A Dead Red Oleander (The Dead Red Mystery series)

by RP Dahlke

  She jerked the car into gear, flicked the turn signal for a left, and calmly waited for traffic to clear.

  "What the hell're you waiting for?"

  "Oh, sorry. I guess I was thinking I was driving Granny. She always insists I do it by the book."

  "We're going to have to cut out a few of those pages if we're going to keep him in sight."

  She grinned and floored it, and we were on our way.

  On the freeway heading south, Pearlie managed to keep four cars between us and Mad Dog, but I was also worried we might lose him in the traffic.

  "Oh, relax, will you? I got him. Besides, he's got that busted left taillight. There! He's turning off. Is this the way to Fresno?"

  "No, this is Merced," I said, perplexed at the unexpected exit. "Slow down, Pearlie. It's a small town and he'll see us if we don't stay back."

  Mad Dog slowed to the twenty-five mile an hour speed limit. Looking for an unfamiliar street? Then he sped up to the next block, tapped his brakes, and turned onto a side street. I told Pearlie to double back at the next light. When we turned onto the street, Pearlie slammed her fist on the wheel. "I knew it, we lost him!"

  "No, we didn't. Look, he's parked and getting out. Drive past and double back."

  This time when we passed by his truck, Mad Dog was walking up the steps to a renovated California cottage.

  "That ain't no hospital."

  "No, and we aren't going to be ringing the doorbell, either. I will write down the address for later," I said, pulling out a spiral notebook and jotting down the house number. I pointed to a muscular white Cadillac Escalade in front of the house next door. "Park here. He won't see us hiding behind this SUV."

  Wire rims, low-profile tires, and extra-dark tint on the windows said the owner was either visiting from LA or he was the local doper.

  With the engine off, Pearlie crossed her arms and sulked. "Now what?"

  "Now we wait."

  "What do you think he's doing in there? It's gotta be a woman. There's flowers and pots on her porch."

  "It could be he stopped by to visit his mother."

  "He told me his folks live in Iowa," she said, reaching for the door. "I'm going to confront him. Right now. Get this over with once and for all."

  I reached out and grabbed her arm. "Don't. This isn't why I invited you to come."

  "What do you mean? We're here to find out if Mad Dog is cheating on me."

  "Sorry, Pearlie, but if Mad Dog said he was going down to Fresno to visit a sick friend, it occurred to me that he might be checking on the guy I shot at our house."

  "Why the hell would he wanna do that?"

  "Because you said he never would've met the guy if he hadn't taken that phone call."

  "Oh, no! You told Caleb, didn't you? Mad Dog finds out, he's gonna hate me!"

  "Pearlie, Mad Dog is sticking to his story that he'd never met the guy before."

  "I mighta known you weren't doing this for me," she said, glaring.

  Exasperated with my selfish cousin, I tried to reason with her. "Pearlie, we're doing this to see if we can find Arthur's killer."

  That snort of hers was beginning to irritate me.

  A movement out the side mirror caught my eye and when I heard a motor start, I turned to look at the opaque windshield on the Cadillac SUV. Unable to see anyone, I shrugged and looked at my watch. "He's been in there for a half-hour now."

  "I'm not waitin' while he's in bed with some woman. It's too damn humiliatin'." She put the car in gear and signaled her intent to leave.

  "Wait. Look!" I pointed at Mad Dog already in his truck and heading back for the main street. "No, don't pull out yet, we'll wait for another car to go in front of us."

  As if on cue, the white SUV silently glided out from behind us. I nudged her to pull out and follow. "This is perfect, we'll hide behind that big Escalade and Mad Dog won't have any idea we're following him."

  Soon all three of us, Mad Dog's truck, the Escalade, and Pearlie's red Mustang rental were taking the on-ramp for Hwy 99 south.

  Chapter Nineteen:

  We were a couple of cars back from the Escalade which, I noticed, managed to remain two cars behind Mad Dog. When he passed a semi and got back into the right lane, so did the Escalade.

  "I got a bad feeling about this," I said.

  "What's eatin' you, now?"

  Pearlie's barely controlled anger at what she saw as my personal betrayal was getting in the way.

  "That Escalade is following Mad Dog, same as us."

  "So what? Your imagination is just running away with the truth again."

  Her bad mood was my fault and I knew it. "If you can squeeze in between the semi and the Escalade I'll get his license plate."

  Pearlie muttered, shrugged, then wriggled her considerable bottom around so she could see better, and whipped into the space between the truck and the Escalade's bumper.

  The truck driver used his air brakes and horn.

  Ignoring the honking, she turned on her left signal, looked over her shoulder, got into the middle lane, and let the trucker pass.

  He did, glaring down into the passenger side.

  Looking up, I saw his mouth move, and knew he was saying, "Dumb blondes!"

  I smiled and waved.

  Pearlie heaved a big sigh. "I hope you got the number on that license plate, 'cause I ain't pulling a stunt like that again."

  "Yes, and that was some good driving, Pearlie. I couldn't have done it better." Better her than me since everyone knew I had more than my fair share of traffic tickets.

  I took out my cell phone—who should I call? If I called Caleb, it would only raise his blood pressure before he reminded me to leave this investigation to the pros. I was still harboring a grudge for his terse comments at Burdell's house. Like the poor man wouldn't have been murdered if I hadn't shown up. I couldn't trust Detective Rodney, either. Information only went one way with him. No, the only person who was likely to be of help, the only person I could count on, was Marshal Jim Balthrop.

  I scrolled through the numbers in my cell, found his, and after a five-minute explanation about how we were following Mad Dog to Fresno, but there was also a white Escalade tailing Mad Dog, and would he mind looking at about the license plate—he agreed.

  "Sure. Why are you following Mad Dog?"

  "Uh, my cousin, Pearlie thinks he's cheating on her."

  "How far away from Fresno are you?" he asked.

  "About a half hour, why?"

  "If you get in trouble, which may happen if that Escalade is any indication, I have a contact in Fresno who can help."

  "Thanks, Jim, but I'm not planning on getting in this guy's way."

  Jim was quiet for so long, I thought he might've hung up.

  "Gimme ten minutes," he said. "This number?"

  "Yeah, but…."

  He'd hung up. Caleb would've got it sooner, but then I'd have a lecture to go with the help. Jim was picking up bad habits from Caleb. Or—maybe Caleb had clued Jim in on my tendency to stick my nose into police business.

  Pearlie glared at me. "You should've asked him about that house in Merced. You ain't helpin' me at all!"

  Not that I was interested in whether Mad Dog had stopped off to visit with some lady friend, but we did pick up that white Escalade there. "I'll ask him when he calls back."

  "Good," she said. "After draggin' me all this way on false pretenses, it's about time you did something right."

  Jim Balthrop called back as promised but the information wasn't any help.

  "Jim," I said, "A seventy-five-year-old woman isn't going to be driving a tricked-out Cadillac Escalade." I listened to his next words and exploded. "Take over? How would your agent find us? Oh, but Jim—"

  Pearlie butted in, "He wants us to quit tailin' Mad Dog?"

  I put a hand over the mouthpiece. "Just let me finish?" I went back to our conversation. "Look, Jim, I appreciate your concern, but we're hanging back, and like I said—"

  Pearlie reach
ed over and grabbed the phone out of my hand.

  "Now you listen up, Marshal Balthrop. This here expedition has nothing to do with any kind of crooks or killers. All we're doing is following my boyfriend so's I can find out if he's been stringing me along, or not. What? No, this is not negotiable. Good-bye!" She closed my cell and stuck it between her thighs.

  "Pearlie, he may be the only person we can count on to help us. Give me that," I said, reaching for my cell.

  She slapped my hand away. "He ain't interested in helpin' anyone but himself, and you ain't getting' this cell back, either. It's contaminated." She put down the driver's side window and tossed the cell out, then plucked hers out of the center console, tossed it out after mine, hit the up button, and with a satisfied nod, put both hands back on the wheel.

  I gawked and sputtered, "Have you lost your mind?"

  "Don't you watch any TV at all? They can triangulate our location from all those cell towers. That's the way they find us." She flicked her pink nails in the direction of said towers. "And I don't plan on having any more interruptions until after I find out what that SOB is up to."

  I sat back against the seat. She had a point. We'd come all this way, hadn't we? Cropdusters, aero-ag employees, barkeeps, they all talked when I asked questions, told me things they wouldn't tell the police, and certainly hadn't told Jim Balthrop. And who was to say that Jim's agent friend would do any better at finding the truth? He might even mess it up, being a suit and all, scaring Mad Dog, who had to see by now he was being tailed by the Escalade. Yep, Pearlie was right, this job required the smarts and skills of not one blonde, but two.

  We'd show them.

  <><><><>

  We were already coming up on the exits for Fresno when the semi we'd been following took the exit for Clovis.

  That left us, the Escalade, and Mad Dog's truck rolling along at the requisite sixty-five mile an hour speed limit. Then Mad Dog took an exit, and, as if leashed to his tail, the Escalade and Pearlie's red Mustang.

  Our little train slowed as we approached a hospital complex, and Pearlie's face was once again a disappointed pout. "Looks like it's a sick friend after all. Do you think he's going for the parking lot?"

  I watched as Mad Dog passed the parking lot, and then breathed a sigh of relief when the Escalade turned right at the next block.

  "The Escalade just turned off," Pearlie said. "It means he's not following Mad Dog after all."

  "Maybe. But with the Escalade gone, Mad Dog will see us. Pull over and let a couple of cars pass." I was relieved we no longer had to worry about any competition tailing Mad Dog.

  Mad Dog approached the intersection and sailed through, but Pearlie, seeing a yellow light, slammed on her brakes.

  "It's not red, Pearlie, punch it, or we'll lose him."

  She grasped the wheel tightly, touched the accelerator, and set us in the middle of the intersection stuck behind another car.

  Pearlie hit the brakes and threw up her hands. "Now look what you made me do! If a cop comes along, I'm gonna get a ticket and—"

  That's when I saw the Escalade barreling down on us from a side street.

  I reached out and yanked the wheel to the right, jammed my foot down on top of the gas pedal. The Mustang skidded into oncoming traffic, narrowly missing another car. The oncoming driver swerved out of our way, and then leaned on his horn. Pearlie slapped at me for the wheel, and I leaned away from her punches. Luckily, her arms were shorter than mine.

  Through gritted teeth, she declared me certifiable. "Well? Don't you have anything to say for yourself?"

  I'd been quietly assessing our situation, and it wasn't looking pretty. I didn't want to frighten Pearlie, but it looked like the marshal had been right. We were going to be in trouble if we continued to follow Mad Dog.

  "I'm sorry, Pearlie, but the marshal was right. We're in over our heads. Turn around and let's go home."

  "Not a chance! We're here now and—"

  "Pearlie, we almost got T-boned back there by the white Escalade."

  "What? I didn't see nothin' but that crazy maneuver you just pulled."

  "That's because you're so intent on following Mad Dog that you didn't see him coming."

  "And who insisted we run a red light?" She pulled down the rearview mirror to pat her long blonde hair into submission.

  "Pearlie, let's not argue about this. The point is, if he'd hit us, we'd be in the hospital. We need to call the marshal and tell him what just happened."

  She squeaked. "Look! There's Mad Dog. He's still ahead of us."

  "Are you listening to me?"

  "I hear you," she said, breathing in deeply through her mouth and blowing it out of her nose. "I didn't come this far to turn it over to some damn federal agent."

  "But Pearlie—"

  "Open the zipper of my purse. My Lady Smith is in an evidence locker in Sacramento, so I lifted Granny's pistol, and if you will recall, I'm a crack shot, so sit back and enjoy the ride, or I can leave you on the side of the road."

  Pearlie was a different woman since she had defended herself from rape and a certain death by shooting the man we believed killed Burdell Smith. But the result was a sort of recklessness that could yet mean the death of us. And I wasn't looking forward to another encounter with the driver of the Escalade, at least not without backup.

  She looked at me. "Well? Times a'wastin', Cuz, pick one."

  "Pearlie, be reasonable. Let me call Marshal Balthrop."

  She looked at me and grinned. "You got a cell in your panties?"

  "Oh yeah, you threw them out somewhere before Fresno."

  Anxious not to lose him again, her nose was almost painted to the windshield. "And I ain't stoppin' so you can look for a pay phone."

  These days, pay phones were becoming impossible to find since every person in America carried a cell … well, except us, of course.

  "Alright, but if that Escalade shows up again …."

  "Let me worry about those guys," she said patting the bulk in her purse. "Oh look, he's turning left."

  Pearlie kept our standoff distance two cars back while I watched for the Escalade.

  We followed Mad Dog to a nursing home.

  Pearlie drove past his truck and sped around the block again for another pass. "A convalescent hospital? After all we been through, I was looking forward to busting his chops."

  I pointed to a parking space. "We can watch from here."

  She slid into the space, picked up her bag, and opened the car door. "Since I'm the only one who doesn't mind hurting his feelings, you can wait here till I come back."

  I got out and followed. "Pearlie, you don't know what you're doing. Maybe he is visiting a sick friend. You confront him now and you lose whatever chance you had for a relationship."

  She slowed, but just when I thought I'd made a dent in her irrational reasoning, she picked up speed again. "I think that ship done sailed."

  "Pearlie," I said, giving up. "I'm not going in there with you."

  "Suit yourself. I'll be out in a couple minutes—one way or the other."

  I watched her square her shoulders and hike to the entrance of the nursing home. Less than five minutes later, she was back. "Did you see his truck leave?"

  "It was there when I walked past."

  She started up the car. "He must've spotted us and slipped out a back door. Screw him, I'm not wastin' another drop of gas on this guy."

  Relieved, I said, "Fine, fine. Let's go home."

  "Good," she said, and pulled out on to the street.

  That's when I felt my head snap back, and the violent impact as another vehicle slammed into the driver's side of the Mustang. Just before the airbag exploded in my face and forced most of the air out of my lungs, I got a glimpse of a Cadillac emblem on the back of a big white Escalade. Its tires caught on the pavement and burned rubber as it tore off down the street.

  Catching my breath again, I pushed my way out from under the airbag, and asked Pearlie if she was hurt.

>   "No, but I'm furious to think some asshole clipped me and ran off like that."

  "It was the Escalade. We're lucky he didn't stop to finish us off."

  "Finish us off?" she said, rubbing her chest. It would be bruised tomorrow. "Then what was this, a love-tap?" she snarled and pushed aside the deflating airbag, then pulled out her pistol. "I see that asshole again and I'm gonna drill his hide."

  I pushed the pistol down, gently took it away, and stuck it back into the bag. "Don't let anyone see you've got a weapon, or we'll end up on the wrong side of the law, again. I'll go call the police and report this as a hit-and-run."

  Pearlie asked, "You gonna tell them who hit us?"

  I hesitated, remembering Jim Balthrop's warnings. The bullet we'd just dodged was meant to put us out of commission and love-tap or not, Mad Dog may be in more trouble. "I don't think that will do our cause much good. Besides, with the car wrecked, we're out of commission."

  She nodded, glumly agreeing.

  I assessed the damage to the front fender, then went into the nursing home, where I called the police and made another call to Marshal Balthrop. I had to hold the phone away from my ear as I was getting blasted with an earful of "…irresponsible, wild, thoughtless, rash, careless, and out of control." At least he didn't threaten to have me arrested.

  The police and EMTs and an insurance claims person from the rental company came. They examined us and the car, asked questions, and took notes. And by the time the federal agent sent by Marshal Balthrop rolled up, we'd been gifted with two folding chairs and water, courtesy of the nursing home staff.

  Pearlie's adrenaline had worn off, and now she was shaking so badly, water was dancing out of her cup.

  The insurance claims adjuster and police, satisfied that we'd experienced a hit-and-run, took our information and ordered a tow truck and a replacement rental.

  We gave our statement to the federal marshal, repeating how this was only a girl thing—a perfectly innocent mission to discover if Pearlie's boyfriend was cheating. Pearlie coyly batted her eyelashes and added a genuine tear. The marshal grimaced, uncomfortable and fidgety to be gone, and with assurances that we would go home as soon as we got a new rental car, he left.