by Louise Ure
I swallowed hard. Almost twenty-four hours gone now. The radio said the police had no leads.
Could I really have heard the aftermath of a killing? At the shop, the cops had said she had died sometime between eight and midnight, so the timing was right. And so was the direction. And I had heard that strangled cry when I first walked out of the shop. Was that the precise moment that Mrs. Prentice ceased to exist?
But a minute later, there was also laughter. Would a murderer have laughed? Oh, God, I hoped not. And I couldn’t tell the police anything that would help them find the car anyway.
“…and that bitch next door keeps complaining about my music…”
What did I know for sure? The car had been idling rough. It sounded like it was out of tune. What else?
“…she couldn’t get a man’s attention if she was buck naked with a hundred-dollar bill in her mouth…”
There had been another smell. Sweet, almondlike. There was no breeze that night so it must have come from somewhere close by. What was that smell? I knew it but couldn’t place it.
“…and whose fault is that? They’re the ones who sent me the damn credit card and now they’ve got the gall to complain about…”
Antifreeze! That’s it. Sweet, like almond candy. Smells so good that dogs lap it up and die, I’d heard one animal lover say. So maybe the car had a leak. Or maybe some other car that had passed by had dripped antifreeze.
Great, that will do the cops a world of good. A car that needs a tune-up and might be leaking antifreeze was in the neighborhood at some point during the four-hour window when the woman had been killed.
“…it’s not my fault that your father didn’t leave us any money when he sashayed out the door…”
I tuned back in to Momma’s monologue just in time for her favorite word: fault. Whose fault was it that she dropped the glass? “Look what you made me do!” Whose fault was it that her new beau with all the money never called back? “Cadence, what did you say to him? This is all your fault!”
Then she would send me to the Tree. It was a graceful old eucalyptus in the backyard, once struck by lightning so the trunk was cleaved in two. Over the years the two halves had twined back together until they looked like lovers dancing, one with her back arched in a tango dip, the other with an arm held tight to his partner’s waist.
“You’ll stand there until you’re ready to say you’re sorry.” I spent hours with my forehead resting against the cool, papery bark, my fingernails carving memory lines in the newly naked wood. Stood there until I felt that I had grown into its flesh, until my skin feathered and curled like the crust of the tree, and my feet took root alongside it.
I called it the Fault Tree.
“Momma, I’ve got to be going.” I called Juanita from the kitchen phone and went outside to wait for her. She was only five minutes away and arrived with a squeal of brakes.
“You want to bring your car into Walt’s over the weekend? I can take a look at those brakes. Walt won’t mind if we use the shop outside of business hours.”
“There’s an unmarked cop car in your driveway,” Juanita interrupted as we rounded the last corner before my house. “I’d recognize one of those anywhere. Hmmm, it looks like Rich Nellis, from Robbery. Or is he Homicide now? I worked a hijack case with him last year. Wonder what he wants.”
“I think I know what it’s about.”
Chapter 11
Dupree answered the phone on the first ring.
“August, is that you? It’s Juanita from the Crime Lab.” Behind Juanita’s voice he heard Willie Nelson’s exhortation about not making cowboying a career.
“Hey there, girl. Hope you’re not working this late.”
“No, I just got home from helping a friend. But I could say the same to you. What are you still doing there?”
“Waiting for Nellis to get back here with a witness.”
There was a pause on the line, then Juanita said, “That’s what I was calling about. I just saw him at my friend’s house. What’s going on?”
Dupree knew Juanita Greene and liked her, but he didn’t want to give away much information this early in the game. Who knows? Although it seemed unlikely, Cadence Moran might have had something to do with the killing. Or she might be protecting someone else who was there.
“Why don’t you just ask her?”
“Come on. She’s an old friend and she’s blind. I just want to make sure she doesn’t need any help.”
“Gear down, Juanita. She might have been in the area when a senior citizen was killed last night. We’re just double checking to see if she noticed anything.”
“She notices everything, August. Last week she noticed that I’d eaten asparagus the night before because my sweat still smelled like it.”
Well, that was a vote for her accuracy as a witness.
“What did you find at the murder scene?” Juanita continued.
“Not much. Two sets of footprints in the blood trail. No witnesses.”
“Do you have anything for us Latent Print folks?”
“Somebody from the lab has gone over the scene. Don’t remember his name. He didn’t find any clear prints and we don’t have anything else for the lab to test yet.”
“I’ll take another look at the house for you, if you want.”
Dupree smiled. They had worked some tough cases together over the years, like the one with the cop who shot his girlfriend and then used his knowledge of police and forensic techniques to cover his tracks. Juanita had come up with the evidence to convict him when others insisted they’d already looked everywhere.
“You do that.”
Chapter 12
“There are three steps up in front of you,” Nellis advised me just a beat too late as I tripped over the first one.
“It’ll be easier if I use my stick.” I brushed his meaty hand off my arm.
If my sense of the twists and turns on our drive was right, we were probably at the Tucson Police Headquarters on South Stone. When I was young, I had thought the building was a bank because of the walk-up “teller window” just outside the front doors, where they checked your ID. I managed to navigate the remaining steps and cross the lobby to the elevator. Nellis pinged the button to call the car to our floor.
“This is us. Third floor,” he bellowed a few moments later. Ah, one of those folks who think that being blind affects your hearing. I preceded him into the hallway.
“Would you like a cup of coffee?” Shouted, like an American abroad who hopes that volume can replace vocabulary.
“No, thanks, I’m fine.” Nellis gave me a too-strong push on the elbow. In the distance, a man’s voice said, “Bye, Juanita,” and he hung up a phone. Then soft-soled shoes gummed across the floor toward us.
“We’d like to go over the details from last night,” Nellis continued at maximum volume.
I waited a beat. “I’m not deaf, Detective. Just blind.”
I could almost hear Nellis’s face turn red. His partner, the soft-soled-shoe wearer, rode in to save the day.
“I’m August Dupree.” A voice as smooth as Nellis’s was harsh. The butterscotch sound of the Deep South. He wore an aftershave that smelled earthy, like something root-bound and solid. He may have been black, I couldn’t tell. “Let’s go in here.” Dupree put two fingers on my back and, with gentle pressure, suggested rather than led me into a small interview room. Three steps in each direction to reach the corners.
“I just got off the phone with Juanita Greene,” he said. There was affection in his voice.
“She’d make a good mother hen.” I should have known Juanita would follow up on the detective’s presence at my house.
“That shiner looks painful,” Dupree said. “Did you have a doctor check you out?”
“No. I’m a little stiff, but it probably looks worse than it feels.” I’d left the sunglasses at home. The detectives could see the gravel rash and black eye in all their splendor.
“Can you tell us exactly what happened when you
left the shop? Your boss phoned to say he remembered you had a close call crossing the street. Anything at all you remember might help,” Dupree said.
Damn Walt for his recovered memory. It seemed to pop up at the most inconvenient times. But in some ways, I was grateful for their scrutiny. In the last twenty-four hours I hadn’t been able to convince myself that I hadn’t overheard a murder.
I told them about the near accident and about my broken cane. “I have no idea if it has anything to do with Mrs. Prentice. It’s just as likely I stepped in front of a driver that didn’t see me.”
“But you heard a muffled scream, and then a few moments later you were almost run over by a car that had been idling in front of Wanda Prentice’s house.” This from Dupree, questions phrased as statements as if the story would make more sense that way.
I replayed the sounds in my head. “Well, a car that was near Mrs. Prentice’s house, anyway.”
“When you first heard that scream, what did you think was going on? What was your initial impression?”
“I didn’t automatically think crime, if that’s what you mean. I would have reported that.” Right. I knew I would have convinced myself it wasn’t serious, it wasn’t any of my business, and just walked away.
“I didn’t have long to think about it at all. There was the scream, then running footsteps a few seconds later, then two car doors closing. I heard voices, laughter. Then the car came racing at me. I guess if I thought about it at all it just seemed to be some bad driver. You know. No patience and in a hurry to get someplace.”
The larger detective was taking notes, his scratchy pencil keeping pace with my words.
“Anything else? What about the car? The driver?” the Southern accent asked.
“I don’t know how I can help you. I’ve been thinking about it. The engine was rough. I smelled antifreeze…”
“Antifreeze?”
“Yeah. A sweet smell. Maybe the car had a leak.” I shook my head. “Maybe it was some other car. I mean, there are a lot of cars in town with bad hoses or a radiator leak…”
“Doesn’t mean it wasn’t associated with the killing,” Dupree said. His partner didn’t seem to have as much faith in my story. His silence came across as disinterest rather than close attention.
I told them about hearing two voices before the car accelerated.
“Are you sure you didn’t hear a woman’s voice? Maybe a woman with a man?” Nellis this time. They must have two suspects in mind.
“I can’t be sure. One was definitely a higher voice, but I’m not sure it was a woman. Whoever it was, they were laughing.”
They made me go over the story three more times and it didn’t get any clearer. Dupree told me that I’d been a big help. I knew better.
On the way back to the car I heard the rustle and shuffle of a small crowd just outside the building. A young woman’s voice broke through the rest, brittle and aggressive.
“Detective, do you have any leads in the death of Wanda Prentice? Is this lady a witness?”
“No comment,” the big detective said as he steered me toward the car. I had my cane telescoped down to the size of a conductor’s baton and tucked under my arm. This time I didn’t mind him towing me by the elbow. Camera shutters clicked like handcuffs as we passed by.
Chapter 13
The phone woke me far earlier than I had intended to get up.
“Cadence! You’re famous!” my mother gushed. “There’s a picture of you on the front page of the Daily Star.”
She sounded like she’d just won the lottery.
“It says—here, let me read it to you—‘an unidentified witness to the murder of seventy-six-year-old Wanda Prentice is helping police with their investigation. Prentice was best known as the creator and star of Wanda’s Story Hour, a locally produced children’s program, which ran on KGUN television from 1955 to 1967.’ I didn’t know she was a celebrity. And you didn’t tell me you knew anything about this. Why do I have to read about it in the newspaper? What kind of daughter are you?” Her euphoria soured with complaint.
“Sorry, Momma.” Sometimes it didn’t take a long vigil at the Fault Tree for me to play my part. I would just say the words; I didn’t have to mean them.
I tried to settle back into sleep, but after fifteen minutes realized it was useless. I splashed my face with cold water and scuffed into the kitchen to make coffee.
At least I knew now why there had been so many reporters at the police station. I was too young to have watched Wanda’s Story Hour, but it had been famous enough to still be part of the local lexicon when I was a kid.
Damn reporters. At least they hadn’t given my name. But now Wanda Prentice’s family was going to believe I could help them. I knew I couldn’t, and I knew I wasn’t brave enough to even try.
When the coffeemaker wheezed to a stop, I poured half a cup, dialed the operator, and asked for the number at police headquarters. It took two transfers to get me to sweet-talking Detective Dupree.
“I’m not a witness to anything, damn it! Call that reporter and tell her that.”
“I apologize, Ms. Moran. She ran the story without asking for confirmation. It’s just that we all want to catch this killer. If there is anything else you remember that might help us…”
I hung up without saying good-bye. I didn’t like the reporter thrusting me into the limelight. Even worse was the nagging feeling that I should have done more when I heard that scream.
Eight years ago I found out that I couldn’t be trusted. Not with my own well-being and certainly not with anybody else’s. Eight years since I’d felt brave or invincible. And look how that turned out.
I had only had one beer that night, so I wasn’t drunk, but I knew I hadn’t been exactly sharp either. I was in a hurry and distracted. I lost Nicole that night along with my eyes. But I never forgot whose fault it was.
It was mine.
Chapter 14
He jerked awake, the nightmare still fresh. Images from the old woman’s house filled him like a strobe-lit slideshow. He mentally traced each moment, hoping somehow he could change the outcome this time.
It had been tough starting the van this week, so he had left it idling at the curb in front of Mrs. Prentice’s house. They needed only a few minutes inside, and it would be safe enough in that neighborhood.
He’d opened the screen door slowly so it wouldn’t squeak and used his buck knife on the cheesy little lock she had on the front door. They’d headed straight for the kitchen. Lolly had been egging him on for a week, detailing specific information about where the money and jewels were stashed.
There was nothing, of course. The ice cube trays held ice. And Lolly had made a racket shaking two boxes of dried-up bran flakes into the sink.
Lolly had wanted to look in the bedroom, saying the mattress must hold the real treasures, but he’d pulled her away. They needed cash, not a confrontation. But their voices must have awakened Mrs. Prentice. Lolly had just found that wad of bills in the coffee canister when the old woman stumbled in, her eyes still crusted with sleep.
“What are you doing in my house?” A frail, high-pitched voice but not frightened.
He’d backpedaled, arms straight out, offering her the coffee canister in one hand or the buck knife in the other.
Lolly’s reaction had been different. As the old woman grabbed at the canister, Lolly wrestled the knife from his hand and plunged it into the old woman’s back. Again. And again. Her scream registered anger and surprise as much as pain.
Everything slowed down. He could hear Mrs. Prentice’s ragged breath. A drip from the faucet. His future tumbling away. Someone might have heard the noise. He pushed Lolly toward the front door, metal canister still clutched in his hands. They had to get away.
But the old woman came after them, glued herself to him like original sin, and Lolly had stabbed her again.
A scream rose in his throat, and he’d had to push it back down. Focus on getting Lolly out the door.
> “Come on, Lolly.” Whispered. Urgent.
She was his Lolly—Lollipop—never her real name, even in times of crisis. That other name was the one her old man used.
That had been two days ago but it felt like a heartbeat. He left the van under its tarp and headed out on foot. If he cut across the desert instead of following the road, it was only three-quarters of a mile to the 7-Eleven. No reason to risk a cop seeing his plates.
He bought a bottle of cold water along with the newspaper. A photo of the dead woman was on the front page, along with the picture of a dark-haired woman leaving police headquarters. He recognized that second woman too. Tall and lean. Younger than his parents. And standing stiff as a pole, like she was out there directing traffic. She looked straight at the camera and held her lips in a thin tight line, just the way she’d looked at him in the street.
The paper said she was a witness to the killing, but what could she have seen? The street had been pretty dark until he turned on his headlights. She might be able to tell them what kind of car to look for, but there were lots of light brown vans out there. Could she have read any numbers from the license plate?
She had definitely seen them come running from Mrs. Prentice’s house. That was a problem.
He needed to talk to Lolly. About how much he loved her. About what she’d done. And how he almost threw up every time he thought about it.
He’d have to get rid of the car.
And find a way to convince the witness that she hadn’t seen anything at all.
Chapter 15
“Who was that?” Nellis asked.
“Cadence Moran. She’s got a bone to pick with us about having her picture in the paper.” Dupree ran his fingers through thin black curls, wondering again if he’d have his father’s oxbow hairline by the time he was forty-five.
“She should be thanking us. It might get her a date.”
Dupree let the words pass without comment. “She’s right about one thing. What if this guy’s worried about a witness?”