Hell on Wheels

by Sue Ann Jaffarian

  He didn’t look at me, but he didn’t shake off my touch either. His jaw was clenched and his eyes were shut tight. I thought for a moment he might cry.

  “No matter what happened between you and Michelle,” I told him in a gentle voice, “you need to at least call her and let her know you’re going to be okay. She obviously cares about you a great deal and is worried sick.” I put the ring box down on the end table.

  “You know why she said no?” He opened his eyes and looked at me. When I didn’t answer, he said, “Because she was afraid I’d never be faithful to her. She’d heard the stories about my catting around from mutual friends and said she couldn’t trust me.”

  “You do cat around, Steele.” When he started to protest, I held up a hand to stop him. “But if there’s one thing I do know about you, it’s that you’re true blue and one-hundred-percent loyal to the people you love and care about. I have no doubt that if you love Michelle enough to want to marry her, you’ll be as faithful as the day is long and then some. Michelle doesn’t know that yet. When she does, she’ll come around.”

  “We’ve been dating exclusively for almost a year. How long does it take for someone to learn that?”

  “A year? Where have I been?” I paused as it came to me. “Wait a minute. Is Michelle the reason you unexpectedly dashed off to Switzerland for Christmas last year?”

  He nodded and gave me a weak smile. “We met shortly before last Thanksgiving. When friends said they were skiing in Switzerland for the holidays and Michelle was going along, I finagled an invitation. I haven’t thought of or dated anyone else since.”

  “Huh! Jill and I thought you weren’t seeing anyone because you were so busy with work.” I narrowed my eyes at him. “And just why did you keep Michelle a secret from us?”

  “Because she was so special,” he answered. “I didn’t want to jinx it until it was a sure thing.”

  I picked up his cell phone from the side table and held it out to him. “Call her, Steele. Man up and call her. Tell her you’re fine. Tell her she’s not to blame for the accident. Tell her she has nothing to worry about. Tell her to call me for character references. Beg that woman to marry you or I’ll do it for you.”

  He took the phone and gave a nervous laugh. “Okay, boss. I’ll give it another shot, but if she says no again, I’m shaving my head and joining a religious cult.”

  I stood up. “If she says no again, then it’s her loss, and you’ll pick yourself up and get on with your life until you do meet the right one.” I bent down, kissed my boss—no, not my boss, my long-time dear friend—on the forehead, and left.

  Twenty-one

  “So do you think he called her?” Greg asked me the next morning over breakfast.

  “I think so,” I said between bites of cereal. “I received a text very early this morning from Michelle. All it said was ‘thank you,’ in all caps.”

  Greg grinned. “Do you think the wedding will be soon or will it be a long engagement?”

  “I’m betting soon. I’m thinking if she does change her mind about marrying him, Steele isn’t going to let her have a chance to change her mind back.”

  “Mike Steele married,” Greg said, more to his coffee than to me. “Hard to believe.”

  “Yes, honey. Our little boy is growing up.”

  Yesterday, on the way home from Steele’s, I finally made it to the grocery store. When I got home I put a pot roast and veggies in the slow cooker and set about making that key lime pie—from scratch, no less. I even called my mother to see how she was doing and to get a couple of pointers on the pie. It was still early afternoon when I finished, even though I felt like I’d put in a full day.

  After grabbing a quick peanut butter and jelly sandwich for lunch, I got down to tackling that closet. Pulling out one article of clothing at a time, I separated them into categories: keepers, charity donations, needs mending, and rags. The rags were just that—torn and threadbare favorite clothes that I wore around the house until they were so ragged they were indecent. I tossed most of them into a big cotton bag to be used when we needed rags for painting or in the garage or for other messy jobs around the house. My mother always had a rag bag when I was growing up, and it was a tradition I maintained when I got my first apartment. When I married Greg, he had laughed at the notion of a rag bag, but over the years he’s gotten onboard with the old-fashioned concept and uses the rags quite often for his chores.

  The hours flew by as song after song played on the radio. Muffin had made a bed out of the mending pile, and I didn’t have the heart to shoo her off the clothes. When I finished, I was quite proud of my tidy closet and couldn’t wait to show it off to Greg. I showered and waited for him—a smile on my face and a fresh beer in my hand, ready to hand it to him when he came through the door—like any good 1950s housewife.

  Over dinner we made a pact not to discuss anything about death of any kind. It had been on our mind for six days straight and we were mentally exhausted and needed to reconnect. After dinner, we made slow, sweet, selfish love.

  The truce about murder and mayhem lasted throughout most of breakfast the next morning, but over the last of our coffee we talked about Rocky.

  “I may go to the hospital today,” I told Greg, “and see if there is anything I can do to help Rocky’s parents. They must be exhausted.”

  “Good idea, sweetheart,” Greg said. “Now that the San Diego police have determined Miranda’s death to be a suicide, they might release the body soon for burial. I’m sure the Hendersons would appreciate some assistance with that, even if it’s just letting friends know.”

  Since we’d been out of town the Saturday before, Greg was off to his shop so that Chris could have the day off. As a rule, they took turns working Saturdays to give each other a break and a full weekend. I had just kissed my husband and patted Wainwright goodbye when my cell phone rang. I didn’t recognize the number.

  “Hello,” I answered, the greeting filled with curiosity.

  “Put your sneakers on and take a walk,” the voice ordered. “We need to talk.”

  I stopped breathing. It was Elaine Powers. “Talk about what?”

  “Just get your ass out the door and to the beach, Odelia, and don’t even think about calling your cop pal on me.”

  I wouldn’t dream of it. “Where should I go?” I asked.

  “Sit on one of the benches facing the ocean where you usually sit when you walk your dog,” she directed.

  “The dog isn’t here.”

  “I know that. I just saw your husband leave.”

  The knowledge that Elaine Powers was watching my home tongue-tied me for a moment. “I’ll be there in five minutes,” I finally squeaked out.

  I was still in my usual walking clothes—black stretch capri leggings and a tee shirt—since I’d taken Wainwright for a walk before breakfast. As I slipped back into my walking tennies, I thought about calling Greg and telling him where I was heading. He’d go ballistic later if I didn’t, but he would worry himself sick if I did it now. I was still contemplating the call as I shrugged on a light jacket and hit the sidewalk heading for the beach. Two seconds later, I returned to the house and rummaged through my tote bag to snag some cash and my ID, which I stuck in the pocket of my jacket along with my house keys. Just in case I wound up as fish bait, I wanted them to be able to identify my body. The cash was for a stiff drink in the event I needed one after my chat with Elaine.

  I wasn’t even back out the door when Greg called. “Hi, honey,” I said tenuously, “I was just about to call you.”

  “I just heard from Lance,” he said, his voice low and solemn. “No need to go to the hospital today, sweetheart. Rocky died in the middle of the night.”

  My heart sank as I staggered to the sofa to sit before my knees collapsed. “Oh, Greg” was all I could say before the tears started.

  “We knew this was probably coming,” Greg said. “I’m not at work yet. Should I turn around and come back to the house?”

 
; “No, honey, there’s nothing we can do except pace our living room at this point, so why don’t you keep occupied at work.” I swept away my grief long enough to remember that Elaine was waiting for me. “Besides, I’m meeting someone at the beach in a few minutes.”

  “Who?”

  I swallowed hard and got up to fetch a tissue. “Elaine Powers.”

  “Mother?” he asked in a high pitch. “You’re meeting Mother?”

  “She called and said she needs to speak with me right now.”

  While I wiped my eyes and blew my nose, Greg ranted, “No way in hell are you meeting her!”

  “I’ll be fine, Greg,” I assured him. “It’s in a public place. I’ll call you as soon as we’re done so you’ll know I’m okay.”

  “Don’t go anywhere. I’m coming back.”

  “No, don’t. And don’t call anyone and tell them either. I really don’t think she’d ever hurt me, but if she felt cornered or betrayed, my safety might be jeopardized; remember that.” After ending the call with numerous promises to call Greg back as soon as possible, I hit the trail for the beach.

  I didn’t see Elaine when I got there. Even though it was a Saturday, there was almost no one at the beach and just a few strolling the pier. It was cool today, and the air was heavy with the possibility of rain. I pulled my jacket tighter around me and walked to one of the benches at the edge of the grassy area. Directly in front of me was the parking lot. Just beyond that was the sand and sea. To my right was the pier. After making sure the bench was dry, I sat down and waited. I fought the urge to look anxiously around by concentrating on the waves, using their ebb and flow to calm my nerves and soothe my grief over Rocky.

  “Morning, Odelia.”

  I looked up at the familiar voice to find Elaine standing there with two steaming cups of coffee. She handed one to me.

  “Thanks,” I said with some hesitation.

  “Don’t worry,” she chuckled. “It’s not poisoned.” She was dressed in jeans, a white turtleneck jersey, and a blue jacket, and she looked more like her old self than she had when I’d last seen her at Bouchon. Out of the pocket of her jacket she produced some powdered creamer and sugar packets. “I didn’t know how you take it.”

  “Black is fine,” I told her. “I only like sugar and cream in iced coffee.”

  “I’ll remember that for next time,” she said dryly as she sat down next to me.

  I smelled the hot brew, which I knew from the logo on the cup came from my favorite local coffee shop. “Thanks.” I took a sip but didn’t look at her.

  “You look like shit,” she announced, staring at me.

  I wiped a still-wet eye with the back of one hand. “Greg just called to say that our friend Rocky died.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” Elaine said in a voice that sounded sincere, “but in a way that ties in with what I want to talk to you about. I have some information on your friend’s murder.”

  “Miranda?” I asked.

  “You have any other murdered friends at the moment?” Mother’s voice was calm and sober, even if her words were sarcastic.

  I shook my head. “We were told that the police are considering Miranda’s death a suicide. They said the evidence points to her shooting herself, just like her husband. A murder-suicide is how they see the whole thing with Peter Tanaka and Miranda Henderson.”

  “That’s not what I hear.”

  I snapped my head in her direction and sniffed. “It was a hit after all?” I pulled tissue from my jacket pocket and wiped my runny nose.

  “I’m not sure if it was a professional hit,” Mother said, “but someone killed that woman.”

  “So you think the police are covering it up?”

  “No,” she said between sips of her coffee. “They just aren’t asking the right questions of the right people.”

  I shook my head to clear it and looked at her. “So why are you asking the right questions—or any questions?”

  “For selfish reasons,” she answered, her eyes moving, shifting, and combing the area for any threats to her safety. “If it was a hit and not mine, I wanted to know which of my competition was involved. My people poked around and found out none of the usual crews knew anything about it. Other poking around discovered that it was not drug related.”

  “So it was a suicide.”

  “No.” She shook her head. “It wasn’t. One of my people found a witness who saw it.”

  I stared at her slack-jawed. “A witness? Why didn’t this witness come forward during the police investigation?”

  Elaine looked at me like I was short on brain cells. “People have all kinds of reasons not to go to the police, Odelia.” She took several big gulps of her coffee, draining it, and stood up. “Come on, we’re going on a field trip.” She tossed her empty cup into a nearby trash can.

  “A field trip?”

  “You got wax in your ears, Grey?”

  Hearing her call me Grey reminded me of Steele, and I wondered what was happening with him and Michelle. I had to think about them. I couldn’t think about going anywhere with Elaine Powers, a killer and a fugitive. If I did, I’d collapse in fear.

  “But I can’t. Greg will be worried.” I hesitated. “He knows I was meeting you.” I readied myself for a barrage of threats, but none came.

  Instead, she smiled. “Glad to hear you’re smart enough to tell someone, but I hope he’s smart enough to keep his trap shut.”

  Me too.

  “He is,” I assured her. I seemed to be assuring everyone but me.

  “Give him a call and let him know you’re chasing a lead and you’ll call him back later.”

  Pulling my cell out of my jacket pocket, I called Greg. While it rang, I tried out several upbeat explanations for my losing my mind and getting in a vehicle with Elaine. “Hi, honey,” I said when he finally picked up after several rings.

  “Sorry, sweetheart,” he explained. “I left my phone on my desk while I was in the workshop. Is your meeting over?”

  “Not exactly.” I paused. “Elaine just gave me a hot lead on Miranda’s death. She says she has a witness who knows it’s not a suicide.” I paused again. “Um, I’m going with her to check it out.”

  When Greg let loose with a flood of swearing, I pulled the phone from my ear. His tirade was loud enough for Elaine to hear it without the benefit of the speaker feature. She held out a hand for the phone. I grasped it tighter, worried she’d toss it into the trash and really send Greg into a fit of worry. She wiggled her fingers, indicating to hand it over. With reluctance, I did.

  “Greg,” she said into the phone. “This is Elaine.” He must have screamed louder because she held the phone away from her own ear for a second or two. “Greg, calm down before you have a stroke. I mean it,” she said in the voice of a parent running out of patience. “Calm down or I’m hanging up.”

  He must have finally quieted down because Elaine’s face softened and I couldn’t hear him yelling anymore.

  “That’s better,” she told him. “Now here’s how this works. You listening?”

  He must have said yes because Elaine continued. “Odelia and I are going on a drive to meet the witness. For obvious reasons, I can’t go to the police with the information, and I’m sure the witness won’t either. If you want your friend’s murder to be solved, you’ll have to trust me.”

  She stopped and listened. I was dancing from foot to foot, wanting to hear what was going on.

  Finally, she looked me directly in the eye and said into the phone, “Because she reminds me of my dead sister.”

  Twenty-two

  We were driving south on the 405 Freeway in an older white SUV. Elaine was at the wheel; I was riding shotgun. Since we left the beach she hadn’t said much to me except to say no when I asked if we could swing by my house so I could pick up my purse and change into something else. I also didn’t have on any makeup and hadn’t even taken the time to brush my hair before leaving the house.

  For miles I watched
the familiar scenery of Orange County fly by. Shortly we would be at the intersection where the 405 melted into the southbound 5 Freeway, also known as the San Diego Freeway. That meant we were almost to Lake Forest.

  “Are we heading to San Diego?” I asked.

  “Considering that’s where the crime scene is,” Elaine answered, not taking her eyes off the road, “don’t you think that’s where the witness will be?”

  “Not necessarily,” I said. “They could be anywhere.”

  “But they’re not,” she said curtly.

  I looked straight ahead and sniffed. “You could have at least let me say goodbye to my husband.” After speaking with Greg, Elaine had shut off my phone and pocketed it. She still had it.

  “You can call him when we’re done.” She glanced over at me and smiled. “And if you’re a good girl, I might even take you for ice cream after.”

  “Just get me home and I’ll be happy,” I told her, not one bit amused. “We have ice cream in the freezer.”

  We rode along a few more miles in silence. When we reached San Clemente city limits, I said, “We need to stop and find a ladies’ room.” When Elaine looked at me with raised brows, I added, “I’ve had several cups of coffee this morning. It’s running right through me.”

  “Yeah, me too,” she admitted after some thought. “It’s a bitch getting old. It’s more of a bitch when your bladder gets old.”

  “Tell me about it,” I said with a little chuckle. “Do you pee when you sneeze?”

  “Sneeze, cough, laugh, yawn—hell, even when I think too loudly.”

  We looked at each other, and Elaine gave me a genuine smile.

  After putting on her turn signal, Elaine moved the SUV into the far right lane and took the first exit we came upon. We pulled into a fast food restaurant right off the exit and went inside together to use their restroom. In less than ten minutes we were back on the road—Elaine with another coffee, me with a bottle of water.

  “You need to pee again,” she told me, looking at the water, “you can just do in your pants. Pretend you sneezed.”