Who Killed Rudy Rio?

by Lee Bellamy

  "Are you working now?"

  "Oh, sure. I do hair for people who come to my home. I do makeup, too. In Carmel I worked on several movies. Here, though, it's mostly local commercials."

  I couldn't resist asking. "Did you meet any famous people?"

  Gussie's eyes sparkled. "Oh, you bet. All the time, like Clint Eastwood."

  I love hearing about celebrities, but it was time to get down to business. "The reason I'm here, I'm checking on Crystal Hargrove's disappearance. You were a friend of hers. What can you tell me?"

  "Not much." Gussie sobered. "Gee, it's been a lot of years, hasn't it? Poor Crystal. I knew her in high school—in fact, before. We lived on the north side then, so Crystal and I went to grammar and middle school together. I wasn't her best friend—that was Joy Daniel—but like, I knew her pretty well."

  "Did you know her sister?"

  "Miss Tight Ass?" Another peal of laughter. "Sure, I know Velia. She's okay, only I could never relate to her, you know? It's like she walks on water all the time. I saw her on Channel 30 News the other night. She was parading in front of some abortion clinic with her 'Stop Murdering Babies' sign. Jeez...oh, well, I don't agree with her, but at least she sticks up for what she believes. I'll tell you one thing, she loved her sister. She was just about destroyed when Crystal disappeared."

  I made some notes and asked, "Do you have any idea what happened to Crystal?"

  "Nope. Crystal loved to sing and dance. 'Course, she never got lessons because her parents were too strict. She used to practice when they weren't around. Did you know she dropped out of high school? Right after that she went down to Hollywood. Figured she was going to become a star. It didn't work out, of course, so she came back home. Last time I saw her, she'd given up on her show biz career. She was just a regular student, going to CSUF, aiming for a teaching degree."

  "Was she any good?"

  "At the singing and dancing? She was okay." Gussie pursed her lips and reconsidered. "Well…I take that back. Truth is, she wasn't so hot. Her voice was thin, and her dancing was stiff, like when she danced she looked about as graceful as a tree stump." Gussie bit her lip. "That sounds mean, but it's true. Crystal couldn't act, either. She was beautiful, but she never would have made it in Hollywood." She spread her hands. "That's all I know."

  "So she had no enemies?"

  "No. And she was never in any trouble. She had nice friends. She was a kind, thoughtful, loving girl."

  Not again, give me a break. We chatted for a while, but Gussie could tell me nothing more. I gave her my card and told her to call me if she thought of anything else.

  When I got back in my car, the man in the dirty tennis shoes shuffled up and tapped on the window. Reluctantly, I rolled it down. He stuck his head in and gave me a gap-toothed grin. "Lady, can you spare a quarter?" His breath was foul and he needed a bath.

  I dug in my purse, handed him a dollar, and suggested he have a nice day.

  I drove away, turned onto Tulare Street and found 41, relieved, though I'd never admit it, to be headed back to yuppie northern territory. And for the first time since discovering my calamitous overdraft at the United Bank of San Fernando Valley, and my frantic call to Tom, I reflected that maybe my life wasn't totally ruined. I did, after all, have a lovely, healthy daughter—and food and a place to sleep—and good teeth—and a shower every morning—and I didn't have to pee into the canna lilies.

  Holly Keene a loser? No way. I would find Crystal. I would be okay.

  ***

  When I got home, I got out my cell and checked for messages. There was one, not what I expected.

  "Want to die, Holly?"

  The menacing, whispery voice came straight out of Nightmare on Elm Street, so distorted I couldn't tell if it was male or female.

  "Crystal Hargrove's dead and you'll never find her. Get. . off...the...the casssse!"

  Chapter 9

  That message on my cell sent a shiver down my spine. Which was just what someone meant to do, I realized, but I got another shiver just thinking about that evil hiss at the end. I considered calling Perez, even Barnicut. Maybe I should get off the case. Then I remembered Nevada's line: You get nowhere in this world, missy, if you don't take chances. The old lady was right. Damned if I'd get scared off. It was a crank call. Some whacko. He—she?—wouldn't call again.

  Safe in my bedroom, I added to my notes on Gussie while the visit remained fresh in my mind. At around five o'clock the phone rang. Mother answered and called, "Holly? There's a Mr. Rio on the line."

  "Hellooo, Miss Holly!" Rudy sounded on top of the world. Judging from his bouncy voice, he could have just won the lottery. "My ship came in. I'm leaving town."

  "That's nice, Rudy. What ship is this?"

  "I'm not going to tell you that," he answered playfully. "Sometimes you make money just keeping your mouth shut."

  He was talking either bribe or blackmail, it sounded to me. "What do you mean, Rudy?"

  "Not going to tell you," he sing-songed again. "How soon can you get over here?"

  "What for?"

  "I've got something for you, if you know what I mean."

  "No, I don't know what you mean."

  "I've got some copies of something you're busting to see." I pictured the little pixie expression on his face. "Are you coming?"

  Virgin in the Pines—what else could it be? That little weasel! Why didn't he tell me he had copies?

  "I'll be right there."

  It was almost six o'clock when I arrived at the trailer yard. As I pulled to the curb, a Ford pickup directly ahead of me drove away. I caught a glimpse of a driver wearing a camouflage uniform. Jay Champion? Had to be.

  Through the front windows I saw lights on. Bill Hatcher, alias The Letch, stood behind the counter, magnificent as ever, muscles rippling beneath his Pendleton shirt.

  He was alone. His eyes lit when he saw me. He puffed up his chest and sucked in his stomach. "Well, hello there," he said, a flirty lilt in his voice, "I remember you. We met the other day."

  I returned a frost-covered, "Hi," and nodded towards the street. "Was that Jay Champion?"

  "Yep, that was the big guy. He got home this morning. Came by to see if his business is still here. Too bad about his mom. I feel terrible."

  Oh, sure. He felt so bad that to take his mind off his grief, he dropped his gaze to my black, high-top Reeboks and worked his way up from there, in a long, probing sweep to my thighs, to the crotch of my acid-wash jeans, around to my hips, up to the front of my baggy blue sweater where his eyes feasted on and on. Finally he found my face again and asked, "Say, would you like a Coke or something?"

  "No thanks, I came to see Rudy." I made a move towards the back door, but not fast enough. He flipped back the hinged section of the counter top and circled around to my side, blocking my way.

  "You from Fresno?" he asked.

  "Yes."

  He crowded closer, casting a meaningful glance at my ringless fingers. "You're single, I'll bet."

  I'm familiar with the looks of men. I've been on the receiving end of countless intimate, silent messages. Like Perez last night. There was a blunt, honest admiration in his eyes he didn't bother to conceal, and maybe, for a flickering moment, a glimmer of normal male lust. That was all, though. Not like this turkey. The signal from his heavy-lidded eyes was loud and clear. I know you're lonely, honey. What you need is handsome, wonderful me.

  I backed away. "Got to go."

  "Hey, don't rush off." He pointed towards a small office that had, aside from desk and filing cabinets, a big, wide leather couch against one wall. "That's my office. When you're done with Rudy, come back. I'll fix us a couple of drinks. We'll get better acquainted."

  Not in your lifetime. "No." That sounded really blunt. I considered adding "thanks" but voted, forget it.

  "Aw, that's too bad. Some other time?"

  "No. I have got to go." I dodged around Mister Ego and strode out the back door. If I'd sounded rude, I didn't care.

>   By now it was almost dark. The silent trailer yard loomed before me. Funny, I'd walked to Rudy's trailer the other night without thinking twice about how nearly pitch black it was back here, how isolated. A flicker of apprehension coursed through me. Shrugging it off, I started my trek down the long, dark row of trailers. Stay cool. Don't conjure up nonexistent horrors. My strategy didn't work. By the third trailer, my imagination cranked into overdrive. That message I'd received on my cell phone popped into my head. I told myself there were times when you had to take chances, but I couldn't get rid of the fear. I knew something evil waited for me, there in the shadows. With every step, I expected to be attacked by some undefined bogeyman—maybe the same guy who used to lurk beneath my bed at night when I was a little girl, but always disappeared by morning. So shape up, it's your imagination.

  No use. With each reluctant step, my breathing grew shallower, my heart pumped faster in my chest. I considered going back, asking Bill to escort me. Then I wondered, was I crazy? I would rather die than ask a favor of such a fool.

  I forced myself on until at last I caught the welcoming lights of Rudy's trailer at the end of the row. I jogged the rest of the way, up the rickety steps to his door, thinking how silly I was. And how utterly relieved to be out of the darkness.

  The door stood open a couple of inches. Thoughtful of him—not that I would presume to walk right in. I called, "Rudy?" and waited. No answer. "Rudy? It's Holly. I'm here." Still no answer. With one finger I poked at the door. Slowly, it swung open. "Rudy?" I stepped in. And then...

  Oh shit...

  He lay on the floor, half propped against the wall, diamond ring on his pinky, in the same spiffy outfit that he'd worn to B & P's that day. His head slumped to one side. A trickle of dried blood traced a jagged path down his nose. It came from the hole in the middle of his forehead.

  Rudy Rio was very, very dead.

  I gasped from the shock and felt the blood drain from my face. Dead! My knees went wobbly. Never had I seen anyone dead before, except my father laid out nicely in his coffin, and that didn't count. No mortician's touch here. Rudy's eyes bulged with terror. His mouth was twisted and agape as if he'd died in mid-scream. Something lay near his hand—an empty, flat plastic box—a DVD box.

  No gun anywhere, so he hadn't committed suicide. But if Rudy had been murdered, how did I know the murderer wasn't still here? He could be lurking outside, or in the next room, or...

  I spun around and bolted out the door, half-falling, half-leaping down the steps. At the bottom, I started to sprint when an image of Barnicut flashed through my mind. Feet on his desk—smirk on his face—pointing at me with his pencil. "So you lost it, huh, Holly? Tell me about how you panicked and ran." Don't give him the satisfaction. I pulled up short. Got to call the police. I turned to go back up the steps but remembered Rudy didn't have a telephone. My cell? You stupid girl. I left it on the front seat of my car. I took off jogging down trailer row, back towards the front office. Maybe a killer was stalking me, maybe not. Nothing I could do. Don't think, just get the hell out of here.

  I reached the back door of the office and clutched the knob. It wouldn't turn.

  "Bill! Let me in!" I rattled the door knob. Silence. No lights on.

  The awful truth hit me. Bill was gone. The office was closed for the night and I was locked in.

  The side gate. I took off running, over to the fence, back down the aisle to the small gate where Rudy had let me out the last time. Even before I got there I knew it would be chained and padlocked.

  When I got there, I discovered of course I was right. So there I was, fingers laced through the chain link fencing...alone...maybe locked in with a murderer.

  I could scream, I supposed. Someone might hear me, even in this deserted industrial area. But what if whoever heard me was Rudy's killer? I couldn't bring myself to utter a sound. Panic started creeping over me. Think Barnicut. That did it. I mustered up a big dose of courage again. I flattened my back against the gate, clutching the links with urgent fingers, preparing to meet my fate, my eyes trying to pierce the darkness so that I'd be ready...for anything.

  Silence...only silence. If the killer was out there he was sure taking his time.

  I waited...and waited...my adrenaline edge began to ebb. My heart slowed. I stopped panting. An overwhelming exhaustion swept over me. My knees buckled. I slid to the ground, wrapping arms around my knees, huddling into a tight ball.

  Hoooh oooh-oooh Hoooaaah...

  My blood ran cold. What was that?

  I looked up. There, sitting atop the cross bar of a telephone pole, was the barely distinguishable silhouette of a great big owl. He was at least twenty inches high, with horns—tufts of feathers really—on his massive, over-sized head. His face was invisible in the darkness, but I knew he was looking straight at me. This sounds crazy now, but I was glad to see him. I sensed immediately that he was my friend. No one will ever know this, but after I'd stared at him a while, and he at me, I spoke up calmly and said, "Well, hello, Owl. What are you doing in Fresno?"

  He never told me, of course, just kept on silently staring. But that owl brought everything back into perspective. I saw myself from his point of view. He had to be wondering why is this crazy woman sitting in the dark in a deserted trailer yard in south Fresno? What is she doing?

  Shape up, Keene. There wasn't any bogeyman out there in the darkness. Rather, the shock of finding Rudy dead had caused me to work myself close to a fine case of hysteria. I got icy calm in a hurry. No more hysteria. Just get yourself out of here.

  Could I climb the fence? It was eight feet high with a roll of concertina barbed wire strung above it along the top. Dump that idea. I remembered the other night when Rudy took the key from a hook by the door to let me out. So the thing to do, obviously, was to go back to Rudy's trailer and get that key. Let myself out—get back to my car—call the police.

  The problem was I dreaded seeing Rudy dead again.

  The alternative was to sit here in the cold all night.

  I went back to the trailer. Rudy was still there, still dead. Nothing had been disturbed. Without touching, keeping my emotions in check, I examined the empty DVD box but could see no printing to identify it. It could have held anything, even a blank disk, but my guess was it had once held a copy of Virgin in the Pines. Someone had taken it. Someone who knew that Rudy was going to give it to me. Suddenly I remembered Rudy's words: I've got some copies of something you've been busting to see.

  Copies. So maybe there was more than one? What if the killer didn't know that? What if there was another copy right here in this trailer?

  I began searching, deadly calm now, so set on finding that DVD I forgot to be scared. In Rudy's tiny bedroom an open, packed suitcase lay on his bed. His closet and chest-of-drawers were empty. So he hadn't been kidding about leaving town.

  I checked through his suitcase. No DVD. Under the bed, the same. I asked myself where would I hide a DVD if I lived in this trailer? Not many places left, but...under the mattress maybe?

  I lifted a corner of the mattress from Rudy's single bed. Low-and-behold! There lay a plastic box with a DVD inside. I grabbed it up and read the label: VIP.

  Oh, wow! Goose bumps traveled up and down my arms again. What could this be but Virgin in the Pines?

  Time to get out of there. Clutching the box, I half-ran back to the living room and plucked the key from its hook by the door. I raced to the side gate, unlocked it, and hurried away, wildly eager to view the DVD, but suddenly remembering the owl. Turning, I looked up at the pole where he'd been sitting. Too late. My friend was gone.

  When I reached my car, I found my cell and called the police.

  ***

  "Holly, is that you? Where have you been until after midnight?"

  "Mother? You're still up?"

  "Watching my late night shows, dear. Jay Leno and then Jimmy Fallon. What's that in your hand? Did you rent a movie?"

  "Uh...not exactly. I wanted to play it, but...it's not
hing you'd be interested in. Something boring, actually. I'll play it later."

  "Come watch TV with me."

  "No thanks. Guess I'll turn in."

  "You do look tired. What have you been doing?"

  "Not much...just messing around. When do you think you'll go to bed?"

  "I don't know. You know how I love Jimmy Fallon. That movie of yours... You're sure you don't want to play it now?"

  "No rush. It's nothing important."

  Chapter 10

  I awoke to another dreary morning. Bank account empty—Rudy dead—my confidence down another notch or two. In my ingenuous conceit, I had assumed that I, like Angelina Jolie facing the bad guys in Salt, could face any danger brave and cool. Last night proved me wrong. I nearly ran like a panicked rabbit when I found Rudy dead. Small consolation that I hadn't. Small consolation that I would never, never run again. Angelina wouldn't have thought to run.

  Most galling of all, I hadn't yet seen that DVD. Mother had to be in bed by now. I slid out of bed, threw on my robe, grabbed the DVD and headed for the living room, burning with curiosity to see Virgin in the Pines.

  There sat Mother, still in her robe, watching Today on the TV. Unbelievable! I stopped abruptly in the doorway. "What is this? Since when do you get up this early? Have you got a crush on Al Roker?"

  She muttered a good morning, eyes glued to the screen. "I wake up early these days. Worry, I suppose." She cast accusing eyes in my direction. "You don’t help."

  Unfortunately I couldn't hang around waiting for my mother to unglue herself from the television screen. I had to get to Barnicut & Perez and tell them about Rudy. In fact I should have called one or the other last night. Probably they'd heard about the murder by now, but still, they needed to hear it from me.

  I showered and dressed in a tailored gray suit I bought from Fred Hayman's on Rodeo Drive, back in another lifetime. With it, a darling blue paisley blouse I'd bought at Nordstrom's, and plain gray pumps. They'd have said I looked "corporate" down in L.A. In Fresno, who knew? I gulped down toast and coffee, debating what to do with the disk. Mother was no snoop, so I could leave it here. On the other hand, it was too important to let out of my sight. It wouldn't fit in my little purse, though. I switched to a big, leather-tooled, shoulder strap purse—one I didn't usually carry—and dropped the disk inside.