“I said that is how it appeared to me. That is not the official version, as you know. P-C has not yet been established.”
“P-C?”
“Probable cause.”
“Oh. Well, when I first spoke to you, you said you noticed
irregularities. What irregularities?”
He stepped closer and leaned against the table, speaking in his condescending tone. “I cannot comment on that.”
“Okay. You said they found Baxter’s patrol car in Rawlins Lake. Why would someone abandon the car in a lake if Baxter’s fall was an accident?”
“I cannot comment on that either.” He tapped the table with his pen. “Now, if you will excuse—”
“But can’t you agree, hypothetically, that it would be unlikely for someone to go to the trouble of hiding the car in the case of an accidental death?”
He tapped a few more times. “It might not be likely.” Tap, tap, tap. “Hypothetically.”
“Is there something about the car being found that bothers you, Deputy?”
“Bothers me?” The pen hovered above the table as if stuck in the air. “Why do you ask?”
“I don’t know. Something about the way you talk; it sounds like you have mixed feelings about the discovery of the patrol car. What I want to know is, why?”
He cleared his throat, and frowned. In the slight pause, the tapping resumed, but faster. “Mrs. Sterling, let me assure you, I have no personal agenda. Why would I?”
“That’s what I wonder.” I bent closer. “Why would you?”
“Well, I… do not…have a personal agenda.”
“Hmm.” I consulted my written questions. “Are the investigators concentrating on the time line of the night Baxter died? That seems to be a critical piece of this puzzle.”
He regained his stuffy posture, brushing off a speck of lint from his tie as if relieved to be off the hook. “The investigators are well aware of the facts of this case.”
“Have the missing gun, radio, ammo, and badge turned up yet?”
“No comment.”
“It’s been over a month. Are they working this case every day?”
He stopped tapping again. His small brown eyes bored directly into mine. “Mrs. Sterling, the department is conducting a full and proper investigation. Thoroughness is paramount.”
I ignored the condescending attitude. “Do you consider this a homicide, Deputy Colter?”
“No comment. Please excuse me, Mrs. Sterling. I have work to do.” He turned toward the door.
I still had questions on my legal pad, so I stayed in my chair. “The news media says this story was leaked to them by someone in the sheriff’s office. Any idea who that would be, Deputy?”
His head snapped around to stare at me. Arms akimbo, he stood above me, glaring. Before he replied, he caught himself and closed his mouth. That same odd expression crossed his face, an expression I couldn’t decipher. He cleared his throat. “I caution you again, Mrs. Sterling, this is none of your affair. Do not meddle in official business.” He stooped near to spit hot words directly into my face. “I cannot emphasize this strongly enough. Stay out of it! Is that clear?”
Frustrated over the lack of progress my interview with Deputy Colter engendered, I decided to check out Mary Wilson’s residence. Maybe I’d find answers there. Besides, I still had some time to kill before I needed to pick up Jesse.
The address she gave took me northwest of Grass Valley to a peculiar area known as Rough and Ready which holds the dubious distinction of being the first (perhaps the only) town ever to secede from the United States of America and
then vote themselves back in. In 1850, unhappiness over the imposition of a tax on mining claims caused the citizens to form the “Great Republic of Rough and Ready,” complete with a constitution, president, and cabinet. The fledgling republic held together for three whole months before deciding to rejoin the United States.
I’d already experienced the residents of Rough and Ready as an independent, sometimes less than law abiding group, non-conformists to mainstream society like the bikers at the Night Owl. Perhaps the bikers descended from the secessionists of 1850.
After winding around hilly roads for some twenty minutes, I eventually came to the street Mary specified and turned into her driveway.
Mary Wilson’s ramshackle house occupied a flat graded space between the lower front of the property and a small hill behind. Add-ons jutted out at odd places. Weathered and rickety, the small building needed painting and general maintenance. A sizable rip zigzagged through the rusty screen door and the light fixture beside the door appeared naked without its shade. Litter clung to trees and weeds around the property as if someone turned a garbage can upside down, scattering the contents into the wind. A corroded car occupied the shade of a large oak tree, looking quite appropriate in such a setting. I wondered if the car still worked. Houses in this area seemed to collect scrapped vehicles the way more affluent neighborhoods acquired new trees or fountains.
I parked on a dirt area that resembled a parking space and climbed out. A slight wind blew through the leaves, but nothing about the house indicated life inside. I pounded on the door anyway.
After a long pause, shuffling preceded the opening of the door. Through the screen, Mary blinked at me. She appeared
much the same as she had in the Night Owl, perhaps a little more alert. From the looks of her hair, I must have awakened her from a nap.
“Hi, Mary.” I hung my ‘good neighbor’ grin like a welcome sign on my lips. “Do you remember me? I met you at the Night Owl last Friday night. I’m Christine Sterling.”
A fluffy gray cat meowed loudly, rubbing against her leg. She reached down to pick it up and cradled it like a big round baby. “Sorry. Don’t remember what day this is. Was I in the Owl last Friday?”
Well, at least she wasn’t drunk. That was a good start. “Sure you were. That’s where we met.”
She tilted her head to stare at me while massaging the cat. “You were in the Owl?”
“I’m a friend of Baxter Dunn’s. Do you remember him? He’s the officer who was killed about a month ago out near the Star Mine.”
“Yeah. What about him?”
The screen door separated us. “Do you mind if I come in, Mary? I’d like to talk to you about your meeting with Deputy Dunn the night he died.”
She paused, processing the request perhaps. “I guess that wouldn’t hurt. You don’t look too dangerous.” With one hand, she pushed the door. “Come on in.”
I squeezed through the opening she provided and followed her into a tiny, messy living room. Stale cigarette smoke hung in the air like fog. Didn’t she ever let air in?
Mary paused in the center of the room, looking confused. “Sorry. I haven’t gotten around to tidying up today.” I didn’t know where to sit. Stuffing popped out of the overstuffed chair in places, coils of several springs exposed, but the couch looked just as uncomfortable. She pointed to the chair. “Just push that stuff out of the way.”
With one hand, I slid assorted debris out of the way and sat. From the state of disarray in the room, I guessed no one had tidied up for decades.
Mary deposited the gray cat on the cluttered floor and arranged herself on the sofa opposite me. The cat protested with a loud meow and an insulted expression. Mary paid no attention. Plopping on top of a pile of clothing, she tucked her bare feet underneath as if they were cold. “What do ya wanna know?”
“How did you meet Baxter Dunn in the first place?”
“He came with a couple other cops when I got arrested.” She splayed her long fingers to study her green pained fingernails. Then she picked a dented pack of cigarettes off the end table. Pulling a cigarette out, she lit it, took a big drag, and absentmindedly blew a cloud of smoke toward me. She looked like a child experimenting with nicotine.
I waved smoke away from my face, blinking as my eyes started to water. “Arrested? For what?” I coughed. “When was that?”
She waved smoke too. “Sorry. Uh... maybe a year ago. I don’t know. Could be longer. I lived with a guy who sold drugs. A real weirdo. Into some strange junk. I went along for the ride, but got sucked into the arrest anyhow.”
So Baxter had been on a drug bust. But why?
“That happened about a year ago, you say? Did you see Deputy Dunn after that? Talk to him or anything?”
She flicked ash into an ashtray already brimming over with butts and ashes. “He started coming around the Owl a few months ago. Wanted to talk about the old man.”
“You mean your boyfriend? The one into strange stuff?”
“Yeah. I talked to Deputy Dunn a few months ago, I think. Didn’t have much to tell him. But then the guys would tell me he’d been coming around asking for me when I wasn’t there.”
“You only talked to him twice at the bar? A few months ago and then again on the night of his death?”
She frowned. “Why are you repeating what I say?”
“What did he want?”
She stubbed out the cigarette and observed me as if I wasn’t speaking English. “I told you. He just wanted to talk about the old man. That’s it. End of story. I broke off with that dude when I got arrested so I had nothing else to say. Like now.”
The interview in which I’d placed such hope had raced nowhere on an express train. I couldn’t think of anything else to ask Mary. Dejected, I drove back into town to pick up Jesse while snippets of my conversation with Deputy Colter muddled my brain.
“I have no personal agenda.” That’s what he said. Personal agenda, personal agenda. Why did Colter word it like that? Perhaps Deputy Colter has a personal agenda after all. But if he did, I couldn’t imagine what it might be.
Chapter Six
The teakettle screamed. Zora Jane scooped spoonfuls of Earl Gray tea into her favorite teapot. A sharp yelp from the kettle and she poured, what she termed, passionately boiling water over the tea leaves.
I knew the routine. A perfect cup of tea required waiting exactly five minutes. But not the freshly baked Snickerdoodles. The scent of cinnamon overpowered the room, tempting me to my second cookie. Which, I hate to admit I ate, while carrying the piled plate of cookies to the great room.
I’d stopped over to see how Zora Jane was holding up. Stunningly attired in tapered black jeans with a long zebra striped velour top tied up on one side and matching zebra striped thongs on her feet, clearly Zora Jane was holding up just fine.
A precise five minutes later, I held a cup of tea. Blowing air gently between my lips, I flattened the steam curls. Not wishing to burn my tongue, I returned the cup to the coffee table.
Zora Jane laughed. “Drinking tea requires—” She raised her head.
My eyes followed her gaze.
A late model Cadillac limo slowed down on Mustang Hill Road. As if someone was pausing to confirm an address, the sleek black vehicle lingered a moment before turning into the long driveway. We watched while the Cadillac drove slowly up the hill until we lost sight of it turning into the circular driveway in front of the Callahan’s house.
“What now?” I asked. “Were you expecting someone?”
“No. But let’s go see who it is.”
We hurried to the entryway, arriving at the front door when a lady emerged from the back door of the Cadillac.
I called her a lady because no other word would have fit. From the delicate but deliberate way she set her foot on the ground to the very top of her well-groomed head, this stranger oozed genteel breeding from every pore.
Once she descended from the car, she stood still as if accustomed to posing for paparazzi. The cut and fabric of her gray suit shouted dollar signs. After a moment, she fluffed the ruffled collar of her burgundy silk blouse and brushed a wrinkle from her A-line skirt. The thick platinum band that curved around her throat shimmered in the sunlight when she floated toward us.
Besides the uniformed driver who emerged from the car to open the back door, two other occupants exited the vehicle. A studious woman partially hidden behind large black glasses followed a young man carrying a complicated video camera.
“Oh, my goodness!” I said when the lady came close enough for me to recognize her. “Do you know who that is?”
Zora Jane cocked her head, stare blank.
“That is Constance Boyd.”
Zora Jane pursed her lips and shook her head.
“The Constance Boyd. On TV. You know, ‘The Constance Boyd Show.’ ”
“Oh,” she said.
Zora Jane didn’t waste time watching television. Still, she must see the news now and then. Could it be possible she didn’t recognize someone at this level of celebrity status? No matter. I didn’t have time to educate her. The one-and-only, nationally acclaimed, Emmy winning Constance Boyd sashayed down the front walkway of the Callahan’s’ house. She looked more beautiful in person than she did on television, if that was possible. I suddenly understood the meaning of dumbfounded.
Constance Boyd climbed the porch steps in soft black leather pumps that must have been a premium Italian brand. A huge diamond ring caught the sun causing a dazzling explosion of light when her delicate hand reached toward us. “Hello. I am Constance Boyd.” The way she said it, she obviously expected us to know already, offering her name as a mere formality. Intelligent brown eyes surveyed us. “We’ve come to offer our respects to Kathleen Dunn. Would you please inform her that we are here?”
Zora Jane took the offered hand without hesitation. “Kathleen was here this morning, but she’s not now. Perhaps I could help you. I’m her mother, Zora Jane Callahan.”
With a voice as well modulated as a finely tuned violin, Constance said, “What a pleasure to meet you. May I offer my sincere condolences for the loss of your son-in-law?”
Zora Jane dipped her head in a single nod.
Constance’s words spread like melted butter. “This must be a difficult time for you and your family, but Baxter Dunn’s story seems important to share with the world. Perhaps you would allow me to do that.”
Zora Jane did not answer right away, so I interjected. “Important in what way, Miss Boyd?”
She turned as if noticing me for the first time. “And you are?”
“I’m the Callahan’s’ neighbor, Christine Sterling. I live just over there.” I pointed in the direction of my hill.
Instead of glancing where I pointed, she acknowledged my words with a cursory nod. “Ah, yes.” Then she turned back to Zora Jane. “Will Mrs. Dunn be returning today?”
Zora Jane paused before answering. “I don’t know.”
Constance Boyd shifted her feet. Surely she was not accustomed to being kept standing on the porch. “It is most important that I speak with her.” She glanced at her entourage. “I’m doing a little piece about the work of rural sheriff departments in America. How often their officers unselfishly place themselves in harm’s way for the public good, yet how underpaid and underappreciated they are. I plan to include your Deputy Baxter in my program.” She flashed her Ultra-Brite smile. “May we come in and talk with you about this? Then perhaps I could speak with Kathleen later.”
Zora Jane gestured toward the house. “Please come in.”
Constance motioned to her underlings. Apparently, they understood her hand signal because they waited outside without a word while she paraded into the house like a high fashion model on a Paris runway.
She tossed out a compliment about the cozy atmosphere of the house while she seated herself in the middle of the sofa, smoothing the front of her gray suit. Sounded insincere to me. Her smile looked plastic too. “Mrs. Callahan, as I said, I am aware you have suffered a great loss. Please forgive me if anything I mention seems insensitive to your grief. That is not my intention. However, I need to establish the facts to put together my show. I’m sure you understand.”
Zora Jane nodded.
“Splendid. Do you mind if I tape our conversation?”
Zora Jane appeared more comfortable than I felt. “N
o. I don’t mind. Would you like a cup of coffee first? Or tea
perhaps?” Her smile, as always, was genuine. “I’ve just baked a batch of cookies.”
“No, thank you. Not just now.” With her perfectly manicured fingers, she extracted a small silver tape recorder from her Italian leather handbag.
Zora Jane seated herself in one of the green recliners, so I sat in the other.
Constance turned the tape recorder’s face toward Zora Jane and pressed a small button to activate it. The machine seemed awfully tiny to be a quality tape recorder. I couldn’t hear the slightest sound to indicate a recording in progress.
Modern technology, how amazing!
“First, I need background information if you don’t mind.” Constance Boyd smiled at Zora Jane again. Her smile showed off perfectly shaped lips in just the right shade of wine lipstick to complement the burgundy silk blouse. “Please give me your son-in-law’s full name, place of birth, and age.”
Zora Jane closed her eyes and emitted a slight sigh. “Baxter Charles Dunn, deputy of the Nevada County Sheriff’s Department. He was born in Truckee, California. His parents were Ted and Ida Dunn of Truckee. The Dunns had three children, a girl and two boys. The other children live in Southern California. Baxter was the second child, born on Valentine’s Day. His birthday suited him perfectly because he was such a sweetheart, February 14. We just celebrated his thirty-seventh birthday.”
An almost imperceptible catch in her voice underscored the freshness of her grief. Zora Jane glanced at me, eyes brimming with tears about to fall. I patted her arm. She grabbed a tissue, blew her nose, and continued. “Thirty-seven years may not be long, Miss Boyd, but Baxter made the most of his life. Many people were blessed through his care. We thank God for allowing us to have him for so long. In addition, he
left four lovely children. They will continue to remind us of the fine man Baxter was.”
Constance tilted her head, hands folded primly in her lap. “I understand he was very civic minded. What sorts of activities was he involved with?”
The Dunn Deal Page 6