The Rotten Rancher (A Nick Williams Mystery Book 16)

by Frank W. Butterfield

  "Talk to you soon, Gustav."

  "Yes. Goodbye, Mr. Nick."

  . . .

  As we munched on our fried egg sandwiches, I said, "I talked to my father and Lettie. The story about Mrs. Hughes and my car going over the cliff hasn't hit the papers yet."

  He looked up. "I wonder why."

  I shrugged. "I told Gustav to tell Mrs. Kopek we were OK, no matter what the papers said."

  Carter nodded. "Good. What time will he be here in the morning?"

  I shook my head. "I have a better idea."

  "What?"

  I grinned. "First, we go buy another car."

  "Not a sports car."

  I nodded. "Yeah. What catches your fancy?"

  He thought for a moment. "Are we too young to buy a Caddy?"

  I nodded. "Yeah. What else?"

  He sighed. "I kinda like that truck."

  "Me too. You wanna go find one of those?"

  "Yeah, but not a Studebaker."

  "Or a Ford."

  He nodded. "Yeah."

  We both sat there for a moment. Finally, Carter laughed.

  "What?" I asked.

  "I never thought I'd be sitting here with you trying to figure out what kinda car to buy."

  I had an idea. "How about a Buick Skylark?"

  "Has it been long enough?" My sister, Janet, had been driving a Skylark when she'd been murdered back in '53.

  I nodded. "I think so."

  "Good. Now that's settled. What's the plan?"

  "How about we go get the car, go to Salinas, then head down the coast?"

  "So far, so good. Then what?"

  I sighed. "When should we leave for Paris?"

  Carter, who had just eaten the first of his sandwiches, was digging in the bag for his second. He stopped and looked up at me. "What?"

  "You heard me."

  He nodded and looked at me for a long moment. "Are you sure?"

  "Yeah. Have you noticed that, everywhere we've gone down here, every single person has known who we are?"

  Carter nodded. "It's gonna be like that forever, son."

  I shrugged. "The point is that Henry Miller was right. If it's not this month, then it's next. If not this year, then next."

  Carter unwrapped his sandwich and thoughtfully took a bite. As he swallowed, he asked, "So when do you wanna leave?"

  "Right after Christmas in Vermont. We'll already be on the East Coast."

  He nodded. "Yeah. Maybe the Comet will be ready by then."

  I shrugged. "We can make it from Boston to Ireland in the Lumberjack."

  "Who do we tell?"

  I thought for a moment. "No one, yet. Then, when we get home, we sit down with Kenneth and Benjamin." They were our lawyers.

  Carter munched thoughtfully. "OK."

  "You OK?"

  He snorted. "I guess I'm in the same spot you were in on Saturday night. I don't wanna talk about the details."

  I smiled. "We have plenty of time."

  "What about today?"

  "We go to Salinas then down to Hearst Castle."

  Carter nodded. "Yeah. Then where?"

  "Hollywood."

  He looked up at me. "Really?"

  "Yeah. You never called Martinelli, did you?"

  Carter's eyes widened. "Hell, no. I didn't."

  "Let's tell him in person. And let's move them into the house on Beverly Glen."

  Carter nodded. "Good idea."

  Chapter 18

  Salinas, Cal.

  Tuesday, November 15, 1955

  Half past 10 in the morning

  We decided to take the truck to the Vazquez farm as we would have to go back through Monterey in order to head down the coast. We also had to drop the truck off at my father's house.

  As we were driving into Salinas, I saw a Catholic church and told Carter to pull over. As we sat in the truck, I did what Lettie had suggested and filled out a check, payable to the church's name. We both walked in and found the spot where the candles were kept. An older woman was lighting one as we walked up, so we waited until she finished.

  Once she was done, she walked back to a small group of women wearing black veils over their heads and seated together in the pews. They seemed to be chanting a prayer together in Latin, from what I could figure out.

  I stuffed the check into the locked black box in front of the rows of candles, most of which were lit. We then made our way back to the truck and headed towards downtown.

  We'd stopped at a Standard station at the corner of North Main and East Laurel near downtown Salinas. We'd been there before, back in '54 when we'd ended up in a high-speed chase with a couple of wannabe mobsters. After filling up with gas, we asked about the Vazquez farm. The owner knew them and gave us directions to get there.

  Our route took us past the Monterey County courthouse building, which also included the Sheriff's Office. Ron had told Carter that he would be there all morning, finishing up his paperwork. At the desk, Carter asked for Deputy Forrester. After a few minutes, he came down a long hall and asked, "How are you, fellas?"

  I said, "Fine. How about you?"

  He scratched the side of his face and said, "I been better. Say, how about we head outside for a couple of minutes? Lemme take care of one thing in here and I'll meet you out front."

  . . .

  After about five minutes, Forrester came down the steps, pulling a pack of Lucky Strike out of his shirt pocket and a single wooden match. He smiled at me as he walked. He stopped, lifted his left boot, and leaned over to strike the match on the exposed heel of the boot. He then lit the cigarette in his mouth. After taking a long drag which crackled as he did, he exhaled a cloud of blue smoke. "So," he asked as he picked a piece of tobacco out of his mouth and flicked it to the ground, "you relieved about Frank Hughes?"

  I shook my head. "Not really. Did he mention any reason as to why he did what he did?"

  Forrester looked away for a moment. Then, in a low voice that I could barely hear over the sound of a truck grinding its gears on the street behind us, said, "He just kept talkin' on and on about 'all them damn faggots'."

  I asked, "Did he happen to mention anything about the clothes?"

  "You mean why they packed up the trunk and hid it?"

  I nodded.

  He shrugged. "Something about not wanting to leave any trace of you two behind. I think he thought that you would turn tail and run back to San Francisco."

  I nodded as Carter asked, "Did he mention that C.C.C. camp down at Pfeiffer State Park?"

  Forrester took a long drag and thought for a moment. "No, but I know he was down there for at least a year before he met O'Bannion."

  "How'd they meet? Do you know?" asked Carter.

  Forrester frowned slightly. "I don't, but Michelle Reynolds might. She has some sorta connection with the O'Bannions. I don't know what it is." Looking at Carter, he asked, "Why do you want to know?"

  Carter said, "Ask Nick."

  I sighed. "I know there's no case, as far as you're concerned. But, for some reason, I wanna know why he did it."

  Forrester shrugged. "Well, Michelle teaches at the high school in Carmel. You can ask her what she knows."

  I nodded and then asked, "Did Hollister mention anything about what Mrs. Hughes said about you yesterday?"

  Forrester pursed his lips, dropped his cigarette on the ground, and stubbed it out with the toe of his boot. "No, but he's been lookin' at me funny. That's why I wanted to meet you out here."

  I nodded. "When you're ready, call Mike Robertson at our office. He was a cop in the North District—"

  "I know who he is. He was one of the men who got fired that night, right?"

  I nodded. "Yeah."

  He sniffed, crossed his arms, and looked around. "What's next for you two?"

  Carter said, "We're headed down to the Vazquez farm south of here. They were the folks who picked Nick up yesterday and took him back into Carmel. Then we're heading down to Hearst Castle and L.A. after that."

&
nbsp; Forrester looked confused for a moment. "You mean Nacho Vazquez?"

  I nodded. "Yeah. And his wife, Maria. Why?"

  He shrugged. "I've never heard anyone call it the Vazquez farm, that's all."

  "What is it?"

  "Vazquez Produce. They have a farm, all right, if you can call about ten thousand acres scattered between here and Bakersfield a farm. They're one of the largest produce and packing companies in California."

  I looked up at Carter, who shrugged. I turned to Forrester and said, "I wonder why I've never heard of them."

  He laughed. "Have you heard of Western Wagon?"

  I nodded, "Sure." They sold canned and frozen vegetables. I'd heard their commercials on the radio for at least ten years.

  Carter added, "They have a great TV commercial where an old lady is clutching a can of their beans."

  Forrester laughed. "That's a good one."

  Carter pushed on my shoulder. "This one doesn't like TV."

  I rolled my eyes. "What about Western Wagon?"

  "They own it."

  I laughed. "That so? Then why did they pick me up in an old panel truck with chickens in the back?"

  Forrester shrugged. "I guess they're just humble. They're both from Mexico and pretty smart from everything I heard. She's more the brains than he is. He doesn't speak any English."

  . . .

  Humble was the right word. They lived in a plain white house at the end of a short driveway just off River Road, about twelve miles south of town. It was two stories, had a broad front porch, and was nothing much to look at although it felt homey. They had a green lawn that looked like it had been cut that morning. The red panel truck was sitting at the end of the driveway along with a dark blue '47 Dodge four-door sedan.

  We parked behind the Dodge and then made our way up to the porch. It was much warmer on that side of the coastal range than it had been over in Carmel. It was probably about 75. The front door was open with the screen door latched closed. There was the smell of something wonderful on the stove that was wafting through the screen door. I could hear a couple of voices speaking in Spanish. The man appeared to be telling a long story while the woman was laughing as he spoke.

  Carter banged on the screen door while I called out, "Mrs. Vazquez?"

  After a moment, I heard someone walking across the wood floor. Mrs. Vazquez appeared at the door and, when she saw me, broke into a huge smile. She unlatched the door and said, "Come in, Mr. Williams."

  I smiled and said, "This is my friend, Mr. Jones."

  She nodded and said, "Welcome to our home. This is such an honor."

  We both walked in. The living room was neat as a pin. All of the furniture was old but looked comfortable.

  "You have come just in time for lunch. I hope you will join us."

  I said, "We don't want to bother you."

  She shook her head. "It is no bother. I have made a soup. My husband is cooking the tortillas. Very simple."

  I looked up at Carter who nodded and said, "That's very kind of you, Mrs. Vazquez."

  "Please come into the kitchen. Carlos will happy to see you, again."

  We followed her through the living room to the kitchen in the rear. Mr. Vazquez was standing over the stove and was working a small mound of something that looked like dough, moving it from hand to hand. As we watched, he pressed it down on a round cast-iron platter that was sitting on top of one of the gas rings on the stove top. It sizzled for a moment. He then used a round piece of flat iron with a wood handle and pressed down, flattening out the doughy mixture.

  Mrs. Vazquez said, "Carlos. It is Mr. Williams."

  The man turned from the stove and looked at me with a big grin. I heard Carter breathe in sharply as he saw the man's face.

  . . .

  "We call this soup pozole. That is the name for the large corns."

  Carter said, "We call that hominy corn in Georgia."

  Mrs. Vazquez nodded. "Yes, hominy. And we have pork and peppers. They are the green and red bites. If you don't like the hot things, then you must avoid them."

  The soup was delicious. And the tortillas were perfect. I'd never seen any made before and they were just right. I watched as Mr. Vazquez rolled his up. He took a small bite just before he noisily slurped his soup.

  Mrs. Vazquez looked at me. "Mr. Smith. He works for Carlos. He told us the news about the man who tried to push your car off the road. This man, he kill himself in jail this morning?"

  I nodded as I slurped more of the soup from my big spoon. "Yeah."

  She watched me for a moment. "Is not your fault. You know this?"

  I nodded but couldn't say anything.

  "My mother is at the church with her friends. They are saying many prayers so that his soul may pass from purgatory into heaven."

  I thought I remembered the priests at St. Ignatius, the prep school I'd attended, saying that suicide was a one-way ticket to hell. I wondered about that. But, as I thought about what she had said, I realized that whatever they were doing touched me deeply, so I said, "Please tell her thank you."

  She nodded and looked at her husband. I followed her gaze. He was watching me. I felt myself falling into his eyes. They reminded me so much of Nacho.

  He began to speak in Spanish. When he finished, Mrs. Vazquez said, "My husband want you to know that the miracle we saw when the tree caught you has opened his eyes to the grace of our Father. He now sees much forgiveness in his heart."

  The man reached over, put his big right hand on top of my left, and squeezed tightly.

  . . .

  As we drove down the Monterey-Salinas Highway, Carter pointed to a hill on the side of the road. "There's where it happened."

  I nodded. That's where we'd been when we'd managed to lure the wannabe mobsters, two brothers, towards our old Buick Super. Mike had been in the backseat, lying in wait for them to walk by in the dark. When they did, he shot them both in the legs, which had immobilized them.

  They'd both been arrested and had confessed. The older one, who had committed at least two murders, had been sent to the gas chamber at San Quentin in late '54 and the younger one was doing a long stretch at Folsom.

  I remembered that the Monterey airport was on the other side of the hill. I said, "Let's just rent a car."

  Carter laughed. "I was just thinking the same thing."

  . . .

  I pulled the rented red Ford Customline into one of the line of spaces marked for visitors in front of Carmel High School. Carter parked next to me. It was half past 2.

  We walked up the steps and made our way into the building. After asking at the office, we made our way to Room 117. The door was open. As we stood in the hallway, I could see Mrs. Reynolds, in a light orange cotton dress, leaning against a desk at the front of the room. She was saying, "Robbie, why don't you take it from there. You've all heard this part."

  Following the sound of a chair scraping, a teenage male voice from the back of the room read, stumbling over some of the words:

  All the world's a stage,

  And all the men and women merely players:

  They have their exits and their entrances;

  And one man in his time plays many parts,

  His acts being seven ages. At first the infant,

  Mewling and puking in the nurse's arms.

  At the last line, the poor kid broke up, laughing. Several of the other kids joined in.

  Taking advantage of the break, I knocked on the door.

  Mrs. Reynolds looked over at us and did a double take. Then, in a very amused voice, she said to the class, "You all get hold of yourselves while I take care of this. I'll be right outside the door, so none of the usual hijinks, if you don't mind."

  The kids began to all talk at once as she walked towards us.

  Once she was out in the hallway, she looked at me with a slight frown and asked, "I heard about what happened on the Roosevelt Highway yesterday. Are you OK?"

  I nodded with a smile. "Yeah."

&nb
sp; She crossed her arms and sighed. "I was so relieved when they arrested Frank Hughes. I'll admit I was afraid Bobby might have been involved."

  Carter put his hand on her shoulder. "They told us that Hughes admitted to everything."

  "How's Roberta? Have you seen her?"

  I sighed as Carter replied, "She's gone."

  Frowning, she asked, "Gone? Where?"

  I said, "She jumped."

  Mrs. Reynolds rocked on her feet. "Oh my." She put her left hand over her mouth and nodded slowly. "What a nightmare this has been."

  I nodded and asked, "Can I ask you a question about Mr. O'Bannion?"

  "Sure."

  "What was his relationship with Frank Hughes?"

  She smiled slightly and, in a low voice, said, "You mean other than being Frank's savior and father figure?"

  I nodded.

  She shrugged. "All I know is what Big John said once."

  I nodded and waited.

  "He said that O'Bannion had been called down to that C.C.C. camp because Frank Hughes had been assaulted by one of the other men there. I always assumed that was why Hughes was so loyal to O'Bannion and such a good friend to him." She sighed and looked away for a long moment. "I'm just glad Bobby is OK. Should I tell him to come home?"

  I shrugged. "That's up to him. He and Tom are welcome to stay with us for a while. Or, I can put them up in one of my apartments. And we can help them get jobs."

  She took out a plain, white handkerchief and dabbed one eye. "Maybe that'll be best."

  "Have you talked to him since he went up there?"

  She nodded. "He called last night. He said that he and Tom have been working in your garden." She smiled. "The way Bobby put it was that Tom wanted to make sure they paid their way."

  I grinned. "Tom must be a good guy because Ferdinand, our sulky gardener, seems to like him."

  Carter added, "That's the equivalent of being awarded a Nobel prize."

  Mrs. Reynolds laughed and then covered her mouth. "Shouldn't make a noise in the hallway. And I need to get back to my hellions."

  I said, "Before you go, how's the new gal working out?"

  Carter, who never forgot a name, added, "Marjorie."