A Dead Red Cadillac

by Rebecca Dahlke

  The windows of Roxanne's Truck Stop and Café vibrated to the air-conditioner trying to keep pace with a twenty-four-hour parade of truckers and farmers and crop-dusters, and, since August is our month for sidewalk cooking, today had been hot enough to melt American cheese slices on the pavement.

  I sat on a well-padded stool and waited until Roxanne drifted my way.

  “Did Caleb come in today?” I asked, hoping I'd catch him on his way back from interviewing Garth's ex-wife.

  “He asked the same thing about you. I wish you two would text each other like the kids do and leave me out of it.”

  “Sorry.” I would have to remember to add Roxanne to the growing list of people mad at me. “Can we talk?”

  “I got time,” she said, softening somewhat at the plead in my voice. “Take a booth at the back and I'll be right there.” She put the coffee back on the burner, saying something to Leon as she passed the kitchen, and wiping her hands on her apron, settled her big bottom comfortably on the bench seat opposite me. She gave me that very expectant look, the one demanding immediate response.

  I opened my mouth, closed it, and tried again. “Today, I found out two things. One: Patience McBride isn't a widow, which may explain who was holding me at gunpoint yesterday. He's been in prison for killing her boss and I also learned that my dad's ol’ fly fishing buddy, Judge Griffin was Mr. McBride's attorney, who suggested I leave it all alone, but after the bombshell the judge dropped in my lap I doubt that's going to be an option.”

  Roxanne put her hands on the table and said, “Slow down.”

  I put my face in my hands. “It turns out my Caddy may be the connection to the whole thing! Patience's boss used to own it, and then Ricky had it and then I had to go and take it away from him, and then Eddy McBride escaped from prison to murder his wife, dumping that problem in my lap. And guess who paid the lawyer's retainer?”

  When my chin started to quiver, Roxanne reached across the table to cover my hand. “Uh-huh, it's okay, sweetpea.”

  I couldn't get the words out without blubbering. “Bill Hollander may have sold more than chemicals to crop-dusting companies and I don't know how I'm going to keep all of this from the police without one of us Bains’ going to jail.”

  “One of you? You mean, your dad? Why?”

  I looked up, tears in my eyes. “My Dad paid his fly-fishing buddy to defend Eddy McBride. So how do you think that's going to look when that smarmy detective gets wind of this connection?”

  “Whoa. That's a leap you don't want to take yet. So your dad paid for Eddy McBride's defense, but you don't know really know why yet. What'd the judge say?”

  “He wouldn't. But he did imply my dad was sweet on Patience. As soon as I can put myself together, I'm going to go home and ask him. Oh, boy, I'm almost afraid to ask.”

  She patted my hand. “Some of what you just told me was in today's paper. Not the part about the judge being Eddy's attorney, and there's nothing linking your car to Patience's boss, at least not yet.”

  I thought of Jan Bidwell again. “It'll only be a matter of time until the police connect the dots and it leads back to my dad. Drug smuggling Ag pilots, a dead chemical company owner, Eddy McBride; my dad was smack dab in the middle of it. ”

  Smoothing the Modesto Bee out on the table between us, she tapped a finger on the front section. Squared nice and neat in the middle of the front page were two photos. One was a fuzzy publicity photo of me from my heyday in New York. Next to it was a clearer picture of my Caddy up to its windows in the shallow end of Turlock Lake. “Newspaper has been busy throwing out all kinds of silly stuff,” she said, turning to the back page. “Might as well include alien abduction.” She snorted and added, “Of course Boyd Lincoln says you look like a good suspect since it is well known you're a sore loser.”

  “That's pathetic. When this is over I'm going to make Marlon Whitaker and Boyd Lincoln eat those words!”

  “It was a joke, Lalla. An itty-bitty joke. You can't take all this to heart or you're going to keel over, girl.”

  “Pardon me if my sense of humor has left the building, but right now all I can think of is how to keep me and my dad out of jail,” I said, scrubbing at my sore neck. “I guess I thought you might have some ideas.”

  Turning her head to make sure we weren't being overheard, she said, “I should tell you something.” Roxanne hated gossip. You couldn't pry a secret out of Roxanne with a tire iron, since she still held to all that doctor/patient privilege she only practiced in the café, but I could see something was making her reconsider. She cleared her throat, looked up at the ceiling, at the cracks in the upholstery, at her husband happily scrubbing pots in the kitchen, anywhere but at me. I followed her wandering eyes, and worried she was winding up to telling me something else damaging about my dad.

  She said, “I met Eddy and Patience a long time ago, oh, must've been a year before his troubles. They were looking to buy a home around here, maybe with a little land. He was a sweet little guy, very attentive to his wife. They sat on the same side of the booth and he had his arm around her.” She sighed. “I always thought that sort of thing cute, Leon and I never could sit in the same booth and actually eat, we're too big.

  “They finally bought something in Stockton. But when the trial was over, Patience moved back here. She begged me not to tell anyone, said she was afraid no one would hire her if they knew about Eddy being convicted of killing her boss, and then there was his…”

  “His…what?” I asked, twitching my shoulders.

  “I'm getting to it, don't be so impatient,” she said. Roxanne went back to examining corners for cobwebs. I started to prod her with my fork, but she got the hint before the tines touched her skin.

  “Eddy McBride came in here, I can't seem to recollect if it was before or after Bill Hollander was found dead. Certainly it was before he was charged with murder.”

  By this time I picked up a paper napkin and was doing a twisty thing with it, wishing I could stick her with the fork, a spoon, a knife, anything to hurry up this story. Not likely. Not without the chance of her smacking me with that big square hand. I've seen her use it very effectively on kid's bottoms, her husband's big shoulder, and waitresses backsides. So, I waited, and twisted, trying not to let her think anything she said would upset me.

  She looked down at my hands and began again. “It must have been around ten at night. We were well into a heavy evening of hungry truckers so I wasn't paying much attention to who was coming or going. Eddy walked in and took a seat, over there, on a stool right by the register.” I followed her finger back to the place and imagined the small, well-groomed man from the newspaper clipping, sitting at the counter, waiting for his coffee.

  “I didn't recognize him at first and it was not because he didn't have Patience with him.”

  I twisted the napkin some more, making it into a little white rope.

  “I wanted to tell you about this sooner, but what with your brother and all, I thought better of it. But, then with everything happening…”

  “Roxanne, spit it out, will you?”

  “Eddy McBride was dressed in women's clothing.”

  I flinched, as she probably knew I would.

  She was in a hurry now, as if speed would lessen the blow. “He had on a really nice outfit. Something I would have liked to wear, if I had the figure for it. You'd be too young to have worn those cute little Jackie Kennedy suits, you know the kind?”

  “Chanel,” I said. “I'm not that young and vintage Chanel is considered very cool.”

  “If you say so. Well, there I was and I say to myself, ‘Sumpin's up here. The girl's white and dressed like a sister.’ If you went to church with me on Sundays you'd know what I'm saying. Sisters like their shoes, purse, gloves, and hat, even their nail polish to match. But I almost spilled the pot of coffee right on his lap when this dainty lil’ ol’ thing speaks and I realized who it was. Are you okay with this, Sweetpea?”

  “I'm fine.” I was as uncom
fortable with this subject as popcorn kernels between my teeth, but except for the napkin strangling one of my fingers, I thought I almost didn't show it. “What did he say to you?”

  “Not much. Just, ‘Thanks for the coffee’, and ‘No thanks, I won't need a refill.’ Then he opened up his purse on the counter to rummage through it for his wallet, and I have to say, I peeked to see what a guy would put into a woman's purse. It had all of the usual stuff we all put in ours—a trim wallet, a lacy blue hanky, a tube of Revlon lipstick, and a smart little jeweled compact, to check his powdered nose, I suppose. He paid for his coffee, and tottered out on those damn high heels. I could tell the shoes were made special. I was scared to death for him. If the truckers got wind that this cute little lady with the blond streaked pageboy was a man they'd have torn him to pieces. Where do you think he got all that stuff?”

  I knew, but I didn't feel like going into it. “Did you tell Patience?”

  “Oh, Patience knew all about it. We had a nice long talk, said he did it because he wanted to see if they could trust me with their secret. After the shock wore off, I was touched by the gesture. Then Eddy went to prison and Patience became a regular and I saw no reason to say anything to anyone. Wasn't nobody's business no how. At least, not ‘til now.”

  “Did you ever see her with anybody in the café?” I asked, hoping she might have taken on a lover or at least a gentleman friend of some kind. Someone involved with her besides my dad.

  “All alone, poor thing, and always here. Imagine that,” she said, lifting her broad hand to encompass the café and its contents. “We're all she had. She sat right over there on that stool, not that anyone took notice. By the way, it was really sweet of you to take her on, even if it did turn out bad. Nobody else ever offered.”

  “Well, as Noah would say, ‘No good deed goes unpunished.’”

  Roxanne looked down at my hands, which had now turned the paper napkin into a tidy little noose worked around my index finger. My finger was numb and losing circulation. I smoothed the noose back into most of its original shape and I still felt miserable. I could see that Roxanne was trying to help, but it would also give the police just one more reason to seriously look at my father. “So, Eddy was gay?”

  “No, he isn't gay,” she said. “Transvestite, not transsexual, Sweatpea. They like to dress up in women's clothes but they're still heterosexual. Many are happily married family men. Patience understood that when she married him, and they obviously cared very deeply for each other. I don't know what happened with her boss, but I don't believe he would kill Patience, he couldn't do it.”

  That might explain why a little old lady in a rental car was following me from the library. “Twenty years in prison can change all that. And it certainly wasn't any gentle soul who shoved a gun into my back. Well, that's some news, alright.” It also explained why Patience's fashion sense had bombed since the photo of her on the courtroom steps. Eddy probably picked her Chanel suit and accessorized it for his court date.

  “It's that nephew of hers, I'm worried about. That man is trouble on two feet. You shouldn't be seen with him anymore. It doesn't look right, if you know what I mean.”

  She should know better than to bother with my sagging reputation. “You don't think we make a nice couple? Patience thought we would. We could have matching orange jumpsuits and visit each other through the bars.”

  “What is it with you and guys like that?”

  I pulled back from the truth of her words and then said, “There's no fear of betrayal in taking on another bad boy because I already know exactly what to expect. Never let it be said that I don't understand the mind of a lyin’, cheatin’ man whore. Whether I like it or not, I have to continue to be seen with Garth. Detective Rodney says so.”

  “You still mad at Caleb?”

  “What do you think? I'm faking a relationship with a murder suspect, and hoping the police will pin it on him instead of their next suspect, that is if the judge is telling the truth about why my dad paid for Eddy's attorney.”

  “Now, that's a story I'd sure like to hear.”

  “Me too, and I'm going to find out as soon as I get home.”

  “So when did Garth tell you he got into town?”

  “He told me he arrived the morning they found Patience, that was Sunday.”

  “Boyd Lincoln thinks he's seen him before that. Of course, Boyd's still got a problem mixing up photos and people he actually knows. I'm thinking it part of the Parkinson's he was diagnosed with last year. Or the Parkinson's masking a case of Prosopagnosia. ”

  “His prosa…what?”

  “Facial recognition. Fumbles with recalling people he should know after coming here for the last twenty years. Ever notice that he insists on the same seat at the counter? That way friends come to him, say hi, and he never has to connect a face to a name.” Roxanne thoughtfully tucked her lips under and patted my hand. “Well, you got a lot to think on. Go home, talk to your dad, or better yet, wait till morning. You're all done in.”

  She was right, as usual. I was ashamed that I'd been a wise-ass to her, and taking her advice I went home.

  I sank the gas pedal to the floor and sped down the highway, my heartbeat starting to catch up with the speed of the exit signs as I passed them. Noah Bains, Judge Griffin, Bill Hollander, Eddy and Patience McBride. Were they all connected in some secret that had turned sinister? I had to find out what the link was between them all before whoever killed Patience turned their attention to the remaining participants: my father and me.

  The house was dark and quiet. When I looked in the TV room and saw both my dad and Spike sound asleep, I quietly closed the door. Relieved that I wouldn't have to confront Noah until tomorrow, I went upstairs and put on my birthday gift from Roxanne of two years ago.

  The gown had about as much “come hither” as the sweat suit I wore to bed in the winter. I thought it ironic; Roxanne, who couldn't be bothered with the likes of silk teddies and sexy garter belts, would expect me to actually buy something lacy and sheer, like I might want to make another run at a man and get married again.

  No way. Well, at least, not until meeting Garth Thorne and I got my engine sparked . If I listened to Roxanne or Caleb I would hold off on that dinner date, but I had a nagging feeling that if I put my head in the sand now this mystery was only going to get messier.

  Sleep wouldn't have me, so I lay there and listened to the sounds of a summer night in the country. A nightingale sang his heart out, calling for a mate with a heart full of hope that one would hear his plea for love and companionship. I wasn't looking for anything remotely like love. Love had dumped me twice and I'd had enough. Meeting someone who I didn't go to grade school with was flattering. He was just so darned attractive. Who knows, I might be willing to ignore those minor little details that tend to trample a meaningful relationship, like that he was in jail when I met him.

  I slapped the sheets down to my ankles and watched the steady ceiling fan as it slowly marched around in circles. The gentle thucka, thucka matched the pace of my heartbeat, and at last I fell asleep.

  eleven

  At 3 a.m. my alarm clock kicked on. I was fuzzy brained and disoriented from strange dreams that left my jaws clenched. But since going back to sleep wasn't an option, I rolled over to the edge of the bed and let my casted foot drop to the floor. The rest of me was a natural progression in robotic motion; light on, bathroom, brush my teeth, pull a Tee-shirt over my head, yank my hair back into a pony-tail and slip into a pair of softly faded jeans; adding a light jacket against a cool dawn. I picked my way down the stairs avoiding the squeaky risers. Noah, having set the coffee on, left a note with a wish list for groceries and the underlined words, We have to talk.

  He took the words right out of my mouth. I slipped out the kitchen door, careful not to let the screen slap behind me and wake him. Way too early for that talk.

  The pilots and ground crew shuffled in at four, sipping at steaming paper cups and pretending my picture hadn'
t been in the papers these last two days. All except Brad, who sipped from a hefty quart sized clear bottle as he waited for me to hand him his work slips. I didn't want to think about what was in the bottle, not after my dad suggested that Brad should be fired, besides, the safety of my crew and airplanes was my responsibility. “Water?”

  “Yeah, want some?” he said, his eyes challenging me.

  “No thanks. We got coffee on if you want.” I pointed my pen at the brew trickling into the carafe. “I hear it's going to be a hot one, so you can top off that water bottle if you like.” A five gallon water bottle sat atop a cooler by the shower doors and I always kept cans of soda in an ice chest for the guys to take with their lunches.

  He smirked at the size of the list I gave him, still sure that he was cock of the walk, picked up his work orders and walked out the door. I divvied out the rest of the crew paperwork and they all left, except for Mad Dog still reading the small pile of work orders in his hand.

  Outside, suited up and masked against the invading poison, the ground crew joshed each other and poured bags of sulfur dust into hoppers. When they were finished they removed the wood chaulks from under the front wheels and signaled to the pilots with a pat on the wing.

  I stood at the office window watching the big Ag-CATs hunkered in a line until their cylinders revved and shuddered in the morning air. All conversation was dropped while the ground crew chief signaled a go ahead and another plane roared away to soar over the tree tops.

  I turned back to Mad Dog who was hovering in some kind of anxious anticipation.

  I looked up. “Something on your mind, Mad Dog?”

  He cleared his throat. “I could be wrong, but I think Brad might be popping pills, or at least doing some wacky-tabacci.”