My mother waves me back to the campfire. I give up on the unresolved heartache and gamely croak along with the next stanza. “Pour water, pour water.”
Then my mother did something really strange. She cupped her hands around her mouth, and as if from across a deep crevasse, yelled, “Lalla! Get up! The house is on fire!”
What? Who said that? Why am I choking on the campfire smoke?
Sitting up, I sucked in a lungful of smoke-filled air and then coughed. How did I get here and what am I doing on my bed fully dressed?
Rolling over to get up from the bed, I almost stepped on Maya lying face down on the floor next to the bed. I put an arm under her, lifting her head. “Get up, Maya. We've got to get out of the house, it's on fire!”
Smoke was oozing under the closed door of my bedroom, we didn't have a minute to waste.
She responded by throwing up onto my shirt. “Ya shoulda ducked,” she muttered.
I ripped off my shirt and wiped her mouth with it. The room was beginning to fill with smoke. We could climb out my bedroom window, but there was no way down from the second story unless we wanted to jump. I thought we should at least consider getting down the stairs. If the stairs were already engulfed, we'd take the window route. Dragging her off the floor, I said, “Come on, sugar. We got to get out of here, or we're going to be toast.”
I pulled the bedspread off, ran into my bathroom, and shoved it under the shower. Swaddled like Siamese twins under the damp cover, we staggered out to the landing.
He must have used the antique sofa and upholstered chairs for kindling, piling our furniture in the foyer for a bonfire. That explained my dream about campfires, but not how my dead mother could be yelling at me from her grave.
Maya cringed in my arms. “Can't we go out the window? It looks dangerous below.”
The fire was already chewing up the furniture, and cotton batting sizzled and popped and bits of dry stuffing exploded like popcorn. For every passing minute I stood dithering, flames were sucking up more oxygen, gathering energy. Already one trail had crawled across the dry floor and was licking at the wainscoting. If I didn't hurry, it would destroy more than our home.
“I've got to get my dad. Look,” I said, pointing in the direction of the front door, “you can skirt the fire and get out.” With the heat from the fire searing our damp bedspread, we struggled down the stairs.
At the bottom of the staircase, I pushed Maya toward the door. “Take the blanket. Hug the edge of the wall until you clear this bonfire, but don't hesitate. Run outside to your car. Call 911!”
She was hanging onto my arm, pulling me with her. “You have to come too!”
“I have to get my dad. Go on, now, hurry!” I shouted. Thankfully, she ran.
Maya said he was still at the dining table when she came in. I put the blanket to my mouth and moved through the smoke filled hallway to where I thought the dining room should be, only to have a beam break loose, crash to the floor and block my way. I looked up to see flames chewing into the second story left by the fallen beam. The house was coming apart. If I expected to find my dad and get us out, I'd better find a way quick. Inching around the threatening blaze, I called to my dad, hoping he would hear me and get out. “Noah! Noah, answer me, please!” There was a sound mixed in with the crackling and hissing, a hoarse, coughing sound. It was Spike.
I couldn't see him through the smoke. “Spike!”
He barked again.
Spike's barking increased to a hoarse sputter and then I was thrilled to see my father standing in the doorway. In the wavering reflection of the fire, it looked like there were two of him, but at least he was standing.
“Dad!” I called, “Hurry! Take the kitchen door. I'll meet you outside!”
The dark image wobbled and seemed to double in size. An arm raised and he signaled that he'd heard, and then he stumbled out of sight.
I turned, and holding my blanket up over my head, dashed for the front door. Outside, I ran around the house in time to see two men lurching toward the trees, Spike dancing at their heels. Who was with him, Caleb?
At my call, they turned. My father, barely conscious, was coughing into his fist, his arm over a smaller man's shoulder. Eddy. Thank God for Eddy McBride. How he'd come to be here I didn't know, but I would be forever grateful. He waved at me, then eased my father into Maya's waiting arms.
I rushed up to them, crying my relief. “Noah! Maya! Are you okay?”
His voice was raspy from inhaling some of the smoke, but he was conscious. “I'm going to be all right. Thanks to Eddy.”
I took the little man's sooty face in my hands and kissed him on the mouth. “I never thought I'd say this, Eddy McBride, but I'm happy to see you.”
“Sorry I wasn't here sooner. I saw him leave your house, but with the flames, I thought I'd better make sure you were okay. So, how did Garth escape from the police?”
“It wasn't Garth, Eddy. It was your lawyer, Sidney Griffin. If it hadn't been for Spike, well, the little guy did everything but stand up and shout, ‘Killer!’”
“Sidney Griffin? What's he got to do with it?”
In the few minutes it took to tell Eddy the story, fire trucks were turning into our driveway.
Eddy saw them too, and said, “Well, I suppose your sheriff friend will pick him up.”
I pointedly said, “If he has money in a case, it'll prove he killed your wife.”
“Oh, he's got it all right. Now maybe my Patience will finally rest in peace.” He smiled at my dad. “Sorry about all this, Noah.You were good to me in a way I probably didn't deserve. I just want you to know I did it all for her, and I'd do it again if I had to.”
Noah rasped, “I understand, Eddy. Thanks for the apology.”
Then Eddy turned to me and said, “Well, as they say in the movies, ‘I'll be seeing you, kid.’” Then he took two steps back and melted into the dark.
At first Caleb didn't speak as he crushed me to his chest. Then he turned me in his arms to rest his chin on my shoulder and we watched the lights from the fire truck chasing patterns across the dying fire. “God, Lalla. The son-of-a-bitch was going to burn you and your dad alive.”
“Did you arrest him yet? He didn't get away, did he?”
“Judge Griffin? We got him all right. Thanks to Maya's call.”
“You weren't listening on the phone?”
“No. I thought it was a wrong number and hung up. On the way out here, I got a squad car to his house while he was packing to leave town. Want to guess why he had a suitcase full of musty smelling old cash? I'm sorry,” he said, squeezing me tighter. “I almost didn't get here in time.”
“That's not it,” I sniffled, then sneezed. I was still somewhat disappointed that he hadn't heard the confession I'd worked so hard to get.
“So, what did he do, come out to mop up loose ends?”
“Something like that. I didn't think anything of the first aid tape on his face. I'm sure they were scratches from Autumn. She was his wife's niece. He told me when I was at his house. He set that last scene up between us so that I would take what she said about Garth to the police, then she would be dead by the time they found her and Garth would be accused of that murder too. If only I'd insisted she come with me to the car, instead of leaving her in the café, she might still be alive.”
“Just as well you weren't in his way,” he said, hugging me closer to quiet my shivering nerves. “The judge was probably lurking nearby waiting to snatch her the minute your back was turned. I don't want to think what might have happened if you had gotten in his way.”
“That old buzzard probably started the fire with one of his damn cigars. You could do DNA to confirm it all, right?”
“Come on, don't go beating yourself up with this. You couldn't have seen it coming any better than I could. Sometimes we get our man right away, and sometimes we just have to keep at it until all the cards, hopefully not another murder, stack up right.”
Caleb wrapped me up tight in a b
lanket, then said, “Are you going to be all right for a minute?” When I nodded, he said, “Good. Sit down with your dad before you fall down. I'll talk to the fire chief, then take you and your dad home with me.”
As much for the warmth I didn't need as to stop my chattering teeth, I gathered my father and Maya with me under the blanket and hugged them. I couldn't stop touching them in my joy that we were all alive. Turning to my dad, I said, “Noah, I'm sorry to tell you this, but the judge is Patience's murderer.”
My dad's voice quaked from the after effects of the chloroform. “Oh, hell, I already figured that out.”
“But, how did you— ”
“Well, something's wrong with a fella's table manners when he tries to kill you instead of eating the lasagna.”
I rubbed my dad's singed hair off his forehead and laughed at his eyebrows. They were going to take a while to grow back to their usual lofty status. With my other hand I wiped at the soot on Maya's cheek.
“But why would Judge Griffin want to kill us?” she asked.
“Not necessarily you, Maya. You just happened to be here at the wrong time. He knew we had Spike and that the dog would recognize him and, well, if things went wrong, which they did, he came prepared.”
Noah said, “I noticed it too. Spike took off like his tail was on fire. Well,” he said, scratching his head, “I guess it almost was.”
“The judge was secretly romancing Patience. She broke it off with him, told him Eddy got parole and was coming home. But he wasn't letting her go till she told him where she'd hid the money. I don't know if she ever did, but he got it, then he killed her.”
Maya said, “He killed her for her money? Why? Wasn't he rich anyway?”
“It wasn't her money. It was his family's. He cut a quick and dirty deal with Bill Hollander and his drug-running crop-dusting buddy, Bob Norquist. Then Patience screwed that up by stealing it from Hollander. What could Patience do but keep it and wait for Eddy to come home?”
“But why wouldn't Eddy just call the police and tell them what he knew?”
“Because, sugar, Eddy was an escaped felon and he was sure they'd arrest him first and forget to look for any other suspects. He needed help, something that would get some headlines, start the police asking questions.” Then I told her about the borrowed dirt bike, stuck in the back of Patience's old Pinto, and how he used my car and the lake to get the attention he needed from the police. I finished with, “He even used Autumn's pendant, slaming it in the car door, to give us a clue that she was involved.”
Noah said, “The Judge must have been fit to be tied when they found Patience in your Caddy at the lake. She was a smart lady, but even Patience didn't guess that Sydney Griffin was Hollander's killer. All these years, I really didn't know the man.”
The fire chief came to us with bittersweet news. “Well, it isn't all bad. The worst of it is in the hallway where it was started and the hole in the ceiling where that beam fell down. There's some damage to the roof over the porch. Your furniture is going to smell bad for awhile. Most folks leave theirs outside for a bit, or get new, but that's between you and your insurance guy. All in all, your house will stand.”
I could feel the tears streaking a vertical path on my cheeks.
Caleb squeezed my shoulder. “I'll get one of the guys to get Maya home and then you and your dad can stay at my house. We can sort this whole thing out tomorrow.”
“No. I'll do it. I've got to call Roxanne,” I said.
“Alright. Then I'll have the deputy take Maya home.”
“No, Caleb. As Maya's god-mother I have to explain myself to her mom.”
“Then I'll take your dad to my house. I'll wait for you.”
With Spike in his arms, Caleb and I supported my dad to the cruiser, and then Maya and I left for her home.
To Roxanne's credit, she listened without interruption then grabbed both Maya and me in a tight hug. Three weeping women brought Roxanne's husband, Leon, into the living room and the story was told all over again. When it all wore, down, I kissed them all and left.
“I put a terry robe on the bathroom door for you,” he said. “You can sleep in one of my old Tee-shirts. Take a shower and then we'll talk in the kitchen.”
I plunged myself under a cool shower, then in my panties, his Tee-shirt and robe, I wobbled on bare feet into the kitchen where Caleb was making tea.
“I hope that's herbal,” I said, fighting to keep my eyes open. “Have the police released Garth?”
He held up the box as confirmation of herbal tea, and said, “Lalla, you've been incredibly brave, but do me a favor? Retire the fake badge and take the rest of the year off.”
I winced at the mention of my fake badge. “Yeah. Well, I'm happy to give up the badge and my amateur sleuthing. You turned Zack's old room into an office, didn't you? I'm fine with the couch.”
“I did, but there's a hide-a-bed I made up for you in his room.”
“Thanks. Just point,” I said, giving him a jaw-popping yawn.
He steered me down the hallway to the room. An antique brass lamp converted from kerosene to electric cast a soft light on a line of photo frames marching across the wall. The pictures showed his two sons from six months through the Marines, where his oldest, Zackary, had made the Marines his career. I noticed there wasn't one photo of Marcie, either on the wall, or on his desk.
When he later tapped at the door, I wrapped myself in a blanket and patted a space next to me on the edge of the bed. “Sit. For just a minute. No more talk about bad guys.”
I clutched his hand for the reassurance I knew without asking, would be there for me. “You saved my life you know. Old Indian proverb says you now own me. Like a squaw. I'll have to follow you around in pigtails and bare feet. What do you think? Do you need an old squaw?”
He was looking straight into my eyes. One sandy lash had come floating down to attach itself to the smooth ledge above his shaven cheek. I reached up to flick it off and my eyes were drawn to his very intent gaze. I noticed little shards of green in the iris. For a moment, I didn't blink, I didn't breathe as I took in every minute detail in his face; the shaving nick at his cheek bone, the little hairs on the ridge between his straight brows, the road map of wrinkles that made up his hard working face, and the wide mouth with their deep commas that softened into a smile whenever he saw me.
In answer to my silent questions, he kissed me on the forehead, got up and softly closed the door. I thought I had a lot to think about, that I would spend the rest of the night mulling over these questions. But as soon as my head hit the pillow I was out. Caleb must keep the same soporific drug in his pillows as I have at home.
Somewhere in the middle of the night, I sleep walked into Caleb's room. Because in the morning, I awoke with my face in his neck, his arm draped around my shoulder. I still had my panties on, so it must have been just that…sleep.
Besides, my head hurt something terrible. I knew it was the chemical hangover from the Judge's Chloroform hanky. Last night seemed like another bad dream. Nothing stays the same, I thought, drowsing. I should tattoo that on my palm, then I could tell people I was a palm reader. I snuggled up closer and went back to sleep.
By the time I woke again, the sun was poking holes in my eyelids and Caleb was gone, his side cold to my touch.
I peeked in at my father sleeping with Spike curled at his feet. The dog tipped his ears at me but otherwise was quiet. I tiptoed toward the kitchen. Even though the wall clock said eight- thirty, Caleb had found time to leave a note saying for us to help ourselves to anything we might need. Mi casa es su casa. I would rather have had a hug. Or a kiss.
I picked up the full carafe of really good coffee and snagged the biggest empty mug on the counter. A note under the mug said, “I love you.” Caleb, knowing me as he did, knew I'd pick up the biggest cup. I smiled, poured a second cup of coffee for my dad and went to roust the “boys” out of bed. We needed to visit our burned out home with the insurance people, and the sooner
the better.
Noah and I stood next to the charbroiled exterior of our home while the insurance guy clucked at the disaster and made scratch marks on his padded clipboard.
I thought my dad would burst into tears at the bedraggled sight of his beloved home. So I was surprised at his cheerful response to what I viewed as a complete and total disaster.
“It looked much worse last night,” he said, smiling. “I'll have to replace the porch roof. See,” he said, pointing out the sagging remains above our heads. “I liked it when I built it, but now I think it kept the interior too dark. I'd rather tear it off, start over.”
I followed him through the front door and we looked up at the light of day trickling down from the hole in our ceiling.
He said, “sure,” to everything the insurance adjuster proposed while doing his tuneless whistle. I walked behind him, setting up water-logged furniture as we went. Hands in pockets, he kicked at charred walls and overturned furniture. Taking his penknife, he prodded the occasional piece of wood. “Floors're still good, Lalla. They don't make planks like this anymore. That old saloon had the thickest oak floors I'd ever seen. A little sanding and a polisher, that's all it'll take.”
At my dour expression, he said, “Look, I'll show you.” He bent his knees and bounced up and down on the floorboards, grinning. “The floors are solid as the day they were cut. They'll stand up just fine.”
“What about all that black stuff on the wood? The staircase looks ruined.” I sniffled, close to tears at the sight.
“Nah. The stairs are barely singed. That's just wet soot.” He took a rag out of his pocket and rubbed at the railing. “See? Now don't get weepy on me, Lalla.”
I looked up the staircase to the landing. The thirty-year-old yellow and blue- striped wallpaper my mother put up was soaked, blackened and ruined. “I heard Mama calling to me last night,” I said. “She told me to wake up and get out of the house because it was on fire.”
“Really? That's nice to know,” he lifted one hand out of his pocket and put it around my shoulder, giving me a quick pat before removing it. “I've been talking to her for years, but so far she's never responded. Lucky for me, Eddy was there to get me out. Well, we have a lot to be grateful for. Now, Lalla, don't give me that look. It was her decision and I've forgiven her. You should too.”
A Dead Red Cadillac Page 22
