A Dead Red Cadillac

by Rebecca Dahlke

  A single dress heel lay on the floor and a woman in a pink linen suit slumped against the wall, a hand covering a curling blond head. I rushed over and felt for a pulse. Her wrist was cold and I couldn't feel anything. “My God, Noah! I've killed her!”

  My dad sank down on his knees, pulling the arm away to expose her face. A flutter of eyelids and the eyes opened. She groaned and pushing up onto an elbow, tipped the blond curls up over her forehead exposing a light grey crew cut. A wig!

  My dad studied the face below the blond wig. “Well, I'll be damned. It's Eddy McBride.” He poked at him with his shotgun, “Eddy! What in Sam Hill do you mean breaking into my house in the middle of the night and shooting off a loaded gun at my daughter!”

  The little man sat up, rubbing his head. “You don't have to shout, Noah, can't you see I'm injured? Besides,” he said, pointing a pink tipped nail at me, “She tried to kill me.”

  Even if his nylons did have a tear in them, I was no longer feeling magnanimous towards Eddy McBride. “What are you talking about, you little rat? You shot at me, first.”

  Looking up to where he had missed me by inches, he said, “Sorry, I was nervous and I think it sorta went off by itself.” He looked from me and back to my dad. “I didn't know she was your daughter.”

  Noah snorted at the implication. “Not likely anything else, Eddy. I'm a widower with a bad ticker.”

  I poked at Eddy with my foot. “Like it would be okay to shoot me if I weren't his daughter?”

  “No, of course not,” Eddy replied, his voice a weak tenor. “I didn't mean to shoot at you at all. I only wanted to scare you off. I shouldn't have brought the gun anyway. I've bungled this all so badly. Please, may I stand up?”

  “I think you'd better stay where you are,” I said, not trusting this polite version. I found that my sympathies for Eddy McBride were at an all-time low. I looked around for the pistol he'd dropped and noticed the broken sidelight. So that was the sound I heard, the sound that had caught my attention in the first place—breaking glass. I gingerly picked up the small caliber pistol lying under the entry table, and pointed it at our intruder. “Before I call the police, I think you need to explain a couple of things.”

  He looked up at me, pulled his knees up to his chest and held his sore head. “Could I have some ice first? Please?”

  “Noah, you get it, I'll hold the gun on him.” Noah started to object, then shuffled towards the kitchen and ice. “If you didn't come here to murder us, then why bring a gun in the first place?”

  “I saw you get out of Garth's bus and I thought…I thought maybe you and he were in on it. Though now that I think of it, you're not the one I saw, you're too tall,” he said, looking up at me.

  It always came back to that. Not the long nose with the bump high on the bridge, nor the shoulder length blond hair, or the fact that I had football wide shoulders, but my height. “Wait a minute, what girlfriend?”

  “A redhead. Wearing all the wrong colors for that bird's nest of hair. The little alley cat was going in and out of Garth's bus the day after they murdered my Patience. I followed her out here. Figured she was here to shake down your old man. ”

  My dad came in with a wad of ice in a dish towel. “Me ,with a redhead? That'll be the day. Why didn't you ask me instead of shooting at my daughter?”

  Eddy said nothing as Noah handed him the ice. I was fast losing what was left of my earlier kind feelings for him.

  “Forget about the redhead for a minute. What were you looking for when you trashed your wife's house?”

  “I didn't… never mind. I'm not saying anymore, not now, anyway.”

  “No? You certainly had something on your mind when you shoved a gun at my back.”

  “That was before,” he said, looking up at Noah.

  “Okay, then explain about the redhead.”

  “She had a key to his rig, so they must've come together. I was too late to save her,” he said, rubbing at the knob on his head. “The bastard murdered her.”

  “You mean, Garth?”

  He cradled his sore head between his hands and sobbed. “The self-centered little shit never gave a moment's thought to anybody and now she's gone.”

  That threw me off. If he actually did feel something for his wife, then maybe my earlier theory about him was right. But, this business with the gun was not going in his favor.

  I reached down and shook him. “Eddy, tell me! What is it you're trying to say? Who killed her? Was it Garth?”

  My questions were met with painful groans and incoherent mumbles.

  My dad squatted down to pat the little man's shoulder, then looked up at me and said, “He's got quite a bump on the head, Lalla. That bookend must've concussed him pretty bad.”

  “You watch him. I'm going to call Caleb.”

  When Caleb didn't pick up his cell, I called Dispatch. I told the desk deputy that we'd had a break-in and he offered to send a patrolman, but I told him I wanted Caleb Stone to come. I assured the deputy not to worry; the burglar was not going anywhere. “Yes, Officer, my dad has his shotgun trained on him as we speak.”

  At least that's what I thought, until I went back to see my dad standing there, the shotgun under his arm, the front door was open and Eddy McBride gone.

  I sighed. “Don't tell me, you felt sorry for him again.”

  He nodded, fingering the stock of his shotgun. “We let him go and we kill two birds with one stone.”

  “No, no, no! It's ‘A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush,’ remember?”

  “Then how would we be able to prove Garth killed Patience?”

  “And where's the we in this?”

  “Eddy and I struck a deal. If he can find where Garth stashed the money, it'll prove Garth murdered Patience. Eddy will turn over Garth and the loot and he'll be clear to go to Mexico.”

  “Clear to go to Mexico? Good God, Noah. He isn't doing this so his name will be cleared, he wants that loot you so casually think is up for grabs.” I walked around in circles, scratching at my scalp. “How on earth do you expect me to explain this to Caleb now?”

  “I know he's a thief. He's just not a murderer. It's not his fault he's got identity problems. Besides, he needs a break.”

  “I think he's had his share of breaks,” I commented, nodding at the shattered glass of our sidelight. “And you told me not to get involved.” Then I followed my dad out to sit on the porch and wait for Caleb.

  “Why did you give a retainer to Judge Griffin to defend Eddy?” I asked.

  “You were just a child, Lalla. It wasn't anything I'd be talking about to kid,” he said.

  I was stung. “Dad, I was twenty, living in New York and married to that baseball player, remember?” Then I was sorry I brought it up. My brother Leslie died that year. So, I should forgive him if he lost count. Dad never could remember how old I was, much less my birthday.

  He blinked. “Yes. I forgot. Eddy McBride. I hadn't given him or his wife a second thought in years. Not until you lost the jam-making contest to her.”

  “I don't get it. Why pay for Eddy's defense?”

  “You appear to be on familiar terms with the man.” He looked down his long nose at me.

  “The up-close and pointy end of Eddy's gun makes up for the lack of a formal introduction. Now talk.”

  He tilted back his head and regarded the stars. “‘Resistance to tyrants is obedience to God.’”

  “Huh?” Sometimes my Dad's little quips went right over my head. “Is that like, ‘What doesn't kill you, should?’”

  “You've got the quote wrong, it's: ‘Whatever does not kill me makes me stronger’—-Friedrich Nietzsche. I paid for his retainer because I believed Eddy McBride was being framed, and that's all there is to it.”

  “Framed? Did it ever occur to you someone intends to make you pay for your generosity? Look at the facts: He tried to frame the daughter of the one man who paid for his attorney. While I'm at it, why didn't you tell me, or at least try to stop me when
I took that Caddy away from Ricky?”

  The dour look he gave me spoke volumes.

  “Oh, all right, so it wouldn't have done any good. But, now it's so convoluted and messy.”

  He held up a finger. “Bill Hollander and his car was old news by the time you came home. I didn't even realize it was on Ricky's car lot until after you brought it home. Besides, you're off the hook. Caleb said so.”

  Exasperated, I dug my nails into my palms and took a deep breath. “I may be off the hook, but, knowing Detective Rodney, you'll be up for questioning next.”

  “My donation to Eddy's defense fund was done on terms of anonymity. Eddy knew, of course, and so did his wife. I paid Sidney Griffin a nominal fee to keep my secret, as any lawyer to client would.”

  “Client lawyer privilege isn't going to help when they serve Judge Griffin with a warrant.” Had I stumbled on an old gang of drug runners, my father included?

  “Dad, can't you see what it looks like? You, Bill Hollander, and Judge Griffin had your own gang back then. I want to know, were you guys doing more than baiting hooks and gutting fish?”

  “We were fishing buddies, that's all.”

  “And using your crop dusting company as cover for a little importing of drugs from Mexico?”

  “Don't be ridiculous.”

  “Okay, then. Was it because you were in love with Patience that you paid for her husband's defense?”

  He angrily narrowed his eyes at me, then threw back his head and laughed. It was an odd sound, the laughter, probably because I seldom heard it anymore. “Oh Lord, and you thought…. that's a good one.” He held onto his sides while the laughter rolled around his insides. When I thought he was done, another rusty chuckle erupted. Finally wiping at his cheeks, he said, “Lalla, I wasn't in love with her, I swear. If you recollect, that was a tough year. I helped Eddy McBride because he was Leslie's friend.”

  “Leslie? My brother, Leslie? How would you know who Leslie's friends were?” I was challenging him now as my own feelings of neglect resurfaced.

  “I met Eddy McBride at Leslie's house.”

  “You never told me,” I whispered.

  “Just the once. It was the spring before he died. I called his apartment and asked if I could come. I was trying to get past the disappointment of his lifestyle and just be his dad, like you said I should.”

  “I remember, go on.” I had my own painful memories. I had barely made it home in time for Leslie's funeral. And only because I promised Jorge I wouldn't stay longer than two days. At the funeral, seeing my dad in tatters, I decided it was time to slip Jorge's velvet chains and spend more time visiting my dad.

  “It was awkward. Your mother understood him in a way I never did. And I was so angry. The only son I would ever have was.…” Unfinished, and unable to say the words that made his son different, he pursed his dry lips together.

  I bit at a hangnail and watched my dad work at the crease in his old khakis as we climbed back into uncomfortable memories.

  He tilted his head back and watching the stars, said, “He had a small apartment up on a hill past the university, on Clement Street. It was clean and tidy, just like he always kept his room at home.” Unlike me, I thought. I still kept a pile of discarded clothes in one corner, while in the other corner lay the clean clothes to be folded, hung up, or worn. Juanita had long since given up on my housekeeping skills.

  “The art and architecture books I bought him were on a coffee table. He probably put them there just to please me. Neither architecture nor flying was ever going to be his life's work, any more than flying Ag-CATS should have been yours.”

  “Dad, I—”

  He held up a hand. “Never mind. We'll get to that subject some other time. He told me about his work at Berkeley Repertory Theatre.”

  I asked, “Did he show you the pictures of the scenery he did for A Midsummer Night’s Dream?”

  “No, we didn't get to that.” Noah blinked twice, and then plunged unsteadily into the rest of it. “He said you two saw each other occasionally. At least you went to the plays. It didn't make up for my lack of interest or enthusiasm, but I know it helped that you did.”

  In a gesture meant to remind us of our connection, I stretched across the distance between us and touched the back of one arthritic and scarred hand. He smiled, looking a little less cranky.

  “We were drinking our coffee when the doorbell rang. Leslie was annoyed at the interruption, but said he'd send whoever it was away. The man was dressed nicely enough; pressed slacks, polished shoes, the collar was up, not to my taste, but I believe it was the style at the time. Leslie introduced him as Eddy McBride, a friend, nothing else. It was the smile I remembered, same as the newspaper photo, turned up at the corner of his mouth, like the other side didn't work at all. There was an awkward moment, and then Leslie told Eddy he'd get him the costumes and left the room.

  “I was surprised when Eddy sat down and spoke so enthusiastically about Leslie's work, sharing with me as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Yet, he knew, I know he did it because I'd never been to any of Leslie's plays.”

  “So, you gave him defense money simply because of Leslie?”

  “That's right.”

  It was incredible to think my tightwad father had done such a generous thing. Only problem was, that kindness had now come back to bite him.

  “What did I care if he was guilty or innocent, it had nothing to do with me,” he sighed and said, “‘Violence is good for those who have nothing to lose’, Sartre.”

  “But didn't it occur to you that the police might see you as his accomplice?”

  My father snorted his contempt. “I don't know who killed Bill Hollander twenty years ago, and I don't know who killed Eddy McBride's wife and I don't care. What I do care about is you. This is a dangerous game you're meddling with. You don't begin to know what you're doing.”

  “And you do?” I asked, my fears rising again. “I know you thought you were doing the right thing, helping Eddy escape, but I've got a bad feeling about this.”

  He leaned back in the wicker chair, admiring the expanse of stars glimmering across the sky. “I'm not sorry I let Eddy McBride go. Let him make it right, not you, Lalla. You stay out of it. We're going to work a way to prove Garth did this, you'll see.”

  Then I thought of something else. Cigars. What was it? Oh, yeah, Caleb had a stub of one in a baggy. It was found next to Patience's step. If I could put a voice to the elusive thought floating around in my brain, maybe I could make some sense of it. “Noah, do you ever smoke cigars?”

  “I have. On occasion,” he said. “There have been a few times when a cigar has been appropriate. You know, like weddings, the birth of a grandchild...”

  “Enough. Can we keep this on Eddy? ” I said, putting up a hand to stop the direction this was going. “Will you please just consider something for me?”

  “What?”

  “You and I might as well have a big bulls-eye painted on our backs since we are now the gifted recipients of a once very tight little secret—a secret for which one person has already been murdered.”

  “Here comes Caleb,” he said, patting my hand in the dark. “We'll talk about this tomorrow.”

  “What are you going to tell him?”

  “I'll think of something. ‘Truth is rarely pure, and seldom simple,’” he said, winking at me. ‘Oscar Wilde.’”

  I watched the lights of Caleb's cruiser bounce over the potholes in our road. Poor Caleb. He'd been here three times today. I wasn't looking forward to telling him his sore backside was for nothing.

  fourteen

  At the breakfast table my dad sat quietly drowning Juanita's pancakes in syrup, Spike pleading for tidbits at his feet. I'd crossed my heart, promising not to reveal to Caleb that not only did we know the intruder, but after catching him shooting at his daughter, Noah let him escape.

  It made me ill to watch the recent and fragile trust between Caleb and I go down the tubes with the lies
we told him last night. There we were, two artful dodgers, squirming at questions we didn't want to answer, the evidence wasn't in our favor, and our story was too easily dismissed. If I wasn't disappointing my father I was disappointing Caleb. Talk about a rock and a hard place.

  And, just a few hours earlier he was telling me how much he liked me. Well, I could forget about any future after that fiasco.

  Our housekeeper offered me a plate. Maybe food would help. I demurred at the size of the stack Juanita placed in front of me, but refusing to clean my plate would have offended her, so I shoveled away. They weren't the elephant and teddy bear shapes of my mother's, but they were fluffy and substantial. Before I knew it, the plate was clean and I was left with nothing to do but stare at my dad as he slowly cut each pancake into small squares, forked up two bites, dipped them into the syrup, and ate. At this rate, I could have made it to Paris and back, bought clothes I would never wear living here in bum-luck California. I sighed. With chin in palm, I watched the easterly sunshine fill the big kitchen with a rosy glow. Our kitchen was big enough to accommodate a schoolhouse full of laughing, squabbling children, but the modern white refrigerator was bare of childish artwork. For our own reasons, neither my brother nor I had produced any of the expected grandchildren. I peeked over my coffee cup at the last of the Bains men. The Nordic heritage of blond flyaway hair sat on father's head like gray, watered silk. The long bony face and wide set eyes easily identified us as relations, though my father carried his long nose in front of his face in a slightly predatory fashion. The hooded folds of skin above his faded blue eyes only added to his hawkish look. I knew he was harmless. Others meeting him for the first time weren't so sure.

  I nodded my thanks to Juanita, ignored the dog and glowered at my dad. “You didn't see Caleb's face when we stood there and told him it was too dark for us to see the intruder. He saw the bullet hole in the wall on the landing. He didn't believe a word of it and I'll bet my lunch money he'll be back later today to offer up another embarrassing barrage of questions.”