The World's Finest Mystery...

by Ed Gorman

  Bohannon chuckles. "I manage. You find any ID on the body?"

  "Robbery," Gerard says. "That's what Belcher wanted it to look like. Anyway, no wallet. But that's a good suit, and the labels are in it. Expensive, maybe even tailor-made. We'll check the shop out tomorrow."

  Bohannon grunts. He has his glasses on and papers spread out in front of him. He pushes them into a raggedy stack and pokes the stack into a manila envelope. This was George Stubbs's job. Bohannon can't do paperwork and drink. Hell, he hates paperwork at the best of times. And this is not the best of times. He's worn out from rubbing down horses, picking gravel out of hooves, mucking out stalls, raking gravel, hauling water, pitching hay, writing receipts, answering damn fool phone calls, trying to collect overdue board bills, walking little kid riders around the railed oval he had built for that back when Rivera was here.

  "There was nothing on the soles of his shoes to indicate a hike. He drove there."

  Gerard studies him. "No car around. One car brought him and his killer both? And the killer drove it away afterward?"

  Bohannon nods. "Which leaves out Steve Belcher."

  "How?" Gerard says. "His camper was within yards of the victim. Why didn't Belcher bring him up from town for some kind of meeting? And it went sour, and Belcher lost his temper and shot him? He's got a mad dog temper, Hack. You've got to admit that."

  "Maybe, but he's only a little bit crazy. He wouldn't leave the body lying there. He'd take it someplace else. Come on, Phil."

  Gerard makes a skeptical sound, picks up his helmet, and gets to his feet. "We'll see what turns up in that camper."

  Bohannon stares. "You've got it?"

  "It's not hard to spot," Gerard says. "He hadn't got to Fresno yet when the CHP pulled him over. On our APB."

  Bohannon switches on the lamp in the middle of the table. There's still some daylight outside, but the kitchen doesn't get a lot of it. The lamp is an old kerosene lantern fitted out for electricity and enameled red. Linda's idea— his wife, who is in a private mental home just over the ridge, has been for a long time and looks like being there forever. Gerard walks to the open door.

  Bohannon tells his back, "You're going to find the dead man's car up the canyon someplace. What? Mercedes? BMW? Jaguar? Abandoned in a ditch. Wiped clean of fingerprints."

  "I know how to do my job," Gerard says, and pushes open the screen door.

  Bohannon says, "Oh, and find a kid named Kelly. Hold on a second." He walks to the sideboard and takes a slip of paper from a drawer. He puts on the damn reading glasses again and peers at it. "Kelly Larkin. Hails from San Bernardino. Jockey-size, shaved head, tattoos. He'll likely be on foot, doesn't own a car. He was my stable boy till this morning very early. Maybe about the same time the man in the expensive suit got so fatally shot."

  "We've got the nut who shot that man," Gerard says, "and you know it. Steve Belcher has been a disaster waiting to happen for years now. You always took his side. Don't make that mistake this time. You're already in deep, letting him get away this morning."

  "What was I supposed to do? He had a gun. I didn't. He had a car. I didn't."

  "Right. So why not admit right away that you were there? Way you handled it, anybody can think anything they want."

  "They'll do that anyway." Bohannon walks to the door, steps out, watches Gerard go off along the porch to his brown sheriff's patrol car. He calls after him, "Did you find the bullet up there? It went right through him."

  "Not yet," Gerard calls, "but we'll find it. Don't get your hopes up." He starts the car, slams the door, and takes off.

  * * *

  Bohannon can't understand it. He comes from his bedroom down the hall to the kitchen, following bacon smells, coffee smells. Hair wet from the shower, he stands barefoot in jeans and T-shirt, blinking in the lamplight. It's not daylight yet. The old school-room clock on the kitchen wall reads 5:10. And beside the monster nickel and porcelain stove stands T. Hodges, the slim, dark young woman deputy who is Bohannon's prime friend. She is beating up eggs in a pottery bowl that has Indian designs on it. She throws him a smile. "Good morning."

  "I'll say. What's the occasion?"

  "The lieutenant told me Kelly's left you," she says. A pitcher of orange juice is on the counter. She pours him a glass and holds it out for him. He limps to her and takes it. "That you're trying to do it all here. Stubbs's work, Rivera's work, and yours."

  Bohannon nods and swallows some orange juice. "True, but—"

  "So, I thought at least I could fix breakfast for you," she says.

  "Mighty nice. Pretty early for you to get up, though." He sets the orange juice glass on the table and goes to take the old speckled blue enamel pot off the back burner on the stove and pour himself a mug of coffee. He raises the pot to her. "Pour some for you?"

  "Not yet, thanks. Go sit down and enjoy that." She examines an iron skillet, turning it in the light, finds it acceptably clean, sets it on the stove, and cuts butter into it. "There's news. The dead man's name is Lubowitz, Cedric. A stockbroker. Beverly Hills. Age sixty-five. Newly a widower."

  Bohannon lights a cigarette and squints at her past the light of the table lamp. "How'd they come by all this?"

  "His picture on the news," T. Hodges says. "Seems he used to appear now and then on Wall Street Week."

  "Nobody in your department watches Wall Street Week."

  She laughs. "Picture it if you can," she says.

  "And what was he doing in Rodd Canyon? What did he want up this way at all? Only stock up this way is livestock."

  "And commodities were not his line," T. Hodges says.

  The coffee is hot and strong. He douses it with cream. "And Belcher. Did Belcher know him?"

  "Belcher watches Wall Street Week even less than Gerard." She brings a plate of bacon, eggs, and hash browns and sets it in front of Bohannon. "Eat hearty."

  "What about you?" he says.

  "Coming up," she says, and it is. In another minute, she has taken the pressed-wood chair opposite him. Now there's a stack of toast on the table, too. She tucks in a gingham napkin, picks up her fork, then looks at him. Very seriously. "Hack, you can't let Gerard do this to Steve Belcher. He's the gentlest, sorriest creature in the world. But everybody is ready to believe the worst, you know that."

  Bohannon piles guava jelly on a slab of toast. "So does Belcher. Nothing I can do about it. He'd have been better off it he just hadn't—"

  "He didn't kill that man!" T. Hodges says hotly.

  "I guess not," Bohannon says. "But I'm not the jury."

  "You mean you're going to let it happen? Just sit back and—"

  "Teresa," Bohannon says gently, "you've already told me I'm trying to do three men's work around here. It's my living. I can't play detective anymore. Even if I had the energy, I haven't got the time."

  "I'll do the leg work for you," she says. "You just tell me what needs to be done, and I'll do it. Kelly. Gerard says you think Kelly might have done it. I'll find him and bring him here."

  "You have a job, love," Bohannon says. "Eight hours a day and sometimes more. Anyway, Gerard wouldn't tolerate you working the case against him. Behind his back. Don't think about it." She opens her mouth to argue, and he says, "Eat your beautiful breakfast, kid, and listen to your old man. Things happen every day that are at least as unjust as what's happening to Steve Belcher. All over the world. We can't stop them, no matter how much we'd like to."

  "Oh, rubbish," she says. "Honestly, Hack. 'Old man,' indeed. I repeat: You tell me where to go, what to look for, who to talk to, and I'll do it. Yes, I have a job, but I have a lot of time away from that. Besides, Gerard is sexist. He never lets me have a case. Closest I get is tracking down lost children. A case like this is man's work, right?"

  "That's Phil." Bohannon grunts. "These are better hash browns than Stubbs ever made. What's your secret?"

  "Don't boil the potatoes first. Grate them up raw." She gives her head an impatient shake. "Don't change the subject, damn it. Hack
, Fred May says it's hopeless; he can't win without you."

  May is the local public defender, those rare times when a public defender is needed around here. Fat and amiable, he devotes most of his time to his wife and kids, and to protecting the whale and the wolf and the wilderness. Bohannon has often acted as his investigator.

  "Don't look at me that way," he says. "I can't do it, Teresa. I have horses to look after. They can't feed themselves and clean up after themselves. You know that. Be reasonable."

  "Reasonable won't save Steve Belcher." Tears are in her eyes. "The town can't wait to get rid of him. You know that."

  "And I can't stop them." Bohannon stands, picks up his plate and hers— she's hardly eaten— and carries them to the sink. He brings the coffee pot back and refills their mugs. When he sits down, it is a gesture of disgust. "What the hell was Cedric Lubowitz doing here, anyway?"

  "I thought you'd want to know," a tart voice says from the doorway. Belle Hesseltine stands there, backed by the first faint light of sunrise. She is a doctor who moved up to Madrone to retire many years ago now, and instead got busier than she'd ever been before. A lean, tough old gal, she's a mainstay of hope and courage and caring for many. For Bohannon, too. "I went past the substation to tell the lieutenant, but he hasn't come in yet." She walks toward the table, pulls out a chair, seats herself, looks at T. Hodges. "You weren't there, either." She sets her shoulder bag on the floor. "So I thought the one to tell was you, Hack."

  "Well, you're wrong about that," Bohannon says. "But I'm happy to see you, all the same. Coffee?"

  "I'll get it," T. Hodges says, and hops up and goes away into the shadows. "You persuade him he's got to help poor Steve Belcher."

  Belle Hesseltine scowls at Bohannon. "Persuade? What's that mean? You aren't going to—? But the man's doomed unless somebody intervenes. He hasn't a chance. He can't rely on himself. He can't put his thoughts together. He can't fight back. Hack, I'm shocked."

  "I'm stuck, Belle. I have to run this place alone. Time a day is over, all I'm good for is to sleep."

  Belle watches T. Hodges set a coffee mug down for her. "What happened to my tattooed angel?"

  "Kelly? Spread his wings yesterday morning and flew away. I told Gerard, it could have been the same time Lubowitz was shot. Phil doesn't see any connection. If I know him, he won't even bother to check." It is risky, and he knows it, but he lights a cigarette anyway. The old woman glares disapproval, but this time she doesn't bawl him out. And he asks, "So… what's Lubowitz's connection to our little township?"

  "His sister-in-law," Belle says, and tries the coffee. "Ahh!" She holds the steaming mug up for a moment, admiring it, then sets it down with a regretful shake of her head. "Why is it that everything that tastes so good is so bad for us?"

  "Sister-in-law?" T. Hodges wonders.

  "Mary Beth Madison." Belle Hesseltine leans toward the table's center, peering intently. "Is that some of George Stubbs's guava jelly? Hack, push that toast and butter over here. That wicked old man made the most sinfully delicious preserves." She steals Hack's knife and goes after the toast and jelly as if the world had stopped for her convenience. When her mouth is jammed and her dentures are clacking happily away, when she is licking her fingers, slurping coffee, she notices their strained faces and makes an effort to swallow so she can speak. She sets down the coffee mug. "Very good Pasadena family. It was Mary Beth's older sister, Rose, that Cedric Lubowitz married. There was a scandal and talk of disinheriting Rose for marrying a Jew, but that blew over."

  A corner of the old woman's mouth twitches in a smile.

  "The Lubowitzes were neighbors, after all, and their house was just as splendid. The girls and young Cedric had spent their childhoods together, very close. I also suspect some Lubowitz financial advice had helped stabilize the Madison fortune. It was shaky. Henry Madison III had not been clever with his inheritance. Among his lesser follies was buying land in Madrone and Settlers Cove. Worthless at the time. That's how it happens that Mary Beth settled here. And" —she looks at first one, then the other— "the reason I retired here. My father, the Madison family doctor, had accepted a lot up here to settle a bill when times were bad."

  "And that's how you know all this dishy stuff," T. Hodges marvels. "But doesn't Miss Mary Beth Madison live with Dr. Dolores Combs? The Chamber Symphony? The Canyon Mozart Festival? The Gregorian Chant Week at the Mission?"

  Belle Hesseltine nods. "And much else as well. Yes, that's Dolores. Hard to believe that as a child she was scarcely more than a foundling, isn't it?"

  T. Hodges's jaw drops. "Are you serious?"

  "The Madison girls took to her, brought her home from the park one summer with them, and after that she was in the Madison mansion almost constantly. The family soon accepted her. After all, what she lacked in breeding and background she made up for in brains and talent."

  Bohannon says, "She cuts quite a figure these days."

  Belle Hesseltine smiles. "Her people were poor, uneducated; the father drank. They had no idea they had a musical prodigy on their hands. It was the Madisons who bought her a piano, got her lessons, sent her to university."

  "And so," T. Hodges says, "when it came time for Cedric Lubowitz to marry, and he chose Rose, Dolores Combs and Mary Beth Madison soldiered on alone together?"

  Bohannon is laughing.

  She frowns at him, startled. "What's so funny?"

  "You never told me you liked love stories." He grins.

  "Well— well, I don't," she protests. "But this is about a murder case, Hack. It's straight out of the training manual. The most important person in any murder case is the victim. And the most likely killer is someone the victim knew well. Right?"

  "Sounds more like Agatha Christie to me," Bohannon says.

  "Well—" Belle Hesseltine unfolds her tall, bony frame from the chair and picks up her shoulder bag. "I have patients to see."

  "Wait," Bohannon says. "Was Cedric Lubowitz up here to visit Mary Beth? Is that what you're saying?"

  "Oh, I don't suppose so, really. He owned one of those lots his father-in-law bought so long ago," the old doctor says. "He may have planned to build on it and settle down here to live out his sunset years in quiet. Hah! I could have told him a few things about that, couldn't I?" She opens the screen door and pauses to look back. At T. Hodges, really, so maybe she's teasing. "Then again, perhaps having lost dear, pretty Rose and feeling lonely, he came to renew acquaintance with Mary Beth, who is every bit as pretty. I suppose, if you like love stories, you're free to think that."

  And with a bark of laughter, she marches off.

  * * *

  Tired as he is, he goes to see Stubbs. It's a long drive to San Luis, but he skipped last night, and it's not fair. The old man is lonesome as hell. Anyway, Bohannon misses him. If there's nothing to talk about, they play checkers or watch horse racing or bull riding on television. Tonight there is Steve Belcher to talk about, and Cedric Lubowitz. Stubbs regards Bohannon from his narrow bed with its shiny rails, where he is propped up with his wooden drawing kit and drawing pad beside him on the wash-faded quilt. When the pain isn't too bad, he can still draw.

  He says reproachfully, "You ain't gonna help him?"

  "Stable boy left me. No time, George."

  "Oh, Kelly." Stubbs grunts. "Yeah, I know. He come by here real early yesterday. Says will I tell you. Gotta go home. Ma needs him. Runnin' her out of the mobile home park. Fightin' with the boyfriend."

  "He could have left a note," Bohannon says.

  "Nothin' to write with," Stubbs says. "Nothin' to write on."

  "On the kitchen table," Bohannon says. "He knew that. Knew where I sleep, too. He could have wakened me and told me. He woke you."

  Stubbs waves a gnarled hand. "Had to see me. Had one of my drawings. Took it down off the tackroom wall. Wanted it for his room at home. Wouldn't steal it. Offered me five bucks for it. I give it to him."

  "How did he get in here so early?"

  "It was warm." Stub
bs nods at the window. "Come in there."

  Bohannon says, "Didn't say anything about the killing, did he?"

  Stubbs frowns. "How would he know about it?"

  "Just asking," Bohannon says.

  Stubbs squints at him, surprised. "You don't think he'd have killed this Lubo— what's his name. Why?"

  "I'd like to ask him," Bohannon says.

  "He'd need a gun," Stubbs says. "Where would he get it?"

  "A Browning automatic. I don't know. Someone got hold of one. Threw it away after the shooting."

  "And Belcher just picked it up?" Stubbs says.