by Dahlke, RP
"Arny, I see a long and happy career as a criminal investigator, but for now, let's just keep this between us, shall we?"
"What're you going to do with it?"
"Bury it. Then tomorrow morning, come down here with a hammer and put the box up on its post."
"But—but, shouldn't you tell the cops? It might mean something—like maybe they got the wrong suspect?"
"Dead rats or not, they do have the wrong suspect. So, are you going to drive me the rest of the way, or do I have to walk?"
He put the car in gear and silently drove the graveled road to my house, got out, walked around to my side, and opened the door. When I got out, he said, "Okay, so anytime you need a ride, call me."
Or pucker up and whistle. It wouldn't take more than that to bring Arny whizzing to my aid. It was kind of sweet.
Inside the house, except for the overhead light in the foyer and the one in the kitchen, the place was dark and quiet. On the kitchen table was a folded note with Caleb's handwriting on it. I put off reading it until I'd loaded the coffee maker and set the timer for tomorrow.
Ignoring the madly blinking message light on our home phone, I went upstairs to perform my nightly ritual of flossing, brushing my teeth, removing makeup, taking off the linen dress, and checking it for stains. Deciding the dress could stand a trip to the dry cleaners, I folded it up and put it on a chair for tomorrow. Then I put on my favorite soft cotton nightgown and sat on the edge of my bed to read Caleb's note: When you get a minute, call me.
I now had no doubt that Rodney had arrested the wrong man, and to prove it the killer had left me another very pointed message. Only this time, I had no intention of letting go.
I shut off the questions tumbling around in my head, picked up West With the Night by Beryl Markham, and imagined myself flying mail over the African bush to landlocked Europeans, then turned off the light and fell instantly into a dreamless sleep.
Chapter twenty-seven:
The next day clouds in the shape of mare's tails galloped across the stratosphere while an opposing low skidded in the other direction. Which could mean anything, rain, wind, clearing, or not, but it was too cranky to fly.
Downstairs my dad was dressed in his new favorite lime green zootsuit, Spike's leash in his hand. "What the hell happened to our mailbox?"
The memory of last night's episode with the dead rat and scribbled warning still filled me with loathing. Rodney came to mind, but this wasn't his MO. Brad Lane was dead, Mr. Kim was in jail, and Grace Kim was AWOL. Grace—I got a bad feeling, nothing more than a whisper, but every time I thought of her, I couldn't help but feel that she was long gone and out of my reach.
"Kids, I guess. Last month it was wheelies on Kitty Watson's front yard. Shredded her nice green lawn."
"Humph. Damn kids. Don't they have enough to do these days except trash other people's property?"
"I'll fix it this morning. We won't be flying in this bouncy weather anyway."
"Good time to finish that engine later today. You gonna help?"
"I have to go into town, but I'll be back no later than two."
"See that you do. I don't want to have to do the whole thing myself."
"Fine, fine. I have to do this, Dad." I looked down at Spike, his upper lip raised in a cute doggy Elvis, that is if you like Cujo as Elvis. "Time for a refill on Spike's meds?"
"Shirley thinks his bad temper is due to his hip."
"His hip? What makes her think that?"
The chief cynic in our family blushed. "She asked him."
"My third grade teacher is now a dog whisperer?"
"She's been taking a course at the senior citizen's center in animal behavior." He fingered the leash. "I thought I'd ask the doc to take X-rays of his pelvis. See what's what."
He bent down to pet the dog, rubbing his ears. Something else was bothering my dad.
"What's wrong?" I asked.
He mumbled something I couldn't hear.
"What?"
"I said, Shirley and I broke up."
"Why?"
"You know I can't abide a thief."
"Mrs. Hosmer? What'd she do, rob a bank?" I was trying to picture Shirley Hosmer, my third grade teacher, in a Nixon Halloween mask waving a shaky revolver over the heads of terrified bank patrons.
"I had to quit taking her to Smorga Bob's."
"Why's that?"
"The manager stopped me on the way to the men's room and insisted I pay for all the extras she's been carting home in that tote bag she carries around. Then he told me not to bring her back."
"Wow, banned from Smorga Bob's. I've been kicked out of better places."
"It's not funny, Lalla. Sugar and such, but that's not all. She thinks nothing of clipping through the back alley to avoid paying the parking lot attendant."
"You don't say anything when Great Aunt Eula May packs home all the sugar from the table."
He harrumphed. "I would hardly put your aunt Eula May and Shirley Hosmer in the same category. Eula May may be old and eccentric, but she's rich."
"My point exactly. Aunt Eula May is rich enough to buy every Smorga Bob's in Texas, and that's why no manager in his right mind would dare say a word to her. But Shirley isn't rich, is she?"
"Of course not. But her teacher's pension should be enough to live on without resorting to theft. I'm retired too, but you don't see me stealing the salt and pepper."
"Oh, come on Dad, is that what's really bothering you?"
"She called me a tightwad."
Ah, now we were getting someplace.
"And that hurt your feelings."
"Of course it did. I pay for my share. I even drive sometimes, don't I?"
"Do you like her?"
"I did, but if she's going to act like this, there's more fish where this one came from, that's for sure."
"You took on this dating thing without reading the rules, and now you wonder why she's behaving this way? Well, I can tell you, she's sending you a message and you need to pay attention."
He straightened his shoulders, hitching his pants back up onto his bony hips. "So what's the message, besides Noah Bains is a sucker?"
"Dad, fact is you are a tightwad, and she's a nice lady, living on a fixed income. You're retired too but you own a ranch, a business, and you have plenty of money in the bank, or at least that's her perception."
"I'd better have money in the bank. What if next year's a bust?"
"It wouldn't put a dent in your bank account to treat her to dinner when you go out either, or pay for the theater tickets, whatever it is you do for fun."
"We aren't kids. I shouldn't have to buy her ice cream at the soda fountain in order to hold her hand."
They were doing more than holding hands, but I wasn't about to bring it up, not now.
"Do you like this woman enough to want to fix this, or not?"
"I don't know." His stubborn jaw softened and he said, "Yeah, I guess I do."
"What do you figure it might cost you every month, that is if you acted like a hero instead of a tightwad?"
He pursed his lips and I could see that he was doing the mental math on outings if he paid for both. "I guess sixty, eighty dollars. Not all that much, when you put it like that. Hero, huh?"
"Be a hero, Noah Bains. Ask her to dinner, and make sure that she understands that you're picking up the tab. And, I'm not talking about a place like Smorga Bob's, either. Go to that steak house downtown, or at least Marie Callender's. After they take your order and you've both got a nice glass of wine, pick up her hand and tell her how much she means to you and that as long as she's willing to be your date, you'll pick her up, pay for all the theater, dinner, whatever you have planned, and for crying out loud, the parking attendant, too."
He blinked. "That's a pretty tall check list. But, I guess I could try it. That is if you're sure it'll work."
"What've you got to lose?"
"I haven't felt this way about a woman in a long time. Do you really think she'll chan
ge her mind if I do all that?"
I patted his shoulder and said, "I'm a woman, I know how we think."
Before my sixty-eight-year-old father could stop to consider the irony of who was giving him advice about dating, I headed for the door and work in the office.
I hit the button on my office answering machine, and a slow metallic voice said, "You have five messages." Making a note to myself to change the batteries, I dutifully wrote down all the names and numbers of the women who'd obviously heard a rumor that my dad might be back on the market again and were now vying for his time. Then I returned Caleb's call.
When he answered I jumped right in. "Hi, it's me. Is now a good time to come by?"
"Let me check."
No, "Hi sweetheart," or any other endearments that might muddy the waters of our recent breakup. I guess I shouldn't be surprised. At least he didn't put me on hold as I could hear his antique wood desk chair creak while he consulted his appointment calendar.
"Okay," he said. "I've got to testify in a court case at ten. If you can make it soon, I'll be here. Otherwise, it'll have to be after. I could meet you at DEWZ across from the courthouse, say noonish?"
I looked at my watch. "I'll come by your office before you leave."
"Good," he said, and hung up.
I had that sour taste in my mouth, and my head felt fuzzy. I felt like I was coming down with something, flu, cold, maybe an avoidance virus of some kind; anything that would keep me from having this confrontation with Caleb. How to start: They arrested the wrong man, Caleb. But, if not Mr. Kim, then who? I'd already ruled out Detective Rodney for the rat in the mailbox. Byron? Maybe. He was mad enough at me to do something like this, but somehow I thought he'd hold his guns on this one. Grace Kim? I sensed an eerie quiet when I thought about Grace. It worried me, but I couldn't quite grasp the why of it.
I showered and dressed for town, then remembered to find a hammer, screws, and screwdriver and drove out to the mailbox. Since I didn't want my dad pulling out a handful of mail with rat blood on it, I sprayed the insides with Lysol and swished some paper towels around till the metal came clean. Then I set to work righting our mailbox onto its post.
I was now truly late for Caleb and not even sure I'd make it home in time to help with rebuilding that engine. If my dad could cat around till all hours of the night, and be up for breakfast this morning by six, he had the energy to do the work himself. Besides, for all his grumbling, Noah Baines still liked to think he was useful.
Sure enough, I'd lingered over the mailbox too long and missed Caleb.
His secretary, Sherleen Glenn, was taking paper clips off a stack of forms. "No, sorry, hon. Nothing but this note," she said handing it to me. "Is there any message?"
The note said,."DEWZ, Noon."
Thinking I might be able to get some mileage out of this visit after all, I said, "Well, damn. He was going to do me a favor, but I guess he forgot. How about one of the deputies—George, or Ray. Either of them in?"
"Sure. Let me call Ray."
Ray lumbered down the hall, stopping in the doorway. At six-foot-three, and pushing three hundred pounds, Ray was part bulldozer, part forklift. The department had him on a diet, but it didn't look like it was taking. "Hi, Lalla, you wanted to see me?"
"Yes, did Caleb send you or George to pick up a box at the police station?"
"Uh, not me, maybe George. I'll go ask."
Sherlene rolled her eyes, then picked up the phone and called George. She hung up, winked at me and said, "I could've told Ray to wait, but he needs the exercise."
We could hear Ray's heavy footsteps, but George outmaneuvered him and got through the door first. "Lalla? Nice to see you, again. Ray said something about a box?"
Ray, refusing to give up his status as first on the scene, shoved past George to squeeze inside. That made four of us in Sherlene's tiny office, and she didn't look happy about it. "Hey! I'm trying to work here."
I ignored her and so did Ray and George.
"Did Caleb send you to the police evidence room to pick up a box of snowflakes?" I asked George.
The left side of George's mouth tweaked up, his brown eyes lit in humor. "They melted on the way back?" George, the jokester, slapping his thighs and wiping his eyes of the laughter. "Sorry, couldn't resist. You know... so funny... snowflakes... in a box... in this weather."
I stood there with my arms crossed, praying for patience until George could get a handle on his laughter. "Could you call and see if it will be available?"
"Now?"
"Please?" If Rodney took that box, I'd never see it again.
He perched on Sherlene's desk. She wrinkled her nose at him, then pushed aside her paperwork and handed him the phone.
"Hello? Yeah, this is Deputy Sheriff George Heath. Evidence room, please." He gave me a reassuring wink.
George told them what he needed and waited. "Uh-huh. Then who...? Uh-huh. You don't say. No, thanks, that's it."
"So?" I asked, my heart beating a quick tattoo.
He hung up, thoughtful. "I can tell you this much, I'm sure glad I'm not in their shoes, 'cause heads are going to roll on this one." He held up his fingers and ticked off the problems. "One: The signature is illegible. Two: The officer seems to have forgotten to put down his badge number. And three: Nobody remembers seeing who it was who took it and it hasn't been returned. They're looking into it."
I felt my earlier euphoria sinking into the cushion of my chair. Then I sat up again. Checked out? That had to be done by a cop. This was the proof we'd been looking for—a cop who didn't want anyone looking at Billy Wayne's snowflakes. There had to be something in them that would name the killer.
I cheerfully thanked them all and left for what was left of my lunch appointment with Caleb at DEWZ.
I stepped through the door to the downtown café behind a long line of restless lawyers and clients, judges and policemen jostling for a table and a quick lunch.
"Excuse me," I said, edging my way through the line,
"I'm meeting someone. Sorry, sorry, my friend is waiting—yes, yes, I have a table."
I stepped up behind a tall brunette talking animatedly to the man next to her. When she heard my voice, she swiveled around and smiled. "Hey, Lalla! You missed soft-ball practice this week. Where you been, girlfriend?"
"Hey, Barb. Sorry, it's been, uh, a bit busy. You know Ag pilots, crops to spray, bugs to kill, that sort of thing." I edged away, just in case she asked me if I knew who was responsible for endangering her baby brother's career as a police officer.
"Wait up a sec?" She tossed a few words over her shoulder to her friend and signaled that I should meet her in the ladies' room. Reluctantly, I followed in her wake.
Inside, she locked the door behind us. I held my breath, trying to imagine how I could possibly pacify her and not make her brother sound like a total nincompoop.
She turned to me, white teeth showing in a wide smile. "Byron's in love. Can you believe it?"
"Really?" This was a relief, and a surprise. I could talk about Byron all day, but none of it had anything to do with his love life. "So, who's the lucky girl?"
"I wouldn't have known he had a girlfriend if I hadn't caught them smooching under the lights at his apartment parking garage. I was delivering my mom's weekly leftover lasagna, and there they were, wrapped around each other, completely oblivious to anyone who might be driving by. I didn't stick around to mess up his cha-cha, if you know what I mean, but when I cornered him the next day he said that since they work together it has to stay quiet."
"Gee, that's sweet. So when's the big day?" I asked, knowing that his sister, mother, cousins, and the entire Portuguese population of Turlock, would now be on his case for a wedding date.
"He won't say, the little rascal! I only hope he'll bring her home before they move."
"Move? Byron's moving?"
"She got another job offer someplace back east and they're both going to transfer."
"Nice," I said, thinking
it wouldn't be bad to have Byron out of my hair.
"Yeah, fast work on little brother's part—that is if he can hold onto a babe like that. She was a good couple of inches taller than he is. Don't get me wrong, little brother is adorable, all that dark curly hair flopping over his forehead and those damn long eyelashes, but he's always been so shy with the girls, you know? I was the one who pushed him to sign up for the police academy and I guess it's given him the boost to his confidence he needed. That uniform and his good looks. Finally, my baby brother is getting some action!"
"Did you say, taller? Was she by any chance a redhead?"
"Oh, gee, I couldn't tell, those phosphorescent lights wash the color right out of everything, you know? Great cheekbones though."
Pippa and Byron smooching in a parking lot? Whoa… Wait a minute… Pippa was getting a transfer and taking Byron with her? Byron, who could barely look at a woman without stammering, hooked up with a beautiful young woman like Pippa? What were the chances that this was a coincidence? At her rescue of me at the police station, I suggested that she hypnotized him, and she waved off the idea but admitted that Byron was enamored with her. And didn't she also say, Not that it will do him any good?
Hypnosis? She'd tried to hypnotize me, and it didn't work—or did it? Didn't I seem to have a little voice telling me that I was no longer interested in this case? Byron was still a kid, easily influenced, and Pippa was... was Pippa the uniform Mr. Kim had seen?
"Lalla? You okay? You look faint."
I was feeling a little woozy.
"Oh, gee, I'm sorry, here I am babbling on about my family and keeping you from your meal."
"It's okay, Barb, I guess I should be going, my lunch date is waiting, and I am famished. It's been great seeing you, and I hope everything works out for Byron and his girlfriend."
I only stumbled once on the stairs to the second floor, caught myself with the handrail, and taking a deep breath to settle my nerves, met Caleb with a smile on my face. The thousand watt smile I beamed at him must have worked because he gave me a grateful peck on the cheek, pulled out a chair for me, and said, "Hey, sweetheart, I'm glad to see you."
