The second thing that was bugging me was motive. By mutual agreement, if I was to believe Jim Carstensen, Abby's lawyer, Peter wasn't going to inherit anything from his sister. By all accounts he and Abby had been very close. He loved her. So what motive would he have for killing his sister?
It just didn't make sense.
I started up Priscilla, threw the air conditioner on high and rolled down the windows to let the hot air escape. I drained the coffee and thought more about my case before pulling out of the hospital parking lot. While there were still a few holes, I'd learned a lot over the last few weeks. About J.B. and Jackie Doo Dahs, Lateef Wise, the Covarrubiases and Samuel Mullon. But now I was zeroing in on Peter Van Thiessen. I thought about my conversations with Abby's best friend, Clarice Martínez, and what she had told me about the Van Thiessens' sibling relationship.
As I pulled out of Northwest Hospital, a fast ambulance, lights twinkling and siren blazing, turned into the drive.
And then I had my answer.
Peter wasn't really a bad guy after all.
44
I ARRIVED AT HER HOUSE JUST AS CLARICE MARTÍNEZ PULLED in. She waved gaily. “Hi there, Girl Detective.”
I met her at the front door, which was opened by the same maid who had been there on my earlier visit. Clarice ushered me into the cool house.
“Whew! It's hot out there. Let's get something to drink.”
I followed her back to the kitchen.
“May I help you?” I asked as she pulled a couple of tall glasses out of the cupboard.
“Heavens no. I've been at exercise class lifting body parts all morning.” She slapped herself on her tiny rear end and winked at me. “Those people are slave drivers. Fixing tea is nothing.”
She poured the glasses half full of tea and then reached into the refrigerator and pulled out a chilled can of mango juice. After opening it she topped off the glasses with the juice and then stirred them.
“Jamango tea,” she said.
I took a sip. “Delicious.”
“I brought that back from Guam with Three. Courtesy of the Jamaican Grill.”
“Three?”
“Colonel Jergensen. Sweet George. That one only lasted a year.”
“But did you like Guam?”
“Loved it. You know they like to say there, ‘Guam, where America's day begins,’ but it really should be, ‘Guam, America's best kept secret.’ It's better than Hawaii. But I guess you didn't come here to hear me prattle on about Guam, did you?”
I smiled.
She walked over to the glass top table in her breakfast nook and nodded for me to sit down. I left her the chair with the best view of the finch aviary.
“So, what brings you back to my neck of the woods?”
“Abby again. I've been thinking about some of the things you told me and had a few questions.”
“Shoot.”
“I wanted to ask you about her relationship with her brother,” I began. “Can you tell me more about that?”
“What's to tell? In spite of his being her half-brother they were very, very close. I remember one time asking her about that and she said, ‘In this family we don't have halves.’ She spent a lot of time with him, and for years he was like her doll. She'd dress him up and mother him. In some ways, I think Abby, even though she was only three years older, was like a mother to him, more so than schizo Madeleine ever was. He absolutely adored her.”
“Did they see each other very often?”
“Lately, not much. Not since Abby married J.B.”
“Did that bother Peter?”
Clarice shrugged. “I doubt it. He has his own life; he's very physical. Runs all the time, works out and he spends a lot of time at his place on the Amalfi coast so he's back and forth to Italy a lot. They kept in touch on the phone though.”
“Does he have a girlfriend?” I wondered what she knew about Peter and Laurette Le Blanc.
“Honey, for which night?”
“But not a steady?”
“I doubt it. Peter's into trophies. He's like a big-game hunter, once he's bagged them, he moves on down his list. Sort of like Warren Beatty before he married Annette Bening. Only difference is, Peter's never married.”
This confused me for a minute. Could Peter have already dumped Laurette? And if he had, would there have been any percentage in Laurette's killing Abby? After all, she had fled back to St. Martin to visit her ailing mother right after Abby's death. But still, Charley had checked that out and Mrs. Le Blanc had had a legitimate heart attack.
“Are you all right?”
Clarice brought me out of my reverie. I pushed Laurette to the back of my brain and returned on track.
“When we talked before, you mentioned that Abby was terrified of growing old.”
“Petrified, but aren't we all?” Clarice said with a twinkle in her eye. “Criminy, my plastic surgeon brigade depends on me for their boats and summer homes.”
“But didn't she also tell you that she was afraid of getting incapacitated in any way?”
“Surely that was one of her terrors.” Her eyes looked red, as though she was going to start crying. “And that disease …”
“The Lou Gehrig's?”
“Uh huh. That really, really bothered her. She knew she was never ever going to get better. Then when Ruth Whitney died of it, I think the hopelessness of it all really hit home.”
“Was she a friend of Abby's?”
“Oh, no.” Clarice was laughing now, a light tingling giggle. “Ruth Whitney was an editor at Glamour. She was the first person with the guts to put a black model on the cover of a big woman's magazine.”
I sipped my tea before asking the next question.
“Do you think Abby could have committed suicide?”
“Suicide? Are you crazy? Abby most certainly did not commit suicide.”
“No, no, I'm not saying she did commit suicide, I'm only asking if, in your opinion, as the Lou Gehrig's got worse, she would have considered it.”
She thought about this for a minute. “Consider it, sure. Under the circumstances, wouldn't you?”
Without hesitation, I nodded.
“But to actually do it, no. She would not have committed suicide.”
“You're sure about that?”
“As sure as I can be. Abby was a Catholic.”
I raised an eyebrow. Her minister, Lateef Wise, was not a priest, nor his church Catholic.
“A very lapsed one, I'll give you that, with all of her spiritual quests. But those early years of being raised Catholic sunk in. Abby believed suicide to be a mortal sin. She never, ever would have done herself in.”
“Even though she was suffering from a debilitating disease?”
“She knew it was a dead-end street. Her doctor went through all of it with her. Her arms and legs were bothering her, getting more tired.”
“And she was dropping things.”
Clarice nodded. “Abby'd done her homework. She knew that eventually she wouldn't be able to walk, or dress herself or do any of the other things she took for granted.”
“When did she find out about it?”
“Couple of months ago. She told me the day she found out.”
“So how long did she have?”
“Honey, who knows?” Clarice shrugged. “Some of them go a few years, others ten or more. Eventually you can't swallow or chew and you need a ventilator to breathe, but you still have all your senses about you. It's a horrid way to die.”
“Or live.”
“Yes, or live. But even facing all of that, she didn't kill herself. And if she had, she sure wouldn't have picked some crap-filled pond to do it in. You have any idea what kind of self-discipline suicide by drowning would take?”
“Not very feasible,” I admitted.
“Add to that burning in hell, and I promise you, there's just no way she would have done it.”
I left Clarice's with no real answers other than her firm conviction that Abigail Van Thies
sen had not committed suicide. It had been a real stretch to even consider it, but that hadn't been the reason I'd gone to see her. I'd wanted to reconfirm that the bond between Peter and his sister had been as strong as I'd been led to believe on my first visit to Abby's oldest and dearest friend.
As I drove home I kept the air conditioner in Priscilla as cold as it could get in an effort to keep alert. My sleepless nights were catching up with me and I found my eyelids as heavy as they'd been in a long time. I shifted and stretched as I drove in a further effort to stay awake.
When I finally drove into the Vaca Grande, Blue and Mrs. Fierce trotted slowly out to see me, their tongues hanging out, panting in an effort to keep cool. Petunia ignored me, content to wallow in the mud at the edge of the pond. I was jealous. The water looked so inviting. I briefly considered jumping right in, but opted for a hot shower instead.
The dogs followed me into the screened porch and then into the house, where they flopped down, feet sprawled out as their bellies flattened against the cool Saltillo tile floor. I had just turned the cooler on when I heard a car drive in. Dog-tired, I found the thought of drop-in company very discouraging. Still, maybe the caller would be for Quinta or Juan. With all of last night's excitement it could have been anyone.
I peeked out the kitchen door and saw an unfamiliar faded blue Bronco pull up near the pond. A minute later Peter Van Thiessen stepped out of the ratty vehicle. I wondered why he was driving that it when he could have had his sister's silver Lexus.
Shit. Just what I needed. My spent brain was still sorting out the information I'd gleaned from my visit to the El Mercado Hotel and I wasn't eager to get into any conversation with Peter. If I let him come in it would prolong his visit so I left the dogs inside trying to get cool and quickly stepped back outside.
“Trade! I'm glad I caught you.” I met up with him halfway between the pond and the house. “I stopped in the other day.”
“Yeah, I got your card. But things have been so crazy here …”
“I heard. Are you okay?” He gave me a quick hug and just as quickly released me.
“Nothing a good night's sleep can't cure.”
“And your help?”
That was the difference between the Van Thiessens of the world and me. While it was true enough that Martín and Juan were on the payroll, they were family, not help. “Everyone's fine. Jake Hatcher, the brand inspector, is a little the worse for wear, but he's coming out of the woods.”
“Glad to hear it.”
The sun was beating down on both of us. Exhausted, feeling filthy and hotter than hell, I longed to step into the shade of the cottonwoods. I didn't, though, since I didn't want to prolong his stay. Better to sweat it out under the grueling sun. After all, the Arizonan should win, right?
“God, that's great news about the eyewitness, isn't it?”
“What eyewitness?” I played dumb in an effort to find out where he'd come by his information.
“J.B. called and told me you'd found someone who was there the night my sister …” He hung his head and shuddered, but with his dark glasses on I couldn't tell if he was crying or not.
“We're working on it, but I'm not sure it will pan out.”
“Well he's plenty excited about it, I can tell you that. Listen, if there's anything I can do, if I can talk to the person, or you need money, anything at all, just let me know.”
“Did you talk to J.B.'s lawyer?”
“No, should I?”
“Well, you might. She's the one who's trying to work out the arrangements.”
“Arrangements?” He looked startled. “What's the problem?”
“Look, Peter, I really can't talk right now.” My antennae were beginning to twitch. It wasn't that I was afraid of him, I just didn't want to share anything. Not just yet. Not until I talked to Uncle C.
“Trade!” In spite of the heat, Quinta came running up with a roll of Vet Wrap in her hand. It was cold from being in the refrigerator. Summers in southern Arizona are not kind to the adhesive in Vet Wrap and when we leave the rolls in the barn the tape sticks to itself, making it useless for doctoring. “Excuse me, but can I ask you a favor?”
“Sure,” I said, grateful for the interruption.
“Dad just called and he wants me to pick up a part in town so he and Prego can fix the truck. I just looked out the window and Chapo's bandage came loose.” She handed me the Vet Wrap. “Would you mind wrapping it so I can get to the parts store before it closes?”
“No problem.”
“I don't know where my mother is.”
“She's still at the hospital. I just came from there.”
“Tata's taking a nap. I think all of this was too exciting for him.”
“Trade, I've got to run too,” Peter said, extending his hand. I shook it and watched him walk back to the old Bronco and drive out.
“Is Jake going to be okay?” Quinta asked.
“It looks that way.”
“Thank God. I'll be back in an hour and a half or so.”
And with that she followed Peter out.
I was dog-tired and doctoring a horse was one of the last things I wanted to think about. Still, it needed to be done and I figured I might as well rewrap Chapo as long as I was still filthy.
When I got out to the pasture Martín's horse came walking up, the bright pink Vet Wrap fluttering like a party streamer attached to his right rear leg. It had just started to unwind and I was relieved to see that a good portion of his wound was still wrapped. We weren't in crisis mode yet.
I grabbed a rope halter off the fence post and brought him out to the tack room where I tied him to the hitching post. After gathering my supplies—the aloe vera gel, cotton, Teflon bandages, gauze and the fresh roll of Vet Wrap Quinta had given me—I removed what was left of Chapo's old bandage and doctored his leg.
Dream and Gray had been up in the far corner, but when they realized that I was out there and something was going on, they came up to the fence line, nickering. I didn't have to be a horse to know that they weren't giving Chapo encouragement, but were begging for a snack.
Finally done with my doctoring detail, I treated Chapo to a horse cookie and turned him back out in the pasture.
After I put the vet supplies back in the cabinet I started to go back to the house, but then I remembered that Martín was still working on the truck at Prego's and I had no idea what time he'd be home. I thought, what the hell, even though it's a little early I might as well feed the horses as long as I'm out here.
This decision was a welcome one for the beggar boys at the fence. Nickering and grunting their approval, they chatted heartily to encourage my progress toward the hay barn.
There were no alfalfa bales open. Although Martín and Quinta had cleaned the barn floor not long ago, the loose hay was beginning to pile up again. Briefly I thought about scooping it up for the horses, but frankly, it would take too much effort, so I opted to open a new bale instead. As I reached for the knife on my belt, my weary brain remembered that I had been to town and was not wearing a belt, or a knife.
I stepped over to the post where the survival knife was usually hanging and was greeted by an empty nail. Damn. The knife was probably somewhere in the barn, but where? I tugged briefly on the taut, bright yellow string that wrapped the heavy three-wire bale, but it didn't budge.
Nothing's ever easy when you're tired and now I'd have to go to the workshop and get something to cut the new bale of hay with.
As I turned to leave the hay barn a shadow blocked the light.
There, framed by the late afternoon light, stood Peter Van Thiessen.
45
WHAT WAS HE DOING HERE? HADN'T HE LEFT?
“I need to talk to you.”
“I'm sorry, Peter, but this really isn't a good time. I'm exhausted from last night and all I can think about is getting my chores done and crashing into bed. How about breakfast tomorrow?”
He quickly covered the distance between us. “No, I really n
eed to talk to you now.” There was a fevered look about him. I was surprised that I hadn't seen it before and it scared me.
I edged back to the stacked hay. “All right, all right, we can talk.” What I had suspected was quickly coming true. Unfortunately before I'd had time to share my suspicions with anyone. Alone at the ranch, with Blue and Mrs. Fierce confined to the house, I was on my own now.
“Not here.”
“Let's go inside then, have a glass of iced tea, or a beer.” I gave him a smile I did not feel.
“Not there.”
I was beginning to not feel good about this.
“You've got to come with me.”
“I …I can't. I've got chores to do. But I can meet you in a half hour or so, anywhere.” I was trying to stall, although I suspected it was useless.
“No. Now.” He grabbed my arm roughly and started to pull me out of the barn, but I grabbed the twine on the bale of hay behind me and tried to anchor myself as I dug my heels into the loose alfalfa. Still, he was stronger.
I screamed.
He slapped me hard across the face. “Shut the fuck up!”
The harsh taste of the iron of my own blood flooded my mouth. Terrified, I ran my tongue across my teeth. Were they all still there? I spit onto the barn floor and watched, dismayed, as red iced the fallen alfalfa. My lips felt rubbery and fat as I watched my blood drip onto my T-shirt.
Releasing the hay twine I swung at him and landed a good one on the side of his face and followed it up with a kick to his knee. He buckled only momentarily and wrenched my arm, pulling me in close to him.
I was fighting for my life now, and I knew it.
His grip dug into my flesh and I was dimly aware of his left hand coming back in another hard swing.
But I was wrong. Instead, his hand dropped and landed on the upper part of my bare left thigh. For a split second I heard a crackling sound and then I collapsed in the most excruciating pain I had ever felt. Gripping my thigh with both my hands I was surprised to find myself crying.
As I lay crumpled in the loose hay he hovered over me. I couldn't move or think. I tried to move my arms and legs and couldn't. What had paralyzed me so quickly? What had made that sound?
Rode Hard, Put Away Dead Page 30
