SQUEEZE THEM DRY
WALKING THROUGH THE CURTAIN of beads was like stepping into another world. Not that the strip club we left behind was lush, but after my eyes adjusted to the near blackness, I realized that back stage was harsh. The walls were unfinished drywall. The floor was rough concrete. A faded white line led us to a set of rooms built from plywood. Music played softly and white light seeped beneath a closed door. Cass knocked and when a voice told us to enter, we did.
A woman sat before a battered vanity whose top was packed with colorful tubes and jars, and cups bristling with brushes. A three-way mirror shone, its bulbs casting a bright light. She was drawing a mole above her lip and held up a finger as we entered. “There,” she said, leaning back and examining her face. “When I use the mole, I always want to add in a curly black hair, just to see if the drunks notice when I swoop down to take their tips.”
She smiled at us in the mirror and then turned around and stood, straightening her short robe. Crystal was young. Not jail bait young, but barely. She had the hour glass figure Bret prized, and a sincerity that upped the wattage on her smile. “I’m Crystal. Bud must’ve sent you back. You looking for work?”
“No,” Cass said, and again offered her detective’s shield for inspection.
She glanced at it and then back at us. “Police?”
“Yes, ma’am. This is Maxine Leverman. She’s a private investigator.” I will admit I felt a thrill at hearing those words spoken aloud, even if they weren’t true. Cass held out the head shot of Bret on the autopsy table. “Do you know this man?”
Crystal took it and sank onto her chair. “It’s Baxter. Is this? I mean…” she turned the photo back to us. “Is he dead?”
We nodded.
“How did you know him?” I asked.
“He’s a regular and we started dating.” She was staring at the photo again. “Nothing serious, but we had a good time.”
“He didn’t want to marry you?” I couldn’t help it. It seemed like he married most of the women he came across.
“Nope.” Crystal handed the photo back to Cass. “What happened to him?”
“Where were you this past Saturday evening from around nine o’clock until three Sunday morning?”
“Here.”
That should be easy to verify.
“What happened to him?” she asked again.
“He was murdered and we’re trying to figure out who killed him.”
Her eyes grew wide. “How terrible.”
“Forgive me,” I said, “but you don’t seem too upset about his death.”
“I am sad,” she said, and then shrugged. “I’m from Idaho. I have a real boyfriend there, and he’s who I’ll marry. I’m studying accounting and finance at LSU and the money I earn here pays the bills and my tuition. Baxter was for fun.” She half smiled. “He really was a nice guy and a good tipper. I’ll miss him, and his tips. Oh no.” Crystal’s hand went to her mouth. She stood and dug through a rack of costumes. After a moment she turned and held out a small box. “Baxter gave this to me last week. He said if something happened to him, I should give it to the police.”
Cass pulled on a pair of latex gloves and took it, easing the top off. Inside lay a black cassette snugged in bubble wrap. I was incredibly proud. I was right, and we’d found the tape. Cass asked if she could have a plastic baggie from the box on the vanity. Crystal opened it for her, and Cass slipped the box and the tape inside and positioned them so both were visible.
“There are people who want this and are willing to use force to get it,” Cass said. “So be very careful for the next week or so.”
“Honey, I take my clothes off in front of drunk men and squeeze their wallets dry with lap dances. I’m always careful.” She cocked her head to one side. “What’s on that cassette?”
“Something that will make the DEA very happy.”
IT ALL GOES HORRIBLY WRONG
THE CLUB DOORS OPENED and the girls emerged, blinking against the stinging sunlight. Sugar tried to crouch and willed his bladder to hurry. The redheaded cop held something up for the black-haired chick to see. Sugar squinted and spotted a small box and a black cassette tape inside a clear baggie. His heart fluttered.
The girls high-fived and hurried to the old pickup, barely sparing him a glance. Sugar zipped up and cranked his truck, blasting onto the road. He blinked. It was empty. Mashing the gas pedal, he groaned along with the old truck. He had to catch them, because a plan had come to him right before he got out of the truck to pee. He’d driven this stretch of highway many times. One of the blind curves up ahead had a verge that fell away at a gentle angle to a secluded spot by the Sabine River. It was perfect for bumping someone off the road and ensuring the car wouldn’t be spotted from above.
He hadn’t wanted this to get violent, certainly not with a police officer. But he had to have that tape. Keeping his eyes on the road, Sugar reached beneath the seat and pulled out the short-barrel shotgun he’d taken from the chick’s apartment.
Oscar didn’t have to know everything.
__________
“WHAT WAS HE DOING?” I asked.
“Peeing.”
“Slow down so he can catch up.”
“I’ve got a better idea.”
She punched the accelerator and I snugged my seatbelt around my waist and across my chest. We rounded the first curve and Cass slowed enough to make a tight right-hand turn. She spun a u-turn in the middle of the small county road, and stopped beneath a copse of sagging oaks. We waited.
Sugar blew past and Cass grinned. “Let’s get him.”
__________
SUGAR ROUNDED THE CURVE and stared down the length of highway. It was still empty. He stomped the accelerator and wondered what kind of engine she had that would let her disappear so fast. He hit a straightaway and pushed the truck harder. It slowly gained speed. A car appeared in his rearview mirror, coming up fast, and suddenly he had to pee again. The only thing that moved that fast was a state trooper. Sugar fingered the shotgun resting on the seat beside him and took his foot off the gas. The blind curve was just ahead and he slowed to the speed limit, thinking through plausible reasons for speeding.
As he entered the curve, the vehicle behind him materialized into the girls’ truck, and Sugar had only a moment to think, “Wha-?” before the redheaded cop tapped his bumper and sent him careening off the road.
__________
CASS TURNED HER TRUCK off the highway and drove down the verge at a sedate pace. The pickup was an old Ford handed down from her father through her six brothers and Cass until at last it became a spare vehicle at the Elliot house. But through those years of passing from one child to the next, its engine had gone through several modifications. It was now a souped-up monster that was the envy of high school boys for miles around.
The body was still in excellent shape despite the abuse it had taken, and boasted a homemade cow-catcher over its bumper and grill, which made it ideal for nudging vehicles off the road. Cass suspected Sugar might be desperate enough to attack us, and she’d insisted we take the old truck.
She pulled to a stop next to Sugar’s pickup and I cranked my window down to see better. The truck was upright and he was still strapped in, but he gazed at us with dazed eyes. The bridge of his nose had a nasty gash and blood was smeared over the steering wheel.
“Think he’s got a concussion?” I asked.
She opened her door and unholstered her gun. “Doubtful. Stay put until I say you can get out.”
Her gun was up and ready when she rounded the truck’s hood. Sugar lifted a shotgun and waved it in Cass’s general direction. I looked closer. Fury flew all over me and I wrenched open the pickup’s door.
“Stay in the truck, Maxine,” Cass called.
“That’s my shotgun,” I shouted.
“You can have it later. Get back in the truck.”
I did, but my blood was boiling.
Cass eased forward. “Police, Murphy. Put the gun d
own.”
His eyes rolled from Cass to the shotgun and he cocked his head, as if he were surprised to see it in his hands.
“Put it down,” she said, and took a step. “We’ve got Oscar Matalan and William Garcia. We know Oscar is Sonny Arellano’s son. We’ve got the tape. Garcia’s working a deal with the witness protection people. Shooting a cop only makes things worse for you.”
The shotgun wavered and Cass stiffened, but his hands dropped into his lap. Sugar’s eyes rolled up and he slumped forward, banging his nose into the steering wheel again. I bolted from the pickup but Cass got to him first. She gave me my shotgun and lifted one of Sugar’s eyelids.
“Maybe he does have a concussion,” she said. “Better call 911.”
INVISIBLE PEOPLE
BY THE TIME THE ambulance carted Sugar Murphy off, handcuffed to the gurney with an officer by his side, and a tow truck arrived to take his pickup back to town, I was beat. My muscles were stiffening up again and general fatigue from all the excitement of the last few days was setting in. Cass took shells out of my shotgun, and I cradled it in my lap.
She poked me in the ribs as we drove back to Arcadia. “You’ve got about fifteen minutes to snooze, then we’re back in work mode.”
“Why?”
“We’ve got to give statements and see what’s going on with Oscar.”
“But Cass,” I whined. “None of that matters. Yes, they’re bad drug people, but that’s for the DEA to work out. Arresting them solves the break-ins and instrument bashing, but it doesn’t get us any closer to finding out who killed Bret and the girls.”
“Maybe, maybe not.”
“What are you thinking?”
“Whoever killed Bret had good knowledge of the winery and Blue’s house. They had access to the bottles and glasses with fingerprints, to the wine bottle with Blue’s bloody fingerprint, the bat, and that pottery tool.”
I thought as she drove. “That makes sense, but other than getting a general description of the man who murdered Daphne from Sugar, what good will the tattered remnants of the Dismembered Bunnies do us?”
She smiled at that. “Oscar worked at the winery, for at least a few weeks.”
Suddenly I was wide awake. “You think he saw something?”
“Or heard something. Blue said he washed the dishes. Nobody would’ve noticed him.”
The invisibles, I thought. This is exactly what Aunt Kay had tried to teach me. The people nobody notices are sometimes in the perfect place to gather information.
“But how do we get him to talk, Cass? We’ve got nothing to trade.”
“Oh, I think we do. I’m not sure Oscar is cut out for the drug business. He was bawling like a little girl while Martinez drilled him.”
“You think we can offer him something better?”
“If it solves three murders, I think it’s worth a try.”
THE BRET’S WIVES CLUB
BY THE TIME I got to the agency, the wives were packing up and heading to Blue’s for a sleepover. Nicole’s lawyer Ned Shaver was off to a hotel on the Loop.
I filled them in on how we captured the third member of the marauding Bunnies.
“Sugar is at the hospital, getting thumped over,” I said. “Detective Martinez and the DEA are working on Oscar Matalan, trying to determine if he knows anything related to the murders.”
“Anything that would clear me, you mean,” Blue said.
“Yes.”
She looked at her lawyer, who was stacking paperwork. “It’s not looking good, is it?”
“It’s not looking bad, Blue, and we’re just getting started,” Yvette said. “Maxine, what was on those tapes that was so important to Sonny Arellano?”
I shrugged. “Kado was looking for a cassette player when I left the courthouse. He called Stan at The Golden Gate, but his is out for repairs.”
“There’s a stereo with a cassette player in the music room and it didn’t get smashed,” Blue said. “I guess that’s why Bret bought it, to play those tapes. Kado can borrow it, if he needs it.”
“I’ll come get it,” I said. “Later tonight?”
“Fine by me. I plan to sell all his unbroken music crap as soon as I can.”
Frannie perked up. “Are those instruments I brought today evidence, Yvette?”
“Nope, why?”
“I’ll take them to Blue’s and have them appraised with his other stuff.”
“There’s a thought,” Nicole said. “I’ll take those banjos to Blue’s, too.”
Shaver spoke up. “We’ve got contacts in Los Angeles or Nashville who will give you a fair appraisal. They’ll also let you know if anything is worth repairing.”
The women gathered their things and we helped them carry instruments down to the various cars.
“Seriously?” I whispered to Kay as the wives discussed plans and exchanged phone numbers. “Would you want to hang with the women your husband was cheating with?”
“No,” Kay said. “But they’ve formed a weird bond. It makes sense in a way. Instead of an ex-wives club, it’s the Bret’s Wives Club.” She studied the women as they left the conference room. “They’re all his victims, and they’re just figuring that out. They might be a support system for one another.”
Yvette was pecking away on her cell phone at the head of the table and Babby was putting empty coffee cups and wine glasses on a tray. I joined her. “We didn’t learn anything new today, did we?” I asked.
“We certainly did,” Yvette said. “We know beyond a reasonable doubt Blue didn’t kill Bret or those two girls.”
“We do?”
“We do. But until we figure out who really murdered them, it’s my job to convince Sammy Mathison that she’s the wrong woman, and Bill Hoffner to put three murders back on his open case list.”
THE ERRAND
THE KILLER WATCHED THE cars drive past the winery and down the drive to Blue’s house. The women’s silhouettes were just visible through the darkened windows. Rumors swirling through the winery had Blue meeting the two women Bret was currently married to today, and had his marriage count up to over twenty women.
Tuesdays were usually slow and the killer called to another staff member: “Watch my station. I need to run an errand.”
She nodded absently and carried on rolling silverware in napkins. The killer stepped out into the early evening and eased behind the shop building. The sun was slowly sinking and the pines surrounding the winery threw long shadows that devoured the tall, slender form slipping between them.
FACING REALITY
“TURN THAT CRAP OFF,” Frannie said. “I can’t believe anyone would buy that stuff.”
Babby had driven out to Maxine’s destroyed apartment and collected the Poison Ivy and the Dismembered Bunnies album so the wives could hear it. None were impressed.
“That sounds kind of like the stuff he practiced at our house,” Nicole said. “But it was hard to find anything musical in it.”
“Put on some Joan Jett. I could do with some hot chick rock after that noise.”
A chime sounded and Blue looked down at her phone. The women had migrated to the music room and were surrounded by the ravaged remains of their husband’s instruments. “Thank goodness. The photos from the white grape harvest are finally in.”
“What are they for?” Nicole asked.
“I’m writing a cookbook and the publisher has sent a photographer out several times. She’s coming back this week for the red grape harvest.”
Blue opened the file and started flipping through the photos, and then stopped. “I don’t know whether to laugh or cry.”
“Why?” asked Frannie.
Blue turned her phone around. “If this wasn’t the last time I saw Bret, it was close.” She looked at the other two women. “Do you want to see these, or had you rather not?”
“Might as well face reality,” Nicole said. “Where’s your computer?”
__________
“I DON’T BELIEVE IT.” Frannie�
�s wine glass tipped at a precarious angle as she pointed over Blue’s shoulder. “When was that picture taken?”
Blue looked at the date and told her.
“Bret drove in that morning, didn’t he?”
Blue thought for a moment. “I think he did.”
“He came from my house. He was wearing that hat when he left. The man always had a hat on his head, but I hadn’t seen that one before.”
“I’ve never seen it, either,” Nicole said.
“That’s his lucky harvest hat,” Blue said. “He wore it constantly during harvest, worried something would go wrong if he took it off. I had to make him take it off when he came to bed.”
They grew silent.
“Well this is awkward,” Frannie said. “I can’t believe he could leave my bed one morning and be in yours,” she looked at Blue, “or yours,” she looked at Nicole, “that night. No offense, but that’s icky.”
“Too right,” said Nicole.
“And it’s worse than that, because he was sleeping with women other than us,” Blue said quietly.
“It’s been about twelve hours since I learned my husband was a polygamist,” Frannie said. “I’ve adapted pretty quickly. Why is that?”
“Maybe we knew,” Nicole said. “Knew deep down but didn’t want to believe.”
“He was good,” Blue said.
“At making you feel you were the only one,” Frannie said.
“Bastard,” said Nicole.
“I’ll drink to that,” Frannie said, and tossed back her wine. She dragged up a conga whose top was slit but body was intact, and perched next to the desk. “Let’s see the rest of those photos. I don’t think I’ve got anything more current of him. He was easy on the eyes and easy to insure. At least I’ll enjoy his life insurance money.”
Blue looked up and cocked her head.
“What?” asked Frannie.
“I thought I heard something.” She walked to the music room door and stuck her head into the hall. It was empty. She slowly returned to the other wives, who were flipping through the photos. Blue was explaining how the harvest and wine-making process worked, when Nicole stopped her. “Go back one.”
A Case of Sour Grapes Page 32
