CUTTER'S GROVE

by Patrick Dakin

  “So,” he says. “I understand you paid Mrs. Paige a little visit a while back.”

  “Mrs. Paige?”

  “In Indio.”

  Ah, so that’s it. “Yes, Sergeant, in fact I did.”

  “Mrs. Paige contacted me recently,” he says, blowing out an impressive plume of smoke. “I don’t mind telling you, Mr. Tunney, I was a little surprised to learn that you’ve apparently taken it upon yourself to become involved in a private investigation of Anne Marie Alvarro’s disappearance.”

  “No, really it’s nothing like that. I---”

  “Mr. Tunney, I’d appreciate it if we could just dispense with the horseshit, alright?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Now, would you mind telling me just what it is you’re up to here?”

  Before I can answer, Deborah comes out of the shop and heads our way.

  Yates watches her walk toward us with an appreciative eye. Given Deborah’s attire I suspect he’s imagining all kinds of kinky things have been going on between us. “Have we met before, ma’am?” he asks as Deborah joins us.

  “Yes, Sergeant,” Deborah says. “We spoke at the time you were first investigating the disappearance of the Alvarro girl.”

  Yates seems a little uncertain Deborah is the woman he’s thinking he recalls, undoubtedly confused by her much improved appearance. “Miss Miller?”

  “Yes, that’s right. Deborah Miller.”

  Yates nods. “Well, maybe you’d be kind enough to tell me what’s going on here.”

  Deborah seems much less intimidated by the lawman than I am, and also less inclined to give out information without getting some in return. “Whatever do you mean?” she says innocently.

  “Mrs. Paige was in touch with me recently. She’s concerned about you and Mr. Tunney here. I was hoping you’d enlighten me as to the nature of your discussion with Mrs. Paige.”

  “I’m sure Mrs. Paige must have told you what we spoke to her about,” she says.

  Yates takes another drag on his cigarette, then drops it to the ground and crushes it under a heavily-soled shoe. “Mrs. Paige is a very nice woman,” he responds. “She’s even managed to make quite an impression on the Los Angeles Police Department whose high regard is not that easy to come by. Who knows? Maybe there’s something to all this supernatural stuff she believes in, but I’m afraid I’m far from convinced of it at this stage. All I can tell you for certain, Miss Miller, is that Mrs. Paige is not a gossip. She regards what you told her as confidential until such time as you tell her differently.”

  I breathe a silent sigh of relief. “Well, Sergeant, like I said before---”

  “But she did tell me,” Yates interrupts me, “that she was somewhat worried about you both. That you might be putting yourselves at risk in connection with the Alvarro case. I’m here to tell you folks that if you have some information about this girl’s disappearance, to just pass it along to me. Don’t play detectives. Have I made myself clear?”

  Deborah says nothing. I nod my head. “Sure,” I say. “Perfectly clear.”

  He gives us that Clint Eastwood look that he’s refined to an art form, gets in his car, and drives off.

  “Well, that was fun,” I offer.

  Deborah puts her hand on my arm. “Maybe he’s right, Lucas. Maybe we should just tell him what we have so far and let him do with it what he will.”

  “What we have so far is nothing,” I hasten to remind her. “The only thing talking to Yates would do is make me look like a total moron.”

  Deborah looks at me with no small measure of sympathy. “I suppose,” she says. “Well, I should be going. I just stopped by to ask if you’d like to come for dinner.”

  I figure now is as good a time as any to come clean about my love life. “Look, Deborah, there’s something I’ve been meaning to say to you. I … well, the thing is I have a relationship with Beth. If it wasn’t for that---”

  “Please,” she says, putting up her hand as if to stop traffic. “Don’t say anything more. I understand completely. It was stupid of me to think … to think you’d ever be interested in me.” She looks down, clearly embarrassed.

  I feel terrible for making her uncomfortable. I take her hand. “Deborah, please don’t belittle yourself. If I wasn’t already involved with Beth I’d be delighted to date you. And I’m not just saying that. I mean it.”

  She nods her head in shy acceptance, still looking down. “Okay,” she says. “I was just under the impression things weren’t going all that well between you two. I didn’t mean to cause any trouble.”

  “I know you didn’t.”

  “You’re not mad at me?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Good,” she says softly, finally looking up and giving me a weak smile. “Well, I guess I’d better be going.” She turns, hesitant and reluctant, and begins to walk away.

  Somehow I feel I’ve made a terrible mess of things. “Deborah,” I call out to her.

  She takes several steps before responding. “Later, Lucas,” she says without looking back.

  I glance up the street in the direction of the diner. I envision Beth hunched over a workbench, feverishly clutching a whetstone in one hand and a large, bone-handled nail file in the other.

  23

  Now that I’ve alienated all the women in my life I have plenty of time to devote to my work, Victor’s well-being, and beer drinking with Sonny.

  I haven't heard a word from Beth or Deborah for the past four days. And I have, wisely I believe, decided not to initiate communication with either of them. Sonny reports periodically on Beth’s surly disposition and I have little doubt that my efforts would be without success no matter what I did to gain her tolerance. I am gratified, though, that she has apparently decided to hold Sonny at least partially to blame for her anguish, reasoning, undoubtedly, that he was responsible for my decision to stay in Cutter’s Grove. That she refuses to joke around with him, or even speak to him for that matter, seems to cause him real pain.

  I’ve decided, as well, to put further thoughts of Anne Marie Alvarro from my mind. If one of the poker players is in fact responsible for her death, it’s Yates’ job to find it out, not mine. Besides, the more I think about it, it’s all bullshit anyway. I was delusional when I was in the desert. I hallucinated a vision of a ghost girl and my screwed up mind then identified it as none other than the missing Anne Marie when I saw her picture. As far as Thelma Paige’s hints go, they could probably apply to an untold number of other situations.

  And what have we really got on Herb Kripps anyway? The guy had a bad relationship with his daughters? Him and forty million other fathers. And so what if he said he was going out of town and he didn’t? That’s his business. And lots of people haul stuff into their basements without being accused of murder. And lend their places to kids to make whoopee while they’re not there. And as far as Deborah seeing auras goes, who’s to say she’s not nuttier than a pile of squirrel turds?

  I finish the tune up that’s been occupying me while all these thoughts skittered through my mind.

  I’m feeling good about how I’ve put things into perspective.

  As I move the car I’ve been working on out of the shop I see the pickup I spotted at Herb’s the other night drive by.

  The guy at the wheel is Arliss Beckman.

  Suddenly all my recently made decisions dissipate like a puff of smoke in a high wind. I’m thinking, what was a twenty-nine year old guy, who happens to be one of my murder suspects, doing at Herb’s last night with his boss's fifteen year old daughter?’ They were heading upstairs to the bedroom, that’s what.

  Son of a bitch. I’m Columbo again.

  Now, however, I’m without the assistance of Nancy Drew and Miss Marple. I’m still nervous at the thought of talking to Beth and, if I’m honest, just as uneasy around Deborah. The recent change in her has been dramatic to say the least. She’s a totally different woman from the one I first met.

  I mull things over in my
mind for awhile and then decide to test the waters with Beth. I’ll stop into the diner and see how she reacts to my presence. Maybe she’s mellowed a bit since Sonny’s last report.

  I decide to wait until lunch time. I figure she’ll be less likely to scratch my eyes out while there are other people in close proximity.

  When I arrive she’s taking an order at one of the booths. The guy she’s waiting on spots me, stops in mid-order, and stares at me. Beth follows his line of sight and, when she sees me, turns her gaze away immediately without a whit of acknowledgment. She completes the order and walks back to the kitchen. I park my butt on a stool at the counter. I figure I’m a customer, so sooner or later she’s got to approach me.

  Ten minutes go by and she’s still ignoring me completely. The place is dead quiet. “Could I have a coffee here, please?” I call out. This is embarrassing. Every guy in the place is getting a great chuckle out of watching me squirm. I wait five more minutes and then slink off my stool and head for the door, mindful of the snickering and chortling that accompanies my departure.

  I feel like I did once at a high school sock hop. I’d walked across thirty feet of dance floor to ask one of the most popular girls in school to dance, only to be shot down. The walk back across that floor seemed like thirty miles.

  Okay, so Deborah is next on my list. I stop by the post office. The welcome here is vibrant compared to what I’ve just endured at the diner. Deborah’s smile is like the first breath of fresh air after a day in a slaughter house. “Hello, Lucas,” she says. There’s a wistful quality to her greeting. Like she’s aware that something has changed between us and it will never go back to the way it was.

  “Hi.”

  “I was just going to break for lunch. Would you like to join me?”

  “Great,“ I say. I notice she’s dressed more conservatively today but it’s still apparent she has undergone a metamorphosis of monumental proportions in regard to her wardrobe and general appearance. Her hair and makeup look as if they’ve been applied by a professional. I’m wondering why, when she’s obviously in possession of stylish clothes and fashion sense, she has dressed so poorly in the past and given so little attention to her grooming.

  As we leave the pharmacy Adele gives me a look that I find hard to interpret. I figure it conveys a message somewhere between ‘Way to go, stud,’ and ‘What the hell have you done to our Deborah?’

  “Where would you like to go?” I ask.

  “How about Herb’s diner?” she answers, tongue firmly in cheek.

  “Maybe not today.”

  “Mm hmm. The hotel then, I guess.”

  “Right.”

  “Or we could go to my place, if you’re worried about being seen in public with me.”

  The truth is I’m not anxious to inflame Beth’s anger any more than I already have. “It’s not that I don’t want to be seen in public with you, Deborah,” Oh, yes, it is. “but your place would be fine,” I say.

  She smiles at me with great forbearance.

  Harold is occupying his favorite spot on the porch when we arrive. “How’s it going, Harold?” I say.

  “Hi, Lucas,” he answers. “Where’s Victor?”

  “Last I seen of him he was out in front of the garage. He’s probably still there if I know Victor,” I say.

  But, beyond satisfying his curiosity, Harold shows little interest in his absent pet. He jumps to his feet. “Going to Marvin’s,” he says.

  “Do you have your key with you?” Deborah asks.

  “Yup.” He scoots over the porch railing and disappears from sight. Despite his immature and rather awkward gait, he is considerably more agile than one would think at first glance.

  “Have you had your lunch?” Deborah calls to him.

  “Yeah,” he shouts back.

  She shakes her head in dismay and then looks at me. “Come in, Lucas, I’ll make us some sandwiches.”

  “I came across some interesting information today,” I say, following her into the house.

  “Oh?”

  “Guess who was at Herb’s the other night with Alicia Hocking.”

  “Who?” she says, clearly impressed that I’ve been able to find this out.

  “Arliss Beckman.”

  She is stopped in her tracks by this assertion. “Arliss Beckman? My God, he’s twice her age!”

  “That’s right. It seems nice, quiet Arliss is a bit of a cradle robber.”

  “Cradle robber? The man is a pervert, Lucas. That’s statutory rape if he’s fooling around with her.”

  “I guess.”

  “Well, that certainly puts him right up there with Herb on the suspect list,” Deborah says.

  “That’s what I was thinking, too,” I reply.

  A feeling comes over me that there has been some recapturing of the rapport Deborah and I have shared up until recently. I don’t reveal it to her but, the truth is, I’m immensely pleased to have Miss Marple back on side.

  24

  While munching on my sandwich I notice Deborah scrutinizing me with an anxious look on her face. “Something wrong?” I ask.

  “Your aura. It’s very dark again,” she says. “For a while it lightened up a bit, but it’s nearly as dark as before now.”

  “Well,” I say, “nothing bad happened last time so it’s probably okay.”

  Deborah looks unconvinced. “Maybe. When do you play poker again?” she asks.

  “Tonight, as a matter of fact.”

  “Oh, really?”

  “Why? Do you think there’s any reason to be concerned?”

  “Who’s to say? But I confess I’m a little worried about it.”

  We finish up lunch and make ready to leave. As we’re heading out the front door Deborah stops to get her key out of her purse and I squeeze by her. It’s a tight fit and she looks up at me with what can best be described as bedroom eyes. I know if I hesitate for a fraction of a second where this is leading. I gently push by her and wait on the porch while she locks up.

  When I drop her at the pharmacy she looks at me dolefully. Is it because she considers she has missed an opportunity? I’m not sure. “Good luck at the game tonight,” she says.

  “Thanks.”

  “Will you call me right away if anything happens.”

  The only thing that’s likely to happen is that I lose every cent I have left to my name. “Sure.”

  She touches my arm. “Bye, Lucas. Be careful.”

  “Thanks for lunch,” I say.

  Just before seven, Sonny calls on me. “Ready to go?” he says.

  “Yeah, I guess.”

  “You feelin’ lucky tonight?”

  “Not particularly. Why?”

  “Well, you know what they say. Lucky at cards, unlucky at love.”

  “In that case I’m destined to win big tonight, Sonny.”

  He chuckles at this. “Can’t argue with ya there.”

  As usual, we’re the last to arrive. The whole gang is already on hand and waiting on us at the hotel. After the customary drink and chatter we settle into our places at the poker table.

  I examine the faces around me. Herb looks intense, but I figure he’s just dreaming of another big haul and how he’ll spend all the money he takes off me. Arliss is quiet and a little withdrawn, but that’s his normal disposition - nothing unusual there. Paco, however, who is normally more extroverted, is unusually quiet. And Mel, too, seems a bit preoccupied. Sonny, of course, rarely changes.

  From the very first hand dealt, it is apparent that it’s not Herb’s night. He bets big on everything, crashing and burning with agonizing consistency. Soon it becomes obvious he’s bluffing outrageously and trying to make up his losses with every new hand. His frustration is conspicuous. You don’t have to be a major player to know that this trait is a recipe for disaster at a poker table.

  The more Herb loses, the worse it gets.

  By ten o’clock, when we break for fifteen minutes, he’s outright hostile to everyone in the room. Even more s
o to me because, as luck would have it, I’ve got a good part of the five hundred he’s down.

  When the break is just about up, Herb says, “Come on you assholes, let’s get this shitty game under way.”

  Everyone exchanges a look. But Mel Hocking, who is not in the least bit accustomed to being ordered around, is the only one to react outwardly. “Maybe you just better cool it, Herb,” he says. “If you can’t take the heat, get outa the boiler room. Okay?”

  Herb gives Mel a spiteful look. “Keep your advice to yourself, hotshot.”

  Mel is forty-two - seven or eight years Herb’s junior - and, by every outward appearance, in excellent shape. Herb looks like the before picture in a before and after ad for a weight loss program. In a physical confrontation between these two, there’s very little doubt about who will come out on top.

  Mel carefully places his drink down on the bar and faces Herb. “If I hear any more crap outa that pie hole of yours, fat man, I’ll rip off your head and stuff it up your ass. You got that?”

  Herb and Mel stare down on one another for several long seconds. Everyone in the room is holding his breath. Finally, Herb breaks the deadlock. “Ease up, Mel, I didn’t mean nothin’.”

  Mel picks up his drink and downs what’s left of it. “Good,” he says. “Let’s play cards.”

  But an hour later, Herb’s frustration surfaces again after he loses a bundle trying to draw to an inside straight. “Screw it,” he yells, throwing down his cards. “I’ve had it. I’m outa here.” When he stands he nearly upends the table. It’s pretty clear that his extraordinarily poor play tonight has not been helped by the excessive amount of booze he’s put away.

  When the evening ends for the rest of us an hour later, I’m up almost six hundred bucks. “Looks like you made up a little lost ground tonight, Lucas,” Sonny says. He seems happy about it, too, which speaks well for him because it hasn’t been a particularly good night for him.