by Sue Grafton
"You're not going to let me get out of this, are you?" He smiled benignly. "Enjoy your evening."
Chapter 23
* * *
The phone was ringing as I unlocked my door. I dropped my bag and plucked the handset from the cradle on what must have been the fourth or fifth ring. A woman said, "Is this Kinsey?"
"Sure, who's this?"
"Iona. My mom said you called looking for me."
"Where are you, in Creosote?"
"Peaches. I just got in. What do you want?"
"Did you talk to Pudgie Clifton Thursday night?"
"I might have called him," she said, cautiously. "Why do you ask?"
"Did you make arrangements to see him?"
"Why would I do that? He's a low-life punk."
"His sister said you were pissed at him. What was that about?"
"None of your business. That's between him and me."
"All right. Let's try this one. Your mother tells me you spent time in Lompoc as a kid. I'm wondering if you told Pudgie about the quarry up there."
Dead silence.
"You remember telling him about that? I'm talking about the one where the girl's body was found."
"How would I know where the body was found?"
"Oh come on, Iona. Don't play games with me. I don't care if you told him. I just want the information."
"I might have."
"You might have, or you did?"
"All right, I did, but that was years ago. I even took him to see it once when we were out on the road."
"Did you know Charisse Quinn?"
"No."
"Aren't you going to ask who she is?"
"I'm not stupid. I assume she's the dead girl they found after Cathy Lee was killed. I asked Frankie about that and he says he had nothing to do with that. He didn't even know her."
"You know, he's not stupid, either. If he killed the girl, he's hardly going to tell you."
"Why are you so against him? Can't you give the guy a break? He hasn't done anything to you."
"This isn't about me, Iona. It's about Charisse. Is Frankie there by chance? I'd like to talk to him myself."
"He took off Friday morning. He was scheduled to work Friday night and had to get back."
"Short visit, wasn't it?"
"So what?" she said, annoyed.
"What'd you tell him about Pudgie?"
Another silence, during which I could hear her breathing in my ear. "Iona?"
"If you must know, I told him Pudgie's a fuckin' snitch. He knew somebody had pointed a finger at him. The minute you mentioned Pudgie, I figured it was him."
"Is that why you were so pissed at him?"
"I'm not the only one. Frankie's pissed about it, too. Pudgie cut a deal for himself by blaming Frankie for what happened to that girl."
I felt a whisper of fear, like a millipede, running down my back. "Where'd you get that?"
"Well, it's true, isn't it?"
"No."
"Yes it is, because Frankie checked it out. He knows this guy at the county jail who's serving thirty days? The guy told him Pudgie had a visitor – this woman private eye, who was asking about the murder – that was you, right?"
"Of course, but Pudgie never made a deal."
"Yes, he did. You know how I know? He got out of jail the very next day. The guy said."
"Because his sentence was up. He'd served his time and he was released."
"Nuhn-un. No way. Pudgie went back to his cell block and bragged to everyone. He said you were doing something special for him. Next thing you know, he got out."
"He asked me for cigarettes and I said no. That's all it was. There wasn't any deal."
"Ha, ha, ha. Tell me another one."
"Would you listen to me? Iona, think about this. I don't have the authority to get him out. How would I do that?"
"That's not what the guy said."
"Well, the guy got it wrong. I don't have the power to make a deal with anyone. I'm not a cop. I'm a private citizen just like you."
She said, "Oh."
"Yeah, 'oh,'" I snapped. "Next time you talk to Frankie, would you set him straight? If he needs to hear it from me, he can call. In the meantime, layoff Pudgie. He didn't do a thing."
Exasperated, I returned the handset to the cradle. All we needed was Frankie Miracle on a rampage. I had to admit I was really splitting hairs on this one. Pudgie had most certainly pointed a finger at Frankie, but not in order to make a deal for himself. He was hoping to divert our attention, which he'd succeeded in doing, but only temporarily. Now that his fingerprints had showed up on the stolen vehicle, the focus had shifted back to him. His attempt to implicate Frankie only made his own behavior the more suspect, so in the end, his scheme backfired. Unfortunately, I didn't credit Frankie with an appreciation of the finer points of finking. To him, a rat was a rat. I checked my notes and picked up the phone again, dialing Felicia Clifton's number in Creosote. I didn't even hear the line ring on her end before she said, "Hello?"
"Felicia? Kinsey Millhone. How are you?"
"Not good. Cedric hasn't come home and I'm worried sick about him."
"He hasn't been gone that long, has he? You said he left the house this morning. That's only a few hours."
"Or he could have gone out last night. All I know is he wasn't here when I got up. Either way, he should have checked in by now. This is not like him."
"Did you call the tavern? The bartender said he was always there for Happy Hour."
"Jerry hasn't seen him either. I don't know where he could have gone."
"Maybe he met a girl and went home with her."
"I don't think so. I didn't give him any money so he didn't even have enough to buy drinks. My car's still here so he has to be on foot. He could have walked to the tavern, but not anywhere else. You've seen this town. We're out here in the middle of nowhere and everything shuts down at six."
"Have you tried the police?"
"I suppose I could do that," she said reluctantly. "I tried the two hospitals –the one in Quorum and the other one in Blythe – but neither has a record of him."
"Well, that's good news, isn't it?"
"I guess."
"Would he skip town without telling you?"
"You mean take off for good? Why would he do that?"
"Ah. He's in a bit of trouble with Frankie Miracle, Iona's ex."
"Shit. Does Pudgie know that?"
"I'm sure he's well aware of it. So maybe he decided to lay low."
"Without any money, where could he go?"
"Good question. Look, why not try the police? Maybe he was picked up. For all you know, he's sitting in jail."
"Trust me, if that was true, he would have hit me up for bail."
"Well, I hope he shows soon, but if he doesn't, let me know. Maybe we can come up with another idea."
"You really think he's okay?"
"I'm sure he's fine, but I agree it's worrisome," I said. We chatted briefly, trying to boost each other's confidence. Once I hung up, I thought, Who am I trying to kid? I couldn't believe Frankie would risk jail time on a charge of assault and battery (or worse), but he wasn't exactly famous for his impulse control. Now that Iona had set him off, who knew what he'd do? Sunday morning at 8:45, Stacey and I were staked out in the parking lot of the Quorum Baptist Church. It was Easter and most of the women and children we'd seen were decked out in pastel suits and floral dresses, wearing fresh corsages, their hats atremble with artificial flowers. The McPhees pulled into the church parking lot in three separate cars. We'd been there for half an hour, the rental tucked discreetly behind a three-foot hedge. I was still arguing it made more sense to go straight to the house, but I think Stacey preferred the drama of doing it this way. The elder McPhees arrived first. They parked and got out, waiting while Adrianne turned in behind them and parked her car close by. Shortly afterward, Justine and Cornell arrived with their three girls. Dressed in their Sunday best, the eight of them looked like a picture-boo
k family. Edna wore a hat. Ruel's hair was slicked down with gel, and his light-blue suit was only slightly too big. The three girls, in matching outfits, complete with hats and white cotton gloves, bypassed the sanctuary and went into the Sunday School building attached at one end.
Stacey and I remained where we were. Some of the church windows were open, and we were treated to organ music and an assortment of hymns. The sermon itself didn't carry that far. Stacey had bought a copy of the Palo Verde Valley Times, and while the service went on, we occupied ourselves with the local news. He said, "What'd you hear from Pudgie ?"
"Not a word. I called last night, but Felicia said he hadn't showed. I'll call again this afternoon. With luck, he'll be back and we can talk to him. I'll bet you money he has a story cooked up to explain his prints on the Mustang."
I read the front section and the funnies, and Stacey entertained himself by reading aloud ads for cheap desert real estate. I looked up. "You ought to do it, Stacey. Now that you're a homeless person, you could live down here."
"Too hot. I've been thinking to ask Dolan about moving in with him."
"Hey, I like that. He needs someone to ride herd on his profligate lifestyle."
"I'd have to sneak out for junk food. That's the only thing worries me." With a rattle, Stacey flipped the page, his attention shifting to sports.
"It wouldn't hurt you to cut down."
"Speaking of which, what would you like to try next? Taco Bell, Long John Silver's, or Jack in the Box?"
"I thought we were going to McPhee's."
"I'm talking about later. A fella has to eat."
After the church service ended, we waited until the family headed out, and we followed them to the house. Ruel and Edna turned off a block early. "What's that about? Are they ducking us?" I asked, peering back at them.
"They do that every week – visit a shut-in before Sunday lunch."
"You're too much," I said. "Is there anything you don't know?"
Justine let us in. She and Adrianne were apparently in charge of the kitchen until Edna got home. The house smelled of the baked ham she must have put in the oven before she left for church. I detected whiffs of pineapple and brown sugar and the burnt sugar smell of baking sweet potatoes oozing sap onto the oven floor. Justine's girls had settled at the coffee table in the living room, playing a board game with only minor squabbling. I could see their Easter baskets on the floor where they'd left them. Judging from the bits of crumpled foil, it looked as though the girls had already begun to sample the hollow chocolate bunnies and foil-wrapped chocolate eggs. All three had received bright yellow plush ducks. The dining room table had been set with the good china. The centerpiece was an enormous arrangement of Easter lilies I could smell from where I stood.
Justine proceeded down the hall ahead of us. "We're out here in the kitchen putting the finishing touches on lunch."
"No problem," Stacey said as we followed her. The kitchen was densely heated, in part by the kettle of green beans simmering on the stove. Of course, I was starving, hoping to get on with this so Stacey and I could hit the junk food circuit. I'd already decided it wasn't my job to help Stacey reform. I'd set him on this path so I might as well keep him company while he stuffed himself.
Adrianne stood at the counter, twisting plastic ice cube trays so the cubes dropped neatly into a big clear-glass pitcher. She passed each empty tray to Cornell, who refilled it after she handed it to him. He delivered the last tray to the freezer and then picked up a dish towel and dried his hands. In the meantime, Justine was setting out salad plates, arranging a lettuce leaf on each. She opened the refrigerator and removed a Tupperware Jell-O mold, which she ran briefly under hot water at the sink. Over her shoulder she said to Stacey, "What did you want?"
"I was hoping your parents would be here so I wouldn't have to repeat myself. I don't know if Lieutenant Dolan mentioned this, but we're going to need a set of fingerprints from each of you. Detective Bancroft at the Sheriffs Department said she'd look for you first thing tomorrow morning."
Cornell leaned against the counter and crossed his arms. He'd taken off his sport coat and loosened his tie. "What's this about?"
"Elimination purposes. Anyone of you might've left prints on the Mustang. This way, if we come up with latents, we'll have something to compare 'em to. Saves time and aggravation."
"We're supposed to get inked and rolled like a bunch of criminals ?" Cornell asked.
"Well, no sir. Not at all. This is strictly routine, but it's a big help to us. Lieutenant Dolan would have told you himself, but he ended up at Quorum General. I suppose you heard about that."
Cornell wasn't to be distracted by Dolan's medical woes. "What if we say no?"
"I can't think why you would. It's common practice."
"Well, it's not common for me."
Adrianne looked at him. "Oh, just do it, Cornell. Why are you kicking up a fuss?"
"He's not kicking up a fuss," Justine said. "He's asking why we have to agree to this crap."
"I wouldn't go so far as to call it 'crap,' " Stacey said. "Left up to me, I'd let the matter slide, but Dolan seems to think it's a good idea. He's the boss on this one. Only takes a couple minutes and the place can't be any more than ten blocks away. If you want, I'll drive you over and bring you back when you're done."
"It isn't that," Cornell said.
"Then what?" Adrianne said. "Why are you acting like this?"
"I wasn't talking to you. I want your opinion, I can ask."
"Excuse the heck out of me."
"Look, I'll go down there, okay? I just don't like being told what to do."
Stacey said, "Tell you what. I've got an inkless pad in the car. Inked prints are superior, but I can see your point. We can take care of it right now if you'd prefer."
"Skip it. I'll go. It just bugs me, that's all."
"We appreciate that. I'll tell the detective the family's coming in."
"Wait a minute. Mom and Dad have to go, too?"
"Since the vehicle belongs to your dad, it wouldn't be unusual to find his prints on it. It's the same with your mom. No point in chasing our tails if there's an obvious explanation."
"Oh, for Pete's sake," Cornell said. He tossed the dish towel on the counter and went out the back door, letting it bang shut behind him. I'd have bet serious money he'd be lighting a cigarette to calm himself. His sister stared after him. "What's his problem?"
"Just drop it. He's in a bad mood," Justine said.
Adrianne caught my eye briefly and then looked away.
Stacey and I went to Long John Silver's for lunch, this time swooning over crisp-fried fish and chips doused in puckery vinegar the color of iced tea. Afterward, we stopped by Quorum General to visit Dolan. I hadn't seen him since Friday night and I was amazed at his progress. He was out wandering the hall, wearing a pair of paper slippers and a light cotton robe over his hospital gown. He was freshly showered and shaved, his hair still damp and neatly combed to one side.
As soon as he saw us he said, "Let's use the waiting room at the end of the hall. I'm sick of being cooped up."
I said, "You look great."
"I'm lobbying the doc to let me out of here." Dolan seemed to shuffle, but it may have been the only way to keep the slippers on his feet.
"What's the deal at this point?"
"Possibly tomorrow. I'm supposed to start cardiac rehab and he thinks I'm better off doing that on home turf," he said. "Joe Mandel called me this morning with good news. They picked up the guy on that triple homicide."
Stacey said, "Good dang deal. Now they can concentrate on us." We had the waiting room to ourselves. Up in one corner, a wall-mounted color TV was tuned to an evangelist, the sound turned down low. There was a white-robed choir behind him and I watched the vigor with which they sang. Lieutenant Dolan seemed restless, but I thought it was probably the lack of cigarettes. For him, work and the act of smoking were so closely connected it was hard to do one without the other. We chatted about
the case. None of us ever tired of rehashing the facts, though there was nothing new to add.
He said, "Right now, Pudgie's our priority. Time to lean on that guy."
"Waste of time," Stacey said. "He's an old family friend. His prints are easy to explain. Might be bullshit, but nothing we can prove either way."
We moved on to idle chitchat until Dolan's energy began to flag. We parted company soon afterward. Stacey and I spent the remainder of Sunday afternoon in our separate rooms. I don't know how he occupied his time. I read my book, napped, and trimmed my hair with my trusty pair of nail scissors. At 6:00, we went out for another round of junk food, this time Taco Bell. I was beginning to crave alfalfa sprouts and carrot juice; anything without additives, preservatives, or grease. On the other hand, the color had returned to Stacey's cheeks and I'd have been willing to swear he'd gained a pound or two since he arrived.
Dolan was released from the hospital late Monday afternoon just as the dinner trays were coming out. Stacey and I arrived on the floor at 5:00 and waited with patience while Dolan's doctor reviewed his chart and lectured him at length about the importance of staying off cigarettes, eating properly, and initiating a program of moderate exercise. By the time we saw him, he was dressed in street clothes and eager to be gone. We tucked him in the front seat of Stacey's rental car while I climbed in the back. He carried a manila envelope with copies of the ER report, his EKGs, and his record of treatment. As Stacey turned the key in the ignition, Dolan said, "Bunch of bunk. They exaggerate this stuff, trying to keep you in line. I don't see what's so bad about an occasional smoke."
"Don't start on that. You do what they say."
"How about I'll be as compliant as you were? As I remember it, you did what suited you and to hell with them."
Stacey turned off the key and threw his hands up. "That's it. We're going right back upstairs and talk to the doctor."
"What's the matter with you? I said I'd do as I'm told... in the main. Now start the car and let's go. I'm not supposed to be upset. It says so right here," he said, rattling his envelope.
"Does not. I read that myself."