by Lakes, Lynde
Paula’s mind whirled in a blank haze. Then the murkiness lifted. “Whitney.”
“Gary Whitney is the kid’s name,” Bard told someone. “How’s he doing?” Paula listened, barely breathing. Hearing only one side of the conversation sent a surge of tension through her. Finally, Bard hung up the receiver and met her gaze. “Gary’s out of recovery and is eating a light breakfast.”
“Thank God.” Paula let her eyelids drift closed. Bard was attending to things she should be doing. He left the room. His footfalls faded.
Where did he go? She sighed. She didn’t care. Her body felt like limp spaghetti. Minutes passed.
Suddenly she heard the clank of a shovel hitting rock and the hard crust of ground dried by the August heat. She recognized the sounds coming through her rear screen door. Bard was burying her birds. How sad to be simply tossed in the ground and covered with dirt.
Still, it was thoughtful of him to save her from seeing the carnage again. But her precious birds deserved more. It was different the day Corky died. She and Charlie gently laid the mockingbird to rest in a shoebox filled with gardenias. Charlie played “Silver Wings” on the harmonica. Then they took brave, dry-eyed turns saying how much they’d miss him. Charlie mumbled that Corky didn’t have to earn his wings to “wing it” to heaven—he already had them.
She would give the slaughtered birds a fitting ceremony later.
The digging noises stopped. The back screen creaked, followed by footsteps. Suddenly Bard stood over her, looking grim. His white shirt, damp from sweat, clung to him. He had rolled up his sleeves, baring wide, well-shaped forearms. Dirt smudged the knees and cuffs of his gray slacks.
She flinched when he dropped her .38 on the coffee table. “Gary must’ve emptied it as he fired at the men. All the bullets were spent.”
“Where did you find the gun?”
“Buried in the dirt and hidden under a large stone by the rear porch. Gary must’ve hidden it when he fell forward after that lowlife shot him. I wouldn’t have found it if I hadn’t buried…that is…if I hadn’t…cleaned the cages.”
“Gary should never gained access to the gun in the first place. I keep it locked in a drawer.” Her heart pounded. “Yes, yes, I’m sure I locked it.”
“Gary must’ve known where you kept the key.”
“How could he know? Oh, no, what if I left the key in the lock?” Her stomach knotted. “If the gun hadn’t been handy, and if Gary hadn’t tried to save my birds, he’d never have been shot. Oh, God, let him be all right.”
‘He is. He’s eating. That’s a great sign.” Bard met her gaze. “Don’t blame yourself.”
His gentle tone almost fooled her. Then his eyes warmed to a deep green—the shade life had taught her to equate with deception. Then it hit her. He’d kept her away all afternoon. Heat crawled up her cheeks, her anger building slowly like the genesis of a storm, gathering energy until she couldn’t hold it back. “Did you set up the attack on my birds?”
A muscle in Bard’s jaw twitched. “How can you ask that?”
She clawed her fingers into couch cushion. “Answer me, damn you.”
“I can’t believe you could ever think that I’d hurt innocent birds?”
He sounded insulted, shocked, but she still wasn’t fooled.
“Why not? You kept me away just long enough for the arrack, lingering over lunch, asking me lots of questions, delaying me, and then insisting that we wait at the realtor’s office while she drew up the offer.”
“What are you talking about? We clicked at lunch, and I thought we were becoming friends. Dammit, I took you to the real estate office to secure a place where you can keep your birds.”
If only he was as sincere as he seemed. “Who else knew I’d be gone most of the day?”
“Deeter for one,” Bard said. “A black truck followed us to Yucaipa.”
She hadn’t expected an answer. “Why didn’t you mention it?” Convince me, damn you, but she knew he couldn’t; she had her walls up.
“In a way, I did. Don’t you remember? I asked about Deeter. I didn’t come right out and say he was tailing us because at first I wasn’t sure. But I’m sure now. Did you ask him to follow you?”
“Why would I do that?” Did he think she’d buy this lame attempt to shift blame?
“If you didn’t, then whoever is behind the slaughter probably paid Deeter to tail us to Yucaipa, and report back when we headed home.”
“Well, if we’re going to speculate; you and the county are the only ones to gain if something happens to my birds.”
“What happened proved you’re wrong about that.”
“Does it?” Paula heard the shrillness in her voice. She was losing it, but she couldn’t stop herself. “If my birds were gone it would save the county a bundle, wouldn’t it?”
Bard threw up his arms. “The County doesn’t operate that way.”
“No?” She arched an eyebrow. “Then why haven’t they given us protection? This once quiet neighborhood has become the highest crime area in the city. And no one cares.”
“I care. Didn’t I prove that by hiring Acme Security? Last night.”
“Sure, you brought in the army after the enemy retreated.”
Bard paced. “You’re not thinking. They could have come back!” He took a deep breath as if to calm himself. “Mind if use your bathroom to get cleaned up?”
“Sure keep making yourself at home. It’ll belong to The County soon anyway.”
He sent her a masked look and then headed out of the room. He returned within fifteen minutes, looking great and smelling like her Dove soap. He glanced at his watch.
“Want to pay a visit to Gary and see for yourself that he’s fine?” He winked. The wink threw her off guard, and although his offer was exactly what she wanted, she refused to admit it. “Sure, get me out of the way again so those bird butchers can finish the job.”
“I didn’t plan to leave the property unprotected. I gave the guard a break. But he’ll be back in ten minutes. A flush crawled up Bard’s neck. “I’ll wait outside for him.” He slammed the front door behind him.
Tears formed at the back of her eyes. She smashed a pillow with her fist. No tears! She’d get through this. And the men who hurt Gary and butchered her birds would pay. Charlie’s killer, too. Especially Charlie’s killer. Dammit, even though she had Cory Morrison out to get her, Les Cardel on her back, and Bard Nichols trying to get rid of her, determination would see her through this bad period; it always had in the past.
A twinge of guilt squeezed her heart. What if she was wrong about Bard? No, it all made sense. If he got rid of her quickly, he’d look good to his bosses, and probably get a big promotion. He’d warned her about staying here. Said it was dangerous. What better way to scare her off than kill her birds?
Yet, on the other hand, he didn’t seem capable of such ruthlessness. He’d really been incredibly kind. She laughed without humor. So what? From experience she knew deception often came under the guise of kindness.
It was abusive foster parents who pretended to care in front of others. Especially that last one, Frank, with his deceiving green eyes. She touched the jagged scar in her eyebrow.
It was Social Services who wouldn’t believe a child.
It was green-eyed Dan, whom she married to get away from the abuse. Instead, he had given new meaning to the word.
It was Cory, who’d claimed, at first, to be a friend. And Les. And this relocation agent who pretended to care while he focused on getting rid of her.
Her head ached. If only she could be certain about Bard. Nausea rose in her throat. Damn him. She’d almost started trusting him; almost told him too much about herself. Almost started caring for him. Charlie warned her not to trust anyone. She’d let down her guard. Every time she did that she got hurt. A little kindness and she opened her heart like a fool. When would she learn? She had to harden her heart to survive, and she meant to survive.
Chapter Nine
The fo
llowing day, morning sun streamed through the partially opened drapes and reflected off Bard’s stark white bedroom walls. The day was going to be a scorcher.
A loud slam came from the kitchen. Bard jumped. Then exhaled. It was probably Cory searching the cabinets for something. Bard shook his head at his own edginess. It seemed the early heat, plus a restless night full of thoughts of Paula, had pulled his nerves taut.
A hot shower would clear his mind. He adjusted the showerhead to its needle spray but even that didn’t do it. His mind was still full of Paula. She’d been too quick to assume he’d had something to do with killing her birds. But she was right about the motive for the attack. The tactic was to scare her out of the project. But who was behind it?
Gordon had been on him to get Paula moved out of the clear zone. Could he have taken things into his own hands and hired someone to destroy her birds? Even a greedy SOB like Gordon couldn’t be that low. On the other hand, it also didn’t make sense for a project director like Gordon to ignore the looting and destruction of government property. Even Charlie’s murder hadn’t spurred him to hire extra security and demand that the police do more to protect the homeowners.
Bard rinsed away the last residue of soap and dried off with an oversized burgundy towel. He shrugged into a clean white shirt. If his job didn’t call for a tie and jacket, he’d skip them. Not eager to put them on, he carried them to the kitchen and draped them over a chair.
Cory sat at the breakfast bar clutching his clear glass mug. He had drained his heavily creamed coffee to the halfway mark. He looked up from his newspaper. “How did the widow take the trouble over at her place?”
Bard bristled at Cory’s amused tone; it was as if he enjoyed her trouble. “How’d you think?” He grabbed his favorite blue mug from the cupboard and poured some coffee into it.
“Kelly’s incident report gave me new insight into Charlie Borden’s murder. More gunplay around the widow. I wouldn’t be surprised if she’d set the whole thing up herself.”
Bard shoved two slices of bread in the toaster and slammed the handle down. “You can’t seriously think she hired someone shoot a kid and kill her own birds? You’re crazy.”
“Like a fox. Think about it. If she throws suspicion on someone else, it’ll take the heat off her.”
“Paula loved Charlie. She’d never kill him. And she loves that kid and her birds.”
Cory snorted. “W.O. Annie loved Charlie like she loved her foster dad, Frank. And she killed him. You don’t think she’d sacrifice six measly birds and a teenage delinquent to save herself?”
Bard’s toast popped up. He ignored it. “No, I don’t. And I don’t think she killed anybody. And I told you before, her name is Paula. Call her that or Mrs. Lord.”
“Woo-ooo, the widow’s caught you in her web, hasn’t she, buddy? I was afraid of that. Nice guys like you are pushovers for her kind.”
“It’s not like that, Cory. And you’re wrong about her.”
“Just don’t get too involved with the pretty little widow because I’m personally going to put her behind bars.”
Bard slammed the breakfast bar’s Formica top with the flat of his hand. “Railroad her, you mean. Why have you made it so damn personal?”
“I’ve seen her type before. She works men like a hooker works the streets.”
“She couldn’t have killed Charlie Borden. She loved him.”
Cory wagged a finger at Bard, looking smug, confident. “That proves nothing. Women like her have no qualms about killing their lovers.”
“You’d better check your facts. Charlie wasn’t her lover. They sort of adopted each other while in county foster homes, strictly a brother and sister relationship.”
Cory raised a wicked eyebrow. “I’ll just bet.”
“You’ve worked for the force too long. You only see the worst in people.”
“I see past those innocent eyes. There’s an evil side to everyone.”
“Even you, Cory?”
“We’re taking about her. She lived in twelve foster homes in less than twelve years. Only the last foster parents kept her for longer than a year. To thank them, she killed the foster dad. Kids coming up with that kind of history aren’t like the rest of us.”
“I’ve heard enough of this.” Bard grabbed his jacket and tie and stormed out of the house.
He almost forgot to open the garage door before backing his Omni out. He jabbed the open button, backed out to the street, then stomped on the accelerator, taking the corner on two wheels.
Bard slowed and took the next corner at a safer speed. He had to admit one thing, with Paula’s wide, brilliant blue eyes, exactly ten freckles across the nose, and that frizzy, carrot hair, she did resemble a grown up version of Little Orphan Annie, and she had the same gumption and spunk. He’d always trusted his own judgment, and he wasn’t about to let Cory’s wild claims make him doubt it now. Paula was holding the neighborhood together, fighting for them. Killers didn’t operate that way. No way would he let Cory railroad her into jail.
Bard suspected Deeter was the key to uncovering the truth. He hung out with a bunch of ex-jailbird bikers and probably knew who was behind all the looting and killing. He had to find him, and if necessary, pound the truth out of him. But first, he needed to talk to Gordon. The clear zone needed round-the-clock security and extra police protection. After a kid was shot, how could Gordon refuse?
Bard knew the answer. If Gordon was in some way involved in the trouble, he wouldn’t want the police snooping around. He’d see that the paperwork got buried again.
Suddenly, an icy fear seized Bard. Anyone who wanted Paula out of the clear zone badly enough to kill her birds and shoot her birdsitter, wouldn’t hesitate to get rid of her permanently. He drew in a breath. Calm down, he told himself. She’ll be okay as long as the guard is there. So why couldn’t he shake off his rising sense of panic?
****
Across town, morning crept in slowly for Paula. After six hours of swinging between nightmares and sleeplessness, she decided get up and go through the things Charlie had stored in her garage.
She headed outside, taking Ivanhoe with her. She placed her parrot’s wrought-iron cage on a hook. “You can keep me company, Iv, old boy.”
Paula squeezed past her yellow Volkswagen to get to the three large cardboard boxes stacked one upon the other. “Iv, maybe something in one of these cartons will to point to Charlie’s killer.”
Ivanhoe rattled his cage. It swung slightly from his struggle to open the door with his beak.
“Sorry, Iv. You get free rein in the house, not in the garage.” Paula stood on her tiptoes to reach the top box. Was Charlie’s murder part of the scare tactics, or was there more to it?
Ivanhoe squawked and continued his attack on the cage door.
“You’re wasting your time, Iv.” Straining, Paula lowered the box to the floor. “What do you suppose Charlie has in here, rocks?” She wiped beads of moisture from the bridge of her nose. Getting an early start hadn’t saved her from the heat.
Paula pushed the button on the garage door opener. Pulleys and metal links meshed loudly. Better, she thought, as cooler air drifted in.
She returned her attention to the box. She lifted out a stack of magazines. The top one was a yellowed copy of Inventor’s Digest. Paula flipped through the pages. Her throat tightened in remembrance. Charlie had always liked to tinker. He’d been that way since childhood.
Paula smoothed the cover of the periodical then tossed the magazine on the pile of thrift shop stuff. Charlie wouldn’t be around to read it anymore.
She clenched her jaw and held herself rigid until the threat of tears passed.
“Damn you!” she cursed his killer.
“Damn you!” Ivanhoe mimicked in his squawky voice.
She glanced at her parrot and gave a sad little laugh. Bless him. He’d taken the sharp edge off her sorrow. “Sorry Iv, I shouldn’t curse around you. Don’t want you swearing like a pirate.”
Taking a deep breath, Paula dug to the bottom of the box and found a color photo of her and Charlie taken a little over a year ago. He wore old fatigues and a matching cap, jauntily tipped. Even though he was only five-foot nine, he stood taller than her by seven inches. His brawny arm hung protectively over her shoulder. Imagining the weight of his arm, her hand went instinctively to where his hand had once rested. She brought the photo close and studied it. Charlie had brown, thick-lashed, Spanish eyes with a mischievous gypsy twinkle in them. “You were a terrific brother,” she whispered.
He’d protected her all these years, but in the end he couldn’t protect himself. She put the picture into the pile of things to save, and reached for another box.
From their aviaries in the backyard, her birds started screeching. Paula stiffened. Had the bird killers come back? She grabbed her loaded gun and charged to the rear door.
After a quick scan of the yard, relief washed over her. It was only Boots, the brown and white Siamese cat from down the street. Tucking the gun in her waistband, she went to the cat and picked him up. “Listen, Boots,” she said staring into his ruby eyes, “you gotta quit hassling my birds.” Boots touched her face with his velvety brown paw. Smiling, she smoothed his fur. “You have a definite charm, you sweet, pesky cat. She carried him into the garage and stroked him until his loud purring reassured her that he’d forgotten the birds.
Paula put the Siamese down and turned her attention to the second box. She tugged on the stubborn tape. It wouldn’t give. An emotion swelled in her. Trouble circled her like a hungry vulture, and now, even this stupid adhesive dared to go against her. She squeezed her eyes closed briefly. “I won’t cry, Charlie,” she promised.
When they’d met in that group foster home at ages ten and twelve, Charlie had told her right off that orphans didn’t dare cry, gripe or chase-around like wild animals, not if they hoped to find a real home. On the rare times when prospective parents came by, she and Charlie would silently line up with the other kids to be looked over like specimens under a microscope. They stood very tall and still, trying to look like they wouldn’t cause problems, hoping that maybe today a loving couple would adopt both of them, and they could be together in a “forever” kind of family.
