The hair on the back of Spike's neck bristled, the brown eyes bugged, the ears flattened.
“What is it, Spike?” I asked, confused by his behavior. “You're starting to scare me.”
I questioned the sanity of trying to get him outside. Spike never went anywhere I asked, so why bother now, but what should I do with him?
The two men, laughing, walked into the dining room next to the kitchen where I'd left crackers and cheese and a bottle of champagne to open. They were both smoking cigars. I could tell because my dad could never draw on the damn things without coughing. What was it my father had said? Oh yeah, he smoked cigars on the rare occasion when it called for a celebration. If it was a celebration, Spike was the only one not enjoying the party.
Now the only thing between Spike and the men were the double swinging saloon doors into the dining room. His brown eyes were jumping from the door to me, telegraphing some message in doggy language. Unfortunately, I was going to need a translator because I still didn't get his terror.
“Dad?” I called. “I need your help in the kitchen for a minute, please.”
With a murmured excuse, my dad came into the kitchen where Spike was backed up as far as he could get on lower cupboards.
“What's wrong with him?” I asked, pointing.
Spike, glad to see his friend, kept his rump to the ground where it was safe, and gave my father a wag of his tail.
“What do you mean? He looks fine to me. Maybe hungry? Are you hungry, little buddy?” Dad asked. Immediately Spike stood, did a bow stretch, all relaxed now, and wagged his tail. Dad put down a bowl of doggy chow and went back to his guest.
“Crisis over?” I sputtered, exasperated with this bad-dog behavior. “Well, good. I'm glad we've got that sorted out so I can get back to serving dinner.”
I put on the oven mitts to carry the hot dish to the table. But, once again there was Spike, one paw on my foot, big brown eyes darting between me and the dining room.
“Now what? You've been fed, so what is it?”
He'd never behaved this way.Not even when he'd arrived scared, hungry and trembling from the experience of roaming the countryside until a neighbor found him on her porch. He probably ran out of the house to hide from Patience's attacker. So why now, and why the judge? I started thinking. When was the last time the Judge had been here? Not since Spike arrived. I thought about the photo from the judge's mantel.
My wife and I could never have children... these two on her lap are her niece and nephew from Texas. The little girl had hair just like my wife's.
Red. The judge's wife had beautiful red curling hair. The faded photo of a little girl with long curls of a light color. Not blond, not brown—red. Just like Autumn's. What was the diminutive for Alexandra? Lexy, the judge said. But, it could also be Sandy—which sounded too much like a kid. She'd changed it to Autumn O’Sullivan for Hollywood. I held onto my head and reached for the edge on the kitchen counter to steady my trembling nerves.
She was the judge's niece and this was the connection I'd missed. Garth might be guilty of a lot of things, but murder wasn't one of them. I had to call Caleb.
Spike wasn't going to wait around to see what I was going to do. He shot out of the kitchen, skidded once in the hallway and rounded the corner to scramble up the stairs. I couldn't say I blamed him. It was all I could do to stay where I was instead of galloping after him. I just hoped I'd be able to hold onto my growing suspicions, keep my mouth shut until I could call Caleb. Oh, brother. How was I ever going to convince Caleb a Chihuahua told me the judge was the real killer?
I had to hold it together, quell my mounting fears, and taking a deep breath I went to greet our guest.
He had a jacket with elbow patches over one arm and a champagne bottle extended in the other. “Well, well, Lalla, I hear you did us all proud. I've brought champagne to celebrate.” A freshly starched and clean white shirt stuffed into clean dress pants with suspenders completed his ensemble. Jolly old Judge Griffin. And, he'd shaved too, covering a knick with a piece of tape.
I smiled weakly, moved around the dining table to take the champagne, accepting a peck on the cheek, and waved them to the dinner table while I backed through the swinging doors to the kitchen. I couldn't do it. I couldn't sit there with my growing suspicions and eat. I'd throw up first.
Seeing this as my excuse to exit, I held onto the bottle, and backed through the swinging doors. “I'll uncork this bottle and get us some glasses. You fellows have a seat.” I put the bottle down on the counter and took a right turn into the hallway and whispered, “Spike?” Not waiting for an answer, I took the stairs up two at the time, looking into corners to see where he might be hiding. I'd hide him in a bathroom where the judge couldn't see him, then call Caleb.
I tried my dad's room, then Leslie's old room. Finally in my room, I heard the rapid tattoo of little nails. I knelt down and pulled back the bedspread.
“Is it the judge? I won't let him hurt you.” His eyes bugged and he retreated even further into the nether regions under my bed.
I gave up and sat down on the bed. With one ear on the conversation below, I picked up my cell phone to call Caleb. I was hoping that, unable to resist the fragrant casserole cooling on the kitchen counter, they'd start without me.
One ring... the conversation seemed to have died.... Two rings… I hoped it was because they were too intent on snacking on crackers to wonder where I was... three rings…
“Sheriff Stone here.”
“Put the phone down, please,” the judge said.
I jerked to my feet, guiltily dropping the phone onto the bed. “I, uh, had to make a phone call,” I said. Even I thought it sounded lame.
“We both know there's a perfectly good phone in the kitchen. Where's the dog?”
He looked around the room while the setting sun sent light rays shooting off his glasses like laser beams.
“Spike?” I asked, woodenly. I swallowed and tried again, “The little chihuahua?”
His former friendly manner disappeared in an instant. This Judge Griffin was becoming increasingly annoyed. “Yes! Patience's little brown dog, Spike, where is he?”
Hoping Caleb was listening and I wouldn't have to explain later that a Chihuahua was the main witness to Patience's murder, I asked weakly, “Why…why is he afraid of you, Judge?”
He unclenched the fists and taking a deep breath tried unsuccessfully to put back the mask. “Now, now, Lalla, my dear. Give me the dog. Patience wanted me to have him, you see. I didn't know where he'd gone to, that's all.”
Patience wanted the judge to have him? The dog obviously had other ideas about that. He'd done everything he could to telegraph his fear of this man. It was obvious—Spike had seen the judge murder his mistress and, because of his size, gone unnoticed, until taking his cue from an open door, scrammed. And that was why he was found outside on the doorstep of a neighbor.
I suddenly felt the blood leave my head and drop down to my toes. I didn't know if I could lift a hand to defend myself, much less defend Spike. I gulped, peeked at the open cell phone I'd dropped on the bed and prayed that Caleb was still listening, while he signaled for a S.W.A.T team, one with sirens blasting, lights whirling to race to our rescue.
Then I took a shaky breath and, hoping I was right about Caleb, said, “So, when you say you mean to take Spike, you really mean that you're going to get rid of the only witness to your murder of his mistress, right?”
The judge looked at me like I'd lost a few marbles. “Of course. Why else would I want the little monster. Everyone knows he's too dangerous to keep. He'll have to be put down.”
If I was going to die, I thought, seeing friends and family gathered at my funeral, at least Caleb would finally admit who solved this mystery. Maybe my tombstone would say, ‘Forever Grateful.’ I gulped down my fear, and dry mouthed asked for an explanation. “Wha, what did that nice lady ever do to you?”
Satisfied we were alone, and evidently unaware of the cell phon
e connection, he said, “Now you're doing it again. You have to ask the right questions, Lalla. Oh, alright then. Every answer to the whereabouts of that money went back to Patience McBride.”
“Well, that's commendable of you, Judge,” I said, wondering if they would allow a color guard at my interment, since I was better at solving crimes than the idiot detectives Rodney and sidekick. I pushed around the cotton I now had for brains and worked to keep him talking until the cavalry arrived.“How... how does your niece figure into all this?”
“See? I knew you were a clever girl. Figured that out from her photo at my home, did you? The long, red curly hair, like my wife's? Autumn O’Sullivan. I gag when I think of that silly stage name. She was my wife's namesake, Alexandra. So as not to have two Lexy's in the family, my niece was Sandy.”
“You put her and Garth together?”
“Playing Cupid, you mean? Seduction was a way of life for our lovely Alexandra. And with her abundant charms, I was betting she would have Garth in her back pocket within a week. It took her two days. She was to work him for a loan, for which I knew he'd have to ask his aunt. All I needed Autumn to do was confirm that Patience still had the money. I'd do the rest. But, naturally, Autumn got bored, as she always does, and when he caught her fooling around with some other hillbilly, all bets were off. I told her to leave well enough alone, go to Hollywood, I'd take care of the rest and send her share. But, of course, she didn't want that. She had to have her share now. The now generation, that was our Sandy.”
By the time I met her, Autumn's nerves were unraveling faster than a ball of string. She must have gotten a sample of the judge's frightening temper, but instead of skeedaddling to Hollywood as she should have, she'd allowed herself to be talked into one last scene in which to redeem herself. She would get Garth arrested, get his and her share, then make tracks for that hair commercial. The scenario she created for my benefit—- that she was afraid of Garth, placed herself in just the right position to get herself killed. Only I guessed wrong. It wasn't Garth she was terrified of, it was Judge Griffin.
“You made her come to me, like she was a witness to Garth murdering his aunt, then killed her so you could pin it all on Garth—why kill her?”
“Why? Because we had an agreement!” he shouted. Then as I cringed into the covers, he rubbed a hand over his face, scrubbing at rage that had given him away. “I used to have such a temper. Spent years getting it under control.” Then, in a voice used to instruct twelve-year-olds, he said, “You don't understand. I was trustee for my family's estate and it was my responsibility to make sure it was well invested. Most of it went south when the stock market tanked, and Eddy McBride stole the rest.” His voice picked up a whine, not unlike that of his niece. “It was my money. Losing it killed my sister. God rest her soul, died of a broken heart—well, cancer actually—but the same thing, really.”
I don't think he ever considered that Patience had taken Bill Hollander's money, but I wasn't going to be the one to tell him now. “You were Bill Hollander's silent partner.”
“And why not?” he asked, calmly pulling at his suspenders. “Someone had to bankroll his enterprise. Better a friend than an enemy.”
If my tongue wasn't stuck to the roof of my mouth I would've laughed. I swallowed hard and plunged back into it. “Then you knew Eddy didn't do it.”
“Of course not! Bill drank, you know. Disgusting vice, alcohol. The lout was too drunk to tell me who had taken the money. One simply can't let that sort of behavior go unpunished.”
“You used the garrotte, knowing it would incriminate Eddy because he repaired pianos for a living. So Bill called you and told you the money for the deal had been stolen. You made up the weapon you used to do it before you got there. You planned to kill him.”
“Bill was a lush and drunks make lousy business partners. I saw it as an expedient solution to a nasty predicament. I made up that garrotte and left it in a dumpster outside. For awhile there, I thought I might have to leak it to the press that it was made of a piano wire, but then someone in the department finally noticed and Eddy's fate was sealed.”
“I wondered why you did such a lousy job defending him.”
“Not that it did me any good. It took me another twenty years to find where my money went.”
“But why involve my dad?”
“Eddy needed a lawyer, and I needed to to be able to handle him from the start of the trial. Your father was easy. All I had to do was hint that the poor boy wouldn't get a proper defense with a public defender.”
So, not even the judge knew why my dad paid for Eddy's defense. Not the real reason, anyway. He thought my dad an easy mark. Boy, was he in for a surprise.
Oh, my God! Noah! “What did you do to my father?”
“Nothing for you to worry about, my dear. He's taking a nap.” He produced a small vial from one pocket, and a neatly folded white hanky from the other. Uncorking the vial, he shook out a few drops. Obviously this was the chloroform he'd used to subdue Autumn, and what he served my dad instead of the lasagna. My knees knocked and I raked damp hands across my jeans, wildly searching for a way out.
He took a step closer, his voice low and soothing. “It's not painful. Don't be frightened.” I took a step back from the hand holding the cloth.
“Not painful?” I squeaked. “Like it wasn't painful to Autumn when you stabbed her?”
“If she had done as she was told instead of trying to double-cross me, she'd be alive today. Well, maybe not.” Like something out of a horror movie, he seemed to glide towards me on rollers, and, of course, I played my part as the scatterbrained, wide-eyed cord of deadwood victim. I was disgusted with myself, but I couldn't seem to help it. My knees turned to jelly and I dissolved onto the bed where my arms hung limply at my sides. I looked down at the cell phone hoping Caleb had gotten all of this and was now on his way. But, I was horrified to see that somehow the phone had snapped shut and was now disconnected. I could only hope and pray that Caleb had heard enough to know I was in trouble. A lot of trouble.
A voice from below called my name. I hadn't heard the door open, but then we never actually locked the front door, anyway. Anybody could walk in, neighbors, farmers, friends and murderers. The last thing Maya would ever think to do before entering our house was ring the doorbell.
“Yoo-hoo! Aunt Lalla? You up there?”
She must have heard our voices from downstairs.
Maya. My sweet Maya was in the house, oh God, oh God. Now what am I going to do?
He turned toward her voice. He still had the vial and hanky in his hand, but now he was poised to grab Maya and to give her the first dose.
Her voice grew louder as she climbed the stairs. “Aunt Lalla? What's going on? Did you know your dad is sound asleep with his head in a plate of lasagna? Where are you?”
Then she was standing with hands on hips, pretty head cocked, giving the judge and me a quizzical stare. “What on earth is going on?”
He took a step toward Maya and I stood up. A better wakeup call for my miserable cowardly quaking, I couldn't imagine. With my head down, I ran at him, butting him from behind with my shoulder and knocking him off his feet. His arms windmilled in a futile effort to counterbalance the fall, but the bedroom rug flipped out from under him, and with a resounding thud, he hit the polished oak floor and was out cold.
Maya stood open mouthed, looking down at the fallen judge. “What the...?”
“It's okay, honey. The judge is the bad guy,” I said, stepping over the inert form to hug her. “That crack he took on his head should keep him out of commission for as long as it will take to call the cops. You go downstairs and see if you can wake up Noah, and I'll..., ”
At least that's what I was hoping for until Maya's eyes grew wide, and she gasped, “Look out!”
I felt a smelly rag pressing against my nose and mouth.
“Blug…” I mumbled under the saturated cloth. Then I felt myself slip out of his grasp and fall ungracefully to the floor.<
br />
My last thoughts were for Maya. Maya—- what would he do to Maya?
twenty-two
Just like old times, my mother, dad, brother and I are snuggled together under plaid blankets in front of a campfire; we're roasting marshmallows and singing silly campfire songs. My mother starts a round of “Scotland's Burning.”
“Come on everybody. You too, Lalla.”
“Mom?” She's wearing the diamond earrings my dad bought her the Christmas before she died. The little suitcase is there, the one I used for sleepovers. The one she had by her side when I found her. It looked suspiciously like the one I found in Garth's motor home. “Is that Eddy's stolen money?” I ask.
“That doesn't matter now,” she says, calmly unconcerned about the past. “We're having fun, aren't we dear?” She looks fondly at my dad as he pushes another gooey burned marshmallow off a stick and pops it into his mouth.
My brother nudges my dad and dutifully they begin the first round. “Scotland's burning, Scotland's burning, look yonder, look yonder, Fire fire! Fire fire! Pour water, pour water!” They jerk up out of their folding camp chairs, arms waving in mock alarm, singing, “Pour water! Pour water.”
“But, mom,” I try again. “You never said why you did it And your note—what did it mean?”
My mother smiles sadly at me. “The note was for your father, Lalla. Ask him.”
The judge said the same thing. Ask your father. Why can't anyone give me a straight answer?
My mother's singing voice disappeared into black clef notes woven into the twining roses on her bedroom wallpaper. Wow. I never noticed that before.
Then I'm eleven years old, standing by her bed looking down at her peacefully sleeping at last.
I destroy the note, knowing that her being sorry wasn't going to be enough for the rest of us. Opening the suitcase, I put the silk underwear back into her drawer, slid the small case under the bed and went downstairs to wait for my dad and brother to come home.
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