Totally Buzzed (A Miller Sisters Mystery)

by Gale Borger

  This afternoon the pilot of the rented plane knew Martinez as Hector Barrera Diaz. Martinez let out a self-satisfied sigh, settled back in the cockpit of the rented Cessna 172. He had chosen this plane and pilot carefully. The little passenger plane was big enough to accommodate three men.

  Since the days of Al Capone, the area they were flying to was known for its mansion-style summer homes of the very wealthy. Private airstrips abounded, and a private plane was not an uncommon sight.

  The plane was common enough that it could also be flown into one of the many local resorts in the surrounding area and become lost among the guest planes for a few days. Martinez had ordered a company car over a week ago and had it waiting at one such resort.

  The pilot owned the plane and flew businessmen on short trips for a living. He would not be missed until 'Mr. Diaz from Los Angeles' was long gone. Best of all, Martinez had hundreds of logged hours flying this type of craft. He would pilot it on the last leg of his mission.

  Flying in the co-pilot's seat gave him a feeling of euphoria, but piloting an aircraft like this gave him a rush of supremacy beyond mere mortal men. Life was about power, and he was a powerful man. People were pawns to be moved around the chessboard of life, and discarded when they were no longer of use.

  Martinez had made very few mistakes in choosing his pawns on the way to his preeminence. Huerta was one mistake, the greedy bastard. He took what was not his and paid for it with his life.

  Montoya; now that was a shame. Hard working, loyal and very good at his craft, he had a special way with horses, which was rare even among trainers. Unfortunately for Montoya, he also had a strong sense of right and wrong.

  In the beginning he seemed so obedient. Martinez misread those signs and thought Montoya would be easily corruptible. Mistakes like that would prove fatal–for Montoya.

  Thank God for stupido peasants like that American policeman–he checked his notes–Theodore Puetz of White Bass Lake, Wisconsin. Now there was a man with no morals. Martinez had the entire story, plus the location of Montoya, out of him in less than ten minutes. Puetz bought the warrant story with no questions. This Puetz was a man Montoya could manipulate and eliminate without batting an eye.

  There were many in Mexico of his ilk, placed in positions of authority specifically to do the bidding of those who wield the swords of real power. Martinez chuckled.

  In his lifetime he had dealt with and discarded so many insignificant clods like Puetz, he could feed their egos and slit their throats without them suspecting a thing. Their incompetence was exceeded only by their arrogance, and that self-importance usually proved to be the death of them.

  By now Montoya would have been arrested for murder, and would be awaiting extradition to Texas. Martinez was too smart to play the games of Immigration–deportation could take months, and Martinez had hours. He looked toward the rear of the plane at the 300-pound bodyguard posing as a policeman from Mexico.

  Gutierrez smiled at Martinez and patted the forged papers in his pocket. The dim-witted Americans would hand Montoya his death sentence when they turned custody over to Gutierrez.

  It was easy to dispose of a weighted body over Lake Michigan, especially when one had a big man like Gutierrez to do the bull work. Montoya's demise would be a rare treat for Martinez.

  He let his mind relax, and thought back to his beginnings. It had been 43 years since a ten-year-old, starving, half-clothed, illiterate Mexican boy shoved a knife between the ribs of a bag boy for the Mexican Mafia.

  Instead of stealing the money (that would have meant certain death were he caught,) he delivered the bag. Thus began a career of running drugs and money for the Mexican Mafia.

  Having street smarts and no conscience quickly elevated his status. By the time he was twenty he had his own fishing boat and was running a drug boat up-river. Drugs from Columbia were brought in through Mexico, and smuggled across the border into the United States. Martinez was in on the ground floor.

  His wealth grew with his reputation for ruthlessness. He had killed off the competition and owned a fleet of boats. As his wealth quadrupled, he found his assets coming under scrutiny by the law. He was very careful, but had too much dirty money stockpiled and nowhere to spend it. His Columbian associates suggested ways to clean up his money and it was not long before Martinez was laundering millions through the black market Peso Exchange.

  Over the next fifteen years, Martinez spent his drug money wisely and built an empire of legitimate businesses in the Chicago area, as well as Mexico and Columbia. He became the Mexican Connection for the Columbian drug trafficking trade in the Midwest.

  He bought real estate in Mexico and the United States. He employed thousands of people and built housing for the poor. He was a man of vision, a man of power. He was an unconquerable warrior on his own turf, but he tread delicately in the United States.

  Montoya was a small glitch. For some reason he was still alive. Martinez would soon take care of that minor detail.

  He smiled to himself. It is a lucky thing to be able to stare into the eyes of a man at the precise moment the man knew his life was about to end. Martinez was nothing, if not lucky.

  The flight was smooth and they landed on the private landing strip without incident. The pilot stepped behind his seat to prepare for deplaning.

  He had time to notice the plastic drop cloths covering the seats and aisle of the plane, but Martinez doubted he had time to comprehend its meaning before he shot the man in the back of the head. He dropped like a stone. Gutierrez folded the drop cloths around the body while Martinez opened the plane.

  Nothing moved outside the plane. The two men silently made their way to the car waiting for them. Looking at the map, Martinez calculated they would be airborne around 5:00 this afternoon. As long as all went smoothly in White Bass Lake, he would be a happy man by morning.

  The trip was short and they soon pulled into the parking lot of the Colson County Sheriff's Department. They exited the car and strode through the glass doors. Edie greeted them with a benign smile. Gutierrez stepped up and handed her the phony papers and Edie looked them over.

  Martinez nudged Gutierrez aside and honored Edie with his most winning smile. He handed her his passport. "I am Eduardo Martinez, ma'am. I am the employer of Dr. Huerta, the poor victim, and also of his murderer, Alejandro Montoya. If you will please direct me to your employer, Mr. Theodore Puetz, we are ready to take custody of Mr. Montoya and be on our way." He looked around and could not quite contain the disdain in his voice. "I'm sure you people are very busy, so if you would be so kind…"

  Edie bit her lip. She fumbled with the papers. As she picked them up, she discretely pressed a hidden button.

  "Well, sir, I understand you want to get going, but there has been a slight change in circumstances." She moved slightly to her left, making sure Martinez was in full view of the camera behind her.

  "Sheriff Green asked me to tell you that Alejandro Montoya was found dead before they could serve the papers."

  Montoya sputtered, "Th–that's impossible! I demand to speak to Theodore Puetz immediately!"

  "I don't know what Ted is going to do for you sir, he is only a Constable. J.J. Green is the Sheriff of Colson County and if you need to speak to him, I'll have to call him for you."

  Gutierrez and Martinez looked at each other. Martinez's eyes turned cold as they leveled on Edie. "Are you telling me that Theodore Puetz is not in charge of this investigation?"

  "I'm telling you, sir that Theodore Puetz is not in charge of anything. Buzz Miller and Sheriff Green are investigating the matter. If you would like to speak with Sheriff Green, I would be happy to call him. He is in the field working, as we had no prior notice of your arrival. If you would like to speak with Miz Miller, I believe she is down at the morgue."

  Martinez angrily threw his hands in the air. "Call him. Get him here."

  Edie picked up the phone and dialed J.J. in his office.

  He picked up the phone and said. "Ed
ie, be careful. If this guy is who I think he is, he could be very dangerous."

  Edie said, "Sheriff Green? Edie. Yes sir. I'm sorry to bother you but a…" She made it a point to read from the passport, "Mr. Eduardo Martinez is here to pick up that Montoya boy. Yes sir, I'll tell him."

  Martinez leaned over and grabbed the phone out of her hand. "You are Sheriff Green? I am Martinez. How long will you be? Fifteen minutes? Yes, I can wait. No, this is not a problem. Thank you."

  Martinez slammed the phone down and swore in Spanish. Gutierrez stood in stoney silence. Martinez whirled on Edie and pointed at her. "You! Where is the sheriff's office? We will wait there."

  Edie looked over her right shoulder. "Sheriff Green does not like anyone in his off–wait!" She held up her hands and stepped in front of Martinez when he made to move past her.

  Gutierrez moved like lightning and had Edie by the throat. He lifted her to her toes and held her there.

  She let out a squeak. Martinez laid a hand on Gutierrez's arm. He slowly lowered Edie to the floor. She gasped, her eyes huge.

  Martinez said in a smooth voice, "Why do you not direct us to the sheriff's office and we will wait there? You, of course, will wait at your desk."

  Edie eyed Gutierrez and felt her throat. "Uh, yes, it's over here." She led them to J.J.'s office and opened the door. Stepping inside, she opened the vertical blinds covering the glass wall looking out on the lobby. Neither man noticed when she left, as both were in opposite corners of the office, talking on their respective cell phones. Martinez picked up the newspaper J.J. had left on a chair and stared at headlines, which read, 'Murder Suspect Found Dead'.

  Edie stepped gingerly behind her desk and dialed up J.J.'s cell. He immediately started yelling. "Edie, what the hell did you say to that guy. I told you to be careful! Are you all right?"

  "Hello, to you too." She casually sat in her chair and faced the office. Both men had their backs to her and neither was by the desk. "I thought I'd invite them to tea, but they had a prior engagement."

  She drew in a breath. "Seriously, J.J., I tried to stall them from going into your office too soon because I didn't want them walking in on you, you butthead."

  "I got out just before you went in. I'll call there in a few minutes. You're a champ, kiddo. Thanks." J.J. hung up the phone.

  Edie touched her neck one more time and went back to typing a barking dog report. She discretely opened a drawer and watched on the monitor while the camera in J.J.'s office recorded Martinez planting two listening devices, one behind a light on the bookshelf, and the other under his desk calendar. The bodyguard kept watch on Edie, who looked for all the world like she was engrossed in her dog report.

  Five minutes later the phone rang again. Edie picked it up. She heard the click of J.J.'s office phone and hoped he did too. "Edie? J.J. Something's come up and I can't make it back. Could you please give my apologies to Mr. Martinez? Get a number and I'll call his motel when I finish."

  "Will do, Sheriff," Edie said and hung up the phone.

  Martinez came storming out of J.J.'s office. Edie turned, smile on her face. "Mr. Martinez, that was Sheriff Green on the phone. He said–"

  Martinez threw a piece of paper in Edie's direction. "I know what he said," and slammed through the front door.

  Edie smiled for real and went back to her typing.

  27

  Mag and Ian arrived at Mom's while I was in the house. By the time I made it back out to the barn, Ian was talking to J.J. and Mag was storming through the barn in my direction. We both stopped and gaped as the familiar red Crown Vic came roaring up the driveway, fishtailing in the gravel. A fluff of blue hair was all we could see above the dash. We braced ourselves mentally, and dove for cover.

  We watched as the heavy driver's door of the Crown Vic flew wide open and bounced on its hinges. Two scrawny legs popped out and pulled back in quickly, barely avoiding being pinched in the door. Muffled cursing that would have made a sailor blush could be heard from inside the car. The door popped open again. A purse the size of a diaper bag was thrust between the door and the frame. We came out of hiding. Mag grabbed the door and opened it. She jumped back when Mary Cromwell kicked at the door again. Instead of hitting the door, Mary's feet met air, and she catapulted out of the car and slammed into Mag. The Maggot fell backward and Mary ended up on Mag's chest, with her knees on either side of Mag's head, and her crotch on Mag's chin.

  Mary looked down at Mag with reproach written all over her face. "You Miller girls just can't stay out of trouble, can you?"

  Since Mary was sitting on Mag's throat, Mag was having a hard time answering, as she was being suffocated by the 78 pound geriatric. I grabbed Mary by the armpits and yanked her off of Mag. Mag sat up and sucked air into her lungs. I yanked Mary so hard, her legs flew over her head like a rag doll. I set her down, barely avoided being clobbered on the head by that monstrosity of a purse.

  She mumbled and tottered off toward the house. I grabbed the purse and hauled her to a stop. With barely contained rage, I fought for control as it registered Mom must have spilled the beans already. I tried for nonchalance and ended up with Spanish Inquisition. I glared down at her and barked, "Did my mother call you?"

  She yanked her purse out of my hand. She paused to smooth her short blue curls into place and stuck her nose in the air. "No, I guess I'm not good enough for Gerry Miller anymore, my son had to tell me there was another party–I mean body–out here at the farm. There's been so much murder and mayhem going on, I didn't have time to make anything."

  She yanked her purse out of my hands and this time stomped off in the direction of the barn. I held out my hand to Mag. I don't often say it, but poor Mag, she tried to be a Good Samaritan and ended up crotched by an old lady. Mag grabbed my wrist and I hoisted her off the ground. Brushing the dirt off her butt she said, "Man, why did you yell at Mary? I thought you were going to mash her bony little body to a pulp. It was pretty cool the way she stood up to you though. She must be really ballsy, or really, really stupid!"

  We thought about it for a second and looked at each other.

  "Stupid," we said together, and laughed.

  "Mag, a lot has been happening, and I can't tell you all of it until we get out of here. Let's meet at my house, I have to get the dogs home anyway. Why don't you order pizza and drag Ian out of here. I'll get J.J. and meet you guys at my house around," I consulted my watch, "seven."

  "Sounds good. It was all but over with back there, anyway. The ambulance is bagging up the body and Mike called the rendering service to move the horse to his large animal surgery. Bernie posed for a newspaper photo with the horse on the winch like he was posing with a record breaking marlin. Ted was on his cell phone, probably calling Mommy."

  When we parted, Mag held out a fist and I touched her knuckles with mine. We didn't know what it meant, but we saw it on television once and thought it was cool. The ambulance drove around the barn. Malcolm followed in his car. People came streaming out of the barn and climbed into their cars. Ted and Mary drew up the rear, arguing over something. Mag and I ducked behind some old hay to avoid them.

  Only J.J., Mike, Bernie, Moe, and Ian remained out behind the barn. Bernie was just climbing into his truck when I walked up to thank him for coming out. "Aww, shucks, Miz Buzz, you know I'd do anything for your folks."

  "Thanks just the same, Bernie. Not too many people would blow an afternoon dragging a dead horse out of the ground for a neighbor."

  He blushed and pulled on the bill of his John Deere ball cap. With a nod, he backed his truck up and pulled around the barn. J.J. was bringing Mike up to date. He explained why he wanted the mare autopsied and a drug screen run.

  Mike shook his head and looked at the ground. "I've heard everything now, J.J. I honestly thought I could not be surprised at what people were capable of, but I was wrong. If there is anything else I can do, you let me know."

  J.J. put a hand on Mike's shoulder. "Just be careful, my friend. We think whoever did
this probably destroyed a veterinarian's office in Texas. They also stole the carcass of a mare that sounds as if she died in the same way."

  Mike slapped J.J. in the ribs and jumped back, chuckled and said, "No worries, mate. My office is separate from my home, and I'm going to cut her open right away. Where are you going to be?"

  I piped up, "My house."

  Mike, with a speculative gleam in his eye, said, "So I heard."

  I narrowed my eyes and went chest to chest. "Knock it off, Doc, or I'll start the rumor that when you pass Jake Gustafson's sheep farm, the lambs look up and say, 'There goes my daaad!'"

  He barked out a laugh. "You are one sick bitch. Okay, you win, Buzz. Your house and no teasing." He ruffled my hair and headed for his truck.

  I ran a hand through my wild mop. "Why does everyone do that?" I grumbled.

  J.J. ruffled my hair. "We've been doing it since we were all kids, and it pisses you off." He danced out of my swinging range.

  "Come on you guys," he called to Ian and Mag. "I guess we're all going over to Buzz's."

  28

  The meeting at my house went off as planned, with everyone arriving within a half-hour of each other. We congregated in the kitchen, gathering around the table. Food was top priority, and Sal had really outdone himself. With the bribery of good information for his morning crowd, he put on an unbelievable spread. We were expecting burgers and chips, but Sal rolled in with salads with three dressings, roast beef, gravy, real potatoes, corn, and double chocolate turtle cheesecake.

  In return, Sal went home happy with the facts of the case tucked safely in the back of his mind. The only information withheld was the part about Alejandro being alive. We had Alejandro stashed in the guest room happily eating, until Wesley gave him away (must have been the gravy smell). Sal left with the secret screaming for a chance to greet the gossip mill in the morning, but I felt what the heck? Everyone in town would know by morning anyway, when the body I.D. and autopsy came back. Hopefully, if all went according to plan, by morning was all we needed. Sal might as well be the one with his facts straight. Better Sal's almost first hand account than the crap I handed Rosie-the-News-Whore out at the farm!