A Dead Red Oleander (The Dead Red Mystery series)

by RP Dahlke

  Roxanne looked at me sideways, but let it go. "Except for that nice-looking young man who followed you inside. What's up with him?"

  "That's the U.S. marshal assigned to her case."

  "I thought you said she was out of the program."

  "She is, but after the break-in at our house, the marshal took time off so he could look out for her."

  Roxanne glanced at Jim Balthrop again, and tapped her fingernails on the counter to show me she knew I wasn't being entirely honest. "So what's next for her?"

  "Me?" Nancy said, sliding up on to her stool. "I'm going to hike Kilimanjaro, swim with the whales off Baja, learn how to surf, drive race cars. At least, I will if …."

  As the tears spilled down her cheeks, Roxanne reached over and hugged her.

  My cell jingled a merry tune. Caleb. I answered. "What's up?"

  Nancy watched my face, hoping for some good news. I nodded for her to wait, then nodded again, did a thumbs-up, and said good-bye to Caleb.

  She expelled a sigh. "Then it wasn't the oleander?"

  "The good news is that there wasn't enough of the oleander toxin in his system to kill him, even with his heart condition."

  She put a hand over her heart as if to keep it from beating out of her chest. "Is there bad news?"

  "The ME found a recent injection site."

  "Arthur was diabetic. He injected himself every day."

  "Diabetic? First he's got a heart condition, now he's diabetic?" I squeaked. "None of this was on his physical. You should've told me!"

  Nancy's face crumbled. "He was asthmatic, too. He was only going to be flying for a few short months. I didn't… we didn't think it would matter."

  "Jeeez, Nancy, I'm sorry to yell at you, but if Arthur had died in a plane crash, and he had health issues, our insurance wouldn't pay. We could've been sued or worse, prosecuted for negligence."

  "Arthur wasn't thinking about anything except what he wanted. His aero-ag journeyman's ticket, his dream job. I went along with it because I owed him. Now I wish—isn't that Detective Rodney?"

  We turned and watched as the detective wove through the tables to our end of the counter.

  "Nancy Einstein. I need you to come downtown."

  She jerked off the stool, her eyes wide and frightened. "Now? Are you arresting me?"

  "That hasn't been decided yet. But we have more questions."

  I noticed all eyes were upon the detective. Everyone's, that is, except Jim Balthrop's. He kept his head in a newspaper. "Please, will you allow me to drive her to your office, Detective?"

  I thought he was about to object, then he seemed to reconsider. Of course he would; I'd become the police chief's new best friend.

  "Awright," he growled, looking at his watch. "Be there in half an hour." He turned on his heel and left, leaving a trail of body odor and fearful doubt in the wake.

  Nancy shuddered as she brushed one hand across her damp forehead. "I could be arrested. That injection site, he was diabetic. Do you think they'll believe me?" I put my arm around her shoulders and pulled her along to the door where Jim waited.

  Outside, he leaned into the car to talk to us.

  "He must have results from the toxicology report. I'm calling Caleb. We'll meet you there. The problem is the DA. He's already dismissed one assault charge, but now that he's aware of her participation in WitSec, he may not allow bail."

  Nancy sat wide-eyed and mute with shock.

  I put the key in the ignition. "Jim, if she's arrested, do you know of any good lawyers?"

  "The best criminal lawyer in the state owes me a favor. If, for some reason this meeting with the detective goes south, I've got him on speed dial."

  I had to remind Nancy to buckle up. Life as a cropduster's wife is tough, at best, and the divorce rate was right up there with test pilots. Add Arthur's health problems to her resentment of the time he spent at his dream job while she withered in a tacky motel, and all could be motive for murder. Which would be ironic, since her godfather's partners were intent on killing her as well.

  Chapter Thirteen:

  Jim Balthrop must keep an attorney in his trunk to get him to the Modesto police station so fast. Both men met us at the steps, and Caleb bounded up behind them.

  We all trooped into the station and Caleb escorted us to an assigned meeting room to wait for the detective. Twenty minutes past the time of our meeting, Detective Rodney sauntered in and, without apologizing for his tardiness, sat down, opened a file, turned on a video recorder, and repeated the case number, time, and date.

  "For the record," he said, "your married name is Nancy Treat?"

  When she nodded, he asked that she speak the words, for the record.

  "You said there was an injection site, Detective. Arthur was diabetic, that's why you found evidence of an injection."

  The detective consulted some notes. "Yes, the medical examiner confirmed older injection sites, and that he was diabetic. Did he typically inject his medication into his left bicep?"

  "Never. He always did it on his right or left thigh."

  "And did he have a set time?"

  "Yes, twice a day. Morning and night."

  "And are you left-handed?"

  "Yes, but what does that have to do—"

  He held up a plastic bag with a small syringe in it. "We found this at your home. Do you recognize this syringe, Mrs. Treat?"

  The attorney pointed at the evidence bag. "That could have fallen out of a trash bag."

  Nancy shook her head. "No. We never disposed of syringes in the garbage. They have to go into a special container and go back to the pharmacy." She reached for the bag. "Let me see that."

  The detective held it away from her reach, but then put it on the table so that she could see through the plastic and around the opaque label.

  "It could've been one of his," she said, peering at the syringe, "but there's no way he would've left a used syringe lying around."

  "Well," the attorney said, getting to his feet. "If you don't have anything else, we'll be leaving."

  Detective Rodney stopped the attorney. "Then you deny ever seeing this syringe before?"

  Nancy grasped the edge of the table, her knuckles whitened with the effort. "How the hell should I know? They all look alike."

  Rodney leaned across the table, his eyes intently watching hers. "It has your prints on it."

  "So what? I handled all of his medical supplies!" She pushed the bag with its incriminating evidence across the table and turned away.

  The detective leaned closer to her, his beady eyes lasering through hers for a sign of guilt. "Phenol was found in this syringe and in your husband's body."

  Her eyes widened. "Phenol! What the hell is that?"

  Jim Balthrop reached out and grasped her hand. "It's a compound used in some cleaning solutions. It's also lethal poison. Some states use it in a cocktail to execute convicted murderers, but not in California."

  "But I wouldn't know what phenol is, much less where to get it. Don't you see, someone is trying to frame me!"

  "Based on the evidence of both the poison and your prints on the weapon used to inject it into the victim, I'm arresting you for the murder of your husband, Dewey Treat, also known as Arthur Einstein." Then he reeled off her Miranda rights while a woman police officer stepped up to place Nancy in cuffs.

  Rodney noted the exact time the interview was completed and switched off the video recorder.

  We all stood, talking at once, Jim and I arguing over who was going to post bail, the attorney asking how soon the court case could be heard, while the detective made noises about getting her processed. Caleb gently herded us out the door.

  The attorney promised to find out about a hearing and bail, if any, and hurried away. In the hallway, Jim Balthrop wiped a hand across his day-old beard. "She's right. This is a frame-up."

  Caleb had been quiet until now. "Any thoughts you would like to share on that, Jim?"

  The marshal shook his head. "I only know she
didn't kill Arthur. The girl just doesn't have it in her."

  What Caleb didn't say was as clear as if he'd said it out loud. Did Jim Balthrop have it in him to kill Arthur?

  "I have a question, Jim," I said. "Did you think Nancy and Arthur were happily married?"

  The marshal's lips tightened as if he couldn't control his disapproval. "I heard it was a rush job. They had to make a decision, either go together as man and wife, or be separated, and separation is permanent. The program is very strict on the subject of no interaction with family or friends of any stripe."

  "Then you don't think they should've married?"

  He looked away, unable to meet my eyes. "I've never been married so it's not my place to speculate on why anyone chooses to get married—or not. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go see what I can do about bail."

  I grabbed his arm before he could leave. "Wait. My dad and I promised to post her bail."

  "For murder one? That'll be a hefty fee."

  "Are you saying the government changed its mind and decided to keep her in the program?"

  "I'm sorry, no. They've wiped their hands of any further involvement. I'm taking full responsibility for her bail, if she can get it. If only I could get my hands on that Jack Lee Carton …." With a shake of his head, he turned, and with long strides, pushed through the door to the stairs.

  "Couldn't wait for the elevator," I said. "That is one unhappy man. Notice anything else?"

  "Nancy may not know anything about phenol as a poison, but he does."

  I tilted my face up to his. "Glad to see it's not just me."

  "He knows about phenol and he's in love with her. Not a good combination for a federal marshal."

  I shook my head. "And for that very reason, I don't think he did it. Leave a syringe with the poison in her house for the police to find? Not Jim, not if it meant Nancy might be accused. He'd do it some other way. No, I don't think he killed Arthur. Any other leads?"

  "Nope. Bud doesn't remember anything about the stranger Mad Dog met in his bar."

  "Uh-huh. Bud has allergies, and they seem to get worse when he's around cops. Besides, if there's one thing I know about Bud, you have to ask the right questions to get an answer out of him."

  "Don't even think about it, or you're going to step on Detective Rodney's toes."

  "I could use a beer and a talk with an old friend who used to work in the industry."

  "Then I'll go with you."

  For a minute, a nasty thought popped up. The last time I shared my suspicions with Caleb, he shared it with Detective Rodney, and the wrong suspect was arrested. But that was then, and this was now. I would have to quell my suspicious nature, since we'd promised to work on our trust. Besides, if you can't trust the person you're about to marry, you shouldn't marry him.

  So I thanked him and lied. "I don't have time to go see Bud right now, anyway."

  His eyes flickered over my face, looking for the "tell" that said I was going to withhold any evidence from his investigation. I must be getting better at it, because before he left, he kissed me and told me he was glad to see that I was finally making sense.

  Chapter Fourteen:

  Bud's Bar squatted on a dusty corner of a nearly abandoned strip mall in Turlock. A neon biplane mounted on the top of the building identified the bar as the place for pilots and wanna-be pilots. I expected to be the only woman in the place at this time of day.

  Women, the ones who loved pilots for fun or profit, were more likely to show up on the weekends. By closing time, most of the men would have divided their paychecks between drinks and something that passed for an hour's worth of affection.

  I pushed through the wooden doors and strolled to the end of the bar, getting glances and a few nods, though whether from appreciation of my feminine curves or because I was in the aero-ag business was hard to tell, since dark and anonymous was the color of choice for Bud's.

  Bud worked his way down the bar, taking orders, commenting on the weather, refilling someone's glass from the tap, until he finally got to me.

  "Welcome back, Ms. Bains." His smile lifted his hound dog jowls a bit, though it didn't quite reach his very intelligent eyes. "I seem to recall you liked Miller draft, am I right?"

  "Thanks, that will be perfect."

  He pulled the beer, leaving a small head of foam, set it down on a paper napkin and propped his hands on the bar, indicating the next move was mine.

  "I don't suppose I need to tell you why I'm here."

  "You know me, Ms. Bains, I'm always glad to help if I can," he said, waiting.

  Bud was an enigmatic Rubik's Cube. Ask the right question and it would unlock his very able mind to all sorts of interesting trivia. Ask the wrong question, one that went with supposition and gossip, and he was just as likely to take his dishrag from under the counter and go back to putting a shine on the bar. Add to it any mention of Detective Rodney and it might start up a sneezing fit.

  "You see my chief pilot, Mad Dog, in here lately?"

  He grunted a laugh and started wiping the bar.

  "Okay, okay. Did you see him four nights ago with a stranger?"

  "Let me make it easy on both of us, Miss Bains. He was here the night of your barbeque, and he came in one more time after that. I haven't seen him since. I never met the other pilot, sorry to hear he died, though I heard you foiled a kidnapping attempt on the wife."

  "Yes, I did. I shot one in the leg, and hog-tied the other for the police."

  "Two of them, huh?"

  "Yes, and not for public consumption yet, okay? About the night of the barbeque, did Mad Dog come in alone?"

  Bud looked over my shoulder, as if counting ghostly impressions of that night's clientele. He nodded in the affirmative, waiting for the next question.

  "But he met up with someone?" At his nod, I asked, "Here at the bar?" He nodded again. I took a sip of courage and plowed on to the next question. "Do you think you could describe the guy to me?"

  "I can do better than that. I got a picture of him on my cell phone," he said, pulling his cell out of a back pocket. "One of the regulars wanted a picture of his pretty girlfriend." He scrolled through the pictures until he found the right one and slid it across so that I could see. "This is the guy, next to the girlfriend. Looks surprised and none too pleased, don't he?"

  I squinted at the photo. It would look better on my computer. "Can you e-mail this to me?"

  "Sure thing," he said, and after I gave him my e-mail address, he clicked a button, and it was done. Still looking at the picture on his cell, he said, "Think he's the same guy who broke into your house?"

  "I don't know. He and his partner were masked. The police took away the one guy I caught. Larry Bonneville. Ever hear of him?"

  "Sure. I quit serving him a couple years ago. I hear he's taken his considerable business to a bar in Riverbank."

  "Would you know the name of the place?"

  He ignored my question. We both knew why. A biker bar in Riverbank was no place for Lalla Bains. "I didn't see this guy as someone who was trouble until he made a grab for my cell phone."

  That got my attention. "Was he aggressive about it?"

  "He acted drunk. Said he wanted to see if the girl was as pretty in a photo as she was in person. I know an act when I see one. I put my cell in my back pocket, stepped out of his reach, and kept an eye on him. It wasn't more than five minutes later, he and Mad Dog left."

  "Bud, he may come back for your cell phone."

  "I'm not worried, but he's not someone you want to tangle with, Miss Bains."

  "I already got him in the leg."

  "Which leg you shoot him in?"

  "The left. Why?"

  "First guy come in here favoring his left, I'll haul out my shotgun and shoot him in the other leg. How's that?"

  It was so much hubris and we both knew it, but Bud wasn't giving up his cell phone or his dignity for anyone.

  <><><><><>

  Back at the ranch, my father, Cousin Pearlie
, and Aunt Mae were sitting around the kitchen table. The women were snapping the strings off fresh green beans. My dad seemed to be perfectly content to sit in the kitchen, reading his paper and ignoring the feminine conversation flowing around him like water over pebbles in a stream. I knew better.

  He took no notice of me, but Cousin Pearlie and Aunt Mae demanded a recount of the day. I should start texting them—it would save time.

  "Do you think she'll get bail?" asked Pearlie.

  "It will depend on whether or not Jim Balthrop can convince the judge she's not a flight risk. By the way, where is Jim?"

  Pearlie sighed. "Visiting hours at the jail, I believe he said," She could afford to be magnanimous now that her perceived rival was in jail. "Poor thing. Losing you're her husband and her identity. I can relate since someone stole my identity not once but twice."

  My dad let one edge of his paper drop as he examined Pearlie over his reading glasses. "I thought you looked different."

  Aunt Mae snorted, and Pearlie threw a green bean at him. It bounced off his paper and landed on the table.

  I scooped up the bean and dropped it into the bowl. "I'm going to take a shower and a nap," I said. "Supper at five?"

  The girls agreed on the hour, and I hurried up stairs, anxious to take a look at my e-mails.

  Sure enough, there was the digital image attached to an e-mail from Bud. The man's face was partially in shadow, but the side that I could see was of an even-featured, nondescript white male—except for that one dark eye piercing through the screen of my computer, into my room, stabbing me with an animosity that took my breath away. I clicked on Caleb's e-mail address, forwarded it to him, then slammed the laptop shut, cutting off the penetrating connection, the one that said he knew who I was and where I lived, and he could come take me out anytime he got around to it.

  Too keyed up to rest, and anxious to hear Caleb's voice, I called and told him what I was sending him.

  "Yes, I know I said I wasn't going to Bud's, but I got thirsty. Besides, you're going to thank me when you see the picture of this guy. You'll put it on the national criminal database won't you?"

  "Oh, I don't know. You sure you don't want to come into town and do it yourself?"