by Celia Kinsey
I sat up and told Georgia I’d had weird dreams.
“I would be having weird dreams, too, if I’d slept on that couch two nights running,” said Georgia, “How long is Janey going to stay?”
Chapter Sixteen
I told Georgia that I had no idea how long Janey might be camping out in my room.
My cousin didn’t say anything more, but I could tell that—despite her sympathy for Janey’s plight—she felt we were over capacity. Three grown women, a six-year-old boy, a pug, and a potbellied piglet were rather more than the small two-bedroom apartment had been designed to accommodate.
Georgia also didn’t have to point out that no progress had been made in finding out who had killed Jorge or why, not to mention what Jasper had to do with it all. Nevertheless, I was convinced that it was all connected. I was equally convinced that when Hugo had placed what he thought was a call to Jasper, his threats against Janey had been serious. I could hardly send her back home as long as Hugo remained a threat.
I’d heard nothing from Officer Reyes regarding Hugo or the bloody glove. I hadn’t really expected to. I felt I’d reached a dead end, but there was one remaining question I might get an answer to, so as soon as Janey was up and stirring, I cornered her before she’d even had a chance to shower or get a bit of breakfast.
“I went up to the bunkhouse yesterday morning,” I said. “I poked around a little and made an interesting discovery.”
Janey was too sleepy to ask what had possessed me to be rifling through other people’s belongings.
“I found some dirty coveralls belonging to your brother. Did you know he was moonlighting as a mechanic?”
Janey’s eyes did not widen. She registered no reaction to my question other than to look longingly past me to the open bathroom door.
“You must be mistaken,” said Janey, “Jasper can do basic things like change oil and spark plugs and stuff, but he’s never taken a serious interest in mechanics. The only thing he’s ever taken any lasting interest in is animals.”
I was convinced Janey spoke the truth as she knew it. I was equally convinced that Jasper had been doing far more than changing spark plugs on the odd car. I wondered why Jasper had hidden his second job from his sister. I could think of several possible reasons.
“Nancy told me that your brother is a vegan.”
Janey confirmed that it was true.
“That work glove I found with Jasper’s initials inside was made of leather.”
Janey seemed surprised. She thought he favored synthetic gloves but acknowledged that her brother had been short on money lately, so perhaps someone had given him the gloves, and he’d compromised his principles out of necessity.
“And the boots under his bunk looked like genuine snakeskin.”
Janey could not recall Jasper having any such boots but suggested that lots of snakeskin boots were fake anyway.
“Why has Jasper been short of money lately?”
Janey said she did not know. She’d asked, but Jasper had been evasive.
I ate breakfast and then set to work tackling the list of errands that had accumulated over the past several days.
I started by going to the post office to pick up the mail.
Morticia was coming out as I was going in, and I pounced on the opportunity to quiz her about Hank’s sudden interest in tarot.
I found Morticia unreceptive to questioning. She was so unreceptive that I wondered if she didn’t adhere to the same principles of confidentiality as therapists, lawyers, and priests.
It was only when I mentioned Hank’s belief that his late mother was communicating with him through the crossword puzzle that her mask slipped a little. She looked like she was trying not to laugh.
Like Katie, the mail carrier, Morticia is another inhabitant of Amatista who likely knows far more about the people who live here than one might expect. Morticia might be a fount of information but getting the spring bubbling was like witching for water in the midst of the Sahara.
“What do you know about Jasper Hamm?” I asked Morticia. Amusement faded from her face.
“I think he’s in grave danger,” she said.
“What makes you think that?”
Morticia was cagey. She knew something that she wasn’t willing to tell, and I very much doubted if her information was the result of accessing some higher realm of consciousness.
“What about Janey?” I asked. “Do you think she’s also in danger?”
Morticia seemed less sure on that point, but when I told her about the phone call from Hugo I’d intercepted when I’d answered Jasper’s phone, she seemed troubled.
“I heard Janey is staying with you,” Morticia said. “I hope you’ll keep her from going home for a while.”
I wondered what Morticia meant by “a while.”
I was trying to decide whether to pry further into the matter when an older woman walked up behind us. Morticia and I were blocking the entrance, so we moved aside to let the woman pass.
“Who was that?” I asked Morticia.
“Roberta Haskell.”
I said goodbye to Morticia and went inside the post office. Mrs. Haskell was picking up her mail straight from the postmaster.
When Mrs. Haskell turned around from the postmaster’s tiny window—which reminded me more of the teller’s booth in an Old West bank than a place to pick up one’s mail—she had a stack of envelopes clutched to her chest. I introduced myself, and she extended her free hand.
“I’ve heard a lot about you,” Roberta said. I couldn’t tell from her tone if I should consider that a good thing or not. I decided it was probably Juanita who’d been talking, and in that case, it was undoubtedly a more positive portrayal than I deserved. Juanita is so fond of me she’s inclined to gloss over my flaws.
“I’ve heard a lot about you, too,” I told Roberta. “I hear you’ve had some important mail go missing.”
Chapter Seventeen
When I asked Mrs. Haskell about her missing mail, her face crumpled. “It’s the money my son sends me every month,” she said, “it’s been stolen for three months straight. That’s why I’ve had my mail forwarded straight to general delivery so I can pick it up at the window.”
“Where does your son live?”
“Denver.”
“Can’t he replace the checks?”
“It’s cash he’s sending. I depend on that money. Rural Electric is threatening to turn my power off.”
“Does your son send you cash every month?”
Mrs. Haskell nodded.
“Can’t you ask him to send a check instead or wire the money or something?”
“I did ask him about sending a check, but he told me there’s some problem with his bank account.”
It was at that moment that I questioned if Mrs. Haskell’s son had been sending any money in the first place.
“Did he used to send checks?” I asked.
“Up until three months ago. It was only after he started sending cash that the money started going missing.”
I was not having charitable feelings for Mrs. Haskell’s son. Why didn’t he just tell his mother that he couldn’t, or wouldn’t, be sending her money each month any longer? I was convinced I’d cracked the crux of the matter when Mrs. Haskell said something which made me rethink my assumptions.
“I know who’s stealing the money,” she said.
“Oh?”
“It’s Juanita Gonzalez.”
You know sometimes when you think you’ve heard somebody say something, yet you can’t bring yourself to believe those are the actual words that just came out of their mouth? That was one of those times.
“You mean Juanita Gonzales who owns the Bird Cage Café?”
Mrs. Haskell nodded.
“The Juanita Gonzales who goes to church with you?”
Mrs. Haskell nodded again.
“What makes you so sure she’s the one who’s stealing the money?” My voice was shaking, and I had my fists balled up i
n my coat pockets, but Mrs. Haskell didn’t seem to notice how upset her words had made me.
“I know she’s doing it.”
“How?”
“Because she brings me a basket from the community food pantry the fifth of every month, and that’s the day the money is supposed to come.”
“That’s all you’re going on?”
For the first time, Mrs. Haskell seemed to realize I was angry.
“It’s not just that,” she said defensively. “Twice I’ve seen her going through my mailbox. She doesn’t know I saw her, but I did. I think she feels guilty about it, though, because at church last week somebody tucked a hundred-dollar bill into my Bible. I’m sure it was her.”
I had no trouble believing that Juanita might have hidden a hundred-dollar bill in Mrs. Haskell’s Bible. I had a far harder time believing that the same hundred dollars had ever been Roberta’s in the first place.
There’s not a living soul on this earth I’d be more shocked to find out was stealing money from impoverished senior citizens than Juanita Gonzales. I’m not saying the woman is a saint, but she’s about as close as we’re likely to see to one in this cruel world.
I was too upset to continue on the subject, so I changed it by asking Roberta about her upcoming 80th birthday party at the Bird Cage, an odd choice of venue considering that she believed the proprietress was stealing her blind.
“Oh, yes,” said Roberta, “my son will be coming into town. He’s paying for the whole thing. Be sure and come. You can meet him. He’s a brilliant surgeon, you know.”
A brilliant surgeon who apparently operated on a strictly cash basis, even when it came to sending his mother money through the post.
After that, I went inside and collected the mail for Little Tombstone. As I was about to leave the post office, I noticed a stack of photocopied newsletters on the wide windowsill by the door. The newest issue of the Amatista Advance had been released.
As soon as I got back home, I locked myself in the bathroom with a pencil, and hurriedly did the crossword puzzle on the back page of the newsletter.
This puzzle was alien-themed but interspersed with the extraterrestrial clues like ten across: Little green men (answer: Martians) were clues I found downright odd: three across: What I called you as a little boy (answer: Junior) and nine down: Another name for mother (answer: Mama).
I would have bet the entire contents of my savings account (which was considerable after the generous bequest I’d gotten from Aunt Geraldine) that Hank had called his mother “Mama,” and she’d called him “Junior.”
The clue for five across was: Peanut butter and ___________ sandwich. I assumed that the answer would be jelly, or possibly banana, but it turned out to be pickle.
I was also betting Hank had carried peanut butter and pickle sandwiches to school for lunch, prepared for him by his Mama, who’d possibly included a sweet note inside for her beloved Junior.
Somebody was yanking Hank’s chain. I feared they were setting him up, although I had to give whoever it was points for creativity . Using a crossword puzzle to do it was certainly innovative.
I put away the crossword, leashed up Earp, and went in search of Ledbetter. I found him out back of his trailer, lifting weights. Ledbetter is not the gym type, although you’d never know it by looking at him. Instead of leaving Little Tombstone to pump iron, he’s set up an outdoor gym on the empty concrete slab next door to his trailer.
“What can I do for you, Emma?” he asked. He was in the middle of a press and facing the other direction. I decided he must have heard Earp and me approaching. It’s hard to sneak up on someone when you have a pug in tow who stops every two feet to inhale the ground like he’s trying to hoover up the crust of the earth all the way down to the mantle.
“How did you know it was me?”
“Shadow,” said Ledbetter, sitting up and turning around to face me. “Recognized the—whatever that thing is you do with your hair.”
“Ponytail.”
I looked into Ledbetter’s unblinking blue eyes and then down at my shadow, which fell across the bench. That man could be outright unnerving sometimes.
It was this unnerving quality which made Ledbetter the ideal person to appeal to for help, although Earp certainly didn’t seem to be picking up on Ledbetter’s intimidation factor. The pug had his front paws up on one of Ledbetter’s massive calves and was licking his kneecap.
“I want to tail Hugo Montrose this evening,” I told Ledbetter.
“Hugo? Nancy’s ranch hand?”
I looked around the trailer court and lowered my voice.
“There are some things been going on that you don’t know about.”
“You mean the reason Janey is staying in your apartment?”
I hadn’t told Ledbetter anything about Janey, but then Morticia knew, too.
It wasn’t safe to bet they were the only occupants of the trailer court who’d noticed Janey was spending nights in our apartment above the Bird Cage instead of in her own house at the end of Road Runner Alley. I was starting to realize that it was impossible to keep a secret for long around Little Tombstone.
I sat down on the weight bench beside Ledbetter and proceeded to tell him everything I knew about Jorge’s murder, Jasper’s disappearance, and Hugo’s threat against Janey.
Ledbetter’s eyes got very big. It takes a lot to intrigue him, but I could see I had him hooked.
“I want to follow Hugo,” I told Ledbetter. “I suspect he’s in the habit of going somewhere in the evenings. I plan to tail him, and I want you to go with me.”
Chapter Eighteen
Ledbetter agreed to meet me at six in the evening out back of the trailer court. We’d decided the best way to discretely follow Hugo was to take Ledbetter’s motorcycle—not an experience I was looking forward to. Ledbetter informed me that he had an extra helmet, and I couldn’t help wondering who he’d gotten it for. As far as I knew, he didn’t have many significant relationships.
Ledbetter never seemed to leave Little Tombstone except to buy groceries and the occasional visit to his mother in Tucson, and it didn’t seem likely that the helmet had been purchased for her benefit. Although Ledbetter’s mother—despite having to be at least in her seventies—might not be the lily-livered chicken I was when it came to tippy two-wheeled motor vehicles operating at high speed.
According to Juanita, Ledbetter’s mother never came to see him. I wondered if she was aware that her millionaire son lived in a ratty old trailer parked behind an even more ratty roadside attraction. Maybe she didn’t even know her son was a millionaire.
When I went back inside the Bird Cage kitchen, only Juanita was there prepping ingredients for lunch.
“Janey not come down yet?” I asked.
Juanita looked up at me. She was crying, but I think it was the mound of onions on the cutting board that had her teary-eyed. I’d only just stepped into the kitchen, and I was feeling a bit weepy myself.
“She’ll be down shortly.”
“I saw Roberta Haskell at the post office.”
“Oh?”
Juanita didn’t meet my eye and returned to chopping onions. Juanita is the sort who usually stops what she’s doing and gives you her full attention when you talk.
I’d been considering telling Juanita that Mrs. Haskell was going around telling people that Juanita had been stealing from her, but I changed my mind. Instead, I asked, “Do you know anything about Mrs. Haskell’s son?”
Juanita kept right on chopping. “He’s a surgeon, I think. He lives in Denver.”
That wasn’t particularly helpful. Mrs. Haskell had already informed me of that much.
“What’s his name?”
“I couldn’t tell you.”
Juanita was keeping something from me. I was sure of it.
“I couldn’t tell you,” was a dead giveaway. I’ve known Juanita as long as I can remember. If she hadn’t known the name of Mrs. Haskell’s son, she would have said just that. In
stead, she’d stated that she couldn’t tell me, so her refusal to divulge the name of Mrs. Haskell’s son would not technically be a lie. There was some reason Juanita felt obligated to withhold information from me. I decided there was no use trying to force anything out of her.
“Why don’t you have Janey or Chamomile do the onions?” I asked.
“I don’t know, it’s such an unpleasant task—”
It was with those words that any niggling misgiving that Roberta Haskell might be right in thinking that Juanita had been stealing from her melted away. It was inconceivable that anyone so solicitous of others as to take on the least pleasant and most menial of kitchen tasks just so her underlings didn’t have to do it was stealing Mrs. Haskell’s utility money.
After the events of the morning, I almost forgot about my after-lunch appointment with Mr. Wendell. I was late, but when I arrived, red-faced and breathless from speed walking from one end of the village to the other, all that was required of me was to sign a couple of papers that Mr. Wendell’s California connection had faxed to him the previous day.
“What are these all about?” I asked, “So far, Frank’s refused to agree to anything I ask for on principle.”
“They are affidavits regarding your income and personal assets should the divorce end up in court, which is appearing increasingly likely.”
I hadn’t asked for alimony. I hadn’t asked for the house. I hadn’t even asked for one of the cars. I certainly hadn’t asked for the advance from my last screenplay back from Shirley.
If I had asked, I don’t think Frank could have recovered the money even if he’d wanted to. According to him, he and Shirley had broken up, and she was no longer his office manager.
Frank had said he didn’t know what had come over him. It would never happen again. He’d followed up that rare show of contrition with a ripe gem about how he’d been enticed into infidelity because I’d been inattentive to his needs.
To sum up Frank’s line of reasoning, everything had, in some fundamental way, been my fault. Well, mine and Shirley’s. Apparently, the woman was so irresistible that all of Frank’s protests that he was deeply in love with his wife—to hear him tell it—had not been proof against her charms.