Dead Weight pc-8

by Steven F Havill

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” I snapped. “Last time I looked, Hitler and his gang were dead. I don’t think any court in the state is going to let us run around sticking needles in the bellies of pregnant women to suck out DNA samples. And if we had rock hard evidence, it’d be doubly pointless.”

  “Well-” Jaramillo started, but I interrupted him.

  “Forget it, Don. Unless Jennifer requests the test herself, with the mother’s written consent, forget it. I’m surprised that Torrez brought it up.”

  Judge Hobart almost smiled and gestured toward the waitress, arriving with our food. My ham sandwich was recognizable, a slice of ham on white bread with eight potato chips on the side. Jaramillo looked with something akin to alarm at the thing that was touted to be a fish fillet, floating in a sea of yellow curdled sauce. The judge’s chicken salad looked exactly as I had remembered it.

  “What if Kenny Carter is lying, though?” Jaramillo said, tapping the lump of fish tentatively with his fork. “If he knocked up Jennifer, then there’s every reason to think that Jim Sisson would go ballistic when he found out. If the two of them had a confrontation-”

  “That doesn’t matter,” I said flatly. “If we can’t solve this thing some way short of the sort of intrusive procedure that I understand amniocentesis to be, then forget it. Jim’s ghost can come back from the grave someday and whisper who did it in our ear. And this is the goddamned worst chunk of ham I’ve ever tasted.” I looked at Jaramillo. “And if that stuff doesn’t kill you, I’ll be surprised.”

  “It’s not that bad,” Jaramillo said lamely.

  “Jennifer Sisson and the food aside,” Judge Hobart said around a mouthful of chicken salad that clung to his dentures like wallpaper paste, “Bill, we need to decide what to do about Carla Champlin.”

  “I’m not sure there’s a whole lot to do, Judge. Except maybe find someone who can make her understand what her legal options are. If she wants Tom Pasquale evicted, then I suppose there’s a process she can follow, isn’t there?”

  “Well of course there is,” he said testily. “Damn woman won’t, though.” He put down his fork. “Look-all she needs to do is go see her goddamn lawyer, whoever that is, and have him look over the rental agreement. If there’s something in the lease that Pasquale has screwed up, then she can ask that the lease be canceled, in an appropriate manner. But Jesus, she can’t just go yowling around the neighborhood, changing locks willy-nilly, and yelling threats.”

  “You heard about the locks, eh?” I asked.

  “Course I heard about it. And I heard about the open bedroom window, and about the kid changing the oil on his goddamn motorcycle in the back bedroom, and on, and on, and on.” He jabbed at the salad. “Christ, she spent nearly the whole morning camped out on the hallway bench in the county building, yammering.” Hobart glanced up at me and grinned. “I should have sent her on over to your office.”

  “Thanks. I already talked to her. Apparently it didn’t do any good.”

  “Hell, why should you be any different? You know, I always used to wonder about her, just a little. Back when she was running the post office. Licked one too many stamps.”

  “I’ll try to talk with her again,” I said. “I don’t promise much.”

  “Better still, why don’t you just tell that young deputy to move the hell out and save us all a headache. Before she shoots him or does something equally nuts.”

  I swallowed the last of the ham and tongued the slab of white bread paste off the roof of my mouth. “I’m not sure I want to arbitrate housing disputes for my deputies, Judge. They’re all consenting adults, perfectly capable of running their own lives.”

  Hobart laughed, a barking rasp that threatened to spray chicken salad across the table. “Don’t be so modest. You’re their goddamn father confessor, and you know it.” He frowned at Jaramillo. “Torrez asked you what you thought about the paternity thing?”

  “Yeah, well,” Jaramillo said, “I think Bill’s probably right. We’d be apt to get ourselves in a royal mess, one way or another.”

  “Us being in a mess wasn’t what I was worried about,” I said, and looked at the sludge in the bottom of my cup. “And let me talk with Carla again, Judge, and see what I can do.” I pushed myself away from the table and stood up. “No promises.” I glanced at my watch. “I really need to be on the road, gents. Thanks for the company.”

  “Bill…” Judge Hobart said, and then finished the thought with just a nod, as if he was sure I could read his mind.

  “We’ll keep you posted,” I said to Jaramillo, and tossed a couple bucks on the table for Tamara, who thoughtfully hadn’t tried to inflict any more of the awful coffee on me.

  Outside in the sunshine, I looked at my watch again. The Don Juan wouldn’t be crowded, and a fast burrito would settle my writhing stomach. I managed to drive within a hundred feet of the restaurant’s parking lot on Twelfth Street before the telephone rang.

  Chapter Thirty-two

  I cleared the intersection of Hutton and North Twelfth Street and a quarter of a mile further on managed to turn into Judge Lester Hobart’s driveway without sliding into the bar-ditch.

  The judge’s rambling home, one of the first frame houses in the county, had been built in the late 1800s by one of the Bennett brothers…two aging cattlemen who had seen some future for the place that others didn’t understand.

  The graveled driveway wound through a collection of old, rusting farm machinery, none of which had been capable of finding much wealth in the raw Posadas soil. The high-wheeled rake and sickle-bar mower, the baler, and a 1927 Ford AA truck without wheels, axles, or bed sank into the desert along with a half-dozen other relics.

  If attention was what she was after, Carla Champlin had hit upon a surefire strategy. The blue-and-white RV looked bigger than it had when parked in the grape arbor behind Carla’s house. She’d driven up the driveway and onto the judge’s yard, parked squarely with the vehicle’s big picture window staring into the judge’s front door. One of the vehicle’s front tires had crushed a small cactus planter near the pebbled walkway.

  Even as I pulled 310 to a stop, Undersheriff Robert Torrez arrived. As we got out and advanced toward the RV, the judge’s niece stepped out of the house and walked toward us, her hands in the hip pockets of her jeans. A scrawny gal maybe forty years old, she’d inherited the Hobart genes that gave her a face full of angles and planes, with high cheekbones and full eyebrows. I didn’t know Lucy Hobart well but got the impression that she didn’t smile much.

  “Lester is on his way,” she said, and stopped a couple of paces from the back of the RV, surveying the towering aluminum sides with distaste.

  “Miss Champlin is inside, you say?” I asked, and Lucy nodded.

  “I asked her to come on in for coffee, but she refuses to talk to anyone but Lester. That’s one crazy lady in there.”

  I turned and looked at Bob Torrez, who shrugged helplessly. He leaned against the fender of 310, crossed his arms over his chest, and appeared to be ready to wait for Christmas.

  “Christ,” I muttered, “why us, why now,” and walked to the door of the RV. It was locked. I rapped it with my knuckle and waited. “Carla?” No response. “Carla? It’s Bill Gastner. Let me in.”

  I rested my hand on the door frame and felt the slight motion of the RV as something inside shifted.

  “Carla, it’s hot out here. Give me a break.” Carla wasn’t about to give anyone a break. “What did she say to you?” I asked Lucy.

  “That she wasn’t coming out or moving,” Lucy said.

  “Until what?”

  Lucy took a few steps and peered at the crushed cactus under the RV’s front tire. “She didn’t say until what.”

  I banged on the door so hard that the flimsy aluminum shook in the door frame. “Carla! Open the door. Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “Not until I talk to the judge.” The voice was small but determined.

  “That’s what telephones are for, Carla,” I
said, and when she didn’t respond added, “You can’t just camp out here.”

  “Oh, yes, I can,” Carla Champlin said.

  “Can you believe this?” I said to Torrez, who grinned.

  “I can just pop the door open,” he offered.

  “No, don’t do that,” I said. “Carla, open the damn door, You’re going to roast in there. And I’m going to roast out here.” There was no answer, but I detected more shifting. “Carla,” I added, “come on. I’m dying out here.” I hoped the feeble attempt at humor might loosen her tongue, but she didn’t say a word. “For Christ’s sakes, Carla, I’ve known you for twenty years. Talk to me.”

  “I talked to you before, and you didn’t do anything. Now I’ll talk to Judge Hobart,” she said. “And that’s that.”

  “I thought you already talked to him. Earlier this morning.”

  “He wouldn’t listen to me,” Carla said sweetly. “Now maybe he will.” I could imagine her nodding her head with satisfaction.

  “Carla…”

  “I said I’m not going to talk to you. Now just go away.”

  “Ma’am, I can’t just go away. What you’re doing is illegal. Not to mention silly.”

  She didn’t reply and I took a deep breath. “Suit yourself,” I said and walked back to 310. I settled into the seat, found the phone, and called the office. “Gayle,” I said when her calm voice answered, “we’re going to need a matron out here. If Linda’s handy, send her on over.”

  “She and Tom are downstairs, sir. In the darkroom. I’ll buzz her up.”

  I hesitated. “Well, on second thought, let’s wait on that. Tell her to sit Dispatch for a bit, and you come on over.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And tell Thomas that I don’t want him anywhere near this place, all right? If Carla catches sight of him, she’ll go ballistic.”

  “Yes, sir. I don’t think he’s going to stray far. Howard Bishop found a little blood smear on the underside of the grab rail of the backhoe. Linda took close-up photos, and they’ve been processing the prints. The lab’s got the blood sample.”

  “Outstanding. We’ll be out here just a few minutes.”

  “Is Miss Champlin all right?”

  “Well, that’s a hard question to answer just now. The sooner you can get here, the better.”

  I twisted around at the sound of tires crunching on gravel. Judge Hobart’s minivan drifted to a stop. He didn’t get out immediately but sat with both forearms resting on the top of the steering wheel, gazing at the new addition to his landscape.

  “Carla Champlin’s inside,” I said when I reached the door of his vehicle. “She refuses to move or even to talk with anyone but you.”

  “She does, does she,” the judge said in a tone that promised a sentence of twenty years to life. “Damn crazy woman spent all morning down at the county building. Looked like a goddamn old bag lady camped out in the hallway. I told her once what she should do, but I guess that wasn’t good enough.” Hobart popped the door and got out, moving slowly.

  He took his time making his way along the flank of the RV until he reached the door. The tinted glass made it impossible to see inside.

  “Miss Champlin?” he said, keeping his tone conversational and light. “It’s Lester Hobart. You’ve got to move this damn thing out of my yard.”

  “Not until you sign an eviction order I won’t.”

  The judge looked at me and then rolled his eyes heavenward. “Carla, look…I told you earlier what you have to do. It isn’t all that complicated.”

  “Well, apparently it is, since you won’t sign an order.”

  Judge Hobart frowned, and I could see the color creeping up his neck. “Miss Champlin, I won’t be threatened or coerced. Get this damn thing out of my yard, then go and talk to your lawyer, and we’ll take it from there. That’s what I told you this morning.”

  “I know you did.”

  “Well, nothing’s changed. This is nonsense.”

  Carla Champlin’s tone reminded me of a starched elementary school teacher. “Well, nonsense or not, this is the way it’s going to be. I’ve got rights, just like anybody else. Everybody thinks they can just ignore me, but well…you sign that eviction order, and I’ll just trot on.”

  Hobart thrust his hands in his pockets and regarded the pebbles by his feet. Perhaps he was counting to ten. Finally he looked up at me and said, “Goddamn woman is nuts.”

  “I heard that,” Carla Champlin barked, and I saw Bob Torrez grin.

  “I bet you did,” the judge muttered. He turned and walked toward the house, stopping as he passed me. “Goddamn woman deserves to be committed,” he said between his teeth.

  “You want to bother with a formal trespass complaint?” I asked.

  Hobart looked pained. “Don’t be ridiculous, Bill. Just get her the hell out of my yard without killing anybody.”

  He nodded curtly at Robert and strode into the house.

  “You guys want anything?” Lucy Hobart asked without enthusiasm.

  “No, thanks,” I said. “Gayle Sedillos will be here in a few minutes. Then we’ll see what we can do.”

  I stepped up to the side of the RV. “Carla? Did you hear the judge?” She didn’t answer. “He’s not going to negotiate with you, sweetheart. It’s time to pack up and move this beast out.”

  “I told you what I was going to do,” Carla said.

  “Carla,” I said patiently, “you can’t stay here. Either you move the bus or we’re going to come in there and move it for you.”

  “Don’t you threaten me.”

  “I’m not. It’s just the way things are. If I have to bust the door, I will.” I reached out and ran a hand down the polished aluminum frame. “And it’s a pretty nice door, too.”

  “Go away. If you cause any damage, I’ll sue you, too.”

  I glanced over at Bob Torrez. “What’s your suggestion?” I said. “She’s a voter, remember.”

  Torrez grinned. “When Gayle gets here, pop the door, remove Miss Champlin from the vehicle, let Gayle drive the RV back to Miss Champlin’s house, and you can take the woman in your car. Maybe by then she’ll be settled down.”

  “Oh, sure. And I notice that you’re conspicuously absent from that formula.” I walked away from the RV and took up the number-two position against the fender of the car. “And by the way, Bishop found a small blood smear on the underside of one of the grab rails of the backhoe. They’re processing it now. Prints, photos, the whole nine yards.”

  Torrez straightened up, his face coming alive with interest. “I better get back there, then. You’re on top of this?”

  “Does it look like I’m on top of it?” I chuckled. “But go ahead. But the time Gayle gets here, Carla might have reconsidered.”

  Gayle Torrez arrived two minutes after her husband left, and in that time Carla Champlin did not reconsider. The afternoon sky didn’t help me any-blank blue without a trace of clouds. No afternoon thundershowers were going to cool things off. I could feel the sun that bounced off the patrol car baking the underside of my chin, and just when I was beginning to feel a touch sorry for Carla Champlin simmering inside her tin can, the RV’s engine burst into life, and the air-conditioning unit on top kicked in. She was probably enjoying a glass of iced tea, content to let us broil outside.

  Gayle stepped out of the car with Linda Real in tow. “Tom’s sitting the desk,” Gayle said, and I nodded.

  “This is the deal,” I said. “Carla Champlin is inside that thing, and she says that she won’t come out until the judge signs an eviction order against your friend and mine, Tom Pasquale.”

  “She’s never even talked to us, face-to-face,” Linda said with wonder. “I told Tom that he should just find someplace else, but he doesn’t see why he should have to move for no reason. I guess he’s talked to her a couple of times, but she won’t listen to anything he says.”

  “Well, no reason or not, that would be the simple solution,” I said. “Otherwise, we’re going t
o have to go in there and physically remove her…which is why I asked you all to come over. To act as a matron.”

  Linda regarded the RV for a moment, eyes squinted against the sun. “This is silly,” she said. “Tell her we’ll be out of her house by the weekend.”

  “Tom will agree to that?”

  “I think so.”

  I nodded with satisfaction. “All right. Hell, you can use one of the empty guest rooms at my house for a night or two if you need it.” I stepped up to the RV’s door.

  “Carla, Linda says that they’ll be moved out by the weekend.”

  There was a pause. “Linda who?”

  “Linda Real. Tom Pasquale’s…ah…friend,” I said.

  “Fiancee” Linda said, and I looked at her in surprise and then turned back to the RV.

  “The deputy’s fiancee. They’ll be out of the house by the weekend. How’s that?”

  “I don’t know who she is.”

  “So what? What difference does it make whether you know her or not? You’ve got my word.”

  “You just show me that order signed by the judge, and we’ll talk business.”

  “Carla…”

  “I’ve made up my mind, and that’s that.”

  “Who the hell put this foolish idea in your head anyway, Carla?

  You can’t just force a judge to issue a court order.”

  “We’ll see.”

  “Carla,” I said, standing close to the door and dropping my voice, “you heard him. He already gave an order, and that was to move you out of here.”

  “Don’t you even think about interfering, Mr. Gastner. You just go away and let me wait. He’ll change his mind; you’ll see.”

  “For one thing, you’re blocking his niece’s car. She can’t get out to go to work.”

  “Isn’t that just too bad, though.”

  I looked at Gayle and Linda and held up my hands in resignation. “Suggestions?” Both shook their heads.

  “Carla,” I said, “what more do you want? The kids said that they’d move out. That’s what you wanted. That’s what you’ve got. What’s the big deal?”