by Sue Grafton
Bayard turned to Fritz. “What’s Austin screaming about? Where’s Sloan?”
“Back there,” Fritz said. “She got caught by a bullet when she ran.”
“What do you mean, ‘caught’? Like you shot her?”
“I didn’t mean to,” Fritz said. His voice broke and he knew he was babbling because what would happen now? How would they explain? “I don’t even know how the safety came off. Austin yelled at me about that and put it on himself. You saw him do it, right? So when she started running, the gun shouldn’t have fired at all . . .”
Austin appeared behind Fritz. He was focused on Troy. “Go back to the truck and bring another shovel. We have a job to do.”
Bayard said, “You dug this hole, assuming we’d have a body on our hands?”
“No, Bayard. That would make it premeditated murder, wouldn’t it? Like I planned it all in advance, which I did not. I figured it would be expedient in case we had to bury the gun.”
“Why would we have to bury the gun if we didn’t use it?” Bayard asked.
“What’s with you and all the questions? Take my word for it, okay?”
“I’m just curious. If Fritz wasn’t supposed to shoot her, why dig a hole?”
“Why are you quizzing me about a hole in the ground? Fritz is the one who plugged her, and you know what? I don’t hear a note of regret out of him. Now go back in there and drag her out. And make sure you don’t leave anything of hers behind.”
Troy said, “Shouldn’t we find a phone? We could call for an ambulance. It might not be too late.”
“Yeah, well, it’s very late where she’s concerned. Bring her out here and put her in the hole. Troy, you bring up the other shovel. Let’s be efficient about this. We’ll get her out of sight and no one will be the wiser.”
Later, it would seem to Fritz that time skipped forward, a herky-jerky leap from moment to moment, with big pieces missing when he tried to reconstruct events. He and Bayard hauled her through the brush, dragging her by the feet, which was hard work. Sloan was big and she seemed to weigh a ton, this whole inert slab of a person they were having to maneuver through the dark. The two made a concerted effort, towing her backward over the rough ground. Her hair trailed across the terrain in a long stream, picking up dead leaves and dirt. Her feet and ankles felt warm to the touch and Fritz felt a spurt of hope that she wasn’t as badly injured as he thought. His gaze kept straying to the left side of her face, where her teeth had been shattered, leaving a gaping wound that only the dead could have endured.
Once in the clearing, they rolled her in the hole, and when Troy got back with the shovel they took turns tossing dirt in on top of her. Troy was crying. Fritz realized he was weeping as well. Bayard sat on the ground with his back to them, rocking back and forth, murmuring to himself while Austin popped the magazine out of the Astra and reloaded it. Fritz watched him uneasily. Maybe Austin meant to kill all of them. Shoot ’em down and push them into the same hole.
Austin’s tone was conversational. “So here’s the deal. We were together at the cabin, just hanging out and drinking beer. It was a pool party. A few people went home. We stayed to clean up some and then we drove down the mountain together.”
“What do we say about Sloan?”
“She came with us, of course. She needed a ride because Stringer left without her, so we put her in the truck with us and dropped her off downtown. Then we say we went to my house and shot some pool and watched TV. She was fine last we saw her.”
“Is anybody going to believe that?” Bayard asked.
“Why wouldn’t they?” Austin asked. “We’re not killers. We’re just a bunch of stupid kids. If the cops should ask, all we did was goof around until we finally hit the sack around midnight. We admit to smoking dope because that sounds like we’re being candid.”
“We did do that,” Fritz said.
“My point, you ass.”
Fritz was white-faced. “Why would they talk to us at all?”
“Because we’re friends of hers. We were all at the same party. Of course they’re going to ask us if we know where she is.”
“What if someone saw her out on the road?” Fritz asked.
“Didn’t happen. She missed her ride, so she stayed at the cabin until we could give her a lift back to town.”
“Then we’re in the clear?” Fritz asked.
“I didn’t say that. We’re on shaky ground and we have to hang together. Cops are tough and they’re wily. We gotta keep our mouths shut.”
“I won’t say a word. That’s for sure.”
Austin shook his head. “All we have to do is stay calm and stick to the story. Any one of us cracks, it’s all over and I can promise you this. You ’fess up, you’re dead. You got that?”
“What do we do now?” Fritz noticed a tremor in his voice that made him sound weak, even though moments before he’d felt indomitable.
“What do you think we do now? We go back and keep our fucking mouths shut. I just got done saying that. For starters, no one except Iris knows we came up here with her. When Stringer and Michelle and all of them took off, Sloan was fine, right? Last anybody saw of her, she’d had a little too much to drink and she was sleeping it off. What happened was she sobered up and asked us to take her back to town. We said sure. The four of us dropped her downtown, the corner of State Street and whatever. We’re the only ones who know different and all we have to do is get our stories straight, tell the truth as we know it, and stick to that.”
“Won’t someone report her missing?”
“Like who? Her folks are out of town. Maybe she went to a movie or met a friend somewhere. None of our business. She asked us for a ride into town and we were happy to oblige.”
“What if someone finds the body?”
“What are you talking about? No one’s going to find her. Why would anybody even think to look up here? Isolated, rugged. It’s off the beaten path. If the coyotes get wind of her, then aren’t they the lucky ones. Dig her up and cart her off, bone by bone. Nothing left to identify. The only trick is to keep calm. We’re innocent. We didn’t do anything. She asked us to drop her off and we did. End of incident. Someone asks us, we’re as worried as everyone else.”
“But, Austin, they’re dismantling this camp. Look at all the machinery. There must be guys up here every day.”
“That’s why we buried her, schmuck. She’s four feet down. We pack the dirt, maybe leave the excavator on the spot so no one sees the ground’s disturbed.”
“What about the cops?”
“What about them? The average cop is denser than a load of manure. Barely anything going on up here,” he said and tapped his head. “They’d like you to think they’re smart, but what are the percentages? You think they solve even half the homicides that come their way? Guess again. Case gets cold and they’re on to the next, bumbling along the same as always. Just don’t let anybody shake your confidence. We back each other up. Even if they interrogate us separately, all you have to do is button your trap and what proof do they have? Other kids at the party will swear the same thing. Last they saw Sloan, she was doing great. Meantime, if one of you breaks down and blabs? I will kill you.”
Bayard said, “What about the gun?”
“Shit. Good point,” Austin said.
He looked at Troy, who backed off a step, saying, “No way. I’m not touching that.”
Austin pushed the gun into Bayard’s hand. “You take it. I can’t afford to have it on me if I get picked up.”
Bayard said, “I don’t want the fucking thing. What am I supposed to do with it?”
Austin said, “Give it to Iris and tell her to hold on to it.”
“Until when?”
“Until I say so.”
Bayard started to protest, but Austin held up a finger.
“Fine,” Bayard said, annoyed.
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Austin said, “Any questions?”
He looked from Fritz to Bayard to Troy, but no one said a word. “Okay, then. We’re set. End of story. Just hang tight and we’ll be fine.”
38
Friday, October 6, 1989
I ate a brown bag lunch at my desk. I’d packed it with care, the “entrée” being one of those peanut butter and pickle sandwiches I’m so fussy about. Whole grain bread, Jif Extra Crunchy, and Vlasic or Mrs. Fanning’s Bread’n Butter Pickles. In a pinch, dill will do, but never sweet. My practice is to cut the finished product on the diagonal and then wrap it in waxed paper that I still fold the way my Aunt Gin taught me. I’d added two Milano cookies and, being ever so dainty, I included two paper napkins, one to serve as a place mat and one for dabbing my lips.
I had just finished arranging the items on the desk in front of me when I heard a tap at the office door. I got up and crossed to the outer office, where I peered around the door frame. Troy waved at me through the glass. He wore his dark blue Better Brand coverall, so he’d apparently come from work. He waited patiently while I went through the disarming and unlocking process. Once I let him in, I didn’t bother to lock the door. If Ned burst in, Troy would make short work of him. He wasn’t tall but he had a brawny look about him, a redheaded fireplug of a guy. As a bonus, he was twenty-five years old, which gave him the advantage over Ned except in the matter of craziness.
He followed me into my office.
“Have a seat,” I said. “Aren’t you supposed to be at work?”
“This is my lunch hour. I ate in the truck driving over. Spilled crap all over myself.”
I sat down and indicated my spread. “Mind if I go ahead?”
“Have at it.”
“What’s up? I thought you were mad at me.”
He flashed his teeth, which were crooked but very white. “I got over it. ‘What’s up’ is I saw the article about Fritz in this morning’s paper. They found the Astra Constable at the scene.”
“Quite a coincidence, don’t you think?”
“Not so. I called Stringer and had a long chat with him. He told me about Fritz stopping by to borrow camping gear and how goofy he acted. I think I know how the gun ended up at Yellowweed.”
I was surprised. “Well, that’s interesting. You should probably be talking to Detective Burgess at the county sheriff’s office.”
“No way. I know Burgess and he’s a shit. He hassles me every chance he gets,” he said. “And don’t start naming five other cops I should be talking to. I want to talk to you.”
“Fine.”
I picked up my sandwich and took a bite, making an effort not to moan. What a combination: the peanut butter salty, soft, and crunchy; the pickle tart and crisp. I might not have been as subtle as I thought because he pointed, saying, “What the hell is that?”
“Peanut butter and pickle.”
“Have you ever eaten one before?”
“Many times and I’ve lived to tell the tale. Want to try?”
“Sure. Sounds like something my boys would like.”
I passed the remaining half sandwich across the desk to him and watched as he bit off a corner. He chewed and nodded to himself. He divided the remainder into two parts and ate one while I looked on with alarm. I hadn’t meant to surrender more than a bite, but it was too late to protest.
“Not bad,” he said.
“You have a theory about the guy who took Fritz up to Yellowweed?”
I watched him polish off the rest of my sandwich.
Still chewing, he pointed at me. “See, that’s your mistake. You’re assuming it’s a guy.”
“Ah.”
“What Stringer described is how Fritz acted around girls. Ask anyone who knew him and they’ll tell you the same thing. He got all giddy and gushy and made a fool of himself.”
“You have a particular girl in mind?”
“Iris.”
I heard the skepticism in my voice. “Based on what?”
“Well, I’ll tell you what it’s based on. The night when Sloan was shot? The four of us are up at Yellowweed. This is Austin, Fritz, Bayard, and me. Austin tries to palm the gun off on me and I go, like, ‘No way!’ So he hands Bayard the gun and tells him to pass it on to Iris to hold for him. He said he couldn’t afford to have it in his possession if he got picked up.”
“You’re saying Iris shot Fritz? That seems unlikely.”
“Not as unlikely as you might think.”
“What’s her motive?”
“She hated him for what he did to her.”
“Why would she hate him and not you?”
“Because I apologized. I asked her to forgive me, which she did. The two of us are square.”
“How do you know she hated Fritz?”
“She’s in a support group for victims of rape and sexual assault. She’s talked about him for years and she’s always bitter.”
“I thought those sessions were confidential.”
“Hey, come on. Women gossip. They can’t help themselves. Doesn’t matter what’s going on or how solemnly they swear not to say a word. They’re barely out the door before they’re on the telephone, spilling the beans. That’s how women bond. Scary, isn’t it?”
“You know someone who was in the group with her? Is that where this is coming from?”
“Let’s don’t get into that. Just trust me, I know what I’m talking about.”
“Iris claims the tape was all a joke.”
“And you’re convinced it’s a bullshit cover story. You think we sweet-talked her into going along with us, which is exactly what we did.”
“Why would she agree?”
“To keep tabs on Fritz. Around us, she picked up a steady stream of information. Where he went, what he was up to. We didn’t see her as the enemy and she didn’t appear to be a threat. If she’d let on how pissed off she was, we’d have cut her out of the loop. You want to blackmail someone, you want the barriers to come down. You don’t do anything to indicate how hostile you are.”
Restlessly, I shifted in my chair.
Troy held up a hand. “You’re about to ask why I think she’s the extortionist. Not just her. Her and that jug-eared fiancé. Look at it from their perspective. Fritz gets out of prison and starts a whole new life. He’s got his mommy and his daddy and access to a boatload of money. Meanwhile, according to Fritz, he’s paid his debt to society and he’s home free. Iris and Joey don’t have two nickels to rub together. You should see how they live. Apartment the size of a bread box. Twenty-five thousand could make a hell of a difference, especially since they wouldn’t have to work for it. Wouldn’t pay taxes on it, either.”
“I did wonder about that, with the wedding coming up. Iris has class. I can’t picture her getting married on a shoestring.”
Troy said, “Another motive for her killing him, if you want to put icing on the cake? Fritz was a blabbermouth. He’s constitutionally unable to keep a secret, so if he found out Iris and Joey were behind the scheme, he’d go straight to the police.”
“Even though the tape might expose him to further charges?”
“He’d probably figure it was worth the risk. He’d own up to the crime from his callous youth in exchange for police protection.”
“If I tell Cheney Phillips what you’ve just told me, would you be willing to talk to him?”
“Sure, if you keep Burgess out of it. It’s his case, isn’t it?”
“Technically, but it’s not like there’s a pissing contest between Burgess and the Santa Teresa PD.”
• • •
When Troy was gone, I sat and pondered the conversation. I thought about Margaret Seay’s contention that revenge doesn’t have to be an eye for an eye, just comparable or equivalent. Fritz had “despoiled” Iris sexually and now she’d despoiled him by puttin
g a couple of slugs in him. As retribution goes, that seemed a bit severe, but if her future mother-in-law had fed her a steady diet of bloodthirsty talk, Iris might have felt justified in just about anything she did. As is always the case, I had to subject Troy’s theory to scrutiny as well. Since he’d pointed a finger in the name of good citizenship, I had to question his motive. Might have been to deflect attention from himself.
It seemed easy enough to double-check the truth of what he’d said. I grabbed my jacket, my shoulder bag, and my car keys and headed out the door. Take for granted that I locked up properly, okay? I drove to Bayard’s house in Horton Ravine. I rang the bell, and moments later Maisie opened the door. She had her hair pulled back in a ponytail. She wore electric blue running shorts and a tank top, with a lightweight headphone set resting around her neck. Her arms and legs were tanned and shapely, suggesting weight lifting of an intensity I tend to avoid. What surprised me was the complete absence of makeup, which at first made her look unfinished and washed out. This impression was quickly followed by the realization that without the foundation, blusher, mascara, and eye shadow, she was actually much prettier.
It was clear she hadn’t expected to see me. “Oh. I thought Ellis forgot his key.”
“I’m hoping to talk to Bayard.”
“He’s on a call with his broker. I’ll tell him you’re here.”
“No hurry,” I said. I noticed that the two suitcases I’d seen in the bedroom on my earlier visit had been moved to the foyer. She caught my gaze as it drifted from the luggage back to her.
“Bayard and Ellis are going on a trip while I pack my things. I have a moving van coming first thing Monday morning.”
“You and Bayard are splitting up?”
She seemed amused. “You think it’s me Bayard’s interested in? Good luck.”
“I assumed the two of you were romantically involved.”
“He’s my stepson. He’s ten years younger than I am. What do I need with a pip-squeak whose alcohol consumption is out of control? Time to move on in life. I told him I’d rented a place in LA and next thing you know, he’s leaving town himself. Probably trying to save face.”
