24
The drive back took more than four hours. Once again Laura would be home late at night. Driving through the darkness through the Tohono O’odham reservation, she tried to figure out what was going on with Shana and Bobby.
They could be anywhere by now. But she was betting on Williams, which meant another trip up north.
She wondered if he really meant to marry her, or if it was a ploy to get her to go with him. From everything she had heard, Shana sounded like a user. Shana was a user and Bobby was a user. Who won when two users got together?
Laura was betting on Bobby.
As she got on I-10 to drive across Tucson, her mind turned to home, and to Tom. She realized that she’d been overreacting. The idea that he had suddenly fallen in love with a lost hiker—that sounded just a little bit paranoid. She hadn’t talked to him for several days, and there was nothing to prove that things had changed between them, except for her own bad feeling. If she looked at it logically, from an investigator’s viewpoint, there was no evidence that anything was amiss.
She needed to chill.
But when she got home, Tom was still gone. No evidence that he had come back.
Where would he be now? Presumably the hiker was in the hospital for observation or out and going on about her life. Laura walked over to the cantina looking for him, but he wasn’t there. Mina saw her and held up a hand, a signal that she would come by when she was done serving other customers.
Tom obviously wasn’t here, and Laura didn’t want to hear a lecture tonight. She walked back along the horse trail toward her house, stopping at the corrals.
Tom’s trailer was back, but his truck was gone. His decrepit retired saddle bronc, Ali— named for Mohammed Ali—was in the corral.
Laura was relieved that Tom hadn’t left for good. He wouldn’t leave without taking Ali.
She went back to the house, which was still empty. Got into bed, but couldn’t sleep. Frustrated and angry that she was listening for him again.
She felt shut out. She wanted to know what was going on—if anything was going on. But there was no way to reach him. He didn’t have a cell phone. He didn’t have much of anything. He was the kind of man who lived his life the way he wanted to, and didn’t worry about what other people thought.
Laura hated not being able to do anything about it.
She turned on the TV set. It was the same channel from last night, one of those movie channels where they repeat movies, because The Sixth Sense was on again.
Haley Joel Osment and Bruce Willis were back at the wake for the little girl.
The little girl handing Haley Joel the box.
The girl getting out of her bed and turning on the video camcorder.
The mother coming in with the tray, setting it down, pouring something into the child’s food—all of it caught on tape.
Laura turned off the set. She remembered something Wendy had told her about Mrs. Wingate. How she haunted the Health Care Center, buttonholing the doctors, riding herd on them, never taking “no” for an answer.
An expert by now.
It seemed strange that Erin had suffered a setback at the soda fountain in Flagstaff while Laura was there. What were the odds of that happening?
The mother of one of the other girls said these incidents had happened a few times—twice? Three times? So much so that it seemed unfair to the other girls.
If Erin was that sick, why did Mrs. Wingate insist she go in for extracurricular activities?
Maybe the activities were therapeutic.
But Laura also remembered what Jillian had told her about Erin Wingate: Hard to think of Erin lying around all day.
25
The first thing Laura did when she arrived at the Flagstaff airport was rent a car. It was on her dime, but that didn’t matter. Whether or not she got reimbursed, she was fine with it. She didn’t gamble, she didn’t travel, she didn’t buy herself expensive toys. Her job was her vice. She had no idea how long she’d be in Williams, but she sure as hell wasn’t going to spend it riding around in Richie Lockhart’s Starskymobile.
When Laura got in to work this morning, she found out that Richie was already on his way up to Williams. This was after the Williams PD informed him that Luke Jessup had turned up. Laura needed to be there, too. There was Luke Jessup, and there was the possibility that Bobby Burdette and Shana Yates had gone straight back home.
She called ahead to the Williams PD to let them know she didn’t need anyone to come and pick her up. Something was lost in translation, though; Officer Tagg was waiting for her outside at the curb.
“I’ve got a car,” she told him, holding up the key tab.
He looked at her morosely. She could almost hear what was going on in his mind. Women: They can never make up their minds.
Laura’s conservation-minded upbringing had come out when she chose the car. Personally, she didn’t like the new American-made cars, although she never offered her opinion. If that got out, she’d be universally despised by her squad-mates; DPS bled red, white and blue. Laura had been razzed unmercifully when she chose her take-home car, the only Toyota in a pantheon of Excursions and Silverados. Drug dealers liked American cars as much as the cops did—which made a good argument that enforcing the law and breaking the law were, in some ways, two sides of the same coin.
Laura wanted another 4Runner—or God forbid, a Camry—but she got a Chevy Impala instead. Richie wouldn’t have an excuse not to ride with her now.
The Impala was the color of freshly-overturned dirt. She wondered what great marketing exec came up with the color. How did they describe it in the brochure? Coffee? Peat Moss? Mole?
It was mid-afternoon by the time Laura pulled her big duffle into the same room she’d occupied only three days ago.
She dropped off her stuff and drove out to meet Richie, who was waiting for her at the gate to Unicorn Farm. When he saw her drive up behind him, he got out of his car.
“So you finally came to your senses,” he said, nodding at her vehicle. “Didn’t they have any Monte Carlos?”
“Didn’t want to steal your thunder.” She walked around to the passenger side and opened the door. “Shall we?”
He smiled, but shook his head. “I would, but I can’t leave this baby by the side of the road. Especially so close to a golf course.”
Of course not. They drove across the meadow to the Wingate house. This time the wildflowers were shriveled and the grass had a decidedly brownish cast.
Laura was thinking about coincidences. Turned out Luke Jessup had been living in a trailer on Barbara Wingate’s property, where he did odd jobs. He’d probably been up at the trailer when Laura came here last.
As they came up on the blue house, she noticed a beat-up ranch truck with the name UNICORN FARM painted on the doors, and a bumper sticker on the back that said COMMIT RANDOM ACTS OF KINDNESS.
Richie parked in the cleared space near the truck and got out, the sun haloing his white hair.
“You see a trailer?”
“No.”
Richie glanced toward the barn. Laura followed his gaze, which had fallen on a stack of fresh lumber and rolls of shiny silver fencing wire.
“You think building a fence falls under odd jobs?” Richie said.
“If you’re good enough.”
Laura heard a noise and glanced toward the house. Josh Wingate had opened the door and propped the screen open. “We’re in here.”
Laura looked at Richie. “Did you call first?”
“Me? No.”
She smiled. She never called first either.
They entered the house.
“My mother is in the kitchen. You came to see her, right?”
“Actually—”
Laura shot Richie a look. Richie grinned, but didn’t finish the sentence.
Josh Wingate was looking at Laura. He looked sheepish. “Just want you to know, my mom never mentioned he was here. And I don’t talk with her about police business, so … we
ll, anyway.” He shrugged.
“It’s fine,” Laura said. “Is he on the property now?”
“I sent him out on an errand.” Barbara Wingate stood in the doorway of the kitchen, holding a whisk.
She wore blue jeans and a starched white cowboy shirt, tail out, a green sweater tied around her shoulders, her red-gold hair pulled back in a ponytail except for a few feathery bangs on her forehead. The skin of her heart-shaped face just a little loose, but the effect was more charming than if she were twenty. Her fine deep green eyes were wide and innocent. They reminded Laura of a doll’s eyes.
She glanced at Richie. He was transfixed.
“Do you know when Jessup will be back?” Laura asked, deciding that she, at least, wouldn’t be bowled over by the lady’s charms.
“No, I don’t. I was just baking a pie. Would you like to come in the kitchen? I have some wine open.” She nodded to her son. “We have that Brie, Josh. Would you mind cutting some?”
She led the way into the kitchen: stainless steel double oven, stove, and refrigerator, a long granite counter. A well-worn butcher’s block formed an island in the center of the room. Everything bright, colorful, and inviting, like the ceramic rooster canisters arranged by height along the wall by the sink. Cozy.
Laura felt the air slice by her as Josh walked to the refrigerator. He pulled the door open with force, yanked out a crisper, and pulled out a large Ziploc bag holding a block of cheese.
“I think they’d like the Brie better,” Barbara Wingate said.
Josh’s shoulders stiffened.
Mrs. Wingate ignored his reaction and said, “The other crisper. But that will be fine, too. You want to use the cutting board by the sink?”
Josh tumbled the cheese out onto the cutting board and pulled a knife out of the block near the sink with such force he could have been a Samurai.
Barbara Wingate’s back was to them; she was whisking egg whites while Josh knifed the cheese. “I have some red wine. Would either of you like some?”
“No thanks,” said Laura.
“Thanks just the same,” Richie said, then whispered to Laura, “That kid can really cut the cheese.”
“Funny.”
Mrs. Wingate did a few more things to the bowl of egg whites and mixed it with something else until it looked like batter, then poured it on a pie pan lined with dough, did a few more things, then put it in the oven. Laura had never baked a pie in her life, had never even seen a person baking a pie, so she couldn’t have articulated what she saw, but she did understand that Barbara Wingate was an expert at it.
There was already a warm smell, vaguely fruity, and it made Laura hungry. Did Barbara Wingate cook pies on a staggered schedule like they did on cooking shows?
Laura suddenly wished she’d paid attention in home ec—all the homey touches. Kind of like Martha Stewart, if Martha Stewart had an angry son.
Laura wondered what dynamics were in play here.
Josh placed the plate of cheese on the counter and reiterated, “I don’t talk about police work with my mother, so she had no way of knowing we were looking for him.”
“It’s not a problem,” Laura said.
“Just so you know,” he said stubbornly, “it was a miscommunication.”
“We got that,” said Richie, taking a slice of cheddar.
Barbara Wingate sat down and joined them. “So you want to see Luke? It doesn’t have anything to do with Dan’s death, does it?”
“Not directly. We need to talk to him, though.”
Mrs. Wingate’s exquisite eyes held steady. More like Ann Margret than Hayley Mills. She pushed her hand, palm up, under her chin, balanced on an elbow. “Josh has been so upset by what happened. With Dan. They were best friends—”
“They know all that,” Josh Wingate said. He opened the refrigerator, looking for something, then slammed it shut and stood with his back to it, arms folded.
Barbara Wingate didn’t seem to notice. “Luke’s building a new fence for the corrals. He had to go get a new posthole digger; ours finally gave out. But he should be back soon.”
An uncomfortable silence settled on the kitchen. Barbara Wingate picked at a piece of cheese, stood up. “I have water crackers.”
“That’s okay—”
But she bustled over to a cupboard and brought them out, put them on another dish.
Outside, a truck groaned up the slight hill. It didn’t stop at the house, but went on up to the corrals.
“Here we go,” said Richie, standing up.
As Mrs. Wingate walked them out, Laura asked, “How’s Erin doing?”
Barbara Wingate looked slightly bewildered. “Erin?”
“I was in Flagstaff the day you were all at the ice cream parlor—the dance class. She wasn’t feeling too well.”
Barbara Wingate’s expression clouded. “That was a scare. She’s all right, except she’s embarrassed. She felt we were making too much fuss of her, making her go in the ambulance.”
Her lovely eyes sad.
“She’s all right now, though?”
Josh, who had followed them to the door, said, “It’s up and down. Isn’t it, Mom?”
An undercurrent of anger in his voice. More than just anger over the Luke Jessup flap. She recognized it, had acted that way herself when she was a teenager. Almost as if Josh were trying to separate himself from his mother by challenging her. He was a little old for that, but family dynamics could be weird.
“She’s been sick since she’s been here,” Josh added. “Ever since Kathy and Mike died. All those trips to the Health Clinic, I guess it’s just something my mother is going to have to live with.”
Laura looked at Mrs. Wingate, who acted as if nothing were amiss. She’d make a good poker player. Cool and unruffled, those wide green eyes holding Laura’s.
All those TV shows and movies and books that had inculcated Laura as a child: Beauty equals Goodness. That kind of conditioning made it hard to think of Barbara Wingate making her own child sick.
But Laura had seen a lot in her three years as a detective. She’d seen people who could lie as easily as breathing.
And not all of them were cops.
When they got to the barn, Luke Jessup was already digging post holes for a new pen beyond the barn. He was as he’d been described: scruffy. His dark blonde hair had been pulled into a long ponytail, which went well with the beard. As with many people who slept outdoors, it was hard to tell where his brown long-sleeved shirt ended and his dark complexion began. It was not a healthy tan, more like a combination of sunburn and grime compressed into one ugly color. But he handled the posthole digger well and wore new yellow gloves.
Laura called to Jessup and he looked up. His eyes were electric blue in his dark face, aware and intelligent. She realized that if he cleaned up, he’d be a good-looking man.
When he saw her badge, he said, “You the detectives I’m supposed to talk to?”
“That’s right. This is my partner, Richie Lockhart.”
He set the posthole digger down and the three of them walked into the shade of an ash tree. It was warm already this morning, Indian summer holding, but Laura noticed that the edges of some of the leaves were beginning to turn yellow and gold. Fall was on its way.
Jessup removed the yellow gloves and wiped at his face. He was dripping sweat. Laura thought he must be a good worker.
They went over what he had seen, which didn’t vary from Dave Soderstrom’s account. He woke up to shots and saw a man walking around a tent, shooting.
“Did he seem calm?”
“Ma’am, I’m sorry, but it was way across the lake.”
From that distance, he couldn’t tell what kind of clothes the shooter was wearing, although he guessed that it was a long-sleeved shirt and long pants, just from the shape.
“He left right after he was done shooting?”
“Uh-huh. Looked like he just jogged up the road.”
“Jogged? You said ‘walked’ in the report.”
“Seems to me he jogged. He knew firearms, though. The rifle was pointed at the ground.”
“The rifle was pointed at the ground?”
“Yeah. The way he carried it, I could tell he knew his way around firearms. You know, casual.”
“You didn’t see the vehicle?”
“That was farther up near the road. He just disappeared into the trees.”
Laura thought of something. “He didn’t stop to pick up his shells?”
“Nope. Unless he came back later.”
Unless he came back later.
“Did you stay around afterwards?”
“Nope, I boogied.”
“You didn’t go to the tent to see if anyone was alive?”
“Ma’am, the way he shot into that tent, I knew there wouldn’t be any point. Besides, I didn’t want him to shoot me.”
“Why didn’t you go to the police right then?” Richie asked.
“Somethin’ told me not to.”
“What do you mean something told you not to?”
He kicked at the dirt. “I just thought I should keep it to myself. Police would find them soon enough.”
Richie and Laura looked at each other.
“Where have you been all this time?” Laura asked.
He looked at her. “I was holed up in Miz Wingate’s trailer.”
“This whole time? What about church?”
He rubbed his neck. “I didn’t make it to church this week.”
“Why was that?”
“I was too sick. Must’ve been some kind of flu or somethin’. Couldn’t barely move.” He put his gloves back on. “I sure was glad I had some place to stay. Miz Wingate took care of me like she was my own mother, bringing me soups and stuff. I only started feeling better yesterday.”
“How long have you been sick?”
“I guess I came down with it a day or two after I saw the shooting. Stayed up all night, trying to find out what was getting at the chickens.”
The Laura Cardinal Novels Page 50
