I know how Sonny drives. It’ll take us a day and a half each way with him at the wheel. “That’s okay,” I say. “The Jeep needs a run.”
Sonny may or may not have underestimated the distance to the lake. I didn’t clock it but it seemed more like twenty-eight hundred miles than twenty-eight. What he most assuredly did do was under-emphasize the fact that the road is dusty. The Jeep’s sand-pocked but still recognizable as green hue is not even remotely distinguishable by the time we arrive at our destination.
What Sonny refers to as a lake wouldn’t qualify as a decent puddle in Seattle. “There are fish in here?” I ask incredulously as we pull up to the ‘lakes’ humble shores.
“Don’t know for sure,” he says matter-of-factly as he disembarks from the Jeep. “Nobody’s ever caught one.”
I look at him, flabbergasted. “Then why in the name of all that’s holy,” I ask, “did we just eat dirt for God knows how many miles to get here?”
He looks at me like I’m too stupid to live. “Maybe we’ll be the first,” he says, shaking his head in wonderment. He proceeds to unload the fishing gear, with particular care given to the beer; then he arranges these in a neat pile beside the chairs.
“Do we even bother putting our lines in the water or do we expect the non-existent fish to simply leap into our laps?” I ask as Sonny hands me a beer.
“Nobody loves a smartass,” he retorts. He opens his first beer and guzzles the entire contents in one horrid display of excessive consumption. He follows that with a belch that probably shatters the windows of the showroom in Bakersfield where Mel Hocking buys his trucks.
It occurs to me as we sit idly watching the serene surface of the water - which we both know will never be disturbed by the presence of an actual fish - that I have in my presence the pre-eminent expert on the inhabitants of Cutter’s Grove. Who better to quiz about the poker players than Sonny?
“So,” I say to get things started, “tell me about yourself, Sonny.”
He grunts. “What’s to tell?“ he says.
I think he’s sulking because I haven’t shown the proper degree of gusto so far for his fishing expedition. “Did you and your dad used to do a lot of fishing?”
“The only thing me and my old man ever did together was fight,” he tells me.
I look over at Sonny. He looks like a man who has just been reminded of something he’d much rather have kept buried in the deepest recesses of his mind. “What was he like?” I ask.
“Not my favorite topic, Lucas.”
But I’m nothing if not persistent. “A drinker was he?”
Sonny turns his head to me. “A drinker, a yeller, a hitter … an asshole.”
“Was it always that way?”
“As far back as I can remember, yeah. He used to hit my mama just for the sport of it when he was drunk. As the years wore on he was drunk most a the time. Finally, one day she couldn’t take any more of his abuse and she took off. Left me and my sister alone with him. It didn’t take long for him to start in on us.”
This is the first time I’ve ever seen Sonny in a sullen mood. I feel like an ass for forcing him to talk about his painful childhood. “I’m sorry, Sonny,” I tell him. “I won’t bring it up again.”
“It’s all right,” he says in a hushed voice. “Ancient history."
Things are quiet for several minutes while we sip our beers and soak up the sun. Then Sonny surprises me by starting to talk again. "I came home one day when I was sixteen and found him passed out in his car. It was such a common thing I just left him there to sleep it off. Later that night, when he hadn’t come into the house, I went out to check on him. He was dead. Drank himself to death. I called my sister, Amanda, outside. She looked at him and without missin’ a beat, said, ‘Good. We’re finally rid of him.’ That’s about the way I felt, too.”
“What happened after that?” I asked.
“Nothin’. We called the cops, had him buried, and went on with our lives. Amanda left town about a year later and eventually married a fella she met at her church. They bought a little trailer park over near Lake Havasu and raised a bunch a kids, and made a good life for themselves. I lived with some folks that took me in for about a year, then moved out on my own.”
“You never married?”
“Me?” he scoffs. “Who’d marry the likes a me?”
“Ever come close?”
“Naw. Some guys’re just born to be bachelors. I’m one of ’em I guess.
He seems content enough with it and I decide to let it rest. “Old Herb’s been pretty lucky at the poker table lately, huh?”
“Your turn’ll come,” he says, misinterpreting my comment. “You been playin’ like Seattle’s still on yer mind, that’s all.”
“Maybe you’re right,” I admit. “What’s Herb’s story, anyway?”
“Not much of a story there, I reckon. He’s run that diner for close to twenty years. Wife left him a few years ago.”
“How come she left him?”
Sonny swings his head toward me with eyebrows raised. “You’ve seen Herb, right?”
Good point. “He have any kids?”
“Three of ’em.”
“Girls? Boys?”
“All girls.”
“Did he get along with his daughters?”
Now Sonny frowns. “Not so’s you’d notice,” he says. “Why’re you so interested in Herb’s family life anyway?”
“Just talking,” I say. “What about the rest of the boys? I guess Mel’s pretty well set, huh?”
“He ain’t no Billy Gates but he ain’t exactly worryin’ about where his next meal’s comin’ from, that’s for sure.”
“I met his wife, Tracy, the other day. Nice woman.”
“Yup.”
“That daughter of his, Alicia, she’s quite the looker. Bet she’s a handful.”
“Most likely.”
“Arliss seems like a nice fella.”
“Yup.”
This is like wrestling molars from a warthog. “Too bad about Paco’s daughter. Guess that must have shook him up pretty bad when she disappeared, huh?”
“Yup, sure did. Don’t think he coulda been any more upset if it was his own daughter.”
Say what? “What do you mean, his own daughter? It was his daughter.”
“Yeah, sure,” Sonny says, “but I meant his biological daughter. Anne Marie was Bonnie’s kid from her first marriage.”
Well, well. Now there’s some fodder for the old silo.
19
I phone Deborah as soon as we’re back from the ‘lake.’
“Got another tidbit for the suspect file,” I say.
“Great,” she says. “Why don’t you come over and fill me in.’’
Somehow her choice of words is all I need to remind me that Beth owns a nail file. “I can’t, Deborah, not right now. But guess what.”
“What?”
“Did you know Paco isn’t Anne Marie’s real father. Anne Marie was Bonnie’s kid from her first marriage.”
“You know, I'd forgotten all about that. Hmm. Now that he's a potential suspect, I guess it is interesting.”
“That’s what I thought. By the way,” I say somewhat sheepishly, “I told Beth Wunderlich about what’s happening and what we’re doing. She’s going to keep her ears tuned around the diner from now on. Who knows what she might hear?” I await Deborah’s reaction to this bit of news.
Predictably, there’s a lengthy silence followed by an apathetic, “Oh.”
“Everybody hangs out there,” I add. “she might learn something that could help.”
“I suppose,” Deborah says.
Her enthusiasm is boundless. “Well, I’ll talk to you later.”
“Yeah.”
Beth, of course, rates more than a phone call. I stop by the diner just as she’s wrapping up for the day and park myself on a stool at the counter.
“So, how was the fishing?” she asks.
“If success is gauged by
how many beers Sonny put back, it was phenomenal.”
She sighs. Like what else can you expect from men? “Had anything to eat?”
“Nope. Sonny regards it as sacrilegious to actually consume anything but beer while fishing.”
“Sit tight. I’ll make you a burger.”
She disappears into the kitchen just as Herb is coming out. “Don’t forget poker night,” he says when he spots me.
“Not sure I can afford it, Herb.”
He removes the cigar stub from his mouth and belches. “Never know, your luck might change,” he says. This utterance is accompanied by something close to an actual smile. Or at least what passes for a smile in Herb's case. Either way it's obvious he believes there is not a hope in hell that my luck will ever really change.
“Bound to sooner or later, I guess,” I say to his retreating back. It damn well better change.
The burger Beth puts in front of me a few minutes later is the first meal - discounting one peanut butter and jelly sandwich - Beth has made for me and it is, without exception, the most foul-tasting thing I’ve ever put in my mouth. I think she must have substituted sugar for salt and one of Victor’s chew toys for hamburger meat. I somehow manage to choke part of it back while she stands there, watching me closely. “Is it okay, sweets?” she asks with her face all scrunched up. “I don’t cook much. I don’t think I’m very good at it.”
I scrutinize her face before answering, trying to decide whether or not I'm the butt of a mean-spirited joke. She’s either a very good actress or she’s serious. I’m not brave enough to gamble that she’s acting. “Great, babe,” I say. “Great.” Well, aside from this little jealousy problem she seems to have, Beth has a lot of wonderful attributes. I mean, hell, she's gorgeous to look at, she has a wonderful personality, and she shares my love of junk food. She even digs rock and roll music and old gangster movies. I guess it would be asking too much that she could actually cook on top of all that.
“Did you and Sonny do any talking today?” she asks.
“Yeah, some. He had a pretty tough childhood. Did you know that?”
“No,” she answers, a concerned look on her face.
“His old man was a drunk. Beat his wife and the kids. Sonny and his sister were raised by their father after their mother had finally had enough and took off. Sounded like a very unhappy childhood to put it mildly. The old man finally drank himself to death when Sonny was sixteen.”
“That’s horrible,” Beth says.
“Yeah. I found out something else, too. Anne Marie wasn’t Paco’s biological daughter. She was Bonnie’s daughter from her first marriage.”
This elicits a look of surprise from Beth. “Very interesting,” she says.
“That’s what I was thinking.”
“I guess that kind of puts him back on the list, doesn’t it?”
“Yeah, I guess it does. Did you happen to hear anything interesting today?”
“Not really, but I’ve been watching Herb. Now that he’s a murder suspect I see him in a much different light. Everything he does now seems to have a sinister edge to it somehow.”
“I know what you mean. Considering what we’ve learned about Sonny’s background I even find myself looking at him a little differently now and wondering … is it possible he might be the one?”
Beth smiles thoughtfully. “He’s a bit of a stretch, I think, hon.”
“Most likely,” I agree.
“You ever been out to Herb’s place?” Beth wonders.
“Don’t even know where it is.”
“He’s got a place out past Paco’s. We should check it out sometime when he’s not there.”
This sounds to me like incredible folly. “You think?” I say, cringing internally.
“Yeah. And I know for a fact he’s not going to be there tonight. He’s heading out of town as we speak.”
“Really?” Oh, no.
“Let’s do it right now,” she says. She’s in a cute, playful mood.
“You really think we should?”
“Why not?”
What the hell. If it gets me out of eating the rest of this burger, I’m all for it. “Let’s go,” I say.
On our way out of town it occurs to me that we’re taking an enormous risk by doing what we have in mind. “You know, this might not be such a great idea, Beth.”
“Oh, come on,” she says. “It’ll be okay.”
“I don’t know. What if we got caught? We could end up in a pile of trouble.”
“You worry too much. There’s nobody around for miles. We aren’t going to get caught.”
“I’ll drive by the place and we’ll have a look from the road. That’s all I’m promising.”
“Coward,” she mutters.
When we get near Herb’s place we can see there are no lights on. I slow the Jeep to a crawl as we edge past his driveway. His Lincoln is nowhere in sight and, as Beth had said, there are no houses for quite a distance in either direction. Without giving myself a chance to change my mind I swing the Jeep around and pull into the driveway. “Where did Herb say he was going anyway?” I ask.
“He said he had some business in Barstow. He’s staying overnight and won’t be back until late tomorrow. He’s got Robbie Fuller coming in to cook. You can relax, we’ve got lots of time.”
I pull the Jeep around to the back of the house and then go one step further by parking completely out of sight behind an old equipment shed. I don’t want some passerby reporting the Jeep’s presence to Herb on his return. We get out and approach the back door. Beth gives the knob a turn and, incredibly, it’s unlocked; she walks right in to the kitchen.
I follow her, but with much more apprehension. “Don’t touch the lights,” I whisper.
“Geez, what a dump,” Beth says. Even with only the light from the moon we can see the place is in desperate need of a cleaning. There are dishes piled high in the sink and on the counter tops, and newspapers, empty tin cans, and clutter everywhere. “And why are you whispering?”
“I don’t know. It just seems appropriate when one is breaking and entering.”
“We’re not breaking,” she corrects me. “We’re just entering.”
“I’ll make sure I tell that to the judge at the sentencing hearing.”
“Have you always been so wimpy?” she wonders absently, continuing to snoop.
I’m sure she’s just kidding about that wimpy thing. I notice, incidentally, that she is now whispering too. That makes me even more nervous.
Having exhausted the interest factor in the kitchen, Beth is now heading for the living room. I follow along behind her, but I’m becoming increasingly anxious to get out of here.
Then, to my dismay, the front room window is illuminated by a vehicle’s headlights. Somebody just turned in to Herb’s driveway.
20
There’s not a prayer of escaping unseen. All we can do is hide, and hope for the best. We see the vehicle pull around to the back entrance. I silently thank God I had the presence of mind to conceal the Jeep. At least there’s a chance, be it ever so small, of us avoiding discovery.
Beth scurries into a hall closet and pulls me in after her. We’re scrunched in like Christmas oranges as we crouch among musty coats and sweaters, trying to quiet our breathing, which is not at all helped along by the fact that the smell of stale cigar smoke permeates everything. I have this sudden fear that I’ll start to cough and choke at the very least opportune moment.
Beth has a death grip on my arm. Her nails feel like little daggers piercing my skin, but I don’t dare try to pry her loose.
We hear the back door open and then heavy footsteps approaching. I envision the closet door being thrown open and Herb standing there demanding an explanation for our presence in his house. Explanation, hell. He’ll probably just shoot us both and haul our bullet-ridden bodies to the dump where we’ll recline for eternity amongst the wreckage of Sonny’s discarded possessions.
Mercifully, the footsteps go right
by us.
In a moment, whoever it is retraces their steps and goes back outside, then quickly returns. Now we hear what seems like something being dragged across the floor. That’s followed by the sound of another interior door opening, and then thumping noises as whatever has been brought into the house is wrestled down the basement stairs. Two or three minutes later, more footsteps on the stairs. Then the thud of the back door closing as someone leaves the house. We’re hardly able to believe our luck when we hear an engine being fired up and a vehicle being driven away.
I throw open the closet door. “Let’s get out of here,” I whisper, heart hammering wildly.
I'm half way down the hall when I realize Beth isn't behind me. When I look back she's stopped, looking toward the basement door. “We've got to see what’s in the basement,” she says.
“Are you totally insane?” I can't believe she'd even consider spending another minute in this house. “We’re getting out of here now.” I race back to her, latch on to her arm, and practically drag her out the back door. I don’t release my grip until I have her securely seated in the Jeep. I start the engine and speed away, leaving the headlights off until we’re well clear of Herb’s property.
“Jesus H. Christ,” I say when we’re safely gone. “What were we thinking of? That was the stupidest thing I’ve ever done.” Beth is strangely quiet. “Are you okay?’’ I ask.
“Yeah, I’m fine,” she says dismissively. “What do you think that was he took into the basement?”
“Who knows? It could have been anything.”
“And why did he say he was going to Barstow if he’s still here?”
“Maybe he’s just getting away late,” I reason. Although I don’t say it, I’m not at all convinced that it was even Herb we were hearing in the house. It seemed to me the movements were too vigorous and efficient. Herb is like a grizzly. His movements are labored and cumbersome.
“Yeah, well, if your ghosts are real then maybe he’s a serial killer with a bunch of dead bodies in his basement,” Beth retorts.
CUTTER'S GROVE Page 10