"Maybe the wind scoured the flour off of them."
I nodded. "I bet that's it." Right then, I could see a Monterey County sheriff's car coming down the drive. "Here comes trouble. And it's probably hungover."
Carter turned and looked. I didn't like the expression on his face so I said, "Be easy on him. The poor guy probably won't remember a thing."
Carter nodded but didn't say anything. I led the way as we headed around towards the front of the house.
Forrester, looking a little green, gingerly stepped out of the car and put on his hat.
I grinned at him. "How're you doing?"
He shook his head and looked contrite as hell. "I don't know what got into me." Looking up at Carter, he said, "I don't know what to say to either of you. Tequila's never hit me that hard, before."
"Had you been drinking before you got to the restaurant?" I asked.
He shook his head. "I only drink..." He swallowed hard as if he was trying not to lose his breakfast. "I only drink when I'm out to eat."
"What about all that booze in your dining room?" asked Carter.
"That's for when I have people over."
"People?" asked Carter with a skeptical tone in his voice.
"OK," he shrugged. "Guys."
"Aren't you playing it fast and loose? What if someone reports you?" I asked.
"I only pick up guys from the Army base. They don't know anything about me."
I nodded. "Well, if you ever get into trouble, you can always call us."
Carter put his hand on my shoulder and leaned over. "Just keep your goddam lips off my husband. Are we clear about that?"
Forrester blushed hard and nodded. "I'm real sorry. I've never done that before."
I put my hand on his arm, something I knew not to do since he was in uniform, but it felt right. "It's OK."
He looked down at my hand and I quickly pulled it back.
In a serious tone of voice, he said, "You're a P.I. You know all about that kind of assault, right?"
Carter leaned against me and got in the man's face. I felt like the only reason he hadn't taken a slug at the deputy was because I was in the way. "You've gotta fucking be kidding us, right?"
"Sorry."
I said, "Look, I'm wondering if Tito or someone spiked your drink."
Nodding, the deputy said, "I'm wondering that, too. That's never happened before."
Mimicking his earlier tone of voice, I said, "You're a sworn officer. You know all about the unauthorized use of firearms, right?"
He smiled a little and nodded. "I sure the hell do."
In a half-serious voice, Carter said, "You're lucky as hell that my husband is a total idiot who will walk right up to a naked man and grab his gun by the barrel."
Forrester laughed at that. "OK. You're right. Any other scolding you wanna get off your chest?" Looking from Carter to me, he added, "Either of you?"
I said, "You gotta job with us if you need it but, for God's sake, lock up your revolver when you have company over."
Forrester nodded solemnly. "Yes, sir."
. . .
"Did you happen to measure Carl's boots to see if they were the same boots that walked from the kitchen into the store room?" I asked that as we were walking into the house.
Forrester nodded. "They're close to the same size. But not the same pattern. How'd you know?"
I shrugged. "I didn't see any flour on the soles of Carl's boots."
We stopped in the kitchen and looked around. Forrester said, "You mentioned that you'd seen a case like this before. Where someone deliberately ransacked a house to make it look like something it wasn't. Do you know why the murderer did it?"
"The victim did it. He was trying to get away from his boyfriend. The best we could guess was that he wanted it to look like the house had been broken into."
Carter said, "He might have been trying to set things up so that he could extort his father, who was wealthy, for some sort of ransom money from a phony kidnapper."
I nodded and continued, "The victim and the boyfriend had been living together for a while. They were complete opposites of each other. He, the victim, systematically broke every dish and glass and then covered the mess with flour and sugar. The clue that he'd made the mess himself was when the detective found flour inside his clothes."
"Who did it? Was it the..." Forrester sputtered and then stopped, his face turning red. "The, you know, the other guy?"
"Boyfriend," said Carter, using his firm tone.
I replied, "No. The murderer was an acquaintance who strangled him after the ransacking was done. He'd fallen in love with the victim and didn't want him to leave."
Forrester sighed and leaned against the counter. Crossing his arms, he asked, "What do you think happened here?"
I thought for a moment and then replied, "Someone, who knew we were coming, disconnected the generator vent pipe and then came over, after we got home from the movies. He then cut the power, causing the generator to start running. We escaped because of Carter. Of course, not thinking clearly, we left the house without switching off the generator. It never occurred to either of us."
I glanced up at Carter for confirmation. He nodded.
"So, when Carl came along, for whatever reason, he was poisoned by the generator, as well."
"Why didn't he smell the exhaust?" asked Forrester.
Carter said, "He might have. He might have tried to look for the generator and was overcome before he could find it. Remember, we couldn't hear it. That closet has very solid insulation."
"Why not just go back outside?" I asked.
Carter shrugged. "We don't know why he was here, in the first place?"
I nodded. "So, he comes in and passes out and is suffocated by the fumes. Then, person A comes along and drags his body outside. Person A then ransacks the house to make it look like there was a struggle—"
"Or a fight," added Forrester. "Person A might have wanted to make it look like Bobby Reynolds committed the murder."
That made a whole hell of a lot of sense. I said, "Frank Hughes could have set this whole thing up. He's the one who disconnected the generator. He came by and turned off the power. He moved Carl's body. He ransacked the place. And then, once the operator calls them to tell them about the murder, he and Roberta drive back here. He runs inside, turns the power back on, and begins to clean up the mess he made."
Forrester shrugged. "Assuming Roberta wasn't in on it with him, you've got the means and the opportunity pinpointed. But what about his motive. Why?"
Carter said, "He hates homosexuals."
"But does he?" I asked.
Frowning, Carter said, "You were just describing how he did it."
"Yeah. But I'm not sure he hates us. Otherwise, why invite us to dinner on Saturday night?"
Carter nodded. "OK. You've got a point."
The deputy said, "But, maybe he did all that just to make sure his motive wasn't clear."
I shook my head. "I think he really did feel bad and was offering us an olive branch."
"What about your clothes?" asked Forrester.
"Yeah," added Carter, looking down at me. "What about that?"
"I have no idea," I said. "That part sticks out. Who would do such a thing and why?"
"Maybe it was Frank Hughes," replied the deputy. "Maybe he didn't want any trace of you in Annie's precious house."
I glanced over at Forrester. There was something about the tone in his voice that was off. As the deputy moved away from the counter and over to the store room, I looked up at Carter. He was frowning slightly. He looked down at me and gave me a quick nod of his head.
"Ron?" I asked. "What was Frank Hughes's relationship to Annie?"
He stopped and turned back around. He went pale in the face and cleared his throat. "He treated her like his own daughter. He and Roberta don't have any kids of their own. He pretty much thought she hung the moon and the stars and that she could do no wrong."
"Did he know about the t
wo of you?"
He nodded. "I don't think he approved. I was just a local kid who was going nowhere. He always thought I'd faked my way out of the service. What he and Roberta thought was always more significant to Annie than what her own parents thought. They were hands-off with her, for some reason. Frank and Roberta were more like her parents than Mr. and Mrs. O'Bannion ever were. And she treated the Hugheses that way."
"Did you love her?" asked Carter.
Kicking at imaginary dust with the toe of his boot, Forrester looked at the floor and nodded. "Yeah. She was the only woman I've ever loved."
I asked, "Have you ever fallen in love with any of the guys—"
He held up his hand. "I think we're moving into some kinda strange territory. I'm wondering if you're interrogating me or are you just curious?"
Carter laughed. It was his fake laugh. "Oh, Nick is a matchmaker. He's curious because he wants you to be in love, whether it's with a gal or a guy. He's real good at setting people up."
Forrester gave me half a smile. "I'm OK where I am with what I'm doing, right now."
I said, "Sure. Just be careful with those Army fellas. That could get messy."
Thrusting his hands in his trouser pockets, the deputy nodded and said, "I will."
. . .
Once Forrester had left, we walked back into the guest bedroom to see if we could find any traces of where our stuff had gone. As we walked into the room, I said, "It could be him."
"Ron?"
I nodded. "Yeah. He could have done all the same things. When he said that thing about Annie's precious house..." I walked over to the window and looked out at the fog bank. I wasn't sure, but it looked like it was closer in than it had been when we'd headed down the Roosevelt Highway earlier. "Well, you heard him."
"I did. But, I don't know."
I sighed. "Nothing about this set-up makes any sense to me." I thought for a moment, trying to follow the thread of events in my mind. "It's almost like there are too many clues. The clothes, stealing our clothes..." I turned and looked at Carter who was sitting on the edge of the bed. "Somehow, that feels like it doesn't belong to the rest of the case. It seems like it was someone else, doing that for a completely different reason."
"Like what?"
I frowned. "Dunno. Maybe they have some sort of weird passion for men's clothing. Maybe it was the king of the hobos stealing clothes he could sell or give to his fellow hobos."
"There haven't been any hobos since Pearl Harbor. Didn't F.D.R. outlaw them?"
I laughed. "Sure."
After a moment or two, Carter asked, "You really think Ron Forrester is capable of doing the whole thing?"
"It could also have been Bobby."
Carter looked down at the floor. "You're right. Maybe he tried to kill us. And then kill Carl. He knew we were coming. Remember what he said when she answered the front door?"
I nodded. "'Them faggots here?' Or something like that."
"Should we call Gustav and let him know?"
"No. When I called up there yesterday, I told Gustav to keep an eye on them. And, I talked to Mike. He's put a detail on the house. Whenever Tom and Bobby go out, they'll be followed."
Carter was frowning. "So, you were suspicious of him yesterday?"
I nodded.
"And you sent him up to our house where he could possibly hurt Gustav and Ferdinand?"
"Do you really think Bobby did it?"
Carter crossed his arms. "Not really."
"Neither do I. We talked about this already. Part of the reason I wanted the two of them to go up there was so Ron wouldn't automatically arrest Bobby. You agreed with me. Remember?"
Carter thought for a moment. "But he wouldn't have, would he?"
I shrugged. "He was angry for a few minutes after I told him."
"Yeah. I saw that."
"So, who knows with this screwy case?"
Carter grinned. "All our cases are screwy."
I nodded and looked around the room. "Where's our stuff?"
He stood and straightened his new coat. "Maybe it's all still here."
"Wouldn't Forrester have—"
Carter put his hand over my mouth. "I'm tired of talking about this screwy case. Let's do something, son."
I nodded as he removed his palm. I tried to bite it like he'd tried to do to me the other night but he was too fast. Instead, he pulled me in close for some serious kissing.
. . .
After about twenty minutes of opening every door and every cabinet, we came up empty. We were in the kitchen and I said, "We haven't really looked in the storeroom."
Carter nodded and, as he was making his way towards the storeroom door, he stopped. I bumped into him and then grabbed his waist to keep from falling backward. "What?" I asked as I put my arms around him and leaned my head against the middle of his back, just below his shoulders.
He said, "There's something wrong here."
I let go and moved around to his left. "What?"
He pointed at the door to the closet that contained the generator. "Look."
The part of the wall that fronted the closet and where the door was positioned sat at a forty-five degree angle in order to push the kitchen wall forward and provide for storage space between it and the exterior wall. I looked at the extended kitchen wall and realized it continued after the storeroom started. I opened the door and looked at the generator. It was about six feet deep and ended where the storeroom started.
Closing the door, I walked around Carter and into the storeroom. He turned on the overhead light at the switch just inside the door. Sure enough, the closet space continued. There was a door at the end of the wall. But it was behind a stack of what appeared to be wall panels, similar to the ones that lined the bedrooms. I guessed they were extras.
Looking down at the floor, I could see that there was a nice coating of dust in the back corner. And, it had been disturbed recently.
Carter walked around me and pulled back the panels, making room for me to open the door. As he did, he grunted in surprise.
"What?"
"These don't hardly weigh anything. I wonder if they're pressed paperboard instead of real wood."
I looked at the edges. There were eight panels and, right at the top edge of three of them, there were indications that the layers were beginning to separate. Probably from being so close to the ocean. They were too high for me to reach, so I pointed.
Carter ran his thumb over one of the frayed corners and said, "Yeah. That's paperboard, alright. This stuff is dangerous. It goes up in a flash if it catches fire."
I said, "We need to remember to tell my father that."
Carter said, "Yeah," as I opened the closet door. I walked inside a couple of feet. The room was dark, although there were tiny bits of light coming in through slits in the wall. I reached around for a light switch and found one. Turning it on, I laughed. The room was empty except for one thing: our trunk.
. . .
We moved the trunk into the guest bedroom. When we opened it up, it practically exploded. Everything had been crammed and jammed inside. Whoever did it was in a hurry.
Carter stepped back and asked, "How long do you think Mrs. Hughes was in here while we were outside?"
"Dunno. Maybe twenty minutes? How long does it take to drive up to Carmel?"
"Twenty minutes, more or less. Why?"
"Well, I was thinking about the timing. I called the sheriff's office and then hung up. Doreen would have immediately called the Hughes. They jumped into their truck, drove over, and ran inside. That took maybe all of three minutes. They're just down the road, right?"
Carter shrugged. "I guess. That's what your father said."
"So, she stopped on the stone porch for maybe a minute. That's four minutes. If Ron jumped into his car—"
"But, he didn't. He had the two other men with him. The one with the fingerprint kit and the one with the camera."
I nodded. "And on a Saturday?"
Carter sighed.
"Yeah. Have you ever heard of a crime scene team in a small town hanging around a police station, or a sheriff's station, on a Saturday?"
I shook my head. "I've never heard of them being Johnny-on-the-spot in the City. They usually take a while to arrive. If the scene is called in by beat cops, they wait for a sergeant or a lieutenant. Then, much later, the crime scene guys show up. I thought that was odd on Saturday but I'd forgotten about it until just now."
Sighing again, Carter said, "It was one of the Hughes who packed the trunk. Who else would have known about that closet?"
"But why?" was my question. That still didn't make any sense to me.
"Who knows."
Suddenly, I had a thought. "Maybe Ron was right. They didn't want us in their Annie's precious house."
"Then why haven't they tried to kill Lettie and your father?"
"They're the right kind of people."
Carter, who had been sorting through his clothes, said, "Here it is." He showed me his cotton draw-string pants.
"Going to a gymnasium?" I asked.
He nodded and took off his coat. "Yeah. I need it. What about you?"
I thought for a moment. "I think I'll go for a spin down the coast."
Carter grinned at me as he threw his tie on the floor and then, as he unbuttoned his shirt, walked towards me with a look in his emerald green eyes that I recognized.
I asked, "Right now?"
He didn't say anything since he was too busy showing me the answer.
Chapter 13
The Condor's Nest
Monday, November 14, 1955
A few minutes before 11 in the morning
Carter took the truck, leaving me the Sunbeam. We'd agreed to meet back in Carmel around 3 or so. And, I'd promised him the biggest steak in the county, wherever we could find it.
After I'd packed up some essentials for Carter and me in the two valises, I headed into the kitchen to make a couple of phone calls.
"Yes, Mr. Williams?"
"Can you connect me to long distance, Doreen?"
"Certainly."
"Anything wrong?" I asked.
She sighed into the microphone on her headset. "My daughter-in-law is fighting with my son and I just don't know what to do."
The Rotten Rancher (A Nick Williams Mystery Book 16) Page 12
