Minor in Possession

by J. A. Jance

  “The snake. Ringo. Joey Rothman’s pet rattlesnake. Why is Louise insisting that the snake I found in my cabin was a wild snake that wandered in out of the rain? Rhonda Attwood saw it and positively identified it when Lucy Washington pawned her off on Shorty to come find me. Rhonda told me right then that it was Joey’s snake, that he’d had it for almost fourteen years.”

  Calvin sighed. “It’s gone. I told Louise that was a mistake, but by then she’d already ordered Shorty to get rid of it. It’s useless to try to cover up that kind of thing, you know, but Louise was all upset at the time and not thinking very straight. She was in no condition to listen to advice from anybody, me included.”

  “You mean you already knew about the snake?”

  “Shorty told me about Mrs. Attwood’s identification. I knew right away that it was only a matter of time, but I try to let Louise handle things her own way. I thought a day or two might give her a chance to pull herself together. This has really been hard on her, you know.”

  “Hard on Louise!” I exclaimed. “How about me? Covering up an attempted homicide is a crime—obstruction of justice. I should think that detective from Prescott would have pointed that out to you by now.”

  “I’ve talked to her,” Calvin said, “and straightened things out. It was unfortunate that the snake disappeared in all the confusion. The detective told me she’ll be down tomorrow morning to take Shorty’s statement.”

  It was some small consolation, but not much.

  “I take it, then, that now you do finally believe that somebody tried to kill me?”

  Calvin Crenshaw nodded reluctantly. “I suppose so.”

  “You wouldn’t happen to have any idea who, would you?”

  He laughed. “You’re asking me?”

  “That’s right. You and your wife seem to have gone to a good deal of trouble to conceal what really happened. I’m wondering why.”

  “You’re barking up the wrong tree, Mr. Beaumont. Murder, attempted or otherwise, isn’t my bailiwick.”

  “Unless you were covering up for your wife.”

  That single blunt statement was a calculated attack, a ploy I had been planning on the drive up from Phoenix. I waited quietly, watching Calvin Crenshaw’s reaction.

  He blinked in what seemed like genuine astonishment. “Covering up for Louise? You’re got to be kidding. Certainly you don’t think she’s the one who tried to kill you, do you?”

  “Her behavior as far as I’m concerned has been totally irrational since the very first day I set foot on Ironwood Ranch.”

  “Oh, that,” Calvin said, sounding immensely relieved, as if it had all suddenly become clear to him. “Of course. I can see how you could misread it.”

  “Misread what?”

  “Her behavior toward you. Louise doesn’t handle rejection very well. You hurt her feelings.”

  It was my turn to blink. “I hurt her feelings?”

  “Joey Rothman was nothing but a temporary aberration,” Calvin continued, “a ship passing in the night. You’re far more Louise’s type, far more to her liking generally. If you had given her the least bit of encouragement, I’m sure she would have tossed Joey aside completely, but you made it clear that you weren’t interested. You didn’t take the bait when she offered it. Yes, you hurt her feelings.”

  “Wait just a damn minute here. Take what bait? What the hell are you talking about?”

  “The results of long-term drinking aren’t always entirely reversible,” Calvin said circumspectly, seeming to change the subject entirely.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “I’ve been left with a rather permanent impairment in the sexual activity department.”

  “Oh,” I said, although I still couldn’t make out exactly where he was leading.

  Calvin continued. “Louise doesn’t seem to mind, at least not most of the time, but every once in a while, she does. When that happens, she tends to target one of the clients. For strictly recreational purposes, you see.”

  “You’re telling me that periodically your wife gets her rocks off with one of your clients at Ironwood Ranch? That you know about it and let her?”

  He shrugged. “It doesn’t bother me particularly. None of it’s ever serious. After all, you people are only here for six weeks at a time, and then you go away, back home where you belong, and Louise is fine for a few more months.”

  I was dumbfounded. Calvin Crenshaw, talking smoothly and without hesitation, discussed his wife’s ongoing recreational infidelities among her patients the way he might describe her suffering from the ill effects of a common cold.

  “And as I said,” he added, “most of the time it’s been with men like you—fortyish, good-looking macho types, fairly stable except for the drinking. Louise seems to prefer drinkers to other kinds of addicts, so I’ll admit I was a bit startled when she took up with Joey, but then maybe he was the one who made the first move. It’s been my observation that older women are always flattered when younger men find them attractive. Just like older men with younger women.”

  “So this has been a long-term thing and you’ve done nothing about it?”

  “What would you have had me do, Beau? Throw the men involved out of the program? Not on your life, not at nine thou a crack. Get rid of her, then? No way. I need Louise here. She runs the place. Without her running the show, Ironwood Ranch would fall apart in two minutes flat. No matter what you think about her personal foible, Louise is a helluva good administrator. She may have her idiosyncracies, but she doesn’t miss a trick.”

  Calvin Crenshaw seemed unfazed by his own unfortunate choice of words. Maybe they didn’t register with him. They did with me.

  “I was under the impression that professional medical ethics preclude taking patients to bed,” I observed sarcastically.

  “My wife is a healthy, red-blooded, middle-aged, sexually liberated woman who has had the misfortune of marrying an involuntary monk. She’s making the best of a bad bargain.”

  “It doesn’t sound like such a bad bargain to me. She gets you, complete with a suitable balance sheet and a going-concern business, along with blanket permission to screw around as much as she likes.”

  “Are you implying that she only married me for my money?”

  “It seems possible,” I returned.

  “And maybe it’s true,” Calvin agreed. “In fact, the thought occurred to me a time or two in the early years, but she’s been a tremendous help in this business, a tireless worker and a real asset. In your eyes our marital arrangement may seem a bit unconventional, but it’s been eminently satisfactory to both of us. I don’t have any complaints, and I’d be surprised if Louise did either. The status quo suits us both perfectly.”

  “It didn’t suit Joey Rothman,” I pointed out. “He’s dead, and your satisfactory marital arrangement, as you call it, may very well have had something to do with his death.”

  Before, Calvin Crenshaw had been talking easily, confidently, something he was evidently capable of doing privately if not publicly. Now he bristled. “Is that some kind of accusation?” he demanded.

  “It’s a theory,” I said.

  “No. Absolutely not. Joey’s death had nothing to do with Louise or me. I’m sure of that.”

  “Maybe not you,” I countered. “But what about Louise? Look at the way she’s been acting.”

  Calvin remained adamant. “It’s a preposterous idea. Totally preposterous. All this may have left Louise a bit unbalanced in the short run, for a day or two at most, but she’ll bounce back. You’ll see. She’s like that unsinkable Molly Brown.”

  “Where is she?” I asked.

  “Taking the weekend off. In Vegas. R and R. She needs it.”

  “Aren’t you worried about her bringing home a sexually transmitted disease?”

  “I think it’s time you left, Mr. Beaumont. You seem to have worn out your welcome. I’m sure you can find your way out.”

  I got up and stood there for a moment, trying to f
igure out what made Calvin Crenshaw tick, why someone who wouldn’t give me the time of day earlier was now spilling his guts to me. Was he complaining about his wife’s infidelities or bragging about them? I couldn’t figure it out.

  In his own way, Calvin Crenshaw was probably every bit as much of a crackpot as his wife was. Years of police work have convinced me that there’s no point in arguing with nuts. It’s a waste of time, breath, and energy.

  His gaze met and held mine. “I must caution you, Mr. Beaumont, that if you mention any of what we’ve discussed here tonight to anyone else, I’ll categorically deny it.”

  “And if you deny it, then it doesn’t exist, is that the idea?”

  Calvin Crenshaw smiled. “Generally speaking. Something like that. My word against yours and all that.”

  “So that’s how it is?”

  Calvin nodded, smiling again. “I’m glad we understand one another, but I do have one question for you.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Louise tells me everything, you see. Everything. Sometimes she even lets me watch. The last time she was with Joey, he tried to borrow some money from her.”

  “How much?”

  “Twenty-five thousand dollars. Naturally, she refused to give it to him, but considering what all happened, I’ve been doing some serious thinking about it since. At the time Joey asked for the money, he threatened to tell me about their affair.”

  “In other words, he tried to blackmail her.”

  “I suppose that’s what you call it, but as soon as Louise told him it wouldn’t work, that I already knew what was going on, he backed right off. Didn’t seem to have the stomach for it somehow.”

  “So what’s your question?”

  “I know his parents are loaded, at least his father is. Why do you suppose he needed that much money?” Calvin asked.

  Of all the questions Calvin Crenshaw could have been asking, should have been asking, that one seemed like one of the least likely, particularly since it pointed the loaded gun of motive directly back at his own head and at Louise’s as well.

  “I have no idea,” I replied.

  “Oh well,” Calvin said resignedly, sounding genuinely disappointed.

  I stood looking down at him, feeling a sense of total disgust. This voyeuristic little shit and his promiscuous wife, masters of the art of double-speak, played out their ugly little games behind a mask of helping-profession respectability. I realized then that this was just like my experience with Ringo. I had been in the same room with a snake, a human one this time, without sensing the danger, without realizing I was in jeopardy. I couldn’t help wondering if Calvin Crenshaw wasn’t just as dangerous as Ringo, and maybe even a little less predictable.

  I turned to go. Carefully putting the cat down on the floor, Calvin got up and followed me after all. He stopped in the doorway.

  “By the way, Louise and I have reconsidered. No matter what she said to that attorney of yours, you’re welcome to come back and finish out your program.”

  I couldn’t believe he was serious, but he was, continuing on with bland indifference.

  “You’ll need to check first and make sure we have room. We generally run a ninety-five percent occupancy rate, but we’ll work you in.”

  “Thanks for the offer, Calvin,” I said firmly. “I’ll think it over.”

  With that, I stepped onto the sidewalk and hurried toward the Subaru, inhaling the clean, sharp air of the cool desert night. Above me, myriad yellow stars winked bright against the velvety black sky.

  One of those distant, twinkling diamonds had to be mine, I thought thankfully—my own personal lucky star. After all, Louise Crenshaw had wanted me, and I hadn’t even noticed. Unwittingly, without even noticing the trap, I had blundered away slick as a whistle.

  I felt eternally and abjectly grateful.

  CHAPTER

  13

  Ames had left the handset of his wireless phone just inside my door, and its cheerful chirping woke me early Saturday morning.

  “Daddy,” Kelly said when I answered. “Is that you? Are you awake?”

  “I am now,” I mumbled. “Barely. What time is it?”

  “Just after seven, California time. Sorry to disturb you, but I’ve got a date to play tennis at eight. It’s a little late, but happy birthday. Hope you had fun.”

  “Thanks. Ralph Ames took me out to dinner.” My early morning engines hadn’t quite caught fire. Since Kelly and I have never operated on quite the same wavelength, what followed was a long, awkward pause.

  “Scott said you wanted to talk to me.”

  “That’s right. I do.”

  “What about?” Her question was abrupt. She was worried about whatever was coming and wanted to get it over with.

  “Joey Rothman,” I answered quietly.

  There was another long pause, but when she spoke she sounded exasperated. “Daddy, I already told you, nothing happened. I mean, we didn’t go to bed or-anything, if that’s what you’re worried about. Don’t you trust me?”

  Her whimpered question seemed to be verging on tears. That was the last thing I wanted. “Please, Kelly. Don’t get upset. What you tell us may very well help us figure out what happened to him, that’s all.”

  “You mean you’re working on the case?”

  “Something like that.”

  “Oh,” she said, but she didn’t volunteer any further information.

  There was dead, empty silence on the other end of the phone. So that was how it would be. If I was playing cop and looking for answers, Kelly wasn’t about to make it easy. It’s the kind of diversionary strategy she learned at her mother’s knee. My best countermeasure was to tackle the problem head-on.

  “Did Joey tell you about Michelle Owens?” I asked. “Did you know they were going together?”

  I heard the sharp intake of breath. “No.” There was a small pause. “He lied to me about that, but it didn’t matter.”

  “What do you mean, it didn’t matter?”

  “Daddy, are you listening to me? We weren’t going together. It wasn’t like that. We talked mostly, just talked. I thought he was really rad. You know, exciting.”

  “Like forbidden fruit.”

  “Maybe. Anyway, we were just getting to know each other.”

  As far as I can tell, the word “rad” roughly translates into something my generation would have called “cool.” As for the words “getting to know each other”—those must have changed entirely since I was Kelly’s age. The probing kiss I had seen Joey plant on Kelly’s lips had been well beyond the glad-to-make-your-acquaintance stage of human sexual relations. I’m not so far out of touch that I’d mistake a kiss like that for a platonic one. My daughter and I were suffering from a classic case of failure to communicate.

  “So what did the two of you talk about, Kelly?”

  “You.”

  Her one-word answer surprised me. “Me?” I echoed.

  “Joey was more interested in you than he was in me. He wanted to know exactly where you were a police officer and what kind of work you did. You know, robbery, homicide, that kind of thing. When I told him you had a lot of money, he said you were probably on the take. We almost had a fight about that, but I told him. You know…about Anne Corley.”

  She was finally opening up a little, telling me more than the bare minimum, but I knew the next question could turn her off again, just like a faucet, but she had brought up something that sounded like a common thread.

  “Did he ask you for money, Kel?”

  “No. Why would he do that?”

  “I just thought he might have, that’s all.”

  “Well, he didn’t. He must have known I didn’t have any.”

  I didn’t know whether to be relieved or sad that my “common thread” had so quickly become a dead end.

  “And then what happened?”

  “We talked mostly and…”

  “And what?”

  “And stuff.”

  “What kind
of stuff?”

  “You know. I mean, you saw us.”

  “I saw you necking.”

  “Daddy, you don’t understand. All the boys around here are such children, and Joey seemed so…”

  “Experienced?” God help me, I couldn’t keep from filling in the blank, although I wanted to bite my tongue as soon as the word passed my lips.

  “Yes,” Kelly whispered.

  Joey Rothman was dead, but I think Kelly was still more than half infatuated with him. I wanted to shake her, tell her to wake up and smell the coffee. With any kind of luck, maybe she would grow up enough to see that being experienced is only half the battle. You also have to know what to do with those experiences.

  “Joey was wrong about you, wasn’t he, Daddy?”

  “Wrong about what?”

  “When he said you were working undercover for the DEA. I told him that was crazy, that you do homicide not drugs and that you were there for treatment just like everybody else.” She stopped and took a breath.

  “Yes, Kelly,” I answered wearily. “I was there for treatment. Period.”

  “And you weren’t working undercover.”

  “No.”

  “That’s what Mr. Joe said, too. You know, the counselor back at the ranch? In his office that day he said you were a substance abuser just like the rest of them and that he was sure you didn’t have anything to do with what had happened to Joey.”

  Suddenly, Scott’s remark about good old Burton Joe being on my side clicked into focus.

  “I’ve gotta go now, Daddy. My ride’s waiting outside. Did that help?”

  “As a matter of fact, it did,” I told her. “A lot. Thanks.”

  “Okay.”

  “And, Kelly? One more thing.”

  “What’s that?” A guarded wariness came into her voice, as though she dreaded what other intrusive questions I might ask.

  “I love you, Kelly.”

  Her relief was apparent, even over the phone. “I love you, too, Daddy. Bye.”

  For a long time, I lay there on the bed, thinking about Joey Rothman and his fruitless quest for money. He hadn’t asked Kelly, but he had tried accumulating cash in at least two other places. From the sound of it, his relationship with Kelly had been nothing more than a cover for intelligence-seeking about me, but with Rhonda and Louise, he sounded as though he was gathering getaway money. Rhonda was probably right. In all likelihood he would have moved elsewhere and then reinvested his capital right back in the same business—whatever that was.