by Lois Winston
“Nobody died this time, thank God, but I need to talk to you,” I told Roxanne.
“Go sit in a booth—I’ll be right with you.”
More cracked vinyl, but at least it was easier on my butt. I played with the salt and pepper shakers and thought about the day’s troubling events. Was the house trashed by our intruder, or had he come in thinking we’d done it? And why did he leave before Garth came in? I was exhausted from the whirligig of unanswerable questions.
By the time Roxanne finally eased into the seat across from me, my nerves were frayed and I was running on empty. I eyed Leon’s latest pastry creation mirrored in the display case. “Think I could have a piece of that peach pie?”
“Sure, honey,” she said, signaling a passing waitress. “Coffee’s fresh. Want some?”
I nodded and told her everything I could remember; the Caddy found in the lake with Patience McBride behind the wheel, and how Ricky’s alibi checked out, and I got a gun stuck in my back. Oh, and the cute guy I found in jail and how his ex was intent on persecuting him.
When I was through, Roxanne Leonard, who has the softest, brownest, most comforting eyes in the universe, did what she does best—put everything into perspective.
“You aren’t going to start dating this guy, are you?”
“I should say not! I was coerced into it by the investigating detective.”
“Lalla, Lalla, Lalla.”
“That’s my name, don’t wear it out.” I was running low on wisecracks, so it’s always nice to know I can fall back on the trite.
“Another winner,” she said, screwing up her face in mock horror.
“That depends. Did you say ‘winner’ or ‘wiener’?” I asked defensively.
“You tell me, honey chil’,” she said, mangling her Mississippi roots again. “What kind of father, especially if he is a card-carrying member of AA, would wait five years to come see his only daughter? They supposed to do the twelve steps sooner than that.”
Roxanne ought to know, as her father had been a struggling alcoholic who recovered only long enough to see his daughter graduate from college and then died. She attended Al-Anon and knew it wasn’t her fault. As opposed to me. I’d come to realize that my mother’s death wasn’t my father’s fault, but the lie I’d been holding for the last twenty-nine years was all my fault, and I wasn’t going to let any amount of psychobabble or self-help books talk me out of that burden. It was all mine.
“All I did was give him a ride back to his aunt’s house where he’d parked his RV. We talked about his aunt and his kid. How was I to know we’d come on some burglar robbing her place?”
“Caleb know about this nephew?”
“Of course he did. He was the one who set up the interview with the detective, and he was the one who told me Garth was asking for me and where to find him. I’m really hurt that he would allow that detective to push me into being a despicable snitch.”
She opened her eyes wide, the whites looking like the sidewalls on my Caddy. “That don’t sound right. Caleb’s better’n that.”
“I used to think so.”
“Look, think about it from his point of view; he has to appear unbiased. It can’t look like he’s taking your side.”
“Oh, yeah? He was awful to me tonight,” I said, remembering Caleb’s heated spark of antipathy and his spiteful accusation. “I shouldn’t have to explain myself to Caleb. He was the one who set me up with the detective.”
“Apologize for taking Garth home? I should say not.”
I wasn’t about to tell Roxanne that I’d slapped him.
“Okay,” I said, “let’s leave Caleb out of this for a minute. Garth says he let his ex know he was coming out to see his daughter, so why stick around if he knew his wife was going to have him thrown in the pokey the minute he showed up? Besides, so far, there’s no real evidence that Patience was actually murdered.”
Roxanne tsked. “No evidence? Somebody helped her into that car. Either before or after they killed her. Did Caleb say she was alive when she went under?”
Suddenly, I wasn’t hungry any more. I put down the fork holding the tender crust of the peach pie. “Caleb won’t tell me a thing. If they find any prints under all that mud on the car, they’re bound to be mine.” I threw up my hands. “And why not me? I have no particular alibi. Will you visit me in prison?”
She patted me on the shoulder. “Maybe that homicide detective knows Garth did it. Though it’s a low-down skunky thing to do to a girl like you.”
I tried to reconcile myself to the idea of this handsome man murdering his elderly aunt. He had been reckless with his life, but no matter how late, he honestly appeared to be working to reconcile with his daughter. “I don’t see him as a killer. He was just as shook up as I was.” Or too vulnerable, or too cute. Okay, cute. “Let’s say Garth came out here and killed his aunt. Why? And why put her in my car? And who held the gun on me in her house and kept asking me about taking what wasn’t mine?”
“That intruder, do you think he killed Patience?”
“He must’ve seen us drive up in my dad’s truck. I tell you, the minute Garth left the room he was right behind me with that damn gun in my back, making threats. Said he knew who I was and where I lived, too.”
“Sweet pea, everyone in the county knows who you are and where you live.”
“That’s what Caleb said. He said I should convince my dad to get a security system, but I think I’m going to have to sleep with Noah’s shotgun from now on.”
“Who would want to kill her for the piddly little cash she got from her piano students and Social Security?”
“Tell me about it. If she was killed in my car, I may never be able to drive it again.”
“It’s late. You go on home, get some rest. I gotta think on this some.”
I yawned and rubbed at my eyes. “Her house is down the road some, just off Hatch. Would you ask any of the truckers if they noticed that big forty-foot motor home of Garth’s before yesterday?”
“So, the nephew is a suspect?”
“Unless I can prove someone else for a better suspect, I still might be fitted for an orange jumpsuit, and I don’t fancy the color or the length of time I might have to wear it.”
With that, I dragged my skinny, tired butt to the truck for the bumpy ride home. I had to get new shock absorbers on this truck. I had a growing list of things to fix, besides the suspicions of the police.
SEVEN
I reached the long private driveway to our ranch and imagined I was in the Caddy instead of my dad’s old farm truck, and drifting out the way I was coming in. I turned off the lights, shifted into low, and rattled along in the truck. Every few minutes, I’d give the truck a little gas and then let off till I came to a stop in front of the house. I put on the brake and turned off the engine.
The Caddy’s motor was tuned to be as quiet as a kitten. Neither Dad nor I would have awakened to the soft purr of the car being eased out onto the road. Last night, the full moon washed the countryside in shades of blue and there certainly was enough light to see all the way down the driveway without headlights. Yes, it could have happened like that. Everybody from Caleb to the pilots and ground crew, and certainly the gang at Roxanne’s, knew I kept the Caddy in an unlocked barn. Had it started out as a lark that ended up tragically wrong? Two people. The police would have to be looking for two people, one to drive out to the ranch and the other to leave with my car. It may not even have been premeditated, Patience on a toot with some boyfriend, neither of them sober, stealing my car for a joyride that went terribly bad? It held as much water as any other theory.
Locking the truck, more because of my own edgy nerves than from habit, I stood on the porch and examined the possibilities. During the summer season, our movements were very predictable—me upstairs to bed by eight or nine every night for a much-needed six hours of sleep; downstairs in the TV room my dad snoring through reruns and late night talk shows. Neither of us would have heard a thing. Thou
gh any number of people know our habits, still, I would be shocked to think that any of them were the sort to pin a murder on me.
I opened the front door and was greeted by sharp high-pitched barking. Tiny nails skittered across the wood floor of the foyer, and with a toothy snarl, a small brown dog launched itself at my leg. I kicked out, trying to dislodge its hold on my pant leg, then realized that this slathering miniature Cujo was really a tiny Chihuahua and I knew him—not that we were ever on speaking terms.
“Spike? Spike. Let go now, that’s a nice doggy.” He growled, working his teeth deeper into the material.
How on earth had this hateful dog come to be at our house? Caleb! He had made a special trip all the way out here to interview my dad. A courtesy call, he said. That he managed to drop off Patience’s psychotic Chihuahua must have slipped his mind. I shook my pant leg, then leaned down to work open his jaws. “Stop it, you stupid mutt. Let go of my—ouch!”
He let go long enough to snap at my hand, then latched onto the leg again.
We danced around like this for another couple of minutes while I tried to dislodge him without waking my dad. Damn thing wouldn’t let go.
“Come sneaking into the house this late at night gets him all riled up. He doesn’t like it.” My dad, shotgun in the crook of his elbow, barked a command and Spike suddenly let go and ran to his side.
“Neither do I. Little bugger bit a hole in my pants,” I said. “Why would Caleb bring this mutt out here?”
“Caleb said we could use an alarm system, and since I don’t like the idea of feeding a German shepherd, Spike here has got himself a new home.”
“Noah, that damn dog hates everyone. He’s got mental problems.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about. Nicest little dog I’ve ever met, minds me really well, and he loves Juanita’s cooking. Besides, he ran right out to greet you, didn’t he?”
“Sure he did,” I said, holding up my bleeding thumb.
I couldn’t imagine why Caleb would stiff us with Patience McBride’s hellhound, but since my dad liked him, I’d let it go until tomorrow.
Noah cleared his throat. “Caleb says you’re off the hook with the police, so where’ve you been?”
The answers to that would take most of the night, and I was tired beyond words. “I was at Roxanne’s.”
“Well, Caleb called a couple of times. You got that cell phone, why don’t you answer it?”
“Because right now, I don’t want to talk to him.”
He hefted the shotgun over his shoulder and, pointing at the dog, said, “Well, leave me out of your squabbles, will you? Me and Spike got the security covered, so you get some sleep. I’ll start the ground crew tomorrow.”
As if I could sleep. I got a beer and a can of tuna. Standing over the sink where I wouldn’t make too much of a mess, I watched clouds chase the moon across the sky. Eating alone made me wonder if I would be standing here in another ten years watching a night sky filled with too many questions. Two unsuccessful marriages may have done it for me, but did it mean I was destined to become just another eccentric old lady standing at the sink, eating out of tuna cans?
I turned away from uncomfortable thoughts, went to shower, and then, brushing my teeth, drooled toothpaste over the sink and looked up in the mirror.
The very act of putting a woman, dead or alive, in my car made this crime very personal. Was it only a joyride gone bad, or was it something to do with me? Who would harbor such unmitigated hatred that they would murder a woman simply to pin it on me? Nothing I’d learned so far made sense, except a little nagging thought. Three times today I’d been told that everyone knew who I was and where I lived. My work habits were an open book, so was it someone who knew me and had a grudge big enough to frame me for murder? Or was it simply a side benefit? Tomorrow I would see if I could find some answers.
EIGHT
My cell phone chimed from the bedside table. I poked at it and heard Caleb say, “Hey, you. You can have your car back now.”
“That’s nice,” I said, still exhausted from yesterday, and I wasn’t too thrilled at being awakened from my all-too-brief snooze. “I’ll have Noah drive me in tomorrow.”
“No, I’m coming out to pick you up.”
“Now? Don’t you sleep?”
“Get up, sleepyhead, it’s seven a.m. I’ll be there in half an hour. I have something to show you.”
“What—now?” I sat up in bed, pulled the sleep-shade off my head and looked at my bedside clock. He was right, I’d slept through the early morning shift and didn’t hear a thing. Planes roared down the runway and took off, trucks rumbled out of the yard, and I slept through all of it. Was it any wonder I hadn’t heard my Caddy going out?
I groaned. “Can’t this wait?”
“Sooner we get this over with, the sooner we can clear your good name,” he said. “So get up and get decent, or not. Either way, I’ll be there soon.”
Left with an ear full of air, I slapped the phone down and rolled out of bed. He must be calling from his car. Voices from below meant Noah was done with the morning paperwork and was now downstairs at breakfast. I might be expected to report in, if not for business, then certainly for yesterday’s events.
I stood at the kitchen door and took in the scene—my father eating a plate of pancakes, a small brown dog at rapt attention. Juanita, seeing the little dog’s empty plate, picked it up and whittled his next pancake to bite-size. Finished, she put the plate down next to Noah’s feet and smiled as the dog gobbled up the bites. It was a regular Rockwell memory and one for the record. Spike had my grumpy father and his small bossy housekeeper wrapped around his little brown paw.
My dad put down his fork. “You’re up. I got Northrup’s peaches started, but you need to fire Brad.”
“Brad? Why would I do that? He’s top producer and doing the work of two pilots.”
“If you’d get back into the saddle, we’d have two pilots.”
“I have to get this cast off first.”
“See to it, then. You’re wasting this season sitting on your butt.”
That hurt. When I didn’t say anything, he looked up at me and blinked like he’d suddenly realized what he’d said. “That kid is gambling, and now he’s taking pills, the kind that keep him awake so he can do the work of two pilots.”
“I keep track of his hours. He isn’t flying any more than allowed.”
“He’s going to be trouble.”
“Okay, don’t go all cranky on me again, but where’d you hear this?”
“I got my sources. A fool and his money are soon parted, I always say.”
Since my dad and a nickel were seldom parted, the idea of gambling was as alien to him as wearing his underwear outside his overalls. “He’s pushing his luck with more than cards, and I’m of a mind that I don’t need the problems that will go with it, so do us all a favor and fire him, or I will.”
“I see your point, but I can’t do without him just yet, and in any case, until you can give me some proof I don’t see firing him. And don’t tell me again that I can get back in the seat. I can’t get into it, not with this cast, I’ve tried. Let me think about this, okay?” I turned to go, then said, “As you can see,” I pointed at the front page of the morning paper, “I’ve been a bit preoccupied.”
“Yes.” Something wistful passed behind the faded blue eyes, but I let myself think it was simple regret at having his daughter’s name in the newspaper again.
“I gave her a ride to the fair and home, and this is how she pays me back,” I said, my voice doing flip-flops. “I think my reputation in the ‘Good Samaritan’ department is going to be shot after this.”
“Yes,” he said, nodding thoughtfully at the picture of Patience on the front page.
We’re not the sort to be caught crying, being a tough lot of third-generation Germans by way of Brownsville, Texas, but when my dad stood and held out his arms, I swallowed my pride and threw myself onto his chest.
&nb
sp; “Don’t cry, Lalla. I know you didn’t kill her,” he said, handing me a clean hanky from his pocket.
“Thanks a lot,” I blubbered. “I know your opinion will carry oodles of weight with an unbiased jury. That is, if there’s one left in the state.”
“What’s Caleb doing about it?”
“Doing about it? Absolutely nothing to help me, that’s for sure.”
“There, there, don’t cry,” he said, awkwardly patting my shoulder.
I told him the rest of it, about the burglar, and how he seemed to know who I was and where I lived. “That burglar is obviously the one who killed Patience.”
“You’re not in this on your own, you know. Don’t worry,” he said. “I’ll see what I can find out.”
Then he left me to my misery.
~*~
I sat on the porch waiting for Caleb. What was he up to that he couldn’t tell me on the phone? Was he coming out here to read me my rights? Bring us another psychotic dog? I sniffed and punched down my fears, willing myself to let go of this crazed foreboding. I put my feet up on the rail and tried to let go of the tension. In spite of my commitment to relax, I felt my fingers digging into my palms.
Within another five minutes I had him in my sights between the V I’d made of one boot and a cast. I watched the dot grow from a spot with a dusty tail to a white Ford Crown Victoria as it bumped down our long driveway, his Stetson bobbing with each hit of the potholes.
Caleb took a wicker chair next to me, worked himself into a comfortable position and said, “Do you know how much I enjoy sitting here? I love this place. It’s like an oasis.”
“Yeah, and just like an oasis, its edges are being eaten up every time another real estate agent comes out with an offer that Noah can’t seem to refuse. At this rate we’ll have nothing to fly out of and my inheritance will be that row of tacky tract houses you see over there. Barbecues in every backyard stinking up my country air.”
