“Ding, ding, ding, correct. Not the missus, but a missus.”
“He was out with someone else's wife?”
“Nope. His own. His former wife.”
Jesus Christ. I didn't have to look at J.B.'s list to know that there was no mention of a former wife on it. “He was married before?”
“Right. To a cute little thing who used to dance at T.D.'s.”
I knew the place. I'd seen the ads in the paper. Nudes! Live Girls! As if anyone would pay to see dead ones. The former Mrs. J.B. Calendar had been a topless dancer.
“At least she used to dance there when she could. When she wasn't too bruised to perform.”
I was afraid I knew what was coming next.
“Your boy's a real charmer, sweetie. He likes to beat the shit out of women.”
I sank into a chair next to the drafting table. “Shit.”
“We're thinking maybe Mrs. Van Thiessen didn't fall off her horse all that often.”
“But nothing was fresh, right?”
He gave me an incredulous look, as though how could I side with such a scumbag?
“Not that weekend, if that's what you mean, but Jackie Doo Dahs told the investigating officer that Calendar did hit her.”
“Jackie Doo Dahs?”
“That was her stage name. She took it back after they got divorced.”
“Which was?”
“About a year ago, right before he came into the victim's life.”
“But he was still seeing Jackie?” This was getting hard to assimilate. First there was Jodie Austin, now Jackie Doo Dahs. How many more were there? Could I hope that J.B.'s philandering was just limited to women whose names began with J?
“Nah. She was squeezing him. She's been trying to get alimony out of him ever since she discovered he married Mrs. Candy Bar.”
“So you think there's a connection between Mullon's death and Abby's?”
“Hell, I don't know what to think. I've been in this business long enough to know there's rarely a rational rhyme or reason to murder. Kids whack other kids for their Chicago Bulls jackets or Nike tennies, people stab each other over parking spaces and recipes, and sometimes people just put holes in each other's heads for $43.12.”
“Maybe Mullon knew something about Abby's murder.”
“Maybe we'll find a connection, maybe not.”
I replaced the bottle of ink on the drafting table.
“Why was she depressed?” I asked my question carefully, not wanting to mention either the Prozac or the ketamine.
He gave me a strange look. “Who said she was depressed?”
I smiled. “Okay, so maybe I'm wrong.”
I thought, briefly, about mentioning what Ramona Miller had told me. That Abby was dropping things. But then I decided not to. Ramona clearly had some developmental problems and so far I hadn't been able to substantiate what she had told me, so maybe it was just a red herring. I'd wait. I wasn't going to mention the bull tracks that Sanders had found either.
We talked a while longer, but neither of us were willing to just come out and say what we were thinking, so it turned out to be a polite waltz, nothing more.
As I left, I was furious with J.B. Calendar, not only for letting me get blindsided by my uncle on the issue of his former wife, but also for withholding such vital information from me. Did he think I was so inept that I wouldn't find out that he'd been married before? That he used to beat his first wife?
There was also the immediacy of the whole thing. He'd had dinner with Jackie a few nights before his camping trip with Abby. Why didn't he think that would be uncovered? Hadn't he seen enough TV cop shows? Didn't he know that they'd resurrect his life and certainly the week or two before his wife's death?
I was really beyond furious. I was super-pissed. And as I thought about everything, I realized that I was also really angry with myself. Why had I trusted J.B. so completely? Was it because he'd hired me? Or was it because his world and mine weren't that far apart? We were part of the same tribe and he had let me down. I should have seen it coming. First with his not telling me about the million bucks Abby'd given him. Then he'd neglected to tell me he'd slept with Jodie Austin. And now, conveniently, he'd forgotten to tell me about a little thing like an ex-wife. What a great client I had.
Not only was I too trusting, but I also wasn't digging hard enough or deep enough. Shit. What kind of private eye was I?
One thing was for sure. There was a lot more to J.B. Calendar than I'd first thought.
And like peeling an onion, I was about to get deeper into his layers.
26
AS LONG AS I WAS IN TOWN ANYWAY, I DECIDED THAT AN IM-promptu call on Clarice Martínez was in order. I wanted to ask her about that business with Abby dropping things and also thought that maybe she could clarify who Hornisher was and why she'd left his number for Abby to call him.
Forty minutes later found me standing outside the Martínezes' front door, my entrance blocked by the cleaning lady.
“She no here.” She said in broken English as she twirled her dust rag in my direction.
“What time do you expect her?”
She shrugged.
“Lupita? Quién es?”
The woman stepped aside as a huge Hispanic man, the size of a small upright freezer with gray curly hair and a friendly face, filled the doorway. While I don't watch much TV, I recognized him from all of the Pepe's Auto Parts ads as well as his billboards.
“Hi!” he said. “I'm Pepe.”
I introduced myself and he smiled again, showing me a mouthful of fluoride-stained teeth. “Clarice told me about you. Do you want to come in?” He opened the carved Mexican doors wide.
“Well, I have a few more questions for your wife, but I understand she's not home.”
“No, she's volunteering down at the Botanical Gardens this morning. Is this important?”
“Oh, it can probably wait.”
“Well it wouldn't be a problem, if you want to run down there. I'm sure she's just potting plants or something and would be happy to talk to you.”
I thanked him and headed back down to the center of town.
The Tucson Botanical Gardens is a lovely, peaceful enclave in the middle of town. Spread out over ten acres, the property was the former Porter home and gardens and now hosts wedding receptions, fund-raisers and private parties as well as the general public.
I sweet-talked my way past the front desk, loath to paying an admission fee if I didn't have to. The woman there was kind and let me slip in after I promised her that I wouldn't look at the plants nor smell the roses, that I just wanted to talk with one of her volunteers.
I found Clarice in a back patio hand-watering herbs. She wasn't at all surprised to see me, a mystery that was cleared up when she reached into her gardening apron and pulled out a cellular phone. “Pepe.”
“I won't take up much of your time.”
“So what if you do? Honey, they're not going to dock my pay,” she said, the pixie grin spreading across her small face.
I smiled. “I was out at the Brave Bull yesterday talking to some of Abby's staff and Ramona Miller mentioned that Abby was dropping things. Did you ever notice that?”
She hesitated as though she hadn't understood me. “You mean party invitations, that kind of stuff?”
Same thought I'd had when Ramona had told me, although Clarice's timing seemed just a bit off.
“No. Drink glasses and earrings. Maybe other things too.”
“Never noticed it. Why would she drop things?” Clarice was studying me intently.
“I don't know that she was. So far Ramona's the only one who's mentioned it.”
“Well, Ramona's, you know …” She was flooding the basil.
“I've been going through Abby's Day Planner and I noticed that you had lunch with her a couple of days before they went on the camping trip.”
“I guess that's right. We had lunch a lot.”
“Would you mind telling me about that
one?”
“Well, let me think. We went to the Blue Willow, I remember that because I wanted one of their great bean tostadas. It was too hot to sit outside, in spite of the misters, so we were indoors.”
“What did you talk about?”
“The usual. Girl stuff.” She wiped the bridge of her nose with her index finger, leaving it wet.
“J.B.?”
“Sure. I told you that before. That she was upset because she thought that he was cheating on her.”
“So she was pretty upset?”
“More like furious.”
“She was mad about the lady bull rider?”
“Among others.”
Others. Why hadn't she mentioned that before, when I'd visited her at her house?
“What others?”
“Look, I didn't want to say anything before, because I just figured what would it matter. Abby had asked me not to say a word to anyone and since she's dead, I thought why take J.B. down with her. But then I was talking to Pepe and we decided that maybe I should tell you what I know about him.”
“I'd appreciate that.”
“The day before we had lunch, Abby had just found out that J.B. had been married before.”
“She didn't know that?” I was feeling better. Maybe I wasn't the last person in the universe to discover J.B.'s former marital status after all.
“He neglected to tell her that small point. When she found out she was livid.”
“How'd she find out?”
“She found a large check that he'd written on his own account to this woman named Jackie. When she finally cornered J.B. he admitted it.”
“Why didn't he tell her before, did she say?”
“Sure. Said he'd intended to all along, but then they got serious so quickly that he didn't know how to tell her, then too much time went by and he felt as though he couldn't. Said it had been hanging over his head the whole time. He told her he was relieved that it was finally out in the open.”
Yeah, I'll bet.
“But if you ask me, personally, I think there was more to it than that.”
“What do you think was going on?”
“Do you know what his ex-wife did?”
“You're talking about the stripping?”
She nodded. “I think he conveniently neglected to share his former marriage with Abby since the ex was younger and made her living taking off her clothes. I'm betting that he thought that Abby couldn't have handled that. Bless her heart.”
“Could she?”
Clarice shrugged and sprayed the oregano with water. “She wouldn't have been happy about it, that's for sure. But probably more from the social standpoint than anything else. I mean how'd you like to follow a stripper? Here's my new husband, his former wife did table dances. But he has his health certificate. I don't think that would have gone over well with her.”
“I asked you before about whether you thought Abby was thinking of leaving him.”
“And you're asking me again?”
I nodded.
“I can't say that she ever actually said that.”
“But you think she was?”
“Honey, I don't know. I honestly don't. Abby liked being married. Hell, she was married to old John Wilson forever. It was important to her to have a man around. There was a defenseless side to Abby, a side that wanted to be protected. John Wilson gave her that and I think she was hoping that J.B. would too.”
I thought back to how solicitous J.B. had been when Abby had gotten dumped during roundup. He had taken care of her, so there was probably some truth to what Clarice Martínez was telling me.
We talked for a while longer and right before I left I remembered the other thing I'd wanted to ask her.
“When I was going over my records I found a note I'd made when I listened to Abby's answering machine. You'd left a call for her, something about a man named Hornisher.”
“Hornisher,” she repeated. As she wiped her wet hands on her apron they seemed to be shaking a bit. Could she have Parkinson's? “I did?”
“You left his number and told Abby to call him,” I nudged.
She shook her head. “It probably wasn't anything or I'd remember.”
“So the name Hornisher doesn't ring a bell?”
She thought for a minute. “Oh, of course. Hornisher. He's a lip guy.”
“A lip guy?”
She brushed her wet hands across her own pouty-looking lips. When she replied, she wasn't looking at me though. Her eyes drifted upward and to the right. “Enhancements, collagen implants. Does great work. Abby was thinking about having it done and I left her his name. He's in Phoenix.”
As I walked back through the Botanical Gardens I had the distinct impression that maybe Clarice Martínez wasn't telling me everything.
It had been my experience that people who suddenly look up and to the right when you're interrogating them were telling you something.
They were lying.
27
J.B. CALENDAR WAS ARRESTED FOR THE MURDER OF HIS WIFE, Abigail Van Thiessen, Thursday morning.
By the time I got back to my office, there was a message from Jodie Austin waiting to tell me of this calamity. I figured María López Zepeda, the defense attorney J.B. had hired, would get around to calling me when things settled down and she had either sprung J.B. or had figured out how to mitigate his circumstances.
I called the number Jodie left, listening to the phone ring as I gazed out my window admiring my grazing Brahma cows. I love these girls. Even in the drought years they manage to keep looking good. Their browsing does that for them, for they're not all that picky about what they'll eat, unlike the fussy English cattle.
When Jodie finally answered, I asked, “What happened?”
“The police came in early this morning with a warrant.” The way she said it sounded like war ant, probably not too far off base.
“They were here all morning searching, looking, tearing things apart. They covered everything.”
“Did they find anything?”
“I think so. There was a lot of commotion down at the barn.”
The barn. A logical place to keep a veterinary drug, like ketamine.
“Then they arrested J.B.”
“The sheriff's office?”
“I think so.”
“Who else was there?”
“Only the police.”
“No, I mean the staff.”
“Oh. Ramona had the day off, but the Covarrubiases were here, and of course the rest of the students.”
“And Peter?”
“He left to go running early this morning, before the police came. That man's a running maniac.”
Briefly I wondered about the cow stamp, the padding that had been made to look like cow prints. Had the police found the stamp at the barn too? If so, had they figured out that there were fake prints in the Baboquivaris?
Once again it hit me. Even if J.B.'s brains had been a bit scrambled by all of his bull rides or too much booze, he wasn't stupid. He knew about cows. And he sure as hell would have known the difference between a smaller-footed crossbred and a big-footed Brahma.
He also would have known that ranchers typically graze the same general kind of cow together. The fake bull print I'd seen with Sanders had stood out from all of the other tracks, both across the desert, and at the wet edges of the stock tank. J.B. flat would have known better. If he was going to plant a fake print, at least he would have made it the right kind.
Although I had a lot to talk to J.B. Calendar about, including his former bride, Jackie Doo Dahs, I suddenly felt a lot better about my client.
I asked Jodie to leave a message for Peter to call me and hung up the phone. Then I went ahead and left a message for María López Zepeda.
Although J.B. was in jail, his weekly report was still hanging over my head. I spent the next hour figuring out how to clean up all the typos. Of course it wouldn't be really done until I printed the damn thing out.
I stru
ggled with the printer for a while, hitting all sorts of buttons and finally got it turned on. It made some chattering noises at me and, feeling somewhat confident, I put a wad of paper in the tray.
After hitting a few buttons, trial and error really, the paper started feeding through the machine and within minutes J.B.'s report miraculously appeared in my hands.
I felt like the Cheshire cat as I grinned at the neatly typed pages in front of me. This was a lot better looking than anything I could have produced on the old Selectric. Maybe this computer business wasn't going to be so bad after all.
I put a copy of the report into my files. Then I slipped J.B.'s copy into a manila envelope and sealed it.
Before leaving the office I looked up Samuel Mullon in the Tucson telephone book and was amazed to find his home address listed. I scribbled it on a scrap of paper and headed out the door.
Although I'd wound down the windows in Priscilla and parked her under a mesquite tree at the stage stop, the interior of the white truck was still as hot as Hades when I got in. My shorts and cotton T-shirt kept me cooler than Levi's would have, but I was still roasting. The air conditioner wouldn't cool the truck off on the mile drive to the house, so I left the windows down and didn't bother to turn it on.
Jake Hatcher's truck was at the bunkhouse when I pulled into the drive. He was definitely a regular around here. It bugged me a lot that he was probably fooling around with Martín's girlfriend, but then they'd all be gone in a few days and I wouldn't have to worry about it anymore. One thing was for sure. Martín didn't seem to be losing sleep over it.
I had just stepped out of the truck when Martín came up.
“We're having lunch. Want to join us?”
I didn't really, but I nodded. The way things were going, I probably wouldn't have that many more opportunities to talk to Martín.
The swamp cooler hit me full in the face when I walked into the bunkhouse and the room reeked with that fishy smell evaporative coolers sometimes get.
The radio, tuned to a Mexican station, hummed quietly in sharp contrast to Cori Elena's usual high-decibel levels. A couple of cardboard boxes sat in the middle of the kitchen floor and I could see that they were partially filled with newspaper-wrapped dishes. My heart sank.
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