“Where is he now?” Hugh gave me his full attention.
“I don’t know. He ran off, but I found out he’s Luisa’s brother.”
“Did he hurt you?” Hugh stepped toward me, his eyes crinkled with concern.
“No. I think I scared him a lot worse than he scared me.”
“You were leaving the police station when I found you. What does Ray say about it?”
“He thinks anyone who isn’t a native English speaker is automatically a criminal. I told him some things were missing, but I didn’t tell him about Luisa’s brother. They have enough problems without encouraging Ray.”
“I expect you’re right.”
“It’s Christmas. Why can’t arsonists, murderers and bigots take a break at the holidays?” Another tear slid down the side of my nose.
“I’ll be right back,” Hugh slapped his tennis racket-sized feet as he went. He returned with a plastic cafeteria tray covered with fries smothered in cheese, two extra tall root beer floats, and a box of tissues.
“Nothing like fat and sugar to fix what ails you.”
“Unless what ails you is a heart condition or diabetes.” I reached for a tissue.
“Clinical research indicates comfort food is the best cure for an aching heart.” Hugh dug into the fries. “So have at it.”
“Have you been talking to my sister?” I concentrated on dunking a fry deep into a puddle of cheese to avoid eye contact.
“It just shows.” Hugh reached across the table and covered my greasy hand with his own.
“I thought I’d been better at covering it up than that.” I peeked up at him as he squeezed my hand.
“You are. If you hadn’t been, some guy would have had a go at roping you in. And I wouldn’t have been able to try my luck because you would have already been spoken for.” My throat dried up, and a mist of sweat sprang up across my forehead. I thought about Augusta’s comments about the biological nature of things, and that made me sweat more. In college, I barely passed biology.
“Spoken for. That’s a phrase I haven’t heard in years.”
“I’m an old fashioned guy.”
I looked around the bowling alley. “I’d noticed. Do you carry a handkerchief you spread over puddles for ladies to walk on?”
Hugh pulled a white fabric square from his trouser pocket. “It’s usually for cleaning my reading glasses, but given the right lady, I’d sacrifice it to a puddle.” He leaned toward me and I felt my face flush. Actually, the flush must have spread in all directions because the nape of my neck tingled, my stomach fluttered, and my arm hairs stood on end.
“I usually wear galoshes.” I tried not to notice Hugh’s lips as a he smiled.
“Are you telling me you’re definitely not interested?”
“I’m not interested in needing anyone. I’ve worked too hard at being on my own to give up any ground on that score.”
“Going to dinner or out snowshoeing shouldn’t mean giving anything up. This isn’t a high pressure situation. At least I don’t intend it to be.” Hugh gave my hand a greasy squeeze.
“I’m in no fit condition to snowshoe.”
“When your ankle heals. I’ve got a whole tangle of trails through the woods on my property. After, I’ll make you dinner.”
“I thought you only did take-out.”
“Take-out is for business dinners. Haven’t you heard that firefighters are great cooks?” Hugh’s cell phone chirped. “You’re not off the hook. I’m going to keep asking you until I get a no. Even then, I may ask a couple of times more just to be sure.”
Hugh let go of my hand and reached for his phone. He spoke briefly into it and hung up.
“That was Ray. He’s identified the owner of the truck that skinny guy was driving.”
“Anyone I’d know?”
“Ethel Smalley.”
We bowled another string, but my mind wasn’t on the game. I kept thinking about Ethel and the truck I didn’t know she owned. I was sure I’d never seen Ethel driving anything but that blue sedan with the yard sale bumper sticker. If it was Ethel’s, then she must have registered it at the town office. That meant Clara, the town clerk, knew about it.
Twenty-Two
The town office is marginally bigger than the post office. If you’re in line waiting to buy a dog license, there is no way to avoid hearing the business of the person in front of you. This morning was no exception. I stood rereading the posted minutes of various town boards to block out Vernon Betts detailing his wife’s foot surgery. Ten minutes later he shuffled off, and I got my chance with Clara.
“If only that man would develop a disease of his own so he’d stop coming in here every day to talk to me.” Clara rolled her eyes.
“I’m just glad his mail is delivered by the rural carrier. I’ve got all I can handle every morning with Clive coming in to the post office.”
“So what can I do for you?” Clara offered me a mint from a tin.
“You heard about the accident I was in during the storm?” Clara sucked on her mint and nodded. “The truck that hit us was registered to Ethel.”
“I heard the guy who killed Ethel was driving the truck that hit you.” Clara leaned in, eyes wide.
“No one knows if he killed her. Did you know about Ethel owning a truck?”
“Well, now you mention it, I guess I did. She said something about not wanting to stink up her car with trash going to the dump. I can’t say I ever saw her driving it though.”
“Did you ever ask Winston if she brought it to the dump?” I asked.
“Ethel wasn’t my favorite person, you know that. I didn’t talk about her any more than absolutely necessary. If I brought it up, I don’t remember his answer.”
Hugh pulled up in front of the town office just as I was limping out the door.
“Looks like you beat me to the punch this morning.” Hugh got out and walked around to the passenger side and opened the door for me. “Hop in and tell me what you found out.” I settled myself and soaked up the heat blasting from the vent. I filled Hugh in, and we agreed to head to the dump.
If you want to win a local election, you campaign at the dump. On a Saturday morning almost everyone in town ends up there at some point. If Ethel had ever brought trash to the dump in the truck that ran us off the road, then Winston would know about it.
“I think you should let me handle this,” I said.
“Is Winston likely to be close-mouthed about Ethel’s truck?” Hugh looked surprised.
“It’s not that. I don’t think you’ll fit in the dump office. At least, not if Winston’s in there, too.” We glanced at the tiny outbuilding sided in cast-off galvanized sheet metal and discarded license plates.
“I’ll be here when you’re done.” Hugh came round the side of the car and opened it for me.
“It’s my ankle that’s out of commission, not my arm, you know,” I said.
“I told you I was an old fashioned guy. Now stop complaining, and go dig up some gossip.” I tried my best to strut away like Augusta does, all nonchalant with a bit of a hip wiggle. Even with two good legs I can’t really manage it. From the stifled chortles leaking out of Winston’s helpers I only managed to look like a staggering drunk on crutches. When it comes down to being decorative or useful, I come up useful every time.
Winston was sitting behind his desk made from a hollow core door stretched across a short metal file cabinet on one side and a sawhorse on the other. He reached for a grimy paper cup and spat a gob of chew into it.
Crammed in around him were things people brought to the dump that he couldn’t see any reason to throw away. Coils of Romex were draped over nails pounded into the walls. Coffee cans of screws and nails were stacked in the corners. Stuffed animals were piled up to the side of the door. I squeezed in next to a life-sized purple gorilla and just barely managed to shut the door.
“Something I can do for you this mornin’?” he asked, closing a copy of Transfer Station Monthly.
“I was wondering if Ethel ever came to the dump in a navy blue truck? Mid-sized, with a cap.” Winston opened a three-ring binder on his desk. He flicked through several pages, running his stubby finger down the columns with care.
“Just wanted to double-check before shooting my mouth off.” He snapped the binder shut. “Ethel had a dump permit for two different vehicles. One was her sedan, and the other was a truck like you described. She only brought the truck in the one time to get a permit.”
“So you never saw it again?” I was disappointed. Why would Ethel have a truck she didn’t need? She was too cheap to pay the registration and insurance even if it was a junker that she wasn’t making payments on.
“I didn’t say that. It came to the dump a lot, just not with her. Chris Davis brought it in every couple of weeks for probably the last six months.”
“Chris? Are you sure?”
“I’m sure. I hadn’t written out a dump permit for him for that particular truck, so I made a point to look it up when he was here with it the first time. It was Ethel’s. The first time I wondered if he was renovating her house or some such a thing. He kept coming in with it, though, and I never heard that Ethel reported it stolen.”
“Did you ever ask him about why he was using it?”
“It wasn’t any of my business so long as the vehicle had a valid dump sticker.” I couldn’t think of anything else to ask so I thanked Winston for his time and left him with his magazine.
Hugh was standing outside his car fending off seagulls.
“Who’s Chris Davis?” Hugh asked.
“He’s married to my clerk Trina. They’ve been in town about two years.” I wondered how to ask Chris questions about secretly using a murder victim’s truck without causing Trina to quit at the busiest season of the year.
I really didn’t want to spend another Christmas season begging for extra help from the surrounding offices. I’ve had twenty-three clerks in the past ten years. Donald Petrie at the Langley office simply hangs up now when he hears my voice on the phone.
I gave Hugh directions to the Davis house and slumped back, chewing a fingernail and thinking about how much time I had left until retirement with full benefits. No matter how many vacation days I’d banked, it still wouldn’t get me out before the end of this holiday season.
A twelve-foot inflatable Santa waggled in the wind in front of Chris and Tina’s house. Another Santa and the reindeer parked on the roof. In fact, every square inch of the front lawn lit up, moved or blared music. The only thing missing was a path shoveled to the door.
“I think you should wait for me,” Hugh said.
“I’m fine. I’ve gotten used to these things by now.” I confidently swung my crutches across the crusty snow. I squeezed between a hard plastic camel and an oversized elf. “See?” As I bore my weight down on the crutches, they punched through the crust on the snow. The top of my body lurched forward as my feet slipped out behind me. I whacked the elf with a crutch. He toppled onto Mrs. Claus in a manner that was sure to get him fired. She in turn knocked over Frosty, who leveled the Grinch. Before I could stop myself, I upended the manger and sent Baby Jesus skittering into the street just in time to be crushed under the tire of Ray’s police car.
Ray flipped on his lights and got out to inspect the scene. The commotion brought Trina to the front door. Her two kids, Krystal and Kyle, peeked out around her. Krystal started to wail. Ray poked at the crushed Christ Child replica with his boot. It was doubtful this doll could be resurrected.
“Would you like to file a complaint?” he called to Trina. “Looks like assault and battery to me. It might even be a hate crime.”
“What am I going to tell Chris?” Trina asked. “He spent all last weekend setting this stuff up.”
“Is he here now, ma’am?” Hugh called up to her, from the safety of the driveway.
“No. He’s at an architectural salvage place in Portland.” Trina said. “He said he’d be home early on account of the holiday.” I scooted on my backside until I reached the driveway. Hugh heaved me to my feet and then retrieved my crutch from the middle of the street.
“About those charges, Trina?” Ray asked again. “Want to file them?”
“I guess not,” Trina said. “It wouldn’t really be in the Christmas spirit. Besides, if she’s in jail I’ll have to work her shifts.” Trina tugged Krystal back into the house and slammed the door.
“That didn’t go the way I was expecting,” I said.
“You know, the Fire Marshal doesn’t condone torture,” Hugh said. “We both stared at the carnage. Somehow the inflatable Santa was punctured in the fray and had lost enough girth to be a celebrity spokesman for a prescription weight loss program.
“Please take me home,” I said. Ray, busily snapping photos of the debris, didn’t notice us leaving. Staring in the side mirror I saw him stringing up crime scene tape. When we arrived home, Hugh walked me to the door.
“I’ll call you if I locate Chris.” He pushed open the unlocked door.
“Call any time. I don’t have holiday plans since the boys aren’t coming home, and Augusta may have plans with Gene. ”
“I’ll be in touch.” He rested a giant paw on my arm before leaving me alone in my empty house. I flicked on the light over the kitchen sink and found a note from Augusta letting me know she’d gone to the grocer for eggnog.
It was still light out, and I had presents for the DaSilvas. I thought the younger kids still might believe in Santa, so I trudged to the barn and dug through the old costume box the boys had loved when they were little. Near the bottom I found a rumpled Santa suit and a long white beard. Not only was it festive, it covered up my tangerine hair.
Augusta had returned with the car by the time I’d wiggled into the suit and brushed out the beard.
“I thought you were more interested in removing facial hair than adding it.” Augusta plopped two grocery bags on the table.
“I’m delivering gifts to the DaSilvas. Would you drive me over?”
“Sure. Let me just stick the perishables in the fridge.” Ten minutes later we pulled up next to the DaSilvas’ driveway, and Augusta helped me to the door before going back to the car to stay out of sight. I adjusted my beard and thumped on the trailer’s warped door. Even without a bum ankle there was no way I was squeezing through a chimney, even if the trailer had happened to have one.
“Ho, ho, ho,” I bellowed as Luisa pulled open the door. She took a startled step backward, and I took that as an invitation to go on in. Diego and his brothers sat at a coffee table eating plates of beans and rice. The younger ones gasped, and even Diego looked excited.
“Have these boys been good this year?” I asked. Tulio and Ronaldo glanced uncertainly at their mother. Diego nodded, and the toddler cried. “Anyone working hard learning English?” I reached into the sack as Ronaldo and Tulio joined Diego nodding. Luisa closed the door and scooped up her youngest.
I’d handed out all the packages in my bag, and the toddler had stopped crying and started grabbing my beard, when I heard scuffling on the stoop. Luisa said something in Portuguese that I assumed meant not to open the presents until she said so and then opened the door again. A blast of cold shot through the room as a second Santa shoved the skinny guy from Beulah’s basement into the trailer in front of him. Alessandro began to cry again.
Luisa ran toward the man, and the only word she said that I understood was “Ernesto.”
“I was coming to deliver presents when I saw this guy slinking up the stairs.” Even with the Santa suit there was no mistaking Ray’s voice. “Look what he had with him.” Ray plunked down a kerosene heater that looked just like the ones found at the Museum and at Ethel’s.
“He is no doing wrong. Please go.” Luisa said shaking a finger in Ray’s face.
“Oh, I’m going all right, and this slippery customer is coming with me.” Ray dug into the depths of his red suit and pulled out handcuffs. I wondered if he was wearing his entire uniform under the
re.
“Where is Santa taking Tio?” Tulio asked, putting down a package.
“I’m taking him to the police station for questioning. He stole a truck, fled an accident scene, and killed a couple of old ladies.” Ernesto shook his head. Luisa started crying along with Alessandro. Diego was the only one who looked angry instead of scared. He lunged at Ray and pulled off his beard.
“You are thinking it is my uncle doing bad things because we are foreigners. My English is not so good, but I watch television. I know you cannot be here with no search warrant. My mother say to you to get out.”
“So this guy is your uncle, huh? Have you got a green card you could show me?” Ernesto tried to pull away, but Ray grabbed him and snapped on the handcuffs. “I didn’t think so.” Ray shoved Ernesto toward the door. “You folks have a nice holiday.”
Twenty-Three
The trailer door flapped shut. I hobbled toward it as fast as I could and hollered after them.
“Ernesto! Don’t talk to him. Wait for the man with the red hair.” I turned to Luisa, who was crying harder. “Luisa, where can we talk privately?” She led me down the hall and opened a door at the end. Folded neatly on the floor near the heat vent sat a pile of blankets and a pillow. A milk crate pushed against the other wall held clothes. There was nothing else in the room.
I pulled off the Santa hat and beard. Alessandro watched me remove what seemed like a piece of my face and howled even louder—or maybe he was as upset about the color of my hair as I was.
“Gwen. I thought was you. I need help my brother. I go with the police.” Luisa squeezed her son tighter to her chest.
“Why would you go? He’s the one who ran away from the police. He’s the one who was hiding at Beulah’s.”
“He not hurt Beulah.” Luisa bounced Alessandro on her hip.
“I’m sure you believe your brother. I want to believe him, too, but proving he wasn’t involved may be difficult. He’s acting like a guilty man.”
Live Free or Die Page 15
