had been a public librarian in the days of card catalogs, hand-stamped due dates, and constant shushing of noisy patrons, so the ease of online research struck her as nothing short of a miracle. Lola’s lips moved as she worked, and occasionally I caught a hushed verse of Stockwell’s newest song. Her experience and dedication made her an ideal advocate for what I was trying to accomplish in the library.
I checked the daily patient list and saw that Milton Palmer was still in house. It struck me again that two of the men I suspected in Bonnie Beardsley’s case had the same surname. Palmer was a fairly common name, but it still seemed like a coincidence in a town the size of Timbergate. I checked the phone book and stopped counting at twenty, only a fourth of the way down the list. Okay, there were at least a hundred Palmers listed. I let it go and got back to analyzing my date with Arnie.
The only significant observations I had made were his knowledge of the Underhills’ swinging lifestyle and his lack of reaction when Willow mentioned my interest in llama cryogenics. Most men would be thinking nut case, yet Arnie had seemed unfazed. During intermission I’d wanted to ask how he had hooked up with the Underhills, but I hadn’t had a chance. Not after the ballet, either, what with Maybelline tagging along to the parking lot. Watching Lola’s diligent attention to her tasks reminded me I had better quit musing and apply myself to library business.
At noon I went outside to look for Harry’s Jag. Instead, I saw Nick leaning against his hybrid SUV, arms crossed. His fair hair gleamed with sparks of light in the brilliant sunshine. His smile drew fine, crinkly lines at the corners of his eyes. I used to touch those lines with my lips. But that was before Rella, when Nick was someone else—the man I trusted.
“What are you doing here?” I asked.
“Harry sent me.”
“Figures.”
“He’s tied up. Said you needed a ride.”
I needed a ride.
The atmosphere in Nick’s car grew thicker with every mile on our way to the tire shop. My resentment and mistrust clotted the silent air.
Nick finally spoke. “Harry told me about Tango.”
“He would.”
“He said it might help if you heard the rest of his story.”
“And why are you the one to tell me?”
“It’ll become obvious.”
“All right. I’m listening.”
“For starters, Tango went to U.C. Davis on a full scholarship.”
“You’re kidding? I thought he was developmentally disabled.”
“This was before the meth.”
“What kind of scholarship? Football?”
“He was a science major. Biology, botany, one of those. Maybe both.”
“What happened?”
“He graduated with honors. Came home. Worked for Buck Sawyer for a while as an environmental impact consultant while he started work on his master’s.”
“Sounds like he had a good thing going. What happened?”
“A woman.”
I didn’t like where this was headed. “Please tell me it wasn’t Bonnie Beardsley.”
“It wasn’t.”
“Who, then?”
“Buck’s daughter.”
“Buck has a daughter? I’ve never heard anyone mention that.”
“She’s dead. A meth-induced stroke killed her, but not before she got Tango messed up. He dropped out of his master’s program about that time.”
“And you know all this because …?”
“Buck and I are pretty close. After his first wife died—before he remarried—he went through a pretty rough time. A lot of soul-searching.”
“Another rich guy who made a fortune at the expense of his family?”
“Let me finish.”
“Did he have any other children?”
“No. Just the daughter, Sam. A surviving twin. Among his other regrets, he was so grief-stricken when the boy died at birth that he saddled his daughter with the name he’d planned for his son.”
“Samantha is a fairly common girl’s name.”
“Not Samantha. Samuel Buckeye Sawyer the Fifth. He told her when she married, she was to keep her maiden name and insist her children be raised as Sawyers. For the sake of the family line.”
“That’s pretty harsh.”
“True, but not unheard of.”
“Why didn’t Buck and his wife try for more children? A boy?”
“Apparently that wasn’t an option. Sam wasn’t born until his wife was in her forties, and there were some medical complications with the birth.”
“Adoption?”
“Buck wanted a blood heir.”
“So Sam Jr. was his only chance?” I asked.
“Yep, and once she was introduced to meth, he lost her.”
“Imagine having all that money and no one to leave it to. Did Buck ever say how his daughter got involved with meth?”
Nick pulled into the parking lot at the tire store. “He figured it was her junior year in high school. About the time she started running around with Bonnie Belcher.”
Bonnie again. It seemed she had crossed paths with everyone in Timbergate. Once more I wondered who had most wanted her dead—or who among the many people she’d offended or hurt had homicidal tendencies. My conversation with Nick had begun as a window into Tango’s past. I wanted to hear the rest of his story, but first I had to pay for my repaired tire.
I got out of Nick’s car and headed inside the shop to put the bill on my already strained credit card. Nick followed me in, which annoyed me.
The clerk nodded to Nick. “What can we do for you?”
“We’re here for Miss Machado’s Buick.”
“I can do this myself,” I muttered.
The man behind the counter looked at my work order and pursed his lips. “Oops,” he said. Not a good sign.
“We’re not quite finished with your car.”
Nick spoke up. “What’s the p
roblem?”
“Oh, no problem with the car. It’s just—” His shoulders drooped a notch. “I don’t know how this happened, but the job got overlooked. We’re on it right now if you’d care to wait.”
Before I could object, Nick took over. “Tell you what, give her a twenty percent discount and deliver her car to the TMC parking lot when it’s finished.”
The tire man brightened. “No problem.” He took my work phone number, promising to deliver the car well before my quitting time.
We left the shop, me storming ahead of Nick. “That’s great, Nick. Just take over. I’m not helpless, you know.”
“Hey, I’m sorry. Old habits.”
“Well, you need to get over it. And I need to get back to work.”
“I thought we might grab a sandwich. You still have most of your lunch hour left, don’t you?”
“I wasn’t planning to eat.” I had a peanut butter sandwich in my desk at work, but I wasn’t about to tell him that was all I could afford.
“My treat,” he said. “Come on. Don’t you want to hear the rest of Tango’s story?”
We ended up at Stone Soup again. Gore, the server with the tattoos, wasn’t around. Instead, a thirty-something woman with pasty skin and lank brown hair took our orders. She barely moved her lips when she spoke. When she walked away, I mentioned it to Nick.
“Did you notice how she talks without opening her mouth? She’s like a ventriloquist.”
“Meth mouth.” He looked grim. “She’s trying to hide it.”
“What’s meth mouth?”
“Meth rots the teeth. Doesn’t take long, either. There’s probably nothing in there but little black stubs.” He shook his head. “Meth’s been a real boon for denture makers.”
“I’m surprised she got hired.”
“She has the right résumé. Stone Soup doesn’t hire anyone who isn’t in a drug rehab program.”
“You seem to know a lot about this place.”
“It’s one of Buck’s philanthropic projects.”
Before I could reply, our soup arrived, served with trembling hands by the tight-lipped waitress. She seemed relieved and a little surprised when they touched down on our place mats without any spillage. The tantalizing aromas set my stomach gurgling.
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