A Dead Red Oleander (The Dead Red Mystery series)

by RP Dahlke

  With everyone gone, we sat in our folding chairs and watched the tow truck arrive, winch up the red Mustang onto a flatbed, and drive away.

  Pearlie sighed. "I sure am gonna miss that car."

  I nodded, watched traffic, listened to birdsong, stared at fluffy clouds in the sky, anything to keep me from thinking about a white Escalade and why someone would ram us in order to keep us from tailing Mad Dog. Whoever it was, it wasn't the feds and the more I thought about it, the more I was worried for Mad Dog.

  Two cars rolled to a stop. A young man hopped out of a faded maroon Taurus, handed Pearlie a clipboard with a flagged piece of paper to sign, gave her a set of keys, then got into the waiting car and left.

  Pearlie stood with the keys in her hand and tsked. "I asked for red. That ain't even red."

  I urged her to forget about it and get in.

  The inside wasn't much better. The upholstery was stained and cigarette burned and the windows were dusty.

  "I'll never rent a car from this company again."

  "I think the message may be that they don't want you to, either. Get in."

  She pointed at a truck passing the nursing home. "There's Mad Dog's truck,"

  "How can you tell?"

  "It's got that broken left taillight, remember? Well, well, this must be kismet."

  "Pearlie, I'm worried…"

  "He ain't looking for a maroon Taurus, now is he?"

  She was right. We had to catch up to him, warn him about the Escalade. "Okay, but keep an eye out for the Escalade."

  She squinted at the afternoon sun glinting off Mad Dog's rear window, juked the gas pedal, and took off after him.

  At least this time, we didn't have far to go. We were less than a block behind him when Mad Dog pulled into a spot at a city park and got out. Pearlie, irritated that there wasn't one single space left for her, circled the block looking for a parking spot.

  From between the trees, I watched him stride across the lawn to speak to a lone man sitting at a picnic table.

  Pearlie rounded another corner, snorting her disgust at the crowded park. "Is it a holiday or something? All these people and no place to park."

  "Oh, crap. It's September sixteenth, Mexican Independence Day, and half the Mexican American population is out celebrating."

  When we were back to the spot where we'd started, I saw a car pull out of a parking space and motioned her to take it.

  "But he might see us."

  "I don't think that's going to matter," I said watching Mad Dog, legs spread, angrily gesturing to the man.

  Pearlie shut off the engine and leaned over to look to where I was pointing. The man wore a ball cap and a lightweight jacket and he appeared to be calmly observing Mad Dog's wild diatribe. As Mad Dog became more agitated, the man got up off the picnic bench and stood, hands fisted by his side, looking up at Mad Dog as if challenging him to throw the first punch.

  When Mad Dog seized the other guy by the front of his jacket, I said, "Uh-oh, I think Mad Dog might be trying to—whoa!"

  The shorter guy slammed a fist into Mad Dog's gut. Mad Dog jackknifed to his knees.

  Pearlie gasped, threw open the driver's door, and sprinted for the two men. Drawing her granny's pistol out of her purse, she yelled, "You! Stop right there!"

  I got out and raced after her, hoping she wasn't going to shoot, not in this crowded park.

  The man took one look at her and calmly walked away.

  Pearlie yelled, "Stop or I'll shoot!"

  He looked over his shoulder at my cousin's double-handed stance, and took off running. He was favoring, I noted, his left side, probably cursing his bad luck—yep, another Bains woman with a gun had him in her sights. I almost hoped she'd shoot him. The bastard! This had to be Arthur's killer, certainly the one I shot when he broke into our house. He lurched and hobbled all over the place, probably hoping to avoid a direct hit in the back.

  I caught up to Pearlie and put my hand on her gun arm. "Not here. Not with all these families. She lowered the gun, cursed, and turned back to where Mad Dog lay crumpled and moaning on the grass. Pearlie put a hand on his shoulder. "Mad Dog? What…?"

  He put up a bloody hand. He hadn't been gut-punched, he'd been knifed.

  I made a beeline for the nearest family with a cell phone and called 9-1-1.

  Chapter Twenty:

  Pearlie stood staring out of the darkened window in the surgery waiting room while Caleb and Marshal Jim Balthrop thumbed the pages of Fish and Game. We all hoped to hear that Mad Dog would survive the surgery after he'd been knifed.

  Using Caleb's cell phone, I finished a call to my dad, reassuring him and Aunt Mae that Pearlie and I were safe.

  "No, we've been here two hours already and still haven't heard anything. His wife? I suppose," I said, looking at Pearlie. "We haven't seen or heard from her. I'll call you the minute we get word of his condition. Thanks, Dad, I love you too."

  Pearlie sighed and flopped into a chair across from Caleb and the marshal. "When Mad Dog comes out of surgery and can talk again, he's sure to have an explanation."

  Marshal Balthrop and Caleb nodded and went back to their magazines.

  I sat down next to Pearlie and took her smaller hand in mine.

  "He's going to make it, you'll see."

  "He said he did it for us, but it don't look like that to the marshal, does it? Mad Dog wouldn't go and grab that guy's shirt for nothing, now would he? I just wish he had told me what he was up to before he passed out."

  Caleb looked up at Pearlie. "Don't fret about this too much, Pearlie. We'll get the answers as soon as he can talk."

  "And then y'all are gonna arrest him, aren't you?"

  "I never said that, and neither did Jim, did you, Jim?"

  The marshal kept his head down and turned another page. "We'll see."

  Pearlie snorted. "Anything to get Nancy out from under a murder charge, right?"

  Jim Balthrop sighed, closed his magazine, and got up. "I'm going for a walk. If the doc shows up, call me on my cell."

  Pearlie put her head in her hands and groaned. "He said he did it for us. Nobody's ever done anything for me. Not anything that got them knifed, anyways."

  "It probably wasn't Mad Dog's intent to get knifed either, but that's what happens when you don't keep a healthy distance from killers. He never gave you a name, or said anything else about this guy?"

  "No," she answered, and turned away to cradle her arms.

  An attractive redhead stood in the doorway. Late forties, in a flowered dress with one of those cropped sweaters that girls half her age wore. Her thick, curly red hair was loosely piled into a topknot with chopsticks. Without the killer strap-on platforms, I calculated five-five. When she came into the room I noted what might've been striking cheekbones if she'd lose about twenty pounds, and there were some serious bags under her eyes. Lack of sleep or too many cocktails—or none of my business.

  She noticed my evaluation and proudly lifted her dimpled chin, took the chair recently vacated by the marshal, and crossed her legs, giving Caleb a view of heavy thighs.

  Caleb looked up from his magazine, blinked at the redhead, then lifted an eyebrow. His gesture said, another dangerous redhead?

  I smiled warmly at the shared memory, and mouthed the words, I hope not. The last one turned most of Modesto's police department on its ear.

  Ten minutes later, Jim Balthrop walked back into the room. His glance flickered to the redhead and then to me. I shrugged, and seeing there were no vacant chairs, he leaned against a wall, arms folded.

  A doctor in scrubs walked into the room. "Family for Robert Schwartz?"

  We all stood up. So did the redhead.

  Pearlie looked around Caleb and asked, "Who're you?"

  The redhead smirked. "Unless there're two Robert Schwartzes in surgery, I'm his wife, Jinx Schwartz."

  Pearlie, too shocked to speak, stared at the redhead.

  The doctor said, "Next of kin only. Mrs. Schwartz, in the hallway, pl
ease?"

  Jim Balthrop put up a hand. "Just a minute, doc. I'm a federal marshal here on a case Mr. Schwartz is part of, and I need to know his condition."

  The doctor rubbed a hand across his face and gave up. "Okay by me. Mr. Schwartz's condition is serious to critical. He's been transferred to ICU and won't be available to talk to anyone until maybe sometime tomorrow afternoon, if he lives."

  Pearlie let out a sob. "Can I see him?"

  The doctor pointed to a spot between the two women. "Whichever one of you is the current Mrs. Schwartz can see him, but only for a minute."

  The redhead smiled at the doctor, narrowed her eyes at Pearlie, and smirked. "Whatever he told you about me isn't true, and he's still my husband." Then she swished out of the room and followed the doctor.

  Pearlie flopped into her chair.

  Caleb leaned over and whispered in my ear, "Eau de booze."

  I whispered back, "Mad Dog said she's had some practice."

  Jim sniffed at the air. "Got my vote on that one. And that house in Merced you asked about, Lalla? It belongs to Mrs. Jinx Schwartz."

  Feeling sorry for my cousin, I'd finally asked Jim about the house. Now I got to watch Pearlie's wheels turn as she tried out different scenarios as to why Mad Dog was visiting his estranged wife.

  "I have to stay," Jim said, "but you should all go home. I'll call you tomorrow with an update."

  Pearlie shrugged and pushed out of her chair. "You're right, of course. Let's go, Lalla."

  She was quiet until we got to the entrance to the parking garage.

  "I can't see Mad Dog with an old bar fly like her, can you?"

  Pearlie was shoring up the image Mad Dog had given to all of us—an alcoholic wife he couldn't tolerate or live with. Of course, she wasn't a complete harridan, and the parts of her that a man might find attractive still seemed to be in working order.

  There was nothing I could think of to say that would make Pearlie feel any better. As far as I knew Mad Dog wasn't divorced, and Mrs. Mad Dog did show up at the hospital. Of course, now I knew why the driver of that Cadillac Escalade didn't stop to finish us off; he didn't want to miss his appointment to murder Mad Dog.

  Pearlie stopped walking. "I'm staying."

  "But you heard the doc," I said, exasperated with her weakness for the very married Mad Dog Schwartz. "He's not going to be conscious until tomorrow, and besides, they won't let you in to see him, he's under police watch."

  "I'm staying and nobody is gonna talk me out of it. You can take the rental and go on home."

  Looking for a way I could convince her to go home, I asked, "What about his wife?"

  "Bet you a hundred dollars she's not waiting around to see if her husband survives."

  "You can't possibly know that."

  "You really want to take me on for that hundred?" She grabbed my arm and pivoted me around to point at a neon sign with a cocktail glass winking like a beacon in the night. "See that? I say she was here long enough to make sure he was breathin', and now she's doing her version of a pity party, sucking down piña coladas."

  "Pearlie, why're you so angry on the subject of Mad Dog? Can't you just accept that he's married and—"

  "No, I can't! I won't! No man has ever gotten knifed on account of me. If he dies, I won't ever get a chance to say good-bye. And if he lives, I want to be the first person to ask him why he did such a stupid thing."

  "How're you going to—"

  "Never you mind. I got it all figured out. Now go on home so it don't look like you're getting involved."

  That was low, and she knew it.

  "I'm going to take you up on that bet, Pearlie. Get in the car. If she's in that bar, I'll bring you back and say nothing to the marshal. If she's not there, you come home with me and wait. Deal?"

  Since my cousin loved nothing more than taking a bet, she readily agreed.

  She was also right on the money with Jinx Schwartz. Only it wasn't piña coladas, it looked to be Johnny Walker on the rocks, and she had her head on the shoulder of another man. Though he wasn't anything special, and certainly nobody I would give a second look to, he did look up when we walked in.

  <><><><>

  I dropped Pearlie off at the entrance to the hospital and wished her luck. "I'm sure you'll find a way to see Mad Dog. But don't do anything stupid, or I'll have to come back here and whip your butt."

  "Thanks for the vote of confidence, Cuz," she said, smiling at my toothless threat.

  I watched my gutsy little cousin stride for the hospital doors, her short legs almost flying in her determination to see this through with a man who might, or might not, be in love with her. She was also the gutsy little blonde who shook off her own fear to take out a killer after he brutally murdered my dad's oldest friend. I don't think I ever really told her how grateful I was that she was quick enough to come up with a ploy that saved our lives. It occurred to me that now might be a good time to show her that I might be worth something as a cousin after all.

  I took my foot off the brake and curved the wheel around till I was back in the parking garage. I locked the rental, tossed the keys in my purse, and punched the up button for the third floor Intensive Care Unit where they'd moved Mad Dog.

  Chapter Twenty-one:

  I looked through the window into the ICU waiting room where Pearlie sat alone, staring at a fashion magazine. When I opened the door she looked up and sent me a genuine smile of welcome.

  I sat down next to her and picked up another magazine, Bow Hunting, with an editorial on "How to Gut a Deer in the Snow." "Where's the marshal?"

  "He took a room in a nearby hotel for the night. I told him I'd call if there was any change."

  "Jinx?"

  Pearlie looked at her watch. "Gee, I dunno. It's three a.m., the bars are closed, so where do you think our girl could be?"

  The sarcasm wasn't lost on me. Jinx certainly wasn't here waiting to hear if her husband lived or died.

  I smiled gently. "You certainly called it that time. Jinx was right where you said she'd be, in a bar."

  "I don't always get what I want. I know that, Lalla." Her answering smile wavered, but at least she was keeping her chin up.

  I reached over and gave her shoulders a quick hug, then let go and picked up my magazine again.

  We flipped through a few more pages, then sat with the magazines on our laps, quiet in our own thoughts.

  I shifted on the hard cushion of the chair, cleared my throat, and said, "I've been thinking—"

  Pearlie nodded. "Me, too. I heard Jim Balthrop say that the house in Merced belongs to Jinx Schwartz."

  I heaved a sigh. We were back on the subject of Mad Dog again.

  She did a flick of her fingers to indicate I was off base. "That Escalade was just sittin' there, waitin'. I think she's in cahoots with the guy that knifed Mad Dog."

  I blinked. "His wife? That's kind of harsh. I mean she may be a drunk, but do you really think she would send a killer after him?"

  "Like she said, they're still married, aren't they? He's an ag-pilot. It's a dangerous job. What do you wanna bet she's got a million worth of life insurance on him?"

  All I could do was nod. I was stunned to think that any woman could be so callous. Life insurance on aero-ag pilots topped at fifty thousand, but there was workman's comp, and his social security. That might add up to a million.

  "Jinx may have used Mad Dog's resentment of Arthur to negotiate a deal with Jack Carton, which led Jack to Arthur."

  Pearlie flinched. That would mean Jinx had an ear to Mad Dog's daily life. "I'm prepared to accept whatever comes, but I would still like to get the bastard that knifed Mad Dog. And did you notice? He ran with a limp."

  "Yes," I said. "So let's assume this guy hit the jackpot when he found Jinx, who just happened to know about a pilot her husband didn't like."

  "She did it for the money."

  "Then Clark Sullivan isn't Arthur's killer. But why did he kill Burdell Smith?"

  "Soon as we get w
ord on Mad Dog, I want to go back to Merced and talk to Ms. Jinx, I'll bet she could ID this guy."

  "I met him too," I said, "at the barbeque."

  Pearlie shook her head. "Bet you fifty bucks you couldn't pick him out in a lineup."

  "I—no, I couldn't and I don't think anyone else could except Mad Dog. It was dark, he wore a cowboy hat. All I got was medium height, white, not fat, not skinny."

  Pearlie was thoughtful for a minute. "Who else besides Mad Dog could ID him?"

  "Oh, my God! Bud could. He's the owner of the local bar where Mad Dog said he met him. Bud took a picture of Jack Carton. I turned it over to Caleb but it was so shadowed I don't think anyone could use it to ID this guy. I warned Bud to be careful, that this guy might come back to try to destroy the picture." I looked at my watch. "It's almost seven in the morning. Someone should check on Bud."

  I woke up Caleb and updated him on Mad Dog's condition while Pearlie listened.

  "We decided not to go home yet," I told him. "Pearlie and I are still here at the hospital. Pearlie? She's fine, I'm fine too. No, his wife didn't come back. Caleb, will you do me a favor and call Bud's home? He took that photo of the guy we think is Jack Carton. Yes, I know it wasn't much, but I'm worried that this is also the guy who knifed Mad Dog… Are you sure?" I chewed on the inside of my lip, listening to Caleb's explanation. "Okay, I'm not questioning the experts who judge ballistics, I'm just surprised, that's all. I wish I were home too, and I will be soon, I promise."

  When I hung up, I said, "The ballistics from Clark Sullivan's gun do not match the bullet in Burdell Smith's head."

  I noticed Pearlie looked like she'd just swallowed a bad pill.

  "What?"

  "There's someone else who could ID this guy."

  I looked at the empty seat across from me—Jinx, Mad Dog's estranged wife. "One of us is going to have to call Marshal Balthrop and tell him."

  "Tell me what?" he said, walking into the small waiting room.

  "Caleb just told me that the ballistics from Clark Sullivan's gun didn't match the bullet in Burdell. So that means Clark Sullivan wasn't the hit man."

  "We never thought he was, Miss Bains."

  "Really? Why not?"

  "Because Clark Sullivan doesn't fit this guy's profile. This is a professional. He's gets his job done, wiping out any and all who can connect him to the murder, and then he disappears. He'll have two plans in play, two escape hatches, in case one doesn't work out. You saw Sacramento as a possible connection, while I and my team have been working Fresno. They aren't totally unrelated, you know. Burdell Smith's house—we think he sent Clark Sullivan to look for something that might incriminate him. You two girls showed up and interrupted Clark. Don't get me wrong, he's a lowlife, but he was probably following orders to look for something that would incriminate his boss."