"Yeah, but your heart doesn't seem to be into training him much either. I get the feeling you don't think he ought to be a cop."
"Not for me to decide."
"So what else did you find at the scene?" I asked, changing the subject. Booker looked at me oddly.
"I saw the look you gave Newt, Tom. What gives?"
"Not much." He sighed and pushed his plate away, leaning back in his seat. "I should have secured the scene myself, that's all. I had no business going in the ambulance with Tommy. But I thought maybe he'd come to and I wanted to be there if he said something. I thought I could trust Newt to secure the scene until I returned."
"He didn't?"
"He found Tommy's wallet. It was stripped clean, of course. There's a nice piece of plastic where his driver's license goes. Good clean surface for prints."
"So? That's good, right?"
"Newt put his damn fingerprints all over the thing."
"Oh."
"Yeah. Now you know why I wasn't thrilled to send him over to Tommy's. Come on. I better get over there before someone else does and screws it up."
Booker had me wait outside at Tommy's. I stood in the doorway stroking Pepper and watched as he methodically went from room to room.
"What do you suppose they were looking for?" he asked, coming back out onto the porch. Guilt inched up my neck. I felt the heat and knew my cheeks were splotched red.
Oh, to hell with Erica, I thought. Booker was my friend, and he was Tommy's friend. "There's something I've been meaning to tell you," I said. Booker crossed his arms and listened while I told him what Tommy had said to Erica. Then I told him about our encounter with the Bailey brothers and about the books and maps Tommy had checked out from the library. Finally, I told him Tommy had downloaded information on obtaining a gun. The only thing I didn't mention was the flowers. I probably would have, but he cut me off.
"Why didn't you tell me this yesterday, Cass?"
I paused, not sure how to answer.
"You didn't think you could trust me?" He was incredulous.
"It's not that, Tom. It's just that Erica —"
"Erica. Right. Damn it all to hell, Cass. You shoulda told me straight off!" He was so mad, his naturally dark features looked sunburnt. Fuming, he paced the front porch. I waited until he calmed down, afraid that whatever I said would just make things worse. Finally, he stopped pacing and turned to face me.
"Well, seein' as you've had more time to mull this over than I have, you got any fancy ideas about what's goin' on?"
"Erica thinks that maybe Tommy found the other half of the clue and ..."
He exploded. "I don't give a rat's ass what Erica Trinidad thinks. I want to know what you think!"
"Tom. I said I was sorry. I don't see what difference it makes whether I told you last night or this morning —"
He cut me off. "Well, I'll tell you. For one thing, if I'd known the Bailey brothers had been out here, I might've come out here myself and waited to see if they came back. Especially if I'd known that Tommy told Erica to find something. Someone emptied his wallet, Cass. Didn't just take the money. Took everything in it. Then someone came out here and went through the house like a tornado. They looked in the toilet tank, for God's sake. So whatever they were looking for wasn't real big. Small enough to fit in a wallet? I don't know. Now we don't even know if they found it or not. If I'd've known there was something to look for, I might've found it myself!"
I nodded, feeling genuinely terrible. "He also said something about flowers," I said. "Just the word. It was the last thing he said."
Booker stared at me, his blue eyes steely. "You just now remembering this? You gonna remember something else in a minute or two? A day or week from now?"
"I swear to you, that's it. He said not to trust anyone, that Erica should find it, and then he said 'flowers' and passed out. I thought maybe we should check the flowerbed outside the restroom, but there were so many people there, looking and everything ..."
"Jesus H. Christ!" he muttered. He strode off the porch like he was on his way to war, climbed into his cruiser, slammed the door and tore off, spraying pebbles and dirt in his wake.
"So much for honesty," I said, feeling like pond scum. I petted Pepper for a while to comfort myself, but she got tired of the attention and jumped down. Trying not to touch anything until Booker had a chance to print the place, I made sure Pepper had plenty of cat chow, then climbed back into my Jeep and headed back toward town, my mood about as low as it could get.
Chapter Six
The Cedar Hills Library was in an old brick building dating back to the days when the town was a thriving logging village. The little old lady who ran the place was almost as old as the building. Mrs. Peters had white hair that often took on pink or bluish tints, depending on which brand of rinse she was using at the time. She wore a pink sweater buttoned at the top and open at the waist to allow room for her generous midsection. When she saw me, her watery eyes lit up. She wore trifocals and her eyes always seemed huge behind them.
"Cassidy James! One of my favorite bookworms!"
See? I thought. Someone likes me!
"Hey, Mrs. Peters. How you doing?"
"I'm fair, Cassidy. Just fair. Poor, poor Tommy Green. Such a shame. I had a cousin once, went into a coma. Lasted more than a year before they decided to pull the plug. I hope they don't do that with Tommy — leave him hanging on. I'm a firm believer that when it's your time, it's your time. None of that artificial resuscitation nonsense for me. What can I do for you?"
"Actually, it's Tommy I came to see you about. You remember him checking out some books a while back?"
"Sure do. They're overdue, too. The lost treasure stuff has been a real popular subject lately. Kind of goes in waves over the years. There'll be an article or something in the paper about that old lost gold and all of a sudden people start checking out books on it, wanting to know everything they can on the subject. I even showed Tommy and his friend how to use the microfiche and he photocopied some old news articles on it."
"What friend was that?"
"Oh, I wouldn't know that. A red-headed boy. Kind of dirty-looking."
Bart Bailey. "Did you happen to read or see whatever it was that got him interested in the first place?"
"No-o-o." She put her finger to her temple. "Thinking back, I have to assume there was something, because of all the sudden interest."
"So he wasn't the only one checking out books about the lost gold?"
"No. A couple of others did too, right about the same time."
"You remember who?"
"I remember one of them. Just a minute." She went back behind the oak counter and hit buttons on her computer.
It always amazed me to see older people using the latest technology like they'd done it all their lives. She was easily an octogenarian, yet could talk RAM, gigabytes and megahertz with the best of them.
"Well, I guess the one I remember didn't actually check anything out or I'd have it on file. I do recall he sat right over there and pored through half a dozen stories on that old lost treasure though. Seemed odd to me, because he looked more the type to be reading Shakespeare, not old folklore."
"You remember what he looked like?"
"Oh, I certainly do. He was in his late sixties and I'd never seen him before, which was why I noticed. Most of the older folks around here I know. He had white hair, kind of longish, with a moustache and beard to match. Sort of reminded me of a more refined Grandpa Walton. I figured him to be a new retiree out on the lake. I ruled out the mobile home park because his sweater was a cardigan and his loafers were real leather. A retired doctor maybe. Anyway, I was surprised that the only thing he seemed interested in were the stories on the lost treasure. It didn't fit with who I had him pegged for."
"And this was before or after Tommy checked out his books?"
"Oh, before, I'm fairly sure. Yes, it was. Because when Tommy started asking for the same kind of materials, I thought, 'Aha! There's been
another documentary on that old logger who supposedly found half a note telling where the gold was hidden.' Like I said, over the years, I've seen it happen before."
"You said someone else was interested in the gold about that time?"
"Yes, I've got that one here. A Ginny Cathwaite. Hadn't seen her in here before either. She just checked out the one book."
"When was that?"
"Let's see. Just a day after Tommy checked out his. I only carry the two copies and they were both checked out. I can go a whole year without either one being so much as looked at."
"Did she return her book?"
"Oh, yes. Only kept it a day or two. I've got it here, if you'd like to take a look at it." She led me to the shelf and I recognized the book as a copy of the one I'd seen the night before. I flipped through the well-worn pages, stopping to glance again at the picture of the half-torn note the logger had found. The page was dog-eared, like over the years readers had zeroed in on this one page.
"You want to check it out?" she asked.
"No, thanks. I know you wouldn't normally do this, but would you give me a call if someone else comes in asking for it?"
Mrs. Peters narrowed her eyes at me and pushed her glasses up on the bridge of her nose. "This have something to do with what happened to Tommy?"
"I'm not sure," I said truthfully. "I'm just sort of looking at all the angles. You remember what this Ginny Cathwaite looked like?"
"Little bitty thing, as I recall. Reminded me of a cheerleader, though she must've been in her forties.
Seemed to know just what she was looking for. Afraid I can't recall much more. I believe I was working on the computer when she came in." She looked down, as if admitting an embarrassing addiction.
"You still surfing the Net?" I asked. Since the advent of the Internet, Mrs. Peters had been a voracious e-mailer, chat-room lobbyist and all around Web browser. She was as addicted to the Net as a gambler to a slot machine.
She looked at me, her watery eyes revealing both pride and chagrin. "I have a pen pal in Pakistan, of all places. Can you believe it? You wouldn't believe the things that women put up with back there."
"Did you by any chance show Tommy how to download information? I found something at his house that looks like it came from a Web site and Tommy doesn't even own a computer."
"Yes, as a matter of fact, I did. He came in last week and I reminded him that his books were overdue. He said he'd get them back to me directly and could I show him how to buy something off the computer. He wouldn't tell me what he was interested in, so I gave him the basics and let him browse on his own. He was here quite a while but I don't know if he found what he was looking for. He did print something, though, so maybe he was successful." She looked over at her computer fondly, as if anxious to get back in front of it, so I thanked her for her help and walked outside into what had become another bright, sunshine-filled day.
The library was only a few blocks from the county park and I decided to walk over, half-hoping I'd run into Booker, half-afraid to. Apparently, he'd already been and gone. The flowerbeds looked fairly well-trampled and the crime-scene tape had been extended to wrap around their perimeter. Had he found something? The county park workers were out in numbers, cleaning up after the festival. Despite the attack on Tommy, the festivities had gone on, and from the looks of the grounds, been a smashing success. Idly, I wondered who'd won the chowder contest. It seemed a lifetime since I'd stood just a hundred feet away, tasting chowders while half the town looked on. Had whoever attacked Tommy been watching the contest too? Or had he —presuming it was a man who attacked him in the restroom — been watching Tommy, waiting for him to break away from the crowd so he could approach him?
And why attack him in such a public place? Why not just wait until he got home, then sneak up on him there? Was it because the assailant thought that Tommy had whatever it was he wanted on him? I shook my head, knowing I had more questions than answers. It was time to talk to someone who could answer some of them.
Bart Bailey worked at an auto repair shop just outside of Cedar Hills on Highway One. He specialized in broken-down motor homes and big rigs, but I'd seen him work on Tommy's boat once, so I knew his mechanic's skills were diverse. When I pulled into the parking lot, he was bent over the engine of a station wagon, doing something with a wrench.
"Got a minute?" I asked, startling him. He banged his head on the hood and stood up, rubbing at the spot.
"Uh, sure," he said. "It's kind of slow right now, anyway. It's Cass, right?" Up close, Bart was an interesting study in hues, and though not exactly handsome, his features were pleasing. His intelligent green eyes were ringed with pale lashes and his cheeks were blotched with color as if he'd just exercised. The smattering of freckles splashed across his nose were tarnished copper and added to the Tom Sawyer look. He wore his frizzy red hair tied back in a ponytail, but tendrils had broken loose and strayed down along the darker auburn sideburns. Pushed back from his high forehead, he wore a grease-stained Yankees cap that had seen better days.
"How come you trashed Tommy's place, Bart?"
His eyes widened, then he shook his head. "No way. Not me. If his place got trashed, it wasn't my doing. You can ask anyone. I was at the tavern until closing time. Then I left with Candy Morris." He spoke rapidly, breathing shallowly.
"Didn't say when it happened, Bart, but you seem to have a pretty good idea. What time did Buck leave the bar?"
"Why don't you ask him?" There was a hint of defiance, but his eyes didn't back it up. He seemed to realize he wasn't going to pull off a tough-guy act. His shoulders slumped and he let out a gargantuan sigh.
" 'Cause I wanted to hear what you had to say first, Bart. What were you guys looking for?"
"I wasn't there!" His voice rose. He looked around as if embarrassed by his outburst, then lowered his voice. "I told you. It wasn't me."
"Okay, okay. I believe you. What was Buck looking for?"
He shook his head. Shrugged. Looked at me with obvious anxiety.
"I know about the gold thing, Bart. About the hidden treasure you and Tommy were looking for. Was Buck in on it, too?"
His eyes went wide. He looked like a precocious twelve-year-old. "How'd you know that?"
"You guys weren't exactly discreet. You checked out books from the library. Tommy started missing work. You three were seen hanging out together. I know you guys were up there on Rainbow Ridge looking for the treasure. What I don't understand is what Tommy had that Buck wanted so badly."
"You're a private detective, right? Tommy told me. Said you were a, uh . . ." He paused, his cheeks turning pink. "You know. Like Ellen."
"Ellen?"
"On TV You know." Bart was definitely blushing.
"A bookstore owner?"
Bart's gaze met mine and he smiled at his own expense. "Sorry. You must think I'm a total moron. I sound like an idiot."
"It's okay, Bart. The word's lesbian."
"Right." His face was beet red. "Anyway, Tommy said you're good people. Said you were someone he could talk to. If Tommy trusted you, I guess I can too." Bart took a breath and looked over his shoulder as if afraid someone would see us talking. Someone like Buck, probably.
"Come on, Bart. Let me buy you a soda."
There was a truckstop next to the repair shop. The waitress seemed to know Bart and greeted him warmly. Bart had a shy smile. He used it sparingly, but when he smiled, he was actually cute. We slid into a booth and ordered Cokes. As soon as the waitress left, Bart removed his cap, smoothed his red hair and leaned forward, his eyes locked on mine.
"Buck didn't attack Tommy, if that's what you're thinking. I knew someone would think that and I told him to just leave Tommy's place alone, but Buck gets an idea in his head and he can't get it out."
"So why did he trash the place? What was he looking for?"
"It's kind of complicated." He took a deep breath. "You already know about the lost gold, right? I'd never even heard of it myself, until one n
ight at the bar when this old guy comes in and starts moaning about how he was this close to being rich and now he's up and got some weird disease and what a waste of good fortune. Anyway, Tommy buys him a few drinks and the next thing you know he's telling us the story about this gold hidden somewhere up on Rainbow Ridge and how he's found the other half of this note that's supposed to tell where the gold is hidden, only he can't reach it because the trees have grown so tall and now, being terminal with no relatives, what's the point anyway, and like that. So Buckie starts buying him more drinks and before the night is over, he's told us exactly where the tree is that's got the pouch that's got the note supposedly tied to some red bandana. He even drew us a map on a napkin. You know, I only half-believed the old guy, but Tommy and Buck were completely sold on it, and the next morning they were already making plans on what to do with the money."
Our Cokes came and Bart practically drained his in one slurp through the straw. Talking seemed to be doing him some good, and he sat back in the booth, more relaxed.
"It started out the three of us, even-steven partners. Whichever one of us found the red bandana first, we'd tell the others, right? The plan was, we'd go up to where the guy had told us and start searching the trees for the bandana. Buck got ahold of some tree-climbing equipment — boots with spikes on 'em, special belts with pulleys, ropes, binoculars, stuff like that. I mean, we had some money invested in this venture. Well, actually, it was my money and Tommy's. But Buck did the legwork, had the connections and stuff. Anyway, we started going up every chance we got, but both Tommy and I had to work and couldn't go as often as Buck wanted. Buck said he'd go by himself, if it was all right with us, but Tommy insisted that none of us go without the other two. Buck seemed okay with that and never mentioned it again."
He finished the Coke and leaned forward, resting his grease-stained elbows on the table. I waited for him to go on.
7th Heaven Page 5
