A Dead Red Cadillac

by Rebecca Dahlke

  He sighed and reluctantly retreated to lean against the open window on my side. “I got an idea. How about a tour of that crop-dusting business of yours tomorrow?”

  “Call me,” I said, and pinching the gearshift until it yelped for mercy, shifted into first, then second, then third, all the while wishing I was wrong about him.

  No, that wasn't it. If I've learned anything it's that you can change their socks, but you can't change them.

  I was wishing I had someone to go home to, someone who would drift warm kisses down the side of my neck and whisper sweetly into my ear until I gave up on all my sensible objections and let that someone take me to bed and love me until I couldn't think anymore.

  By the time I turned into the driveway, my lighted Timex said ten-thirty p.m. My initial reaction to seeing Caleb's truck in the driveway was a sweet and tender feeling that blew away when I remembered I was still mad at him. The warm fuzzy was probably a leftover from my romantic moments with Garth, though I wasn't about to share that with Caleb.

  Anyway, what was he doing at my house? Lights were on in the living room, so maybe he'd had dinner with dad and they were watching a game. I dragged myself up the porch steps only to be scared out of my wits.

  “Don't you guys ever lock your doors?” said a voice in the dark. “I coulda walked right in and murdered your dad in his recliner.”

  “Caleb! You scared the shit out of me! What do you think you're doing scaring defenseless women, anyway?”

  “Defenseless, my ass. Will you give it a rest? You aren't in New friggin’ York any more, you know. Nobody cares.”

  “Whoa! What bug jumped into your pants?”

  “Well, really, Lalla. I found the door unlocked, your dad in front of the TV sound asleep. Anybody could've walked right in and helped himself to a beer, which is what I did.”

  We both knew to whom he was referring. It could've been Patience's killer on the porch with a gun in his hand instead of a beer. Adrenaline gone, I collapsed into a wicker chair.

  Caleb put the bottle down. “Your message said you wanted to talk, so what's up?” He sounded grumpy, or maybe just as tired as I felt.

  “Why should I be the first to offer information? I know that trick you do. I tell you everything I know, then the subject gets changed, and you go home, and I'm left with my finger in my ear.’”

  “I couldn't take you to Stockton with me. Jesus, Lalla, at least I can draw the line somewhere, as opposed to you. Why on God's name did you go to dinner with Patience's nephew tonight?”

  Boy, howdy, news sure traveled fast. “Well, excuse me, but I've got to eat sometime,” I said. Probably the first thing he heard when he walked through the door at Roxanne's tonight. But, unless Roxanne had changed her tightlipped ways, it was one of the gawkers who, unable to resist, had taken it upon themselves to report my indiscretion.

  “You go out with him just to get back at me for not taking you to see Garth's ex in Stockton? As impetuous as you are, there's no telling how that interview would've gone.”

  “That's not fair.” And it wasn't, since by now his trip to Stockton was not as important to me as my dad's potential involvement. “So, how is Garth's ex?” I asked, sweetly.

  But he had no intention of letting it go just yet. “I came back in time to take you out to dinner. I left a message on your cell. Why didn't you wait for me? Why are you always so…oh, forget it!”

  “What's this all about? It was just a simple meal.”

  “Not that you would have noticed, but he's still a suspect in his aunt's murder.”

  I was getting hot under the collar. “And so am I! So what does it make me? His accomplice?”

  “Jesus, Lalla, you're so impulsive. I'm surprised you didn't marry the guy while I was in Stockton.”

  I collapsed into the wicker chair, too hurt to come up with a proper retort. “That…that was just incredibly mean, Caleb Stone.”

  “I'm sorry. But, really, Lalla, can you just not date the guy till after this is solved?”

  “I'm not dating him!” Still hurt, I decided to do a little stabbing of my own. “And it's not like you share. Why didn't you tell me Marcy left?”

  “I was working up to it. Know what your dad said when I told him? ‘Birds of a feather fly together.’ What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

  “You know I've never been able to make sense of my father's little homilies,” I said, accepting the beer he handed me as apology. “So, why did she leave this time?”

  “She said now that the boys are grown and gone she was through playing second fiddle, and I don't have to tell you who she was talking about. At least this time, she was sober when she left.”

  I chewed on my lip for a minute remembering Caleb's wife drunk and stoked on a frustration she couldn't control, spitting her drink at him at the last back yard party. “Happy Birthday to the Siamese twins!” she said, throwing her drink at Caleb. “Jus’ don't know it yet, do you, you son-a-bitch?”

  “Oh, for crying out loud,” I said, fed up with Marcy. “Did she lay that crap on you before or after she emptied your bank account and left?”

  He ignored the dig, still plumbing the depths of our lost childhood. “She's right you know. Except for the few years you were gone, we've been friends longer than either of us has been married. What do you think is the matter with us?”

  “Well, if it's my opinion you're after, I already had one therapist confirm the theory. I'm not marriage material,” I said, upending the bottle and finishing it. “Don't know about you…,” I said, under-handing my empty in the general direction of the encroaching neighbors. The line of crepe myrtles absorbed the bottle but I could still see house lights through the vegetation. I sat down again. “…but I'm through getting married. So, you miss her?”

  “Marcy? Only when I can't find something she hid.” He leaned forward and worked the bottle around between his hands. “So, I guess the answer's no. Not like when you up and left for New York City. And all I got was an e-mail once a month till you married Jorge, and then even that stopped.”

  “Did you really miss me?”

  “You were my best friend, what do you think?”

  “I gave up New York and came home, didn't I?”

  “Then you married Ricky. Dumb to dumber.”

  “Ah, yes, the old proverbial frying pan into the fire. Like I told you, I'm not getting married any more. I'm cured, so you don't have to worry,” I said, still thinking he was concerned about Garth.

  “Do I look worried? At least I'm mature enough not to go crazy chasing after younger women.”

  I decided to ignore his reference to the age difference between Garth and me. “Hey, don't sell yourself short,” I said, “Darlene Hobbs still thinks you're hot.”

  “Darlene Hobbs? Wasn't she a couple of years behind us in high school?”

  “And still drooling over the uniform, high school football to sheriff's uniform, it's all the same to Darlene.”

  “She's not my type.”

  “You might want to check your calendar, bubba, maybe it's about time for you to let loose and go for some good old middle-aged-craziness.”

  His voice brightened. “You mean now that I'm forty I get to dress like I'm twenty, wear my hair long and chase girls half my age?”

  “Sure, though you'll have to grow one side real long.” I reached over, and letting my fingers comb through his soft buzz, said, “It'll lay over that bald spot you hide under your Stetson. In fact, you do all that, I can guarantee Marcy'll be calling long-distance, begging for a second, or is it third, chance.”

  “In that case, I guess I'll just lay low for awhile longer.”

  I leaned back and looked at the silhouette of his profile. Strong, high forehead, aquiline nose, the wide, full lips relaxed from the thin line of our earlier battle. No beginning of sag below the stubborn chin. His chest was broad and his stomach flat from daily workouts at the gym. All in all, he was a very attractive man. No wonder Darlene lusted after him. “We
ll, you've got your pick of women from here to Stockton.”

  “I don't know, will you promise not to get married again until I've had a chance to look at all of them?”

  “Why Caleb Stone,” I teased. “Are you suggesting I'm to be put at the tail end of the line?”

  He rolled his tongue around the inside of his cheek for a minute, and then said, “You can be first in line, Lalla Bains. Just say the word.”

  I blinked and said, “You're just being gallant, but thanks anyway.”

  We were quiet then, allowing the silence between us to lengthen. From above the oleanders the North Star hung like a lantern and I decided that my time was better spent examining every star in the night sky instead of where this conversation might be going.

  Finally, I broke the silence with a question, “So what did you find out from Garth's ex?”

  “Our interview lasted all of five minutes and her end of it was held up by four letter words. It was a waste. Though I wouldn't mind being a fly on the wall when Garth finally does show up.”

  “You mean he hasn't been to see his daughter yet?”

  He snorted. “His ex said the only way he was going to see his kid again was if he came up with the back child support he owed her, all seventy-five grand.”

  “What did you mean earlier when you said Garth was ‘a mooch and a pathological liar?’”

  “I hope you aren't falling for that ‘good ol’ boy Okie’ routine of his. He's California born and raised, and the only reason he got a second chance at a business is because his aunt Patience loaned him the money.”

  “Okay by me,” I said. “So, he's a local boy and his aunt loaned him some money to start a business. Is that the worst of it?”

  “Did he tell you he ruined his ex's tire shop with his drinking, or that he left her with a pile of debt when he deserted his family for the open road? ”

  “Okay," I said. So it's not quite the version Garth gave me, but I didn't think it would do any good to defend Garth, not with Caleb's attitude. If I didn't know better, I'd think he was jealous.

  “But does it have to mean Garth murdered his aunt? What motive could he have?”

  “Motive? Garth had it in spades. His ex-wife says he's in debt up to his eyebrows and that he came out to California expecting another loan from his Aunt Patience.”

  “So says the ex, but she has got an ax to grind, do you really think she's a viable source?”

  “ It's a matter of record. He hasn't been to see his kid or pay child support since he left town the first time.”

  “Oh. What about Bill Hollander's kids? Vigilante justice?”

  He chuckled sadly. “After I read his file, I kinda felt sorry for Eddy McBride. Those two made sure he didn't get parole. Unfortunately, they both have airtight alibis.”

  Caleb was silent a moment, then said, “This all revolves around you, doesn't it?”

  “Yeah, yeah, I know, there goes Lalla again, being all inconsiderate and selfish.”

  “No, no. I'm agreeing with you. This case wouldn't have caught second page, if you hadn't been part of it. A home burglary gone bad? Unfortunate, but it happens twice a week in the valley.”

  It was as if all the odd bits had finally coalesced into one concrete thought. I sat up. “But, with a dead woman found in a classic car owned by a former New York model turned crop-duster, this case gets the front page for three days running. It's been picked up by NBC, ABC and Katy Couric. Everyone's paying attention. Not something a killer would actually want, is it?”

  “Maybe not, but…,”

  “That could be why Eddy McBride broke out and walked off the honor farm a few months shy of his release! He found out something that scared him enough to make a break for it.”

  “Well, that part may be a stretch.”

  “ Maybe he knew she was in danger—-or maybe he knew who killed her.”

  “Don't get ahead of yourself, now. That's not to say he's not guilty. There's the Hollander murder and the evidence is irrefutable.”

  I told him Roxanne's opinion that Eddy McBride was too nice of a guy to have killed Bill Hollander or his wife, but since Caleb wasn't warming to the idea that Eddy might be innocent, I left out Roxanne's story that Eddy was a cross-dresser.

  “ When we find Eddy McBride we'll confirm it, but if you're right, I'm mad as hell that he thought he had to involve you in this.”

  “But…,”

  “No buts, sweetheart.” Caleb reached over and stroked the back of his hand lightly across my cheek. I warmed to his touch and felt all the anxiety sigh out of me.

  “Oh, by the way, bet you forgot… Happy Birthday to us.”

  I popped up out of my chair. “Oh, my God, Caleb! I'm so sorry, it was today, wasn't it?” I'd done it again. I'd not only forgotten our birthday, but our standing date for dinner, with spouses, when we had them. Not only had I had dinner without him, I'd had dinner with Caleb's number one murder suspect.

  His lips quirked in a half smile, “It's okay.”

  I reached out to hug him. “I'm still a dope.”

  He tensed for a minute, then folded his arms around me and whispered, “You're irresponsible, impetuous and careless.” The words were spoken with all the gentleness of a caress. I would have pulled away but he tightened his arms around me and looked into my eyes. “And I wouldn't have you any other way.” Then he thumbed a path across my bottom lip, kissed me, picked up his hat and clomped tiredly down the porch steps to his cruiser.

  Watching the red dots of his taillights flash once as he signaled his turn onto the main road and left, I touched my mouth where he'd drawn a line and crossed it. Boy, howdy! Did he say he still liked me? Most of the time, I didn't even like me. What on earth was going on? Was he simply lonely now that Marcy was gone again?

  Do you miss her? Not unless I'm looking for something, I don't.

  He liked me. He liked me.

  I closed the front door behind me and walked through the foyer. Passing the living room, I could see the flickering blue of the TV, Spike contentedly curled up on my dad's lap in the Barca lounger. Once again, I quietly closed the door.

  Taped to the curved oak banister were a card and a cloud of helium-filled balloons. I took the card off its ribbon and let the cloud rise on its own up the stairwell. I reached the landing just as the brightly colored bouquet was drifting into reach. I recaptured it by its slender red ribbon and pulled my balloons into my bedroom where I sat on the bed and read Caleb's card. When I read the message I thought, Caleb is right, Lalla Bains. You're selfish, self-absorbed and vain. I would have to find a way to make it up to him. Did Caleb really forgive me? Or did “I wouldn't have you any other way” mean he agreed with me—that I was a dope. The card had a picture of a bi-plane soaring in the clouds. He'd drawn a little picture of me in the seat of the plane, smiling and waving. The inscription said, “May you fly right through this birthday and many more.” And then, Love you, Caleb. Was that like as in I love you? A sweet wave of thankfulness washed over me. Having Caleb in my life was sweet. He was kind and thoughtful in ways I'd forgotten a man should be.

  Yup, I'd flown right through forty and maybe a lot more.

  thirteen

  Unlike my dad, who claims he can't sleep in a regular bed anymore, I feel most comfortable in my own bed. Usually, two punches of the pillow releases a soporific drug that knocks me out for the rest of the night. Tonight's play bill was running across the ceiling in neon lights, all without sound, that is until I heard a noise. Not the expansion of the house doing its night-time contractions, nor the arthritic oak planks settling against each other in the cooling air. And our house wasn't old enough to be haunted. Then why was I wide-awake and listening for a sound I couldn't identify and waiting to see if I could hear it again.

  Nothing? It must have been something. Somebody might as well have thrown cold water on my face. I sat up and listened again as the numerical disk flipped over on my clock radio.

  2:30 a.m.

  It may be
old fashioned, but without my contact lenses, the red numbers on digital clocks blend into fuzzy little balls. The big numbers flopped over like grammar school flash cards asking for the capital of Peru. Another number clanked over.

  2:31 a.m.

  I slipped my bare feet to the floor, thinking I'd tip-toe across the room and stand by the open door to listen. Not so easy with the cast still on my leg. Tip-toe was more like thump, slide, thump.

  I kept my back to the wall and moved out onto the landing, trying to see or hear again that sound again.

  Nothing.

  When I limped up to the railing the oak floor complained. Now I was making all the noise.

  There it was again. Someone was downstairs, stalking shadows in the foyer. My dad?

  I felt my breath catch and put a hand protectively up to my neck, my pulse hammering an uneven rhythm.

  “Noah—-that you?” I called, still hoping it was my dad, heading for the bathroom across from the TV room. Then why didn't he answer me? Backing up to the small table under at the landing, I felt the thick oak and touched the cool bronze of a metal bookend. Even in the dark, I knew it by heart—a matching set of horse heads, and a Christmas gift from my brother to his thirteen year old horse-crazy sister.

  I hefted one bookend, stepped up to the stairwell again, and squinting into the black croaked, “Who's there!”

  The footsteps below lightly backed into the shadows. “Who's there!” I squeaked again.

  A flash of light—-a pop, and the wall behind me exploded stucco and wood. Another pop, and the banister splintered, bits of it spitting at my ankles. Shock rattled through my veins.

  Some SOB was shooting at me!

  Furious that I was being shot at, I wound up and pitched the bookend in the direction of the last flash.

  I heard the bookend connect with a thunk—- Bulls-eye! A groan and a heavy thud as the shooter hit the floor. But before I could hobble all the way down the stairs, the lights were on and my dad was yelling and waving his shot gun around. Spike was barking and there was enough racket to raise the dead. I pushed down the barrel of his gun, reached over and pulled his glasses up on his nose, then swatted at Spike who was trying to bite me again. “Not me, you idiot! Over there!” I pointed at the crumpled body by the wall.