by Lois Winston
“Sheriff Stone here.”
“Put the phone down, please,” the judge said.
I jerked to my feet, guiltily dropping the phone onto the bed. “I, uh, had to make a phone call,” I said. Even I thought it sounded lame.
“We both know there’s a perfectly good phone in the kitchen. Where’s the dog?”
He looked around the room while the setting sun sent light rays shooting off his glasses like laser beams.
“Spike?” I asked woodenly. I swallowed and tried again. “The little Chihuahua?”
His former friendly manner disappeared in an instant. This Judge Griffin was becoming increasingly annoyed. “Yes! Patience’s little brown dog, Spike, where is he?”
Hoping Caleb was listening and I wouldn’t have to explain later that a Chihuahua was the main witness to Patience’s murder, I asked weakly, “Why—why is he afraid of you, Judge?”
He unclenched the fists and, taking a deep breath, tried unsuccessfully to put back the mask. “Now, now, Lalla, my dear. Give me the dog. Patience wanted me to have him, you see. I didn’t know where he’d gone to, that’s all.”
Patience wanted the judge to have him? The dog obviously had other ideas about that. He’d done everything he could to telegraph his fear of this man. It was obvious—Spike had seen the judge murder his mistress and because of his size, gone unnoticed until, taking his cue from an open door, he scrammed. And that was why he was found outside on the doorstep of a neighbor.
I suddenly felt the blood leave my head and drop down to my toes. I didn’t know if I could lift a hand to defend myself, much less defend Spike. I gulped, peeked at the open cell phone I’d dropped on the bed and prayed that Caleb was still listening while he signaled for a SWAT team, one with sirens blasting, lights whirling, to race to our rescue.
Then I took a shaky breath and, hoping I was right about Caleb, said, “So, when you say you mean to take Spike, you really mean that you’re going to get rid of the only witness to your murder of his mistress, right?”
The judge looked at me like I’d lost a few marbles. “Of course. Why else would I want the little monster. Everyone knows he’s too dangerous to keep. He’ll have to be put down.”
If I was going to die, I thought, envisioning friends and family gathered at my funeral, at least Caleb would finally admit who solved this mystery. Maybe my tombstone would say, “Forever Grateful.” I gulped down my fear and, dry-mouthed, asked for an explanation. “Wha—what did that nice lady ever do to you?”
Satisfied we were alone, and evidently unaware of the cell phone connection, he said, “Now you’re doing it again. You have to ask the right questions, Lalla. Oh, all right then. Every answer to the whereabouts of that money went back to Patience McBride.”
“Well, that’s commendable of you, Judge,” I said, wondering if they would allow a color guard at my interment, since I was better at solving crimes than the idiot detectives Rodney and sidekick. I pushed around the cotton I now had for brains and worked to keep him talking until the cavalry arrived. “How—how does your niece figure into all this?”
“See? I knew you were a clever girl. Figured that out from her photo at my home, did you? The long, red curly hair, like my wife’s? Autumn O’Sullivan. I gag when I think of that silly stage name. She was my wife’s namesake, Alexandra. So as not to have two Lexys in the family, my niece was Sandy.”
“You put her and Garth together?”
“Playing Cupid, you mean? Seduction was a way of life for our lovely Alexandra. And with her abundant charms, I was betting she’d have Garth in her back pocket within a week. It took her two days. She was to work him for a loan, for which I knew he’d have to ask his aunt. All I needed Autumn to do was confirm that Patience still had the money. I’d do the rest. But naturally, Autumn got bored, as she always does, and when he caught her fooling around with some other hillbilly, all bets were off. I told her to leave well enough alone, go to Hollywood, I’d take care of the rest and send her share. But, of course, she didn’t want that. She had to have her share now. The now generation, that was our Sandy.”
By the time I met her, Autumn’s nerves were unraveling faster than a ball of string. She must have gotten a sample of the judge’s frightening temper, but instead of skedaddling to Hollywood as she should have, she’d allowed herself to be talked into one last scene in which to redeem herself. She would get Garth arrested, get his and her share, then make tracks for that hair commercial. The scenario she created for my benefit—that she was afraid of Garth—placed herself in just the right position to get herself killed. Only I guessed wrong. It wasn’t Garth she was terrified of, it was Judge Griffin.
“You made her come to me, like she was a witness to Garth murdering his aunt, then killed her so you could pin it all on Garth—why kill her?”
“Why? Because we had an agreement!” he shouted.
He rubbed a hand over his face, scrubbing at the rage that had given him away. “I used to have such a temper. Spent years getting it under control.” Then, in a voice used to instruct twelve-year-olds, he said, “You don’t understand. I was trustee for my family’s estate and it was my responsibility to make sure it was well invested. Most of it went south when the stock market tanked, and Eddy McBride stole the rest.” His voice picked up a whine, not unlike that of his niece. “It was my money. Losing it killed my sister. God rest her soul, died of a broken heart—well, cancer actually—but the same thing, really.”
I don’t think he knew that Patience had taken Bill Hollander’s money, but I wasn’t going to be the one to tell him now. “You were Bill Hollander’s silent partner.”
“And why not?” he asked, calmly pulling at his suspenders. “Someone had to bankroll his enterprise. Better a friend than an enemy.”
If my tongue wasn’t stuck to the roof of my mouth, I would’ve laughed. I swallowed hard and plunged on. “Then you knew Eddy didn’t murder his wife.”
He dismissed my comment with a wave of his hand. “Bill drank, you know. Disgusting vice, alcohol. The lout was too drunk to tell me who had taken the money. One simply can’t let that sort of behavior go unpunished.”
“You used the garrotte, knowing it would incriminate Eddy because he repaired pianos for a living. So Bill called you and told you the money for the deal had been stolen. You made up the weapon you used to do it before you got there. You planned to kill him.”
“Bill was a lush and drunks make lousy business partners. I saw it as an expedient solution to a nasty predicament. I made up that garrote and left it in a dumpster outside. For a while there, I thought I might have to leak it to the press that it was made of a piano wire, but then someone in the department finally noticed, and Eddy’s fate was sealed.”
“I wondered why you did such a lousy job defending him.”
“Not that it did me any good. It took me another twenty years to find where my money went.”
“But why involve my dad?”
“Eddy needed a lawyer, and I needed to be able to handle him from the start of the trial. Your father was easy. All I had to do was hint that the poor boy wouldn’t get a proper defense with a public defender.”
So, not even the judge knew why my dad paid for Eddy’s defense. Not the real reason, anyway. He thought my dad an easy mark. Boy, was he in for a surprise.
Oh, my God! Noah! “What—what did you do to my father?”
“Nothing for you to worry about, my dear. He’s taking a nap.” He produced a small vial from one pocket, and a neatly folded white hanky from the other. Uncorking the vial, he shook out a few drops. Obviously this was the chloroform he’d used to subdue Autumn, and what he served my dad instead of the lasagna. My knees knocked and I raked damp hands across my jeans, searching wildly for a way out.
He took a step closer, his voice low and soothing. “It’s not painful. Don’t be frightened.” I took a step back from the hand holding the cloth.
“Not painful?” I squeaked. “Like it wasn’t painful to Autu
mn when you stabbed her?”
“If she had done as she was told instead of trying to double-cross me, she’d be alive today. Well, maybe not.” Like something out of a horror movie, he seemed to glide toward me on rollers, and, of course, I played my part as the scatterbrained, wide-eyed cord of deadwood victim. I was disgusted with myself, but I couldn’t seem to help it. My knees turned to jelly and I dissolved onto the bed, where my arms hung limply at my sides. I looked down at the cell phone, hoping Caleb had gotten all of this and was now on his way. But I was horrified to see that somehow the phone had snapped shut and was now disconnected. I could only hope and pray that Caleb had heard enough to know I was in trouble. A lot of trouble.
A voice from below called my name. I hadn’t heard the door open, but then we never actually locked the front door anyway. Anybody could walk in, neighbors, farmers, friends—and murderers. The last thing Maya would ever think to do before entering our house was ring the doorbell.
“Yoo-hoo! Aunt Lalla? You up there?”
She must have heard our voices from downstairs.
Maya. My sweet Maya was in the house, oh God, oh God. Now what was I going to do?
He turned toward her voice. He still had the vial and hanky in his hand, but now he was poised to grab Maya and give her the first dose.
Her voice grew louder as she climbed the stairs. “Aunt Lalla? What’s going on? Did you know your dad is sound asleep with his head in a plate of lasagna? Where are you?”
Then she was standing with hands on hips, pretty head cocked, giving the judge and me a quizzical stare. “What on earth is going on?”
He took a step toward Maya and I stood up. A better wakeup call for my miserable cowardly quaking, I couldn’t imagine. With my head down, I ran at him, butting him from behind with my shoulder and knocking him off his feet. His arms windmilled in a futile effort to counterbalance the fall, but the bedroom rug flipped out from under him, and with a resounding thud, he hit the polished oak floor and was out cold.
Maya stood open-mouthed, looking down at the fallen judge. “What the—?”
“It’s okay, honey. The judge is the bad guy,” I said, stepping over the inert form to hug her. “That crack he took on his head should keep him out of commission for as long as it will take to call the cops. You go downstairs and see if you can wake up Noah, and I’ll…”
At least that’s what I was hoping for until Maya’s eyes grew wide and she gasped, “Look out!”
I felt a smelly rag pressing against my nose and mouth.
I struggled under the saturated cloth, then slipped out of his grasp and fell ungracefully to the floor.
My last thoughts were for Maya. Maya—what would he do to Maya?
TWENTY-THREE
Just like old times, my mother, dad, brother and I are snuggled together under plaid blankets in front of a campfire; we’re roasting marshmallows and singing silly campfire songs. My mother starts a round of “Scotland’s Burning.”
“Come on, everybody. You too, Lalla.”
“Mom?” She’s wearing the diamond earrings my dad bought her the Christmas before she died. The little suitcase is there, the one I used for sleepovers. The one she had by her side when I found her. It also looked suspiciously like the one I found in Garth’s motor home. “Is that Eddy’s stolen money?” I ask.
“That doesn’t matter now,” she says, calmly unconcerned about the past. “We’re having fun, aren’t we, dear?” She looks fondly at my dad as he pushes another gooey burned marshmallow off a stick and pops it into his mouth.
My brother nudges my dad and dutifully they begin the first round. “Scotland’s burning, Scotland’s burning, look yonder, look yonder, fire, fire! Fire, fire! Pour water, pour water!” They jerk up out of their folding camp chairs, arms waving in mock alarm, singing, “Pour water! Pour water.”
“But, Mom,” I try again. “You never said why you did it. Why you left us. And your note—what did it mean?”
My mother smiles sadly at me. “The note was for your father, Lalla. Ask him.”
The judge said the same thing. Ask your father. Why can’t anyone give me a straight answer?
My mother’s singing voice disappeared into black clef notes woven into the twining roses on her bedroom wallpaper. Wow. I never noticed that before.
Now I’m eleven years old, standing by her bed, looking down at her peaceful face. My mother is at rest at last. I’m holding the note in my hand, the one I later destroyed, knowing that her being sorry wasn’t going to be enough for the rest of us. Opening the suitcase, I put her silk underwear back into her drawer, slide the small case under the bed, and go downstairs to wait for my dad and brother to come home.
My mother waves to me from where she sits beside the campfire. I give up on the unresolved heartache and gamely croak along with the next stanza. “Pour water, pour water.”
Then my mother does something really strange. She cups her hands around her mouth, and as if from across a deep crevasse, yells, “Lalla! Get up! The house is on fire!”
~*~
What? Who said that? And why am I choking on 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 I wanted to jump and risk breaking my newly healed foot all over again. 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. When you get 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 had said he was still at the dining table when she came in. I put a 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 open 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. It was 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 my dad 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 the flames and thought I’d better make sure everyone was out. 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.
