Who Left That Body in the Rain?

by Patricia Sprinkle

  “Maybe so, but Papi will never believe it. Late that night, when just our friends were left in the restaurant, Papi told his friend that Skellton MacDonald was making advances toward his daughter. The friend said, ‘Oh, the MacDonalds are very rich. Little Rosita is doing very well for herself.” She blushed. “I don’t want to tell you this, but you need to understand what happened. Papi was a bit drunk by then, and he got very grand. He is descended from Santa Ana, and sometimes he thinks that makes him very important. He started swearing that his daughter will only marry the very best Mexican, and yes, he said what they say he did, ‘If that MacDonald lays a hand on my little girl, I will kill him.’ But he didn’t mean it.” Her voice ended in a cry of despair. Her big dark eyes swam with tears again, and she covered them with slender fingers.

  I didn’t think so, either, but I wasn’t on the jury. A clever lawyer can do all sorts of things with a statement like that. “Your daddy’s best hope is to prove he never left the restaurant,” I advised her. “See if you can get people who can swear he was there at—say—fifteen minute intervals.”

  She took her hands away from her face, but lowered her gaze to the tabletop. “I—I will have to see who is willing to swear he was there.” For some reason, the idea seemed to bother her. I wondered if some folks might not want to go to court for reasons connected with their own legal status. As an officer of the law, I wasn’t about to ask that question.

  Joe Riddley hadn’t said much so far. Now he leaned forward, the overhead light making caverns of his dark eyes. “Skell MacDonald’s a fine young man.”

  “Yes.” Rosa got up and walked over to the window, looked out into the stormy night, then began to move restlessly about the room. “But he had no right to call me Rosita as if we were friends.” She clutched the afghan tight about her. “He is just bored here. I have heard other teachers say that. If I did go out with him, he wouldn’t be less bored. What would we talk about? We have nothing at all in common.” She came to the table and reached for her cocoa, still standing and tapping one foot.

  Poor Skell. She was lovely and exotic. No wonder he was attracted. But his parents might have as much trouble with him dating a Mexican as her father had with her dating a gringo—was that the right word? I was a little shaky on the difference between an Anglo and a gringo.

  I rose and refilled our mugs. Rosa carried hers restlessly about the room, looking at the pictures on our walls and the magnets and cartoons on our refrigerator. It occurred to me that ours might be one of the few homes she’d been inside in Hopemore. But she had heavier things on her mind. She whirled to face me at last. “If we find people who will swear where we were every fifteen minutes that evening, will the police chief be just and fair?”

  I couldn’t tell her a lie, so I hesitated. Joe Riddley considered, then nodded. “I a jury they will be. If you tell the truth. But tell me something else. How’d your folks decide to settle in Hopemore and open a restaurant?”

  This was safe ground. Rosa came back to her chair and sat down. “They’ve wanted a restaurant for years. They have both worked in restaurants most of their lives—met in one, in fact. My brother and I grew up hearing them say, ‘When we have our own restaurant, we will do this or that.’ ” She waved a graceful hand over the table; then her eyes grew anxious again. “But now, when their dream has come true, I have spoiled it for them.” Fat tears rolled down her cheeks, and Joe Riddley glared at me like her crying was all my fault.

  I fetched the box of tissues I keep on the counter. “How did the dream finally come true?”

  She blew her nose and gave me a watery smile. When she began to speak again, I saw why Jessica adored her. Rosa Garcia was a born storyteller, animated and funny, who used her hands to make the story come alive.

  “My brother was a terrible student. He couldn’t do math or language arts. But he loved skateboarding, surfing—anything that involved taking risks. When he graduated, he became a stuntman in Hollywood. Now they pay him ridiculous amounts of money for doing things Mami used to spank him for doing. And he told her, ‘Mami, if you promise not to tell me to stop what I’m doing, I’ll give you the money to start your restaurant.’ That’s how they got to open it.”

  “Why did they come to Hopemore?” Joe Riddley wanted to know.

  “They took a vacation between quitting their jobs and starting the restaurant. They rented a little RV and drove here and there, looking for the perfect spot. One day they saw a sign on the freeway for Hopemore. He told Mami, ‘Let’s go see this place. We have more hope now than we’ve ever had, so we should visit Hopemore.’ They stayed a week last summer, in the campground just outside of town. They met many Mexicans who were settling here. They liked the climate and the size of the town. After southern California, this is so restful. They also learned that the steak house was thinking of closing. They called me and said, ‘Rosita, come see this place. Tell us what you think.’ When I came, I learned that Jessica’s school needed a teacher. When I got the job, it seemed a sign from God that this was where we were supposed to be.” She stopped and her lower lip started to tremble. More tears filled her eyes. “Now, because of me, everything is in jeopardy.”

  “Nothing is in jeopardy if your father can prove he never left the restaurant,” I reminded her.

  She looked down at the table and said nothing.

  Joe Riddley had another question. “You haven’t seen Skell since yesterday, have you?”

  She shook her head. “Not since Friday night, when he ran into me.”

  “He didn’t mean to,” I assured her. “He was dashing out to find a man who’d bought a car. I don’t know if he even saw you until he practically knocked you down.” Yet I remembered the way his eyes had roved the restaurant when he first came in. Had he been looking for Rosa? Or were we all putting ideas into Skell’s absent head? Under our strong kitchen light, she wasn’t as beautiful as she’d looked in the subdued lighting of her father’s restaurant. Sure, her eyes were dark and lovely, and she had that long black hair that rippled like a river nearly to her waist. But her mouth was prim, her nose a trifle long and hooked, her chin a little too pointed for beauty.

  “Oh,” she said in obvious relief. A smile lit her face and her eyes, making her suddenly beautiful. “I thought he’d decided if he couldn’t bowl me over one way, he’d try another.”

  She might be right. I was sure that Skell—who hated dull little Hopemore—found her a lot more interesting than our conventional Southern belles.

  “I ought to get home.” She stood and unwrapped my old afghan from around her like it was mink. “Thank you so much.” She folded it and laid it over the back of her chair, her mouth prim again. “Just talking with you helps me feel better. I will tell my father we must find people who will swear he didn’t leave the restaurant all evening. Thank you so much.”

  I brought her raincoat, which was dry and warm, and Joe Riddley walked her out under the same umbrella he’d used the day before for Nicole.

  While he was gone I realized something. Twice that evening Rosa had said she would look for people who could swear her daddy never left the restaurant. She never said he hadn’t.

  16

  I couldn’t think of another thing I could do that night for either the Garcias or the MacDonalds, and was debating between watching television with Joe Riddley or going to bed with my electric blanket and a book when the phone rang. A sheriff’s deputy needed me down at the jail for a bond hearing on two fellows who’d held up a little mom-and-pop store out on the edge of Hopemore’s poorer part of town. “Got away with five hundred and six dollars,” the deputy informed me. Sheriff’s deputies can set bond themselves for any theft under five hundred. I put back on some decent clothes and headed downstairs. When Joe Riddley asked where I was going, I informed him, “I’m going to ask a dadblamed deputy why he didn’t put six dollars back in the till and save me a trip out in this rain.”

  All the way there and back, the windshield wipers reminded me of eyes bli
nking back tears. I was blinking back some of my own. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d felt that sad.

  How was Gwen Ellen going to live without Skye?

  And what if Skye had indeed left everything to Skell, and Skell sold the business out from under Laura?

  And what if Skell killed his daddy, and that’s why he was on the lam?

  And what kind of town were we if new people—Mexicans or whoever—got labeled “those people” by folks like Charlie Muggins and automatically got put at the head of any suspect list when a crime was committed?

  I didn’t get home until Marilee was concluding her eleven o’clock weather report: continuing rain. She looked about as soggy as I felt, and I was surprised and touched when she concluded her report, “I’m very sad tonight because of the death of a special friend. God bless you, Skye, wherever you are.”

  Walker called right after that, but said little to lighten my personal skies. “I’m in Orlando. I tracked down my college buddy, and he found us a lawyer. He just called five minutes ago and he’s over at his beach house. He’ll come back tomorrow and meet me here at ten. I don’t know how to reach Maynard or Selena this late, so I’ll just let them spend one night in jail.”

  Walker has always been easygoing, but “let them spend one night in jail” was a new high in casual speech.

  “You couldn’t bond them out?”

  “Mama, I don’t know how to do all that. They’re gonna be fine. You haven’t said anything to Hubert, have you?”

  “We didn’t like to, with his dicey heart.”

  “Wait until I know something tomorrow. I’ll call you as soon as I have anything to report.”

  Clarinda wasn’t any happier with his news than I was. I had to tell her at least four times that Walker was doing the best he could in the circumstances. By then, I almost believed it myself.

  I didn’t sleep well that night. The rain kept coming in bands: first a downpour, then a patter. We had left our window up a tad for fresh air, so I woke at the thud of each new deluge on our tin porch roof. Then I’d lie in the dark picturing Skye MacDonald lying on his back in the mud while rain slid down his face. I tossed and turned, but couldn’t get rid of the picture.

  When our alarm went off at seven, rain was still pouring down. I snuggled deeper into my covers, tempted to pull them over my head and sleep all day. Nobody was coming to our Presidents’ Day sale in that storm.

  Then I remembered the bills I had to pay, the orders I had to place, the call Walker would be making about Maynard and Selena, and the probability that while I was dozing Chief Muggins would be concocting evidence to convict an innocent man of murder. That got me on my feet.

  Our office at the back of the store is a good place to be when I’m out of sorts. Over the years Joe Riddley and I have added computers and other modern equipment, but we’ve kept the oak rolltop desks, filing cabinets, and chairs his grandparents used, and the big wing chair by the window his parents added. Years ago I discarded the yellowed battered shade at the high window and put up blinds and a ruffle, so we’d get more light. That past Christmas, I’d had the wing chair, chair pads, and ruffle redone from red plaid to a print of quail and pheasants on a dark green background. Even with the skies streaming, the office was warm and homey.

  Still, nobody had come in overnight and written on the wall what I should do next. I paid bills, chatted with a few customers, signed a couple of warrants, read gardening catalogues, and wished Joe Riddley would come back from the nursery so I’d at least have him to pick at. I was delighted when Walker finally called again.

  “Hey, Mama. They’re out.”

  “That’s wonderful. What happened?”

  “It was real close for a minute. They got a judge who is rabid about drugs, so even after the lawyer explained what happened with the car and Maynard produced the receipt to show he’d just bought it, the judge hemmed and hawed about how this was not a light charge. Finally, bless her heart, Selena got all redheaded indignant and told him she feels exactly the same way about drugs, but was it fair to let whoever put drugs in their car ruin her honeymoon? Then—and this was the clincher—she demanded, ‘How would you feel if it was your daughter on her honeymoon caught in this mess?’ He blinked a couple of times, and set bond. Turns out that was a lucky shot. His daughter is getting married next month. If I ever get arrested, I want Selena on my side. The BMW is still confiscated, though.”

  “Well, I’m proud to know you, son. You did good. But poor Maynard. He loves that car.”

  “Yeah. The lawyer is gonna try to get it back, since they bought it in good faith, but he’s not real optimistic. I took them to rent another car, and I’m on my way home. I ought to be back for dinner. I’m leaving Orlando as we speak.”

  “You aren’t talking on that cell phone while you’re driving, are you?”

  “I love you, too, Mama. Good-bye.”

  When I called Clarinda with the good news, her “That’s wonderful” sounded so much like mine, I wondered if we’d been together too long. She added, “I knew that boy and his sweet bride didn’t have anything to do with drugs.”

  I’d barely hung up the second time when Ike called. “I hate like the dickens to bring this one to you, Judge, but Judge Stebley’s still laid up with his broken leg. I need you down at the detention center for a preliminary hearing. The charge is murder, against Humberto Garcia. We found a witness this morning who saw Garcia driving down Warner Road around ten Friday night, when he claims he was at the restaurant. Then Chief Muggins went back out to the crime scene this morning and turned up a book of matches we missed the first time. They’re from Garcia’s restaurant.”

  In the face of evidence, judges don’t have a lot of discretion. I might feel like refusing to go. I might feel like demanding, “Have you and Chief Muggins gone plumb crazy?” I couldn’t. All I could do was haul myself out to do my duty.

  Some storms seem to wash the whole town clean, but that particular rain was dingy and gray, revealing litter in the gutters and splashing mud from sidewalk planters all over the place. As I drove to the jail, Hopemore looked as gray and ugly as I felt.

  Mr. Garcia looked gray, too. A face almost as gray as the jeans he wore with a white polo shirt. He turned away in great embarrassment when he saw me. Mrs. Garcia wore jeans and a yellow T-shirt. Her eyes pleaded with me to do something—anything—to make this shame go away.

  Unhappiness made Isaac edgy and curt. “Here is the accused, Judge.” He handed me the paperwork, and I went around the high semicircular desk that serves as a bench for preliminary hearings held at the jail. When they built it, all the magistrates were tall. I have to climb up on a box.

  “I am Judge MacLaren Yarbrough,” I informed the accused as I am required by law to do. “Magistrate for Hope County, Georgia. What is your name?”

  He replied, bewildered, “Humberto Garcia. You know me.”

  “Yes, but it is required that I establish your identity for the record. This is a preliminary hearing. You are charged with the willful murder of Fergus MacDonald. Have you read and do you understand the warrant?”

  “I did not kill anyone,” Mr. Garcia protested. “I was never on that road in my life. I—”

  “All that will come up before the superior-court judge,” I informed him. “For now, have you read and do you understand the charges against you?”

  “Yes.” He said it as if he were about to break into another protest, so I spoke quickly.

  “Because this is a murder charge, and I am a magistrate, I cannot set bond on this charge. It has to be set by a superior-court justice. I will notify the superior court in Augusta and they will send a judge down to set your bond.”

  “How long will that take?” Mrs. Garcia asked the question, shaking so hard she had to sit in one of the hard chairs to the side of the desk.

  “About a week, normally.”

  “Madre de dios!” she whispered, and covered her face with her hands.

  “A week?” Mr. Gar
cia turned pale. “My restaurant will die in a week. I can’t—I didn’t—You say Mr. MacDonald was found on a dirt road off Warner Road. We live on Warner Road, so yes, I must have driven past the road on which he was found. But I never drive on any dirt roads. I don’t want to mess up my car. And I did not leave matches near his body. Would I be that foolish? I swear it on my mother’s grave.”

  The words poured out like the torrent pouring just beyond the front door, where the builder had not adequately anchored the gutter, but I could not pay him the least bit of attention.

  Isaac said in his bass voice, “We’re gonna need to process you now.”

  Mrs. Garcia started weeping. Her husband turned and spoke to her gently in Spanish, then pulled her to her feet and embraced her.

  Isaac sidled closer to the bench and muttered, “You and God had better get to work.”

  As he was led away, Mr. Garcia turned to ask me in despair, “How can you prove where you have not been?”

  Rosa said much the same thing when she called thirty minutes after I got back to my desk. Her mother had called her at school to tell her that her father had been arrested. Rosa called me, crying and praying to every saint in the Catholic calendar. “What are we going to do?” she finally demanded. “My father never killed anybody.”

  “He was seen on Warner Road around ten,” I reminded her. “He told Chief Muggins he was at the restaurant all evening.”

  “I know. He was only gone a few minutes. My dress got soaked when Skellton crashed into me and Mami was afraid I would catch cold, but she didn’t want me to drive so late alone, so Papi said he would fetch another dress while I chatted with customers.” She ran out of sentence and breath at the same time.

  I sighed, wishing I could offer more comfort. “You’ll get to say all that in court, and produce your witnesses. Get them lined up, comfort your mother, and pray that the real killer is found. That’s the best I can suggest.” I hung up, real discouraged.