Rode Hard, Put Away Dead

by Sinclair Browning

  Van Thiessen had been a good diarist, recording all sorts of information—everything from having a cold to traveling to New York City. Sandwiched in between were the minutiae of her daily life—the tooth cleanings, benefit dinners for the Nature Conservancy and the Girls Clubs of America, meetings with staff, dancing with J.B. at the Riata. It was all there.

  I noticed an appointment with Dr. Samuel Mullon that coincided with the date on the Prozac bottle and made a note of that on my yellow pad. Again I wondered, what precipitated the need for an antidepressant? Was she that discouraged about J.B.'s tomcatting around? Had Abby really been significantly dropping things the way Ramona had said? Could there be a connection between that and Abby's Prozac prescription? If so, what was it? What made you drop things?

  My mind was thinking faster than my hand could write. I glanced at the new computer, sitting silently on the conference table, and felt guilty. I still hadn't returned Charley's telephone call asking me how I was getting along with my new wonder machine. Problem was now I needed to call him to check on some things for me and I didn't dare tell him I hadn't even turned the damned thing on since he'd left.

  Then it hit me. Charley had taken my old reliable Selectric. I was stranded. While J.B. hadn't been at all concerned with my late weekly report, it sure was bugging me. I like to have a routine with my cases, and I was getting pretty sloppy with this one. Besides, I needed to aggregate my notes. Reluctantly, I turned the new computer on. It whirred and blinked red and green eyes at me before the screen finally lit up.

  A few wrong turns later I seemed to be into my word processing program. I started with my name. Easy enough, although misspelled. How in the hell did you erase on this thing? I pushed the little blinking line thing close to the letter I wanted to eliminate, then spotted the Dele key, pressed it, kept my finger on it too long and managed to eradicate my entire last name. Great work.

  After playing around for a few minutes I decided to try and get the gist of my notes onto the thing. I'd worry about cleaning up the material later, or call Charley and ask for help.

  I turned back to Abby's Day Planner, paying particular attention to the weeks before her death. A couple of things stood out. She'd penciled in an appointment with her lawyer, Jim Carstensen, the week before and then crossed it out. What had that been about? Why was it crossed out and not erased as so many of her engagements had been? Had she kept the appointment or had it really been canceled? Rescheduled? Had Carstensen known about the appointment, and if so, why hadn't he mentioned it?

  I dialed the lawyer's number and sat on hold for a few minutes. When he finally came on the line he said he knew she'd canceled her appointment, but that she hadn't said what it was about. I hung up wishing that all of my questions could be answered so easily.

  I turned back to the computer and started typing. Never a typist, I found that using three fingers across the swift keyboard was still a lot faster than my pinching things out in longhand. Maybe I was going to like this after all.

  Abby had also had lunch with Clarice Martínez two days before her fateful camping trip. Clarice had suggested that Abby was unhappy with J.B., suspected him of having an affair, yet she hadn't mentioned having lunch with her so soon before her death. Why not? Was that an innocent oversight or had something more ominous been going on? What had Abby told her at that lunch? I struggled, but again managed to somehow get the information entered into the computer.

  There was nothing else that really jumped out at me from the appointment book so I turned back to my yellow pad and, starting from the beginning, began rereading my notes, keying them in as I went along.

  When I got to my visit with Carstensen, the disparate amounts Abby left to the Covarrubiases again jumped out. Why $41,000 to Gloria and only $17,000 to José? If she'd disliked José, it would seem logical to leave him nothing, but instead she'd chosen to leave him $24,000 less than the amount she'd given his wife. Why? I made a note to ask Gloria about it. Typing fairly quickly I hit a few wrong keys and then went back to try and retype and, to my horror, all of the words ahead of the blinking line disappeared. Shit! What had I done?

  The ringing phone interrupted my angst. I snatched it up.

  “Ellis?”

  “Hi, Charley.”

  “Have you heard the one—”

  “No, and I've got a crisis here. I'm working on this stupid machine and my words are all disappearing, almost as fast as I can type them.”

  “Easy, Ellis. We can fix that. On the bottom of your screen do you see something called ovr appearing in bold letters?”

  I looked. Sure enough there it was. “Yeah.”

  “Okay, do you see those keys to the right of the keyboard? Press the one marked insert.”

  I did and miraculously the boldfaced ovr on the screen disappeared. “So what's that mean?”

  He chuckled. “It overwrites what you've written, which means it will replace the words ahead of you as you type.”

  “Oh.” Would I ever get this right?

  “And Ellis, you can't hurt the machine.”

  He read my mind. I was trying hard not to be paranoid, but the thought had occurred to me that I might punch a key and blow the whole thing up.

  “They put kindergartners on them,” he said reassuringly.

  My breathing slowed. “I was just about to call you. I need some information on a few things.”

  “Shoot.”

  “Peter Van Thiessen, Abigail's brother. I need to find out what you can on him. Also a woman named Laurette LeBlanc. She's from St. Martin and has only been here since December so that one may be tough. Supposedly her mother just had a heart attack and she's returned to the Caribbean to help her out. I'd like that checked out and anything you can find on José and Gloria Covarrubias.” I spelled out all the names for him.

  “Also run by J.B. Calendar. I'd especially like to know if you can dig up any previous connection between him and Laurette Le Blanc.” This was a long shot, as I doubted whether he'd find much, if anything, on the itinerant cowboy. Since Laurette Le Blanc had come back from St. Martin with J.B. and Abby, I couldn't help but wonder if there had been a relationship between Laurette and J.B. before his honeymoon with Abby. Especially since, by his own admission, he was a pretty good ass bandit.

  “And there's a former pro ball player, Bobby Bangs …”

  “Forty-niners,” Charley said.

  “Right. Also known as Lateef Wise. Run both names. Anything you can find on either. He left the NFL for some reason, got into some kind of trouble, I'd like to know what it was.”

  “Righto, Ellis.”

  “Now, Charley, why were you calling me?”

  “Just checking to see how you like the new machine.”

  After we hung up I felt a little bad that I'd cut off his joke.

  When I finished putting my notes into the computer I reread them and noticed something I was about to overlook. When I'd checked Abby's answering machine, Clarice Martínez had left a message for her to call someone named Hornisher for collagen implants. While it sounded like plastic surgery stuff, could it possibly have anything to do with Abby's dropping things? I started to pick up the telephone to call Clarice and then decided not to. The next time I was in town, I'd drop in on her and ask her in person.

  Sometimes, you get better information that way.

  25

  I HAD TURNED OFF THE SWAMP COOLER AND THE LIGHTS IN the stage stop and was just getting in my truck when Martín rode in. He looked exhausted, as though he hadn't slept all night. Judging from the sweat on Shorty, the ranch horse he was riding since Chapo was laid up, he'd also been riding a while.

  “I turned that bull out,” he said. “Pushed him up to the north tanks.”

  “Is he moving any better?”

  Martín shrugged. “At least it's not anything serious.”

  “Did you get hold of Prego?”

  “I finally got his mother early this morning. He's fishing up at Big Lake and won't be home until Sun
day night.”

  Yes! If Prego didn't get home until Sunday night there was no way he could even touch Martín's truck until Monday at the earliest. While this didn't seem like a very sophisticated way to delay the inevitable—Martín's leaving—I'd take it.

  “Is there anyone else?”

  “Sure, but you know Prego's prices.”

  Of course I did. Prego was cheap, dirt-cheap. That's why we all used him.

  “Chi Chi Tapia offered to help out while I'm gone,” he said.

  “The chickenshit cowboy?” God, we all knew Chi Chi. He was a standing joke—a cowboy who was scared to death of cows. This guy would be working in the pens and if a cow looked cross-eyed at him, he'd climb the fence and anyone in his way to get out. He was a tentative and lousy roper. On the ground he never stayed close enough to the cattle to get a decent brand on them. He didn't ride very well either. Overall he had a rotten report card and the only reason any of the ranchers put up with him was because his wife was an excellent roundup cook.

  “He overheard me talking to some of the guys and volunteered,” Martín said with a grin.

  “You just want to make sure you'll have your old job back.” As the words came out, the sick feeling was back in my stomach. How would I ever manage without Martín? It wasn't all the work he did—which was tremendous—as much as I'd miss his company. The thought of his leaving was not dissimilar to the thought of losing one of my own body parts. “Don't worry about it, Sanders will help out,” I said.

  “Another thing. Quinta doesn't want to go.”

  “Well, she's over twenty-one.”

  “Yeah, that's what she tells me. But she won't be any safer here than she was in Mexico as long as they're looking for her mother. I was wondering if you'd talk to her.”

  Now that was a pickle. I didn't want any of them leaving, well not entirely true. Cori Elena could hit the road anytime and I wouldn't shed any tears. “I'll see what I can do.”

  He nodded. “If you wouldn't mind.”

  “You look pretty tired.”

  “I'm not sleeping too good.”

  “Has Cori Elena heard any more about Carmen?”

  “Nothing. But I still jump up and look out windows.”

  I knew what he meant. The whole business with Rafael Félix had me fairly jumpy too. I was sleeping with my .38 on top of the bedside table instead of leaving it nestled safely in the drawer.

  “I guess another week won't kill us,” he said.

  I shuddered at his choice of words. “You know, Martín, if they were coming after Cori Elena, it seems to me that they would have already done it.”

  “You never know with those guys, chiquita. You just never know.”

  With that he rode off toward headquarters and I drove into town.

  Dr. Samuel Mullon's office was in an old medical complex off Tucson Boulevard not far from the Arizona Inn. The room was empty when I walked in and I wondered what kind of a practice he had that his patients weren't stacked up to see him.

  So far I saw nothing but a few dying plants and a receptionist who looked almost as old as the building. Her eyes were rimmed in red and the crepey skin around them was blotchy, as though she'd been crying. She was nonplussed when I handed her my card.

  “I've been hired by Mr. Calendar,” I said, “to investigate Abigail Van Thiessen's death.”

  “Oh yes, I read about that in the newspapers,” she said. “It was a terrible thing. She was one of our patients, you know.”

  “That's why I'm here. I'm wondering if I might have a quick moment with Dr. Mullon.”

  “Oh dear, I'm afraid that's not possible, not possible at all.”

  “He's not in?”

  “I guess you didn't see it in the paper?”

  Sometimes, I must confess, I only glance at the morning newspaper. I've even been known not to read it at all.

  “See what?”

  “Dr. Mullon's been killed. It was a terrible thing. Shot to death just outside his house in his carport.”

  I did remember reading about someone who had been shot and the ensuing neighborhood panic that incident had incurred. Since the name Mullon hadn't meant anything to me at the time, I hadn't stored the information.

  “That was Samuel Mullon?”

  The receptionist grabbed a fistful of tissues and blew her nose heartily into them. “Yes. He was a lovely man. I don't know why anyone would want to take his life.”

  “When did he die?”

  “June 6th. Sometime after midnight.”

  I pondered this for a minute. Dr. Mullon, Abby's doctor, had been killed the same night as she had. That was too close for coincidence. What in the hell was going on? Had someone murdered Abby and then taken out her doctor? And if that had really happened, why? I tried to collect my thoughts.

  “Have they arrested anyone?”

  She shook her head and swiped at her eyes with the same Kleenex she'd used to blow her nose.

  I stayed silent for a minute trying to figure out a way I could frame what I was going to ask her next.

  “I'm sure he was well loved,” I began. “I know Abby thought an awful lot of him.” So it was a lie. It was a harmless one and it might even cheer her up.

  “Oh yes,” she sobbed.

  “He helped her when she was so depressed, when she went through that awful time.”

  She kept quiet.

  “I mean he gave her that medicine and all.”

  She barely nodded.

  “And it did wonders for her, it really did.”

  Shit, where could I go with this?

  “Of course, when your husband's cheating on you …”

  She was now giving me an interested look.

  “I mean J.B., you know.”

  She picked up the card and looked at me suspiciously. “I thought you were working for Mr. Calendar.”

  “Oh, I am. But you have to uncover every stone, know what I mean?” I gave her a wan smile.

  She stiffened. “I don't know what you're talking about.”

  “The other woman, you know …”

  She shook her head. “Anything that Mrs. Van Thiessen told Dr. Mullon would have been in complete and total confidence and I will not disclose anything, anything at all, even if I knew what specifically you wanted to know.”

  Damn nobility.

  “So I suppose that the chances of glancing at Abby's chart are out of the question?”

  She gave me a horrified look and waggled her finger at me. “Not very funny, miss.”

  “Even if it meant saving an innocent man from going to jail?”

  “Hah. What man is ever innocent?”

  I tried a while longer, but if the receptionist knew anything about why Abigail Van Thiessen was taking an antidepressant, she wasn't talking.

  As I left the medical complex I knew the pressure on the case had ratcheted up a few notches. Now there were two people who had known each other who had been murdered. Who was going to be next?

  Finding Uncle C wasn't hard, since I knew he had Wednesdays and Thursdays off. After going through the requisite catch-up with Aunt Josie, I trotted through their backyard to the converted garage. I let myself into the light-filled studio.

  My uncle, the bad-ass homicide detective, was hunched over a drafting table, rendering a fine pen and ink drawing. His sketches of some of his cases had started out as a hobby, but now he was selling some of his work in a downtown gallery. While Uncle C must have heard the door open, he completed a few strokes before looking up.

  “Hey, Trade, what brings you out?”

  “The usual.”

  “I don't know nuthin' 'bout no murder,” he said in a mock imitation of Prissy in Gone With the Wind.

  “Right.”

  “But, if I was you, this is hypothetical of course, I'd be sure some of my accounts were paid up pronto.” He snapped his fingers, then grabbed a rag and rubbed at the ink stains on his right index finger. “Hypothetically.”

  “Well, hypothetically, I've
wondered if the police could ever make a mistake and arrest an innocent man,” I said with a bravado I did not feel. I had no evidence, one way or the other, that J.B. had not killed his wife. What I was getting was a lot of heads-up on him.

  “My lips are sealed, sweetie.”

  “Well let's not talk about that one, then.” I picked up a jar of his India ink and studied the label. “Let's talk about Sam Mullon.”

  “Who?” He feigned ignorance.

  “The internist.”

  “Oh that doc that got whacked at home. That Samuel Mullon.”

  “Abigail Van Thiessen's doctor, one and the same.”

  “We know.”

  “Hell of a coincidence, isn't it?”

  “We're looking into it, Sherlock.” My uncle has never been all that fond of my chosen profession. He loves me, but has admitted on numerous occasions that I can be a real pain in the ass when it comes to this murder stuff.

  “Any leads?” I swirled the ink around in the jar.

  “The guys are working on it. They've canvassed the neighborhood, are interviewing his friends and family, going through the motions.”

  “And patients?”

  “Some of them. Others, as you've pointed out, ain't feeling so hot. There was a guy who was pretty unhappy because his wife died and Mullon was her doc. He was on a camping trip, but could have driven into town, boom, boom!” He pretended he was firing a gun. “And then headed back out to the sticks.”

  I rocked the India ink back and forth in the bottle.

  “Couple of days before the trip he and the missus went to a movie and then caught a late steak at McMahon's Steak House.”

  “So? Is there a law against that?”

  “Ah, I love your optimism.” He leaned over and looked at his sketch. “Aren't you gonna ask me?”

  “Ask you what?”

  “Which missus?”

  Shit. What was he talking about? “Abigail.”

  “Bzzzz. Play again.”

  “Not Abigail?”