I tried begging. “Caleb, please? I've called everybody I can think of. I've got people looking from Ripon to Merced.”
“Mmm-mm.”
“I'm telling you, if he takes it as far as Fresno he's dead meat!”
“Awright, settle down, Lalla. You want to report it stolen? Come in and we'll write up a report.”
Uh-oh, this could get complicated. Ricky and I had history and it wasn't pretty. The Caddy was my trophy from our divorce and though I secretly enjoyed being the butt of jokes locally I didn't want to see this most recent escapade get ratcheted all the way up to the nightly news.
“Uh, do we have to do it so formally? Can't you just tell some of the guys to be on the look out for it?”
Caleb, being one of the few who knew my angry history with Ricky also liked to rib me about it. “So, that's a no-go on the wanted posters?”
“Just tell the guys to look for it, will you?” I hung up on him.
Still restless I went downstairs to finish telling my dad the bad news.
He slammed his napkin down on the table and glared up at me. “Can't we go a whole week without you on the front page of the newspaper?”
“My missing Caddy doesn't warrant two lines and nobody cares but me, so what're you all grumpy about?”
“Not that you would care, but I'm a sick old man, and I'd like to die with what's left of my reputation intact.”
“What's left of your reputation? Are you saying my plane crash or my ongoing tug of war over Ricky's prized possession is hurting your reputation?”
He pushed back his chair and stood, the expression on his face somewhere between sadness and disgust. He didn't have to say anything more. I'd once again disappointed him because no matter what I did, how hard I tried, I seemed to stumble across trouble. I had to admit he was right. After all, I was the one who'd found my mother's body, burned her suicide note and neglected to tell my father or my brother. And I was still paying for that guilty sin.
“I can't tolerate infidelity,” I said, hoping to have the last word.
He turned at the door. “You don't have to prove it to me.”
“Believe me, I wasn't trying to prove anything to you.”
He tipped his bushy eyebrows at me, the gesture saying words about what I was trying to prove; that I didn't need New York or modeling or a husband to fulfill my life, that I was good enough to run a crop-dusting business for my old man, that I measured up to the son he lost, and that neither of us was at fault that my mother chose to end her life.
Ten minutes later, the phone rang.
“I have good news and bad news,” Caleb said.
“Hurry up and tell me, I can take it.” I was picturing Ricky hot-tailing it for Mexico with his latest honey in my Caddy. But that's not what I got.
“Ricky says he didn't take your car and I have to believe him.”
I took back every kind thought I'd ever had about him. “And that's the good or the bad news?”
“Well, I'm afraid that it's the good news.”
Oh, God, I hate it when he does this. Typical Caleb, succinct to the point of anguish. I groaned at this latest round of vague innuendo.
“Ricky doesn't have your car because we found it out at Turlock Lake.”
“Turlock Lake? What…,”
“Wait a minute, and I'll tell you. The Caddy's big fins were seen sticking up out of the muck.”
“In the water? Oh no! She'll be ruined!”
“Lalla, are you sitting down? ‘Cause that's still not the bad news.”
I held onto the phone by its long curling extension cord and slid down the wall until my butt was settled on the polished oak floor.
“Lalla…you there?”
I ran a finger along the groove of the scarred and battered floor that once held up a crowd of thirsty miners. Noah liked to tell visitors he found gold dust in the cracks when he salvaged the boards from a “forty-niner” hotel being torn down to make room for a highway.
“Yes,” I said, “I'm here.”
A small portable radio my dad kept tuned to a weather channel on the kitchen counter cheerfully announced the time and temperature. It was seventy-eight degrees and rising. Then the announcer encouraged us all to have a nice day.
By the time Caleb told me the rest of it, my teeth had started a rumba and my shoulders were quaking as if I were sitting in a blizzard. Caleb's steady voice brought me back to my feet. “You'll need to verify that it's your car and talk to the investigating detective.”
“Detective? Why a detective?”
“Can you drive here, or do you want me to come out and pick you up?”
“Don't you mean, bring me in?”
“Either way, you've got an appointment. You need to make a statement, and if you're this feisty I'll wait for you outside the County Jail downtown and go with you.”
I hung up, and with hands that palsied, I grabbed the nearest set of keys and drove our old farm truck into Modesto. I ignored the familiar rattle of the loose drive shaft, the torn vinyl headliner, the missing door handle, and the growing spider web of broken windshield on the passenger side.
The drive was a no-brainer, one where I can easily divide my attention between the road and work schedules before hitting the outskirts of the nearest mall. But, not today. I couldn't stop thinking about Caleb's words. Of all the answers to the whereabouts of my car, not in a million years would I have guessed that my Caddy would be found tail fins sticking out of the shallow end of Turlock Lake.
And behind the wheel, neatly buckled into her safety belt, was none other than the blue ribbon winner in this year's county fair's jam making contest, Patience McBride.
three
Modesto's prosperity has been memorialized in a permanent arch across I and Ninth Street. Its cryptic message “Water Wealth Contentment Health” means that if you're a farmer and have water, you are more than likely to be wealthy, if not healthy. Fine with me, except that they rerouted the highway and nobody drives under the arch except those taking this freeway off ramp to Modesto's jail or county courthouse, which is where I was going.
I pulled into a parking space close to where Caleb, his Stetson tipped down over his brow, stood in quiet contemplation under the leafy shadow of Sycamores. Caleb's khakis still held a razor pleat against the rising morning heat. Lucky him, I was already a sweaty mess in jeans and yesterday's T-shirt.
I honked, and his face bronzed by his love of the outdoors, creased into the familiar and endearing smile that he kept for the likes of puppies, lunch, and me.
He strolled over to lean on the open window of the truck. “Hey. You okay?”
I tried to keep my voice from cracking. “Can we get on with this, Caleb? Where's my car?” My day was ruined. My car was certainly ruined. A woman, though not exactly a friend, was found dead in it, very ruined indeed. Then I thought of something. I grabbed at his shirt. “Good God, Caleb, she's not still in it, is she?”
“No, of course not,” he said, offering me a hand out of the truck. “I'm sorry, I forgot to tell you. Poor old girl is at the County Morgue waiting her turn with the medical examiner. Come on, the impound lot is just around the corner. I'll tell you what I know while we walk. A camper saw it sticking tail-end up in the mud at the lake's edge about six a.m. Homicide will—”
“What do you mean, Homicide?”
“If it's a suspicious death, Homicide gets involved. As of now, it looks like she was driving it when she hit the tree.”
“What? Patience couldn't see past the hood ornament! How in God's name could she have been driving?”
He nodded. “I told them.”
“What is it you're not telling me?”
“Nothing, honest,” he said, not looking me in the eye. “I'm going to introduce you to the detective and bow out.”
I gasped and pulled away from the firm clasp he had on my elbow. “I'm a suspect?”
“Don't panic, Lalla. It's only a formality. I have rules to follow too, you know.”
I couldn't think of anything else to say and we glumly trudged around the corner of the grim cement four-story government building. To say that I was pretty shook up was an understatement. I was working my way into a full-grown migraine. It got worse when we walked into the impound yard and I saw my Caddy. Seven layers of red lacquer were no match for the green slime growing at the edges of the lake during the summer. It clung like a fur coat to the back half of my car; the front end was covered with gray mud where it had come to rest in the shallow end of the lake.
Detective Gayle Rodney was an out of shape, overworked minion of our local police system. He hadn't quite finished his Sunday breakfast and he was still picking at it with a toothpick while he absent-mindedly shook my hand. “Miz Bains.”
The detective wasn't any better at making eye contact. I suspected he'd rather be sitting somewhere with his feet up, digesting his bacon and eggs, than interviewing murder suspects. Me too.
Introductions over, I was warned not to touch anything as we did a slow shuffle around the car. I bit at my trembling lip and commented on the insult of damage. It wasn't a pretty sight, but then I imagine neither was Patience. The fender was crunched up almost to the engine block. The impact to its steel frame alone would have been enough to kill any driver, especially without the requisite shoulder strap seat belt, much less an airbag.
“Well, it didn't look anything like this yesterday, that's for sure.” I pointed to the obvious. “The right front headlight is busted, and, of course the front right fender is dented, uh, badly.” I gulped and looked across the car at Caleb, who still wouldn't look me in the eye. I gave up and went back to surveying the damage to my once beautiful car.
“When can I get her to a garage, Detective?” I asked, watching weeds drip water off the wheel wells.
“Well,” drawled the tooth picker, “we need to let her dry out. I don't hold out much hope for prints, not when she's been in all that wet silt. When she dries out some, we'll vacuum her, see if we can pick up anything.” He shrugged. “They don't make ‘em like this anymore, but with the water, sludge and mud, she sure took a hit.”
I winced. “What about Mrs. McBride? I'd say she didn't take the ride so well, either.” My mouth felt like cotton, and the headache was crawling up the back of my scalp. Soon it would cover my left temple and carve out a shallow tunnel for my vision.
He moved the toothpick to the other side of his mouth and gave Caleb a look over my head that said he'd had enough. “I could let you have it tomorrow, maybe next day.” He handed me a card and turning it over wrote down a number. “You call this guy and he'll let you know if we're done with it. See she gets over to my office in half an hour, Sheriff.”
Caleb gave the detective a little nod, squeezed my elbow, and pulled me away. “You okay? You look like you're going to faint or something.”
“I'll be all right. I just wish I could have picked a better time to quit smoking.” I still thought smoking bit off the start of a migraine, though the doctors didn't agree. “I've got my pills in my purse if I could get some water.”
“Come on, I'll walk you over to the police station. They've got a cooler by the exit. Oh, I almost forgot. You remember Patience saying anything about a nephew?”
“Yeah,” I said, listlessly watching the sun crawl across the hood, leaving behind gray-green spots of dried algae on an otherwise dull red exterior. “Lives in Oklahoma.”
“Well, I got a message he's trying to reach you.”
“Okay, I'll call him when I get home,” I said, miserably turning away.
Steering me by the elbow out of the police impound lot, Caleb said softly, “He's in the county jail and he's asking for you.”
“Who?” I asked, holding onto my aching head.
“Patience's nephew. After you complete your interview with detective Rodney, of course.”
I blanched, cold again in the summer heat. “Are you joking? Her nephew's in jail? What for?” Then I remembered the detective and asked, “Did he kill his aunt?”
“That hasn't been determined. Police found him asleep in his RV outside her home. You can ask the detective as to why he's now behind bars. Come on, we'll get you some water for your headache medicine.” His voice was as non-committal as any deadeye dick's. It was beginning to worry me.
“Tell me you don't think I had any part of this. Come on, Caleb, I wasn't that jealous of her winning the damn blue ribbon, besides it was really bad jam, just ask my dad.”
“Lalla, I know you didn't,” he said, still dragging me along by the elbow. “Now stop fussing. Just answer the detective's questions, then stop by the jail and see Patience's nephew.”
We arrived at the police station, Caleb holding me up by the arm, and me holding a soggy paper cup of water. “When you're ready, go straight back to the elevators, second floor, third door to the right.”
At the entrance, I dug in my heels, resisting all further efforts to push me inside. “Tell me, am I their first or second choice for a suspect?”
“Go on,” he said, as if my being a number on a list for murder was amusing. “I'm going back to your place to watch the I-dent team try to get prints on those cracked, unpainted wood doors on your barn. That should be fun.”
“You'll explain it all to my dad?” I said, holding onto the doorframe as if actually stepping through his office door was an admission of guilt, “that someone stole my car and somehow Patience ended up drowned in it? You'll tell him that, so he won't worry, right?” I giggled nervously and then bit at my thumbnail. It sounded incredibly dumb, even to me. Though my life had been relatively trouble free since my divorce from Ricky, if there was going to be trouble, my dad wouldn't be surprised to find that I was in the thick of it—again.
“I got it covered,” Caleb said. “It's a courtesy call, because of your dad's health.” He pecked me on the cheek, and patted my shoulder before abandoning me to my fate, not in the least bit worried I might be charged with a murder I didn't commit. I could've asked to have a lawyer attend the meeting, but knowing Caleb had my back, what could go wrong?
I spent the next hour with Detective Rodney and his sidekick playing, good cop, bad cop. The upshot of their routine was a big fat zero; I couldn't prove I'd been at home all night and they couldn't prove I wasn't. But neither could I explain how Patience and my Caddy ended up in the lake.
I was thoroughly relieved when the detective finally put down his pen and closed his little notebook.
“You're free to go, Ms. Bains.” I was up and all but sprinting for the stairs. Free and no longer a suspect, what could be sweeter, right?
I was finally released and taking the stairs two at a time, pushed through the double doors. I stood under a hot cerulean sky clinging to the tops of the buildings and sighed.
In my eagerness to slide out from under the steely-eyed suspicions of the local police detective, I might have been a bit hasty, now that I thought about it.
Damn. I think I've just been set up. I was the odd piece in an apparent homicide, someone who wasn't going to immediately work out as suspect, but obviously I had my uses. That's me, useable.
Patience's nephew had better be real cute.
four
Directed to the visitation room, I sat down in front of the green tinted glass separating the free and the brave from those who were not. Still, if the next suspect should prove to be innocent, I would be feeling less than brave while I begged a lawyer to find a loophole in a murder charge.
The door opened and I forgot about feeling sorry for myself as Patience's nephew sat down across from me. Dark curly hair spilled over a high forehead, the brown eyes crinkled at the corners with what might have been amusement. He would be taller than me, and the chest and shoulders I noticed nicely filled out the standard issue orange jumpsuit. Cute. Oh my God, Lalla, give it a rest, will you? Your choice for dating material has gone to an all-time low.
He sat down and picked up the phone. I picked up mine. Twining large, square hands aroun
d the phone, he said, “You Lalla Bains?” The voice came through the electrical conduit in a tinny, hollow sound.
“Uh-huh,” I answered, still numb from my own recent foray with the law.
His eyes wandered over what little he could see beyond the glass. He didn't look unhappy with what he saw. “Damn. She said you was pretty, but she was always matchmaking, if you know what I mean.” He saw my confusion and said, “My aunt Patience? I'm Garth Thorne, her nephew. I'd offer you my hand, but I guess it'll have to wait. This is all embarrassing,” he said, waving a hand at the glass between us. “I wanted to speak to you as soon as possible because I didn't want my aunt's best friend to think I'd been arrested for killing the old girl.”
I had no idea why Patience's nephew would think I was her best friend and that certainly had to be corrected. “Whoa, sorry, but you must have me confused with someone else.” I do my best backpedaling when terrified I might become a murder suspect. “I knew your aunt as one of the regulars at a local café, but we barely knew each other. I mean I gave her a ride to the fair the other day, but that was the first time I'd spoken more than three words to the lady.”
“Lemme start this here again, I'm not a bum nor some criminal.” His smile cocked ruefully. “I was looking forward to meeting you. Maybe I misunderstood your relationship to my aunt, but all the same, her last letter said she wanted us to meet.”
“She did?”
He gave me the benefit of those incredibly perfect teeth. “ But, not like this.”
Now that I thought of it I remembered Patience, sitting primly beside me on the ride home, chattering all the way. My nephew's coming out from Enid, Oklahoma. He's five years younger than you, but you two would make such a handsome couple.
“Honest, I wasn't arrested for the murder of my aunt, if that's what you're thinkin’,” he said, stepping into my reverie. “I came in to ID the poor ol’ girl's remains, but while I was viewing the body they must have run a check on me and come up with some bogus old warrant. Child-support, for which I have been paying, so as you can see, this thing here is totally bogus. But, like I said, I got the bail covered and they're about to release me. So, I was wonderin’, my rig is at my aunt's house, and I could get a cab, but if you don't mind...”
A Dead Red Cadillac Page 3
