by Lakes, Lynde
“Don’t just stand there looking like RoboCop. Get her some water.”
“I’m not playing nursemaid to a murderess.” He dropped a card on the coffee table. “When she comes to, have her call me.”
Cory’s boots pounded the entry hall tile in retreat. The front door slammed, vibrating so hard it rattled its hinges.
Bard had never known Cory to be such an SOB. He was selfish and arrogant, but never downright cruel like this. Why the unprofessional behavior?
Leaving the cloth on Paula’s forehead, Bard went to get her some water. As he turned on the kitchen faucet, he eyed Ivanhoe apprehensively. The parrot didn’t ruffle a feather.
When Bard returned to the living room, Ivanhoe flew past him. Bard flinched and spilled a few drops of water on the carpet. The parrot alighted on the perch in the corner and glared at him. Damn! That bird would take some getting used to.
Looking dazed, Paula struggled to sit up.
“Drink this,” Bard said.
Paula sipped the water then with trembling fingers, gave the glass back to him. He. set it on a cork coaster that was already on the end table. “Was Charlie a close friend?”
She nodded and looked away.
“Detective Morrison wants you to call him when you feel better. He has a few more questions.”
Bard handed her Cory’s card. Their hands touched briefly. She looked bewildered—like small child once again, only this time it was the look of a child lost in a crowded mall, wondering if she could trust any of the strangers rushing by. He’d bet trust didn’t come easilly to her.
She stared down at the card for a moment. “Do you know what happened to Charlie?” Her voice was soft, vulnerable.
“Just that the cops found him in the wash behind the vacated Murphy house.”
“Where is he now?” Her voice trembled.
He didn’t want to say in the morgue. “The detective’ll probably fill you in on everything when you call him.”
“I want to see that Charlie has a decent burial. How do I do that?”
“I’ll check it out and let you know.”
“Thank you, Mr. Nichols. For everything.” She stood and tottered.
He put his arm around her. “Maybe you should rest a while longer,” he said, supporting her as she sank back against the pillows.
She nodded. “Can you let yourself out?”
“No problem. About the final notice, maybe I could give you a few more days if you need it.”
“I’d appreciate that. And I have been looking, Mr. Nichols. I know you don’t believe that, but it’s true. I have an appointment tomorrow morning to see a property in Yucaipa.”
“May I drive you there?”
With delicate fingers, she brushed a wisp of hair from her face with delicate fingers. “That isn’t necessary.”
“It’s part of my job. What time?”
She hesitated then said, “Ten.”
“Ten it is.”
He retreved his briefcase from the kitchen and slipped out, careful not to slam the door as he left. Bard glanced at his watch. He had an appointment to check a house on Kent Street in thirty minutes. Even though his office was on the edge of the clear zone, less than five minutes away, he needed time alone. He drove to the top of the hill overlooking the area and did his paperwork in the car.
It was hard to concentrate with his mind so full of Paula Lord. She’d felt so soft and warm in his arms. He doubted he’d ever forget the sensation of her breast rising and falling against his chest or the fragrant womanly scent of her. He cursed his body’s instant reaction, hard and hot, and throbbing at the mere memory. He had no business getting aroused by her. God, she’d had some bad breaks, orphaned in childhood, recently widowed. And she’d lost Charlie, a man who’d obviously meant a great deal to her.
Speaking to the crowd, her face had been animated. She really believed she and the others were being treated unfairly. It was clear why Gordon wanted her out of the project. She was dynamite ready to go off at any time. Bard exhaled. Would he still be around after the explosion?
Chapter Four
Bard glanced at his watch as he approached the door of the crumbling, stucco hovel. Right on time, 4:00 P.M. He straightened to his full five-foot, eleven inches and knocked hard.
“Come in!” Mr. Hernandez shouted.
Hernandez’s voice echoed through the place, confirming the furniture was gone, and Bard could certify the rental as empty. He pushed on the warped, hollow-core door. It stuck. He stepped back and put his weight into a lunge. The door gave. A half dozen dislodged roaches fell on his head.
Bard jumped back. “What the hell!”
He brushed roaches out of his hair. One scurried down his collar. He yanked off his shirt and shook it. A brown roach fell to the floor, escaped over the threshold, and out into the late afternoon sun.
Skin prickling, Bard slipped back into his shirt and hesitantly stepped inside. Strong smells of roach spray, rancid olive oil, and plugged plumbing hit his nostrils. He tried to breathe as shallowly as possible. Armies of dazed roaches spotted the walls.
“Looks like you’ve got plenty of company,” Bard said wryly.
Hernandez laughed. His potbelly shook like Jell-O. “Lo siento, sorry. Spraying brought ’em out.”
Bard shrugged, feeling itchy all over. Hernandez had sprayed to avoid packing roaches to his new home. Bard would do the same in a like situation. Hernandez shuffled close behind as Bard strode through the place, noting peeling paint, filthy walls, cracked and broken green tiled floors, and more armies of roaches.
When Bard entered the kitchen, he stopped short. “Where are the cupboards?”
Hernandez scratched his head. “I come back, dey gone.”
Bard could refuse to certify the house until the missing cupboards were returned, but the theft wasn’t Hernandez’s fault. No sense in being hard-nosed. Bard handed Hernandez a compliance receipt. “I’ll call you when your final move-out check comes in.”
They shook hands, and Hernandez left. Bard padlocked the doors and returned to his car. He laid a streak of rubber on the asphalt as he drove away. The thieves were getting bolder and bolder, not even waiting for people to move out to strip the places.
He inspected two more houses. Both had been looted, and he waited around for the cops to take theft reports.
At 6:00 P.M., he skidded to a stop in front of his office and stomped inside to find the independent house-moving contractor, Les Cardel, sitting behind his desk, reading one of his files, and drinking coffee from his personal mug.
Les was clean-shaven and had pulled his shoulder-length, dirty blond hair into a ponytail. He smelled like he showered in a gallon of Brute.
“Dammit, Les. What are you doing in here?” Bard grabbed Paula Lord’s file out of Les’s hands and jammed it back into the filing cabinet.
Les smiled and took a sip of coffee. “Amusing myself until you got back. Working overtime again, I see.”
Bard yanked the mug from Les’s grasp, sloshing coffee onto the desk. Bard poured the remainder into a paper cup and slammed it down in front of Les.
With a paper towel, Bard wiped off the lip of his mug and poured the dregs from the coffeemaker for himself. He unplugged the machine and gestured with his thumb for Les to get out of his chair.
Les hesitated then lumbered to his feet and slouched into a straight-backed chair. “Have a bad day?”
Bard glared at him. “What do you want?”
“When can I board up the houses you inspected this afternoon?”
Bard frowned. Boarding the places was like closing the gate after the rustler already stole the horses. “You still have some sunlight. Do it now, if you’ve got time.”
“As good as done,” Les said with smug indulgence. “After all, we both want the same thing, the project cleared ASAP.”
Les shook a cigarette from a pack of Camels. Bard pointed to his no smoking sign.
Les cursed under his breath. “What happene
d to strip your gears?”
“It’s the thieves again,” Bard said. “They took Hernandez’s cupboards and Campbell’s and Allen’s hot water heaters.” Bard looked down at the still wet cuffs of his trousers, thinking of the dripping pipes dangling from walls, flooding the floors in ankle deep water. He clenched his fists. “And they stripped the air-conditioners from the roofs and left gaping holes. They even rolled up the chain link fences and hauled them off.”
Les stared at him with dull gray eyes. “The bastards. What about the cops?”
“Same old story.” Bard’s stomach knotted. “They have a whole city to cover and limited resources.”
Every time Bard waited in an empty house for the police he was a sitting duck. Good thing it was still daylight. After dark the danger quadrupled. “It took them an hour to answer my call, then they took all three reports and said to get a guard.”
“Good advice,” Les said. “Why don’t you?”
Bard frowned. Gordon had buried his requests for security in red tape, but he wasn’t about to discuss office business with an outsider like Les. “I’m working on it” was all Bard said.
“Well, I’d watch the bastard holding things up if I were you. He might be in with the crooks.”
Gordon? It would be a stretch, but it would answer why his boss was dragging his feet on the request for secuirty. Bard rubbed his aching head. If Gordy had a secret reason to hold back, maybe he did merit watching. He could be purposely keeping the information about the looting from The Corps. Or did they know, and someone from headquarters had a hand in the house stripping? Whoa. His speculation was getting a bit wild. It was more likely that the looters were local. “Know anything about a guy named Deeter?” Bard asked.
“Yeah. He hangs with bikers. You think he’s in with the thieves?”
“It’s possible. I’ve seen his black truck hauling covered loads out of the project several times. Could be stolen goods underneath that tarp.”
“I’ve seen his truck parked in front of Paula Lord’s house,” Les said. “And she doesn’t seem in a hurry to move. Maybe she needs to stay for some particular reason.”
Bard’s heart thundered. “Like what?”
“Maybe she’s the brains behind the house-stripping gang.”
What was going on? Cory accused her of murder, and now Les was accusing her of being a gang leader. “Why don’t you like her?”
“Like her? Hey, I lust for her. She and I go way back. I met that little chicadee while she was dating her husband. But she’s holding up things and costing me a bundle. If it weren’t for the money….” Les drained his coffee. “Her hubby was a cop, you know, and she’s very handy with guns.”
Bard’s dormant suspicions rose again and churned in his gut. He’d seen Paula’s expertise first hand, and it bothered him that the murderer had shot Charlie Borden with a .38 special, the caliber of her gun. But with Cory’s vendetta against her he couldn’t be sure his less than upfront roommate had given him the straight scoop. Still, he should’ve told Cory about the weapon. But he couldn’t bring more trouble down on a woman who’d already seen more than her share, especially knowing Cory was out to get her.
“You know,” Les said in a slow drawl, “if the widow can control a whole neighborhood, pulling owners and tenants together, she could just as easily lead a few hired thieves. What a cover for a gang boss.”
Bard tightened his grip on his coffee mug. Dammit. It didn’t fit. Her grief over Charlie’s death seemed too real.
“Saw your Omni,” Les said, “and that cop, Cory Morrison’s, black Mustang at her place today. Bet Morrison gave you an earful about the young Widow Lord.”
It was what Cory hadn’t said that bothered Bard. Cory wasn’t talking, but Paula had the answers. “Anything I want to know about her, I’ll ask her directly.”
Les got to his feet. “Good luck. She’s pretty tightlipped.” He paused in the doorway before leaving. “Looks like you’re caught between a rock and a hard place. No approval for guards. And thieves who know it.”
Les tromped out the door, shaking his head.
Bard sat still for a moment then he slammed his desk with the flat of his palm. If Gordon didn’t get some security guards for the clear zone by the next move-out, he would take things into his own hands, and catch the murders. thieves, and vandals—even if he had to camp out in one of the houses himself.
****
The sphere of golden sun had inched its way to the top of the sky, but its heat had not yet siphoned the morning dew from the leaves of the blackberry vines growing up the sides and over the top of the aviaries. A hint of gardenia wafted in the breeze. Paula was only half aware of her surroundings as she opened the wire door and stepped inside. Her brown-bibbed bullfinch, Cleopatra, flew to a branch of the blackberry vine. “Morning, Cleo, you’re looking perky.” Cleo cocked her head to the side then swished her plumage against the glistening chains of moisture that lined the berry leaves. Paula paused in the center of the cage. “Pretty bird,” she crooned.
She turned at the fluttering of wings. Zipper, a pink-breasted bullfinch, landed on her shoulder. “So you want attention too, huh, Zip, old boy?” He strutted along her shoulder line as if walking a tight wire and pecked gently at her collar.
“No mischief today, Zipper.” She bit the corner of her lip. Charlie had named the bird Zipper because of his habit of trying to unzip her dress. She’d learned not to wear zippered clothes around the bird. She stuck out a curved finger, and he hopped on. She gently touched her lips to the soft down of his head. “Love you, Zip,” she whispered.
Charlie had loved him, too. Oh, God, Charlie, who killed you? She squeezed her eyes tight then opened them again. Charlie wouldn’t want her to cry. Paula stroked the pink feathers of Zipper’s breast.
She had to pull herself together before Bard Nichols arrived. If she’d been in her right mind, she would never have agreed to let him drive her to see the ranch house. His thoughtfulness had made her vulnerable. She was such a sucker for even a trace of kindness. Trust was another thing. She touched the jagged scar in her eyebrow. Her hand trembled. Other than Charlie, she didn’t trust anyone. Probably never would. Not completely.
She knew Bard Nichols’s compassion didn’t come from the heart. He was a paid county employee, saying and doing whatever it took to get rid of her. Paula lifted her chin. Well, she’d agreed to go with him and wouldn’t go back on her word.
Chapter Five
When no one answered the front door, Bard jogged around the house to Paula’s rear acreage. He hoped she hadn’t left without him. Then he saw her. His heartbeat quickened. She was standing in one of the aviaries. She had tucked her blue-checkered blouse into her jeans, revealing a tiny waist and rounded hips.
She sprinkled grain on the ground then ran water into troughs. Birds fluttered around her. A couple of yellow ones landed on her shoulders. They trusted her. She was easy to trust; that was the problem. Cory had warned him about that.
“Morning,” Bard called.
“Is it ten already?” The blue ribbon holding her frizzy red hair in a stubby ponytail blew in the breeze. She stepped out of the aviary and closed the chicken-wire door behind her.
They glanced at their watches at the same time. “I’m early,” he said.
“By half an hour.”
He smiled sheepishly. “I have this thing about not being late.”
“No fear of that.” She shrugged. “It’s all right. I see my birdsitter, Gary, coming through the field.” She pointed to acreage overgrown with weeds and waist high, yellow sunflowers.
A blond, lanky boy of about seventeen headed their way. The kid had an intelligent open face. “Hi, Mrs. Lord,” he called. “I saw the car with the county emblem on the door and figured you might want to leave early.”
“Good thinking.” She handed him the list of chores she wanted done. “Ivanhoe’s in his cage. He’s already been fed.”
She paused a moment while a C-141 passed l
ow overhead in its landing descent. Instinctively, they all looked up and watched the lumbering transport plane pass.
Then, Paula continued as if its deafening roar hadn’t interrupted her. “There’s a Pyrex dish of baked apples in the fridge and some chocolate chip cookies under the foil on the counter.” She peeled out a twenty and handed it to Gary. “And order yourself a pizza for lunch. I’ll be back before dinner.”
Gary followed them to the car looking like a lovesick pup. “Don’t worry, Mrs. Lord, the birds and I dig each other.”
Bard shifted his weight, fighting the puzzling tug of envy that hummed inside his head. He helped Paula into the car. Touching her soft, delicate hand sent his heartbeat into double time. He rounded the Omni, cursing his lowered defenses.
Sliding behind the wheel, he asked, “Do you hire a birdsitter every time you leave?”
She lifted her chin. “When I’m not sure how long I’ll be gone.”
He fastened his seat belt then started the engine. “All those birds must tie you down.”
Her steely-blue, distrusting eyes met his glance. “You mean, it would be easier to find a place if I didn’t have them?” The scrappy tone in her voice scraped his nerves like sandpaper.
“Exactly,” he said before he could stop himself.
“I’ll never part with them!”
“Who asked you to?” The biting words burst from his mouth like machine-gun fire. He was instantly sorry for his gut level responses. His job required him to keep himself in check with hostile people. But with Paula, holding a tight rein on his emotions was proving impossible. He had to try harder. He lowered his voice and tried for a pleasant tone. “How did you get into raising birds?”
“As if you care.”
“Hey, somehow we’ve gotten off on the wrong foot, and it’s probably my fault. Could we try again?”
She studied him, looking calmer, but he wasn’t fooled; he saw the pulse throbbing in her neck.
“Come on,” he said, “tell me about the birds.” She hesitated. He almost had her. Bard grinned. “Tell me your bird story, and I’ll tell you mine.”