Due for Discard

by Sharon St. George

  The door opened immediately when I rang the bell. I had been expecting a housekeeper, but it was Lorraine herself, dressed in spotless white slacks and a powder blue cotton shirt. In minimal makeup, with her crown of golden hair tucked behind her ears, she definitely did not look like a woman in her sixties.

  “Let’s talk in my study,” she said.

  We walked through a great room with a vaulted ceiling, down a corridor the width of a freeway, and up a flight of stairs. After a few more twists and turns, we finally reached a cozy, book-lined study. I hoped she wouldn’t leave me there alone. Without a trail of breadcrumbs, I’d never make it back to the front door. A bowl of cinnamon potpourri filled the room with the aroma of fresh apple pie.

  “Troy is in the backyard doing something with the pool,” Lorraine said. “He wouldn’t interrupt in any case. He’s thoughtful and discreet. Two of the many reasons I’m marrying him.”

  I wondered why Troy wasn’t at work. Either he had inherited wealth, or he expected to inherit Lorraine’s.

  “I’m sorry to intrude,” I said. “I know it’s an inconvenient time, but I’m afraid this is a matter of life and death.”

  “You mentioned your brother’s unfortunate situation. You have my sympathy, but I don’t see how I can help.”

  “By telling me if you know a woman named Verna Beardsley.”

  Surprise disordered the smooth façade of her face for only an instant, but it was enough.

  “I wish you’d asked anything else.” She pulled aside a window curtain to look down into her backyard.

  “Why is that?”

  “I’m under a legal obligation to remain silent about Verna. Part of the terms of my divorce.”

  “Then you do know her?”

  “Of course. She is Vane’s sister.”

  The breath I’d been holding rushed out. “That’s what I hoped you’d say. Do you know where she is?”

  “That’s the sticky part.”

  “The part you’re not supposed to tell?”

  “Yes. If I say more, I place myself in some legal jeopardy.”

  “Please hear me out. If I can find Verna, I might be able to save my brother.”

  “How so?”

  “I think she knows something about Bonnie’s death.”

  “What gives you that idea?”

  Time for a white lie. “Harry’s attorney. He’s not giving details, just that her name has come up and he’d like to interview her.”

  “Is she a suspect?”

  “No. More likely a witness.”

  “Then Vane is the suspect?”

  “I’m sorry. I can see I’m out of line coming here, but I know my brother is innocent. I’m desperate to help him.”

  “Why are you so sure he’s innocent?”

  “My brother would never do what they’re accusing him of.” I swallowed against the tightening in my throat. “Aside from that, someone is threatening me. Someone who thinks I know something. Obviously, it isn’t my own brother. It’s someone who wants to see him framed.”

  “Are you in danger?”

  Her question brought me up short. Denial had been my modus operandi for two weeks. It was time to be honest with myself and with her.

  “Yes. Whoever killed Bonnie is coming after me. I’m sure of it.”

  “Why don’t you take what you know to the police?”

  “The investigator and my brother have a history.” I told her about Tango Bueller.

  Lorraine’s shapely lips curled into a sneer. “Do you know District Attorney Keefer?”

  “No.”

  “I do. She had designs on Troy before he and I were a couple. She decided his money would help her get re-elected. She hasn’t a thought in her head that isn’t tied to her political career. Including her choice of bed partners.”

  I waited to see where this was going.

  “Miss Machado, if clearing your brother helps expose Keefer’s shoddy professional and personal ethics, I’d be delighted to help.”

  “What if it puts your ex-husband in her sights?”

  “Vane doesn’t have a violent nature, but he has expressed his frustration with Bonnie more than once.”

  “He came to you to complain about her?”

  “He had no one else to talk to. I suppose at the beginning—when he realized he’d made a terrible mistake—he had some hope of our getting back together.”

  “How soon after their marriage did he regret hooking up with Bonnie?”

  “I think the hunting fiasco was the final straw. That was about a year into the marriage.” She seemed amused by the memory.

  “Hunting?”

  “Bonnie’s father is a deer hunter. Bonnie wanted Vane to take up the sport. She liked anything macho. Vane bought all the gear and went out one weekend with Bonnie’s father and her uncle.” Lorraine stopped, cleared her throat. I wanted the rest of the story.

  “Did Vane shoot a deer?”

  “No. He shot Bonnie’s uncle in the foot.”

  “That’s awful.”

  “Yes. Vane was horrified.”

  “What did he do?”

  “Apparently there was a lot of blood. Vane administered first aid, wrapped the man’s foot in a deer bag until they could get to a clinic somewhere in the mountains. The uncle recovered after a time … except … I believe he lost a toe. Vane tried to make amends by getting the man a job at TMC.”

  “Bonnie’s uncle works at the hospital?” My internal wiring began to zing. “Where does he work?”

  “I don’t recall, but I doubt it’s anything white collar. Apparently he’s a bit thick.”

  I filed that away for further thought. I needed to know who the uncle was, and soon.

  “Was Bonnie upset with Dr. Beardsley about her uncle’s injury?”

  “No more than usual. She was always upset with him. She criticized everything he did, especially if it had to do with money.”

  “But he has a successful practice.”

  “It was never enough for her. He’d have left her, but he said he couldn’t discard her unless he paid her off with an obscene amount of money. She threatened a terrible scandal that would ruin his reputation.”

  The Underhills came to mind.

  “Then he wasn’t independently wealthy?”

  “No. He had to work for every penny. I was born into more money than Vane will ever earn. When we divorced, I didn’t need anything from him. Bonnie would have been a different story. Apparently her parents had disinherited her.”

  I recalled hearing the same story from Maybelline.

  “So Dr. Beardsley wanted to be rid of Bonnie?”

  “Oh, yes, but don’t misunderstand,” Lorraine said. “I do not believe that Vane murdered her. He said her drug use had escalated. She flew into rages, and sometimes he had to physically restrain her. If she had been hurt in that kind of confrontation, he’d have done anything to save her.”

  “You sound very sure of that.”

  “I’m certain. Vane is a doctor first, last and always.”

  “But a plastic surgeon.”

  “Don’t believe the bad press about his specialty. He spends more time correcting deformities and injuries than he does making spoiled women look beautiful.”

  “Thank you for what you’ve been able to tell me. There’s one last question.”

  “Yes?”

  “How well do you know Maybelline Black?”

  Lorraine’s eyes narrowed. “Why do you ask?”

  “She’s been edgy lately. There was a rather volatile incident with a patient a few days ago. I wondered if there was something I should know about her.”

  “Why ask me?”

  “She’s particularly fond of you, and she seems unusually devoted to Dr. Beardsley. I mean, for a volunteer.”

  “Have you discussed her behavior with Vane?”

  “No. Maybelline made me promise not to.”

  Lorraine walked to the window again, looked down toward the yard where her fiancé pu
ttered. “There is very little I can tell you about her. If her actions become a problem for you, you’ll have to talk to Vane.”

  “I’d hate to break my promise to Maybelline.”

  Lorraine turned away from the window. “I wish I could help you, but I’m not at liberty to discuss Maybelline Black.” She looked straight into my eyes. “I hope you understand.”

  “I think I do. Thank you.” I hoped I was right.

  “I suppose you should go now.” She escorted me back through the maze of her luxurious home. At her front door she took my hand. “Good luck, Miss Machado. Your brother is very lucky to have you on his side.”

  “Thank you. I’d do anything for him.”

  “I believe you. Brothers and sisters can be very loyal, even in the most trying circumstances.”

  “Like a death in the family?”

  “Yes, I would think especially then.” She closed the door gently.

  I walked to my car weighing every word Lorraine had spoken. She had used hints and innuendo, but the subtext was clear. I now felt almost certain that Maybelline Black was Verna Beardsley. I’d feel even more certain if the prescriptions bore that out.

  Chapter 42

  I waffled between doubt and certainty on the drive back to work. Lorraine hadn’t come right out and confirmed that Maybelline was Verna, but she hadn’t denied it, either. I’d half expected that response. What I hadn’t expected was her bolt from the blue: Bonnie’s uncle worked at TMC. Who was he? Orrie Mercer came to mind. That would explain how someone so uncouth had gotten hired. If I was right, and Maybelline Black turned out to be Beardsley’s sister, it would also explain her inconsistent relationship with Mercer. Had they become shoestring relatives when Vane Beardsley married Bonnie Belcher?

  Curious, I checked the TMC staff roster, but there was no one listed with Bonnie’s maiden name: Belcher. An online search for obituaries turned up brief death notices published several years earlier by a newspaper in Florida, where Jed and Dora Belcher had died within a year of each other. There were no formal obituaries mentioning survivors, and Dora’s maiden name was not mentioned. It seemed Bonnie had not felt compelled to commemorate the lives of either of her estranged parents.

  My search was interrupted when an internist dropped in to research a paper he was writing on a possible connection between cocaine use and early male-pattern baldness. If his premise proved sound, there were going to be a lot of conflicted yuppies when the paper was published. By the time he left the library, it was close to five o’clock.

  I was shutting down my computer when Lola walked in, bringing a faint scent of lilacs to the room. My elderly volunteer was the last person I expected to see at quitting time.

  “Hello, Miss Machado. I’m so glad you’re still here. I was so worried the library would be locked.”

  “Lola, what brings you here so late?”

  “I forgot my iPod.” She walked over and plucked it off the volunteers’ desk. “It has all of Marty’s songs on it. I was afraid it was lost.”

  “I’m glad you found it.”

  “So am I. The weekend would have been lonely without my music.” As she walked toward the exit, I regretted again that I couldn’t help her meet Marty Stockwell, then realized there was something I had wanted to ask her earlier that day.

  “Lola, wait.”

  She turned. “What is it, dear?”

  “How did you know I live in Coyote Creek?”

  “Why, Maybelline told me. She’s very well-informed.”

  “When did she tell you?”

  “A week or so ago. Is there a problem? I do understand you can’t help me about Mr. Stockwell, dear. I don’t mind.”

  “No, no, there’s no problem. I was just curious, that’s all.”

  “Well then, have a pleasant weekend.” She fixed the iPod’s ear buds to her ears, caught a beat and two-stepped out the door.

  I grabbed a vending machine soda on my way out and left the TMC parking lot in high gear, ticking off what I had to accomplish before Harry showed up for dinner at seven. I had less than two hours to eliminate all traces of the decapitated turkey. I couldn’t swear Nick to silence about the turkey incident, but I could make sure Harry didn’t see the crime scene firsthand.

  I mulled over my conversation with Lola as I drove. Maybelline had told her where I lived. Lola described Maybelline as well-informed. What an understatement. World-class busybody was more like it. She seemed to know everything. Did she know who Bonnie’s uncle was? Of course she did—if she was Dr. Beardsley’s sister.

  I rearranged the players in the morass of my mind until an unsettling idea surfaced. Had Bonnie’s uncle been Dr. Beardsley’s accomplice? Had they conspired to do away with Bonnie? Whether the uncle was Mercer or someone else, I found that hard to accept. Why would an uncle plot against his own niece? For money? I hoped not, but then again, what kind of uncle was he? Lorraine said he was “a bit thick.” Maybe he was that and something far worse. Maybe he had been offered a deal he couldn’t resist.

  After a stop at the Four Corners Market for Harry’s favorite beer, deli fried chicken and potato salad, I collected the mail and newspaper and checked inside Jack and Amah’s house, where everything looked undisturbed. I freshened the king snake’s water, then I hightailed it down the lane to the barn, counting llamas and turkeys along the way. I suspected Nick had been doing random drive-bys. That, along with the extra patrols by sheriff’s deputies, seemed to have discouraged any further vandalism.

  Hoping the carcass would be gone, I pulled out my keys. I reasoned that Nick, who had painted my vandalized door, might clean up after my tormentor. But painting the door hadn’t required entry into the apartment. Still, he could easily come up with an excuse to borrow a key from Harry or Hannah. Almost convinced, I opened the door and inhaled a blast of putrid air that knocked me backward into the deck railing. I managed to set the six-pack and the bag of deli food on the floor of the deck before I hung my head over the side and chucked up the soda I’d consumed on the drive home.

  Inside, I wrapped a bandanna around my nose and mouth, cranked the swamp cooler’s fan to its highest setting and opened all the windows in the apartment. Then I changed into my oldest shorts and T-shirt and my hiking boots. The ski gloves I’d used a week ago still bore some traces of dried rattlesnake blood, but they were plenty good enough for this chore. I cut down the carcass and dropped it into a thirty gallon garbage bag, along with the towels I used to wash the blood off my kitchen table and wall.

  My plan was to bury the remains by digging a hole in the farthest edge of the pasture. That required a pick and shovel. After three months with no rain, Coyote Creek’s soil was rock hard.

  It took precious minutes to tote the garbage bag to a corner of the field thick with manzanita and other scrub vegetation. I raised the pick over my shoulder and brought it down with a mighty thwack. It hit hard pan, bounced out of my hands, and slammed into my shin before it came to rest deep in a thicket of poison oak. I hopped on one leg and let loose every swear word I’d ever heard. I wasn’t about to climb into poison oak for the pick, so I tossed the bag of evidence behind a thick screen of brush and hurried back to the apartment to shower and change clothes.

  Fanny waited for me on my deck, pacing in impatient little figure eights—kitty body language for open the damn door. I put fresh kibbles in her bowl and watched her scarf them, wondering if I’d ever see Bosco again. I pondered the vanishing cockatiel mystery while I emptied a can of air freshener into the apartment. There was no evidence Fanny had eaten him. When she ate birds she always left something behind. Usually the liver. Sometimes a tiny head with open eyes and a hopeless expression. There were no spare Bosco parts to be found anywhere, but he was still missing. He must have fled the apartment during the turkey-slaughtering incident. Or worse, the poor little guy might have been taken by the intruder.

  By six-fifteen I had scrubbed the wall with bleach one last time and sanitized every surface in my little studio.
I thought the air had cleared, but I didn’t trust my sense of smell. I wouldn’t know for sure until Harry arrived. I beat my all-time record for speedy showers, lathering my entire body in shampoo and rinsing in three minutes flat. Since it was just Harry, makeup and hairdo were of no concern. He wouldn’t notice what I looked like unless I had a black eye or a missing front tooth. As long as he didn’t see the hematoma forming on my shin, I’d be okay. I wore jeans for that reason, although the evening was hot and humid, and I would have preferred cotton shorts.

  With a few minutes to spare, I sat down to check my email. No messages from Nick. I sent him a text: Where are the photos? Harry was due at seven. Ten minutes to go. I checked the landline phone again for messages in case someone had called while I was in the shower. There was one. I punched the play button.

  “Hi, sweetheart, it’s Amah. Surprise! We’ll be home a day early. We’re planning to spend the night in Eugene. We’ll see you tomorrow afternoon. Can’t wait to get home. Love you.”

  Oh, hell. They’d arrive at the very apex of this mess. If Harry was arrested, Amah would call Mom and Dad in the Azores and Grandpa Machado and Tanya in New York. The whole family would be in an uproar. Harry had done nothing wrong. He didn’t deserve this and neither did our family.

  At that moment I knew how it felt to loathe another human being, and it wasn’t DA Keefer. She didn’t have it in for Harry; she simply had a politician’s penchant for the version of reality that suited her agenda. The real villain in this travesty of justice was Marco Bueller. Our only hope was to fight the law. Someone wrote a song about that once.

  As I recalled, the law won.

  Chapter 43

  Harry’s red Jag rolled down the lane toward the bunkhouse at seven o’clock with the low-lying sun reflecting off his windshield. He took the stairs two at a time. I met him on the deck and suppressed an impulse to grab him in a desperate hug. It seemed so long since we’d talked face to face.

  “Hi,” I said.