Sleuthing Women

by Lois Winston

  He looked suspiciously at the guys at the end of the bar.

  The two men gave us a bored look. One of them held up his empty and said, “When you get a minute?”

  Bud nodded and, secure in the knowledge that there were no hovering spies, said, “Don’t you believe what that Port’age Machado told the press in that last interview. Bobby wasn’t careless with his equipment.”

  I leaned closer and nodded that he should continue.

  “Oh, he had a couple of forced landings all right—neither were his fault. He went over every one of the planes before he took ‘em up. He had his mechanics license as an A&P: that’s Airframe and Powerplant. It’s the FAA license required to work on these babies,” he explained, then blinked. “Oh, yeah, sorry. I forgot. Don’t mean to sound sexist er nothin’. It’s just that not many women are Ag pilots, much less mechanics.”

  “My A&P was purely meant for my own self-preservation.” I dismissed the apology with a wave of my hand. “You think somebody did it to shut him up so he wouldn’t be able to testify? But he was a witness for the prosecution, and Eddy was already in jail, soo-o—Oh. Machado?”

  Bud’s eyebrows rose a fraction as he swiped at the counter and waited for me to make the connection.

  Then something else struck me. “You think Bobby Norquist was going to change his mind and implicate Machado?”

  “Look at the facts: Machado let some of his guys go before the end of the season. I had to quit anyway, allergies were giving me fits. I bought this place, and then the rumors started. Machado’s having a turnaround, he’s got new Ag-Cats, business for Machado is good, better’n anybody else’s.”

  “Did you know John Machado now owns Hollander Chemicals?”

  “Yeah, and I know he sells more than Benlate.”

  “Want to clarify that statement?” I asked, thinking of Machado’s suspicious manager, the loaders without respirators, and the late hour they were working.

  Bud shook his head. “Look, I try real hard not to care anymore. Bob’s dead, and now so’s his wife. I figure nothing I got to say is going to change that.”

  “I hate to think this guy’s giving all of us a black eye if he’s running drugs. If it made a difference now, would you give a statement to the police?”

  “I already asked a lawyer when all this came up again. It wouldn’t do any good coming from me. But,” he added shrewdly, looking at me with those spaniel eyes, “you come up with something to pin a tail on that donkey and I will. Yes indeed, I sure will.”

  “Thanks for your help, Bud.” I laid down a five for the beer, but he pushed it back toward me.

  “It’s on me, young lady. I put in a bid on that Caddy you got when it came up for sale. At the time I thought it was just bad luck, since I lost it to some hotshot car dealer in town. But now that I think of it, it seems to me I’m the one who got off lucky. That Caddy seems to be nothin’ but bad luck.”

  I thanked him for the information and the beer. Unlike some people I knew, Buddy didn’t seem to see anything wrong with me working on the investigation. If John Machado was Bill Hollander’s partner in drug smuggling, then he also was the most likely person to sabotage Bobby Norquist’s Ag plane to keep him from testifying. And if the police had completely missed interviewing Buddy Rutland, they surely missed out on the potential connection to John Machado.

  I got back into the rental, slapped at the vents on the AC and hoped to God I got home before my kneecaps iced up. When I pulled out of the parking lot, I noticed another car pulling out onto Geer Road behind me. With the westerly sun in my eyes, I couldn’t make out the driver, but I could see the car. It was white and, from where I sat, looked like a Ford Tempo. Was it my part-time stalker? Or somebody sent by John Machado to silence the nosy-girl crop duster who should be minding her own business? Either way, my antenna was up.

  Gunning the engine, I pushed the sluggish accelerator down and maxed out at fifty-five, whizzing past Stanislaus State College and several new subdivisions at warp zero. I charged up the freeway on-ramp and then got stuck behind a chain of bored commuters, every single one of them looking for that elusive one-car advantage.

  The white car was keeping its distance two cars away. Who was following me? I knew, and Machado knew, OSHA would have something to say about his crew working without respirators. But OSHA might be the least of his worries if the authorities caught him running drugs at night. Would he send someone after me to silence the witness? You betcha!

  I called the sheriff’s office. Caleb wasn’t in, nor could Dispatch find him. When asked if I wanted to leave a message, I told them never mind. Not yet. At least, not until I was sure I was being followed and by whom.

  At my exit, I peeled off the freeway, taking the ramp at sixty and causing a wrinkle in the line of cars as they slammed on their brakes. Behind me, furious that their tight formation was broken, commuters honked and waved fisted digits at me. At the stop sign, I noted the number of cars patiently waiting, held my breath, and flew through the intersection. Exhilarated that I’d made the leap unscathed, I hunched over the wheel and aimed for the long stretch of road to home.

  I looked in the rearview mirror and almost lost my grip on the wheel. The white car was nosing up to my bumper.

  “No!” I cried, frantic for a way to get away from this car crowding me. But I couldn’t get away, and I couldn’t pull off the road either. In preparation for crop irrigation, a low wall of earthen dikes had been run up parallel to both sides of the road. It cut off any chance of an emergency roadside stop. I couldn’t leave the road without hitting an embankment or flipping the car. It went on like this for miles, forcing me to stay right where I was. There was no escape. I looked back to see the car’s left turn signal calmly beating a steady rhythm.

  How stupid could I get? He only wanted to pass. This entire exercise was due to nothing more than another exhausted commuter not paying a lot of attention to his driving.

  I eased off the accelerator, rolled down the window, and indicating it was safe, waved him ahead.

  When he pulled out into the passing lane, I breathed a sigh of relief. “Yeah,” I said out loud, “that’s it, pass me up.”

  But instead of leaving me in his wake, he pulled up to my rear bumper and stayed. There was no one in the opposite lane, so why didn’t he pass?

  “Come on, don’t be a dweeb, pass!” I was beginning to sweat, and those bees were starting up again in my ears. I swiveled around to glare at the driver. It looked like a man, cowboy hat pulled low over his brow. “Get away from me, you nutcase!” I yelled, motioning for him to go around.

  He must have seen my nervous wave and decided it was safe to pass.

  I huffed out a sigh, and motioned him to pass. I took my eyes off the rear view mirror and that’s when I felt the impact. My wheel jerked, pulling it out of my sweat-slicked hands, and then he backed off to hang on my bumper.

  “You asshole—you hit me!”

  Did he expect me to pull over? Exchange insurance cards? I wasn’t liking the prospect of this scenario; deserted road, no one around to take note and not enough time between a call for help and what he might do to me before the cops showed up. Besides, I couldn’t care less about the little dent in this rent-a-wreck. I punched the gas pedal and watched the car behind me get smaller with the distance. Then it was back hugging my bumper. I couldn’t believe it. Then he swept into the passing lane, yanked his wheel to the right and hit me again, but this time I was ready for him and, though the wheel jerked under my grip, I was able to keep it under control.

  Again, another direct hit at my rear bumper, harder, and I felt the car spin out of control, whirling in circles like a dog chasing its tail, again and again, kicking up dust, until everything outside the windows of my enforced mad carnival ride disappeared behind a wall of choking brown dust.

  Suddenly, with a jolt strong enough to knock my back teeth loose, the car struck something solid, the air bag smashed into my face, and I was choking and coughing and w
aving away the fine, powdery dust seeping through the doors. With trembling hands and tears streaking down my dirty face, I reached out for my purse and cell. Where is the damn thing? Hot and dizzy and feeling the migraine digging in, I gave up on the cell phone and fought my way out from behind the exploded air bag.

  Suddenly claustrophobic, I felt the strongest need to get out, now! Right now!

  I shoved at the door. Stuck. I pushed again, felt it give a bit, then stick again.

  I shoved again—nothing. I was sweating and shoving against the door when it gave a little more.

  I heard a voice through the dirt-smeared window. A dark shape was pulling at the door from the other side, and I thought I could hear his swearing through the buzzing painful headache that was fast becoming a roar inside my head.

  A cowboy hat. He was wearing a cowboy hat, like the driver who hit me.

  Was he here to finish me off? I could feel, rather than see, my vision begin to tunnel as the migraine started to peel away from the back of my head and take over. I could hear him swearing as he pulled at the door, rocking the car, and jarring my screaming nerves.

  Blindly reaching for my purse, I found it under the seat, and clutching it tightly against my chest, I shoved while he pulled, until the door flew open and I swung my purse at him. Still tethered to my seat belt, I fell halfway out, uselessly flailing.

  A man’s voice snarled, there was a glint of a knife, and I cringed away, holding the purse up to protect my face. I felt an iron grip and the voice growled, “Dammit, hold still!” I couldn’t make out the rest of what he was saying through the machine gun firing in my head.

  Then I was falling, falling down a long dark tunnel.

  I came to on the ground beside the car with someone shaking me and trying to force water down my throat.

  Looking up at the man as though through a long tunnel, I blinked. It was Garth. All I could manage was a weak ugh, spitting dust and gurgling water out of the side of my mouth. I pushed him away and struggled to stand.

  He reached down to give me a hand. “Jesus H! I couldn’t believe it was you. You had a major blowout there, darlin’.”

  He helped me up, brushed off the dirt, ran his hands over my shoulders and down my wrists. Then he turned my trembling hands over in his. “Nothin’ broken,” he said, giving me a crooked smile.

  “Where’d you come from?”

  “I was fixin’ to come out to see you. You want to go to the hospital?”

  “No, I’ll be all right. Did you see the car that hit me?”

  “Nobody and nothing to see but this car kicking up a cloud of dust. I didn’t even know it was you until I got out of the car. I expect you got the stuffing knocked out of you by that tree, yonder. I think the tree won, though.”

  I would have to call my insurance tomorrow. Tell them I took out one of Richard Johnston’s prime eight-year-old peach trees.

  “I already called the police,” he said, confirming the sound I heard was not the shriek of the migraine. Sure enough, a sheriff’s car and an ambulance pulled up behind us. Thankfully, the sheriff’s cruiser wasn’t Caleb’s. I could deal with the EMTs.

  “It’s not necessary,” I replied to their offer of a ride to the hospital. I wasn’t concussed, I told them as they flashed a penlight across my pupils, just shook up. The EMTs only released me when I showed them my prescription for Imitrex, tapping out one of the distinctive triangular-shaped tablets, and tossing it back with the water the ambulance crew offered.

  With the EMTs satisfied I was not a druggie, I signed for the tow and accident report, then let Garth lead me to a seventies model yellow Ford Pinto. He opened the door and gently lowered me into the seat. “It has fifteen thousand original miles, and I can just about fit into the driver’s seat, as long as I don’t mind sitting in the trunk.”

  “Where did you find this thing?” I asked, examining the plaid cloth seats.

  “It was in my aunt’s garage. The keys were under the floor mat. I guess she didn’t mind if it got stolen. Guess I don’t much care either, except it’s better than driving my rig around town. Let me take you home.”

  “That would be nice,” I said wearily. “It’s been a long day.” I was still feeling a little shaky and paranoid. Who tried to run me off the road?

  Twenty minutes later, we stood on the veranda. I held a bottle of my dad’s light beer, and Garth had a glass of iced tea.

  “Better?” he asked, giving my shoulder a little squeeze.

  “Yes, thanks,” I said, twisting my head around on my sore neck. “At least my hands have stopped shaking. No lack of excitement around here the last few days. How’re you holding up? Any word from the police?”

  “Nothing yet.” He put down the iced tea and worked at the bunched muscles on my neck. “You said somebody ran you off the road. Do you think it was a drunk, or just some kid in a hurry to get Dad’s car home before it got dark?”

  “I’m not sure what it was all about,” I said, knowing it was a mistake to stand there and accept the soothing work he was doing on my muscles, but I was still too shaky to bother to object. “I do have some news for you. Did you know your aunt was not a widow?”

  “Yeah, I’m afraid so. He was in prison, but the news last night said he escaped. They say he’s now wanted for questioning in my aunt’s death.”

  “He broke into our house last night.”

  “That ol’ coot’s a dangerous criminal! So you hog-tied him and he’s now in custody?”

  “Not exactly. Unfortunately, he got away.”

  “You let that little weasel get away, or did the sheriff let him slip again?” His sour look said he thought it more likely the sheriff.

  “I’m afraid it was my father who let him go.”

  He threw back his head and laughed. “Your dad? Well, darlin’, I sure wish I’d been there to see it.” Then his voice went serious. “That ol’ boy was nothing but a lot of trouble to my Aunt Patience. I sure hope they catch him soon.”

  My brother’s voice whispered in my ear, “The pot calling the kettle black.” I shook my head and brushed away the ghostly laughter. “At least the cops now know he’s still in the area.”

  Garth didn’t seem particularly upset that Eddy was loose. Nor that Eddy might be looking for him. Instead, he seemed to have something else on his mind. He rubbed a hand across a freshly shaved chin and said, “You remember when I told you someone turned me in? I been thinkin’ it ain’t my ex, why put me in jail when she gets child support, right? Autumn coulda done it; it would be like her to create trouble for me.”

  “Autumn?”

  “Yeah, like the season, but not near as gentle. We were engaged for a while, till I caught her wrapped around a trucker. So, before I went off half-cocked like I woulda done before I got sober, I decided to let it ride till I could decide how to break it off. Then, one morning I woke up, and this is stupid, I know, but I could hear this voice in my head sayin’, ‘Autumn leaves, Autumn leaves.’ That was all I needed. I told her I was going to California to see my aunt and I expected her to clear out while I was gone.”

  “So, you think she took it hard and called the cops to get back at you?”

  “Well, I did cancel the credit card I gave her, and I had her new Mustang picked up. It was leased, thank God.”

  “Wow! I can understand how she would be upset… a new Mustang. Now me, I’d’ve trashed your house, sprayed bad words all over your truck, and told the girls in town you were a switch hitter.” His intake of breath made me laugh. “I know, I know. Could there be anything worse than having a cute young thing accuse a red-blooded heterosexual male like you of being gay?”

  “Man, oh man, you sure are a pistol, darlin’,” he said, amusement twinkling in the brown eyes. “I think I’d rather be tossed in jail than have that rumor go around.”

  Then I remembered Eddy and his comment about a redhead coming out of Garth’s RV and asked, “Would she follow you out here?”

  “I don’t think she’d co
me all the way out here simply to make a point. The girl’s bone-lazy. No, she’s more’n likely to pick up the phone and make a call. That would be more her style.” He looked at his watch. “Changing the subject, I know you got to get up early, so how ‘bout we go into town for dinner?”

  “Oh, gosh, I wish I had the time. I’ve put off my paperwork all day. Maybe tomorrow?”

  “Tomorrow then,” he said, and giving me a meaningful look, took my face between his hands and kissed me. It was quick and then over, a friendly overture that said he knew I was exhausted, but there was the invitation all the same.

  I stood on the veranda, looking out at the twilight, thinking about Garth. There was enough of his story to be believable and I could empathize; I’d had my share of wayward lovers. Jorge, being Latin, considered it his duty to seduce my girlfriends when I was on assignment. Ricky, however, was the worst, and revenge being my middle name, look where it got him.

  SEVENTEEN

  The western Sierras were edged crisp with reds and purples from sun long gone over the side. I patted the cool radial engines and checked the tread on the tires, then meandered between the other aircraft, quietly waiting for tomorrow’s workday. I uncapped the gas tanks, sank a fuel stick down into the holes, swished it around, and satisfied that my ground crew had done their job, went inside the office. I stacked work orders for the next day and blew some dust off the desk. Calling it a night, I locked the office door and walked to the house.

  It must be dinnertime because Caleb’s truck was parked in front. He’d be here because of today’s mishap—a single-car accident, I’d told the deputy. Must’ve hit a pothole. It was a rental car, steering was iffy. More than likely, Caleb didn’t believe any of it.

  Sure enough, there they were at the dinner table, shoveling in Juanita’s seven-layer Mexican casserole. Caleb looked to have been carrying a trunk load of worries while I had just one. “We don’t have another dead body, do we?” I asked, calmly loading up my plate.

  My dad grunted at my rude behavior.

  “Sorry, Noah. Seeing a sheriff’s car in front of my house, even if it is Caleb’s, puts me on edge. Let me try again: Good evening, Caleb. Collect any gunslingers, jaywalkers, or library book rustlers today?”